Skip to content

About gratitude and apologies…

About gratitude and apologies… published on

Thank you, to all the teachers who (with my parents) leaded me by the straight way: the books one, the respectful one, the knowledge one. And apologies to all of them who I could disappoint not reaching the hopes they put on me.
Thank you, to everyone I met who knew to suffer me. My apologies because I’ve been hard to suffer, sometimes, at least.
Thank you to all of you who have been able to suffer all my defects (a lot of them… although my virtues, not much less, helped you in the task). And apologies for all the times I put you on the nerves, these things happens.
Thank you to anyone who anytime of my life have bullied me, for leaving my life (I could tell your names, but your names have left my life too). My apologies because I was not able to teach you how to not bully.
Thanks to my daughter, who taught me (yes, she did to me) that you can be a member of the group without havint to bully anyone. That if you must bully someone to be part of the group, then the group doesn’t worth the effort. My apologies if sometimes I cannot nail my father’s duties. I’m doing my best, and I guess you know it.

I was bully fodder: short, fatty, not-really-handsome and, worst of all, an accidental nerd. Because an excess of neuronal and reading activity, and a surplus of short-term memory (I lack it now), I was able to get high grades without any effort. And because my innate charm, teachers loved me.

Bully fodder. And because that, and because I was a coward, and because I was ignorant (liar: I knew it was wrong, but I wanted not to accept it), I became a bully (a minor one, the last wolf of the pack). Survival instinct, I wanted to believe all my “adult” life. Bullshit. It was pure need of acceptance. I wanted not to be “one of them” but “one of us”. Without noticing that been “one of them” I could be “one of us”.

For every sneer, I apologize.
For every time I laughed to a sneer, I apologize.
For every time I used a cruel byname, I apologize.

I was weak, and I sided with the strong. I decided to ignore anything I knew because I wanted to be part of a group that did not worth the effort. I can remember some names, surnames and faces. I cannot remember the bynames, lucky me, shame on me, because it means I decided to forgot them, ashamed. They deserved more. I was able to do more. But I decided to not do it. And because that, I apologize.

Although I lost contact with them, lucky them, who will not have a physical memory of the jerks they had around during their childhood. Lucky me, who don’t feel ashamed every time I met them. Shame on me, feeling lucky because I must not be ashamed when I met them.

How many of them worth the effort, how many of them could become true friends with. How many of them could stay at my side, suffering my absurd jokes.

And because all those things, I apologize myself.

To a woman with easy rhyme who hated poetry

To a woman with easy rhyme who hated poetry published on

Una mirada muy frágil se posa
sobre una racha de viento, sobre una rosa,
sobre un pétalo amarillo, una mariposa
y aquí un verso baladí, que es cualquier cosa.

/a fragile sight is landed
over a gust of wind, over a rose,
over a yellow petal, a butterfly
and one useless verse, just for the pose/

Do you know when you have the seed but you cannot make the plant to grow? At the end, you think “fuck it, I’ll don’t water it anymore”…

Jollie Bible

Jollie Bible published on

(The next text is not intended to offend anyone. If you are reading it, you believe and you are offended when some things are threaten in some way, stop reading. You’ve been adverted)

God created the world in six days, and the seventh lied. And She was bored to the bone. Because that, the first Monday on history She created the music. And the music was Good.

And Tuesday, She was taking a walk around the land not-yet called Texas, and She thought She needed something more. And She created the country music. And the music was Better.

And She told Adam and Eve: “you will take the fruits of the Jazz, the Rock and the Swing, but you will not touch the fruit of the Reggeton tree”. But they ignored Her, and they were kicked off from Paradise. And they were forced to hear reggeton and watch twerking dancers. But, luckily, Willie Nelson was born, and the Country was Damned Cool!

My dogs

My dogs published on

I have two dogs. Set and Sot. I should prefer to call them Seth and Soth, but their names are not tethrical nor terrible, they are just short forms of “gosset” and “gossot” (little and big dog).
Set is a wise dog: he knows when to follow instructions and when he can ignore them. He knows that taking a walk must be done slowly, smelling here and there, enjoying every instant. He only loses his temper when he thinks someone he loves shall caress him.
Sot is an immature: nervous when he thinks a walk is incoming (basically, every time I move a finger, althoug I just will scratch my nose). He only focuses when he knows there is a cat around, and he takes our walkings hysterically, seeking for cats everywhere, smelling only to locate them.
People say dogs are like their “owners”. Mine are reflections of two sides of my personality. I will be like Set, but I know there’s a side of Sot in me, who does not allow me to fully enjoy our calmed walkings, because he makes me think about the future as Sot thinks about cats.

Duke

Duke published on

Today I saw Duc (Duke) falling from a van while I was walking with the dogs. Duc is a labrador, or a golden retriever or… it doesn’t matter, Duc is a dog. He’s twelve. I know it because I stopped to watch, thinking something wrong was happening, knowing that if I were true, probably I did nothing to help (I’m a coward, I suppose). I know it because I saw his master (we still call that way who have… who live with dogs). I know it because I’ve been talking with him.

I don’t use to talk with unknown people, and less when I guess they are on trouble. But I could not refrain me, the man was broken, and he needed to talk with someone. I suppose he saw me too, with the dogs, going there to know what was happening, and he though (and he was right) I though he was hurting the dog.

He only opened the door. Duc has fall because his legs (“its rear paw”, say people without dog) did not supported him when he was going down.

Less than a year ago, Duc and his master (his friend) were used to walk three hours every day through the fields and the forest around the town. Now he just can help Duc to go up the van, to cross half town until the park. Once there, they walk ten minutes, in a very slow pace.

Duc walks, smells, pees, smells, poos, smells, and continues smelling and walking. In a very slow pace, without complaints.

The man is broken. Not only because he knows Duc will leave soon. He’s broken because he’s eighty-one. And he knows if he pets another dog, he will die before the dog, and he “wants not to pass the load of a dog to anyone when he will pass away”. He’s broken because he knows he will live the last years of his life without a dog. With his wife, but without a dog. Probably with his children, but without a dog.

If you don’t live with a dog, probably you don’t know what I am talking about.

See you, Duc. You will be missed.

The Moon…

The Moon… published on

Today, while I was taking the dogs out for pee (they would prefer to walk, poor guys), I saw her again. Majestic, the most beauty of all. She watches and cares us from years ago, from the darkness of the night.

When she’s happy, she lightens everything. Even when she’s tired and diminishing, her beauty is more noticeable, because it’s still there, fading but paying care of us.

One or two days per month she fades, because she wants not us to see her feeble.

But after these two days she growths again, splendid again, recovering her brightness and allowing us to notice, again, the hope to believe that she will be forever with us.

Some people say that she’s just a reflection of the sunny light.

The Sun… What a prick. Fatuous, pompous, selfish toad when he’s just an accident, born from his own overheating. Always caring about himself as the “king of all”, knowing that the life is just possible because his light, forgetting that life is worth to live because the beauty of the Moon, that reflects the best of him.

And yes, this is all metaphoric.

The pompous man, believing that the woman is only beauty as a reflection of his only vanity, although the truth (sad and empty, as usual) is that without her (the woman), he is not anything but a too hot body.

You must know, I am a male chauvinist. I’m a deep believer of difference and discrimination. If able, I’ll always let a woman to cross before I’ll do; I’ll always will accompany her to her home; I’ll always will try to carry her burdens (althoug I’m the burden) and I’ll always will try to flirt with her. Because I believe that “to be a man” means that. It’s not about protect her (we cannot), satisfy her (we don’t know how), nor to be her master (we are not). It’s just about giving back to her part of the support she gave us all our live: as a mother, as a friend, as a daughter.

God created the woman from the man ribbon, but not because he felt lonely, as the Bible (written by men) said. He did it because, been idiot as He is, created the man as His resemblance. And, because God is perfect (because the truth is God is a woman), She noticed that without her (the woman) he (the man) is not complete.

Don’t feel not-unhappy

Don’t feel not-unhappy published on

Today I received the most depressive answer of the last times: “I’m not unhappy”.
The last time I had that feeling I was driving home from the hospital, still hoping to see my father alive, and even with this hope, my first impulse was to take advantage I was driving at late night to commit an idiocy and become free of that painful feeling. I did not, and I will never do it.

With the years, I’ve become used from be “happy with few unhappy times” to be “not happy with (each time more frequently) some happy times”.

But “I’m not unhappy” sounds to “I’m not happy, but I’ve become used to not to be it”.

This writing is not dedicated to who gave me that answer, it’s dedicated to Ares, for when she’ll be older. And if who gave me that answer can learn from it, better for all.

COLLONS!!
Beu, viu, seu, riu,
fés sorgir un sentir joliu,
canta i balla, surt del niu
abans que torni l’estiu.

/BOLLOCKS!!
Drink, live, sit, laugh,
grow in you a happy feeling,
sing, dance, be out of,
because the summer is coming./

Anything, but don’t sit down seeing how the happiness leaves, fearing to try to cath it, and change the “not unhappy” for “unhappy”.
The risk worth it.

Hey, and if you need help, you have a lot of friends around you. And a big family who will hug you everytime you’ll need it.

I wish you will not be “not unhappy”, but if you feel it someday and I’m still around, just call me and I’ll leave anything to come here and give you one of those big hugs you hate, my little stubborn.

Don’t have a good death (bad sonet)

Don’t have a good death (bad sonet) published on

Cuando abrazado a la parca (por amor herida)
en ataúd tu cuerpo yazca de tal suerte,
que nadie diga que tuviste buena muerte,
que sepamos todos que tuviste buena vida.

Cuando la carne de tus huesos sea despedida,
y cuando no vayamos ya a volver a verte,
que sepamos que en tu madurez seguiste fuerte;
madurez, que no vejez ni juventud perdida.

Sea este mal verso de esperanza un canto,
sea un buen abrazo, una fuerte risa,
un ligero beso, una sonrisa,

Sea lo que sea, que no sea un llanto,
sea una canción: ligera, sin prisa,
cantada en el campo, pero nunca en misa.

(I cannot make a proper rhyme)
/ When bracind the Death (by Love wounded)
in a coffin your body will lie,
that you had a good dead they will not say,
make us know a good live you lived.

When the meat from your bones will be ripped,
and we will not see you again
let us know you get the strength
in your old age, not in your young age wasted.

Let make this bad verse a chant of hope,
make it a good hug, a loudy laugh,
a light kiss, a big smile.

Make this anything but a cry,
make it a quiet song: taught,
sung at the field, and not in mass./

Primary Sidebar