Until recently, I've avoided being near death rather nimbly.
At 99, my maternal grandmother, so skinny that all the blankets were too heavy for her form lost interest in food and drink, common in the dying according to hospice and a puzzling concept for the family. She scolded us to leave rather than watch her die. Certainly not how she wanted to be remembered as we stood around, grasping onto her last breaths. My paternal grandmother, at the young age of 93, took a turn for the worse while we were together on a family vacation. That she was rambling somewhat oddly about things was not unusual. She did not always have the same sense of reality as the rest of us, after all. However, When she lay down and promptly got up because she couldn't breathe, we realized that perhaps we missed a crucial detail. Despite our poor attention, we did get her to the ER in time for her to give us a few more memories. Now I know what dying can look like. It is exactly the same and very different than I assumed.
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inversión alfabética
cuyo culto culo Some things don't translate. Maybe it is better that way. This weekend I tried to imagine myself as a character in a novel.
WARNING: Unless you have an over-inflated or, at a minimum, a very healthy sense of self, don’t try this exercise at home. Why? Watch and learn. As my sister-in-law pointed out, we are now middle-aged. (Thanks, M.) I don’t mind my age, it is just the term middle-aged that weighs me down maybe because it reminds me of bleak descriptions from sixth grade history class of the time period bearing a remarkably similar name. That’s where my character sketch started, and it went something like this: White, middle aged woman, breadwinner, mother and wife. Dressed in sensible, though expensive, shoes and sensible clothes of a more economical variety. Overweight, having not regularly exercised in 20 years, which she is quick to point out are the same number of years as she’s been married. Read whatever you’d like into that coincidence of fact. Since we compress the memories of the past, her younger years are remembered with great fondness. Adventure and travel filled, with a sense of wonder and fearlessness. Childhood teasings and awkward teenage years now only a blur. Carefully edited memories stand in stark contrast with the now endless monotony of adulthood. Past dreams of making world peace a reality discouraged daily by reading news feeds and the inertia of inaction. She remembers reading about such characters when she was younger, solemnly swearing never to go down that path herself. Oh, did your eyes start drooping? Sorry about that. It would keep going, but the author just told me that the publisher has put a hold on the project. Footnote: Maybe next weekend I'll be a more positive protagonist. FYI: It is very cathartic to write about oneself in the third person. There is something about spring that remembers death. Meditación I sobre Muere mi madre por Saitō Mokichi “Voy caminando, cojo brotes de aralia,/qué soledad: ¿habrá quién la conozca,/una como la mía? Tara no me tsumitsutsu yukeri sabishisa wa ware yori yori hoka no mono to kawa shiru.1” Cantó en español y en japonés. No entendía el español pero siempre le habían recitado así. Así la seguía recitando. Primero con la muerte de su hijo, apenas con cinco años. Luego con la de sus padres y con la de su pareja de cincuenta años, Ayaka. En los últimos años la cantaba todos los días ante la taza de gyokuro. Si le preguntaba por qué esta canción, respondía porque ya se le habían agotado las lágrimas. “..wa ware yori,” cantó bajito y después más alto hasta un grito donde se le saltaron las lágrimas. Probando el agua salada, se calló. Abstraído, contempló las brasas rojas de la fogata que lo envolvían, dejando que el viento lo llevara a la montaña de bambú. 1 p. 74 en la versión de José Kozer. Meditación II sobre Muere mi madre por Saitō Mokichi fulguran fuego soledad frutos morir vacíos fúnebre fondo jejenes roja montaña capital madre polvo urna nieves tren alondra morera alba viudo calcinada hijo quemándose consumiéndose humo vigilamos barnizada sol moribunda aroma azul florecen recogimos lágrimas gusano contemplada camino primavera luz Cuento I
Indecisa, la monja examinó el contenido de su vestuario. Needs a cartoon to go with the caption. Esa misma hija que anda vestida de color rosado y que se pinta las uñas escarlata, rosada, melocotón y púrpura, con los ojos color café, esa misma hija que anunció desde la silla trasera del carro, “Me gusta la palabra poop.” Palíndroma, el sonido a su gusto. Tiene que ser esa hija porque no tengo otra. Pensando en ella, apunto palabras de la semana. Repugnante y disparate: me gusta como suenan. Otras: omeya, califato, Mutamid, apto, recelo, pontífice, witizanos, pugna, y arranque. Palabras van juntas: mierda/violencia, marco/educado, sintetizar/nerviosismo, penumbrosas/interferencias, pregunta/inválida. Frases: Los enemigos estaban tanto dentro como afuera. No tienes que sentir nada. Sandra no existe hay grandes poemas y los demás confía en tu lector léame en quinientos años soy un budista nervioso elsubstantivorequiereadjetivonohaynadamásdifícilquelademocracia. Etc, etc, etc.
Two monks are walking. On their way there is a river that they need to cross. They meet an elderly nun who also needs to cross the river. One of the monks offers to carry the nun across the river. On the other side he puts her down and she goes along her way.
The two monks also continue along their way until the second monk turns to the first, "I can't believe you just did that. You touched a woman and broke your vows." The first monk responds, "Yes, I carried her, put her down, and let her go along her way. Why are still carrying her?" ~ a story told to me after a restless night of second and triple guessing myself.
I haven't written poetry or fiction for a long time. Here's something I wrote a few years ago that I quite like. Of course I like it or I wouldn't be posting it. Duh. I tried Google Translate to see if I could get a rough and ready translation. Not so good. So I left it as is and may work on my own translation at a later point.
Como ausente “Me gustas cuando callas,” aventuró Pablo. Cuando Prufrock lo propuso esbozando en la servilleta la perfección del durazno, Nerudo decidió que tendría que presentarse al amante de P_ también. Ayer los vi reunidos a los tres en el café, El Versito. Crucé la calle Borges, entré en el salón de belleza e insistí en que me afeitara la cabeza. Referenced in some way or another are Pablo Neruda's, "Me gustas cuando callas," "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. And finally "Prophyria's Lover" by Robert Browning. |
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