1. [Bad] Spanish (I was lying about the chocolate) (forgive me for mistakes; I am not using a dictionary).

Cuando llegué al Argentina, estaba muy nervioso sobre mi nivel de español y mi capacidad a usarlo. En solo un poco de días, me di cuenta que aunque no pude hablar perfectamente, pude hablar la idioma; pude sobrevivir. Estes días, tengo algunas conversaciones con personas — no puedo hablar con personas randomes (desgraciadamente), pero hablé con la dueña de mi apartamento para quizas quince minutos, y hablé con un psicologo quien me dio una vuelta en auto al ciudad, hoy, durante eso tiempo. (Que pena que estoy timido en español; él era muy simpatico y amable, y me quisiera pasar mas tiempo con él. Lo mismo con unas de las chicas con quien yo trabajo; ellas (realmente, solo chicas) son amables y me gustan en general, pero tienen más años que yo, y estoy timido, y . . .) Estoy leyendo “La Casa de los Espíritus” en español, y aunque no entiendo los accentes en español (o, por supuesto, en francés), entiendo mucho de eso libro, y creo que estoy aprendiendo. Estoy un poco confundido sobre el uso de los mandatos (no sé como usar accentes con ellos; no sé ni un poco de las reglas sobre el uso; no estoy seguro si esta un diferente manera a usarlos con familiares y formales, o con grupos y individuales, o con afirmativos y negativos), especialmente porque las instructuras de mis clases de yoga lo usan todos los días, pero habitualmente aparece que yo puedo hablar en español. En efecto, me doy cuenta que por la primera vez, yo uso la forma correcta del articulos con nombres. ¡Wow!

(direct translation/generally what I wanted to say: When I got to Argentina, I was really nervous about my level of Spanish, and my capacity to use it. In only a few days, I realized that although I couldn’t speak perfectly, I could speak the language in general; I could survive. These days, I have some conversations with people — I can’t speak with random folks (sadly), but I spoke with my land-lady for maybe fifteen minutes today, and I talked with a psychologist fellow who gave me a ride back to the city today, while we were driving. (How annoying that I’m shy in Spanish, though; he was really nice and friendly, and I would’ve liked to spend more time with him. The same’s true for the women/girls with whom I work; they’re (really, they’re all girls) friendly and I like them in general, but they’re old than I, and I’m shy, and . . .) I’m reading “The House of the Spirits” in Spanish, and although I don’t understand how to use accents [this was noted because I had to look up where to put the accent on "Espíritus"] in Spanish (or, for that matter, in French), I understand much of that book, and I think I’m actually learning. I’m a bit confused about how to use commands (I don’t know how to use accents with them; I don’t know even a little bit about the rules governing their use; I’m not sure whether you use them differently for informal and formal, or with individuals and groups, or with positive and negative commands), especially since the instructors of my yoga classes (perforce), always use commands, but generally it appears as though I can speak in Spanish. Actually, I realize that for the first time, I [generally] use the correct [gendered] form of articles with nouns. Wow!)

2. Reading.

I keep on saying that I’m reading and really enjoying “Kavalier & Clay,” but nothing more. Well, I can say that this is the deepest I’ve been into a book for a really long time. I regularly find myself buried within its pages, within the blink of an eye, and I’m really astonished by Chabon’s ability to hold my attention and keep me engaged. I find the characters and their adventures interesting, and keep realizing that this book is nothing like what I expected. It could use some editing in places, which is weird to notice — sometimes things seem unintentionally jerky — but in general I’m just rolled along heedlessly.

When I was younger, I was a bit of a junky for that feeling of being completely immersed in someone else’s world, and I spent hours and hours reading on a regular basis. A lot of my cessation of reading lay in my finding more work and more modes of pleasure-seeking — the internet, more friends, and so on — but I think I also have grown more wary of this sensation of being able to go somewhere else. Not because it’s dangerous, or rather, its danger is still a draw; I still love being able to escape to elsewhere, but because the feeling of return from a novel can be so much more devestating than that of a film. After investing twenty-plus hours into characters, and tracing lives or journeys or relationships over weeks or days, being suddenly cut adrift by an ending is rather like jumping into the shower only to realize that there’s no hot water. It’s shocking and makes everything else a little dimmer for a little bit. And while this aftereffect is worth it, I am wary of it.

I’m really impressed by Chabon, though. Not just the story in general, but that he did one of my least-favorite things in novels, and got away with it for me. The thing he did is something I often think of as the Dune effect — he suddenly jumped forward a number of years, and switched perspective. Frank Herbert does this with, I think, devestating consequences, most of the way through Dune — suddenly, Paul Atreides is completely changed, years have passed, he is now a fremen leader, he is what we have known he will be. It is impossible to be attached to him anymore. All of the emotional attachment Herbert has fostered is cut adrift by this new Paul. I think to some extent that’s Herbert’s intention, but he does it too well — Dune is still a great novel, but it ends with the reader disconnected. I think this is why I couldn’t get into the rest of the books in that series. Gabriel García Márquez does this in Cien Años de Soledad, also, but worse — he creates characters and then kills them off and jumps to new ones as though it’s the same plot, when clearly it is a new one. The only author who I’ve been willing to sit through this with was Jeffrey Eugenides, in Middlesex, but Eugenides goes so slowly through it all, and takes the time to re-develop his characters, and he works on a much smaller scale than García Márquez, while still using as many pages. In any case, Chabon manages to jump years, but he keeps the same characters and just adds new ones; he allows them to develop smoothly. I was angry at first, but then I realized that he was only really allowing time to age them, not to replace them, and I found myself re-engaged.

I’m not sure how articulate that was.

3. Writing.

I have been trying to write, here. I was originally planning on writing a lot. I have been really bad about this, even with all of my free time. I am writing a lot of [online] journal entries, and this is good, and I am pleased with this. I love journals. I like records. But I also want to work on my fiction (or even my poetry), and all I have written thus far are one piece on the cab driver who took my money (which was reasonably good and sent to Jesse), one on one of the autistic kids, one on an interview I observed, and no more. None of those could’ve been more than a few pages. I have been planning a longer story, but it’s not quite together yet, and I’ve only written half a page of the first scene. It is frustrating, but this is okay. Eventually I will sit down and it will come together.

I just wish I could work without deadlines. I hate how acceptable this mode of unmotivated work is.