Of memories and change

Pull out the fear of silence / Put out the need for guidance / Put out your own devices
And don't be afraid of the cold / Afraid of the cold / Afraid of the time / You've got no where to go but here.

---Silversun Pickups "Growing old is getting old"

It's always though coming back home. The cliché says that you can never go home again, and I always thought it was

because it was oneself who changed (and maybe matured) enough to feel a little out of place.

But no, I think I was wrong. I think I'm still the same person as I was when I left in 2008 (same weight, smaller size, thanks, Sheffield steep hills!) but Mexico is in a bit of a state. Not only due to some socio-economical turmoil I can't stomach to type, but also because of my acquaintances.

People getting married left and right, divorces, moving out of the country, people getting pregnant, so many things that I know eventually happen to most of us, but it's hard to marry the idea of your best friends going through that. You'd expect something as big as (let's say a child) would be something significant, that things would change and some sort of ceremony or summink would happen.

But no, it's mostly a whimper. And that's what is getting to me: how underwhelming are these “big events” and how I still not look forward to any of it. I should because of my age, which is when people start going “legit”, but still I feel that there's something missing that is not letting me and go fulfil those adult responsibilities.

I got called “niñote” the other day. That just means “big kid” but I think the proper term in English is “arrested development” (great show, btw). I sometimes DO feel out of place in Sheffield, hanging with people quite younger than me. But I feel out of place in Mexico, with people my age.

So... what should I do? Can't think of anything, so I'll just sit by, review some stuff and have a few sips of coffee while Silversun Pickups and their brilliant ditty, 'The Royal We', soothe my mental anguish.

Decatur (or the power of the windows to the soul)

I've got three friends that currently are very important to me and although i don't have "that feeling" for them, I still think they've been pretty important for me this year.

One has very dreamy eyes. The other one has very sparkly eyes, vivacious, ferocious. The third one has the same eyes as Jennifer Aniston. Talking with any of them at any given time it's a joy, but when I get to speak to all of them on the same period of time, that's one of the few occasions where I can feel truly happy.

I usually pride myself on not being superficial/banal but there's something about eyes, about the look someone gives you that can say so much without actually having to exchange a few sentences. After hugs, I feel eyes are the second most pure thing in the world. Hugs and looks are such giveaways.

All three of these persons have changed my life in the last 3 years, sometimes in a direct way, sometimes in a very direct, clear cut way. Funny how sometimes it's not how a person talks or what they do, but just their presence (or absence) and the side effects of it.

The other day I almost choked when I thanked two of these 3 persons for what they did for me (they indirectly made me face a fear and get over a creative hurdle). I felt pretty good after that and maybe it's the holiday cheer getting to me, but that was a very emotional day.

I will be meeting with person #3 this next tuesday, for coffee, pancakes and general gossip (the expression in spanish is "echar el chal"). Of all three, it's the person I have least in common, but I still can get along with said person and if I get any Christmas gifts, I wish they are in the form of a continued friendship with three pair of magnificent eyes.

PS: Funny posts will resume soon :)

Of sharks and writing.

So after a massively weird November (derailed postgraduate degree is putting it mildly), comes December and it's that time to look back on the year.

Eeek! Better not! I left a trail of damaged good, stupid kneejerk reactions and a few things I think I didn't meant to say and write.

But hey, you live, you learn, you love, you learn and...whoa, am I citing Alanis Morissette?

Jebus almighty... anyways, December is always that introspective month that feels like those sleepless nights when The Worries (TM) come around an' play Fear poker in your head. All those things you've done and that uncertainty that you might've messed up more than you've helped.

Still, what's done is done. Flea from the Chili Peppers said once that "it's better to regret something you did that something you didn't" and although I regret that writing binge, I would've regretted more the fact that it's been 8 years since I've been able to finish writing a book/novel/short story.

I still got two to finish and here's hoping that I can finish one that's been on the backburner for the past three years.

The criticism that I got for my first book (self published and all) did get to me. Of that I'm sure. And it was Nanowrimo what made me see that. I was afraid of writing for fear of just crash and burning again, but thanks to Nanowrimo and the very friendly chaps from the Writing Society (loveable Amris, cool cat Matty), I managed to finish a story that I had in my head for the past five years.

Funny enough, yesterday I dreamt of sharks on the streets.

I gotta tell you something first: I've dreamt about sharks for ages. Usually they were jumping out from the sea, looking threatening as hell (thanks, Spielberg), sometimes able to walk on sand, sometimes the sea overflew and they came around to chomp humanity.

Heck, one of the best dreams/nightmares I've had was one where I was walking in the ledge of clear water cove and I could see the bottom of the water, with magnificent reefs and fishes and all sorts of wonderful animals and lo and behold, several big sharks. I remember thinking on that dream "I'm so close to death, but still, everything is amazing".

So, yes, I dreamt about sharks again yesterday. I dreamt that there was a flood in Sheffield and the water brought sharks. Very nasty Mako sharks. I woke up scared and refused to go back to sleep unless Noah and the Whale soothed me back to sleep.

I checked today about dreaming of sharks. It's a sign of pent-up anger, frustration or hidden feelings. Maybe things are starting to surface and writing is what helped my subconscious shovelled it out of the depths?

I'll sleep on that...