10:15 on a Friday Night

After I've been reading on the screen for a long time my eyes begin to sting and that is when I know I should climb in bed and shut down for the day. Sometimes this happens early, sometimes it happens late.

All in all this has been a sluggish week, after the huge holiday for last week things are still to gather their normal pace. Homework has been a bore (mind you a non-existant one that causes me no amount of guilt), school is moving awkwardly, but mostly things are going as cheerfully dull as they do nowadays. I am happy that way.

Lorena is going to Peru next week and I, along with the Drama group, am going to the Festival Cervantino for a couple of days if all goes well.

Considering how disgustingly irresponsible I have proven to be this week, I had better get moving or I might die of guilt before getting one step into Guanajuato.

I suppose that was what was bugging me yesterday after having woken up after six hours of sleep. I hadn't done anything, had all sorts of small pesky homeworks to complete, had a project and a Statistics guide and I felt like doing nothing.

No wait in fact, I don't feel like doing nothing. I feel like working on my own stuff but prioritizing has taken its toll on my sense of responsability.

I got home at about 10 pm tonight after spending the afternoon with my friends and watching the movie Resident Evil: Apocalypse. On the way home the rain turned into a flood and by the time the bus dropped me off where I usually take my taxi the thing had developed into a disaster of biblical proportions. The streets were overflowing with rain, it seemed like someone was throwing buckets of water over our collective heads and I was wearing jeans and a wool sweater. After waiting on the curb for a taxi for some fifteen minutes I was feeling more like a drowned rat than anything that vaguely resembed a human.

I decided the wisest course of action was to head for the McDonald's until the Lord felt like humoring me.

Getting soaking wet is a strange thing, a strange liberating thing. There is a moment in which you simply stop worrying about the clothing, your health or the fact that you just stuck your foot into half a metre of water. I guess it's all part of the process that makes raining my favorite climate. Looking into the streets and the blurred lights between the wet locks of my hair. It gets personal there. I could say the same thing about buses, about bridges. It's something between loneliness and the universal.

I left my bagpack in Alan's car, fortunately my Statistics homework is at home. God I know not how I will get the will that this work requires. I should also start with the whole Math and Physics studying but it ends up being such a bore.

I just don't know.

I was thinking about Dante on the way home. I was thinking of the many drawings I wish I could get done, about guns and about a certain scene that occured to me. I am wondering how to fit it into Messiah and into all the work I am trying to get done.

I left my Phantom of the Opera inside my bag, inside Alan's car. I suppose it'll help me concentrate on Psychology and Philosohpy for the weekend.

Plato's Banquet was gorgeous. God if there is anything I can say about my life lately is the beautiful things I have been reading. "Ensayo sobre la Ceguera", "Phantom of the Opera", "Plato's Banquet" and just about everything else, including the psychology articles.

Getting late, getting heavy, getting harder to breathe. Remember to do this and that, remember to... I don't, not really.

Thank God this entry is over.

I am thinking. I repeat it to myself, over and over again, everyday, because it's importance never ceases to amaze me. Each day that you live is worth recording, each day has a fragment of truth, of the whole that is life, of the whole that is human history.

So I'll try to start, because I half-woke up today in this half existance that is my family's hometown. Because nothing ever seems to happen here that carries the urgency of real life, it moves slowly, like a dream, very like the motions of the living but not quite. And so it is here that the gaze turns inward and that I hear every memory, every tidbit of information about the people who gave me life.

One of my mother's old friends called today, it has been fifteen years since my mother saw her last, at her daughter's birthday party. A daughter that might be my age today. My mother went to Europe for the first time with this woman. She is most likely talking to her as I write.

There is something important there, in every word spoken here, that I relegate to memory with every trip. I have been reading "Ensayo sobre la ceguera" by José Saramago, Nobel Prize winner. And maybe it is these awkward mental notes that might eventually make a novel worth the chance.

I am roleplaying over messenger and I seem to have lost the thread of this entry... I'll try tomorrow. It's getting late.

Raining

It has been long enough since I last wrote here. Much of this time I have spent stressfully gathering the remains of my life in Santa Cruz and transferring them back to Mexico.

I am at an internet cafe, with little to do, in my family's hometown. I wait for the rain to cease.

There is a wonderful symmetry about it, how the calm can return and I can write again, because it was long ago (or maybe not so) that I thought, only pain can bring the artist in me, only sorrow can make the world worth it. But life is back where it should , even though the last months have been quite stressful and relating all that DID happen would be too much.

I've started school again, with a very good chance of actually pulling through despite all the revalidation issues.

I've started realizing that the normality in life that had been so precious to me in Santa Cruz can be kept, can remain. That I can still love school and my mother and try and be responsible. That I can do... maybe whatever I want to do.

Except writing. I've been drawing so much lately that it's frustrating, because I know and the world knows that in reality my true talent lies in the written word. An other thing I have been doing a lot of lately is reading, which might do something to explain why I can't seem to get any thoughts out. For know it's a process of getting thoughts in.

I like working and I like being here, this town is... well perfect for deep thought, perfect for working. Nothing to interrupt the steady flow of the greater conciousness. Nothing to disturb me. and I do thank my mother for bringing me, even though she thinks I don't.

I'll try to keep writing of whatever catches my fancy here, because there are little things of the past months I still have to tell, whenever they come to me. Just knwo I remember I went to see The Cure in concert, and I had the urge to write how important that was for me, how ery very important music is to me and what it means and what it is.

It'll have to wait, it's getting late and cold, and it looks like the rain.

Till later.