Constantino Romero y el exhibicionista de Barcelona /The pervert of Barcelona

 

Kanharu doujinshi
Kanharu in Barcelona 90s

Barcelona de finales de los 90.
Pero finales, finales.

Muy temprano,

aún todavía sintiendo

el tacto de la sábana en mi mejilla,

pasó por delante de la panadería

y compró unos panecillos acabados de hornear.

Ya he desayunado en pisito de la calle Ivorra,

en mi barrio de estudiante universitaria,

uno con nombre que suena

a cortar leña o trepar montes: Sarrià.

Las personas con Fibrosis quística

solemos tener siempre un apetito voraz,

y a la par, una terrible malísima digestión.

Menuda contradicción dietética…

Esa es la razón por la cual paro

poco después de desayunar,

en la panadería, calentita,

con sus dependientes vestidas de blanco

y sus pinzas, como cangrejitos serviciales,

sirviendo donuts, cruasáns,

baguettes, panes rústicos

y demás delicias de cereal.

Pisando fuerte, masticando aquellos

panecillos blandos como nubes,

mi falda larga de punto roza las botas altas,

como orejas de textil atentas

al despertar de la ciudad,

mezcolanza de voces y máquinas,

música urbana.

Pasó por delante del Corte Inglés

en la Plaza Maria Cristina,

grandes almacenes que marcan

el paso de las estaciones mejor

que el planeta Tierra…Esta vez toca

poner las luces de Navidad.

Miles y miles de luces que los operarios

colocan con paciencia infinita…

¿Qué dibujo formarán las luces

cuando esté terminado aquel puzzle de colores?

No estoy yo para pensar mucho en ello,

porque mientras voy camino de la Facultad,

repaso todas las lecciones,

las del día y las que me gusta repasar,

o bien me ando por las ramas hasta pensando,

y me pierdo como Alicia en un país

de mil maravillas de lo más variopintas…

Vamos, para decirlo más claramente:
estoy en Babia.
O en la luna de Valencia.

¿Por qué se dirá? “Estás en la luna de Valencia”

Y de nuevo a las andadas.

Cuando llegó a la calle larga y cuesta abajo

que parece apuntar

a la boca del edificio de la facultad,

aceleró el paso.

Supongo que por inercia,

y porque cuesta abajo es más fácil dejarse llevar

y los pensamientos se multiplican por mil,

y yo ya estoy perdida en ellos por completo.

Es una calle solitaria,

simple asfalto, con solares de maleza a los lados,

y una gran pancarta que anuncia un foie grass,

que por aquel entonces anunciaba

un muy querido presentador de televisión,

locutor y actor de doblaje

¿le recordáis? Constantino Romero,

la voz de Clint Eastwood,

Arnold Schwarzenegger,

o Dark Vader…

Esa voz, qué voz…
En Star Wars
_Luke, yo soy tu padre
En Terminator
_Sayonara baby
o ese discurso final de la peli Blade Runner
_Yo he visto cosas que vosotros no creeríais…

(Rutger Hauer)

Qué voz, me diré a mi misma al pasar

por delante del enorme cartel publicitario,

casi a la entrada de la universidad…
Pero antes de eso.

Unos pasos, unos metros antes de eso,

un compañero de clase me hace volver en mi:

_ ¡Yrene!

_(¿eh?) ¡Ah! Hola Juan, Buenos días.

Juan me mira con cara de incredulidad,

algo de extrañeza y una pizca de risa nerviosa.

_ ¿No lo has visto?
_ El qué – le miró interrogante…

¿qué tendria que haber visto?

Estaba tan confusa

que no sabía si frenar el paso

y mirar bien a mi alrededor

o seguir para no hacerle un feo

a la cuesta que empujaba

mi cuerpo hacia adelante.

_ ¡Al tío ese! ¡Se ha abierto el abrigo delante de ti!
_ ¿El abrigo?
_ ¡Un exhibicionista Yrene!

Por supuesto que no lo había visto.
Y estaba tan claro,

que Juan me miraba

ya con ganas de reír de verdad.
_ El tío se ha quedado decepcionado.

Has pasado como si no hubiera nadie.

Vamos como si fuera invisible.
_ Anda ya…- casi no me lo creía.
_ ¡De verdad! No, si ya decía yo

que no lo habías visto…

Porque, es que…

¡has pasado a un escaso metro de él!

¡Y ni caso!

Ni un susto, ni un gritito, ni un

¡Ay Virgen Santa!

_ No me he perdido nada entonces.

Juan se reía.

Él sí que había visto algo

inusual aquella mañana:

Porque un pervertido se había quedado

más mustio que su patética desnudez,

al verse ignorado,

por alguien que tenía en mente

a Constantino Romero, a las obras

del maravilloso Bernini y

al sabor de los panecillos

recién horneados de la calle Ivorra.

Yrene Yuhmi recuerdos, Noviembre 2019

IMG_20191125_001226
The End

Barcelona of the late 90s.
The very very end of the 90s.

Very early, still feeling the touch of the sheet on my cheek,
I stopped at the bakery and bought some just baked small breads. I have already had breakfast at the appartment, in Ivorra Street, in my university student neighborhood, one with a name that sounds like cutting wood or climbing mountains: Sarrià.

People with cystic fibrosis usually have a voracious appetite, and at the same time, a terrible bad digestion. What a dietary contradiction …

That is the reason why I stop shortly after breakfast, in the bakery, warm, with all the store-dependents dressed in white, holding their tongs, like helpful cute crabs, serving donuts, croissants, baguettes, rustic breads and other cereal delights.

Stomp it out, chewing those soft muffins fluffy like clouds, my long knit skirt rubbing the high boots, like textile ears attentive to the awakening of the city, a mixture of voices and machines: urban music.

I passed the El Corte Inglés in the Plaza Maria Cristina, big department stores that mark the passage of the seasons better than the planet Earth … Now it’s time to put the Christmas lights. Thousands and thousands of lights that operators place with infinite patience … What drawing will the lights form when that colored puzzle is finished?

I am not to think about it much, because while I am on my way to the Faculty, I review all the lessons, those of the day and those that I like to review, or I beat around the bush until thinking seriously about sometime clear and concrete, and I lose myself as Alice in a country of a thousand of all kind of wonders …

Ok, to put it more clearly:
I’m “in Babia”
Or on “the moon of Valencia”

Why do people say that idiom?
“You are on the moon of Valencia”

It bugs me…

and I am at it again.

When I reached the long and downhill street that seems to point to the mouth of the faculty building, I accelerated my steps. I guess because of inertia, and because downhill it is easier to get carried away and thoughts multiply by a thousand, and I am already lost in them completely.

It is a lonely street, simple asphalt, with lots of weeds on the sides, and a large banner that announces a foie grass, which at that time announced a very dear television presenter, announcer and voice actor, do you remember? Constantino Romero, the voice of Clint Eastwood, Arnold Schwarzenegger, or
Dark Vader…

That voice, what a voice …
In Star Wars
_Luke I am your father
In terminator
_Sayonara baby
or that final speech of the movie Blade Runner
_I have seen things that you would not believe … (Rutger Hauer)

What a voice, I will tell myself as I pass in front of the huge advertising poster, almost at the entrance of the university …
But before that, a few steps, a few meters before that, a classmate brings me back to me:

_ Yrene!

_ (Huh?) Ah! Hi Juan, good morning.

Juan looks at me with a face of disbelief, a bit of strangeness and a hint of nervous laughter.

_ You have not seen him?
_ See what?
He looked questioningly …
But I didn’t get what he was talking about.What should I have seen? I was so confused that I did not know whether to slow down and look around or continue to not make an ugly one to the slope that was pushing my body forward.

_ To that guy! He opened his coatin front of you!
_ The coat?
_ An exhibitionist, Yrene!

Of course I hadn’t seen it.
And it was so clear that Juan was already looking at me really killing his laugh.
_ The guy must be so disappointed. You have passed as if there was no one. As if he were invisible.
_ Come on …- I almost didn’t believe it.
_ For real! Well, I already said to myself that you had not seen it … Because, it is just that … you have passed so so close to him!
And you ignored it.
Not a scare, not a scream, not a woe, Holy Virgin!

_ I haven’t missed anything then.

Juan laughed. He had seen something unusual that morning.

Because a pervert had become more whitered than his pathetic nakedness, because he was ignored, by someone who had in mind Constantino Romero, the works of the wonderful Bernini and the taste of freshly baked muffins from Ivorra Street.

Yrene Yuhmi Memories, November 2019

The summer when Lady H.H.Holmes almost killed me

Confesiones por email “Así nació Yrene Yuhmi”

https://yreneyuhmi.wordpress.com/2016/06/28/confesiones-por-email-asi-nacio-yrene-yuhmi/
— 読み進める yreneyuhmi.wordpress.com/2016/06/28/confesiones-por-email-asi-nacio-yrene-yuhmi/

I’ve been thinking a lot these days, and I did not dare to write to you … I still have very bad memories of when I did not know what I was suffering from, and the anguish is very strong with those memories.

This is in my case, which is different, although each case is unique because there are many types of CF mutations, and that makes each patient different. Broadly speaking, CF is genetic, it produces a degeneration of the whole body, because it affects at cellular level. You can find a lot of information on CF federation site or at Wikipedia!

But to get to the point, and roughly, it’s diagnosed at birth, and affects the lungs greatly, and the digestive system, pancreas, liver, genital tract, skin, muscles, bones … In CF, there is an excess of excretion or mucus in all the organs, for example, our sweat is very salty, that’s why when we talk about CF we hear the expression “salty kisses”

we lose a lot of salt, so we need a supplement, mostly during summer. The pancreas does not produce enzymes, and sometimes, unfortunately, neither insulin (nor endocrine function nor exocrine) so you have diabetes in addition.

The liver is also tired and transaminases can be altered, the genital flow is constant, mucous; in men there is a high probability of being sterile … the malabsorption causes us to lose many kilos with great ease, and this is a problem above all in time of growth, that is why it is important to be diagnosed immediately.

A few years ago the CF test was added to the others tests that are done on the baby’s foot. But I was born in 1976! And whatever the reason was, I didn’t have a diagnose.

I was a healthy baby, but my mother tells me I had some episodes of being very thin, at age five, and then at 13, I started with constant diarrhea. They said that it was lactose intolerance (in CF you can have celiac disease and intolerances due to digestive problems, they are all secondary diseases due to the cystic fibrosis)

My mother fought hard to know why I was always sick, losing weight, with diarrhea, indigestion always, nausea but never vomiting, a state of eternal nausea … many years of struggle, going to different doctors, hospitals … Tarragona and Barcelona … finally, a doctor specialised in food allergies and paediatrician, working in Barcelona, ​​Dr. Jaume Botey and Sala, very old, wise, a man with a big and strong constitution, and ethical talking totally impartial, he made me “the test of sweat” and it gave positive.

I had CF, and only knowing what I was suffering from, despite being an incurable and mortal disease…

It made the whole family breathe easy!

The bad thing was the research stage, which many doctors believed I had anorexia (the 90s were the years of awareness and extension of what appeared to be this disease) and although all psychiatrists and professionals completely ruled out I had anorexia, a couple of doctors (no psychiatrists) did not want to budge.

During the year 2001 I had to be hospitalised because of cachexia, I weighed only 30 kilos: it was a hell for me… (I did not recognize myself, it hurt me to look at me in the mirror, I did not go out just because I was scared of my appearance, or of people whispering about me without dissimulation, to the point of making cry my little sister…I recall this situation was in a clothes shop called “Stradivarius”

I remember it because we mom and sisters, could almost never go out, and she was 13 or 14 years old, (the age of going with her big sister to shop and enjoy those times and that age …)

No matter how hard I tried to gain weight, I was plummeting. First the doctors thought it was an immune disease of the liver, but it was not like that.

In Barcelona, ​​the head of the plant, a big fish of Vall d’Hebrón hospital, was the digestologist who took my case.

She did not like the fact that Dr. Botey gave me the diagnosis…And who knows why, she always seemed angry with me and my mother. She was a mean and arrogant woman.

One day, fed up with my case, she told me that if I kept going like that (?)

she could not do anything.

I said: “I do not want to continue like this either, that’s why I’m here,

you have to help me”

she said there were more doctors in Spain, and we made the consultation at two.

“If you do not save me, God will save me,” I replied, crying.

And she screamed with arrogance and despise, “well, so God do save you!”

I left crying and ran without knowing where inside the digestive plant, and my mother did not know whether to follow me, or continue trying to talk to the doctor, at that absurd and nightmare-like “end of the consultation”, without further hope, she realised her period just came suddenly: and It was a considerable hemorrhage.

Once in Tortosa, I was admitted to a clinic, and there they put me a tube to be fed by vein, do not know what is the correct name in English, but it was a tube that ran from the intravenous feeding machine, to the heart, from the back of the elbow.

In that clinic they could not treat CF, so they sent me to Vall d’Hebron on the condition (I asked for) of not even having to see “the evil female doctor” in question. The deal was established and they took us there by ambulance.

As soon as I arrived, a doctor and around ten interns came in, examined all my belongings, treated me like someone despicable … and so started our nightmare:

The plant manager M.D. did appear, they broke the deal…

The summer of 2001 was the most eternal and terrible season of our lives.

They did psychological tests to both of us, my mother did not have to go through that, but anyway they did it… instead of treating my CF, they were desperately looking for an eating disorder. The psychiatrists and psychologists continued to argue that it was not like that, that I was depressed by my physical condition and by being always sick.

They took me to the hardest Psychiatric area, the Pedopsychiatrists interrogated us both, in separate rooms, for a few hours. We had already gone through hard questions in Tortosa. It was as if I was to blame for what was happening to me.

In pedopsychiatrist area, the doctor, a well known eminence, determined that I did not have anorexia neither anything similar.

In any case, the digestive doctor did not want to hear it.

She came to the room at eleven o’clock or so, with a bunch of interns. Everyday.

One day I remember she taking my arm and squeezing it hard:

“Do you see “this”? She does not have muscle mass, as she does not eat, her body does not have any fat ”

“Sorry, but I do eat” I said, and I looked at them, trying to find someone to help me, someone who believed me.

“Leave her alone, don’t mind her, she’s crazy” the doctor replied without any doub, almost throwing my arm aside.

“She is crazy” words like those made me swallow the tears every single day, being aware that I wasn’t getting any better.

Then I got transferred to a “special room” where just one day before was hospitalised an old man who has lost his mind.

When I gained the nurses trust and friendship, one of them told me that there was a listening device there, and warned my mother and me about it…then we really realised things were really going so bad, and I understood that I wasn’t going to get well, I will never be cured, not on that room.

The other patients at the same plant didn’t eat too much, I remember one who always refused the hospital food and ate cocoa powder like a kitty.

Their intravenous machine was at full throttle not like mine, so they gained the weigh quickly and got out that horrible place in no time.

The treatment was really really different. I didn’t understand why. I couldn’t.

I asked forty voluntary discharge since the medical treatment wasn’t working and wasn’t the adequate. It was at half September. I wanted to be back home, I didn’t want to die there, if it was going to happen, I preferred to be at my own bed.

The struggle until beginning of spring of next year was strange, because I felt with such a will of living and getting over all that, and little by little I gained weigh, around March of 2002. But I was swelled like a balloon. My tummy was like a barrel, my skin hurt, there was a lot of liquids inside me. Doctors didn’t know the reason, or didn’t wanted to say it to me.

The point is that I was almost recovered around June. It was what I call a miracle. (I know it’s not something people use to believe in, but I do)

But what happened? Now I have some idea.

During my stay in the hospital, we met an old lady, quite rich, who always praised the evil doctor who now, I call lady H.H.Holmes*

While she ask tacs and other tests on me, I listened to her egocentric talk with other doctors who looked like puppies liking her shoes to get a candy.

She was studying and trying to do a new pancreas transplant, something that would made her the top of the top on medicine. Or something like that.

I wondered why she was so sure I was going to die.

She really seemed she wanted me to fail on my recovery. Even gave me all pills or medicines with lactose or gluten on purpose, since I had the diagnose from a doctor she seemed to hate.

The important point is that f I died she could have a pancreas which could made insulin, so it was perfect for a transplant.

Perfect for her Plan? Of course, all of this is just a guess, a conjecture. I can’t be sure about it, just something seems to make the whole puzzle complete.

And now, right in this sadly socially and politically rotten Spain, I see all the xenophobia I have tasted since my childhood, become a finished canvas easily understanding. I lived in a region were Castilla and Andalusian emigrants were and still are hated and looked down.

I was in bad hands, but those hands were M.D.

That lady H.H. Holmes made my family suffer to an extreme you can’t imagine.

When I was almost recovered from liquids and new body changing (I was like a slime turning into a human!) I went to see the nurses who tried to know me and changed their mind about me, since they were told to do as I was a prison burglar or some kind of monster.

They saved me. I am so thankful!!

On the corridor of the same plant I was hospitalised, we chatted happily about my recover. Then, lady H.H.Holmes appeared from behind, and everybody face changed colours. I didn’t even turn out. I felt a chill all over my back.

She said, “oh, Irene, you look amazing” as if nothing had happened.

I just said “Thanks to God” keeping myself towards the nurses.

Lady H.H.Holmes vanished after being ignored.

Other patients had to pass through what we passed.

She just picked her victims for some strange reason only she knew.

I don’t know where is she, what she does, and I don’t care.

The past is filled with memories, but there is no room for her neither for the bad moments.

From bad moments I got good experiences. You can get some funny anecdote from terrible experiences.

It’s what I want to think, because it happens to us at home.

Now I keep the struggling!

And if our Lord gave me another chance, must be for some reason.

I want to keep it up, love and live!

And make some justice too, someday…

So then, I wrote a long letter my friend!

And it’s only a glimpse of the whole thing,

Thanks so much for reading my lines.

I hope you got an idea of what happened to me.

Thanks for your concern and interest about this disease Cystic fibrosis,

I wish more people were like you are!

And just how I always use to sign,

Love & Peace

Yours

Yrene Yuhmi (Ren)

Caption*

The Master of the Murder Castle

 

Edited: year 2020, I just knew that the evil doctor passed away some years ago…I don’t feel anything about her. It is an strange feeling…

Efemérides Nace Van Gogh Fallece Fernando R. Pando

¿Abuelete, quién me iba a decir que te llevaría la enfermedad el mismo día que nació Van Gogh, el pintor que me inspiró y marcó mi adolescencia?

La vida es muy cínica, caprichosa…y adora jugar con las fechas y los encuentros y desencuentros.

Ya hace cinco años, abuelete. Qué largos y qué cortos. Siempre los dos en nuestra memoria, porque vivimos muy juntos y muy intensamente.

En tres años nuestra Lela, se fue tras de ti. Os echamos mucho de menos…os llevásteis con vuestra sonrisa y vuestra calidez, una gran parte de nuestra existencia. Hasta que llegue el momento, esperadnos en el cielo…

Yrene Yuhmi portrait (Fernando R. Pando durante el servicio militar)
Yrene yuhmi abuelos maternos.

 

Escrito hace cinco años, cuando comencé este pequeño blog:

“No sabía cómo empezar a hablar de mí aquí. El pasado día 30 de Marzo, mi abuelo, Fernando Rodríguez Pando, murió por enfermedad a los 81 años de edad. Abuelete era un hombre especial, fuerte, un gran orador, autodidacta, memorista (amante de la memoria y los recuerdos), cariñoso, directo y auténtico. Era tan trabajador que sus manos quedaron agarrotadas, con la forma que le dejó el palustre y demás instrumentos del buen paleta. Sin embargo no fue sólo paleta, hizo tantas cosas en la vida, que para mí es un super héroe… Sus ojos azules aún me miran ahora, aunque no esté.

Su voz sigue resonando en mi cabeza, muy viva “No llores, bonita”…Y la calidez de su mano al coger la mía, la siento pero a la vez me hace tanta falta…

Esta entrada quiero que sea un inicio para él y para mí.

Que la enfermedad no trunque más sueños. Que la vida sea vivida con sencillez pero profundamente, sin perderse detalle…

Sin perder ni un poquito de cada persona a la que amo.”

Artículo completo aquí: Primer paso

 

Gracias a tod@s los que me apoyáis tanto y con tal cariño, tanto en lo referente a la fibrosis quistica como en mi vida como dibujante y escritora.

LOVE & PEACE

Yrene yuhmi 30 Marzo 2017

今日は「30日3月」5年前にフェルナンドおじいさん、母のお父さんは亡くなりました。3年後妻イレーネおばあさんも星になりました。

二人共がいないと悲しくて、寂しいですが、時が来たらまた逢えるでしょう!

その前に人生を楽しむことは一番です。夢を追いかけて、精一杯生きて、

おじいさんとおばあさんの言葉と優しさも忘れずにこの世界にそのまま返しますように!

天国から私達を見守ってくれるはずです。

おじいさん、いっぱい教えてくれてありがとう!愛してくれてありがとう。。。

おばあさんもいっぱい教えてくれてありがとう!愛してくれてありがとう。。。

皆々様、何時も応援と励ましも、心底から感謝しています。

愛友と尊敬も込めて!

イレーネ優海より🌸🌸🌸

 

 

Cómo conocí a mi madre

imageSe acercaban los ochenta poco a poco, teníamos constitución, Franco por fin (lo que tardó) había muerto y se llevaban los pantalones de campana y las patillas largas.

Mi madre había tenido un amago de aborto a los tres meses, volvía con su madre del médico, asustada tras haber manchado, y rígida por luchar contra el traqueteo de los duros asientos de madera del autobús.

_ Las 48 horas siguientes son cruciales, si se acomoda el feto, y no señala usted más entonces bien. Pero debe hace reposo absoluto durante un par de meses. De esta forma puede que no lo pierda…Le pondremos también unas inyecciones.

Mi madre lloraba, tan desconsoladamente, y aún así, tan decidida a tener al bebé y a tomarse el reposo muy seriamente. Y estamos hablando de una mujer hiperactiva…

Una vecina, dependienta de una zapatería a la que iban mi madre y mi abuela, tuvo el mismo amago de aborto y se le dieron las mismas instrucciones, pero ella decidió no hacer reposo absoluto.

Pocos días después en el autobús se encontró con mi abuela:
_¿Ya vas a trabajar? -le preguntó extrañada a la muchacha.
_Yo no tengo intención de estar tanto tiempo en cama- le respondió con ligereza_…
Lo que tenga que ser será. Si no lo tengo pues nada.

Y nada fue, porque lo perdió. Al destino también se le pueden dar empujones para ir hacia un lado o hacia otro.

Con paciencia y sumo cuidado, pasaron los meses, uno tras otro, y llegó el día en que las contracciones se dieron a conocer, poco a poco durante los quehaceres rutinarios, sin apenas saber que ya estaba a punto de llegar el bebé.

El 22 de diciembre, mi madre tenía apenas 22 años, y unos tres meses. Acurrucada en el sofá blanco de nuestro primer hogar, envuelta en su mantita, algo pachucha, veía “Mujercitas” en la televisión.

La de Lis Taylor, de la que recuerdo su carita de muñeca observando junto a sus hermanas, alguna escena desde detrás de los barrotes de la victoriana escalera.

Las contracciones no le impidieron disfrutar de la película, hizo la cena, llegó mi padre, se fueron a dormir y las contracciones seguían por supuesto, su ritmo…
Ya muy tarde y con el calor de la camita, el parto decía no poder esperar más.

_ ¿ Pero tú ya estás segura?

¡La pregunta del siglo! Os diréis: como en una película de Alfredo Landa y Gracita Morales…sólo la ingenuidad y calma infinita de mi padre podía perder el tiempo en tal pregunta en un momento tan obvio.

Mi madre no le contestó, cogía su manta color dorado, de piel terciopelo y se volvía al sofá buscando lo imposible, encontrarse mejor, y pensando que al día siguiente tenía visita en el ginecólogo.
A las dos de la madrugada le dijo por fin a mi padre:
_Vámonos que me encuentro muy mal.

Y así partieron, pasando primero por casa de mi abuela materna, a buscarla por supuesto. Siempre juntas, madre e hija. Como después tendríamos mi madre y yo…¡Qué lazo tan irrompible, generacional y extrañamente mágico..!

Llegando al hospital, una luna inmensa roja, iluminaba el horizonte. Más tarde supe que había eclipse de luna, algo bastante peculiar. En este punto no sé si decir, que la luna eclipsada iba a darnos buena o mala suerte. La cuestión es que por lo que me explica siempre mi madre, con tanto detalle cómo le es característico, es que era muy hermosa, redonda, gigantesca…

Al pasar el puente del río parecía asomarse a verse reflejada en las aguas, luna coqueta.

El edificio estaba recién terminado, acabado de inaugurar, todo para estrenar, impecable como el ajuar de uno de los tantos y tantos bebés que iba a cobijar durante y tras tantos y tantos alumbramientos.

La dejaron sola, sin poder ver a nadie, durante bastante tiempo, lo suficiente para creer que llevaba una eternidad, entre contracción y contracción cada vez más dolorosas.
El papel pintado de la habitación tenía un estampado de florecitas que siguió con la mirada, contando, buscando, mirando cada forma, cada rinconcito, cada puntito…
¿Qué otra distracción iba a tener, una jovencita primeriza, con miedo, con dolor y completamente sola?

Seguramente pensó: ¡ay si estuviera Mamá aquí! ¡Ay, si estuviera Papá aquí!
Pensaría también en el futuro padre, en sus hermanos…hasta que de vez en cuando aparecería una mujer de más que austera expresión para ver cómo avanzaba el asunto, mirando le decía:
_No has dilatado nada.

Mi padre y mi abuela estaban abajo, en la sala de espera, por las estrictas normas del recién estrenado hospital.
Mi abuela contaba después, mi yerno ahí tan tranquilo, leyendo una revista, y yo ¡con unos nervios…!

Qué frío tenía mi madre en aquella habitación…
Imagino el cierto alivio y a la par miedo al ver que entró el médico para anunciarle?
_No dilatas, tendremos que sacarlo con ventosa…Debemos anestesiarte.

Después resultó que lo que se utilizó no fue la ventosa si no los prohibidos fórceps. Milagrosamente, las dos salimos ilesas.

La comadrona escuchaba al bebé con una trompetilla con lo ancho pegado contra la barriga, para escuchar los latidos del pequeño corazón. Como se escuchaban bien, sabían que vivía pero no estaban seguros de lo que podía pasarle…incluso a los ocho meses de embarazo le hicieron a mi madre una radiografía, cosa impensable hoy día y en aquel tiempo, unos treinta años atrás, tampoco creo que fuera muy corriente…

Por lo visto yo estaba colocada de cara, vamos, que “de cara” al mundo venía, sin ocultar nada, con una curiosidad tremenda que me impulsaba a meter mis narices en cualquiera cosa que captara mi interés. Y así hasta día de hoy…

Mi madre solo preguntaba :
_ ¿El bebé está bien?

En esos tiempos no se sabía si era niño o niña hasta que nacía. La sorpresa estaba garantizada.

Cuando nací mi madre estaba dormida bajos los efectos de la anestesia, a la cual, con el tiempo hemos llegado a saber, tiene problemas graves.

El señor M. celador, era un hombre alto, muy alto, y de ancho cuerpo, fuertote, con el pelo cano.

Él fue el que vio todo lo que no vio mi madre, y también quien la llevó a la habitación donde yo bebé, la esperaba sola, y ¡seguro que lo hacía con muchas ansias!

_Ay niña, no sabes lo mal que has estado -le dijo el celador a mi madre- has estado más allí que acá. Echabas espuma por la boca.

Mi madre se sorprendió, aún entumecida, adormecida, extraña con todo lo acaecido.
Sí sabía que había estado preguntando a las enfermeras la misma pregunta cada tantos minutos, en un extraño bucle causado por la anestesia.

_¿Qué ha sido niño o niña? ¿Está bien?
_ Ha sido niña, ¡niña! -le decían las enfermeras, hastiadas con la cuestión – si te lo acabo de decir…Y está muy bien.

Se miraban entre ellas, cómplices, con sus gajes del oficio, como diciendo ¡ay que cruz! Pero siguiendo respondiéndole las veces que fue necesario.

Las primeras navidades las pasamos juntas las dos, solas. Como tantas otras cosas hemos vivido y como hasta ahora vivimos las dos, como gemelas, como un alma en dos, inseparables. Como Almodovar con su madre, como Antonio Machado con su madre, como J.M Barrie con su madre…como muchos de vosotros con vuestras madres, seguramente, porque creo que este lazo no es tan extraño como se cuenta…

Hace un año casi que falleció mi abuela materna, la lela, nuestra lela…cuando me vio por primera vez, y ante unos ojos tan rasgados como yo tenía siendo recién nacida, dijo con esa eterna sonrisa suya:
_¡Qué bien se va a hacer la raya del ojo!

Ahora pienso, desearía, poder estar en ese momento para verles a todos juntos, no por mi, si no por ver sus caras, sus reacciones, su sorpresa, su alegría, su inquietud…vivirlo con ellos como adulta, como sólo he podido imaginar a partir de lo que todos ellos me han contado.

Recuerdos tengo muchos sí, pero se echan de menos los abrazos, los besos y las sonrisas, las charlas, “¿te echo más leche en el café?” “Qué buenos están estos pestiños…” “Mira qué bien huelen las violetas este año”

Unos vienen otros se van, así es la vida decimos. Pero ¿de verdad nos lo creemos? ¿Nos hemos acostumbrado a ello?

Un cumpleaños es la historia de un parto vivido por muchas personas de repente unidas por la vida, otras unidas desde lejanas generaciones…es la historia de una historia que comienza a terminarse, y mientras va terminando, va comenzando a entenderse poco a poco, comenzando a buscar otro comienzo.

Gracias a tod@s por celebrar este cumpleaños conmigo, no soy merecedora de tan increíbles, estupendas amistades.

Gracias mami por parirme, porque así te conocí, conocí a mi padre, a mis hermanos, a mis abuelos, a mi familia…y conocí la vida, con todo lo que conocerla conlleva.
Pero contigo, no hay nada que no se pueda sobrellevar…
Siempre juntas…mi único deseo.

Yrene Yuhmi

Primer Domingo de Mayo 2016

 

What I can find cleaning and tiding things to End 2014

Mom does this big clean up since We were kids.We didn’t know in Japan there is a traditional habit (and a very good one as expected!) that is cleaning and tiding everything before the year ends.

I really am amazed Mom seems japanese…maybe someone of our ancesters were samurais who lived in a town near Sevilla, called Coria del Río. My grandfather’s mother came from a town very nearby.

And so maybe this could explain my physical features, very similar to japanese! ^_^

so so then! what can I find tiding up my things? Writings and drawings…️Lots…

REALLY.

It could gave you a harsh headache -.-

I up some of then handscripts to end maybe, this year on the blog…

I really want to finish my novels but I must get healthier ^^,,,

My beloved Rodin, sketch Ink from Beatrix Potter book

Sketches writings Cat on the forest

I love when I find quotes I like wrote there and here on this old old note books 🙂

Like this one by Antón Chejov, one of my favorite russian writers and poets.

Antón Chejov hand writing quote

Russian people Love their past, hate their present and fear their future.

they do not know that the Future which fear so much is going to be the

Present that hate and so this Present, will become the Past they Love so much.

I think it is not only the russian people but every one of us who feel this way…

we must try to live our present to our fullest, as my Mom says:

“Los momentos del presente serán los recuerdos del futuro”

Delores R.D

(the moments in our present will be our memories in the future)

PEACE & LOVE

Yrene Yuhmi

Happy Day of the BOOK!

Happy Day of the BOOK!

23th of April! I know I am late ^^,, But I was sick all day -_-
Anyway, here is my new kids tale, Mediapulgada y Isla Margarita, Half Inch on Daisy Island.
Look at Rona chan, she just love cute things and colors! lol
Much love!
Yrene Yuhmi

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

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)

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)

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)

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 >_<