Installations

Every time I walk into the opening of an art exhibition, whether it takes place in an art gallery or in some space properly fitted out for the event, I become invisible. I know that because:

a) Nobody looks at me

b) I always get stepped on.

Always.

People push me around to go back and forth as if they wanted to do it through me; they don't even react to my I-want-to-pass face when they're standing in my way, and they don't bat an eyelid when I move them out of my way to do it either. To tell the truth, I suspect I’m the victim of an obvious attitude of contempt towards me. And although this could be seen as an excess of susceptibility on my part, the truth is my poor and crushed toes can prove that I’m not exaggerating.

This could be the reason why I seldom go to art exhibitions on my own initiative. I either get invited by a friend who is exhibiting his own work or by a friend who’s got a similar commitment and doesn’t want to attend it on his own. This last reason made me take my feet to an art gallery yesterday, and I really wouldn’t have minded going, if it wasn’t for this inconvenient phenomenon that turns me into an invisible tread-onable being.
To make things worse, it turned out to be “An Installation”, with people walking around anarchically and no chance for me to exchange a look of complicity with anyone, to walk all over the place naturally, or keep my shoes and toes intact up to the end.

The place was absolutely crowded, and the exhibition itself was pretty disappointing. It was called “Living rooms” and it was divided into different areas, fully furnished as living rooms with weird details, like an old tv screen emerging from the wallpaper with futuristic news on, or an armchair with a back like a padded headstone. There was a corridor with some paintings too, and there I was, taking refuge, staring at a bit of wall between two paintings, happily imagining it was the space between two thoughts, when I suddenly felt the heavy weight of a shoe landing on my right foot.

The owner of the shoe turned out to be a hipster I had seen just after I arrived, holding a blue drink, discussing loudly with other hipsters the depth of the blacks of a painting that I swear was completely white. I couldn’t believe the crap they were talking; until I realised they all were dressed the same way, with weird-shaped jeans, retro glasses, and bad haircuts, and the similarity between them made me think I was facing a sect of pretentious morons who -if they could see me- would have thought I was a narrow-minded square.
I wanted to shoot him an accusing look, not only because of the stamp but especially because of his snobbery, and tell him: “Hey, asshole, you’ve just trodden on my foot.”

But maybe after this he would have looked down on my foot, said “sorry” and gone away. And I would have had to learn –from him– the difference between being invisible and being ignorable. So I didn’t say anything and kept calm, accepting my lack of coolness, and not offering any resistance to the fact that I don’t belong to places where people drink blue drinks, but still maintaining that the guy stepped on me because he couldn’t see me, because I’m a superhero and I can fade away until I vanish. Because I don’t usually fit but I don’t have to admit it in anybody’s presence. Even less so in someone’s who thinks the height of sophistication is wearing trousers below his arse. Hell no.

Of Dreams and Doughnuts

I always have breakfast at the same place. I always order the same: a ham sandwich and a mint tea. Not the weirdest breakfast one can order; once I saw someone having a beer and an ice lolly at 9.00 in the morning. After six months of having exactly the same, the waiter, who has always shown himself to be extremely shy and prudent, told me:

"Last night I dreamt you ordered a cheese sandwich."

He’s in love with me. You don’t have to be very wise to know that. As with most waiters, you get with him the feeling that he’s a waiter by the wonders of determinism, and that he couldn’t be anything else. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t feel the same about him. But that morning I liked the way a complex feeling had shown itself, in his subconscious, in such a small simple way.

"Oh, did you? I’ll have a cheese sandwich then" is all I was able to say. And I immediately regretted it, for it might have offered him the erroneous idea that I’m willing to make his dreams come true. I have never ordered a cheese sandwich again.

But yesterday I ordered a doughnut. It was the nicest glazed doughnut I had seen, or maybe it was just me, sometimes I’m extremely sensitive to the beauty of sugary, rich-in- saturated-fats stuff under any guise. Anyway. The waiter smiled at my order; maybe he interprets these little variations in our repetitive communication pattern as a sort of a progress in our relationship. He provided the doughnut –still that naïve smile on his face- and while he was placing the rest of the orders on the table, he noticed that I was taking a picture of the doughnut. Obviously he couldn’t help but ask “Why are you taking a picture of a doughnut?" –his gullible eyes wide open.

"Because I like it."

"But why don’t you take a picture of your friends?" –and at that point I knew he was overstepping the imaginary line between us because he just didn’t understand why the hell somebody would want a picture of a doughnut.
I had a quick look at my workmates and said “Well, I like the doughnut best”. I had to say these last words with a big smile to avoid hurting anybody’s feelings. He stared at me astonished, he didn’t know what to say or do, let alone what to think or feel about me. “Someone taking a picture of a doughnut: What is that supposed to mean?” That’s what his concerned eyes said, as if he had never thought, nor imagined that life and beauty and doughnuts could be seen in a slightly less conventional way.

I saw pure incomprehension in his eyes. He probably saw a massive distance growing beetween us. And he possibly wondered how come that distance was, inexplicably, bigger than the one between us while he was lying down in bed, next to his wife, and I was in his brain, asking him for a cheese sandwich.
But I don’t think he wondered what, if anything, the doughnut had to teach him about that.

Unprecedented act of heroism

I'm sat on a chair at the back of a post office. I think I'm drunk. Ten minutes ago I was in a posh restaurant, finishing off bottles of white wine and immersed in one of those never-ending silly toasts (to you, to me, to us, to the world, blah blah blah).
When this lunch was organised I harboured serious suspicions about the fun I would be able to take out of it. I've been at other Christmas dinners with other workmates, and they just don't work. So I had decided beforehand that I would apply myself thoroughly to the bottles to get through it as absently as possible. And the wine did the trick, 'cause I had considerable fun.

The only problem is today is Thursday, and it's 7 pm, and I'm pretty drunk sat on a chair, and this is a post office.

I know I'm drunk because, otherwise, I would be on my feet, and I wouldn't need to hold my head with my right hand to prevent it from falling down. The way I see it, I'm offering a sad sight, but it's great because I don't care too much. My only concern right now is the too handsome middle-aged man that has just come in the post office, and is coming up to me. He shoots me a I-think-we've-met-before look and says:

-Excuse me, have we met before?

Oh my God.

We bloody well haven't met before. I would remember that. Somehow I manage to sit up properly without feeling too sick and open my mouth to say:

-Actually yes, I think we have.

Ok. Technically I'm telling the truth. Suddenly I've got one of those familiar feelings you get with people you haven't seen before (which usually means you would shag them though they're total strangers).

He looks into the distance, frowns and says:

-Do you work in the bank next door?

-No.

-Maybe at school... Do you have any children?

-No.

-Do you live around here?

-No

-Do you play tennis?

(Oh, come on, give me a break!)

He smiles and says "Well, forget it. Hope to see you again".Yeah. Bollocks.

I hear the beep that indicates my turn has come. I feel more cheerful now. I can stand on my feet. I might not have a clue of how to play tennis, but I'm on my feet and I'm sending a parcel. I don't work in the bank next door, but I'm sending something miles away. I don't have any children but I look beautiful today. I'm drunk. I'm on my feet. I'm sending a parcel. Miles away. I'm bloody amazing. Post offices are tremendous.

Traces

A man with silver-colored shoes came to my place this evening. I hadn't seen him before, or his shoes either, but we had arranged to meet, basically to exchange favours: I gave him a couple of empty butane gas cylinders, and he gave me two precious round spaces for whatever I want to do with them. He was very punctual, and I liked that. I mean, I was prepared to give him the canisters, but I didn't want to give any of my time away waiting for an unknown swapper.
So he came- he was a kind old man- said thank you so much, took the canisters and kissed me goodbye. That was sweet, and quite unexpected too, but it was all right. He left all grateful, and only while I was closing the door did I notice that he was wearing those flamboyant shoes.
Then I couldn't wait to make the most of my newly reconquered space on the terrace. So I went there and I found out the floor had been left with two circles, the marks of the cylinder's borders, made of dust, dry leaves and time. I put one foot inside each circle, then I made myself a coffee.
I really came to hate those two canisters, it was like having two fat orange old ladies permanently on the terrace. Sometimes, on rainy nights, I had watched them, standing there, withstanding all the changes weather has to offer, bearing my indifference. Now they're not there anymore, but I thought getting rid of them would make a more substancial difference. I dind't expect, after cleaning the terrace floor, that there would still be marks left.
It's ok, the cylinders are not there, but I will always be able to say they were there, and I won't be less accurate when I say where. And even if I decided to replace the floor tiles, or sell the flat, while we're at it, there will always be the footsteps of the silver-colored shoes, the disturbance of knowing I won't be able to get rid of all the invisible traces stuck to everything left behind.

NY

It rained all day

but the air still smelled of caramelised nuts.

My feet got wet

but I was still able to feel all that love.

And I thought

it was quite a miracle to feel love

in wet socks.

My Lousy Council & Me

Sadly, I have to admit it, I have an unbearable feeling of disgust everytime I'm offered the possibility to attend one of those city celebrations organised by my city Council that take place every single year. They are held at the end of summer (because at the end of summer, most people are back from their holidays and still in the mood for fun outdoors, and these parties have to be really crowded). The main attraction is the music delivered by cheap bands, the healthy-or-unhealthy-but-expensive- in-both-cases food that is served; the stalls of linen clothes that you might buy but you'll certainly never wear and-yes- the people.
Oh, yeah, lots of people: young-middle-middle-class-we're-here-'cause-we-can't-afford-to-be-somewhere-nicer-and-this-is-free-and-we'll-pretend-this-is-Central-bloody-Park families, with their running-about-and-screaming-at-the-top-of-their-voices-'cause-their-parents-can't-keep-them-under-control kids. Not to mention the I-can't-play-drums-but-I'll-bang-on-them-anyway-'cause-I-can't-be-bothered-to-learn-to-play-properly-or-buy-a-lead-for-my-dog-either-for-that-matter new hippies.
If I went, I'd have one of those I-am-too-aware-of-my-insatisfaction-to-enjoy-myself -so-I-wish-I-hadn't-come-now-I'm-dead-pissed-off-next-time-I-really-will-say-no feelings.
So I think I'll just pass (and blame it on the Council).

Bye bye, baby. Baby, goodbye

A pesar de las incontables alegrías que me proporciona mi bebé imaginario o teórico, a veces cuando observo cómo sale el semen del sexo de D me embarga cierta tristeza. Porque en ese momento pienso en todos los hijos potenciales que ya no tendré, y me despido, y enumero mentalmente los nombres que he pensado a veces, a solas o con él, los que hemos barajado más o menos en serio durante alguno de mis interminables ciclos premenstruales, cuando no es raro que desee que Luisa ascienda nadando grácilmente dentro de mí, como una diminuta sirena celular, y que después se agarre con fuerza a mi útero. O que Jacob me hable desde dentro, que me haga prometerle que no decoraré con cenefas adhesivas la pared de su habitación, o bien me grite o me susurre que quiere nacer. Pero nunca ocurre nada de esto y entonces pienso “adiós.” “Adiós Horacio, Margaret, Jemima y Albertina. Adiós Clare, Amy, Valentine, Prince y Petra. Adiós Natascha, Bertrand, Sybill y Wolfgang Nipplesucker. Y adiós Lucas y adiós Olivia.”