Halloween cae en lunes este año.
Ricardo me hablo para invitarme a ir a West Hollywood con el. Hace casi tres años acabe con el y mantengo minima comunicacion con el, pero el insiste--y como queria ir de todas maneras, le dije que si Carlos me daba permiso, lo haria.
Carlos dijo que si.
Esto me ha hecho reconsiderar la regla que siempre he tenido de no tener ningun contacto con mis ex's. Es justo para Ricardo y yo continuar aunque sea hablando? Si no nos pudimos comunicar bien cuando teniamos tanto que perder, como nos podemos comunicar mejor como amigos, habiendo perdido tanto? Es justo para Carlos y yo, poniendo a prueba la confianza que apenas hemos empezado a construir? Y siendo que yo ya tenia una regla al respecto, que debilidad indica el hacerle caso a Ricardo esta vez solo porque su sugerencia coincida con lo que yo pensaba hacer anyway?
Bueno, como todo en la vida, supongo lo sabre solo cuando todo haya pasado ya. De nada sirve especular que viene.
Ahora tengo sueño.
Buenas noches!
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
A little story of was and were
Introspection is too often the bane of the nascent writer’s experience. More frequently than is good, we butcher the basic principles of decent communication in the attempt to manifest our personal experiences into the a global perspective, into the ever-elusive and overly-revered human condition, which is to say we tie ourselves inside a cave beyond our own ability to escape and then spend the better part of life describing the things that go on outside by the mere shapes of shadows the sun we sought to escape makes dance on the walls inside. And then we call this insight. I see this all the time, mostly reading my own blog—or my old essays—or most of the things I have written. Nowadays, with a veritable barrage of pseudo-semi-biographical rubbish making it to paper, film, or radio, I can at least feel somewhat proud that I hardly ever waste any paper printing the junk I write—save a tree, I say. Still, I hope one day to grow up, to tear this selfish little cocoon all us fakers weave around our fragile, brittle egos and write good one day.
In just one paragraph, I used the word “I” six times and made other references to myself seven times; all that in just 188 words. And that’s assuming I can count.
I grew up reading real writers. When they say “I” they hardly ever mean their real “I”s but rather the characters they’ve masterfully created and subtly developed to not only arouse interest, but real concern on our part. Real writers need no readers. They suffer our intrusions into the worlds they have created and sometimes guide us through, to no benefit of theirs. We follow, just outside the reach of their candle-light, and sometimes peek over their shoulders at their lives, prurient observers morbidly curious—seeking to gain from their experience what we cannot in our own, or (even worse) to have ours validated by searching blindly through their work for what we’ve grandiosely chosen to call “the human experience.” Except that in the vast expanse that is such experience, one hardly finds the sense that is so often the point of their writings; the best descriptions of it are those that dissociate completely from the purpose of such enterprise and make art of the sharing—by which I think I mean that I appreciate subtlety.
Likewise, the greatest stories of love are about loves that never happened—success made sweeter by bitterly remembering it from most abject humiliation and defeat; or contrariwise, the worst in life somehow ennobled by reminiscing from the warm and comforting protection of (principally unearned) luxury.
I guess it’s all a matter of perspective, of structure, of sense. We seek the sense that life often lacks and in so doing force a shape on the shapelessness we have been given; this, in turn, is like the proverbial pebble in the shoe—and in the end, who can feel the pebble in his brother’s shoe?
In just one paragraph, I used the word “I” six times and made other references to myself seven times; all that in just 188 words. And that’s assuming I can count.
I grew up reading real writers. When they say “I” they hardly ever mean their real “I”s but rather the characters they’ve masterfully created and subtly developed to not only arouse interest, but real concern on our part. Real writers need no readers. They suffer our intrusions into the worlds they have created and sometimes guide us through, to no benefit of theirs. We follow, just outside the reach of their candle-light, and sometimes peek over their shoulders at their lives, prurient observers morbidly curious—seeking to gain from their experience what we cannot in our own, or (even worse) to have ours validated by searching blindly through their work for what we’ve grandiosely chosen to call “the human experience.” Except that in the vast expanse that is such experience, one hardly finds the sense that is so often the point of their writings; the best descriptions of it are those that dissociate completely from the purpose of such enterprise and make art of the sharing—by which I think I mean that I appreciate subtlety.
Likewise, the greatest stories of love are about loves that never happened—success made sweeter by bitterly remembering it from most abject humiliation and defeat; or contrariwise, the worst in life somehow ennobled by reminiscing from the warm and comforting protection of (principally unearned) luxury.
I guess it’s all a matter of perspective, of structure, of sense. We seek the sense that life often lacks and in so doing force a shape on the shapelessness we have been given; this, in turn, is like the proverbial pebble in the shoe—and in the end, who can feel the pebble in his brother’s shoe?
Monday, October 03, 2005
Lengua Franca, Otra Vez
I find myself a bit at odds with my own culture.
Having received what in my humble opinion is a decent education prior to our move to the United States when I was thirteen years old, I find myself quite capable of communicating in Spanish with a modicum of self-assurance. I still make some grammatical mistakes, some quaint, some outright insulting to an educated ear, but none too terribly distracting from the message—if sometimes amusing. Often, when speaking or writing about things that happened to me before high school, I write in Spanish because that is how I remember it. Memories taste different in Spanish, smell sweeter, and even those of pain are best remembered as they happened; something is always lost in translation. By definition, it must change.
Sometimes, I write or speak in Spanish out of greatest tenderness or anger—unable to control the extremes.
And yet, the lure of the new culture made me hungry to learn the language. I went to great lengths to internalize this new mode of thinking, this new perspective on the world. A language is both a reflection of and an agent effecting change upon a society. Any interpreter (a word far more suitable than translator) will know of the famous shoe-on-the-podium incident at the United Nations when Mr. Kruschev told America what amounted to “we will outlive you” but was translated to “we will bury you,” a subtle but powerful difference that might have plunged the world into its final cataclysm.
So there was Mrs. Novotny, hardly a decade older than me, hotter than anyone teaching 14-year-olds has a right to be, teaching me what “boiling” meant. And Mr. Robles, or Castro, or whatever his name was—a Cuban man that spoke to me in English, French, Arabic and some other African language before trying Spanish when he met me. He taught me not the language, but the structure. I am more grateful to him for that than I am perhaps to any other teacher. Instead of giving me many fishes, he taught me to fish. Still, he wasn’t nearly as hot as Mrs. Novotny, so I can’t really remember his name.
I remember talking to myself in the bus on the way home, talking to myself while doing dishes or cleaning the back yard. I remember talking to my siblings, reading to them from the books assigned by Mrs. Novotny (sigh) and Mr. Whatshisname. I did it all in English. After a while, I didn’t have to ask people to repeat themselves so I could understand what they said—even if I didn’t know what the words meant, I knew what words they’d used. In three months, I knew English. My best friends were Polish and Vietnamese; we could only communicate in English. It was great.
And here I am now, in a world with no borders. This blogging world that lends itself to Hebrew and Arabic, to Russian and English, to Spanish like I spoke when I grew up and 50 other versions all descended from the tongue of Cervantes. What a world! I am fascinated by the sounds and the lines that tongues and throats will make and hands will write to convey a thought. The simple image that something as abstract as an idea can be encapsulated (to whatever limited degree we humans can) within two dots on a page enthralls me. Isn’t it silly? I get outright giddy that someone one day might read this and know what I mean!
Unfortunately, now that I have kids to feed and bills to pay, I have little time to learn more languages. There are more important things to learn. Priorities, being what they are, I have little room for this wild dream. Once I wanted to learn all the languages spoken at the United Nations. Now I can’t. Maybe I will later.
I wish for selfish reasons that I could read and write and speak all the languages there are, so that all can hear and read what I have to say, but also so that I can learn form them. So many stories are now lost when an old man dies! So much of a civilization is lost when a single old woman’s voice goes silent. And oftentimes, this happens when the young die, as in war, or famine, or the myriad other cruelties we inflict on one another.
I have such a little corner of the world. Sometimes I see it in Spanish, and I write, to let out all that has come in. Sometimes, I taste it in English, and English it is when it makes it here. I do not mean to exclude anybody—it is an accident of life, and I do hurt that we cannot all share all that all the others might want to share. As if it were food, I hunger for the tastes I haven’t had yet.
So, yes… this is my apology to those who speak only Spanish and would read what I would write. I am very grateful that you would want to read it, and I am sorry that it’s not always in Spanish. I find myself sometimes at odds with my culture, but not for having expanded it will I admit even hypothetically to having renounced it. Unlike the French, who seek to shut the doors to other languages, I find my Spanish open and receptive, a fertile flower in the Spring. I do not mourn that no one speaks the language of El Cid—it was bound to change, or die. And if you speak English and you come and find my words in Spanish, I am sorry too—for both of us!
Having received what in my humble opinion is a decent education prior to our move to the United States when I was thirteen years old, I find myself quite capable of communicating in Spanish with a modicum of self-assurance. I still make some grammatical mistakes, some quaint, some outright insulting to an educated ear, but none too terribly distracting from the message—if sometimes amusing. Often, when speaking or writing about things that happened to me before high school, I write in Spanish because that is how I remember it. Memories taste different in Spanish, smell sweeter, and even those of pain are best remembered as they happened; something is always lost in translation. By definition, it must change.
Sometimes, I write or speak in Spanish out of greatest tenderness or anger—unable to control the extremes.
And yet, the lure of the new culture made me hungry to learn the language. I went to great lengths to internalize this new mode of thinking, this new perspective on the world. A language is both a reflection of and an agent effecting change upon a society. Any interpreter (a word far more suitable than translator) will know of the famous shoe-on-the-podium incident at the United Nations when Mr. Kruschev told America what amounted to “we will outlive you” but was translated to “we will bury you,” a subtle but powerful difference that might have plunged the world into its final cataclysm.
So there was Mrs. Novotny, hardly a decade older than me, hotter than anyone teaching 14-year-olds has a right to be, teaching me what “boiling” meant. And Mr. Robles, or Castro, or whatever his name was—a Cuban man that spoke to me in English, French, Arabic and some other African language before trying Spanish when he met me. He taught me not the language, but the structure. I am more grateful to him for that than I am perhaps to any other teacher. Instead of giving me many fishes, he taught me to fish. Still, he wasn’t nearly as hot as Mrs. Novotny, so I can’t really remember his name.
I remember talking to myself in the bus on the way home, talking to myself while doing dishes or cleaning the back yard. I remember talking to my siblings, reading to them from the books assigned by Mrs. Novotny (sigh) and Mr. Whatshisname. I did it all in English. After a while, I didn’t have to ask people to repeat themselves so I could understand what they said—even if I didn’t know what the words meant, I knew what words they’d used. In three months, I knew English. My best friends were Polish and Vietnamese; we could only communicate in English. It was great.
And here I am now, in a world with no borders. This blogging world that lends itself to Hebrew and Arabic, to Russian and English, to Spanish like I spoke when I grew up and 50 other versions all descended from the tongue of Cervantes. What a world! I am fascinated by the sounds and the lines that tongues and throats will make and hands will write to convey a thought. The simple image that something as abstract as an idea can be encapsulated (to whatever limited degree we humans can) within two dots on a page enthralls me. Isn’t it silly? I get outright giddy that someone one day might read this and know what I mean!
Unfortunately, now that I have kids to feed and bills to pay, I have little time to learn more languages. There are more important things to learn. Priorities, being what they are, I have little room for this wild dream. Once I wanted to learn all the languages spoken at the United Nations. Now I can’t. Maybe I will later.
I wish for selfish reasons that I could read and write and speak all the languages there are, so that all can hear and read what I have to say, but also so that I can learn form them. So many stories are now lost when an old man dies! So much of a civilization is lost when a single old woman’s voice goes silent. And oftentimes, this happens when the young die, as in war, or famine, or the myriad other cruelties we inflict on one another.
I have such a little corner of the world. Sometimes I see it in Spanish, and I write, to let out all that has come in. Sometimes, I taste it in English, and English it is when it makes it here. I do not mean to exclude anybody—it is an accident of life, and I do hurt that we cannot all share all that all the others might want to share. As if it were food, I hunger for the tastes I haven’t had yet.
So, yes… this is my apology to those who speak only Spanish and would read what I would write. I am very grateful that you would want to read it, and I am sorry that it’s not always in Spanish. I find myself sometimes at odds with my culture, but not for having expanded it will I admit even hypothetically to having renounced it. Unlike the French, who seek to shut the doors to other languages, I find my Spanish open and receptive, a fertile flower in the Spring. I do not mourn that no one speaks the language of El Cid—it was bound to change, or die. And if you speak English and you come and find my words in Spanish, I am sorry too—for both of us!
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Inocencia, al final (Parte II, final)
Te veo en la cama, dormida, boca medio abierta cual en interminable suspiro--y me da miedo. Te he visto asi por años, siempre pensando que algun dia me harias a mi lo que yo hice cuando fue mi turno; encuentro poca paz en pensar que todos tarde o temprano pasamos por esto--bueno, tal vez no todos; solo los que tienen buena suerte.
He medido los minutos de tu vida en lagrimas--a veces de alegria y a veces no. Me extraña pensar que el viejo tenia toda la razon cuando me dijo que amar es sufrir y que a pesar de eso nadie que valore la vida renuncia al amor; mas me extraña que me he dado cuenta de eso mas o menos a la misma edad que el tenia cuando me lo dijo. Que suerte: vivir hasta hoy buscando ser diferente y darme cuenta hoy que soy mi padre--como mi padre, no igual.
Estas aqui dormida, con tu cabeza sobre mi brazo, cansada de todas las labores que la niñez requiere. Roncas, como ronca tu padre y ronco tu abuelo; ojala encuentres un chamaco que te aguante eso.
Tu cara cambia mucho cuando duermes. Carece la concentracion que a menudo veo cuando haces tus tareas. Le falta la sonrisa que tantas veces hasta sin querer nos das en tus conversaciones, tan alegres y animadas, en las que nos cuentas de tus amigos, de tu escuela, y con las que demuestras cada dia como dejas de ser niña en tu despreocupada carrera a la madurez. Espero aprenderas como todos los que han transcurrido ese camino antes, que es dificil, que es mejor caminarlo despacio y no correr. Aqui estare cuando te caigas, para curar tus heridas y sobarte tus dolores. No estare solo; somos muchos los que te aman y te amaran mas. Y viendo tu carita dormida, me pregunto si es paz lo que veo, o tregua nada mas. Te falta mucho para ser independiente, pero cada dia pides mas, buscas mas, empujas mas contra las verjas que yo he puesto a tu alrededor por proteccion, pero que tu solo ves como jaula. En tu sueño, no escondes tu orejita de Arwen que de dia siempre guardas tras tu pelo--y aunque no haya nadie mas que yo para verla, muevo tu cabello sobre ella.
Te lo he dicho muchas veces y lo dire miles de veces mas. Aunque llegue yo a tener 75 años, y tu 53, seras mi baby, y te sentare en mis piernas y peinare tu pelo y te contare las historias que mi padre me conto. Es inevitable que llegues a ser tu propia persona--y anhelo como todo padre que tu independencia sea total y saludable--y aun asi espero comprendas que aunque los hijos se independicen de sus padres, los padres no pueden independizarse de sus hijos. El hilo que nos une desde el primer dia que senti tu cuerpo en la panza de tu madre, sin que tu lo supieras, es demasiado fuerte.
Asi que no te quejes si me ves un poco triste cuando dices que no puedes venir a verme este fin de semana porque vas al cine con tus amigos, o que es el cumpleaños de tu "novio" (ya discutiremos ese tema mas a fondo muy pronto), o que tienes un grupo de drama en tu escuela y van a practicar todo el sabado. No es enojo lo que siento cuando veo que los pantalones que usas son casi tan largos comos los mios (aunque todavia pueda hacer dos tuyos con la tela de uno de los mios). Cuando te pones tu makeup y te quedo viendo, no te burles de mi.
Que justa esta vida que nos hace pagar con los hijos lo que les hicimos a nuestros padres! Pero no por justa tendre que estarle agradecido.
Algun dia, leeras esto, y quiero que sepas que el "yo" de hoy apoya completamente tu rebeldia. Es tu vida para cometer los errores que tu quieras. Hare todo lo posible para enseñarte de los errores que yo he cometido, pero si no se puede, recuerda que simpre tendras aqui un abrazo fuerte, un plato de comida caliente, una cama comoda, y un hombro seco dispuesto a remojarse de tus lagrimas.
Te quiero.
He medido los minutos de tu vida en lagrimas--a veces de alegria y a veces no. Me extraña pensar que el viejo tenia toda la razon cuando me dijo que amar es sufrir y que a pesar de eso nadie que valore la vida renuncia al amor; mas me extraña que me he dado cuenta de eso mas o menos a la misma edad que el tenia cuando me lo dijo. Que suerte: vivir hasta hoy buscando ser diferente y darme cuenta hoy que soy mi padre--como mi padre, no igual.
Estas aqui dormida, con tu cabeza sobre mi brazo, cansada de todas las labores que la niñez requiere. Roncas, como ronca tu padre y ronco tu abuelo; ojala encuentres un chamaco que te aguante eso.
Tu cara cambia mucho cuando duermes. Carece la concentracion que a menudo veo cuando haces tus tareas. Le falta la sonrisa que tantas veces hasta sin querer nos das en tus conversaciones, tan alegres y animadas, en las que nos cuentas de tus amigos, de tu escuela, y con las que demuestras cada dia como dejas de ser niña en tu despreocupada carrera a la madurez. Espero aprenderas como todos los que han transcurrido ese camino antes, que es dificil, que es mejor caminarlo despacio y no correr. Aqui estare cuando te caigas, para curar tus heridas y sobarte tus dolores. No estare solo; somos muchos los que te aman y te amaran mas. Y viendo tu carita dormida, me pregunto si es paz lo que veo, o tregua nada mas. Te falta mucho para ser independiente, pero cada dia pides mas, buscas mas, empujas mas contra las verjas que yo he puesto a tu alrededor por proteccion, pero que tu solo ves como jaula. En tu sueño, no escondes tu orejita de Arwen que de dia siempre guardas tras tu pelo--y aunque no haya nadie mas que yo para verla, muevo tu cabello sobre ella.
Te lo he dicho muchas veces y lo dire miles de veces mas. Aunque llegue yo a tener 75 años, y tu 53, seras mi baby, y te sentare en mis piernas y peinare tu pelo y te contare las historias que mi padre me conto. Es inevitable que llegues a ser tu propia persona--y anhelo como todo padre que tu independencia sea total y saludable--y aun asi espero comprendas que aunque los hijos se independicen de sus padres, los padres no pueden independizarse de sus hijos. El hilo que nos une desde el primer dia que senti tu cuerpo en la panza de tu madre, sin que tu lo supieras, es demasiado fuerte.
Asi que no te quejes si me ves un poco triste cuando dices que no puedes venir a verme este fin de semana porque vas al cine con tus amigos, o que es el cumpleaños de tu "novio" (ya discutiremos ese tema mas a fondo muy pronto), o que tienes un grupo de drama en tu escuela y van a practicar todo el sabado. No es enojo lo que siento cuando veo que los pantalones que usas son casi tan largos comos los mios (aunque todavia pueda hacer dos tuyos con la tela de uno de los mios). Cuando te pones tu makeup y te quedo viendo, no te burles de mi.
Que justa esta vida que nos hace pagar con los hijos lo que les hicimos a nuestros padres! Pero no por justa tendre que estarle agradecido.
Algun dia, leeras esto, y quiero que sepas que el "yo" de hoy apoya completamente tu rebeldia. Es tu vida para cometer los errores que tu quieras. Hare todo lo posible para enseñarte de los errores que yo he cometido, pero si no se puede, recuerda que simpre tendras aqui un abrazo fuerte, un plato de comida caliente, una cama comoda, y un hombro seco dispuesto a remojarse de tus lagrimas.
Te quiero.
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