The Write Thing

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

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.

There are stories that come to us without warning. One moment we think we have everything under control, and the next we are hopelessly itching with desire for that same thing we were formerly indifferent to. These days, images of an old movie I saw long ago have been playing constantly on my mind: David Lean’s Brief Encounter.

The story is a typical case of untimely love, in those days when some people at least questioned themselves before being unfaithful to their spouses. As the protagonists Alec and Laura gradually realize that their innocent meetings are leading into something far deeper than a mere acquaintance, they decide to put an end to the affair — actually, to its potential. The film is based on a play by Noel Coward called, more accurately, Still Life.

I saw the film at least over ten years ago, so relying on my memory completely might prove risky. However, I have the vivid impression that it is Alec who voices the palpable passion that dwells in both of the never-to-be lovers. In a memorable scene — or a fictitious invention, my memory will tell — he looks at her and says…”you know what’s happening, don’t you…”

I know what’s happening. Here, there are no husband or wives to cheat. There is only a distance, which in the modern world planes travel more frequently than I help myself to meals. Further favoring dramatic momentum is the fact that obstacles make excellent dramatic opportunities, facing protagonists with their tests of love and courage as the story they tell us unfolds.

Jeanette Winterson would probably start this account with a phrase such as “I would like to tell a story”. I am afraid I am already telling one, even if not as deftly as Ms Winterson. Better yet, we are telling a story, as we have told each other so many during the wonderful days we have just spent together. I must admit that it is simply very easy to flow when in company of a writer, something I had not yet experienced.

When I get to editing my own story, the one I am yet to tell, perhaps I should also mull my first line very carefully — after all, incipits are key. A good story must be subtle and yet solid enough to carry its own weight without wearing the reader down. Preferably, the protagonists should reveal their motives gradually, or let the reader find them around the corner of a gesture, or in the minimal expression of a misleading word. Stories can be written alone, in pairs or even in teams. Regardless of the number of hands assigned to the task, action and pace must flow as if only one single pen had written it.

I do not know if my story will flow as smoothly as I would like it to. Maybe not, because uncertainty is part of life, and as such it deserves a place in my account. I do not even know how the story started because, as all good things in my life, it began without warning and, when I least expected it, there it was.