divendres, 8 de novembre del 2013

An invented children story

Once upon a time, there was a little boy with dark, curly hair and brown eyes. His name was Tom, and he was an orphan. He lived with his uncle in a farm, and he had to get up very early to work at the farm.

One day, he woke up, had breakfast and found a big box on the table. He opened the box, and there were all his dreams and all his fears in that box. He was very surprised! He could find all the little things he always had wanted there. In the box, there was also a note. The note said... from Mum. And there was an address also.

Tom was very happy, because he thought he would finally meet his mother. He got out of his farm, walking, and went to the train station. He asked the officer where was that place in the note, and the police officer said it was one hour away, so he bought the ticket.

He got into the train and sat down there. A while later, a man sat next to him. He wore a long, black coat. He smelled bad, and he had a weird face. Tom was afraid. The man asked him: "Where are you going, boy?". Tom answered: "to visit my mum". The man asked: "Where is she". Reluctantly, Tom showed him the paper.

The expression of the man changed. He was the surprised one then. Tom asked: what's wrong? Well...-the man answered-. Don't go there, boy. Nobody has lived in this house in a century!

Tom opened his mouth in disbelief, but he thought that, even so, he had to go there. So when the time came, he left the train (and the man) and went walking to the address.

He found it. He walked into the garden and found a very deep forest. He delved into it, scared. Suddenly, he heard a noise. He turned around, and there was him... the man in the train. He had followed him from there. He turned around and ran, until the house suddenly appeared. He opened the door and went in.

There's when the children have to invent their own ending... everyboudy is welcome to leave a comment with suggestions about how the story is going to end.

dimecres, 3 de juliol del 2013

Poesia

Mar amb olor de llessamí...
Teixit per les ones
Que bressolen el teu destí maragda

Els sentiments ballen
Perduts, disseminats, com gotes d'aigua que s'escolen a la mà dels empobrits
Que no poden guardar ni un pedaç de la seva frescor
Perquè tot és buit, només s'omple del que els diuen
Que han de ser, que han de fer

Però els fils es llancen.
En diferents direccions...
Alguns són més gruixuts, altres més prims...
Però tots contenen una part de mi
Que disperso per la immensa mar...

I cal que es tractin amb cura
No es trenquen fàcilment
Fa mal quan es trenquen
Però si no es cuiden es desgasten
I poden arribar a trencar-se per desgast
I si és així no hi ha manera de reparar-los

Però tinc una font inesgotable
De fils que teixeixo i llenço
A qui vulgui agafar-los i cuidar-los
Els que ja hi son estiren, encara que només sigui d'una banda
I fa mal.

Però el salar turquesa cura...
Esguardat per l'astre de la vida
I la perla de la nit.

dilluns, 11 de febrer del 2013

creativitat

Els moments i sentiments nous, forts, es barregen, però miraculosament m'he tornat forta, capaç de fer-los front... simplement amb una mica d'ajut. No espero recolzament... sé que el tinc, pel senzill fet d'haver viscut el que he viscut i amb qui ho he viscut.

El meu recolzament sóc jo mateixa i les meves experiències, que són prou singulars i prou importants com per constituir una base sòlida des d'on tenir la valentia i la decisió per a donar el proper pas. Aquestes experiències, però, han d'augmentar... a partir sobretot del meu lideratge i la meva imaginació. Només tinc un desig: el que sigui capaç de crear, que sigui prou bo com per dur-ho a terme.

Res més que el buit que sento molt al fons de les entranyes m'hauria d'importar, però m'importen moltes coses, molt singulars, que ocorren a la vegada i sense descans, una rere l'altra, o simultàniament... aquestes experiències seran la base d'una vida.

I això ho he fet i ho estic fent perquè he estat capaç de superar algunes pors i d'intentar que d'altres no em limitin...

En seguiré sent capaç. Si tu no n'ets, el resultat serà una predicció auto-complerta; marxaré lluny, molt més lluny que tu però simplement perquè no has volgut acompanyar-me, perquè has tingut por d'acompanyar-me. I tothom qui em vulgui acompanyar en aquest camí mentrestant, és i serà ben rebut. I valorat...

Mentre que tu acabaras sent un altre dels "podria"... llàstima, però. M'agradaria, ara mateix m'encantaria que  fossis el que "pots".