Aching

. 

And then it reaches the point where the pain becomes unbearable. It tares at my insides, takes possession, until it owns me - becomes my master. 

Me atraviesa...

It breaks me. It steers my focus, making it impossible to concentrate. It reeks through every nerve, every muscle...every thought. I see it in the mirror, when there's no one else around; it stares back at me hopelessly.

The pain eats away at me, burning my very core. I can't even tell where it begins, it's everywhere. Preventing me, holding me back...I can't write, I can't think, I can't be in this body. Unless...unless I keep moving, keep running... keep playing.

I wonder what it would be like to be without it, and most particularly what it's going to be like to age with it. How will I bare it?

You can't tell by looking at me, my stubborn pride won't cave to it's dominance. I move like I always have  - it's the only way I know how. I will not bow to it. I will not resign my spirit nor my passion… Ah, but I will hide… Pain is isolating. Who wants to be seen in it?

Everything happens for a reason, they say. I've always said I didn't want to live a day past 60 because I anticipated the limitations, aches and pains I'd have then; so I guess I'm being taught, I now have the aches, pains and limitations of an eighty-year-old in my thirty-five-year-old body.

Chapeau!

No Me Jodan

Que el que no quiere amar, no llore
Que el que no quiere sufrir, no viva
Que el que no quiere herir, se calle
Que el que no se quiere salvar, se quede inmovil
Y que el que quiere vivir la vida a medias, no se queje.

Yo amo
Y siento
Y vivo
Y sufro

Porque si,
El miedo paraliza
Las palabras queman
El amor sana
y el desamor enloquece

Pero yo a la vida, la prefiero bien vivida!

.

More of College days in the US ...

(You can hear the baby in me)...

English 106
Viewer-Response on “The Pianist”




Although I anticipated Roman Polanski’s movie “The Pianist” was a masterpiece I could hardly bare to watch it, for I knew that some of the images I was about to see would haunt me for weeks. But I sat through it; my chest was relentlessly weighed down, my throat tightly clenched and my eyes burning with emotion as I tried desperately to comprehend such hatred. My heart went out to the desperate Jews that underwent such unimaginable suffering. I was shocked and overwhelmed by the violence portrayed in each scene and utterly frustrated by the notion of such a massive movement: how is it possible that such a large number of people so willingly followed the preachings of a mad man? I felt particularly horrified by two scenes regarding children; one was of a child beaten to death while trying to crawl under a wall, the other of a mother who had suffocated her new born child trying to prevent him from crying and giving away their hideout.
I have always been extremely sensitive (much to my discontent), but my sensitivity has acquired yet another perspective since I became a mother. I tend to project myself and my loved ones to the situations being portrayed and I can not bear to imagine such a dreadful circumstance affecting my own children. I felt sorry for the Jewish people who were so cruelly humiliated, mistreated and sacrificed; it is my firm belief that no human being deserves such horrifying treatment. How could Hitler find so many followers? What aspect of their character led so many Germans to carry out, passively or aggressively, Hitler’s proposal? Hatred is such an unfamiliar feeling to me that I can not bring myself to understand the existence of it in such beastly proportions.
“The Pianist” also produced in me a meager feeling of hope; the hope that such a vivid portrayal of the possible outcome of racial discrimination will install some sense of awareness in our world. My desire is that audiences throughout the globe feel as repelled and outraged by this inexcusable massacre as I did, and that the brutal images portrayed in the film invoke both fear and respect in our population. Fear of recreating such hatred and respect for the survivors of this tragedy.

CD Sere