Oh my God, what if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.
En esa calle semi alumbrada, bajo una llovizna que no terminaba de mojar a los andantes en la tierra, me sorprendi hablando sin parar con un semidesconocido que se habia presentado como amigo de un amigo. Una cortina de alcohol y cansancio opaca el recuerdo. Pero el sentimiento esta claro, el camino esta (en contraste con el que andaba), completamente iluminado. No tuve otra opcion, no tengo eleccion, solo me quedaba conocerlo.
Make no mistake, the only way out is through
It was the worst of times it was the best of times
My first encounter … with a book (the beginning of the addiction)
Being as I was when I was child, completely careless, clumsy, dramatic, and with a tendency to overrate video games, I never gave a chance to literature. Interestingly, my dad was an avid reader, he used to give me books every year for any occasion. Which were dutifully pilled by my mom in a personal library I rarely used.
Around my 10th birthday I decided (not so much out of choice but stupidity) that I was going to fail Math. At the time I had much more important things to worry about, and thus school was positioned among the lowest place in my list of priorities.
My mom, very different form my dad, was never patient with me regarding my education, for that matter, when I failed the given subject she decided that the only way to push me to study was taking absolutely everything away from me. She literally stripped my room of all my possessions. And by “all” I really mean everything. By the time my mom walked out of my room with the last thing she was going to take from me, my room was composed of a bed, a chair, a night lamp, a study desk with all the necessary implements and THE library.
It might sound horrible, but I must say that during the whole process my mom was never mean to me. Which was worst. Additionally, I was a very proud kid, I never flinched, not even when she asked for my cellphone.
So, there I was, lying on my back in my bed with NOTHING to do, and of course I was not going to touch my school books. Are you kidding me?!
After I took several naps, scratch the hell out of the paint of my night stand and recorded the time I would stare without blinking, only two hours had gone by… I was officially in hell.
What to do? what to do?…
After maybe 4 hours, several attempts of meditation, thoughtful reorganization of my closet and a serious experiment on the effects of gravity on dust balls, I started wandering around the room like a trapped panther. Anything was a source of wonder, a fly was the most captivating bug, dirt had become star dust, a precious and beautiful material that I had never seen before. And the shadows cast by the light coming in from my windows were friends, characters in an insane mental game.
I remember lying on the floor next to my window, directly under the sun light, closing my eyes and moving my hands in front of my face to create an effect that my eyes would register as orange and brown splashes of colors. Imagining I was under a tree.
At some point, I came across the book shelve, I remember shyly brushing my fingers through the white painted wood and eventually the books, slightly pausing to read the tittles: to kill a mockingbird, the Little Prince, Moby Dick, Tom Sawyer, the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Kid’s tales, The Lord of the Rings, Little Women… You can all imagine what happened after.
I feel the explosion before I hear it, and for one second, I stand in the middle of the square completely immobilized by fear. I see people lying on the flour, I hear them screaming at the top of their lungs, running like rats, or dead. Let the revolution begin.
To me, all writers must go crazy. We need to retract from the world, and at the same time interact in such deep extent with our narrative that we melt into the story.
I overcame myself, the sufferer; I carried my own ashes to the mountains; I invented a brighter flame for myself.
Inspiration is the windfall from hard work and focus. Muses are too unreliable to keep on the payroll.