old photographs

now, that's all they are.

wish

the thames muddled through, as it does, every day, as it's done, every day for a million years.
the pier slightly newer, the pebbles rounder through time.
there was a footprint on the shore. and another. two paths that didn't cross. politely keeping their distance.
the pier watched it all from above. it's seen it all before. nevermind, it thinks, the tide will come and wash the steps away.

edinburgh

the bartender is only moonlighting for the xmas break.

one of the cutomers calls out to him as he struggles with the champagne.

he's already had trouble unscrewing the top of the orange juice. he's had to struggle with cashless customers wanting to use fancy credit cards. he only just managed to work out what a martini was. he nearly stumbled trying to get the correct measure for a baileys.

distracted, he looks to the customer. the cork pops out. customers, transfixed, follow the cork's unwavering trajectory.

the bartender loses it. he loses his smile. he frowns. the french girl laughs.

it takes a long time for his cheery scottish charm to set back in. but it does.

i hate this time of year

i hate that you have to be cheerful
i hate that it's cold and my boiler is not working
i hate that i drink too much and do idiotic things
i hate that stupid songs get stuck in your head (let it snow, my arse!)
i hate that people decide they want to see you now: you've had 330 other days to do so!
i hate that sinking feeling that next year will be the same as this one, which was the same as last one, which was the same as...

and yet, i am still remarkably chirpy. must be the sun shining through the office window (last time this year! did I say?)

4, 3, 2...

last day at the office for 2005. chirpy mood. off to buy a pillow for later on.

oblivious

today is a beautiful day. the light in london is doing the usual fairyland effect. all misty and gently glowing. walking down the street, a girl smiles at a private thought. the year is ending, but we're oblivious.

pandora

opens the box and finds in it:

• an old clock whose fainting batteries keep the seconds handle pulsing between 12:13:01 and 12:13:02 on xmas eve 2001
• a CD case with cover art for a bob dylan album, but containing the latest girls aloud single
• two pairs of socks, unmatched
• a dissecated butterfly, shimmering iridiscent colours on its cotton jewel box
• currency no longer in use in any country in the world
• an unopened letter, close up yet to come
• a lipstick, long ago used to draw kisses on a mirror
  

royal flush

one day the princess discovered that what had been bothering her, underneath all those layers of feather, foam, wool and cotton mattresses, was a grain of truth.

for graciela

things you miss when you travel all the way across the atlantic:

• pints: big, cold, unwieldy pints - and rounds, the fairer way to do it!
• british sense of humour: dry, difficult, subtle
• the sky, and the eery light you only get in this weird island
• being anonymous when you want to be: no-one looking at you, nobody knows your business
• the clothes! the shoes!
  
• cooked breakfast: the magic of baked beans, fried mushrooms and (veggie?) sausages
• cinema, theatre, exhibitions, food from round the world, crazy people
• all the people that have now become part of your life

sickness

rice with butter & cheese
peach slices & yoghurt
lemon tea
shortbread fingers

bedtime
crap telly
phone conversations

smudge

the kid in charge of drawing the sky had lost the piece of paper where he'd written today's brief.

he frowned, squeezed his temples, looked up, looked down, squinted really hard, ...couldn't remember. was it cloudy? misty? sunny? stormy?

in the end he vaguely thought the weatherman had said to make it 'stormy'. so he picked up the charcoal pencil and started drawing swathes of big bulky black clouds, dark and ominous.

he walked over to find some blue ink to draw highlights in and behind the colouring box, he finds the piece of paper. he unfolds it, reads in his own clear writing: "sunny"

the kid sighs. third time this month. it's just way too early for him, not exactly a morning person. still, the weatherman will be cross again. he looks around for a good eraser, maybe he fix it properly this time and the weatherman won't notice.

he finds a big one, brand new, white and gleaming. he starts trying to erase the clouds, but the charcoal is so smudgy...

so this morning, instead of sunny, or stormy, there'll be thin whispy undefined blackish clouds, smeared across the sky, veiling the sun but letting it through too.

the weatherman looks up, but doesn't mind. after all, nobody really believes his predictions are ever accurate anyway...

st thomas aquinas

love and be diligent and do what you will

on how it never rains, it pours, or "los males no vienen solos"

and on how what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and "no hay mal que dure cien años, ni cuerpo que lo resista", and everything happens for a reason, and take whatever life throws at you and make the most of it, and la-dee-dah...

but i really don't need, right this moment, to spend two days -- and one more to go too! -- having to fill in questionnaires, take feedback from my peers, and do all sorts of soul-searching about my (lack of) communications skills, (in)ability to empathise, (crap) listening patterns, (inexistent) capability to be self-aware enough to regulate behaviour so emotions don't take over, etc, etc, etc.

spare me the wisdom, life!

dancing in the street

the clown
Originally uploaded by ladelentes.

there we were. we had our headphones on. we were playing our favourite tunes. we danced, shy at first, then crazily, then funnily. people gawped, took pictures, joined in, definitely smiled. a moment of surreal cheer in london town.

tra-la-la land

vauxhall goes karaoke. saturday night, the portuguese bars burst with singing masters, dancing children, laughing families. a couple of adolescents -- dressed for a dance, first-date-excited -- ask me for a cigarette. i ask if they know how to roll-up...their raised eyebrows shrivel me to nothingness. a little man, smoking a fag on his own, cheers me up with an impromptu serenade on my way to catch the end of the x-factor.

secret knowledge

wearing gold shoes while wearing jeans is the extrovert equivalent to the introvert wearing sexy underwear under dull work clothes