I am often surprised when people talk about the total implausibility of the events in Márquez’s fiction. Having been born and lived in a deeply spiritual and extraordinarily resourceful part of the Caribbean, a lot of what might seem magical to others often seems quite plausible to me.
Of course a woman can live inside her cat, as the character Eva does in Márquez’s 1948 short story ‘Eva Is Inside Her Cat.’ Doesn’t everyone have an aunt who’s done that?
We said ‘Hi’ to everyone and launched into ‘Lithium’. I picked up a Nirvana tab book a week before to re-learn my parts, but we weren’t up to speed at first. But then it started to flow and it got better and better. Then it hit me and I got kind of somber. I was like, ‘Oh my God. I’m playing these songs again.’
SARAH WITH ENVY by Joule Visabella
Everyone was busy trying to better themselves by getting a job, trying to earn a living, making a move for their futures, and there was Sarah, in the middle of it all, without a diploma, without finances to go to school, a stagnant medical profession dream, trying to feed her 3 year old son with an underpaying thankless job.
You will be shocked, kids, when you discover how easy it is in life to part ways with people forever. That’s why when you find someone you want to keep around, you do something about it.
Future Ted, How I Met Your Mother
Houston, where am I?
I feel like an astronaut floating in space, this must how George Clooney felt when he let go of Sandra Bullock’s rope on Alfonso Cuaron’s Gravity. Except… in my space, it’s pitch black, there are no planets, no asteroids, no colorful galaxies far away to entertain me, and my oxygen tank is full, or inexistent. I’m just floating in nothing, not trying to live, just surviving.
My insides are swirling with emotions that I cannot recognize. I don’t know which I’m feeling and my mind is pushing me to pick something it can work on. My heart is not weary but it is at the same time. My heart is broken but it is whole at the same time. My spirit is alive yet dead at the same time.
I tell myself that it’s better not knowing, ignorance is bliss, but it seems like it’s confronting me head on so I can’t really ignore it. I have to decide what this is.
Maybe this isn’t space, maybe it’s purgatory.
I would’ve started this post with “I wish I could take back all the words I’ve written for you, about you, inspired by you…” but I won’t, I can’t, because those words were worth it. Not because you were worth it, but because my feelings were worth it. I have gambled, sold myself to a romantic illusion, of you, always you, and never about us.
I have never seen us, only you… away from me. Not because I didn’t think it would happen, or I wished we would happen, but because when I saw you, I was blind. I didn’t see anything but a single image of you, an image I preserved but hardly comprehend.
Your image I painted in feelings, expressed in words. They say an artist never knows when his piece is done, ready. So I took a step back, looked at the image I created… you were infinite, so I decided to stop.
I made a mistake, not my mind though, my heart. It will never happen again.