Mercurial

Went to what I was expecting was coral music concert,and was more a coral divertimento,a christian men?s choir full of admonition and covers of old rock bands. Condescending,linear,plain and at points infuriating. It is not only that I enjoy Gregorian chants on their own,their beauty and sublime emotion within their [...]

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Camilo,me quiero ir a mi casa….. sob.

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I was the most serious seven year old you can imagine. Perfectly combed hair,shiny shoes,best student in class. Respectful,never a bad word,never a tantrum. I would receive my Christmas gift,a book on mathematics and algebra,which of course I read with avid delight. Another one,this was about physics and [...]

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Somebody told me that there would be days like this.
Listening to Silvio Rodríguez,tears in the eyes,

Soy feliz,soy un hombre feliz/y quiero que me perdonen,por este día,/los muertos de mi felicidad

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Before I came here,to the USA,I was if not the life of the party,at least its cynical conscience. I laughed a lot,made fun of others and myself,and my sense of humor was both a social tool and a relief from the patently absurd.
It all changed when I arrived here. Suddenly,my mental images are not good anymore,the silences surround me,and the description of another possibility loses its charm,the sarcasm is misunderstood,and the joke fails.
It is not just the cultural difference. Hear Bea speak.
Now,trying to cope with this foreign culture and language,the ideas do not flow,and rather stay in my brain,stagnant,trapped like animal outside their natural habitat. I can even see their eyes,looking and pleading for help,as if by some extraordinary effort of will I could rescue them from the morass of misunderstandings and lack of context. Every phrase has to create its own universe,and every word received has to be part of a definite context.
I become serious and dull. Or the answer would come later on,in Spanish,in English,a brilliant latecomer that missed the party.
It is not age,Bea,but that we miss the encouraging echo of our childhood friends’voices,the ones that understood about Abelardo and Archibaldo,those friends that knew about the giant papayas,the same ones that simply enjoyed the description of a guanábana. There is no translation for this nostalgy.

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