The middle is a convenient and easy place to be, where no arguments or controversies exist. The center is a comfortable neutral point where conformity shares space with submission. The middle is a tedious place where no one voluntarily should remain for a long time. Life is meant to be a continuous experiment. The middle is fine, but only temporarily. I must go to the extremes, both extremes. I should never be static. I should never allow myself to fall into docility or mediocrity. I would rather be invisible than mediocre.
If I ever get lost, I should dig deep inside my mind to find myself again and break through to the other side. My inner light, where my subconscious remains amid heaven and hell. Limbo? Then while there, I should visit my storage dump, where all my repressed memories lie, and cleanse myself of regrets, fears, and sins. And reconnect the mind and soul with my mortal spiritual body.
I should also distance myself from all human suffering that obscures my enlightenment by crossing the abstract threshold that leads to the path of my intangible insight that helps me to assimilate the objectives of a meaningless life. I would also liberate the confined beliefs that could help me realize that suffering is never inherent to any situation. My good deeds will eventually guide me to my karma and final encounter with the ecstasy of reaching my Nirvana.
I must find where the past and the present collide to avoid an unmerciful future. I need to push the button to pause all brain activity to counteract severe burnout.
Nihilism will cease to exist. My zenith will rise above my nadir. My reborn optimism will help me obtain the best possible world. Now that I reached the highest happiness, I will create my perfect destiny. The scary part of reaching Nirvana leads to a downward spiral to the depths of hell. Once you get total spiritual bliss and total euphoric ecstasy, you will crash against a wall of confusion.
Damn! I can’t continue. I ran out of weed. That was my last joint. Now what?
I don’t have a list of my favorite movies on my Facebook page because no one agrees, just like in religion and politics. It’s just a matter of taste and preference. In the issue of movies, everybody is an expert and a critic. But we all agree on one thing. Nobody’s right. My list could be absurd and even ridiculous to everyone else.
Each magazine picks different movies. Each critic has other choices. It’s the same thing with every person. My favorite movies might be dumb choices to everyone else. If I see your list, I might disagree with some of your favorites. That’s why we call ourselves individuals. Ultimately, all lists are useless because every single mind is different.
The best thing on this Earth might be the individual mind and the assertion that no two minds are alike.
The Academy of Motion Pictures, Arts and Sciences or Oscars is the bible of universal films. (What an arrogant and inflated title) Most people don’t agree with many of their choices. If you are going to trash the ‘experts,’ I can’t imagine what you would do with my list. (But I can guess.)
I saw my first movie when I was seven, and since then, my passion has only increased. And I was hooked forever. I still remember many details about the film and even the surroundings of the ‘movie theater .’ (The exterior wall of a church was the screen.)
For many years, one of my favorite programs was Siskel and Ebert at the Movies. They later renamed it Ebert and Roeper. I watched it religiously every Sunday. They were very smart, so bright, that even when one had a thumbs down and the other a thumbs up, I would agree with them after they gave their reasons. They made me love the movies even more. And I also enjoyed the end-of-the-year program dedicated to the year’s worst movies. It always gave me significant pleasure that I never saw any of the worst films they listed.
Sight and Sound, a respected and revered British film, monthly prints the list of the ten best movies of all time every ten years, chosen by hundreds of critics worldwide. It is as close as possible to fairness and perfection; still, half the world wouldn’t agree. The 2012 list includes one Japanese film, one Italian, one from Russia, two French, and five from the USA. Of the ten, three are silent films. The list of the top fifty films from the same magazine shows various languages and genres. Out of the top ten movies, I’ve seen eight.
I’m not fond of Musicals, where everybody dances, sings, jumps, and fights with fake knives. Or when a lady sings atop a grassy mountain, followed by a bunch of nerdy, rich kids. That’s different than my choice of a good movie. I would not pay to see that. To me, Lawrence of Arabia was a four-hour documentary about sand. I love England but not their movies about kings, queens, and boring things. I was not fond of The English Patient or Chariots of Fire. Also, if it’s too romantic, I’ll skip it.
So there you have it. Now that you know what I don’t like, you can slaughter my choices, mock my list and ignore and condemn my preferences.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could retire the great movies to a “Movie Hall of Fame”? For example, pick the ten best of every decade, put them in the Hall of Fame, and do the same every ten years.
On another subject, I wouldn’t feel so sad when Blockbuster finally disappears. How can they have fifty copies of Eat Pray Love and only one of City of God?
I can easily add another hundred movies to my list of favorite films. I can put them all in random play and be happy for the rest of my life, and I wouldn’t feel like I’m wasting my time. The common denominator in all these films is a great story. The story is the heart of the movie. First of all, we should thank the writers.
These movies shaped my life and inspired me to be a good person. (I’d like to think I am.) I love and enjoy life because of these movies. By the way, probably half of them had made me cry.
Without any order or preference, here’s my list:
THE GRADUATE
PULP FICTION
CITY OF GOD
ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO’S NEST
THE GODFATHER
THE GODFATHER II
FOREST GUMP
SILENCE OF THE LAMBS
APOCALYPSE NOW
TAXI DRIVER
A CLOCKWORK ORANGE
THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE
CINEMA PARADISO
BABEL
THE BICYCLE THIEF
2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY
AMORES PERROS
NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN
THE GRAPES OF WRATH
GONE WITH THE WIND
THERE WILL BE BLOOD
Y TU MAMA TAMBIEN
LA STRADA
RAGING BULL
TRAFFIC
CRASH
GIANT
REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE
PANS LABYRINTH
GLADIATOR
THE WIZARD OF OZ
THE EXORCIST
SCHINDLER’S LIST
MILLION DOLLAR BABY
THE DEPARTED
MYSTIC RIVER
AMERICAN BEAUTY
LOS OLVIDADOS
AGUIRRE: THE WRATH OF GOD
BLADE RUNNER
CITY LIGHTS
DAY FOR NIGHT
DRUNKEN MASTER II
THE 400 BLOWS
GOODFELLAS
MONSTER
LITTLE BIG MAN
BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY
CRIES AND WHISPERS
BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID
PONETTE
A HARD DAY’S NIGHT
TALK TO HER
HUMBERTO D
IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT
EL NORTE
UNFORGIVEN
M
THE VIRGIN SPRING
MARCELINO PAN Y VINO
IKIRU
APU TRILOGY
METROPOLIS
JEAN DE FLORETTE
MANON OF THE SPRING
FISH STORY
TOKYO STORY
I SAW THE DEVIL
RASHOMON
RAN
SEVEN SAMURAI
DEAR ZACHARY: A LETTER TO A SON ABOUT HIS FATHER
A WOMAN WALKS HOME ALONE AT NIGHT
SUNSET BOULEVARD
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD
THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION
THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC
BARRY LYNDON
MULHOLLAND DRIVE
ALMOST FAMOUS
PARASITE
SOCIAL NETWORK
CROUCHING TIGER
4 MONTHS 3 WEEKS AND 2 DAYS
ONCE
LET THE RIGHT ONE IN
TANGERINE
MUSTANG
GET OUT
LADY BIRD
BABADOOK
MOONLIGHT
HELL OR HIGH WATER
PHANTOM THREAD
BABY DRIVER
OLDBOY
ROMA
AMELIE
KILL BILL
ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLYWOOD
MAD MAX: FURY ROAD
They ask me, “If you were alone on a deserted island, what movie (book or album) would you take?” I’d answer, “None.” I need at least a hundred, not just one. It’s like asking a mother which of her two children she prefers. (Oh, I forgot about Sophie’s Choice!)
You might say, “Oh, but you missed this one or that one,” I’ll respond, “Yeah, I know, but they belong on your list.”
So, why put a shortlist of my favorite movies on my Facebook page if all my friends disagree with my choices? Why not add a more extended list to my blog and tell the world about my disparate preferences?
El paisaje no podía ser más horrendo y devastador. La tierra se veía triste y gris y su aridez era muy profunda.
Así era la tierra de mi padre en esos tiempos. La tierra seguía siendo fértil, sólo que esa fertilidad necesitaba agua. Yo tenía cinco años la última vez que vi llover, la mitad de mi vida.
La tristeza era visible en el rostro de mi padre y se comenzaba a parecer a su propia tierra pues ya se le notaban surcos áridos en la frente y alrededor de sus ojos.
Cualquier desierto podría tener más vida. De seguro había desiertos en el mundo con más alegría, tierras áridas pero llenas de orgullo acostumbradas a vivir sin agua. Tierras desintegradas y convertidas por el extremo calor en granos de arena, tierras sin capacidad de crear vida o alimento.
Me daba mucho gusto ver a mi padre feliz, pero su felicidad era cada vez más paulatina y escasa. A veces, antes de irnos a dormir salía de la casa y miraba al cielo esperanzado a que las nubes fueran más sociables y amistosas y que al fin se reunieran a festejar algún milagro. El milagro de la lluvia. Pero al día siguiente la tristeza de mi padre se acumulaba al ver sus tierras aún más desoladas y secas.
El agua comunal ya no existía. El río sólo parecía una vena, vacía y seca, por la cual ya no corría ni una gota de sangre. El río estaba tan muerto como la esperanza misma de las gentes de los alrededores. Algunos vecinos ya se empezaban a ir a las ciudades.
Y yo le rogaba y le imploraba a Dios que nos enviara agua porque me dolía mucho en el corazón ver a mi padre cada vez más triste. Mi padre no se daba cuenta que yo notaba todo, tampoco se fijaba que yo veía que el vaso de agua que tomaba para apagar su insaciable sed no se lo terminaba y le iba a echar el último trago a la plantita que teníamos en mi ventana.
Y yo veía en las noticias como en otras partes del mundo había inundaciones, huracanes y lluvias torrenciales que arrasaban todo a su paso. Y yo le preguntaba a Dios por qué era tan injusto y no repartía sus exageraciones, y por qué no traía un poco de los excesos de allá a las escaseces de acá. Y por qué la gente más pobre era siempre la más afectada en todas las miserias que padecía el mundo.
Pensando en eso fue cuando se me ocurrió que debería haber una forma de juntar las nubes y forzarlas de alguna manera a que soltaran sus aguas en algún lugar específico, no para el placer de sólo ver llover sino para satisfacer el hambre y las necesidades más elementales de la gente del campo. Además mi hermanita de cinco años nunca había visto llover.
Y así me fui a dormir una noche, pensando cómo hacer para traer las lluvias y devolverle la felicidad a mi papá.
Y esa noche soñé con “Nube Mojada”, el jefe apache de la tribu “sinsolnisombra” que me enseñaba la danza de la lluvia. Su poder sobrenatural de atraer las nubes y su fama ya había rebasado fronteras. Las tierras inmensas de su tribu las envidiaba el mismo paraíso celestial. No sé cómo, pero en mi mismo sueño me daba cuenta que estaba soñando, aunque todo se veía auténtico me daba cuenta que todo era irreal. Y eso me obligaba a poner más atención para aprenderme al cien por ciento la danza de la lluvia para aplicarla al día siguiente en las tierras de mi papá.
Pues si me la aprendí, y en la mañana antes de irme a la escuela, antes de bañarme y antes de desayunar ejecuté el baile tan auténticamente como pude. Con una olla y una cuchara traté de imitar el ritmo de los tambores. Todo estaba bien hasta que mi mamá me agarró de la oreja y me metió a la casa, diciendo que me iba a llevar al manicomio si no me comportaba como gente normal.
Por el río no había corrido agua desde hacía tres años, tampoco mi hermanita sabía lo que era un río. Me imagino que si soltaban agua de la presa o del lago, o de donde salía el agua del río, solo alcanzaría a humedecer por unos segundos la tierra tan muerta de sed por tantos años. Estoy seguro que nosotros estábamos a muchos kilómetros de donde sea que nacía el agua. Y cada vez que pasaba por el río vacío, desquebrajado y seco, me acordaba de la tristeza de mi padre.
Un día vi a mi papá con una vara en forma de “Y” caminando incansablemente por todo el rancho. Según el buscando agua subterránea, y lo único que encontró fue una sed inmensa en su garganta. Decepcionado se fue a sentar a la sombra flaca del último árbol vivo que nos quedaba. Tal vez mi padre necesitaba una vara más grande, mucho más grande.
La preocupación de mi papá se me había contagiado. Antes de dormir, mi mente le daba vuelta a mis pensamientos y por horas sólo veía agua dentro de mi cerebro. Una mañana desperté con buenas noticias en la televisión. Habían encontrado la forma de hacer llover. Según esto habían inventado un imán de nubes. Este imán reunía nubes en un par de horas y luego le lanzaban cañonazos o misiles desde la tierra que explotaban sobre las nubes, obligándolas a soltar el agua del susto. Pero todo esto acabó repentinamente cuando empezaron las guerras civiles entre pueblos vecinos, pues reclamaban que les habían robado sus nubes. Y aun así, cada vez aparecían imanes más grandes y poderosos. Hasta que el gobierno los prohibió.
Y por supuesto, yo despertaba de mis sueños fantásticos cada vez más decepcionado. Aunque eso de los imanes me parecía buena idea.
Nuestra preocupación creció cuando el agua para bañarnos ya se consideraba también un desperdicio. En la casa ya no había macetas con plantas vivas. Los perros ya no sacaban la lengua para no sudar, y así ahorraban vueltas a sus recipientes secos.
Por las noches ya no rezaba ni le imploraba a Dios, sino que le reclamaba y le reprochaba sin ningún temor que se bajara de su nube y nos la prestara por tan sólo un rato. Y le recriminaba lo que había aprendido en la escuela: Setenta y uno por ciento de la superficie de la tierra contiene el noventa y siete por ciento del agua en el planeta. Y le preguntaba por qué no la distribuía equitativamente o aunque sea que le quitara la sal al agua del mar y que hiciera un millón de ríos nuevos y luego el calor del sol podría evaporar parte de esta agua y luego esta evaporación se convertiría en nubes y luego en lluvia y luego la lluvia regresaría a los ríos y así sucesivamente, un ciclo bonito e interminable.
Y así, con tanta agua de lluvia, el mundo entero se convertiría en un paraíso terrenal y ya nadie le pediría nada, y el estaría en paz descansando por toda la eternidad, o podría irse a otros universos a crear vida nueva con otro Adán y otra Eva. No creo que eso sea tan complicado para Dios.
Viéndolo bien, nos podríamos mudar a donde hay muchas inundaciones, por lo menos nos desaburriríamos de esta sequedad tan terrible. Mi papá dice que eso está muy complicado y que necesitaríamos por lo menos diez años para adaptarnos a semejante cambio tan drástico. Y yo digo que me gustaría haber nacido en medio del agua. Y yo digo que dentro de diez años vamos a seguir sin agua y sin lluvia. Y él dice que me calle y que no eche la sal.
Ya no quiero dormir, ya no quiero soñar. O bueno siempre si, si quiero soñar. Quiero soñar que amanezco ahogado en un inmenso lago de agua dulce y fresca. Quiero disfrutar más mi felicidad y ver la cara de mi papá sin arrugas y sin surcos. Quiero ver su cara con una sonrisa eterna, que salga a brincar junto conmigo en la lluvia mirando al cielo con nuestras bocas abiertas y recibir el agua dentro de nuestras almas y corazones y dejar que corra por todas nuestras venas. Eso es lo que quiero, soñar y ya no despertar.
Pero vuelvo a despertar. Y creo escuchar que está lloviendo. Pero no me entusiasmo porque sé que estoy soñando. Y escucho a mi papá y a mi hermanita afuera brincando y riendo bajo la lluvia. Y luego mi mamá se acerca a mi cama y me pide la mano y me dice que me levante y vaya a ver cuánta lluvia esta cayendo. Y le contesto que no quiero, porque estoy dormido y estoy soñando.
Hasta que regresa con una cubeta llena de agua y me la vacía sobre la cara. Y entonces si despierto y me levanto y voy a festejar el milagro de la lluvia. Y brincamos todos juntos agarrados de la mano y nos cansamos, pero ya no nos da sed.
Y me voy a dormir y vuelvo a despertar y sigue lloviendo. Y sigue lloviendo.
Young and daring freedom-loving fearless punk Addicted to excesses school, he flunked Found love early. The free bird also found a cage Never-ending bliss decreased he then turned to rage
Went to Vegas, risked it all, and lost even the house Defeated, he returned feeling smaller than a mouse The pride he also lost but one thing he gained . . . a divorce He lost his mind and soul. There’s nothing worse
Pawned his ring and bought a gun Put it against his temple now he’s gone Better learn a lesson, my son The simple truth is I’m a bad example. Now I’m in hell Just concentrate and do the opposite, and you’ll be well
Born from the same genes and innermost Sperm and ovaries, root and soil Equal and yet so different Unequal and so indifferent Same blood both ways Separate litter, separate mind, soul, and all else too Nursed and bred by the same hand and rules Heartless and faked yet sometimes Humble and straight Some handsome outside And handsome inside Some pretty in and out Although not all the time You could forget you are good When you remember you could be mean and cruel And all the while remain impeccably firm As you convince yourself how flawless you are However, you never say it Clearly, you have your favored precious Thank God they are interchangeable Not as a son or a daughter Where you could never decide or proclaim Who your favorite is Fraternal love eternal and ephemeral It could be applied in the same sentence Pleasure and pain, love, and indifference Love them all is your final recourse A gift from God could also mean A Satan’s curse Nevertheless, the plague can eventually fade away But you will never dissuade Satan of course Relatives, kin or blood, you can never escape Like it or not you are stuck You cannot repel or refuse My best advice, enjoy and ignore Alternatively.
The End
Dedicated to my seven brothers and sisters. I love you all
“I sought my soul But my soul I could not see I sought my God But my God eluded me I sought my brother And I found all three.” – William Blake
Killing an ant with a nuclear bomb. Exaggeration Stoning a woman right after she’s been raped. Abomination Creating the final solution to exterminate a wandering nation Inexplicable and contradictive. Killing cancer with radiation Tormenting and torturing without mitigation
Crying at the bottom of the sea to drown your sorrow Fighting foreign wars all over the world in a continuous row Committing suicide today for things that will disappear tomorrow Saint Sebastian expiring and still receiving another arrow Asking money from a beggar when he has nothing to borrow
God never lies. You can’t insist Begging God to make me believe he doesn’t exist Asking God to become friends with Satan so evil can cease to exist Declining access to hell even if I persist or desist Satan always lies. He can’t resist
There’s no solution or substitution for disillusion There’s no compensation or restitution for revolution Brain surgery is needed for a mind so narrow And heavy and impossible to carry in a wheelbarrow Angry and nonconformist, I raise my fist Only to be censored, disqualified, and dismissed.
I bet you’ll die with a smile. I wish I could see it.
But I know I’ll die first because, seeing what you’ve been through your whole life, you must be immortal and indestructible.
Your guitar is an instrument that connects your brain to your heart and soul.
Or is it all the way around?
And you transmit all your feelings with your fingers.
And if you add the correct lyrics. You’ll incite a riot.
And your lyrics and riffs will echo in my bones.
Love gone bad, cheating, mistrust, lies, suffering, double crossings, deception, and abandonment.
We can find all devastating adjectives in your lyrics. And yet we believe you because we know you’re an expert. You have been the cause and the effect of all those feelings.
You’re an authentic, soulful blues man. You borrow alien sentiments and affections.
You instigate young and old minds with messages of rebellion and mutiny.
You twist and wring love and devotion and turn them into evil provocations.
Beautiful music inspired by a black sound that the masses had ignored for decades.
Exporting it back to the blind ears of America. Transformed into ‘devil’s music.’
Your image is a symbol of revolt and anarchy affecting generations.
And for decades, you fooled us because you were a humble and sincere human being.
The man was so gentle that, without a doubt could be called a gentleman.
Like all good brothers, great artists, and great bands whose members had contrasting egos, you fought with your own.
But now, we know it’s all good.
All blues and sad music had to come from misery, anguish, and desolation. But you never suffered; you were always having a great time. So you convinced me I was wrong.
How could you create such music without living a miserable life or going through hell?
You had to scrape the shit right off your shoes with your overloaded acoustics to create a devil full of sympathy.
You were always trouble, it seemed. A Houdini in reverse. Never wanting to disappear.
A consummate monkey reaching for coconuts can also fall from a palm tree and end up like a pirate with a broken skull.
Never a dull moment, indeed.
The End
Lines inspired after watching “Under The Influence.” About the life of Keith Richards.
The main actor was a little precocious, even for a three-year-old kid. He required naps in between takes. He also demanded milk and cookies during breaks. His real name was Lucius Night, which was perfect for the role. There was no need to change it.
We started shooting on Halloween Day. It was his first movie. The title was a little bit grandiose: “Apocalyptic Moons.” The film was supposed to be a one-location-two actors-no-budget kind of deal. Nevertheless, the aspirations were high.
The main actor was a little precocious, even for a three-year-old kid. He required naps in between takes. He also demanded milk and cookies during breaks. His real name was Lucius Night, which was perfect for the role. There was no need to change it.
The post-apocalyptical barren land mentioned in the script couldn’t be found in the area, even though we were in the middle of the desert. The absence of adequate transportation for the cast and crew was an impediment.
Lucius’ mom offered her house, and the front yard was used instead. The post-production team and the special effects department would be working overtime. —and for free also— Luckily, the old camera from the 90s came with a zoom. Now, we could turn the miniature Godzilla into a monster bigger than the Statue of Liberty. The trick was to experiment with new tricks. Sometimes, dumb ideas look good on film (or digital.)
Halloween decorations were set. A huge inflatable menacing cat was the main attraction. It moved its head sideways. The dark, pessimistic story also mentions humongous spiders devouring humans. If only we could find a little spider.
The scene called for Lucius’ immense abilities as a ninja warrior to save Katana Luna —his one-year-old little sister— from the ferocious cat and its deadly claws. The director told Lucius to ignore previous instructions. Instead, this time he should look at the camera. He had to imagine the camera was the enemy and that he was attacking a powerful enemy. The camera was placed on top of a two-step ladder. No funds were available for a tripod.
Katana Luna was at the mercy of the monstrous feline only a few feet away. The cat seemed to be enjoying the moment. It intentionally took its time, knowing its future meal had no escape. The cat prolonged the suffering by moving in slow motion toward the victim. Inch by inch, the cat approached Katana. At that precise instant, nobody knew how Katana could be saved.
Out of the blue, Lucius Night appeared in a close-up with a sword in hand attacking . . . the camera?
Brando had never been this good.
Of course, the movie was never finished.
The budget was so low; we couldn’t get a replacement camera.
The End
*Especial thanks to my grandkids Lucius Night and Katana Luna for volunteering their talents.
Accomplished Ignorant — Short Stories And Other Things 