The apple

Kids. There's an awful lot of things kids do not know. Like why the skye is blue, how far such and such stars are, like all the digits in Pi or how to spell or pronounce words in Latin. Yet. Yet they  know when fruit is ripe, what song to hum at midday, when to pet a dog's head, and, most importantly, they know when one is in love. This does not necessary mean when them kids are in love, but when anyone is in love.

Janek was a wee kid of nine. He spent most of his mornings at school, mostly paying attention, but mostly not, wandering off in his head, walking by the river to collect round stones that would later be thrown in the pond, making ripples in the water. At times he pictured himself running in wheat fields along with Kuba, his lowland sheepdog, scaring birds off, shouting and barking of joy. Sometimes he was dreaded Long John Silver, at least in playtime, assaulting the fort his friends had built to protect the west coast of England. Of course, only in his head for school occupied most of his morning. He did not enjoy it much since, he believed, his teacher was the closest thing to a dragon this good Earth would have: the man had the worst temper to imagine, unable to think outside his doctrine, and wary of the kids imaginative replies whenever they felt they needed a chuckle. So Janek sometimes felt tempted to tell his father to take him along to the fields as an extra hand and teach him all he needed to in time properly own himself a farm. Then. Then there was Marika. Marika with her cascading shiny dark brown hair and her pearly smile and her peppered freckles. Marika, who sat next to Agnieszka and giggled about who knows. Marika. As obvious as the color of the sun, he was in love. Hence school became bearable for him. He meant to say they should play together in the afternoon. They should together storm the west coast of England. They should both hide from Kuba, to then pop up elsewhere to scare him or to confuse him as to he would not know where in heavens they were. They could lie next to the other in the grass. She may hold his hand. She may give him a kiss.

He dared not tell her to come along and play together.

The class was so boring. The teacher could not stop talking about math, numbers, additions and subtractions, why such and such makes such else, why one minus nothing was still one, if math mattered regardless what one did for a living and the sort. An awful sort. Someone over the corner scratched his head and someone by the window dozed off quietly. But, something unexpected was to happen. Not the unexpected Janek sometimes wished would happen, like a lightning bolt hitting the roof of the school for the classes to be suspended, or the sighting of a whale which would have everyone run out and the class would be over, at least for the day. So, no, the unexpected about to happen was something more subtle, something that rather than ending things, would make them pleasant.

After the usual babbling, babbling at least to Janek, of mathematics the teacher announced there was a special guest for the history lesson: Mr Adamczyk's daughter, Ada. She herself was teacher, though she did so at high school level, and did so in Warsaw. She sometimes reprimanded her father for being so tough on the kids, though her upbringing sunk in books and why culture mattered and why culture should not be an option, all bridled by her father, came out alright. There fore, she at times gave her dad the benefit of the doubt, not without reminding him of how fast times were changing, and that someday he might have to go soft on the children.

Ada, Mr Adamczyk announced, was there to talk about something he called the best example of how history is sometimes fictionalised so one may not really know what has happened, how one can have difficulty discerning whether what the narrator has chosen to spread as truth is such a truth: the siege of Troy. The kids had read about the importance of The Iliad as a classic, of its relevance in western literature, and of how blind Homer had been. However, they had never actually read it as to the only copy the school had had been stolen by little Anastazy Dubicki as a present for his grandfather the Christmas before. When little Anastazy was inquired about the whereabouts of the book, he tearfully replied his granddad had not made it past the winter, and as the last present he was given by his beloved grandson, the book had been buried with him. No one desired to exhume someone for an old, rotten classic, so the case was dropped and the school was just another book short.

At the sight of Ada, most of the boys smiled. Her cascading blond hair reflecting sunlight, her smirking peach coloured lips wielding trust and confidence, her pearly milk skin contrasting her navy blue jumper and her auburn red cardigan. Even the girls felt enchanted by her grace. Not Janek. Years later, when told about his school time in Warsaw, when she ran into Ada in high school, he repeatedly said there were no eyes for other than little Marika.

Ada asked the class if they knew how it all had begun, why Agamemnon had come to siege Troy. Helena, someone at the back shouted. Ada grinned and asked if they knew how Helena had foregone all the power and wealth Agamemnon for Paris and his beauty. No one replied. So then she told them about Hera, Athena, Aphrodite and that apple, that apple and that dreaded decision Zeus wanted not to know about. Hence he chose Paris to decide on the fairest of Olympus. Hence Paris chose Aphrodite and she was able to grant him what he desired most. Hence the war began. All for an apple. All discord sown by a simple apple.

An apple. Janek had seen some, but never had one. The price was too high for him, all he was able to afford with his weekly allowance was krówki and, if he saved enough, a ptasie mleczko. Not that he was interested in buying apples, you understand. However, Marika had the tiniest bit of curiosity to ask Ada why such a bicker for a piece of fruit. And her interest automatically awoke his. The apple had been a representation of virtue and mysticality, of forbiddenness, of love and, basically, of any other fruit. It bore such considerable sacredness to Aphrodite that to declare one's love one could simply throw an apple to that one's heart desired. Some of the kids laughed, even Mr Adamczyk chuckled a bit. Not Janek, for he now had a plan.

Now, I say a plan as to he kind of knew what he sort of wanted to do so Marika came and played with him. It is not that he planned on pitching an apple at her so she would discover his love for her. It was more like he just believed he simply needed an apple to let her know he sometimes dreamt of her, holding his hand, feeling the autumn breeze that swung the wheat and caressed their faces, while Kuba jumped around in circles, while the sun began its decend to bed and in turn dream too, perhaps of them, perhaps of holding hands with the moon in the wheat fields.

Where? Where in heavens would Janek get an apple?

That afternoon while having lunch with mother and his two little twin brothers, Janek thought of asking his mother if she could not only give him his coming Sunday allowance, but the ones for the following bunch of Sundays, like eight or nine. Of course he knew she would say he was crazy, that she did not have that kind of money, that she would never have that kind of money, not at least for the stupid amount of candies Janek was surely thinking of buying, and she would ultimately ask him why the hell he needed such money. His mother was not the swearing kind, especially the profanity one, yet she went over the top once in a while when she heard Janek's plans for so and so. Throwing an apple to the girl of his fancy did seem as that which would take her to using the name of the lord in an inappropriate manner. Then, a thought of what to do landed swiftly in his mind while he took a bite off his frytki.

Jan Alojzy Brzezicki, zwraca tutaj!

Janek ran down the trail to the town. He believed that if he did chores for Mr Dubicki the rest of the afternoon he might give him an apple as pay. Perhaps if he promised to do so all week long for Mr Dubicki in his market stand, perhaps then he could get that apple. Kuba ran along with him, faster down the slope, faster cause he would have  more time and perhaps he could have that apple today, though Marika would have to wait till the following day. Would he dare give her the apple at school? In front of those all who heard the story? Did he mind their scorn and their laugh, their noises, their envy? What if Marika felt not the same? Was it all worth it for an I-love-you? For a kiss? Would he...

Then Janek heard a crackle and a voice.

He came off his way, dodging a log and a rock. So he saw Mr Dubicki on the ground, rubbing his ankle and trying to wipe blood off his nose. What he was doing there, so far from his stand in the market, Janek would not know since, well, it did not seem incumbent to his story. People years on would ask him if he did not believe the sudden apparition of Mr Dubicki felt forced and opportune in an otherwise fine story. Janek would only shrug and say life was like that, full of eccentricities and deux ex machinas.

Janek helped the gentleman onto his feet and to his place. Sure his mum would swear for her son's sudden rush to disappear, but she would not when she saw him help a stranger. Mrs Brzezicki bandaged Mr Dubicki's left ankle and stuck a bit of gauze up his nose to stop it from bleeding any longer. She also made him a hot beverage and had him lie in the old couch so they could wait for her husband to be back and take him downtown to see the doctor, and then see him home. Mr Dubicki appreciated all of their help, yet he wondered if his family by the stand would worry enough at his not having come back. Janek said he was going down the market eitherway, so he could mention it to them. Mr Dubicki smiled and pointed out that Jan had been such a lovely and helpful boy, taking him to his house and all, that he was willing to give him what he wanted. Janek's eyes lit of joy.

So little Jan Alojzy was walking back home. He walked so lightly, with Kuba by his side, that the distance between Marika's house and his felt like nothing. He actually enjoyed it for when he closed his eyes he felt as though there were red, blue, yellow, green and orange fireworks blooming in the sky. He had walked up to Marika's window and knocked on it three times. After not having a response, he simply left the apple and the brief note he had written at Mr Dubicki's stand on the window stool, and then made for home. All the anguish that had swarmed him on the way to Marika's place vanished. No more did he worry about her reaction, whether she would correspond his feelings, whether she would be interested in sitting by the stars while holding hands. All he could think of was how proud of himself he was, and how soft Kuba's fur was and how it moved in the autumn breeze.

Kocham cię,

By the way, the day after at school recess, Marika approached Janek and asked him if he would go on a picnic with him. Janek brought sandwiches and Marika soup and some krówkis. She gave him a kiss.

The end.


Mientras yo te escribo el mundo

Tú me miras
Me miras y me dices
Te quiero para bien
Y piensas en alguien más

No sex
No tenderness
No words of love
Of comfort
Even of wisdom
I had an OK day
Just OK
That is all you say
Why would you once and then share bits of universe you have happened to be
You won't ask either
Since you are not into how many cans of beer I fancied
You seemed like an OK day yourself
Hence you shut
Choose a bit of telly
Go to sleep
And trust I shall do the right thing
Like a trained beast
I do alright
I stay up in case you would need your lamb
So devoted
Because I would not see you wrong me
O you may say you love me
You would suture yourself up if there were elsewhere a blossom
Care not
Mind not
For I am convinced myself you are the Earth to my oxygen
My six days of week and my ten sighs of wonder
My awe and my morning
My sin and my leper
Storm you are none
Not to me
To me all I eye is miles of tulips
Hence I walk in you and be you
Feel and be you breeze
Smile in your sunlight
While you pour words of love on someone else over the telephone


Adoro acariciar tu espalda, cada centímetro de ella, olor suave a leche, cual seda al tacto y labios, pedazo de cielo, tan cercano el cielo que sonrío como luna velando tu sueño, así las cosas, yo la luna de tu cielo, tu el cielo de mis días.


As you turn as cold as weather yourself, I think of the longest minute I have lived, that in which my grandmother laid still, breathless, as I felt the burden in her bones, the oily stench of her mouth and sex, the divine scent of sour milk in her hair, while Rachmaninoff plays in the back, pounding the keys with joy and anxiety, the ears of his audience bestowing grace in his hands and lead in his bloodstream and fear in the eyes, and I and I only seem to listen to him and be here, cause my mother and father and sister and sister would rather be elsewhere, and the voice on the other side of the telephone line says I have got to be kidding cause it was all alright this morning, your brother wasn't in jail feeding on the metallic taste of promised freedom, he will be back in a minute, just a minute, and he shall tell you it will all be alright, cause you have got to be kidding that she has gone, you know, as that tiny dog you left in someone else's arms, you fucking pussy, you dared hit, I dared hit him with all cowardice because I feared being myself, the one who drank to ease the pain, as if, because he needed pills, so many pills, to be a better himself, not to be himself, loathing, breaking and burning, looking out the window, wishing it would it all end, if he just had the courage to walk down the street, take the number five bus, get off at Forest Hill, and let go, just jump, but instead I raped that dog's innocence, full of frustration, anger, because nothing came out as it should have since why do you have to be dying?… why did she die as that?… voiceless, thoughtless, unable to remember that who held her hand, that who got her in seafoam as a dress, though she hated me, inasmuch as I reminded her what in her eyes was wrong with this world, you should have died, awful seed, on that bus taking you home, you would have spared the world of another atheistic prick who believes has seen the light and such light ain't the light of the almighty, you fucking prick, your father does not love you, no one ever will, cause you lack the compassion to inspire love, O you are kind and gentle and display an utmost empathy to those who share their hurt with you, yet they shall all be silent the moment they are done with their suffering, and dispose of you, and they won't call you or write to you or the such, you ain't nothing but a disgusting tissue full of blood and snot, how can I contradict her now you curl in my hand and breathe so lightly I can barely hear you, as still as the heavens, as stiff as my bones full of sorrow as I wish not to let you go, not today, not on such a sunny lovely day, on which I ate vanilla ice cream and sang along the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen, for if you do, she will notice how horrid I appear to be when the sun sets and all I can do while a loved one dies is staring sadly while humming Rachmaninoff.



¿Recuerdas esas tardes de frío en tu casa? Estoy segura que sí. Lo único que sentías debajo de tu manta roja a cuadros era mis caderas desnudas. Así te excitabas, te me acercabas y mordías mis hombros y cuello mientras recorrías mis muslos con tu mano derecha y mi pelo con tu izquierda. Cogíamos a intervalos, con silencios y charlas acerca de nuestros días por enmedio, ignorando la música radial de fondo, construyendo futuros a base de orgasmos y momentos felices. Hay que probar de todo, me dijiste un día, y yo que pensé que hablabas de mí. Hice lo impensable contigo. Qué estúpido decirlo, me hubiese tirado al sol por probarlo contigo. Aquella noche que nos perdimos en el centro regresando de una noche de música rasposa en El Atlántico te dije que no me importaba que Meme se enterase de lo nuestro, de que eras mis suspiros bañados de vida. ¿Por qué le llamas Meme si ya no son nada?, me soltaste celosamente. Mera representación presente del cariño que algún día sentí por él, te contesté. Bufaste y te largaste al baño mientras yo pensaba en lo mucho que me amabas por el coraje que te carcomía mientras orinabas. Ardí esa noche en tu cama. Tremenda estupidez. A la mañana siguiente mientras tiraba las sobras del desayuno encontré un par de colillas en la basura. ¿Desde cuándo fuma?, me pregunté, para después reprenderme porque recordé que tu madre fumaba. No de esa marca, pero los gustos cambian, me dije. Los gustos cambian. Me pregunté varias veces qué hacías esos viernes que te desaparecías sin contestar llamadas o mensajes, viernes en los que sólo me mandabas emojis de diablos sonrientes. Jamás te pregunté porque no quería que te sintieses atado a nada más que a mí, a mi cuerpo serpenteante y mi sexo húmedo. Cogías, ¿cierto? Por eso mandabas esas caras burlonas, mientras los muslos de alguien más te arropaban el rostro, mientras los pezones de alguien más se endurecían por tus mordidas. Y yo sintiéndome deseada porque suponía que estabas en algo del trabajo de lo que no podías escapar, que querías estar retozando conmigo, y que por eso los diablos me miraban con esa sonrisa tan maliciosa que alguna vez me dejaste ver después de recibir una llamada la cual no alcancé a escuchar. Era él. Era él diciéndote lo que te haría el viernes siguiente. Era él diciéndote como quisiera estar en mi lugar para poder rasgarte las ropas y dejarse en ti. Pendejo Meme que se ha creído tus poesías para poder encamártelo. Pendejo Meme que me llena de miseria. Pendejo tú que supones que jamás te voy a dejar.


Tuve frío esta mañana,
frío y sólo eso,
sentado mirando la mañana pasar,
frío y mis ideas y sólo eso,
esperando a que regresases y pudieras estar en mis brazos,
y mi cuerpo comenzase a emitir ese calor que no es más que tuyo,
y este lunes tuviese razón de ser.

Así ya no digamos nada,
repelemos al mundo, repelemos hasta la vida misma,
seamos tú y yo nuestro sol y aire,
seamos el corazón del otro,
así quiéreme y déjame quererte.

Tomemos a nuestros hijos de la mano,
y cual cúmulo de estrellas andemos por el cielo,
enlunece mi sonrisa, iluminame en tus ojos,
y ser millones de sinapsis en tu vida,
millones de partículas atravesando tu cuerpo,
perfecta definición imprecisa del ser y no ser juntos,
juntos hasta que el tiempo se separe de nosotros.

Así quiereme y dejame quererte,
con poesía destartalada,
con días de frío, de furia, de insomnio,
porque si hay dolor en esta vida, es soportable,
porque un amor así como el tuyo le da alma al todo.


Y pensar que yo te lo he dado todo,
Y tú,
Tú ya no me das nada...



Ari et Jona
Eli, Micha et Perri

My father, my king

Mstislav Rostropovich
Sergei Rachmaninoff
Dmitri Shostakovich
Piotr Illich Tchaikovsky

Jonny Greenwood

Bertrand Russell

Those who remain and remain and wish to remain just because

There shall be nawt my spirit attempt to conquer


I am a small man,
Hopes and fears ashore,
While dreams of being at sea,
But the skyes weep,
And I stare and stare,
Conscious of the bitter outcome
For all the plans my parents had for me,
So I appear small, lost, as no one,
I yet ride the innard ocean,
On the white horses my soul sometimes be.


Cómo quisiera que pudieras sentir lo mucho que te quiero,
Conectarte a mis terminales nerviosas,
Y sintieses el impulso que me recorre al tocar tu piel.

Que sintieses el calor que me llena,
Cuando me tomas de la mano,
Tú cual sol bañando de luz el todo,
Cuando me tomas de la mano y la cintura,
Me acercas y me besas,
Y me dices algo, lo que sea,
Tus palabras, tu voz son canto a la vida.

Si vieses como la luna me arropa en tu ausencia,
Me susurra que habrás de volver,
Y bajo ella haremos el amor y llenaremos el mundo de belleza.

Por estar tus ojos,
Tus caderas,
Tú, el mar hecho mujer,
Tú en este mundo a la vez que yo soy,
Por estar tú la vida no es sólo una coincidencia.

Cómo quisiera,
Que supieras no ha lineas suficientes, ni hojas ni días,
Para que sepas lo mucho que te quiero.


Es la tarde del 16 de julio del 2013. El Jardín del Arte luce como todos los años en esta época: hay partes encharcadas por las torrenciales lluvias, las grises nubes poco a poco arrinconan al azul del cielo, y la poca gente que lo atraviesa corre porque lo último que desean es mojarse tratando de cubrirse con árbol. Estoy sentando frente a las jaulas coloridas con sus aves imaginadas, con un café negro y una bola de helado de trufa de la Especial de París, una lata de Coca y el último libro de Vonnegut que he comprado. Claro, tengo a la mano el paraguas por si se ofrece una caminata tranquila bajo la abominable llovizna. Después de una hora de haberme observado por entre las jaulas, se me acerca aquel viejo con el que me había cruzado ya varias veces mientras él afanosamente buscaba algo de valor en uno de los cestos de basura. Lleva el traje gris de siempre, roído en las rodillas y con grasa por todos lados. El viejo se sienta en el extremo opuesto de la banca sin dejar de mirarme. Cuando fumaba, yo solía romper el momento incómodo ofreciéndole un cigarrillo a los indigentes, y ellos lo aceptaban de buena gana, incluso si no fumaban. Ya lo podré cambiar por algo, me decían. A veces me hacían la plática y me decían por qué habían terminado en la calle, quién era aquel último al que le habían roto el hocico, o me preguntaban qué era lo que leía y por qué era que yo lo leía. A veces sólo me sonreían y se iban a yo no sé dónde. Al no tener cigarrillos, lo único que se me ocurre es ofrecerle alguna de mis bebidas al viejo. Hace frío, así que dame el café, dice. Le estiro el vaso y el viejo se recorre un poco para tomarlo.Mientras le da pequeños sorbos me mira con los ojos entrecerrados, tal vez por el vapor, tal vez porque piensa algo. Después de unos minutos me pregunta cuántos años tengo. Acabo de cumplir treinta y cinco, le respondo. ¿Cuándo? La semana pasada. Pasan algunos minutos de incómodo silencio, y entonces comienza a hablar. Fue en 1906 en un parque ruso donde un mendigo se le acercó a Sergei Vasilievich Rachmaninoff para decirle que no llegaría a viejo. Ninguna de las poquísimas personas a las que les contó le creyeron, incluidas su esposa y su amigo Vladimir Horowitz. Le decían que había sido sólo un anciano loco que no tenía nada que hacer. De vez en cuando Sergei sacaba la historia a relucir, especialmente cuando se sentía enfermo. A pesar de llegar a casi a los setenta años, Sergei jamás olvido la historia. Cuando algún día su esposa le recordó que había vivido largo y que había vencido la estúpida premonición del anciano, Sergei contestó que aún así algún día moriría, y que habría que ser respetuosos con la muerte, que no fuera a ser que el viejo fuera su personificación. Cuatro días después Sergei Vasilievich Rachmaninoff moría de melanoma sin saber que lo padecía. ¿A qué viene esto?, le pregunto. A que dudo mucho que llegues a los treinta y siete siquiera, me responde. Se pone de pie, se sacude un poco el saco gris que siempre lleva, y se marcha. Es entonces que noto que lleva un par de zapatos de piel rojos. No recuerdo si los llevaba puestos en alguna otra ocasión. Lo dudo mucho ya que parecen ser completamente nuevos. En alguna ocasión una amiga de mi abuela me dijo que no había que confiar en la gente que llevaba los zapatos rojos. ¿Por qué?, le pregunté socarronamente. Porque es el color de la sangre, y son aves de mal agüero, me contestó. Me da escalofríos recordar lo que me contó el anciano en el parque hace ya casi dos años.


I was mortal, feeling I was important just because I carried sheets full of music under my cloak. As if it were mine. As if my interpretation would give anything to this world. I played for schillings anywhere I was allowed. I say I know the greats, the Russians specially, like no one. For a moment there, while playing, I felt like Rachmaninoff and those big, heavy chords of his. I felt the world listening to me. I felt the applause was mine and mine only. To then find myself wandering astray.

Then, then I saw those caramel eyes of hers. I saw those eyes and life seemed to have gone beserk, for every time I sit at the piano now I sense how the music pours onto the keys. I won't even say my music. It is hers. It is all hers. It is as my soul chants to the muse I have found. That muse of nighty hair and moony skin. That muse of sweetest tone of eyes. That muse who has decided to own my lips on hers, to be tide of my sea, to paint life in pastels.

I play now and then, here and there, and it won't matter if none would listen as to my notes are of hers. It is her smile of approval the radiant sun which shall bathe me in light.

Lerm du Villiè
June 2015


Alguien de muy malas intenciones y de pies pesados me ha dicho en un sueño que si la mañana ha salido mala, las posibilidades de que la tarde sea mejor son casi nulas. Por eso ando ligero rumbo a la escuela cada mañana, por eso toco música en cuanto puedo, por eso me infundo del suave aroma de la manzanilla o el café.

Hoy me resentido de un golpe que me di en las asentaderas hace un par de semanas, corrí de un lado para otro en el trabajo sin poder tararear siquiera, el agua del café ha salido fría, y las calles estaban llenas de gente haciendo el "no sé qué" de un viernes donde todos quieren largarse, aunque creo que no saben a dónde. También me he cortado el dedo, y he perdido aquel lápiz que había guardado para sólo los viernes por siete años. Pensé en dejarme caer en la náusea, en dormir a intervalos cortos para ver el reloj y darme cuenta de que no he dormido nada, pensé en quemar mi bistec y quejarme amargamente mientras lo como, y, sobre todo, pensé en poner aquella pieza de Shostakovich y mandar todo al carajo.

No hoy. Porque he encontrado lo más maravilloso a la entrada de mi hogar. Por años había trabajado en lo más parecido a una fórmula de la alegría que aliviase lo arriba mencionado. La fórmula no era tan mala, pero, pero siempre le hacía falta algo. Cambiaba ingredientes y cantidades de estos, agregaba esencia de flores y sustraía oxígeno de la mezcla, adicionaba tonos de azules y rojos, pero nada. Hasta hoy. He trabajado en la fórmula hoy día, y ha quedado así:

Toma la flor más diminuta que puedas encontrar, no importa el color de ésta, y llévala en tu mano mientras bailas una canción alegre, Al terminar, acércala a tus labios y susúrrale el nombre de la persona a la que quieres. Dásela a oler a un par de seres queridos y guárdala en tu puño izquierdo por once segundos. Pasado el tiempo filtra el sol a través de ella y por sobre un pedazo de papel azul. Toma el papel y colócalo sobre el lado izquierdo de tu pecho mientras lees una misiva escrita cerca del mar, aún mejor si es para ti. Al final habrá que mantener el pequeño papel azul lo más cercano al corazón hasta antes de dormir.

Y hoy he encontrado la misiva perfecta para mí: una postal desde el otro lado del mundo, bañada en el amor.


June 2075

There is rain pouring, yet I do not move from here, this bench where I have sat one a many day. Even the book I hid in my jacket is completely drenched —the Atlas Opisan Nebom by Petrovic. I lit a second cigarette, for, what does it matter now? I hadn't gotten wet since my last birthday, almost a year ago. Sarah, my beloved Sarah, told me I had better not, that I could suphocate, especially in this weather, or that, even worse, if it happened to rain, I would catch pneumonia and everybody knew what would happen. Nothing happened. Nothing ever happens. At least to me. I got run over at the age of six, for chrissakes. And I am still here. Not for long, though. It's been nine months since I was supposed to die from that stroke. I regained control of my face muscles. I was able to lift a cigarette to my face and puff the afternoon away. Nothing ever happens. Unlike today. I wonder if I have done wrong. I know it is late to repent, and to say or at least think I am sorry. I have been so difficult many times. I always said kids are the greediest of them all human beings. And I still think it, but, I mean, I am a fucking child no matter how old I am, how grandilocuent my ideas are, how obscure the music is. I am a greedy fucking child. And that might have made me wrong people I cannot apologise to now. It's not that I wish things had been different, though. The Lord, if he happens to give a rat's ass, knows how hard I tried. I was patient with people, and Sarah, my beloved Sarah, should know better. She said I wouldn't live to be 60. And she's fucking gone before me. All have gone before me. That's why I won't move. Cause there's no one who will call my name, who will say 'dad' to then run to hug me, no one to state the obviousness of 'you are wet' and comfort me with a towel. The magic is gone, that's why I clench this book so hard. Hen would call me a wuss and have me get up instead of feeling sorry for myself. I am not. This cigarette tastes so good. Perhaps, it does because I know I am dying. That nurse has finally given up pestering me about sitting here. I sat here to play with my brother that we were driving a truck around town.I sat here to read Verne, Wells, Asimov, and Vonnegut. I had ice cream with each of my best friends here. I was here to hold hands with Sarah and see the afternoon sun fade. Today I have nothing. Just another cigarette in the pack, and this pen and paper. The ink gracefully runs all over, making this letter a tad unintelligible, perhaps making my story unintelligible. I may also be ink run over way too much paper for someone to read me. That's all some people are when they die: wasted ink. I don't wanna be a waste. Perchance the ink I am has created a gorgeous pattern and someone would like to keep me. I may look the Nile, a tulip, a lightning bolt. I may look like that letter which starts the most wonderful name in the world. Sarah, I am feeling cold. It won't stop raining, and I won't be going anywhere. Give me warmth Sarah, just one last time. Perhaps, if I close my eyes, I will be able to see you, and give life one last puff, one last go. I have begun to run, and after I stop writing, I might as well just close my eyes. We are all ink, that's a pretty thought.


It was a sunny day of March when I saw her as I would never see anyone. Her dark hair fell upon her red solid blouse, her feet tapping against the steps of the auditorium, a pair of sunglasses hiding her sight. She saw me shaking my head to the beat of the Brazilian tune I was humming, and she smiled. As she would many times through the years. You see, now that it is over people would expect to me to mercilessly complain about those many times she made me lose my temper, or to elevate her to the highest choir of angels since she made me happiest amongst men. None would be the matter, not in this note at least. I have got to say she is a regular woman, with flaw and virtue, with times at which she wanted to kill me, and others at which there was no one but me. Yet...

It is sunny today. I have had two cups of vanilla ice cream, a bottle of orange juice, and half a liter of plain water, and still feel hot as hell. There was supposed to be AC on these buses. I mean, they are way more expensive. But what did I expect? It is almost noon, it is the spring, so of course it was gonna be like this. But what the hell? You wanted to see her, didn't you? It hasn't been long since I saw her, but so much has changed. There is so much I want to show her, to tell her. I mean, I can't wait to let her know this dream I had of her. It's silly, it's corny, but, what else can I do but share it with her. I went like this...

-So, what do you feel? -Warmth... Softness... -Open your eyes. -What is it? -A canvas. You can paint whatever you want. -How? -Think of a colour, and use your index to paint with that colour, just like that. -Show me. -So, here's the sky. There are some cirruses, some birds in the horizon. Here's a field of grass, and we can add patches of roses, some red, some white. On this hill, there's a tree, a peach one. And that's you and that's me. -Why are you holding my hand? -Because in that painting we have been ten years together...

-You know that I love you, right? -Do you think we would be here if it weren't so? -It is such a lovely day. How did you find this place? -I once read that every single time you dream of the one you love, this dream becomes a spot of paint, and little by little, spot by spot, this paint starts forming a place this beloved one has dreamt of once. And that once the place, the painting, is ready, you can dream of the place in a map. The actual trouble is finding the map, but all you have to do if you remember the dream, is to look deep for it. -How did you find it? -It was behind the letter you gave me on my last birthday.

Happy birthday to you, honey. Enjoy your day as every year. As we have every year together. I love you.


I hadn't been to a church in a while. Quite a while. When I was a kid, I used to feel scared. Scared of the bleeding Jesus, of my sins, of the promise of hell or paradise. It stopped one day. I guess it had to do with my fear of disappearing after dying. I wanted to believe that it was going to be like eternally sleeping. You see, I did not fear not feeling, not being able to see anyone: I was afraid of vanishing. Heaven seemed like an ok promise, you know, being able to see your loved ones ever and ever, without thinking of dying once more. But the words of the priests felt like hogwash, for they only infused me with fear. Fear the almighty and obey, they would say. And I did not want to be scared no more. So I stopped believing cause there is no greater discouraging idea than doing things out of fear. Still, I feared disappearing. I feared becoming nothing. I feared not being to see or smell or feel or taste. You know, I once read a tale about a little kid who died in a traffic accident. He had been a good kid, so obviously he went to heaven. Before that, he asked to see his parents once more. At the burial he saw them cry. He shouted that he was alright, that he was going somewhere better, but they couldn't listen. At the end, while going to heaven he told an angel he felt so sorry about not being able to tell them so and comfort them. And I did not fear that, you savvy, for I suspected there would be nothing after I went. It would only be a shut window, with no one on the inside to look at it. So, there is no faith in me, perhaps there never was. I see the bleeding christ and the pointing saint, the suffering virgin and the condemning priest, and I feel nothing within. Not even mockery. I just breathed, waiting for something to happen. I heard the heavenly voices chanting, the smiley priest and the old women arranging flowers, but nothing did move me. I once felt jealousy. Of people's conviction and focus, of their love and their trust on someone they could not prove existed. It is gone. And it is not that I wanted to believe in which they believe, no. It is that I wish I were so confident, so brave and confident. That I knew there is no void into which I will unavoidably have to jump. But such jealousy is gone. Now I sometimes think of my having to jump, and not of whether I will have to. And that sometimes depends upon my faith in love. I like to believe it will save me. That it can save us all. Yet sitting right here, all by myself in this sea of people, this sea of uncertainty, I am empty, and doubt this what I feel happens to be love.

Saint Patrick's Cathedral
December, 1999


Sanremo lyrics

I went out looking for you,
But I couldn't find you,
I breathe the same air and feel the same sun,
But I didn't find you,
I thought of what to tell you,
To confess my utter love for you,
To indulge in those fireworks you make me feel,
But I didn't find you.

You see, I did find your house,
Yet I dared not knock on the door,
I felt jealousy, you know, the stupid type,
For I feared someone might be there with you.

I dreamt of your eyes last night,
Of sinking in their caramel beauty,
I reckoned I gotta look for you once again,
To tell you how much I love you,
So I did, but you found me first,
At the door of the restaurant.


I am my crooked nose. I am my dry, cold hands at four in the morning. I am my twitchy right eye. I am the pain in the bones and muscles of my face. I am the song I hum while I walk. I am the voice that tries to remember what is to be done today. Done. I drink an espresso americano to focus on every single task I am to carry out. Well, not every task. My memory sucks. Like when I was to order that birthday cake and completely forgot. Or when I was to bring something somewhere and I did not. Everything to remember is important. There are no petty memories, I reckon. Not especially when they haunt you back in your dreams. And I say 'haunt' since they are unexpected. Like the dream about the market and the gangsters and the run and that woman. I woke up and remembered: remembered the dream and remembered the girl. It is ugly when someone does not give a shite about you in real life, it is worse when it happens in a dream. Your dream. I do not give a shite about that man in the dream, savvy? I noticed that every time I touch my nose in any dream it feels crooked. No matter where I am, it does. I can feel the hard cartilage twisting right to abruptly go left. I can feel from the outside how tiny my right nostril is. So, when there is cold and my left nostril is clogged cause I am sick, I have such a hard time to breathe. I cough, grasping for air as if I could. Trying. Stop trying, she says, he says. If I did, if I had, the whole lot of things, the Earth for sure would not be the same. Cause I would have jumped off that bridge when I was a kid. Choose life or death, my grandpa once told me. And one would think life is all about that, you see. Choose whatever the fuck you may want to. I chose to cross instead of becoming splatter. But that is not the whole point, innit? Stop fucking trying. As if. There would not be words, there would not be memories, there would not be whom to write on cold days. We would not be together. This cup of coffee would not be here, exhaling steam, bitterly sweet, infusing life to the room.

To paint the world, my world, in notes and words I try — Dent, J.


entonces te acercas a mí, puedo olerte, puedo sentirte tan cerca que el final de mi piel se mezcla con el inicio de la tuya, puedo probarte en mis labios, escucharte, sintiendo el temblor de tu cuerpo y el vaivén de tus caderas, tu piel se enchina cuando mis labios van de tu cintura a tu cuello, dejando pedazos de mi aliento por toda tu espalda, muerdo tu hombro y beso tus labios, y tu silencio termina en un gemido largo, te vuelves hacia mí y mi mano se pierde en ti, mientras las tuyas rasgan mi espalda, con tus labios fundiéndose con los míos, con mi cuerpo en comunión con el tuyo, marea de ti y de mí, canto del mar contra las olas, la luna nos mira, nos baña, y en esta noche estrellada iluminamos el cielo de azules y rojos con nuestros fuegos de artificio

 y te abrazo mientras tratamos de dormir en esta noche de frío


Ayer en la mañana abrí los ojos y no estaba solo. Porque estabas tú. Tú que te estiraste hacia mí y me besaste primero en la mejilla y después en los labios y me dijiste, Buenos días, de la manera más dulce y suave que jamás había escuchado. Y también ahí estaban los niños dormitando, y estaba el sol entrando por la ventana. Pero más que nada estabas tú, con tu pelo largo interminablemente cayendo por tu hombros, con la tersa piel de tus dedos alcanzándome el alma, con tus acaramelados ojos encontrándose con los míos y haciéndome sentir como el ser más importante del mundo, ahí, aunque fuera por un eterno segundo. Estabas tú, tan cerca como nadie, curvando mi universo por completo, expandiendo nebulosas y constelaciones por mi cuerpo. Tú y sólo tú.

Anhelo que ya sea de mañana otra vez y ser lo primero que miras al despertar.