as the trees sway
as the time runs beneath me
the quiet which precedes birth
and follows death
how we wish to feel that stillness in this flesh
a glimpse of what's ahead
the reflection on this year that I said I wouldn't do
at this point in time I am usually talking about the year that just went by. I just don't feel like giving up on it just yet, so I don't want to digest it and conclude it. there's so much more to this year that what I could actually grasp, and it feels like it was all a consequence of my own decisions, which I am proud of. one of the things I have been getting the most from people is that I look different. but nobody can put a finger on why. is it my skin? my hair? have I lost weight? well, all those three for sure but there's also something else entirely which has caused this change. and I think it's just that I am getting older and the boundaries I once set for myself are beginning to fall apart.
I started this blog fourteen years ago, almost. my grandfather had passed away. he would write poetry himself; I didn't know this at the time but I wanted to dabble on poetry myself as well. and a second language blog made it easier for me to digest my feelings. it still is. so this has gone on since then, and this blog has seen so many more deaths: my sister (2015), my dad's mom (2023) and my mom's mom (2025). four deaths as landmarks of my own living. it has also seen relationships, failed loves, dreams, frustrations. it has seen it all. and I continue to see it all.
my writing has also changed. my interests have changed. I want to get married and have children. I have talked about my fertility with my doctors. I am no longer a teenager nor I intend to remain as such. I want to be the woman I want to be, first and foremost. and maybe that woman is a wife and a mother, but also, maybe she's not. we'll find out.
my mom and I talk a lot about saturn's return. she had me at her first return. during her second, her mother died. and it just feels like suddenly I understand it, too. I will be a mother and she will be a grandmother, then, she will die and I will be a grandmother (maybe) and then I will die, too. but that's fine. I've come to terms with it, kind of.
I look back into 2023 and 2024 with great grievance. those years I was so lost. I was so sad. I was trying to find a way out of the woods where I had immersed myself in late 2022. and I think this year there was also an olive branch that helped change a lot of these feelings: my dad. we got along just fine, for the first time in 28 years. and we would talk, and hang out, and I miss him when I don't see him. and he calls me, and I call him, and I'm honest about things. he came to say goodbye to my grandma and brought flowers. and I don't know, maybe this is all I wanted. maybe all I wanted was to be in good terms with him and I strive to keep it that way. it's hard, lately, it's been hard to get out of my house or call people, but I miss the guy. and he misses me, too, but he isn't being an asshole about it and I appreciate that. we've both grown up. I forget this is also his saturn's return.
there was a lot of writing involved this year and surprisingly also a lot of reading. I read more than I usually do. I liked Alessandro Baricco's last novel, Abel, a lot. I read it in one sitting. I have been trying to read books from my own library (which is vast and eclectic) and I have taken time to read instead of write and it has helped immensely with advancement of big ideas. one thing I've noticed though, is that I am not open about my writing process. it feels very intimate, in my mind, to write. I only write for myself, and there's so much here to process, that involving others would just make it more difficult.
in 2026 I hope I wear more shoes and I go to the cinema more. life is not that long. people in this city have a terrible sense of style and I am not responsible for that, so I will do with my outfits what I want, even if that means I am somewhat overdressed at the function 75% of the time. and I also want to keep growing out my hair, though maybe I should trim it a bit. she's looking wild, but healthy. it fell out so badly in 2024 that it feels criminal to even touch it.
this year I've appreciated my immediate family and my friends a lot more. I have made sparse new friendships and probably lost quite a few in the mix. the dividends are negative, but that isn't necessarily a bad thing, I've come to notice. after losing people I started to change into something I like more. maybe I am not meant to have a million friends right now. that's fine. I love the ones that I have. they can fill a table at my one bedroom apartment and make me laugh.
so here's to growth, I guess. I am hopeful that I will continue to grow. it is painful but I look back at my past selves and for once I feel like a mother trying to calm a child. I am more gentle with myself now. I am proud of my size, my achievements, my voice. I am a professional, a woman, I am a romantic and I am also terribly angry at everything all the time. but it's in those spaces where I am learning to move forward, and so I will.
but I am a romantic
it feels so lonely in the space we both inhabited once.
cobwebs. dust. there's a ray of light maybe
but I can't see it from afar. the future
doesn't have you in it
and that's something I will have to come to terms with
but if there's nothing, I pray,
even then I can open that door.
cobwebs. dust. there's a ray of light maybe
but I can't see it from afar. the future
doesn't have you in it
and that's something I will have to come to terms with
but if there's nothing, I pray,
even then I can open that door.
dreams
every time you show up in my dreams
you are so close
i can feel the fabric of your shirt
sending electric discharges to the
soft skin of my shoulder
it seems to go on forever, close but not close enough,
a distance only surmounted by the supernatural
my magic cannot bring this any closer
and if it could
maybe we would just
not work?
meaninglessness
my mom is tired of being sold things online
that never solve a single issue
and amount to nothing
in the back of a drawer.
that never solve a single issue
and amount to nothing
in the back of a drawer.
she said her phone now knows her age,
as if a reminder was ever worth it,
of all the things she is, and she is not,
or the things she ought to be.
of course, she's right,
there's no ring or pillow or bra or comfort item that
can ail the passing of time,
the loneliness of time,
the inevitability of time;
the meaninglessness of attachment.
as if a reminder was ever worth it,
of all the things she is, and she is not,
or the things she ought to be.
of course, she's right,
there's no ring or pillow or bra or comfort item that
can ail the passing of time,
the loneliness of time,
the inevitability of time;
the meaninglessness of attachment.
pre-work thoughts
I think I like my job, I just don't like the way my job likes me. maybe this space is not the place to talk about it, or maybe it is the only place, I don't know. it's 08:32 on a wednesday morning and I can't get myself to open the computer. it feels like a nightmare. yet last week I was so enthralled by all of it, by the meaning, by the objectives behind it. it feels like it drains life value out of me and after 05:30 I am nothing but a wet rag with a long list of to dos. my body aches in different ways, and I have a constant headache. it's not like it's going to stop, even my boss believes in productivity more than well being. and I get pushed in all directions. look, I'm the one person who can sure take it, but for how long? I've never broken. how long I'm going to last is a mystery. I appreciate that I am appreciated, I just wish appreciation came with space and time to think, not with... whatever this is.
jet lag
midnight in LA,
morning in rome;
somewhere, though,
you must be awake.
you must. i hope you are
safe, i wish, and sound,
the entirety of your mind and body
with you–
unlike me.
a piece of my soul has torn off
and fell into your hands
flown accross the atlantic.
if it means anything
don't let me whither away
make it mean, at least
one more dream,
where it's morning in LA
and evening in rome.
seven years
I don't think I've ever given you the space to be in my writing.
you've always been there, a part of the truth. I don't think I've taken you for granted
but I've always found something else that i thought readers would find more
interesting to think about, not you;
but then again this is about me,
and it's just about you, too,
it's been seven years and it's always you. every day, every morning, every evening.
and I don't want to write about you because I don't want to tell the world
the secrets of what has made us so profoundly close.
it's something only we deserve to enjoy.
you've always been there, a part of the truth. I don't think I've taken you for granted
but I've always found something else that i thought readers would find more
interesting to think about, not you;
but then again this is about me,
and it's just about you, too,
it's been seven years and it's always you. every day, every morning, every evening.
and I don't want to write about you because I don't want to tell the world
the secrets of what has made us so profoundly close.
it's something only we deserve to enjoy.
boundless
it feels like what i know about death and loss is that
i am so in love with you
that the worst of the losses would be to lose this love,
not my life, not anything at all,
but what i feel for you every waking moment
would be so painful to leave behind
that i would give anything to live forever.
wind
there's a wonderful stream of silence that rushes between us. we move slowly down the avenue, while the wind tries to tell me a secret, but my ears are covered by my woolen scarf, wrapped around my head like a balaklava. I do like this, I like being in silence.
a conversation
death starts at any point in time
but it feels different depending on where you are at.
it has a conversation with you,
and you have a conversation with it.
and you don't always have the same appreciation of things.
of music, of the touch of someone you love.
of pain. of misery.
it vacuums out the light in your empty spaces.
but it gives the space to fill it up again.
it feels like at certain times it comes back to me
and follows me around until i manage
to sit down with it and have a brandy.
i don't know if it will ever get easier.
mulch
sand blowing against the grain,
patterned,
leaving me breathless for a minute
while the forest rests:
pine resin pools in the depths of our minds
i can sense someone will light a fire
to keep us warm,
to keep us close.
presentation
i cling on to something so needy as
people, trying to convince myself
i can be different.
what i can be is new. i can be mistaken,
a beginner, a rookie,
a child, young.
there's more to that, learning the pace of your own needs.
but somehow i feel like i need to show up like someone else.
but it's me who got me here,
who created the opportunities, fought the fight,
made time to grow.
it's me they want there, the person they will listen to.
to keep denying that space is to deny the good that comes with it.
summer
take a nap on a breezy afternoon
light incense with open windows to let the humid morning air in
walk at night with a bottle of wine unsure of the destination
roll windows down in the car and sing along
feel the dry skin on your thighs for the first time in months
dip into cool pool waters in your friend's parents house, while she prepares a snack
visit your grandparent's garden and sneak out by the pool with your cousins
watch the sun set at 8 PM
eat manchego on a rooftop
walk miles upon miles with your back sweating from the effort
a cold pint
you know
that
serotonin
there is nothing is this world so great
as the alchemy of the best day of your life
and what immediately follows.
what a disgrace it can't last forever–
it's only wise not to chase only this pleasure,
but savor it,
remember it.
one time maybe write about it,
with no words, no sounds.
only the flutter in the stomach or the way your feet bounced to the rhythm.
what keeps us alive
is caged in a deep set of neurons
that can remember back centuries of delight.
new york ii (blue is the color of my dreams)
there has always been this search for quietude
deep inside of me
a stillness, much opposed to the traffic of every day comings and wrongdoings;
so when i look into the empty eyes of a dancing figure
i know there was a man that put a soul in there
and i am just the observer of another
piece
of solitude.
and so i saw today. my dream was a dream another man had dreamed of, in 1925;
and i wonder, where will the color of my dreams lead me to,
when i get there i might find out it's too late.
an incessant light, a beacon,
a ray of hope, a glimpse;
art that trascends four thousand years
has kept us together for what will only last longer than any of us.
any craving soul will manage to scour the surface
of what it means to be remembered;
leave a mark that will reach someone else,
in their dreams, across a crowded hall;
oblivious.
new york i
souls will be mapped out
on paved roads
for the whole world to stare
under the shades of young foreign trees
they will carve out a vision in stone
and set it up in the alley for the passersby
who in return, will not perceive
what's been captured in it
there will be silence, foreseen
but not right now, maybe
the whirring of excavators and air conditioning
is enough to keep the mind going
i don't mind not being anyone
better so i am happy to be no one,
at least for now,
at least for july.
you guessed it... another dream
I had another dream where I passed a football back to your son and you were
just standing there, happy to see me.
It's always happy to see me. but beyond those eyes
nothing awaits.
I begged for the memory to stay a while longer,
but when I woke up I knew it was gone. it just so happens
to happen so more often that I would like it to happen,
reoccurring sensations of desperation,
the memory of something that never was.
I've been asking myself when it all began:
I can pin point it to a particular space and time. but when it ended?
no. I don't think I know that.
there was a moment, a true moment of desperation, where you tapped into it and then let me go.
there's nothing to reclaim, it was never mine,
yet it aches like it belonged to me millions of years ago.
just standing there, happy to see me.
It's always happy to see me. but beyond those eyes
nothing awaits.
I begged for the memory to stay a while longer,
but when I woke up I knew it was gone. it just so happens
to happen so more often that I would like it to happen,
reoccurring sensations of desperation,
the memory of something that never was.
I've been asking myself when it all began:
I can pin point it to a particular space and time. but when it ended?
no. I don't think I know that.
there was a moment, a true moment of desperation, where you tapped into it and then let me go.
there's nothing to reclaim, it was never mine,
yet it aches like it belonged to me millions of years ago.
fall
days are getting darker,
but not without fading into the sweetest pink light,
the reminder that another day rose up,
armored with sharp, cold winds,
and myriads of evergreen trees swaying along.
days are getting darker and I find myself at the
kitchen table, before coffee gets cold,
reading poetry passages to face the worst
I always wondered what made may so difficult
and it doesn't seem to be the weather
I think it's instrinsic to the way I live.
might just get more out of it
when embracing wool socks and raspy throats
when taking the time to slow down
and enjoy how the world
prepares to die and reborn.
grout away
there it was:
a house of four thousand rooms
with no TVs and where we couldn't get lost.
a house of four thousand rooms
with no TVs and where we couldn't get lost.
I went up to you in light, like one approaches the altar,
seeking out forgiveness.
funny thing is I have nothing to be forgiven about.
but it wasn't what I found–
fate met me with an open hand, a palm stretched out, facing upwards,
a shy and sly look, a smirk,
a you already know this, I don't know why I'm telling you this
and you shook your head and it was all gone. you brushed it
seeking out forgiveness.
funny thing is I have nothing to be forgiven about.
but it wasn't what I found–
fate met me with an open hand, a palm stretched out, facing upwards,
a shy and sly look, a smirk,
a you already know this, I don't know why I'm telling you this
and you shook your head and it was all gone. you brushed it
off like it was nothing more than a mixup, something you tell a friend,
a confidante, someone stronger, someone less committed. I just listened.
I couldn't sleep! I was so excited: I finally felt free. and then,
there's no more silence.
there was no need to talk, nothing to say,
nothing to discuss about because there was just nothing:
no awkwardness, no stalling, no hurt. you didn't try to hurt me, this time.
I can't pretend I want to be forgotten.
and when I confessed to my favorite songs,
you played them for me,
in a whisper, in the farthest corner of the kitchen,
you played them for me,
in a whisper, in the farthest corner of the kitchen,
I think I knew. I think I did.
an idea of rest
once every few months I one friday evening alone to carry out my routines. this includes an afternoon session of house cleaning, to remove the remnants of the work week from my mind; going to the gym, because I have no choice; coming back to shower and pamper myself in a bathrobe, whilst I get ready for the night. The sun would be down by then.
this is all followed by dinner arrangements: 2 cans of beer and bread (has to be fresh), a can of sardines, a tomato thinly sliced and heavily salted, some butter and a sprinkle of black pepper. The lights are on by then.
I need to see a movie, any movie, as long as it is my movie. The first can of beer will be gone between the first 10 minutes but the second can come later. After the movie, all dishes are washed. The kitchen lights come off at this time.
it's then time to settle for the writing part. if I feel watched I can't do it. I stretch out and admire the cleanliness of my house, the lingering smell of tin canned fish, and I move forward. I love to play the horace silver quintet or miles davis quintet at this point.
usually frustration hits after a while. I just continue to push. I'm exhausted from the week, probably should go to bed, but the minutes I have left of solitude are more important than that. so I cling on to it before my head starts aching and all the lights go off. that's my idea of rest.
cortex development
I miss the days where the separation between who I was and who I was meant to be was bigger,
those were times where only fantasies could fill the gaps, unexplained processes,
hell I didn't even know how to pay my taxes and yet it was a magical place.
I lost that now that the cogs in the machine have a place,
there's not a lot to find with every rock I toss into the river,
there' no splash.
I miss feeling like I belonged in the incorrect place: in my family, among my high school friends;
feels like I've lost it now, there's no need for them to see me but there's this innate need for me to know they are there,
but they scurry away, shush, keep their silent distance to remind me I built this,
I am too a victim of the machinations,
and if blood is blood and can never let go, then I am to blame for who made me,
who raised me to keep the quiet and only take what I needed.
I miss the time where that idea didn't cross my mind,
but now it's Friday and I see it
it's staring down at me from the bottom
of the
laundry pile.
fool's spring
I will always be enchanted by the fool's spring.
nothing like a breath of fresh hope,
suspending the disbelief after
long bouts of sadness.
I don't care if tomorrow the permafrost grows on me,
I'll allow the weeds today
as they blossom into a disarray of flowers–
I don't mind being swallowed in.
hands
there's such a humanity in motherly hands,
not once have i resisted their gentle invitation,
their will to reconnect, mend, grab, hold, settle,
it has to be a motherly, knuckly, clunky hand,
that shimmers its weight in silver and it's moisturized,
quivering and warm.
my hands used to be warm and calloused,
now they are cold and soft,
inviting the overwhelming sensation that i too,
can follow the female leads of this family,
and foster love of my own,
four generations of teachers, supporting students,
four generations of unconformance, learning to mend on the road,
four generations, maybe more, of women holding their families together in the only way they could learn.
i see my hands and i see my future,
they will tremble, they will have scars and scabs,
they'll bear my mothers rings,
they'll hold my childrens' hands.
about corporate
day after day
i swallow dust,
i forget my name answer to voices
that have nothing better to say,
only reverberate,
make me waste my time.
i turn to ash faster than i can shine a light,
and i can't scream in this crowded room
it's a tickling sensation that doesn't come off
the type of dirt that you feel stuck
a lack of silence, of moments alone;
day after day
i lose my voice
another dream
i am struggling
to keep a memory
that feels real.
soon all that will remain
are my dreams,
and how we never met
in between.
i had another dream
you were selling your house. i for some reason showed up. it was a beautiful mashup of the houses that i have lived in, or that don't exist. the wooden floors creaked lightly under our feet. you had big lamps all over the place. you were glad i was there and hugged me - i couldn't know if i should return the embrace. but i did. for a second it felt real: your flesh, the fabric of your clothes. you were glad i was there.
i woke up and you were gone.
4 jan
there's nothing here.
on the carpet your steps will hollow out.
the coffee machine whirrs and cleans itself alone.
you can't clean and you can't let down.
nothing here.