Will of snow: where my mouth goes

I will eat some snow in every stop.

That is my vow,
my only promise
in this warm winter day

this is my only will
in this little tiny second goodbye.

In the bus station of Winnipeg,

under the falling snow,

I tried to eat some snow,

after you left.

And I felt the white's wetness in my lips.

I will send you a picture of myself

eating snow

in every place my mouth goes.

I will send you a picture of myself,

looking up the white heaven,

sometimes closing my eyes

with my eyelashes holding a snowflake
you would wish to be.

I will send you a picture of myself

eating snow

in every place my mouth goes.

That is my will today,

this December the 22nd,

filling my whole mouth with snowflakes

and swallowing.

The will used to be permanent

and became in this last time a temporary treasure

craving to last forever

but conscious about it's inherent will of disappear

in the melting of the last snow in my mouth,

in front of you,

in this unique city that Winnipeg is.

I will send you a picture of myself

eating snow

in every place my mouth goes.

I know who I am.

Right now.

      I'm this walking.

Just now.

      Every step I breath.

I exist. I am. I breath. I shout. Now.

Edmonton night, Calgary morning.

The lights bright inside the cold of my hands

and flow from my inside to outside in the morning air.

I'm a mirror of the solitary nocturnal Calgary tower,

under this unusual Christmas canadian full moon staring at me almost lying down.

I'm on the shadow of a lonely girl,

I'm not longer a shadow, anymore,

in the same place where I have never been

but where I have been so many times,

in this spot where I started to dream

and opened my arms to this big tiny world some day years ago,

because I am a big tiny girl as well in this world that I walk,

because my eyes have learned how to be the world,

because the path is no longer a line,

it's a spiral that goes from inside to outside

from outside to inside

and to outside again.

Don't try to grab nor rasp the route of the events,

they're not yours, you only pass by them.

I belong to any city, to any river flow,

to any snowpiece falling from a branch,

to any past footprint where I step my feet.

Calgary, sleepy amusing Calgary,

bite my nape,

take me in your arms if you believe I'm not already there

and wake up.

Quién are you?

Who are you? — Preguntó. Las palabras prolongaron el segundo en el que estábamos viviendo, pero no pasaron de ser relevantes durante más de tres segundos.

Y, sin embargo, solo unos días después, las mismas palabras, bajo el recuerdo del sonido vibrante de su voz masculina, sugerente, grave y autónoma empezaron a repetirse en mi mente de un modo muy vivido, lúcido tal vez, y las repeticiones han empezado ahora a amontonarse.

“¿Quién soy?”

“Who are you?”, you asked. I bet your question has nothing to do with my answer. Does it really matter who I am by myself to you or this is just about who I am in what you experience through me?

“Who are you?”, you seemed almost angry when you asked, like if it was my fault being and not being at the same time.

Titterings and teeterings

The weather teeters in Winnipeg
like the fingertips in the pockets.
It is necessary sometimes to take out the chapped hands
and to keep the knuckles in the wind,
for a minute, maybe,
feeling,
hurting yourself,
noticing how the strength of the collar ties to your throat,
under the cotton scarf, under the second scarf, under the fear,
(squeeze a bit more that blue scarf),
listening to,
at least for ten seconds,
not your alter ego but definitely your inner ego,
(squeeze a bit more, three seconds)
breathing from the top of the head to the tips of the toes,
exhaling the earth through yourself
(squeeze a bit more, five seconds).

Take off your boots, the leg-warmer, the stockings, the socks,
it is necessary, sometimes, to let the bare feet deep into the snow,
freezing,
hurting yourself,
not listening anymore,
breathing from the top of your brain to the tips of your extensor tendons of your feet,
exhaling the earth through yourself
(squeeze a bit more, seven seconds)

the red feet, the blue throat,
tight scarf,
exhaling,
(squeeze for a sec),
titter,            
fall.

Where my ego goes

Where the hell is my ego?

I am suppose to be me, to be a poet, a researcher, a teacher, a thinker

and to have an immense and beautiful ego

making me going to get all those things.

Are they only even things?

But where the fuck is my ego?

I don't want to publish, don't want to be a thinker, or a poet or a researcher.

I just want to be. To be. To be. To be.

until I am not anymore.

I wake up in the morning,

all except my ego looks at the mirror.

My face, my chest, my belly.

I don't need to dress anything that identifies me,

I don't know what make up is nor how to use it,

I don't raise a flag

with the fact that I do not need to shave my legs and underarms,

that I don't care about the color of my ass,

and, maybe the worst,

that I don't know what to answer when someone, innocent, asks me:

"What do you do for a living?"

Too abstract, sweetie.

I am too abstract, though.

When did I become like this?

Does my ego reside in my abstract individual mental thoughts?

Maybe it is inside my stomach,

surviving in my chyme  (/kaɪm/)

I think about going to sleep.

I put my fall boots, I wear my tattered [ˈtætəd]  green jacket

and I go outside the house.

I light on my cigarette,

those cigarettes for which I paid so many taxes.

Everything goes in silence.

Two feet of the new snow all over the garden.

Two feminine deer.

I put it out.

I keep my defenseless ego in my cigarette.

I put it out.

My ego drops in the snow.

Las novias en Winnipeg (II)

El vestido de la novia deviene la nieve que cubre la congelación de dos ríos

un río que desemboca en el devenir de otro río, Winnipeg

Las novias en Winnipeg

Dos ríos que se juntan en uno. Ese es el origen y final de esta ciudad, en la que los viajeros, extranjeros, forasteros que están de paso, aquellos que vienen de fuera, se quedan solo por amor. ¿Por qué la gente se quedaría en una ciudad tan fría si no es por amor? Incluso cuando uno viene de fuera, solo temporalmente, la pareja se queda en Winnipeg. ¿Por qué no se marcharán al lugar de origen del otro? Es Winnipeg, la ciudad creada desde el cruce de dos ríos. Por qué se quedarían si no es porque es el lugar donde encontraron ese otro río? Eso explica por qué hay tiendas de vestidos de novia cada tres calles. Eso explica por qué el white style ocupa tanto espacio en esta ciudad, porque el vestido de la novia deviene la nieve que cubre la congelación de dos ríos y nieva en cada rincón de la ciudad, manteniendo el color del traje del novio el calor del hogar.

Encuentros

En esta ciudad, donde nieva en las basuras y donde el humo de los tubos de escape se emblanquece, siento mi corazón respirar un poco menos. Camino de la casa a la parada de autobús, en un paseo matutino que no despierta pasiones ni me mantiene tampoco en los sueños recién olvidados de la noche. En la parada, hay sentado uno de mis destinos, tomando la forma de una madre cuya atención conduce inequívocamente a su bebé. No hay nada más importante esta mañana que los ojos negros de un bebé envuelto en varias mantas fijos en mi cara.

La tarea más difícil, y la más fácil también, es mantenerse vivo respirando en esta ciudad, sea donde sea. No importa tanto dónde, sino por qué y cómo.