"La vida es novela, hay que escribir mucho"

2010-08-13T21:13:00.003-07:00

2010-08-13T21:13:00.002-07:00

2010-08-13T21:13:00.001-07:00

2010-08-10T15:53:00.001-07:00

Me mudé / I moved

2010-07-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

nuevo y mejorado blog: https://thelionqueen.wordpress.com/
new and improved blog: https://thelionqueen.wordpress.com/

Sobre cómo murió el Mar Muerto y otros pensamientos

2010-07-04T20:56:00.001-07:00

"Convertirse al islamismo es demasiado fácil" pensó, mientras flotaba en esa gran masa de agua, sin explicación alguna. Sin explicación porque la que le habían dado, que incluía montañas que se movían y moléculas y minerales no explicaba realmente por qué flotaría. Y era simplemente mejor asumir que era magia lo que la hacía flotar como un pato de plástico en una bañadera.

"Si tan sólo existieran más cosas tan fáciles como convertirse al islamismo. Pero, veamos, aquí estoy, flotando en el agua, como si nada. Juste comme ça". Quitó la vista de su cuerpo flotando y la concentró en las montañas, entrecerrando los ojos y frunciendo la nariz. Intentó imaginar qué yacía más allá de aquellas montañas, ya en territorio jordano. "¿Cuántos habrán repetido tres veces la frase 'no hay Dios excepto Alá, Mohamed es el mensajero de Alá'? Quien lo haya hecho, ¿recibió una tarjeta de membresía?"

No había nadie a su alrededor. No podia preguntar. Pero no tenía real interés en saber, ya que su atención volvía al hecho del que el mar, el Mar Muerto, la estaba levantando. “¿Rechazándome? El islamismo nunca me rechazaría…¿o lo haría? Siempre y cuando dijera la frase tres veces…Mejor no la repito, por las dudas. Debería considerar seriamente las implicaciones de convertirme al islamismo.”

Mostrándole los dientes a la violación

2010-06-21T15:46:00.002-07:00

Durante este mes, Sudáfrica, como anfitrión del Mundial de Fútbol, se encuentra bajo el foco internacional. Ha recibido atención positiva y, claramente, sus ingresos en el área de turismo han dado un salto. Pero esta es también una oportunidad para que salgan a la luz los problemas sociales que persisten en este país con aún claros clivajes sociales y una historia de violencia e inseguridad.

CNN publicó el 21 de junio de 2010 una nota sobre un nuevo invento que está siendo distribuido en las ciudades donde se está llevando a cabo el Mundial, el "Rape-aXe".

Inventado por la doctora sudafricana Sonnet Ehlers, el Rape-aXe es un preservativo femenino con dientes, un "condón anti-violación".

"La mujer inserta el preservativo de latex como si fuera un tampón. Dentro del mismo hay filas de dientes que se enganchan al pene del hombre durante la penetración," explica Ehlers, "una vez que se ajusta, sólo un doctor puede quitarlo". La doctora espera que los hospitales tendrían a su servicio autoridades preparadas para arrestar a quienes se presentaran para hacerse liberar de este artefacto.

De acuerdo a la doctora, este preservativo "hace doler, y no permite que el hombre orine o camine mientras lo tiene enganchado. Si trata de quitárselo, se engancha aún más. De todos modos, no lastima la piel y no hay riesgos de que se escapen fluídos."

Ehlers mantuvo entrevistas con hombres condenados por violación, quienes admitieron que, de correr el riesgo de quedarse "atrapados", considerarían seriamente sus acciones. Sin embargo, críticos del Rape-aXe han planteado que no resuelve el problema de la violación a largo plazo. Las víctimas de violación no tienen acceso a cuidados médicos de urgencia, y por lo general no puede determinarse quien las ha atacado. Además, aquel que ha decidido violar a una mujer recibe el castigo una vez que llegó al punto de cometer el crimen, habiendo causado daños psicológicos a su víctima.

La crítica más severa a este invento es que "esclaviza" a la mujer. ¿Es justo que una tenga que prever que será violada y tomar medidas de este tipo para evitarlo? ¿Existen situaciones en las que una sabe que corre riesgos de violación y decidiría entonces utilizar este preservativo?

En un país donde la violación es moneda corriente, ¿los hombres pensarán dos veces antes de someter sexualmente a una mujer ante el riesgo de "ser mordidos"?

Fuente:

http://edition.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/africa/06/20/south.africa.female.condom

"La guerra del hummus" enfrenta a Israel y Libano en un nuevo terreno: el gastronómico

2010-05-17T22:47:00.000-07:00

Más de 300 cocineros libaneses consiguieron recuperar el récord Guiness por el plato de hummus más grande del mundo: 10.452 kilos. Más del doble que el que le había dado el título mundial a los israelíes en enero pasado.

El hummus es un plato que despierta pasiones y rivalidad en el Oriente Medio. Es una sencilla pasta a base de garbanzos, tahine (pasta de sésamo), jugo de limón y aceite de oliva, que muchos países se atribuyen como propia. Es así como, en un continente regado de conflictos bélicos, Líbano e Israel se disputan el título por el plato de hummus más grande del mundo en una escalada que los medios han denominado "La Guerra del Hummus".

En 8 de mayo pasado, 300 cocineros libaneses dieron el último golpe en esta guerra culinaria, devolviendo a su país el record Guiness por el plato de hummus más grande del mundo. El plato ganador pesó 10.452 kilos. De acuerdo a la prensa local, la receta incluyó 8 toneladas de garbanzos, 2 toneladas de tahine, 2 toneladas de jugo de limón y 70 kilográmos de aceite de oliva.

Este plato pesó más del doble que aquel que le dio el título mundial a los israelíes en enero de este año. El inversor detrás de ese logro fue el millonario israelí-árabe Jawdat Ibrahim, dueño de restaurantes que ganó la lotería estadounidense y decidió invertir en este esfuerzo declarando que "la competencia es saludable".

A falta de un mejor recipiente, los israelíes volcaron la preparación en una antena parabólica prestada por un canal de televisión vecino al pueblo de Abu Ghosh, a las afueras de Jerusalén, donde se concretó la hazaña. En tanto, los libaneses fabricaron especialmente para la ocasión un recipiente gigante que a su vez rompió el record del plato de cerámica más grande del mundo.

De acuerdo al periodista israelí Shooky Galili, escritor de un blog especializado en hummus, "esta 'guerra del hummus' es definitivamente una de las guerras más agradables que tenemos en la región. Esperemos que nuestras próximas guerras sean del mismo estilo".

Publicado en Clarín Digital, el 17/5/2010

http://www.clarin.com/diario/2010/05/17/um/m-02196679.htm

Tel Aviv, January 2010

2010-05-03T23:20:00.000-07:00

2010-03-20T13:55:00.000-07:00

"At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles – a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other – that kept me going." Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary (1998)

Modern Romance

2010-03-15T16:09:00.000-07:00

"don't hold on, go get strong, well don't you know? there is no modern romance."

This song has been the soundtrack of my walks around the city lately. Spring is coming, romance blooms, couples hold hands walking along the lake and I feel a bit like Bridget Jones. I have claimed lately that I will never love again, that romance seems disgusting, that I don't buy love and romance and etc. I have found myself annoyed by people who have been rubbing their "eternal, unconditional love" in my face (and ears).

And I quoted this song again, because this is how I felt. But I didn't give much thought to these words until someone pointed out to me: "but there is modern romance".

I denied what he said but soon realized that my arguments were a mere product of my frustration. And then he quoted Rilke: "It is also good to love: because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work which all other work is merely preparation"

With these words I remembered something that I had forgotten. While all this time I am being bitter and rejecting those who want to show the world how much they love each other, I am forgetting something very important. With another failure I gained something. I took a step further into this ultimate task of learning how to love someone else, how to build something real with someone else. How to be myself with someone, instead of merging and smothering each other and calling it love.

And then, more words of wisdom from Rilke: "Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person (for what would a union be of two people who are unclarified, unfinished, and still incoherent?), it is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person; it is a great, demanding claim on him, something that chooses him and calls him to vast distances. Only in this sense, as the task of working on themselves ("to hearken and to hammer day and night"), may young people use the love that is given to them. Merging and surrendering and every kind of communion is not for them (who must still, for a long, long time, save and gather themselves); it is the ultimate, is perhaps that for which human lives are as yet barely large enough."

I remember now what should have been obvious for many months already. And I remember too that if there is something that I like more than the song "Modern Romance", it is the hidden track after it, that says:

Baby I'm afraid of a lot of things
But
I ain't scared of lovin' you
Baby I know your afraid of a lot of things
But
Don't be scared of love

Cause
People will say all kinds of thing
That don't mean a damn to me
Cause all I see
Is whats in front of me
And that's you

Well, I've been dragged all over the place
I've taken hits time just don't erase
And baby i can see you've been fucked with too
But that don't mean your lovin' days are through

Cause people will say all kinds of things
That don't mean a damn to me
Cause all I see
Is whats in front of me
And that's you

Well I maybe just be a fool
But I know you're just as cool
And cool kids
They belong together

No further comments.

Je suis venu te dire que je m'en vais

2010-03-11T05:30:00.000-08:00

Scene for the screenplay that I will write someday:

Music for the scene:

A woman is standing in a living room. The sun comes in through a large window, the lights are off. She puts on a long black coat. Close up to her face. A tear falls down her cheek, and she wipes it off with her hand. She walks to a table with an old record player on top. Close up to the needle of the player hitting the record that reads "Serge Gainsbourg, Je suis venu te dire que je m'en vais". She walks to the door, where there is a bag and her purse. She takes both and walks out the door.

Close up of the record turning as the song plays.

A door opens and closes. A man stands next to the table with the old record player. He follows the motion of the record as the song repeats itself over and over again. Close up to his face. A tear falls down his cheek and he wipes it off with his hand.

As the song plays, zoom it to the man's face, while the woman whispers in his ear "I just came to tell you that I'm going, and all your tears won't change anything"

End of Scene.

In the middle of the lake

2010-02-03T14:04:00.000-08:00

While they were on the phone, the song "Meet me at the lookout point" by Devendra Banhart was playing in the back.

-We should meet in the middle
-Of the Lake?
-Yes
-Should we swim?
-Yes, why not? Meet me at noon.

It was noon and they swam to the middle of the lake.

The tango song "Como dos extraños" was playing in the back. The first reason for this was that a tango song will likely play in the back when there is an Argentinian involved in an encounter. The second reason for this was that he insisted that she had been absent for so long that maybe he had forgotten what she looked like, and other details about her. Also, the lyrics of this song fitted the scene.

The water was cold, because it was the middle of the winter, but they were both smart enough to wear neoprene suits and gloves.

She had a hard time recognizing him in this circumstance, for she had only seen him wearing a suit and looking serious in the corner of the room. He told her she looked stupid, and laughed at her. But she was starting to understand that he needed to tell her all these things.

-We should get out of the lake and walk around rive droite, because rive gauche is too bourgeois- he said.

She gave him a flirtatious look.

-You are a flirtatious freak- he said, serious.

The song playing now was "You've been flirting again" by Bjork. For obvious reasons.

-I cannot help it - she fought back. She did not like having to explain herself all the time.

Many tourists were walking along the lake like them, and a storm was building up quickly.

-I never said I was deep - she told him - but I am profoundly shallow - she added.

It started to rain.

Everyone ran for cover except for them. The song "Heavy Weather" by Jarvis Cocker was now playing. They both burst into song. No one payed any attention, because it was Geneva, after all, and it was raining.

On how the Dead Sea died and other thoughts

2010-01-27T07:54:00.000-08:00

"Converting to Islam is too easy" she thought, while floating in that large mass of water without any explanation. Without any explanation because the one she was given before, including moving mountains and molecules and minerals did not really explain why she would float. And it was just better to assume that it was magic that made her float like a rubber duck in a little kid's tub."If only so many things were as easy as converting to Islam, but now again, here I am, floating in water, like nothing, juste comme ça". She looked at the mountains and focused,narrowing her eyes, imagining what was laying beyond the mountains, in Jordanian territory. "How many must have repeated three times 'there is no God except Allah, Muhammad is messenger of Allah'? Is there a membership card?"
There was no one else there. She could not ask.But then again, she had no real interest in knowing, as her attention came back to the fact that the sea, the Dead Sea, was lifting her up. "Rejecting me? Islam would never reject me, or would it? As long as I said that phrase three times... I better not repeat it, just in case, I would need to actually consider the implications of converting to Islam."

Downfall

2009-12-15T03:37:00.000-08:00

Last night in my dreams we were walking in the jungle. Going up mountains, through trees, mud, rocks.

In my dreams you were walking with me. We were both wearing "explorer" clothes. Very Indiana Jones of us.

We stopped in a very high peak and saw the immensity surrounding us. We were alone with the world. And I slipped.

Hanging on to rocks that were hurting my hands, making them bleed. Using every bit of strength to hang on.
My chin bleeding against the rocks, my eyes open in horror.

And you. Looking down on me. Not moving.
I asked for your help. You took some time to think. You like taking your time to think.

"I do not think this will work out. I can not be helping you all the time, you know?"

I climb up by myself. My arms hurt, my knees scratched.

I did not fall. In my dreams I understood that I am not someone who falls.

un año largo

2009-12-14T17:56:00.000-08:00

estoy cansado. ¿te das cuenta las cosas que pasaron este año? vos te fuiste, yo fui Presidente. se murió Alfonsín. me hice radical. volviste, y te volviste a ir. y me hice mas radical!!!
fue un año muy largo, quiero terminarlo ya.

te fuiste como Perón
volviste por un tiempo como Perón

faltó la masacre de Ezeiza y ya está

hoy me pidieron que fuera a una manifestación contra el rector de la UBA
había troskos tirando piedras por todos lados

---

y yo qué hice?

vos te fuiste.

algo más?

quemaste todos los barcos y te fuiste.

qué barcos?

los buques...no sabés por qué, no?

no

cuando cortéz llega a america, para que sus soldados se dieran cuenta que no iban a volver, manda a quemar los botes.

por el amor de dios no pongas nombres propios.

"Rejazz"

2009-12-10T14:59:00.000-08:00

I find it fascinating how human beings can go from being strangers one day to sharing the utmost intimacy.

We are out with friends, or at work, university, wherever or however. We meet someone, we like them, they like us, we draw each other into our lives. We start calling, texting, emailing, thinking about someone we never even knew existed a few hours or days or months before.
We start sharing the most intimate situations, like sleeping, with someone else. We open up, become vulnerable, make plans together.

Of course, I am generalizing. Every relationship follows its own pace and it takes different times to everyone of us to reach certain stages of a relationship.

But where every case coincides is during the time of the break up. It is during the break up where we are faced with a task: to take a person that occupied a special place out of our lives, heart and head.

I was never good with break ups. I never win a break up. I always want to call minutes or hours after we make the decision. Even if it is logical on my side that it does not make any sense to stay together.

What I hate the most is when I read, watch or hear something that the other would appreciate. And I cannot tell him, because I have to give him space. And because I should be focusing in a million things, no? Because he said horrible things to me, or whatnot. Right, even if it is my first impulse, because maybe even 24 hours ago we were taking each other into account for the decisions we were making, we were counting on each other and I could call him without considering the implications or over analyzing. Without fearing that he will not pick up or hang up on me.

I try to reason with myself. Try to convince myself that it would have never worked out in the future anyways "because he was not perfect after all, he made noise when he ate, he did not take me into account, he worked too much."

And then my friends will tell me that he really was not even good looking and he did not even like me.

Why was I with him in the first place, then? huh? I liked him!!!!!!

And its a big tornado of thoughts and drama and crisis and chaos and aaaaaaargggggghhhh.

I understand that human beings are complex creatures by themselves, so why expect any better when they are paired up and make decisions together?

Maybe I am weak or stupid, or a hopeless romantic who thinks that anything can be talked through. Who knows?

I am counting on Regina Spektor's "Rejazz" words:

Thought I'd cry for you forever
But I couldn't so I didn't
People's children die and they don't even cry forever
Thought I'd see your face in my mind for all time
But I don't even remember what your ears looked like

And the clock still strikes midnight and noon
And the sun still rises and so does the moon
Birds still migrate south and people move on
Even though I'm no longer in your arms
Thought the mountain would crumble
And the rivers would bend
But I thought all wrong and the world did not end

But, for now, all that I know is that I watched a movie you would have loved, and I could not tell you about it. And I wanted to send you cheeky text messages all day. And I learned the word cheeky and now I use it every two words. And that I really hope you think of me sometimes.

Des Armes

2009-10-23T21:11:00.000-07:00

"Des armes, des chouettes, des brillantes
Des qu'il faut nettoyer souvent pour le plaisir
Et qu'il faut caresser comme pour le plaisir
L'autre, celui qui fait rêver les communiantes"

Des Armes - Noir Desir

I am sitting on the 5th floor of the Kempinski Hotel. Looking for "guys with big guns". Maybe "looking for" is not the appropriate way to phrase what I am doing. Waiting for? Hoping they do not show up? Let's say I am here to make sure nothing weird happens.

The members of Parliament who came to Geneva for a conference are probably sound asleep in their rooms. I am giving the security guard eight hours of sleep while I make sure no one does something funny next to their doors.

I cannot say that I have a vast experience dealing with firearms. Until May this year, I had only seen a handgun once in my life. My grandfather decided to take it out of his closet and have me point at the wall of his room. It was heavy and cold. I was shaking, thinking of the damage that this little object could bring with it.

Since May of this year I feel surrounded by firearms. I see them everyday.

A week ago I was riding the bus to work. A Swiss soldier sat next to me. He was carrying a rifle. He put it down on the floor, its point staring at me. "Should I tell him he is making me uncomfortable?" I thought. "Maybe if I say something clever like 'I don't feel like dying today, care to move it away?' he would be less offended." I did not say anything. My eyes fixed on the lethal machine, then on the careless holder, who was looking out the window, not minding the rest of the world.

I was warned beforehand that, while hoping not to see any guns tonight, I would see interesting stuff. I have been sitting next to a table in the corridor for three hours now and I already have a few stories.

First, there was the guy who decided to transit the corridor wearing a white skirt, white shirt and complimentary sandals. He roamed the corridors for a good half an hour. I have yet to investigate how he came from the same side each time.

Then, an Asian couple came along. Probably from the hotel lobby, because they were not wearing enough clothing to have been outside. She was walking in zig-zag, gagging. He was holding her but looking away with disgust and probably wishing she had not been so stupid to drink so much. Yes, I can see the vomit from my spot and I am not happy. Someone came and asked me if he should vacuum, but I said no, the noise would not be welcome.

And then, a young Italian-Arabic young man came out of his room. He stood in front of me and said: "You are beautiful". I pressed the walkie-talkie button by accident. "Thanks?" I replied. He then asked: "Are you working for the Israeli guy?". I did not say a thing. "I will come back very drunk, I am very sorry in advance. I will ask you for your number." he said, pressed the elevator button and waived and smiled for hours before finally leaving. Now, making up a fake number....
I was not pleased when a creepy guy with a turbant came to me to say there was vomit outside his room and he wanted it cleaned. I explained that I was not working for the hotel and, I admit it, got very scared and pressed the walkie-talkie button. Well, he was scary and asking me who I was working for!!

Oh! The guy with the prostitute!!! Yes. How could I forget them? And they were staring at me like I was the one doing something sort of awkward. Ha.

4 a.m. and still awake. Second Red Bull. Two coffees. About four hotel employees walked by the vomit and promised to get someone to clean it but it is still there.
The flood of hotel guests diminished considerably, and I am trying to stay alert to the possible coming and going of escorts. I think I missed the exit of the one who gave me a look before. Maybe she is spending the night?

An employee from the hotel finally came to clean the mess, spread all along the 5th floor. I feel bad for him, and feel like waking up the rude girl who cannot drink.
He cannot vacuum the mess, so he decided to use a mop and makes it even worse. He then comes back and forth, bringing along pieces of a black rubber that he uses to cover the dirty patches of carpet.

Finally, the Italian-Arab guy came back. At 6 am. I could smell the melange of cigarettes and alcohol from the distance. He wanted to know my name. I said I could not tell. He wrote his name, Ali, on a napkin, next to his number. "I know you will not call me, but here is my number" he said, and left. I was relieved that he was not in the mood to insist.

It is 6.30 a.m. and I just saw a huge man, dressed in a white dress, walking around, complimentary sandals, breathing heavily. His dress was see-through from the waist below. I am almost certain that the view of his rear back has rendered me traumatized. But the night is almost over.

The chief of security woke up and came to the corridor. He looks at me, asking what are the pieces of rubber on the carpet. While I explain, I see the Asian couple walking towards us. They walk over the patch that covers her vomit. He says "Bonsoir", and she laughs and tells him "Good morning."

I am just happy that I did not see a gun tonight.

Safety First

2009-10-23T20:44:00.000-07:00

I wanted to write a comparison between safe sex and airport security checks three years ago and postponed it for some reason. It may have been because I didn't go through Heathrow Airport security during those years. Now that I had to take off my shoes and belt and walk along the dirty floor through the metal detector while bearing witness to several travelers being manually searched, I felt compelled to go back to this blog draft.

It is true that Heathrow is not one of the heaviest airports when it comes to security checks, although the rule that states that "any liquids under 100 ml must be placed in "a single, transparent, re-sealable plastic bag, which itself must not exceed 1 litre in capacity (approximately 20cm x 20cm)" caught me off guard, and made me realize that no one at Geneva Airport paid attention to the amount of liquid I was taking with me (oops).

But, back to my old comparison, two things that by themselves are perfectly enjoyable could come to be, according to my perception, product of a similar mutation generated by human race and its madness: traveling on a plane and sex. Security is obviously important in both cases: we don't want a bomb or weapons on a plane as we don't want STDs or sometimes babies in our beings. But to what extent can we take measures too far?

It is increasingly tedious to clear security in many airports of the world, while security officials look for every possible object that "may cause trouble on the plane". We have to take off garments, open our bags for strangers to inspect what we decided to take with us, get pulled apart if we look "like a terrorist". With the development of new technology, both on the side of those who want to blow up planes and those who want to avoid said explosions, the list of forbidden elements on planes and screening procedures gets longer.

With the spread of STDs and knowledge on them, precautions needed for sex have become similar to clearing security at the airport. I don't believe that condoms enter the list of new measures. It is the "metal detector of sex" (the first thing to be there, and will be on the menu in most cases). My point is rather that we have found new measures in order to feel protected. Many require STDs tests from their partners before having intercourse for the first time (or on various ocassions), many don't allow direct genital contact to avoid HPV, many have other strange procedures and techniques that I still have to learn. But I am positive that with new discoveries, paranoia has grown.

I am not saying that it is wrong to use protection or to avoid air terrorism; my aim is rather to appeal to common sense. New discoveries are wonderful, but we need to pick and choose healthy alternatives that dont't change the nature of our activities.

If we allow things to go too far, the day will come when the metal detector will effectively see through our clothes and we will test our partners for an overwhelming amount of diseases right before "getting it on" and we will forget about the basic reason of why we go to the airport and take our clothes off.

Silence

2009-10-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

"Its, oh, so quiet
shhhh
shhhh
its, oh, so still
shhhh
shhhh
you are all alone
shhhh
shhhh
and so peaceful until......"
Bjork - It's oh so quiet

Thinking about silence, I remembered a political science class where we were discussing freedom of press and expression. Silence is deceiving.

A democratic country where the government is doing a good job will be less likely to find loud opposition in the press. At the same time, an authoritarian regime where the government is oppressing the press will probably lack in public criticism as well.

The same goes with relationships. A good relationship is full of silence. It means you are comfortable with one another and you do not need fill voids with vain words.

But silence can also result from the concealing of one's thoughts, for any given reason. Silence can be expressing any sort of discomfort or discontent with the other. Sometimes, people bear a sort of authoritarian regime within, hiding criticism towards their partner.

Political scientists have debated over centuries on an appropriate definition that would classify types of political systems. There is of course no agreement on how to classify what constitutes a democracy, but there is agreement on the fact that freedom of press and expression are a requirement of any good government. It is reading the silence what complicates judging whether there is a healthy freedom of speech.

The same goes with a new relationship. While one silence means everything is more than OK, the other silence is an avalanche of emotions waiting to be freed. A bulk of negative feelings that are camouflaged.

Political scientists have debated for a long time how to test the quality and nature of silence. Human beings have yet to find ways to understand each others' lack of expression.

10 months

2009-07-26T03:31:00.000-07:00

I was afraid when we decided to end it. Afraid I would never love again. Clinging to you, my first love. But we were hurting each other. And you told me: you will fall in love again. Not only that, but you will fall in love a million times more. Sometimes it will last for years, or for a split second. I didn't believe you then, I felt angry and lonely.

Some years went by, I could still call you, you were still there. I would call you in the middle of the night to hear your deep voice, tell you what was bothering me. I never woke you up, you were always awake at night. And you understood.

The 28th of September of 2008 came, and it happened. And I heard through your friend. And I felt the biggest emptiness in my whole life. I had lost you forever. You were not going to answer my middle of the night calls.

During these 10 months I have wanted to tell you so many things.

I didn't go to your funeral, I'm very sorry. I told everyone it was because I had an exam that day, but I couldn't care less about that exam. I could not face seeing you leave forever.
I heard that that girl you dated who was a bit weird and pretended to be bisexual entered the funeral home with a red rose and left it on your casket. In my mind she was dressed in black and wearing sunglasses. Maybe a big hat.
Your father was holding a kadish, his hands shaking, his eyes watery and lost in that room full of people. He keeps that kadish in the notebook he takes everywhere, next to the picture of your son. I learnt a few months later, when I met with him for coffee, that he dressed you up with a white sheet, it was the only thing he could find in a city so far away from Capital. And he put a kipa with a maguen david on your chest.
I heard there was a drawing of a green flower for you, I think your sister could have made it.

Your mom told me, when we finally gathered the strenght to meet, that you had come to life to teach us things. And when I think back about these words you told me when we decided we weren't going to be together again, I can only say that I agree with her.

I went back to that beach where we spent one summer. Your name was engraved in a stone next to the bus station where I picked you up that time. I stared at your name. It was raining and one of us had to go inside the station to buy a ticket. I stayed in the car, my eyes fixed in your name. Ivan.
I was stupid to think it would be easy to go to that place again, you were everywhere. I played some Smashing Pumpkins songs to you at the beach and walked around, remembering the time when we built that sand volcano and lit a newspaper so smoke would come out of it. It was a great volcano.

Before leaving the country I made sure I guided your sister through your cds. I know you had asked me to do it if this happened. It was a long time ago but I felt like you were with us while we played "The trees", "In the arms of sleep".... or "Birds in your garden".

I am sure you would have loved the new Jarvis Cocker cd. We would have shared the same favorite song, I am sure.

It's been ten months since you left. And I don't blame you anymore. It would be selfish to blame you. But I wish you would've stayed a bit longer. Alfonsín passed away, and thousands of people took the streets. You would've loved to tale pictures of the masses of people congregated, the red and white flags. Strangers mourning together.

Michael Jackson passed away too, you would have been into that too.
Good things happened as well, but I know you are aware. Because when I took the plane, leaving everything behind, I knew you were smiling, proud.

It's been three years since you told me that I would fall in love a million times in a lifetime. And I can't say if that's the absolute truth or not. But I can say that, everyday, I take your words and live up to what you taught me.

On why women want assholes

2009-07-16T14:24:00.000-07:00

Before writing this, I should clarify that I am writing in English just to broaden the spectrum of readers, given that I am currently in Geneva and most of the people who may read this are fluent in this language.

I am leaving to Barcelona tomorrow. I have never been there before, and people tell me it is wonderful. I have, nevertheless, seen the movie "Vicky Cristina Barcelona". I don't know how it ends, I was watching it on a plane from Lima to Buenos Aires and it was just finishing when the plane started its descent, so they stopped showing movies. But I did see enough of it to get surprised when most of my female friends asked me to bring Javier Bardem - or replica- back from Barcelona. Why would all of my friends want me to bring back for them the self-centered, misogynous, selfish man embodied in this character? Why do my friends want to have in their hands a man that will probably never call them, or get bored and leave them after a few months - or weeks, to say the least? Why wouldn't they want the other guy? And why can't I remember the other guy's name?! The question in my head is - not for the first time in my life- why do women want assholes?
I don't think it's necessary to fill paragraphs with stories, we all know that most of us are most likely obsessed with the one who never called, who never calls, who for some misterious and incomprehensible reason can't reply text messages, who wants to be "just friends" (after they managed to take whatever on earth they wanted from us).
I am not saying that there are two types of men, I believe that men who behave in a reprehensible manner with some women can be the loveliest with other. But I can't get over our obsession to get those who evidently do not want us.
But sometimes, even if we realize this, we still wait for the text message of that guy who owes us a reply since last....month? and we don't even think about that guy who is always there, inviting us to places, replying text messages. It could be, I don't know, a natural tendency of women to masochism? an aversion to taking the easy path? Maybe it's not something that only happens to us women and we play the same tricks on men. Maybe no one notices that they are behaving like this towards others.
I seriously doubt that I can reach a conclusion in this post, but I accept comments on my line of argument from anyone.
As for me, I am taking a plane to Barcelona tomorrow, and will try to bring back men who are more worthy of their time to my friends than those who play incomprehensible games.

:)

2008-12-12T19:20:00.002-08:00

felicidad
(Del lat. felicĭtas, -ātis).

1. f. Estado del ánimo que se complace en la posesión de un bien.

2. f. Satisfacción, gusto, contento. Las felicidades del mundo

3. f. Suerte feliz. Viajar con felicidad

Diccionario de la Real Academia Española

happiness
noun

trying to rediscover the happiness we once knew pleasure, contentment, satisfaction, cheerfulness, merriment, gaiety, joy, joyfulness, joviality, jollity, glee, delight, good spirits, lightheartedness, well-being, enjoyment; exuberance, exhilaration, elation, ecstasy, jubilation, rapture, bliss, blissfulness, euphoria, transports of delight.

happy |ˈhapē|

adjective ( -pier , -piest )

feeling or showing pleasure or contentment

• [ predic. ] ( happy about) having a sense of confidence in or satisfaction with (a person, arrangement, or situation)

• (of an event or situation) characterized by happiness : we had a very happy, relaxed time

PHRASES ( as) happy as a clam ( at high tide) extremely happy

Apple dictionary v. 2.0.2 (51.4)

félicité
Nom féminin singulier

bonheur prodigué

bonheur parfait

www.le-dictionnaire.com/

La vida es una nube como esta

2008-12-11T20:01:00.000-08:00

La vida es una nube como esta:

donde busco una correlación
la encuentro
pero correlación no significa causalidad
claro que no

y la relación entre mis variables no es
estadísticamente significativa.

Pruebo con el método del acuerdo
pero no estoy de acuerdo
en que sea útil.
y el de la diferencia
me es indiferente.

Quizás un experimento
con esta nube de puntos
que es la vida...

pero en la vida no se pueden mantener constantes las variables de control.

?

2008-12-10T13:03:00.000-08:00

me expando
me contraigo
me expando
me contraigo

como el gas
que no tiene memoria

como el gas
yo no tengo memoria

repito
me repito
me equivoco
me expando
y contraigo

como el gas

sin memoria

Relaciones Internacionales II

2008-12-03T15:40:00.000-08:00

Kaori nació en Tokio, Japón; Paul en Waterloo, Canadá. Se conocieron en julio del 2007 en un club de salsa de Tokio. El trabajaba allí para un banco, ella había vuelto poco tiempo antes después de haber trabajado para Disney en Orlando, Florida. Ese día, él cumplía apenas tres semanas de los cinco meses que duraba su contrato con el banco.
“No hablamos al principio; sólo bailamos. Tuvimos una conexión --bailando salsa, claro. Esa noche intercambiamos números de teléfono”, recuerda Kaori. Fueron buenos amigos durante dos meses, en que compartieron clases de salsa.
La atracción era innegable, pero no estaban convencidos de empezar una relación “en serio”, porque Paul se iría un mes después y ninguno de los dos había tenido antes un relación estable. Entonces, recibieron una noticia esperanzadora: “El banco ofreció a Paul un trabajo para cuando se graduara, en agosto de 2008. Hasta entonces habíamos mantenido una relación sin demasiado compromiso, aunque todo el tiempo que pasamos juntos fue perfecto: divertido, dulce, emocionante”, afirma Kaori. “Cuando se fue de Japón me puse muy triste, pero sabía que debía continuar con mi vida y ser feliz para que él no se preocupara por mí”
“Los dos tenemos muchos amigos y muchas cosas que hacer”, explica Paul, “lo que nos pasa es que sentimos una atracción muy fuerte el uno por el otro y nos mantenemos ocupados mientras no podemos vernos.”
Durante el tiempo que pasaron separados se enviaron mensajes contando los días hasta la visita de Kaori, planearon hacer samuráis de nieve en el parque de la casa de Paul durante el frío invierno canadiense.
Kaori visitó a Paul en Canadá en enero. Dice que reforzó lo que sentía por él viéndolo día a día. “Lo amo como hombre, como persona, amo su buen corazón y su bondad. Me sorprendió cuánto cuida a su familia. Paul es digno de respeto”, lo ensalza. “En Canadá descubrí que Paul es mi hombre y quiero estar con él, por lo que estar esperando vale la pena”.
Pero pasaron cinco meses desde entonces. “Es muy frustrante –se lamenta ella.. porque sólo hablamos dos o tres veces por semana vía Skype y nos dejamos mutuamente mensajes y videos de salsa en Facebook así aprendemos nuevos pasos para hacer juntos.”
Tras la visita de Kaori, se multiplicaron los “Paul-kun I miss you” (Paul-kun te extraño) y “Kaori-chan I miss you too” (Kaori-chan yo también), y los videos de salsa, y las noticias diarias en sus páginas de Facebook.
Paul le escribió en Facebook, a la vista de todos sus contactos: “Te extraño, mirá el pescado que cociné hoy para la cena”. Al lado, hay una foto de un plato sobre el que yace un pescado con la boca abierta y los ojos blancos. Kaori respondió: “Es como si me estuviera mirando, me da miedo. ¿Cómo lo cocinaste?”. Paul puso allí la receta.
Prefieren Facebook, porque es más directo que un email y les resulta difícil encontrarse por teléfono. “Es muy complicado por la diferencia horaria. Si hablaramos todos los días por teléfono o Skype alguno de los dos no dormiría” explica Kaori.
Pero Kaori aclara: “La única razón por la que seguimos juntos es porque eventualmente nos vamos a ver”.
Ella no teme que Paul encuentre a otra mujer. “Si uno se embarca en una relación de este tipo es porque entiende al otro, hay una conexión que puede mantenerse aunque no haya contacto físico todo el tiempo. Además, si Paul me engañara con una mujer, yo diría que fue el destino. Si logramos seguir juntos va a ser obra del destino también” se jacta Kaori.
Paul confiesa que luego de la visita de Kaori tuvo la posibilidad de “tener algo” con una bailarina de salsa norteamericana durante una conferencia de salsa en Detroit. “Hubiera sido cuestión de que yo respondiera a sus insinuaciones, totalmente evidentes” afirma, y agrega “pero la verdad es que tuve mucho tiempo para estar con cualquier chica como para engañar a la mujer que más me entiende en el mundo ahora que la encontré.”
Sin embargo, ninguno de los dos tiene demasiadas certezas sobre cómo será su vida cuando ambos vivan en Tokio, ya que ella ha cambiado de trabajo dos veces en los últimos seis meses. “Ella no fue a la universidad, y tiene por lo general trabajos de hotelería o turismo. No quisiera que Kaori deje de hacer nada por mi, aunque espero que el destino no la aleje de Tokio ahora que pronto vamos a estar juntos.” Kaori, por su parte, afirma que “la llegada de Paul va a ser un alivio, quiero pasar con él todo el tiempo posible y que sea posible hablar sin arreglar un horario dos días antes.”

El sádico acto de comer una naranja

2008-12-02T14:53:00.000-08:00

Naranjas redondas. Muchas naranjas rendondas. Acostadas una al lado de la otra, una encima de la otra. Hermosas naranjas sobre aquella bandeja en la cocina. Tomo una y la dejo en el escritorio para comerla más tarde. Saciaré con ella tanto mi hambre como mi sed cuando caiga la noche sobre mí sin preguntar si estoy lista para que termine el día.

Me llenaré de exasperación leyendo las palabras que parecen hacerse más largas y complejas a medida que mis ojos tratan de atraparlas. Entonces clavaré mis dientes a través de su piel. Clac. Los hundiré sin piedad. Sin pena de arruinar su perfecta forma redonda, ni de privarla de su ropaje. La encontraré intentando protejerse de mí con su capa blanca amarga, pero morderé igual. Y morderé alternadamente su cascara ácida y porosa y su dulce y jugosa pulpa. Disfrutaré al morder los sectores porosos de su estructura, aunque un líquido ácido salte a mis labios cada vez que lo haga y me haga doler en una manera inusual.

Y todos se burlarán de mí cuando me vean empapada en jugo pegajoso y anaranjado, pero no me importará. Tampoco me importará la persistencia del dolor en mis labios y los remanentes de pulpa que quedarán entre mis dientes, incluso luego de cepillarlos dos veces.

Relaciones Internacionales I

2008-12-02T14:42:00.001-08:00

Cuatro historias de amor a la distancia compondrán la serie "Relaciones Internacionales"
Aquí la primera:

Alejandro, argentino, de 22 años conoció a Cecile, francesa, de 24, en la ciudad de Boston, Estados Unidos, cuando ambos asistían a un curso de inglés para extranjeros. “Compartíamos algunas clases, y de a poco pegamos onda”, cuenta Alejandro. “Empezamos como onda amigos y una vez nos fuimos un fin de semana con más gente a Washington. Ahí pasamos mucho tiempo juntos, charlando y una noche salimos y se dio, nos besamos.”
Aunque esto sucedió, Alejandro decidió no cortar la relación que mantenía con una argentina, Daniela, hace cinco meses. “No me imaginé que Cecile me iba a impactar tanto, lo veía como una aventura que se iba a terminar rápido, porque yo estaba por volver a Buenos Aires.” Pasaron juntos dos semanas intensas en las que él durmió prácticamente todas las noches con ella.
Cuando volvió, a fines de enero, Alejandro rompió su relación con Daniela. “No podía ni pensar en verla de nuevo a Daniela” afirma. Cecile se quedó en Boston hasta abril. Continuaron hablándose diariamente vía chat y teléfono. “Fortalecimos nuestra relación así, hablando todos los días, y ella aceptó venir a Buenos Aires por dos semanas y aquí empezamos considerar tener una relación más seria”, relata Alejandro.
Hace más de un año que están de novios, dice Alejandro, aunque pasaron juntos sólo tres meses y medio. “Es medio complicado mantener una relación con Cecile por el tema de la distancia, pero al estar tan comunicados por teléfono, por internet, es más simple mantener una cercanía”, explica. No se envían emails por lo general, pero arreglan para encontrarse online al menos cuatro veces por semana y llamarse al menos una vez.
Pero él aún tiene que graduarse de la universidad y ella tiene que buscar trabajo. “Hay que ver cuándo nos podríamos ir a vivir aunque sea a la misma ciudad”, desliza, tentativo.
Entonces, ¿por qué seguir? “Yo quiero estar con ella, si quisiera estar con otra mina la buscaría acá –responde, terminante--. Me banco esto de la distancia porque creo que ella vale la pena por muchas cosas: por cómo es ella y cómo nos llevamos, por cómo nos sentimos cuando estamos juntos”.

marzo 2006

2008-03-24T17:37:00.001-07:00

El amor estancado se vuelve desamor y en un fuerte impulso me dispongo a guardar lo que resta de tu presencia en mi ser. Como cirujana sin experiencia previa alguna y un mínimo de teoría ejecuto en mí misma una operación de urgencia en pos de detener el resquebrajamiento de mi alma. Con mucho cuidado corto alrededor de tu recuerdo y lo guardo en una caja de terciopelo rosa para que se sienta cómodo, pero no pueda hacerse escuchar. Los recuerdos saltan unos sobre otros en un frenético revoloteo. Los peores son los que saltan con más fuerza, pero me esfuerzo por acomodar en la caja a los más agradables para hacer compañía a tu recuerdo y venir a mí cuando tu nombre flote en el aire y pueda sentir que me hiciste bien. En una catapulta en mi pecho encuentro besos que no te dí y los guardo. Los pobres se entristecen por no poder llegar a destino, pues saben que serán reciclados y pasará algún tiempo hasta que utilize alguno para besar con tanto amor como lo hice con vos, o quizás nunca vuelva a hacerlo.
Millones de lágrimas brotan de mis ojos burlándose de mi intento por frenarlas. Habré de llorar en silencio y simular frialdad si te encuentro, no querrás saber que aún me pregunto si seguís pensando en mí, si guardaste mi recuerdo como yo guardé el tuyo o simplemente lo quemaste para no enfrentar un pasado hermoso y doloroso a la vez.
Escucharé cien mil canciones notando cómo va mutando la sensación que me produce escuchar las melodías que hiciste entrar en mi vida y haré entrar nuevas, esperando que mi alma pueda encontrar placer en sonidos que ya no compartimos.
Me obligaré a no pensarte, a no acosarte con la presencia que algún día amaste y hoy no querés cerca. Buscaré en nuevos rincones nuevas personas que probablemente intentarán ocupar el puesto que ocupaste y de seguro compararé lo que me ofrecerán con lo que me ofreciste. Y serán más o quizás menos adecuadas para completar el espacio que ofrezco pero jamás ocuparán el lugar que decido asignarte en la historia de quien soy.
Concluyo la operación callando a los malos recuerdos que burbujean en mi cabeza, incitándome a odiarte por el daño que me hiciste. La lucha con ellos durará más de lo esperado, pero siempre tendremos más tiempo para reconciliarnos con un pasado en el que el amor se disfrazó de odio y el tiempo en que fuimos felices juntos parece lejano e incierto.

Stormy Weather

2008-02-28T04:55:00.000-08:00

It was raining cats and dogs in Buenos Aires. Literally. It always rains cats and dogs in Buenos Aires, and it inundates the streets. Especially the one I happen to live in, so its fun to see how cats and dogs fall over the edges of the road at first, covering the drains systematically. Its then turn for the rain to fall, heavily, like it doesn't fall anywhere else, almost like someone with giant buckets of water was throwing them at us with anger. It is fun until I realize that I have to be part of that apocalyptic scenery to start the day. At first I felt reluctant to leave my shelter. I schemed excuses in my head. But everyone else was facing their responsibilities, I had no special excuse to be exempt from swimming to work.
I turned to open my "rain closet", where I keep an umbrella, a pair of rubber boots, a diving suit, goggles, an inflatable boat and an inflatable vest that I stole once from a plane. I didn't take the boat that day, I figured that everyone at work would take one too and the closet to store them would be full. The last time this happened, we all got them confused and many of us couldn't find our own. I dressed myself in normal clothes, and wore the diving suit on top. I also decided to wear the goggles.
Leaving the apartment building was hard, again. I couldn't open the door because the water pushed it back inside. All the tenants had agreed to change the direction in which to open it but none of us ever got to it. So every time it rains it takes a long time to struggle against the door until it is possible to open it. When it actually is, water runs inside the building's hall, dragging along some cats and dogs.
This time I couldn't open the door and no one seemed to be around to help me. I kept pushing it but almost a meter of water had already accumulated. I was too late for work and frustrated, so I decided to stop pushing and wait for someone to help me. I saw a family rowing to school and work, lots of people swimming, a woman making her way around by jumping from bus roof to bus roof and a man sitting peacefully high up on a tree contemplating the whole scene. I wished I could just sit like this man, to watch the whole world go crazy and waterlogged.
When the old woman from the 2nd floor joined me in the struggle to open the door I was already two hours late for work, so I dived into the watery street and swam as fast as I could. This was made difficult by the vast amount of boats blocking my way.
No one at the office seemed to care that I was horribly late, they were all concerned with their own issues. Rainy days posed an inconvenience for all of us, and especially this day water kept falling uncontrollably from the sky.
Everyone at the office made me fuzzy, so I left, deciding to make the best of the city under water. I swam along the most crowded streets, witnessing various discussions between people that didn´t even seem to know each other. I got to the bridge next to Facultad de Medicina and sat. Avenida del Libertador was a proper river by now and cars looked rather picturesque floating around, smashing tree tops and buildings.
The rain stopped and the whole city was beautifully quiet.

Monsters under my bed

2008-02-03T20:00:00.000-08:00

I used to check systematically for monsters under my bed. Not a night went by without me telling myself that I wouldn't bother kneeling again to take a quick look. I though to myself that I never found any monsters, that I was just going on my knees in search for something that I would never find. I tortured myself every night before going to sleep, begging myself not to repeat this senseless ritual.
Some nights I would get into bed without checking, and sleeping was impossible. I would toss and turn for hours, realizing that making sure that there were no monsters under my bed was the only way for me to get some sleep.
I guess it was fine for me to feel the need to check "just in case". The problem was: what if I actually found a monster under my bed? What did I expect to do? What was I going to say?
This went on for years and years. Even if I had had the most exhausting day I could not resist from bending and looking for something hiding under the mattress. Until I saw someone. And it was no monster. As a matter of fact, she was not even close to being one. Under my bed, the most beautiful woman in the whole world was smiling at me, and with that smile I froze. All those nights of looking for a horrible creature that would threaten my life had lead to finding a beautiful woman lying on the floor and smiling at me! After staring at her for what felt like an eternity I stood up dizzily and pinched myself to make sure I was not dreaming. As I didn't seem to be sleeping, I said to her: "Um...hi...I'm Greg. Wanna come out of there?" I heard no response, so I went on my knees again to find the floor under my bed empty like any other night.
After the disappearance of that incredible and surprising sight I could no longer sleep. She could be there while I was unconscious and missing the chance to get to know her. I spent millions of nights awake, waiting for her to make a new appearance. My tendency to check under the bed for monsters became a more preoccupying one: I was now willing to find someone, someone that had now shaken up every aspect of my life. I didn't sleep anymore, I barely worked. My life revolved around the event of finding that woman again and knowing what had brought her there.
After a year of constantly hoping that she would show up again, proving that she must had had an interest on being there in the first place, I lost my faith. That exciting event that had changed my life and beliefs was probably not meant for the simple guy that I was. It must had been a mistake. I had to go back to my normal life or I would be sucked into an obsession that would lead nowhere.
I overcame with time my tendency to look under my bed. I try not to think about the fact that she is probably there, laughing at the fact that I succumbed into an obsession after seeing her for a few seconds. I try my best to forget about her and move on with my life. After all, if she ever decides to visit me again, she knows that I once cared enough not to sleep for countless nights thinking about her. She will maybe come out and we will meet again.

The day I Iost my way

2007-12-07T16:16:00.000-08:00

The day I lost my way started off as a pretty normal one. I left home, went to work, spaced out for 6 hours, had lunch, spaced out for an extra hour, answered emails, said goodbye and left. I usually found my way back home using the CN Tower as a reference. Now, I guess everyone does so, since she is especially useful at night with her colored lights. But this day in particular, she was nowhere to be found, so I had no idea how to come back home. I walked to the right. I am aware of the fact that Torontonians, or rather, citizens in general have a basic knowledge of street names, directions, etc. I just never did, I had the CN Tower since I moved into this city two years ago. Walking to the right seemed like the correct thing to do, so that is what I did for half an hour, without finding my apartment. Seriously confused at this moment, I decided to ask someone about the mysterious disappearance. I approached a woman in her twenties, walking rather cheerfully down the road: "excuse me, do you know what happened to the CN tower?". She replied: "What do you mean?". Appalled by her ignorance I said hysterically: "IT'S NOT THERE ANYMORE, CAN'T YOU SEE?" She did not seem affected by my emotional ways and said calmly: "Well, I hadn't noticed, but if that's what she feels like, we might as well let her be."

I continued walking to the right, muttering. I found the Manulife center, and, given that it was almost 8 by then, decided to go up to the bar on its top from where I could find the missing 553 meters high tower. I entered the bar, walked straight to the counter and approached the bartender. It is a rule in city life that bartenders and taxi drivers know everything. I said politely: "Do you happen to know where the CN tower is?" To which he responded looking unsurprised: "Oh, no, not really. A man last night mentioned something about it going away, but I didn't pay much attention, I thought he was just a drunk man talking nonsense." I said now hysterically: "But don't you care?" He shrugged his shoulders and walked to the other side of the counter to serve beer to customers willing to make more banal conversation.

I found myself on the street. The night had fallen and a freezing cold wind slapped me on the face. Snow was imminent. Toronto was hitting me with its hardest blows. I walked and walked, not finding any street or building that looked familiar. After an hour or so, snow was falling on me, threatening to enter my eyes and freeze them. And I was still lost.

I suddenly found myself in the middle of Queen's Park, surrounded by statues, fountains, trees and beautiful buildings. I sat on a bench, contemplating the Parliament and I began to cry. I loved this city, it was beautiful, impressive, unpredictable, exciting. It had everything a city needed to have. Its citizens, like the citizens of any great city, shared its qualities. But that cold and harsh night, I could not understand Toronto nor its citizens. I felt like they did not show me its appreciation. I could not cope with the quality of those Torontians that did not seem to respond to my fit of madness. Toronto was irresponsive, it was ignoring my problems and feelings, mocking my desperation to understand what was the reason of the disappearance of the "tower that defines its skyline".

I strolled down University Avenue until I found a Tim Horton's, went in and ordered a double double and three Timbits. While taking a sip of my coffee I understood. Torturing myself with the thought of Toronto not loving me enough to show the CN tower and letting me go home would lead nowhere. The city had seemed selfish and capricious before, but I did choose to live here. I chose it knowing of this unusual events that made me uneasy and insecure, hoping to learn how to adapt one day. And this seemed to be the day when I had to read the city through the behaviors that confused me and show my love.

After finishing my coffee I was no longer worried about not finding the CN tower or my way home. I loved Toronto, and I should love the way it behaved. So I decided to enjoy its unusual behavior and use it as an excuse to stroll around its beautiful streets, going to every place and loving every part of it.

No means no

2007-12-03T20:44:00.000-08:00

Yes, I have a turtle. Yes, I know they don’t do much and they just sit there, biting on lettuce every once in a while. But Terry has a sense of humor that is very similar to mine and we get along just fine. Sometimes I sit on the bus, apart from him and everything is just so banal. I can picture the bus crashing into a big truck and everyone panicking, running in circles, being cut into pieces, their blood mixing up with the pieces of metal flying all over. Bones cracking, blood flying, people screaming, chaos. But not me. I don’t move. I don’t care. Terry is in the shoe box he calls home, in my room, next to my lamp on my desk. Probably missing me, but not showing it. He is so much like me and people like me will never admit when they are missing someone. I come back everyday and find him there, and he comforts me after those long days of banality, full of nonsense studying that seems to lead nowhere. But not that day. I came back and no Terry. No box. No nothing. I ran to my mother’s room and demanded the truth in tears. He was dead. D-E-A-D. Mort. Muerto. Shindeimasu.
I ran to the kitchen, followed by my mother, grabbed the biggest knife I could find and held it in front of my chest. I was determined. My mother was screaming “Nooooooo!!”. And I said: "Right. No means no”. And then everything was OK again.

The Sadistic Act Of Eating An Orange

2007-11-27T15:38:00.001-08:00

Round oranges. Plenty of them. Lying one next to each other, sometimes one on top of the other. Eine auf dem ruecken und eine ueber ihr. Beautiful oranges sitting on that tray. I take one and save it for later. It shall satiate both hunger and thirst when night falls over me without asking if I am done with all my day's work. I shall be filled with exasperation to read those lines that seem to become longer and more complex as my eyes try to catch them.
I will carve my teeth through her skin. Without mercy. Without having pity on ruining such perfect shape or depriving her of garments. I will find her trying to protect herself with that bitter white cover that I will bite all the same, for my desire for her sweet inside will be stronger. And I will proceed to alternate between bitting off the acid peel and the pulp. I will enjoy biting the porous bit of her structure, even if when it makes my lips hurt in an unusual way when the acid is splashed on them. And I will be mocked by everyone who happens to see me soaked in sticky orangy juice but I will not mind. And I will not mind either the persistence of the pain in my lips and the bits of pulp that remain in my teeth even after brushing them twice.

Facebook is the devil

2007-11-05T11:57:00.000-08:00

http://www.xkcd.com/355/

It was a Saturday afternoon when he poked her. Yes. In an impulse, he decided to go for it and click the left button of the mouse and poke that woman he had seen about 6 times, sitting usually three rows ahead in phi876h. She usually held her hair back in a ponytail and yawned a lot in class, and dressed modestly, but in her profile picture she usually showed her real self: smiling with a group of friends and showing her qualities with a better angle than the one he could see from back there in the classroom. So he poked. Just to see her reaction. Just to give it a try. Maybe she had also gone through his pictures once and once again in the night, and maybe she also knew the names of all his friends and all his pets. And so a few days went back and she poked back. Oh my god! She poked back.
This was followed by a series of poking back and forward that concluded in the greatest event: they friended each other. And then writing in their corresponding walls began and life was ecstasy. Life was good. They asked each other if they had handed in the essay, they commented on the upcoming social activities, on music. And then, with an email notification, she found that he had sent a message, a private message that none of her friends could see, but would soon receive through a copy paste on a msn message. He was asking her out. And she did not know what to reply. Could she say she knew him? They only waved in class but were very active in their Facebook interaction. Always fast to reply, always had some witty commentary. She said yes.
They had been sitting in a Starbucks for an hour now and the conversation was good. They had relatively enough things in common and uncomfortable silences were not too many to be concerned of.
A month after this encounter, their profiles did not say single anymore, but In a relationship with. But he had doubts. He noticed her staring at that piece of information a few times, probably wishing she had not said yes to: confirm x as your boyfriend?
It was a new Saturday afternoon and she was taking a shower, getting ready to go out with him and some friends. And she forgot to sign out. And he saw it.
A guy she had mentioned before. He was in the basketball team. No, in her French class. Was it him? Whoever it was, he had poked her. And he needed to say something. He asked her for an explanation. She said she had not poked him first nor back. She was confused. She felt trapped. He wanted answers and she was hiding behind lack of proof. And then he asked her to show him her Inbox.
That was the end. It was not only poking, it was also messages, tons of them. He could never continue a relationship with someone who was poking and sending messages to another man. And he erased her name from her Friends list.