Tag: escritura creativa @en

July 11 / Life

Are you sailing or flying back?

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, 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 the 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 back.

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

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?

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