Writing

I don't know about you, whoever you are, but I like to write. I guess most people who have blogs do. I like to write down my impressions of life as it goes on, my thoughts... the stuff no one but me really cares about. I think I have like, 6 or 7 various spiral notebooks and the occasional journal that have pieces of me at different points in my life written in them. People have been giving me journals since I could scrawl out the letters of my own name, but for some reason I have always preferred spiral notebooks, random bits of paper and math notebooks- you know, the ones with the little squares printed on the pages. I think it's called graph paper in English (I never did understand that. We HAD to write on paper like that in Castefa, all the time, and graph paper was measured by millimeters and centimeters). And apart from my aversion to conventional journals, I don't write in my notebooks conventionally. The pages jump around. Some of them start at the back and go forward. Some have been rained on, some cried on (they both have similar effects, which I find comforting).
I remember one time on a bus at conference, the speaker for the week saw my writing in my current spiral notebook. He asked me if I were writing a journal, and then proceeded to tell me that his wife had filled dozens of them, saying that she'd go back and read them someday, and enjoy it, and that she never had. I was so saddened by that thought. Half the joy of writing is knowing you're preserving a piece of you that you can come back to later. You can read it, and recognize yourself; the two of you meet like old friends- no fuss, no need to test who you are/were. You know. So now I go back every once in a while, and I read what I wrote. What people wrote to me, in letters, e-mails.
This type of writing has a feel that no other writing does. Do you know what I mean? Most words are crafted together for others' eyes. But the ones that are compounded for your own (or a known friends') eyes only are somehow... friendlier. More comfortable. And the interesting thing is, I find that there are trends. Things that I have been thinking about for years, so much so that puzzling over them has become part of who I am. What's funny about it is, that I'll often start thinking anew about an old theme, and think that it's completely innovative, that I've never explored this idea before. Not quite sure why. It's confusing, to tell the truth.
At any rate, I don't think anyone will ever care to read about my life or my thoughts. They are only the type of things everyone thinks and goes through. Sometimes I wonder if it would be more profitable to write about the things that actually happen to me, rather than what I think about them. Still who knows?
over 'n out.

Gift of Tounges

Lately I've been thinking about languages. How people communicate has always fascinated me. And then I began to think about languages in my life...
1. learning to read/write German before English (my mothertounge)
2. keeping my German, though dormant for 9 years, fairly fluent
3. becoming fluent in Spanish and Catalan between ages 9 and 10
4. despite #1, having very good language skills in English
5. being able to pronounce decently in Chinese- enough to surprise J, the native speaker who was teaching me
6. automatically making Slavic "l" sounds after watching Most, a Polish short film.

Clase de Mates

Estabamos sentados en clase de mates. El profe, un tal Capafons, nos habia sentado por orden de lista, y la lista me habia puesto al lado de un chico. Se llamaba Alex Castro, pero todos le llamaban Castro. Yo casi no lo conocia, por entonces.
Ese dia, estaba de mal humor. El profe nos habia puesto varios problemas algebraicos para resolver, y todos trabajaban (bueno, en teoria) estudiosamente. Con el Capafons no se bromeaba, era de esos profes super estrictos y claro, a nadie le gustaba. Tenia un talento para echar bronca de manera que te dejaba sin palabras. Era el maestro de la ironia y de alguna manera hacia que pareciera que eras tu, el que te habias hecho el tonto.
Bueno, como decia, el Castro estaba de mal humor ese dia en particular. Yo, que por entonces aun estaba en mi fase mas timida, me preocupaba por mi trabajo. Castro, que se habia frustrado con un problema, levanto la mano para que viniera el profe para ayudarle. El profe, que veia que el Castro estaba intentando de buena gana resolver el problema, se lo volvio a explicar, intentando obligarle que pensara y al final lo resolviera el solo. En medio de una explicacion, me pregunto a mi si tenia razon- para llamarme la atencion, mas que nada. Me habria visto mirarlos de reojo, escuchando secretamente lo que estaban hablando. Recuerdo muy claramente que el Castro le interrumpio diciendo enfadado: "Dejala, profe, que esta en su mundo!"
Yo los ignore a los dos. El profe dijo, "No te creas... ella nota mas de lo que tu pienses." o algo por el estilo. Volvieron a hablar de las mates.
Ultimamente me he acordado un par de veces de ese momento. No se exactamente por que. Supongo que sera porque he estado pensando en como conoci a las personas en mi vida que acabaron siendo importantes. En los anyos siguientes, llegue a conocer mejor al Castro. Incluso nos hicimos amigos. Es curioso, no, como son de diferentes la manera en que piensas de una persona cuando aun no la conoces, y la manera en que piensas de el o ella si ya llevas tiempo conociendole? En esta nueva etapa de mi vida, miro a la gente a mi alrededor. Pienso en la manera en que los conozco y me pregunto cuales de ellos seran importantes en mi futuro.
No se si fue muy importante, aquella clase de mates. Pero me alegro de recordarla, aunque sea por el mero hecho de saber que tengo un pasado, una historia.

A, y perdona por la falta de acentos- este punyetero teclado ingles me raya mas de lo que puedo expresar. T.T

Several

I have thought of several things, lately, that I could write about on here. Deep, useful, insightful things. Curious things. Things that would probably interest only me. Funny things.
But at this moment, in this instant of the rushing, sliding, slithering thing that is time, I feel the need to communicate one thought to the void:

I cannot (coherently) write (papers) after 11:30 PM.
Not if I want to get readable, non-stupid results.

With that, I bid the void good night.

(Do voids notice night? Would they care if they did? Why should they? What would a map of the internet look like?)