Monday, November 30, 2009

Meeting with Tezcatlipoca

I have played your game and I am satisfied
In the masquerade of eternal night
I did not take off the pink mask,
you said the night would lead me to the waltz.

I played the game as we agreed:
I dance across the land wearing the black high-hills
you let me look through the black mirror
I am your feet, you become the light.

I am not what you think I am,
I knew I had to moderate my opinions from the start
you were not going to tolerate my blasphemies
I anticipated you wouldn't play otherwise.

Let it be clear; this was a 'fair' game
it was inherently based on reciprocity
I used you, you used me
there were no hidden promises nor unfulfilled expectations.

After four years your feet were swollen
after 52 months my eyes were blinded
the black light merged with the rocky floor
I was frustrated and you were bored.

We sat down together on the red couch
and gave up in order to make voodoo dolls
I joked about my dreams of changing the world
you laughed about your idea of selling my soul.

I confessed that I do envy them for having what I gave up
you suggested that I should cut the crap between us
when our contract is over it would be only me and the sun
wake up Mariele, your essay still has to be done before dawn. 

Sunday, November 15, 2009

El Porvenir de mis Recuerdos

Suddenly the fog appears, invading the leave-less threes. 
 Last Farsi class, research for that big essay,
$30,000 short for the "project of my life", presentation on the last class
I did not even know there was going to be a final exam.

Do you tell people the truth of how did things happen if this is going to ruin their memories?
 Am I romanticizing my memories as an excuse to get back to you?
Is your memory blurring the decisions we are taking?
When did we stop memorizing each other's words and started focus on something else?

 This once self-imposed Alzheimer took control over my memories
at first I was sure it was me who was classifying the ones I wanted to see,
your eyes, their voice, their smiles, the napkin, that subway line, the train ride, 
her face, our stars, my two books and the purple shoes.
It all ended when I started to over-analyse what do those memories mean
I alienated so many memories so they would not hurt, so I would not miss you 
and somehow here I am not only forgetting them but also myself.
The oppressed rising up against the oppressor, 
the oppressor managing to silence the oppressed... 
we all know how does the story end. 

"You must a very bright person" No, I am just bored. 
Toma de fotos, incesantes flashes, sillas vacias, y una esquina sin retorno
Movimiento transnacional de personas con constante nostalgia de lo que alguna vez llamaron hogar.. et ca se passe comment si je suis une SDF?
where is my plane ticket? I don't like this electronic excuse!
Jugar sobre el tablero del cosmpolitanismo tiene sus complicaciones
¿soy yo la que lo veo muy tarde? ó ¿simplemente me olvidé de tomarlo en cuenta?
 El recuerdo de mi porvenir previsto bajo las estrellas intermintentes lejos está de acercarse a lo que le espera a mi memoria del presente cuando el porvenir se acerque al pavimento lleno de nieve.

11% out of the 200 Years of Solitude were well lived.
What do I do with the other percent that will take more in the years to come?
Do I get my USB to save the memories I need to narrate the story once again?
Oh yeah... I should just upload them that way you do not need to see my face. 
"Félicitations, Maria" For what? I was just doing my job.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Keys to the last supper... sorry last breakfast.

I actually started laughing. Maybe I shouldn't have. It was just the entire day, how could it get more bizarre? You saw me lighting yet another cigarette dressed up as a flapper girl. 
Why did you call me? You asked, and I realized I truly had no problem with being up front.
I didn't have anyone else to call, I knew you would open the door and I know your number by heart. I had been in this situation more than once, having no where to sleep is like falling off the bike or being in a car accident. Random thoughts travel across your mind (wait... my mind). 
When I didn't find my keys, I remembered the winter when I stayed in a hotel and the time I got off the first cab I took in Paris. Cab over hotel; 50-50 chances. I called you because I was sober, because I needed someone to talk about my day, someone that would stimulate my mind without making me feel like shit, I needed someone who would just ask me if everything is ok. You were the closest one to whom I could share my not-so-important undergrad student drama who has no "worries" no plans, no boyfriend, and oh yes "has not experienced real life" even after the fight even after all the pain... no... I am hiding the entire truth I just ran out of battery so I couldn't wake up my sister get in my apartment and make the usual international call... to be fair I missed our breakfasts too, but I did not fully miss you. 

You smiled at me and I guess you understood at that moment why my decisions had been like that over the past days, months... has it been a year? I hugged you as I would hug my best friend. "I am bipolar" I said as I started crying. I wish I had loved you, I am sorry if I ever hurt you, I shouldn't have kept you waiting, I just didn't know what to do with myself.

You started cooking our last breakfast date at 4am. We talked... we just talked... It is never going to be the same if you go to Paris, tu sais? I am not expecting it to be, that is why it is only for some months. Is this about the pub night? No, I wish it was just that its about everything... she said once that after a certain time of feeling constant frustration people loose themselves. I don't want to get into that point and I am two centimetres away from passing it. I am becoming depressive when I don't have anything to be depressed about... at least not that seriously yet. I am attached to Garcia Marquez' tree and I want to break those chains to develop wings and start flying away from this non-sense... I miss believing that those chains could be broken, my wings are being inhibited before they even start growing. 

The water did not turn into wine for our breakfast and I did not multiply the bread. You should sleep, you said. Awkward moment, seeing your room again felt like a new encounter to a new galaxy where I had not been. 50-50 chance tails you stay on my bed. I got the sofa, you said something about a bird. My mind was to busy thinking about self-control and the chains. You started talking about the myth of a bird sitting in the couch. "I don't get it", of course I wouldn't my body was melting in your bed. We finished our last breakfast; before my old spirit made room for the book ready to be closed. You are like la Malinche, Josephine. "No I am not, at least she did love Cortez" 

With that the door went into flames, one less chain remains, I am only 11 months away...

Merci.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

The Buenos Aires Posts

The Culture of Magical Realism (June 8th, 2009)

"Culture is like an iceberg." Maybe it is, but in the times of global climate change, at least my iceberg has been melting. "Icebergs melting? It must be magic!" -my grandma would have said. Reality has met magic today.
I was born and raised in Mexico, that was my Reality. Magically, I never felt part of the culture I grew up in, I questioned it too much. My upper-middle class Mexican life never made sense to me. My parents, my sister, and I are all Mexican, no background questions are asked. We are mestizos in case a Canadian asks. Inside us, I don't think we have ever fitted in the Mexican stereotype.
My sister and I lived the (superficial) "globalization" of our little city. NAFTA brought about McDonald's, unemployment, accute class polarization, and foreign TV. Yet, we could not afford that globalized -rather developed-worldesque- life style. I did not grow up with main-stream pop culture, be it Mexican or foreign. As opposed to many of my friends, I guess you could call me a confused and contradictory teenage nerd. I hanged out with the Mexican version of the popular junior-high girls. However, most of the time Latin American literature was my real best friend. They called the genre "Magical Realism" for expressing the Latin American 20th Century reality mixed with magical scenes, situations and characters. By the time I was 15 I had travelled and been shaped by Latin America without ever taking a plane heading to the South.
Contradictions.... that is my culture, a culture of Realismo Magico, for how can it be Magical and yet remain Real?
I had an enviable life in Mexico, great family, loyal friends, good school, did not need anything else. That, my upper-middle class life always felt like a cage. I was happy but not satisfied. Every time I am there I cry when I say good-bye but I am always so eager to go back.
I went to Canada when I was 18, leaving my 'perfect life' behind. A life of contradictions, indeed. I proudly hold a Mexican passport and love my country; but every time I go back I feel frustration, anger, happiness, excitement, and sadness ALL at the same time. Am I really Mexican? In paper I am. In practice, I have not fitted in the Mexican society for quite a while. I have been in Canada for four years. No, I refuse to become Canadian. However, I know more about the country than many citizens that I've met who do not yet understand my rather emotional defence for bilingualism. After four years I have not been able to have close anglophone friends; yet I am always hesitant and afraid to speak in French to my Quebecois friends.
I think multiculturalism is overrated, ironically only when I am in Toronto I feel like I can be both Magical and Real. Talking about France gets me nostalgic, I miss my life there, I know if I had stay I would be someone else. I miss the life in Montpellier, I fantasize about going back to Europe; at the same time I can't cope with the supremacism and discrimination disguised under the (real) freedom of expression. Nothing compares to Egypt, but I can't go back without sharing it with my best friend trying our best not to impose our undefined cultures while stealing an incomparable culture ourselves.
Who am I? Je suis qui? ¿Quién soy? I am definitivamente un mélange. That cannot siquiera encontrar une response dans un même langue. On peut toujours hear the thick accent of my native español.
I have been six hours in Argentina, four sitting at a little restaurant in Palermo writing and sipping white wine trying to answer that question that I have refused to even ask for a while.
What is my culture? I have been writing about that without knowing where to start. The more my iceberg melts, the less I care to even ask, the more I enjoy not thinking about that.
Magically, the reality is that I am obsessed with cultures. Other contradiction of my life. I cannot stop thinking, studying, reading, overanalysing, experiencing, ad trying to understand cultures. The more I do, the less I identify my own.
I have been the Numbian girl in the little village along the Nile delta, the Algerian immigrant in Montpellier, the latina in Toronto, the enriched Mexican exploiting the indigenous and at the same time fighting against the system where I belong. Today I am the girl with the unidentifiable accent absorbing everything she can from sitting in this corner in Palermo writing in English, on a question that confuses everything of my life. 
No, I am not a global citizen. I find the term pretentious and unrealistic. I am just a girl whose Real life has been shaped by the powerful Magic of culture, resulting in identifying her culture as one that is only about contradictions. Appropriating other's Magic identifiable culture without creating a real one for myself

Getting (more) lost. (June 11th, 2009)

It is not chaotic, it is just real; I said as we start laughing. I feel like I am alive again, remainds me of Cairo in a way. I do not know her name, I did not bother to ask. Our conversation did not let us exchange pasts, names, ages... rien. To me so far, she is Emiliano's mom. I have not met Emiliano yet. He is supposed to show me an apartment that is four blocks away from the hostel. The hostel... my house so far. Well can you call it a house if you don't have a key? I guess yes, you could call it like that.
We talked about the favelas, the Latin American "Golden Years" -those ones that I never lived, our respective crisis, our stolen present and our forgetable past. "This is my soul. I am 
latinoamericana. I tried the US, tried Europe. Je suis toujours une étrangere Where ever I am in Latin America I feel safe, I feel that I belong North to South.América Latina es mi patria" She tells me, I wanted to cry too.
I went to CEDES on my first day; took the right bus, got off at the wrong stop. It is all good, until I realized I forgot my map. Here I am in Buenos Aires not knowing where I am. For any Westerner tourist this exactly where there is nothing to see -you know, poor and real argentines. This girl from Lyon at the hostel asked me why would I go there. I work there. "Just for fun", I said.
It is good that Western women tourists are adviced not to go overthere, they would feel sexually harassed. I like to call it a terapeutic shot of high self esteem. I forgot how interesting is to walk around. Men say random things, as opposed to "bad areas" in Mexico City, here they are harmless. "You make the winter a beautiful season miss", "Thank you for the beautiful smile" "If I saw you walking everyday I would be poorer than now" "
No te acomodés el vestido, negra, asi te va re bien" "¡Qué guapa que sos!" And it was almost when I was getting to CEDES that a man went on his knees "Marry me please" when I laughed so hard, Thank you you just made my day; I said. I came back to the hostel, Ignacio, my boss drove me here. As I was finally getting to the third floor where my room is, I heard some American guests singing Akon's "smack that on the floor" the ultimate western female sexual emancipation song.... I sat down in my room quite confused.
Is my culture really the label the West has impossed on me? Am I Huntington's homogenic Latin? Or do I simply see things all in terms of the West vs The Rest? Am I part of the Rest?
"The Mexican people are the most noble people, miss." The taxi driver said -the one I took when I got lost again because I really wanted to go and watch the football game. "
Your people are simply the best I've met. Look I have one of the 20 pesos bills the plastic ones" I smiled, said nothing. Are they? Are we? Am I? I got off to watched the game, "Nice to meet you Mariele" he said "I hope we Argentines treat you as well as Mexican have treated me". I wanted to cry, does the taxi driver loves more my people than I do? I feel at home here... and at the same time I do not.
Bueno acá en la América Latina al final todos nos vamos a joder ¿viste? -Emiliano's mom said.

Carrefour? (July 3rd, 2009)

So what are you cooking tonight Mariele? The owner of thecarniceria, the butcher says. I was cooking a simple pasta with some meat. He does not yet believe that I am Mexican I showed him my passport today. He laughed and said that I only say one word in Mexican Spanish. I do and I say it a lot. 

During my YIIP interview I was so confident about coming to place "similar" to home that I said that it would be so easy. Confirmation that I am not a global citizen: it has not been as easy as I thought. Buenos Aires is a big city and when I say big, I am not saying Toronto or Montreal big I am saying 11 million-big. I love it, and now and then I hate it, specially when I get so distracted in buses and keep on missing my stop. I expected Buenos Aires to be so similar to Mexico City, it is not. I realized how different it is, and how North-American-wanna-be my country is. Buenos Aires is so Latin American but if you are walking on some districts you will actually believe you are either in Madrid or Paris. 

No, there is no IKEA here, I have not seen a Walmart yet buuuuut there is Carrefour!!!! As I was walking to see Plaza de Mayo, I saw Carrefour, and I smiled. I went in thinking perfect I am so going to find some Mexican brands and cook or maybe I can find this or that. WRONG AGAIN. I naively thought Carrefour would be like in France or in Mexico. I went back to the hostel and some Americans were complaining about the same thing, I heard them saying exactly what I thought... supermarkets in Argentina suck. But when I was listening to them I realized how stupid my anger to Carrefour was and how mistaken I am. They don't suck, I do. I do for assuming that everyone in Latin America will consume Mexican products, that I will find what I have found in France or in Toronto. Why would Argentines like what I like?, and why should I get so annoying about a supermarket? I do my groceries in the little family-owned supermarket, they have spicy sauce from Mexico... go figure.

People from Buenos Aires are called Porteños. One of my friends told me that they were rather unique characters. So far I have not been able to relate to them, specially the girls. My Argentine friends are not Porteños they are from somewhere else, and I am in love with them. Two weekends ago we went to a little town outside Buenos Aires called La Plata, it is only one hour away and people are so different. I had the best time there. However, after living 4 years in a country where parties start at 10pm and end at 3am I have noticed that I have been Torontonized. Here dinner starts around 10pm going to a bar is 12pm, going to the club is around 2 or 3am... want to know at what time does it end? We went back home two Sundays ago at 11am. ¡Vaya Fiesta!... I don't understand how people do it. I guess I will have to learn or drink (more) coffee at La Havana -an Argentine coffee chain and more Alfajores to have more energy... Maybe I should eat less Mexican hot sauce and more chimichurri...

A SDF Trying to Build a Home (July 19th, 2009)

I opened the door and smiled, left the grocery bags on the purple kitchen counter and took a deep breath. As I was singing to electronic tango followed by some Lebanese music I started cooking. It was just me, no more travellers in the hostel, my music and me. I felt so lucky, so greatful and so... complete, that is the word.

He asked me where did I lived. Je suis une SDF, I said. I did not say it in Spanish or in English ni vagabunda nor a homeless. I just did not have a fixed address at that point, I wanted to say it in French. After living in a hostel followed by being a guest in my friend's apartment I finally had my room. My room? I thought... why am I obsessed with privacy and private property, they are both human constructions. There are people who do not have either, and here I am getting all excited about having my room. I could have dance to Lebanese music on a park or started singing tango in the Subte, I did not had to wait. I already had plenty of reasons to be happy to do it. Here I am in Argentina, an unbeatable opportunity and an amazing experience. I do not need to have my room to enjoy it, I was enjoying it from the beginning.

I come back from my placement everyday feeling like a thousand days have passed outside the studio, that I have learned in 5 hours what I could never learn in 10 months. I want to be an academic, I said and they looked at me surprised, No ambassador? No lawyer? No MBA? No... I just want to be an academic, teach and learn, write and read. An internship in a research centre? Why not? I am not going to lie, I wasn't so sure about the internship. What do I know about Public Health? I can tell you now, I did not know anything but what I did know was closely related to Health. We work at my boss' studio every day, there is not a fixed schedule, research is not done from 9 to 5. We are only three, Ignacio, Marcelo and me. At the beginning I was so intimidated here I am working with someone who has been a university president, who has multiple publications, who knows so much. Next to my co-worker who is the most articulated M.A. student I have ever met, he always has an answer, he is always committed and involved. What could I bring to such a good team, me who did not know anything about Health? I did my undergrad in International Studies too, Marcelo said; Do you know what are you going to write your dissertation on? And somehow I felt at home talking with one of my friends in Toronto. I started talking. I saw he was interested in what I had to say, me the Mexican girl living in Canada who has a random accent, had something to say and it was worth hearing it. I do not longer feel ashamed to say anything in fact, if I don't know something I just ask. I often stay longer or come back home and research more.

I just need an apartment with two rooms, I told my mom. I just need one to sleep and the other one to be the studio, when I grow up I won't need a car or an amazing office, I won't need the expensive work clothes. Hopefully, I will make out of that studio my home, notmy room but where I know I can sit down at midnight without worrying that the next day I have to work from 9-5. I guess even if I am away, as long as I am happy I will always be at home.

Words on the field trip to Pampa del Indio (August 10th, 2009)

Catalina is 67 she hopes to live till 109 like her aunt who lives in Paraguay. Catalina did not want her son to spend money in buying her a fridge, she lived over 60 years without one but now she enjoys a cold glass of water when the hot summer comes up to 45 degrees. Out of the 13 rural settlements, Fortin Brown where she lives is one of the only two where there is electricity.

Lino lives with his granddaughter, she is 15 and does not longer go to school, they don't have the money to send her to high school because it is 45 km away. He used to live out of the the cotton crop, before it stopped raining 3 years ago. He believes it is going to rain again and her granddaughter will go to school and get married. 

Ramon Garcia has three kids. He does not take them to the hospital in Pampa del Indio which is 35 km away, his eldest daughter died there. She had stomach infection, he thinks it was a negligence; some people said they did not treated her on time. She wanted to be a doctor. He drives all the way to the next town when his kids get sick. He can't sleep at night thinking he might loose one of his kids.

Ramona's husband died four years ago. She has two daughters. She sleeps outside because she is scared, two of her horses were stolen the ones she used to go to town. She thinks more of her animals have been stolen, they haven't come back. When she goes to town she walks over 5 km to the road waiting for a car to stop and give her a ride. She knows that they will keep on stealing her animals because they are three women and she has no family living close by. She misses her husband but she says she is going to keep on working hard so her girls don't have to go through the same things she is living.

Mariana has Chagas she was diagnosed before she had her second child. She is my age. She doesn't know yet that her kid has Chagas too, because she does not know anything about the disease. Her dad is sick, her grandfather too, the nurse goes and visit them once a month. The last month they called the ambulance twice. Her mom takes care of everything now. She thinks she can be cured. She can't.

So I will remember how it felt (Septemeber 1st, 2009)

I don't like to write on my blog before writing it on my notebook, I like to have the first, the second, the third, all the way to the last draft. I like to see how I have changed and in a computer I tend to erase it, Only for the first assignment I was able to write just one draft.
I don't update my blog that much because I have a notebook full of comments that I intend to type on the way home and then publish them on my blog the moment I leave my suitcases on my apartment's floor.  But right now from the corner of Palestina y Estado de Israel, I wanted to writte the last words that I will type in the studio's computer.
 I can't leave!! I finished my work and I can't turn off the computer, ask someone to open the door for me, go downstairs and see the green door closing after me for the very last time. I don't have the strenght and my legs are on strike... they don't want to move. Three months that felt like the time was not running, the world outside stood still while my mind expanded. I want to cry,
laugh, memorize every single corner, every smell, every sound from the street... I
wish I could stop time and make this last minutes perpetual.

I will miss it so much... the walk on Córdoba, the coffee in Havana on the way herethe always-packed subte all the way to Medrano Station, the bus. The hours in thestudio, all what I learned. I guess many are happy on their last day at work, I am happy please don't get me wrong it is just that... I wish I could do that walk tomorrow once again
It has come to an end, this time I don't only feel it, 
ahora ya lo sé. She has come and asked me at what time am I leaving, I only need to turn off the computer, I said.... I only need to turn off the computer but I am taking the studio with me.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

El Sótano de los Espíritus

No pensé que pensaras eso y al no pensarlo asumí que conocia lo que querías.
No creí que alguna vez creiste en mi y al creerlo intenté probarte algo que nunca fue requerido.
No quise que me quisieras y al no quererte permití que me dejaras de extrañar.
No esperé que me esperaras y al desesperarme te deje de buscar para nunca reencontrarte.

Un día llamaste para platicar como platicamos todas esas noches, y yo había querido desaparecer y por lo tanto corte mi única cercanía a ti para pretender que ya no existía(mos). Una noche te odie tanto que quise gritarte tantas cosas para alejar a tu espiritu que me sigue visitando. Una madrugada me senté en la acera frente a mi casa esperando que aparecieras para no esperarte más. Una tarde quise dejar de escribir pensando que así volverias preocupandote por saber si se había terminando esta mentira o si simplemente era mentira la verdad.  En medio del infinito nunca nos podremos encontrar. 

Encuentros y despedidas, esperas y angustias, sueños y desvelos.

Sentí tu aliento soplar sobre mi espalda 
quize tocar tu pelo para confirmar que a mi lado estabas
desperte y vi las paredes rojas junto a la cama vacia
mi cabeza baja y el nudo en la garganta.

Culpé al dios en el que no creo,
maldije mis decisiones y tus desenfrenos
tire la toalla para caerme de boca sobre el hielo
y de pronto apareciste, como siempre sonriendo.

Que bueno que dentro de las platicas monotonas
de hijos, plata, noviazgos, dietas, vocaciones y sortilegios
no hay más de dos minutos para el sótano de los recuerdos
para explorar el sótano de los espíritus con alma de murcielago.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Irrelevant...

...and now I cry... took me fucking 6 weeks.
...and now I cry... in front of a total stranger, 
time went by while I kept on going
verbal diarrhoea or endless music?
how the fuck would I know?

My hearth is not longer broken nor ripped its just static
I became what I did not want to, what I promised you I will never be
I am on the floor, please do not show up randomly
I broke my promise, I AM INDIFERENT.

I imagined it in so many ways, so much different; 
I need you so much and I've been trying to find you for so long
in the process of finding you I've lost myself on the way
waking up in unscented beds, 
no clothes, no smile, no pleasure, no love,
no hate, no regret, no shame, not a single feeling.

You told me I should be excited, 
I told you I was, I lied, 
she said what you used to say "I am exceptional"
I was wrong, you lied.

I am not scared because I have no direction,
because my motivation is gone,
because I am too weak to talk
and too arrogant to write about it
who said that it is wrong to be both? 
what the fuck is wrong anyways? I should maybe shut up.
I JUST FEEL LIKE I DON'T CARE ANYMORE
I have so many things to tell you and you are so far away,
what was I thinking when I decided not to stay?
Should I wait another 6 weeks until you see me crying?
should I keep on pretending I am just stressed?
who do I tell about my nightmares, my sleepless nights, my constant body-pain ?
where do I find the strength to concentrate once again?
how can I articulate that I am just looking for a way out?
IT DOESN'T MATTER THIS IS THE LIFE YOU CHOSE
DON'T BE MISLED YOU WERE ALWAYS BY YOURSELF
"we all go through that cut the drama" you will say.... yes, the difference is that when you were dealing with this useless bullshit I was there listening all the random thoughts you had to share.
I hope, next time you are able to explain why you helped to materialize the "all by herself", so please next time when you call at 1am just cut the bs. Are we ok, then?


Monday, September 28, 2009

A date with the pavement

Light... no control... the floor... restrained tears...
FEAR, HELPLESSNESS, SHAME, SELF-COMPASSION
pain... loneliness... stupidity... life-long flash-backs...
my photo, your canvas, her picture, our movie, his book.

Are you ok?, she says... thick Canadian accent
I... I am not sure, I say with my thick "Latin" accent
I did not look at her, I will never remember her face,
your voice is still in my head.

I did not accept her help, rode my bike once again
pain, tears, anger, self-blame, clumsiness, 
What the fuck am I doing with my life?
I pretended to ask myself, 
waiting to hear a "you've done everything right" 
one of those kinds of answers that are full of shit

The water from the shower mixes up with my salty tears
the pain is there, it will remain here
I like the physical pain better, it hurts 
but at least I know it will go away.

Big-time reality check:
The reality struck you right on your face, Mariele
your elbow protected you from the pavement
but whether you like it or not
it was the pavement what made you feel alive again.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Find Me

Phonecall at 5am... what time zone am I in again?
tears that don't stop; the weakness that has always been there
your mind, your heart, your hands, 
my feet, my stomach, my airless lungs.
Can't breath, can't think, maybe I should not speak.
No money to escape, "responsibilities" to fulfill, 
a long-expired unofficial promise that keeps me here.
My dried sentiments are exploding, absent thoughts, non-existent words.

HOW THE FUCK DID I END UP BEING HERE?
I cannot see you and it is obvious that I cannot see myself. 
My clumsiness made me lose my Auryn,
I have no army to fight The nothing
there is no Atreju, no Fuchur... just The nothing. 
I cannot hear the oracle and I can't wake up from this Ende-like reality
that has invaded my destroyed dreams.
I should sleep to see if someone rebuilds the hope
that we shared for so long; but I have been long gone;
do you remember how long ago?
Je suis perdue, tu n'arrives pas 
c'est quoi ton histoire?
3am international call
foreign nostalgia
domestic romanticism 
internationally-displaced love.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Plesse do not stop time

The same excuse comes up, Mariele, you go out for a cigarette. Can I smoke outside?, You say because you have to ask so no one would see your tears... everyone thinks they have more reasons to own those tears, even you... you who "have been there since the beginning". Many have more to say than you do, don't they? Then you cry, you cry because there won't be anything... again... this is the life you chose but you never thought it would hurt, did you?  Tears in solitude... solitude that you thought you were so used to it;  you were never by yourself, were you? But you pretend that you are so good in saying good bye, I will see you again, I will miss you, I was, You were. I was not, You were not, WE WERE and I COULD NOT EXIST WITHOUT YOU THAT IS THE FUCKING TRUTH, you constructed me in the person I am today and I am happy YOU did.  After four years I am glad it wasn't someone else. Will I cry? Yes. Will I be happy for you? Yes. I am not pretending; this is me... naked, there is no fancy dresses, no make up, no politics, finally there is no rhetoric, no catchy discourses, no words, no psychological excuses... this is the same girl trying to survive four years ago with no intention to be heard but desperate to hear what you had to say... the one who needed someone who could count on.... 
I will be alone and I will overcome not because I am too strong but because I know that if I want to see you again I know what has to be done. This is the life I chose, the one of  not setting roots, we made a mistake we started loving the blossoms of something that could not grow during several freezing winters, at least I know that our plant grows in the dessert, it doesn't needs water, it feeds from hibiscus tea.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

No es una cuestión de borrachera

Quisiera que no me molestara estar callada
excuse ME; yo NO puedo estar contenta sintiendome ausente
si yo me saboteo sola que sea mi problema
si sos vos a quien le gusta estropear mi vida
no me importa que tanto entiendas mi dilema
aquí habrá más que una pelea.
Yo vine acá por mi ¿viste?
y sacrifique el tiempo con la gente
que en verdad me importa
que en verdad tengo que darle bola
mis hermanas sin tener la misma sangre
its not that I think I am so much better
I just don't care if you are so much less
who am I to judge your decissions?
I am not judging, I am not, I will not,
I am just trying to survive in this agony
that I did not choose
but you do not care
whether I got here by myself or not
you just need those words... those acts... those...
caprichos así lo digo yo en español
la perseverancia es una cosa, es no aceptar un no
y trabajar por un sí
I know you will not understand what I mean.
Tu sólo DEBES tener todo
tenemos personalidades muy fuertes dijiste
NO if I had it you... you would be fine
y mi puto hígado no estaría lleno de bilis
and I could give you the self esstem you so fucking need
pero no la tengo, ni la tendré, así que mi hígado se llenará
de bilis mientras tu buscas tus mil y unas noches
para que despiertes sin saber dónde perdiste todo
yo perdí lo mío el día que TÚ lo arruinaste....
ojalá aún funcione para que la pueda recuperar
disculpá pero yo no me lleno de 5 mill y tres noches
yo no, yo me llenó de una canción de reggeaton, de leer un blog,
de la arena del desierto, de discusiones coherentes...
de más que amistad, me lleno de saber que no soy
tan como tú me dijiste.... no one is terrified of me
me gusta al menos mentirme que respetan tal cual soy.
Can you see yourself? you said
No, no puedo no tengo un espejo enfrente de mi....
mis espejos los dejé colgados en Canadá.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

El Reino de Tláloc es un Matriarcado

Simpre decía que no quería tener hijos
mi excusa justificaba el miedo al posible fracaso
mis multiples sueños no estaban para lugares fijos
y las familias 'disfuncionales' comprobaban my egoismo
Cuando escogí este camino que piso
por el que seguidamente me caigo, corro y maldigo
no te pregunté si estabas de acuerdo, no pregunte qué sentías
te enseñe un papel con cifras y presupuestos
lleno de sueños que mataban todos los sentimientos.
Como toda la vida me apoyaste sin jugar al antagonismo
y como es de costumbre yo lo justifique con mis 'logros',
con comparaciones innecesarias donde es en verdad todo narcisimo 
No tardé mucho para regresar derrotada, perdida y la cabeza baja.
No soy yo la hija pródiga, no soy yo la futura celebridad, no.
Sé que no hable por varios años, se que guarde todo
y aunque pretendo saber tu inquietud
no tengo la menor idea de tu preocupación
Yo viví en mi mundo de polly pockets, el barco de vapor, barbies
contradecido por la incomprención por parte de las amistades, 
la clase superficial y normativa, la escuela marista, el materialismo mexicano, 
todos casi siempre vencidos por la familia perfecta
De pronto decidí encerrarme en Camus, Fuentes, Allende y García Márquez
mis plumas, mis cuadernos,
 mis realidades paralelas en las historias de mi cabeza.
Si no hubiera sido por tu apoyo, que yo creí incompredido... 
esas altas y bajas me hubieran consumido, 
si no hubiera sido el deseo por tu ejemplo a sobrepasar...
nunca hubiera tenido el coraje para hacer lo que estoy haciendo.
No se si llamarlo adolescencia, pero viendolo hoy conscientemente años después,
yo soy feliz, no por lo material, no por un novio, 
no por un lugar en su 'so(u)ciedad'
porque tu me diste un arma que la gente nunca tiene, 
siempre podemos regresar a casa, sin ninguna pregunta, sin ningun juicio.
podemos regresar sabiendo que nos equivocamos,
para que nos abraces y comenzar de nuevo.
Yo por fín he sobrepasado lo que mi lenguaje político me permite llamarle
'casi una década de terrorismo psicológico' que hoy lo veo y doy gracias de haber salido
no lo pude hacer sin ti, sin tu apoyo,
sin tu progresismo, sin tu gran capacidad de entendimiento;
pudiste adoptar la actitud de las vecinas, 
de las mamas maristas,  de los padres de familia
gracias por no hacerlo, gracias por enseñarme eso,
 si soy algo feminista tu me enseñaste a serlo
Yo no quería tener hijos, 
me daba miedo que vivieran 
las 'tristezas y las injusticias'
de este mundo. 
Yo no quería que mis hijos vieran
como fui yo y soy parte del elítismo discriminanción y explotación
como dejé que el mundo siguiera contaminandose
cómo puedo ser tan hipocrita y tan inconsistente.
Y de pronto te ví a ti cuidando a Ella
a la arquitecta de todo este progreso, de toda esta emanticipación
y aún hoy me salen lagrimas de recordarlo, 
sin embargo no tengo palabras para describirlo.
Como tú, yo no pude tener un mejor ejemplo maternal
como tú al final del día solo hay una mujer en quién confiar
como tú yo tengo un alto estadard que superar.
para mi también tienes un lugar difícil de explicar.
Y quizá fue ahí, en ese momento, cuando me sequé las lagrimas
que entendí, quiero tener hijos, no por ser mamá,
sino para que en verdad tengan lo que tuve yo
para que me escuchen diciendo que te voy a 'cuidar'
sabiendo que eres tú la que siempre me a cuidado a mi.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

On est toutes la Malinche

Stop pretending, it fucking took you one comment.
Don't lie, deep inside you know it was a matter of stupid pride
like always, you say you don't care but sure you do
I recognize that predictable face,
that arrogant smile, there is no humility
no... it is you, it is me and my never-obsolete self-preservation laws

You are starting to feel something else don't you?
You felt it that night
No breakfast? No movie? No coffee?
Je te téléphone quand je finis
11 heures le soir... rien
you know you are walking around because you are mad.

That is why you are running
you are feeling, you can't concentrate, you need that edge
Same feeling every time, toujours la même histoire
Paris... tu es vraiment hypocrite!
Buenos Aires... siempre lo más fácil
Mexico... no, simplemente no.

Otra vez ese vacio en el estómago
El sol ya entra por la ventana del sótano,
tú sigues aquí Mariele, sentada en la misma mesa de la biblioteca
sin leer, sin concentrarte, sin hablar,
con solo ganas de tomar todos los libros...
¡todos!, tirarlos al piso correr entre ellos y
de pronto del piso tomar uno que diga
"Toma de Decisiones 101."
Una hora entera ha pasado sin que si quiera saques tu libro
piensas en él... como cada vez que escribes...
sientes un escalofrio... ¡Vete Mariele, empaca y como siempre vete!
Si sentiste de nuevo esa insatisfacción,
hace ya 7 (¡mierda 7!) años que encontraste la solución.

Time is passing and you cannot write 
You look across your room, see those green hills?
 those were the ones you were wearing,
when you gave him that good-bye kiss
now look to the floor, 
you didn't think those red bulls were here for so long
It was like that, lying on your naked mattress,
for who cares? is not like you need the red sheets 
Air France, Toronto-Paris, Confirm your flight
green hills, empty red bulls, no red sheets. 
Then you looked at that wall of yours,
pictures of your past, most of my real friends are not even there,
you look to the other one, maybe it was your obsession with art.
What the fuck Mariele just decide!
it doesn't matter if in January you said 'never again'
just take a decision and that's your closure.

Alo, c'est quoi la Malinche?
And you smile, you just smile full of happiness
La Maliché... C'est pas facile a comprendre
Alors tu veux prendre un verre et comme ca tu m'explique? 
Your Air France session has expired please log-in again
I'm sorry I have to finish writing my essay
yeah Mariele exactly the one you have not even started
  
Suspiras... como si más aire te fuera a ayudar,
an other hour has passed
quisieras ser el angel azul de la pintura de Chagall
'I'm going to start making decisions that you might not like'
he smiled, 'I think you've been doing that for quite a while'

¿Qué decidiste?, podemos irnos a Grecia por dos semanas
Alors tu pars en Argentine?
We should go to Dominican for a week
Tu sabes que quieres, quieres sentarte a ver caricaturas
todos los tomos de Charlie Hebdo,
leer a Marquez, leer Fuentes uno que otro cuento de Cortazar
quieres estar haciendo nada para pensar en todo
1am el espejo... I don't want to end like that
el boleto más barato, ahí vas...

Monday, April 13, 2009

Prochain Arrêt... Lycée Daudet

Believe it or not almost five years have passed
I never thought I would be so fucking fast
August 29, we were so young 
2004 I guess we were also strong.
I was not afraid back then, 
at least we did not have the "responsibilities" we have today,
you said let's go to France, I just said When?
I did not even care if I didn't speak French.
Bienvenue, moi Je suis Emmanuelle
Rumy ¿qué dice?
Vous mangez tout?
No, Eva n'aime pas les legumes!!
I think it's almost 10am
That means il faut prendre un café
ask if anyone is going chez le boulanger
Rumy me traes un palmier.
Our afternoons drinking café viennois
sitting in La place de la Comedie
looking at the people who walked by
fumándonos un "gar" tras otro "gar"
Thursday is almost here, 
¿ya sabemos a dónde vamos a ir?
Ryan air says...
Ce weekend... on'y va en Italie
I see the elevator chez Espace Langue
going up by the time we just opened the door
I still hear your voice saying we should wait, 
while I give you that "we-are-taking-the-stairs" face.
Te debo dos euros Rumy, tu pagaste en Monoprix
Shit! I just lost my debit!
No Rumy tu pagaste antes el croque monsieur,
Merde! That was my stupid train!
We hear the Andean music while we are waiting for the tram
Polygone plays the music from La Star Academie every time
We are going to the Australian tonight
On peut prendre L'Amigo à Port Marianne
I can still feel the excitement of braking the rules,
I can still hear Danielle saying fermez la goule!
I will never forget our cigarettes at the window's edge
ni las bolsas de plastico para protejer tus pies.
Now that we think we are all grown up
I look back and maybe it was that little town were we belonged
I think today I am as happy as I was back then,
I'm sure you know what type of happiness I'm trying to explain
You often said that it was a trip to the beach what changed me
I can tell you it was that fall without hesitating
That is why you have an intrinsic place in my heart
one that was perfectly constructed by my mind
You are the only one who has not questioned
the random decisions I have made
because you always believed I was doing it for a better end
your advice and support got me here
una servilleta de la desti me hace seguir.
We need to go back,
be roommates again,
pretend the years have not passed
share une tarte aux pommes
and each one have un café au lait
comme ca j'oublierais toutes mes défaites.
We will go back, we are still young
on est aussi plus forte
soon we will be sitting back in Antigone

 

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Please Identify Me as a Happy 'Emo.'

My currency is valued on coffee beans
my kallos is defined on the number of pages I read
your opinion about me is not worth a cocoa leaf
my soul is far away from the place it used to be.
My lips want to move my feet,
my breath wants you to kiss my legs
wearing those red hills.
The idea of buying a last-minute plane ticket
does not longer make me sick.
I said I was going to be part of the equation,
please put your art on the side
and understand my politics of self-preservation.
My happiness is not longer drowned in a glass of rum
I no longer wait in the valet-parking line for a tequila shot,
your jelousy and paranoia can not touch me anymore, 
my emptiness has been fulfilled like never before. 
Let me confess that I've found a different kind of love
one that is here every night and I don't even have to touch.
Please let us cut the bullshit, let us not keep on waiting,
leave me alone with my rhetoric so you can go back to your painting.
I've found a family that I can trust,
for the first time I don't feel alone
I'm not longer hunted by an incoherent normative judge,
I don't longer hide behind my books,
my friends could care less about my bizarre looks.
We share what they would call intenseness
but with them I'm not afraid of being myself
we are so passionate and they so careless
I feel so full of life that there is no space for emptiness
for they are so intelligent that I'm never bored,
excuse me, my intention has never been rhyming all along.
My doubts are forever gone,
I found in an address-less space
a place that I can call home.
I'm sorry if I'm hurting you
that was by no means my intention, 
but time has passed, and as opposed to many I had no 
plans to wake up and finding myself in the old routine,
friday after friday, night after night. 
I can't pretend that we are still in 2005 .
I was tired of that fake and shallow life.
The only reason I'm thankful of Frosh Week,
was the colonizer effect you had on me.
Por favor sigueme inspirando al escribir
tu apoyo hasta ahora es lo que me permitido seguir.
Je sais pas si c'est a cause de la caféine 
mais tu es vraiment devenu mon meillieure amie.
Ese cigarro cambió para siempre mi vida 
ahora esta llena de pastries, spanglish y es híbrida,
no me importa si nuestros planes nunca se realizan 
al menos por ahora son esos sueños los que me reaniman. 
This has been so hard, but now it is paying back
Don't take it personal; my love will always be there
it is just that at least for today I can say that I have found
what I was looking for when I left, a place far from you 
where I could actually be happy while being myself.


Sunday, March 22, 2009

Le petit café

I said that the next time I would choose my battles better.
they have been choosing me for quite long, 
'Underneath all these layers of cloths,
when you take away the heavy armor,
there is nothing...
just nothing that resists an insignificant walk in the cold.'
You told me that and I believed you 
for why would you lie? For why would you make me cry?
I was already crying that night I didn't want to say goodbye,
Je ne veux pas dire au revoir. 
y ya no querré despedirme nunca más. 
I took my passport and my suitcase and looked straight down to the floor, 
No me bajes la mirada Mariele, 
I'm confused whether or not I wanted to know,
¡Pídeme que te siga!, Don't you dare to ask me to stay!,
you will be frozen by the first step,
 and I'm the one who is ready to melt.
yo te prometí un palacio de arena, jamás un iglú para una princesa. 
Prochain train à Montpellier... that's my train... pas de tout ca c'était hier
You looked at me, knowing that I knew you were right
our time had passed, long ago our marvelous summer had indeed died.
it was then while we were sitting just en face de la gare
¿significa que me vas a dejar de escribir? Quizas.
Un café et un café au lait SVP, I think we should not talk,
we can try to do what everyone does, pretend we never met,
lets pretend there was no need for an end, Nos deberíamos casar,
I mean I'm definitely going to start seeing someone, 
Tu es vraiment une Néo-Canadienne quois? nos deberíamos casar,
I gave up so much already, there's no way I'm getting married!
I left once, I'm getting out of this encore une fois
It is not like I ran out of love, I guess I just needed something more,
¿qué va a pasar?, ¿qué vamos a hacer Mariele?
we, we, we, how about me, me, me? 
I don't speak in plural, you know I haven't ever since. 
Then there is no point, it is better for me just to go, 
I will walk back without you, like I did three years ago. 
The night is falling upon us,
 and we are still here struggling for invisible soft power, 
fighting an already-settled dispute, 
looking for a criminal using a law that we can not enforce,
Coffee, after coffee, laugh, tear, tear, laugh,
 l'amour, l'hostilité, un beso y  tres odios. 
Why are we still here? Can't any of us just leave? 
We can't undo what is already done, 
we can't go back to where we used to belong. 
¿quieres ir a un bar después de que pongas la maleta en el hotel?
Lets get room service and stay there, otra noche más para que me veas dormir,
bajo amenaza de ser la última, de tomar la maleta empacada e irme, llegar a la Promenade des Anlaglais y darme cuenta que no soy yo la que debe partir, subirnos al tram y llevarte casi de la mano a la gare. Un último café para no irme con nosotros mal, para no tener solo lo malo que recordar. Un último café para hablar, notre dernier recontre à le petit café en face de la gare.
Eh bon ca fait... 5 cafés et 6 cafés au lait 15 euro SVP.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Confessionary Dialogues with Xiuhtecuhtli

Shouldn't you start by explaining why are you opening this blog, Mariele? After all this time you are randomly opening something like this, unexpected, inexplicable, unimaginable. Is it that suddenly you want to prove yourself that you can still write - non-academic products I mean-; or is it that your ever-present, never-ending, and daily increasing nostalgia is finally finding an emergency exit, a telephone in the elevator, a hidden stairwell, a medium to scape and perhaps, only perhaps, it will never come back... ¿Explicar qué?, ¿con qué proposito y para quién?...  Cut the academic discourse, Mariele, this is not an other essay... Me pasé más de 18 años de mi vida explicando, tratando de hacerme entender, justificandome, buscando una falsa satisfacción a través de mi acreditación; y al pensar que lo tenía que hacer creí que estaba bien y era lo necesario por hacer... See?? You and your nostalgia, Mariele, your best friend for years and the indestructible enemy for many others. Explaining yourself, that's part of your nature, the one that they constructed in you, the one that is necessary to survive. You don't even know why you are doing it, do you? Does it kill you that you can't control it, that you can't "explain" it? How ironic, Mariele, how ironic... Ironía ¡ya va! si esto ni ha empezado, a esto llamarle ironía es llamarle obra maestra a un trabajo recién empezado. 
Ironicamente yo escribía lo non-academic en español, all those amazing feelings with aztec, rather mestizo, sounds and colors that marked my daily life in all those gringo notebooks from many shopping trips. Because there was no word in any language that could let me express what I was feeling  without taking away its non-sense. Y lo académico se escribe en Inglés porque cuál es el término político yo ya no lo sé. Ahora todos esos conceptos de políticas y teorías resuenan en Inglés todos esos que llenan la libretita que le compré al jipi de Coyoacan con el tatuaje de la serpiente en el lado derecho del cuello. The entire world debería hablar Spanglish (¿por qué no se llama espanglés?). "Pero si el español es tu lengua materna" "Yo me sigo impresionando de tu inglés" "At the end of the day we will always be ESL" Bienvenue à Montpellier.
I guess I just needed to start writing again, one friend inspired me, an other support me, tú me empujaste y se que ahí estas leyendome queriendome entender. You will be there, no doubt, decoding my broken imperfect espanglés may Quetzalcoátl help you because I barely understand myself, to be honest I really don't care my thoughts have always been a mess. Mi crisis económica me lleva a no más libretitas gringas ni mas cuadernitos jipis... Yes, Mariele, here you are further explaining yourself...