This Song.

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.


Breve Carta a Helena (Brief letter to Helena)

Te cuento que el asunto con Emily esta interesante… desde un punto de vista “humano” o fraternal, si prefieres; es una persona inteligente, aceptablemente alegre, más que límite creo que saludablemente histriónica, muy poco narcisa y en general amena, además de un tanto aburrida y predecible, es decir, una persona con quien cohabitar en un espacio, no solamente no implica conflicto, si no que tampoco nada que pueda considerarse emocionante. Ensucia poco, lo que utiliza lo lava, no hace tiradero y mantiene sus cosas dentro de su habitación, no madruga pero no se queda en la cama una vez que despierta; entra y sale del depto sin meter ruido. Como toda mujer tiene su genio pero este es de lo más llevadero, le gusta la naturaleza, ir trekking y actividades que sean “exciting but safe”… es casi como si fuese un chavo… y, triste o alegremente, compruebo que es desabrida, una maruchan sin el sobrecito de condimento. Increíble pero cierto: no me inspira nada que pueda ser considerado propiamente sexual. A pesar de ser una “activista radical” no hay pasión de mujer, y tal vez, es por eso que necesita una causa.

Así que pienso…. y, ¿si le intento mover la emoción? ¿habrá algún potencial injundioso y pasional en algún lugar? ¿será lesbiana en proceso de descubrimiento? Pero, es posible que nunca encuentre estás respuestas porqué ni siquiera me mueve lo suficiente como para ahondar y buscar.

Dream Number 1

I’m in a passage.

The walls are black, made of what resembles onyx.

I walk forth, into a dark hall which feels vast, I’m naked and there’s a tight collar around my neck with a leather leash attached to it.   Holding the leash is a tall slender woman whose face I can’t make out.  She orders me to move further into the hall and I see two shoulder height clean platforms made of stone forming a type of endless aisle that extends into the darkness.  On the platforms there are golden thrones and on the thrones nude women sit and look down at me with indifference. I am ordered to advance and stand before the nearest one, I look at her feet, she puts one forth and I am to kiss it, then she does the same with the other one.  She smiles and I move on to the next and repeat the procedure with a similar result but notice the smoothness and warmth of her feet as I kiss them.

On the third or forth woman I try to touch her feet with my hands but feel the leash yanked back, I suddenly understand that I am supposed to be looking for someone, for a specific woman whose feet I might have kissed before and who I am to recognize, and at the same time all this is supposed to be a privilege for me, an exception made.

I don’t remember how the dream ended or what it shifted towards…


Close enough.

Olvide su nombre. Mujer de unos veintisiete años de edad, educada, inteligente, cabello negro largo, piel blanca del tipo que no se broncea, rasgos finos, estatura aproximada 1.70m, voz suave pero no insegura, tímida, firme,  con mirada curiosa.   Hombros angostos, senos pequeños, buena postura, cintura estrecha, caderas amplias, nalgas proporcionadas con tendencia a ser anchas pero no muy bien formadas a pesar del jean. Probablemente soltera y sin hijos pero en una relación.  Maquillaje discreto. Olvide el color de sus ojos lo cual probablemente implica que no eran llamativos.  Con joyas de peltre y plata, un poco llamativas y desproporcionadas, manos finas, delgadas, bien cuidadas, un anillo con forma de corazón en la mano izquierda.   Atractiva.  Probablemente sumisa en la cama, tal vez no sabe que le gustaría sentirse dominada, un poco vejada, pero lo intuye.