In the myth of your first death our deity
Was yourself resurrected.
Yourself reborn. The holy one.
Day in day out that was our worship-
Tending the white birth-bed of your rebirth,
The unforthcoming delivery, the all-but-born,
The ought-by-now-to-be-born.
Ted Hughes


She danced and drank and talked and laughed. And she was up for the task set upon her by herself. She was a lady after all. One of the boy´s maybe, but a lady. So when she saw her she smiled and listened to the compliments made by her. She looked at her trampy black-heels and leather outfit and decided it was not worthy to make a fuss about it. That girl was decided to fight for what she thinks is hers by right. And she decided it was not worthy.
So she went to sleep that day alone. And she was happy.

The Last Days

He is shuddering, eyes wide open looking up to the sky, numbness spread all over his body. He lets his thoughts wander around, he is too tired to try to gather them. He feels the pain coming back and back again, like waves splashing against the cliffs. He tries to touch his face, but there is no sensation at all. But he doesn´t try to fight back. He knows it will all end soon.

Tear in your hand

She waked up suddenly and desoriented. She didn´t know where she was at first but little by little she recognized the familiar objects of her room. She felt the sour taste of a nightmare. She got up and went to the bathroom to wash her mouth. She went back to bed, feeling nice and clean, free of undesired objects.

So she said good-bye to him.

Why can´t women be like me?

The Damian Hirst exhibition. OK why not?

No. Really. Like, it is ok, but are you seriuos?

Well, yeah, I DO like art and stuff, but maybe we should stay and watch a movie.

Well why don´t you go by yourself, I am making a protest against the use of animals in tortured ways.

Please, don´t make me go!


And that´s the way it is.

It takes just a moment

Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Lord Byron

He saw her walking away and he tought "What a moron, run after her and tell her you are sorry, run after that girl and don´t let her go", but he couldn´t stand up. He just stayed there, rumiating his anger, his bad moods. "I´m glad you asked" he wanted to tell her, but instead of that he had been rude and he could feel her looking at him, probably thinking he was an idiot. And he was.

The Human Seasons

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Soring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
Keats

She walks across the halls, trying to identify what´s there of familiar to her. New spaces and people, people, people. Students laughing and talking, signs and advertisements of events to come. The usual political propaganda, with a group of anarchy looking youngsters around, looking as if they have the key to solve all of the world´s problems, but she knows better. They are harmless anyway. She feels intimidated, maybe a little out of place. As she aproaches the classroom she hesitates for a moment, wondering if all of this is going to be worthy; the classes, the essays, the long hours sitting trying to write something that sounds remotely smart. And for how long. She knows that if she enters the classroom she would be making a comittment, not only to her, but to all the ghosts that stare at her from the dark. Becoming a student again. But now with a couple of extra years, a little bit more cynical and tired, very tired. She´s come a long way. She sighs and for a moment she thinks of the chain of events that stopped her the first time, the strike, her illness, long hours staring at nowhere during the night, hoping for a little break, the man... all of that comes into her mind. She longs for the years gone by, wishing to at least have a clearer recollation of what had happened. But it is useless, she has been given the gift and the curse of not remembering, at least, most of it.
Of course she´s being silly, and if she walks away from there she would be a coward, running away for the rest of her life, hiding behind an excuse that would justify her.
The thing is that she doesn´t want to be justified anymore.
She holds her breath and goes inside.

Of dogs and mates

She was a small, hairy, full of energy maltese dog. Her name was Negrita, which I picked up after a cuban novel I read as a child. The main character was this half breed black dog who runs away from her brutal owners and joins the "jibaros" , the wolves of the mountains. I guess that´s the spirit I tought she had.
My first canine companion were Akela and Gray Brother, two indian wolves who adopted me into their pack, after Bagueera the black panter paid with a buffalo for my life and Baloo, the old bear who teach the cubs the law of the jungle, spoke on my behalf. With them I went to the monkey city and fought the dholes, nasty dogs from the north. I learned about the holy men of India and colonialism and how, at the end, men must return to men. My second dog was a half wolf, half dog named White Fang. I met him as a child and he has been with me for more than twenty years, living adventures next to the Yukon and experiencing the hard life of the tundra. After them there has been a number of canines who have been my friends, from the ridiculous looking Benji to the mystical experience of Never cry wolf.
In this other side of reality, my first love was with Mariachi, a street dog who decided that he had finally come to find home living outside my building. He was black and brown, brave and tender, and he use to take long walks with me when walking around seem to be the only cure for a troubled mind. He would accompany me the two blocks to take the school bus and every afternoon when I got down of it he would be waiting there, looking cool, as an old soldier who knows enough about life to choose his own battles. I gave him food and medicine and he gave me love and companion. Eventually his hair turn gray and his sight wasn´t as good as it used to be. He would still pick up a fight now and then with other dogs, but on those last days he just prefered to lay in the shadow. When the time came for him to go the Walhala across the rainbow, he came to me and put his head on my legs, gave a big sigh and stay there, with his look fixed on me, maybe saying thank you for all the years, saying goodbye to go and fight another battles where the stupidity of human kind could not reach him anymore.
A couple of years before, Negrita came into my life, a small thing that fit into my hand and who would stay with me for fifteen years. When young, she used to run after sheeps in my aunt´s woodshed, lambs crying at this little thing who would bark and bite as she was a big shepard dog. She would came and sit on my lap during my long music listening sessions and kissed me when some tears escape down my cheeks, eventough she didn´t like hugging. She also loved to play and she became my mother´s companion, helping me to keep an eye on her.
Not long ago, I discovered a lump on her belly. No cure they said. A couple of months at the most. And so, she and I had a talk, and she went to sleep in my arms, and stay there all night, and next day I carried her to the vet´s. I hold her tight and watched as she slowly went to sleep, her breathing and pulse becoming more and more slow until finally they stopped. Now she is waiting for me, guarding the part of myself that she took with her, my child years, my teen´s, the part of my concience that she never let me forget, that showed me the meaning of loyalty and responsability and a safe place where you could always go. And I miss her.
So does my mother.

Now someone new is my life. She can´t take Negrita´s place, not that she intends to, but she is working hard to have a place in my heart. She doesn´t need to, though. In the moment I saw her for the first time I knew that I was destined to have the precious gift, the honour, of having a new friend. She doesn´t belong to any breed, and she has a very silly tail, and she is sort of a crack baby, hyperactive crazy thing. She wakes me up early, and she loves to chew G´s underwear, but everytime I look into her eyes the world seems a little bit like a better place, and you can´t help to believe that everything is going to be allright. And that might be true.

But then again, who does

I want neither

[From our love]
I want neither
the sweetness of honey
nor the sting of the bees
Sappho
I guess it´s pretty silly from an outsider´s point of view, but the thing is that when you actually are in the middle of a roller coaster ride, there´s no easy way out.
This man is not free, doesn´t want to be, but he also wants all, the oldest story told in human relantionships. He likes another girl, why, I don´t know, and i am not sure that there actually needs to be a reason, maybe she´s pretty, maybe she´s funny, who cares. Probably with her he sort of misses the thin line between a girlfriend and a friend, a buddy. And at the same time that´s what he doesn´t like about her. Or maybe I am just giving him more angles than he´s capable of, and he´s just your average prick.
But sometimes when they are playing the flirting scene he has this naughty boy look in his eyes and she looks so young and full of curiosity for a moment. And when he kisses her forehead and puts his arms around her and they lay there just listening to the thunder beating of their hearts, knowing that there are no tomorrows, no we will see with time, no holding hands in public and loving corny phrases, it seems almost perfect. But then the morning comes and the hard light of dawn hits them, and in her eyes you find an old woman, old as every women in the world, old as years and years and lifes that she might have lived before. And then she can´t recognize him.

Era una mañana

Era una mañana, Milla ya estaba levantada desde hacia rato y esperaba impacientemente a que su dueña se levantara y le diera de comer y la sacara a pasear. El resto de la casa estaba en mediana actividad, con F que habia salido como un relampago a cumplir con sus misiones de agregado cultural y con G que sufria de un penetrante dolor de oido, resultado de ser una niña mala. Los gatitos observaban desde las escaleras los movimientos de Milla, preguntándose que habían hecho ellos para merecerse semejante insulto, en forma de pelos, movimientos de cola y pedazos de ropa interior mordisqueada por toda la casa. Finalmente, ante la inminencia de las urgencias físicas, Milla tomó medidas drásticas, se armó de valor comiéndose unos pantalones olvidados en el piso y brincó encima de la cabeza de su dueña. Esta se levantó entre refunfuños, cabellos revueltos y la acostumbrada mala leche. Gruñendo, bajó las escaleras y se dispuso a cumplir con sus obligaciones. Milla miraba a prudente distancia, expectativa pero sonriente, agitando el rabo en un tonto movimiento circular, con la satisfacción del chucho que se sabe en el fondo la reina de la casa.