phylum ctenophora

if you go to the beach at night, the water shimmers with a phantasmagoric glow. don't jump in!

if you go to the beach in the day, you won't see a thing. don't jump in!

likelihood is you'll come out of the water covered in transparent goo and itching like you've never itched before.

don't forget, all ctenophora are carnivorous.

tapioca!

yes, my parents have been feeding me asado and masitas again

itchy
Originally uploaded by ladelentes.

i'm the oldest, ugliest and fatest thing on the beach...almost.
thank god for sea lions, eh?

in the corner of your eye

parrakeets flashing by fluorescent green
the pink underbelly of the hornero shining into the sunset
humming bird bluegreen sucking on the bright red hibiscus

pornopainful

ready to hit the beach.

fine

grand-ma says i look beautiful. but it's her all along.

fine

grand-dad traces the countour of the cartoon chicken in one of the squares of the checked plastic tablecloth to make a point. his nails are clean and polished. his hand is wrinkled. his point is made.

right as rain

nacional are, to all appearances, going to be thrashed by inter of porto alegre. the reigning world champions, though not the most sparkly brazilian players in the planet are still managing to make nacional look like a bunch of 30-year-olds playing for kicks in hampstead heath, looking forward to that pint after the match. nacional. so disorganised they make my bedroom look like the epitome of tidiness. so full of theatrics they've already had andrew lloyd webber on the blower asking them to star in his next gig. so far gone there is no hope in hell... but of course, this is south american football. and so 13 minutes to go and one red card later, somehow 3 goals are produced out of nowhere, and the hopeless 1-0 of the first 77 minutes looks like a long lost memory.

dad and i sit shouting at the screen, me in just-arrived-spanglish, him in full on uruguayan mode. he says i'm "entendida", i understand the game. i say i've had to learn, being married to an english guy. he stops for a moment, and then he nods. i guess he can't find fault with that.

and now i'm off to bed and a storm is coming from the river...

you say asshole, i say arsehole

and it means the same either side of the atlantic.

red

lips stained with wine. lips ripe like strawberries. cold lips. pouting lips. talking lips.

blinding

from the plane you can see frozen lakes shining in the midday sun, looking like maps for faraway lands. faraway.

snow. dirty, melting, everywhere. cars covered in snow. awnings covered in snow. buddah covered in snow. snow on top and underfoot.

flat is completly white. white everywhere.

i want white for myself. white it will be.

looking out east

pink - red - blood red - orange - pink - white - whiter still - pale blue - blue

destiny

not so much a highway to nowhere, as a resting bench on the road to recovery. still going nowhere, though. i know.

marketplace

on the side of the road there were three women dressed in extravagant outfits setting their wares on pretty blankets on the pavement. one was selling kisses in the back of your ear, a cheek gently rubbing against your hair, eyes lost in your eyes. the other one was selling arguments that make no sense, cul-de-sacs masquerading as feelings, incomprehensible actions. the third had a ticket to south america and a wink. i bought them all. i am a rich girl right now, after all.

inconsolable

i. have. lost. my. berlin. hat.
my. life. is. over.

still

my comfort blanket comes all the way from india. neil gave it to me. it sat on a side table for a year, pretty but forgotten. one day i wrapped it round my shoulders and there it stayed. and there it is. today it's draped around the edge of the door to the room that is not my room but will always be my room. elegantly cascading down the frame. blue and grey. still.

a night in west london

in a suite, in a hotel, in west london. all we want is to eat to pesto pasta, but we wait for the mains to arrive. and then nearly drink them with a bottle of smuggled portuguese wine. a glass of which proceeds to walk all by itself along the table, much to the amusement, puzzlement and ultimately complete freak out of both hostess and guestess. stories of ouija boards and summertimes ensue. the night manager doesn't believe us. he's seen plenty of murder, prostitution and drug deals, but never a glass of wine spontanously and autonomously walk across the table, so there you have it. and so the hats go on and it's off to the champagne bar, why not. berries and passion fruit and lychees, as you like. and yes, for someone who's not in love it's true that i talk a lot about love. don't i know it. but it's just as hard to exorcise a good breakfast hug as it is a wandering glass of wine. and it will take a lot of, yes, more wine, and travelling, i say! chit chat chit chat. mmmmhhhmmm, yes isn't it funny. all the things you tell me always make sense. with or without the 15 minutes of required concentration. let's go back upstairs and get some popcorn, yes, let's. and swoosh, propelled into the night. the perfect man asks me up to his flat for a drink. he's tall and blond and blue eyed and dashing and well spoken and has a flat in sloane square. and all he wants from me, he says, is a drink. a last drink. but i'm tired and weary and sceptical. and tonight i really don't fancy fighting a man off my back, even the perfect man, and so i let him go on his way, slightly miffed (probably wondering how come, being the perfect man, he's going home on his own) but there is always a certain satisfaction to be had from having had the perfect night, with the perfect friend, in the perfect bar. and letting the perfect man go by, cos you know what. i. don't. fucking. need. him. cheers! good night...

wandering

a boy and a girl. a hand slips into another hand. shhh. don't say it's happened. streets turn into themselves. rivulets of conversation twirl into the night-time sky. watch. them. go. this is the 21st century. but i still don't like it. even if the sausages are damn good. find a pub. lose a bowling alley. i want to go this way. boy vs girl. girl wins. maybe.

this is the first and last time i tell you

as much as there is always a first time for everything, there is also always a last time for everything. each breath a full stop. or maybe just a comma?

spam reading

return. perhaps.

spam reading

sal took the panties and put them on his face like...
so what about the differences between the printed and...
be the "biggest" out of all your friends...
leg mouthwash

breathe in. breathe out.

thanks david, helle, ana.
i am breathing thanks to my mum 31 years and 9 months ago and to you all 1 hour ago.

bang! bang!

Originally uploaded by ladelentes.

all the ducks were in a row...someone just had to start shooting.

spam reading

innocent but delightful pleasure merely

looking after me

bring me a cup of hot lemon
make me some grilled chicken with mash potato
take my temperature
read me a story
make my bed with me in it
buy me a book
wheel in the portable telly
call the doctor
look worried
smile

daydreams

hands smoothing over shivering skin
arms wrapped around waistline
finger following the countour of a breast
head buried in the hollow between neck and shoulder
fever
cold
wet

38 degrees

woke up and realised the only place i didn't feel any pain was (perhaps) my toenails.
all hurts. fever. cough. headache. muscular pains.
my own peculiar form of self-expression.

options and motivation: abundance of and lack therein

so: new york, cuba, montevideo, argentina, with friends, on my own, with signed papers or not, this week, next week, the week after...

tortícolis

one day she woke up and couldn't move her neck. try as she might, it just wouldn't go. panicked, she went to her parents' bedroom. mum, i can't move my head. at first, as usual, mum didn't believe her, but then seeing the stress in her voice...

three days later the girl still couldn't move her head. the obstinate neck had been seen by doctors, aspirins had been prescribed, heat lamps applied. the neck wouldn't budge. on the fourth day, magically the pain disappeared, and the head unused to such freedom, moved in all directions all of it's own accord.

suddenly, after three days of having to stare to her left, the girl regained acquaintance with her right shoulder. she promptly found there wasn't much difference between the newly found right shoulder, and the frankly quite boring left shoulder.

one shoulder, it would be hard to argue against this, is much the same as the other, and no shoulder -- no matter how smooth the skin or tempting the curvature -- can withstand three days of observation without some of the excitement of the first encounter fading off...