There she was waiting. I could see in her profile that she was shy.
Once we started talking I could see in her a wise but fragile soul, as she had survived not one but many battles, cried defeats and survived ignominy. She smiled and laughed at my poor attempts at humor. But her laughter, although sweet, was a cover. A cover of what? I don’t know. But I could see in her eyes memories that still hunt happiness away.
Her soul was a pandora box that could mirror the deepest darkest corners of ourselves. And yet, she was fragile. And in more need of protection than anybody, I have met before or after her.
“I have to go,” she said
She just stood up and walk out the door. And for a brief moment, I felt as if a part of me had just left behind her.
I love pens. I love holding them. But at this moment, all the pens I own are broken. Why are they all broken? I have no idea.
The spring that unfailingly lowers the tip is stuck..!And It’s hard to make the ink leave a mark on the paper. I try writing with the other pens, but it is all the same result.
And when inspiration strikes, it has to wait until I finish battling (dueling at times) with the pen, the ink, and the spring.
I’d love to curse and let it all out, but I shut those thoughts down because the inspiration is a sensitive spirit, who needs to feel peace and calm to work her magic. So there she is now waiting with crossed arms in front of her. She is huffing and puffing at me, and the foolishness of who I am.
“Buy new pens,” she says.
“I like these old ones. I’ve had them forever” I simply reply.
And the inspiration just rolls her eyes at me as answer.
When I finally get the pen to work, I write it all down, but something is missing. I know. And the inspiration knows I know. I look at her, but I don’t beg her.
“Fine” she says angrily. And she starts pouring silk on air.
She cries with me in the funeral of Prince Charming and smiles at the birth of his heir. And when we finish the story she leaves without warning or a goodbye. But I know she will come back. Because although I know, she doesn’t like me because I am a talentless writer, I know she will come back because she has nothing better to do than torture me.
The guy sitting at the cafe nervously looked at his phone.
Someone was running late. And we were all witnessing his impatience and the cruel ticking of the clock that wouldn’t stop for him, or anybody.
A few minutes later, she came almost running through the door, ordered a cup of coffee, and sat at the table mumbling apologies that he wouldn’t listen because he had news to share.
“I have finished my book” he announced with a big smile.
“Congratulations…” She said happily “And……” she tried to continue.
“You have no idea how great my book is” he said with an intoxicatingly happy face that started to resemble a hysterical mask.
“Yes, I see. But…” She tried again
“You know? Most of my friends are writers, journalists, poets, and editors. And they all say my book has potential” His happy face has mutated into the joker’s face. He had a happy grin on, but there was something scary and obscure in its expression.
“Great..” She managed to say
“I mean my friends just love it. They love my book. I am sure that in less than three months I will be an international success, and you will be the luckiest girl in the whole world for being with such as a great guy as myself” He said with a laugh that could freeze your blood.
She only nodded and started sipping her coffee knowing she was not invited to speak but to reassure him silently.
We all try our hardest not to look at them, but we couldn’t help to feel sorry for the poor girl sitting with the “successful” guy.
I am glad I let my friend Francesca set me up with this guy, I mean the guy is gorgeous, he looks like a model from one of those expensive magazines. He is just sitting in front of me. And I think I just forgot my name.
Did I take a shower before coming here? Yes, I think I did. God..! Just looking at him makes my head spin.
I can do this. Yes, I will seduce him with my charismatic personality. I am giving him my best smile when I hear an annoying pitchy voice.
“Stop fooling yourself, honey” the annoying pitchy voice is saying.
When I look down at my plate, I realize, to my horror, that a small round meatball has just spoken to me.
I need to lay down. I think I’m having a breakdown.
“You are not having a breakdown” repeats another meatball.
“Elizabeth….are you ok?” asks my gorgeous date.
I reply the best I can, and I start rolling the spaghetti onto my fork.
“You know?….I wasn’t so sure about this date, but I am glad I agreed to it” he says with a killing smile, I freeze but I try to reply with coherence.
And the spaghetti takes the opportunity to jump back into the plate.
“It is cold,” it (the spaghetti) says when I was about to tell it off. But as I am too dazzled by my date, I decide not to pay much attention to the cheeky fugitive spaghetti.
I’ll get it later, though.
He (my date) reaches for my hand, lifting it to his lips, and my heart skips a beat.
I think I am in love.
“Elizabeth….” He says my name
“Yes…” I reply making plans for our wedding already.
“I hope you don’t mind….” he says
“Yes..” I reply again encouragingly
“I hope you don’t mind….but I forgot my wallet..” He says sheepishly.
Needless to say that I heard laughter coming not only from my plate but from all over the restaurant.
“Told you, honey,” says the small round meatball laughing at me.
I take my fork, and I stab it (the meatball) so hard that I almost brake the plate.
“Ahhh…..” the meatball screams.
And I eat it in one mouthful.
That’ll show them. I might be having a rubbish date, but the food won’t be showing me up.
Walking along the gray streets, sometimes, I wonder how I survived all this time without you.
You said goodbye one morning, and although it was not up to you to stay, or to leave. The fact is that you left, and your farewell changed my life. For better or worse nothing was the same.
I was never the same.
And although, I know, deep down in my heart, that you never wanted to leave me, yet again you did.
Ironically, none of us had a say in what happened, but it still hurts, even today. In every step I walk, in every moment I live, in every dream, I still hope to find you.
And I want to think that you remember me as well. I want to believe that this post will reach you. And, that you will read it, and we will be together in some parallel universe. In one way or another.
Somehow trying to explain the emptiness you left in me, I had come up with the crazy idea that when you left, you took a piece of my heart to later hide it somewhere in the world. And that’s why I have lived like a gypsy looking for that missing part of me. Like a cursed soul, whose only hope to survive is to follow the memory of you in this world.
I guess what I mean to say so inadequately in these lines is that I will always love you and that nothing could ever erase nor replace you, ojii-chan (ojii-chan means grandpa in Japanese)
The origins of Noh theater can be traced back to the 8th century, when sangaku, a form of entertainment that included music and performances was brought from China.
But as everything that arrives in Japan “sangaku” would go under a transformation, becoming Noh, one of the most emblematic cultural expressions that would ever be born. Noh is intense. It penetrates the air with its flute, drums, and songs. It will transport you to a mythical Japan, where demons and men fight the eternal battle between good and evil. But above all, Noh will bring back the spirits of forgotten ancestors that still hovering the island.
Noh is a gust of air that becomes a tornado. And that’s where Kyogen, its loyal companion comes in handy. Without the fresh air kyogen blows into the room, I couldn’t recover from all the emotions Noh brings to life. Kyogen is lighthearted, it presents human nature, as it is, a maze of countless contradictions, which put in scene are rather amusing to watch. And perhaps their contrast is a reflection of our complicated and unpredictable lives.
- A little video from the Noh National theater garden.
Yokohama, the biggest city in Kanagawa-ken has different faces. Traditional and modern. Old and new collectively creat and craft the identity of this lovely city.
I was just taking as many pictures as I could possibly take in the incandescent heat of the summer, without perishing from a heatstroke. When I found this: A gigantic snoopy that made it all better.
I also found jugglers entertaining children and adults with children’s souls 💕 It was nice.
I am lucky enough to love languages. I am sure some might think that have an unhealthy obsession with them, and, maybe, they are not wrong.
I mean I sometimes feel like a hunter, a linguistic hunter, who is never satisfied with its prizes.
I always must get more.
One of my favorite ways to learn more about languages is reading. I love reading, I could read until the end of life. And beyond. But the thing is that every time, I come across an unknown word, I need to know what it needs.
I mean I must know, as if discovering its essence would, somehow, make me an accomplice of its adventures and playfulness.
Why do I go through so much trouble? Some may ask. And to be baldy honest, I don’t know. I seriously don’t know.
I think deep down, where the subconscious lives, I have the need to connect with people, to understand them, to comprehend their behavior and to find out what moves them. Because if I can understand people around me, then I might be able to understand myself. Maybe.