no és tan fàcil

No ho és.

How a week passes by as you turn, walk, observe, enjoy... But wait in the slight realisation, that there is always a catch when things look shiny and happy. A tendence to drama or a realistic approach. I really don't know how to deal with this, so I just breathe.

Smell of fresh baked bread and on the way to the petshop to treat my sweet Lala, who has been banned from the appartment the last 2 weeks. In regard to cats love goes first through the stomach although her crawling into my arms when I sleep shows me she has missed me. And me as well. I often say I so wish she was mine.

On the way new shops. The new bakery, a modern clothes shop and a shop dedicated to Indian specialties... How original... An Euro shop? And so many smiling faces I start to doubt if I am in Amsterdam or in a European-looking Brasilian quarter. Spring smells like fresh clothes, clean hair, polen. Feels like soft skin, like nectar.

And I am here. back here. Again.

de mis días boleriles

Because I spent a whole week listening to boleros, and everything is contagious...

Me despellejaste a ritmo de tambores
Que em mi mente retumbaban, absorbiendo la energía
Que por mis venas corría

Mira mis ojos llenos del trabajo
Que me exhausta me dejaba
Que apreciaras que ahí estaba
Compartiendo plato y cama

Y cada manana, ay cada manana
Cuando el café a las venas me llegaba
Se abría la realidad que de noche
Con cervezas apagaba

Despegaste, pusiste la infinidad
trás El desgarrado techo
Y yo, yo con y sin mis fuerzas
Conscientemente perdí la cabeza
Pues pequé de saber que quién yo era
Era lo que tu no merecias.

fiction meditational

La cordura es una putada. Su propio nombre ya indica que necesita que la estés desatando.
No se yo si al final etimológicamente ponen a los cuerdos como ligados a algo, o sea atados.
Y locura? No viene de "locus" de lugar? Me hace pensar en el locus amoenus, un lugar ideal.

I checked definitions of locus:

1. A locality; a place.
2. A center or focus of great activity or intense concentration: "the cunning exploitation of loci of power; the insulation from normal American society" (Clifton Fadiman).
3. Mathematics The set or configuration of all points whose coordinates satisfy a single equation or one or more algebraic conditions.
4. The position that a given gene occupies on a chromosome.
[Latin.]

In my further research it turned that "loco" was adopted in Spanish from the Catalan aception "lloca", used for animals, mostly chicken or other domestic birds. The "lloca" birds are the birds which are loud and out of control.

In any case, really, to hell with cordura! let's untie...

see it come and go

I realize writings take place between coming and going.
I correct myself...
I realize my life takes place between coming and going.

the constant statement of temporarity goes in my case a bit like:

I am not staying long.

In the temporarity of our staying on the Pacha Mama the shakesperean obsession took over me.

Somebody is now gone. We sat on the table and somebody pulled out a few notes she once wrote. There they were, there she was with us on lunchtime.

I am now trying my very best to comprehend, and fill that space with all the memories, sensations or thoughts that go into an emptiness.

A morning unplanned epitaph. I just sat to write about something else, but you came in first...

You'd be amazed of all the things a person leaves behind, that cannot be counted, that cannot be read.
You'd be amazed how long we stay after our death.

la part més difícil

The hardest bit. And while not playing with the meaning, words play with me all the other way around.

The hardest bit of every morning is to know it is one more day and one day less.
That the same tiredness welcomes you in the morning, similar to the one you went to bed with and the one you will go to bed with again. It is a cyclical tiredness.

The sun is not quite up. No landscape to look at in the morning hours, no colors to see shaping up.
The morning silence will be broken by the succulent semi thick blubbling of the coffee coming up the espresso machine. Its delicious smell guiding my way out of the shower.

Sometimes I go to bed and I am already happy to wake up anticipating the coffee ritual, a ritual that has settled in the same way ever since I first arrived here. Not a bit has changed in that matter of all the things that change, that come and go. And while I cannot keep traditions, I am relieved to discover one that prevails.

I refreshed my throat with some gulps of beer last night. And all of the sudden I remembered I forgot something and I felt the need to go back home. Consciousness and mind games, my mind took over me all of the sudden. Forgetting made me feel down.

I realized I had forgotten something crucial and ran back to sink in my sheets. I couldn't forgive myself... I forgot to!

Jay Bee

Jay Bee has been on my mind lately, time to let go.

I have been looking for him in close references, far friendships.
He disappeared, he is gone like his memory that suddenly returned in the departure lobby on the way to Phu Quoc, accompanied by the metallic, monotonous rythm of the escalator leading to the door.

Why his memory caught me that moment? And why when I thought of him I thought of a faded-green frog carefully kept in alluminium foil? Me attending mass with a huge toad on my lap, our crazy ideas that only made sense for us?

We were mates. We spent days on trees and chasing bugs.
He stole things and told me on lunchtime, when everybody was silent and the theft was uncovered, when no silence broke, his eyes searched mine to confess by making funny faces.

He had hair of hay. And a pointy nose. And always smelled like soil and rocks. Others feared him, not me. We'd meet anywhere unannounced, just casually, climbing on trees, or chasing reptiles.

Summer ended and back home I dedicated the end of it to swimming morning to evening in my parents' swimming pool, on the good side of the barrio, until my skin turned soft and wrinkly and I had to dry for supper time.
I didn't know he was on the other side of the fence, observing me.
Do you know when you do something and imagine how you'd look if somebody was watching you? Someone watched my very moves. There, protective. My loyal friend. The same one who was there by my side when I stood up for my sister when the priest went way too far.
After the spying, paper notes rained wrapped in a rock to the bottom of the blue tiles of the swimming pool. The paper would come out in bits, so I read them inside the water, head down with goggles on.

Jay Bee and I were... like Bonny and Clyde. Accomplices. For a while I thought that with his strange silence and his elaborated trouble making he was getting the darker side of me. But in fact, those holidays I got the light in him. I helped him stay out of trouble by building tree houses, chasing dragon flies and observing frogs develop from toad to young froggy in their habitat.
After the notes, the phone calls from a booth in the outskirts of the city arrived, from the bad side of town, with a background sound of street fights and drug dealers shouting around. Peep... peep... Silly conversations that surrounded him of a halo, hard to define, that kept me wondering of this kid's life and the reasons to be eligible to become a delinquent one day.

During summer camp he gave me the most beautiful present a girl could ever have.
A plastic cup, with a frog in it.

"I caught it and named it after you" he said.

I carefully covered the cup with aluminium foil and made some holes. I slept next to it, hid it in the dorm and checked on it every time I could.
Selva-the-frog aftermath was a decoloured agonizing froggy. I didn't dare tell him.
I woke up in the middle of the night, grabbed a torch, sneaked out of the dorm, went to the pond, unnoticed I climbed the fence of the pond and let the froggy free in the shallow end. I don't think it moved anymore.

Many years after the froggy episode it hit me, overlooking the China sea:
Jay Bee and I were in love, it took me a decade to process.

Whatever he might be doing now I thought of him on a lonely island. I got to hum a song thinking of the times that made us so unpopular amidst other kids.

I didn't kiss a frog. It got it already packed up in a plastic cup.
Thank you for the best present a girl could ever have.
He vanished from my life.
Anyone knows what has become of him?
Why can't i find him?Is that so hard?

sleepless

I keep looking at the clock. Nothing. minutes, hours passing by.

Awake.
Mourning.

Did you ever encounter that the very root of your problem is not to have any problem at all?

That there is a very big hole somewhere and you can only fill it virtually, staying away from it?

That you are solid matter and then a few drops fall and turn you into a grainy, porous, cementy paste?

That this is just another life played by location, like those games in screens.
Waiting for a new screen to come.

That there is not always enough available fruit of excitement to squeeze a glass.
That you cannot digest known flavours...

Just wondering