The thirty-sixth note
Loving is easy and other thoughts.
Here’s something embarrassing: I’ve normalized an amount of things that weren’t normal for way too long. I say it's embarrassing because I think- how did I let myself believe so? That these things were normal? How stupid of me. How silly of me. Naive of me. Everything that is a synonym of idiot of me. But also, I’ve realized that I guess sometimes one has to go through shitty situations until you arrive to a real good one. To really appreciate it. The accumulation of shittiness and awkwardness and difficultness really makes normalcy shine. The smell of shit disappears when things are easy. Maybe it’s not just normal, it’s special, but any way it will forever be different. I’ll take different any day lately. Even if different is just normal. And why did normal become something to shy away from? Why did complicated take prevalence? As my dear Avril sings, “Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?”
Hey everyone. Sorry for going MIA. It’s been a lot recently. Work. Family. The world. Life. Sometimes I wonder how I move through it. How I handle the waves. How do we?
The truth is I don’t really. I try. Trust me, I try. To pretend I can handle everything. Sometimes I fail. Mostly I fail. I stay afloat in a constant state of dormant anxiety lately. A couple weeks ago I had a panic attack when I got to my hotel room before a work event. Somehow I managed to make it to dinner, talk to people, pose for photos- but truly, I thought I was going to be stuck in that room, out of breath, forever. I cried in the shower, hiccups between water, did my make-up with bloody eyes. I sat still on the edge of the bed, glued to the sheets, not able to make the lights work. To turn the lights on. Sneaky anxiety always makes its way in when I pretend bad things haven’t happened. And they happen. They’ve happened- many, if not too many these past few weeks.
After dinner, I had to excuse myself before dessert, nausea inundating my whole being. The anxiety calmed itself down in S’s arms, back in bed.
But something I can’t stop thinking about is how though it might be one of the most serious, complicated, moments of my life, I’m also, at the same time, falling in love. Two very conflicting feelings, two very opposite feelings. The second, letting me breathe through the first. The first letting me appreciate the second. In all its fullness.
And that’s why I think about ease.
Because in one of the hardest moments, everything else is easy. Being in love is easy, not hard. And I feel so grateful for that ease, that normalcy. Like sitting on the sofa and soaking up the sun dressed in black in early March, after a weekend of fun with your friends. Like falling asleep cozied up. Like a gulp of cold water. Like a perfect kiss on the neck, between the shoulder and the chin. That easy.
I wonder why I let myself believe that for things to be good, they should be hard. Like life and love should be complicated. Like fighting for love, fighting to be loved, made it truly worth it. Why feeling once upon a time like I was choking, wanting to belt certain words out my mouth and keeping them in, shutting them in, was a good thing. When the exchange finally happened, when I finally said what I had been holding onto, I remember feeling like a cork had been popped. Thinking “finally”. Like I’d been waiting for it, craving it, needing it- but never getting it, crashing, hurting, aching.
I wrote at one point:
i want to write a letter but here i am, deciding not to, because fear overtakes my every move.
what is it that has made me into such a romantic? i know what it was when i was growing up, but why, still? that is my question to myself today. still? please tell me why. is it because of those first months, that kick, that blissful beauty? because you keep stepping on the same piece of glass, and it’s always sharp, and it always cuts you, it always makes you bleed.
Why is it that we are taught that suffering is something good? That fear can fit in love? Why was blood a part of my romantic feelings?
I feel so sorry for my past self, and all the people who ever feel like being romantic is a negative thing. Who get sunk into a pool of insecurity. Because it’s crazy what insecurity will do to you. It will shape your brain differently, it will shape your body differently. It will wrap its arms around you and consume you. But it’s even crazier what security will do. If someone makes you feel wanted and loved, oh how that changes your dynamic. Your thoughts. How it changes everything. Loving becomes easy instead of difficult. Breathing becomes smiles plastered walking back from the bus. And I hold onto that thought lately- that I’m wanted, that I want, that through darkness there’s some kind of easiness, hopefully around the corner. That your house almost burns down but warmth awaits you. That there will be someone who will want to hold your hand at all times. Even as your world comes crashing down.
I think a lot about this spectacular poem by the amazing Uruguayan poet Cristina Peri Rossi (first in Spanish, and I’ll try and translate it into English):
“El once de septiembre del dos mil uno
mientras las Torres Gemelas caían,
yo estaba haciendo el amor.
El once de septiembre del año dos mil uno
a las tres de la tarde, hora de España,
un avión se estrellaba en Nueva York,
y yo gozaba haciendo el amor.
Los agoreros hablaban del fin de una civilización
pero yo hacía el amor.
Los apocalípticos pronosticaban la guerra santa,
pero yo fornicaba hasta morir
–si hay que morir, que sea de exaltación–.
El once de septiembre del año dos mil uno
un segundo avión se precipitó sobre Nueva York
en el momento justo en que yo caía sobre ti
como un cuerpo lanzado desde el espacio
me precipitaba sobre tus nalgas
nadaba entre tus zumos
aterrizaba en tus entrañas
y vísceras cualesquiera.
Y mientras otro avión volaba sobre Washington
con propósitos siniestros
yo hacía el amor en tierra
–cuatro de la tarde, hora de España–
devoraba tus pechos tu pubis tus flancos
hurí que la vida me ha concedido
sin necesidad de matar a nadie.
Nos amábamos tierna apasionadamente
en el Edén de la cama
–territorio sin banderas, sin fronteras,
sin límites, geografía de sueños,
isla robada a la cotidianidad, a los mapas
al patriarcado y a los derechos hereditarios–
sin escuchar la radio
ni el televisor
sin oír a los vecinos
escuchando sólo nuestros ayes
pero habíamos olvidado apagar el móvil
ese apéndice ortopédico.
Cuando sonó, alguien me dijo: Nueva York se cae
ha comenzado la guerra santa
y yo, babeante de tus zumos interiores
no le hice el menor caso,
desconecté el móvil
miles de muertos, alcancé a oír,
pero yo estaba bien viva,
muy viva fornicando.
“¿Qué ha sido?”, preguntaste,
los senos colgando como ubres hinchadas.
“Creo que Nueva York se hunde”, murmuré,
comiéndome tu lóbulo derecho.
“Es una pena”, contestaste
mientras me chupabas succionabas
mis labios inferiores.
Y no encendimos el televisor
ni la radio el resto del día,
de modo que no tendremos nada que contar
a nuestros descendientes
cuando nos pregunten
qué estábamos haciendo
el once de septiembre del año dos mil uno,
cuando las Torres Gemelas se derrumbaron sobre Nueva York.”
//
“September eleventh two thousand one
while the twin towers fell,
I was making love.
The eleventh of September in the year two thousand and one
at three in the afternoon, Spanish time,
A plane crashed in New York
and I relished making love.
Doomsayers spoke of the end of a civilization
but I made love.
Pessimists, apocalyptically, predicted the holy war,
but I fucked to death
–if you have to die, let it be of exaltation–.
The eleventh of September in the year two thousand and one
a second plane crashed over New York
at the exact moment that I fell on you
like a body launched from space
I fell on your ass
I swam between your juices
landed on your guts
and any other entrails.
And while another plane flew over Washington
for sinister purposes
I made love on land
–four in the afternoon, Spanish time–
devoured your breasts your pubis your flanks
houris that life has granted me
no need to kill anyone.
We loved each other tenderly passionately
in the Eden of our bed
–territory without flags, without borders,
without limits, geography of dreams,
island stolen from everyday life, from maps
to patriarchy and hereditary rights–
without listening to the radio
nor the television
without hearing the neighbors
listening only to our sighs
but we had forgotten to turn off the mobile
that orthopedic appendix.
When it rang, someone told me: New York is falling
the holy war has begun
and I, drooling from your inner juices
I didn't pay the slightest attention to him,
I turned off the phone
thousands of deaths, I managed to hear,
but I was very much alive,
fucking alive.
"What happened?" you asked,
breasts hanging like swollen udders.
"I think New York is sinking," I muttered,
eating your right earlobe.
"That’s a shame", you replied
while you sucked me you sucked
my lower lips
And we didn't turn on the TV
nor the radio the rest of the day,
so we will have nothing to tell
to our descendants
when they ask us
what we were doing
September eleventh of the year two thousand and one,
when the Twin Towers collapsed over New York.”
I think a lot about it because I’ve been fucking too, and making love, while the world around me is collapsing. Shattering. Fracturing. In pain. I’ve been falling in love while family is in pain. While I’ve been in pain. I've been loving while others can’t love anymore. I’ve been having orgasms the same days I’ve cried.
There’s not much more to say, other than loving should be easy. And I’m thankful, these days, it is. Loving is easy. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.