Kiddo

Pues he de decirte que en estos días tan llenos de activo, pasivo, tesorería, gente que aplica, gente que se va, cuentas, números, juntas, cierres... es siempre un placer dejar todo a un lado mientras comemos y hablamos de lo que de verdad importa. 

Quizá no lo sabes todo Kiddo, pero puedo decir que me conoces bien. También me has dejado ver tu vida sin barreras y tenemos planes tan divertidos que ya espero que sea ese día que hemos pospuesto porque la vida, nuestras parejas, la familia... se nos atraviesan. 

Qué fácil era hace unos meses, pero qué feliz es hoy. Gracias por estar. 

And who was the guy wearing Adidas sneakers?

Mexico 1968 - Tommie Smith and John Carlos do the 'black power' salute at the podium. In this Olympics, we've only seen an angry Swedish fighting his personal cause.

So many things happening in the world, so many more who prefer to believe there's nothing to do...

I can stand musicals...

...as long as they don't dance while singing. 

'Across the Universe' was actually pretty okay - the whole dancing in the movie is saved by the bloody-strawberry sequence. Beautiful. And very (berry) red.

The Centre of the Universe (galactic mail quote)

Although we only got to be in the same city for about one year you were in
the very centre of my universe...

-Mike

(Since I tried and failed to locate that universe now, I have a new quantum physics theory: the universe does not expand... it hides.)

Passion. Reloaded.

Why oh why I only have love in me-head these days? Seriously, there are many other worries competing and I spend heaps of time organising finance-geek thoughts, gym sessions thoughts, re-visiting old friends thoughts... then lazy Sunday and I feel like writing on how when you grow up love does as well.

It goes like this - I've been taking one step back in love matters since I started to spend time outside the matrix (and actually by listening to LuiZ on our oh-my-is-it-really-5am? talks).

So the breakthrough is that when you grow old, you don't throw yourself to a feeling with the confidence of when you were 15. Love is dubiously forever. Maybe I'll just try to make this one work. And then you decide which battles to win. All of a sudden you are actually in A relationship again. Call me when you get home. The passion is there, reloaded with cynicism. And so is hope, and good faith. Amazingly enough, the shape of love is of a more permanent nature. It might not make you believe in fairy tales; it makes you believe in you as being lovable - and rather awesome too!

One year ago I was addicted to the rush of falling. The love-orphine has turned now into something that provokes more smiles - the joy of being loved exactly for what you didn't know you were.

Private Perfection

Precisely because I am generally (and not particularly) in love, I think about love. And humanity. Nothing philosophical to brag about-my thoughts are always random, pretty much like hitting the improbability drive before the morning coffee. So if I give my heart to you/I must be sure from the very start/that you would love me more than her...

Well, here's my two cents: what we love about someone is his/her humanity. I do not talk about infatuation or self-marketing, I talk about this kinda feeling that makes you find a comfort zone that you wouldn't abandon. It goes like this: the most painful break-ups are those where your 'checklist' was bigger -for guys the 'bigger' sometimes starts with 'boobs'-. What I mean is that sometimes you find someone 'perfect' for you, not for the universe. His smile, her free-time, his family, her hobbies, his head for foreign languages... And then your 'awesome' list grows and grows without you noticing that you are even starting to love what you cannot stand in anyone else.

Loving the other's humanity is aching with the possibility of not having his/her imperfections around anymore. That's how I found out how hopeless in love I was with a friend. It takes two seconds: in one you realise you are afraid to lose him; during the second you get truly annoyed to figure out life without that hysterical bundle of feelings won't feel the same.

So that's how love starts: with a mix of fear and annoyance. Oh what a night...

I want a movie and I want it now

The Empire Strikes Back

Directed by Irvin Kershner

1980

Ultra-Condensed by Keith Reilly

Luke

I have to go to Dagobah.

Yoda

You have to use the force.

Luke

I have to go to Cloud City.

Darth Vader

You have to go to the dark side.

Luke

No I don't.

Darth Vader

I'm your father.

Luke

No you're not.

Darth Vader

Fine, I'll cut off your hand.

THE END

Pretty much...

Bad sex...

...is my favourite oxymoron.

Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.

Mom is currently staying with me and I told her a second ago:

'I think we have a mouse in the kitchen - what do I do?'

She said: 'Name it'.

It is the same mom who wrote on my very, very dirty car: 'This is not dust - it is make-up'.

I couldn't have chosen a better family...

Noches estroboscópicas

Y claro que se siente bien estar dentro cuando el cielo está lloviendo, con el corazón lleno de cafeína y la frente de besos. Justo a la derecha están mi trench amarillo y mis zapatos de salir, agotados por un par de noches en las que soy yo pero no soy yo.

Después de tantos días de llegar y no querer mas que cerrar los ojos, por fin los empiezo a abrir. Fue justo debajo de los reflectores que me di cuenta de cómo tenemos a veces la oportunidad de ser alguien más y la tomamos, pero basta un instante de luz para saber qué se siente bien y qué será mejor rebobinar. Piensa, piensa, piensa, ¿qué te hace tan especial?

Si me toca decir, quisiera ser Miterrand para haber escrito en mis memorias que tengo la debilidad de creer en la singularidad de cada ser humano. Eso toma mucho corazón.

También soy específica y exclusiva... no quiero pensar lo que los demás, por eso no hago lo que los demás. ¿Todos leen Murakami? Pues H.G. Wells. ¿Van Gogh? De Kooning.

Y luego llegan las noches estroboscópicas, en las que me pongo bonita y quiero, aunque sea por unas horas, dejar de pensar, dejar de querer para siempre, hablar del clima, de Murakami y de Van Gogh.

Estoy exhausta. Y un poquito feliz. Quizá más lo primero que lo segundo, y viceversa.

Where the colours come from

From one day to the next, I stopped taking pictures, talking to photographers, over-dosing on art, writing my blog... and didn't know why. This life in black and white feels very rough on the skin; I thought it was gonna be numb and blurry, but giving up on illusions feels like silence - it is the aftermath of a small earthquake in your core.

To make a short story long... (yes, it should be short, but...) I started with photography right after DA BREAK-UP, when I had a lot of time for myself, very few friends, and a new camera in my pocket. So everything out of it was pure joy and became the best of me. The last months were all about 'Magenta 80', my project, my idea, my dearest thought. Yet one day a girl I cared about said the pix I took of her were 'useless', quoting her-friend-the-artist. Didn't seem that rough from the outside and I thought I moved on, but when I realised I had nothing new to show and that I left the contact pages of my project undone, it hit me - something got into my heart and took the dreams away.

Now it has been a month and I needed two airplane tickets, one view of Monterrey from a mountain (at night), twenty martinis, and an evening at a photo exhibit to get back on track. It took talking to Al as well, which is like a rainbow in an empty beer can.

Whoever reads this, do not ever let anyone take your dreams away, do not stop believing, do not forget what makes you smile, do not think you are alone, do take time out and embrace that you are unique. There is where the colours actually come from.

People I am currently in love with

• Ewan McGregor
• Joshua Bell
• Angelina Jolie
• Rufus Wainwright
• My friend JB
• 'Sickboy' from Trainspotting
• Uma Thurman
• Have I mentioned Joshua Bell?

Those who forget the pasta...

...are condemn to rehat it.

Boolean me

A boolean variable can only have two values - yes/no, 1/0, true/false. I was thinking how boolean can we be when we're not dreaming, seeing things, meeting new people, listening to the world outside our world.

Mr Shima says he doesn't trust people without hobbies because passions are what keeps us alive. There should always be something. Fifteen-minutes-a-day of dreaming to find a new variable.... and then smile.

Alpha Male

I don't ask for much, I just ask for a Catholic guy of Lebanese background who has travelled more than me and has an opinion on most things.

We were playing yesterday on the road the 'what would be your dreamy match' and we girls could take anything: soccer fans, beer-addicts, unrefined individuals, and with some reserves, even mamma's boys. But guys were looking for slim, non-jealous, sweet, detached, independent girls. Not A, B, or C, but 'all of the above'.

I was thinking about the evolutionary theories and how the traits the alpha male was looking for in the lucky primate (or the primate who'd get lucky) were more physical and preservationary - now our alpha males look for a hot girl to brag about who can also fulfill their out-of-friends time (without asking for 'us' time).

So while McLebanese comes along, I plan to become an alpha female. Without reserves.

Todos los abrazos que te quiero dar

Mr Shima, no hay manera de que lo sepas, pero lo siento mucho, lo siento hoy, lo siento por ti y por los que lo querían, lo siento por no saber decir lo siento con la intensidad que me gustaría darle a tu corazón.

Y a fin de cuentas, reencarnación aparte, una vez es la que es, lo que importa son los que nos quedamos, y tú te quedas. Quisiera hacerte llorar o gritar o que dejes de ser el luminoso tú para que lo amargo se vaya de una vez y se quede él contigo como un recuerdo de atardeceres y de tú sabrás qué más.

¿Qué más puedo decirte? Pues inconstante y fuera de foco, pero aquí estoy. Y Borges vino también.

Lekker Ding

Te he visto unas 187 veces, todas detrás de la camara, qué conveniente, puedo echarte la culpa de este mareo existencial.

De cualquier manera, aún no sé si te quiero por ti o por lo que creo que eres, o en general si de verdad te quiero. Dice Kundera que uno nunca lo puede saber, porque no tenemos una vida pasada en la que reflexionar o una vida futura por la que luchar. Einmal ist keinmal, my friends.

Y puedes ser tú, de hecho, o el chico al otro lado del cuarto, que sólo me gusta por zurdo pero está aquí cuando yo también estoy (el lunes de regreso a la soledad de donde salió).

El amor no existe si sólo está de un lado del mar (del mío). El amor existe cuando no quieres dormir con alguien, sino dormir con el peso de una persona en toda la superficie de tu corazón.

Me pregunto cuántas fotos tomará...

'Excuse my French' - Life is like the movies (Part II)

There was this last night in Brussels when everybody had left. It was just some hours away from meeting Mike in A'dam (after two weeks of not having his laugh, his lips, his tenderness, the whole dream), and I had the head in the clouds while browsing through the places I wanted to visit that would for sure make him smile.

Maybe if I had known that the next night I was gonna say goodbye without looking back, I wouldn't have strolled around Ixchelles, maybe I wouldn't have looked like the sun and the stars together, maybe I would have just gone back home (the one across the Atlantic) that very night.

But there I was, in Ecco, eating fettuccine and thinking life was right like in the movies. The Italian waiter told me that it was a pity I was not having dessert, because the dessert chef wanted to do something special. Then there was Aimé, right out from the kitchen, there was me smiling, there was a broken French with Italian and English together, there was the manager asking if he was bothering me (non, c'est normal, merci), there was somebody who dared to do what I never do.

So I got an e-mail from him, and two days ago another one. I am not sure why I never wrote back. Aimé, please excuse my French, it is not enough to build the dream you think I am.

Zonen

Before having an opinion on a movie, some people read other's before watching or vice versa; in films as complicated as Boe's you might end up feeling left behind... and there are more questions in your head than the ones you woke up with.

So the things in my head before Christoffer Boe's 'Allegro' had to do with an upcoming trip to Panama, the kiddo, and how to cook an aubergine. After the movie, I was wondering if the infinite can bend towards the limits of itself, if I have 'a zone' inside of me, and how many times have I said: 'Do you know that I love you?' wanting to be believed.

'Allegro' feels a bit like Dogville meets the Twilight Zone. The perfectionism of a pianist with a crunchy-Swedish-sounding name (Zetterström) led him to forget his childhood and even the fact that he had found love (once). It happened that his past was not forgotten, but 'kidnapped'.

The mood of the movie reminded me of some Scandinavian traits I had troubles dealing with: the very-well-handled loneliness, the neglecting of their own impulses, and the very objective look at the world that removed many of its colours. What was personally shocking is that despite being not-used-to-well-handle loneliness, I have a box in the head where I put memories, years, people... and have troubles finding it from time to time.

So we should all be entitled not to waste time tip-toeing life and say as many jeg-elsker-digs as we please. I do believe we should love deeply again and again, fall and raise, and be allowed to display stupidity while pursuing happiness.

Oh, and about the movie - the quantum physics used to explain that the past of Zetterström was kidnapped stretched too much the reasonable, but made a nice metaphor in the end. This movie was not made to think about it, but to think about one-self. I've got my little black hole in the middle of the chest.

Reality (check)

It sounded like a movie I saw - there is this girl sitting at Café Europa in a remote Czech town who notices that this guy on the next table is reading Borges. They meet each day in town and do stupid stuff such as signing up for a beauty pageant or starting a race to the top of a Gothic church. Damn poetic.

It was not intentional, it was talk-over-sushi with the kiddo, the only current person I know that is still up to be amazed.

So I came home feeling like doing a reality check. Too many things that might well belong to a sitcom/movie/Kafka book/Venezuelan telenovela have happened to me and I keep them as small memories that make me smile, but I do not realise often that they sound... weird.

I love making lists, so here's my first share of 'life is like a movie':

• Once in an airplane, I sat by the side of a Serbian DJ who stole his friend's grandma sleeping pills to knock himself out through the 11-hour flight.
• I have been in an ambulance, going full-speed against traffic in one of Mexico's main streets.
• I met a Brazilian girl with the only 30 cms tattoo that I consider tasteful (it was the silhouette of Matahari).
• I have been inside of a 'Chaika' for some minutes (the Chaika is the big 50s car used by the Communist big shots during the Cold War).
• I saw the head of a camel in a market of Casablanca hanging upside-down.
• My great-grandfather had the gun of Sandino. It was a gift.
• A Danish soldier took me and Alicia to 'number eight', a members-only underground club in Copenhagen. I was completely out of posh-ness... and out of place.
• On December 2006, I sat on my party dress at the bridge in Christiania (hippie commune) and drank an elephant beer. It was 5 a.m. That was the day when I actually met Mike.
• Lynda and I used to have lunch by the sea. Just like that. Have a sandwich and go back to the real world.
• Buddha Bar in Beirut. Still dreaming on that night.
• I was in Swaziland just one week after the birthday of the king - he had just picked a new wife (damn!).
• The best gin and tonic of my life was made with local tonic water (quinine included). It was in Malawi right before Madonna put it on the map.

I wonder which amazing things will the next 'season' bring... eyes wide open, heart ready to believe.

Venus as a Boy

I realised that I say 'I realised' a lot. Two things are on my mind today - memories and the nonexistence of destiny.

Let's tackle the first item - memories. I tried to research brain usage percentages and ended up shutting down my whole right brain and the computer; too much contradictory info. So I better wandered around the realms of imagination and figured out there is this archive room somewhere with all kinds of stuff - there are languages we only use when needed, birthdays of people we see sporadically, the key to the hula-hoop domination, recipes we swore to remember while watching cooking shows on the telly, the exact location of Pierre Marcolini, and, of course, a lot of good smells.

There is also a box called 'handle with care' that... well, we all know what it contains.

The usage of the brain can then be compared to a librarian with thick-framed Prada glasses and tattoos all over (yet none of them visible). The librarian makes sure that we do not go where we don't want to and that with the years and the practice we manage to remember the good things and smile at the bads because they have already passed. There are times when the librarian falls asleep and BANG! there is 'Venus as a Boy' and you remember everything about ArtBoy, flavour of the tears included.

I really don't know how it works. A month ago I was very close to an amazing gal and it was so sad to see her go to Panama that I put her in the 'handle with care' box and now I have troubles remembering why was she so important. Amazing how one's brain can surprise one-self.

So in conclusion, I use 50% of my brain to go around without hitting stuff or dropping things (that clumsy I am), 20% to earn a living, and 30% is the punk librarian who decides what moves my heart and what doesn't.

And here's my diatribe on destiny - it is bullocks. We build the path by walking on it.

Ugly pictures

Yesterday I attended a talk with Daniel Aguilar, a photo-journalist from Reuters. Besides from being barely able to breathe when that handsome guy talked straight to where I was sitting (yeah, yeah, perhaps there was Giselle Bündchen right on the row behind me...), he got my undivided attention when he opened his lecture by saying: 'I don't do pretty pictures. I don't expect people to hang them on their living rooms. My job is to denounce what is wrong and make noticeable what is right.'

So photo-journalism... definitely not my branch. Mr Aguilar said that nowadays 'everybody' has a camera, but although there are lucky punches, a good picture does not come out solely from luck. He knows what to pack depending on the event: you cannot wear jeans while waiting for a hurricane to strike, and a bullet-proof vest among students can draw unnecessary attention. You have to know if in a demonstration the police is for or against press. You have to read about what you are gonna photograph, and think before shooting. You have to pack different lenses if you are gonna report the beginning or the end of the football season. You have to bring along two cameras if things are gonna get rough. You have to know that the lighting is everything.

Daniel Aguilar's pictures are far from pretty but many of them are beautiful. If each image tells a story, I'm up for being told what is going on in the world.

Corazón atómico

Justo el día en el que deje de asombrarme, mi corazón seguramente va a explotar o implotar o no sé cómo funcione esto porque nunca me he dejado de asombrar.

I just don't wanna ever stop being amazed; I concluded with the kiddo today that weird things happen to weird people, and that is why we should take in life the road away from the beaten path.

So when you say more happy b-days to your friends in Facebook than in person, there should be some life out there waiting to happen.

Let's go out, let's dance, let's kiss, let's make life simpler. Isn't it the most stupid idea and yet the best?

So Willemoesgade 17, 4.TH is for sale

What about ditching everything today and going back to the place where prices on restaurants did not matter, we made barbecues at the beach, the aussies were soccer-fighting the japanese and our parties required to wear a hat?

Guess it doesn't work that way. There should be a travel agency where you could pick the best of your life and spend vacations (say, a week) in a happy memory.

I miss that sunny piece of life. I miss sausages with mustard, the Godfather, and specially your at-work picnic basket. I miss you sweetheart!

'It is a film. Everything's constructed. Still it hurts'

So this is my shot at having an opinion on 'Reconstruction', one of the most abstract (yet beautiful) love movies I've ever seen.

See, we are used to follow the chick-flick formula: boy meets girl, love fights all the obstacles, they have very nice, sinchronized sex (on the first try), and in the end background music leads us to them laughing with their first born or, if life sucked, to their last 'I will be fine' statement.

'Reconstruction' (Christoffer Boe, 2003) is nothing like it. It is weird, twisted, visually delicious, and shows the real Copenhagen without changing names or adding extras. So in this love story they decide in a second that they are up to give away their cozy lives for a gut feeling. Alex asks 'Why me?' and Aimée answers: 'Because I am your dream'. So apart from that and trying to ignore the WHY, WHY, WHY? questions that nobody will answer (i.e. why everybody seems to have forgotten Alex, why is it all a game that changes parties when he makes choices, why things were not working between Aimée and August), the crude definition of 'love' is quite visible:

Love is a decision for women, and a surprise for men.
Love is understanding that one glance can switch your path for good.
Love is a moment that will never come back.
Love is living in the border between reality and hallucinations.
Love makes you run and chase, forgetting about everything you left behind.
Love is unpredictible. And violent. And has no time frame.

Ah, kaerlighed... Up to what extent would we want to 'reconstruct' our lives to make stories as we want to remember them? I do that a lot, precisely when I think about my life and how it all started. Everything's constructed. Still it hurts.

Insomnia

There is one fly of stairs and around five meters to the shower and my body wants to be here, writing, instead of being under that private piece of rain. I suffer from voluntary sleep deprivation and was thinking - why am I doing this to me? Why do I want to jump from one night out to another? Why not just watching at the ceiling, lying on the floor?

Well, there is the thrill of living. And also that particular way of looking at the world by not sleeping enough; the border between dreams and reality gets slimmer. Now, for example, I wonder how stupid I am for not realising before that I have a crush on the most cynic guy I know, and that I am done dealing with my friend, the drama queen. There. Reality gets simpler and honest; when you are tired you just don't have any energy left to wander around perhaps.

So why are we, humble little Mexicans so afraid of simple, honest feelings? I have found in one single day that a waiter got offended when I said that I really didn't like his service and that the kiddo thought I was too aggressive for saying how nice it would be to give him one kiss (or to kiss the whole crowd at the P-Lounge, for that matter - damn you Smirnoff!). Ask for what you want when you want it? Not really.

Dude, I think I was born in the wrong latitude... take me back to the land of Hansen Is.

The Talented Mr Mehta

It was personal. I decided to go buy tickets to see Zubin Mehta and the Philharmonic Orchestra of Israel and got rather crossed when I saw on the ticket the name of some other director. Pure stupidity - Mehta is the ARTISTIC director. So what's the big deal?

Zubin Mehta is a living legend. Classical music, for those uneducated earthlings like me, is a matter of feeling the notes, and by listening so much, you get to catch violins out of tempo, or different speeds of interpretation. So I've heard Mehta since the performance at Caracalla's Baths (Guinness Record for most copies sold of a classical music CD) and would love to see how that passion fills up a room.

Will report back.

Public Display

Cannot help it JB, you are all over the intellectual me that I keep for sunny days. Just read your mail on NatFilm and wonder why the fuck you do not become a public man of opinion who actually makes others think and dream, just as you make me think and dream. Burning karmas apart, I feel you as near as when I used to put my hand in your arm, or your pocket, while I got to see Copenhagen from the back door.

Jeg savner dig... and you are not bloody making it any easier ; ).

Mientras esperamos

Cuando trataba de llamarte de regreso (sin mucho éxito), el aire estaba lleno de Jack Johnson.

Y mira qué acertado déjà-vu...

It feels right
It feels wrong
It feels like when you have it, then it's gone
I want more
More and more

And if you steal the fire
Give me some
Cause the sun
Disobeys while it waits for a friend to arrive from the past

What holds us around, and around
While we wait

-Jack Johnson, While we wait

Ikea boy

'Self improvement is masturbation, now, self destruction...'

-Tyler Durden, The Fight Club.

Transgresiones

"Transgresiones" es una exposición de foto periodística que encontré sin buscar. El título me ha hecho pensar... y esta vez fuera de la regadera (que es donde nacen y mueren todas mis buenas ideas).

Vivimos en un mundo transgredido, antes de salir a la calle nos vemos en el espejo en dos dimensiones; nuestro mundo, nuestros sueños, nuestras preocupaciones, son parte de esa imagen que nos ponemos para salir a trabajar. Y al instante de cerrar la puerta el mundo nos transgrede, las personas nos ven y evalúan, consideran, opinan... de acuerdo a muchos estudios menos de lo que pensamos, pero ahí se queda nuestra indefensa tercera dimensión.

Hay también otro tipo de transgresión que me ocupa - la voluntaria. Te dije ayer tantas cosas que hoy quiero otra vez el silencio, el anonimato, la vida donde nadie sabe que me despertaba llorando y que ahora mi vida se volvió un asombro detrás del anterior. Pero aún así esta transgresión viene de lo mejor de mí. Ahora sabes que detrás de tanta seguridad hay sólo un par de manos vacías y una cabeza llena de sueños. Eso es lo que te quiero dar (a veces, a tu tiempo) sin que nos vendamos simulacros.

What else is there?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2VxjnpxTR0

Words misunderstood

'Physical love is unthinkable without violence.'

-Milan Kundera, The unbearable lightness of being.

I have a dream... and am not Martin Luther King

So in the sleepless night I had the other day I dreamt about Rasmusmyex, his mom, his sister, and everything that was really painful to remember - the really good things. In my dream we got tired, and thirsty, and hungry, were happy in general, and okay in particular.

I reached the conclusion that when you see the past as something to smile upon it is when you give it weight, when you make it real and understand how much you grew up from the good and the bad.

Seems I can finally move on.

Tomas Hirschhorn

Trouble travels fast when you're specially designed for crash testing.

Seems I am.

I though about Tomas Hirshchorn today while trying to figure out - again- what am I doing here, what the fuck am I doing here, like the guy of 'I (love) Huckabees.' So I like Jack Johnson. And walking. I hate lies and Dalí. I love my job. I've been to India three times and haven't found my zen, just half-naked kids with the sadness of a grown up in their eyes. I hate putting up with guys who gossip and gals who indulge in drama. I love dark chocolate and white roses. I admire philanthropy and my favourite causes are the Red Cross and Amnesty International. I love kids, specially talking to them. I am concerned about Mexico and the mediocrity that makes us take just the burnt toast, the leftovers of what we really deserve. I dislike foreigners that are rude to 'less educated' locals. My favourite building is Bellas Artes. Dadá Siegt! I am reading philosophy, and get kinda bored but learn a lot. I dream with a good calligrapher who is a bad lover, or with a good lover who doesn't give a damn for calligraphy. I dated a sailor for a wee bit, and he said about Avedon: 'Why do you buy a book with such ugly people portrayed?!'. But I almost marry a MENSA member who wouldn't get Avedon either, hence he wouldn't get me. I have been deeply in love and failed miserably, yet I am up to be that stupid again.

So Tomas Hirshhorn is like putting all of the above in walls. His 'installation' (does he call it that way?) are three rooms with the walls full of ideas, just like being inside of some one's brain. Then furniture is fixed to the walls and covered with tape. There are also very aggressive carton cylinders full with morbid pictures of war. I had to look away. Why putting that in the middle of his 'brain'? Touching, moving, real, yet frankly unbearable. I think he meant that we cannot have art without understanding beauty is a temporary impression and out there are cold-blooded murders as commonly as the rising of the sun.

The only corner I liked was this bunch of giant pills (or soap bars) reading 'you, you, you, you, you...' I though about obsession and how one might have a whole world built up and then somebody reaches every corner without us even being conscious to do something about it.

Let's see where I manage to crash again.

Je me réveillée en me sentant fatiguée...

Je n'ai pas d'excuse,
C'est inexplicable,
Même inexorable,
C'est pas pour l'extase, c'est que l'existence,
Sans un peu d'extrême, est inacceptable...

Je suis excessive,
J'aime quand ça désaxe,
Quand tout accélère,
Moi je reste relaxe...

Je suis excessive,
Quand tout explose,
Quand la vie s'exhibe,
C'est une transe exquise

Y'en a que ça excède, d'autres que ça vexe,
Y'en a qui exigent que je revienne dans l'axe,
Y'en a qui s'exclament que c'est un complexe,
Y'en a qui s'excitent avec tous ces "X" dans le texte

-Carla Bruni, 'L'excessive'

Carpe bloody diem

So I did it JB, I told you what the 'shaman' said about you and me.

Say one word and I trade this reality... what about a life where the cosmic voices lead the way?

(Peace though. Forsee tons of Rops-and-Baudelaire-alike discussions to come rather than living in a house/a very big house in the country/watching afternoon repeats/and the food he eats in the country.)

Something old, something blue...

This is something old because I wrote it a long time ago.
This is something borrowed because who knows what was true in that cold Dutch winter - it could well be the story of the friend of a friend.
This is something blue because is a tale of dreams and goodbyes.

Love (the making of)

Guy meets girl and they see each other each day of each month of a year. Their lives never touch; reality builds parallel ways.

Girl meets guy again right after she stopped dreaming. They find out that it is extremely easy to speak their lives out, to switch from reality to the place of their hearts where all the fears are. They talk about how it hurts and where it hurts, about hope (not together, but hope) and feel this world is not meant for people who do not believe.

And then sex becomes a bedtime story. They both knew that searching the other’s body was just an excuse to sleep with the weight of an arm on his shoulder or her feet sheltered between the warmth of his legs.

Time went fast that week.

Then we talked again and I couldn’t avoid telling you my life, from the big to the small, from the certain to the relative. You let your heart feel, and dared to tell your friends that sometimes the weight of loneliness is too heavy for you to bare it alone.

After the night when you drove South and I borrowed your world, love happened as life. I cannot really explain how from talking we switched to listening, from kissing to holding, from staring to believing. Perhaps it was the music (my music, which ran into your head as a universe you’d never met), perhaps your fingers running slowly across my back, or your lips that knew the exact place where I keep the dreams.

But that day we made love. It was not only about our bodies that happen to fit as if they had only that purpose. It was not on the space we filled with patience and time, or in our scared hearts happy to find some rest.

Love happened when we realised that there was not an ‘after’, but there was a before, and struggled to freeze that moment and to make the last caress stay for the lonely nights ahead.

Girl left guy next morning, when reality hit and there was a plane to catch. They keep telling each other their fears and send kisses that sometimes mean the world and sometimes fade on the notion that there is no perhaps. Yet perhaps.

I saw the light(ing)

I plan to see Wolfgang Tillmans' exhibition next Sunday just to feel again in a space where each picture is a window on a dimension where the spectator can go from the abstract amazement to the intimacy of the photographer's friends. How to describe Tillmans? Okay, from the technical point of view he can do studio, journalism, landscapes, portraits, and uses all possible angles. He uses black and white, filters, natural light, flash light, reflectors... not an Annie Lebovitz who is specialized in one thing and is very good at it, he gets stimulated by almost everything and succeeds to put it together in a close-to-random 'order'. I want to be inside of his head just once more, to see if I get to understand mine.

The B word, revisited

Renée Flemming (opera singer) is just... divine. Now tell me something I have not heard; she has won Grammies and recorded for The Lord of the Rings soundtrack. Yet being there, at Bellas Artes, watching her all dressed in red and surrounded by a symphonic orchestra made me think how much beauty there was in the way she felt all the songs.

Once my brother told me about a Russian violinist we were watching: 'He is really good', I asked why and he said: 'Can't you see how he feels the music and closes his eyes, how he is passionate about what he's playing?'

So Renée Flemming was beyond 'really good', she made people feel like crying, even (or specially) when she sang something in Czech - a very sentimental tune of Dvorak on God knows what. My friend Alex also thought the song was amazing; needless to say neither of us speaks Czech (well... I can say 'Ahoj!'...). How does the collective art appreciation reach an agreement on what is beautiful?

I went with JB once to this exhibit on pictures taken by a very aesthetic photographer at the morgue; there was one I particularly liked of a lady who died on her sleep and looked as if she were asleep, just that she had the 'Y' of the autopsy across her shoulders and all the way down. You could buy original prints at the Museum and they were priced differently - I found out that the one I liked was exactly the most expensive.

So coming back to my opera evening, the collective agreement on beauty resembled my own. And Mrs Flemming will always be worth to watch as passion transformed in musical notes flowing through the air to the very core of the spectator's soul.

The perfect day

There's this fixed section in Vanity Fair where they ask certain celebrities about their favourite gadget, hair-care product, underwear brand... and their description of a perfect day. Since I am not a celebrity can also indulge from/into perfection from time to time and move freely between the world where nobody is looking and the one where everybody is.

-So, Miss Linares, what is for you a perfect day?

A perfect day for me is the one where I am overwhelmed by beauty and there is somebody there to see how I am the real me.

I am thrilled to find out on this Sunday night that I had three awesome days in a role and a couple of perfect hours. Perfection came when yesterday there was Eurojazz all over and then there was him smiling when he found me, and sat close to talk. He got the happiest me. And I got to see him happy too. What an unexpected allure.

El colorista

Andrés Mérida es un malagueño a veces cubista que puede tomar un azul y darle forma, textura, volumen, propóstio, hasta hacerlo parte de una escultura en segunda dimensión.

Qué hora más bien aprovechada y qué buena idea la de que él pintara el cuadro y el chef (vasco) lo cocinara.

El arte debería transgredir barreras sensibles más frecuentemente - sólo así se parecería a la realidad.

La idiotez de lo perfecto

I found out I have a favourite song. Doesn't matter in which state of mind am I, the deceivement of the week, or the flavour of the ice-cream; the song reaches me.

It is a bit of a guilty pleasure to say I heard it on a mixed CD that Rasmusmyex mailed me. Almost everybody liked Jeff Buckley when he drawned (+2 million copies of 'Grace' sold post-mortem), and as happens with García Márquez, one should sometimes surrender to the massive demonstrations of common sense.

So my idiotic perfection is 'Hallelujah'. I got chills this morning on my borrowed car when I heard that love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it is a broken hallelujah. From the 15 verses that supposedly L.Cohen interchanged, just some of them have made it to the washout of the covers by practically anyone with a guitar and a voice with an ample register. I just love the song in all colours and shapes - Old Testament, sex, and the holy dove was moving too.

Now I've heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord,
but you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
the minor fall, the major lift;
the baffled king composing Hallelujah!

Your faith was strong but you needed proof.
You saw her bathing on the roof;
her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you.
She tied you to a kitchen chair
she broke your throne, she cut your hair,
and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah!

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

There was a time you let me know
What's real and going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

http://www.lastfm.es/music/Jeff+Buckley/_/Hallelujah

General Theory of Relativity (for blondes)

So I have been wanting to take a shower for the last two hours and am hooked up reading about Julian Barbour, then Mach, then Einstein, then the black holes (small break to see when Scrubs stopped being aired). Time is relative. Uh-huh, we know. But I like the idea of measuring life by changes.

I have decided to better count my success in life by the instants when I've said 'mmmmhhhh', the number of non-necessary things learned, the smiles back, the cakes baked, the minutes spent seeing one flower out of the bunch, the skies I have photographed, the kisses with eyes closed... the kisses...

But still Einstein is Einstein. I like.

You like too: http://whyfiles.org/052einstein/

Cloudy day

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only.
Do not say 'I love her for her smile, her look, her way
Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of ease on such a day'
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so.

-E.B. Browning.

About the spring equinox (and my cleavage)

So right on the spring equinox it was exactly ten years since I met Brida, the sweet, red-haired witch who told me to the ear that everything was gonna be alright. Not to be misunderstood, I do not follow wicca, or believe in tarot, or have EVER read Coelho. I by now have no plans to start dwelling in a multi-dimensional world. But I do respect there are ways to think and to understand this (and any other) reality.

I thought about Brida because -funny thing- I met a warlock at this spring equinox. Another amazing being; he's a psychologist, paints, and has a really exquisite taste in kitchenware. Additionally, he owns all the art books I plan to have in whatever house I settle in.

This post is just a wink to all the people who open themselves to believe and that understand how one should go through life listening, letting go and not harming others in the way. Who says there's only one truth?

It is funny that the spring equinox shares the day with the most painful of all Catholic festivities - too much energy around I guess...

Since I suck at understanding invisible worlds, have to say that this Latin American reality is the one that has me longing for meeting more witches and warlocks. See, they really listen, and try to understand what is in my heart (although in both cases I did not say anything and they knew.) They leave aside me being single, living alone (OH MY GOD), and actually not being afraid of using the brain instead of/in combination with the cleavage.

This world would be in a better state if there were more 'witches' telling narrow-minded people to the ear that everything is gonna be alright.

And btw - as per the warlock, I am magically destined to have two kids (hooray!) and should've studied Mechanical Engineering as I wanted. Numbers do not move.

PDA (Part 6)

Yanín siempre ha sido la más bonita de mis amigas. Y ya van veinte años, y han habido amigas, pero ninguna como ella, que es elegante porque la belleza externa refleja la interna. Yanín es la persona que más sueños tiene y que más sonríe. Todo es posibilidad. Ella ha sido mi vínculo al mundo donde no se deja de creer.

My kind of people

There are only 10 kinds of people in the world: the ones who understand binary and the ones who don't.

Three microstories (very, very short stories)

It was October and once again trees wondered why crowds and cars came to watch them grow old and die.

When Albert Einstein awoke and found he was a cabbage, he knew he had made an error somewhere in his calculations.

The May moon could hold itself no longer and fell, crashing through the private boarding-house of Mrs. Murphy.

-Rick Walton

Start spreading the news...

New York City boy, I knew you would be reading this. Now I think that at this moment you are taking the metro to Manhattan, and thinking how bloody dirty it is, but doesn't matter, a cab is just a waste of a possible ticket to the MoMA.

Darling, dearest JB, I'd love to erase the four hours of airplane and be there when you stand in front of the Klein's blue and tell you that Pollock said that if you wanted to see a face, you should go look at a face.

You know I forget things easily, right? Well, although I met you in winter, spring reminds me of you. Peut être oui. And there's you at the Planetarium, there's you at Café Klimt, there's you right in front of Trentemoller, there's you pushing your bike and bitching about Tarantino's film, there's you in the dark goodbye kisses, there's you at the photo exhibit, there's you borning in 1969, there's you giving me thoughts I didn't know I had.

Could withdraw today with all of this. Take a bow and thank life for having you, and death for not seeing you yet.

You zen that.

Kind of 'Bleu'

Ben, Jerry, and Kieslowski's 'Bleu' tonight. We all agree it is beautiful, like looking at sunset in motion. But it had two moments I hadn't noticed before, perhaps because when I first saw it, I had not fallen in love yet.

One is Julie sleeping with Olivier, the guy who was crazy about her. It was not out of pity or sympathy, it was to let him free. If he found out the object of his obsession was human, it would make him realise she was not a goddess; she says: 'I cry, I cough, I have caries... that will make it easier for you to let me go'.

The second is Olivier actually making her react by upsetting her - she was so 'blue' that all her life passed by without attachments, emotions, passions... only one big love (the kind that only exists in the movies) can pull someone to the multi-colour life again.

Do we really need to touch rock bottom and living life in blue to realise there's actually music all around?

I hope not. Life in the 'bleu' should only last a bit to realise there's a shiny ever after. And then smile for the unwritten pages again.

Now I have only one thing left to do: nothing.

I don't want any belongings, any memories.

No friends, no love. Those are all traps.

-Bonne et genereusse Julie Vignon, 'Bleu'.

Little V

Valentina, te conozco desde que eras una historia sin empezar. Ayer que tenía tus bracitos en mi cuello pensé que no tienes el corazón de tu mamá ni los ojos de tu papá, tienes los tuyos llenos de miel y de ideas, de cuentos que te cuentas, de pasto, de sombra, de mar.

Yo vivía muy lejos, ¿sabías? y no entendí en quién te convertías con cada cumpleaños porque no estaba ahí. Pero ahora me impresiona que sabes más que yo. Sabes que las cosas en realidad no importan si no sirven para bailar con ellas, cantar con ellas, encontrarles razones para ser feliz. Sabes ponerte de verdad triste porque al patito feo no le va bien. Sabías antes que yo que una cama es buena sólo si sirve para brincar. Sabes que las cosas se piden dulcemente, pero mirando a los ojos como si fuera lo único en el mundo que hay.

Niña que duermes bajo la mirada de Dios, me perdí tus deseos y bendiciones, así que te tengo que hacer más. Te deseo la luna y el sol al mismo tiempo, te deseo que la imaginación te siga siempre, te deseo muchas horas de ilusión, te deseo voluntad para seguir los impulsos, te deseo a tu mamá y a tu papá... te sueño feliz.

It's eaaaaasy...

Weird thing to say, but I think I am in love. I love the people in my life. I love talking to Valentina 'coz I understand life from someone who has been around for only three years. I love listening to smart people while drinking a 'tini. I love looking back and not regretting my choices. I love daring to say I like art. I love surprises and how life ahead is a blank page with infinite possibilities. I love taking chances and enjoying what I have, not what I don't.

See, it all boils down to let yourself surprise and to be an illusionist. Or ilusionee. Or however it's called, I mean that having an illusion is by itself my favourite allure.

There's nothing you can do that can't be done. It's easy... all you need is love.

The Nomadic VIP

The Nomadic Museum happened to me recently and I am not certain yet on how to sort out all the thoughts that came to my mind. On the first place, I was before a bit discouraged to attend due to the thousands of people that were queuing up in Mexico's main square (I have a selective crowd-phobia) and on the second, I hated to think that it became a common place. You know, the kind of exhibit that everybody finds 'nice' and becomes a no-brainer.

But then the VIP pass came and I was there sipping white wine, walking in hills and taking my time in front of each picture. In addition, Carlos met the photographer and told me that he went away for months, carrying a backpack and his camera, and then re-emerging again with tons of films to develop; his publisher then could start breathing again.

So what actually makes me think and write is not really the artistic/non-artistic value of Gregory Colbert's work (it has been a bit polemic), but how different an art exhibit might look depending on if you are a VIP or not. I always considered myself a VIP in museums because seeing the picture/photo/sculpture I loved in the real life is quite a privilege. But this kind of VIP was different; I mean that different dimensions/realities can co-exist and do not even come close to each other.

T told me this week that one's brain creates reality; that and the possibility to be for a while one in a million, change the perception of the world we see. Take for example standing in front of one of the exhibit pictures. Does it feel the same to have queued up for three hours under the sun and take a small look at it than to have walked through the open gates and then hang out in there as in a cocktail lounge? How much does the desire to see something takes part in loving it or not? Despite having had a terrific time, the Nomadic Museum was about me and Carlos looking great; usually when I go to a Museum I stop existing and seeing the works I longed for give me a rush very close to cry.

Coming back to the art I saw, although the Nomadic Museum took its name from the travelling part, I had a feeling of loneliness when I saw Colbert's work. His pictures are technically perfect, but the closed-eyed expressions of all his subjects makes them being very far away from the spectator. Modigliani was another one that did not have eyes in portraits, his motto was 'I will paint your eyes when I know your soul'. But in Colbert's photos there are no souls.

I thought about this book I read - 'The Kite Runner'; there was a character that compared himself to a flower that had roots on water - he never settled down. That is very close to my own definition of a nomadic life.

There are days when I miss my life in Denmark as something that should be there and is not. And in those days I'd give my kingdom for a kiss upon his shoulder/all my blood for the sweetness of his laughter. But on those days I think as well that coming back to where my roots are was a choice that can only make me better. I had to stop being a common nomad to become a happy VIP.

Impossible things

Living of human delusion

Hope, it is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness.

-The Architect, Matrix Reloaded.

Una segunda oportunidad sobre la Tierra

No sé aún si García Márquez sea un placer culpable o no. Desconfío de la literatura que se vende en descuento, porque si lees lo mismo que los demás, terminas pensando como los demás. Pero García Márquez... no es tan exclusivo como el Gran Cronopio o tan difícil como Borges, y hay películas de sus libros, y Fidel Castro, y tantos inconvenientes para sentirse snob y darse cuenta de que todo lo que ha escrito se parece tanto que no creo que sean varios libros, sino un solo cuento repetitivo y sin final.

Disclaimer apart, leí Cien años de soledad otra vez, como siempre, para entender. La primera vez que lo hice, fue una edición de Sudamericana que me hizo abrir un mundo adecuado a esos años en los que vivía de soñar. Ahora no sueño tanto, me he contagiado del virus de la realidad por tantos amores rotos, por tanto cambio de país, por tanto que es injusto y tan poco que lo es.

Y aquí lo que me encantó del Señor de los Adjetivos, sin orden ni comentario, sólo por el placer estético de tomar un sorbo de café y masticar su narrativa:

El mundo era tan reciente, que muchas cosas carecían de nombre, y para mencionarlas había que señalarlas con el dedo (acerca de Macondo).

Había perdido en la espera la fuerza de los muslos, la dureza de los senos, el hábito de la ternura, pero conservaba intacta la locura del corazón (acerca de Pilar Ternera).

El coronel Aureliano Buendía apenas si comprendió que el secreto de una buena vejez no es otra cosa que un pacto honrado con la soledad.

Ambas acciones habían sido una lucha a muerte entre un amor sin medidas y una cobardía invencible, y había triunfado finalmente el miedo irracional que Amaranta le tuvo siempre a su propio y atormentado corazón.

Era tan apremiante la pasión restaurada, que en más de una ocasión se miraron a los ojos cuando se disponían a comer, y sin decirse nada taparon los platos y se fueron a morirse de hambre y de amor en el dormitorio (acerca de Aureliano Segundo y Petra Cotes).

Tanta arbitrariedad tenía origen en el ejemplo del sabio catalán, para quien la sabiduría no valía la pena si no era posible servirse de ella para inventar una manera nueva de preparar los garbanzos.

Ah, García Márquez y sus premios, que a fin de cuentas se refieren a cuentos que huelen a plátano y a calor, a historias cíclicas, a amores de cataclismo, a tierra mojada, a muertos y a ríos que van a dar al mar ...y que todo lo escrito en ellos era irrepetible desde siempre y para siempre, porque las estirpes condenadas a cien años de soledad no tenían una segunda oportunidad sobre la tierra.

Sushiología

A fin de cuentas no puede decirse que el sushi se cocina; sí, el arroz, pero después meter tus dedos en los granos pegajosos fríos cortos y llenar la masa con colores (no sabores) rojos, morados, verdes...

No eres tonto por no saber que el sushi... ¿sabes? al contrario: sé que has visto más que yo a tus 36 pero aún me impresiona cómo tú te impresionas. Si pudiera describirte diría que tienes todas mis respuestas, que has vivido mis sueños, que conoces París como lo veo a través de lo mejor de mí.

Es curioso también que contigo siempre me siento at ease, puedo ser la versión de mí que guardo para los días de sol. No quiero que quieras a Rothko, no quiero instruirte en cómo pienso yo, quiero saber más del campo y de la BD y construir una amistad bulletproof.

Y es así como el sushi, mon cher, no se puede cocinar pero puede servir para decirte que agradezco tenerte aquí, en la misma dimensión. Ojalá sepa un día más de ti para que las palabras empiecen a existir.

PD: Foto de un día azul en Asakusa. La magia la mató Megumi, cuando me dijo que uno de los faroles era la más grande compañía jamonera de Japón.

Clenching your fist for the ones like us

Those who have known me for more than a week know that sometimes the chicken voices in my head become overbearing and I need to shut the world up. So there has been a big deal of silence, and there is somebody to blame. Well, actually put the blame on Mame, boys... it was not somebody but one piece of intelligent conversation I held with l'homme qui aime la BD.

See, I realised recently that whenever a person I met played the 'I like EXACTLY what you do' game, I felt annoyed, because, honestly, 'what I like' can be rather funky, and no, De Kooning is not the name of a Chinese-French restaurant. How to write this without sounding arrogant?

Well, first I gotta borrow Banier's words and say that people are my drug. I love to meet new individuals, boys, girls, gents, ladies and lady-gents. The chance to live a parallel reality through the thoughts of others creates a feeling in me that makes me go to bed smiling. And there is a trait among -specially guys- I fall for: they are passionate about something. Does not matter if it is collecting golf gloves or reading about vampires, if they have this spark of an inner world, they will for sure get to my heart.

So in other words, having a passion is quite a gift, and I do not like fake passions. I do not like it because I have done it, and the big break-through of the week is, well, I don't have to! This made me feel like putting more time on doing my photo homework than on updating Facebook (is there an 'erase backwards' button?). This society is so demanding, so stressful, so you-need-to-fit that it was about time to do it my way. And the soundtrack in this tale full of advantages is Chelsea Hotel...

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
You were famous, your heart was a legend.

You told me again you preferred handsome men
But for me you would make an exception.
And clenching your fist for the ones like us
Who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,

You fixed yourself, you said, "well never mind,
We are ugly but we have the music."

-Leonard Cohen

Haven't felt this good in ages. I am not worried anymore to find someone who see "me", I know there will be as long as I keep my own eyes open and my heart in a cold, dry place.

PS: Jeez. Me diste tanto que pensar que siento que las palabras que tengo no alcanzan, así que he empezado a leer diccionarios. Tu blog de BD y tu francés chic are superb. Un par de comidas más y nos pondremos al corriente ; ). Peace man.

Harry Potter and the Marvelous Midnight Beers

Mijn liefste, ¿con que ahora quieres que te cuente más de ti? My pleasure. As I told you one day, our story is full of advantages: no conditions, no distance, one tale borning from the last.

I met Harry on my first day in town and the next fifteen were all about it. It was not "like" at first sight, but at kind of third, when he got all happy for finding last.fm and smiled at me from the door of the classroom. See, Harry has this way of winning hearts but guess he does not show his shiny inner side on purpose.

Harry was born in Berchem some twenty-something moons ago. I wonder how it was to grow up in that amazing Flemish world and then find himself in Mexico City, surrounded by tons of people a bit sick of living reality without a break. So Harry is tall and skinny, and hunches a bit to overcome the fact that the world hasn't reached his height. His hands are long and his hair is dark brown; when he smiles, and hums a song, and talks with that dutchy accent everything just becomes better. Harry tends to take care of people and is very sweet to his very sweet girlfriend. He speaks fluently at least four languages and dreams on becoming a diplomat. He is smart-funny. He loves Europe and needs to travel abroad. He is a music junkie and can sing. He likes cats and lived in Spain. He will one day do something great.

I wish however that there were more moments like Friday, when I could perceive from here how happy he was by becoming the godfather of a miracle (Harry is Catholic, but he doesn't know it). Harry likes kids and my heart melted when he wrote: 'Elliot is a cutie'. Harry himself is a kid, moody sometimes and obstinate on not to become what you are gonna be when you grow up.

Listo. En dikke kus.

Cuartoscuro

Todo empieza perdiendo los pies, las manos, la punta de la nariz, tropezando con uno mismo hasta que el sumergimiento tibio en la obscuridad termina como un beso, con los ojos abiertos y la realidad al revés.

Me da miedo que el romanticismo de estar en el cuarto obscuro (bendito útero, génesis de imágenes) se transforme un día en tranvía: anacrónico, olvidado, inútil. ¿Pero cómo no querer ser fotógrafo cuando de repente un par de ojos aparece en el papel y te miran desde el fondo acuoso, no para volverte ajolote, sino para decirte que la fotografía te busca a tí, no al revés?

Esto de tomar tus manos, hacer un cuadro y ver "más allá" provoca una especie de rush - el mundo de repente se vuelve sensible y hay tanta belleza que Sócrates enamorado, yo enamorada, qué linda banqueta, qué helado tan estético, qué uñas de mis pies tan rojas, qué bueno, qué arte, qué bien.

La foto debería ser parte de un curso de humanidad.

-Para Carlos LK.

PDA (Part 5)

Dearest Miss Porter. I thought about her while writing the blog tonight, 'coz she is a loyal reader. Now she is somewhere in Asia, living the life I am scared to live (yet for her seems so easy to make dreams come true!). She has wit and intelligence, and was really lovely when getting tipsy to fall asleep (wherever, whenever). I am sure we will meet again.

On why I don't fancy the Great Pornographer yet dig his life

One afternoon in London the shadow of an elephant with mosquito legs took me out from my (very likely) day-dreaming. Amazing Dalí - he managed to touch with his eccentricity even my 'stupid little life' (American Beauty).

I have never liked Dalí, and I so did not like him that once I bought this book about him to understand why. His paintings did not reach me although I had this poster of him right in front of my bed for at least seven years. So he was called a genius and I agree with that. I understood from his hairdresser (Lluis Llongueras) that he could look at a canvas and start painting, straight from a dream and without previous drafts. I also knew that he had no clue about the real value of money - Gala put prices on his paintings and he never paid a bill. Dalí made himself a myth with full consciousness on what he was doing. I think he never lived a simple day, he had to exceed himself constantly and had an addiction to surprise others.

So what made me think again about the Great Pornographer was this brief talk I had with Rodrigo today. Up to what extent we manage to live outside reality? Is there ever a match between dreamed worlds and reality? I think Dalí lived his dreams or made everything to make the exception a rule. I think Ana and Rodrigo are sometimes afraid to live dreams but would rather like to. I think that when my non-real, intellectual, cozy world faces the crude outside I get deceived again (about seven times per day) but then something or somebody happens and back again into this sugar rush of the new life just found.

And about Rodrigo - God bless (the Queen). Amazing guy, amazing heart, amazing things happening in his head that I never get tired to know about. New life just found, and in the actual real world... who might have thought...?

PDA (Part 4)

Gab has been in my life for many years but only until recently we found out it is great to spend Sundays watching at the ceiling, lying on the floor. She is one part of me I am very proud of.

PDA (Part 3)

This is MaPi. I met him last September and for some reason I still do not get, he immediately won my loyalty for lifetime. I could spend three days listening to what he has to say about music and beers, and gave me a reason to believe Bilbo is the greatest place on Earth.

Instant Karma

I said goodbye to Bus yesterday and my heart broke a little. I did not expect it - although I'm crazy about him despite he tells everybody how I walked home once wearing his shoes, there is always something 'normal' about waving at people... we live these lives feeling immortal and hoping all things do actually return.

What I found out later was that when I hugged him I thought - 'He is such a decent guy' and wanted to cling to that feeling of people around being actually worthy. Here is what happens - met some guys recently and after sweet-talking to me, found out they are either married, engaged, committed or have four gorgeous yet illegitimate kids. So what's the big deal? Guess it is all about how tired I got in the last months of meeting people that do not speak up or try to hide stuff. This is the biggest difference between living in Denmark and in Mexico... I spent three years getting used to know the truth and the expectations upfront, not to build a castle that might then fall into pieces.

Well, I hope I don't sound like a drama queen - I am just a bit annoyed. But the sunny side (up) is that I have very decent friends. I cannot quote anyone or anything about what 'decency' means - I can only tell my own definition: Decent people are the ones that go through life with the same face and do his/her utmost not to hurt others on the way (though not always succeeding at it). Decency means truth, honesty and a clean karma; it has nothing to do with religious/social views but to treat everybody fairly. I do not think decent people cannot have fun or take a decision that might look wrong - if he/she has a truth to follow, the force of that determination must be on the light and be so strong that most of the people around respect it.

I hope I grow up to be a decent person although by calling myself Catholic I might be on my way to hell...

Spooky

I threw a surrealistic party last night - spent half of the time sleeping and semi-listening to what the girls were saying. There was however one thing that stayed in my head: 'the mirrors are gateways to other dimensions'. I have a big mirror outside my room and it was, quoting Coco Chanel, more like an accessory/fashion statement. Now I find myself looking on the other direction when I pass by because since I came back home (yes, this messy country of mine) I became a sissy.

What is fear? Guess fear is not knowing what else is there. I am a known chicken. And will go to bed now.

What if we...?

On the airport, that airport, that very sad day, you told me that lucky Belgian guy because I had a good opinion about him. But darling, what I thought in that moment was that if I was ever to put anything about you in writing, all words wouldn't be enough. So here I am, taking back the stupid, stupid blog and wishing I can make you smile.

Cubism on Mike. Mike is a biking viking and has not yet reached thirty. Although he relates to people twice his age without difficulties, his maturity gives a lot of room for playing, laughing, speaking non-sense for hours and then go back to plan a life. Mike is always surrounded by people and has this amazing ability to take charge. He lightens up a room just by walking into it.

Mike has been in my heart since that day when he took my hand and put it in his pocket. It was snow everywhere we walked and the sky over Christiania had this white/gray colour that made difficult to know if the dim lights of the factories were close by or far away. I talked about my dreams and hopes that night, and we created a bond, James Bond.

Mike and I talked almost all days, and now once a week (stupid Ocean in between). He called me for everything and so did I, we discussed sushi and politics-we never found a way to hang up. He is so smart, yet new to the world and the bad things in life. I liked when he called with a funny idea, like storming parties or having ice-cream for lunch. I liked to cook for him and with him, and to drink champagne without a reason better than being alive. I wish him all the love, and all the good and all the sunny days possible. I wish for me not to ever lose track of him. I wish he could kiss me goodnight and wave from the staircase over and over again.

And in the end you've got a friend for lifetime...

Saadan skat. Jeg savner dig.