Minefields and curves

Dichotomies, decisions, dilemmas, and whatnot. Minefields to negotiate. Steep learning curves to climb.

5'

I have a collection of post-it notes at the back of the door of my office. In one of them it is written "Vuelvo en 5'" ("I'll be back in 5'"). I use this one often to warn students and colleagues that may drop by my office. Despite it undeniably reads 5' I hardly comply with that statement. I'm considering to rephrase it to "I had planned to be back in 5'".

So easy

So easy, and sometimes so tempting, to be carried away by the numbing slumber of melancholy.

Disclosure

Not without a certain sense of defeat I have to admit that the short stories I've tried to read by renowned authors Andre Dubus and Alice Munro have consistently failed to stir my interest.

If I had ever happened ...

If I had ever happened to meet a girl who after showing me her room had uttered with a certain pride (isn't it good) the words "Norwegian wood", I'm positive I would remember. The words are cryptic enough and attractive enough not only to stick but have also the potential for a creative mind to become the seminal concept for a song or a story, or a song that tells a story. Did Lennon actually ever meet a girl who showed him her room and proudly uttered those two words? Was John captivated by the charm of such an unexpected memorable expression? The answer is probably easy to find on the web but I'll refrain. I'm fully satisfied believing the story is true.

Chimerical

I've quite liked the idea developed along the first few pages of Banana Yoshimoto's short story "Night & Night's Travelers", that concept of being once so close to somebody, so in love with him or her to deem that love eternal, and then years later and without warning, when every single detail of whatever occured during that period of intimacy has long been forgotten, the casual finding of an old love letter at the bottom of a drawer you hardly ever slide open makes the old feelings come back vividly, but then - and this is the significant bit - it takes you no time at all to oddly realize how fragile those seemingly strong bonds of yesteryear really were, how someone that once meant so much to you, someone that you so passionately loved, turned into a dull recollection not even worth recollecting.

Roadkill

On monday the unlucky alley cat had just been run over by a car. I saw it through the windshield of my car, early in the morning, as I turned left to join a three-laned avenue, the poor thing dead on the tarmac. Day after day the little dead body of the cat has turned increasingly flatter to almost become part of the asphalt. Today, finally friday, the carcass is barely a thin dark indefinite layer the colour of the road. Since monday every time I've turned left on that curve my eyes haven't failed to see the dead animal, the only apparent feature standing out from the monotone background of the road. Since monday I have followed the evolution of the remains of the roadkill cat, its slow transformation into some amorphous flat mix of flesh and bones. Among the infinite variants of ugliness life may provide, I have been presented this week with this most depressing regular sight every single daybreak, often oddly synchronized with the occasional flawless sunrise.