"God damn it, there are nice things in the world -and I mean nice things. We're all such morons to get so sidetrcked. Always, always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos."
-Z.G.
“You should date a girl who reads. Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
De nuevo 21 de Octubre. Día de la madre, almuerzo Maeshiro, la obachan, la vieja, la tía, los primos. Fordismo al cocinar, comer como animales. Café, postre. Sobremesa. Cada uno habla de un tema distinto, para variar. Risas (muchas risas) para variar. Volver. Volver a casa. Volver al estado de cansancio mental. Volver al sentimiento de ser una pelotuda. Volver a pensar veinte veces en esa cagada mandada y en esas boludeces dichas. Volver a putearse internamente por boludeces que no valen la pena.
Volver y acordarse que hoy es 21 y que hay cosas más importantes que recordar.
9 años y no estás... Pero estás más que nunca.
because i've got a headache and i'm already full of useless stories
miércoles, 10 de octubre de 2012
Eso de ser todo y no ser nada.
Eso de la indefinición.
Del un poco de todo.
El que mucho abarca poco aprieta.
El no pertenecer.
El no querer pertenecer.
El escapar de los clichés.
De la moda
de la moda de la no moda.
El evitar encasillamiento.
Y terminar encasillado en lo no-encasillado.
Terminar como se empieza.
En nada
y en todo.
Octubre es una mierda. Desde hace (casi) 6 años que es un mes de mierda. Es acordarse todos los días de ese octubre hace 6 años. Detalle por detalle. Vivirlo minuto a minuto en mi mente.
A veces pienso que ya no me debería pasar esto.
Pero agradezco que pase.
Acostumbrarse duele. Duele aceptar el tener que acostumbrarse. Es pelotudo sentirse culpable, porque no queda otra que acostumbrarse. No se puede vivir con el sentimiento de vacío constante por siempre. Pero me siento culpable lo mismo.
Poder vivir en la no-costumbre, aunque sea un rato, me hace sentir bien. Y me hace sentir terriblemente como el orto.
Y sí, puede que sea un poco masoquista.
Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark On the horizon walking like the trees The wordy shapes of women, and the rows Of the star-gestured children in the park. Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches, Some of the oaken voices, from the roots Of many a thorny shire tell you notes, Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning And tells the windy weather in the cock. Some let me make you of the meadow's signs; The signal grass that tells me all I know Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye. Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind (Some let me make you of autumnal spells, The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales) With fists of turnips punishes the land, Some let me make you of the heartless words. The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury. By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
