Identity denial?

Wondering through notes, the words from my room wall in Mostar payed me a visit:

I'm from a sin curve

Where both demand and supply side policies

Do not work

Cannot work

Supplying love and smiles

Demanding love and smiles

I'm from a market failure

Due to lack of protectionism

I'm from a place where big things do not exist

I'm from a place where identities cannot persist

I'm from a place with walls made out of glass

I'm from a place where dreams will always crash.

[Some time in spring 2009]

Photo: the flower in my window had suicidal tendencies

A star from the sky

Yesterday, walking home, I went up the sky to get a star.

I stole it, I cut the string that was holding it to get the light for myself, thinking I had not enough.

Yet (or maybe because of that) today has been crap. Crying my tears out, feeling like a breadcrumb that is not even big enough for an ant to bother with it.

Luckily, in Catalan we can differentiate from "ser" and "estar", and I am certain about the temporary character of my tears.

Tessa randomly appears, as a gift from heaven, and hugs me bringing back the warmth from Mostar; my catalan thoughts connecting me home and my feet grounding me to Edinburgh's earth.

And, as it always tends to happen, genuine smiles turn the world upside down.

A little active innocence running around the room gets my star. Back and forth. Drops it, puts it into a hat, takes it there, brings it here... and without thinking I hear myself saying:

"Agafa-la! Que és per tu! La lluna me la va donar anit per a que hi pogueres jugar! És bonica, eh?"* But the child does not listen anymore, she is messing around with all the flyers, in the Chaplaincy corner next to the microwave.

I do not know where the star is anymore. But I learned to not be worried, to trust whatever happens. Let it be...

Anyway, some starts, even though born in the sky, wish to crash themselves into peaces, so the stardust can stick to everybody's shoes

and light up their path.

*"Take it! It's for you! The moon gave it to me yesterday so you could play with it. It's beautiful, ha?"

Ilustrations from: http://www.loretopinedo.com/

L'home semàfor. Conte 1.

Dius adéu i el cor s'enfonsa.

Un sentiment familiar.

Dius adéu quan voldries dir quelcom oposat.

I és que així hem crescut, rere les pors de dir el que realment pensem (si és que mai sabem el que realment pensem) i sense admetre que, com diu "La Fuga":

"voy buscando en la basura, unos labios que me digan, esta noche quédate"

Així que, tornant a casa, amb el vent resecant el que haguessin pogut ser llàgrimes, m'he adonat quin seria el primer conte sobre l'home semàfor.

L'home semàfor esperava.

No és extrany? No és tant obvi que és ell qui fa esperar a la gent?

Bé, doncs resulta que l'home semàfor sí que esperava.

Les tres llums engegades al mateix temps, una explosió de colors i energia.

No és que ell li volgués dir a la gent què fer. "Para, dubta, segueix" "Roig, groc, verd"

No.

Tanmateix tenia tantes ganes d'enlluernar les vides de la gent, que a sovint ningú no s'hi podia asseure al davant. Massa llum, massa energia.

L'home semàfor esperava i s'entristia, pensava que ningú no el volia. Tossut com ell mateix en donar-li llums a aquells qui estaven en la foscor, s'oblidava d'apagar-se ell mateix, de vegada en quan, per a que altres el plenaren de llum i energia.

Poc després començà un cercle infinit. On ell mai tingué l'energia necessària per donar-li a la gent tot el que li feia falta, i la gent sempre tingué por d'agafar temps a la vida d'una persona tan important.

Ell esperà i esperà a que l'altra persona menejara la seua peça.

No és només que no hi havia una altra persona; és que les peces del joc s'havien anat perdent pel desús que neix del voler jugar un joc perfecte.

Sometimes you sort of forget...

And then you randomly travel through old photos, just because anything is better than trying to sort an essay that makes little sense...

and you find those moments, right there in your screen

your heart bits a bit faster

fuck

you had forgotten that

damn

You wish you were in that street

Wish you could look through that window again

Wish that coffee could meet your tongue once more...

shite

It was long since you remembered that 'Happy "bomb" day'. How funny.

And even though those nasty words (fuck, damn, shite and all that) come out of your mouth, you are no less than extremely nostalgic... and happy.

Yes,

because who would you be if it wasn't for every and each of those seconds that you spent there?

Sure, still Neus.

But a bit less Rodeta, you might say.

I would not say you learn how to appreciate things, people and places when you leave them;

it's rather that when you do

you can see, with the new outsider perspective, how incredibly huge that love actually was.

My love for Mostar, the school and its people would be overwhelming even for the whole Earth to handle

.

.

.

yet it fits in the slow motion tear that rejoices in the jorney through my skin.

When life is nice, you even feel like working

But then all these to-do things, events, campaigns, letters, volunteering, knitting...

get in the way between the essay and you.

I won't deny it, it's not like I mind THAT much.

Living a sunny life brushes away many pains and fears.

And it's not like the sun is to be wasted away when it decides to finally give us a warm hug.

Can I get my bare pass and keep on with my life, please?

I am suddenly anxious.

It seems that my words do not make sense at all.

Surely there are more interesting learning experiences out there that writing an essay for which I do not have any clarity of purpose.

The same all over again. I start very excited, thinking I am going to kick their asses with at least an 80%! I am going to work so hard, yes! [… then time passes…] I end up thinking: What a piece of crap, why do I need to spend time of this? Let's try to get it done quickly with a bare pass…

Consumption is such an interesting thing to consider, but one needs to acknowledge that there is not enough time to read propperly about it all, nor enough space in 1500 words to write about it.

Plus, singing at the Femmstruation week events was both joyful and discouraging.

Somebody get me back home, please.

There were you can smell real oranges, where the sun greets you almost every day, where the stars are not shy amongst the clouds and the salty sea, through your window, does not understand what "evening" means. There where streets are not merely ways to get from A to B, where partying is called "festa" (and it really means so!) and it manages to take my granny atittudes away as if even the thought of them seemed surreal.

La responsable irresponsable

Ho he tornat a fer, allargar el moment de la decisió per a que acabe sent massa tard i pensar: bue, ara ja faré tard a la classe, no val la pena...

Aquestes coses que vols però saps que no deuries fer. Aquest constant tira i afluixa entre el deure i el lleure. I deixaré, a sabentes, aquests dos termes sense definir.

Estic trobant, últimament, una alliberadora sensació en la irresponsabilitat i el donar-se compte de que amb ella, el món tampoc no s'acaba.

La vida pot ser un joc, i em ve al cap la macabra frase: "De totes formes, no n'eixiràs viu"

La importància de les coses és relativa, com quasi tot.

El problema és quan aquestes decisions irresponsables no es prenen amb tota conseqüència, és a dir, sense cap remordiment. Que no vaig a classe? Doncs no hi vaig! Però ahí s'ha de quedar la cosa, que no serveix no fer les coses per a acabar patint per no haver-les fet.

Ai, encara em fa falta madurar.

El que em passa és que tinc ganes de treballar. De guanyar-me la vida i sentir-me útil més enllà de l'activisme que els estudis i la vida personal em permet. De deixar-me de tant de readings, que ni tan sols faig tant a sovint com deuria, per contribuir pràcticament al món, passar a ser una mà d'obra no estandaritzada i disposta a seguir revolucionant pensaments i somriures.

Que sí, que tot i els núvols, diuen que fa sol.

Prfsaythuickbaneh!

Ho enteneu? Jo tampoc.

Vos deuré de paréixer repetitiva, però em reiteraré en dir que a Edinburgh meua vida gira a una velocitat quasi surreal.

Per alguna cosa serà que em diuen Rodeta, li done massa voltes al món... i a les coses.

Massa voltes, massa coses... que no tinc temps ni per a explicar(-me)-les.

Pot ser reactive el fotolog més que el blog, em permet mostrar-vos un poc de la meua vida sense preocupar-me massa per la qualitat del que escric.

Mengem-se el foc

perquè tenim l'ànima en flames per encendre i menejar a la gent.