Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Se posa y no levanta el vuelo. Se mece entre tus pensamientos, en el espacio marcado por mis signos de interrogación cubiertos de cejas. Parece no marcharse nunca, te escudriña sin exasperar. Ha venido para quedarse.
La mirada manchega no es furtiva. Es inquisitiva sin derrumbar tu paciencia. Es tranquila por naturaleza, incauta por norma. Se pasea manteniendo el equilibrio sobre la delgada línea que activaría la respuesta, o más bien la pregunta sobre la duración de la misma.
La mía se posa en esta tierra seca, llena de materia rojiza, anaranjada y amarillenta. La Mancha es densa, árida y extensa como el abrazo de un trago de vino en una noche de martes sin tregua.
Los días en esta tierra no permean sobre la llanura del tiempo personal, de manera que las personas envejecen más lentamente, así como los sueños. La vida es como un enorme caracol en medio de un jardín con vallas: la gente te puede ver, y así no te alcanza ninguna bota en su paso hacia su rutinario trabajo de oficina de tres al cuarto. Los felinos que con gusto te convertirían en su aperitivo de media mañana sienten su saliva regurgitar una y otra vez con inusitada frustración al no poder trepar sobre esta pared que no tiene fin.
Aquí uno tiene espacio suficiente para moverse, pero ha de saber que si cruza la barrera de lo incierto no serán ni los gatos ni el movimiento trepador de los viandantes lo que pondrá fín a tus ilusiones. Será, en realidad, la duda y el miedo a otros terrenos menos valdíos y más frondosos en su vertiginoso caos creativo los que harán morir a las mentes más encorsetadas en sus impotentes dogmas.
La vida ha de ser pues, algo más profundo que el umbral de esa mirada fija y segura que nos define. Para sobrevivir en esta tierra, hay que tragarse el agua que nunca llega a través de las grietas del alma, de la cicatriz que nunca supura y se cierra doblemente tras el paso del tiempo que aquí nunca es fugaz.
Vivir en el abismo entre un fallo y otro, entre la respiración de los segundos que nos separan del beso de la musa.
Morir por un deseo que puede que no se cumpla en este mundo pero si en muchos otros.
Soñar y soñar.
Y después descansar.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Lucy, Lucy fingernails,
cut your nails,
leave no trail
Lucy was four years old when her father died. He was diagnosed with a rare illness that left him nailed to a bed for his last handful of years of his life. In fact, Lucy had never seen him standing, let alone walking or even moving his lower body parts. His face always trying to smile, a forced grin that no longer convinced anyone that he was actually willing to give a chance to live one more day.
He was particularly unable to participate in what Lucy's mother considered the right way to educate the often too energetic and mercurial daughter. What some would consider the circumstances and effects of the raging life of a young kid, it would be perceived by Lucy's mother as something uneven, unstable and subject of a severe reprehension. It would be seen as a lack of respect towards the time she had spent trying to lecture her in the correct behavior of youth. Even the word youth was a sign of weakness, ferocious shameful burden that one is forced to carry for some years.
Lucy survived those years without the true knowledge of why whatever she did on her own would always be seen as a mistake by her mother. It all resulted into becoming a very unsure young woman in the end, always feeling as walking on a thin line of ice. Would she fall into one side or the other of the straight path into society was a mystery for her, sometimes succeeding it without being able to control it.
She was 19 when her mother died, her father having passed away much earlier. She moved to a little town in Poland, Nowy Sącz when she was given a chance to work in a reintegration center as a full time teacher. She rented an old flat not too far from the centre, a place with not too much commodities but that she decorated with countless amounts of books and paintings.
Days passed in a peculiar way, as pages do when they get glued to each other and you find impossible to separate them. Some days, she felt as if all her yesterdays were identical to her present time. Sometimes, the book of her life made her jump to a situation devoid of a how, when or how. Regardless of how she tried to figure out her days, they seemed to control her anyway.
And one night, when she least expected it, the pages seemed to have glued back to the start and she would be unable to continue her story without carrying with her all the weight of the past dead ones.
Lucy, Lucy fingernails,
take no break,
leave them rain
The echo from the voice erupted from the blackness behind her, somewhere deep in the dark corridor in her house. She should have been scared, she should have jumped from the chair where she was having dinner and probably wonder why she had rented a house in which the kitchen was at the end of a long corridor than ran through the bottom floor as a centipede through the grass of the Polish gloomy countryside.
It was just that the voice came somehow as sort of an expected arrival in the middle of Christmas Eve. After all, Polish people always leave a dish ready for the guest that would not emulate Godot under such freezing circumstances.
Her mother came and her daughter was ready to hear what she had to say once again. Years have passed and the girl had already grown up twisted but firm, in a solace but with deep solid roots. She was an adult now, and felt ready to face anything that came to her.
Even her mother.
Lucy, remember to cut your nails every night before going to bed. The Lord leaves us gentle into our sleep but we insist on leaving His hand and travel through the dark paths of Hell regardless. You can´t trust yourself when your soul in is the black lands of sleep. Your eyes will open and you will be left exposed by yourself to the nature of your sins. And the punishment will be severe.
The nails can be used by the Unnamed to carve inside the dreams and persevere in your own miseries. You can hurt others, but particularly yourself. Don´t underestimate the power of your putrid soul that claims to be governed and disciplined by the Lord Jesus Christ in daylight.
So as she used to do every night, even after her mother´s death, she went to the bathroom and began her night ritual. She dedicated a full 5 minutes to each hand, leaving no angles uncut, no corners unturned, no filth unclean. That night, for the first night after her mother´s sudden departure -her head had been mysteriously severed from her body while her daughter was in school- she felt as is her mother was indeed watching her do it. Had she not done it well, she would have had her mother tied her up in the bathroom for the whole night as a punishment.
For the next few weeks she would listen to her mother´s voice and her seemingly increasing activity in the house consisting of a series of reeking sounds, inscrutable and completely awe inspiring that would turn her nights into something altogether unbearable for her own sanity.
Fearing falling deeply into a state of progressive lunacy and alienation, she finally decided to socialize a little bit more with the only -living- people she had contact with: her colleagues at work. She always spent the minimum amount of time possible among those people. It wasn´t so much that she didn´t experience any interest for their lives or their stories, it was just that she felt their scrutiny -real or not- in their eyes all the time. She imagined their whispers and chattering while she wasn´t there. The students were certainly not under the spell of her teachings, to which she dedicated hours of preparation with the firm idea that she wouldn´t be bothered by any questions. Let´s just say that Spanish Literature wasn´t alluring for the handful of students who dared to visit her lessons to spend time listening stories about ghosts of Becquer and sonnets by Espronceda. Those names were just exotic to some, but like a taste of sugar in your tongue it only provoked a quick leap in their heartbeats which would be followed by an intense drop of attention.
Lucy, Lucy fingernails
leave the snails,
crop your brain
Today she had received an invitation to one of those so called parties that were an excuse to feed everybody´s gossip on whomever you wanted to expand your knowledge of their family, background and eventually get to know better. Yes, some used it as an excuse to flirt. Everybody knows that. Well, everyone but Lucy. She was often ignored in meetings because of the extreme uneasiness to get her to even look at you when you spoke to her. Her cocoon was a shielded wall that contained a Russian doll like sequence of layers that grabbed the interior as the most precious treasure nature could hold. The truth is, that hard layer that was the most visible part of Lucy was quite attractive, despite her willingness to melt within the heating agony of her environment.
Black curly hair that reached the lower regions of her long back, a fragile but yet balanced frame that decorated with the palest skin in the valley. Her face was uneven due to the extreme beauty of each of their elements, yet it seemed they didn´t find comfort as a whole. It wasn´t her lips, her nose or her cheeks. Each of them were perfect if you put them in another person. In her, they looked as if she had put them there intentionally to hide something hidden elsewhere. Her eyes -when finally you succeeded in her looking at you directly- where blacker than a new moon´s winter dusk, as distant as any planet in a starry night without your glasses on.
You knew she was there, you knew she was gorgeous, yet she seemed you would not know if it was really her if you really got to see her better.
For some reason, Mateusz Nowak found a way to fall between the different reflections of Lucy and succeeding in convincing her to have a drink with her in a small pub close to the school.
Yes, was something that came to her lips as a drop of early afternoon rain, sudden and unexpected.
She said yes to a drink, and coupled that with a numb yes to a slow tender dance and even a final yes to a walk home later at night. She couldn´t remember the last time she had said three words to a man outside of a daily routine situation. We could say that the man had drawn her out of her lingering fall into oblivion somehow and that was something that had magnetically hypnotized her. If she wanted to get to know more about that man she would need to continue to drop more yes to anything he asked for.
Her front door opened wide after another yes. His clothes fell after the next one. Hers took a couple more. Her climax was baptized after the final resounding yes of the night, the last she would ever say in her whole life.
All she did after what she saw in the morning would be a neverending litany of noes.
When the first ray of light entered through the window that morning, all she could see what the shiny reflections on herself. The pain must have surely been there for the whole time, but it had been momentarily subdued by the tantalizing drumbeats of her orgasms. Her fingers were covered in crimson red, her nails removed from their roots in her fingers. She felt as if she would start screaming at any moment, but for some reason her voice remained shuttered in the depth of her awakening lungs. It would finally be freed along with an approaching visit of old friend nausea at the sight of her night lover laying right on her side;
Someone or something had completely devoured his fingers, leaving ten dried open circular fountains from his knuckles. His body had been removed of all hair, his skin whitened as if someone had bathed it all night in bleach. She moved closer to his face to check if he had survived such a cruel misfortune while they were asleep, as if sunrise had covered a fatal curtain of death over his body. His eyes wouldn´t open to see any part of the next day, all they had left was a white sheet of transparent death over them, covering all the tears of pain he could have generated while his torture had been endured.
Lucy didn´t return to the school. She couldn´t let anyone know what had happened. Nobody would believe her.
She took some of her clothes and belongings in a small suitcase and took the first train to Prague. She told herself she would start a new life the next morning, as if the night would erase all the white pain that the day had brought to her that day.
As the night started to welcome her in its wide chest again, she started to feel more and more in peace. In darkness she would heal her wounds and be herself again. Her lust wouldn´t be born again, she couldn´t let it happen.
Her thirst could not be let free again.
That, she promised herself.
Lucy, Lucy fingernails
they will rise in pain
make them die again