Bendita la hora en que te conocí
Bendita la estación en me enamore de Tí
Bendito el segundo, el momento en que entregue a Tí.
Tantos años, pero Tu amor hacia mí sigue siendo
tan nuevo, tan fuerte, tan apasionado...
como aquel primer momento en que nuestras almas se unieron.
Te adoro Señor!
Tu eres mi ser, mi vida, mi todo.
---Inspired after breaking the bread and drinking the cup.
In loving memory of Your glorious death and resurrection.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
Season of the Hand
The following is an excerpt of a short story written by Julio Cortázar "Estación de la mano" which the narrator tells of a mysterious disembodied hand that visits him for a period of time.
Season of the Hand by Julio Cortázar
I gave her names: I liked to call her Dg, because it was a name that only allowed to be thought of. I incited her vanity by leaving bracelets and rings on the table, spying her attitude with utmost secrecy. Sometimes I thought she would adorn herself with the jewelry, but she meticulously studied them without touching, like a skeptic spider; and although she put on the amethyst ring for a short moment, she abandoned it as if it was an explosive. I hurried to hide the jewelry in her absence and ever since then, she appeared to be much happier.
And thus the seasons declined, some became slender and other weeks were shaded with violent lights, as her visits became our ambience. The hand came back every afternoon, soaked by the autumn rains, I saw her rest on the carpet as she tediously dried her fingers, sometimes with sporadic jumps of satisfaction. During the frigid sunsets her shadow was stained in violet. I lit up a brazier on my feet and she curled and kept still, except when she received with careless displeasure an album with engravings or a wool ball that she liked to twist and tie. I discovered she could not stay still for long. One day she found a trough with clay and she rushed to it. She spent countless of hours molding the clay while I, with my back turned pretended not to care.
Naturally, she modeled a hand. I let it dry and I put in on my desk to demonstrate my appreciation towards her work of art. It was a mistake: Dg was annoyed at the contemplation of her petrified self-portrait. When I hid it, she pretended out of modesty not to see it.
My interest soon turned to be analytical. Tired of surprises, I wanted to know the unfortunate end of all adventure. Questions about my guest came into my mind: Did she vegetate, feel, understand, love? I made experiments. I observed that the hand was capable of reading but never wrote. One afternoon I opened the window and I placed a pen on the desk, blank pages and when Dg came in, I walked away so I that I would not burden her timidity. Through the keyhole, I saw her habitual paces; but then, hesitantly, she went to the desk and picked up the pen. I heard the screech of the pen and after I was held in suspense, I entered the studio. In diagonal and outlined letters, Dg wrote: This resolution dissolves the previous ones until there is a new order. I could not make her write again.
Season of the Hand by Julio Cortázar
I gave her names: I liked to call her Dg, because it was a name that only allowed to be thought of. I incited her vanity by leaving bracelets and rings on the table, spying her attitude with utmost secrecy. Sometimes I thought she would adorn herself with the jewelry, but she meticulously studied them without touching, like a skeptic spider; and although she put on the amethyst ring for a short moment, she abandoned it as if it was an explosive. I hurried to hide the jewelry in her absence and ever since then, she appeared to be much happier.
And thus the seasons declined, some became slender and other weeks were shaded with violent lights, as her visits became our ambience. The hand came back every afternoon, soaked by the autumn rains, I saw her rest on the carpet as she tediously dried her fingers, sometimes with sporadic jumps of satisfaction. During the frigid sunsets her shadow was stained in violet. I lit up a brazier on my feet and she curled and kept still, except when she received with careless displeasure an album with engravings or a wool ball that she liked to twist and tie. I discovered she could not stay still for long. One day she found a trough with clay and she rushed to it. She spent countless of hours molding the clay while I, with my back turned pretended not to care.
Naturally, she modeled a hand. I let it dry and I put in on my desk to demonstrate my appreciation towards her work of art. It was a mistake: Dg was annoyed at the contemplation of her petrified self-portrait. When I hid it, she pretended out of modesty not to see it.
My interest soon turned to be analytical. Tired of surprises, I wanted to know the unfortunate end of all adventure. Questions about my guest came into my mind: Did she vegetate, feel, understand, love? I made experiments. I observed that the hand was capable of reading but never wrote. One afternoon I opened the window and I placed a pen on the desk, blank pages and when Dg came in, I walked away so I that I would not burden her timidity. Through the keyhole, I saw her habitual paces; but then, hesitantly, she went to the desk and picked up the pen. I heard the screech of the pen and after I was held in suspense, I entered the studio. In diagonal and outlined letters, Dg wrote: This resolution dissolves the previous ones until there is a new order. I could not make her write again.