“Ahora que está tan lejos el olvido, ahora que me perfumo cada día, ahora que, sin saber, hemos sabido querernos como es debido, sin querernos todavía”
- Joaquín Sabina -
miércoles, 20 de marzo de 2013
Queda dicho
De los libros no se aprende, de las historias que contienen,
de lo que se lee entre líneas, de sus palabras mudas… No se aprende sobre
verdades a medias sobre ideas que alguien tuvo, pero hay ciertas cosas que
nunca se aprenden sin saber por qué. Hay ciertas cosas que en los libros no
vienen, de pronto aparecen, pero hay que saber. De los libros no se aprende, de
páginas en blanco y negro, de tinta sobre papel, de palabras bien ordenadas…
Pensé en escribir un libro de mi versión sobre las cosas que vi escritas en un
libro que otro ciego escribió. Porque no hace falta ser un sabio para escribir
un libro.
lunes, 18 de marzo de 2013
No te salves
No te quedes inmóvil al borde del camino
no congeles el júbilo
no quieras con desgana
no te salves ahora
ni nunca.
No te salves
no te llenes de calma
no reserves del mundo
sólo un rincón tranquilo
no dejes caer lo párpados
pesados como juicios
no te quedes sin labios
no te duermas sin sueño
no te pienses sin sangre
no te juzgues sin tiempo.
Pero si
pese a todo
no puedes evitarlo
y congelas el jubilo
y quieres con desgana
y te salvas ahora
y te llenas de calma
y reservas del mundo
sólo un rincón tranquilo
y dejas caer los párpados
pesados como juicios
y te secas sin labios
y te duermes sin sueño
y te piensas sin sangre
y te juzgas sin tiempo
y te quedas inmóvil
al borde del camino
y te salvas
entonces
no te quedes conmigo.
- Mario Benedetti
lunes, 11 de marzo de 2013
Mi causa encontrada
Dicen que las causas perdidas no existen, que en realidad
tan solo necesitan que alguien las encuentre y las cause. Como él hizo conmigo. De no haberme encontrado seguiría estando perdida, y de no haberle encontrado, más de lo mismo.
Es sincero, aunque a veces le cuesta decir lo que de verdad en un momento le pasa por la cabeza. También es algo bipolar, pero como todo el mundo, es lo normal. Tiene
mala leche, y a veces actúa sin pensar, pero nunca hace las cosas con maldad.
Siempre quiere hacer lo correcto, que las cosas le salgan bien, y eso en
ocasiones le lleva a unas rayadas incomprensibles para el resto. Él a veces se considera incapaz de conseguir ciertas cosas, por eso de vez en cuando no pone todo de su parte, pero lo que no sabe es que puede
conseguir todo lo que quiera, todo lo que se proponga, empezando por creer en
ello.
Da los abrazos como a mí me gustan, dándome todo su cariño
en ellos. Me encantan, porque es lo único que me tranquiliza. Es tan bueno
conmigo que puede aguantar abrazos infinitamente largos solo para hacerme
sentir mejor, porque sabe que es lo que más me gusta del mundo. Y es que me ahogan de emoción hasta las cosas más pequeñas que hace por mí, así soy. Esas
cosas que no se dicen, que se hacen porque al hacerlas se dicen solas. Y es que
cuando le importas a alguien se nota, así de sencillo.
En el amor al principio es vergonzoso, pero no se arrepiente
de ello. Y puede que un día le notes mal, pero ya te hará saber lo que le pasa,
como siempre hace.
Está loco, pero tiene ese tipo de locura que se requiere
para ser feliz, la locura perfecta.
No dudes en que con él te vas a reír, pero reír hasta que te
duela la barriga, tengas que doblar el cuerpo por la mitad y al día siguiente tengas agujetas. Y las cosquillas.
Si pasa un día sin hacerte unas cosquillas es que algo va mal, porque es otra
de sus especialidades. No para, de verdad que no, y se me escapa una sonrisa
solo de imaginarme a mí misma intentando inútilmente escaparme de sus dedos de
guitarrista. Cómo hace cosquillas hasta que te retuerces
como una lagartija intentado escapar de esas cosquillas, hasta que se te queda
marcada la mueca de la boca al sonreír de tanto hacerlo, no para hasta que no hayas movido cada
uno de los músculos del cuerpo, intentando escapar sin ninguna posibilidad;
hasta que se te salten lágrimas de los ojos, hasta que no puedas parar de reír y se te hayan disparado todas y cada una de las hormonas de la felicidad en tu cuerpo... porque hacer tonterías es una
de sus debilidades. Porque la vida es así, en los momentos de llorar, hay que llorarlo
todo y en los momentos de reír hay que morir de risa. Dicen que nunca se sabe
en qué risa uno se quedará atrapado. Señores, yo ya estoy atrapada en la suya,
aunque no me deje ser a mí la guitarrista, ya encontraré mi oportunidad.
Sabe perfectamente cuando una persona está bien o mal. A
veces puede parecer que todo le da igual, que nada le importa, pero no es así.
Se preocupa de la gente que quiere y se asusta al pensar en la posibilidad de
perderles, como yo. Siempre busca la felicidad, y a veces, como todos, ve la
vida como una mierda, cuando piensa que está todo perdido y no hay nada que hacer. Pero aquí estoy yo,
para recordarle que
son las elecciones que cada uno toma las que determinan la vida de una forma u otra.
Que para algunos la vida se arregla pronto, a corto plazo, pero otros tienen
firmado el contrato a largo plazo. Y por eso, éstos no pueden darse
nunca por vencidos, sino el contrato se iría a la mierda. Todo tiene un porqué
en esta vida, y quizá algún día encontrará la respuesta.
Sabe darme buenos consejos, de cualquier tema. Es ese don
que tan poca gente tiene, de saber siempre lo correcto que decir en todo
momento. Me gusta que esté a mi lado, de verdad.
Tú, recuerda, estaré aquí hasta cuando no tengas ganas de
sonreír.
Seré enana, pero al querer, te quiero a lo grande.
¿Solo el 70%?
Pasamos el 70% del tiempo repitiendo recuerdos y creando escenarios de momentos perfectos...
De todo lo que tengo
que hacer, nada es más interesante que esconderme debajo de las sábanas e
imaginar(nos en) Manhattan recubierta de nieve. Y pasear por Central Park
mientras suena de fondo Frank Sinatra. Y me saques a bailar. Volvernos locos al
llegar a Times Square. Que me grites que me quieres, que la gente mire, que yo
me ponga roja, tú te rías y me abraces, como haces siempre. Subir al Empire
State, hacernos una foto como si fuéramos dos turistas cualesquiera y que me
digas: te la regalo, te regalo Nueva York. Y ya está. Ya no puedo dejar de
soñar. Ya queda plasmado lo mucho que necesito el romanticismo. Ay. Que no, que
yo siempre he sido así. Pero los hombres ya no sabéis hacer eso, lo habéis
olvidado o perdido y todo es más gris.
You want to know what happiness is?
martes, 5 de marzo de 2013
Date a girl who writes
Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music. Interesting factoids about Catherine the Great, and the immortality of jellyfish. Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’ll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop that she’s saved for ever since she was twelve.
Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.
She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.
If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel.
It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.
Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.
A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.
If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.
She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.
She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright.
You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.
You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.
Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.
Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times and she’s lovely. She’s got the most colorful life. She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes reads.
A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality.
Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining. Tell her your definition of love.
Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.
She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.
Use a pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look to busy.
If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel.
It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.
She’ll give you a chance.
Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.
A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.
Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.
If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.
She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.
She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright.
You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.
You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.
Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.
Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.
A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality.
Date a girl who writes.
Because there is nothing better than a girl who writes.
lunes, 4 de marzo de 2013
And in that moment I swear we were infinite...
Cuando solamente era en mí en quien invertías tu cariño y tus detalles. Quizá todo aquello esté ya muy lejos, tú no te des cuenta, y yo lo eche demasiado de menos.
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