Tulia Gonzalez Posts

November 27 / Diary

I could have published the photos of Bangkok and the trip to Thailand that I never planned, selfies in the Kingdom of Siam, the dorados, the flowers and the castles of dragons.

I could have published that Holbox trip in June when my uncle and the puppies in the heat, or Luz and me fighting the mosquitoes but pretending a perfect picture with the turquoise blue behind, the horizon and the sun, and make you feel that everything here is perfect, that there are no mosquitoes, no allergies nor invasive tourists in this “paradise”.

I could have shown the photos of Puerto Vallarta in March, the pretty cats, the boardwalk and the entire apartment with its air conditioning; here also the perfect photos would be touched in Photoshop, would gladden the view with a better exposure and increased blues and greens, erase that plastic boat in the sand, and enhance the sharpness and brightness, the contrast too.

I could tell you that we sailed, that we went to San Francisco to see Captain Tom and he likes the publications at the moment, we did not escape from that. San Diego: at home almost every day because of the heat, the work, and the dogs.

And the sailboats? white and clean and perfect while one cooks in the middle of the waves and you want to vomit the pesto with mushrooms that you have just dined, using motor instead of sails, and you also hate to cook and do the dishes for the whole crew because you have to be woman in the middle of men and even up to here sometimes the ages and the genders are imposed.

But the photos! haaa those are perfect, the Sea of Cortez always blue, the heat and the bathing suits premiere, the sailboats after all always have to be poetic, right?  What am I missing? Valle de Bravo, the progress of the house with its four walls, the growth of the cats, the acceptance to the postgraduate course in Australia, the visits to Guanajuato, the airports, and the goats, again the goats.

It seems that Facebook was left behind, and the nights are still cold.

January 17 / Poetry

Unbearable will to start and end
As if I could ever reach that feeling of getting done
As if I could ever escape the feeling of missing something
Did I forget to close the door?
Did I forget to turn off the lights? Or the stove?

Rolling waves, years that go by,
wishing we could escape from their passing by
But the vapour of the clouds always comes back to the forms of the earth, and you cry as if they could cry wishing to stay, wishing to escape from the cycle of life.

And the clocks are rolling in the back, and you wish to have had escaped,
but you are the vapour of clouds, falling down at the end.
Does the ice complain to be frozen? Does the river complain to be always running?
As the river comes to the sea, as the sea raises to the clouds…
Why do I want to remain on the high?
Wishing to escape from the mountain fall
Even, I wonder why?

There is something missing
Have you ever had that feeling?
Like a puzzle piece missing
No, I’m not talking of sadness, loneliness, or homesickness,
I´m talking of an awareness of had forgotten something, somewhere, somebody.
Did I forget to close the door? Which door? Or the stove?

Trying to understand, I end realizing it’s not possible for my mind.
It’s just a little flame that jumps from one side to other within my chest, and talks aloud saying something like:
I´m here, is this what is it to be alive?

Photo: Punta Cometa, Mazunte. Oaxaca, México 2015.

July 11 / Life

Are you sailing back or flying?

The fact that this question can even be made, it means that there are options.
-Flying, this time I’m flying.

I bought an airplane ticket that will take me back to Mexico in thirty something hours by plane, but the journey to come here took me almost a year on a sailboat. The world can be a bizarre place.

Yesterday I dreamt that I finally left the island, that L was taking me to the airport, that my passport was expired, and I didn’t know if Mexico would recognize me.
I’ve changed so much. I don’t even remember how tacos taste.
That’s why I bought a return ticket, because one day I said: “my grandmother’s food” but I no longer knew what I was talking about; seems that I don’t remember anymore, but that I am rather inventing, and this can be scary.

I left behind my home, friends, my brother while he was still a kid , my nephew when he still didn’t know how to speak, my dogs when they were not yet old, my cousin when she was single, my grandfather when he still lived. I mean, children grow, the older get older, the food gets eaten without me, my friends are getting drunk, and my girlfriends are marrying and having weddings with an empty seat that has my name.

These are the big and small sacrifices for the one who goes away and makes small families everywhere. We have houses and dogs, and routines of the day, even if for others this place is far and unknown, to me is close and familiar. Here I have a small family, the wind brought me to New Zealand and  I have woven a life.

I telephoned my grandmother, she was so happy, we laugh
Grandma, I said, I’m calling on Skype,
(Although she does not know what Skype is)
She tells me: Hija, every day I think of you,
and I think: many kilometers behind the sea
half a turn of Earth separates us
but I call you and you still say:
Hija! every day I think of you.

Then I got hungry and bought a flight ticket.

(Photo: Halfway between Mexico and New Zealand 2013, Tom took that GPS screenshot, perhaps in Bora Bora or Mopelia, or one of those invisible islands)

June 19 / Diary

We all have those little parts of ourselves that we like to hide. It may be a middle name, the high school Prom photo, or that you failed the fifth grade.

Margarita didn’t like me probably because is diminutive, and I wanted to be related with something strong, to have bigger hands to hold stronger, to be more “real”. Now I don’t care about diminutives, now I don’t wish that anymore. I see that is not the size of the hands, but its determination.

Why do we need to be taken so seriously?
Perhaps, deep down we want to be anchored to the ground, become mountains, and we are afraid of the lightness of being made of air and blood.

Getting drunk in a bar in London with A (that man with woman’s name) I said: A, I don’t understand why people tell me I should “take it more serious”, while actually I am not able to believe entirely anything that is said in this world; sometimes I feel like a character playing different roles, changing outfits as life needs”. That night we laughed so much, as we always did in the office too. – Do you think that’s why women do not take me so seriously? I laughed with him until dawn. Deep down, A is like me, he doesn’t care if he seems to have soft hands and yet her hands are big and strong. After that time, he went to India to work in an NGO. I took a sailboat and learned another game, one about waves and wind.

– I seem to be so small, so soft, so full of blood,
susceptible to change, the wind, or the sun
I live here in my chest, my hands, my feet that are cold,
within all this vast space inside…
Is it really that being so small, I am so strong?

January 31 / Poetry
We wash out our face in a waterfall
thinking that we’ll be other
who wakes up next morning

But we are all the same

November 29 / Poetry
 I confess I have lived a little bit.
28 years ago someone –my mother- named me “Tulia”
and since then I collect experiences in a handmade wicker basket
that has a hole in the bottom

August 30 / My Sailing Logbook

*From Mexico to New Zealand aboard a sailboat. These are the dairies of one year cruising in the Pacific.

01/March/2013

I walk across the hotel’s luxurious corridor coming back from the toilets to the dock. It’s like 7am, my hair is a mess as usual, and I am wearing my pijama shorts still when I pass the main entrance of the Mayan Palace.   I show my ID and with the electronic key open the door, enter to the port. I walk fast and light signing for myself  “The Cat Empire” … we believe … we support … living life cuz life is short… la la la … I see Suzan and Keith an American couple retired  to the sea life at their 65yo.  I pass trough blue and white boats, monohulls and multihulls, large yachts and motor boats, nodding once in a while till the end of the pier B 40 where En Pointe, the little yellow trimaran, is tight. I lightly jump on deck, took an apple, put some music on, sit cross legged on the shadow and  watch the two big shiny yachts we have for neighbors and how they have been working on them every morning since the day they arrived.  Ha, that reminds me! These days I’m in charge, being the only person on board while Tom is in the States.

So begins a typical day on the dock. In the morning the people from the boats filtered / intrudes the hotel to use the restroom before the tourists wake up. Then we turned on the radio, tune the channel for the net at 8am. Today I check in: “En Pointe, change.” I drink coffee while listening the gossips from the sailing world, the weather, who comes and goes, who is selling some-thing for how-many coconuts.

When normality was inverted and “different” is now “normal”??
I did not realize when talking with neighbors about nautical miles,  port names, boat parts and supplies lists was becoming “normal” until the day I woke up in the morning knowing myself floating. Immersed in this world.

It would be fun to start calling home the Mayan Palace and its port. Although not far from a reality. In these weeks I’ve been crossing worlds without border formalities and passports stamped, worlds that have no territorial lines, which are collapsed into a single moment and geographical point...

Like Mrs. L, a lady who works at the hotel. I surprised listen to her talking about travels in the various countries she was working to send money to their children. She had a different view about the “boat people”. She talked about the type of sailors who rarely are seen ashore, traveling in comfortable and luxurious ships that require very little help from locals, those who are dressed in the whole outfit of nautical brands: sailing shirts, shorts, shoes, clock and even sailing socks.

They live in different countries, in different seas, but always carry their own world inside their boat, where they eat and speak as always. No go and find out what are the places they pass through and say they have known Mexico after spending a few weeks in sun bathing. The only thing that changes is the view they see from the window.

It is not about geography. In the same place are the worlds of the luxurious Mayan Hotel and the little sailing boats in the backyard, where we use a bucket as a toilet.

It is not about geography. Here in Puerto Vallarta is where I use to spent family holidays in my childhood, even my house is a few hours from here … and yet I feel so far away, as if I had now reached new distant lands being in the same Mexico.

It is not about geography.  As Mrs. L said “some sailors are on different countries bringing their world within themselves, changing only the view from their windows”

It is not about geography. Neither the difference is to live at sea or land, or to be “traveling” or “local”…

In the same geographic point there are so many worlds where normality are interchangeable, on the same corner so many worlds, in the same port there are so many worlds.
The different worlds are here in this moment, in oneself.

En Pointe en el muelle B40. Paradise Village Marina
En Pointe en el muelle B40. Paradise Village Marina

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