Departure

In the winter of 1976, somewhere in November I think, we were sitting in a dilapidated taxi cab headed to the airport. That day the sun shining over the tropical island seemed to light up the people and the palm trees especially bright. The car had no air conditioning so all the windows were open. I remember looking out of the window trying to soak up everything I could. These were the last moments before departure. Here I had had a childhood that now seems like a dream. I think that day I felt that I was about to wake up.

So I looked at the streets, at the people. I remember a dark man wearing an unbuttoned shirt walking down the street smiling. The palms on the avenues were very, very tall and slightly curved as if they had butted up against the baby blue sky. Their leaves where rustling in the hot wind.

I have no recollection of boarding the plane, eating the food, nothing.

It feels like I closed my eyes after I saw the tops of those palm trees moving in the wind. And I opened them when a taxi cab driver in the other side of the world reached and opened the door of his boxy mouse gray communist era car. The interior was also grey. The wet pavement under my feet was grey. The driver’s clothes where grey. His face was grey and he said “Come on in!”. A heavy smell of cigarettes and gasoline rolled out of the open car. We sat inside and he accelerated. He immediately had to stop because a few people dressed in black and grey winter coats were crossing the road. No words, no sound. Just the snow and the fog wrapping the pedestrians like a blanket. And the dizzying smell of cigarettes and gasoline. To this day I get sick when a car smells of cigarettes.

The driver asked "Where are you coming from?". "Cuba". My mother gave the driver some cigarettes. He said "Oh! That's what Fidel smokes, ah?"

I thought “This is supposed to feel like home. This is my first day home. I will never see the palms again.”

The story could end on this sad note. But I also remember thinking “I’m looking forward to seeing grandma.”

When I climbed up the last few steps to the fourth floor she was already outside of the apartment with her hands wide open. She wore purplish-red pajama pants straight out of some Arabic fairy tale. She embraced me and the warmth of the small apartment is the only thing I remember next.

Ray of light

This is my first post here and it has to do with an experience that I remember as "first" too.

I must have been about 2 years old. My grandfather on my step-father's side was taking care of me that day. I was in his apartment and I remember waking up in a dark room in the middle of the day. There was a big bed with rough looking brown wodden posts. There was an open window and a sun beam had made its way into the room. My attention was atracted by the miriads of tiny dust particles that were dancind in this ray of light. I got up and got close to the ray. I observed the particles swirling in the light. I looked at them from maybe 10 inches away. I could not see them outside of the light. No matter how carefully I followed one single particle I could not trace it outside of the boundaries of the sun beam.

It occured to me that the particles do not exist outside of the light. This could be the ending of this story but it's not. I also noticed that inside the light the particles did not fall down as I expected them to. They'd endlessly move up and down, swirling, moving in a circular way and many new ones appearing from all directions. There was a melody in all that too.

In later years I'd remember the shape of the sun beam when I needed to visualize a cylinder or a cone. It felt tangible and perfectly straight.

Now we step out of that experience and find ourselves in the same room but at another time. My step-grandmother is arguing loudly with my step-grandfather. It's about something I had said. Something a 2 year old apparently should not even know. She is saying"It's because of you!"" and he is saying "No! It was the students from the 6-th floor! They run down the stairs all day cussing loudly! That's where Niki has learned to cuss! Not from me!!!"

I tried to remember saying something special that made my grandparents upset but I couldn't. I suppose when you are a little innocent child nothing dirty stays inside you.

Ah yes!  They tell me that after the cussing incident I didn't utter another word for a year. So for the record - the second line that I ever said in my life was a dirty old man profanity.

The first line was "I want.  Tomato soup I want."  Apparently I process a lot and then talk because as you see I didn't start talking with single words. Maybe if you stand really close to me you an hear me processing things, haha.

Introduction

Here I publish my experiences and viewpoints. All events and people are real. Some have their names altered, some have their real names. All places are real, but I cannot guarantee that my recollection about details is perfect. And of course as always with memories I'm certain that some parts of the reading are entirely fictional. Occasionally I'll post a complete fiction piece just because. Do read these pages remembering what I realized some years ago - "Life is much more than a fantasy".

The typos on these pages are only to be expected. I'm pedantic about spelling but I will be posting in different times of the day, different moods, and levels of tiredness, and so on.

While typing I'm trying to recall details, often quite a few of them.

There will be a progression from more light and fun reads to a more serious, unusual or even somewhat bizarre posts. It would be best if you read in order so you get familiar with my writing stъle and associations.

It's all real. Here we go!