momenti

grazie per lasciarmi guardare nei tuoi occhi ieri sera... probabilmente è stata la poesia più bella che ho letto nei ultimi giorni, anche se eravamo ubbriachi di vino bianco è la musica vi turbava i sensi

non chiedermi perche ho scritto in una lingua che non è la tua, ne'anche la mia... ci sarano degli errori... sarà che questa è la più vicina alla lingua degli sguardi? che ne so io... lo sai che mi piacciono le lingue, in fatti se non fosse così no ci avrevemo mai incontrato tu ed io... e chissà se ci incontreremo un'altra volta come ieri...

è vero? o tutto una fantasia? è questa la magia di scrivere...

home sweet home

last saturday I had the traditional september family lunch, and after a delicious meal the "adults" decided to take a trip and explore my new appartment. Ohhs and Awsss later, they left the flat with the polite smile of someone who's hiding the real thoughts, and once the door was closed the whole building was able to hear my aunt giving out about how small and expensiveit was, how tacky the decoration, how cheap the furniture, and how hippie I am for not having a proper wardrobe and for having my bed on the floor...

excuse me auntie for not having youroh-so-wonderful taste! but i like tha flat, I like it's cosy small living room, with the read chair I painted with black spots, a cute present from Stefan. I like the tiny kitchen whith our blackboard to write the stupidiest songs and the most adorable messages, I like the marilyn monroe picture, the audry hepburn glass in the bathroom and the plant I got from Sandro hanging from the wall, unlike the previous appartment, which I never felt like it was truly mine (I didn't contribute to the decoration at all) this is our flat, and it might not be the classy place my 33 year-old-posh-cousin is putting up with her pretty-slim-brunette girlfriend, but it's more than he had when he was my age!

and for the readers... sorry for the public rant!

fotolog

he decidido abrir un fotolog, a ver que tal el famoso mundo de ese universo paralelo de los blogs, pero tranquilos, "I had a dream about writting" no desaparece, son muchos años con este blog, que ha cambiado de nombre en diversas ocasiones "Simply Divine", "L'auberge Irlandaise"... simplemente usare los distintos espacios para propositos diferentes, asi que, a partir de ahora también me encontrareis en www.fotolog.com/ayleesh

I've decided to start a fotolog, and check out what's the story in this blogging parallel universe, but no worries, this space will not disappear, we've lived too many things together! from now on you can also find me in www.fotolog.com/ayleesh BEWARE! i won't be writing the same in both places!

ho deciso di aprire uno spazio fotolog, così, per vedere cosa succende nel'universo paralello dei blogs... ma questo resta, perche sono stati tanti anni di stare insieme, il mio piccolo blog ed io... forse non è una roba che possa interesare mille di persone tippo Beppe Grillo (che si deve leggere se uno ha curiosità per quello che succede in Italia), ma io voglio bene questo spazio interspaziale ch'è diventato mio. Da oggi sono anche a www.fotolog.com/ayleesh
spazi diversi per cose diverse!

i-ching

hace poco mi compañero de piso me hablaba del i-ching, filosofia oriental que ayuda a equilibrar la vida... segun esta filosofia tenemos que aprender a no escuchar a los inferiores, esos sentimientos de rabia, venganza, rencor que nos acechan en momentos de crisis... pero ultimamente tengo demasiados inferiores gritando dentro, me odio por ello, no por tener estos sentimientos en general, ya que todos los humanos los tenemos, sino por sentirlos en este momento y por algo que no merece la pena... pero a nadie le gusta que le pisoteen, a mi tampoco, y asi es como me siento ahora... tal vez por esta vez deberia hacer hablar a los inferiores... tal vez por primera vez en los ultimos tres años ellos tienen la razon y no yo...

queria hablar de Tarrega, de nuestra cena en el tejado y de otras cosas mas interesantes pero los inferiores me susurran al oido...

lo bueno es que he econtrado una cita sobre Shakespeare en El Péndulo para añadir al Broadsheet! y ahora esta a punto de llegar una nueva alumna, asi que me comere el caramelo que me han regalado y dare una clase como una profesional...

barcelona

museus oberts a deshores
copes de vi en una terrassa amagada
un rastafari que canta cançons dels Beatles
un carrer sense esfaltar
unes estovalles plenes de mugrons
una prostituta que t'avisa dels robatoris
un cor de gospel al mig de la nit
aplaudir quan no toca
corredisses de lladres
una mesquita amagada al carreró Massanet
les cortines penjades fora
artistes anònims que decoren balcons
el record d'unes fotos en blanc i negre
una pastisseria siria
descobrir una botigueta amagada
el Raval
el Born
el Gòtic
...
unes sandalies trencades
l'olor d'un kebab al mig de les rambles
una rapsodia amb flauta travessera
trobar vells desconeguts
i nous savis per coneixer
una clara ben fresqueta
escales altes
i mal fetes
un gran mapa ple de turistes
i milers de turiestes plens de grans mapes
la desorganització de la ciutat antiga
la racionalitat del Raval
una gran botiga de flors
l'olor de les margarides cada mati
el passeig maritim
les passejades en bicicleta per la ciutadella
una llibreria de teatre amagada
festes, festetes i festasses
i un etc interminable

sonidos

la última media hora de trabajo es la peor... sabes que queda poco tiempo asi que es inútil empezar una tarea nueva porque en nada te tienes que ir, y no podrás acabarla.

Yo no soy organizada, o al menos todo lo organizada que debería ser... tengo que controlar demasiados grupos y no consigo hacer las cosas una a una... hago listas infinitas de tareas, y siempre me propongo seguirlas, pero se pierden en un infinito de papel amarillo y cuando vuelvo al trabajo empiezo por lo que más me apetece y no por aquello que deje a medias el último día.

Estos primeros días en el nuevo trabajo me recuerdan a la época de becaria, siempre con carpetitas y buscando material en internet para profesores sin tiempo. Pero ahora no hago fotocopias, ni tampoco tengo a tres coordinadores para prepararme las clases. No se si preferiría tener a la becaria que me busca el material o al coordinador que me lo da todo masticado... ay! esto debe ser crecer profesionalmente ¿¿??
Y hoy he descubierto que durante los dos próximos meses se duplica mi trabajo, y por suerte también mi sueldo! y es que al divertido paraguayo que me hablaba en griego y con quien pase dos horas cantando canciones de Elio la semana pasada ya no trabaja aquí... fué corto pero intenso, aunque me he quedado con las ganas de asistir a una de esas cenas eritreas que me prometió, acompañados por un napoletano que me iba a recitar poesias de Pasolini....

È l'amare, è il conoscere che conta
non l'aver amato, non l'aver conosciuto
da angoscia il vivere di un consumato amore
l'anima non cresce più...

y sigue... y yo no le pedí el número ni el a mi tampoco, quedamos en vernos el sábado y preparar juntos un test de nivel... así que más trabajo para mi!

Os preguntareis que relación tiene el post con el título... son los sonidos de mis tripas que hacen la vez de banda sonora de este miércoles, y supongo que los de muchos miércoles que quedan por venir.

bastoncillos de algodón

antes de seguir con mas crónicas de irlanda (que las habrá) una pequeña reflexión



Esto son bastoncillos de algodón, de esos de toda la vida, tras su apareción allá por el año no recuerdo la dura tarea de limpiar las orejas pasó a ser menos dura (quien no recuerda a su abuela humedeciendo una toalla y limpiando el oroficio auditivo con mas fuerza que maña?), pero un buen dia alguien inventó estos bastoncillos para hacernos la vida mas facil.

Este verano he tenido una relación extraña con los bastoncillos, y es que, encontrandome en un pais lejano, y vagabundeando por miles de cuartos de baño ajenos, descubrí que nadie tenia bastoncillos de algodón, y ante este descubrimiento mis oidos empezaron a picar y a producir un exceso de suciedad para ser retirada... tal fue la tragedia que ni corta ni perezosa, y a riesgo de perder un bus y quedar tirada en medio de la nada, sin posibilidad a coger el avion que me llevaria a otro pais lejano, me adentre en un super de carretera donde pague una fortuna por los bastoncillos. Ni que decir tiene que, una vez el preciado tesoro estuvo en mi poder, mis orejas dejaron de producir sustancias para ser retiradas, asi que esa compra sirvio, a modo de placebo, para paliar mi incipiente obsesión con la limpieza del conducto auditivo.

Y os preguntareis para que sirve tal desagradable narración de hechos sobre la higiene intima de una persona (en este caso la misma), para empezar dejar de escandalizaros, que todas las orejas funcionan igual, pero el tema al que yo quiero llegar (tarde o temprano) es al descubrimiento que he hecho esta mañana. Extrañamente me encontraba desayunando ante un televisor, y siendo ya el inicio del curso escolar algo a la vuelta de la esquina, en lugar de los divertidos dibujos animados, me he puesto a ver un programa de esos de noticias e informaciones varias de la mañana, y algo ha llamado mi atención, y es el descubrir que los milagrosos bastoncillos de algodón son una enrome amenaza para nuestro planeta.
Imagino que ahora hay miles de personas (o los tres o cuatro que se pasan por aqui) imaginando ejercitos de bastoncillos marchando contra los humanos, dispuestos a matarnos a todos con proyectiles de cera... NO! el problema es mas mundano,existe un numeroso grupo de población que despues de utilizarlos los lanza al WC, creyendo que apareceran al otro lado de un agujero negro en el hiperespacio. Estos bastones aparecen en los filtros de la depuradora, cientos, que digo cientos, miles de ellos a diario. Y que se hace? pues nada porque son practicamente indestructibles, como muchas de las cosas que tiramos donde no deben ser tiradas, estos elementos maquiavelicamente fabricados no son biodegradables, asi que allí se quedan, flotando tan tranquilos... que hacemos entonces? Para mas inri (me encanta esta expresion probablemente porque no debe ser normativa) los otorrinos no recomiendan para nada su uso, ya que en lugar de eliminar suciedad la empujan para contribuir a la formación de tapones, primer paso para una sordera... imagino que si lo combinamos con musica a atodo volumen al lado del timpano el resultado tiene que ser brutal!

en fin, que si tan malos son, porque los siguen fabricando? y que hago ahora con los que tengo en casa?

imagenes

algunas imagenes de las vacaciones... mas relatos coming soon!

travelling tales again!

A bit delayed but here they come... travelling tales from hell!!

Surprise surprise!! I made my way to the emerale isle one more time. It was as always one of those quick, mad decisions where my head has no say and I just follow instincts... in a way it’s always like that, my travelling. Online booking has made it easier to buy flights, and also easier to make mistakes. I don’t let myself time to reflect, yet this time it was not a mistake. I had to do it, first I owed it to them, booking flights and making summer plans to spend some time with me, at the end they could have gone everywhere but they choose and I wanted to be fair to their election. But mainly I owed it to myself, the trip I had planned so many times, with so many different people that never accompanied me on that way, it was my time to go, I had to close the cycle. No regrets this time, not a single one. Just one promise to myself, to slow down, stop these crazy decisions... I don’t know if I’ll be able though, it is true that lately this way of doing things has let me down, but if I think about it, it has also brought many a good thing in my life, maybe deep rational thinking would bring the same happiness, and maybe also the same damn mistakes, ah! Feck it! as old Mary says all the time...

One hour delay, not so much for the irish company I must admit, it got tricky though as some party wasn’t supposed to know of my arrival, yet, and even if there had been an innocent slip-of-the-tongue the previous night, the surprise worked quite well, and I came out of the arrivals gate carrying my proud backpack, as a bunny-lady coming from inside a huge birthday cake... maybe a bunny boy would have been a better choice if you know what I mean.

No time to stop in Dublin, what’s the point anyway, the same 360º of gray as a month ago, so what?! Up to the North we go, and after some unfortunate misleadings with the car and the irish way of driving we set foot in the lovely Donegal. Nothing too remarkable, any other irish town would have been the same, a river, a church, an abrakebabra and the usual pubs. Lovely lady in the hostel, especially when the morning afterwards she fooled the boys telling them campers had no right to shower. But let’s go back to the previous night.
We made it to a pub with live music, a cute hairy singer and his band playing covers, that’s what you usually find, this time it was not “and I would walk one hundred miles” as in the Phoenix... but it was neither “melodia Queen” as our neighbour in the couch tried to mime to me thinking I could’t speek english. Pink Floyd is the only band they covered I can remember, though I have images of myself happily singing with my pint, so they must have played something else besides “Another Brik in the Wall”. It was normal and at the same time strange to be sitting in that pub. Normal because being in Ireland has become something ordinary for me, there’s nothing of the wild anticipation felt years ago, strange because of the company, you always make connections in your head, people and places, and they didn’t belong there. Business as usual in the pub, with the exeption of it being Owen’s birthday party. Don’t ask me who this Owen was, even if I joined the “happy birthday” singing ( and I even made an attempt to “for he’s a jolly good fella”) I never saw this Owen’s face... the cake looked yummy but nobody thought for a moment we were part of the party and so we got nothing.
Time to get back to our lovely – a bit tight for three – tent, we’ll just say that Jonay and me were merry enough to jump into a cow’s toilet-field full of “cow mines”, God save the torch that led our way! And I almost break my head going up the stairs to the hostel.

After an almost sleepless night curled between two lovely – and too innocent for my taste, this couldn’t lead in any way to a wild fantasy – cute guys, we woke up in a damp, wet atmosphere, a present from the night’s rain, that left us with a cold and gave me also some knee problems to carry along the trip. Shower, breakfast and off we go, it was almost perfect, had it not been for Cesc loosing his phone, so we went back to the pub, with no luck, and we instantly condemned the “melodia Queen man” who kept smiling and letting us know of every single one of his moves, was it a way to keep us distracted when his hand reached for the phone? We would never know...

We walked into the tourist office only to find out they didn’t have the information we required, so after a quick stop at the protestant church (I felt like entering the house of the prairy church) it was time to reach Lough Eske.
We walked around and met our friend the pregnant horse and her teenager horse-son, and in the way I lost the sole of my shoes, no kidding there, this is not a metaphor to make you feel we did this incredible walk, it was almost the other way round since we were forced to go back to the car as stones were starting to be part of my feet, shit happens, and it always happens to me and shoes... for the first time I felt I was wearing the right shoes at the right time, these were walking shoes, made with this wonderful material that doesn’t let water soak your feet, perfect for ireland and our holidays... but you know, too good to be true. The sole desintegrated and I kept loosing part of it... how funny it was for the guys... at least I didn’t pay for them, but beware of inherited things from now on...
You have to know that I’ve got this thing with shoes, I never seem to wear the appropriate ones, I always have problems with them... I think everything started when in that Connemara trip I dip my boot in mud, for the laugh... it was a good laugh but I had to throw my favourite boots!

We got lost on the way to Killybegs and drove miles on the opposite direction, I know there’s already an area of Ireland called the burren, but they should have another one, it was like being in La Mancha only with no windmills or Don Quijote, I wonder (Cesc you can laugh now) if your man had seen Cu Chulainn would have he thought it to be a mill?
We finally arrived in Killybegs... you see I had been mistaken all the way long. I remembered once, long time ago, I was travelling with 4 italians for a change, and we were in the house of some norwegian girl eating porridge and smoking pot who said we should go to Kilkee, apparently her stepdad was from there. All the way I thought Killybegs was Kilkee, and I was expecting to see this Kinsale of the north... when we got to Killybegs I realized I had already been there in that first Donegal attempt with the musician. We had stopped there for dinner after visiting Knock, and there I was again!
We found a pub with a closed kitchen that my wondering got open for a late lunch or early dinner. One advice, if you go to ireland don’t ever order curry unless that’s the only taste you wanna have in your mouth for the next two days, what’s wrong with their measuring? They should take a field trip to El Bulli (Mindundi!)

After lunch time for a forced shoe shopping, a walk around the port and off we go to Glencolumbkille!

One cannot go to County Donegal without stopping in Glencolumbkille, and one cannot go to Glencolumbkille and not sleep in Dooey Hostel. A place in the middle of nowhere, the ass of the world as Mary told me without wanting to be heard by the boys, where the sheep are queens and owners, and the wind blows the cobwebs away.
Our camping plan was put to a rest when we felt the cold wind of the ocean and some more wonderings got us some beds in Mary’s kingdom (does queendom exist?). You HAVE to meet Mary, she’s the soul of the hostel and a conversation with her is worth the kilometers and the weather from hell. More than pleased with the news of it not being my first stay at Dooey, we got the welcoming tea, served with biscuits and an almost handmade guide of the area
Cesc decided to give the pub life a miss that night so Jonay and me strolled down the busy road to go to the pub, there we met Diarmuid, an unemployed Irish from the North who was there learning Gaelic, and who had lived in San Sebastian and worked as a teacher for a few years. Besides listening to him speaking Spanish with the thickest Northern Ireland accent, he gave us some interesting insights to the irish language and the learning of languages in general. After the pleasant conversation we walked the road up again. And once there... zzzzzz

pictures coming soon

blanco y negro