Saturday, April 28, 2007


How different life is when every day does not start with the uncertainty and the excitement of a trip. The sedentary trips are of a different kind. Yesterday I was taken to La Habana. The nineties. Another story of somebody tired of the West. Tired of his routine, in need of fresh air...And he took the chance and he went away to Cuba, for two years. Life is different ever after.
With his words he transmitted all his love for Cuba, for the son... When he talks about there he even speaks with Cuban accent.

cajón de sastre (15)

"He leído demasiados libros, no digo muchos, sino demasiados" Estupenda frase del monólogo de Vicky Peña en la obra Homebody/En Kabul.
"I have read too many books, I do not mean a lot, but too many" A fantastical sentence by Vicky Peña in the play Homebody/ Kabul.
"Aprovéchate de mi, estoy blandita" Una compañera de caminata tras mis insistentes cabezadas de vuelta del monte en el tren. El cansancio era terrible.
"Take advantage of me, I am very cosy" A trekking companion after my persistent nods going back to the city on a train. I was so tired!

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

en kabul

En casa, en kabul. Impresionante texto de Tony Kushner. Impresionante Vicky Peña enzarzada en un monólogo de palabras imposibles e ignoradas (por mí claro). Estupenda.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

there is a movie about this

What would you do if you were told you´re going to die in a couple of months? That was the point a pregnant friend and I were discussing over lunch the other day.
I wouldn´t tell my family, maybe I would tell it to a close friend to try to sort out all that dreadful stuff that a death implies, the funeral, your bank accounts...She said she would the same although she admitted she wouldn´t forgive her husband if he, in the same given situation, chose not to share the news.
I have a friend whose life has been periodically visited by an awful friend called cancer. Over the years he has learnt better than anyone else I know what ¨Live the present moment¨ means. There are only a few important things that matter but most of us get tangled in little silly stuff in our everyday lives.
So when you know the end is near, what does it really matter?

Monday, April 23, 2007

the woman with the name of a colour

She is a plump brunette older than it seems. She bears always a honest and broad smile on her face, product of her many years on the profession. She is my new colleague, the woman with the name of a colour, Violeta.
Our stage manager strikes the time left before the show with a huge red nose on and a big bell in his right hand. Every day, seriously, he announces the beginning of the show, "Ladies and gentlemen we're starting in ten minutes".
The clowns look pale and gloomy without their make-ups on, sometimes it's even hard to recognize them, everything is new and different for me.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

I work with a clown

It is official, my new colleagues are jugglers, trapeze artists, tightrope walkers and clowns. Yes! I started working in the circus yesterday.
We have a Chinese Girl Troupe, a Moroccan Troupe, Brazilians, Russians, Spaniards...

Wednesday, April 18, 2007


A mi alrededor sólo tengo que gente que no hace mas que quejarse de cosas que fácilmente podrían cambiar. Gente joven, con trabajos agradables y bien pagados, con vida social y con sólo problemas imaginarios, no reales.
Quejas y más quejas que no conducen a ninguna parte sólo al cabreo de los que escuchan que, por supuesto, llega un momento en que dejan de escuchar. La gente se arregla el pelo todos los días ¿por qué no el corazón? Si nos paráramos a reflexionar más sobre qué hacemos y por qué y las posibilidades reales que tenemos en nuestras manos, que son infinitas, creo que nos iría mejor.
¿Por qué vive la gente vidas que no quieren vivir, vidas que detestan? Cuando sobre todo, está en su mano cambiar casi todo lo que no les gusta...
Around me there are people who are forever moaning about things which could easily change. Young people, with well paid jobs, great social life and mostly imaginary problems, not real ones.
Complaints and moans which lead them nowhere, which only make their listeners angry, who eventually always quit listening. People fix their hair every day, why not their hearts? If we stopped and thought about what we do and why, about the real possibilities that lie in our hands, which are infinite, we would do much better.
Why do people live lifes they don´t like? when they could actually change everything they detest...

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

me levantaré

Gracias a un anónimo tenemos la traducción al español del maravilloso poema de Maya Angelou...Yo fui demasiado vaga. Ahí va...

Puedes inscribirme en la historia
Con amargas mentiras, pero sé
Que aunque me pisotees en el fango
Como polvo me levantaré.

¿Te fastidia que sea tan insolente?
¿Por qué te asedia la desazón?
Yo camino como si tuviera pozos de petróleo en mi salón.

Como las lunas y como el sol,
Cierta como la pleamar,
Como las esperanzas que brincan alto
Me volveré a levantar.

¿Querías verme destruida?
¿Cabizbaja, los ojos marchitos?
Hombros como lágrimas caídos
En el alma, débiles gritos.

¿Te ofende que sea tan altiva?
No respondas de esta manera.
Porque yo río como si en mi patio
Minas de oro tuviera.

Me puedes disparar con tus palabras.
Con tus ojos me puedes cortar.
Me puedes matar con tu odio,pero
Como aire, me volveré a levantar.

¿Te fastidia que yo sea tan sexy?
¿Te sorprende de veras
Que baile como si tuviera diamantes
En donde se juntan mis caderas?

De las chozas de la vergüenza de la historia
Me levantaré
De un pasado arraigado en los dolores
Me levantaré
Yo, océano negro de saltos salvajes
Marea que crece y se mece en los oleajes
Dejo atrás noches de pánico y terror
Me levantaré.
Hacia un amanecer sin temor
Me levantaré.
Los dones de mis ancestros los traigo hoy.
El sueño de los esclavos y su esperanza soy.
Me levantaré, levantaré, levantaré.

Monday, April 16, 2007

friendship haiku

without looking me, you talk
we fear each other
hiding, I whisper of you

ya no danzo al loco son de los tambores/ I do not dance any more at the crazy rhythm of the drums

Me asomo a esta ventanita de nuevo tras ocupados días de trabajos para otros, trabajos que parecen menos vitales de lo que solían parecer.

Me asomo a respirar aire fresco, a asentar experiencias, a reposar la semana. Cosas maravillosas han pasado todos los días. Rencuentros con amigos, trabajos nunca hechos antes...

Encuentro en estos días que la necesidad de parar, desacelerar, respirar lento y profundo es mayor de lo que solía ser tiempo atrás. Ya no danzo a loco son de los tambores de otros.

I pop in after some busy days doing someone else´s works, jobs that seem less important than they used to seem.
I pop in to breath fresh air, to settle down experiences, to let my week go down. Marvellous little things have happened every day. A hours-long coffee with an old friend, a brand new job never done before.
I find that these days the need of stopping, slowing down, breathing deep and slow is bigger than it used to be way back. I do not dance any more at the crazy rhythm of someone else´s drums.

Friday, April 13, 2007

500 visits and 200 posts

We have reached 500 visits and 200 posts! I am happy...Thanks to all of you who read and sometimes write...


corre que te corre

El metro suena a tambores de guerra africanos, al ritmo de manos negras, los madrileños, de chaqueta y muy serios, corren por los pasillos subterráneos de un lado a otro de la ciudad.
Las pinturas de guerra y los ropajes son distintos aquí que en la sabana pero cumplen la misma función. Me descubro rebotando sobre mis pies mientras yo también corro por la ciudad subterránea. Corro al ritmo de su frenesí africano, quién sabe qué significarán esos redobles...

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

still I rise

STILL I RISE (by Maya Angelou)

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I riseI riseI rise.

© Maya Angelou

Monday, April 09, 2007

de procesiones y calefactores fuera de temporada

Ya no es temporada de calefactores le explicaba un tendero a mi compañera de caminata que, congelada en pleno mes de abril en Madrid, había salido a la calle un día festivo y muy católico para hacerse con un pequeño artefacto que evitara su congelación prematura.
Ya no es temporada de calefactores así que ni se te ocurra buscar un ventilador en pleno diciembre. Fuera de lugar. Y es que hay un tiempo para el frío y un tiempo para el calor y entre el 21 de marzo y el 21 de septiembre aquí, en el hemisferio norte, en Madrid, hace calor. He dicho.
Comenzó la Semana Santa de procesiones con gente un poco malhumorada que, muy devota y cristianamente, te espeta a la cara que no, que no te deja pasar, da igual que aquello sea la vía pública. Y terminó en la nieve, en mitad del bosque a tan sólo unos kilómetros de Madrid. En medio, paseos por el parque, cenas con amigos y muchas risas. Madrid es un gran sitio, a pesar del malhumor y agresividad de unos cuantos.

Saturday, April 07, 2007

the lady

Aung San Suu Kyi is the world´s only imprisoned Nobel Peace Prize recipient. She is the democratically chosen leader of Burma and she´s been under house arrest since the 1988 demostrations against the country´s military rulers.
The Lady´s birthday is June 19th and there´s a campaign to draw attention to her struggle (and the struggle of 55 million Burmese people who live under a brutal military dictatorship) by staying at home for 24 hours of self-imposed house arrest. For more information US campaign for Burma.

Friday, April 06, 2007

amazing water

The message from the water. Masaru Emoto.
If thoughts can make this to water, imagine what they can make to us.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

the irish hermit

I was eating pad thai for breakfast at a little food stall enjoying the shy sun of the early morning, in Pai, some time last January.

He came up to me and sat down at my table as if we knew each other from another place, another time. Determined, secure. We talked for a whole pad thai about Buddhism, about my going into a temple, about his experiences with meditation.

When I close my eyes I still can see him, his hermit looks, his bushy beard, his tranquil presence.

I bumped into him next day on the street. Not too difficult, Pai is a little village. We were sharing another meal when Sean looked me right in the eye and confessed he was alcoholic. So is my brother, I answered, just as direct as he had been.

That night we hugged goodbye and I have never seen him again. Yet.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

boyera / lesbian

"Qué pena que sea boyera. Hay que joderse, qué desperdicio" escuchaba al caballero que caminaba justo detrás de mi ayer por la tarde de regreso a casa. No supe si tomar el comentario por un insulto o un piropo. El comentario se lo hacía a otro personaje que asentía con la cabeza y medio sonreía de forma tímida.

Los comentarios acerca de mi supuesta homosexualidad y el desperdicio que eso suponía para los hombres continuaron un par de calles más hasta que llegamos a un semáforo en rojo. Stop. En ese momento, la pareja de caballeros paró justo a mi derecha y yo aproveché la ocasión para ver el aspecto de los propiciadores de la ofensa-piropo.
Me escrutinaron de arriba abajo confirmando su aprobación a mi físico, imagino que no tanto a mi corte de pelo ni a mi ropaje (de ahí el juicio aventuro a pensar) y yo, por mi parte, les escrutiné estimando la posibilidad de hacer algún comentario al respecto. No dije nada. Sonreí de medio lado y entonces el de la voz cantante dijo, asegurándose de que yo le escuchaba, "Lo que yo te diga una pena que sea boyera".
Es curioso cómo funciona la cabeza de los humanos. Vemos, percibimos, clasificamos en función de imágenes no-propias y, por último, juzgamos no teniendo realmente ni idea. Siempre me ha gustado la ambigüedad, el juego, la confusión pero desde luego dentro del respeto. En Asia en muchas ocasiones he tenido a personas, sobre todo del sexo masculino, estudiándome, tratando de decidir si soy un hombre o una mujer. En India una señora llegó a intentar echarme de un baño pensando que me había colado. En un autobús en el norte de Tailandia regresando de la frontera birmana un caballero de cierta edad se giró y me dijo "Iba pensando qué hombre más guapo pero ahora que te miro bien veo que eres una mujer guapa". Respeto y educación esa es la gran diferencia.
people talk about my image
like I come in two dimensions
like lipstick is a sign of my declining mind
like what I happen to be wearing
the day someone takes a picture
is my new statement for all of womankind
Little Plastic Castle
Ani Difranco
"What a pity, she's lesbian. What a waste!" I was listening to the gentleman behind me on my way home yesterday afternoon. I did not know whether to think that was an insult or a compliment. He was talking to another guy who nodded and grinned in a shy way.
The comments on my supposed homosexuality and the waste that was to all of mankind lasted for another couple of streets until we reached a red traffic light. Stop. The pair of gentlemen stopped right beside me and I seized the opportunity to check out the looks of the two of them.
They examined me up and down confirming their approval to my physical appearance not so much to my hair cut and my outfit (I guess) and so I did myself considering the possibility of making a remark. I did not say anything. I just smiled sideways and then the gentleman said, loud enough for me to hear, "What a pity she's a lesbian!".
It's amazing how human brains work. We see, we perceive, we clasify in imposed categories and then, we judge not really knowing anything at all. I have always liked the ambiguity, the game, the confusion but always, always with respect. In Asia I have had people stare at me wondering whether I was a man or a woman. In India a woman tried to throw me out of a toilet thinking I was a man. On a bus in Northern Thailand a gentleman said to me "I was looking at you thinking what a handsome man and now that I see you better I think what a beautiful woman". Respect and education that makes the big difference.
Ps: I do not mean that being a lesbian is an insult or ofence at all. The actual word the gentleman used is boyera which in most of the cases has a negative connotation. I think it would like calling a black person negro, although I think words are words and it all depends on how you use them. In this particular case I am refering, the gentleman was trying to be cheeky and rude, at least.
people talk about my image
like I come in two dimensions
like lipstick is a sign of my declining mind
like what I happen to be wearing
the day someone takes a picture
is my new statement for all of womankind

Little Plastic Castle
Ani Difranco

Monday, April 02, 2007

a city tale

He extinguishes his last cigarette of the day while heavily coughing. He´s been coughing all day long. It´s 10 pm and he hasn´t eaten for hours. He has a hangover. Last night he went out to have fun and he couldn´t help it, he got drunk again.
He never has time for anything, for his stuff, he´s always very busy. Always running from one side of town to the opposite one. And somewhere in between he manages to eat, do the shopping, see some friends...
He´s proud of himself, he shows off all the time. He must say out aloud what he wishes to point out of himself to make sure everyone appreciates it.
What does he say to himself when there´s no one around to listen? What does he feel when nobody is looking at him and he doesn't need to show off any more? What does he do when he has time for himself?
He breaks down and cry.

viento / wind

Piso la textura del viento tarifeño, el dibujo que crea en la arena de la playa, sus ondas sinuosas, perfectas serpientes que escapan de la playa hacia otro lugar.

La playa está viva, se mueve, como escapándose de si misma.

La playa es perfecta, da pena pisarla, entorpecer el maravilloso trabajo del viento con mis pisadas que atrapan los granos de arena destinados a viajar a otro lugar, transportados por el viento, que hoy sopla desde el mar.

I tread on the texture of the wind, on the pattern that draws with the sand, on its winding waves, perfect snakes that escape from the beach towards somewhere else.

The beach is alive, it moves like running away from itself.

The beach is perfect, it's a pity to step on it, to hold up the marvellous work of the wind by stepping on the sand grains bound to travel to other place, transported by the wind which blows from the sea today.

punta paloma

Punta Paloma. Un camping, una playa, unas dunas. Recuerdos de Morjim, Goa, India. Una playa interminable. Agua trasparente, arena blanca. Recuerdos y realidad se confunden. A veces, no sé dónde estoy.

Una vela, una esterilla, mi navaja y una manta prestada. Mis útiles del fin de semana.

Pájaros. Grillos. Risas cercanas. Hacer, cosas simples. Pasear por la playa. Dormir la siesta entre las dunas al resguardo del viento. Charlar con desconocidos. Tomar café al atardecer.

Punta Paloma. Un camping, una playa, unas dunas...


Punta Paloma. A campsite, a beach, some dunes. Memories of Morjim, Goa, India. An endless beach. Clear water, white sand. Memories and reality mixed. Sometimes, I do not know where I am. I'm in my memory and in my reality here, at the same time.

A candle, a straw mat, my pen knife and a borrowed blanket. My belongings for the weekend.

Birds. Criquets. Near laughter. To do, only simple things. Walk on the beach. Have a nap among the dunes. Chat with strangers. Have coffee at sunset.

Punta Paloma. A campsite, a beach, some dunes...


Tarifa es musulmana y es cristiana, es moderna y es antigua, es ciudad y es pueblo.
Tarifa es africana y es española. Tarifa es tranquila y excitante. Es blanca y es azul. Es joven y es vieja. Es bella y terrible.
Tarifa es mestiza y como los mestizos pertenece a todos y pertenece a nadie.
Tarifa es viento. Cometas y velas. Tarifa es Marruecos y es España.

Tarifa is Muslim and Christian, it's modern and ancient, it's city and village.
Tarifa is African and Spanish.Tarifa is quiet and exciting. It's white and blue. It's young and old. It's beautiful and terrible.
Tarifa is of mixed race and like mixed race people belongs to all and to nobody.
Tarifa is wind. Kites and windsurf. Tarifa is Morocco and Spain.

Sunday, April 01, 2007


" ¿Quién, si yo gritase, me oiría desde los coros de los ángeles?
Y aún suponiendo que alguno de ellos
me acogiera de pronto en su corazón, yo desaparecería
ante su existencia más poderosa. Porque lo bello no es sino
el comienzo de lo terrible, ése que todavía podemos soportar;
y lo admiramos tanto porque, sereno, desdeña el destruirnos.
Todo ángel es terrible."

Rilke. Primera elegía de Duino.