#3 blessed be the fruit

The clock is creeping towards five o’clock as I write these words. Jola came up to check on me, wondering what’s up with my sudden stillness. He’s a smart dog, getting used to the strangeness of these pandemic days. Time and time again he wonders why people in different rooms of the house suddenly start talking to walls. And why on earth do walls actually talk back? A mystery for the entire dogdom. Don’t trust a talking wall, they figure — never trust what you can’t smell.

This fourteenth of may was the fifth anniversary of my arrival to Santiago de Compostela after a month-long trip. With each passing year, an increasingly more distant version of me managed to do it, and the heart-aching longing for those days turns into a simple remembrance. Not having been troubled by other problems in the interim is a blessing. Here’s to five more years of such. I’m looking at you, Covid-19.

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#2 static

My recent YouTube history has been kind of a deep dive. I’m continually surprising myself with how talented some people can be. Programmers fascinate me. Competitive programmers in flux are a wonder to look at, as they bring an algorithm to life with muscle reflex and ingenuity.

I didn’t know procedurally generated games relied on “noise maps” to make their universes come about. Made me think about all that background radiation left over from our universe’s start, and wonder how many worlds can be found within the static. How many stories can be strewn out from all that true randomness? An infinite amount of monkeys… you know the drill.

I’m operating in a fugue state, zoned out, not quite there, like my brain’s on autocomplete mode and all the suggested words are wrong in a funny way. I have a lot of work to do in the following days, and all of it involves me sitting at my desk, obsessing about my writing, always worrying wether I’m short on the tools I need.

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#1 an update

This won’t be a well-thought out post, I’m warning you. I’m merely using it for an exercise of procrastination and practice, unrelated to current moods and all-around seriousness of these days. My English needs oiling, you see — I haven’t written very very long time.

I felt the urge to make a kind of self-involved blog shit nobody cares about, me included. I’ve mastered the art of rolling my eyes with this kind of stuff, and yet here I am, making a conflicted fool of myself and wasting your time, all in a beautifully packaged mess.

I can’t even begin to explain the confusion inside my head right now. I’ve been hammering away a novel for the first time in years, and it makes me feel incredibly good. It’s a great feeling when you bring new pages to life, even though they may be completely rewritten and disowned by the upcoming revisions. Using a little transparent plastic tube thingy with a metal ball to carve meaningful symbols on the unsuspecting page is a strange predicament.

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A momentary lapse of breathing

There was a girl in a tiny coffee shop, writing something for herself on a sleepy november morning. It started drizzling outside — a timid touch of rain. The drizzle soon became a pour, and the pouring was loud and angry. Her attention dispersed from the page, as her eyes moved to the roaring waterfall.

‘Can’t outrun rain’, she thought of the people on the chaotic sidewalk. Her breath, caressing the numbing sweetness of the coffee, made a tiny film of foam tremble on its surface, and she took another sip. The falling showers soon became so dense that the coffee shop window could be mistaken for an aquarium.

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A film about a trip

It’s not easy for me to express how much I’ve learned on my trips to Santiago.

The first time I’ve walked the Camino the experience was something I was totally unprepared for. Ever since then, all of the times have been different, but as enriching as the first. I’ve walked the Camino once with two close friends, once by myself, and once with my mother.

Now, at last, with in equal parts shame and longing, I can share the short film I’ve made about that one time I started it alone.

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The failure artist

There’s Erdinger, doritos and monopoly on the table, as our wolfpack is playing amidst a cloud of happy smoke. While we recover our bodies from a day of snowboarding at a cozy Airbnb, a white landscape gazes at us from the window.

This was my first time snowboarding, and, as you can imagine, I’ve fallen. A lot.

I’ve tumbled like wet clothes on a washing machine. I’ve shaken like an astronaut on reentry. I’ve stirred like a martini, rolled like a Royce, felt my brain pole-dancing on its skull as I fell face first on a white sheet of snowish ice.

I’ve hit the softened ground face first, ass first, God knows what else first, and on those rare instances I flew a bit, as I twisted mid-air before the inevitable impact, I knew — this was one of the greatest days I’ve ever had.

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This title belongs here

And you? Do you belong somewhere? How is it that you make a place, a group, a family part of your fiber? Where do you plant your lunar flag? When do you finally set the palm of your hand gently on a lover’s face, letting her close her eyes indefinitely, without second thoughts flying above you?

There was a pub in Glasgow I remember fondly. It had a brazilian theme — go figure — and a mesmerizing scottish redhead from Inverness at the bar. Me and my cousin bristled with enjoyment, as we had been visiting Inverness not many days before. Between laughing at our misadventures, she warned us about scottish winters.

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