Sunday, October 18, 2009

something that needs nothing

In an ideal world, we would have been orphans. We felt like orphans and we felt deserving of the pity that orphans get, but embarrasingly enough, we had parents. I even had two. They would never let me go, so I didn´t say goodbye; I packed a tiny bag and left a note. On the way to Pip´s house, I cashed my graduation checks. Then I sat on her porch and pretended I was twelve or fifteen or even sixteen. At all these ages, I had dreamed of today; I had even imagined sitting here, waiting for Pip for the last time. She had the opposite problem: her mom would let her go.

(...) We were anxious to begin our life as people who had no people. And it was easy to find an apartment because we had no standards; we were just amazed that it was our door, our rotting carpet, our cockroach infestation. We decorated with paper streamers and Chinese lanterns and we shared the ancient bed that came with the studio. This was tremendously thrilling for one of us. One of us had always been in love with the other. One of us lived in a perpetual state of longing. But we´d met when we were children and seemed destined to sleep like children, or like an old couple who had met before the sexual revolution and were too shy to learn the new way.

(...) I looked at Pip and for a split second I felt as though she was nobody special in the larger scheme of my life. She was just some girl who had tied me to her leg to help her sink when she jumped off the bridge. Then I blinked and was in love with her again.

She waves and we wave. We wave until we are close enough to say hi and then we say hi. Now we are close enough to hug, but we don´t. She says, Come in, and inside, it is dark, with no children. Of course there are no children. Pip asks for the money right away, which is something we decided on beforehand. It is terrible to have to ask for anything ever. We wish we were something that needed nothing, like paint. But even paint needs repainting.

Releyendo No one belongs here more than you de Miranda July me encontré esta historia. Y me dio envidia no haberla escrito. Es por eso que me gusta escuchar música hecha por mujeres o leer libros escritos por mujeres, porque entiendo de qué hablan y me identifico y blah blah blah (well, duh). Pero Miss July, you really got me there. Mientras más releo este libro más me sorprende los detalles que no había visto y sólo hace que me guste más. Gracias domingo sin sol, me das el ambiente perfecto para seguir disfrutando amenos ratos de lectura.


Zabioloco said...

yo tambien siento entenderle, soy un lesbiano, y me encanta

SO3 said...

I´ve never been able to face it... Always running out, killing the stupid feeling...