It has long been a standing, outrageous dream we -the dragas- hold.
We have lot's of them, really: crear una fundación para los amantes del pepinillo (imagine buying a burger in McDonalds and getting asked if you wish to donate your pickles); celebrar el festival de Río de Janeiro en Río -si, la cerrada en la Condesa; escribir un par de libros (Life in the Pretentious Way and Discapasutra); and so on and so forth.
Yet, we have toyed around with the idea of starting our own band, which should be aptly named "Stomp your feet and say no" (vilmente copiado de los Clap your hands and say yeah).
The idea, basically, is that since none of us have musical inclination or visible talent, it should be something terribly cacophonic, with some half-cooked philosophy about breaking the common place of beauty and esthetics, going beyond the form or something like that.
In any case, Rous and I had decided to do something among the likes of El Maestro Roberto Quenedy.
That is, until Alex decided to illustrate me on the possibilities. Perhaps we can go all the way with the washawasheo; perhaps, we might even go to the next level. The one of absolute ozzo.
This far:
Is it possible? Should I dare to hope...?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Musical Endeavors.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Tetris humano.
Andaba vagando por la red y encontré algo que me puso toda nostálgica/asombrada. Por una parte, ¡qué coordinación! Por otra, el tetris me recuerda a mis torneos infantiles contra Waldo, cuando nos peleábamos la computadora para tratar de superar el puntaje del otro.
Que tiempos aquellos.
Ay, me pongo toda melancólica. Y con las cosas más irrelevantes. ¿Me debería dar pena?
... ¡Meh!
Que tiempos aquellos.
Ay, me pongo toda melancólica. Y con las cosas más irrelevantes. ¿Me debería dar pena?
... ¡Meh!
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Paranoia, sí; pero justificada.
Bien bien; admito que no soy la más experimentada de las proletarias explotadas por este sistema capitalista, contando escasos empleos en mi existencia.
Still, tengo la ligera impresión de que algo no está
Yet, as always, there is always more to the story. Al parecer, esas lindas cámaras sí son de vigilancia; solo que nos vigilan a los empleados. Y tienen audio (which most security cameras don’t). Uno muy cabrón, por cierto, ya que todos mantienen niveles de voz muy bajos cuando el jefe anda en la oficina.
Esas cámaras están por todos lados; incluso en el jardín, la cochera y las escaleras.
Así que si alguien decide mandarme un mail o chatear, con su debido cuidado. Por favor eviten hablar de sus negocios ilegales, infecciones embarazosas, problemas existenciales y demás, salvo que sea intencional y con un claro interés chingativo, claro.
Ah, porque claro que yo, en plena labor de filantropía, he decidido que si el jefe va a vivir intensamente a través de mi vida, será mejor que sea una llena de dramáticas y envolventes historias. Aunque mi vida en realidad consista en el trinomio trabajar – dormir - ser miserable. (He doesn’t have to know that, does he?)
In that note, thanks to Rozita my boss may or may not think that I suffer from a terrible, odorous vaginal disease. Luis managed to implicate some illegal businesses ventures and offered to off the boss as a personal favor. Oscar is leading the story of me being schizophrenic. Mau has implied pregnancies several times. Feel free to add your own little plot twist to any story, or hell! Go ahead and create your own! Have fun! Go wild!
Er.. but please inform me before you go on claiming I have made contact with aliens and will be their ambassador or something…
El caso es que todos andamos de paranoicos. Bueno, yo más que de costumbre. Es raro; creo que por primera vez mi patología está fundamentada y, además, es compartida. Es casi cómico ver a todos susurrar, ver a las cámaras con recelo, y estar constantemente cuidando lo que dicen/escriben/navegan.
Sí Ale, tal cual adivinaste (mello...); sí volteo a ver la cámara de vez en cuando y le mando saludos o besos. O juego charades. O hago
¡Pero conste que dicen que mi antecesora era mucho peor! Por lo menos yo no ando de flatulenta y rascándome partes nobles sin pudor o recato alguno.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Going there, getting there.
El miércoles fue un día en general malo; era como si una gran sombra me abrumara de por sí, algo que debío de darme un pequeño insight de qué esperar. O a lo mejor ya estaba predispuesta. Meh!
Amanecí con mucho sueño; algo común ahora. Me siento cansada en la mañana y de plano agotada en la noche. Maybe I need to sleep?
El caso es que ahí me tienen corriendo (late, as usual) rumbo a San Jerónimo, que me queda BIEN PINCHE LEJOS (in bold and capital so you can understand just how far). Estoy sorprendida, de hecho; me hice sólo una hora tomando un par de taxis, metro y rezando el rosario entero.
Pero a fin de cuentas, la entrevista, que fue cansadísima por cierto (I swear; that guy did not need a publicist... rather a psicologist or anyone who paid attention. TWO hours of listening to his life story, really...) no redituó en nada.
Así que salí, triste, deprimida, sintiendo el terrible peso del fracaso sobre mis endebles hombros...
(frenen los comentarios sobre mi estatus de oink, all right? siguen siendo endebles a pesar de su grossor, que esperemos sea sólo momentáneo).
... y el de mi aumentado cuerpo sobre mis madreados pies, que venían ataviados de zapatillas. Creo que al tobillo ex-esguinzado no le pareció gracioso; decidió seguirle el juego al resto de mi cuerpo y se volvió una gran bola inflamada.
En corto, como diría Rous, me dolían los zapatos.
Llamé a Mau como pidió, pero lo encontré ligeramente abrumado por el trabajo ("¡no termino, no termino! ¡no saldré de aquí! ¡me convertiré en un fosil de exhibición en el WTC; y además ¡perdí el gafete! ¡no me han pagado y ya debo 150 pesos!) así que preferí limitar la conversación a lo básico, prometiendo avisar tan pronto llegara a la oficina.
Una pesera después, me dirigía al metrobus cuando escuché (which in itself is surprising, since I was listening to Razorlight's In the City "crecendo") un rechinar de llantas temible. Volteé justo a tiempo para ver, pareció que casi en cámara lenta, como un carro a no más de 10 metros de mí quemaba llanta al intentar frenar precipitadamente.
Empresa que falló, por cierto (grossly, as well). Desde mi punto de vista no pareció un choque mayor; el golpe fue sonoro pero no abrumador y no se vio como más que un ligero empujón. Pero la defensa y los faros tuvieron la súbita necesidad de que alguien les dedicara Las Golondrinas.
Me quedé algo pasmada, como el resto de los que íbamos en la acera, viendo granos de cristal esparcirse por el pavimento con un ligero tintinar. Vi al tipo del carro golpeado salir lentamente de un estupor, bajar del carro algo tembloroso, pero decidido, y encaminarse hacia los que habían tenido la cordial atención de arruinarle la tarde. He seemed oddly calm.
Dirigí la mirada hacia estos últimos y vi en su cara una inequívoca expresión del ya común La-cagamos-rotundamente; una mezcla peculiar de miedo, enojo y triste aceptación.
Y por un momento, me sentí acompañada en el dolor: sé que por lo menos alguien tuvo un peor día que yo.
Does that make me a terrible person?
Amanecí con mucho sueño; algo común ahora. Me siento cansada en la mañana y de plano agotada en la noche. Maybe I need to sleep?
El caso es que ahí me tienen corriendo (late, as usual) rumbo a San Jerónimo, que me queda BIEN PINCHE LEJOS (in bold and capital so you can understand just how far). Estoy sorprendida, de hecho; me hice sólo una hora tomando un par de taxis, metro y rezando el rosario entero.
Pero a fin de cuentas, la entrevista, que fue cansadísima por cierto (I swear; that guy did not need a publicist... rather a psicologist or anyone who paid attention. TWO hours of listening to his life story, really...) no redituó en nada.
Así que salí, triste, deprimida, sintiendo el terrible peso del fracaso sobre mis endebles hombros...
(frenen los comentarios sobre mi estatus de oink, all right? siguen siendo endebles a pesar de su grossor, que esperemos sea sólo momentáneo).
... y el de mi aumentado cuerpo sobre mis madreados pies, que venían ataviados de zapatillas. Creo que al tobillo ex-esguinzado no le pareció gracioso; decidió seguirle el juego al resto de mi cuerpo y se volvió una gran bola inflamada.
En corto, como diría Rous, me dolían los zapatos.
Llamé a Mau como pidió, pero lo encontré ligeramente abrumado por el trabajo ("¡no termino, no termino! ¡no saldré de aquí! ¡me convertiré en un fosil de exhibición en el WTC; y además ¡perdí el gafete! ¡no me han pagado y ya debo 150 pesos!) así que preferí limitar la conversación a lo básico, prometiendo avisar tan pronto llegara a la oficina.
Una pesera después, me dirigía al metrobus cuando escuché (which in itself is surprising, since I was listening to Razorlight's In the City "crecendo") un rechinar de llantas temible. Volteé justo a tiempo para ver, pareció que casi en cámara lenta, como un carro a no más de 10 metros de mí quemaba llanta al intentar frenar precipitadamente.
Empresa que falló, por cierto (grossly, as well). Desde mi punto de vista no pareció un choque mayor; el golpe fue sonoro pero no abrumador y no se vio como más que un ligero empujón. Pero la defensa y los faros tuvieron la súbita necesidad de que alguien les dedicara Las Golondrinas.
Me quedé algo pasmada, como el resto de los que íbamos en la acera, viendo granos de cristal esparcirse por el pavimento con un ligero tintinar. Vi al tipo del carro golpeado salir lentamente de un estupor, bajar del carro algo tembloroso, pero decidido, y encaminarse hacia los que habían tenido la cordial atención de arruinarle la tarde. He seemed oddly calm.
Dirigí la mirada hacia estos últimos y vi en su cara una inequívoca expresión del ya común La-cagamos-rotundamente; una mezcla peculiar de miedo, enojo y triste aceptación.
Y por un momento, me sentí acompañada en el dolor: sé que por lo menos alguien tuvo un peor día que yo.
Does that make me a terrible person?
Monday, February 04, 2008
I love my brother!
I really, really do. Waldo is such a great guy; has been ever since we were children.
Generally speaking, he is a very good person, and has become a better one ever since he took up Christianity (and nearly killed grandmother at it; she just can't understand why "her boy" didn't take to Catholicism, the family religion, instead) a couple of years ago. Now he follows all that good stuff they tell you in church, like not hating people, being compassionate... the works.
Sure, when we were kids he had his moments; he IS my older brother, after all. He induced me to stick keys in electrical contacts, to climb tall furniture from which I couldn't come back down (y terminaba gritando por ayuda desde las alturas del librero), sent me to buy soda in his stead, convinced me to run away from home when my mother refused to give him soda until he finished his homework(regresamos después de 20 minutos a pedirle dinero a mamá para poder cruzar el río en lancha y escapar... clásica lógica infantil), beat me up as a baby a couple of times (hasta que aprendí a dejar ojos morados), and so on.
As we grew older, there were occasional fights over the most random of things and disagreements, as always. But we became very close. I never showed mom my good grades (nearly all A's back then.. how time changes people) so that he wouldn't have to show his failing ones, kept quiet about the reports he got for his escapades at school, and always stayed a couple extra hours to wait for him while he was in detention.
I stayed quiet that one time I found cigarettes in his backpack, and covered up for his magazines. I helped him hide the bright red stain he put on his room's beige carpet, and stood, trembling, usually, in the way when my mother came at him after looking at his report card (well, I tried, my mother can be vicious).
He, in turn, drove me to the library for my books and always gave me money to spend when we went to the mall. He gave in to most of my requests, stupid as they might be. He cooked me food when we were left alone, and bought me sweets, bracelets and such when we went out. When I did something stupid, he would just roll his eyes and cover for me. He ignored me when I bullied him, and never contradicted me when he heard me lie to people.
He would help me with my homework when I didn't quite understand it (he was always that bit smarter, regardless of his terrible grades) and would do essays in my stead so that I was free to play word games with him when he was bored (tenía la terrible mañana de ponerle demasiada crema a los tacos. Hacía unos ensayos tanto emotivos como cursis, que me daba pena tan sólo leer en voz alta, sobre todo porque sabía que todo era una broma para él. A los maestros, en cambio, les encantaban; los creían llegadores. Waldo decía que ese era el truco. Wonder why he hardly ever did it for himself, though).
He would listen to my childish woes, and comfort me to the best of his abilities (which, considering he is not good with emotional outbursts means a lot). He let me sleep in his bed and hugged me through the night when I felt terribly scared for no reason and was afraid to sleep alone.
He was always a great brother. And that didn't change when we moved and he stayed. Even long distance, he finds the way to make us smile tenderly every so often.
True, I have to remind him of birthdays and other special occasions a week in advance, for he is terrible with dates, and he is not the most talkative when he calls, but he puts the most off-hand attention to details I have ever seen.
He sent the kids just the X-Box game they were dying for. Chitans has a collection of Spider Man, his favourite superhero, figures ranging from small to large. Pancho got a Simpson's chess set just when he was really getting into the game. Juan received just the movie titles he wanted to see.
As for me, I always got novels and books that interested me. I have a collection of videos and manga from my favourite anime. Bags, lenses, jewerly, lots of pretty things that make me smile.
This time though, when grandma came to visit she brought me a special gift from my brother: a novel.
Not just any novel, of course, but one I had SO wanted to read and couldn't because it's not in existence in Mexico. The book which one of my favourite movies of all time, from the great Miyasaki-Sama, is based on. One that I had resigned myself not to read for a while, and that I mentioned in passing to him.
I got Howl's Moving Castle. And it's beautiful, it really is. I just fell in love with it, and with Diana Wynne Jones as well.
The moment I saw it I knew it came from Waldo, and not my little cousin Abril, as my grandmother claimed mistakenly. And a great smile came to my face. It was so like him, sending the one thing I had desired for so long. I loved him so much then that I thought it impossible to feel any stronger.
Until I opened the book. In the first page, scrawled in his uneven handwriting, was a little message just for me:
"To my little sis Poli:
We may be miles away in distance, but close at heart."
And then I nearly teared up and loved him all the more. A Waldo le incomodan las cosas sentimentales, es malísimo para ellas. Which is why I realize the full worth of his scarce words. They speak an epic tale to me.
The words, as well, have such subtle echoes on the plot of the novel itself, though I doubt he knows that. I'm sure he only saw the movie and didn't read the book (he dislikes novels; he is more of a political and philosophical essay reader, oddly enough).
All in all, he made my day. Or weekend, really, since I started on the novel right away. It’s great fun.
I love my brother.
Generally speaking, he is a very good person, and has become a better one ever since he took up Christianity (and nearly killed grandmother at it; she just can't understand why "her boy" didn't take to Catholicism, the family religion, instead) a couple of years ago. Now he follows all that good stuff they tell you in church, like not hating people, being compassionate... the works.
Sure, when we were kids he had his moments; he IS my older brother, after all. He induced me to stick keys in electrical contacts, to climb tall furniture from which I couldn't come back down (y terminaba gritando por ayuda desde las alturas del librero), sent me to buy soda in his stead, convinced me to run away from home when my mother refused to give him soda until he finished his homework(regresamos después de 20 minutos a pedirle dinero a mamá para poder cruzar el río en lancha y escapar... clásica lógica infantil), beat me up as a baby a couple of times (hasta que aprendí a dejar ojos morados), and so on.
As we grew older, there were occasional fights over the most random of things and disagreements, as always. But we became very close. I never showed mom my good grades (nearly all A's back then.. how time changes people) so that he wouldn't have to show his failing ones, kept quiet about the reports he got for his escapades at school, and always stayed a couple extra hours to wait for him while he was in detention.
I stayed quiet that one time I found cigarettes in his backpack, and covered up for his magazines. I helped him hide the bright red stain he put on his room's beige carpet, and stood, trembling, usually, in the way when my mother came at him after looking at his report card (well, I tried, my mother can be vicious).
He, in turn, drove me to the library for my books and always gave me money to spend when we went to the mall. He gave in to most of my requests, stupid as they might be. He cooked me food when we were left alone, and bought me sweets, bracelets and such when we went out. When I did something stupid, he would just roll his eyes and cover for me. He ignored me when I bullied him, and never contradicted me when he heard me lie to people.
He would help me with my homework when I didn't quite understand it (he was always that bit smarter, regardless of his terrible grades) and would do essays in my stead so that I was free to play word games with him when he was bored (tenía la terrible mañana de ponerle demasiada crema a los tacos. Hacía unos ensayos tanto emotivos como cursis, que me daba pena tan sólo leer en voz alta, sobre todo porque sabía que todo era una broma para él. A los maestros, en cambio, les encantaban; los creían llegadores. Waldo decía que ese era el truco. Wonder why he hardly ever did it for himself, though).
He would listen to my childish woes, and comfort me to the best of his abilities (which, considering he is not good with emotional outbursts means a lot). He let me sleep in his bed and hugged me through the night when I felt terribly scared for no reason and was afraid to sleep alone.
He was always a great brother. And that didn't change when we moved and he stayed. Even long distance, he finds the way to make us smile tenderly every so often.
True, I have to remind him of birthdays and other special occasions a week in advance, for he is terrible with dates, and he is not the most talkative when he calls, but he puts the most off-hand attention to details I have ever seen.
He sent the kids just the X-Box game they were dying for. Chitans has a collection of Spider Man, his favourite superhero, figures ranging from small to large. Pancho got a Simpson's chess set just when he was really getting into the game. Juan received just the movie titles he wanted to see.
As for me, I always got novels and books that interested me. I have a collection of videos and manga from my favourite anime. Bags, lenses, jewerly, lots of pretty things that make me smile.
This time though, when grandma came to visit she brought me a special gift from my brother: a novel.
Not just any novel, of course, but one I had SO wanted to read and couldn't because it's not in existence in Mexico. The book which one of my favourite movies of all time, from the great Miyasaki-Sama, is based on. One that I had resigned myself not to read for a while, and that I mentioned in passing to him.
I got Howl's Moving Castle. And it's beautiful, it really is. I just fell in love with it, and with Diana Wynne Jones as well.
The moment I saw it I knew it came from Waldo, and not my little cousin Abril, as my grandmother claimed mistakenly. And a great smile came to my face. It was so like him, sending the one thing I had desired for so long. I loved him so much then that I thought it impossible to feel any stronger.
Until I opened the book. In the first page, scrawled in his uneven handwriting, was a little message just for me:
"To my little sis Poli:
We may be miles away in distance, but close at heart."
And then I nearly teared up and loved him all the more. A Waldo le incomodan las cosas sentimentales, es malísimo para ellas. Which is why I realize the full worth of his scarce words. They speak an epic tale to me.
The words, as well, have such subtle echoes on the plot of the novel itself, though I doubt he knows that. I'm sure he only saw the movie and didn't read the book (he dislikes novels; he is more of a political and philosophical essay reader, oddly enough).
All in all, he made my day. Or weekend, really, since I started on the novel right away. It’s great fun.
I love my brother.
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Saturday morning thoughts.
Los sábados por la mañana tengo terapia. Temprano, a las 8 A.M. Antes tenía un horario más accesible, a las 12, pero interfería en muchas cosas, así que opté por tan castigadora sesión.
Ello que implica que cada sábado, llueva, truene o relampagueé estoy corriendo rumbo a San Miguel Chapultepec desde donde me encuentre, sea San Rafa (donde vivo bajo el yugo de mi madre), CU (Sara), San Antonio Abad (mi tío Geova), Pantitlán (Rous), Iztacalco (Ale), o, la última vez, de la Del Valle (Argen). Así me muera de sueño, esté curando la cruda o todavía borracha (sólo un par de veces), no haya acabado mi extra a pesar de pasar la noche en vigilia, etc.
Hoy no quería levantarme de la cama. Toda la semana he dormido mal, y ayer particularmente peor, así que en la mañana estaba cansada, con mucho sueño y contemplé quedarme a dormir. Pero el sentido de responsabilidad, el conocimiento de que iba a faltar a dos sesiones futuras y, sobre todo, mi codera (me cobran las sesiones aunque no vaya) ganaron y me levanté, refunfuñando.
Me arreglé rápido para no llegar tan tarde como de costumbre y emprendí el viaje. Mientras iba en el taxi (me dio demasiada flojera caminar del metro) me percaté de una calcomanía de la bandera inglesa en el carro de enfrente.
Empecé a recordar buenos viejos tiempos, con una sonrisa enorme, pero tan absorta estaba en eso que olvidé decirle al taxista que se fuera en el carril izquierdo y pasé la calle. Cuando me di cuenta, fue más fácil bajarme y caminar las tres cuadras restantes, lo que había tratado de evitar a fin de cuentas.
Entonces ahí me tienen caminando a paso veloz esas cuadras, hasta llegar al edificio. Cuando entré, quedé muy sorprendida. Todo el lobby estaba cubierto de una capa de polvo blanco con olor fuerte, ligeramente parecido al de detergente. Por lo que entendí de lo murmurado por mi terapeuta, cuando nos condujo a un salón distinto al de siempre, el polvo cubría los tres niveles de la casa.
Mientras ella informaba a la secretaria del cambio de salón, pregunté a mis compañeros de terepia lo que había sucedido. Una me dijo que -no se explicaba cómo- un extintor había explotado.
-¿Y cubierto los tres pisos?
-Por eso no nos explicamos como.
Ante mi cara de duda, mientras maquinaba teorías en mi mente que no explicaban el suceso de forma terrenal (salvo un pequeño ventarrón o terremoto interno al edificio), otro de mis compañeros, en voz conspiracional, nos dijo que ya se había enterado de lo que en realidad había pasado.
-Alguien agarró un extintor y corrió por todo el edificio bañándolo -y a las personas en su camino- con polvo.
Todos nos quedamos un rato meditando eso. Pensé que alguien debió estar muy molesto con su terapeuta o psiquiatra para desquitarse vía agentes extintores.
-Bueno, hay psiquiatría por algo en el edificio...- mencionó alguién.
-No sé como digerirlo. No me gusta hablar de normalidad, pero creo que esto es algo pesado; digo, ¿correr por ahí rociando a la gente con un extintor?- digo alguién más.
Claro, al tener una visión pesimista, metí mi opinión al debate: - por lo menos fue un extintor.
Todos me voltearon a ver, confusos, por lo que creí pertinente aclarar -Pues sí; digo, ¿cuánto daño hace el polvo? Piensen que si hubiera sido un arma...
Fue muy interesante; nunca había visto caras cambiar de perplejas a temorosas en cuestión de segundos. Luego se vieron entre sí con risas medio forzadas mientras me daban la razón, en lo que entró la terapeuta y cambiaron rápido de conversación.
Pero a pesar de todo, creo que todos nos quedamos pensando en ello. Por un momento visualicé los repentinos ataques de furia, balaceras y atentados que pasan en la tele. Pensé en las probabilidades de que sucediera en cualquier lugar y, con mayor razón, en donde ofrecen terapia a personas que se aceptan enfermas.
Something to mull over, I guess.
Ello que implica que cada sábado, llueva, truene o relampagueé estoy corriendo rumbo a San Miguel Chapultepec desde donde me encuentre, sea San Rafa (donde vivo bajo el yugo de mi madre), CU (Sara), San Antonio Abad (mi tío Geova), Pantitlán (Rous), Iztacalco (Ale), o, la última vez, de la Del Valle (Argen). Así me muera de sueño, esté curando la cruda o todavía borracha (sólo un par de veces), no haya acabado mi extra a pesar de pasar la noche en vigilia, etc.
Hoy no quería levantarme de la cama. Toda la semana he dormido mal, y ayer particularmente peor, así que en la mañana estaba cansada, con mucho sueño y contemplé quedarme a dormir. Pero el sentido de responsabilidad, el conocimiento de que iba a faltar a dos sesiones futuras y, sobre todo, mi codera (me cobran las sesiones aunque no vaya) ganaron y me levanté, refunfuñando.
Me arreglé rápido para no llegar tan tarde como de costumbre y emprendí el viaje. Mientras iba en el taxi (me dio demasiada flojera caminar del metro) me percaté de una calcomanía de la bandera inglesa en el carro de enfrente.
Empecé a recordar buenos viejos tiempos, con una sonrisa enorme, pero tan absorta estaba en eso que olvidé decirle al taxista que se fuera en el carril izquierdo y pasé la calle. Cuando me di cuenta, fue más fácil bajarme y caminar las tres cuadras restantes, lo que había tratado de evitar a fin de cuentas.
Entonces ahí me tienen caminando a paso veloz esas cuadras, hasta llegar al edificio. Cuando entré, quedé muy sorprendida. Todo el lobby estaba cubierto de una capa de polvo blanco con olor fuerte, ligeramente parecido al de detergente. Por lo que entendí de lo murmurado por mi terapeuta, cuando nos condujo a un salón distinto al de siempre, el polvo cubría los tres niveles de la casa.
Mientras ella informaba a la secretaria del cambio de salón, pregunté a mis compañeros de terepia lo que había sucedido. Una me dijo que -no se explicaba cómo- un extintor había explotado.
-¿Y cubierto los tres pisos?
-Por eso no nos explicamos como.
Ante mi cara de duda, mientras maquinaba teorías en mi mente que no explicaban el suceso de forma terrenal (salvo un pequeño ventarrón o terremoto interno al edificio), otro de mis compañeros, en voz conspiracional, nos dijo que ya se había enterado de lo que en realidad había pasado.
-Alguien agarró un extintor y corrió por todo el edificio bañándolo -y a las personas en su camino- con polvo.
Todos nos quedamos un rato meditando eso. Pensé que alguien debió estar muy molesto con su terapeuta o psiquiatra para desquitarse vía agentes extintores.
-Bueno, hay psiquiatría por algo en el edificio...- mencionó alguién.
-No sé como digerirlo. No me gusta hablar de normalidad, pero creo que esto es algo pesado; digo, ¿correr por ahí rociando a la gente con un extintor?- digo alguién más.
Claro, al tener una visión pesimista, metí mi opinión al debate: - por lo menos fue un extintor.
Todos me voltearon a ver, confusos, por lo que creí pertinente aclarar -Pues sí; digo, ¿cuánto daño hace el polvo? Piensen que si hubiera sido un arma...
Fue muy interesante; nunca había visto caras cambiar de perplejas a temorosas en cuestión de segundos. Luego se vieron entre sí con risas medio forzadas mientras me daban la razón, en lo que entró la terapeuta y cambiaron rápido de conversación.
Pero a pesar de todo, creo que todos nos quedamos pensando en ello. Por un momento visualicé los repentinos ataques de furia, balaceras y atentados que pasan en la tele. Pensé en las probabilidades de que sucediera en cualquier lugar y, con mayor razón, en donde ofrecen terapia a personas que se aceptan enfermas.
Something to mull over, I guess.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Oooooosss pido posaaaAAda…
Christmas-time came and went; and with it the usual associations: the stress of present and food shopping, the lovely depressing moments, the wholesome family fights over the most random of things (papel navideño, cinta adhesiva, el tamaño ideal de la nueces picadas, el relleno de las codornices), an so on and so forth.
Lovely times they are.
This year, though, I was invited to Rozie’s aunt’s Posada. It had been a while since I had gone to her aunt’s, and even more since my last posada. Still, I remembered similar past events (digamos que los tíos de Rozita son espléndidos con la comida y el alcohol :D) and I was more than set to go.
I was supposed to meet Rose in metro La Raza after work, but she called as I was leaving the office for the second time (la primera vez recordé a cinco cuadras que había dejado la batería de la cámara en la oficina) to tell me to meet her in the house instead.
I agreed and went on my way. I considered taking the bus to metro Eugenia, but took a look at traffic and decided to go to Chilpancingo instead. The metrobus was out of the question- it’s impossible to actually get inside a bus from 6 to 8 (y no estaba de un humor particularmente condescendiente hacia los pervertidos que parecen pulularlo). So I chose to walk the 20 minutes to the metro.
The trip was uneventful until I got to Chilpancingo, where it all wet to hell. Under the most unpredictable (and unfortunate) circumstances, I ran into Gilberto. Or rather, he ran towards me while I tried to desperately to make my way through the line into the metro, cursing slow people, ticket machines, Gilberto, and the fates in general.
Needless to say, I didn’t make it. So here comes this guy who I AGAIN pretended not to know (¿podré algún día gozar de la bendición de amnesia selectiva en cuanto a hombres se refiere?) and starts off with the basic introduction, trying to remind me again of how we met in the UAM (something I have tried SO hard to forget).
Acto seguido, he decided to enlighten me about how life has gone for him since we last met, aquel episodio en que logré que el camión en que viajábamos se detuviera vertiginosamente, me aventé de manera casi rauda por las escaleras jalando a una quejumbrosa Sara del brazo –no podía dejar que la pobre niña sufriera tan ignominiosa presencia mientras yo salvaba mi considerable pellejo- y corrí –en botas y falda, me enorgullezco de admitir- hacia la salvación que ofrecía una calle desierta en un barrio dudoso, todo mientras escuchaba al tipo despedirse y pedir mis datos desde el camión. (See previous blog).
And I was so glad I had escaped, too. Who would have thought that nearly two years later I would have to face him again in an enclosed, crowded space with no means of escape? For some reason, he though it would be flattering to escort me home (I made up a fake address; there was no way in hell I would allow him anywhere near the apartment after that comment he had made about my neighbourhood the last time we met, when I have no recollection of ever telling him where I live. I might be clueless sometimes, but it takes a very stupid girl to reveal such things to an obvious pervert).
I declined, citing plans for the night, and desperately changed routes in an effort to run as far away from the tactless idiot. I decided to get off in Centro Médico, which I admit was naïve of me, because of course he followed suit undeterred, right into the green line.
I endured his presence for much too long, listening to his woes -considero que he sido una persona a la que se le ha discriminado mucho (he believes people always boycott him; must be his lovely personality), me interesa meterme a la política, pero no ser corrupto, porque soy congruente con mis ideales (and those ideals include harassing defenceless young girls, Gilberto?), tengo grandes planes a futuro (funny thing, so do I; the nearest one being half a city of physical distance between us), etc.-
Eventually, his comments became more and more absurd, frankly moronic, and I lost all semblance of patience, deciding to just let the inner bitch go for it. I methodically ruined his comments involving financial, religious and political views (I’m no great analyst; he was just remarkably idiotic) and his woe-is-me-poor-discriminated-victim-I-am tirade.
I finished off explaining, as if to a little child, than the Vatican was more than a catholic holy place, but an actual State, which gave the pope somewhat effective political standing and the implications that carried, in a tone that must have been more than a bit condescending, because several passengers looked at him as though he was brain damaged (which, in all fairness, he isn’t. He doesn’t even have that going for him).
Thankfully, it was around this time when we arrived at La Raza and I nearly jumped off the wagon, but no luck, since he followed. I made as if to get out into the street and effusively turned down his offer to accompany me (hay gente en realidad insensata; cualquiera hubiera entendido mi ferviente deseo de que el tipo se alejara, pero el oligofrénico este superó hasta mis expectativas).
Finally free, and so very happy to be so, I waited for him to disappear from my vision before following the way he had gone. The odd thing was that we were actually headed the same way; I just made sure to stay as far back as I could while still being able to see his unmistakeable bald head. I couldn’t trust him not to turn around and try find out where I live. He really is that frighteningly creepy.
Just to be sure, I called Rous while waiting for the yellow line metro, to inform her of the unfortunate encounter and state that, should I go unexplainably missing, she was to search (as good friends should) in the freezers of all bald men named Gilberto for body parts that might resemble mine.
I arrived to her aunt’s house, thankfully in one piece, by the way of an amiable taxi driver who took pity on the confused, lost girl standing on a deserted side street (léase yo). I met up with the family, said my hello’s to Rozie, her mother, aunt, uncle, brother, and was introduced to her extensive line of cousins.
The posada itself turned out to be incredibly fun. Rouse’s cousins are fun and playful, and we enjoyed a wholesome, fun-filled night.
First off, we were forced to sing (-por supuesto, es una posada de verdad- mentioned Rose at my baffled question) in order to get access to food and alcohol, so we gave it our best shot, with all and falsettos included. We ate some tasty tacos before the hungry mob did away with it (and sweet little Pavel proudly explained he had helped cook), got our paws on some vodka and tonic, and waited for the piñatas.
I was surprised to find out that Rozie’s cousins were discussing strategies and logistics over candy recollection. When I asked about it, perplexed, they all turned to look at me as if I was slow, explained the importance of a well made plan, and went back to strategizing. I tried to be helpful, and gave a couple of ideas: “¿Y si cubrimos la piñatas por diferentes ángulos para que cuando se rompa podamos llegar por diferentes posiciones? ”
Rous, a couple of minutes later: “Pao suggested we split up and cover the piñata from different angles and jump at it when it breaks … But, we are not going to do that. We will stay on one side and barge in, with the people of the back pushing the front ones into the piñata craze.”
Dejected, I prepared for the first piñata, and as soon as it broke, dove right in along with Rose’s cousin. I found the experience to be rather savage, with lot’s of pushing, forcing and elbowing, but I managed to sit up with a bag full of fruit, utterly proud of myself.
That is, until I was mugged by a four year old.
Yes. Mugged by a four year old. As I was sitting on the pavement, feeling accomplished and childishly showing my goods to Rose, a little girl came from somewhere and took my plastic bag. Horrified, I held on to it, saying it was mine and looking to Rose for support while the kid went into the mild beginnings of a temper tantrum, repeating it was hers.
We stayed like that for half a minute, struggling for the bag until Aldo, Rous’s cousin, told me to let it go and give the kid the bag. Crestfallen, I obeyed, perfectly aware I was acting like a child but not really caring. I stood up, dusted myself, and waited for the next piñata.
This time, I got my turn at it, and found out Rozie’s aunt can be vicious with the blindfold. Not only could I not see anything, but I felt my eyes digging into my sockets and when, after my mildly effective attempt at breaking the piñata, I removed the scarf, realized everything looked blurry for a minute.
After the second piñata broke, I collected as much fruit as I could without a bag and immediately gave it to Rous before the girl could come rob me again. That is when the main event came into sight. In front of us stood a massive green piñata; so big that they had to take it out empty and fill it up on the street, to be able to pick it up.
Apparently, this is what we were waiting for, because Rous decided to change tactics and adopt my original plan after all. We rounded the piñata, all ready to go for it at a moments notice, and waited patiently for someone to break it. Which, technically, never broke.
Someone did manage to make it fall to the ground (¿o fue por el peso?), but even though it didn’t break, we still jumped at it and broke it with our bare hands.
It was a violent, bloody battle. During the craze I could feel people over me, pushing down as they tried to go for the candy. Someone managed to scratch me on the arm, leaving a bloody figure resembling an “A” near the elbow. Someone else grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled on it painfully, until tears came to my eyes. But I held my ground (y estaba en el suelo, literalmente) and grabbed as much candy as I could.
Since I didn’t have a bag, I resorted to stuffing all the candy into the front of my jacket, until it filled up (y Rous luego comentó que por fin tenía busto). And when it did, I just threw myself facedown and refused to move, until Rozita came from the back, grabbed me and hugged me until some people went away and we managed to sneak a plastic bag in to fill it up.
On the sides, I could see Norma, Karla and some other guys doing their best to fend people off their candy. All around me there were people going vicious, just for another piece of candy. To be truthful, it was a bit frightening, though fun.
In the end, though, we managed to get out with two plastic bags worth of candy. We went inside and continued the party, drinking, dancing (Rozita forced us, I swear! Y Beto se burló de mí). I asked for caballitos of tequila and lemon, for my sore throat, which might not have been that great of an idea, since it mixed with the vodka and we ended up discussing the most random of things.
For some reason, Rose brought up my ex’s, and we started talking about the nice Mexican boy and the sexy English one, discussing their particular good points. I’m inclined towards the latter, but I’m biased :D Since I was drunk by then (y creo que rous también), I got a little carried away and I think I might have talked too much.
When it got very late, and too cold outside, we went inside the house and I talked with Aldo about woman’s hormonal cycles while Karla, Rous and Norma divided the candy and fruit into even portions, giving each an equal share of goods and auctioning off the rest. Then we went into a complex trading system that involved candy flying from different sides of the room.
I never had seen such ordeals over candy before.
But, that’s when Aldo won me over by giving me his chili watermelon lollipop and jicamas (les agarré un cariño particular esa noche).
In the end, I gave up the idea of going home, and slept with the girls in Pavel’s king sized bed, after Rous sent for me energetically (I was discussing life with little Pavel; I guess they were sleepy).
It was a fun night, even with the unfortunate encounter with the creepy guy.
Me quedaron ganas de otra posada.
Lovely times they are.
This year, though, I was invited to Rozie’s aunt’s Posada. It had been a while since I had gone to her aunt’s, and even more since my last posada. Still, I remembered similar past events (digamos que los tíos de Rozita son espléndidos con la comida y el alcohol :D) and I was more than set to go.
I was supposed to meet Rose in metro La Raza after work, but she called as I was leaving the office for the second time (la primera vez recordé a cinco cuadras que había dejado la batería de la cámara en la oficina) to tell me to meet her in the house instead.
I agreed and went on my way. I considered taking the bus to metro Eugenia, but took a look at traffic and decided to go to Chilpancingo instead. The metrobus was out of the question- it’s impossible to actually get inside a bus from 6 to 8 (y no estaba de un humor particularmente condescendiente hacia los pervertidos que parecen pulularlo). So I chose to walk the 20 minutes to the metro.
The trip was uneventful until I got to Chilpancingo, where it all wet to hell. Under the most unpredictable (and unfortunate) circumstances, I ran into Gilberto. Or rather, he ran towards me while I tried to desperately to make my way through the line into the metro, cursing slow people, ticket machines, Gilberto, and the fates in general.
Needless to say, I didn’t make it. So here comes this guy who I AGAIN pretended not to know (¿podré algún día gozar de la bendición de amnesia selectiva en cuanto a hombres se refiere?) and starts off with the basic introduction, trying to remind me again of how we met in the UAM (something I have tried SO hard to forget).
Acto seguido, he decided to enlighten me about how life has gone for him since we last met, aquel episodio en que logré que el camión en que viajábamos se detuviera vertiginosamente, me aventé de manera casi rauda por las escaleras jalando a una quejumbrosa Sara del brazo –no podía dejar que la pobre niña sufriera tan ignominiosa presencia mientras yo salvaba mi considerable pellejo- y corrí –en botas y falda, me enorgullezco de admitir- hacia la salvación que ofrecía una calle desierta en un barrio dudoso, todo mientras escuchaba al tipo despedirse y pedir mis datos desde el camión. (See previous blog).
And I was so glad I had escaped, too. Who would have thought that nearly two years later I would have to face him again in an enclosed, crowded space with no means of escape? For some reason, he though it would be flattering to escort me home (I made up a fake address; there was no way in hell I would allow him anywhere near the apartment after that comment he had made about my neighbourhood the last time we met, when I have no recollection of ever telling him where I live. I might be clueless sometimes, but it takes a very stupid girl to reveal such things to an obvious pervert).
I declined, citing plans for the night, and desperately changed routes in an effort to run as far away from the tactless idiot. I decided to get off in Centro Médico, which I admit was naïve of me, because of course he followed suit undeterred, right into the green line.
I endured his presence for much too long, listening to his woes -considero que he sido una persona a la que se le ha discriminado mucho (he believes people always boycott him; must be his lovely personality), me interesa meterme a la política, pero no ser corrupto, porque soy congruente con mis ideales (and those ideals include harassing defenceless young girls, Gilberto?), tengo grandes planes a futuro (funny thing, so do I; the nearest one being half a city of physical distance between us), etc.-
Eventually, his comments became more and more absurd, frankly moronic, and I lost all semblance of patience, deciding to just let the inner bitch go for it. I methodically ruined his comments involving financial, religious and political views (I’m no great analyst; he was just remarkably idiotic) and his woe-is-me-poor-discriminated-victim-I-am tirade.
I finished off explaining, as if to a little child, than the Vatican was more than a catholic holy place, but an actual State, which gave the pope somewhat effective political standing and the implications that carried, in a tone that must have been more than a bit condescending, because several passengers looked at him as though he was brain damaged (which, in all fairness, he isn’t. He doesn’t even have that going for him).
Thankfully, it was around this time when we arrived at La Raza and I nearly jumped off the wagon, but no luck, since he followed. I made as if to get out into the street and effusively turned down his offer to accompany me (hay gente en realidad insensata; cualquiera hubiera entendido mi ferviente deseo de que el tipo se alejara, pero el oligofrénico este superó hasta mis expectativas).
Finally free, and so very happy to be so, I waited for him to disappear from my vision before following the way he had gone. The odd thing was that we were actually headed the same way; I just made sure to stay as far back as I could while still being able to see his unmistakeable bald head. I couldn’t trust him not to turn around and try find out where I live. He really is that frighteningly creepy.
Just to be sure, I called Rous while waiting for the yellow line metro, to inform her of the unfortunate encounter and state that, should I go unexplainably missing, she was to search (as good friends should) in the freezers of all bald men named Gilberto for body parts that might resemble mine.
I arrived to her aunt’s house, thankfully in one piece, by the way of an amiable taxi driver who took pity on the confused, lost girl standing on a deserted side street (léase yo). I met up with the family, said my hello’s to Rozie, her mother, aunt, uncle, brother, and was introduced to her extensive line of cousins.
The posada itself turned out to be incredibly fun. Rouse’s cousins are fun and playful, and we enjoyed a wholesome, fun-filled night.
First off, we were forced to sing (-por supuesto, es una posada de verdad- mentioned Rose at my baffled question) in order to get access to food and alcohol, so we gave it our best shot, with all and falsettos included. We ate some tasty tacos before the hungry mob did away with it (and sweet little Pavel proudly explained he had helped cook), got our paws on some vodka and tonic, and waited for the piñatas.
I was surprised to find out that Rozie’s cousins were discussing strategies and logistics over candy recollection. When I asked about it, perplexed, they all turned to look at me as if I was slow, explained the importance of a well made plan, and went back to strategizing. I tried to be helpful, and gave a couple of ideas: “¿Y si cubrimos la piñatas por diferentes ángulos para que cuando se rompa podamos llegar por diferentes posiciones? ”
Rous, a couple of minutes later: “Pao suggested we split up and cover the piñata from different angles and jump at it when it breaks … But, we are not going to do that. We will stay on one side and barge in, with the people of the back pushing the front ones into the piñata craze.”
Dejected, I prepared for the first piñata, and as soon as it broke, dove right in along with Rose’s cousin. I found the experience to be rather savage, with lot’s of pushing, forcing and elbowing, but I managed to sit up with a bag full of fruit, utterly proud of myself.
That is, until I was mugged by a four year old.
Yes. Mugged by a four year old. As I was sitting on the pavement, feeling accomplished and childishly showing my goods to Rose, a little girl came from somewhere and took my plastic bag. Horrified, I held on to it, saying it was mine and looking to Rose for support while the kid went into the mild beginnings of a temper tantrum, repeating it was hers.
We stayed like that for half a minute, struggling for the bag until Aldo, Rous’s cousin, told me to let it go and give the kid the bag. Crestfallen, I obeyed, perfectly aware I was acting like a child but not really caring. I stood up, dusted myself, and waited for the next piñata.
This time, I got my turn at it, and found out Rozie’s aunt can be vicious with the blindfold. Not only could I not see anything, but I felt my eyes digging into my sockets and when, after my mildly effective attempt at breaking the piñata, I removed the scarf, realized everything looked blurry for a minute.
After the second piñata broke, I collected as much fruit as I could without a bag and immediately gave it to Rous before the girl could come rob me again. That is when the main event came into sight. In front of us stood a massive green piñata; so big that they had to take it out empty and fill it up on the street, to be able to pick it up.
Apparently, this is what we were waiting for, because Rous decided to change tactics and adopt my original plan after all. We rounded the piñata, all ready to go for it at a moments notice, and waited patiently for someone to break it. Which, technically, never broke.
Someone did manage to make it fall to the ground (¿o fue por el peso?), but even though it didn’t break, we still jumped at it and broke it with our bare hands.
It was a violent, bloody battle. During the craze I could feel people over me, pushing down as they tried to go for the candy. Someone managed to scratch me on the arm, leaving a bloody figure resembling an “A” near the elbow. Someone else grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled on it painfully, until tears came to my eyes. But I held my ground (y estaba en el suelo, literalmente) and grabbed as much candy as I could.
Since I didn’t have a bag, I resorted to stuffing all the candy into the front of my jacket, until it filled up (y Rous luego comentó que por fin tenía busto). And when it did, I just threw myself facedown and refused to move, until Rozita came from the back, grabbed me and hugged me until some people went away and we managed to sneak a plastic bag in to fill it up.
On the sides, I could see Norma, Karla and some other guys doing their best to fend people off their candy. All around me there were people going vicious, just for another piece of candy. To be truthful, it was a bit frightening, though fun.
In the end, though, we managed to get out with two plastic bags worth of candy. We went inside and continued the party, drinking, dancing (Rozita forced us, I swear! Y Beto se burló de mí). I asked for caballitos of tequila and lemon, for my sore throat, which might not have been that great of an idea, since it mixed with the vodka and we ended up discussing the most random of things.
For some reason, Rose brought up my ex’s, and we started talking about the nice Mexican boy and the sexy English one, discussing their particular good points. I’m inclined towards the latter, but I’m biased :D Since I was drunk by then (y creo que rous también), I got a little carried away and I think I might have talked too much.
When it got very late, and too cold outside, we went inside the house and I talked with Aldo about woman’s hormonal cycles while Karla, Rous and Norma divided the candy and fruit into even portions, giving each an equal share of goods and auctioning off the rest. Then we went into a complex trading system that involved candy flying from different sides of the room.
I never had seen such ordeals over candy before.
But, that’s when Aldo won me over by giving me his chili watermelon lollipop and jicamas (les agarré un cariño particular esa noche).
In the end, I gave up the idea of going home, and slept with the girls in Pavel’s king sized bed, after Rous sent for me energetically (I was discussing life with little Pavel; I guess they were sleepy).
It was a fun night, even with the unfortunate encounter with the creepy guy.
Me quedaron ganas de otra posada.
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