Författare: xikano_2

Postdata: I don’t like the category uncategorized and I am ridding myself of it. This post was there as a draft and was meant to be published in August of 2010.

 

I always feel rather befuddled by how democracy works in México and Tijuana is a good example of how this democracy works in just about every other corner of the country. If one does a compare and contrast to American democracy and its mechanism you’ll soon find out that representation is where the two forms of democracy differ the most. Though I myself am more familiar with American democracy where representation means the possibility of influencing policy directly at the local level, this is not so in Tijuana. They are more parliamentarian there so when an official gets elected it’s not the person but the party that gets elected. Hence the endless protests, the endless cries for change and the bureaucracy remains rather unmoved by all the cries of the populace because unless the party does something the bureaucracy won’t even bother to turn its massive head around. A good example of this bizarre sort of influencing government is the appeal prominent members of society address the president of the country. They all pool together to buy space in the local newspapers and display a sort of plegaria, that is a plea, for all to see how terrible things are to particular groups or local associations as if the president who governs 32 federal states will read just the Tj based newspaper the very moment he wakes up. Now imagine that happening in San Diego, that is, someone buying space in a newspaper, pleading Obama, to hear them out. It doesn’t happen or if it happens it doesn’t happen anywhere near the rate that it does in México where more often than not, this sort of plea runs on a daily basis. I suppose it works at some level, because it’s a pretty big industry down there.

All this is rather odd in so many ways because it is a system that it is open for all sorts of manipulations not just theoretical but practical as well. The people who elect these parties are also few and scattered. The election of summer 2010 was amongst the lowest in participation and yet the winning party was ecstatic about the results that brought them the win and minced no words in their triumph alleging that their party goleó, (in allusion to the World Soccer Cup) that is, hammered the opposition. Supposedly the people of Tijuana were tired of the old regime. Will things change? Who knows. But judging by the local newspapers things could just of have been as I left them 2 decades ago. As I open the newspapers from Tijuana the headlines still charge the local police of being corrupt, they still decry in aghast how young people are used to cross over people into the USA and how poor government maintenance allows for corrupt officials to turn a blind eye to all sorts of discomforts for the daily citizen. So why is Tijuana thriving? Although Tijuana seems to be suffering a flatline in just about everything that is going on in its daily chores but don’t be fooled by it. The fact of the matter remains that it still is a buzzing city of several millions. Think of it: four Nobel Prize winners were scheduled to come to Tijuana in October 2010, a city in a country plagued by a war on drugs.

The thought appears ever so sly on the horizon: has the black legend that smeared Tijuana for decades, been finally put to rest at last hence giving the illusion of a lull? It almost also seems like a polite slap in the face to Tijuana’s detractors when you hear how other cities in the rest of México, which spared no small amount of disregard for my native city, are practically in flames and in disorder, chaos and total disillusionment with a rather bleak outlook on the future. One wonders how is that possible, why is Tijuana spared, this time, of the turmoil affecting other border cities and other major cities throughout the country? One can only speculate. Be that as it may, Tijuana is poised to host a very important meeting of the minds and the people who embarked on this quest show only what Tijuana is probably an expert if not a master at: tourism. While the ailments that the traditional source of tourism Jeremiah about the lack of tourists, the fact of the matter is that tourism is booming for all intents and purposes. Off course, am not alluding to the traditional sorts of tourism but a rather more specialized sort of tourism. The diversity of visitors to Tijuana is vast with a long tradition one can even begin to fathom. I can now see in my head that infamous postcard that shows a period of time when Mexico found itself in another turmoil, its Revolution. In this infamous postcard you can see American citizens by the border perched everywhere to get a glimpse of the infighting well in the American side of the border. Onlookers that today we like to call gawkers. These gawkers and their turismo negro as it is known in Spanish are pouring money onto the local economy. Want to see the local narcodealer ostentatious lifestyle? It can be arranged. Want to get a first-hand look of migras (pronounced: /me-gra-s/) from the Mexican side of the border? It can be arranged. Want to see how local poor people manage to solve their housing problems, you get the drift. This cash cow has been milked by the local artsy community for the past decade and though unawares of their contribution to the local economy they happily still go about showing the city to anyone showing an interest in Tijuana especially everything from academia to family members who haven’t seen Tijuana in a while. But it doesn’t stop there.

Tijuana has also become a target city for what is known as medical tourism. Heck, my kin that live in Chula Vista, or Chula Juana as it is known in the Mexican community because of the large influx of tijuanenses that live in that city, are frequent visitors to Tijuana because they do their health care business there and they are by far the only ones doing that. There is fleeting tourism as well, remember, Tijuana isn’t known for being the most visited city for nothing and not because of the border, people come from both sides of the country. Money is flowing from everywhere so don’t be fooled, if anyone is making a buck out of this recession, it certainly can be found in Tijuana and all due to its tourism whether old school tourism or new school. Having said that am very much surprised that Tijuana doesn’t have some sort of school specialized in just tourism. Tijuana style tourism. How does it happen? The local people no doubt. Everything from local writer Rafadro’s logo, that back in the day was a minor scandal and now is almost posthip: shameless self promotion to plain old word of mouth which runs rampant in the Mexican community that straddle the borders. Believe it or not this is partly due because the Tijuanenses are somehow infected with good old protestant positivism. They fight with all their might anything that smears the name of Tijuana, point in case a couple of clowns that visited the city in August that bear the artistic name of chicharrines. A rumor had it that they had fled the city because they had been threatened to death. The local chamber of commerce came out the next day that it wasn’t fair to smear the city that way. It is a mental attitude that focuses all its energy in defending the city by all means necessary. Just on the internet there are tons of documents trying to convince everyone and no one that Tijuana isn’t as bad as it seems. It doesn’t want to believe that things are as ugly as they are portrayed. Of lately there is even a video by Americans residing in Tijuana, done by Katherine Sweetman, witnessing how pleasant it is to live in Tijuana not to mention the news that it is cheaper to live in Tijuana during these rough times. This sort of mentality is in contrast with the rest of the population. Most Mexicans are ready for doom and gloom but the tijuanense believes very much in the future and defends this ideal a capa y espada as we in Spanish say, that is with tooth and nail. And now that Tijuana is gaining some sort of acceptance some people are wondering what is going on? They are sensing that the lull that permeates the city, that is, finally no one is pouring diatribe onto the city’s image a change is about. Tijuana is finally becoming bigger than Tijuana.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gs_T0-voEDI

In my apartment here in the Swedish Highlands the view outside the window offers little but a few trees, a huge empty lot between other apartments designed by the same architect and streets were cars pass by to pick up their kids after work.

The trees are naked trees, devoid of foliage and the month is near the winter solstice. I stare looking how the weather behaves from the inside of my apartment.

What I appreciate the most is the silence that surrounds me looking as I stare at the outside. I feel the warmth of the indoors as well as I feel the cold seeping through the glass and wonder if have insulated the window frame from the penetrating chilled gust of winds who insist in reminding me who is in town,

My eyesight turns to the settled snow in the rooftops and the tree branches which are swayed to and fro by a wind more powerful than I dare feel for myself.

What captivates my imagination is not the cold aspect of it all but the concert of music and dance wind and snow display in their being as each one of them touch each other. One lifted by the air and the other one painting the path it takes as it swishes mid-air. Am I hearing surround sound in mute mode?

It is as if sand in its lightness hit me though I know it is not sand but cold snowflakes who overstayed their stay on the roof.

Even the frost covered branches coloured white by the subzero temperatures grace the empty nothingness of the everyday. and in their path stillness, quietness and nothingness are one, are, a being for themselves for me, as I can only but see them collected and coolheaded.

This is what I see.

 

As I speak the temperature in Sweden is about where it should be right about these times in these parts of the world: freezing cold. The news are all awash with warnings about impending snow chaos and xmas related jingoism plus a few thoughts from my self dismissing everything and nothing.  This type of weather not only does it bring with itself lack of sunshine and lackluster cheery greetings from neighbours who just want to sit down in their dark recesses of their apartment seeking solace and solitude from everyone else, it also brings out the cold shoulder attitude from the rest of the population. Hence, I decided to write down a few thoughts about immigrants, racism and adaptation in this country.

I find myself looking back to the time I thought how hilarious it was that Swedes thought that people with black hair were different. After spending many years worried about my ethnic background, skin colour and language proficiency the very thought that someone would differentiate me because of the colour of my hair was a cool respite from the hot heads in the USA who are obsessed with skin colour. Not so anymore.

These days Sweden is a much different country than the one I came to 15 odd-some years ago. There is a political party from the extreme right in power more popular than the Christian democrats, the Swedes refer to themselves as ”ethnic” Swedes, and institutions battle and grapple about whether to not continue with Christian traditions in a state that is supposedly, in law, to practice separation of church and state.

The curious thing is that everyone saw this one coming, the admittance of the discussion of extreme right thinking in the everyday menu of things to discuss in public. Believe it or not the changes started with the simple naming of a common pastry everyone used to call negerball. It is loosely translated as niggerball. A chocolate based pastry with coconut sprinkles. People of all walks of life, mostly ”ethnic” Swedes, suddenly felt immigrants were making inroads in their lives they were not comfortable with and by God, who are these immigrants to tell us what to call our foods? Not that the food fight is over mind you, these days the news were recently afilled with a decision a poor teacher somewhere up in the bedrock of the North Pole made about a costume children usually wear this cheery xmas celebrations are all about. Here in Sweden it is a customary tradition that children dress up as a the gingerbread man. Don’t ask why, they do love their ginger and cinnamon cookies here during this joyful season. Unfortunately the lowly teacher who did not want to offend brown children by prohibiting that children dress up as the gingerbread man only managed to cause a furore in comments as if Sweden was suddenly being invaded by foreign ideas ready to destroy the very essence of what it means to be an ”ethnic” Swede. The food racism isn’t over yet and I can’t wait which other source of food will be hot contested as a national treasure Swedes feel represent them as ”ethnic” Swedes. Am guessing another pastry ready to make entrance in this racist fight and I suppose the Finns are next in line. Gotta love Swedish semantics and semiotics.

I can understand that Swedes want to go back to when things used to be the way they always were. The old Nordic spirit is a hard act to follow specially when no one had Nordic countries in their radar. Indeed, Sweden has a difficult time seeing itself as an immigrant country despite the fact that ”ethnic” Swedes are a lot with many different cultures although white peeps don’t count as foreign as other peeps of colour do. Allow me to expound. Extremism in Sweden is heading exactly the same path as white supremacy is at this point in the USA. No matter what white you are, you are ok, so long as you are white. People in Sweden target black and these days, it seems, brown has entered the concious of the Swede. The international belief that immigrants with a different colour other than white deteriorate society at large has made a foothold in Sweden. It isn’t the Germans who destroy or corrupt society nor are the Dutch, Polacks, Finns (they were in their turn a pariah to the Swede mind you, not anymore, nor Norwegians who are a national sport because they are buying up Sweden with their oil ) nor Brits; it’s those darn others from different countries such as Albania, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Kurdish people or Somalians who impregnate the every day with kebab, loud noises as they speak for everyone while they talk in their mobile phones and strange traditions such as Ramadan or khat chewing which are the culprits that are slowly engulfing Sweden into foulness. Yet in all their brouhaha about being contaminated by foreign ideas Swedes fail to realize how slowly their conception of being a tolerant and a generous country is being torn asunder by their own doing. Swedes are far from being tolerant and are as intolerant as the very people they say they are not. So why can’t they be more like ”ethnic” Swedes? that is the question that riles and rankles the very fabric of the ”ethnic” Swede. I can understand because I understand that customs and traditions plus ways of lifestyle clash everyday in simple acts such as throwing away garbage. No one is telling Swedes it takes time to become an ”ethnic” Swede even if this is the country that portrays itself as a country with patience at the Queue line. It is in these invisible time-lapse gaps that right wing nuckleheads find fodder for their ideas.

The Nordic way is a very hard act to follow because despite of its self-reliance nature and contradictory welfare system ”ethnic” Swedes still live according to their old protestant belief that one ought to be able to pull itself from their own bootstraps. Not to say that there aren’t ”ethnic” Swedes who love to circumvent the system and betray their country in the same breath they exclaim their love for their birthplace. Plenty of offshore accounts have been discovered by the tax authorities and oddly enough few are black or brown. Just saying.Evenmoreso at street level, this act of helping society at large for no reason other than thinking of the other is amiss in many immigrants. Not that they won’t do it. Eventually, many do understand that acts in concert of thinking about the other benefit all. Though there are more new immigrants that need to learn than those that adapt themselves to their new country and the country’s ways and manners. And here comes the crux: the Nordic way requires to fend by yourself and better yet, live by your own self so as not to be a burden to others. This is contrary to cultures that value family ties. The very idea of big families is an anathema to the ”ethnic” Swede. Swedes can’t even conceive the idea of cousins because cousins just might as well be distant cousins though they just as well might be your own neighbours.

Countries like Sweden have budgets for adaptation, assimilation and integration. Yes they do. Unfortunately the money isn’t doing the necessary transformation. While the right wing nuts such as popular extremists find a place in society and the media allows room for their hearsay and shenanigans, the very ones that need to place themselves in their new society find themselves fending off the onslaught of rejection by segregating themselves in immigrant enclaves. Towns and villages ordain their property values by the amount of immigrant their part of town have. Am referring to things down on the floor as the business folk like to say. In the upper echelons of society there is enough cultural diversity to fool the eye as is wanton to be said here in Sweden. But ”ethnic” Swedes still can’t muster accents in the language nor can they muster too much deviance in behaviour which upsets the order of things in a parliamentary country such as Sweden. One is liable to get the evil eye for even speaking out of context for the sake of conversation change. There isn’t either a concious of other colours in TV. Most shows aren’t about people of colour. Quite the contrary, it’s all about white Christian values if you will. Hispanics are yet to figure in the imagination of the Swede and if they think about them, they tend to be portrayed in the collective imagination of the Swede as a problem not because they know first hand but because the narrative around the immigrant from latinamerica is portrayed in the narrative that comes across the Swede as problematic.

the blade of the sharp words cut thru

they slice little by little neatly, effortless

putting me down like a well donned corpse on a forensics table

the butcher’s knife chops the surviving bits of a faí§ade

inwards in bits the doc stares at self destruction in detail

many reasons arise, forces beyond the sky, the hours that had a sun

the moon that bore the brunt of the guilt for unexplained fenomena

the emotions spiralling out – leading nowheres

in this duality who will ever win

the eternal battle of words

whose sword

slices

thy

true thee

the doc fails to fathom

and moves the cold hand, the cold blade, in movements asifIneverexisted

Hoy pintó como debió: gris, frí­o y con brí­os. Acá de verdad que hay que sacarle brí­os al dí­a. The flotsam and jetsam of the ebb. El residuo del dí­a.

Pepenador: el recipiente del rehuso

Exprimidor: llameseme ansina. Exprimo lo que fue y dejó de ser, expulgo con meticulosidad e intensidad.

Sometimes I feel my hands as I pluck the debri: it feels bitter.

The memories command the juices. Las memorias hacen un liquado del ayer. Verde, moho, agrio, dulce, viscoso.

.escojer

esa es la rutina: saber elegir.

pero insulto el labor de esos/aquellos cuyo labor es salir adelante, lo mio, lo mio es superficial, sin chiste. sin sabor y sin propósito. mecánico. un hoy sin más. como el universo que marca las horas, los dí­as, el minuto que ya pasó.

Te recordé como lo hago cada dí­a. Enesemisteriosogrisnubeloso que nos é recordar

Decidí­ ir al pueblo después de reciclar mi basura. Por estos lares tengo el hábito de pepinar mi basura. Los periódicos con los periódicos, el plástico con el plástico, las botellas negras con las negras y las blancas con, bueno, me entienden. Me molesta un poco ser tan organizado con mi basura y me molesta mucho mirar la basura debajo de mi lava-trastes. Veo que solo tiro basura biodegradable. Deberí­a de sortearla de manera que hubiere la posibilidad de ir un lugar especifico para ello, pero no, acaba en la basura que se utiliza para alimentar lo que aquí­ en Suecia se denomina como calefacción de distancia. Es toda una industria la basura y no entraré en detalles, baste con decir que la basura en los paí­ses nórdicos se utiliza para calefacción y se cobra dinero por ello aún así­ sea el consumidor que pepina la basura para su propia calefacción, en fin, de seguro mi razonamiento tendrá agujeros por ahí­. Decí­a, me molesta ser uno de esos que se toman el tiempo para reciclar pero a la misma vez me jacto de mis costumbres si otros no hacen lo que yo hago. Usualmente este tipo de comportamiento lo canalizo hacia otros inmigrantes que aún no se acostumbran a sortear la basura y viven su vida como si aún vivieren en sus paí­ses de mierda de tercer mundo, jode Julio, no seas pesado con el lenguaje. Y venga, que no es culpa de ellos ni tuya por sacar provecho para alzar tu ego, puto. Perdón, me reclamaba mi mal lenguaje.

Tení­a mucho pensando que a lo mejor sí­ hay algo que decir cuando parece que no hay nada que decir, aunque a ser verdad, retorno un poco más a las letras porque Hemingway me recordó que el que deja de observar deja de ser escritor, y no es que haya dejado de observar, venga, siempre lo hago pero desde hace mucho que esas observaciones solo han quedado en mi cabeza, y como dirí­a Family Guy, quedar solo con mis pensamientos entabla la lógica de la locura. Pues bien, decidí­ ir al pueblo, en mi soledad de siempre.

Lo bueno de estos lares es que uno se acostumbra a lo gris del dí­a. Yo ya le agarré sabor al gris y sin él no puedo vivir. Marca el sentimiento, el humor y todo lo que acontece a su alrededor se ve marcado por ello. Eso se percibe, en todo caso. Porque la verdad solo porque interpreto el dí­a como algo gris eso no quiere decir que así­ lo perciban todos los demás.

Vi el sol albo. Iba rumbo al pueblo por la carretera mayor cuyos caminos conducen al centro y vi al siempre admirable sol albo. El sol albo es un sol blanco. Creo que muy pocos les han brindado algún poema. Le quise tomar una foto pero casi nunca me salen como quisiera que me saliesen. Baste que muestre la foto siguiente de mis intenciones. Pensaba en muchas cosas y las cosas que no deberí­a de pensar porque desgastan la poca humanidad que me queda. No vale la pena estar triste, ni pensar en lo que me falta ni nada de eso, caminaba y así­ pensaba, miraba a la gente.

Mirar a la gente siempre deja sus huellas, pero ya ni me importa mucho que me miren. Y es que si dejo que me miren la testa esta conjuga un sinfin de alucinaciones que solo terminan en darme una mala impresión de lo que ni es, la falsa realidad que uno se construye en el camino de compras es causa de malestares interminables, así­ que he dejado de llevarme por mis propios pensamientos, mis vicios, esos son otros pelados.

Caminar solo en esta ciudad como fantasma sin que nadie te pele y dar gracias por ahí­ por esos que que te toman en cuenta vale lo mismo en oro. Dato curioso porque a ser verdad todos quieren ser vistos por estos lares y muy pocas veces quieren detenerse a saludarte o decirte palabras amables. Todo lo contrario, te esquivan como la peste así­ seas el más popular de todos. Suecia le dice a los inmigrantes, o turistas, que los suecos son un poco sensibles y taciturnos, que no se animan a hablar para no ofender etcétera pero a ser verdad eso es solo falta de cortesí­a. Digo, no vivimos en el siglo pasado ni mucho menos como para tomar como ley viejos preceptos de cómo es que es la gente. Y es que a ser francos los suecos son muy malos turistas pues exigen de otros paí­ses y hasta con creces lo que no practican en casa, o sea, un poco de cortesí­a amable. Pero venga, en un paí­s de sol albo, ¿qué se puede esperar? Y como yo siempre voy en contra del engranaje puesto que me voy a la cama temprano, duermo adecuadamente, y me levanto descansado, pues eso no les cuaja, acá habrá que estar de mal humor como todos los demás para encajar bien. Resisto ese tipo de adaptación muy a mi pesar puesto que la mayorí­a de las veces, el alegre yo, el descansado y feliz de la vida yo cae mal entre la pleble cansada del clima, el mal tiempo y las malas horas. Y no baste con ello puesto se me acusa de estar medio ebrio a veces, no que eso sea una mentira a medias sino más bien una verdad a medias, pero jode más de las veces no me levanto tan crudo como para no lograr llevar acabo mis deberes fuera de mis labores normales, jejeje.

Acabé pensando en México, y si voy, ¿a qué voy? ¿A qué regreso? Puras malas memorias y muchos malos recuerdos para acabar insatisfecho y con malas vibras. Yo ya no sé ni a qué paí­s pertenezco ni a donde iré en mi próximo futuro. No estoy joven como para empezar así­ del todo de nuevo. Y es que las costumbres estas suecas que me tienen encadenado a una mentalidad nórdica que no me deja mucho porvenir que digamos. Eso es lo que extraño de América, ese futuro que nunca se acaba. Acá en este paí­s nórdico todo tiene fecha de caducidad, inclusive mi edad, mi destino y lo que pueda lograr debido a mi edad.

En fin, el plan era limpiar la casa, lo he hecho. Quizá una de esas observaciones que tomo en cuenta es cómo es que nunca me han dejado las ganas de escribir. He dejado de escribir, pero las ganas siempre me han reclamado que no escriba, maña latosa sin duda alguna que admiro en mí­ y que amo con toda mi vida.

Pues se acerca el fin de año, y habrá que hacer cuentas muy pronto.

En bit besatt av Thomas Carlyle just nu. Han har ví¤ckt i mig en gammal flamma, ní¤mligen, protestantism i USA, frí¤mst Ralph Waldo Emerson.

http://carlyleletters.dukejournals.org/

http://www.euppublishing.com/doi/pdfplus/10.3366/tal.2011.0006

Critical reception of Sartor Resartus in America (why was it better understood there? Americans can easily relate to identity shifting?)

GOGOL, Nicolás. – El Retrato.
Editorial Anaya Touring 1991.
Traducción de Isabel Vicente.

He acabado de leer El Retrato de Gogol. Es un precursor a The Picture of Dorian Gray y M R James Mezzotint. Existe un pequeño género de obras literarias que incluyen una obra de pintura y un macabro acontecer. La pintura y la escritura; la imaginación y el miedo se juntan para darnos una moraleja de esas cristianas sobre avaricia, envidia, celos o deseos incumplidos. Se pone a prueba el temple moral y ético del sujeto en cuestión. Son de esas obras que alientan a conformarse con las fortunas que el destino le da a uno y si por un mal caso de la suerte que nos quiere jugar una mala partida al tentarnos querer aprovechar una oportunidad que supuestamente no es nuestra ni nuestro turno de poseer pues habrá que atenerse a las consecuencias las cuales suelen ser un mal insoportable para el alma cristiana. Aunque la saco de contexto puesto que cuando se escribió la obra habí­a más control religioso sobre la vida del ser humano que las que hay hoy aunque lo digo desde Suecia donde la comunicación con Dios ocurre dentro de ámbitos más privados que quizá en un paí­s como Rusia donde la religiosidad tiende a ser más pública.

Ahora, no quiero decir que la obra no sea un deleite de leer, todo lo contrario, pues se trata de un hombre en aprietos que fuerzas del más allá interfieren para hacerle la vida más miserable de lo que ya es. A quién no le gusta leer o que se les juegue con la imaginación de que quizá sí­ existan fuerzas que nos puedan castigar desde el más allá, pues levante la mano. Así­ que tenemos a un sujeto cuya suerte parece cambiar para lo mejor pero cuya bendición resultó ser una maldición y la perdida del alma. Gogol nos da también parte de cómo surgió tal pintura en un proceso bipartito en donde primero se nos cuenta de la desgracias que la pintura incurre en el hombre y después el génesis de la pintura.

Yo compré el tomo no porque esté interesado sobre la literatura de Gogol, venga, fue un placer leerlo, pero en realidad fue una doble lectura puesto que mi traductor favorito del ruso al español, Isabel Vicente, de nacionalidad española, y miembro del Grupo Moscú, lo tradujo. Este traductor me ha enfrascado la imaginación para siempre ya que su español es uno el que hace a la lengua sentirse viva y ajena a la de uno. Yo me jacto de ser un nativo del español pero al leer a Isabel Vicente, sus palabras castellanas le dan una vibración exótica irresistible que retumba por el paladar de la lengua como si nunca hubiesen sido parte de ella.

Otro fan de Isabel Vicente

What is it that I am after for? I’m loosing my mind on it. Nothing worse for a wannabe Lutheran, Presbyterian, Utilitarian, Baptist Catholic hybrid such as I.

I am a sum of the religions I love so much.

Noviembre deberí­a de ser el noveno mes; resulta ser un onceavo dentro del calendario Gregoriano. Un número que deberí­a de auspiciar buenos augurios para un Geminis como yo. Y sin embargo solo pienso en el fin, el fin del año y lo que más duele, pasar otros dí­as llenos de celebración familiar que me ahuyenta de la sociedad. Es triste, muy triste, pero por lo general, como persona soltera; cuya familia ha sido desbandada; por mi condición de inmigrante en Suecia, solo queda aguantar un par de dí­as para que todo regrese a la normalidad. Algunos dí­as de Noviembre y Diciembre, así­ tendrán que pasar.

De Noviembre se podrán decir muchas cosas aparte de los augurios que significa están en puerta. Noviembre es un mes que solo he vivido en Suecia. Pasé muchos noviembres en América sin que ellos significaran mucho, no tengo en la memoria fija muchos noviembres allá en México o los EEUU. Ninguno que salga así­ a la vista. Tengo muchos principios de Diciembre guardados en la memoria y quizá Noviembre entra en ellos por la celeridad en que deseabamos entrar en Diciembre.

Aquí­, Noviembre es un mes largo, la gente se queja de que dura demasiado, languidece como indeseable, nadie quiere saber de Noviembre. Noviembre, o November como se le conoce en sueco, significa trabajo sin pausa, no hay muchas celebraciones nacionales, ni culturales que interrumpan el ajetreo de la vida laboral, es un mes de trabajo y largo, larguí­simo a juzgar por algunos suecos que conozco.

A tí­tulo personal siempre he deseado Noviembre gélidos, así­, llenos de nieve, llenos de frí­o, y a pesar de que vivo cerca de l Polo Norte, esto no sucede con frecuencia. Sí­, hay explicación por este deseo innato. Mi madre se expuso al hielo en Noviembre durante mi desarrollo prenatal. Y es por eso que Noviembre entra en mí­, lleno de expectativas. De Noviembre a Junio hay mucho tiempo del cual vivir, y eso he aprendido de Noviembre, desde que sentí­ el frí­o aquel.

Fuente de la foto: Las muy ricas horas del Duque de Berry