Another Saturday evening...

I’ve been fixated with the fight tonight, which I won’t be able to see due to work schedule and my cable connection, lost for unknown reasons a few days back. I asked around to see if anyone had an idea of where the fight might be showing in Manhattan, but the closest to an actual response was, “Go to a bar.” Nonetheless, it would be better not to see it. My stress level surges whenever I watch a fight, and although this is perhaps one of the psychological reasons behind my motives to see fights, I was disappointed with de la Hoya’s last performance. I thought it should have gone to Strum. Then again, de la Hoya has been stolen a couple of times in the past (once deservingly and the second, not so much so). Other than the fight, my day was rather dull. It’s a chilly Saturday eve. I cooked breakfast and dinner simultaneously, one to eat immediately and the other to take with me to work. In a couple of hours, I’ll be gone home. It would be nice to see if I can catch the fight from here to there. I haven’t given up that possibility.
Yesterday, I spoke to Maria. I hadn’t ever since last week. Granted, I have been reading a great deal and borrowing at the same time material to incorporate into my behavior from different sources in respect to women. The reality is, I don’t think any advice is worth the effort. I am an avid reader of askmen.com and I have google sites on the subject of dating. But going back to my phone call with Maria: She apologized for not calling, said she was happy I had called because she had lost my number, and then briefed me a bit on how her week had been. I am glad to be able to pace myself nowadays, after all it suits my lifestyle. What was my focus today? The computer, for instance, fixed a few days back now doesn’t connect to the Internet. It’s Saturday night and I haven’t gone out ever since my own street fight. My hands are better, nonetheless. And, as usual, I am sitting in front of the computer in the 219 lobby. I won’t say more.
I was tempted to give the address to this site to (now I’m making an effort to remember her name) Crystal. I know I gave it to Eda, who hasn’t returned my email and hasn’t answered my instant message. I ought to call her because one of the worst news I got came from the guy in charge of fixing my computer: he wasn’t able to save my documents. I took it as a challenge, and now I have to make even better, more ambitious writings. The ones I lost due to the inefficiency of this person are in the past, gone, and there they shall remain. I am on my way, I feel. Yesterday, I received news from the International Library of Poetry. They want to include me in a book entitled “Best Poems and Poets of 2004”. Aside from The Silent Journey, from which I own two copies (one I gave to my sister, Paola, and the other I keep), I will appear on another book entitled Eternal Portraits to be released soon. How soon, I don’t know. There, trusting everything goes as planned, would be fifteen or so poems I wrote in the last few months. Now that my computer is back, there is no saying into how much I can accomplish. I just have to keep pounding.
I had to see my sister Paola yesterday, Friday. As I called to cancel my journey to Queens, she asked me to write a letter for Cheila, my cousin in Colombia. A dear cousin, by the way. Not that there are any cousins which I favor and some others I don’t. Oh, who am I kidding? We all have our favorites when it comes to everything. Yes, Cheila is one of them. Not because she’s dying of cancer. In fact, I didn’t know it was a terminal type although I knew she had cancer. See, I was told that she had leukemia and that she had been effectively treated with a medulla transplant. Apparently, it’s not so. It’s not even that type of cancer. My mother made that story up and when I asked my sister why would she do such a thing, her answer was rather surrealistic: “Well, she’s afraid to ask so she said that.” Cheila and I go back a long way. It was in the mercenary home of grandma, where we first met. We spent childhood years driving crazy our now then insane grandfather and we would probably still be doing so if it wasn’t for the fact that our lives drastically changed paths since then. We are adults now and the reign of terror that our grandma orchestrated is long over. I remember one day when she made up the story that in school the teachers would conceal us in a tunnel under ground. It was such the ferocity with which we held to our version of the ordeal that her father and mother went to find out if there were any truth to it. In the end, the perspicacity of our imagination prevailed since her parents didn’t think any one of us capable to make up such a thing. If there was any trait by which we would go by it certainly had absolutely nothing to do with imagination. Go figure.