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2009 Season "Maris"

July 2009 - Dressing room of the Muses-

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The men in my life

I think men in general are good, kind, intelligent. Actually I like men. I find them attractive, sexy, attractive. I like to listen, I love their voices heard. I like to study the face, eyes and especially the dark circles that have always seemed so interesting. Hair also like to watch me, and hands.

I met many men, good men, such as evergreen trees, bad men, twisted branches. Also small men, shy men, some less timid, some very daring. I've never been afraid of them. And always a weakness for men intellectual, able to talk about books, psychology, spirituality. There was also a time when if a man stroking my dog, to know, gave him an excuse not to see anyone anymore. But as I said, in general I've met good men, men simple, healthy, insightful.

do not know why I think of them today. Will the wind outside? Calling on my door, bringing me memories. Many faces appear to me, Jon, California, David, Toni, of Seattle, Boris, Louis, François ... They are the most important, I have marked. Those who have made me a woman, or rather, those who have allowed me a woman. Poets and architects. That my mother would not understand. My mother would plug his ears and his cheeks enrojecerían, suddenly girl sad and ashamed. But shame of what? Sure, mother, you like it or not these men would have invented. And I was born again and again with them. So.

I have been taught to be strong and to argue, in the rain, under suns and stars. With Jon liked to talk politics and he said I was a frustrated Communist. And frustrated me so much when I said these things, because I a communist I have nothing, do not believe in any political philosophy, do not believe in politicians, politicians disgust me (my my father would be pleased). I just believe in men who do good for others, and there are so few and many, I just believe in a just society that does not exist apart from the interior. And then Jon and I fought so much ... Chillábamos and neighbors thought we pegábamos. Discussed until the small hours of the morning when you wake up the sky and everything is so soft ...

And now Jon where are you? Do you exist? One thing seems incredible, and this all women know it, live it, and perhaps men too: think: I will not be able to live without you, without it, I can not imagine waking up without your body nice and soft and strong like the brightness of the moon in August, at my side, always by my side I do not want a future without your voice, your hands, your mind clear. Yet, a day arrives and we have even forgotten the sweet smell of your skin, this skin so much it hurt, so hurt and so skin breathe Jon, and then Boris, and Toni and others. Who? My many lives.

have not all loved with a passion, not love the same way every time. Jon loved you with an enthusiasm that I got drunk red wine such as Côtes du Rhône intoxicates you, tasting its vigor, refreshing and deep in this man's land, taste the wind on the earth at this man, Jon, the flavor of the land when it rains ...

Every man his space within my inner space, my insides, inside my mind, light, clarity, sometimes dark wells. But I remember the good men that I have contributed something positive, which allowed me to grow and walk in the right direction. Do not, an encounter with the Other? Myself and them.

remember Boris, in Arles a month of September, the month of harvest, abundance, fruit and fruit he was a delightful, joyful. We wanted so hard energy ocher color of autumn, a strong force as the landscape of Provence in September that warm, soft, sensual. It seemed to me, Boris, the most interesting man in the land and what was their perception computer, his passion for computers, intelligence, analytical, rational and humane. They were comforting their objectivity and inner peace, this singular calm that reminded me of my cats in the sun. I needed it because I was the opposite. A woman made me a little wiser, calmer, nicer. And more bad. Very good men always end up paying a hard price. And sometimes I regret having gone to him, having moved away from its softness, kindness bear, animal tender and compassionate in a time in my life where I did not know what was compassion.

But what to do? One will walk in life, my grandmother said when he spoke of my men.

also fell in love with an intellectual of pure wool, and probably my grandmother also had laughed at me for my foolishness. What captivated me was a Master François he made about the dictatorship of Sekou Toure. A man like that ... I told myself. Our relationship did not last long, a few months. And it forces me dragged this man, I was obsessed by his global vision of a political situation, his empathy for the martyrs of one of the toughest and most terrible dictatorships that existed in Africa. I was fascinated by his intelligence and his spirit of adventure in the world of analysis. And his empathy, the men could feel pain, to feel hope, and write about it.

But everything happens, life happens and people go, that my grandmother said stroking his forehead. I remember going home from town to console me and her, its 80 years, was the only one who knew how. It was with this woman of deep wrinkles and beautiful interior with whom my heart is calmed.

Man ... my men, my lovers, my friends, fearsome foes, dragons in my imagination, good and bad dragons. But most importantly if you, my grandmother whispered witch. I never asked a magic potion for men who knew be transformed into princes. It was not necessary as it were, to my eyes. I'm sure had the prescription counter, the grandmother: transform these princes into frogs to leave me alone. Or I them.

Princes, yes, my life, which appeared at the right time, sometimes at the wrong time but it is equally teaching me that not all easily between a man and a woman. Teaches that to be happy is not necessary to live with a man, and if you live with it, learning to differentiate them, to separate to love better, to put aside the silliness of romantic love, to know more and more Women learn to be free, to love my solitude. Love, passion, tenderness, then there is friendship. this and more men in my life taught me. And from here I say thank you.

Who knocks at my door? Ah ... only the wind.

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letters to our mothers

I close eyes and look at this sky so gray and thick. Soon it will fall, my favorite season.

In my hands this extraordinary book I just read a beautiful letter writers to their mothers, Letters to Our Mothers, I've Always Mean to Tell You, An Anthology of Contemporary Women Writers . And it remains a sad thought: What do I write to my mother?

This book is a gem, I bought it eleven years ago in a secondhand bookstore a month of June, in Montreal. This library no longer exists, as there is no Montreal I met. And since these mothers do not exist and even I would say that there are no letters from either of these feelings. Everything passes, everything is gone. It's life.

I wonder: Which is what I wrote to my mother? How to start the letter? "Mother dear? "Mommy? My dear mother? And in response is a vacuum, gray skies and sad as I see, when I open my eyes as if searching for an answer, a hint, a sign ...

These letters speak of two generations, two totally different worlds, speaking of perceptions, symbols, myths, dreams, projections, frustrated love and passion of love, of revenge, rites and traditions. It is also a recipe book: how to love, like hate, like losing and especially like meeting one writing a letter to your dear mother.

And rediscover Mother who was , which has given us life, and start giving thanks for everything, for life and deaths that this meeting has meaning: key in our way.

Who are our mothers? How to understand (And similarly understand) without accepting them in their darkness and their stellar light, accept from the unconditional love them most, we loved? We are our mothers, daughters, and we also are them, and thus enter into the dance, though we refuse, the spiral, the mandala of life. We want it or not, true. And this fate is also our salvation, our way of life we \u200b\u200bchoose but our mothers.

To understand our mothers have to put them in his generation, born in the first 25 years of last century. We must understand and accept the situation of those years, poverty and the situation of women. We must forgive the lovers who were not as hardcore as it should, the errors of education. And forgive, understand our acts of rebellion. They were also rebels, however. They also fought in their own way, to give us an education, a sense of being female.

These letters, in this magnificent book are crying, are laughs, stories shared, simple and meaningful. Also as a final goodbye to them that are no longer the majority. But never too late to communicate what has not been said, the unsaid in a relationship as significant as that of mother and daughter.

Maybe one day write a letter to my dear mother. What say you, dear mother, no longer has told you without telling you? My struggles, my fears, how important you were in my personal growth, how important you were in my fears and my failures. No, no ... Maybe one day write a letter to thank you letter for conmemorarte, a hymn to what you were, and remain so until my death.

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The shape of the After







is a quiet, soft night after a hot day, a heat me recalls the one in the middle of the Sahel, a yellow heat and heavy, a golden warmth. The neighbors on my street are having a beer together, Tonio invites me, I sit next Sunday, the neighbor across the street who comes to town in summer and says how happy I feel here. His wife and daughter are with us, dogs surround us and the sky is blue as the Pacific Ocean.
suddenly
My neighbor tells me that his daughter is his favorite. I have two daughters, he says, but this is my girl . I sit still, I say nothing, I hear. There is a silence between my neighbor and I, as something very soft. Must be the love that unites him with his daughter, this strange thing called love between father and daughter. In this stillness

my father appears as soft, inside me. I was not expecting. Not expecting you, father. You left so many years and is usually so good than harm, the absence. And suddenly you with all your strength, this force is always I have admired. Because like it or not, my father, you were a hero, my hero.

your presence in this I wonder if some day you will not say to a friend or relative, I was your favorite child. And frankly, I do not know. I do not know if I wanted. Were these parents never expressed feelings. You never told me you loved me, I do indeed. One learns, for the parents. However

know that I admired, at least when I was tiny, I know because I read the letters that you sent your mother and talking about me, about how beautiful I was, of how happy I looked. I know you felt something when I made a bed for my teddy bear they gave me a wooden horse. But then I do not know. Then everything was so complicated, I just saw your complaints and bad humor and rage and grief.

biggie am now, my father, and now understand many things that before seemed inconsequential or that caused me grief. Now I'm not sad because I know you were a good father, good father is my neighbor who is in this gentle and loving space, looking admiringly at her daughter, asking questions, living this present will soon disappear into nothingness. A present in the middle of a starry night like the sea it is during the summer nights. And when I turn my face to my neighbor did not see my eyes filled with tears, stars in my eyes.

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night, rain

always I remember that month as the month of change, the month that made me an adult self at last.

is not easy growing up. Yet there comes a time when one is look in the mirror, something has changed, I'm not the same. A look in the dreams are not the same, now are clearer, sharper. A stop having nightmares.

dreamed then I remember, in a green room and a man smiled at me. And I decided then, with joy and flavor, value, thereafter known only good men. End to the men who love women. For the bastards, the self-centered, the macho.

into adulthood, I thought, maybe it sought to stop the other but if we look to myself. It is meet and love myself. These were the first thoughts I had, that August sticky and weird, no rain, no sun. Stretched on the bed without stopping to read Virginia Woolf, Erica Jong, Colette. In the evenings Firgoff and did go out with long marches in the forest surrounding the city, which filled me with warm and green vitality.

And is that always changes after an abortion. One has to change. The abortion takes the change itself.

abortion has always existed, always will be, as politicians, mafia, poverty. The abortion is part of life and death, is an act of life and death. And very lonely.

is a female act, abortion. An event that includes the woman's body, his life, his freedom. Nobody knows what an abortion, only women who have abortions know. And those that abort.

I had an abortion, that August damp and strange, and I regret it and more, say that abortion was Me a woman more integrated, stronger and more courageous. And all this, the integrity, strength and courage, not acquired easily. Abortion is not easy, it's a very important decision in the life of a woman. It is perhaps the most important decision a woman has to take, when the situation arises. No one, not the advice of friends, no laws, nor the empty words of government workers, or they can help in making the decision. One is, suddenly, before the void, to a precipice, with nothing.

remember this at all ... The Nothing ... This search is nothing. Lost in the middle of what was suddenly my life as a stop in a cosmos without reply, but suddenly this Cosmos, aware, alive around me, live inside me, a possible infinite Cosmos. I had many conversations with those in living cells my body, what could be, something that I could be. Together we floated aimlessly in a sea of \u200b\u200buncertainties, questions without answers, of questions. Suddenly I reflected on my own, suddenly I just had this small but I wanted to be a self conscious awareness. Or fathers, or mothers, or lovers, or friends, or books, there was only this dialogue in my same, in my body, my life, me and him growing inside of me, part of me, part of the Cosmos and stars.

I called Kyoto sublime presence, this force me into a being floating in the Cosmos. Kyoto Kyoto ... My life, my beloved Kyoto ... It has been many years since that August, and yet still excited to remember that contact, which lasted three weeks. Kyoto, she said, forgive me, forgive me bring you back to this endless universe and empty. This Nothing stellar.

And the cocoon of life I know that helped me make the decision. I know I accepted the sacrifice.

In late August, a long summer of wet, sticky and weird, one day, suddenly it started raining hard, with thunder and lightning, raining nonstop. With left Firgoff en la calle, y durante largos minutos estuve parada en medio de una agua que caía del cielo, del Cosmos, agua reparadora, agua que limpiaba y suavizaba. El perro ladraba de alegría, saltaba de alegría, era un perro que le gustaba el agua, un Labrador negro y fuerte que adoraba mojarse. Daba vueltas alrededor mío, como cantando. Yo no cantaba. Yo simplemente, Kioto, dejaba que el agua resbalase sobre mí.

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Today is my birthday and I've thought about my mother. She, who gave me life. Who gave me the chance to live, to grow, to participate in this wonderful way.

So many years now? Well yes ... and so few. Time passes, runs, flies.

I would have liked to go in a museum in the capital but not enough money. I have just enough gasoline, times are tough, the crisis is hard. But I accept the limitations of this crisis, that I learned over the years, I agree to live with simplicity. It is not easy, there have been times better and have better times and worse. You have to accept what is, this moment and only him.

This walk with Laika, the field is a good gift that I do every day, and today is more precious. Look at Laika running and dancing on the grass, on hairy skin of this piece of land birds, few, scared by this flying around so energetic black dog, the black beam that comes and goes, this animal so happy and so present. If someone asked me who my teachers would say without hesitation: the dogs, my dogs. They teach me the natural, peace, acceptance of present moment. They, my dogs are my teachers. And Montaigne, of course.

My mother is gone, it was 5 years ago and left me alone, alone in this journey that is life. They say love of parents for their children Love is the biggest thing on earth. The Dalai Lama says. Say that you love as parents love their children. With compassion and patience, wisdom. And yes, my mother loved me very much. And I still love you, very much.

There is a wonderful scene in the film by the great film director Andrei Tarkovsky, Solaris, where a child hugs his knees and finally to his father. I think this film because recently I saw a great work on human consciousness. And kneel and hug your parents is finally grateful for this life you have between the arms, this piece of earth under your feet, this sun, this sky, and all that is offered you by your parents. And your parents are also this bit of land that rub your feet, these rocks older than your years, these insects, the wind, the ancient sun, the cosmic sky.

Laika jumps like a gazelle on this day of my birthday. We walk into the swamp, rest a little while contemplating life throbbing under the slimy green water, we will look carefully to the heartbeat of the life of insects, the grass, the water itself and then return home safely, I will make a good fire in the fireplace, playing with Shiva and Zen, my two prairie dogs, listen to music, read a little. A simple day in my birthday which most simply accept.

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A simple day you'll never go to Paris

You never go to Paris .

It says my sister and I have felt like a whip in the face.

How is it possible that people say these things, I think. To speak without thinking, speak without thinking about what they say. Or think about these things and say them.

Mi hermana me ofrece su perfil, casi perfecto, su nariz a la Sissy Spaceck , un perfil bien diferente al mío, hasta el punto que de repente me pregunto si realmente somos hermanas. Somos tan diferentes, físicamente y tenemos un carácter tan a lo opuesto. Ella, por ejemplo, es una mujer casi perfecta. Digo casi para no decir totalmente aunque muchas veces lo piense: gana mucho dinero, tiene como esposo un Mr. Right, y cuando se compra un coche lo compra cash. Por otra parte cada verano se va de vacaciones. El año pasado estuvo en Escandinavia, el año antes en la Patagonia y este verano piensan ir a Paris, on the floor of a doctor friend of my sister. That is why I say that when I go to Paris could also rent the apartment. Then my sister has certified:

"You never go to Paris."

I light a cigarette while I reflect on these words, this sentence. Since it is this: in a sentence. And a story that in a few months will make me laugh, but for now it almost makes me mourn, what I do and I stand the tears, like a big sissy, and my sister asked why I never go to Paris.

"But you do not see that you can not? Also has no money and all your animals and your husband ... "

And we are in the divisions and classifications. When we have learned to divide and separate? What school? Looking on TV, when we barely knew read? Does the cradle? Dividing is sentenced, he told me one day my professor of medieval literature. I think we were studying Montaigne. The memory of Mr. Park makes me smile, how right the old Frenchman. Racists also split: here I am, master race, and here you are, larva. And parents also divided, without realizing it: this girl is smarter than her sister, and all the stupid things parents do not realize they are building prisons.

My sister, serious, still looking out the window. You hear the voices of our husbands who are mounting a table for dinner as the sun is very strong, like a blanket of love. The profile of my sister worries me, it reminds me how different we are and the inability to say I have always had what I thought of her vanity and pride. I've always had fears because behind them and feel my rage when anger appears also accompanied by violence. And I'm afraid my own violence.

"You know, I would ask one thing: to leave in peace to my dreams and yes, someday I will to Paris, I can assure you. "

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I do not like the judgments, stereotypes, and yet I know it is useless to change the view of others, only we can change ourselves. And it's important to dream, that me in Paris surrounded by immigrants from all over the world to see me walking along La Seine, or mouse that I am in a secondhand bookstore, and a museum and looking where Colette lived alone, no husband, no dogs or cats, alone and free in Paris.

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The God of small things







chambermaids 'm not by choice but by obligation. It's hard work, physically. It is a job like any other and I like the schedule. Moreover, working in a hotel is very entertaining, it's like being on a ship and is often a derelict.

Over the years I learned something and it would work, whatever, is a way of learning.

never talk about it to anyone, or my co-workers since they only work to earn the salary and work as a prison. Feel that work is a string.

My work is, for me, a liberation. And one reason for this is because I can see the God of small things.

not talk about this with my husband, the god of small things that makes my job a very special way. My husband is a computer and is very rational.

The God of small things is when I make the beds with caring for guests can have a good night and get up in a good mood. It's easy, a matter of paying attention. Attention to gestures, which are highly repetitive. When the little things God is present nothing is indifferent. This small, God is joy and attention.

care and joy to my work release.

The little things God is everywhere, in my work. In these beds do, in the order I put in the room at the synchronicity that I try to leave, when I close the door and step into another room. Synchrony, beauty, order.

My little God of things excites me, then I can work in peace and joy. The details, however insignificant they may seem, are soft and simplicity. I like the simplicity is refreshing. It is the foundation of all, I think. It is the foundation of inner peace. Simplicity

in my eyes when I order in this room with a stranger. Sometimes it is a book that lovingly caress when I remove the dust from the nightstand. Other times it's a picture that the customer has taken with him, photo of a child, a girlfriend, a husband. I am excited about these objects that speak of life. I play to the core. A statement pajamas gently straightening shoes, a teddy bear to sit next to the pillow and tells me of the innocence, keys that gently harmonizes the side of some papers. Perfumes and creams at night, sometimes medicines, lipstick, comb. Everything speaks of life, thank God the little things.

Sometimes it is the energy of a room, that makes me vibrate little God in me. Subtle energy that the customer has brought with it: yellow energy, as if a light dwell room, gray power when the customer is not right, power red, blue, intelligent energy, sometimes a little sad.

The God of small things is not as small as it seems. Is immense, as the universe. I live like a hug. We, humans, beings so insignificant compared to this Cosmos so great, compared to this big hug and beautiful.

And yet there is grandeur in this insignificance ours. There is majesty, there palaces. And all this, all this life in the most essential and intimate, vital and secret in all this is in the little god of things.

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