Autobiography

Being born is an agonizing pain to my eyes. I’ll try to describe it as accurately as possible, even though it seems a bit difficult. At first I only sense some heat, that’s my favorite part, it’s nice and it feels like a friendly hug. But then the monstrous mutation begins, and it becomes pure torture. That familiar tender burn rises to incredible levels and it’s like being in hell itself. My skin begins to shrivel up and the light blinds my poor little eyes. I take it all as best as I can, but it’s when I start to scream that finally I lift up.

I float slowly and dance in the air gently, letting myself go most of the time; but every now and then I enjoy creating patterns and shapes with my body so that they can recognize them.  They almost never want to play with me, but I fancy imagining their voices exclaiming: “Look…it’s a duck!” or “Doesn’t that look like a perfect circle?” Nevertheless, I never get much attention. I like to get close to them, running through their hair, leaving my scent everywhere, caressing their skin softly and warming them up a little bit.

I don’t have a home, but I enjoy exploring the caves, taking the chance when someone breathes in to enter. I must admit I am quite nosy, so it’s easy to spot me, hiding in the depths. Then it all begins to tremble and I get shot out really fast. It’s a painful yet exciting experience.

I often wonder what it’s like to be so big and…solid. It’s boggling, and I feel sad for those enormous beings, forever trapped in their boring corporeal life. They can’t fall apart and put themselves together again, they can’t shrink up or expand or fly around twirling and impregnating everything with their perfume. I feel pity for them and that’s why I like to hug them every time I get the chance.

But if I had to pick my favorite moment …it would definitely be death. Oh, what a joy it is to let myself disintegrate. It’s in that moment when I levitate higher than ever, and I can see it all…everything surrounding me; the trees, the houses, the grass. And being cradled by the breeze I start to let go little by little of my existence, no pain involved.

And then it begins again, repeating itself a thousand times: birth, death…I don’t even mind it anymore. I’d rather discover something new in each of my lives. For example…today I came to the conclusion that if I get too close to the eyes of those gigantic creatures, they turn red… They are really curious beings, are they not?

 Based upon “Discurso del Oso” by Julio Cortázar.

Luz de luna

Eran las cuatro de la mañana, el viento soplando suavemente, acariciando el césped y las hojas colgando frágilmente de las ramas de los árboles, a un bufido de precipitarse al vacío sin final.

Se encontraba acostado, tapado hasta la nariz con sus viejas frazadas, sus pestañas temblando de vez en cuando, sus sueños persiguiéndolo sin cesar. Roncaba casi silenciosamente, lo único que se escuchaba alrededor de la casa era su respiración espástica.

Y los ojos estaban fijos en él.

Los ojos se encontraban abiertos de par en par, brillando rojos y fluorescentes en la oscuridad. Eran curiosos, y seguían cada ínfimo movimiento que él hacía.

¿Qué estaba haciendo? ¿Por qué lo hacía? ¿Por qué solamente lo observaba dormir, enterrado en las playas arenosas de la tranquilidad? No lo sabía.

Su boca se encontraba apenas abierta, un espacio infinito pero casi inexistente separando su labio superior del inferior. Se sonreía de vez en cuando, encantada con las reacciones infantiles que le provocaban sus pesadillas.

Y entonces él comenzó a sollozar, temblando sin parar, sus cejas arqueadas sobre sus hermosos ojos avellana, sus labios trepidando y soltando quejidos casi inaudibles.

Se levantó, intrigada, caminando en puntas de pie; sus brazos cubiertos de luz de luna y polvo, intentando alcanzarlo, tocarlo.

Pero se despertó, atemorizado y jadeando.

Y conoció esos ojos, relojeó esos dedos negros estirándose en su dirección. Intento sentir esa figura misteriosa. Pero ella se convirtió en polvo de nuevo, como lo había hecho todas las noches anteriores. Y el suspiró tristemente, como se había acostumbrado a hacerlo.

Y dispersa por toda la habitación, en cada rincón, cada mueble; lo continuó observando, siempre preguntándose qué pasaría si algún día el llegara a sentir su caricia.

Cabecera

El sol en los ojos de él

La oscuridad cubriendo el cuerpo de ella

Un fuego viviendo en sus manos

Un infierno diferente en la punta de cada dedo

Su caricia quemaádola y lastimando

Su piel encendida y derritiéndose

La sensación volviéndose adictiva

Y sus huesos desnudos intentando abrazarlo

Su vacilación haciéndola sufrir

Y su dolor lo hace sonreír

Así que la cubrió enteramente

Hirviendo y sintiéndose vivos

Pero ella se escapó de sus brazos

Y lentamente comenzó a desaparecer

Su fuego consumiéndola

Y su pasión transformándose en temor

Y él desesperadamente la buscaba

Intentando encontrar su calor en la oscuridad

Y entre las infernales sábanas

Solo apareció un chamuscado corazón

Domingo a la tarde

 Sabe que no está bien, pero ha llegado a un punto en el que ya no se puede controlar. Todo comenzó cuando tenía apenas 14 años. Una tarde ventosa de domingo en su hogar, sola y con la tele encendida para sentirse acompañada dentro de su departamento. Un típico paisaje bonaerense: un poco de café, un libro de Julio Cortázar y el zumbido imparable de los miles de autos paseando fuera de su ventana-

Pero entonces un pensamiento, un impulso inundó su mente. Recordó un campo, simplemente un enorme y vacío espacio entre dos montes, en Córdoba. Recordaba estar ahí con su padre, cuando a él todavía parecía importarle. La fresca y gentil brisa acariciaba su cabello, se reía tan fuerte que le dolía la panza y sus vaqueros quedaron todos verdes por gatear sobre el pasto.

Cerró los ojos, acurrucada en su futón favorito. Se olvidó de las bocinas de los autos, de su café enfriándose, del libro escapando de sus dedos. Olía el pasto; oía el soplido del viento y sentía la tierra entre sus dedos. Cuando abrió los ojos se encontraba a miles de kilómetros de su hogar, recostada en el mismo lugar en el que su papá y ella se habían aventurado hace ya tantos años.

Recuerda sentirse tan poderosa.

Y ahora, casi cinco años después, ha visitado cada lugar que es capaz de imaginar. Ha disfrutado interminables caminatas por calles Indias; ha probado más de mil tazas de café junto al Sena en Francia. Y a pesar de que se había jurado conocer un lugar nuevo cada mes, parece estar estancada.

Siente su juventud desgastándose, un alma perdida que lleva una eternidad vagando la tierra, buscando algo a lo que aferrarse. Simplemente no sabe a qué.

Y se siente avergonzada, oh, cuán avergonzada la hacen sentir sus acciones. Su búsqueda de inspiración, su necesidad de escribir sobre nuevas experiencias había estado funcionando bastante bien como una excusa para sus viajes. Pero no puede seguir mintiéndose a sí misma.

Sabe por qué lo hace.

Sabe por qué siempre aparece al mismo tiempo, en el mismo banco, en el mismo rincón del Central Park todos los domingos. Y sabe que lleva su anotador sin razón alguna, porque no desea escribir para nada, no hasta llegar a casa. Y sabe cada palabra de cada canción que él toca, y sabe en qué orden lo hace.

Y sabe que está mal.

Pero no puede evitar mirarlo con ojitos tristes y sentir como su mundo se derrumba cada maldita vez.  Se lo queda mirando en silencio, a veces tarareando las canciones en un susurro, tratando de mezclarse con los turistas y neoyorquinos. Ama sus ojos, ama la manera en la que muerde suavemente su labio inferior cuando toca la guitarra, ama la manera en la que tan rápida pero gentilmente sus dedos hacen vibrar las cuerdas.

No sabe si él siquiera la nota, si ve que la misma extraña aparece todas las semanas tan solo para verlo tocar; que se pasa horas maquillándose por si acaso el posa su mirada sobre ella apenas por un segundo; que se pinta las uñas simplemente para que su mano se vea delicada cuando arroja unas monedas dentro de su sombrero.

Y él es una fuente inagotable de inspiración para ella. Podría escribir una novela entera solamente porque le dedicó una sonrisa a una pequeñita, o porque se olvidó la letra de una canción y comenzó a soltar risitas como un niño hace dos fines de semana.

Y no se lo puede sacar de la mente. Se pregunta cuál es su nombre, qué hace para divertirse, cuál es su trabajo, cuál es su historia.

Pero no puede preguntarle, no puede permitirse perturbar su aura de pura tranquilidad y perfección, no puede hacerlo sentir incómodo. No podría soportar ser rechazada por un ser humano tan extraordinario.

Y hoy es otro domingo como todos los demás, otra chance para verlo, para escucharlo. Se prepara y se lanza a ese futón favorito, que poco a poco se transforma en una banca algo torcida en el lado oeste del Central Park.

Pero él no está ahí.

No está tocando, ni cantando.

Está sola.

Mira a su alrededor y decide esperar un poco. Quizá simplemente esté llegando tarde.

Un minuto.

Cinco minutos.

Veinte minutos.

Suspira y se rinde, parándose con su anotador en mano, y comienza a caminar junto a los turistas. La nieve cubre todo con su manto blanco, todo brillando bajo la luz del sol, como si estuviera hecho de plata.

Y entonces alguien se tropieza con ella violentamente, y continúa corriendo. Se da vuelta y le dirige una mirada asesina a aquel molesto extraño, quién hace exactamente lo mismo.

“Ey,… sos la chica que aparece por acá cada domingo” el muchacho masculla, con una sonrisa genuina.

“Sí…” responde, intentando que su Inglés suene tan convencible como pueda ser posible “pensé que hoy la función se había cancelado”.

El joven suelta una risita y continúa caminando hacia el lugar de siempre.

“¿Venís o no?”

Ella asiente, sintiendo su cuerpo volviéndose cada vez más y más cálido a pesar de la congelada brisa que golpea sus mejillas.

Cierra sus ojos por un segundo, y cuando los vuelve a abrir se encuentra recostada en su futón favorito, en su departamento, con las bocinas de los autos de fondo, su café arruinado y su libro aplastado contra el piso de madera.

“Hola, mi amor” su madre la saluda mientras entra en la habitación, haciendo malabares con su cartera y las bolsas del supermercado “… es un domingo hermoso, ¿viste?”

Y ella sonríe, recordando las tazas de café que había fingido beber junto al Sena, y las caminatas por los mercados en la India, y todas las canciones que creía haber oído.

“Sí…” siente su estómago burbujeando, su mente hirviendo y su corazón latiendo violentamente contra su pequeño pecho “…es un domingo precioso”.  

Bedhead

The sun in his eyes
The darkness covering her body
A fire in his hands
A different hell in the tip of each finger

His caress burning and aching
Her skin ignited and melting
The sensation becoming addictive
And just her bones trying to get a hold of him

His hesitation making her ache
Her pain making him smile
He covered her entirely
Burning and feeling alive

But she slipped out of his arms
Slowly she began to disappear
His fire just consuming her
Their passion turning to fear

His hands desperately tumbling
Looking for her warmth in the dark
And between the scalding sheets
He only found her burning heart

Sunday afternoon.

She knows it isn’t right, but it has come to a point in which she cannot help it anymore.

It all began when she was almost 14. A windy Sunday afternoon at home, alone and with the TV on so there could be a sense of company inside her flat. Typical landscape in Buenos Aires: some coffee, a Julio Cortázar book and the buzzing of the thousands of cars going at it outside her window.

But then a thought, an urge flooded her mind. She remembered a field, just a giant open space between two mounts, in Córdoba.  She remembered being there with her dad, when he still seemed to care. The fresh and gentle breeze ran through her hair, she laughed so hard her stomach ached and her jeans were all green from crawling in the grass.

She closed her eyes, snuggled up in her favorite armchair. She forgot about the cars honking, about her coffee getting cold, about the book slipping out of her hands. She smelled the grass; she heard the wind blowing and felt the dirt between her fingers.

When she opened her eyes she was miles away from home, laying in the same spot her and her dad had adventured so many years ago.

She remembers feeling powerful.

And now, almost 5 years later, she has been to every single place she can think of. She has taken endless strolls down Indian streets; she has had more than a thousand cups of coffee by the Seine in France. And though she had vowed to visit a new place every month, she seems to be stuck.

She feels her youth fading away, she feels like a long lost soul wandering the earth looking for something to hold on to. She just simply doesn’t know what it is.

And she feels ashamed, oh, how ashamed she feels of what she is doing. Her search for inspiration, her urge to write about new experiences had been working pretty well as an excuse for her trips. But she can’t keep lying to herself anymore.

She knows why she does it.

She knows why she always appears at the same time at the same bench of the same corner of Central Park every Sunday. And she knows she carries her notepad for no reason, because she doesn’t desire to write at all, not until she gets home.  And she knows every single word to every single song he plays, and she even knows in which order he does it.

And she knows it’s wrong.

But she can’t help looking at him and feeling her world crumbling down every single time. She stares at him silently, sometimes humming the songs ever so quietly, trying to blend in with the tourists and New Yorkers.  She loves his eyes, she loves the way he bites his bottom lip softly when he plays the guitar, she loves how fast but gently his fingers strike the chords.

She doesn’t know if he even notices her, if he sees that the exact same stranger shows up every week just to see him play; that she puts on tons of make up just in case he glances at her even for a second; that she paints her nails just so her hand looks appropriate when she throws a tip inside of his hat.

And he is like a never ending fountain of inspiration for her. She can write an entire novel just because he smiled at a little girl, or because he forgot the lyrics to a song and began to chuckle like a child two weekends ago.

She can’t get him out of his mind. She ponders what’s his name, what he does for fun, what’s his job, what’s his story.  But she cannot ask, she cannot dare to disturb him, to make him feel uncomfortable. She can’t bear to be rejected by such an extraordinary human being.

And today’s another Sunday, another chance to see him, to hear him. She gets ready and throws herself into her favorite armchair, which then is transformed into a crooked bench on the west side of Central Park.

But he isn’t there.

He is not playing, he is not singing.

She is alone.

She looks around and decides to wait for a bit. Maybe he is just running late.

1 minute.

5 minutes.

20 minutes.

She sighs and gets up, notepad in hand, and starts to walk alongside the tourists. The snow covers everything with her white mantle, making it all glimmer in the sunlight, as if it was made of silver.

Then someone bumps into her quite violently, and runs past her. She turns and glances furiously at the stranger, who does the exact same.

“Hey…you are that girl that drops by every Sunday” he mumbles, with a genuine smile.

“Yeah…” she answers, trying to make her English sound as good and convincing as possible “… thought you weren’t showing up today”.

He laughs and continues walking towards his usual spot.

“…you coming?”

She nods, feeling her body getting warmer and warmer despite the chilling breeze that caresses her cheeks.

She closes her eyes for a second, and when she opens them again, she is laying on her favorite armchair, in her flat, with the cars honking, her coffee ruined and her book smashed against the wooden floor.

“Hello honey” her mother greets her as she walks in “…beautiful Sunday isn’t it?”

And she smiles, remembering all the cups of coffee she pretended to drink by the Seine, all the strolls she had taken down Indian markets, all the songs she thought she heard.

“Yeah… “She feels her stomach bubbling, her mind boiling and her heart pounding against her tiny chest “… it is a beautiful Sunday”.

 Lunes 6 de febrero de 2017, 06:26 a.m

Moonlight

It was 4 a.m, the wind blowing tenderly, caressing the grass and the dangling leaves, just a blow away from falling to the endless void.
He was tucked in, his eyelashes batting every now and then, his dreams chasing him endlessly. He snored quietly, just his spastic breathing being heard all around the empty house.
And the eyes were fixated on him.
The eyes were wide open, glowing red and fluorescent in the darkness. They were curious, and followed every little move he made.
What was she doing? Why was she doing that? Why was she just watching him sleep, buried deep in the sandy beaches of tranquility? She didn't know.
Her mouth was open ever so slightly, an infinite yet almost inexistent space separating her upper and bottom lips. She smiled once in a while, amused by the childish reactions to his nightmares.
He began to cry, trembling nonstop, his eyebrows arched above his beautiful hazel eyes, his lips shaking and letting out almost inaudible weeps.
She got up, tip toeing in his direction, her arms covered in moonlight and dust, trying to reach him, touch him.
He woke up, gasping terrified.
And he met those eyes, he saw those black fingers reaching him. He tried to feel her.
But she turned to dust again, like she did every other night. And he sighed sadly, like he was used to doing.
And dispersed all over the room, in every corner, every piece of furniture, she kept watching him, always pondering what would happened if he ever got to feel her touch.