Haber. Te cuento. Te cuento que cuento contigo. Cuento contigo no para hacer tratos benedettiescos o si quiera para benevolencias parecidas. Cuento contigo para que me sorprendas, para sentirme orgulloso de ser tu amigo, para que vayas más allá de lo que tu misma te propusiste y para que yo sonría cuando te vea feliz. Cuento contigo para ejemplo de fuerza, dedicación y lucha, no para mí pero para los y las que te siguen y seguirán. Cuento contigo para alimentar la esperanza de quienes flaquean en el camino aunque no entiendan que tú también a veces flaqueas. Cuento contigo para descubrir tu camino intelectual, académico, literario y espiritual, independientemente de prejuicios y supersticiones. Cuento contigo para olvidar el refugio de la mansedumbre cansina del asalariado y su desesperación por llegar a fin de mes, y también cuento contigo para algún día romper aquel terrible yugo llamado feminismo, doblemente terrible por ser voluntario y autoimpuesto. Y entre otras cosas, cuento contigo para algún día, aquí o allá, finalmente irnos a tomar una cerveza… con maní.
Finnish. Dark long black hair, very white and pale smooth skin, strong blue eyes, lips that parted slightly when she was listening and would move silently when she wanted to interrupt. Dressed in black. We talked about Latin American politics, sociocultural paradigms, the new left, the old left, the new right, postmodernism and motorcycles.
Then, the afternoon was over, her taxi showed up on time and she was gone. Attempts at holding on would’ve been unworthy of the moment.
Why this song?
Because her voice is impossibly intense. Because she seems mad, crazy, passionate and dangerous, because she sounds like she’ll tear me to pieces, because I know the more she’d love me the more she’d hurt me. Because I want to hurt and be hurt, because I’ve seen and heard too much and only feel alive when emotions are too intense and strong to bear. Because I know jealousy can be sick and insane, because I looked into her eyes when she aimed and took the shot. I remember, really I do, the way the bullet felt, the way it tore something inside me and how the blood was suddenly all over everything and me thinking that it didn’t hurt as much as I had thought it would, and I remember her crying and trying to aim at me again to take another shot. I smiled and just took the gun away, gently, softly, I hugged her then and the door crashed and the police hit me hard, too hard and I was suddenly of my feet and then on the ground. I don’t think he even saw the gun in my hand until I was on the floor. I wasn’t fighting back but I was getting hit, held down, getting hit and thinking how that morning I had vacuumed the carpet as my head was now being crushed into it, and I felt I loved her because this was life, on the brink of death, and I loved for having had the guts to pull the trigger on me even if it had been for the wrong reason. The parameds rushed in, turned me over, started cutting away my shirt, A- ok, B-ok, C- not ok, putting the collar on me, looking into my eyes, asking questions, getting my vitals, I loved them, I loved their detached competence, they knew I wasn’t going to die, I felt sad, better men than me were dying lonely deaths somewhere, I kept trying to smile, they wouldn’t let me get up. The drama, the waste and all the while I admired and loved her more for pulling that trigger.