los regalos

premonitions

grey memories of a tenderness not yet lived.
a spirit with out eyes or hands to recognize
moves
in the dawn.

i walked

I walked alone on a dusty rode shadowed with the dry, empty branches of late winter. The warm weather was tricking some of them to bud, but one last freeze would come to shock them back to a season they thought they had forgotten. I thought I had forgotten the deepening of self in the tissue. It is occurring again. As I follow my heart, I become my body. The pieces fuse and sink in the relaxation of shoulders and intestines, face and kidney.

My metaphysical lonliness escapes in the company of
an open window
to the night.

Los parques, los bancos, y una mujer

No era ni la estación ni la hora en que la gente frecuentaba el parque; posiblemente la mujer que estaba sentada en los bancos, no era de allí. Seguramente, ella no era de allí. Los demás andaban de un lado al otro con sus hábitos de invierno que no incluían un paseo en el parque, ni unos momentos en un banquito congelado. Pero ella, ella era de afuera y podía ver el banco solitario dando la bienvenida aún bajo los árboles secos, negros, desnudos al cielo azul. Olvidados, los tres (el parque, el banco y ella), se unieron para pasar tiempo. ¿Y que más hacemos pero pasar el tiempo entre los dos puntos seguros? ¿Y porque no hacerlo desde los bancos vacíos?

Desde allí observó las nubes de incendios; el polvo dando saltos, formando caracoles; una paloma caída con el cuello torcido y los vidrios negros mirando todavía; un perro sarnoso paraba, la miraba, cojeaba, paraba, la miraba, cojeaba.

¿Cuándo morirás? ¿Cuándo morirás? Los ojos incrustados de la mujer preguntaron
al invierno.

Con curiosidad, no con tristeza, indagó a su entorno. La tristeza. La había dejado en otro parque, en otra estación, cuando al seguir una hoja en su caída desde la rama hasta el río abajo, se dio cuenta de que tanto más pesaba la hoja, menos baile hacía en el viaje. Entonces, con la siguiente hoja que se deshizo del gran árbol, colocó con las dos manos su tristeza en la cuenca verde. Su mirada llorosa las vio flotar, la hoja sacrificada y su tristeza, por el río
hasta que se hundieron en una ola del sol.

Ahora, en esta cuidad, en este parque, en esta estación, una sonrisa de misterio acompañaba a sus labios. Sus manos descansaban encima de sus piernas. Su espalda recta. Una campera gris. Una gorra con rayas moradas, verdes, azules, rojas, anaranjadas. De repente, se puso de pie; caminó a la derecha, adentrándose más en el parque, cruzó la vereda y se sentó en el siguiente banco que miraba hacía el otro lado.

La espalda recta, las manos sueltas,
esa sonrisa, esa mirada.

No sé

No sé si esta es la resignación o la fe. Ya no siento el terror de no presenciar un testigo de mi vida. El silencio de las cartas ya no es una ráfaga. Esta ausencia me parece tan normal ¿Qué razón hay en luchar contra lo que no hay? Mejor aprender vivir en el plano abierto. Construir una casa. Dibujar un río.

high, high up

High, high up. Stairs and ladders above a Yucatán piramid. A shacky ascent toward a falling descent. How to fall? Hands out in a dive? Head tucked in as a ball? I knew I would fall. That is why I had come. I knew peole would watch, opine. Some would shake their head in disgust. Others would even laugh. Ridiculous. They would say, she is ridiculous. But I had to do what I had come to do. To turn back, walk down, and please the other, was suicide.

no queda otra

En esta suspensión, con solamente el aire acariciándome,
no me queda otra, sino unirme
a la atmósfera.
Vaciar mi vacío en el viento que me columpia.
Presionarme, aplastarme
contra lo que no veo. Empujarme
contra lo que no me agarra. Entonces,
mis dedos, actúan como paredes, cobijas,
las manos que no son.
Ofrecen el limite
que quiero trascender.

chalk

estoy sola.

estoy sola.
me acerco
enunciarla
sin la tabla
debajo de mis pies
que tiemblan en mi pecho.
decirla
volando.

the object of my object

I walk down the street and see a middle aged man greet a little girl, dressed with pink backpack and pigtails. Hugs and kisses. He grabs her and swings her amidst more hugs and kisses. I watch. I smile. He puts her down, she runs back to someone outside of the frame and then I become the object of my object. Our eyes meet. I separate mine from his and wonder if my smile is still there. How long will it last in the absence of hugs, kisses and children?

esta cocina

es una cueva
aquí leo de pie
orino
leo
nada fuera
me hace salir
nada dentro
menos piel
y almidón

hoy volvió

Camino por las calles y mi corazón me quita el aire. ¿Estará cansado? Me pienso curada y vuelve esa tensión de hundirme en el apuro hacia la nada. Talvez sea porque vino y dudo de la razón de querer. Se acerca y toco más a mi soledad. ¿Amar? ¿Cómo amar lo que no esta? Capas de piel que no me dejan llegar.

Si otra vez, un día, recibo y doy esa mirada desnuda, lloraré. Temblaré por ese miedo tan bello.

mandarines in the snow

below white falling snow
i walked home today
with red winter hands
peeling orange summer
mandarine

la salida

un accompanied
together
the exit
narrow
i return

simple questions

what do you do with your sadness?
where do you throw it?
where do you hide it?

t o g e t h er

to get her
to talk
she needed baby imagination
hope
and reason
her voice
in the silence

run, fire, sleep

no title, none at all

i prefer river to reason
where is the river?

pescando nubes

si no lo digo

si no lo digo
se queda
en el olvido
en el no existir.
se queda

si no digo
estoy
no estoy
si no digo
soy
no soy

y si lo digo
y nadie oye

el no estar

su presencia estorba
en su ausencia

el estar con
tranquiliza
hasta poder olvidar
de su estar
de su ser

triste selección
de consciencia
del yo que falta
y hace falta.

¿Y este cuerpo? ¿Necesito el otro para conocer mi cuerpo? ¿Para aceptar mi cuerpo? Siento la transformación de la ausencia (absence) al ab-senus (ab-sens). ¿Estoy volviendo ser como los "niños salvajes" que ya no se sientan el frío? Puede ser un beneficio. No sentir el frío para poder caminar en la crudeza del viento. No sentir la soledad por la población de mi mente. En fin, no todo se pierde, nuestro cuerpo es memoria. El sentido térmico se puede re-aprender con baños alternados de agua fría y agua caliente. El sentido solitario se florece en la presencia de los demás.

ser ciego

es andar
golpeándose
es andar
con moretones

me canso
de mi ceguera

basta

i stopped life once
and many times there after
enough
assasination
cutting the stalk short
pulling the stars too close
enough

cada cambio es crisis antes de ser cambio....dm

the presence of faith

a wintered rose garden and a stump
the sun and its ringed aura
through afternoon fog
thick stockings under jeans
scarf over ears
eyes closed
face up
breath and tears

el prado, montevideo

i am a rusty train

i am a rusty train
at full throttle
clinkity clunk
clinkity clunk
clinkiclunkclinkiclunkclinkiclunk
clunkclunk
clunk

how wings grow

the fire passes
the elevator drops
a soul burns
a body suspends
it is
another
another
another
layer of loneliness
removed.

no fue mi intención ensuciarte

me cuesta apoyarme en una pared, en un árbol.
la geografía es ilusión.
los vínculos son de masa sólida en su estado invisible
pero son pocos y no hay caricias,
no hay desde la mañana hasta la noche.
ni de noche.
me encuentro sola. puede ser
que es una asfixia mental
algo deshacerme de
con meditación,
yoga
libros de auto-ayuda,
pero ahora,
esta noche,
mi corazón quiere explotar
de la implosión de tristeza.

hay abrazos que se abren a abrazarme.
pero puede ser
que después
de vivir constantemente
tan intensamente,
lo demás
es una vacuidad
con puntos transitorios de alegría,
sin una parada,
sin un muelle con sol.
o puede ser
que hay algo
sacar, borrar, dibujar
y aquí,
en este espacio tan abierto,
en esta cuidad tan tapada,
en este invierno tan arropado,
aquí
es donde tengo que estar
para sanarme de la caída
de otra capa de soledad.
o puede ser
que este no es para mí.
¿entonces qué?

esta gran montaña de la nada
me mira,
me provoca,
se burla de mí.
no soy tan individualista.
da me un volcán subir sola
y lo subo contenta
con el viento y el negro de su larva seca.
pero esta erupción sin fondo,
este abismo sin alturas,
no tiene para pisar.

he decidido
no querer lo que no tengo,
ni aferrarme a lo que no existe.

mi pobre amiga dulce,
te he vomitado encima…
no fue mi intención ensuciarte….

rain, sleep, and sadness

i wake to rain in the middle of the night and immediatly review the clothes lines in front of the teachers’ house. did i leave anything to dry? i am miles and miles from those wires and cords, from that wooden house on stilts over swamp, where dear souls sleep, where i once slept, but my reactions are still of those habits. last night, woken by rain and thunder, after realizing nothing of mine hung now soaked because i no longer live there, i entered a sad sleep.

strange sounds of the city

a sudden heaving
a surge of vibrations
a distant cloud of movement
bellows
invades
grinds
this space.

dust.

i wanted my windows open.
he taught me how to close them
you will see, he spoke as he walked away after
closing one side with the outside shutter and the other side
with the inside plane. you will see how it starts to pile up in the terrace.and so it is.
a grey pile is forming along the green wall. fuzz is collecting aroung the pipes. the city blows and settles in this box set ajar that is
this terrace.
i don’t want to hate this high wall nor fight with the lamina roof blocking me from sky, but i may end up sabatoging it. piece by piece it may start to fall.

a view. a vision. if i stay,
must come from within. the obstructions,
force my eyes upwards,
to glimpse between concrete and metal
sky
blue, white, or grey,
to behold that which is not of human hand or mind.
i look up more than i have in years. through the cracks,
the light still enters. on the roof,
the pigeons rest. and there, on the black cable,
it might be a dove.

la risa apesar de....

ni desde mi cama...no se puede ver el sol, ni desde mi cama..ves, ¿ya entiendes mi depresión del lunes cuando me quedé en la cama con fiebre hasta el medio día y que me ha seguido todo la semana? ceci, acostada en el colchón colocado a las 4 de la mañana en el piso, empezó a reír. la salto para ir al baño y al salir abro las puertas de vidrio que dan desde la cocina a un tipo de terraza. la ventana de mi pieza también abre a esta "terraza" encerrada por paredes, dos pintadas de verde para hacernos pensar en la hierba que nos hace falta, y un techo de lamina dura y pesada que abre a medias con un palo. una de las paredes es más corta y por allí entra la luz. a distintas horas del día puedo mover una silla blanca de plástico a diferentes puntos para sentir los rayos del sol. no es que el departamento se queda en oscuras. hay luz, pero difusa.

salgo a esta "terraza" y le digo a ceci, todavía acostada en mi pieza, y mira, !que vistazo tengo yo! con eso ella se levanta riéndose y sale a ver los pedacitos de edificios grises (que una vez eran blancas) y uno de ladrillo rojo tocando cielo azul. y mira ese generador. es domingo y hoy descansa, pero los otros días, hace un ruido constante. todavía no puedo verlo como un amigo.
uhu, sí cara, entiendo tu depresión. no hay pájaros, ni monos, ni arboles.
ni rosales, añado. hay risas por la resignación temporal sin fatalidad. ¿quieres un té?

y en dos minutos estamos tomando té verde de agua calentando en una jarra eléctrica (el aparato gracioso del casero que duerme en la pieza de el lado). la conversación sigue sin seguir un hilo. se va a la una.

la vida sigue. sola y acompañada. sonriendo y llorando en las calles. lo esperaba. solamente ahora lo estoy viviendo. es duro y dulce.

recuerdo bien las palabras de un amigo: sin tu sentido de humor estas muerta.

English Conversation Class

Business English with a Social Focus

Circle the correct word or phrase that best completes the sentence or question.

Jim: How old should you be / are you?
Jen: I am / must be /should not be 34 years old.
Jim: Surely / It is necessary that you are married.
Jen: No, I shouldn't be /am not /must not be married.
Jim: Couldn't you / Shouldn't you /Do you have children?
Jen: No, I shouldn't / do not /must not have children.

There is silence between the couple, him sitting behind the desk, she on the other end. He scrunches his eye-brows and looks at his hands being wrung dryly. The woman doesn't take her eyes off of his.

Jim: I can't/ shall not/ will not believe it.
Jen: It must be/is/shouldn't be true.
Jim: And your family is in/on/over the United States in California?
Jen: No, my mother lives around/in California, and my father resides under/around/in Virginia.
Jim: No family is with/in you here?
Jen: Yes, this is true/real.
Jim: If one have/has a business, one must have/should have/could have a vision or a plan for the future.
Jen: Yes.
Jim: Musn't/Do/Shouldn't you have a vision or a plan for your life?
Jen: Yes/No/Possibly. For now I could/should/will study.
Jim: I could/should/must die with out my family.
Jen: It is/are/was 14:00. I will/must not/should not see you tomorrow.
Jim: Take care with yourself /of yourself / of your family / with your choices.

la mañana volviendose tarde

sentados bajo el quincho, en la mesa amarilla. èl esta metiendo el rollo nuevo en su cámara automática que había subido con él a Machu Pichu, una foto tremenda de double exposure, una llama radiando del pirámide, que había sacado fotos preciosas de su niña de niña, y ahora la prepara para el cumple, pasado mañana, de su nieta.

ella toma un descanso de su lectura para sorber el mate y hablar de su chico de bélgica que en lugar de hacer su servicio militar hizo su servicio social tomando fotos en un hospital de las emergencias, de los accidentes, haciendo campañas contra conducir ebria.

y él sorbiendo su café instantáneo comentando de su servicio militar obligatorio de joven cuando los militares trataron a los universitarios peor que al jugador de fútbol. los cuatro universitarios a recoger la basura, el jugador a conducir, y que no baje a ayudar.

risas. mira como somos.

él recoge la mesa, ella vuelve a su lectura, al silencio entre los dos.

el sol cae en el jardín, una maquina ruge cortando el césped del colegio al lado. los pajaros. la mañana volviéndose tarde. y todo porque no hubo electricidad para ir al ciber.

the beginning 2

this evening, i go to see a room. to see, if i can live there for a time. light. light is my requirement. light, a good price, light. a place where i can paint the walls yellow with a red bicycle. light for the plants to clean the air, moisturize the air.
and the other inhabitants? to think of the unknown other sickens my stomach.
on the other hand, it is titilating to be unsure of the future. will i sit on the bus tonight imaginging the arrangment of the room, or will i sulk in the blue, plastic seat, stare out at the passing night and plan the continuation of the search?

the beginning

today, i begin work...offering services to another for pay. three classes, a meeting, some planning, bus rides and walking. out at 8:20, in at 21:20. lentil soup for breakfast. an apple, yogurt, and trail mix in the bag. surely, i will snack an empanada or two, and when i arrive "home" they may have saved some asado for me. and i will eat it gratefully wondering if and when i will decide to not eat meat again.

las dudas

empanadas árabes y criollas con limón
vino
viento
levantando papeles pegados a las paredes
mensajes
y yo
en un rincón
con un grano en el hombro el tamaño de un tumor
leo
por la primera vez: le monde diplomatique
leo
en español
después de cada articulo
aproximo mi comprehensión y me pregunto:
¿sigo en mi auto-engaño?
¿seré capaz?

córdoba, 2009

first impressions

there is no ocean, no river, no mountain to strangle or retain its growth in one direction or another. it stretches on a plane block by block with subtle assents and descents reminding one of the mountains that lie farther west, a range running diagonal to the Andes, but independent of them, on the surface. these slight hills are a tease. i want mountain, river, ocean...that drastic stop. the excuse. the reason. the because.

i lied. there is a river and steel that bridges across concrete, grass, an inner concrete funnel guiding the waters of the .....along. think LA with its multiple concrete rivers. think the Thames, and know: that is not what i see.

there is also a stream, i should mention. it also rolls over a concrete bed, but it has the privelege of passing under a canopy of trees and high rise apartments. this is the Cañada in the city's center. it is the little sister with a grand title and placement unaware of the expectations surrounding her. there might be seasons of flooding causing her to rise as her tall cage of white brick evidences. but, her, a threat? it is as if the city planners in their looking to the great cities of Buenos Aires, Vienna, Paris and their cooresponding water ways (Río de La Plata, the Danube, and the Seine)and felt obliged to encase their waters, al biet a stream, in rock and line it with trees whose roots can not drink of the waters it shadows.

i sit at a café along its "banks" and i sense that i might be some where, somewhere known with out explanation, but no. this is is a city growing up in the image of many other cities. maybe if i hadn´t come through buenos aires, i would have identified the tall, red brick apartments as endemic to córdoba. if i had come from Sao Paulo, i would have deemed them borrowed from the brazilians. maybe, if i hadn't lived in Río Dulce, I would not interpret the green as dim.

the arquitecture is layered. the colonial era preserves alongside art deco(the first and the second wave) and all that comes between. one plaza is a world heritage site while the city park has a man-made lake, ducks, geese, burnt grass, the norm.

but my question: why here? why a city here with little water, a dry climate in the interior of the country without extraordinary soil or mining? I asked, the one question i allowed myself before writing this. Answer: a stopping place between Lima, Potosi and Buenos Aires, between one coast and another, between silver and port. and so, this stopping place has become the American Capital of Culture, thus named in 2006, but nobody talks of that.

i walked the city today from the west end of the center where i had lunch with cecilia and her grandfather to the southern end near the university where the municiple theatre rests. on this 35 minute jaunt, i jotted down only two free cultural events (western philosophy courses and an introduction to chinese thought at different venues) when i could have made note of 13 free seminars, conferences, talks, workshops, etc.. and for a small price there are more.

at the municiple theatre i will see another film by john cassavetes. 5 pesos (US$1.25) per film. "Culture" is cheap here. Pop culture is the more expensive alternative.

it is culture of "advanced civilizations" where stray dogs lay their fat bodies in the middle of sidewalks undazed by the foot traffic stepping over or around them. they do not cower nor do they whimper. here, (most) humans are not so beaten down so they do not beat down upon other beings who have been taught silence is survival. here there is lots of writing, filming, designing of buildings, buying and selling of leather and land and boxed caverns in the air. there is little weaving, little sanding of coconut shells or sawing of bamboo stalks.

here, i am not impressed witht the exotic, with the abundance of bodies buzzing in the informal market economy. here, the busses beep out an automated ticket for you. they don't take your money. they take tokens. they are a public service so they have no need to race performing hare kare manouvers with your life aboard to get one more customer, to do one more run before night fall. here, if you are not at the bus stop, they won't pick you up. here, at the bus stops, people for lines and do not push to board. however, neither here nor there do schedules exist for these inner city drivers.

what i have been impressed with most since i have been in argentina, is the friendliness and sense of saftey. los argentinos son encantadores (argintineans are enchanting)is my new slogan. i say it so often to explain simple expressions of kindness that it has taken an ironic tone. Yesterday I joked, los argentinos son encantadores, they are going to find me the New York Times supplement and bring it to my doorstep with out charge. They do it,supposedly, for a gentleman in the neighboorhood, why not for me? A remnant of the small town life of old spain and rural italy that emanates even in the closing of downtown shops from early, saturday afternoon until late, monday morning. only to be shut again, in many areas, for the afternoon siesta. supposedly the workers of the Disco, a chain of supermarkets open on sundays, run add campaigns saying that they too have the right to spend sunday`s with their families. however, if they do work they are well compensated: paid as a holiday and given a paid day off when they desire.

my narrow experience, less than a month in the country, has revealed a people not so initially guarded as guatemaleans and mexicans can be. neither a recent history of civil war nor an inferiority complex toward north americans and europeans plagues them.

to some of the older generation, seeing the policeman or woman on the bus not patrolling, but going to or from work like the others, can cause tension for the memories of dictators and military uprisings. to others, the police are to be spat on while entering soccer games or to insult if they even try to assert control over them. their force is laughable, some opine.

the movie ended at 8:30 and i thought that on this night of a sunday, easter holiday, a day when most of the center slept, i would be released to empty night streets and i would walk briskly to the bus station fretting until safe on the bus. but no, the closed bars were now filled with drinkers of espressos and quilsmer. the internet spots, closed for days were now welcoming people to reconnect. the night is to live.

here, nightfall does not force its citizen off the streets into their homes.

here, i am beginning to make my/another home.

cordoba
april 2009

these are my actions

I arrive to shutters closed and empty streets: a town taking its siesta. I roam. Think a hostel is the cheapest lodging. Alarmed at prices. Taken in red truck to another. Don´t like Carlos, the driver, the owner. Must go to this rock structure and that hidden river, he urges. The center isn´t worth anything, he informs me. Look at the pool, you could sunbathe...here is your room with out a window. thanks, will decide after... Chao. Chao.

More roaming. Closed hotel number 1. Closed hotel number 2. Finally Los 3 Gomez (a hostel, but clasified as hospedaje) come to the door, show me the patio with real grapes hanging from the terrace and i take bed number 2. Go to the bathroom, make my bed, pay, finish The Diary by the author of Fight Club and go off to wander and explore, to practice with out knowing what the french call flaner (the a with a dart above it). I become a flaneur (the a with a dart above it) who searches, looks, examines, goes forward, sweetly circling and arriving finally....and that is how it has been explained to me by a young argentine visiting paris in 1846. I think I might find a zen monastery or a sunny rock with a view. I happen upon the later greeted by a man bent at the waste walking. Hola linda, haces bien, haces bien, he yells after me, waving, animating me.

Sunset, cold, hungry, must go. On the way back I keep my eye on the man up high posed like Zorro on top of a red boulder with his horse. Lose him to the sun, stop to buy goat´s cheese for my hike tomorrow, but no. Not now. Not until November. November to March is the season for goats cheese. Even during mating season the sign is up to entice the ignorant. So instead, I buy some yoguhrt and water and sit to care for my stomach that seems to be cured.

After an apple as I walk and an espresso as I read, I shop for dinner and tomorrow´s supplies. And now,
now that all have gone out in the cool, evening breeze, i have come in to cook sipping wine, listen to calexico, and read cortázar.

these are my actions.

capilla del monte, argentina
april, 2009