"Valor lingüístico" dijo Saussure

 Memory is a funny thing. And like with most fun activities, I don’t participate. I don’t have short-term memory, said a shrink once, and since life events aren’t studied, I forget everything. But that one book I read and really studied for that one exam in college in 2010 in a bar on the sea shore in Mar del Plata for days and days, I still remember. But do I remember conversations or feelings or events that happened with friends or family? Or stuff that I liked? And nevermind stuff the people around me liked. Forget it! No way. 

So what does happen is that I know as facts things that I know must have happened. Either as told by someone else, or because… you know, it must have happened, but I do not remember being there. It’s the ing that’s missing, you know? For example, I know I went on a trip when I finished primary school, there are pictures of us on a bus and in Cordoba. But I have no idea what happened there. And since I haven’t spoken to those people again, no one has told me what happened, so I don’t know. It happened, but I don’t know what happened. So, as far as I’m concerned, I never went on that trip. And so on, and so on. 

And like with most people in my life (except one person), I don’t remember the first time I saw her, or the first time we spoke, or how we got to know each other. Sure, we were schoolmates from the 4th year, up to our last (like 3 years), so we must have spoken at some point. Shared… I don't know, something: Homework? Tasks? Did we pair up in gym class? Were we ever together at gym class? Who knows; certainly not me. I don’t know if we ever met before 4th year, even though we went to the same school. Like I said, I just don’t remember. My memory is the worst. But, at the same time, she is the only thing I remember from those years. Well, her and him. Both of them. But this is not about him or about how fucked up I was during those years, and whether or not I was self inflicting conflict and pain in whatever way I could; this is about how I can’t remember how I met her. Because I feel like— or at least that’s how I remember it — I fell so hard for her. It’s not that big of a deal, I know, we were just teenagers. But people say, or novels do, or movies, or something, that the first love is the one you never forget — oh, I know, I read it in a Stephen King’s book, “Hearts in Atlantis” probably. Something along the lines of “the first love (or kiss) is the one all the others are compared to”— 

It’s just like suddenly there she is, in my memories, sweet and pretty and… gods, I loved her. Well, I loved what I saw, of course, which I’m sure it wasn’t really her. She probably would not recognize herself if she saw through my memories. I don’t even think we would get along now, or if I had been different back then. Maybe, if I'd been a little more present…— Regardless, what she is to me is just a sweet girl, who smiled at me, and she was so soft to me… And everything else was so harsh. 

But I do remember her smile, and her eyes looking at me. I remember them being tender. I like that memory. I wish I could draw it.

I also remember more clearly, one time when we met after everything had happened. It was at a friend’s birthday party. And it had been… maybe a year or two since the last time I saw them. And it was like a movie, or a silly little fanfic or something. She came into the room, and my breath stopped for a moment. She didn’t see me right away, and she went to greet everybody else, and I kept doing my thing, talking to whoever I was talking to, and pretended that everything was cool. I didn’t think we would talk or anything… I never was the person other people sought after, I was (and probably still am) easy to move on from. So I didn’t expect her to come to me, other than to say “hi, how are you”, and “bye bye”, you know, because it’s not like we ended things badly. I also didn’t expect her to stay as long as she did, she usually left parties early. But she stayed. And we drank together, and played games, and ate cake, and laughed. 

You know that moment in every party where it dies down a bit? The slow-dance part of a party, where everyone looks for couches to sit on, and talk quietly, and maybe drink a little water instead of tequila or wine or beer? I’ve always been a fan of that moment, and I like to sit down anywhere and look at people, listen to the music. That’s what I did, and she came to sit by my side. Everybody knew a bit— if not more— of what had happened, and I know they stared at us because she had a reputation. Well, we both had a reputation. I was fragile, and she was a very hot babe who’d gotten me into the mess in the first place (although, of course, no one spoke of what had happened at all, so it was all very much hush hush, looky looky). I remember she was quiet, and soft just like I remembered her (and how I will always remember her I think). But I can’t remember if she looked at me or not… I think she did… I definitely would like to think she did. I asked how she really was. She relaxed, and said she was better. I remember I looked at her for a while. The side of her face, her smooth skin, and red plump lips, her black hair in a ponytail (was it really a ponytail?). Her slow breathing. She was so not okay. I didn’t think she was better either. So I asked her about him, and she… Her face fell a bit. I think now… maybe it was guilt? Back then I thought she was trying to sound nonchalant. She said she hadn’t spoken to him in a while. And I said “good”, because he was toxic. He was not good. Regardless of whether or not she was feeling guilty. Regardless of why she was so sweet to me. Regardless… he was bad news. I didn’t have much hope, I knew they would meet again. Because, I don’t think I did before, but I did notice at that moment that she was just as fucked up as me, and it was all an exercise in self punishment. 

I remember, also, I wanted to hug her so bad. But I can’t remember if I did. I really want to say I did, because it's sweet, and it would make for a great last meeting. But I just don’t remember if I did. She did ask me about my girlfriend, and if she was ok, if we were ok. I said we were, that she was (and still is to this day) very sweet and strong and made me feel good about life, and I liked her very much. She nodded, “that’s nice” she said. I do think that’s when she looked at me and smiled. I think. I want to think so. I would absolutely love to remember. I don’t know if we talked about anything else. But we were sitting together there, quiet, and maybe the most relaxed we had ever been, for a long time. It’s a nice memory of her. I never heard from her again, nor have I looked her up again, and I never stopped thinking about her either. I really hope she’s happy. I wonder also if she ever thinks about me. I wonder if she cared about me, if I ever meant to her anything close to what she meant to me. I know not the same, of course not. I learned that quickly enough, but still… I would have liked to be her friend. I wasn’t friend material back then, but I cared about her… I did want to see her happy… 

But I can’t remember how I was to her. 

Was I nice? Was I boring? Was I mean? Was I helpful in any way? Did she enjoy spending time with me? 

I do not know. 

Μνάσεσθαί τινά φαμι καὶ ὔστερον ἀμμέων.

                          someone will remember us

                      I say

                   even in another time

-Sappho

¿?

¿Nunca te pasa que queres decir algo pero a medida que lo vas diciendo, no decís lo que querés decir? Y hablas, hacés oraciones y usas palabras que en conjunto, están diciendo algo. Pero no es lo que querías decir. Y de repente, tu discurso se transformó en algo totalmente ajeno a lo que sos y pensás. Y no decís lo que querés decir, pero lo que estás diciendo tiene sentido, así lo que seguís diciendo. 

it's the wind

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do” he says. Light is bright but limited by the fogged windows, so it is slightly dark. Silhouettes are softly seen, and I can see no eyes. As far as I am concerned, no one is looking at me. It’s cold, but it’s so quiet. “Only what makes you comfortable” I am comfortable. Dark always makes me feel comfortable. They moved softly. She was always so soft. Her voice, her skin, her perfume, her hair. Always so soft. She felt soft now too. I could see their dark figures moving around. I wish they wouldn’t. The car moved, like a boat almost. The light changed a little. But the windows remained fogged. Smoke would look very nice with this light, and the cold outside. The road and the light, the clear sky. I could see all the stars a bit further from the car, towards to where the lamppost light couldn’t reach. They don’t moan. They breathe faster. Which I like. Moaning would ruin the picture and corrupt the stillness. His hand grabs my neck. So sudden. He’s like that. His hands are big and… careless. Always just... there. I’m still not sure where he came from. But he doesn’t pull. It’s just there. Probably prompting me to do something. But it’s so quiet. So pretty. I remember the times I would hide behind the curtain in the living room. It felt like this. I was there, and I could hear the TV, my mother’s voice is the only one I remember for some reason, the arguments, the laughs, I could smell the coffee, the food. I could only see their shapes standing up, sitting down, hear the chairs scraping the floor. Like now. Although there is no curtain here. I’m right here, right now. They know I’m here. They probably want me to do something. I’m not hiding here. The dark doesn’t hide me. Their bodies are so very close to mine. Their heat. Their movements move me and the car. The stars are so far away. I know that’s her arm and her breasts because she is soft. I can smell his perfume. I really wish I had a cigarette right now. Maybe I could go outside and… No. It’s cold. And I’m here. For this. I came for this, I guess. The invited me along, and we drove all over here, so close to the river, which is very beautiful. But we’re here. I’m having sex with these people. With her softness and his suddenness. I don’t grab his hand, I help her to get on me so her legs are not pressed against the front seat. She kisses me. Grabs my hair and my neck. She moves his hand to my shoulder and he pulls me closer. I know his perfume by heart by now and I can feel his poorly shaved beard on my neck. I am now between them, my head near his neck and her body on me. I love her perfume. I can’t see outside the window anymore and that’s a shame. I would like to remember this sight for ever. It feels like a movie. One of those movies where life is still, waiting for the characters to do things but they never do. Out of choice, they’re so cool they can just see life pass them by and be chill about it. I love those movies because I would love to just see life pass me by and know exactly what’s happening. They show such an understanding of how life works, they can choose to be still, like the light and the wind and music. Just smoke, and wait. I’m always lost in the moment, I have absolutely no idea what’s happening. How I got here. What does this mean for me. Or even if it does mean something. I don’t think it does. But it’s so real. Her skin on my arm, my leg between her legs, his fingers on my underwear, his perfume, her hair, their lips. I wonder if I’ll be able to remember their lips separately or if they will always be a they for me. I wonder if I’ll care. I’m not sure I like kissing them. Or touching them. Or seeing them touch each other or me, for that matter. I’m not sure if I don’t like it or if it just bores me. Either way… I wish I were alone. Or just unnoticed. Just still. Perhaps they’ll remember me as still. I help him get the seat down backwards, and he sits there. She kisses me in the meantime, and gets her hands under my t-shirt. She sits on top of me. I help her get her shirt off. I think it’s cold and I don’t want to take mine off. I can feel him moving, his legs against mine are awkward and clumsy, the car’s not big enough for the three of us. I wonder how they know what to do… Have they agreed beforehand what we were going to do? Have they talked about this before coming here? Do they just know each other so well as to anticipate what the other one is doing? Am I so out of touch with reality I think everyone is plotting against (or without) me? I grab her waist so she doesn’t fall backwards while he grabs her face and kisses her. Am I paranoid? Do I want to fuck in this car? Does it fucking matter? I can’t just tell them “You know what, fuck this, I want to go home. Fuck you and everyone else” Mainly because I have no idea where we are. Nor do I have the slightest idea how I could possibly go back home. It feels there’s nothing here but us. She gets off me, and starts to kneel down in front of him. “Can you open the door?” she asks me. So I do. The one right next to her. I know why, but I don’t know why she insists on it if she always feels sick after it. And I know it’s weird, and very possibly fucked up. But so am I. My left shoulder still burns from the cuts in it, and I can’t help thinking that I should have put some napkins on it so to not get blood on my t-shirt. My mother didn’t say anything about them last time though, so she probably won’t say anything now. Maybe she just doesn’t realize. Even if she did… it’s better if she doesn’t ask. What would I say? Nothing, as usual. I haven’t said a single word now either. With these two I’m “fucking with” (yeah, right) I think the last thing I said was something like “That’s a nice song. What is it?” I don’t even know his full name. I was told yesterday she has a boyfriend who’s not him, and that her family is mormon. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t really care either. Her kisses are lovely. I wonder what my school mates think we do. They never ask. And they ask about my cuts. I wonder how truly fucked up this is. I can see the light from the lamppost again as I’m sitting again against the left back door, but now the light comes in through the open door and it just fucks up the whole thing. I would put the radio on, if only to hear some music, but I feel suddenly stuck to the spot. I feel like I can’t move. I don’t know if it’s shame, cold, awkwardness or just plain despair. But I can’t move. I want to leave, but I don’t want to move. I don’t want to move my eyes, I don’t want to move my hands or my legs or my head or my mouth. I feel the wind coming through the open door, their moans, the leather on my back and the door’s cold plastic on my left arm, not too far from my burning shoulder. I think it wouldn’t hurt to put some cold on the cuts, but I’m terrified to move. The other door closes and the car shakes. My muscles are tense and scared. As if I were to about to jump off a cliff. They drink something, I don’t want anything, because I don’t think I can open my mouth. She puts her shirt back on because it’s fucking cold. They laugh. I feel compressed and tired. He puts the radio on. She is singing. I can’t see the stars because he puts the seat back up. She kisses my neck and he grabs my hand. I smile, because I don’t want to be seen. I move a little to grab the bottle that’s on the door next to me. “Wanna go to a bar? It’s near and we can see the river” he says “Sure, yeah” she says

“Ok” I say.