It was early morning when her husband left before he had to for work.
So she sat there once again; alone on the rim of the bathtub. Her face felt hot, but her hands were cold and humid with the numb sensation she had grown so accustomed to in the past year. She felt dizzy.
1 more minute...
She looked at her feet for several seconds. The pink polish was chipping at the sides. She couldn't remember the last time she had cared. Then Lila quickly glanced over at the thin plastic covering.
One pink line.
Silence.
She was empty. Her heart felt void. She could not stand it. It was a mute panic that arose in her a desperation she suppressed for fear of her soul exploding. No happy ending here. Just the deadened sense of who she should have been. Yet another year passes and it was so cruel.
She remembered having thought it before, in the middle of teaching her class.
Barren.
For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow, said Mr. Hughes. And she simply thought to herself, Langston is such a handsome name.
And she thought of her husband; his dreams. They were never her own. Everyone around them wondering why they hadn't chosen to fulfill their dreams; choose the stamp to seal the marriage. It was a slow realization of what would never be for him. He just couldn't; because it was not him.
It's me, she thought.
He had tired of being around on these days. The humilliation had become so routine, but he could not understand why. He could not explain to himself the lack of empathy or enthusiasm. He worked later and drank longer. Even their arguments had ceased, but his apathy consumed her. She was losing him. He slid out from within the grasp of their marriage--or what used to be. It had lost purpose and perspective. He had regret; a growing resentment toward her incessant tries to redeem herself and their matrimony. It had been futile.
She was not what he had wanted. A wife alone was not enough.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
La Playa
no se si aun me recuerdas...
You may not think of me any other time; you may not want to.
But if I know you at all, I can tell you that the face you see when you look up at the stars is mine.
I can tell you that by your second drink, you feel my name swelling up in your chest;
And you swallow your drink hard in an effort to stifle the threat in your throat.
voy a capturar nuestra historia en tan solo un segundo...
Not a thousand stories could describe you.
A torment of unstable emotions--
And every line written
With the poetry in the lines of your smile.
We have a hundred stories.
No more; no less.
I met you many years ago;
Or perhaps it was you who met me.
We were but children
Corrupting our innocent love.
And I loved you so much.
un día verás que ésta loca de poco se olvida
Today, I finally mourn our loss.
Today tears slip from my eyelashes without shame; they burn down my hot cheeks leaving black streaks of mascara. We were so beautiful. We were so innocent, but proud. We loved the way you only love once in your life.
más de cincuenta veranos hace hoy que no nos vemos...
Tonight, I love you as I did then.
And something tells me that decades from now, we will meet yet again;
And be 16 once more.
And we'll be ready this time.
But tonight my heart is torn open and my body hurts
With the melancholy torturing me like broken glass in my veins;
The pain in my soul, awakening in me a suffering that I had not felt in years.
And I can't think straight.
I just think of you.
sonriendo como cada vez... como aquella vez...
And I remember--without neglecting or romanticizing.
I remember our morning runs.
I remember our getaway picnics;
And our dances without music.
I remember kisses in the rain,
And dinners on a park bench.
I remember being angry and frustrated--
And easily contented.
I remember a dozen beautiful white roses after a long flight,
And long walks with the intention of getting lost in a town we knew by heart,
Like an old song our parents played when were little.
And I remember your chest,
and the way your heart beat through it only inches from my ear when you'd hold me.
I remember your arms and how strong and safe they felt so very long ago.
Your voice resonates in the depths of the secrets I've kept in my heart.
And your hands; they were so perfect.
With them I created a perfect world where you and I could live all of our years together.
And together we broke it down into pieces that are now so unrecognizable,
We can only vaguely remember what it was that kept us together for so long,
Or why we so quickly dissolved into the stars that decorate a midnight sky in mid July.
por mucho que pasen los años de largo en su vida...
You may not think of me any other time; you may not want to.
But if I know you at all, I can tell you that the face you see when you look up at the stars is mine.
I can tell you that by your second drink, you feel my name swelling up in your chest;
And you swallow your drink hard in an effort to stifle the threat in your throat.
voy a capturar nuestra historia en tan solo un segundo...
Not a thousand stories could describe you.
A torment of unstable emotions--
And every line written
With the poetry in the lines of your smile.
We have a hundred stories.
No more; no less.
I met you many years ago;
Or perhaps it was you who met me.
We were but children
Corrupting our innocent love.
And I loved you so much.
un día verás que ésta loca de poco se olvida
Today, I finally mourn our loss.
Today tears slip from my eyelashes without shame; they burn down my hot cheeks leaving black streaks of mascara. We were so beautiful. We were so innocent, but proud. We loved the way you only love once in your life.
más de cincuenta veranos hace hoy que no nos vemos...
Tonight, I love you as I did then.
And something tells me that decades from now, we will meet yet again;
And be 16 once more.
And we'll be ready this time.
But tonight my heart is torn open and my body hurts
With the melancholy torturing me like broken glass in my veins;
The pain in my soul, awakening in me a suffering that I had not felt in years.
And I can't think straight.
I just think of you.
sonriendo como cada vez... como aquella vez...
And I remember--without neglecting or romanticizing.
I remember our morning runs.
I remember our getaway picnics;
And our dances without music.
I remember kisses in the rain,
And dinners on a park bench.
I remember being angry and frustrated--
And easily contented.
I remember a dozen beautiful white roses after a long flight,
And long walks with the intention of getting lost in a town we knew by heart,
Like an old song our parents played when were little.
And I remember your chest,
and the way your heart beat through it only inches from my ear when you'd hold me.
I remember your arms and how strong and safe they felt so very long ago.
Your voice resonates in the depths of the secrets I've kept in my heart.
And your hands; they were so perfect.
With them I created a perfect world where you and I could live all of our years together.
And together we broke it down into pieces that are now so unrecognizable,
We can only vaguely remember what it was that kept us together for so long,
Or why we so quickly dissolved into the stars that decorate a midnight sky in mid July.
por mucho que pasen los años de largo en su vida...
Saturday, March 12, 2011
To Blockbuster and Back
Dingy, like the smell of dirty nails, like banana peels two days old, like beer bottles, and no showers. Cold and frozen the air whisks past slicing your throat as you breathe in a whiff of congested buses; and overpopulation. Yeah, something like that.
It's the kind of air that pollutes your lungs, a bitter cold that makes your chest ache and your heart warm.
Buenos Aires in June.
But after...
After the usual bickering with Lily's husband, Sergio, about how we'll be just fine, about no it's not too cold, and uh-huh we have our phone. And after the reassurance of yes, we have enough layers on, and yes we will call if we need to be picked up. After we step past the threshold of the old front door it's just me and her.
Pulling out a cigarette, she asks as we walk, "¿A dónde querés ir hoy?" And she doesn't just say it. She says it in her beautiful porteñan accent that you will find only in the people of this raw city. It is Spanish with notes of European influence, but a strong Italian undertone. Needless to say it is makes my companion that much more charming.
And we never really knew where we were going; the point was to get out of the house alone. To walk and enjoy each other's company as we absorbed the energy of the monumental metropolis that sat quite appropriately on Rio de Plata, or River of Silver.
She gives me a warm smile, displaying teeth yellowed from a lifetime of evening coffee and habitual smoking. "Le damos a la Centario y a la derecha, no?" I say in my painfully plain Mexican accent. The same accent that fascinates her friends and family and everyone else that stops by to visit her celebrated guest. We'd come to the end of Calle Francia and turn right into San Isidro District's main street. This is when it all comes to life; when the sun disappears. Lights decorate the buildings and apartments--the kind of buildings you don't see just anywhere. It's those buildings that are cement grey, and although they tower over their population, they almost look like they're leaning on each other--probable because they have trouble breathing here too.
Cars race by beeping, swerving, practically toppling over themselves in their continual aggressive struggle to reach the next light etc. And the public buses that stop every 15 feet and neglect entirely with an honest disinterest in the idea of a personal bubble; the people inside sway with their motions, packed in so close that they can taste one another's breath.
And we would talk, our lungs finally adjusting to the dramatic change in temperature. We would talk about life, about family, and romance. We'd talk about children, decisions, philosophies, dreams, and society. Anything that would cross our mind was fair game. There was nothing we were afraid to discuss because for the first time in my life, I had met someone who was not afraid to touch any subject matter. For the first time in my life, I needn't hide behind a social buffer. We had given one another our face value and had taken each other for it as well. It was simple. :)
It was during those nights that I so often got that feeling. Gawd, that feeling! The one where everything is OK, the one that makes you want to laugh at every joke--even the bad ones! It's when it hits you that this is what makes life worth all its suffering and pain and worries. This. Right. Here.
During my short stay in the house on Francia, we would do this once or twice a week if we would manage it. This was our routine because it was what we needed. Talking was our manner of showing affection and we had only known each other for a few days, but we were partners despite that and the age gap of nearly thirty years.
About 7 blocks down was Blockbuster, about 10 was McDonald's... we'd never go that far, though. Usually, we'd just go to Blockbuster and back.
It's the kind of air that pollutes your lungs, a bitter cold that makes your chest ache and your heart warm.
Buenos Aires in June.
But after...
After the usual bickering with Lily's husband, Sergio, about how we'll be just fine, about no it's not too cold, and uh-huh we have our phone. And after the reassurance of yes, we have enough layers on, and yes we will call if we need to be picked up. After we step past the threshold of the old front door it's just me and her.
Pulling out a cigarette, she asks as we walk, "¿A dónde querés ir hoy?" And she doesn't just say it. She says it in her beautiful porteñan accent that you will find only in the people of this raw city. It is Spanish with notes of European influence, but a strong Italian undertone. Needless to say it is makes my companion that much more charming.
And we never really knew where we were going; the point was to get out of the house alone. To walk and enjoy each other's company as we absorbed the energy of the monumental metropolis that sat quite appropriately on Rio de Plata, or River of Silver.
She gives me a warm smile, displaying teeth yellowed from a lifetime of evening coffee and habitual smoking. "Le damos a la Centario y a la derecha, no?" I say in my painfully plain Mexican accent. The same accent that fascinates her friends and family and everyone else that stops by to visit her celebrated guest. We'd come to the end of Calle Francia and turn right into San Isidro District's main street. This is when it all comes to life; when the sun disappears. Lights decorate the buildings and apartments--the kind of buildings you don't see just anywhere. It's those buildings that are cement grey, and although they tower over their population, they almost look like they're leaning on each other--probable because they have trouble breathing here too.
Cars race by beeping, swerving, practically toppling over themselves in their continual aggressive struggle to reach the next light etc. And the public buses that stop every 15 feet and neglect entirely with an honest disinterest in the idea of a personal bubble; the people inside sway with their motions, packed in so close that they can taste one another's breath.
And we would talk, our lungs finally adjusting to the dramatic change in temperature. We would talk about life, about family, and romance. We'd talk about children, decisions, philosophies, dreams, and society. Anything that would cross our mind was fair game. There was nothing we were afraid to discuss because for the first time in my life, I had met someone who was not afraid to touch any subject matter. For the first time in my life, I needn't hide behind a social buffer. We had given one another our face value and had taken each other for it as well. It was simple. :)
It was during those nights that I so often got that feeling. Gawd, that feeling! The one where everything is OK, the one that makes you want to laugh at every joke--even the bad ones! It's when it hits you that this is what makes life worth all its suffering and pain and worries. This. Right. Here.
During my short stay in the house on Francia, we would do this once or twice a week if we would manage it. This was our routine because it was what we needed. Talking was our manner of showing affection and we had only known each other for a few days, but we were partners despite that and the age gap of nearly thirty years.
About 7 blocks down was Blockbuster, about 10 was McDonald's... we'd never go that far, though. Usually, we'd just go to Blockbuster and back.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Don't Go
I wrote this for Minique before he died. I cry every time I read it.
I'm very proud to share it for the very first time. :)
As time runs out
Aware that it's gone.
I know you can't
Stay for too long.
I know it hurts
To say 'goodbye.'
Please don't let go.
Just hold on tight.
I wait for you.
You wait for me.
I know this can't be
'Meant to be.'
This can't be
the way that you go.
I can't just...
let you go.
Don't take him now,
Oh God, I pray!
Please leave him here
For one more day.
You know I love you
I know you do.
So I'll let you go
If you do, too.
Now go to sleep
And close your eyes.
Just one last hug,
But no goodbye.
I'll see you when
My time comes, too.
And hopefully,
It's not too soon.
I promised you
I wouldn't cry,
But you know
That I can't lie.
I take that back;
Instead I'll say,
"I'll have you with me everyday."
I'm very proud to share it for the very first time. :)
As time runs out
Aware that it's gone.
I know you can't
Stay for too long.
I know it hurts
To say 'goodbye.'
Please don't let go.
Just hold on tight.
I wait for you.
You wait for me.
I know this can't be
'Meant to be.'
This can't be
the way that you go.
I can't just...
let you go.
Don't take him now,
Oh God, I pray!
Please leave him here
For one more day.
You know I love you
I know you do.
So I'll let you go
If you do, too.
Now go to sleep
And close your eyes.
Just one last hug,
But no goodbye.
I'll see you when
My time comes, too.
And hopefully,
It's not too soon.
I promised you
I wouldn't cry,
But you know
That I can't lie.
I take that back;
Instead I'll say,
"I'll have you with me everyday."
The Question
A peanut butter and jelly sanwich at one in the morning.
I missed your call around eleven.
I'm so sorry, honey.
Couldn't sleep since...
Hoping you would, perhaps, attempt it once more.
So I sit here with my sandwich and milk,
Thinking--maybe too heavily--about our future;
Betting my precious little remaining romantic hopes on what will likely not happen.
Expecting too much of you.
And yet: you might come through.
I missed your call around eleven.
I'm so sorry, honey.
Couldn't sleep since...
Hoping you would, perhaps, attempt it once more.
So I sit here with my sandwich and milk,
Thinking--maybe too heavily--about our future;
Betting my precious little remaining romantic hopes on what will likely not happen.
Expecting too much of you.
And yet: you might come through.
Oh yes, the Reason and Rhyme for Banana Pancakes
Can't you see that it's just rainin'?
There ain't no need to go outside.
But baby, you hardly even notice
When I try to show you
this song It's meant to keep you
From doin' what you're supposed to
Like wakin' up too early
Maybe we could sleep in
I'll make you banana pancakes
Pretend like it's the weekend now...
And we could pretend it all the time.
Can't you see that it's just rainin'?
There ain't no need to go outside.
But just maybe, Hala ka ukulele
Mama made a baby.
I really don't mind to practice
Because you're my little lady.
Lady, lady love me
Because I love to lay here lazy.
We could close the curtains
Pretend like there's no world outside...
And we could pretend that all the time.
Can't you see that it's just raining?
There ain't no need to go outside.
Ain't no need, ain't no need...
Can't you see, can't you see?
Rain all day and I don't mind...
The telephone singing, ringing, it's too early!
Don't pick it up.
We don't need to;
We got everything we need right here
And everything we need is enough.
It's just so easy
When the whole world fits inside of your arms.
Do we really need to pay attention to the alarm?
Wake up slow, wake up slow.
But baby, you hardly even notice
When I try to show you this song
It's meant to keep you
From doin' what your supposed to
Like wakin' up too early
Maybe we could sleep in
I'll make you banana pancakes
Pretend like it's the weekend now
And we could pretend it all the time .
Can't you see that it's just rainin'
There ain't no need to go outside.
Ain't no need, ain't no need;
Rain all day and I really, really, really don't mind.
Can't you see, can't you see ?
We've got to wake up slow...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkyrIRyrRdY
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Banana Pancakes: a herstory
It is a common ground, unlike coffee. Like coffee, this special 'fruit' has a particular--and for the most part--pleasant aroma. See? Common ground.
Banana pancakes are a big deal. If you're lucky, you have time to make them, eat them, or even remember them. They're like a hug. Or a puppy. They are comforting. They are home.
You must know that if you mash the bananas before you put them in the batter, the pancakes are heavy with a raw texture and they taste undercooked. The key is to make the batter independent of bananas, then bombard it with little diagonally sliced pieces, but only after the batter is thoroughly mixed and ready. You can even add walnuts or pecans or chocolate chips! It keeps them fluffy and light while the flavor of the banana stays intact leading to a more enjoyable meal. I say meal because I don't care what anyone says: 'brakfast food' is for any time of day.
Making banana pancakes is life. You can make it from scratch or you can use a 'just add water' mix, but you always need fresh bananas!
Banana pancakes are a big deal. If you're lucky, you have time to make them, eat them, or even remember them. They're like a hug. Or a puppy. They are comforting. They are home.
You must know that if you mash the bananas before you put them in the batter, the pancakes are heavy with a raw texture and they taste undercooked. The key is to make the batter independent of bananas, then bombard it with little diagonally sliced pieces, but only after the batter is thoroughly mixed and ready. You can even add walnuts or pecans or chocolate chips! It keeps them fluffy and light while the flavor of the banana stays intact leading to a more enjoyable meal. I say meal because I don't care what anyone says: 'brakfast food' is for any time of day.
Making banana pancakes is life. You can make it from scratch or you can use a 'just add water' mix, but you always need fresh bananas!
Melancholy
I never thought I'd ever really have to admit it. Usually, it just happened; it was just there--sans dispute. Fair enough.
Today, I feel the need for it. I feel the restless desire of my soul long for it. That's right.
I want the cool tiles beneath my bare feet. the rusty railing fencing in the balcony of my room. I want the freedom of the sky atop my cement roof. I want the smell of Raid, of old furniture, of fresh paint, of Suavitel and cold plaster. I want the bedroom-sized bathroom, the transparent shower curtain with the bright fish, the echoing doors.
I need the long walks to somewhere, the definition of time. I need again the unchanging breeze, the immobile mountains, the back of his motorcycle. I need the warm sun, milkshakes from the mercado, sabritas from the corner store.
What I wouldn't give, what I wouldn't do.
Mexico... its valleys pulsing with richness, apprehensive, waiting. For me, one valley in particular throbs with expectancy. One valley awaits patiently my arrival, as I await my ticket out of Hell.
Every day passes, and slumps in the another. One day, I'll be free. One day, I won't be confined to four walls.
I just want it back: the possibility of seeing once more my grandmother bustle about the kitchen or my grandfather tampering with his how-many-year-old radio by his shed in the backyard. At least once more, I'de like to walk onto the warm cement and see the countless fruit trees in our large yard, or the lavadero and rose bushes leading to the front gate. I want to lie in bed into Sunday afternoon in a tank top, fuzzy covers writhering between my long limbs, eyes closed, arms open, TV on.
The telephone rings, I'm on my way. Into the bedroom-sized bathroom with the transparent curtain I go.
Today, I feel the need for it. I feel the restless desire of my soul long for it. That's right.
I want the cool tiles beneath my bare feet. the rusty railing fencing in the balcony of my room. I want the freedom of the sky atop my cement roof. I want the smell of Raid, of old furniture, of fresh paint, of Suavitel and cold plaster. I want the bedroom-sized bathroom, the transparent shower curtain with the bright fish, the echoing doors.
I need the long walks to somewhere, the definition of time. I need again the unchanging breeze, the immobile mountains, the back of his motorcycle. I need the warm sun, milkshakes from the mercado, sabritas from the corner store.
What I wouldn't give, what I wouldn't do.
Mexico... its valleys pulsing with richness, apprehensive, waiting. For me, one valley in particular throbs with expectancy. One valley awaits patiently my arrival, as I await my ticket out of Hell.
Every day passes, and slumps in the another. One day, I'll be free. One day, I won't be confined to four walls.
I just want it back: the possibility of seeing once more my grandmother bustle about the kitchen or my grandfather tampering with his how-many-year-old radio by his shed in the backyard. At least once more, I'de like to walk onto the warm cement and see the countless fruit trees in our large yard, or the lavadero and rose bushes leading to the front gate. I want to lie in bed into Sunday afternoon in a tank top, fuzzy covers writhering between my long limbs, eyes closed, arms open, TV on.
The telephone rings, I'm on my way. Into the bedroom-sized bathroom with the transparent curtain I go.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Letter of Love from an Old Enemy
Un Amor con Maquillaje
Conocernos parecia ser un juego,
Entendernos una contradiccion, que se consumia con la desesperacion de vuestro corazon.
Tan audaz y tan tenaz fuimos enredando esas locas ansias de una persecucion muy poco predicible. Como pequeñas aves que poco sabian lo que hacian; que poco sabian de las cosas del amor, creimos tenerlo todo dominado cuando el dominio no estaba en nuestras manos.
Sin saber ni comprender que los juegos del amor divierten al corazon y que la diversion es una medicina para el rencor. De uno modo u otro se escribió una historia, que si buena o mala.
Era tuya y era mia y sobretodo era un inocente amor.
Las tardes y noches de risa, y caricias que eran dificiles de concluir, con las ansias de dos adolescentes que querian vivir.
Como buenos niños, nuestras absurdas peleas tuvimos, mas sin embargo entre mas una cosa se aleja de la otra, parece que mas se atrae. Pasaron cartas, recados, canciones, e inclusive un sinfin de alucinaciones. Mas sin embargo, tu y yo estabamos en nuestro lugar de siempre....
Pareciese que pintabamos un futuro seguro, como si lo seguro se combinara con el amor! ¿o sera que realmente no conociamos el amor?
¿O creimos sentirnos tan fuertes para enfrentar lo que este mundo nos pusiera en frente?
Nuestro mayor lazo, no eran las peleas, los besos, abrazos, ni mucho menos la atraccion. Todo iba mas alla de lo simple porque lo que nos mantenia ligados el uno al otro era nuestra loca manera de pensar y de ver este bello mundo.
Sin embargo, el tiempo pasol nuestros cuerpos se separaron y algo en ti y en mi cambio. Para nuestro reencuentro mi corazon palpitaba con gran energia porque un bello arreglo de rosas te entregaria. Todo parecia renovado. El amor era perfecto. Creimos poder vencer a todo y todos por que creimos en nuestros sueños e ideales, pero sobretodo sabiamos que la distancia solo era un pretexto para amarnos mas y mas.
La metamorfosis llego, nuestros mismos ojos, aparentemente el mismo amor; pero habia algo nuevo que se podia ver mas alla de las ventanas del alma. Ya no eramos niños ni tampoco adultos. Pero ambos teniamos nuestros retos personales, que no iban con los ideales de un amor de verano. Yo, de mi parte, no era de los que se abrian por completo y dejaba ver mas alla de la vacias palabras. Tu, la que intentaba ser mas racional y medir lo que diria, hablando mas pero dejando un lado oscuro y misterioso. Un lado de los dos, que a ambos nos consumia el alma.
Nuestra aparencia interna cambiol el amor se escondio tras los sueños y metas que juntos idealizamos tanto. Una onda de humo invadio y trunco a dos locos jugando a enamorarse. Aunque el intento para no separarse no fue grande, los antiguos daños, las cicatrices recien sanadas, y las situaciones personales... eso y mucho mas carcomieron el amor de dos seres que creyeron poder venver al mundo cuando ni siquiera pudieron superar sus fluctuaciones.
No son ni mejores ni peores, solo que ahora intentan conmprender el sentido de esta vida, lo que realmente quiere para cada uno, si es que asi es, o solamente fue un amor que surgio de la casualidad. Pero mientras casa quien por su lado lo descubre, el Amor que existio y que habita en lo profundo de sus corazones, se pinta, se disfraza, y se maquilla solo para ser descubierto para no tener que revivir o reinciciar algo con dos locos que aprendieron junto a él, a conocer de cerca el Amor.
Porque por ahora se conforma con maquillaje, tapandose quizas para desaparecer o quizas para ver si ese par de inocentes adolescentes deciden jugar nuevamente al amor. Porque el amor divierte cuando se aprende a reir junto a él pero sobretodo cuando se hace complice de la vida misma.
- XXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX
(Sorry I didn't include accents. Los agrego luego!)
Conocernos parecia ser un juego,
Entendernos una contradiccion, que se consumia con la desesperacion de vuestro corazon.
Tan audaz y tan tenaz fuimos enredando esas locas ansias de una persecucion muy poco predicible. Como pequeñas aves que poco sabian lo que hacian; que poco sabian de las cosas del amor, creimos tenerlo todo dominado cuando el dominio no estaba en nuestras manos.
Sin saber ni comprender que los juegos del amor divierten al corazon y que la diversion es una medicina para el rencor. De uno modo u otro se escribió una historia, que si buena o mala.
Era tuya y era mia y sobretodo era un inocente amor.
Las tardes y noches de risa, y caricias que eran dificiles de concluir, con las ansias de dos adolescentes que querian vivir.
Como buenos niños, nuestras absurdas peleas tuvimos, mas sin embargo entre mas una cosa se aleja de la otra, parece que mas se atrae. Pasaron cartas, recados, canciones, e inclusive un sinfin de alucinaciones. Mas sin embargo, tu y yo estabamos en nuestro lugar de siempre....
Pareciese que pintabamos un futuro seguro, como si lo seguro se combinara con el amor! ¿o sera que realmente no conociamos el amor?
¿O creimos sentirnos tan fuertes para enfrentar lo que este mundo nos pusiera en frente?
Nuestro mayor lazo, no eran las peleas, los besos, abrazos, ni mucho menos la atraccion. Todo iba mas alla de lo simple porque lo que nos mantenia ligados el uno al otro era nuestra loca manera de pensar y de ver este bello mundo.
Sin embargo, el tiempo pasol nuestros cuerpos se separaron y algo en ti y en mi cambio. Para nuestro reencuentro mi corazon palpitaba con gran energia porque un bello arreglo de rosas te entregaria. Todo parecia renovado. El amor era perfecto. Creimos poder vencer a todo y todos por que creimos en nuestros sueños e ideales, pero sobretodo sabiamos que la distancia solo era un pretexto para amarnos mas y mas.
La metamorfosis llego, nuestros mismos ojos, aparentemente el mismo amor; pero habia algo nuevo que se podia ver mas alla de las ventanas del alma. Ya no eramos niños ni tampoco adultos. Pero ambos teniamos nuestros retos personales, que no iban con los ideales de un amor de verano. Yo, de mi parte, no era de los que se abrian por completo y dejaba ver mas alla de la vacias palabras. Tu, la que intentaba ser mas racional y medir lo que diria, hablando mas pero dejando un lado oscuro y misterioso. Un lado de los dos, que a ambos nos consumia el alma.
Nuestra aparencia interna cambiol el amor se escondio tras los sueños y metas que juntos idealizamos tanto. Una onda de humo invadio y trunco a dos locos jugando a enamorarse. Aunque el intento para no separarse no fue grande, los antiguos daños, las cicatrices recien sanadas, y las situaciones personales... eso y mucho mas carcomieron el amor de dos seres que creyeron poder venver al mundo cuando ni siquiera pudieron superar sus fluctuaciones.
No son ni mejores ni peores, solo que ahora intentan conmprender el sentido de esta vida, lo que realmente quiere para cada uno, si es que asi es, o solamente fue un amor que surgio de la casualidad. Pero mientras casa quien por su lado lo descubre, el Amor que existio y que habita en lo profundo de sus corazones, se pinta, se disfraza, y se maquilla solo para ser descubierto para no tener que revivir o reinciciar algo con dos locos que aprendieron junto a él, a conocer de cerca el Amor.
Porque por ahora se conforma con maquillaje, tapandose quizas para desaparecer o quizas para ver si ese par de inocentes adolescentes deciden jugar nuevamente al amor. Porque el amor divierte cuando se aprende a reir junto a él pero sobretodo cuando se hace complice de la vida misma.
- XXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX
(Sorry I didn't include accents. Los agrego luego!)
It Pays to be Greek
They use them. They take every opportunity to take advantage of their situations.They may very well even lie about them. They make an entire living from women.
And people love it.
They pay to see it. And make them FAMOUS.
Conclusion: successful comedians are very fond of their wives.
*pa-dum-pum tsh!*
Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.
And people love it.
They pay to see it. And make them FAMOUS.
Conclusion: successful comedians are very fond of their wives.
*pa-dum-pum tsh!*
Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Rules of Engagement
So many years... Years of pain, and sweat, and tears. So very many efforts; many arguments, little accomplishments. How many years were invested into "us"?
This is why it just wasn't enough. Love alone is simply... never... enough.
We can always say this chapter began and concluded with a dead marriage. A sacred union turned into a mocking, false aspiration of something that was never really tangible in the first place.
We both knew it was over the morning we awoke into a habit. A real habit. The kind that numbs your existence into a feeble whisper of what should have been. The dawn broke clearly into the bedroom. I found myself facing the door. He faced the window. He didn't bother kissing me good morning. I can't say I acknowledged him myself. We didn't care to put the forth the effort, I suppose. I stayed still, lying on my side of the bed to hear the shuffle of his weight from the mattress to the dresser. He began to get dressed and I couldn't even bring myself to look at him. I didn't want to. Too many years and counting, but it ended that day without a decent milestone to define it.
Just the realization that we had become exactly who we promised to never be.
So I pulled myself up--soul and all-- off of our bed as he walked toward it. I helped him make the bed in silence. He brushed his teeth while I got dressed. I brushed my teeth as he went downstairs to the kitchen.
That Sunday morning in August, he let me do the dishes. I let him sweep.
I knew I loved him. I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that he loved me as well. He took out the trash. I cleared the table. We cleaned out the remnants of a night designed to salvage anything that might have survived the institution that had become a savage prison. We soon discovered that the only things that would remain were a couple of empty wine bottles and half-eaten chocolate cake.
And yet, somewhere deep inside we still loved each other though somewhere along the way we lost the specific reasons.
We kissed each other a quick goodbye and with the promise that he'd come to pick me up later. We didn't go to church that Sunday.
I knew our moment had passed and was irretrievable. He was gone too and that house seemed more empty than ever before. This house, that held our fondest memories, was almost unbearable now. It suffocated the thought that I might still be able to create new ones with the man I called my husband.
I took my ring from the rim of the sink, stared at it for a full two minutes and put it in my back pocket. The pressure of the house's weight lifted just enough. I thought of my family and how they would take this. But something inside me felt more alive. Something inside me was gasping at the fresh air coming from the window that was left open.
It rained that evening. The soil came to life and, as always, it was as if I had inhaled the intoxicating aroma of humidity and fresh earth for the very first time. The icy drops felt like frosty bullets. They held me to him that night... made me protect him... helped me stay.
This is why it just wasn't enough. Love alone is simply... never... enough.
We can always say this chapter began and concluded with a dead marriage. A sacred union turned into a mocking, false aspiration of something that was never really tangible in the first place.
We both knew it was over the morning we awoke into a habit. A real habit. The kind that numbs your existence into a feeble whisper of what should have been. The dawn broke clearly into the bedroom. I found myself facing the door. He faced the window. He didn't bother kissing me good morning. I can't say I acknowledged him myself. We didn't care to put the forth the effort, I suppose. I stayed still, lying on my side of the bed to hear the shuffle of his weight from the mattress to the dresser. He began to get dressed and I couldn't even bring myself to look at him. I didn't want to. Too many years and counting, but it ended that day without a decent milestone to define it.
Just the realization that we had become exactly who we promised to never be.
So I pulled myself up--soul and all-- off of our bed as he walked toward it. I helped him make the bed in silence. He brushed his teeth while I got dressed. I brushed my teeth as he went downstairs to the kitchen.
That Sunday morning in August, he let me do the dishes. I let him sweep.
I knew I loved him. I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that he loved me as well. He took out the trash. I cleared the table. We cleaned out the remnants of a night designed to salvage anything that might have survived the institution that had become a savage prison. We soon discovered that the only things that would remain were a couple of empty wine bottles and half-eaten chocolate cake.
And yet, somewhere deep inside we still loved each other though somewhere along the way we lost the specific reasons.
We kissed each other a quick goodbye and with the promise that he'd come to pick me up later. We didn't go to church that Sunday.
I knew our moment had passed and was irretrievable. He was gone too and that house seemed more empty than ever before. This house, that held our fondest memories, was almost unbearable now. It suffocated the thought that I might still be able to create new ones with the man I called my husband.
I took my ring from the rim of the sink, stared at it for a full two minutes and put it in my back pocket. The pressure of the house's weight lifted just enough. I thought of my family and how they would take this. But something inside me felt more alive. Something inside me was gasping at the fresh air coming from the window that was left open.
It rained that evening. The soil came to life and, as always, it was as if I had inhaled the intoxicating aroma of humidity and fresh earth for the very first time. The icy drops felt like frosty bullets. They held me to him that night... made me protect him... helped me stay.
While We Wait...
In essence, I can only wonder if the light is shining at all. I look around tired and weary of a day without further production. Never have I felt so fulfilled for such an extended period of time--I think. It is not about the hours or minutes, but what is it?
Perhaps it is myself. Darkened sense of humor, lovely smile. Nothing particular, I suppose. My purpose: none of the moment, but in total to do what is only enjoyable and controversially productive. Philosophize. (And delight in the occasional fictional excerpt of my mind.)
So I write. I write so as not to forget what I thought and later remember what I had forgotten. Then re-think. And write again. Stay with me here; It is essential for me to have your attention to remember what will be so quickly forgotten in the seemingly eternal span of life in which we are but a millionth of a second.
Seemingly only because I have no denomination in the way I lead my life, but to know and believe.
You will have from me raw representations of thought. And if you can bear the thought, please do so.
COMING SOON: "Banana Pancakes: a herstory"
Perhaps it is myself. Darkened sense of humor, lovely smile. Nothing particular, I suppose. My purpose: none of the moment, but in total to do what is only enjoyable and controversially productive. Philosophize. (And delight in the occasional fictional excerpt of my mind.)
So I write. I write so as not to forget what I thought and later remember what I had forgotten. Then re-think. And write again. Stay with me here; It is essential for me to have your attention to remember what will be so quickly forgotten in the seemingly eternal span of life in which we are but a millionth of a second.
Seemingly only because I have no denomination in the way I lead my life, but to know and believe.
You will have from me raw representations of thought. And if you can bear the thought, please do so.
COMING SOON: "Banana Pancakes: a herstory"
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