Letters to Nowhere chapter 3 (Cartas a Ninguna parte, capítulo 3)

During my dreams I was totally free. Out of them, I’ve never been.
My mind has forgot its origens and it was feeling bad and strange handling a young body in a World created to fit…who knows whom? I envy you, Beatrix because you has not suffered not even one of the images of this end of century. I am aware that I can’t resume in a few lines the complexity of this world, to the one you don’t belong.
I know that maybe I blame a Time because of some personal insignificant circunstances. Insignificant for the Humanity. But not for me.
Now that has passed some time, I repent so much having met Manuela and Patricia, but not to have had fun, while I could, walking, having fantasies about my future, dancing.
The problems came later, When I understood that what I wanted was so different from what other persons from my age, wanted. Much more was hard for me to understand what it can be created in a mind that hates and acts with evilness, no matter the reason.
But it happened. And friendship lost the beauty of its wings and it metamorphosed in an ugly caterpillar. But I couldn’t see it.

Fidel, got tired of the brushes and missing the books, decided to go to study Psychology in France. There was living his brother with his mother, Francis, who has ready a room for him, in a house with garden and plenty of kids.
_ I saw them (Manuela an Patricia) buying the tickets for the movies.
The station was very different for me. It wasn’t grey, not shady neither sad, how it looks for me now.
_ Today?
He nodded.
They refused to go to the movies with me just the day before…
I felt…Weird. I know that with this world I can’t clarify what I felt, but  no other word comes to my mind. They told me that they weren’t feeling like going to the movies. “I’m a sciences person, I don’t like that bullshit” used to say Manuela. And so I went with my brothers, with my Mother and sometimes with Fidel. Sometimes alone.

Fidel was dragging the suitcase along the platform.
The clock was struck a quarter. In 5 minutes the train will began a nocturne trip to the Gauls.
_ Those girls aren’t for you. Trust me.
I sighed ruefully.
_ And who is for me? Tell me before you go and leave me alone.
I asked him laughing and Fidel move his head without knowing what to say. I noticed he was a bit sad. But it wasn’t for him, it was for me.
_ I will write to you every week.
_ You exaggerate.
_ I know… – he smiled.
The comptroller went out with his little marker and leaded to the head of the train.
We got the suitcase on the train and Fidel stamped two noisy kisses on both cheeks.
_ If you  refuse them, you will not be alone any more – this time his eyes showed he was being serious.
The train was going to leave.
_ Send me a photo of the horse painting when you end it!
_ And you one of the french men!

I accompanied the train in a smooth run looking how Fidel was waving his hand with the face illuminated with hope. He really wanted to go back to study…

The first postcard I got was a very pretty photograph of the Eiffel Tower in the Parisian dusk.

“Hello Paloma!
Finally I am here. You can’t imagine the feeling I had when I opened the books, all new…
I already take a look at them. The classes will begin in October and for now I already visited Paris. I hope you left those two bland girls. You must come, here there are lots of mulatto!
Au voir, sweet pie, kisses
Fidel – who miss you lots -“

I took it with me, in the pocket of my coat, until the season changed. But never show it to Manuela and Pati. We had arrived to an strange point of change, of transformation, to where what has had been couldn’t be any more.
The innocence of the 15 years old has converted into a vain mischief of the 18′.
And even though it was in sight of everybody, I wasn’t able to see it. I trusted them. My parents and my auntie Ana, my brothers…All of them talked about how a girl like me could go out with a girls like them.
But I only could see two good friends. I know. I just refused to see the reality and I let them to deceive me.
My mother always tells to me that I must not blame myself. I think so too. But it hurted so much, Beatrix…So much that I hate myself for not being like the others are, that’s why I try to analize myself, study me, look for me, understand me.
Oh, I’m sorry…I’m mixing present with past and this is for me like mixing water with oil. Imagine for you, who doesn’t know who I am and what I pretend to.
When you left to Hill Top, what were you feeling? Did you wanted to run away from the world? from your past? from yourself?

I also would love to leave, but I don’t know where. The Guadiana is my last grant to keep living searching a bit of peace. But I feel that the indestructible frostress that was for me is beginning to break down.
And that scares me.

Someone who needs to run away.

“I will never drink milk again” – I sobbed in the toilet for the

umpteenth time in my Life.
I took that morning six caffe latte, two croissants, one ensaimada* and

milky rice.
When I ended, I washed my face and the reflection returned to me a

pallid, ashen and ill visage. Good reason comparing to how sick I was

feeling. If I had not had diarrhea I don’t know what had happened to

me…I was feeling like dying.
I went out to buy bread and while my Mother made a selection of the

trash between glass, paper and plastic, I was waiting my turn.
_ What do you want, honey?
_ Four loaves of bread and a rounded one, sliced please.
The loaves were piled up in every wood’s shelving according to weight

and shape, separating the integrals from the rye breads, the soy ones

from the focaccia and the gummy loaves, surrogate of bread, more

known by the name baguette, from the laxative dinner rolls.
In the cupboard I could see: ensaimada, croissants, donuts, puff palms,

butter cookies, sponge cake, sugary brioches , choux a la crème, apple

pie, honey cake, cheese cake with walnuts and raisins and cupcakes.
On the counter, to the left, big diet biscuits tins and to the right, the

There was not other boutique better than the Bakery for me.




To be continued^_^) thanks for reading so far!! *bows*

Continuará, ¡gracias por leer hasta aquí! *venia* ^_^)b



Letters to Nowhere chapter 2 (Cartas a Ninguna parte, capítulo 2)

I fight against the river. I because it’s impossible for me to beat it, I just sink.
And that’s the way it’s been happening during the last 2 years.
Fidel has been the only one that has been supported me sincerely in a World where the sincerity is comparable to the well of fresh water that Saint Eixupéry and the Little Prince found in the desert. His sincerity didn’t open my eyes in the appropriate moment.
Now I can see how silly I was, and maybe some years later, I will realize how silly I am now because of continue tormenting myself.I would want to begin for the beginning but in my mind there is not a firm story with start, end and final. If I just had it!
I see my primary school days like the best of my life. We were a really siblings-like classmates and we enjoyed and have lots of fun, girls and boys, without any bad intentions,  envies, grudges. Now, in the end of the 90, I can assure you that  this kind of relationship is almost extraordinary. Back then we competed with grades, now they compete with clothers. I know it can seem a Cantinflas-thing, but no one better than Mario Moreno to say the truth with witness.
The 90, is the decade of the aesthetics more purely sensory. What you are doesn’t has any value, but what you look like. I have the proof in the Mass Media, but also in a more direct way,in my little sister generation.

At least she, like me, is a woman out of her time – and she is only 14 years old -.
My brother suffers of the same thing. He tells me that the girls look at them puzzled when he opens to them the door or let the sit for them on the bus.
And that’s because women nowadays look like prefer a good punch than a pampering or hugging: “let’s not look like we woman are different”.
In High School, I met Manuela and Patricia. They were two humble, nice girls and  I began to feel at easy with them.
Even though they began to pull out me to go out, I lived isolated in The Guadiana: I wrote reflections and take notes about flowers, trees and
birds who lived in that piece of soil. I keep many of them.

En español.
En español.



Yesterday I saw them.
They were laughing without any remorse. At least that is what they feign. I was driving with my car to The Guadiana coming back from an art exposition of my friend Fidel.
He’s a great guy.
We met in the Art Academy two years ago, when ALL began.
Tall and frightfully blond, he shows the appreciation towards me every time he meets me, kissing me profusely both cheeks.
He’s gay. But this is the less remarkable thing in Fidel. You can feel his nature in all the femininity that his gestures breath. I know, lots of homosexuals, has not that femininity, but the Nature mother makes run things with an arbitrary determination, and I admit that sounds a true paradox, but you know, my words were just spontaneous. And we are entering century XXI. What a civilization.
You would like Fidel. He’s one of those absolutely free people.
I know I can’t make use of the word Liberty because I unknown its true essence. Maybe you know what means in real.
To me, Fidel is free because he is not afraid to live and he does everything like carried away by the current, instead of fighting against the river.

When they called me to go to the disco, it was so impossible for me to sacrifice that communing with the Nature who awaited for me just after opening a door or a window.
And that’s why my home has lots of doors and it was incredible handy for me: because I hate unexpected visits – and the expected ones too – with only hearing Yacko barks, I went out or go inside through some door and so I slipped away. Or I go up the North Carob Tree or I just find a shelter in the pigeon loft. There I could spend hours drawing the pigeons.
They eat from my hand, and in exchange, very reluctantly, they let me see their little pigeons, up on the ladder that leaded to their nests.

At that time the most envied by everyone couple were la Moñi and Patablanca*.
He was a seductive one and always was courting other lady pigeons, while La Moñi continued being faithful, refusing all the insinuations of very handsome fantails who were infatuated by her lovely hair up. Maybe because of the unexpected visits that made me run to the pigeon loft, now I paint so many pigeons.
Fidel really loves my pigeons paintings. He has bought me two of my best ones. My favorite is a white pigeon with her wing extended, in the way they do when are sunbathing. The blues, lilacs, violets and whites, and so the composition, makes the painting somehow special. That’s why I gave it to my Mother. She is my main fan.
Fidel doesn’t paint pigeons. Paints the fragile: glass, every thing made with this material, glass scattered on pellets, soil, sienna, ocher, orange colors.
According to the books I’m colder. I love blue. In my palette blues are essential, indispensable. And that coldness, from where it comes? I can feel it now like a frost imprisoning my chest, but not like the blue color, which for me is a warm color. Who says the contrary, won’t give me an explanation.
At least it will not be nothing more than a conventional explanation. If someone can give me an irrational explanation, they will gain my admiration, because I’m irrational too.
Not explanation, but better Approach, virgin, untouched and raw.
And also a bit contradictory.

I was an age to flirt and go out with boys, but I have never done so. I always “run away” from my
“pretenders” that’s the way my Mother call them.
I was an age to go to the disco and dance, but I so hated those closed and dark places where there was no silence that I so very well know in the nature. And instead of the fresh air, I had to conform myself with dirt  tobacco smoke. I’m talking in past tense because I’ve never steped
on those places again since almost 3 years ago. And if some day I went to, it was because of my tendence to the dance and fun.

Manuela was heals over heads for a boy then, even though she didn’t

even know his name.
_ It’s told that he teaches computer – she told me totally excited.
I was checking the hour on my watch. I will endure ten minutes more and I will be going.
When I looked up I found a dark-eyed boy who was smiling at me a bit cheeky.
When I realized that his friends were looking at me too, I felt uneasy and I just fixed my look in the music video screens.
_ He looked at us! have you seen it, Pati? Let’s go, we must get closer, dance by they side.
Without willing it, I was just dragged out to the middle of the dance floor, and I though about to rebel myself and just go home when the song I loved so much began to sound. I so loved dancing and my feet just took the lead.
I always think that dancing is like falling in ecstasy or lighting a fire within my cheast making that all its glint unbind in the face. And I danced.
And in my dance, time to time, I saw those black eyes fixed in me, but
I didn’t mind too much.
I only danced for myself.
Once I go out from there, I forgot about the black-eyed boy.

Just some days later Manu discovered that He was from Ciudad Real * and this information about him being a foraigner excited her even more.
_ Have you noticed how he glared?
Pati nodded touched by a baseless illusion.
_ And he is so hot, reminds me Keanu Reeves, don’t you think so?
The question was for me. After thinking a bit, I smiled and I just said that I haven’t noticed him. I knew that with that answer I will satisfy her.
_ How is it possible to not notice a hottie like that? you are such a geek, girl…
We were in the Coffee shop “Nieves”, in “Santiago” plaza. I was saving the paper with the phone number of Pati, who has changed it, while chewing my last bite of croissant.

When I got home I began to feel sick, and I promise myself not to eat again croissants.
I was not very happy without dairy. I always have been a sweets lover.
In the toilet I relieved my tummy, and after washing myself, I wet my temples and lips and I looked myself in the mirror.
I found as always that girl with oriental features and round childish face, that was so familiar to me. I recognized myself and I was satisfied with what I watched.
I didn’t need not more not less.
So I stopped watching myself. I still have not discovered why in the hell are mean to the mirrors, if we never see ourselfs the same way others see us. The true mirror is inside the person who looks at us, and not in the false reflexion, that artifact of ancients origins and something more like a legend in our toilet, return to us.

In that time, I called the attention of the opposite sex in an embarrassing way. I can’t deny it really annoyed me.
I remember a day I was coming home from High School, when I still had not drive license, I was walking quickly in front of a Bank when I skin-head boy looked at me.
Of course, everybody knows that there are so many ways to look at someone.
I felt naked, even thought I wear my kind jersey, my marine style neck blue coat and my white boots.
Those white boots…
They walked me around thousands times.
They were the only ones in all the city.
When I wore them, I felt so completed, as if finally, something that had been separeted from me, was back to its place.
That day, my boots took me from the path that, in the sidewalk, that was leading me to the bald head.
But he still was looking.
Until he got near me, and spilling something rude, touched my buttocks. Disgusted, I turned aroung I released my anger with a poor insult that seemed to me a yell. But even I couldn’t hear me.
I got home and, lying on the sofa we had besides the balcony, I cried.
I remember that then I made my first reproach to God.
If I was born as a man…
Now that I approach it, there are not women and men. Only exists what the World see in me. And I think it’s a very little thing.

This deep well of memories, says goodbye to you.

*Moñi means Bun in spanish (it refers to the little hair up that this adorable pigeon has) and Patablanca, means whitefoot.

*Ciudad Real, La Mancha, center of Spain, birthplace of Cervantes and Don Quijote.


It will continue, thanks for reading so far!! *bows*

Continuará, gracias por leer hasta aquí! *venia*

^_^) YYuhmi

Note: all names are invented, I wrote all of this on 1998-99 more or less. Some things are true others are fictional, just a mix of my fantasy and life! Sorry for my bad English >_<

Letters to nowhere (Cartas a Ninguna parte, mis memorias)

This is an original writing, unpublished book I wrote from 1999 to 2001. When I was so sick and without a treatment and furthermore, without doctors support…Later I had the diagnosis, it was a hard to deal, painful part of my life and my family’s life too, during more than 10 years I had no idea I suffered because of a genetic disease called Cystic Fibrosis.

So then, lately I began to read again what I wrote back then…It hurts a bit but I want to share it. I tried to translate it to english so it’s very bad and I’m sure I need a proofreader ^_^;;;

It’s a long book, so I’ll be sharing it chapter by day more or less! thanks so much for your caring, support and love! it makes me keep my fight on! 😉

Letters to no where

Living imprisoned in this century is a true punishment for me.
If I least I would see the light some decades ago…But no, I was born on 1976. And I did it in the middle of Xmas,
like I wanted to annoy. With the cold, hand by hand with December and in a just opened new hospital.
My mother says to me that the labor contractions began after lunch, watching “Little Women”.
I read the book so many times when I was little.

Spanish original
I grew up with Verne, Mary-Louise Aboltt, Michael Ende, Saint Eixupéry, Dumas, Harriet Beecher-Stowe, Edmono di Amicis,
Dickens, Eleanor H. Porter, Gerald Durrell, C.S. Lewis, Dahpne du Marrier, Agatha Christie
I liked to go to School, my parents were fabulous, I had siblings to whom I drag to my fantasies and we spend  the weekends in the country-side.
Yes, I had a wonderful childhood. Perfect.
But who minds?
Only to us. Only to me.

All the memories are  to me essential to subsist. I had them tattooed around all my body and, even If I wanted to, it will be impossible to make rid of them.
The good ones because I need them, the bad ones because they are just a few but very insistent.
Damn odds and ends of human diversity… Naivety, pain, hatred, remorse, love.
And an endless multitude of words from I truly unknown the meaning.
I will never understand myself completely. How many times I tried, and I just get lost in the way.
And it is useless to try to explain rationally what is absurd and incoherent. And that is what I am myself.

My life is an absolute chaos. I mean about this agitation I feel here inside, within my head.
I wish I was born, like you, on that end of the century from I constantly drank, hand by hand with Tolstoy, Austen, Baroja, Chekhov…
It’s the World about what I only can know that  musty,  rancid black and white photographs, with Sunday-best dressed gentlemen and Ladies sitting quietly, holing a book in their hands.
Ana Karenina appears to me beautiful, hieratic and consumed for the passion, next to the train tracks, the train that every Sunday took to the capital.
I can see her now too.
She wears a pretty coat, fur cuffs, carrying case. And her curly hair,

the same that Madame Recámier, who David painted in the middle of an austere ambient in what she shined  with an incredible unhelpful the frivolous Victorian gem.

Before I close my eyes when the day ends, after talking alone with God, the images of my reality come like in a movie by Porter or Griffith.
A train heist, heroic telegraphers, naive loves, cheeks rubbing…
I guess It was so hard for you*, to lose so soon the person you loved the most. If it’s of any consolation, I can only say that when I don’t feel well, I take refuge in your tales.
And I’m not a kid (I think). Your talkative animals, I know them from long time ago, believe me! so much before I discovered you. It was when I was a kid.

I was that kind of brat who grows up in a world just created for her, that is: without defects.
I live in The Guadiana, is a country-side house with a big piece of soil ornate with trees and lots of anthills.
I  named the anthills because is one of those things that are part of me,  even if it can seem silly.

I spent hours, that in my World were just minutes, looking at those tiny, hardworking little ones. I also like spiders. I know, I know. To more than one they are so
frightening, but I ask myself which is the one who must be scared? you or the spider? …
I tenderly become friends with  snails too, and I can assure you that even thought I love eating, I refuse to cook something with whom I had some kind of conversation. In the end, what’s that? it’s you just are bundled sucking ridiculous shells…*2

I remember a summer in the beach, and my auntie Ana.
She lives alone. She’s that kind of singles aunties who come mostly in the movies, you know. But, no. Forgive me, I forget that I’m talking with someone who is an outsider within this burger culture that has been cradling every kid around the whole World.
We are entering a new century and there is not even a person who has not kissed with enthusiasm MAMA USA. I myself grew up with Spielberg.
The movies about singles aunties and uncles are just like…popcorn and sliced bread.
My auntie is a masculine woman, and I don’t mean any sexual orientation,
She is tall, strong, and always wear trousers and shirts. She loves ties.
She has at least 50 and not even one is the same as other. Incredible isn,t it? so for me, who in men always see the ties all the same. It’s an stupid garment, but it doesn’t look like so when auntie Ana wears it.

She smokes a lot. With this theme I always have a “discussion”. I write discussion in  quote because to discuss with Auntie is impossible.

Furthermore, what will be about Auntie Ana without a cigarette in her lips?

Some days forgets that I’m there and light up one.
When I begin to drop tears and wink non stop, she puts out the cigarette and smiles to me to apologize.

That summer I was 8 or 9 years old and I became a very good friend with a snail. His name was Pedro.
Have you ever seen the mouth of a snail? Me too. I even let him to nibble my fingers, before getting to look how he attacked with pleasure a lettuce leaf.

How far away is all of that now! Memories and childhood are synonymous of The Guadiana to me. Now it shows to me different, More little, without mysteries and unknown corners…without games.
A bit sad in winter but radiant and comfortable when the spring goes on.
Your farm Hill Top, in Swarey, must be a perfect paradise compared with my Guadiana. I don’t know. I have never had the chance to go out my country, Maybe some day I can go visit yours.I wonder if it’s very changed…Your watercolors show it to me like a delicious messy of orchards, ponds, moss and trees.
Some fences, mailbox and a little road that leads to your house, to HOME.
In The Guadiana I have cats, two dogs, chickens, doves, turtledoves and quails.
Somehow my father is at fault but all of us love animals.
We also had hedgehogs, frogs, parakeets, canary birds. Even goats. Well, a goat and a her little son.

Oh my God, I,m already losing myself! To whom I’m writing? Maybe it’s just to my alter ego…Am I writing to myself? Me, who always though I had nothing to tell to myself.
Tomorrow I have an exam of Aesthetic ideas. I can’t continue with this…
Sorry Beatrix, within me there is such a confusion, and so then, even knowing I will not get an answer from you, I say good bye.

Someone who admires you.

(I must say names and some characters are fictional! but not the memories and the feelings)

It will be continued as soon as possible ^_^)b thanks for reading so far.






*1 I’m talking about Beatrix Potter, to whom is redacted this book.
*2 in Catalonia is a tradition to eat snails with tomato sauce (cries)