How would you describe the sky to a blind person?

Poem written on February 5th 2003, When I felt more alive than I never felt.

How would you describe the sky to a blind person?

The perceptions of your senses compensate the missing links.
Just picture your biggest desires and think of your will to get them.

The sky is not much different from that, it’s happiness when there is light, and mystery when there is not.

It’s as broad as your deepest dreams and wider than your bigger aspiration.
The sky is as unknown for you as it is for me, you can take an easy look.
Look at yourself; how immense do you think you are?
Well the sky is close to that.

Use your sharpest perceptions and take advantage of them; the sky is there, inside.

You can witness the presence of such immense entity, but you can’t touch it.
It is sacred, Feared, Loved and hated, it is as broad as existence itself.
The sky can be beautiful and horrible; it just depends on how you are willing to appreciate it.
Your mind is an extension of the sky; you can always see it, just as I do when I turn my head up.

I feel jealous of thinking on your perception of heaven and life.
Be free to think, dare to imagine, because the sky is for you what illusions are to me.

Feel your power, touch your dreams, hear your mind, smell your spirit.
The sky is what all of these things are about, it is there, inside, untouchable, but it exists.

The last day of normality.

The last day of normality.

I am not sure who to blame for this unexpected thought; maybe it is the inheritance of the Mexican culture that I was raised with, or maybe just my ability to bore myself if something is not cooking in my head; But I often think of things of death. What is true though is that I have always seen death with a relative sense of normality, as part of life itself.

Brushing my teeth, as I look up into the mirror, wet with cold water trying to get me more awake at the awe hours of the morning, the thought crosses my head: “What if today, was the last normal day of my life”.

Well I must confess that my thought was more like: “What if today was the last day of my life”; but then I started thinking that for those who are badly sick, truly hurt, or stuck in situations in which life is unequivocally extinguishing out of the lives, this thought may not apply; instead, I thought, “What if today was the last normal day of my life”?; A life that either ends or one that takes an unexpected turn towards the path of death; all of this while I brush my teeth vigorously.

As I proceeded to place my naked behind on the toilet to do my morning duties, I thought: “How is this moment different, from the morning rituals of those who for example died in the subway terrorists attacks in Madrid, or that one person that unexpectedly got struck by a car as he or she was going to work by bicycle (to enjoy the fresh air of that particular morning)"?

I contemplate my hands, as they lay quietly in both sides of my legs. I can see them moving, tingling with as much life as anyone can have at 5:25 in the morning. I notice how my feet feel, I perform a self-reflection at one of the most insignificant and overseen moments of my life; I see myself, and inside, I see what I was doing of life at that particular moment.

And the true of the fact is that some people would die again to have one of those moments back in their hands, holding a sense of normality or for that matter, life itself.

As I stepped into the shower and let the water go through my body, I made the first (semi-conscious) choice of my day: What type of soap should I choose today? Would it be a mixture of Goat-milk and oatmeal, coconut oil, or the Shea butter bar? All sitting lined up for my convenience and pleasure; And then it hit me, this is what my life demands, the every-day, almost involuntary choices that I can make, because I have life, and because it is not threatened.

What if today was the last day of my life as I know it? Will I notice that I chose to wear my black shoes instead of the brown ones? Will it have made a difference if I had not skipped breakfast? Would I have said or done something different if I had known this was it? Or even more; in the end, does it really matter?

Rediscoveries.

I sometimes fear of writing when I am far away from the chance of filing my thoughts.
But sometimes, I can’t help it, and the desire burns just as an itch in a hot summer afternoon
When that “sometimes” happens, I usually find a way to diverge the urge and mask the feeling;
As it is easier to ignore the “sometimes” than to honor its need for words and creation.

Recently I played the tourist guide role to my parents on their recent visit to Nova Scotia
While doing this, and unexpectedly, I re-discovered my town, my life, and my scars in a different way.
While I was not looking to do a trip down memory lane, my parent’s interest in my life caused just that;
While trying to bring back the moments of stories, people who are gone came back and took my hand.

These flashlights took me over to “Sam The Record Man” store on Barrington; now a destroyed building.
They took me to “C’est si bon” and its flamenco nights; now converted into a Yoga studio.
They got me back to cheap steak night at “Your father’s mustache” and the image of German enthusiasts.
They transported me back to “Pizza Corner” on cold winter slippery nights, and their smell of fried food.

It was like having a series of Déjà vu’s of the past; filled with emotion, with sense, and nostalgia.
Meeting points like the entrance to the Public Gardens, Park Lane or the Public Library came alive again,
Walking paths in old cemeteries, footprints of time in the old walk boards of the waterfront, all mine.
And mixed with reality of today, I greeted my past with cheerful stories, and some hidden tears.

Then I understood… This is my Halifax, my story, my life, and I think my parents got it too.
As I drove my parents to the airport, there was silence in the car for most of the way;
I could have assumed it was due to the ridiculously early time of their flight to get them back home,
But I think it was more because deep inside, they saw my roots here, and knew I was never coming back.

This is the first time I see myself this way, in my skin after the life I chose; rediscovered.

Uninvited

I have dreamed about this moment so many times…

When it hits my night becomes darker, brighter, heavier, and lighter, all at the same time..

When it comes as a day dream my day transforms in a split second into an imaginary world that feels like those in real life, for just a moment, and nothing more.

In this dream, this image in my head, there are two constants; you, and I. The setting changes mostly all of the times; if it is a smell or a sound that brings me there, then that place gets tainted with an nonexistent piece of history that lives inside my head and fears.

If it is within my dreams, it really doesn’t matter, it takes me wherever it wants, but always with a sense of unexpected surprise, just like when an uninvited guest shows up at the least expected moment before supper.

And then, there you are, materialized in between shadows of fuzzy mental pictures and images that sometimes lack of any sense.

The way you are inside those stories, is never the same; but then it is me, the second piece of this equation; I usually lay in absolute fear, unequivocal expectation and an irrational willing to run as fast as I can to feel my heart pounding with something else other than a broken dream. I know that feeling well, I have learned to become its friend; It is anxiety mixed with adrenaline with an absolute sense of sadness.

But beyond the initial setup, I always start the chat, and you always listen. You listen up to the point where I get to see a reaction, a response, any hint, and then you disappear and either my dream changes completely or the mental image evaporates right in front of my eyes.

It dows leave me dry, senseless, naked and without any thoughts as to how to keep on going, just like a ship strained in the middle of the ocean after the storm.

With these words, product of the thoughts that belong to you I say farewell for now; since a good bye won’t do, I must just patiently wait for when you decide to pay an unexpected visit to my dinner party again.

What can I say, without you, I wouldn’t be the person who I am now...

Sleep well.

Cuando esntraste...

Cuando entraste en mi vida, no te esperaba,
Pero sabia que entrarías de esta forma;
Dentro, tan dentro que parece que ahí vivías,
Esperando, quieto, suave, sereno y exacto.

Cuando entraste en mi vida, tenia sed de ti;
No te conocía, ni sabia que vendrías, pero te esperaba.
En un instante, furtivo como el viento, me tocaste,
y tu toque fue como rayo de sol, o rocío de mañana.

Cuando entraste en mi vida, no te conocía,
Te reconocí de entre-ojo, como cuando ves a alguien en el metro,
pero te seguí, y te permití entrar en mis sentidos;
Por que así te quiero, y así te soñé.

Cuando entraste en mi vida, me la compusiste,
le diste un sentido, una nueva vida;
le regalaste la esperanza perdida, la fuerza del alma,
y así, lentamente, sin mas palabras, me enamore.

Late at night

Why does sadness get me late at night?
When my thoughts are blurred by the fullness of the day
And my ideas degrade to simple whispers

Why does sadness get me late at night?
When a senseless song suddenly transforms into a lifestyle
And my memories take me on a ride through yesterday.

Why does sadness get me late at night?
Why not in the middle of a dinner party, or as I jump up and down in a bar
And my laughs cover my thoughts, making me numb.

Why do many whys seem to always close my day?
While I contemplate my mind shut down, slowly, heavily, heavenly
And my dreams become white noise, as my lamp turns off.

You get me back

Suddenly I was back, sitting in the little wooden desk
Looking out the window, in between the multicoloured glass
Surrounded by the severe look of old medicine books
In my eyes, the expectation; in the air, that peculiar smell

I start rolling the little handles that lift the sheets of glass
It opens the outside, invites it in with a blow, a whisper of the wind
And I can sense it, the dust on the thick, dark-green leaves of the orange tree flies,
Just like magic sparkle does in dreams, but fades away, disappears

I look up, in between the shady spots of trees, and the sky looks grey
The wind brings far from the distance that smell, the one of hope, it’s wet, it’s sweet
Just as an orchestra prepares its gear, tiny unforgotten sounds fill the air
My eyes widen, my mind opens, it’s the moment, I make it mine.

I drop my little yellow pencil down, as the chopped pieces pierce my notebook’s pages
The numbers, geography and principles of grammar are no longer in my mind.
I need to be part of it; I escape my jail, I stand in that patch of man-made land.
And the wind brings news of change, a long-due promise, the one of life.

The signals are imminent; the wind is now strong and makes ghostly sounds
The clouds race fiercely in the sky, as I look up, eager for more, thirsty…
My mother runs from room to room, closing windows, turning mirrors around
The old routine of anticipated moments starts, like a bizarre dance

As the time click-clocks, in a slow, steady pace, I know it’s here
The moment that I wished to taste, the one that it’s as rare as six months are for a child
Then my mother shouts from a window, demanding me back inside… a drop falls,
It hits my cheek, and it feels cold, and just like that, it sets itself immortal in my mind.