cronopios and famas

i created this blog late last night or in the early hours of this day, i do not know why. i do not know who the Cronopio really are; neither the fama. i understand Cortazar meant that these species do exist; however, i am too far away from his Latin American sensibilities, too removed from his Parisian ethos to understand these important questions. to question any act of writing will be insane, i can lament over the need or the indecipherable loneliness of words. hence any lessons learnt are futile, any vows exchanged are broken, hence this blog. who these gentle creatures are, i do not want to know and who knows if they are gentle. i imagine women and men and some indistinguishable forms, however, i always imagine walking forms, not flying beasts.

this blog is my second manifestation, the earlier one met its fate a few weeks ago. these are just clandestine thoughts, activities that inhabit untimely hours, i succumbed, here i am, i deserve to be hanged. i had seriously been thinking of starting a footballing blog, only i know it would not have any eclectic appeal, these class distinctions are so hard to do away with, football after all is the proletarian dance, and anyway, the team i fancy have a philosophy and an ethos too, but i think a footballers blog needs stamina.

this blog will follow none of the rules i had set for in the previous one, for i can end it anytime.i do not intend to write neatly or hide behind the imperfections of my words or the unformed thoughts of my mind. it is my wish to seek the cronopios and famas and esperanzas of my life, my lives, the undulating boundless varied esperanzas of my hours. i do not desire to create seperate labels for these trivial words, to categorize under labels the barren unmusicality of my hours. i intend and hope that the hours will lead the thoughts, like many yesteryears ago, in a hot july, when i lived within ten days the musicless decades of my life.

so perhaps, as a respite, as an hour of repose, i will spread the hour of my desires, the weightless desire of my fingers, stretch to breaking again the inevitable moment when i will close this window again, a window consciously opened, a window susceptible to malignant thoughts occasionally. i will not hesitate to write only one poem in various guises and disguises, for who cares and how does it all matter.......

i can walk again, thinking that perhaps, only perhaps, i shall live in fractious hours, with hopeless and sometimes hopeful words, the untouchable musicless music of my life.