Can you believe that we started this 3 month journey in March and it is almost June? Absolutely amazing! I believe the first question was would I survive an all Spanish Speaking/Writing creative writing course based in Madrid? I’m not quite sure yet. You would have to ask some of my classmates to really measure my success or failure. One thing I do know for sure is that forming an intimate relationship with the creative writer within is akin to trying to form a balanced level of intimacy in a relationship with the Freudian “Id.”

I’m not complaining… no not me. I mean I love the results but must I suffer over every word, syllable and contextual meaning. I know what you’re saying. You’re saying, “but Baba that is your choice!”

Notice the “exclamation point?” I put that there because I can hear most of you screaming.

Ok, at first glance it may appear that I’ve got complete control over this creative process, but I have found that not to be quite true. Being woken up at 3 or 4 am by epiphanies or awesome revelations about your characters is not really my idea of “living la vida loca.” I mean, maybe it is for some people but I would prefer to be one of those cool dudes like Cyrano for whom words have no mystery. But, alas, I’m me.

Anyway, I know you’re probably saying, “then why the hell do you do it?”

Allow me to share a little secret with you that many writers refuse to let the public know. I will probably have my “Stratford-on-Avon” card pulled for sharing this with you guys but you must know the filthy, nasty, dirty truth about writers and writing. Here it is:

Writing is a drug and “all” writers are junkies.

There… I said it and I ain’t ashamed! I even used to the word “ain’t” to upset my 9th grade language arts teacher so you know I’m serious.

Yes, writing is definitely a drug and if you approach any writer and ask them they will all have to tell you the truth. Poll any/all writers and you will see that 100% of them will not deny the addictive nature of writing.

Ooops… I’m ranting.

About the assignment. The assignment due tomorrow (Madrid time) was equally as challenging as the previous ones. Since I always “nutshell” it for you, it won’t be any different now. In this assignment we had to create a scene that needed to be played out in real time. That means we had to provide the scene, introduce characters, reach our conflict and close with a resolution in “real time.” Think “sit-com” with substance for you television junkies out there.

I chose to pay homage to a piece I read when I was really really young. I was actually to young to be reading this book but that made it even more of a treat. The author I payed homage to in my short story is Claude Brown and his book Manchild in the Promised Land. It was easy giving my piece a title in English, I call it Manchild in the Land of Promise. The problem arises when you try to translate concepts such as a “manchild” into other languages. I think I suffered more trying to figure out how to convey the idea in Spanish than I did actually writing the piece.

Enough of this, alright already! Here you go. Below are two links if you’d like to download the stories and read them at your leisure. For those of you who would prefer to just read them online, you’ll find the full text of each version below in preceding blogs (yes one in Spanish and one in English).

As always, write me and let me know what you think. Whether in Spanish or English feel free to make corrections. I’m here to crow, not be coddled (well… ok, coddling is good sometimes.)

Hasta luego mi familia de lectores y escritores,

Manchild in the Land of Promise (pdf.)

Hombrecito en la Tierra de las Promesas (pdf.)

Manchild in the Land of Promise

Aldeo sat pensively across the tiny kitchen table, trying to identify the unfamiliar anxious smile deforming his mother’s lips. For much of his childhood Aldeo had served as a surrogate adult ear for her in between parades of transitory relationships. The kitchen table was their ritual meeting place, where years of talk over milk, coffee, and tea had left a collage of stains on the laminate surface, each its’ own signature of a past discussion.

As had become her custom before such discussions, Truda prepared the teapot; but this time her hands trembled as she tried to set it down on the stove’s fire, creating a grating, rustling sound as the two metal surfaces met.

“Mama you have to tell me what is troubling you!” Aldeo demanded.

He had become accustomed to taking control of their conversations when the need arose. Truda had become dependent on her son’s advanced maturity through the years. At 7 years of age Aldeo had learned to steal bread so they could eat; at 12 he was forcing men, whose sexual advances she had decided to decline, from their home late at night with an aluminum baseball bat and at 17 he was comfortably ensconced in his own concept of manhood.

Truda sat at the table and began fumbling with an old worn-out shoebox in front of her.

“What I have to say to you is not easy Aldeo.”

As she spoke, in her nervousness, she nearly tore an edge off of the top of the tattered box.

“Mamma,” he said in a childlike singsong pattern betraying his maturity, “you never have to be afraid when talking with me.”

He reached for his mother’s hand across the table and she offered it, resting palm down on the table as he tried to comfort her with his touch.

He sat up straight and tall encouraging her, “tell me what it is that you are afraid of mamma, I will protect you.”

There was an unmistakable pain in her eyes as she began to speak, an unrecognizable torment planted itself somewhere deep within her.

“What I have to tell you is about your father.”

Aldeo winced uncontrollably, suddenly experiencing disquieting tremors as his body involuntarily contracted within itself. This was the one topic that pushed a dark anger in Aldeo to the surface. His father had abandoned he and his mother when Aldeo was only six years old. The ghost of his father’s image driving away still seared emotionally just as it did when he watched it happening as a child. That was the last time he saw or heard from his father. By invoking his father’s name, Truda knew that she was cutting deeply into tender lesions that had never completely healed for her son.

“Don’t you dare talk to me about that BASTARD!” he roared at his mother pounding his fist on the table.

Aldeo experienced an immediate, deep sense of regret at his words and actions as his mother withdrew in fear.

It was only during discussions about his estranged father that his mother allowed him to curse in her presence. Truda had exercised great tolerance, over the years, for the unrestrained volatility exhibited by her son at the mere mention of his father’s name.

“Aldeo,” she pleaded, “you must listen; you have to hear what I have to say!”

As she continued to speak she began nervously pulling at the decaying edges of the old shoebox once again.

Aldeo sensed the anxiety in his mothers fumbling with the box and lowered his tone to a more respectful level.

“I’m sorry mamma,” he murmured in deference in that childish, singsong timbre that he knew brought his mother comfort, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Tears began to form in Truda’s eyes as she continued speaking.

“Aldeo,” she paused to sniffle and rub her nose, “people must be forgiven sometimes for what they do, for the choices they make in life. Your father…”

Aldeo cut his mother’s voice off midsentence, “but mama he chose to leave us, I will never forgive him for that! We have lived in the streets, gone without food because of him…”

Truda listened to her son but more anxiously and nervously then ever she tugged and picked at the frayed, worn box in front of her.

“You cannot ask me to forgive him. In my eyes he is not a man.”

Truda slowly slid the exceedingly creased cardboard shoebox across the table towards her son. In her dread filled state of anxiety, she had torn off an edge of the lid.

“This is yours,” she mumbled as she stroked her son’s hand reaching for the box.

Truda’s eyes began to swell and then a flood of tears let loose as she desperately choked back the gripping temptation to cry out loud.

The shoebox was old, battered and extremely creased after having suffered under the hands of many previous inspections over the years. Aldeo had never seen it before.

The whistling of the teapot interrupted the thick tension in the air as Truda leaped from her chair and ran over to take if off of its’ burner. She quickly returned. There would be no tea prepared today.

Aldeo took the cover off of the shoebox. Inside was an old polaroid picture on top of a menagerie of unrelated objects: yellowing folded pieces of paper, a pair of glasses, unused shoulder patches of military insignia and an old, beaten-up, dog-eared paperback book whose pages were turning brown at the edges.

Aldeo looked up from the box at this mother, “I don’t understand mamma, this is not my stuff. Why are you giving me someone else’s junk?”

Truda could barely speak through the torrent of tears streaming down her cheeks but in a barely audible, broken voice but she managed. She mustered up the courage to tell Aldeo that the picture in the box was a picture of his “real” father.

The words “real father” sucked the air from Aldeo’s body, forcing him into an unfamiliar dark place in his head where he suffered a reverberating, painful silence.

He slowly lifted the picture out of the box. The man in the picture was in a military uniform and wearing the very same glasses buried in the bottom of the box. Aldeo stared long, silently and without a single thought in his head as his mother began talking in a shaky, cracked voice, “That is your “real” father…”

As Truda continued speaking, her voice became muffled sounds Aldeo could only perceive, as if his head were submerged beneath the waters of a deep lake. Abruptly and, without warning, the quiet, unfamiliar, dark place in Aldeo’s head was invaded violently by a rapid, spastic and sporadic succession of images, words and moments simultaneously rewinding and fast-forwarding through the last 17 years of his life.

Somewhere between the unrestricted reeling of images and words running through his mind, there surfaced a thought. He realized that he had been possessed by a seething hatred over all of these years for a man who was not his “real” father. The phantom that had driven away from him 11 years ago had been an illusion, a mirage. This thought and many others like shook the earth beneath Aldeo’s feet.

Truda was now crying uncontrollably, repeating incessantly, “Forgive me Aldeo; please forgive me…”

In his mind, thoughts competed with sounds, each alternating forcefully back and forth between one another. Beneath the glasses was a large, folded piece of fragile paper discolored by age. Aldeo unfolded the piece of paper carefully. He now realized that everything in the box had something to do with some aspect of his life. He unfolded the paper and saw that it was a birth certificate containing his first name and his mother’s maiden name. Truda’s name was on the line that read “mother.” The line that read, “father” was blank. The word bastard joined the barrage of unruly thoughts unsettling his mind, having a new context, taking on new meaning.

“Forgive me Aldeo, I love you son, please forgive me…”

His mother’s voice rose and then faded off into the distance as a never-before experienced fiery pain lodged deep in the pit of his stomach, refusing to surface; it churned a stew of hate, hurt and anger that refused to settle but could not rise. His equilibrium was lost, the room and table shifted in opposite directions as he sat across from his mother’s tear-filled, downcast eyes pleading for forgiveness. He could see her lips moving but he could not hear any sounds.

Aldeo’s hands began to tremble as he jerked away from his mother’s outreaching embrace. He breathed in and out an acidic combination of disdain, disgust and disappointment for his mother as warm tears began to form in the burning corners of his eyes.

Truda continued the mantra silent to his ears, “Forgive me Aldeo, I love you my son, please…”

The end

Hombrecito en la Tierra de las Promesas

Aldeo sentó pensativamente al lado opuesto de su madre en la mesa de la pequeña cocina. Trataba de identificar la sonrisa ansioso deformando los labios de su madre. Desde su juventud Aldeo la había servido a su madre como un adulto sustituto con consejos sabio entre sus relaciones con un desfile de hombres diferente. En la mesa de la cocina la madre y su hijo hablaba sobre cosas importantes. Ellos charlaban mientras que bebían leche, café o té. Las manchas de leche, café y té en la superficie de la mesa eran signos de charlas del pasado.

Truda encantaba preparar el té antes de cada charla, un costumbre para ella, pero este día las manos temblaba mientras intentaba poner la tetera en la estufa, creando un sonido disonante cuando los superficies tocaron cada uno.

-¡Mamá ten que decirme lo que te preocupa!-

A lo largo de los años Aldeo había aprendido a tomar el control de sus conversaciones cuando apareció la necesidad y, también, Truda se había acostumbrado a relacionarse a su hijo como un adulto. Cuando Aldeo tuvo 7 años, robaba pan para proporcionar comida a casa; a 12 años de edad luchaba con hombres cuyos avances sexuales su madre había rechazado y ahora tuvo 17 años sentía muy cómodo a llamarse a su mismo un hombre verdadero.

Truda sentó y empezó a tocar, nerviosamente, con una vieja caja para zapatos delante de ella encima de la mesa.

-Lo que tengo que decirte no es fácil mi hijo.-

Mientras hablaba ansiosamente, casi rompió afuera un parte de la caja hecha jirones.

-Mamá- dijo Aldeo con una voz infantil-.  -nunca tengas que tener miedo al hablar conmigo.-

Cogió al otra lado de la mesa y le ofreció a su madre una mano. Cuando ella la recibió, él trataba de consolarla con su toque. Aldeo se puso derecho en la silla para parecer mas alta y empezó hablar a su madre.

-Dime por que tienes carita de pena mamá, dime y te protegeré… te prometo.-

En los ojos de su madre Aldeo veía, por la primera vez, un terror irreconocible cuando comenzó a hablar.

-Lo que tengo que decirte es sobre tu papa.-

Aldeo se estremeció incontrolable por un segundo. De repente sentía temblores por todo el cuerpo. La tema de su padre fue la sola tema que se enojó. Su papa los había abandonado a el y su madre cuando Aldeo tenía 6 años. El fantasma de su papa saliendo la casa por la ultima vez todavía se duele como el momento ocurrió. Su papa salió de la casa hace 11 años y Aldeo no nunca vio ni habló con él desde aquello tiempo. Truda supo que inyectar el nombre de su papa en una conversación cortaría los lesiones emocionales tan profundo de su hijo que no nunca había curado completamente desde su juventud, pero ella tuvo que hablar.

-¡No me hablas de ese hijo de puta!- rugió Aldeo, aporreando un puño en la pequeña mesa.

Inmediatamente él sintió un profundo arrepentimiento por sus palabras y acciones miraba a su madre se retiró en  el miedo. Fue solo durante las charlas acerca de su padre que su madre le permitió a maldecir en su presencia. A lo largo de los años Truda había demostrado un gran tolerancia para la volatilidad de su hijo cuando ellos hablarían de la tema de su padre.

-¡Aldeo!- declaró Truda. -¡Tienes que escuchar lo que tengo que decirte!-

Como ella seguía hablar nerviosamente, a la misma vez empezó a tirar a los bordes de la vieja caja para zapatos de nuevo.

Aldeo notó la ansiedad de su madre mientras ella continuó a tirar, con ansia, a los bordes de la caja. El bajó su voz a un nivel más respetuoso.

-Me disculpas mamá.- murmuró Aldeo en deferencia. –No intenté tenerte miedo, lo siento mamá.-

Trudo siguió hablar mientras lágrimas comenzaron a formarse en los ojos.

-Aldeo.- se detuvo a lloriquear y frotar la nariz. –En este mundo la gente debe ser perdonando a veces por cosas que ha hecho en el pasado. Tu padre…-

Aldeo interrumpió la voz de su madre a la mitad de la frase.

-¡Pero mamá él eligió a dejarnos, no nunca lo perdonará por eso! A causa de él, hemos vivido en las calles, a causa de él hemos sufrido días sin comido…-

Truda escuchaba a su hijo, pero más ansioso y nervioso tiró a los bordes de la caja delante de ella encima la mesa.

-Mamá no puede pedirme a perdonarlo. En mis ojos él no es un hombre verdadero.-

Lentamente, Truda deslizó la caja anciana para zapatos hacía su hijo. En su estado de ansiedad, ella arranco un pedazo de la caja.

-Este es para ti.- susurró ella mientras acariciaba la mano de su hijo alcanzando para la caja.

Los ojos de Truda comenzaron a hincharse y entonces un mar de lágrimas caían rápidamente. Ella desesperadamente trataba de contener la tentación a llora en voz alta. La caja para zapatos era tan viejo, maltratadas y muy arrugada. Fue obvio que la caja había sufrido muchos inspecciones a través de los años pero Aldeo no nunca la había visto antes de hoy.

El silbido de la tetera interrumpió la tensión en el aire. Trudo saltó por su silla y corrió a mover la tetera del fuego. Al instante volvió a la mesa. Hoy no habría preparado nada de té. Aldeo quitó la tapa de la vieja caja para zapatos. Dentro de la caja fue un foto anticuada encima de una colección de objetos sin relacionados: trozos de papal doblado poniendo amarillo, un par de anteojos, insignias militar para un uniforme de un soldado, y un añejo libro pequeño y manoseado cuyas páginas se vuelven marrones en los bordes.

Aldo levantó sus ojos de la caja hacía su madre. –No entiendo mamá, estos no son mis cosas. ¿Por qué me da la basura de otra persona?-

Truda apenas podía hablar por el torrente de lágrimas corriendo baja de sus mejillas. En un voz roto y  llena de pena ella habló.

-Aldeo la foto en la caja es un foto de su padre “verdadero”.-

Las palabras “padre verdadero” chuparon el aire del cuerpo de Aldeo, forzándolo estar situado en un sitio desconocido y oscuro en su mente. En su cabezo Aldeo empezó sufrir un silencio doloroso.

Lentamente levantó la foto de la caja. El hombre en la foto llevaba un uniforme militar y, en su cara, fue las mismas gafas enterrado en el fondo de la caja. Aldeo sentó mirando a la foto, en silencio sin un pensamiento en su cabeza mientras la voz de su madre continuó hablar temblorosa.

-Ese hombre en el foto es su padre…-

Mientras Truda continuó hablar, los oídos de su hijo se quedaron sordo. El podía percibir sola sonidos pequeños como si su cabeza estaba sumergido bajo de las aguas de un lago tan profundo.  De repente, sin advertencia, el silencio en el sitio oscuro de su cabeza fue invadido, violentamente, por una sucesión de imágenes, sonidos y eventos de los últimos 17 años de su vida.

Mientras muchos pensamientos y imágenes corrieron por su cabeza, Aldeo capturó uno. Se dio cuenta que había odiado un hombre que no era una relación a el por muchos años. El fantasma que había salido de la casa hace 11 años fue una ilusión, un espejismo. Este pensamiento y otros movieron la tierra bajo sus pies.

Truda estaba llorando incontrolablemente y repitiendo sin parar: -Me disculpas mi hijo, por favor, me disculpas…-

En su mente muchos pensamientos competían con sonidos e imágenes alternado con fuerza ida y vuelta. En la caja, debajo de las gafas fue un papel doblado, frágiles y marcados por la edad. Aldeo desdobló el papel con cuidado. Ahora se dio cuento que la caja contuvo cosas pertinente a su vida. Después se desdobló el papel, vio que fue un certificado de nacimiento.  Aldeo lo leyó. En la línea reservada para el nombre de la madre vio “Truda” y su apellido de soltera. La línea reservada para el padre fue en blanco.

-Me disculpas, te quiero más que mi vida, por favor, me disculpas…-

La voz de su madre se levantó y se cayó entre silencio y sonidos casi imperceptibles.  Aldo sentía, por la primera vez de su vida, un dolor ardiente depositado profundamente en el estómago. El dolor fue un tóxico mezcla de odio, furia y congoja que se negó tranquilizarse. Aldeo había perdido su orientación en el mundo, alguien lo había robado de su equilibrio. La mesa y la cocina empecían a mover en direcciones opuestos de cada uno. Se sentó del otro lado de su madre. Le caían las lagrimas de ambos Aldeo y su madre ahora. Ella te suplicaba sumamente. Aunque él podía ver los labios moviendo, todavía estaba sufriendo en silencio sin la capacidad oír nada.

Las manos de Aldeo comenzaron a temblar. Cuando su madre le alcanzó, rehuyó con un reflejo violente. Aldeo estaba respirando una combinación ácido de desprecio, el asco y traición para su madre como lagrimas formaban en los rabillos de sus ojos.

Truda continuó su mantra rogando perdón a los oídos sordos de su hijo. -Me disculpas mi hijo… por favor, me disculpas…-

Fin

So what should a person do when they can’t sleep. Hmmmm….. maybe finish their creative writing assignment. I’m a bit miffed with myself because last week I finished the assignment early and then forgot to turn it in. My name appeared on a list with a few other classmates who failed to turn in their assignments as well. Do you know how that feels to have actually done the work and then forget to hand it in? Nobody to blame but myself. I had maintained a perfect record of working my gluttious maximus off and turning assignments in on time up to that point. I guess I’ll take it as a lesson in realizing that perfection is not the goal (in anything, including life).

I’m supposed to be sleeping right now. I’ve got a performance at a middle school in another 6 hours. For some reason the urge to write this evening was overpowering so I got out of bed, came into the office and started doing what I do. Can you hear Big Daddy Kane’s “I Work” playing in the background. If you don’t know don’t sweat it. If you do know then you “feel” me.

This weeks assignment basically seemed as if we were supposed to create a treatment. For those who aren’t familiar with the Hollywood lingo out there in the land of LU-LU, a treatment is an outline of a movie (not a script) but an outline used for pitching your ideas. I might be off, I’m not an “Industry” insider guy so anybody feel free to correct me. I played the scene out that I wrote a few times in my head before actually putting pen to paper. It was a cool exercise and I enjoyed it quite a bit.

Below are copies of the story I wrote, one in English the other in Spanish. Some of you seem to be forgetting that this class is really a “Spanish Creative Writing class.” I only provide an English translation because, well… most of “my” people don’t read Spanish. Since so many of you have requested that I continue doing this “extra” work by providing you with an English translation, I would appreciate a little feedback from you when you read it. You don’t have to say anything elaborate of scholarly just a few words on your impression of the work.

As always, any native Spanish Speakers/Readers out there should feel free to correct my corrupted Castillian as you see fit.

If you would rather download the story there are a couple of pdf. links below. Enjoy mis compañeros, adios.

The Dancer.pdf

La Bailaora.pdf

The Dancer
by Baba the Storyteller

Her fingers delicately traced invisible patterns in the air as she slowly turned in uninhibited, gentle circles. Poised on the toes of a single foot, she traced the outline of her leg with the other from the ankle, continuing up until she was fully extended. She bent at the waist allowing her outstretched arms to mimic the movements of a graceful wingspan. Breaking away from the dance she walked across the practice room floor to begin other exercises. Her stride and bearing were as enchanting as the complex choreography she rehearsed.

Double, triple images of her reflected in the surrounding mirrors, positioning her in my mind, not as a woman, but rather an angelic apparition that I would venerate for a lifetime, if permitted. She extended her right leg up to the wooden bar attached to one of the walled mirrors and began stretching. As she leaned into herself and then away slowly, one arm greeted the ceiling while the other pointed away into a mysterious distance. The fingers of each hand beckoned to the unknown their desire to share the rhythms playing out in her head.

I, an unrefined soul in filthy overalls, stood transfixed with the handle of a mop in one hand and a bucket of filthy water in the other. I could only dream of a woman such as her even daring to touch the hem of the tattered fabric of my life.

An inaudible voice grew louder. The incessant repeating of a word rose from some muted depth to an audible sound before I finally heard it loudly, and clearly.

“Grandpa, Grandpa…what’s wrong with you?”

My granddaughter had made her way to her throne, my lap and was trying to proudly show me the pages she had colored in her book. Her voice began to fade once again as I stared into the kitchen.

There she was, just as graceful and fluid in movement as she had been 40 years ago. The arthritic fingers that reached for the cupboard mimicked the delicate drawing in the air of unseen patterns decades ago. As she stood on her toes to reach the higher shelves cabinet, I could see that the graceful elegance of her youth had not faded been a victim of the years. When she walked across the kitchen, it was obvious that time had been incapable of crippling the dancer that existed within her. No longer were there mirrors in every corner of the room reflecting her image. They had now been replaced by the radiance of the sun silhouetting her in a warm frame of light.

She stood looking out the kitchen window. I, an unrefined soul in filthy overalls, sat there transfixed with our granddaughter in my lap trying to show me her colorings. 40 years ago she entered my life. I still savor each second that I am permitted another day to watch her dance as she does through life.

The End

La Bailaora
por Baba

Los dedos trazaban diseños invisibles en el aire mientras ella bailaba lentamente en círculos desinhibidos. Se balanceaba sobre los dedos de un solo pie y con movimientos suaves del otro pie ella trazó el contorno de la pierna. Continuó levantar la pierna hasta que la extendió completamente. Se inclinó a la cintura y permitió los brazos extender suavemente para imitar los movimientos de un pájaro grande con una envergadura tan linda.

Ella paró su baile y atravesó el piso de la sala para comenzar la práctica de otros ejercicios. Su zancada contuvo la misma energía y belleza como la coreografía que ella había ensayado.

Uno, dos y tres imágenes de ella reflejaban en los espejos situado por todos partes en el cuarto. En mi mente ella no nunca existía como una mujer nada más. Ahora ella me parecía como una aparición angelical que yo veneraría por toda mi vida si me permitió.

Ella extendió una pierna sobre una barra de madera adosado al pared y comenzó a estirarse. Mientras se inclinó el torso hacia adelante y luego hacia atrás, ella saludó el techo con las manos. Los dedos de cada mano parecían a llamar una persona desconocido a venir y compartir su alegría.

Yo estaba de pie paralizado, un alma inculto, en ropa sucia con fregona en la mano derecha y un cubo de agua mugrienta en la mano izquierda. Sólo podía soñar de una mujer como ella tocando el borde de la tela de mi vida hecho jirones.

Una voz inaudible se hizo más fuerte. La incesante repetición de una palabra se levantó de un sitio de silencio completa. Finalmente la escuché.

-Abuelito, abuelito … ¿qué te pasa abuelito?-

Mi nieta había subido su trono, mi regazo, y ahora trataba de mostrarme un dibujo que había creado. De nuevo su voz comenzó a debilitarse mientras yo miraba hacia la cocina.

Allí, en la cocina, estaba mi bailaora. Ella tuvo la misma elegante de movimientos que poseyó hace 40 años. Los dedos, artríticos ahora, alcanzó al armario en la misma manera que trazaban diseños invisibles en el aire hace décadas. Mientras estaba de puntillas para llegar los estantes más altos yo pude ver que los años no se habían robado de su graciosa. Cuando caminaba por la cocina, era obvio que el tiempo no había tenido la capacidad a paralizar la bailaora que vivía dentro de ella. No hay nunca más espejos por todas partes para reflejar su imagen. Los espejos han sido sustituido por los brillantes reyes del sol que ayudan formar su silueta delante de la ventana en la cocina.

Yo soy un alma inculto. Trabajé toda mi vida en ropa sucia y, ahora, me sentí aquí paralizado con nuestra nieta en mi regazo. Hace 40 años esa bailaora entró en mi vida. Saboreo cada segundo que tengo aire en el cuerpo porque me ha sido permitido más tiempo para mirarla bailar una vez más.

fin

Well, we’re getting close to discovering our mystery artist who painted the mural on the wall of the Victoria Gardens Cultural Center. I’ve heard back from 3 different sources that the company that painted the mural is called “Flying Colors” and is located in Northern California. Anybody up there in Northern California happen to know anyone who works for “Flying Colors” graphic design company?

It’s going to be heartbreaking to locate the artist and discovery that I wasn’t the muse for the section of the wall titled “Imagine.” We’re closer than before. I’ll let you all know what I come up with but until then, you be the judge. I’ve placed my images next to the mural for a little “side-by-side” comparison.

Come on guys, who else could it be? I mean really!

Ok I know some of you were wondering why haven’t I submitted the most recent story that I wrote for the next assignment. Well the truth of the matter is that I, literally, hate what I wrote. If it weren’t an assignment I would ball it up and throw it in the trash! This process gets to be really aggravating, frustrating, at times. Last week we were focusing on “Minimalism.”

I love minimalist art (i.e. sculpting, painting, mixed-media, design, etc.) but, for some reason, when it comes to literature, I can’t stand it as a literary style. I’m just being honest, or maybe closed minded (you choose).

I promised that I would be as transparent as possible through this process so I am attaching what I wrote below. There is an English version as well as Spanish version.

Since the actual class is based in Madrid and is conducted in Spanish I’ve begun to focus more on being as creative as possible with the Spanish versions. Following the advice of  my professor “Jesús el Terrible;” I’ve begun writing my assignments out in Spanish first. I’m trying to re-wire my brain to process poetically in Spanish primarily as opposed to translating everything. Headaches are part and parcel of the deal. So if you read in both languages you’ll notice that the English and Spanish versions read nothing alike. Well, maybe close but definitely distinct from one another.

As always I look forward to your input as I suffer through this dissonant process.

Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da.

Necesidades contra Deseaos (pdf.)

Wants versus Needs (pdf.)

Isabella yearned for her daughter Ana to understand the difference between wants and needs.

“You’ve got to understand Ana that the world does not evolve around you and your teenage life!”

“Mom! All of this drama because I needed money to buy a new CD?”

“No Ana, there you go again. You “want” that new cd. You don’t “need” it.”

Ana began walking around agitated circles in the kitchen as her mother sat calmly.

“Mom, I’m not stupid! Ok I want the cd but what I need is a new dress for next weeks dance.”

No Ana, you don’t “need” a new dress. You “want” a new dress.”

“But Mom everyone has already seen me in all of my other dresses!”

“Ana there are people in the world who really need things like food, shelter and medicine. It is not good to think of a dress is an equivalent need. Ana you “want” a dress, you don’t “need” a dress.”

“Ahhhhhhh! Mom you don’t understand! You just don’t get it!

“No Ana, you are the one not understanding. Knowing the difference between wants and needs is very important to becoming a mature adult.”

“Well I heard you tell dad the other day that you needed him to spend less time at the office and more time at home.”

“Yes Ana I did say that.”

“Well mom I think you “want” dad to spend less time at the office and more time at home. You don’t “need” dad here at home more!”

“Ana I “need” your father to spend more time here at home with our family and less time at the office.”

“No you don’t Mom! We have food; we have shelter and medicine if we need it! So according to you everything else is a “want.”

“You will understand when you are older Ana, but for right now you just have to understand that saying you “need” everything is not good.”

“I don’t say I “need” everything!”

“That’s not the point Ana.”

“Mom you’re not making any points your just tell me that your “needs” are more important than my “needs”.”

“Ana go to your room and we will discuss this later!”

Ana storms out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the living room and up the stairs. As she is ascending the stairs, she passes her father who is on his way down. They stop, embrace at the midway point of the stairs.

“Good morning Daddy.”

“Good morning baby.”

He kisses her on the forehead.

“I love you Daddy.”

“I love you to baby.”

He hugs his daughter a little tighter.

“Daddy?”

“Yes baby.”

“I really need a new dress for next weeks dance.”

“Oh ok baby.”

Her father reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet, handing her a wad of cash.

“Enjoy your shopping baby.”

“I will daddy.”

Ana bounds down the steps and runs out of the front door to head to the mall just as her father enters the kitchen.

The End

Isabel anhelaba que su hija fuera entender la diferencia entre deseos y necesidades.

-¡Ana tienes que comprender que tu no eres el centro del mundo!-

-¡Mamá! ¿Me castigas porque necesito un CD de Alejandro Sanz?-

-No Ana estás exagerando de nuevo. “Deseas” el nuevo CD no lo “necesitas.”-

Ana comenzó a caminar en círculos pequeños, agitadas, en la cocina mientras su madre quedó con calma.

-¡Mamá no soy tonto! Entiendo que el CD no es algo que necesito. De hecho Mamá lo que necesito es un vestido nuevo para la fiesta que viene la semana próxima.-

-No Ana tu no “necesitas” un vestido nuevo. Tu “deseas” un vestido nuevo. -

-¡Pero Mamá todo el mundo ya me ha visto en todos mis otros vestidos!-

-Ana hay gente en el mundo que realmente necesitan cosas como comida, refugio y medicinas. No es bueno pensar en un vestido como una necesidad equivalente. Ana “deseas” un vestido nuevo, no lo “necesitas”.-

-¡Ai Mamá no entiendes nada! ¡Eres vieja y no entiendes las maneras modernas!-

-Ana yo creo que tu no entiendes. Saber la diferencia entre deseos y necesidades es muy importante para convertirte en un adulto. -

-Mamá te he oído decir a papá que necesitas que el pase menos tiempo en la oficina y más tiempo en casa. –

-Sí Ana le ha dicho eso. –

-Pues mamá yo pienso que “deseas” papá a pasar menos tiempo en la oficina y más tiempo en casa. No “necesitas” que papá pasar más tiempo en casa.-

-No Ana necesito que tu padre pasar más tiempo aquí en casa con nuestra familia y menos tiempo en la oficina.-

-¡No, no mamá tenemos comida y una casa! ¡Podemos obtener medicina si la necesitamos! Así según tu manera de pensar mamá todas las otras cosas son solo deseos.-

-Vas a entender cuando seas mayor Ana. Ahora solo tienes que entender es que decir que necesitas todas las cosas no es bueno.-

-¡Ai mamá no siempre digo que necesito cosas!-

-Ana estás entiendo el propósito de nuestra conversación.-

-¡Mamá tu no estás hablándome con claridad! ¡Solo oigo que me dices que tu tienes “necesidades” y yo tengo “deseos”!-

-¡Bastante! ¡Ana vayas a tu habitación y nos hablaremos de eso más tarde!-

Ana irrumpió de la cocina, por el pasillo y a través de la sala. Subía las escaleras a la misma vez que su padre las descendía. Ellos se detuvieron y se abrazaron en el punto medio de las escaleras.

-Buenos días papá.-

-Buenos días princesa.-

Él le dio una besa en la frente.

-Te quiero mucho papá.-

-Te quiero mucho también princesa.-

El papá la abrazó a su hija con un poco más vigor cariñoso.

-¿Papá?-

-Sí princesa.-

-Necesito un vestido nuevo para la fiesta la semana que viene.-

-¡Por supuesto princesa!-

Su padre alcanzó en el bolsillo de su chaqueta y sacó una billetera. El padre le dio a su hija un montón de dinero en efectivo.

-Disfrutes tu misma mientras ir de compras mi princesa.-

-¡Absolutamente papá!-

Ana saltó por las escaleras y salió rápidamente por la entrada a la casa. En la misma segunda que ella estaba cerrando la puerta de la casa, su padre estaba abriendo la puerta de la cocina.

Fin

You guys be the judges. A friend told me about this mural painted on the side of one of the walls at the Victoria Gardens Cultural Center, inside near the theater. When I finally got around to going out and checking it out I was honestly in awe.  I didn’t even know the painting existed nor do I know what painted it. You guys be the judge, is this me or some other griot who happens to be wearing “my” clothes?

Also, if anyone out there knows the person who painted it could you please contact me and give me their information? I’d love to meet this artist just to know if I served as “inspiration.”

I’ll make this even more interesting. Whomever gets me this artist’s contact info first, I will mail a free CD. How’s that for motivation? LOL!!!

Anyway does it look like me or not? Give me your input.

Ok, because it is occurring so regularly now I am forced to write this short note to my blog readers. I just got another one of those emails and so I will answer you all. No, the characters that I am writing about are not “me.” I have to tell you that I have never run through a cemetery naked being chased by police and I have never, as an adult, raised my hand to ask another adult for permission to go to the bathroom. I hope this little note settles that little question that keeps popping up.

I’m moving along ya’ll, albeit not at the pace of an enlightened student, but still moving. This last assignment was about creating a character and building upon the traits and characteristics of the character without brazingly throwing them up in the readers face. How to describe your character by using his/her descriptions to move the action of the story along. I really summarize the heck out of the class instructions but I feel like the majority of ya’ll get me. The two stories are attached below and title: “Incarcerated?” (the English version) and “¿Encarcelado?” (the Spanish version). Yes I know, I know… why write what language each version! Right? Well if you got some of the emails I get you would play to the lowest common denominator as well.

Anyway, let me know what ya’ll think. If you are reading the Spanish version and just want to correct my grammar, spelling, etc. for good measure, please go ahead. I am not faint hearted.

Well, off to the next assignment. Yes…already.

Incarcerated?

I was trembling. My body shivered uncontrollably, nerves disquieted by things I had little or no control over. I sat stewing in a rage of irrepressible anger, the walls closing in on me. I had never in my life experienced claustrophobia but this sudden affliction of terror blended with agitation that had taken hold of me were its’ unmistakable symptoms. I labored to breath; sweat forming on my forehead. My mouth had dried out to an unfamiliar and troubling point of discomfort. I felt as though I was losing control.

All of these disquieting emotions erupted from within me I sat caged within the confines of my office cubicle reading management’s most recent memo

“Due to an incessant abuse of lavatory break privileges, all requests for relief from one’s workstation must be channeled through supervisors without exception. ”

I read it once, twice and then a third time to make sure I understood what I was reading. Management was telling me that I, a grown man and father of three, had to ask another person’s permission to go the bathroom!

My hands were shaking as I clutched the piece of paper, contemplating the indignity. I was experiencing a violent flood of emotions of which anger was the most prominent. The ringing of the phone on the tiny desk before me interrupted my incendiary thoughts. I only had 7 seconds to answer the phone according to company policy. The tangled, spiraling chord tethered to my ear from the automated phone assured that the policy would be strictly adhered to. I transformed instantaneously and answered in the appropriate, gentle tone that the company had trained us to use.

“How may I help you?” I asked.

“My children don’t visit me any longer…” the caller spoke continuing her tepid tirade in an incoherent skip from one topic of her family to another.

This was a “time-killing” call. That’s what the company labeled these types of calls. Calls from the elderly abandoned in nursing homes or left to their own devices by family was common. I had 15 seconds to get her off of the line according to company policy or suffer a reprimand from one of the supervisor’s monitoring the call. I followed the script given to us during training and ended with, “thank you for calling ma’am and I hope we are able to meet your needs sometime in the future,” before disconnecting the call. I have no doubt that she called back. They all do.

In my nervousness to answer the call I had dropped the memo. I retrieved it from the floor and re-read it.

Once again my heart began its’ agitated palpitations and the feeling of breathlessness returned. How humiliating to be a grown man and have to ask another adult for permission to go to the bathroom! Over the years the company had implemented one policy after another, whose only purpose seemed to be to feed on our souls.

I pounded my fist on the desk and propelled my little chair on wheels forward slamming my knees into the jumble of computer and metal recording equipment hanging underneath. The searing pain raced from my right knee throughout the rest of my body. I winced grabbing my knee. Once a month I unconsciously punished myself this way, trying to fit into a cubicle created for someone half my size.

This was the final straw and I would protest this as I had done many things in my youth. When I had been a young man I was fearless, yelling in the face of any and all injustices I encountered. I would not stand for this assault on my dignity!

I could feel the anxiety lessening and that old familiar rebellious fire in my belly rising to the surface. That fire was what I knew I was made of. That fire produced a fearlessness within me that was needed if I were to challenge the inhumane policies of this corporate Goliath.

As I looked up from the nurturing of my right knee the images of my family in small frames greeted me. My wife and three children, all smiles and shining brightly in images from a day at the beach. My heart melted.

One beautiful woman and three adoring children were all the ones responsible for taming the rebellious beast of my youth. I smiled.

“I love being a father,” I thought to myself, “whatever sacrifices were required to care for my family I would make.”

Family. They were my reason for getting up each morning and coming to this place. They were the ones who gave meaning to my daily ritual of subservience.

Slowly, I began raising my hand. The higher my hand went in the air, the lower to the ground my dignity crawled.

I had to go to the bathroom.

The end

¿Encarcelado?

Yo estaba temblando. Me estremecía.  Me agitaba sobre cosas que no había ningún control. Me sentaba dentro de mi mismo hirviendo con pensamientos enojados. Me sentía como los muros volvieron cerca del cuerpo. Nunca en mi vida me había sentido la claustrofobia, pero ahora esta aflicción de terror mezclado con la agitación me había agarrado. Trataba de respirar y el sudor se formaban en el piel. La boca se había secado a un punto que la me molestaba. Me sentí como si me faltaba el control.

Todas estas emociones inquietantes estalló dentro de mí me. Me sentaba como si situé enjaulado dentro de mi cubículo. Estaba leyendo una nota nuestros gerentes.

-Debido a un abuso incesante de privilegios, todos las solicitudes para descansar de visitar el cuarto de baño y estar afuera de su estación de trabajo debe ser canalizada a través de los supervisores, sin excepción –

Lo leí una vez, dos veces y luego una tercera vez para asegurarme de que yo entendía lo que estaba leyendo. ¡Los gerentes me decían que yo, un hombre adulto y padre de tres hijos, tuvo que pedir el permiso a otra persona para ir al baño!

Las manos temblaban mientras yo agarraba el pedazo de papel, contemplando la indignidad. Que estaba sintiendo una violenta inundación de emociones. El timbre del teléfono encima de mi pequeña mesa de trabajo interrumpió mis pensamientos incendiarios. Sólo tenía 7 segundos para contestar el teléfono según un política de la compañía. La cuerda enmarañada y espiral atado al oído desde el teléfono aseguró que yo seguiría la política estrictamente. Me transformé a mi mismo instantáneamente y contesté con el tono suave que la compañía nos había entrenado para usar.

¿En qué puedo ayudarle? ” Le pregunté con una voz dulce.

“Mis hijos no me visitan…” la anciana por el teléfono continuaba hablar palabras incoherentes sobre su familia.

Esta tipo de interacción fue conocido como un “asesino de tiempo” por la compañía. Las llamadas de los ancianos abandonados en asilos o extranjeros era común. Tenía 15 segundos para sacarla de la línea según la política de la empresa o sufrir una reprimenda de uno los supervisores. Seguí el guión que ellos nos habían dado a los gerentes durante el entrenamiento. Terminó la llamada con las palabras, -Gracias por llamar señora y espero que sean capaces de satisfacer sus necesidades en el futuro.- antes de desconectarla. No tuve ninguna duda de que ella volvería a llamar. Todos lo hacen.

Por que mi nerviosismo para contestar la llamada rápidamente yo caí la nota de la compañía. Lo encontré en el suelo y volví a leerlo.

Una vez más, el corazón empezó las palpitaciones agitado y la sensación de ahogar devuelto. ¡Qué humillación para un hombre adulto y tenía que pedir a otro adulto permiso para ir al baño! A lo largo de los años la compañía había sido comiendo pedazos de nuestros almas con políticas como esa.

¡Golpeé el puño sobre el escritorio! Con fuerza me propulsé a mi mismo a mi sillita de ruedas hacia delante. Golpeé las rodillas en el revoltijo de equipo y aparatos de control de metal colgando debajo la mesa. El intenso dolor corrió de la rodilla derecha por el resto del cuerpo. Hice una mueca agarrando la rodilla. Una vez al mes sin conciencia me castigué a mi mismo de esta manera, intentando de encajar en un cubículo creado para alguien media de mis tamaños.

Este tuvo terminar inmediatamente y protestaría esta política de la compañía como había protestado muchas cosas cuando yo era joven. Cuando yo era un hombre joven, no tenía ningún temor a gritar en la cara de injusticia. ¡Yo no permitiría este asalto a mi dignidad!

Podía sentir la disminución de la ansiedad. Este viejo fuego de rebelión estaba creciendo en la vientre. Ese fuego era lo que yo sabía que estaba hecho. Este fuego tuvo la habilidad de producir una ferocidad dentro de mí que necesitaría si yo quise a desafiar las políticas inhumanas de este Goliat.

Mientras levantaba la cabeza hacia arriba de pensar en el dolor de la rodilla derecha,  me saludaron por imágenes de mi familia enmarcados. Mi esposa y tres hijos, todos sonriendo brillante y intensamente en las fotos de un día en la playa. Las fotos conmoví.

Una bella mujer y tres hijos adorables fueron responsables de domar la bestia de rebelión de mi juventud. Sonreí.

-Me encanta ser un padre- yo pensé, -Cualquier sacrificios eran necesarios para servir a mi familia yo haría.-

Familia. Ellos fueron mi razón para levantarme cada mañana y salir a nuestro hogar para trabajar. Ellos me ayudaron sobrevivir mi ritual diario de sumisión.

Poco a poco comencé a levantar la mano arriba.

Tuve que ir al baño.