Seems like I am starting a new series of posts about my past, but it's just chance that brought me here, nothing premeditated at all. Today I had dinner with some old friends from primary school, we've been good friends since we were seven or eight; pretty amazing we almost have twenty years in common behind us. I looked at them like I've been doing for the last few times we've met: I don't belong in their world anymore, but it's just alright to repeat the same stories once or twice a year; and even though our friendship is sustained by the same old anecdotes, by beliefs I don't share anymore. But it's ok, we love each other because of no particular reason, because we were kids and played in the same playground. That's nice.
However, I sort of feel I have escaped from my past faster than they did, if they ever did. It's not bad, even though it seems petulant to write about it now. Will they think the same about me? Will they think they have escaped but I'm still there? I don't think so, I think they just feel it's the way I've always been when they remind me of some anecdote I have no memory of.
viernes, 31 de diciembre de 2004
jueves, 30 de diciembre de 2004
A gin-tonic with Torjman
I just had a gin-tonic with Torjman. I came back home by bus, and passed by my dear high school where I grew up for the first time (several "growing ups" have come later on, but I didn't know it at high school)
I have passed by my school a good deal of times, since its so close to my home. But today was different, of course. Today, for the first time, I have felt a sort of nostalgia while looking at the walls of the building where I entered with only 14 years, and left with only 18. I have felt the same I used to feel when I went back to my school, where I entered with 6 (I think) and left with 14 (I'm sure). I remembering walking into the school, and seeing everything very small: the classrooms, the dinning hall, the play ground... shit, how small it all was, or how big I thought it as a child.
Yes, the street entrance of my high school seemed smaller today, and the walls were not as impresive as before. The high school, my high school, has become smaller. And as I think of the years I had there, the women I loved there, the teachers I hated and the first cigarretes I had on the corridors, it becomes very difficult to picture a bigger building, to return to the size of my 14-18 years. The thrill is here for me to play with it, and yet the thrill is gone. Do you remember, Tais, when you used to play with my thrill? How young you were, I think now. A girl I would never look at now. And still, how young I think I was. And it's strange because you know, I'm the same guy I was back then, and yet I am so fucking different. The same but not the same at all. I see traces of the one I used to be, but they only become apparent in little details, little roads leading nowhere that I still take sometimes.
Maybe I need your presence, I'm not sure what your presence would bring me. We could make love, this time, sitting at the stairs of high school we would kiss like we didn't and I would say bye, go home. And then the building behind me, and then my turning back and my looking at the building face to face. I think I would think of running back after you, but finally I would walk back home, like I walked back today . And I would write.
I have passed by my school a good deal of times, since its so close to my home. But today was different, of course. Today, for the first time, I have felt a sort of nostalgia while looking at the walls of the building where I entered with only 14 years, and left with only 18. I have felt the same I used to feel when I went back to my school, where I entered with 6 (I think) and left with 14 (I'm sure). I remembering walking into the school, and seeing everything very small: the classrooms, the dinning hall, the play ground... shit, how small it all was, or how big I thought it as a child.
Yes, the street entrance of my high school seemed smaller today, and the walls were not as impresive as before. The high school, my high school, has become smaller. And as I think of the years I had there, the women I loved there, the teachers I hated and the first cigarretes I had on the corridors, it becomes very difficult to picture a bigger building, to return to the size of my 14-18 years. The thrill is here for me to play with it, and yet the thrill is gone. Do you remember, Tais, when you used to play with my thrill? How young you were, I think now. A girl I would never look at now. And still, how young I think I was. And it's strange because you know, I'm the same guy I was back then, and yet I am so fucking different. The same but not the same at all. I see traces of the one I used to be, but they only become apparent in little details, little roads leading nowhere that I still take sometimes.
Maybe I need your presence, I'm not sure what your presence would bring me. We could make love, this time, sitting at the stairs of high school we would kiss like we didn't and I would say bye, go home. And then the building behind me, and then my turning back and my looking at the building face to face. I think I would think of running back after you, but finally I would walk back home, like I walked back today . And I would write.
martes, 28 de diciembre de 2004
Frontpage
I read the frontpage of several newspapers this morning, and I can't just entertain myself with the details of the devastation of the tidal wave in South East Asia. It just seems not fair to read all those articles with all those details about everything... as if you could possibly understand anything by reading them!
No, I don't read. I rather close my eyes and think, think that life is such a bitch, and nature its pimp.
How exciting it sounded when we studied tidal waves at University... forty physicists-to-be all entertained by the perfect workings of ressonance to make giant waves possible for hundreds and hundreds of kilometers, as if the absence of friction was effected and eternal movement thus possible.
Now I understand, once more, what a big lies it all is when you separate it from your heart and soul. Even tidal waves are not eternal: buildings and bodies are there to stop the magic of fricionless movement. You know what? Fuck frictionless movement and the magical, so beautiful equations behind it.
No, I don't read. I rather close my eyes and think, think that life is such a bitch, and nature its pimp.
How exciting it sounded when we studied tidal waves at University... forty physicists-to-be all entertained by the perfect workings of ressonance to make giant waves possible for hundreds and hundreds of kilometers, as if the absence of friction was effected and eternal movement thus possible.
Now I understand, once more, what a big lies it all is when you separate it from your heart and soul. Even tidal waves are not eternal: buildings and bodies are there to stop the magic of fricionless movement. You know what? Fuck frictionless movement and the magical, so beautiful equations behind it.
New Year's Eve
Writing about new year's eve with jojo has definitely installed one thought on my mind: what should I do, that night? I don't know. It's every year the same story... is it? What does it mean that I am twenty six, and still I don't know what the hell I will do for new year's eve? See, Landiman? In a way, it's your fault. In another way, it's nobody's fault.
Because you have dinner with your family and bum! it's 1:30 or 2am, and what you do? You don't have a friend's place to go, so you have to meet at the disco, or at most at a bar and then the disco, inevitable. And what you do, at the disco? Just another other night? No, you know, it's new year's eve. But what? Does it only mean you have to be happy, and stay up until 8am? What do you think, when you go to bed at 8am, the sun shinning outside, and it's first of january, 2005, and you're drunk but conscious in bed?
Maybe you should get a woman. Should you? I don't know, new year's eve... you're supposed to have your woman already. Or do you? Ah, lo ves, you see? It's complicated. It's the kind of trouble you have when you can eat four times a day and have a place to sleep warmly.
Because you have dinner with your family and bum! it's 1:30 or 2am, and what you do? You don't have a friend's place to go, so you have to meet at the disco, or at most at a bar and then the disco, inevitable. And what you do, at the disco? Just another other night? No, you know, it's new year's eve. But what? Does it only mean you have to be happy, and stay up until 8am? What do you think, when you go to bed at 8am, the sun shinning outside, and it's first of january, 2005, and you're drunk but conscious in bed?
Maybe you should get a woman. Should you? I don't know, new year's eve... you're supposed to have your woman already. Or do you? Ah, lo ves, you see? It's complicated. It's the kind of trouble you have when you can eat four times a day and have a place to sleep warmly.
Smoking with a sore throat coming
I'm smoking and I shouldn't be, because I can tell I have a sore throat coming very soon, and very soon new year's eve is coming too, and though I still haven't made my mind about what to do on that sacred night, I don't want to have a sore throat when it comes. In a way, it's Ensiamada's fault, the woman of Croissant. Tonight she lighted one cigarrete after another and, so, I had to light one after another too, because I'm a gentleman, you know. Women should never smoke alone.
Ok, suddenly now I think it would be nice to spend it with jojo, but he's far. We would smoke (I'm a gentleman, and you know, gays should never smoke alone either) and dance, and we would talk about what those three years have operated on our souls, and we would see how our faces have changed. I wonder what would be the first sentences we would pronounce. "Joder, hola, tío, qué tal, cómo estás?" I don't know: what would be that first sentence, jojo? But I can tell we would go out of the last pub together, and we would walk back home, completely drunk and gay. And still, I know I would miss a woman by my side, and he would miss a man by his. That's life. The sore throat's definitely crawling up my neck.
Ok, suddenly now I think it would be nice to spend it with jojo, but he's far. We would smoke (I'm a gentleman, and you know, gays should never smoke alone either) and dance, and we would talk about what those three years have operated on our souls, and we would see how our faces have changed. I wonder what would be the first sentences we would pronounce. "Joder, hola, tío, qué tal, cómo estás?" I don't know: what would be that first sentence, jojo? But I can tell we would go out of the last pub together, and we would walk back home, completely drunk and gay. And still, I know I would miss a woman by my side, and he would miss a man by his. That's life. The sore throat's definitely crawling up my neck.
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