"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


The city is alive (if the light is dim)

You who grew up through the pavement
with butterflies in your stomach
skyscrape in your eyelids
fingers lost for words
find comfort in this:

The city is alive

(if the light is dim
if the light is defused
put this little light to use)


Con minucioso tacto de filigrana

Dicen que un año sí y otro no, las ventanas de Mogador devoran también toda la luz de la luna. Pero hay quien asegura que esa es una falsa impresión porque son los ojos de las mujeres llenas de deseo quienes desde sus ventanas mogadorianas iluminan todo lo que en la noche brilla, incluyendo la luna y a la ciudad entera. De la misma manera que son ellas y no la luna quienes depositan su mirada sobre la piel morena de sus amantes imprimiéndole un tono de plata calentada por el cuerpo. Y, además, lo hacen con minucioso tacto de filigrana.

"Treinta y seis", Nueve veces el asombro, Alberto Ruy Sánchez.


Whatever is not there (We are glass house)

Your body 
Hurts me as the world hurts God
- "Fever 103'", Ariel, by Silvia Plath

For you: anthophilous, lover of flowers,
green roses, chrysanthemums, lilies: retrophilia,
philocaly, philomath, sarcophilous—all this love,
of the past, of beauty, of knowledge, of flesh; this is
catalogue and counter: philalethist, negrophile, neophile.
A man walks down the street, taps Newport
out against a brick wall and stares at me. Love
that: lygophilia, lithophilous. Be amongst stones,
amongst darkness. We are glass house. Philopornist,
philotechnical. Why not worship the demimonde?
Love that—a corner room, whatever is not there,
all the clutter you keep secret. Palaeophile,
ornithophilous: I, antiquarian, pollinated by birds.
All this a way to dream green rose petals on the bed you love;
petrophilous, stigmatophilia: live near rocks, tattoo hurt;
for me topophilia: what place do I love? All these words
for... love? (for me?), all these ways to demand belief
in symphily, to beguile and say let us (not) live near each other.

A personal stand on Reginald Dwayne Betts' "For you: antophilus, lover of flowers".


The Garden VI - Se encuentran entre la hierba

Mucho podría decirse de los ojos de Aleteo, pues experimentaban continuos cambios e impresionaban mucho a la gente. La cualidad más increíble e inverosímil de sus ojos era su mansedumbre, pues eran como flores, y esta circunstancia decía a las claras que no había que tener miedo de mirarlos. En realidad, la mirada que fijaba en el mundo y su gente era azul como la hierbabuena silvestre, esos frágiles capullitos que se encuentran entre la hierba por el mes de junio. Así eran los ojos de Aleteo Brisalinda.

- Los hijos del vidriero, de María Gripe.


The Gardener VIII - Myrtle

The gardener takes me into his garden. He lets me recognize the names of his plants, and tells me the names of those I don't know of when I ask him. He says I can have all the bits of earth I want, to plant seeds in, to make things grow; he offers them even when unasked for.

The gardener compares me to the shapes and colors of flowers. He finds their scent and mine are the same.

The gardener knows the right remedy, and places it under my pillow.

When I wake up, I find freshly cut chamomile and marigold on the night table.


The Gardener VII - The Queen's Gardener (or, Mary chooses Dickon)

"I'll come every day if tha' wants me, rain or shine," he answered stoutly. "It's the best fun I ever had in my life—shut in here an' wakenin' up a garden."
- The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett

He befriends the butterflies in the garden. They pose for him in different flowers while he paints portraits of them. He said all he had to do was ask.

He asks me about the moon. I tell him no one ever asks me about the moon. He wonders how come no one has ever loved me that much. I wonder along with him. But then I hear him calling me Moon, and the question looses importance.

He complains about the plants not being watered properly, and cares for them generously: he becomes the rain after which flowers blossom and fruit grows. Under his care the land is healed.


But there is still such beauty

What was lost in the collapse: almost everything, almost everyone, but there is still such beauty. Twilight in the altered world, a performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream in a parking lot in the mysteriously named town of St. Deborah by the Water, Lake Michigan shining a half a mile away. Kirsten as Titania, a crown of flowers on her close-cropped hair, the jagged scar on her cheek-bone half-erased by candlelight.

Fragment of Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel.



Quisiera volverme hiedra,
y enredarme en tu cintura.
- Carmen Paris, Savia nueva

And it was worth it
After all
Settling a single pillow under both of our heads
We had no need to say anything at all

(And indeed, there was time for you and me)

Revisiting Elliot's Prufrock.


Les mots IX - Articulate with the tongue of all the world

Into the golden vessel of great song
Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast
Let other lovers lie, in love and rest;
Not we, -articulate, so, but with the tongue
Of all the world: the churning blood, the long
Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed
Sharply together upon the escaping guest,
The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.

Longing alone is singer to the lute.

Fragment of a sonnet by Edna St. Vincent Millay


Moments of Being VII - Vast, nude space and the unheard music

I walk in accidentally. The room is vast. The space is vast. It didn't look particularly attractive seen from the hall, but when I peeked in, I was awed by the light of the stained-glass windows, by the vastness of the nude space. A couple danced in it. A man in a t-shirt, short pants and sandals led a tired body: a woman in similar attire who rested her head on his chest, her face hidden, as though she could hardly find the strenght to keep on going. He kept waltzing her, he did not want to let her give up, it seemed, but he did so tenderly, slowly. She let her body be waltzed to the music that only the man was able to hear. From a short distance, a boy in a cap and a little girl in a wheel chair looked at them. Mesmerized. Moved. Or waiting, perhaps. Or wanting attention. You're not allowed to dance! The little girl finally broke out. You're not allowed to...! I heard her shout in the distance, as I quickly walked away for I had to rush, in my mind the insidious image of her parents dancing to an unexisting vals, of her parents ignoring their little girl's selfish demands, the image of her parents clinging to that unheard music, to that moment they were stealing away.