Mal de amores

Mal de amores
Aparentemente, el mal de amores es distinto para cada persona; sin embargo, la realidad es que se desarrolla de manera similar y deja sus profundas raíces en nuestras vidas más allá de lo que podemos imaginar.
Así funciona el mal de amores:
Al contrario de lo que se piensa, el mal de amores comienza mucho antes de notar signos de desolación. Se forja desde la felicidad plena, es la cama donde dos personas pasan horas haciendo el amor, luego mirándose, luego repitiendo todo hasta el cansancio. En ese momento brota una ligera sensación de miedo a perderlo todo, a perder lo que hasta el momento parece ser perfecto. El inevitable sentimiento de que nada puede ser eterno aunque parezca serlo, es el primer indicio del mal de amores. El miedo es el primer síntoma.
Cada quien deja de amar por razones diversas, unos por engaño, por inmadurez, por precipitarse al amor o por negarse a él; cada ser humano busca su pretexto para entrar y salir del amor, a veces es el pretexto del otro el que nos orilla, otras, ni siquiera sabemos cómo terminamos tan lejos de dónde solíamos jugar a amarnos eternamente. La cosa es que, antes de ser evidente el termino del amor, el mal de amores finge no saber qué pasa, pretende amar aun más fuerte y desesperadamente al otro. Esta es la etapa de las promesas eternas, de las pláticas sobre el futuro en las que el presente se vuelve irrelevante, es el momento de sacarle al otro juramentos de amor eterno, de entregarnos hasta exagerar nuestra entrega. Es aquí en donde los ojos miran la verdad y las palabras buscan construir lo que las miradas saben de antemano que no es posible alcanzar. La esperanza es el segundo síntoma del mal de amores.
Al final la torre que no se sostiene en sus cimientos, inevitablemente cae y aun sabiendo que así pasaría nos toma por sorpresa. El mal de amores comienza a manifestar sus signos de locura mas salvajes. Este es el momento en que el presente es tan dolorosamente largo que borra tanto al pasado como al futuro.

Es cuando uno cae en la tentación de huir, aunque sea por momentos, a lugares de la memoria más agradables pero termina topándose con el nefasto y doloroso presente; un presente largo que no termina de convertirse en futuro. Es una situación lamentable en la que nos sumimos pensando en historias desagradables y quizá deseando hasta morir, no porque la vida nos sea odiosa, sino porque el presente parece que no acabará nunca y pensamos que es la única manera posible de terminar con esa lamentable existencia. Esta etapa termina con la humillante pregunta y aun más detestable respuesta: ¿Me amas?, NO. La tercer etapa del mal de amores es el insufrible presente.
(El tiempo que uno tarda en percatarse que el presente no es más que un instante entre dos eternidades es tan relativo como la vida).
Al final, salvo unos pocos que mueren de amor (aunque se ha dicho lo contrario), uno sale del fondo del mar y da una larga y ansiosa bocanada de aire puro. La vida en este punto se vuelve tenue, nada deslumbra ni cega tanto. Por dentro, la vida conserva su ímpetu joven de antes pero, de nuevo pretendiendo, no esperar nada de nadie ni de la vida. Ahora se camina pensando que no hay sorpresas que nos encuentren desprevenidos, que las vicisitudes las conocemos de antemano y solemos ser quienes aconsejamos a otros para ser precavidos.

Así funciona el mal de amores, tenemos la mirada de quien lo ha vivido y lo sabe todo, sonreímos condescendientemente sin darnos cuenta de la mueca de derrota y en algunos casos, un poco de envidia. La cuarta etapa del mal de amores aparenta ser indiferencia e individualidad.
Con excepción de algunos masoquistas, la siguiente experiencia de amor resulta ser mejor que la anterior por la sencilla razón de que elegimos mejor, somos más fuertes y queremos revivir lo bello de compartir la vida sin miedo a perderlo todo de golpe. Sabemos que es mejor tener un testigo que tener un cómplice. Sabemos, además, amar un poco más, soportar un poco menos y esperar lo mejor del otro y de nosotros mismos.
Finalmente, la última etapa del desamor se presenta en forma de experiencia.

Cambiemos a los «caballeros» por hombres

¿Por qué existen los llamados hombres «caballeros»? y ¿Por qué son tan deseados por todas las mujeres y respetados por los demás hombres?

Desde una perspectiva sociológica, los géneros y sus respectivas características se han venido construyendo a lo largo del tiempo con las prácticas, las costumbres y hasta con las creencias y la mitología. Lo curioso es que ya hay pactos establecidos entre hombres y mujeres, donde se sobreentiende quien pertenece a qué grupo y cuáles son los lugares permitidos para cada uno.

Y no pasa nada…

No pasa nada si somos diferentes, de hecho sí somos distintos, PERO… Lo malo comienza cuando pensamos que somos «opuestos» o » contrarios», es decir que lo opuesto a ser hombre es ser mujer y viceversa. De ahí surge que las «damas» necesitemos «caballeros», porque sirven para cuidar y proteger a lo opuesto, que es por definición, algo débil y frágil que necesita ser mimado y cuidado.

Si asumimos que somos solamente diferentes y no opuestos, podríamos seguir siendo atentos unos con los otros, ser puntuales, serviles y empáticos; podríamos seguir pagando las cuentas, invitarnos al cine o abrirnos las puertas. Pero lo más importante de todo, es que cada quien, hombre y mujer, podría construirse una personalidad más rica e interesante, que combine las características que mejor le plazcan y no necesariamente sean dos opciones contrarias.

Por eso… yo no soy débil, tengo debilidades; no soy independiente, he aprendido de mis errores; no soy puta, disfruto la sexualidad; no soy santa, tengo valores. En conclusión, lo que me falta lo puedo aprender de ti y ser de mil maneras distintas, tanto que la vida sea para enriquecerme como ser humano y no para seguir un patrón aburrido.

La importancia de la primera cita

La primera vez que sales con alguien puede ser aterrador para muchas personas. Casi siempre es una apuesta con un montón de posibilidades, donde ni siquiera está claro qué debe pasar para salir ganador.

A mi me encantan las primeras citas, no tengo expectativas quizá para protegerme a mi misma de salir decepcionada, pero la verdad es que me divierte mucho lo sencillo o complicado que puede ser conocer a alguien en tan pocos momentos.

Imagino que las primeras citas son como hoyos negros, en donde dos personas que ya se conocían en otros mundos coinciden de nuevo sin reconocerse. Si cometen un error pierden la oportunidad de reencontrarse, si se gustan puede que estrechen la abertura del portal para volver a juntar sus caminos; imagino que la persona que tengo enfrente es un antiguo amante, amigo o un alma gemela que ha cambiado tanto que quizá ya no reconozca. A veces creo que me encontré por error con una persona ajena a mi, pero igual me intriga poder aprovechar esa coincidencia.

La primera cita resulta ideal cuando viejos recuerdos afloran. Me encanta descubrir las mismas palabras, ideas, memorias; en la primera cita no me quiero sorprender ni admirar de nadie, quiero sentirme cómoda como si fuera una conversación cotidiana entre dos viejos conocidos.

Las primeras citas donde el entorno es más importante que la sensación de las personas me aburren. Las mejores citas son las que involucran complicidad, sencillez y un poco de magia. Por ejemplo bailar hasta altas horas de la noche, platicar de nimiedades en medio de la nada, perderse entre recuerdos, olvidar el tiempo y las costumbres, a veces incluso un beso dado de manera franca y familiarmente me hace pensar que saludo a aquel ser de hace tanto tiempo, lo saludo o lo despido.

Pero lo más importante de todo es el OLOR. Los olores nos pueden transportar a esos puntos donde el tiempo parece ser un umbral entre dos eternidades, un olor nos puede atraer y al mismo tiempo apaciguar. El aroma del cuello, de las manos, el aroma de uno mismo junto al otro debe ser tan compatible como sedante. Si no puedo olerte toda la noche más vale que disfrute de mi propio concierto, de mi propia película o de mi propia cena.

En resumen, las primeras citas son las grandes puertas abiertas de una posibilidad casi cuántica. Me encantan.

Consolation

Time is the dimension for space, with space objects and people can move from place to place and also worn out. Time has a very tricky pace and it amazes me how fulfilling a couple of weeks can be and how absurdly still and empty complete years turn out sometimes. A lot depends on choices and the amount of imagination we put in them, is what we decide to do with our time and space that makes living a day interesting. Though not always. If men were meant to know and worship, we should worship Time and prey for kindness. In a fair world wise people would have the right to die and all the others will live forever.

Have you been overwhelmed with joy for nothing in particular but for the amount of information collected?; An inspiring being, a piece of knowledge that has the potential of changing our lives, a glance of consciousness or any other idealistic experience. I was walking completely awake, receptive and dangerously sensitive. I was learning to feel; something that we usually wait to happen and react. I wanted to feel everything there is to enjoy and suffer, see, taste, listen, express and was in such a state of shifting molecules and uneasiness that I could cry, laugh or become upset just too fast.

I heard a Beatles song and only one person could know how much I enjoy “Beatles” in the mornings. That was the first time I saw him, but I forgot about it.

We like other persons for what they are and yet many times wish something was different. It’s true that what we wish to change is not the person itself but the circumstances, however if our past and present is the formula behind our essence, in the end we want to change what we think we love so much. Perhaps we are just afraid of loving the circumstances as they are and choose to love an ideal instead.

It’s a new city in an old soul feeling, a city that once belonged to another era and held people from a different world. Now it’s hoary façade with dim lights in the inside and computerized surprises. I was heading to the dance studios, something I do every day of my life. I look into a new canvas and get ready to paint. I don’t think I really paint anything, I just get ready; prepare myself for the artist I one day will be. I thought I was late even though I was about an hour before class started; it was just my anticipation, my desire to start working, to tell my body what I expect from it, I need to be stronger, I want complete obedience. I want others to feel what I feel.

I love riding the subway to work. I can be anything I choose to be in the time I spend in the subway cart. People have different professions but being a dancer is, to put it in words, different. I look different, I do my hair differently, I stand and think differently. However, if I want I can become part of the daily flow of energy and occupy my space as an uncountable or a part of the statistics in this living universe. You must know…

The story I want to tell it is not about me or my dancer life no matter how interesting it is to me or how much heart I invest in it. As I was saying I was in the commute on my way to start a new day (my day doesn’t start until I find my place at the bare and start warming up my feet), when I saw a street musician playing his guitar at the bottom of the stairs I used to get out and chose because they are the closest to the building I’ll be dancing in for the next nine hours. This person has long hair; he is thin but tall and modestly strong. He wears a loose brown jacket, not the kind of clothes that stand out because they fit and blend so well with the character that they become part of their essence and skin, not the kind you remember anyway like you would remember a person trying to make a statement or pretending to be a cartoon of something else. His eyes though were the eyes of a living human being. That might be because he indeed was a living person or perhaps because under the influence of Chopin’s Nocturne No 1 everything seems to take its true shape. Some people breathe and eat and even cry sometimes but the blood streaming through their veins is not exactly alive, or maybe it is just a diamond in the rough waiting for a conscious mind to come across them eventually in time. He seemed present, not exactly happy not exactly sad, but alive in the moment he was living. It took me a couple of days to figure out what cart I should get on, to be closer to the escalator I should use, to be closer to the exit stairs I should walk up, to be closer to the building I’ll be dancing in for the next nine hours of my day. It is about economize time and energy, or just playing with the possibilities in life. So it took me a couple of days to find him, but he was right there were he was and where I had to be or decided I had to be. I don’t know what he was playing; I was listening broken hearted to Chopin and his waterfalls of words and questions. The special thing about being a dancer is that you don’t go unnoticed or at least that’s what I thought because when I walked by that place I mentioned where all the coincidences in life for both of us happened, he looked at me and did what a polite and alive person does when another of the sort shares a brief and apparently insignificant glance. He smiled.

Being a different person, I do the same things everyday for as long as I have to, to become consistent; people say –don’t do the same things and expect different results-, I say practice the same things changing your approach and expect better results. In the end what matters is how you feel about your actions and not so much the result. It might just be my consolation. Next morning I headed to the studios with the same intentions and I saw this person again, he recognized me from the day before and not only have I got a smile but also a “good morning”. I felt like I belonged to the outside scenario, my presence there had changed somebody else’s reality and my whole existence left a mark in this world, which means without me this place would be completely different!

People learn, that’s what we do, me have memory and brains big enough to think. I am afraid knowledge is not always the way to happiness or success or any other purpose we try to acquire it for. Einstein used to say (or at least people now say he did), that you don’t really understand something until you can explain it to your grandmother. Have you ever tried to explain technology to your grandmother! The point for me is; first, acquired knowledge has to be completely neutral without tendencies as much as our receptive minds should be to gather that information; then it has to make a big enough impact on us to complement our principles and values, third we are so touched by this new ideas that we crave to share then. And last it is no longer an outside element, in fact it has become so much part of us that we are able to explain it so many times in a hundred different ways until the farthest person in the room can hear us, and that would be our grandmother!

More than three weeks had past, at that point I feel that I have a new friend, we somehow know a lot about each other. I have music playing in my head almost all the time and he probably ignores where I am going to everyday at the same time, but it doesn’t matter, we see deeper, we mutter the words good morning and smile and for almost five seconds share time. We know all that there is to know about five seconds in time.

As my days go on I learn about consequences and responsibility. Improvising is all about choices; the easiest is being alone but has a lot more responsibilities. Every move of a dancer is a statement, every effort an attempt to create beauty or a way to send love. “I could fall in love with anyone, I love all people”. But that’s not me that is somebody else.

I see him today and my routine goes on as planned by the fortune. I see him every day and almost walk slower if he is facing the wrong way just so we exchange that matinee smile. Some day´s coordination fails but we make up the next as if nothing had happened.

I learned about being grateful. There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground. I’m not sure is about being grateful all the time but I find my ways to show it. I am most bitter most of the time; but it’s not the stillness, it’s the uncertainty.

It’s my forth week, I secretly have my hand in my pocket to turn my music down when I walk by him, he thinks I’m not listening, now we have even secrets, things we keep from each other. Our relationship is turning complicated. It makes it more powerful and engaging. I like his music but I like him more, it’s a happiness that only lasts an instant and vanishes for the rest of the day. A cup of coffee kind of happiness.

In some occasions when I miss his sight I feel guilty, I feel like a meeting I never appeared, I ditch him as if he was waiting for only me all morning and I never showed up. As the days pass my work gets harder and harder, as we get closer to the performance my body is fully aware of its own tiredness and capacity, in those days when I happen to get a ride and avoid walking, I feel like I tore the flyleaves of our story.

There is a lot in a woman that is kept in order to survive, is never shared but used and eaten piece by piece until is all gone and we are helpless. Men see it; unaware of what it is they really crave about us. Attraction. A stage is full of those secrets, life is laid out before our eyes but audiences go blind and except to forget about life with a magical performance, they miss the point. They see movement, they hear music, they succeed in leaving reality out; life goes unnoticed and all its mysteries. In the stage of us I try to listen but become an actor, in the spot light that only lasts the speed of my steps I want him to know. We are both alive, we are both present, we both smile and we both vanish.

I wonder what kind of friend he brought to play with him today. He is fully absorbed by him and their new play; when I walk by, he changes my roll into the smallest part, I’m part of the scenario, I’m the crowd. When did he become the director? Why I didn’t have the chance to know. “Improvise” I say to myself, like you would do in real life. I walk in front of them, feel betrayed and go on. I know the next day he’ll know and will smile to me again. He knows.

Artists walk and eat and take subways. Effort doesn’t always lead to art. A life in dance; a ship on waves. When the storm tells you there is nothing else you can do and you will drown and your embarkation will wreck but the sun is still there and land is still somewhere, there is really no option but keep sailing, drift. He doesn’t know and he doesn’t need to know I cry inside, I have dance dreams and dance realities. All I want is to be visible.

There are a few concrete images in life and those cement dreams, those are the memorable and consistent sparks. I was walking looking for mine to assure me I was still on earth and life was happening. Something was playing in my head, I think the song that says “Someday we’ll wave hello wishing we never waved goodbye”. I approach him, perhaps it’s time to take the next step and stop, but that would break the flow and I want to come back to the same river one day, although never the same. In front of me walks another person, too close to miss, after all I’m not the only one in the subway; nevertheless I know he will notice me. Instead, he… I can’t describe it. It made me sick, so blatantly innocent. So fictitiously natural and brazen, right there before me he smiles to her!, same complicity, same warmth, same presentness. I’m ashamed, so arrogant to think I’m there. My eyes see and my mind pesters me. I’m the crowd that fills the stage; he’s the actor we all conform. He plays for us and smiles to all of us because that is his roll; he sees a great black void in front.

He might be on stage but he is blind not me.

I come back of course next day and the day ahead, but I know and it’s not the same. He smiles and I react, we now pretend to create our days.

I’m gone now and time has changed. What kind of place this world would have been without my birth? To me: the big black void that is the audience. To everyone else: the lit scenario and everlasting play in an enclosed theatre. Unknown director.

Art is a cup of coffee kind of happiness.

Desvestir y desmentir

Hay razones para ocultarnos los deseos que tan débilmente dominamos, para no saber que te gusta ser imaginado con las manos en mis pechos. Sé que piensas lo mismo que yo sueño, mientras ambos sonreímos con el nudo en los intestinos. Hay una razón para no caer de nuevo en la locura, en la delicia, en la absoluta entrega, aunque sea insoportable la barrera.

Te doy una salida, para que acabes con la absurda castidad que nos carcome; solo dime que no me amas, dime que no estás confundido. Que me deseas sin mentiras ni promesas.

No hay otro, no hay más que mi piel y mis ganas de tenerte; dime que no me amas y te dejaré entrar las veces que desees hacerlo.

Si no puedes decirlo, no hay ninguna posibilidad que nos contenga. No habrá marea que nos inunde por las noches ni días fugitivos.

De antemano sé lo que decides, sé que no eres capáz. Yo sigo aquí, seguiré. Fingiendo