I’ve just turned 22, but I keep thinking I was born in the wrong decade. At least in terms of music.
This is Carlos Castañeda, a 39-year old coffee-grower from Andes, Antioquia. He was chosen among hundreds of candidates to succeed Carlos Sánchez in the role of Juan Valdez.
I thought I wouldn’t like him since I was so used to the image of Sánchez, but Castañeda seems humble, friendly, and his physical features are very typical of the coffee-growing region. He looks like the kind of farmer who would gently invite you to a cup of coffee when finding you tired on the road around his property.
More information, here.
Once again, the words have hidden behind my lips. Nevertheless, I saw them last Sunday fluttering around the house, melting around the inarizushi and chasing the doggie in the living room. Words, colorful and clumsy, filled up the house that evening and invaded the streets of suburban Yokohama.
Now I’m back in my lonely room, silent, monochrome. I suppose I won’t see them again until sometime far, far away from today.
In my head, Japanese language flows endlessly. Sentences keep appearing, one after the other, conveying my thoughts and feelings, maybe not properly, but in an acceptable manner. In my head, I am able to speak to the best student in the class about things that do not sound like reruns of lessons. This person then doesn’t have to wonder why I run away, and I am not hoping to somehow explain it is all because I’m ashamed of my vanishing abilities (yes, I used to be able to speak). I can state my point of view in class and there is no need for the teacher to translate my blabber into proper Japanese.
However, whenever it’s time for words to flow out of my brain, they get stuck in my throat, forming a huge ball that chokes me and stings my tongue into numbness. Will the knot ever be untied? I hate this constant feeling of helplessness towards something as important as communication. Where will the courage come from, if it ever does?