Thank you, Si lo rompe lo paga

I started shaking, I tried to breath; not even the most intensive Yoga class would have helped at that moment. My heart started beating so fast, once again I did not feel any air going into my lungs. You broke me, but you couldn't have done it without my help. Yo ya estaba quebrada y tu solo llegaste a romperme. By now I have no idea how many nights I have not slept, how many nightmares, how many tears... I am still in pain.

I was afraid to destroy you. I do like you so much. Because I was afraid I ended up destroying you. I know you love me. I destroyed myself and I am afraid I will regret not picking up your pieces from the mess I made. I don't understand either how did we end up in this point. I've realized it is all those nights I want to call you, the nights I spent here, just so you know one day when I know where I am standing I will let you know about my blog.

... I just need to talk to somebody; She would not look at me, she saw my pain, but she would avoid becoming a witness. There is no one you can talk to, maybe you can come back tomorrow, I can give you a card with an emergency number. It is OK if I wanted to kill myself I would have done it already, nunca lo haria: ironicamente me da miedo fallar porque no me gustan los hospitales. I sat down and started crying aqui frente a una extrania nuevamente siempre pense que no lo necesitaria, era sola yo y mi loquera con mis libretas, cualquier profesional de la salud me aterroriza. Abrame el cerebro, quiteme la parte que me molesta y regreseme a donde estaba antes, si el seguro lo cubre por favor reactive la capacidad de concentracion.

... I did leave, but you never came to find me, it is not my social construction from a stupid romantic comedy. I waited 4.5 years and you never came so now don't come up with your cheesy no-distances well-memorized discourses. Thank you, you did not break me you kept me sane, you kept me healthy with a non-sense (or non-rational since we both live in the West) hope, until you decided to become like everyone else. We had something special, but you and your iPod had to ruin it. If you care go and fucking fix it, I am moving on soon, if you were wondering -just as a friendly reminder- I never promised what you are now requesting.

... I can see that you are very attached with your family, Maria, and it is important, it is hard(er?) when you are away...

... You would have loved my graduation pictures you would have been so happy to see them, to see the website you would have loved everything about it even if you didn't speak a word of English. I will never get over it, I refuse to... I don't want to let you go... not yet.

Freedom of expression, fear to fail, academic integrity, personal values... do you seriously think that is my priority now? you did not break me you did not; I did, and while I decide whether I want to remain broken or start picking up my pieces please shut up, it would be good if you and you apply the only teaching I like from your colonizing background... el que este libre de pecado que aviente la primera piedra. Thank you, you don't owe me anything, and I didn't break it thus I don't pay.

Old empires

Our gods fight against each other while we pretend we are in love mine usually win, in the game of paranormal warfare death remains unbeatable. We are the same souls, descendants of great empires, conquered without a choice, adopting a foreign religion that eventually became a domestic curse. Both at the end immigrants to a country where we constantly feel we will never belong.

While you pretend I am yours (yes, I still have a problem with private property), I continue on playing my will-never-commit-will-always-run-away game,  

where are your gods? mine by now just go and get drunk out of the blood of

the less-fitted survivors of global capitalism and neoliberal North America.

We are so similar and yet you seem like you don't want to see it, 

you want your pain to be unique, incomparable, exclusive, 

remarkable, rare, indivisible et héroïque.

Your gods should have thought you that everyone's pain is. Sorry to kill your dream, mine didn't tell me, I just read it in an article on a pagan magazine. 

Can each one go back to our smuggled heroine?

Technicolor walls become obstacles between us

they were built while we slept, in silence, secretly, obscurely.

Your schizophrenia will make you think I betrayed you by building them

my paranoia will make me believe that someone is trying to break us.

They were built by our own gods, and our fellow followers, 

I used to love you with an immeasurable passion I devoted all my time to you. I guess this is the infidel's and the heretic's pain, now I hate you.

Why did you have to take over my nightmares too?

Subtitles and (emo) Latin Pop

Where do I start translating? Maybe I should give you some background information before I start writing subtitles and you misinterpret them... Oh I'm sorry I didn't know you are just used to songs in English, so you don't want subtitles then? ok so it will be like a transliteration.... yeah I will save my background info, and the history and my social constructions if you don't want me to. 

Quizá no fue coincidencia encontrarme contigo, tal vez esto lo hizo el destino.... ''Maybe it wasn't a coincidence running into you, maybe it was destiny...''

If it wasn't a coincidence why you've been like following me for several days like, are you a psycho or something? 

Quiero dormirme de nuevo en tu pecho... ''I want to sleep again on your chest...''

Ok listen it was a one night thing I mean like it didn't mean anything it was just sex...or do you have some sort of like obsession with me?

Sabes que estoy colgando en tus manos, así que no me dejes caer... ''You know you hold my heart in your hands, so don't let me fall...''

No, seriously you are taking this to intense I mean I haven't even told you that I love you or anything like we are two individuals doing our own thing like, and we like to have fun together...

 

Te envio poemas de mi puño y letra... ''I am sending you poems..' /ENOUGH!!! Poems? Are you fucking kidding me??!!! what are you like a poet now?? what the hell just buy me dinner... why would you write these things like I barely have time to have sex like; you do get that I have to wake up at 6 am every day to go to work and I want to rest on the weekends. You seriously need help from like a specialist.

Y así me recuerdes y me tengas presente; cuidado, cuidado, que mi corazon esta colgando en tus manos... ''So that way you will remember me and keep in mind that you are holding my heart in your hands... be careful...' WHAT!!!??? are you threatening me?!! I am so calling the police like seriously you have an issue it is not my fault that you have issues you know...

No perderé la esperanza de hablar contigo....

We do have to talk... you see I think its not working... I mean like we had our fun.. buuut you started acting like, all weird and psycho like you are really obsessive and I can't date someone like that... you know what I mean right?...

Hoy amanecí con ganas de enviarte algo que te guste y pueda regalarte, te hice esta canción que es para recordarme, esta es una excusa para declararme hoy quiero decirte voy a adelantarme que mi corazon yo quiero regalarte. Y los 14 de febrero regalarte mil flores...

Why do you keep on doing that? like... you know I don't speak Mexican!!!!

Sorry I am being (E)stupid... 

You like it when I shake it?

Shawty on a mission, what your name is?

What, you want me naked?

If you like this position, you can tape it on your video phone....

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. 

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.

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.

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.