Category: Diary

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 golden, 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, Luz and me fighting the mosquitoes but pretending a perfect picture with the turquoise blue behind. The horizon and the sun making 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  photos would be retouched in Photoshop, would gladden the view with a better exposure and increased blues and greens, erase that plastic bottle in the sand, enhance the sharpness and brightness, and the contrast too.

I could tell you that we sailed, that we went to San Francisco to see Captain Tom, but 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, clean and perfect while I cook in the middle of the waves wanted to vomit the pesto with mushrooms that I just have dined. Using the motor instead of sails, and also hating to cook and do the dishes for the whole crew because happens to me to be a woman in the middle of men and even up 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.

 

Photo: at my grandmother’s ranch.

Note: This and most of the post are originally written in Spanish.

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 his 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 wind and waves.

– 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?

August 21 / Diary

I see a loose thread, and I take it. It’s my way to start weaving with words. So there is an opening. Did I tell you that sometimes I find myself suspended in an eternal continued moment? When rain drops fall on the roof and I must stay still, suspended, almost holding my breath while listening the knocking against the roof and watching the drops slowly wringing through the window. Yes, is in these small details where I live when a lot is the time in solitude and infinite the freedom.

Great mysteries have occupied my mind these days. I’ve tried to figure out where is the spot where the sun reaches the most to set my island, lie, read or work without moving as time elapses;  I’ve been listening quietly the noise of contraction and expansion of this wooden living house  in order to learn it language.  Unimportant things also happen here. Like forgetting in the morning who I am and by surprise discover in the mirror someone’s face.

Could it be that the word and the writing is a muscle that relaxes and contracts like this house? That one must exercise them? Or may simply be that creativity and ideas are flying around one…? I like to think that the great stories and the most vivid poems hover invisible in the world, waiting for a hand holding a pen in the air, cold fingers on the keyboard, a silent mind, and a heart on  palms, open or cracked, or broken if you want…

I always write about the same things, always ants moving from side to side, beads sliding through the window, how the sun rises and sets, the particular walking of this strange woman, or how people here smiles in a certain way. These things  always absorb my attention and I don’t know where is the space for the big happenings. I could say little about politics and I ignored almost all the news happening in the world. I don’t do it on purpose it’s just that the rain is still falling, then it has occupied a primary focus these days… then I do not know much about planes falling or wars exploding in the East. Therefore might I have to apologize for this, for not watching the news to find out exactly the number of deaths that occurred today. I realize all the rules I am breaking, but it’s just that the rain continues to announce its presence on the ceiling, the warmth of the blanket covering me, the smell of my shirt so mine, and this hand writing.

No that  I ignore the suffering of the world, or I deny it.  Not that I don’t realize it.  Sometimes I also want to cry, sometimes I feel so small,  sometimes I have toothache, and there are nights when I have nightmares about men entering through open wide doors and I have to go out, look up , find a bit of starry sky to know that I am awake, that the only certainty I have is this-moment, is this breath, this beat and I that have cold feet. I feel that everything is inside out, the world is inverted wanting to go outside in … filling things, filling with information, making things, eating things, changing things … It’s like I need to reverse everything, invert it completely. Like flip an orange from the inside out… and that everything internal it feels outside… and the external it feels  inside. “We want to fight darkness when all we need is light.

It’s all quiet here, it seems the only constant. Sometimes the wind moves branches and the sound of the evening cold contracting the wood jumps in the silence. The birds call each other ignoring my presence. If a storm comes from the north, then I let the water run through my face and hair. It’s warm.