Sweet Anna's Allegory

The smoke is in the air;

The shadows, on the floor

And though the walls seem to be fair,

Beyond the door there's always more.

You go inside with certain fright,

With insecure steps and shivering hands...

But look, dear Anna: there is the light;

Be quiet now, just wait and stand.

It is no time to be afraid.

There's nothing you haven't seen before.

Step by step you must be brave...

Now tell me: what are you waiting for?

Dear Anna, girl who dreams the sweetness

Of the dreaming world;

Girl who seeks the kindness

Of the written word.

There's an old man at the bottom of the room:

Brownish suit and black swede belt.

And then you know he's in the agony of his doom;

Brownish thoughts where dead now melts.

Your lips are thirsty,

Your hands are dry,

And his lascivious look

Makes your senses go blind.

Dear Anna, do not fall into the eyes of despair;

The man is old, but he's not wise.

I know sometimes life's not fair,

But just this time, it's him who dies.

The smoke is leaving.

The room fills with light.

The miracle is happening:

You've won the fight.

Dear Anna, do not cry.

The old man is now gone,

But keep that image in you mind

For many others once will come.

Let your dreams be your weapon,

Let your thoughts be your guide

It is the allegory your saviour

And your best friend: your faithful mind.

The Virgin's cry

Let me tell thee:

what I hide, you shall see.

Embroided flowers

Cover my skin.

They go up,

they turn around,

they are the only thing

that sets me free.

Let me tell thee,

and this will only be told once:

what I hide, you shall seek.

It's a game played by two,

and there's only a ´you and me´.

Embroided flowers cover my dress.

They get black, they get red...

They take my last piece of breath.

Don't you know what it's yet?

It's deeply hidden in my breast,

a warm candle of hope,

surrounded by those flowers of yours.

Spikes hurt me hard,

blood is pooring down,

but you look and then walk away.

You just cannot understand...

That what you seek,

it's still here.

And let the others tell you then,

for I am not enough to bring you back.

What you seek, it's just me...

´Wind winds up water'

    It is the wind who's singing; an old man, the wind. An air of despair and consumption which lead us all into sickness and death. It is the water who's listening; a happy being, the water, though aged and wise. She's dancing, she's merry, being the wind her own companion. While she is dancing we're dying.

And they just don't care. Do they even notice? No, they don't. They haven't seen us yet. And when they will do it, they will just say: 'who are those babies? Who had them? Was the Earth pregnant once and we didn't notice? Who cares, they died young, they didn't have time to build a bound with us.' For that's our fate. To appear and disappear as easily and unnouticeable as we once came. And yes, it is the wind who's singing, and yes, it is the water who's listening and then dancing; ' cause they are just so happy in their way that they don't need us to be entertained. Let them flow. All we can do is to aspire to flow in their very same direction some day. We are nothing but clay...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxPwoXghz9E&feature=related 

What it would be being a handsome boy? A James Dean in the fourties, a Bob Dylan playing mourning songs at the park. How would I feel being an attractive taciturn Ian Curtis? Sitting on a chair... Resting alone in the darkness of my thoughts.

And can mountains move the world and change the way it is? And could mountains turn me into a handsome boy? There's no way in which this could come into an end. The river never stops and wait for us.

A perfect face, young and pure. A perfect look, dark and gloom. An old guitar on the back, a cigarette in the mouth. An air of being just a citizen of the world, no walls which restrain the way I feel... Every time that I'm able to feel something.

And everything has been already said, already sung, already felt. But strings still can play another song, another tune. And I feel partially rejoiced. Partially relieved. If I just were a handsome boy...

Heeled boots leave footprints on the sand. But don't worry, the sea will clean my trace, as it always do with everything else. ´Cause nothing remains forever in this world. Nothing will stay but the sea and the mountains that didn't want to make me a handsome boy.

Having the core of life in my hands, being so at an early age of my youth, I just regret all the things that won't happen in the future... Never what happened in the past. A glimpse of hope, an air of cleverness, and the whole existence will be drawn into the emptiness of what could have been done. .. And it hasn't.

A desperate cry into the wind. An ultimate plea in the air, flying useless, having lost its purpose in the long deep restless river. Countless souls have done this before. Lost and wild and sometimes as lonely as I am. All of them begging to be a handsome boy. A sorrowful product of an ancient decade, an endless musician in the offspring of gloom.

What it would be being a handsome boy? A troubadour of the sad peoples of this world. Being their voice, their face, their hope in their hopeless heart, their eyes in their sad regard.

'The twin eye' (A short original story)

    It's not as if my life has been always like this. I used to be just like you, probably: I went to weddings, parties, I met people... Lots of them, sometimes. And I also felt in love. Once. Yes, just once. Unlike my sister, I didn't find any pleasure in flirting with every man I could find. But she was like that. And I loved her anyway. It was just her way of doing things.

People used to confuse both of us. Not old friends, of course, they quickly saw which one of us was in front of them. We were so different... I was the beloved one by our mother. She used to say that I would be the one who would bring honour to the family. My manners, my obedience, my moderation were the perfect qualities she found on me. Our mother always took me to the society parties and introduced me to everybody, just to see how I politely asked people about their business, their family and every vacuous question that you can imagine. Empty conversations were the rule to be well-liked by everybody. Meanwhile, my sparkling twin sister took a glass or two of champagne and laughed with the boys: a little coquettish gesture on the arm, a sensual glance, a discreet bite on her bottom lip... She liked dancing and she did it every time in the most extravagant manner that she could imagine. Everything was always meant to call everybody's attention. And I bet she did. This freaked out our mother, but nobody really cared about my sister's behaviour. They thought she was lovely. A sweet rebel full of life. There was no vulgarity in her, she was just one product of the modern postwar society. Carefree. There wasn't anything else but joy. If you knew... If you knew how much I loved her. How much I enjoyed watching her doing her stuff. How I liked when she told me, in the intimacy of our bedroom, how she had taken one or other boy to the back of the house in the middle of a party and gave him the surprise of his life by kissing passionately his trembling lips... It was like having two lives. I enjoyed every step my sister took as if I had lived the same as she had.

And then HE came. I normally was introduced to old marriages, old single ladies, whole families with children. It was my sister who made society with the young men. But one day my mother called me. She wanted to introduce me to somebody and I, as usual, accepted and followed her. I remember how I had to find the words to be correct, as apparently I had lost my speech. He was the handsomest young man I had ever seen. And the air of his manners, his kind smile... Were just perfect. I discovered he was just like me: the young person who usually entertained old people with a fresh and empty conversation. Nothing damaging, nothing polemic. And I understood why my mother had the interest on making us knowing each other. She left us alone, under the excuse of finding out that the food was coming to an end on the tables. We looked at each other, smiling. I discovered with pleasure that he was as speechless as I was. I tried to start a conversation:

' So.. Your parents are Mr....... And Mrs...... Stratford.'

' Yes, they are.' he smiled.

' They are lovely people. It's always a pleasure talking to them. I've never knew they had a son... Well, I did know they had a son, of course, but not that...that...'

' Grown up?'

' Handsome'

I suddenly put my hands over my mouth. I didn't believe I could say that out loud. I blushed immediately, not wanting to know the result of my imprudence. But he just laughed gently and thanked the compliment. He breathed quicker for a while until he spoke again:

' I must admit that I knew your mother had two beautiful daughters... And I asked her to introduce me to the prettier one; the one who have always been so nice to everybody.'

I couldn't say even 'thank you', but my face of amazement had to be enough for him, because he took the liberty of offering his arm to me in order to have a small walk together.

It passed a long time until I had the opportunity of seeing him again. We had to wait for proper occasions to meet each other and do it always in public. My mother was so delighted that she always left us some intimacy. She watched us from the distance, but at least our conversations were private. It's not as if we had many private things to say; our strong education didn't let us be too impulsive, we didn't know how to do it; but at least everything remained just between us. I had told my sister everything about him. How charming, how perfect he was. He was a complete gentleman. I remember how she laughed. She told me we were made for each other: so pompous, so correct, so boring...

' Take action, sister ' she told me.

' What? How? What do you want me to do?'

' Take him somewhere. Kiss him. Tell him he is the best man in the world.'

' Like you do with all those poor boys? '

' Yes, but just with that one, I know you can't enjoy life as I do. '

I shook my head strongly. I refused doing that. It wasn't my way of doing things.

' If you don't do something I will'

' Will you tell him everything I've told you about how I feel?'

' We'll see'

I didn't really know what she wanted to do. On the one hand, I was kind of worried and scared, on the other hand a confession with my sister's help would be such a relief... Besides, I hadn't say anything improper, just how I fancied him.

It took a month until we were invited to the Johnson's house. They took advantage of the fine weather and prepared a small party in their garden. I went there with my mother and sister, as usual, and we soon spread, looking for our own interests. As soon as I saw my beloved knight-in-a-suit, I approached him. We had been scarcely talking by five minutes when my sister appeared next to us.

' Hi! I'm her sister, nice to meet you, handsome.'

I wanted to die. She was treating him as she treated one of 'her guys'. She didn't care he might be the love of my life. She ignored my glances and kept on going with her self introduction. After a while, I was completely out of the conversation. My beloved gentleman tried to introduce me again many times, but my sister had the art of changing the subject in such a manner that nothing could be done. She took advantage of our well learned restrain and moderation in order to be the only voice heard in the conversation. I couldn't believe she had done that to me. I wasn't able to speak to him more than those initial five minutes!

' My beloved sister?' Called she when we arrived home.

' I'm not speaking to you.'

' Oh... Are you angry?'

' I'm disappointed.'

' Come on! Protect what is yours! Take your man from me! I don't care about him, I just want you to be jealous!'

' I'm not jealous'

' Yes you are. You want to slap my face. But you are too correct to admit it.'

I didn't speak to her for days. Then, I forgave her. We decided not to quarrel again. And she promised not to do anything similar to me again. But two months later, at our house, she broke her promise. We had a party, and our mother had prepared lots of food. As soon as I saw him entering the house, I went to receive him and his parents. But my sister arose by the door and kissed him on his cheek. I lost my senses. I was completely petrified. My mother was mad at me, as I wasn't able to receive anyone else in the house. She had to do everything by herself. Poor mamma, she didn't know what was going on. From the furthest part of the garden, I had to see the whole evening how my sister flirted once and again with the man of my dreams. But the worst of all was seeing how he received every signal of coquetry with pleasure. I took the chance to talk to my sister when she approached the food table alone.

' What do you think you're doing?'

' Pardon me?'

I pointed him with my finger.

' You... And him? How this happened?'

' We've been seeing each other for these two months'

' What? Without telling me anything?'

' I knew you would overreact, what do you wanted me to do? '

' Not seeing him! He's mine!'

' No, he's not. If he is now more interested in me than in you it's normal. Look at you... You behave like a granny'

' Don't you dare...'

' What are you going to do? Tell me. Hit me? Do it. Let mamma see it, please. Let mamma see how her favourite child turns into a monster. I would love to see that. '

I suddenly lost my strength. I couldn't believe that was happening. It was a nightmare. For certain it was nothing but a nightmare. But I felt so trapped... As if I would never be able to wake up again. I couldn't be there anymore, looking at the man of my dreams and my traitor-sister being so happy together. I went out of the house and run with no direction for a long time. It was all my fault. I talked to her so many times about my love's marvels that she probably started to be interested in him. I threw my sister to my future husband's arms. She had a natural talent to bewitch men and I had to predict that may happen.

And old lady appeared on my way. I tried not to look at her as she seemed a beggar, but she wanted to talk to me.

' What's that sad face for, darling?'

' It's the reflection of my unbearable life, madam.'

' Don't you enjoy the life God has given to you?'

' I used to, but I can't do it anymore.'

' I see... You don't want your life anymore. What kind of life do you wish?'

' Right now? To be honest, a life of completely isolation. I don't want to live in society anymore, I'm tired of everything.'

She took something from her old dirty bag and then shew it to me. It was a crystal eye. I took it into my hands carefully.

' Look into the eye, dear. The eye will see what's in your mind. It'll show you your darkest desires. Try.'

I put the eye close to my own and looked inside. There was a tornado, a big one. It lifted up houses, animals, trees...Everything it found on its way. I then saw another eye in the center of the tornado. I tried to focus just on that eye, I wanted to see it clearly... And the next thing I can remember was being caught by my chest by a strong invisible power and being introduced into the tornado. I entered the crystal eye and I hit the stone floor with violence.

I woke up in the mountains. Sharp cutting stone surrounded me everywhere. The wind damaged my ears. What was that grey sad landscape? Where was the old lady? Where was I?

It's not as if my life has been always like this. I used to be just like you, probably... It's just that you must be careful with what you desire, for sometimes someone hears your prayers and then there is no point of return. I live now on the mountains, as a savage. I tried so many times to go down... But there is no way to do it without falling down into the void. Maybe this would be better, but I'm just not that brave. I keep on wandering the top of the mountain, wishing that some day my sister will come to rescue me. She's my twin, she must feel something is going wrong. It kills me thinking that they might be happily married, that they probably have already overcome my disappearance.

I wanted to be alone... Be careful with what you wish.

Pride and prejudice, after all

Having lived in London for over three months, I finally had had the feeling of maybe being an unwanted guest. This is not about a specific case. Actually, if I were asked to provide any example to make this statement clearer, I would not be able to do it.

I do not know what exactly makes me feel this. Maybe I am getting too paranoid, but every time I go out, I have the strong feeling of being a foreigner. Of course I am, but people shouldn't know it at their first glance. And of course every time I open my mouth to speak, it is evident I am not from this country; and as I haven't got a French accent...Well, they just don't feel comfortable with my Spanish accent, that's all I can say.

I am starting thinking that my Spanish accent is getting even stronger with the passing of time. I have a kind of nostalgic accent: an accent that misses its country and tries to reinforce its identity by putting itself forward. Will I ever sound like a British person? Do I really want to bother myselft by trying to achieve that aim? What do people think when I am trying to express myself?

Although I have met really nice people, there are some who just expect I should know everything about them. I am in favour of getting used to the culture of the country you are living in, but there are plenty of things to learn. I just need time. Therefore, if I do not know on my first day at uni that I have to put my ID card under a bar code reader to complete my registration process, or that potatoes are usually outside at an offlicense shop, or that tips must be over a pound or two to be something acceptable... Do not look at me as if I were the most despicable human being on Earth, because I might seem stupid here, but I deserve a little bit of patience. 

I don't really know where this proud-of-not-being-you attitude comes from. We, the invaders may also be intelligent human beings, no matter how hard it is for you to believe it. That is all I have to say.

What is literature? And... Who cares about it?

  As a student of English language and English literature, it was something unavoidable that some day I would have to go into this kind of theoretical stupid questions about literature.

  Two years ago I had the “pleasure” of being registered for a subject called The theory of literature. It didn't sound so bad at first; I believed it would be just something harder to study - more than subjects like Spanish language I or English I, for instance-. What I didn't expect was a three month programme just about this question: What is literature and what is the importance of what is it? ------ “Great”...

After losing our time talking once and again about the same question without receiving any acceptable answer for months, we finally entered the real subject. My question is: was it necesary? Do we need to question this for so long? Couldn't be just an introductory question for the first lesson?

  The thing is, that it must be more important than I thought because when I arrived this year to London, one of my modules started with the same question: What is literature?---- “Are you kidding me? I went once through this, I do not want to repeat the experience”. Thankfully, English people seem to be more reasonable at this point and -yes!- they have planned that in just two sesions this question should be fairly discussed.

  My point is: I think questioning things that are suposedly to be stablished is really useful– what literature is, in this case – and that is a great help to have a teacher helping you through that process. But, ah, there's the main point: the teacher is just a guidance help. We do not need to be guided through the same question for a whole semester. Once the matter has been put on the table, let the student make his/her own questions. You guide, they choose. And if you need to cover empty hours, do not waste our time. We are not rubish, we are people and just because we are students it doesn't mean that we've got nothing else to do with our life. Therefore I wonder not only what is literature, but also what is studying literature nowadays?