sábado, julio 30, 2016
viernes, julio 29, 2016
jueves, julio 28, 2016
martes, julio 26, 2016
lunes, julio 25, 2016
domingo, julio 24, 2016
sábado, julio 23, 2016
viernes, julio 22, 2016
Ella es agua de lluvia –como su nombre, tan lleno de líneas que caen verticales (is y eles)–. Entra por las rendijas de la casa, por las ventanas abiertas, por los horizontes que se abren entre puertas y pisos. Me dice que desde que llegó a O sus ojos solo ven nubes y a veces las retrata. Luego, me cuenta acerca de un lugar llamado Cara de luna en donde a los cronistas del pueblo se les honra con murales. Yo miro la amplitud de sus ojos y veo un cúmulo de suaves y frías formas, las de aquellas nubes que aún flotan en ellos.
jueves, julio 21, 2016
I found my lost ring this morning. I had been sad with the idea of it being lost forever. I bought it in Paris, in the Sunday's market on Edgar Quinet, like eight winters ago, my ex-husband was with me (it was the last time we were in Paris together). An immigrant Moroccan woman who had just arrived to the city sold it to me. It was hers, she had worn it in her tattooed finger all over the way from home, but now she needed more to buy food than carrying a ring.
This ring (now of mine) has a big red damaged rock on the top. This morning when I found it in one of my unfrequently used bags the sensation was of a very elegant happiness as if I were tasting and smelling the sweetest and juicy red plum on earth.
lunes, julio 18, 2016
Not everything is love, unless we call love to everything, then love is everything. And then everything is love; then love can be anything, and take shapes we don't usually call love and it still is love. Then love and the opposite of love are love but with different sides...
All this made sense in my brain when I was thinking about, sounded like a cool idea, now I see it as a proof that not everything is a good idea, unless we call good ideas to everything that comes into our minds....