TEXTOS
Las them from Antigone
I am Antigone. The unearther of dead souls, the one who woke up from the cursed oracle. I am the daughter of conscience. The law does not silence me. I am the one who saw the blindness of the forgotten parliaments.
In the manure fields, I find the light. The path of a silence. A shouted silence that is drawn present. I can't shut up. I don't fear death. Death is only the predicted end of the hidden, of the unsaid, of the redid, of the repeated of the not allowed. Death is the end of the predicted.
In my heart, they are all. Even if I don't want to, the memory of his presence gives me wings for parliament.
And here I am in this empty, barren courtyard, where the people hide on the sidewalks, where the women look the other way, where everything seems to make sense. And it doesn't. Not anymore. He lost it a long time ago. I unearth that meaning and surrender to the void, knowing that my own echo picks me up. And among the bowels of the earth, the heartfelt voices will shout, the sounds imprisoned by fear will travel. I'm not scared. Not anymore. I'm in the mood of. I'm not scared. I have guts, I have no fear. I have wings. I'm not scared. I have words. I'm not afraid, Of insubordination, of insupport, of not admitting, of not holding on, of not begging, so that they show up, so that they add up, so that they are, so that they no longer exceed. They all of them. The ones I carry inside.
And I face the retinue of sleeping dead. And I wake them up. And I'm not alone. Or if. Alone with my thoughts. But not alone. They are. I name the innumerable ones, I discover their memories. And in me they take body. I am all. All those dead women. I dig them up. Me. I live in exile.
Director, actress, writer.
When I was a child, my mother used to read art books while my father talked to me about the stars. That was my family life, a renaissance way of living. We used to write theatre plays, sing, dance, recite poetry, so somehow I am all these things.
I created my own company, Damas de la Historía (Ladies in History), when I started to write and direct theatre productions and dramatised tours. "The three cultures", "The Adventures of Quixote and Sancho Panza", "The Literary Quarter of Madrid", etc. (www.damasdelahistoria.com)
Recently I have written and co-written some micro-theatre productions, "Próximo Paciente" and "Ultima oportunidad para estar guapo", storytelling and poetry.
Now I am part of a creative actors group in which we train, write, direct, do art direction and create stories, called actors in movement. #actoresenmovimiento
I have learned in life that answers don´t change, but questions do, and this is what gives you freedom. So, I still continue to ask...
I have not translate my work as a writer, but you can enjoy it in Spanish, if you wish.
TE MIRÉ MIENTRAS DORMÍAS
Te miré mientras dormías
Te miré mientras dormías...,
grité en la cueva de mis sentidos,
busqué la luz amanecida de tu eco en el silencio,
me arrastré por el abismo de tus ojos enfermizos,
tratando de encontrar un motivo... que escondieran aquellos parpados cansinos,
aquellas manos relajadas que me rompían...
Sentí el olor a noche y a alcohol aún presente en el ambiente,
el mismo que acompaña mi soledad, cuando velo mientras tú duermes.
Palpé el dolor de mi piel ajada,
sentí como mis entrañas, buscaban un hueco para gritar,
en el silencio de tu descanso.
Me arrastré hasta la puerta, pero el exterior se me antojaba lejano y vacío...
Me miré sin ganas, me lloré sin ira, te lloré sin fuerzas...y descansé escondida dentro de mí. Mi piel fría y ajada me dolía, mi estómago vacío desde hace días me gritaba,
mi impulso de abandonarte no encontraba respuesta, ni fuerzas...
Traté de levantarme del suelo donde tú...,
traté de recoger mis pedazos repartidos por la habitación...,
traté de recomponerme de mi vergüenza, de buscar un yo no tengo la culpa...
Pero en ese silencio maldito que me apresaba, permanecer a tu lado me calmaba.
Me sentí sola, muy sola, con una soledad seca, asfixiante...,
me sentí sucia, me sentí yerma,
me dolía todo.
Solo pude permanecer ahí... en ese rincón maldito,
en ese pedazo de hiel que me rodeaba, escondida del mundo y de mí...
Te miré mientras dormías...
Me miré sin ganas, me lloré sin ira, te lloré sin fuerzas...y descansé escondida dentro de mí.
JOURNEY TO THE NIGHT
To my Lore...
Inside. It seems at night. Everything is dark. No more engine noise or anything. I open my eyes. I'm sitting, but we're not moving anymore. Sigh. She is there too. I feel relief to see her and fear to recognize where I am. I don't remember anything else.
An older man approaches, he is very surprised to see me, it is the age of unconsciousness, I think. I only intuit, and I see. The man looks at the two of us, we are so small that our feet do not reach the ground but we feel big.
It has always been like this, when we are together we are great.
We remain hand in hand, huddled, lost in that seat. The man looks at us and comes closer. Something sees, I don't know what, but it leaves. Silence again and fear, and calm.
Since that nursery, the same calm accompanies me when she is there.
Suddenly we move, it's daylight. At daytime. The light calms me. Everything goes back to normal. I take his hand and think, it's fixed. I don't recognize the road, but there is a familiar flavor.
Little by little the laughter returns, the games, we no longer care where this journey leads, we live it without giving it more importance. We are girls.
The bus stops again. And finally, she appears, my her. She takes me in her arms, I breathe, and then, only then, I start to cry like a cupcake, like the ones my grandmother used to make, like Proust's... like those mornings that I can't erase, like those tears that she never shows.
What a long day, I think, from the stomach ache that accompanied me after the glass of cookies. Ever since I got on that bus with both fear and curiosity.
We have arrived. The day is coming to an end and with it our adventure and fear and hope.
A memory that was recorded forever, where maybe this adult scribe plays at mixing fiction and reality, where maybe many things make sense or maybe now they lose it. That bittersweet day was etched forever on my little retina. Two girls in the garage, two four-year-old girls.
That day the first. That mother, absent. The day of my first class at school that I now inevitably remember, although sometimes I pretend to forget...
