La Mouche

Second Thoughts

2011-12-14T01:29:00.000-08:00

She sits with legs extended on a reclining chair

Enveloped in a swarm of them

They hover about her seemingly mindless

Disengaged

An index through her brow though

And the thick, silver-grey one

A thunder cloud

Vacates the space above her temple

Where it gingerly lingered before

A dozen white-cotton puffs now swirl

In fanciful fairy fashion

She smiles

The crease on her brow has vanished

Suddenly

The wind picks up a rail of fresh ones

Daring thoughts that challenge her

That she daren’t shape into words

But as the window slams shut they crash head on

They leave

A damp mushrooming shape

On the glass pane

Which heat sucks into nothingness

So they are discarded, lost

Quickly forgotten

Like the rushed, minute intake of breath following a sigh

She smiles

The crease on her brow has vanished

Vobarno, Brescia, Lombardia

August 21, 2011

The Wait

2011-02-27T01:22:00.000-08:00

A Flash Story by La Mouche
One day I’ll manage. I’ll go in, take it off the shelf and run out with it, all in spite of him. Him with his lecturing glasses and his straight nose, always looking at me weird, like if I was gonna rob the place. Well, I do intend to rob the place. Now don’t you think I’m a thief! I’ve stolen very few things in my life; a tenner -twice– from my sister, socks from dad, all right maybe a t-shirt from my roommate. Nothing major, really, until now. But this book I must have. It’s too expensive and nobody’s gonna buy it for me, that’s for sure. Someone said stealing a book is no crime. I go by that. Haven’t done it yet only cause of him. Day after day he stands, watching from the counter like a bitch with puppies. You should see the look on his face, as if he’d swallowed sick or something. Moron!
I sit and drink coffee, pretend to read the paper. I study him, you see, and I’ve noticed his stare has softened a little; like if he was learning to trust me out of familiarity. Of course, he still thinks I’m a rat. Life’s a bit rough at the moment, what can I say; no money, not doing great at school, and worst of all, no sex in a long time. But I bet he’s worst off than me. He could easily be a virgin with that long, stupid face, and he’s probably a dropout, like Dan Charlton who went to work for Tesco and now wears a manager’s badge. There’s no way I’ll leave school. University here I come! And with it: girls!
If only I could get hold of this book my problems would be over. I’d be the new Messiah of the ladies. I’d know it all and I’d spread the seed of my knowledge. Oh yes! I must have it in spite of him. Maybe not today, he looks like he’s got rabies today. But we’ll see tomorrow. Better not stare! Eyes down, Chris, sip from the empty cup, wait…

Tres Niños

2011-01-03T01:42:00.000-08:00

Personajes:
RAFA, cinco años

FELITO, siete años

DAIRON, nueve años

Es domingo en la mañana. Rafa, Felito y Dairon conversan en un portal de su calle, ubicada en un barrio de una provincia de Cuba. Llevan shores cortos y tenis sucios. A sus pies yacen tres carrampiolas hechas de cajas de madera que llevan por ruedas cajas de bolas de bicicleta china. La carrampiola de Rafa es la más rudimentaria. La de Felito exhibe su nombre pintado, apenas inteligible, en la madera delantera, donde el timón. La carrampiola de Dairon está recostada contra el suelo y posee toda suerte de accesorios; freno, manubrio y asiento de bicicleta adaptados, y una banderita italiana en la parte de atrás.

RAFA: Si pudiera me comería un león. Tengo un hambre...

FELITO: ¿Cómo te vas a comer un león? ¡Un león es mil veces más grande que tú!

RAFA: ¡Ah, pero yo digo uno chiquitico, que es grande de ‘tos maneras!

DAIRON: (a Rafa) ¿Y de dónde lo vas a sacar?

FELITO: (a Rafa) ¡Que yo sepa sólo puede ser del zoológico! ¿De dónde sino?

RAFA: ¡No y de la selva también, de allá de Oriente!

DAIRON: ¿De Oriente? Muchacho, ¿tú ‘stás loco? ¡Aquí en Cuba no hay selva!

RAFA: ¡Sí hay! ¡Sí hay!

DAIRON: Aquí lo que hay es campo, y lo más grande por ahí en bicho es la jutía.

RAFA: No y los jubos también... y las lagartijas...

DAIRON: ¡Oye, yo dije lo más grande...!

RAFA: Bueno, pero también hay jubos grandes grandísimos que me abrazan a mí y a ti juntos con la bocota abierta y nos tragan de un tirón.

FELITO: (a Rafa) ¡Mshtttt! ¡Viejo, tú sueltas cada paquetones! ¡Los majás no se comen a nadie!

RAFA: ¿Que yo suelto qué? Chico, ¿tú no ves los muñequitos?

DAIRON: Mira, yo sé que no, porque mi papá estuvo en Africa hace tiempo y me contó: allá es donde hay selva que es como el campo pero más verde y grande, donde las matas crecen unas arriba de las otras porque son muchas y no hay espacio.

FELITO: ¡Eso mismo dice mi mamá de la gente en La Habana: que todo el mundo vive apiláo!

RAFA: (a Felito) ¡Shhhh, cállate! ¡Deja que este hable! (a Dairon) Sigue, sigue...

DAIRON: Mira, allá en Africa los majás son serpientes...

FELITO: Ah sí, serpientes...

DAIRON: ...están las cascabeles, las tres pasos que se llaman así porque después que te muerden, das tres pasos y caes redondito en el piso. Son venenosas.

FELITO: (interesado) ¿Ven acá y el majá no es venenoso?

DAIRON: ¡El majá ni tiene dientes, compadre! ¡Fíjate que ‘pa comerse una rana, lo que hace es chupársela!

RAFA: ¡¿Chupársela?! ¡Puágggg!

FELITO: ¡Ño que asco tú!

DAIRON: Y se la traga entera. Como no tiene dientes no puede masticar.

FELITO: ¡Entonces no le coge el sabor a la rana! ¡Pobrecito el majá!

Los tres ríen a carcajadas.

DAIRON: ¡Ay, ya me cansé de tanta perolata, que si el majá, que si la rana! Si quieren saber más, van a mi casa y le preguntan ustedes mismos a mi papá.

RAFA: ¡Qué va! Un día yo mismo voy a ir allá a Méjico a verlo con mis propios ojos...

FELITO: ¿¡Cómo que a Méjico!? ¡A Africa, viejo! ¡Se ve que eres un fiñe!

RAFA: ¡Ah a mí qué me importa tú! ¡Y a Méjico también voy! ¡Y entonces vengo y les hago los cuentos ¡que ahí sí que ni tu papá ni nadie de aquí ha ido!

FELITO: Tienes que ser grande primero. ¡Y a lo mejor ni de grande puedes!

RAFA: ¿Quién te dijo que no? ¿A que sí puedo, va?

DAIRON: Vamo a jugar, anda, que estoy aburrío.

RAFA: Dale. Yo soy un majá de la selva y ustedes dos son ranas. ¡No! ¡Tú (a Felito) eres la rana, y tú (a Dairon) el león. Así que tú, león, me tratas de comer a mí que soy majá y yo a este (señalando a Felito) que es rana.

FELITO: (a Rafa) ¿Chico, y por qué tú no haces de rana? ¡Yo quiero ser el león!

DAIRON: A ver, yo soy la rana... y también voy a estar cazando algo porque no me quiero morir con la barriga vacía. Voy a cazar... un mosquito invisible. ¡ZZZZZZZ!

RAFA: Entonces yo soy el majá... ¡pa’ que el enano este sea el león! (pausa) ¡Ehhhh! ¿Y al león después no se lo va a comer nadie? ¡Se va a quedar solo en la selva!

FELITO: ¡No, mijo! ¡Ahí es donde aparecemos nosotros los niños y lo asamos!

DAIRON: ¡Claro! ¿Tú no decías que tenías tremenda hambre?

FIN

The Photograph

2010-07-15T13:48:00.000-07:00

A Story by La Mouche

We were told to stand outside the next day at noon wearing our Sunday best. Even our brother Phil was to be shaved and taken out on his bed, which had wheels since it was one of those hospital beds hired for the terminally ill. Immediately after the voice of the head carer faded out of the loudspeakers, the waltz-like tune that accompanied our few leisure hours was turned up, and my sister Simone started browsing through our old clothes with as much delight as if they were brand new.
‘I knew it!’ She cried, ‘I knew something exciting was about to happen! I knew I had to do my hair!’
‘You curl your hair every Sunday for church, Simone,’ I replied, tapping sloppily on the table.
‘Oh really? What about this hat? I managed to get it outside the annual shopping basket! You’ve got to admit that’s more than just coincidence!’
‘No, it isn’t!’ I argued, ‘you got it because you have been working extra hours all winter! Just like you did in the autumn, and last summer! You do that all the time!’
‘Don’t be so horrible, Marie! It’s just a bit of fun!’ Simone snapped back. I looked at her through narrowed eyes. She hated it when I did that.
‘Look,’ she moved on, ‘the blue dress would suit you perfectly! We’ve hardly ever worn it, Marie.’
‘That’s because mamma bought it for us to keep that last Christmas.’
‘And so this yellow one from Tandy’s, which we wear a lot. Why not the blue one?’
‘She used the last payment she received from the Thompsons to purchase it. I don’t wanna spoil it, that’s why.’
‘Dresses are to be worn, Marie. Mamma would have liked you to at least try it on! That’s why she bought it!’
‘Do you know if mamma bought anything to keep for herself that last Christmas?’
‘Course she did!’
‘Well, she didn’t! She bought us all presents, a meal and the tickets for the train that brought us down here! She told Phil to be a good brother and look after us. She left us at the door with the carer and kissed us goodbye. That’s the last we saw of her, and nobody had the decency to tell us she had died until after a year later! But you were too young to realise what was going on, weren’t you?’ I knew perfectly well that I was being cruel, but I couldn’t stop myself. Simone was sobbing.
‘You’re so harsh with me, Marie! I didn’t know! I was a baby!’ Just before I had wanted to slap her. But I sighed heavily, and put my arms around her.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said gravely.
‘Me too.’
‘Here, have my hankie.’ Simone bit her lip.
‘It’s clean, I swear. You can use it.’ She wiped her eyes and blew onto the spotless, white cotton handkerchief with all her might.
‘At least you knew what mama looked like,’ she added, ‘no matter how hard I try, I can’t picture her face.’
‘Just so you know,’ I said, ‘you look so much like her.’ Simone’s teary face beamed, ‘really?’
‘Yeah, a lot more than me.’

The next morning, Simone sprang out of bed and went straight to the mirror to do her hair. I went to Phil’s room to shave him. My brother was quiet as usual, with the palms of his hands resting on his lap and his stare fixed on them. I enjoyed shaving him; it had brought us closer, even if it didn’t involve much talking. When my hand touched his cheek, he closed his eyes and smiled. It worried me sick to think that his heart could give up on him any time. You couldn’t tell he was that ill by looking at him because he was handsome and so sweet. He used to date a girl called Anne. But she left town before he was diagnosed. Way before mother died.
At five minutes to noon, Simone was still in possession of the mirror. She had put on the pretty white frock with our spring coat on top. I couldn’t think of a dress to pick, out of the five or six my sister and I shared, so I put on shorts and threw grandpa’s heavy jacket over my shoulders.
‘You look like a boy, Marie.’
‘Who cares? I’m comfortable.’
A tap, tap on the microphone introduced the voice of the head carer through the loudspeakers.
‘Children, may I have your attention, please! It’s time! You must stand outside your dormitories and get ready for the picture! Now!’
We set Phil’s bed lengthwise on the balcony. He frowned, glanced around, and then looked back at me, like demanding an explanation. Whilst shaving him, I had told to him what was going to happen. Maybe I didn’t explain it well; photography was a novelty even for adults in those days, and I was only a child. Or maybe it was just the drugs that were making him dazed again. He had been given so many. I pinched his cheek softly; stroke his hair to reassure him.
‘You look gorgeous,’ I said, ‘just smile.’ There was a spark in his eyes and his white teeth shone under the sun, like a mother of pearl necklace.
‘That’s a good boy,’ Simone said to him. She stood, looking very neat, with her hands on the handrail. She was graceful, ever since she was born. Mama always said she would grow up to become a proper lady. I leant against the banister full on, my elbows resting on the railing, and stared openly at the occupants of the motorcar that had just stopped at the entrance. To our right and left, lines of excited children in their Sunday best giggled and glared in the same direction.
Along with the photographer came two elegant, young ladies. The head carer introduced them as the daughters of our benefactor. They stood with us for the picture, and then moved to stand outside the other children’s dorms to also appear in their pictures. To this day, I find it very odd that, in this my only family picture from those dark years at the orphanage, there are two people neither my brother nor my sister nor I know anything about.

The End

Out of Time

2010-03-25T13:29:00.000-07:00

A Story by La Mouche

Cisca knew her life was over, but there was no time to fret: she had one last thing to do before the end. There was a lot she should have done by then: swimming naked in the thermal pools of Reykjavik with that elusive boyfriend she never went travelling with; finishing her Visual Arts degree, not because of the promise she had made to her mother, now broken, but because she had really enjoyed it; kissing many more men - and women, why not; soft and chastely on the lips, or with tongue, wet in the excitement of passion. Now it was too late for all of that. But for this last thing, for this she was going to make the time. She was going to choose, at last, for once, all by herself.

It was a rainy, cold evening in March. Cisca took the bus from the town centre. She gazed through the glass windows at people in the streets passing, going places; they seem detached, remote, unreal. Some were drunk and merry, some carried their head down and stared at the pavement like zombies. What grudges would they hold, she wondered, if suddenly they were told they had ran out of time? Like she had been told. Would they be scared or brave, would they tell or spare their relatives, would they blame God, or themselves, or others. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the only other person in the bus. It was a very old man, asleep under a woolly hat. He was snoring away, lulled by the under-seat heating, the motion, and the gentle roaring of the bus engine. Disgusting, she thought. The bus had stopped at the traffic lights. When her eyes returned to the outside, they met a man’s who was waiting to cross. He smiled at her, waved his right arm. On his left one, he carried shopping bags; one from Toys ‘R’ Us. Cisca rushed a half smile and looked away, pulling the rim of her skirt down with her pale, withered hands. Damned happy people! They are everywhere!

A good half hour later, she got off. It was the last stop. She walked through a narrow lane, lined up with sycamores. At the end of the lane, there was an even narrower path leading to a number of terraced houses. Cisca stopped there, breathed in and out, unsure. Suddenly she wanted to turn around and run. Run home to her bed and lie there until the moment came. She was only thirty. She was only a woman. She was only human. The pain had helped make up her mind, though; it sprang out of her in waves, gnawing at her insides like a famished dog at a tender T-bone. It was exhausting. And those who love her, of course, her mum and dad, her younger sister Christine, her friends; she didn’t want them waiting endlessly for her to go, whenever that was to happen. This time, at least, she had the opportunity to take control.

She passed one, two, three, four, five, and six houses. Outside the seventh and last house, Cisca stood shaking. The front gate was sanguine with rust; the façade was a mucky white. She pushed the gate open and went through, rubbing the red off her hands onto her coat. It’s so quiet in here. It was bitterly cold but the wind felt gentle on her cheeks. Cisca flicked a lock of hair from her eyes and straightened herself up. This is it, she said to herself, I am early for once. She walked to the front door, sighed, and knocked on the tainted glass pane. A misty, white light was turned on inside. The door opened so slowly that she grew impatient. But when she finally stepped into the pool of light, out to greet her came the fresh smell of steaming geysers, and oil on canvas, and her boyfriend’s minty breath.

The End

The Day The Thought Struck

2010-03-06T01:31:00.000-08:00

A Story by La Mouche

I was walking through Northumberland Boulevard with Helen when the thought struck me. It was a rainy Saturday morning and we had just had a lovely breakfast at the M&S Kitchen. “Don’t think about it just now,” she said, leading me into Thornton’s. “You don’t look it anyway.” But I went on, “I am going to be forty in three years…” Helen walked in her usual cheery way to the back of the shop and reached for a marzipan cake. I followed behind. “My nan likes this,” she said handing a tenner to the lady behind the counter. I smiled, then the thought returned to envelope me again like a cocoon. “Three years,” I mumbled. “What?” asked Helen; her eyes fixed on the lady’s hands, which were skilfully wrapping up the marzipan cake in rich burgundy paper. “Three years,” I carried on gloomily, whilst Helen took the marzipan cake and placed it in her handbag saying, “My nan is certainly going to love this!”

We left Thornton’s and made our way to the City Library for our writing group. We were late, as usual, but also as usual, the first to arrive. Sean joined us a few minutes later. “It looks like it is just the three of us today,” he said. “Yep,” Helen replied. In the next ten minutes, we talked about a lot of things; so many I cannot recall them. And we talked about birthdays; of course, because it had recently been Helen’s, and her boyfriend Chris had got her the mini laptop she wanted. So it was suggested, when the moment to choose a theme for the writing exercise came, that birthdays was the theme, that the maximum number of words were 750 and that we had twenty minutes. I took on the task straight away, not without a sunken heart. Oh well, at least I knew exactly what my story was going to be about. It took me ten minutes to write it and the number of words was 345, counting those in the title.

The End

A Pot of Begonias

2010-02-15T11:43:00.001-08:00

A Story by La Mouche

The potted begonias sitting under the front room window had been left to die. It happened that week we were too busy at work to care about the house. The mountain of worn clothes on the armchair piled up so high it eventually collapsed onto the floorboards. In the fridge, there were only two half-opened take-away boxes, their lids damp and rimmed with icicles. Lucky the cat had fled to find himself food elsewhere. Watering plants was definitely the last thing on our minds.
I thought you had done it that Wednesday, though, when you leaned on the windowpane to take a closer look at grandma’s yellowed picture. You were saying what an amazing gardener she was, and I added begonias were her favourite flowers, hoping you would pick up the hint and water them. It was your turn after all. But you kept insisting it wasn’t, and that it should be my responsibility since it was MY grandma who had given the plant to me before she died. Your dad had left you the car, you argued, but I never took turns with you to wash it, even though I was perfectly happy to make you take me places in it all the time.
The truth is we forgot; we had so much on. I’m still hurt you didn’t do it, though. I have always cared about your stuff. Fair enough I’ve never cleaned the car but that’s kind of a man thing. I would never expect you to mop under the bed, for example. At least I pay for some fuel. You don’t even acknowledge that the begonias are there. But I do admit that week was like no other. We were exhausted. We couldn't think. Anyway, the begonias had dried up. It was a fact. I worried for days about what mother would say when she came over; that we are terrible housekeepers that we cannot be entrusted with anything, not even a tiny pot of the flowers that meant so much to my grandma. Worst, we wouldn’t be able to avoid the lecture on Feng Shui and the importance of having good ‘chi’ rightly positioned around the house to positively condition the family environment.

Eventually, mother came to visit. She threw herself on the sofa with poise, as only mother does. I offered to make a pot - silly me using that word. I just didn't want to be there when she noticed the dead begonias. She was bound to spot them sooner than later. Mother has eyes in the back of her head for things like that. You dashed to the kitchen after me, said there was no chance you’d be alone with her when she saw them. You busied yourself arranging cups, saucers and teaspoons on a tray. Inside the kettle, the water started to bubble and rise in little waves. It gurgled increasingly louder, over our heads, above the mute whiteness of the kitchen, prickling at its own rising, steamy self. We could picture mother in the front room looking around; her mind taking it all in avidly, working out changes to suggest; how to better ionise the room, soften the sharp angles of walls. The kettle switched itself off with a loud click and there was silence. We heard her sighing. Then we heard a different noise.
‘She is sniffing? What is she sniffing at?’ You eyes were wide open.
‘Go check on her,’ I said, trying to sound casual, and tilted the kettle filled with boiling water over the mouth of the pot.
‘No way, Jose!’
‘Mum!’ I called from the kitchen. ‘What is it? You all right?’ Mother shouted something we didn't understand.
‘Wait, we are coming!’ I shouted back, eyeing you, ‘c'mon!’
You nodded, ‘she’s bound to have picked on something anyway. She always does.’ Sluggishly, I carried the tray with pot, cups and saucers into the front room. You walked behind me; the little milk jug held tightly between your hands.
‘Ugh, this stinks of cat wee!’ mother exclaimed, pulling her nose away from the flowers. ‘Haven’t you two notice? Your silly old cat has ruined grandma’s begonias!’
‘No!’ We cried in unison. She got up, picking the pot between her thumb and index, and walked to the kitchen. We heard her open the back door, step into the garden. We couldn't see her, or hear her, through the brick walls and the double-glazing, but we knew what was happening. Like many other times before, when she used to have a key to the house and stuff we liked kept disappearing or breaking accidentally. We couldn’t see her, but there she was: lifting the lid of the garden bin and dropping the begonias inside without a care in the world.
‘Well, it wasn’t a big deal after all!’ I said, looking at you and half smiling. But then, of all the things to say you chose, ‘you must be fucking joking.’ It really hurt, you know. I mean she’s my mum after all. I kept my mouth shut there and then, but I haven’t forgotten you said that.

Funny how things can happen in your life over and over again without you doing anything to change them, and, all of a sudden, one little incident causes a spark to turn into an open fire. You called it a wake-up call; exaggerating, I thought. Truth is after the day mother chucked out the begonias, you took Lucky away to an animal shelter and started mopping the floors, even under the bed, on weekends. I, in turn, cooked more homemade meals; put clothes to wash more often. I even helped you wash the car once. Eventually we grew bored of it all, of course, and our usual routines crawled back, as they do, except there were no more begonias to water ever again. As for mother, reluctant as I was at first, I’ve got to admit you worked that one out well signing her up for eharmony. Mother and her new found partner moved in together three months later. For their house warming party, you suggested we bought them a pot of begonias. At first, I thought it was such a nice gesture. But then, when you gave them to mother, you added, ‘an apology from our cat Lucky, for ruining grandma’s begonias.’ And you smiled that cunning little smile; the one I have seen you use every time you have managed to get your own way.

The End

Lament for Apollo

2009-12-07T02:39:00.000-08:00

Through Grey Street
I stagger
Clothed in silver
Dreaming of Apollo

My lips are blackened
My fingers numb
The prospect of warmth ahead
Somewhere, why doubt?

I’ve seen his bow arched over the river
His flaming arrows around the market place
Yet men seem distant
They count their pennies and sigh
Drink ale and forget

From the sweltering heavens
Apollo aimed at us by the Tyne
But then he argued with Dionysus
Over wine and theatre
And grew weary himself

Thus the Swing Bridge bears a glorious scarlet
The stalls at Monument sell sizzling sausages
And I shiver
Day after day after day

Whilst Apollo heads on a cruise ship for Hyperborea
To bathe naked with the muses
I look out to the world from this tiny window
Open the latch and drop
My last burning desire in the stove

Breathing is Easy

2009-12-06T03:45:00.001-08:00

Anyone can do breathing
In and out mechanically
Don’t have to think about it
Dreaming, you see
That’s something else
Dreaming is for losers
But just the type that knows its worth
Not all losers know its worth
Not all losers are of worth
The type that knows
The exact amount
Of shit that moulds his life
And yet is prepared to take more in
That type can well and truly enjoy
Full, mind-blowing dreams
The rest of us, mere mortals
Can only wish for

Words

2009-12-05T05:50:00.000-08:00

Carried out firmly
On the tip of my muscular tongue
Delicately poured onto silken paper
Vowels moaning as they fall, head down
Consonants landing with a thud
Avidly they rearrange themselves
As if to please me
So is the beginning of loss
And guilt
For if they aren’t the right words
I cannot take them back
The pen rises
The wrong words shiver in dismay
And as I draw a jagged line over them
I instantly learn to regret it:
Dread the sight of the blotch
That makes up their crossed, annihilated bodies
Upon my soft, white page
The ghosts I set free

Come back to haunt me

The Birth of Doubt

2009-12-04T06:52:00.000-08:00

I know I have a soul
Because I feel it within me
Tugging at my insides
Gnawing at my flesh
In want of being worn in the outside

And although it hardly comes out these days
And whilst not, it sits half-heartedly
In waiting
And wanting,
It roars nonetheless
Low-pitched and visceral as if of real substance
Making me feel
The lesser
Or the greater when the rare occasion arises

Feeling, in any event,
A little less happy, a little less “me”
For souls can also dwell on the emptiest of spaces
And make it theirs
Turning us, with them,
Into cold, miserable bitches

Whilst the brain decides with reason
The soul’s ways are its own
Brutal is their battle
The body endures it
Like a loyal soldier
The faithful, torn lover in the triangle

As you can see, there is no evident end to the conflict
So please stop saying the choice is mine

Lunacy

2009-12-03T06:56:00.000-08:00

Over the rooftops my soul glides
Gently and unrushed
As the night closes in I see
People in the streets below
Pacing to-and-fro
The body in bed, numb with cold,
Contorts and shrinks
Into shapes too familiar
Yet so unlike me
And I smile
For over the frowning clouds
The best of me is saved
Rocked by a soothing wind
Towards the moon
The bowed new moon
That draws stars upon my brow,
Nurturing with glowing hands

Every illicit minute of sovereign insanity

Petal Lips

2009-10-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

A Fairytale by La Mouche

They were a woman and a man, husband and wife for over ten years. They lived in a farm, where they planted carrots and potatoes in the spring and cabbage and garlic in the autumn. The farm was by a lake, so they never lacked water for the crops and household; harvests were always abundant and their garden was filled with colour. All in all, the couple was content with what they had except for the fact that they had long wished for a child of their own.

One Sunday morning the husband readied horse and cart and the couple went into town for there was a fair on with a carousel, acrobats, fire-eaters and all sorts of eccentric people selling food and entertaining the crowd. As they paced along the fair grounds, the couple spotted a rundown caravan at the end of a row of stalls. Sitting at a table under its ragged gazebo was a woman with black curly locks. She wore a scarlet dress and her bony shoulders were wrapped in a black, velvet shawl.
“Good day to you,” the couple greeted her, “What is it that you trade?”
“I sell answers: possible solutions to problems,” said the woman, who after taking a good look at them added, “Is there anything you’ve always wished for but never had?”
“Nothing really,” said the husband eyeing his wife.
“Well there is one thing, husband,” the wife interjected, “we’ve always wanted a child,” she whispered rather miserably before turning to the strange woman. “If you knew of a way we could conceive a child, we would pay you rather well.”
“I may have just the thing for that,” the woman said and disappeared into the caravan. Not a minute later she was back, holding the palm of her hand up under the couple’s noses. “Plant this seed in your garden next spring. Water it three times a day; at dawn, midday and sunset and do not miss a single occasion, even if it rains. A large plant will sprout, producing one single flower bud of long, red petals. If you do as I say, the day the flower opens up you may have yourselves a very pleasant surprise.” The couple listened intently. “At dawn, midday and sunset,” the wife repeated.
“Yes,” accentuated the caravan woman, “and you cannot forget to do it, not even once, regardless of the rain.” And so the couple thanked her, paid her with five pounds of salt and turned to go home – the wife thrilled, the husband rather sceptical- when the woman called out to them, “one other thing, rather important: if you forget to water the seed before sprouting and the plant still bears a fruit, make sure you don’t stop watering it every day after that; three times a day, at dawn, midday and sunset, without missing a single occasion, even if it rains, or you’ll find yourselves regretting it.”
“Understood,” chorused the couple as the wife jumped in their cart and the husband spurred the horse into a brisk strut.

“A magic seed,” the wife remarked as they rode, “that will bear a magic fruit, that will make us be with child!”
“I am not sure this is a good idea,” the husband frowned. But his wife was so excited that he didn’t have the heart to refuse. So when spring arrived, they planted the seed at the end of the garden and set to watering it three times a day: at dawn, midday and sunset, without missing a single occasion, even if it rained. They were very constant, but one day, husband and wife woke up with a high fever and aching joints. Reluctantly, the husband got up to water the plant at dawn. The wife struggled to step out of bed yet managed to do it at midday as well. But as the sun sank in the horizon, there was rain and thunder outside. The husband said, “Could you water the seed for me? I don’t think I can manage.”
“Oh I couldn’t move again, husband!” They were both truly ill, so they decided to give it a miss this once. Still the wife noted, “The woman did say we shouldn’t miss a single time, even if it rained.”
“I know,” the husband interrupted, “but it’s pouring down! Too much water is not good for plants either!”
“True, true, husband!” consented the wife. Thus the seed was not watered that dusk and the couple stayed in bed to rest and recover.

Temperatures continued to rise as summer settled in. Most trees and plants were now blossomed, but the space where the seed had been planted was still vacant. At last on a full moon night, as they slept, a tiny, green shoot sprang up. “Come quickly, wife!” the husband called out the next morning, “the seed sprouted overnight!” The wife reached the bottom of the garden to gasp at the sight of a plant of long dark green leaves, just like what the caravan woman had described. Wedged at its centre, was a large flower bud of a striking red, still closed. “It’s the colour of blood,” said the wife separating the leaves. “How peculiar!” the husband uttered. Although a little apprehensive, fascination had by now got the best of them, so from here on the watering routine was kept even more strictly.

A fortnight passed uneventful and midsummer’s day arrived. The day seemed set for sunshine and clear skies. Like every morning since the bud was out, husband and wife walked hand in hand to the end of the flower garden with their watering can. On this day, they found that the leaves were spread and bent back down onto the ground, and right there and then the bud was bulging as if about to burst open. The wife squeezed her husband’s hand. “It’s all right, darling,” he said, as he tilted the watering can. When the first drops of water touched the bud head, it shivered as if alive. Slowly, each of its long petals began to flex and stretch back, one after the other, to show a large open flower. Lying at its very heart was a baby girl, wrapped in a fine petal film. Three years she may have been, surely not older, with dark hair and the reddest of lips. “Oh my!” cried the wife; her eyes filled with tears, as the husband took the girl in his arms. “Oh my!” cried the husband as he handed the baby over to her. Both their throats were dry and their hearts pounding. So the couple sobbed with joy at the sight of the baby girl, and hugged her in disbelief. But her smile was so innocent, her hands and feet so tiny and warm, and her dark eyes so vivacious that reality finally sunk in and they came to realise that a miracle had happened and that they could finally be the happiest couple in the world for they now had a child of their own.

They named her Petal, or Pet for short, but the townspeople called her Petal Lips, because her red lips contrasted so strongly with the paleness of her skin and the blackness of her hair and eyes. Ah but things had not gone as wonderfully as the couple would have wished, for they soon found that Petal had a dark green, velvety spot over her left shoulder, where flesh should had been, and that its texture was that of a leaf. “This is our fault!” cried the wife. “For not watering her that day we were ill!”
“You think so?” the husband said, his voice trembling. “Well, the caravan woman was clear!" His wife replied. "Oh, I wish I hadn’t been so selfish! If only I had watered the plant that evening, Petal would have been born a perfect baby!”
“No, this is my fault!” the husband said with tears in his eyes, “you insisted we watered the plant, but I wouldn’t listen! And now our Pet will be part flower forever because of my laziness!” Husband and wife hugged each other, holding the baby girl. “We have to water her for life from now on,” resumed the wife with a sunken heart. “And we will,” said the husband, “everyday, three times a day, at dawn, midday and sunset, without missing a single time, even if it rains.” So they took the baby into the house to look after her and swore to protect her with their lives. And it happened that the farm finally became the family home husband and wife had always dreamt it to be, and Petal Lips grew to be a strong and healthy child in spite of the vulnerable, leaf-skin spot in her back.

---

Ten years on, Petal Lips had turned into a fine, happy girl. Adored by her parents, but also well-behaved and kind of heart, young Petal had got into the habit of bathing three times a day; at dawn, midday and sunset. The girl became very much accustomed to being in the water, as it was to be expected, and took to bathing at the lake in the summer months. Every summer afternoon she swam there, the herons fished peacefully around her, and the swans took off to indulge in their sky dance before stepping down to surround her once again in their deep white plumage. But that particular summer the sun was stronger than ever. With no rain falling in weeks, a stern drought settled in, the harshest seen in years. As locals struggled to find water, the lake began to shrink. All the birds migrated and the fish that did not make it to deeper water when the current was strong, died.

Eventually the lake dried up completely. By then, Petal’s father was having to go into town up to five times a day to bring a tank full of water for the crops, the household and, most importantly, for Petal to bathe, as there was no lake for her to swim in anymore. The horse was a fine animal but the long rides in the extreme heat eventually got to him and one afternoon, his heart and legs gave in and he lay on the ground dead. Petal’s father was ten miles away from the farm, the sun was on his way down and back in the house Petal did not have a drop of water to pour over her head at dusk. “My Pet’s life is in danger! I must get to the house right away! She must have her water!” he kept muttering to himself, and, abandoning the cart, he set off running in the direction of his farm with a large bucket of water on each hand. The father walked and walked and sweated and thirsted under the burning sun, but wouldn’t stop to rest or drink. A large branch came handy to hang the buckets and transfer the weight from arms to shoulders for a bit of a respite. And on he walked and tired as the sun touched the jagged rim of the shadowy, far-off mountain.

Meanwhile at the farm, “Oh, my!” Petal’s mother worried. “Your father is not in sight and the sun is heading down fast! We can’t sit and wait anymore, Pet! If something’s happened to the cart or the horse, your father would have set on foot because he knows you need the water, so we should try and meet him half way before the sun’s completely gone! Off we go, Pet! Let’s go find your father!” Off mother and daughter went, in the direction of town, to try and meet up with the father before it was too late for Petal to have her evening bath. Three miles they walked, as fast as their feet could take them, with no stops to catch their breath. The sun was already sinking behind the towering horizon, and still there was no sign of the father. “I’m tired, mama. Let’s stop for a minute.”
“Sorry Pet, we can’t. You must have your bath before the sun leaves the sky.”
“But I’ve never missed a bath, mama. And my leafy spot feels very smooth, so maybe it’s not that big a deal to miss just the one bath.”
“Don’t you say that, Pet! You can’t miss it, not even once. Is that understood?” The mother looked deep into Petal’s black eyes and, grabbing her by the hand, set on speedily again.
“But why, mother?” Petal plodded along. “Surely you don’t know that!
The mother didn’t reply. She just bit her lip and walked faster, pulling Petal by the hand.

A mile and a half later, the sun was barely a red line to the far west, when, in the distance, the weary mother and daughter saw a man coming towards them with a rod across his shoulders and a stout wooden bucket on each side. As the distance shortened, they noticed that the man was panting heavily and that his clothes were soaked in sweat. “My poor husband!” exclaimed the wife. “Father!” Petal shouted, sprinting to reach him and throwing her arms at him. “No time!” He uttered as clearly as he could manage, for he was gasping for air. There and then he stopped, held up one of the heavy buckets with both hands and threw its contents over Petal’s head without warning. “Ah!” Petal gasped, for the splash felt surprisingly cold. The mother followed suit and also poured the water in the other bucket over Petal’s head. For a moment, there was silence: Petal stood between her mother and father; her head down and her eyes close, water dripping down her face, locks and dress, as her parents turned to look at the far off line ahead and saw in horror that there was no sun. “Were we on time?” asked the distraught wife. “Were we?”
“I don’t know!” the father cried out and turned to face Petal. “Pet, are you all right?” he asked her, softly lifting her chin and clearing the wet, black hair off her face. But Petal’s face was changed. Her lips, once red like the petals of the flower that nursed her, were now cracked and brown. The mother lifted the sleeve of her dress to check the spot. “What is it?” asked her husband.
“It’s not good, not good!” she yelled, tears flooding her eyes.“Pour the rest of the water on it!” suggested the father. The mother poured without delay. For a moment, the spot seemed to shrink and recover its green shade, but soon it darkened again and grew wet. Blacker than soot it turned and thickened, like a sponge soaked in a viscous fluid that smelled rotten. The spidery fungus wobbled, raised its gooey ends and quickly crept onto Petal’s chest, nesting over her heart. Petal moaned softly. Unfaltering, the father jumped onto her, trying to pull the fungus off. “Don’t touch it!” shouted his wife, but as soon as his hand had enclosed around the runny dark shape, this settled on his fingertips and ran up over them up to his wrist. The husband looked in shock as the fungus enveloped the rest of his arm, but did not try to shake it off. “Get it off you!” implored the wife.
“Maybe, it takes me instead of Petal,” said he with glimmering eyes. But the fungus had leaked through Petal’s breast and into her heart, and it was now biting hard at her insides. It was all too sudden: Petal’s leafy self collapsed to the ground with a gentle rustle. “She’s gone,” cried the husband, whose own arms were now a greyish mass of putrid leaves. “I couldn’t save our daughter, God forgive me!”
“It’s all right, darling,” the wife tried to calm him down.
“How can you say that? We’ve lost her! Our Petal is dead!” He went on angrily. The wife sobbed, but said nothing. She just put her arms around him and kissed him. And as the fungus covered their bodies, a soft wind blew over the arid meadows and the voice of the caravan woman was heard throughout the valley:
“Come thou, holy rain
Moisten this parched earth
Make it evergreen
Not a hint of thirst
Let the flowers grow
Where bare they lay,
For those who have seen
Their child in a grave…”

The End

Lucinda and the Three Bachelors

2009-04-23T09:13:00.000-07:00

A Fairytale by La Mouche

Three men of means and reputation, Reginald, Charles and Tom, decided it was time to marry for they were single and in their 40’s. The tradition in the town was that a man should build a house for his wife to be and offer it as a wedding present. But if the wife found the house unsuitable, she should refuse to marry; or if there was more than one suitor, she should marry whoever built the house that was more to her fancy. And it happened that, although there were plenty of women in town to court, the three bachelors fell for the maiden who had just moved in from a neighbouring village. Her name was Lucinda. She was of fair complexion and rather shy. But there was a strange spark in her eyes: if one looked deep enough, one could see a fiery heart through them.

Before building commenced, Reginald, Charles and Tom were allowed to meet Lucinda. Reginald said to her, “I’m going to build you the biggest, most magnificent fortification with the highest tower ever raised on this land.” Saying that, he measured her hips by eye to make the stairs spacious enough for her to walk up and down with ease. Charles’ attention was drawn to Lucinda’s features, her light step and air of elegance, “I’m going to build you the most sumptuous palace, with chandelier-laden ceilings, high windows and fountains.” Tom was led in to see her last. He looked into her eyes and said, “What’s your favourite colour?” Lucinda held his gaze before answering, “red.”
“And what’s your favourite scent?”
“It is jasmine,” she replied. Tom smiled, thanked her and said nothing else. If Lucinda favoured anyone at this point, she did not say for the rules were to be followed strictly, under threat of punishment if ever broken. Thus to ensure no special sympathy developed at the meeting that could cloud Lucinda’s better judgement, Dr. Jerome, the town’s mayor, was summoned to chaperone the visit, for the tradition of marriage in this village was considered a matter of government.

So the three men began building. Reginald hired an army of cheap labourers and made them carry huge slabs of limestone, and tons of iron and bronze from miles around with which they built a castle of colossal proportions and the tower on top. The fortification sat on a cliff by the sea. The waves rose and crashed below it with an endless, furious roar. On the inauguration day, the townsmen rejoiced at the sight, for they were skilful warriors and knew the castle was not only the safest of homes for Lucinda, but also a stronghold for the village in the event of war. But the women in town didn’t like it since it was grey, coarse and man-like. As the men admired Reginald’s masterpiece, he cleared his throat and started his speech: “Lucinda,” he said, “I have built this fortress for you so that you are always protected; over this far-off cliff so no one can reach you, behind this solid iron gate so no one can touch you, at the top of this high tower so no one can see you or talk to you, but me!” Reginald concluded with a thump to his chest. The townsmen cheered and the townswomen tilted their heads doubtfully.

Charles, on his part, spared no expense: he chose the best team of constructors in town, bought marbles and precious woods, and built her a palace by a lake. It was so beautiful, this palace, that the women in town could not stop sighing on the opening day. They sighed and marvelled and envied Lucinda’s good luck, for to them this was the obvious choice. But the townsmen hated it; they found it extravagant, overdone, impractical. “My gorgeous Lucinda,” said Charles in his speech, “I give you this palace and all its gold, silver and valuables for you to live like the princess you are, surrounded by servants so you don’t need to lift a finger, pampered and spoilt by them so I can admire and enjoy your beauty every day hereafter.” Charles knelt down and kissed Lucinda’s hand. As the townswomen fainted, their husbands picked them up with disdain.

As for Tom, who also had riches but lived a simpler life, he built a wooden cottage himself, by a stream on the edge of the forest, with a red door and a bed of jasmine on the porch. It was basic but pretty this cottage; yet neither the townsmen nor the women favoured it. “What a plain wedding present,” they said. “Clearly Tom does not care for Lucinda as Reginald or Charles do!” Then it was Tom’s turn to give a speech: “Dearest Lucinda, I offer you this house I built myself. It’s modest but cosy. It has everything we need. I hope you like the flowers and the colours as they were your choice, and I hope it is your wish to share it with me, as it is mine to share it with you.” Tom looked into Lucinda’s eyes and bowed his head forward gently. So the townsmen frowned and their wives sulked, all a little annoyed by Tom’s simplicity.

It was time for Lucinda to make a decision, like all women in the town, based on which of the three residences she liked best. In truth, she had already chosen; the moment she met the three bachelors she knew her heart was with Tom for she was not the type of woman to be easily impressed by manifestations of grandeur. In fact, she felt deeply insulted by Reginald’s idea of locking her up in a tower like Rapunzel, and Charles’ notion of cosseting her to be admired like a porcelain doll. She decided to teach them a lesson.

What no one in town knew was that Lucinda was a very astute and powerful witch, and she came up with a plan. She would manufacture two brides: one fragile and servile for Reginald, the other, stunning and frivolous for Charles. A little before dawn, when everyone was asleep, Lucinda poured a bucket of black ink onto a huge cauldron to make the brides’ blood; a glass of sour milk for their bones and teeth, a set of strings for ligaments, a large sack of corn flour for their muscles and limbs and the shed skin of a snake to make theirs. She pulled out some eyelashes and threw them in the mix for the brides to have long, black hair and a shard of tinted glass to give them bright, blue eyes. A bunch of newt tails served to make their tongues, and the bloodied wattle of an old turkey to give them full, red lips. As the mix began to boil over a large flame, vapour filled the air accompanied by the foulest of smells. And so Lucinda mumbled and muttered and hummed over the thickening mix. She poured and measured and stirred, and mumbled and muttered and hummed a bit more. When the mix was finally a solid and supple mass, Lucinda took it out, cut it in two and started moulding the brides with her hands.

The next morning, the townspeople met outside Dr. Jerome’s office. Reginald, Charles and Tom stood at the front of the multitude. Lucinda arrived looking very pretty in a white dress. “I have decided whom I will marry,” she announced. The wives were ready to sigh thinking of Charles’ palace when Lucinda said, “I will marry Tom.”
“What?” the crowd roared. “This girl is mad!”
“I haven’t finished please,” she said, and everyone felt silent. “To show my appreciation for the efforts the two other gentlemen made,” Lucinda continued, “I have brought my sisters to meet them.” As she said this, two maids also in white approached them. Ofelia was so beautiful that she had Charles at her feet in no time. “Mademoiselle! You are to be my bride, no doubt!” The other sister, Angelica, looked adorable and as delicate as a fallen bird. Angelica approached a mistrusting Reginald and knelt down in front of him to kiss his feet. “My master,” she called him. Reginald frowned and froze for a minute that seemed to last forever, and during which all held their breath. But then he picked up Angelica in one swift move and raised her up like a trophy. And so the crowd cheered, the townsmen threw their hats in the air and the women waved their handkerchiefs with uncontrollable excitement at the prospect of celebrating not one, but three weddings in the days to come.

The three couples wed on the same day. It turned out to be the biggest event of the year to which every outstanding resident of the neighbouring communities was invited and Dr. Jerome gave a formal speech on the glory of the town’s long-kept marriage tradition. After exchanging vows, the three couples joined the crowds in the square, where a hundred long tables were lined up and loaded with beverages and tasty foods of all sorts. Tom and Lucinda approached the main table and saw Reginald at its head with Angelica on his lap. He’d obviously had too much to drink for he was laughing raucously and shaking up Angelica like one would a marionette. Suddenly, he shouted, “let’s dance!” and pulled her all the way to the dance floor by the neck. But the fragile Angelica did not utter a word of complaint; she seemed so eager to please him. “Aren’t they made for each other!” agreed the townsmen and women, whilst Lucinda looked and smiled to herself.

A few tables away, Charles sipped wine and praised Ofelia deliriously as she leant on a sofa by his side. He admired her round blue eyes, the locks of her hair, her little cute nose and the soft line of her neck, over and over again. And Ofelia just leaned further back and smiled. “She’s certainly a beauty! Just what he wanted!” the townsmen and women consented, whilst Lucinda grinned and muttered to herself, “So I thought too!”
“What did you say, my darling?” Tom turned to ask. “What’s that odd smile about?”
“Oh, it’s nothing," answered Lucinda, kissing Tom passionately on the mouth for she did love him, but did not plan to tell him anything. But Tom knew better. He knew that there was one side of his Lucinda that wasn’t quite as transparent as the rest, and he worried so much that, later that evening when they were left alone, he asked again, “there is something you are not telling me,” he said softly. “What is it, Lucinda? I am your husband now. I love you dearly. You can tell me.”
“It’s really nothing, Tom! I just talk to myself sometimes, and thank the heavens for being your wife,” she excused herself. Although she lied well, for she was not only a witch of immense power but also a woman used to stocking her heart with secrets, Tom knew Lucinda had just lied to him and this made him incredibly sad. But he said nothing else just then.

So the sun went down, the party died out after a long day of feasting, drinking and dancing, and the newly weds went into the privacy of their chambers to spend their first night together as husband and wife. Reginald zigzagged his way up to the top of the castle tower, with Angelica in his arms. He laid her on the marital bed and told her to ready herself for the night as he went to splash some water on his face. “Sure, my master,” Angelica said and began to undress. On his return to the chamber, Reginald found her under the silky bed covers. “Now you’ll be mine!” he bellowed. “Sure, my beloved, but first blow out the candles,” she pleaded, “just this once.” Reginald felt light-headed and benevolent so he did as she asked and got himself into bed by her side. But as he leaned over her, Angelica’s torso gave way and began to flatten and enlarge. “What’s wrong with you, woman?” Reginald snapped. “Let me hold you, my master,” Angelica whispered in his ear. Reginald tried to detach himself from what felt like huge arms holding him tight and lifting him up in the air. “You’re a monster!” He screamed in horror when he managed a good look at her; for a monster Angelica had become, with long tentacles instead of limbs, the face of a bat and the feet of a bird. “Fancy a walk in the moonlight, darling? Or a dance?” asked a mellow Angelica. “Let go of me!” He shouted and kicked. “Oh, no! It’s time to dance!” Angelica commanded, lacing him by the neck and around the waist and tugging his body sideways throughout the chambers at a waltz-like pace. “Stop, please!” Reginald begged, but the more he implored, the harder she tugged. And as Reginald wept, Angelica crept out of the tower window and crawled down its stony walls dragging him along.

Charles was so drunk that a servant had to carry him to the couple’s bed at their newly built palace. Ofelia sent the servant away and closed all windows before sitting by Charles’ side to remove his clothes. “Don’t touch me! Get a servant to do it!” he grumbled. But Ofelia smiled and continued to undress him until he was fully naked. “What are you doing? Hands off!” protested Charles again. This time, Ofelia pulled herself away from him and looked away. Charles sat up on the bed, “Don’t be upset, princess! Look at me. Show me your beautiful face.” But Ofelia did not turn to face him. “Ofelia, look at me!” Charles insisted. “Please!” and again a third time. Then he stretched his hand and reached for her face. As he grabbed her by the chin and gently turned her face towards his, Ofelia’s head snapped and came off. Something that seemed like blood went rushing down his arm; within seconds his whole naked body was soaked with it. Charles noticed it smelled like ink, but that did give him any comfort. “What a horrid sight!” He shouted disgusted. As he tried to get out of bed, all drunkenness gone, the bed sheets wrapped themselves around his thighs and wrists holding him down, and Ofelia’s headless body straightened up on the side of the bed, crossing one leg over the other and clasping her hands. “Argh!” That was all Charles could manage. Just as he seemed to catch his breath, Ofelia’s head reappeared, floating above him under a strange light. “Charles, my love,” the head said, “I never got to thank you for your kind words.” With that, the head dived down and began to lick his bare torso. “Look at me, Charles,” she said, “Am I not beautiful enough to touch you?”
“Yes!” howled he trying not to look as Ofelia’s tongue fell off and became a bunch of newts' chopped tails that jerked spasmodically on his chest. Charles let out a cry so sharp that Ofelia’s head threw itself back in a fit of laughter. As it came back on, her eyes turned glassy and began to crack, only to explode into tiny shards seconds later on Charles’ face. And although he felt sick and about to lose consciousness a number of times, Ofelia’s hands kept slapping him back so he could see how every bit of her once beautiful face slowly came off and mutated. As for Tom and Lucinda, needless to say that they went to bed in their little cottage and slept soundly next to each other all night long.

The next morning a bruised and sore Reginald woke up on the riverbank surrounded by people. “What happened last night, Reginald? Where is Angelica?” they asked. “She is a monster!” he yelled, recalling the horror of the previous night. “Really?” the townsmen eyed him suspiciously. “She’s nowhere to be found! What have you done to her?”
“She dragged me here and tried to strangle me with her tentacles!” Reginald could say no more for there and then the townswomen cursed and spat on him and the townsmen punched him and he had to get up and run for his life. He locked himself up in the castle tower and only came out years later, when Dr. Jerome declared the castle government property. Reginald fled the town during the night, never to be seen again. As for Charles, he was so incoherent when they found him, that they could not bring themselves to beat him. Instead, Dr. Jerome sent him straight away to an asylum and turned the palace into the town’s museum and art gallery.

A week after that fateful day, the town dressed in black and gathered at the square to mourn the disappearance of Angelica and Ofelia. Dr. Jerome gave no speech for everyone seemed rather shocked at the turn of events. Lucinda and Tom stood hand in hand. The townspeople thought Lucinda was the saddest sight, but Tom knew better, as always, and that evening, he made Lucinda tell him everything that had happened. When he heard it all, Tom looked at Lucinda with tears in his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see she had no remorse for what she had done. “You know this is the end.”

“Don’t!” she implored. “I loved you Lucinda,” said he with a broken heart, “just leave, please.” Lucinda gathered her things and left sobbing. She went back to her village to cry for days on end. But according to the townspeople, who believe to this day that the couple split over another woman, Tom eventually left the cottage by the edge of the forest and moved to the neighbouring village with Lucinda. And they lived happily ever after, for the townspeople got that right: Tom still loved her and so much that he forgave her. Lucinda in turn repented and gave up black magic for good.

The End

Poesía Cuaderno 2 (La Habana, 2000 – 2005)

2009-01-18T02:18:00.000-08:00

Dulce Despedida

Cantando a los vivos
Cantando a los muertos
Jolgorio - velorio
Cargado de aciertos

Si cierta es la muerte
Que llega volando
Ciertas son las dichas
Que hayamos cantando

Los muertos se largan
Por sus avenidas
Y son nuestros cantos
Dulces despedidas

Váyanse tranquilos
Váyanse contentos
Guárdennos un astro
En el firmamento

Junio 5, 2000

Una Muchacha

Una muchacha se abre
Y al viento descubre
Su miedo de sí;
Una muchacha corriente
Que escupe y que miente
Que llega hasta aquí.
De esas que pasan y abrazan
O pasan y atrasan
Las altas mareas;
Y no pretenden ultranza
Porque solas transan
Con tercas ideas.
Una muchacha se cubre
Y aún si bien se nuble
La tarde, ella va;
Una muchacha que aguanta
El miedo que arranca
A su soledad.

Julio 18, 2000

Camino, camino... ...doblando los pasos
No esperan las dichas por mis cortos brazos.
Camino, procuro de la dulce aurora
Su tenue silencio que desenamora.
Camino, camino; hoy no importan tanto
Ni los desaciertos ni los desencantos.
Camino y consigo respirar a solas
Entre algo de brisa y un romper de olas.
Camino, me alejo; mi cómplice soy
Y es grato, de veras, ver por dónde voy.

Julio 8, 2000

Essentially Us

An existentialist approach to narrating the lives shared at Radio Havana Cuba’s English Broadcasting Service.

We all come late to work; some more regularly than others. We bring our latest 12 hour news; so much has happened since yesterday afternoon. We kiss. We hug each other. Some sneeze at the sight of anonymous cigarette ends scattered through the floor. We all know smoking is forbidden inside the office. Isa boils water for tea on the home-made cooker hidden behind Eugene’s desk. But we are not essentially law breakers.

Our entire office is made up of tons of papers and computer frames. They all lay on top of our desks like dinosaur’s skeletons. We are so proud of keeping closely in touch with those past, forgotten years of the History of Computer-kind. We are all able to recall any event regarding our own history; fortunately some are more accurate than others. But we are not essentially old-fashioned and retrospective.

Jorge brings down the daily rain of work from the ¨Consejillo¨. There are days of a nice, warm drizzle and days of thunder and lighting. We all follow instructions from our weather reporter with most carefulness. We don’t like unexpected announcements. We all love to leave early. But we are not essentially full-time calculators.

Nury is the volunteer source that informs us of both, the ¨Merienda¨ and the ¨Pasto¨ breaks. Her shouts speed across the office like an arrow of hope for the starved. We all bring food from home or from the street vendor downstairs. Some of us spend a lot of time eating at the office. Or outside the office. A lot of time. But we are not essentially craving predators.

The TV is on all day, with or without audience. Generally with. Cartoons are meant to entertain our restless children, but adults seem to be equally fond. We all fall in the trap of commercials, music videos, fashion shows and, last but not least, news reports. Our red couch, specially designed for smokers is under the logo of corner of vice.com, one of the most visited areas of the hall. We go to inhale some comforting tobacco smoke every two or three hours. Some are even more faithful fans. But we are not essentially absentminded.

We all earn shit salaries and have to do extra work to cover expenses. We all get sick from time to time. Colds are the most frequent epidemics. We share them with special ¨affection¨. The air conditioner helps providing them. We all have problems at home. We all have bad days. Outsiders cannot tell ‘cos we usually speak loud. But we are not essentially complaining unfortunates.

We share English and Spanish. We share our different cultures. We tolerate each other’s excesses. And lackings. We laugh a lot. Out loud. We stomp. We all enjoy telling the world. We sit behind the mic with this clear picture of being in a special mission. And we tell the world what it needs to hear; neither more nor less. We all take our work seriously, no matter how amusing it can be. And if it is boring and repetitious, we take it seriously as well. We know how important our work is. We all enjoy telling the world what is missing. The good things it is missing. That is why we all are essentially open-eyed day dreamers.

August 16th, 2000

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Donde quiera que estés ya no estaré
Porque una se cansa de perseguir fantasmas

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hágase tu voluntad en tus predios
y la mía en los míos

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Volviendo al tema del amor
Creo que nuestra conversación se está tornando
Peligrosamente aburrida

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

No quiero olvidar que la vida también puede ser bella
Para cuando así sea poder acordarme

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Abrir una herida también puede salvar una vida;
Una verdad puede trazar una herida
Que luego deje una admirable cicatriz

Noviembre 3, 2001

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nosotros que nos Queremos Tanto...

Veo, veo: una ciudad - ser que dormita
Resguardada su alma de las macro sacudidas y zozobras humanas tras sus fortificados arrecifes costillares
Célibe a sus victoriosos cuarenta y tantos años
Impenetrable bajo un cinturón de intransigente castidad
Virgen otra vez
Reconstruido a mano su himen centenario
Cortados con los dientes sus hilos tras la histórica operación
Que más sangre noble haya visto caer jamás

Una ciudad-ser ensimismada
Contemplando el sueño que otrora abriese una brecha
A la realización de lo nunca antes imaginado
Otrora
Una brecha
Parapetándose tras el dolor y las glorias pasadas
Inventándose las presentes
Profundamente marcada

Creciendo hacia adentro
Introspectiva, testaruda
De una selectividad elitísta
Convenida y conveniente
Aliada incondicional de su verdad
Recelosa de su dote
Desconfiada de sus moradores
De sus herederos
De sus congéneres
Preocupada y ocupada en renacer cada mañana de sus cenizas
Cola donde debiera ir cabeza, cabeza donde debiera haber alas

Una ciudad-ser protestante
Sublimemente capaz
Sublimemente noble
Sublimemente unánime
Sublimemente sublimada
Poblada de panfletos altruistas
Elocuente en excusas
Retórica en arengas
Indomable
Eternamente rebelde

Una ciudad-ser expectante
Latente, al acecho
Ladrona
Carente, desbordante
Necesitada y sedienta
Dadivosa
Cargada de instintos y apetitos
De lujuria, jolgorio y trashumancia
Prostituta y amante
Solidaria
Histriónica
Comprometida por obra de los hombres y los dioses
De sus empeños y desatinos

Mortal al fin
Una ciudad-ser
Que ha de nacer más allá de nosotros
Todos los que en este día la habitamos
Nosotros que nos queremos tanto
Y que la hemos hecho tal como es
Caeremos sin duda y nos levantaremos con ella

O no
Una y otra vez

La Habana hoy en pleno año quinto del siglo XXI

Viajes: Crónicas Introspectivas (La Macagua & Santa Clara, 1998 - 1999)

2009-01-17T15:55:00.000-08:00

I

Menudas lloviznas rociaron el cristal delantero, como queriendo producirle cosquillas. Sacudí mi cigarro y una lenta ceniza se desprendió de él, dispersándose en el aire. Un pedacito gris de ella logró ascender más allá, con la brisa que entraba por la ventana, y fue a parar al brazo velludo de un hombre situado justo delante de la puerta. Allí estuvo durante todo el viaje, hasta que al fin el hombre descendió con su gorra y mi pedacito gris de ceniza en una parada tan gris como ella, llevándose también un pedacito de mí.

En lo que he demorado escribiéndolo, ya esto ha transcurrido. El bolígrafo se hunde y no me ayuda a atrapar el ahora en que estoy. O mejor dicho, estamos todos los que vamos en este ómnibus. Como pude tomarlo al inicio del viaje alcancé un asiento, pero el tumulto de personas que montara después va de pie y se conforma de una masa compacta de brazos y bultos, piernas, cabezas que gritan permiso para pasar, para caber en algún sitio aunque sea pequeñito, lo que a simple vista resulta sumamente difícil.

Sólo de la estrecha barandilla delante de mí, se sujetan, amontonadas unas sobre las otras, unas diez manos. ¿Acaso un impulso de afectividad espontánea? No precisamente. Aquí una mano joven de uñas rojo fuego, cubriendo a otra adulta, salpicada de pecas rubias. Allá, una mano negra de dedos muy finos compartiendo el extremo más alto del pasamanos con la blanca de toscos nudillos. Lindo es ver como, pese a todo, una manita pequeña de uñas en extremo cortas, como mordisqueadas, disfruta soberana de cierto espacio. Siguiendo la línea de brazos colgantes hay relojes, anillos, pulsas, brazaletes de cobre o plata, o bien tejidos; y antebrazos desnudos y limpios - o sudados - con alguna que otra cicatriz como una prenda menos impersonal.

Las voces suben o bajan según presione el chofer el acelerador o el freno. De pronto una obscenidad surca el viciado aire, seguida de risitas, qué vocabulario, ya no hay modales, por favor que aquí van niños... Seguro un pisotón o un empujón, ya saben, el apuro por salir, librarse de esto, llegar a alguna parte.

Orisel está leyendo sobre la moral de la fuerza del libro “El desarrollo espiritual de Beethoven”... ¿cómo puede...? ¿De dónde saca la capacidad de abstraerse? ¿Cómo puedo yo intentar poner en palabras este episodio tan visualmente elocuente en medio del caos que genera? Se me ocurre que somos, ella y yo, el epicentro de un torbellino huracanado, detenidas en la más profunda calma mientras todo en derredor ruge y se vira al revés. Qué locura. – “Es un estado mental”, dice ella. No estoy tan segura que sea asunto de estado –respondo yo.

II

Una hebilla de tarro de vaca y una gorra del Chicago Bulls viajan recostadas a las mullidas cabeceras de los asientos. El conductor del ómnibus de TRANSTUR advierte a todos que está prohibido fumar. Avanza diligente por el pasillo despejado, pidiendo con suma amabilidad a los viajeros el comprobante de pago. Se respira un suave aroma a pino, a madera recién cortada. Silencio total. Se impone el paisaje exterior: los blancos marpacíficos, el framboyán azul. El mundo del viajero se santifica en las flores de pascua.

III

El agua del río se arremolina corriente abajo: sigue el curso de su propia agonía. Al borde del abismo se anima, ensancha su caudal y se lanza en un grito unánime de frescura. Por destino el edén prometido del inagotable gran azul. Saltando roca abajo, otro peñasco vencido, y otro, y otro más.

Si el salto es de considerable altura, en cada gota estará el temor de quedar en las piedras o perderse entre la hierba al caer. Lo peor es que algunas lo hacen a conciencia por salir de tanto ir y venir desaforado. Pero entonces toda aquella agua que logra vencer la primera prueba y seguir corriente abajo ya no es como antes. Mutilado su caudal, la huella arenosa del camino húmedo que lo guía se vuelve angosta, pronta a empantanarse. Luego, más abajo, le espera el lodo, y el delta podrido de desechos, de hojarazca, de basura humana y de ese espumaraje pastoso y estático que peligra con adormecerle.

En el impulso, cada gota enfrenta su propio destino. Muchas se dejarán arrastrar directamente al centro de la acumulación. Una vez allí, no habrá fuerza capaz de devolverla a su curso, ni soplo de viento. Pero siempre habrá otras que logren escurrirse por entre los árboles, dispersas en pos de la salvación, y hasta reencontrarse y unirse a algún riachuelo de muchas otras gotas que también anduviesen dispersas. Tintineantes, hermanadas en grupos de diez mil o veinte mil –consideren que esto es un número realmente pequeño cuando se trata de gotas de agua – continuarán su viaje. Cierto que ya no son la corriente rápida de antes, pero aún así persistirán agenciosas por alcanzar la gloria infinita del mar augusto. Amenazan suelos permeables y un sol iridiscente de cándida fiereza, pero al menos una llegará. Una húmeda y diminuta gota encontrará su fin con éxito. Y entonces, para ese entonces, sus hermanas la aclamarán desde sus bolsitas congeladas en lo alto del cielo.

IV

Estos mismos árboles que dan vida, también la quitan. Abriéndose paso entre ellos, el caminante encuentra un sendero y parte a recorrerlo. O simplemente se abre el suyo, como tantos otrora. Cada árbol que deja atrás es un acontecimiento, un rostro, una caricia del ayer que lo ha acogido y ahora lo despide con un tenue vibrar de hojas.

V

Mañana te levantarás y harás, entre tantas cosas que haces todos los días, al menos una que no hiciste ayer. Y no serás ya más el mismo. De tal modo, cada mañana serás alguien nuevo; que se levanta y descubre que no es el mismo. Por todos los medios, con todas tus fuerzas: trata siempre que el movimiento sea una espiral ascendente en pos de la virtud.

VI

Quien crea que vive su vida sólo para sí, para el disfrute y agrado propios exclusivamente, está perdido en el círculo perfecto de una alucinante encerrona. La vida se vive para los demás, para aquellos que hacen el mundo que conocemos tal como es. Sólo en la satisfacción de vivir para otros y hacer por otros, descubrimos el regocijo de vivir y la dicha de ser quien somos.

VII

Big onions are scary. There is their voluptuousness; the full-grown, boasting exuberance of their skin. There is also their smell and their strong taste, sort of sweet bitter. They lay there, fresh and untried, and it is perhaps such combination of ripeness and innocence what makes them more appealing. Inside, the tightly-arranged, moist rings contain each other like a Lego game; their width widening towards the inside; encircling as if protecting something so precious and pure that is not meant to be revealed to the world. That is precisely what scares me about big onions. They remind me of the day I found myself suddenly at knife point.

The cutting pad had been laid smoothly to minimize distress and the knife had just been sharpened. In the initial handling, the inner rings clutched firmly to one another, shielding undisclosed weaknesses. Softly pressing here and there loosened them up in time; their juice started to sift through. All shivery at the pulse of the force pushing through, I laid still before the ravenous Ali Baba that found so much gusto in slashing me into halves. Right there, right then, life went multi-colored like never before and it all began to make sense. Broken through, stretched open, I let the piquant, overpowering scent - my ultimate secret weapon - bring tears to the eyes of my assassin as he started pulling out, one by one, each of my bounds and vows. Me a bunch of onion rings perfectly laid out then; he, the served predator, delighted to have me.

Big onions have the looks of a virgin that is desperately calling upon herself. Oh, it certainly is disconcerting having to choose whether to do them or leave them untouched.

VIII

After a distressing night struggling to get rid of thoughts, you wake up feeling that shaky state of tiredness contriving and depressing your body and mind. And you are left with no choice but to walk the house and try to entertain yourself for a few hours, in the hope that your day can be somewhat enlightened by a re-start.

The first thing you do is check the others, which is not hard to guess given that silence takes over the house, being only disrupted by fans -the hushing of their sharp blades breaking the stagnant air mold into segmentary fresh packs directly focused on the sleeping. All of a sudden, it occurs to you that your house is a gigantic entity like the central computer of a spaceship; a whole in itself, containing all of you inside. It is its hand that monitors the fans, the amount of light climbing in through the upper windows, the moisture, the dust settling on the furniture and every other little going to secure its constituent living parts a good functioning.

So you go check out the others and find that there is only brother sleeping open-armed-and-legged on the bed you both share since mum and dad went out somewhere much earlier. Wonder why you weren’t so comfortable all night, being deterred to the bed right shore, pushing hard to change position and seek the cooler white areas of the sheets on which you rested. Or tried to. And as there is nothing to be done at the moment about it -at least not till tonight- you choose to forget momentarily, even when reluctant to forgive.

You walk to the kitchen and open the fridge. It is cold and empty. Passed the fridge, there is the coffee pot on the kitchen table. You sip directly from it, light a cigarette and head for the living room. It is Sunday, but it is still eight o’clock. The scheduled TV show for children does not start until nine, although you know that the mere sight of disconnected satellite transmission waves would be far more entertaining. You turn the TV on and look at them for a while. It looks deep asleep and its snoring goes metrically like oil sizzling on a frying pan, calling up the morning omelet. Which reminds you that you are about to be hungry and that is not a good idea if you ran out of eggs two days ago. Back to the kitchen for another sip of coffee and then, to your room, you think of some gentle music to ease your temper. Play the Cranberries’ ‘Zombie’; the perfect overture for your day’s performance but, hell no, you are in no mood for self-parody. Maybe the piano would do: playing something irreverent without much glory. Yet brother still sleeps soundly in the room; waking him up would be extremely unlucky. You’ve come to the point of really assessing how much peace is secured by not playing. It definitely has to be an activity of a quieter nature.

Your parents’ room suggests itself like the ideal place to be. With a big bed, a fan bigger than yours, larger windows -that’s how it will always be- because everything at the parents’ room is over-dimensioned and not precisely because they are two, but because they are the parents and that immediately implies that every little goody supporting such title is to possess a higher degree of magnificence. Not that you care. You are merely describing the family’s hierarchic system. In truth, it is sometimes annoying for you to be in the lowest rank, but that is how it has always been. They came in here first. They even built the house and all.

They aren’t here now, though, so the room made for their comfort and leisure is all yours at least for the coming few hours. You lie on their firm bed and pick a book: Jacob’s Room by Virginia Wolf. Jacob’s also reading his favorite one on Ancient Greece. Almighty Virginia describes his amusement; how he stares into the pictures and travels through time to those large stone buildings and its people. You can’t perceive the parallel. You can’t see your own traveling to Jacob’s room. Even as you put your book aside and close your eyes to deal with your overexcited brain, you’re still resting alongside Jacob, your head on his shoulder. Do that: stay with Jacob. He only wishes to read while you sleep soundly next to him. He’s got no plans, no future, no nothing. Do that: stay with Jacob, and finally get rid of thoughts. And rest awhile.

Poesía Cuaderno 1 (Santa Clara & La Macagua, 1995-1998)

2009-01-17T12:45:00.000-08:00

Glad

Be glad
The good old elephant
Looks well after your flowers

Be glad
The snow looks whiter
If it comes to see us

Never mind
Angels told me
They wore horns in October

Oh, be glad
Or the fairy
Won’t change your teeth for chocks!

Jan 19th, 1995

Not to Cry

And so happens
That the Circus
Puts on a show
Every night

Me and my silence
In this corner
Sit together
Not to cry

Me and my silence
In this corner
No one counts

While the circus
Moves and move
From town to town

Jan 19th, 1995

Una Pregunta

¿Qué puedo decir que no se haya dicho?
¡Que bajo este cielo todo ya está escrito!
¿Las mismas historias, las mismas tonadas?
¿Qué puedo decir sin repetir nada?
- preguntaba un hombre;
Y dijo un poeta: - tus propias palabras.

Enero 20, 1995

Lunch

Paul died last night
No one cared
His neighbours snored
In their beds

His mum and dad
Made him lunch
But he won’t come
And they’ll wait

And wait
And wait...

March 30th, 1995

Butterfly on a Wheel

It was for sure that Norma Butterfly didn’t need to add anything else that evening. From the tiny piece of mirror that reflected her image, a smile of satisfaction emerged. ‘Just perfect’ and the pinky mouth shrunk shaping a self kiss.

Her life up to then had been ‘sharing the two-room place with old decadent Stella who has taken on preaching me every time I bring Peter or Mark or anyone in for the night and then, little Jimmy crying out loud all day long etc etc… I DON’T WANT TO HEAR NO MORE! STELLA, YOU’D BETTER SHUT THIS BOY UP OR I’LL BE FORCED TO DO IT MY WAY!’ ‘All he needs is some milk and cereal, Norma, warm socks like any other baby of his age and... of course... a lullaby from time to time… but that would be asking you too much. When are you going to bring some decently-earned money into this house? SLAM! Norma had had never been a good listener.

So that was enough for Ms. Butterfly and this time she meant it. She needed her own space, mostly now entering her 30’s and having met old sweet Martin who seemed to be so taken with her. ‘The Good Days’ was too small a town; too lost in the map. Now Norma was sat on a bench in the main park, legs crossed, holding a lit strong cigarette on her white long delicate hand. She waited until the grey limo pulled in right in front and did not stood up until the chauffer got off to help her in through a middle door. Norma Butterfly did not look back. She bid no farewell. She wrote no letter.

March 30th, 1995

Como Nosotros Mismos

Podrida de pobreza
Sumida en su desahucio
Sin patio o tragaluces
Nuestra gran casa vieja
De orgasmos y de infancia
Que pronto se hará nada
Como nosotros mismos.

Julio 12, 1995

Alta Traición

Porque ya no sé quién soy
No sostengo una promesa
Y la música me pesa
En el lado izquierdo. Voy
Con mi carga cual convoy
Amedrentando ladrones
Mi fardo arrastro a tirones
Que abren surcos en el mar
Y a mi delfín veo nadar
Feliz entre tiburones.

Septiembre 3, 1996

Ratas, Ratas, Ratas

Un universo de ratas ha aparecido en nuestro patio.
Y digo un universo porque hay tantas tan diferentes
Que parecen haber venido cada una de un planeta distinto.
Mamá las mata con la escoba,
Rauli las ahuyenta, Ruthi les teme.
Yo las observo; me gusta ver
Cómo se revuelcan en la mierda.

Marzo 24, 1997

Aversión

Hoy es un día de esos
En que el mar está lejos
Y yo quisiera ahogarme;
Hundirme y enterrarme
y no regresar nunca,
Ni que se acuerde nadie,
Ni dejar atrás nada.
Nunca, Nadie, Nada.

Mayo 14, 1997

Bien Simple

¿De qué nos vale este juego?
¿A qué preguntar tanto quién soy, cómo soy
Mientras languidecemos ante velas y manuscritos?
Mejor salir a respirar el campo verde en las tardes
Y cuando todo se vuelve oscuro besar la sombra del silencio.

Junio 6, 1997

Yo Triste

Se me acabó la alegría
Y la tarde y la ventana,
La brisa, las buenas ganas,
Me he instalado en la porfía.
Y no podré ver el día
En que ya no seré menos.
Me he quedado donde el trueno,
Donde las sombras sin rostro
Y ante mi infierno me postro
Para arrullarme en su seno.

Junio 24, 1997

Espantapájaros

Lo cierto es que mañana me fusilan. Me han dicho que me pondrán de espalda a los que me disparen. Mejor así. No quiero llevarme en el recuerdo sus deprimentes caras de verdugos sufridos. A la verdá que ya en el cielo preferiría pensar en Betty Davis o en Marlene Dietrich y no en un grupo de desgraciados, pobres vejigos infelices que apuntarán mañana hacia mí desde el otro lado del huerto con sus pistolitas de agua.

Octubre 2, 1997

La Cruz

Un cuerpo ancho que no es el mío llevo a mi espalda;
Ancho y pesado como un fardo cargado de pescado.
Es mi libertad que me encierra,
Es mi soledad que me deja,
Es mi yo perdido que no se halla.
Habré de llevarle siempre a cuestas
Como si no pesara.

Octubre 2, 1997

Mal Sueño

Mabel se cortó el pelo
La luna bajo corriendo
Bordeó el charco de sangre
y balanceó su redonda cabeza
Con profunda tristeza.

El corte fue tal desacierto
Que no se sabe para qué
Lleva guirnaldas y cintillos
Si es que penden colgadas
De su masa encefálica

Y eso no es bonito,
¡No es nada bonito!
Así lo creo yo
Y también la luna
Que para no verla
Se ha puesto a apretarse
Sus negros cráteres
Junto al lago de los innombrables

Octubre 2, 1997

Sofía

La vida es
Un centinela de gorra azul y botas enlodadas
Que tiene bajo su custodio
Una gigante ruleta de dorado verdor.

El centinela está de pie
Pero nunca inmóvil
Para poder cumplir su gran tarea:
Velar porque el círculo de azar
No detenga su andar preciso.

Así y a la vez cuida el centinela
De no hundir demasiado sus botas en el lodo
Y de mantener orientada
La visera de su gorra azul
En dirección al sol.

Octubre 18, 1997

El Poder de un Suspiro

La pupila del Barón Lou se abrió de un tajo
Y de ella salió volando una mariposa plateada
De puntiagudos y venenosos aguijones.
Pero el Barón Lou suspiró al siguiente tajo
Y acto seguido
La mariposa palideció
Y se crucificó a sí misma a aguijonazos.

Octubre 18, 1997

Carta Al Amante Desconocido

No he pensado que llegas
Para que sea un acierto
Mi constante encontrarte

He andado merodeándote
Como quien no quisiera
Pero mi cuentamillas
Ha gastado sus suelas celulares

Ven, dame la sorpresa
Aparece en un parque
O un una calle oscura
Que haya perdido el nombre
Tras alguna pedrada

Aparece en un cine
En medio de la guerra
Tocando una campana espantamuerte
O en un barco, sí, un barco
Con una vela blanca
Al sol del mediodía

Aparece a las ocho
Cuando estiro mis brazos y mis piernas
Tempranas al cansancio
Aparece en el miedo
Que me espera el domingo
Sentado en el candado

Y aparece de modo
Que sintiendo tus pasos
Me surja un arrebato
Por comerme la luna

Dic 12, 1997

La Prisa

¿Qué ver en el corazón a primera vista
Que indique con certeza
El sí, el no
Sin lugar al error?

¿Dónde estás, querubín?
¿Andarás errando por alguna playa distante
Que no conoce mis pisadas?

Cavilando me extingo
Y pronto no habrá espacio
Para el abrazo lento
Y la paz inclemente del amor.

Cuánto he envejecido sin tu rostro...

Dic 12, 1997

Para que no nos duela la partida

Porque te veo y no bajo esta sombra
Que envuelve mi pesar en cada tarde
Escribo hoja tras hoja y no te nombra
Mi pena porque el tiempo le hace alarde.

Me quedo sin tu nombre y el refugio
Es un pesar agudo como un parto
De alas y el dolor es subterfugio
Y es esta llama oscura en que me aparto.

No volverás a mí tras cada tarde
Con su sombra cargada de altruismo
Porque te veo y no será lo mismo
Porque habré de escribir donde más arde.

Precisamente allí donde tu nombre
Ha de llegar el sol y la estampida
Del rostro que perdí,

Y en la avenida de los pinos salvados e inocentes
Trazaremos de abrazos nuestro puente
Para que no nos duela la partida.

Dic 15, 1997

Abuelo Mar

A Feliciano Reinoso Rivas, mi abuelo, hombre de agudas letras y palabras y de noblísimo corazón.

“Yo soy de donde hay un río...” - Silvio

Mi abuelo fue un río
Su blanco cabello la espuma
Su espaciosa frente el cauce
Abierto a la luna

Fue un río mi abuelo
Sus manos cuenca de cascada
Su risa menudos zancudos
Huyendo en bandada

Abuelo en su empeño
- sus pasos piedritas
Quedando en el delta mortal-

Del lecho despierta a su sueño
Gotitas de abuelo que escapan
Y alcanzan el mar!

Dic 15, 1997

Pérdida y Hallazgo

Una muchacha cuya sombra planea una escapada en secreto. Al mediodía, aprovechando su ausente presencia, pone a prueba el plan en pos de llegar a ser algo más que el mero reflejo sin rostro de lo vivo. Bajo el sol de las tres se agazapa bajo la invisible gravidez del cuerpo al que está atada. Así, poco a poco, en un acto de paciente rebeldía, comienza a zafarse de los hilos del cuerpo de la muchacha. Descubre, por ejemplo, que puede mover con mucho más soltura que ella sus hondas caderas vacías. Y en la noche –la convenida en ese pacto que sólo tiene una sombra con su propia y profunda oscuridad- decide abandonar para siempre el armazón tridimensional de su hospedera. Se asegura de espantar la luna y, para no correr riesgos, tiñe con su espesa negrura la luz fría. Se esfuma silenciosa, libre por primera vez, ya nunca más vestigio ni ocaso de nada bajo el cielo.

Septiembre 4, 1998

Un teléfono puede ser también la salvación

Cuando todos los amigos están lejos
Cuando el sol se pone demasiado temprano
O peor
Cuando no sale nunca
Durante días
Y días
Y días
Es entonces
Que alguien pega su guitarra encendida al manófono
Y tú sabes
Que eran justo esas palabras
Las que necesitabas escuchar

Septiembre 6, 1998

Dice Arrufat: “en un retablo antiguo aparece representado un cuerpo moribundo. Por su boca escapa una figurita: ¿será el alma?

Digo yo por estos días: “ante un viejo escritorio se malsienta el cuerpo fatigado de una muchacha. De su pluma escapa un halo de extraña simetría: ¿será la desesperanza?

Septiembre 12, 1998

Del Jazz Latino

El jazz es para el hombre como una escuela donde aprender a ingerir la inmediatez del mundo cotidiano con fruición y deleite.

Septiembre 24, 1998

Quizás

Quizás mañana
Va a llegar un hombre con una bata blanca
Diciendo que te ama.
Quizás un doctor, o un escultor.
Claro no descartes que sea
Un ángel con alitas y todo
y ya no te sirva.

Septiembre 25, 1998

María Fernanda

Nanda,
No has germinado en nadie
Pero en mí ya estás creciendo.
Mis abuelas son tus abuelas
Y mi madre es tu madre;
Yo sólo soy una mitad tuya
Que llegó primero, y viceversa.

Nanda,
La vida te va a venir
Como una fiesta
- Ya sé que es manido lo de las copas,
Pero bueno-
Y por supuesto, beberás de muchas copas
Que en ella te serán servidas.
Sólo que
En cualquier momento
Tres o cuatro de esas copas
Se te harán añicos contra el suelo

Y claro que la música no parará,
Nanda,
Los vidrios quedarán atrás
Y tú pasarás sobre ellos,
Bailando, como si no doliera.

Y no habrás de olvidar ese dolor.
Nanda, por favor,
Eso sí, no te detengas;
Prometo asirte más fuerte
Pero en fin haz de saber
Que la fiesta para mí termina antes.
Hija mía, Nanda,
Que haz de bailar sola luego,
Qué dicha poder soñarte...

Amalia

Te voy a dejar, Amalia,
Una foto de abuela a tu edad,
Un collarito blanco de vicarias
Y un par de medias.
Abuela también tuvo tu nombre.
Las vicarias son para ver por tus ojos
Y las medias
Para poder besarte los pies
Cuando saltes de la cama en la mañana.

Mis Dos Hijas

Mis dos hijas se acercan a mí
Y me espantan de gloria.
Nanda tiene una risa azul de cielo despejado,
Amalia, una frente blanca de vicaria.
Tan Marías como todas sus mujeres.
Tan despiertas como todo lo que empieza a florecer.
Mis hijas se acercan por un sendero nítido
Saturado de incandescencia
Hasta este minuto de la realidad que atravieso.
Serán, según les plazca, canción, pacto, o espada;
Serán y son por siempre
Mis hijas
Esta calle
Y este lucero fresco
Que no se opaca nunca.

Septiembre 30, 1998

Ineludiblemente

Vendrán terremotos, volcanes en actividad, tormentas huracanadas, tsunamis, diluvios,
Vendrán guerras, crisis económicas mundiales, terroristas, suicidas en masa…
Pero vendrá también el capullo para la mariposa nueva
Y la mariposa nueva con sus alas por estrenar
Los padres harán con o sin amor los hijos que les vengan a deseen
Así que vendrán también los hijos
Y serán ellos, entonces quienes habrán de cumplir o desmentir
Estas abuelas profecías que hoy divulgamos aterrados...

Octubre 2, 1998

Libertad

Adela se quita la camisa.
La camisa le apretaba el cuerpo.
Como mandril enjaulado,
Adela se la quita.
Respira hondo, con hambre,
Y entonces siente la selva;
El mandril salta de rama en rama
Con la felicidad de un loco.

Octubre3, 1998

Acción y Reacción

El niño se atraganta con un chicle.
La madre corre a socorrerlo.
Un primer palmazo espanta al chicle
Que sale disparado y cae al suelo.
Pero hay un segundo palmazo, aún más fuerte
Que embiste una lágrima.
El niño no comprende el agravio.
Cuando la madre se da vuelta,
El niño recoge el chicle del suelo,
Se frota la nariz con ojos diluidos,
Y viéndola alejarse
Se lo traga de un tirón.

Octubre 3, 1998

Yo Quisiera Escribirte un Poema...

Yo quisiera escribirte un poema para que lo leyeras.
Sería del tipo de poemas
De los que sientes que tienes que decir algo después de leerlo.
Y tú lo leerías
Y querrías, ciertamente, decir algo.
Claro,
Sería también del tipo de poemas
De los que sientes que quieres decir algo,
Pero no puedes.
Ni una palabra, ni un gesto. Nada.
Sólo me mirarías a los ojos un buen rato.
Me mirarías y me mirarías.
Y nada más.
Ni una palabra, ni un gesto. Nada.
Así sería el poema.

Octubre 6, 1998

Papá y la Música

Papá alza las manos, toma la varilla y ebrio de gozo apunta a los violines. Mi corazón da un vuelco. El los hace levitar. Apenas un zumbido se escucha; un zumbido que crece, y ahora sus brazos se elevan como arcos en cuya tercedad descansa ansiosa una flecha. Papá la apunta hacia los cellos, hiriéndolos en sus centros con vibratos solemnes de un dramatismo gravissimo. Arquea una ceja: le ha llegado el turno a los cornos: ellos entonan para él, sólo para él, sus cantos himeneos.

Es entonces que alcanzo a ver el castillo en lo alto de la colina. Y más allá sobre los riscos, al príncipe de mis sueños: papá de capa azul, que ondea a los abismos mecida por el viento. El redoblante truena de súbito y la mano izquierda de papá lo apaga con un suspiro de puño cerrado. Dulcemente, la varilla va a morir sobre el arpa. Sus notas como gotas de agua emergiendo de un manantial bajo la tierra. Así se ve el alma de papá esta noche. Gracias a esta canequita de ron he podido verla. Papá dice ser un músico frustrado.

Noviembre 12, 1998

La Tarde

Pasa desnuda de magia la tarde;
Lenta y fría.
La vivo
Como quien espera algo mejor
Aún si
A la larga
No es más que una de esas tantas
Rancias,
Desabridas tardes

Noviembre 22, 1998

La Noche Llega...

Y seremos otra vez esos que miran fijo. Y es que al dormir, nos miramos dentro. Toma tiempo regresar de dentro de uno mismo.

Con la noche llega el fantasma delirante que habita el hipotálamo; presto a hilvanar los sucesos del día en absurdas y harto sugerentes concatenaciones que nunca llegaremos realmente a comprender. Nos habita despacio, como un señor muy galante y ecuánime que sabe que es bievenido y sonríe para sí.

Noviembre 22, 1998

Prepararse para la vida es...

Mucho más difícil que prepararse para la muerte. Vivir es un acto continuo de estoicismo.

Noviembre 26, 1998