memorie selettive

Conversazione via blog:

Uno qualunque: “Sai io e te ci conosciamo.”

Stef: “Ma và?”

“Si, ci siamo conosciuti al compleanno di Gastón.”

“Cioè eravamo nella fila del bagno e gentilmente mi hai fatto passare?”

“No no. Tu eri accanto al caminetto. Portavi una maglietta Joan Jett, e nella mano destra tenevi un bicchiere di vino. I tuoi capelli erano selvaggi. Io mangiavo delle noccioline…abbiamo parlato a lungo.”

“Ma dai. Al compleanno di Gastón ci vado tutti gli anni, e di te non ricordo assolutamente niente.”

Ho pensato: Che presuntuoso…muori groupie di merda!

E l’ho sputtanato sul blog, salvo che l’altro giorno è successa la stessa cosa, peró a me.

Stef: “Allora Tommaso... ti sei sbarazzato di quella pazza isterica?”

Tommaso: “Quale?”

“La stalker. Il giorno che ci siamo conosciuti non parlavi d’altro.”

“Oddio non riesco a fare mente locale.”

“Ma si. Sei venuto al bar, ci hai letto gli sms che quella ti mandava a raffica. Poi siamo andati un attimo a casa tua.”

“A casa mia??”

“Si, e poi siamo andati ai martedí critici. Pioveva, allora mi hai portato in macchina. Mi hai raccontato di tua figlia e mi hai regalato un libro di Epicuro…”

“Mi dispiace non ricordo assolutamente nulla.”

Ho pensato: Fortuna che Tommaso non ha un blog ma si dedica a cose serie tipo scrivere romanzi...speriamo che si dimentichi anche di questa conversazione peró!

the solaris report

Rome is more beautiful than Buenos Aires, but in its solaris aspect it is just as asphyxiating.

Maybe that’s why when I call those of my friends who supposedly live here, they all answer things like “I’m in Berlin for a couple of weeks” or “I’m in Tunisia watching the revolution” or “I’m in London till Easter.”

I have Roman friends in Amsterdam, Paris. Also one friend who does live here, but says things like, “Life is elsewhere. Let’s move to Copenhagen.”

In my first years in Manhattan, I was befriended by a band of Israelis. They were all traumatized by the things they’d seen and done in the Occupied Territories, and had fled as soon as their military service was over.

In New York they worked hard and did a lot of drugs, but even so, they couldn’t help remembering the war. Eventually though, one by one they returned to Israel, where they joined kibbutzes, had children.

In LA, I was befriended by a band of Texans. They took me under their wing, invaded my house with cases of beer, took me to no name clubs in Silver Lake to see bands like the White Stripes before they were famous, also to Mexican dives featuring Chicano drag queens.

Later when I moved back to New York, I was befriended by a band of Oklahomans. We’d met in London, but Manhattan was where we really bonded.

Like my Israeli and Texan friends they were a passionate, affectionate, boisterous and hard-drinking people. They nursed me out of my post-divorce stress syndrome, invited me into their homes, took me to see the Flaming Lips in Prospect Park.

Ian Brown says Home Is Where The Heart Is, Stendhal says Home Is Where We Meet Those Who Resemble Us. If that’s the case then mine is wherever the free spirits roam. Also wherever they are being held against their will, like jafar panahi’s prison cell in Iran. 

cambodia on my mind

while this picture in no way does justice to the special beauty of becky... it does function as the memento of a marvelous koh kong adventure:

the night becky & i befriended one another at bob's waterfront café... of philippe's wrap party... of moniroth in her white princess dress... of riding four to a motorcycle like khmers... and last but not least, of getting down at the karaoke club...

you know? one of those nights that you'll end up always remembering because - out of the blue - it turns into one of those random experiences of coherence and joy... and we all know how few and far between they are.

i found a picture of you (5)

like i said before... the metropolis used to be truly badass, and girlontape is privileged to have experienced some of its now-defunct, radical & underground glory.  


here's some street art by the always provocateur missing foundation, plus an image from wigstock, back when we used to celebrate it in our beloved tompkins square park:

the way we were

i remember it was so cold that day. i had just moved to new york, and my boston friends came to visit me in the big bad-ass metropolis. i lived in a fifth-floor walk-up on 14th and B and the east village was still so rough & punk rock. i love this shot and the people in it. new york city, 1990.

girl, prehistoric

érase una vez, girlontape escribía sus memorias a mano en un cuaderno...
qué idea! suerte que su avatar blogger acabó con tan primitiva tecnologia.

once upon a time girlontape used to write her memoirs by hand, on paper,
in a three-dimensional world... how quaint!

girl, circa 2002

así era yo en mi galaxia muy muy lejana.
llena de buena voluntad hacia los hombres, escribiendo cuentos
eróticos, trabajando de asistente de dirección, 
agitando mis guiones por festivales y agencias, enamorada de 
un argentino impresentable (no ése... el otro). 

***

this is how i was in my galaxy far far away: brimming with goodwill
towards men, writing erotica, working as a 2nd AD, shopping
my screenplays, in love with a nasty piece of work from argentina
(not him, the other one).

e la nave va

En mi galaxia muy muy lejana tuve cinco no, seis vidas distintas, por eso la metropolis encarnada me parecía inagotable: en una de ellas traduje un tomo de Noam Chomski de 600 páginas, el primero que se publicó en mi galaxia natal, entrevisté a un profesor de filosofia marxista palestino que pasó once años preso en una cárcel israeli,

a un organizador Sinn Fein que estuvo once años preso en una cárcel inglés y luego fue baleado en la panza por un monarquista en Belfast, a un ex Pantera Negra que pasó veinte años en una cárcel estadounidense,

y a quince soldados de un batallón yanki cuyos integrantes volvieron de la primera invasión de Irak enfermos de una extraña, horrible y multifacética peste; esa nota me la compró Le Point pagandomela muchísima plata, fue mi top hit como periodista.

En esa época mi jefe era un corresponsal en Nueva York, un comunista old school que siempre llevaba una bufanda roja impecable y me decía, “Bajá unos cambios pibita que si terminas en cana me toca hacer campaña para sacarte y no tengo ganas!”

“Jajajaj,” le respondía. “Quedese tranquilo que soy militante pero no así de setentosa,” muriendome de orgullo que el gran viejo me retara así, pues yo era jóven y tenía un fuego en las entrañas, a fire in my belly como dicen los yankis,

y me asombra saber que fui esa pendeja fogosa alguna vez, pero me apacigua también pues nada se pierde y nada desaparece, como anoche en el crucero proustiano donde mi amiga Tracy avanzó languidamente hacia mi bajo la sombra de unos árboles en flor,

mientras en otro nivel de la nave los Pareja bailaban en una fiesta de Ale Ros, y cuando Artemis entró llorando en mi habitación la abracé tan aliviada de volver a verla después de una década sin hablar,

luego mientras subía una magnífica escalera de mármol me abrazó apasionadamente alguien que en la vida real es puto, ahí mismo y sin palabras nos acostamos y el sabor de su boca y el olor de su cuello me provocaron un orgasmo arrebatador y me desperté tan emocionada y pensando a la vez: “Qué extraño no extrañar al amor!”

Ahora paso mis días asemblando muebles y preguntandome Cómo pude vivir siete años en un país sin Ikea?? Y salgo a pasear al Barón de Charlus en medio del fulgor un poco fané de ciertas rosas otoñales, cada rosa hablandome en la voz de un ser querido que se fue.