Quote

Collectoress

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Your Days are Numbered.”

Your first collection was of tin soldiers

I image your childhood self sitting on the floor, arranging the little figurines in a tidy line

then you moved to coins, first the ones at hand, copper pennies, out of use guineas, heavy pounds

After your first travels the collection moved to foreign coins and bank notes with languages I can’t read and men with beards whose importance I don’t know.

The number of collections and collected keeps growing, now German vases, tomorrow Scandinavian glass?

I have never collected anything apart from years, and a couple of scars.

or maybe I have… but my collection is of a different sort.

I don’t collect objects, I collect attempts

attempts to build a home in different cities, streets, houses,

attempts to become an actress, a photographer, a violinist, an Aikidoka, an accomplished sewer, a swimmer, a runner, a crocheter,  a writer…

I have not become any of these

that is why I only collect attempts,

17032015 possibilities of being

I collect becomings

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Day 1- “who I am and why I’m here”

Have you ever feel lost?

I used to write, mostly poetry, and journalistic pieces (mainly reportage and chronicles).

Then I got lost.

I lost my confidence to write, to speak using my own ideas, to tell stories.

I even began to abandon little pleasures such as playing the violin, reading poetry, and taking photos.

Nothing was good enough for publication.

In some way beginning this blog is a way of beginning not only to write again but of having the confidence of publishing in a language that is not my own. In one year I hope I have build enough confidence to began writing long journalistic pieces again.

Wedding Ring

ring

I got married last October. A couple of weeks ago while looking at my hand I remembered my parents’ wedding rings. My dad crushed his with a hammer. My mom lost it and cry for a week.

When I was little my dad took a hammer.
In his hands, it moved fast and weightless, efficiently.
The golden ring shines on his finger.
On the exterior it has engraved intertwined leaves
inside, in tiny calligraphy letters, my mother’s name.
His hand places the ring on the stone
and then the hammer on the ring, one, two, three, four, five, and many other numbers I haven’t learnt how to count yet.
He repeats the task until the ring is no longer a ring but a flat piece of yellow tin.
Tiny cracks on the border, the leaves almost erased, my mother’s name trapped inside two pieces of metal.
A crucifix, a David’s star, a miniature gold hand, and my mother’s name trapped in a cage of gold that used to be a ring.
These are the charms hanging in a golden chain around my father’s neck.