Ilse wrote…

Christmas

… and I don’t know what to make of it.

Wooden Door

1
This was not like it had been the time before or other times. The door was not open when he got there so he stopped in front of it and thought about leaving. He had never had to knock on the door before so he felt confused. He thought about turning back but could not, he had been thinking about this all night long as well as during most of the day before. He decided to knock once and see what would happen. If nothing happened he would leave. He tapped three quick knocks on the door, felt it had been too soft and inaudible, and knocked harder but halfway through realized they were too loud and might seem rude so instead of three they were only two knocks. He heard someone move inside, steps on the wooden door coming towards the door. He felt short lived anguish, she was home, but as the lock was being undone on the inside he started thinking that she might feel unwell, that she might be irritated and tell him to go away, – couldn’t he see the door was closed?

2
This was not like it had been the time before or the times before that. The small dark wooden door was not open when he got there. He stopped in front of it and thought about leaving. He felt confused and then annoyed. He thought about turning back but could not, because he had been thinking about this all night long as well as during most of the day before. He decided to knock once to see what would happen. If nothing happened he would leave. Maybe she had gone out. Oh God, he thought, let something happen, otherwise I’ll have to stay here until she returns. He tapped three quick knocks on the door and immediately felt they had been inaudible. He knocked again, harder, but halfway through realized they were too loud and might seem rude so instead of three they were only two knocks. He heard someone move inside, walking on the wooden floor, coming towards the door. She was home. As the lock was being undone from the inside he started thinking that she might feel unwell, that she might be irritated for some reason, that she might tell him to go away, after all, the door had been closed.

3
This time it was different. The small dark wooden door was closed when he got there. He stopped in front of it and thought about turning back. He felt confused and then annoyed. He had been thinking about coming all night long. He decided to knock once. If nothing happened he would leave. Maybe she had gone out. Oh God, he thought, let something happen, otherwise I’ll have to stay here until she returns. He tapped three quick knocks on the door and immediately felt they had been inaudible. He knocked again, harder, but halfway through realized they were too loud and might seem rude so instead of three they were only two knocks. He heard someone move inside and then walking on the wooden floor, coming towards the door. She was home. As the lock was being undone from the inside he started thinking that she might feel unwell, that she might be irritated, that she might tell him to go away, after all, the door had been closed.

Los caminos de la vida / The roads of life

A 40 year-old man sits at the computer reading a letter from Helena, listening to an old song that’s not so old and suddenly he feels something odd, fragile and overwhelming rising inside him, the need to cry.   He stifles this feeling. Squints. Gets a hold. Good song, he thinks.

“The roads of life are not what I expected, not what I believed, not what I had imagined.  The roads of life are hard to tread, are are hard to walk, and I can’t find a way out”.

Shame on the Universe

I found this on a fellow blogg called Chromaheart, it reads:

Shame on the universe for cursing perfection and utopian conditions. Times like this I can’t help but marvel at distance and beauty and the acid grey-black of the night sky.

I like the way it sounds and the way it seems to be the preamble to grand thoughts.  It also has a ring of truth to it and I’d say I can agree with it.   Perhaps I’d change it a little, just a little, like:  “Shame on the universe for cursing perfection and utopian dreams. Times like this I can’t help but marvel at distance and beauty and the acid grey-black of this sky at night.”    

 

Ya se me hacia extraño.

Este es un intercambio con Helena.  En FB pregunto donde andaba y luego me sugirió que chatearamos por Gmail.  Francamente no sé si hice bien o mal.  Sé que hace tan solo unos meses, o hace un año, habría brincado y le hubiese dicho que me envíe lo que fuera, que yo le daba una revisada, y después hubiese hecho un buen trabajo de revisión con el propósito de impresionar.

¿Por qué no lo hice ahora?   ¿Por qué le dije “ya me extrañaba” en vez de inventar un pretexto que me excusará sin que se enoje? Lo amigos se ayudan los unos a los otros, los amigos se ayudan sin preguntar o inventar pretextos, los amigos se ayudan sin esperar algo a cambio, pero creo que ya fue mucha la ayuda que le di.

Y también está la forma en que lo pidió, dándolo por descontado, puras mañas esta mujer.   Y le tengo tanto cariño que si lo hubiese hecho de forma distinta, claro que le ayudaba, pero no fue así.   Se siente bien ya no estar tan enganchado con ella, pero también un poco triste.  Recuerdo cuando Ilse me contaba todas la privaciones que estaba pasando en Australia, casí espereando que me ofrezca a enviarle dinero.   Esta bien que no lo haya hecho.