The Good Word · cavorting in the street in a Bacchanalian ecstasy. Even at a million words, however, we still lag behind the Finns, who reportedly have more than a million words

► Sin Fronteras ◄

1

E N G L I S H P R O S E

The Good Word

Doug Parker

According to a recent report by the Global Language Monitor, there are exactly 988,968 words in the English language, meaning we can likely expect some sort of fervent celebration soon, when we pass the million word mark. Imagine lexicographers cavorting in the street in a Bacchanalian ecstasy. Even at a million words, however, we still lag behind the Finns, who reportedly have more than a million words in their lexicon. Maybe it is all the words for snow. Of course, those who study language scoff at the crunching of such statistics. They are, after all, men of letters rather than men of numbers, and they maintain that it is impossible to establish an actual number of words in any language, as the various uses to which words can be put, and ironically, the lack of definition of the word “word” itself, makes such certainty laughable.

The Oxford English Dictionary has more than 616,500 entries, but the reality, of course, is that the average person uses far fewer than that. A study several years ago said that the average vocabulary of a high school student in the United States in the 1940’s was approximately 40,000, but that it is now about 10,000. Again, these numbers do not really represent quantified facts; no doubt if you ask a university English professor, his estimate may come in at less than 1,000. In, like, total.

The loss of active vocabulary can be measured, though, in a very simple way. Our rich, vibrant language allows us to speak in precise units of meaning, to communicate exactly. With the passing of large numbers of words from our word hoard, we lose that precision. We rob from our own Mother Tongue. Instead of saying exactly what we wish to say, we

approximate based on the limited choices our debased vocabulary allows. And it is starting to show, this lack of certitude that a speaker has communicated the message with precision, to say nothing of style or élan.

Listen to people speak. At the end of almost every sentence, many English speakers append an incredibly revealing catch phrase. “Do you know what I mean?” Or, “D’ya know what I’m saying?” Or, even more pathetically, “Does that make any sense?” What has happened to confidence in our communication skills? Even educated people seem unable to believe in their own ability to speak so as to be understood. This linguistic plague, this shibboleth of the semantically esteem challenged, bears testimony eloquent in its anti-articulation to the loss of precision in our language. As we continue to replace precise, useful words such as “quidnunc” (one who desires to know everything that passes), which my spellchecker refuses to recognize, with “bootylicious,” which was added to the dictionaries a few years back, and which I refuse to recognize, we will continue to hear frightened, tentative speakers ask to be tossed a bone of reassurance that their words do what words have always been supposed to do.

Does that make any sense?


2

S P A N I S H P O E T R Y

Autodestrucción

Ana Gabriela González Ayala

mis manos tiemblan, sin ritmo alguno. mi mente carece de sentido común. y pierdo la habilidad de resolver. Soy un enigma sin perdón. tómame. exígeme. encarrílame que voy en pique, en espera, a estrellarme contra el infinito espacio.


3


Liars Guide to Yodeling

Lauren Henry I walked into her office, my self-

confidence surprisingly depleted and a lazy grin glued to my face. She gave me the usual painted on smile and blinked quickly, a quirk that often gave her away. I sat down on the hard leather couch not bothering to make the effort to say a formal hello. I waited, slouched unenthusiastically against the back of the uncomfortable couch, and became aware of my mind beginning to wander down roads of fantasy. Her smooth, false voice dragged me back down to reality. I’m going to ask you a series of questions…I want you to answer me as honestly as you can. Ready? Translation: Don’t lie to me. Why are you here? I am here because…I told the truth. Told the truth about what? About how much I lie. And how much do you lie? All the time. And last time we got together I told you to pick up a hobby right? Yeah. What hobby did you choose? Yodeling. I leaned back, wondering if my answer was too obvious. I wondered if

she knew how easy it was for those kinds of things to roll off my tongue. She looked at me, daring me to tell another lie. I felt a smirk stretch across my face. I’ve never been one to disappoint. As my eyes wandered around the off-white walls of her office, I could feel her watching me. Suddenly, I glared back at her; I wanted to see her scramble. I wanted to confuse her, get more out of her than a computed response discreetly urging me to fix my

own problems. What about you, why are you here? I am here to help you. Do you have lots of problems? I have my share. Are you scared to face them? Is that why you always want to hear everyone else’s? No, and no. Do you have a hobby? Do you really think yodeling

can keep me from lying? Do you really think I believe that you yodel? Inside…I smiled. I knew how to lie; now I was just playing with her. I knew that no good liar breaks eye contact or shows any emotion not applicable to the situation. However, I considered myself a firm believer in the art of convincing. I applauded myself for not turning red as I stood to belt out my most formulated yodel. After my ten seconds


4

of fame, I looked her dead in the eye and sat down again. Very good. I guess you lie too. Perhaps I do. Tell me, after all these sessions, why do you still lie? It’s a hobby, second only to yodeling. Tell me something true. There are exactly three minutes and eighteen seconds left of session number twenty three. I feel like we are making progress. Lots of progress. I feel like you lie to me a lot less than you used to. I do. Tell me what you did today. I felt inspired; the person I most lied to believed she was making progress in breaking my habit. I let my mind wander again as she gazed at me quizzically. I thought about how to

answer her question. I swam across the lake, I moved away from home, I accidentally sold my piggy bank in a yard sale, I rolled down a hill in a tire, I yodeled. My mind was in overdrive, but mostly I was proud of myself. She thought we were making progress. I wondered if she knew that of the eight questions she asked me this session, five were answered with lies. That was a personal achievement. I can’t. Why not? This is your last session…you should be able to tell me anything. I just can’t. Why not? I’m four minutes late for yodel practice. As I closed the door on the face that had finally replaced a look of hopeful patience with one of utter confusion, I smiled. Eight believed lies, sixty minutes, and the best psychologist in Chicago. Not bad for your average lying yodeler…


5

S P A N I S H P R O S E

El fin del día

Cristóbal González Camarena

Suena la alarma de mi reloj y automáticamente se dibuja una sonrisa sobre mi rostro. Mi turno de la noche ha acabado y por fin puedo irme a descansar. Salgo del restaurante en donde he trabajado los últimos tres años de mi vida. Un mediocre restaurante ubicado en el centro de la ciudad. Salgo por la puerta de atrás solo para encontrarme con la oscuridad y el silencio de una ciudad sobrepoblada, pero al mismo tiempo solitaria. Poblada de gente que habla, pero no dice nada; que oye, pero no escucha. Las calles son largas estrechos de edificios modernos que rozan el cielo, señales que apuntan los caminos y semáforos que señalan cuándo parar y cuándo seguir adelante. Me preparo para el largo recorrido que estoy a punto de emprender y pienso en la cita que me espera en algunos minutos. No tengo coche y esto me obliga a caminar. Estas caminatas a mi departamento sirven como terapia. No del tipo de terapia que ofrecen los psicólogos a cambio de tu dinero, sino una terapia más profunda y personal. Vuelvo a pensar en la cita, espero poder llegar a tiempo.

Camino un poco más y siento caer en mi frente la primera gota de lluvia. Las luces de la ciudad resplandecen empujando la oscuridad a ciertos callejones donde se concentra y se densa.

Los coches pasan por la calle a gran velocidad, son pequeños destellos de luz que aparecen y desaparecen. Volteo hacia arriba para ver el cielo y me enfrento con un espectacular de enormes dimensiones que promete la felicidad total, con el simple hecho de adquirir el producto anunciado. Interrumpo mi terapia personal para mirar al reloj que me confirma la hora: las diez con treinta y cinco. Tengo que apresurarme.

Por fin las nubes desaparecen. Las estrellas ya no son visibles pues una enorme burbuja de smog rodea la ciudad. Cruzo la calle y llego a mi departamento: un edificio oscuro de veinte pisos de altura. Las paredes

están manchadas y la luz del lobby no sirve. El elevador se detiene en el décimo piso y me dirijo hacia mi cuarto. Desde mi ventana puedo observar la ciudad iluminada. Todos los postes de luz, cada uno en su lugar, alumbrando el camino. Hemos remplazado las estrellas que antes guiaban el camino por focos de electricidad.

Esta no era la vida que imaginé que tendría, no sé en qué punto dejé ir todos esos sueños infantiles. Esos sueños que me fueron robados por gente que afirmaba que nunca se podrían cumplir y me decían que debía poner los pies en la tierra si quería ser exitoso. Les hice caso,


6

me arrebataron mis sueños y ahora estoy perdido sin saber realmente quién soy. Después de todo, sin nuestros sueños solo somos pedazos de carne en constante movimiento. El reloj anuncia las diez con cincuenta y cinco. Veo las imágenes que está produciendo la televisión, pero mi mente está en otro lado.

El timbre de la alarma de mi reloj interrumpe mis pensamientos. El reloj me confirma las diez con cincuenta y ocho de la noche. Me levanto, me preparo y hago camino hacia la azotea. A llegar, camino hasta la orilla del edificio y volteo hacia abajo. Veo que en verdad es una hermosa ciudad, todo depende del ángulo. Desde abajo, es un pozo de hipocresía y falsedad, un lugar donde pocos forjan el destino de millones. Pero no desde aquí. A veinte metros de altura, parado en el borde del edificio, la ciudad adquiere una extraña belleza. Quizá sea por el silencio que me rodea a estas alturas, quizá sea el simple hecho de sentirme separado de aquella civilización a la que tanto detesto o quizá

tan solo sea por el sentimiento que me produce el sentir que por primera vez tengo el control de mi vida. Tenía años aplazando esta cita que algún día tenía que llevarse acabo. Al fin del día, todos somos productos manufacturados, comercializados y con fecha de caducidad. Ese día, para mí, es hoy. Camino un poco sobre la orilla del edificio, es una extraña sensación: la de saber que estas a un paso de tu muerte. Dicen los psicólogos que en este tipo de situaciones la cosa más valiente que uno puede hacer es romper la cuerda, tirar las píldoras, quitarle la bala a la pistola o, en mi caso, dar un paso hacia atrás. Por suerte yo nunca fui una persona valiente.

Miro el reloj: las once de la noche en punto. Ya es hora. Cierro los ojos, extiendo mis brazos, dejo caer una lágrima y doy un paso hacia el abismo. Por primera vez me siento feliz. Nunca me había sentido tan vivo como el día en que morí.


7

E N G L I S H P O E T R Y

Hydra

By Luly Alcaraz

An enchanting March night. The white houses surrounded by the narrow stone streets that lead

to the half moon port. Outside the deteriorated white church,

silent breeze, swaying ships and whispers tenderly fade away

into the humid air above the sea. In the sky, the stars; in the windows,

children in their seventh dream. I stride through this sleeping island,

calm, like the night.


8


Goat sucker vs. Castaways

Regina Legorreta Palomino

What makes a goat sucker different from castaways? Besides stating the obvious (when talking about a goat sucker, you are talking about a devil-like animal whose only purpose in life is to suck the goat’s blood—hence the name— and when talking about a castaway, you are generally referring to human beings), the goat sucker and the castaways differ in their respective historical time frames. They do, however, share similarities regarding historical significance.

The goat sucker first made its appearance in 1994 in Puerto Rico where eight sheep were found dead due to blood loss (supposedly, their blood was completely drained, leaving not a single drop). The only visible marks were on their chest, three punctured wounds. Since then, the goat suckers have attacked sheep all around the world, from Mexico to the United States, and even Australia. On the other hand, the three castaways first came into the picture during the summer of 2006. Five Mexican fishermen lost their way while fishing on the Pacific (out of which only three, amazingly, somehow managed to survive). Result: 9 months stranded on the ocean; two deaths (some have even hypothesized that the remaining three performed acts of cannibalism on their dead ‘friends’ in order to survive); and appearance on the other side of the world. It is amazing how people can survive for nine months, without getting burnt or dehydrated, with nothing to eat or drink or a safe place to live. One of life’s greatest mysteries. Strangely enough, just as the goat sucker made the appearance during the 1994 Mexican presidential elections, the

castaways just happened to make an appearance during 2006 presidential elections as well. Coincidence? During the 1994 presidential elections, the three major candidates were Ernesto Zedillo from PRI, Cuauhtémoc Cardenas from PRD and Diego Fernandez de Cevallos from PAN. Nonetheless, as the election date fast approached, things between the politicians filled with tension. False allegations were made about each one of the candidates with hopes of swinging public opinion. Oddly enough, was it possible that just as things were starting to heat up, the goat sucker came in to sooth tension among the politicians? Strange. During the 2006 elections, candidates were different, but the stakes much higher: Felipe Calderon from PAN, Roberto Madrazo from PRI, and Andrés Manuel López Obrador from PRD. When the Federal Electoral Institute proclaimed Felipe Calderon’s victory with the closest margin ever in Mexican history, López Obrador called the elections a major scam and a fraud, hence demanding a recount. As López Obrador was in the middle of strikes and protests, it just happened that three fishermen were found near Marshall Islands after being castaways for nine months; the castaways somehow managed to sooth tension among politicians. Coincidence? So what do a goat-sucker and three castaways have in common? It is because they both played significant roles in their respective elections that they are remembered; more importantly, they were both political stunts whose single purpose was to divert the (ignorant?) public’s attention away


9

from the politicians and towards themselves. Unfortunately (in the sense that it does not speak highly at all of the people that believe both the castaway and goat sucker allegations to be true) such

stunts did in fact work. The question to be asked now is what will happen in the next presidential elections when things start getting tense? Who will be our next ‘hero’?


10


Collection

María Cristina Fernández Hall Contemplating Gazing Through a grid of dead mosquitoes. Contemplating grass with a bundle of flowers every two meters. Remembering. Those were the temples Of the vague, And deceased Names. Expectations The unknown road Better lead somewhere Lovely. For it is a long, Spinny, vomity Curl.

Unself Compassion does not know her name. Compassion forgot herself, She gives herself away, Her innocence, Her hands, All that remains.


11


¿Rojo o verde? Abigail Salazar

Andabas en tus carreteras extrañas, en tus mundos apartados, marginado de

nosotros. Tú, Rojo, estabas ausente para nosotros, así como un daltónico desconoce al carmesí. El verde lo invadió todo. Yo no era mucho para ti. Sí, sabías que yo existía, sabías mi nombre, sabías que estaba tocando el teclado. Pero no te habías acercado. No estuviste cuando me convertí en mayor de edad. Poco a poco te fuiste reintegrando y dejando tus andares verdes y foráneos. Dejaste que te volviéramos a conocer, a veces solo re-conociéndote. Por fin un día dijiste que ya no volverías a alejarte. Nos pusimos muy contentos. Por varios meses estuvimos cada sábado en risas, en pláticas, en salidas, en entradas. Tu mirada ya tenía un aire de determinación. Siempre te teníamos a carrilla de que te sonrojabas por cualquier situación: fuera emoción, enojo, alegría, vergüenza. Yo pensé que ya no te irías jamás. Rojo, siempre tuviste palabras de aliento aun cuando yo te ofrecía las mías. Siempre fuiste más sabio que yo. Siempre has sido mayor que yo. Aunque a veces parecías niño. ¿Te acuerdas que solías llegarme por atrás para hacerme cosquillas? Siempre me sacabas una risa. Y cuando todo parecía perfecto, decidiste irte. Ahora verde, continuarías tu carrera, tus andares. Desconcertaste a todos, sobre todo porque lo dijiste tan solo un mes antes. Tu ausencia me volvió daltónica. No estuviste cuando me convertí en mayor de edad. No le diste oportunidad al rojo en mi siguiente cumpleaños; ahora será verde, porque tu piel, que permitía el color de tu sangre asomarse, se fue contigo.


12


Colección

Patricio Suárez Nota ¿Qué más inmoral Que fingir un sentimiento? Hablar de amor Cuando nunca en realidad he amado. Fingir una tragedia Cuando mis tragedias Se inundan de risas futuras, de recuerdos de juventud. Y por eso, queridísimo Lector, (Porque me he prohibido decirte amado) te pido perdón. Papel y Sal Que se derrame la tinta junto con lágrimas, que se escurran y lo hagan incomprensible, que pierda sentido, que se esconda entre papel y sal, que lo leas y finjas un gesto, porque no entiendes, y nunca entenderás que debajo expreso lo que siento. Y dirás que soy cobarde, pero tengo un secreto, y me da miedo decir te quiero.

Somos Dos Palabras Somos todo: el lodo y sus gusanos Somos. Somos lo que quieras que seamos: distanciados por un espacio, un ligero respiro, que con fuerza involuntaria separa: porque uno, nunca. Somos dos palabras.


13


Memorias de un bochito enamorado

Ana Lucía Bonilla Lo recuerdo en el amortiguador,

cómo brincó y brincó toda la noche. Era nuestro bochito color verde grillo. Lo había comprado barato en un cementerio de coches viejos cuando nos casamos. Era de un color hueso pálido, con moretones a los lados, le sangraba el tubo del aceite, le faltaba piel que acariciar en los asientos; llegó a ser nuestro buen bochito verde grillo. Íbamos a todos lados con el méndigo bochito. Fuimos a un bosque a perdernos por tres días bajo las estrellas y lo negro de lo desconocido. El bochito verde grillo nos acompañaba todo el tiempo, como si pudiera iluminarnos la noche con su flamante color. ¿Recuerdas cuando te llevé a un restauran de súper lujo y que yo por pena quise dejarlo estacionado a la vuelta de la esquina? Tú me dijiste que no importaba, que te sentías muy orgullosa de mí y que no te bajarías del carro hasta que lo llevara a la puerta principal y lo dejara con el valet como todas las parejas de BMW’s, Honda’s, y Cadillac’s. Lo mejor de aquella noche fue que el muchacho que se llevó mis llaves estacionó a nuestro bochito al frente del restauran, como si en verdad pudiese lucirse al lado de los otros carros. Comimos como reyes esa noche –tú no supiste lo duro que tuve que trabajar por dos meses para poder conseguir dinero para pagar 350 pesos por una ensalada del tamaño de un taco, y ni

quiero saber lo que salió la carne de pato con verduras de sabe qué mundo- y recuerdo lo bien que se te veía la piel a la luz de las velas. Te brillaban los ojos como luciérnagas danzantes en medio de la selva. Tuviste todo el cuidado posible por no derramar salsa en tu vestido nuevo y utilizar la esquina de tu servilleta para limpiar las comisuras de tus labios. Me enamoré más de ti esa noche. Pero fui un estúpido. Se me subió a la cabeza no sólo el amor, sino también las copas de vino que pedimos. Tan cierto era cuando decían que de no tener hígado para tomar se te sube el alcohol a la cabeza. Hoy daría lo que fuera por haber tomado solo agua, o habernos quedado

más tiempo en el restauran en lugar de salir corriendo a nuestro bochito verde grillo. Ansiaba quitarte el vestido a mordidas.

Íbamos por López Mateos rápido y con las manos en todo menos en el volante y en la

palanca de cambios. No lo vi. No vi el maldito semáforo. No lo vi, amor, te lo juro. Todas las luces se me hacían iguales: las de los coches, las de la calle, las de las casas y tiendas. De haber sabido que había un semáforo ahí le hubiera bajado a la velocidad; te lo prometo, amor. Perdóname. Sí, lo acepto. Nuestro bochito sabía correr. Supo cómo correr derechito a los brazos de una camioneta Lobo. Creo que nuestro bochito era mujer y se enamoró de la camioneta. Jamás


14

perdonaré que por su capricho de amor haya perdido yo al mío.

Llegó la Cruz Roja a levantar el metal de la calle. Tu cuerpo había quedado tirado la mitad dentro de nuestro bochito y la otra sobre la verde glorieta de la Minerva. La Minerva; tantas celebraciones de fútbol y mundiales que ha visto y vino a verte en tu nuevo vestido manchado de sangre. Que irónico que no se manchó de salsa, pero sí de sangre. Me quedé inútil, sentado sobre el camellón mientras un policía balbuceaba estupideces que ni entendí. Veía cómo un grupo de paramédicos te daba de golpes en el pecho, luego besaban tus labios que

escurrían sangre. Cuando cubrieron tu dócil cuerpo con la sábana blanca lo perdí. Supe que jamás volvería a subirme a nuestro bochito verde grillo, ni iríamos al bosque o a la playa. Ya era definitivo que jamás iríamos a un restauran elegante ni a uno de comida rápida. Jamás iba a poder tomar tu mano blanca entre la mía y decirte lo mucho que te quería. Sí te lo dije en la noche, antes de que comenzáramos con nuestra pequeña ensalada. Pero no lo dije lo suficiente.

Ya no tengo al bochito verde limón. Lo he olvidado. Todo porque él sí se quedó besando de frente a la camioneta de la cual se enamoró locamente.


15


Tortuga Dennis Doty

On the malecón at Barra— A sunset stroll to the ocean’s edge. I spot a sign: “Vivera de tortugas— Protéjanlas.” Turtle nursery. Protect them, please. Not so much to ask, I think. Then “¡Mira!” A blue plastic tub seethes with Tiny avocados, sandy-sugary, A hundred grainy siblings Waiting to be launched. “They hatched this morning,” I hear From the man in charge. “Tonight when the birds are gone We set them loose. You know, like that movie— ¡Free Willy!” I return at night for “La Liberación.” We hear a talk on las tortugas. They need our help and We are willing. Who needs turtle soup Or tortoiseshell barettes? We form a line down at ocean’s edge, Side by side, “Indian” style. Every child (and I) Receives a tiny scurtling friend. “Careful not to squeeze,” we hear. I ask the boy next to me, “¿Cómo se llama el tuyo?” “Manuel,” he says with a grin. “Sebastián!” says the next boy down. “La mía es Sophie,” I decide. They nod in agreement. “On the count of three,” I hear, “Set your turtle down. Do not step back! ¡Con cuidado!” The waves tongue our toes.


16

“¡Uno, dos, tres!” Manuel, Sebastián and Sophie Are gently placed on the warm night sand. La pobre Sophie lands upside down. I give her a gentle flip, Rightsideup now she waits, Befuddled but ready. No miracle happens. Old Poseiden does not reveal his briny beard. No mermaids chant the tortuga tune. But the waves edge closer, Now almost to our feet. Another breaker, closer still. Then a big one across our ankles. Fifty little lives sucked out to sea. Others remain, then vacuum out On larger waves. And all are gone. Time to sink or swim—Eat or be eaten— All the great clichés of life and death. ¡Viva la Liberación! My eco duty done, I wander back, A memory of sandy flippers Airbrushing my palm. Lives launched on Unpacific Pacific waters. They’re on their own now— And aren’t we all.


17


Ancianos

Ana Gabriela González Ayala

y como las semillas del limón son extraídas a mano antes de exprimírsele, son excluidos los inútiles sociales. sus venas quedan marcadas semillas de limón deshidratadas, arrugadas ¿qué no saben todos que de ahí venimos? de semillas de limón nacimos, semillas de limón seremos. pero solo lo útil puede vivir, porque las semillas no sirven al exprimir.


18


Paper Roses Ana Marva Fernández Hall

The Civil hospital has patients sticking out of its ears and grime on its tongue. Every Friday we lug four bags of baby clothes, pamphlets on breast feeding, blankets, soaps and things for the women with miscarriages up to ground level from the parking lot. Then we cross the hectic waiting room. In the civil hospital the waiting room is gray, but full of colorful people. There are countless old ladies with wispy white hair and tentish floral dresses, accompanied by old men in wide hats, young men with gelled hair, women with beautiful eyes and restless children. There are more people standing than those who manage to find a rickety plastic blue seat. Everyone waits huddled under a monument of the Virgin Mary, decorated with palm tree leaves, scented candles, paper roses and donation boxes. The maternity wards are on the sixth and eighth floors of the civil hospital. As we prefer holding our breath to the hike, we take the elevator up the first six floors. The elevator is stifling and dense with humanity; people keep their balance artfully, half a centimeter apart, faint with the smell of sweat. Gum and dust bunnies decorate the corners, making the same swirls they did the week before.

There are eight rows of women in every room at the hospital. They witness

each other give birth, or lose the baby. It happens shockingly often. The babies don’t get individual cradles, unless they are premature. They lie snuggled with their mothers in the same sheets they were born on. They are the fourth child, the sixth child, or the first accidental child. Some mothers are fourteen years old, fussed over by fidgety boyfriends. Others stare blankly at the ceiling, alone.

They aren’t allowed to open their gifts at the hospital, as that can cause

conflicts with the other patients. The nurses are stern but very grateful. The girls will only ask if they can have that other prettier pink package if the nurses are out of sight; there is a military tension between the institution

and its patients. The female guards too, will cautiously mention that they are pregnant as we leave, hoping to sneak out with a present.

Women cower in their synthetic sheets under the sweet commanding nurses, with worn shoes marching over crushed glass on the floor. These mothers either walk down eight floors of skinny winding steps, or take baby’s first trip in a suffocating elevator.

Every Friday we come to this beautiful house of germs, of simplicity.


19


Blanca Simetría de Camas Alexia Halteman

Cuando me bajé del elevador en el

sexto piso del Hospital Civil el olor de humanidad subió demasiado rápido a mi cerebro. Me di cuenta de que no es un lugar extremadamente limpio, sin gente que lo ensucie, sino uno batallando para cuidar a sus habitantes. El sexto piso es el de maternidad. Ahí no existe ese suave olor a bebés: el olor característico es una combinación de sangre, sudor y algunos otros indefinidos. Esto se ha convertido en parte del ser del Hospital; hasta los que trabajan ahí se han acostumbrado y ya no se dan cuenta. Pero de mí, al entrar esa tarde, sí se dieron cuenta. Me notaron porque yo no soy como un visitante normal. Yo no soy como los esposos de las madres, con sus brazos tatuados y su caminado de machos. Yo no soy como las abuelas de los recién nacidos tampoco, con sus zapatitos y calcetines cafés y sus manos rellenitas. Yo, como ellos, me doy cuenta de lo fuera de lugar que estoy en ese Hospital. Cada cuarto, con su completa simetría de camas blancas, está en su mayoría lleno. Las madres acostadas, todas con las mismas batas blancas con azul, descansan. Las batas son flojas pero se les ven las piernas (tienen mucho calor como para cubrírselas) y muchas de ellas están envueltas en unas vendas que intentan ser blancas y no lo logran, los dedos de sus

pies se asoman como las cabezas de los niños entre las sábanas en sus brazos. Las

madres voltean para abajo, observando las caras tranquilas de sus hijos. Los ven con la esperanza de que sus vidas sean mejores: deseando que no cometan los mismos errores que ellas han cometido. Sueñan con darles a sus

niños y niñas una vida decente, que valga la pena el parto tan doloroso por el cual llegaron. Las mamás sonríen cuando les dan un cumplido de sus bebés, como si ellas mismas hubieran trazado cada pelo negro y cada uña minúscula a su existencia. Y de alguna forma, sí lo han hecho. En los mismos cuartos se encuentran esas madres tristes, sin hijos. Suelen no abrir la boca, ¿para qué platicar sus tragedias? Solo niegan con la cabeza cuando les preguntas si han tenido un bebé. Asumo que fue un legrado; me entristece un poco, pero sigo caminando, no quiero remarcar su dolor, su pena. Su desesperación se nota en sus ojos tristes, de líquida oscuridad, cuando voltean a ver con recelo a las mamás contentas, con sus bebés felices de estar tan llenos de vida. Todas las mamás duerman en los mismos cuartos, en las mismas camas (rígidas e incómodas); usan las mismas batas; comen las mismas comidas insípidas; pero unas mamás no tienen ese bulto de sábanas para acompañarlas por el resto de sus vidas;


20

algunas solo tienen lágrimas en los ojos, enmarcando su mirada de angustia. Otras tienen náusea o simplemente duermen todo el día, prefiriendo olvidarse del mundo de esa manera. Parecería como si cada madre en ese santuario fuera la misma, pero en diferentes cuerpos, con diferentes rostros. Ella es frágil aunque físicamente fuerte, no

es joven pero todavía le falta experiencia. Ella es insegura, aprendiendo, escuchando atentamente las instrucciones. Ella no reconoce la caridad porque no siente que la merece. Pero la agarra rápidamente antes de que se le escape. Trato de dársela cuidadosamente en esos paquetitos con regalos y tomo lo que, sin darse cuenta, me regresan.


21


Meditation Doug Parker

I know I know too much: histories of deceasement interred philosophies buried fictions. Shrouded, brittle bones rattle through my mind like skulls in a mixer. Like bells clanging down at the Kingdom Hall And death, Grim Slugger, peers in classroom windows while black birds dance for miles. Still… I breathe, listen. lungs gentle as vulture wings Thoughts expire… Slowly. There is nothing I know That comes not gentle and slow; leaving like the last ember of truth’s false fire.


22


Contact Lara Richardson

Tech1 has logged on Tech1 has been invited to join iheartmymp3’s conversation iheartmymp3 says: hey Tech1 says: hey Tech1 says: what’s up? iheartmymp3 says: not much iheartmymp3 says: you? Tech1 says: same old, same old

A train is coming. Yep, it’s the

blue line. The orange is needed. Step on the train. Find a seat. There is a man who looks like he hasn’t taken a shower in months. The smell of cheap wine radiates from him. “Can you spare a dime, a quarter, a dollar, I need to get off the train.” He begs, no one looks, no one listens, and he isn’t heard. Everyone on the train looks straight ahead, listening to music blaring from their headphones. Reading the latest bestseller, doing the daily Suduko puzzle, swaying from side to side with the train. He is not heard.

This is the stop. Standers on the right, walkers on the left. Most people are walking. Whoosh. Off goes the train filled with more people who don’t talk, don’t look, don’t see. Mouths shut, headphones in, cellphones on. In a rush, always in a rush. They need to slow down. In all their haste, they no longer see what is around them. In all its amber glory, the first leaf of autumn falls. The park, it looks so alive today. The ground is

covered in blankets of red; yellow; orange; brown as the wind gently drags them over the ground. The swans glide across the still pond, hoping for a crumb or two. They begin to leave; it’s getting colder and summer is over.

When did it become fall? No one is there to bid the guardians of the lake farewell. In the office it’s no different, the same people wearing the same white shirts, kakis, and gaudy clip-on ties meant to look fashionable. They are in their gray cubicles, typing like drones. So quiet, you would think you were in a room full of dead men. Even during lunch hour. Lunch used to be a time where everyone came alive, you could laugh and be loud, and dance like kids with their mouths covered in chocolate frosting from birthday cake. At birthday parties then the whole class was invited, and everyone came. They would break off into groups but always come back together as one when it was time for musical chairs. All gather around the birthday boy, perfectly content to get their share of cake and ice cream. Seeing the look he got as he opened presents, excited to see if he would like his new Tonka truck or G.I. Joe.

When did that change? Here all that can be heard is the clanking of silverware on worn plastic plates. Mumbled thanks and pardon me’s to the janitor cleaning up spilled coffee. The day is over. It’s time for dinner. Horns honk. Sirens sound. A waiter crashes into the table on the terrace. The temporary chaos causes the customers to jolt in surprise. Surrounding customers stop and stare. Their static


23

personalities change, then, the excitement is sucked out of them and they retreat to some incarnation of their former selves, jaded, tainted, tricked. Before they saw everything for what it is, people for who they are.

Clink clink. Twenty cents in a plastic cup. “Smile,” the beggar says. “I love to see that smile,” the only smile seen

among the drones shocked out of nothingness by someone they do not know, but is the only person they’ve interacted with. Back down the escalator, the orange line. Headphones in, books in hand, Bluetooths in, and ready to work.

“Stand clear the doors are now

closing.”


24


Sear of Stones Erik Verlage

Between the massive boulders runs a trail, an empty book careening ever downwards, the path beneath it lined with stones as black as witchcraft; but for sunshine all would hide to cut a walking passerby. The thin travelers look down at the mirrors and see themselves, reflected shadow-figures. They look away. The sharp edges haunt and prickle skin; only leather stands between the rocks and soles.


25


Writing Maketh a Tired Student—Indeed Abigail Salazar

As I pull every word into existence

on the white page before me with an aching wrist and a tainted finger, the onyx tears trickle down from the pen with drowse. Writing maketh a tired student. It is not like I am doing this on purpose; I have homework assignments to complete. The option of leaving it half done is non-existent. Page after paper, question after quotient, idea after inspiration; my brain begins to close down its businesses. I am trying to stay awake and as concentrated as possible, but my eyelids are being pulled down by some diminutive, invisible creature, and the effort to keep them open is unbearably dreary. Every single afternoon and school night I find myself in this routine, offering this sacrifice to my education. Well, it was to be expected that my readiness to complete all my assignments would eventually reach its peak and commence its downfall. My body is not physically capable of doing this forever without sending alarm signals and protests, refusing to continue subsisting like this any further. When I am at school, my mind is fighting back the black hole of daydreaming in my classes. There is a conflict between the attentive student and the worn self. Every time, the voice of the teacher becomes an echo, and then a murmur, and then a vision. Before me a lavender-colored sky twirls, with cherry blossom trees, an indigo river and an endless breeze that blows the strands of my hair in shapeless threads.

Glitter begins to rain down from the sky. As soon as it touches the river, chimes are heard and a fountain-like spray emerges. Along a hill in the near horizon a white jaguar roams the green prairie for

refuge. It walks nearer and is mouthing something from its mighty jaw. Soon, the mouthing whispers a purr, which rumbles louder and louder each time. It’s calling my name. It’s asking me to tell him the answer to number five. Number five. What? I jolt up, and I see the teacher squinting at me, a repeated last image for the stories I create in each class. I jot down the magnificence of the dream I experienced in class in my journal. Afterwards, I make several drafts of it. Then, I will have transformed my white cloud into a shimmering cloud which dazzles my own eyes.

On my pillow, I stare at the blue ink of the night. (Or am I staring at the darkness of my closed eyes?) I have been so tired today, that after writing about that cherry blossom tree I seem to have lost all possibilities of creating a meaningful piece. Not a single line works. For the past days I have been overworking, going to bed later than usual. I didn’t even take a shower tonight. At most I will get three and a half hours of sleep. It astonishes me how I was able to envision something so beautiful on a dull desk and how it is not possible for a single glimmering sentence to emanate out of the concavities of the pillow. How is it possible that… indigo... dull desk... pillow... chimes… cherry blossoms… purr… G ’night. “An idea is salvation by imagination.”

-Frank Lloyd Wright


26

G R A P H I C S T O R Y

Aca

Aleksandar Mahdjik


27


28


A mi madre… Diego Hernández Díaz

te dedico estas palabras no en un falso arranque de amor. Por aguantarme cuando salgo con el pH desbalanceado. Por darme los consejos que no sigo, Por regañarme, por enseñarme a levantarme solo. Porque hace meses que no me ves. Porque tu ojos ven sombras donde está mi cara, Porque soy solo un manchón color piel en tu camino, Porque tus ojos lagrimean en un último esfuerzo por verme. Mamá, Por todas las veces en que me viste Y yo no te vi.


29


A Sad Father Eunbi Lee

This morning when I woke up I saw Him. That Man, that taught me how to ride a bicycle on the shores of Da-Dae-Po, that rescued me from mom’s reprimand for not remembering Korea’s first president Lee, Seung-MAN. That Man, that once said “I feel no hunger when I see you eat,” that once told me “Study, study as if your life depended on it. Let no MAN diminish you, control you. Own yourself.” This morning when I woke up I thought I’d seen Him. That man, That says, “Let’s go ride our bikes sometime.” This morning when I woke up He saw Me.


30


Third Sunday After Pentecost Michael Hogan

And there’s nothing short of dying half as lonely as the sound of a Sunday morning sidewalk and Sunday morning coming down. --Kris Kristopherson Sunday. How the hours weigh us down, like a double quilt on a bed when the night suddenly turns warm and we awake, suffocating. How the minutes hang heavy like those at an airport waiting for a flight that’s been delayed by weather. Any Sunday is bad enough, but the worst is a rainy Sunday when the ingrained inertia of the day is doubled and drops of rain on the roof reverberate like the seconds of a clock ticking backwards. Hemingway, in his Farewell To Arms, has a young lieutenant in a military hospital looking at the rain and seeing himself dead out there. We don’t know if it’s a Sunday in the novel, but it probably is. Any other day of the week he’d be too busy with shots, and nurses drawing blood, with visitors and noise on the ward to harbor such thoughts. Thomas DeQuincy, that old addict, wrote: “There is no duller spectacle on this earth of ours than a rainy Sunday in London.” In my drinking days it was worse. To awake on a Sunday morning in Denver hung-over and shaky and know that there were no bars, no liquor stores open, because of antiquated “blue laws” passed by teetotalers a century before was bad enough. But there was also the blinding headache, the futile fumbling through ashtrays for a leftover roach, the frantic search through the house for the last half-inch remaining in the bottles from Saturday night’s revels. Then, the drinking of ice water, the dry heaves, followed by a

return to bed: chilled, antsy, unable to get back to sleep, followed by promises to quit forever, and the useless, unanswered (perhaps because insincere) prayers. Speaking of prayer. What used to give substance to Sundays in our childhood back in the Fifties was attendance at church. We may not have liked it much but at least there was some structure to part of the day. We woke early, washed up, dressed in our Sunday finest and walked to the church with Mom, Dad and Sister. The liturgy was clearly defined. It not only gave shape to the day but provided a pattern for the year. It was, for example, Palm Sunday with its welcome story of Jesus’ entry into the city. Then after Mass, the gift of the blessed palm fronds in the vestibule, and the fashioning of them into little crosses at home, with the expectation of Easter on the horizon. Or it was the second Sunday in Advent, or the Third Sunday in Pentecost, Septuagesima Sunday, Candlemas Sunday, each with its own colors, its own Biblical story, prayers and hymns. Now, we don’t even remember what half those terms meant. Sundays have no shape at all. In the days of our youth, Catholic boys and girls went to Mass, returned home to a rich and leisurely breakfast of pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon. It was a ceremonial breakfast as opposed to the usual fare of oatmeal and toast served most weekday mornings. Then the fat


31

Sunday papers with the colored comics for the kids, weekly sports summaries for Uncle Harry, in-depth news analysis for Dad, and fashions and recipes for Mom. Then a walk to the park while the Sunday roast slowly simmered and filled the house with rich odors, and we waved to the neighbors sitting on their porches, and crossed the streets without looking both ways because there was so little traffic you could hear the occasional car coming long before it reached your block. Our appetites sharpened by the walk, we returned home to the pork roast, or roast beef, the French beans, the rich gravy and mashed potatoes, the biscuits hot from the oven which we’d slice open and fill with butter so that they dripped as we lifted them to our mouths.

When Sunday dinner was done and the dishes washed, Mother would undo her apron and comb her hair. Dad and I would go out to the driveway and take a chamois cloth to the car to wipe away any smudge on the Simonized surface. Then we’d all pile into the station wagon for a Sunday drive around town and then out to the countryside. We’d count the number of sheep or cows in a field, the out-of-state license plates of the cars we passed (never more than two or three), and play word games, sing songs, or recite verses we’d learned at school. There was a car radio, but it was never played on Sunday. Dad would have liked to listen to the Red Sox game, Mom to Patti Paige, we kids to Elvis or Jerry Lee Lewis. But since we could not all have it our way, none of us did.

Then ice cream on the return home and the long winding down of the afternoon as we each retreated into our private corners of the house: Dad to hear the re-cap of the ballgame and ultimately to fall asleep in his armchair snoring gently; Mom to catch up on her sewing or to read a neglected novel; my sister and I to do homework assignments or play

records (quietly because it’s Sunday). Then a light supper after which we’d gather around to hear Bishop Fulton J. Sheen castigate the Communists on “Life Is Worth Living” and then the Ed Sullivan Show with its odd mixture of family comedy, dull Hit Parade music, circus acts and surprises like Elvis and the Beatles. As I tell my Mexican students, it was the Sabado Gigante for Sunday in Fifties “Gringolandia.” (For those who don’t watch Spanish TV, there simply exists no other point of comparison.) After Ed Sullivan, we each retreated to our rooms where we got our clothes ready for Monday school or work, bathed and brushed our teeth, then curled up with a book or magazine until we fell asleep.

Sundays had a clear shape to them then, although the outlines were fuzzy and some were better than others. There were Sunday mornings when the sermon was boring or the hymns off-key; when someone was wearing the same new outfit as my mother; or when my sister was snubbed by a group of girls with whom she had been fast friends only days before. There were afternoons when the smoke from Dad’s cigarette and an undigested piece of beef would produce car sickness on the Sunday drive in one or both of us kids. There were evenings when the TV was on the fritz, or when there was “nothing at all to read,” or when the house was heavy with the silences of my parents’ anger. Still, Sundays were ritualistic and family-centered, comforting in their sameness, dependable, habitual. And if we sometimes felt that there was a lack of freedom to do your own thing, to be alone, to think deep thoughts, there were—in retrospect—islands of self-awareness and peace. We were left on our own at church to think our own thoughts; we could converse or ramble along silently on our morning walks. After the Sunday drive we could retreat to our rooms to read, to write in our journals, or simply lie


32

on the bed and stare at the ceiling. And at night we could retire early to review our day and plan the week ahead.

As we got older and went out into the world to cobble together our own shapeless Sundays, the disciplines of family and religion gradually fell away due to distance, independence, jobs abroad, new cultures and new people. In most places there is still the Sunday Times, but now it is mostly page after page of advertising, trying like all of corporate America (and its globalized partners) not to entertain or enlighten us, but to convince us that we are incomplete and can never be whole without the latest in perfume, jewelry, health care products, automobiles and cruises to Alaska or the Caribbean.

Church is still an option for some Pentecostal folks who shout and sing and then listen to an entertaining preacher. But the Catholics have kind of lost it. They’ve surrendered the beauty and mystery of Latin Mass, Gregorian music and sonorous hymns, for a contemporary post-Vatican II tepidness composed of insipid language, watered-down homilies and unsingable hymns. The only relief from this banality is the announcements of fund-raising projects and the list of sick and dying parishioners to remember in our prayers.

There’s still the late breakfast, but even if we sleep in and don’t eat until noon, we are still left with half the day. The afternoon hangs heavy as the storm clouds that now threaten outside the

window of my study as I write this on a gloomy Sunday afternoon.

There are, I suppose, a few places left where a Sunday afternoon drive is still enjoyable. Perhaps the Ocean Drive in Newport, cruising past the Breakers on

the cold Atlantic in the dead of winter, or the Rambla along the Rio Plata circling Montevideo. But in most places the traffic is too ugly and congested and driving is not much fun. It is something you must do on a

weekday commute to work; not a pleasant pastime for a Sunday afternoon. So we clean out the closets, iron clothes for Monday, page listlessly through magazines, and wait for someone to call. In the evening we listlessly watch inane programming on TV, or try to feign an interest in a minimalist novel, as short on plot as it is on substance.

More suicides are committed on Sunday afternoons than at any other time. Even more distressing, more teen suicides occur between the hours of 1 PM and 10 PM on Sunday.

Not hemmed in by old religions, dead languages, worn-out rituals and the demands of family, we are free to do whatever we wish on Sundays. In Middlemarch, “poor Dagly read a few verses on a Sunday evening, and the world was at least not darker than it had been before.” But for many of us filling the hole that is Sunday is not so easy, and judging by the suicide statistics, the number who finds the world much darker, unlike “poor Dagly,” grows each year.


33

Unable to accept the hypocrisy which goes with most church attendance, even those who are nominally Christian often opt to stay at home on a Sunday. As preachers voice their support of the war with Iraq, embrace the death penalty but deplore abortion as murder, and sing the praises of Israel’s slaughter of Lebanese civilians because it hastens the Apocalypse and the return of Christ, staying home seems a sensible choice. For Jews, Buddhists, Hindus and million of others, Sunday has never been a day that was particularly holy or special. It may be that they are exempt from the statistics which I noted earlier. But I doubt it. Setting the day aside has become an existential black hole, transcending culture and religion. We are all stuck with our Sunday afternoon of the soul.

Maybe the Catholics have at least part of it right with their half-empty churches of ageing parishioners listening

to the priest drone on with his announcements of the sick and the dying who need our prayers. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls;” we are all sick and dying. Only what moves us has meaning. And the irony is that by taking away the rituals which shaped our Sundays, we are left with a spiritual vacuum which we are now free to fill as we wish, but often lack the inner resources or will to do so. William James a century ago warned of dropping habits and rituals unless they were replaced by others more salubrious. “The hell to be endured hereafter of which theology tells,” he wrote, “is nothing compared with the hell we make for ourselves in this world.” Free of the demands of school and work, of appointments and deadlines, we get to live with ourselves for a bit on a Sunday afternoon, and many of us discover to our distress how poorly furnished our souls are for the task.

“And the irony is that by taking away the rituals which shaped our Sundays, we are left with a spiritual vacuum which are now free to fill as

we wish, but often lack the inner resources or will to do so.”


34


Death Observed Juliana Barbosa Haddad

Mother deserves to be put out of her

misery (yet I say that with the same conviction that the tears have, falling through the corner of my eyes). As horrible as it is to wish the disruption of her heart’s palpitation, no other escape seems more inviting. I wonder if she would agree. I sense she is conscious and my heart shatters to watch her motionless, speechless body lying on a bed that once served as a trampoline Sunday morning. If she dies now, she would die happy - holding a beloved’s hand, listening to the mumbled voices of those wishing her return - but death would not be the end. Her memories will be kept. Her memories will be kept in the smell of hands after cooking dinner, locked within the pages of her favorite novel. That smell will never fade the way her voice, her movements, her strong and superior (yet gentle) presence have done. Hope was lost in remarkable seconds, and too soon she was lost for the dawn came sooner than I expected, but not as soon as I had fervently prayed.

*** What a remarkable scene: such presence, such devotion. She does not move, talk, yet they insist on staying. Observing how her relatives come and go, sitting by her side, fervently expecting a movement (knowing it will not occur), holding her hand where blue veins weary by time jut out. Gertrude was (or is, I can’t quiet define) a treasured memory kept in my mind for years the way biologists keep their first collection of insects. As a

teenager she had the pretty hair, the pristine smile, the charming aura that hypnotized us boys. We grew and moved on; she married well, had beautiful children, and wore out. I could see that same aura in the room, a feeling that she had passed on. Her children, all present, all alike, left the same mist of magnetic perfumed captivation. I was one of the few chosen to survive a little longer, to watch how her flawless, desired lips lost their flawlessness among those faces that sought forever in them.

*** I can see their disturbed faces, wishing a smile upon them, feel their sweaty hands holding a bit too hard, hear their voices

murmur, trying to keep me from the truth. They are not aware I can. Life is, as repeated, too short. I only understood once I saw heaven and stepped into hell. I grew, built some of my own and now I leave to watch how those left grow (now only from beyond), and construct their own castles, gathering sand grain by grain. Though

my heart beats (not for long) - if I could say one word before I leave, I would say none - I am no more than the absence of presence, my corpse saying more than any words now. My life was completely lived and complete will be the memories they will keep. I searched in vain for a spark of poetry in every face, for emotions in a voice, for ideals, or at least ideas, but the world passed by, far, people walked in a hurry, badly-dressed, eyes deviated by preoccupation. Within this same world my lullabies must fly with wings of their own.


35


Outdated Patricio Suárez

Our pupils blind us, for they write unknown history. And what am I if not ashes and ink, in a lonely book: a symbol, a name?


36


The Deaf Cat and the Rain

Michael Hogan

It has been raining most of this week. That’s to be expected. This is Guadalajara and it is August, the rainy season. Our house has a flat roof that collects the rain, so my wife reminds me to get out the aluminum ladder and climb up on the roof to sweep off the puddles and clean out the drains. So, I get out the ladder. It is not long enough to reach the roof, so I have to transfer my right foot from the ladder to the top of the window frame, balance there for a moment and then swing my body over the lip of the roof onto the surface. It is a tricky maneuver. Probably wouldn’t be a big deal if I was eighteen, but it’s been more than two generations since I was eighteen and it takes some doing. My wife, of course, does not appreciate this. It is simply men’s work which she disdains as something necessary but of no interest. Anyway, I get up on the roof and I walk over to the edge. I don’t have a fear of heights exactly. But I am one of those people who feel an urge to jump when they are up high. So, I pull back from the edge nervously. That’s when I see the cat. It is a black and white cat, small, although bigger than a kitten. I know this cat and have seen it in the neighborhood. There is a little girl about eight years-old down below in my front garden. “Will you get my cat, mister?” she asks. I approach the cat that is perilously near the edge of the roof and call her. “Here, kitty, kitty!” “She’s deaf,” the little girl says. Oh great, a deaf cat who is going to freak out when I grab her from behind and frighten the hell out of her. “I’ll tell you what,” I say. “Let her get used to me being up here. I’ll start sweeping the roof and then when she sees

me, I’ll call her over and then get her down.” So I start sweeping. There is a lot of water and it’s not going anywhere unless I clean the drain. I see that one of the problems is that the cat has been using the screen over the drain as a litter box. The drain contains fine sand from the roofing materials and several cat turds. It is disgusting but I clean that off and some of the water starts to drain. The cat notices me and I call her over. She comes tentatively, pace by pace as if in slow motion. I finally reach out and grab her, and then carry her over to the ladder. Now here’s the trick. I have to hang over the roof to get one foot onto the upstairs window frame which swings out as my foot touches it. Then, when I’ve got one foot tentatively on the top of the ledge, I have to swing the other leg down and over and put it on top of the ladder which is to the right and two feet below the top of the window frame. I’ve got to do all of this while holding a wriggling cat who has already scratched me as I made the turn to descend backwards over the roof. Like I said, I’m not really afraid of heights but I am a bit afraid of breaking my back, of spending my life paralyzed, living in a wheelchair…especially for something as absurd as a cat who doesn’t want to get down from the roof. Meanwhile the little girl is shouting, “Don’t hurt her, mister,” but, of course it is the cat that is hurting me. Well, to make a long story abbreviated, I get the cat down and turn her over to the little girl who is a bit miffed by the ungentle way I’ve handled her pet so doesn’t even thank me, just goes off down the street with the deaf cat


37

trailing behind her. Probably it will get back up on someone else’s roof before the day is over. I go down to the kitchen, make myself a cup of coffee, light up a cigarette, and then go outside and pull up a chair beneath the mango tree in our back garden, and relax. I deserve a break after that. I think about jobs and how no task is ever simple. You start one thing and it leads to another. Everything in life is like that. A simple job sweeping rain off the roof, ends up with a deaf cat, cat poop in the gutters, an ungrateful child, feelings of fear of falling, of breaking one’s back, life in a wheelchair. It’s exhausting, really. Now my wife looks out the window and sees me sitting under the mango tree doing nothing. “There is water still dripping from the ceiling into the bedroom,” she says. “When are you going to finish sweeping the roof? Every weekend it’s the same thing. No matter what little thing I ask you, it’s always such a big deal. What’s the problem now?” Well, you and I know what the problem is, right? How you set out to do a little job and it turns into this incredibly complicated task which involves risks you didn’t expect to assume when you began. But try explaining that to someone who hasn’t experienced it. You might as well be talking Korean to a Brazilian. Or English to George Bush. “How many is a ‘Brazilian’ anyway?” asks George Bush. “Is it more than a Zillion?” Probably you’d be able to communicate better with either of them than I’m able to with my

wife in this case. So, I don’t even bother to answer. I just sit there drinking my coffee. “Did you hear me?” she yells. “Yes, mi amor,” I reply. “I heard you.” A ‘Brazilian’ times, I think to myself. Now I look at the roof and I wonder what could have possessed me to climb up there anyway. This is not a job for a sixty year-old. I have no business climbing up on roofs like a kid. I’m a

retired professor. I should be doing just what I am doing right now. Sitting here beneath the mango tree in my garden, thinking about things, contemplating life, not risking life and limb to sweep rainwater, climbing up and down ladders. Anyway, I get up and go out to the front where I’ve parked the car. Maybe I could take a long ride in the car, get away for a while, have some peace

and quiet. But, no. There’s the cat stretched out on the hood of my Dodge Neon. I try to shoo her away but, of course, she’s deaf and doesn’t hear me. Perhaps she could read lips but she’s facing the wrong way. My wife comes out. “What are you doing, now?” she asks. I say that I was going to go for a little ride in the car, but this stupid cat is on the hood. The cat is deaf, I think. “Yeah,” she says. “Deaf like you. Only hears what it wants to hear. I’ll just wait out here while you finish up on the roof.” So, I get back up on the ladder. I make the perilous swing over to the top of the window frame and then unto the roof. I look out over the edge, down at my wife in the foreshortened courtyard below, and


38

then down at the couple walking along the street on their way to the park. We used to be a couple like that, taking walks, discussing the future. Now the future is here: me, sweeping rain off the roof, cleaning gutters, talking to deaf cats, and her being critical and self-righteous. I walk closer to the edge.

I’ve always had this feeling, this strange compulsion to step off into space. I know I can’t fly, that I would go crashing down with broken bones or a crushed vertebra like that actor that played Superman. Still, the temptation is strong. Just one little step and then out into empty space.

“I’ve always had this feeling, this strange compulsion to step off into space.”


39


Parque Italia María Inés Vallejo Vigil

No sé si el amor es un juego o una

mala jugada para obtener miradas, algún par de cartas o unos besos que en la noche son sueños.

Lo último que recuerdo es una noche bañada por el frío de las gotitas de la lluvia; ésta caía mientras estaba en otra casa, lejos de la mía y tan cerca de tu morada. El río de coches fluía lentamente por avenida de la Nada, era como una marea para mis ojos. ¡Estaba harta!, sólo a cien metros de tu casa, sabiendo que mi dirección no era precisamente el sofá donde gastábamos las caricias que supone el amor.

Luego salí para desafiar a las gotitas de la lluvia, mientras decidía entre caminar o empaparme.

De hecho no conozco la dirección a donde intentaba caminar. Me encontraba completamente sola. No me importó caminar y caminar sin saber un destino o si mis pies ya no daban para más.

De repente, y no sé de dónde demonios, salió un viejito que traía un costal en su espalda.

Olvidé por un instante lo que estaba haciendo; era exactamente comparable a hacer todo sin hacer nada. La mirada de este anciano me dejó pasmada y no sabía qué hacer. Era impresionante el poder de su mirada. Preguntó por el Parque Italia, buscaba a un muchacho al que le llevaba naranjas todos los jueves.

Le respondí casi por impulso; el lugar por el que preguntó se me hacía familiar, creo haber conocido hace unos años a alguien, no recuerdo bien su nombre ni las circunstancias.

El viejo ya no preguntó y siguió mis señas rumbo a la calzada.

Opté por darme la media vuelta y seguir caminando. Quizás otro poco me serviría. Pasaron dos cuadras desde que lo dejé; seguía pensando en el rumbo al que supuestamente quería llegar, pero era más grande la espinita de seguir al viejo, reconocer al muchacho y ya. Te lo juro, ya quería dormirme.

De nueva cuenta me di la vuelta y empecé a seguir al viejo sin que se diera cuenta. Ya no me cabía en mente escuchar las palabras del viejito; era más el impulso de llegar al parque Italia; “¡Estoy segura, en ese lugar se van a despejar mis dudas!”

Me empezó a gustar la idea de llegar; minutos antes caminaba sin saber el rumbo fijo de mis pasos, de mi actuar, pero en mis labios se dibujaba una sonrisa. Incluso dejé de mirar a las niñas que se visten para la ocasión, las felizmente adornadas en sus cuerpos llenos de artificios de belleza falsa. Mi corazón empezaba a latir con más y más fuerza, pero de repente todo se detuvo a mi alrededor; estaba tan cerca del viejo; escuché cómo entonaba una vieja canción donde se mencionaba un encuentro, de los “pairos y derivas” encalladas en las arenas de una playa, tan virgen como la sonrisa de una niña, de un encuentro que se suponía hace tiempo. En ese momento no sabía qué era lo que estaba pasando; no sólo sentía la pausa del viento al compás de la caminata; lo único ahí era la entonación del viejo.

Mis pasos cada vez se volvían más lentos, pero las ansias que habitan entre el revoloteo de mi estómago y el respirar de mis pulmones crecían a pasos agigantados. Creo que me empezaba a acordar de ti;


40

hace unos minutos lo creía como un "alguien". Ahora empezaba a gestar recuerdos, unos cuantos besos, una caricia y el mejor de los motivos para querer escucharte. Es más, en mi cabeza se gestaban las mentiras de los hombres, las mismas que hacen para creer que, si ven el mundo a través de los ojos de una mujer, es como un amanecer de soles, sin días nublados.

Aún no sé cómo me gustaba tener los ojos cerrados junto a los tuyos. No entiendo por qué extraño la suavidad de tus manos, la tarea de hacerte sonreír. “Se muere sin saber su nombre, ¿verdá? ” El viejo había dejado de cantar y todavía de espaldas me dirigió aquellas palabras. ¿Cómo supo que yo quería saber su nombre con tanto ahínco si sólo le pregunté una vez!

Él preguntó por un parque; yo por un muchacho.

Tiene razón el viejo: me muero por saber y no sé qué es lo que tengo en mente. Hace un rato salí a caminar; llevo unas cuantas horas caminando, haciéndome tonta; creo estar parada tan cerca de él; no sé si lo recuerdo, no sé cómo se llama ni por qué me levanté; no tenía motivos para dejar mi almohada, pero sí para salir a la calle y buscarme uno... en donde fuera.

¿Por qué vendría todos los jueves a vender naranjas a un muchacho?

Opté por ya no preguntarle nada y seguir pensando que faltaban unos segundos para acordarme de cada una de las letras que construían tu nombre. Di la media vuelta y busqué un lugar donde esconderme del viejito ese. Las cosas no estaban bien; creo que los dos estábamos involucrados con ese muchacho; de una u otra manera nos dirigíamos a su encuentro; uno con sus naranjas, otra con sus quereres.

El viejo siguió su camino hacia el parque Italia con el costal de naranjas en su espalda.

Traté de asegurarme de que no me viera y continué caminando detrás de él. Al llegar al parque sentí lo mismo que al encontrarme al viejo por primera vez; todo se enmudeció y se detuvo a mi alrededor. Incluso la luz de la Luna dejó de parpadear para iluminar una pequeña glorieta llena de rosas marchitas y de arbustos empolvados. El viejo llegó hasta la glorieta y depositó las naranjas. Dejó el costal vacío a un lado y se aseguró que las tres naranjas más grandes estuvieran encima de todas las demás. Formó una especie de pirámide y se fue alejando poco a poco. Yo estaba escondida detrás de un árbol, muy cerca de la escena aquella. El viejito salió corriendo a toda prisa, traté de visualizarlo y no logré distinguir los gestos en su cara, la noche era muy espesa.

Cuando volteé la mirada a la glorieta se encontraba ahí un muchacho muy, muy apuesto. No lo alcanzaba a reconocer, pero se veía bastante guapo. Se acercó lentamente hacia la pila de naranjas que el viejito depositó en la glorieta. Lentamente empezó a cortarlas con una navaja. Primero las partía a la mitad y luego otra vez a la mitad. Vi cómo se comía las siete más chicas. No aguantaba más. Quería acercarme para reconocerlo, pero si lo hacía ya no podría seguir descubriendo el interior de su belleza; “A lo mejor se asusta y se va” fue lo único que pensé.

No sabría explicar cómo es que me fui enamorando de tu silencio, del movimiento de tus manos. Pero tenía un miedo que me detenía las piernas a más no poder. De pronto el pedazo de tierra en el que estaba parada se convirtió en un asidero sin salida para atrás. Quería reconocer a ese alguien, ese hombre que no me quería recordar su nombre en mis sueños. Lo seguí observando y vi cómo partía las últimas tres naranjas. Caminó y se paró justo enfrente del árbol donde me escondía. Ya no podía más. Mis piernas temblaban de miedo y respiraba lo frío


41

con la piel. Algo tomó de la base de mi árbol. Tardó algunos segundos y se retiró.

No me había visto, a lo mejor el árbol era muy ancho.

“¡Carajo, qué cobarde soy, no volteé para reconocerlo!”- Pensé en voz alta.

De nueva cuenta se acercó a la glorieta y en las manos llevaba una regadera para echar agua a las flores. Las naranjas, las tres naranjas grandes que había partido segundos antes las vació una por una en la regadera y empezó a rociar las flores de aquella glorieta. Una por una de esas flores comenzó a recobrar su belleza.

¿Qué contenían esas naranjas? De la misma manera me pregunté por qué el viejo no le había cobrado para luego salirse corriendo.

Cuando me armé de valor salí del árbol y comencé a gritar su nombre que ni

si quiera hacía mención en mis recuerdos. La primera vez no volteó.

Grité desesperadamente. Nunca volteó.

Partió rumbo a su casa y yo aún recordaba su nombre. ¿Por qué sentía que era ese alguien que conocí hace unos años? El frío de mi piel ya no me importaba, ni siquiera el miedo de ser reconocida; fue más el miedo de, quizás, no volver a verlo jamás. Luego centré mi mirada en las flores, las vi hermosas. Cuando viré para encontrarlo, él ya no estaba… Y cómo me explicó ahora. Dímelo tú. No sé si eres el "muchacho" de ese viejito o el hombre que adornó mis brazos hace algunos años. Lo cierto es que todos los días me levanto buscando un motivo. Cuando me falta uno, estás tú. Cuando no estás tú, está un árbol de naranjas en mi jardín. Mi jardín no tiene flores. Ayer me dijo Dios que adorna tu casa con ellas.


42


Indifference

Marco A. Sánchez Junco A pallid spore suspended in midair untroubled like a submerged hippo thick skin –impenetrable— A concealed string-like hook pierces the underside of your thigh with more pain than a gnawing gunshot of hate; or the pain of losing the ten people you cherish most go on, count them. The cnida retracts back into the spore, as if nothing had Occurred. The barbed silken tentacle leaves no more than the faint burn of a paralyzing sting Indifferent.


43


Swallow Ana Marva Fernández

Waging my pretension, Only steadying my tin-foil glow. So that I might not look lonely. Only sifting through perception Stinging here, ashamed of my mock flow. Hold me now and you will see my rib cage split You will see my pieces tumble.


44


The Sweet Taste of Lies Alexia Halteman

Someone told you the other day

that you were a fake, a phony, a bluffer. No one had ever told you something like that, that offensive, before. It offended you because of its bitter honesty. The taste of it was so vicious that you wanted to spit it out and leave it on the concrete road to evaporate. As hard as it was, you swallowed it. You swallowed it like you swallow so many other things that taste like the decaying mold that has grown in your throat. You swallowed it to fit in. To be accepted, because your biggest fear is to be an outsider. You, like any one and every one else, would rather be a sham than an outcast. So you have begun to pretend: pretend to understand, pretend to know, pretend to be.

You are so easily convinced; it seems you are even unsure if you are meant to be dead or alive. It is as if you were not really living, but following the life of others. I have started to wonder if your deadly hope is to be well liked or if you are truly so malleable as to be bended and twisted to anyone’s convenience. (Is it that no one else has been this way at some point?) If you are the work of someone else, let them know you have been bent badly. Malformed until you do not know what the shape originally was.

You are quiet and comported when people surround you. I saw you speak flawlessly about the wonders of a book you had tossed onto the pile after disappointedly reading the first few pages(was that Nietzsche too complicated?). I thought you did not like that book, but it seemed you did at the dinner. Smiling and taking a discreet sip from what was left of the throat-burning liquid (was it brandy or whiskey?) in your ice-filled glass, with your pinky sticking up

in the air in a fashionable manner, you said you agreed. Looking everyone in the eyes with a stern and serious face that not a single person would dare doubt, you said you knew for sure it was true. (You didn’t believe that yourself, did you? When will you realize you lie, to yourself and everyone around you, suddenly, compulsively, instinctively.)

Oh, but not last Friday. I believe that your true self peeked through for a little breath of fresh air and not the usual recycled cigarette-smoke one. It was the night of the liberation of your repressed spirit – great, great, great. You confessed to some people that you did not like them, or what they talk about, or what they do, or how they think for that matter. You said the only thing you liked about them was their immaculate teeth. Is it only in a state of drunkenness that your self-consciousness goes away? Because that Friday night you said everything that surfaced from the shallow depth of your brain: nothing was held back and left to drown in your superficialities. That only came one day though and vaporized like drops of water on a hot day. The heat of social pressure was too much for you to bare.

There are secrets you won’t tell people. They are things you think might be used against you. That time you cheated on your wife and came home with a bouquet of fresh smelling flowers (tulips? lilies? freesias?). The contradicting actions, the abnormal changes of face and thought. Nobody notices it. You ignore it. You are flawless. Everyone deserves a private life, right?

I saw you standing there, a little hunched, and staring at your feet. Your


45

jaws moved quickly with the sweet taste of lies on your lips. They so easily oozed out; your mouth was too slippery and couldn’t hold them in. Have you noticed that they come out like vomit? The words and letters mixing to find their gruesome combination. The vomit comes all the time; even when it is not necessary you begin to taste its acidity.

You will see how once they have dissolved the sweet cover of yours they will spit you out like rotten fruit. They will see the true sourness and be disgusted. The syrupy cover will not work for so long and it will not be tempting afterwards. Even if the sincerity comes out, it will always be bitterness down to the core. The tastes are fatally confused after a while.

Documents

The Good Word · cavorting in the street in a Bacchanalian ecstasy. Even at a million words, however, we still lag behind the Finns, who reportedly have more than a million words