Uno
Dos hombres se encuentran en un aeropuerto, años sin verse dicen las sonrisas de todos los que los rodean en esa bienvenida tan esperada, en un lugar ajeno a sus orígenes. Estos dos hombres, padre e hijo quizás dos hermanos, tez blanca y caras enrojecidas, son cuatro brazos que no terminan de encontrarse.
El movimiento es simple, familiar: dos sonrisas y cuatro labios se encuentran. Los hombres se han besado en los labios, estruendosa y felizmente.
Casi aparto los ojos, casi dejo que el techo del aeropuerto me convenza de que no he visto lo que he visto.
Dos
A la salida del subte, algo atrae mis ojos. Una figura estática. Una mujer, que no termino de ver por lo extraño de su postura. Creo que está parada, frente a la salida del subte, o más bien a un costado. Tiene un pañuelo en la cabeza, o quizás en el cuello. No creo que esté saludando a nadie, porque su cara está congelada, pero tiene una de sus manos levantada. Así, como si estuviera sintiendo la temperatura ambiente, o quizás deteniendo el tiempo a su alrededor.
Podría ser esto último, porque cuando me di vuelta para mirarla de frente y entender, ya se había ido.
Tres
Gela, en el suelo. Quisiera no mirarla, pero está ahí, tirada sobre el cordón de la vereda, su sangre mezclada con el agua que corre por la calle. Lo que no puedo mirar es su pierna, que se escapa por el costado de mi visión. Me obligo a fijar la vista en la carne, la grasa que parece grasa de carne y es grasa de carne. El hueso, finalmente, intentando ocultarse. Pero parece que no estoy mirando nada, porque eso se escurre y queda la cara de Gela, sus manos y su historia.
Cuatro
Estoy caminando, y el mundo se desvanece. Me despierto en un lugar conocido, treinta metros y tres tramos de escaleras más adelante. No iba hacia allí, no iba hacia allí. Estuve muerto durante treinta segundos y nadie lo notó.
Cinco
Abro el libro. Estoy en un país extraño, en un lugar especial en el que siempre quise estar. Una librería. Y entonces hojeo el libro y una foto captura mi vista. Un golpe en el pecho y el aire se escurre. Miro alrededor, buscando a alguien a quien decirle lo que me pasa, un amigo a quien tocarle el brazo y pedirle que comparta conmigo este dolor. Una foto escolar, un curso de secundaria en el Proceso. Y flechas y círculos y comentarios alrededor de toda la foto. Las presencias ausentes.
Seis
El movimiento es demasiado abierto, demasiado curvo para un cuerpo humano, un cuerpo serio, un cuerpo de espacio público. Me llama la atención, pero sé que ella espera que la mire, así que primero la rodeo con los ojos. Otra gente la mira, hay un círculo de miradas que se entrecruzan a su alrededor. Sonríe, mueve el cuello y los hombros. Con movimientos voluptuosos que no puedo fijar se toma del pasamano y se acomoda el pelo. Sonrío y la miro, es libre. Está haciendo el amor con el aire. La envidio, la recorro y quisiera seguirla cuando baja, pero no lo hago.
sábado, 17 de diciembre de 2005
lunes, 5 de diciembre de 2005
El ángel de la casa
De una conferencia dada por Virginia Woolf, parte del ensayo "The death of the moth". Algún otro día escribiré un poco más sobre misia Woolf, pero este texto me es especialmente interesante estos días.
"She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it —in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others. Above all —I need not say it— she was pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty —her blushes, her great grace. In those days —the last of Queen Victoria— every house had its Angel. And when I came to write I encountered her with the very first words. The shadow of her wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room. Directly, that is to say, I took my pen in my hand to review that novel by a famous man, she slipped behind me and whispered: “My dear, you are a young woman. You are writing about a book that has been written by a man. Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure.” And she made as if to guide my pen. I now record the one act for which I take some credit to myself, though the credit rightly belongs to some excellent ancestors of mine who left me a certain sum of money —shall we say five hundred pounds a year?— so that it was not necessary for me to depend solely on charm for my living. I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self–defence. Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She would have plucked the heart out of my writing. For, as I found, directly I put pen to paper, you cannot review even a novel without having a mind of your own, without expressing what you think to be the truth about human relations, morality, sex. And all these questions, according to the Angel of the House, cannot be dealt with freely and openly by women; they must charm, they must conciliate, they must —to put it bluntly— tell lies if they are to succeed. Thus, whenever I felt the shadow of her wing or the radiance of her halo upon my page, I took up the inkpot and flung it at her. She died hard. Her fictitious nature was of great assistance to her. It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality. She was always creeping back when I thought I had despatched her. Though I flatter myself that I killed her in the end, the struggle was severe; it took much time that had better have been spent upon learning Greek grammar; or in roaming the world in search of adventures. But it was a real experience; it was an experience that was bound to befall all women writers at that time. Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer."
Una anécdota extraña acerca de leer a VW. Estaba en Bariloche, a punto de tomar un micro para Baires cuando me puse a hablar con un escritor de Madryn, que había estado en un encuentro de escritores de fantástico y ciencia ficción. Estabamos hablando de nuestras lecturas y él me recomendaba leer a Proust, o a Flaubert, no recuerdo. Le comenté que había estado leyendo a Woolf y que también se lo recomendaba. Me dijo algo así como que de mujeres mucho no había leído. Me pregunto porque uno puede ignorar el sexo de Flaubert o de Proust y no el de Woolf. Si es bueno o si es malo, o si es inevitable.
"She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it —in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others. Above all —I need not say it— she was pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty —her blushes, her great grace. In those days —the last of Queen Victoria— every house had its Angel. And when I came to write I encountered her with the very first words. The shadow of her wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room. Directly, that is to say, I took my pen in my hand to review that novel by a famous man, she slipped behind me and whispered: “My dear, you are a young woman. You are writing about a book that has been written by a man. Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure.” And she made as if to guide my pen. I now record the one act for which I take some credit to myself, though the credit rightly belongs to some excellent ancestors of mine who left me a certain sum of money —shall we say five hundred pounds a year?— so that it was not necessary for me to depend solely on charm for my living. I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self–defence. Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She would have plucked the heart out of my writing. For, as I found, directly I put pen to paper, you cannot review even a novel without having a mind of your own, without expressing what you think to be the truth about human relations, morality, sex. And all these questions, according to the Angel of the House, cannot be dealt with freely and openly by women; they must charm, they must conciliate, they must —to put it bluntly— tell lies if they are to succeed. Thus, whenever I felt the shadow of her wing or the radiance of her halo upon my page, I took up the inkpot and flung it at her. She died hard. Her fictitious nature was of great assistance to her. It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality. She was always creeping back when I thought I had despatched her. Though I flatter myself that I killed her in the end, the struggle was severe; it took much time that had better have been spent upon learning Greek grammar; or in roaming the world in search of adventures. But it was a real experience; it was an experience that was bound to befall all women writers at that time. Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer."
Una anécdota extraña acerca de leer a VW. Estaba en Bariloche, a punto de tomar un micro para Baires cuando me puse a hablar con un escritor de Madryn, que había estado en un encuentro de escritores de fantástico y ciencia ficción. Estabamos hablando de nuestras lecturas y él me recomendaba leer a Proust, o a Flaubert, no recuerdo. Le comenté que había estado leyendo a Woolf y que también se lo recomendaba. Me dijo algo así como que de mujeres mucho no había leído. Me pregunto porque uno puede ignorar el sexo de Flaubert o de Proust y no el de Woolf. Si es bueno o si es malo, o si es inevitable.
domingo, 4 de diciembre de 2005
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