far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Friday, February 14, 2003

Man, I had a hard time concentrating today. On anything. I mean, seriously. Distracted, not a happy boy. The solution: go see "About Schmidt" (here called "A Propósito de Schmidt"). Which did the trick. God bless Jack Nicholson.

Something I noticed in the film's closing credits: of the seven Drivers listed, three had nicknames. They were:
Sparky
Sluggo
Johnboy

Afterwards, when I walked into the men's room, the gent who entered ahead of me walked into one of the three little toilet closets -- they don't seem to have stalls here very often; mostly little rooms with a door to close and (in theory) lock -- and shut the door. There were five urinals lined up along one wall with a guy standing at the middle one. I parked myself at the far left one and as I dumped the ballast I noticed why the fella who entered ahead of me opted for one of the toilet rooms: the guy at the middle urinal seemed to be in the middle of a crisis. He stood right up against the porcelain, his body actually leaning into the bugger, his head bent forward so that the top of his skull rested against the wall. When I first took note of him, he seemed to be shaking, almost quaking. That settled down, but his general air remained tense, one of something approximating existential angst (perhaps in keeping with the film we'd just seen). At one point, as he stood there tinkling away, he raised a closed fist and began slowly punching the little FLUSH button, causing repeated spritzing by the urinal. When he finished, he zipped up and rushed immediately out the door. I noticed the floor in front of that urinal had been left generously puddled with liquid, no humongo surprise. Then I noticed that the floor in front of the one next to me looked about the same. The floor in front of mine, on the other hand, was clean and dry. I am such a grown-up.

And with that, I swaggered proudly, smugly back out into the world.

Later, at a bookstore I wandered into, I happened to glance at a shelf of self-help books. The following five titles were leaning up against each other:
¡Sí, tú puedes! (Yes, you can!)
El Dragón Ya No Vive Aquí! (The Dragon Does Not Live Here!)
¿Por Qué Nunca Tengo Suficiente? (How Come I Never Have Enough?)
¿Quieres Cambiar Tu Vida? (Do You Want To Change Your Life?)
Como Hacerte Rico Usando Tu Imaginación (How To Make Yourself Rich Using Your Imagination)

¡Madre Mia!

Meanwhile, it's Valentine's Day (love notes or correspondence of a flirty nature can be sent to runswithscissors@myway.com). I've translated three more love letters from this last Sunday's El País weekly magazine. (See journal entries for 11 Feb. and 13 Feb. for more.) Don't let the title of the first one confuse you:


Nine love letters

In none do I write my name. Neither do I write yours. Between lines: "passion that burns me," as between the curtains I see you, luminous, in the mornings.

When I recognize the soft sound of your steps on the landing and then open the door and bump into you, as if by chance, in the elevator you rob me of my breath.

All the songs that I hear on the radio talk of you.

At the banquet, the feast of your kisses, I am never invited because your husband is always there.

I pass the hours in my studio, and between lines: "passion that burns me."

And like my literature, which no one will ever read, I keep these nine letters in a drawer in the hope that the tenth will say I love you.

-- J.G. Mindundi


72 years

72 years. One says it quickly. 72 years getting up and going to bed early. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. Year by year.

72 years of affection, of chats, of quarrels, of company, of tenderness, of work. You in the house. Me in the mine. The two of us in the country. And a war. And a post-war. And hunger. And cold and misery. And six children (one already buried).

72 years of joys and pains, of shared dreams, of walking the same road, step by step, hand in hand, skin against skin.

72 years and now you've gone. And I... I don't know who I am.

-- Aquilino Oveja Alvarez


Weakened

Dear Sandra:

Last night I learned to love you. I never imagined that it would make me so tired. But it's worth it.

Many kisses --

-- Pablo González-Posada

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That's right, it's Saint Valentine's Day. Let the people in your life know how much they mean to you.

Later.

rws 2:41 PM [+]
Comments: Post a Comment

Links to this post:

<\$BlogItemBacklinkCreate\$>
BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





This page and all its contents copyright © 2001-2011 by runswithscissors unless otherwise noted.


runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done.



Syndicate This Site

Blogarama

BlogCatalog

Bloggapedia, Blog Directory - Find It!



technorati profile

Subscribe with Bloglines

www.flickr.com
runswithscissors' photos More of runswithscissors' photos