"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.

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)

.:

"Salida", por favor.

No puedo escribir. No tengo nada para decir. No tengo ganas de decir nada. Pero cómo me gustaría escribir algo lindo.
No sé, algo como:
"La vida es triste, solitaria, corta. E inútil. ¿Qué importa qué hacemos? ¿Qué logramos? ¿Cómo puede ser importante que logre algo exitoso y que todo el mundo conozca? ¿Eso me va a hacer feliz? Feliz como el resto del mundo. Como el resto de los millones y millones de personas que viven, vivieron y vivirán. Como  las estrellas. ¿Qué carajo me importa que las estrellas sean felices si ya están muertas? ¿Quién carajo me conoce entre tanta carne muerta que respira, tanto ruido sin sentido, tanto deseo, tanto egoísmo, tantas mentiras, tantas pretensiones, tanta crueldad? No quiero ser parte de eso... ¡No quiero ser parte de eso! Prefiero, por mi vida, saborear la agonizante lentitud del tiempo, saborear mi muerte, ver a los crueles, ver el dolor, que reírme y apurarme en tener un auto para preocuparme por cosas que no tengan nada que ver con nada. No quiero olvidarme de que no hay nada interesante o trascendente en nuestras vidas. No quiero olvidarme de que podría hacer cualquier cosa, absolutamente cualquier cosa para jugar a ser realizadamente feliz.
No quiero olvidar que es una mentira, que hacer algo no te hace feliz. Si todo depende de tus genes. No quiero olvidarme que si yo tuviera más dopamina sería más feliz de lo que soy ahora. "

Tanta palabra para qué. ¿Para decirte, pobre lector, que me gusta estar triste porque odio la banalidad del mundo? Y de qué te sirve eso, y de qué me sirve eso a mí. Si algo hace esto es darme vergüenza.
Me gustaría escribir algo. Pero estoy tan harta. Tan cansada todo el tiempo... Ni me importa.

Citas (con) Woolf

Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. Virginia Woolf, The Waves 

I, whom loneliness destroys, let silence fall, drop by drop. Virginia Woolf, The Waves 

I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin. Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 5 November 1931.

Why is it? Why are we all so tongue-tied and spellbound? Why do we perhaps live three streets off and yet never meet? Where is the intimacy? Where is the warmth? I think human beings are fundamentally crashed by a sense of their insignificance. I am perpetually overwhelmed by realizations of this kind. And nothing matters - nothing I say, feel, or think, truly makes a difference. Virginia Woolf, Selected

I’m fading gracefully. The tragedy does not lie upon the fall. It lies upon the leftovers of fatal grace. Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 22 January 1933.

Why should I be bothering myself with questions which shall eternally remain unanswered? How queer that wave of agony; melancholy paralyzing my senses, beautifully, yet for nothing. Virginia Woolf, from a diaryentry dated 5 July 1919.

I see my own worthlessness and failure so clearly; and lie gazing into the depths of the misery of human life; and then one gets up and everything begins again and it’s all covered up […] Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters

Is it all dust and ashes? Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 11 March 1939.

One ought to sink to the bottom of the sea, probably, and live alone with one’s words. Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary

I don’t know when I have suffered more; and yet why did I suffer? And what did I suffer? I said, “I love life”; disillusion filled me: all belief fell off me. Hopelessness broke my bones. Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters

I shall be mad at Vita and yet she makes me feel; she inspires myriads of emotions in me. And that alone is enough. Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters

Sitting alone among the clean cups at the long table, she felt cut off from other people, and able only to go on watching, asking, wondering; what does it mean then? What can it all mean? Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse

I like the still, the profound slow happiness best. Virginia Woolf, from a diarydated 20 August 1930.

Rustling among my emotions, I found nothing better than dead leaves.Virginia Woolf, from a diary Entry dated 30 September 1926.

(y bueno... cuándo uno no sabe qué decir - en realidad cómo decir, porque siempre hay palabras - debe hacer eco de lo ajeno. ¿Tal vez en esperanza de que se haga eco de lo que no se puede decir?)
(Y no. No leí todo eso. Ojalá. Apenas si leí uno.)

[ http://fuckyeahvirginiawoolf.tumblr.com/ ]

.:

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No tengo nada para decir.

.

"Feeling lucky, punks?"

-Voy a llevar una Polaroid.

-Ojalá no hablaras en serio - Las dos mujeres hablaron sin emoción. Las dos parecían cansadas pero no de mal humor - Nos vamos en 20. Estate lista.

-Siempre estoy lista.

Empezaron a juntar las pocas cosas que habían dejado por la habitación del hotel (ropa, libros, plata). Se pusieron sus camperas y salieron por la ventana. No tardaron mucho en alcanzar el piso (era increíble la diferencia en la vida mental, y física, que un poco de información podía hacerles a dos cínicas borrachas), y se camuflaron con la ciudad de noche. Era poca la gente que salía de noche en días de semana, y la poca gente que lo hacía estaba demasiado concentrada en su inmediatez social como para notar a dos mujeres bajar desde la ventana de un tercer piso de un hotel hasta la calle y seguir caminando.

Una prendió un cigarrillo y le compartió a la otra.

-¿Dónde voy a conseguir una Polaroid a esta hora?

-No vas a conseguir nada a esta hora. Como mucho: porros, condones y cerveza. – Le contestó cansinamente – No pensé que hablabas en serio.

-¿Por qué no habría de sacar fotos al momento en que nuestras vidas desaparezcan si tengo la oportunidad? No es algo que pasa seguido.

-¿Y para quién habrías de sacarlas? Van a borrar todo lo que alguna vez existió de nosotras.

-No, si no se enteran de la cámara.- Vio de reojo como la otra la miraba fijamente. Pensó que su amiga era de repente siglos más vieja. Después, se dio cuenta que eso era muy cierto.

-Son del futuro. Saben todo.

-Tal vez no todo pasa igual siempre. Tal vez, algo puede cambiar. Tal vez sea mi cámara, mis fotos, y tal vez sea yo quien salve a la humanidad. – La oyó reír amargamente, y giró la cabeza, sorprendida. Nunca la había visto reír… No realmente.

-¿Vos? Hoy a la mañana querías que nos fugáramos y dejáramos a la humanidad rendida a su inefable suerte de ignorantes ególatras y estúpida felicidad. – Su amiga la miraba sorprendida, y tardó unos segundos en reaccionar. Sonrío, asintió y rió amargamente. Desvió la mirada hacia la gente alrededor. Y su sonrisa, la que había quedado rezagada detrás de la amarga risa, se desvaneció y miró al piso.

-Nunca van a saber nada. Que morimos por ellos. Miralos. Para ellos nada pasa más allá de esa conversación, de ese bar, y del sexo que están por tener. De hecho… ¡miralos!: el eje de su existencia es sexo. – Miró rápidamente a los ojos de su amiga y la agarró del brazo para que se detuviera. - ¿Por qué deberíamos seguir con esto?

Le apretaba el brazo más fuerte cada segundo, para que sus palabras la penetraran. Pero sus ojos no decían lo mismo. Sus labios temblorosos, tampoco. Estaba por llorar. ¿Por miedo?, pensó, No. Ella no le tiene miedo a morir. No lloraría por dolor. Miró la mano de su amiga en su brazo, tan fuerte ahora que apenas sentía otra cosa. Tiene miedo a estar sola. Le tiene miedo a que ellos puedan ser felices en su última noche sólo por tener sexo… ni siquiera sabrían que es su último orgasmo. La volvió a mirar a los ojos, y con el brazo libre le sacó una lágrima de las pestañas.

-Porque sabemos. – El resto de las lágrimas cayeron cuando cerró los ojos, absorbiendo la respuesta.- Sabemos cómo, y por qué, quieren matarnos. Nos dijeron para que tengamos en nuestras conciencias la obligación de sacrificarnos por los que odiamos; porque saben que, secretamente, no los odiamos tanto y que quisiéramos (si pudiéramos) despertarlos y así, poder compartir una humanidad. Pero también saben, que no queremos vivir para ver eso, porque tampoco entonces seriamos parte de la humanidad. Y ahora… yo no puedo evitar querer… Desaparecer. Ignorar, jamás ver.

Las dos se miraron un rato. Le soltó el brazo y siguieron caminando.

-¿Por qué estás tan segura de qu –

-No estoy segura de nada. No creo que al sacrificarnos, salvemos a la humanidad. Pero tampoco creo que fugándonos, nos salvemos nosotras.

-Podríamos hacer nada. Tomar una última cerveza. Juntas…

-Podríamos – Le dijo – Pero entonces moriríamos como ellos – Agregó señalando con la barbilla a los que las rodeaban. La otra agachó la cabeza.

-Podríamos morir estúpidamente felices. Nadie nos reprocharía nada.

-Creo que en el segundo antes de morir, agonizaría con vergüenza y daría toda mi vida a cambio del olvido, amiga.

Caminaron un par de cuadras en silencio. Ambas sopesando lo que estaba pasando. Viendo por primera vez la ciudad.

-Vos podrías quedarte. No creo que nos necesiten a ambas… - Le dijo después de un rato. Nunca la había visto llorar.

Delante de ellas, la nave.

-Oh, no. No sin mis fotos. – Miró a su amiga. ¿Ésto sienten ellos? – No sin mi estúpida felicidad conmigo.

-Es mejor así – Le dijo. Sonriendo. – Fuimos las únicas reales. Nunca existió ningún otro humano.

Mientras hablaban, antes de que terminaran de darse cuenta, se abrió un círculo en la nave, como un inmenso caño de una pistola, y una luz roja, rápida y precisa, las fulminó.

Jamás existieron.

:

-Hola.(...) Sí. (-)

Nada más. Nada más para decir. O nada más que querer decir. Que es lo mismo, realmente. Sí, las palabras nunca alcanzan realmente para hablar. Pero todo el mundo sabe eso. Seguimos hablando porque no importa; hablamos para crear un puente de aire que nos miente diciendo que tenemos un vínculo real. 

Pero las palabras mienten.

Y todo el mundo sabe eso.

happiest.

El 28 de marzo de 1941, Virginia Woolf se metió al río con piedras en la ropa, luego de muchos intentos. Se creía que Virginia era maníaca-depresiva, y es esa a la enfermedad a la que se refiere en la carta que le escribió a su esposo, Leonard Woolf, antes de suicidarse. 

Transcripción:

" Tuesday.


Dearest,

I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.

V. "

Traducción:

" Martes.

Queridísimo,

Estoy segura que me estoy volviendo loca otra vez. Siento que no podemos atravesar otro de esos terribles momentos. Y no voy a recuperarme esta vez. Empiezo a oír voces, y no puedo concentrarme. Así que hago lo que parece ser lo mejor para hacer. Me has dado la toda la felicidad posible. Fuiste en todas las formas todo lo que cualquiera podría ser. No creo que dos personas pudieran haber sido más felices hasta que llegó esta terrible enfermedad. No puedo luchar más. Sé que estoy arruinando tu vida, que sin mí podrías trabajar. Y lo harás lo sé. Ves ni siquiera puedo escribir esto apropiadamente. No puedo leer. Lo que quiero decir es que debo toda la felicidad de mi vida a vos. Has sido completamente paciente conmigo e increíblemente bueno. Quiero decir que - todo el mundo lo sabe. Si alguien hubiera podido salvarme, habrías sido vos. Todo se ha ido de mí menos la seguridad de tu bondad. No puedo seguir arruinando tu vida.

No creo que dos personas podrían haber sido más felices de lo que fuimos nosotros.

V. "

  - la mente de una genio...

saberte-

Es la certeza 

de contar en el reloj

la hora del fin del espacio.

Es el encuentro,

esperar el hogar del fin del tiempo,

(la eternidad) en tus labios.

Es cerrar los ojos,

en la más oscura soledad,

para verte.

Tu calor, tu sonrisa, tu voz y tus brazos,

lo que siento en el frío más lejano.
Sentir (siempre saberte)
en mi inacabado vacío,
tu corazón.

Odio no tener tiempo para pensar algo medianamente potable para escribir.



.:

Cómo quisiera no extrañarte tanto.

Cómo quisiera necesitarte menos.

O nada.

Nada -

Y que pudiéramos respirar más. Vos puedas respirar tu aire.

Y supongo que yo el mío...

Y que, además, después, el mundo nos vea juntas, y que no les importe, que nos asuman 'juntas',

y que en eso quede.

Que no sea más que eso.

Y que pudiéramos vivir de eso.

De mi obsesión.

.V.

We might be done with the past---

but the past ain't through with us!
It says.

Or... was it backwards?

We ain't through with the past, thou the past is through with us?

, se hace lo que hay.

Es lo que uno puede hacer. Cuando no hay nada más que hacer, se hace lo que hay. Es lo que uno puede soportar.

I will make you,
I will this, I will that.

Beneath the stains of time, the feelings dissapear, says Johnny. He also says, I'm someone else, and that he is right there.

I will have all his empire of dirt. And he will let me down. He says that if he could start again, he would keep himself, that he would find a way.

Well, wouldn't we all? That is no brainwreck. We all go away, they all go away, you all go away. I go away. To start all over again? And to have again a crown of thorns? To sit again upon a liar's chair? To watch you all go away?

Why not?

But I just don't care.

I don't care anymore.

Then, again... it's christmas. It's been a long, long year. Right, Santa?

Who the fuck cares about anything anymore? Who's on your White list?

I don't want anything.

Marry christmas.

.

Te amo.

.

Nostalgias de lo que jamás tengo

Parque Centenario.

¿Tantos años?

I'm someone else.
Somewhere else.

What's the big deal? What's the point?
Period.

.

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