El tumblr de Nalu
Cuando yo te abrazo no te abrazo sola,
te abraza conmigo una eternidad,
te abrazan los valles, las montañas y los vientos,
las flores del campo y el olor del pan.
Cuando yo te beso, no te beso sola,
azúcar te traigo del cañaveral.
Soy como la tierra para darte fruto,
soy de miel morena para amarte más.
La geografía de cada uno
La primera vez que volví a Colombia después de meses de ausencia, lo primero que se asomó a la ventanilla del avión fue el altiplano cundiboyacense – esa gran formación montañosa que consiste en, digamos, una montaña aplastada en la cumbre o en una llanura a gran altura, depende de cómo se le mire.-
Allí estaban las montañas, majestuosas y arrugadas, de color verde profundo, serpenteando el paisaje. Y el agujerito ese que lleva uno por dentro cuando deja su tierra se hizo un poco más hondo.
Eso era lo que extrañaba, las montañas. Al mirar este horizonte londinense hecho de cielo, techos y chimeneas, me hacía falta un poco de verde recortando el azul del cielo.
Una carga más para el equipaje que llevamos sin darnos cuenta, entonces . Somos también la geografía del lugar en el que crecimos. ¿O acaso qué extrañan ustedes?
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The first time I flew back to Colombia after coming to live here, the first thing that appeared through my plane window was the “altiplano cundiboyacense” which is the high plains region where Bogota is (or “a large area of level land situated above sea level”, according to the dictionary).
There they were, the mountains, corrugated, green, majestic. And the small hole that you carry when you leave the place where you were born suddenly grew deeper.
I realised this is what I missed the most. While looking at the London horizon made up of rooftops, chimneys and sky, I missed the green outlines over a blue sky.
Can geography then be yet another thing that we carry through our lives? Are we also the geography of the places where we’ve been? What do you miss when you’re not home?
What do you see from the bus?
As you can i
magine, one of the first things I did when I first moved to London was to get on the top floor a red double-decker bus. Almost ten years later, I still go up the stairs with the same swift step.
You see, being able to watch the world from a high place matches a privileges I can only relate to the God concept they tought me when I was little, watching every little sin we commited from above. Not comparing myself to that, of course, but how about Queen of the double-decker?
From my above level throne I can see all the things humans do when they think no one is looking. From my throne I have seen you sigh, kiss, do that little dance, look at someone with desire and yes, do something a bit illegal. I have seen you admiring your new shoes while sitting at the bus stop thinking how beautiful your feet look like. I have seen you trying to teach your granddaughter the colours of the traffic light. I have speculated that you two must be sisters as you do exactly the same type of walk.
And then, sometimes, you have noticed that I’m watching you and have looked back. And I’ve shrunk and hid behind my window, because it’s only then that I realise that I can’t possibly know all your secrets and your stories. And that I don’t really know you and might never see you again. But then… Can you blame me for guessing?
And how about you? What do you see on your bus ride?
Aplastamiento de las gotas
Una gota de lluevia se deforma al caer, video de Emmanuel Villermaux, Aix-Marseille University
“Yo no sé, mira, es terrible cómo llueve. Llueve todo el tiempo, afuera tupido y gris, aquí contra el balcón con goterones cuajados y duros, que hacen plaf y se aplastan como bofetadas uno detrás de otro, qué hastío. Ahora aparece una gotita en lo alto del marco de la ventana; se queda temblequeando contra el cielo que la triza en mil brillos apagados, va creciendo y se tambalea, ya va a caer y no se cae, todavía no se cae. Está prendida con todas las uñas, no quiere caerse y se la ve que se agarra con los dientes, mientras le crece la barriga; ya es una gotaza que cuelga majestuosa, y de pronto zup, ahí va, plaf, deshecha, nada, una viscosidad en el mármol. Pero las hay que se suicidan y se entregan enseguida, brotan en el marco y ahí mismo se tiran; me parece ver la vibración del salto, sus piernitas desprendiéndose y el grito que las emborracha en esa nada del caer y aniquilarse. Tristes gotas, redondas inocentes gotas. Adiós gotas. Adiós”.
Julio Cortázar, Historias de Cronopios y de Famas
the tomtoms when it came time for that. You had to
run in order to get there first, and he would not.
So he always had a triangle. He does not remember
how they played the tomtoms, but he sees clearly
their Chinese look. Red with dragons front and back
and gold studs around that held the drumhead tight.
If you had a triangle, you didn’t really make music.
You mostly waited while the tambourines and tomtoms
went on a long time. Until there was a signal for all
triangle people to hit them the right way. Usually once.
Then it was tomtoms and waiting some more. But what
he remembers is the sound of the triangle. A perfect,
shimmering sound that has lasted all his long life.
Fading out and coming again after a while. Getting lost
and the waiting for it to come again. Waiting meaning
without things. Meaning love sometimes dying out,
sometimes being taken away. Meaning that often he lives
silent in the middle of the world’s music. Waiting
for the best to come again. Beginning to hear the silence
as he waits. Beginning to like the silence maybe too much. ” - Waiting and finding, by Jack Gilbert
The perfect Saturday afternoon… http://twitpic.com/4uxut And the soundtrack… http://blip.fm/~5xp26
What language do you dream in? - Some answers!
Here are some of your answers to my question on my earlier post. Very interesting! You can keep on sending your replies in any language, it’s the next post below.
Carmen González on Facebook:
Despues de todos estos years, I dream en inglés and Spanish, hablo durante horas in both languages, and fight pretty well en ambos también. Many times, no sé en que idioma estoy aunque I normally don’t mix them or maybe I do y ni me doy cuenta. Mi cerebro ya no diferenciates. Ahora thora thora urdu se me cuela. Asi estamos los Nasir-González.
Nicolai Salcedo on Tumblr:
After a few months living in Canada I started dreaming in English, which was weird but interesting. I think most of them are in Spanish though.
Smaran on Tumblr:
I’m from India, and speak English, German and Hindi fluently, and my dreams are almost always in English. :)
Gilbie on Twitter:
I have had dreams in English, Spanish, Tagalog and sometimes in languages i could not even understand. This is a word fromm 6yrs ago. Cuanamo. i wrote it down but why was it in my dreams lol.
From Jorge through Disqus:
Since this blog is in English, I guess I’ll have to follow that trend. I usually dream in Spanish, occasionaly in English, but once I dreamt in French and another in German (both of them around the time I was taking lesson at the Alliance Francaise and the Goethe Institut). The best sound-related dream I’ve ever had, however, was this one time when I dreamt of music. Just music, I could’t see an orchestra or anything. Everything was black and it was great!
Apoloduvalis through Disqus:
Wow! I understand when you say you just cannot fight in English because when we are angry our brain is more likely to be taken over by our basic instincts, hence the use of the mother tongue. However I found myself counting in English and even having dreams in English and I haven’t been abroad for more than two months (I live in Cali since I was born). So, I found remarkable that you can still dreaming in Spanish after living abroad THAT long.
What language do you dream in?
Eight years later and, of course, ha! eight years wiser, I can understand the logic behind it. The dictionary has become one of my most treasured possessions because of its emotional value.
One big part of being an immigrant is navigating between, not two, but many sets of languages. Just like anyone else, you have your work language, your ‘buying groceries’ language, your socialising language, your ‘being romantic’ language… And suddenly Spanish and English words start infiltrating from one world to the other… Or one of them proudly refuses to give way to the other.
I will never wake up with an English sentence on my mind. If I curse, it will most likely be in Spanish. I will always answer to the phone with the Colombian ‘Aló?’ and ‘No’ will never have the right English pronunciation, even if it’s part of an English sentence. And of course, I will always count ‘uno, dos, tres…’
I will never be able to have proper fights in English but the very British ‘sorry’ surreptitiously became part of my daily discourse. My brain still gets tired when it speaks English the whole day, but will happily handle writing. I’m not sure how you say ‘cash-back’, ‘fixed interest rate’, ‘direct debit’ or ‘bank statement’ in Spanish, because all those words belong to my adult, boring financial life. And I just love the words ‘serendipity and ‘wanderlust’ and will never find their Spanish equivalents.
Finally, I’m very sure that I dream in Spanish, but not sure what happens if I dream of an English-speaking situation with English-speaking people. Do they get translated or voiced-over? Do I dream in different languages?
Would love to hear from other people who navigate through different languages. It could even be your same language in a different country… Do you adopt the local dialect? Do your dreams feature local words? Common, give it a go…
