Mirar y no recordar

Posted on 13/04/2020 by writingbrussels

Photo by Raquel

HUGO
Cuyo nombre no recuerdo…

Miro a un compañero de trabajo, a quien sólo hacía dos semanas que no había visto, y ahora al encontrarme frente a él, cara a cara, no puedo acordarme de su nombre. Mirar y no recordar. Ver y no recordar un nombre, su nombre. Concentrarme y arrugar el ceño de mi frente, y su nombre sigue sin venirme a la mente.

Empecé a buscar nombres masculinos que encajaran con su cara, con su mirada, con sus ojos tristes y cansados. ¿Por qué tristes? Nunca antes, cuando me acordaba de su nombre, me lo había preguntado. Ahora en cambio me lo pregunto.

Él es otra persona porque se me ha desvanecido su nombre, o quizás soy yo la que ha cambiado, y no soy yo misma. Veía sus expresiones faciales, sus labios arrugarse al hablar, un movimiento raro con la nariz al reir. ¿Será otra persona? Quizás lo era. Continue reading →

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It could have been you

Posted on 24/03/2020 by gaelle6

Charlotte and Jeffrey had been together for a lifetime. After a while, their friends had become part of one big melting pot and no one could really remember who was friends with whom first. They had various groups that they regularly saw for evenings out, trying out new restaurants, going to jazz concerts; trendimg_e0578[1].jpgy and comfortable activities for the well-established ageing bourgeoisie.

Tonight was the 21st of July, Belgium’s National Day, and they were going to Edward and Christine’s house that overlooked the Egmont Park in Brussels. From their house’s top terrace, you had an exceptional view of the fireworks that would be fired later that night from the “Place des Palais” where the Royal Palace of Brussels lay just a few streets away.

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Back to Go

Posted on 15/03/2020 by Katarina

The beginning of September. The magical white page time. Lou-Anne puts on a pair of pale jeans, a bottle-green tunic, and white sandals. She clips little silver half-moon earrings and with a sweep of a hand organizes the dark mane of her hair on the shoulders. The weather is still warm, summery, giving the town of Brussels an appealing tune. Ready to go. She starts the car parked in a quiet street in front of her little house at the border of Ixelles and Watermael neighborhoods, the Music 3 radio switching on automatically. Her two boys are staying with their father this week, which makes it a lighter start for her.

She remembers another September, the one of the long divorce; the boys were small, spending most of the time with her. How could she pull herself through all that with a full time job and them on her hands? Never mind, she did pull through, and this is a different September now. She crosses the town, not yet jammed with traffic, as if everything was still in a slow vacation mood and drives into the yard of a manufacture building transformed into a language school a good hour before the first class  starts.

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Sur le bout de la langue

Posted on 03/03/2020 by writingbrussels

Tout d’abord, j’ai remarqué une jambe. Un spécimen magnifique, longiligne, vêtu d’un bas noir. Ce sont des choses que je remarque. Depuis que je vis à Bruxelles, j’en ai vues de toutes sortes. Des jambes rondelettes, plutôt pudiques, avec un certain sens de l’humour qui se manifeste par les couleurs vives qu’affectionne leur propriétaire. Des jambes en X, très sérieuses, qui ne rient jamais, et préfèrent se montrer croisées pour dissimuler leur forme véritable. Elles sont ambitieuses et déterminées, contrairement aux jambes courtes. Les petits modèles sont attachants mais émotifs et quelque peu indécis. Continue reading →

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Georgia on My Mind

Posted on 27/01/2020 by writingbrussels

Photo by Jonathan Eden-Drummond

Quisieras preservar la complejidad de la escena al contarla, como cuando caminas por la calle y sientes —o crees que sientes— rotar la Tierra bajo tus pies. No siempre es así pero a veces te sucede justo ahí, andando por esa misma vereda bruselense que transitas a diario y hoy te lleva, como cada martes, al lugar donde va a pasar lo que quieres contar.

Son muchos en la sala de paredes azules en que se reúnen para cantar. El director es un hombre joven, algo exaltado y con algunas veleidades de artista incomprendido, que suele, sin embargo, dejar imponerse al primero que demuestre voluntad de hacerlo. Continue reading →

Posted in Dulce, My land is your land | Leave a comment