Now

And in spite of all, the difficult part begins now.
Now that you are not there, and in spite of all, I still have the need to speak to you.
Now, that I am trying to figure out the pieces left in the space that you abandonned, o that I created when I erased you, now, I run into you all at every movement. Now, that I am trying to understand a look, without thinking of how many times yours has deceived me.
Now that I have found a reason to hate you, I don't feel like it anymore, because it doesn't make sense. Nor that my mind, my heart and my mouth can reproach for a lifetime, I feel that doing so would be pointless.
Now that I see the world under another light, I see you only left me an awful inheritance, and while others taught me love, and see the world beautiful, sad, but beautiful, you only left me a huge disappointed silence. I cannot even thank you for this, I just can forget it, and move on in order to have no more fear to leave a smile come to me.

My name is Sunday

I hate Sundays. Yeah, I know, today isn't Sunday, but as Chuchupe explained in Pantaleón y las Visitadoras, there's no need to be on Sunday to hate them. It's a cordial hatred, don't think that I'm pissed off when I wake up on Sunday, not at all. It's not their fault. The thing is I have found this song, that expresses exactly my feeling for the day...

Je me souviens, ça commençait comme ça
D'abord un peu perdu, par les cloches réveillé
Où suis-je, quelle heure est-il, est-ce qu'on travaille ou pas ?
Alors du bout des draps,se laisser retomber
L'odeur du pain grillé se glissa sous la porte
Un soleil arrogant semblant forcer les vitres
Aujourd'hui est une journée morte
La moitié déjà commencée, il va falloir faire vite
Dehors, les magasins fermés, ruelles de western
Donnent au quartier des allures de ville fantôme
Une botte de foin qui roule, balayée par le vent
Il manquerait plus qu' l'harmonica, lancinante Ennio Morricone

Dis-moi dimanche, les deux mains dans les manches
Pourquoi je garde au fond du ventre une boule ?
Dis-moi vieille branche, gardien de mes nuits blanches
Pourquoi ma gorge se noue quand j'éteins l'ampoule ?

Je me souviens ça continuait ainsi
Qu'est-ce que j'ai bien pu faire de cette deuxième chaussette ?
En route vers le dominical, déjeuner d'un siècle en famille
Endimanché des pieds jusqu'à la tête
Pendant la promenade digestive, à shooter dans les feuilles
Où l'on déambule tête baissée, dans l'ombre du lundi
Faites coucou à mamie, restez sur le seuil
On va pas traîner, j'aime pas conduire de nuit

Dis-moi dimanche, les deux mains dans les manches
Pourquoi je garde au fond du ventre une boule ?
Dis-moi vieille branche, gardien de mes nuits blanches
Pourquoi ma gorge se noue quand j'éteins l'ampoule ?

Je me souviens ça finissait comme ça
Le chat en napperon sur le radiateur
Vautré sur la moquette, devant le petit écran
Goutter aux dernières secondes du week-end qui se meurt
Je garde en mémoire le rituel du film du soir
De mon père qui riait à gorge déployée
Du grand blond, de sa chaussure noire
Allez mon grand, il est tard, va vite te coucher

Dis-moi dimanche, les deux mains dans les manches
Pourquoi je garde au fond du ventre une boule ?
Dis-moi vieille branche, gardien de mes nuits blanches
Pourquoi ma gorge se noue quand j'éteins l'ampoule ?
Aldebert - Dis moi Dimanche

This long weekend has been the word weekend. So many words... I hope they are not already lost in the blue. Or maybe I hope exactly that, so that they cannot come back around me, so I can have always new words around. And words are traitors, they don't allow you to manipulate them: now I'd love to describe the inner peace that I feel watching the breeze gently move the curtains. But I can't, because words lie like an unfinished gesture.

About disfunctionality, imperfection and fear

What shall I begin with? It's a vicious circle (could be also virtuose, depending how you look aat it or where it goes)... It is disfunctional to look for perfection, because the world is imperfect (and probably more interesting this way), and the fact is that it's scary to think that it is, because that means that there are loads of things that doesn't make any sense...

Yeterday I woke up with those kind of thoughts, so I cooked the whole day (fortunately I got some friends to come and eat the product). Because coooking is a goal by itself.

I wanted to look for the definition of disfunctional in the RAE's dictionary, but I can figure it out: relative to difunction. And what is a disfunction? Because I know that there I am not going to agree them... for sure.

Disfunctional is to me something that doesn't work or doesn't work properly. It's the same, specially in the case we are talking about, although I am quite sure that it's worse something not working properly that not working at all, because not working causes less damage.
Anyway, and for the way to follow, I do undertsand disfunctional as someone who doesn't adapt to circumstances in which happens to be, and thus doesn't interact with them.

For example, is disfunctional always look for trouble where there aren't, just because if a situation is easy, is uninteresting. But I am not talking about particular case (me? Never!). It is disfunctional to package everything and run away to other country whenever you are scared. It is severely disfucntional to make a way of life out of that, no matter how much you like that life. It is no more than an excuse for not doing what your are supposed to do, which usually is scary.

I am no way saying that being disfunctional is a bad thing. Is like being a Water rat in the Chinese Horoscope, a fact. Possibly due to childhood, o something that happened on school, o whatever buried in the deepest of one's soul (and who knows if it's worthy to unbury it), or to the special alignment of stars in the moment of birth. I a fact to be recognized and then, accepted.

The problem of disfunctionality is not, then, disfunctionality itself, but when disfunctionality is determined to find perfection, because then it can become really frsutrating. I said it before, perfection doesn't exist, and I know it, I am a perfectionist. But this lack i not considered by the disfuntional, because he or she doesn't have a real relationship with the rest of the world, and so looks for something that is in his or her mind. Sometimes, even unconsciously. And in the very rare case of perfection knocking the door, there would always be a reason to find a defect... the important thing is to be in innner contradiction, and, furthermore, to contradict the world.

An is that precise moment, when you are making up defects when fear appears. Fear of doinf a stupid thing, or several at the same time, or just of passing life waiting for something that is not going to happen. Although is long time you haven't believed in fairy tales. An indefinite fear, huge and grey, covering everything as a blanket. Existential fear of not leavng a print in the memory, of being not even close to perfection, that is so much missed without knowing it.
Ans that' where we close the circle again, because is clearly disfunctional to mis something you have never known.
At the end of the day, the whole thing is a process, that you need to understand tep by step... to stop fearing being an idiota (as Fito y los Fitipaldis say)... at least in ome circumstances. The difficult thing is to recognize the circumstances.

This week I have officialy joined three groups of people.
- The difunctionals.
- The risk lovers.
- The issues to compensate.

Besides, I have decided not to dye my hair anymore, because I am tired of being a fake evil brunette. Specially because apart of my bad character and not covered sarcarsm, I'm not that evil... The bad news is that I have discovered a white hair. As always, Filomenita and her eye-in-the-back-of-the-neck were right.

And, turning to old times, when I always had a full house, since now to July I have a lot of viits plannes! I am counting down days to show Lilithland to some Vey Important People!!