doober girl

a machine is beautiful

[itsdoobergirl]

Story of the lady who ate kids

Some beauties in this world, not everybody understands. It's very easy to look at a picture, exhaling oohs and ahhs the same way everyone around is doing. An acquired taste, they call it. To smile while drinking wine, making all the right faces in order to play along, no matter how stringent the flavor might still be. Some beauties in this world, everyone understands, or everyone pretends to.

The other day Santiago came home, with a CD. The kind kids these days don't even have anymore. He arrived at the door with a paper envelope clutched in his hands, asking if he could use the DVD player on the living room. There was another disc, inside, also white and scribbled on with permanent marker, which he tossed over to the slit in the couch without a second thought. Then, Santiago played Echoes of Silence, or something like that. Fifty minutes of some Enrique talking about his ten Bentleys, his billion dollars and his four villas in the Riviera.

Santiago says that older people don't understand because they are older, and nothing more. "When you were young", he says, "you'd listen to the exact same crap. No generation in the history of humanity passed without gloating about their banal possessions and how much they had. Everyone likes talking about how they are doing good." Mateo unplugs the player and asks for some radio, and they frown at each other, making almost the same face.

Enrique, I understand just a little bit. So many people that listen to him, that buy his CDs, and I refuse to believe it is just because they're stupid. I could stand in front of the stereo and tell Santiago what I think of his music. But not seeing the beauty, and the beauty not being there, are two very different things. Perhaps I haven't found the beauty in the Echoes of Silence. I'm not in a rush, though.

Mateo almost doesn't listen to music. He says there is already too much noise inside his head. Every time I open the door to his bedroom he is looking straight at me, then he looks at the window. He asks me if anything is wrong, and I answer him No, I just came to check on him. I ask him if he's hungry, and he never is.

"I don't know how Santiago does it."

' Does what?'

"Run in the hallways, all day. Laugh like that. He doesn't care about a thing."

Mateo looks at the ground and I embrace him. Tomorrow he turns fifteen. It's not an age to dance and sing without a reason. A decade of taking in the world with avid eyes, then half another looking for a motive to smile. He turns his head in between my arms to face me,

"I really don't get it."

In the end, Enrique sings about the good things in his life, I think. He can't hold all the gratefulness in himself and pours it out over four chords of the synthesizer. I give thanks, too. I sing to the flowers like he sings to his cars. I sing to the earth and to my children when I tuck them in at night. The wind sings back at me, from the window, making the bedsheets on the empty shelves flutter. I sing when I'm sweeping, singing with the dust perhaps. I sing to the old rag I use to mop the floorboards. I sing with Enrique in the car, with the speakers at full volume and my furniture in the trunk.

[itsdoobergirl]

Story of the lady who ate kids (Spanish Version)

Historia de la señora que comía niños.

Hay bellezas que no todo el mundo entiende. Es fácil ver un cuadro que todo el mundo ama y aprender a repetir como niña buena que las cosas que a todos gustan también le gustan a una. Adquirir el gusto, que le llaman. Acostumbrarse. Sonreír mientras se bebe el vino, para convivir y nada más, sin importar que siga siendo igual de agrio que la primera vez. Hay bellezas que todo el mundo entiende, o dice entender.

El otro día llegó Santiago con un disco, de ésos que ya no escuchan los jóvenes porque tienen celular. Llegó a la casa con un sobre de papel amarillo en la mano, preguntando si podía usar el estéreo de la tele. Adentro había otro disco, parecido al que metió él, blanco de por encima y con un título en marcador permanente. Ese lo aventó a la hendidura del sillón y ahí se quedó. Ecos del Silencio, o algo así se llamaba. Cincuenta minutos de un tal Enrique hablando de sus diez autos de lujo, sus mil millones y sus cuatro casas.

Santiago dice que los demás no entienden por que están viejos. Ya les llegó su tiempo, y cuando eran jóvenes igual les gustaba escuchar lo mismo. Nunca, en la historia de la humanidad, una generación había quedado sin hablar de las banalidades materiales y cómo abundaba de ellas. Alardear de cómo les va bien. Mateo apaga el estéreo y le pide por favor a Santiago que pongan la radio, y fruncen el ceño los dos, casi haciendo la misma cara.

Yo a Enrique lo entiendo, pero sólo a medias. Tanta gente que lo escucha, que compra discos incluso, y me rehúso a pensar que soy la única que puede ver la verdad. Podría pararme frente a la tele y decirle a Santiago lo que pienso de su música. Pero no ver la belleza, y que la belleza no esté, son dos cosas muy diferentes, creo yo. Sucede que aún no encuentro la belleza en los Ecos del Silencio. Pero no tengo prisa.

Mateo casi no escucha música. Que ya tiene mucho ruido en su cabeza, dice. Cada vez que abro la puerta de su cuarto me mira a mí, y mira la ventana. Me pregunta si hizo algo malo, y le digo que no, que sólo vengo a verlo. Le pregunto si tiene hambre y nunca tiene.

-- No sé cómo le hace Santiago.

-- ¿Para qué?

-- Para correr por los pasillos así. No le importa nada.

Mateo mira al suelo y le doy un abrazo. Mañana cumple quince años. Ya no es edad de bailar y cantar sin razón. Una década de mirar al mundo con ojos ávidos, y un lustro entero buscando una razón para sonreír. Gira su cabeza entre mis brazos para verme de frente,

-- De veras que no lo entiendo.

Al final, Enrique canta de las cosas buenas en su vida, creo yo. Desborda de felicidad por lo que tiene, vaciando gratitud a chorros sobre cuatro acordes de sintetizador. Yo doy gracias, también. Le canto a las flores como él le canta a sus autos. Le canto a la tierra, a mis niños cuando se van a dormir. Me canta a mí el viento desde la ventana del cuarto, haciendo revolotear las sábanas recién dobladas entre los estantes vacíos. Canto mientras barro, al polvo quizás, le canto al trapo que me ayuda a secar. Canto con Enrique en el coche, con las bocinas a todo volumen y los muebles en la cajuela.

[itsdoobergirl]

a ruler she told me

a river forgotten snored in bass echoes pushing and dragging through the mountain the rain fed it houses the wind fed it trees

I threw it to her feet and demanded you said you would measure the world for me, tell me how long until it gets here and speak fast

"the world?" the water. "as long as a summer memory, unrecorded." I grab her by the shoulders and squeeze

How long is a summer memory, then "this is two hundred steps of a wandering path with a coin in your pocket and a God of your choice."

I squeeze hard but she doesn't notice So I pump her full of whispers "do you want to drown or disappear? did the mud make its way to your lungs already?"

I press my forehead against her own push until we both hurt I rear back and lunge forward and the lights draw themselves in both our eyes

"This is one of you, half a grave one hand above the ground another below it this is the length from the ground to your elbow moving as fast as your eyelids

this is your jaw when it loses the battle and takes it out on your teeth this is your tongue as it twists through the corner lazily but never still

a throbbing, a pushing a strike stretched out closer, and closer and closer and gone."

The river roars for a million years in silence

[itsdoobergirl]

Silence came for a visit

silence came for a visit hopping softly from inbetween the concrete there is not much time for her, and she did not take long to leave

there was no pat on the back no thorn on the stomach no apotheosis, bleeding screaming alive

there was the noise and there still is she waited next to the music there was froth and foam from atop she popped the bubbles with her time

there was patterns on the walls, unexamined breaths thrown away like chores an uneven body, slanted

there was an adoration for metal for electricity in random dances a mirror in a mirror in a mirror a sunrise upside down, wet

silence came for a visit held her hands without weight kissed her once and seeped back where she can't reach

[itsdoobergirl]

experiments

i practice moving things with my mind not because I will, ever, but because it drives me a little more insane every day, and if I do it every day, I'll go insane even sooner.

He told me the other day that I was already insane by doing that, for one, and that for two there is no such thing as insane, that even the clinical categories oftentimes hold no substance. He told me the other day that to call someone insane is a political act.

I look at the plastic watermelon on the kitchen counter when I come home from work and before I frowned, like in the movies, because I thought that was how you concentrate. I focused and focused and tried and tried before he came home. I told him I had stopped but it doesn't matter.

Rosie loves talking with food in her mouth. There is nothing like sane or insane, it depends on how well you hide your secrets. Well, what are your insane secrets, Rosie? She grins like this and goes "well, what if I tell you and you think I am insane?" Like she doesn't know anything, that fucker.

He asked me where I worked and I forgot this time. He asked me what his name was and things like that. I think he's the one who is going insane. He keeps forgetting things, lately. I heard some scary stuff about dementia so I'm trying right now to do mental exercise.

Does moving things with your mind count as mental exercise? I stare at the watermelon in the kitchen counter with Rosie working the big pot, standing in the way, and the nurse of course. I do it every day, and they don't complain either, not even the nurse.

He comes home from work and finds me in the kitchen. "What are you doing here at this hour?" He's acting all weird and suspicious so I ask him if he really went to work. "What do you mean? I'm working right now."

So no, not yet, but hopefully soon.

[itsdoobergirl]

Stock

TRIGGER WARNING: BODILY HARM

Winning the lottery felt like nothing. Numbers matched, is all. The lady from the gas station shrugged. "Lucky draw, huh."

MEGA PRIZE, LIMITED LIABILITY COMPANY all bold all caps red letters looks huge, absolutely huge from below

No TV, no interview. His lanyard spells "Michael". His blue tie flutters as he turns "Can you wait here for like three minutes."

Michael fills out some paperwork and hands an envelope. Here, Your Million Dollars. Cash.

Michael stays behind the desk "You remember the way back, right?" All cubicles look the same From one of them comes laughter

Half a million dollars can buy a house. not like the houses on the television, just a nice one thick walls thick doors two locks no basement

Forty hundred for a good bed, forty grand for a nice truck forty minutes from the apartment in the middle of the city

Winning the lottery felt like nothing. heroin, on the other hand feels like winning the lottery.

The road home feels like vacation It could be, were the money to go To an investment, or something. To a different kind of investment.

On the way home someone laughs in the sidewalk A giggle from the park from the bushes From the backseat

They all say they wouldn't do it If they had the chance to try They eye the spoon over the candle And press their lips together

five hundred for a month's worth "don't spend it all in once place" the kid said, from under his hoodie

But it works, Up goes the smoke up inside the head Up goes everything And it is gone again.

They ask, is it to sell? is it to store? But it is a gift.

Hundred fifty to himself Fifty hundred to the lawyer Hundred fifty to the security guard Hundred thousand to the family

Winning the lottery feels unlikely Finding the right person feels fortuitous Finding Michael?

There he is, high out of his mind Lawyer present To show proof of consent or something thick walls thick doors two locks no basement

In his dreams he yearned for this, he says slurred under the heavy still alive still alive still alive

No sex no touching no genitals No dirt no fluids The teeth go in the skin and it is soft The flesh gives but not too much

The teeth finds flesh and it is hard The tendon stretches longer until it snaps back into the toe

Is this worth the heroin Michael. The lawyer reminds him, "You may revoke consent at any point during the process."

Are you in pain, Michael. He smiles back purses his lips Into a kiss "yes I am"

The heel is rigid and it takes a knife The blood spills everywhere and it is dirty So they have to come clean

Winning the lottery is all about putting in something And getting back everything Says Michael

He is awake and still speaking He is alive and asking for more He is losing blood at a rate that leaves him Five minutes

The hair makes the throat choke and it is disgusting The nose is sinewy The mouth gives in like raw fish

The skin of the fingers is simply fantastical Gummy yet firm, sliding right off the bone The fingertips are chewing gum And nails are the toothpicks.

Four minutes and a left hand Three minutes and a finger Two minutes and somethings wrong upstairs

his last words are screams dont stop dont stop Michael howls, run up the stairs with the scissors in your hand taste your eye do it michael jumps from the bathroom mirror and now there is glass everywhere michael stays for a little while sitting, laughing across the tub

Michael is a tough one, he says himself he asks what will they say he asks who they are

Laughing under the shower under the bed Laughing on the way somewhere, anywhere, really its been way more than three minutes