Presentation on Octavio Paz

BIOGRAPHY

Octavio Paz was born in Mexico City in 1914, during the Mexican Revolution. His paternal grandfather Ireneo Paz, was a liberal intellectual, novelist, and publisher. Octavio Paz lived with him for few years because his father went to fight in the revolution. While he was living with his grandfather in a small village named Mixcoac, which was in the outskirts of Mexico City, he was able to perceive how a Mexican family functions: traditions, beliefs, respect for the elders, folklore, etc. In fact, in his book, Itinerario, which he wrote in 1993, he mentions in the introduction, how he was inspired to write The Labyrinth of Solitude, in which he describes/defines very vividly and in detail the Mexican identity.

Because of his family's public support of Emiliano Zapata, one of the leaders of the Revolution, his family was forced into exile after Zapata's assassination. They served their exile in the United States. He lived in Los Angeles for few years and even went to kindergarten where he learned English. Paz started writing in 1931, at the age of 17, and founded several magazines such as "Barandal" and "Taller." In 1937, Paz participated in the 2nd International Congress of Antifascists Writers in Valencia, Spain. He became part of Mexico's diplomatic group in 1945 and was sent to Paris, where he collaborated actively with the surrealist movement. In 1947, he moved back to the United States where he immersed in the Anglo-American modernist poetry.
During the time he lived in this country, he was able to compare the American with the Mexican culture. In his book, The Labyrinth of Solitude, he mentions, “[T]he United States is a society that wants to realize its ideals” (22). He served as a diplomat in India in 1962 but renounced to his position in protest against the Mexican government because of the massacre of students and in Tlaltelolco in 1968. In 1990, Paz received the Nobel Prize for Literature "for impassioned writing with wide horizons, characterized by sensuous intelligence and humanistic integrity" (The Nobel Prize in Literature 1990" http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1990/ )

VIEWS

Paz is considered one of the most prolific poets in the Spanish language and in Latin-American literature. He is one of the leaders of the Latin-American renaissance, which covers from the modernist era to the surrealism of the late XX century. He asserts that languages are realities more vast than the political and historical entities called nations (from "Repertorio de Ensayistas y Filosofos" by Patricio Eufraccio Solano, UNAM, March 2000).
While living in India, he had the opportunity to learn about different kind of surrealism, or as he called it, a spiritual orthodox movement in which there is a connection and balance between body and mind, between consciousness and unconsciousness. He asserts that the modern poet in the western literature has no connection between his body and his mind; there is a gap between the two, a disassociation called modernism. In modern poetry, the poet writes about the city, the life in the city and how the city is around him or her: political and historical views. The Indian literature, on the other hand, criticizes/analyzes time as a historical illusion; not as a term of the past, but as something that remains near the poet to look at it and be inspired by.

THE ESSAY

In his essay, “Translation: Literature and Letters,” Paz points out that languages are not universal but form part of a universal society (152). Men have found a way to communicate with one another through translation. The universality of the spirit is the way men have been able to communicate with one another. Even though each society is a world with its language, tradition, and history, all of them have an affinity in signification of a specific idea, concept, phrase, idiom and word. And translation is the way by which societies learn about each other: we learn about the way we think and express ideas.
For example, in The Labyrinth of Solitude, Paz exposes the difference in concepts about Realism in Mexico and in the United States: A realist in Mexico is considered a pessimist because “of his willingness to contemplate horror […] The bloody Christs in our village churches […] the custom of eating skull-shaped cakes and candies on the Day of the Day” (The Labyrinth of Solitude, 23). In the US culture, a realist is an optimist that “delights in fantasy” and “wants to understand” everything[…] “he is an activist” (24). Another difference in concepts is the perception of death. Paz asserts that in the Mexican culture, the “cult of death is also a cult of life, in the same way that love is a hunger for life and a longing for death” (23). Meanwhile, in the US, the American “not only has no desire to understand it, he obviously avoids the very idea” (22).
In the way of analyzing literature, there are of course differences between the North American and the Mexican ways. The North American has “self-assurance and confidence” when giving an opinion, where as in Mexico or other countries to the south, the “long periods of dictatorship have made us more cautious about expressing our points of view” (21). These facts help understand how these two nations think and define life through languages and cultures to make the translation process a little easier.

Literal Translation

He mentions about the word-for-word translation (servile), which he says it is not a translation but a mechanism that serves the translator to see how the original language works (154). Of course, there are few instances where this mechanism works well, and most of the time this is found in translation of prose:

The cat chases the mouse.
Il gatto insigue il topo.
Le chat court après le souris.
El gato persigue al ratón.

In the case of the example above, the translation into Spanish requires to add the preposition “a” (to) because the verb “persigue” (chases) needs such preposition. In the French translation, the verb chase would be translated as court après, which literally means to run after. Therefore, in order to convey the meaning of the original sentence, it was necessary to transform the original text. As a result, translation implies a “transformation of the original” (154). And the translator must keep the meaning of the original despite the changes or mutation of the original text (metonym and metaphor).

Poetry and Translation

Paz is a visionary that believes that poetry is universal and thus translatable. This is a concept that many poets believe to be almost impossible. Nonetheless, Paz asserts that (and this is going back to the idea of universality of the spirit) poetry comes from within our souls, and a poet can perceive that regardless of the language in which the poem is written. A poet is able to perceive the essence of poetry and the meaning behind it. However, as Paz points out, a poet is not a good translator because “poetic translation […] is a procedure analogous to poetic creation, but it unfolds in the opposite direction” (158). A good translator must embrace poetry and re-create the poem making such poem a unique and original piece. In other words, the translated poem becomes an original piece but with the same meaning and the same essence: “the meanings of a poem are multiple and changeable; the words of that poem are unique and irreplaceable” (159).

YOUR COMMENTS

"Paz is just playing with language here, as opposed to actually saying that literal translation is not translation."

-Justin Conn

“Therefore, translation is simply allowing for men to understand the same principles and ideas that they express through poetry - creating a universal poetic voice of man.”
-Carrie Morrow

“By using different words in a different language to illicit the same meaning would constitutes translation.”
-Tyler Bellis

“He [Paz] sees poetry as transforming language, through the interchangeability of words; translation is doing the same things.”
-Joel Muzzey

“When I imagine the great variety of landscapes of our planet, I can see how this illustration effectively communicates the diversity of techniques and final products that can emerge from the act of translation.”
-Grace Chen

“We are striving towards this ideal goal of literal translation that preserves the poetics of the text without appropriating or inserting our own voice.”
-Matthew Wehren

“[I]n translation, the languages overlap to supplement each other: the elusive but supreme INTENTION.”
-Jeffrey Schoneman

“[T]he translator has the opportunity to use all of his/her knowledge in translating a poem.”
-John Berryman

“[A] translator of poetry should be a poet. But she should be a translator too.”
-Syndee Wood

“[T]ranslations and the act of translating at varying levels would not exist and we would simply live in a “babbling” world of chaos.”
-Nelly Toner

“It [the text] is unoriginal in the sense that the conversion from nonverbal to language is already translation.”
-Janette Larson

“Emphasizing that language itself is, above all, translation - from non-verbal to verbal, and from one sign or phrase to another, Paz describes a universality in context and process.”
-Colleen Stricker

“Are poets just a part of the symphony of musicians that play the same music even if they get a solo at times? If this were so, wouldn't translation be much easier because we could just look at the earlier symphonies for meaning in the later symphonies?”
-Shannon Wales

C’est La Vie et C’est Jolie (Part IV)

I kept staring at the page without actually reading the words. I finally realized I had been doing that for quite some time and thought it would be a good idea to flip to another page so that my prince didn’t think I was a slow reader. As I turned to the next page and tried to keep pretending to read, I got a little frustrated and abruptly closed the book. My prince turned to me and said, “¿La música te disturba?” He asked me if the music was disturbing me.
I replied quickly that it didn’t at all. How could anything coming from him disturb me? How in the world would I be disturbed by his presence? He then said he could lower the volume if it was too loud and annoying. I said he didn’t have to do that at all; that I was tired of reading and eager to finally arrive in Madrid.
“Is it your first time in Madrid?” He asked.
“Yes, I am very excited to visit Spain for the first time.”
“Nice! You are going to love it. Madrid is a very dynamic and fun city.”
“Are you from Madrid?”
“No, I am from Valladolid, but I live in Madrid because I go to college there.”
“Oh OK. What is your major?”
“I’m studying Economy, but I actually like to paint… I do that sometimes when I have time. I also like to read poetry.”
Could he be dreamier than anything in this world?
“Really? What is your favorite poem or poems?” I asked very intrigued yet thrilled.
“Well, I don’t have a favorite poem per se, but I like ‘El seminarista de los ojos negros’ by Miguel Ramos Carrion.”
This is an amazing poem that I learnt in middle school and talks about this girl who is in love with a seminarist with black eyes and slender, tall figure covered by his black gown. It’s such a romantic yet sad story because the seminarist dies mysteriously and the girl ends up being old and alone because she never got to be with the love of her life.
My prince then said that he had learnt it by heart because he just loved it. I asked him immediately to recite it for me. As he was reciting it with his Spanish accent, I thought that was a very delightful moment that I would never forget in my life. Suddenly I thought I was probably asking too many questions and stopped talking. My heart that had been beating normally during the conversation with my prince started to beat faster again. I thought I had to do something to keep our chatting going.
“What were you doing in Rome?” I asked at the same time I was thinking the question could have been too abrupt and inappropriate.
“I just was there visiting for the first time, and you?”
“Same.”
Great answer! That’s going to keep the conversation going. I had to come up with another question:
“What did you like about Rome?” I asked thinking I would probably have looked obvious that I still wanted to talk to him.
“Everything! Rome is… Rome!” He smiled. “What about you?”
“Well, everything too. But Villa Borghese was the best of all. It is amazing how in the middle of this immense and busy city you can find such a peaceful and inspiring place. I wish I could live there and have the whole time in the world to read and write unaware about the world and its issues… the people and their problems. I would probably forget that I had to come back to work and wake up every day to face my problems and the try to solve the problems of others. I could forget that times goes by so quickly that as a fast as a blink, a whole life could be taken away…”
As I was talking, he was nodding as though he could identify with what I was saying. His eyes brightened even more and his smile could not have been more enchanting. I stopped and smiled at him and told him that I was a cheesy dreamer and builder of fictional, surreal images of the world in my head. He told me that he too liked doing that randomly pretending the world was his to play with. Suddenly, the sign to fasten our seat belts came on and the pilot was announcing we were close to landing on the Barajas Airport. My prince told me he didn’t feel the two-hour flight thanks to our conversation. I smiled shyly and nodded stupidly. Finally, as we had landed perfectly and were waiting for the flight attendants to open the doors, he said that if I wanted to, we could meet at a bar before I left Madrid. I just said, “Yeah, it’d be nice!” and smiled. But in my head I was jumping and crying out of excitement as though I had won the lottery. He took out a pen that read “Viva Italia” in red letters and asked me for a piece of paper so that he could write down his name and phone number. I quickly grabbed my book and handed it to him.
He smiled at me and shook my hand, “It has been nice talking to you. Give me a call.” He winked at me and stood up to get his little handbag that had put in the overhead compartment. I held my book closed to my chest as though the very Garcia Marquez has autographed it. I didn’t want to look at his handwriting too soon because I didn’t want him to think I was so desperate. After all, I was acting cool!

C’est La Vie et C’est Jolie (Part III)

Picture taken by Monica Colon

Oh his smile! I wished I could have frozen the time to admire him forever. My hands were sweaty and my feet cold. I wanted to talk to him, but my lips could not stop smiling. The moment was awkward, and he continued walking toward the main door of the basilica. I saw him walk away from me. At that moment I knew the chances to finally meet and talk with my prince were almost impossible to happen. I was very disappointed and frustrated. I hated myself for being so shy. Suddenly, I had this impulsive feeling to run after him and tell him something… My friends found me. They were upset because I took my own route and left them behind. I apologized to them; nonetheless, I still wanted to leave them behind and run after my prince. After taking some pictures and walking around the basilica, we decided we were hungry. So, we left the church and walked away from the Vatican.
We ended up at Piazza del Poppolo and ate in “Babette Caffé & Ristorante,” an expensive restaurant but with excellent Italian food and wine. At that point, I did not care about my posture and eating manners. It was pointless pretending to be somewhat prince-like when my prince was not there. My friends noted my taciturn attitude and asked me what was wrong. I just smiled and said I was still amazed by the beauty of the Vatican and could not believe I was there. Nonetheless, my fake smile and deep sigh told the truth. My friends didn’t ask. They didn’t want my wandering and sadness to ruin their fun in Rome. I tried to keep up with their conversation about the romantic Rome during Christmas time. Suddenly, one of my friends asked me if I was homesick and missed my family. I nodded. That was a good excuse. I pretended to be sad by the fact it was Christmas, and my family was on the other side of the world.
I realized then how sad it was to actually spend my time and energy thinking about someone and be so obsessed about him to the point I forgot about my family; the people who always have been and will be there for me when I need them. In my head, I had created a fictitious person whom I thought was interested in me when in the real world, he probably had not even noticed me at all. How sad it was that moment of realization about my lack and need of love for someone that only existed in my head. It was sadder to realize that I had spent almost a whole paycheck on this trip and flown for about ten hours to understand I needed love. I had to stop thinking about that; otherwise, my whole trip would have been ruined by my pathetic thoughts. Therefore, I decided to keep having fun and visit the rest of la romantica Roma with my friends.
On our last two days in Rome, we visited Il Pantheon, Il Museo Vaticano, Piazza di fiori, where we ate a wonderfully and gloriously delicious gelato, and finally, Piazza di Spagna, Trastevere, and Villa Borghese Park, which was the last place we visited before we left Rome. We walked for hours admiring the tranquility and freshness of the park inside a very busy city. We felt as though Rome was giving us a break from the other tourists and the amazing buildings that have been touched by so many people during so many centuries. This park was the good-bys and the come-back-soon from this dreamy city. At that point, I was resigned to keep on my journey to Spain. I had to leave my prince behind with Rome and just keep this amazing adventure in my journal as a simple nice Europe-trip story.
At the Fiumicino Airport, my friends and I were waiting to depart to Madrid. We were going to spend New Year’s Eve there. We could not be more excited about that. After two hours waiting, we finally boarded the plane and found our seats, one in each row. I wished my friends to have a nice trip and sat down on the seat next to the window. I pulled out my book, “Love in Times of Cholera” by Garcia Marquez- one of my favorite authors, and started to read where I had left off: “To him she seemed so beautiful, so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he…” I was interrupted by this person who was putting his luggage in the overhead compartment. I could not see his face till he sat down. I closed the book, sat up straight, and fixed my glasses. It was my prince! It was him sitting next to me. Good heavens! My heart started beating like crazy and my blood stopped flowing to my legs as they froze. NO! This time I was not going to act like an idiot! Destiny, or rather, sublime Destiny had brought my prince back to me to give me a last chance to hide my shyness and act… “cool.” Dear Lord! What is cool anyway? Would that help catch his attention? “Sagrado Corazón, ¿que hago?” I thought. I sighed heavily and reopened my book to pretend to be reading again: “but he did not dare approach her for fear of destroying the spell.”

“¿Pero lees García Marquez?” My prince asked with his tender, Spaniard, and masculine voice.

“Santo Dios del Cielo, he is asking me something. I need to respond now! Say something for crying out loud! Be cool though! Cool? Gosh! Stop talking to yourself and answer him the damned question!”
“Si, García Marquez es mi escritor favorito.” I told him as serene as I could ever have possibly been considering that he was so close to me.

“¡Vaya, que bien!” He replied as he took out his earphones to listen to his music.

I thought, “Great! This is just perfect! He’s going to listen to his music, and this is the end of the conversation.” Somehow, I felt relieved that he was not going to continue asking me questions, but at the same time, I really wanted him to keep talking to me so that I could continue admiring his prince-like face and voice with a seductive Spanish accent. I kept reading without actually paying attention to the story. My eyes were just staring at the page while my mind was set up on wanting him to keep asking me questions. The plane took off.

C’est La Vie et C’est Jolie (Part II)

I was walking down the street admiring the Palacio de Comunicaciones and passing by the Banco Real de España. My thoughts were all over the place: What could have possibly prevented him from seeing me? What went wrong? Was it my fault? It probably was. Failure was all over me. And the worst feeling I had was knowing that I could not do anyting to make me feel better. I kept walking as I remembered how I met him.
We met in Rome walking around the ruins of Il Foro Romano. We bumped into each other “accidentally” – I don’t believe in accidents: everything happens at its time and at the right place. He apologized in English, and I replied with “It’s OK. Don’t worry.” He seemed surprised. His eyes widened as he stared at me for some time trying to figure out where I was from. Then he smiled. Gosh, how the boy smiled! He had this prince-like posture: tender and square face, with some stubble framing his masculine expression, round and sharp brown eyes, perfectly shaped nose, tall and slender body, brown hair, light flawless skin, thin and light pinked lips, and a smile that above all his features conquered my eyes. He was wearing a blue scarf wrapped around his neck, an unzipped woolen jacket with gray zigzagged-lines as a pattern, a white sweater with thin gray and black lines across, square sunglasses on his head that had the “AX” logo on the temples, and black jeans. To me, it was a perfect outfit to be walking around Rome in winter. My friends were next to me, and we were talking in Spanish joking around and guessing how the Romans during their greatest times used to live and enjoy of all the delights of their empire. We were having fun pretending we knew world history. I didn’t tell them anything about him. I wanted to keep him for me. This was going to be my adventure in Rome. As we kept walking around the ruins, I noticed he was following us- or so I thought. The idea of him walking behind us was intriguing but fun. Suddenly, he disappeared. I was disappointed. Where did he go? Was I going to see him again? What was his name? Where was he from? I wondered while my friends and I were walking towards the Coliseum. We were hungry and needed to find a restaurant soon. We had been walking all day. We had only had coffee and toasted bread with butter and strawberry jam for breakfast at the hotel.
We finally ran into Trattoria Luzzi, such a wonderful and authentic Italian restaurant. There were tables outside the street with the red and white checkered tablecloths and lit candles. The waiter welcomed us, “Quante persone?” I said three people. He led us into the inside of the restaurant and offered us some water. The inside of the restaurant was small but cozy; the walls were bricked with a reddish tone that made the place look older, and there were old pictures of the different places in Rome hung on the walls around the room. To my left hand side there were a chimney and some logs being burned. Right next to the chimney, there was a wooden door with a sign reading “La Cucina.” The environment was warm that we felt welcome in such a lovely place. My two friends were talking about how amazing the city was: narrow streets and old buildings, a trattoria located on every corner of every street, cold yet bearable weather, motorcycles parked on the sidewalks, old men walking down the streets speaking such a loud and fast Italian and moving their hands as they spoke trying to convince each other their argument was the right one. As my friends were pointing out the highlights of such a fascinating Rome, I looked around and saw him seated at the table near the window that framed the old peach-colored building across the street. Another waiter was with him, and he was ordering in Spanish with a Spaniard accent. I stared at him admiring his Spanish, his posture, his face, his voice… him. He sensed my staring and looked directly at me and smiled. I quickly looked down at the menu. I was shaking. He caught me staring at him! I couldn’t look back.
I ordered pasta and ate it uncomfortably because I knew he was right there perhaps looking at me and thinking about me who knows what. It might have been my imagination and my desire of him staring at me,and I wanted to impress him. I placed my napkin on my lap, kept my elbows off the table and my back flat and straight, ate slowly and quietly, used delicately the utensils, didn’t sip the red wine I ordered until I was finished with my dish, and nabbed my mouth when I finished eating. How I thanked my grandma for teaching me all these manners when I was a kid! After eating and paying the check, my friends and I took off. He was still there. I walked out of the restaurant wanting to look at him, but I couldn’t. The whole time we were walking towards our hotel, I was thinking about him.
The next day was Christmas Eve, and the whole city was quiet. Restaurants, stores, and museums were closed. Churches were the only ones open. So, we decided to go to Piazza Navona, which was about two hours walking from the hotel. We spend most of the day at that place. There were different tents around the plaza selling figurines for nativity sets, handmade wooden toys, and Christmas ornaments. As we walked around taking pictures and admiring everything we saw, we heard some Andean music and noticed there were people in a circle watching a band of musicians playing such music. We joined the group, and I looked around to see how Italians and tourists were admiring the musicians and what they were playing. Then, there he was again! His prince-like figure dressed so neat and so European. We looked at each other. He smiled again; I froze. How stupid I was! How could I freeze? The obvious thing was to smile back at him, but no! I had to freeze and stare at him like an idiot. One of my friends was asking me something, but I could not understand because I was paralyzed. She poked me and asked me loudly, “Do you want to go back to the hotel?” I looked at her but didn’t reply. I was still astounded by his smile, his eyes, his look, his prince-like figure. We went back to the hotel, and I was quiet again thinking of him.
On Christmas day we went to the Vatican, a two-hour-and-a-half walk from the hotel. It was a sunny yet fresh day. I felt the morning breeze and took a deep breath. I felt a rejuvenating and empowering mood: I was in Rome, and I was going to have a great day! As we approached our destination, I was amazed: the Vatican took my breath away. It was so beautiful and imposing, so grand and marvelous, so holy, and so superb. I couldn’t believe I was there! People were gathered around the piazza San Pietro: flags from different countries being waved and people from different races but only one faith. A mass was ending, and the Pope blessed us all in several languages from the balcony in the center of the basilica. Everyone screamed joyfully when the Pope was blessing them in their respective languages. The bells began to toll triumphantly as the Swiss guards began to march away the basilica. It was fascinating. We were able to go inside the church after the mass had ended and after having waited in line for about forty minutes. The beauty and sanctity of the sacred place made me forget for some time about him and his prince-like figure. I was looking up at the ceiling admiring the well-painted scenes from the bible. Suddenly, I ran into him! Oh good heaven! I ran into my intriguing prince. My feet were cold as I looked at him. I said I was sorry so timidly I could barely hear myself. He smiled at me, and I froze again!

C’est La Vie et C’est Jolie (Part 1)

Winter is cruel in Madrid. The wind blowing against my face doesn’t let me breathe. I have to close my eyes from time to time. The gloves and scarf I’m wearing are not enough to protect me from the coldness I feel. Nonetheless, I am blown away by the romantic Parque del Retiro and El Palacio de Cristal. Having walked about an hour and some minutes and taken some pictures of La Puerta de Alcalá, I finally enter the park. Imposing yet calming it welcomes me as I pass the gate with two pillars, one in each side. Each pillar triumphantly supports a monumental horse and its soldier. And as I looked at them, they silently tell me the place I am entering is sacred. So, what I am about to experience at the park is something it will stay in such a revered and quiet place. I keep walking. My feet touch the cold graveled path that leads to the center of the park. I look around and notice many couples seating on cold yet welcoming benches, and the sculptures surrounding the place are mute witnesses of what those couples reveal to each other: the first “I love you,” the romantic proposal, the saddening and heart-sinking “we need a break,” and the endearing “I’m interested in you, want to be more than friends?” And all these people look elegant as they sit and talk to each other, as they hold hands and look into the other’s eyes. They are Madrileños, and just as the city, they are elegant and proper. I keep walking to where the Palacio de Cristal is. I entered into the woods and the coldness is bitterer. But my hands are sweaty and my legs are frozen. It is not because of the coldness but for the nervousness and intriguing feeling running through my body. He said he’d be here by the lake in front of the palace. I see only a dad with his son feeding the ducks and swans. An old lady with a young companion holding her arm approaches. I stop walking so that the old lady and her guide can pass. They don’t look at me to say hi because that’s the norm in Madrid: mind your own business. I look around very carefully and can’t see him. It’s five o’clock. I know that because I asked the dad feeding the ducks and swans. Then it occurs to me. He’s from Madrid; punctuality is not one of his virtues. So, I decide to walk around and admire the palace and its beauty. I notice it is a small and simple palace, but beauty relies many times on simplicity and vice versa. I probably spend fifteen minutes admiring such a simple and beautiful palace when I realize I have forgotten the reason that brought me to this place. However, he is not here yet. My nervousness is more noticeable as my hands keep sweating and my stomach starts hurting. The cold wind does not bother me anymore. Where is he? I hate myself for not having a cell phone with me. But tutoring two people thrice a week on American English and its grammar rules barely lets me pay the rent and eat twice a day. So, there is no way I can call him… I mean, I can go outside the park and find a public phone, but what if he shows up and doesn’t see me around. He’d think I flaked and leave! This is really frustrating. OK. I need to calm down. It’s not the end of the world. I need to breathe and keep walking around the palace. How tranquil this place is! No wonder it’s called the park of the retirement. It can take you away from all the busy life happening in Madrid. It can help you forget all the issues and worries that overwhelm the soul. I think I have been waiting almost an hour, and he hasn’t shown up. What time is it? Who can I ask? Suddenly, the old lady and her companion pass by. I stop them and ask them in proper Spanish. They both look at me and notice I am a foreigner. “Que son las seis y cuarto,” the old lady’s companion tells me and keeps walking holding the lady’s arm. It’s six fifteen already. Over an hour he is late! I don’t know what to do. The night starts falling on the park and the light posts begin to switch on. I guess I have to go. I don’t really know what could have happened to him. I hope he is OK. I feel anger, though. I think he dumped me. What a jerk! I hate him already! After all, he must’ve thought I wasn’t a good catch. He might have felt interested in me because of my accented English or perhaps because I am a tourist from the New World, and it is rare to find one of us in the Old World. Yeah, he just probably thought it was a waste of time meeting me at the park in a city where there are better looking people to date. I walk towards the exit of the park. I turn around and notice how the sculptures of naked Roman women stare at me. They are probably yelling “loser” at me. But that’s OK! I am a loser, and that will stay at the sacred park.

Consuelo de palabras vanas

Impotente me siento al saber
que nada cura el error que tuvo mi ayer.
Lastimosamente, nunca se mantiene la dicha de niño
durante toda la vida: páginas de llana lucha
que jamás se termina.
Siempre he sabido con lógica heredada
la importancia de actuar con rectitud:
jamás interrumpir al que habla, siempre ser puntual,
dejar el lugar a los demás…
La inteligencia obtenida tras noches de estudio y tardes sin ruido
no ha podido llenar el vacio que invade mi ser.
Religión y oración son las alternativas,
sin embargo,
algunas veces son vanas salidas
que solo vacían mas mi interior.
Me he ensuciado con el lodo más impúdico
que solo la friega de espinas puede quitar:
que sangre mi cuerpo hasta desvanecer;
que llagas purifiquen todo mi ser.
Que llore el alma hasta mas no poder,
aunque lagrimas no purguen ni sanen
el dolor que llevo dentro sin ningún porque.
Pero una cosa he aprendido:
esfuerzo en vano es tirado al llano de la mediocridad.
Sin explicar que quiero decir,
cierro un capitulo mas de lo que siento expresar.
Nada es mas gratificante
que el poder hablar con los dedos
y llorar con las palabras que conjuntas expresan
el mas intenso sentir del alma que no me deja vivir;
consuelo de palabras vanas es el yugo
que con intensa pasión arrastra mi cuerpo
y otorga mi ser.

Good Old Times

After a long absence and thinking over and over what with what possible subjects to come up on my blog, I decided to take a vacation. I had the chance to go to Mexico City and my hometown, Aguascalientes, for a week. I had such an amazing time visiting family down there. I was so welcomed by all my relatives. They were so excited to see me and my parents. I was sometimes overwhelmed by their excitement… and the food I ate! I probably gained about 10 lbs with all the gorditas, pozole, quesadillas, tacos, and the like! But I don’t care; I had such an incredible time. However, this trip was not just about eating and gaining weight. It was about remembering my life before I came to the United States.
My first night in Aguascalientes, I stayed at my grandma’s house. One of my aunts is still living there. Entering the house immediately transported me to the times I used to go to my grandma’s after school, and as soon as I approached the door, I could smell the noodle soup grandma was boiling on her stove. I was a little bit sad when I entered the house and didn’t hear my grandma running out from her kitchen- her sanctuary, to welcome me with a great hug and kisses all over my cheeks. That was the point where I realized time has changed everything. Even though it still is the same house, the same furniture, the same pictures hung on the wall, it is not, and will never be, the same house I used to visit after school without my grandma. No matter how many times I come back and visit her house; she will not be there to welcome me.
When I went to visit my house, I walked into what used to be my room. I saw the corner where my desk was… it was empty. I remembered then that I used to be there till midnight studying for a biology test or burning my brain solving math problems. I also saw the empty spot where my bed used to be and pictured me waking up at six o’clock every morning and grabbing my school uniform hung on the wall. When I opened the window to have some air freshen the room, I remembered how I used to watch my little brothers play baseball during summer. I went to the backyard and saw the unattended lawn with weeds and bushes everywhere. Nonetheless, my mind pictured me playing on the green grass and climbing the peach tree pretending I was in an air plane on my way to Disneyland.
So many memories are still there in my house, my town, my relatives. Unfortunately, that is it; only memories are left there. I cannot go back in time and live those wonderful moments again. Everything has changed! I admit I came to the point where I thought that trip hadn’t been the best after all. However, while I was in the plane on my way back to San Diego, I realized that those moments I lived wrote the first chapter of my life. They were good while I was living them, and if I want to remember them again, I only have to go back to my town and walk through the places that witnessed me living those moments.
Now, I am living the second chapter of my life which is here in San Diego. Who knows, maybe ten years from now I would be somewhere else remembering the amazing times from chapter two.