| Fresa rozagante y fresca oronda, amorosa y bella roja, infantil, dulce y eterna fresa, te cuelgo de su corazón para que lo adornes con tu presencia fresa, te dejo en su lindo ser para que alli, quede mi esencia |
FRESA
TU NOMBRE
Tu nombre fué inventado para amar
|
NOCHE ESTRELLADA
| ¿Guerra? si ¿Cuando? no se quizás mañana... Serenidad calmada noche estrellada el sol que se oculta bajo tu ventana Un suspiro que rasga sin piedad ni calma la oscuridad iluminada y la golpea y azota hasta llegar a quebrarla. ¡Oh noche serena noche que apacigua que apacigua el alma! ¡Noche que estremece e impone al serle osada! ¡Oh noche, noche en el alba noche serena noche callada! noche, ¿qué ocultas bajo tu mirada? Noche que abrumas noche que abrazas noche, ¿qué ocurrirá mañana? |
CARITAS
La caridad es la clave, el gran don que tenemos especialmente como cristianos.
La caridad es compartir sin juicio y sin confusión. Compartir comprensión de fondo, en silencio, con la profunda consciencia de que hemos estado allá antes, identificándonos con el origen de eso que nos molesta en la otra persona para darnos cuenta de que el prójimo, no hace sino reflejar nuestros propios defectos.
La caridad es compartir las alegrías y tristezas ajenas como si fueran propias, con la consciencia de que no hay envidias que valgan, porque si de algo hay 100% para todos en este mundo es amor y en cuanto a la abundacia material, se encuentra delante de nosotros esperando a que la aceptemos para hacer buen uso de ella pero sin aferrarnos.
La expresión material de la caridad la recibimos en la confesión, donde nos encontramos de rodillas contando arrepentidos las mayores atrocidades con la garantía segura de recibir discrección, perdón y compasión por otra persona como nosotros, elevada a estatus de santidad en ese momento por asumir el papel de Jesús en la tierra, padre y redentor incondicional de los corazones humildes y dóciles.
La caridad acaba siendo tangible, acaba transformando el cuerpo de uno y entonces el latir del corazón, la sangre, los ojos, todo nuestro ser respira caridad, y las personas se acercan a nuestro lado para abrir sus corazones porque perciben intuitivamente esta cualidad en nosotros, y de forma misteriosa esta transformación personal acaba siendo contagiosa y acaba generando una ola imparable de alegría sin razón, de paz y amor porque sí. Por Dios.
La caridad es el don que nos hace responsables y partícipes del reflejo del amor de Dios en la tierra. Si el rey de reyes es capaz de dignarse a sentir caridad por unos miserables como nosotros, como no vamos a sentirla entre nosotros mismos, todos pertenecientes al grupo de los miserables? y en cambio al amarnos y tratarnos con caridad unos a otros, nos elevamos a una condición de gracia tal, que accedemos a un nivel que trasciende la especie humana hasta hoy catalogada por los científicos como Homo Sapiens, dando lugar a una nueva especie, que gracias a la Eucaristía comparte lazos de sangre con Jesucristo. Se trata del Homo Spiritualis.
La caridad es compartir sin juicio y sin confusión. Compartir comprensión de fondo, en silencio, con la profunda consciencia de que hemos estado allá antes, identificándonos con el origen de eso que nos molesta en la otra persona para darnos cuenta de que el prójimo, no hace sino reflejar nuestros propios defectos.
La caridad es compartir las alegrías y tristezas ajenas como si fueran propias, con la consciencia de que no hay envidias que valgan, porque si de algo hay 100% para todos en este mundo es amor y en cuanto a la abundacia material, se encuentra delante de nosotros esperando a que la aceptemos para hacer buen uso de ella pero sin aferrarnos.
La expresión material de la caridad la recibimos en la confesión, donde nos encontramos de rodillas contando arrepentidos las mayores atrocidades con la garantía segura de recibir discrección, perdón y compasión por otra persona como nosotros, elevada a estatus de santidad en ese momento por asumir el papel de Jesús en la tierra, padre y redentor incondicional de los corazones humildes y dóciles.
La caridad acaba siendo tangible, acaba transformando el cuerpo de uno y entonces el latir del corazón, la sangre, los ojos, todo nuestro ser respira caridad, y las personas se acercan a nuestro lado para abrir sus corazones porque perciben intuitivamente esta cualidad en nosotros, y de forma misteriosa esta transformación personal acaba siendo contagiosa y acaba generando una ola imparable de alegría sin razón, de paz y amor porque sí. Por Dios.
La caridad es el don que nos hace responsables y partícipes del reflejo del amor de Dios en la tierra. Si el rey de reyes es capaz de dignarse a sentir caridad por unos miserables como nosotros, como no vamos a sentirla entre nosotros mismos, todos pertenecientes al grupo de los miserables? y en cambio al amarnos y tratarnos con caridad unos a otros, nos elevamos a una condición de gracia tal, que accedemos a un nivel que trasciende la especie humana hasta hoy catalogada por los científicos como Homo Sapiens, dando lugar a una nueva especie, que gracias a la Eucaristía comparte lazos de sangre con Jesucristo. Se trata del Homo Spiritualis.
PEGGY GUGHENHEIM, A COLLECTOR OF LIFE -ESSAY
| The collector’s world is like a time tunnel: Whoever enters into it will never go out from it, or at least not the same as when they first entered. The passion for collecting used to end up possessing the collector to such a point that it becomes a lifetime addiction and a way of living. Ms. Peggy Guggenheim has been recognized as such on many occasions. Collector’s profiles have in common some points which we can use to analyze in this research paper the life of Peggy Guggenheim, but there are other points such as personality of the collector, historical and social context, and motivation for collecting that I will attempt to individualize to this unique historical character. The Collector’s personality. - Personal biography that impacts in the collector’s interest for art. There is typically in a collector’s biography an event or situation(s) that impacted his/her interest for art. In Peggy Guggenheim’s case, one of those moments which would irrevocably alter the direction of her life forever was working at the avant-garde Sunwise Turn Book Shop in New York. The Book Shop was run by her cousin Harold Loeb, who also published a magazine named Broom with the likes of artist as Kandinsky, Klee, Matisse and Picasso. It is in that Book Store where she met the pioneer photographer Alfred Stieglitz and where she held in her hands for the very first time a modern painting, an abstract by Georgia O’Keeffe. But there are four other biographical events that, in my opinion, are necessary to mention to better understand the ever-complicated Peggy Guggenheim. The first one is her father’s death while she was very young. The second is the fact that she received her inheritance from her millionaire father which gave her the possibility of living a “poor millionaire” Bohemian life in Paris of the 20’s. The third is the fact that she knew about her father’s mistresses since she was a child. This third event, in my opinion, would instill a strong and unconscious desire in her of being “the other”, the desired female (the mistress) instead of the official one (a wife). She would use men and she would leave men to use her. With her vivid desire of living, she was creating her own piece of art: her life. The fourth and last personal-biographical event which I believe would change her destiny forever would be the inheritance from her mother of one half a million dollars in 1937 which allowed her to open her first art gallery named Guggenheim Jeune. - Level of commitment chosen consciously or unconsciously by the collector: 1. Commitment towards his/her collection Peggy Guggenheim’s serious commitment as an art work collector arrived late. She really started to take seriously her collection just right before the WWII, in 1937 when she visited the best of modern art studios such as the ones of Mondrian, Brancusi and Duchamp and buying some of their art works for a bargain-price, especially as stress over a pending war loomed. She used intelligent advisers for buying art and staged important exhibitions in her galleries in London (named Guggenheim Jeune, it opened in 1938 and was curated by Marcel Duchamp) and in New York (named Art of this Century and opened in 1942). Owning these art galleries gave her the possibility of buying more artworks, ultimately acquiring 10 Picassos, 40 Ernsts, 8 Miros, 4 Magrittes, 3 Man Rays, 3 Dalis, one Klee and one Chagall among some of her most important pieces in the collection. We can estimate that she would parlay an investment of maybe $205,000 into a collection that today maybe worth an estimated $350 million. 2. Commitment towards the artists According to the humble opinion of this researcher, the real interest of Peggy Guggenheim was the artist and the experience of his/her presence around her more than the art itself. Her generosity was extreme, sharing or leaving apartments to artists, friends, family members or even-ex family members, as if what she called bohemian people were part of one big tribe including herself. The list of people and artist that she supported with regular pensions includes her ex-husband Laurence Vail, as well as his later wife and kids; the writer Djuna Barnes (ex-mistress of her ex-husband Laurence Vail); Yves Tanguy; Emma Goldman; and finally Jackson Pollock whom she would declare was, along with her art collection, the two most important achievements of her life. Her complex personality (i.e. a mix of a very independent and avant-garde woman at that time period), her free spirit and anxiety for living would create in some moments tense and conflict-ridden relations with the artists she supported as well as with some members of her family including her own son Sinbad and daughter Peggeen. I say this in fact as an attempt to justify what other authors have criticized about her. She used intellectuals and artists for learning from them and admiring them simultaneously, but without any doubts all of them received in return much more than what they gave to her emotionally and materially. She literally changed the destiny of many people. Pollock would probably never have been who we know now if Peggy had not provided him with a life pension for him to be free of working at his uncle’s foundation and dedicate his life to his own art. Consciousness of his destiny as a collector: - Capacity of organization and business thinking regarding the collection. Peggy was better creating and helping the other’s business than her own: she was unfocused and not quite organized regarding the collection, but she was smart enough for surrounding herself with people who knew everything about it. She was humble enough for following the expert’s advices while buying modern art and while opening the art galleries in London and New York. She would leave the artist to organize by themselves their exhibitions at her gallery, and she would provide the contacts and the PR side of the affair. In her London gallery Guggenheim Jeune, she put Marcel Duchamp as the gallery curator and followed his advice with great success for both of them. She knew where she wanted to be in the Bohemian, modern art world, and she did it with all the consequences—good and bad. At the end of her life, while living at her Palazzo in Venize, she created of her persona and her collection a “must” to any tourist in the town, but she neglected to take care properly of the collection which was storage in the Palazzo’s dumped basement which every year suffered inundations from Venice’s great channel. Her difficult relation with her uncle Guggenheim’s foundation has created lots of controversy in artistic circles analyzing her life. She didn’t leave in her estate one single art work to her son or daughter and she didn’t provide a plan for the museum of her collection, as well as the economic help for the collection’s restoration. In the humble opinion of this researcher, that is completely consistent with Peggy’s character and style. She was conscious of her own life and destiny and considered these artworks like witnesses of her life and not really as investments. She never tried to avoid conflict (certainly), she just tried to live her life the way she wanted and she did it up to the end. This seems to be hard to understand for some authors which need to categorize her as a selfish, miser and egocentric person. Perhaps she receives such mis-characterizations because many of the people trying to characterize her as such could never live life as she did. Historical and social situation at the collector’s time period & capacity of reaction--opportunism of the collector. - Wars and political repression in the artist’s country. The inter-war period was a unique and historical moment for history of art. The happy and crazy 20’s in Paris made this city the center of modern art and avant-garde expression. The best generation of artist at that time from different parts of the world moved there to live and work as a bohemian. It is in those years when Peggy moved to Paris following her cousin and thanks to her first abusive husband, the writer Laurence Vail, she was introduced for the first time to this world. Other historical circumstances unique is her presence in Paris right before WWII, which allowed her to buy the works of the leading artists of the day at bargain prices. She was in the right place, at the right moment, with the right people, with the right conditions and, most importantly, she made used of it by acting decisively and quickly. The beginning of WWII meant the emigration of all those young bohemian artists which lived in Paris to New York, and Peggy was there at that moment, creating a new gallery named Art of this Century. Again, she was in the right place at the right time and acted upon her instincts to take the right decision. The Collector’s goal. - Investment As we mentioned before, Peggy Guggenheim’s motivation for buying wasn’t especially financial. The times from Paris were the very beginning of the careers of most modern artists; as usual, the public was not ready to like the avant-garde art. Peggy wasn’t financially motivated if we consider that at that time period, being a modern art collector and dealer was almost an altruistic business, not a financially motivated one. Also, she was a woman acting in a male-dominated world which may have contributed to the view that art was her avocation, not vocation. - Personal satisfaction This is probably the main goal of Peggy Guggenheim as a collector. Her intellectual interest for the bohemian life and artists that lived it made her a collector not only of modern art, but of life experiences. She drank from the chalice of bohemian life often, but also filled it for others—in her day and for generations to come. Modern artists and surreal artists would paint these styles and in the researcher’s opinion, Peggy Guggenheim would live it. Her life was a mix of the 20th century’s most important styles, full of neutral colors as the modernists, full of motion as the futurists, full of continuous strange decisions and circumstances as the surrealists and even those she considered the bohemians as a tribe which had similarities with the Dadaism manifesto. - Addiction/Compulsivity Peggy declared on many occasions that she was an addict of art, but not as a way of saying. If we look for the meaning of addiction in the dictionary, we find this definition: 1. To cause to become physiologically or psychologically dependent on something. 2 . To occupy or involve (oneself) habitually or compulsively. (The American Heritage College Dictionary, 4th edition, Houghton Mifflin) Peggy in a way was really addicted to art and to bohemian life. When one person is addicted to a substance, they would do anything to have that substance without considering the objective circumstances or people involved in her/his life or in the process. That seems to be true in many occasions, where Peggy’s attitude, according to her daughter Pegeen, the matron preferred to have a Picasso painting than a daughter. Peggy’s constant changing of everything and everybody in her life seems to be as well associated to this compulsive/addictive behavior. The researcher feels a deep and sincere respect for Ms. Guggenheim and the theory that tries to support it is nothing but justifying some of her behaviors criticized on many occasions by family members and authors. All these points have try to identify the different aspects that make a person a collector, but what distinguished a good collector from just an ordinary collector? There are some common characteristics in the good collectors that the researcher has tried to organize and which are considered the most important for making this distinction. This list is not exclusive and many other aspects could be added since it seems to be quite subjective. To have a proportional amount of good storage space for keeping the collection. This is something important to consider but not necessary. Peggy Guggenheim would carry with her in the train dozens of art works accumulated during her trips around Europe. During her last decades of life, she would accumulate in awful conditions her collection of modern art in her Palazzo’s basement. Every year and during the common Venetian floods, some of her friends had to save them literally from the water. While she passed away, and without leaving any estate with clear instructions (in my opinion her personal vendetta towards her uncle’s Guggenheim foundation) and money for the ever-so-needed restoration of the artworks, as well as the so needed preservation works at the Palazzo. The collector should be conscious of the pieces he/she owns and be responsible for them, but as we mentioned before, the personality of the collector as well as the consciousness of the collection’s importance and destiny analyzed before are not always going to be ideal for this purpose. In some cases, collectors have accumulated such a quantity of pieces that doesn’t fit at their homes. It is then when they decide to open an art gallery to the public. Peggy Guggenheim was one such collector and opened two galleries during her life, one in London named Guggenheim Jeune and other in New York, Art of this Century, but she was better making business for others than for her, so her addiction would make her be the main client of her own galleries! However, Peggy collected thanks for openings: not only more art work but especially something that she appreciated the most--personal experiences with artists. To Have money For being a good collector one doesn’t have to be millionaire or have lots of money, but one does have to have enough for spending on the collection. The collection should be in proportion to the collector’s economical situation. The collection can end up possessing the collector in such a way that any effort would be made for acquiring the piece desired. However, if the piece is good enough, it is always going to be a good investment. For the common mortals, Peggy Guggenheim was an eccentric millionaire, but analyzed in the millionaire’s social and historical context, she was a “poor rich” and she was perfectly conscious of it. Her interest for her contemporary artists who were under-valued primed her interest for collecting experiences and spending her money on them, made Peggy an inexpensive collector. A collection that at her times was valued in around $ 200,000, today is valued at more than $300 million. Knowledge about the collection’s topic It is very important to know since the beginning at least a minimum about the collection for avoiding mistakes and disappointments, although usually the collector’s knowledge and collection grow together. Peggy chose modern artists and surrealists because those artists best captured the spirit of her times and she had people around her who gave her sound advice. She chose to collect art from the contemporary art of her time, probably as a reaction to the old world furniture and ambiance—perhaps as a way of assuaging her intense displeasure of the house she grew up in and despised on stylistic grounds. Documentation/Research Once the kind of collection to be made has been decided, the collector should learn everything about the topic and ask as much as she/her can of the experts. All this will supply the absence of knowledge or sometimes bibliographical resources that often can be overlooked. Although never trusting them blindly, Peggy Guggenheim used (consciously or unconsciously) men for acquiring knowledge and networked from them having sexual relations or loving those men who could offer this in return to her. Her interest for the arts in general, and for music and literature, was especially created by her long term lover-poet-writer John Holmes, who educated her in critical thinking and art appreciation. Collector’s exposure to art galleries, travels and exhibitions. It is important that the collector go to fairs and professional exhibitions during the year as well as art galleries, auctions and art shops. This will give him/her the opportunity of networking, knowing the market and fair value for different pieces, as well as making questions to those in the art world. Peggy used to ask for advice from the main critics of that time and she would follow their directions almost literally. She probably knew Europe and its monuments, art galleries and churches better than the most refined Europeans. Her capacity of assimilation by traveling constantly and living in different parts of Europe with different friends, lovers or husbands, made her mind a unique cultivation in the humanities. Be specialized in the topic’s collection Let’s face it, it is physically impossible to collect any single thing you like, if the collector desires to have an important collection and won’t learn as much as he could with more specific topic. A real good collector should never fall in the trap of indiscriminate diversification—the collection should be guided by its themes, be they conscious or subconscious. And real collectors know how to do that. Select well, wisely and instinctively Just because something could belong to the collection does not mean that the collector should acquire the piece. It is always good to choose those pieces which are special because of their beauty, bizarreness or are altogether difficult to find or limited. According to some critics, Peggy Guggenheim’s collection is important but could have been even more important if she had focused or selected better some of her acquisitions as well as valued more some of the art works that she simply gave away. For instance, most of the artworks she received from Pollock she gave away to other people. At the end of her life she was conscious of this and recognized that some of her choices could have been better, but the researcher considers that there is no collector that didn’t loose at lease one good opportunity or otherwise incorrectly valued enough some of the pieces of the collection. Important: The piece should be a piece of art. A genuine and unique work created with aesthetic or interpretive intention. In my opinion, the art work should be genuine and unique regarding two points: (1) being created by one person and (2) being a unique piece in its own right. And both of these attributes are related sometimes. For instance, if a piece was made by Picasso, Dali and Duchamp together and signed by the three of them and there is only one piece, that would be a very unique piece because it is a unique one. If this piece belonged to a serial of pieces all the same, even if limited, the value would be much reduced and thus have less interest as a piece of art. Joining an association or club, networking There is no more satisfaction to collectors than being able of sharing and enjoying new findings and information with others. One of the best tools of Peggy Guggenheim besides surrounding herself with people with knowledge about her collection was the fact of being a good “PR person” and having a broad and interesting network around the world. That made all the artists which exhibited in her galleries to have relative success and to be introduced to the public. She lost money in both galleries she owned, but there are other reasons to have a gallery. A Collector should collect what he/she really likes. This is the only way of warranting that there wont’ be a mistake in the collection. If the collector makes a mistake in buying the wrong piece of art, at least he/she will always have the satisfaction of having a piece that he/she really likes. Sometimes, the trait of a good collector is to go with instincts, not current market trends or with that which is de rigeure. Some people think that every human being is a collector, but only a few of them can actually develop this privilege. But in reality there are lots of kind of collections, and certainly not only the millionaires have right to be collectors. It seems that human’s life on this earth is not but collecting objects, thoughts, experiences, works, happiness and pain. Every body is a collector of something. The specialty of the topic will depend on each person, the personal interest, cultural level, opportunity and personal experiences but basically the rules are the same for every collector. Peggy Guggenheim was a collector to be sure, but not only of her famous and great collection of Modern and surrealistic art works as she is famously known for. But, and importantly, she was also a collector of personal experiences, summarized in her life. Her most valuable surrealistic and modernist piece of art it is nothing but her own art and her behavior up to the end of her days is consistent with this thinking. Thanks to her labeling by many authors and family members as ego-centric, the Guggenheim foundation has today the international dimension that it has. Hopefully this research paper has helped to the reader to identify what influenced in a person to become a collector and what makes a collector a good one. BIBLIOGRAPHY Fernandez A., Barnechea E., Haro J. “Historia del Arte.” Spain: Madrid, Vicens-Vives, 1994. Gill, Anton. Art lover: a biography of Peggy Guggenheim. New York: Harper Collins, 1975. Guggenheim, Peggy. Out of this century: Confessions of an art addict. New York: Universe Books, 1979. Messer, Thomas M. “The Guggenheim story: reply to John Richandson”. The New York Review Books. November 1992. 14 April 2003 http://www.nybs.com/article_id: 2750. Pierpont, Claudia Roth. “The conquest and canvases of Peggy Guggenheim.” The New Yorker.May 2002. 14 April 2003. http://www.newyorker.com. Richardson, John. “Go Go Guggenheim”. The New York Review Books. July 192. 14 April 2003. http://www.nybs.com/article_id:2854. |
MANANA, SIEMPRE, AQUI
Mañana, cuando despiertes, pegaremos la luna en el techo,
Y el alba, que vendrá a verte,
traerá en un frasco el aroma de los vientos
para que entre susurros peinen tu pelo.
Mañana, cuando despiertes, te amaré.
Te vestiré de los colores de la tierra,
Te calzaré con hierba,
Y en un libro meteré todas las historias
sólo para que tú las leas.
Mañana, cuando despiertes, estaré junto a tí.
Y el rocío de la mañana y la mar, y la montaña,
Y los colores del arco iris y el sol y la luna,
Y la noche y el día,
vendrán todos a desearte los buenos días.Mi sol, mañana, cuando despiertes, serás feliz.
Y el alba, que vendrá a verte,
traerá en un frasco el aroma de los vientos
para que entre susurros peinen tu pelo.
Mañana, cuando despiertes, te amaré.
Te vestiré de los colores de la tierra,
Te calzaré con hierba,
Y en un libro meteré todas las historias
sólo para que tú las leas.
Mañana, cuando despiertes, estaré junto a tí.
Y el rocío de la mañana y la mar, y la montaña,
Y los colores del arco iris y el sol y la luna,
Y la noche y el día,
vendrán todos a desearte los buenos días.Mi sol, mañana, cuando despiertes, serás feliz.
MI SALMO
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Desde mi soledad. Desde el centro de mi ser, me miro al espejo y me encuentro por primera vez.Desde mi ventana, desde los árboles, en el aire, entre las matas, siento la brisa mecer.
Vuelo, siento las alas y no paro de llorar, porque por fín, te vuelvo a ver, porque por fín me vuelvo a reconocer.
Silencio. Noche. Serenidad. Los latidos de mi corazón me recuerdan, una vez más, que hay algo sagrado dentro de mí, y que hoy me he alzado en su defensa.
Hoy he recuperado mi ser y siento una gran pequeñez, humildad y agradecimiento a Dios. Hoy vuelvo a tener fe.
He estado en el desierto, árido, tórrido lejano y seco. Descubrí sus mil colores, su vida y aliento. Hoy Dios ha tocado mi corazón y con su mano me ha devuelto a donde pertenezco.
No sé lo que me depara el destino, y esa sensación de libro en blanco me llena de energía, porque mi espíritu es aventurero: amo, lloro y río, vivo y creo.
Perdonad por el daño que os he hecho.
Gracias por el apoyo que me habéis dado.
Estad conmigo en lo venidero, porque sois verdaderamente, lo que más amo.
LETTER FROM THE CORRIDOR
I don’t remember my name. It’s been too long since I heard it spoken.
It’s very easy to loose your identity when everybody wants to forget that you are alive, when fear wins and hate takes control. It is in that haze of a semi-human, semi-animal existence when you eventually become a number: a date for your death which everybody is looking for, a number of meals, a number of phone calls allowed, a number of cigarettes, a number of visits, a number of statistics, a number for the government, a number for the seconds still remaining of life before “the moment” arrives.
I have just read that one of the most important characteristics of a capitalist society is the “Law of Supply and Demand”. The more demanded a product is, the more expensive it’s going to be.
I can’t avoid thinking that I am as well a product of this law. My death is more demanded, and therefore the price of my life is more expensive. It doesn’t matter how expensive my death is. It is not a question of saving money by keeping me alive in prison for the rest of my life. The point is that the customer is always right. (They say that “Might makes right” as well, which it may also be the case with me.) The law of the market always wins.
This morning I woke up with an idea fixed in my head: if my death is going to be paid with tax money and every person who pays taxes in this state is paying for my death, this means that Father Pouland, my friend, my spiritual guide these last years of my life, my mother, my brother, my friends, everybody is paying for my death, but the most incredible feeling is to realize that even I am paying for my own death….
I have received support of many Christian and Catholic communities that are against capital punishment, but when the moment of electing our governor arrives, our decision does not depend on the support (or opposition) of capital punishment by the candidates, but on many other issues.
Believe it or not, I once loved a woman. Her name was Leslie and all I remember is the way she used to listen to me. I won’t have enough life for regretting what I did to her. Don’t you think it’s enough pain to be conscious of your own acts and to be alive for the rest of your life?
Please, don’t get me wrong, I don’t ask for anyone’s mercy. I am a public danger. I need help. The best thing that can happen to me is dying. The worst condemnation would have been to live.
I am guilty, I can’t deny this. I was terrified by my father, afraid of my mother and now I scare and terrify all of you. I am a victim of society and I make victim’s out of society’s members, but there are others after me, like Carlos Cifuentes, that are innocent. Believe me, when you are alone in prison and hours seem like centuries and at other time milli-seconds, the truth between us becomes revealed.
His only crime was to be at the wrong place, with the wrong people in the wrong moment. His worst crime was being defended by the cheapest lawyer in the state and to have been manipulated for politics using him as an example of “justice efficiency”.
Now I have to leave. This letter was my choice for “last wish” as this ritual is known. Father Pouland says that there is an after life world that we can’t see. Maybe in this world where numbers don’t exist, I will finally find the peace I never had here.
Maybe in another world, an innocent victim of our human justice 2004 years ago will see in me as a scared eight year old little boy crying for help without answer. Maybe one day that victim will forgive me due to my “mitigating circumstances”. I never had a “happy family” while I was growing up, I never had anyone who loved me. In a way I am peaceful. I didn’t choose my life, but I wouldn’t like to be judged in the other life for having the culpability of being mentally sound and still putting someone to death with other options available.
However, I don’t blame you. I am responsible for one of your lives and you are responsible for mine.
* In memoriam to all the victims of capital punishment
It’s very easy to loose your identity when everybody wants to forget that you are alive, when fear wins and hate takes control. It is in that haze of a semi-human, semi-animal existence when you eventually become a number: a date for your death which everybody is looking for, a number of meals, a number of phone calls allowed, a number of cigarettes, a number of visits, a number of statistics, a number for the government, a number for the seconds still remaining of life before “the moment” arrives.
I have just read that one of the most important characteristics of a capitalist society is the “Law of Supply and Demand”. The more demanded a product is, the more expensive it’s going to be.
I can’t avoid thinking that I am as well a product of this law. My death is more demanded, and therefore the price of my life is more expensive. It doesn’t matter how expensive my death is. It is not a question of saving money by keeping me alive in prison for the rest of my life. The point is that the customer is always right. (They say that “Might makes right” as well, which it may also be the case with me.) The law of the market always wins.
This morning I woke up with an idea fixed in my head: if my death is going to be paid with tax money and every person who pays taxes in this state is paying for my death, this means that Father Pouland, my friend, my spiritual guide these last years of my life, my mother, my brother, my friends, everybody is paying for my death, but the most incredible feeling is to realize that even I am paying for my own death….
I have received support of many Christian and Catholic communities that are against capital punishment, but when the moment of electing our governor arrives, our decision does not depend on the support (or opposition) of capital punishment by the candidates, but on many other issues.
Believe it or not, I once loved a woman. Her name was Leslie and all I remember is the way she used to listen to me. I won’t have enough life for regretting what I did to her. Don’t you think it’s enough pain to be conscious of your own acts and to be alive for the rest of your life?
Please, don’t get me wrong, I don’t ask for anyone’s mercy. I am a public danger. I need help. The best thing that can happen to me is dying. The worst condemnation would have been to live.
I am guilty, I can’t deny this. I was terrified by my father, afraid of my mother and now I scare and terrify all of you. I am a victim of society and I make victim’s out of society’s members, but there are others after me, like Carlos Cifuentes, that are innocent. Believe me, when you are alone in prison and hours seem like centuries and at other time milli-seconds, the truth between us becomes revealed.
His only crime was to be at the wrong place, with the wrong people in the wrong moment. His worst crime was being defended by the cheapest lawyer in the state and to have been manipulated for politics using him as an example of “justice efficiency”.
Now I have to leave. This letter was my choice for “last wish” as this ritual is known. Father Pouland says that there is an after life world that we can’t see. Maybe in this world where numbers don’t exist, I will finally find the peace I never had here.
Maybe in another world, an innocent victim of our human justice 2004 years ago will see in me as a scared eight year old little boy crying for help without answer. Maybe one day that victim will forgive me due to my “mitigating circumstances”. I never had a “happy family” while I was growing up, I never had anyone who loved me. In a way I am peaceful. I didn’t choose my life, but I wouldn’t like to be judged in the other life for having the culpability of being mentally sound and still putting someone to death with other options available.
However, I don’t blame you. I am responsible for one of your lives and you are responsible for mine.
* In memoriam to all the victims of capital punishment
PAPA
De mi infancia la mayoria de mis recuerdos son aquellos días felices, ingénuos en los que mi papá era todo para mí: el mejor amigo de juegos, el más divertido contando cuentos e historias fantásticas que nunca se sabía hasta qué punto eran verídicas por mucho que él lo asegurara, el mejor confidente, el mejor cómplice.
Siempre fué el primero en animarme, en apoyar mis iniciativas artísticas, profesionales por más disparatadas que pudieran parecer. Cualquier tipo de idea que tuviera era fomentada por él: “ Sueña teresita, sueña, ten proyectos fantásticos, sueña y te quedarás corta.”
De hecho, él y mi tío carlos fueron los primeros que apostaron por mí en este mundo, cuando nací con la cara hinchada y bastante deformada: “Será una muchachita muy Linda”.
Se me sobrecoge el corazón cuando recuerdo cómo una tarde cualquiera de risas me sentó en sus rodillas y con cierto aire tristón me preguntó si yo le querría siempre. “Sí papito” “y cuando seas grande no pensarás que este papote no vale nada ¿verdad?, este papote viejito.” “no papito” “mi muchachita linda”.
“Mi muchachita linda”. Así me llamaba y de hecho aún hoy me llama mi papá, con ese suave acento hispano ya bastante perdido por sus mas de 40 años en España.
Recuerdo los largos paseos por Concha Espina, de camino al colegio y los nervios al pasar delante del colegio S. Agustín, nuestros eternos vecinos- amigos- enemigos; “¡Tonto, cara melón! ¡Como se entere tu padre…!”.
Siempre llegaba tarde a clase. Y el caso es que yo nunca tenía la culpa. Todo era causa de una aeronave espacial que me perseguía, o de un señor con una bolsa sospechosa en forma de pistola.
Mi record fué de una hora porque ante un chaparrón inesperado, tuve una inspiración: bailar como en “cantando bajo la lluvia”. El resultado está claro: llegué tan empapada que sufrí la vergüenza de tener que llevar un “baby” prestado, 3 tallas mayor y ¡sin nada debajo!. Fué bochornoso ver mi ropa tendida como si fuera un patio de vecinos, en medio del colegio.
El único que se tomaba en serio mis aventuras era mi papá, que sobre todo, cuando le conté lo del señor de la pistola, decidió acompañarme al colegio durante el mes siguiente.
Un día al llegar del colegio de una forma algo indiferente me dijeron que fuera a hablar con papá al salón.
Intuí que algo triste pasaba y cuando llegué mi corazón estaba en un puño.
Sentado en el extremo del sofá, serenamente, veía llorar por primera vez a mi papá. “La tia Lupe se ha ido al cielo” . No lo pude soportar. Papá me sentó sobre sus rodillas y lloramos el resto de la tarde abrazados la muerte de mi viejita, la tía Lupe.
Siempre he tenido la suerte de caer bien desde el principio y a pesar de las trastadas que pudiera organizar, nunca recibía más de una indicación, que ni siquiera solía llegar a regaño. Mi naturalidad e imaginación les abrumaba y les era simpático. En alguna ocasión en el colegio me mandaron a la directora, que tras contarle lo ocurrido, me llenanaba los bolsillos de huesitos. Tal cual.
Esta debilidad la tuvo siempre mi papá conmigo. Ya podía desmantelar toda la casa para coger las sábanas para mi “desfile de moda”, ya podría organizar un parque de atracciones con todos los muebles y cobrar a mis hermanos por la entrada, o dejarme llevar por mi vena artística decorando las paredes con pinturas mural propias, o llenarme de espuma la cara para afeitarme como él,… hiciera lo que hiciera era más cómplice que juez.
Como mucho me daba una “garrapiñada” en el trasero que daba un escozor que no veas.
Durante los veranos en Salou, y siendo un auténtico piojo, me gustaba levantarme al alba y darme paseos por la playa y por la ciudad aún dormida. Me acercaba a mi papá todavía a eso de las cinco de la madrugada y le decía:
“papi, papi, vamos a dar un paseo” tras hacerse algo (no mucho, la verdad) de desear, se levantaba e imperterrito me cogía de la mano y nos dábamos los paseos más maravilloso del mundo. Era nuestro momento.
Recuerdo sus paseos lentos, continuos, rítmicos, por el pasillo. Podía pasarse horas. Sus manos en la espalda, la mayoría de las veces sosteniendo un rosario.
Recuerdo también como todas las noches, estando ya todos los niños acostados, venía a la habitación y a oscuras, con la luz del pasillo encendida abría la biblia para niños y leía algún pasaje. Despues rezábamos el Padre Nuestro rítmicamente por cada una de las intenciones que mi padre susurraba dulcemente en la penumbra. Por último la bendición y la señal de la cruz en la frente. “pApAAAAAAA LA bendiciOOOnnnnn!!!” gritaba cada uno desde su cuarto si un día se olvidaba. Yo siempre le correspondía, y mis deditos gordos formaban el signo de la cruz en su frente. “Hasta mañana si Dios..””Quieeeere” “a descan..””sar”.
Además se inventaba historias inverosímiles, acerca de nuestros antepasados, que luego resultaron ciertas, nos cantaba canciones, contaba cuentos que nos había escrito, como el de el arbolito japonés o la interminable canción de “ seee cayó por el barranco, seeeee cayó por el barrancooo, seeee cayó por el barrancooo tooooda vestida de blancoooo, fin de la primera parteee, finnn de la primera parteee, ahooooora viene la seguuunda, queeeees la más interesannnnteeeee....” y así hasta que le rogábamos desesperados que dejara de cantar la canción. Otro truco para volvernos locos era su famoso juego de palabras repitiendo la última parte de la última palabra de cada frase que uno decía. Por ejemplo, si uno decía:” Papi, ya vale” él contestaba: “ale, ale, tibiricont-ale para tont-ale bot-ale” “papi, para ya jooo””joo, joo, tibircont-joo, para cont-joo, bo-joo” “ahhhhh, me vuelvo locaaaaa!””oca, oca, tibiricont-oca, para cont-oca, bot-oca”
Era todo lo que el niño puede desear como padre: Un niño grande.
“Papí, ¡ponme el disco de Gaby, fofo, fofito y miliki!”
“sí mi reina”.
Mi canción preferida hablaba de un ratoncito que bailaba tango y rock-and roll (“Susanita tiene un ratón”).
Un día vino hasta mi cuarto y con aire grave me preguntó si me gustaría tener un ratoncito como el de la canción.
Aluciné cuando al día siguiente me regaló un pastillero en cuya tapa había dibujado un ratoncito entre la maleza.
De vez en cuando nos llevaba a su despacho y jugábamos al escondite entre las pilas de libros y los grandes rollos de papel que siempre había.
El único trauma infantil que tuve, por decir alguno, es que un año le pedí a los reyes una barbie tan chula como esas que tenían mis compis en el colegio. Llegó el día de Reyes por la mañana y muy decepcionada tuve que disimular mi estado de ánimo al comprobar que me habían dado el cambiazo: la Leslie en vez de la Barbie. Las chicas de mi generación sabemos que de más guay a menos estaban primero la Barbie, luego la Nancy, después la Leslie (esta la verdad no estaba muy cotizada) y por último, y sólo las pardillas, tenían las Barriguitas. Por supuesto yo sabía a que grupo pertenecía, al de la Leslie y las Barriguitas. Hoy por hoy no entrará en mi casa una Barbie ni que se la regalen a Carlota.
Gracias papi.
Cuando se acercaba la Semana Santa, papi nos hacía elegir un dibujo, nuestro dibujo preferido. Yo solía elegir a Bambi o a la Hello Kitti. Durante esas semanas previas, se inciaba el proceso de la creación de los huevos de pascua. Vaciar el contenido del huevo con una jeringa (media docena de huevos rotos hasta cogerle el tranquillo), aplicar la base de color, pintar, colorear, listo. Incluso nos creaba pequeños pedestales para poder colocar el huevito en la estantería de nuestra habitación.
Un día, ensimismada en el escaparate de una juguetería de lo mejor-mejor- que como esa no había- me cogí una rabieta porque ví la respuesta a una necesidad imperiosa: La casa-seta que mi colección de pitufos tanto necesitaba. Ultimo modelo, tejado desmontable, puerta y ventanas que se abrían y cerraban, “papi, como no puedes verlo? Como esta no hay otra!”
Al día siguiente, papi me llevo a comprar arcilla. “Es que esto es muy sucio, papi, nos van a regañar”. “Tu no te preocupes, Teresita, ya verás que casita le hacemos a tus pitufos”.
Debo de reconocer mi escepticismo ante esta nueva aventura. Otra vez papi y sus cosas. En fin, dejémosle, somos raritos y ya esta.
La seta de pitufos resultó ser maravillosa. No solo con su tejado rojo con grandes puntos blancos que se abría y dejaba ver el interior de la seta, sino con ventanas, puertas, muebles,... fardé un montón y hubieramos hecho negocio incluso con las niñas de mi clase si no llega a ser por mi afán de transladar las cosas de un lado para otro. La seta se rompió en mil pedazos que como siempre, papi pacientemente recompuso. Pero nada volvió a ser lo mismo y decidimos que lo de los pitufos ya era parte del pasado y que debíamos avanzar a niveles superiores: La Hello Kitti. Pero esa es otra historia.
A los diez años, me encantaba invitar a dormir a mi amiga Olaya. Un día descubrimos que el vecino tenía una caja preciosa en su baño, una caja-pantalón-vaquero. Pasamos todo el día haciendo guardia. La caja estaba en la repisa junto a la ventana y esta no siempre estaba abierta. En otras palabras, la caja se podía ver con claridad sólo cuando subidas en el retrete, nos asomábamos a la ventana de nuestro baño y el otro idem, estaba ocupado, es decir con luz, y con la ventana abierta. Entonces, muy silenciosas, observábamos ajenas a todo movimiento humano que tuviera lugar -como en trance- la famosa caja que nos parecía lo más de lo más. Esa tarde papi nos pilló, nos regaño mucho y nos llamó espías de la intimidad (yo creí entonces que ese era el nombre de la vecina). Le tratamos de explicar que no queríamos espiar a esa tal Intimidad, sino ver la caja pantalón vaquero, y que yo que sé, pero no resultó. A veces la verdad es más difícil de entender que la ficción. Veinte años después he caído en que la famosa caja-pantalón vaquero era un Wipp-Express (“lavado a mano o en lavadora”)...
En uno de nuestros paseos por Madrid, camino del Retiro o de algún Museo, siempre se paraba – y para- a hablar con mendigos, gitanos, taxistas, no importa. Siempre tenía –y tiene- tiempo para dar lismosna o intercambiar una sonrisa amable con los necesitados. Recuerdo su éxito entre las gitanas,-zalamero, zalamero! Le gritaba en una ocasión una gitanilla gordita.
Papi es y ha sido una constante en mi vida – en nuestras vidas-. Tras la pequeña y borrascosa adolescencia, le redescubrí gracias a su constante, persistente, silenciosa, paciente y amorosa presencia. Desde mis años en Madrid, en Roma, y ahora en Estados Unidos, su llamada casi diaria es un punto de referencia. Las conversaciones profundas y llenas de significado, han orientado mi vida. Su profunda espiritualildad, fortaleza y fé son inspiración en mi vida diaria. Sólo de pensar en mi papi, me conmuevo y me pongo a llorar. Su fragilidad aparente y su temperamento guerrero son cualidades con las que me identifico. Su amor por las artes, una pasión que cambió mi vida, su amor por la gente y su docilidad, una meta a la que aspirar.
Papi, no te lo vas a creer pero creo que cada día me parezco más a ti, y eso me gusta.
Papi, ha sido y es un honor tenerte como padre. Dios nos ha bendecido y nos debe de amar mucho para habernos elegido como tus hijos. Solo espero que por lo menos nos conceda una gracias más, que al menos vivas tantos años como los padres de la iglesia vivieron, por lo menos por lo menos cien años. Feliz Cumpleaños Papi, te quiero muchísimo.
Tu Muchachita Linda,
Siempre fué el primero en animarme, en apoyar mis iniciativas artísticas, profesionales por más disparatadas que pudieran parecer. Cualquier tipo de idea que tuviera era fomentada por él: “ Sueña teresita, sueña, ten proyectos fantásticos, sueña y te quedarás corta.”
De hecho, él y mi tío carlos fueron los primeros que apostaron por mí en este mundo, cuando nací con la cara hinchada y bastante deformada: “Será una muchachita muy Linda”.
Se me sobrecoge el corazón cuando recuerdo cómo una tarde cualquiera de risas me sentó en sus rodillas y con cierto aire tristón me preguntó si yo le querría siempre. “Sí papito” “y cuando seas grande no pensarás que este papote no vale nada ¿verdad?, este papote viejito.” “no papito” “mi muchachita linda”.
“Mi muchachita linda”. Así me llamaba y de hecho aún hoy me llama mi papá, con ese suave acento hispano ya bastante perdido por sus mas de 40 años en España.
Recuerdo los largos paseos por Concha Espina, de camino al colegio y los nervios al pasar delante del colegio S. Agustín, nuestros eternos vecinos- amigos- enemigos; “¡Tonto, cara melón! ¡Como se entere tu padre…!”.
Siempre llegaba tarde a clase. Y el caso es que yo nunca tenía la culpa. Todo era causa de una aeronave espacial que me perseguía, o de un señor con una bolsa sospechosa en forma de pistola.
Mi record fué de una hora porque ante un chaparrón inesperado, tuve una inspiración: bailar como en “cantando bajo la lluvia”. El resultado está claro: llegué tan empapada que sufrí la vergüenza de tener que llevar un “baby” prestado, 3 tallas mayor y ¡sin nada debajo!. Fué bochornoso ver mi ropa tendida como si fuera un patio de vecinos, en medio del colegio.
El único que se tomaba en serio mis aventuras era mi papá, que sobre todo, cuando le conté lo del señor de la pistola, decidió acompañarme al colegio durante el mes siguiente.
Un día al llegar del colegio de una forma algo indiferente me dijeron que fuera a hablar con papá al salón.
Intuí que algo triste pasaba y cuando llegué mi corazón estaba en un puño.
Sentado en el extremo del sofá, serenamente, veía llorar por primera vez a mi papá. “La tia Lupe se ha ido al cielo” . No lo pude soportar. Papá me sentó sobre sus rodillas y lloramos el resto de la tarde abrazados la muerte de mi viejita, la tía Lupe.
Siempre he tenido la suerte de caer bien desde el principio y a pesar de las trastadas que pudiera organizar, nunca recibía más de una indicación, que ni siquiera solía llegar a regaño. Mi naturalidad e imaginación les abrumaba y les era simpático. En alguna ocasión en el colegio me mandaron a la directora, que tras contarle lo ocurrido, me llenanaba los bolsillos de huesitos. Tal cual.
Esta debilidad la tuvo siempre mi papá conmigo. Ya podía desmantelar toda la casa para coger las sábanas para mi “desfile de moda”, ya podría organizar un parque de atracciones con todos los muebles y cobrar a mis hermanos por la entrada, o dejarme llevar por mi vena artística decorando las paredes con pinturas mural propias, o llenarme de espuma la cara para afeitarme como él,… hiciera lo que hiciera era más cómplice que juez.
Como mucho me daba una “garrapiñada” en el trasero que daba un escozor que no veas.
Durante los veranos en Salou, y siendo un auténtico piojo, me gustaba levantarme al alba y darme paseos por la playa y por la ciudad aún dormida. Me acercaba a mi papá todavía a eso de las cinco de la madrugada y le decía:
“papi, papi, vamos a dar un paseo” tras hacerse algo (no mucho, la verdad) de desear, se levantaba e imperterrito me cogía de la mano y nos dábamos los paseos más maravilloso del mundo. Era nuestro momento.
Recuerdo sus paseos lentos, continuos, rítmicos, por el pasillo. Podía pasarse horas. Sus manos en la espalda, la mayoría de las veces sosteniendo un rosario.
Recuerdo también como todas las noches, estando ya todos los niños acostados, venía a la habitación y a oscuras, con la luz del pasillo encendida abría la biblia para niños y leía algún pasaje. Despues rezábamos el Padre Nuestro rítmicamente por cada una de las intenciones que mi padre susurraba dulcemente en la penumbra. Por último la bendición y la señal de la cruz en la frente. “pApAAAAAAA LA bendiciOOOnnnnn!!!” gritaba cada uno desde su cuarto si un día se olvidaba. Yo siempre le correspondía, y mis deditos gordos formaban el signo de la cruz en su frente. “Hasta mañana si Dios..””Quieeeere” “a descan..””sar”.
Además se inventaba historias inverosímiles, acerca de nuestros antepasados, que luego resultaron ciertas, nos cantaba canciones, contaba cuentos que nos había escrito, como el de el arbolito japonés o la interminable canción de “ seee cayó por el barranco, seeeee cayó por el barrancooo, seeee cayó por el barrancooo tooooda vestida de blancoooo, fin de la primera parteee, finnn de la primera parteee, ahooooora viene la seguuunda, queeeees la más interesannnnteeeee....” y así hasta que le rogábamos desesperados que dejara de cantar la canción. Otro truco para volvernos locos era su famoso juego de palabras repitiendo la última parte de la última palabra de cada frase que uno decía. Por ejemplo, si uno decía:” Papi, ya vale” él contestaba: “ale, ale, tibiricont-ale para tont-ale bot-ale” “papi, para ya jooo””joo, joo, tibircont-joo, para cont-joo, bo-joo” “ahhhhh, me vuelvo locaaaaa!””oca, oca, tibiricont-oca, para cont-oca, bot-oca”
Era todo lo que el niño puede desear como padre: Un niño grande.
“Papí, ¡ponme el disco de Gaby, fofo, fofito y miliki!”
“sí mi reina”.
Mi canción preferida hablaba de un ratoncito que bailaba tango y rock-and roll (“Susanita tiene un ratón”).
Un día vino hasta mi cuarto y con aire grave me preguntó si me gustaría tener un ratoncito como el de la canción.
Aluciné cuando al día siguiente me regaló un pastillero en cuya tapa había dibujado un ratoncito entre la maleza.
De vez en cuando nos llevaba a su despacho y jugábamos al escondite entre las pilas de libros y los grandes rollos de papel que siempre había.
El único trauma infantil que tuve, por decir alguno, es que un año le pedí a los reyes una barbie tan chula como esas que tenían mis compis en el colegio. Llegó el día de Reyes por la mañana y muy decepcionada tuve que disimular mi estado de ánimo al comprobar que me habían dado el cambiazo: la Leslie en vez de la Barbie. Las chicas de mi generación sabemos que de más guay a menos estaban primero la Barbie, luego la Nancy, después la Leslie (esta la verdad no estaba muy cotizada) y por último, y sólo las pardillas, tenían las Barriguitas. Por supuesto yo sabía a que grupo pertenecía, al de la Leslie y las Barriguitas. Hoy por hoy no entrará en mi casa una Barbie ni que se la regalen a Carlota.
Gracias papi.
Cuando se acercaba la Semana Santa, papi nos hacía elegir un dibujo, nuestro dibujo preferido. Yo solía elegir a Bambi o a la Hello Kitti. Durante esas semanas previas, se inciaba el proceso de la creación de los huevos de pascua. Vaciar el contenido del huevo con una jeringa (media docena de huevos rotos hasta cogerle el tranquillo), aplicar la base de color, pintar, colorear, listo. Incluso nos creaba pequeños pedestales para poder colocar el huevito en la estantería de nuestra habitación.
Un día, ensimismada en el escaparate de una juguetería de lo mejor-mejor- que como esa no había- me cogí una rabieta porque ví la respuesta a una necesidad imperiosa: La casa-seta que mi colección de pitufos tanto necesitaba. Ultimo modelo, tejado desmontable, puerta y ventanas que se abrían y cerraban, “papi, como no puedes verlo? Como esta no hay otra!”
Al día siguiente, papi me llevo a comprar arcilla. “Es que esto es muy sucio, papi, nos van a regañar”. “Tu no te preocupes, Teresita, ya verás que casita le hacemos a tus pitufos”.
Debo de reconocer mi escepticismo ante esta nueva aventura. Otra vez papi y sus cosas. En fin, dejémosle, somos raritos y ya esta.
La seta de pitufos resultó ser maravillosa. No solo con su tejado rojo con grandes puntos blancos que se abría y dejaba ver el interior de la seta, sino con ventanas, puertas, muebles,... fardé un montón y hubieramos hecho negocio incluso con las niñas de mi clase si no llega a ser por mi afán de transladar las cosas de un lado para otro. La seta se rompió en mil pedazos que como siempre, papi pacientemente recompuso. Pero nada volvió a ser lo mismo y decidimos que lo de los pitufos ya era parte del pasado y que debíamos avanzar a niveles superiores: La Hello Kitti. Pero esa es otra historia.
A los diez años, me encantaba invitar a dormir a mi amiga Olaya. Un día descubrimos que el vecino tenía una caja preciosa en su baño, una caja-pantalón-vaquero. Pasamos todo el día haciendo guardia. La caja estaba en la repisa junto a la ventana y esta no siempre estaba abierta. En otras palabras, la caja se podía ver con claridad sólo cuando subidas en el retrete, nos asomábamos a la ventana de nuestro baño y el otro idem, estaba ocupado, es decir con luz, y con la ventana abierta. Entonces, muy silenciosas, observábamos ajenas a todo movimiento humano que tuviera lugar -como en trance- la famosa caja que nos parecía lo más de lo más. Esa tarde papi nos pilló, nos regaño mucho y nos llamó espías de la intimidad (yo creí entonces que ese era el nombre de la vecina). Le tratamos de explicar que no queríamos espiar a esa tal Intimidad, sino ver la caja pantalón vaquero, y que yo que sé, pero no resultó. A veces la verdad es más difícil de entender que la ficción. Veinte años después he caído en que la famosa caja-pantalón vaquero era un Wipp-Express (“lavado a mano o en lavadora”)...
En uno de nuestros paseos por Madrid, camino del Retiro o de algún Museo, siempre se paraba – y para- a hablar con mendigos, gitanos, taxistas, no importa. Siempre tenía –y tiene- tiempo para dar lismosna o intercambiar una sonrisa amable con los necesitados. Recuerdo su éxito entre las gitanas,-zalamero, zalamero! Le gritaba en una ocasión una gitanilla gordita.
Papi es y ha sido una constante en mi vida – en nuestras vidas-. Tras la pequeña y borrascosa adolescencia, le redescubrí gracias a su constante, persistente, silenciosa, paciente y amorosa presencia. Desde mis años en Madrid, en Roma, y ahora en Estados Unidos, su llamada casi diaria es un punto de referencia. Las conversaciones profundas y llenas de significado, han orientado mi vida. Su profunda espiritualildad, fortaleza y fé son inspiración en mi vida diaria. Sólo de pensar en mi papi, me conmuevo y me pongo a llorar. Su fragilidad aparente y su temperamento guerrero son cualidades con las que me identifico. Su amor por las artes, una pasión que cambió mi vida, su amor por la gente y su docilidad, una meta a la que aspirar.
Papi, no te lo vas a creer pero creo que cada día me parezco más a ti, y eso me gusta.
Papi, ha sido y es un honor tenerte como padre. Dios nos ha bendecido y nos debe de amar mucho para habernos elegido como tus hijos. Solo espero que por lo menos nos conceda una gracias más, que al menos vivas tantos años como los padres de la iglesia vivieron, por lo menos por lo menos cien años. Feliz Cumpleaños Papi, te quiero muchísimo.
Tu Muchachita Linda,
GUADALUPANA
Virgen morena, virgen humana,
Virgen, mi virgen guadalupana,
Ojos perdidos, ojos certeros
Ojos que miran sin tu quererlo
Ojo negritos, ojos de pueblo,
Ojos de tierra, sudor y aliento
Pelo indito,
Pelo moreno,
Pelo mexicano
Primero extremeño
Señora y madre,
Diosa y humana
Cristiana del mundo
Y del mundo, cristiana
Te adoro mi virgen, guadalupana
Virgen, mi virgen guadalupana,
Ojos perdidos, ojos certeros
Ojos que miran sin tu quererlo
Ojo negritos, ojos de pueblo,
Ojos de tierra, sudor y aliento
Pelo indito,
Pelo moreno,
Pelo mexicano
Primero extremeño
Señora y madre,
Diosa y humana
Cristiana del mundo
Y del mundo, cristiana
Te adoro mi virgen, guadalupana
UNION
| Como la noche al alba Como la marea al agua Y el rocío a la montaña, Así me uno a tí. Como la piel al cuerpo, Como el amor al alma, Y la música al recuerdo, Así me uno a tí. Como la rosa a la fragancia, Como el beso al sentimiento, Tal como yo te siento, Así me uno a tí. |
ESENCIA
Tiempo
Esencia
Permanencia
Ignorancia eterna
Búsqueda
Alma, pena
Consuelo que quema.
Tiempo
Espacio
Pasado o presente
Presente Futuro
Tiempo
Esencia
Tiempo...
Estelas.
LOS ARRECIFES DE LA LUNA
| Sobre arrecifes de clara luna, Bajo el fuego del ártico, Sobre el mar del silencio, arrastrándome me dirijo al fín. ¿Por qué he de llorar por tí? Oscuros ángeles me persiguen sobre un mar sin vida, montañas de interminables caídas, por el resto de mis días. A veces puedo ver tu cara. Las estrellas parecen perder el espacio. ¿Por qué he de pensar en tí? ¿Cual será la verdad? |
MI MAR PARTICULAR
| Un mar fluye dentro de tí, tus ojos son la brisa, tu sonrisa la sal, tu mirada las aguas cristalinas, que nunca se pueden turbar. Un mar fluye dentro de mí. Si tus manos las olas, mi cuerpo la arena, y tus caricias conchas, que se esparcen con mi marea, un mar fluye dentro de mí. Y cuando despierto al amanecer, e inspiro profundamente, huelo a sal y cuando despierto y no te veo, cierro los ojos y en mi interior te encuentro: Mi mar particular. |
WHERE ORION SMILES
| Rome was waking up. An insolent ray of sunlight tickled my left eye inviting me to stand up and enjoy my new life in the eternal city, but I was too tired after a week of travels. I felt the world could manage without me for one day. What if I just spent Saturday in bed? It took me twenty minutes to decide me to get up. After putting on my glasses and combing my hair with my fingers in a casual ponytail, I found myself preparing a cup of coffee in my loft’s eight square feet kitchen. One chocolate biscotto, a too hot Cappuccino between my hands and I addressed myself towards the patio for enjoying my breakfast with the view of Rome’s roofs. It was probably the tinniest, but most charming patio I have ever seen. Two French doors invited you from the kitchen to this ten by ten Italian terracotta tiled patio. One stoic table, two chairs with white and blue striped cushions, and a gorgeous background was more than enough furnishing. During winter nights I used to go out in the darkness with a glass of wine and stay for hours just observing the constellations. My Italian Ex-boyfriend had taught me (or at least he tried) the secrets that his father, an ex captain of the navy, knew about the stars. He used to guide my right index finger from one star to the other plotting the constellations shapes. Most of times, was very difficult for me to distinguish those unique forms in the middle of such a uniform mass, but the one I always was able of seeing without any help was the one which was exactly over my patio and used to keep me company many nights, Orion Constellation. The sun was almost burning my face and awoke me for the second time. The Cappuccino was still hot. Damn it! I will never learn the exact timing; one of these days my lips are going to fall off burned after my first breakfast Cappuccino’s sip. I couldn’t avoid smiling with the image of myself as a Mrs. Potato head without lips. My cell phone started ringing. After looking for it in several places, side table, couch, dining table, and finally in my purse, I answered and heard Paola’s voice from the other side of the line. “Buon giorno bella! Come va?” “Ciao Paola! very good thank you, I was having breakfast, I arrived yesterday night very late, sorry I couldn’t call you, but the plane was three hours late and by the time I arrived home probably you were leaving the party.” “Oh, It’s okay, don’t worry, it was more or less like always, same people, same food, same music. The only novelty was that you were not there and that Barbara has a new boyfriend.” “Com’on Paola, that is not a novelty at all, she changes boyfriend every week.” “Va bene. Listen, I am calling you from my Vespa and there is a police looking at me rare, I have to hang up, do you want to have a lunch together? I will pick you up at half past noon. Ciao tesoro!” The beep.beep.beep in the other side of the line let me know that she had just hang up the cell phone. The image of the hipper active Paola in the Vespa with her big silver color helmet running from one side of the town to the other, made me think about the cartoon “Atomic Ant”. I came back to the patio, the Capuccino was already drinkable, so I drunk it. What time was it? I tried to look for my watch over my side table, over my dining table, and finally I found it over the sink in the bathroom. “Oh my gosh! It is noon!” By the time Paola arrived I wasn’t ready so I made her come up. She arrived without breath. “Bella, you should move to an apartment with elevator or your poor friend Paola is going to suffer a heart attack one of these days!” “Vieni dentro Paola, come in and sit down. I need just ten more minutes. This morning I am too tired for doing anything in a hurry, do you know that my flight arrived at three pm to Rome-Fiumicino airport? I was so angry at Alitalia.” “So, how was your week-trip, did you have fun? Did you make lots of business?” My heart started to bit faster. There was something that I wanted to talk about the trip, something that I couldn’t take off of my mind since then, and that I was not sure how to interpretate. I sat down next to Paola combing slowly my still wet hair. It took me some seconds to put my thoughts in order. I wanted to make sure Paola would understand the dimension and the context of the story. Maybe the best way was just starting from the beginning. “Listen Paola, something very strange happened to me yesterday.” “What do you mean?” “I am telling you, something happened to me yesterday, but promise me that you are going to take it seriously.” “Ma certo! Of course, have I ever not taken you seriously? Com’on tell me everything.” “Okay. All this week I have been as you know traveling for business. Monday and Tuesday I was in Paris. Everything was pretty normal without counting a couple of incidents, a four hour flight delay in Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris and a guy that jumped over me literally when I was coming back to my hotel after dinner. Nobody helped me, can you believe it? People were so afraid of getting involved with a crazy guy that I had to stand up and pick up my purse by my self! Next day, Wednesday, I flew to Brussels where I sent all day and I slept in an inexpensive hotel because everything was full in town. The Price of Belgium’s wedding is next week, and the city is already celebrating. Thursday I had to go to Denmark…” “To Copenhagen?” “No, I had to visit a potential distributor in Billund, a very small village in the west of Denmark that has an airport only because Lego factory is there as well as Legoland. When I arrived to Billund airport, my luggage had not arrived. Perfect. And I was leaving the next day. The only possibility that my luggage arrived that day was the afternoon flight. They told me as well that my flight back for the next day had been canceled, so I had to book for the next one. I was going to arrive later that I expected to Rome. The potential distributor was waiting for me outside with a piece of paper in his hands with my name misspelled on it. He was a very big and strong man with an army-like hair cut, very blond, and blue eyes; The classic Viking. After shaking hands and introducing our selves, he guided me to his car. Our first stop was in Legoland. After a whole surrealistic morning of numbers and notes written over a horse in movement, in the middle of little Italy, inside a cup of tea turning around and over a Lego cocodrile, we went to have dinner with his family and other friends and colleages. When I arrived to my hotel bedroom It was so late, I was so tired, and my luggage was still missing. I went to bed with all my clothes on. Next day the front desk awoke me up. My luggage had arrived last night, but the delivery truck had already left the airport so it came in the first one that morning. It was very cold. I could barely see from my window the lake because of the flog. The previous night, at dinner, everybody was talking about the phantastic wheather they are having this year, usually in November there is snow everywhere. I looked in my luggage for something warm. The beginning of November in Rome is never that cold. Actually this year I haven’t had time of shopping winter clothing so when at last minute I had to organize my trip to Denmark, I just put in my luggage a long tight wool dark green skirt, a tight sweater of the same color, and then my summer beige shoes and purse.” “Aaaaaah!” “I know, I know Paola –emphasized to my guest- summer shoes with very winter clothing is the antithesis of good fashion, but I had nothing else, and besides, I was going to visit a potential distributor, not a client. However, I prepared myself and I left the room. The Viking was already waiting for me. Our first visit was his office. He introduced me to all the personnel that were working for him, we walked around the building and we left for our second visit, his main client, a big international fashion group named “SAND”. The owner received us. He was a very attractive man, dark hair, blue eyes, very smiling and very interested in the information I could bring him about the new trends in high packaging. Paola, I promised, he was every two minutes looking at my shoes, I was so embarrassed.” “Com’on maybe he just though it was so cool, you are charming bella, no one would every say you don’t know how to dress even if that pair of shoes in winter,…you overcame fashion limits.” “Okay, but let me finish. I had to take a flight that afternoon Billund-Brussels, and make a flight connection in Brussels to Rome. Yesterday was Friday as you know, so after saying goodbye to the Viking, and seeing him crossing the airport’s doors towards the parking, I felt my week end had started. I was going home after a week full of trips, negotiations, and not lot of sleep hours. I was thinking about the party we were going to have by Federica. Even with the change of flight I would be able of arriving at least to the last part of the party. I had one hour before the flight, so after check-in my luggage and crossing the security line I spent next minutes walking up and down from one corner of the airport to the other in a very monotone and rhythmic walk with my sight lost looking at everything and nothing at the same time. There was a kid playing around his sister. Many business men working with their portable computers, people making last minute shopping at the Lego shop, and suddenly my eyes stopped on one man. I could see only his back and a little of his profile face. He was wearing the classic Burberrys raincoat in beige color. He looked medium age and was analyzing, observing, reading, and studying a little Star Wars Lego box. I thought he was so cute this business man so interested in a Lego. But guess what happened one second later…” “Nooo, don’t tell me…” “Exactly, just in that moment, when I was looking at him with all these thoughts in my mind, He turned his head back and looked at me directly. It was like he had felt someone was observing him at his back and he wanted to know who was it. He put face of surprise and I was so embarrassed that I just took my cart and left in the opposite direction with face of: “So what, what are you looking at, idiot?” However, I continued walking around up to the time of my flight arrived. I waited some more minutes in my gate and I entered in the plane. The flight was packed, everybody was seated down already, but I was lucky enough of having the place next to me empty. Perfect. This way I could have more space for working during the flight. I was already opening my agenda for writing down some dates that the Viking said to me and that I didn’t want to forget when the captain started giving the welcome. Suddenly, I hear someone was arriving at last minute. I could observe from my position that a man was coming, stopped in front of my place and after leaving his had luggage in the top compartment, he was going to seat down next to me when our eyes crossed again.” “Ahhhhh, no, don’t tell me it was him!” “Yes, believe it or not, it was the guy of the airport.” “Aaaaand? Com’on continue!” “And nothing, when we recognized each other it was such an embarrassment that we wanted to disappear. We just said a very short “Hi!” and we didn’t talk to each other again. I tried to work and he started to read a book, but I couldn’t concentrate at all. The point is that when the hostess asked us what we wanted to drink, we both answered at the same time: “Diet Coke”. The flight attendant laughed, and we had to laugh as well, more embarrassed if possible. He started the conversation when dinner arriver. “Dankes are very nice people but food it is pretty bad, isn’t it?” I was thinking exactly the same, so I agreed with him. He introduced himself, his name was John Martin Fedorko, he is American, from Texas, but right now he is living in New York working for a big law firm. The reason of his trip to Denmark was an interview with a Danish company which produces wind turbines. He was intercoming for a position as President for United States, Canada and Central America subsidiary. He has always believed in changing the world and his dream is doing it working in the wind energy industry. The flight lasted only forty five minutes but it looked like at least two hours. I talked about my life in Rome, about how difficult was being a twenty-five years old female manager in Europe, about the many prejudices that still exist and how though could be things like having a dinner by your self in a restaurant without anyone to bother you. When we arrived to Brussels, he had to take a flight to New York and I had to take a flight to Rome, so we went together to look for our gate number in the screen. He was so surprised about me waiting for him to check his gate number that he said: “thank you very much, you are so kind!” When we were walking together through Brussels’ Airport he made a comment about my shoes, “Hey, those are summer shoes!” I wanted the earth to open under my feet in that moment. I just smiled and said “No, it is just very popular in Italy (NOT!)” The moment of saying good bye arrived and we had to go in opposite directions. After changing business cards, he said “Well, probably we will never see each other again, but it was really a pleasure to meet you” we shook our hands. For one moment, I desired him to kiss me, our flights to be canceled, or that something film-like happen, but nothing happened. He just crossed the gate door and left without looking back. I couldn’t move from that place for fifteen minutes. People were walking around me on a hurry but I was in a bubble. I couldn’t hear clearly anything. I felt since then, and still do today literally like when the Pink Panther gets full of air like a balloon and starts to fly and go up and up against gravity law. When my flight number was announced, I started to walk towards my gate like if I was on drugs. A human flow was coming on a rush in the opposite direction that I was going to and every single person looked at me like, “Is she okay? Is she drunk or something?” During my flight back, I couldn’t stop thinking about this guy, but you know what? I didn’t feel sad, I didn’t care if I would see him again or not, I just felt happy of knowing that someone like him could exist in this planet. This is the purest feeling I ever had about someone. You know Paola, I am not a “butterfly-person”, so it is amazing to me being like this just for talking with a guy for forty five minutes.” “What are you going to do? He lives in New York! What a pity, if he was from here you would have the chance of knowing him more.” “You know what Paola, I don’t care, I am just amazed of this feeling, I am flying, you can’t see it but I promise I don’t feel my feet over the floor.” “Okay Bella, your story is amazing, but we have to go now or Salvatore is going to close the kitchen.” We closed the door behind us and went down stairs as fast as we could. I still remember that November’s day. Paola and I crossing the city in her Vespa going to “Il Miraggio”, my favorite Trattoria, next to the Tevere River and close to Saint Peter’s Basilica. The noisy cars, the claxons and people talking to each other, the cold air against my face, the unique smell to pine that is always around the city, and the feeling that something great was coming into my life. Tonight is a very cold night. Winters in Texas are very sunny but quite cold for a Spanish woman who is used to Mediterranean climate. Next to me in my bed is the man I married 3 years ago. Yes, he is that American guy that I first saw in an airport and destiny wanted Him to be guy who was next to me in the plane. This is one of those nights that you just can’t sleep and all the memories come to your mind without leaving you one second. I stand up and go out to the master’s bedroom’s balcony. I can’t see the sky, too many trees. I go to the kitchen, I take a glass of cold milk and with it between my hands I walk around in the great room. I don’t know how, I find myself in the drive way and I loop up to the sty again. My heart starts beating strongly. There over my head, I see my Rome’s constellation and I feel once again my patio in Rome, the smell of the pines and the promenades in Paola’s Vespa. |
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