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Ruby tuesday

She would never say where she came from
Yesterday dont matter if its gone
While the sun is bright
Or in the darkest night
No one knows
She comes and goes

Goodbye, ruby tuesday
Who could hang a name on you?
When you change with every new day
Still Im gonna miss you...

Dont question why she needs to be so free
Shell tell you its the only way to be
She just cant be chained
To a life where nothings gained
And nothings lost
At such a cost

Theres no time to lose, I heard her say
Catch your dreams before they slip away
Dying all the time
Lose your dreams
And you will lose your mind.
Aint life unkind?

Goodbye, ruby tuesday
Who could hang a name on you?
When you change with every new day
Still Im gonna miss you...

Oh, i know it´s not fair. but i´m not afraid of cliches and i´m currently running a 40 degrees fever, so i´m not setting my expectations too high. i don´t want to be witty or full of inspiration.

just a tought. a little something.

i hope he still misses me

To an athlete dying young

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honors out,
Runners whom reknown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before the echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.


AE Housman

I might not be around to visit you this year. But it is also true that I still think of you. And that it might be a fact that is stopping me from taken notice when others have left.
But I can still see your last smile. That last smile that you took to hell.
Happy 1st of december, Baloo, kiddo is still around thinking she can change the world and she is taking care of sissy (as much as i can)
Colin was speaking to me about you the other day. The beatiful lady who is sense asked me to tell you that she still remembers your potato bread. She also said she sees you now and then, walking down the street, in every young man´s face.
Now we´ve brought new people to the house, as you saw yesterday. but you would´ve liked them. I saw your father. And hug him. I am sorry, but i´ll not be seeing you soon, because I am going to live. Somebody needs to stick around to pick up the pieces of broken glass you´ve left everywhere.
With love,
kiddo

In case anybody was wondering

I like being anonymous. I like my blog. I like having a kind of diary where I can post my thoughts, my everyday issues and my dreams. That´s why is half fiction, half reality.
And I truly feel i don´t need to justify my stories in any way. What I write in here is as private as if I had a little leather book inside a box with a lock. If you come and open the book and read it it´s at your own risk of getting to know a little bit more about myself, or stay wandering if it´s real or not what you´ve just read. And even if it´s NOT real, you might not like what you´ve read. Sometimes I mix things that just happened with events that needed some air from years before. Sometimes I´ll write completely fucked up just arriving from a party and post whatever comes into my mind, ortography and grammar lost. Because that´s when the moment felt right to do so. And there wil be times when I write and give voice to the thoughts of others, just because I they wanted to be written.And I don´t use names when i write something that ACTUALLY happen, because I like to feel that EVERYTHING in here might or not be true.

as i´ve said, i like being anonymous.
Here i am free and i don´t need to answer to anybody´s expectations.
so if you want stories with happy endings, go and read the Reforma.

PS. Darcy, dear, it´s a fictional character full of prejudice written by Jane Austen. The novel is called Pride & Prejudice. I wonder if any of us can relate to those characters.

I was awake that night

He saw her sleeping.
he was about to touch her face with just the tip of his fingers but then she moved in her sleep.
So he didn´t.
next day she woke up, took her things and went away.
they run into each other ocasionally, now and then.
And everytime he wonders what stopped him from touching her.

Today Vivian died. actually it was yesterday´s evening. and i feel sad. and bad, becasuese i`ve actually been thinking of calling her. seeing her. see how she was doing.
and I didn´t.
too much work. too much deal too to deal on my own.
but now she´s dead.
and i grive.
but i am not allowed to.
i feel i don´t deserve it. and this is not about me. this is about her children. the first time i lived the story of two brothers. one fancied me but never got the balls to do anything about it and the other one frek out in the last minute.

Oh, and this is just the tip ofthe iceberg.
wait until i tell about the other brothers and my ex husband who happened to appear with his wife and my ex, who just´ve broked up with what used to be my best friend and today comes free and single to me.
not to mention my best friend ever, who wants to marry me.
or one of my good friednds who is going out with a girl 8 younger than him.

Or the fact that my boyfriend of six months just broke up with me.

Beacuse I am too intense

well, again, fuck off. hope you fing the cute little missy you are looking for.
jajajajajjajaajaja no really. hope you die a slow painful death and that the rest of your days are half as miserqable as mine are.

and that one day you learn that an intense woman is not a defect.

it means that i can experience live twice, hundreds, millions of times more clearly than you.
So fuck you.

And yet another day

I´m still here.
But taken again a couple too much of the stuff.
I am sick.
really sick
Not only in my brain and heart, but sick in the way doctors says "operation" and "quimioteraphy"
I might not reach my 30th birthday.
It´s terribly silly, but right now I wish I knew what love and being loved is.
I´m a little scared, my anger is bigger. That´s the only reason I know I won´t die. Beacuse it has never been easy. Not even dying.
But I´m here. I have my doubts. I guess in the bottom of my heart, against all reason I´m waiting for Darcy to come and take away the pride from me.
So, could somebody tell me I´m pretty?

Marathon of the week

The Bell Jar
Girl Interrupted
prozac nation

Curiuosly, people tend to think that when you suffer from bipolar disease or cronic depression you shouldn´t read about those subjects. Nothing farther from the truth. While Girl and Nation are funny best sellers, the depth of Plath´s story, the tale of a girl who is supposed to be a great promise and slowly and in a very subthe way falls into depression is magistraly ilustrated, and pardon my dorkiness, it feels good to know you are not alone. Sleeping pills, oh, dear big mistake, it´s very hard they work. I wouldn´t have the courage for the oven intent, as Sylvia´s finally was able to succeed in doing. And the sea image sounds scary. I´ll guess i´ll give it another try to the sleeping pills.
I wish, wish, so strong somebody knows that the jewel I lost was blue as well.

Boys games

It can be clinical.
It´s really not a question of thinking good and happy toughts .
And by the way, spare me the part about all the people who are suffering more than me.
I´ve worked with indigeneous communities where women hide the bruises their husbands gave them while they come for a consult for yet another pregnancy. I spent months working with children from the street, who are high all the time because the "mona" keeps them from being hungry. I´ve actually slept in the street in order to gain their trust. I´ve gone to jails and sat side by side with a murderer who offers me shrimp quesadillas. I met once a beatiful great man who likes leaving in the comanche territory. Beirut. He writes to me when he gets hold of a computer and has time to spare some lines from his regular job at the Guardian. I´ve worked with the people from the garbage, cities ann mountains of junk until the only way you can see the sun is looking up, because you are surrounded with garbage. My other dear great friend is from Israel. He is jewish. And he is a documentarian who is trying to explain why his country is destroying beirut. He is a tough big guy. But I can read in his last mail the desesperation growing in his heart.

When I was 11 years old, just a kid, i still had the child´s spark in my eyes. Since my parents where working all the time (I could just copy paste this last phrase) my summer holidays i spent them at school. But not at the cool british colleges, full of country side and berries and classmates and books. Sigh. noup. Summer classes where the kind where they would treat you like you where showing off when you finished the ridiculous stuff they put to do in like, five minutes.
One day I was alone at one classroom, all the teachers polishing their nails and drinking coffe and this fellow classmate came in. I wasn´t really paying attention to him until he grab me, hit me and knocked me over one of the school benches and stuck a blade in my throat.
He push it hard in my neck, his whole body on top of me, his face against mine.
He asked me "who you like better, me or the other one?" At first I didn´t understand and was unable to provide an answer, to which he grew angry and stuck the blade deeper in my throat.
Finally I react it and gave what seem the right answer. He finally let me go. He put the blade close to my eyes and told me to remember.
And I have.
I know how to break a guy´s nose and I´ve done it. I´ve never ever being caught again off my guard without the right thing to say to a man.
The teachers at the school said it was my fault. For being alone.
That day I learn a lot about male behaviour.

And my depression keeps growing and growing.

Happy days

No, I refuse.
I object
I don´t cuncur
All of you, you happy I´m glad to be alive, my life is great, and benjie and jimpi are doing incredible and miki is learning futbol and i´m lost in my poetic sea of books.
NO
All of you I´m more ethereal than life and I speak in low soft voices and think only deep thoughts and give my dear profound friends little pats in the back.
NO
Great to have you out there. This shit of a world probably needs all of you inspiring happy people.
But as the argentinian say "no me toquen las pelotas".

pain is still growing inside of me and the days are getting colder and colder. So, yes, my name is pain, my blood is revenge and I am full of rage. The disease growing inside of me and don´t expect me to be happy and smile while my little muscle known as my "chicken heart" grows more and more alienated.
Please, spare me of you happiness.
Unless you are willing to share it with me, don´t rub it in my face.
And if you are about to go new age on me and tell me about my bad karma, please stop.
been there, done that.
look for someone else to save.

Mi propio día de muertos

Mi abuela venía del norte del país. Grande, con cabello rizado y lentes de fondo de botella ortodoxos de abuelita, realizaba su papel a la maravilla: te recibía con un enorme plato de comida (deliciosa), te daba un consejo y te acomodaba el cabello. Cuando yo estaba chiquita mis papás trabajaban todo el tiempo y ella venía a cuidarme en las tardes tras el colegio. Me preparaba sopa de pollo con garbanzos y me dejaba jugar con los ojos del pescado que habríamos de comer más tarde, niña mórbida atada por el asco y la fascinación a una infancia que se le escaparía muy pronto. Cuando la visitábamos en su casa, al final, siempre a escondidas, abría su monedero y sacaba unas monedas que para mí se convertían en el tesoro que algún príncipe recibiría algún día. Nunca conocí a su marido. Murió de cáncer, cuando mi madre todavía era casi una niña. Ya soy bastante mala leche con los vivos por lo que me abstengo de juzgar a los muertos, allá ellos con sus huesos y sus tumbas. Pero si sé que mi abuelita cuidó, como pudo, a sus cinco hijos y los sacó adelante y vivos, también como se pudo. Pero también me cuidó a mí. Me enseñó a preparar tamales norteños, secreto que sólo ella y yo compartimos y nunca le contamos a sus hijas, que envidiosas nunca me creerían. Me llevaba a misa cuando yo todavía creía en algo y también cuando el cinismo y el desencanto habían reemplazado a la fe. Me enseñó a usar su máquina de coser y aprendí que nunca hay que regalar objetos filosos, siempre hay que intercambiarlos por algo, como hacen las gitanas con la lectura de mano. El mundo de una anciana se juntaba en una extraña curva con el de una solitaria y precoz niña que se aburría muy rápido. Sus hijas no lo saben, pero la abuelita se sentaba y me contaba de los tiempos de la vieja hacienda y la inundación y el largo camino a la ciudad de méxico, donde tantos sinsabores vivirían. Mitad recuerdos, mitad añoranzas crecí rodeada de los muertos y la muselina de la juventud de mi abuela. Creen que no me acuerdo de esos años, pero si me acuerdo. Creen que junto con todo el resto de mi niñez olvidé las historias de mi abuela. Pero siempre queda algo. Siempre fui una niña obstinada. Tímida, pero obstinada.

Hace unos años, tendría yo unos 17, mi abuela sufrió una embolia que la llevó al hospital del cual nunca saldría. Todavía unos días antes había hablado con ella por teléfono y de pronto me cuentan que esa señora que a sus 82 años iba y regresaba caminando a todos lados estaba en una cama y que estaba paralizada de la mitad del cuerpo. Toda la familia se congregaba afuera del hospital, a mí nada me decían, "no se vaya a impresionar la niña" y no me dejaban enterarme de lo que los médicos explicaban, me daban largas. La familia se turnaba para entrar a verla y me decían que todavía hablaba pero que estaba muy mala y que el pronóstico no era bueno. Empezamos a vivir a la espera y una noche tuve fiebre, calor intenso y sudores fríos que me corrían como lágrimas por las mejillas y la espalda, me levanté y caminé en mi cuarto con el corazón latiéndome violentamente en el pecho y no paró hasta que llegó el alba y con su cambio de marea me ayudó a tranquilizarme.

Ese día cuando llegué al hospital me enteré que ese día ya no había despertado y entonces insistí en entrar, ya no sirvieron los ruegos y cuando me encaré frente al doctor y le ordené dejarme entrar terminaron por acceder. Mi abuelita yacía en su cama, en coma, empequeñecida, pero todavía con sus mejillas rosadas, de abuelita gordita del norte, de una raza de mujeres hechas para ver morir a los imbéciles de sus hombres a edad temprana, mujeres con pudores impuestos por la sociedad pero con vidas que desafían las de cualquiera de las anorexicas actuales a las que la SUV y la póliza de seguro protegen contra eso que ocurre afuera de la burbuja de cristal llamado vida. Leí su historial y noté el "no resurrección". Pedí al doctor de turno que me explicara. Me senté a su lado y le conté de mis sueños, le puse loción de naranja en las manos y mojé con agua de azahar su pañuelo para que su frente estuviera fresca. Rezé la oración que encontré junto a su cama, por ella, para que no se sintiera solita. En sus manos estaban sus escapularios así que arreglé sus uñas (le gustaba la manicure) y luego dejé entrelazados sus dedos para que no perdiera su pequeño último tesoro. Mi mirada se encontraba en todo momento en el monitor cardíaco que pulso a pulso me indicaba los rastros de vida de mi abuelita, chayito. Así, abrazadas nos quedamos un rato hasta que de pronto me sobresaltó una pequeña alarma proveniente del monitor. Asustada, apreté su mano y pedí más tiempo, no era justo, quería robarle unos minutos, unas horas, una vida a la muerte. Mientras más fuerte apretaba su mano, su corazón volvió a latir a su ritmo normal y algo de color bailó atrevido en sus mejillas. Y entonces me dí cuenta. Todo este tiempo me había estado esperando. Su única nieta. Y ella ya quería descansar. Pero no sin decirme adiós. Su cabeza estaba en mi regazo cuando le murmuré al oído "adiós abuelita, te quiero" y en ese momento su corazón dejó de latir. Acudieron los doctores y las enfermeras, revisaron su historial, tomaron el pulso por última vez y dictaminaron la hora de la muerte. Salí para avisarle a mi madre y sus hermanas, quienes se abrazaron y fueron a dar la noticia al resto de la familia. Yo me quedé en el cuarto con la enfermera y ayudé a

amortajar el cuerpo de mi abuelita, que yo creo debe hacerlo alguien de la familia y no cualquier desconocido. Me guardé para mí sus escapularios y vi que estuviera bien sujeta la venda del rostro para que su carita se viera bien en el sepelio.

Durante el funeral, en el que había de todo, señoras desconocidas llorando a grito perdido, dizque familia que sólo buscaban regodearse en el sufrimiento de otros, me di un momento para abrir el féretro y colocar en sus manos sus reliquias religiosas. Toda mi familia me recriminó porque no lloré durante el funeral y el sepelio. Todavía hasta el día de hoy cuando hablan de ella me hablan como si yo no la hubiera conocido y me recriminan que no la extrañe.

Pero si la extraño. Ella me quería. Y si lloré. Mucho.

Después han venido otras muertes. Mi trabajo me ha llevado a trabajar con muertos y ya sus rostros pálidos me conmueven menos que las historias que tras de ellos ocultan. Vi la sonrisa en los labios de Arturo, las mejillas hundidas de Miguel, el rostro solemne de Monedero. Y muchos más más. A veces pienso que demasiados. Algunos hasta anónimos son.

Pero de mi abuelita me acuerdo en paz. Nos llevamos las dos a la tumba un último secreto y tuvimos tiempo de despedirnos y en los días de mucha pena nos acordamos la una de la otra y nos reconfortamos y cada una desde su lado de la muralla cuida de la otra.

one more day

I´m still here
one day at the time