Certainties…

A long time ago, while talking about The Dark Knight, somebody told me that the reason he found Heath Ledger’s Joker to be such a great and unsettling character was mainly because the character on itself messes with one’s idea of certainty with the way he states about 3 different stories  to explain his scars.

We’re used to characters being truly honest or truly deceitful, or at least have “no return” points where they truly become one or the other. We’re used to seeing black and white, but grey is unsettling.

The Joker is a good metaphor for the current state of my life. It’s not that I am afraid of the things I am going through, or that I am refusing to go through there, honestly been there, done that; but it’s just that the circumstances are different, and somehow, all of my certainties are messed. The things I once thought to be real, and true, and forever, have proven that are not. Nothing is set. Nothing has ever been set. And nothing will ever be. It’s done and dusted, and to be quite honest with you guys, I am sure I am the executioner.

You know what I’ve noticed? Nobody panics when things go “according to plan.” Even if the plan is horrifying! If, tomorrow, I tell the press that, like, a gang banger will get shot, or a truckload of soldiers will be blown up, nobody panics, because it’s all “part of the plan.” But when I say that one little old mayor will die, well then everyone loses their minds! Introduce a little anarchy. Upset the established order, and everything becomes chaos. I’m an agent of chaos. Oh, and you know the thing about chaos? It’s fair!

A few weeks ago, a friend and I were remembering this little speech The Joker gives to Harvey Dent. That is the grey, and I can totally see it as the chaos I am yet to face and fully become acquainted with. I can tell you guys that the only thing I am certain of, is that I don’t have a plan.

And I am waiting to.

Firma

How to kiss the most amazing man (in 7 easy steps).

  1. Wait for him to knock on the door.
  2. Once he’s out, open the door.
  3. Let him in, cause the cats may go out if you leave the door open for too long.
  4. Say “Hi” with the most honest and clear happiness.
  5. Hug the boy.
  6. Kiss him for long, long, long, and let your hands run through his super cute long hair.
  7. Let him go and feel haaaappy cause he just arrived…

(I love you to no end)

Pato

Cuando tenia 13 años y estaba aun en tercer año de secundaria, un día por motivos que hasta este momento aun no comprendo del todo, mi salón entero empezó a llamarme “Pato”. No era de un modo insultante, o tratando de hacerme sentir mal, en realidad era dulce, y muy afectuoso. Incluso pocas semanas después, cuando fue mi cumpleaños, todos me abrazaron y dijeron que era mi cumpleaños “Patorce”.

A veces me enfermo. Constantemente. Y me frustra. Odio tener los pulmones debiles, odio las migrañas, la nausea, sentirme debil, mareada, cansada sin haber hecho demasiado, y sin poder concentrarme. Lo odio. Odio el asma… Pero vivo con esto, constantemente…

Y cada vez que ocurre algo, cada vez que pasa algo, que paso días en cama, que no puedo levantarme, no tengo fuerzas, o incluso cada vez que tengo un simple ataque de asma, o me pongo triste o me ataca la depresión con mas fuerza de lo normal, pienso en patos. Me siento como un pato.

Estoy segura de que no tiene absolutamente nada que ver con el motivo por el cual por un tiempo, un periodo muy corto realmente, mis amigos (que aun son amigos mios) me llamaron Pato, pero no puedo dejar de sentirme así, frágil, como una carga ajena, aplastable y confusa. No se realmente porque.

A veces pienso que es porque en ese entonces, cuando no era yo, cuando no era Kourai, y Kourai realmente no se vislumbraba en el futuro, cuando todos, un día simplemente decidieron llamarme Pato, estaba casi al final de un periodo de aproximadamente 4 años, en donde todo fue difícil confuso, y lleno de impotencia. Donde Pato, no era yo, jamas fui yo, era la aceptación del caos en mi universo, de mi imposibilidad ante circunstancias mucho mas grandes que yo, y mi profunda confusión al no saber como actuar, queriendo moverme sin lograrlo, tratando con absoluta desesperación de avanzar a un estado en el que pudiera sentirme en control.

Y entonces, me siento un pato, inmovil, mojado y con frio.

No se porque les comparto esto, ni porque lo hago en español, siendo que nunca escribo en este idioma aquí, y me resulta muy difícil expresarme… Pero los últimos meses, me he sentido constantemente un pato…

Y hoy, soy completamente un pato, y tengo mucho frío….

– K

A Poetic Retelling: That time I went to NASA’s Space Center

When I was around 16, I got dumped by my very serious boyfriend of 2 years. I got dumped in a way, that years later I started noticing would make it in the top 10 worst ways to get dumped.

At the time, I was living 1,497 km away from the boy in question, but visiting, logging into early versions of MSN Messenger, being in touch and generally feeling pretty content with life and my relationship in general.

It happened one day, that my then boyfriend’s computer crashed down, and we spent a few weeks with little-to-no contact whatsoever, it was 2001, the very dawn of telecommunications in my country and I didn’t even own a cellphone until the next year and even when I did, text messages were only a promise for the future. So for the most, I resigned to my faith and waited.

I waited for so long that I started thinking I didn’t know what was happening with my relationship or if I still had one for that matter, one day, I got on a plane, travelled those 1,497 km, and as soon as I got in town, I called him.

To make a pitiful story short: We met, we talked, and he dumped me. I must say that when I got on the plane the day before, I had no idea what I was heading to, but 20 minutes before I met him, I knew. And in case you’re thinking it, I didn’t see it then, maybe because I didn’t want to admit it to myself; I don’t really know, but after a few years, when I looked back I noticed: I paid about $400 in travelling expenses. Just. To. Get. Dumped.

Bummer.

But anyway, this is not about me being dumped. This is about what happened after that. After I went back to the city I lived in, I tried to live as normally as possible, I always dreaded the thought of becoming that girl whose life ended cause she suddenly was found boyfriend-less, so I did not wallow in the pain. I went to high school, excelled in my classes and I even had one of my friends asking me to date him. I said no, but I was flattered (he actually continued to ask periodically for the next year or so. We never did).

I spent as much time as possible with all my friends, specially my then best friend. One day she took me to the movies and we watched Harry Potter. It was the first movie and to be quite honest with you, it was also the very first time I heard of it.

Boy! It was even the premiere! I did not appreciate it at the time, but looking back, I think my girl friend was super neat for taking me there. I remember enjoying the movie, and then having a fight with my mom outside the movie theater after she picked me up. I guess this kind of stayed in her mind for a few months, cause she gifted me with the four published books on Christmas.

I read the first 3 books between December, 26th and January, 5th, and on January, 6th, I got on board of a Greyhound bus, and along my mom and grandmother, we headed towards Houston to spend a few days with some relatives. I got the fourth book with me.

I took my time reading that last book, mainly because I knew I’d have nothing else to read once I finished that, but on the third day there, very late at night when everyone was sleeping, I found myself alone in the kitchen table, reading the very last page. And I don’t know why, but that precise moment was the one reality choose to hit me.

Maybe it was that weird feeling of emptiness and loss you get after finishing a book you got really attached to, or when you see the grand finale of your favorite series, but I suddenly realized I was sad. I found myself in a strange city, in a strange house, alone, with nothing to do, but to be with myself and analyze my thoughts and feelings.

Every single thing that happened in the previous year hit me there, I cried over my failed relationship, over stupid little memories I once treasured, over Harry Potter, over my stubbornness, over my need to wallow, and I even cried over a really idiotic soap opera I had started following a few months back. Without even noticing, I got into one of the deepest states of depression I’ve ever been, and boy, I know about deep depressive states.

I couldn’t sleep at all that night, and my sleeping disorders started haunting me again, as they normally do in moments of great distress. The very next day, narcolepsy took over my trip.

When I think of that trip, I can honestly say there are many, many things that come to my mind: I remember showering with Strawberry and Champagne scented shower gel (A smell I later dreaded), my mom getting very sick, and ice skating at Galleria’s Ice Rink, but what I remember the most about it, is actually not remembering huge parts.

I simply kept blacking out.

On the last day I was in Houston, my uncle took us to NASA’s Space Center. We took this really long tour, and all I can recall from it, is standing against the walls and walking with the group as I noticed the guide stopped talking, but dozing off whenever I was not moving (and even when I was, I’m sure of that). After the tour we took a walk through the interactive area (which I must admit was pretty neat and kept me up longer than the actual tour), shot a family picture in front of a really lame background (a picture I got to treasure later), bought souvenirs (I bought lot’s of pens, I never gave out any) and left.

Now that I think about it, I’m really sorry I kind of missed the entire tour, it seemed interesting from the few flashes of information my brain decided to retain, however, right as I was taking my first step out of there, I knew something had changed inside of me.

Those hours inside my little world, forced to face myself, performing some really intense soul-searching, all courtesy of my narcolepsy; somehow made a weird click and put my head back in place. If I could explain this physically, I would say I dropped my sadness somewhere inside Nasa’s Space Center.

Over the next few days, I slowly stepped out of my sleeping disorders and regained consciousness; to this day, I can’t remember the trip back home, but I know by the time I got to sleep in my own bed again, I was happier.

I’m not really sure why I’m telling you this, but I was just reading a blog and getting ready to go to bed, and a sudden mention of NASA, brought all this memories back.

What can you tell from this?

  • Harry Potter made me cry, for ALL the wrong reasons.
  • I always buy souvenirs from my trips with the firm intention of giving them away, but I never do.
  • I once paid $400 to get dumped.
  • And once, I had to take a trip to Houston to get over it.
Thank you, NASA.
Love,
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