Shyly playing
Sometimes, all it takes is a song. The right one, though. I've been listening to several assorted tunes until i let myself go with this one.

I'm alone with Muffin at home. He's been sleeping for an hour now. Pablo is working tonight. So am i, in theory, from the house. I haven't made any supper yet and i don't anticipate cooking. I've had a conversation on msn. I've figured out the outlines of my pending work on Quark. I haven't typed anything useful yet. Music is playing shyly on the background. Paulina Rubio's Undeniable was on a while ago. That is a gem. Seriously. Look for it. Listen to it. Then i had a bit Spanish rock. A note of punk. Slowing down with Vanessa Paradis' Bliss. A hiss of techno. And finally, this:


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I can't hear a note on this castpost thingy, can you? In any case, it's 'Dream A Little Dream', by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, but i also have Frank Sinatra's version, which i'm thinking of playing after this.

Sometimes, all it takes is a good old song. Happy Sunday night.

Bunny Suicides



I can't understand how the existence of the Bunny Suicides books have remained unknown to me for such a long time. Fortunately for all, the secrecy is over.

Mamma's boy
My baby turned ONE yesterday. Give me a minute while i get my breath back and i'll write about it out on Bruno's blog. I also may need a coffee, a cocktail, an antiwrinkle serum and a kidney rub.

Extra, extra!: The birthday chronicle has been issued. Excerpt: "Another polaroid from memory: coming out from the hospital into the sunshine morning of Madrid, walking unsteadily towards the parking lot with a four day old baby in my arms, dreading the elevator and wanting to blow all pollution from the city in three seconds." There's more here.

I want to be a Paul Auster story
When i grow up i want to be Paul Auster.

When i wake up to discover the whole thing was just a dream i want to become a novel written by Paul Auster.

When i hear a lullaby i want it to be a story within a story within a story in a Paul Auster book.

I want to be a Paul Auster story. Beautiful, intense, funny, touching, moving and overall brilliant.

I'm in the middle of Oracle Night.

No picnic
The drop fell soundlessly onto the tip of my boot. I looked down, probably frowning. It wasn't water. It was shinier and, well, greasy. I rolled my eyes in my mind, suddenly understanding. Lemon and white wine sauce was slowly yet steadily dripping from my not so tightly closed tupperware. Salmon and tomatoes in sauce. My lunch at the agency. This was around 8.30 am and i was already smelling fishy.

The drop on my boot was joined by two others and, as i cleaned my shoes with some tissues once at the office, i started thinking about the lack of experience i have in carrying prepared food around. It's not part of our culture. The people in Madrid are not used to taking lunches into their workplaces or schools. We have tapas. We have long eating hours. We have talk about siestas all the time. This city is no picnic.

Which probably explains why my most recent object of lust and crave is not available in this city, country, or probably continent. Mr. Bento, the new man in my life, is a sleek lunch box conceived by Japanese minds which allows you to store your food in cute little compartments, keeping warm what's warm and cold what's cold. There are people devoted to this Bento man. Who happens to have a significant other, Ms. Bento, available in pale blue or lavender, instead of the apparently masculine silver colour.

I've ordered mine online and it will be reaching my kitchen in about two weeks, give or take a mailman siesta.

House
Is it really sad that one of the highlights of my working week nights is tomorrow, because the new season of House is on?

Full
Remembering slices of the year 04 for Photo Friday's benefit.
Here we go.

Easter
It feels like Friday. You can smell the anticipation coming out of people's faces in the subway. It's bursting out of their handbags and raincoat pockets. It's the pre-spring break feeling. The official Easter holidays don't start until Thursday but i can tell many are taking tomorrow off, which explains the aforementioned cheerfulness sensed this morning, along with the blissfully fast traffic going into the city at rush hour and a playful, shy sun watching over it.

It feels like Friday for me, too. Pablo and Muffin get to spend the afternoon together and so i don't have to leg it to the bus station to pick him up on time. I might even iddle around town for a bit. Slip into something less comfortable. Walk around big streets for a change. Curse the changing weather and long for hard cold cash to buy hot clothes.

It feels like Easter Friday, almost. This is how we celebrate it here: half of us try to go unaware of the whole religious morbid thing and the others dive into a procession frenzy of blood, drums and way too much sweat. People escape to the beaches and other non-office places. Others update their film watching (partly to avoid telly, permanently spitting religious movies from the 50s).

But none of us -i daresay- have the slightest idea of what to do with an Easter egg.

P.S.: I've been updating the baby blog lately. A little bit. But i think the pee-pee teepee post might interest some of you.

Handwriting
I've picked up writing again.
But i'm neglecting the unfinished freelancing sitting inside my laptop, probably fuming by now.

I've met my characters and i've made decisions about the story.
But i don't have a plot per se yet.

I like to think something will eventually come out of this.
And i will not use excuses such as

baby is awake

too tired to even breathe

things to do around the house

things to do around town

conversations to have

fruit and vegetables to buy

even if all of the above may apply, sometimes together.

I've flicked through a few blogs and sites (forgot to bookmark) of people, mostly girls, who sew and stick and cut and draw and generally handmake wonderful naïve stuff that i want to wear.
But mostly what i want is to make it myself.

I can't really sustain that thought so i'll do what i think can do best.
I'll use my scarce free time, my hands (pens and pencils) and the back of my mind.
I've picked up writing again.

PS: My mum was released from hospital yesterday morning. :)

Wednesday morning at five o'clock
Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins. And so the song starts. One of the saddest, touching songs i ever heard.

Last Wednesday morning, at five o'clock, when the day -usually- begins, i opened my eyes, got up, made coffee, took a shower, got dressed, stared into the mirror for a split second, with a look of mild disbelief on my face, and took my mum's car to the train station.

I got on the first train of the day which diligently travelled into the city's core, where i was vomited into a dark station where the bombs exploded back then. I'm sure you remember.

I checked the time on my cell phone and proceeded into the high speed platform to find a coffee shop. I had an urgent second breakfast (with doughnut this time) and proceeded to greet my work colleague (aka client, tight-lipped woman or even half boss).

We embarked, and left 15 minutes late. I on my tourist class seat that my office had booked for me. Her in the velvety looking first class compartment which included a two course breakfast served with extra smiles. I tried to watch a film during the 2 and a half hour trip but the sound system didn't work on my seat.

The city looked lime green and dirty. It started to rain sickely as we entered the rough building where our meeting was to take place.

There was a security guard. A coffee machine in a basement floor. Uniforms. Plastic shoes. The sound of the storm mixed with the engines roaring. There was nothing more.

We took the train back home, in our separate seats. I had a brie and ham baguette for lunch on board. I watched a film called Elizabethtown. I loved the scenery and wished i could smell it. I jumped on yet another train as soon as we got back.

The phone wouldn't stop ringing, but the line was almost dead most of the time. I got into town and headed towards my mum's car, obediently waiting since the crack of dawn.

I don't really like business trips.

Screening Muffin


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Last Tuesday i visited my mum at hospital with Bruno. Little M and my sister were also there.

We were taking advantage of the fact that more and more patients are being sent home due to the upcoming holidays and that mum was admitted into the newborn babies are, which is a much friendlier environment, with smiling visitors and tons of flowers.

Plus, her room has a great terrace from where you get a magnificent view complete with woods, a reservoir and many many fields. It was pleasant. And mum looked a lot better.

At some point during our visit, Siz took her mobile and recorded Muffin and myself playing around. Then she sent it from her phone to my mailbox. And i'm podcasting now. I feel 'so avantgarde'.

Skip this puddle
My mum has cancer. Six little letters dancing before my eyes, spelling out the dreaded C word that disturbs just the same in English or Spanish. We've known for a month now.

She had to undergo surgery for the second time. It took place this morning. It's been a rough, tiring day. My sister and i have been sharing a daze, while mum had her own hell to go through, and this is only the beginning.

Doctor says we need to skip the puddles as they come along. Breast cancer is 'treatable'. It's 'achievable'. You need luck, skilled doctors and enough positive thoughts to stop an invasion. It also takes time and some reshifting of day-to-day schemes.

I feel like someone shook the ground a tiny, wee little bit under my feet. It was a shake all the same and i had to hold on to something. Perhaps ambivalence will be that handle.