EL HOMBRE DE LAS AVES
EL HOMBRE DE LAS AVES
YRENE YUHMI 2020
Cuando la tía Menmey me pidió que pasara una temporada con ella, a las afueras de las afueras, en donde ni el cartero llega, no podía imaginar si quiera que me tendría que quedar más que una temporada a causa la pandemia que se extendió como el fuego a partir de Enero del año 2020.
_ Aquí está tu cuarto – me dijo la tía cuando llegué, una tarde de febrero fría y lluviosa.
Sacó una manta extra del armario empotrado y la colocó sobre la cama, cubierta con una colcha azul marino con pequeñas flores color cobre.
La tía M, como le llamábamos los sobrinos, estaba en buena forma: había trabajado en la construcción, en carpintería, como camionera (Y lo que más me admiraba, con lo poco que me gusta estar aislada en medio del mar, es que también dedicó un par de años a trabajar en mantenimiento como electricista, en una plataforma en medio del Océano Pacífico)
Llevaba siempre una cola alta, y horquillas en los cabellos que se le escapaban constantemente de las sienes.
Era desenfadada y empleaba un lenguaje conciso y poco formal.
No le gustaban las pamplinas, pero siempre que nos despedíamos, nos daba un abrazo tremendamente apretado y lleno de cariño, como si fuera el último.
_ No te preocupes por el polvo o los bichos, lo he limpiado a conciencia.
Sonreí, asintiendo con la cabeza: «cómo me conoces» le dije. Y ella me guiñó el ojo y me invitó a ir a la cocina.
Había preparado una buena cena caliente y abundante.
_ Puedes quedarte el tiempo que quieras ¿Estás trabajando en ese documental? Con ese estudio…cómo se llamaba…
_ Phantoming.
_ Eso – masticó bien su tortilla de patatas y le dio un trago a su cerveza.
_ Estoy puliendo el guión y trabajando en la documentación con un colega. Los dos pringados. Nos han dado la peor parte…
_ ¿Ah sí?
_ Sí…Nadie está contento con el guión que escribe otro.
Así que acabas por escribirlo cien veces…Y por odiarlo cien más.
La tortilla era gorda y estaba muy bien hecha, el huevo se había dorado crujiendo en algunas partes, y la patata estaba tierna y muy sabrosa.
_ Está riquísima, tía M…
_ Me alegro. Es lo único que se me da bien en la cocina.
_ Pues es mi plato favorito, así que, puedes hacerla todos los días – le dije bromeando.
_ Ni de coña amiguita – se limpió la boca y dejó la servilleta de tela sobre el regazo – aquí nos repartimos el trabajo y tú también vas a tener que cocinar.
Sacudí la cabeza, más que conforme con el trato.
Aquella noche, hacia las doce, dejó de llover.
Dormí hasta bien entrada la mañana.
Y con El Informativo del mediodía, las dos nos encontramos clavadas frente a la televisión, pasmadas, y no poco asustadas, ante la avalancha de noticias sobre el virus mortal que se estaba propagando por todo el mundo.
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Lo único que nos unía al mundo era un teléfono fijo y la televisión. Yo me había llevado el portátil pero era pequeño y sólo funcionaba enchufado a la corriente.
Además allí no llegaba Internet…Así que le pregunté a la tía si había cerca algún pueblo o alguna casa con acceso a Internet.
No podíamos salir de la casa si no era para comprar comida o medicación.
_ El pueblo más cercano está a media hora en coche. ¿Recuerdas cuando te fui a buscar a la estación? Pues ese era el más cercano…No hay nada más por aquí.
La tía M limpiaba el gallinero mientras yo sujetaba la cesta con los huevos.
_ En cuanto al vecino, olvídalo. Es un capullo insufrible con el que no me hablo.
_ ¿Por qué?
_ Es un tipo raro que colecciona animales. Su terreno está lleno de jaulas y huele que apesta. Es un fan de las aves. Como los gatos, pero en su caso creo que no se las come…
Y alrededor de todo ese tinglado pone trampas para gatos.
Mi gata Tan se alejó un día, nunca lo había hecho…pero ese día hacía viento y debió de desorientarse…Nunca volvió. Pero sé que fue en dirección a esa maldita casa y que él odia a los gatos, así que…uno más uno…
Miré los huevos detenidamente, pensando en cómo podría contactar con todos para ver si el proyecto se cancelaba o se dejaba para más tarde…Suspiré.
Es bien cierto que en estos tiempos Internet es más imprescindible que el pan…Excepto para la tía M.
Ella no lo necesitaba para nada.
Yo empezaba a acostumbrarme pero me sentía algo insegura y no podía evitar sentir miedo. Sobretodo cuando pensaba en mis padres, que se habían quedado en casa, a unas cuatro horas de trayecto en coche…
En cuanto a las provisiones que nos pudieran faltar, los militares se encargaron de pasar cada semana, traían lo más esencial. Uno de los dos era bastante joven, y siempre se quedaba atrás, parecía muy tímido.
El de mayor rango, debía tener la edad de mi padre.
_ ¿Cómo se encuentran? ¿Necesitan alguna cosa?
Esa pregunta se convirtió en su tarjeta de visita.
El soldado tímido me enseñó los ojos una vez, cuando ya entraba la primavera, mientras me pasaba una caja llena de harina, leche, azúcar y arroz.
Tenía unos pequeños ojos marrones brillantes que mostraban aún más su timidez.
Ese día al despedirnos, me dijo algo por primera vez «Si necesitas cualquier cosa, llámanos»
Lo dijo con convencimiento. Me quedé mucho más tranquila, no sé por qué, después de oír su voz.
Quizás era por ser de mi edad, no lo sé, pero me pareció que podía confiar totalmente en él.
_ Sube Iñigo, o se nos echa la noche encima.
Fue entonces cuando supe su nombre. Después noté que al joven le molestaba algo pero se lo callaba: cuando el Teniente le llamaba “chaval” (aunque lo hacía sin ninguna maldad)
Observé como la furgoneta se alejaba. Empezaba a refrescar. Entramos algo de leña y nos preparamos para la noche.
Cada semana, aquella visita de Iñigo y su superior, se convirtió en la estrella de mi show particular.
No había nada en aquel estilo de vida que fuera conmigo…
Recoger la verdura y fruta del tiempo, los huevos y la leche de la cabrita de tía M.
Limpiar la hojarasca, regar las plantas, buscar leña fina para encender y preparar comida. Hacíamos pan y dulces de todo tipo. A mi tía le encantaba aquella vida.
_ Después de tanto tiempo dando vueltas por el mundo, trabajando en mil sitios, viviendo en la ciudad…Esto es como un bálsamo para mi.
Me confesó un día.
_ Hasta que me de por ahí volver a poner los pies en polvorosa – se reía cuando hablaba de volver a las andadas.
Supuse que toda alma viajera y cambiante, necesita un tiempo para posarse y descansar las alas.
Pero la pandemia pintaba realmente mal.
Según las noticias, el mundo entero estaba o confinado o muriendo a una velocidad de terror.
Nosotras nos sumergimos en la soledad, sintiendo una pena incierta. Era como si la Humanidad estuviera desapareciendo mientras ellas pasaban las horas y los días solas, encerradas en medio del boscaje.
Pudimos contactar con mis padres y con nuestros amigos y colegas de trabajo. Todos estaban bien por el momento, aunque dependiendo del país donde residían, las medidas y reglas eran diversas.
El proyecto en el que estaba trabajando se canceló «temporalmente». Todos sabíamos que esa palabra era como una tirita para una preocupante herida que necesitaba cirugía.
Inexplicablemente, el Planeta no explotó, ni desapareció, ni nada oscuro o perverso se nos echó encima. Al menos a nosotras dos…
Y así pasaron las semanas y los meses y llegó Junio.
El calor vino de golpe, sin avisar, y con muchas ganas de guerra.
Cambiamos la ropa de cama, comenzamos a recoger fruta y verdura y a hacer conservas como locas.
Nos mantenía ocupadas y además, no podíamos dejar de pensar en que probablemente nos faltarían provisiones más adelante (aunque ninguna se atreviera a decirlo)
El Teniente Marcos venía esta vez cada quince días, por supuesto con Iñigo. Y cada vez que nuestras miradas se cruzaban parecía que la timidez de Iñigo iba apagándose.
Nos sonreíamos y nos despedíamos con una saludo corto y simple.
Nunca he sido una crack ligando. Ni me interesa ni es una prioridad para mi. La tía M solía decir que el amor llegaba si quería. Si no quería, ya podías intentarlo las veces que quisieras, nunca llegaría.
Una mañana en la que se me pegaron las sábanas, escuché un chasquido. Era como si algo se estuviera quemando en el jardín.
Chisporroteaba, y olía a quemado así que me incorporé sobre la cama para alcanzar al ventanuco redondo y miré hacia abajo.
Las Jacarandas estaban en flor, y el suelo parecía un manto color púrpura. Había algo justo debajo de mi ventana: un pequeño hueco negro que humeaba.
Me puse la camiseta y unos shorts y salí a ver.
Quizás la tía M había quemado la basura orgánica allí en vez de en el lugar habitual, tras la casa…
Pasé por la cocina. Estaba todo limpio y bajo una servilleta descubrí un par de panecillos tiernos con mantequillas y mermelada de moras. Me di cuenta del hambre que tenía.
_ ¿Tía M?
Miré a mi alrededor pero el silencio era absoluto. Por un momento pensé ¿dónde se han metido los pájaros?
No se escuchaba ni el coqueteo y molesto parloteo de las gallinas.
Me dio mala espina.
Me puse las zapatillas, y me di cuenta de que las de la tía M estaban ahí. Me giré, extrañada. No estaba dentro, eso lo tenía claro, pero no había salido…Al menos no con sus zapatillas de siempre.
Nada más poner los pies fuera el sol me golpeó con todas sus fuerzas. El silencio era total.
Mi corazón comenzó a latir cada vez más deprisa.
En un segundo pasaron por mi mente las imágenes de las millones de tumbas improvisadas en distintos lugares del mundo, los mercados y los bares, las iglesias y templos cerrados, la vida deteniéndose…
Y de repente nada ni nadie.
Me acerqué al hoyo ardiente que había visto desde mi ventana.
Era como si hubieran quemado algo durante bastante tiempo, lentamente. Ya no quedaba más que un olor extraño que no supe distinguir. Era un tanto desagradable pero había un tinte de plantas que mis sentidos conocían.
Alrededor las marcas de unas botas grandes, que no reconocí, me querían guiar hacia la parte yerma que abría paso a los campos abiertos, sin dueño.
_ Debe ser un cuarenta y cinco…No es la tía M… – me dije en voz baja.
Miré rápidamente a derecha e izquierda y tras de mí. En alerta, me puse la mano en el bolsillo trasero del pantalón, donde estaba mi teléfono móvil. Sólo palparlo y ya me sentí aliviada, como si fuera un salvavidas.
Un crujido me hizo mirar el rescoldo una vez más. Fruncí el ceño, miré lo poco que quedaba del fuego con detenimiento, pero no había nada raro…
Fue entonces cuando algo parecido a un petardo explotó casi en mi cara, haciéndome gritar.
Una súbita humareda se alzó y me alcanzó el ojo izquierdo de lleno.
Escoció tanto que me eché atrás, cayendo de culo, cerrando el ojo con fuerza, como si fuera a disipar el dolor así.
El jadeo y mi propia respiración no me dejaban oír nada.
¿Qué mierda era aquella cosa? Escocía y dolía, y no era capaz de abrir el ojo.
Entré de nuevo en la casa a toda prisa tambaleándome, dándome contra cada pared hasta llegar a la cocina. Me puse bajo el grifo y me lavé a conciencia. Dejé que el agua entrara en el ojo y lo limpiara bien.
Aquella especie de humo había acertado muy bien…Maldije entre dientes mientras el agua corría. Poco a poco el escozor fue remitiendo.
Traté de respirar con calma. Necesitaba calmarme.
Me sequé con un paño de cocina y con el ojo derecho miré a mi alrededor.
Seguía sola. No podía comprender dónde podía haber ido la tía M…Ni sus zapatos, ni su bolsa, ni el coche habían desaparecido.
No había dejado ninguna nota y no teníamos pensado nada más que seguir con nuestra rutina aquel día.
Volví a salir, esta vez con botas altas, una navaja, una linterna y mi chaqueta.
Mientras engullía los bocados dulces del desayuno di la vuelta a todo el terreno de la tía M. Por si acaso…Pero nada.
Entonces vi que ni la cabra ni las gallinas estaban en su lugar.
Rápidamente comprobé en enjaulado de ambas. Estaban cerradas pero vacías.
Aquello no tenía ningún sentido. Cogí el teléfono y marqué el número de emergencias.
_ Teniente Marcos, soy, soy yo…La sobrina de Menmey.
Ha desaparecido. Y también los animales…No, no. El coche sigue aquí y a menos que se haya ido descalza con una cabra y unas gallinas de escolta…No me explico qué ha pasado.
Tomé aire con fuerza, apoyándome sobre la cadera izquierda, mordiéndome los labios.
_ Lo…lo siento mucho Teniente…Estoy muy confusa y…no sé qué hacer.
El teniente se mostró muy comprensivo. Amablemente me dijo que llegarían en seguida. Que tratara de calmarme y no me moviera de la casa.
Pero no podía estar calmada. Tenía un nudo en la garganta y me temblaban las manos. Pensé en ese tipo, el vecino maniático de las aves…¿Y si le había hecho algo?
Ya habían tenido problemas antes y ese tipo de gente que hace daño a los animales, no…Para nada es de fiar.
Algo se movió entre los arbustos justo a mi izquierda.
Mi ojo estaba aún dolorido y se había hinchado un poco. No podía ver más que una mancha difusa a través de él.
Se giró por completo y observó con atención, con la navaja en la mano.
El arbusto lanzó un maullido y al segundo un pequeño felino saltó con garbo y se le acercó ronroneando.
Suspiré como si fuera la primera vez que respiraba en horas.
Me agaché a acariciarle.
_ Hola, bonito…¿De dónde sales? – le acaricié el lomo y el pequeño se dio la vuelta varias veces, como buscando más y más caricias. – Vaya, eres una señorita. Qué monada…
Era joven, de color negro brillante y una pequeña mancha blanca bajo la boca.
Se parecía mucho a alguna de las gatas que había tenido la tía M. Había visto las fotos cientos de veces desde que se mudó allí en Enero.
Pero no recordaba a cual de ellas se parecía…
La gata Tan había desaparecido hacía un año, por aquellas fechas, pero la tía M sabía que no estaba viva.
El tipo de las aves se había encargado de ella…
Cada vez estaba más segura de que él tenía algo que ver con lo que había pasado aquella mañana en la que me quedé dormida.
Miré fijamente en dirección al Oeste, en donde vivía, y entonces la gatita dio un salto y tomó esa misma dirección.
Se giró la mirar, como si me esperara.
Miré la casa, pensé en lo que me había dicho el Teniente y decidí dejar una señal rápida. La pared era de pizarra, así que escribí rápidamente con un guijarro puntiagudo «Id al vecino aves»
Y seguí a la gata. No sabía por qué pero tenía que hacerlo.
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La gata corría y sorteaba piedras y arbustos con gran agilidad, pero yo no me quedaba atrás. Me había acostumbrado a caminar en los bosques cercanos en busca de leña y a darme prisa huyendo de una tormenta repentina.
En la montaña el tiempo es tan cambiante y caprichoso que no te servía de nada guiarte por el informe climatológico.
Hacía mucho calor y en seguida comencé a sudar. Mi respiración cada vez era más entrecortada y me dije que a lo mejor habría estado bien haber hecho más ejercicio con aquellos estúpidos tutoriales de mytube.
_ ¡Ahh! – una punzada en el ojo me hizo hincar la rodilla y apretar ambos ojos con fuerza – ¡Mierda!
Intenté mirar hacia donde la gatita se dirigía, pero no vi más que maleza y rocas vestidas de musgo seco.
_ La he perdido…
Me froté el ojo y traté de calmarme. «En fin, de un modo u otro llegaré a casa del vecino. No puede estar muy lejos»
Una sombra sobre mi cabeza me hizo levantar la cabeza. El sol picaba tanto que aquella oscuridad sobre mi, tan repentina, me sorprendió.
Una cosa de voz ronca y silbante se lanzó sobre mí y no me dio tiempo ni a pestañear cuando me vi a punto de morir bajo las garras de un ave inmensa. Sus ojos oscuros y su pico curvo y corto se clavaban en mi, y sus garras tiraban de mi chaqueta con tal fuerza que creí que iba a elevarme por los aires.
Grité e intenté agarrarme al suelo, forcejeando sin descanso, hasta que nuestras miradas se encontraron, y a pesar de que mi ojo izquierdo no se abría completamente, la miré sin miedo, fijamente.
Entonces me soltó y emprendió el vuelo de nuevo, alejando su gigantesca sombra del pedazo de tierra en el que estaba acuclillada.
Me sobrepuse, sentándome sobre el suelo, y con ansia de aire di grandes bocanadas, mientras me apartaba el pelo de la cara, con las manos locas por un temblor pertinaz.
Era un buitre…Sabía que comían carroña, ¿no era así? ¿Era posible que un buitre solitario atacara a un humano?
_ Si tuviera la wikipedia a mano… – me dije tratando de romper al miedo con una mínima risa.
Lo más extraño era que aquel enorme bicho se detuviera cuando le miré a los ojos. Me toqué el ojo izquierdo. Me dolía un poco…Y estaba hinchado con toda seguridad…
Entonces caí en la cuenta de que tenía el móvil para algo más que Internet y abrí la cámara para verme la cara.
_ Dios mío…
El ojo estaba semi cerrado y había como un tizne negro alrededor, sobre el párpado y en la ojera. Froté y masajeé me pasé la manga de la chaqueta…Nada. Aquella especie de tizne de carbón no salía ni con saliva.
Tragué saliva y tras un largo suspiró me incorporé y seguí caminando, dirección Oeste. Tenía que llegar a la casa del tipo de las aves.
Las aves…El buitre. Contra más caminaba más me parecía que aquel sujeto tenía que estar tras algo grande, algo que tenía que ver con la desaparición de la tía M.
Eché una ojeada rápida al móvil: las tres y media de la tarde. Sin wifi, sin datos móviles ni cobertura.
De todas formas marqué el número de teléfono de la policía y llamé una y otra vez, sin dejar de caminar.
Fue en vano. Me lo guardé de nuevo en el bolsillo trasero del pantalón y apartando unas grandes ramas de un viejo algarrobo retorcido y cabizbajo, me encontré cara a cara con un hombre pelirrojo, de cara larga, ojos minúsculos labio cortados, llenos de pupas y pequeñas heridas.
Grité inconscientemente echándome atrás.
_ La trampa funcionó.
Dijo el hombre con voz rasposa, como acatarrado, abriendo su boca con cada sílaba.
No tenía ni un diente. Era un extraño hombre joven cuya boca parecía un pozo de oscuros fluidos.
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Catch your dreams / ¡Atrapa tus sueños!
Catch your dreams
Catch your dreams
— Read on paradoxalworld.com/2018/01/20/catch-your-dreams/
Hace mucho que no me dejo ver, que no me paro a escribir unos minutos en el blog…Querría tener algún cuento que contar, pero mi fábrica de historias es ahora como jaula de mil pájaros locos. Mucha imaginación dibujando bocetos en rincones y paredes de mi mente, una Brujilla que dirige sin ton ni son, y una total desorganización de capítulos comienzos y finales.
A la brujilla le digo, mientras procuro que los duendes de mis sueños no armen demasiado jaleo:
_ Ayúdame un poco y pon orden, ¡esto es un desastre!
Pero está demasiado ocupada echando de mis cajones de pensamientos a las pesadillas y los ogros del miedo.
La brujilla me suele mirar hastiada, pidiéndome que por favor deje de trazar sueños a ciegas, sin cumplirlos, y que me lance como solía hacer antes. Que me suelte la melena, que sea más loca; que mande al carajo a la frustración, a la impotencia y a la desilusión.
_ Tú no eres así – me reprocha la brujilla – ¡rompe esos muros y sal volando!
_ Ay Brujilla, pero mira cuántos dibujos, cuántos cuentos e historietas…podría empapelar con ellos un museo al que no iría nadie.
A lo que la Brujilla me contesta:
_ Sería un museo divertido, ¿por qué no empezamos ya a empapelar? Uno de esos museos aburridos que estén libres de cuadros famosos. Uno sin nombre ni dueño, sin mecenas ni publicidad.
Le sonrío, ella se arregla la moña baja que suele llevar, y se coloca bien el sombrero de margaritas. Me pasa un par de manuscritos y haciendo callar a los gorriones azules que suelen encargarse de producirme risas, me dice: «hay mucho que hacer; paso a paso, sin prisa pero sin pausa. Esta mente está hecha un lío, empecemos a empapelar»
Asiento, y mirando el gran atrapa sueños que viste el salón principal donde habitan mis hadas y musas, me propongo cumplir unos cuantos sueños.
Este atrapa sueños es especial porque lo hizo una de mis musas con tanto amor e ilusión que parece un trozo de cielo.
Y esta musa se llama Sara, es un poco de mi y yo un poco de ella. Porque somos hermanas. Si yo soy mente desorganizada, ella es como un hilandera imparable, constante y hacendosa.
Ay porras: algunos papeles están dibujados por ambos lados.
Brujilla, tendremos que pensar en un museo hecho de cristal…¿Se te ocurre algo mejor?
Será mejor que me inspire visitando el blog de Sara, las hermanas siempre son inspiración, ilusión y Alegría.
Y la mía es especialmente musa, desde que nació.
La brujilla se me ha adelantado ya y está ojeando las bonitas fotos de Sara lanzando gritillos de admiración.
Debería retratar a la Brujilla, es bastante pizpireta y comprensiva, creo que os caería bien.
Quizás no tarde en volver a dibujar, y tendré un papel más para seguir empapelando ese museo de vidrio, sin nombre, de nadie, sin mecenas ni promotores.
Pero al fin y al cabo, único y con mi huella y la de la Brujilla.
Yrene Yuhmi 2018
NÉCTAR DEL DESIERTO- FANFIC KUROGANE X FAY (TSUBASA RESERVOIR CHRONICLE)
Hace bastante tiempo que escribí este fanfic para una amiga muy especial ^_^)
Os dejo el doc de word para que lo leáis si os apetece un cuento corto, erótico, no apto para
menore de 18 años!!! (sobretodo atención a este punto) y tampoco apto para homófobos o cualquier
persona que se sienta incómoda con escenas de amor gay.
Al final hay un pequeño plus, en tono de humor en el que veremos como Syaoran está a punto de
quitarle el puesto a Kurogane en lo que concierne a Fay ^^,,,
Espero que os guste m(_ _)m
Kurogane x Fay fic Gisel cumple
(cliquead y «guardar el link como» lo podéis leer cómodamente en vuestro PC. Si tenéis problemas, dejad un comentario y lo subiré completo en el post ^_-)
Gracias por pasaros por aquí,
Itsumo doumo arigatou!
Yyuhmi
*Shiro-manjuu 白、しろ、饅頭、まんじゅう: el manjuu es un pastelito redondo y dulce, receta japonesa. En este caso como se refiere a Mokona que es un ser blanco,redondo y gracioso con largas orejas de conejo, le llama shiro, que significa blanco)
BSO o Cómo amé a Jan Duman ( 2002)
Uno de los escritos que mi madre encuentra de vez en cuando y que me hacen recordar lo mucho que he llegado a escribir hasta el momento…Este cuento es del 2002, año en que me recuperé de forma milagrosa, o como los incrédulos dicen «de forma inesperada» Os puedo asegurar que lo esperaba, y que no confié en los médicos, por desgracia para los que son buenos y a los que pido perdón por mi desconfianza…
Espero que ps guste, aunque sea un poco, amig@s lector@s 😀 FELIZ VERANO DEL 2013.
Letters to Nowhere chapter 6 (Cartas a Ninguna parte capítulo 6)
Dear Beatrix:
I have an old photo of you, where you are posing in the door of your Home, on Hill Top.
Maybe it’s the vision of your kind and healthy face, that let me use this adjective quite daring: «dear«. Maybe is because of the distance and the Time, and…Of course, you won’t reproach my lack of manners for writing to you in this way, being a total unknown from XXI century who tells you very odd things.
When I told you about the Death, I was scared, yes. In a few days I’ll be hospitalized to make me a liver biopsy.
I don’t know about Medicine history, so maybe you know or not about what’s a biopsy.
I know it’s nothing.
«It will not hurt» Doctors tell me. But I don’t trust them.
«Don’t be afraid» Tells me my Mother.
But She also is afraid, I can see it in her eyes.
I can see it every time she looks at me trying to not show the aversion that causes to see my scrawny body.
I cry every time I go to the bath, to take a shower.
I don’t have chest. My arms and my back, my hips, my ribs, all are just that. Bones.
I don’t have my face bright and flustered, neither the eyes shining.
In my suitcase I prepared some books. I also put yours with all my caring.
To my little sister I always tell that treat the book with love, that is a jewel of collector.
She thinks I exaggerate and the fact I doubt of her maturity hurts her.
I know, I know, that she knows very well how to treat books. She is a very mature girl for her age. I’m really proud of her intelligence. With only 14 years old has really clear ideas and knows how to talk better than lots of adults and with career.
The little one, of course, has only 4 years old, he is different, he takes everything but to draw on his scribbles. My auntie Ana says he is going to be an artist.
I guess he’s getting familiar with the colors, the drawings and every thing he sees in my workshop. He sits near me, and imitate all my movements. As Aristotle said, the Humanity learns imitating.But arriving to certain point of the Life, every person must shape their
personality from all that has been around, all the crying, all the imitations and the reflections.
This part of so simple theory, doesn’t always come true. The fashion, the urban tribes, the evil envy, leads a imitation that transforms the society in one of a kind of cattle ranch. That’s how the proverb says: Monkey see, monkey do. «Where is going Vicente? Where people goes» (Spanish proverb)
Well so, my little brother, most than one time ended all dirt of oil paints, and what a disaster..! So I bought a crayon box and card-boards for him.
His drawings of houses with chimney, cars and dogs, comforted me so much.
It seems that kids see the world in colors.
I think that the best thinkers of all Times, has not seen in the kids the perfect solution to problems and questions of Philosophy.Maybe all it’s lots more simple. We look for the Truth with all the possible biggest difficulties, while the TRUTH, that already has connotations of indecipherable and empty Myth, it’s instead in the simplicity.
The simplicity of whom begin to discover Life and the one who when sees a stone discovers a stone, and not a tangle of mysterious analytical schemes that converts it in a very long book that leaves us full of doubts.
And the Science, yes, it’s wonderful. The man, not, better the Humanity has learned to divide reality from fiction first, and after linked it again to do really unthinkable things. You can’t imagine what a limited and fragile that’s human being could achieve during this pick of the Earth Time.
You lived that emboldened start of 1900.
I live the unbridled excess of the near 2000.
How far away we are, dear my friend!
I correct: How far away I am from any alive thing…I guess I’m closer to you, nether-less these 100 years, than to any person of my age or my Time.
I can’t believe what’s happening to me. I can’t recognize myself.
And neither can’t do so my dears.I almost can’t remember clearly and in a sequence way that big discussion with Manuela. Time betrayed me, my body betrayed me, I myself betrayed me. In fact, this whole city betrayed me.
That night all we were celebrating Carnival.
I cos-played like a pirate: white blouse with frills, tight trousers, high boots and spyglass.
Manu disguised as a zombie and Pati as a magician.
Helena and her coworkers surprised us with quite pathetic costume of witches.
There was also a group who had the great idea of disguising as sisters with Ni*e sneakers, that’s a name of a brand that marks people like hot
iron to cattle. Then you are the powerful of the riches tribe, pretty and famous. Well, there’s not only N*ke, there are thousands of stupid names, that are not worthy of being named. Maybe I say one of them without noticing. In this Times people are not fighting for knowing,
but for appearing. At schools no one knows who is Cervantes, what’s Iberia Peninsula, or where the hell is that Odyssey. The knowledge does not take place (Spanish proverb, knowing more doesn’t hurt, doesn’t bother) but my skirt is cuter then yours and also more expensive. Furthermore why they want to know History – they ask themselves – if I master flirting and consumerism?
Everybody laughed when they saw that dozen of false sisters with expressionless masks, white as their sneakers. It wasn’t funny for me. It’s incoherent and stupid to do a joke about something we don’t know and so, about something we don’t have any right.
That’s also typical from these times. All is laughable.
I can’t tell too much about what happened.
Manuela grabbed the drinks bar and thanks to the heat of the wine began to chatter with euphoria, ridiculously, because of the boys who were coming closer to us.
I felt so embarrassed so with a few but clear words I asked her to behave.
_ Shut up!! – yelled at me with all her rage and hatred that was hosting within her.
That hurt me. She wasn’t Manuela, she couldn’t be.
_ Why I must shut up, I don’t have to. What you are doing is just immature and ridiculous.
_ Ha! what happens is that you are a washy-washy girl who doesn’t know how to have fun!
And so that really hurt me, because it wasn’t true.
_ I don’t need fuel to get fun.
I had Manuela fatty and ugly face engraved in my mind, looking at me with an indescribable grudge that always scared me. Even now I remember it and I feel very sad. It’s being hard to me writing about it.
I would prefer to bury it in the Oblivion, but that’s not easy.
At that moment I didn’t know if go home or stay or what…
Even I was swallowing all time, I had a big knot in my throat and even though I wanted to look calm, my hands were trembling.
The party was in the Sports Pavilion. In the corner of the wardrobe I sat down to wait for the Calmness. I couldn’t stop my trembling.
_ Have you lost your broadsword?
I jumped surprised: by my side, leaned to make his voice be clear with all that loud music, was Adrian.
I lost some seconds to understand what was saying because I forgot totally about my dress up. I looked at me and felt so stupid. And even more when I saw that he wasn’t wearing any costume.
I smiled and replied that I was disarmed in a death match.
_They must have hurt you…- he said.
I knew that he knew about what we were talking.
_ Yes, in fact a lot.
We were silent in the middle of the festive sound, during a time that seemed to me an eternity. Finally I felt so uneasy that I turned around to him and invited him to drink something warm. My throat began to hurt. He accepted and after taking our jackets we went out.
Even though it was the second week of February and the air was cold,
I felt lots better out than in.
That night we were just good friends. For the first time in my life I talked without fear with something who wasn’t Fidel or my mother. How it was possible so much confidence? We really got along.
I began to be aware of his attractive points, that little details that seemed I only could see and that made him exceptional and different.
Furthermore he always made me laugh. I was really prone to laugh back then. I was born happy. I felt the LIFE, I smelled it, I touched it and tasted it. I enjoyed…
I was in that age where every one lives their own fairy tale. And the bad thing of something so good is that you believe that is ETERNAL.
Carpe Diem.
Spanish originals, 1998-2000. I must say I don’t feel the same that back then, it was a time to suffer and be abandoned by people I trusted.
Letters to Nowhere chapter 5 (Cartas a Ninguna Parte capítulo 5)
If you were purebred and local or a today renegade mestizo you are approved. But if you are a simple son (proud) of Immigrants, black, chinese, japanese or «similar» you got it thought.
And this is the pure reality.The theory, preached by all, is that all of
them are tolerant, anti racists and anti-xenophobic. You see, «angels».
Juan Diez, was the first boy in the golden list of good matches.
And Pati was crazy in love with him.
He didn’t even look at her, everybody knew that he felt aversion about Patricia who wasn’t exactly a cover girl. Anyway, he wasn’t nothing special either. I always pitied Patricia, always daydreaming, smiling, laughing, loving… When I met her. But we all change. And in the scales of good and bad inside us, one of the plates outweights the other.
_ The one who looks free is the new…
Helena hit the shot. Manu almost jumped from the chair to say that she finally get to know his name.
_ Se llama Adrián.
As always she was fill of compliments, not very respectful. To the poor guy’s ears there has to be a good whistle, totally alien to that sickly interest that triggered an unknown girl.
_ Look, your parents.
Patricia was looking through the windows of the coffee shop. I left the money on the table, took my jacket and say good bye quickly, tired of that silly chatting.
_ Are you going to check the lists on Monday?
_ yes – I replied already in the door.
_ Hey, today is Friday! – yelled Patricia – Are you going out or not?
_ I’ll call you!
«Who knows?» I thought. I got in the car, happy, commenting the «match» with my parents, and excited with my own conversation I decided to go out that night.
I changed clothes 3 times. I went downstairs to the living room the 3 times and the 3 times I got approval. Why so much interest that night?
I asked myself too: I had those black eyes pierced in my mind, without being able to explain myself what was feeling.
I decided on the blue dress, that I loved, and it was enough for me to look me on the mirror, smile and go out.
I had my face all red.
When a person has the face flushed and the eyes brighting, it’s a sign of happiness, vitality and energy. The eyes talk about everything. It’s amazing.
Back then I had everything. I was going to the College, and new perspectives were opened for me. I felt shiny, I loved being loved and being happy. But, how many times we forget that happiness is not eternal and slides off our hands, slips from them…and You don’t feel it anymore.
That night the disco, was as always for me: smoke, french kisses in every corner and tall glasses from I got to listen the sound of the ice cubes hitting each other.
It disappointed me more when the music began to be repetitive, feeling like a hammer inside my head until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I don’t know, I don’t think you will like this music, Beatrix. Its name tells about it perfectly: it’s cold, impersonal, inhuman and with a lyrics who sounds like a babble without argument: machine music.
You see, even here arrived the Industrial revolution. The firsts steps were meritorius and resounding, but now, you know that there is a talk of spaceflights? Of course, only for billionaires.
What good it all this progress if half of the World only has naked bodys, hunger, hopeless and soil under their feet?
Beatrix, what I most regret is that every day lots of children die on The Earth.
A lot, I don’t know how many, but even if it’s only one, they are innocent creatures who won’t be able to LIVE, in capital letter, with all its meaning. Not even reading your tales and imagine little rabbit Benjamin or the Lady kitty or the hen Sarah…
Pati and Manu, met with Helena and two of her coworkers, beginning to complain about the boys not being there that night.
The smoke was suffocating me, I began to feel sick. It was really that what I wanted?
A couple was eating their mouths in a corner. He was scrubbing all hands her butt.
I found it so disgusting.
The «chick», that’s a way to talk about someone nowadays even thought they are not the cute chickens from your tales…- made a break to have a drink. She had all the eye mask made a glob and a really impressive dark circles. She looked like the poor and distressed Munch. But there it was impossible to hear the scream, so perfectly audible at the
picture.
Her face reminded me my palette knife and the nice feeling of stopping the pigment with the linseed oil…This way my paintings had come to life: my doves, my horses, my portraits.
I got out of there and , between the wardrobe and the lockers I just breath out. Because you don’t know it but the last thing you can do in a disco or dance pub is breathing.
I pulled the bangs out if my eyes and stepped back. I stumbled upon something.
At first i thought it was the billiard but…that soft?
I turned around and there he was, saying sorry.
_ No, no, it was me, sorry I stepped on your foot.
_ No way, it was me, I wasn’t looking where I was going…
_ It uses to happen on these places…
I said it dismissive. I didn’t do it on purpose, but it looks like he noticed.
_ They are a pain right?
_ I so agree.
_ Then what are we doing here?
He said with such a witty way that made me laugh.
_ Well, I’m not sure, but maybe only to have something to share.
He looked at the door. It has a porthole window through we could see a piece of sky.
_ what about we sharing a bit of fresh air?
I must admit I had some misgivings. I don’t trust people easily. But I don’t know why I followed him.
_ It won’t be long, I’m leaving in 10 minutes.
_ Ah, curfew?
_ No, no…Not at all. At home we all are adults and responsible.
_ And what that means?
_ We don’t lie, we don’t hide anything. We trust completely each others.
_ Sounds very good. I don’t have curfew either. I live alone.
I looked at him questioningly.
_ I came from Ciudad Real* for work…
_ Here? – I made it sound like it was a joke.
_ You don’t like this place?
_ There is only one thing I love here.
I pointed out the mountains. They are incredible pretty , Beatrix, every second, in the passing of the seasons, at night or day time, they are different, but extremely beautiful.
He nodded.
_ And my family – I added in.
_ Do you have siblings?
_ Yes, three – I answered.
_ Wow!
I smiled satisfied. To me, talking about my brothers is like showing out a medal of honor.
_ And you? Have you left someone there in La Mancha*?
_ My Mother.
_ And your father…?
_ As if he were dead. He left us when I was a baby. I have a stepfather but…I prefer not to talk about him.
Because of the the tone of the voice and the afliction of his face I got that I had stepped on a very delicate subject and I flustered.Thanks God, because I have a natural tan, the blushings can’t be noticed easily. Instead my brother, just like my Mother, has very white skin and the flushing get all face and even ears.
Without noticing we had walked to the parking.
My car was there, shiny. I had washed it that evening.
Suddenly I remembered I had forgot totally Manu and Patricia.
Looks like I said it out loud, because Adrian, with disgust, said to me that I was doing ok forgetting them.
_ I guess you have noticed I’ve been looking at you…I’m not good at hiding my moves.
I just felt embarrassed and motionless.
_ And I also have seen with whom are you going out. Those girls aren’t for you.
_ You are being too hard with me, and it’s our first conversation.
_ Same for you, who blamed me for opting for this city.
I took out my keys and I was going to get in the car.
_ Then we are in a draw.
Once again those black eyes, that cheeky smile. Them fascinated me without being aware.
I smiled to him.
He smiled to me.
I guess in a place like that, you know my name – he said.
_ Oh, don’t let it go to your head… I also know your name.
_We are in a draw again.
I got in the car. There in the door of the disco, I thought I saw Manu, but I was to excited with that conversation.
Adrian looked how I get out the car from the parking. Raised his hand as saying good bye, and I remember that, just when I passed in front of the disco, a fatty blond was looking at me.
She reminded to me Sissy Spacek on «Carrie» but featuring Rosie O’Donell., that can be lots worse…Oh well, I’m talking to you about something you don’t know. Do you remember that extraordinary invention of two brothers, the Lumiére? Well, it has been more and more big and incredible, I will tell you about it.
It was long ago that the tender and sincere friendship between Manu and I, had begun to break out. But now, being with her , talking with her, scared me.
And I really knew that Fear is the worst enemy to have to be afraid.
But what I didn’t know was about the situation I was going to be drown some time later.
Now I’m not scared of anyone anymore. I know that Human Dignity makes possible to be the owner of oneself.
Now I’m scared about something that had not been afraid since I started praying to God, when I had 5, 6 years old.
Now what scares me is the DEATH.
To Be continued…
* Ciudad Real, city from La Mancha, center of Spain, birthplace of El Quijote and his creator Cervantes.
Letters to Nowhere chapter 4 (Cartas a Ninguna parte capítulo 4)
This food is my weakness, because I am so able to eat half of a kilo of bread per day – minimum – I love all with bread, bread with everything and bread alone.
I inherited it from my Mother.
I’m sure you would love to meet her, Beatrix. She is wonderful.
For me, the word Mother doesn’t’ mean the same that for the rest of my generation…And maybe from the future generations.
My mother isn’t my old hag. Not mine neither for anyone. She is not either that menopausal woman who I hate meeting when I’m with my friends. She doesn’t wear hair curlers all time and makes her dressing gown as her best ally all day long. I think she has not touched gossip magazines in her life.
She’s extremely attractive. I get why my father lost his mind for her.
And she has a bright intelligent, sharp and above all, young. She likes music, dancing, laughing, sweets and jeans.
She gave born to her kids, having so many qualities for all kind of things… There is not even a small glimpse of selfishness within her. That’s really strange in a human.
She is a mother-friend, a mother who knows to listen, a mother who knows to give advices.
When she went in the bakery, in views that I wasn’t coming out, she found me suffocated and stunned.
I had been arguing with the new clerk of the bakery. who, like an appearance, showed up behind the counter.
He has put in front of my face, solicitous, a tray of choux a là crème.
_ Look, take a taste, they are really yummy.
_ I don’t doubt it – I said – But I can’t…
_ But if they are really good, come one, take one!
_ I, I can’t…I don’t tolerate dairies and..
_ But if they are filled with custard!! – the boy was looking at me in a aggressive way offended at my refusal.
_ For this reason, custard cream is made with milk…
I began to move back to the door, understanding that it was in vain even trying to convince the clerk. According to him, custard was «a really yummy thing with vanilla flavor». Boy, you’ve discovered America.
When I saw my Mother going in, I felt safe.
_ Let’s go Mami.
I took her arm and dragged her outside without saying goodbye.
_ We «fought» during some seconds for the wheel of the car and I won, faster, already inside. I was driving down San Roque street – my favorite – When I saw him.
A black eyed boy was looking at me.
That half-smile activated a mechanism in my mind. After some months I remembered him.
_ Who is?
My mother looked at me in a funny way, with a smirk.
_ He looks at you like…You know him?
_ Not yet.
I followed him with my eyes until I saw him disappear behind a corner.
_ The light is green.
Of course, Mom was referring to the «traffic light». She kept smiling. But appreciating my complete confidence with her and testing her trust in me, she had not asked a thing.
I put the first gear and feeling the nice texture of the wheel, I drove home safely.
Manu, Patricia and Helena decided to go take a tasty «mineral water» as a snack. I, almost one month without taking too much dairy, forgot totally the diarrhea and nausea crisis, the unpleasant itching, and I ordered a croissant. I know, I know. What a hobby with the french pastry!…But I really liked it so much…!
_ Golly gee! you are so lucky, eating that much and always so skinny… -exclaimed Helena with a smirk.
I just smiled, a but stunned by the absolute silence of the other two.
_ How is the work?
_ Oh, really good – replied Helena finishing her drink – I have a good salary, that’s all matters. This way I will get my driving license…
_ You will be so excited with it! To be able to drive…I am very happy. I think it’s a really important thing nowadays, and more to us women. It helps to be independent.
_ I don’t see it that necessary – Manu interrupted me scornfully.
_ Then, you would not love to know how to drive? – I asked her surprised.
_ I don’t need it at all. I’m not interested.
_ «The knowledge does not take place» (Spanish proverb)
She did not even look at me. She just did as always, with her little chubby fingers, to tear up the paper from the bottle of water.
Helena, like everybody did, noticed the tension from Manu and changed subjects.
She asked Pati about Juan Diez what made her put a face of a sad lamb.
_ I haven’t seen him…Anyway, what matters if I saw him or not?
_ He’s still going out with Desiree?
The answer was «yes» and sounded worse than a vomit.
_ Really? It’s taking longer than normal, almost 15 days.
And that’s because Juan Diez* has gained his nickname for pure cache.
Here in this city, the first thing that matters is the money, the second, and not less important, the family tree.
* Juan Diez means John Ten in spanish, a ten man or ten woman is a very popular one.
Of course it’s a fictional name for a real person!
Letters to Nowhere chapter 3 (Cartas a Ninguna parte, capítulo 3)
During my dreams I was totally free. Out of them, I’ve never been.
My mind has forgot its origens and it was feeling bad and strange handling a young body in a World created to fit…who knows whom? I envy you, Beatrix because you has not suffered not even one of the images of this end of century. I am aware that I can’t resume in a few lines the complexity of this world, to the one you don’t belong.
I know that maybe I blame a Time because of some personal insignificant circunstances. Insignificant for the Humanity. But not for me.
Now that has passed some time, I repent so much having met Manuela and Patricia, but not to have had fun, while I could, walking, having fantasies about my future, dancing.
The problems came later, When I understood that what I wanted was so different from what other persons from my age, wanted. Much more was hard for me to understand what it can be created in a mind that hates and acts with evilness, no matter the reason.
But it happened. And friendship lost the beauty of its wings and it metamorphosed in an ugly caterpillar. But I couldn’t see it.
Fidel, got tired of the brushes and missing the books, decided to go to study Psychology in France. There was living his brother with his mother, Francis, who has ready a room for him, in a house with garden and plenty of kids.
_ I saw them (Manuela an Patricia) buying the tickets for the movies.
The station was very different for me. It wasn’t grey, not shady neither sad, how it looks for me now.
_ Today?
He nodded.
They refused to go to the movies with me just the day before…
I felt…Weird. I know that with this world I can’t clarify what I felt, but no other word comes to my mind. They told me that they weren’t feeling like going to the movies. «I’m a sciences person, I don’t like that bullshit» used to say Manuela. And so I went with my brothers, with my Mother and sometimes with Fidel. Sometimes alone.
Fidel was dragging the suitcase along the platform.
The clock was struck a quarter. In 5 minutes the train will began a nocturne trip to the Gauls.
_ Those girls aren’t for you. Trust me.
I sighed ruefully.
_ And who is for me? Tell me before you go and leave me alone.
I asked him laughing and Fidel move his head without knowing what to say. I noticed he was a bit sad. But it wasn’t for him, it was for me.
_ I will write to you every week.
_ You exaggerate.
_ I know… – he smiled.
The comptroller went out with his little marker and leaded to the head of the train.
We got the suitcase on the train and Fidel stamped two noisy kisses on both cheeks.
_ If you refuse them, you will not be alone any more – this time his eyes showed he was being serious.
The train was going to leave.
_ Send me a photo of the horse painting when you end it!
_ And you one of the french men!
I accompanied the train in a smooth run looking how Fidel was waving his hand with the face illuminated with hope. He really wanted to go back to study…
The first postcard I got was a very pretty photograph of the Eiffel Tower in the Parisian dusk.
«Hello Paloma!
Finally I am here. You can’t imagine the feeling I had when I opened the books, all new…
I already take a look at them. The classes will begin in October and for now I already visited Paris. I hope you left those two bland girls. You must come, here there are lots of mulatto!
Au voir, sweet pie, kisses
Fidel – who miss you lots -«
I took it with me, in the pocket of my coat, until the season changed. But never show it to Manuela and Pati. We had arrived to an strange point of change, of transformation, to where what has had been couldn’t be any more.
The innocence of the 15 years old has converted into a vain mischief of the 18′.
And even though it was in sight of everybody, I wasn’t able to see it. I trusted them. My parents and my auntie Ana, my brothers…All of them talked about how a girl like me could go out with a girls like them.
But I only could see two good friends. I know. I just refused to see the reality and I let them to deceive me.
My mother always tells to me that I must not blame myself. I think so too. But it hurted so much, Beatrix…So much that I hate myself for not being like the others are, that’s why I try to analize myself, study me, look for me, understand me.
Oh, I’m sorry…I’m mixing present with past and this is for me like mixing water with oil. Imagine for you, who doesn’t know who I am and what I pretend to.
When you left to Hill Top, what were you feeling? Did you wanted to run away from the world? from your past? from yourself?
I also would love to leave, but I don’t know where. The Guadiana is my last grant to keep living searching a bit of peace. But I feel that the indestructible frostress that was for me is beginning to break down.
And that scares me.
Someone who needs to run away.
«I will never drink milk again» – I sobbed in the toilet for the
umpteenth time in my Life.
I took that morning six caffe latte, two croissants, one ensaimada* and
milky rice.
When I ended, I washed my face and the reflection returned to me a
pallid, ashen and ill visage. Good reason comparing to how sick I was
feeling. If I had not had diarrhea I don’t know what had happened to
me…I was feeling like dying.
I went out to buy bread and while my Mother made a selection of the
trash between glass, paper and plastic, I was waiting my turn.
_ What do you want, honey?
_ Four loaves of bread and a rounded one, sliced please.
The loaves were piled up in every wood’s shelving according to weight
and shape, separating the integrals from the rye breads, the soy ones
from the focaccia and the gummy loaves, surrogate of bread, more
known by the name baguette, from the laxative dinner rolls.
In the cupboard I could see: ensaimada, croissants, donuts, puff palms,
butter cookies, sponge cake, sugary brioches , choux a la crème, apple
pie, honey cake, cheese cake with walnuts and raisins and cupcakes.
On the counter, to the left, big diet biscuits tins and to the right, the
chocolates.
There was not other boutique better than the Bakery for me.
To be continued^_^) thanks for reading so far!! *bows*
Continuará, ¡gracias por leer hasta aquí! *venia* ^_^)b
YYuhmi
Letters to Nowhere chapter 2 (Cartas a Ninguna parte, capítulo 2)
I fight against the river. I because it’s impossible for me to beat it, I just sink.
And that’s the way it’s been happening during the last 2 years.
Fidel has been the only one that has been supported me sincerely in a World where the sincerity is comparable to the well of fresh water that Saint Eixupéry and the Little Prince found in the desert. His sincerity didn’t open my eyes in the appropriate moment.
Now I can see how silly I was, and maybe some years later, I will realize how silly I am now because of continue tormenting myself.I would want to begin for the beginning but in my mind there is not a firm story with start, end and final. If I just had it!
I see my primary school days like the best of my life. We were a really siblings-like classmates and we enjoyed and have lots of fun, girls and boys, without any bad intentions, envies, grudges. Now, in the end of the 90, I can assure you that this kind of relationship is almost extraordinary. Back then we competed with grades, now they compete with clothers. I know it can seem a Cantinflas-thing, but no one better than Mario Moreno to say the truth with witness.
The 90, is the decade of the aesthetics more purely sensory. What you are doesn’t has any value, but what you look like. I have the proof in the Mass Media, but also in a more direct way,in my little sister generation.
At least she, like me, is a woman out of her time – and she is only 14 years old -.
My brother suffers of the same thing. He tells me that the girls look at them puzzled when he opens to them the door or let the sit for them on the bus.
And that’s because women nowadays look like prefer a good punch than a pampering or hugging: «let’s not look like we woman are different».
In High School, I met Manuela and Patricia. They were two humble, nice girls and I began to feel at easy with them.
Even though they began to pull out me to go out, I lived isolated in The Guadiana: I wrote reflections and take notes about flowers, trees and
birds who lived in that piece of soil. I keep many of them.
Yesterday I saw them.
They were laughing without any remorse. At least that is what they feign. I was driving with my car to The Guadiana coming back from an art exposition of my friend Fidel.
He’s a great guy.
We met in the Art Academy two years ago, when ALL began.
Tall and frightfully blond, he shows the appreciation towards me every time he meets me, kissing me profusely both cheeks.
He’s gay. But this is the less remarkable thing in Fidel. You can feel his nature in all the femininity that his gestures breath. I know, lots of homosexuals, has not that femininity, but the Nature mother makes run things with an arbitrary determination, and I admit that sounds a true paradox, but you know, my words were just spontaneous. And we are entering century XXI. What a civilization.
You would like Fidel. He’s one of those absolutely free people.
I know I can’t make use of the word Liberty because I unknown its true essence. Maybe you know what means in real.
To me, Fidel is free because he is not afraid to live and he does everything like carried away by the current, instead of fighting against the river.
When they called me to go to the disco, it was so impossible for me to sacrifice that communing with the Nature who awaited for me just after opening a door or a window.
And that’s why my home has lots of doors and it was incredible handy for me: because I hate unexpected visits – and the expected ones too – with only hearing Yacko barks, I went out or go inside through some door and so I slipped away. Or I go up the North Carob Tree or I just find a shelter in the pigeon loft. There I could spend hours drawing the pigeons.
They eat from my hand, and in exchange, very reluctantly, they let me see their little pigeons, up on the ladder that leaded to their nests.
At that time the most envied by everyone couple were la Moñi and Patablanca*.
He was a seductive one and always was courting other lady pigeons, while La Moñi continued being faithful, refusing all the insinuations of very handsome fantails who were infatuated by her lovely hair up. Maybe because of the unexpected visits that made me run to the pigeon loft, now I paint so many pigeons.
Fidel really loves my pigeons paintings. He has bought me two of my best ones. My favorite is a white pigeon with her wing extended, in the way they do when are sunbathing. The blues, lilacs, violets and whites, and so the composition, makes the painting somehow special. That’s why I gave it to my Mother. She is my main fan.
Fidel doesn’t paint pigeons. Paints the fragile: glass, every thing made with this material, glass scattered on pellets, soil, sienna, ocher, orange colors.
According to the books I’m colder. I love blue. In my palette blues are essential, indispensable. And that coldness, from where it comes? I can feel it now like a frost imprisoning my chest, but not like the blue color, which for me is a warm color. Who says the contrary, won’t give me an explanation.
At least it will not be nothing more than a conventional explanation. If someone can give me an irrational explanation, they will gain my admiration, because I’m irrational too.
Not explanation, but better Approach, virgin, untouched and raw.
And also a bit contradictory.
I was an age to flirt and go out with boys, but I have never done so. I always «run away» from my
«pretenders» that’s the way my Mother call them.
I was an age to go to the disco and dance, but I so hated those closed and dark places where there was no silence that I so very well know in the nature. And instead of the fresh air, I had to conform myself with dirt tobacco smoke. I’m talking in past tense because I’ve never steped
on those places again since almost 3 years ago. And if some day I went to, it was because of my tendence to the dance and fun.
Manuela was heals over heads for a boy then, even though she didn’t
even know his name.
_ It’s told that he teaches computer – she told me totally excited.
I was checking the hour on my watch. I will endure ten minutes more and I will be going.
When I looked up I found a dark-eyed boy who was smiling at me a bit cheeky.
When I realized that his friends were looking at me too, I felt uneasy and I just fixed my look in the music video screens.
_ He looked at us! have you seen it, Pati? Let’s go, we must get closer, dance by they side.
Without willing it, I was just dragged out to the middle of the dance floor, and I though about to rebel myself and just go home when the song I loved so much began to sound. I so loved dancing and my feet just took the lead.
I always think that dancing is like falling in ecstasy or lighting a fire within my cheast making that all its glint unbind in the face. And I danced.
And in my dance, time to time, I saw those black eyes fixed in me, but
I didn’t mind too much.
I only danced for myself.
Once I go out from there, I forgot about the black-eyed boy.
Just some days later Manu discovered that He was from Ciudad Real * and this information about him being a foraigner excited her even more.
_ Have you noticed how he glared?
Pati nodded touched by a baseless illusion.
_ And he is so hot, reminds me Keanu Reeves, don’t you think so?
The question was for me. After thinking a bit, I smiled and I just said that I haven’t noticed him. I knew that with that answer I will satisfy her.
_ How is it possible to not notice a hottie like that? you are such a geek, girl…
We were in the Coffee shop «Nieves», in «Santiago» plaza. I was saving the paper with the phone number of Pati, who has changed it, while chewing my last bite of croissant.
When I got home I began to feel sick, and I promise myself not to eat again croissants.
I was not very happy without dairy. I always have been a sweets lover.
In the toilet I relieved my tummy, and after washing myself, I wet my temples and lips and I looked myself in the mirror.
I found as always that girl with oriental features and round childish face, that was so familiar to me. I recognized myself and I was satisfied with what I watched.
I didn’t need not more not less.
So I stopped watching myself. I still have not discovered why in the hell are mean to the mirrors, if we never see ourselfs the same way others see us. The true mirror is inside the person who looks at us, and not in the false reflexion, that artifact of ancients origins and something more like a legend in our toilet, return to us.
In that time, I called the attention of the opposite sex in an embarrassing way. I can’t deny it really annoyed me.
I remember a day I was coming home from High School, when I still had not drive license, I was walking quickly in front of a Bank when I skin-head boy looked at me.
Of course, everybody knows that there are so many ways to look at someone.
I felt naked, even thought I wear my kind jersey, my marine style neck blue coat and my white boots.
Those white boots…
They walked me around thousands times.
They were the only ones in all the city.
When I wore them, I felt so completed, as if finally, something that had been separeted from me, was back to its place.
That day, my boots took me from the path that, in the sidewalk, that was leading me to the bald head.
But he still was looking.
Until he got near me, and spilling something rude, touched my buttocks. Disgusted, I turned aroung I released my anger with a poor insult that seemed to me a yell. But even I couldn’t hear me.
I got home and, lying on the sofa we had besides the balcony, I cried.
I remember that then I made my first reproach to God.
If I was born as a man…
Now that I approach it, there are not women and men. Only exists what the World see in me. And I think it’s a very little thing.
This deep well of memories, says goodbye to you.
*Moñi means Bun in spanish (it refers to the little hair up that this adorable pigeon has) and Patablanca, means whitefoot.
*Ciudad Real, La Mancha, center of Spain, birthplace of Cervantes and Don Quijote.
It will continue, thanks for reading so far!! *bows*
Continuará, gracias por leer hasta aquí! *venia*
^_^) YYuhmi
Note: all names are invented, I wrote all of this on 1998-99 more or less. Some things are true others are fictional, just a mix of my fantasy and life! Sorry for my bad English >_<
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