lasmedusasdemay-blog

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

Quizás realmente me educaron bien pero no bien para vivir entre humanos. Soy caprichosa y frágil, me duelen los tobillos y se me escapan las palabras. Pido muchas veces perdón porque no sé hacerlo de otra forma, no es que mienta. Pesada, maleducada, insolente, intransigente, loca, histérica, insoportable, imbécil, tonta, obsesiva. Creo que hasta que cumplí veinte años el único insulto que me habían dicho era que tenía muchos pelos en las piernas. Me lo dijo un niño al que no quise besar. Después los hombres se empezaron a enfadar mucho conmigo y mi padre no estaba ahí para decirme si hacía las cosas mal. Eso sí, ya tenía las piernas muy suaves porque me había hecho el láser para que a los chicos no les diese asco. Supongo que sí hago muchas cosas mal pero ojalá no me gritaran y pudiese aprender sin llorar tanto. Todos los años desde los veinte lloro mucho. Desde pequeña en realidad pero sobretodo desde los veinte. Siento contínuamente que no estoy hecha para un mundo tan agresivo que me golpea e insulta sin piedad. Me pongo muy triste y pienso en morir. Siempre quiero estar bonita y anhelo los halagos como si significasen algo. Al final sí que estaré loca. Me gustaría deshacerme de todo el sexo y la carne y convertirme en un espíritu que pudiese transcender más allá del amor. Mi madre me dejó escrito un mensaje que decía que ya encontraría a mi verdadero amor. Cuando te das cuenta de que un ser todopoderoso, una madre, puede caer en el error, ya no puedes creer en nada más. Os echo mucho de menos. Gracias por darme la oportunidad de ver toda esta belleza, a la Misha, al Pitu. Las plantas y los perritos por la calle. Todo lo demás es muy duro y me duele mucho. Vosotros erais muy buenos y espero que estéis juntos. Quizás algún día nos juntemos todos y yo deje de querer una familia, porque ya tengo una.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

The stones were cold, and wet, and salty, and shiny under the moonlight. My hands were cold and sometimes shaky under that old blanket that you always brought to the beach. You would stare at the horizon and drink and talk, as if you were made of silver on those full moon nights. I was wearing those red pyjamas, the ones I remember so well because they were kind of small, and the guys would look at my butt. My butt was salty and my legs were sticky, I used to bite my knees. I was wearing those red pyjamas and I can tell I always felt special wearing them to the beach at night. Maybe the sea also felt special on those nights that we made a home out of her. The waves broke peacefully on the shore and reached our tiptoes, and that would give you shivers and you would laugh and bury your feet. I guess there was something magical about having the sea, the stars, the trees shining just for us at 3 a.m on a summer night.

I wonder now what did you think about and what did you care about on those summer lonely nights. A part from aliens and stuff.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

I would have told you about all the places where I fell in love. I would have shown you the pictures that they took of me. I would have I would have I would have hugged you forever.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

Starless Tokyo

Even if it was already passed midnight, the sky had that redish colour of a city that never sleeps. “I wish I could turn off all the lights and look at the stars even if it was only for one second” I thought to myself. Ah, I kind of wanted to cry. I was sitting by the Sumida river then, right in front of the always sparkling Tokyo Skytree. The nights were starting to get colder, so I put on my hoodie and hugged my legs, trying to make myself look like a little ball that no one would notice. Not that there was many people around to notice, anyway. Only a few joggers and two drunk salary man passed by. I stared at the reflection of the cars on the calm waters and thought about the fat koi that lived among them. Tears came down my face. Home didn’t feel like home anymore.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

What remains of summer.

The streets were still wet from the last showers of a summer typhoon. Apparently, the rainy season had arrived a little bit late that year. I slowly walked down the street, rhytmically tapping the ground with my umbrella. It created a pleasing melody together with the sound of my steps. My black patent shoes looked even shinier than usual with the tiny drops of rain. My hair was frizzy because of the humidity and my hands sweaty inside the pockets of a plastic raincoat (that I very much loved). A cool breeze that almost smelled like the sea brought back the tenderness of being home again. “Is this what happiness feels like?” I asked to myself and hurried up among the nearly empty streets of Mejiro.

The flowers that bloom when autumn comes.

Days of solitude among the mapple trees.

Once, I touched one of them in a pet shop and got very surprised at how silky and soft they were. That one cost more than one hundrend thousands yen.

Lover and executioner.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

Nits de foguera

Hi ha nits de foguera en les que totes les meues llàgrimes no podrien vènçer el desassossec que em crema per dins. A sovint pense en eixes nits rojes, de sang, de foc, de ferida, de la teua llengua contra la meua galta. A sovint pense en mossegar-te i desfer-te d’eixa calidesa, engolir tot allò que deuria ser meu, marcar la teua pell amb els records d’angoixa i foc. En les nits de foguera et treuria el cor i sentiria la flama suau que deixa el teu cos inhert. No hi hauria plors ni dol, ni terra que protegira tot allò que creus sagrat, pur. Beneït pels llavis que han trobat en tú el sabor i la tibiesa d’un amor que ja està extinguit. Beneït pel sabor a sal, els taulellets blancs i els genolls que colpejen el terra.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

I wouldn’t mind you under my skin.

I wouldn’t mind you under my skin, under my nails, under my tongue, I wouldn’t mind but still - . I wouldn’t mind the warmth, the sweat, the fire but still - .

Se me encienden las pestañas y queman las pupilas, me abrasa el fuego del aliento desconocido. Pero tan cercanco, tan de ayer, de mañana, pasado, más allá. Me ciega la calidez de una boca que sólo es la mía, otra vez. Me ciega y me abrasa el fuego que aviva el miedo al vacío. A la nada y al recuerdo, a la voz que te pregunta si no has tenido suficiente ya. No. Nunca es suficiente. Pero aún así, prendería si puediese estas palabras y esos labios que cortan de nuevo la piel. Y no brota la sangre.

Las ojeras se me tiñen de púrpura y me acuerdo de ti. Del humo entre tus labios y de cómo el tiempo y el espacio giraban a tu alrededor. Y todo me llevaba a ti. Me arrojaba contra ti. Me golpeaba y desgarraba. Tu oscuridad sólo se comparaba a la mía y me envolvía con una asfixiante calidez. Eras la luna. Desconocida, bella, bella, bella, te quería, creo.

Pero ja no. Ho sent, reina, nina, lluna, oscuritat. Adéu a tú també. Si la tendresa no m’acarona l’ànima que res més ho faça.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

sex

is the last weapon

that I have

to fight you

to raven you

to cry myself asleep

neither love

caresses

or beauty

will make you

come back

to

me

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

Desconegudes

Voldria besar-te les galtes i dir-te que fa quatre anys que et somie morta, però avui et veig per primera vegada fora d’una pantalla i et bese, i t’acarone, i no et preocupes. Estaràs bé, ets bonica, ets bonica, ets bonica. T’odiava perque ets bonica, ets una bruixa, i hui t’estime perque la teua soledat s’equipara a la meua, i vull besar-te les galtes i que em beses i no hi haja res més. Si demà no ets ací ploraré. Si demà no hi ets tornaré a odiar-te i pot ser m’odiaré a mí mateixa una mica més també. Em llig en els teus llavis vermells i desitje alliverar-nos d’eixa mandra que ens ofega cada matinada, desitje que no ens arroseguem més i per què no, desitje no estar reflexada en les teues paraules i agafar-te la mà. Abraçar-te com a mí mai m’abraçaren, sabent així i tot que no mereixerà la pena i que pot ser tot siga fruit de l’egoïsme de fer fora els meus fantasmes. La tristor i els deliris ens fan dolentes i lletjes, els espills es trenquen al veure el nostre reflexe i ens piquen els ulls de tant plorar. Pot ser no mereixem més que l’obscuritat i les pareds tacades de sang (o eren aquarel·les?).

Si de veres desitjes dormir, preferiries no haver despertat en aquella nit de foc?

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

less clumsy less ungly less sad what do you think you deserve anyway

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

蛍

A vegades em crema l’ànima un foc verd com el d’una lluerna. A vegades sent com descendeix per la meua gola i il·lumina tot allò que és fosc i està amagat. Tot allò que no és humà sinò fantasia i somnis (no dels dolents). Em crema l’ànima amb tendresa i innocència, fa cendres de tot allò que ja no hi dueria ser, tot allò que mai dueria haver sigut. A vegades, quasi sempre, voldria que les lluernes visqueren per sempre dins de mí, del meu cor, dels meus ulls. El seu brunzit seria suau i m’acaronaria la seua flama, la calidesa d’una nit d’estiu.

Enceneu, cremeu les paraules i la violència que maltracten les ànimes més dolces. Sobrevisqueu al fred i a la desestima, a l’oblit.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

Jellyfish for an aching heart ( Or the girl in the water tank 2)

May Kasahara loved watching those little jellyfish inside the water tank. She would follow them with her eyes, trying to find each’s peculiarities, trying to differentiate them. But eventually two or three of them would dance together and her mind would fly somewhere else. She wondered if the jellyfish could differentiate her from all the other faceless creatures around her. May Kasahara found the peace her heart needed with the flow of those magic tentacles. However, she was too afraid to look for her marine friends in the sea, and would dream about touching their shiny bodies without getting hurt.

May Kasahara loved watching those little jellyfish inside the water tank. She loved it when the darkness surrounded her and they moved vaguely under the golden light. When she stared at them for some minutes, she could even close her eyes and imagine the trajectory of their floating bodies. In that moment, the jellyfish could swim across her inner thoughts, across her veins and find a warm place in her heart. Her heart was in love and found peace each time the ghostly creatures reached him.

May Kasahara was herself a jellyfish a little bit bigger than usual. More than once she found herself being dragged by the currents of life, and without voice or vote she accepted the places that the dirty waters took her in. However, her pale body still glowed in the darkness and her hair smelled of cherry-trees (she was not a common jellyfish). May Kasahara was a jellyfish in love, soft and tender, she found herself injecting poison in her own skin, soft and tender, she cried for the warmness that would eventually be denied to her.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

Home-less

You know, you get home and it doesn’t feel like home, and your head aches so much. You look at yourself in the mirror and your eyes are so red, they hurt, and your face so wet. You try to calm yourself down, again. Come on, little girl, home will be home one day. You slowly unpack your bags, and tell that voice to shut up. Come on, shut up. You bought a lot of cute stuff you don’t care about anymore, but maybe tomorrow. You look at it and your face gets more wet, are you feeling lonely little girl? You look around and around and home doesn’t feel like home anymore. I guess you’re just wishing you had someone to give you a hug and stroke your hair until you fell asleep. Someone? He would kiss you so gently and touch your nose and I guess you would feel again like the princess you’re not. Come one, shut up. Your eyes will be all puffy tomorrow if you keep on crying like that. You need to grow up, yes, grow up, you repeat to yourself. Where are you, in a movie or in reality? Come on, grow up. You dry your tears but your eyes ache, your head aches, your heart aches so much. Everything aches, again, and again your body falls asleep while your mind wakes up. You know, tomorrow your eyes will be puffy and you’ll want to stay in bed all day. And home still won’t be home tomorrow, because all you’ll want is to have him kiss your head, you, dumb.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

The girl in the water tank

The stones were cold, and wet, and salty, and shiny under the moonlight. His hands were cold and sometimes shaky under that old blanket that you always brought to the beach. He would stare at the horizon and drink and talk, and he looked as if he was made of silver on those full moon nights. You were wearing your red pyjamas, that one you can remember so well because it was kind of small, and the guys would look at your butt. Your butt was salty and your legs were sticky, you used to bite your knees. You were wearing your red pyjamas and I can tell you always felt special wearing it to the beach at night. Maybe the sea also felt special on those nights that you made a home out of her. The waves broke peacefully on the shore and reached your tiptoes, and that would give you shivers and you would laugh and bury your feet. I guess there was something magical about having the sea, the stars, the trees shining just for you at 3 a.m on a summer night.

I wonder now what did you think about and what did you care about on those summer lonely nights. A part from aliens and stuff.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

Tinc la ment buida de tant pensar-te, de tant somiar-te, de recòrrer les cicatrius de la teua ànima, de la teua pell. I recorde les pareds de sang i aquarel·la, de dolor i nits de insomni, que ara són llenç en blanc, puresa però tristor. Acarona’m el cap i que no sigui per compromís; fes-me una besada, però amb un somriure, digues que res no està tan mal. La tendror es rovella, es podreix si l’amagues, si l’oblides. Ja l’has oblidada. Pense que tenim des d’aleshores els ulls més cansats, i perdona per haver-teu dit, ja saps que ets bonic, com sempre, ets salvatge, ets un any més major. Però l’oscuritat es desboca pels teus ulls negres i embruta la blancor del teu cos, la veritat de les teues paraules i desitja conquerir innocència i bondat. Si m’agafares la mà et mostraria que res no està tan mal, que vivim per fantasies.

Anit em vas ferir el cor i la carn, els llançols es tacaren de sang, els llavis es pintaren de roig, la calor i el foc encengueren la ferida humida. I al tancar el ulls i sentir la teua respiració tranquil·la, l’agonia va tornar a brotar en el món dels somnis i vaig lluitar contra monstres i fantasmes en un castell de pareds granat. De nou, m’esgarres l’ànima, adéu.

[lasmedusasdemay-blog]

Las nínfulas de Nabokov y la pérdida del poder

La pérdida del poder que se ignora pero yace en lo profundo del ser, en la naturaleza casi diabólica, en la sonrisa torcida de la nínfula. El bien y el mal en un ser, la piel tácita y la muerte, la sangre que hierve. Humbert se preguntó por las nínfulas que crecen, pero y ellas, ¿toman consciencia de su condición al dejar de serlo? El brillo de la inocencia pervertida que queda siempre en su pupila, los andares danzarines, las mejillas sonrosadas. La nínfula que crece toma consciencia de la pérdida de un poder del que nunca supo y que nunca utilizó (¿por suerte?). El mundo de la nínfula se tiñe de nostalgia y de una mueca envidiosa que no hace sino alejarla de su dormir infantil. 

Nymphette