Kissing my old me goodbye.

Something old (my apartment) Something new (myself)

-"Do you remember how you used to feel about this city when you first arrived?" The therapist asked me. 

-"Of course I remember, I didn't like it at all!".

-"And what have changed? the city?" she continued.

-"Nope, it is still the same, it's only been 6 months".

-"So, what changed?".

-"...Me..."

That was my last chat with her, and suddenly everything was clear: I wasn't the same anymore, what happened?, I still don't know. Probably was a combination of things: Being with my family, working with kids, having a beautiful apartment with a beautiful friend as a roommate... but I was different, and that "different" could be described as happy. Weird, very weird.

So there I was, my new me going to visit the old me. I took a flight to the warmest city in Canada, and the adventure began. I was scared, shaking, I felt sick for the most of the flight. I didn't want to get to my destination, it was going to be so hard, difficult, I was about to confront reality, Was I truly stronger now?

Well, at that moment I didn't feel that way, but now I have returned, I realized that I am.

It was a rainy night. I saw him riding his red vintage bike. His amazing hair was dancing with the wind, but I didn't feel like crying, against all my bets. He tried to dry his black leather jacket with his hands, and then, he went right to the main entrance of the bar. We were supposed to meet 15 minutes before. He was late, and I didn't care, actually I was hoping he never show up, I was That scared.

He came in, and it was like I never stopped seeing him. His wonderful black eyes welcomed me like no one could have, and soon his arms knew what to do: he lifted me, my feet were touching his knees, he had always made me fly: with him, I was barely touching the ground, that was beautiful but also the reason for most of our problems. 

I forgot to ask him the regular questions: "How are you/What is new/What have you been up to". He didn't ask me either. It was like if we were synchronized. He took a sit at the same time and hold our hands forever. 

We stopped the time, and went back in it. I don't know if what I felt was love, but was certanly something strong, stronger than grudge. We talked for hours. I got hungry and ask him to order something for me, just to see if he remembered what I like to eat.

"Can we please have the turkey sandwich, but no mayo and no butter on the buns, and extra veggies; and salad for the side, no dressing please".

He still remembers. Later that night he confessed that nowadays he takes his coffee just like I used to take, "attempts" to bring me back to his present. 

So I completed the ritual and left a couple of bites for him, he has always been the one who finishes my meals and sometimes, my sentences.

They turned out the lights, but never asked us to leave. He took my hand, had the last sip of his beer and said: "Come on, there is a rain waiting for us" Just like the one that got us wet the day that we said Goodbye.

We walked, but didn't know where were we going. We kissed, but didn't know where we were going with that kiss. We said we missed each other, but still we didn't know where were we going.

And then, I realized, I didn't need to know where to go, because I was already where I needed to be.

I'm sorry, but I only know how to suffer in Spanish.

Traigo un brassiere negro cerca del corazón, y en el sur de mi cuerpo, jeans usados en distintos campos laborales, que se ajustan a mi vida como a mi cuerpo. Alguna vez estuvieron llenos de salsa de tomate y grasa de café molido. Hoy es pintura morada y mocos secos de infantes lo que los llena de vida, tanta que ya no caben en mis piernas y se manifiestan tratando de ahorcar mi cadera. Aunque no son cómodos, no me los quito, es difícil despojarse de cosas, sobretodo en la soledad.

Así, camino por mi apartamento y tomo del refrigerador algo que me calme y que me regrese a la cama, no sin antes escribir mientras sorbo la fermentación y la dejo en mi lengua, para no hablar, pues si lo hago me asfixio.

Mis ojos, mi mente, mis recuerdos me engañan a conveniencia. Lo que leo parece romance, y me convenzo de que lo que hago es prosa en movimiento. Tanto es querer que la quieran a uno que cuando a una no la quieren, una se quiere por ellos, pero no es real, es simplemente un simulacro.

Me prometo cosas que los otros no están dispuestos a cumplir, siempre quedo mal ante mí, como si no lograra que los otros firmaran el contrato que yo solita les redacté, para que amarme no sea tan difícil.

Con la cordialidad de las “Buenas tardes”, supongo que las quieren pasar conmigo. Y con lo definitivo de los “adioses”, calculo que en un par de horas estarán tocando la puerta de nuevo. En mi imaginación nadie me ha dejado, ni he dejado a nadie, simplemente el día no ha llegado y por eso ellos no están conmigo.

He conocido al hombre ideal todos los días, y todas las noches  termino desidealizada por ellos.

Ya no quiero ver lo que yo quiero ver, lo que veo es mentira y juegos teatrales, me sé los diálogos, pero mis contrapartes no. Todos saben que tan sólo ésta es la vida, para mí siempre ha sido el guión que he escrito, y como directora de esta película, constantemente encuentro molestias, los actores que he elegido aún no se aprenden sus partes. “Debías amarme con locura después de dos noches de encuentros”; “Debías haberme preguntado por mi vida antes de quitarme la ropa”; “Debiste llamar cuando desee escucharte”; “No debías desaparecer, no aún”; “¿¡Es que nadie ha leído el libreto?!”…

Todos los días edito lo que no sucede, para que parezca que me lo estaba esperando. En el fondo me atormenta la vida que se vive fuera de mi argumento, pero me avergüenza que se note entre el reparto de mi vida, no hay imagen más triste que la de un director que no dirige a nadie, ni a sí mismo.

He querido tomar todos los guiones y lanzarlos al viento, renunciarme y renunciar a mis actos, inyectarme el corazón con dosis de verdad, oxígeno puro que lo detendría en ese mismo instante, alguien debería ponerle un freno, quizá deba ser yo, a fin de cuentas el corazón es mío, nadie saldría dañado. Quizá mi madre, porque las madres aman, es su acto más fuerte y a veces el más débil.

Paradójicamente en esta obra yo nunca he actuado, porque siempre la creí real, creí que así era mi vida, algo mágica, algo trágica, algo no tan normal. 

Pero mi vida es más común de lo que creí, porque no hay magia, ni tragedia, no hay actores qué dirigir, y no por soberbia, sino por un deseo infinito de que la vida sea así, como me la imagino, llena de palabras adecuadas, de frases que hacen y deshacen los días de las personas. De casualidades y encuentros que nos evocan pedacitos de nosotros que creíamos habíamos perdidos. Que en el fondo los acordeones tocaban, donde los pies se levantan cuando se besa a alguien. Que la vida era puro romance, la vida era una canción, un poema, una película, la mancha de un beso rojo en una inmensa pared blanca… Creía que eso era la vida: perlas blancas colgadas de los cuellos, dedos juguetones en los oídos de otro, saliva que no da asco sino valor. Llamadas y llamaradas. Fuego que no quema pero sí que deja marcas. 

Creí que eso era la vida, que eso era mi vida, momentos que ahí debían de ir, nada fortuito, todo pasaba “por algo”, nada pasaba “por nada”. Pero no es así… La vida tiene más episodios por nada que por algo. La naturaleza de tales hechos me parece triste, sin razón de ser entonces da lo mismo que existáis. “Por qué le miré a él; por qué le hablé a él; por qué me imaginé con él; por qué lo llevé a cabo”…

 “Gracias” les he dicho al final. Y como si es necesario decir algo después del agradecimiento, el otro lo dice: “por nada”.

Por nada fue, “de nada” surgió. Y todo aquel momento que nace de la nada, está condenado  a no tener propósito en la vida. Pero qué más da, si la vida no es ese lugar tan maravillosamente romántico y dramático que creí, me era.

Así, a los que no viven en la vida sino en sus vidas, le llaman enfermos mentales. A mi nadie me ha recluido en ningún sanatorio, nadie ha creído que debo sanar algo. Y hoy, que miro lo común de mi vida, sin romance ni acordeones, ni amores fugaces, sin los “por algo”, creo que yo solita debería dirigirme a la hospitalidad de un sanatorio-sanador. Claudicar en la dirección de una vida que no necesita ser dirigida, dejar de ver belleza donde sólo pasan las cosas por nada. Una vida normal, goes down easier, they say, let’s see.

Prime Living?

Looking for my wardrobe at the bottom of my glass. It wasnt there. 

My wardrobe shrank.
It is as if someone snuck into to my room in the night and stole the clothes i loved, splintering my closet into ill-fitting garments and a  million sweater dresses (ew).


After a weight gain, a depressive bout  and a quarter life crisis i am left wondering; what looks good on me? Everything? Anything? Nothing?  If I am what I wear, who the fuck am I?


 As a baby my nick name was tinker bell, a name that until now i thought apt, but have come to find  inaccurate. To spread pixie dust, one must be imaginative and to my horror i realize that I probably have never expressed a single original or imaginative thought in what i wear.  I believe I have always been 'knock off' rather than 'spot on'.


Neverland beauty is eternally elusive. This trend, that trend. That product this product. All of a sudden, the brilliant illusion is ageing, cracking and fraying along with dreams of the future me. I am living my prime, but in reality it is a shadow of my vogue fantasy . No matter how long i worship the altar of the glossy page, I will never be Kate Moss.

So where to from here? Move on? Move forward? Change. I have decided that to facilitate a change of dress, i must change my scenery. My friend Katharine is looking for a roommate in Montreal and this July, it will be me. I will fly away from my beautiful lost boys and Pixie (Cut) Hallow and nestle in a new place. I have come to learn that progression is not linear, we grow and regress regardless of age. Montreal is the destination, the new sober dream, indicative of i'm not sure what. Is Neverland before me or behind me? Is growing up or staying young progressive?


As my 'vogue fantasy' reveals beauty as illusory, it also reveals the beauty of an illusion. Maybe the secret to youthful enthusiasm is staying loyal to the pursuit of a fantasy? I can look at it in two ways: i am going toward Montreal or im am moving sideways across the country. I can try to look Kate Moss or I can believe than i never will.


All i know is that right now, the idea of flying away fills me with hope.

There's no thing call "Home" like "Homeless"

I’m writting this almost naked. It’s 7:31 pm, and I have no plans for tonite. My roommate left the apartment a couple of hours ago, I’m all home alone, I’ve been all alone this past 5 months, but that’s ok though, or at least I’m trying to convince myself that it is, it is fine.

I opened a bottle of red wine that I stole from my father’s cellar. It’s ok, a little bit sweet for this grumpy mouth.

Me and my weapons.

As I sip my alcohol and have a drag of my blue camel cigarette, I write this stupid entry, I don’t know exactly why, but a couple of weeks ago I got this idea. I was watching tv with my tremendous sister when we checked the artwork of this Italian artist, Vanessa Beecroft, who had an installation with nothing but naked women at the Guggeheim, where everyone was dress fancy and chic. That make me think about the value that we put on clothes: what do they mean for us, and what are we trying to make them mean for the others… What messages are we trying to send when we dress up in a certain way or in another. Tonite my friends, I’m not wearing anything but my bra and my pale yellow bragas. I’m not wearing make up, but my reading glasses, and I’m trying to be totally honest about me, to myself.

This is me, with all those so called “beauty” marks and freckles on my face; with some extra eyebrow that I haven’t take off; with a little fat roll; with this arms that I hate sometimes; with no shave legs that remind me some cactuses and with a sad look that I can’t take off my eyes.

This is me, a 28 years old woman, who better calls herself unemployed cause the job I have is just to pay the rent and not to feel happy about it. A woman who recently left “home” to go back “home”.  A single woman who has realized that sometimes that means loneliness. A woman with no friends, not even party friends. A woman who chooses to open a bottle of stole wine and share it with no one but her thoughts.

This is me, a two haired color lady who plays Rilo Kiley instead of Yann Tiersen to find inspiration while she is writing.

I have changed, “home” has changed too, it supposed to fit me, I mean, my old life, but it doesn’t, and that’s ok if it means that I have grown, that I’m not that size anymore, but what size am I now? Don’t know… But certainly not my old jean size, so I took them off.

I wake up, and I’m in a hurry, for what? I don’t know, probably to get on time to my pay-rent-job, but after that? There’s no need to feel in a rush, but I feel it anyways. I’m even drinking this wine too fast, so I would probably be waisted by the time I publish this entry, but who cares? I’m not driving and not working with heavy machinery, so fuck everything and drink the whole bottle Miss Loneliness.

I put my vase with purple flowers to my left, close to my wine and cigarettes, so I can see them everything I’m trying to reach my addictions… At least I will have a better view. I’m sitting on my bed, feeling like I should get a nice and comfortable chair for these occasions. Mosquitoes are flying and desperate to bite me, they’re welcome, that would be the closest that another living organism get to me.

I might be crazy. If a neighbor sees me, the picture he/she would have is this: woman wearing nothing but her undies, writing, drinking, and smoking like a chimney, with some tears falling down her face, getting on her knees… From here, my knees look like two Canadian mountains, with water on top, water that will become snow.

Monte Andino Chilean wine is getting in, it’s sedating me, it’s making me write things that I would probably regret once the alcohol effect decides that I’m too old for him.

I turned to the right, looking for my lighter, and I read: “Life is a miracle”, a movie that my sister recommended me. I haven’t watched it yet, I’m scare of finding that life could be a beautiful miracle… It’s always easier to complain.

Then, I turn left, trying to find some inspiration and there it is: “Hang it up”, a thing that me and my old young love bought together to hang up our jackets. I kept it, and brought it right to my new “home”. I should hang up all my anxiety causes, but they are mostly untouchable: professional dreams, social life, finding love, getting love, being visible not invisible, finding the way, finding MY way.

I can feel the air touching my skin, we barely notice that, we are pretty much always wearing something that impeded us to get this feeling, but it’s great. If it’s cold, u get to experience the real coldness; if u r hot, well, you get a chill breeze that refreshes you.

You get to experience the sensation of having your knees rubbing your chest, or your arms touching your thighs. Usually we get to experience how does it feel when someone else’s arms cuddle your body, but the feeling of being yourself who is doing it, it’s weird and nice at the same time.

It’s funny, every time that I’m trying to type the word “arms” I write “armas”, which in Spanish means  “weapon”. And that makes a lot of sense, for a Spanglish speaker person, cuz that’s exactly what your arms are: your armas, your weapons. That’s why _I learned to respect mine, even if I don’t like them because I have always thought they are a little bit stout for my body, but they are the only armas that I have, and they are furious.

So, ok, I went to the kitchen to get some spring water, and my neighbors next door saw me almost naked, I just waived, and let me tell you that I felt so comforting! Yes! I got a witness! That’s me you puritans!

I’m wanting, so badly, that tonite turns a little bit funnier, well, at least with more company than myself, so I decide to get dress and ready for whatever the fuck happens. But I have something in mind, I won’t hide what I am, I’ll wear my fears, and my sadness, and my super high insecurity and I’m gonna try to walk with it. Some days, some nights, are harder than others, but this one will have to make a difference in my life, for sure. So I pour more wine in my glass, cheers for the real me.: A frightened 28 years old girl, who likes to look beautiful underneath all those layers of colorful clothes and who likes to feel taller and stronger wearing those breathtaking shoes; who seals her lips with red lipstick, in case she decides to talk about herself, the real she.

This is me, a girl who wants to have a great night tonight, with people and have some laughs; who wants to forget about her fears and preoccupations, but wear them, not leaving them at home or some sort of body basement; who wants to feel accompanied, belonging to a group. To have friends and feel that she left “home” to reach another one, a more chaotic one, but still a home.  

Two different paths, My same Shoes.

The plane landed on time. I almost felt asleep when the captain said that we reached our destination: The largest city in Mexico: Mexico city. A city with more than 4 million cars, a messy paradise full of different beds and different shoes. There I was, bringin my two different pairs of doc marteens: Black and green.

The metro crowd.

I picked up my baggage and walked through the "welcome door". Four years had passed, before this writer came back to that magical city. I didn't understand anything, the airport has changed... a lot, just like me, probably it didn't recognized me aswell.
I tried to catch a cab, It was almost impossible. So I asked someone's help. While he was talking on the radio to get one taxi for me, I realized that I didn't know where to go. I threw myself into a city where I don't know anyone that well, to ask them to go and visit them really early in the morning.
So I tried to figure out where to go, checking the different options that I had in my torn head. I couldn't but hear the voice of this guy telling me that my taxi was going to arrived at any moment.
By the time the cab got there, I was even more confused. So, once I got into the transportation machine, my mouth played a game at me and said: "I'm going to blah, blah, blah". I was shocked, did I really know what was I doing?. Nope, but still I did it, like pretty much in my poor life story.
It took us forever to get to the hotel, It was ok, I was enjoying the view: thousand cars stucked in the traffic jam, all the horns played by many different people, making of the sound, some kind of anthem of the city, that anthem would become my soundtrack later that weekend.

This doesn't belong here.

As soon as I got to the hotel's entrance, my phone rang. It was my friend Omarov, telling me he wanted to see me, he sounded excited about the fact that I was in his city, he had so many plans, which in the future developed in many memories to me.
I checked in, I took the elevator up to the third floor, 303 was my room. Mine and no ones else. I felt so happy, it brought back old passages of me, being in my early twenties, traveling around Europe by myself. I remembered how much I love to travel with me and my complicated and sensitive personality.
I looked myself in the mirror, "Hello me, it's me again". I was blissful with the idea of walking around the different neighborhoods with Tani, a girl who I lost in Vancouver like a year and a half ago.

I took all my clothes out of the bag, hanged them; set all my perfumes and my many cosmetics on the dressing table; put on some red lipstick and took my black vintage hat, I didn't wear it right away, I just hold it  with my shaky hands. I took the elevator down, and my adventure began.
Everyone was nice at me: the people at the front desk smiled at me all the time, the bellboy was actually flirting   and the hotel taxi drivers were checking out my ass as I walked out the door.

I'll decide when it's the right time.

"So, how did you reach that point?
-What do you mean?
-Yes, how did you know what did you wanna become, who did you wanna be? I'm on the verge of my twenties, almost reaching my third decade in this world, and I don't know what do I want to do with my life, don't have even a fucking clue man!
-Well, that's exactly what you need to figure out for starters, then everything will be so much easier.
-Fuck man, I'm a mess, a chaos, a puzzle with missing pieces, and I don't know where should I start looking for them.
-I'll help you. Tell me, what do you enjoy doing the most?
-Writing, fashion, debating, politics, haha, don't know, many things.
-That's why you are so confused, you have many things to focus on, and probably you have good skills in all of them. So you are a very artistic person.
-I wouldn't considered myself an artist.
-Why not?
-Cuz I hate that term.
-Hahaha I see, well you have to call yourself something in order to start selling yourself as something.
-Yes, you are probably right.
-Another beer?
-Why not..."
He gave me a wanna-be-cold-beer, and lost himself into another converstation, with a fashionable girl, who wasn't me.
I started talking with my friend O, but I was still checking out his movements. His 50's glasses were, once in a while, reflecting the black light on me, on my white chest: He made me glow, and I felt so unique in the crowd.

Later that night, when I was dancing with my friend, I noticed that he was staring at me. He was really far away from the improvised dance floor. He walked towars me, and he said: "You are a chaos because you are a tornado baby, you could turn apart everything you touch, anyone you say 'hi'..." He made me shine even brighter.
"-May I ask your age?
-I'm 33 years old, and you?
-Almost 29.
-So, you are 28, don't give answers that belong to the future.
-I wont, from now on.
-It's late, and the party is getting really 'drunky', listen, would you like to come over my apartment, ask O, he knows where I live. Just one block away.
-I don't know, it's really late and I have to get on a plane tomorrow morning.
-I promise it wont be like a marathon.
-Haha, that's ok, just one beer."

Me and a bunch of people went there: the apartment of my dreams, so beautiful, it was alive, great furniture and lots of books and magazines: politics and fashion were emerging from the bookshelf, like if it was mine. Later that night, I would be informed that his parents are diplomats, and that he knows a hell of international relations  and history. He shares his apartment with a Le monde correspondent... That apartment had all the people that I'd been waiting to talk to, that I'd been wanting to ask so many questions, to get an idea... Any idea.

"-Don't go, stay one more night.
-No, I can't, but I wish I could. I have to work tomorrow.
-What do you do?
-I'm a kindergarten teacher.
-Awww, You must be the most interesting kindergarten teacher in the world.
-Haha, relax man.
-No, really. You think you are a mess, but you are nothing but a bunch of extrentic and good things together, you are exactly who someone needs to feel alive.
-.... (I couldn't say anything, I didn't know what to say)... I'm just a lost little girl, trying to teach to other little guys something about life, and I'm scared I'm the worst role model they could have.
- You are a little tornado, you're supposed to turn upside down some lives, even your own life.
-It was a great night, thank you so much for your nonesense, it made some sense to me. We will never see each other again.
-No, we wont. I'm moving to Amberes soon.
-I'm moving to somewhere, soon. It's been a pleasure.
-It was a real pleasure."
We hugged, I coul feel his fingers digging into my shoulders, he could feel my heart racing as his chest tried to say something that his lips didn't pronounce, but that I could hear:
"I really hope so too" My voice replied.

Some experiences don't last long enough in time, but they do in our hearts. That's my consolation prize.

Sisterhood.

Trailer Park day. Photos taken by Perrito Bebé.

I'm gonna set my old clothes on fire.

Which way to go?

I don't know what I want from life. I don't know what should I be doing right now, I'm not bulding a carrer on anything, I just have this temporary job, as a kindergarten teacher, which I kinda enjoy because kids remind you how beautiful and pure we were as childs, but life and experiences are the responsibles to make us distrutful and suspicious about pretty much everything and anyone. My four year old students are happy playing under the sun, they easily hug their classmates without any apparently reason; they give kisses away for free, without any expectations. They are not scared of showing how they feel, they have no barriers, they just are, they just live, they just learn.And for the first time in my life, the cheesy concept of the teacher being who learns of his/her students, make totally sense to me.
I don't give a fuck when it comes to choose what I'm wearing at school, I know that I'm gonna get stains of paint, clay, glue, even boogers on my clothes, and if I'm lucky enough, I'm gonna come back home carrying some purple glitter on my skinny jeans and doctor marten boots.
"My kids" are like fancy porcelain that I like to watch, very fragile, very pretty, very unique. And the best part is that long time ago I was also a wonderful piece of little human art, but that's also the worst part, cause I'm not anymore, suddenly I became just a regular piece of craftwork, and I'm not even 30 years old yet... I wonder what would I be when I'm 56... Would I become porcelain again? Just like a miracle?


I had made some plans. If I stick to them, I would be living in Australia before this xmas. But lately the glue that attached me to my future life programme it's not working, at least not properly. And it's not like I'm not sure about moving to another country, it has to do with the apparition of an old ghost: My old young love. He finally made up his mind, he says he wants me and that he wants to be with me, he loves me, he's positive... But I'm not so much anymore. I'm scared, I wish I could be just like my kids, and enjoy the good news, but instead, I'm having a revolution on my head.

When we were on the same track.

Is it just my idea or we, woman, have to synchronize our plans to our man's masterplan? I set myself some obstacles when I'm in a relationship with someone, especially with my old young love. I wanted him to be with me so much that I was ready to put my life on hold if his hand was holding mine, and by the time I realized that he wasn't going to be there, and I started to make some plans, he shows up with his declaration of love, and I don't know what to do. Don't get me wrong, I love him more than anyone, he is the one that I want to see everyday of my life, but first I need to figure out what kind of life do I wanna have, in order to have him in it.

Me at the playground.

Sometimes I wake up and want to cut my hair very short, or dye it black, or just set my clothes on fire and buy a new wardrobe, get a whole new shoe stock and walk a different path, but Which one?! I have no idea... And what if I regret burning my many jeans, skirts, shorts, blouses and dresses? How can I get them back? Hair grows, but clothes don't regenerate. I wish decisions weren't so hard to make. I wish I were more like an easygoing person, I wish I were 4 years old again and play on the swings of life. But at the same time, I wish there was his kind hand pushing me behind, giving me the strength, pushing me hard, making me feel that with each swing, I reach my dreams, my goals, my masterplan.
Those are my wishes, and perhaps a new pair of black Bianca Louboutins... I don't want to cut my hair, like my friend and canadian Contributor (she has a beautiful face to do that, not me), I don't wanna burn my clothes, and I don't want to leave him behind. I just wanna be at some beautiful and green playground, running around with my old young love, giving kisses away for free, asking my teacher why does she have that piece of metal in her gum, asking her why does she have a two-coloured hair, why does she always wear boots to work, asking her why does she ask herself so many questions.