It’s my party and I write if I want to

This year I wanted to give myself this article in my special day. That’s why I called it ‘It’s my party and I write if I want to’.

Still 3 days to turn into 35 and to throw a big party —of course, not we are still in lockdown—, and today it’s World Poetry Day and apparently poetry is celebrated by people who then ignore it during the rest of the year.

Ok, I will start writing seriously now: a year ago, when lockdown was starting, I wrote this article. It was on my birthday day when Boris gave his speech talking about new rules and the fact that we were going to lose many of our loved ones before their time due to coronavirus.

That was a shock, but not a massive shock because usually, historically, during my birthdays dramatic things happen, and they are not always related to myself.


“This is the first thing
I have understood:
time is the echo of an axe
within a wood”
Philip Larkin

In contrast with 2020, during this year (2021) there is a sense of closure. Since November we’ve been in lockdown with the new strain, and during that period we witnessed the coldness, darkness, fogginess, pouring rain and recently, we started to see the sun again. We also witnessed the borders closing and opening, and the vaccines. It looks as if this big sort of parenthesis between in our lives it’s about to finish.

I was wondering what it’s left after all this process, especially to writers. As writers we are sort of marginalised from the standard economic system with our literary activities in most cases, and that become even clearer during lockdown. The lack of empathy with writers was obvious, and the worst part is that people consumed more literature and arts in general. However, sadly, we are still producing material, even though most of us don’t earn a salary for doing it.

During this period starting from Boris talking on TV until this current moment, I’ve got connected and disconnected with many people, with cities, WIFIs, myself, and especially with writing.

That’s why I wanted to give me this celebration in form of an article, words. I wanted to write these paragraphs, this relief which I wanted to re-read, hopefully during my upcoming birthdays, once Covid mutates into a blurred memory of something which changed our lives temporary and also, forever.

I wanted a birthday about this other pandemic: the inner pandemic, the literary pandemic with books and literature, the one that keeps us mentally healthier in a very incoherent and disorganised world.

A friend of mine wrote a book in which he states that being a writer is not like being a clerk. We can’t escape from writing in the same way that we leave the office. We don’t have a badge to check out from writing. Writing exists within all aspects of our lives; it is at the core.

Being a writer is way more complex than writing.

“Aging is nothing to be ashamed of
Especially when the entire human race is in it together
[…] it’s such a privilege to not die prematurely”
Bernardine Evaristo

I write to myself and to others, and more than often it is in the middle of those where the magic happens. I remember that writing for others was so scary, that I preferred to write for myself, but one day I just decided to break the glass case containing my writing .

I sometimes think that if the well-known writers from the past suddenly woke up from their graves, they wouldn’t resist this current time. I guess transmigration is an art as many other arts, therefore it is not for everyone.

It’s also hard for us to accept this current literary time in which the ego is so big as the big ben: Instagram, algorithms, readers acting as babyreaders, hyperlinks and links, funding always awarded to the same people, places, trolls, photos, the weird academic and corporate social media presence. There are weird things happening in these current times, such as feeling pressure to have followers on Twitter —isn’t that almost inhuman?— Especially when you can just buy followers with a few argentine pesos.

I’m not sure in what moment of my 35 yo I decided to look at all that mix with the eyes of possibility. Now you are reading this as a mistake, because I have not being paid to write it and you won’t for reading it. It is not an exchange with economic value, and that’s a lot in this world. La Ninfa Eco is a beautiful mistake. And I wanted to feel emotional in my birthday about having imagined it and after that, having created it. This project doesn’t rely on the followers, the algorithms or the market in order to exist.

I believe that La Ninfa Eco was one of the best things I have ever created in these 35 yo because it proved that it can exist away from the traditional market logic: ‘And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life, but poetry, beauty, romance, love…these are what we stay alive for’.

During an interview with Elon Musk by Joe Rogan, Musk stated, ‘we’re already a cyborg to some degree, because you’ve got your phone, you’ve got your laptop […] today if you don’t bring your phone alone it’s like if you have a missing limb syndrome, feels like something’s really, really missing’. Leaving at the edge of the writing progress is to understand that technology process; it is also to understand that we are not influencers, but we have more possibilities, and we can move forward without waiting directions from institutions and big publishing companies which also seem lost. The new aspects of this evolution can be seen with stigmatising eyes, but I can’t think in a better moment to write than in this actual chaos.

Sometimes, I think that I live at the edge of the margins, in a big and small city, inside waters self-filtering themselves with words. In this scenario, I turned 35 years old, and I wanted to celebrate in the happiness that is writing this article. Words are the only thing that rule us, and I wanted to be alive in my words, in this eternal today which is the only thing I am.

We don’t know when this party will be over, we don’t know if everything that we have is going to disappear completely in a turn. Nothing is private property in this world of appropriation. Life is so short we don’t have another alternative rather than live it fully.

I want to share some of my verses in order to continue below:

“We are less than dust.
We are just a falling leaf.
And our beauty is hidden in the way
we fall”

I would like to complete it with a quote from Ricardo Piglia, ‘when I fall I’m a hawk’. I would like to be that hawk, not in relation with the aggressive aspect of a hawk, but to have the possibility to fly being taken care of by my own freedom and discipline. I would like to fly and to land in that wonderful way that only an animal can try. We are as earthly as dust: we are never clean, never perfect, always hiding. But sometimes we open ourselves as a book and we let others see ourselves and we look at them as well: there is nothing as heavenly as that, not even the stars.

“The most unexpected human being is oneself. Even the sphinxes look at it with astonishment”
Silvina Ocampo

Thanks for letting me share these thoughts on my birthday; I’m happy to have a birthday with this different transaction, a transaction of words and connection.