Her 8-sided mirror

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She fucking pisses me off.

The neighbor fucking pisses me off.

Her 8-sided octagonal mirror really fucking pisses me off, you know, the one that’s hanging there in her dining room with her brand new fake-vintage-style chairs, and her dresser slash display case with its glass doors and mirrored back, which she’s stuffed full to bursting with that cute brass star which she must have bought down at the San Angel Saturday market way back when all those supposedly handmade arts and crafts from Tlaquepaque were still in vogue back in 1998, right next to the designer mini-speakers connected to her Mac which she’s always sitting in front of, her back turned to me, fixating on her smartphone while the glowing screen of her Mac lights her up but also illuminates those impossibly psychedelic colors of her African marigolds, those weird flowers they call flor de muertos, “flower of the dead”, in Mexico, with that bizarre Aztec name, cempazúchitl, and the way it’s lighting up her face, she looks a little like a corpse herself, a sexy corpse, but the truth is, it’s not her Mac screen that makes her look so bright, but the energy-efficient earth-friendly hundred million watt lightbulb in her ergonomically-designed lamp that helps me be a Peeping Tom – just like Leon-O of the Thundercats – who can see across great distances with his ‘Sight beyond Sight’ – so I can stare at her when she’s wearing her flesh-colored mini thong (is it there? or isn’t it?) coming out of her bathroom and going into her bedroom, her back turned just like Jennifer Aniston in that film with Vince Vaughan and then she slowly turns around, 45 degrees, just so she can stop and stare at herself in the mirror built into her door, with me all the while staring at her from my kitchen as she’s staring at herself while she puts on her all-black outfit, and she’s gotta be thinking, “girl, you are sooo hot,” and me going, “she’s gotta be some kind of high-class call girl?”, that’s sure as hell what I’m thinking, the kind of logical conclusion which occurs to people who fucking hate octagonal mirrors and designer speakers which every morning, come rain or shine, are blasting out jazz and/or some more contemporary tunes which actually sound like music as they leak into my ears, and all the way inside my nocturnal owl mind, still half-asleep at 10 in the morning, so, yeah, I gotta admit, maybe the problem isn’t the neighbor, maybe it’s me, cause how fucking many times have I come out of my bathroom going to my bedroom to put on the exact same clothes as she’s wearing? How many times have I put on the music and how many neighbors think the exact same things about me that I’m thinking about her, how much she fucking pisses me off, but maybe I’m the one that’s pissing everyone off, needing, sure as shit, to fucking piss off someone, which is really just another way, isn’t it, of needing to…flow. To just let it all go. Even though I figure that to have a house, or a place you call home, that’s something that takes years to put together, putting a table here, hanging a painting there, something you pick up over time, from some people who come, or others who stay behind, it doesn’t all happen in one day after making that big move, the one where everything gets written down in a list, each thing in its own place, starting with that kitchy brass ‘handmade’ star from Tlaquepaque that’s been oh-so-carefully positioned in a place of honor over the display case slash dresser with those little glass doors that ever seem to protect anything important, and its fake wood-grain surface that’s really nothing but machine-stamped cardboard, and finally, and always, her goddamn built-in octagonal mirror, the one she’s always staring into like the narcissist she is, the one where I can see my own reflection right now, staring back at me with that Mona Lisa smile, my own face telling me who-do-you-think-you’re-fucking-kidding, who-do-you-think-you’re-looking-at-anyway?

The neighbor.

But…

I’m the neighbor, too.

originally published on November 4, 2016
original text “Su espejo octagonal” by Adriana Degetau
collaborative translation by Miguel Tejada-Flores

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Su espejo octagonal

espejo

Me caga

Me caga la vecina

Me caga su espejo octagonal colgado en su sala comedor y sus nuevas sillas estilo vintage, con su cómoda slash vitirna de puertas de vidrio y espejo de fondo, en la que recarga su estrella de latón seguramente comprada en el mercado de San Angel cuando los productos de Tlaquepaque estaban de moda en 1998, y al lado sus bocinas conectadas a su mac y ella frente eso, dándome la espalda, viendo la pantalla de su celular, con el fulgor de la pantalla de su mac alumbrándola a ella y a las flores de cempaxúchitl que adornan su centro de mesa, aunque a decir verdad no es el fulgor de la pantalla de su mac  sino el foco ecológico de cien mil watts que me permite ver cual Peeping Tom –como a Leonoro de los Thundercats- más allá de lo vidente-, como cuando sale en tanga color carne (está ahí no está ahí?) del baño hacia su cuarto, de espalda al estilo Jennifer Aniston en la peli  con Vince Vaughn y se mueve 45 grados para verse en el espejo empotrado en su puerta,  yo viéndola desde mi cocina poniéndose su vestido negro y seguramente pensando “estoy buenísima”, y yo “¿será escort?”, porque es lo que pienso, lo que pensamos las personas que les cagan los espejos octagonales y las bocinas de diseño que durante las mañanas retumban de jazz y/o acordes más actuales que son música para mis oídos en mi mente de búho nocturno apenas durmiendo a las 10 am, entonces no todo está mal con la vecina, sino conmigo, porque ¿cuántas veces he salido yo del baño hacia mi cuarto a vestirme igual que ella? Cuántas veces he puesto la música y cuántos vecinos piensan de mí lo que yo pienso de ella, que me caga, pero la cagada soy yo, necesitando, seguramente, cagar, es decir, fluir. Dejar ir. A pesar de que suponga yo que una casa o un hogar se hace a través de los años, poniendo una mesa acá, colgando una pintura allá, con la vivencia del tiempo, de la gente que viene y otra se queda, y no precisamente todo en un día tras la mudanza en la que todo quda cual catálogo o maqueta, con la estrella de latón de Tlaquepaque expuesta estratégicamente sobre la cómoda vitrina con puertecillas de vidrio sin nada qué guardar y su superficie de madera cartón prensado y su espejo octagonal que me refleja.

La vecina.

Tambíen soy yo una vecina.

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I have become omfortably numb

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La definición de Comfortably Numb: I think I had tendencies toward depression from quite young. It became really acute when I was sort of twenty-five to twenty-eight was a dark time. It’s that absence of feeling — and it’s even the absence of hope that you can feel better. And it’s so difficult to describe to someone who’s never been there because it’s not sadness. Sadness is — I know sadness — sadness is not a bad thing. You know? To cry and to feel. But it’s that cold absence of feeling — that really hollowed-out feeling.
La definición es de J.K. Rowling. “Comfortably Numb” de Pink Floyd. Y el estado es mío

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So be addicted

Choose life, choose Twitter, Facebook, Instragram, and hope that someone somewhere cares…
Trainspotting 2!!! Yeah!!!! And watch history repeat itself…. Choose your reality tv and and and then… then… take a deep breath. You’re an addict, so be addicted, just be addicted to something else… choose your future… choose life…

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Cayendo

Así estaba
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Así estoy
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Así caeré
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Hanging up the timeline

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The 10-year-old boy picked up the timeline which was lying there in front of him, and he lifted it up to his right eye as though it were a kaleidoscope, and suddenly he was able to see the moment-of-his-life where he was, the beginning, the end, and the entire course not just of his existence but of all of time in that one glance, in literally the blink of an eye. The sudden flash of the supposed Big Bang, the dinosaurs, all those other strange beasts and plants which he had never seen, and then – yes! his cat, the gatiti he missed so much – which had been hit by a car when he was 7 years old – and he also saw his grandparents, and his uncles and aunts… Then he saw himself, 1-year-old, sitting bareass on the tiny potty and crying his heart out because he didn’t have his diaper any more, and he saw himself three years ago, eating salt, under the table, hiding from his parents, and he saw himself looking at himself in a kaleidoscope, assembling and joining the figures of elements and beings from every part of time and space that were, that are and that will be, moving them all together in a kaleidoscopic rhythm, so that they were falling and dissolving into themselves, almost tripping and stumbling, and then reforming into the shapes of that which has been and that which will be, giant Jurassic ferns holding up a stream of tiny modern laparoscopic medical examining rooms, and enormous luminescent squid borne aloft by towers of light streaming out of Mexico City’s ancient, overcrowded and teeming borough of Iztapalapa where his parents would never take him…. and all the while, the boy never stops, he keeps creating new forms, new shapes and new elements from water, air, earth and fire, from waves of light, from sound and silence that seem to fill the very space.

He was totally engrossed, totally into it. But then –

His parents called, breaking the spell.

Time for dinner, come to the table. Stop playing now, come sit down before the food gets cold.

And so, ever so slowly, the work of millennia in a few truncated seconds, he lifted the line of time again, carefully – his timeline – looking at it one last time before putting it away, the way a samurai puts away his katana, his traditional sword, sheathing it safely…before the next battle.

Original title: Colgar la línea del tiempo (publicado el 09/04/2016)
Original text by Adriana Degetau
Translation by Miguel Tejada-Flores

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Runner

Estábamos hechos para correr, pero dejamos de correr
y empezamos a beber
Dejamos de beber corriendo
Concluyendo maratones

dicen los alcohólicos sobrios que corren y que he leído

runner

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