Monday, September 12, 2011

9.12.11 Blip Journal; The Progress of a NYC Writer, Odilia Rivera Santos

By Odilia Rivera Santos

There is nothing more disconcerting than having my children scattered all over town without knowing if they've slipped off a table and unto the floor in a cafe or caught under layers of papers and books at a friend's house or if someone has spilled coffee on them, letting them stick together to be torn asunder -- prepositions and syntax lost and meaning indecipherable.
I am, of course, referring to a missing notebook full of people. I have compiled characteristics and even studied up on science to make one speak intelligently on the subject, and then, I leave them between the pages of a black made-in-Spain notebook with endless notes, ramblings, rants, and prayers to nonexistent deities.
What was I thinking to put her down so nonchalantly?
It might have been as a result of Cesaria Evora. Music is church for me and dancing prayer, so I had to kick off my shoes and let my hair down to shimmy with eyes closed and all was lost.
I have lost notebooks before with more copious notes, but this one is a treasure trove for Sherlock Holmes... its details few, but potent.
The notebook was under notebooks and the veins in my temples stopped pounding as if I had a tumor to feed, my heart rate settled down and I was able to take a stroll over to the Mexican restaurant for dinner and some enlightening conversation with a new actress friend.
Talk about separation anxiety!/latinaauthor!/urbanbrainiac!/bezotes

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