Desde los balcones de la casona se dejaba ver: aquel laberinto de flores y ramas al que la palabra “jardín” le quedaba corta. A los puñados de narcisos y jacintos y lirios de todos colores los entrelazaban curvados caminos de piedra, tibia bajo el sol, y adonde no habían flores había césped verde y suave como las nubes de algodón. Nudos de árboles abrazaban a los leves soplidos de brisa que pasaban, y frutos y arándanos de todo tipo escondían sus dulces sabores entre la música de las hojas.

En las grises mañanas, bajo un cielo de papel blanco, y también en las tardes pintadas de naranja acuarela, bajaba Antonela a merodear por su jardín. A veces se quedaba hasta que le caía encima la noche, con un violeta gouaché. Se paseaba entre las flores y ramas, con la nariz metida en las orquídeas, con lilas trabadas en el pelo, hablándoles y cantándoles a las azaleas.

“Dichosas flores,” pensaba una de esas tardes Bartolomeu, el señor de la casa, mientras tomaba una taza de té negro desde uno de los balcones, y mirando de reojo a su esposa que se paseaba abajo. “Nada más le falta a esta mujer ponerse a leerles cuentos de cuna a los claveles.”

Bartolomeu pasaba ocupado con las numerosas e indistintas ocupaciones que tiene un hombre de importancia, generalmente optando por dejar a Antonela a seguir sus floreados caprichos. Cada día había flores frescas perfumando cada recoveco de la casa, y tanta era la cantidad de flores y ramas que nunca faltaban éstos en los jardines por más que se propagaran, por manos de Antonela, a todo florero, jarrón y vaso que ella pudiera encontrar en la casa. A veces a Bartolomeu le picaba la nariz de tener tanta fragancia flotando por todos lados, pero era un hombre práctico y de pocas palabras, y no le importaba lo suficiente como para confrontar a su esposa. Simplemente fruncía el ceño y se devolvía a sus muy ocupados asuntos.

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Paperboat wayfaring

Tuesday, January 1st, 2008 UTC

The sea that is life is rather more viscous than it would seem at first glance. It springs back if pressed at, the viscid consistency is playful. Amorphous and blandly colorful, this mass extends from one end of infinity to the other, and (on the perpendicular axis), from one end of Time to the opposite end. From the surface down, its depth is of such baffling unfathomability that it is usually presumed bottomless. Overhead, scattered stars twinkle in an irregular melody, suspended in a low-hanging sky. The air is powdery, crumbly almost; or rather, it has that quality of being almost solid, yet insubstantial.

To the crew in the paper boat, days pass by in a haze, uncounted and numberless; each day is a solo performer in an interminable and magical parade of little grains of sand, spiraling ever downwards and seeping through. It’s tempting to write, if only a little, about the habitual tempests of fractals and hurricanes of quantum mechanics, the occasional still aeon in doldrums, of seagulls and mirages of warm shores that dissolve back into the ocean, or of the way the open skies boast unfaltering beauty in their volatile semblance. It is an almost instinctive longing– if all this could be written down and kept! Indeed, and Man could have libraries of nothing but delightful stories, and countless archives of long essays analyzing each incident by detail. Surely that would be lovely, except then what remains of life would be lost.

When one doesn’t concern oneself too much about them, memories just put themselves away is some corner of one’s head. They grow ripe and are sweetened with age, and sometimes they seep through into passerby thoughts, which eventually bloom into actions. Every mishap leaves its little sand-grain of a mark, some sort of impression upon us, without which we would be some other, different person, however slightly. So, maybe, Man would be better off living rather than watching himself live. (You know, if it was the afterlife that consisted of endless bookshelves and a myriad of varying interpretations and analyses of one’s life, eternity wouldn’t actually be too bad.)

But of course, no man is quick enough to seize every second of his life. Surely a few will stumble over their own eager feet, while running under their heavy “Carpe Diem!” banner– because a life lived to impress is a futile one, as there is no such audience to our follies. Still others might fall into the cruel delusion of dreaming that they wake in the morning under a fresh, clean sky and set off about their day, while oblivious to the fact that they are still asleep. But perhaps, it is regret over what we miss that makes what we do manage to grasp taste all the more sweet.

Indeed, what would a life be without wanting?

But alas, it would merely be incomplete.

Beauty and pleasure are fleeting things, so it is but all we can do to taste them to their fullest, celebrating their ephemeral character instead of lamenting it. Hedonism is not cynical, on the contrary. Using our hearts to feel and our minds to think are but natural, practical notions. Tell me, can you find anything more worthwhile to do in the interim between birth and death, but to enjoy the excursion?

Words of a Sentimentalist

Tuesday, October 23rd, 2007 UTC

Sentimentality is a criminally misunderstood notion.

Words like “love” have taken connotations so ridiculous and so tired that all beauty is gone from them. The word has become a blasphemy to its true meaning.

To the conventional person, feelings have become awkward, obsolete things, the consolations of those left behind, a trifle, a waste of valuable time.

The conventional person lives his life not only suppressing his emotions, but ignoring them with all his might. He is thus miserably defeated by them. What are psychologists, but those otherworldly saviors that teach him how to “cope” with his feelings, which he takes such trouble to eschew?

Reasoning without feelings should never be attempted, because the ensuing thoughts will be worth nothing. A machine can think objectively. An animal cannot think. What business does man have, then, thinking objectively or not thinking at all? There is no greater joy for man than the innocent hedonism of sentimentality. Everything is slightly more charming when ambiguous or misinterpreted.

The conventional person is boring, and this is an unforgivable fault.