reckless

two hundred seventy five thousand people are awaiting. I have only spoken to three. Two said they did not have another chance, unlike me. The other said he wants to help me. I need no help, he needs to help someone and I happened to be there. I have entered yet another layer of within. I am conciously getting lost. I am spinning three hundred thousand and sixty nine times with the intention of being totally disoriented when I stop. Where am I? how did I get here? and who are you? what are you doing with your hand in my hand?

And in the meantime I enjoy the flavour of transience imprinted in every gesture. Nothing takes me here or there. The levity of everything until I stop spinning and then the wavy image that my eyes will conjure up until they get used to stilness. I will slowly offer my hand then. No words. An incomprehensible silence if my hand goes unnoticed.

Boom

His name is George, he's empty, he's weightless. His voice resonates, amplified in a cave. This and his heartbeat, that's all I can hear. His heart beats my ears with a deafening pulse. And in between pulses I hear the world distorted, the voices, vanessa: 'boom I boom like boom he boom me boom inspired', jorjo: 'we boom like boom man'. I'm missing information. He laid his head on her and said 'I wish I could see the world through your eyes'. The most beautiful gesture since I can remember. And it was nice, there the four of us. We rehearsed our performance with unbearable passion, he did not like it, he said. But it was fun the four of us.

He's wireless. It feels he does not sum up time, no past. An endless line of present continuous. Each moment at a time. And as he moves all traces disappear, no marks, no signs, no prints, clean. And when he looks at her I hear a roar, his blood pumped tumbling out his eyes. She holds the string, he's a helium balloon.

"Lorena, hija, vales mas de lo que te piensas. Tu a la tuya que puedes con to. Pero gasta cuidao con actuar por la calle. De noche no, Lore! y si no te gusta Londres, te vuelves a Grana, que aqui esta tu gente, bonita. Besos, la mama. Recuerdos de la Araceli". Mum, I miss you. I don't want to come back.

London

helicopters hovering above my head and the sound of bells, and horns, and bikes. A smiley face, a friend? I see the multicoloured patterns, the trails of all this movement, people, people people people, chances. And as I sing this wave of craze she looks at me behind her glasses. A pound in my hat. A pound a minute, good business. My heels compose a steady pulse, the rhythm of this river. I dive in it. I'm upside down and down sideup and I move sideways gently pulled by arms and legs and bums, from hand to hand. And I sing "you are approaching the end of the conveyer, you are approaching the end of the conveyer".
I hear them laughing, ha ha ha, a bit more in my hat. And with their laughter I am catapulted right inside their hearts. And now we're one. Proficiency in laughter, in hunger, in soledad. That's the language we all have. No need to guess, to think 'did I get it right?', we cut the shit from heart to heart.
Drops of rain ruin my make up. And so they disappear one by one. Puddles sound the rain the heels, a drum machine that makes me sing. chacachacachacachaca ole chacachachaca ole. I'm just another traveller in the train.

I'm the hips

The family, sacred, the sacred family, the secret family. Do everything for your family, keep the family together. Bollocks. Jorjo's only my half-sister, sister-half, half of me. I am the hips, she's the brain. I wish I had a brain, nothing wrong with being the hips. She's the brain, I'm the hips, siamese. I want a brain, she needs a pair of hips. One becomes what one practices; I have been so busy 'hipping' Jorjo's thoughts that I have become all hips, no room for practising brains, no brain. Where is it? I am sure I must have one somewhere. If only Jorjo would give me more space, a pair of lungs and clean air. I feel suffocated by her constant stream of words, joint together, one after the other. They roll around my neck, press tightly, a bit more tightly, tight tight tight, tough. Jorjo's words have a rhythm that dictates a marionette dance. My mouth says yes, sure, of course, my hips do all the rest. What do I want? I do not know. She wants this play to be her way; I want to keep the Sacred Family. I am joint, I am not I, I am we, us, her. I want to dance the dance of me.

Look at Vanessa, all love and full of life. She's made an environment around her that includes a house, a job, a man. Do I want all these things? I am sure I do not know. I have not had a time to think. I have no brain, no wish. I've just been trying to fit in.

But I am sure I have a lot to do with it. Why do not I stop her? Why do I not put in front of her another path to walk together hand in hand and not brain on hips?