Covid

Edward Hopper, Morning Sun (1952)

My father is sitting in a corner of the bed, next to me. He tells me something, he doesn’t care I’m asleep. He keeps speaking and I wake up, barely, with heavy eyes, and I see him there, on the other side of the blur. I can hear his voice, I am listening. I try to move and shake the stiffness of the body just awaken…

Then I wake up. I truly woke up this time. The corner of the bed is empty. I’m alone in the hotel room. I had a dream where I saw my father sitting next to me in that very hotel bed. A hotel room that is miles away from where he really is, in some hospital bed, across an ocean.

In my dream, I was listening, and finding some meaning in his words. Awake, I can’t remember. I just feel that his voice was clear, like it used to be, clearer and stronger than how I heard him the last time we spoke. A phone call, long distance, across an ocean. A voice in a dream that was not tired and panting, like the voice of someone that is having trouble breathing. I could hear him gasping for air. He said goodbye. He knew.  

My father died early in the morning of the following day.

Grief is supposed to be scripted. One must go through stages, was it five? But who said how long does it take to navigate grief, or when does it strike, or if it strikes at all?…

There must be the confirmation of a loss, better if you see it by yourself, so you can’t deny it. And what happens when you are an ocean away. Then you must find a way to overcome the anger, you will find someone or something to blame, either God, a system, or a person in power, that made you the target of a loss at a time that wasn’t right. Because the time is never right.

When loss is certain, and definitive, I guess, it leaves little room for negotiation. Unless… Maybe some people with some internal faith that makes them believe in an encounter that will happen at some point, like death wasn´t truly the end.

Then sadness takes over, overwhelming sadness, the anguish of the never more, the sudden sob that comes out of nowhere, like an earthquake. With time it becomes less frequent, although it is never certain that it won’t come back again. And one day, I hear, memories start to produce smiles. And the loss is replaced by some form of ethereal company. And that is supposed to be acceptance.

My father died. It was a summer morning, in a faraway hospital bed. I was away in another country. I did not attend his funeral or burial. I learned of his death in a text. I cried. I cried more with every phone call. I took the honest ones, from the people that I felt really meant it when saying I’m sorry. I didn’t pick up the rest. Fuck the protocol calls. But my crying wasn’t grieving.

My cry was closure. I was closing a chapter, a whole book. My father’s death brought me the gift of certainty. The end of a conflict. The end of a story. So final that it left no place for open endings. Questions, unanswered or not, don´t matter anymore. I discovered certitude in the finality of death.

Persistencia del no final

No comiences a escribir hasta que no tengas el final.

En retrospectiva, el consejo suena hipócrita. ¿Qué pasa cuando no hay opciones? ¿Qué pasa cuando hay que escribir sí o sí y lo único que sale de la punta de los dedos son trazos a brocha gorda?

Pero es lo que le dijo el Maestro a Jota Pe desde el otro lado del buró, El principio depende del final en una historia, Lo más importante es el final no empieces si no lo tienes.

Diez años después, la mirada sigue estancada en la misma página en blanco. Un fantasma que se rehúsa a marcharse, que se ancla con persistencia en la memoria.

El guion iba a ser la historia de una hija única. Jota Pe pensó que su personaje debía llamarse Nadia, porque era nadie, pero luego recordó que Sofía era el nombre favorito de alguien que en aquel entonces era un gigante, Sofía que significaba Sabiduría, y Sofía la nombró.

Quizás con la esperanza de que Sofía fuera lo suficientemente sabia para poder encontrar por sí misma su final. O un final. Cualquier final. Y le salvara a Jota Pe del problema de también tener que saber cómo comenzar.

Sofía era restauradora. Lo era porque la película tenía que ser la historia de una gran restauración. Pero restaurar qué, Jota Pe aún no sabía. Diez años después todavía no sabe.

Sofía estaba trepada en un andamio en plena faena de restaurar un fresco, cuando le avisaban que su padre había tenido un accidente o había enfermado de gravedad. Daba igual el motivo. Un detalle, pura semántica.

Tenía un amante, por supuesto. Alguno lo suficientemente verosímil para que fuera tolerable. Pero mientras él le hablaba de cualquiera sabe qué cuando ambos estaban en el apartamento después que ella le dijo que iba a ver al padre, ella miraba la línea del horizonte, entre el mar y el cielo. Adrift. Aloof.

Sofía llega entonces a la casa del origen, la de la niñez, al pasado. Una costa remota. Un faro. Una playa cerca y un risco lejano… A visitar un padre farero, pescador y navegante. Lo que había sucedido para que Sofía se hubiera marchado y no regresara en años, Jota Pe aún no estaba segura, pero sospechaba que quizás tendría que ver con la madre.

Y entonces qué.

Diez años atrás, Jota Pe se enmarañaba para seguir adelante y se le ocurrió que Sofía, mejor que hija única, tendría una gemela. Usar una gemela para poder desdoblar la personalidad de Sofía en su alter ego. Y así llegó Nadia. Que era nadie realmente.

Nadia era buzo. Jota Pe concluyó que si la historia transcurría en una costa remota, con el mar tan ubicuo que era un personaje más, que si no en la imagen persistía en el sonido de las olas, tenía sentido que Nadia fuera buzo. Además, si Sofía comenzaba su historia trepada en lo alto de un andamio, tenía sentido visual y dramático que Nadia comenzara la suya en el fondo del mar.

Nadia, sin apuro, mueve las piernas para irse impulsando con las patas de rana hasta que emerge en la superficie. De alguna forma, así estaba naciendo Nadia –la otra personalidad de Sofia emergía en la superficie.

Tendría que haber otro amante. Pero como alter ego de Sofía, Nadia tiene clavada la vista en un hombre que ama pero que no la ve. Un hombre que hablaba de cualquiera sabe qué luego de que ella le dijo que su padre estaba gravemente enfermo, o herido en un accidente –semántica– y ella tenía que correr a su casa natal a cuidarlo.

Así llega Nadia, quien se nota ha vuelto al faro varias veces durante los años.

Y Nadia y Sofía se encuentran.

Nadia cree que Sofía sabe algo que no ha dicho sobre por qué desapareció su madre. Mientras, Sofía está convencida de que Nadia supo todo el tiempo por qué desapareció su madre.

Diez años después, Jota Pe aún no sabe por qué exactamente desapareció la madre de Sofía y Nadia.

Tiene sospechas. La madre era de otras tierras y la trajo una pasión por el padre que echaba chispas. Pero en tierra de huracanes las chispas se apagan y luego… Era una costa remota y a lo lejos hay un risco.

Y acá Jota Pe se enmaraña de nuevo. Una historia es el puente entre el principio y el final. Un puente… O un barco. Un barco que trata cada vez de llegar a la otra orilla, pero cada vez hace aguas por un choque contra las rocas en el fondo, o porque Jota Pe lo sabotea desde cubierta. Y Jota Pe se pregunta si es ella el barco, que se rompe sin llegar a la otra orilla, o el barco es el final condenado a no llegar porque no ha tenido un principio.

El final es, no lo que el personaje quiere, sino lo que necesita. El Maestro dice desde el otro lado del buró. Y la mayoría de las veces no es lo mismo.

Gravity…

Or the lack of it…

Gravity is technically a force. Actually the most powerful force in the universe, holding planets and stars on course. The reason why they connect gravity with seriousness, in crimes, it’s because there is also gravity in intention. With purpose a route is set, a path that can be walked step by step, toward a core that draws us, preventing us from hesitating, from taking a turn, from thinking it twice, from floating away. Indecisiveness is like floating away, when the core has lost strength, or when the core is there no more.

I have done my backpack, and then undone it again. Feeling that your backpack stares back at you is a good sign of floating. Just floating. Not even away. Then I discover: that´s why plants have roots.

Without purpose, the way to stay on the ground is having roots. Or at least an anchor that ties you to the port, while the moment comes to sail away. Sail to another destiny, to another harbor, or simply to a shipwreck.

There’s gravity on projects, and a migrant tends to take a path following a project. The project could be survival, or love, or change. But what happens once we are passed survival and we are supposed to be living, or change turned into habit? Then there’s the unbearable lightness of being. Then there are no roots, and without roots, anchor or a strong intention, there’s only floating.

Say, moving to a new country, or a new city, it’s like meeting new people. It’s awesome. It’s being in a mission, if for survival or success doesn’t really matter. All focus is placed on a goal, on a core. It’s aiming at a heart, or running away from the shot. That’s danger: anticipation. then there’s the peace that comes right after the bomb exploded, the shot was taken… When we either hit target or dodged the bullet. When danger is past, time freezes. Or rather, there’s only time. With much time, indecisiveness.

There’s something special to the feeling of meeting an old friend. There’s gravity in old friendship. There’s memory, a recognition of who you are in who you were. Gravity is continuity.

Re-Cognize. Someone remembers you from another time, another place. That’s a proof that you exist, you’re not a figment of your own imagination. It is also evidence that you were able enough to remain in someone’s mind. There must be some worth in that.

A friend told me once that I had developed a dangerous addiction to changes. Another friend had told me later that lack of gravity is what exile is. I hadn’t connected both till now.

El risco

Ninguna de las dos recuerda la última vez que estuvo allí, al borde del risco. Varios metros más abajo el mar se ve calmo, profundo.

La costa en esa parte es una pared de roca, que se sumerge en el mar muchos metros antes de unirse con el fondo.

Ambas saben que la madre venía a menudo, sin decirle a nadie. Sofía lo sabe porque la vio aquella vez. Nadia lo sabe porque Sofía se lo dijo.

Aquella vez Sofía se quedó oculta detrás, entre los arbustos. Esperó mucho, sin que Rosalía, la madre, hiciera nada más que estar sentada con las rodillas abrazadas al borde del risco. Sofía le veía la espalda derecha y el pelo enredándose en el viento. No podía saber si Rosalía miraba algún barco, si miraba las nubes, si quería quedarse ciega mirando fijo al sol. De pronto la vio de pie. De pronto la vio saltar. No pudo verla volar. Sofía no gritó aquella vez. Se tragó el susto y con la boca tapada se acercó al borde. No vio nada, sólo el agua tranquila, de un azul tan oscuro que casi se volvía negro. Sofía y Nadia tenían doce por entonces, pocos días después las dos ya eran señoritas.

Nadia sí recuerda el momento exacto cuando llegaron a la casa a traer la noticia de que el cuerpo de Rosalía no se encontraba y que la búsqueda iba a parar. Pero eso fue después del ciclón. Rosalía corrió lejos de la casa, lejos del faro, cuando la ventolera empezaba a ponerse más fuerte. Nadia quiso correr detrás pero su padre la agarró. Y luego no intentó más, porque vio a Sofía sentarse en las escaleras del faro quieta, serena, con lágrimas botándose de los ojos. Lo único que encontraron de Rosalía fueron las ropas tiradas a metros de ese mismo borde, sucias y mojadas, enredadas entre las rocas y los matojos. El viento pudo traerlas. O quizás Rosalía las dejó ahí.

Las dos llevan rato sentadas, con las rodillas abrazadas, sin mirarse ni hablarse, al borde del risco. Sofía se levanta primero. Nadia la ve quitarse la blusa, y luego zafarse el pantalón. Sabe lo que va a hacer su hermana. No en balde llegaron a este mundo casi al mismo tiempo. Y de una se pone de pie y comienza a desnudarse también. Saltar no puede ser peligroso. Puede doler, pero no va a ser mortal porque Sofía la vio saltar a Rosalía aquella vez. Y ese mismo día Rosalía llegó a casa más tarde. Y sonreía, y cocinó y cantó. Y las tres fueron felices hasta que el padre llegó…

Sofía salta antes. Nadia un segundo después. Por un instante comparten el éter, el espacio sin nada encima o debajo. Puro tiempo presente sin memoria o mañana.

Someone asked me what’s my plan… I don’t know

It happened today at midday. I was talking about possible job opportunities in my field, in this part of the world, and I heard that same question… once again. What’s your plan? Where do you want to go? What do you feel passionate about? What do you see yourself doing in 5 or 10 years?

Wheatfield with Crows, 1890, Van Gogh

Those questions keep popping along the way, and I keep freaking out because I either find myself lying, pretending to be a different persona, or showing to the other person the “seemingly” scary fact that I don’t think my life in those terms. At least I don’t do so anymore.

And I mean it, in every possible way… It’s about vocation, career, family, geography… I’m thinking now, how does this person I was talking to earlier see me right now? How unusual is it to find people who haven’t come up with a detailed goal for their future? “If you don’t have a goal, then you can’t create a strategy and you will find out years from now that you wasted your time”. That’s what I keep listening. I’m getting scared it might be true, and still I can’t find inside -in my “gut”, in my “heart”, in my “soul”- the answer to that question.

I guess, maybe it is so because those answers have never worked out for me… I remember at some point when I was a little girl, I wanted to become a ballet dancer like Alicia Alonso. That could have been a great dream to pursue in Cuba, where there’s real access to fantastic Arts schools for elementary students, but it wasn’t realistic for me. My body wasn’t built that way. In order to accomplish a dream, you need more than desire, you need attitude, skills, talent, you even need the right body shape. You must show some qualities you gotta be born with. I also remember I wanted to become an astronaut. That didn’t go far for obvious reasons…

By the time I was 15, I had made up my mind that I would go to the University of Havana to study Journalism. That’s quite a challenge in Cuba, if you consider the odds of actually achieving that. I managed. And once you are inside the uni, the rest is easy. You don’t need any special skills or a super talent to graduate. The classic writing skills, curiosity, love for literature and a certain inclination to public service should be enough.

At Eternity’s Gate, Van Gogh

But then life happens. You find yourself in a country with little to no actual opportunities to make a living, to evolve as professional or human. Then you gotta find a way to go… go some place, anywhere. I went inside myself first. I managed to get accepted as screenwriting student at the EICTV, where I found everything and nothing. I found everlasting friends, I found love and hate, I learned about myself, my potentialities, weaknesses, strengths, wishes… I got rid of prejudices and fears. I got introduced to a powerful and wonderful world of telling stories with images, beautiful and emotional images and stories… I cherish every minute of those three years. But that period had to be over, and the way I found to move on was going to Europe to enroll in a master program: the Erasmus Mundus Master Journalism within Globalization, European Perspective, as it used to be called.

And I didn’t go there because I specifically worked for it and I aimed at that particular opportunity and I succeeded… It wasn’t like that, I applied to bunch of programs and I was only picked by that one. Indeed, I was super was lucky it was a great program, but I didn’t visualized myself there. I just wanted to runaway from Havana, from my future in Cuba.

Later when I was in Germany, finishing my research thesis and about to run out of the scholarship money and my student visa about to expire, I was desperate again. I needed to run again to any place in this world where I could go, where I could fit. That’s how I got to Chile. Once more it was about knocking a thousand doors and going through the first one, and only one, that actually opened for me. See the trend here? It’s about taking opportunities, it’s about being aware and observant and willing to turn right or left if necessary.

I’m 32, I’ve been in the USA for more than a year, and I already have the work permit. I need a job. When I’ll get the job, then I will be able to think in terms of a career. Or not. Or something will happen again and everything will change. Maybe the poles melt, Florida sinks, and we all need to runaway again. Maybe I fall in love and get pregnant and mutate into a loving suburban housewife -that’s so not likely, but still… I can’t have a plan if I deeply believe that I need to remain open to changes, and opportunities and possibilities. I tend to think that if one gets very focused on just one way, a beautiful world and great landscapes will pass by and no one will notice. Sometimes I find myself thinking in those remote, isolated places, where I’ve seen the most beautiful sunsets or beaches or trees or abandoned ruins, for a moment, and then have to go… Those places are still there, if you don’t look around to find them, do they exist at all? Would it be my loss instead?

Can someone tell me the words, the right words to answer that question? No one can do that job for me.

However, I am not sure if that question needs to be answered at all. What if we are just different from one another and some of us won’t ever live according a schedule or strategy? I have traveled. I have met people in different countries and I have friends all over. I know I’m not alone in this. And I know that having born as a Cuban doesn’t help, but it doesn’t matter who you are or where were you born, I’m not the only one hitting my 30s and still feeling I’m living without a plan.