Archivo de la etiqueta: cuentos

Catch your dreams / ¡Atrapa tus sueños!

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Catch your dreams

Catch your dreams
— Read on paradoxalworld.com/2018/01/20/catch-your-dreams/

Hace mucho que no me dejo ver, que no me paro a escribir unos minutos en el blog…Querría tener algún cuento que contar, pero mi fábrica de historias es ahora como jaula de mil pájaros locos. Mucha imaginación dibujando bocetos en rincones y paredes de mi mente, una Brujilla que dirige sin ton ni son, y una total desorganización de capítulos comienzos y finales.

A la brujilla le digo, mientras procuro que los duendes de mis sueños no armen demasiado jaleo:

_ Ayúdame un poco y pon orden, ¡esto es un desastre!

Pero está demasiado ocupada echando de mis cajones de pensamientos a las pesadillas y los ogros del miedo.

La brujilla me suele mirar hastiada, pidiéndome que por favor deje de trazar sueños a ciegas, sin cumplirlos, y que me lance como solía hacer antes. Que me suelte la melena, que sea más loca; que mande al carajo a la frustración, a la impotencia y a la desilusión.

_ Tú no eres así – me reprocha la brujilla – ¡rompe esos muros y sal volando!

_ Ay Brujilla, pero mira cuántos dibujos, cuántos cuentos e historietas…podría empapelar con ellos un museo al que no iría nadie.

A lo que la Brujilla me contesta:

_ Sería un museo divertido, ¿por qué no empezamos ya a empapelar? Uno de esos museos aburridos que estén libres de cuadros famosos. Uno sin nombre ni dueño, sin mecenas ni publicidad.

Le sonrío, ella se arregla la moña baja que suele llevar, y se coloca bien el sombrero de margaritas. Me pasa un par de manuscritos y haciendo callar a los gorriones azules que suelen encargarse de producirme risas, me dice: “hay mucho que hacer; paso a paso, sin prisa pero sin pausa. Esta mente está hecha un lío, empecemos a empapelar”

Asiento, y mirando el gran atrapa sueños que viste el salón principal donde habitan mis hadas y musas, me propongo cumplir unos cuantos sueños.

Este atrapa sueños es especial porque lo hizo una de mis musas con tanto amor e ilusión que parece un trozo de cielo.

Y esta musa se llama Sara, es un poco de mi y yo un poco de ella. Porque somos hermanas. Si yo soy mente desorganizada, ella es como un hilandera imparable, constante y hacendosa.

Ay porras: algunos papeles están dibujados por ambos lados.

Brujilla, tendremos que pensar en un museo hecho de cristal…¿Se te ocurre algo mejor?

Será mejor que me inspire visitando el blog de Sara, las hermanas siempre son inspiración, ilusión y Alegría.

Y la mía es especialmente musa, desde que nació.

La brujilla se me ha adelantado ya y está ojeando las bonitas fotos de Sara lanzando gritillos de admiración.

Debería retratar a la Brujilla, es bastante pizpireta y comprensiva, creo que os caería bien.

Quizás no tarde en volver a dibujar, y tendré un papel más para seguir empapelando ese museo de vidrio, sin nombre, de nadie, sin mecenas ni promotores.

Pero al fin y al cabo, único y con mi huella y la de la Brujilla.

Yrene Yuhmi 2018

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NÉCTAR DEL DESIERTO- FANFIC KUROGANE X FAY (TSUBASA RESERVOIR CHRONICLE)

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Hace bastante tiempo que escribí este fanfic para una amiga muy especial ^_^)

Os dejo el doc de word para que lo leáis si os apetece un cuento corto, erótico, no apto para

menore de 18 años!!! (sobretodo atención a este punto) y tampoco apto para homófobos o cualquier

persona que se sienta incómoda con escenas de amor gay.

Al final hay un pequeño plus, en tono de humor en el que veremos como Syaoran está a punto de

quitarle el puesto a Kurogane en lo que concierne a Fay ^^,,,

Espero que os guste m(_ _)m

Kurogane x Fay fic Gisel cumpl

(cliquad y “guardar el link como” lo podéis leer cómodamente en vuestro PC. Si tenéis problemas, dejad un comentario y lo subiré completo en el post ^_-)

Gracias por pasaros por aquí,

Itsumo doumo arigatou!

Yyuhmi

*Shiro-manjuu 白、しろ、饅頭、まんじゅう: el manjuu es un pastelito redondo y dulce, receta japonesa. En este caso como se refiere a Mokona que es un ser blanco,redondo y gracioso con largas orejas de conejo, le llama shiro, que significa blanco)

y un poco de Fanart kurofaysu-chan

BSO o Cómo amé a Jan Duman ( 2002)

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Uno de los escritos que mi madre encuentra de vez en cuando y que me hacen recordar lo mucho que he llegado a escribir hasta el momento…Este cuento es del 2002, año en que me recuperé de forma milagrosa, o como los incrédulos dicen “de forma inesperada” Os puedo asegurar que lo esperaba, y que no confié en los médicos, por desgracia para los que son buenos y a los que pido perdón por mi desconfianza…

Espero que ps guste, aunque sea un poco, amig@s lector@s 😀 FELIZ VERANO DEL 2013.

Letters to Nowhere chapter 6 (Cartas a Ninguna parte capítulo 6)

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Dear Beatrix:
I have an old photo of you, where you are posing in the door of your Home, on Hill Top.
Maybe it’s the vision of your kind and healthy face, that let me use this adjective quite daring: “dear“. Maybe is because of the distance and the Time, and…Of course, you won’t reproach my lack of manners for writing to you in this way, being a total unknown from XXI century who tells you very odd things.
When I told you about the Death, I was scared, yes. In a few days I’ll be hospitalized to make me a liver biopsy.
I don’t know about Medicine history, so maybe you know or not about what’s a biopsy.
I know it’s nothing.
“It will not hurt” Doctors tell me. But I don’t trust them.
“Don’t be afraid” Tells me my Mother.
But She also is afraid, I can see it in her eyes.
I can see it every time she looks at me trying to not show the aversion that causes to see my scrawny body.
I cry every time I go to the bath, to take a shower.
I don’t have chest. My arms and my back, my hips, my ribs, all are just that. Bones.
I don’t have my face bright and flustered, neither the eyes shining.
In my suitcase I prepared some books. I also put yours with all my caring.

To my little sister I always tell that treat the book with love, that is a jewel of collector.
She thinks I exaggerate and the fact I doubt of her maturity hurts her.
I know, I know, that she knows very well how to treat books. She is a very mature girl for her age. I’m really proud of her intelligence.  With only 14 years old has really clear ideas and knows how to talk better than lots of adults and with career.
The little one, of course, has only 4 years old, he is different, he takes everything but to draw on his scribbles. My auntie Ana says he is going to be an artist.
I guess he’s getting familiar with the colors, the drawings and  every thing he sees in my workshop. He sits near me, and imitate all my movements. As Aristotle said, the Humanity learns imitating.But arriving to certain point of the Life, every person must shape their
personality from all that has been around, all the crying, all the imitations and the reflections.
This part of so simple theory, doesn’t always come true. The fashion, the  urban tribes, the evil envy, leads a imitation that transforms the society in one of a kind of cattle ranch. That’s how the proverb says: Monkey see, monkey do. “Where is going Vicente? Where people goes” (Spanish proverb)

Well so, my little brother, most than one time ended all dirt of oil paints, and what a disaster..! So I bought a crayon box and card-boards for him.
His drawings of houses with chimney, cars and dogs, comforted me so much.
It seems that kids see the world in colors.
I think that the best thinkers of all Times, has not seen in the kids the perfect solution to problems and questions of Philosophy.Maybe all it’s lots more simple. We look for the Truth with all the possible biggest difficulties, while the TRUTH, that already has connotations of indecipherable and empty Myth, it’s instead in the simplicity.

The simplicity of whom begin to discover Life and the one who when sees a stone discovers a stone, and not a tangle of  mysterious analytical schemes that converts it in a very long book that leaves us full of doubts.

And the Science, yes, it’s wonderful. The man, not, better the Humanity has learned to divide reality from fiction first, and after linked it again to do really unthinkable things. You can’t imagine what a limited and fragile that’s human being could achieve during this pick of the Earth Time.
You lived that emboldened start of 1900.
I live the unbridled excess of the near 2000.
How far away we are, dear my friend!

I correct: How far away I am from any alive thing…I guess I’m closer to you, nether-less these 100 years, than to any person of my age or my Time.
I can’t believe what’s happening to me. I can’t recognize myself.
And neither can’t do so my dears.I almost can’t remember clearly and in a sequence way that big discussion with Manuela. Time betrayed me, my body betrayed me, I myself betrayed me. In fact, this whole city betrayed me.
That night all we were celebrating Carnival.
I cos-played like a pirate: white blouse with frills, tight trousers, high boots and spyglass.
Manu disguised as a zombie and Pati as a magician.
Helena and her coworkers surprised us with quite pathetic costume of witches.
There was also a group who had the great idea of disguising as sisters with Ni*e sneakers, that’s a name of a brand that marks people like hot
iron to cattle. Then you are the powerful of the riches tribe, pretty and famous. Well, there’s not only N*ke, there are thousands of stupid names, that are not worthy of being named. Maybe I say one of them without noticing. In this Times people are not fighting for knowing,
but for appearing. At schools no one knows who is Cervantes, what’s Iberia Peninsula, or where the hell is that Odyssey. The knowledge does not take place (Spanish proverb, knowing more doesn’t hurt, doesn’t bother)  but my  skirt is cuter then yours and also more expensive. Furthermore why they want to know History – they ask themselves – if I master flirting and consumerism?

Everybody laughed when they saw that dozen of false sisters with expressionless masks, white as their sneakers. It wasn’t funny for me. It’s incoherent and stupid to do a joke about something we don’t know and so, about something we don’t have any right.

That’s also typical from these times. All is laughable.
I can’t tell too much about what happened.
Manuela grabbed the drinks bar and thanks to the heat of the wine began to chatter with euphoria, ridiculously, because of the boys who were coming closer to us.
I felt so embarrassed so with a few but clear words I asked her to  behave.

_ Shut up!! – yelled at me with all her rage and hatred that was hosting within her.
That hurt me. She wasn’t Manuela, she couldn’t be.

_ Why I must shut up, I don’t have to. What you are doing is just immature and ridiculous.
_ Ha! what happens is that you are a washy-washy girl who doesn’t know how to have fun!
And so that really hurt me, because it wasn’t true.
_ I don’t need fuel to get fun.
I had Manuela  fatty and ugly face engraved in my mind, looking at me with an indescribable grudge that always scared me. Even now I remember it and I feel very sad. It’s being hard to me writing about it.
I would prefer to bury it in the Oblivion, but that’s not easy.
At that moment I didn’t know if go home or stay or what…
Even I was swallowing all time, I had a big knot in my throat and even though I wanted to look calm, my hands were trembling.

The party was in the Sports Pavilion. In the corner of the wardrobe I sat down to wait for the Calmness. I couldn’t stop my trembling.
_ Have you lost your broadsword?
I jumped surprised: by my side, leaned to make his voice be clear with all that loud music, was Adrian.

I lost some seconds to understand what was saying because I forgot totally about my dress up. I looked at me and felt so stupid. And even more when I saw that he wasn’t wearing any costume.
I smiled and replied that I was disarmed in a death match.
_They must have hurt you…- he said.
I knew that he knew about what we were talking.
_ Yes, in fact a lot.

We were silent in the middle of the festive sound, during a time that seemed to me an eternity. Finally I felt so uneasy that I turned around to him and invited him to drink something warm. My throat began to hurt. He accepted and after taking our jackets we went out.
Even though it was the second week of February and the air was cold,
I felt lots better out than in.
That night we were just good friends. For the first time in my life I talked without fear with something who wasn’t Fidel or my mother. How it was possible so much confidence? We really got along.
I began to be aware of his attractive points, that little details that seemed I only could see and that made him exceptional and different.
Furthermore he always made me laugh. I was really prone to laugh back then. I was born happy. I felt the LIFE, I smelled it, I touched it and tasted it. I enjoyed…
I was in that age where every one lives their own fairy tale. And the bad thing of something so good is that you believe that is ETERNAL.

Carpe Diem.

 

 

Spanish originals, 1998-2000. I must say I don’t feel the same that back then, it was a time to suffer and be abandoned by people I trusted.

 

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Letters to Nowhere chapter 5 (Cartas a Ninguna Parte capítulo 5)

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If you were purebred and local or a today renegade mestizo you are approved. But if you are a simple son (proud) of Immigrants, black, chinese, japanese or “similar” you got it thought.
And this is the pure reality.The theory, preached by all, is that all of

them are tolerant, anti racists and anti-xenophobic. You see, “angels”.
Juan Diez, was the first boy in the golden list of good matches.
And Pati was crazy in love with him.
He didn’t even look at her, everybody knew that he felt aversion about Patricia who wasn’t exactly a cover girl. Anyway, he wasn’t nothing special either. I always pitied Patricia, always daydreaming, smiling, laughing, loving… When I met her. But we all change. And in the scales of good and bad inside us, one of the plates outweights the other.
_ The one who looks free is the new…

Helena hit the shot.  Manu almost jumped from the chair to say that she finally get to know his name.
_ Se llama Adrián.

As always she was fill of compliments, not very respectful. To the poor guy’s ears there has to be a good whistle, totally alien to that sickly interest that triggered an unknown girl.

_ Look, your parents.

Patricia was looking through the windows of the coffee shop. I left the money on the table, took my jacket and say good bye quickly, tired of that silly chatting.
_ Are you going to check the lists  on Monday?
_ yes – I replied already in the door.
_ Hey, today is Friday!  – yelled Patricia – Are you going out or not?
_ I’ll call you!

“Who knows?” I thought. I got in the car, happy, commenting the “match” with my parents, and excited with my own conversation I decided to go out that night.

I changed clothes 3 times. I went downstairs to the living room the 3 times and the 3 times I got approval. Why so much interest that night?
I asked myself too: I had those black eyes pierced in my mind, without being able to explain myself what was feeling.
I decided on the blue dress, that I loved, and it was enough for me to look me on the mirror, smile and go out.
I had my face all red.
When a person has the face flushed and the eyes brighting, it’s a sign of happiness, vitality and energy. The eyes talk about everything. It’s amazing.

Back then I had everything. I was going to the College, and new perspectives were opened for me. I felt shiny, I loved being loved and being happy. But, how many times we forget that happiness is not eternal and slides off our hands, slips from them…and You don’t feel it anymore.

 

That night the disco, was as always for me: smoke, french kisses in every corner and tall glasses from I got to listen the sound of the ice cubes hitting each other.
It disappointed me more when the music began to be repetitive, feeling like a hammer inside my head until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I don’t know, I don’t think you will like this music, Beatrix. Its name tells about it perfectly: it’s cold, impersonal, inhuman and with a lyrics who sounds like a babble without argument: machine music.
You see, even here arrived the Industrial revolution. The firsts steps were meritorius and resounding, but now, you know that there is a talk of spaceflights? Of course, only for billionaires.

What good it all this progress if half of the World only has naked bodys, hunger, hopeless and soil under their feet?
Beatrix, what I most regret is that every day lots of children die on The Earth.
A lot, I don’t know how many, but even if it’s only one, they are innocent creatures who won’t be able to LIVE, in capital letter, with all its meaning. Not even reading your tales and imagine little rabbit Benjamin or the Lady kitty or the hen Sarah…

Pati and Manu, met with Helena and two of her coworkers, beginning to complain about the boys not being there that night.
The smoke was  suffocating me, I began to feel sick. It was really that what I wanted?
A couple was eating their mouths in a corner. He was scrubbing all hands her butt.
I found it so disgusting.
The “chick”, that’s a way to talk about someone nowadays even thought they are not the cute chickens from your tales…- made a break to have a drink. She had all the eye mask made a glob and a really impressive dark circles. She looked like the poor and distressed Munch. But there it was impossible to hear the scream, so perfectly audible at the
picture.
Her face reminded me my palette knife and the nice feeling of stopping the pigment with the linseed oil…This way my paintings had come to life: my doves, my horses, my portraits.

I got out of there and , between the wardrobe and the lockers I just breath out. Because you don’t know it but the last thing you can do in a disco or dance pub is breathing.
I pulled the bangs out if my eyes and stepped back. I stumbled upon something.
At first i thought it was the billiard but…that soft?
I turned around and there he was, saying sorry.
_ No, no, it was me, sorry I stepped on your foot.
_ No way, it was me, I wasn’t looking where I was going…
_ It uses to happen on these places…
I said it dismissive. I didn’t do it on purpose, but it looks like he noticed.
_ They are a pain right?
_ I so agree.
_ Then what are we doing here?

He said with such a witty way that made me laugh.
_ Well, I’m not sure, but maybe only to have something to share.
He looked at the door. It has a porthole window through we could see a piece of sky.
_ what about we sharing a bit of fresh air?
I must admit I had some misgivings. I don’t trust people easily. But I don’t know why I followed him.
_ It won’t be long, I’m leaving in 10 minutes.
_ Ah, curfew?
_ No, no…Not at all. At home we all are adults and responsible.
_ And what that means?
_ We don’t lie, we don’t hide anything. We trust completely each others.
_ Sounds very good. I don’t have curfew either. I live alone.
I looked at him questioningly.
_ I came from Ciudad Real* for work…
_ Here? – I made it sound like it was a joke.
_ You don’t like this place?
_ There is only one thing I love here.
I pointed out the mountains. They are incredible pretty , Beatrix, every second, in the passing of the seasons, at night or day time, they are different, but extremely beautiful.
He nodded.
_ And my family – I added in.
_ Do you have siblings?
_ Yes, three – I answered.
_ Wow!
I smiled satisfied. To me, talking about my brothers is like showing out a medal of honor.
_ And you? Have you left someone there in La Mancha*?
_ My Mother.
_ And your father…?
_ As if he were dead. He left us when I was a baby. I have a stepfather but…I prefer not to talk about him.

 

Because of the the tone of the voice and the afliction of his face I got that I had stepped on a very delicate subject and I flustered.Thanks God, because I have a natural tan, the blushings can’t be noticed easily. Instead my brother, just like my Mother, has very white skin and the flushing get all face and even ears.
Without noticing we had walked to the parking.
My car was there, shiny. I had washed it that evening.
Suddenly I remembered I had forgot totally Manu and Patricia.
Looks like I said it out loud, because Adrian, with disgust, said to me that I was doing ok forgetting them.
_ I guess you have noticed I’ve been looking at you…I’m not good at hiding my moves.
I just felt embarrassed and motionless.
_ And I also have seen with whom are you going out. Those girls aren’t for you.
_ You are being too hard with me, and it’s our first conversation.
_ Same for you, who blamed me for opting for this city.
I took out my keys and I was going to get in the car.
_ Then we are in a draw.
Once again those black eyes, that cheeky smile. Them fascinated me without being aware.
I smiled to him.
He smiled to me.

I guess in a place like that, you know my name – he said.
_ Oh, don’t let it go to your head… I also know your name.
_We are in a draw again.

I got in the car. There in the door of the disco, I thought I saw Manu, but I was to excited with that conversation.
Adrian looked how I get out the car from the parking. Raised his hand as saying good bye, and I remember that, just when I passed in front of the disco, a fatty blond was looking at me.
She reminded to me Sissy Spacek on “Carrie” but featuring Rosie O’Donell., that can be lots worse…Oh well, I’m talking to you about something you don’t know. Do you remember that extraordinary invention of two brothers, the Lumiére? Well, it has been more and more big and incredible, I will tell you about it.

It was long ago that the tender and sincere friendship between Manu and I, had begun to break out. But now, being with her , talking with her, scared me.

And I really knew that Fear is the worst enemy to have to be afraid.
But what I didn’t know was about the situation I was going to be drown some time later.
Now I’m not scared of anyone anymore. I know that Human Dignity  makes possible to be the owner of oneself.

Now I’m scared about something that had not been afraid since I started praying to God, when I had 5, 6 years old.
Now what scares me is the DEATH.

To Be continued…

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* Ciudad Real, city from La Mancha, center of Spain, birthplace of El Quijote and his creator Cervantes.

 

Letters to Nowhere chapter 4 (Cartas a Ninguna parte capítulo 4)

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This food is my weakness, because I am so able to eat half of a kilo of bread per day – minimum – I love all with bread, bread with everything and bread alone.
I inherited it from my Mother.
I’m sure you would love to meet her, Beatrix. She is wonderful.
For me, the word Mother doesn’t’ mean the same that for the rest of my generation…And maybe from the future generations.
My mother isn’t my old hag. Not mine neither for anyone. She is not either that menopausal woman who I hate meeting when I’m with my friends. She doesn’t wear hair curlers all time and makes her dressing gown as her best ally all day long. I think she has not touched gossip magazines in her life.
She’s extremely attractive. I get why my father lost his mind for her.
And she has a bright intelligent, sharp and above all, young. She likes music, dancing, laughing, sweets and jeans.
She gave born to her kids, having so many qualities for all kind of things… There is not even a small glimpse of selfishness within her. That’s really strange in a human.
She is a mother-friend, a mother who knows to listen, a mother who knows to give advices.
When she went in the bakery, in views that I wasn’t coming out, she found me suffocated and stunned.
I had been arguing with the new clerk of the bakery. who, like an appearance, showed up behind the counter.
He has put in front of my face, solicitous, a tray of choux a là crème.
_ Look, take a taste, they are really yummy.
_ I don’t doubt it – I said – But I can’t…
_ But if they are really good, come one, take one!
_ I, I can’t…I don’t tolerate dairies and..
_ But if they are filled with custard!! – the boy was looking at me in a aggressive way offended at my refusal.
_ For this reason, custard cream is made with milk…
I began to move back to the door, understanding that it was in vain even trying to convince the clerk. According to him, custard was “a really yummy thing with vanilla flavor”. Boy, you’ve discovered America.
When I saw my Mother going in, I felt safe.
_ Let’s go Mami.
I took her arm and dragged her outside without saying goodbye.
_ We  “fought” during some seconds for the wheel of the car and I won, faster, already inside. I was driving down San Roque street – my favorite – When I saw him.
A black eyed boy was looking at me.
That half-smile activated a mechanism in my mind. After some months I remembered him.
_ Who is?
My mother looked at me in a funny way, with a smirk.
_ He looks at you like…You know him?
_ Not yet.
I followed him with my eyes until I saw him disappear behind a corner.
_ The light is green.
Of course, Mom was referring to the “traffic light”. She kept smiling. But appreciating my complete confidence with her and testing her trust in me, she had not asked a thing.
I put the first gear and feeling the nice texture of the wheel, I drove home safely.

Manu, Patricia and Helena decided to go take a tasty “mineral water”  as a snack. I, almost one month without taking too much dairy, forgot totally the diarrhea and nausea crisis, the unpleasant itching, and I ordered a croissant. I know, I know. What a hobby with the french pastry!…But I really liked it so much…!
_ Golly gee! you are so lucky, eating that much and always so skinny… -exclaimed Helena with a smirk.
I just smiled, a but stunned by the absolute silence of the other two.
_ How is the work?
_ Oh, really good – replied Helena finishing her drink – I have a good salary, that’s all matters. This way I will get my driving license…
_ You will be so excited with it! To be able to drive…I am very happy. I think it’s a really important thing nowadays, and more to us women. It helps to be independent.
_ I don’t see it that necessary – Manu interrupted me scornfully.
_ Then, you would not love to know how to drive? – I asked her surprised.
_ I don’t need it at all. I’m not interested.
_ “The knowledge does not take place” (Spanish proverb)
She did not even look at me. She just did as always, with her little chubby fingers, to tear up the paper from the bottle of water.
Helena, like everybody did, noticed the tension from Manu and changed subjects.
She asked Pati about Juan Diez what made her put a face of a sad lamb.
_ I haven’t seen him…Anyway, what matters if I saw him or not?
_ He’s still going out with Desiree?
The answer was “yes” and sounded worse than a vomit.
_ Really? It’s taking longer than normal, almost 15 days.
And that’s because Juan Diez* has gained his nickname for pure cache.
Here in this city, the first thing that matters is the money, the second, and not less important, the family tree.

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* Juan Diez means John Ten in spanish, a ten man or ten woman is a very popular one.
Of course it’s a fictional name for a real person!

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

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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

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

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

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

YYuhmi

 

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

Estándar

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.

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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 >_<

COMO POLVO DE ARROZ

Estándar

Como polvo de arroz

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_Llevo dos años buscándole.

Dijo el joven de largos cabellos negros, recogidos con una cinta púrpura en la nuca.

El monje, impasible y calmo, le miraba con seriedad. Un tinte de tristeza aguó sus pequeños ojos cansados.

Estaba el humilde templo rodeado de montañas, en algún lugar al norte de Honshu, en Japón.

_ No puedo ayudarte…- El monje hizo una leve venia, inclinando la rasurada cabeza, haciendo tintinear el rosario que colgaba de su cuello.

Regresó a sus quehaceres sin más.

Una hoja de castaño cruzó el aire en un gracioso zigzag, frente a la nariz del joven, que suspiró resignado – y por alguna razón ciertamente aliviado- cerrando los ojos por un instante.

El otoño le había alcanzado.

Sus pies, fuertemente vendados con tiras de algodón, calzados con rústicas sandalias, habían pisado mil veces cien, todo tipo de caminos, aldeas y puentes.

Había visto a las bellas geishas caminando con paso pequeño sobre sus sandalias de madera lacada llamadas Zori, en las calles de Gion.

Compró una campanilla en una de las paradas de la feria del viento y comió Mitarashi dango y manju relleno de pasta de alubias rojas, sentado en un banco de madera frente a una tienda de kimonos.

Observó cómo los niños aprendían a leer y a escribir, en las escuelas llamadas Terakoya, empuñando pinceles que empapaban en tinta oscura como la brea.

Se había cruzado con algún que otro samurai y había visto salir de puertos, barcos hacia Occidente.

Algún día, probablemente, terminaría en uno de ellos…

Ahora seguía caminando, con su bolsa al hombro y un largo bastón de madera de sauce, atravesando los verdes ejércitos de bambúes de Kyushu.

Los pies le ardían: pronto tendría que parar a descansar.

Un par de Gorriones de Java acompañaron sus sueños durante la siesta. Los blancos Bunchou se besaban el pico entre las zarzas, sin miedo al durmiente.

***

Despertó de repente, sorprendido por el ruido del follaje al ser removido, justo a su derecha.

_ ¿Quién es…? – preguntó tras esperar unos segundos la aparición de algún animalillo curioso- … ¡Un niño!

_ ¡No soy un niño! – replicó frunciendo el ceño un muchachito de unos ocho años, armado con arco y flechas.

El joven viajero sonrió, volviendo a apoyar sus cansadas espaldas contra el tronco de un árbol.

_ ¡Tu nombre! – le gritó arrogante el chiquillo, apuntándole con el dedo.

El viajero no veía ninguna malicia en los ojos del pequeño arquero. Era un niño franco, honesto y directo.

Le dijo su nombre y le ofreció un taiyaki que había comprado hacía dos días en una casa de té.

_ Ya no me queda dinero…

_ Pues caza – resolvió el niño masticando con avidez el delicioso dulce – ¿O es que quieres morir de hambre?

_ No me voy a morir de hambre – repuso con absoluta seguridad.

_ ¿Tienes más de ésto? –preguntó limpiándose la boca con un presto manotazo.

_ No, lo siento.

_ Pues te vas a morir…

_ Ya te dije que no moriré de eso…

_ ¿Por qué?

_ Porque estoy buscando a alguien. No puedo morir sin haberle encontrado…

Sus ojos negros brillaron como dos gotas de leche sobre pizarra.

El pequeño arquero quedó fascinado por la determinación de aquel joven.

Semejaba el polvo de arroz que se escurre de entre las manos de quien amasa.

Blanca arena que deja huella.

Se despidieron al alba.

Cada uno de ellos tomó un camino.

Dos vidas, dos historias, acababan de cruzarse en aquel claro de bosque, entre sauces y castaños.

Pero para el viajero, aquella persona, aquella vida, aquella historia, era tal vez la penúltima de muchas otras que había ido encontrando a lo largo de su viaje durante dos años, con sus cuatro estaciones dos veces vividas, en el país del sol naciente.

***

Alcanzó finalmente una inmensa extensión de arrozales, salpicados aquí y allá por casas de madera, humildes, pequeñas y de aspecto tan quebradizo como el de las espigas secas en Agosto.

Una mujer, el kimono arremangado y las manos metidas entre las aguas enturbiadas por el fango, le miró sonriente, convirtiendo su rostro con tal gesto, en una red de mil arrugas, ocultándose los ojitos, como lunas menguantes, entre las cejas blancas y los marcados pómulos tostados por el sol.

La anciana, caminó deprisa, encorvada, aún las manos empapadas, hacia la casa que aromaba el lugar con el olor a pescado asado, soja fermentada y arroz hervido con col.

Le ofreció de comer, como si se tratase de su propio nieto, sin hacer preguntas, sin buscar razones.

Cuando el joven dejó los palillos sobre el tosco pocillo bien arrebañado, la buena mujer le indicó cómo llegar hasta el templo más cercano.

_ Muchas gracias abuelita – inclinó la cabeza el muchacho, aguantándose las ganas de abrazar a la tierna madrecita trabajadora.

El camino serpenteaba, giraba y torcía a derecha e izquierda, franqueado por centenarios árboles de hoja caduca y matorrales abrazados por zarzaparrillas y esparragueras.

Olía a setas y moras.

El sol comenzaba a dormitar, rosado y pálido.

Aquella señora de los campos de arroz… ¿sería la penúltima persona de su largo viaje? ¿O tal vez lo fue el arquero de los bosques de Kyushu?

Quizás ahora encontraré a la penúltima persona de mi viaje…” Pensó hincando el bastón en la tierra, removida por otros viajeros, otros pasos y otros bastones.

En el templo le esperaba otro monje, calzado con sus waraji, unas sandalias de paja entrelazada que rodeaban los tobillos y los pies.

Esta vez se trataba de un hombre joven, alto y solemne, que le recibió con curiosidad, hablando bastante y haciendo preguntas, acompañándole a una sala en la que le sirvió té, para seguir preguntándole sobre un sinfín de cosas, en una conversación inconexa pero amena que relajó la mente del joven peregrino.

_ ¿Y qué es lo que andáis buscando, muchacho? – preguntó, frente a frente con el chico, sentados ambos sobre sus rodillas frente a los vasos, cuencos y utensilios típicos de la ceremonia del té.

El trotamundos suspiró, deseando que tampoco aquella persona supiera contestarle.

Porque él quería seguir viajando.

Ya hacía tiempo que había olvidado la auténtica razón por la que comenzó a caminar, dejando su casa atrás.

Así que no hacía más que preguntarles a todos los que se iban cruzando en su interminable marchar:

_Estoy buscando a la persona que dé fin a mi viaje. ¿Eres tú?

Por supuesto, nadie sabía responder a tal pregunta.

La persona que dé fin a mi caminar…

Hasta que la encuentre, las manos que se me ofrezcan, serán para mí siempre la penúltima persona.

El auténtico sentido de mi viaje.

FIN

Yrene Yuhmi 2007-06-30

GLOSARIO:

Mitarashi dango: Bolas de arroz endulzadas con jarabe de soja, azúcar y almidón; suelen tener tres colores distintos, siendo más populares entre los niños y las mujeres.

Manju: dulces de arroz redondos, generalmente rellenos de pasta de alubia roja.

Bunchou: Gorriones de Java

Terakoya (寺子屋, literalmente “escuelas templo”) Instituciones educacionales privadas en las que se enseñaba a los niños de los japoneses plebeyos a leer y escribir durante el período de Edo.

Taiyaki (鯛焼き, Taiyaki), literalmente “brema de mar horneada,” Es un pastel japonés en forma de pez. Normalmente está relleno de pasta dulce de alubia roja.

Waraji: sandalias que suelen calzar los monjes budistas japoneses.

Ni un rosco de vino más (2001)

Estándar

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Este cuento lo escribí para mi gran amigo Vladimir, un hombre alto como un gigante y rubio como un vikingo, que aunque había nacido en el norte de Europa, vivió en Argentina y la sintió como su madre patria siempre. Adoraba el Mate y el chocolate. Espero que esté bien…Me enseñó a montar a caballo, aún recuerdo nuestras charlas y su acento medio alemán medio argentino. Uno de mis recuerdos más preciados, este amigo del que luego perdí el rastro, tras mi ingreso en el hospital ese mismo año.

Espero que el cuento os guste tanto como a él le gustan los caballos ^_-

(Mi madre adora este cuento, así que en este blog se lo dedico a ella, que es la luz de mi vida.)