Oh Yes

Yes, I will. I will look at him flirtatiously whenever he addresses me, and I'll raise my eyes slowly because yes, it will be dark and we all want that mysterious mood. I will wear nice clothes and probably a necklace. I will be a lady who listens and cares. I will not smile too much because it gives me that goofy look. I will not be over talkative, and I'll likely wear makeup... Lipstick... Foundation... Mascara... Corrector... And I will be poised and polite. Dumb, dumber, dumbest. I will just giggle when usually I would've answered "I couldn't agree less." And if that doesn't work, I guess I'll just swing my culture sword and rip the bastard's head off while I -by the way- comment that in fact I don't like wearing high heels or makeup or necklaces and that no, I don't have a hairstyle(because actually my hair wears me and not the other way 'round), and that I'd rather have spent those two hours cutting my wrists with encyclopedic pages than with some moronic, cocky, stuck up boy that can't see any further than... Oh my God. See what you made me do? You broke my nail.

What A Glorious Feeling!

I'm officially not a winter person.Summer is my season: that time when I can go out anytime and have a walk. A lizard may be warmer-blooded than I am. I can't go on without my share of sunshine, and that's partly why winter comes and ruins all my sunny plans.

Now, when I say winter, I can't help thinking about snow, and a winter wonderland, gloves, scarves, boots... I shouldn't really call "winter" the "tropical winter"... How confusing... However, since nobody non-tropical reads me, I think I can afford to say it instead of calling it "the rainy season".

Until now, I've been talking cr@p. That's the only truth. I've been saying what they've made me believe was my own feeling. My whole family is composed by summer-lovers, but I must say that the winter appeals me terribly.

Do I really love the summer as much as I say I do? Nah. Rain has that something about it... (I bet everybody reading right now must be thinking "Jesus Christ... Talking 'bout rain, again?", but believe me, I could go on forever.)

Anyway, as I was saying. Rain.

Whenever it is raining, I get the urge to get out. Every single time. It doesn't matter if I'm wearing a bathing suit, a tux, if I'm naked. I simply need to get out. I may be walking down the street, or all nice and cuddly in my bed, but the thing is: Nothing feels better than feeling warm after being out on the rain (not even being warm to begin with).

Reasons why I don't do it? First of all, my family would confirm I'm slightly mad (they already suspect it). And second -and most important- I don't like that warm feeling by myself. It's pathetic, like triggering the usual loneliness feeling, having 50% of what would be the greatest evening of your life, lacking only... Well, lacking only somebody to spend it with. Anything more pathetic? Don't think so.

Why did I come all this way just to say I've been feeling pathetic lately? Dunno. Perhaps -just maybe -only possible- not even probable--- I feel it's even more pathetic to admit it...

And why in English? After all the &%$% I said today, God forgive me if I had let go to waste 13 years of this...

I Know Nothing

Or maybe I do know something... But everything's completely blurry. Wait. I remember. I was looking for something! Something really important! Something that meant my life to me!

But what was it? Because I think I might need someone to remember it, since I'm afraid I even lost myself looking for it, whatever it was. So many times I thought I had found it that now I can't even be sure of what it was...

Or maybe I did find it, after all... Maybe it's just that I did forget what I was looking for, and then found the real thing while I thought I was looking for something else.

Maybe I didn't lose it, in the first place. Maybe it's still there, just waiting in the same place I left it so many lifetimes ago.

Or perhaps I didn't lose it, meaning that it wasn't my fault. Maybe it was just its time to vanish... No, I'm pretty sure it was my fault.

It's gone. It may be gone forever. Liar, liar. That's all. That's what I get in the end. My new masterpiece, my constant play, my life. There are differences between an actress and a liar. An actress can tell the difference between the play and the reality. No, no. I'm a liar, and a good one. I'm the one who fakes the feelings and ends up believing it.

Wait. Hush... I think I got it. Yes, I remember now! I can see it: It's me, waiting. I'm standing there -I don't know where that is-, and I'm looking at something that isn't coming. What's happening? Why am I still waiting? Oh, oh... Yes, I got it now. That's what I'm waiting for... And I can't leave because I chose to wait for it even when I knew it didn't exist anymore.

Elizabeth Bishop

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Insomnia


The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
far and away beyond sleep, or
perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

By the Universe deserted,
she'd tell it to go to hell,
and she'd find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well

into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me.

So Be It

Hmmm, needed to post this...

I'm ok with this if you're ok with it too...

But don't expect me then to be who I used to be with you... I understand, I understand... But then it's over.

You know, the mind does marvelous things... And from now on, dearie, it is over... At least on the inside...

Ahhh, enjoying my last seconds being who I used to be...

The Weirdest Feeling

Yeah, lately I've had this feeling, this "knowledge" of the fact that I'll never -ever- be happy. Maybe I'll get the chance, I know I've had plenty of them... But still... It's knowing that even when I do get the chance, I never allow myself to be truly happy...

I've had good times, of course. My days are usually bright... But lately, dunno, somenthing's clearly missing.

Something that's always deep inside me and that keeps me going is the affirmation of the fact that the vital measure of happiness is always inside oneself. You may try to find it in others, and you may get a whole lot of happiness from people around you... But it's neither wise nor correct to depend on it.

...Seems like I lost my ability to find my measure inside me. And that sure scares me.

I'd always been able to, let's call it, see a light even in my darkest times... But now... I feel like no one understands me at all.

Every time I'm tired, everyone keeps asking me why am I sad. Well, thanks, y'all,but still... Everytime I'm sad, everyone just thinks I'm angry... Everytime I'm angry, they just think I'm crazy... And that sure gets me tired... And then here we go again with the cycle...

Lately, each and every one of my feelings has been misundertood in the worst way... I don't even really get myself anymore. It's like a spark is missing... Something that was precious to me and that I just let it slip away.

Yeah, sometimes I feel everybody takes me too seriously and sometimes I feel everyone just thinks I'm kidding... And it's all just too complicated, but it's all a symptom of the fact that... You see? I lost what I was saying... The only thing that's clear to me is that basically it isn't everyone else's fault... The incongruence is in me.

Now, just to start with: Ask me why am I writing in English, and that answers a lot. Well, I'm writing like this because it feels like a mere practice and not like I'm opening my heart to you... And why did I put a nice little happy picture at the beginning? So that this wouldn't look like a suicide's letter, or something... And oh, come on... I want to make clear it isn't... But these are quite dark times.

I'm sucking big time at everything I do. And the things I'm not sucking at (actually I'm doing just great on those), it's just because they're way too damn easy!

This is not living, anymore... I'll try and do what he told me to do. Give myself the opportunity to be a full time student... And pheww, this still has a shade of something way too personal... I won't get too deep in it.

Has anybody else felt this way?

This is turning out to be a looong entry... Oh, and speaking of blogs... I'll begin tagging my entries from now on... In fact, I'll begin taggin my old entries, because I want a tag cloud... They look seriously gorgeous!

Oh well, let's move on with our day... Let's smile our way through it, so that no one will think we're sick, or tired, or sad, or angry... Even though we are.

...But that's life. And I'm confused in a way I never had been. I don't even want to read! Today I don't feel like doing anything...

Just today's linguistic maze: In fact, speaking English, to me, doesn't seem as true as speaking Spanish... There's something missing... Perhaps the complication of the verbs... Perhaps the inability to refer to a group, the use of "you" for eeeverybody... It lacks warmth... I guess it's too simple for matters as twisted as these.

Anyway, it is the weirdest feeling.

P.S: Dude, greatest luck to your mom in the O.R!

You don't want to die a virgin, do you?

And oh well, changing subject...

Solemn Promise

I, Carla, hereby certify that I am in complete use of my mental capacities and that this is a decision that no one has pushed me to take. I solemnly swear that I will do everything that's within my reach to prevent me from falling in -what we all know would be- just a circle of destruction with momentary flashes of pleasure.

I am certainly convinced that the actual state of events is the one that benefits both parts the most. As painful as it may be, I promise to do my best not to fall again in this game, as it may put in risk my hardly accomplished peace and my future access to it.

End Line.

We don't plan to...

Recapitulando, buscando en el baúl de mi cabeza, me encontré una de mis memorias más hilarantes. Para añadirle al appeal, yo andaba con mi traje de western whore, con una rosa en el pelo, con fishnets, tacones altísimos, mi súper vestido strapless rojo/negro y con encaje, hmmm...

"Can you come here for a second? I know there's not much that a 74-year-old woman can offer to kids like you, except for experience, and that's why I want to tell you this.

Once I had this play, Cinderella, in which two of my leading parts were boyfriend and gilfriend; more exactly, they were the fairy godmother and the prince. They always were together, even backstage. The did everything together.

The day of the show, everything went just fine, but some time afterwards, we found out that the fairy godmother was pregnant with the prince's baby. Both moms came to talk to me like crazy, but we can't do anything about what they did off-stage.

So, why am I telling you all this? I just want to ask you something. If you're having sex, please, please, PLEASE wear protection!"

The Mystery Of Pain

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

Emily Dickinson

Singing In The Rain

¿Por qué la gente se maravilla con la nieve y desprecia la lluvia?

Cuando está nevando, la tierra se convierte en una winter wonderland... Todo el mundo es feliz y la nieve aquí, y la nieve allá. Qué lindo, todo es blanco...

Cuando llueve, los únicos alegres somos los taxistas y yo...

Cuando llueve, la gente se queja, pone mala cara, falta a los compromisos, ni se levanta. "Por la lluvia no pudimos salir..."

¿Quién dijo discriminación injusta?

La nieve mata. La nieve todo lo cubre y lo va matando de frío. No es hasta que vuelve el calor que las cosas renacen, y eso es sólo porque la bendita nieve se vuelve lluvia caída... O sea, es la lluvia la que le da la vida a todo.

Es por la lluvia que vuelven las flores después del verano, que vuelven las sombras porque los árboles se tupen. La lluvia es lo que le da el color a la vida, que si no, todo sería café... O blanco, si por la nieve fuera.

¿Quién quiere un mundo blanco? Hasta los locos se vuelven más locos cuando los encierran en cuartos blancos. Y claro, están los que no eran locos y terminaron de hacerse por el cuarto blanco...

La lluvia canta... Y es fría, pero no fría que mate. La lluvia se te escapa entre las manos... Es más, si salís a mojarte, no importa qué tan ligera sea la ropa que llevés, al poquito tiempo ya no sentís el frío... En cambio, salís a la nieve y te moriste, no hay de otra.

Con la lluvia dormís más rico, te abrazás a la almohada y no volvés a saber nada hasta el día siguiente... O hasta que pare de llover.

Es una reverenda maravilla que llueva, y yo creo que lo damos demasiado por sentado. Estamos tan acostumbrados a la lluvia que hasta nos molesta cuando llega... Ah, pero ya los vi llorar a todos cuando por falta de lluvia no tenían luz...

¿Cómo lo pongo? ¿Se pueden imaginar la distancia que viajan esos miles de millones de gotitas para caer a la tierra? ¿Se imaginan las condiciones que tienen que existir en la atmósfera para que se formen?

No sé... hoy seriamente ando maravillada con aquellas pequeñas cosas...

Venía en un bus, y llovía... Toda la gente veía por la ventana frunciendo el ceño por las pobres gotas... ¿Qué creen que sienten ellas al caer en una cabeza hedionda? jaja... En fin, el punto es que hoy me siento en paz, and while everyone else was whining, I was simply and happily singing in the rain...

Oh, wait, wait! Now this is great! An English test! Exactly what I needed... C'mon, if somebody told you that tomorrow you're gonna have an Spanish reading comprehension, do you go over some grammar and spelling the night before? I really don't think so. Trust me, dearie, I'm gonna do just fine... Do you study every morning before reading the newspaper just in case? No, the hell you don't! Then don't come lecture me about studying before the test... A test that I've been studying for since I was four years old! Oh yeah, 13 years in the business and still counting! Oh... Go get killed! By the way, I can take a dictionary with me, and I can answer en espanyol...

It's still raining... :D

Let them.

Las manos se sienten más débiles, los ojos más hundidos. Todo se siente funcionando al mínimo incluso trabajando al máximo. Las casas pasan en la ventana y no hay diferencia entre una y otra. De hecho todas son una sola. No, no todas las casas. Todas las cosas. Las letras se me pasean frente a los ojos y tampoco hay diferencia entre ellas. Se me cierran los ojos. Me sostendría con las manos pero me pesan demasiado.

Dos días de dormir el mínimo. No puedo sin mis ocho horas. En el examen todo bailaba... En la charla todo bailaba... En Historia del Arte todo bailaba... En Intro todo bailaba... Esperando el bus... nah, adivinen qué pasaba...

Muchacho, así, en serio, ¿qué era lo difícil de devolver el papel o decírmelo en persona? ¿No ve que estoy cansada y eso me pone particularmente irritable? Nada más pensaba despedirme, tranquilo... 10 minutos después de habérselo dado ya daba que no por hecho. Claro, si tiene tiempo en su apretada agenda, mañana rondo los alrededores tooodo el día.

¿Por qué los pájaros no tienen cola? ¡Porque no tienen pico! Según entiendo inventé ese chiste (""chiste"") cuando tenía como dos años, y a todas las personas que conocía, me les acercaba y les preguntaba ¿Sabe por qué es que los pájaros no tienen cola? Y todos, ante la chiquita tan curiosa y simpática, no dudaban en preguntar ¿Por qué?... Y claro, ante la respuesta tan biológica y lógicamente coherente, todos nada más se volvían a ver entre sí y comentaban el precio del dólar...

¿Qué tiene más sentido? ¿Matarse todos los días trabajando para que le den papelitos de colores? ¿O mi pregunta? Hoy me siento con ganas de investigar por qué es que los pájaros no tienen cola. Tengo ganas de profundizar en el hecho de que los pájaros no tienen pico. Tengo ganas de nada más alejarme de este día a día en el que los días ya no son lo mismo ni duran lo mismo que cuando los pájaros no tenían cola. No sé en qué se va mi vida, pero no me gusta.

... Y para todos aquellos cómicos que quieran salir con una respuesta terriblemente witty; no, no es en este blog. Este blog es mi puerta hacia la cordura y además se escribe en un tiempo compartido con otras cosas...

En fin, quiero volver a ver el Sol como antes. Eso es todo lo que me apetece hoy. Ver la sombra de las ramas, ver las hojas brillantes del árbol de afuera. Quiero volver a sentarme en la escalera a comer naranja y luego ir a la pila de mami a lavarme. Quiero volver a hacer pilas de zacate para que la hamaca sea más suave, quiero volver a jugar con la fuente...

Pero no, la verdad no es eso lo que quiero... Eso es lo que fui. Justo ahora me encantaría saber quién soy. Ahora que me siento cansada y que hasta ese piso de madera se ve comodísimo. En este momento hasta en la tierra, me acostaría... y debe estar húmeda, debe estar llena de semillas naciendo, de verde a punto de serlo... Y no es ninguna tendencia suicida. Sencillamente es delicioso estar sobre el zacate y ver las nubes...

Look out! Look out!

Suficiente blabbering por un día. Hoy sólo se me ocurre un poema para incluir, y es este:

Let them be as flowers,

always watered, fed, guarded, admired,

but harnessed to a pot of dirt.

I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed,

clinging on cliffs, like an eagle

wind-wavering above high, jagged rocks.

To have broken through the surface of stone,

to live, to feel exposed to the madness

of the vast, eternal sky.

To be swayed by the breezes of an ancient sea,

carrying my soul, my seed, beyond the mountains of time

or into the abyss of the bizarre

I'd rather be unseen, and if

then shunned by everyone,

than to be a pleasant-smelling flower,

growing in clusters in the fertile valleys,

where they're praised, handled, and plucked

by greedy, human hands.

I'd rather smell of musty, green stench

than of sweet, fragrant lilac.

If I could stand alone, strong and free,

I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed.

Identity, de Julio Noboa Polanco. Let them.

...Ya no me importa tu destino... Ya sólo quiero hallar el mío...