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La Niña Mas Pequeña del Mundo


   (Daniela Zahra - "Las niñas juegan en el jardín")


La Niña Mas Pequeña del Mundo
Por Nenet

Lejos de Buenos Aires, en una cama con sábanas de jersey con estampa de osos, lobos y ciervos, una chica descansa luego de un agotador día de trabajo. En la dimensión del sueño, en la que el buen dormir puede concurrir en pesadilla, la chica es testigo de un cuento.

En él, un hombrecito mitad enano y mitad niño ofrece a una niña un barrilete.La niña remonta el barrilete en un campo, ambos ríen. Como en muchos cuentos, el personaje posee algo de magia: El segundo regalo es un hermoso caballo de pelaje marrón y crin negra. Niña y caballo celebran su encuentro, el geniecillo y la durmiente observan satisfechos. Pero contra un cielo repentinamente rojo, dantesco, alguien dispara una flecha. El caballo herido causa la muerte de su jinete y, en su pena, se arrastra hacia su propio fin. El hombrecito, ahora maldito, golpea su cabeza antes de huir del pueblo.

La espectadora inconsciente descubre que ha sido testigo de un segmento titulado “Viaje a las Aventuras Hacia el Más Allá”: Un programa en donde las narraciones no necesariamente poseen un desenlace feliz, y la moral es cruel.

En los sueños existen campos en llamas, personajes de manos puntiagudas y melenas de oscuro cabello. En lo real, al despertar enredados en sábanas que de algún modo solían protegernos, quisiéramos recordar lo visto con mayor detalle; y seducidos por la imaginación, el placer del miedo y la posibilidad de presenciar algo mágico, recibir también obsequios de parte de espíritus contrahechos de talla liliputiense.

En “Cine Pájaro”, Daniela Zahra -artista y deidad musical de Mujercitas Terror- utiliza atroz e ingeniosamente lápiz y tinta para traer al ámbito de la lucidez ilustraciones de origen inusitado y espectral delicadeza.

La muestra puede verse desde el 21 de Febrero en Fiebre Galería (Av. Santa Fe 2729, Buenos Aires, Capital Federal).

Break-Up

   
(Nenet - "In excelsis" Fig II: Grievance)

Dear xxxxxxxx,

This is another story about the babes.

I met a guy four months ago via Craigslist, after answering his add, which included a song by The Cramps. He is 39. He was a soldier who now works for (...) in a job he hates. It is strange how life makes this peculiar turns, but I'm used to it now, or I want to believe I am.

We met one night at Church & State. I had a well mannered martini, and was all dressed in black -minus a camel color coat and Clarks-. He seemed modest, and he had either rye whiskey or scotch. While he talked, I peeked under the bar stool to see he was wearing leather boots. Leather boots, a brown shirt, glasses. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Bored expression. More lost than bored, as if he left a monastery just to come and meet me. I talked and smiled and had a second martini. He paid for everything -and I made a joke about him paying for everything-.

We said goodnight and wrote e-mails. He later would say that was the most fun he had in a long time. He later would say I was the most interesting person he met in DC. We spent Christmas together. I gave him a black shirt I bought thinking he would look really good in it. I was broke when I did, and didn't care. I knew someone broke his heart for sure, and I wanted to make up for that, because I'm a silly catholic and I believe in love.

One evening, we hung out at The Passenger after I went to Capital Fringe Festival to see a play about immortality, jelly fishes, genetic manipulation and death. I was nervous and chain smoked while I waited for him outside. I had an Old Fashioned and he might have had beer. He confessed he couldn't date me. I asked why. He made a pause, walked outside to smoke a cigarette, and came back to confess he was completely utterly depressed and doomed. He gave up on relationships. He was married for six years. He gave up on the thought of wanting kids, and a family, and someone beside him. He called out. He was merely living, waltzing by, silently knowing one day this would all end. One day, he wouldn't have to wake up to go to work, and brush his hair, and take the bus to Federal Triangle.

The thought of him brushing his hair -so short, blonde and groomed- was the detail that did it for me. I ignored everything he said and of course, fell in love, because why not, because that does it for me. I didn't have a choice, really. I just woke up one day and after that every move was a cornerstone that spun in our world, every secret was our secret, every street was there for us, and every twisted joke was the funniest sickest joke that made other sick jokes pale by comparison. I would like to think he laughed more often. We slept together. In the morning we would have the worse coffee you could possibly imagine, brewed in an empty kitchen in an apartment in northwest DC. And the ashtray was always full.

We talked about all things inappropriate, like Hitler, Fascism, ugliness, children, racism, war, pain and the future, and we made out in his couch. A month passed before we actually kissed. And when we did, it was an upside down kiss: A metaphor of all the upside down seances that would follow.

He never took me to see roller derby, whisked me away to Paris to act like American tourists on purpose, taught me German, followed through our Literature group or had a band called “German Death Ray”.

We broke up because he said he would break me up. He would drag me down along with whatever darkness he hauled along with him. But I’m not scared of the dark -though I was when I was a child- and it would take more than a man to break me.

I woke up and wrote a song. I woke up and wrote another song. I woke up and took a walk, drank a Bloody Mary and bought a book. The book he had and read for me, the book I can buy and read for myself because it takes more than a break up to stop life, to make it a still life, to be gone.

Because If I wallow in pain and misery, then he would be right, and I wouldn't be the kind of person I told him I was: The kind of person who's scared but not that scared, the kind of person who wouldn't let go of his hand when he went astray, the kind of person who would stick to the motherfucking end, because that’s love, and love is there when you feel real and when you don’t.

Last Sunday we had lunch together. It was almost three o clock. He viewed eating as a "food-mouth" equation. His kitchen was empty. The cabinets and fridge were empty. He came to my place and I cooked a mixture of pasta and veggies while narrating a made up cooking program in which I would listen to The Jesus & Mary Chain while trying to be 'upbeat'. His cooking program would be him cursing and smoking over the ingredients to end up ruining all dishes. He petted my roommates dog, then ate all the food in his plate. I talked about The Kinks and The Who and which of them I liked best, and how The Kinks seem to have 35 albums but I think only 5 are actually really good.

I know this is the worse timing, and I know you're gonna hate me for saying this -I confessed last Friday night-, but I love you, and if you could grasp %5 of what I'm saying, things could be so much easier.

I was looking in his eyes when I said this, and felt it multiplied by 1000, like a crazy laser beam of sacredness, of sheer humanity, pain and exhaustion; like an insane lyrical blessing I was passing on. I felt right. And I felt sad and defeated when, as I was saying this, he slowly closed his eyes and achingly stood up. He opened my bedroom door and walked away as I started crying in my bed, wrapped in my own long black skirt.

I woke up on Saturday morning and everything was strangely calm. Penn Camera gave me back a developed film that has the only photo of him I now hold.

Today I thought about joking about break ups, but I used to joke with him.
I guess now the jokes on us.
 

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