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.

19.45

Se levantó a la misma hora de siempre. La alarma sonó igual que siempre. Se lavó el cuerpo de la transpiración nocturna, se lavó los dientes y se peino mientras se miraba al espejo. Mientras se vestía, despacio tras cuidadosa selección de su ropa interior, su marido le beso el cuello y los hombros. Hizo el mismo desayuno de siempre. Despertó a la misma hora de siempre a su hijo de 5 años y a su marido de 45 años. Los miró mientras terminaban su desayuno. Revisó la mochila de su hijo, se aseguró de que tenga la ropa bien puesta. Salieron los tres. Ella y el hijo se subieron al auto y saludaron al marido. Él se tomaba el colectivo. Su trabajo era en una oficina del centro, como tantas otras, y hace meses ya había decidido dejarles el auto a ellos porque él se estresaba mucho en el centro con el tráfico. Ella, en cambio, iba para el otro lado a un jardín muy lindo y elitista. Religioso y muy caro. Ella frenó en un puesto de flores grande a comprar un ramo de las más imponentes orquídeas que había visto. Las puso en el asiento del co-piloto. Su hijo le robó una flor, porque le pareció muy lindo el color y el aroma. Pensó en dárselo a su señorita cuando llegara al jardín. Su señorita era buena. En cuanto saludó a la madre y le soltó la mano, fue corriendo hacia la señorita con la flor en alto. La madre se iba tras una última mirada al pelo de la señorita de su hijo enredado por el viento. Ya estaba en el auto. Paseó con el auto hasta un lago que había en la ciudad. Decían que por lo menos 2 adolescentes cada año se ahogaban ahí. Por prepotentes. “Causa de muerte: prepotentes” Ella, siendo médica forense, se rió. Volvió a subirse al auto, compró la comida para la noche: pollo y papas. Sacó la receta de su carpeta y la dejó en la mesa. Miró el reloj de la cocina, colgado arriba de la puerta. Observó pasar 30 segundos. A su abuela le gustaba escuchar el reloj, se acordó. Se cambió la camisa que tenía puesta por un vestido floreado más suelto y se quitó el corpiño apretado. Odiaba usar corpiño. Se soltó el pelo castaño claro y volvió al auto. Acercó el ramo de orquídeas a su nariz y recordó el campo de su infancia. Recordó a su padre trabajando en la granja y a su madre ordenando los floreros con orquídeas en la casa con las manos llenas de tierra, y un canasto de mimbre en la mesa con vegetales del huerto. Recordaba con cariño los tomates, tan redondos y rojos. Se le hizo agua la boca y se lamió los labios. Pensó que había olvidado comprar tomates. Arrancó el auto y volvió hasta el lago. Puso el auto en punto muerto, sacó las llaves, salió del auto con el ramo de flores y le puso la alarma al auto. Se acercó hasta un puente que habían hecho recientemente y se paró en medio. Miró sus flores, y decidió sacarles el envoltorio de plástico. Siempre son más lindas sueltas, pensó. Dejó el envoltorio tirado en el piso del puente. Escuchó brevemente a su hijo reprochando ese descuido, citando a su señorita que dice que es importante cuidar del ambiente. Pensó aún más brevemente si su hijo le perdonaría ese descuido. Volvió a acercarse a las flores, oliendo su casa, el campo de sus padres, su perro, sus tomates. Cerró los ojos y se tiró del puente al centro del lago. Se tiró de espaldas y el aire rápidamente la envolvió y acarició su cuerpo. Ella soltó las flores mientras caía pensando que eran todavía demasiado bellas, y que se verían muy lindas flotando en el agua con la luz que daba justo ahora creando un brillo tan delicado. Las flores flotaron en el agua, mecidas por las olas delicadas y tan suaves que luego, los transeúntes tendrían problemas para creer que una mujer se había tirado al agua ahí. 

Of monsters and misplaced parts.

maybe someday someone can make sense of this. maybe, one day, someone does find all these... pieces, lying all around, and maybe they understand something. Maybe they understand that I AM sad. I am sad. I am depressed. And that there is nothing that I can actually do about it, that there's nothing anyone can do about it. And why should it be bad? wrong? why should I not cut myself? What is so, truly, wrong with being broken? With not being happy, and satisfied, and eager? Why is it wrong?! Would I choose to be happy if I could? I honestly don't think I would, because I just don't care enough for it to make the change. I don't want my sadness to go away. It's not turmoil anymore. It's just silence. It's quiet. I don't want to be happy, for I don't think I've earned it. I have done nothing with myself. I wish for nothing. I have no passion. What would I do with happiness? I wouldn't know what to do with it. It is hitting me straight in the face. I have a wonderful person in my life, she loves me and cares for me, she knows I'm broken and, although she doesn't understand it, she doesn't really believe in it, she is still here. She still wants me to be with her. Yes, she hates my depression, but she yells at me, she wants to get me out of the darkness, and I think that's really sweet and nice of her. Dedicated. And brave. I could kill myself. I could. When I'm really low all I do is think about the reasons why I'm not supposed to kill myself. You know, the usual: my poor parents, my sweet girlfriend, my cat, it's selfish. That's what everyone says. Those are the reasons I can't let go of this... this "life". But then they do wonder why I'm so eagerless to do things. "How can you not want to study? Or work? You have to do something. It's not normal"

I know.

I am finally realizing that this will never really go away. I haven't really thought about it before, but I am now in this point in life where your visions of your future self start including living settlements and money incomes, whereas before it was just you learning something new or going to know this or that place or drawing or just school. And I noticed, I'm the depressed one. I'm either gonna get pills, or kill myself. At some point. I mean, c'mon, how much longer can I respect that "my poor parents, my sweet girlfriend, my cat, it's selfish" mantra? Everyone knows repeating a word for too long makes you forget its meaning. But you know... I realized... it hit me when I decided I do not want to give birth because I don't want to spread this depression gene. I don't. I actually believe I could be a great mother, but it SCARES me to give birth to someone and give them my sadness. That is NOT fair. My pain is my pain only. No one  should ever suffer from it. It is only mine, my fault only, it is embarrassing and it is forbidden, it is private and it is R E A L. And it hurts. It burns and aches slowly, and I can smell it coming, creeping. I can hear its low and slowly increasing screech. I can feel the pieces of my self-mirrors that it shatters, slowly, from the bottom to the upper surface. And if I am lucky, I can let it break through me. I can let it be its full potential. And break me. Tore me down. Because I learnt it is always better to let it get away with it. Hiding it, fighting it, only shatters more pieces inside and they hurt and cut over and over and over and over until I am nothing but cuts and pure uncomfortable, seething and screeching pain. And I could get away with that before, but now? Now I think  that when that bomb goes off, it would, quite literally, kill me. I would die. I would do whatever I could to die. I would kill myself to stop hurting. There would be no coming back from that bomb. So, really the healthiest thing I can do is let it hurt slowly but surely until it goes away.

It is real. It is real. The pain is real. I am not overreacting. It is real. It is real. It is real. It is real. It is real. It's heavy and it's a disgusting melted-oil-like heavy. It is hot, but paralyzing. It is exasperating. It is a monster. If you look at it, it is scary. If you look at it, thou. Everything can be ignored. And then it's just quiet. You can hear and feel scratches, but it is quiet. Quiet like when there is a huge hunter nearby and all the little animals run away for their lives kind of quiet. Or like when you're in your room with your windows closed and you can hear the storm outside like it's far away, and it can't touch you. But if you don't look at it you don't think about how REALLY deadly it is. You can think it is far away. It WILL go away. It is not forever. You think. And you hear your small broken pieces falling to the void. But it is not forever. This feeling. It is just something from the outside that got you down. You'll get up again. The monster will leave. You scream to yourself over the feeling of your broken pieces falling to the dark void. You know they are not coming back. You know it. And in a moment of exhaustion you'll admit it. You'll open your eyes and you'll know those pieces will  be never going back to where they belong. You don't even remember if they even got a place where they belonged, maybe you just put them in the wrong place before and--

Oh... Who cares anymore?

---------------------------------------------

Inglés otra vez. Parezco incapaz de encontrar las palabras para decirme en castellano. Sólo escribir esta oración me suena falsa. Tal vez, pueda escribir mi doctorado sobre las razones por la que me encuentro imposibilitada en hablar en mi lengua materna. Y citar a Derrida hasta el cansancio.
Ay, qué intelectual, Victoria. Deberías dar tus finales.

" “Soy monolingüe.” Mi monolingüismo mora en mí y lo llamo mi morada; lo siento como tal, permanezco en él y lo habito. Me habita. El monolingüismo en el que respiro, incluso, es para mí el elemento. No un elemento natural, no la transparencia del éter, sino un medio absoluto. Insuperable, indiscutible: no puedo recusarlo más que al atestiguar su omnipresencia en mí. Me habrá precedido desde siempre. Soy yo. Ese monolingüismo, para mí, soy yo. Eso no quiere decir, sobre todo no quiere decir -no vayas a creerlo-, que soy una figura alegórica de este animal o esta verdad, el monolingüismo. Pero fuera de él yo no sería yo mismo. Me constituye, me dicta hasta la ipsidad de todo, me prescribe, también, una soledad monacal, como si estuviera comprometido por unos votos anteriores incluso a que aprendiese a hablar. Ese solipsismo inagotable soy yo antes que yo. Permanentemente."

Ahora bien, nunca esta lengua, la única que estoy condenado así a hablar, en tanto me sea posible hablar, en la vida, en la muerte, esta única lengua, ves, nunca será la mía. Nunca lo fue, en verdad.

[...]

(...)Lo que digo, el que digo, ese yo [je] del que hablo, en una palabra, es alguien -según me acuerdo, poco más o menos- a quien le fue interdicto el acceso a toda lengua no francesa de Argelia (árabe dialectal o literario, berebere, etcétera). Pero ese mismo yo [je] es además alguien a quien también le fue interdicto el acceso al francés. De otra manera, aparentemente indirecta y perversa. De otra manera, es cierto, pero igualmente interdicto. Mediante una interdicción que, por eso mismo, prohibía el acceso a las identificaciones que permiten la autobiografía sosegada, las “memorias” en el sentido clásico.

¿En qué lengua escribir memorias, cuando no hubo lengua materna autorizada? ¿Cómo decir un “yo me acuerdo” que valga cuando hay que inventar la lengua y el yo [je], inventarlos al mismo tiempo, más allá de ese despliegue, ese desencadenamiento de la amnesia que desató la doble interdicción?

(...)

Si, por ejemplo, sueño con escribir una anamnesis de lo que me permitió identificarme o decirme yo [je] a partir de un fondo de amnesia y afasia, sé al mismo tiempo que no podré hacerlo a menos que me abra un camino imposible, que abandone la ruta, me evada, me aleje repentinamente de mí mismo, invente una lengua lo bastante otra para no dejarse ya reapropiar en las normas, el cuerpo, la ley de la lengua dada, ni por la mediación de todos esos esquemas normativos que son los programas de una gramática, un léxico, una semántica, una retórica, géneros de discurso o de formas literarias, estereotipos o clichés culturales (los más autoritarios siguen siendo los mecanismos de la reproductibilidad vanguardista, la regeneración infatigable del superyó literario). La improvisación de alguna inauguralidad es sin duda lo imposible mismo. La reapropiación siempre se produce. Como sigue siendo inevitable, la aporía induce entonces un lenguaje imposible, ilegible, inadmisible. Una traducción intraducible.(...)

¿Cómo tener en cuenta esta lógica? ¿Cómo sostener esa cuenta o ese logos? Aunque a menudo me haya valido de la expresión “la lengua dada” para hablar de una monolengua disponible, el francés por ejemplo, no hay lengua dada, o más bien, hay lengua, hay donación de lengua (es gibt die Sprache), pero una lengua no es. No es dada. No existe.

(...)

Cada vez que abro la boca, cada vez que hablo o escribo, prometo. Quiéralo o no: aquí hay que disociar la fatal precipitación de la promesa de los valores de voluntad, intención o querer decir que están razonablemente vinculados a ella. Lo performativo de esta promesa no es un speech act entre otros. Está implicado por cualquier otro performativo; y la promesa anuncia la unicidad de una lengua venidera. Es el “es preciso que haya una lengua” [que sobreentiende necesariamente: “porque no existe” o “porque falta”], “prometo una lengua”, “una lengua es prometida” que a la vez precede toda lengua, llama a toda palabra y pertenece ya a cada lengua lo mismo que a cada palabra. "

Derrida, Jaques. El monolingûismo del otro (http://www.jacquesderrida.com.ar/textos/monolinguismo.htm)

sexi Derrida  ---> (guiñoguiño)

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