Siempre he dicho que el teléfono es para comunicación solamente, y no para conversación. Los que quieren plática deberían usar el teléfono para decirme donde verlos; un cafecito, un te, un jugo, y horas de plática pueden seguir. Lo que me molesta mas es la haraganería implícita en decir “quiero saber de ti y que tu sepas de mi, pero no mereces el tiempo o esfuerzo para verte en persona.” La única excepción aceptable es cuando la distancia o algún impedimento físico previenen el viaje, o recibir visita. Tal vez no es así, en realidad, pero eso es lo que pienso yo.
Con el tiempo, he entrenado a todos que así es. Mis amigos—pocos que son—y mis familiares saben bien que al llamarme deben simplemente decir el punto, hay un intercambio de información pertinente, una que otra pregunta respecto a mi salud y la de ellos, saludos a los parientes, besos, abrazos, apapachos cuando sea apropiado, y bye. ¡Simple! Sencillo.
Who could ask for anything more?
Pero no siempre es así. Lo bueno de las reglas son las excepciones, los pequeños eventos en los breves momentos que nos dejan saber que el mundo sigue mas allá del horizonte que hemos construido. Anoche fue una de esas noches.
A las 7:42 PM, Ricardo me mando un mensaje al teléfono, diciendo que me hablaría cuando saliera del cine, a donde había ido con su nuevo novio. Yo pensé que llamaría antes de las 10:00 PM. Aburrido en casa, salí a esa hora rumbo al bar con ganas de tomarme un par de Heinekens y jugar un poco de billar. Quince minutos después, me habló. Resulta que el novio fue a visitar a su familia, dándole a Ricardo tiempo para llamarme. Bueno, a pesar de un pequeño enojo por haberme hecho esperar, decidí platicar con el un rato. Lo que esperaba era que me dijera que quería ir a Starbucks (o Peet’s, si hay uno por ahí: Hmmmm!). Ricardo vive a una hora de distancia, pero nunca he tenido ningún problema con manejar esa distancia por una buena plática, y si hay algo que él tenga de bueno es su plática.
Llegué al bar a las 11:00 PM, no por la distancia, sino por haber dado tantas vueltas mientras platicábamos y mientras encontraba donde estacionarme—el lugar es popular, y estacionamiento en cualquier lugar de Los Angeles a esa hora de la noche es prácticamente imposible. Me estacioné, me salí del carro y empecé a fumar mientras platicábamos. No me invitó. Hablamos de él, de su familia, de mi familia, de sus amigos, de mis amigos, del trabajo, de la escuela, de los cambios que hemos visto individualmente desde que quebramos hace varios años. Hablamos de la operación que necesito y por que la he pospuesto tantas veces. Hablamos de todo, y terminando todo volvimos a empezar.
A las 12:00 de la medianoche, después de varios cigarros, decidí no entrar al bar, pues no tiene caso considerando cuanto me estaba gustando la plática. Salí otra vez en mi carro, rumbo a casa, pero tomé la ruta escénica, y llegué a la 1:00 AM, todavía platicando con él.
Diré, con toda sinceridad, que aún así no me gusta hablar por teléfono si hay posibilidad de una buena plática con un café. Pero siendo lo que fue, fue buena noche—y últimamente no he tenido muchas.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Another Saturday Night...
Play Careless Whispers.
When is the last time you told someone “I love you” for the first time?
Sitting in the dark is something I do often for the sake of entertainment.
I like the smell of good incense burning two rooms away. It is not so subtle as to be missed, nor so strong as to be intrusive.
I went to dinner with Carlos two nights ago. I had just worked a 12-hour day, after two 10-hr days, and I was tired! But I went. He felt like going to get pizza at this place near where he grew up—it was a long drive, and we talked of useless things, and I enjoyed our conversation greatly. Just after the fall, I thought it great we could still talk, still enjoy an hour’s worth of conversation on the way to cheap, second-rate pizza in the south bay. We ate; we talked; we drove back. I went home still thinking that when it occurred to me I never loved him—and so I started wondering when it was the last time I loved—and, more to the point, when I loved enough to say “I love you.” Because there is a threshold, a point before which we cannot get ourselves to say the words and after which we cannot hold them back.
The neighbor’s headlamps flash across my living room as he turns into his driveway and suddenly I realize the incense has ran out and my tea has gone cold. Though there are four of us living in this apartment, and I love the noise and the feel of simple human habitation, and really love the rare moments of solitude when they come.
They’ll be here soon, so now it’s time to sleep.
Soon, it’ll all change, and I will back to solitude. We must all go our own way at some time. Much like a break up, any separation entails the breaking of old ties. Daily “good morning”s turn to monthly “how have you been?”s and surprising run-ins at the bank or the store. It is never the same… but then, things never are.
When is the last time you told someone “I love you” for the last time?
Good night.
When is the last time you told someone “I love you” for the first time?
Sitting in the dark is something I do often for the sake of entertainment.
I like the smell of good incense burning two rooms away. It is not so subtle as to be missed, nor so strong as to be intrusive.
I went to dinner with Carlos two nights ago. I had just worked a 12-hour day, after two 10-hr days, and I was tired! But I went. He felt like going to get pizza at this place near where he grew up—it was a long drive, and we talked of useless things, and I enjoyed our conversation greatly. Just after the fall, I thought it great we could still talk, still enjoy an hour’s worth of conversation on the way to cheap, second-rate pizza in the south bay. We ate; we talked; we drove back. I went home still thinking that when it occurred to me I never loved him—and so I started wondering when it was the last time I loved—and, more to the point, when I loved enough to say “I love you.” Because there is a threshold, a point before which we cannot get ourselves to say the words and after which we cannot hold them back.
The neighbor’s headlamps flash across my living room as he turns into his driveway and suddenly I realize the incense has ran out and my tea has gone cold. Though there are four of us living in this apartment, and I love the noise and the feel of simple human habitation, and really love the rare moments of solitude when they come.
They’ll be here soon, so now it’s time to sleep.
Soon, it’ll all change, and I will back to solitude. We must all go our own way at some time. Much like a break up, any separation entails the breaking of old ties. Daily “good morning”s turn to monthly “how have you been?”s and surprising run-ins at the bank or the store. It is never the same… but then, things never are.
When is the last time you told someone “I love you” for the last time?
Good night.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Leftovers
God made man last.
Not because he was saving the best for last.
She was just making do with what was left.
Not because he was saving the best for last.
She was just making do with what was left.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Volver
Can you believe it's been so long? I feel as though it was just yesterday I was here last, but looking around, I see much has changed. Some friends are gone, while new ones take their place, not that old friends can be replaced—but life is busy and as full as it can be it gives me little extra time for more. More... More is the ethereal, curious, most elusive thing I'm always seeking. More is the fuel that seems to drive me further and further on this road.
But more does not always lead down a straight path. Onward, yes—but is that the same as forward? I am too tired to ponder this right now. From time to time, all I can do is put a foot in front of the other in this eternal act of falling, balancing, trying, dancing that we call walking.
From time to time I come to that proverbial fork in the road and I just take it—not always to follow the road less traveled by—not always quite deciding—and always wondering if this is the right path or maybe, may be that one was.
And all the forks have led me round and round back to this place, through caverns measureless to man, to this sunless sea. And on this soulless beach where we now find each other once again. I am a bit embarrassed you should find me lacking my usual ebullience, waiting pointlessly for an answer, even from the echo, to my lonely cry—but a wind blew out of a cloud and it seems there shall be no one here to look upon my works. None, perhaps, but you, and you will not despair, but rather walk with me.
And in the end, come full circle to the womb that made me, I shall cherish most the warm embrace of those arms that, outstretched and yearning, through my travels, awaited my return.
But more does not always lead down a straight path. Onward, yes—but is that the same as forward? I am too tired to ponder this right now. From time to time, all I can do is put a foot in front of the other in this eternal act of falling, balancing, trying, dancing that we call walking.
From time to time I come to that proverbial fork in the road and I just take it—not always to follow the road less traveled by—not always quite deciding—and always wondering if this is the right path or maybe, may be that one was.
And all the forks have led me round and round back to this place, through caverns measureless to man, to this sunless sea. And on this soulless beach where we now find each other once again. I am a bit embarrassed you should find me lacking my usual ebullience, waiting pointlessly for an answer, even from the echo, to my lonely cry—but a wind blew out of a cloud and it seems there shall be no one here to look upon my works. None, perhaps, but you, and you will not despair, but rather walk with me.
And in the end, come full circle to the womb that made me, I shall cherish most the warm embrace of those arms that, outstretched and yearning, through my travels, awaited my return.
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