30 April 2007


After going through all the mid-term exam papers, I squeezed my I-want-to-retire-to-bed-right-now head into the headset and rang Ma to wish her a very happy birthday. She recognized my "hola" immediately and cried out my name, even though we haven't seen each other for almost 4 years.

She said that by the end of 2007 she was not going to be in Salamanca anymore because the contract will end by then and her heart yearned to go somewhere else, the north, she said, San Sebastián or Bilbao.

Then after a couple of goodbyes, if you know how spanish goodbyes are, which are generally made up of at least 2 or three or more "goodbye"s interlayered by more but not exactly related conversations, to my head's content, it finally hit the pillow. But it was a short-lived one because I kept thinking about her leaving Salamanca. And I just can't get over it. It's not just her leaving that's bothering me, but everyone else's.

By the time I do get back there, there's not going to be much people, if any, left to walk the familiar streets with me, to be in the piso, the resi, the campo de San Francisco, the bus station, Madrid, and other millions of places that had been contaminated by memories. Yes, I will get to know someone new, but as you know the new can never truely replace the old.

So, despite the threats from the head to stage a strike, I got out of comfort and woke up Argo, the iBook, which was sleeping, and spend more or less 2 hours in front of the desk in the middle of the night (still have to work tomorrow) keyboarding this latest entry which is not going to be read by too many people on earth. Think about the facts, the chances really aren't that high that you will come across this blog, first you'll have to go through billions of years of evolution, then make sure that all of your ancestors reproduced at exactly the same moment with exactly the same person, and when you've accomplished the mission impossible to be born into this world you will have to accumulate an extraordinarily rich reserve of patience to put up with all the shit that I've written to reach this final word.

13 April 2007


It's a morbid habit of mine to read about people's death. And, no, it's not like what you might think, I don't clap my hands or let out a joyous cry nor does it arouse me in the way you might be thinking, of which I'm of course not referring to anything.

Kurt Vonnegut (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007) died yesterday and then I found myself spending hours reading about the man and his work. Well, of course I knew who the hell Vonnegut was, but who he actually was only till now do I know. Interesting, isn't it? You have to be dead to catch the attention and interest of certain people who would otherwise never spend a damn second on you.

Why is that? Is it hindsight? Hypocrisy maybe? Probably both. It could also be that you're just too small to notice something that is not in the immediate precinct or of any actual tangible advantages. Just too damn bogged down in your goddamn little world and imagining and fabricating the world of wishful thinking. Once in a while the death of someone pulls you out of this shite and for 5 minutes you're all enlightened and all that, then you slip back to the hole, till the next death takes you out for another ride. So life goes on like that until one day it's you who would be taking someone else for a 5-minute-ride. And it ends there, as far as we know scientifically. Bravo.