Chat Noir


“I want to hear raucous music, to see faces, to brush against bodies, to drink fiery Benedictine. Beautiful women and handsome men arouse fierce desires in me. I want to dance. I want drugs. I want to know perverse people, to be intimate with them. I never look at naive faces. I want to bite into life, and to be torn by it.”

Anaïs Nin


Noviembre 2011

Dejame quitarte el zapato izquierdo


dejame quitarte el derecho.

A Modern Invention


The desire for fulfilling work — a job that provides a deep sense of purpose, and reflects our values, passions and personality — is a modern invention. … For centuries, most inhabitants of the Western world were too busy struggling to meet their subsistence needs to worry about whether they had an exciting career that used their talents and nurtured their wellbeing. But today, the spread of material prosperity has freed our minds to expect much more from the adventure of life.

We have entered a new age of fulfillment, in which the great dream is to trade up from money to meaning.


Otro Mar


«¿Para quién mis manos trabajaron? ¿Para quién se gastó la sangre de mi corazón? No he obtenido merced alguna para mí. ¡pero sí que logré una merced para el león de la tierra! ¡Y la marea la llevará a veinte leguas de distancia! Cuando abrí la cañería y... el año, hallé lo que se había puesto como señal para mí: ¡Me retiraré, y dejaré la barca en la orilla!» 


A Fortunate Accident

Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don’t blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being ‘in love’, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.

-Louis de Bernières in Corelli’s Mandolin


From a lonely drunkenness

Over and over again I sail towards joy, which is never in the room with me, but always near me, across the way, like those rooms full of gayety one sees from the street, or the gayety in the street one sees from a window. Will I ever reach joy? It hides behind the turning merry-go-round of the traveling circus. As soon as I approach it, it is no longer joy. Joy is a foam, an illumination. I am poorer and hungrier for the want of it. When I am in the dance, joy is outside in the elusive garden. When I am in the garden, I hear it exploding from the house. When I am traveling, joy settles like an aurora borealis over the land I leave. When I stand on the shore I see it bloom on the flag of a departing ship. What joy? Have I not possessed it? I want the joy of simple colors, street organs, ribbons, flags, not a joy that takes my breath away and throws me into space alone where no one else can breathe with me, not the joy that comes from a lonely drunkenness. There are so many joys, but I have only known the ones that come like a miracle, touching everything with light.

Anaïs Nin


De Hombres

Cats Waiting for Fishermen to Return cats black and white animals

Como gato,

en espera que regrese el pescador.


Days of wine and roses

“The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Without feeling, inventions, moods, no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all of the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine.”

Anaïs Nin


El Santo de los Genios Torturados

"Think of the old cliché about “the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.” This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master."

Three years later, on September 12, 2008, Wallace murdered his own terrible master — not by firearms, but by hanging himself. Several months prior, frustrated with the disorienting side effects of the antidepressant he had been taking to alleviate his 20-year struggle with depression, he had attempted to wean himself off the medication. His personal tragedy was soon inscribed into the modern-day literary canon, turning him into a kind of public patron-saint of the Tortured Genius archetype.


The Loneliness of Fulfillment

I felt satisfied.
It was an unfamiliar
and unsatisfying sensation.
I wanted it to end.
And it soon did.

John Tottenham


Thirsty Boots


I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.


Woolf Suicide Letter



Burguete, Navera.
July 1 [1925] –

Dear Scott –

We are going in to Pamplona tomorrow. Been trout fishing here. How are you? And how is Zelda?

I am feeling better than I’ve ever felt — haven’t drunk any thing but wine since I left Paris. God it has been wonderful country. But you hate country. All right omit description of country. I wonder what your idea of heaven would be — A beautiful vacuum filled with wealthy monogamists. All powerful and members of the best families all drinking themselves to death. And hell would probably an ugly vacuum full of poor polygamists unable to obtain booze or with chronic stomach disorders that they called secret sorrows.

To me a heaven would be a big bull ring with me holding two barrera seats and a trout stream outside that no one else was allowed to fish in and two lovely houses in the town; one where I would have my wife and children and be monogamous and love them truly and well and the other where I would have my nine beautiful mistresses on 9 different floors and one house would be fitted up with special copies of the Dial printed on soft tissue and kept in the toilets on every floor and in the other house we would use the American Mercury and the New Republic. Then there would be a fine church like in Pamplona where I could go and be confessed on the way from one house to the other and I would get on my horse and ride out with my son to my bull ranch named Hacienda Hadley and toss coins to all my illegitimate children that lined the road. I would write out at the Hacienda and send my son in to lock the chastity belts onto my mistresses because someone had just galloped up with the news that a notorious monogamist named Fitzgerald had been seen riding toward the town at the head of a company of strolling drinkers.

Well anyway were going into town tomorrow early in the morning. Write me at the / Hotel Quintana

Or don’t you like to write letters*. I do because it’s such a swell way to keep from working and yet feel you’ve done something.

So long and love to Zelda from us both –



Love Letter Written in a Burning Building

I am in a crate, the crate that was ours,
full of white shirts and salad greens,
the icebox knocking at our delectable knocks,
and I wore movies in my eyes,
and you wore eggs in your tunnel,
and we played sheets, sheets, sheets
all day, even in the bathtub like lunatics.
But today I set the bed afire
and smoke is filling the room,
it is getting hot enough for the walls to melt,
and the icebox, a gluey white tooth.

I have on a mask in order to write my last words,
and they are just for you, and I will place them
in the icebox saved for vodka and tomatoes,
and perhaps they will last.
The dog will not. Her spots will fall off.
The old letters will melt into a black bee.
The night gowns are already shredding
into paper, the yellow, the red, the purple.
The bed – well, the sheets have turned to gold -
hard, hard gold, and the mattress
is being kissed into a stone.

As for me, my dearest Foxxy,
my poems to you may or may not reach the icebox
and its hopeful eternity,
for isn’t yours enough?
The one where you name
my name right out in P.R.?
If my toes weren’t yielding to pitch
I’d tell the whole story -
not just the sheet story
but the belly-button story,
the pried-eyelid story,
the whiskey-sour-of-the-nipple story -
and shovel back our love where it belonged.

Despite my asbestos gloves,
the cough is filling me with black and a red powder seeps through my
our little crate goes down so publicly
and without meaning it, you see, meaning a solo act,
a cremation of the love,
but instead we seem to be going down right in the middle of a Russian
the flames making the sound of
the horse being beaten and beaten,
the whip is adoring its human triumph
while the flies wait, blow by blow,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.

Anne Sexton



[...] we are together. He understands me and my art, and loves both. I hope never to be separated from him. He is a most delicate and exquisite poet, besides — far the finest of all the young poets in England. You have got to publish his next volume; it is full of lovely lyrics, flute-music and moon-music, and sonnets in ivory and gold. He is witty, graceful, lovely to look at, lovable to be with. He has also ruined my life, so I can’t help loving him — it is the only thing to do.


La jauría

Y la fiesta se acaba,
y los cuentos de hadas que te ayudaban a dormir, 
los sueños de piel sin poros, 
las noches en medio de aquel santuario de lobos, 
la jauría de dos, 
huir al norte,


Por quién doblan las campanas

“Keep right on lying to me. That’s what I want you to do.” — Ernest Hemingway

“Keep right on lying to me. That's what I want you to do.” — Ernest Hemingway

Witness to my Life

My dear little girl

For a long time I’ve been wanting to write to you in the evening after one of those outings with friends that I will soon be describing in “A Defeat,” the kind when the world is ours. I wanted to bring you my conqueror’s joy and lay it at your feet, as they did in the Age of the Sun King. And then, tired out by all the shouting, I always simply went to bed. Today I’m doing it to feel the pleasure you don’t yet know, of turning abruptly from friendship to love, from strength to tenderness. Tonight I love you in a way that you have not known in me: I am neither worn down by travels nor wrapped up in the desire for your presence. I am mastering my love for you and turning it inwards as a constituent element of myself. This happens much more often than I admit to you, but seldom when I’m writing to you. Try to understand me: I love you while paying attention to external things. At Toulouse I simply loved you. Tonight I love you on a spring evening. I love you with the window open. You are mine, and things are mine, and my love alters the things around me and the things around me alter my love.

My dear little girl, as I’ve told you, what you’re lacking is friendship. But now is the time for more practical advice. Couldn’t you find a woman friend? How can Toulouse fail to contain one intelligent young woman worthy of you*? But you wouldn’t have to love her. Alas, you’re always ready to give your love, it’s the easiest thing to get from you. I’m not talking about your love for me, which is well beyond that, but you are lavish with little secondary loves, like that night in Thiviers when you loved that peasant walking downhill in the dark, whistling away, who turned out to be me. Get to know the feeling, free of tenderness, that comes from being two. It’s hard, because all friendship, even between two red-blooded men, has its moments of love. I have only to console my grieving friend to love him; it’s a feeling easily weakened and distorted. But you’re capable of it, and you must experience it. And so, despite your fleeting misanthropy, have you imagined what a lovely adventure it would be to search Toulouse for a woman who would be worthy of you and whom you wouldn’t be in love with? Don’t bother with the physical side or the social situation. And search honestly. And if you find nothing, turn Henri Pons, whom you scarcely love anymore, into a friend.


I love you with all my heart and soul.

* De Beauvoir would come to have a number of young female lovers, whom she’d usually introduce to Sartre over the course of their relationship.


Fear and Trembling

“Because it is possible to create — creating one’s self, willing to be one’s self… — one has anxiety. One would have no anxiety if there were no possibility whatever.”



this isn’t hapiness

this isn't


She couldn't imagine me not in her life, but she had very clearly imagined herself not in mine.



Tu problema

Qué ya no escribes.

¿Sabes cual es tu problema? dice,
                        que dejaste de escribir historias.

Si a mi no me gusta escribir.

Lo que a mi me gusta es que me escriban.

A mi lo que me gusta es que me escribas.


Anne Sexton to her daughter

Dear Linda,

I am in the middle of a flight to St. Louis to give a reading. I was reading a New Yorker story that made me think of my mother and all alone in the seat I whispered to her “I know, Mother, I know.” (Found a pen!) And I thought of you — someday flying somewhere all alone and me dead perhaps and you wishing to speak to me.

And I want to speak back. (Linda, maybe it won’t be flying, maybe it will be at your own kitchen table drinking tea some afternoon when you are 40. Anytime.) — I want to say back.

1st I love you.

2. You never let me down.

3. I know. I was there once. I too, was 40 with a dead mother who I needed still. . . .

This is my message to the 40 year old Linda. No matter what happens you were always my bobolink, my special Linda Gray. Life is not easy. It is awfully lonely. I know that. Now you too know it — wherever you are, Linda, talking to me. But I’ve had a good life — I wrote unhappy — but I lived to the hilt. You too, Linda — Live to the HILT! To the top. I love you 40 year old, Linda, and I love what you do, what you find, what you are!—Be your own woman. Belong to those you love. Talk to my poems, and talk to your heart — I’m in both: if you need me. I lied, Linda. I did love my mother and she loved me. She never held me but I miss her, so that I have to deny I ever loved her — or she me! Silly Anne! So there!




I fight for the wrong reasons, 
because the right reasons won't let me fight for them.


Old rags











A Natural History of Love

We think of it as a sort of traffic accident of the heart. It is an emotion that scares us more than cruelty, more than violence, more than hatred. We allow ourselves to be foiled by the vagueness of the word. After all, love requires the utmost vulnerability. We equip someone with freshly sharpened knives; strip naked; then invite him to stand close. What could be scarier?

+Diane Ackerman


Sin trucos


Las drogas son todas diferentes,
y las que me quiero procurar hoy son especificas,
son meses ya desde la ultima vez que salí a comer en esta oficina,
desayuno pan tostado y tres tazas de café hasta que es la hora de salir,
entonces me entra un hambre tremenda y compro alguna cosa que como fría en el camino a alguna lado.

No hablo con nadie en todo el día,
escucho mi voz por primera vez pasado el medio día,
la escucho en un idioma que no es el mio,
diciendo cosas que no quiere decir,
mis clientes no entienden lo que mi boca dice,
a veces yo tampoco.

A la hora de la comida me quedo tomando café,
leyendo de manera pretenciosa a Salinger y escuchando Elliott Smith,
suena a desastre,
aunque reamlente no lo es,
suena a cliché,
eso quizá,
si algo sí es,
es droga.

Estoy pensando seriamente dejar de tomar,
no por las razones,
sino porque tomar me gusta mucho,
cuando tomo me pongo muy contento,
tan contento que tomo más,
hasta que puedo llorar porque en el fondo de lo contento hay siempre algo profundamente triste,
llorar también me gusta a veces,
más veces de las que la gente creería,
de esa parte me gustaría participar nada más,
ser parte de tu parte, carne de tu carne,
carne de catarsis,
del lagrimal,
pero el camino es largo y doloroso hasta allá,
por hoy solo  café, cigarros y painkillers,
en litio y cuentos cortos,
la droga.

De las 154 canciones de Elliott Smith que se estan reproduciendo la 122 es Everything means nothing to me.
Es la 1:33 pm y si tomamos en cuenta que he escuchado sin parar desde las 7:00 am. el resultado es que le tomarían seis horas y media tocar 122 canciones a Elliott Smith, si estuviera vivo.

Me gustaría que nos vieramos,
sin trucos,
sin tragos ni policía,
tu, yo y dos tazas de café,
aunque sea por la noche,
aunque haya que matar para poder dormir,
no podré dormir de cualquier forma,
¿que dices?


Your clown

Not really as composed as you appear


David Foster Wallace


Viernes Santo


"I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself."

Anais Nin

Ahead of the curve

Con el alba parpadeando en la lámpara del techo,
con las garras perforando el edredón,
mis encías ensangrentandote los pechos,
las recetas de tu madre en un cajón.

Aún me duele la música rota,
cinco minutos mas decías,
y volvías a poner tu pubis sobre las astillas de mi mano,
te mecías sobre de ella,
debajo de ella,
dentro de ella,
con las cuerdas estropeadas,
aún pudo cantarte un poquito.

Aún me duele la muñeca rota,
de pasar la madrugada masturbando,
           la pronunciada curva de tu vagina.


A mermaid, not a punk

“A Drunken Man’s Praise Of Sobriety” — William Butler Yeats



Extra Bitches
I started a gag comic blog with my girls Wesley Allsbrook and Robyn Ng. We doodle and scribble , then pair up each other’s words and pictures in interesting, humorous or completely nonsensical ways.
Extra Bitches is a playground for drawing things which we don’t get hired to do. In this case, it’s all about my obsession of Joan from Mad Men.

Para mis alergias siempre es primavera



You are where dreams go to die



Here’s to kissing you, kid.

You haven't looked at me that way in years. 

¿Te acuerdas el cuento del ave que se había enamorado de la ballena? .-No. ¿Cómo no?- Pues no me acuerdo ¿Que quieres que haga?- Ella bailaba como si tuviera que ir al baño, caminando de prisa, con las manos en las bolsas. Él la miraba sin creerle una palabra, aún a sabiendas que ella jamás le mentiría. No podía. Dijo. A donde iban ahora sino a ningun lado. Pasaron frente a un hotel colonial. El sol escondía su culo del otro lado del mundo, pero no por mucho tiempo. -Si, si, que le dice el ave que no puede vivir todo el tiempo en el oceano.- Mmm.- Ella le ofreció el cigarro, él no tenía realmente ganas de fumar, pero que importaba -Y la ballena le dice que él no puede vivir en el cielo para siempre.- Soltó el humo. -¿Y porque estan enamorados?- Ella ya había recuperado su cigarro, él perdía con cada paso el aliento.-Pues no se. Era un cuento que contaba un marinero si le invitabas una cerveza- Ella rió. -¿Donde? Exactamente.- Pues allá donde el oceano esta lleno con lagrimas.- Pf!.- La colilla al suelo. -¿Que tipo de ballena era?- Asesina.-. Ella se sonrió. Entraron en una casona abandonada. Arquitectura francesa. Pasaron por la abertura de una purta rota. Había gente durmiendo entre basura. Él casí susurrando siguió. -No llores, porfavor, decía el ave, dejame secar tus ojos.- Un vagabundo levantó la cabeza del suelo, los miró y siguió durmiendo. Había muros caidos por todas partes y ni un solo cristal en las ventanas. -Le pide que le prometa que va a esperarlo ¿sabes? y le promete que nunca se van a dejar, que él siempre va a pretender que le pertenece.- La luz ya se asomaba pálida por los patios gigantescos y pestilentes. Un gran muro se levantaba en el fondo. Se abrieron paso entre los kilos de basura y los indigentes  y llegaron hasta donde un gran ventanal se extendía frío y solemne contra la faz de Catedral, aquella casa debio haber sido preciosa alguna vez. -Al final dice que sabe que los dos deben partir. Los dos lo saben.- Ella estaba dando lumbre a otro cigarro. Miraban el horizonte como si fueran los mejores amigos. -Que no llore le dice, porque aún así siempre podrá vivir en su corazón.- Ella le ofreció el cigarro. Él lo tomó. Ella. -Hueles a whisky, axila y perfume de vieja y no te has cambiado en días. ¿Así fuiste a trabajar?- Él. -Sí.


Me encantaría hacer poesía de ti,
dentro de ti,
en algun lado de ti,
entre tus ropas,

ojalá pudiera,

pero soy casi incapáz,
estoy deshabilitado,
sin excusas,

y tú dormida,
casi desnuda,

yo enciendo un cigarro,
salgo a la calle,
el odio esta en el aire,

vuelvo adentro,

sigues dormida,
casi nueva,
cómo hierba,

sin Dios que te rece,
                       te rezo yo,

tan parecida a ese Dios,
                      que me escuche,

me visto en la oscuridad,
¿quien necesita la oscuridad?
                      tú eres my oscuridad,

Te describo el cielo,
cojes mis palabras,
sin miedo,
de pavor,
        por favor
               que Dios no exista,

que no exista,
               que me quiera,

que solo esta noche,
                que es la única noche,

que me muera,
que se muera,
aunque sea de vez en vez,
de cuando en cuando.


The Dawn

Yes: I am a dreamer.

For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.

O. Wilde


To be sane anymore

August 14, 1932.   Paris. 


Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly—"Some day he'll come!")

I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you're happy in the kitchen and the meal you're cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they're singing "Heaven and Ocean" from La Gioconda.)

I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo's records. "Parlez moi d amour." The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will. 

All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don't begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We're in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We're journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers. 

I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon's soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.




-Pareciera que estas al borde de un ataque de nervios. Todo el tiempo.
-Gracias- dijó élla.
-Realmente me gusta este lugar. Tiene su encanto.
-Y gonorrea probablemente.-
-Como usted.-
                             Ella se sonrió. A veces lo hacía.

-Gracias a usted.-
                             Él se sonrió. A veces, cuando estaba con ella, lo hacía también.

                             Ese debía ser el primer lugar en el que estaban juntos en soledad. Cada uno con su                                        propia soledad. Nada en el pasado o en futuro se sentiría jamás como ese momento.

-Mis hermanos y mis hermanas no me hablan. Pero no los culpo.


Cocineros al atardecer

-Ese ruido nuevo que esta haciendo tu cuerpo.-
-¿Que tiene?
-No suena saludable.
-No lo escuches entonces.

Era lunes. Iba a lavarse la cara en el baño del patio, pero hacía mucho frío y decidio que le importaba un pito llegar con cara de cementerio al trabajo. No se lavó los dientes, ni se peinó, como era natural. Salió por la puerta de atras para no despertar a nadie Ahora no tenía donde vivir y pasaría una semana de cama en cama hasta que le regresaran su departamento. Su mochila estaba llena con las cosas más básicas, desodorante, camisas, pesadillas y ganas de matar. Hubiera matado por no ir a trabajar.

Caminó un par de cuadras antes de llegar a la parada del autobus. Cuando alcanzó la mitad de la avenida el semaforo cambió de color y le impidió abandonar el camellón. Iba tarde. El autobus se aproximaba pero le era imposible cruzar porque luz seguía en verde. Calculó en fracciones de segundo que si el autobus se detenía a recoger a la gorda señora que alzaba la mano en la esquina, él podría, arriesgando su estropeado pellejo, alcanzarlo. No lo hizo. El camión no se detuvo lo más mínimo y se dio cuenta que ya le daba igual  llegar tarde. Cruzó cuando porfin la luz regresó al rojo. Su estado natural. Caminó tras la señora hasta la siguiente esquina lleno de indiferencia, cubierto por su olor a resaca y su mal aspecto. Su estado natural. El autobus se detuvó. Iba lleno. No hizo mucho esfuerzo para abordar, pero al final lo logró al filo de la escalera de subida. La bajada  es por atras, leyó. Pagó.

Al dejar atras la avenida sintió lo que creyó era su celular vibrando en la mochila. Era imposible, con el ajetreo de aquel maldito autobus con delirios de montaña rusa, era imposible que aquello hubiera sido su celular al vibrar. No lo habría escuchado tampoco ya que estaba en modo silencioso como es costumbre los domingos. Pero no tenía nada mejor que hacer. Miró el telefono. Era un mensaje de Olivia. "Buenos días" Era el mensaje mas improbable que jamás hubiera podido recibir. A lo que pensó en responder "Número equivocado. Buenos días de cualquier forma." No lo hizo. En su lugar contestó "Soñé que nos escribiamos. Buenos días." Nada más verdadero, aquello hacía mas improbable todo aún. Recordó que en uno de sus tantos sueños se había escrito con ella. Vibración. Mensaje nuevo. "Te ves de la verga. Como si regresaras de unas vacaciones." La gente no debería de verse de la verga cuando regresa de vacaciones. Pero eso no era lo importante, por solo segundos él se sintió como Julia Roberts en la boda de su mejor amigo. Entonces recordó que una vez más aquella Julia Roberts era uno de los ejemplos historicos del "friendzone". La boda de mi mejor amigo, repitió en su cabeza. Incluso el puro título. Pensó entonces que le hubiera gustado más ser Hugh Grant en mientras dormías, y que aquello hubiera sido probable de haber sido que el brincara frente al autobus como estuvo a punto de hacer. Se lamentó.

Dejó por fin de pensar estupideces cuando vio la mano de Olivia ondearse a la mitad del camión. Él por su parte procuró sonreir lo menos que pudo y mantenerse la más lejos posible, para no empeorar su aspecto. Intentó disimular su emoción y la pesadés de su existencia. Fracasando de manera olímpica. Cuando por fin el camión se vació casi de golpe se encontraron. El le golpeo la frente con la palma de la mano y ella hizo mas o menos lo mismo. .-¿No vas tarde?- preguntó él. -Apestas.- dijo ella, -No voy tarde. Tu si bien cabrón ¿no?- Si.- respondió, -y si apesto bien cabrón.- Llegó el momento en que bajarón del camión. Se cagarón de risa un rato mientras caminaban. Él intentó lo más que pudo explicarle su sueño a Olivia. Ella como siempre actuó como si no le importara mucho realmente. Caminaron juntos hasta donde él podía desviarse sin parecer obvio. Ella evidentemente no lo sabía.

Ella siguio su camino. Él el suyo. Pensó como siempre que aquella era muy probablemente la ultima vez que la vería. Sintió cierto pesar de haberlo hecho todo mal. Pensó en lo mucho que no quería ir a trabajar ese día. Pensó en cómo casi muere y al mismo tiempo no estuvo nada cerca de la muerte, y en la vibración del celular, en lo de la verga que debía verse, en lo de la verga que realmente estaba bajo esas ropas, lleno de moretes y gordo, en lo mal que debía oler, en el sueño y en lo bien poco que todo eso, que su existencia, importaba. Se sorprendió lavandose la cara en el baño de la oficina antes de ir por una taza de café. -Te vez de putamadre. Con un brillo.- le dijo Nacho cuando estuvo por fin frente a su computadora, en el cubículo. -¿Que tal el fin?- Fatal.- suspiró.

-¿Te casarías conmigo?
-¿Porque no? 
-Porque eres un borracho. 
-Pf. ¿Que tiene de malo? 
-No mames. ¿Como que qué tiene de malo? 

Él ya no pudo responder. Se había quedado dormido. Borracho.


Levantate del suelo

No te asustes nena,
esto no es nada nuevo,
es la guerra,
y es idiota y ciega,
como el amor.


Love feels like a great misfortune,
a monstrous parasite,
a permanent state of emergency
that ruins all small pleasures.

Slavoj Žižek


se supone,
sería otra noche,
una noche diferente,
una noche con la que todas las noches soñamos cuando podemos,
cuando perdemos el miedo a dormir,
a soñar,
el miedo a la entrevista y las manos
¿Donde se ponen las manos?
recostabas la tuya aqui,
sobre la mía en esta noche,
que era otra noche,
una noche sin botellas,
son el reflejo de las estrellas en ellas,
como una noche que hace noches que no vemos,
hace noches que no vemos.

No quisiera pensar mas en esta noche que no fue,
esa noche contigo,
paseando en bicicleta,
danzando entre los coches sin familia,
otra noche sin la biblia,
desde aquel día,
hasta este día,
otra noche de rodillas,
otra noche,
otra noche sin hogar,
otra noche sin ti.


Lagrima tú aparte.

El niño se levantó desnudo del suelo.
Se puso de pie frente a sus padres desnudos.
Le sangraban las heridas de la espalda y en las nalgas.
Se quedaron los tres mirando por la ventana.