More like a tempest...

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, May 31, 2009


I guess some call it brain storm, I've heard it called rant, and also blog....

.          Sometimes I think I would take my conciense to the dry cleaner, the problem would be that the whole point would be missed with the starch they sometimes put in it          . Religion is only a problem because it is a bunch of people who ahave different intentions, different stories, different ideas, and yet insist they all believe in the same thing .  An open book you say? The girl who's more public than the yellow pages?        .  The way into the illumination might be wrong, but history has led us to guess it might be right, to first start with the categorical empiric, having a period os stoicism untill you find the idea absurd, then be a rebel and an anarchist until you realize how the world really works, then become a cynical existencialist, then do that minus the existencialist; by this time you should be half way there, just to find that each step is useful and needs a balance, now you only need to get them all together and not loose your mind . I used to believe in the capacity of people to be equal, to trasend and to find the common ground, then I had an epiphany, nobody is the same . I also used to believe in the growth of poor countries and social rights for all, then I studied the poor countries, which apparently have more to do with a well geared machinery and ideology than just the will of doing something . Poetry is the freedom of expression, while narrative is the freedom of style; at the end of story, people don't care about your expressions . Myths about Yaveh, Zeus, Nidhog, Bastet, and Quetzalcoatl sound all the same to me, ways to bring an ethical reflexion into the world, saddly they've done the complete opposite Genetical engineering is misunderstood as most sciences, people think that just because one single book can't explain it, it must be evil . Barbarianism could be considered to enclose women in thick black clothes and take them as inferior, or it could also be taken as selling your population like pigs to the wealthiest bidder, and then say it is democracy . Soul, spirit, magic and mind, they're as real as their effect, which is as concrete as one wishes to believe . Masks are for me to wear and for you to see, but for who are they to find what lies beneath?

by I'm the penguin


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, May 30, 2009


[Mrs. K i t e]

Martha and Jerry

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, May 29, 2009


It's about Martha, she has seen all her deads, there are many. She has seen ones where she drowns after slipping into the shellfish tank in Sea World. She has also seen one where she is showering and can't hear the fire alarm, there she is burn while wet. She has also seen when she dies of old age next to an oak. Martha has decided not to give much importance to these visions she has after drinking tea. She has a policy of not fearing dead, or quitting tea just because of visions.

 She doesn't really want them, or asks for them, they just come. She expected at first that it would be useful to see the future, but after weeks of seeing her dead a few so many times, she concluded the magic tea could only show her dead. And of course at first she was scared, the was terrified to see all the ways she could die, she started avoiding the public transport (dead of falling down the exit stairs and then being crushed), the movies (an epidemic new disease that can only be contracted in the dark), and the carrousels (something with a lot of short circuits and shocks).

 But Martha was no phony, she stopped caring after a year or so and she went on with her life. She has gone on, sort of having a clichéd reminder of how special and meaningful life was, just every single time she drinks tea. The only thing she has kept caring about is not to wear a red Pashmina. Not only are they out of season, but in every single one of her visions, she died with a red pashmina hanging from her neck, a nice one (Prada), yet hanging from her dead neck.



It is also about Jerry, he can't see into the future, not like Martha, not like any of us. (Almost) every person has plans, can speculate into the future and predict; often not accurately, yet predict. He can't, he has never been able to imagine the world having another dawn the other day. He doesn't have... perception, some would say. Needless to say Jerry has no dreams or hopes, or nightmares or worries. Jerry can't care because of this, and even if he could, probably he wouldn't.

 Since he didn't fantasized his life since he was seven, he was not disappointed when he found out it was hard to be an astronaut. Since he didn't plan his career when he was twelve, he was not shocked when he found life is cruel. And since he didn't have any expectations when he was twenty he now works as retail seller without frustration or hopes of ever ascending. He lives by the day, working in a clothing store; he gets free bubble wrap paper.

 Aside from having no sense of prediction or estimation, Jerry had a fascination with living things. Since he was very little he watched the insects and the cats, very attentively, being amazed by their capacity of living. But what brought Jerry away from being a veterinarian or zoologist was that he didn't just liked life, but taking it was what he must enjoyed. Feeling how a mouse grasped for his life while being squeezed in his hands, looking the fear in the eyes of a cat being cut open while held by the paws. He wouldn't have lasted long in the business, aside from the pact that he didn't have the skill for grooming a Poodle.

 With the years, Jerry's obsession with seeing life and ending it had to be hidden, the stains were too notorious. So he is now careful, and organized, and very tidy; he has also become a murderer. He sales expensive coats at day and skins people at night. He does feel guilt, he is not a monster, but his guilt can't last long, he can't imagine himself in the future being held responsible. 

 Now, Jerry watches a lady in the store, he sees her, she is beautiful, and full of life. He keeps staring at her then he approaches. He is blown over by her, he keeps seeing. After he helps her find some cloths, he recommends  a red Pashmina, which would match perfectly. And after insisting for a few minutes, Martha, the costumer tried it on. It looked great on her.


by I'm the penguin

How do people change?

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, May 28, 2009


Harper: In your experience of the world. How do people change?

Mormon Mother: Well it has something to do with God so it's not very nice.

God splits the skin with a jagged thumbnail from throat to belly and then plunges a huge filthy hand in, he grabs hold of your bloody tubes and they slip to evade his grasp but he squeezes hard, he insists, he pulls and pulls till all your innards are yanked out and the pain! We can't even talk about that. And then he stuffs them back, dirty, tangled and torn. It's up to you to do the stitching.

Harper: And then up you get. And walk around.

Mormon Mother: Just mangled guts pretending.

Harper: That's how people change.

— Tony Kushner (Angels in America, Part Two: Perestroika)

[Mrs. K i t e]

Not normal

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Wednesday, May 27, 2009


Yesterday I yelled to -----, my mother. I don't really do it so often, just  when like normal people get normal outbreak, and yell, and scream and break things. It was one of those moments, I just went a little too far, and some things that shouldn't have were said, and then some more things were broken. Which is why I am now standing alone in a street, looking at the shithole my life has always been. And now I wonder what could have gone differently.


It all started when I got the normal problems of normal teenagers, coming of age, finding one's self, and all that crap counselors like to tell parents so they are scared of traumatizing their kids. It was just all normal; the shit in the shoe was that I am not normal. When I started having the outbreaks, the crisis and the long periods of isolation, "it's just an age thing" she said, which made sense. But I didn't feel like it was something I had to go through, you see, lying in the floor of the bathroom with a razor in one hand, pressing the wrist of the other , doesn't really feel like when you are lost in the Supermarket, or your first camp. It is not even comparable with the first day of school.


Of course my mother had to notice when she had to take me to the hospital bleeding my guts out. She freaked out, really bad. She kept screaming, and nagging me, and crying and coursing. She didn't understand then what was going on, but the look in her eyes-god, the look in her eyes- it was saddest thing I have ever seen. After the stitches and the sobs, she couldn't even look me in the eye; I knew she didn't know what to say. I was blank. "Sorry, mom" I cried "sorry." But I wasn't sorry, neither did I have the need to apologize, I was just empty, broken, a bag of bones and flesh lying in a hospital bed.


Days later I was in therapy, I think it was some sort of religious therapist, or at least he kept telling me about "the lord" and the "righteous way". I didn't even bother listening to him, what I felt had nothing to do with the absence of my father, which he kept insisting. The wound was not some child abuse thing, it wasn't. "It's just normal problems or normal teenagers" I said to avoid him, "I just can't handle well." I think even he knew that was bullshit.


After the incident my mother was not the same around me, she was careful, always treating me like some China collection of dancing Geishas. But the sort of careful that is not meant to mean love for the China, but fear of breaking it, fear it will all go to hell. She avoided words such as depressive, sad, good, bad, suffering, unbearable, common. Those still hold a close relationship for me. 


She always asked "Are you fine?" every single time she saw me, after school, before dinner, during dinner, before going to bed. "Yes" I always said, then she asked "Are you sure?", and all I thought was "Of course not! Look at me, I can't make human contact, a day can't go on without me having some sort of outburst, and entering to the bathroom for the daily routine is the most painful thing in the world, having to keep my eyes from all those edgy and pointy things, so to don't relapse." But I kept silent.


Very recently she started speaking with the school advisor I think, because he had started a tendency of calling me to his office, or asking me to participate in normal activities done by normal teenagers. I hated it, not the decorating the gym for stupid Homecoming, or being forced to help the Drama club raise funds. I hated being seen differently, those pathetic attempts done by normal people doing normal things, trying to include me, trying to make me feel oh so fucking special. Thos attempts that were obvious segregations to help the depressive kid, to make the fuck up feel good about his fucked up life. That's what I hated.


I could come off as some hermit who spent his days writing dark poetry and diaries. I am not. I do speak to people; I gather after school, I mock teachers, heck I even sometimes flirt. But there is just something in me, very deeply incrusted, stabbing me, something that brings me back to the bathroom episode. It all brings me to the sensation of having the razor pressing my wrist, back to the moment when I saw the blood sliding across the tiles. It was not happiness, it was not peace, but fuck, was it reliving.


But mother doesn’t understand this, and I can’t tell her, I wouldn’t have the heart to tell her, her son is likely to die in a bathroom floor without ever giving her grandchildren, without ever seeing Europe, without going to college, or any of those normal dreams normal people have. So I just keep silent, nodding, letting her know I’m perfect and recovering.

Then the pill episode started, which was not the answer, at least for me. When my mother started talking about it, I thought it was only natural, dose the crazy, that’ll keep him away from running with scissors. Yet it all seemed very absurd to me, it still does, how can you teach a generation of kids that drugs are bad, when you stuff the happy kids with Ritalin, the imaginative with Lithium, and the sad one with Prozac? Adults these days…they have a magic potion for every kid.

At first I didn’t care, it just made feel numb, always numb. Gladly I was no longer angry, sad, or had the need to run to the balcony and jump. I was just numb, which doesn’t mean happy, or joyous, or anything else; it means numb. But later I felt the need of the pain, like when your legs are numb from sitting on the floor, and then you stand up and they hurt. Sure it might not be nice, but the pain lets you know the legs are still alive. I needed that, the pain after the numbness, the soar wake up after the long comma. But I was healed, I was numb.

It couldn’t last for long. “It kills my soul” I told my mother, who thought was a fair trade for having her son alive, in a bag of bones and blood. I didn’t care; I started flushing it down the toilet, which brought the pain back; letting me know I was alive. You possibly think it is stupid for someone suicidal to look for feeling alive, to search that sign of heart beat. But it is not, isn’t dying the ultimate proof that we were once alive?

Maybe not for normal people.

By I'm the penguin

My eye has something

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Tuesday, May 26, 2009


My eye hurts.
As in pain, frustration, itchiness, and why not madness..
Maybe it is all in my head, maybe there isn't anything physical up there in my eye lids.
I hope there is, because it hurts... a lot.

I've used some drops, washed it, i've looked at it, over and over again. But I don't see it, maybe it is because I'm getting blind.

But what if I went blind... would it still bother?

Damn it, i want to cry just from that eye, maybe it'll fall afterwards...

[Mrs. K i t e ]
believe it or not, there's nothing actually hidden in this post... hoho

Their place

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, May 25, 2009


It was dark, sad and sick. And I knew it would be dark, sad and sick; which is why I entered. The dark is always there, covering them, coming out of them; the sad comes when you can see through the dark, you can see the nothingness and the absensse of essence. But the sick, I can not even start speaking about the sick. It comes and punches you in the gut, leaves you in the floor, silent and suffocating; then it enters into you. It doesn't come in by your eyes, or your ears, it penetrates beneath the nails, the pores. It soaks you with the feeling, it destroies you. And then, right then is when you get to choose.

It is then when you choose either to stay or leave. They don't care, they have never cared, they need no one, and no one needs them. So it is completely up to you, to surrender to the nausciating virus running trough your veins, or to grab all your might and leave, leave forever. And that is not a decision for some, they just roll in their back and get out repting like jointless cockroaches; but some find a home in the revolting place, so they stay. And it is then, just then when you become part of the dark, you inhale and exhale it, you are one with it, or at least you feel so. And it is then when you become sad, but not to yourself, that would be too simple. You become sad to everyone else, even if you are not yet one of them, or plan to be. You will never be the same.

Because once you enter, and decide to stay you keep watching, and walking and inhaling. And you can't stop either, you can't do anything else, until it dies. You moral dies. Not metaphorically, not figuratively, it is not a game. Liying in the floor bleeding with gangrena sort of dead, that place is not for the easily startled. And then it becomes a dead end, you can't go forth, you can't go back, you stay there. Among the dark, sad and sick. Untill yourself is indistinguishible from them. And it is only then that I stoped caring, I need no one, and no one will ever need me again.

By I'm the penguin

Problem solving

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, May 24, 2009


I said, "I'll have to solve the problems at 1am, while i'm sleeping and getting distracted on youtube."
And you said, "Those problems could be solved by a stupid sixth-grader, at 2am, and drunk."
It's your fault I haven't started them, it's not actually the day it is supposed to be, and I AM watching youtube.

And then I look for an image to put here.

But I can't find it.

So I try to print my homework, and the printer's not working.


I'll go get those problems...

[Mrs. K i t e ]

A day with the silent tribe

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, May 23, 2009


There is a place...

(Just not so much as Paul and John said, the place I mean.)

This place is surrealist, it begins when the social norms end and it ends when the moon goes down. It is a place that has more shadows casted upon it than any other, it is that part of society that is outlasted, yet nobody cares. Because you see, with Punks, people cared, there are studies and studies about their rebellious ways and their loud music. Then there are the Goths and the Rock stars, all very different, but they all got studied. They were all feared and blamed because of their uproar into society.

But the place I went had no punks of Goths, it was a tribe that has been there always, yes changing, but has always been there. No special attention to it, no studies about it and its trashy music, or ideas. But that is because these outcasts are not an uproar, are not loud, they are silent. They are hard to notice, for they hide and lie beneath dungeons and dragons. They are the tribe of the silent screams.

And such a tribe deserves a full study, but since I'm no psychologist (just by chance), and I'm no sociologist (yet), I can just say: that place and time, with the costumes and shrag, had a lovely Jack.

[in hopes there is no copyright infreingement]
by I'm the penguin

Cold fire?

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, May 22, 2009


You've got everything but cold fire...
This is sort of a blog isn't it?
So, this week... weird, good, not bad at all, new, relaxing-stressing, planning, listening...
The week modified a bit how I see some important things... and I feel good about it so, I'm giving thumbs up for this one.
I started a proyect, another proyect, decided some things... and started the indirect thank-you proyect, which was not planned to be that thank you, but just confirms the reason of the thank you, and encourages me to do a new year's resolution.
I had forgotten about them, and now, I'm remembering... so, reviewing...
The story of a cow-check (in process)
Story about a painting- check (in process)
Story about a girl and a boy- (thinking back... it can't be a new year's resultion.. c'mon)
The page-holder and the abandoned instrument.- damn... (im not even sure i know what they meant..)

So, working progress...
I said i didn't do new year's resolutions... but...

[Mrs. K i t e]

El aguila perdida

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, May 21, 2009


La generación de gente nacida entre los años finales de los 80s y los 90s es pronto catalogada como una generación apática, nihilista y materialista. Pero decir que nuestra generación de jóvenes está solamente basada en los excesos mediáticos, el consumismo derrochador y la globalización carente de identidad, sería muy simple, y un error. Esta, como todas las generaciones, no es más que el producto de su entorno, su historia y lo que sucede en su desarrollo.

 No importa la dirección que tome una generación en conjunto, siempre está presente la marca de la historia de sus padres, la herencia histórica y cultural que nos acompaña. Y para entender a esta generación, común mente llamada la generación de la Red, es necesario conocer las generaciones que la afectan.

Retomando desde donde Paz menciona en El Laberitno de a Soledad la “Inteligenica Mexicana”, el dice cómo es que en su actualidad, los años 50s, México ya era un lugar sin más cultura que la mundial. A esto se refería que en vez de crecer de la raíz de dos culturas, las negaba, se alejaba de sus raíces precolombinas, y negaba su tradición española. Dejando a México con nada más que la historia mundial, y su papel en ella. Y esto nos habla de un inicio de globalización, a partir de los años 50s, la generación donde crecieron los abuelos de la generación de la Red.

Esta época se caracteriza como una de las más estables económicamente en el siglo XX para México, con influencia del estilo de vida Norteamericana, y la preponderancia del sistema capitalista. Es cuando la globalización comienza a extenderse, acentuándose aún más la perdida de una identidad nacional. Sumado a esto, existía una cultura donde imperaba  la censura, la opresión y las buenas costumbres.

Este ambiente fue lo que ocasionó que los hijos de esta generación, que crecieron en los 70s se rebelaran contra el régimen establecido. Continuando con las ideas de cambio social de los 60s, los jóvenes esparcían ideas de libertad en todo el mundo. Es cuando las mujeres en Latinoamérica comienzan a buscar una carrera profesional en su mayoría, y equidad de género y libertad sexual. Pero con esto también vino un periodo de tensión política global en Latinoamérica, causado por las dictaduras establecidas.


Por esta situación delicada, y el encuentro de ideas de las diferentes generaciones también causó una oleada de populismo en los países latinoamericanos. En los 70s también fue cuando después de una etapa estable de la economía mexicana, empezó a haber crisis e inflaciones muy acentuadas.

Estas situaciones dejan a México en un escenario que ya no es a cerca de las naciones, si no de la historia conjugada, de una economía que depende de otros países y de una cultura sin pies ni cabeza, solo influencia externa, un país globalizado. Además estas generaciones se acostumbran a un gobierno corrupto y sin cambios, una economía que es inestable y en constante crisis.

Esto se concentra y se traduce en una ideología que contempla la participación en la política como algo inútil, se es indiferente a ella. También un constante estado de desconfianza a cerca de la economía. Y más importante en la temática de El Laberinto de la Soledad, una ideología sin identidad nacional.

Y los hijos de esta generación, quienes heredan los estigmas del país y las historias de crisis, son los 90s, la juventud de la apatía. Y esta generación no solo tiene esto, sino que también crece en un ámbito de revolución tecnológica y mediática. Habiendo televisiones en casi todas las casas, y el desarrollo del internet, la información se volvió por primera vez para una generación joven, algo accesible y de muy alta velocidad.

Esta generación crece con una pre-concepción del gobierno como algo corrupto e inmutable, con el Tratado de libre comercio de Norteamérica, inundando el mercado de productos de Estados Unidos, su lenguaje y su cultura. El mexicano de esta generación no se vive como tal, se desentiende de sus llamadas raíces y se une a la ideología mundial, convirtiéndose en ciudadano del mundo. El joven ya no se vive macho ni charro, ahora es un fresa, un naco o un geek. Su distancia con los otros países se ha acortado y considera el extranjero como una realidad cercana. Pero a pesar de estos cambios drásticos, el mexicano joven aún es cerrado, se priva en sus mascaras y ve a la vida con indiferencia. El mexicano se ha liberado de México, pero sigue atrapado en el gran laberinto, solo.

[versión mexicana... dios bendiga al derecho de un autor por traducir descaradamente]
por I'm the penguin

Dating Pools- Extended

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Wednesday, May 20, 2009


Wonderful! pencil + fun equation + boredom =

So, after all this... in the end...


Damn, are you creepy? then...
If you are the victim, in= ΔE+14-Av(you)
If you have a victim, in= 2ΔE+14-Ap(you)

[extended from xkcd's dating pools]

[Mrs. K i t e]
yes, yes... i've heard it

Your favorite place

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Tuesday, May 19, 2009


You are a complex person

I've been told so, I don't see it, I just don't have favorite things. I like stuff, and it appeals to me in some ways, other things appeal me differently. I'm just not monodimensional.

It's weird you can speak so calmly at your death bed

But I'm not in a bed, and I'm not about to die.

You are right, this is not your bed. And you are already dead.

I don't know why do people keep insisting, I'm not dead. If I were dead, would you had asked me where was my favorite place so I could spend the rest of my time there?

That was just a formality, that's how it goes. But you are dead

I am not. I am here. I didn't stop existing.

You have a knife through your guts.

Maybe it didn't ponctured anything.

You stop bleeding some hours ago.

Maybe that's a sign of healing.

That's a sign of lack of blood. You are dead. So, again, what is your favorite place, maybe I could take you there...

Am I not dead?

Well, yes but you're here aren't you?

I am.

Then what's your favorite place?

I have none, I told you, different places appeal to me in different manners.

[It's not supposed to make sense... or is it?]
By I'm the penguin

The Reeling

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, May 18, 2009


Passion Pit, "The Reeling" from Benjamin Technology on Vimeo.

[Mrs. K i t e ]
you let me know if you like it,
oh damn, my head still hurts!

Just like last year

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, May 17, 2009


He should have been used to it, it came every year, almost the same time; or at least it seemed that way. He should have seen it coming since a long time ago, with all which he left behind, all those neglected memories and believes, all that energy goes somewhere, he should have known where. And now he stands there, all lost and clueless, not knowing why did it happen, longing the unexistent past.

That is the problem as old as time with him, he is always nostalic about a past that never happened, and anxious about an imaginary future. He had coveted a name, a face and a place. He had crafted the face himself and the name came by itself, the place just seemed right. And he was happy for a time, with his new masks and new tricks, and his estoic way of making it all work. But he neglected the colors and the voices, he neglected me, he avoided me.

And it was fine, the fact that he had left me out of the equation, fine by me I mean. He though I was not part of that world, so he just let me go, but there is nowhere else I could go. So he changed and moved on, or so he thought.

Then, the secret club of four-eyed creatures who had let him in just seemed dull, boring, out of place and without a place in his destiny, which he thought he had crafted as well with the masks. But you can never craft such a thing, no matter how much you believe in liberty, in opressive liberty I mean.

So then he realized, and then  looked back and noticed me along with his memories, all disperse, all disected and stuffed. He was nothing like me, even if that had been his goal many years ago. He was a creature he couldn't bare.

And so now he stands there, in the rain, knowing he had thought he was a man in a new face, when in fact he is now but a sobbing child with a broken set of masks.

And yes, just like last year, it was all triggered by the house of free entretainment and stalking. Virtual entretainment, if I may say.

By The Masked penguin


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, May 16, 2009


Don't forget to wash the dishes, else, when you look under your bed you'll have a very old dirty dish, which once had tuna, and now stinks.
For almost a month, it bothered you, it came from nowhere, it drilled your head, day after day...
You learned to live with it, you hated it, you thought you were insane after all those years of _____.
But it was only a dish under your bed.

And you thought the stench came from your head.

Well, maybe it did...

[Mrs. K i t e ]
getting rid of dishes,

Giants in the sky

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, May 15, 2009


They dance and swing, move a lot and carefree. Always changing, always moving, always so magnificent.

Because only earthlings fall, because they were made of only a soul, because they were free in the whole.

They were seen, seen by all, the flying giants that were everywhere, that saw everything. The giants that could run away or bring the spirits of water.

Castles and giants, living in the sky, watching the Earth. They saw when it all started and will see when it is all gone. They are perfectly displayed, hence they're not human made.

By I'm the penguin

She doesn't live here anymore

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, May 14, 2009


At the time I heard it i thought it was the saddest song in earth. I still kinda think that.

I advise you to listen to the studio version: Jay-Jay Johanson - She Doesn't Live Here Anymore
[ Mrs. K i t e ]

Secrecy vows

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Wednesday, May 13, 2009


In the penguin's book (and he actually has one) there are two types of people who keep secrets: the ones who actually keep secrets, and dig deep down in their inconscient and burry the information with vows of never letting it out. And the phoonies who dig all the way in, but never let it fall.

There is nothing really extense to say about those who keep it, if any I could say they are priving the world from information, which is a crime (or should be). These kinds of people are noble, true and completely trustworthy, thus completely uninteresting. And I'm not saying everyone should go and tell everything they know, I'm just saying that these people don't see themselves in a dilemma, they have it all worked out, they just keep it to themsleves. They don't feel lost, they don't feel alone, they don't enter the realm of temptation.

So, the keepers are safe, they don't risk, they just burry. But what happens to us the one who don't throw it to the hole, what happens to us who doubt, at least for a second, if it is the right thing to deprive the wolrd from such a treasure. Well, we are alone, we are lost, and we enter in crisis. By this I don't asure I will tell anyone, or that anything tursted to me will be on some gossip blog, but I do enter in the secret fellowship of the petty secret keepers. And it is awesome. And it is awful.

Because the ones who doubt are not the one who necesairly kiss and tell, maybe they are the ones who just let themselves be notied much more silly and infactuated to let the others guess. They might not be the ones telling you the world is round, but they will sure advise to visit India (check your Earch globe or google Earth for that reference).

And it is not because they are indescreet, or because they are a gossip. Maybe they just feel like they have become the treasure, and are desperate for someone to find it, to be interested, to unravel the mystery thay have become.

By I'm the penguin

The real fields

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Tuesday, May 12, 2009


Find a song and make it better
400 and 1 posts


All the little posts and dreams
Fly like some broken wings
Seems like all they really were doing
Was posting for themselves

Just like little birds and kites
Speaking with their windy voice
Seems like all they really were doing
Was posting for themselves

Don't need to post alone
No need to post alone

It's at the fields
It's real,
yes read it
It's real

In this moment I don’t know
Exactly where my life will go
Seems that all we really were doing
Was posting for ourselves

Don't need read again
No need to judge a friend

It's at the fields
It's real,
yes read it

Thought I'd written that before,
But in the skies we’ve written more
Seems like all we really were doing
Was writing for ourselves

Don't need to post alone
No need to post alone

It's at the fields
It's real,
yes read it
It's real

[Mrs. K i t e]
c'mon, please sing it while listening to "Real Love"

Romance you say...

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, May 11, 2009


Romance... the glamour and love, and feelings, and chivalry and details and more love. That's what comes into mind, doesn't it? The beautiful sunset along with the significant other and promises of true love.

But what romance means, it's actually something not so much into the sunset, and more into the heart breaking hedonism. You see, romance comes from ROMANTIC, which is an ideological and artistic movement, that means ROME-ANTIC, as in ATI-ROME. Why if it is such a beautiful place for a honey moon? you may say.

Well, what they meant by ATI-ROME was the antithesis of the Classic, of whatever was founded in thoughts and rigoroous rules for the art. Whatever had focus only on the ideas and pefection, was what the Romantics stood angainst. So it was an expression against rules, against thought ruling art, against bringing reason into the feelings; it was the separation of the mind and the soul.

So the mere movement was to finally feel the feelings, to let them in and control over the judgement and the blind to anything that was not passional. And what a way to do it, to become dark, miserable, and damaged creatures who wandered around. Looking to get their hearts broken, yearning to be rejected and humilliated, waiting to have their dreams murdered and disected on a tray. That was romance, a dark expression of the feelings into the suffering love brought, about all the wounds life could give to your psyche.

So, is the term we use today about romance correctly used? I wouldn't bet on that, but something is true, it doesn't look a thing today like it used to. The film where the poor girl meets the rich man and they fall inlove and at the end they marry, and they are actually happy, that could not be considered as romance, ever. But today we use this terms and those, and it has become what it has become. 

But about today's romance, I do have noticed a similarity with the ancient one. The principle of letting go of the brain, and just go with the feeling. And trust me, I don't mean this in an idealistic way, people actually become stupid. Because why else would someone wait for someone else for years if it is not to suffer? Why would we idealize someone and have the idea of them ruin us to the person an have a destined-to-fail relationship? Why would we ow to spend the rest of our lives with someone, if it wasn't because an abandom of thought?

So, that's what romance is, becoming stupid. Leaving ideas aside. 

But, apparently, stop thinking had never felt so good

or so they say

By I'm the penguin

No good

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, May 10, 2009


Family reunions do no good for blogging
A couple (ha!) drinks... do no good for blogging
[specially when you are crawling in the floor]
Pitayas... do no good for blogging..
Card games do no good for blogging...

I thought it was dangerous to blog, not because of the content of the post, but because the phisical challenge it demanded from me...

so sorry for this (not so good) post...
intended to reflect further actions...
It's part of the story, i'll tell it later perhaps...

[ Mrs. K i t e ]

Less than 50

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, May 09, 2009


 Of all the fillers I could think about in this season, this was the one who won, and hey, it may actually come in handy.

Did you know that:

The word "queue" is the only word in the English language that is still pronounced the same way when the last four letters are removed.

Beetles taste like apples, wasps like pine nuts, and worms  like fried bacon.

Of all the words in the English language, the word 'set' has the most definitions!

What is called a "French kiss" in the English speaking world is known as an "English kiss" in France.

"Almost" is the longest word in the English language with all the letters in alphabetical order.

"Rhythm" is the longest English word without a vowel.

In 1386, a pig in France was executed by public hanging for the murder of a child

A cockroach can live several weeks with its head cut off!

Human thigh bones are stronger than concrete.

You can't kill yourself by holding your breath

There is a city called Rome on every continent.

It's against the law to have a pet dog in Iceland!

Your heart beats over 100,000 times a day!

Horatio Nelson, one of England's most illustrious admirals was throughout his life, never able to find a cure for his sea-sickness.

The skeleton of Jeremy Bentham is present at all important meetings of the University of London

Right handed people live, on average, nine years longer than left-handed people

Your ribs move about 5 million times a year, everytime you breathe!

The elephant is the only mammal  that can't jump!

One quarter of the bones in your body, are in your feet!

Like fingerprints, everyone's tongue print is different!

The first known transfusion of blood was performed as early as 1667, when Jean-Baptiste, transfused two pints of blood from a sheep to a young man

Fingernails grow nearly 4 times faster than toenails!

Most dust particles in your house are made from dead skin!

The present population of 5 billion plus people of the world is predicted to become 15 billion by 2080.

Women blink nearly twice as much as men.

Adolf Hitler was a vegetarian, and had only ONE testicle.

Yea... they're deliberatly stolen, but hey here's the source 50 Amazing but useless facts!

By (the people who investigated them and posted them, BUT, brought to you by) I'm the penguin

Flying bionic penguins

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, May 08, 2009


I think it's aweshomz!

[Mrs. K i t e ]

Just for a second

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, May 07, 2009


“It’s like it’s me, but it’s not really me, just a person there. Like someone who could be me, but is not, and I feel like it is, but it really isn’t because I’m me and no other person” I said, trying to make some sense, telling my mother how I felt.

“Pass me the milk will you?” she asked with a smile in her face, I knew she wasn’t probably listening anyway, but I kept telling her.

“It is something like inexistence, but I know I am here. Like in videogames, you control the body of the hero, I sometimes feel like the kid with the controller” I said, looking at her eyes to get any response, she poured the milk and continued to stir.

“I mean, I don’t think I’m a hero or anything or that I have to collect a hundred keys to get somewhere else, I’m not crazy.” I said, self indulging to apparently just myself “I just sometimes feel like it’s not real you know? You and I, the spoon you’re using instead of the blender, the bowl of your cookie though; nothing at all, real” I said, trying to get her into my scenario, trying to make her see what was inside my head, what worried me. But she had only eyes for the cookie though.

“You know I don’t like how the blender machine smashes the apples” my mother said, giving me the spotty glare. You see, she had this obsession with things being clean, but not your regular –wash with soap and water- sort of clean. She wanted a floor, a dress, a conversation, even an idea to be spotless, to be without a flaw, no trace of mistake, completely clean. She gave that look when one was not overwhelmingly polite with the neighbors,  when there was something she didn’t like about the set table, and specially when she though a discussion was not going the way she wanted it to.

And so I received the spotty glare, but I didn’t mind, I went on, I was sick of the spotty glare, sick of apple cookies and sick of silence. “You know, this guy on Youtube says the most wacked things, he’s like this philosopher who works at a book Publisher, and he speaks about this neo-existentialist guys who thing nothing is real and give advice about how to disconnect from reality” I said, partly because I wanted to, partly because I knew it would throw her out of her nerves.

“Amanda, you know perfectly how the Shepherd thinks about that web site, I will ask you not to reference it, or even visit it” she said, saying what was right to say, then there was silence, and she kept stirring, and mixing. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about” I said, raising my voice.

“Watch your tone!” she scolded me, without any attempt to comfort me. “What was I talking about?” I nearly yelled, and then she faced me and said. “I always listen you, you were speaking about videogames and Youtube, both things I completely disapprove” then she went back to her cookies.

“Could you just for a second listen to me? Could you just for one freaking second acknowledge that I don’t care about your stupid apple cookies, or your dinner parties, or any of that crap? Could you just for a second acknowledge I’m a person with thoughts and not just somebody who you put a dress on?” I yelled, I screamed, I cried and then I grabbed the fucking bowl and tossed it to the ground. And then, just then she looked at me, me and not her daughter who asks things she can’t understand, me and not some silly preppy girl she would like I were. Me, and it was terrified look, me and she didn’t recognized the person. Then the silence again.

“Amanda, I think you should go to your room and prepare, the guests will be here in one hour” she said, collecting the pieces of my broken self and the bowl from the floor. None of which she could repair.

By I'm the penguin

Virgin Mary Complex

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Wednesday, May 06, 2009


courtesy of biology class...

[ Mrs. K i t e ]
past? present?... hello stalker xD

Porfavor, ya no sigas

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in , | Posted on Tuesday, May 05, 2009


There is so much to say and so little words to express it, so many stories to tell and so little time for them, so much reality disguised as fiction, and so few to notice it.

What can I say today?

I can say that I'm de devil's lawyer, defender of lost causes and court prosecutor. There is no better feeling than to fight for a cause you don't believe in, just to put one more trophy on the board, just to find more words, more listeners, more masks. And to keep fighting I would even brawl myself against a my most nobel cause, just for the feeling of it. That's why it comes handy to have no say and no name, you always need a convincing identity.

Aujourd'hui je peux dire égalment que...

Il faut d'être interdit pour des pingouins de voler près de les étoiles. À partir du 
début, l'univers se leur a  interdit pour une raison, maintenant qu'ils ont décuvert
des ailes de cire, ils devraient mettre en garde de ne pas voler à proximité des étoiles, il 
finit toujours mal. 
Mais ils savent, on peux voir la lueur dans leurs yeux quand ils tombent, ils savaient que cela dépenser plus que prévu, et a été la chute, toujours est venu par surprise

También puedo hablar por las voces en mi cabeza.

Esa mancha no se va a ir

-No importa que tanto intentes, las manchas no se van a ir- dijo la voz, amarga e intangible; mientras que ella tallaba a gatas el suelo.

E intentaba e intentaba, tallaba, rascaba, con escoba y cepillo, lija y piedras. Pero nada servia, las manchas estaban ahí, y seguían ahí, y no se iban, no se iban. Ella no podía parar, todo su ser se tronaba y retorcia por la sola idea de que las manchas ahí siguieran, no las veía, no las olía, ni las escuchaba, pero las manchas ahí seguian, pegadas al suelo, pegadas a ella. Y ella insistía.

-Deja así, ponle un tapete en cima y ya- decía la voz, convencida de que solo la atormentaría más. -No puedo- lloraba la angustiada mujer -No puedo- y seguía fregando, echando cloros y vinagres al suelo, para quitar esas horribles manchas; pero solo habia logrado picarse la piel. -Es como el acido a las piedras, esta penetrado, impregnado, ya son uno con el suelo- decía la voz mientras ella usaba u rastrillo de metal. 

No se preguntaba si algún día se irían, no se cuestionaba siquiera el hecho de si se podían quitar, ella solo seguía fregando, dejando la vida en cada tallada. De hecho, sabía muy en el fondo que esos manchones seguirían ahí, aún cuando se desfalleciera del cansancio, aún cuando ya no hubiera más en ella para seguir trajinando. Ella sabía que más allá de su muerte, las manchas seguirían ahí, y ella seguiría intentando borrarlas.

-Hija, las manchas ahi van a estar, por más que puedas quitar la sangre, la muerte de un hijo ahí se queda- le decía la voz

By I'm the penguin

Grifo in a jar

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, May 04, 2009


[Mrs. K i t e]

now you get why my hand got stuck....?

And then they were two

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, May 03, 2009


Egotic? maybe

Overdone? never

New? yes, Surrealist

[writer's block doesn't mean artistic block does it?]
By I'm the penguin


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, May 02, 2009


So, yes... being in your house, not able to go to any restaurant or to the movies, (strategy specially useful when feeling trapped or TOO close to the family.) It's sort of a nightmare.
I still, hoplessly in my computer, watching some good videos from time to time, listening to some great music, loosing my time with Photoshop or Ilustrator 3-hour projects that in the end I don't even save.... Watching some crappy videos too, including watching Simon Cowell being mean (which I admit, is hilarious)... listening to some bad music, and .... working in 3-hour projects that in the end I don't even save.

But it gives a lot to think about.
Some sky watching too,
some interesting DVD...
but specially things to think about.

Where's that vane distraction that makes us get through the night???? (and day)...
Damn it, I need that...

[ Mrs. K i t e ]


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, May 01, 2009


By I'm the penguin