De relaciones personales y Excel

Mi relación con Excel inició en el colegio, cuando mi muy filosófico profesor de informática decidió que aprender a usar el programa nos iba a ayudar en la cercana vida futura libres de faldas a la rodilla y estrógenos en ebullición. Como en general me gusta organizar las cosas no evidentemente organizables (una curiosidad estructurada en mi muy telarañesca mente), se me ocurrió la idea de analizar y/o cuantificar no sólo las ganancias y pérdidas de un mes o parecidos, sino mis relaciones personales. La cosa quedó en idea por varios años, hasta que la redescubrí vagando por mi memoria con los ojos cerrados.

Ya estudiante de Medicina, y familiarizada con el SOAP del día a día (para los no iniciados: Subjetivo, Objetivo, Apreciación y Plan), decidí poner en práctica esa idea. El sujeto: mi enamorado de turno; los ítems de evaluación subjetivos se simplificaron a preguntas con un valor numérico (del 1 al 5) y los objetivos se relacionaron con la experiencia subjetiva para  correlacionarse con el importantísimo factor emocional del proyecto. La apreciación se basaba en las evaluaciones subjetivas y objetivas y el plan se elaboraba en base a la apreciación. Excel listo, con colorcitos y todo, a la expectativa de ser llenado diariamente y con la opción del placer culposo de ver mi relación en un gráfico linear.

Así, un día podía tener una apreciación subjetiva de 5 respecto a la capacidad emocional del chico y un 2 respecto a la intelectual. No pasaron dos semanas para que me diera cuenta de las flaquezas, pero elaborar un plan me parecía (irónicamente) frío; analizar y diagnosticar era una cosa, tratar otra. Semana a semana (gráfico linear de por medio) veía cómo mi relación seguía una curva suave de mejora, meseta y decaimiento. Claro que habían días increíbles que significaban dulces piquitos en el gráfico, pero por lo general el efecto desaparecía a los dos día y la curva seguía mostrando su pendiente negativa.

La relación terminó con una llamada telefónica mía, y una intervención cariñosa de mis cuatro mejores amigos acompañada de lágrimas y Pizza Hut. Después de un horroroso Noviembre y un melancólico Diciembre, eliminé el archivo y guardé el formato para una posterior reutilización. Cuatro meses después volví a limpiar el formato, no sorprendida pero sí apenada, con el dinero de un pasaje transatlántico en la cuenta y los planes de un enero frustrados.

No he vuelto a usar el gráfico desde esa segunda vez, básicamente porque no he tenido oportunidad de ello. También porque me da miedo. Ver fielmente retratados mis sentimientos y posibilidades, ser (en teoría) capaz de construir o destruir relaciones en base a la estabilidad de sus cimientos me sigue pareciendo innecesariamente frío, sin dejar por eso de ser atractivo. Por eso la última vez que discutí Excel con un amigo, me dolió un poquito que dijera que lo odiaba (por excelentes razones, la verdad). Para mí Excel no es un programa. No sé qué significa, tampoco.

Me pregunto si la próxima relación que tenga va a ser sometida al escrutinio de sus celdas. Pero la verdadera pregunta actual es de dónde sale esta disciplinada afición mía. ¿Qué busco, qué encuentro, qué espero? Las respuestas me dan miedo, aunque no tanto miedo como la incógnita más incómoda e inevitable: ¿qué quiero?

My Freaky Saturday (and a week after that)

We all know that the morning after is usually not a pretty one, right? Especially when the ugly truth of having fried my laptop and cheated on my boyfriend (in order of importance) hit me. The physical hang-over was non-existent, though: I remembered everything, which made it all much worse.

I mean, seriously? how could I have done all of that? How much could my life have changed in a week? How much could my life have changed in one night! Yet there wasn’t enough time to horrify about it. I had to get my laptop fixed and that was priority number one, so I grabbed the wallet, the iPod and the keys: quiet reflection and epiphany came to a second place in the event of not having a Facebook account to check obsessively.

How had it all started? I asked myself, lying down on my bed, laptop fixed and thinking mood on. How the whole me dating a drug dealer who happened to be the gentlest man I had ever met had happened? I had had the best week I had memory of and I had brilliantly fucked it up, due to some absynth and a blonde girl who triggered my very sensitive let's-blow-the-whole-thing-up mode. Of course, me having dated a drug-dealer could have been very well construed as a flare of the very same mode. Didn’t matter though: things were fucked, thoroughly and inexplicably, and the cause was the least of my concerns back then.

So, it sucked. Basically. It sucked on Saturday and Sunday and Monday and Tuesday. It sucked through the hospital hours and through the coming and going, it sucked through the beach afternoons and the Indie Rock Playlist, it sucked at night and it sucked at mornings, it sucked. Really. It did. That’s why when I logged in Facebook Wednesday afternoon and I found the inbox Diego had sent me my heart started beating a tattoo on my chest.

Diego February 23 at 11:32
What happened to you the other night?

Me February 23 at 4:00
Absynth, apparently. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry about that night.

Diego February 23 at 4:02
I sure hope so. Tomorrow, coffee?

Me February 23 at 4:03
Perfect.

Thursday I woke up in peace with the world, with plans of calling Diego and giving it another try. The hospital was great, and when I came back and opened my Facebook account the only thing I wanted to do was to send him an inbox and get him back.

Didn’t happen, though. The first thing on my newsfeed was a picture of him with the blonde girl, looking like an item, fingers touching each other and a painful comment saying “having a good time there, Diego!”. I updated my Twitter status to a “why does a blonde girl always have to be involved?” and closed the laptop. It was time to read the psychiatry article I had been procrastinating.

I did manage to read the article, as a matter of fact. Diego had just won the privilege of being graciously kicked out my brain by Kretschmer’s personality theories.

It was about time to go back to my group, the one I had so mindlessly left when the blue-eyed beau had entered my life. I had been sent inboxes and emails, not to mention the invitations I had declined in hope of meeting Diego once again. The party of the weekend was Marcelo’s birthday, to which I had not been invited because at the moment we didn’t speak to each other. Morpheus, another acquaintance of mine, was also celebrating his birthday.

I went to the live-stream HD opera that early afternoon, with the Elf's aunt and sister. At night I put on my red heels, the blue blouse and the red lipstick once again. I certainly wasn't expecting anything to happen, but it did. I never saw Diego again. It didn't matter.

Soundtrack 2011 - III (Q3)

So, talk about surprises? Seriously? Talk about how a charming Schwabenland Kardio life turned into a land-of-the-free infatuation and a sudden interest over the details of the USMLE STEP 1? Talk about how my Islam conceptual affair turned into a (double) affair with the Middle East(ern guys)? Talk about my life-long dream of living on my own and publicly bragging about my housewife skills! Talk about Saturday's  afternoons coming back (and surpassing) all their geeky glory. Talk about this quarter. Talk about me.

1) Yellow Submarine - The Beatles
As usual after the VISA, the paperwork, the tickets and the packed bags i freaked out about being away (again) from el Malecón. And by freaking out i mean the whole nine yards, as in crying all the time, lurking an old flame into liking me again just for the fun of it (then dumping him), dragging my poor mutti down to some Chinese soup at ten something at night and saying goodbye to every wall, pic and stone in my house. You know what i couldn't get out of my mind? This song. So we sailed onto the sun, 'till we found the sea of green...


2) Seeman - Rammstein
Regardless of what the uninitiated might think (you know who i'm taking about), German music, particularly industrial metal, doesn't necessarily mean yelling and screaming and Satan stuff. Yes, one of my favourite songs is "Ich bin ein wahrer Satan", from ASP, but Seeman by Rammstein is a poem made into a song. Seriously. Just ask for the translation one of these days. You'll be surprised.
(by the way, remember the Ode to Joy, from the 9th? another German poem made into a song)

3) ... baby one more time - Britney Spears
#Mainstreamisnottheenemy. Just saying.

4) Cost - Folly and the Hunter
Indie happy (damned) good music. The kind of song that clings somewhere between my ear and my headphones and just won't let got. Thank God for that.

5) Stairway to Heaven - Led Zepellin
There's a lady who's sure all the glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway to heaven. According to Pon Pon, the most emotional, heartfelt song in all of classic metal. I (as usual) agree with him.

6) Devil vs. Heater - Priory

7) Penny Lane - The Beatles
Penny Lane for me was Kate Hudson's character on Almost Famous, pretending not to have feelings for Russell while secretly being madly in love with him. Trust me, i've had my Penny Lane moments... which always ended up in my own Morocco journeys (called appropriately Deutschland 2008, Deutschland 2009 and Detroit 2011). But then i listened to this song, and learned that Penny Lane was a street, just like Porta. And, just like that, the spell finally was broken.

8) Bernard's Watch - Bearfoot Beware


9) Fragments of an Island - My little Pony


10) Girl - The View


11) Gymnopedie No. 1 - Erik Satie
Assassini, my favorite book, in my hands. Drew Summerhays reigning over his Fifth Avenue turf while Ben Driskill finds his way through the Egyptian desert sands into the Vatican Octopus that tries to save itself by sinking everybody else down. This is magnificent writing, with a magnificent soundtrack behind. Thank you Amazon.

12) Moon River - Audrey Hepburn
Really, the whole movie craze that got me in July started with a make-up video from Lisa Elderige recreating Audrey Hepburn's make up on "Breakfast at Tiffany's". So i watched the movie and sent a email to my dad... talking about old movies. Then, out of the blue Space Odyssey, Dr. Strangelove and Full Metal Jacket came alone, and how could i watch Full Metal Jacket without watching Apocalypsis Now? And what about Citizen Kane and Casablanca and Midnight Cowboy and the Shinning and A Clockwork Orange? And The Graduate? And...? should i go on?

13) Paint it Black - The Rolling Stones
Francis Ford Copolla, direct quote: "My movie is not about Vietnam... my movie is Vietnam."

14) Teenage Dirtbag - Wheatus
Man i feel like mold... it's prom night and i'm lonely, low and behold: she's walking over to me, this must be fake; my lip starts to shake. How does know who i am? and why does she give a damned about me? 


15) The Promise - Michael Nyman
Again, listening to a BSO of a movie i haven't seen. But the piano... the piano...

16) Baile de los pobres - Calle 13
Me dancing at night in my Detroit mini-apartment to this song... tú tomas agua destilada, yo agua con microbios.

17) Goshen - Beirut
Yes, Beirut, again. It's for a good cause, you know. Oh, you don't? Just close your eyes and feel. I mean it. Just close them... let yourself go. Let yourself find that place which you didn't even suspected you could get into and let go.


19) Hurt - Johnny Cash
Somehow his voice talks about unhealed wounds and memories i think he'd rather forget. The indecency of a long-waited goal that was finally achieved only to reveal its emptiness. The fear of death and the completion of an incredibly colourful life that, sometimes, doesn't seem eventful enough. This songs makes me fear about my future. But mostly, it makes me want to have a future i would fear losing.

20) Port of call - Beirut


21) Belongings - Clock Opera


22) 1975 - Milo Greene


23) Dog days are over - Florence + The Machine
Alex DeLarge. Good ol' times are not only back: they just got so much better...

My Freaky Friday

Yes, I fucked up. No, I didn’t mean to. But man, I had a blast.

Let’s state the obvious first: I was drunk. Not that it is an excuse, don’t get me wrong. Anyways, it’s the middle of February, and here in the southern hemisphere that means summer. Yesterday it was Friday night and Josema was smoking on my window, as we were watching “300” on the TV and discussing the overbearing masculinity of Leonidas. I was wearing my red high heels, and he said I had a kind of snow-white-look with my blue blouse and my white shorts. My red lipstick shone bright on my lips; I was in for the kill that night, and I knew exactly who my victim was going to be.

Josema had introduced me to the very popular Diego exactly one week before. He had become his new best friend in four months, four months that had been filling Josema’s mouth with ever more outrageous stories of their adventures (if I may) together. After lots of anticipation and half a bottle of rum, we came in and Diego’s eyes locked firmly with mine.

His house is ridiculously huge yet it wasn’t hard to notice him right away: baby blue eyes framed by picture perfect eyelashes, topped by thick dark eyebrows that I could only imitate with the help of industrial amounts of eyebrow pencil. The bar fight lump on his nose lends him a badass look that somehow gives his whole face a masculine scent that overpowers the femininity of his pinky-red lips. Diego is freaking handsome. And if I wasn’t completely sure that Josema is straight, I would have suspected that his good looks had a lot to do with my friend’s bromance.

- So here you are.  –he said, with a piercingly deep voice that goes along with his tongue piercing.

-The famous Diego.

- We finally meet –he replied, shaking hands with Josema.

- I told you I was going to bring her no matter what.

- It took us a long time, didn’t it? –he asked, stretching his arm to pick a bottle of beer nearby.

- Good things are hard to come by. –I smiled.

It wasn’t long before we were mixing small talk with ever less subtle innuendos about hooking up. Josema’s was smiling and eavesdropping around, convinced that for the first time his matchmaker’s skills had hit the nail with me. And he was right.

It took us almost two beers and a half to get to his room and turn off the lights. That, added to the half a bottle of rum I had so needlessly poured in while drinking with Josema, accounted to a probably obscene amount of alcohol going through my bloodstream. Not that I cared.

I didn’t bother pretending I’m a good girl. Yes, I had met him a couple hours before, yes, I had been suspecting this cute boy was up to no good a long time ago, but one thing is to worry about one’s friend’s acquaintances and quite another not to surrender to them when in person. My concerns went unequivocally out the window; for the first time in months, I was having fun. He was in control, and I wasn’t going to be the one to complain, but it didn’t go much further from there that night.

We went out of his room, me (pointlessly) trying to act cool around him. Josema greeted us with a smile in the eyes, gave each one a beer and kept on talking about those very significant nonsenses that make life worth living.

There was no talk about what had happened or about me sitting on his lap; there wasn’t even a comment on us kissing good night (though it should have been good-morning). As soon as I arrived home I accepted his friend request on Facebook and poked him back. We agreed on meeting the next day, despite me having an early shift the day after that. I had been swept off my feet and I had absolutely no problem with that.

After waking up again it was a craze of Facebook inbox messages and pokes. We settled the time at 7:00 pm and I took a nice hour to shower, put make-up and calm down.

It was going to be my first date in ages, and I had no idea how to behave after the hook-up of the night before. I was just done with the eyeliner when Diego rang on my doorbell. My mom looked out the window and saw his BMW Z4 coupé.

- Is that your friend’s car? –she asked, in awe.

- I guess so.

- He’s really rich.

- I know.

- How did you meet him?

- He’s Josema’s new friend.

I was wearing my denim shorts, a white t-shirt and vertiginous white heels. Make-up, kept simple: a little –tiny –bit of black eyeliner on the upper lid and length-increasing mascara. No lip gloss or eye shadow; and I don’t even own concealer or foundation.

- Hello gorgeous. –He greeted me.

- Hello, car.

- Like it?

- Love it.

His laugh eased my very anxious self.

- Shall we, then? –he asked.

- Where to?

- I already told you it’s a surprise.

It wasn’t a long drive, but it was a really nice one. We went to a restaurant on the very ocean shore, down the cliffs where my house is. I had been there before with my German friends, for drinks, but it was completely different than being there for a date.

- This is my favorite place to take a girl. –He said, when we came in.

- How many girls have you brought?

- Counting you? –he asked. His eyes pierced mine. –One.

- Liar.

It was inevitable to like him. Really. But certain things didn’t go unnoticed. Such as scars from cuts on his left forearm. One of them recent; two weeks, no more.

- You noticed them? –he said. I looked to his eyes, he looked to his arm.

- Self-inflicted.

- It has gotten worse.

- Really?

- Josema told me you’re pretty good at psych. Could you help me?

- I’m just a student.

- Didn’t ask that.

How could I say no?

- Yeah. I could.

I lowered my gaze. He took a deep breath in.

- Wanna know something about me?

- Yeah, sure.

- You know, I’m only telling you this because I really like you.

- We’ve known each other less than twenty-four hours.

- Is that a defense mechanism against guys that have screwed you in the past?

He was way too honest for a first date.

- You’re making me nervous. –I said.

- You too.

He drank a large sip from his cold water glass.

- I’m a drug dealer. You can leave if you want.

Bomb dropped. Initiate withdrawal.

- Why do you tell me this?

I took a deep breath, confusing silence took place for a few seconds.

- I’m good with people. I haven’t got a brilliant mind, in fact I’ve god ADD, but I’ve got good people skills. Know who to trust, when to. You’re trustworthy. And I needed to get it out of my chest. –He smiled. –Sometimes you just have to let go. It’s a leap of faith.

I drank a sip of my Pisco Punch, and it took me some time to smile.

He was a perfect gentleman that night. We ate, we talked, we joked around and we came back home. I took him in, he met my mom, swept her off her feet with his charm. We only gave each other a good night kiss.

I had been a long time since I had felt like that. Like, being unable to shut my mind from thinking about someone. I had an early shift at the psychiatry hospital I’m working at the moment, but I had no desire to sleep at all. I couldn’t forget his face, his arm, his voice. He leads such a different life from mine, he’s a self-acknowledged bad boy. And boy, do I fancy him. Yes, I still do. Regardless of what happened yesterday, I mean.

Anyway, the shift on Sunday was alright, but we didn’t meet at all. On Monday it was Valentine’s day, and since I live in to one of the busiest (and prettiest, let’s not forget that) parts of the city, the streets were packed with couples holding hands. I opened my Facebook and found a message from him.

Diego February 14 at 4:43

Are there any kinky costumes for doctors? I’ve been searching through the web and all I see is nurses.

Me February 14 at 4:49

Nurses need kinky costumes to be interesting. Doctors don’t.

Diego February 14 at 5:01

True. Wanna study some anatomy tonight? It’s the tradition.

Me February 14 at 5:04

The streets around my house are packed with couples, so I wouldn’t recommend you to bring your fancy car.

Diego February 14 at 5:07

Open the door. I came by bike.

I looked through my window and there he was. Perfect, wearing a blue t-shirt and white plaid shorts.

My mom had gone out, so I was home alone. Two minutes went by before we were desperately kissing in the living room, ripping each other’s clothes off. My mom came home just five minutes after we had brought ourselves to the kitchen to have a snack.

- He came by bike? –she asked, once he had left. We were sharing the same glass of water, and I was feeling quite guilty for it.

- Yes. Less traffic.

- Probably it wasn’t his car, it was his dad’s.

- Or his mom’s –I lied. I knew it was his. I knew why it is his, in fact.

Diego had left at about 10:30, and we had shared a kiss on my front door.

- Are you together now? –my mom asked.

- No.

I knew she had seen us kissing.

- Are you going to?

- I guess so.

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday went through dates and Facebook messages. All of which then led to yesterday’s night. Exactly one week after we had met.

Josema was smoking on my window, watching 300, laughing out loud. I was abusing of my little snuff tin, and looking at my red-lips reflection on the mirror.

- I wanna be Leonidas. –He said.

- THIS IS WHERE WE FIGHT! THIS IS WHERE THEY DIE! –I started yelling, overpowered by Leonidas masculinity.

- THIS IS SPARTA! –he yelled, almost falling off of the window.

I fell to my bed and spilled my drink over the laptop. It instantly shut down. First fuck-up of the night. Didn’t care much, though. I was way too drunk. And we had to meet Diego half an hour after that.

When we arrived I was obviously wasted and he was talking to a blonde, curly-hair pale girl. They were on the slippery verge between small talk and flirt. I supported myself on Josema, which meant holding him from the back and laying my arms over his shoulders.

- Hi. –I said to Diego, looking at him straight in the eye.

- Hello. –He said, visibly surprised. He got up and tried to give me a kiss, which I gracefully dodged.

- Hello man, sorry, we were… –Josema started saying

- Come here. –Diego said, pulling me aside.

- You’re really drunk. –He said.

- I know.

- Why did you come so late?

- I was watching 300 with Josema.

- Up until 12 at night?

- We also sang Glee songs? –that part was also actually true, and my mom had told us to shut it because we were awfully out of tune. But it only made him look at me in clear and honest anger.

- I’ll get you a cup of coffee.

- What’s so wrong with being drunk? You and Josema get drunk all the time.

- It’s different.

- Really? Why? ‘Cause he’s a man?

- You’re my girlfriend.

- No I’m not. We haven’t talked about it. Answer the question. Is it different because he’s a man?

- Yes! Now let’s go.

- No! Out of all people I thought you’d be the last one with double standards.

-You’re drunk, you’re not thinking right…

- Look who’s talking.

- What do you mean?

I released myself from him and stomped my way back to Josema.

- What’s wrong?

- Your friend here is a hypocrite, that’s what’s wrong. –I said, not being too quiet.

Josema was talking to a girl and a guy. The girl was his usual type: lots of make-up and a do-me attitude; the boy was my usual type: tall, thin, pale, not the greatest sense of fashion, laid-back attitude. He only missed the glasses and the geek status, but he was alright for the purpose I had in mind.

I knew Diego was looking at me, so I started flirting lightly with Jack (tall-thin-pale guy). Josema was focused on the girl, so he wasn’t paying much attention. I put my elbow on the table, (trying to look) interested on what he had so say. It didn’t take Diego one minute to come along.

- Seriously? –He said.

- What do you think you’re doing? –I replied.

- Is there a problem? –Jack asked.

- Not at all. –I replied. –Jack, wanna go outside? It’s getting hot in here.

Diego stormed out as I went outside with Jack. We sat on one of the benches on the garden.

- I need to talk to you. –I heard. It was Josema.

- Oh, you too?

I stood up and walked towards him.

- What the fuck are you doing? –he whispered, as soon as I got next to him.

- What you do every Friday night.

- What about Diego?

- What about the double-standard guy?

- We’re leaving. –He said.

- Too many people, dear. I’m leaving. You can stay as long as you want.

I turned around to see Diego talking to Jack.

- We’re leaving. –I said.

- Good. –Diego replied.

- Wasn’t talking to you. –I looked Jack straight in the eyes. –Are you in? –I said, turning to Jack.

- Er…

- I’ll be outside.

I stomped my way out (for the second time) and kept on walking when I left the house. Josema was calling me on the cell phone, so it turned it off. I kept on walking. Just when I was about to go back I heard Jack’s steps.

- I’m in. –he said.

We took a taxi to my house, and we kissed on the back seat. When we arrived to my house my mom asked if it was Josema the one with me. I lied and told her he was, and then I started laughing. It all had just hit me.

I fucked up, I know. Jack left my house five minutes after and when I came up my mom asked why had Josema left.

- He wanted to sleep on his bed. –I answered.

When I came back to my room I saw the bottle of absynth my German friends had brought me. It was empty, next to my laptop, which was fried. I tried to turn it on a couple times, but it didn’t work. No internet, no Facebook, no Diego, nothing. Yet I was on a very contradictory good mood. And very, very drunk.

Ni bosque ni malecón

Me sonríes entre los bordes y las esquinas de los cuadros,

escondido en la maleza de los árboles del bosque,

tus dedos culpables manchados de chocolate de noche de verano.

Guiñas tus ojos verde cocodrilo de pestañas desordenadas

detrás esos cristales que te sacabas en las tardes,

cuando en el mundo estábamos solos tú y yo.

Tu alma tiene mucho de la mía,
y la mía tiene huellas de ti, del bosque y del malecón.

Es por eso que la negra selva huele a ti,

y la brisa del mar a mí, y por eso mi país soy yo.

Pero no estás aquí, hace tiempo, y yo tampoco estoy ahí.

Y tu vida no es la mía hace ya bastante atrás.

Mi corazón acostumbró a mis manos a escribirte,

y por ti mi amor aprendió a hablar en otra lengua,

mis deseos dejaron de escaparse en susurros para convertirse en mails.

Juntos saltamos al precipicio sin alas ni paracaídas,

vivimos en esa casita cuyas lunas un día, desesperada, martillé.

Pero no pudimos olvidarnos, ni siquiera separarnos,
porque aún después de despedirnos, wir geblieben sind.

Sigues conmigo, igualito, al otro lado la pantalla,

ciudadano de ese mundo en el que una vez quise vivir.

Eres peligroso como la marcha de un borracho cruzando la avenida,

dolorosamente honesto, genial, inapropiado,

mi superhéroe caído, mi imbécil ex enamorado.

Me asaltas de vez en cuando con un recuerdo, bonito,

cuando solo en tu carro me cantabas "I'm yours".

Tu olor se mezcla con el del cigarrillo y me coge desprevenida,

mientras cierro mis ojos sin que te des cuenta para volverte a ver.

A ti fue a quien abracé cuando regresé del bosque,

fue tu mano la que tomó la mía caminando en el malecón.

A veces te extraño, dormido a mi lado,

convirtiendo mi cama por primera vez en un lugar feliz.

Y aunque ya no estamos juntos, aunque todo eso ya pasó,

los momentos sagrados que vivimos lo seguirán siendo,

aún cuando sepamos que ni tú eres para mí ni para ti soy yo.

Mi piel no entiende cómo te metiste debajo de ella,

cómo mis brazos se acostumbraron tanto a tu cuerpo,

cómo en mis oídos resuena tu voz, cómo mis labios extrañan tus besos

(ni siquiera somos patas).

Con la tele prendida de fondo y los Beatles de testigo nos juntábamos

en silencio, caleteando en la tarde de mi casa solitaria,

tus lentes en el mueble, al costado de tus llaves y tu pudor

(te encanta).

Pero decidiste tú solo despertar del sueño de la ultimate heist movie,

yo de Penny Lane confundida entre esos “¡para, para, para!”

y tu afán de terminar la película aún sin empezar

(creo que en Viernes Santo eso es pecado mortal).

Soundtrack 2011 - II (Q2)

This second quarter hasn't been what i expected... 'cause it was both better and worse. Between the steamy afternoons with movies as soundtrack, the never-ending party in Surgery, the everyday life at the 3I, the renewed flight of my once forgotten Ícaro, the travel plans that crashed and burned and the plan B that popped along the way, music found its way in the middle, as it always does.

1) Dear Prudence - The Beatles
The Beatles sweeping off my feet, yet again, both literally and metaphorically. How not to fall for this song?


2) Si no le contesto - Plan B
Surgery Hymn. Meant to be danced (and sung) in the drunkest state possible, with the best group i have had the joy to work with. Cirugía Cayetano: la vida entera.


3) Mine is yours - Cold War Kids
Early at dawn, the will to wake up early knowing that i'm gonna get my ass kicked. God, i miss surgery.


4) I think i'll call you mine - Parlours
Indie rock! :D (happy music!)

5) Little Riot - The morning benders
Autumn fading away as a rather warm winter comes.

6) Afortunadamente no eres tú - Paty Cantu

¡Mírate, por dios escúchate, qué horror ya cállate! Sometimes it's just about jumping around to a sweetened, decaffeinated latin rock diva trying to be punk in black stilettos and heavy make-up. Hardly pulling it off, but c'mon, it's such a guilty pleasure!

7)  Better love - Eisley

An honest rock song that has every right to claim the anthem tag for it.

8) St. Dominic - Left with Pictures


9) I need your mind - Singing Adams


10) Sunday - The View


11) Chat with Sivan - Foxtails Brigade
Some songs pull my strings so accurately it almost hurts. This is one of them.

12) Not enough - Xylos


13)  Pollen on the dust - Boat Beam
God vocals + great musical architecture + cellos = goosebumps all over the place.


14) Eleanor Rigby - The Beatles

Amazing lyrics, outstanding song. The perfect soundtrack for those moments of excruciating pleasure.

15) Don't make me close my eyes - Jon Fratelli
There's something undeniably sexy in this man's voice...

16) Shake - Jared Mees and the Grown Children


17) But what about the future - Toy Horses

Stephen Fry is really a clever fucking guy; thank you for this song!

18) Snowglobe - Jesca Hoop
Sweet, slow melody that crawled its way beneath my skin.

19) The inner light - The Beatles
One must know when to end the movie; lesson learned.


20) Around my head - Cage the Elephant

21) All is full of Love - Björk

Ícaro, being on call, Marlboro Blue spreading through the air. I had almost forgotten how good he smells. 

22) Nunca te olvidaré - Enrique Iglesias

Grandiloquent, predictable and yes, a bit kitsch. Back from the time when the mainstream/indie dichotomy didn't give me headaches. Not that it actually gives me headaches now... you know what i mean.

23) Hey You - Pony Pony Run Run
Wish you were made just for me.

Por qué (creo que) ganó Humala

Para Ícaro, que inspiró este post.

Ollanta Humala ganó la presidencia del Perú con cifras, por lo decir lo menos, intimidantes. Excepto la egocéntrica y poco representativa Lima, llena de prejuicios e idiosincrasias anacrónicas (reliquias de la sociedad de castas de la colonia), Humala conquistó las preferencias cómoda e irrevocablemente, invocando a un nacionalismo efectista e inconfundible. Apeló a la necesidad intrínseca de identificación con un líder que se puede considerar como uno mismo; Ollanta Humala es el peruano que muchos quieren ser.

Decir nacionalismo suena feo en un mundo occidental donde las fronteras son cada vez más borrosas e indefinidas. Y en la memoria colectiva actual, la experiencia nacionalista de la Segunda Guerra Mundial está todavía  muy fresca como para hablar de ella desde la fría objetividad. Pero (a pesar de lo mucho que quieran hacernos creer), el nacionalismo no es un constructo contemporáneo, ni el facismo italiano y el nacionalsocialismo alemán sus representantes máximos. En la cultura occidental, el nacionalismo se inicia en la alianza ateniense-espartana en la guerra contra Persia. El aplaudido helenismo de Alejandro Magno en su conquista del mundo antiguo no es más que la representación a gran escala de su identidad griega adoptada, habiendo sido el pupilo de Aristóteles. El nacionalismo no es sino la expresión de la necesidad de las personas de sentirse parte de un grupo que comparte sus mismos intereses y está dispuesto a luchar por ellos.

El pueblo, así, necesita un líder que lo dirija hacia el futuro que busca. Pero nadie dijo que este líder debe ser perfecto. Es más, el regente que tiene poder sobre su pueblo nunca ha sido un dechado de virtudes. Ya lo probó Nicolás Maquiavelo, basándose en la figura del genial (y no por ello menos sanguinario) hijo del papa Alejandro VI, César Borgia. El Príncipe debe sabe cuándo incurrir en el mal para lograr un bien, lo cual significa poner el pragmatismo por encima de la doctrina. César Borgia, el temible personaje que hacía temblar a los estados vaticanos, sediento de sangre, provincias y poder, personifica la sofisticación intelectual y política que los príncipes más poderosos de su época debían tener.

Es ahí donde verdaderamente nació la Realpolitik de la cual Ollanta Humala ha hecho gala estas últimas elecciones. La conducta de Otto von Bismarck en la época previa a la Primera Guerra Mundial no sorprende a nadie ni es ningún invento. Para alcanzar y mantener el poder sobre el pueblo lo primero es adecuarse a sus necesidades, sin importar las convicciones ideológicas específicas que se hayan formulado en un principio. Ollanta Humala, con la experiencia previa de la derrota, se bajó del pedestal del radicalismo y le habló en lenguaje simple al ciudadano a pie. Modificó su plan de gobierno y prometió resolver lo que a la gente más le importa. Su situación fue fortuita, es cierto, pero supo aprovechar las oportunidades y salió ganador.

La democracia, el poder del pueblo, ha elegido a este nuevo caudillo para que los guíe en los próximos cinco años. Ha elegido a un hombre incómodo, hasta cierto punto inapropiado. Es obvio que un solo hombre no puede cambiar estructuras sociales y culturales centenarias, enquistadas y metastatizadas en nuestra psique mestiza y peruana. Pero hay que tomar en cuenta de que este hombre representa un nacionalismo del que hemos empezado a dejar de sentir vergüenza.

Quizá, sólo quizá, este nuevo caudillo siembre la semilla para que un país que siempre estuvo dividido empiece a ser una sola nación.

Si me enamoro de ti...

Si me enamoro de ti posiblemente no tienes un cuerpo de Adonis ni una cara de editorial de Vogue.

Si pienso en ti en las noches probablemente eres miope y no tienes las pestañas largas y oscuras que me hacen voltear la cara cuando las veo pasar.

Si las canciones que me gustan me suenan a ti la regla es que no te guste mucho mi tipo de música. Pero no importa, la mayoría de música que tengo está en mi iPod porque me la bajé para impresionar a alguien y me terminó gustando. 

Si justo quiero cocinar para ti no me sorprendería que tengas gustos muy exquisitos o seas vegetariano.

Si bailo contigo mientras estoy sola en mi cuarto no te ilusiones por alguna vez ganar un concurso de salsa. 

Si sonrío cuando te pones ansioso no es por burlarme de ti; es porque me encanta que tengas la libertad de angustiarte cuando estás conmigo. 

Si tu nombre es el que no puedo dejar de repetir es porque de todas las veces que hemos hablado, han sido muy pocas las veces que has dicho el mío.

Si leo Wikipedia y miro Discovery no es para tener tema de conversación. Pero la verdad es que saber que las cosas que me interesan te interesan a ti también hace que mi corazón lata más rápido.

Si me callo esos roches internos y las inseguridades que me minan no es porque no confíe en ti. Es porque sé que a veces el miedo a perderte es eso mismo que te va a alejar de mí.

Si te digo que te quiero sé que te vas a asustar un poco pero que eventualmente vas a sonreír.

Si te adoro es porque me diste el regalo de creer en ti.

Y si me enamoro de ti... estate seguro de que vas a ser feliz.

Soundtrack 2011 - I (commented)

My life has a soundtrack. And these three great months have more than enough music to brag about. These are the songs that bring to my mind the very memorable scenes that are sometimes much greater than the play itself. 

1) Fuck you – Cee  Lo Green

The most unpretentious New Year's celebration turned out to be a great example on what a luxury it is to be with friends wearing flat shoes and not worrying about the make-up. Out of the city, out of the road, out of the year. A great start.

2) Raise your Glass – Pink

What's the dealio? January, Germans in town and friends in the house. Booze all over the place and a heart-warming certainty: i'm in great company. My glass is not empty. 

3) La Gota de Rocío – Silvio Rodríguez

Maxim Gurki, late at night, early morning. Missing those days when i had to wake you up and listen to your sleepy voice, when i could play with your Geel-cuy alpaquita hair. You were the one who set the path for me to walk on; you fought against my stubbornness and you won. I love you, sweetie. Always did, always will.  

4) Love the way you lie Part II – Rihanna feat. Eminem

There's this dark, seductive beauty in relationships that require the ones involved to take leaps far too great for them not to crash onto the ground. It's dangerous, like the stride of a drunk man crossing an avenue. 

5) Feel Good Inc. – Gorillaz

The anthem of the year. Windmill, windmill for the land; love forever hand in hand. Take it all there on your stride, it is sinking, falling down. Love forever, love is free. Let's turn forever you and me. Windmill, windmill for the land. Is everybody in? 

6) Borderline/ Open your heart – Glee Cast

Freaky Friday, starring Gundula Kralem, The English Gentleman, Jackie-o and my hardest-to-love best-friend. Absynth gone, hard-disk fried, a raging night to think about; quite a nice deal, in fact. 

7) City of Refuge – Abigail Washburn

A great song is one that takes me somewhere else without me even having a chance. This is, without a doubt, a great song. No need to anchor it to a memory; it's memorable by itself. 

8) January Hymn – The Decemberists

I might have an affair with both this group and the idea of January (my birthday month) not having sun and sand, but cold and snow. Plus it would have some nice perks. Glühwein would be very welcomed, for example. 

9) Bethany Lane – Aaron Thompson

This is like falling in love with the nice guy who actually likes you. Rare... a little bit safe. But surprisingly good. 

10) Photoshop Handsome – Everything everything

You had me at "Hello" with the title. And the rest. 

11) Postcards to Italy - Beirut

Zach Condon has an extraordinary ability to take me to places i've never been and making me feel right at home. In every note he pulls a string, he pushes a button. It's like the notes are talking to my soul.  I'm sorry, it's not "like". They do talk; and sometimes i talk back. 

12) My blood is burning – Yodelice

Children's Psychiatry, second week. Best friends around, the best weekends of the best month. 

13) Gulag Orchestra – Beirut

The cry of a land that has been through the greatest pains of uprooting and war is the inspiration of this song. A beautiful example that art is not always meant to be pretty or please the senses. Goosebumps don't always come from happiness. In fact, most times they don't. 

14) Something I can never have – Nine inch nails

Strip love down to its most sensitive, most honest core. Scream the frights, accept the weakness, plead for the things you want the most. Sometimes it hurts. But i can't stop craving for it. C'mon, tell me; you make this all go away. I'm down to just one thing.

15) Sun of a Gun – Oh Land

Such a refreshing song, without the now so popular statement-need. What if it doesn't have an obscure, Madonna/Gaga hybrid meaning? Sometimes, less is more. 

16) Funny little frog – Belle and Sebastian

And maybe tell you all about it, someday. 

17) This is why we fight – The Decemberists

Sometimes the only way to win is to give in. For me to have a chance on getting the one thing i want, step one is to let go. Step two, to stop looking. And step three, letting it surprise me when i least expect it. 

18) Futile devices – Sufjan Stevens

Those little noises that make everyday life feel my own can be very nostalgic, yet very moving. The difference between looking and staring. That moment when i first felt this way; when he went from stranger to significant one. 

19) Don’t stop – Owen Pallet

Symphony-like, beats involved, early morning walking through the fog towards the Metropolitano. The quintessence of getting up early and going the hospital. 

20) Rose to your bones – Broadcast 2000

It doesn't need to be big to be good. In music, i give you that. 

21) Scenarios in stereo – Antics

Some good old Indie pop. Or rock. Who cares?

22) Sailing bird – Slothpop

Wrap your ears around great voice and percussion. Close your eyes. Yes, you're there. It feels good to be alive. 

23) Within you without you – The Beatles

Most of the music in my iPod is there because i downloaded it in an attempt to impress someone and ended up liking it. This is a great example of that. 

PS.: It's all in chronological order; but the ones holding the prime numbers (and number 14) are those who are/were particularly great. The couple with the videos are the very best.

Defense Mechanism (He's just not that into you)

I accept it. The reason that i've been cranky the last few days is a guy. A guy who's clearly not into me. 

I mean, i get it. I do, i'm not into tons of guys, and tons of guys are not into me, which is great, as long as they are the same i'm not into. Yesterday, for example, i got this weird phone call from a random number and when i called back he said it must had been a mistake. Then, out of the blue, i get an SMS from him saying that he thinks that my voice is very sexy and that he'd love to meet me. My answer was to eliminate the message, of course. And to torture myself with a couple of very predictable thoughts, such as why, if he doesn't know who i am, he wants to go out with me? why does a creepy guy give me recognition for free and the guy i actually want doesn't give a shit?

Oh God, i think i might know who the creepy guy is. But nah... last's year creepy guys must have already forgotten me. The two of them. Anyway, the thing is that i'm learning (ever more rapidly) to read the signs. And, i'm learning to let go. Though it's hard, i admit it. But give me some credit, he's the second guy in not so long; The English Gentleman was the color note on a rather colourful month, and Alexander... well, he was fine. The thing is that i let go. 

I haven't written about The English Gentleman here before. And, in fact, he's worthy of being written about. What's he like? Very simple. Take the furthest away from me a person could be, pierce his tongue and eyebrow and put it into a polite self-acknowledged bad boy who is delicate enough to turn down an offer that absolutely every other man i know would have jumped into without hesitation. This gentleman gently opened my eyes to a world i hadn't dare to dream of. It lasted less than a week, and i knew he was leaving. Yet he unknowingly pulled some strings whose existence i had been relentlessly denying. And though he's not the only responsible one, it's only after him that i've felt free enough to do what i want. 

It was because of him that i got into the Alexander scenario, you know? Because, for once, i just agreed on what i was being proposed. For the first time in my life i just said "yes" when i wanted to. "Yes" is such a powerful word i didn't feel guilty afterwards. I felt perfectly able to consider Alexander a choice, perfectly worthy of being considered a choice. Why would my value as a woman be changed by a 2 letter word? Is it all that i'm for? Is my worth only about how many times i say "no"? 

Whichever the answer is, it's quite obvious that Alexander is not into me. I know what it is when someone is into you. And it doesn't matter how it starts. I mean, it can be on the other side of the world through a wire, it can be between two people that have never met, it can be anywhere, anybody, anyhow. Because if you want it, you'll do whatever it takes to get it, right? Even getting up in the middle of the night. Picking up an accent. Buying a halfway-around-the-world ticket; saving his phone messages to hear his voice. 

Defense mechanisms are just a way to deal with ugly truths like the one that says that he's just not that into you. Because, even rationalized and all, it does hurt.

#Venting

Un amigo hace venting en Twitter. Ahorita, 140 caracteres simplemente no me alcanzan.

Quiero irme a Hungría. A Bosnia, a Croacia, quiero ir a República Checa, a Rumania, quiero bailar en las carreteras desiertas de Transilvania. Quiero tener hambre de comida, de español y de civilización. No sé si quiero ir acompañada. Quiero sentir esa deliciosa nostalgia que sólo me da la soledad.

Quiero dormir. Quiero despertar y no tener celular ni conexión a Internet y lo que es más utópico, quiero que no me importe. Quiero que no me importe quién me escribe o no me escribe o hace cuánto que no me escribe o por qué no me escribe o porqué tiene esa necesidad de hacerse incómodamente importante aún cuando no lo es.

Por primera vez en años no quiero que los amigos que se fueron regresen. Se fueron por una razón, y se fueron en varios vehículos, desde carros hasta aviones, pero se fueron, y los problemas y alegrías que tengo aquí son completamente independientes de ellos.

Quiero ser independiente. Quiero ganar mi dinero y dejar de sentirme mantenida niña de papá porque decidí estudiar una carrera que dura 7 años y, seamos honestos, dura bastante más. Y quiero dejar de sentirme seducida por el enfoque estadounidense de la medicina; se supone que detesto el American Way of Life pero ayer no pude dejar de oír de pasadas al pata que hablaba sobre PCR en tiempo real con un acento tan yuppie y con tanto maldito charm que no podía evitar la sonrisa en mi boca. Y era feo, para colmo, así que las hormonas no estaban involucradas. Era el malditamente seductor charm. 

Quiero que me den ecocardios y catéteres y  marcapasos y ablaciones. Quiero sumergirme, empaparme, quiero contaminarme tanto que cuando salga a la luz mis ojos no puedan dejar de encontrar arritmias e infartos. Quiero que cada dendrita indómita de mi corteza sea conquistada y quiero sofocar toda esta psicopatología contagiada, todo este histrionismo sobresaturado, quiero olvidarme de la vacua importancia de los castillos en el aire que se caen con clonazepam.

Quiero mandar a la mierda; quiero regresar a esa libertad casi sin límites de Febrero. Pero ya estamos en Marzo, mierda, y aunque sea 2011 es Marzo, y en Marzo empiezan las clases y es el último mes del verano y jode que lo sea, y jode la vida en general porque las cosas no tienen mucho sentido. Porque a veces ser misterioso es una buena estrategia, y a veces no. Porque a veces la cago antes de darme cuenta de que tenía que tener una estrategia y luego la quiero arreglar. Y a veces, sospecho, las cosas se arreglan mejor si es que dejo de intentar arreglarlas. Lo cual es, obviamente, muy difícil.

La relatividad del amor

A veces pienso que Albert Einstein estaba enamorado cuando formuló su teoría de la relatividad. Es que todo tiene sentido. Por ejemplo, el efecto de la gravedad sobre la fibra espacio-tiempo. Sin planetas (o algo con la gravedad suficiente como para hacer que algo orbite a su alrededor), la fibra espacio-tiempo es algo más o menos así.

Todo recto, todo limpio, estrellita insignificante por aquí, estrellita insignificante por allá. La vida transcurre tranquila, las líneas paralelas nunca se cruzan, las amistades pueden seguir contando contigo para un café, la balanza no cambia drásticamente.

Sin embargo, el equilibrio se rompe, no con un planetita pichiruche, sino con un estrellón que deja al sol lamiéndose las heridas el algún lugar de la galaxia. De repente, el espacio-tiempo se curva y ya nada es igual. Sin  darnos cuenta, somos un planeta en órbita de este todopoderoso nuevo sol.

Le intentamos hacer creer a la gente que nada ha cambiado, que todo sigue igual, que seguimos en la misma dirección de antes. Y, la verdad, visto de una manera acuciosa, seguimos en el mismo paralelo que antes nos llevaba adelante. Pero recordemos que en este universo las líneas paralelas sí se llegan a encontrar al final.

De pronto, todo lo empezamos a triangular en torno a él (o a ella, dependiendo del caso). El cine que queda cerca a su casa, la pizzería, la avenida, el micro, la farmacia, el Plaza Vea, el Wong, el parquecito ése, el paradero. El espacio se hace relativo, y el tiempo no se demora mucho en empezar. Lo que en nuestro reloj son quince minutos con él, el reloj de los no afectados por la curvatura del espacio-tiempo que nos concierne dice que son cuarenta y cinco. Y no hay que ser Einstein para darse cuenta que cerca a él, todo corre más lento; con excepción del corazón.

Entonces en nuestros ojos se puede ver un brillo como de estrella, y la luz se irradia de las miradas hasta el final del universo. Nuestra masa se incrementa de tanto postrecito y salidita; el amor engorda, esa es una verdad inconstrastable, y entre tanta masa y luz, bueno, la energía no hace ascos en venir.

Pero a veces tanta energía se sale de control, y todos sabemos que la bomba atómica a veces se queda chiquita comparada con la explosión cósmica que sale del "¿que tu mamá te dijo qué de mí?" o "¿no te parece un poco obsesivo que me llames todos los días?"

Puede ser cuestión de segundos o de años. El final, casi siempre, es el mismo. Y, como los agujeros negros, se sabe que están ahí y que absorben todo; pero no se les puede ver.

Sexo: Femenino

Ser mujer y ser hombre se ha vuelto considerablemente más difícil con el pasar de los años.

Los que simplifican el asunto con un cromosoma y otro más son generalmente los que menos saben de lo que hablan. Es como que la diferencia entre dos géneros con historias diametralmente diferentes fuese tan fácil de definir como un dibujito en la puerta del baño.

Rosada, para mantener la tradición.

Sin embargo, la imagen de la mujer que tenemos todos es un poco más complicada que eso. En mi poco complicada imagen de niña, una mujer se veía así.

Lo cual significó que fui feliz por una época, cuando las fronteras entre lo masculino y lo femenino eran claras. Las niñas usaban vestido, los niños shorts. Nadie me exigía ser más femenina, nadie me decía cómo me debía ver, o maquillarme o comportarme con los demás. Ninguna niña ejercía su supremacía y no habían propagandas o series que dijeran lo debía hacer.

Pero después de un tiempo me di cuenta que lo que se esperaba de una mujer era mucho más específico y difícil de conseguir que el dibujito de una niña feliz. Por ejemplo, se requería que mi pelo fuera largo. Con flequillo de preferencia, y si me hacía iluminaciones, quedaría aún mejor. Es más, si le entraba al laciado japonés, sería excelente.

Pero había un ligero, casi insignificante problema. No me daba la gana hacer todo eso. ¿Consecuencias? Cambios diametrales en el largo de mi pelo y una incoherencia casi constante con la moda vigente. Adrede.

La gente piensa que soy rara, y les doy la razón. Sin embargo, he hecho algunas concesiones. Por lo ejemplo, las pestañas que venden todos los rímeles (¿así se dice?) son largas, voluminosas y rizadas. Mis pestañas son largas, no muy voluminosas y lacias. Lo cual significa que (casi) diaramente me demoro cuatro minutos para rizarlas y medio minuto más para echarle rímel. Hasta ahora, ésa es la total extensión de mi ritual diario de maquillaje. Sin embargo, el mundo (iluso él) pretende que me vea todos los días algo así:

(Nótense las cejas depiladas, las pestañas rizadas, la nariz respingada y los labios pintados).

Lo peor es que la imagen de la feminidad, no contenta con ello, no sólo se metió con mi cara y mi pelo. Aparentemente, mi cuerpo debe lucir algo así:

Lo cual es una versión muy rara que en realidad quería decir:
- Tetas grandes
- Cintura pequeña (mi mouse-pad es un poco rebelde)
- Piernas largas
- Pies calzados permanentemente con stilettos.

Obviamente, hace tiempo me rendí. El problema es que, a falta de paradigmas, la situación en la que he estado los últimos años es básicamente esta.

¿Ayuda?