Where is my love
Where is my love
Horses galloping
Bring him to me
Where is my love
Where is my love
Horses running free
Carrying you and me
Where is my love
Where is my love
Safe and warm
So close to me
In my arms
Finally
There is my love
There is my love
Horses galloping
Bringing him to me
Where is my love
Where is your love
una noche larga de lunes en el que se mezclan la fantasía, la belleza, el romance, la inseguridad, el miedo.
Como siempre, nunca me alcanza para más de dos líneas, pero la idea es que pueda regresar a estas letras en algún momento y tal vez entonces recordar lo que era estar vivo. Porque yo si creo en los milagros.
I used to be on an endless run
Believed in miracles 'cuz I'm one
I've been blessed with the power to survive
After all these years I'm still alive
I'm out here kickin with the band
I am no longer a solitary man
Everyday my time runs out
Live like a fool, that's what i was about
Oh I belive in miracles
I believe in a better world for me and you
Oh Oh I believe in miracles
I believe in a better world for me and you
Tattooed your name on my arm
I always said my girl's a good luck charm
If she can find a reason to forgive
Then i can find a reason to live
I used to be on an endless run
Believed in miracles 'cuz I'm one
I've been blessed with the power to survive
After all these years I'm still alive
Oh I belive in miracles
I believe in a better world for me and you
Oh Oh I believe in miracles
I believe in a better world for me and you
I close my eyes and think how it might be
the future's here today
it's not too late, it's not too late oh
I belive in miracles
I believe in a better world for me and you
Oh I believe in miracles
I believe in a better world for me and you
(versión pearl jam, porque yo estaba ahi y la cantaba con los ojos cerrados)
y así es que algún día...
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Back to black
¿Y ahora?
¿Donde está la expiación?
Finalmente reconozco mi dolor y mi miedo de ser mutilado. Animalito herido que se guarda en un rincón temeroso del golpe que teme que llegue.
¿Causaré dolor otra vez? Casi sin darme cuenta se ha colado un nuevo juego y ahora, ya completamente entregada a él, reflexiono en las consecuencias de lo que podría ser un acto egoísta.
Ah la pasión y la exuberancia.
Un secreto.
Un secreto que me será muy caro.
Tal vez no pase nada, pero el olor de la nueva cacería me dilata las fosas nasales y casi con terror sublime busco la imagen en el puerto, aguardando a que llegue la nave, sin saber quien es el que se bajará de ella, de antemano odiando al que sobreviva por que eso significa la muerte del otro y entregándome con culpa loca al amor del vencedor.
Y después que pase la tormenta y el barco vuelva a largar amarras, recorreré el camino de regreso a mi hueco solitario, a mis tardes indolentes, a mi lánguida depresión que por lo menos me deja algunas horas horas libres para no vivirla desgarrándome. Con la mirada fija en el mar, hasta que se lleve toda la luz de mis ojos.
¿Donde está la expiación?
Finalmente reconozco mi dolor y mi miedo de ser mutilado. Animalito herido que se guarda en un rincón temeroso del golpe que teme que llegue.
¿Causaré dolor otra vez? Casi sin darme cuenta se ha colado un nuevo juego y ahora, ya completamente entregada a él, reflexiono en las consecuencias de lo que podría ser un acto egoísta.
Ah la pasión y la exuberancia.
Un secreto.
Un secreto que me será muy caro.
Tal vez no pase nada, pero el olor de la nueva cacería me dilata las fosas nasales y casi con terror sublime busco la imagen en el puerto, aguardando a que llegue la nave, sin saber quien es el que se bajará de ella, de antemano odiando al que sobreviva por que eso significa la muerte del otro y entregándome con culpa loca al amor del vencedor.
Y después que pase la tormenta y el barco vuelva a largar amarras, recorreré el camino de regreso a mi hueco solitario, a mis tardes indolentes, a mi lánguida depresión que por lo menos me deja algunas horas horas libres para no vivirla desgarrándome. Con la mirada fija en el mar, hasta que se lleve toda la luz de mis ojos.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
My name is pain and my blood is revenge
Solo unas líneas a falta de un mullido almohadón bajo el que pueda ahogar mis quejidos. Otra vez el dolor golpea, tengo suficiente material ya para la introducción, la tesis y el desenlace de mi manual sobre esta droga que es mi carga y mi alivio.
Alivio porque me recuerda que todavía estoy viva, lastre, carga de no poderme librar de él, de obligarme a arrastrarlo detrás mío. Camino con sigilo pegada a las paredes, en el rincón, en el ángulo oscuro, esperando que no me vean, pasar desapercibida. Pórtandome bien. El espíritu de la niña muerta que soy. Mi pequeño cadáver atrapado en el cuerpo de un adulto que se ve las manos y el rostro y no reconoce estas arrugas, estos huecos, flacideces. Esa niña a la que mataron, ojos muy abiertos y luego violencia, pánico, destrucción, dolor, mucho dolor. La niña muerta, camina todavía, pero nada late en ella, su cerebro sólo supura venganza, su sangre seca es el látigo con el que quiere golpear a los que la mataron, no aprende, no entiende, sólo sabe su muerte, tiene el sabor óxido de los últimos momentos en la boca, en las noches de larga vigilia puede oler como de su cuerpo emana la putrefacción de la carne muerta, entre sus uñas tierra polvo, ruinas, el aire entra en sus pulmones cortante, la atraviesa, furioso de pasar por este cuerpo muerto.
La niña, alguna vez viva, es dolor. Sin espíritu, sin mente, la niña sólo es locura, salvaje, ojos rojos y manos nerviosas que buscan desesperadamente el cuchillo, el veneno, uñas endurecidas de rascar en las paredes que buscan carne blanda y fresca en la que hundirse, dientes que rechinan ante la exuberancia de la luz, de los vivos, sus cuentos alegrías historias sonrisas negadas para ellas, porque a los muertos se les niega todo. Y ella atrapada en este mundo por una ira y un dolor demasiados grandes para dejarla estar muerta con los muertos, con sus muertos, poseída, una aberración de muerte, sin descanso, sin mitigar nunca nunca.
Las marcas en sus piernas, manos, brazos, rostro, su fealdad de pelos crespos, su vientre hinchado y amorfo, sus grandes ojos por los que se sale la muerte, la locura, la ira, el veneno como pus, piel escamosa y granulienta.
A veces entre espamos llora, llora como niña que es al fin, niña sola y olvidada, dejada en la escuela, dejada en la casa, dejada en el coche, dejada atrás, un estorbo al que nadie cuidaba, niña que estaba sola cuando la muerte vino y toco sus pequeños pies con su dedos fríos, niña que lloraba a la que nadie escuchó mientras la muerte la poseía y la dejaba inerte, maltrecha. Pero la niña no se quedó dormida, se levantó violenta, loca y se volvió condenación, desolación, odiando mutilando sin perdón y sin nunca perdonar.
Porque mi nombre es dolor y mi sangre es venganza.
Alivio porque me recuerda que todavía estoy viva, lastre, carga de no poderme librar de él, de obligarme a arrastrarlo detrás mío. Camino con sigilo pegada a las paredes, en el rincón, en el ángulo oscuro, esperando que no me vean, pasar desapercibida. Pórtandome bien. El espíritu de la niña muerta que soy. Mi pequeño cadáver atrapado en el cuerpo de un adulto que se ve las manos y el rostro y no reconoce estas arrugas, estos huecos, flacideces. Esa niña a la que mataron, ojos muy abiertos y luego violencia, pánico, destrucción, dolor, mucho dolor. La niña muerta, camina todavía, pero nada late en ella, su cerebro sólo supura venganza, su sangre seca es el látigo con el que quiere golpear a los que la mataron, no aprende, no entiende, sólo sabe su muerte, tiene el sabor óxido de los últimos momentos en la boca, en las noches de larga vigilia puede oler como de su cuerpo emana la putrefacción de la carne muerta, entre sus uñas tierra polvo, ruinas, el aire entra en sus pulmones cortante, la atraviesa, furioso de pasar por este cuerpo muerto.
La niña, alguna vez viva, es dolor. Sin espíritu, sin mente, la niña sólo es locura, salvaje, ojos rojos y manos nerviosas que buscan desesperadamente el cuchillo, el veneno, uñas endurecidas de rascar en las paredes que buscan carne blanda y fresca en la que hundirse, dientes que rechinan ante la exuberancia de la luz, de los vivos, sus cuentos alegrías historias sonrisas negadas para ellas, porque a los muertos se les niega todo. Y ella atrapada en este mundo por una ira y un dolor demasiados grandes para dejarla estar muerta con los muertos, con sus muertos, poseída, una aberración de muerte, sin descanso, sin mitigar nunca nunca.
Las marcas en sus piernas, manos, brazos, rostro, su fealdad de pelos crespos, su vientre hinchado y amorfo, sus grandes ojos por los que se sale la muerte, la locura, la ira, el veneno como pus, piel escamosa y granulienta.
A veces entre espamos llora, llora como niña que es al fin, niña sola y olvidada, dejada en la escuela, dejada en la casa, dejada en el coche, dejada atrás, un estorbo al que nadie cuidaba, niña que estaba sola cuando la muerte vino y toco sus pequeños pies con su dedos fríos, niña que lloraba a la que nadie escuchó mientras la muerte la poseía y la dejaba inerte, maltrecha. Pero la niña no se quedó dormida, se levantó violenta, loca y se volvió condenación, desolación, odiando mutilando sin perdón y sin nunca perdonar.
Porque mi nombre es dolor y mi sangre es venganza.
Monday, February 25, 2008
¿Y si el dolor nunca se va?
¿Y si esta muerte permanece? Mientras siga partida, desdoblada, mutilada, esperando anestesia, una señal.
Como decía, tal vez no soy el jinete, tal vez no está mi dragón de siete cabezas esperándome como pensaba. Tanto buscar el signo que me indique que la hora ha llegado para soltar a mis cuatro jinetes y todo este tiempo ha sido una búsqueda en vano. La señal soy yo.
¿Y si esta muerte permanece? Mientras siga partida, desdoblada, mutilada, esperando anestesia, una señal.
Como decía, tal vez no soy el jinete, tal vez no está mi dragón de siete cabezas esperándome como pensaba. Tanto buscar el signo que me indique que la hora ha llegado para soltar a mis cuatro jinetes y todo este tiempo ha sido una búsqueda en vano. La señal soy yo.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
19.2.08
¿Porque esta desolación?
Este murmullo ronco, amargo, estas piernas que se doblan, esta boca seca.
Este dolor, esta sangre, estas vísceras.
¿Porque abrir los ojos?
Dormir, dormir, estar acostado con los ojos abiertos comiéndose el techo, el aire que entra cortante, el entumecimiento de los miembros.
Añorar lo nunca visto, extrañar, escupir en el recuerdo, maldecir la memoria, dejar que el cerebro supure mierda, cubriéndolo todo, ahogandolo todo.
En el centro, la reina condenada recorre con la mirada aburrida su reino desierto.
Este murmullo ronco, amargo, estas piernas que se doblan, esta boca seca.
Este dolor, esta sangre, estas vísceras.
¿Porque abrir los ojos?
Dormir, dormir, estar acostado con los ojos abiertos comiéndose el techo, el aire que entra cortante, el entumecimiento de los miembros.
Añorar lo nunca visto, extrañar, escupir en el recuerdo, maldecir la memoria, dejar que el cerebro supure mierda, cubriéndolo todo, ahogandolo todo.
En el centro, la reina condenada recorre con la mirada aburrida su reino desierto.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Minutes
Good grief!
Febrero, ya, tan pocas líneas, pareciera que no hay nada por decir y sin embargo queda tanto por contar...
Dos meses ya, un dia mas, dos dias mas y de pronto una semana más. Todavía está ese gancho/pinza que me atrapa los intestinos y los retuerce y me trae un sabor amargo en la boca cada vez que pienso en él. Lo extraño tanto, como una niña, ojos muy redondos muy abiertos que no pueden contener las lágrimas. Cada vez que el heredero del holandés errante hijo de la pérfida Albión me hace enojar (lo que ocurre cada cinco minutos) tomo el teléfono y pienso en marcarle, para luego detenerme y darme cuenta de que no es posible. Otro síntoma de mi incipiente pérdida de la razón: tengo el folleto que nuestro querido Dr. nos dió para ilustrar la operación original. Entre papeles y cosas que sacamos del hospital al final venía ese papel y no parecía necesario dárselo a Lucha y lo aventé en mi cuarto. Por supuesto sigue ahí.
Pero esperaré a que llegue eso que llaman tiempo, que dicen que lo cura todo. En el inter, trataré de no escuchar a mi reloj, tic tac tic tac, que me marca horas y semanas y días y sangre y muerte, eludiré su castrante paso y empezaré a correr, un paso adelante de él. Me alcanzará, lo sé, nadie escapa y es inflexible, bien tengo su marca como prueba desde diciembre impresa en el espíritu, pero me escabulliré, hábil y conspicua, por una temporada y recolectaré historias y anécdotas para luego tener que leerle a todos mis muertos. Que soy injusta, a mis vivos también, que estos días viven y brillan a mi alredor casi cegándome, bellos y amorosos, mientras en mi rincón con mi sombrero de paja de hoja ancha y mi vestido blanco de algodón me siento y con acuarela pinto un retrato de todos nosotros en estos días de invierno, tan tristes, tan dulces, bajo este sol que quema y nos recuerda que el siguiente minuto nos está esperando.
Febrero, ya, tan pocas líneas, pareciera que no hay nada por decir y sin embargo queda tanto por contar...
Dos meses ya, un dia mas, dos dias mas y de pronto una semana más. Todavía está ese gancho/pinza que me atrapa los intestinos y los retuerce y me trae un sabor amargo en la boca cada vez que pienso en él. Lo extraño tanto, como una niña, ojos muy redondos muy abiertos que no pueden contener las lágrimas. Cada vez que el heredero del holandés errante hijo de la pérfida Albión me hace enojar (lo que ocurre cada cinco minutos) tomo el teléfono y pienso en marcarle, para luego detenerme y darme cuenta de que no es posible. Otro síntoma de mi incipiente pérdida de la razón: tengo el folleto que nuestro querido Dr. nos dió para ilustrar la operación original. Entre papeles y cosas que sacamos del hospital al final venía ese papel y no parecía necesario dárselo a Lucha y lo aventé en mi cuarto. Por supuesto sigue ahí.
Pero esperaré a que llegue eso que llaman tiempo, que dicen que lo cura todo. En el inter, trataré de no escuchar a mi reloj, tic tac tic tac, que me marca horas y semanas y días y sangre y muerte, eludiré su castrante paso y empezaré a correr, un paso adelante de él. Me alcanzará, lo sé, nadie escapa y es inflexible, bien tengo su marca como prueba desde diciembre impresa en el espíritu, pero me escabulliré, hábil y conspicua, por una temporada y recolectaré historias y anécdotas para luego tener que leerle a todos mis muertos. Que soy injusta, a mis vivos también, que estos días viven y brillan a mi alredor casi cegándome, bellos y amorosos, mientras en mi rincón con mi sombrero de paja de hoja ancha y mi vestido blanco de algodón me siento y con acuarela pinto un retrato de todos nosotros en estos días de invierno, tan tristes, tan dulces, bajo este sol que quema y nos recuerda que el siguiente minuto nos está esperando.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
A
I dreamed about you last night. The whole night I saw your face. As usual you looked as young as you were last time we met, your hair long, crooked smile. In my dream we where happy. It was weird because it was almost as if you had returned from a very long trip and you were finally back. At first we were shy, didn´t know how to talk to each other and then some silly joke broke the tension and we were back to our own selves.
You were carrying me on your back and I was laughing.
Remember that night by the river? Do you remember the things we said?
Do you remember the promise we made next to CU´s water mirror?
I remember what you said to me on new year´s eve away from everybody.
I remember the look on your face when I told you of what I really had been ill. I remember the pain.
Do you remember that night on the rooftop? The night in the mountains? Do you remember the last time you touched my hair? I do.
You came late, as usual. All the girls where looking at you, as usual. You sat behind me and played with my hair all class. I remember looking back and smiling at you. Of what we talked later I can´t recall. Something about books and who knows what. There was this girl anxiously waiting for you, looking at me jealous. I remember we said how much we missed each other. You hold me and we said I´ll call you. I called you that week to your father´s house. I didn´t call your mother´s, I knew she was ill and for some silly reason I thought I would wait for you to go back to your other house.
You never did. Next time I saw you you were dead.
Why do you still appear in my dreams?
Are you with Colin? Is there some place where all the lost heroes of our hearts go to?
Please, I can´t talk to you right now. Go to your ghostly world and wait for me and I might pay you a visit, but leave this world to the living and don´t come in the night.
But don´t stop coming, I´m afraid I´ll stop remembering.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Mr. Colin White
I wrote this almost ten years ago. It is part of a series of conversations Colin and I had and it was the start for a biography-documentary project that was abandoned several years later. A newspaper just took things from it to publish something about Colin, which is rather amuzing and I know Colin would have been angry with me for posting it on a blog but secretely flattered (and amuzed too).
I am copying it here again, as inexact as it is and with the obviuos style of someone very young and incredibly overwhelmed of being in front of the man she admires the most.
Está sentado frente a mi. Es delgado, todo su pelo es cano y su rostro surcado de arrugas es como un mapa de rutas marinas. Tose frecuentemente por el humo del cigarro y el polvo de las minas acumulado en sus pulmones, y que seguramente terminará costándole la vida. Aún así es un hombre capaz de gobernar un barco él solo y de llevar el timón de un salón de clases.
Su padre y su madre pertenecían a la clase obrera de un pequeño pueblo al sur de Londres. Corría el año de 1932 y se empezaba a sentir en el aire la amenaza de la nube fascista que devastaría Europa. Se mudó con su familia en el ´39 a la capital, pero debió abandonarla pronto junto con su hermano, debido a los bombardeos. Su padre marcha al frente por lo que se convierte en el jefe de familia, dividiendo su infancia entre Gales, Escocia e Inglaterra.
Asiste a la secundaria en una escuela de gobierno, de la que conserva muy buenos recuerdos y al terminarla es aceptado en la Universidad de Cambridge.
Antes de partir a la Universidad debe hacer el servicio militar, que lo llevaría a entrenar soldados destinados a luchar en Corea. En un momento decisivo en su vida resuelve dejar atrás Cambridge; por lealtad permanece con su regimiento y parte él también hacia Corea. Sin embargo, es herido, debe regresar a casa y como algo predestinado, termina por ingresar a la Universidad.
Estudia Letras Inglesas con las figuras más influyentes en el ámbito cultural de la época. En las vacaciones trabaja como minero en túneles en Escocia, también como leñador y ocasionalmente en granjas, segando campos. Al terminar la Universidad continúa como minero, unas de las pocas decisiones de las que se arrepiente en su vida, me dice mientras deja vagar la mirada, sin encontrar todavía una respuesta.
En 1956, su postura política en torno a los problemas del Canal de Suez, lo hacen partir molesto de Inglaterra. Toma rumbo a Canadá, donde lleva la vida dura que nosotros leemos en las novelas de aventuras de Jack London. Trabaja como minero sacando plata, hasta que los precios bajan y se ve obligado a regresar a la profesión de leñador, lo que le agrada mucho, pues realmente le gusta el bosque.
Debido a una nevada imprevista se ve sin trabajo paseando un día por Vancouver cuando ve un póster invocador: México, decía de manera enigmática. Sin pensarlo mucho, se dirige a la terminal de camiones y pide un boleto para Veracruz, única referencia que tiene gracias a una película con Gary Cooper y Burt Lancaster. Ahí conoce a la mujer que lo ha acompañado a partir de entonces en todo su peregrinaje. Regresa a Canadá donde gana algo de dinero jugando cartas y se establece más tarde de manera definitiva en México. Por motivos de trabajo se viene a la capital, donde colabora con Juan Ibáñez y Carlos Fuentes como traductor en una serie de guiones, reminiscencias de cuando era crítico de cine en la Facultad.
Da clases en la Facultad de Ingeniería en la UNAM y después se pasa a Filosofía y Letras, a la carrera de letras Inglesas. Molesto, otra vez, por la situación en el movimiento estudiantil del ´68, deja la escuela por un par de años para construir su primer barco, el cual le es quitado por el gobierno, en un incidente del cual no habla mucho, lo que no le desanima y al poco tiempo inicia la construcción de otro.
Regresa a la UNAM en el ´74 y ahí permanece desde entonces, inspirando a generación tras generación, convirtiéndose en el mentor de muchos, incluyendo a quien escribe estas líneas. Hay muchas cosas que desconozco de él, pero sé que le gusta Keats, que aunque finja lo contrario adora a sus alumnos, que toma su café con mucho azúcar y piensa qué nosotros los jóvenes leemos muy poco. También sé que usa la misma corbata desde hace muchos años, misma que le regaló un alumno que murió joven y que como todos los que vieron sus vidas terminadas muy pronto, permanece en su memoria.
Dice que ahora nos preocupamos mucho por ser, que él no desearía haber sido nada más, que está contento con hacer. Ha hecho lo que quiere, pero cuando le pregunto que cosas le hubiera gustado hacer me contesta firme: todo. Es feliz en México, se sabe afortunado, pero ahora sentado frente a mí, veo el brillo en sus ojos cuando habla de su tierra, pero no deja traslucir nada con su característica flema británica.
Ahora finalizó la construcción de su tercer barco y lo tiene anclado en Isla Mujeres, listo para zarpar, en lo que promete ser un viaje a la isla caribeña de Cuba. Solo, pues navega en soledad.
I am copying it here again, as inexact as it is and with the obviuos style of someone very young and incredibly overwhelmed of being in front of the man she admires the most.
Está sentado frente a mi. Es delgado, todo su pelo es cano y su rostro surcado de arrugas es como un mapa de rutas marinas. Tose frecuentemente por el humo del cigarro y el polvo de las minas acumulado en sus pulmones, y que seguramente terminará costándole la vida. Aún así es un hombre capaz de gobernar un barco él solo y de llevar el timón de un salón de clases.
Su padre y su madre pertenecían a la clase obrera de un pequeño pueblo al sur de Londres. Corría el año de 1932 y se empezaba a sentir en el aire la amenaza de la nube fascista que devastaría Europa. Se mudó con su familia en el ´39 a la capital, pero debió abandonarla pronto junto con su hermano, debido a los bombardeos. Su padre marcha al frente por lo que se convierte en el jefe de familia, dividiendo su infancia entre Gales, Escocia e Inglaterra.
Asiste a la secundaria en una escuela de gobierno, de la que conserva muy buenos recuerdos y al terminarla es aceptado en la Universidad de Cambridge.
Antes de partir a la Universidad debe hacer el servicio militar, que lo llevaría a entrenar soldados destinados a luchar en Corea. En un momento decisivo en su vida resuelve dejar atrás Cambridge; por lealtad permanece con su regimiento y parte él también hacia Corea. Sin embargo, es herido, debe regresar a casa y como algo predestinado, termina por ingresar a la Universidad.
Estudia Letras Inglesas con las figuras más influyentes en el ámbito cultural de la época. En las vacaciones trabaja como minero en túneles en Escocia, también como leñador y ocasionalmente en granjas, segando campos. Al terminar la Universidad continúa como minero, unas de las pocas decisiones de las que se arrepiente en su vida, me dice mientras deja vagar la mirada, sin encontrar todavía una respuesta.
En 1956, su postura política en torno a los problemas del Canal de Suez, lo hacen partir molesto de Inglaterra. Toma rumbo a Canadá, donde lleva la vida dura que nosotros leemos en las novelas de aventuras de Jack London. Trabaja como minero sacando plata, hasta que los precios bajan y se ve obligado a regresar a la profesión de leñador, lo que le agrada mucho, pues realmente le gusta el bosque.
Debido a una nevada imprevista se ve sin trabajo paseando un día por Vancouver cuando ve un póster invocador: México, decía de manera enigmática. Sin pensarlo mucho, se dirige a la terminal de camiones y pide un boleto para Veracruz, única referencia que tiene gracias a una película con Gary Cooper y Burt Lancaster. Ahí conoce a la mujer que lo ha acompañado a partir de entonces en todo su peregrinaje. Regresa a Canadá donde gana algo de dinero jugando cartas y se establece más tarde de manera definitiva en México. Por motivos de trabajo se viene a la capital, donde colabora con Juan Ibáñez y Carlos Fuentes como traductor en una serie de guiones, reminiscencias de cuando era crítico de cine en la Facultad.
Da clases en la Facultad de Ingeniería en la UNAM y después se pasa a Filosofía y Letras, a la carrera de letras Inglesas. Molesto, otra vez, por la situación en el movimiento estudiantil del ´68, deja la escuela por un par de años para construir su primer barco, el cual le es quitado por el gobierno, en un incidente del cual no habla mucho, lo que no le desanima y al poco tiempo inicia la construcción de otro.
Regresa a la UNAM en el ´74 y ahí permanece desde entonces, inspirando a generación tras generación, convirtiéndose en el mentor de muchos, incluyendo a quien escribe estas líneas. Hay muchas cosas que desconozco de él, pero sé que le gusta Keats, que aunque finja lo contrario adora a sus alumnos, que toma su café con mucho azúcar y piensa qué nosotros los jóvenes leemos muy poco. También sé que usa la misma corbata desde hace muchos años, misma que le regaló un alumno que murió joven y que como todos los que vieron sus vidas terminadas muy pronto, permanece en su memoria.
Dice que ahora nos preocupamos mucho por ser, que él no desearía haber sido nada más, que está contento con hacer. Ha hecho lo que quiere, pero cuando le pregunto que cosas le hubiera gustado hacer me contesta firme: todo. Es feliz en México, se sabe afortunado, pero ahora sentado frente a mí, veo el brillo en sus ojos cuando habla de su tierra, pero no deja traslucir nada con su característica flema británica.
Ahora finalizó la construcción de su tercer barco y lo tiene anclado en Isla Mujeres, listo para zarpar, en lo que promete ser un viaje a la isla caribeña de Cuba. Solo, pues navega en soledad.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Mr. Colin White
yo no tengo frases para darte, pero puedo hablar con imagenes y estas son mis palabras para decirte cuanto te quiero
Friday, December 07, 2007
Mr. Colin White
My dear Colin has left me. Me, his students, his wife, his children.
I had the rare honor of him calling me his friend. Don´t know what i did to deserve such honor.
On wedenesday I was still holding his hand and telling him about the next boat we where going to built together. After four days of pure hell, hospital madness, he went away.
He is dead.
I told him two days ago that if he died, I was going to die of a broken heart.
And I can already feel the pieces of my heart falling down to my guts.
I miss him.
I wish I could sleep.
I wish he was alive.
He made my life exceptional jst by being part of it. He was exceptional.
I wish for tomorrow to never come and I dread of it not coming fast enough.
I miss you.
I had the rare honor of him calling me his friend. Don´t know what i did to deserve such honor.
On wedenesday I was still holding his hand and telling him about the next boat we where going to built together. After four days of pure hell, hospital madness, he went away.
He is dead.
I told him two days ago that if he died, I was going to die of a broken heart.
And I can already feel the pieces of my heart falling down to my guts.
I miss him.
I wish I could sleep.
I wish he was alive.
He made my life exceptional jst by being part of it. He was exceptional.
I wish for tomorrow to never come and I dread of it not coming fast enough.
I miss you.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Last pages
No matter I look good these days, i´m still dying.
I´ve even been feeling happy, which is not a contradiction if you ask me, I´ve been working, I have red cheeks and I´ve even gain in some weight.
But that is just temporal, I can feel it.
I am finally getting help but i believe it has come too late.
It´s coming back and I don´t think I have the strenght to fight against it again.
I´m scared.
I´m tired.
And I don´t want to die.
I´ve even been feeling happy, which is not a contradiction if you ask me, I´ve been working, I have red cheeks and I´ve even gain in some weight.
But that is just temporal, I can feel it.
I am finally getting help but i believe it has come too late.
It´s coming back and I don´t think I have the strenght to fight against it again.
I´m scared.
I´m tired.
And I don´t want to die.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Thursday, November 01, 2007
goodbye kid
this is the story of... wait a minute, do the lovers get together at the end? mmmmm no,
ok, it´s not that kind of story.
the truth is:
i am leaving behind a trail of blood, dead corpses, after me,
i am tired of drama, i´m tired of complications appearing one hundred million years after they happened. Iam learning to let go.
And so you are right.
I´ve been mean and cruel. I accept it regret it would like to say I´m sorry but at the end of the day it is also true I can`t give you what you want so it is time to say goodbye now.
and i`ve been selfish for not pushing you away amd letting you stay in my life when it was obviously me who had to do say enough.
I`m sorry kid.
I can`t love you. I´ll never will.
Don´t wish me too much evil, life is already collecting taxes with me.
I hope our paths won´t cross again for you to find happiness.
Someone who deserves your love.
a quiet place where you can be.
I won´t look back. I will think of you, i always do, but i´ll refrain my need to call you. I won´t stop by.
I´ll be hurt of course. don´t think i am not missing you.
i loved you in so many ways...
but i can´t love you the way you want me to.
so i´m saying goodbye.
i hope you won´t look back at our time as something bad. it´s just something that is gone.
goodbye kid, goodbye.
ok, it´s not that kind of story.
the truth is:
i am leaving behind a trail of blood, dead corpses, after me,
i am tired of drama, i´m tired of complications appearing one hundred million years after they happened. Iam learning to let go.
And so you are right.
I´ve been mean and cruel. I accept it regret it would like to say I´m sorry but at the end of the day it is also true I can`t give you what you want so it is time to say goodbye now.
and i`ve been selfish for not pushing you away amd letting you stay in my life when it was obviously me who had to do say enough.
I`m sorry kid.
I can`t love you. I´ll never will.
Don´t wish me too much evil, life is already collecting taxes with me.
I hope our paths won´t cross again for you to find happiness.
Someone who deserves your love.
a quiet place where you can be.
I won´t look back. I will think of you, i always do, but i´ll refrain my need to call you. I won´t stop by.
I´ll be hurt of course. don´t think i am not missing you.
i loved you in so many ways...
but i can´t love you the way you want me to.
so i´m saying goodbye.
i hope you won´t look back at our time as something bad. it´s just something that is gone.
goodbye kid, goodbye.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
randomly
So, it´s almost over.
In my mind I saw myself writing a little bit everyday, something witty, something cool.
Obviously, my desire to do it didn´t match my strenght. To be awake for 24 hours without sleeping. To suck it up and forget where I come from and be capable to actually smile to those I despise but should praise.
But I still have my secret.
my dark terrible secret.
a plague o´ both your houses.
close your eyes and go back. retrace your steps. go out where you came from. don´t turn your back to the beast. don´t make eye contact. don´t make noise.
kneel to the one
who is our lord.
deception and chaos.
just get out, now.
In my mind I saw myself writing a little bit everyday, something witty, something cool.
Obviously, my desire to do it didn´t match my strenght. To be awake for 24 hours without sleeping. To suck it up and forget where I come from and be capable to actually smile to those I despise but should praise.
But I still have my secret.
my dark terrible secret.
a plague o´ both your houses.
close your eyes and go back. retrace your steps. go out where you came from. don´t turn your back to the beast. don´t make eye contact. don´t make noise.
kneel to the one
who is our lord.
deception and chaos.
just get out, now.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
wine maybe?
does this qualifies as a new day?
should i have a drink?
have i mentioned how being a frigid bitch might affect your capacity for leadership?
have i mentioned how being an overweight ass living under the shadow of your relatives interferes with your ability to make wise deccisions?
when you work 16 hours a day and still you get e-mails at four in the morning you are not able to answer right away, you develop big dark round circles under your eyes.
when you feel like a fat over stressed single hitting thirties woman, you should have a drink.
when you spent 13 hours in front of a computer in a plastic chair your back gets deformed. it hurts.
when you review info again and again because your boss keeps making mistakes, you start dreaming about him. you develop a nervous tic.
when you consider stop shaving your legs and getting out of the house in track-suits you know you have an issue.
maybe i should get another drink.
should i have a drink?
have i mentioned how being a frigid bitch might affect your capacity for leadership?
have i mentioned how being an overweight ass living under the shadow of your relatives interferes with your ability to make wise deccisions?
when you work 16 hours a day and still you get e-mails at four in the morning you are not able to answer right away, you develop big dark round circles under your eyes.
when you feel like a fat over stressed single hitting thirties woman, you should have a drink.
when you spent 13 hours in front of a computer in a plastic chair your back gets deformed. it hurts.
when you review info again and again because your boss keeps making mistakes, you start dreaming about him. you develop a nervous tic.
when you consider stop shaving your legs and getting out of the house in track-suits you know you have an issue.
maybe i should get another drink.
My own personal pub
If you are in your thirthies and you are single, start considering getting a roomate.
My boss said to me today, dear Irene, as pretty as always. My former college principal said, Oh irene, looking as georgous as ever. have I mentioned they always do that?
have i mention I never hear them compliment on my actual work?
Have I mention I am a junior executive?
Have I mention no one has complained about my work?
If tomorrow i sit down to write the same, I´ll get a drink.
If you are starting to read this, You shloud get a drink.
My boss said to me today, dear Irene, as pretty as always. My former college principal said, Oh irene, looking as georgous as ever. have I mentioned they always do that?
have i mention I never hear them compliment on my actual work?
Have I mention I am a junior executive?
Have I mention no one has complained about my work?
If tomorrow i sit down to write the same, I´ll get a drink.
If you are starting to read this, You shloud get a drink.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
una de copas
Un amigo ha escrito esto hace unos días. Y le secundo. Y me pregunto porque no me habré cruzado con tios equivalentes a estas hembras. Esos tipos bravos, que de la misma forma en que con sus brazos pueden levantarte y acomodarte las ideas, pueden treparse en un auto por seis horas para hacerte un favor, se quedan esperandote en la excursion cargando tu botella de agua y no te hacen preguntas absurdas o estúpidas.
En fin, supongo que como no quedan mujeres de rompe y rasga, los hombres se olvidaron de las causas por las que luchar.
Muchas veces he dicho que apenas quedan mujeres como las de antes. Ni en el cine, ni fuera de él. Y me refiero a mujeres de esas que pisaban fuerte y sentías temblar el suelo a su paso. Mujeres de bandera. Lo comento con Javier Marías saliendo del hotel Palace, donde en el vestíbulo vemos a una torda espectacular. «Aunque ordinaria», opina Javier. «Creo que no lo sabe», apunto yo. Seguimos conversando carrera de San Jerónimo arriba, en dirección a la puerta del Sol. Es una noche madrileña animada, cálida y agradable, que nos suministra abundante material para observación y glosa. Yo me muevo, fiel a mis mitos, en un registro que va de Ava Gardner y Debra Paget a Kim Novak, pasando por la Silvana Mangano de Arroz amargo; y Javier añade los nombres de Donna Reed, Rhonda Fleming, Jane Rusell y Angie Dickinson, que apruebo con entusiasmo. Coincidimos además en dos señoras de belleza abrumadora, aunque opuesta: Sophia Loren y Grace Kelly. Al referirnos a la primera, Javier y yo emitimos aullidos a lo Mastroianni propios de nuestro sexo –no de nuestro género, imbéciles– que vuelven superfluo cualquier comentario adicional. Haciendo, por cierto, darse por aludidas, sin fundamento, a unas focas desechos de tienta que pasan junto a nosotros vestidas con pantalón pirata, lorzas al aire y camiseta sudada; creyendo, las infelices, que nuestro «por allí resopla» va con ellas. Respecto a Grace Kelly, dicho sea de paso, me anoto un punto con el rey de Redonda –me encanta madrugarle en materia cinéfila, pues no ocurre casi nunca–, porque él no recuerda la secuencia del pasillo del hotel en Atrapa a un ladrón, cuando doña Grace se vuelve y besa a Cary Grant ante la puerta, de un modo que haría a cualquier varón normalmente constituido dar la vida por ser el señor Grant.
Pero no sólo era el cine, concluimos, sino la vida real. Los dos somos veteranos del año 51 y tenemos, cine aparte, recuerdos personales que aplicar al asunto: madres, tías, primas mayores, vecinas. Esas medias con costura sobre zapatos de aguja, comenta Javier con sonrisa nostálgica. Esas siluetas, añado yo, gloriosas e inconfundibles: cintura ceñida, curva de caderas y falda de tubo ajustada hasta las rodillas. Etcétera. No era casual, concluimos, que en las fotos familiares nuestras madres parezcan estrellas de cine; o que tal vez fuesen las estrellas de cine las que se parecían muchísimo a ellas. Hasta las niñas, en el recreo, se recogían con una mano la falda del babi y procuraban caminar como las mujeres mayores, con suave contoneo condicionado por la sabia combinación de tacones, falda que obligaba a moverse de un modo determinado, caderas en las que nunca se ponía el sol y garbo propio de hembras de gloriosa casta. En aquel tiempo, las mujeres se movían como en el cine y como señoras porque iban al cine y porque, además, eran señoras.
Con esa charla hemos llegado a la calle Mayor, donde se divisa por la proa un ejemplo rotundo de cuanto hemos dicho. Entre una cita de Shakespeare y otra de Henry James, o de uno de ésos, Javier mira al frente con el radar de adquisición de objetivos haciendo bip-bip-bip, yo sigo la dirección de sus ojos que me dicen no he querido saber pero he sabido, y se nos cruza una rubia de buena cara y mejor figura, vestida de negro y con zapatos de tacón, que camina arqueando las piernas, toc, toc, con tan poca gracia que es como para, piadosamente –¿acaso no se mata a los caballos?–, abatirla de un escopetazo. Nos paramos a mirarla mientras se aleja, moviendo desolados la cabeza. Quod erat demostrandum, le digo al de Redonda para probarle que yo también tengo mis clásicos. Mírala, chaval: belleza, cuerpo perfecto, pero cuando decide ponerse elegante parece una marmota dominguera. Y es que han perdido la costumbre, colega. Vestirse como una señora, con tacón alto y el garbo adecuado, no se improvisa, ni se consigue entrando en una zapatería buena y en una tienda de ropa cara. No se pasa así como así de sentarse despatarrada, el tatuaje en la teta y el piercing en el ombligo a unos zapatos de Manolo Blahnik y un vestido de Chanel o de Versace. Puede ocurrir como con ese chiste del caballero que ve a una señora bellísima y muy bien puesta, sentada en una cafetería. «Es usted –le dice– la mujer más hermosa y elegante que he visto en mi vida. Me fascinan esos ojos, esa boca, esa forma de vestir. La amo, se lo juro. Pero respóndame, por favor. Dígame algo.» Y la otra contesta: «¿Pa qué?… ¿Pa cagarla?».
Arturo Pérez-Reverte
En fin, supongo que como no quedan mujeres de rompe y rasga, los hombres se olvidaron de las causas por las que luchar.
Muchas veces he dicho que apenas quedan mujeres como las de antes. Ni en el cine, ni fuera de él. Y me refiero a mujeres de esas que pisaban fuerte y sentías temblar el suelo a su paso. Mujeres de bandera. Lo comento con Javier Marías saliendo del hotel Palace, donde en el vestíbulo vemos a una torda espectacular. «Aunque ordinaria», opina Javier. «Creo que no lo sabe», apunto yo. Seguimos conversando carrera de San Jerónimo arriba, en dirección a la puerta del Sol. Es una noche madrileña animada, cálida y agradable, que nos suministra abundante material para observación y glosa. Yo me muevo, fiel a mis mitos, en un registro que va de Ava Gardner y Debra Paget a Kim Novak, pasando por la Silvana Mangano de Arroz amargo; y Javier añade los nombres de Donna Reed, Rhonda Fleming, Jane Rusell y Angie Dickinson, que apruebo con entusiasmo. Coincidimos además en dos señoras de belleza abrumadora, aunque opuesta: Sophia Loren y Grace Kelly. Al referirnos a la primera, Javier y yo emitimos aullidos a lo Mastroianni propios de nuestro sexo –no de nuestro género, imbéciles– que vuelven superfluo cualquier comentario adicional. Haciendo, por cierto, darse por aludidas, sin fundamento, a unas focas desechos de tienta que pasan junto a nosotros vestidas con pantalón pirata, lorzas al aire y camiseta sudada; creyendo, las infelices, que nuestro «por allí resopla» va con ellas. Respecto a Grace Kelly, dicho sea de paso, me anoto un punto con el rey de Redonda –me encanta madrugarle en materia cinéfila, pues no ocurre casi nunca–, porque él no recuerda la secuencia del pasillo del hotel en Atrapa a un ladrón, cuando doña Grace se vuelve y besa a Cary Grant ante la puerta, de un modo que haría a cualquier varón normalmente constituido dar la vida por ser el señor Grant.
Pero no sólo era el cine, concluimos, sino la vida real. Los dos somos veteranos del año 51 y tenemos, cine aparte, recuerdos personales que aplicar al asunto: madres, tías, primas mayores, vecinas. Esas medias con costura sobre zapatos de aguja, comenta Javier con sonrisa nostálgica. Esas siluetas, añado yo, gloriosas e inconfundibles: cintura ceñida, curva de caderas y falda de tubo ajustada hasta las rodillas. Etcétera. No era casual, concluimos, que en las fotos familiares nuestras madres parezcan estrellas de cine; o que tal vez fuesen las estrellas de cine las que se parecían muchísimo a ellas. Hasta las niñas, en el recreo, se recogían con una mano la falda del babi y procuraban caminar como las mujeres mayores, con suave contoneo condicionado por la sabia combinación de tacones, falda que obligaba a moverse de un modo determinado, caderas en las que nunca se ponía el sol y garbo propio de hembras de gloriosa casta. En aquel tiempo, las mujeres se movían como en el cine y como señoras porque iban al cine y porque, además, eran señoras.
Con esa charla hemos llegado a la calle Mayor, donde se divisa por la proa un ejemplo rotundo de cuanto hemos dicho. Entre una cita de Shakespeare y otra de Henry James, o de uno de ésos, Javier mira al frente con el radar de adquisición de objetivos haciendo bip-bip-bip, yo sigo la dirección de sus ojos que me dicen no he querido saber pero he sabido, y se nos cruza una rubia de buena cara y mejor figura, vestida de negro y con zapatos de tacón, que camina arqueando las piernas, toc, toc, con tan poca gracia que es como para, piadosamente –¿acaso no se mata a los caballos?–, abatirla de un escopetazo. Nos paramos a mirarla mientras se aleja, moviendo desolados la cabeza. Quod erat demostrandum, le digo al de Redonda para probarle que yo también tengo mis clásicos. Mírala, chaval: belleza, cuerpo perfecto, pero cuando decide ponerse elegante parece una marmota dominguera. Y es que han perdido la costumbre, colega. Vestirse como una señora, con tacón alto y el garbo adecuado, no se improvisa, ni se consigue entrando en una zapatería buena y en una tienda de ropa cara. No se pasa así como así de sentarse despatarrada, el tatuaje en la teta y el piercing en el ombligo a unos zapatos de Manolo Blahnik y un vestido de Chanel o de Versace. Puede ocurrir como con ese chiste del caballero que ve a una señora bellísima y muy bien puesta, sentada en una cafetería. «Es usted –le dice– la mujer más hermosa y elegante que he visto en mi vida. Me fascinan esos ojos, esa boca, esa forma de vestir. La amo, se lo juro. Pero respóndame, por favor. Dígame algo.» Y la otra contesta: «¿Pa qué?… ¿Pa cagarla?».
Arturo Pérez-Reverte
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Please take this cancer back
My illness, the "maladie", will not kill me easily.
Euthanasia.
Those who are against it don´t know anything about the pain, the loss of self respect, all the little things that give you some dignity when looking at the mirror and claiming to be a human being.
really, please someone help me.
Euthanasia.
Those who are against it don´t know anything about the pain, the loss of self respect, all the little things that give you some dignity when looking at the mirror and claiming to be a human being.
really, please someone help me.
Take my life
One thing leads to the other, a snake biting its own tail, the beginning is the end is the beginning (thanks B.C.) and I don´t know anymore how it all started.
now I just want to die.
to afraid and to silly to do it by own hand.
not even for that I´ll be remember.
is there anybody who can help me?
now I just want to die.
to afraid and to silly to do it by own hand.
not even for that I´ll be remember.
is there anybody who can help me?
Thursday, June 28, 2007
intensity
So,
that´s all, I guess.
Not even goodbye.
No "let´s be friends"
nothing.
And it hurts as I´ve actually know you.
that´s all, I guess.
Not even goodbye.
No "let´s be friends"
nothing.
And it hurts as I´ve actually know you.
Monday, June 18, 2007
It´s night
So we are back to where we were before.
You won´t speak and damn me if I´m going to be one breaking up the silence.
It is silly, we´ve built this wall around and between us, leaving outside common sense and our feelings towards each other. I know we are so good together and at the same time so destructive. Now you are probably outside working, as I have been, but we are so stubborn we would not let the other know. We like it complicated. So now both of us sit in our rooms wondering where we are and if we are thinking of each other. No, I don´t think of you every night and second. No, I don´t sigh at your image, longing for your smile. That would be not knowing who we are.
I think of you. I know you. I´ve seen your demons.
That´s more than enough.
That´s more than you know about me. Will ever know about me.
You won´t speak and damn me if I´m going to be one breaking up the silence.
It is silly, we´ve built this wall around and between us, leaving outside common sense and our feelings towards each other. I know we are so good together and at the same time so destructive. Now you are probably outside working, as I have been, but we are so stubborn we would not let the other know. We like it complicated. So now both of us sit in our rooms wondering where we are and if we are thinking of each other. No, I don´t think of you every night and second. No, I don´t sigh at your image, longing for your smile. That would be not knowing who we are.
I think of you. I know you. I´ve seen your demons.
That´s more than enough.
That´s more than you know about me. Will ever know about me.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Oh, it´s amazing how boring people can be.
I don´t like ping-pong, i don´t like hypocrytes, i´m bored to death of existencialist stucked ups who think they are smarter than anyone, i think people who like to be trendy by not being trendy are stupid and i have to say i enjoy much more this side of the moon.
I don´t like ping-pong, i don´t like hypocrytes, i´m bored to death of existencialist stucked ups who think they are smarter than anyone, i think people who like to be trendy by not being trendy are stupid and i have to say i enjoy much more this side of the moon.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Sometimes it´s harder if it is your friend
After nearly ten years of silence i´ve discovered something.
I don´t like living with you.
And you don´t like living with me.
The problem here is that I suspect you´ve known this for quite a long time, but never said anything. Why?
It´s hard for me right now because I don´t want to lose your friendship and that is precisely the reason I´m asking you to go. If we are to still be friends in the future only going separate ways seems to be the answer.
I don´t want to push you away, I still care for you, you are still my best friend... and I have to let you go.
But what bothers me is your silence. Why you´ve kept quiet all this time?
laziness? I wish you´d tell me, but your lips are as sealed as they´ve always been.
The illness is back, the next months will be tough and I really don´t want to lay any burden in you.
I wish to be alone.
I just need space and I think you do too.
You need a house of your own, to care for, to decorate, to be a mother...
I need a house to create, to distruct, to be my own...
I´m sorry.
I hope you can understand me.
I hope you will not hate me.
I hope you still want to be my friend.
Because I am.
I don´t like living with you.
And you don´t like living with me.
The problem here is that I suspect you´ve known this for quite a long time, but never said anything. Why?
It´s hard for me right now because I don´t want to lose your friendship and that is precisely the reason I´m asking you to go. If we are to still be friends in the future only going separate ways seems to be the answer.
I don´t want to push you away, I still care for you, you are still my best friend... and I have to let you go.
But what bothers me is your silence. Why you´ve kept quiet all this time?
laziness? I wish you´d tell me, but your lips are as sealed as they´ve always been.
The illness is back, the next months will be tough and I really don´t want to lay any burden in you.
I wish to be alone.
I just need space and I think you do too.
You need a house of your own, to care for, to decorate, to be a mother...
I need a house to create, to distruct, to be my own...
I´m sorry.
I hope you can understand me.
I hope you will not hate me.
I hope you still want to be my friend.
Because I am.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Mr. Colin White
Está sentado frente a mi. Es delgado, todo su pelo es cano y su rostro surcado de arrugas es como un mapa de rutas marinas. Tose frecuentemente por el humo del cigarro y el polvo de las minas acumulado en sus pulmones, y que seguramente terminará costándole la vida. Aún así es un hombre capaz de gobernar un barco él solo y de llevar el timón de un salón de clases.
Su padre y su madre pertenecían a la clase obrera de un pequeño pueblo al sur de Londres. Corría el año de 1932 y se empezaba a sentir en el aire la amenaza de la nube fascista que devastaría Europa. Se mudó con su familia en el ´39 a la capital, pero debió abandonarla pronto junto con su hermano, debido a los bombardeos. Su padre marcha al frente por lo que se convierte en el jefe de familia, dividiendo su infancia entre Gales, Escocia e Inglaterra.
Asiste a la secundaria en una escuela de gobierno, de la que conserva muy buenos recuerdos y al terminarla es aceptado en la Universidad de Cambridge.
Antes de partir a la Universidad debe hacer el servicio militar, que lo llevaría a entrenar soldados destinados a luchar en Corea. En un momento decisivo en su vida resuelve dejar atrás Cambridge; por lealtad permanece con su regimiento y parte él también hacia Corea. Sin embargo, es herido, debe regresar a casa y como algo predestinado, termina por ingresar a la Universidad.
Estudia Letras Inglesas con las figuras más influyentes en el ámbito cultural de la época. En las vacaciones trabaja como minero en túneles en Escocia, también como leñador y ocasionalmente en granjas, segando campos. Al terminar la Universidad continúa como minero, unas de las pocas decisiones de las que se arrepiente en su vida, me dice mientras deja vagar la mirada, sin encontrar todavía una respuesta.
En 1956, su postura política en torno a los problemas del Canal de Suez, lo hacen partir molesto de Inglaterra. Toma rumbo a Canadá, donde lleva la vida dura que nosotros leemos en las novelas de aventuras de Jack London. Trabaja como minero sacando plata, hasta que los precios bajan y se ve obligado a regresar a la profesión de leñador, lo que le agrada mucho, pues realmente le gusta el bosque.
Debido a una nevada imprevista se ve sin trabajo paseando un día por Vancouver cuando ve un póster invocador: México, decía de manera enigmática. Sin pensarlo mucho, se dirige a la terminal de camiones y pide un boleto para Veracruz, única referencia que tiene gracias a una película con Gary Cooper y Burt Lancaster. Ahí conoce a la mujer que lo ha acompañado a partir de entonces en todo su peregrinaje. Regresa a Canadá donde gana algo de dinero jugando cartas y se establece más tarde de manera definitiva en México. Por motivos de trabajo se viene a la capital, donde colabora con Juan Ibáñez y Carlos Fuentes como traductor en una serie de guiones, reminiscencias de cuando era crítico de cine en la Facultad.
Da clases en la Facultad de Ingeniería en la UNAM y después se pasa a Filosofía y Letras, a la carrera de letras Inglesas. Molesto, otra vez, por la situación en el movimiento estudiantil del ´68, deja la escuela por un par de años para construir su primer barco, el cual le es quitado por el gobierno, en un incidente del cual no habla mucho, lo que no le desanima y al poco tiempo inicia la construcción de otro.
Regresa a la UNAM en el ´74 y ahí permanece desde entonces, inspirando a generación tras generación, convirtiéndose en el mentor de muchos, incluyendo a quien escribe estas líneas. Hay muchas cosas que desconozco de él, pero sé que le gusta Keats, que aunque finja lo contrario adora a sus alumnos, que toma su café con mucho azúcar y piensa qué nosotros los jóvenes leemos muy poco. También sé que usa la misma corbata desde hace muchos años, misma que le regaló un alumno que murió joven y que como todos los que vieron sus vidas terminadas muy pronto, permanece en su memoria.
Dice que ahora nos preocupamos mucho por ser, que él no desearía haber sido nada más, que está contento con hacer. Ha hecho lo que quiere, pero cuando le pregunto que cosas le hubiera gustado hacer me contesta firme: todo. Es feliz en México, se sabe afortunado, pero ahora sentado frente a mí, veo el brillo en sus ojos cuando habla de su tierra, pero no deja traslucir nada con su característica flema británica.
Ahora finalizó la construcción de su tercer barco y lo tiene anclado en Isla Mujeres, listo para zarpar, en lo que promete ser un viaje a la isla caribeña de Cuba. Solo, pues navega en soledad.
Something written by a young friend of mine, big eyed lady who still believes in fairies and knights.
Su padre y su madre pertenecían a la clase obrera de un pequeño pueblo al sur de Londres. Corría el año de 1932 y se empezaba a sentir en el aire la amenaza de la nube fascista que devastaría Europa. Se mudó con su familia en el ´39 a la capital, pero debió abandonarla pronto junto con su hermano, debido a los bombardeos. Su padre marcha al frente por lo que se convierte en el jefe de familia, dividiendo su infancia entre Gales, Escocia e Inglaterra.
Asiste a la secundaria en una escuela de gobierno, de la que conserva muy buenos recuerdos y al terminarla es aceptado en la Universidad de Cambridge.
Antes de partir a la Universidad debe hacer el servicio militar, que lo llevaría a entrenar soldados destinados a luchar en Corea. En un momento decisivo en su vida resuelve dejar atrás Cambridge; por lealtad permanece con su regimiento y parte él también hacia Corea. Sin embargo, es herido, debe regresar a casa y como algo predestinado, termina por ingresar a la Universidad.
Estudia Letras Inglesas con las figuras más influyentes en el ámbito cultural de la época. En las vacaciones trabaja como minero en túneles en Escocia, también como leñador y ocasionalmente en granjas, segando campos. Al terminar la Universidad continúa como minero, unas de las pocas decisiones de las que se arrepiente en su vida, me dice mientras deja vagar la mirada, sin encontrar todavía una respuesta.
En 1956, su postura política en torno a los problemas del Canal de Suez, lo hacen partir molesto de Inglaterra. Toma rumbo a Canadá, donde lleva la vida dura que nosotros leemos en las novelas de aventuras de Jack London. Trabaja como minero sacando plata, hasta que los precios bajan y se ve obligado a regresar a la profesión de leñador, lo que le agrada mucho, pues realmente le gusta el bosque.
Debido a una nevada imprevista se ve sin trabajo paseando un día por Vancouver cuando ve un póster invocador: México, decía de manera enigmática. Sin pensarlo mucho, se dirige a la terminal de camiones y pide un boleto para Veracruz, única referencia que tiene gracias a una película con Gary Cooper y Burt Lancaster. Ahí conoce a la mujer que lo ha acompañado a partir de entonces en todo su peregrinaje. Regresa a Canadá donde gana algo de dinero jugando cartas y se establece más tarde de manera definitiva en México. Por motivos de trabajo se viene a la capital, donde colabora con Juan Ibáñez y Carlos Fuentes como traductor en una serie de guiones, reminiscencias de cuando era crítico de cine en la Facultad.
Da clases en la Facultad de Ingeniería en la UNAM y después se pasa a Filosofía y Letras, a la carrera de letras Inglesas. Molesto, otra vez, por la situación en el movimiento estudiantil del ´68, deja la escuela por un par de años para construir su primer barco, el cual le es quitado por el gobierno, en un incidente del cual no habla mucho, lo que no le desanima y al poco tiempo inicia la construcción de otro.
Regresa a la UNAM en el ´74 y ahí permanece desde entonces, inspirando a generación tras generación, convirtiéndose en el mentor de muchos, incluyendo a quien escribe estas líneas. Hay muchas cosas que desconozco de él, pero sé que le gusta Keats, que aunque finja lo contrario adora a sus alumnos, que toma su café con mucho azúcar y piensa qué nosotros los jóvenes leemos muy poco. También sé que usa la misma corbata desde hace muchos años, misma que le regaló un alumno que murió joven y que como todos los que vieron sus vidas terminadas muy pronto, permanece en su memoria.
Dice que ahora nos preocupamos mucho por ser, que él no desearía haber sido nada más, que está contento con hacer. Ha hecho lo que quiere, pero cuando le pregunto que cosas le hubiera gustado hacer me contesta firme: todo. Es feliz en México, se sabe afortunado, pero ahora sentado frente a mí, veo el brillo en sus ojos cuando habla de su tierra, pero no deja traslucir nada con su característica flema británica.
Ahora finalizó la construcción de su tercer barco y lo tiene anclado en Isla Mujeres, listo para zarpar, en lo que promete ser un viaje a la isla caribeña de Cuba. Solo, pues navega en soledad.
Something written by a young friend of mine, big eyed lady who still believes in fairies and knights.
Letters to a friend
to Percy Bysshe Shelley,
Ravenna, April 26, 1821
The child continues doing well, and the accounts are regular and favorable. It is gratifying to me that you and Mrs Shelley do not disapprove of the step which I have taken, which is merely temporary.
I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats - is it actually true? I did not think criticism had been so killing. Though I differ from you essentially in your estimate of his performances, I so much abhor all unnecessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on the highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such a manner. Poor fellow! though with such inordinate self-love he would probably have not been very happy. I read the review of "Endymion" in the Quarterly. It was severe, - but surely not so severe as many reviews in that and other journals upon others.
I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my first poem; it was rage, and resistance, and redress - but not despondency nor despair. I grant that those are not amiable feelings; but, in this world of bustle and broil, and especially in the career of writing, a man should calculate upon his powers of resistance before he goes into the arena.
"Expect not life from pain nor danger free,
Nor deem the doom of man reversed for thee."
You know my opinion of that second-hand school of poetry. You also know my high opinion of your own poetry, - because it is of no school. I read Cenci - but, besides that I think the subject essentially undramatic, I am not an admirer of our old dramatists, as models. I deny that the English have hitherto had a drama at all. Your Cenci, however, was a work of power, and poetry. As to my drama, pray revenge yourself upon it, by being as free as I have been with yours.
I have not yet got your Prometheus, which I long to see. I have heard nothing of mine, and do not know if it is yet published. I have published a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will not like. Had I known that Keats was dead - or that he was alive and so sensitive - I should have omitted some remarks upon his poetry, to which I was provoked by his attack upon Pope, and my disapprobation of his own style of writing.
You want me to undertake a great Poem - I have not the inclination nor the power. As I grow older, the indifference - not to life, for we love it by instinct - but to the stimuli of life, increases. Besides, this late failure of the Italians has latterly disappointed me for many reasons, - some public, some personal. My respects to Mrs S.
Yours ever.
BYRON
P.S. Could not you and I contrive to meet this summer? Could not you take a run here alone?
Ravenna, April 26, 1821
The child continues doing well, and the accounts are regular and favorable. It is gratifying to me that you and Mrs Shelley do not disapprove of the step which I have taken, which is merely temporary.
I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats - is it actually true? I did not think criticism had been so killing. Though I differ from you essentially in your estimate of his performances, I so much abhor all unnecessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on the highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such a manner. Poor fellow! though with such inordinate self-love he would probably have not been very happy. I read the review of "Endymion" in the Quarterly. It was severe, - but surely not so severe as many reviews in that and other journals upon others.
I recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on my first poem; it was rage, and resistance, and redress - but not despondency nor despair. I grant that those are not amiable feelings; but, in this world of bustle and broil, and especially in the career of writing, a man should calculate upon his powers of resistance before he goes into the arena.
"Expect not life from pain nor danger free,
Nor deem the doom of man reversed for thee."
You know my opinion of that second-hand school of poetry. You also know my high opinion of your own poetry, - because it is of no school. I read Cenci - but, besides that I think the subject essentially undramatic, I am not an admirer of our old dramatists, as models. I deny that the English have hitherto had a drama at all. Your Cenci, however, was a work of power, and poetry. As to my drama, pray revenge yourself upon it, by being as free as I have been with yours.
I have not yet got your Prometheus, which I long to see. I have heard nothing of mine, and do not know if it is yet published. I have published a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will not like. Had I known that Keats was dead - or that he was alive and so sensitive - I should have omitted some remarks upon his poetry, to which I was provoked by his attack upon Pope, and my disapprobation of his own style of writing.
You want me to undertake a great Poem - I have not the inclination nor the power. As I grow older, the indifference - not to life, for we love it by instinct - but to the stimuli of life, increases. Besides, this late failure of the Italians has latterly disappointed me for many reasons, - some public, some personal. My respects to Mrs S.
Yours ever.
BYRON
P.S. Could not you and I contrive to meet this summer? Could not you take a run here alone?
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Wife of an acrobat
She listens to him shouting in the other room, the tone of his voice raising with each phrase. She wasn´t fully asleep when the phone rang for the first time and after a couple of angry shouts he hanged up. She stayed awake, very still, waiting for the next ring, for she knew there was to be another one. When it came she heard him sigh and felt him getting up and going outside the room. She layed there for a couple of minutes and heard him. She was a little bit annoyed for being woke up and felt slightly curious for the woman on the other side of the line. She barely knew her, but from what she could tell, the other was a smart, pretty woman. She wondered what nasty turns of destiny had put that woman into that situation. She wondered if he would shout at her like that one day. Hardly. She wasn´t planning on staying long enough for that to happen. She was tired, she wanted to fall asleep again, but it was impossible with all these things going trough her mind. She got up and look at herself in the mirror. The image answered back, the dark circles under her eyes, her soft body, her messy hair. That look of too many dawns, the look of knowing. She cursed both him and the other woman for forcing her to get into these mental acrobatics. She started to get dressed, thinking of having breakfast down the park, strawberries and french toasts, or maybe go to the gym, when he entered back into the room. Without any word, as if he knew what she had been thinking, he jumped into the bed and embraced her and hid his face in her chest. She felt his heart still running fast from his fight with his exgirlfriend. She touched lightly his back, just the tip of her fingers, feeling his breath slowing down. She relaxed and let his full weight fall on her. It amused her a little bit to discover she wasn´t going to move, that she was going to stay there, holding him. She knew she was in love. With a yawn she wondered, but for how long? She was sure he didn´t love her, never will, so she could only hope to get away before it was too late. She wished for a moment to be able to stay, really stay, but then she remembered the living dead, the image in the mirror and shook her head with a shriver running down her spine. She looked at him and closed her eyes. Just a couple of minutes, and she would be gone for good, the sound of her heels and laughter still floating in the air long after she was gone.
Just one more moment...
Just one more moment...
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Counting the minutes
I can´t sleep tonight, expectation too high running through my head to close my eyes.
Tomorrow I´ll get a phone call, a succesful tough woman is calling me, she´s going to interview me for a job. She doesn´t wan´t me for that job. A friend of mine has almost forced her to take me. It´s nothing personal, she just doesn´t like working with girls and would much rather have a friend of hers for this kind of work. But that is precisely the reason my friend has pushed so hard to get me, because he NEEDS a friend close to him for this particular job.
But I need to say the right things to this woman, or she might find something to not hire me.
I´m nervous.
Specially because I´m not really sure I´m fit for the job. I´m supossed to be. In theory. I always get cold feet when something is about to happen to me. This also has to do with all the second thoughts I´m having in my life right now about everything who I am.
But listen to me, I sound so pathetic. Little scared girl not being able to stand up for what she´s been fighting for.
I know that script almost as well as the director, I helped write it, I just need to feel and sound strong enough to not discourage this woman. I need to convince myself that I can do this and then I will be able to convince her.
And if things don´t work out, is not the end of the world. Really girl, you already have more job options.
You just want this really hard, it´s going to be a proof, a life proof.
Tomorrow might change my life.
Tomorrow I´ll get a phone call, a succesful tough woman is calling me, she´s going to interview me for a job. She doesn´t wan´t me for that job. A friend of mine has almost forced her to take me. It´s nothing personal, she just doesn´t like working with girls and would much rather have a friend of hers for this kind of work. But that is precisely the reason my friend has pushed so hard to get me, because he NEEDS a friend close to him for this particular job.
But I need to say the right things to this woman, or she might find something to not hire me.
I´m nervous.
Specially because I´m not really sure I´m fit for the job. I´m supossed to be. In theory. I always get cold feet when something is about to happen to me. This also has to do with all the second thoughts I´m having in my life right now about everything who I am.
But listen to me, I sound so pathetic. Little scared girl not being able to stand up for what she´s been fighting for.
I know that script almost as well as the director, I helped write it, I just need to feel and sound strong enough to not discourage this woman. I need to convince myself that I can do this and then I will be able to convince her.
And if things don´t work out, is not the end of the world. Really girl, you already have more job options.
You just want this really hard, it´s going to be a proof, a life proof.
Tomorrow might change my life.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
I´ve seen it all
She lays in her bed, closed curtains and the smell of sickness around, empty glasses, pills, medicine jars, her room has become the escenario of her disease.
She reaches over and grabs a book, reads a couple of lines but can´t concentrate. She opens her diary and writes a couple of lines but closes it impatiently without being able to find words.
Words, words that used to come to her so easily and now elude her. A ray of light filters trough one or the curtains and she follows its trace, longs for the warmth of that little piece of sun.
Milla enters the room and goes straight to the warm spot of the room. She sits there, light playing over her rich coat of snow and dots, staring with her hazel big eyes to the woman in the bed, wondering when she´ll get up to play with her.
She reaches over and grabs a book, reads a couple of lines but can´t concentrate. She opens her diary and writes a couple of lines but closes it impatiently without being able to find words.
Words, words that used to come to her so easily and now elude her. A ray of light filters trough one or the curtains and she follows its trace, longs for the warmth of that little piece of sun.
Milla enters the room and goes straight to the warm spot of the room. She sits there, light playing over her rich coat of snow and dots, staring with her hazel big eyes to the woman in the bed, wondering when she´ll get up to play with her.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
I can´t tell the truth
if i believed, i would pray right now.
for forgivness.
the horror, the damage is so strong?
shall i never find redemption?
on my knees i am praying to a godless sky.
for forgivness.
the horror, the damage is so strong?
shall i never find redemption?
on my knees i am praying to a godless sky.
Monday, April 23, 2007
My name is pain and my blood is revenge
But I will not ask for revenge.
I will remain in my distant kingdom staring at the empty walls.
I shall not pray for revenge.
I won´t ask for his blood. My curse won´t fall upon his name.
I can´t call for revenge.
I´ll refrain the treacherous hand that threatens to close his eyes.
Revenge will not knock on his door.
I´ll forgive him.
I´ll forgive me.
He knows his blood is on my lips.
He knows I´ve turned my eyes to the other side. Pride no longer being a weapon to use.
He doesn´t know everything.
My steps are silent. You won´t hear me entering the room. You´ll hesitate before turning your head.
By that moment I´ll already be behind you.
Never saw that coming didn´t you?
I will remain in my distant kingdom staring at the empty walls.
I shall not pray for revenge.
I won´t ask for his blood. My curse won´t fall upon his name.
I can´t call for revenge.
I´ll refrain the treacherous hand that threatens to close his eyes.
Revenge will not knock on his door.
I´ll forgive him.
I´ll forgive me.
He knows his blood is on my lips.
He knows I´ve turned my eyes to the other side. Pride no longer being a weapon to use.
He doesn´t know everything.
My steps are silent. You won´t hear me entering the room. You´ll hesitate before turning your head.
By that moment I´ll already be behind you.
Never saw that coming didn´t you?
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The last days of winter
Angel
Angel come on down from heaven yesterday
Stayed with me just long enough to rescue me
And she told me a story yesterday
About the love between the moon
And the deep blue sea
Then she spread her wings high above me
And she said she gonna come back tomorrow
And I said
Fly on by, sweet angel
Fly on through the sky
Fly on, my sweet angel
Tomorrow I will be right by your side
Sure enough, this woman came home to me
Silver wings, silhouette against a child's own prize
Oh, angel, she said unto me
Today is the day for you to rise
Take my hand, take my hand
You're gonna rise
And then, she took me high over yonder
And I said
Fly on by, sweet angel
Fly on through the sky
Fly on, my sweet angel
Forever I will be right by your side
(Hendrix)
Another day´s lifetime for the lonely wolf.
Back in the asphalt world, getting back in shape.
Who knows where the next battle´ll take place.
Pretending not to care, holding my stomach tight everytime the phone rings, wondering if it´ll be my partner for this silent stars of the cinema, the bloodstream, the river...
All my walls are plain white after I took every bit of me off them. Now they don´t belong to anyone.
But I guess it´s le temp pour la nouvelle chanson, and I must open the windows and let the night air hit me straight in the face.
One by one the pictures will take their place. The image of Chatterton on his death bed, the lady of Shallot, Byron´s greek costume, Damiel kissing the acrobat under Cassiel´s watch, the Brittanny enchanted forests, the photos of the forever boy with the sad eyes, the beaches, the Camdem town hookers of Walter Sickert, my preciuos rivers, the Africa I´ve never been to. The family I long for so strongly.
Some might be lost in the way, but it´s time to say goodbye to some ghosts and most of the living will remain.
And so, I smile and make a little curtsy and present myself to this spring summer to be, wearing my winter´s gloves, because my hands are always cold.
And I let the light to fall in my face while shivers travel down my spine.
Angel come on down from heaven yesterday
Stayed with me just long enough to rescue me
And she told me a story yesterday
About the love between the moon
And the deep blue sea
Then she spread her wings high above me
And she said she gonna come back tomorrow
And I said
Fly on by, sweet angel
Fly on through the sky
Fly on, my sweet angel
Tomorrow I will be right by your side
Sure enough, this woman came home to me
Silver wings, silhouette against a child's own prize
Oh, angel, she said unto me
Today is the day for you to rise
Take my hand, take my hand
You're gonna rise
And then, she took me high over yonder
And I said
Fly on by, sweet angel
Fly on through the sky
Fly on, my sweet angel
Forever I will be right by your side
(Hendrix)
Another day´s lifetime for the lonely wolf.
Back in the asphalt world, getting back in shape.
Who knows where the next battle´ll take place.
Pretending not to care, holding my stomach tight everytime the phone rings, wondering if it´ll be my partner for this silent stars of the cinema, the bloodstream, the river...
All my walls are plain white after I took every bit of me off them. Now they don´t belong to anyone.
But I guess it´s le temp pour la nouvelle chanson, and I must open the windows and let the night air hit me straight in the face.
One by one the pictures will take their place. The image of Chatterton on his death bed, the lady of Shallot, Byron´s greek costume, Damiel kissing the acrobat under Cassiel´s watch, the Brittanny enchanted forests, the photos of the forever boy with the sad eyes, the beaches, the Camdem town hookers of Walter Sickert, my preciuos rivers, the Africa I´ve never been to. The family I long for so strongly.
Some might be lost in the way, but it´s time to say goodbye to some ghosts and most of the living will remain.
And so, I smile and make a little curtsy and present myself to this spring summer to be, wearing my winter´s gloves, because my hands are always cold.
And I let the light to fall in my face while shivers travel down my spine.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
lonely Wolf
Life
Live
living
i´m still alive
one day
another one
warmth inside me
Holding on.
I am trying to hold on
i´m learning to paint an elephant.
a lamb
a fox
for the lonely wolf
Live
living
i´m still alive
one day
another one
warmth inside me
Holding on.
I am trying to hold on
i´m learning to paint an elephant.
a lamb
a fox
for the lonely wolf
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Bad bad girl
I´ve been a pretty good girl.
I am taking my medicines, eating well (kind of), calling my mother and I´ve found a job. Yei! surprise surprise, it´s one that doesn´t involve taking out the worms out of anybody´s arm or going to the bathroom in a hole on the ground.
Yei! Please, please not let anything ruin it, i´m becoming so superstitious.
I love being able to let go. I should´ve start doing it years ago! I love not caring for you anymore, it´s a great feeling to go out, maybe watch a film or have a cup of tea or maybe not even speak to each other and feel ok with it. I have always said we are better as friends. we are finally achieving it. I know you have your doubts and you still put that puppy face look, but come on, isn´t it more fun this way? Go to your girlfriend, to your work, to your life of little details, to the voices in your head, to your friends and I´ll keep running on the other direction. Just like it was always meant to be.
On the other hand I´ve managed, as I said on the previous post, to put myself in trouble with YOU again. Gosh, why i like you so much? I am not calling you, I´ve managed to keep that promise to myself. But I would really really love to see you. Besides, with the kid walking in the forest, I feel bored, obviously I don´t miss him, but at least he is fun to be around and keeps me from thinking of you.
Oh and trust me, I do feel a little bit guilty about that issue I haven´t told you about Him who can read minds. I know that if HE finds out he´ll go crazy (interesting choice of words), but i am still tryoing to figure out what will be your reaction, probably best to just find out and tell you. But for that I need to see you and I won´t call you and you are such an intense little thing who is precisely thinking of calling me or not, depending on the ammount of trouble we want to get involved. Yeesh.
But well.
I am taking my medicines, eating well (kind of), calling my mother and I´ve found a job. Yei! surprise surprise, it´s one that doesn´t involve taking out the worms out of anybody´s arm or going to the bathroom in a hole on the ground.
Yei! Please, please not let anything ruin it, i´m becoming so superstitious.
I love being able to let go. I should´ve start doing it years ago! I love not caring for you anymore, it´s a great feeling to go out, maybe watch a film or have a cup of tea or maybe not even speak to each other and feel ok with it. I have always said we are better as friends. we are finally achieving it. I know you have your doubts and you still put that puppy face look, but come on, isn´t it more fun this way? Go to your girlfriend, to your work, to your life of little details, to the voices in your head, to your friends and I´ll keep running on the other direction. Just like it was always meant to be.
On the other hand I´ve managed, as I said on the previous post, to put myself in trouble with YOU again. Gosh, why i like you so much? I am not calling you, I´ve managed to keep that promise to myself. But I would really really love to see you. Besides, with the kid walking in the forest, I feel bored, obviously I don´t miss him, but at least he is fun to be around and keeps me from thinking of you.
Oh and trust me, I do feel a little bit guilty about that issue I haven´t told you about Him who can read minds. I know that if HE finds out he´ll go crazy (interesting choice of words), but i am still tryoing to figure out what will be your reaction, probably best to just find out and tell you. But for that I need to see you and I won´t call you and you are such an intense little thing who is precisely thinking of calling me or not, depending on the ammount of trouble we want to get involved. Yeesh.
But well.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
These pretty life of mine
I never look back on the things I´ve written, like an obscure pact between words and myself, once in the outside they don´t belong to me anymore, so why dwell upon them?
But, if I ever read these things again, probably I´ll find this story about a pretty, little intense girl trapped in the body of a transvesti who is convinced he is a woman, lines and lines of blood, revenge, passion and intensity. lots of it.
Some days lighter than others I guess. This is a hard job to keep 24/7.
But I think I`ve managed pretty good, so far.
Oh, this one is great. I´m in love with you again. Ain´t that cute? after all this time, avoiding it, knowing you will hurt me and all that stuff and it took less than five minutes to be tangled up again in this little piece of a mess.
Good think you don´t know. I think you don´t know. Bullocks. That would be awful, because you are already a little work of egocentric energy, so if you are sure I like so much, good grief, you´ll become intolerable. And I´ll stand you anyway.
The kid is right about something, I like men because of the reflection of myself I see in them, which as a matter of fact I believe applies for everyone (we all have egos, right?), so throw the first stone. But it is true, altough sometimes might not be an image of myself of which I feel so proud. That is the catch. So that is way I´m not so great in picking the right guys. But I really like the woman I see trough you. So I´m back in trouble again.
That doesn´t mean I feel relieved about this big issue of mine, but as I was saying, I can´t be THAT intense all the time.
Maybe, just maybe, it is actually time to ease things a little bit on me.
Yeah, right. Like that means actually going after you. Oh, you are so tricksy.
Uff
Why I like you so much?
we don´t even stand a chance...
maybe that´s why.
I should write these stories instead of living them.
But, if I ever read these things again, probably I´ll find this story about a pretty, little intense girl trapped in the body of a transvesti who is convinced he is a woman, lines and lines of blood, revenge, passion and intensity. lots of it.
Some days lighter than others I guess. This is a hard job to keep 24/7.
But I think I`ve managed pretty good, so far.
Oh, this one is great. I´m in love with you again. Ain´t that cute? after all this time, avoiding it, knowing you will hurt me and all that stuff and it took less than five minutes to be tangled up again in this little piece of a mess.
Good think you don´t know. I think you don´t know. Bullocks. That would be awful, because you are already a little work of egocentric energy, so if you are sure I like so much, good grief, you´ll become intolerable. And I´ll stand you anyway.
The kid is right about something, I like men because of the reflection of myself I see in them, which as a matter of fact I believe applies for everyone (we all have egos, right?), so throw the first stone. But it is true, altough sometimes might not be an image of myself of which I feel so proud. That is the catch. So that is way I´m not so great in picking the right guys. But I really like the woman I see trough you. So I´m back in trouble again.
That doesn´t mean I feel relieved about this big issue of mine, but as I was saying, I can´t be THAT intense all the time.
Maybe, just maybe, it is actually time to ease things a little bit on me.
Yeah, right. Like that means actually going after you. Oh, you are so tricksy.
Uff
Why I like you so much?
we don´t even stand a chance...
maybe that´s why.
I should write these stories instead of living them.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
pain
God
please
I am looking for forgiveness,
here and only here I cry my secret, my burden,
should I be punished?
does hell fall upon those who have lived in its edege for too long and daringly cross its limits?
please it´s been so long since my life was taken away from me, i can´t remember anymore who i was before.
but take this away from me.
or sink me into oblivion so I shall not have memory.
And when the end comes, I know I´ll be alone. I can never go home.
Take this evil from my heart and leave me laying in the cold, sleeping, the long dream of snow.
please
I am looking for forgiveness,
here and only here I cry my secret, my burden,
should I be punished?
does hell fall upon those who have lived in its edege for too long and daringly cross its limits?
please it´s been so long since my life was taken away from me, i can´t remember anymore who i was before.
but take this away from me.
or sink me into oblivion so I shall not have memory.
And when the end comes, I know I´ll be alone. I can never go home.
Take this evil from my heart and leave me laying in the cold, sleeping, the long dream of snow.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Let´s be friends, best friends
Don't bother saying you're sorry.
Why don't you come in?
Smoke all my cigarettes - again.
Every time I get no further.
How long has it been?
Come on in now,
Wipe your feet on my dreams.
You take up my time,
Like some cheap magazine,
When I could have been learning something.
Oh well, you know what I mean.
I've done this before,
And I will do it again.
Come on and kill me baby,
while you smile like a friend.
And I'll come running,
Just to do it again.
You are the last drink I never should have drunk.
You are the body hidden in the trunk.
You are the habit I can't seem to kick.
You are my secrets on the front page every week.
You are the car I never should have bought.
You are the train I never should have caught.
You are the cut that makes me hide my face.
You are the party that makes me feel my age.
Like a car crash I can see but I just can't avoid.
Like a plane I've been told I never should board.
Like a film that's so bad but I've gotta stay til the end.
Let me tell you now,
It's lucky for you that we're friends.
Like a car crash I can see but I just can't avoid.
Like a plane I've been told I never should board.
Like a film that's so bad but I've gotta stay til the end.
Let me tell you now,
It's lucky for you that we're friends.
This is the way it is.
You might say my ankles are ugly, or maybe give the job to that cunt, or steal my boyfriend, or get angry because he likes me better than you.
Maybe you can hit my car and never pay for the damage. You can come and after years of working together say that I´m not fit for you anymore and kick me out of the project. You can spend months without telling me you are going to have a baby. You might flirt with me after you drop your girlfriend to the airport. You can loose my earrings. You can ruin my shoes and clothes.
You can shout in the morning because that little flirty silly of a girl won´t let you in her bed. You can finish my drugs. You always forget to pay the bills. You´ve never taken me for dinner. You can threw me out of your house ´cause I won´t sleep with you. You may call me silly. You have even threathen me. You´ve made fun of the way I dress. You have said anything nice about someone I was dating. You didn´t go to the premiere of my movie. You didn´t bring me flowers. You never remember my birthday.
You are so lucky for you that we are friends.
Or otherwise who would have lend you money? Or taken your cute little girlfriend for a night out while you were out with some one night stand? Or kept quiet while you where betraying MY friend, lying to her, to save your marriage? Or lend you my shoulder for you to cry for hours for some silly red haired bimbo.
More importantly, who else would have worked with you all these years, when everybody turned their backs to you, and nobody believed in your projects? Who would have done it for free.
But now it´s not that i don´t love u anymore. I´m still crazy for you. we are friends. I´m just tired.
And bored.
Of all your little life of details.
So next time you want someone to help you, please go you little piece of cunt and fuck yourself.
And remember. I will always be here for you.
Oh, by the way, I´m telling cat eyed lady that you lied to her, and maybe give her gorgeous indian type girl phone number. i´m sure they will have lots of things to talk about.
chop chop
Why don't you come in?
Smoke all my cigarettes - again.
Every time I get no further.
How long has it been?
Come on in now,
Wipe your feet on my dreams.
You take up my time,
Like some cheap magazine,
When I could have been learning something.
Oh well, you know what I mean.
I've done this before,
And I will do it again.
Come on and kill me baby,
while you smile like a friend.
And I'll come running,
Just to do it again.
You are the last drink I never should have drunk.
You are the body hidden in the trunk.
You are the habit I can't seem to kick.
You are my secrets on the front page every week.
You are the car I never should have bought.
You are the train I never should have caught.
You are the cut that makes me hide my face.
You are the party that makes me feel my age.
Like a car crash I can see but I just can't avoid.
Like a plane I've been told I never should board.
Like a film that's so bad but I've gotta stay til the end.
Let me tell you now,
It's lucky for you that we're friends.
Like a car crash I can see but I just can't avoid.
Like a plane I've been told I never should board.
Like a film that's so bad but I've gotta stay til the end.
Let me tell you now,
It's lucky for you that we're friends.
This is the way it is.
You might say my ankles are ugly, or maybe give the job to that cunt, or steal my boyfriend, or get angry because he likes me better than you.
Maybe you can hit my car and never pay for the damage. You can come and after years of working together say that I´m not fit for you anymore and kick me out of the project. You can spend months without telling me you are going to have a baby. You might flirt with me after you drop your girlfriend to the airport. You can loose my earrings. You can ruin my shoes and clothes.
You can shout in the morning because that little flirty silly of a girl won´t let you in her bed. You can finish my drugs. You always forget to pay the bills. You´ve never taken me for dinner. You can threw me out of your house ´cause I won´t sleep with you. You may call me silly. You have even threathen me. You´ve made fun of the way I dress. You have said anything nice about someone I was dating. You didn´t go to the premiere of my movie. You didn´t bring me flowers. You never remember my birthday.
You are so lucky for you that we are friends.
Or otherwise who would have lend you money? Or taken your cute little girlfriend for a night out while you were out with some one night stand? Or kept quiet while you where betraying MY friend, lying to her, to save your marriage? Or lend you my shoulder for you to cry for hours for some silly red haired bimbo.
More importantly, who else would have worked with you all these years, when everybody turned their backs to you, and nobody believed in your projects? Who would have done it for free.
But now it´s not that i don´t love u anymore. I´m still crazy for you. we are friends. I´m just tired.
And bored.
Of all your little life of details.
So next time you want someone to help you, please go you little piece of cunt and fuck yourself.
And remember. I will always be here for you.
Oh, by the way, I´m telling cat eyed lady that you lied to her, and maybe give her gorgeous indian type girl phone number. i´m sure they will have lots of things to talk about.
chop chop
Thursday, February 01, 2007
The reason
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
I found a reason to keep living
Oh and the reason, dear, is you
I found a reason to keep singing
Oh and the reason, dear, is you
Oh I do believe
If you don't like things you LEAVE
For some place you never gone before
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Honey, I found a reason to keep living
And you know the reason, dear it's you
And I've walked down life's lonely highways
Hand in hand with myself
And I realized how many paths have crossed between us
Oh I do believe
You're all what you perceive
What COMES is better that what came before
Oh I do believe
You're all what you perceive
What COMES is better that what came before
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
And you'd better come, come come, come to me
Come come, come to me
pa papa papa pa
I found a reason. Velvet Underground
for there is a reason.
maybe.
please
and I´m alive.
and the ones that are, are too.
Back home, kiddo.
Welcome back
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
I found a reason to keep living
Oh and the reason, dear, is you
I found a reason to keep singing
Oh and the reason, dear, is you
Oh I do believe
If you don't like things you LEAVE
For some place you never gone before
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Honey, I found a reason to keep living
And you know the reason, dear it's you
And I've walked down life's lonely highways
Hand in hand with myself
And I realized how many paths have crossed between us
Oh I do believe
You're all what you perceive
What COMES is better that what came before
Oh I do believe
You're all what you perceive
What COMES is better that what came before
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
Pa papa papa papa
And you'd better come, come come, come to me
Come come, come to me
pa papa papa pa
I found a reason. Velvet Underground
for there is a reason.
maybe.
please
and I´m alive.
and the ones that are, are too.
Back home, kiddo.
Welcome back
Monday, January 29, 2007
and as the illness comes again
It´s back.
As the illness comes again...
yesterday
during the night the cunt
while i was asleep.
It woke me up and would not let go of me.
Images,sounds,thoughts.
Driving me mad.
Insomnia
please let it not last
please let me be sane for the next days, the last effort,
just enough to sail everyone away.
please
please let go of me.
im powerless, to it´s horror i kneel down,
trembling, death, sadness,
the wind scattering my ashes
fragmented
never a whole
please
As the illness comes again...
yesterday
during the night the cunt
while i was asleep.
It woke me up and would not let go of me.
Images,sounds,thoughts.
Driving me mad.
Insomnia
please let it not last
please let me be sane for the next days, the last effort,
just enough to sail everyone away.
please
please let go of me.
im powerless, to it´s horror i kneel down,
trembling, death, sadness,
the wind scattering my ashes
fragmented
never a whole
please
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The end of the season
Otro adiós...
Another goodbye
my house feels empty these days, it misses the rattle rattle of my thoughts, sweeping the floor after me. The boys are gone and only the ghost of the pale lady has stayed there, mourning for the days that will never come.
Who knows when i´ll go back. This project comes to an end, sadly, in a bad manner and maybe one of these days I´ll tell you about the eyes in the jungle and the smell of smoked wood. But not today. Today we are about to say goodbye. I´m opening doors and windows, searching the corners for some lost dream, I think I left a little bit of idleness in the backyard...
This other house will soon be filled with rage and uncertainty, with long hours under the sun waiting for news. With the souls of a thousand different lifes that we´ve picked up in the jungle.
And all those steps walked.
All for nothing.
Some might say nothing comes for nothing. But sitting here, watching as the hours of shooting escape like grains of sand between my fingers, I feel overwhelmed.
And maybe there are other doors waiting back home. But I know there is more blood behind them, tattoed tears in the face like the ones I carry inside of me. But that´s my curse, my star, never clear the line beteween the price and choice.
But I was saying goodbye.
Don´t know if I´m coming back.
Quick, turn off the lights, before melancholy grabs hold of us, run, run afar and catch a boat that returns you to safe shores.
Goodbye! Goodbye!
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Maybe it is time to say goodbye
Oh, por las barbas de las barbas, deja de ser tan intenso.
ya es aburrido y bienvenido a mi vida, ¿no te conte? me dicen señora mi nombre es dolor y mi sangre es venganza, o sea, mega intensa punto com y realmente tu folklore personal me abruma y duele.
Por favor relajate.
Un mensaje desde un lugar perdido entre las montañas donde las cosas SI pasan de verdad y no la nata de una pequeña vida de detalles a la cual me niego a rendirme.
Dejar ir.
ya es hora
ya es aburrido y bienvenido a mi vida, ¿no te conte? me dicen señora mi nombre es dolor y mi sangre es venganza, o sea, mega intensa punto com y realmente tu folklore personal me abruma y duele.
Por favor relajate.
Un mensaje desde un lugar perdido entre las montañas donde las cosas SI pasan de verdad y no la nata de una pequeña vida de detalles a la cual me niego a rendirme.
Dejar ir.
ya es hora
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Tributes
1930-2007
Estos tiempos han sido tiempos de decir adiós. A amigos, a conocidos, a mentores, a compañeros, a cómplices. De más de una manera. Y quedamos otros, aferrándonos desde una frágil ramita a la intemperie de un muy crudo invierno. Pero llegará la primavera y con su clima más benigno, con suerte, podremos ver salir el sol.
Los atardeceres más hermosos ocurren en invierno. Que valgan como tributo para aquellos que no están.
Gracias Young angry man por la foto.
And let us hope for those that are still here, that they remain.
Monday, January 08, 2007
i´ll wait
I don't believe in an interventionist
GodBut I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O LordInto my arms,
O LordInto my arms
And I don't believe in the existence of angels
But looking at you I wonder if that's true
But if I did I would summon them together
And ask them to watch over you
To each burn a candle for you
To make bright and clear your path
And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love
And guide you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
But I believe in Love
And I know that you do too
And I believe in some kind of path
That we can walk down, me and you
So keep your candles burning
And make her journey bright and pure
That she will keep returning
Always and evermore
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
nick cave and the bad seeds
why not start the year with a little melancholy courtesy of mr. dark himself.
because i believe that for a second everything was real.
we stumbled and for a brief moment our paths touched each other.
so i´ll close my eyes and i´ll keep your image as it was that night that you stood awake while i was sleeping.
and i´ll make a quiet toast to the replicants whose moments are lost in time.
now, alone, in my new home, in the middle of the hills and the jungle where the gods are always thirsty for blood, i am thinking of leaving the door open. just in case.
happy new year
GodBut I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O LordInto my arms,
O LordInto my arms
And I don't believe in the existence of angels
But looking at you I wonder if that's true
But if I did I would summon them together
And ask them to watch over you
To each burn a candle for you
To make bright and clear your path
And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love
And guide you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
But I believe in Love
And I know that you do too
And I believe in some kind of path
That we can walk down, me and you
So keep your candles burning
And make her journey bright and pure
That she will keep returning
Always and evermore
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
nick cave and the bad seeds
why not start the year with a little melancholy courtesy of mr. dark himself.
because i believe that for a second everything was real.
we stumbled and for a brief moment our paths touched each other.
so i´ll close my eyes and i´ll keep your image as it was that night that you stood awake while i was sleeping.
and i´ll make a quiet toast to the replicants whose moments are lost in time.
now, alone, in my new home, in the middle of the hills and the jungle where the gods are always thirsty for blood, i am thinking of leaving the door open. just in case.
happy new year
i´ll wait
I don't believe in an interventionist
GodBut I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O LordInto my arms,
O LordInto my arms
And I don't believe in the existence of angels
But looking at you I wonder if that's true
But if I did I would summon them together
And ask them to watch over you
To each burn a candle for you
To make bright and clear your path
And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love
And guide you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
But I believe in Love
And I know that you do too
And I believe in some kind of path
That we can walk down, me and you
So keep your candles burning
And make her journey bright and pure
That she will keep returning
Always and evermore
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
nick cave and the bad seeds
why not start the year with a little melancholy courtesy of mr. dark himself.
because i believe that for a second everything was real.
we stumbled and for a brief moment our paths touched each other.
so i´ll close my eyes and i´ll keep your image as it was that night that you stood awake while i was sleeping.
and i´ll make a quiet toast to the replicants whose moments are lost in time.
now, alone, in my new home, in the middle of the hills and the jungle where the gods are always thirsty for blood, i am thinking of leaving the door open. just in case.
happy new year
GodBut I know, darling, that you do
But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him
Not to intervene when it came to you
Not to touch a hair on your head
To leave you as you are
And if He felt He had to direct you
Then direct you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O LordInto my arms,
O LordInto my arms
And I don't believe in the existence of angels
But looking at you I wonder if that's true
But if I did I would summon them together
And ask them to watch over you
To each burn a candle for you
To make bright and clear your path
And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love
And guide you into my arms
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
But I believe in Love
And I know that you do too
And I believe in some kind of path
That we can walk down, me and you
So keep your candles burning
And make her journey bright and pure
That she will keep returning
Always and evermore
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms, O Lord
Into my arms
nick cave and the bad seeds
why not start the year with a little melancholy courtesy of mr. dark himself.
because i believe that for a second everything was real.
we stumbled and for a brief moment our paths touched each other.
so i´ll close my eyes and i´ll keep your image as it was that night that you stood awake while i was sleeping.
and i´ll make a quiet toast to the replicants whose moments are lost in time.
now, alone, in my new home, in the middle of the hills and the jungle where the gods are always thirsty for blood, i am thinking of leaving the door open. just in case.
happy new year
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Elephant
This has got to die
This has got to stop
This has got to lie down
With someone else on top
You can keep me pinned
It's easier to tease
But you can't paint an elephant
Quite as good as she
And she may cry like a baby
And she may drive me Crazy
'Cause I am lately lonely
So why'd you have to lie?
I take it I'm your crutch
The pillow in your pillow case
Is easier to touch
And when you think you've sinned
Do you fall upon your knees?
Or do you sit within your picture?
Do you still forget the breeze?
And she may rise, if I sing you down
And she may wisely cling to the ground
Cause I am lately horny
So why would she take me horny?
What's the point of this song?
Or even singing?
You've already gone, why am I clinging?
Well I could throw it out, and I could live without
And I could do it all for you
I could be strong
Tell me if you want me to lie
'Cause this has got to die
This has got to stop
This has got to lie down, down
With someone else on top
You can both keep me pinned
'Cause it's easier to tease
But you can't make me happy
Quite as good as me
Well you know that's a lie
Damien Rice
He liked elephants.
I also like elephants.
Good luck they are.
But that is not the point. At least in this particular song.
So bleed. Bleed.
Because life makes you bleed. As well as love.
What´s the relation between life and love?
And I´ve sinned and lied and I know.
and this has to stop.
This has got to stop
This has got to lie down
With someone else on top
You can keep me pinned
It's easier to tease
But you can't paint an elephant
Quite as good as she
And she may cry like a baby
And she may drive me Crazy
'Cause I am lately lonely
So why'd you have to lie?
I take it I'm your crutch
The pillow in your pillow case
Is easier to touch
And when you think you've sinned
Do you fall upon your knees?
Or do you sit within your picture?
Do you still forget the breeze?
And she may rise, if I sing you down
And she may wisely cling to the ground
Cause I am lately horny
So why would she take me horny?
What's the point of this song?
Or even singing?
You've already gone, why am I clinging?
Well I could throw it out, and I could live without
And I could do it all for you
I could be strong
Tell me if you want me to lie
'Cause this has got to die
This has got to stop
This has got to lie down, down
With someone else on top
You can both keep me pinned
'Cause it's easier to tease
But you can't make me happy
Quite as good as me
Well you know that's a lie
Damien Rice
He liked elephants.
I also like elephants.
Good luck they are.
But that is not the point. At least in this particular song.
So bleed. Bleed.
Because life makes you bleed. As well as love.
What´s the relation between life and love?
And I´ve sinned and lied and I know.
and this has to stop.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
don´t be shy
Don't be shy Just let your feelings roll on by
Don't wear fear Or nobody will no you're there
Just lift your head And let your feelings out instead
And don't be shy Just let your feelings roll on by On by
You know love Is better than a song
Love is where All of us belong
So don't be shy
Just let your feelings roll on by
And don't wear fear Or nobody will know you're there
You're there, you're there
So don't be shy Just let your feelings roll on by
And don't wear fear Or no one will know you're there
You know love is better than a song
Love is where All of us belong
Belong
cat stevens.
the year is coming to an end and here we are.
all of us in this strange falling apart space amidst the chaos of the day.
a whole new soundtrack for this scary sad sarcastic musical in which we live in. New songs, new friends.
Others have gone from starring to special guests and others where simply just taken out of circulation.
But, the fat lady hasn´t sang yet.
So don´t get too excited about the credits.
Don't wear fear Or nobody will no you're there
Just lift your head And let your feelings out instead
And don't be shy Just let your feelings roll on by On by
You know love Is better than a song
Love is where All of us belong
So don't be shy
Just let your feelings roll on by
And don't wear fear Or nobody will know you're there
You're there, you're there
So don't be shy Just let your feelings roll on by
And don't wear fear Or no one will know you're there
You know love is better than a song
Love is where All of us belong
Belong
cat stevens.
the year is coming to an end and here we are.
all of us in this strange falling apart space amidst the chaos of the day.
a whole new soundtrack for this scary sad sarcastic musical in which we live in. New songs, new friends.
Others have gone from starring to special guests and others where simply just taken out of circulation.
But, the fat lady hasn´t sang yet.
So don´t get too excited about the credits.
no hope
Where once was lightNow darkness fallsWhere once was loveLove is no moreDon't say goodbyeDon't say I didn't tryThese tears we cryAre falling rainFor all the lies you told usThe hurt, the blame!And we will weep to be so aloneWe are lostWe can never go homeSo in the endI'll be what I will beNo loyal friendWas ever there for meNow we say goodbyeWe say you didn't tryThese tears you cryHave come too lateTake back the liesThe hurt, the blame!And you will weepWhen you face the end aloneYou are lostYou can never go homeYou are lost You can never go home
gollum´s song. for the split personality of all the ones living inside of me.
merry x-mas!
gollum´s song. for the split personality of all the ones living inside of me.
merry x-mas!
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
I know it´s gonna happen someday
Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around
Come loose your dogs upon me
And let your hair hang down
You are a little mystery to me
Every time you come around
We talk about it all night long
We define our moral ground
But when I crawl into your arms
Everything comes tumbling down
Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around
Your face has fallen sad now
For you know the time is nigh
When I must remove your wings
And you, you must try to fly
Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around
Come loose your dogs upon me
And let your hair hang down
You are a little mystery to me
Every time you come around
you are coming down.
The ship song. Nick cave and the Bad Seeds
Must be the season (good grief, it´s the end of the year)
but since it seems i´ll stay giving birth to Fobos and Demos a.k.a. chaos and destruction, my two precious girls, why not a little bit of healthy hopeful darkness courtesy of Mr. Cave (hold your breath you girls).
I still don´t know if I will departure for the foggy heights in the middle of the jungle, but, actually, I am not doing that bad.
Day by day, kiddo. You just need to ease things a little bit day by day.
And maybe, (just maybe, probably not, after all, this is reality) one day you´ll be there to see the sunrise.
And i´ll be alive for another day.
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around
Come loose your dogs upon me
And let your hair hang down
You are a little mystery to me
Every time you come around
We talk about it all night long
We define our moral ground
But when I crawl into your arms
Everything comes tumbling down
Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around
Your face has fallen sad now
For you know the time is nigh
When I must remove your wings
And you, you must try to fly
Come sail your ships around me
And burn your bridges down
We make a little history, baby
Every time you come around
Come loose your dogs upon me
And let your hair hang down
You are a little mystery to me
Every time you come around
you are coming down.
The ship song. Nick cave and the Bad Seeds
Must be the season (good grief, it´s the end of the year)
but since it seems i´ll stay giving birth to Fobos and Demos a.k.a. chaos and destruction, my two precious girls, why not a little bit of healthy hopeful darkness courtesy of Mr. Cave (hold your breath you girls).
I still don´t know if I will departure for the foggy heights in the middle of the jungle, but, actually, I am not doing that bad.
Day by day, kiddo. You just need to ease things a little bit day by day.
And maybe, (just maybe, probably not, after all, this is reality) one day you´ll be there to see the sunrise.
And i´ll be alive for another day.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
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
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
Monday, November 27, 2006
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
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.
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.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
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 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.
Monday, November 20, 2006
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?
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?
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
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.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Friday, October 06, 2006
My own life
After the 35 grams
life after yourself
but here you still are...
all my little secrets
every little cut, every little tremor
my poison
my blood
everything. i left.
i just left.
my pain. neverending.
nothing changes, everything is different.
It´s been seven days, it´s been twenty-eight years.
I should start speaking about you. all of you.
my pain continues.
so is my life.
life after yourself
but here you still are...
all my little secrets
every little cut, every little tremor
my poison
my blood
everything. i left.
i just left.
my pain. neverending.
nothing changes, everything is different.
It´s been seven days, it´s been twenty-eight years.
I should start speaking about you. all of you.
my pain continues.
so is my life.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
tempus fugit
you don´t believe me.
you think I wouldn´t do it.
you think i´m just trying to draw attention to myself
but i´m not.
i actually don´t want to draw attention to me.
when i go, i will go silently. on my tip-toes. trough the window.
I already took 35 mg of the stuff.
little by little i´ll find the right dose.
and i´ll slip into oblivion.
you think I wouldn´t do it.
you think i´m just trying to draw attention to myself
but i´m not.
i actually don´t want to draw attention to me.
when i go, i will go silently. on my tip-toes. trough the window.
I already took 35 mg of the stuff.
little by little i´ll find the right dose.
and i´ll slip into oblivion.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Munch.
Despair.
When you are weary feeling small, your tears, i will dry them off, times get rough, and friends can´t be found, like a bridge over trouble waters i will lay me down.
Please , I just close my eyes.
My game is dangerous. But I can´t trust no one.
I need someone to ease my mind,
I´ve taken one,
and a half.
maybe another one. or two.
that´s not enough.
so i´ll still be here for the next round.
God, why I ruin everything.
I´m not worthy
I´m scared of heights.
I am not making it to my thirtieth birthday.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Breve es el tiempo
I believe things can change. I believe things are going to change.
That´s what he said while the man was sticking the blade into his guts.
Blood, lots of blood came out.
He lied there in the bottom of the alley. A small thing curled up.
Things are changing.
That´s what he said while the man was sticking the blade into his guts.
Blood, lots of blood came out.
He lied there in the bottom of the alley. A small thing curled up.
Things are changing.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Maybe is time
I don´t need your sympathy anymore.
Your bad moods. Your pitty. I don´t think you are so cool anymore.
Now I know you are not that smart. When you slept with her you hurt me. But know I´m fine.
All those times you took advantage of me. Everytime you made me feel not worthy.
For every single moment i was in my mind holding the knife i despise you. For every scar that runs over my body has a different name. A different pain. But you are not worth any of it.
Because you are out.
I´m sending you away.
Your jealousy. I know your fears, your little man frights.
I know you are a coward.
and I am taking off the skin you forced me to wear for such a long time and I´m leaving only mine. Thin and fragile, but mine.
When the blood runs down your legs you know that after a moment the pain will end.
It was the same with you. Now I can wipe you off and there will not be any sign of you.
Only I will know.
Thank you. After you, nobody will tamed again. I am a better version of me.
Thank you. Now i know what it feels to cry for a broken heart.
I learned something from you.
You won´t recognize next time we meet .
I will not say hi to you ´cause there is no point in it.
You will not know my face anymore.
I´m already starting to forget some of your names.
I forgive you
I cheated on you
I have no use for your forgiveness or memories.
Keep them
I already buried my own.
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