I don’t know if you’re worried, my dear readers, but my holidays this year do not include holidays from writing. Actually, I’m writing so much I’ve just finished a notebook I started last month. There’s a post for patrons only and tell you too in a bit about what I’m working on. I hope you like it… I’ve dived into the deep waters of the stuff I believe —we might debate about all that.
Talk to you in a bit!
Illustration: the place I’m sitting just now and the new notebook, a present from my mother no less.
I’m an artist first and foremost. But people just want to hear about how I make money. It puzzles me, because don’t make that much. I just save beautiful things.
Yet above the frustration of bringing something up and out and not seeing it shine like it did on my mind, I’m thankful.
My mind tends to forget, and art, or whatever you want to call it, captures stuff. Makes it not go away. There’s a wonderful thing with art and it’s that makes things simultaneously over and never over. In the liveable area of the past.
I fear death like one fears the inevitable: like holidays ending are scary, like Sunday afternoon is scary sometimes. Just a little, then. It will come, but it can’t overcome me now. I fear forgetting the beauty I see, I fear that others are missing the summer I see. I capture summer seconds for winter days, I capture joy for when I’m sad.
I capture me for when I’m gone.
So here I am. I won’t be here forever. But maybe this will.
When his mind is idle, he thinks of her.
—What are you thinking about?
—Maths.
If he’s with her, he loses track of time.
—So late to get home, why?
—Maths.
She wants long periods for herself.
—Why are you going away for the weekend?
—Maths.
—Why are you going to Brazil, again?
—Maths.
She doesn’t like the same things I do.
—You didn’t leave the hotel room, why?
—Maths.
She requires him in the middle of the night.
—You left our bed at midnight, why?
—Maths.
She texts him at the movies.
And he writes back.
—Maths.
Math’s a richer lover than I am.
—Who’s going to pay for that Brazil ticket, then?
—Maths.
—And Korea?
—Maths.
—And Denmark?
—Maths.
—And Boston?
—Maths.
—Could I go?
—Can you pay it?
—No.
—Then you can’t.
She’s a powerful lover, Maths.
She gave him a job.
She gave him fame.
She gives him money.
She gets him friends.
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.
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.
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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.
Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman edit The Art of Asking.
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
Yesterday I visited the birthplace of Sandino in Nicaragua: Niquinohomo.
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)
The general
A lot to ask? — “Living clean, healthy, safe, beautiful and good is living with joy, with physical and mental health. Living with –, safety, respect, faith and hope. — Sandino!”
Benjamín Zeledón’s fortress —the political prison
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
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.
I discovered something: nakedness, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.
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.
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.
