sábado, enero 19, 2008

note to self (amended)

Drinking a large glass of late harvest moscato alone on a Saturday night is not to be repeated, as it causes undue psychic trauma and general malaise.

Amendment:
While the former may indeed be true, it is particularly so, when coupled with the onset of food poisoning.


And, while we are at it:

When one is feeling violently ill for unknown causes, and unable to sleep, and a hypochondriac, internet research on symptoms in the middle of the night probably does more harm than good.

lunes, enero 14, 2008

cartas al aire (un cuento si así se puede nombrar)

Me siento muy sola, y me hace falta sentir que alguien me abrace. Y en medio de esa oscuridad te invoco, no porque seas el único que me sepa abrazar, porque no lo sé, sólo puedo imaginar con recuerdos muy lejanos el tacto de tus dedos, o la fuerza de tus brazos despidiéndote de mí, siempre despidiéndote… el calorcito de tu mirada. Tal vez por eso mismo te lo quiero contar, porque no sé realmente cómo sos, o cómo serías vos conmigo y eso me llena de emoción y un leve temor... Así te lo cuento para poderlo entender. ¿Qué te contaré... ?

Es eso, sabés, a veces, cuando me siento muy sola, me gusta simplemente contar, para llenar el silencio y el vacío, para poder desentrañar un misterio... estoy recordando una sonrisa tuya, tu voz, que es como un arrullo, imaginando tus ojos. No sé qué esperar de esas partes dispersas o de ese conjunto, mas siento un cosquilleo al recordar el roce de las yemas de tus dedos en el envés de mis manos. ¿Por qué caminos nos llevará ese tacto? ¿ese pequeño roce? Casi imperceptible. Te pregunto pero no quiero que me contestes, más bien quiero que me calles, que me lo enseñes. Quiero cerrarme los ojos y sentir el apretar de tu mano en la mía, guiándome por el desierto de esta noche. Quiero sentir tu aliento muy cerca del oído, percibir tu respirar, quiero sentir tu presencia calmante, que me invada la paz que emana de ti, quiero llorar sin tener que explicar, porque yo misma no sé en qué consiste esta perversa sensación de angustia...

Me acuesto en una cama donde nunca has estado, sin embargo, mi soledad te ha llamado, te ha dado forma, y te siento, fuerte, seguro, tranquilo, zambulléndote en mi fondo, el abismo vuelto una tregua, un descanso, fuego, rubor. Acompañame esta noche, ¿sí? te lo piden mis ojos verduscos, los labios fruncidos de manera infantil, te lo pide también mi voz ronca de mujer, saboreando mis palabras con el beso más dulce que sé ofrecer.

Suspiro. Sigo sola.
Abro lentamente los ojos y las estrellas parpadean. Estrellas brillantes, ajenas. Estrellas que no conozco de la infancia. ¿Vos conocerás? El frío del cemento me penetra los huesos y me sacude.

¿Dónde estarás esta noche? ¿Con quién? No lo quiero pensar si pensarlo te aleja de mí. Quedate cerca, muy cerca. Vení, no te vayas. No. Todavía hay cosas que te quiero contar. Y la noche sigue marchando, marcando sus pasos con el susurrar de los autos que pasean por la costanera, lentos, en un espectáculo de luz y sombra. No me esperan en casa. No saben que estoy aquí, sola, atragantándome de aire salado, pensando en vos. Vos sos mi secreto. Aunque no te sé llamar.

Caminemos horas, días, centurias sobre dunas, enfrentando las legiones, la distancia, el olvido. Siento deslizar por las manos granos de arena, dibujo espirales en la superficie lisa del suelo. Siento tu piel bajo los dedos, siento tu pulso, tiento tu respiración.
Alzo la vista al firmamento, es un domo exquisito con figuras lejanas, inertes, en vigilia.
No te sé nombrar.

Inhalo aire cálido, contrasta con el frío de mi lecho, mas estás a mi lado y no te quiero espantar. Tus facciones se desdibujan con el viento, la arena disipa, mi memoria falla. ¿Pensarás en mí?

Si te cuento mi vida, me podré perder en tu pecho, adentrarme en tu piel, olvidarme en el santuario de tu cerebro… un kaleidoscopio hecho a mi medida, con tus manos cada vez más difíciles de recordar. Pienso que debo seguir mi camino, pero el miedo no me acorrala aún. El rugir de las olas, juego de gatos divinos, narcisos atrapados en la negrura de la interminable noche, esta noche, que te busco, que te encuentro, por vez primera sin saber el nombre que llevarás, la estampa que dejarás en mí. Es limpia la faz de la tierra, es limpio el sonido de tu risa que cae como monedas sobre mármol, gotas de agua en techo de estaño, una cara abierta, lanzada al aire, desprotegida. ¿Me encontraré? No me sabés contestar. No me contestás al menos. No estás aún.

Me levanto tiritando, una hoja seca en pleno invierno, huérfano. La tela ligera me envuelve, húmeda, perdida, ahogándome en las últimas gotas de luz que dejaste en tu camino.

viernes, enero 11, 2008

Friday 3:12 pm

Santiago left this morning.  He politely tried not to wake me from my slumber, but I sensed the creeping footfalls and nearly leapt from bed, lest I should fail in my hostessly duties.  I quickly enrobed myself, thanking my parents mentally once again for the lovely silk wrap they bought on our Jewish Christmas in San Francisco's Chinatown (TM), and descended to give him a goodbye hug and try to offer him food for the road, which he declined.  

It was strange, (he is the second overnight house guest I have had since the new year began, and I only got home on January 6) but there was something deeply disquieting to me to have another human being in my house.  Not because I didn't want a visitor, but because there is a strange hush that settles over the house once you have decided to go to bed, and once conversation has ended, and each person closes their respective bedroom door, a whole other universe begins.  One is alone with oneself, but not so.  One can hear through the doors and hallways the breathing of another human being, and yet, the chill of winter, that seeps in under the cracks in the foundation, under the door, through the damask curtains... that chill is not mediated in any way by your company.  Sleeping universes divide us from speech, isolation settles in, and in this case, I do the school work that I have been studiously ignoring.

Today I will host a dinner.  I will dry roast tomatillos and chiles, make a salsa verde, fry up the tortilla strips which have been dessicating for several days now, and I will lovingly make chilaquiles for my friends and cohort, knowing that a few months I will be missing them, but not my lovely daughter who I am missing quite achingly.  Perhaps that is the strangeness in having house guests, ones with whom I can't snuggle into bed with.  I spent the holidays constantly accompanied, and for three entire weeks I had, at all times, at least one other human body (first I. and C. and then K.) curled under the blankets next to mine.  Now I am back to my solitary status, and I find myself needing, quite desperately to care for others, so much so that I am stumbling over myself to do favors, and to offer food and comfort.  This is, in essence, my effort to comfort myself.  I cannot escape my culture, it is true, and not so tragic as it is amusing.  

There is little but the mundane, my daily amusements, my plans for future travel and visits (Jenny calls to tell me she is coming to visit in three weeks!), my existential angst...  I would make such a good loner if it weren't for the sleeping alone part. Sigh.  Another year begins.

lunes, enero 07, 2008

orfandad

Encontré este poema que escribí al aire hace mucho... necesita aterrizarse, o mejor dicho, enterrarse aquí en el sótano de mi cerebro...

En el centro de la nada
Te vi
Desnudo, blancuzco
Herido, torcido
Carente de sentido
Buscándote como un
Marrano a la trufa
Bajo tierra
Allí en el vacío
Cavado por tus manos
El horror ante el espejo
Me hallaste sangrando
Derrotada—
Una herida en llama viva
Tu cara ensombrecida
Desgarrado ante el fulgor.
Fue entonces que te quise decir
“vamos a vivir”
pero me callé el rubor
de la esperanza
y en su vez,
te conté del dolor
“No te puedo ofrecer
lo que mereces”
salió en fuga de tu pluma
como vírgula
codificada, impresa
con el peso de tu Historia
dirigido hacia mí.
“Pero no te pedí nada”
quería gritar, “no merezco más
que la soledad que plasmas
en lo imposible del papel,
al silencio atento.”
Pero no sabes llorar,
Me confiesas,
Al oido que no está
Con ojos que traicionan tu porvenir.
“No temo a la muerte – no me dejo
seducir.”
Aún te desvisto, me desprendo
Pétalo por pétalo al centro
De la flor—
Explosión virtuosa
Despiadado color.
“Hay que vivir” te susurro,
embriagada de tiempo
de hielo, de lengua, de candor.
Mas tu gesto desvanece
Intenta esquivar
Mi intensidad de ser
Y tu voz urgente pronuncia
Mi condena, con una suave
Violencia desalentadora
Nombrándome lo que nunca fui
“optimista, buena, pura”
¿Para qué? Te quiero pedir
que me expliques…
¿de qué se trata el verdor
renovado, si no para renacer?
Tu mirada se extravía
En el horizonte claro
“soy lo opuesto, no vale nada,
no te puedo saciar.”
Aunque buscas la luz
Aún sin saber
En tu desespero, tu insomnio
Pugnas por comprender.
“No soy lo que crees” te quiero responder
quiero que me veas,
en el fondo, intangible
penetrable, radiante, aguerrida
animal
“no es optimismo, sino un vacilar
entre el abismo y la rabia…”
Tus facciones se suavizan
Pareces reconocer—
No somos tan ajenos
Como quisieras jurar.
Dibujo invisible, en el aire
Mi ardor
“tómame, ámame, anúlame
llévame al centro de tu nada
para habitar ese espacio—
la llaga, la magna, la mar."
Guardo silencio por miedo
Por orgullo o por pudor
Y tu sonrisa triste
Me arrebata el dolor.
La soledad te encierra…
Y alzo la mano
Para cruzar los siglos,
Y palparte tu forma,
Mas no me dejo desbordar.

martes, enero 01, 2008

Another year comes bounding forth

I lay in bed for a few brief moments the other day, between films, and thought on the fact that I have been remiss in my writing duties, both with regards to personal correspondence and well-wishing to friends and family, and with this here virtual brain dump, as well.

Perhaps we could ascribe my diminished need to write all to peaceful emotional stability and contentedness? Perhaps. I realize that I am still the protagonist of my own drama, and hope that nobody's sensibilities be offended by my apparent self-indulgent universe. Let's be fair, we are all the centers of our own universes, and still, I thought about making myself write again, daily, but only for me.

Why? Selfish deprivation imposed on the thronging masses? Well, no. Mostly it is that nothing terribly exciting goes on, nothing worthy of note, or even of story-telling value, at least not that I would risk immortalizing here in the hinterlands of virtual ether. I have been a traveling fool, Mexico, New Hampshire, Northern California, home and back to the bay, again, for what I hope will be a restful girlishly indulgent week, now that my little one has exited stage left back to my parent's house.

And yet I suddenly feel the urge to retract, pulling my tender, flailing appendages back in under some makeshift carapace, that will somehow protect me from vulnerability, the savage world, cold, pain.

Last night, new year's eve, Kirsten and I retired early. She was unwell and I have no need nor desire to be social for the sake of it, no need to be alone in a city, mine or otherwise, no need to mark some arbitrary passing in the company of strangers. Instead I took to internal housekeeping. Payment of professional dues, procurement of course materials for the next set of classes that offer themselves up.

But I do believe, and this may be as highly ritualized as needs be, that moments of self-reflection, in regularly spaced intervals, are a worthy endeavor. And so, once again, I shall indulge myself publicly, with the caveat, that should need no explanation, that the face we share with the world is only one sliver of ourselves, a fraction of our entirety, a scattering of facets, in no way complete, of our being. There are some things that I share with only a few, some with only one, and some, that I share with nobody, not even myself, or at least not fully, honestly and forthcomingly. Perhaps a resolution for the coming year could be simply that: honesty with self with consistent standards and moral requirements as those imposed on the exterior world. We'll see. I have a hard time believing, still, in my inherent worth, or goodness, but this is not a group therapy session, nor is it the topic of my yearly reflection.

So, what did 2007 look like? It seems, to me, that it was one of the more topographically diverse years of mine in recent history. Rampant upheaval and change has been a theme, at least for those of you who have known me since the inception of this little nomadic collection of texts. But what I mean is that I can neatly classify the year 2007 into several entirely distinct epochs, mostly to do with my emotional relationship to the outer banks of my personal island, and the shipwrecked navigators that stumbled about these shores. Last year began with a rediscovery of Mexico City, a reclaiming for myself and I. of the streets that had once been familiar, but had become foreign, and in their foreignness, fear inspiring. Despite my distaste for other elements of that journey, I take away from it the joy of walking down Insurgentes and Revolución with my daughter, hand in hand, exploring massive exhibits of photography, and nibbling elotes. This has been a year of absences too.

The summer months, spent in inflamed self-reflection and rage at the status of women's and children's rights, and the institutionalized obstacles to responsible paternity (among other issues), and long, enlightening and hopeful discussions with a smattering of taxi drivers in Mexico, represented a reprieve from motherly duties. It was a time for extensive reclaiming, by feet pounding on pavement, or delicately clacking in heels, or bounding about, over miles of concrete. I fell in love with the city, and fell in love with my own aloneness. This could be, in some ways, "the year of sleeping alone", although 2008 doesn't necessarily promise to make any radical modulations on that theme. Having I. absent from my house, being inside my body, sweating, bleeding, crying alone. Those have been some of the generous gifts that I have bestowed upon myself, and which my loving parents have afforded me.

This last half year has been, instead of lonely, extremely fulfilling in that instead of feeling isolated, or as if my condition of self somehow demanded an unfair imposition of foreclosure, the solitude that I sought and achieved was a much more peaceful one. I have finally remembered how to be alone with myself, without the urgency of becoming un-so. I like this place, though I do admit my back requires attention and my toes are often cold; my arms, at times, unwittingly grasp at the air, in search of midnight solace. All told, though, those are minor skirmishes lost in a winning campaign of peace and self-satisfaction.

I have, despite recent poor communication skills, I think, cultivated a vast and profound network of friendships. I have moved forward, ever forward with my degree, gaining some closure through the performance of certain rites of passage. I have been hurt by people I love. I have, I think, truly forgiven them. It was a good year, of self-discovery. I took classes about things that interested me, I took risks, and plan to continue, regarding my deepest goals, and I have tried to forgive myself my foibles of character, to accept things as they are without the hand-wringing anxiety about what they might, or will, inevitably become, or unbecome.

And so. The year pokes its blue-skied head in the window, of a house that is not mine. Two cats, also not mine, lounge about peacefully. I am with a dear friend, who has travelled cross the country, convinced me to pamper myself in languid nudity, surrounded by women in saunas and hot tubs, rubbing salts on our proverbial wounds, and who schemes about our mutual futures. 2008 looks promising.