The Write Thing

In an alcoholic anonymous website, somebody once wrote: I don’t know if the glass is half-empty or half-full, I can’t find the glass! Upon reading this clever line, I realized that in fact there is a third option to pessimism and optimism…absence. Maybe there is a glass, or maybe there isn’t. Whether it is empty or full, that again is a matter of perspective.

I have spent most of my weekend classifying books and deciding what to keep and what not to keep. Like an obsessed librarian, I was forced to open my own catalog of reading, my chronology of life through books. Moving out is certainly a time-consuming process, but it is also enriching. It forces us to pause when we cannot, because we are fighting our own lack of time, to look at what we are leaving behind. Some people are fortunate (or unfortunate?) enough to take themselves with them in their journeys. This time I am not. I have made a decision to take only the necessary part of me. Some of these books will make it to Houston initially, but others will have to wait for me to either take them, leave them or retrieve them if life sews a more permanent path to good ol’ Texas.

Yes, I decided to travel light. I want to live with less instead of more. I want to find the glass. I have been wanting to do that for quite a while, but something stopped me…it must be the reluctance of all human beings to change, or the fear that if we let go of things, of people, we will feel the emptiness. As I look back on the half-empty bookcase, I would say that it all depends on how you leave. It is not so much about the act of departure but about the way in which we go. Most of the time we escape — and believe me, I have been there — but sometimes, if we do the homework that life sprinkles here and there between the pages of our own mysterious book, there is a fair chance that leaving will be an action of growth instead than a side door to more of the old self.

The two bookshelves that remain to be cleared before they find a new home at my mother’s contain the effort of growth that stemmed out of the need of fleeing far away, where no old ghosts of bad family love could find me. Something good came out of escaping, but it only did when I had the courage to come back and face the demons I thought I had left behind.

There are moments in life when silence is all that is possible. In an odd, untimely way, I believe I had a severe case of this almost for the last two months. Lots of things are changing in my life right now. New doors are opening while others have closed apparently in a much more certain way than I would have imagined, or even liked. Oddly enough, it is in those times when writing becomes the obvious channel. However, I have not written — except for work reasons — for exactly 59 days.

I cannot possibly expect anyone who ever read this blog to even become aware of my return. Those generous souls who would now and then glance at the website for a peek into whatever oddity I would decide to indulge my keyboard into by now have probably given up all hope. Yes, lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’entrate. You would do the right thing by refraining from trusting an erratic author. Life is much more beautiful when you do not have to be surprised by other people’s changing moods.

If I were a good writer, I would be able to summarize in a concise text my whereabouts since I decided to put this blog in the freezer. Oh, well…I don’t think I can do that. Therefore, I will speak about the future, about new horizons, about uncertainty itself. Houston beckons, this time for a more permanent contract. What this means is a lot and nothing. It means I still have a job, and new challenges, but it does not bind anyone to anything — including myself. A few years ago, Houston had also seemed to be the place where I would be residing on a longer term basis. However, neither life nor I were ready for the jump, so the whole fantasy only materialized in a short story I wrote at the time and which I named “Letters from Houston”. It was written in Spanish…and I’ll never know why. Houston was on hold, and in a very particular fashion, I was coming out of my own personal limbo of indecision and non-living. Many things changed in the two years that passed since a first door to the US was closed, partially by H1-B quotas and partially by myself. I plunged into my own abyss, emerged half-victorious and wounded, and created my own re-birth, as Sylvia Plath would say beautifully at the end of that prodigious scene of The Bell Jar. I played around the limits of desire and succumbed to the demons of dysfunctional relationships, I naively believed it was possible to set free a repressed love and not pay the high cost of its loss, but I also learned to let go. I learned that letting go is the only way of healing, and the hardest.

Yes, I miss her sometimes…her laughter, her friendship, her beautiful eyes, and I secretly know there will be no letters from Houston, and no Copacabana Palace. We are no more anything, and it scares me to think that I always knew…because I wrote the end of my own story throughout the summers of her absence and my pain and I was right, even before she severed the bond to escape a friendship that now she feared.

Oh, but this posting was supposed to be about my future. Well, nothing is really about the future unless it comes from our own past. So I will raise a symbolic glass of champagne and toast to us, to the land of no regrets, to the bitter taste that time will turn into sweet vignettes of a youthful Paris…the world we knew before, dont je ne regrette rien

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…