March 2011
7 posts
Cada día hacía una foto para recordar dónde había dejado aparcado el coche. No recuerdo porque lo hacía. No suelo recordar nada. Pero al ver la foto he sentido la velocidad del olvido, el paisaje desparramándose a cada lado de la carretera, el aceite, el metal y la goma y, sobre todo, la última luz del sol poniéndose sobre el mar. Le rayon vert, abollado y sucio, dispuesto a desaparecer en la...
so now i know it reached her wanted wind slammed the
door it had and didn’t touch her? so she came back to
paris took postcard with her sick as we were moved
out me and yann she had three months in benodet of us
where she tore it up with precision or in haste?
only she could tell i can’t we stole her food ok before we...
From a very young age I knew that she was going to die. I hadn’t met her yet but I knew I would and she would be perfect and eventually she would die. Then I did meet her, and she was indeed perfect. All love clichés were applicable to us: we were soulmates, she completed me, we made each other better. This, predictably, made the unavoidability of her death even more painful. Every night...
Un día antes de la nochebuena de 1995 compré esta postal en una tienda de souvenirs para turistas perezosos. Había llegado a París una semana antes. Era mi primera vez en Europa y me hacia mucha ilusión el pasar las fiestas de fin de año a tope. Al segundo día me perdí en el Barrio Latino. Demasiados acentos, demasiado bullicio, demasiada ansiedad por no encontrar algo que me anclara al momento....
Dorita está desnuda en una habitación vacía. O casi vacía, salvo por dos sillas, la del Dorita y la del hombre que la tortura. El torturador canta una canción sobre las palpitaciones de un corazón al sol. Es un hombre de sufrido aspecto, espalda encorvada por las privaciones o la obediencia, no muy limpio ni en sus hábitos ni en su manera de hablar, uno de esas personas que hablan...
i sat across the road on a bench expecting satisfaction
when after too long a wait the tow truck loaded
offending vehicle moving away the owner returned
feathers sticking out of her hat bobbing up and down on her
high heels with arms skyward or breast stroking calling
out reaching for her car i didn’t
...
I had never done a very good job of keeping in touch with extended family I had always taken for granted. As I entered adulthood – after a fashion – I began to feel slightly guilty that they had been the ones who had made most of the effort to stay in touch. But by then I’d been living on and off in France for a decade, and these were regrets that tended to crop up in my lonelier moments overseas...
