Incarnate ugliness, and yet alive! What would become of them all? Perhaps with the passing of the coal they would disappear again, off the face of the earth. They had appeared out of nowhere in their thousands, when the coal had called for them. Perhaps they were only weird fauna of the coal-seams. Creatures of another reality, they were elementals, serving the element of coal, as the metal-workers were elementals, serving the element of iron. Men not men, but animas of coal and iron and clay. Fauna of the elements, carbon, iron, silicon: elementals. They had perhaps some of the weird inhuman beauty of minerals, the lustre of coal, the weight and blueness and resistance of iron, the transparency of glass. Elemental creatures, weird and distorted, of the mineral world! They belonged to the coal, the iron, the clay, as fish belong to the sea and worms to dead wood. The anima of mineral disintegration!

D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

Otra cita, amigos; porque sé que las leéis y os encantan.

A veces es tan obvio que la música inventó el amor.

Aquí son los católicos los que van de puerta en puerta.

Lo primero que me viene a la cabeza cuando salgo del supermercado, con la mitad de mi peso en comida a mi espalda y en mis dos manos, es que ése de entre todos los instantes de mi vida sería el peor momento para ser arrollada por una ambulancia.

And why don’t you write? Write! Writing is for you, you are for you; your body is yours, take it. I know why you haven’t written. (And why I didn’t write before the age of twenty-seven.) Because writing is at once too high, too great for you, it’s reserved for the great – that is, for “great men”; and it’s “silly”. Besides, you’ve written a little, but in secret. And it wasn’t good, because it was in secret, and because you punished yourself for writing, because you didn’t go all the way; or because you wrote, irresistibly, as when we would masturbate in secret, not to go further, but to attenuate the tension a bit, just enough to take the edfe off. And then as soon as we come, we go and make ourselves feel guilty – so as to be forgiven; or to forget, to bury it until the next time.

“The Laugh of the Medusa” (1975) Hélène Cixous.

Afortunadamente, o no, ha llovido lo suficiente ya como para saber cuándo un texto es pésimo de por sí, y no por ser producto de una mente femenina avergonzada. Habría que empezar a recuperar algo de esa vergüenza, por mantener cierta higiene cultural, al menos.

Anoche me crucé con un zorro frente a mi casa. Ambos nos quedamos quietos, mirándonos con cara de póker durante unos segundos, hasta que él decidió irse por donde había venido.

Leer este libro es probablemente una de las peores decisiones que he tomado últimamente. Tampoco es que tuviera mucha opción. Pero si al menos hubiera esperado unos días. Sólo unos pocos días para leer sobre una mujer que se siente sola en un mundo lleno de nada.

Lisa me ha preguntado cómo me siento. Y antes de que yo pudiera contestarle tras un resoplido que intentaba disimular lo que era más bien voz quebrada, se me ha adelantado y ha dicho ”empty?”. Me está costando horas de insistencia hacer algo durante más de cinco minutos sin abrir el explorador y por enésima vez elaborar combinaciones de trenes y aviones, organizar mentalmente mis trabajos y mis exámenes, planear llamadas, imaginar fines de semana que son obviamente ficticios y ridículamente improbables.

Hace frío en esta habitación diminuta a la que ahora le sobran metros y tela. Ayer la repisa se inundó con el vaho de las ventanas y mojó uno de los libros que tengo ahí apoyados. Hoy es imposible hacer que esto esté tibio siquiera. Y de mientras, vuelvo a fijar la vista en Lady Chatterley y a intentar enajenarme lo suficiente como para no verme reflejada en esta tía a la que le falta un leve empujón para mandarlo todo a la mierda.

Out of the disapproving silence came Berry’s anxious question:

“You do believe in love, then, Tommy, don’t you?”

“You lovely lad!” said Tommy. “No, my cherub, nine times out of ten, no! Love’s another of those half-witted performances, today. Fellows with swaying waists fucking little jazz girls with small boy buttocks like two collar-studs? Do you mean that sort of love? Or the joint-property, make-a-success-of-it, my-husband, my-wife sort of love? No my fine fellow, I don’t believe in it at all!”

“But you do believe in something.”

“Me! Oh, intellectually, I believe in having a good heart, a chirpy penis, a lively intelligence, and the courage to say shit! in front of a lady.”

Lady Chatterley’s Lover, D.H. Lawrence.

‘Jan, why don’t you?’

‘I, my dear? For a most excellent reason.’

‘What reason?’ demanded Miriam in a shaking voice. Her heart was beating; she felt that a personal decision was going to be affected by Jan’s reason, if she could be got to express it. Jan did not reply instantly, and she found herself hoping that nothing more would be said about writing, that she might be free to go on cherishing the idea, alone and unbiased.

‘I do not write,’ said Jan slowly, ‘because I am perfectly convinced that anything I might write would be mediocre.’

The Tunnel, Dorothy Richardson.

She was born to appear in pictures.

Not too inspired to publish much else. Just wanted to put this picture out there. From when things were running faster and had a twilight smell on them.