Trying to party

I feel like I never became 20 and I actually got stuck into that teen-age.
Today, after an amazing walk and morning conversation, I thought that my problem was solved. I thought I had discovered what it was, and therefore how to solve it.

My problem, my morning thoughts told me, is that I don't have enough fun. Fun for fun's sake, not as a derivative of any activist or making-the-world-a-better-place oriented action. They are fun and rewarding, I will never deny so, but they are not enough. Not enough if one wants to avoid burnout and a general dissatisfaction with the fact that things aren't going that much better in general terms.

So I thought: that's it, I just need to party more! I need to cut down on commitments and to-do's so that I don't feel the need to avoid partying, so to sleep more, so to have more time and energy for everything.
I felt like maybe I was missing that sort of university life everybody seems to have.

I'm even afraid of being drunk. Afraid of losing myself, of feeling ill, of not being able to make the most of my thoughts and emotions.
And the problem is that... that's fine! And yet I still try to dress up, and paint my face, and all of that, so that I somehow fit in the idea of normality circulating around. Maybe so that I forget the need of constant challenge of the status quo. That tiring yet necessary action.

I came back home, I looked into the mirror. And even though I saw a beautiful face enhanced by the skills of dark eye lines, I can't help but feel like a puppet whose show was way too poor, not even the most simple disguise can make me fit.

I know it's all exaggerated by the power of tears and hormones,
and by not having anybody to hug

I know it all doesn't make sense once I truly rationally think about it

I know it's bullshit coming out of a possible lack of self-confidence

but whatever it is,
it still hurts, it still makes me feel vulnerable.
And if I am writing such a personal statement in such a public space, it might be cause I'm ...
i'm just Neus, doesn't that explain it enough?

Pensaments blancs

M'he emocionat.

I la mar ha aconseguit trencar les barreres físiques i ficar-se dins els meus ulls sense que me n'adonara.

M'he emocionat perquè, asseguda davant la mar, amb el so de l'espuma besant les roques, m'he sentit plena de gent.

Voldria compartir una abraçada i una conversa amb tota la gent que m'estime i que està repartida arreu del món. I no m'entristeix el no poder fer-ho. Seria una bogeria posar-se trista per quelcom que, de fet, sí que pots fer.

Ni un veloç repàs mental de totes aquelles persones que m'agradaria tenir a la vora és suficient per abastir ni una decena part d'aquestes.

I això em recomforta.

Sent la màgia vibrar allà on el cel i la mar fan l'amor per donar vida a aquell qui dibuixa esperances millor que ningú: l'horitzó.

Mire enllà, i a través de dolces llàgrimes, veig somriure tots aquells qui m'estime.

De sobte, estar sola no significa res si sé que ma mare li somriu a la vida, que ma germana segueix lluitant amb valentia, que Lidon fa molt feliç a mon pare, que la gent a Mostar aprofita els últims dies, que Evan es menja el món com si fos un gelat, que Yuval està content a l'exèrcit, que Ruth Mari Emma Veronica Candela Georg Nico ForestVolunteers i tota la resta segueixen escampant màgia pel món amb la seua simple presència, que els amics de Castelló estan contents, que Lale està pagada de la meua bufanda, que Alberto segueix amb el cul tan inquiet com sempre, que el iaio Vitorino, si pot somriure, segur que ho està fent, que la meua germana major... és feliç - de ser i de no ser - d'haver permés que una persona tan meravellosa com jo puga existir a la faç de la terra.

Seria una bona metàfora per a explicar perquè el meu cor és tan gran i treballa at an unsustainable efficiency rate.

This is the power of NOW.

The joy of existing. The love for other people's lives. The peace of knowing that dying know would not make me regret a single thing.

Un somriure, i cap a l'hotel a skypear.

I'm yours

I was thinking about which language to write this post in. Catalan or English? Sometimes I feel like a traitor, when such spontaneous expressions/thoughts like "fuck, I'm cold!" or "right, now I'll..." come up in English.

But, eventually, more than a language-identity crisis, the choice over language for the blog responds more to another question: who am I writing for? For I am obviously writing for people to read me, otherwise I would just keep it in my diary.

And then, over the hotel's radio channel, there was the answer: Jason Mraz's song I'm yours.

The beginning of the tune always puts me in a better mood. Nevertheless, today it managed to make me cry.

I am stuck in this Croatian hotel until Thursday.

Stuck because, even though the wheather is now as amazing as the food, I really want to get back to Edinburgh.

I cannot say that I feel lonely, I have e-mails, facebook and skype; plus, I meet quite often some women (from Liverpool, Sheffield, and nearby Edinburgh) who are a great fun.

But I need my people. I need somebody to give me a long and deep hug.

To find myself among the fabulous P&Pers, to have breakfast with Candela and tea with Georg, to feel the Forest Café through my five senses again and to look after the Old Hat Books in an always-full-of-surprises shift, to enjoy the Meadows grass, to see the city passing by my bike's wheels, to help out Food not Bombs beyond stupid e-mails from this hotel...

It is not too bad though. Because with the extra help of The Power of NOW, I am even happier with life as it comes. I would be insane to deny how nice it is in this hotel, with the beach nearby, the weather getting better and better, and the food being great (all of which makes it difficoult to get down to writing the essay due this friday...).

But, as I said, my heart is longing for its beloved ones. And I'm wondering how much longer will the soothing sound of the sea manage to calm it down.

Even though the waves remind you that time is passing just as they do, the infinity of the ocean makes Thursday look extremely far in the horizon.

So this is why the song gave me the answer. Why I was so happy to leave Mostar after visit present memories.

Edinburgh, I'm yours.

Suissane

This is a story (originally in Catalan http://neusumostaru.blogspot.com/2008/02/una-flor.html) I wrote in Mostar two years ago.

A flower.

Or maybe it wasn't even a flower, but it was something beautiful.

Its name was Suissane.

Suissane dreamed among butterflies. She did not care whether it was cold or hot, because the only thing that mattered was the sparkling sun.

Even though it might not make sense, she liked clouds as well. Suissane was one of those who think positively, those who loved them because, even though they hided her beloved sun, they gave her water. And with water, my friends, Suissane was growing up.

Growing and growing up! Up there with the wind, filling the sky with smiles.

But Suissane, like all flowers, or like all those things as beautiful as flowers, was a bit coquettish. More than liked it, sometimes she even needed the passer-byes to tell her how beautiful she was. And when this would not happen, she would get really really sad and start crying. And she would also grow up, of course, with this salty water, but by being salty, it was sometimes slightly bitter.

Then Suissane would think nobody loved her, because nobody said to her the beautiful things she expected to hear. What Suissane did not know, is that people were afraid. People were afraid of saying their thoughts to her.

Of not saying enough, or of saying it in a way that would not be good enough for her. Sometimes what would happen is that walkers so assumed she was beautiful that they thought it was not necessary to say anything to her at all... how would they dare say anything to a flower! A flower so beautiful that for sure she was tired of hearing so many flattery words.

But what people sometimes forget is that, quite often, those who seem more solid and stable, are the ones who are in most need for something to cling to.

Image: internet

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

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.