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I am a lawyer, a ferocious reader who also loves to write. Expect some book reviews, storytelling and more…

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Category: MyStories

Look Up

March 16, 2023.Reading time less than 1 minute.

Winter Wine

December 15, 2022.Reading time 1 minute.

I love autumn terracotta colours. Yet, when winter approaches it comes by the hand of a cold whitish whisper. Both like to settle softly around the whole island. I resent them, I resist them as much as I can.

Yoga and Cultural Appropriation

October 10, 2022.Reading time 5 minutes.

My Stories

Yoga is the realm in which I see Cultural appropriation vs cultural appreciation crashing the most. It is becoming more and more difficult to look the other way without realising how Western Cultures have appropriated and misrepresented this ancient Indian practice. Let’s start by something: Yoga is not fitness. One not does yoga to become prettier, skinnier, stronger, even healthier. That is not what Yoga is aimed for.

English Breakfast

April 1, 2021.Reading time 13 minutes.

My Stories

‘The tea bags are not for those who truly like to drink tea’, —only the smelly, fresh leaves is what gives the flavour to the tea. —She used to say—. ‘Once the tea leaves are secured in the cup, add the boiling water. Be careful! The water must not surpass the middle of the cup. Wait until the transparent liquid gets impregnated with the dark colours of the leaves and you feel the soft smells of the tea, then add the exact quantity of milk, not more, not less. Serve immediately and take it to where I am’.

How Elusive Love Could Be

January 29, 2021.Reading time 1 minute.

My Stories

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.

My New Friends

January 29, 2021.Reading time 1 minute.

My Stories

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

Mothers and Winter are Not Compatible

January 22, 2021.Reading time 3 minutes.

My Stories

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.

Flaws

January 18, 2021.Reading time 2 minutes.

My Stories

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.

Romance Languages

January 8, 2021.Reading time 1 minute.

My Stories

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.

Paris d’Amour

January 2, 2021.Reading time 2 minutes.

My Stories

It was him who gave me this book. Paris. He knows how I feel about Her. Looking at his eyes I sadly understood that this gift was only a gentle gesture towards that love that he will never support. I understood that eventually I would have to choose between him and Her. Irreconcilable differences keep them apart from one another. He thinks She is dirty, dangerous and without great beauty. Overrated and a thief, She abuses the innocents who come to Her looking to fulfil a dream and She pays them back with a treason. So unpleasant She is, that not even the ocean would like to be next to Her.

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This book is about Charlotte Douglas, ‘la Norte Americana’ and the corrupt family that ruled Boca Grande, a fictional island located in the Caribbean, an extremely clear town, ‘not full of contrasts, but always the same’, with a market that never changed, a hotel ‘for the gringos’ and huge palaces for the ruling family.

This is

My first impression of Sontag’s essays is that she was more inspired by Oscar Wilde than what she wanted us to believe. The first sentence of “Against Interpretation” was one of Wilde’s most famous quotes: “It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The Mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible”. It was taken from The Picture of Dorian Gray. Further, Wilde states:” There is not such a thing as a moral or immoral book”, an argument that Sontag developed in her essay “On Style”, establishing a difference between art and morals. Similar to “On Style”, in “Against Interpretation”, Sontag advocates to stop adding an extra meaning to artistic productions, because basically interpreting art could translate into something else. This is not to say that Sontag didn’t have great ideas. A favourite essay to me was “Camus’ Notebooks” and the critic that Sontag makes of Camus, the person, not the writer. Camus refused to take sides on the Algerian revolt, being an Algerian himself, which bothered Sontag. But she also spoke strongly about important matters such as art criticism, content, literature, and several artists, especially writers. Sontag had very interesting philosophical ideas. One thing that I noted was that some of her thoughts had judgment despite the whole point of the book being an advocation for lack of judgment, in art, in politics, in writing. —Something she recognized at the end of the book “thirty years later”—, which was very pleasant to read, as I truly appreciate a thinker who can look back and acknowledge things that they do not like anymore from their past. I would recommend this book to those who would like to emphasize their positions on art criticism and on Susan Sontag. And to those who like a philosophic view of life, politics and art. I would also recommend this book to someone “interested in everything” as Sontag described herself. Luz

Pocos personajes me revuelven las entrañas como Horacio Oliveira. No consigo descifrarlo. ¿Era Oliveira un tipo excepcional con un proceso de pensamiento bien estructurado, un filósofo magnífico, un metafísico accidental o un puerco astral tal y como se lo cantó Gregorovius cuando éste subió al apartamento de la Maga buscándola en un desespero bien disimulado? Y ¿Por qué si era tan excepcional, era él absolutamente incapaz de conectar con otros, hasta el punto de ser un antisocial que rayaba en lo psicópata? Recordemos que fue Oliveira quien se enteró primero de la muerte de Rocamadour y así y todo siguió hablando durante toda la noche sin advertir a la Maga. Terminar debajo de un puente, dejándose hacer de una mujer sin hogar que además conocía a su Maga. ¡Ustedes dirán! Se percibieron indicios vagos de arrepentimiento. De celos tristes al enterarse de que la Maga no había sido tan transparente como él había vaticinado. Porque de todos sus defectos su única cualidad emocional era la transparencia, destructora como un huracán, eterna y asfixiantemente presente. El Club de la Serpiente. Un sublime cántico traducido en diálogos de la vida, del arte, la filosofía. Pero lo sublime no sólo es lo bello. Lo sublime también conduce a muertes negras. Explosión universal en plena cara. Ni siquiera Oliveira, tan inteligente, tan guapo, con su canadiense y sus cigarros lo pudo manejar. Hasta nunca o hasta pronto Oliveira, seguramente volveré sobre tus pasos inconscientes como mosca que busca nada en un lodazal untado de miel. Luz

Jamás hubiera podido hacer parte del Club de Oliveira, Etienne, Gregorovius, Perico, Ronald y Babs. Hubiera sido yo como La Maga, aunque ella estaba ahí por Oliveira, aquel ser indiferente y plagado de datos y retazos, que como le dijo Gregorovius ‘podriamos haber sido amigos, si hubiera algo de humano en vos’. Qué Paris tan duro el que vivieron esos dos. Caminando para buscarse entre calles impregnadas de lluvia fría. Compartir cuartos en el 5ème, con cortinas oscuras, untados de mugre, de olores y del humo de los cigarrillos que se prendían cuando el último iba acercándose peligrosamente a la colilla. Y como trataban de convertir esa ciudad de arlequín en cuentos e historias cargadas de fantasía, que luego intentaban racionalizar con los amigos del club. Qué conversaciones más extrasensoriales y sobre filosóficas, ‘una posible explicación del mundo por la pintura o la palabra’, o ‘quién era Lautriamont’, todo llevado al extremo de la locura el día que murió su pequeño Rocamadour y los cobardes, empezando por Oliveira, hablando sus ‘pavadas’ para que La Maga no se diera cuenta de lo que sucedía a pocos metros de distancia.

Argentin@s: Busco respuestas a una pregunta que me ha rebanado los sesos desde tiempos inmemoriales. Ha sido siempre una obsesión pequeña, que no ha hecho meollo, pero que de todas formas ha sido incisiva. Esta pregunta se refiere al por qué de la existencia de su melancolía. Tengo la certeza absoluta de que ésta existe, que yo no lo he inventado, y hasta Cortázar lo ha confirmado: ”Hay por ahí un breve texto que se refiere a problemas típicamente argentinos, problemas con los que yo como argentino he convivido…Tiene que ver con la psicología de la gente de nuestro país, una cierta imposibilidad a veces muy triste [] que tenemos nosotros de abrirnos plenamente al mundo”. Pareciera que la llevan grabada en cada una de sus entonaciones y acciones, en donde quiera que estén, aunque sea sólo perceptible al indagar en sus secretos, como cuando intentamos atravesar una pared hecha de hormigón. Me pregunto entonces: ¿Está ella presente en ustedes por el sólo hecho de ser argentin@s? ¿De dónde proviene? No sé si ustedes lo saben pero el resto de los latinoamericanos —probablemente en una creencia que parte desde las Pampas hasta el Golfo de México— piensan que proviene de aquella herencia europea de nombres, costumbres, recuerdos y apellidos, que hace que ustedes tal vez hubieran preferido haber nacido allí y no en aquel país sureño. Sólo una suposición. La respuesta tendrá matices más complejos. Podría ser una tristeza con orígenes políticos, nacida en el padecimiento sufrido entre guerras, revueltas, dictaduras. Y, ¿Cómo se hace para que del dolor se exprima la belleza? Amor, arte, creatividad. Los poetas, escritores argentin@s que han nacido por y para esa melancolía del ayer que sigue llenando de suturas el presente. ¿Es qué han deseado con sus versos hacer que el resto sintamos lo mismo? ¿Qué seamos aves nocturnas, inconformes a los dictados de quienes desean aprisionarnos? ¿Es su origen filosófico, cultural, histórico, social? De dónde viene amig@s mi@s? De dónde viene su melancolía?

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