It's probably difficult for a 3-year-old to understand divorce. To accept the reality: that Dad will not come back to live with Mom, ever, that he will have to see them always apart, that they don't love each other anymore, but, they still love him, of course. To live with the fear that one day, just like that, they could also stop loving him, they could move away, live with other people, have a completely separate live from him... so hard. Somebody that can overcome that terror, is a survivor.
We are all survivors. We carry our wounds, the scars of past disagreements, losses. We carry holes inside that can't be filled with anything, that with their insatiable hunger end with everything, even with ourselves. They end up devouring us.
But even with all this, we survive. He will grow up but his pain will stay there, always beating, always red hot, asking for more and more from him, until he can look at it straight to the face and feel compassion for himself, listen to his scared child's voice, and let go.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Diatriba del dolor
Debe ser difícil para un chico de tres años entender el divorcio. Aceptar la realidad: que papá no va a volver a vivir en la casa con mamá, nunca, que va a tener que verlos siempre por separado, que ya no se quieren, pero, claro, lo quieren a él. Vivir con el fantasma de que un día, así como así, ellos también pueden dejar de quererlo a él, pueden mudarse a otra casa, vivir con otra gente, tener otra vida separada de la de él... qué difícil. Alguien que pueda superar ese terror, es un sobreviviente.
Todos somos sobrevivientes. Cargamos con nosotros las heridas, las cicatrices de pasados desencuentros, pérdidas. Llevamos agujeros adentro que no se llenan con nada, que con su hambre insaciable terminan con todo, hasta con nosotros. Terminan devorándonos.
Pero así y todo, se sobrevive. Él crecerá pero su dolor seguirá ahí, siempre latiendo, siempre al rojo vivo, pidiendo más y más de él, hasta que él pueda mirarlo a la cara y sentir compasión de sí mismo, escuchar su voz de niño con miedo, y dejarse ir.
Todos somos sobrevivientes. Cargamos con nosotros las heridas, las cicatrices de pasados desencuentros, pérdidas. Llevamos agujeros adentro que no se llenan con nada, que con su hambre insaciable terminan con todo, hasta con nosotros. Terminan devorándonos.
Pero así y todo, se sobrevive. Él crecerá pero su dolor seguirá ahí, siempre latiendo, siempre al rojo vivo, pidiendo más y más de él, hasta que él pueda mirarlo a la cara y sentir compasión de sí mismo, escuchar su voz de niño con miedo, y dejarse ir.
Monday, May 24, 2010
On the Kindness of Strangers
This is the second time this happens to me. In a previous post,p from May 10th, titled: "Museum Piece: The First Cuca's Things," which it should be renamed, "Vous etes ravissante!" the best piropo I heard in my life, I already talked about this, superficially. About what I call the kindness of strangers.
In that post I told a similar story in which an act of kindness, of uninterested generosity from a total stranger, changed my face effectively and without need of drugs for the rest of the day. And now, after that it happened again, I discover a pattern and form a theory. It sounds very scientific, eh? Well, it's not. I realized that the two times in which this act of kindness has happened, in 1995 and now, I was having one of those days where my emotional state could be classified as vulnerable, or perhaps, low, basement level... or just plain shitty.
I am having stomach problems, and I don't sleep well. Last night it was awful. I didn't sleep much. I had to teach in the morning but I stayed in bed longer than usual because I wanted to win my tiredness off. At noon I didn't t go swimming, I was still feeling bad, weak, but I decided to go to Food 4 Less to buy some stuff I needed for my stomach pain. I was dressed in orange, with an orange blouse and orange matching sweater that my mother gave me years ago. I was cold, even though outside it was sunny. I arrive at F4L, park, and on my way to the shopping carts a man that passes by, a man on a yellow shirt, says, "You look very good on that orange." Thanks! I reply. The fact that, even with my gloom and bad mood and feeling like shit, this man tells me that I look good, it's something to celebrate and be thankful for!
I always said that I am a very sensitive person, like a sponge. I absorb everything that's floating around me, and I think, well, I guess there is other people like me, very sensitive, I wouldn't think I am the only one, right? And maybe when I am on one of those low mood days, navigating the dangerous waters of depression, I send screams of help! to the air, which is already overwhelmed with other pollutions as to also having tolerate my humors and mood states, and they catch on it. I think they are out there, these people, like the piropo guy in París, and this gentle observer in Pasadena, and... wait! There is another one: the cashier lady at F4L. This is the second time that this exact same thing happens with a cashier of F4L. I get to the cash register, I'm going to pay, and she says: You have very pretty eyes. Oh! Thanks! And then I think, maybe they notice that I am vulnerable, that I need a little push, a little encouragement, and there they come, to rescue me, without they even knowing.
Anyway, celebrating small, every-day happiness.
In that post I told a similar story in which an act of kindness, of uninterested generosity from a total stranger, changed my face effectively and without need of drugs for the rest of the day. And now, after that it happened again, I discover a pattern and form a theory. It sounds very scientific, eh? Well, it's not. I realized that the two times in which this act of kindness has happened, in 1995 and now, I was having one of those days where my emotional state could be classified as vulnerable, or perhaps, low, basement level... or just plain shitty.
I am having stomach problems, and I don't sleep well. Last night it was awful. I didn't sleep much. I had to teach in the morning but I stayed in bed longer than usual because I wanted to win my tiredness off. At noon I didn't t go swimming, I was still feeling bad, weak, but I decided to go to Food 4 Less to buy some stuff I needed for my stomach pain. I was dressed in orange, with an orange blouse and orange matching sweater that my mother gave me years ago. I was cold, even though outside it was sunny. I arrive at F4L, park, and on my way to the shopping carts a man that passes by, a man on a yellow shirt, says, "You look very good on that orange." Thanks! I reply. The fact that, even with my gloom and bad mood and feeling like shit, this man tells me that I look good, it's something to celebrate and be thankful for!
I always said that I am a very sensitive person, like a sponge. I absorb everything that's floating around me, and I think, well, I guess there is other people like me, very sensitive, I wouldn't think I am the only one, right? And maybe when I am on one of those low mood days, navigating the dangerous waters of depression, I send screams of help! to the air, which is already overwhelmed with other pollutions as to also having tolerate my humors and mood states, and they catch on it. I think they are out there, these people, like the piropo guy in París, and this gentle observer in Pasadena, and... wait! There is another one: the cashier lady at F4L. This is the second time that this exact same thing happens with a cashier of F4L. I get to the cash register, I'm going to pay, and she says: You have very pretty eyes. Oh! Thanks! And then I think, maybe they notice that I am vulnerable, that I need a little push, a little encouragement, and there they come, to rescue me, without they even knowing.
Anyway, celebrating small, every-day happiness.
Sobre la amabilidad de los extraños
Esta es la segunda vez que me pasa. En una entrada anterior, del 10 de mayo, llamada: "Pieza de Museo: El primer Cosas de la Cuca", que en realidad debería llamarse "Vous etes ravissante!", el mejor piropo que me han dicho en mi vida, ya hablé de este tema, superficialmente. De lo que yo llamo kindness of strangers, o la amabilidad de los desconocidos, por si hace falta traducción.
En esa entrada hablo de una situación semejante, de una situación en la que un acto de gentileza, un acto de generosidad sin búsqueda de recompensa por parte de un total desconocido, me cambió la cara efectivamente y sin la necesidad de estupefacientes por el resto del día. Y ahora, después de que volvió a suceder, descubro una conexión y formo una teoría. Suena muy científico, ¿eh? Bueno, no lo es. Simplemente me di cuenta de que las dos veces en que este acto de bondad se ha sucedido, en 1995 y ahora, yo estaba en unos de esos días en los que mi estado emocional podría clasificarse de vulnerable, o tal vez, bajo, por el piso... de mierda, ba.
Estoy con problemas en el estómago, como mencioné en la entrada anterior del monasterio, y no duermo bien. Anoche fue un horror. No dormí casi nada. Tuve que dar clases a la mañana pero me quedé en la cama más de lo acostumbrado porque quería ganarle al sueño. Al mediodía no fui a nadar, todavía me sentía mal, débil, pero decidí ir a Food For Less, un supermercado, a comprarme algunas cosas que necesitaba para los problemas del estómago. Estaba vestida de naranja, con un conjunto de remera de hilo y saquito que me regaló mi madre hace años. Porque además de sentirme mal, tenía frío, aunque afuera brillara un sol bárbaro. Llego al FFL, estaciono, y en mi camino hacia los changuitos un hombre que me cruza, un hombre con remera amarilla, me dice: "Se la ve muy bien con ese naranja." Thanks! Le respondo. Que a pesar de mi gloom y mal humor y de sentirme para el orto, este hombre me diga que me veo bien, ¡hay que celebrar y agradecer!
Yo siempre digo que soy sensible como una esponja, porque absorbo todo lo que hay en el aire alrededor mío, y pienso, bueno, tal vez hay otra gente como yo, muy sensible, y sí, probablemente, no te vas a pensar que sos la única, y tal vez cuando estoy en uno de esos humores bajos, navegando las aguas peligrosa de la depresión, mando señales de ¡socorro! hacia la atmósfera, ya bastante inundada de otras poluciones como para también tener que tolerar mis humores y estados de ánimo, y ellos las pescan. Yo creo que ellos están ahí afuera, y esta gente, como el piropero de París, y este cordial observador de Pasadena, y... ¡esperá! Hay otra: la cajera de FFL. Y esta es la segunda vez que me pasa con una cajera de FFL. Llego a la caja, voy a pagar, y me dice: tiene muy bonitos ojos. ¡Ah! ¡Gracias! Entonces, yo pienso, a lo mejor presienten que estoy vulnerable, que estoy necesitando un empujoncito, un poco de aliento, y ahí vienen a mi rescate, sin que se den cuenta.
En fin, celebrando las pequeñas felicidades de todos los días.
En esa entrada hablo de una situación semejante, de una situación en la que un acto de gentileza, un acto de generosidad sin búsqueda de recompensa por parte de un total desconocido, me cambió la cara efectivamente y sin la necesidad de estupefacientes por el resto del día. Y ahora, después de que volvió a suceder, descubro una conexión y formo una teoría. Suena muy científico, ¿eh? Bueno, no lo es. Simplemente me di cuenta de que las dos veces en que este acto de bondad se ha sucedido, en 1995 y ahora, yo estaba en unos de esos días en los que mi estado emocional podría clasificarse de vulnerable, o tal vez, bajo, por el piso... de mierda, ba.
Estoy con problemas en el estómago, como mencioné en la entrada anterior del monasterio, y no duermo bien. Anoche fue un horror. No dormí casi nada. Tuve que dar clases a la mañana pero me quedé en la cama más de lo acostumbrado porque quería ganarle al sueño. Al mediodía no fui a nadar, todavía me sentía mal, débil, pero decidí ir a Food For Less, un supermercado, a comprarme algunas cosas que necesitaba para los problemas del estómago. Estaba vestida de naranja, con un conjunto de remera de hilo y saquito que me regaló mi madre hace años. Porque además de sentirme mal, tenía frío, aunque afuera brillara un sol bárbaro. Llego al FFL, estaciono, y en mi camino hacia los changuitos un hombre que me cruza, un hombre con remera amarilla, me dice: "Se la ve muy bien con ese naranja." Thanks! Le respondo. Que a pesar de mi gloom y mal humor y de sentirme para el orto, este hombre me diga que me veo bien, ¡hay que celebrar y agradecer!
Yo siempre digo que soy sensible como una esponja, porque absorbo todo lo que hay en el aire alrededor mío, y pienso, bueno, tal vez hay otra gente como yo, muy sensible, y sí, probablemente, no te vas a pensar que sos la única, y tal vez cuando estoy en uno de esos humores bajos, navegando las aguas peligrosa de la depresión, mando señales de ¡socorro! hacia la atmósfera, ya bastante inundada de otras poluciones como para también tener que tolerar mis humores y estados de ánimo, y ellos las pescan. Yo creo que ellos están ahí afuera, y esta gente, como el piropero de París, y este cordial observador de Pasadena, y... ¡esperá! Hay otra: la cajera de FFL. Y esta es la segunda vez que me pasa con una cajera de FFL. Llego a la caja, voy a pagar, y me dice: tiene muy bonitos ojos. ¡Ah! ¡Gracias! Entonces, yo pienso, a lo mejor presienten que estoy vulnerable, que estoy necesitando un empujoncito, un poco de aliento, y ahí vienen a mi rescate, sin que se den cuenta.
En fin, celebrando las pequeñas felicidades de todos los días.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
RE: My visit to the Monastery
Hola Ro,
Don't worry about yesterday. There will be other readings. It's not important.
The monastery was good, it relaxed me, although, I didn't sleep well, so I was tired. I am having some stomach problems. It hurts, and I can't sleep.
I think it's worth the trip, but I don't think I could do it too often, not alone. It's a long drive, especially when you are falling sleep. It is in Escondido, kind of hidden in the mountains. I loved the frugality of it all, the simplicity and wilderness and lack of artificiality. No hyper-watered plump lawns. No fancy flowers in fancy pots. No. Just nature, dry grass, and whatever grows in an empty hill.
They are part of a Vietnamese order, the one you told me about. But the monks and nuns are not all Vietnamese. The one that gave us a talk was a white boy from Australia. There were a lot people, many of them Vietnamese, but not all, also families with kids. They even fed us, for free! Or a donation... Good vegetarian food. The funniest thing for me was the bells. Every so often, a bell will sound, coming from one of the gazebos spread like bell towers around the main hall, the meditation hall. They have a cowbell kind of sound, but bigger, deeper. I sat next to one of them, in one of the gazebos, and they are huge, decorated with images of dragons and Chinese letters. At the bottom, engraved in the metal, I saw a lion next to a swastika symbol, and then I remembered what I read once about it: the swastika, which is a word that comes from Sanskrit, was used by Hindus and Buddhist, well before the Nazis, as a mark of good luck.
Anyway, when the bell chimes, everybody, no matter where they are or what they are doing, stops and freezes in action, holding their attention towards the sound. They pause in an attentive way, like in meditation. When the sound fades, things go back to normal. I imagine someone from out of space arriving exactly at that moment when everybody freezes, when everything falls silent, except for the bell; I imagine that it might look weird seen from the outside: a bunch of people, some of them wearing brown robes, standing randomly spread across the campus, inside the buildings, just frozen on that attitude of quiet concentration. Nice photo.
Then, from there to read. It was a rich, full day. It helped me to see that we are not all the same, that I am good at things that others aren't, and vice versa, and that I don't have to be perfect at everything, I don't have to be a saint. Anyway, yes, more music and writing.
Are you anxious, are you ok? How do you hold on there? I would feel crazy if I was in your shoes. I get so anxious and stressed out for nothing! That's why the stomach pain, I think. Anyway, take care of yourself, breathe, as the monks say. On my way there I got lost. The directions where wrong, so I asked two people I saw on the way for directions, a Sunday at 9am not that many out there, but their directions got me nowhere. The first one because he didn't speak English, and the second one, because he didn't really know how to get there, until finally I thought, 'oh! I should call the Monastery!' So I called 411 and they connected me to the answering machine with a message with directions. At the end of the message they said: "If you get lost, don't panic. Just breathe... and smile."
Besos
cuca
Don't worry about yesterday. There will be other readings. It's not important.
The monastery was good, it relaxed me, although, I didn't sleep well, so I was tired. I am having some stomach problems. It hurts, and I can't sleep.
I think it's worth the trip, but I don't think I could do it too often, not alone. It's a long drive, especially when you are falling sleep. It is in Escondido, kind of hidden in the mountains. I loved the frugality of it all, the simplicity and wilderness and lack of artificiality. No hyper-watered plump lawns. No fancy flowers in fancy pots. No. Just nature, dry grass, and whatever grows in an empty hill.
They are part of a Vietnamese order, the one you told me about. But the monks and nuns are not all Vietnamese. The one that gave us a talk was a white boy from Australia. There were a lot people, many of them Vietnamese, but not all, also families with kids. They even fed us, for free! Or a donation... Good vegetarian food. The funniest thing for me was the bells. Every so often, a bell will sound, coming from one of the gazebos spread like bell towers around the main hall, the meditation hall. They have a cowbell kind of sound, but bigger, deeper. I sat next to one of them, in one of the gazebos, and they are huge, decorated with images of dragons and Chinese letters. At the bottom, engraved in the metal, I saw a lion next to a swastika symbol, and then I remembered what I read once about it: the swastika, which is a word that comes from Sanskrit, was used by Hindus and Buddhist, well before the Nazis, as a mark of good luck.
Anyway, when the bell chimes, everybody, no matter where they are or what they are doing, stops and freezes in action, holding their attention towards the sound. They pause in an attentive way, like in meditation. When the sound fades, things go back to normal. I imagine someone from out of space arriving exactly at that moment when everybody freezes, when everything falls silent, except for the bell; I imagine that it might look weird seen from the outside: a bunch of people, some of them wearing brown robes, standing randomly spread across the campus, inside the buildings, just frozen on that attitude of quiet concentration. Nice photo.
Then, from there to read. It was a rich, full day. It helped me to see that we are not all the same, that I am good at things that others aren't, and vice versa, and that I don't have to be perfect at everything, I don't have to be a saint. Anyway, yes, more music and writing.
Are you anxious, are you ok? How do you hold on there? I would feel crazy if I was in your shoes. I get so anxious and stressed out for nothing! That's why the stomach pain, I think. Anyway, take care of yourself, breathe, as the monks say. On my way there I got lost. The directions where wrong, so I asked two people I saw on the way for directions, a Sunday at 9am not that many out there, but their directions got me nowhere. The first one because he didn't speak English, and the second one, because he didn't really know how to get there, until finally I thought, 'oh! I should call the Monastery!' So I called 411 and they connected me to the answering machine with a message with directions. At the end of the message they said: "If you get lost, don't panic. Just breathe... and smile."
Besos
cuca
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
La Multitud Encerrada en una botella/ The crowd trapped into a bottle, self-portrait
The crowd trapped into a bottle, self-portrait, 1987/1997
Monday, May 10, 2010
Diatriba del Ocio
Es necesario observar. Ponerse en el asiento de atrás de vez en cuando. No estar a la delantera siempre, construyendo caminos, dictando. Dejarse llevar por las cosas sin ponerles resistencia. Fluir, relajarse, entregarse a la corriente y navegar hacia lo desconocido.
Hace tiempo hace falta un tiempo como ahora, de silencio. Tom está trabajando con las manos, modelando, como con arcilla. Y Soretito el gato se enreda por mis patas y las patas de la silla. Piernas, digo. Es terapéutico.
Tendría que estar incluido en el precio: tiempo para las plantas. Es parte del precio de la clase.
La vida tiene que pagar con estos momentos comunes, cotidianos, caricaturas de la historia: los veo así, sentaditos con los pies cruzados, con sus medias rayadas, tímidos, esperando su turno. Modositos. Las caricaturas de nosotros.
Y él sigue con sus plantas, y yo observando.
Las riega con un fertilizante en el agua. Osmocote en el jazmín. Mezcla todo en Homer's all-purpose bucket, 5 gallons, el balde.
Soretito cruza el patio. Se detiene a oler a Homer's. No le interesa. Sigue su camino hasta la mesa de trabajo y se acuesta en su sombra. Soretito, ahora, observa. Estar en esa realidad lo tranquiliza. Los sonidos que escucha son reconocibles. Ordinarios:
Los coches que pasan. Los pocos pájaros. Las cotorras a lo lejos.
Tom's water games, el agua que chorrea de las macetas de los estantes altos, haciendo cascada hacia las plantas de abajo. Está regando. Habla.
"Is there a reason for this guy being here?"
"No."
Una sécula del desierto bajo la sombra del gazebo. Incomprensible! Afuera! Al sol! Las otras plantas se quedaron. Tienen prioridad.
Las pequeñas felicidades de todos los días. Los pequeños momentos de felicidad.
Sueño al sol bajo la sombra del gazebo:
The fart show, the fart man.
It's been done. Old story.
Really?
A little Chinese man yelling things at the screen?
Yes.
(El show del pedo, el hombre pedo.
Ya se ha hecho. Historia vieja.
En serio?
Un hombrecito chino gritando cosas a la pantalla?
Si.)
Hace tiempo hace falta un tiempo como ahora, de silencio. Tom está trabajando con las manos, modelando, como con arcilla. Y Soretito el gato se enreda por mis patas y las patas de la silla. Piernas, digo. Es terapéutico.
Tendría que estar incluido en el precio: tiempo para las plantas. Es parte del precio de la clase.
La vida tiene que pagar con estos momentos comunes, cotidianos, caricaturas de la historia: los veo así, sentaditos con los pies cruzados, con sus medias rayadas, tímidos, esperando su turno. Modositos. Las caricaturas de nosotros.
Y él sigue con sus plantas, y yo observando.
Las riega con un fertilizante en el agua. Osmocote en el jazmín. Mezcla todo en Homer's all-purpose bucket, 5 gallons, el balde.
Soretito cruza el patio. Se detiene a oler a Homer's. No le interesa. Sigue su camino hasta la mesa de trabajo y se acuesta en su sombra. Soretito, ahora, observa. Estar en esa realidad lo tranquiliza. Los sonidos que escucha son reconocibles. Ordinarios:
Los coches que pasan. Los pocos pájaros. Las cotorras a lo lejos.
Tom's water games, el agua que chorrea de las macetas de los estantes altos, haciendo cascada hacia las plantas de abajo. Está regando. Habla.
"Is there a reason for this guy being here?"
"No."
Una sécula del desierto bajo la sombra del gazebo. Incomprensible! Afuera! Al sol! Las otras plantas se quedaron. Tienen prioridad.
Las pequeñas felicidades de todos los días. Los pequeños momentos de felicidad.
Sueño al sol bajo la sombra del gazebo:
The fart show, the fart man.
It's been done. Old story.
Really?
A little Chinese man yelling things at the screen?
Yes.
(El show del pedo, el hombre pedo.
Ya se ha hecho. Historia vieja.
En serio?
Un hombrecito chino gritando cosas a la pantalla?
Si.)
Diatribe on Leisure
It is necessary to observe, to sit in the back seat once in a while. To let go of the need to be always ahead, building roads, dictating. Let things carry you, don't resist them. It's necessary to flow, to relax, to give yourself to the current and sail off into the unknown.
There has been for a while, this need for time, a time of silence. Tom is working with his hands, modeling, as if with clay. And Little Fart, the cat, tangles himself between my legs and the chair's legs. It's therapeutic.
It should be included in the fee: time for the plants.
Life has to pay with these common, everyday moments, these caricatures of history: I see them there, sitting with their legs crossed, wearing their striped socks, shy, waiting their turn, like well-behaved caricatures of ourselves.
And he keeps going with his plants, and I keep watching.
He waters them with a fertilizer in the water: Osmocote in the jasmine. He mixes everything inside of Homer's All Purpose Bucket, 5 gallons.
Little Fart crosses the patio. He stops to smell Homer. He is not interested. He continues his way to the worktable and lies down on its shade. Little Fart, now, watches too. This setting calms him. The sounds he hears are familiar, everyday sounds: the cars going by, the few birds, parrots in the distance.
Tom's water games: water flooding down from the pots of the high shelves, like a cascade, to the plants of the lower shelves. He speaks.
"Is there a reason for this guy being here?"
"No."
A desert succulent under the shade of the gazebo. Incompressible! Out! To the sun! The other plants have priority, they can stay.
The small, everyday happiness. These little moments of joy.
A dream under the shade of the gazebo:
The fart show, the fart man.
It's been done. Old story.
Really?
A little Chinese man yelling things at the screen?
Yes.
There has been for a while, this need for time, a time of silence. Tom is working with his hands, modeling, as if with clay. And Little Fart, the cat, tangles himself between my legs and the chair's legs. It's therapeutic.
It should be included in the fee: time for the plants.
Life has to pay with these common, everyday moments, these caricatures of history: I see them there, sitting with their legs crossed, wearing their striped socks, shy, waiting their turn, like well-behaved caricatures of ourselves.
And he keeps going with his plants, and I keep watching.
He waters them with a fertilizer in the water: Osmocote in the jasmine. He mixes everything inside of Homer's All Purpose Bucket, 5 gallons.
Little Fart crosses the patio. He stops to smell Homer. He is not interested. He continues his way to the worktable and lies down on its shade. Little Fart, now, watches too. This setting calms him. The sounds he hears are familiar, everyday sounds: the cars going by, the few birds, parrots in the distance.
Tom's water games: water flooding down from the pots of the high shelves, like a cascade, to the plants of the lower shelves. He speaks.
"Is there a reason for this guy being here?"
"No."
A desert succulent under the shade of the gazebo. Incompressible! Out! To the sun! The other plants have priority, they can stay.
The small, everyday happiness. These little moments of joy.
A dream under the shade of the gazebo:
The fart show, the fart man.
It's been done. Old story.
Really?
A little Chinese man yelling things at the screen?
Yes.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Museum Piece: The First Cuca's Things (Paris, October '95)
Let's see what la Cuca has to say
On Monday, I was walking in a bad mood because its been months that I've been trying to loose these extra kilos that weight on me so much, I was walking, I said, on the sunny streets at noon on my way to the electroacustic music class, when I saw coming towards me on the same sidewalk a very well dressed, bearded black man. Of course, it's not polite to look into people's eyes, but he was looking and when he passed next to me I heard the inevitable flattery. I saw it coming. Something like "I would like to suck..." (untranslatable mumble or indecipherable or unrepeatable words here...) But no. What I heard left me bewildered and happy: "Vous etes ravissante" (You are lovely). Great, man! Never before I heard such a good compliment. Used to hear the aberrations that porteños* say, not all of them, but most, this one hypnotized me because of its grace. "Vous etes ravissante." Ah! It sounds like the words of a prince.
And I continued my way with a smile on my lips.
* People from Buenos Aires
On Monday, I was walking in a bad mood because its been months that I've been trying to loose these extra kilos that weight on me so much, I was walking, I said, on the sunny streets at noon on my way to the electroacustic music class, when I saw coming towards me on the same sidewalk a very well dressed, bearded black man. Of course, it's not polite to look into people's eyes, but he was looking and when he passed next to me I heard the inevitable flattery. I saw it coming. Something like "I would like to suck..." (untranslatable mumble or indecipherable or unrepeatable words here...) But no. What I heard left me bewildered and happy: "Vous etes ravissante" (You are lovely). Great, man! Never before I heard such a good compliment. Used to hear the aberrations that porteños* say, not all of them, but most, this one hypnotized me because of its grace. "Vous etes ravissante." Ah! It sounds like the words of a prince.
And I continued my way with a smile on my lips.
* People from Buenos Aires
Pieza de Museo: el primer Cosas de la Cuca
A ver que cuenta la cuca (Paris, 1995)
El lunes iba por la calle caminando medio malhumorada porque hace meses que no puedo bajar estos kilos que tanto me apesadumbran, iba caminando, decía, por la calle soleada al mediodía hacia mi clase de música electroacústica cuando veo venir en dirección contraria pero de la misma vereda, a un hombre negro bien vestido y barbudo. Por supuesto, no hay que mirar a los ojos, pero Èl miraba y cuando paso al lado mío escuché el infaltable piropo. Yo ya me lo veía venir. Algo como "me gustaría chup....." (murmullos intraducibles o palabras irrepetibles o indescifrables...) Pero no. Lo que escuché me dejó perpleja y feliz. "Vous etes ravissante" (Usted se ve encantadora). Qué grande negro! Nunca en mi vida me habían dicho un piropo así. Acostumbrada a oír las aberraciones de los piropistas porteños (no todos, pero en general...) éste me dejó hipnotizada por su elegancia. "Vous ÈtÈs ravissante". Ah! Suena a palabras de príncipe.
Y seguí mi camino, con una sonrisita en los labios.
* En caso de que haya alguno que piense que uso esta palabra ofensivamente, va la aclaración: En Argentina usamos "negro" diariamente, para bien o para mal. Depende cómo se use, no se considera una ofensa. A mi papá lo llaman Negro cariñosamente.
El lunes iba por la calle caminando medio malhumorada porque hace meses que no puedo bajar estos kilos que tanto me apesadumbran, iba caminando, decía, por la calle soleada al mediodía hacia mi clase de música electroacústica cuando veo venir en dirección contraria pero de la misma vereda, a un hombre negro bien vestido y barbudo. Por supuesto, no hay que mirar a los ojos, pero Èl miraba y cuando paso al lado mío escuché el infaltable piropo. Yo ya me lo veía venir. Algo como "me gustaría chup....." (murmullos intraducibles o palabras irrepetibles o indescifrables...) Pero no. Lo que escuché me dejó perpleja y feliz. "Vous etes ravissante" (Usted se ve encantadora). Qué grande negro! Nunca en mi vida me habían dicho un piropo así. Acostumbrada a oír las aberraciones de los piropistas porteños (no todos, pero en general...) éste me dejó hipnotizada por su elegancia. "Vous ÈtÈs ravissante". Ah! Suena a palabras de príncipe.
Y seguí mi camino, con una sonrisita en los labios.
* En caso de que haya alguno que piense que uso esta palabra ofensivamente, va la aclaración: En Argentina usamos "negro" diariamente, para bien o para mal. Depende cómo se use, no se considera una ofensa. A mi papá lo llaman Negro cariñosamente.
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