Notas de mi teléfono (en desorden cronológico).
Ella dice que a veces siente que estamos en el agua, rodeados por un archipiélago del mal, tratando de mantenernos a flote. Quiero ayudarla pero ni siquiera puedo entenderla.
Hay todo un mundo en su cabeza del que no soy parte, al que no estoy invitado y del que ella no puede salir. Cada tanto la veo desde la orilla y sé que ella no es feliz ahí.
"I have never felt this sad" is something I think every time I feel sad.
Some nights I wonder if boys know what it’s like to feel sad all of a sudden, with just a few notes of a blue tune or some childhood pictures. Does that happen to all of us? Is it what makes us human or is it what makes us girls?
Chicos, chicos que comen helado cuando vuelven de una fiesta y no sé de qué gusto es. Chicos que prenden la tele y no sé qué canal ponen. Chicos que cumplen años y no sé cuándo, no sé cómo y no sé con quién. Chicos que duermen y no sé en qué posición o con qué ropa. Me fijo cómo está el clima en sus ciudades para saber qué sienten o qué me pondría para salir con ellos, a ese lugar de pollo frito o al bar del vino caliente. Chicos que tal vez son ambidiestros, hiperlaxos o intolerantes a la lactosa. O a mí. No lo sé porque no los conozco. No los conozco pero los extraño tanto que me duele. Me duele acá, en el presente irritado y en el futuro que nunca llega.
Soy la mesa que tambalea o el jarrón roto y vuelto a pegar; Leonard dice que por las grietas entra luz pero por las mías sólo pasan malas ideas. Ósmosis inversa y homeostasis obsoleta. Nos rompemos y nos arreglamos cuando me agarras fuerte los brazos y te digo gracias por regalarme un error, por regalarme tiempo. ¿Qué vas a hacer con todo ese tiempo que tenés ahora? ¿Qué vas a hacer con el pez dorado que te dieron en ese cumpleaños? Lo mejor que puedo darte es una puerta abierta y libertad para actuar. Lo peor que puedo darte es esto.
Veo que todo se está rompiendo y trato de estimar cuánto es mi culpa, cuánta pólvora hay en mis manos. Sé que te expliqué que las relaciones humanas no son una ciencia exacta pero por favor por favor por favor contestame qué vamos a hacer con esto y con las estructuras que se caen y la lluvia que siempre está viniendo por más.
Me siento grande y es una mierda, no lo recomiendo.
Estoy mirando todo como si una bomba estuviera por explotar y yo fuera la única que lo sabe.
Todo lo que pido es ser una calesita que avanza.
I remember everything and it’s killing me from the inside out.
Me obligué a crecer.
El amor es como una fiesta de cumpleaños: lleno de colores y dolorosamente finito.
El futuro pone todo en perspectiva.
You don’t want answers, you want safety. Answers will drive you insane but safety will bore you. We’re just trying to keep our shit (alone) together.
A veces esperamos que los varones arreglen todo, desde un caño roto hasta un ego ídem. Y eso está un poco bien, porque gustar es así, es regalar omnipotencia. Pero también está muy muy muy muy mal, porque es saber que se va a terminar o que vas a seguir sufriendo por todo eso que te falta y no está en sus manos ni en ningún lado.
And right then and there you know; you feel a cold chill going through your chest and you realize a part of it died, maybe not all of it, but the bliss sure is gone.
his pledge to her.
i will kill the spiders. i will share my fries with you when you’ve finished all yours and are still hungry. i won’t ever pop my collar. i will never be rude to your tummy- when i hear it growl and gurgle, i promise to bend down and reply respectfully. i will eat the mushrooms when we order the supreme pizza. i will kiss the papercuts. and the door-slammed finger. and the counter-bumped hip. i’ll try my hardest not to get annoyed when you whisper questions and comments during movies. i will be the big spoon. i will let you win at wrestling. sometimes. other times i will not. i will go faster. harder. i will pull when you want. and tease you when you don’t. i will send you random txts and leave you silly gifts. not always. not on schedule. just whenever i want to. whenever i think you need one. or seven. i will check your tire pressure. and remind you to take your car in. i will hold your hand. i will love you. i will love you. i will love you.
Get me out of here
“If you’re willing to wait for a whole week before going out with me, either you don’t like me that much or you handle your anxiety extremely well.” She knew as soon as she hit send, there would be no turning back. She tapped the screen of her phone with shaky hands, like those of a smoker –not her, she didn’t smoke– in a winter´s day cigarette break. She exercised three to four times and week and only allowed herself one drink on very few, special occasions. This was one of them. She downed her third scotch with one hand while she waited for a reply, holding her phone tightly to her jumpy chest with her other –moist– palm. When she lifted her eyes, she could see her present quickly becoming her past, as he embarrassed her, himself and everyone else drunkenly dancing and singing Broadway hits a cappella.
“I´ll meet you downstairs,” he texted back. The possibility of a future and the certainty of a sin, both wrapped in four short words and a buzz. She hesitated for a while, then noisily placed her glass on the table and took her friend by her arm, strongly and steadily. Anyone who saw this would immediately become a witness, a latent enemy. They slipped into the bathroom, locked the door behind them and started planning their grand escape. Her friend faked a sudden and dramatic stomach condition and they just had to go. Of course, the birthday boy was too busy making a scene to notice it was all a big, fat lie, just like the rest of their two-month-long liaison. She excused herself out of his sloppy hug, begging him not to do that. That was her present for him, the humongous elephant in the room –terrace in this particular case– she had kept quiet about for the past couple of weeks.
She couldn’t take it anymore; it was his birthday and his friends were there, and everybody’s eyes were on her, and he kept chasing after her, and his kisses were sticky, and the weather was unbearable, and everyone was drunk, and he was a horrible dancer, and his clothes were icky, and she just couldn’t take it anymore. She wasn’t going to ruin the party for him, but she couldn’t keep doing that to herself either. She didn’t know where she was going, but she was certain about who and what she would leave behind.
She ran down the stairs, disregarding her mile-high heels, fleeting that suffocating scene where no amount of alcohol would ever make her feel at ease, let alone in love or even attracted to the birthday boy. She kept calling him that in her head, trying to squeeze some sense into what she was about to do. Except that she was already doing it.
She walked across the bar assertively, leading her friend to the door. As she crossed it, her sight and mind were already outside, on the sidewalk, looking for him. He was standing against a tree, hands in pockets, a half, conniving smile on his lips. She waved her friend good-bye while she started treading side by side with him, slowly but definitely not carefully. As they turned the corner, he reached in to kiss her, and when he did, she knew that would be as much an ending as it was a beginning.
The next morning, she made the call.
Un edificio de princesa, en el patio (frontal) una fuente llena de flores rebeldes y brotes anárquicos da pistas de que algo no está funcionando como debería, de que el plan y la intención quedaron lejos en el tiempo y la decadencia está cerca o quizás ya llegó mientras comprabas algo en el kiosco/buscabas lugar para estacionar. Cuando entres, mirá los techos altos, las persianas cerradas, el eco tangible y los cuartos casi desnudos, melancólicos por los objetos que (ya) no están, que vinieron de visita y un día…
Cuando hagas un censo de cortinas y notes los pájaros en las del living, cuando cuentes los discos –arriba, lejos del piso y más cerca del 2B o del cielo– apenas encuentres los novelty books o las fotos viejas, cuando reconozcas utilería de alguna novela, recién en ese momento (incierto y confuso, el nudo entre pasados de colores y un presente efímero e irrelevante que transcurre pero no trasciende; pasó tanto antes de hoy) quizás veas el espejo que descubrí en esos recovecos.
En las paredes hay un combo cromático que no se entiende ni se explica; son así, hace mucho y por un tiempo más. Hay cuartos (quizás sea uno solo, pero todo se une y se funde en pasillos oscuros, a pesar de las puertas vidriadas y sus intentos desesperados por acercarnos y decirnos la verdad) llenos de y dedicados a memorabilia heterogénea que nadie quiere clasificar ni consultar, pero tampoco desechar. Antes, una capa de polvo amalgamaba piezas y retazos de historia, las partículas de tierra como enlaces covalentes de una vida material, de la naturaleza muerta que nadie pintó pero todos guardamos en algún placard.
Ahora, aunque el polvo ya no está, todavía hay una nostalgia que recorre los espacios entre libros y mantas, un viento que quiere sacudir esa evidencia de educación, las columnas endebles de lo que somos hoy.
Quizás con esto ya vas adivinando lo que pasó. Cuando visité por primera vez el departamento de Guatemala al 4200 y me fui –como vos– con los brazos llenos de regalos, entendí lo que había visto, lo que había recorrido: ese lugar, pintoresco por fuera pero lleno de pasado, soy yo.
The Photograph:Find an old photograph. It may be from an old magazine lying around your grandmother’s house, or something you pick up in a feria, or even something from the Internet or an encyclopedia. This person should be a stranger to you, but should inspire something intimate in you when you study the face of him or her. Write 1-2 pages from the perspective of this person. Use the first person, focusing on giving the subject a distinctive voice.
We met in 1979, a magical year after which a Smashing Pumpkins song was titled. We were both 17 back then, it was our senior year, and Diane transferred to my school after her parents got divorced and her mother decided to move as far as possible from her cheating husband, soon-to-be ex but still maintaining the role as sole –and extremely generous– provider. The minute I laid eyes on her, I wanted to make her mine, I wanted all of her, every bone, every word, every hair, every freckle, every inch of her skin, every cell in her body. She was flawless, and such perfection, as I later found out, cannot last.
I asked her out a gazillion times before she agreed to go out with me, but one day, just as I was starting to lose hope, the unlikely, unexplainable miracle happened. We went to the movies; Diane loved horror films because they were the only ones that revealed the human condition and the darkness hidden in every psyche. I was too infatuated to read into her cynical views of the world, let alone argue with her. We watched The Shining, which she loved as much as I hated it, and then I drove her home. On the way back, she didn’t utter a single word, and, when we arrived at her place, I asked her what was wrong. Kubrick’s thriller struck her in the most unexpected of places, and she started rambling that not just the crazy ones, but all men end up chasing women with an ax, not always literally but emotionally, and on the rare occasion that they don’t, it is because they are otherwise engaged, distracted with something –usually someone– else. I should’ve taken this as a humongous, neon-lit warning sign, given it was our first date, but I didn’t. I just stared at her, doe-eyed and brain-dead. My heart was telling my brain to sit back and enjoy the show, and little did I know, it was going to be a massive flop.
After that first date, we enjoyed a blissful period where love seemed to prevail; we spent hours on end together; we just couldn’t get enough of each other. She seemed happy to be with me; I made her laugh, and she felt pretty; everything was great. And I truly believe it was; I need to believe it was real, just as much as Diane needed to believe in love back then. If only she had invested that energy in our relationship instead of using it to feed her fears, maybe today we would have something to account for after these sixteen years of marriage, something other than disappointment and dusty, unspoken grudges.
Three years into our relationship, I woke up one morning with a sudden feeling of emptiness. Diane had been out of town for a couple of days, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed her until that morning. I knew it immediately, the way you know who your best friend or favorite day of the week is: I didn’t want to spend another night without her, ever; I didn’t want to spend time apart; I just wanted to be able to get a whiff of her perfume in every breath I took for the rest of my life. I wanted to marry her. So that´s what we did; I proposed as soon as she got into my car at the bus station where I picked her up after her trip. She remained quiet for a short while, a couple of seconds that seemed like ages to me, and then she broke the silence with a loud, high-pitched “yes!”. In a matter of seconds, she had morphed back into a child, a little girl filled with hopes and dreams and an immaculate view of the world. never felt so accomplished in my life. And I haven’t since.
When we were boyfriend and girlfriend, we had our normal ups and downs, nothing serious. Once we were married, our relationship entered the next phase in its life cycle: a subtle curve where the downs start to outnumber the ups. We were 22 when I got my first big promotion. I began working longer shifts, taking business trips and getting several calls on weekends. I worked a lot, but I did it in order to provide for Diane and, eventually, a family of our own. Diane didn’t see it that way, and, anyway, she didn’t want to have children. “Not yet”, was all she said when I dared to bring up the subject. She claimed she was already struggling to take care of herself, let alone of another human being that would depend on her.
Years went by heavily for us, like calendars made up of elephants, and the more I succeeded career-wise, the higher the toll it took on our relationship. At first, Diane was constantly jealous and angry, but then she became increasingly sad and withdrawn. She stopped talking to me and instead spent most of her time sleeping and reading. I could see her inner world changing and growing in size as she drifted further and further away from the real one –and, therefore, from me.
I saw this happening; maybe I became aware of the process when it was already too late, but still I tried to stop it. I’ll give it to you: men are not as sharp or perceptive, but once we spot an issue, we feel the urge to solve it. We’re fixers, not healers. I tried, with all my might, to help her and bring her closer to me, back to where she used to be. As I failed, I began to feel frustrated and, eventually, annoyed. I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t accept my aid or, at least, acknowledge my willingness to help. Everything went downhill from there. Years into this dynamic, I sometimes wake up ready to burst into tears; I can’t shake the feeling that we have come to hate each other, pushed by fears, in her case, and frustration, in mine. I haven’t mustered up the courage or determination to do anything radical about this. I know sixteen years is a pathologically long time, but maybe there is some hope, love, stubbornness –call it what you want– left in me. Or maybe I’m just comfortable. But what about her? Why is she sticking with this? I’m at a loss, just like I was that summer morning back in 1979, only a lot older, more tired and less idealistic.
Anyway, here we are, at her sister’s wedding, celebrating another couple’s beginning while we ignore our own impending demise.
(Source: , via hirondella)
(Source: saramlyons, via hirondella)
what if you get sick of me, i won’t
(Source: pushthemovement, via goldenreasons)
For 4 minutes and 18 seconds during ‘Your Ex-Lover is Dead,’ the listener is inside the heads and hearts of two ex-lovers as they sit in silence. The song shifts from awkwardness to ease, from reality to imagined, from regret to satisfaction–all with zero words exchanged. These juxtaposed thoughts and emotions fire randomly, simultaneously, infinitely… and the brain/heart illustration on the poster represents this subtle, internal chaos. The washed-out blue is in line with the melancholy tone of the song, while the style of illustration suggests the glimmers of forgiveness and optimism that penetrate the confusion. One truth we can all bring from this haunting, thoughtful song is that, admit it or don’t, no relationship is ever truly over.
Source: The Indie Rock Poster Book