Archive for 2014
Eggrolls.
By : DebDiaries. May 7th.
I'm a happy gal.
Naturally, it grows within me such love for others, for things, for facts, for knowledge, for me, I can hardly contain showing it.
Being happy or having limits that stray towards it, doesn't mean at all I'm not profoundly sad.
It does seem to be an echo of other people's voices, and however stating the fact of misery co-existing along with joy, never comes as a regular train of thought for those who surround me.
I realize though, I tend to be absurdly egotistic about my matters, and so I apologize. Not because it's too many readers affected by them, but because words are meaningfull for every one of them, even if it's just me writing, and even if it's just one reading. My defense is directed to my psyche, not to my narrative.
Going back to the main point, a proper lunch is never proper without a cold beer. This is of course a weary consecuence of living in latin america, and it's relentless tropicality.
One never seems to acquire complete peace, being so hot all the damn time.
Paper.
A poem dedicated to paper.
Today I remember an uncanny course of events.
I remember my mother used to decorate walls of our little dusty balcony with paper sheets, clumsily drawed by me with unfigurable humans resembling the family. Can't say I have a fresh feeling of such events; merely the pride of it stayed with me.
Years and years after, all I can think of is my dear mother wanted to give me the gift of feeling decision free, creative, beaming with content from self awareness. A little godess inside a baby's clumsy body.
Such a shame things had to be so rough afterwards.
I'm about to perform a very important social experiment. That of trusting strangers.
I had about 6 beers in some bar in the hostile and lonely city of Caracas.
I have my cards to pay off my check but no cash for the tip.
I'll ask the waiter to (funny) wait for me for a brief moment, while I rapidly head on to the ATM, and get some dough for his tip.
Will he believe me?
Will he trust me?
Will he throw away his missconception of humanity, learned at home and reaffirmed by his boss, that he should doubt everyone's good will?
Do I seem to be a trustworthy gal?
Pequeña tragedia del mundo del lápiz.
By : Deb
Nada como escribir con lápiz de grafito y sentir la alegría de su desgaste significativo ensuciando la hoja en provecho de la siguiente letra, persiguiendo el bien mayor de la oración. ¿Dónde es que queda ese sitio raro y a la vez común en el que tantos tienden a poner el sacapuntas? Sin el sacapuntas es imposible sobrevivir en el mundo que gobierna el lápiz. Encontrado el bicho, crece la alegría de la continuidad.
Así, la disyuntiva y el conflicto se presentan ahora mismo como un angustiante toque de queda para la palabrería en curso. Un final que una vez burlado por el hallazgo del cortalápices, pasa a depender de un destino distinto y más longevo que el filo de la punta del preciado instrumento de madera: el de esa madera en sí misma y su batalla cruenta en las trincheras de las hojillas mortales y voraces del afilador. En defensa de la existencia digna del carboncillo, entrega su cuerpo como alimento al desaforado acero.
Siendo así, la tristeza verdadera e ineludible sube de nivel y se ve que radica en la mano del escriba. Esa que por un designio malévolo y atroz de la motricidad vinculada al pensamiento, decide aniquilar todo a su paso lento y constante como una aplanadora mecánica sin mecanicista y sin freno, el follaje de la hoja, el mísero lápiz, las cortas ideas.