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.
*A couple of months in charge of a farm, one cat, cows, and 25 sheep… only important things are happening here…
The tittle is the last thing to write. I think. The cat waiting in front of the window. Wooden smell. Noise of branches in the balcony. I have cold feet, calloused fingers over the strings and wooden smells, smells like wood. Today scattered sheep. Today the yellow tree was empty of leaves. Today hot teas, honey teas, milk teas, and moisten mornings teas.
Today the sheep were scattered… 22.. 23.. 24.. and -almost- 25… one is missing the ear, because -almost- was eaten by the wolf.
Rain. No need to go out – just watch them from the window… but I go out and is warm. I wear rubber boots for not get dirty but sheep shit is not like human shit… no… we humans consume from everything, sheep no. I wear rubber boots that smell like farm, big big wool socks… so the feet don’t get frozen, and the boots fit better, borrowed things.
Today the sheep were scattered along the river… they come if I call them… maah maah… If I bring a bucket with leftovers… or a bucket with fruits -but not apples-, or a bucket with nothing because they don’t know is empty. The one without ear goes and comes, and jump with confidence. The wolf gave it this freedom.
They come, we haven’t introduce ourselves. maah.. maaah… They don’t want to know my name, age, where I was from?… hoo sin poorly educated sheep maah… maah… with their curious stares… they don’t talk about politics, jobs, neither about God, or how much grass have eaten today, or how dad sheep left mom sheep…
The teapot on fire. Hands warm up on a side, a metallic screech, the cat is hungry, burn toast smell, marmalade. Look without attention, looking everything but in nothing. I am witness of my own days, I spy them from the garden between the branches of Pohutukawa and lemon. Is the guitar witnessing the music that it’s playing? but the guitar is not happy or sad because the melodies that plays. From here a fresh smell, grass just cut, rain in the soil.
1. Tulia, do whatever you want but please don’t end up dancing in Thailand in some congal(kind of tabledance).
2. Put all your “chivas” (stuff) together, your papers, everything… just in case you have to run away from the country…
3. Don’t hang out in dark places, some dude could come and give it to you unfolded... and worse… maybe you like it!
4. Always have a detail with the people, bring a present for friends and people that help you. I already made some bijou and stuff for you to take…
5. Doesn’t matter… nobody can’t take from you the“already danced”
6. Everything happen for a reason… or has she says “if it’s for you… even if you move from it; but if it’s not… even if you search to it” (uff difficult to translate those sayings)
7. Take the chiles and spices that I pack for you… so you can cook properly…
Note: I brought knord Suiza from Mexico to Geneva… then realize it is from Switzerland!
8. Be aware... write down addresses, phones, send me copies of passports and documents of the boats you will be… you know me… I can go and find you in any island!
– The advice she gave me not knowing she was doing so:
9.Trust in people. (She advice me not trust to much but then she goes and make friends with everybody even in the line of the bank)
10.Ask for help when need it, there is someone always. (When our Bocho (VW) is broken in the middle of the street… she doesn’t care at all, she goes and ask for help to anybody to push it a side, bring the mechanic, etc.)
11.Worries are not useful! Things will came out in its place on the way. But “movidita hija”… move your butt… go, ask, research, read, invent… movidita…
12. And laugh of everything that happen to you… because it happened.
So many words, so much conversation but I am in harmony, in silence. I arrive to Taumarunui, a chubby Kiwi man and his Filipino wife pick me up. Such a small town inhabited by 70 year old people. The jokes back in Auckland make sense now: Tulia, do you like old people?
They show me the house, is beautiful here… a very old house, smells humidity… or like an old book… The wood outside, stairs, porch, is dark and thick. Sunbeam go across the purple and orange branches, because here we are in fall. A kind of chaotic house, and how those kind use to be: With personality… a cat, three cows, 25 sheep… and a river that whispers winter.
He, -after one hour of knowing each other- tells me about his depression and that he’s thinking about commit suicide. She left, they left… girls left. House was falling apart. Now he’s with the Fiipino woman that speaks English without past tense. Her first husband was lost in the sea, fell overboard leaving behind just a sandal. A have a flashback about the first time I came aboard, Pablo saying:
– Tulia, the very first rule to sail in the open sea: if you fall you are dead.
I listen, I listen too many words, too much conversation but then today… listening the her monologue I had a clear insight: Silence Is Always. Sounds emerge from it, on it, but doesn’t mean that it stopped or disappeared… silence doesn’t come or go, it is behind everything… is the background of the laugh, the voice, the music, the sounds that dance those can come and go. As space where everything can appear. I listening the fast chatting of the Filipino woman, her complains, her voice… but it is so clear that silence is here that I can feel it physically. There is no need of go to an isolated island to experience the true silence… since you could be there… and bring with you all your noise.
The landscape is beautiful… I think I’m just seeing everything pretty… beautiful NZ, beautiful sky, the strong and health river, the fog, mountains, colorful trees… or maybe is that I am seeing it like this because I see from other perspective, one of contentment moved… moved for how she says:
– This cat makes me happy, makes me happy. Thanks for take care of the house.
They say… there is heaps of food, meet from the animals also… eat whatever you want… there is fruits from the trees, we just made groceries and if something you need let us know. I say Thanks…Thanks.
I’m getting drunk. I talk with tow 70 years old kiwi guys, and how I ended up here would be another story. One glass and a half are enough to start remembering your kisses, effect that red wine does on me. Without guilty for not putting attention, since one hour ago the conversation is about hospitality procedures and diagnosis test on body parts I wont mention in here. While I hear this background I breath as the only certainly i have of being here. I see in the eyes of the people and I found me so similar, so similar…
Tow days ago I was still in Auckland. We were practicing on the guitar a new song that Leo brought printed out: Crazy by Gnarls Barkley: I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind…
– How you now the pitch, that you are tuned? I ask when we are trying to sing.
– You just know it. When you resonate on the same tune the guitar and you. It feels inside, and inside of the guitar too and even you can feeling on the nose. He says laughing. So the vibration seems molted in a single one, you are tuned.
The lyrics says: Who you think you are? You really think you are in control…
Now I am listening the song in my new bedroom. A little town on the mountains. Conversations lost between hearing devices an Filipino accents. I see beauty in every corner of this place. A colorful fall. Cold makes my body stronger. A river in the backyard.
I listen, I listen… I almost not talk and that it feels good. I don’t have to much to say. I listen the explanations of how things work in the house, the owners are leaving soon and I will stay here the next months…
I listen conversations during dinner, with their friends…
I listen when someone knocks the door at midnight with the news that somebody has just died.
I listen I breath as the only certainly i have of being here.
Does that make me crazy?
I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind
There was something so pleasant about that place.
Even your emotions had an echo
In so much space
And when you’re out there
Yeah, I was out of touch
But it wasn’t because I didn’t know enough
I just knew too much
Does that make me crazy?
Does that make me crazy?
Does that make me crazy?
And I hope that you are having the time of your life
But think twice, that’s my only advice
Come on now, who do you, who do you, who do you, who do you think you are,
Ha ha ha bless your soul
You really think you’re in control
Well, I think you’re crazy
I think you’re crazy
I think you’re crazy
Just like me
My heroes had the heart to lose their lives out on a limb
And all I remember is thinking, I want to be like them
Ever since I was little, ever since I was little it looked like fun
And it’s no coincidence I’ve come
And I can die when I’m done
Headphones, a sweatshirt from the seconhand… that she left behind when she left… Sport pants that fit me – fucking – good. Underwear was forgotten on the port. I almost don’t need it. Music: arab. Short curly hair.
I am falling sleep in the mattress on the living room, my space in the three weeks I lived here. Leo plays the guitar on my side till I am lost in the dreams. I remember the fist time I came to Cameron Street, in Auckland. The only house in a neighborhood of new and fancy buildings that is full of trees, of stuff everywhere, a sailboat in the garden, vegetables, hanging clothes. A Maori house.
A family of 4 brown, tall and strong guys, with a giant heart as their hands. Thomas, Leo, John y Dad. It’s one of those places that you can even try to understand. Surreal or poetic as you want to see it. Nobody will explain you how things work, is Your house. They won’t ask when you are leaving, but will be sad you do it.
I always like the conversations with Leo. A guy with long hair, slanted eyes, and a smile -always-… a very relaxed guy. He tell me stories, traditions, the language, and about his grandfather Bruce Biggs that (in Wikipedia): Was the first academic appointed to teach the Māori language at a New Zealand university, and to a hole generation, published more than 100 books… But Leo tell me about how he discovered a new tribe Rotuman in Papa New Guinea and that he brought two indigenous guys to live in the garage to prove it. He says: They got bones in the nose!
However, is silence what I most enjoy here. They don’t ask for stories for entertain.
– Have you hear about Vipassana? Leo says. It’s a silence retreat for 10 days.
– Yes! I was about going, but… I cancel it.
– Ha, but you would not have problems there, you are so… quiet. You remind me the people there.
I like to take friends there because… they talk to much, and in there I can see them quite, I can really see them.
Thomas comes and takes me out of the computer to see an spectacular sunset, to an unexpected Yoga festival, to participate as extra on a Rugby film for 50 dollars o to a night market. From be immersed in myself, suddenly I found me in very fun or bizarre situations: as being meditating on a forest and dancing electronic music mixed with mantras.
Once I though that being interacting with people in some reason could “takeme” out of myself, that attention was in the outside, in the conversation. But is not yet like that. In this moment there is nothing that can distract me from this center.
However, I prefer stay inside on the house most of the time.
Leo: – Hey, good morning (sleepy face) Are you still marinating?
– Yes I am! (rolled me up tighter on my blanket).
How someone could be Not spiritual? I ask myself remembering the mantras of the festival… I guess is an expression, a way as other religions. I din’t had an option. I had an emergency. Since children I was not attracted for making big amounts of money, to have things neither, I didn’t dream with the perfect relationship, children or house. I remember in highschool during classes I was distracted thinking that Something was wrong in all this, because If I say: my body, my mind, my soul… What or Who says “my“?
I was looking for something… some restless. For some time I though in devoting myself to help others so I study nursing. I did the best I could, I really did. This restless, a kind of nostalgic feeling for understand life… still… I read a lot of books, you know… existentialism and spirituality… I traveled a lot… I still do… I crossed an ocean, I jumped in a void, to the open sea, without plans, no money, neither a particular purpose beside enjoy it and maybe… If I could left everything behind I would understand or find the missed piece on the puzzle. Haha nobody told me that it wasn’t needed to cross an ocean! as nobody told Grandfather Biggs that he didn’t need to bring those indigenous guys to prove their existence. They were always there, discovered or not. (and however, it was appropriate)
I have freedom for talking and at the same time is no need to say anything. I write because existence by itself is a creative act. The purest and most fluid creativity.
Leo right now:
– Hey are you coming for dinner?
– Yeah! wait, I just finish writing something…
**Nothing, just a chick that questioned everything till the same inquire eat the questioner.
Back in a bus. Half of my life has happened like this… moving from one place to another. It maybe, all started when I was three years old… from Irapuato to Puebla; from Puebla to the ranch, and backIrapuato. Or there is nothing to do with it. Maybe there are only those who were born under the sign of the movement, or worse the seeker. Whether city to country or from corner to corner of the same block … after all is the same.
See you soon without knowing when, the elongation of the last 5 minutes together, the closing doors, the last look at the room, the forgotten sock, the printed tickets, the memories that slip into the luggage, the miles marked on the map, the miles that does not matter go anymore.
It is intuition or is that what I say as a joke decides to show up the next day? Two coincidences – so if you want to call it to that, that weaves every thread of life – with the same man: The first, a cancellation of a house as result spending a few days in the green sailboat in Mount Maunganui. Silences: There was no need of words between us. In the second, I had coffee today on my last day in the village of Paihia. A man walks by carrying a ladder, I recognize those glasses . What are you doing here? We went for a car ride.
And all this is important? No. The signs now are just another part of the game. Before I was trying to read them like the tarot cards. Looking threads, following coincidences, trying to draw conclusions… However they were conjectures of an unknown language which the mind does not speak: It can only interpret at will, depending on your mood or taste.
Honesty in every moment. Just that. There is an harmony and I don’t want to conflict with it in any aspect. There is no coherence, there are things that I feel good or not. It is clear. It’s alliance with the inevitable.