Tres puertas

Si hubiera estado para elegir

no hubiera elegido la puerta negra,

pero yo estaba pequeña, muy pequeña,

para haberle dicho que esa tarde no.

 

La señora estaba en la casa,

la niña estaba en la finca,

el muerto estaba en la calle.

Cuál muerto, dijeron,

y la muerte fue noticia.

 

La pintura sin terminar,

los zapatos en la sala,

el almuerzo todavía caliente,

el tetero vacío,

el teléfono sin colgar.

La boca abierta

y a la ambulancia la persigue un ruido chillón.

 

Si hubiera estado para la pregunta

hubiera respondido que no,

pero aunque el muerto no espere la muerte,

la muerte aparece  sin avisar.

 

Veintisiete años pueden pasar,

cien años pueden pasar,

pero un solo muerto es suficiente para un pueblo.

Y para una niña.

.

Respirar

se conjuga todos los días,

pero esperar es más difícil.

Esperar a los otros,

esperarse a sí mismo,

esperar la lluvia,

esperarse,

esperarme,

esperarlo.

Comer

se conjuga todos los días,

pero saberlo es más difícil.

Saber a los otros,

saberse a sí mismo,

saber la lluvia,

saberse,

saberme,

saberle.

Caminar

se conjuga todos los días,

pero querer es más difícil.

Querer a los otros,

quererse a sí mismo,

querer la lluvia,

quererse,

quererme,

quererle.

Conjugar

se conjuga todos los días,

pero vivir es más difícil.

.

After a movie

Podemos encontrarnos

alguna vez,

cuando la historia

nos pertenezca.

Cuando el reloj

marque la misma hora para los dos.

Cuando la canción

nos diga lo mismo.

Podemos encontrarnos

cuando tu viento esté soplando

tan fuerte como el mío.

Cuando no seas más el alumno,

ni yo la maestra, y viceversa.

Podemos encontrarnos,

alguna vez,

si es que las letras nos dejan algo.

Si no se acaban primero,

si no se agotan,

si no tengo que esperar tanto.

Ese día, entonces,

la temperatura será la misma,

el cielo será el mismo,

los años, serán los mismos.

Mi bici y yo no andaremos solas

en ese camino sin rumbo

que suelen tener las letras sueltas.

.

El nombre me persigue.

A veces me susurra
que no soy yo,
que estoy detrás,
que no he sido.
Me dice miedosa,
tímida, poco caprichosa.
Me sugiere que me vaya y no vuelva.
Me muestra una jaula.
Me señala el lápiz.
Me llama de otra forma.
A veces, en cambio, se queda callado,
y entonces duele.
Hemos pasado tantos años juntos,
que ya no sabemos llamarnos.

Just thinking

Practicing. They are just ideas. Thanks Jotam and P

Sometimes I feel my name is not Monica although, I am fairly sure that I am Monica. It is a contradiction I have with myself. Maybe it is because you don’t choose your name, it is given to you. Maybe it is because you don’t call yourself and when you stop to think about it, you realize that it is strange you are called by that name. In the end you have to accept, you are the person with that name. Then, you have to stop again and ask yourself who is the person with that name? I am that person of course, but who am I?

I am not sure if your name defines your personality. Even before meeting someone whose name is Monica, I had believed in it. I read that ages ago the meaning of Monica’s name is one ‘who loves the solitude’. I love the solitude therefore, I thought it was true. But it’s not completely true, not at all. There is a world of difference between Monica and Monica.  Maybe it is because I am Monica myself and she is that other Monica. I am a person who loves the solitude, who sometimes has changed her name for Camila and who has invented a dad since she has memories.

_._._._._

Eduardo is not a ghost; He is a character in my life. I have invented him, I have written about him all my life because when I write about him, he is alive. When I don’t write he becomes dead. His death is my beginning. I am not the same person I would have been if he had been alive. I am not the same person, because as I have been told endlessly, your dead people follow you all of your life. You grew up with their absence and you are brought up with the hole their absence has caused.  I am Monica, who has had to invent a dad since she was a child.

Sometimes you are not sure of your life anymore. You are not sure of them anymore. They are a ghost on the other side of the world. Sometimes, as you have thought other times, you have to break not the law but the rules. When you have been an unbreakable person, someday you will realize that one day, whatever day, it would be enjoyable to be the other person and not follow the world. You just need to feel that you are the other person, with the other name.  It’s not easy. You don’t find the way.

_._._._._

It was 2:00 in the morning when the clocks went back an hour. Marie waited in her bed, alone. People slept an hour more that morning, but not her. The clock Marie has inside didn’t change itself at 2:00 in the early morning. She was not that kind of person. She needed a hint.

At her 9:00, it meant, at 8:00, she drank a cup of tea, her second cup of tea on the day. She was anxious. What happens with the time you skip? One hundred clocks were ticking at the same time. One hundred clocks that didn’t understand the hour back as well as she didn’t.

When he got up, Marie was being driven mad by her clocks. One hundred clocks ticking one hour behind, and in spite of the fact she was trying to wind them back, the time went quicker. It’s not easy to fight with it. Not when other people are walking around with it.

- “What happens with the time you skip?” Marie asked him.- “Nothing happens” he answered her.- “Nothing? You cannot lose an hour and nothing happens”- “You waste time taking buses and nothing happens. You go back an hour and you have an hour more to sleep”.- “To sleep?”- “Just to sleep”

Muy lejos

Esta distancia

entre vos y yo,

entre yo y el mundo,
entre el mundo y lo demás,
entre lo que hay afuera y adentro,
entre lo que puede ser y no.
Esta distancia
que me hace dudar del nombre,
de los años, de las letras, del idioma.
Esta distancia
que pregunta
como si fuera una niña
que puede responder, inocente,
a la vida misma.
Esta distancia
que nos desenamora,
que nos enamora,
que nos deja ser dos fantasmas.
Está la canción, también,
pero no hay hermenéutica que la interprete.
La distancia entre dos puntos
es también no saber dónde están los pies,
menos el corazón.

 

A cat

-Trying to write in English. Thank Jotam for helping me-

Maybe I should be a cat. I love to know about different things, ask a lot of questions like what you can find behind that strange door, in the room with the bed and the guitars. There is a blue guitar, which someone painted just because he likes blue, as I like. Someone you would like to kiss just because he likes blue, as I like. But you don’t do it, just because magic is better.

I have met people from different countries these days and I have discovered that we can have different customs and culture but the essence is the same. They eat as I eat, They dream as I dream, They need to sleep as I sleep, They are humans as I am. Maybe we cannot speak in the same language and we have to look for a common language like English but we are the same human beings in different places around the world.

When I am thinking about this, in the news are talking about wars and people being killed. Sometimes we forget that we are people, trying to live as others leave. I think of Eduardo of course, someone killed him because a killer forgot that Eduardo was a human being like him with a life to share with someone, as him too. I don’t know what you can find on people. Why that one person and no other but I am sure now, if someone appears in your life, maybe it is because you need to learn something. Maybe just to know that sometimes life is living and not thinking a lot.

.

Esta soledad
tan atravesada a veces,
tan querida siempre,
tan punto y coma, tantas veces.

Estas siete letras
tan acompañadoras,
tan extrañas,
tan letras.

Soledad es igual a mí, y a muchos al tiempo,
si fue que aprendí matemáticas:
porque estar conmigo
es estar sola con las siete letras
y con un montón de gnomitos,
chiquititos,
que están adentro.

Soledad es igual a Camila.

Sonreír, Camila

Esta cabeza que se empeña en acordarse de cosas de las que no se debe acordar porque ya pasaron, ya se acabaron, ya se quedaron atrás. No van a volver, Camila, me digo a veces. No hay que preocuparse de lo que no hay que preocuparse, Camila. Solo que hasta la vida te dice que no te acuerdes, pero la vida misma te acuerda. Pasas por un lugar, lees esa palabra cuatro veces en distintos lugares en la misma media hora, suena una canción, te encuentras la vaca en la que alguien te dijo algo que te hace recordar eso mismo. No debes, no quieres, pero no puedes. Te persigue, como cuando hay una canción que no te sabes, que no quieres cantar, pero está en tu cabeza, tratándose de cantar a ella misma. Queda sonreír, Camila. A veces la vida real no es real. A veces toca inventarse el mundo y seguir.