jueves, 18 de febrero de 2016

Fragment Elena Ferrante from The Story of the lost child III


The are moments when what exists on the edges of our lives, and which, it seems, will be in the background forever - an empire, a political party, a faith, a monument, but also simply the people who are part of our daily existence - collapses in an utterly unexpected way, and right when countless other things are pressing upon us. This period was like that.

Elena Ferrante

Fragment Elena Ferrante from The story of the lost child II


I felt that in me fear could not put down roots, and even the lava, the fiery stream of melting matter that I imagined inside the earthly globe, and the fear it provoked in me, settled in my mind in orderly sentences, in harmonious images, became a pavement of black stones  like the streets of Naples, a pavement where I was always and no matter what the center. I gave myself weight, in other words, I knew how to do that, whatever happened. Everything that struck me would pass, and I, whatever I among those I was accumulating, I would remain firm, I was the needle of the compass that stays fixed while the lead traces circles around it,

-Elena Ferrante

Fragment Elena Ferrante from The story of the lost child I

And the he laughed, got up from the chair, said obscurely that in his view love ended only when it was possible to return to oneself without fear or disgust, and left the room with shuffling steps, as if he wanted to reassure himself of the materiality of the floor.


I'm taking - I said, adapting Franco's words - what is indispensable to me now, and as soon as I've consumed his face, his words, every desire, I'll send him away.

Elena Ferrante

Fragment of Elena Ferrante from Those who leave and those who stay III


You understand, Lenú, what happens to people: we have too much stuff inside and it swells us, breaks us.


Ah, Lenú, what happens to us all, we're like pipes when the water freezes, what a terrible thing a dissatisfied mind is.


The day will come when I reduce myself to diagrams, I'll become a perforated tape and you won't find me anymore.

-Elena Ferrante

Fragment Elena Ferrante from Those who leave and those who stay II

She seemed to want to prepare me for what awaited me, she was very worried about me and my future. This life of another, she said, clings to you in the womb first and then, when it finally comes out, it takes you prisoner, keeps you on a leash, you're no longer your own master. With great animation she sketched every phase of my maternity, tracing it over hers, expressing herself with her habitual effectiveness. It's as if you fabricated your very own torture, she exclaimed.


"It was a wonderful experience," I told her.
"The pregnancy, the birth. Adele is beautiful and very good."
She answered: "Each of us narrates our life as it suits us."

- Elena Ferrante

Fragment Elena Ferrante from Those who leave and those who stay I


This may be the last time I'll talk about Lila with a wealth of detail. Later on she became more evasive, and the material at my disposal was diminished. It's the fault of our lives diverging, the fault of distance. And yet even when I lived in other cities and we almost never met, and she as usual didn't give me any news and I made an effort not to ask for it, her shadow goaded me, depressed me, filled me with my pride, deflated me, giving me no rest.

Today, as I'm writing, that goad is even more essential. I wish she were here, that's why I'm writing.

Elena Ferrante

miércoles, 17 de febrero de 2016

Para ti cajas de música difíciles de parar


      Hablas, escribes, viajas,
como si yo no existiera.
Aún así determino todo lo que no has dicho,
lo que no has escrito,
lo que no has conocido.
Te has procurado instantes de lucidez,
te has regalado mi ausencia
¿y para qué?
para que te convenzan, para que te digan
que el camino hacia la redención
es la muerte y no el amor.
Y no me has preguntado si a mí me parece bien morir.

Caminas con fantasmas que miden
el nivel de desgracia y decontento en los pasillos
y te acuestas con ellos
para no sentirte solo.
Y yo no tengo ya excusas para darte,
salvo pedazos rotos
de un futuro vacío,
como una pared blanca inundada de hormigas.

Te dejas caer,
cansado de matarme.
Ahora prefieres cometer crímenes en mi nombre
y culparme por ellos.
Pero sigo en todos lados, aún después de muerta.
Y busco explicártelo
pero no hay adjetivos para la muerte,
sólo pequeñas imágenes en mi cabeza,
imágenes violentas que detestarías
o amarías
según tu estado de ánimo.

Ya no te recuerdo,
de ti solo tengo una imagen abstracta
que compensa al olvido,
 aún así te pienso
porque el olvido es el lugar equivocado
para un cuerpo que no aprendió a sangrar.
Para ti una tumba,
para ti una herida,
para ti cajas de música difíciles de parar.

Hace tiempo que dejé de escuchar
tu mente martillando a la mía
y no hay nada de sensato en eso.
Pero son las cosas sin sentido
las más hermosas...

CR- VocalesV

viernes, 5 de febrero de 2016

Ella sigue aquí


Se comprometieron en Carvoeiro, con unas bandas elásticas que luego fueron cambiadas por el anillo de una abuela checa. Quisieron extender su existencia con una descendencia que no llegó a existir, y entre la sangre y las pérdidas, él terminó yéndose, como nos vamos todos los que tenemos miedo.

Ella me contó su historia una noche de invierno, sin saberlo.

Las olas deben recordarle de aquel día, las calles también. Pero su presente ahora es frío y él la ha hecho invisible, ha desaparecido las exigencias de su carne y la ha reducido a un rincón de un lugar al que no quiere volver. Ella está sola con su niño y su amor muertos.

Él era un mundo entero para ella, lo dijo sin tapujos y agregando que entendía el tremendo cliché que salía de sus labios. Racionaliza su abandono y se mira las manos. Para ella todas las cosas están rotas solo porque ella lo está. Si ella se rompe, también lo hace el borde de todas las cosas. El ego se asoma incluso en las peores tragedias.

Para mí es distinto, yo desprecio estas muestras de vulnerabilidad, así que solo adivino la sangre entre sus dedos y los sacrificios que se habrían hecho demasiado pronto y se habrían olvidado aún más rápido. Y a diferencia de ella, comprendo el favor enorme que se le hace a una historia al acabarla.

Pues hay algo en las historias que terminan que aquellas que continúan siempre echarán en falta: la mitificación. Las decisiones detienen y congelan las historias, pero el tiempo se encarga de mitificarlas e inyectarles la belleza de los muertos.

Ellos siempre tendrán Carvoeiro, pase lo que pase. Todo lo que venga después solo es y solo será el largo período en el que ellos no existieron. Porque todo pasa salvo el pasado, aunque nos vendan y compremos lo contrario, por comodidad, por paciencia, por mera supervivencia.

Esa colonización del pasado es hoy una fortaleza. Y cierro los ojos y le doy tiempo para que vuelva a morir, para que regrese al lugar de los muertos de donde salen todas las historias. Cierro los ojos, pero ella sigue aquí. 


martes, 2 de febrero de 2016


Y yo una mujer sonriente.
Tengo 30 años.
Y como el gato, nueve oportunidades para morir.

-Sylvia Plath

Poema a Beppo de Jorge Luis Borges

Jorge Luis Borges con su gato Beppo

El gato blanco y célibe se mira en la lúcida luna del espejo
y no puede saber que esa blancura y esos ojos de oro que no ha visto
nunca en la casa son su propia imágen.
¿Quién le dirá que el otro que lo observa
es apenas un sueño del espejo?
Me digo que esos gatos armoniosos
el de cristal y el de caliente sangre,
son simulacros que concede el tiempo
un arquetipo eterno. Así lo afirma,
sombra también, Plotino en las Ennéadas.
¿De qué Adán anterior al paraíso,
de qué divinidad indescifrable
somos los hombres un espejo roto?

Fragment Elena Ferrante, those who leave and those who stay

Ferrante ... What else can I say? All I do is devoting my time to read you.


"Too many bad things, and some terrible, had happened over the years, and to regain our old intimacy  we would have had to speak our secret thoughts, but I didn't have the strenght to find the words and she, who perhaps had the strenght, didn't have the desire, didn't see the use."

- Elena Ferrante

Smoky night in Amsterdam, fragment of a long story I do not want to tell


So A. and I bike, and bike, struggling with the wind on our way to Rembrandtplein. We arrive to the shop, a woman with little patience and a lot of piercings looks at me as if I’m in the wrong place. “Hello” I say, “I called this afternoon, I want to get a piercing, they said I could come without an appointment.” “Yes” she says, bored. Her hair is red, her ears are full of colorful piercings, her nose is invaded by rings “where do you want your piercing?” she looks at me as a communist would look at a petite bourgeois-“in my nipple” I say - “Both nipples or one?” she seems annoyed - “one, the left one” I say sort of nervous - “ok, 50 euros, pay here and go downstairs”. I did as she said. 

I went downstairs, the guy has blue hair, a lot of tattoos, a lot of piercings and a beautiful smile, he must be 60 at least. He asks me to take off my shirt, he shows me the bar he will introduce in my nipple, I told him I wanted the one with diamonds. He asks me if he can begin cleaning my nipple, I say “go ahead”. He says my breasts are very firmed, he asked me if I had implants. I laughed, said no and said I was flattered, he laughs too, as he rubs my nipple between his thumb and index finger to erect my nipple. He marks the places where the needle will trespass me with purple ink, he keeps on rubbing to make my nipple bigger, he blows some air on it with his mouth, I laugh. He asks me to lie down, he smiles and shows me the clamps and  the cannula he will use. “Will it hurt?” I ask, he smiles and says “Yes, it will hurt way more than that tattoo of yours” pointing to the verse of Pizarnik on my ribs. He presses my nipple very hard with the clamps, it hurts enough as to think that the process is over,, but it is not, he's just starting. Why do we insist with pain? He says “here I come,” and a pain pierces my whole body, I shake, I close my eyes, tears come out of them and then I laugh ... and I laugh as if having an orgasm. At that point I remember the Belarusian girl, whom A. fucked twice and the stories of her laughing every time after an orgasm. I have the two of them in my head, having sex, making love, whatever they called what they did, as I feel the second sharp pain, I moan, I look at him, I laugh again, I wonder if the Belarusian girl understood about pain and pleasure, or if she only laughed out of shame. There’s an intimate relationship between the person who pierces you and yourself, it’s like having sex, but shorter.

 He puts a gauze over my new wound saying “I notice you don’t wear a bra, better have a gauze.” We shake hands I said maybe I'd see him again someday, he says “sure, maybe for your right nipple.” I laugh and say goodbye, feeling drunk. 

A. Praises my piercing, he keeps asking why was I so obsessed to do it, so sudden, so fast. “To avoid killing you,” I say, and kiss him on the mouth.

We had Mexican food that night, we went to sleep at 22.00, we woke up at 1.30 a.m. and we cried.

CR- VocalesV