Author: Olavia Kite

… And if he ever left, what would be left of me? I can’t imagine a world in which he doesn’t exist, now that the sole memory of his astounding eyes always brings a smile to my glum face.

I feel like Undine, a water nymph who was created without a soul, and who obtained one by marrying a mortal. With it, she also obtained pain and suffering. Maybe life was much, much easier when love wasn’t roaming around my heart, but I’m not willing to get back to that path now that I’ve seen what true happiness looks like. What if he ever got tired of this awful distance? I have to work hard to tighten this bond across the Pacific Ocean. I can’t imagine how things would be if this ever shattered, if I had to go back to a soulless life. Anyway, now that I have a soul, some aspects of life seem to hurt me much more than they would hurt somebody else (I don’t know, it’s how I feel). Maybe a soul is actually a dagger. Why can’t he be here to stop this wound from bleeding? Why can’t I be there to recover the sunshine in my eyes?

Undine was never meant to be Penelope, and yet mine is a life of waiting!

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand

Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore

Alone upon the threshold of my door

Of individual life, I shall command

The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand

Serenely in the sunshine as before,

Without the sense of that which I forbore –

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine

With pulses that beat double. What I do

And what I dream include thee, as the wine

Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue

God for myself, He hears that name of thine,

And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnet VI

This loneliness sucks.

The sky is deep blue and the sun pierces my skin slowly. I wonder when it will finally melt. I abhor it. Day after day after day after day I do exactly the same things, I climb the same hill, I ride the same bus and I eat the same food. I see the same stupid little girls dressed all the same; rubber bones to eat, dogs behind them. I have to study. It’s the only way to keep the days going. I mean, days could perfectly go without Saussure and Cervantes and the Popol Vuh, but I’m a citizen of this little town and I’m supposed to have my responsibilities.

That life used to suck. It was cold as hell, I had to run and let that air freeze my lungs. Now my lungs are fried with all that despicable nicotine air. What’s better, what’s worse? Of course here’s better. I’m learning more stuff. I have my home. But I don’t have you. All I have are these pieces of you floating around, stupid little messages, that’s all we’ve got! 100 characters to tell each other stories? 100 characters to say how unbearable the pain is? Can’t you see? Of course you know it. But you’re home. So am I.

I’m tired of being here. It’s a cage of routine. I don’t have a second to myself. All my life is supposed to be devoted to Cervantes and Silva and to the thought of “I wish all those stories were mine. I wish I were there.” Yeah. I envy my teacher. I envy him because he’s been there and I’m stuck here. He speaks the language and it’s still all drawings to me. This is not my place. My place is wherever you are.

I’m a nowhere girl. Making all my nowhere plans for nobody. Making all my silly nowhere plans for you. Trying to keep on this routine to forget that I have a beautiful hand to hold at the other end of this saltwater ball. Everybody’s got somebody and I’ve got 100 damn characters to bleed.

After struggling with the Great Wall of China…

1. What’s the most daring thing you’ve ever done?

Well… maybe going to the US for a whole year. It’s not easy to decide to leave everything for a significant amount of time. And being there, a very daring thing to do was traveling to St. Louis with Minori. St. Louis is certainly not your place to have fun.

2. What one thing would you like to try that your mother/friend/significant other would never approve of?

I guess I’m an independent person and I’m not really risky… so my mom and my significant other usually approve of my deeds. I don’t really pay attention to my friends’ verdicts.

3. On a scale of 1-10, what’s your risk factor? (1=never take risks, 10=it’s a lifestyle)

I have the risk factor of a book on a shelf. This life is quite empty of risks right now. Still need a number? 1.

4. What’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you as a result of being bold/risky?

Well… I went to Iowa even though I didn’t want to. I was alone. I was sad. I met Minori. Now I’m happy. Does that answer your question?

5. … and what’s the worst?

I don’t know… As I’m telling you, I have the risk factor of a book on a bookshelf. Yes I’m a coward!

A few days ago, some guy I don’t know and whose blog I had seldom seen decided to review the blogs around him. Thus, he reviewed mine (not this one, the public one). Well, rather than a review it was flames, blood, and destruction. Needless to say, one of the most aggressive comments went towards my blog. Of course I reacted at first, I got mad because, if I’m not mistaken, I never called for a review and much less from him. But I’ve thought it over. So… I have a few things to say on the subject.

1. Somebody else said the reviews were correct since they made people mad. I beg to differ. If someone called your mother a wh***, should you get all happy because “oh, fortunately, she isn’t?”

2. I thought TOL (The Open List) was just that, a list. It seems it actually is some kind of pageant for blogs or a Blogging 101 course, which I obviously didn’t sign up for. Too bad. Last time I wrote something freely and expected to be judged was about March 2002, when I submitted my poem for Outlet (the Loras College literary magazine).

3. If I were everything he claims (from pop fan to consumist to obsessed with the 80s to flattering to immature), so what? He’s not getting paid for every post he agrees with, I’m not getting him in trouble with the law, I’m not planning to kill his mother, and nobody’s forcing him to read my website. As CeroCuatro says, it’s flattering to know that even people who hate you can’t help reading your blog.

4. One last thought… Dear critic: I’m not your courtesan, so I’m not supposed to please you.

Ta-ta!