Autobiografía (para producción de textos) 10-02-15

Ushuaia es un lugar gris y frío. A veces, en el otoño, toma colores. La rodea una cadena montañosa que encierra los bosques, ciudad y cuerpos de agua que ésta tiene.
Me llamo Lené. Me pusieron así por una amiga de mamá, pensaban que era un nombre francés pero investigué arduamente y resultó ser escandinavo. Escandinavia es una zona montañosa, con mucho bosque, y fría como casa. Lené significa ilustre. No creo, pero espero, llegar a alguno de los dos lados.
El invierno antes de que naciera fue la nevada más grande de mi ciudad, dos metros de nieve cubrieron las calles, mi papá fue a su casamiento en esquíes. Me hubiera gustado haber estado ahí.
Las montañas me protegieron de afuera toda mi vida y los bosques me llevaron a mundos mágicos en los que crecí desde chica. Mis padres son artistas. Yo soy su única hija. Siempre sola y abrigada busqué un lugar al cual pertenecer dentro de los libros. Viajé a tantos lados sin salir de mi casa. Las veces que si quería salir de mi casa era para saludar a las gaviotas y buscar portales mágicos en el bosque.
Un día leer no fue suficiente para escaparme de afuera y de mi soledad. Un día comencé a escribir yo misma. Me di cuenta que a veces para crear o saber, o escribir o pintar, o hacer lo que es especial para cada uno, no hace falta encerrarte en tu casa y hacerlo.
A veces escribo sin cuaderno, cuando miro el atardecer o cuando hago nuevos amigos. Me di cuenta que mis montañas ya no me protegen, ahora me encierran; sin dejarme ver que hay más allá, y sin dejar que el más allá me vea a mi. Y las gaviotas y mis gatos me dijeron que yo tengo que salir para encontrar las historias que se tienen que contar. Repentinamente solo soy ojos que ven, oídos que escuchan y dedos que escriben.
La familia de papá está compuesta por músicos, y mi mamá es artista visual. A ambos les hubiera gustado que siguiera sus pasos, pero me aman igual. No se dan cuenta que hago ambos, como me siempre me las arreglo para matar dos pájaros de un tiro.
Lo que escribo, se ve y se escucha. Lo que veo y escucho, escribo.
A veces siento que sangro palabras.

The Capulet flower

- 1 -

Balthasar gave his normal slow pace through the corridor of his room, he was looking for something. Something in a dream reminded him of a diary he used to keep, he wanted to find it. It was a small little notebook, such a sneeky thing, where was it? It shouldn't be too far, yet it was, so many years had passed since then. Balthasar went down the stairs to the old basement located below the apartment, right next to the parking, something he had never had the need to use, for he never in his 63 years had learnt to drive. Balthasar searched through the old locker, two meters deep and three meters tall. Tall and deep as it was, it wasn't enough to hold all of his stuff, everywhere, loads of boxes and old junk. Junk everywhere on end, he went back upstairs to look for a chair, this was not good at all for his back. Back to work, he took away the heaviest stuff first, a bycicle, an old telly he had never used, and a couple of boxes, but when he removed the boxes one of them fell to the floor, revealing something unexpected, something long forgotten.
Forgotten letters now lay around on the floor, their unmistakable smell brought back all their words to Balthasar, words of happiness and love. Love from so long ago, that he forgot everything that was happening in that very instant, the men shouting at a football game, the people crossing the street, the nearing clouds of storm, the little bird that flew past by and was now feeding on some crumbs. Balthasar opened one of the letters, and began to read it. Its words made him want to cry, he pressed his lips to the paper and ink to try and kiss the words, try and kiss the person, but of course it was just paper. Paper everywhere on the floor, he put it all back on the white box, where it belonged, saving everything back inside the locker; he would come back at some point.
At some point, he found himself at a park, with the white box of letters. Letters which he opened from first to last. Last was the name of the author of said letters, a certain Katerina Capulet, in beautiful handwriting. Handwriting; such a thing of the old ages now! Now it was all texting and sexting and facebook posts filled with empty words, or words of others. Others would not understand how this 63 year old man felt, as he cried to those letters in a box, remembering times long past. Past long and eternal words he felt like answering to those letters, he felt like writing with all the affection there ever was in this world, the affection of a parent teaching it's child, the affection a bee has towards the flower from which it draws the nectar from, the affection with which the sun each morning rises from the east; but Balthasar had already answered those letters, it would be empty and hollow to do it all over again, wouldn't it? It was unholy to try to remember her, to desire her, to love her, to do anything other than admire her, for she was so human it was unthinkable that you could just take her for yourself without breaking her. Her dark stare, her apparent indifference towards others, but he knew, for the words he read in the letters, she was so much more than the wall she had once proyected.
Balthasar's surroundings began to grey, and as he saw a small drop of rain fall into one of the pages, he quickly put them back inside the box, and went to a bar close-by. By the window he could see the heavy rain in the dark streets as he drank green tea and thought about the letters, it had been so long, and he still loved her, he could never forget her. Her wild, seemingly uncontrollable short hair, the strange turn her lips took when she would smile.
Smile he could not, he tried, but he could not. Not because the memories weren't beautiful, but because he had forgotten so much he could never forgive himself.
Balthasar opened the next envelope, inside there was a photograph, a black and white smile of a young blonde woman standing next to a tree; her body facing the tree but her face turning towards the camera, looking inside the eyes of the beholder with such joy and wonder. Wonder how time goes by, with the photograph there came a flower petal that belonged to the tree surrounding Katerina; such a delicate blossom, Balthasars fingers were shaking as he tried to hold the petal without destroying it, brought it to his nose, as he once used to do so very often, a memory now so faint. Faint was the perfume now, almost completely lost, yet somehow it persevered through time.
Time it was to exit the bar for the rain had ceased and so much was in his mind, there was something clinging to be noticed, yet it was so far away. Away as the memory of how he once felt, the perfume of the petal had brought a tiny little glimpse of how he used to feel, and he tried to catch it in the air but he could not, he was consumed by the need to remember, to feel like that again.
Again Balthasar was out of the bar with his box of letters and slowly walking the two blocks that took him to his appartment, one single thought on his mind, that if he was to find the tree from which the petal belonged, and smell that air that reminded him of his first lover, he could feel as he had felt before.

Words

If you were to cut me open to see what's inside
Words would be all you find.
On the outside the only thing I have
Are eyes to see and ears to hear
Inside I'm bursting with words
But I do not own a mouth
Yet there are so many, so many words in me
They bleed out whenever they can
Whenever there's a pen
Whenever there's a computer
They escape through my fingers
I have so, so many words
They flood away because they don't all fit in me
And people seem to enjoy the taste of my blood
It's alright, I have so much
I don't mind giving you my words
So many words
All for you
It's alright, you can take them
I have many of them
Look; here I bleed again.