If tomorrow starts without me, I want to remain inside my words;
Inside the stories that I told, inside those moments that I wrote.
If tomorrow starts without me, I want my voice to exist beyond this point;
Inside the music that I sang, inside the sounds of my dreams, my hopes.
If tomorrow starts without me, let tomorrow be a better day because I was there.
Let me know that I have touched you; that you have learned, that we have grown.
For tomorrow will always be there and a new day will always rise.
If today is my last day, then let it be, but make it worth.
Make the last hours show me the love that I once felt, the promises of dreams, the hopes.
If tomorrow starts without me, don’t forget me, because as long as I can touch you, I’ll be here.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Dark Eyes
Two dark eyes looked directly, fixed, almost like in a state of trance straight into mine.
The room looked gloomy, filled with the colors of a late afternoon; tones of orange and yellow gently touched the furniture that lay inside the living room. The silence was sharp, almost too uncomfortable and very atypical for the entertainment protocol that was set in that old house.
On the coffee table there was a tea set, carefully placed on a silver tray that also sparkled with the slow moving light coming from outside; slithering in between the curtains and the hanging plants that captured most of those golden tones.
The cups on top of the tray were made of old porcelain but did not match; some had little tiny roses painted in pink with golden accents on the rim, while others had blue Asian illustrations that were hard to make out from afar. The cups were empty.
Next to them there was a teapot, round and compact, with steam coming out of its spout and the streams of tea bags rolling out of one side tied down to the holder on the opposite end; waiting patiently to steam the tea into the water.
The silence suddenly was broken by the sound of an old clock sitting on top of one of the side tables; a symmetric sequence of tic-tacs that came out from the wooden structure which hosted the mechanism of that clock. The face of the clock showed the time. It was quarter to seven, one hour ahead of the actual time.
This sudden noise made it clear that the silence was a painful reminder of the state of those two pair of eyes, looking at each other, quietly, intensively. My hand moved, and reached over for the tea pot, pouring it gently into the china cups, making crisp little sounds as the liquid filled their contents and tainted their pale shiny walls with an amber-looking color, releasing their warmth and aroma.
I sat quietly as I did this, glimpsing over into your eyes every now and then; contemplating my actions with care until I noticed my hands. The skin showed its time; they were not soft or smooth anymore, instead, wrinkles portrayed a field of memories that started flowing into my head; they shook a little with the weight of the teapot, with the sadness.
As I looked back into your eyes, mine began to dilate as tears started invading their edges. - I remember. I said softly. -I remember how this started, and for some reason, it makes me sad. I said as I brought my eyes down into my hands that now held one of the cups, sitting quietly on my lap.
The other set of eyes showed no emotion, they remained unchanged.
My voice started breaking with the sudden stream of emotions that flooded my mind. –I always wondered where life would take us; I said softly. –I dreamed of the adventures, of the possibilities, of the love, of you.
As I lifted my face, our eyes met again. –I always wondered what it would have been; I added. And with those words, I withdrew.
The shadows of the sun had changed to shadows and no more. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp that remained forever-on sitting on the top of the old foyer table that marked the entrance to the house and as my eyes put away yours setting you back inside your little lacquered box that kept our secret. I proceeded to carefully lay inside my broken dreams, a few tears, and your picture.
Before I locked the lid, I looked back at your intense dark eyes and with a smile invited you back for tea, tomorrow, at the usual time, with the usual tea set, just you, I, and the broken dreams locked inside this box.
-Good night. I whispered.
The room looked gloomy, filled with the colors of a late afternoon; tones of orange and yellow gently touched the furniture that lay inside the living room. The silence was sharp, almost too uncomfortable and very atypical for the entertainment protocol that was set in that old house.
On the coffee table there was a tea set, carefully placed on a silver tray that also sparkled with the slow moving light coming from outside; slithering in between the curtains and the hanging plants that captured most of those golden tones.
The cups on top of the tray were made of old porcelain but did not match; some had little tiny roses painted in pink with golden accents on the rim, while others had blue Asian illustrations that were hard to make out from afar. The cups were empty.
Next to them there was a teapot, round and compact, with steam coming out of its spout and the streams of tea bags rolling out of one side tied down to the holder on the opposite end; waiting patiently to steam the tea into the water.
The silence suddenly was broken by the sound of an old clock sitting on top of one of the side tables; a symmetric sequence of tic-tacs that came out from the wooden structure which hosted the mechanism of that clock. The face of the clock showed the time. It was quarter to seven, one hour ahead of the actual time.
This sudden noise made it clear that the silence was a painful reminder of the state of those two pair of eyes, looking at each other, quietly, intensively. My hand moved, and reached over for the tea pot, pouring it gently into the china cups, making crisp little sounds as the liquid filled their contents and tainted their pale shiny walls with an amber-looking color, releasing their warmth and aroma.
I sat quietly as I did this, glimpsing over into your eyes every now and then; contemplating my actions with care until I noticed my hands. The skin showed its time; they were not soft or smooth anymore, instead, wrinkles portrayed a field of memories that started flowing into my head; they shook a little with the weight of the teapot, with the sadness.
As I looked back into your eyes, mine began to dilate as tears started invading their edges. - I remember. I said softly. -I remember how this started, and for some reason, it makes me sad. I said as I brought my eyes down into my hands that now held one of the cups, sitting quietly on my lap.
The other set of eyes showed no emotion, they remained unchanged.
My voice started breaking with the sudden stream of emotions that flooded my mind. –I always wondered where life would take us; I said softly. –I dreamed of the adventures, of the possibilities, of the love, of you.
As I lifted my face, our eyes met again. –I always wondered what it would have been; I added. And with those words, I withdrew.
The shadows of the sun had changed to shadows and no more. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp that remained forever-on sitting on the top of the old foyer table that marked the entrance to the house and as my eyes put away yours setting you back inside your little lacquered box that kept our secret. I proceeded to carefully lay inside my broken dreams, a few tears, and your picture.
Before I locked the lid, I looked back at your intense dark eyes and with a smile invited you back for tea, tomorrow, at the usual time, with the usual tea set, just you, I, and the broken dreams locked inside this box.
-Good night. I whispered.
Monday, November 21, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, October 3, 2011
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?
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?
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 22, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
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.
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.
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