LAS ESCALERAS SE DEJARON DE USAR

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Escribo desde  donde estoy con la esperanza de que algún día, los pájaros vuelen lejos de mí y algún hombre recuerde como dar un paso para poder recoger este mensaje.

Los hombres construyeron la escalera, tuvieron la necesidad de alcanzar cosas más altas a ellos, pudieron notar que podían ascender al cielo y vivir ahí, algunos ingenuos lo lograron y si hubiera sido por el pensamiento de aquellos, muchos hombres ahora no tendrían conflictos para utilizar una escalera.

La fuerza motora es la voluntad, los pies van a la vanguardia de este movimiento, el cuerpo trasciende en el espacio gracias a ellos. Cuando el hombre moderno construyó la escalera eléctrica, uno ya no tenía que mover los pies, la gente comenzó a olvidar como caminar.

El ánimo que nos movía se desvaneció, ya que no se necesitó más de la energía del cuerpo para moverse. El hombre moderno se convirtió inútil ante situaciones que requerían la destreza de sus habilidades físicas, el arte de hacer se convirtió en el ser de otra cosa que no éramos nosotros. Una fuerza externa al corazón movió nuestra condición, haciéndonos olvidar como hacer latir el nuestro, la sensibilidad se fue, y del paso no hay ya murmullo, brotaron raíces, dejamos de avanzar y ahora hay sólo quietud.

Ven enséñame a moverme

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F

I was having dinner when the phone rang. It was F. I liked F. She was different from most girls. She could handle her feelings. She wouldn’t get swayed, at least not much more than a couple of hours. She ate and drank as a guy, yet still composed like a lady. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was a fine piece of ass. We ended up in bed one night, but we had been drinking for hours, so we just kissed and continued drinking until the crack of dawn.

 

She had a boyfriend now. She hated it. She didn’t believe in social norms – or so she claimed – and so, detested the whole relationship charade. I took that as mere frustration towards our night together. I embraced the story, as I wanted to fuck her. So we’d discuss morality and all kinds of crap around that. F claimed monogamy was a social creation and it was wrong. She had this study on apes she’d cite that pointed towards that. It was pretty easy to lean her to the convenient conclusion. She had done her fair share of reading, so I only had sharpen the edges

 

-So, how’s the book coming along?

-It’s all right.

– Got a publisher yet?

-I showed the first part to Jeanie, and she seamed pretty interested. So I guess, yeah.

– And Henry?

– He’s fine. Just got himself a girlfriend on the 3rd floor. A Schnauzer. The owner is fine, too.

– Oh, you.

-What’s on your mind, F? Spit it out.

-I got a friend coming over later. I’d like you to meet her.

-I told you I don’t want a girlfriend, F.

-No, it’s nothing like that.

-Then what is it?

-I’d like you to meet her. I think she could do your writing some good.

-How’s that?

-Well, it’s interesting you see. She gets these weird trains of thought once in a while. She grabs them, and won’t let go. It’s like she turns into fucking Socrates. She can persuade you of anything. And she gets these deep thoughts out of them. Heck, you need to see it.

– Oh. Well…

-She needs a dick, too. So I immediately thought of you. She puts out like a lily in the spring.

-What time is she coming over?

-8:30.

-Fine, I’ll be there at 9. But I…

-Great, see you there.

 

I hadn’t left the apartment in a couple of days. I took a nap, then put on a clean shirt and a pair of pants and made the walk to F’s. It was a long walk.

 

I got there a quarter past nine. They were already through half a pint of scotch.

 

The girl’s name was Lorraine. F was right. She would put out. You could tell. She was a fairly common girl, otherwise. A little fringe, small nose. Slim. Her face was carrying a good year or two of pure partying. The conversation was fairly common, too. The train station must’ve been down for maintenance.

 

I kept my drinking down as the other two kept pouring it. Lorraine got more flirtatious as the night went on. F got mad about it. She tried hiding it; after all, that is what she wanted. L got closer on the couch; F’s voice tone elevated. I was genuinely having fun. They began to remember the night they had met.

-I think that was my first on campus party.

-I was handing shots with a friend of mine, when I saw a girl with a beer sitting in the corner, just frightened about what was going on. So we get there, and she doesn’t want to do the shot; she has to get up early to study and bla bla bla. 10 seconds later, the whole party is chanting her name. Finally, my friend starts pouring it in her mouth. She takes a huge amount, party’s going crazy. Next thing you know, we’re handing shots together and making out with half the party. And then…

-Oh boy, don’t. – F finished her glass and got up to get another.

-I lose her for a minute. Suddenly, I turn around; she’s topless in a table dancing her ass off. So I finally convince her to come down. We looked for her blouse for a couple of minutes, but no cigar. I convinced her to sleep it off. We’re walking to her dorm and the sky just broke. It’s pouring incisively. You can imagine the scene. Two drunken broads, one topless, soaking wet in the middle of the campus. Luckily, my dorm was nearby.

-I can see were this is going.

-Yeah, you can say that.

-Long story short – F’s voice was coming from behind me – we ended up sharing a shower.

-And a bed.

-And a bed – Admitted F with some shame.

-I didn’t even have to make a move or anything. It just… happened. I was taking a shower and all of a sudden F was there with me.

 

That turned me on. They kept the conversation going and I would just nod occasionally and smile when Lorraine’s hand would touch my shoulder. But I wasn’t listening. All I could think of, was those two all wet in the shower.

 

L was getting herself a refill and F was talking about her job when it came out of my mouth.

– We should have sex.

– What?

– You know, sex. You, me and Lorraine.

F started laughing falsely. I couldn’t see Lorraine’s face, but she didn’t say a thing, so I took that as a yes. I stared at F until she stopped.

– You are kidding, right?

– Definitely not. – F was dumbfounded. – Well, think about it. You said L could use the screw, which is why I’m sitting here. You don’t exactly sound upset about the night you two met, and I bet you’ve thought about it more than once. And well, you can say that about you and me as well.

 

F looked straight through me as the last word slipped off my lips. She swept my body a couple of times. Her eyes tweaked sideways.  I drank my scotch down, got up to the bathroom and stayed there for a couple of minutes. I heard L’s steps as she walked out the kitchen and then some whispering.

 

My head was racing 100 miles an hour when I finally came out of the bathroom and walked back; then, it suddenly stopped.

 

L had her arm around F, and she was playing with her ear. Her skirt was above her knees, and her leg was leaning towards F’s, revealing just the right amount of her panties. She took F’s hair and pushed it back. Her mouth arrived at F’s ear, and started whispering. Her lips rose her ear, and F’s eyes closed. Whatever Lorraine was saying, it was doing the job fine. Lorraine took her tongue out and slowly wandered around her ear. I could feel the hot air myself. The image was a thing of beauty. F shivered as her head leaned backwards, inviting L to her neck. Gently, L’s tongue made the trip and took a detour all around it.

 

She finally gave. They started kissing smoothly, as F’s hand found its way to L’s leg. I poured myself another scotch, leaned against the wall, and watched those two for a while.

 

It was going to be a fine evening.

 

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Manny

There was a very loud knock on the door. Judging by the light coming through the drapes, it was past midday. I was sweating in bed with quite a hangover. It was a Saturday. I was trying to place myself somewhere the night before, but the knock on the door kept on interrupting me. I gave up after the fifth knock, got up, found a pair of jeans on the floor and answered the door.

-Where is she?

It was a 210-pund latino with a huge tattoo on his arm. Mid-20’s and balding. And he was angry. I couldn’t come up with anything to say.

– I said, WHERE IS SHE YOU BASTARD??

This time Manny – his name was Manny – threw me on the floor without much effort and decided to look for himself. I was living on a small one-bedroom in Little China just off Aurora then, so it took him about 30 seconds to come back.

– Whe’ she go, you fucker?

Manny had a thick accent, Dominican or perhaps Puertorican. He was wearing a stained tank top that’d been there for a week or so, judging by the smell.
I had been in this type of sceneary once or twice before, but for the first time I had no idea what Manny was talking about.

– I have no idea what you’re talking about. — I said. I don’t know if it was the firghtened look on my face, but Manny believed me somehow. He sat at the stool right next to him and started scratching his chin.

– Tha’ bitch, man. She keeps runnin’ away with eve’ybody like she’s a fuckin’ movie star or somethin’. I’m sorry man. — Manny helped me off the floor. For the first time, I felt like my life wasn’t in danger. — I don’kno’ why, but I though she was here.

I had had someone there a couple of nights earlier. Mary. Or Magguie. That’s it, Magguie. But she wasnt Manny’s type at all. It couldn’t have been her.

I went to the fridge and fixed us a couple of beers. Manny drank that one straight down; I got him another one and sat across the bar. We started talking. Manny was a baseball prospect. He tore his shoulder right before signing a 5-year deal with the new franchise in Montreal. We talked baseball for hours. Manny knew his baseball. His father had spent all their money on game-seven tickets on that ’72 series where the Cards came back from 2 to beat the Dodgers. And man, he remembered every shining detail about that day. His mother was not happy about the money spending.

Then we finally got to the girl. Her name was Helga. Her mother was Korean; her father was American. That made for a fine combination, or so Manny thought. I got horny just listening to that Dominican bastard. He must have been a fine fuck, the things he did to Helga. We all exagerate of course, but Manny looked the part. He looked like he could tear the legs off any girl, so I had no choice but to believe him.

The game was over the radio. Ramirez hit a 2-run homer to left, and Chicago had the lead back. Gardenberg was sending De Paula to close the deal.

– That De Paula is an ass. He’ll blow the game.
– Wha’ you talkin’bout? Tha’ curve is nasty.
-I’m telling you Manny, he sucks. And Gardenberg has this huge boner for him. He just keeps throwing him out there.
– 20 bucks say’ he close’ it.
– You’re on, Manny.

I took my bill out and slammed it on the bar, right next to Manny’s. De Paula was Chicago’s newest prospect, straight from the DR. He walked Robertson in 5 and Elstad took him for a ride to straight center. Ball game. The easiest 20 dollars I ever made.
Manny chugged his beer. We had ran out. It was now dark outside.

Someone was at the door. I got up and opened it.
5’7”, 150, high heels, short skirt, deep brown eyes. You could smell the sex coming out of every pore of her body. It was Helga. We crossed eyes for what felt like an eternity before she saw Manny on the stool behind me.
She didn’t say a word. Manny quickly found his feet.
-Well, it was a plessu’e, man. I should come by mo’ of’en.
– Anytime, Manny.
I was too drunk for a beer run. I jerked off to Manny and Helga and went to bed.

There was a very loud knock on the door. Judging by the light coming through the drapes, it was past midday. I got up, found a pair of jeans on the floor and answered the door.
It was Helga. She didn’t say a word.

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Arrastrarse por un peso

A la indigencia…

La gente te mira con desdén, como si fuera uno extranjero, pero es por la ropa usado o el tono de piel, que los demás son indiferentes, uno con vergüenza busca los ojos de la gente, pero ellos evaden nuestra demanda, ustedes tienen todo, nosotros nada, es simplemente por la necesidad de sobrevivir que hay que arrastrarse, sentir el piso en la piel.

Lo que pasa es que te ven desde arriba, no sienten las llagas que provoca la fricción de las rodillas con el piso, a veces lloro de pensar que vendrá al día siguiente, si la muerte me encontrará o la misericordia de algún capitalista infiel, que su falsa hipocresía a mi estómago alimentará.

Y pienso en el agua y el pan, más su recorrido al pasar por mi garganta, luego volteo al aparador de la tienda de enfrente y veo su lejanía, me enoja pensar porque todo parece ir contra mi corriente, camino un poco más y sólo veo mi reflejo nuevamente incapaz de trascender el cristal de frente.

Es el infierno el que me recibe, no hay bondad sólo fatalidad, mi virtud es poner cara de perro muerto, pero es por mi bien, que la gente se apiade por momentos y si me va bien salgo hasta con cinco pesos. Sólo es saber llegarle a la gente, aterrizarlos, enfrentarte a su respuesta, somos la sombra más fulgurante, pero su ignorancia es soberbia, no nos dan ni tiempo de explicar lo que nos ha pasado por la mente.

El problema reside creo en que nunca nadie me enseño a usar un traje o a anudar una corbata, peor aún, como conseguirlo, los que lo usan parecen vivir bien, ¿Y cómo lo sé?, pues porque sonríen, es ese gesto que uno aprende a observar cuando desde abajo todo lo ve.

Las calles están llenas de crueldad, pero cada quién decide que ver, esa es la triste realidad, mientras tanto uno se arrastra por un peso, ¿Por qué no nos ayudan con palabras, o con un buen consejo?, no me diga ¡No! solamente, dígame por favor ¿Cómo le hace usted?, ¿Cómo le enseñaron?, ¿Qué clase de esfuerzo tiene uno que imponer para no arrastrarse?.

Es una catástrofe, recorrer la ciudad de día y noche, de allá para acá, sin tener nada, sin saber que pasará, sin hogar y amparo, y cuando el frío azota quema las heridas, es como una diestra bofetada, que se siente hasta los pies, al pasar esto, buscar refugio es la salida, pero siempre hay cupo y envidia por el calor, por eso es que el cartón y el aguardiente son mi gran guarida.

Porque cuando ya no hay esperanza uno recurre a los actos más bajos, pero los periódicos se siguen quejando de la violencia y la prostitución, el infortunio tiene gran presencia y hacemos como que entendemos pero eludimos las palabras, aventamos la toalla, lo que es basura para unos, para nosotros es un edén.

El gris es contrastante, somos inconfundibles entre colores, grandes edificios y finas prendas, la democracia de la calle es subsistir, si lo encuentras es tuyo, si lo ganaste aprovéchalo, si te lo quitaron lucha por ello. Cada vez somos más los que lo hacemos, y si existe un Dios que se conmueva de menos, hay días que ya no hay que comer, la grasa se va y veo mis huesos crecer, estirar las manos ya no es suficiente, y el que no le entiende le llega la muerte.

Se siente rotunda soledad, pero, ¿Qué puedo cambiar?, ¿Fue una cuestión del azar, atención, inteligencia, injustita, biología?, mientras ellos sonríen yo lloro, pero mientras mi lágrimas se derraman, yo presumo algo que ellos no tienen. La valentía de arrastrarse por un peso.

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La ventana

En aquellos días vivíamos en un departamento muy pequeño. Libros, fotos y papeles de todo tipo se desbordaban, trepando por los muros, inundando el piso de parquet, apareciendo por la noche en los lugares más imprevistos. Era un verdadero caos: apenas había espacio para las camas y cada día trazábamos una nueva ruta entre el bosque de papeles para dar vueltas por la habitación. Casi no salíamos.

No recuerdo en que trabajábamos o de que comíamos. Ni siquiera sé con certeza si comíamos algo. Sólo recuerdo el sabor del café en la garganta y la luz inyectada en nuestras pupilas.

Y la ventana.

Todos los días, una vez que la bruma del sueño había abandonado nuestro cuerpo, nos abríamos camino entre las hojas y nos asomábamos a la ventana. Cada mañana el paisaje era distinto: A veces era un castillo blanco dominando un valle, a veces un callejón atestado de transéuntes y comerciantes vociferando en lenguas inaúditas. En mi cumpleaños vi una vieja estación de trenes, donde el viento y algunas aves pequeñas parecían escribir algo en la herrumbre de los muros. Me fui a dormir muy contento, sólo para encontrarme al día siguiente con un bosque muerto donde siempre estaba atardeciendo, el sol sangrante anclado eternamente al cielo.

A veces nos visitabas tú.

Llegabas por la tarde, sin avisarnos, siempre vestida con esa ténue ausencia, siempre plantando los mismos pasos leves y taciturnos. Nos saludabas con los ojos e ibas a sentarte junto a la ventana.

Nunca dijiste una palabra. Sólo te quedabas ahí, inmóvil, tus ojos danzando en la otra orilla, la tristeza mordiéndote las piernas como un mar. Pasabas así las horas, a veces los días, hasta que algo parecía volver a ti y te levantabas. Después nos lanzabas una sonrisa de mandolina y desaparecías con el mismo andar etéreo con el que habías llegado.

Nosotros nos poníamos a fumar en la ventana, inventando historias para tus manos, voces para tu boca, habitantes para tu mente. Pero jamás te preguntamos nada, sólo te ofrecíamos café y a veces nos parábamos junto a ti a ver por la ventana.

Así fue durante muchos días, hasta que tuvimos que mudarnos. Ese día tocaste a nuestra puerta, le diste a cada quien un lirio y te fuiste, como siempre, sin decir palabra.

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Reflect

Counting my steps
Walking on the streets
Imagining where else could I be
The city put his eyes on me
But it is selfish to think that I’m unique
Count your steps and think
What does it feel to go nowhere

Look at the people
Try to figure out
What they have inside
If you start hearing
You will find that whisper
The voice, the screaming of those
who are lost, or on his way to home
People who go and come
People that sometimes we certainly don’t know at all.

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Pensamientos en Martes

Respirar, después cerrar los ojos, abrirlos, despegarte de la oscuridad, sentir el sol en cada poro de tu cuerpo, erizante es lo ardiente, te inculca vida, existes, te quema, te cubre, no puedes evitarlo. Un poder ígneo se encuentra en lo alto y no siente tu pesar, es supremo, tú no lo envuelves, él te envuelve, él no piensa en tí, tú piensas en él, no le importas, pero, te cubre y te proporciona luz amablemente, para evadir la ceguera que es propia de lo humano.

Los parpados se mueven, la gota se desprende de ellos, cae a su propio ritmo, sientes ternura, en la piel, en el corazón, en el movimiento que ejerce, esa gota dulce y suave se desliza por tu rostro, se despega de tu cuerpo y se aleja, su recorrido descubre en tí lo que nunca habías visto, lo que ahora contemplas, tú conciencia, las entrañas que revuelven, los nervios, esos que existen pero no los ves, sólo en su forma causal que como mariposas caen. Del suelo has despegado, pensando en Marte, reflexionando, buscando emanciparte.

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