I wish you were…

Una historia corta en inglés,rememorando a alguien que con su música dejó atmósferas y espacios imposibles de llenar... Keep the peace!!!

It must be the time of the year, the way the sun set over the sea that made her think about him. A sort of heating haze that hugged her was the silent clue for her thoughts to be triggered towards him. A languor that possessed her when she moved or just looked through the window; that was the exact moment and she knew it, as it had been going for years… for thirteen years to be exact.

At first she started blaming herself; had she arrived minutes earlier, it would have never occurred. The feeling of loss and despair had overwhelmed her for a long time; she went over the sequence of events, looking for the guilty party and she always concluded it had been her fault. Seconds earlier, she thought, her hand would have opened that door, he wouldn’t have been dead.

When misery and pain overpowered her and the only thing left was desolation, she had also blamed him. Nights without sleep, sighing to the night, murmuring whys and other possible outcomes, she ended pale, motionless, dumb. She hardly recognized herself when she looked at the image in the mirror: she was herself and she wasn’t. How could she be herself without him?

She stepped into grief looking for depth in every day things but they had lost thickness, meaning and purpose. Everything hurt for her, even making herself a cup of tea. Denial came in waves of self destruction. Her whole being negated his death and the loss of intensity came from disbelief, the truth was less than enough. She was empty, shallow and bare.

Negation gave way to howling; literal howling. Howls rose deep up from her throat, rough and harsh. She nearly punched the wall when desperation had no name, no answer, and no way to go. She bellowed and sobbed, screamed and cursed. She stopped breathing after one of those fits, and panted until fresh air gouged her lungs again. She was afraid of her grief that was tearing her to pieces. It was unnamed, unnatural and insane. She just wanted them to stop, but the sounds were real and came from herself. More often than not her face was squashed, her nose red and her eyes swollen.

How am I going to live?

She heard him in every movement of the house, his footsteps accompanied her when she woke up, had lunch or was reading a book. More than once, she heard his voice. The sound of his voice was clear-cut, that voice that had been swooping and dashing, that had lulled thousands of people, that had produced eruptions of applause from audiences all over the world , that voice that had given identity to his passionate heart. Whenever his songs were performed, a wilderness burst out of the audience. Seductive like the sea; never ceasing, whispering, clamouring, murmuring, his voiced made her soul wander for a spell in the abyss of loneliness he had left her. His voice spoke directly to her soul and in those moments, anger or guilt abandoned her; his voice was sensuous, rich and calm enfolding her body in its soft, close embrace.

Days were long, nights interminable. She sat up in bed, her lips trembling and her whole body shaking like a leaf. She watched the traffic through the window, concentrated on the cars that passed by. In one of those desperate nights, she drifted into sleep and dreamed. They say people can meet each other in their sleep, in their dreams… Most people hide those things for fear the others think them mad. But she met him in her dream and she did not fear. She was in a footpath in a forest; she lifted one hand and shut her eyes, frowning at the blinding sun. It was hard to breathe when she saw him, her arms and legs seemed to waver and soften underneath her.

“Hush,” she heard, but no one had spoken.

He was dressed in white, in one of his classic stage outfit, white pants and loose shirt, open at the cuffs. His hair was shiny and his chocolate coloured curls looked freshly clean but ruffled. She smiled; his looks had always been so breathtaking! He stretched his hand to her and she took it unquestioningly. He took her alongside the path and she could only feel the happiness and peace that staying with him gave her. Later she would recall his features and gestures vividly. And his smile, one of those smiles no one could ever forget. She saw his eyes and through his eyes she saw his soul. The path was even, smooth and grassy, the smell of flowers filled her nostril. There was nothing but joy and calmness. She caught a glimpse of him and his eyes shone in the sunlight. He turned round and faced her. She could not see his features well but she knew them by heart.

“Let go, please…”

She felt her heart struck as if a lightning had parted her in half. He let go of her hand and moved away, softly but firmly, he almost disappeared in the path. She couldn’t move or follow him; she was stuck to the ground. She wanted to cry but had no more tears.

He stopped and faced her again and she knew it was for the last time.

“Some people can’t bear the soul flapping its wings wanting to fly free. Not you, please. You should dare! You’ll never be quite alive until you understand…”

Now he vanished into the horizon.

Much to her surprise, she was not sad. The possibility of having been happy with him for a while was the greatest means of purification. She woke up with a start but in her chest she could only feel love and peace.

“Keep the peace,” she heard him murmuring in her ear.

It was very painful to move away his things, destroy souvenirs and donate clothes to charity; however she understood that she had to let go…let things go, let him go. She could put the pieces back together and was free to start new memories, a new path of happiness for herself.

Years later, when she could detach from the painful reminiscences, she erected a monument in his memory. A tribute to his greatness and passion, to his life and dreams, to his soulful, blessing work, his music…and life went on.

And she found him in the eyes of a child, in the mist of the sea, in the smell of freshly-cut grass…

The end

November 2010

In remembrance of Michael Hutchence

(1960-1997)

Poesía: A mi también me desagrada

Me gusta la poesía, no me gustó siempre la poesía... es (en mi) como se dice en inglés "an acquired taste"(un gusto adquirido, como el mate, por ejemplo). Tengo mi forma de apropiarme de los versos y es un poco amor a primera vista, o nada...
Para muchos las poesía es aburrida, sin sentido,poco entendible.Muchas veces han sido parte de las antiguas clases de literatura de nuestra secundaria donde lo único que teníamos que hacer era buscar la intención del autor (quien ni siquiera el mismo la sabía).
Asocio la poesía con el asalto a los sentidos y a la mente, con la empatía que siento con algo que leo y me hubiera gustado decir a mí... la forma en que una frase o palabra sigue viniendo a mi mente después de haber leido el poema...sentimientos parecidos o simplemente la belleza de las palabras puestas en el verso de esa (y no de otra) manera...


Un concepto de Marianne Moore...

Poetry

I, too, dislike it.
Reading, it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it, after all, a place for the genuine.

La poesía

A mí también me desagrada.
Sin embargo, al leerla con perfecto desprecio, se descubre en
ella, después de todo, un sitio para lo genuino.



La poesía completa en idioma original:

Poetry

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all
this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that
feels a
flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against 'business documents and

school-books'; all these phenomena are important. One must
make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
'literalists of
the imagination'--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them', shall
we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.

La poesía

A mí también me disgusta, hay cosas que son importa-
ntes, más que todo este violineo.
leyéndola, no obstante, Con perfecto desprecio por ella,
se descubre que hay en
ella, después de todo, lugar para lo genuino.
Manos que pueden agarrar, ojos
que pueden dilatarse, pelo que puede erizarse,
si debe; estas cosas son importantes, no porque una

altisonante interpretación pueda encajarse sobre ellas,
sino porque son
útiles; cuando se vuelven derivativas hasta volverse
ininteligibles,
la misma cosa puede decirse de todos nosotros que nos-
otros
no admiramos lo que
no podemos entender; el vampiro,
colgado cabeza abajo o en busca de algo que
comer; los elefantes , empujando, un caballo salvaje,
revolcándose; un incansable lobo, bajo
un árbol; el inconmovible críticio que sacude su
piel como un caballo al sentir una pulga; el base-
bal-fan, el estadístico;
ni es válido
hacer una discriminación contra "documentos comer-
ciales y textos escolares"; todos estos fenómenos son
importantes. Debe hacer una distinción,
sin embargoo; cuando son arrastrados a prominencia por
semipoetas, el resultado no es poesía,
ni hasta que los poetas entre nosotros puedan ser
"literalistas de
la imaginación", por encima de
insolencia y trivialidad, y puedan presentar


a inspección imaginarios jardines con verdaderos sapos
en ellos, tendremos-
la. Entretanto, si pedís, por una parte,
la materia prima de la poesía en
toda su crudeza
la que es, por otra parte,
genuna, entonces estáis interesados en la poesía.

Adiós Sui Generis, Hola Alfi

Este relato es parte de un trabajo en progreso, probablemente una novela. Espero que les guste...

Cuando la madre de Alfi ser fue de la casa, el todavía no habia salido del closet y ella ya se había metido en bastantes otros (in)muebles.

Los padres de Alfi se conocieron en el concierto despedida de Sui Generis, mientras ella trataba de zafar de un guitarrista de pesada fumado que la tenía con ella y èl hacia signos de paz al escenario mientras se balanceaba al son de Rasguña las piedras.El choque fue de espaldas y cuando Peter (ahora don Pedro a secas) se dio vuelta para recriminarle el terrible golpe no pudo dejar de enamorarse de las mostacillas de colores, la camisola al viento, los cabellos tomados por la bincha de telar y la cara de susto de “cuando me agarre el drogón me asesina”. Al principio, Mabel o Suzie Q (pronúnciese susiquiu) ,como se hacia llamar en esos tiempos, se fijó en Pedro mas como muro de defensa que como hombre. Pero acurrucándose contra su cuerpo para que no la vea el quemado, se produjo un cortocircuito eléctrico que conmovió a la hippie asustada. El climax de la relacion se produjo cuando Charly grito el ultimo “chau” y Pedro enjugándose la lagrima de la despedida abrazó a Mabel quien emocionada se apretaba más y más contra su cuerpo sin dejar de espiar a la izquierda y a la derecha por si volvía el músico paranoico.

Pedro, mas emocionado que Nito Mestre, le decia a Mabel, sin dejar de sollozar

_Se terminó, loca, ¿entendés?

Y aunque a Mabel siempre le gusto mas la Pesada de Billy Bond, lo entendió y le dio unas afectuosas palmaditas en la espalda, como consuelo para el triste fin.

Sin embargo, para ellos fue el principio.

No se veaían demasiado porque Mabel, o más vale Suzie Q, era groupie de varias bandas, asi que andaba por la ruta varios meses del año. Pedro tenía un kiosquito en la estación de tren y trabajaba más de diez horas por día, la extrañaba demasiado pero no le reprochaba nada. Sabía lo que significaba la pasion por la musica, aunque para el desde aquel fatidico día del adios de Sui Generis, no había nadie más. Solo le quedaba escuchar los long plays en casa, y por suerte, se habia comprado un pasa cinta para llevar al kiosco.

Una tarde de verano ,Mabel-Suzie volvió, para quedarse, Pedro la notó algo decaída y un poco demacrada, pero , por supuesto, se trataba de tanto viaje. Ella estaba bastante más afectuosa que de costumbre, lógicamente despues de una separación de varios meses. Y sucedió lo que suecede cuando dos jóvenes, apresurados , bohemios e irresponsables se juntan: se casaron de raje. A los ocho meses, nació Alfredo (Alfi), un rozagante bebé prematuro de 3,750 kg.