El siguiente artículo narra la historia de Lara Angeriz en el Sur de México.
Si la historia es real o no, queda a consideración del lector.

El 01 de noviembre de 2014 Lara Angeriz llegó a la ciudad de Tulum, Quintana Roo, en transporte público o “van” como le llaman los locales, desde la ciudad de Cancún. Lara Angeriz, de nacionalidad española, y oriunda de Valencia, había salido de su ciudad natal con un boleto de avión con destino a México y ninguno de regreso. El motivo, decía ella, era la ontología de su presente, su pasado, y su futuro; en extensas conversaciones describía como su profesión y su vida personal habían convergido en tema, pero no en solución, lo cual hacía disentir a su mente y entrañas. ¿Acaso lo único que existía en el mundo era su presente; aquél sol que no se esconde en el horizonte del mar caribe?

Quizás su pasado con José era tan verdadero como la gaviota...

I

My name comes from a small cake, or better said, the cook who apparently invented the small cake: Madeleine Paulmier. It’s French for… well, it’s French. Have you ever seen a madeleine? It has a spongy shell-like shape, golden brown edges, and an amber center. It tastes like butter —at least the ones my mother buys from Mr. Storm in front of City Hall— and it is my favorite dessert. Some madeleines, I’ve seen, have almonds or dried fruit like lemon zest or dried coconut. Some even have a glacé cherry on the top —glacé is French for glazed— but I like good old fashion madeleines better. Sometimes after lunch, maybe two hours later, I go to the porch with a cup of chamomile tea and two little madeleines, using the breakfast china my grandmother gave my parents at their wedding, and I sit on a rocking chair. I put the cup and the plate on a little side table because I’m not tall enough...

In 1969, Czechoslovakia, divided by a Czech and Slovak population, was separated into two parts: The Czech Socialist Republic, and The Slovak Socialist Republic. I know this, because my grandfather, Švejk Hašek, was a member of the communist party of Czechoslovakia, under the command of Alexander Dubček. Czech by birth, my grandfather was a firm believer of his constituents, and the force of the country to overcome the disaster of past decades. He also knew Dubček would do everything in his power to promote a lighter communist regime –the first step toward democracy. My grandfather’s greatest joy in life, even more than the birth of his children and grandchildren, was the dissolution of Czechoslovakia on January 1st, 1993, by separating the regions into two separate nations: The Czech Republic and Slovakia. It fills me with joy he was still alive to see the fruition of his work and...

It’s been seven years and I still repeat the same routine every morning: I wake up -usually alone- shake off whatever I drag from my dreams, and look outside the window. The view from my third floor window is not a spectacular one, but it is important. A constant reminder of the things I have endured. For over four years I have lived in the same small apartment building on 242 East, 111th Street. East Harlem, Spanish Harlem, or as we know it, El Barrio. Every time I look outside I see one of Harlem’s fire stations. Just another building in the greatest concrete labyrinth I know.

Every morning I get out of my apartment and turn right to the end of the block and 3rd Avenue.Then I walk another three blocks up to 116th St., turn left another block, and find myself on the intersection with Lexington Avenue. Right there in the crossroads, you can see El Aguila, a Mexican convenience store on...

“A B S T R A C T: Abstract”, said the lanky kid with the golden thin round glasses at the far end of the second row. The girl next to him rolled her eyes and growled in contempt as if he were unworthy of attention. She was significantly smaller, and her more prominent features were her ears. Pointy red eerie ears. I was sitting in the auditorium watching the Rudolph Hamaca Integration Spelling Contest, among a crowd as varied as the kids competing. If you were on stage as the kids -I am sure- you would see all kinds of shapes and colors sitting on the those uncomfortable brown and purple saggy chairs. One massive ginger woolly man with broad shoulders; an uptight little caucasian lady with plastic rings; a grey ogre with big shiny teeth. A familiar tone echoed in the auditorium while I was still absorbed thinking about the diversity of people in the room. A kid had just failed spelling R...

“Adoration is the basis of her vices, his vices, our vices. You start walking down that path, the one your parents told you not to. The priest told you not to. Society is looking at you. You are still walking the same path and it’s getting darker. Flex. Flex. Flex. Bend your way into it. You have arouse something and now it seems unstoppable.”

The dark room feels like a catacomb, but short after, the clapping invades our senses and the poet is smiling. The slam is over.

Gloria Lynne starts singing Stormy Monday, and we are in silence contemplating the surroundings. Sitting in those tall benches around a small table with vodka sodas. Etta James, Bobby Darin, oh Dee Dee Bridgewater! There is one guy at the table. I don’t know his name or where he comes from, but he looks mysterious. There is something behind his matinee hero looks. He is quiet and smiles appropriately. He is indulging...

Let me say I never believed the stories of the sailors. When in the old village, they gathered for banter, I used to see a mob of drunks, lying sacks of salt. From dawn ‘till dusk the lighthouse worked, and one night, its light shone more than ever.


For the banter was not only for the men of the sea, I ran the streets of Port Poole and upon arrival, I tried to reach the lantern without success. An innocent mate fooling around someone said, as I turned to see one of many, that I had seen. Something happened to me that night. I became a poet of sand, the type that vanishes with each current.

Your voice, like the sound of the seagulls, reminds me of something beyond belief. Like a seawolf or a mermaid. Old salt, tell me a story and take me to the sea. Let me be guided by the compass of your eyes. Let the waves of our bodies crash. Let it echo through a thousand shells.

The Sailor

...

Society is inclined to look at the past with a grim smile and yearn for golden days of past eras. We recognize with infallible knowledge errors and blessings of the past recollections which led us to the present moment. We are all in fact, children of our destiny.

Our emotions, thoughts and decisions shape our destiny. We create our destiny.

Every time we look back, we make a statement. We believe in the healing power of reinvention committing to a greater future. Therefore, each generation faces the debate of reason, knowledge, feasibility, and understanding. It is for this cause, I feel in love with the human race. We want to understand and criticize everything. Debate the possible, and turn credible the impossible.

It is with the previous proposition that I want to provide my argument: Most of people’s assertions are build on delusions to validate poor quality arguments.

I believe...

Aren’t you afraid?… I’m terrified. I remember the time I looked at the picture you had on the desk in the foyer, and all the steppe behind you. Such immensity makes me shiver. Like the time we travelled around Istanbul on the ferry, do you remember how sick I was? And I can’t take out of my mind the boundless sea, the immense steppe, and I feel trapped, and I just… I feel the same way now. The vast uncertainty is bringing me down, and I need you to understand that you can’t go, not now!

Press my hand, and feel how warm it is. Caress my palm, and give me the tenderest kiss. You know you can yell at me, don’t you? Do it! Just don’t fall asleep. Don’t let me go. I’ll remember the chores, just don’t take that coach. Listen to me, please! You have given me the best years of my life. You fulfilled me. Don’t ever leave me… let me always feel you close.

The day you died I slept next to you. I...

Pienso tanto en vos,

que pierdo la razón

al menos una vez

al medio día.

En ese proceso

también me siento más consciente,

porque me doy cuenta

de mi locura, y tu lejanía.

Y no es que no viva sin ti

o que muera contigo,

es que se mueren mis sentidos

porque los tengo aturdidos.

Entraste tan rápido

que abriste una grieta,

y no he encontrado suturas

para el desafecto.

Te sigo viendo

en todo momento,

y me ven triste,

y me veo triste.

Quiero me dejes

y quiero dejarte,

pero no sé cómo

y entre tanto alboroto

prefiero verte indiferente

aunque me mate no tenerte.

No te diré que soñé contigo,

no te aturdiré

con mis babas y sonidos,

pero te tendré en mente

que igual y uno de estos días

me dejan verte.

Alberto Lizárraga