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.
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.
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!
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 Yackobarks, 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*
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 >_<
Este cuento lo escribí para mi gran amigo Vladimir, un hombre alto como un gigante y rubio como un vikingo, que aunque había nacido en el norte de Europa, vivió en Argentina y la sintió como su madre patria siempre. Adoraba el Mate y el chocolate. Espero que esté bien…Me enseñó a montar a caballo, aún recuerdo nuestras charlas y su acento medio alemán medio argentino. Uno de mis recuerdos más preciados, este amigo del que luego perdí el rastro, tras mi ingreso en el hospital ese mismo año.
Espero que el cuento os guste tanto como a él le gustan los caballos ^_-
(Mi madre adora este cuento, así que en este blog se lo dedico a ella, que es la luz de mi vida.)