Friday, February 21, 2014


la unica razon por la que no he escrito un libro y me quedo con el blog es porque soy ecologica

enferma de poesia


Estoy enferma de poesía. No me cure por favor. Dejeme morir de esto. Yo solo les estoy contando para que usted se entere de que este tipo de enfermedad existe y la investigue, quien sabe si es contagiosa. No sabemos nada.

Esa enfermedad siempre ha existido.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

Desprevenidos: ¡va a ser toma!

- ¿Yo digo que hay que agregarle un poco de realismo a la fantasía?
- ¿Cómo?
- si vas a filmar ponle al actor la misma ropa en dos secuencias distintas, ¿o qué, la gente normal estrena ropa cada vez que sale?
- No se ellos. Pero yo si.
- Tu siempre tan extravagante.
- Y tu siempre tan extra.
- Y no pretendo ser otra cosa: cada uno es protagonista de su propia película, el resto son los extras y de los extras tengo mucho que decir.
- A ver...
- Una ocasión actué como extra en una película. Fue toda una experiencia, aunque por rebeldía renuncié, no por querer arruinar la continuidad, sino que el director de casting era un hombre pedante, ni su nombre recuerdo, pero era un pobre diablo y al final ni me pagó por los días que actué o no actué.
- Pero ¿y qué paso?
- Pues era una cinta de época. Teniamos vestidos y peinados de otro siglo. Por un lado tenías
a los actores principales, Baderas y Z Jones, por otro lado, los extras, quienes peleaban por
robarles camara, se dejaban maltratar y gritar por el crew con tal de aparecer en la pantalla grande aunque totalmente desapercibidos.
- ¿Tu qué hacias?
- Los observaba. En realidad yo mataba el tiempo mientras esperaba a mi mamá, que tenía una parte en la pelicula y yo, como extra y junto con otro extra decidimos hacer un guión con este tema.
- ¿Y dónde esta?
- Es este.


Perhaps to be filled with a future entry, I saved blank pages here like this one.

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Fresh Dream

Fresh Dream

Music pumping. People bumping. I am not either trying to walk up or down the stairs, not planning either to go to the next room. My sister and I had strangely picked this hallway to hang out and have a conversation while we sip from our Dry Martini glasses.

It must be around 8:00 pm. This place is already filled with unrecognizable faces and quite familiar outfits: white t-shirts, black tight jeans and black jackets. As for the girls, they are looking glamorous tonight.

We are at an art gallery somewhere in colonia Roma, although the building renovation suggests that this could be not only in Mexico City, but also Paris, New York or even San Francisco. An old house converted into a gallery with an adjacent room of boxy dimensions and a warehouse on its second floor, plus a terrace.

For the amount of people in here I can tell this evening is the opening reception, I mean when else do we see a gallery or museum fully packed? Exactly. And judging by the crowd´s behaviour you could tell that they are not here for the art but for the cocktails, which is fine. There is always a start and living it is already part of it. I´d like to think a good percentage of the guests here will end up either making art, or marketing it. Writing about it or, simply, complaining about it. But in a big way. One day.

As for me, I have no idea what am I doing here. I don´t even know who is the artist, but I like what I see, I just wish I was allowed to take some pictures.

My sister and I are completely engaged in a conversation she is been leading since the moment I stumbled upon here, but I can´t seem to remember the conversation´s main topic: shopping, football or boys, (or all of the above). In any case, there is a lot of laughter involved, loud laughter that mixes with the rumor of the music from the room next door.

All of a sudden my attention begins to divert towards my sister´s outfit. She´s wearing an over sized, asymmetric dress with a black and white print on it. The dress is made of the same material form the wallpaper covering the walls around us, it´s a design by the artist in question and the pieces hanging on the wall also feature the same drawing: hand-made lines and circles that look like they were made with a sharpie by some ancient tribe. The artist name is not relevant, but I wish I could have taken a snapshot of the works. Perhaps I will try to draw my own version of them, they could be handy.

Suddenly I begin to experience one of the most interesting moments ever, hence my attempt to record its evidences with the highest fidelity possible. Slowly and consciously I come to the conclusion that I, ladies and gentleman, am dreaming. And the strangest part is I am still here, inside the gallery and not on my bed, as it happens when people wake up from their dreams.

At first I felt a bit confused as I started to become aware of all the elements surrounding me and to realize what was happening. Music I never heard. People I never saw, absurdities clashing just like the dress and matching walls, the art on the walls, which was still fresh.

I stood there, awake and aware, but inside that same place, trapped inside the dream.
Fully awaken, at least it seemed so, I started to take mental notes about everything around me because I knew this was magical dream material. So I managed to get my sister attention but she was too busy talking to me. I knew it was time for me to tell her what was going on, and, together, solve or at least accept this mystery, but the more I tried I failed, she was not feeling it, she refused and denied the idea completely.

“Karen, we are dreaming! This is for real. This is a dream. Do you realize? Look at it, look at this place. Look at the walls. Look at the dress you are wearing. This could only exist in a dream. Are you conscious that we are in a dream?”

But Karen could not see it the same way I did.

Then I continued, “All this time, being here, in this place, gallery, or whatever it is, is not real. I mean it is, but it belongs to another reality. Everything I see here is a product made by my imagination. Lots of stories and events that occurred during the day made their way into a mad house where it all makes sense and this is where we are now.

“No, Naomi, we are not dreaming. What are you talking about? Go to the next door and open that door, come on, let´s try to see what is in the other room. You can continue. This does not end. There´s a party out there, people are still arriving. There are paintings being made and being hung all over the place and they are not even dried yet, they are fresh pieces of art.”

"But sis, I mean it. This is a dream! I dunno how but we made it together. We crossed the final frontier! Let´s celebrate and explore! She was not listening anymore and I realised this could have only one explanation: this was a dream of mine, so I had to solve the case by myself.

I sadly decided to part ways without saying good-bye and I faded out from that wacky scene. First I stopped listening to the rumor of the music, then, slowly, the walls begun to fade too and it all felt think and vaporous, as if I were walking through a cloud.

The reason I so desperately made my way out from that place and crawled back to (my) reality was to make some sense of it. To put it into words before it faded away, because I did not want to miss any detail, for this was, without a doubt, one of the most amazing dreams I ever had. A few hours have passed since its conception and I am still trying to figure out where are the boundaries that divide this reality from that other reality.