a phenomenon in which your lived experience seems oddly inconsequential once you put it down on paper
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out in a tundra-like moor only because i cannot bear the stench coming from the gloomy brook by my door i don't need no one – i'm fine on my own
i'm sacrificing the malnourished goat that bleats wanly by the corpse of its mother it's been rotting for weeks and it's tainted the water i don't need no one – i'm fine on my own
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She glared at him in disbelief, and he knew then that he could not bear to look at that reproachful brown pair, so his eyes lowered to her mouth, now pale with grief. Dommie bit her lower lip to stop it from quivering, making it whiter still. Finally she let out a broken sigh, and the right corner of her mouth twitched as a single tear made its way down her cheek. Her teeth clenched in a tight grimace, and in a voice barely louder than silence she gasped out, “He loved you, you know.”
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My current aspiration is to be an interpreter, ideally working at an embassy or the United Nations. So far, I think I am doing very well, and have found that my course of studies is every bit as interesting and enjoyable as I expected it to be, so I'm very happy with that. However, I am aware that God may be calling me to devote my life to something completely different altogether, and as always, I can trust His judgment to be better than mine. For now, though, I will carry on studying and further developing the gifts He's given me.
I think my dream job would be that of a millionaire's personal interpreter, as long as it allows me to spend time at home with my loved ones.
I imagine myself dressing up all smartly and tagging along with the boss wherever they go. I would double up as a personal assistant too at times, and we'd travel abroad every once in a while. I could bring back with me cool stuff for my family tell them about the cool places I've been to, and eventually take them there for the holidays.
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She Would Not Believe How Good She Was
Some people, after having created a nice piece of work, will claim they don't really think it's actually good. They may say it out of false modesty, they may be truly humble, or maybe never in their life did they accept themselves and believe they were good enough. This is sadly the case of Sally Summers.
Sally had always been deeply surprised whenever someone congratulated her art. She either thought people said it out of kindness or pity, or because they didn't have a critical eye for art. However, even if she thought she wasn't up to the mark, she still strived to be the best.
That may be the most admirable thing about Sally. It is tough to fight one's inner demons and go for what you're passionate about. It was this noble determination that gave her success. Of course she was helped by Simon, who insisted Sally created art worth looking at, and buying too.
Sally's experience gives us a great example to follow. Working hard and passionately, surrounding oneself with supportive people and never ceasing to aim for the highest will very likely help us meet our goals without cheating, but solely by our talent and determination.
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My Friend Is a Gold-Digger · version II
Consuela and I have been friends for many years now. We were both models from the same academy, and for a time we used to appear together in lingerie ads. From an early stage of our careers we found that we both agreed that marrying a billionaire and not having to work much was a most agreeable lifestyle for us. So that's what we did. However, Consuela soon took it to the next level.
I settled for one marriage only. Had three children. Got too fat to model anymore, though I'm working on it. On the other hand, Consuela looks as dazzling as ever, and plans to keep taking advantage of this for her own profit. Already she has her eye on a fourth husband. I wonder if she's taking it a little too far, because her attitude truly reflects that of a gold-digger, and everyone knows, that is not a job one can take for too long.
So for her own sake, I hope she finds someone nice to settle down with. Whether we like it or not, we all grow old, and it will happen to dear Consuela too. She won't be able then to keep on catching big fish. She will need someone loving to take care of her.
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My Friend Is a Gold-Digger · version I
(Look at them both. Acting like they were already married.) “My goodness! That necklace lights up the whole party!” (In front of all these important people.) “It puts the stars to shame!” (She must always be the star.) “I say, why don't we take a stroll down to the...” (Always the centre of attention, the little schemer, the..) “...the beach! Why don't you come along, Maria?” Consuela reached out her hand to her.
Maria snapped out of her thoughts and instantly pulled her most charming smile. “Why of course, darling!” She took hold of another crystal glass of rosé and joined her friend and her little group of admirers.
They walked along arm in arm, a little behind the rest, alone. (Scrawny little arm.) “What a wonderful evening!” Consuela sighed as she breathed in the sea breeze. (Mine is thrice as thick.) “Indeed it is, dear. You're looking like a million dollars.” Agreed Maria. (As is the rest of my body.) Consuela cracked out a laugh. “Far more, actually.” (Obviously). “Birthday present?” “Obviously.” Consuela beamed. (Obviously.) “I really must congratulate you, honey!” Maria gave her friend's hand a friendly squeeze, which the other returned. “How ever did you manage it?” (I have a fair idea of how you managed it.) “Oh.” Consuela flashed a victorious grin. The brightness of the jewels around her neck dimmed out her perfect nacre teeth. “It's all a matter of being and looking smart, really.” (And I weigh five kilos more than the last time you saw me.) Consuela kept on explaining how her plan was carried out, smoothing out some intimate details which Maria could well imagine anyway. Maria praised her. (I really didn't expect such cleverness from her.)
Consuela laughed merrily along. Their stroll was done and they were back at the party. Mr Carvallo was waiting for her. Maria watched as her friend joined her lover and kissed him on the lips. His arm went around her tiny, fit waist. (My friend is a gold-digger.) Consuela looked dashing in that black mini dress and necklace. All eyes were on Consuela. (How I envy her.) Only a fool wouldn't want to look at her. (Only a fool wouldn't want to be her.)
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Lost in the City
It is always suggested to investigate about the city you're travelling to. I did not use to give much thought to this advice before, but eventually, I learnt there's a reason why everyone gave it to me, and I learnt it the hard way.
I had just come back from a weekend trip to Belfast. The ferry arrived at quarter to six in the morning to Beatles city. I was meant to take a train from Liverpool to Sheffield in two hours' time, so I looked up the way to the station in Google Maps and went my way.
After twenty minutes of walking and carrying two heavy bags,, I stopped in my tracks in the middle of a small park. I realised aghast that I had to cross the Mersey. Fear gripped my heart when I saw there were no ferries crossing from side to side at that time of day. Anyway, I had no money to pay for it either, I had less than £15 cash on me. Perhaps I could call a cab and ask if I could pay with my credit card.
By this moment I was already sobbing desperately, looking up for transport services. I called a cab company, but I could not tell where I was, and they did not accept cards anyway. Maybe, I thought I could walk along the Mersey bank to reach my destination. However, that would take me three hours, according to Google, and I needed to be at the station in less than one.
As I miserably walked back to the dock, through the tears I identified an Underground sign. Intrigued, I walked through the door underneath and scanned the stations it travelled to. One of them was Liverpool Station. Apparently the tube went all the way under the river. I praised the Lord under my breath and paid my £2.50 ticket. I did not miss my train. Experience is a hard teacher, but oh, do you learn.
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Maté Time
Now that my journey is coming to an end, I noticed, looking back on my notes, that I have barely mentioned maté. Argentinians claim to be the copyright bearers of almost anything, including God. Maté, of course, is no exception, even though neighbouring countries have it as well.
So what is maté? That I asked my companion, Tincho. He raised his eyebrows in astonishment and decided I should find out for myself. Firstly, he took a hollowed out squash and filled it with yerba maté, which is a mixture of dried herbal leaves. Along with this he introduced a bombilla into the recipient, which is like a glorified metal straw, but with a wide sealed end with little holes so that the yerba maté doesn't enter the straw. Then Tincho poured in water heated up just before boiling point.
My companion took two long sips from the bombilla. He said he had to drink first, for if anyone but the cebador (the one pouring in the hot water) drank first, they would have bad luck. Then Tincho refilled the maté and passed it over to me. In horror I understood we were meant to share the same bombilla.
I fought back my sanitary standards and took a sip. The taste was strong, wild and bitter. That was my first and last sip of maté. Tincho kept pouring the remaining litre of water out of his thermos very happily, just for himself.
All over the country people carrying thermos and matés can be seen, just going about their life drinking it and offering some to their friends. It would be crazy to imagine oneself walking around with a kettle under one's arm, but it's quite the normal thing here. Well, each to their own, I for one found that maté is not my cup of tea.
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The Day I Suspected Michael Had Cheated on Me
It was late in the evening, and the smell of cooking stew filled the house. Michael had just left for work, leaving me on my own with the kids. This was part of our daily routine, nothing out of the ordinary, until a phone call interrupted our dinner.
A policeman, it was, asking if a certain make and plate number matched those of the car we owned. A little disheartened, I had to agree with the police officer, who continued to inform me that it had been found parked at a double yellow line, just in front of a theatre. It was the theatre close to the restaurant where Michael works at. I thanked the policeman, trying to hide the dissatisfaction this unpleasant news had caused me.
I returned to the dining room, thinking about the ghastly sum of £100 that was asked as a fee for collecting the car. I finished my meal in silence, resolving to call Michael's work after the kids had gone to bed. There was something fishy here. The fact that the car was found by the theatre was no coincidence.
Indeed, when I called Michael's boss, he said in so many words that Michael was fired and that he had been seen flirting and having a jolly good laugh with a stunning girl at a theatre. Again, I thanked him, but hurriedly this time because the knot in my throat loosened up when I burst into tears.
I had suspected for a while that Michael was being dishonest. There was nothing much I could do now, I thought, but wait until my husband arrived and reprimand him. It was high time he faced the consequences of his actions.
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Dilema de una no escritora
¡Miércoles! ¡Qué terrible situación, pasarme a mí, alguien muy lectora, con firmes y múltiples opiniones, creo yo, en su mayoría razonables, que justo me vengan a pedir un artículo para Aguafuertes! ¡Justo a mí! Ironía total, leo tanto, escribo tan poco... y con lo que me gusta. No, profe, me duele confesarlo, no soy ninguna gran escritora, menos que menos Roberto Arlt, tragaré libros de tapa a tapa, pero eso de nada sirve, sigo siendo una no escritora.
¿Por qué? ¿Qué hace el escritor? Sabe expresarse en el papel. Qué caradura de mi parte, pretender hacerme pasar por uno con mis torpes palabras. Moría de horror frente a esta página en blanco, sólo imaginá, si el bloqueo del escritor es odioso, ¡cuánto más lo será para una no escritora! Innumerables ideas agolpábanse y bullían en mi pobre cerebro, sobre la falsedad, la despreocupación, la timidez, el abuso de insultos y muchas más, y frustradas, sólo podían permanecer ahí, no podían viajar a mi mano derecha, sosteniendo una birome que ni se animaba a tocar el papel. “No puedo, no puedo”, parecía decirme, y yo la observaba compasivamente. “Yo tampoco, yo tampoco”, le contesté. Quizá, ella no quería colaborar con una no escritora. La muy engreída.
En fin, no me tildo de idiota ni tampoco de muy modesta, así que reconozco que esta obra salió realmente bien, pero ¿de qué me sirve si yo habría preferido expresar otros pensamientos y sentimientos? ¿Significará esto entonces un fracaso de escritora o un éxito de no escritora?