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115 pages, Paperback
Published March 1, 2019
‘The cat brought me a huge cockroach as a trophy and left it in the middle of the living room—the first cockroach of the season, they’re so exuberant that it’s hard to understand why we find them so unpleasant, they’re practically an ode to life with how plump and juicy they are.’
‘I’m trying to determine my limits, it’s a form of extreme therapy. Provoking your body until it finally reacts, as if to a vicious brand of yoga—Your mom wrote to me inquiring after the plants and the cats. How are you, she asked me, how are you—everything OK? You’d have to be an idiot to let a ficus die. Champagne in Las Violetas and afterward a thousand beers at the Chinese bar next to the bookshop. I doubt that I actually like beer, I think I’m only trying to shut down the demands of corporeality.’
‘Whiskey on ice after wine after beer. This stretch of the night transpires on a loop, gazing at the spoon, lighting the cigarette, golden whiskey slipping across silvery ice cubes.’
‘I eat a few pieces of cheese and some olives, I drink what’s left of the flat Inca Kola, inside of me everything’s churning. I remember those months when I never had a problem eating, I didn’t drink or smoke, my skin was beautiful and I felt good, morally superior even.’
‘It’s the constellation of ideas around the cockroach, not the bug itself. I believe in instant karma; a while ago I killed a bug and it felt like an accomplishment, I even dared to call myself brave again. Now the bodies of dead cockroaches torment me, stare me down with their absurdly long antennae. Sickeningly perfect, like every creature.’
‘Believing in magic transcends the inimical binary. Why not be more naïve? Why do we always denigrate the intuitive? Care should be intuitive. Not hurting oneself or others should be intuitive, not putting oneself above any other being.’
‘I left half a ripe pink grapefruit covered in plastic wrap in the fridge. I was fascinated by the compression of the plastic on its surface keeping its freshness intact. Slapped on the plate it looks like a vital organ or an obscure saltwater animal that’s been wrenched from its environment. An animal so strange that it looks like a plant, an anemone. Very marine, one that can be found only by diving, which glows in the darkness at the bottom of the sea.’
‘It’s my job, I told him, and he said, how sweet. If it were just that, it really would be sweet, but every day I feel that it’s more like a cage I’ve gotten myself into and then swallowed the key.’
‘I marvel at the evolution of my wound. The bruise passes through a whole spectrum of colors and the scab where the cat bit me shrinks slowly into nonexistence. It makes me feel strong to have these wounded legs, like the wild girls of my childhood, climbing up trees as I ached with fear and desire from below.’
‘All I can think about in the summer is the ocean, and by any criterion, beaches or rock formations, I choose Argentina. You tried to make me feel bad about loving its coarse sand, cold water, and violent wind, but to no avail. I’ll never be one of those girls who say they’re going to “Uruguay” when we all know perfectly well that they mean Punta del Este and that Punta del Este is not Uruguay but an alien, dystopian place whose inhabitants can wear only white.’
‘I still can’t sleep more than an hour or two straight. I thought I might be able to sleep more soundly with the corticoids but nothing so far. I really feel like smoking, or maybe I don’t feel like smoking any more than usual but since I’m not allowed the urge is more intense. It would be a good time to give it up again but I don’t even want to risk trying so I won’t have to face the further frustration of failure if I can’t.’
‘He showed me some songs he wrote, he’s a musician. I liked them. I think he expected something more specific in return; I told him I’m not exactly known for my musical knowledge or sense of rhythm. We’ll see if it manages to hold together like this, our asymmetrical desire; in this case it’s not like one has more and the other less, but that we have different expectations, expectations made of different materials that don’t quite mesh, but they don’t conflict with each other, either. I’ll see how it goes, I don’t want to force any changes, keeping still may also be an answer.’
‘I’m blowing smoke rings, the years I didn’t smoke are out the window, as if that never happened; I’ve surrendered to aesthetic vice. And it’s not just the going up in smoke, the neighbors’ noise is exhausting, they’re like beasts, they howl. The ceiling is opening up, like in that story I must have told you a thousand times, although I don’t have much confidence that you’d remember.’