Introduction:
Ok, Happiness has given me encouragement. I explain.
I have a story, and those who already know the blog, know that you can find it on the right side of the blog. It's called "Valerio". The chapter name in parentheses. That story is crazy, but sometimes I'm inspired and will add another chapter. Well
. With this post inaugurated another story. It's called "Dresden." The procedure is the same, the name of the chapter is in parentheses and will soon appear on the right leg as well as "Valerie."
In this chapter:
will not understand much, but do not despair, the next installment will clarify many things. Yes, as I said in my previous post, those who know me know who I grabbed OBVIOUSLY Protagonist. (Sorry: it was the only German I had on hand). But hey, c'est la vie!
addition, while the de facto still in the States United States Valerio, me I have no other models to look storytelling on the other side. So we look forward to Valerio, because his story is already too surreal.
If anyone is interested, the protagonist of this story Otilia is called. And yes, studying philosophy, and yes ... ahem ... and more example ... but left to Assa Larsson.
Ah ... otherwise. Obviously Albert the Great and the damn optical Pseudo Alhazen and Euclid and Dinato David heretic (and Umberto Eco) have left me no end to read the small library on World War I crazy bookish agency gave me when he was still scholarship. So any advice or correction is received warmly. There
I leave. I return to the catoptrics and lux-lumen ... and send him a big hug to my heart.
Oh, I forgot: we see in a week. Tuesday publication. I'm sorry, really the Lauingen Albert brings me one day short, short and restricted publications. Ciaus ...
Opened Story ... (* Here is cut a red ribbon with a tijerotas and heard applause *)
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Dresden (Letter enclosed)
Remember?
What did you do in Dresden?
Nothing, I guess it makes more sense to me that question myself.
You, this time, born in Dresden. Just understand you. We talked in French. Now I do not understand a damn French. It means nothing to me except for two or three words caught on the fly.
cost us so much trouble understanding each other. You French was difficult for me, my French was confusing to you. But I could not explain what was the difficulty.
I do not know French.
O
correct thing to say: I do not know French.
I've never known and yet, so it was the only route left to us. I hated Thus you know? I found a language concerned, on vowels, pronounced with the nose or is that just seems to me now? Perhaps some of that past that is not mine and I hated. And in that time did not want to speak it better for me to understand. " Then he wanted to think and feel on your tongue, whatever. Maybe your desire was greater than mine, so he was born in my mind was you. But what's the point? That past is not my past or your past. This, in which I write, is your language as much as mine. Perhaps, then, I was awarded as is, and who thinks I am yours.
La pregunta más bien es ¿qué hacía yo en Dresde? No lo he podido averiguar. Lo único cierto es que estaba de paso, como por accidente. ¿Qué asunto tenía yo ahí, en esa ciudad asediada y en peligro? O quizás llegué ahí como todo aquél mar de gente llegamos: veníamos huyendo de todas partes, de todos los aviones y todas las tropas.
Y… ¿qué hacías en Dresde?
¡¿Qué más da qué hayas nacido en Dresde?! No eras un ciudadano ahí, nada más, como todos aquellos invadidos por las hordas de gente huyendo de todos lados, creyendo que jamás bombs would fall on their own cathedrals.
remember-these memories that are not mine, remember that in a fit of rage you hit the wall with his fist and shouted something in German. Finally you turned and looked at me scared and then I translated it into language that was so difficult for both. Something you said I do not remember the French but the meaning, "something like that if you were born again would you do as far as possible in Germany. I guess now you would not believe. I also suppose that it was a desire so great that you met in the end. But you do not comply you anything, because this is not your past, and those are memories you mine. I assume that it was not we were born together in the same land or in the same time. Maybe just enough to say goodbye, because this time we are not allowed.
You left three days before the bombing. I vowed never wait and not move from there to see you again. Or perhaps it is that my French was difficult and awkward and poorly drafted promise. And perhaps just became clear that I would move to wait to see you again. But I missed where. And maybe that's why it was you who came out here, where I have not moved.
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Everything is confusing. Information arrives as if they were memories. But not my memories. They are not your memories. If I told you this all seem unlikely. What is the point to find out who I was and who you were? Just know that you were born in Dresden, this time there were born-just know that we were not lovers, or family, however, we only shared a deep affection. But who were you? What about me? And where was I born?
I remember your eyes, eyes that you are not your past. Were as they are now, between brown and green, and I remember that once caught me trying to find out and you stared at me and then smiled at me and smiled and then thought that neither death nor time would be sufficient for our smile. And perhaps it has.
The flames swept Dresden, that I read. But I know and then suddenly remember sweltering darkness filled the corridors where we took refuge, and the shelter was my grave. I remember the incredible certainty that he would return to see you. And even before the imminence of death, certainly would not leave me. I closed my fist what kept there? : An amulet a ring, what was it? Does not the symbol of your promise? How much longer I survive? Did you hear about how he was devastated Florence on the Elbe?
The Elba.
pledged then return to the riverside walk together as that afternoon. Something had to tell a story that left half. I would be waiting only for enterame of its outcome. Pity, then, that these are neither yours nor my memories, because they never happen!
Why I tell stories? Why take me by the hand along the banks of the river while telling me about stories? Why guiabas I felt like I was a girl and you my guide?
Then comes another picture: you are young, have perhaps twenty-five years or less. Black hair tousled rebel with the summer wind. But ... wait ... is that you are too high ... or I'm too small. I remember then that you take me by the hand and go with the other playing with my hair. How old do I have? You have kids and tell me about them. I'll submit the to play with them ... I'm a girl.
And so my French is so difficult. If you speak it perfectly! Just for once, to know, do not hate the hated French lessons, do not hate the dog days afternoons at home Mayte, my piano teacher back in my country. Because I talk about music, because you were a musician ... and I get along with your long fingers of porcelain by the banks of the Elbe as I teach a song in German.
I want to show a little song in Castilian. I laugh at your "Rs", I laugh and throw me on the grass and do not stop laughing. And you look at me very seriously and get angry and you challenge me I pronounce the "r" in your language. And I try to try "Berlin" and then you laugh at me, and I eagerly and me endeavors. And then some time later, a Samaritan who listens to me, I explained that in "Berlin" sounds not erre. And then I very angry to reclaim and then, I remember sitting under a tree erre rehearsing and rehearsing the shot ... and I keep silent so they do not look at me and I'm on the other side of the tree a long time hearing you. It was a picnic.
But this story is so unlikely that I'd better put it away. Why accuse me of dualistic or, worse still, Pythagorean. And then I would have Mentioning the confusing Thomas to prove that something endures but not memory then you would answer me. And what I could answer, helpless, without any argument to answer? Because emotions are worn on the body and mine was evaporated under attack by the Allies. But what about yours? What happened to you then? What happened to those eyes, neither green nor brown, so like that now bears live in the river, looking at me from time to time?
on the banks of the river, I promised to tell the end of the story. I swore and gave me something as collateral. And here I am without the symbol of promise and you without the outcome of the story.
