2004-09-05

Musings of a rainy day

Our laughter is heard echoing through the soft fog in the streets illuminated by the dimmed, orange light of street lamps. Recounting our own stories of the old country, which we left behind years ago, and the smell of sugar and palm trees; the sound of marching in the streets by soldiers in green.

�Mi Cuba l�bre�, she says

�No �s tan l�bre! �l c�me-mi�rda quiere qued�rze en poder�, I say, sipping my wine gently

�Maric�n�, she mutters

�Yeah�, I say in a low tone

Our Cuban colloquialism is quickly coming out after a few glasses of wine, and we find that we can no longer maintain proper Spanish accents.

She begins laughing, �Yeah, I know�.

She releases a heavy sigh and looks down at her glass. Softly, she whispers, �I still don�t understand, Libet�.

�He�s an ass�, I tell her dryly, �They�re all asses�, I finish

�We�re young�, she begins, �and this is only the beginning�

�I quit�, I say in exasperation, �I�ve barely begun, and I�ve already quit. Just leave me alone with my books and my sheet music.�

�Ay Libet�, she begins sighing, �Por favor�

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This morning I awoke to the howling of strong winds outside of my window, and the street steeped with raindrops. My room is completely dark and the Spanish tile floors feel eerily cold as I walk to my window. This morning rain with a blank sky above unsettles me, and so I close my window and head towards my oak nightstand to turn on a light.

Obviously, this is the perfect time to play Chopin, and so, I look through my volume collection to see which one would be perfect. Walking into the bathroom, I take notice in the fact that my towels and accessories match my pajamas, and I twist my eyebrows at this.

I can recall when I was first introduced to Thoreau, and the first piece of literature I read by him was A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, and immediately, I felt tied to this writer in such a strange way. My personal statement for the University of Rochester is based on Walden, and why that particular work influences me so. I suppose that I could write about Chopin, but it would take me ages to properly explain how one Etude makes me feel. Chopin�s music is one of those things that inspire a wave of emotions, yet, my talents only extend so far. Chopin is something different...he conveys emotion so effortlessly, and because he never bound himself to those numerous rules of the classical period, it�s all perfect.

And so I wonder when I will be able to break down that wall standing before me, releasing the perfect expression of pure emotion. Not that I aspire to one day revolutionize literature in general, but to create something I�m proud of. But possibilities are endless, and one writer can stay with you, repeating their words while you sleep, and you whisper them at night.

It�s that particular quote that always gets me, and last night I drifted to sleep repeating fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars, as if it were some sort of a mantra. And I want that to be my life one day, where I fish in an infinite sky and not mind who else is out there.

One of my favorite movies, A River Runs Through It, I feel, is so true to capturing that transcendentalist spirit of life, which leaps out of every memory-stricken corner, or every silent autumn, or every wrinkle that slowly cuts through our skins with age. And in the last scene, after Norman has recounted his youth and his face moves from that of a young man�s to the somber features of an elderly gentleman, he silently fishes in the river. He speaks of the memories engraved in stones and carried by the current; in essence, it�s what Thoreau captures, and it�s what I constantly attempt to write about.

But when it�s time for me to really finish up the last chapter in my life, one night amidst the boiling of fragrant tea and soft treading of a cat on a table, I only wonder how I will start. Just, how to give meaning to all of my years--intervals of thoughts, emotions, smiles, sighs, and a plethora of daydreams kept in some glass bottle. One day I�ll have to explain my happiness in sitting down at my favorite caf� with David or Aaron in front of me, and reading the newspaper, and looking out into the streets---everything�s fogged by the piercing raindrops--tail-lights of cars seem like distant lighthouses at sea. Cobblestone streets are drenched with water and the sounds of shoes as people walk with black coats and umbrellas.

But back to reality, and I find that I have coffee right next to me along with some textbooks and numerous amounts of e-mails that I must respond to for my new political chapter. Papers lay scattered about, and my eyes can�t leave the latest, small oil that Fel�pe has sent me from Barcelona; I told him to paint me a summer day, and so he did, and marked it with his initials.

aeka at 3:27 p.m.