hoy inaugura un fotógrafo que amo: arturo aguiaren praxis
arenales 1311
19h
amigas son las que
cuando las invitas a casa a cenar, te traen flores.***
Friends are those who, when you invite them over for dinner, bring you flowers as well as the wine you requested.
Friends, also, are those who, when you email them that you're moving back to New York, answer unanimously:
ABOUT F***ING TIME!!!!!!
yo estoy a favor de la legalización del matrimonio gay/I support the legalization of gay marriage
Este miércoles 28 de abril, los diputados argentinos decidirán entre la discriminación y la Igualdad.Porque confiamos en que se hará (finalmente) justicia, desde la Federación Argentina de Lesbianas Gays Bisexuales y Trans (FALGBT) convocamos a todos y todas a congregarnos frente al Congreso a partir de las 17 hs para celebrar juntos este HISTÓRICO día.
¡Sumate con todos tus amigos, tu familia, y miles de personas que, como vos, apoyan el derecho de todos y todas de formar legalmente una familia con quien amen!
La batalla seguirá en el Senado, y es fundamental que este miércoles seamos MUCHOS MILES para dar un mensaje claro de apoyo popular a la Igualdad.
Por favor reenviá a todos tus contactos de facebook y de email esta invitación.
***
The Argentine Lesbian, Gay, Bi and Transsexual Federation calls for your support as the Argentine Lower House debates passage of the Gay Marriage Bill.
Massive turnout is important as congresswomen and men debate this historic legislation.
April 28, 2010
5pm
Rivadavia and Riobamba
Buenos Aires
invitación
La Niña GuerreraDurante un cóctel de diplomáticos italianos la hijita de un funcionario encuentra a su madre besándose con la esposa del encargado de negocios portugués; una joven de la mlazi sudafricana afronta los golpes de su novia, una comandante sadomasoquista; un intento de asesinato a una pareja lesbiana en Ciudad Juárez; dos púberes argentinas se acarician debajo del mantel de la mesa familiar; los hombres de la casbah marroquí se masturban ante una niña europea de doce años que camina todas las mañanas hacia el Liceo Francés... leer más
El libro de Laura Ramos hace su fiesta de presentación el viernes 7 de Mayo en el stand de Planeta de la Feria del Libro a las 19:30 hs.
Van a leer y pasar música Lisa Kerner, Stefania Fumo y otras artistas que iremos anunciando...
tom ford, le cinéma
Once in a while you get to go to the movies and experience the seventh art in all its glory:
so hail tom ford... artist, texas child, creator of lasting beauty and human understanding.
A veces -muy pocas- voy al cine y quedo en un estado de veneración. Fue el caso anoche,
cuando vi esta obra de un gran maestro que recién dio su primer paso en el séptimo arte.
so hail tom ford... artist, texas child, creator of lasting beauty and human understanding.
A veces -muy pocas- voy al cine y quedo en un estado de veneración. Fue el caso anoche,
cuando vi esta obra de un gran maestro que recién dio su primer paso en el séptimo arte.
acerca de laura
Me saqué esta serie de fotos con la valija a pedido de laura: una mujer poderosa que, en medio de una fiesta en el lejano 2004, me habló espontaneamente... por que sí; ni bien averiguamos lo básico - sos escritora? cool... yo también! - me invitó a partecipar de uno de sus proyectos editoriales.Recién llegada de su galaxia muy muy lejana, llena de esperanza y de buena voluntad, y manejando a penas el spanglish, girlontape ignoraba todavía cuan radical y transgresor había sido el gesto de Laura:
es que en Buenos Aires está sumamente verboten conversar con desconocidos sin presentación previa de parte de amigos en común de origen estrictamente controlada; mejor si del secundario o hasta del fucking jardín.
En fin... el libro de Laura está a punto de lanzarse en la próxima feria del bouquin de Buenos Aires: cierre de etapas, aventuras y travesías....
invitación
El viaje de Laikamuestra fotográfica de Marcelo Setton
Día del Animal • 29 de abril
19h30 • en Amor Animal • Borges 2175
A partir de un recuerdo abstracto, infantil, de la perra Laika - primera cosmonauta rusa que orbitó la Tierra a bordo del Sputnik 2 - el reconocido fotógrafo proyectó la serie de obras. "La imagen de un animal en la negrura del espacio exterior, sin que su propia sombra tenga donde proyectarse." Con la curadoria de Patricia Rizzo.
the passenger
So, you know how I was just saying New York always loved me true?Well... just yesterday a dear friend of mine offered me an apartment in Brooklyn.
I answered her: "You are my angel. And if I ever make it back to my galaxy far far away, I will kiss the ground the minute I step off that plane at JFK."
stef does somos mag
In a historic breakthrough, Stef's photos were not only not stolen by Latin American media - they were published with her credit and paid for... at the same time! Something which hardly ever happens. Witness my spread in Somos, the weekly magazine of Peruvian daily El Comercio.***
Hito historico: por primera vez, las fotos de Stef no sólo no fueron chorreadas... se publicaron pagas y con crédito! Casi nunca las dos cosas se han producido simultaneamente. Gracias a la periodista Gabriela Wiener que me buscó, a los editores honestos del diario El Comercio de Perú y a su revista Somos.
BUSCAMOS UNA NIETA - ABUELAS DE PLAZA DE MAYO
DNI 25.476.305 (mujer) o nº cercano - Hoy en 2010 con 34 años - comparà tu foto.
Chicha Mariani, fundadora de Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo, ya está muy viejita. Quiere alcanzar a reencontrarse con su nieta. Ayudémosla a que su carta recorra el mundo y, en una de esas, genere dudas en alguien... Reenviemos la carta hasta al menos pensado. Que su llamado pueda recorrer nuevos circuitos, que no quede restringido solo a personas vinculadas a organizaciones de derechos humanos, que pueda llegar hasta Clara Anahí. Gracias.
Chicha Mariani, fundadora de Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo, ya está muy viejita. Quiere alcanzar a reencontrarse con su nieta. Ayudémosla a que su carta recorra el mundo y, en una de esas, genere dudas en alguien... Reenviemos la carta hasta al menos pensado. Que su llamado pueda recorrer nuevos circuitos, que no quede restringido solo a personas vinculadas a organizaciones de derechos humanos, que pueda llegar hasta Clara Anahí. Gracias.
they wanna be my dogs
It seems a lot of men fantasize about getting on all fours before a woman.
When I'm out walking my canines I often get:
"Hey sugar... can I be your dog too?"
But, you know... I think a lot of guys just say that.
At the end of the day, the only one who really means it is Iggy.
***
Parece que muchos hombres fantasean con postrarse frente a una mujer.
Cuando paseo a mis canes a menudo me piropean así:
"Tengo correa... puedo ser tu perro también?"
Pero nunca me terminan de convencer... a fin de cuentas, el que realmente
quiere ser mi perro sigue siendo Iggy:
And now I'm ready to feel your hand
And lose my heart on the burning sand!
iggy pop
When I'm out walking my canines I often get:
"Hey sugar... can I be your dog too?"
But, you know... I think a lot of guys just say that.
At the end of the day, the only one who really means it is Iggy.
***
Parece que muchos hombres fantasean con postrarse frente a una mujer.
Cuando paseo a mis canes a menudo me piropean así:
"Tengo correa... puedo ser tu perro también?"
Pero nunca me terminan de convencer... a fin de cuentas, el que realmente
quiere ser mi perro sigue siendo Iggy:
And now I'm ready to feel your hand
And lose my heart on the burning sand!
iggy pop
a tale of Stef and two cities
I do believe cities are organisms with minds of their own: solaris-like, they transmit and shape us to their ideas, purposes and intentions.
In New York for instance, I always felt that the metropolis was, essentially, on my side. For one thing, it never failed to bequeath me amazing places to live: the 450-dollar rent-controlled one-bedroom with a view of St. John the Divine... the 1000 square-foot loft with the Brooklyn Bridge soaring magnificently just outside its early 19th century sash windows... the exquisite co-op on Avenue C overlooking the bird-studded willows and rampant roses of a gigantic, award-winning community garden.
The city, too, had its oracles: ergo the dark-skinned taxi driver of indeterminate third-world provenance who, one night in August 2001, suddenly said a propos of nothing: “There is very bad energy in the city right now, very very bad, very evil.”
“Uh-huh,” I said soothingly. “New York never was a bed of roses…”
Here he turned around and looked me in the eyes: “But you, miss, you must not worry. You will be protected.”
In that moment I knew this was no idle cabbie psychobabble, and that a message was being delivered to me; instantly I believed every word and felt comforted, though I knew not of what. “Thank you very much,” I answered him sincerely, and then forgot all about the incident.
Shortly after that a ridiculously overpaid copy-writing gig fell into my lap, I made seven grand in seven days, and took off to Italy on what turned out to be an epic voyage involving Capri, Tuscany, Rome, the Dalmatian Islands, various creative breakthroughs, and insane amounts of mind-blowing sex. My return ticket was dated September 12, 2001.
Yes… New York always loved me tender, loved me true in spite of my inconstancy. Buenos Aires on the other hand, was never easy to please or be pleased by.
Right now I’m in one of those – phases? ruts? wtf?? - lulls in which, for example, going out is no longer an experience of coherence and joy but rather a sequence of irritating situations, interspersed with rare, tiny jolts of quasi-harmony.
Caveats: any and all conversations with Kat and/or Alexandra, of course, fall into the realm of coherence and joy. So, mysteriously, does going to Café Dadá under any circumstances, in any mood and in any company.
However all good things: Dadá dinners, girly boothside banter, bottles of champagne on the house, must come to an end and I’m back in the stream of warm incoherence, thinking: Why am I being driven to Club Tequila in this 4x4 with tinted windows? Who am I… what is it all for?
And trying to zen it out: There goes the Bellas Artes Museum... there goes the giant metal flower – opening or closing? Ugly or beautiful? Meaningful or junk? Can’t tell, never could – and wham! We hit a good patch. Alex is saying: “I was living on the Lower East Side, dating one of the Ramones – “
Kat: You’re shitting me! Oh my god!
Stef: Did you hang out with Iggy Pop on Avenue B?
Alex: No, but I once had a long chat with Kurt Cobain… I met Eddie Vedder - that whole grunge scene, let me see, who else…
Stef: YOU MET THE LOVE OF MY LIFE? What was he like?? What did he say???
Alex: Oh, right, and Chris Cornell -
Kat: Aaaahhhh! I don’t think I can survive the statement you just made.
Stef: Forget freakin’ Chris Cornell, TELL ME ABOUT EDDIE VEDDER!!!!
Alex: Oh he was way too PC, sooo political….
Sted: OMG I SO LOVE THAT ABOUT HIM. Let me touch you so I can be at one degree of separation from MY IDEAL MATE FOR LIFE (caressing Alex’s sleeve) Oh, Eddie… Eddie….
From the front seat, resentfully: What are you girls going on about?
Alex: Nothing.
Kat: Nada.
Stef: Uhm, the rock stars we used to date?
The front seat has no comeback. End of coherent, joyful patch.
Cut to int. Tequila: the mainstream Argie elite in all its crushing lack of imagination, taste, and glamour. No one, not even the pole dancer, has a clue. “I can’t believe they don’t take credit cards!” fumes Kat’s friend, recently flown in from my galaxy far far away. “I’ve got money to burn, this is ridiculous! Don’t they want my business?”
Alex: Welllll… money-laundering, you know how it is… strictly cash-based…
Stef: Wanna go to kim y novak?
Everyone: YES!!!
Cut to our formerly favorite den of perdition, where unexpectedly I hit an oasis of coherence in the shape of my erstwhile wannabe slave/long ago lover: he’s as dishy as he ever was, and so I’m reminded of the gloriously S&M start of our acquaintance three years ago (more on that elsewhere, but here was my outfit the night we met: notice the riding crop in my right hand.)
I always love to nestle up to this lovely, lovable Brit’s badass body while listening to his sexy Newcastle-inflected voice, which is now confiding that since we last saw each other he slept with – CUT!
(OK I so did not need to hear that, and you my readers so do not need to hear it either, in short: goodbye forever tainted lover!! Goodbye, oh brief glimpse of coherence.)
Fast forward to where two different creeps come trawling up to me & Kat and can’t believe it when they are brutally rejected. You have to understand that a. Kat is beautiful & fabulous & so am I, and b. Both these guys are utterly repulsive.
“Why do they think they can do that? I mean, like, don’t they mind looking like such supreme jackasses?” asks my oh so guileless friend.
“Because,” I explain patiently, “According to the world-view being generated as we speak by the pea-sized brain of the average latino machista, all girls are dumb no matter who they are or what they look like; but gringas are especially dumb, because they always feel obligated to be polite when asked: 'Where are you from?'”
“I want one of those T-shirts,” says Kat.
“The one that says KEEP BACK 200 FT? I keep forgetting to go to Once with my stencil, then keep regretting it every time I go out…”
“You’re so beautiful when you’re all pissy and irritated and hating everyone,” says Kat.
“Ha ha,” I say mirthlessly.
So it all kinda keeps being annoying and joyless, when wham! We sail into another oasis of coherence, because across the room full of repulsive guys trying to make eye contact, and beautiful modelly guys eye-contacting potential sugar daddies, I make contact with – Shane.
Who has many points in his favor, and none against – that’s probably because I’ve met him like, three times in my life. In favor: tall, handsome, manly not machista, Canadian, a photographer, zero sleazy. Against: your guess is as good as mine.
Shane waves hello, Shane comes over, Shane meets Kat, everyone likes everyone, everyone is a photographer, we shout shop over the Kim y Novak disco madness, I wonder yet again why Shane values my opinion about his pictures so much, I like Shane because he’s passionate about photography and therefore my brother in arms,
I want him to succeed and make pots of money at it and I want the same thing for Kat and for myself and for all artists everywhere, Shane worries about his landscapes versus his portraits then says, self-consciously because he’s young: “I really shouldn’t talk to you about photography in night clubs all the time,”
while chugging along the track of my own parallel preoccupation I wonder: Why do I never feel like taking pictures when I go out anymore? I carry my sacred Lumix around religiously but far from being the extension of my body it once was it now lies, inert and forgotten, in my purse as I reach around it for another cigarette,
and at the same time I know it’s because the city in its solaris aspect has somehow withdrawn its nighttime favors and beauties from me. It is telling me to go, or to go inward, to be alone, to grow up, away, towards; to find the next thing, vision, level of meaning, whatever.
“Oh my god!” I yell above the disco din. “Let’s blow this joint already!”
“Please let’s!” Kat yells back.
And we jump into our respective cabs.
In New York for instance, I always felt that the metropolis was, essentially, on my side. For one thing, it never failed to bequeath me amazing places to live: the 450-dollar rent-controlled one-bedroom with a view of St. John the Divine... the 1000 square-foot loft with the Brooklyn Bridge soaring magnificently just outside its early 19th century sash windows... the exquisite co-op on Avenue C overlooking the bird-studded willows and rampant roses of a gigantic, award-winning community garden.
The city, too, had its oracles: ergo the dark-skinned taxi driver of indeterminate third-world provenance who, one night in August 2001, suddenly said a propos of nothing: “There is very bad energy in the city right now, very very bad, very evil.”
“Uh-huh,” I said soothingly. “New York never was a bed of roses…”
Here he turned around and looked me in the eyes: “But you, miss, you must not worry. You will be protected.”
In that moment I knew this was no idle cabbie psychobabble, and that a message was being delivered to me; instantly I believed every word and felt comforted, though I knew not of what. “Thank you very much,” I answered him sincerely, and then forgot all about the incident.
Shortly after that a ridiculously overpaid copy-writing gig fell into my lap, I made seven grand in seven days, and took off to Italy on what turned out to be an epic voyage involving Capri, Tuscany, Rome, the Dalmatian Islands, various creative breakthroughs, and insane amounts of mind-blowing sex. My return ticket was dated September 12, 2001.
Yes… New York always loved me tender, loved me true in spite of my inconstancy. Buenos Aires on the other hand, was never easy to please or be pleased by.Right now I’m in one of those – phases? ruts? wtf?? - lulls in which, for example, going out is no longer an experience of coherence and joy but rather a sequence of irritating situations, interspersed with rare, tiny jolts of quasi-harmony.
Caveats: any and all conversations with Kat and/or Alexandra, of course, fall into the realm of coherence and joy. So, mysteriously, does going to Café Dadá under any circumstances, in any mood and in any company.
However all good things: Dadá dinners, girly boothside banter, bottles of champagne on the house, must come to an end and I’m back in the stream of warm incoherence, thinking: Why am I being driven to Club Tequila in this 4x4 with tinted windows? Who am I… what is it all for?
And trying to zen it out: There goes the Bellas Artes Museum... there goes the giant metal flower – opening or closing? Ugly or beautiful? Meaningful or junk? Can’t tell, never could – and wham! We hit a good patch. Alex is saying: “I was living on the Lower East Side, dating one of the Ramones – “
Kat: You’re shitting me! Oh my god!
Stef: Did you hang out with Iggy Pop on Avenue B?
Alex: No, but I once had a long chat with Kurt Cobain… I met Eddie Vedder - that whole grunge scene, let me see, who else…
Stef: YOU MET THE LOVE OF MY LIFE? What was he like?? What did he say???
Alex: Oh, right, and Chris Cornell -
Kat: Aaaahhhh! I don’t think I can survive the statement you just made.
Stef: Forget freakin’ Chris Cornell, TELL ME ABOUT EDDIE VEDDER!!!!
Alex: Oh he was way too PC, sooo political….
Sted: OMG I SO LOVE THAT ABOUT HIM. Let me touch you so I can be at one degree of separation from MY IDEAL MATE FOR LIFE (caressing Alex’s sleeve) Oh, Eddie… Eddie….
From the front seat, resentfully: What are you girls going on about?
Alex: Nothing.
Kat: Nada.
Stef: Uhm, the rock stars we used to date?
The front seat has no comeback. End of coherent, joyful patch.
Cut to int. Tequila: the mainstream Argie elite in all its crushing lack of imagination, taste, and glamour. No one, not even the pole dancer, has a clue. “I can’t believe they don’t take credit cards!” fumes Kat’s friend, recently flown in from my galaxy far far away. “I’ve got money to burn, this is ridiculous! Don’t they want my business?”
Alex: Welllll… money-laundering, you know how it is… strictly cash-based…
Stef: Wanna go to kim y novak?
Everyone: YES!!!
Cut to our formerly favorite den of perdition, where unexpectedly I hit an oasis of coherence in the shape of my erstwhile wannabe slave/long ago lover: he’s as dishy as he ever was, and so I’m reminded of the gloriously S&M start of our acquaintance three years ago (more on that elsewhere, but here was my outfit the night we met: notice the riding crop in my right hand.)
I always love to nestle up to this lovely, lovable Brit’s badass body while listening to his sexy Newcastle-inflected voice, which is now confiding that since we last saw each other he slept with – CUT!
(OK I so did not need to hear that, and you my readers so do not need to hear it either, in short: goodbye forever tainted lover!! Goodbye, oh brief glimpse of coherence.)
Fast forward to where two different creeps come trawling up to me & Kat and can’t believe it when they are brutally rejected. You have to understand that a. Kat is beautiful & fabulous & so am I, and b. Both these guys are utterly repulsive.
“Why do they think they can do that? I mean, like, don’t they mind looking like such supreme jackasses?” asks my oh so guileless friend.
“Because,” I explain patiently, “According to the world-view being generated as we speak by the pea-sized brain of the average latino machista, all girls are dumb no matter who they are or what they look like; but gringas are especially dumb, because they always feel obligated to be polite when asked: 'Where are you from?'”
“I want one of those T-shirts,” says Kat.
“The one that says KEEP BACK 200 FT? I keep forgetting to go to Once with my stencil, then keep regretting it every time I go out…”
“You’re so beautiful when you’re all pissy and irritated and hating everyone,” says Kat.
“Ha ha,” I say mirthlessly.
So it all kinda keeps being annoying and joyless, when wham! We sail into another oasis of coherence, because across the room full of repulsive guys trying to make eye contact, and beautiful modelly guys eye-contacting potential sugar daddies, I make contact with – Shane.
Who has many points in his favor, and none against – that’s probably because I’ve met him like, three times in my life. In favor: tall, handsome, manly not machista, Canadian, a photographer, zero sleazy. Against: your guess is as good as mine.
Shane waves hello, Shane comes over, Shane meets Kat, everyone likes everyone, everyone is a photographer, we shout shop over the Kim y Novak disco madness, I wonder yet again why Shane values my opinion about his pictures so much, I like Shane because he’s passionate about photography and therefore my brother in arms,
I want him to succeed and make pots of money at it and I want the same thing for Kat and for myself and for all artists everywhere, Shane worries about his landscapes versus his portraits then says, self-consciously because he’s young: “I really shouldn’t talk to you about photography in night clubs all the time,”
while chugging along the track of my own parallel preoccupation I wonder: Why do I never feel like taking pictures when I go out anymore? I carry my sacred Lumix around religiously but far from being the extension of my body it once was it now lies, inert and forgotten, in my purse as I reach around it for another cigarette,
and at the same time I know it’s because the city in its solaris aspect has somehow withdrawn its nighttime favors and beauties from me. It is telling me to go, or to go inward, to be alone, to grow up, away, towards; to find the next thing, vision, level of meaning, whatever.
“Oh my god!” I yell above the disco din. “Let’s blow this joint already!”
“Please let’s!” Kat yells back.
And we jump into our respective cabs.
claudio caldini, le cinéma
meeting great artists is always a privilege in life: for me
one of these is Argentine experimental filmmaker claudio caldini.
This exquisite film, titled lux taal, never fails to move me
on so many different levels, check it out:
one of these is Argentine experimental filmmaker claudio caldini.
This exquisite film, titled lux taal, never fails to move me
on so many different levels, check it out:
stef does shelter mag
Check out my new photo series in German Saez's gorgeously sexy Shelter Mag!My Spanish dedication says: "On the beach, in my hotel room you came back to me whole, erasing the miles the habits the years."
And for those of you who live in Buenos Aires, the print version hits bookstores on April 26.
***
Pasen a ver mi nueva foto serie en Shelter Mag, la super sexy revi de German Saez!
Versión impresa en tu libreria amiga a partir del lunes 26 de abril.
zac posen's prom-centric, lesbian-minded collection
Speaking of proms... if I were in my galaxy far far away, I'd be snagging one of Zac's lesbian-centric frocks at Target right about now."Lesbian proms have been such a big thing in the news lately. Rather than create a fake subculture, I wanted to address things that are actually happening," Posen said.
inspiración
edgardo cozarinsky, le cinéma parte II
Hoy fuimos al bafici a ver apuntes para una biografía imaginaria, de edgardo cozarinsky."Sólo les pido que se dejen llevar", nos dijo el director en su pequeño speech introductorio.
Qué decir de esta película? Que es magnífica, sutil, poética y emocionante; que es un recorrido por archivos históricos, geográficos, temporales, culturales y sentimentales; que es un homenaje a la amistad, al amor y al arte; que es una meditación sobre la mortalidad, la belleza, la pasión, el bien y el mal; que ulises conti - autor del soundtrack y, según el director, "coautor de la película" - es un gran, gran, gran compositor argentino; que me hizo pensar... recordar... reflexionar... llorar.
"Hay muchos vivos en esta película", afirmó el director durante el Q&A después de la proyección. "Estarán muertos según el registro civil, pero siguen vivos para mi."
Me contó su productora, constanza sanz palacios, que la peli se va a estrenar en territorio (inter)nacional: no dejen de ir a verla.
retrato de edgardo por girlontape, publicado en la d-modemag
how Stef discovered the powers of the female Jedi mind
While we're on the subject of boomerangs: what they all say upon aerodynamically resurfacing from the flux of space/time is, "I was smitten, but I was afraid of you Stef."
Which brings me to the eternal question: Just what is it they are they so scared of? Because here’s the thing: I lost my fear of desirable men at sixteen, which is when I accidentally discovered the powers of the female Jedi mind.
Of course, until then I loathed the opposite sex as much as the next kid: in first grade, while in the throes of an unrequited passion for Julian, who was in third grade i.e. remote as a god on Olympus, I ordered my best friend Sheryl to go poke him in the back with a stick during recreation. Sheryl obeyed; Julian turned around briefly at the annoying prodding sensation; and I savored the vicarious, voyeuristic thrill of having somehow intersected with the object of my desire, albeit against his will.
After that I grew into a geeky, bespectacled adolescent whose overprotective, conservative parents, as far as I knew, never partied, never experienced passion, always got up on time, and were never confused about anything.
Plus: how to explain the misery of glasses? I couldn’t stand to be looked at, I didn’t want to look at anyone, I was ugly, I hated the entire world, it went on and on forever. Meanwhile, unjustly trapped within this self-loathing, obedient, unsightly and unsighted straight-A girlduckling, a fledgling swanwoman raged and lusted for release.
Which came at sixteen, in the shape of a pair of contact lenses. In the mirror a new face emerged which, though far from the excruciating perfection of Brooke Shields on the cover of Seventeen, I found not unworthy of representing me to the world - especially after extensive application of eye shadow in three different colors and like, a ton of black eyeliner.
I went to see flashdance, then in unison with every other teenage girl in America ripped the collar off all my boring sweatshirts so they’d fall languidly off one shoulder. I let my hair down, and found it to be ever so long, and shiny, and exciting. My new tight, tight jeans were also exciting: I felt them in my room, where I danced by myself to this cool new song called tainted love. Inevitably, I began to plot.
First on the agenda: getting a boy to kiss me. A tall order for Stef who, clueless as to what hanging out like an American teenager might entail, observed the cool kids mingling in the school parking lot, trading cigarettes, lounging on their cars, and interchanging vital info on the next party location. No individual boy caught her attention per se; rather, they existed for her as a collective entity, a specimen of which she understood it was her mission to somehow attract into her orbit.
Miraculously one night, Stef gets invited to something actually resembling a party - booze, loud music, darkness, no adult supervision. Ignorant of what constitutes proper decadent behavior among the natives, but confident of the way her father’s stolen cashmere v-necked sweater slithers revealingly about her torso, she stands against a wall scanning the room for potential targets, and zeroes in on - Aaron. He's a senior and she's a junior, i.e. they are social galaxies apart; not only that, but Stef lacks the skills she needs to get within range: she doesn't know how to drink, smoke, flirt, or even what band is blasting on the stereo right now.
So instead, she just stands there and kind of wills him to cross the room. She’s thinking, Come here and kiss me now. Five minutes later he's right in front of her; five minutes after that their tongues are making contact. He's a lousy kisser, but this doesn't dim the radiance of Stef's discovery, which is that no guy, not even the most remote, handsome, seemingly unattainable and thoroughly intimidating senior, is immune to the powers of the female Jedi mind.
She gets to test this preliminary discovery later that year, albeit setting the bar a little higher: the prom is looming, and the entire student body is jockeying for dates. Still lacking the right connections, still clueless behind her luscious new exterior, Stef nevertheless nurses certain ambitions - break new ground, test some limits, whatever - which translate into a burning desire to go to the prom with the most badass boy in school. This is Luke, a senior with blond rock n roll hair who wears glamorously threatening motorcycle jackets, smokes, drives a muscle car, runs with a fast crowd, and doesn’t know she exists.
Stef realizes she’s aiming way, way out of her league, and doesn’t even contemplate actually succeeding. But she does sort of... will him to approach her. One day as she’s walking across the quad there he is at her side, and they’re having their first conversation ever:
-Uh... hi, Stef?
-Hi.
-Listen, uh... hey, uh... I was wondering… do you wanna like, go to the prom with me or something?
-Yeah, OK.
-OK, cool. So I'll come pick you up around seven?
-OK.
-OK, so I'll see you later.
-OK, bye.
And they flee hastily in opposite directions. Humbled by this further dazzling proof of the magnitude of her powers, Stef realizes she’s officially on a roll: nothing now can stop her from claiming her prize, which is to make out heavily for the first time in her life with her wickedly sexy date on somebody's parents' living room floor after the prom, with the lights turned way down and Pink Floyd turned way up. Which she does.
But Luke bungles it: he drools, makes all the wrong moves, acts like a dork – perhaps may even BE one. Stef instantly loses all respect for him and goes home early; he spends what’s left of the school year following her around in a daze of abject lust, while she gets to practice the art of rejection.
As I was saying: I lost my fear of desirable men at sixteen… so why is it they still fear me?
And, the thing about power: it’s designed to engage with a worthy adversary… isn’t it? Sometimes looking back I feel like an over-equipped yet hapless specimen, fated to inspire only petty variations of envy, greed and fear: what’s the fucking point? Unless this is somebody’s idea of entertainment and as per the ancient Greeks, we’re just reality TV for bored, sadistic little gods…
Which brings me to the eternal question: Just what is it they are they so scared of? Because here’s the thing: I lost my fear of desirable men at sixteen, which is when I accidentally discovered the powers of the female Jedi mind.
Of course, until then I loathed the opposite sex as much as the next kid: in first grade, while in the throes of an unrequited passion for Julian, who was in third grade i.e. remote as a god on Olympus, I ordered my best friend Sheryl to go poke him in the back with a stick during recreation. Sheryl obeyed; Julian turned around briefly at the annoying prodding sensation; and I savored the vicarious, voyeuristic thrill of having somehow intersected with the object of my desire, albeit against his will.
After that I grew into a geeky, bespectacled adolescent whose overprotective, conservative parents, as far as I knew, never partied, never experienced passion, always got up on time, and were never confused about anything.
Plus: how to explain the misery of glasses? I couldn’t stand to be looked at, I didn’t want to look at anyone, I was ugly, I hated the entire world, it went on and on forever. Meanwhile, unjustly trapped within this self-loathing, obedient, unsightly and unsighted straight-A girlduckling, a fledgling swanwoman raged and lusted for release.
Which came at sixteen, in the shape of a pair of contact lenses. In the mirror a new face emerged which, though far from the excruciating perfection of Brooke Shields on the cover of Seventeen, I found not unworthy of representing me to the world - especially after extensive application of eye shadow in three different colors and like, a ton of black eyeliner.I went to see flashdance, then in unison with every other teenage girl in America ripped the collar off all my boring sweatshirts so they’d fall languidly off one shoulder. I let my hair down, and found it to be ever so long, and shiny, and exciting. My new tight, tight jeans were also exciting: I felt them in my room, where I danced by myself to this cool new song called tainted love. Inevitably, I began to plot.
First on the agenda: getting a boy to kiss me. A tall order for Stef who, clueless as to what hanging out like an American teenager might entail, observed the cool kids mingling in the school parking lot, trading cigarettes, lounging on their cars, and interchanging vital info on the next party location. No individual boy caught her attention per se; rather, they existed for her as a collective entity, a specimen of which she understood it was her mission to somehow attract into her orbit.
Miraculously one night, Stef gets invited to something actually resembling a party - booze, loud music, darkness, no adult supervision. Ignorant of what constitutes proper decadent behavior among the natives, but confident of the way her father’s stolen cashmere v-necked sweater slithers revealingly about her torso, she stands against a wall scanning the room for potential targets, and zeroes in on - Aaron. He's a senior and she's a junior, i.e. they are social galaxies apart; not only that, but Stef lacks the skills she needs to get within range: she doesn't know how to drink, smoke, flirt, or even what band is blasting on the stereo right now.
So instead, she just stands there and kind of wills him to cross the room. She’s thinking, Come here and kiss me now. Five minutes later he's right in front of her; five minutes after that their tongues are making contact. He's a lousy kisser, but this doesn't dim the radiance of Stef's discovery, which is that no guy, not even the most remote, handsome, seemingly unattainable and thoroughly intimidating senior, is immune to the powers of the female Jedi mind.
She gets to test this preliminary discovery later that year, albeit setting the bar a little higher: the prom is looming, and the entire student body is jockeying for dates. Still lacking the right connections, still clueless behind her luscious new exterior, Stef nevertheless nurses certain ambitions - break new ground, test some limits, whatever - which translate into a burning desire to go to the prom with the most badass boy in school. This is Luke, a senior with blond rock n roll hair who wears glamorously threatening motorcycle jackets, smokes, drives a muscle car, runs with a fast crowd, and doesn’t know she exists.
Stef realizes she’s aiming way, way out of her league, and doesn’t even contemplate actually succeeding. But she does sort of... will him to approach her. One day as she’s walking across the quad there he is at her side, and they’re having their first conversation ever:
-Uh... hi, Stef?
-Hi.
-Listen, uh... hey, uh... I was wondering… do you wanna like, go to the prom with me or something?
-Yeah, OK.
-OK, cool. So I'll come pick you up around seven?
-OK.
-OK, so I'll see you later.
-OK, bye.
And they flee hastily in opposite directions. Humbled by this further dazzling proof of the magnitude of her powers, Stef realizes she’s officially on a roll: nothing now can stop her from claiming her prize, which is to make out heavily for the first time in her life with her wickedly sexy date on somebody's parents' living room floor after the prom, with the lights turned way down and Pink Floyd turned way up. Which she does.
But Luke bungles it: he drools, makes all the wrong moves, acts like a dork – perhaps may even BE one. Stef instantly loses all respect for him and goes home early; he spends what’s left of the school year following her around in a daze of abject lust, while she gets to practice the art of rejection.
As I was saying: I lost my fear of desirable men at sixteen… so why is it they still fear me?
And, the thing about power: it’s designed to engage with a worthy adversary… isn’t it? Sometimes looking back I feel like an over-equipped yet hapless specimen, fated to inspire only petty variations of envy, greed and fear: what’s the fucking point? Unless this is somebody’s idea of entertainment and as per the ancient Greeks, we’re just reality TV for bored, sadistic little gods…
i wear black, you wear black
I wear black on St. Germain des Pres
feelings in the air that love today
it's true I don't believe in love beyond the grave
but then I listen to a trumpet play
I traveled miles and miles in bed
miles and miles playing in my head
I wear black you wear black
makes me cry to think like that
malcolm mcLaren 1946-2010
boomerang mon amour
Life has afforded me multiple proofs of the girlTheorem that boys are, indeed, boomerangs. It may take them weeks, hours, years... but one way or another, come hell or high water - these days though, it's usually via facebook - they come winging back. So, for example, Pierre.
FADE IN New York 2002. He came up to me after one of my erotica readings on the Lower East Side: his eyes pinging with lust, his boy brain chugging I wonder is she as kinky as the story she just read out loud, she must, must, must be, I mustmustmust find out first hand so help me god, repeat.
Pierre is handsome, Pierre is talented... Pierre is way, way horny. Stef digs Pierre's music, Stef is missing this other guy... Stef takes Pierre home.
It turns out everything about him is just so delightful, fruity and enticing - mouth skin smell hands voice taste shape size weight attitude - Stef finds herself wishing she weren't so upset over this other guy so she could be free to appreciate just how much she's liking Pierre.
But it's a moot point anyway, because it turns out Pierre has a brand-new girlfriend. "She's very pure," he tells Stef proudly. Pierre and Stef become lovers. Stef forgets about missing that other guy; Pierre consolidates his relationship with his pure, trusting, monogamous girlfriend.
One night at a party he tells her, "I could never be with you because we're so alike it's scary," and Stef thinks that's so unfair. I'm nothing like you, she wants to tell him but doesn't. I wouldn't cheat on you.
She wrote a little poem about her various dishonest lovers at the time, it started off with: The arrogance of Pierre/And a lust so sincere/Make me take him on a dare.
Stef wishes she didn't have this much chemistry with a player; at the same time she can't refuse him, and is sorry when at last he decides to stop fooling around and start being faithful to his girlfriend.
One day months later she runs into him in a restaurant. She's with her new lover and is happy, and all she feels upon seeing him again is There goes someone I used to like... no hard feelings... just glad it's over. And that's a wrap on Pierre.
CUT TO facebook 2010: Pierre resurfaces all of a sudden aerodynamically from the space/time continuum - as boomerangs are wont to do - in the guise of the following message:
"Just found your blog, it is really beautifully written and inspired. I was particularly blown away by canned heat at woodstock. Any hipster band in Williamsburg right now would give their left thumbs to be one 100th as cool as that. I wrote a song about you back then and I think you would like it...."
Well the song is pretty cool, and it turns out I still like Pierre. He's still an artist just like me, he raised money for Haiti just like me, and he plays Joe's Pub just like I used to do.
I do love those boomerangs when they come back... don't you? Anyway, here are his lyrics to my song:
LEPIDOPTERA
Butterfly, cracked and classic
Spraying bullets from her feelers
Terrifying and Jurassic
Decay delicious on her features
Vibration, communication
In the back seat of a chariot
Opens up the wing of heaven
Tied in dirty velvet lariat
Greenhouse ballroom, tepid opera
Molten snow in sacred urn
Was the flame of Lepidoptera
Which perpetually does burn
Outhouse of a pervert’s tavern
Takes the antlers in her mouth
While the larvae untransformed
Shout her name and dance about
Eastern playhouse, tepid opera
Molten snow from sacred urn
Was the flame of Lepidoptera
And forever will I yearn
FADE IN New York 2002. He came up to me after one of my erotica readings on the Lower East Side: his eyes pinging with lust, his boy brain chugging I wonder is she as kinky as the story she just read out loud, she must, must, must be, I mustmustmust find out first hand so help me god, repeat.
Pierre is handsome, Pierre is talented... Pierre is way, way horny. Stef digs Pierre's music, Stef is missing this other guy... Stef takes Pierre home.
It turns out everything about him is just so delightful, fruity and enticing - mouth skin smell hands voice taste shape size weight attitude - Stef finds herself wishing she weren't so upset over this other guy so she could be free to appreciate just how much she's liking Pierre.
But it's a moot point anyway, because it turns out Pierre has a brand-new girlfriend. "She's very pure," he tells Stef proudly. Pierre and Stef become lovers. Stef forgets about missing that other guy; Pierre consolidates his relationship with his pure, trusting, monogamous girlfriend.
One night at a party he tells her, "I could never be with you because we're so alike it's scary," and Stef thinks that's so unfair. I'm nothing like you, she wants to tell him but doesn't. I wouldn't cheat on you.
She wrote a little poem about her various dishonest lovers at the time, it started off with: The arrogance of Pierre/And a lust so sincere/Make me take him on a dare.
Stef wishes she didn't have this much chemistry with a player; at the same time she can't refuse him, and is sorry when at last he decides to stop fooling around and start being faithful to his girlfriend.
One day months later she runs into him in a restaurant. She's with her new lover and is happy, and all she feels upon seeing him again is There goes someone I used to like... no hard feelings... just glad it's over. And that's a wrap on Pierre.
CUT TO facebook 2010: Pierre resurfaces all of a sudden aerodynamically from the space/time continuum - as boomerangs are wont to do - in the guise of the following message:
"Just found your blog, it is really beautifully written and inspired. I was particularly blown away by canned heat at woodstock. Any hipster band in Williamsburg right now would give their left thumbs to be one 100th as cool as that. I wrote a song about you back then and I think you would like it...."
Well the song is pretty cool, and it turns out I still like Pierre. He's still an artist just like me, he raised money for Haiti just like me, and he plays Joe's Pub just like I used to do.
I do love those boomerangs when they come back... don't you? Anyway, here are his lyrics to my song:
LEPIDOPTERA
Butterfly, cracked and classic
Spraying bullets from her feelers
Terrifying and Jurassic
Decay delicious on her features
Vibration, communication
In the back seat of a chariot
Opens up the wing of heaven
Tied in dirty velvet lariat
Greenhouse ballroom, tepid opera
Molten snow in sacred urn
Was the flame of Lepidoptera
Which perpetually does burn
Outhouse of a pervert’s tavern
Takes the antlers in her mouth
While the larvae untransformed
Shout her name and dance about
Eastern playhouse, tepid opera
Molten snow from sacred urn
Was the flame of Lepidoptera
And forever will I yearn
inauguró lola goldstein en dabbah torrejon
Qué hermosura la muestra que inauguró anoche en dabbah torrejon! Ambulando en los jardines diversamente encantados de lola goldstein y diego vergara, inesperadamente volvimos a encontrar esos aires porteños que tanto solían hechizarnos. Difícil cuantificarlos... pero tienen que ver con ciertas sonrisas, ciertas charlas... cierta joie de vivre. Y por supuesto, con ese amor al arte, sin el cual seríamos tan poca cosa.pintura por lola goldstein
craigslist follies
buscando trabajo en craigslist buenos aires encontré lo siguiente... a gem found while job-trawling on buenos aires craigslist today:Date: 2010-04-07, 6:54AM ART
Please if you have found my DILDO , I will give you a reward.
I cannot live without it!
I think I have left it by the coffee area.
Do not be selfish! Return it to me! Thanks!
Location: SHERATON HOTEL
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
translation for LEL and everyone: call for submissions
call for submissions to hermano and girlontape's first OXI-MORON-PHOTO contest
Cash prizes... publication on our blogs... lots of glory... open to both emerging and established artists! Photographically portray one of the archetypical characters as described on oxi-moron-ba for a chance to win one of the following:
1st prize - 300 USD + drinks with girlontape and hermano
2nd prize - 200 USD + drinks with girlontape and hermano
3rd prize - 100 USD + drinks with girlontape and hermano
terms and conditions here
Cash prizes... publication on our blogs... lots of glory... open to both emerging and established artists! Photographically portray one of the archetypical characters as described on oxi-moron-ba for a chance to win one of the following:
1st prize - 300 USD + drinks with girlontape and hermano
2nd prize - 200 USD + drinks with girlontape and hermano
3rd prize - 100 USD + drinks with girlontape and hermano
terms and conditions here
convocatoria OXI-MORON-FOTO 2010
oxí-moron-ba y girlontape invitan al primer concurso OXI-MORON-FOTO.
Convocamos a fotógrafos aficionados y expertos a presentar retratos fotográficos inéditos que plasmen los arquetipos de oxí-moron-ba.
Premios:
1° - 300 US$ (Trescientos Dólares) + unas copas con girlontape y hermano
2° - 200 US$ (Doscientos Dólares) + unas copas con girlontape y hermano
3° - 100 US$ (Cien Dólares) + unas copas con girlontape y hermano
bases y condiciones en oxí-moron-ba
Convocamos a fotógrafos aficionados y expertos a presentar retratos fotográficos inéditos que plasmen los arquetipos de oxí-moron-ba.
Premios:
1° - 300 US$ (Trescientos Dólares) + unas copas con girlontape y hermano
2° - 200 US$ (Doscientos Dólares) + unas copas con girlontape y hermano
3° - 100 US$ (Cien Dólares) + unas copas con girlontape y hermano
bases y condiciones en oxí-moron-ba
edgardo cozarinsky, le cinéma
APUNTES PARA UNA BIOGRAFIA IMAGINARIAUn boceto elaborado a partir del archivo personal del escritor, cineasta, actor, dramaturgo y director edgardo cozarinsky; el proceso de (de)construcción de una obra. Historias microscópicas -filmadas, citadas, amorosas, secretas- en un laberinto que traza su propia imagen.
con música de ulises conti
BAFICI
sábado 10 a las 20.45
martes 13 a las 18.15
hoyts 11 (abasto)
taller de fotografía estenopeica de natacha ebers
El mago Merlín (539 d.C.), utilizaba la cámara oscura con fines estratégicos y de observación en la guerra contra los sajones que mantuvo el rey Arturo. En sus escritos se habla de la necesidad de utilizar el "cuerno de unicornio" para hacer el orificio de entrada de luz en ella.En el tiempo en que se difundió el uso de este aparato, la magia era una práctica que se mezclaba con el estudio de los fenómenos naturales, por lo que al relacionar al unicornio con la cámara oscura ocasionó que durante siglos ésta recibiera el nombre de "caja mágica".
Una cámara estenopeica es aquella que no tiene sistemas ópticos basados en la refracción de la luz.
natacha ebers
natachaebers@gmail.com
tels: 156 909 2845 – 4301 3056
girl loves film star
ayer los convencí a acompañarme a ver hermanos, dirigida por jim sheridan:quería pasar un rato en compañía de un muchacho que me estuvo volando la cabeza desde la primera vez que lo vi protagonizando una lucha existencial con Frank, el conejo gigante en una de mis pelis de culto.
everything about him me hace sentir, hasta la médula: home is where the heart is... home is donde andan hombres como jake gyllenhaal.
carta a un amigo porteño en yankilandia
Entiendo que al contestarte en público estoy cometiendo algo que acá se considera verboten but hey: ya me cagaron a palos and I'm still standing... al blog como a la guerra, enjoy!
Tu carta me hizo reflexionar, no, flashear con mis vivencias bajo eso que llamas la "oscuridad" reinante en las relaciones sociales porteñas, con lo cual me quedé días deambulando tipo zombie, aturdida por ciertas sórdidas secuencias en mental loop, te mando la más corta:
Quienes NO me han clavado el puñal todavía? A verrrr....
1. Mis mascotas
2. Mi kiosquero fiel
3. Los que no están lo suficientemente cerca
4. NS/NC
De paseo con los perris intento distraerme con ciertas intrincadas y tardías floraciones desplegandose bajo el cielo glorioso del otoño austral, pensando: "Volvé a verla como cuando recién llegaste... cuando no conocías a nadie, no sabías ni una puta palabra de castellano: es hermoso Buenos Aires..."
OK.
Miro la pureza de los arboles, ignaros de la mugre a sus pies. Miro mis bichos coleando, olfateando: La vida es bella! La basura también! Miro mi nouvelle baticueva: sus baldosas antiguas, sus vidrios de colores, su terraza cargada de jazmín...
Miro mis fotos, que tanta animosidad me han traído y por las que sacrificaría cualquier cosa menos mi integridad, cuya entrega demasiados me han exigido como si fuera chatarra, descartable, canjeable: el fruto del cerebro humano... el bueno tan lejos del malo... gracias a la viiiidaaaaa....
Y trato de no odiarme.
La corto saliendo a cenar, me cruzo con Major Tommy, el Major me dice "Estás escribiendo muy lindo Stef" y sus palabras, su amabilidad habitual me hacen bien, lo cual debería relajarme pero no, me provoca algo nuevo, opuesto; pienso en tu carta,
y por primera vez me pregunto si el Major sería capaz de clavarme el puñal, o si alguna vez se lo clavó a un amigo; no logro imaginarmelo, pero tampoco hubiese podido imaginar a los que sí me lo clavaron, de ahí mi consternación ante hechos que a ellos les parecen de los más normales, y qué pesadilla esto de escanear todo friendly cual potencial acuchillador, códigos argentos imposibles de descifrar, stop Stef stop.
Doy vuelta la página invitando unas amigas gringas a casa, llegan a tiempo, hago risotto y me sale maso, me equivoco con las cantidades luego me aburro de cocinarlo, cosa rarísima casi me da verguenza enfin, velo piadoso moving on, debatimos mudarnos a Sunnyside Queens no Red Hook no Kreuzberg, nos reímos,
está el novio frenchute de una de ellas y conversamos normalmente según las costumbres de mi galaxia muy muy lejana, es decir: libres de histeria falso pudor machismo reticencia maniobras de poder; pienso en los tiempos en que socializaba seguido con porteños, en lo mucho que confiaba y lo mucho que desconfío, en como he alcanzado ese estado de code red permanente que vos describís en tu carta y que no me pertenece ni ahí, basta Stef basta.
Magia del timing, llega un sobre de cierto amigo en NY, uno que hace años en Dadá reconocí a primera vista cual ese hermanito glamoroso, tierno, herido y extravagante que nunca tuve, difícil resistir a su encanto
(lástima que lo logré: una infidelidad y me ahorraba varios añitos dando vueltas sudacas al pedo pero no, la tana cabeza dura cual heroina de De Sade se mete cada vez más en el horno en nombre de su virtud, y eso que al Marquis lo leí de punta a punta, por qué no le hice caso?)
así que mi hermanito adoré queda mera fantasia incestuosa y salimos, somos castos pero hacemos lío, nos sacamos fotos en lugares impensables y horarios escandalosos, me regala musica, libros, dibujos, me enamoré, no, ya pasó, uyyy ahí volvió, se obsesiona con una chica y estoy celosa pero no se lo muestro, le va mal con la chica y estoy aliviada y tampoco se lo muestro,
al final me aburre un poco, tarde o temprano los pendex siempre me quedan chicos no pun intended, yo orgullosa de mi autocontrol, zafé! Mi hermanito vuelve a su galaxia muy muy lejana; end of story hasta que su sobre ayer me devuelve ese Buenos Aires que todavía encaraba con garra, disfrutaba, me seducía... achtung Stef achtung!
Paso el CD que me mandó mi brother nunca lover, escucho:
Time is like a bullet from behind
I run for cover, just like you.
Time is just a fiction of our minds
I will survive, and so will you.
Y así por fín leo ese telegrama que tardé años en abrir y que dice: Yankee Go Home. Ha sido muy rico todo, no lloraré por ti Argentina y vos tampoco la llores my friend; agarrate esa green card como puedas, y go to the light....
Tu carta me hizo reflexionar, no, flashear con mis vivencias bajo eso que llamas la "oscuridad" reinante en las relaciones sociales porteñas, con lo cual me quedé días deambulando tipo zombie, aturdida por ciertas sórdidas secuencias en mental loop, te mando la más corta:
Quienes NO me han clavado el puñal todavía? A verrrr....
1. Mis mascotas
2. Mi kiosquero fiel
3. Los que no están lo suficientemente cerca
4. NS/NC
De paseo con los perris intento distraerme con ciertas intrincadas y tardías floraciones desplegandose bajo el cielo glorioso del otoño austral, pensando: "Volvé a verla como cuando recién llegaste... cuando no conocías a nadie, no sabías ni una puta palabra de castellano: es hermoso Buenos Aires..."
OK.
Miro la pureza de los arboles, ignaros de la mugre a sus pies. Miro mis bichos coleando, olfateando: La vida es bella! La basura también! Miro mi nouvelle baticueva: sus baldosas antiguas, sus vidrios de colores, su terraza cargada de jazmín...
Miro mis fotos, que tanta animosidad me han traído y por las que sacrificaría cualquier cosa menos mi integridad, cuya entrega demasiados me han exigido como si fuera chatarra, descartable, canjeable: el fruto del cerebro humano... el bueno tan lejos del malo... gracias a la viiiidaaaaa....
Y trato de no odiarme.
La corto saliendo a cenar, me cruzo con Major Tommy, el Major me dice "Estás escribiendo muy lindo Stef" y sus palabras, su amabilidad habitual me hacen bien, lo cual debería relajarme pero no, me provoca algo nuevo, opuesto; pienso en tu carta,
y por primera vez me pregunto si el Major sería capaz de clavarme el puñal, o si alguna vez se lo clavó a un amigo; no logro imaginarmelo, pero tampoco hubiese podido imaginar a los que sí me lo clavaron, de ahí mi consternación ante hechos que a ellos les parecen de los más normales, y qué pesadilla esto de escanear todo friendly cual potencial acuchillador, códigos argentos imposibles de descifrar, stop Stef stop.
Doy vuelta la página invitando unas amigas gringas a casa, llegan a tiempo, hago risotto y me sale maso, me equivoco con las cantidades luego me aburro de cocinarlo, cosa rarísima casi me da verguenza enfin, velo piadoso moving on, debatimos mudarnos a Sunnyside Queens no Red Hook no Kreuzberg, nos reímos,
está el novio frenchute de una de ellas y conversamos normalmente según las costumbres de mi galaxia muy muy lejana, es decir: libres de histeria falso pudor machismo reticencia maniobras de poder; pienso en los tiempos en que socializaba seguido con porteños, en lo mucho que confiaba y lo mucho que desconfío, en como he alcanzado ese estado de code red permanente que vos describís en tu carta y que no me pertenece ni ahí, basta Stef basta.
Magia del timing, llega un sobre de cierto amigo en NY, uno que hace años en Dadá reconocí a primera vista cual ese hermanito glamoroso, tierno, herido y extravagante que nunca tuve, difícil resistir a su encanto
(lástima que lo logré: una infidelidad y me ahorraba varios añitos dando vueltas sudacas al pedo pero no, la tana cabeza dura cual heroina de De Sade se mete cada vez más en el horno en nombre de su virtud, y eso que al Marquis lo leí de punta a punta, por qué no le hice caso?)
así que mi hermanito adoré queda mera fantasia incestuosa y salimos, somos castos pero hacemos lío, nos sacamos fotos en lugares impensables y horarios escandalosos, me regala musica, libros, dibujos, me enamoré, no, ya pasó, uyyy ahí volvió, se obsesiona con una chica y estoy celosa pero no se lo muestro, le va mal con la chica y estoy aliviada y tampoco se lo muestro,
al final me aburre un poco, tarde o temprano los pendex siempre me quedan chicos no pun intended, yo orgullosa de mi autocontrol, zafé! Mi hermanito vuelve a su galaxia muy muy lejana; end of story hasta que su sobre ayer me devuelve ese Buenos Aires que todavía encaraba con garra, disfrutaba, me seducía... achtung Stef achtung!
Paso el CD que me mandó mi brother nunca lover, escucho:
Time is like a bullet from behind
I run for cover, just like you.
Time is just a fiction of our minds
I will survive, and so will you.
Y así por fín leo ese telegrama que tardé años en abrir y que dice: Yankee Go Home. Ha sido muy rico todo, no lloraré por ti Argentina y vos tampoco la llores my friend; agarrate esa green card como puedas, y go to the light....
cipposabiduría
¿Existe un mejor glosario para desentrañar nuestros lazos con el entorno que las potencias del arte?What better glossary for deciphering our bonds to that which surrounds us, than the powers of art?
rafael cippolini
vivaldi memories
The last time I last saw Chiara, I asked her and her husband to come meet me at that bar on Mercer with the transparent bathroom doors that turned opaque when you locked them.(What was it called? We used to go there all the time after work: because of the frisson caused by the bathroom doors – would the glass really go dim, or would you end up taking a leak in public? - and because the bartender made a mean vodka gimlet, which was my drink for years.)
Bref, Chiara and Daniel walked in, followed by a certain young man: his hair swept off his forehead just so; his scarf knotted at his throat just so. He looked a little bored... a little haughty... a little indolent. He was tall; he was slender; he was sensational.
I turned to his mother. "Holy shit," I said. "It seems just yesterday he invited me up to his room to meet his pet rat."
"I know," said Chiara. "Isn't he something? I'm a little infatuated with him myself."
Years before that - when the young man was still a little boy - Chiara had given me a copy of Vivaldi's Stabat Mater, played by her Ensemble 451. I've always treasured it, and today seems like a good day to listen to it again. Here's my favorite cantata from that CD:
Cessate, omai cessate
rimembranze crudeli
d'un affetto tiranno;
già barbare e spietate
mi cangiaste i contenti
in un immenso affanno.
Cease, henceforth cease,
cruel memories
of a despotic love!
inicio feliz/happy beginning
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No sólo encontró una casa llena de amor... encontró su doppelganger, pero en forma femenina: fantasia atavica, universal.Ay! guachito, se te extraña... pero qué lindo saberte en tan cuidadosas manos, y además con tu media naranja melliza al lado. Como le dije a tu mamá: uno más a salvo.
***
On the right, my latest rescued being, safely adopted by loving hands... and with a twin sister as a housemate. Doesn't get much better than that.
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