Dear Isabella-

Dear Isabella-

They say there are more ghosts in New Orleans than in all the haunted castles in England. And if you walk through and see the melancholy-in-their-beauty cemeteries, you’d believe it. At least I do. Sort of. You know how I’m not very superstitious and all.

So I walk around in this ridiculous heat, trying like hell to forget about you, but all the damned gravestones and all the damned grim, grinning reminders of what we once had mock me. Ghostly remembrances of you gesturing crazily at some hat you just had to have, or of me holding that awful and gaudy mask right out of Amadeus away from you. The time I lost that bet to march in the gay pride parade and got more numbers in five minutes than you had through college and you got all offended.

Ghosts of me, ghosts of you.

I don’t want to be haunted by this, Bella. But I am. Because, despite all that’s happened, I still love you. You’re it for me, and I’m sorry if that’s bothersome for you, but there you have it.

Actually, I take that back. I’m not at all sorry. You must have dosed me with something, Isabella Swan. Or maybe it was that one-toothed Madame DeVeque, adding a little juju to those stupid daiquiris you insisted we drink while driving around on lazy summer evenings. Maybe she’s got some curative daiquiri for the broken-hearted, because I’m not entirely sure I’m going to survive this.

Hell, what am I even doing? You won’t read this. You’d never sit still long enough to read something this true.

And you know what? I don’t forgive you for that. For your impatience. Or for your poor judgment. Or for your flighty attitude toward life, or your sad work ethic.

None of it.

Mostly, I don’t forgive you for leaving.

I do not forgive you.

I don’t know if I ever will.

My heart is broken, Bella.

Soy lectora

Soy artista

Soy una romántica

Soy un poco loca

Soy fanática

Soy escritora

pero no soy poeta

ni soy silenciosa 

he querido sacrificar mis días y mis semanas
en las ceremonias del poema.

he implorado tanto
desde el fondo de los fondos
de mi escritura.

Coger y morir no tienen adjetivos.

Encontré en el museo, dos puertas altas de madera. 

A la altura de los ojos, dos agujeros.

Escondida detrás de la pared, la siguiente foto. 

Se de un secreto.

Penetra complacido pero no complaciente. 

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear);
And whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

I fear no fate (For you are my fate, my sweet)
I want no world (For beautiful you are my world, my true)
And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
And whatever a sun will always sing is you.

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows.
(Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
And the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

mi novio dice que las copas me hacen kinki. 

No entiende cómo llegó, 

desde allá hasta acá,

siendo católica y reprimida.

Me encanta que, en la privacidad de la red, la novela erótica escrita y leída guturalmente, se rebele en cualquier otro nombre excepto el de erótica. 

una historia de sub

I didn’t say anything. He turned and walked into the house. He didn’t even look back to make sure I followed. I did, of course.

“We will have dinner tonight at the kitchen table,” he said as we entered the house. I spent most of my time watching his back. “You will consider the kitchen table as yours. You will take the majority of your meals there and when I join you, you may take it as an invitation to speak freely. Most of the time, you will serve me in the dining room, but I thought we should start the evening out on a…friendlier basis. I hope all this is clear.”

“Yes, Master.”

He turned and an angry ire was visible in his eyes. “No,” he said. “You have not yet earned the right to call me such. Until you do, you will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘Mr.’.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Sorry, sir.”

He resumed walking.

I made it into the kitchen, calling myself all kinds of stupid as we went. But forms of address were a gray area, I hadn’t known what to expect. At least he hadn’t seemed too upset.

“I need to take Jake outside. My room is upstairs, first door on the left. I will be there in fifteen minutes. You will be waiting for me.” His green eyes gazed steadily at me. “Page five, first paragraph.”

I’m not sure how I made it up the stairs, every step felt like ten. 

I pushed the door open to his room and gasped. Candles were everywhere. And in the middle of the room was a large bed, made of the same wrought iron of the kitchen table.

But according to page five, first paragraph, the bed wasn’t my concern. I looked down. The pillow between the bed and me was.

Beside the pillow was a sheer nightgown. My hands trembled as I changed. The gown hit right at my upper thighs and would show every part of my body. I folded my clothes and put them in a neat pile beside the door.

This is what you wanted. This is what you wanted.

I repeated that about twenty times and I finally calmed down. I went to the pillow, placed my knees on it, and sat with my butt resting on my heels. I stared down at the floor and waited.

He entered minutes later. 

“Very nice,” he said when he’d closed the bedroom door. “You may stand.”

I stood with my head down as he walked around me. I was glad of the dimmed light, certain a telltale flush colored my entire body.

“Strip the gown off and place it on the floor.”

I fumbled with the gown until I was finally able to pull it over my head. It fluttered to the ground.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

He waited until my eyes met his and then he slowly removed his belt. He gathered it in one hand and walked around me again. “What do you think? Shall I chastise you for your ‘Master’ remark?” He snapped the belt and it struck me. I jumped.

“Whatever you wish, sir,” I managed to choke out.

“Whatever I wish?” He continued walking until he stood before me. He unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down, along with his boxer briefs. “On your knees.”

La realidad me ha obligado a volver. 

Llevo -dos meses? tres meses?- encerrada en este cuarto. La rutina es agobiante a diferencia de lo que la mayoria piensa. Llegar al ultimo renglón y ver el ultimo punto y girar una y otra vez la misma última pagina buscando alguna palabra suelta que admita la nueva apertura. Así ha pasado ya tanto tiempo. Claramente he entrado a un circulo vicioso, donde arranco un libro para llenar el vacío que me ha dejado terminar otro. Así, el túnel, así la invención de morel, así la doble y unica mujer. Ha caído incluso en la cruel repetición de los favoritos, que solo agravia el proceso. He releído tortuosamente jane eyre, y cumbres borrascosas y crepúsculo (porque no me voy a andar haciendo la Borges que al fin y al cabo tampoco nadie me creería). Y ahora estaba a punto de terminar wide awake. El ultimo capitulo. Y de hecho me da miedo girar la pagina. Me pasé todo el día de ayer, y el día de hoy leyendo. Patiando responsabilidades y compromisos porque si empiezo tampoco me es comprensible demorar el cruel final. No se hasta que punto no será enfermedad, pero tampoco para ser melodramática. Debe de ser la falta de sueño. Mi hermana es la única que está preocupada. No entiende por qué no estoy comiendo, y le explicaría algo como que tengo un dolor en el pecho que no me deja, pero no me entendería porque ni yo misma me entiendo. Le deje pensar que conocí a alguien y no dije mas nada. 

Y entonces hoy salí al mundo, tan enajenada, buscando ayuda, y parecería que nadie ha notado mi ausencia. Me ofendería, pero supongo que yo tampoco necesité a nadie por tanto tiempo. Y ni siquiera ahora, que el libro me llama, y que conscientemente sé, con toda seguridad, que apenas apriete -publicar entrada- habré sucumbido, y que ante el quiebre y dolor, me aferraré a Bolaño, y después a estrella distante, y después a lorenza, y después-, ni siquiera ahora, llamo a la ayuda. Porque es un ciclo, y porque es vicioso. 

quizas me di cuenta que, si tego que vivir así, por lo menos va a ser a la par de la literatura.

I was a quick wet boy, diving too deep for coins
All of your street light eyes wide on my plastic toys
Then when the cops closed the fair, I cut my long baby hair
Stole me a dog-eared map and called for you everywhere

Have I found you
Flightless bird, jealous, weeping or lost you, american mouth
Big pill looming

Now I'm a fat house cat
Nursing my sore blunt tongue
Watching the warm poison rats curl through the wide fence cracks
Pissing on magazine photos
Those fishing lures thrown in the cold
And clean blood of Christ mountain stream

Have I found you
Flightless bird, grounded, bleeding or lost you, american mouth
Big pill stuck going down

how did we get here when i used to know you so well?

You see someone on the street, and essentially what you notice about them is the flaw.

En el perecer de las malas películas, siempre quedan los golpes bajos.

"So, my sister and Robbie were never able to have the time together they both so longed for... and deserved. Which ever since I've... ever since I've always felt I prevented. But what sense of hope or satisfaction could a reader derive from an ending like that? So in the book, I wanted to give Robbie and Cecilia what they lost out on in life. I'd like to think this isn't weakness or... evasion... but a final act of kindness. I gave them their happiness."

Shakespeare es ilegible y está sobrevalorado. Pero la gente no quiere escuchar esto. Uno no puede atacar templos. Ha sido fijado a lo largo de los siglos. Uno puede decir que tal es un pésimo actor, pero no puede decir que Shakespeare es mierda. Cuando algo dura mucho tiempo, los snobs empiezan a aferrarse a él, como ventosas. Cuando los snobs sienten que algo es seguro, se aferran. Pero si les decís la verdad, se ponen salvajes. No pueden soportarlo. Es atacar su propio proceso de pensamiento. Me desagradan.

Paris


never
even in calmer times
have I ever
dreamed of
bicycling through that
city
wearing a
beret

and
Camus
always
pissed
me
off.

Charles Bukowski

He was like a sleeping elephant. You can do whatever you want around a sleeping elephant; whatever you want. But when he wakes up, he tramples everything.