Egipto

Nunca habia tenido tanto miedo en mi vida.

Dicen por ahi los neurobiologos que mas o menos a los veintitres anios de edad uno desarrolla la region del cerebro que le permite asimilar las consecuencias de sus actos y por ende empieza a concebir la nocion de su propia mortalidad.

No hay cosa mas espantosa que correr de la masa enfurecida y alimentada por un incentivo incierto.
En arte estudiamos mucho el comportamiento de la masa, esa perdida de individualismo convertido en vomitada acida de personas sin identidad propia acarreadas por un impetu extraordinariamente terrorifico... es la receta para lo impredecible.

Una cosa es lo que te pasan en CNN, otra es lo que te pasa frente a tus ojos.

Nuestra primera experiencia con el gas lacrimogeno fue algo que nunca imaginamos.
Yo, por reaccion inmediata ante el subito rompimiento del suenio profundo, me asome por la ventana para vislumbrar el tumulto inexplicable que se estaba conformando en la calle de enfrente a la una de la maniana y lo que vi fue lo siguiente: gente acumulada en dos bandos (uno frente a otro) armados de palabras violentas en la boca y piedras en las manos.

Lo pongo asi; lo primero que sientes es un filtro de tipo Hollywood cercandote la vision; solo te falta Matt Damon saliendo de la calle contraria en un tanque de guerra estadounidense para darte cuenta que lo que estas presenciando es en verdad una escena de una pelicula gringa. Pero lo que distingue esto de aquello es que no tienes una pantalla entre medio de lo que estas viendo; en verdad lo estas viviendo.

Regina se desperto. Juntas apreciamos la escena desde nuestra habitacion, encima de uno de los bancos mas conocidos de Egipto, en el condado de Aswan a bastantes horas de camion de la capital. Habian varias fogatas de objetos irreconocibles en el pavimento... y la gente seguia gritandose de un lado a otro de la calle, como si fuera un partido de tenis infernal.

Y luego humo, mucho humo.

Entro una mano de humo espeso al cuarto y nos atraveso por completo. Al principio crei que era humo de cuetes festivos (es la primera y muy ingenua impresion comparativa) pero despues de comenzar a experimentar la horrenda sensacion de alguien lijandome la garganta por dentro entendi, de inmediato, que se trataba de una sustancia agresiva al cuerpo humano. Comenzamos a llorar... pareciamos figuras de anime y al mirarnos al espejo (mientras nos enjuagabamos los orificios faciales) teniamos el rostro rojo; irritado por un combate completamente ajeno a nuestra conciencia.


Afortunadamente eso fue todo, por aquella noche.

Al dia siguiente despertamos ligeramente desorientadas y con una sed barbara para bajar y cuestionar a los intendentes del hostal. Resulto que el enfrentamiento de aquella noche habia sido un resentimiento (que debe tener alguna que otra conexion con el malestar general que se ha desencadenado desde el derrocamiento de Mubarak hasta la enfatica cercania hacia el periodo de elecciones) mostrado por parte de la comunidad Nubia (los capitanes de las embarcaciones egipcias turisticas denominadas coloquialmente "feluccas") en cuanto a la muerte de uno de sus camaradas por parte de un policia borracho (las versiones cambian de boca a boca) que queria forzar un pago de impuestos inventados por el; el capitan se nego y lo agredio con un cuchillo y como respuesta el policia le disparo... una semana despues (es decir, aquella noche) el capitan murio en el hospital y consecuentemente se desato una desconformidad que llego a inflarse hasta evaporarse (literalmente) en una nube de gas lacrimogeno, el mismo que respiramos Regina y yo en nuestro cuarto, a pocas horas de haber llegado al lugar mismo.

Y eso fue solo el principio.

Cairo

Creía que siendo mexicana tendría una buena idea de cómo manejarme en más o menos cualquier lugar en el mundo. Estaba equivocada.

Cairo de noche es más que retador; llegamos antes de lo planeado, puesto que adelantaron el vuelo desde Amsterdam (nos dimos cuenta de pura caca), por lo que tuvimos mucho tiempo de colchón antes de nuestro siguiente vuelo. Optamos, consecuentemente, por caerle a la amiga francesa de Reggie en Giza para vaciar las maletas antes de mochilearnos el camino a Abu Simbel (de los puntos más al sur de Egipto, casi en la frontera con Sudán). Conseguimos sobrevivir a los señores acosadores de las áreas públicas; "taxi, madam?", "where you from?", "where you go?" que te siguen hasta el baño y le jalan por tí, y nos trepamos al shuttle para llegar a la terminal tres.

Lo aparatoso (pero al final genial) fue poder conseguir wifi para obtener el número de Chloe y hablarle desde el celular de alguien random (un ñor barbudo buena onda). Fue un "challenge completed" del cual estoy orgullosa; le hablamos y ¡listo! conseguimos su dirección.
Ahí empezó lo bueno, ya que saliendo fuimos acosadas por cientos de taxistas intensos y en piyama (descripción favorita de Reg) con chon en la cabeza gritándonos con el inglés más rudimentario que he escuchado (ya ni en Tailandia).
Finalmente escapamos de un taxi medio dodgy, siguiendo nuestro instinto, y nos metimos a uno pseudo legit, negociando el precio con la puerta entre abierta. Fiuff!
Lo gracioso de los taxistas egipcios es que nunca nadie sabe como llegar a ningún lado (me encantan las doble negaciones que me acabo de echar), entonces tuvimos que pasarle al dude por celular a Chloe para que llegáramos "con bien" a su respectiva residencia. Se bajaron unos amigos de ella para negociar el precio del viaje (echamos montón) y finalmente nos dejó ir sin violarnos como los taxistas mexicanos que te cobran trescientos mil pesos si sales de una zona de concierto... :s

El elevador parecía que se iba a caer y con él el edificio, pero logramos subir y saludar al resto para luego desempacar como queríamos. Fin.
Después de una cervecita intentamos dormir un rato para luego embarcarnos en el regreso al agrio puerco. Egipto nos había bienvenido con no tan mala cara; sus callecitas empolvadas nos dirigieron hacia la avenida principal y paramos mil taxis (a las cinco de la mañana...) y finalmente uno nos ofreció buen precio para el viaje.

"Ingresamos" maletas y pasamos a la sala de espera. Ya en el avión nos dimos cuenta que la descripción en el Lonely Planet de la aerolínea no era tan alejada de la realidad (le dicen "Egypt SCARE" en vez de Egypt Air"). Nos dieron squat para comer y mis tripas me suplicaban por algo de alimento: ergo muncheamos una barrita de amaranto (súper mexicanas) y bajando tragamos un Ensure cada una para no perder más tiempo.

De ahí agarramos el camioncito de turistas para el sitio arqueológico y diez minutos después LLEGAMOS!!

Abu Simbel está M-A-M-O-N-S-Í-S-I-M-O... Pagas, rodeas el cerrito con vista hacia el Nilo y PFFFffff, sientes que alguien te mete un madrazo visual cuando tus ojos topan lo impactante e impositivo de las mega esculturas de Ramses II y su familia... Te deja idiota.
El templo por dentro tiene muchas cámaras, todas están decoradas a morir con jeroglíficos de todo tipo, ¡retacadas!
Nos quedamos una eternidad contemplando la grandeza del potencial de construcción humano antiguo. El templo de Nefertari, a un lado del de su esposo es también una maravilla. No tengo palabras para describir dicha experiencia blu bla bel bi rar. Así.

Acabando los guías nos regañaron por tardar tanto y terminamos tomando un taxi para alcanzar el camión rural que salía de YA para Aswan (ciudad a tres horas donde nos quedaríamos a hostalear esa primera noche).
Entramos en friega loca y apañamos dos lugares, entre la multitud de árabes locales que se nos quedaban viendo por tomar el transporte no-burgués como el resto de los turistas Europeos y gringos nasties.

Hubo, literal, un sister friend que se nos quedó viendo TODO el camino (creo que se enamoró perdidamente de Regina) pero dormimos un rato y llegamos a buena hora a Aswan. Ahí caminamos por el malecón egipcio siguiendo el camino trazado por del Nilo (siendo a la vez acosadas ahora por los capitanes de las "feluccas" o barcas tradicionales egipcias) hasta que al fin dimos con nuestro hostal, ubicado arriba del banco nacional y con una vista de primeeeera.

Hicimos el chicken-check-in con el staff (amables y enpiyamados) y subimos para aventar las maletas aligeradas y DORMIR al fin...

NOT porque a media noche fuimos despertadas por el tumulto callejero sin control. Me asomé por la ventana y vislumbré una congregación de civiles justo enfrente de nuestro hostal, estaban gritándole a unos policías del otro lado, quienes a su vez echaban cuetes de algún tipo porque había humo y pequeñas fogatitas en la calle... NOT porque no eran cuetes sino GAS LACRIMÓGENO que entró por la chafaba y nos comenzó a picar la garganta y a hacernos llorar en catarata como monitas de animé.
Por suerte eso acabó pronto y pudimos lavarnos y volver a dormir. En la mañana nos explicarían qué había pasado.


Continuará

Introduccion al viaje

Pensando en lo bonito que es lo sucio...

En esta ocasion relatare los hechos de manera distinta a la de siempre; mantendre el humor, claro, pero procurare sintetizar los debrayes etereos que me suelen caracterizar como una intensa de la escritura descriptiva, por razones de practicidad y por el bien de los nuevos lectores. Todo esto SIN ACENTOS NI ENIES. Las correcciones obsesivas se haran luego, cuando el tiempo no se me escurra por las orejas.

Llevamos escasos 4 dias en este desenfrenado pais y ya siento que he perdido el hilo de la logica con la cual se maneja el mundo a traves de los sistemas funcionales de organizacion humana colectiva (Ay Gooeeeeyy). Siento que el rizoma me come de lleno cual falafel de puestito de calle, sin agua pa' tragarme suavecito.

He de creer que, si sobrevivo a esta explosion de n'importe quoi de forma de vida, podre volverme una viejita experta en las sociedades pseudo caotico-funcionales del primer, tercer y septimo mundo. Me consagrare como consejera oficial dentro de unas decadas y unas arrugas gratis. Wait for it.

Ah, por cierto, Egipto es una patada en los ovarios. De esas que te hacen abrir los ojos para adentro y apreciar que hay mas que negro alla atras, al fondo del costal donde tienes arrumbadas los retazos rechazados de todo aquello con lo que no te gusta lidiar de frente, como cuando no cierras los ojos ante la enfermera que te traspasa la piel del brazo con una jeringa enorme. Es increible y no quisiera nada mas en este momento que vivirme hoy, ahorita, en este lugar.

Me parece hilarante (amo esa palabra porque siento que se deshace en tu boca como en hilitos de queso Oaxaca) como en el camino al aeropuerto iba platicando con mi buen amigo Diego, el emisario de las hispanias, sobre lo increiblemente enredadizo que es vivir en el DF (me encanto su concepcion de dicha ciudad como diseniada para MATAR a sus ciudadanos). Yo, como residente suburbana del reino de Juriquilla, no puedo mas que opinar lo mismo pero al reves, puesto que es mi ciudad. Pero es una posicion dificil la de vivirtelas de turista (cinco anios ya...) en el lugar a donde perteneces segun tu nacimiento y papeles; ahora viajo para ser residente y local de un pais en donde nunca antes habia estado, por unos momentos cuando menos.

Perpetua de a ratitos.

Aca les va el recuento de aquello que les ha acontecido a dos mexicanas indefensas e inadvertidas, con tan solo su humor incontrolable como escudo contra las infinitas y evolventes peripecias que presenta el explorar el continente africano... Godspeed, my fine lasses!

Fin del preludio mudo e incoloro :)

Cromos: de fobia a filia. Capítulo I

ROJO
Entré al vagón con el corazón colgándome por el lado equivocado. No podía creer que había conseguido el último boleto para el tren nocturno que me llevaría de la costa a la capital; después de haberle rogado al lánguido individuo detrás del mostrador con un español jadeante entintado debajo de una retórica tropezada y patética logré que presionara el botón de "print" (un tanto renuente y malhumorado) y ahora leía la tira de papel coloreado que me había permitido el acceso a mi supuesta salvación: el final que debía tener mi tan caótico viaje por el viejo continente.
Esto significaba que todavía existía una sutil e intermitente posibilidad de que llegara a tiempo para el despegue y consecuente regreso a mi tan narcotraficada Ithaca. Ahora nada más faltaba que alguien me contestara desde el otro océano vía celular con la clave de mi boleto de avión, ah, y también tenía que encontrar la manera de descifrar las entrañas gástricas del metro de Madrid para poder arribar al bendito aeropuerto, antes que nada.
Frente a mí apoyaron sus robustos cuerpos sobre un indefenso asientito dos escandinavas inmensas, masticaban algún tipo de botana grasosa y asintían con la mirada, en una especie de saludo desganado.
Tomé las botellas de vino casero que llevaba cargando desde aquella Italia y las coloqué a mi siniestra, junto a la ventana. Procedí a envolverlas con mi sudadera e intenté conciliar un sueño inmundo e hipócrita "ya casi, ya casi" me decía desde adentro, para calmarme las ansiedades que se me escurrían por debajo de los calcetines.
Habiendo fracasado retomé mi posición inicial, para lo cual me percaté que ahora tenía a un individuo extra sentado a mi diestra, con un aire que se antojaba interrogante. Me saludó verbalmente en castellano y me preguntó algo que no recuerdo porque no me interesaba involucrarme en una plática justo en ese entonces, no tras haber tenido esa calidad de día.
Miré por la ventana pero el negro de la noche no me sorprendió con sus usuales farandulerías imaginativas; mi cerebro había levantado su banderita blanca de "pidos" y sólo se escuchaba algo como "hay un problema con la transmisión debido a mal tiempo, favor de esperar con paciencia hasta reanudar la programación". Nieve de televisión y nada más.

El sujeto, en su incesante necedad por intercambiar verbos, se volvió a referir hacia mi persona con determinación y optimismo. Después de contestar en crescendo no tuve otra opción que fijarme en su semblante: era un chico quizá un año mayor que yo, pelirrojo, coqueto, pecoso, alto, sonriente y esbelto. "Este wey ¿qué?" murmuraron mis múltiples personalidades, pero la totalidad de mi ser estaba más allá del cansancio, oscilaba en el "ok, lo que sea, que me lleve la marea".

Inesperadamente me encontré involucrada en una conversación que pronto se convertiría en una de las más trascendentales de mi pequeña e insignificante historia como humana; comenzando por nuestros países de origen hacia Platón, circundando lo abstracto de la música en el arte y lo efímero de los libros en nuestros estómagos y la posible existencia de una escondida pero tajante narratividad épica en la vida de las personas, sobre todo de algunas cuantas solamente.
Paulatinamente me fui percatando de facilidad con la que me podía comunicar con este individuo, me fue enredando con acento ibérico ceceante de do a do. Y para colmo no pude más que notar un tenebroso paralelismo entre su existencia y la mía: ambos de padres de ciencia y agnósticos (ahora maestros), su interés por la música y el mío por el arte a manera de estudio, color de pelo (yo en el pasado como él), preferencias de libros, de música de películas, de deportes, de comida, de forma de vestir... algo me hacía sentir como que estaba viviendo un capítulo de "the twilight zone", por lo cual me cohibí y me retiré a mi propio espacio para contemplar la infinitud de la nada en silencio solitario y absoluto.
Miento. Seguí el hilo de la plática hasta que pasó la señorita encargada de anunciar que era hora de dormir y que consecuentemente apagarían las luces de los vagones. Las ballenas caucásicas de enfrente emitieron un sonido ininteligiblemente desagradable, como en voz de "shushhhhhhh".

Se acostó ocupando ambos asientos, invitándome a emplear su brazo derecho como almohada. Accedí, por alguna razón me sentía en confianza para no salir corriendo y esconderme en el baño para evitar ser violada por un completo extraño.

Running out of time, into space

Y si no duermo se me sube la mitomanía, porque aterrizo en vivo desde un sueño lúcido y no distingo entre realidades. Pero me siento más de la otra.
Y te escribo porque te pienso, pero realmente no te escribo a ti sino al fondo de pantalla, al papel tapíz del cuarto azul con verde, ese que nadie usa y en el armario se esconden todos mis fantasmas junto a un cepillo de dientes que no tiré. Me escribo a mi misma.
Le escribo a la mancha de refresco en la madera del que vivió aquí antes, quizá tirando suspiro como yo ante el negro de las cortinas.
Y hace diez años que no te escribía, trece exactos pero diez suena más a que está escrito por alguien que sabe. Años que son como moneditas de diez centavos y me van llenando los agujeros de los pantalones hasta que me traga la soberbia del haber leído a Cortázar boca arriba y casi sin emitir respiro alguno.

En la mañana atropellaron a un perrito y me acordé de aquella vez que le recé a dios para que curara al perrito negro del vecino, también hace diez años y el putazo que le metió un tsuru blanco mientras yo dibujaba con crayones viendo por la ventana. Y los gemidos. Y se murió de todas maneras porque se me olvidó rezarle la última noche.
Es entonces cuando me acuerdo de todo y no me acuerdo de ni un carajo.
No sé si se me decompuso el termostato de la cabeza o se nos pasó la fecha de caducidad,
Pero sé que soy como una cacerola mal lavada; un taco de cochinada que se le cayó a alguien porque no cabía en el plato
Y me levanto y me sacudo pero quedan restos de tí por todos lados.
Un té de manzana con canela y el departamento de tu abuela, lleno de mundo y olía a mundo y a polvo de conocimiento.
Y me quedan cachitos de ti hasta por debajo de las uñas, como migajas de tinta indeleble que me como para no perderme de todas ellas quienes he sido.
Tatuajes metafísicos en una desnutrida rampante- Ay! Pero si eso no lo he escrito yo! no me pertenece y no me corresponde tal retórica de pretensión hipstereana.
También te escribo y te confieso que me lavo la codicia con lijas del 650 para arrancarme la sensación de que me estás viendo, desde el otro lado del taller, desde el otro lado del continente.
Abro la boca pero mis palabras se ahorcan las unas a las otras, como taxistas enfurecidos por el tráfico. Pienso en coches y pienso en aquel vocho blanco, ese que tenías lleno de estampitas de luchadores. Ese vocho y que lloro porque se lo lleva mi tío y me voy a vivir al norte donde la tierra es blanca en invierno y no está mi abuela para decirme que jugar fútbol es para niños.
Pero de pronto me interrumpen tus besos susurrados de media noche, y te empujo porque me aplastas y nunca duermo cómoda porque me roncas en el oído, pero me gusta porque me acuerdo del mar, que también fue novio mío.
Y si no duermo me desquicio porque las ideas se me quedan como globitos de helio amarrados a las orejas.

Me tengo envidia a mí misma porque soy una perra y una puta y me veo en imágenes secas e impresas de hace un año y digo; "qué puta soy"
Y les arranco mi nombre porque me da vergüenza y me arranco la vergüenza y le pego encima la orilla de ese maldito septiembre y la banca frente a la iglesia y el barro de Zacatecas.
Y el parquecito de la esquina cuando decidimos que ya no éramos los unos de los otros y "se vende" y "vendido" y el helado de Amaretto que a nadie le gusta más que a mí.
Y el puto frío de mi cama.
Me cuelgo del techo y me sacudo, pero no me tiro de yo misma, por más que corro me alcanzo y por más que me pierdo ahí me encuentro yo sola.
Es entonces cuando te pienso y te escribo.
Y por más que le grito al estilógrafo no me responde ni madres, las pelusas y los azulejos se me quedan viendo y me dicen que en verdad soy una puta.
Y le grito a la estufa y le grito a mis agujetas y le grito al señor de la basura y al de los tamales oaxaqueños. Y me río, entubado porque soy dictadura del PRI.
Y también soy poeta de caño y en el caño empezó lo bueno porque a alguien se le ocurrió jalarle a su sueño de vida y me lo encontré aquí y lo planté en una botella de Boing con suciedad y mi nostalgia.
Es por eso que soy la planta de marihuana de tu ventana
Soy mi cama en el piso y un viaje en pesero a CU mientras llueve y se me olvidaron mis llaves
Soy la pendeja que te quiere
Soy la desnudez de la mañana y un par de pájaros moribundos
Soy una playa desolada llena de basura y un barquito de papel que se estrella contra un pañal flotante.
Una orden de hotcakes de figuritas y un viaje a Jalapa.
Soy tú cuando no te conocía y creía que la barba te hacía ver mayor.
Soy tú cuando me dijiste que mis besos te eran ajenos, pero yo sólo me acordaba de leer a Sócrates y de aprender a quererte a poquitos. Tan Olímpica esa Villa en su explanada y los perros que la recorren.
Soy las cosas que se te aparecen y nadie más ve, porque tienes ojos de caleidoscopio roto.

Soy la estúpida que creyó que al aventarte por la azotea regresarías estampado en un papalote.
Creo en mis cuentos para niños,
Porque el sol de tu cabeza me persigue a todos lados.

Eres con quien quiero verme entre las arrugas de una cama dentro de 50 años y reir por cómo el tiempo nos ha masticado el ego, vencido, y somos de arándano cactáceo: pasitas desérticas platicando sobre Joseph Beuys y los viajes que hicimos, y los hijos que tuvimos.

Y soy tu familia, la que nunca pudiste ver porque los dos nos tapamos los ojos mientras nos jurábamos que nos queríamos entre otras mentiras que se nos ocurrían.

Soy la cuarta oportunidad, la tercera y la segunda. Te me escurres por los dedos como arena errante, yo soy tu arena errante. Soy la que dice "..." nada, porque se lo llevó el viento.
Y también soy la que dice:
"Esta es la historia que nadie contó porque nunca pasó", la que escribo porque me sale por los poros de los pies, y la recojo y la enrrollo con mis intestinos, como cuadritos de un papel baño que se deshizo por accidente.

Y acabando esta última línea me daré cuenta que no fui yo quien escribió todo esto.

TIT

Thailand... tight-land? tideland? Name it how you will, all who've been there will remember nothing else but the Land of Smiles.

First arriving in Bangkok I felt like being transported to another dimension, I was completely out of my homey habitat; everything I knew about the world was now worth monopoly paper, plus taxes.
Cars I knew, the sky I knew, streets and buildings and other humans I was familiar with but pink cabs? Meat lollipops?? Baby elephants bathing in the sea?? Undecipherable road signs all around?

Asia in general can be an existential slap in the face, you go there, coming from the Western side of the World, and you inevitably start questioning everything you've done so far, as well as the methods you've used; suddenly you feel a splash of warm water rinsing away rationality from your the very core of your being.
But Thailand, oh dear... Thailand is the queen of all exceptions, it is the place that questions how you think the human world should work. Us foreigners have a special way of justifying this unique phenomenon by using the acronym "TIT"; meaning: This is Thailand. Works like a charm.

Every time someone serves you a dish you in fact did not order (some times providing you with the exact opposite of what you asked) you HAVE to think for yourself; TIT. And you have to eat whatever is in front of you! No crying allowed!

Every time millions of small motorbikes rush past you at outrageous speeds almost killing defenseless pedestrians, and of course, each other; TIT.

Oh, and those times when there comes a certain particular holiday in which every single person on the street (including grandmas) starts tossing water (in all its categories: bucket full, ice, using water guns) at you for no particular reason!: TIT.

Every time you ask someone for directions and you receive a nod (apparently acknowledging your request) but in fact they give you baloney because they actually did not have a clue of what you were talking about, and were kind of shy to admit it (and yes, you end up being completely lost and vulnerable to newer mistakes)... need I ever say it again? TIT people, TIT.

When the shrines where the Thais honor the spirits are filled with soda bottles (especially Fanta, I think they are quite fond of the brightness of the color). TIT.

When little children walk around carrying a giant snake on their shoulders (Britney Spears like)... geez: TIT!

When the hottest girls in the night clubs are in fact perfectly disguised GUYS (which can be a bummer, even a threat to some of our fellow men)... TIT. Lady boy alert!
And don't get me started on the girls who learn how to make a weapon out of certain body orifices... I certainly shall not go into that but... TIT, TIT, TIT.

Oh, and last but not least... when every single teenage could potentially kick your butt (because they've all taken martial art lessons since BIRTH)... TIT.

Ironically you get to a point where things start to remind you of home, in a strange way... well, since I'm Mexican, I have been brought up with the colorfulness of the markets and the folkloric parades, and the strange religious rites disguised as catholic processions... so most things I see in the rural parts of the country are not that exotic to me as they could be to others, in fact they made me feel quite at home!

"You Mexican? You know Hugo Sánchez? Have free sticky rice!"- example #1 (during one of my visits to the local night market in Ban Phe, the gateway to Koh Samet).

So yes, I do recommend Thailand for people who think they've seen it all, even those who read tons of books and own a membership to the Nat Geo catalogs. It is a place that should be known by many of us, and it serves as a sort of refuge from the monotonousness of our routines (for a while, anyhow).
TIT everyone! And TTYL

Xalli

FML part 1

Why do we never use an image of us crying as a profile picture in Facebook or whatever?

I talked to one of my most special friends two days ago, and of all she said to me there was one bit that lingered in my ears like a voiceless echo, like that last taste of the strongest wine you've ever laid your tonsils in: if you feel it, then write about it.
Cheeseless or not I am sad, and sad am I; the saddest I've been in my whole life perhaps...

Hegel said that one must act (creatively so) in order to see what one is made of, hence our doings; marked as footprints on this earth, reflect like fuming mirrors the very essence of our beings. Our spirit hints its existence filtering itself through our actions, and printing them into organic ways of life for all eternity (if one is lucky). That is why I am in art school, even though I forget this from time to time.
On that note; I shall thus write about the things that make me want to stop living in this God forsaken city... then I shall read my writings and try to understand the whyness of the why I feel this way. And above all, sharing is important; because one can also be crazy and therefore ask 5 people the time before deciding it's 42 past 8.

Anywhoo...
I hate talking to people on the street, it's like I want to be a part of everything that goes on about but playing the part of the "live camera". I feel if I intervene with the characters then I spoil the moment, and everything turns too real to handle. Ironically I'm socially retarded (yes, I talk a lot and have loads of friends in my social networks, but I'm still a loser when it comes to communicating in spoken language).
This morning I did my daily routines, mantras and all and suddenly, when I was trudging down the stairs (thing which I do NOT do, because I use the elevator), after greeting the building keeper (having left a milk carton for the school girls in 4B to use for their annual carton-recollection contest) I realised I needed some freakin' change to get on the freakin' bus! (halt! as some of you might remember, I am car-less for another week due to an unfortunate encounter with a city road beast, hence all the public transportation usage).

You see, these new buses that drive along the Perférico highway charge 4.50 pesos. But the drivers don't handle the money, so if you go there and insert a 5 peso coin in the green slot, and then expect to get some change back they'll sarcastically, I mean "politely" point out to the shiny sign above your head that reads "don't talk to the driver". I mean WHAT IS THIS? ANIMAL FARM ON WHEELS? wtf. So anyways, I decided to buy us a lolly pop to get some change, right? So I got in the store that's nearest to my building and said hello and stuff, trying to mind my own business and then I bought one of those small milk cartons that make you shit easier (with this cold weather, its hard enough as it is). Go All Bran! I paid with a large bill and was given two smaller ones and ONE PESO.
I was gutted, so asked if I could get smaller and physical bits of that abstract representation of how MUCH we are worth in this life AKA "money" (I fucking hate it) and the dude behind the counter smiled and said "no can do, missy" with that face that reads "fuck off, I'm not gonna help you because you're a woman and look smaller and dumber than you really are". So I played it cool and said, "oh, then I want a lollypop" and handed him a 20 peso bill.

------

That was it, he was furious. He snapped at me with a "oh no you didn't" sort of attitude and told me to buzz off, that if I wanted the freakin' lollipop then I could have it and then pay for it later. I tried to explain I needed change for the bus ride, but he just wandered off to someplace behind the coke fridge, smothering hate thoughts into amorphous mumblings.

I felt bad, I felt terrible; like if it was all my fault, I'm oh so insensitive for other people's interests. I always feel like shit when other people treat me so. And all I'm trying to do is get over with the stuff that needs to be done in order to get to school and back alive. It would seem simple enough as, but not in my world it isn't.

I counted my change, coin by coin this time as I walked to the bus stop, only to realise I DID have enough money to get on the COPESA... all that jazz for less than no cigar. I added STUPID to the number of thoughts wandering in my mind and hopped on the green and yellow bastard that takes me to Tepepan.

And to think I didn't even NEED that fucking milk carton, I had already packed my lunch and all. It's just that those bus drivers treat civilians like shit on toast, and it just doesn't feel right giving them that extra $.50 if they're gonna be all rude and mean... it ain't just.

Change is everything when you're a student. Like that clever sign on that clever movie that that clever hobo was carrying that said "keep your money, I want CHANGE". Holy smokes!

Then I got off where I was supposed to, after being stared at for being a girl who happens to be just an extra white to be using public transportation... who ever said we're all the same, I used to think that way...
I walked on and suddenly another blood rush to my brain: I needed YET MORE change to get on the second bus that takes me to school. Shit on a bucket! So I grabbed some more strength and decided to take my chances on this guy who was selling cookies and peanuts and grabbing chips with his probably unwashed hands and stuffing them into little plastic bags to be sold after. My OCD triggered, but I approached and said "Hey there, good morning. One question; could I have two 10 peso coins if I gave you this 20 peso bill?".
Funny enough he said "huh?" so I repeated the question, word by word. He smiled and said "dear, if you give me that bill then I'll have to give you TWO 20 peso coins, not one hahahahaha" and he continued to laugh while I apologised for something I had not said and walked on with TWO coins of that value I just wrote about.

A guy poked me in the eye on the way out of that second bus, and I yelled "STUPID" without being able to control myself... gosh. The funny thing is that when I complain about it at school, my friends tell me off with stuff like "it is what it is, if you don't realise it then that's YOUR problem".

I love this freaking city... makes me want to cry until I die, and then maybe take my own picture and post it on FB, not.

CAMBIODEPIE!!!!!

Ando acá, en lugar de haciendo tarea, redactando otra reseñita del último concierto al que he asistido.
Siempre pasa ¿no? que nosotros los responsables (JA!) dejamos lo que nos gusta para el final... pues ¡MIERDA con eso! porque voy a escribir en vez de leer a Deleuze... y luego me sentiré popo por la culpa.
Me acuerdo de la primera vez que escuché a Switchfoot; fue justo por ahí cuando descubrí a Guster más o menos. Escuché de Guster "Careful" y me enamoré a la tercera escuchada, mientras que de Switchfoot vi el video de "On Fire" en vivo y a la quinta vez ya me la había aprendido de memoria :)

He de alegar que me sé cada una de sus inmundas cancioncillas al grado que tenían a mis padres hasta el coco-nut-o por ponerlas repetidamente en las largas travesías por coche.

"Ya pon otra cosa!"
"Nel, no me dejas manejar; entonces yo escojo la música"
"PERO TIENES 13 AÑOS!!!"
"Your loss"

Es curioso cómo al pasar el tiempo uno va mutando en cuanto a lo que le llama y llena; me he reconciliado con los champis (finalmente) y tolero un poco más los mariscos (yuck!). Pero musicalmente hablando desde entonces empecé a inclinarme por rumbos más "indie-buena-onda-wey" tanto por osmosis de mis amiguines enapos/TEC (que son lo mismo pero con distinta salsa) versión DF. Ahora un yeasayer por un previo Five For Fighting (lo sé, QUÉ PENA WEEE). Sin embargo, creo que guardo con cariño mis gustos de mocosa como guardo mis peluches: intactos y bonitos! Gustosos son los recuerdos de la infancia; me gustaba pensar que nunca me iría a traicionar a mi misma en cuanto a preferencias... creo que me debo una disculpa (a mis previos "yo" en plural). I've grown a little.

SWITCHFOOT MÉXICO-------------------------------------------------


Después de un nefasto breakup con el único novio que he tenido de la vida de vivir (2 años después) me lancé a Querétaro a ahogar mis penas en bonitos atardeceres y shots de mezcal con los pueblerinos que tanto amo (me, being one of 'em still)... fue un fin de BEERFEST (o BEARFEST, para algunos) increíble. Me curé al 70%.
De regreso fue que de MILAGRO DEL SEÑOR (cabe resaltar la ironía, puesto que SWFT es una banda de rock cristiano) nos tuvimos que desviar del camino para llegar a mi depa en plena lluvia, después de un ride a un amiguino a su casa-de-él en Polanco; acabamos en Insurgentes mentándole la madre al tráfico cuando de pronto vi un letrero magnífico... que anunciaba la llegada del grupo que llevo hablando desde el comienzo de este escritillo... creí que era obra de mi cansancio-cruda, pero NO! Al llegar a mi guarida solitaria prendí la chompu y en el interné ahí estaba: la confirmación de mi bendita revelación, patrocinada por la divina providencia (google); switchfoot vendría el 12 de septiembre!!!!!!! HOLY JESUS... SURFING ON A GUITAR!!!
Me apuré a anunciarlo en todos los medios electrónico-cibernéticos que tuviera al alcance, pero la respuesta fue agobiante; a nadie le importó un caraxo. Recibí cosas como:
"Mi madre es nazi", "Quién??? SuichHoot-er?", "Pff qué ilusa por creer que me gustan esas ma%$das", "vivo lejos", "si estuviera más rota sería un pantalón de Abercrombie" et al.

Así que sería yo sola y triste en mi desgracia... pero HO! porque Morra (qrotana ex-kennedy) asintió en todos los aspectos a mi súbita petición de servirme de acompañante al evento a pesar de vivir en Sacramento California (wtf??). Y ¡Vaya, que estaba igual de emocionada que yo! Así que le creí en su debraye de "me voy ahora mismo en coche" (right) y compré mi boleto decididamente vía mi querida madre y su tarjeta de crédito (jeje). It was ON!

Esperé el tiempo debido... comiéndome las uñas como rata enlatada y finalmente desperté el 12 con un aire de nueva persona. Me lavé los dientes y procedí a llevar a cabo mis quehaceres de ñora dominguera. Tic-toc-tic-toc-ticccccccccc AAAAAAAA ver la tele no me quitaba la emoción.
Pero bueno, FastForward a las 5:30------> YA! Salí desenfrenada con el coche y un mapita dibujado con Sharpie rumbo al salón José Cuervo.
Llegué perfecto por obra del Siñior trapero que me dio instrucciones y VOILÁ! embutí mi carrito de fricción entre un trailer macabro y un ficus asesino.

Me formé como los otros cien mil ilusos FANSSS rodeando la cuadra (me sorprendí por la cantidad de gente presente a dicha hora) y le mandé un mensajito a la norteña esperada. Llegó! y hacía años que no la veía, por lo que nos costó reconocernos 2 segundos más de lo normal. Luego luego nos involucramos en múltiples pláticas sobre y como en los viejos tiempos mientras se acercaba la hora del CHOW.
Entramos... yo me hacía pipí de la emoción... pero como siempre, te hacen aguantar vara mientras los señoritos del "ESTAFF" preparan el maldito escenario pegando cables en el piso y vocalizando el típico "1,2,3 probando probando" (me acordé de Nan recitando el himno nacional en el micrófono en nuestra obra de generación back in the day jajajaja).
Finalmente abrió pista un grupo extrañísimo llamado "el color invisible" y con 5 rolas de tutti-frutti ante lo cual el público se mantuvo inmóvil y nefasteado. Ha de ser horrible tener que tratar de ambientar a gente mala copa que espera a alguien más... y peor aún si son legionarios de Jesús Cristo ("J. C." que suena como Jay Z) auspiciados por el Opus Dei (o como sea que funcionan esos gremios locos). En lo que mi oídos se erosionaban ante las cumbias techno-surf de los dudes vestidos de luchadores me puse a analizar los alrededores y me acordé de la vez que había ido al previo "Salón 21" con Lori para ver a Bloc Party... good times-> cuando de pronto mi vista se centró en un señor vestido de figura religiosa en las lejanías del backstage porque ERA un señor-pastor vigilando a la multitud (WTF!!!! sentí que me observaba detenidamente susurrando telepáticamente "pecadooooraaaaa").
Le conté a Morra y reimos entre suspiros de miedo absoluto por ateas ambas dos.

Luego... otra hora después... bajaron un gran letrero en blanco con letras negras que anunciaba la llegada del gran grupo que ha compuesto tantas canciones utilizadas en chick flicks (entre ellas "A Walk to Remember" con MANDY MOORE... gsus) y salieron al escenario los sensuales hermanos Foreman y Chad Butler (el baterista) que también es sensual y el dude de los teclados que es nuevo y otro también que era repuesto del otro que tampoco sé cómo se llama :) WOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!! Estaba gritando más fuerte que la escuincla de al lado. Es grato cómo se rompe la barrera de realidad/ficción de imagen cuando VES en vivo por primera VEZ a la gente a quien has admirado por alguna u otra cuestión. Jon Foreman fue mi ídolo de ratos gachos de adolescencia guacareada, sus canciones simples y altamente positivas me dieron un gran toque de vitalidad y gracias a todo ello crecí a ser la Xallita que brinca como grillo en éxtasis cuando hay fiestas locas con los amigos de verdad. Rock on!
Abrieron con "Needle and Haystack" como era de esperarse y pisé mil veces a la ñora (wtf?) que me quería robar mi lugar en primera fila, hasta que dejó de joder. COÑO, POS ES MI GRUPO FAVORITO DE QUINCEAÑERA, NO IBA A DEJAR QUE UNA SENIL MALA COPA ME ARRUINARA EL MEJOR MOMENTO DE MI VIDA (ja, exagero, pero u get the picture).

Siguieron con Stars, Meant to Live, Oh! Gravity, Hello Hurricane, Gone, Only Hope (me acordé de nuestras primeras pedas de XV años bailando el waltz a esa rola), ON FIRE!!! (casi lloro con esa), This is Your Life, Mess of Me, Awakening, Free y de Encore nos deleitaron con The Sound y finalmente DARE YOU TO MOVE (ja, super busted porque esa sí que es girly as).

Nunca había visto a un vocalista crear tan buena atmósfera de concierto con tan sólo sonreir y mostrar excelente vibra a todos; nos tenía abrumados por lo bien que toca la guitarra mientras se avienta del escalón de la batería hacia las vigas metálicas del techo (o como se llamen) y cae en el clímax de la rola... fucking multitask dude... neta qué pedo, seguro toma clases de parkour y yoga en drogas finas.
Nos alentó a ser mejores personas, nos habló en español, nos hipnotizó con palabras mágicas sobre lo buena que es levantarte cuando estás hecho mierda y abrazó a la multitud del lado en el que yo NO estaba (fucker) para pedir que cantaran con él el verso que va así:

Cause everything inside looks like
Everything I hate
You are the hope I have for change
You are the only chance I’ll take
----
This is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be
When the world was younger and you had everything to lose

AAAA.... me dan ganas de llorar nada más de escribir estas tonterías (I'm a hormonal wimp, and proud!). Pero bueno, en realidad me resulta imposible describir la felicidad que nació en mi desde ese momento... me acordé de los padre que me sentía cada día al despertar y tener millones de posibilidades entretejidas en cada respiro que daba a lo largo del día. Switchfoot es mi cura para vivir en el DF y tolerar a gente estúpida que me podría arruinar la existencia. Pero sí se puede; tomo muy en serio eso de poner la otra mejilla (ha, toda cristiana de clóset) y aunque no vaya a favor de la iglesia como institución idiota, creo que es importante seguir lo que uno cree y estar orgulloso de ello, mi religión va de acuerdo a las sonrisas en los peores momentos y cómo sí se puede levantarte aunque un trailer te haya hecho papaya la cabeza. (Bueno, no literalmente).
Gosh!

Salí con tanta emoción que dejé que Morra fumara en mi coche jajajaja, le di ride a Taxqueña y recuperé esa sonrisa interna que me caracterizab aún en los tiempos que estudiaba historia, ya viviendo en esta ciudad tan difícil... aquí no se ven las estrellas... los dejo con esto:

Maybe I've been the problem, maybe I'm the one to blame
But even when I turn it off and blame myself, the outcome feels the same
I've been thinkin maybe I've been partly cloudy, maybe I'm the chance of rain
Maybe I'm overcast, and maybe all my lucks washed down the drain

I've been thinking 'bout everyone, everyone you look so lonely

But when I look at the stars,
when I look at the stars,
when I look at the stars I see someone else

When I look at the stars,
the stars, I feel like MYSELF.

FIN. Los amo (quien sea que haya leído esta cosa).

comma

So once I met this boy
He had sunshine all over his untidy brown hair
Brown irises as well; my rabbit holes,
Nothing more, that there's nothing more,
And nothing was,
I tried to burn a smile over his elastic silence,
A seismograph on top of a jelly bean jar,
A rocket hammock, a door without a lock,
His twizzler like embrace, and my legs uncooked cinnamon branches,
And then an army of unused pencil cases,
A snail and a bull's eye and a blue pillow stain,
A ticket to the apple's seed, a trip to the coast on the back of a dragonfly,
As I grew younger and brighter everything was painted vanilla,
I was to be protected under his polka dot gaze,
A red cloak to shield me from all the vultures in the sky,
And the evil Eye, and the evil I...

I am forever a tiny clover in a field of untrimmed grass, in a field of broken glass

New Cork, better than Old Cork

I'd never been to New York before... I had only this mental image of the place in my mind due to all the symbolic references that lie inserted in endless pieces of Literature, Cinema, Theatre, TV, and the media as a whole... almost like an ever-present subtle whisper in the wind.
Virtually everyone I know has either spent a week there or just landed on one of the two larger airports; La Guardia + JFK (a more than 6 hour wait counts as a check mark!). Major convo starter, I'd say!
Physically knowing NYC opens you up to a whole new world. Matrix like; NOW you get that local joke that's been floating around in all those social gatherings and artsy-posh events. It's like finally getting the hang of double meanings in adult conversations (hehehe).
Fortunately I had already had my own very little training in the subject (city-handling-wise) due to the exercise of spending several hours in front of the "tele", visually slurping shows such as "Sex AND the City", "Friends", "Seinfeld", "Gossip Girl" (not really... but some, yeah, busted!), Woody Allen flicks, and just recently "New York, I love You" (Oh! for all those great looking men conveniently crammed in a single movie).
All of sudden those words I'd only heard of came to life, in a blast of information going straight to my brain: Broadway, 5th Av., SoHo, NoHo, China Town, Little Italy, The HighLine, Brooklyn... And so I was introduced to one of the planet's most actively evolving cities in the ART world.

Heck yes! Because this was no ordinary trip, no sirey! Me and my mate Dan are very very keen art students with a psychosomatic crave for anything that has the word CREATIVE involved in it. "HECTIC as!" Some would say, and they would be correct.
HENCE, we ate those museums like hot dogs at a Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest (*reference #1. See what I'm talking about? This happens in Coney Island, either google it up or just reminisce your head off!). MoMa was first, sweet and FREE thanks to some tips we got from a friend studying in Poughkeepsie (shit, that was hard to write, imagine spelling it drunk!). I cannot believe how much art these guys have got bottled up in a single building in downtown NY! My eyes were sore in the end, but not sore enough to detain myself from wandering around the gift shop hehehe.
Next on the menu was The Frick Collection, where our friendly "acquaintance" worked as an intern. Good stuff! Then we visited the Neue Gallery where we both stood open mouthed before no other than Gustav Klimt's "Adele (Bloch-Bauer)", and even better; I saw my very first EGON SCHIELE!!! (I still cannot get over that moment... the 15 bucks were totally worth it).
The day after we went to the Guggenheim where we saw a couple of works of Julie Mehretu, and the "Haunted" exhibit with Warhol, González-Torres, Abramovic, Rauschenberg, Sherman, and plenty more. Kasimir Malevich was there as well, in spirit and in work; for an entire floor of the museum was dedicated to his early paintings, which was cooooool.
After that we took two entire days to roam about senselessly through the infinite corridors inside the MET. Holy Kaw! I definitely could not process the whole content of what we saw those in such a limited amount of time... no human being could possibly ever! I mean, they say if you contemplate each piece for about 5 minutes you'd take up to 5 years looking at them all! I mean 'CMON!
What I reckon is that the museum is made for people who, after having visited the rudely humongous museum, will therefore have no further need for traveling outside the US. Period. (Although, I know this is BS, the experience of GETTING to places can never be replaced with incarcerated objects). CRAZY.
Anyways, The Noguchi Sculpture Garden was mind-blowing, the New Museum flabbergasting, the Brooklyn Museum was nice (Kiki Smith was there!), The PS.S1 MoMa incredible, and the Natural History was absolute CRAP! (one of the worst museums I've been to, absolute caca).
We walked everywhere during the day, and ate with as little money as we could spend (having taken trail mix for a very repetitive lunch until we went NUTS with the sun dried berries and all the almonds haha). And at night time we went out with our newly made friends (Poughkeepsie's very best). Flashback to:
THE FIRST NIGHT--> we showered thoroughly (the heat was intense!), changed from sweaty to dry clothes and met with "M-E" at one of NY's most popular streets (Bleeker... I think). We ended up hanging out with a bunch of very Jewish guys at this darkish bar with a wooden Apache statue greeting us at the door (the 7 dollar pitch was worth it, tho'). After a few drinks their "leader" ("A") decided we should move to his granny's apartment near Central Park, just for kicks... and so we did! Being all hyped by the feeling of adventure and... I dunno why else really, well besides the booze in our blood, which dictated our actions for the night.
When we arrived we found ourselves sitting down in old fashioned couches surrounded by old fashioned furniture and old fashioned family pictures... granma's lodge indeed!
"A" opened a drawer and brought out two peculiar bottles of what looked like ancient, and dangerous looking liquor; Amaretto and some sort of peach alcohol. We played drunken games and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.
On our way back to the subway we were accompanied by a Spanish speaking dude with whom we shared a friendly chit chat while dodging random people lying on the street (this was 3:30am). It was then we confirmed the fact that NY does not ever sleep! People were already opening up their shops, riding the bus wearing their jogging gear... I mean, amazing...

TO BE CONTINUED...

De la Patada (en buenos términos)

Hacía años luz que no pateaba un balón... bueno quizá para regresarlo a algún juego ajeno en respuesta física a un "bolita por favor" o si se me hubiese cruzado en el camino (a lo cual vendrían a mi cabeza millones de flashbacks de la prepa con sabor extra-nostálgico y probablemente me hubieran dado ganas de llorar en pleno cruce de terreno baldío), pero mejor pongámoslo así; hacía un BUEN de tiempo que no jugaba un partido de fútbol como es debido.
Resulta que se decidió hacer un reencuentro tipo Magneto pero del equipo de las ex-kennedy contra las que ahora portan la camiseta actualizada de dicha escuela... esto de la fiebre del mundial se expande hacia todas partes y no deja de encantarme.
Me llegó la invitación por Facebook al partido "kennedys vs ex-kennedys" hace unos días y no pude ocultar mi felicidad absoluta ante dicho anuncio. Chequé mi agenda (absolutamente vacía) y sonreí groseramente mientras buscaba mis tacos viejos y oxidados y mis espinilleras de cuando tenía 18 años...

Llegando la fecha indicada me presenté ante la reja tan azul de mi ex escuela con el uniforme y todo (lo cual me había costado mucho encontrar, puesto que ahora mis cosas se han exiliado al cuartito-bodega del piso de abajo... ya que "ya no vivo" en mi casa según el idiota de mi hermano) para lo cual me abrió un guardia excesivamente agradable (he llegado a considerar que la restante bondad de la humanidad se concentra exclusivamente en provincia, puesto que debo admitir que me he acostumbrado a los malos tratos de la gente capitalina). El buen guardia me deseó buena suerte y me dirigí a la verdísima cancha de fut que con tanto cariño guarda memorias increíbles de aquellas épocas mías: de cuando el mundo no me mostraba sus horrendos... colmillos todavía.

Llevaba calcetas largas y una bebida deportiva que tuve que comprar en el "Otzo" porque me he dado cuenta de que ya no se guardan botellas de agua en casa, desde que dejamos de hacer deporte con regularidad (sniff sniff a las 3 horas de tennis y/o 2 de fut diarias de toda mi juventud). Ahora mi hermano sólo va al gym para ponerse trunks-hulk-ish para cuando llegue el apocalipsis y nos ataquen los narcos y consecuentemente los mate a golpes (según su muy divertida teoría de salvación).

Reconocí algunas caras, puesto que ya somos varias generaciones las que nos hemos graduado desde el 2006, saludé y empezamos a calentar. Pero los coaches de siempre seguían ahí; Lalo, Soria, Ray, Miss Myriam y hasta Lanch nos habían ido a apoyar! De hecho Lalo se vio solidario y se ocupó de alinearnos y darnos tips de apoyo moral ante nuestra decrepitud e ineficiencia física.

Empezó el partido. OUCH! Hacía épocas geológicas enteras que no tenía que correr como si mi vida dependiera de ello. Ahora respeto más a las gacelas de Nat Geo y a la maldita selección mexicana... pta madre sentía que tenía anclas en los tobillos.

No daba ni una, mis pases eran demasiado cortos y el balón se sentía como de acero inoxidable forjado con plomo y relleno de una bola de boliche... mis pies pedían piedad ante el esfuerzo repentino que les estaba exigiendo. Ya nadie me quería pasar la bola a esta abuela pedazo de lela jeje. Sin embargo, Carlita y Lili siguen jugando en el equipo del TEC y vaya que mostraron que no se iban a dejar vencer tan fácilmente! Pararon como 70 llegadas del equipo juvenil sin pensarlo mucho. Ver dicho entusiasmo en algunas integrantes de mi propio equipo me elevó los ánimos en crescendo y finalmente logré elevar mi ritmo a un nivel respetable y empecé a driblar con coherencia futbolística.
Era la gloria reivindicada! Enhorabuena! Tomé consciencia de mis instintos olvidando mi mente racional y me dejé llevar por la intuición del momento que tanto me hacía casi desmayarme por el esfuerzo en cada partido, ya fuese de tennis o fútbol. El sudor se convirtió en vestigio de algo hermoso y salino refrescando mi cara, el viento nos acariciaba las frentes como susurrando "sí se puede, sólo diviértete". Vaya que extrañaba ver a mis padres en la tribuna gritando como si realmente fuera importante lo que estaba pasando dentro del perímetro de pasto... ahora entiendo la importancia del juego fuera de las clases teóricas de Schiller; es SERIO esto del fútbol.

Hubo tiempo de tomar agua entre los 45 minutos de cada sesión (estamos ruquitas y necesitamos hidratarnos con regularidad, peor que planta de jungla) y mis pies empezaban a sentir el dolor de unas horrendas y nacientes ampollas en las plantas... pero todo lo valía.

Jugamos el segundo tiempo y parecía que seríamos acribilladas por el tierno (de juventud) equipo antagónico, ya que llegaron otras 24,000 veces a nuestra portería, sólo para ser rechazadas por la diosa de portera que teníamos; Lilí es mi ídola.
Pero en una de esas se despejó un balón incógnito y bien dirigido hacia Ada, nuestra delantera estrella, quien en vez de mandarlo a los cielos (como lo suele hacer por potencia de chutazo que tiene la condenada) lo metió a la portería... casual y así llevábamos la ventaja en el marcador.
Inesperadamente...
Yo tuve 2 que 3 oportunidades, pero la verdad creo que di mejores pases que trallazos... mis piernas ya no aguantan tanto. Pero la labor de esquivar monigotas (porque HOLY CRAB están ENORMES estas chicas! parece que las nuevas generaciones le entran con singular alegría a la carne de McD's con extra-hormonas de todo tipo) la hice con eficacia y sutileza, de hecho me eché unas recepciones de balones mandados hasta la ionósfera que caían en mis taquitos con buen toque y hasta Soria me regañó por no cagarla en eso :). Ergo, por esfuercitos por el estilo fue que empezamos a llegar más a su portería, contrarrestando el resto del partido que parecía más bien un "gol-para" en nuestra contra jejeje.

Y FINITO! Sonó el silbato del árbitro y se dio por terminada la cosa.... muertas estábamos pero victoriosas! y nos tenían Pizza para celebrar en las banquitas :) ya se me había olvidado lo divertido que era pertenecer a un equipo así, en medio de los cerros queretanos, nuestro propio oasis lúdico cuasi onírico. Otro lindo recuerdo para la colección. Gracias niñas!

Camboya

La experiencia del viajar solo es difícil de expresar y compartir, es necesario vivirla uno mismo para entender de qué carajos estoy hablando. Quizá para aquellas personas que no están tan desajustadas como yo, el mundo les resulte unos cuantos decibeles menos desafiante. Pero por ahí dicen ellos (los que tanto les gusta hablar) que para que haya una aventura digna de ser contada debe de haber una gran cantidad de percances y desfortunios que le ocurran al protagonista de la historia... directamente proporcional, gracias Campbell!

Habiendo acabado el mentado cursito que me eché en nada más y nada menos que las Tailandias (en plural todo suena mejor) decidí que sería interesante cerrar la odisea con broche de oro (guay not?), entonces compré con el resto de mis ahorros "lo que viene siendo" un boleto de avión a Siem Reap en Camboya; la ciudad en donde se encuentra uno de los sitios arqueológicos más importantes del mundo: Angkor Wat.
Era mi sueño visitar los vestigios de tal civilización, habiendo aprendido un poco en clases de historia, y con lo ñoña que soy, la idea de adentrarme cual Lara Croft/Indiana Jones versión turista mexicana "de petatiux".

Tomé un Tuk-Tuk desde Ban Phe hasta el aeropuerto de Bangkok y no hice mas que nostalgiarme la existencia con kleenex escuchando canciones extremadamente cursis en el transcurso (favor de compadecerme y no juzgarme en ese aspecto si lloro con "Take a Bow" de Rihanna) puesto que soy de esas malditas personas a las cuales las despedidas las vuelven de consistencia peluchosa y moquienta.
Llegando esperé mi debido tiempo tirada en una banca de plástico como de McDonald's con mis cosas desparramadas sobre mis pies (estorbándole a las familias ricas gringas que pasaban por ahí). Cuando llegó mi hora me formé en la fila correspondiente como niña buena y me aproximé al mostrador, sólo para escuchar:

-Sorry miss, I cannot let you board your plane because you have an S type visa; which means you cannot enter the country once you've left unless you get ANOTHER stamp.

WTF????? Todo el desmadre que me había costado ENTRAR al mentado país se desenrollaba en una secuela del terror totalmente inadvertida frente a mis elaboradas pestañas mexicanas. ¿Ahora no me dejarán salir? ¿QUÉ CARAJOS?
Como venadito en éxtasis sufrí un recorrido fotográfico mental en el cual abandonaba mi sueño de ir a Angkor y esperaba en vez mis dos días restantes en Asia aburrida como torta en un hotel de por ahí mientras llegaba el día de mi salida de regreso a México... NO!!!

-You will have to go to the Mexican embassy downtown and make them call the Thai embassy in Mexico for you to change your VISA. This will have to be tomorrow now, because it is already late and everything is closed for the day. Here is a map and the telephone number.

¡Era L.A. all over again! ¡Qué bonito ciclo narrativo! Pero pensé: Bridget Jones my milky arse! Y entonces le dije:

-But I've got this other ticket for my flight back home miss. Same day, departing 3 hours after I return from Cambodia. If I do like as you say, then I'll miss it! Isn't there anything I can do about it?

-Oh! Lemme see! Oh! so you're just connecting flights? Oh!! Well then things change. I thought you were staying here longer after returning. But if you don't leave the airport then there's no problem. Just tell the woman at the Siem Reap counter to check your bags all the way to Mexico. Have a good flight!

Me trepé al avión con la cara rojo camarón entomatado y no separé la naríz de la ventanilla hasta que aterrizamos... puta madre, estaba tan enojada como cansada, por lo que opté por neutralizar mis emociones y esperar el siguiente paso. Viva la discriminación por nacionalidad!

Llegando quedé bastante impresionada por la calidad arquitectónica del aeropuerto camboyano; coqueto coqueto indeed! Recogí maletas, pasé por los detectores de metal y pagué mis cuotas. Saliendo al delicioso calorcito nocturno me topé con cientos de locales montados en motocicletas al acecho por turistas indefensos llenos de maletas. Yo fui presa fácil aparentemente.

-Ride with me
-NO! WITH MEEEE-
-Ride hotel miss?

Me atacaron por doquier... pero mi instinto de citadina exportada me dijo que eligiera al de rostro menos asesino (ja, viva el sentido común). Me sentí juez de American Idol versión "quién tiene la cara más noble y menos de tevoyamataryviolardespuésdemuerta". Pagué mis 2 dólares por el aventón y me trepé con el chofer cara-de-niñito.

No hay como tener el viento en la cara, en una noche joven con una luna espectacular guiándote el camino. Tenía un audífono puesto en una oreja y con la otra prestaba atención a las breves narraciones de mi compañero de viajes. "Leik" me llevó a un hotel que le pareció óptimo para mi arribo súbito, puesto que le había contado (yo) que quería estar lo más cerca posible de las ruinas.

Me recibió un tal "Lucky"; un personaje increíblemente dibujable, es más, creo que me lo saqué del inconsciente... algún día escribiré una historia basándome en él. Y me guió al cuarto después de haberme despedido de Leik; acordamos que él sería mi guía a las ruinas también por un precio razonable -Tomorrow at 9 o'clock then-
Subí unas amplias escaleras de madera en un edificio extrañisimo, viejo y amarillo nápoles, con pasillos de imitación de mármol y extranjeros por doquier (yo incluida)

The reminiscing flavour inside a huge Mexican chocolate mug

There isn't much, that I feel I need, a solid soul, and the blood I bleed.

So time has taken giant strides since that amazing January... I can't get it out of my mind... it felt like finally peeking through the tiniest of cracks and grasping one single glance of what's outside the cave only to realize nothing is what it seems. There's a hole in the wall.
It was far more strong than a shot of heroin, like an everlasting slushie that's flavoured with the greatest moment in your life, it was more than making eye contact with your soul mate for the first time, simply more than just fine.

It's singing along to one song, for ever.

ADIEU

I thought I was never going to make it to Angkor: I had this strange feeling all along that it wasn't meant to be... even though I had in hand (well electronically speaking) my very own plane ticket to Siem Reap, bought with the help of my witty Texan friend at Amir's pueblo palace one sizzling weekend during TEFL days.
That final Friday I did not wake up, because I did not ever go to sleep in the first place... instead I stapled the Tuesday night remnants together with the unwelcoming Friday morning vestiges by taking one last cold bath in what had been my room for the month. I was barefoot, and so was my state of being. I picked up the last of my stuff and found an Australian coin I kept for good luck.
Taking a long breath I slid downstairs to get some water. I found our teacher there, and she gave me a string with bells and rocks attached to it. I wasn't paying much attention, I was high on not sleeping but I took it as an exchange for the fish I'd given her the night before: sort of a Polynesian temporary friendly swap thing in my tiredly-drunken mind. It's funny how girlie I get on goodbyes... I can go all "Crossroads" Britney Spears whenever the moment asks for it.
I returned upstairs when hearing Dave's motorbike engine outside the building and sat down on my usual spot, greeting the others with a cunning smile, for we had completed the task: we were qualified teachers at last! (and that rhymes, yes it does). I wore the turquoise necklace Lina had given me one day out of the green-blue for no reason whatsoever... it made me feel like a million bucks.
The diplomas were handed out in a sort of quickie ceremony: no wine served (like Lina had suggested the day before), no balloons or emotional sermons... that's the way it is with these guys; they see armies of trainees pass on through the same thresholds each and every single month, graduation parade non stop. No wonder they don't remember anyone, it's sad and funny at the same time. But that's what the group picture's for, so we went outside and had it taken: All of us looking fairly nostalgic except for Hollie who was happily relaxed all dread-lock-less, and of course JJ who was annoyed as usual.
After wards we mounted the van for one last time as Tao, our driver, said something like "wait, surprise for you". And so we waited, all dressed up and shared a casual chit chat for what seemed to be our final moment together. Surprise: We got backpacks! Yay for the ugliness!
We bid farewell to the staff members, to the TV room with the blue leather seats where we shared a mouth full of stupid ass movies. We waved g'bye to the balcony where Lester smoked like a Chinese factory chimney, to the Geckos and the children and the Mini Shop at the far end of the street where we bought our 10Baht red bulls and chocolate milk cartons. We said goodbye to our young Brit teacher, who finally seemed to have fallen for us right at the end, too bad for the tardiness.
And so we arrived at the taxi-station port thing where I was dropped off by my very handsome Egyptian friend and Lina (hahaha who is beautiful as well). I greeted the lady-boy behind the counter and presented my (not-lost-indeed-thank-Buddha) ticket for Suvarnabhumi airport in BKK. I got on yet another van, this time filled with strangers, and gave Amir my famous puppy stare behind the inked screen of the chunky gray vehicle.
I was so sad... inconsolable... devastated... hecha mierda.

But I was going to Angkor Wat, one of my biggest dreams since I first started fancying History lessons. Thank you Maureen Cornell at the JFK "We like bananas, we like 'em BIG!".

Two black dimensionally reduced canine pups were looking out just over the horizon...
Wishfully was the way they sighed and blew away some sporadic saliva bubbles that danced, once in the air, with yellowy joy... air-waving towards the nothingness that separated the two hairy friends from their true dream: The island.
That same piece of floating Utopian land that had made them lose their meaty marbles ever since they took the rusty old road to the market for the first time (with their ma's) now looked as near and real to them as the chicken drumstick pup#1 had sneakily fetched from the butcher's choppin' table last Thursday night (meaning: VERY NEAR INDEED).

The elder dogs called it "The Magic Crystal Island". Only uncle Jacob the cripple had once been there (having one day sneaked inside one of those gigantic blue woody monsters hanging 'round the docks). But no one believes uncle Jacob's story of the Island after the accident. They say he was hit by a wooden wheeled whale pulled by a wooden wheeled tractor while crossing the street. One eyed Puck says that the impact caused uncle Jacob's brain to gush out of his head through colorful sprinkles that were sprayed through his ear-holes all the way to the heavens and above... so now the floating remains gotta wait for the body to pass on so that they can be reunited again.

Lobster Killers and a Bunny Rat bit

No huge intro this time; well, just this: I've had an enormous amount of pine-kernel-nut-thing ice cream and I'm remembering a little more about a pair of certain individuals that I've yet to impregnate (not in a baby making form tho') into a written sort of creative manifestation. Here we go!

There ain't no real secret to the whole lobster killin' deed: it's just a matter o' wenchin' tight and reelin' even better for a long while. Then you gotta get a grip of it's sea-shelled-pawies until it goes leernish and slodgy. Thazzal!

Eggroll and Swampee trudged along the orange coastline, barefoot and singing to the midnight sunshine. Their shadows cast a rainbow projection on the tree-fold ceiling, and a couple of dobblers swung past, spraying them with yellow spit.
Eggroll waved furiously! But then remembered he actually fancied those fair coloured expectorated bubbles. The whole experience reminded him of when he was nearer to the ground and lived elsewhere (he had just recently moved to the place he lived nowadays) and that made him smile wider than ever... oh that other place where he grew down.

Swampee wasn't paying attention at all, he just bounced from pear to pear not thinking about the string theory or the chaos one either; Swampee hated particles and waves... especially on Sundays.

And so both carried on, yellow dotted and zig-zagging along the wavy road because of the many chewsters they found lying about (it's not very polite to stand on nature without a previous warning, or apology). They did so until the familiar fence appeared (that fence loved his little fence daughter, brother and wife), it creaked and let them into the pond zone. They strode and strode a little more because green was their fate for that evening.
Having laid down their expensive equipment, Swampee and Eggroll dismounted their imaginary kebabs and sat down to go through the plan once more before the big move.

-So now, listen good u mongrel. We have to be real silent, ya? These things have supersonic noses and can hear even better when they feel endangered. I is our duty to prevent that, get it buster?

-Of course I get it you retarded douchecouch! I MADE that plan a month ago, and you just read it on the way here! C'mon, we're already roaring our rear-ends outta the big catch... lezz move it!

They advanced, tiptoeing and flying once in a while (whenever wanting to believe they were capable of doing so... this happened gradually and on other days sporadically). And they also tiptoed some other 100 miles until achieving absolute exhaustion. After regaining consciousness they decided to drain cans of beans and therefore used the solids to create a beautifully decorated pan for cooking stones; they ate mud and fell asleep for an entire hour without breathing.

-Time's up donk king! Wakey fast 'coz the moon's about to shoot the sun for having stayed on top more than what's good for him.- Said Swampee

-I've been awake for more than 15 minutes slagger muser! Get on with the tying of the rope! We must finish the net before we get tired again and collapse involuntarily. Damn you narcolepsy it ain't funny!- Replied Eggroll

And that's how they used to address each other before the lobster killing, they did the same role every single time! Until they had it perfected right down to the last miserable line. Except for this time, because they had an extra character to deal with.

-Who's that that stares at my pong without my permission. It is very impolite to trespass into one's property without so much as bringing cake! It is even more impolite than stepping on nature!- Said a very acute voice behind some plastic bushes.

-Well it's us... the dinnies... But HEY who are YOU?! We've been coming here ever since we've had 2 tails, and nobody had we encountered on the befores!- Replied Eggroll, stuttering slightly.

-He he, you speak funny when you're nervous- Added Swampee, trying not to whisper as much, coz it annoys the plastic bushes.

-Shut it hazelbutt! I'm trying to clarify this present misunderstanding and you are acting like a black hole in a planet spiraling round an orbit that goes right after Saturn.-Muttered the other, and turned to the stranger- We're very sorry to disturb your apparent territorial belongings. We were just looking for some jilly willy lobsters to kill... it's not much fun, but there's overpopulation and they taste better than mud.-

-Very well... you may pass. But first let us have some tea and biscuits I stole from the last couple of visitors that stayed for supper and ended up locked in my basement. Shall we?-Said the gigantic and black bunny rat bit imposing his notorious presence right in front of them.

They both took their canes and ran away. No lobster killing for that day.

Beerdee + a small shell

It strikes me how some of the nicest things in life are not only for free, but they hit you in the arse when least expected; like a 2000mph piano would on a "Dead Like Me" character (that was a toilet, tho'. Wasn't it?)
It so happened that I got 2 know (a little better) yet another wonderfully-baffling gal right at the end of the TEFL thing. It always goes that way with me; feeling like I've seen it all and then BOOM, there it is and then PUFF it's long gone and lost forever. I'm an expert at finding and evaporating kindred spirits, it's kinda like my THANG, yo!.

Anyway, this is my attempt of putting into incoherent words another slice of that cheesecake of what absolutely did not happen then and there, a little more or less than a month ago. Back to Ban Phe it is!

------------------------------------------------------

So I was bouncing from wire to wire like I usually do on Sunday evenings...
That's a lie. It was the first time I did that wire-dancing thing. I'm never allowed out of my cage unless... nothing! 'coz I'm never allowed out at all. But this time the Gods smiled at me, for the old lady fell asleep in her old rocking chair for quite a long time... and started creaking. And so my cheeks blushed hot red for the excitement revolving 'round an opportunity I had dreamed about for as long as I've been a critter, (which I'm not, coz I'm just a tiny yellow little freakin' canary). Nevertheless: I COULD FINALLY ESCAPE!.
So I sucked all the air I had in my little feathery chest and I "plupped!" my way out of 'em golden bars. And there I was: free to soar like those other birds I usually watch from my window.
Fuckers.

Anyway, I bounced away on the wires as if playing the cello with my very orangy feet, celebrating my victorious-machiavellic getaway with euphoric little pricklings of the rubber that covers those electric strings of death; or so I've learned thanks to the endless afternoon sessions of watching the Discovery Channel with the "prune":
-And that's why I never let you out, my dear! You'd die on those wires, like a roasted chicken!-
I hate that idiotic TV room, I'd much rather have a white wall to stare at for the rest of my days. Well not really. I'd prefer to live on an awesomely bushy canopy, from a bird's-foot trefoil. That'd be pretty damn sweet!

As I whistled away from branch to branch, surfing board to surfing board, and bald headedness to bald headedness, I tried eating strips of clouds but failed (at least they don't taste like those seeds I'm forced to chew up on. I mean; would it kill to have some cashew nuts or banana muffin crumbs once in a while? Gosh!). BUT THEN I caught a glimpse of something that struck me as odd.
A flickering light peeped, oh so invitingly, right out of a door slot on the left of a sign that read "Fern's Bar". A bar... wonder what that is. I don't even know how I was able to read that, being a bird and all... hmmm strange.

I approached, madly driven by the shiny intermittence of sporadic little twinkles... I go crazy for anything that rhymes with "light", and "bright" does! heeeeeee... (drools).
As I opened up my beak to swallow the fancy glimmering ray of whateverness, I was suddenly plunked (literally) by something that would certainly fit in the category of the unexpected. Certainly so.

SMACK!!!!!
-Oi! leave that thing alone! It's mine!- Some creature cried out to me, after having rudely hit my head with what I now realised was a very splintery chop stick.

-What the f...eather was that all about? I mean, there have got to be better ways of calling one's attention, you know- I said as I rubbed my forehead with one wing, and drew away any signs of teary leftovers on my face with the other.

-Crikey! I'm sorry, I did not realise a chop stick could be as deadly! Merked you dead good didn't I? You mardy.mardarse.mard. Thought you were going for my dinner- Was what I got for an answer.

-No! Ouch! Congrats, I guess- I replied, continuing the rubbing of the damaged area.

-Well, what a way to introduce oneself, I'd say, mighty fine! My name's &%$&#% by the way. What's yours?-
(&%$&#% is my textual translation of a sound that no human can interpret, known and understood only by flying beings).

As my eyes recovered focus I finally could see with whom I was sharing the strangest conversation: she was a deep blue and green coloured parrot with a burning red-orange beak. Quite stunning for a bird that's not necessarily a peacock.

- Well &%$&#%, it's nice and weird to meet you. I dunno my name, but She calls me Sandy. By "she" I mean the lady that has me for a pet trapped inside a golden cage. And feeds me shit at it- I listened to myself word out, resentfully.

-Feeds you shit? I eat anything I want. The owner (that man over there that looks kind of Russian) gives me anything going from a Veggie Kebab to a Strawberry-Hazelnut tart. I only need to look pretty standing here in my very own corner, and learn some human words from time to time. When I learn enough phrases I can go about teaching others like myself, maybe in other bars or in other beaches... depending on the weather-

Her eyes gleamed against the remnants of sunlight while she gave me this snippet version of her Bio. I was amused, but my head stung still, so I took ages in finding a suitable response.

-Well, lucky you! I just managed to get some air out of that house-arrest anti-home I've been living my whole life in and already I've experienced a near death encounter. With a chopstick! Gee it's been a ball, but I probably should get going in a few minutes anyways; my owner ought to wake up any minute now and she better find me there when that happens.- I said, and began to walk away.

-Wait! That's it? You're gonna return to your hell-hole life just like that? What about chance and destiny and the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and being free? You're a disappointment to your species! Go on then, I don't give a darn. Ta ta!- She spat at me (not literally tho') with a sarcastic tone.

So that's how I found myself in the bellybutton of one of those crossroad-chic flick movie scenes where you have to decide whether or not you should be a chicken (HA!), and return home OR be a bad ass canary with enough free will on your yellow plumage to take a leap of faith into the unknown.
But then I noticed something strange on her feet; they were tied up with some sort of discreet yet perceivable string with little bells attached on each end.

-What's that for?- I asked, raising an eyebrow.

-Oh! Never mind that... it's just for precaution. I tend to fancy flying away every so often, and the owner does not like it. He says I should stay with him and learn drunken words to entertain the world.- Her expression darkened after explaining this to me.

I got closer, laid a wing on her shoulder and bit the string until it snapped. I tied what was left on my own leg, and stepped away with what was now a new tinkling bracelet.

-It's not gonna be like this forever, you know? Some of us need to figure out what kinds of chirps n' chants we'd like to sing to the moon before the night blanket falls and covers the Earth. We are but a blink of the sun, yet our eyelash battings will get to brush over a million sunrises and another million sunsets or so. I'm awful thankful for our little encounter. Perhaps we'll run into each other some other time, or perhaps not. Let us see with our eyes closed and our faces to the skies.-

I don't know how I got so fucking poetic out of the blue. But I took flight right away and left the parrot to her own turbulent thoughts... I think I heard her yell something like:
"Alis volat propiis!" But then again, she might have just burped a little.

I have a strong feeling we shall meet again.

The turquoise necklace, and a heavy hearted hedgehog

Anamnesis... I rode my bike today. Woke up in this random bed with a random person next to me (that I soon recognized to be Mayra, my animation class teammate), doodled my way into the shower, got some pants on and toothpaste in my mouth, spat, and drove away above the wistful shades of the familiar trees that decorate my daily pathway to Uni in Xochimilco, Mexico City.
The Postal Service lulled my direction as the tires enveloped the perimeter of the gray streets (Iphone was on and kicking), right there and then I plunged into the sea of memories that give meaning to the soundtrack of my life.

I was 6 years old and could not find my brother. There was only his purple hat to be seen lying motionless on top of a very peculiar heap of snow... then I heard his voice. Inside it.-------------------------------

Anyways, I pushed that bubble away as I passed over a bumpy part of the road, and landed on another thought; a slightly more recent one. I find it curious how these two, like the rest of my memories, have the same visual quality in my mind (HD) no matter how long it's been since they happened. I've a hard time remembering dates, names, faces or numbers (especially birthdays) but BOY can I remember SCENES, and savour them-songs and conversations like Grenouille did with smells.
----------------------------------------------------

Lester was the most silent of the clan. He usually just sneaked (or "snuck" if you prefer) out of our highly uncomfortably-tensed conversations (regarding religious differences amongst Arabs and stupid Texans) just to smoke, and he did some more smoking after that, and then smoked way more as a dessert for the previous smokings.
It was as if he'd chosen to sublime himself away from reality and hence had managed to evaporate completely into a state of absolute peace. I was scared he'd spontaneously combust or some random shit. He looked as though he had chili peppers down his pants, but at the same time he was so chilled it drove me nuts. Jittery-calmed bastErd.

I knew right away there was something more to him underneath the cloud of fuming gases that surrounded his persona in place of a shadow. I was bound to meet the red dragon on his back.
I made him this story:
------------------------------
And so I came to find this rather bucolic character that made me think of one of the stories dad used to read to me and my brother right after tucking us in our comfiest beddy-bed: "The Mock Turtle". This other creature was cute, and small, and had spiny/pointy things covering the whole of his body except for the belly and the face, and the paw-hands of course. And the feet!
I was looking for my shell underneath the old oak tree and had found this hedgehog staring at his feet instead. I asked him:

-Hi there! What's the matter? If you fix your eyes that hard upon whatever, then you're bound to grow some roots outta them! Joe told me so- I said, trying to look as though I knew exactly what I meant by that.

-Oh, hello. Well it so happens that I've forgotten the... hmm I've forgotten again. I think I'm going to sit here for a while and burn little twigs. The smell eases my mind- Answered he, with a slightly melancholic tone to it.

I was confused, but I decided to push the chit-chat a little further to see what else I could find about this amusing being I'd just chanced upon. Hedgehogs can be as cuddly as they can be piercing, depending on how much rice with eggs they've eaten that day, so I've been told. This one looked pretty full.

-So, what's your name?- I muttered, again.

-I don't remember. You see, I drank this tree's milk an old owl gave me so that I could erase all my memories.- He took a long time to think each word before saying the whole thing out loud. But I was very interested at that point.

-Right. So, how can you remember you ever did that?- I asked, rubbing my chin as grownups do when thinking real hard.

-I wrote a note to myself on my feet with Indian ink. See?-

I read the note on his feet; it explained what he had just said. So I believed him. And the letters were pretty.

-Yikes! Well... I get it. But I cannot imagine what it would be like to forget everything! I love remembering... like that one time I was supposed to fill a WHOLE basket with strawberries we were picking from the backyard so that mum could make jelly. But me and Joe ate every single one before we'd made it back to the cottage. I took the blame and was grounded and wasn't allowed to eat sweets for a week.- I said, proud of my brief anecdote.

-That's quite a nasty memory! Wouldn't you rather not have it at all?- Replied the hedgehog, pushing the dirt with a burnt stick.

-Dunno, maybe you're right! But how am I supposed to learn from my mistakes if I do not remember them?- I added, promptly.

-That's a good question, but I cannot seem to provide you with the right answer for it.- He said as he looked away.

-Maybe I can help you remember.- I suggested, smiling.

-No! Then it would all have been pointless... HERE little one.- He stood up and handed me a notebook made out of green leaves and adobe. -I grant you the permission to read through my written memories. But you have to promise not to tell me anything about it after you finish, I'm never to go through the contents of those pages ever again. Swear you won't tell.-

I swore with my hand on my heart and meant it truly. I then read the pages carefully, and after closing the notebook I felt like the saddest girl in the world.
I soon realized I was crying without wanting to, but I sneezed and turned to clean my face discreetly with the red tissue Gran gave me when I left home.

I didn't know what to do or say or not do or not say, so I did nothing for a while. We just sat there, looking at the fallen pieces of bark the oak tree had scattered after changing skins. We listened to each others' recycling of air.
Then the hedgehog lit up another twig, and I watched him puff it slowly. I broke the silence with another question.

-And what do you do nowadays to feel good?- I said, and waited for an answer.

-Well, I've been taking good care of this little dandelion ever since it grew out from the ground.- He showed me the flower.- That was before I lost my memory. He whispers new things from time to time, you know? And I listen... He told me once that I had fallen in love with a beautiful cloud but she was blown away to China. That's where, my dandelion tells me, all clouds are sent by the winds whenever they are covetted by earthly creatures like myself. I will forget about this anyway.- He stopped.

-Well, clouds do tend to change spots all the time, sometimes without even wanting to. Guess it's way better to love something that shares the same ground as you do. Don't you agree?- I said, not really thinking about what I was saying but most likely just feeling it out.

-Right, like my dandelion.- The hedgehog softly replied.

-Like that, yes.- I added, glad to know we were coming to an agreement.

-Maybe someday, when he's old enough I can blow his seeds so they can fly and chase clouds like I supposedly once did. Maybe he can finally learn how to catch one, maybe even a star!- He said as a spoken sigh.

-Yeah, maybe he will.-

I took off right after the sun went down to sleep because it was too late for a little girl like me to be wandering off without supervision.
From that day on, every time I come across one of those spiky-soft flowers I think of how valuable it is to keep track of the all the different kinds of individuals you randomly meet. Most have stories like these; the ones that make your insides want to grow out of your body like branches of an oak tree.

Sometimes I too want to catch a cloud of my own.

For Lina (and Amir)

There once was a Lioness who had everything she could ever dream of. She drank cloud tasting gum drops, slept on golden sheets sowed by precious little elves from the mountains, and could get any type of alcoholic beverage at the snap of her fingers... she even had her own island near Fiji, and her own shopping mall.
Oh! the parties she had. Oh! the endless fun in the land of the plentiful.

Little did she know, for she was to meet a kaleidoscopic dragonfly that came from a far away place known as the British Isles (why not?); she hesitated for exactly two seconds, but then decided to chase after it, senselessly drawn by the pretty pretty colours on its wings... They were soooo very pretty indeed.

So the Lioness and the dragonfly jumped over ponds of marshmallow lillies and ran thru forests of cherry pies and jelly beans holding hands (well paw and wing, sort of, you know); not caring about anything but the togertherness of the idea of being together (???). They were in a state of pure joy and joyness, even better than going to candy mountain with Charlie the Unicorn.

However! one day she discovered they had walked for so long she did not recognize any of her surroundings anymore... Her mother had told her never to cross the yellow sign that said "Lioness, do not cross this yellow sign". She had crossed it, obviously. Blinded by the pure excitement of chasing a brightly brittle bug that she had now come to love, and she was loved back as well.
But then she looked around and sneered distastefully at the dirty looking scenery... she was miles away from home, and this new place looked like it could use some Windex. But then again she also wanted to live with this dragonfly and bask in the sunlight for every single day from that moment on. She was free for the first time in her life, and would not give that feeling away for all the mountain elves in the world (there aren't many nowadays, you know).

She was puzzled indeed... What was she to do?

Then, all of a sudden this huge Elephant appeared out of the blue (and yellow), and shared a bucket full of a strange smelling liquor with her. They used different straws of course.
The elephant came from a jungle that interestingly enough was adjacent to her own kingdom. So they babbled away drinking and crying like old Texan friends on rocking chairs out on the porch. Soon the Lioness learned of the elephant's misfortunes; he too was a king who had lost his way searching for better and better tasting grass... when he raised his head to look at the Sun he realized he was utterly and totally lost. He wept for his two children back home, who were named basically the same but in different wording.

They drank heaps and heaps of buckets that they refilled with their own tears and ocean water and booze until their bellies were so full they could not look at each other in the face any longer.
That's when the Lioness had an epiphany...

I don't remember the rest of the story, but I know the Lioness lived happily ever after, and got married, and had children that spoke better Spanish than she did. And she looked beautiful because she was truly happy, all thanks to her persevering sense of truth. Oh! and also because of some Mexican squirrel she met on the way that convinced her to try harder and keep on smiling no matter the pickle... that as well.

THE END

A silver fish for an anchored necklace

THE END.

Here I am, decomposing and restructuring chaotic feelings that "vulture" mercilessly round and round my confused little scalp... it's as if the whole trip was dreamt and nothing more; it's Asia no more.
I've two friends in the hospital, a huge animation project due next week and a sudden feel for french vanilla tea (since I can't seem to muster enough sleep I've had to come up with an alternative to coffee), that and cheese.

Oh! and all of a sudden I realize I'm way more hyperactive whenever speaking English than I am in any other language. I pity those who can't speak "Mexican" then: they get the most pungent side of me. Jumpy Xalli.

Funny, when I look at the postcards I bought at the very shabby looking shop in Koh Samet (where the lady was quite nasty indeed) I suddenly become swallowed by a torrent of flashbacks that pixelate(sic) the 4 walls of this studio into a somewhat befuddled composition of greens and yellows. And so I'm driven back to the old Thai pueblo:

"See you at 7 downstairs in the guesthouse"
This is how our good friend Amir bade us farewell every single day at 5 o'clock, right after wrapping up our heavy load of Lesson Planning endless sheets and sheets and shit-that-was-long. The burden of being a teacher trainee; rookie textual scourging! shpaaaa!
Weary and longing for shorts we all nodded, mentally absent, and emitted a brief "hhuuuaaauuhhh" to him in reply... Chewbacca-like, and not necessarily meaning we would actually go and succumb to his request. But most times we did take the 15 minute trudge under the unforgiving Thai sun towards the TAWANINN after class. We did it just for kicks and knowing we would be welcomed by a smiling Egyptian with a huge heart (and a keen Thai stalker woman who chucked rocks at his window, and left hieroglyphic love notes in his room; very much like a Shakespearean scene directed by Tarantino). He always opened up the door wearing his PJ's looking as if he'd been sleeping for a straight century and dreaming of magic carpets (hahaha not really).

We just sat there on his balcony, siping away our tiredness out of a stolen red bucket filled with a dodgy and marvelous tasting whiskey/rum and average coke. Oh, the 10 baht bottles of Redbull!

But on that last Thursday we spent together there was something different in the taste of the pavement, in the smell of the motionless trees stuck on the earth, in the fluency dictated by each of our corporal movements... Everything was so beautiful it killed me! But I wasn't going to show it, no sir, not tonight; and so I squeezed every single second belonging to that fruitful evening and did not sleep for a single bit. I thought that if I stretched time by being awake I would manage to freeze the vivacity of the actual sequence of events that came to happen as purely as possible; Distilling them into perpetually fresh memories for and from the wallpaper of my conscience. I'm an artist and I'm crazy and this is what I remember:

Our last lesson turned out to be just right in spite of the unexpected impediments; no one fucked up (not real bad anyways) with the structural process, even though the heat was intense! And we appeared more like melting icicles than very professional English teachers. But the high school Thai kids were supportive, and giggled at Lina's disastrous attempts of drawing a map of China; the result resembled what we thought out to be a monkey tumor!!! So the three of us (JJ, Rebecca and myself) were suppressing euphoric explosions of laughter at the back of the room. Hilarious. At least she did not sketch a giant beach ball and tried to persuade the students it was "THE WORLD".

We wore our pink patrol uniforms (the King's T shirt with a bright and pupil-killing version of a pink color), so we looked cutely retarded I suppose. And we kicked ass! We so did kick it that our supervisor for the session (Rebecca) doodled away with passion and admiration all over our report sheets... out of pure love for our work, that AND boredom. Oh, behold the young and the restless!
I don't think JJ's ever hated the warmer as much as that day (he came first and had to cope through both our apparently never-ending introductions), but we all survived the day. And so we boarded our glorious ship (Tao's minibus) along with the other three trainees (Lester, Hollie, and Amir) towards our home-for-the-month: the grayest TEFL building of 'em all.

Back in the classroom Dave (the BAWSE) told us to finish filling up our manuals and deliver them at 2 o' clock in the afternoon... after that we were FREE like soaring butterflies on a November skyline. DRINKING TIME!