Es un concepto Freudiano de una instancia de algo que puede ser familiar sin embargo extraño al mismo tiempo, resultando en un sentimiento de estar cómodamente extraño o incómodamente familiar.
The Raven that wasn'tOnce there was raven (Corvus corax) who was schizoid and lived in a cage by the perch of a Blue-and-yellow Macaw (Ara ararauna) who repeated uncouthly and daylong the articulations that their masters produced, and only those that ventured inside its ear canal. While eating the raven thought like this: if only I could ever talk, I would talk like the Macaw.The Raven that wasn't by ocurro
El Cuervo que deseaba SerEste era un cuervo (Corvus corax) esquizoide que vivía en su jaula, situada al lado de la percha de un guacamayo azul y amarillo (Ara ararauna) quien no paraba todo el día de repetir con aire despreocupado los fonemas que pronunciaban sus dueños y que alcanzaban a llegar a su canal auditivo. Mientras comía su fruta pensaba el cuervo: si yo pudiera hablar algún día, lo haría como el guacamayo.El Cuervo que deseaba Ser by ocurro
Radiating joy the page is.Once there was a pawn who had nothing better to do than scratch his belly between one labor and the next.Radiating joy the page is. by ocurro
The year was 13.. in a town in Germany not called Köln or München but little known, Ellendorf.
The page (the pawn, that is) was a sad man, crestfallen and schizoid (introverted). One fresh new morning he accidentally discovered a pair of scissors that he had lost long ago doing manual work for the employer. Well, these scissors produced sparks from the rust they had collected as the page noticed and as he verified later were able to cut the immaterial, including the shadows.
It was still morning when he set forth to try them out in the town-village, which he affectionately called the Big Ranch. It was a few hours thinking what to cut. When he began cutting shadows of plants and objects, he watched how once they falled off the edge of his scissors they disintegrated to appear no more. Later it came to him, he could use a barrel shaped as a drum al
The last song of CharlemagneDim light trickled through the trees as the sun peeked from behind the clouds. rain glistened off the exotic plants that we potted outside the home. Beneath an umbrella is where we sat this day; Charlemagne and I. A peaceful day broken only by the light downfall of the chilly rain.The last song of Charlemagne by Thanatos-Faust
Charlemagne is a dear friend, sitting in his wheelchair with my bow. He is old and dying, much like the plants around us, yet just as beautiful. His graceful fingers wax my bow carefully and push his long, thinning grey hair back from his intense, sapphire eyes.
Years ago, when he was young, he had been handsome. He had a big heart for all he loved. He was a musician, a singer to boot. Not anymore though. 'Too old', he says. Now he simply writes. Songs and scores, maybe a sonnet or two.
His livelihood is his song, the gift of his music.
His tune starts clumsily and full, much like how we start life, living from day to day in blissful ignorance. Yet, not long after, his song turns melancholy as he sings of hi