In the middle of the lake

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

"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

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

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"

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

"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

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.