She Cut your Hair

Someone said once that people idealize their unrequitted crushes precisely because they never happened, so one can imagine a world of possible scenarios, all to please one's unsatisfied needs. That the people we fall in love with are most of the time our fantasies about how the real person is, but never real.

Someone said once that family is the most important thing of all, so why is it that all families have more skeletons in the closets than corpses in the cementery? Why is it that families feud, and why did someone have to write Romeo and Juliet, or why is it that the first thing we are aware of is Sibling Rivalry? Why is it that we stop caring, down that path, whether familiesd stick together or fll apart?

Someone said once that without ideals you are nothing. But this is the generations with no Ideals, no battles to win, nothing to care about. No Vietnam, no French May, no Flower Power or Black Pride. This is the generation of bummers and yuppies, Internet and cellphones. This is the generations that communicates the most and says nothing.

Mmmmhhh... I do see a patern. Excuse me, I have to go punch Someone in the stomach. He talks too much.

Daddy Tell Me Once Again...

There is a song written in Spanish by a man named Ismael Serrano that talks about times passed, the 50's, the 60's and the 70's. It basically tells the story of a little boy who asks his father to tell him that story agin, the story of military men, fascits and students with bangs. Of urban guerilla with bell-bottom jeans, and songs of the Rolling, and girls in Miniskirts. He then goes on to ask him to tell him the story of how much fun he had ruining the old age to rusty dictators, and how he occupied the Sorbonne, in tht French May, in the days of wine and roses.

Finally the little boy asks his father to tell him one nicer story, the one about the "crazy guerrillero" who got killed in Bolivia and how nobody dared use his gun angain, and how sindce that day everything seems uglier.

From tht point on the son becomes his father's critic, pointing out that, after all those barricades, after all those raised fists and all the bloodshed, at the end of the game he couldn't do anything. And that the defeat was harsh, and everything everyone dreamed of rotted on the corners, there are no more crazy people, no more parias, but it's all still dirty.

He goes on to regret, stating that the French May is far away, as well as Saint Denis, Jean Paul Sartre and that old Paris and nevertheless he sometimes thiniks that it was all the same. Punishments keeps falling on those people who talk too much. And the same dead people rotten with cruelty remain, but now the ones that died in Vietnam die in Bosnia.

I first heard this song four years ago, I think, and I didn't underwstrand half of it. It seemed impossible fore the world to be like that in the song only decades ago, and for my parents to have been born, and have killed, one of the most idealistic generation there has ever been. I couldn't help but ask what happened. What happened to them??? And to US? How come the children of the French May gave birth to the Generation of No Ideals? How come they lost it? Was it us, was it them? Was it both? Is it tht they failed to pass the torch or that we didn't know what to do with it so we put it out?

Was it all in vain, as he says?

The Major Lift

I know it's been a while. I know I made promises that apparently I never kept, and said things that seem lies now. But in thsese months I've regrouped, I've looked inside and seen that there were remains of what once was in me, and dedicated much time to healthy rebuilding, reading and listening to music in search for the inspiration, which finally came and now I'm holding onto it for dear life.

The Minor Fall is behind me, and the days of the Major Lift spread out before me and lose themselves in the line of the horizon. They are not pretty most of the time: pages torn, lots of researching, lots of gathering concepts, words and even letters at a time, but I've never felt happier before. Because when I do find a piece of the puzzle, however small, it's like golden light and fuzzy feeling inside.

I feel free, and not tied down by what it is my blessing and my horrible curse. Not the gift of writing but the gift of wanting to write, which is an entirely different thing. But once I realy get started, once that horribly first words and then sentence is over sometimes it's a downpur and sometimes it's a dry struggle, but what comes out of it is water all the same: necessary for ordinary life.

So I cut my hair and dyed it red. So I took that extra step I had always been afraid to, I took a plunge and fell down the Escher Stairs. And though there was no heroic ending or crystal- encased set of dreams in the end - my poor and forever defining reference to The Labyrinth - it was worth every single sacrifice. i faced my demons, and it turned out their shadows were a lot bigger projected against the walls than the things themselves.

So I'll be back talking about daily nothing. Just writing. Not good, not bad, just there. I think that for me it's the best kind of writing there is. I'll clean up this mess, maybe learn a bit of HTML programming, who knows. And I'll retake French on my own again. Somehow it feels better putting it down on 'paper', so to speak.

Yeah, it does feel better...