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Intimate worlds. Every time I go out with a girl I like, I get obsessed: what if she leaves me? Am I going to have a bad time?

2021-08-07T10:40:00.998Z


It works, or it doesn't. The beginning of the links seems an impossible task for the author, who cries for the possibility that something ends before it has even begun. The urgency of affection and its crises.


Micaela Szyniak

08/06/2021 21:11

  • Clarín.com

  • Society

Updated 08/06/2021 21:11

I go through obsessive crises.

They are cyclical, they come and go.

They are unleashed with the closeness of love.

I write, I give workshops, this year seemed to be going well: new students, contracts with institutions, a scholarship, fairs.

Professional recognition and financial stability had me in a new adult life until I started dating a girl, let's call her Paz.

Paz replied to Instagram stories and I, who don't usually meet people on the platform, got hooked on talking to him.

I liked that he took photos and I liked his group of friends from the literary environment

.

The story goes like this.

I kept reading

When illusion becomes reality

Society

Let's go to Varela to have a beer.

She asks for a tenderloin.

We laugh.

He has mayonnaise on his lip.

I don't eat and ask them to wrap my takeout half.

He offers to accompany me a few blocks.

I say yes.

I will say a lot yes.

His two jackets, how fast he talks, that I stumble and say that I am cute, everything is going to be very important because obsession is an art of detail, of expansion.

On the corner of Santa Fe he asks me if he can kiss me.

Dorothea Lasky has a poem about a first encounter:

“oh, the pretty cashier, like a moose // he drove my spirit quite a bit out of my clothes // and chrysanthemums sprung up I assure you // from my nipples when he kissed them // and the purity of not knowing him at all // was really what we all felt when we entered this land

.

"

Early.

For Micaela Szyniak, “meeting” can be equivalent to falling in love.

No need to try to describe it better. We kiss for a long time against the blind of a closed room. I walk with her back to her direction, she accompanies me, I accompany her, we are embracing, we say goodbye. When I enter my house, he already sent me a message asking if I arrived. That night I sleep holding my cell phone.

It's Sunday and the clothes I'm going to wear are already washed on the stove when I see that she's talking to me. There are messages that do not need to be opened. We know what they are going to say and it is what they say. Paz feels a little bad about the vaccine and suggests that I stay for another day. I imagine that this is how it disappears, perhaps because many times that is how I disappeared. Dressing, ghosting, it is said to ghost. Make an excuse and let the time pass. I understand it, I understand it. I guess we disappear because we don't know how to leave. He proposes to see us on Thursday. I do not believe you. It doesn't feel serious. During the week I work, eat, sleep. I even read and do gymnastics. Paz puts my heart in a photo, talks to me, talks to me again. Already on Wednesday night I walk through Plaza Las Heras

and I write: "See you tomorrow? I need to prepare myself psychologically."

. What I liked the most about Paz, what made me fall in love if the word is borrowed from me, is that it seemed sweet to him that I stumbled. Actually, she is the first person that I like since I separated, in 2020, from a couple that lasted between seven years back and forth; in the last time my ex girlfriend did not see anything tender in me. What is going to happen with Paz emulates those seven years for me, compresses them, turns them into a microdot. But not yet. Now he replies "ahaha, yes, do you want to?". I keep the cell phone in my pocket. I keep walking, it is night, it is cold, the lanterns seem foggy.

Indeed, on Thursday I go to his house, a white two-roomed apartment in Villa Crespo. I have to take an alikal and an omeoprazole because my stomach is very damaged by nerves. She cooks. I take out glasses, put beer in the fridge. We are talking about books of acquaintances in common, of the autobiographical component. When we go to sit down he says that the table seems very empty. It is a small, circular wooden table. I grab finished wine bottles from her apartment and set them for decoration. Likes.

We are sitting opposite. One of the empty wines has a label of fifteen hundred pesos, he tells me something that is going to hurt me, that is going to settle on me: his ex took it on Saturday. I try not to let it affect me, at the moment it does not affect me. Eat orange cake. I move my fork across the plate. I have a drink. I say: “no… I… the weekend I didn't do anything… I stayed working”.

Things are still ok and it improves when I sit in a chair next to him. Closeness relaxes me, accommodates me.

In the closeness I know how to be. Now his leg is on my leg, we say: "I wanted to give you a kiss", "but I approached", "but I invited you", "but I ..." while we throw tarot cards: three queens come out. Two look at each other, the third watches them look at each other from the outside. "The third is sad", that is going to become important, not yet. For now we find it funny to read without knowing anything about cards.

We are kissing. My hand on his back, his hand in my hair. Everything is extremely sensual and Paz asks me if I stay to sleep. Of the range of things that make me nervous about meeting a person, fucking is the worst: how is it going to be, who is going to do what, if we are going to understand each other, at what point is it going to slow down. I think how much I connect with Paz that night is what makes me enter the subsequent crisis with force. The feeling that the issue is resolved, because I think the obsession is about closings, and then opens. And that what opens is unbearable. But now we are in bed and what happens between us feels good and is exciting. Later, my friends are going to give me statistics, which make sense, that one in seven people has a good fuck, that first it is to fuck well and then it is love, much later. I do not know.It is very difficult to understand the links for a person like me.

We are about to sleep with his arm over me, his body wrapping around me. That way of holding on, of holding onto the night, which as we all know is the moment of danger, in which creatures come out, is what I think I need for a full life.

I am, deep down, a simple person, with primary pretensions.

We haven't slept yet, Paz says that suddenly the position is very comfortable for her. Me too, but as we said we are going to start to feel the points of contact and it will get weird, and he replies: "Think of something else, a waterfall, the noise of water that does not stop."

Yes, I know, as my friends and psychologist are going to tell me: I don't know her.

I don't know her, I didn't know her, I'm not going to know her.

But imagine being with someone who makes you hear a waterfall.

Once with my ex, before the end, it was night, I felt very bad (I usually feel bad at night) and she said: “Love, thoughts are cars that don't stop on the road.

Watch them go by ”.

A waterfall, cars.

What happens, water with force, water of life, like a poem in which Mirta Rosenberg asks if it can be written with water:

“And there is also a: // Let's say eau-de-vie, aqua vitae, agua de vida./ / And royal water, like the road, ritual water // that we cannot always drain // but we have to drink the same so that the well // does not dry up and make blind sand, water without thirst.// can you write with it?

// To the page, woman "

.

The next day I have a friend's birthday in Varela, I'm at the same table where we met. Actually this is funny: Paz and I knew each other before and I didn't. We were going to a literary workshop together, but at that time I was only thinking about something else, I don't know exactly which one. My psychologist is going to say that this is the investment, because apparently my obsession is about investments: I did not register it and I need to invest it. Why. To lose distance. Why. Because I know this place. Why. We do not know. But not yet. I am under the sun and it is autumn. I tell my friend about the date. I am happy, as a start. I send Paz a message saying that I liked seeing her last night, sorry for going to the bullfights. She responds: "hello beautiful, me too" and an arrowed heart followed by a blue oracle.Those symbols are going to be my main element in what comes next. I'm going to look at them. I'm going to want to decipher them. Not yet.

He writes that he is just about to go through Varela to look for a tenderloin. I think he does it to see me and a little scares me but a little excites me.

When he arrives he greets me with a hug and enters to get the sandwich without taking off his mask. From outside I watch her approach the box and through the reflection of the door I see the girl who yesterday mentioned as her ex arrive. I see in the glass its two superimposed figures. Everything is very fast: the ex greets me, Paz leaves, they greet each other, Paz greets me, they leave. I do not understand. It is already starting and it goes up very fast. I've been talking to my friend for hours about what just happened. I call it series, comedy, I call it amazing. My friend answers me and then changes the subject. My friend had a bad year and a worse week. I can't stop going over the same thing, it's as if I wanted to pierce a bar with a file. Night is getting closer and I am still in Varela with others and other acquaintances. I keep checking if Paz tells me something. The birthday ended long ago.

Being obsessed has something protective about it. You can spend hours thinking about nothing, under the sun or lying on the floor of your apartment going over scenes in your mind: tenderloin, messages, heart, arrow, his leg. You can spend days with an empty brain looking at the cell phone, as if your life depended on the "writing ..." appearing below its name. You can stop working, you can stay to one side while you lose things. In an episode of "Girls", Lena Dunham, creator and protagonist, in the midst of an obsessive crisis, puts a swab in her ear until her eardrum is perforated. She ends up hospitalized and cared for by her ex-boyfriend who takes care of her taking the medication and although I am not going to go to a hospital and although no one is going to cross the city to save me, I am going to get pierced in one way or another.

Paz writes to me that night that the next night she would have sat with me at my table and we talked a little more until, yes, she disappears for a week. As the days go by and she does not respond, I check her chat more, I write more to my friends, my cell phone is more attached. This is the heart of the crisis. It is very difficult to explain what is going on inside, like a fire from which I do not move away.

It's not really the compression of the bond with my ex but the almost exact repetition of the first week. The past is a strange thing. We met, in a week he said he loved me, ten days later he asked me for time. That was eight years ago, so I missed my work days, I was a secretary; I cried non-stop at my parents' house where I still lived.

But if they had been a week she couldn't leave you, says my psychologist, so ... what separation are you talking about.

The two scenes are illuminated together, as if bathed in light, like rings floating in space. It is not the beginning of my relationship with my ex that I relive, I relive what I relived then. My ex, beautiful, her curls, going to bars together, having her and needing her, the corner of her house moving away from me, and Paz appearing around the corner of Varela, entering right in the danger zone, where the pain cannot stop.

Paz and I exchanged a few messages again. He said he wanted to see me, we arranged, he canceled. A common and well-known story. I guess that was it, we liked each other, yes, but she was in another. And a little bit I was fascinated with the replacement, instead of eating, thinking about it, with the hallucinogenic effect of its appearance. Understand me, I am just a girl raised by love soap operas that orbited around her deepest fear, like an oracular language, to be left alone. Being with someone is likely to unleash mysterious forces ... intimacy can be a very extreme experience. Also, why not say it, Paz is cute and that Thursday night seemed good to me.


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Micaela Szyniak

is a writer. She lived by being a secretary, selling books, organizing literary cycles, managing bars, until she discovered a passion for accompanying writing processes. Today is dedicated to that. Coordinate workshops and work clinics. Some poems from his book "Precarious Contract" were selected by the Biennial of Young Art. He also published the collection of poems “I write asking for help” and fragments of his diary in “My body is a tribute”. Believe in the links. He is part of the publishing house "Promesa", of the magazine "Mi gest pank" and is finishing his degree in Writing at UNA.


Source: clarin

All life articles on 2021-08-07

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