viernes, 20 de diciembre de 2013

Amo estas frases



 "Like you're trying to fight gravity
on a planet that insists
that love is like falling
and falling is like this"
-Ani Difranco's 
Falling Is Like This

"Better never to have met you in my dream than to wake and reach for hands that are not there." -Otomo No Yakamochi

"I love your feet
because they have
wandered over
the earth and through
the wind and water
until they brought
you to me."
-Pablo Neruda

"I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. " -Rita Rudner

"We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet… I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things… all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness.'" -Shall We Dance?

"The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along." -
The Essential Rumi

"I love you, not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you, not only for what you have made of yourself but for what you are making of me." -Roy Croft

"We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." -Robert Fulghum

"When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." -When Harry Met Sally

"I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone." -The Fellowship of the Ring

"No, I mean I like you very much. Just as you are." -Bridget Jones Diary

"One plus one equals both." -Gregory Maguire's Son of a Witch

"Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts." -William Shakespeare

"No. No, you can't… STOP. Please don't go away. Please? No one's ever stuck with me for so long before. And if you leave… if you leave… I just, I remember things better with you. I do, look. P. Sherman, forty-two… forty-two… I remember it, I do. It's there, I know it is, because when I look at you, I can feel it. And-and I look at you, and I… and I'm home. Please… I don't want that to go away. I don't want to forget." -Finding Nemo

"You have made a place in my heart where I thought there was no room for anything else. You have made flowers grow where I cultivated dust and stones." -Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time

"All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love." -Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace

"Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get only with what you are expecting to give — which is everything." -Katharine Hepburn

"There is more hunger for love and appreciation in this world than for bread." -Mother Teresa

"What will survive of us is love." -Phillip Larkin's An Arundel Tomb

"What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us." -Helen Keller

"Love must be as much a light, as it is a flame." -Henry David Thoreau

"To find someone who will love you for no reason, and to shower that person with reasons, that is the ultimate happiness." -Robert Brault

"You and you alone make me feel that I am alive. Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough." -George Moore

"We loved with a love that was more than love." -Edgar Allan Poe's Annabell Lee

"Love doesn't sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all of the time, made new." -Ursula K. Le Guin

"He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began." -Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina

"Love me and the world is mine." -David Reed

"You know you're in love when you don't want to fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams." -Dr. Seuss

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." -Emily Brontë'sWuthering Heights

"Love is like a friendship caught on fire." -Jeremy Taylor

"True love stories never have endings." -Richard Bach

"Nobody has ever measured, even poets, how much a heart can hold." -Zelda Fitzgerald

"I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion — I have shudder'd at it — I shudder no more — I could be martyr'd for my Religion — Love is my religion — I could die for that — I could die for you." -John Keats

"My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet." -John Keats

"I don't wish to be everything to everyone, but I would like to be something to someone." -Javan

"Tell me who admires you and loves you, and I will tell you who you are." -Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve

"The only thing that matters is what they feel, and how much they feel, for each other. And if it's half of what we felt — that's everything." Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

"In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love." -Mother Theresa

"Love me when I least deserve it, because that's when I really need it." -Swedish Proverb

"Gravitation can not be held responsible for people falling in love." -Albert Einstein

"There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." -Friedrich Nietzsche

Quiero decirle esto a alguien algún día frente a un altar

"We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet… I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things… all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness.'" -Shall We Dance?

viernes, 13 de diciembre de 2013

"AND THEN THE LORD SAID: PRAISE THE "MIAU" AND YOU SHALL BE BLESS. THUS THE HUMANS WHERE BLESS EVERY TIME THEY HEAR OUR DIVINE CALL AND PAY THE TRIBUTE WITH FISH AND MILK". -Fluffy 23, The Cat Bible.

sábado, 7 de diciembre de 2013

DONDE SEA QUE ME ENCUENTRE UN 11:11 PIDO UN DESEO Y SIEMPRE ERES TU



lunes, 2 de diciembre de 2013

Cuando esperas una respuesta que no llega, esa es la respuesta.

Y a otra cosa, mariposa 

Allen Ginsberg Aullido (fragmento)

Allen Ginsberg
Aullido (fragmento)

He visto las mejores mentes de mi generación destruidas por la locura, histéricos famélicos muertos de hambre arrastrándose por las calles, negros al amanecer buscando una dosis furiosa, cabezas de ángel abrasadas por la antigua conexión celestial al dínamo estrellado de la maquinaria de la noche, quienes pobres y andrajosos y con ojos cavernosos y altos se levantaron fumando en la oscuridad sobrenatural de los departamentos con agua fría flotando a través de las alturas de las ciudades contemplando el jazz.
Quienes expusieron sus cerebros al Cielo, bajo El y vieron ángeles Mahometanos tambaleándose en los techos de apartamentos iluminados.
Quienes pasaron por las universidades con ojos radiantes y frescos alucinando con Arkansas y la tragedia luminosa de Blake entre los estudiantes de la guerra.
Quienes fueron expulsados de las academias por locos por publicar odas obscenas en las ventanas del cráneo.
Quienes se encogieron sin afeitar y en ropa interior, quemando su dinero en papeleras y escuchando el Terror a través de las paredes.
Quienes se jodieron sus pelos púbicos al volver de Laredo con un cinturón de marihuana para New York.
Quienes comieron fuego en hoteles coloreados o bebieron trementina en Paradise Alley, muerte, o purgaron sus torsos noche tras noche con sueños, con drogas, con pesadillas despiertas, alcohol y verga y bolas infinitas, ceguera incomparable; calles de nubes vibrantes y relámpagos en la mente saltando hacia los polos de Canadá y Paterson, iluminando todas las palabras inmóviles del Tiempo, sólidos peyotes de los vestíbulos, amaneceres en el cementerio del árbol verde, ebriedad del vino en los tejados, puestos municipales el neón estridente luces del tráfico parpadeantes, vibraciones del sol, la luna y los árboles en los bulliciosos crepúsculos de invierno de Brooklyn, estrepitosos tarros de basura y una regia clase de iluminación de la mente.
Quienes se encadenaron a sí mismos a los subterráneos para el viaje infinito desde Battery al santo Bronx en benzedrina hasta que el ruido de las ruedas y niños empujándolos hacia salidas exploradas estremecidas y desiertos golpeados de cerebros absolutamente secos de esplendor en la melancólica luz del Zoo.
Quienes se hundieron toda la noche en la luz submarina de Bickford's emergidos y sentados junto a la añeja cerveza después del mediodía en el desola'do Fugazzi's, escuchando el crujido del destino en la caja de música de hidrógeno.
Quienes hablaron setenta horas seguidas desde el parque a la barra a Bellevue al museo al Puente de Brooklyn, batallón perdido de conversadores platónicos bajando de espaldas las escaleras de escape de los alfeizares del Empire State lejos de la luna, gritando incoherencias, vomitando susurrando hechos y recuerdos y anécdotas y patadas en la bola del ojo y traumas de hospitales y cárceles y guerras, intelectos enteros disgregados en amnesia por siete días y noches con ojos brillantes, carne para la Sinagoga arrojada al pavimento.
Quienes se desvanecieron en ninguna parte de Zen New Jersey dejando un reguero de ambiguas postales ilustradas de Atlantic City Hall, sufriendo sudores orientales y artritis Tangerianas y jaquecas de China bajo la basura en las salas sin muebles de Newark.
Quienes dieron vueltas y vueltas en la medianoche por el patio de trenes preguntándose adónde ir, y fueron, sin dejar corazones rotos.
Quienes prendieron cigarrillos en vagones traqueteando por la nieve hacia granjas solitarias en la noche del abuelo.
Quienes estudiaron a Plotino, Poe, San Juan de La Cruz, telepatía y cábala debido a que el cosmos instintivamente vibraba en sus pies en Kansas.
Quienes solos por las calles de Idaho buscaban ángeles indios visionarios que fueran ángeles indios visionarios.
Quienes pensaban que sólo estaban locos cuando Baltimore destellaba en éxtasis sobrenatural.
Quienes saltaron a limusinas con el Chinaman de Oklahoma impulsados por la lluvia de los pequeños pueblos a la luz callejera de la medianoche del invierno.
Quienes haraganeaban hambrientos y solos por Houston buscando jazz o sexo o sopa, y siguieron al brillante español para conversar sobre América y la eternidad, una tarea sin esperanza, y tomaron un barco para Africa.
Quienes desaparecieron en los volcanes de México dejando tras suyo nada excepto la sombra del estiércol y la lava y la ceniza de la poesía quemada en Chicago.
Quienes reaparecieron en la Costa Oeste investigando el F.B.I. en barbas y pantalones cortos con grandes ojos pacifistas atractivos en su oscura piel entregando incomprensibles folletos.
Quienes se quemaron sus brazos con cigarros encendidos protestando contra la bruma narcótica del tabaco del Capitalismo.
Quienes distribuyeron panfletos supercomunistas en Union Square sollozando y desvistiéndose mientras las sirenas de Los Alamos los deprimían, y se deprimía Wall, y el ferry de Staten Islan también se deprimía.
Quienes rompieron a llorar en blancos gimnasios desnudos y temblorosos frente a la maquinaria de otros esqueletos.
Quienes mordieron detectives en el cuello y chillaron con placer en autos policiales por no cometer un crimen salvo su propia pederastia salvaje y su intoxicación.
Quienes aullaron de rodillas en el metro y fueron arrastrados por el techo ondeando sus genitales y manuscritos.
Quienes permitieron ser penetrados por el ano por virtuosos motociclistas, y gritaron con alegría.
Quienes chuparon y fueron chupados por aquellos serafines humanos, los marineros, caricias del amor Atlántico y Caribeño.
Quienes eyacularon en la mañana en la tarde en jardines de rosas y en el pasto de parques públicos y cementerios esparciendo su semen libremente a quienquiera que llegara.
Quienes hiparon sin cesar tratando de reír pero se torcían de llanto detrás de un cubículo de un Baño Turco cuando el ángel rubio y desnudo venía a atravesarlos con una espada.
Quienes perdieron a sus amantes por las tres viejas musarañas del destino, la musaraña tuerta del dólar heterosexual, la musaraña tuerta que hace guiños fuera del útero y la musaraña tuerta que no hace nada sino sentarse en su trasero y corta las hebras doradas intelectuales del vislumbre del artesano.
Quienes copularon extáticos e insaciables con una botella de cerveza, un novio, un paquete de cigarrillos, una vela y se cayeron de la cama, y continuaron en el suelo y por los pasillos y terminaron desmayándose en la pared con una visión del último coño y llegaron a eludir el último atisbo de conciencia.
Quienes endulzaron las conchitas de un millón de chicas temblorosas en el ocaso, y tenían los ojos rojos en la mañana pero preparados para endulzar las conchitas del sol naciente, destellantes traseros bajo los establos y desnudos en el lago.
(...)
Rocky Mount para ofrecer Buddha o Tánger a los muchachos al Southern Pacific a la locomotora negra o a Harvard a Narciso a Woodland para la sepultura o daisychain.
Quienes exigieron juicios de cordura acusando a la radio de hipnotismo y fueron dejados con su locura y sus manos y un jurado colgado.
Quienes arrojaron papas saladas a los conferencistas de Dadaismo en CCNY y subsecuentemente se presentaron ellos mismos en las baldosas de granito del manicomio con cabezas rapadas y un discurso arlequinesco de suicidio, demandando una lobotomía instantánea, y quienes a su vez se entregaron a la nulidad concreta de la insulina, Metrazol, electricidad, hidroterapia, psicoterapia, terapia ocupacional, ping pong y amnesia.
Quienes en protesta seria dieron vuelta sólo una simbólica mesa de ping pong, descansando brevemente en catatonia, volviendo años después verdaderamente calvos excepto por una peluca de sangre, y lágrimas y dedos, a la visible fatalidad del hombre loco de los pupilos de los pueblos locos del Este, salas fétidas de Pilgrim State's Rockland's y Greystone discutiendo con los ecos del alma, pegando y rodando en la soledad-banca-dolmen-reinos del amor de medianoche, sueños de vida en una pesadilla cuerpos convertidos en roca tan pesados como la luna, con la madre finalmente, y el último libro fantástico arrojado por las ventanas del departamento, y la última puerta cerrada a las 4 A.M. y el último teléfono pegado a la pared sonando y la última pieza amueblada, un papel rosa amarillo torcido en un colgador de alambre en el closet, e incluso eso imaginario, nada sino un poco de esperanzadora alucinación ah, Carl, mientras no estés seguro yo no estoy seguro, y ahora tú estás realmente en la sopa animal total del tiempo y quienes por lo tanto corrieron a través de las calles congeladas obsesionados con un repentino destello de la alquimia del uso de la elipse el catálogo el metro y el plano vibrante.
Quienes soñaron y encarnaron brechas en el Tiempo y Espacio a través de imágenes yuxtapuestas, y atraparon al arcángel del alma entre 2 imágenes visuales y unieron los verbos elementales y establecieron el nombre y rasgos de la conciencia al mismo tiempo saltando con sensación de Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus para recrear la sintaxis y medida de la pobre prosa humana y ponerse frente a ti estupefacto e inteligente y sacudirse con vergüenza, rechazando incluso revelar el alma para conformarse al ritmo del pensamiento en su desnuda y eterna cabeza, el vagabundo loco y el golpe del ángel del Tiempo, desconocido, incluso poniendo aquí lo que podría dejar de ser dicho en tiempo de volver después de la muerte, y surgieron reencarnados en los trajes fantasmales del jazz en la sombra del corno dorado de la banda y exhalar el sufrimiento de la mente desnuda de América para amar en un eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxofón que llora estremeciendo las ciudades bajo la última radio con el corazón absoluto del poema de la vida descarnada de sus propios cuerpos buenos para comer mil años.
"

miércoles, 27 de noviembre de 2013

SPELLS

Word cast spells
That's why it's called SPELLING
words are energy; Use them wisely.

Test



Me da risa, debería decir, 
"Marque con una palomita aquellas afirmaciones que se relacionen con usted.
Si marca tres o más, esta frito. ¿a qué chingados sigue ahí? ¡Deje de hacerse pendejo!".



Hoy te dejamos 10 señales de que es momento de terminar esa relación, quizá es el empujoncito que necesitabas para seguir adelante.
1. Sigues esperando que él cambie.
2. Él sigue esperando que tú cambies.
3. La relación te da más momentos de dolor que de alegría.
4. Te la pasas pensando en el pasado y no el presente.
5. Te lastima emocional, física o verbalmente.
6. Ya no ponen el mismo esfuerzo en la relación, o sólo una parte lo hace.
7. Sigues justificando sus acciones.
8. Sus valores fundamentales son completamente diferentes.
9. La relación te está deteniendo, o a ambos, y es imposible que exista un crecimiento personal.
10. Uno de ustedes, o ambos, ya no sienten lo mismo por la otra persona.

domingo, 24 de noviembre de 2013

miércoles, 20 de noviembre de 2013

Si Dios me dió la capacidad de soñar es para que convierta mis sueños en realidad.

El Libro de Hoy - Secreto

¿Alguna vez has tenido un secreto muy hermoso que no deseas contar a nadie? Bueno, yo tengo uno ahora y no deseo decirlo en voz alta o baja, no se que el aire venga y se lo lleve y se deshaga en el mundo sin realizarse, sin que yo pueda volver a gozar de este. Pero si quiero que sepas que, tengo un secreto y desde hace un tiempo me hace muy feliz muy llena de esperanzas mi almohada.

El Libro de Hoy

El libro de Hoy - La comunión de la Lluvia

Parada en medio de la calle esa noche pensó como la magia se le escapaba de las manos a cada paso, a cada instante. Recordó el tiempo en el cual al contemplar el pavimento podía ver florecer la vida entre sus grietas y maravillarse, pensó en como los charcos bajo sus pies se movían vibrando y en como eso provocaba terremotos en algún lado del universo, pensó en las hojas de los árboles golpeándose y en la lluvia que le habla. Miró al cielo nocturno y las nubes se movían pero ya no le hablaban y las extrañó, las extrañó tanto como a las montañas llorando por su abrazo bajo el cielo y sintió que la muerte se acercaba entre las sombras a cada instante que la magia se desvanecía. Y en silencio, fuera de la comunión de la lluvia que caía y de la que ya no formaba parte, lloró sin ser escuchada por ningún ser mágico.

El Libro de Hoy - La comunión de la Lluvia

viernes, 8 de noviembre de 2013

Promesas abdicadas

Hoy me enteré que mi maestro favorito tiene cáncer de próstata. Lo siento mucho, maestro Poncho.





Nunca nadie dijo que la vida era justa, nunca nadie dijo que las cosas saldrían bien al final. Uno sigue adelante no por la promesa de un final feliz sino por la esperanza de que si no te das por vencido lo tendrás, tendrás lo que mereces por ser fiel, por ser constante, por no abdicar a pesar de todo. 

A veces, las promesas no se cumplen ni para los más fieles y a veces la fe y el amor no son suficientes.

-El Libro de Hoy

[otra de esas malditas enseñanzas que el 2013 decidió dejarme...]

Feeling desolate & hopless

["What hope is there for us at the beginning of the road?
What hope is there for the ones at the middle of the struggle if the ones that walked with honor die in the mug without it?
What hope is there for us?"

Yelled the Red queen in the mug, her dirty dress sinking, her pretty face mistreated.

"What damn hope is there for us? For me?" 

For first time all her warriors and the people saw two long heavy tears crossing her face, tracing a path across the dirt, and she knew, she knew nothing was going to be the same. She lost the war.

-El Libro de Hoy. The war was lost inside]

jueves, 7 de noviembre de 2013

Ven pronto

Hoy pensé en ti. Tras un día cansado y pesado, pensé en ti.

Te añoré inmensamente.

Decidí pensarte y extender mis brazos para tocarte. Decidí tomar el tiempo de sentarme a pensar en ti. Decidí, tras el caos del día que reina en mi mundo tomarme un momento para pensar en ti y me repetí en voz alta todas las cosas que vienen a mi cuando pienso en ti.

Hoy pienso en cómo me hablas con ese tono calmado de voz que espera el momento adecuado para decirme algo divertido,
hoy pienso en como pasas tu brazo sobre mis hombros y caminamos mientras usas tu sombrero y esa camisa a cuadros vieja en las tardes de verano,
hoy pienso en cómo te aprendes las canciones que me gustan para hacer lip sync y matarme de risa,
hoy pienso en la forma en que me sonríes y en cómo solamente a mi me sonríes así,
hoy pienso en la forma en bajas tu mirada y cuando la levantas tus ojos encuentran los míos porque siempre los buscas entre la gente,
hoy pienso en como hueles,
hoy pienso en cómo te ves con pantalones de vestir y en tus piernas largas,
hoy pienso  en cómo te cortas el pelo para que yo pueda ver tus ojos tristes siempre,
pienso en como se ve tu espalda cuando duermes de lado,
pienso en tu piel perfecta y en  las pecas de tus hombros,
pienso en como jalas de mi mientras duermes solo para asegurarte que sigo ahí corroborando el temor que tienes de perderme,
pienso en cómo le dijiste a ese tipo "estás loco si piensas que voy a dejarla ir" y después con la mirada más decidida que he visto en ti le dijiste "ninguno peleó por ella pero yo si" ,
hoy pienso en esa vez que abrí la puerta para encontrarte del otro lado de la calle, con tu mirada de perro triste, remojado bajo la lluvia y esperando para que notara que estabas ahí para mi,
hoy pienso en cómo te dejé entrar a casa y te abracé y sentí la humedad en tu abrigo y en tu cabello y solo pensaba en que esperaba que sintieras mi calor y decidieras no irte nunca,
hoy pensé en como haces una pausa justo antes de besarme como si quisieras asegurarte que eso está sucediendo,
pensé en la vez que cansado y buscando respuestas apareciste en mi casa y por respuesta puse frente a ti un brownie casero y un vaso de leche,  en como los viste y en cómo me viste a mi tratando de averiguar si era una broma o un mensaje "muy elevado para tu intelecto",
pensé en la forma en que besas mi pie cuando me sacas el pantalón y en cómo te ríes como si estuvieras a punto de hacer una maldad,
pensé en la forma en que  tomas mi cuello y enredas tus dedos en mi cabello mientras apoyas tu otra mano en mi cadera y me acercas a ti,
pensé en esa noche en que celebramos el día de muertos en Alemania y al lado de la fogata te decidiste a saltar las brasas mientras la lavanda y la canela se quemaban y nuestros pasados se iban con el humo, en como sonreíste pensando que era una locura y aun así lo hiciste y en tus brazos alzados , liberados,
hoy pensé en como extiendes tu mano hacia mí, tu mano perfecta, para llevarme a la pista de baile y nunca jamás me dejas sentada sin bailar,
pensé en como siempre me haces sentir bonita y no dejas que ese día que me puse un vestido o me arreglé pase desapercibido y tomas mi mano para que todos sepan que estoy contigo y que tú estás -conmigo, par que todos sepan que nosotros somos "nosotros",
hoy pensé en ti y no pude despegarme de ti y de tu imagen hasta que todo lo malo del día se fue y quedo esta sensación de felicidad incompleta y de anhelo sin límites,
hoy pensé en ti, tanto en ti que no puedes irte y no quiero que te vayas, pero sobre todo, quiero que llegues.
Hoy pensé en la forma en que me piensas y me pregunte mirando al techo de este cuarto, mirando por esta pequeña ventana, donde estarás pensando en mi.

Hoy te eché mucho de menos. Mucho.


- El Libro de Hoy



"Esa noche casi se podía tocar el tiempo", Crónicas marcianas.

Cronicas marcianas

"Esa noche había en el aire un olor a tiempo. ¿Qué olor tenía el tiempo? El olor de polvo, los relojes, la gente. ¿ Y qué sonido tenía el tiempo? Un sonido de agua en una cueva, unas voces que lloraban, una voz muy triste, unas gotas sucias que caen sobre tapas de cajas vacías, y un sonido de lluvia. ¿ A qué se parecía el tiempo? A la nieve que cae calladamente en una habitación negra, a una película muda en el viejo cine, a cien millones de rostros que descienden como globos en año nuevo. Así era como olía el tiempo, cómo sonaba y parecía. Esa noche casi se podía tocar el tiempo. 

Este fragmento de "crónicas marcianas" me alegro el día. Justo creo que estoy por tocar al tiemp

viernes, 1 de noviembre de 2013

Octubre gracias que te fuiste


De esas veces que alguien sube una foto de como en Halloween el amor de su vida le dio el anillo de compromiso mas bonito y tu llegas a casa tras joderte de pie todo el pinche dia en el trabajo a encontrarte que tu pareja no compro los dulces temprano para dar a los ninos y cuando los trae ya no hay ninos que toquen la puerta, se caga porque quieres ir a casa a dormir y no te quedas con tu mama, tampoco compro arena para los gatos y estos se cagaron afuera del arenero otra vez y encima se queja de que ahora tienen que darle de comer a la camadita que esta fuera y cuando le avisas del peligro que corren en el patio te dice "y yo que hago?"


Gracias, Noviembre.

#PUROPINCHEFAIL





martes, 22 de octubre de 2013


NEUROSIS POR CREENCIAS IRRACIONALES


Si modificas las ideas y creencias irracionales de tu vida disminuirá tu malestar emocional y desaparecerá la neurosis habitual.

Creo que eso fue lo que hice en cierta forma y ahora estoy tratando de salir adelante sin estas pero me cuesta arrancar una vida de esas ideas sobre el príncipe azul y el amor eterno


¿CÓMO SABER SI IRME O QUEDARME EN MI RELACIÓN AMOROSA?

Guía paso a paso para decidir si permanecer en una relación amorosa o marcharte…

Pocas cosas generan tanto estrés como estar en una relación de pareja dudando si merece la pena luchar por ella o si es mejor terminarla ya.

Dar fin a una relación amorosa, sea o no sea matrimonial, no es fácil. Así como existen buenas o malas razones para iniciar una amor, existen buenas o malas razones para terminarlo.

La ansiedad que implica tomar una decisión de este tipo que cambia el rumbo de la vida de una persona, por eso es desgastante y sobrecogedora.

Te será de inmensa utilidad conocer algunos puntos claves que te ayuden a decidir oportuna y constructivamente, pensando en ti y en los que te rodean también…

miércoles, 16 de octubre de 2013

Mamá lectora

*En 20 años más*
Hija: Oye mamá, me gusta este libro-
Yo: Oh dios mío, lo siento tanto…
Hija: ¿Qué-
Yo: Llamaré a tus profesores…
Hija: ¿Por qué llamarás a los pro-
Yo: Para decirles que desde ahora tus notas van a bajar…
Hija: ¿Por qué les dir-
Yo: Todo comenzará a desmoronarse desde ahora…
Hija: ¿De qué estás hab-
Yo: Tal vez deberías comenzar a despedirte de tus amigos…
Hija: Pero yo-
Yo: ¿Quieres que te ayude con tu blog?
Hija: No tengo un bl-
Yo: Lo tendrás.
Hija: Pero-
Yo: Shh… Ya está hecho. Ya no hay vuelta atrás…

martes, 8 de octubre de 2013

Y de repente te encuentras esto, así random y justo cuando pensabas "ya no más" y en seguida, das scroll y te encuentras con las 5 fotos de él en el face.

Si, sopas!

lunes, 7 de octubre de 2013

Siempre serás el amor de mi vida. siempre... pero la verdad, ya no puedo segur así, así que si la vida me concede la gracia de volverte a encontrar, que así sea. Si no, que seas muy feliz.
No sabes cuanto me duele esta decisión pero es esto o morir así y esta vez, tras 12 años de extrañarte, escojo vivir mi presente y no mi pasado y todos los errores que cometí, entre ellos el dejarte.

Ya me perdoné por eso, tú ya me perdonaste. No sé si pueda llegar a aceptar que no estaremos juntos pero tengo que intentarlo o si no jamás tendré una oportunidad de volver a sonreír, de volver a sentirme viva antes de que sea muy tarde.

Ya se me está haciendo tarde. Ya tengo que irme, amor.



domingo, 6 de octubre de 2013

#12 No effect


The person you deem to be "the one" will be the person that gives you meaning in life -- if not all the meaning in your life, at least a good portion of it. If you don't light up when he enters the room, if you don't think he's the greatest guy who ever walked the earth, then it's time to break it off and move on!
Timo Cruz: Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do. It's not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.
Marcos 4:35 dice: Aquel día, cuando llegó la noche, les dijo: Pasemos al otro lado.

Todo día tiene una noche, y todo proceso tiene un comienzo. Muchos de ustedes sienten que ya no están en el día, sino en la noche. Noche es sinónimo de confusión, de ceguera. Es no saber en donde estoy parado, o hacia donde me dirijo. Todo día, por más espléndido que parezca, tiene una noche. Y no puede haber un proceso, si no hay un comienzo.Y muchas veces, en esas noches que transitamos, es en donde comienzan las procesos.

Es cuando menos lo esperas que te llegan esas circunstancias difíciles. Jesús les dijo a los discípulos: Vengan, pasemos al otro lado. El otro lado es a donde Cristo desea llevarnos, es la tierra del propósito y de la bendición. Ahora bien, desde el punto en donde te encuentras, hasta el otro lado, existe una distancia. Y al recorrido de esa distancia es que le llamamos: “procesoâ€.

Es en el proceso en donde Dios comenzará a quitar de tu corazón aquellas cosas que desagradan al corazón del Señor. Los procesos buscan hacerte más parecido a Cristo, y menos parecido a ti; es decir, menguar nosotros, para que Cristo crezca en nosotros. Pero cuando los procesos vienen a nuestras vidas, no lo vemos de esa manera; sino que los vemos como las crisis.

lunes, 30 de septiembre de 2013

viernes, 27 de septiembre de 2013

Tyke



Alguna vez te ha pasado algo malo en la vida y te has preguntado, ¿"por qué me pasa esto? ¿por qué a mi?".

Bueno, creo que los animales también sienten eso. De alguna manera su inteligencia e instinto les dice que no es ahí donde deben estar, y que no es así como deben vivir o acabar sus vidas, no dentro de una jaula, tras barrotes, animando espectáculos miserables y vacíos que necesitan de luces y mucho maquillaje para disfrazar lo macabro de su realidad.

Creo que así como nosotros al morir recordamos todas las cosas buenas que hemos tenido en nuestra vida y añoramos a nuestros seres amados y nuestro hogar, ellos también lo hacen. En alguna parte de la memoria de un elefante deben estar las tierras donde de corrían libres, los olores de ese sitio, el viento que los acariciaba.

¿te ha pasado eso? ¿has recordado un lugar así con todos esos detalles?

Creo que ellos todos los días lo piensan y se preguntan como muchos de nosotros en nuestro día a día "¿cómo terminé aquí?"

Quizás nosotros añoremos los años en patineta o  esas zapatillas deportivas de colores que usábamos cuando teníamos 15 años, el corte de pelo o la ausencia de este y ahora, en nuestros trabajos de oficina, encerrados en un cubículo nos preguntamos ¿cómo llegué aquí?"

En el fondo nosotros tenemos la respuesta: por nuestros actos y decisiones, ¿pero ellos qué? ¿qué explicación hay para ellos?

Nosotros podemos romper la rutina, renunciar a nuestro trabajo, hacer maletas y empezar de nuevo en otro sitio. Ellos no pueden abrir la puerta de la jaula solos, no pueden quitarse las cadenas solos o tomar un avión a una selva africana para volver a casa. No sin nuestro permiso. Ellos nos necesitan a nosotros para liberarlos. Para regresarlos al lugar donde pertenecen y para re-establecer las vidas que hemos destruido al llevarlos  con nosotros a nuestro mundo, a nuestro estilo de vida que no es el suyo.

La expresión en sus ojos. Te puedes dar cuenta que es de terror, de angustia, de pánico, de ira y hay una
pregunta en ellos "¿por qué?"

Sólo un ciego no vería que ahí hay alguien, no humano, pero alguien y que al igual que nosotros lo haríamos en esa situación, se pregunta "¿por qué a mi? ¿qué hice para merecer esto? ¿por qué?"


La historia de Tyke

Después de 20 años de tortura en un circo, Tyke enloqueció y mató al hombre que enseñó degradantes trucos de circo, para ganar dinero y logró escapar en el centro de Honolulu, buscando desesperadamente su libertad perdida y el resto de su hábitat, una vida sin dolor y miedo.

Contrariamente a lo que puede esperar, estaba rodeado por la policía y los ciudadanos locales, que despidió a 86 balas en su cuerpo cansado.

Le tomo cerca de, 2 horas morir, con frecuencia se dice que los animales no tienen voz, pero los ojos en la última foto de Tyke gritando a nosotros. Para ser perseguido en sus ojos llenos de miedo, tristeza, incredulidad, para su autodefensa, vemos que este espíritu no puede ser roto, perdura la esperanza, la tortura de 20 años y la muerte, la indomable energía de un personaje en busca de su liberación de la tortura.




El Silencio de un amor Marina Abramovic y Ulay en MoMa

Separarse no es dejar de amar, y no siempre sabemos si lo hacemos por las razones adecuadas

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMOT7D06YeM

Terminaré como esa mujer... si tengo suerte, sino ni eso.

miércoles, 25 de septiembre de 2013

How A Relationship Brought Me Halfway Around The World And Back Again



Like a lot of non-native New Yorkers, I have an origin story — bookish kid, bad at sports, clever and capable, but not, to my mind, sufficiently acknowledged for either and thus bitter and sensitive, friendless and constantly teased. The town I come from in rural Illinois has 1,800 people and no stoplights. I was an outsider there and felt it keenly; my appetite for recognition was dwarfed only by my desire for new experience, any experience, all experiences, and I desperately wanted to ditch the lonely and provincial trappings of my life so far.
The trigger for my transformation (no lightning bolt, no cauldron of radioactive liquid, no blinding realization) was a phone call from an acquaintance who was en route to New York City and looking for a roommate. In a classic youthful misstep, I had finished college with no plans beyond continuing to work at a sandwich shop in Northfield, Minnesota, with the love of my life, who promptly broke up with me the day after I graduated. Our daily shifts together were a melodramatic nightmare, and when given the chance to do something, anything, else I took it. I had just totaled my car — a one-car accident, involving a fit of heartsick tears and a tree — the day before my future roommate called, so the timing was excellent. The fact I didn’t know anyone in New York and had only spent 36 hours there to date, most of them lost and looking for the job fair I was supposed to attend, seemed irrelevant and easily overcome. I was terrified by the prospect of mediocrity in myself or my surroundings, and whatever happened, whatever I did, if it happened in New York, my thinking went, it would not be mediocre.
Things delighted me then that I can hardly stand now — the subway, for example, and the strip of Smith Street in Brooklyn that was just starting to sprout bistros and specialty cheesemongers and boutiques selling very expensive children’s goods. It was 2003; the dot com bubble had burst, but the housing bubble was coming together and with it, a charge of barely contained energy and potential for excess. The city lent itself especially well to a mental configuration in which you were an extra in an artsy, high-budget movie and saw everything as if through a camera on a set. I imagined a helicopter-eye view of the sidewalks, my sidewalks, pulsing with the synchronized strides of all these black-clad strangers, cocooned in their headphones and sunglasses and murmuring their own private conversations into their own personal phones, yet still unmistakably part of the same huge organism. Amid the truly astounding amounts of trash I noticed the scent of almonds roasting, sugary and delicious. In the single-minded vicious press to exit the subway as quickly as possible someone stopped to help a mother carry her stroller up the stairs — someone who had just 30 seconds before been testing the seemingly infinite limits of rudeness. I noticed that you could cry in public and people carefully ignored you — not maliciously, but because it’s understood that privacy is in short supply.

Falling in love is marked by the subconscious accumulation of a list of cherished qualities — her hair, that laugh, brilliant, great taste in music — and it is perhaps the realization such a list exists that marks the transition from “falling” to “fell.” This is what was happening to me. The Time Warner Center was recently finished but not inhabited. The electricity hadn’t been turned on yet; for just a few days, the murky black glass offered back an unblemished reflection of the opposite skyline. I saw it, alone, trudging home from a late night at work. I breathed into my hands against the cold and stood and stared and fell.
I slowly put together a full and mostly happy life piece by sweat-soaked solitary piece: a promising career in the semi-glamorous field of book publishing, an apartment in Fort Greene, which the New York Times had just declared Brooklyn’s most desirable neighborhood, and a group of similarly clever and capable friends. And along the way, in 2004, I met Russell at a house party near the Brooklyn Museum.
As I write this, it’s hard to reconstruct how much I loved him then. His good qualities read like a bloodless description of a generically attractive person — good-looking, smart, polite, funny. He was six years older than me, with an Ivy League education and a great job, so of course I wanted to impress him, and he was duly impressed. Now I can understand why, although maybe “impressed” isn’t the right word — I was 23 years old, with all of the freshness and confidence and naïveté that entailed, and I had wavy dark brown hair that fell to the middle of my back. When I asked him later why he had struck up a conversation with me at that house party, he said, half-joking, “Because your butt looked so good in those pants.”
We were both, at heart, nice Midwesterners who had acquired a thin veneer of East Coast sophistication, both from fervently religious families, both had several brothers and sisters. If we had ordered each other off a menu, we could hardly have done better, or on paper, been more compatible. But in the early days of getting to know him I felt like I had won the lottery with some sort of fraudulent ticket and that the authorities would be coming to confiscate it at any time. My earlier dating experiences had not been good, and my previous boyfriends possessed rather significant flaws; this one was an alcoholic, that one never finished college, another continued to live with his parents through his late twenties. The previous love of my life (he of the sandwich shop) and I had somehow managed to be crazy about each other without actually liking one another much on a general, daily basis. We could not, for example, watch a movie or talk about the events of our days or do any number of ordinary things without teary fights or extravagantly hurt feelings.
It followed, then, that I was so interested in Russell: I liked that he obviously liked me, and I liked that he seemed to know what he was doing, in New York and in life. It was he who introduced me to all of the places in New York that eventually became my regular spots, who showed me the best places to read in Prospect Park, the secretly affordable wine bar in the West Village, and Great Lakes, the Midwestern-themed bar in Park Slope. A huge mural of them all — Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, Superior — hung behind the bar, and Russell and I used to hang out there, criticizing one another’s jukebox selections and talking about home and our respective lake affiliations — Minnesota/Superior for him, Illinois/Michigan for me.
“We got along really well,” is what I usually say when I have to describe our relationship, which doesn’t convey much unless you’ve had that kind of relaxed, thoughtless rapport with someone you’re also sleeping with. But when we always wanted to see the same movie at the same time, or go to the same gallery exhibition, or fall asleep together on a Friday night after work then wake up and walk around the corner for a late takeout dinner, when we liked every single one of each other’s friends, it felt like everything. He could charm me out of a bad mood — no easy feat — and had a knack for random gestures of kindness and affection. Our birthdays are exactly six months apart; as I was walking down Bedford Street to meet him at our favorite restaurant for his birthday, thinking proudly of the theater tickets I had bought as his gift, I saw him waiting for me and felt the small thrill of secret, happy recognition I always felt when I had a moment to enjoy his presence before he noticed mine. He also was holding a gift-wrapped package. “It’s your present,” he said. “For your half-birthday.” It was exactly what I wanted, an iPod.
But Russell had wanted to leave New York for years, and he was stubborn. He missed fresh air and open space, so much so that after we had been together for about a year and a half he issued what was essentially an ultimatum: I’m going, with or without you, preferably with you, but I’m going. It meant giving up everything I had worked so hard for, the toehold I had carved out in my career, the identity I had assembled, and everyone else I loved, so of course I said yes.
I said “yes” to moving but I hadn’t really said “yes” to a location. Because Russell was an urban planner, with experience that was in high demand, he could work almost anywhere. He had been a Peace Corps volunteer and was interested in living abroad again — somewhere English-speaking, he conceded, so I could get a job. He wanted to be close to places to canoe and hike and climb. He wanted to live in a smaller city. Wherever we ended up, it was understood that we would stay there for a year or two before settling down back home in the Midwest. In theory I was on board with all of this, and as he started to look for jobs and then started getting offers, I remained theoretically fine with all of the potential locations; I was in over my head at my own job and barely had time to get coffee in the morning, let alone ruminate on the implications of these very important decisions.
When Russell asked, almost in passing, how about New Zealand? I thought about Lord of the Rings for a second and told him to apply for the job. I really did not think he would get it, and if he did, there was no way he would say yes — it was so far! And all of this was far less real than the onslaught of demanding emails and sensitive situations I dealt with every day at work and the numb comfort of sinking into bed next to him at the end of a hellishly long day. In the end, one offer was from Calgary, another from San Francisco, and there was probably a third that I can’t even remember now. But he accepted the one from the city council in Christchurch, New Zealand, and moved there in the summer of 2005.
I had only been at my terrifying yet oddly fulfilling job for a few months, and I wanted to stick it out for at least a year, so we agreed to do long distance for an unspecified amount of time. “Long” distance was so accurate it was funny, almost. Depending on the season, the time difference was between 14 and 16 hours, which meant that to talk on the phone one of us had to either get up before 6 a.m. or stay awake past midnight, and this was pre-Skype/Gchat, so we were both spending a small fortune on phone cards. He wrote me a lot of letters, and when I find them now, they still make me cry. He was so happy, and I, in retrospect, distracted and confused and utterly unsure of what I actually wanted.
After eight months of this, he returned to the U.S. to visit me and his family. Bad weather and travel delays cut “my” part short, and I remember riding the subway back to my apartment after saying goodbye to him at the airport, crying in an orange seat in the corner and thinking I could not do this another time, that any amount of career stagnation or uncertainty or opportunity loss was worth not having to say goodbye another time. That’s when I started making plans in earnest, started shopping for tickets, giving away my things, began to acknowledge I was really going to leave. Four months later, in June of 2006, I left.

Even in the cab on my way to JFK, my adult life condensed to four suitcases bouncing around in the trunk, I felt, fleetingly, that this was not going to end well. A few days before I had hesitated to store any of my things with Russell’s sister in New Jersey because I knew subconsciously how hard it would be to get them back later, after it was all over. But the morning was clear and bright, nearly summer but not yet hot, traffic was light and the cab navigated the streets of Brooklyn with ease. I couldn’t remember ever traveling through New York so quickly. Attributing this premonition to some other unrelated worry or insecurity was easy; there were plenty to choose from. I left a few things with his sister anyway, my kitchen supplies and some books, the things that meant most to me.
I had a layover in Auckland during the earliest hours of what is technically morning. I bought a cup of coffee from the one open shop and huddled at my gate near a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. I had traveled from summer to winter in 14 hours and the chill penetrated through the glass as I watched the sky slowly shoot through with streaks of grey.
It snowed the day I arrived. Russell brought Gerbera daisies and a heavy jacket for me, and there are pictures of me wearing it at the Christchurch airport. It’s his so it’s a little big, and I look tired and shocked and pleased, but also out of place and like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes. We got in the car (a car!) and he drove us through the city out to our house (a house!) in the suburbs (yes). On the side of the road near the main entrance to our neighborhood Russell had posted a hand-painted banner decorated with flowers and carefully lettered. It said, “Welcome to New Zealand, RUTHIE.”
Christchurch is not populous — about 300,000 people — but it is large and sprawls out like a spreading stain. A handful of buildings in the city center top out around 10 stories and the downtown area seemed exclusively populated by 15-year-old goths, rolling cigarettes and waiting for the bus. Everyone else I saw looked to be around 45 and sunburnt. There were a lot of parking lots.
The house was nice, though — a three-bedroom bungalow tucked into an alcove at the top of a hill that you could only reach by driving very slowly and carefully up a windy, narrow lane that accommodated exactly one car. If you encountered someone going the opposite direction the ensuing choreography was intense. The other way to get there was via 187 slippery and uneven stone steps that switchbacked up the side of the hill, around other people’s flower gardens and cottages and car parks. I say “hill” but it was actually the remains of an extinct volcano. The former crater had collapsed and filled with water from the ocean on the other side, and dolphins would sometimes swim in it, alongside the huge freighters and tankers that came to port at the harbor. The colors of the water and the green hills and the sky were surreally vivid. Every sunset was a purple-streaked glory and the stars were dazzling in their unfamiliar constellations. Russell spent every day in manic wonder and could not imagine how I found this remarkable, yes, but nothing more. Some people need to be in the presence of truth, I think, others beauty, and we were each discovering on which side the other one fell. It seemed I had good things to say about dark empty buildings and trash.
I couldn’t get a job so I cooked a lot. I planned elaborate meals that I had to start shopping for around 3 p.m., and as I didn’t get out of bed much before noon this created the illusion I was doing something sort of like living. After I ran out of money, Russell left me some on the kitchen table every Monday morning for groceries. I read The Feminine Mystique and wallowed in the irony. I didn’t make any friends — Christchurch really was exclusively populated by angsty teenagers and the middle-aged, and none of them was particularly interested in a disgruntled New Yorker. Later I would joke, meanly, that the only options for arts, culture, and entertainment were respectively rugby, rugby, and rugby.
Russell worked constantly. When he had time off it was just the two of us, going hiking, which I hated, and trying to find reasonable similes of the foods we missed from home. We sat at restaurants, staring at pizza with corn and shrimp on it or pushing unspeakably foul “enchiladas” around on our plates. I missed bagels the most and there weren’t even bad substitutes to be found, so I tried to make them from scratch. Russell came home after the first attempt and looked over the wreckage in the kitchen: every pot we owned filled with scummy cooling water, scraps of dough sticking to the faucet, the doorknob, the refrigerator handle, a junkyard of dishes in the sink. On the table was a tray of nine or so wizened rings of slightly burnt dough. “I ate two,” I said. “They’re actually not that bad.”

“Oh, Ruthie,” he said. He picked one up and held it.
“The recipe said the malt syrup is optional but that must be wrong. I’m going to try again 
next week, I think I can do it.”
He looked skeptical.
“Do you want to bet?” I sort of joked. We bet: successful bagels or a naked run through the main street of our town. I am not someone who invokes nudity casually, but this was toward the beginning, when I was still cocky and confident, and we were still flirty with each other.
The second attempt failed and Russell teased me. The third failed even more miserably. I tried to eat one, but the batch was so burnt on the bottom I couldn’t manage to bite through it. I threw them away and hauled the garbage to the curb and cleaned the kitchen and didn’t mention it to Russell. He continued to try to get me to hold up my end of the deal, but whatever light spirit had been with me when I proposed it had disappeared, and the fact that he hadn’t noticed its absence made me sadder.
I kept applying for jobs in Christchurch although it was obvious — so obvious I wondered, then resented, why Russell hadn’t mentioned this in any of his letters or phone calls — that there were no jobs in the media or in any related field for an American with three to five years of experience. Each morning I spent an hour or two going through the paper and the Kiwi equivalent of Craigslist checking for new listings. I applied for, in order of increasing desperation, copyediting jobs, copywriting jobs, proofreading jobs, jobs in the various departmental offices of the nearby university, customer service jobs at the local library, jobs shelving at the local library, jobs working in a bookshop, administrative jobs in the city council office where Russell worked, and finally any administrative or clerical job I found.
Sometimes I would receive a polite email thanking me for my application but typically I never heard anything at all. Every once in awhile a New York contact would help me land an informational interview with an editor at a university press or the New Zealand branch of a major publisher or one of the three magazines in print, during which I would be told, never outright, but between the lines (as it were) that I was job hunting in a middling city in a small country where everyone knew everyone else and hired their lifelong friends.
After one of the pointless interviews I picked up a tuna roll in a food court and sat down to eat it in front of a TV that was playing American football. I wasn’t a football fan then but hearing the accent was comforting and familiar and I allowed myself to stare at the TV. I loaded up my chopsticks and examined the tuna roll more closely. It was made with canned tuna, gray and flaky. The food court was oppressive in a particularly dull ’70s burnt orange way and redolent with the dueling grease smells of five or six cultures. The only other people there were a group of thickly eyelined teenagers slumped nearly to the floor. I tried to identify something in my surroundings that wasn’t obviously mediocre and failed. I thought about what my friends in New York might be doing at that moment, what it might feel like to be in a crowd, to hurry somewhere, to have a conversation that wasn’t about rain or sports. I realized that the fabled “four seasons in a day” weather was making me sweat through my interview suit, and regretted that I was incapable of thinking about anything other than the weather as well.
I rarely thought about how physically far I was from home except for moments like that one at the food court, when I wanted more than anything to call Emily, my best friend back in New York. It was mid-afternoon; I calculated the time difference and concluded she had probably just gone to bed the night before. Because of this I hadn’t spoken to Emily, or any of my friends and family really, since my arrival. I would speak to them only a handful of times throughout the following year. If I wanted to visit her, it would take at least three flights, several thousand dollars, and two full days of nonstop travel, which was slightly more manageable than visiting my family in Illinois. That would involve four flights, three days, and a long car ride at the end. I’d thoughtlessly mention “home” in passing, meaning only, home, the house on Gilmour Terrace where I’d change my clothes and cook dinner and hang out with Russell, or Home, the United States, where I got my accent and my taste for real sub-style sandwiches. At other times “home” would cross my mind — I want to go home,impatient in line at the supermarket or tired and waiting for the bus, or I miss home, browsing the library alone, in the middle of the day. Then I’d wonder which one I meant: 10A Gilmour Terrace? My Fort Greene apartment? The Midwest? My parents’ house, the house I grew up in? Sometimes I meant all of them, simultaneously.
I remember reading in bed until late at night while Russell slept beside me, peaceful and happy, glancing over at him from time to time, at the little stocking cap he wore because our bedroom was so cold and wondering what was wrong with me. I knew he wondered what was wrong with me too, since we had started to fight a lot about it. He thought I should accept the circumstances and put a good face on them — “Just grow the fuck up!” he said, during one nasty argument, but I found this impossible. I had always relished new situations, never feared the unfamiliar, never failed when I put my whole weight behind something, so I did not anticipate having trouble adjusting to another first-world, English-speaking country.
The tricky thing was that the differences were not so much differences as they were inversions or transpositions, just similar enough to fool you into thinking nothing had changed. Orion is there in the night sky, just upside down. Christmas is a summer holiday and people spend it on the beach. The climate is mild, but houses aren’t insulated or heated, so it’s completely normal to wear a hat and scarf and two sweaters inside and then take them all off when you go out into the sun. For a long time I would automatically get into the car and sit there until Russell rapped on my window — I had gotten in the wrong side. Again. A cart is a trolley and a pepper is a capsicum and trash —“rubbish” — goes in a bin. Sheep, which outnumber people 4 to 1, regularly join U.S. news in the headlines. Bars are open 24 hours a day, and people are reserved and unflappably polite except for the ones who are very drunk.
But that politeness is not a temporary shield, not a shell, not a surface; that reserve is bottomless. As a foreigner you will never reach the end of it. I understood the language but communication was impossible. How could I justify a desire to stand out, to make something of myself, in the context of a complicated culture that values fitting in over individualism; how could I even begin to describe this to someone who desperately and rightfully wanted me to follow their clear social cues and talk about the weather? “That’s quite a change,” people would reply, when I said where I was from, and the right response — the only response — was, “It is, a bit.” I had failed to plan for this and the failure was like a pesky sprain that just would not heal. There was nowhere to go to lick my wounds, no crowd to disappear into, no ocean of work to throw myself at. There was nothing in my life before that I hadn’t been able to fix by being smart or working hard (how American, to even think that for a moment), and this, I was beginning to realize, would not always be the case. This was the first thing that I would not be able to fix.
Finally I landed a job waiting tables at a breakfast diner. I left the house while it was still dark, rode the empty 6:15 bus into town and served plate after plate of waffles alongside a bunch of good-natured teenagers who couldn’t quite figure me out. Join the club, I thought. The money wasn’t enough so I got another job working nights and weekends at a wine bar. Now Russell and I really never saw each other, I was as bitter and sensitive as I ever had been, and I had unlimited access to free booze. Six months remained on my visa and it was clear I wouldn’t be renewing it, since the only way to do so would be to either get married or get a real, visa-sponsoring job. There was nothing to do but drink and fight with Russell, who still thought I should be enjoying myself.
It wasn’t all miserable. When Russell took time off we went on long backcountry hikes together, and with time, I could sense although not really understand what made a certain part of him — the part that was so different from me — operate. Somewhere in a hiker’s shelter near the Cass Saddle our initials are carved together in the bottom of a bunk bed. I hated my 6 a.m. Sunday brunch shifts at the diner, but I always enjoyed my early morning encounters with the people lurching along in the opposite direction, finally on their way home after a long night out. The looks on their faces when they saw my uniform and realized that I was on my way to work were priceless, and sometimes these pub warriors told me good jokes while I waited to cross the street. Once a young man even offered me a bite of his McDonald’s. I could imagine this happening in New York.
I remember sitting with Russell in the back of our local pub, which was really cool, actually, decorated with Christmas lights and bits of kitsch straight from someone’s granny’s basement. A hand-painted portrait of John Travolta circa Saturday Night Fever hung next to the bathroom, the overhead lights were made of doll’s heads and you could peek through the slit-like windows over the booths and see people shopping in the grocery store directly below, unaware they were being watched. The same folk singer, a guy named Adam McGrath, played there every Wednesday night. He was great, but the crowd was never more than us and a few other couples. He always wrapped up his set with one or two covers, and the night he played “Atlantic City,” Russell reached over and grabbed my hand. When Adam went into the chorus I didn’t want to look at Russell at first because I was already crying, but when I did, I saw he was too.
Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact.
I had kept a list about him once. Generous, good cook. Hazel eyes with a darker fleck in the right one matching the one in mine, just like the lyrics in a pop song we both loved. He almost never got annoyed but when he did he made a very discreet face that he probably thought no one noticed, and it was unconsciously adorable. Wore funny T-shirts, Midwestern. Nice hands. Etc. From the beginning, he brought me flowers all the time, nearly every week, but the first time, he blindly chose my favorite purple wildflowers, and I took them in my hands and wondered how he knew. He still brought me flowers, usually proteas from the farmer’s market on Saturdays, and it was starting to feel like an empty gesture but I appreciated that he made it anyway.
We had begun to avoid the subject of the future, except to agree that I got to pick where we lived next (anywhere but New York) and that I would move first, alone, and he would follow. One month before my flight back to the U.S. I got in a car accident. I had never fully adapted to driving on the left side of the road and was distracted for a moment by, of all things, the sunset. I drifted into the wrong (“right”) lane, rounded a sharp blind curve, and ran into an SUV. The road dropped off straight into the ocean on one side and I was profoundly lucky not to be hurt or worse. I was also upset that my attempts to appreciate the natural beauty of New Zealand had resulted in this. The car was totaled. “I’m so sorry,” I said through tears, as Russell held me. “I’ll pay for it, don’t worry.”
You don’t worry. It’s our problem; we’ll figure it out together.”
It was the right thing to say, but my knee-jerk response shocked me even as I knew it was true: I’m not sure ‘our’ exists anymore. I kept quiet. The end dragged out for six more months but that was the day it was over.
It’s been six years and I’m still paying for that car.

I moved to San Francisco in August 2007, but Russell never joined me as planned. Instead we broke up almost immediately, and I spent several months drifting around the city in a haze of grief, confusion, and Vicodin. There was a whiskey bar around the corner from the apartment in the Upper Haight I shared with two college friends, and the bartender liked one of them so he let all three of us drink for free, monopolize the stereo, and stay after hours at will. We stumbled the 30 or 40 feet home and I got up the next morning to temp, or to wait tables. Or I didn’t get up at all and just lay in bed, listening to the unbelievable din of homeless men pushing carts (“trolleys”) full of bottles up and down Shrader Street and getting into fights. I was sick a lot, and I caught pinkeye three or four times in as many months. My friends said that it was from riding the bus. They were joking, but they were also right, I later realized — I cried almost every day, so I also rubbed my eyes all the time with my filthy, Muni-contaminated hands. I became very familiar with the schedule of the 33 Stanyan, which went from my apartment to the free clinic in the Mission. My life was full in its own wretched way and I had no clue what to do next.
Emily all but physically carried me back to New York. She lined up a job interview for me at a literary agency and when I got the job, she let me stay with her until I became once again a responsible, self-sufficient person. The transition was not smooth, but I can definitively say moving to New York is easier the second time around. The subway, grocery shopping, how to talk, where to walk, what to eat — I know how to do this, I thought, and the thought filled me with relief. I worked hard and went out a lot, and every so often at the end of a late night I would treat myself to a cab ride home. My favorite part was — still is — going over the Manhattan Bridge, feeling the little jerk of vertigo in my stomach, and looking at the lights of all the bridges draped over the East River like jewelry.
The city had changed of course; New York always does. In a way, it’s like that “four seasons in a day” cliché that annoyed me so much in New Zealand: You don’t like something? Just wait a little while. All of the places I used to frequent during my first tenure here closed, one by one, no fanfare, just a blank steel security gate and a hand-scrawled sign: “Thanks for everything.” The last time I walked down Fifth Avenue in Park Slope, Great Lakes had closed too.
I saw Russell once more. About six months after we split up, he came through New York and stopped by to return the stuff I had stored at his sister’s. Her basement had flooded, and a lot of his own things had been ruined, but not, he said, the sweet, silly notes I had left for him every morning when we first met. A year later he got married. I know his wife; they started dating three weeks after he and I separated.
A major earthquake struck Christchurch in 2011. It was the second-deadliest natural disaster in New Zealand history. Almost every place I remember well was destroyed, the rest damaged or irrevocably changed by what’s fallen down around them.
Adapted from Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving and Leaving New York, edited by Sari Botton. Available from Seal Press, a member of the Perseus Books Group. Copyright 2013.
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