Tuesday, October 27, 2009

(a year)

Temporality baffles me.

Pain is pain is pain is pain is pain is painful. A year, and I miss him, a year and he is gone, one year and he is.
He was.
A year ago I said goodbye.
A year ago my clothes were torn to depict on the outside what was happening inside. A year ago I said goodbye. He left eight years ago.

It seems, if it’s possible, that I have a name Karma. Why would I have around me so many people I love who carry his name? the name I repeat myself to sleep soundlessly, the name that is marked forever by his absence.

One year and I am healed, or rather, it seems as if the pained, torn soul has healed, it has knitted itself a scarf in which it hides and looks out, fearlessly, with open pupils, seeking for a face in the crowd. The face I will never see again (but in the reflection of a smile reflecting on a tear). A year ago was goodbye. Now, today, a year later, temporality instead of separating reality from fantasy, from a fiction that should have never happened, gives it a sense of unequivocal certainty.

A goodbye is a goodbye. And it is also a suspended moment in time where the hands still touch, where a hug will forever exist.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

((( A conversation between Kelly A.K. and myself ))) (By LIily Robert-Foley)

Mexico City February 2009

Kelly and I lay on the floor surrounded by books.

“What question should we ask next?” Kelly asked, aware of the absurdity of her question, as though asking a question can only ever be preceded and followed by an infinite loop of questions about the question itself: “What is the question?” “What was the question?” “What is the answer to the question?” “What does the question mean?”

We had been asking questions about God, and existence, the nature of nature, the mind-body connection, problems of philosophical methodology, reflection, and language. But our limbs had fallen slowly to the ground like petals. I had not found the post office. We were becoming younger.

“Should I go back to the Marxist?”


“No, I’m not asking you, I’m answering your question.”

She opened a book.

“Shall we ask Freud? Or perhaps Pessoa?”

“Pessoa,” I answered.

She leafed through the book

“To think about God is to disobey God,/Since God wanted us not to know him,/Which is why he didn’t reveal himself to us.”

“What does that mean?” Kelly and myself elegantly and imperceptibly becoming of one mind, a woman talking or thinking to herself.

“It means you are conflicted. That you are caught between two impossible halves of a division—like a Chinese finger trap. You cannot know God without betraying God, but you cannot know not to know God without first knowing him. Therefore you are in constant betrayal. There is no option that does not lead to betrayal.”

“Did I not know that already?”

“You can’t ask Pessoa these things. You want answers, you must go to someone who gives answers.”

“Who, like God?”

Kelly made a chiasmic facial gesture, raising her eyebrows and lowering, cocking her chin, her face splitting, breaking open, apart, like the earth, over time. An expression that indicates both possibility and direction.

She reached over to my copy of the English bible laid out next to the Spanish one on the coffee table amidst my drafts of translation.

“Dear God, please give this poor young woman the strength to make a choice in this most infuriating dilemma. Please guide her by giving her quick and easy answers so that she will not have to take responsibility for her own decisions.”

I grabbed the Spanish version off the table and threw it at her mouth, where her words had come out. She raised the English version just in time to block her face and the Spanish one collided with it mid-air, and fell to the floor, open faced, it’s onion skin pages curling and bending. Kelly laughing, the books scattered around us like the rests of a Bacchanal.

“Old Testament or New Testament?”

“Who cares, god is God, right?” Jubilation.

“And Joshua gave their land to the tribes of Israel as a possession according to their allotments.”

“What is that supposed to mean.?”

“No idea. Joshua sounds like a dick, though. Try the Spanish version.”

“El cadaver de Jezabel sera como un abono que se esparce y ni siquiera se podra decir: “Esta es Jezebal.”

“You opened to the part about Jezebel? Unbelievable.”

“Let’s see…” I rifled through my papers. “The cadaver of Jezebel will be like a dispersed interest payment and not even the most insignificant shit will be able to say, ‘this credit card statement is Jezebal’”

“Your Spanish is really crap, you know. How are you going to translate the bible if you don’t even speak Spanish?”

“Shut up, I’m working on it. Besides, it’s the language of God I’m translating, and God speaks directly to me.”

“You’re fucked up, you know?”

“What’s it to you? What does the New Standard Revised have?”

“Oh here it is, The English version says, ‘the corpse of Jezebel shall be like dung on the field in the territory of Jezreel, so that no one can say, This is Jezebel.”

“What are yout talking about? It’s practically the same as my translation.”

“Joshua and Jezebal sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!”

“Oh shut up. I’m asking Bolano.”


“Bolano! Our saviour!”

“Oh shit, I opened to Cesaria Tinajera’s poem.”

“You know, sometimes I think 2666 is actually based on the bible. Like the Satanic Verses is based on the Koran. The Satanic Verses of Mexico.”

“There is no doubt that Mexico needs its copy of the Satanic Verses. There is also no doubt that we must do more to expose the tyranny of biblical dissemination in Mexico. That it was the most heinous of the weapons of the Conquest, and remains to this day the principal instrument of oppression, never ceases to astound me.”

“Perhaps Bolano was trying to do that.”

“Perhaps… but Bolano has his own dialectic—or his own dialogue, I suppose. Don’t you think? He would never construct such a simple allegory without destabilizing its structures of correspondance…”

“To think about God is to disobey God.”

“Don’t think about God!”

“Ah! I’m thining about him, I’m thinking about him!”

“Sinner! Sinner!”

And at that I lunged across the room and began to wrestle with Kelly the two of us sisters, locked in a linguistic battle over the truth of God. Our arms moving through each other’s, around each other’s bodys, our hands holding onto each other’s hair, our mouths in flight, two angels, the wandering interpretation of texts.

“Oh what’s this? This book of fairy tales opened all by itself! Let’s see what it says”

They unraveled and laid flat on their bellies on the cold tile floor.

“Close your eyes and point.”

“ ‘Go West in a week,’”

“Now that’s some advice I can follow.”

- transcribed (loosely based on reality) and posted by Lily.

(originally published in: http://greenlanternpress.wordpress.com/2009/10/25/a-conversation-between-kelly-a-k-and-myself/#comment-1880 )

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

) recuerdos del futuro (

entre 'nothing compares to you' y este video

existe un ligero desface de temporalidad objetiva, de enfoque y perspectiva...
¿en qué espacio / tiempo floto?

lo cierto es que los vacios que alguien deja en tu vida nadie más los puede rellenar. Como si el corazón fuera un queso gruyere, le da más personalidad, y más espacios por los que los ecos de la nostalgia se pueden pasear.
Demos un paseo, pues.

(D. te extraño mucho)

Monday, October 19, 2009

(borboleta anfibia)

... y algunos me llaman borboleta, o rana con alas de borboleta... con ojos color viagra...

Sunday, October 18, 2009

(confusión sinestéstica)

voz acaricia, voz quemadura
voz que madura, como dijo aquél...
bosque madura, que me inmadura que me penetra, que me deshace, que me hace, que me complace.

como un liston de seda, otro de satín; salen disparados de gargantas y cajas torácicas, despliegan, serpentean, acarician.
me acarician.
se acarician.

un planeta que no es el mio, me es permitido habitar, unos instantes. instantes más.

escucho que me tocan.
me tocan cuando escucho.

Monday, October 12, 2009


en las palabras que salían de su boca siempre faltaba una letra y nunca sabía cuál era. Cuando caminaba era como si careciera un paso, tal vez uno de los movimientos de los pies nunca lo había aprendido, tal vez no creyó que todos fueran necesarios, como el abecedario tampoco lo era.
Un trago de mezcal con un gajo de naranja se escurre por su mejilla, llega hasta su ombligo y se escabulle entre las miradas de los presentes. Lo ignora, como si fuera cotidiano, como si siempre una de las gotas de lo que tomaba se escondiera de miradas ajenas.
Deshace la conversación con sus tenedor y su cuchillo; es tan aburrido hablar siempre de lo mismo.

Mirarla como si en el devenir de su vida anduviera con bastón, como si la anatomía de su alma estuviera carente.
Ignorancia ajena de lo completo que alguien puede ser sin los dictámenes ajenos.
La metáfora de un albatros que no sabía volar de hace años la volvía a visitar. Flotar a veces también es volar, parpadear a veces también produce sueños.
Si camina de otra manera no es que no sepa cómo, simplemente encontró otra manera de hacerlo.
Se acomodó su propia vida.

Sunday, October 11, 2009


un parpar-deo lleno de nostálgicas metáforas de un sueño que se me olvidó tener...

Monday, October 5, 2009


despertó como se suele despertar tras una siesta a media tarde, sin saber dónde estaba ni cuánto tiempo había dormido. El reloj indicaba cuarenta y tres minutos desde la última vez que lo consultó. Yacía boca abajo, los labios ligeramente hinchados tras haberse recargado sobre ellos, las hendiduras de sus dientes se sentían en su parte interna. Yacía boca abajo con las piernas ligeramente abiertas, húmedo su contorno como si hubiera hecho el amor antes de dormir, como si durante su sueño el semen de quien no la había penetrado se estuviera resbalando por sus muslos hasta llegar a la cama y volverse una mancha húmeda que tocaría únicamente al despertar y desperezarse.

Yacía boca abajo, desnuda, en medio de la cama, el sol de la tarde penetraba reflejado por la ventana del vecino que la veía sin que ella se diera cuenta. Ella miraba las figuras que las cortinas casi transparentes hacían con el aliento del viento que se atrevía a entrar por un pequeño agujero que el vidrio había permitido hacerse una noche que supo a destrozos y furias contenidas.
Yacía boca abajo, sus pies se acariciaban, despertando, en la sábana negra. Su ombligo sabía a sudor.

La mano derecha en su vientre, desperezando la piel que se sentía contenida. Una mano dormida que no era suya, que sentía ajena, acariciaba su hombro.
Se movía. Un poco. Un movimiento tenue, diáfano de su cuerpo. Sentía su desnudez en la diferencia de temperatura entre la huella que la siesta había demarcado en la cama y los disturbios que el despertar adquirían. La conmoción de su respiración.
Despertó a media tarde, cuando las sombras se alargan para tocar cuerpos que no saben si quedaron dormidos o soñaron que gozaron.
Fractal erótico. La caricia de la yema de su dedo anular izquierdo en metamorfosis es unos dedos que hacen círculos sobre su hombro, dibujando un hálito fulgurante en su vientre, debajo de la sombra de su pezón derecho. Atrás de las rodillas comienza un estertor amoroso. Los cabellos de sus muslos se levantan, atentos, erectos, expectantes. Fractal de mimos entre sueños. Que sueña.

Su parpadeo provoca una sonrisa. Roce de su piel contra la piel de las sábanas. Humedad.
Ensoñación de un orgasmo sin memoria de procedencia. Deseo confinado a la huella en su almohada. Despertó.

Entró a buscarla, encontró la huella de su siesta en la humedad sobre las sábanas.

Dulces sueños que sueñan dulces.

(( ))

( un paréntesis es un momento para respirar ) ( un paréntesis es un silencio para soñar ) ( un paréntesis es un espacio para estar )