11 nov. 2016

Una memoria sobre Leonard Cohen.

Tenía 15 años, había salido de la secundaria. En vez de optar por una beca y convertirme en seminarista de La Salle, decidí optar por esperar el fin de la huelga en la UNAM y entrar a la preparatoria en una de sus escuelas. El año era 1999.

Había pasado meses sin estudiar ni hacer nada, tanto que durante 30 días no salí de mi casa y cambié mi horario; vivía de noche, dormía de día. Tenía todo, libros, una computadora, mi restirador y materiales de dibujo, una tele grande, una videocasetera, un estéreo y una hamaca. No necesitaba nada más.

Hace poco en una charla aprendí que las personas tienen diferentes formas de amar y querer ser amados, que la mía siempre ha sido compartir. Que otras personas aman en privado, en aceptación del mundo y sus personas, en rescatar. Que es en esa forma de amar que secretamente también es el amor que desean recibir 

En aquellos entonces había un programa de radio que me encantaba, era los miércoles a las diez de la noche. Se trataba de la transmisión completa de un disco sin comerciales, sólo entre cada pista se detenían a contar de que trataba la canción, de donde provenía. Fue una vez que sonó un recopilado de Leonard Cohen, More of the best of Leonard Cohen.

Conocía una canción de Cohen, The Future, porque la película Nature Born Killers me había encantado, es con la canción con la que termina la cinta. Buscaba aprender inglés y en eso se me derramaban las horas, buscando canciones, traduciéndolas, buscado su significado, y The Future había sido un impacto.

Una a una sonaron las canciones con esa voz profunda y triste, con sus teclados simples y su llamado a imagenes de mujeres fantasmas en Viena y el honor de ser su esclavo, sobre la torre de la canción y Hank Williams. Debía tener ese disco.

Sólo he comprado dos discos compactos en mi vida, uno cuando tenía catorce años, los demás han sido regalos, robos, promociones de estaciones de radio, obsequios de músicos amateurs soñando con un oído extranjero y extraño que encuentre vida y arte en ellos.

Escuché More of the Best of Leonard Cohen cientos y cientos de veces; Aún tenía esa fascinación infantil donde la repetición no hace más que enriquecer todo.

Memoricé cada letra y cambio de voz, me interesó saber quien era Hank Williams, quien era Lorca. 

Aquella noche de muchas en infinita soledad y oscuridad de 1999 Leonard Cohen compartió arte conmigo, me enseñó poesía, y de otra música, y de historia, y de mujeres, cuando yo quien había pasado doce años en una escuela exclusiva para caballeros no sabía nada de eso, con todo y que dibujaba figuras femeninas en mis paredes tal vez intuyendo un hambre que ahora se mantiene incompleta.

Núnca he amado más que compartiendo una experiencia y mucho más arte. En una habitación oscura con una película enfrente y el calor de un hombro al lado de un ser querido, en el suspiro compartido contemplando una pintura, en la sonrisa al sonar una canción, sentado en una mesa con un lapíz de color y una mujer de hermosos ojos haciendo el mismo ejercicio que es un dibujo. Leonard Cohen compartió arte en mi vida, y me mostró mucho más, por  eso amo a Leonard Cohen, Leonard Cohen me amó.

Él lo decía "No hay cura para el amor".

10 ago. 2016

Mis Subrayados

Son of Tree and Other Stories por Jack Vance

If the Past is a house of many chambers, then the Present is the most recent coat of paint.

It was a narrow passionate face, wide across high cheekbones, with flat cheeks slanting down to a prow of a chin. The nose was long and straight, the forehead broad. The eyes were flat black disks in narrow expressionless sockets, the brows ink-black, the hair an ink-black mop of ringlets, artfully disarranged. It was a clever, cruel face, full of fascination, overrich, overripe, without humor or sympathy—the face of a feral animal only coincidentally human.

Humility is impossible when the object of your love is fearing for your safety.

“I think we can find some, Lord Smith.” Joe turned to Hableyat. “They don’t wear many clothes. That’s paint on them!” Hableyat appeared to be amused. “Of course. Haven’t you always known that the Belands wore more paint than clothes?” “No,” said Joe. “Clothes I’ve always taken for granted.” “That’s a grave mistake,” said Hableyat pompously. “When you’re dealing with any creature or manifestation or personality on a strange planet—never take anything for granted! When I was young I visited the world Xenchoy on the Kim and there I made the mistake of seducing one of the native girls. A delicious creature with vines plaited into her hair. I remember that she submitted readily but without enthusiasm. “In my most helpless moment she attempted to stab me with a long knife. I protested and she was dumbfounded. Subsequently I found that on Xenchoy only a person intending suicide will possess a girl out of wedlock and since there is no onus either on suicide or impudicity he so achieves humanity’s dream, of dying in ecstasy.” “And the moral?” “It is certainly clear. Things are not always what they seem.”

The answer evidently was this: all of human history is condensed into each individual lifetime. Each man can enjoy the triumphs or suffer the defeats of all the human race. Charlemagne died a great hero, though his empire immediately split into fragments. Each man must win his personal victory, achieve his unique and selfish goal. Otherwise, hope could not exist.

The noblemen looked blank. “We must be practical,” said Matagan. “As Lord Oufia put it, sewage is sewage. And what avail are schools?” “To teach children the elements of technical weaponry,” explained Hack. “They learn to calculate effective weapon ranges, to read scales and gauges. They gain an understanding of warfare and raiding methods of the past, including, as an incidental, universal history.”


Forever Peace por Joe Haldeman

“When you run with the wolves, you shouldn’t complain of sore feet.

"It takes all kinds of people to make a world," my mother always says. Fewer kinds to make an army.

There was a long article about the pros and cons of a euthanasia lottery for the elderly, which was scary enough even when you only got half the words.

A horrible practical whisper told me to wait until after the operation. But I decided that buying the gift was more for me than for her, anyhow. A commercial kind of substitute for prayer.

Amelia had told him I was "sick," but hadn't elaborated. I suggested we call it food poisoning. Alcohol is a sort of a food.

"Ah, men. Never get any real action before sundown." She waved with two fingers and walked away, the silk artfully revealing and concealing with every step, a flesh metronome.

Most of these people were only ten or twelve years younger than me. It seemed impossible, an unbridgeable chasm. But maybe I was never quite in that world— chatter, giggle, flirt—even when I was their age. I had my head in a book or a console all the time. The girls I had sex with back then were in the same voluntarily cloistered minority, glad to share quick relief and get back to the books. I'd had terrible earthshaking loves before college, like everybody, but after I was eighteen or nineteen I settled for sex, and in that era there was plenty of it. Now the pendulum was swinging back to the conservatism of Amelia's generation.

I shocked myself by wondering whether I could live like that, and in the same instant shocked myself again by admitting I could. Relationships emotionally limited, temporarily passionate. And then back to real life for awhile, until the next one.

The undeniable lure of that extra dimension—feeling her feeling you, thoughts and sensations twining together—in my heart I'd built a wall around that, labeled it "Carolyn," and shut the door. But now I had to admit that it had been pretty impressive just with a stranger; however skilled and sympathetic, still a stranger, with no pretending about love.

"You were a Jesuit?" "Franciscan. We run a close second in being pains in the ass."

maybe war is an inevitable product of human nature. Maybe to get rid of war, we have to become something other than human.

"Some are born crazy," Amelia said. "Some achieve craziness. We had craziness thrust upon us."

"We're not likely to convert many of them, and some of them like to serve God by murdering the godless."

"Poor Lalo; poor Ray. They didn't suspect what a monster you were." "Of course not. Men just see me as a receptacle for their lust. Why should they fear a cunt?"



"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there isn't someone after you."

“No. Just say that anyone who wishes to study here will be welcome, in spite of the poor lighting. Thon Maho, especially. Or Thon Esser Shon with his six ingredients. Men must fumble awhile with error to separate it from truth, I think-as long as they don’t seize the error hungrily because it has a pleasanter taste. Tell them too, my son, that when the time comes, as it will surely come, that not only priests but philosophers are in need of sanctuary-tell them our walls are thick out here.”

The Poet could not remember ever fearing death, but he had often suspected Providence of plotting the worst for him as to the manner of his dying when the time came to go. He had expected to rot away, Slowly and not very fragrantly. Some poetic insight had warned him that he would surely die a blubbering leprous lump, cravenly penitential but impenitent. Never had be anticipated anything so blunt and final as a bullet in the stomach, and with not even an audience at hand to hear his dying quips. The last thing they had heard him say when they shot him was: “Oof!”-his testament for posterity. Ooof!-a memorabile for you, Domnissime.

“The APLAC?” “The APLAC. Sell it to an atheist. No, that wouldn’t be kind. Sell it as junk. I’m through with it. Why, for Heaven’s sake, did Abbot Boumous-may his soul be blessed-ever buy the silly contraption?” “Well, Domne, they say your predecessor was fond of gadgets, and it is convenient to be able to write letters in languages you yourself can’t speak.” “It is? You mean it would be. That contraption-listen, Brother, they claim it thinks. I didn’t believe it at first. Thought, implying rational principle, implying soul. Can the principle of a ‘thinking machine’-man-made-be a rational soul? Bah! It seemed a thoroughly pagan notion at first. But do you know what?” “Father?” “Nothing could be that perverse without premeditation! It must think! It knows good and evil, I tell you, and it chose the latter. Stop that snickering, will you? It’s not funny. The notion isn’t even pagan. Man made the contraption, but he didn’t make its principle. They speak of the vegetative principle as a soul, don’t they? A vegetable soul? And the animal soul? Then the rational human soul, and that’s all they list in the way of incarnate vivifying principles, angels being disembodied. But how do we know the list is comprehensive? Vegetative, animative, rational-and then what else? That’s what else, right there. That thing. And it fell. Get it out of here-But first I’ve got to get a radiogram off to Rome.”

Now Lucifer again. Is the species congenitally insane, Brother? If we’re born mad, where’s the hope of Heaven? Through Faith alone? Or isn’t there any? God forgive me, I don’t mean that. Listen, Joshua-”


THE FOREVER MACHINE por Mark Clifton y Frank Riley

Are we doomed to it, Lord, chained to the pendulum of our own mad clockwork, helpless to halt its swing?

"Perhaps," he murmured aloud, "to believe in the inevitable triumph of rationality might, in itself, be no more than another expression of those same superstitions which we deplore in the ignorant. It is apparently an occupational disease, perhaps a fatal one, for the scientist to be too sanguine about eventual rule by reason. There is so little evidence

"But this is only a machine," they would say. "It cannot be held morally responsible for arriving at the only logical answers possible, even though such answers do not support your political bias. Logical rationality is neither subversive nor non-subversive. It is simply a statement of fact. You may destroy the machine, but your verbal public whippings and pillories cannot incurably damage its psyche. It is only a machine."

There is an odd peculiarity to the scientific mind. Block off an area where it may not go for speculative consideration, and immediately every line of research seems to lead into that area. A small boy may sometimes survive for hours with no thought for the cookie jar, but forbid him to touch it and he can think of nothing else.

"Every man surrounds his mind with a framework of screen mesh," Joe said conversationally, "composed of his prejudgments, preconceptions of what is acceptable to him. Everything he receives must filter through it."

"... when another eye is opened by which man perceives things hidden in others . . . perceives all that will be . . . perceives things that escape the perceptions of reason. . .

He poised his fingers over the keyboard again. But no sentences formed into his mind to flow through his fingers. What would happen to his popularity with his audience if he implied that the beloved scientific method was a single value, only one way of interpreting reality? Were the disciples of science sufficiently scientific to question their own articles of faith? And what did he mean even by these questions? He felt his inspiration slipping away from him in chaos and confusion.

AMONG OTHERS por Jo Walton

as if, instinctively, they knew that when the machinery of opinion control got to working again, they could not resist it. Like alcoholics, knowing that when the ready-made drink of easily adopted opinion was placed before them they could not resist it, they pled with Kennedy to keep sober and get them safely home. It was the few would at first subtly, by slightly slanted news releases, by vocal inflections in reading supposedly unbiased copy, begin to formulate public opinion. Through the use age-old drama being played out again. As soon as they were able to reconcile differences among themselves, the self-appointed of semantics, the few would become the many. As always, just one drink would lead into a total drunk.

My goodness, Robert Silverberg must have egg all over his face. But I bet he doesn’t care. (If I’d written Dying Inside I wouldn’t mind how much of a fool of myself I made about anything ever again. It might be the most depressing book in the world, I mean it’s right up there with Hardy and Aeschylus, but it’s also just so brilliant.)

It seems poetry has moved on since Chesterton. Who knew?

What I mean is, when I look at other people, other girls in school, and see what they like and what they’re happy with and what they want, I don’t feel as if I’m part of their species. And sometimes—sometimes I don’t care. I care about so few people really. Sometimes it feels as if it’s only books that make life worth living, like on Halloween when I wanted to be alive because I hadn’t finished Babel 17. I’m sure that isn’t normal. I care more about the people in books than the people I see every day. Sometimes Deirdre gets on my wick so much I want to be cruel to her, to call her Dreary the way everyone does, to yell at her that she’s stupid. I only don’t out of sheer selfishness, because she’s practically the only one who talks to me. And Gill, sometimes Gill gives me the creeps. Who could help wanting to Impress a dragon in preference? Who wouldn’t want to be Paul Atreides?

Carpenter says in the Inklings book that Lewis meant Aslan to be Jesus. I can sort of see it, but all the same it feels like a betrayal. It feels like allegory. No wonder Tolkien was cross. I’d have been cross too. I also feel tricked, because I didn’t notice all this time. Sometimes I’m so stupid—but Aslan was always so much himself. I don’t know what I think about Jesus, but I know what I think about Aslan.

back at the lights with the sky not quite dark. It makes me melancholy to remember, but a little bit of the security and excitement comes through from the way I was feeling in the memory. Memories are like a big pile of carpets, I keep them piled up in one big pile in my head and don’t pay much attention to them separately, but if I want to, I can get back in and walk on them and remember. I’m not really there, not like an elf might be, of course. It’s just that if I remember being sad or angry or chagrined, a little of that feeling comes back. And the same goes for happy, of course, though I can easily wear out the happy memories by thinking about them too much. If I do, when I’m old all the bad memories will still be sharp, because of pushing them away, but all the good ones will be worn out.

This proves that just reading it isn’t enough. After all, the devil can quote scripture.)

I finished it at Leominster, and after that read Four Quartets again and got drunk on the words. I could just copy out pages and pages of it. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out what it means, but that’s part of the joy of it, putting the images together into coherence. There’s a story in there just the same as there is in “Young Lochinvar,” but it isn’t on the surface much at all. I’m so glad I have my own copy. I can read them again and again. I can read them again and again on trains, all my life, and every time I do I’ll remember today and it will connect up. (Is that magic? Yes, it is a sort of magic, but it is more just reading my book.)

Nobody who offers to lend me Zelazny could be as black as he’s been painted.

“I just wondered.” He sounded tentative and uncertain, as if he wished he hadn’t asked. He didn’t move away. “It’s just, the first time I saw you, I felt as if you were seeing right into me. And when I heard you’d said your mother was a witch, I thought—you know, did you ever read so much SF that you start thinking you don’t know quite what’s impossible any more? Where you’re ready to start admitting hypotheses that you know are screwy, but…” he trailed off.

I helped Miss Carroll stamping and shelving some new books. They all looked awful, being of the category of books about teenagers with problems—drugs, or abusive parents, or boyfriends who push for sex, or living in Ireland. I hate books like that. For one thing they’re all so relentlessly downbeat, and despite that you just know everyone will overcome all their problems in the end and start to Grow Up and Understand How the World Works. You can practically see the capitals. I’ve read half a ton of Victorian children’s books, because we had them lying around at home, Elsie Dinsmore and Little Women and Eric, or Little by Little and What Katy Did. They’re by different authors, but they all share the same kind of moralising. In the exact same way these Teen Problem books share the same kind of moralising, only it’s neither so quaint nor so clearly stated as the Victorian ones. If I have to have a book on how to overcome adversity give me Pollyanna over Judy Blume any day, though why anyone would read any of them when the world contains all this SF is beyond me. Even just within books written for children, you can learn way more about growing up and ethical behavior from Space Hostages or Citizen of the Galaxy.

I almost started it on the train, but I was very good and not only finished Charisma but started Doorways in the Sand. Having a whole fat new Heinlein I haven’t read a word of is such a lovely feeling. Like a reward. I feel all bouncy and happy when I think of it sitting there waiting for me.

“I don’t care if you see Shirley, as long as I know about it,” I said. “… I think.” I was really clear on the theory of this from Heinlein, I wasn’t quite so sure about the practice.

THE END OF ALL THINGS  por John Scalzi

Captain Sophia Coloma looked every inch of what she was, which was the sort of person who was not here to put up with your shit

“Fair enough,” Brous said. “It sounds like you’re having a moment of existentialist crisis here, Hart, if you don’t mind me saying.” “Maybe I am,” Hart said. “I’m trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up. A nice thing to wonder about when you’re thirty.”

That’s it, you no longer have official favorite-cousin status. Rachel is back on top.” “I thought she owed you money,” Hirsch said. “Yes, but you owe me a beer,” Lowen said.

“I’ve met a lot of people in the diplomatic corps who were in love with the sound of their own voice, but this guy. He and his voice should just get a room.”

There’s a saying: “May you live in interesting times.” To begin, it’s a curse. “Interesting” in this case uniformly means “Oh god, death is raining down upon us and we shall all perish wailing and possibly on fire.” If someone wanted to say something nice to you, they wouldn’t tell you to live in “interesting” times. They would say something like, “I wish you eternal happiness” or “May you have peace” or “Live long and prosper” and so on. They wouldn’t say “Live in interesting times.” If someone is telling you to live in interesting times, they are basically telling you they want you to die horribly, and to suffer terribly before you do. Seriously, they are not your friend. This is a tip I am giving you for free.

Second, the curse is almost always ascribed to the Chinese, which is a flat-out lie. As far as anyone can tell it appeared in English first but was ascribed to the Chinese, probably due to a combination of casual racism and because someone wanted to be a shithole of a human being but didn’t want it to be marked down against them personally. A sort of “Hey, I’m not saying this, those terrible Chinese are saying it, I’m just telling you what they said” maneuver. So not only are they not your friend, they may be also a bigot and passive-aggressive. That said, the Chinese do have a saying from which it is alleged that the bigoted passive-aggressive curse may have been derived: “,” which, roughly translated, means “It’s better to be a dog in peace, than a man in war.” Which is a maxim which is neither bigoted nor passive-aggressive, and about which I find a lot to agree with.

THE SHEPHERD´S CROWN por Sir Terry Pratchett

Sorvalh smiled, and it was terrifying, and glorious. “And so we learn how simple it is to change the history of the universe,” Sorvalh said. “All you need is for every other thing to have gone so horribly wrong first.”

Being dead didn’t mean you couldn’t get angry, oh no.

and as Jeannie grew to become a wise old kelda, the word ‘belt’ would no longer signify something to hold up her kilt but just something to mark her equator.

Of course, there always was such a lot to do. So many people never seemed to think about the consequences of their everyday actions. And then a witch on her broom would have to set out from her bed in the rain at the dead of night because of ‘I only’ and its little friends ‘I didn’t know’ and ‘It’s not my fault’. I only wanted to see if the copper was hot . . . I didn’t know a boiling pot was dangerous . . . It’s not my fault – no one told me dogs that bark might also bite.

‘Being a witch is a man’s job: that’s why it needs women to do it.’

And they were very aware that he knew exactly how to make a short word like ‘suffer’ turn into a very long experience.

The music was playing in Fairyland – a harmonious melody, notes spiralling into the empty air, where a lazing elf perched on a slender branch near the top of a blossoming tree allowed himself the pleasure of turning each note into a colour, so that they danced above their heads, delighting the court. It doesn’t take much to delight an elf. Hurting something is usually top of their list, but music comes a close second.

 ‘Oh, I understand all that,’ Mrs Proust said. ‘But this is today. It’s soon going to be tomorrow and things can change. Things are changing, especially for you young people, when you both want to do different things. Just do the work you find in front of you and enjoy yourself. After all, you are both still young, so you still have options for the future.

RAMA  II por Sir Arthur C. Clarke y Gentry Lee

don’t know; a faith-shaking secret … that’s just in theory. In practice, people don’t believe for good reasons anyway, they just believe and that’s it, like we don’t love for good reasons, we just love because we need to love.

Somewhere I can never tell you about, Nicole mused- Because each of us is the sum of all we have ever experienced. Only the very young have a clean slate. The rest of us must live forever with everything we have ever been. She slid her arm through Richard's. And must have the good sense to know when to keep it private.

4 ene. 2016

Viento. Acto 1 escena 1


Quetzal, hombre delgado muy alto de 30 años. Escuálido y barbado.

Giselle, Mujer fantasma en tutú de ballet. Representa un amor mal correspondido que aún responde con cariño en su voz.

Natalia, Alaide y Marysol, Mujeres Fantasma de cabello negro y largo, con anteojos y diversas complexiones. Visten de blanco. Representan los amores mal correspondidos y su culpa, su voz es de incómoda indiferencia carada de melancolía.

Acto 1, Escena 1

Habitación en penumbra, sólo una cama recargada en la pared.

Inicia música.

Un rostro en blanco y negro se proyecta sobre la pared y la cama. Un screen test de una antigua actriz podría funcionar
Quetzal se levanta de la cama, se sienta en ella con sus manos sobre su rostro. 

Giselle entra en la habitación bailando, sus movimientos son ejercicios de danza, con ellos cruza la habitación.

En una esquina, aún en penumbra y sólo visibles por el contraste de sus vestimentas en blanco, Natalia, Alaide y Marysol yacen de pie juntas, en silencio, observando la escena.

Durante toda la escena Giselle baila mientras realiza su dialogo, en ocasiones se acerca a Quetzal, su contacto produce en Quetzal escalofrió y disgusto, pero el cortar tal contacto provoca suspiro.

 Giselle: Dice que ya no existe.

 Non serviam. No he de ser tu esclavo, madre Natura; seré tu amo.

Te servirás de mí; está bien. No quiero y no puedo evitarlo; pero yo también me serviré de ti. Yo tendré mis árboles que no serán como los tuyos, tendré mis montañas, tendré mis ríos y mis mares, tendré mi cielo y mis estrellas.

Y ya no podrás decirme «Ese árbol está mal, no me gusta ese cielo... los míos son mejores».

Yo te responderé que mis cielos y mis árboles son los míos y no los tuyos y que no tienen por qué parecerse. Ya no podrás aplastar a nadie con tus pretensiones exageradas de vieja chocha y regalona. Ya nos escapamos de tu trampa.

Adiós, viejecita encantadora; adiós, madre y madrastra, no reniego ni te maldigo por los años de esclavitud a tu servicio. Ellos fueron la más preciosa enseñanza. Lo único que deseo es no olvidar nunca tus lecciones, pero ya tengo edad para andar solo por estos mundos. Por los tuyos y por los míos.

Una nueva era comienza. Al abrir sus puertas de jaspe, hinco una rodilla en tierra y te saludo muy respetuosamente.

  El arte es mentira Quetzal ¿Sabías?

 Quetzal: Siempre lo intuí.

 Giselle: Igual que el imaginario, el logos.

 Quetzal: ¿Hay alguna cosa que no sea mentira entonces?

 Giselle: Dicen que la experiencia.  Aunque son percepciones, traducciones cerebrales.

 Quetzal: Entonces sólo escogemos nuestras mentiras

Giselle: Ajá.

 Y mientras más artificiales sean, mejor.

  No sé quien, fue antes de Brecht, que ahorcaban a alguien en una escena de teatro.
 Había un condenado a muerte, pidieron permiso para que lo ahorcaran de verdad en escena,  y nadie lo creyó.

  La crítica dijo que fue mala actuación.

 Quetzal: En la Opera, mujeres rollizas de cuarenta simulan ser mujeres delgadas de dieciséis.

 Las cabezas de verdad, una vez cercenadas parecen y rebotan como plástico; En la vida falsa sólo se cree si actúan como piedras.

 Giselle: Parece que preferimos las mentiras.

  Todo lo construimos.

Quetzal: Pero no hay nada que no sea mentira,  por eso sólo podemos hacer eso.

 Giselle: Sí, por mucho que se esfuerce uno por ser verdadero pasa por mentiroso.

 Quetzal: La falla entonces es cuando nadie quiere creer las mentiras; las de los demás, las propias.

 Giselle: ¡Ah! Es que lo que gusta son las mentiras espectaculares.

Quetzal: Tontas mentiras humildes que quieren pecar de sinceras.

Giselle: Mejor será disfrazar la verdad de mentira.

 Quetzal: Pero todo es mentira, un bufón no puede disfrazarse de bufón.

 Giselle: Pero puede aparentar ser más bufón o ser no bufón.

 Quetzal: Entonces sólo es un embustero, y deja de ser bufón.
  Sigue siendo sólo una mentira diferente.

 Giselle: Una que llame más la atención.
  Que engatuse.

 Quetzal: Pobre bufón que deja de ser él por atención; Trata de ser diferente para que crean que sigue siendo él. Traicionando lo que es, sólo porque el bufón depende de los demás, en caso distinto el monologo y la bufonería de uno es solamente desquicio y ensimismamiento.

 Giselle: Pero puede hacer la mentira que él quiera.
  No le tengo tanta lastima

Quetzal: Como cualquier otro podría hacer la mentira que quisiera, siempre y cuando deje de ser bufón, ese sería su sacrificio, su precio a pagar. Si pudieras hacer todo, menos tu vocación, si pudieras visitar cualquier lugar, menos el que deseas, si pudieras ser quien quisieras, menos quien eres ahora, ¿lo serías?

 Giselle: Sí, y poco a poco trataría de ser lo que deseo como mentira.
  Hay que sembrar dudas como mentiras.

 Quetzal: Al final de la historia, ¿Quién sería el embustero?

Giselle: Yo

 Quetzal: Mejor que dejen caer la cortina, si al actor, ya no le interesa seguir leyendo líneas

 Giselle: Sí sigue leyendo líneas. Puede escoger las que quiera leer.
  Puede elegir, aunque claro, puede elegir no leer ninguna.
  Igual seria mentira.

 Quetzal: Pero aun así lo hiciera, seguir leyendo líneas, ¿Qué sucedería con los demás papeles? ¿Qué actriz sustituiría las líneas de la amada, fallecería ese personaje, la obra sería igual de buena?
 ¿Qué espectador se quedaría a semejante presentación?

Giselle: La escena debe mantenerse ante todo.
  Si falta uno debe parecer que no falta, que está completa la obra.

 Quetzal: ¿El aplauso de quién alimentaria a los actores?

Giselle: Se aplauden entre sí, no lo hacen por el espectador, lo hacen por hallarse a sí mismos.

 Quetzal: La máxima que separa los grandes actores, de los pretendientes: “El espectáculo debe continuar".

 Giselle: Ante todo.

 Quetzal: Sólo aquellos con la vocación en sus almas seguirán, hasta el último acto.

 Giselle: Si el acto así lo pide.

 Quetzal: ¿La vocación estará en mí?

 Giselle: No lo sé.

 Pero podrías hacer que el director te pusiera un mejor papel.

 Quetzal: ¿Puede el alegre siervo vestirse de triste y engañado rey?

Giselle: Oh, por supuesto.
  Los reyes tienen muchas privaciones.
  Algunos no dejan ni que les de la luz del sol, otros tienen que dormir sentados sin inclinar la cabeza.

 Quetzal: Orlando se queda con Rosalinda, el noble se convierte en un vago para contemplar el mundo y entender la naturaleza humana de lejos.
  Supongo que así tenía que ser.

 Al bosque entonces, al bosque.

 Giselle: Fue un mejor destino para Rosalinda.

 Quetzal: El mejor de todos, el más feliz, el que se requería, el vago al bosque.
Solamente eso.

 La siempre bella y hermosa Rosalinda.

La dulce y cándida Rosalinda

 Giselle: De Rosalinda y Orlando nada sé.

 Quetzal: Sí sabes, sólo que es un guion viejo de nuestra farsa.

Giselle: En algún momento pensé que eran Horacio y la Maga.

 Quetzal: La Maga tal vez ande en el fondo del Sena. Horacio trabaja cómodamente con locos, imaginándose que las sombras son la Maga, que quienes están cerca son Talita, cuando realmente sólo es la noche, la noche y un cigarrillo.

 Giselle: Así es como termina.

 Quetzal: Así es, sólo la noche y un cigarrillo en el manicomio.

 Giselle: Y la maga ¿Qué compañía tendrá?

 Quetzal: Es una estrella que Horacio ya no encuentra.

 Giselle: Ya no la ve, ni porque la noche es lo único que lo acompaña.

 Quetzal: ¿Una nube, una constelación que ha cambiado? Las cartas estelares dicen que debería estar en ese punto como siempre, pero no.

 Giselle: También es un método riguroso.

 Eres un libra raro Quetzal.

 Quetzal: No he conocido nunca a un libra coherente con nada, excepto con su indecisión.

Giselle: Y tú eres indeciso.

 Quetzal: Como cualquier libra

 Giselle: ¿Achaques en los riñones? ¿Tendencias artísticas?

 Quetzal: Nunca

 Giselle: ¿Vivir en el mundo de las ideas?

 Quetzal: Más bien mucho tiempo libre e incapacidad para la enajenación común.

 Giselle: Eso está mejor.

 Quetzal: Sólo me queda repetir lo que leo y como suena en mi cabeza.

 Giselle: Creo que solo repetimos.
  Dicen que hasta que aprendemos, pero tal vez aprendemos porque repetimos.

  Las rebeldías son lo mismo

 ¿Leer líneas verdad?

Quetzal: Sólo líneas de un papel que desconocemos.

 Giselle: A veces me da mucho miedo Quetzal.
Me pregunto que estoy haciendo.

Y entonces acepto, y sigo.

  Antes quería un maestro, un príncipe que me salvara de las brujas y ladrones y balas.

 Quetzal: Y ¿Ahora?
 Giselle: Me digo siempre, como en la película:

 "Yo no le tengo miedo a nada.
  Ni a las brujas,
  ni a los ladrones
  ni a los balazos".

  Así, según se dé el caso.

  Mira, Yo pongo acentos a medias.
 Digo eso, y después me rindo.
  Da igual si pasa algo malo o no,
  y creo que eso me ha salvado.

 Ay, me prometí que iba a ser secreto. Pero de verdad me rindo.

Quetzal: Rendirte ¿A qué?

 Giselle: A que pasara lo que fuera,  pero no pasó.

  Creo que fue porque me rendí.

  Así no tiene chiste

 Quetzal: Ayer releía varías cartas tuyas:

 "Siento que todo debería hacerse por los demás, no siento que tendría chiste si fuera diferente".

 Giselle: Lo sigo sintiendo.

  Pero ahora creo que empieza en uno.

 Si no, no me incluyo en el mundo, y si no estoy, no hay un Yo en el mundo que haga por los demás.

 Quetzal: "Las palabras son bonitas, no sirven de mucho, pero así me siento más libre, al menos así puedes guardarlas y leerlas otra vez en cinco meses, cinco años, quince años, y saber que alguien te quiere mucho, mucho"

 Giselle: ¿Desde cuándo me he preocupado por que las cosas sirvan?

 Quetzal: Tienes razón, eso nunca te preocupo.

 Giselle: Ojalá fuera así.

De hecho, acepto esa versión mejor.

Cambiemos a esas líneas.

 Siempre fui como el viento, y nunca le exigí al mundo ni a la vida que me diera sentidos.

 Si acaso sé algún significado, es porque me fue regalado.

 Quetzal: ¿Cuándo dejé de ser viento?

La proyección termina, sólo se queda una ligera luz sobre Quetzal.
Quetzal voltea a ver la esquina donde yacen Natalia, Alaide y Marysol. Ellas se retiran dándole la espalda.
Giselle ha desaparecido.

Fin de escena.