Celibacy

Celibacy

It shouldn’t matter now. The experience is way behind me. I loved him loved ago. I didn’t love him because he was an authority figure or couldn’t have a girlfriend and marry out in the open. I didn’t love him because if he had his own biological children, he couldn’t acknowledge them. I just loved him as soon as I saw him. If the Church were to suddenly see the light and make Celibacy optional instead of Obligatory, I wouldn’t benefit by the change. I am not going to get the man I loved back. Nevertheless, I hate the Celibacy Rule as it stands today. It is unnatural and not right.  It reminds me of my feelings as a passionate young woman.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Una Maid En Manhattan

It makes me mad—but it keeps me watching. Tonight’s episode of Una Maid en Manhattan probably will have Sara Montero, the evil woman capable of murder to get what she wants, sleeping with Cristobal Parker. Cristobal has just been elected U.S. Senator for the state of New York and Sara wants to exhibit him as a trophy so that the woman he really loves, Marisa Lujan, will get angry. Everyone tells Marisa to fight for Cristobal if she really loves him but in last night’s episode, she saw him kissing Sara Montero after he won the election and did nothing. Marisa had gone to Cristobal’s hotel (the hotel he bought for her) to congratulate him on his victory and that’s when she saw them kissing. I think that the scriptwriters will have Cristobal ask Sara to marry him and then when they are at the altar the police are going to come and arrest her for plotting to have Marisa accused of stealing the high end jewels that she, Sara, arranged to steal with her cohorts. Cristobal will be more than very angry then and he will kick himself for being so stupid as to fall for her manipulative tricks. There is no logic to Marisa’s lack of action. Praying to the Virgen to forget him will not do anything. If she, Marisa, really wants Cristobal (she does) she will have to confront Sara Montero sooner rather than later. She has to stop being “nice” and “sacrificial”. And maybe slap her in the same way Sara once slapped Marisa.

 

 

 

Mint

Mint

She bent over the pot outside the restaurant. Delicious. Simply delicious, fresh and new. The woman smiled. How it reminds me of the better days—my better days. Her mind travelled back 16 years. The days when I had breakfast at the Stanhope Hotel   I can see it now—a sprig of mint on my butter plate, my Villeroy & Bock flowered butter plate. I was in Heaven then. I had just arrived in Manhattan and everything was lovely. Succeed. I thought I would succeed by my own efforts, doing what I truly loved. The Stanhope Hotel was my home, my safe haven. I had friends there. I couldn’t wait to see them when I got up in the morning. It wasn’t the classy, 5^th Avenue Gold Coast atmosphere or the Metropolitan Museum of Art across the street. It was the people—the friendly, visible people. She shrugged. That’s all gone now. I miss that and I miss the lifestyle it represented. I didn’t know what I had. It will never return. She crossed the street when the light turned green.

 

The SmellI walk…

The Smell

I walk by a house with a garden. I have to stop and linger for a minute. Jasmines. I smell jasmines. I take 2 steps forward, then 2 steps back. I remember you. We used to go by a house similar to this one and in the summer the jasmines would fill the air. At night, with you by my side, I felt at home. You protected me and I protected you. Even if you pulled on your leash, and you often did, I didn’t care. It was you and me. Together.

Long

Days

Long—they are just so long! Never ending, the days just go on and on. 24 hours seem like 48. The old woman walked and saw the people out on the sidewalk. Her errand had been done. Now she was going home, to her new home. She missed the old home. She wanted the old place. This one was nicer, better turned out. She didn’t care. She didn’t know anybody in this new neighborhood. Her life was back there, not here. Too many cars, too many strangers. She took one more step. Her little face full of wrinkles lit up. There. It was someone she knew from the old neighborhood. She walked quickly towards that person. No, I am sorry. I am mistaken. It isn’t you. I miss you.

Auschwitz

Auschwitz

My bones show. The bones around the shoulder area are pronounced. My right arm is thin. Too thin—it is thinner than my left arm. I can see everything protruding. My eyes. They are still big, but not as they used to be. I don’t know this woman anymore. Who is she? Who have I become? I don’t know her. I want the old person, the person I was. I liked her. She looked healthy. This other woman looks like she just got out of a concentration camp.

 

 

 

Don’t Know

Don’t Know

I may be moving. I don’t know where I am going. I may be leaving. I don’t know the street I’ll be on. I don’t know the name of the city, the name of the neighborhood. I know the way I feel—disconnected. Isolated. I know I don’t like it. It shouldn’t be happening. It’s a nightmare.

 

 

Una Maid en Manhattan

Hola, no entiendo como Marisa le deja a Cristobal a Sara Montero. Se lo esta dando en bandeja de oro. Marisa sabe o sospecha, que Sara Montero estuvo detras del intento de Victor para quitarle a Lalo y que Sara puede ser la que armo lo del robo de joyas para que la acusaran a Marisa. Ademas, muchas mujeres pobres, maids y no maids, se han casado con hombres ricos, aun mas ricos que Cristobal. Leticia, la amiga maid de Marisa, el otro dia se caso con un millonario. Esta novela me gusta pero hay cosas que no tienen sentido, ni siquiera para alargar la novela hasta el capitulo 158 o 160. Eugenia Renskoff

All of Us

All of Us

Not heard. Not seen. Invisible. If they call for help, to have someone to talk to, the phone rings continuously. No one picks up. The pain strangles the soul. It does not let go of it. They—the persons going through emotional pain—shake their heads. It can’t be happening. It is not real. But it is. It is only too real. They go on, just one more day. They take another step. Maybe something will be better tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Cart

The Cart

I walk. I push my red cart. It is big and bulky. Somebody bought it for me, a total stranger. My belongings—all the belongings I could gather—are inside my cart. The cart has two sides to it, one good, one bad. It is helpful, but it is my jail. I look at people and they look at me. The red cart has invisible bars. They are grim bars. I can’t laugh. I can’t cry. I go on. I keep walking.