Y bueno...fui al pub donde Tolkein y sus secuaces solían reunirse en Oxford para ver si recibía algún mensaje del más allá pero ningún espíritu acusó recibo de mi presencia.
Igual me tomé unas pints para hacer valer mi tránsito por esta vida.
domingo, 21 de diciembre de 2008
lunes, 15 de diciembre de 2008
Kenilworth Castle
Este castillo de corte inglés es re super, no está habilitado para ocuparlo pero si para recrear la vista e imaginarse el período Romántico inglés.
domingo, 14 de diciembre de 2008
1 de septiembre del año 2008
Sabelo, me quemé
Querida Clarita De Los Ojosnarizbocapiel del Miro-que-no-por-lengua:
Te hago estas líneas para hacerte saber que recibí tu carta, en realidad tu postal. En realidad y en honor a la verdad pura e inmutable, tu postal tuya porque es un golazo más de CLARETE PRODUCCIONES.
Me gustó mucho, me retrotrajo tanto en el tiempo que cuando quise acordar había babeado el borde inferior de la misma. Me gustó el formato, la forma, la formación, la fórmica de la misma. Me atrapó el exquisito olor a tabaco con notas de madera lapacho y caricias metálicas. Fue más que sensual y sugerente (me animaría a decir apócrifo, pero no te lo escribo porque me-animo-no-me-animo) tu idea de poner una parte tan íntima tuya como una foto de perfil, un perfil que no es parte de tu frente. Te felicito así, sigue así querida amiga que vas por la buena senda.
Procederé a contarte que ayer salí a caminar. Ya estoy mucho mejor, no hace falta que vengas a socorrerme sin los mutuos. Ya los obreros de la construcción, tan vulgares ellos, cambiaron el cielorraso y pintaron las paredes. Les costó mucho trabajo rasquetear la temible negritud de las walls. Por suerte todo quedó como era entonces. Como había sido, como nunca volverá a ser. Viste, uno aprende muchas cosas, por ejemplo, si se derrama kerosén encendido, no lo apague con un diario ni arranque una cortina para esconderlo. Ni intente cometer un salvataje humanitario arrojándose sobre las llamas eternas no olímpicas. Si bien maltrecho, logré sacarme el pulovercito que me tejiste con lanas del Alto Perú, y corrì hasta la piletita del lavadero para darme unas mojaduras acuáticas. Los vecinos llamaron a los bomberos y vinieron al instante mismo en que el cielorraso era una visión misma del Infierno, la boca se nos haga a un lado por un ratito nomás.
Me tuvo preocupado tu situación de inestabilidad, ¿hasta cuándo ibas a aparentar ser un pozo con un aljibe encima? Sabrás ahora que nunca nunca nunca se hacen oídos sordos a la chifladura del moño. El moño se ata y se desata y uno va juntando miguitas de cordura, escaleras y serpientes en el mientras tanto. No me sorprende el diagnóstico salvaje del que fuiste objeto. Es una moda que ha producido estragos a gran escala en los diferentes círculos y estancias argentinas esto de drogar legalmente a la gente que nunca probó ni siquiera una cucharadita de té de ruda o unas gotitas de cardamomo. Después contame qué hacés con la camisa de fuerza una vez que te la saquen, ¿no te sentís tentada a donarla a Cáritas?
Siendo ya las quince horas con cuarenta y tres minutos en nuestro país, te dejo de escribir en unos minutos más porque ya me sacan las vendas de la cara. Aparentemente he salido favorecido ya que el sobrante de nariz que siempre me aquejó durante mis veranos en Santiago del Estero, no está más.
Siempre en mi corazón de mazapán.
Tu amigotu
Sabelo, me quemé
Querida Clarita De Los Ojosnarizbocapiel del Miro-que-no-por-lengua:
Te hago estas líneas para hacerte saber que recibí tu carta, en realidad tu postal. En realidad y en honor a la verdad pura e inmutable, tu postal tuya porque es un golazo más de CLARETE PRODUCCIONES.
Me gustó mucho, me retrotrajo tanto en el tiempo que cuando quise acordar había babeado el borde inferior de la misma. Me gustó el formato, la forma, la formación, la fórmica de la misma. Me atrapó el exquisito olor a tabaco con notas de madera lapacho y caricias metálicas. Fue más que sensual y sugerente (me animaría a decir apócrifo, pero no te lo escribo porque me-animo-no-me-animo) tu idea de poner una parte tan íntima tuya como una foto de perfil, un perfil que no es parte de tu frente. Te felicito así, sigue así querida amiga que vas por la buena senda.
Procederé a contarte que ayer salí a caminar. Ya estoy mucho mejor, no hace falta que vengas a socorrerme sin los mutuos. Ya los obreros de la construcción, tan vulgares ellos, cambiaron el cielorraso y pintaron las paredes. Les costó mucho trabajo rasquetear la temible negritud de las walls. Por suerte todo quedó como era entonces. Como había sido, como nunca volverá a ser. Viste, uno aprende muchas cosas, por ejemplo, si se derrama kerosén encendido, no lo apague con un diario ni arranque una cortina para esconderlo. Ni intente cometer un salvataje humanitario arrojándose sobre las llamas eternas no olímpicas. Si bien maltrecho, logré sacarme el pulovercito que me tejiste con lanas del Alto Perú, y corrì hasta la piletita del lavadero para darme unas mojaduras acuáticas. Los vecinos llamaron a los bomberos y vinieron al instante mismo en que el cielorraso era una visión misma del Infierno, la boca se nos haga a un lado por un ratito nomás.
Me tuvo preocupado tu situación de inestabilidad, ¿hasta cuándo ibas a aparentar ser un pozo con un aljibe encima? Sabrás ahora que nunca nunca nunca se hacen oídos sordos a la chifladura del moño. El moño se ata y se desata y uno va juntando miguitas de cordura, escaleras y serpientes en el mientras tanto. No me sorprende el diagnóstico salvaje del que fuiste objeto. Es una moda que ha producido estragos a gran escala en los diferentes círculos y estancias argentinas esto de drogar legalmente a la gente que nunca probó ni siquiera una cucharadita de té de ruda o unas gotitas de cardamomo. Después contame qué hacés con la camisa de fuerza una vez que te la saquen, ¿no te sentís tentada a donarla a Cáritas?
Siendo ya las quince horas con cuarenta y tres minutos en nuestro país, te dejo de escribir en unos minutos más porque ya me sacan las vendas de la cara. Aparentemente he salido favorecido ya que el sobrante de nariz que siempre me aquejó durante mis veranos en Santiago del Estero, no está más.
Siempre en mi corazón de mazapán.
Tu amigotu
sábado, 13 de diciembre de 2008
Of Christmas and the Northern Star
It was cold but the summer of everyone’s laughter tempted me. I left. It was at the stroke of midnight that. I was all alone. Or to put it another way, the entire world fell under my spell and became its master for two, five, seven times seven seconds. Seconds whispering the melody of midnight fires, humming carols at the sight of the sun timidly rising over your face under the tidal influence of your moon. This night is all yours. Hide it. Break it in halves. Save it for a barren momentum. Place it carefully under your bed. You can rest your solitude on its shoulder. Full moon. Half moon. New moon. The choice is yours. Here I am breathing in all I can feel through each millimetre of your scented afternoon crammed with games, cards, hammocks far far away, so distant that a queue could end up where it found its alpha.
I threw a handful of twinkle twinkle little stars into the Universe and they spelt your name in the night of my timeless dream.
Get out, leave your nest. Take your coat of arms off. Just for once, test your defences by letting me wrap you in sleepy simple songs. Step to your balcony. It’s Christmas Eve. See your very own name radiantly embroidered in the blackness of the night. Fear me not. Let your tears shine on as they trickle down down your walls carved in your very mounts. Let’s change the world now that you’ve changed mine.
You can’t see your name singing under the deafening glories of a thousand bells? You don´t like your balcony? Where did your roses in full bloom go? Where did you hide your childish look? So well hidden that now you can’t find it. Or is it hiding from you? You can´t stand the cold? You suppress your screams? You don´t like contemplating your own breath rising up against the icy quiet night? Why? All the starts are there. I threw a handful of the most unique stars into the Universe. I threw them with my right arm. You very well know its strength, its power, its tender side, its maps, junctions made under the progress of your infinite plan. If you can’t see your name waving at you. You haven’t been loved enough. You gave your childhood summer afternoons into adoption long ago. You don’t love. You can’t love. I say again, let’s change the world now that you’ve already changed mine. And the changes of the world cannot be undone. Let’s change the world now that you’ve changed mine. Let’s change the world now that you’ve changed mine. Look for your name in the night. Christmas has come. Let your world be changed. Let’s change the world now that you’ve changed mine.
I threw a handful of twinkle twinkle little stars into the Universe and they spelt your name in the night of my timeless dream.
Get out, leave your nest. Take your coat of arms off. Just for once, test your defences by letting me wrap you in sleepy simple songs. Step to your balcony. It’s Christmas Eve. See your very own name radiantly embroidered in the blackness of the night. Fear me not. Let your tears shine on as they trickle down down your walls carved in your very mounts. Let’s change the world now that you’ve changed mine.
You can’t see your name singing under the deafening glories of a thousand bells? You don´t like your balcony? Where did your roses in full bloom go? Where did you hide your childish look? So well hidden that now you can’t find it. Or is it hiding from you? You can´t stand the cold? You suppress your screams? You don´t like contemplating your own breath rising up against the icy quiet night? Why? All the starts are there. I threw a handful of the most unique stars into the Universe. I threw them with my right arm. You very well know its strength, its power, its tender side, its maps, junctions made under the progress of your infinite plan. If you can’t see your name waving at you. You haven’t been loved enough. You gave your childhood summer afternoons into adoption long ago. You don’t love. You can’t love. I say again, let’s change the world now that you’ve already changed mine. And the changes of the world cannot be undone. Let’s change the world now that you’ve changed mine. Let’s change the world now that you’ve changed mine. Look for your name in the night. Christmas has come. Let your world be changed. Let’s change the world now that you’ve changed mine.
Scene-Scene
Scene 1.
A man and a woman in their living-room. Bound to each other, yet in two different worlds.
Zoom in. THE WIFE reading a newspaper. No news, thank you. Beauty ads? Yes, please.
Focus on man. SITTING on his favourite sofa, smoking the grief of the walking population outside his white box. Bored to death. Thinking she won’t even notice thinking about going to hang on a minute a sec to other other places for fun but he feels I feel too old for that old this to. Still he pictures himself in a. In a pub. A fish out of water. An element. An animal. Young people everywhere. Another thought. A disco? Yep. Dancing the old ways meeting new people seducing another woman a man that was long before he actually.
Scene 2.
A man and a woman in their living-room. Bound to each other, yet in two different worlds.
A man and a woman in their living-room. Bound to each other, yet in two different worlds.
Zoom in. THE WIFE reading a newspaper. No news, thank you. Beauty ads? Yes, please.
Focus on man. SITTING on his favourite sofa, smoking the grief of the walking population outside his white box. Bored to death. Thinking she won’t even notice thinking about going to hang on a minute a sec to other other places for fun but he feels I feel too old for that old this to. Still he pictures himself in a. In a pub. A fish out of water. An element. An animal. Young people everywhere. Another thought. A disco? Yep. Dancing the old ways meeting new people seducing another woman a man that was long before he actually.
Scene 2.
A man and a woman in their living-room. Bound to each other, yet in two different worlds.
MIND in HAND
A story.
A story if forging in the mounts of a realm far far away, a realm where a duck can be found having a hot argument with its feathers, a thought embroidering flames on a tongue, three children laughing as they declare a new nation with a flag made of daylight, sweets and siesta adventures, fear from a nameless source.
The story pushes its start, its alpha, but, sad to say, doesn’t know where this weaving will lead to. That she, because stories are female according to Lesbosjen (2001:34), reference that makes a digression worth it.
Stories are female in the unequivocal sense that they give birth to a myriad of interpretations, their curves invite readers to embark on imaginable adventures. Stories are tasted, sweet, bitter with resentment, salty by numberless tears shed over the moon’s shoulder. Stories are intelligent because they know when to turn, when to leave their readers hanging from a spiderweb thread. A cliff hanger. A blade. A forked path. Stories can whisper your future and sing following mermaids’ lectures, or they can petrify readers’ minds with their words loaded with darkness, loneliness, blindness… (Lesbosjen, 2001:34)
That she, because stories are undoubtedly female, doesn’t know the end. In fact, and to be honest, she couldn’t care less about which road to take, in case there are such material inventions to opt for.
A story is troubling a mind. Let me out. Let me haunt you until this itchy-itchy business is settled when you decide, at last, thank God (because stories are said to believe in Him), to put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, and let words pour and run. Hopeless business to arrange words. They, because they are the daughters of stories, have a plan in mind, an infinite one, they follow the course designed by their mothers, then a frenetic event takes place where symbols fight for a plot of paper and free will is exercised to its full potential. It’s a peacock showing off all his grandeur. You will never make us stand still. We dictate the course of a life, a life that can re-arrange us in as many ways as possible (though, it’s generally acknowledged that humans are losing faith and can only see words in a poor linear fashion, so vulgar of them).
I’m alive, and I’m looking good today. I feel like being carried away by a chariot, a wheel-less chariot.
A story is troubling a mind. She’s alive, she’s looking good. But does anybody know what might happen once it is released and issued a passport to travel these lands? Who dare foretell its fortune? Oracles have been on strike for thousands of seasons. Their winters have crystallised their summers, and autumns, in turn, have swallowed their scented springs.
A story is revealing her insanity. And her aim is to hit this mind hard. A beginning. No end. What for?
A story is cooking in the kitchen of nightmares, and dreams, and visions, and seas of distant voices whose task is to wash away constraints, don’ts, you name them.
HUSH, NOW
I AM ALIVE AND THIS IS THE PATTERN I SHALL REVEAL
I’m an angel, a sweet one; one made of milk, honey and buttered toasts. I’ve been presented with a puffy cloud, a gift from Thrones, Dominations and Postestates. And the wind, variable way beyond my reach, has drifted my cloud (me as well) high above a crowded city. It could be Tokyo, Shanghai, I have to confess at this point that my Geography is nothing but scanty, poor, basic, so basic that it takes me ages to recognise a continent from an island. Once, I thought the Earth was an island. So there I was, hand up, ready to show my classmates how I had internalised the concept of “island”. Wrong. Next.
A new day is about to begin. Clouds are retreating. I can see down below thousands of cars carried away by conveyor belts in all possible directions. Tall towers, like fingers pointing at Heaven. I can see the early rays patting clouds’ backs.
But down there a woman, naked, soaking wet. She feels so unprotected in the forests of the night. Her Blake’s tiger is outside, though she knows she has no right to call herself a lamb. No. She’s crying and her tears are washed away by the water coming from the shower. She attempts to cover it with her hands. But water cannot be stopped; somehow it will reach her trembling body. She cries, and cries, and she’d like to hear her inner voice speak louder, but even that company is denied to her. She’s all alone quivering in a shower in a flat where a man is outside waiting to see her leave.
And I am a man now (the story says). And I can see that man now, the angel says. The man our woman (the story’s realization of humanity and my vision from up here) is crying for as rivers of fear run, cascading with rage and grey scents. I can see a man. He’s sitting placidly busying himself with making a cup of green tea. For himself, of course. He’s sitting there on his leather sofa, pouring hot green tea. From a black teapot to a red cup. And he feels so happy, so at ease with the world around. That he could go around naked, he knows. I know. She knows too. That he has decided not to. White underwear will do. Not any. Designer’s. And as he pours his tea, he focuses on how this infusion leaves one container to fill another. It has no choice; the laws of gravity force it to abandon the spacious teapot to struggle with this new temporary accommodation. Never mind, soon, in I’ll go. Into this man. Besides, red is more lively than black. Anyway, I’m just green tea, not much to expect from me. As for this man…
Having filled his red cup, he stands up and goes to a window, those huge glass panes which are window-wall structures. A glass jar. Odd, isn’t it? A new day is about to break. The sun is coming. He can feel it in the distant horizon. He begins to see the sun rising way way there. He’s facing it. How many times has he faced the sun in his life? Only when I need some direction to take. I don’t want to be blinded. I just want to see its perfect shape, its flames regaining lost territory during the dark hours. He’s standing, cup in hand, gazing at the far away sun ascending and declaring that a new day has come.
As for her, still in the shower, posing her hand against the mirror as to clear the mist she has created. A mirror coated with resentment, with speechless arguments, with pitch black lies. But now, he has understood. A new day has come.
He’s sipping his green tea. Staring at the sun. The sun she cannot sea. She appears to get dressed with the same clothes she wore last night for a few hours before she let him take them off. But here she is now, like a tramp wearing the same rags again and again. Her whims and sighs call his attention. He turns. She looks him in the eye. Her eyes are daggers. Such a waste of energy. He looks at her coldly. Pity, perhaps? Compassion? Indifference? He hates being distracted. He turns back to his sun, his face lit now by two thousand million rays licking his glass jar. Another sip. This tea is really good. So much for the tea. So much for her. How can you trust a woman who wants to take over the first night? Let her go. She will. Of course she will. Better staring at the sun than trying to pretend to be nice and gentle. Fuck identities. A slam.
HUSH NOW
AN ANGEL WHO JUST SAW A MOVING PICTURE. HUMANS IN MOTION. JUST A PART.
NO END.
SO WHAT.
A story. A story desperate to begin but in such a hurry that she forgot to tell the end. An angel, so chubby and pink and playful that he (I thought they were sexless) decided to look down on other issues.
A mind released from the pressures exercised by a story, a true female story.
A story if forging in the mounts of a realm far far away, a realm where a duck can be found having a hot argument with its feathers, a thought embroidering flames on a tongue, three children laughing as they declare a new nation with a flag made of daylight, sweets and siesta adventures, fear from a nameless source.
The story pushes its start, its alpha, but, sad to say, doesn’t know where this weaving will lead to. That she, because stories are female according to Lesbosjen (2001:34), reference that makes a digression worth it.
Stories are female in the unequivocal sense that they give birth to a myriad of interpretations, their curves invite readers to embark on imaginable adventures. Stories are tasted, sweet, bitter with resentment, salty by numberless tears shed over the moon’s shoulder. Stories are intelligent because they know when to turn, when to leave their readers hanging from a spiderweb thread. A cliff hanger. A blade. A forked path. Stories can whisper your future and sing following mermaids’ lectures, or they can petrify readers’ minds with their words loaded with darkness, loneliness, blindness… (Lesbosjen, 2001:34)
That she, because stories are undoubtedly female, doesn’t know the end. In fact, and to be honest, she couldn’t care less about which road to take, in case there are such material inventions to opt for.
A story is troubling a mind. Let me out. Let me haunt you until this itchy-itchy business is settled when you decide, at last, thank God (because stories are said to believe in Him), to put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, and let words pour and run. Hopeless business to arrange words. They, because they are the daughters of stories, have a plan in mind, an infinite one, they follow the course designed by their mothers, then a frenetic event takes place where symbols fight for a plot of paper and free will is exercised to its full potential. It’s a peacock showing off all his grandeur. You will never make us stand still. We dictate the course of a life, a life that can re-arrange us in as many ways as possible (though, it’s generally acknowledged that humans are losing faith and can only see words in a poor linear fashion, so vulgar of them).
I’m alive, and I’m looking good today. I feel like being carried away by a chariot, a wheel-less chariot.
A story is troubling a mind. She’s alive, she’s looking good. But does anybody know what might happen once it is released and issued a passport to travel these lands? Who dare foretell its fortune? Oracles have been on strike for thousands of seasons. Their winters have crystallised their summers, and autumns, in turn, have swallowed their scented springs.
A story is revealing her insanity. And her aim is to hit this mind hard. A beginning. No end. What for?
A story is cooking in the kitchen of nightmares, and dreams, and visions, and seas of distant voices whose task is to wash away constraints, don’ts, you name them.
HUSH, NOW
I AM ALIVE AND THIS IS THE PATTERN I SHALL REVEAL
I’m an angel, a sweet one; one made of milk, honey and buttered toasts. I’ve been presented with a puffy cloud, a gift from Thrones, Dominations and Postestates. And the wind, variable way beyond my reach, has drifted my cloud (me as well) high above a crowded city. It could be Tokyo, Shanghai, I have to confess at this point that my Geography is nothing but scanty, poor, basic, so basic that it takes me ages to recognise a continent from an island. Once, I thought the Earth was an island. So there I was, hand up, ready to show my classmates how I had internalised the concept of “island”. Wrong. Next.
A new day is about to begin. Clouds are retreating. I can see down below thousands of cars carried away by conveyor belts in all possible directions. Tall towers, like fingers pointing at Heaven. I can see the early rays patting clouds’ backs.
But down there a woman, naked, soaking wet. She feels so unprotected in the forests of the night. Her Blake’s tiger is outside, though she knows she has no right to call herself a lamb. No. She’s crying and her tears are washed away by the water coming from the shower. She attempts to cover it with her hands. But water cannot be stopped; somehow it will reach her trembling body. She cries, and cries, and she’d like to hear her inner voice speak louder, but even that company is denied to her. She’s all alone quivering in a shower in a flat where a man is outside waiting to see her leave.
And I am a man now (the story says). And I can see that man now, the angel says. The man our woman (the story’s realization of humanity and my vision from up here) is crying for as rivers of fear run, cascading with rage and grey scents. I can see a man. He’s sitting placidly busying himself with making a cup of green tea. For himself, of course. He’s sitting there on his leather sofa, pouring hot green tea. From a black teapot to a red cup. And he feels so happy, so at ease with the world around. That he could go around naked, he knows. I know. She knows too. That he has decided not to. White underwear will do. Not any. Designer’s. And as he pours his tea, he focuses on how this infusion leaves one container to fill another. It has no choice; the laws of gravity force it to abandon the spacious teapot to struggle with this new temporary accommodation. Never mind, soon, in I’ll go. Into this man. Besides, red is more lively than black. Anyway, I’m just green tea, not much to expect from me. As for this man…
Having filled his red cup, he stands up and goes to a window, those huge glass panes which are window-wall structures. A glass jar. Odd, isn’t it? A new day is about to break. The sun is coming. He can feel it in the distant horizon. He begins to see the sun rising way way there. He’s facing it. How many times has he faced the sun in his life? Only when I need some direction to take. I don’t want to be blinded. I just want to see its perfect shape, its flames regaining lost territory during the dark hours. He’s standing, cup in hand, gazing at the far away sun ascending and declaring that a new day has come.
As for her, still in the shower, posing her hand against the mirror as to clear the mist she has created. A mirror coated with resentment, with speechless arguments, with pitch black lies. But now, he has understood. A new day has come.
He’s sipping his green tea. Staring at the sun. The sun she cannot sea. She appears to get dressed with the same clothes she wore last night for a few hours before she let him take them off. But here she is now, like a tramp wearing the same rags again and again. Her whims and sighs call his attention. He turns. She looks him in the eye. Her eyes are daggers. Such a waste of energy. He looks at her coldly. Pity, perhaps? Compassion? Indifference? He hates being distracted. He turns back to his sun, his face lit now by two thousand million rays licking his glass jar. Another sip. This tea is really good. So much for the tea. So much for her. How can you trust a woman who wants to take over the first night? Let her go. She will. Of course she will. Better staring at the sun than trying to pretend to be nice and gentle. Fuck identities. A slam.
HUSH NOW
AN ANGEL WHO JUST SAW A MOVING PICTURE. HUMANS IN MOTION. JUST A PART.
NO END.
SO WHAT.
A story. A story desperate to begin but in such a hurry that she forgot to tell the end. An angel, so chubby and pink and playful that he (I thought they were sexless) decided to look down on other issues.
A mind released from the pressures exercised by a story, a true female story.
Una carta
11de octubre de 2008
XXV Aniversario de la Creación de la
Segunda Colonia de Vacaciones Ortodoxa
Querida amiga:
Te hago estas líneas para hacerte saber que hace dos semanas recibí tu encomienda con regalos todos para mí. Gracias. Sos muy generosa. Nadie se desprende de su gato siamés sin derramar una lágrima. Te quiero. Y gracias a tu lista de regalos me percaté de que las tres bolas de fraile que hiciste en tu clase de cocina sufrieron bajas. Encontré dos. La tercera tuve que buscarla dentro del gato, que, por razones de la vida natural misma, ofreció resistencia. Finalmente, como todo en este mundo, la tenacidad fue recompensada y ahora tengo dos hermosas bolas de fraile y un bolo alimenticio de fraile de adorno en una cesta que conseguí en la feria hace veintidós días.
Sin embargo, y bien lo sabemos, la dicha nunca es completa ya que el peine eléctrico que me obsequiaste necesitaba de dos pilas para funcionar. Se las compré, no te pongas en gastos, pero ayer descubrí que se habían sulfatado y entonces, ya sabés de mi aficción por la ingeniería doméstica, mediante un pequeño circuito eléctrico, enchufé el peine en el mismísimo enchufe donde supe alguna vez enchufar el cepillo de dientes que me regalaste para los carnavales del año 1998. No quiero sonar petulante, ya sabemos que no lo soy, pero debería patentar mi invento. Primero lo probé en el gato, al que he rebautizado con el nombre de Lisandro “El Gato” Giménez, y le hice un flequillo salvaje. Y para no desentonar, le apliqué a sus bigotes una dosis de locura y les dí un poco más de personalidad. Me gustaría mandarte una foto de Lisandro pero no logro sacarlo de detrás del lavarropas. Con respecto a mí, me hice como una cosa de volumen que no logré concluir porque me comenzaron a lagrimear los ojos por el mismo olor de pelo, no quemado, pero sí sometido a un nuevo paradigma en la peluquería. Cuando logre reponerme, completaré el peinado y te mandaré una foto con la cámara polaroid que me encontré en La Plata cuando fuimos a la peregrinación aquella, ¿te acordás? ¡Mirá que hemos vivido cosas!
Tengo mucho para contarte pero prefiero ir despacio porque si me apuro tengo miedo de meter la pata y no poder sacarla más. Ni Dios lo permita, ni la patria me lo demande. Creo que llaman a la puerta, bueno, sabrás disculparme, pero debo ir a contestar el llamado por la puerta. Ya sabrás que nunca logré que soltara palabra la muy boba.
Te mando un beso y dos saquitos de té reelaborados con estas manos bien argentinas.
Tu amigo
XXV Aniversario de la Creación de la
Segunda Colonia de Vacaciones Ortodoxa
Querida amiga:
Te hago estas líneas para hacerte saber que hace dos semanas recibí tu encomienda con regalos todos para mí. Gracias. Sos muy generosa. Nadie se desprende de su gato siamés sin derramar una lágrima. Te quiero. Y gracias a tu lista de regalos me percaté de que las tres bolas de fraile que hiciste en tu clase de cocina sufrieron bajas. Encontré dos. La tercera tuve que buscarla dentro del gato, que, por razones de la vida natural misma, ofreció resistencia. Finalmente, como todo en este mundo, la tenacidad fue recompensada y ahora tengo dos hermosas bolas de fraile y un bolo alimenticio de fraile de adorno en una cesta que conseguí en la feria hace veintidós días.
Sin embargo, y bien lo sabemos, la dicha nunca es completa ya que el peine eléctrico que me obsequiaste necesitaba de dos pilas para funcionar. Se las compré, no te pongas en gastos, pero ayer descubrí que se habían sulfatado y entonces, ya sabés de mi aficción por la ingeniería doméstica, mediante un pequeño circuito eléctrico, enchufé el peine en el mismísimo enchufe donde supe alguna vez enchufar el cepillo de dientes que me regalaste para los carnavales del año 1998. No quiero sonar petulante, ya sabemos que no lo soy, pero debería patentar mi invento. Primero lo probé en el gato, al que he rebautizado con el nombre de Lisandro “El Gato” Giménez, y le hice un flequillo salvaje. Y para no desentonar, le apliqué a sus bigotes una dosis de locura y les dí un poco más de personalidad. Me gustaría mandarte una foto de Lisandro pero no logro sacarlo de detrás del lavarropas. Con respecto a mí, me hice como una cosa de volumen que no logré concluir porque me comenzaron a lagrimear los ojos por el mismo olor de pelo, no quemado, pero sí sometido a un nuevo paradigma en la peluquería. Cuando logre reponerme, completaré el peinado y te mandaré una foto con la cámara polaroid que me encontré en La Plata cuando fuimos a la peregrinación aquella, ¿te acordás? ¡Mirá que hemos vivido cosas!
Tengo mucho para contarte pero prefiero ir despacio porque si me apuro tengo miedo de meter la pata y no poder sacarla más. Ni Dios lo permita, ni la patria me lo demande. Creo que llaman a la puerta, bueno, sabrás disculparme, pero debo ir a contestar el llamado por la puerta. Ya sabrás que nunca logré que soltara palabra la muy boba.
Te mando un beso y dos saquitos de té reelaborados con estas manos bien argentinas.
Tu amigo
A Letter
10th July, 2008
Stratford-upon-Avon
Dear Friend of Mine (DFM),
I’m writing these modest lines on this recycled sheet of paper to let you know that yesterday I picked up from the post office the parcel you sent me crammed with presents to me and nobody else but me. Thank you. You’re my sunshine.
I really appreciate your generosity. It came as a surprise to find your dear Persian cat with its mouth taped. He was so quiet in there. First, I thought he had started his journey to the West, but then I realised you had doped him. Naughty girl!!! That was very clever of you!! Nobody has ever done that, I mean, to part with such a lovely possession. I’ll call it Kat. I’d like to teach him how to write his new name. Could you ever make him use a pencil by himself. Is he self-regulated in that respect or does he still need some kind of assistance?
Anyway, thanks to the list you included, I made sure the post office people hadn’t helped themselves. It’s amazing the number of people who feel entitled to the products of our consumerism. They are so vulgar. By the way, two days ago, two immigrants came, poor of course, begging for something. I gave them a dictionary of the English language to help them improve their English. It was appalling. I’m sure they were from South America, since I could hear some Latin accent in their speech. I always believed that the Roman Empire language was well dead and never to return, but, apparently, these people have unearthed it and use it. No wonder Latin America seems to be going backwards all the time. Coming back to your list, I have to thank you for the muffins you made yourself in your cooking lessons. I’ll give them a bite as soon as I get rid of all the film you used to protect them from God knows what kind of germs in the air these days. Also, I found very amusing the idea of combing my hair with an electric brush. First, I tried it on Kat, on his whiskers to be more precise, I’d like to send you a picture of him but I can’t get him out of his zone of proximal terror, that is, between the washing machine and the wall.
When did you find the time to knit that pair of gloves? I want to wear them now, but I’m afraid I’ll have to put off my wishes as the radio is forecasting 30º for today. I’ll keep them at hand in case we experience a spell of cold weather coming from the North Pole, or the South Pole, though, needless to say, that might take longer as it is so down there. How can people live so far from the North?
Well, dear not-so-young-any-more friend, I’m afraid I’ll have to let myself drop this pen as I’m having an appointment with the dentist in two hours and I really want to make sure my teeth and gums are clean. Do you think I might look too posh if I just give them a little dose of SUPERPOLISH?
Hope you keep healthy, merry and wise. Please, write to me after you read this letter; don’t reply as soon as you collect the envelope. Well, sad as it may seem, when you read these lines it might be too late. Again, take your time and write a nice long letter, you can include charts, graphs, or tables. You can even come up with a puzzle for me to solve.
All the best,
Your humble and devoted friend
Stratford-upon-Avon
Dear Friend of Mine (DFM),
I’m writing these modest lines on this recycled sheet of paper to let you know that yesterday I picked up from the post office the parcel you sent me crammed with presents to me and nobody else but me. Thank you. You’re my sunshine.
I really appreciate your generosity. It came as a surprise to find your dear Persian cat with its mouth taped. He was so quiet in there. First, I thought he had started his journey to the West, but then I realised you had doped him. Naughty girl!!! That was very clever of you!! Nobody has ever done that, I mean, to part with such a lovely possession. I’ll call it Kat. I’d like to teach him how to write his new name. Could you ever make him use a pencil by himself. Is he self-regulated in that respect or does he still need some kind of assistance?
Anyway, thanks to the list you included, I made sure the post office people hadn’t helped themselves. It’s amazing the number of people who feel entitled to the products of our consumerism. They are so vulgar. By the way, two days ago, two immigrants came, poor of course, begging for something. I gave them a dictionary of the English language to help them improve their English. It was appalling. I’m sure they were from South America, since I could hear some Latin accent in their speech. I always believed that the Roman Empire language was well dead and never to return, but, apparently, these people have unearthed it and use it. No wonder Latin America seems to be going backwards all the time. Coming back to your list, I have to thank you for the muffins you made yourself in your cooking lessons. I’ll give them a bite as soon as I get rid of all the film you used to protect them from God knows what kind of germs in the air these days. Also, I found very amusing the idea of combing my hair with an electric brush. First, I tried it on Kat, on his whiskers to be more precise, I’d like to send you a picture of him but I can’t get him out of his zone of proximal terror, that is, between the washing machine and the wall.
When did you find the time to knit that pair of gloves? I want to wear them now, but I’m afraid I’ll have to put off my wishes as the radio is forecasting 30º for today. I’ll keep them at hand in case we experience a spell of cold weather coming from the North Pole, or the South Pole, though, needless to say, that might take longer as it is so down there. How can people live so far from the North?
Well, dear not-so-young-any-more friend, I’m afraid I’ll have to let myself drop this pen as I’m having an appointment with the dentist in two hours and I really want to make sure my teeth and gums are clean. Do you think I might look too posh if I just give them a little dose of SUPERPOLISH?
Hope you keep healthy, merry and wise. Please, write to me after you read this letter; don’t reply as soon as you collect the envelope. Well, sad as it may seem, when you read these lines it might be too late. Again, take your time and write a nice long letter, you can include charts, graphs, or tables. You can even come up with a puzzle for me to solve.
All the best,
Your humble and devoted friend
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