Blessed be the blind

Sooner or later we let go of things, we forget our commitment to what made us tingle. It is then that we find ourselves spending seven months without revisiting things or seeing them at all. My latest blog entry dates of January 2007 (I know I am partially cheating, a more recent entry was unilaterally deleted a month ago).

She is here, I feel her presence every day in a mock pre-taste of life together. First, I thought that we were both pretending not to see what was going on. Now, sadly, I stand as the only one with eyes to see, or a mind to face chaos. This is torture, but of a sweet kind. The deeper the knife goes inside the wound, the sharper I get in my useless perceptions. I am losing a lonely fight, with no contender waiting for me at the other end of the boxing ring. Sometimes I think I'm drowning in a vast sea of silence.

Leading Lady

The question is whether you can become a leading lady. Eli Wallach's character in "The Holiday" tells a love-smitten Kate Winslet that she is acting like a good friend while she has the qualities of a leading lady. I thought of that line, the weight and meaning it holds. Gradually, without my noticing, I may be becoming a leading lady, even though I have spent most of my life playing the good friend, the so-called confidante.

However, we could also be arguing that the leading role is simply something other people see in you, but does not necessarily exist. This would mean that, if somebody tells you they believe in you, you would feel the power of their trust and might develop a potential that you do not have. In that case, you might become a leading lady, without the classic finesse of one. You would, rather, evolve into a leading lady. Can you really be something you are not a natural for? Can you be an excellent pianist just because you have worked for it, regardless of the amount of talent you have? Maybe you can, only that you will hardly excel at it.

Standing By

I am in a stand-by mood. Again. Miracles happen, but they don't last. I feel so away from everything I really care for, and what I care for is unattainable. There are a few things I have learned in this painful process of growing up, but I have not developed on them. I'm sitting at the porch of my own obsolete structure, seeing life pass by and wave its hello nonchalantly. I can't go out to play, I don't dare. It lasts an eternity, even when the pain sometimes becomes unbearable.

If you can't make life go on, you should at least be able to make it go away. I think I love beyond my common sense. I am old enough to know my mind can't control anything my body craves for, be it food, people or pleasure for its own sake. Others seem to be able to, though. There is no such thing as falling in love in their lives, there is some degree of pain, a little temptation, but replacement compensates the failure. Life falls back in place when the threat of suffering raises its ugly head. Lucky them. I hold no replacement, no resources that would spare me from going solo in a world full of selfish souls. Replacement terms for me are sheer emptiness.

I soothe my own pain, but cannot bear its presence. My body goes numb in a sea of pleasing, faraway memories. There is no foundation to build upon, there is nothing to seek, yet nothing has been explored. What am I longing for?

What the future holds

It came to my email inbox. The possibility of a life elsewhere still stands, or so it seems. I have said yes, but the ball now falls on the other side of the court. Am I doing the right thing? I hope I am. Life is so poor with not too many challenges and the fear of falling backwards grows. Will I be running again, or will it simply be a push I need to go further? I feel better now, but something inside of me still hurts, and the road ahead is not full of roses.

The Paris Connection

If I have to make an evaluation of my last stay in Paris, I have a deep feeling that I would be talking mostly of a special stay. There are minor details, such as the weather, to contemplate as having been particularly annoying. I even started on the wrong foot, falling ill almost a week after my arrival. Second, I came upon the unwanted need to close a story that was playing only in my mind, as a way of facing the daily struggle of waking up and finding that the only challenge to surmount was getting to the office. On that note, there is no argument that my first two weeks were certainly not very optimistic.

However, December brought interesting additions to the monotonous Parisian landscape. If a story closed, another one opened, or did it? I would say that it found an exit that was inevitable and known to both partners involved. Then, surprisingly, just when I was tripping over old memories filled with warmth but framed within the confines of delusional fantasy, the miracle happened. The connection was there, becoming palpable in front of my aroused senses. The flow was started, it felt nice and odd, just like it was meant to be. No words can express the pure feeling of bliss, so I am at a loss in any language. Letting it be was not a choice. It was written on the cards.

Orlando: If I were a man...
Shelmerdine: You?
Orlando: I might choose not to risk my life for an uncertain cause. I might think that freedom won by death is not worth having. In fact...
Shelmerdine: You might choose not to be a real man at all. Say, if I were a woman...
Orlando: You?
Shelmerdine: I might choose not to sacrifice my life caring for my children, nor my children's children, nor to drown anonymously in the milk of female kindness, but instead, say, to go abroad. Would I then be...
Orlando: A real woman?

Paris always brings back to me those memories of over six years ago, when I was a literary-oriented person with a restless mind. Looking back on those years of yonder, I surprisingly find that many of the selections and readings I made stayed with me. One of the authors I treasure the most in my Paris-minded library is American poet and journalist Stephen Crane. In his short life (he lived to be 29 years old only) he wrote one of the most shocking and passionate poems I have read. Here it is:

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

Poem Session

Disdain me not without desert,
Nor leave me not so suddenly;
Since well ye wot that in my heart
I mean ye not but honestly.
Disdain me not.

Refuse me not without cause why,
Nor think me not to be unjust;
Since that by lot of fantasy
This careful knot needs knit I must.
Refuse me not.

Mistrust me not, though some there be
That fain would spot my steadfastness;
Believe them not, since that we see
The proof is not as they express.
Mistrust me not.

Forsake me not till I deserve
Nor hate me not till I offend;
Destroy me not till that I swerve;
But since ye know that I intend,
Forsake me not.

Disdain me not that I'm your own:
Refuse me not that I'm so true:
Mistrust me not till all be known:
Forsake me not ne for no new.
Disdain me not.