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 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.

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?

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.

{Day 11 of 30}

There are days like this one, when I said -I slept too much. I opened and closed my eyes in the morning … feeling a sensation of have missed something that I do not know. It is winter. It rained all week, a thin, continuous pouring rain. But this feeling of sluggishness may not have to do with it…

And on days like this when the direction of an internal map is missing (and yet does not mean being lost) that feeling instantly takes me by surprise.  As who inspects a foreign object for the first time by rotating it with the hands in front of your eyes, look inside, outside, from below, from behind, flipping it … and just does not understand its true utility …  I sometimes see  man’s life like that – I mean, my life-.

Then I turn the little figurine to find somewhere to put it… on the shelf maybe…. or perhaps it has some purpose unknown to me, some different use…. And with my  fingers I draw the shapes and lines;  and with my mind I intend to imagine its possible  uses or appearance … my life. Then I say I slept too much today, with a feeling I lacked something and I realize that is not mine … that I’m riding clouds between dreams and my pink-flowered sheets in a girl’s – stranger- room. I’m pretending be misplaced (as if I was placed!) and then I see that standing up in the same point in the world I could feel myself both:  lost or founded. So I’m waking up, as I am aware of this. I mean I am opening the eyes behind my opened eyes.

Cloud rider – While riding my fluffy cloud of thoughts … I think there is something I should do, something I am missing… then –suddenly – I jump out of bed naked. And everything is like a faint trail … sometimes … a feeling that fades with coffee and toast.  I stop riding the could-  How I know?

Because space
for  feeling the space.

I remember the conversation with my friends from the sailboat Muktuk. An Austrian family with two children aged 8 and 11 years who lived in Alaska on their sailboat. They said they had to go breaking the ice to move, but there is a problem: Stuck in the ice, stopped boat, and the GPS does not work … you know, because the GPS tells you which direction to go only when moving. (When stopped it marks the location but not the direction). So you need to get going, instinctively give the first step and when there is motion the GPS is able to mark the precise coordinates and indicate the direction. This first movement you may have given it in the opposite direction or falling of course … but you know the direction now and recover …  the GPS is working…. But if you stand still … it never set the direction (and you can even get stuck and frozen).

The movement itself is the direction.

Kaikoura, NZ.
Kaikoura, NZ.

What Desafío Creativo is?

Is a Dynamic  that started in Caminomundos.  The challenge is to do some creative work for 30 consecutive days, can be posts, poems, pictures, etc. Do you want to participate?

HERE: This is a creative writing experiment where I’m mixing my dairies. Sometimes I write from the present or sometimes I just post my old dairy that I wrote when I live aboard a sailboat for one year.

June 24 / Creative Challange

{Day 9 of 30}

Since she arrived I’ve spending days in a  country with no name.  I was going to the library. I woke up late, I said to myself  I’ll get that book of Maori poetry today…  Checking my email -a message – “I’m in the library right now.” I think I was going anyways,  and maybe I could had found her with her backpack waiting  -without knowing – for someone that was going to meet  her -without knowing-.  Do we would have recognized each other? I think so, because secretly we already knew our faces … so that happen when you have a friend in common and descriptions have already been made in advance.

This day I had completed a month living in a lost village in the mountains. Evenings by myself.  Walks in the river. Talks with the cows telling them not to eat so fast because I do not know how to open the next package of food … and the sheep that I already know by signs and sizes.  A life of small – everyday things.

Exploring  in a different way the  New Zealand forest.  A few days ago with the “boys” of the club, those oldies my friends. But this time, I was walking in the rain with two hands on one pocket to keep them warm…  furtive getaways between the trees till be founded by the dogs … we got lost on our way back, but as K says: when she feel lost is exactly when she is not. And the smell! the smell of this tree that I lean over and the sound of droplets seep through the leaves … I could close my eyes I tell you, and  go back home just following the smells… after rain are so crisp, so enlightened, so fresh.

And those pleasures went  accompanied by tremendous meals. This time carnivorous, steaks, ground beef, lamb sausage … and no apologizes cuz I prefer vegetarian food. I am being spoiled. Someone else cooking for you.  Someone turning on the fire at night.  The fire burning without having to take care of it. Abundant firewood without going to search for it.  This has its advantages I think lying on the carpet in front of the fire in her company, a strange intimate.

And while the world is talking about players and balls here the meaning of the World Cup would be Mexico vs. Ecuador on kiwi fields. “Goal” they may shout in the stadium tribune, here the cat is the only witness of this game, he turns the head to one side and the other as trying to understand. Laugh. While Ecuador is beating England (as reported by my neighbor Lynn), and Mexico plays Brazil (according to the guys in the Bingo club) here we did not know nothing but the soaked rain forest we breath trough.

Now I knew why M and I never saw that movie together. This afternoon winter we put it on:  – Room in Rome – with a Russian and Spanish speaking in Italian. I think we have the “tú” in common at least (which surprises me a bit). We then set our flag in this space. Island where we impose the Spanish whispered as the first language. Foreign geography where the maps are not necessary, territory without  passports, neither visa paperwork to cross the border. A country with no name.

Quiet but in effervescence. When there is clarity there is no need for any logic. I think I have lived for so long without logic. I tell you there was a realization and nothing attracts me enough from here, I could not be doing something different (and has nothing to do with the country or with living in a house with sheep) … I turned to look and you’re smiling, you understand, you say it’s beautiful -that’s why I opened the door in the first time – I think.

Living this way of creating deep connections in such a short time is a gift. And although we would like to retain the silhouettes – at the time – they are gone … as will the markers of the games of this year will be a vague trace of odor and countries. We go to the bus stop. I return alone after driving speeds and curves to bring in the –witness- cat and start my own fire. The house is complete.

What Desafío Creativo is?

Is a Dynamic  that started in Caminomundos.  The challenge is to do some creative work for 30 consecutive days, can be posts, poems, pictures, etc. Do you want to participate?

HERE: This is a creative writing experiment where I’m mixing my dairies. Sometimes I write from the present or sometimes I just post my old dairy that I wrote when I live aboard a sailboat for one year.

June 14 / Creative Challange

{Day 7 of 30}

I write to W and suddenly my writing is in English in the first place (not Spanish) and as days written in bird´s sings cant be translated… This one will remind without translation.

I

The little boy, playing in bed / while his wounded mother cooks,
is throwing little words and circles / out of the window.

She smiles / (the whole world lights up)
he chatters excitedly – What can he see?

There’s a monkey at the window – behind the door!
But he is falling /into darkness.

Cutting pieces of wood… this was not so useful so I gave up and had a cold house for the night. What a surprise later when I found a box full of little pieces of wood, it was hidden somewhere between the wall and the old three, right in the shade… its funny the things we put attention on and the others that we just pass trough without notice. Like this story… I don’t know why I like it so much… then I think is always about poetry like today that I just felt like start learning Arabic… just because… or that I am suddenly in love of Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi just because… Africa – just because…

II

She never taught him how to cry only how to sing.
Happy in herself – just as she wished to be –
she taught him endless space and vastness
and she calls him: Open-hearted.

I tell W about the pointlessness of clocks in this house. Here the time doesn’t matter, but days are weighted by the light that comes in the morning trough my window… then the warmth that comes trough the window to the living room, the red reflection of the clouds that paints the window in a different color, or the absence of light that reminds me its winter so it’s time to get the fire going… and warm up the house of a stranger that is my house.

III

Behind him a mountain of metaphors
in front a river a mouthful of night
and a train of caravans calling him away.

He wets himself / with laughter
running through Eternity – through this alleyway
this pack of dogs / the conspiracies of fate!

Today I go outside, I go for a bike ride around the neighborhood of mountains following the path, I play, I take some photos… I feel I got lost in some fairy tale – the nature is amazing here. Then in my way back I stop in Ron’s house to have a tea and we go shopping -the little happiness of fresh milk and cashews-. I think while looking the squared glasses and shiny eyes of this 80 years old man: There is a fine line that is crossed when the traveler in bike taking pictures steps in Ron’s house to drink tea in the yellow-round-shape- cup that his grandson gave to him. A fine line that covers a whole other world.

IV

The solid front door remembers the hand that made it –
You are the key – and the creak of the universe — it’s your sole secret
(Long is the absence of light / that paints things awake –
Long is the presence of paint!)

You come home exhausted — from wherever you’ve been
the wind at your side — just as you wished
toyed with by traumas.

Came back home and now I have something in the oven. I found rhubarb in the garden, Fruit? Vegetable? Plant? or Flower? all at one? I make a sweet with it and I am sure I will eat the hole thing for dinner. I check my window: its around after-sunset… and just another day and maybe because Taumarunui is a foggy  town or maybe because my perceptions have changed through the window but it feels the line between days have vanished making a continuous of moments. Like the stream of the river in my backyard.

V

In the forest the lonely one knows all the voices
beckoned by the eyes of loved ones
their songs are luring her / with their tender fingers
and her own translucent solitude.
She sits in silence /close to every thing
brewing tea / stirring the porridge.

In the garden / of a strange home her home
she welcomes the pots and pans
to the sounds of morning.
Scrubbing everything in its proper place
one eye on the radio
that calls her to those distant sands
the desert.
But her colour flow like a river
so she can sing….

*Fragments of the beuuuutiful poem “A monkey at the window” by Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi (love love love).

What Desafío Creativo is?

Is a Dynamic  that started in Caminomundos.  The challenge is to do some creative work for 30 consecutive days, can be posts, poems, pictures, etc. Do you want to participate?

HERE: This is a creative writing experiment where I’m mixing my dairies. Sometimes I write from the present or sometimes I just post my old dairy that I wrote when I live aboard a sailboat for one year.

{Day 4 of 30}

Farmer or sailor?
Ocean or mountain?
Stillness or movement?

These days I’ve disappeared between hours in front of the river, walks senseless, cutting kiwis in the garden, or at the bottom of the hot tub to stop shaking… from the cold? It’s winter … naked trees, fallen leaves, fires … and smoke rising like clouds all over town. I feel my heart keeping warmth, pum pum pum.

I went to the “club” to play bingo with Mr. Graham and his wife.
– And … do you have children?
– Yes, one of 50 and another of 48.

Well, it was the social Wednesday night and there were about 50 people … gray-haired and 65 years old and above. On of those things that happened to my by chance. Also it turns out that my buddy Mr. Graham is in charge of the police district, which is pretty funny given the hmm… situation.

After listening a while their stories… I see that actually is not just me, maybe we all go through changes … of tastes, attitudes, trends, jobs, problems, and the interesting thing is that while living the one: I could swear it is The true one, the last and the most valid; or that the problem I had was the highest (when I had long ago forgotten the others).

One day I was sad and in a hole because I separated from someone … and then happily asked about your next affair!. One day I thought strongly on becoming the best researcher, and then I quit and went for thinking I should travel all the time; then the sailboats appear, then the boats finished … So why identify so strongly with the person / situation / problem being in this time? 

The other day I was riding a bike with Graham and on the way I remembered that before when I asked myself: who is Tulia? images and projections of the person I believed to be where coming at mi mind to try to make a “shape of me” or a character … But now even if still see those characters and stories, there is something that is separate from them in order to see them, and only a sense of “being there” reminds.

It’s like if before I thought my life was like going on a roller coaster ups and downs and suddenly realized that it was actually the base where all these ups and downs are. Is actually depending on my perception I can be the girl on the car experiencing all that or I can be the entire structure of the roller coaster and know that there are ups and downs but experience them from another perspective.

Discern: When thinking who am I? if come images, concepts, projections, tastes and trends of the person who is believed to be … almost sure these are related to the context in which I have lived or am living. So on my bike ride in the afternoon I had the insight that the called “knowing ourselves” is not unimaginable not in a poetic expression but literal.

Today is the day of the caretaker of sheep, working again in research … will see if later on I open a litte coffee shop back in Guanajuato or something else… Even the character of “traveler” also has fallen … but “seeker” is the trikiest one.

Pd. Please someone remind me all this next time I fall in love / have crises / or take the character very seriously … as YES it has happened to me…

SONY DSC
En el patio trasero de la casa…

What Desafío Creativo is?

Is a Dynamic  that started in Caminomundos.  The challenge is to do some creative work for 30 consecutive days, can be posts, poems, pictures, etc. Do you want to participate?

HERE: This is a creative writing experiment where I’m mixing my dairies. Sometimes I write from the present or sometimes I just post my old dairy that I wrote when I live aboard a sailboat for one year.

May 25 / Diary
Desde la granja 25 de mayo –

Registro importantísimo del día:

Cayó el diluvio, llovió todo el día y la noche… los árboles se han quedado pelones y ¡no tengo que regar las plantas!. La Catherine habló dos veces, le dije gracias no quiero salir. Insiste en que vaya a tomar una taza de té. ¡Con esta lluvia ni pensarlo! dice era el aniversario de su boda, y el marido ya no está… pero cada quién le reza a sus muertos… y yo ni siquiera le rezo a los míos, que me perdonen pero yo los tengo bien enterrados. Que si les invoco demasiado luego vienen a jalarme los pies, se me aparecen por la casa y no hay como sacárselos de encima… roen y roen y uno piensa el mueeerto me sigue… sin saber que es uno el que le da lata.

Pero escucho tus penas… a ver ¿quieres una taza de té? con leche, con miel, con esperanzas, con olores de juventud en las historias… el único chisme que podría contarte es que Kiko -el gato- se fugó por la madrugada el condenado, me estuve preguntando en que carajo rincón habrá ido a parar. O que el Sweet me preguntó que cuando paso por su barrio… que no me cotice tanto… yo le digo, a esta chiquita se le agarra en el momento, pero eso él ya lo sabe.

Hoy amaneció claro después de la tormenta que resultó en un desmadre de hojas por todo el patio…  ahí mismo las dejaré… se ven tan chulas como diría mi abuela… ahí regaditas con sus colores rojo, amarillo, violeta. No me explico porque insistimos en barrer algo tan natural como el otoño… si termina barriéndose a sí mismo.

Hoy me fui a sentar al río y las borregas me seguían y me seguían creo que esperaban que les diera algo, o me querían decir algo… como inquietas, con ojitos pispiretos y todo… luego vi que un perro se había saltado la cerca y andaba merodeando… a esos hay que tenerles cuidado porque aquí los entrenan para matar puercos “pig dogs” les llaman  “perro puerco”…. ¡ja! así justo le diríamos en México a algún tipo con intensiones sobrepasadas.

Me dijo el Graham que no me fiara, que cerrara todo y prendiera las luces porque el otro día hubo una pelea de “gansters” según ellos: Lo que en Nueva Zelanda significa un montón tipos maorí tomando y peleándose a puñetazos. Yo me callé la boca… no me quiero hacer la ruda pero si supiera que en México esas cosas son de niños de secundaria, no señor si hubiera una pelea de Gangsters se enterarían… y no se si lo digo con un triste cinismo o con un cómico lamento, pero es lo mismo.

Por las dudas hoy mismo regresé a contarlas. Porque como dice mi abuela a las ovejas se les cuenta del diario… no basta con que estén completas el martes, y el jueves… el sábado también hay que contarlas… uno nunca sabe cuando el coyote se le antoje pasar o en este caso el perro puerco.

Yeah, I need to clean them!
Yeah, I need to clean them!

What Desafío Sweet is?

Is a Creativity Dynamic that started in Caminomundos.  The challenge is to write one Blog post for 16 continuous days with an objective beyond the literature itself.

HERE:

16 Posts/ personal essays for… just for do it.
16 Actions to promote or kick-start a project of research consulting.
2 Languages
One “let’s see what happen”