We’re walking. You stop. I keep going, but you’re not following, so I stop and turn around. You’re just standing there, looking at me, not saying anything but you start crying. I let out an exasperated sigh and walk back towards you; I’m starting to feel anger swell up inside. You seem scared of me and turn around to go back, walking fast, not wanting to run, not wanting to fall down. I call out your name, you don’t answer. I catch up to you and try to look into your eyes, try holding your arm, but you keep looking ahead and shrug me off. I grab your shoulders and turn you towards me, there’s anger in your eyes, and sadness. I let go. There’s a rift and we’ll never make it be okay again. I feel sorry but can’t say it, because it wasn’t my fault and I want you to understand that, but you never will. You don’t love me anymore and it’s as if I’d been liberated of a great weight because now I don’t care. Let’s just wait, wait forthis day to end, we’re both too tired. Let’s just try to stop hurting each other. Maybe that’ll be enough, maybe we can at least do that.
Estuve manejando, sin apuro, sin rumbo fijo. No lo hacía desde que ella se fue. Cruce el tercer puente, avancé sobre la avenida, me detuve a ver desde la altura. Me di la vuelta y vi casas de colores. Volví a subirme a la moto y avancé hacia ellas, subiendo por calles angostas y empinadas. Era media mañana y el día estaba lleno de sol. No había salido así desde que ella se fue.
There are few things as undeniable and certain as talent. I consider this especially true for those of us who lack it.
As I write this, on my player, a soft melodious voice sings a song by a group called The Mountain Goats. It’s a cover version of the song called Woke Up New and it’s sung in a way in which I will never be able to sing anything. It’s the first version I ever heard of the song so it has become the original version for me. The song, sung the way she sings it, makes me both happy and sad at the same time, brings back memories of events and emotions, let’s me appreciate whom I’ve become and unjudgmentally remember who I was.
It doesn’t stop there. This person who sings so beautifully also has a blog and on that blog you can take long looks at the pictures she takes or read her poems.
I have a Nikon D90 and I have a keyboard hooked up to a computer with full internet access, yet my pictures lack the life and thrill I find in her’s and no amount of staring at a blank screen has ever been able to pull forth a poem from within me. Wait, I can remember now, yes I’ve written some poetry, incomplete and bad, soulless and distant from whatever emotions inspired them. When I read her poetry I can feel something, distant and indefinable, something simple and true which touches that within me that can’t be put into words and at most must reach for the metaphorical approximation to be felt and exist, something that understands poetry but can’t explain it.
So, what do I do? I follow her blog, I take a look at the pictures, I occasionally click on “like” when I exceptionally like one and try to be unobtrusive about it by not leaving comments which would sound empty. And, I write my stuff here and on some other places, sometimes anonymously as is the case, thankful for the internet and the www that has so considerately demonstrated to me my utter lack of talent and therefore saved me from the toil and hurt other generations had to go through to find out.
To close on a high note, what can I offer? Well, for one, sincere appreciation for talent and beauty but also, and it may not be of use here, but I’m old fashioned when it comes to giving and keeping my word, I used to be the guy friends called when they were going to get in a fight and needed back up, and now I’m the guy they can call when a major problem hits them at 3:00 a.m. some random weekend. I can get silently pissed beyond words when I get there; but I’ll never leave you out on a limb. Probably talk to you about a great song I just found, promise to forward it to you and start a monologue about talent.
Extrañaba esta canción.
Siempre voy a tenerte que agradecer
que haya sido conmigo tan
y me hayas enseñado lo que es
bailar mientras rodamos por la
So, what is it? Ah, yes. Size. I remember Erika used wonder about it although she never told me at first. Then, when we’d spent some time getting to know each other and progressing sexually, she really did take a keen interest for it. I was her first and it was a long working up process up to the point in which we could finally get it all in. Good sex ensued for both, much of it I think, stemming from the fact that neither of us actually knew what good sex was. Anyway, I had a single wooden bed and this bed had a low bedpost, with a rounded (look up bed part) at the top. I’d never thought of it much and if you’d ask me neither had she, but one day we were lying around naked and she got up, stood next to it, looked at me, put one foot on the bed and left the other one on the ground and positioned herself over the (look up bed part) and at first only pressed it against her pussy, then slowly started making little circular movements until she finally began lowering herself unto it. Yes, really. She made it nearly ¼ of the way down, looked at me with a mixture of pride and surprise and then got off. I was ready again. We had another round. I didn’t know then but that was the beginning of a quest for her. I think that she wanted and needed to know exactly how much she could take into her. A question was born and an answer for it was needed.