El juego de palabras

Las palabras están en todas partes.
Las palabras y el locutor son como los clavos y el martillo: hay que acertarle bien a las palabras que ya están ahí.
No hay que darnos machucazos.

Dream about the angel

May 14 - We had all come to the conclusion that we were going to release the child.
Before the angel was whisked away by the sentinels standing guard at thick Machu Pichu doors and by the pull of heaven I saw its face. It was like a child's: simple, exquisite and fearsome in its beauty-delicate, sublime. I was so overcome by its divinity that my last thought before it left (and before I lost consciousness) was extreme remorse for what we humans had done to it: which was to capture it and display it like a circus animal. I could only hope for its and God's forgiveness.
I knew I had received it because even though the angel was behind the thick stone wall I could hear it say to the sentinels, "That was weird."

Penne Alfredo

...esta paz inquietante. Me impacienta. En mis oídos sordos escucho el viento y me dice que donde estoy, donde no ven mis ojos, el tiempo es un río que desemboca en un mar.

¿De dónde viene el agua?

Pues, de una montaña capeada de nieve. Porque al estar quieto el sentir pasar el tiempo da frío, pero son aguas puras, a las que siempre, siempre puedes volver.

~~~

I grow impatient with this disconcerting peace, but the wind speaks into my deaf ears and tells me that where I am, where my eyes can't see, there is a river flowing into an ocean. And that river is time.

I ask, where does the water come from?

I learn it comes from a snow-capped mountain. When you are still and you dip your fingers intothe passage of time, it feels cold. This is pure water that you can always come back to.

Alcachofas y arroz

Son tan egoístas esos morenitos. Se estiran inocentemente pero yo creo que se quieren lucir. Sin embargo, los perdono porque aquellos destellos de belleza no podrían ser consecuencias de un esfuerzo consciente. Mis ojos capitalistas los reprochan por ser flojos, pero simplemente son. Ahorita no hay por qué comer, por qué coger, por qué volar. Me dan envidia. Unos se me acercan osadamente a robarme mi comida que se me ha secado la noche anterior en el refrigerador. Otros caminan alrededor de las mesas de café, la gente ya acostumbrados a ellos. Los miro feo, les hago ¡chtt! y sacudo la mano y se van. Pero siguen.

Una niña tan osada como ellos, vestida de chaquiras con su tutú, botas de vaquero y casco de soldado los mira, sonríe y corre hacia ellos. Los espanta y mis morenos, mis morenitos toman vuelo y se van entre aleteos comunales.

Coffee

The air above the hot concrete outside Ernesto’s studio apartment shimmered in the bright Southern California sun. Twitchy gangstas constantly adjusted their flat-brimmed baseball caps and pulled up their pants. A beefy, mustachioed Latino sold oranges on the corner of Ernesto’s block, staring down the heat. Pigeons cooed in the shade, while on tree-lined streets, flocks of Dorian Grays gallantly proudly displayed their colorful, expensive plumage under the pretense of enjoying a nice summer day in Orange County.

As always, a few surfers complained about the lack of swell in the summertime, and decided to get high instead, as always. A funny smell, followed by a funny cloud wafted into Ernesto’s kitchen, where he was eating cereal and reading the back of the cereal box.

“Whoa,” Ernesto said, channeling Keanu Reeves. The cannabinoids in the air had made a detour to his brain through his lungs and were dancing the merengue with his neuroreceptors. He had a sudden craving for orange juice and was dismayed there wasn’t any in his refrigerator. It became imperative that he go to a convenience store.

Suddenly, the dancing stopped and the lights came on in Ernesto's head, much like when the police invite themselves to your party, and you suddenly realize that you had had too much to drink and danced badly but passionately with a person who definitely looked better in dim lighting. It was time for a reality check. He had already put on some jeans and a Bart Simpson t-shirt and was standing at the door. He felt something stop him from going outside. He turned around and saw what he would come home to: another day in his underwear, surfing the Internet, looking at pictures of LOLcats while drinking orange juice. He sighed and shook his head in disappointment.

"Ay, Ernesto."

It was the ghost of his grandmother. She was shaking her head with him. Her disapproval had always hit him hard.  Many years earlier, he had swept the kitchen in an effort to be helpful in her house, but he was surprised by her slowly shaking her head.

“Ay Ernesto. I don’t think you know how to sweep,” she sighed.

Indeed, Ernesto had been holding the broom the wrong way. He was crushed by her judgment, but only because he knew it was true. Even the family’s ever-present small poodle seemed to know the correct way to sweep. Everyone knew, of course, except for Ernesto, even with psychic powers and all.

And now, here he was, still gazing at the wreckage that he called his studio, his life littered with the consequences of his short-sighted decisions, which the Hollywood fast life had provided in abundance. His dead grandma was in the kitchen making quesadillas for him.

“Here you go, mijito” she said, “you need to eat. Just look at how skinny you are!”

Despite the remark, Ernesto ate the quesadillas. He was his grandma’s favorite grandchild, and she knew how he liked the quesadillas: slightly burned, with the occasional drop of hot Valentina sauce. There was no feasible way he could refuse without offending her because 1) she was his mother's mother, 2) she made him quesadillas just how he liked them out of the goodness of her heart, and 3) she was dead and could literally raise hell by talking to the right dead people.

“What about you, Yaya. Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked out of habit.

“No, mijito. I’ll just have some water.” She withheld a good-natured sarcastic remark about the cleanliness of Ernesto’s kitchen. He was sensitive, right now, contemplating his life, and just needed a little bit of support right now.

“So… what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Yaya,” he said. “I was going to get some orange juice."

Té inglés

Lo miró a través de esos ojos cafés majestuosos pero humildes, ojos llenos de amor y cómplices en travesuras que nunca acabaron en su niñez. Su mirada esperaba pacientemente el momento preciso para darle un consejo sabiendo bien que fácilmente lo podría rechazar. Nunca dejaba de doler el rechazo pero desde hace mucho había entendido que ella cumplía solamente con compartir su sabiduría. Ya el uso que le daban era cuestión de cada quien.

Sushi

Cruzar el desierto sonorense antes era un hecho mortal, pero ahora los avances de la tecnología incluyen un telefonito con GPS que también indica las fuentes de agua más próximas. De todas formas, el teléfono no cruzaba el desierto por alguien, así que el peligro todavía seguía presente en esas arenas, como esos tercos valientes que vienen con todo y familia.

¡Oi! Es de noche y se escuchan crujidos en la tierra. Estamos lejos de los oídos electrónicos de los vecinos gringos envidiosos. Los pasos son distintos: unos son fuertes pero cautelosos, seguidos por otros un poco más ligero y éstos por unos chiquitos que se apresuran a cada rato.

Tacos de huevo

He worries when he sees dark shadows flying overhead. Sometimes the shadows glide slowly, aimlessly.

To anyone who'll listen he says, "You have to keep your eye on them because once they pick up a bit more speed and maneuver, it can just as easily be you, your family or friends that are gone. Sink or swim, that's the way life is around these parts. It can be a bit stressful when you first become aware of that, but eventually one gets used it."

Even so, he seemed to shudder a little. More shadows than usual began crossing the sky.

He thought of a good hiding spot in a rocky crevasse close by, but it would probably be occupied first because everyone was near it. His heart began beating faster. He would have to hurry to make it to the backup shelter.

Suddenly, a darting movement. Everyone around him hid behind what they could. The nearest crevasse filled up quickly.

He hurried.

He was barely in the second crevasse, when he saw the shadow fall, fall and splash into the water. He promised himself he wouldn't look, but he couldn't help but admire how the bubbles rolled off of the shadow's dark waterproof feathers. The shadow wriggled and swam until its beak and a small fish were joined.

It could have been him, the fish thought.

Flor de la palabra

He regresado a mis raices, por decir, con este nuevo/viejo diseño. La mayoría de mis posts serios, es decir, aquellos que sean cuentos los podrás encontrar en www.flordelapalabra.com/blog.

Gracias a Dios tengo trabajo por lo tanto no creo que postearé tanto como antes. Pero ahí cuando encuentre tiempo y cosas padres, las pondré.

En lo mientras, fíjense en los posts anteriores, los del mes de mayo.

Saludos!

Café

As a teen he had had his own television show as a real-life psychic who helped police solve crimes. He sold his services to the public at the end of each episode, so he had the phone numbers and money of many lonely, emotionally fragile women on his cell, He was often seen then with that bluish electronic glow on his face as he texted his latest visions to his poor girlfriends.

But those were his glory days.

Now he shared his story with other fallen stars who had been celebrities as children and lost their grip on reality almost immediately. Now, here he was, in his dirty apartment, hungover, late for work, and slowly rubbing his temples as he wondered why he couldn’t have just slept forever.

He would find out later that day in the cold cereal aisle at Safeway.

Had he not needed to use the bathroom, he would have stayed in bed longer. With much effort he got up and shuffled toward the toilet where he sat a while, thinking foul, useless thoughts. He remembered hearing about a Kansas woman whose skin had grown around a toilet seat she had been sitting on for two years straight. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought. Slowly, very slowly he stood up, making sure that his butt cheeks gently unstuck themselves from the toilet seat.

---

Desde jóven, él había tenido su show de televisión como psíquico forense en donde ayudaba a la policía resolver crímenes. Al final de cada programa anunciaba sus servicios al público y como resultado, poseía los teléfonos y el dinero de mujeres frágiles. En ese entonces, era común verlo irradiado de esa luz azul, electrónica y pálida mientras texteaba sus visiones a sus pobres novias.

Pero aquellos fueron sus días dorados.

Ahora compartía su historia con los demás estrellas caídas, que como niños artistas que tuvieron todo lo que quisieron, perdieron el suelo sólo para volverse a caer sobre la dura realidad. Mientras despertaba su cruda, moral y física, le hizo preguntarse por qué no pudo dormirse para siempre.

Encontraría su respuesta esa tarde en el área de los cereales de la Comercial Mexicana.

Si no fuera por su necesidad de ir al baño, se hubiera quedado más tiempo en su cama. Con mucho esfuerzo se paró y camino lentamente hacia el excusado donde se sentó un tiempo pensando cosas inútiles y desagradables. Lentamente se levantó, procurando que sus nalgas se despegaran suavemente desde el asiento. Un movimiento rápido podría arrancarle la piel, pensó.