I suspect I suffer from an acute crisis of half-bloomed neurosis. My past emotions do not fully interfere with my current experiences. The converse is true too. No sophistry added. How boring.
I jump in the water dressed in black lingerie made from Calais laces and Lyon silks. I can feel the waves pounding my body while my mind drowns in the ambiguity of the French Nouveau Roman standing mid-way between modernism and post-modernism like a drunken sunset that cannot distinguish between yellow and orange.
The foliage of the sea turns burgundy. Your fingers contour my face.
The three days that we spent in that city.
The evenings, intoxicated by the smell of linden trees and the intimation of grace, entered our imaginations as the air fills a restless balloon.
Under the 7am cold shower the first morning blossomed into layers of rose and gold; shivering skin hoping for the warmth of a kiss.
The afternoons grew childbearing hips and spun them in the soft air; the floreo circularities of the flamenco dance.
Our candlelight dinners with their buttery taste, creamy textures, and oaked aged incantations.
The shell of our nights broken by mental possessions in front…
Between the bed and the window, in that space that smells roses and rien que pour toi, the morning let’s her hair down. She is so close that I can reach her skin with the tip of my fingers.
I know, his book and the fame it brought him. The book in which he made me — the me that he imagined — the main character.
He was fascinated by the purple of my makeup and the yellows of my cobra who used to erect the upper portion of her body to greet him every time he visited.
while you sleep
right arm under your head
I catch a fish
in the marble net of the rustling stars
the morning comes with green leaves on her lips
my consciousness grows roots
it breaks through the asphalt of a cracked walkway
I used to play there when I was young
lose myself in the smell of oranges and paella that mama cooked
scratch my name on the old Spanish tiles of the courtyard
the jacaranda was in bloom
with my index finger
I cut my thoughts into pieces
from every cut a multiplicity is born
the bed becomes too small
I lock my love in the adulterated red of an old wine
you turn your head toward the night we did not spend together
I turn my eyes toward the sky
and let the fish go
How beautiful you made my loneliness with your love letters and your ceaseless colors that burn my eyes every time I look at them.
I am forever in your power because I was brought into this world by your imagination. I am your creation.
I feed on the same sea that nursed us when we were children.
I am the glue that holds together the baked sands stuck on your skin during torrid endless summers.
Sometimes I look like a four-leaf clover sitting on the lapel of your black coat on the 15th of every month.
Other times when it…
It was in the beginning of autumn.
Angelo took me to the island.
The morning we arrived we rushed to the Governor’s mansion. I did not see one single soul along the way.
The mansion was a typical Spanish colonial building with clay roof tiles, stucco walls, and an arched entrance door.
A smell of mold and ocean lingered in the corridors. The walls looked like the faces of old patients locked in an asylum.
Angelo and I stopped in front of a huge door at the end of the main corridor. He opened it without saying a word. What…
I do not like women’s writings. They talk too much about their bodies.
Notice the negative connotation attributed to the relationship body/femininity construed as an obstacle to the evolution of the spirit? This man’s feeble mind has confined women to lands of sensuality, magic, swamps, and mud; in short, to categories related to the carnal. Women can only be aware of tumultuous feelings that erupt inside their bodies. Nothing else. There was an implicit juxtaposition between body/femininity and spirit/masculinity, the latter understood as superior.
I navigated the incredible writings of women like Virginia Woolf, George Sand, Marguerite Yourcenar, and many…
The day after Miriam left for Europe.
A blue jay looks for food on the cracked asphalt of the street; long rows of dark buildings; cadaverous trees; dilapidated fences. The city’s noises vanish in a moribund sun.
Miguel takes my hand and drags me into a tall building. A paraffin lamp burns on a round glass table. The light trickles on the walls like drips of wax at the feet of saints.
There is something familiar about this room; perhaps the vague scent of dried flowers, and the tear-like motif on the walls.
Footsteps. I can hear footsteps coming…
I cannot tell which of the wounds I acquired hurts more. I gather all of them in a large wicker basket and sort them out every summer morning when fields are filled with lavender and roses.
During autumn nights, while I listen to the wind unbraiding the old oak trees, I re-live each of them.
I see how the Lie walks hand in hand with the Betrayal, and how the Betrayal indulges herself in the sweetest of wine. Oh, that irresistible taste of black grapes that melts in her mouth. It almost makes her attractive.
The Envy wears red lipstick…