When I was a child I read Anne Frank’s diary and it really touched me deeply. I never thought that a little girl like me would suffer so great disgrace, moreover, that she would bear it up with courage and resignation. I tearfully read every page, and its influence took me to try to write a journal to tell all my tragedies which were actually none!
This idea never left me until I grow up a teenager and learned from my friends that writing a journal is a waste of time. Only twee girls do it to pass the time writing about their secrets, talking to its pages like a best friend who really understands them and never complains. Their deepest thoughts are kept safely in its pages and are never revealed, which is completely stupid because diaries are not alive!
Then I knew that Anne Frank’s diary was a bit of fiction. She rewrote her first journal into another modified version, but this time she was probably suffering metal derangement resulting of the stress for living the secret annex, and half of the things she wrote might not happened at all. What a deception!
Since then I refused to read anything referring about anyone’s diary, however, the last day, in a basket full of books priced 10 cents each, I found a book title “Gilead” which seemed to be a Pulitzer winner and decided to give it a look.
For my surprise it was about an elderly reverend writing a yearlong journal to his unique son. It really discouraged me and decided to quit, but quitting a book makes me feel bad so I kept reading. Curiously it caught my eye.
This reverend takes the journal like an opportunity to deeply understand his actions. He starts a dialogue with himself learning about his fears, grieves and happiness. He repairs old friendships; he regrets his angers and envies. Furthermore, he realizes that by writing this journal he draws himself toward the true meaning of writing: transforming the soul for better and relieving the pain living in his heart.
Anne Frank might be half a fantasy-half a reality, silly girls might write silly journals but there is nothing wrong with it because like the reverend said: “I have been looking through these pages, and I realize that for some time I have mainly been worrying to myself, when my intention from the beginning was to speak to you. I meant to leave you a reasonably candid testament to my better self, and it seems to me now that what you must see here is just an old man struggling with the difficulty of understanding what it is he's struggling with.”
This is true; we never know what we are struggling with until we struggle with it in real life, and Anne was not only struggling with a world against her but with the guilt of existential issues as who was she, who was family and what was their future after dying in the war?
Her personal journal was the only way she could escape from the world; it was the balsam of her heart, and whether we like it or not her words survived test of time thanks to its pages and we must respect it.

It annoys me that you are too shy. No! Don’t put salt on that! Because there’s already cheese on your sandwich, and if you put salt too, it’s gonna be way too much salty! You have a perverted shame, you know that. You are ashamed of talking to boys but not of smoking outdoors. Drop the salt package in the trash, I’m telling you! You never listen to what I am trying to say. At college, you are ashamed of wanting to learn. The teacher says you are spending hours blissfully watching how your fingers move. She worries you are learning nothing but being lazy. You get bored easily at the mass. That’s threatening. God knows what is in your heart. He will come after you if you keep doing badly. There’s too much fat on your ham-sandwich, I say. If you are in your ideal weight you’d feel of control your life…I think your issue is you don’t know how to control your life. That’s why the teacher says we should teach you to feel comfortable with your self. Coed dorms are ok if your body is unwomanly shaped. You careless use your body and disdain the boys. That’s not good, you’re just getting started. Trust me. Your body is not so bad, your face is touching. You’ll see. Maybe if you put a shorter skirt or something, and stop hiding yourself…What are you doing? You are eating a lot of sugar! Whipped topping is not a good idea. It is intensely sweetened and helps you to die younger. See what I mean? You have a problem; the way you eat is gross! The teacher says she caught you eating chocolates in the bathroom. I hate to say this, but I’d rather see you clogged with vomit that eating that stuff! What’s that for? Oh God! People just cannot do that. You can’t! You are supposed to hold the knife with your right hand and never use it to carry food to your mouth! So leave it! Leave it now! If you have any dreams at all you need to be reeducated. Seriously, you are too pretty to be alone; you must have a boyfriend and everything. You can’t fool around, if you don’t have men you’re not pretty and I just might be wasting my time. You should be normal and mature…It’s time for you to grow up, didn’t you hear? Weren’t you taking notes in class? ...

My mother starts to worry…I think. (sigh*)

Take a drink with one of your favorite writers!...(well, he or she might be dead, but still you can prepare his or hers favorite cocktails and casts their words this Halloween)

I found this book "Hemingway & Bailey's Bartending Guide" labeled as “Cooking book” in the shelves of a public library. My interest on feeding my body drove me to take a peak. And for my surprised I read among other curiosities that Hemingway was a huge fan of Mojito’s tropical delight (myself crazy :* Mojitos) and that Fitzgerald loved the classic taste of a gin.
Yes…I might have suspected their drink tastes by reading their books, but it might be fun to read their books by fancying a cuppa!
So amazon this tittle because this is a bartending guide you don’t want to miss!

Now, a few words from our sponsor…whatever it means.


F. Scott Fitzgerald
"First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you."

Fitzgerald's preferred liquor was gin; he believed you could not detect it on the breath. He would get roaring drunk on very little, but then it was the Roaring Twenties, and he was the symbol. Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda, were a pair of drunken pranksters. There are stories about how they jumped into the fountain at the Plaza Hotel, boiled party guests' watches in tomato soup, stripped at the Follies. Invited to an impromptu party, "Come as you are," he and Zelda arrived in their pajamas. Zelda soon enough removed hers and danced naked. Did anyone have to smell their breath to know?

Gin Rickey Recipe

2 oz. gin 3/4 oz. lime juice Top with club soda Lime wheel Pour gin and lime juice into a chilled highball glass filled with ice cubes. Top with club soda, and stir gently. Garnish with lime wheel. Serve with two straws.

By one o'clock the bar was jammed; amidst the consequent mixture of voices the staff of waiters functioned, pinning down their clients to the facts of drink and money... In the confusion Abe had lost his seat; now he stood gently swaying and talking to some of the people with whom he had involved himself... Across from him the Dane and his companions had ordered luncheon. Abe did likewise but scarcely touched it. Afterwards, he just sat, happy to live in the past. The drink made past happy things contemporary with the present, as if they were still going on, contemporary even with the future as if they were about to happen again.

Ernest Hemingway
"A man does not exist until he is drunk."
Hemingway was not one for pretension, literary or otherwise. In a famous incident at Costello's, a New York writers' haunt, he found just the opportunity to make those feelings known. After drinking in back with friends, he passed John O'Hara at the bar. O'Hara was carrying an Irish blackthorn walking stick and Hemingway began to mock him for it. Defensively, O'Hara claimed that it was "the best piece of blackthorn in New York." Hemingway immediately bet him fifty dollars that he could break it with his bare hands. Then in one swift move he smashed the walking stick against his own head, snapping it in half. The broken pieces hung over Costello's bar for many years.

Mojito Recipe

6 fresh mint sprigs 1 oz. lime juice 3/4 oz. simple syrup 2 oz. light rum Lime wedge Crush 5 mint sprigs into the bottom of a chilled highball glass. Pour in lime juice, simple syrup, and rum. Fill glass with crushed ice. Garnish with lime wedge and remaining mint sprig. Sometimes a splash of club soda is added.

"I'm a little drunk now," Nick said. "You aren't drunk," Bill said... Bill poured the glass half full of whiskey. "Put in your own water," he said. "There's just one more shot." "Got any more?" Nick asked. "There's plenty more, but Dad only likes me to drink what's open." "Sure," said Nick. "He says opening bottles is what makes drunkards," Bill explained. "That's right," said Nick. He was impressed. He had never thought of that before. He always thought it was solitary drinking that made drunkards.

William Faulkner
"Civilization begins with distillation."
Unlike most writers, Faulkner, from the very beginning of his career, drank while he wrote. He claimed, "I usually write at night. I always keep my whiskey within reach." That he did. In Hollywood, hired by director Howard Hawks to write Road to Glory, Faulkner showed up to a script meeting carrying a brown paper bag. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey, but accidentally sliced his finger unscrewing the cap. If the film’s producer thought the meeting was over, he was wrong. Faulkner dragged over the wastepaper basket -- so he could gulp whiskey and drip blood as they hashed out the story.

Mint Julep Recipe

7 sprigs of mint 1/2 oz. simple syrup 3 oz. bourbon Crush 6 mint sprigs into the bottom of a chilled double Old-Fashioned glass. Pour in simple syrup and bourbon. Fill with crushed ice. Garnish with the remaining mint sprig and serve with two short straws. Sometimes a splash of club soda is added.

From 'Sanctuary,' 1931

Gowan filled the glass level full and lifted it and emptied it steadily. He remembered setting the glass down carefully, then he became aware simultaneously of open air, of a chill gray freshness and an engine panting on a siding at the head of a dark string of cars, and that he was trying to tell someone that he had learned to drink like a gentleman. He was still trying to tell them, in a cramped dark place smelling of ammonia and creosote, vomiting into a receptacle.

(remedios caseros)

It is ok to feel comfortable with your body. It is ok to ignore others complaints about your clothes and behavior. Red is fresh and green is happiness. It is ok to be shy with your crushes and ignore your friends’ calls to go and hook up in a party. Reluctance is modesty. But it is not ok to forget your personal hygiene and neglect your appearance. Life is hard but you should be able to wash and shave.
Our society puts way too much emphasis on the physical appearance and not on beautiful inner. Those standards intimidate us, threaten us and make us feel like no one will ever look at us. They drive us to the point of thinking no matter how hard we try; we’ll never be truly beautiful. The pressure of beauty standards pushes us to be able to “play the field” like a good bad-boys to not be “downfall”. We accept the care of our bodies as ephemeral and wrong.
We start to read our favorite writers to find out they were oppressed by all that wanna-be society models and felt miserable like we do. But, who said that Emily Dickinson didn’t comb her hair and iron her famous white clothing? Didn’t Alice Walker look beautiful and tidy in her portraits? Maybe it was just a camera trick that made her look like that nice. Maybe she didn’t brush her teeth and her dreadlocks smelled. Who knows! Speculation is not good. You won’t dare to trust your fears and stress about your slight defects. Dickson’s homeless look might be sexy and Keats was pudgy but so cute!
Hostile feelings among wealthy and beautiful people fuel our thoughts. We think they are snotty because of their looks. We start to avoid grooming ourselves, social situations, mirrors, posing for photographs, etc, because we don’t care anymore about what people think. We are intelligent beings that care for feelings and not appearance. But as soon as a gorgeous girl, all legs, long blonde hair, amazing eyes, walks in we forget every “anti-beauty” praise we said. Boys just talk about how hot she is, and how hot, hot, hot she is, degrading their girlfriends who feel jealous and ugly like “wet dogs”. Mmmm…
No matter where you live, physical appearance will have an influence in your life. You are mortal people and you will natural feel threatened by it. But think: The better you feel about yourself, the better you will feel about beautiful others.
So, if you find yourself looking in the mirror and wondering why you are so ugly and others good looking, hating to grab the comb or taking a bath, then it’s time to break the glass and take action to help you enhance self confidence.
First of all, look yourself in the mirror and thanks to your body for carrying you. Find the good things about your looks, and don’t distress on what’s wrong. When you get your pluses it is time to improve your looks by eating right, getting regular exercise, and better grooming. Remember: the better you feel about your own looks, the less threatened you’ll feel.

Auden time: In the morning

• After waking up in the morning stretch your body. This will increase the rate of oxygen flowing on your muscles toning them up.
• Drink a glass of hot water to relieve stress, glowing skin and feeling fresh after you stretch.
• Wake up your skin with compresses dipped in cool milk on your face. Rinse gently with cold water. You will feel a smoother skin!
  

Baudelaire crisis: Relax

• Books are heavy. Essays stiffen our necks…ouch! You have to rotate your head to one side while breathing deep. Exhales... bring it back and rest. Then turn your head to the opposite side. Don’t forget to breathe! Perform this movement slowly for five repetitions and books won’t be a pain on the neck anymore!
• An apple a day keeps the doctor away! If you feel despair and hungry a coke and doughnuts sounds like a good solution…but don’t forget to eat at least three fruits to vitamin your body.
• Happy brain, happy, happy. Chocolate it is a good source of happiness. It helps to stimulate your brain to produce endorphins…and feel creative! Who needs Hemingway’s thousand scotches to forget pain? There is chocolate!

Delius orange squish: Positive

• Doing exercise helps you to feel positive and energetic. If you fear looking like an idiot you better choose an attitude adjustment and take the ball. There are thousands of activities to do: soccer, dance, jogging, karate, swimming…etc. Just look for an activity that fits your schedules and necessities. But while you goggle to the internet to get the right running shoes, WALK!
• Walking is fun, at least 30 minutes at day, relaxed and without rushing, while listening to your favorite song. It will help you to control your blood pressure and maintain your weight. So, let’s take a walk along the sea shore… (park, bus station, mall, etc).
  
  Subject notebooks…wait for more!

Me
not
tadpoles

Me
not
frogs

Me
not
puddles

Me
not
crocks

pots
crops

Little Tomato lives near a garden pond hidden by cattails and plant moss. Ugly tailbuds squelch around the mud disturbing the silence… beastly tadpoles, with oozy skin, making their horrid swimming. Those creatures are hideous with no fur to stroke. They just eat small roly polies and suck earthworms as well to get fat and become the ugliest froglets. Jump, jump, the froglets, jump and jump until they grow into noisy bullfrogs.
There was a time when polliwogs were absent from the pond and Little Tomato was happy. He would go to sit on the rocks crossing the water to read aloud and dream about wild villages of African landscapes surrounded by elephantine shadows darkening the sunlight. The pond would give him peace by coloring tall reeds dancing with the stream, while the sound of bubbles soaking in the flow would lull him asleep.
That way of relaxing gave Little Tomato the idea to start meditation as a way to escape from all those things that really scared him: chicken claws in fresh blood, bugs and toads. The best scenario to accomplish his new affection was one of the biggest and flattest rocks dropped in the garden’s pond. He started reading pocket books coming from ancient India about mystical mantras and tricks to empty the mind. He tried to pose in buns and practice every day to touch his feet in chronic fatigue. Little tomato busted a self confidence that lighted with his smile. The center of the earth was sending him messages of love. Puffs of light were bloating in the air. They seemed like little pieces of gleamed brain smoking by Little Tomato’s head. Fairies he thought. Fairies.
He concentrated on the Om sound to dissolve in divine feelings, wondering if it was the sound used by god to create life. And here the problem begins: he started to think too much about all kind of living beings and how sad the little pond looked without golden fishes or damselflies that he began to wish to create life by merely wishing it. And again, he had a problem because he couldn’t avoid thinking on the things he didn’t like at all. He would try to think of beautiful butterflies, but instead he would see the image of an ugly toad. This horrified him. The harder he tried the more the image would last. He would see that monstrous toad every time he closed his eyes. Breathe deep; breathe out…that toad eating him alive. Little Tomato felt discouraged with creating his little paradise. He was wasting the time in his bad thoughts and he had to cast them away. Little Tomato went back home to cry in despair. Time will cure his phobia and days will pass by on the calendar like dripping rain.
The next morning Little Tomato saw it was a welcoming day. The sun was facing the grass and the air was perfumed with the scent of roses. He decided to take a walk and see how the little pond was doing after night. He sat on the rock and hugged his knees closing his eyes to feel the breeze. Suddenly a splash awoke him from his sleep. He saw something crawling deep in the water. There it was an ugly black thing with a slimy body tailing the bank. Then, an arthritic prawn walked briefly near a moss ball and with a quick movement stirred a little shady fish and more tadpoles; tadpoles everywhere in the pond, tadpoles with legs dancing in the water, tadpoles, tadpoles, tadpoles ugly and gray. Little Tomato gasped and started crying. He wanted to kill them all. Not life if it is not pleasant. Not life if it croaks and eats flies. Little Tomato sad and blue stared at them. He wished life and life it was with humid pink tongues and tails…and now he was all alone and left behind…Hang on, things will be all right, even when it’s dark there are rays of sunny love in tiny puddles.

The ripple of leaves in fall is melodic and brown. Today was a particular strange day in which odd things happened to break my routine. Well, it always happens once in a while, once per month, once per week, year after year, but today it had a touch of “unique”. It was like the leaves in the trees, it was a falling melody roaring in Autumn’s street.
Early in the morning I went for my walk as I usually do. The fresh air smoked lighting the sunshine. I always carry my IPOD to soundtrack my walk. I listen to Vicentico, Mendelssohn, Navarre, whatever it takes to speed my steps and drum my arms. I greet every person I meet with a big smile. I like to be gentle and nice. So, this morning, while I was listening Bjork declaring her independence, I crossed my paths with this lady and gladly said to her: “Morning!”- “Shit!” she screamed back to me with a furious look. Her eyes were bright blue like the center of a flame trying to burn flesh. My first reaction was to smile back to her, but: MISTAKE (flashing in big red letters). She only got crazier. She tried to hold my arm and hit me! Her mouth was howling dirty shit, dirty that. What was her problem? Was she a war prisoner? Did she lose her job? I really wanted to understand her fury and pain, but I couldn’t. My smiles didn’t help her at all. She was getting really mad at me that I had to run away. I ran for her cause whatever it was. I ran for the fear she might feel while taking the bus. I ran for her and all those hopeless-mindless-homeless people in the world. And then, I stopped after sweating her image from my mind and I took a big breath to recover myself. I started to walk again. We always walk forward with eyes on the path: what if we walk backwards looking at our past? Well, it won’t happen that much. I tried it today. The sensation of loss was incredible fun. My eyes were pulling from side to side to see the track but I wouldn’t allow them to trick me! After a few minutes I got used to the disorientation and forced myself to trust in God’s will to lead my path. Yes, literally to trust in God because if I didn’t sure I might crack like a clumsy blind!
After revealing my self like a dependable person I went back home to eat lunch and blah, blah, blah…you can imagine what happened there: sandwich, bite, shower, gel, sock and shoe, comb and air. Lock the door. 3A to college…College: That’s where the strangest thing happened.
In the middle of the field, with silences of dust, I saw a bench in the form of a swan. It was made of concrete and placed behind a Californian sycamore tree. I had never seen it before so I took a seat. After few minutes of resting my buttocks, I looked down to the ground and I saw a plaque saying “In memory of Beatrice”. Her nickname was Mickey; so it was “In Memory of Beatrice Mickey”. Who was she? I didn’t even know her. But her memory painted into my eyes the crazy woman I had met in the morning. Her eyes were Beatrice’s eyes. Her soul was her soul. She was lost somewhere in the middle of the masses, cursing every person in her way; Beatrice with the loose skin on her bones. Beatrice with green morning breath pasted in the lips of her mouth. Beatrice and the roaring wind (waaah, waaah wod yooh do? waaah, shiiit, waaah!)… Beatrice, sorry, you’re dead.