How elusive love could be. It goes from here to there, from there to here, from here to there. You can sit and see it come and scape back again like simple spectators on a tennis match. Or you could go after it, tumbling down and knocking others down, like if it were a rugby game. In any case it would be difficult to catch.
I don’t think I have new followers but new found friends. I have only felt gratitude since I started to dedicate this account to what I love most, reading and writing. That is so when I changed my content, my interest of following big companies also changed, as they would never mind for what I think and feel. And now this blog is full with a nice community of old friends, those who have always been there, because they know me and support me, and the new friends, those whom just have arrived, and have sent a message, to tell me with lovely words, that they can also support me, even when they have never met me. And we talk sometimes, about life, family, and our revolting emotions. And I feel that I could touch their hand right through my computer, and I could offer them a coffee. And I feel that now my virtual reality is as close as my own reality. Thanks to my new friends for being here. Thanks to my old friends because I know you will always be here. Luz
Ernest Hemingway talks in ‘A Moveable Feast’ of when he lost his manuscripts. How painful must have been for a writer that had dedicated his soul and body to give shape to his ideas. We all know how hard it is to lose an important text, but being a young Hemingway, still unsure of his method, without even knowing if that method was reaching its potential and if his lyrics would someday find fame, could have been devastating, as his wife lost his suitcase in a Parisian train station in 1922.
Let me talk today about one of my most precious treasures. As a good treasured it fell into my hands by a simple coincidence. I was in Sydney, where I used to live, and as it always happens —it is still happening to me here in France—, when I cannot find books in Spanish I don’t know what to choose. I was randomly looking inside Harry Hartog, my favourite bookstore in Bondi, when I found it. Strange title, I thought. I then saw a note of recommendation classifying it as one of the best books in fiction. I bought it and left it in my own little library for two months. And when I finally took it I regret of having lost two months in which I should had known everything about this book.
8:30 am today, I had only five minutes to get to school that is only a few meters away. They are insuperable meters when you have to feed, bath and dress three young children. Then the counting starts before putting them on, six gloves, three wool hats, three scarves, six socks. Each of them tiny and elusive, always forgotten in every corner of the house.
Being creative is like playing hide-and-seek. She runs in every direction, I chase her, with all my speed and my strength. She stops, looks at me an laughs. She disappears. I run again, this time determined to catch her, I find her, and I touch her, yes, I think I just touched her, but when I try to grab her from her muscular arm she scapes and runs again, laughing at me, once again.
I try to control my mind. Because let’s not lie to each other, it dominates me, with her steel chains, with those thick links that cannot be separated. Living in the past is my addiction, I like to walk in those memories that revive with all the nostalgia my childhood, school, university, family, friends.
It might seem strange to read this book later in life, considering that it is an American classic and it is practically mandatory for a high-schooler in that country to read. It never got my attention, not only because I was not born nor raised in United States, but the previews or an extremely rich party boy were not very attractive. I am also a big fan of Ernest Hemingway. In his book ‘A Moveable Fist’ he documents some encounters with F. Scott Fitzgerald. He was not impressed. He described him as invasive and difficult to be with. They took a trip together to Lyon (France) that was a disaster. Fitzgerald had alcohol related problems and Hemingway used to say that his texts lacked some strength. However, the same Hemingway loved The Great Gatsby and confirmed him that it was the manuscript that was going to make him famous. It was published in 1925.
Why is it that the romance languages are so agreeable? Because they sound like a singing melody compared with other languages that could sound dry as an autumn leaf. It is the vocals, the ones we found so abundantly in romance tongues, as if they were fruits swimming in a colourful salad. They fill every word up to the top, by softening the rudeness and aggressiveness of the consonants. Romance languages have dignity. They would never allow two consonants in a word without a vocal guiding them, telling them what to do. And this is how all the brutal force gets to be mitigated by this syrup that intoxicate of those who listen to it.
Gretchen Rubin has been famous for some years now. Not to me. I ran into her book by only a coincidence, looking for those books that are chicken soup for the soul. It was the word happiness that got my attention because, Are we not all looking to find it? Is it not the last end of life that all the philosophers talk about? The aim of all religions and theories in this world? She said she could find it and I was up for it.