The Write Thing

My US travels are drawing to a close again. As it happened a little earlier last year, July brought an ending of sorts to my long planes this way…for now at least. It has been a good adventure this time, with certain discoveries that still leave me with mixed feelings, but that I guess I should welcome as part of the uncertain flux of life.

The weekend found me looking for the right package to send a little something to someone on the west of me on Saturday morning, as the Houston sun promised another scorching summer day. A sudden thought had me calling the San Jose hotel in Austin at around noon, to find out they were fully booked. The second option was the standard OMNI chain, which turned out to be worse than a teenage campsite, with metallic American voices resonating down the hallway at 4.00 am, accompanied by drunk knocks on my door a few minutes later. However, even while the night was not as accomplished as I had wished, the day was good. Maybe because 45 minutes of my drive were spent on the phone with her, talking, laughing and missing each other — maybe it is time to acknowledge that distance and estrangement is part of an unspoken deal here — and because Austin’s 6th street was fun to stroll up and down.

In the early afternoon of this Sunday, which will mark my last night spent on US soil, before I started driving back to a makeshift “home” of sorts down McCue Road, across from the Galleria Mall, I stopped by Austin’s famous Town Lake park. I like the way the US does some things, suddenly offering enormous amounts of nature for free to the city dwellers and their visitors. People walk down the shady paths, sit down by a generous cliff overlooking the lake where casual rowing boats design capricious shapes, or simply ride their bikes down the trails, which still offer some rest from the burning sun. I took a short walk left of the entrance, and caught glimpses of the lake hiding behind overgrown trees. The path went down, and at some intersections the odd bench would be found. Now I realize I chose the third one, and it had this especially dedicated plate. I thought it would be a good place where to start a mission that I had not really planned. The book I had just finished reading is Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Since I bought it in Buenos Aires, I read it in Spanish. I left it on that bench, sheltered in the shade, until someone hopefully would pick it up in good faith, and enjoy it.

I am beginning to like the exercise of leaving some things behind…

My dearest Geisha and Miss F had the kindness of proposing this little game by which, if I understood the rules correctly, involves opening three books at hand and quoting line 5 on page 161 in each. Oddly enough, because I am temporarily staying in foreign territory, my availability of books is limited. However, I do have three — four, if I consider a Grammar of Usage in English, but I will not quote that one.

Here I go:

Paris Stories by Mavis Gallant: Lydia poured Speck’s tea in an offhand manner he found wounding.

The Portable Hawthorne by Malcolm Cowley: “Remain in the arbor,” whispered the sculptor to the figure that leaned upon his arm. “You will know whether, and when, to make your appearance.”

Los hombres que no amaban a las mujeres by Stieg Larsson: “Dediqué los primeros veinticinco o treinta años de mi vida a disculpar y perdonar a gente como Harald porque éramos familia.”

Now, given that many of my readers and read ones have already taken part in this game, I am afraid I do not have as many options as I would like to. However, I’ll take my chances. The ball now is passed to:

Lola
Flash-me
Erica

…and all of those who would like to join in. Sorry I was short of candidates. It may be the late hour here, or simply that some of my candidates have already been proposed this little dalliance with books. Anyway, if those appointed have already been approached, I apologize for my belated arrival. Otherwise, please enjoy…

Would it be too irrational to say there are people who fear facts and people who fear feelings? Oh, I know…you would say that feelings are also facts, but that is where I think you go wrong. Feelings are not facts. Feelings change. They evolve, revolve, and sometimes even falter. They grow stronger, weaker…they fade. They confuse, dazzle, hurt, relieve…but all the time they are incapable of stasis.

Instead, facts do not change. They are. Intransitive verb, period. A chasm, a void, uncertainty towering because there is no exit. Facts are cruel and irreversible. Disease is a fact, love is not. Disease is a limitation with an outcome that eventually will be another fact, but love is not. Love is free as a concept, yet a prisoner of its cradle. It grows, and it fades, layers of its skin spread on a spurious surface, a requirement of blind faith for those who choose to indulge.

Yet I am more afraid of facts than emotions. You cannot fight facts, but you can fight emotions, and many people do. Or maybe you can fight facts, but most of the time the victory or defeat will be external to you, and already a given. Yet, many of us mistake emotions with facts and refuse to fight, expecting loss as a token…naive souls…loss is part of every game we play

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate

I am leaving all hope behind me, and here I am…crossing the door.