Ceremonies

Nighttime stroll through the peaceful town of Little Falls, NJ. © Lauro Minaya.

Nocturnal forecast

Distorted emotions unfold over the troubled night. My voice conjures with devotion aphonic echoes of dawning light.

The memory draws visions of a long-awaited reunion in a forest of dead passion. The heart makes decisions based on thine own confession.

This is how I spend my nights misshaping illusions from love memories. Can I regain old delights? The natural remedies.

Antique Typewriter. © Lauro Minaya.

Reasons to stay home

Look, I prefer to stay at home because I value my solitude. I'm not going to lie, I love the company of people, especially my friends, whom I adore without remedy. However, the main reason I enjoy being home is the quietness that comes with being alone. This reflects the ancient Greek belief that loneliness can be a choice made for the sake of knowledge and wisdom, rather than being forced upon us. It is like the lifelong romance with oneself, as Oscar Wilde once described. It is walking half-naked around my apartment, seeing my entire body in the mirror, and liking myself, even though I know I do not have the perfect figure. It is cooking something for me at any time. It is listening to voice messages from my Peruvian friends living abroad while preparing meals and replying to them. It is a space for dreaming, working on my projects, and sending emails to clients. It is to binge-watch anime whenever I feel like it, read in my living room, on my bed, or at my desk, until I feel like socializing again and losing myself in the wild streets. Or until I feel my heart is lonely, and I want to love you once more.

I sliced the first log in half with a clean, quick strike. Occasionally, my axe would get stuck midway, but I persevered, lifting both the axe and the log to strike down again and complete the cut. As I filled the fireplace in our cabin before nightfall, I couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. It wasn't a difficult task after all, and I, who had never considered myself particularly strong, had managed to chop enough pieces.

Night had fallen, and the temperature had dropped drastically. My arms were sore, and I didn't want my two friends to see how tired I was; that would have made me feel ashamed. Thankfully, they were busy inside the cabin—one was cleaning the rooms while the other was preparing veal for dinner. It was New Year's Eve, and we were in the woods of northeastern Spain.

We started a fire by placing sheets of newspaper under a pile of logs in the fireplace. As a city guy unfamiliar with outdoor survival, I followed my friend's instructions. We carefully arranged the logs, leaving enough space for air to circulate. Then, I lit the newspaper, and soon, the logs caught fire. Before long, smoke began to filter into the cabin, making the air difficult to breathe. I complained about it, only to be informed that our fireplace didn't have a screen and that I would have to get used to it, whether I liked it or not.

I used to complain all the time. That night, I covered my mouth and nose with my handkerchief and sat down, crossed legs on the floor, watching the fire. The logs I had hewn a while ago were burning now, reddish. They had lost their fresh pine scent, and now their smell was scraping my throat. I couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place. I wished I could be anywhere else, yet I didn't know where that might be. I felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave. These thoughts swirled in my mind as I watched the logs burn and the fire dance, more alive than ever.

The heat from the fire enveloped the house, warming us kindly. I grew accustomed to the gentle scent of smoke, which wasn't too strong. Then, I reintegrated myself and joined my friends at the dinner table. Our New Year's supper was ready: roast veal with potatoes. The meat tasted so succulent that it instantly brightens my mood. A Spaniard, an American, and a Peruvian (me) were gathered around the table, the comforting warmth of the fire and the shared meal bringing us together. We talked for the rest of the night, had fun, and shared some confessions, but that's another story.

I was five years old when I ran around the oak dining table. It was an antique model with intricate carvings and a warm, honey-toned finish. A cherished heirloom passed down through generations.

I used to stop beside my grandfather and yell, "Pay me the rent!" It was a line I had heard on a Peruvian TV show. He would stop eating, grinned slyly, and handed me a coin. And at that moment, I was happy.

Above the dining table hung a sizeable vintage chandelier with cascading crystals and intricate brasswork. It was called "La Araña," which means Spider. Whenever an adult mentioned that name, I would stop playing and fix my curious eyes on the chandelier. My grandfather would still be grinning slyly, looking down while eating his soup.

Foto de Loon Pond en Maine, estado ubicado al noreste extremo de los Estados Unidos, conocido también como Vacationland. © Lauro Minaya.

Tráeme el verano (Bring on the summer)

Oh Erin, déjame decirte algo, en el verano del 2019 me la pasé bomba. “B-O-M-B-A”. Por aquel entonces vivía con mi novia en Maine. Ella y yo éramos inseparables: “She was like the Nutella to my spoon”. Pasábamos horas en la orilla del lago bebiendo cerveza o hard seltzer con sabores a frutilla. Ella siempre sonreía bajo ese bonito sombrero de paja que su madre le trajo de Hawai. “You’re my strawberry”, le decía. Y ella se sonrojaba.

Al atardecer volvíamos caminando a casa con el sol a cuestas. Y en el camino ella me preguntaba qué quería para cenar. ¿Te comenté que aprendió a cocinar comida peruana? Ella siempre cocinaba los platillos más deliciosos y hasta horneaba pan fresco.

Por las noches nos recostábamos en el sofa de la sala para ver Netflix. A ella le gustaban mucho los dramas japoneses, y se ponía nerviosa cada vez que los protagonistas se daban un beso. Una vez me confesó que se consideraba una persona romántica.

Antes de la medianoche, por lo general, ya estábamos acostados. Hacíamos el amor desenfrenadamente, con una pasión exacerbada. Eramos como dos estrellas que colisionaban para formar luego un único universo. Un círculo infinito para dos en donde no existía el tiempo. Un mundo entregado al deseo.

Sue dormía profundamente solo cuando le leía un cuento al acostarnos. Entonces yo tomaba posición del lado de la cama contiguo a la mesa de noche. Y con un libro en mi regazo, encendía la luz de nuestra lámpara. Recuerdo que ella reposaba sutilmente su cabeza sobre mi pecho. Y en ese instante, me detenía brevemente para admirar la belleza de su rostro semi dormido.

A journal entry made with my trusty fountain pen.

Some thoughts about journaling

I am researching the relationship between writer and writing before starting an essay about my connection with the writing métier. In this process, it is inevitable not to talk about the bond I have developed with my notebook in the last months.

In 2020 I started to keep a notebook with me. In the beginning, I used it as a depository of notes for scholarly research. Then I began to write random phrases overhearing in conversations, movies or taken from books or magazines. Typically things that resonated with me.

This highlighted sentence could be an entry in my notebook.

Now I write an entry almost every day, consisting of simple thought or a vague monologue of two or three pages. My entries have increased with no doubt, but the essence of writing random things has not changed. That's why I resonate with Joan Didion when she says that "the point of my keeping a notebook has never been, nor is it now, to have an accurate factual record of what I have been doing or thinking."

Photo on the left: A large green field at the entrance to the town of Acton in Maine.

Photo on the right: Walking and reading through Acton roads in Maine.

Changes

As time went on, Literature became something significant to me. I can't have a day without reading, writing, or watching something related to it. Its presence is becoming more and more important in my life. And the curious thing is that Literature has imposed on me in English, a language which is not mine.

The other day, I talked with my friend Luis about some experiences that we have had as immigrants. He shared some stories about his living in Australia, and I shared mine in the United States. The thing is that — I said to Luis— I have reached a point where speaking in Spanish is unnecessary to me. Since I arrived here, I have been through an intensive process of learning English to survive that has moved my mother tongue to the background. One day, I opened my eyes, and I was living in a house full of Americans. And a few months later, I was even thinking in English. "How was it possible?" I don't know, I said. But my old love for American Literature has helped a lot.