First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

I wanted something to happen, and something happened. Of course, things never go as you plan them to go, but that is supposed to be the funny part (some day I might find it even funny). But teh fact is that I needed something to pull me out of the corner in which I was stranded. And something happened... a lot of things happened... a lot of things are happening...

These last eight weeks have been particularly intense, even for the Guatemalan life. I feel there are still loads of things to come, but I also feel I have done a lot of things by last time. The past and the future have crossed in an eternal instant, as a chance that almost took place...

Big periods not always start inmediately after others end; sometimes there is a grey and indefinite time of overlapping and change. Time in which things change size, strecht and shrink and take a new place in the life's constellation. Sonmetimes you just don't notice it, and others, just imagining changes to come, you make them never to become reality. Is the same as Christmas Eve, when you think you'll never fall asleep, and morning will never arrive, as it was a million years far away. And suddenly, you close your eyes and don't open them untill light filters through the window, and butterflies come to your stomach.
It has been a long time trying to fall asleep.
But I am awake now.
And I am not an issue to compensate anymore.

Time to catch the train

Millions of thoughts after seven weeks that have, one more time, changed my life.

I see the prints of the recent events in the daily things (a bill, a phone number dialed who knows when, a drawing in a paper napkin, explaining who knows what conspiracy theory, a notch in my cell, produced by a fall when I was trying to take that picture)... And, as I say to myself that life continues without us noticing that everything has a last time, the only words that come to my mind are Suzanne Vega's verses:

Oh, this rain it will continue
through the morning as I'm listening
to the bells of the cathedral...
and thinking of your voice,
and of the midnight picnic once upon a time,
before the rain began....
And I finish off my coffee
'cause it's time to catch the train.

Counting hours in both directions

You cannot imagine the incredible coincidence this all represents. Since the moment your feet tread my space, the unknown wheels of fate started to work. Although I had sworn it wouldn't happen again. Although it was as clear as pure water. In spite of everything, the coincidence circle is closing again and again.
I only followed my impulse, Mr. Agent. Nothing else.
I know that, as I always do, I shall not do what I truly feel like, because I am scared. I am scared of what might happen, I am scared of having you close to me and of missing you; I shall close my mouth, clench my teeth and stop tears.
Only afterwards will I think what could have it been. Later, once the coincidence will have taken you far for who knows how much time, and minutes will start devouring sensations.
I am counting hours in both directions; to the future that runs far from me and to the past, that comes rapidly.

Just one more instant

It is that very particular mix of gestures and moments, that very particular harmony that reaches everything. That half smile...
It is something you conceal and I'd like to know; it is always that big question reflected from behind your eyes, that stare as challenging me. It is always the same question, although maybe behind a different face.
It is borrowed manners, an imitated movement, is roar with laughter, like someone who trusts in his destiny, although he doesn't trust his own shadow.
It is wanting and not doing, not wanting and doing, wanting and not being able, or being able and just look back eyes like mirrors. Mirrors that reflect something different from me, but that attract me unavoidably.
I don't know if I want it to finish or not. I feel there's something perfect in this. And, at the same time, I feel there's something definitely sad and somthing more, that I cannot describe with words, as they become dry when I try to describe beautiful and ephemere things.
Gift me just one more instant, you know that I will not be attached to your glance like a butterfly in a spiderweb, because you know this cannot be, is easier to wait the storm to end... you know that someday I will forget your look and I will only remember that instants among shapeless clouds... But now, before the indefinite future that might never come, arrives, look at me, so I can fix you in my memory and think gently about your eyes while I myself half smile and stare back life.

Saved

Some travels can be defined with sensations, others, with images, and others, that can be defined with words. So here I am, sitting in front of the Pacific Ocean (which is always exotic, although today is very salty ad the extension of sand that I have in front of me seems more some hard hit surfase instead of a beach). I am trying to find the exact words to describe all the others that have composed the travel. Or I should say that are comoposing, because is not ended, it has still some space for a couple of surrealists stories more. Like the story about the scorpion we found in the bungalow floor (and the bugalow was like a horror movie scenario, nothing to do with the hotel in Paris!). But it's OK, says the Catalonian owner of the place, these scorpions are not as bad as the ones in the Mediterranean sea. I've been bitten a coupe of times and it's only painful... Fortunately, his commercial instinct prevented him to say that words in front of four histerical tourists at three a.m.

The sea is covered with foam, and its noise seems particularly distressing this morning. It makes you think about perfect storms, fights impossible that are impossible to win, and beautiful drawned. It reminds me of love stories and adventure lived in lost galleons, and of the neverending wait without news. Or the wait for news that you wouldn't like to receive, but arrive anyway.

That is feeling judged by a standard to which one no longer wants to fit. When one renounces to respond to expectatives that aren't necessarily better or worse than others, but that are simply squeared, and doesn't fit for a life that wants to be rounded. When one stops feeling odd among the others and simply feels him/herself. At the end of the day, you are as afraid as you would be in any other option, I think, because all of them are scary: the fear to err is huge, is the fear of making the wrong decisions and realising the terrible mistake just five minutes before passing to a complete eternity of nothing.
But there are so many variables at stake. And being the human being as limited as it is, teh only thing that can be done is to continue chosing with our only tools: instinct, reason, of impulse. But, as the game is incredibly unfair, one has to assume consequences afterwards.

I know there's a house with nice sights waiting for me. A place from where I will look through the window, just to have time to mix memories and then order them and putting them in black and white , four years after the events happened, waiting for words to come, always sloer than actions. Meanwhile, is the same daily work.

After this weekend of words, some more clarifying than others, nothing has change. Although I see it differently.


P.S. Addicted readers:
Please look below this. I have altered the order of the stands, because the oter night I was so tired that I couldn't finish. And the next post, the tournment report!

Rag bag again

This is the Xth post I start with the idea "so long no write"... and the truth is that by that sentence I try to explain that I am losing cohesion, because inspiration moments vanish, although I must say they are fewer than the used to be, because now work absorbs almost everything.

When long ago I prepared to fall in love with my job, I never imagined it would be such an absorbing relationship. Of course, that's what obssesions have.
So, I figured out that the soultion of several posts in one would be ok now too. I'm sorry for those who expected normal frequency. By the way, I've realise with a quick and dirty analysis that mi average in the blog is two posts per week.

Let's go to ir:
- Varied therapies, and surprising and strange results.
- How to prove oneself to the extreme.

If I haven't managed still to send you out of here, continue reading, please
By the way, I'm in the point I thought I'd never be: not answering emails (I read them avidly, though).

Varied therapies, and surprising and strange results

After so many years without believing in something, you finally find someone who can explain it right and magically, you recover your faith. N matter on what, in people, indreams, in angels, in composition of light foods... you just recover your faith and change yoour side. You become a converted, which is somehow worse, but we will speak about virtues and faults of converted people other day...

I didn't believe in therapy. I just said it to say so, to refer to some situations in which girls tell each other our sad things (because sad things deserve therapy, while happy things deserve only a call) and we clean our chests just gossiping about some characters.

But, finally, after a weekend of spekaing, I am convinced. Indeed, I have the hloy proof that the therapy that I am practising works! I cannot tell here its details, because I am superstitious (I had to believe in something!) and if I tell it, it's not going to work. But it is workingª

For example: there were lots of things I though were my fault, but weren't. Besides, I am summing up all the times I haven't done things because I've though that a person wouldn't like them, and that person has never realised nor appreciated. Starting from somewhere. All the habits that were never mine, all the false complicity because we never shared more than with the rest with the world, but I am so adaptable. Ia m angry with myself because all the times I have not allowed myself say or do something. I am happy that things have happened so that I can realise this now. I cannot have my time back, but of course, I can avoid doing it again.
You are not a mirror in which I can look.
I don't miss you because that wasn't me! And it's no worth neither that you miss me...

What's the matter Mary Jane, you had a hard day
As you place the don't disturb sign on the door
You lost your place in line again, what a pity
You never seem to want to dance anymore

It's a long way down
On this roller coaster
The last chance streetcar
Went off the track
And you're on it

I hear you're counting sheep again Mary Jane
What's the point of trying to dream anymore
I hear you're losing weight again Mary Jane
Do you ever wonder who you're losing it for

Well it's full speed baby
In the wrong direction
There's a few more bruises
If that's the way
You insist on heading

Please be honest Mary Jane
Are you happy
Please don't censor your tears

You're the sweet crusader
And you're on your way
You're the last great innocent
And that's why I love you

So take this moment Mary Jane and be selfish
Worry not about the cars that go by
All that matters Mary Jane is your freedom
Keep warm my dear, keep dry

Tell me
Tell me
What's the matter Mary Jane...
Mary Jane, Alanis Morrissette.

And yes, I am angry, with you, with me and with the world, because we all three allowed the thing to arrive where it did. But in spite of being angry with myself, I still love me more than before. So don't bother to come back.

How to prove oneself till an extreme.

The other day I was asked what kind of reason has a person to abandon a perfectly safe life and go to a place like Africa to work.
In that moment, I just gave a standard answer, but hours later, after having gone uo and adown a volcano (it always helps to resize things), I found my truly answer, at least by now.
There will probably be maniy answers, and I am sure that none of them includes functional people. Most people n this planet prefers to pass their lives as next as possible to the place where they were born. There's people dying and killing because of it every day, in many places of the world. Besides, teh are the rest, those who prefer to abandon the safe place where they were lucky enough to be born... not meaning that nothing could happen to them there, because trucks run over people the everytime and everywhere (however, lack of conditions in LDCs usually is directly related to higher probability of being run over by a truck, for example in Guatemala). However, all of this, don't misundertand me, has nothing to do with generosity, is far away from it. Indeed, I reckon is a very selfish. Maybe is the fear of go of this world without having seen anything real. Or worse, without the feeling of having seen something real, because you have seen it and don't realise.
Let's be honest. I always wanted to be Indiana Jones, not Bridget, and that is the reason because of which I came here; and I now I will continue to prove myself until the cold fear in the stomach be stronger than the satisfaction of having defeated it.
Because life is short but wide, and complicated, and is scary because is full of information gaps and hidden risks... You only need to resist five more minutes... Until resist five more minutes is no more bravery but insanity.