jueves, 11 de julio de 2013

Home sweet home

París, julio de 2013: Jim, Amanda Palmer, amigos, calor, paseos, libros... Acabo de volver y ya lo echo de menos.

domingo, 23 de junio de 2013

The Bluest Eye

He used to come easing into bed sometimes, not too drunk. I make out like Im asleep, cause its late, and he taken three dollars out of my pocketbook that morning or something. I hear him breathing, but I dont look around. I can see in my minds eye his black arms thrown back behind his head, the muscles like great big peach stones sanded down, with veins running like little swollen rivers down his arms. Without touching him I be feeling those ridges on the tips of my fingers I sees the palms of his hands calloused to granite, and the long fingers curled up and still. I think about the thick, knotty hair on his chest, and the two big swells his breast muscles make. I want to rub my face hard in his chest and feel the hair cut my skin. I know just where the hair growth slacks out -just above his navel- and how it picks up again and spreads out. Maybe hell shift a little, and his leg will touch me, or I feel his flank just graze my behind. I dont move even yet. Then he lift his head, turn over, and put his hand on my waist. If I dont move, hell move his hand over to pull and knead my stomach. Soft and slow-like. I still dont move, because I dont want him to stop. I want to pretend sleep and have him keep on rubbing my stomach. Then he will lean his head down and bite my tit. Then I dont want him to rub my stomach anymore. I want him to put his hand between my legs. I pretend to wake up, and turn to him, but not opening my legs. I want him to open them for me. He does, and I be soft and wet where his fingers are strong and hard. I be softer than I ever been before. All my strength in his hand. My brain curls up like wilted leaves. A funny, empty feeling is in my hands. I want to grab holt of something, so I hold his head. His mouth is under my chin. Then I dont want his hand between my legs no more, because I think Im softening away. I stretch my legs open, and he is on top of me. Too heavy to hold, and too light not to. He puts his thing in me. In me. I wrap my feet around his back so he cant get away. His face is next to mine. The bed springs sounds like them crickets used to back home. He puts his fingers in mine, and we stretches our arms outwise like Jesus on the cross. I hold on tight. My fingers and my feet hold on tight, because everything else is going, going. I know he wants me to come first. But I cant. Not until he does. Not until I feel him loving me. Just me. Sinking into me. Not until I know that my flesh is all that be on his mind. That he couldnt stop if he had to. That he would die rather than take his thing out of me. Of me. Not until he has let go of all he has, and give it to me. To me. To me. When he does, I feel a power. I be strong, I be pretty, I be young. And then I wait. He shivers and tosses his head. Now I be strong enough, pretty enough and young enough to let him make me come. I take my fingers out of his and put my hands on his behind. My legs drop back onto the bed. I dont make no noise, because the chilren might hear. I begin to feel those little bits of color floating up into me deep in me. That streak of green from the june-bug light, the purple from the berries trickling along my thighs, mamas lemonade yellow runs sweet in me. Then I feel like Im laughing between my legs, and the laughing gets all mixed up with the colors, and Im afraid Ill come, and afraid I wont. But I know I will. And I do. And it be rainbow all inside. And it lasts and lasts and lasts. I want to thank him, but dont know how, so I pat him like you do a baby. He asks me if Im all right. I say yes. He gets off me and lies down to sleep. I want to say something, but I dont. I dont want to take my mind offen the rainbow. I should get up and go to the toilet, but I dont. Besides, he is asleep with his leg throwed over me. I cant move and dont want to.

Toni Morrison

sábado, 25 de mayo de 2013

I would have told you if you'd only asked me

Empezó con Amanda Palmer y el círculo se cierra con ella de nuevo. En este caso, porque el viaje a París es para ir a su concierto, pero una vuelve a estar soltera y la ciudad de la luz es mi destino tradicional de turismo sexual.

Oh, Amanda. Esta canción lo resume todo. Mi primogénita seguirá llevando tu nombre, pero tendrá un apellido francés...

Exhibit A
We are friends in a sleeping bag splitting the heat
We have one filthy pillow to share and your lips are in my hair
Someone upstairs has a rat that we laughed at
And people are drinking
And singing Van Halen and Slayer on a ukulele tear

Exhibit B
Well, we found an apartment
It’s not much to look at
A futon on a floor
Torn-off desktop for a door
All the decor's made of milk crates and duct tape
And if we have sex
They can hear us through the floor
But we don’t do that anymore

And I lay there wondering, what is the matter?
Is this a matter of worse or of better?
You took the blanket, so I took the bedsheet
But I would have held you if you'd only

Let me

Exhibit C
Look how quaint
And how quiet and private
Our paychecks have bought us a condo in town
It's the nicest flat around
You picked a mattress and had it delivered
And I walked upstairs
And the sight of it made my heart pound
And I wrapped my arms around me

And I stood there wondering, what is the matter?
Is this a matter of worse or of better?
You walked right past me and straightened the covers
But I would still love you if you wanted a lover
And you said
All the money in the world
Won't buy a bed so big and wide
To guarantee that you won't accidentally touch me
In the night

Exhibit D
Now we're both mostly paralyzed
Don't know how long we've been lying here in fear
Too afraid to even feel
I find my glasses and you turn the light out
Roll off on your side
Like you've rolled away for years
Holding back those king-size tears

And I still don't ask you, what is the matter?
Is this a matter of worse or of better?
You take the heart failure
I'll take the cancer
I've long stopped wondering why you don't answer

Exhibit E
You can certainly see how fulfilling a life
From the cost and size of stone of our final resting home
We got some nice ones right under a cherry tree
You and me lying the only way we know
Side by side and still and cold

And I finally ask you, what was the matter?
Was it a matter of worse or of better?
You stretch your arms out and finally face me
You say I would have told you

If you'd only asked me
If you'd only asked me
If you'd only asked me

viernes, 29 de marzo de 2013

Mad Girl's Love Song


I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Sylvia Plath

miércoles, 27 de marzo de 2013

La Belle Dame sans Merci

John William Waterhouse

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

John Keats, 1819.