The Write Thing

Once again, my dear non-reader, you find me revisiting the idea of fate, karma and life psychology in general. I wrote yesterday (yes, two days in a row by now seem almost like I could really keep a blog) about life in sunny and crime-ridden Houston, and the almost technical aspects involved in getting a door glass replaced and a decent internet connection activated in the fourth largest city in the US.

Of course I have not expanded on the Kafkaesque developments that today brought me almost to the brink of despair (exasperation by now is a given for me in this country), and I will not unless you have serious insomnia issues, in which case you can send me an email and I will gladly walk you through the process of not finding things here even when everybody tells you they have them – oh, well, there I go again trying to explain…I apologize.

The fact that I have not expanded on my tribulations does not mean they are not potentially clear to you, or at least imaginable, by now. So let me focus on the feelings instead, the depth of the impotence, the rage, the worn-out patience, the repetition and, eventually, oblivion…I know in the not-so-faraway future I will remember the gist of everything that is going on around me now, but I will forget the reason. Just because that is what life is all about, and sooner or later we all forget.

Prometheus

THERE ARE four legends concerning Prometheus:

According to the first he was clamped to a rock in the Caucasus for betraying the secrets of the gods to men, and the gods sent eagles to feed on his liver, which was perpetually renewed.

According to the second Prometheus, goaded by the pain of the tearing beaks, pressed himself deeper and deeper into the rock until he became one with it.

According to the third his treachery was forgotten in the course of thousands of years, forgotten by the gods, the eagles, forgotten by himself.

According to the fourth everyone grew weary of the meaningless affair. The gods grew weary, the eagles grew weary, the wound closed wearily.

There remained the inexplicable mass of rock. The legend tried to explain the inexplicable. As it came out of a substratum of truth it had in turn to end in the inexplicable.

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…

As I mentioned in a previous post, I have been the recipient of an award. I have to thank Miss Fiamma for the honor, which I can only accept with a wide smile and a humble nod. According to the rules that come with the award, it must be granted to ten other blogs. This has been a difficult task, which took me longer to comply with than it should have I must confess. Whenever possible, I have tried not to repeat myself.

The instructions to be followed by my nominees are:

1. Place the logo in the blog.

2. Choose ten blogs that you would consider deserving of the award or towards which you experience gratitude.

3. Post links to the nominees on the blog.

4. Inform the winners that they have been granted this award by commenting in their blogs.

5. Share the love, publish the link to this post and to the person who made you recipient of the award.

And my nominees are (in no special order of appearance):

1. Emi, La seguridad de mis objetos, a charming journey into a life that blends art and its own everyday poetry in a unique manner.

2. Flash-me, Flash me if you can, a collection of creative flashes with a cryptic personal touch.

3. Geisha, El jardín de la geisha, a garden where everything grows, led by the hand of a masterful creator.

4. Manon, Blumenfest, a feast to good literature, music and writing, although it has been silent for a while.

5. Lola, Los cuadernos de Lola, an exploration into the world of words, of writing, fresh air into a different notebook.

6. Erica, Por amor al cine, a celebration of movies, with colorful reviews that only a movie buff can write.

7. Arha, A la luz de mi sombra, poetry…because it all starts there and very few privileged souls can be themselves in that sea of words.

8. T, Atrevete, another example of writing, an art that some can do in a unique way.

9. Miss Fiamma and Von E., Juego de damas, a game of two, elegantly open to an audience of thousands.

10. Jason Pettus, Jason Pettus, an artist who proves that you can live outside the system and still be heard.