I’m a bit of a Hobbit. I like to see things grow, little by little. I like routines (and escaping them: but I find them comfy). I like it when I run out of something and I buy exactly the same one again, I get the impression that I was right the first one. My favourite goodbye is “see you tomorrow.”
Un beso como el primer pie en la arena
Un beso como el asiento de atrás, tras la playa
Un beso como la cinta de casette que se ha derretido
Un beso como un semáforo bajo el sol hace treinta años
Un beso como robar una patata frita de la cocina
Un beso como tus orejas cuando tu madre cuenta esa historia
Un beso como Roma ardiendo en la pantalla
Un beso como salir a la pizarra sin estudiar
Un beso como esas fotos tuyas que guardo
Un beso como un termostato roto
Un beso como un ascensor lleno de nuevas en septiembre
Un beso como esa gota que baja
Un beso como el corazón de Islandia
Un beso como la piel tras el sol de la nieve
Un beso como el primer churro de la bolsa
Un beso como un vaquero el 8 de enero
Un beso como un cruce de piernas estratégico
Un beso como un venti volcándose sobre ti en Madrid
Un beso como un café de bar en Murcia
Un beso como mozzarella derritiendo el paladar
Un beso como la mano bajo la mesa
Un beso como ponerte de pie y decir lo que piensas
Un beso como hablar en la radio y decir esto es una vergüenza
Un beso como decir «no me importa la prima de riesgo, me importa que los ricos son más ricos y los pobres son más pobres, y hay más pobres que nunca»
Un beso como el silencio que sigue
Un beso como el silencio de radio
Un beso como esos diez segundos sin decir nada cuando ya te ibas
Un beso como esa mano que se estira de vuelta tras el abrazo
Un beso como esos abrazos que duran bastante más que demasiado
Un beso, como tú quieras.
—
Foto: Dylan Hartmann.
Un beso como el primer pie en la arena
Un beso como el asiento de atrás, tras la playa
Un beso como la cinta de casette que se ha derretido
Un beso como un semáforo bajo el sol hace treinta años
Un beso como robar una patata frita de la cocina
Un beso como tus orejas cuando tu madre cuenta esa historia
Un beso como Roma ardiendo en la pantalla
Un beso como salir a la pizarra sin estudiar
Un beso como esas fotos tuyas que guardo
Un beso como un termostato roto
Un beso como un ascensor lleno de nuevas en septiembre
Un beso como esa gota que baja
Un beso como el corazón de Islandia
Un beso como la piel tras el sol de la nieve
Un beso como el primer churro de la bolsa
Un beso como un vaquero el 8 de enero
Un beso como un cruce de piernas estratégico
Un beso como un venti volcándose sobre ti en Madrid
Un beso como un café de bar en Murcia
Un beso como mozzarella derritiendo el paladar
Un beso como la mano bajo la mesa
Un beso como ponerte de pie y decir lo que piensas
Un beso como hablar en la radio y decir esto es una vergüenza
Un beso como decir «no me importa la prima de riesgo, me importa que los ricos son más ricos y los pobres son más pobres, y hay más pobres que nunca»
Un beso como el silencio que sigue
Un beso como el silencio de radio
Un beso como esos diez segundos sin decir nada cuando ya te ibas
Un beso como esa mano que se estira de vuelta tras el abrazo
Un beso como esos abrazos que duran bastante más que demasiado
Un beso, como tú quieras.
—
Foto: Dylan Hartmann.
My neighbour once gave bad eye to my husband in the elevator because he was carrying a Barbie in his pocket.
—It’s for my daughter.
—Thank God. Girls should play with girls’ toys, and boys with boys’ toys. Otherwise they end up faggots and what not.
—Uhm, not really. It has actually been linked to genetics, with a frequency similar to that of left-handedness— says @minimalpablo.
—That’s impossible! My wife and one of my sons are left handed!
—…
I don’t know if @minimalpablo was more outraged about the homophobia or the innumeracy.
We’re editing together, head to head. It’s a bio, a blurb, maybe something in between. He’s Neil Gaiman, (I know Amanda is behind me, reading something else) and he’s mumbling a bit, as he re-reads the text: words flow until they get stuck. I take it from the place he left off.
—I think that what it should say is… the British voice that became a classic of American literature.
To this, his eyes light up, because it solves the problem we were having with the previous sentence, because it works. Also, it’s a compliment. And he kisses me, and it’s a long, dry, closed lips kiss of thanks, and in dreams, time stops if you want it to.
This is what dreams are for. I wake up hugging a scantly clad man with a messy mane of black hair, and an (increasingly) salt-and-pepper beard. My head is in his shoulder: we’re really close together, because our 4 year old child has invaded my side of the bed. Again.
—I dreamt Neil Gaiman liked my writing so much that he kissed me. We were working together. Can you imagine? Writing and editing with Gaiman, and he likes my writing and enthusiastically approves.
—Sounds awesome.
—It was.
————————————
PS: Yes, I might be watching too many Neil and Amanda videos on YouTube. I think the dream was kind of inspired in this photo, of which I wrote:
Neil Gaiman is the man I would marry if he weren’t married to the woman I would marry and I weren’t married to the person I did marry and their marriage sounds a lot like mine.
If you want to imagine Pablo and me editing stuff together, just look above.
Update: This is what I thought before reading The Art of Asking, in which Amanda describes some of their marriage’s challenges, which are somewhat different to mine. Still, I can relate to both of them when I read it: the bad feelings when asking for money from your partner, even if he’s wealthier, for example. But also, some of their conversations sounded SO similar to Pablo and me. I’ll update with examples.
This is (sometimes literally) the job of my dreams: please note that this is me in my dreams behaviour, this would not be appropriate in a professional setting. ;P
Josep Martínez just sent me via twitter this very nice nice article and I recommend that you read it too:
Alyssa Aldersley: The double life of being a parent at an early stage startup
After finishing it, I thought that it would be interesting to comment. After commenting, I thought, well, now that I’ve written all this, it could very well post it in my own blog!
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So, here it is:
Hi Alyssa,
Yo soy del pueblo que un niño
en Niquinohomo soñó.
Soy del pueblo de Sandino
y Benjamín Zeledón
—Yo soy de un pueblo sencillo, by Luis Enrique Mejía Godoy (see the complete lyrics and my translation below)
We also visited Benjamín Zeledón’s fortress, then turned to political prison. We saw the cells where first Somoza, then the FSLN, kept their political prisoners. It is on top of a hill, with breathtaking views of Masaya, Granada, the lakes, forests, volcanoes and vultures. The Nicaraguan scouts manage it, and a scout greets you and tells you the story when you get there.
The cells are dark and full of graffiti, bats and ominous stains.
There’s one level that they didn’t want to dig up yet.
In nearby Laguna de Apoyo I felt more naked than ever before in my life, bathing in a volcano crater in my bikini. The nicas swim (well, bath, because in this area they can’t swim) fully clothed. It’s so weird. Everyone was looking at the pale skinned gringas swimming in their bikinis. It felt like a political defiance act.
A remix of Gangnam Style blasted on huge loudspeakers.
On another note, my youngest son broke his leg while I was away. Bummer. Poor him, poor Pablo.
All night I’ve chased planes in dreams.
*************
Yo soy de un pueblo sencillo
Luis Enrique Mejia Godoy (on the right, my translation for my friend Michael: improvements welcome)
| Yo soy de un pueblo sencillo pequeño como un gorrión con medio siglo de sueños de vergüenza y de valor. Yo soy de un pueblo sencillo como la palabra Juan como el amor que te entrego como el amor que me dan. Yo soy de un pueblo nacido entre fusil y cantar que de tanto haber sufrido tiene mucho que enseñar. Hermano de tantos pueblos que han querido separar porque saben que aún pequeños juntos somos un volcán. Yo soy de un pueblo que es poeta y sus versos escribió en los muros y las puertas con sangre, rabia y amor. Yo soy de un pueblo orgulloso con mil batallas perdidas soy de un pueblo victorioso que aún le duelen las heridas. Yo soy de un pueblo reciente pero antiguo su dolor analfabeta mi gente medio siglo en rebelión. Yo soy de un pueblo que un niño en Niquinohomo soñó soy del pueblo de Sandino y Benjamín Zeledón. Yo soy de un pueblo sencillo fraterno y amigo que siembra y defiende su revolución. |
I come from a simple people small as a sparrow with half a century of dreams of shame and of courage. I come from a simple people like the word John like the love I give you like the love they give me. I come from a people born between a rifle and a song that after so much suffering has a lot to teach. Brother of so many peoples that they’ve wanted to keep apart because they now that even small together, we’re a volcano. I come from a people that’s a poet and wrote his verses in walls and doors with blood, rage and love. I come from a proud people with a thousand lost battles I come from a victorious people with wounds that still hurt. I come from a new people but its pain is old my people are illiterate half a century in rebellion. I come from a people that a child dreamed of in Niquinohomo I come from the people of Sandino and Benjamín Zeledón. I come from a simple people fraternal, friendly that sows and defends its revolution. |
Poverty anywhere
is poverty everywhere.*
Why is that? Why are other people’s problems my problems? Are we all together in this? How can we be together in this if I don’t know who they are, why are we here? If I can’t feel them as I can feel my body. Do my toenails know about my hair? Do my fingers know about my heart?
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Somewhere I read: I often wonder if life is easier for other people or if they are better at faking it.
I get to the outskirts of the city and I see all those buildings, and it’s not the big sprawling of tiny houses that bothers me, it’s the big, huge buildings and the tiny flickering lights that make me think of ants, and working bees, and insignificant little lives, with anonymous problems. I just can’t tell if I’m scared because I know that deep down, I’m just one more working bee, in the middle of its working life. Dead and forgotten already, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe I’m scared for all those little bee people I imagine, living in horrible places that I’ll never see, but that I can sort of imagine, because they are in a way, just like mine. With that weird kitchen smell that kitchens other than your own have. With their children and their laundry and their skid marks in the WC. With their fights and flat screens and unpaid bills and salary rises and sudden unemployment. Why do I care about them? Why won’t they ever know that I am here, trying to imagine who they are?
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* Sounds revolutionary? James Wolfensohn, President of the World Bank, said that in 2002.
Photos: Noktonmagazine.com
You were cold
I blamed you
You were dead
I blamed me
You looked mute
I felt deaf
I blamed her
Or was I deaf?
You were gone
No one to blame
I was alone
With you still there.
I went back home
And you looked
The other way.