The Paradox of Choice escrito por Barry Schwartz fue publicado en el 2004, pero su relevancia es auto-evidente en el trayecto del hiperconsumismo. Nos plantea que

más opciones = más libertad = más felicidad

Pero la realidad es que cuando las opciones son infinitas, elegir es mas difícil. Y al momento de tomar una decision, nos preguntamos si realmente esa fue la mejor decisión.

Aqui esta el Ted Talk del 2005 que da Schwartz acerca de esta paradoja.

El ejemplo que usa Schwartz para apoyar su argumento es que no estamos sencillamente escogiendo un jean. Estamos eligiendo el color, material, talla, marca, corte, etc. No tenemos solo dos opciones, si no, 200. Al estar casi seguro de elegir uno, pensamos, ya va, y si el otro es mejor? Y no acabamos haciendo la elección. Entre mas posibilidades hay, también hay mas posibilidades de imaginar que tomaste la decision incorrecta. Por eso me gusta pensar que la decisión que tome siempre sera la mejor.

También describe 2 tipos de consumidores, los maximizers (yo), y los satisfiers.

Un maximizer dice: “Quiero la mejor opción possible.”

Un satisfier dice: “Quiero la opción que llega a mis necesidades”

Schwartz luego nos explica que la consecuencia a la que más le tenemos miedo a la hora de tomar una decisión es el arrepentimiento. Y creo que he empleado una estrategia en mi vida, estando semi-consciente de que no me quiero arrepentir de la decisión que tome.

Para tomar una decisión, me ha funcionado practicar el método del descarte. Así siento que la decisión se toma por sí sola (aunque sé que no es así). Mi intuición me llevó a pensar y actuar de esta manera, pero claro que ya es una filosofía explorada que se llama Identidad por Negación.

No siempre sabemos quiénes somos por saber qué somos. A veces empezamos a descubrirlo sabiendo qué no somos.

Por ejemplo, yo sé que en este momento de mi vida no quiero hijos (ni un perro), no quiero mudarme, no quiero casarme, no quiero regresar a la escuela (ojalá en unos años sí), y comienzo a hacer un dibujo por sustracción de mi propia vida. Imagínate un vision board donde pones todo lo que no quieres. ¡Y esto, amigos, es una manera de crear identidad sin estar seguro de quién eres!

Pero no nos emocionemos tanto, hay un límite para todo. Debemos tener cuidado de no caer en la trampa de crear una identidad de rechazo. Podemos llegar a saber exactamente qué no somos y no saber en lo absoluto qué sí somos. Este tipo de identidad, basada en la negación constante, existe a raíz del “otro” y la comparación constante con el otro.

Entonces piensa en alguna influencer, celebridad o persona que puedas describir en totalidad. Vas a saber cómo es, qué come, cómo se viste, a dónde viaja, qué estudia, en qué trabaja, qué ejercicios hace, qué cirugías tiene, para poder realmente decir: no, no quiero ser como ella. Pero verás, siempre estuviste pendiente de quién es esa persona y no de quién eres tú.

Y si eres alguien que usa las redes sociales constantemente, básicamente estás viendo un catálogo de la vida de los demás en vez de la tuya, y esto está drenando tu atención (y creando una adicción) para que sigas siendo consumidor sin poder elegir.

Nos enfocamos mucho en lo que sí queremos. El capitalismo, las influencers, la cantidad absurda de productos que tenemos al alcance de la mano… ¿cómo no vamos a querer todas esas cositas? Incluso nos están vendiendo ideales de vida que nos hacen cuestionar la que estamos viviendo.

Y esto viene de nuevo, porque hay infinitas opciones, e infinitas versiones de cada opción. Entonces pensamos: bueno, si hay miles de jeans, seguro uno me tiene que quedar perfecto. ¿Y qué pasa cuando no encontramos el jean perfecto? Comenzamos a pensar que nosotros somos el problema, y no el producto.

Es aquí cuando ya no se trata de consumir, sino de cómo nos está afectando nuestra propia imagen. Y sí, te di un ejemplo de un producto que usamos. Pero ¿qué pasa cuando forzamos una vida en la cual sentimos que no encajamos? También pensamos que el problema somos nosotros, y no la circunstancia en la que estamos.

Porque ya no estamos viendo en YouTube un tutorial de cómo maquillarnos para unos quince años o de cómo preparar un buen banana bread. Estamos inmersos en el estilo de vida de otras personas y, aunque no queramos vivir como ellos, por chismosos igual queremos ver qué hacen con sus vidas.

Recuerdo cuando tenía prohibido ver Keeping Up With the Kardashians porque, según mis papás, ¿qué posible interés podía tener una niña en ver cómo vive una familia ajena, en un lugar ajeno? Además, probablemente todo estaba scripted. Todos los esfuerzos de mis padres por mantenerme alejada de las pantallas, sobre todo de algo tan irrelevante como KUWTK, se fueron por la ventana con la llegada de Instagram, del que cada año nos volvemos un poco más adictos.

Entonces, ya no se trata solo de qué producto nos meten por los ojos todos los días, sino de qué producto nos va a hacer tener el estilo de vida de cierta persona con la que estamos obsesionados. Porque ya no es que fulana me inspira; ahora es una obsesión por saber qué come, cómo se viste, a dónde viaja, quién es su familia…

Creo que a lo que voy es que cada vez se me hace más difícil “decidir” qué vida quiero y, por ende, tomar decisiones, porque las opciones son infinitas y estoy al tanto de ellas. Y ESE es el problema: no solo tenemos demasiadas opciones para elegir, sino demasiadas versiones de nosotros mismos entre las cuales elegir.

Intento pensar en lo que no quiero y, a partir de eso, voy entendiendo qué me gusta y qué no me gusta. Me voy entendiendo mejor.

Tenemos listas, vision y mood boards, y métodos de manifestación de todo lo que sí queremos y dejamos de pensar en lo que no queremos. Como si estuviéramos en una constante búsqueda de saber qué es lo que sí soy. La verdad es que es casi imposible.

Regularmente me pregunto: ¿cuál es el propósito de lo que estoy haciendo?

Y pienso en la escena de la película Soul:

Young fish: “I’m trying to find this thing they call the ocean.”
Older fish: “The ocean? That’s what you’re in right now.”
Young fish: “This? This is water. What I want is the ocean.”

El propósito de nuestras vidas no es encontrarlo; es sencillamente vivir. No deberíamos enfrascarnos en pensar qué es aquello a lo que nos vamos a dedicar, sino en entender qué es lo que no somos (sin obsesiónarnos con esto).

Saber qué es lo que deberías saber es súper interesante para mí, porque a partir de ese pensamiento podemos trabajar para llegar a saber lo que tenemos que saber.

Un pequeño trabalenguas, jajaja.

Mi escrito mas exitoso en Substack es un comentario en un post de Renata:

Lo que no digo en voz alta

¿Y si no sé quién soy?

“Quiero estudiar, quiero aprender, quiero escribir. Tengo veintidós años. No sé nada. Nada fundamental. No sé lo que debería haber aprendido hace muchos años. Nadie me enseñó nada. Sé, en cambio, lo que debería saber mucho después. De allí que me sienta anciana y niña al mismo tiempo…

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a year ago · 13783 likes · 233 comments · Renata

Hace un año comente esto:

Mi amiga Valentina, creadora de Miss Bukowski, comenzó un Book Club presencial en Nueva York y ya vamos por la 4ta (creo) edición. Hemos leído La Sombra del Viento, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, I Who Have Never Known Men, entre otros. Cada mes y pico nos reunimos en algún café, bar o restaurante neoyorquino para discutir el libro durante un par de horas. Ha sido una experiencia que he anhelado desde niña: poder reunirme con mujeres admirables a quienes les interesa leer tanto como a mí (y beber una, dos, tres, cuatro o cinco copitas en el proceso).

Para amplificar nuestras conversaciones literarias, estoy creando esta guía en colaboración con Miss Bukowski, para que puedas leer el libro de la temporada con más intención.

Thirst Trap, por Grainne O’Hare

Es su novela debut (2025) y trata sobre tres mejores amigas, Harley, Maggie y Róise, en Belfast, que pasan sus noches saliendo a las discotecas y bares más faranduleros de la ciudad. Cada una está navegando su trabajo, su vida romántica y su familia a su manera. Por más que se peleen, siempre terminan apoyándose. Y les toca un poco, ya que viven juntas.

Las tres comparten una gran tragedia: una exroommate y cuarta mejor amiga murió hace un año en un accidente de tránsito. El dolor las acompaña y las une. Se están acercando al tercer piso, y los problemas dentro de su dinámica amistosa se hacen cada vez más evidentes. Incluso pareciera que se materializan en la misma casa donde viven. Tendrán que afrontar lo que significa seguir siendo amigas… o no.

Suena un poco morboso y trágico, pero O’Hare ha conseguido inyectar humor en escenarios bastante terroríficos. ¡Reír para no llorar!

Guía de Lectura: Temas Clave

Amistad Femenina:

‘Do you think we’re good for each other?’ ‘We’re bestfriends. Aren’t we?’ ‘The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.’

They were not perfect, but they were my friends.

Diría que este es el tema principal de todo el libro, ya que tenemos a tres amigas viviendo bajo el mismo techo. O’Hare se sumerge en las profundidades emocionales de cada una, Harley, Maggie y Róise, y explora cómo han llegado a estar donde están. Pero ¿han llegado realmente lejos?

Tienen 29 y 30 años y admiten que se sienten igual que cuando tenían 23, recién graduadas de la universidad. ¡Y se conocen desde la primaria! Tienen clarísimo que ninguna es perfecta, y ninguna comunica orgullo por sí misma ni por las demás. Entonces, ¿son realmente mejores amigas? ¿O simplemente se han convertido en compañeras de piso?

En la discusión del Book Club, hablamos de cómo uno puede mantener una amistad muy cercana incluso cuando ya no vive en la misma ciudad. De hecho, esa distancia puede permitir que cada una se desarrolle individualmente y que la amistad crezca desde un lugar más sano. A veces, es más difícil mantener una amistad cercana cuando estás demasiado cerca. Irónico, lo sé.

Porque uno piensa: “Bueno, le tengo cariño, la conozco de toda la vida”. Pero ¿qué pasa cuando esa misma cercanía empieza a hacerles más daño que bien, tanto a la amistad como a nivel personal? Quizás crecer juntas durante tantos años no necesariamente significa que tengan que seguir creciendo juntas bajo el mismo techo.

No tener la vida resuelta:

‘Do you want to talk’, he asks, ‘ or would you rather I left?’ ‘neither,’ she says, irritated. They sit in silence for a few moments before he speaks. ‘I can stay,’ Adam offers, ‘and you can shout at me for a bit if you want to. Only because I don’t think it’s really me you’re angry with.’

It is not only that something is ending, it is also the knowledge that things will continue to end, that in the future there will be other, greater moves away and apart, and they will never be the same four girls and a turtle living together again.

¿Quién no le tiene miedo al cambio? Definitivamente, estos personajes están en una batalla constante con él. Pero el tiempo las obligará a tomar caminos distintos.

Todos vivimos una vez y, para todos, es la primera vez que estamos viviendo. Entonces, claro que nunca vamos a tener la vida resuelta. Pero ¿qué significa realmente tener la vida resuelta? ¿Ser dueña de tu propia casa? ¿Crear una familia? ¿Conseguir el trabajo de tus sueños?

Pues es diferente para cada quien. Intentar encajar en lo que la sociedad ha definido como una “vida resuelta” puede alejarte cada vez más de lo que eso significa para ti.

Ahogar las penas:

The reality is different. It is either numbness or calm; she cannot tell the difference between them anymore.

Desde el primer capítulo, vemos cómo las tres mosqueteras van de bar en bar, borrachas, con resacas atómicas, drogándose en nombre del faranduleo, bastante sin sentido. Incluso, pareciera que lo más interesante que tienen es su habilidad para tomar a cualquier hora del día y sin ninguna razón.

¿Y cómo no? Su mejor amiga y compañera de casa murió inesperadamente apenas hace un año y, al momento de su muerte, las tres estaban peleadas porrrrr… hombres, para variar.

¿Hasta qué punto seguirán ahogando sus penas en vez de enfrentarlas? ¿Cuándo decidirán hacer las paces, ya sea individualmente o como grupo? Está claro que uno de sus grandes temores es la soledad. Como la gran mayoría de nosotras, buscan compañía incluso cuando esa compañía ya no les hace bien. Pero todavía no se dan cuenta de que, a veces, es mejor estar sola que mal acompañada.

Guía de Lectura: Temas Adicionales

• El duelo por quien solías ser

• Relaciones caóticas

• Dolor compartido

Preguntas de Reflexión

• ¿Por qué cumplir 30 años causa tanta ansiedad?

• ¿Cómo te proyectas en tus 30?

• Si has vivido la muerte de una amiga, ¿qué hiciste para sobrellevar su ausencia?

• ¿Tienes amistades de la infancia que siguen siendo amistades simplemente porque se conocen desde hace mucho tiempo? ¿Tienen una historia compartida que vale más que su presente?

• ¿Acabar una amistad duele más que terminar una relación romántica?

Playlist

• “Ribs” — Lorde

• “Girls” — The 1975

• “The Night We Met” — Lord Huron

• “Dancing With Myself” — Billy Idol

• “I Love It” — Icona Pop ft. Charli xcx

• “Good Luck, Babe!” — Chappell Roan

• “Motion Sickness” — Phoebe Bridgers

• “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” — Tears for Fears

• “The Man Who Loves You the Most” — Zac Brown Band

Para concluir, les dejo estas palabras de Gráinne O’Hare:

She can be adaptable to change, but she does not want to be the person to effect it.

A comienzos de este año, un ciclo enorme cerró. Se llevaron a Maduro de Venezuela. Casi 25 años de mi vida bajo el mismo régimen, y se lo tuvieron que llevar por los pelos. Ni con protestas, ni elecciones, ni oraciones. Ese cierre (para bien o para mal, solo el futuro dirá) me dio claridad para la novela que siempre he querido escribir.

Si eres una persona incomprendida, quiero que te sientas comprendido. No ha sido hasta el 2026 que he podido completar un cuarto de mi vida, pero es el mismo cuarto que comparte semejante dictadura bolivariana. Mi quarter-life crisis es el fin de una era histórica.

Si estás interesado, por favor escríbeme. Me encantaría compartir más de qué se trata, cómo la estoy estructurando y cualquier consejo que puedas tener para mí.

Comencé a leer La sombra del viento por Carlos Ruiz Zafón, una novela publicada el año en que nací, 2001. Ha vendido más de 15 millones de copias internacionalmente y ha ganado una cantidad de premios envidiables. El preámbulo de la novela es especial: habla de cómo, de niños, si tenemos la fortuna, leemos algún libro, cuento o novela que nunca se nos olvida. Tal vez no sea la mejor literatura, pero hay algo inolvidable en ese primer libro que realmente registramos.

El colegio al que fui en Venezuela era en inglés. La literatura que leía, por ende, también lo era. Pero algo de Cien años de soledad me llamaba como una sirena, y cuando tenía 13 años lo leí en inglés. Fue maravilloso, porque fue la primera vez que leí algo con lo que podía relacionarme a un nivel personal y cultural. Luego fue la primera novela que leí en español cuando tenía 16 años.

Es una novela estilo Game of Thrones, con muchos personajes, muchas generaciones, muchos nombres repetidos incluso, y por alguna razón puedo narrarte con más precisión qué pasa en Cien años de soledad que en The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, que acabo de terminar hace un mes.

“Pocas cosas marcan tanto a un lector como el primer libro que realmente abre camino a su corazón”, escribe Ruiz Zafón en el preámbulo.

Y eso es lo que quiero lograr con mi propia novela: escribir lo que no se ha comunicado a las masas sobre lo que ha sido una infancia en la Venezuela de antes en comparación con la Venezuela del siglo XXI. Es una historia de generaciones, migración y, sobre todo, de entender a la mujer venezolana, que muy bien podría ser cualquier mujer latinoamericana.

Deseo que todo el mundo pueda encontrar un libro que los haga sentirse tan vistos como cuando yo leí Cien años de soledad de Gabriel García Márquez. Ser comprendidos es ser libre, pero la tarea mas difícil es entenderse a uno mismo. La ayuda de un libro siempre sera bienvenida.

El mundo pareciera ir por un camino incierto, pero tengo por seguro que la novela dentro de mí es lo que me va a salvar, y ojalá pronto la pueda compartir por acá.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

Recently, a friend and I made plans to have a creative Friday night free of technology, with the intention of organizing our creative endeavors for 2026. Friday afternoon, all I heard were crickets from her, until she finally texted saying she forgot we had made plans and was already on her way home to stay in.

I was also on my way home, but I had this deep itch to go out. To read. To exist somewhere else for a bit.

So I got home, changed into something warm and cute, put on some makeup, grabbed my book, and headed to Book Club Bar in the East Village. I highly recommend this place if you like to drink and read. Honestly, even if you just want to people-watch in the city, this place is a perfect little Petri dish of quirky New Yorkers.

It’s warm inside. The lighting is golden.

To my left, two high-top tables are occupied by four women ferociously reading on their Kindles. One of them has her right foot propped up on the stool in a half–Asian squat kind of position. To my right, a blonde guy in a sexy little wool sweater is drawing his friend as they talk about their drinks. The paper looks like it was torn out of a book, I hope they didn’t just rip apart a perfectly innocent one for a random sketch.

It’s a tight corridor from the bar to the bookshop area. Every barstool is taken. Not only that, people are standing behind the stools, pressed against the wall like flies, waiting for someone to get up. But no one looks like they’re leaving anytime soon. Everyone seems perfectly content with their dates.

Their books.

Something I love about New York is how often I see people reading—not just on the subway, but in dimly lit bars. Of course, this is Book Club Bar, so duh, people are reading. But I’ve never seen this many people reading in public. Definitely not back home.

I make it through to the bookshop area, hoping for seating. Of course, everything’s taken. I take a few laps around the perimeter, scanning the shelves, but I came here with a mission: to read my own book, not browse others, or God forbid, start another one.

After ten minutes of circling like a shark waiting for the perfect moment to strike, I give up.

Instead, I head to 9cases, a romantic wine bar nearby. Excellent date spot.

There’s one seat left at the bar, all the way at the end, next to the register. Perfect, honestly.

The bartender is petite, fresh, almost childish-looking, with a tiny mustache. He hands me the wine menu. I’m no wine expert, so I usually choose at random. I scan the names, read the regions, and point to one.

“You sure?” he asks.

“I honestly don’t know much about wine,” I say. “You don’t like that one?”

“I don’t.”

“I’ll try it anyway.”

He pours it. I taste it. He’s not wrong, but I don’t want him to be right. I nod and ask for the full glass, describing the flavor as he pours.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Éliott.”

He starts to walk away, then steps back. “What’s yours?”

“Sandra.”

As I start reading, I realize how loud it actually is.

A group of eight girls nearby are loudly catching up on every girl topic imaginable. Another all-girl table is aggressively playing cards. To my other side, two best friends are talking about the new year and work.

I feel safe.

It’s rare to be in a bar where the vast majority of seats are occupied by women. There are a few heterosexual dates, a handful of men, and Éliott, of course.

I don’t know if you’ve experienced this, but when I’m reading alone, noise helps me focus. Chaos sharpens my attention. It’s like my safety instincts kick in and say, Okay guys, we need to focus—too much happening.

So I do.

I take a sip of white wine every two pages.

At some point, the two friends next to me leave, and another woman takes their place. She greets Éliott and introduces the person next to her as a high school friend, though they leave shortly after. I put my book down and introduce myself. She sits beside me while Éliott continues working.

Her dark, slick hair is long, siren-like. Her blue eyes are piercing, almost cold, but her smile softens everything. She tells me about her multiple jobs: managing the wine bar next door most days, bartending at a beer bar on Tuesdays—the one that happens to be right next to where I live.

Naturally, we talk about bars. About Book Club Bar. About how packed it gets.

She asks about my book.

“It’s written by a Japanese man,” I tell her, “about a small architectural firm in Tokyo and the office dynamics. I love anything Japanese, and I’m an architect, so it made sense. It’s not well known.”

She shows me hers. Murder mystery. She’s been on a kick lately.

Then, casually, she mentions how Éliott helped her after an attempted assault at a New Year’s party.

Is an attempt at assault an assault in itself? The intention is there. The willingness. In her case, she pushed the person away, called Éliott, and left the party with him.

“Damn, Elizabeth, breathe and drink this. Just do it, you’re too drunk, and I need to take you home.”

I grabbed the potion-like tube filled with a milky liquid and looked him in the eyes as I drank it. I almost wished it was poison. The alcohol inside me made me feel big, heavy, stuck to the ground.

Then I felt somewhat better, like I was just escaping the haze of it all.

I was walking into a green forest.

This was definitely not New York anymore. At least, not Brooklyn.

I walked and walked, slowly feeling lighter and lighter, the trees growing taller and skinnier.

“Éliott?”

I couldn’t find that little dipshit anywhere. What the hell did he give me to drink? Honestly, I could be asleep and this could be a weird dream, but I wasn’t really waking up either.

The air was bright, tinted yellow, and the smell of pine felt like it was healing my vape-filled lungs. Who knows what else lives in these lungs. I realized my shoes were too big to keep walking in. I took them off. My socks were a few sizes too big too—smelly, even—so I took those off as well.

My toenails were small and colorful, each one painted a different pastel shade. There were no hairs on my knuckles.

My hands.

They were skinny, fresh, smaller too.

I reached into my back pocket for my phone, which was now incredibly loose, and opened the selfie camera.

Okay, guys. This is obviously a very vivid dream, and I look like myself at thirteen. A little twig. Not bad at all.

Since this was a dream, I might as well enjoy it.

The scenery reminded me of the old cabin my family used to have upstate. Maybe the cabin was nearby. I left the heavy Doc Martens behind and kept going barefoot. Suddenly, I was sweating. A lot. We had gone from a freezing New Year’s Eve to what felt like a summery Fourth of July weekend.

As I thought this, I smelled barbecue.

I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything in a dream before—vivid images and noises, yes, but a smell? The smokiness grew stronger, so I figured I was walking in the right direction. I saw actual smoke and kept moving toward it.

I didn’t feel scared, even though this probably sounds eerie. Again, I felt small and light. The air was bright, and the grass felt just right. It tickled all the right spots on the soles of my feet. Leaving those boots behind felt liberating. I never loved them that much anyway.

I could see the grill now—but it was just the grill. Something was cooking. Hopefully sausage.

Dreams get weird like that sometimes—random objects, no context.

I got closer and checked the food. Sausages, potatoes, onions.

But the smoke thickened, ruining the fairy-like atmosphere. I started coughing as I inhaled it, and realized I couldn’t walk away. My feet began to feel heavy again—the earth creeping up, covering them. I couldn’t see clearly anymore, only the sausages and the way their burning smell became all-consuming.

My throat tightened. I shut my eyes as hard as I could.

I felt choked and drowned at the same time. I didn’t feel small anymore, but I couldn’t fight it either.

It’s just smoke, right?

I told her how much that sucked and how relieved I was to know the bartender had taken care of her.

“How old is he?” I asked.

“Don’t tell him I told you,” Elizabeth said, “but he’s actually only twenty-one.”

“What?” I laughed. “I would’ve never imagined that. He seems so mature.”

“No, he really is,” she said. “And I’m so grateful to know him.”

It’s around midnight when the bar officially closes. Only a few customers linger, nursing their final sips. Éliott offers me a Spanish beer, one I recognize, and I accept.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

It was a sunny summer day, the kind that pulls you out of your couch and venture around. I wandered into—no, through—the DUMBO Flea Market that takes over the area every Saturday and Sunday. It stretches outdoors beneath the Manhattan Bridge, passing through that brick archway tunnel filled with jewelry stands, handmade art, and vintage purses.

At the end of the tunnel, a bookstore waits, peeking out, almost shyly. Before going inside, I stopped at the bookstands outside with a handwritten sign: $3 books. Those always make me a little sad. I imagine them unwanted, abandoned mid-sentence, left behind by someone who didn’t finish the story.

There weren’t many books, but one was calling my name.

The Summer House.

It was summer—check.
The author’s name, Masashi Matsuie, sounded Japanese—check.
The green cover—mega check.

I turned it over. Tokyo. A small architecture office. Lives unfolding in close proximity.
Okay. Bought. Say less.

Some books announce themselves. They take up space in the bookshelves. The Summer House does not. It sits almost apologetically, and then stays longer than expected. I read it the way one enters an unfamiliar house, careful not to make noise, attentive to the floors, the light, the way air moves through rooms.

From the beginning, it was clear this was not a novel driven by plot, but by presence. Character development mattered more than actual events to Matsuie. I paid attention not to what happens, but what lingers.

The Summer House is a meditation on grief, memory, and the ways we attempt to give shape to loss. The house itself is not simply a setting, it is a container for memory. For absence. For love that no longer has a body but still occupies space. Matsui treats architecture not as structure, but as language. Walls, rooms, and materials speak where people cannot. And this, is what inspired me. To use architectural lingo to write a novel? Powerful.

Here are a few of my favorite quotes:

“The house remained, holding what could not be said.”

“Simple, compact things are good because theres no need to explain how they work. And it’s best if the occupants of a house discover for themselves the special features an architect has put in. A well made house shouldn’t need a user manual.”

“I want it to be so good that young architects will wish ours had been used instead.”

“It occurred to me that skyscrapers were also the product of selective breeding, with iron and glass being shaped into a new sort of building that gains in utility what it loses in beauty, whisking you up and down fifty or a hundred stories, however feeble your legs are. This was architecture developed in the brain rather than in nature - regardless of nature. You can build it anywhere, in the middle of a desert or deep in a tropical forest.”

There is restraint in the way the story unfolds. Emotions aren’t overexplained, never dramatized. Grief seeps in. In gestures, in silence, in the careful attention given to small, seemingly insignificant details. The novel refuses to spell everything out, and in doing so, it trusts the reader. It asks you to notice. To fill in the gaps.

What struck me most is how the book understands grief as something inherited. Loss does not belong to one person, it travels across generations, across relationships, across time. The characters have emotions that are not entirely theirs, yet they’re so vivid. Loving someone, the book suggests, means accepting that their sorrow may one day become part of your own architecture.

Reading The Summer House felt like slowing my breath to match someone else’s. The reward is not catharsis, but recognition.

This is not a book for everyone. Readers looking for momentum or clear emotional resolution may find it frustrating, even uneventful. But for those drawn to quiet narratives this book creates a space you can step into and remain for a while.

Long after finishing it, I find myself thinking not about specific scenes, but about rooms. About light. About the idea that places remember us even when we are gone. The Summer House stays.

And that feels like the most honest way to write about loss.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

I’ve never taken a class in either of those subjects.

Reactions hold words with no context,

Rehearsed by societal rejects.

I’m not a politician or economist,

I’ve never taken a class in either of those subjects.

Heat in tropics makes opportunists.

Hope and hunger become personal projects.

I’m not a politician or economist,

I’ve listened to desperate, divided, complex objects.

Paradise paralyzed humanists.

Promise of prosperity left no prospects.

I’m not a politician or economist,

I’ve come in, left, each time more perplexed.

Bodies bound to the crucifix,

Become consecration to small sects.

I’m not a politician or economist,

I’ve never taken a class in either of those subjects.

I’ve listened to desperate, divided, complex objects.

I’ve come in, left, each time more perplexed.

There is no language for solutions,

Least of all from a politician or economist.

my home is Venezuela. it’s taken me a few days to process current events. media is tickling my brain with no space to catch my breath. who are you to give an opinion on what’s going on? but also, who am I to say anything? who are they to take over a country - clearly, they are the ones with the strongest opinions. and when I say they I’m not referring to trump exclusively. while I gather my thoughts, and as more explanations surface on my screen, I leave a poem on yours.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

Yo diría: soy una mujer venezolana, arquitecta, wannabe escritora.

Le hice la misma pregunta a mi hermana y dijo: venezolana.
A mi mamá, y dijo: mujer.
A mi papá, y dijo: constructor.

Creo que la primera palabra con la que nos describimos ante un extraño, alguien que no nos puede ver, dice bastante de cómo nos vemos a nosotros mismos y de dónde creemos que viene nuestro valor. La manera en la que nos percibimos no siempre coincide con cómo nos ven los demás, y probablemente lo que somos de verdad está en algún punto intermedio. Pero hacerse la pregunta de cómo te describirías frente a alguien que no sabe nada de ti, y pensar por qué eliges esas primeras palabras, es un punto de reflexión valioso.

¿Por qué empiezo con mujer?
Es de lo más general. Pero también es lo que más connotación trae.

Nunca sabré lo que se siente ser hombre. Y, la verdad, tampoco sé cómo es la experiencia femenina para otras mujeres. Pero puedo hablar con firmeza de la mía. Y cuando la comparto con otras mujeres en mi vida, pareciera no ser solo mía. Hay algo colectivo en lo que decimos.

A pesar de haber crecido leyendo, escuchando y viendo a mujeres alrededor del mundo defender nuestros derechos, luchar por la igualdad de género, y ver cómo cada vez más las atrocidades cometidas por hombres salen a la luz, me tardé en darme cuenta de algo obvio: yo también tengo que trabajar el doble, si no el triple, para alcanzar cualquier meta que me proponga.

¿Pero por qué es tan difícil?

Tengo mi título, mis conexiones, acceso a herramientas, salud, tiempo, espacio, gente que me apoya. Entonces, ¿por qué se siente cuesta arriba? ¿Por qué incluso cuando todo parece alineado, el cansancio es constante?

Llevo semanas, si no meses, contemplándolo y hablándolo con mujeres distintas, y creo que se puede reducir a algo simple: estamos pendientes de mil y un cosas que históricamente han sido asignadas al género femenino y que el hombre, muchas veces, simplemente se puede saltar. Encima de esas mil y un prioridades, también quiero una carrera exitosa y poder desarrollar mi lado creativo. No digo que ellos no tengan sus propias cargas. Pero si nos vamos a lo más básico, hay algo que nos separa y que lo reorganiza todo: la capacidad de dar a luz.

Estudiar, emprender, ser atleta, viajar, crear, liderar… nada de eso está limitado a un género. Pero crear un mini yo es suficiente para redefinir cómo estructuro mi vida adulta. El cuerpo entra en la ecuación. El tiempo se siente corto. El futuro se vuelve una planificación constante.

El mundo no está construido para mujeres que quieren ser madres, creativas y tener una carrera profesional estable. No al mismo tiempo. No sin que algo se resienta.

Aspirar a metas similares a las de un hombre implica, para muchas mujeres, cambiar radicalmente su rol. No porque no podamos, sino porque el precio no es el mismo. El éxito tampoco significa lo mismo para todas, pero el modelo dominante sigue siendo masculino, lineal, corporalmente indiferente.

Comencé escribiendo esto pensando que iba a encontrar una respuesta sobre cómo balancear el deseo de ciertos aspectos tradicionales de ser mujer con el impulso de ser una mujer disruptiva. Pero en el camino entendí que quizás la pregunta no es cómo balancear, sino por qué ese balance casi siempre se le exige a la mujer.

Desde chiquita admiré a Frida Kahlo. Sus obras son surrealistas, pero siempre quise creer que ella se sentía como lo que pintaba. No solo por su talento para plasmar lo que sentía en un lienzo, sino porque logró definir su experiencia como mujer en un mundo (y al lado de un hombre) que no estaba hecho para acomodarla.

Frida nació en un México que se reconstruía después de una revolución. Un país buscando identidad, orgullo, narrativa propia. A los dieciocho años, un accidente de tranvía, un trolley, le atravesó el cuerpo y le cambió la vida para siempre. La dejó inmóvil, fracturada, dependiendo de otros. Y aun así, no se apagó. Desde la cama empezó a pintar. Se miró al espejo porque no tenía a quién más mirar. Y convirtió ese encierro en lenguaje visual.

“Arbol de la Esperanza, Mantente Firme” (1946)

Diego Rivera ya era Diego Rivera. Muralista monumental, comunista, celebrado, protegido por el sistema. Veinte años mayor! Su genio nunca estuvo en duda. Frida tuvo que demostrar el suyo una y otra vez, incluso dentro de su propia relación. Lo amó profundamente. También fue profundamente herida por él.

Su relación fue intensa, abierta, dolorosa. Diego podía ser infiel sin que su grandeza se cuestionara. Frida tenía que transformar cada traición, cada pérdida, cada aborto, cada dolor físico en obra para no desaparecer. Y lo hizo. Brilló tan fuerte que ni un trolley, ni un cuerpo quebrado, ni un marido gigantesco pudieron apagarla.

Frida nunca tuvo hijos. No por falta de deseo, sino porque su cuerpo no se lo permitió. Y ese duelo la acompañó siempre. Decía que Diego era su hijo, que volvía a nacer todos los días y que ella tenía que cuidarlo como a un recién nacido. Suena ridículo. Pero también revela algo que sigue vigente: incluso sin maternidad, el rol de cuidado se nos pega al cuerpo.

“El abrazo de amor de entre el Universo, la Tierra, yo, Diego y el señor Xólotl” (1949)

Tuvo amantes. Hombres y mujeres. Entre ellos, Georgia O’keefe, Leon Trotsky, e Isamu Noguchi. Exploró su deseo, su curiosidad, su identidad. No creo que Frida tuviera respuestas para mis preguntas. Si acaso, creo que estaba más confundida que yo. Pero insistió. Y gracias a mujeres como ella, mi generación y la que viene tiene más espacio para elegir, aunque ese espacio todavía sea incómodo.

Hay otra mujer que no es artista, pero sí venezolana, que ha estado siempre de fondo en mi vida. En los últimos años se ha vuelto conversación diaria gracias a su coraje.

María Corina Machado, La mujer de hierro, La cara y la voz de la oposición venezolana.

“Pero incluso la democracia más fuerte se debilita cuando sus ciudadanos olvidan que la libertad no es algo que debamos esperar, sino algo a lo que debemos dar vida.”

Ella habla de política. De democracia. Pero a mí también me habló en lo personal. Me respondió cómo debería vivir mi día a día: luchando todos los días por mi lugar, defendiendo lo que he logrado. Porque basta poco tiempo para que alguien venga a minimizarlo. Es demostrar, una y otra vez, que me he ganado estar donde estoy.

Y sí, vuelvo al inicio de este ensayo y me siento cansada. Como si no hubiera espacio para respirar. Siento que si paro, me tumban. Como si el descanso fuera un privilegio que todavía no me puedo permitir.

Pero también empiezo a entender algo: mientras más tiempo pasa, mientras más fuerte se vuelve la base, más difícil es que se caiga. Estoy empezando. Estos son los años en los que esa base se va cementando, incluso cuando pienso que no hay base.

Entonces la pregunta deja de ser por qué el mundo no está hecho para mí, y se transforma en otra: ¿cómo hago para moldearlo?

Siendo arquitecta, sé que no todo el mundo se siente igual en todos los lugares. Hay personas que entran a una iglesia y se sienten elevadas. Otras sienten libertad en una cancha abierta. Otras alcanzan su punto máximo esperando en la zona de embarque para su próximo vuelo. El espacio importa. El contexto importa. El cuerpo responde distinto según dónde esté.

Y uno, siendo hedonista, vuelve una y otra vez a esos lugares donde fue feliz de verdad.

Pero yo no tengo un lugar al cual volver. Sigo en la fase de exploración.

Soy migrante. Tengo conexiones con múltiples culturas. Ni de aquí, ni de allá. Así que entendí algo: el espacio que necesito no existe todavía. Me toca crearlo. Diseñarlo. Y aprender a cargarlo conmigo.

El mundo no fue construido para mujeres como yo.
Por eso estoy aprendiendo a construirlo igual.

No soy madre todavía, aunque quiero serlo mucho. No sé cómo se siente habitar ese rol, pero sí sé cómo se siente anticiparlo: como una variable que puede interrumpir, expandir o transformar la vida cotidiana. Tal vez por eso cuido tanto mi vida profesional. No como una carrera, sino como un jardín en primavera. Algo vivo. Algo que requiere tiempo, presencia y cuidado constante para florecer

.By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

De chiquita no me llevaba bien con los niños de mi edad. Me sentía más cómoda con los que eran un par de años mayores que yo. En casi todos los grupos sociales que me han formado, soy de las menores. En la oficina, soy la menor. Llegará un momento en el que no lo seré, y eso se va a sentir rarísimo.

Pero ¿qué digo? Soy la hermana mayor, y vaya que lo soy. Terca, preocupada, ansiosa. Con estándares que no son realistas, pero que aun así son los que me motivan. Cargo con el peso de ser la hermana ejemplar, y no sé por qué, pero mientras más grande me hago, más pesa. Seguro tiene que ver con la diferencia de edad entre mis hermanas y yo: con la menor me llevo once años, y con la del medio, seis.

Una de las lecciones más importantes que he aprendido es la humildad. No del tipo que planifica su próxima visita a un hospital de niños con cáncer (eso es caridad, también muy importante). La humildad es saber que siempre hay espacio para mejorar. Es ayudar sin juzgar. Es querer dar lo mejor de ti sabiendo que la meta no es la perfección, sino la excelencia.

Por eso me gusta ser la menor en muchos salones de la vida. La gente mayor tiene experiencia. Me ganan únicamente con sus años. Tal vez no sean sabios, pero sí tienen cuentos. Y confío en que hayan pensado en esos cuentos, que hayan aprendido de ellos y que puedan darme consejos. Me mantienen humilde. Aspiro a ser como las personas de las que me rodeo.

Hubo un momento en mi vida en el que no me sentía así, y diría que me tardé uno o dos años en gravitar hacia personas que sí me nutren, que me enseñan y que me apoyan. Seré la hermana mayor, pero busco ser la menor. ¿Extremista? Puede ser. Me lo han dicho, y la verdad es que no es sostenible. Debería ser más balanceada, sin tantos arranques, pero como bien sabrás: siempre hay altos y bajos.

Como los latidos del corazón, la vida tiene un ritmo, y la mía suena a Las Cuatro Estaciones de Vivaldi, todos los días.

Estoy consciente de lo profundo que siento todo, de lo llorona que soy, pero también de mi hambre por no parar hasta estar orgullosísima de mí. Y por eso hoy, lunes, me desperté pensando en las típicas frases que uno ve en Pinterest o Instagram, o las que me manda mi abuela por lo menos siete veces al día: “da lo mejor de ti hoy”, “una nueva semana para comenzar con un lienzo en blanco”, “una oportunidad para volver a escribirte”.

No sé por qué, pero mientras iba en el metro al trabajo pensé: haz lo que la persona que quieres ser haría. Y en vez de sacar el teléfono, que igual es inútil porque no hay señal en el metro de Nueva York, me quedé en silencio. Sin audífonos, sin mi libro, sin mi teléfono. Observé. Porque eso es lo que se supone que hace alguien que escribe, ¿no? Observar.

Me reí al pensar en la semana tan terrible que tuve y en cómo perdí el enfoque de las cosas grandes por completo. Mi familia está aquí. Podré pasar Navidad con ellos. Podré pasar Año Nuevo con mi hermana. Les he comprado regalos a todos. Los podré hospedar en mi mini apartamento y mostrarles cómo es mi vida de hija mayor, adulta, arquitecta neoyorquina (aunque no debería llamarme así hasta vivir aquí por diez años; solo faltan nueve).

Tengo tiempo de ser quien quiero ser. Tengo la salud para expresarlo como mejor se me ocurra, como lo hago ahora mismo, con una sonrisa de oreja a oreja.

No sé si estoy escribiendo muy a lo loco, probablemente sí, pero lo estoy haciendo, y me gusta. Lo hago por mi niña interior, que jamás, en miles de años, habría creído que estaría donde estoy. Claro, con el apoyo de muchos, pero la visión siempre es individual.

Nunca iré con los años. De la misma manera en que no voy con la corriente. De la misma manera en que siempre seré la mayor para las personas más importantes de mi vida, pero me sentiré como la menor en todo. Seré un poquito de todo, con obsesiones temporales, porque me gusta experimentar. No quiero una rutina. Quiero los altos y los bajos. Quiero un corazón que palpite con pasión. Estaría entrando en paro si esto no fuera la montaña rusa que es.

Claro, tengo que controlar el estrés. Creo que cuando aprendes a manejar la montaña rusa es cuando aprendes a disfrutarla. Últimamente siento que le estoy agarrando el ritmo. Ahora es que las cosas se ponen interesantes.

El poder lo tengo yo. Tanto que estudié, tanto que me educaron, tanto que leí, escribí, calculé, apliqué, entrevisté… ¿para sentirme como si no pudiera? Pues no. No será en esta vida.

Por estos lados del globo terráqueo, el año comienza oscuro, frío y solo. Enero de 2025 fue un momento de escribir, leer y pintar. Fui mi versión del 2013 en Venezuela, obsesionada con el arte, explorando técnicas, leyendo mucho y dándole atención a mi lado creativo con más seriedad. Quiero invitar más de esa versión a mi vida ahora. Porque no estoy en Venezuela, un lugar que amo, pero estoy en un lugar donde puedo explotar al máximo ese lado creativo. Y me sentiría culpable si no lo intento, por lo menos.

Así que este es el comienzo del intento.

Y claro, como salen los animalitos cuando sale el sol, también florecen los planes, las amistades, las aventuras. Le dije que sí a todo, y conocí una versión de mí que brillaba. La gente me lo decía. Gente que me ha visto muy apagada. Eso fue una victoria para mí.

Y eso es lo difícil de tener 24, supongo. Que hay una parte de mí que es niña y quiere estar pintando, leyendo, caminando en el parque, mirando pajaritos. Y otra que quiere salir hasta que salga el sol y tener las conversaciones más ridículas, esas que hacen parecer que no tuviera ni medio título. Pero es bueno tener opciones.

Y como dije que mi ritmo son Las Cuatro Estaciones de Vivaldi, se pueden imaginar lo hiperconsciente que estuve todo el año para no caerme. Bodas, graduaciones, viajes, reencuentros, mudanzas y, claro, el amor. Qué rico que apenas escribo “amor” me escribe el mío. Qué diferencia hace tener un buen apoyo.

Mis sueños son más grandes que yo. Y aunque yo solita me agarro de la mano y me guío lo mejor que puedo, al fin conocí lo que es que alguien me escuche sin prejuicios. Que me diga que soy buena. Que se emocione más que yo cuando paso una hora contándole qué quiero para mi vida dentro de veinte años. ¿Es incondicional? ¿Saludable? ¿Motivador? Yo lo siento como paz.

No sé si conocí realmente la paz antes de este año. Creo que, precisamente por tantos altos y bajos, se me hace fácil reconocerla cuando llega: qué me da paz y quién me da paz.

Me mudé sola. Sé que aún estoy aprendiendo a estar en paz conmigo misma, pero también sé que estoy comenzando a sentirlo. Y es porque he podido perdonar las partes de mí que más pena me dan. Incluso si no siento que sean culpa mía, me forman.

Entonces, este 2026 estaré usando mi hiperconsciencia de hermana mayor, pero niña humilde con hambre de ganar, para crear un cuerpo de trabajo creativo. No pretendo revelar mi vida ni hacerla pública, pero sí pretendo entender qué me hace, qué me quita, dónde está la paz conmigo misma y dónde siento la paz exterior.

Los altos y bajos extremos son mi ritmo. Un poco loca, sí, pero lo sé manejar. Y la verdad es que quiero altos más altos, pero humilde, siempre aprendiendo, mejorando y ayudando.

Vivir pensando que no voy con los años por 31 días es, a ver… muy desmotivador. No, mentira. Es lo mejor. Porque nunca estaré en mi potencial al 100 %, y así es como quiero estar: siempre con espacio para crecer.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

Whether you grew up and stayed in one place your entire life, whether you’re considering leaving—or returning—whether you’ve been displaced, unhoused, or forced to leave everything behind in hopes of a better future: this is for you.

By remembering where I come from and playing with those memories to give them life, I’ve found a home from within. Like me, if your mind is always living three steps ahead of the present, this project has grounded me. And in the process, it’s taught me something unexpected: our roots aren’t always thick and heavy, anchoring us in place. Mine are thin and long, allowing me to explore freely without losing myself.

I hope you find permission to do the same.

Thank you to the 230 of you who joined me this year. Your support means more than I can put into words. And thank you to Substack for creating a platform that still feels thoughtful and humane.

This is part of a much larger project.
Stay tuned.

The Airport

As the plane descended I could already start to feel the unbearable heat of the hell hole in which my parents grew up. The seats on this plane were a light camel color and thick leather that still smelled of cigarettes. This aircraft was from the 1970’s because the national airline didn’t have enough money to replace the planes with ones from this century. But I wasn’t actually thinking of the past. I was looking forward to my grandparents waiting for my parents and I in the airport.

My dad always let me take the window seat but this particular view wasn’t one that impressed anyone. It was flat land with dirt roads and small to medium sized trees. If you were to land at night there would be no lights other than those of the landing strip at the airport. But this was daytime and I could see the bright blue sky, the sun, and the vastness of undeveloped land. As soon as we hit the ground, I prayed a small prayer while others started to cheer and clap, something I never participated in and thought was funny and characteristic of these people. My family didn’t engage in cheering and clapping either.

Although they were raised there, they spent at least 10 years in the US studying and working. They weren’t American yet but soon they would hold that citizenship. I wasn’t aware of the sacrifices they’d made to pursue higher education and offer me a better life with more opportunities. Later, it became obvious that they were haunted by the idea of missing out on an even better life and more so called opportunities in the hell hole. At this point, the dictatorship hadn’t maxed out the benefits it offered its citizens, such as $5,000 per family member to travel, full ride scholarships to study abroad, and other absurd benefits that drained the country’s money. It was impossible to reject these benefits even if you didn’t need them. Making this hell hole less hellish. The government’s facade was a thick one and most people lived on the outside of the facade. It was a luxurious facade that offered anything you needed at any time, but it wasn’t made to last. All I was aware of was that I was coming from abroad and most of my relatives lived there and seemed to be thriving.

To access the airport building, we walked down the airplane stairs and towards a building entrance in which all the glass doors and windows were covered in dark purple tinted film to avoid the interiors being overheated. As we walked down the narrow corridor with the other passengers my mom started to fill out the arrival form and I was dictating our passport numbers, expiration dates, and the usual information those forms asked for. Eventually we reached a stopping point as we’ve caught up with everyone else at the immigration line. There is only one line and one officer checking everyone at the moment. Slowly but surely we made it to the front of the line.

The officer was a fat man, with thick skin on his face from which his pores seemed to have life of their own. Little bugs could inhabit those pores and make cute little villages and he would never know. His red polo was stained either from grease or sweat but was still worn proudly. His baseball cap matched his polo but was ridiculously small for his head. He sipped on his root beer as he entered our data in the system and I thought man It’d be refreshing to drink some of that right now.

“Let me see *****’s face,” requested the officer as my dad yanked my skinny arm even though I was paying attention.

“You have beautiful eyes,” he said looking at me.

“She’s going to be a troublemaker with a look like that,” he said to my dad.

“She gets it from me obviously,” says my dad with a chuckle.

He was a very tanned, average statured man, with barely no hair, enormous dark brown eyes, and a wide nose that was still proportional to the rest of his features. No one in my family was too hairy and everyone seemed to have plump lips, straight noses and cow-sized eyes. I stood out amongst my parents because mine were green while theirs were brown, as most people had there.

“Until when are you here?” asked the officer.

“We are here until June 23rd and she is staying until August 12th,” answered my dad.

“Who is ***** staying with?” asked the officer, seeming interested in our summer plans.

“With my mother and father,” answered my mom.

“Welcome home and make sure to stay hydrated, it’s an especially hot day,” said the officer as he looked at me again.

Nothing is as satisfying as the official smashing the entry stamp on all of our passports as though it were some sort of measure of force. And as soon as he finished stamping the third passport, the power went out and there was a loud sigh of frustration amongst the people behind us because they wouldn’t be able to do immigration until the power came back on. The three of us just looked at each other and I clenched my teeth and stretched my lips apart as I widened my eyes and looked at my dad feeling sorry for everyone else but happy we were on the other side. He just laughed at me and guided us to the baggage claim.

At the airport, the baggage claim is separated from the exit/entrance area by an entirely translucent glass wall. Friends and family waiting on the other side have smiles that show teeth you wouldn’t normally see. The smiling lasts for a while because as soon as you enter the baggage claim area you can easily see whoever is picking you up on the other side. This airport is particularly slow at transferring luggage from the plane to the carousels even though there’s only one flight landing daily. So the smiling and waving at your loved ones can last up to an hour. Despite all the sweat, because of course the power went out as it usually does, I still ran into my grandma’s arms and she swung me around as though we were giving a performance. She had been so easy to identify too given her pale skin, white hair, and ice blue eyes, a vision for many in this city. My grandfather blended in much more with his medium tan skin color, wide nose, big eyes, and average stature.

“How are you? Let’s get out of here!” she said.

“I’m good! It’s so hot!” I said as she looked for her water bottle.

“Here drink this and you’ll feel better,” she said as she grabbed my small face and shoved the water down my throat.

Whenever I traveled I never drank enough water, and it takes two planes and a full day to get there, so I was thirstier than I’d realized. Hugs and kisses were thrown around as we hadn’t visited in a year, and none of my grandparents’ children on my mothers side lived here anymore. She was always the most joyful and excited to see us.

The water seemed to be multiplying as I kept drinking without it ever running out. As I pulled myself away from the bottle, the water never stopped flowing. More and more volume seemed to flow out. Eventually waves came out of it, tranquil ones though. This water wasn’t drinkable anymore as it was clearly saltwater. Somehow the roof became translucent as well and the sun started to shine brighter and brighter, and all the walls became white. I grabbed my grandma’s arm and we started floating as the water kept filling the airport. People were quickly taking off their clothes and trying to find bikinis and swim trunks or staying completely naked. Even the national guard commanded that everyone use the suitcases as floating devices. I was relieved of the heat and happy to be here for the summer. Although hot and humid, the beaches made everything worth it.

As the salt water kept inundating the airport, people remained calm and enjoyed the sudden change of environment. I saw some other kids playing with a small rubber toy torpedo and swam to them to play too. My parents and grandparents were laying on the suitcases and seemed to already be drinking some whiskey and rum. The other kids knew I didn’t live there because of my accent, they even made fun of me but were still willing to have another person join their game. One of the boys had a dark caramel skin color that was almost metallic, especially in the water. He was skinny and seemed a little older than me. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, the way his hair color was the same as his skin color and had honey colored eyes made him look like a tropical monochromatic robot. He also stared at me for a long time. Since I knew he was staring and I wanted his attention, I tried my best to swim in whatever I thought was an attractive way to swim. I was wearing a tank top and my panties since I didn’t really care to put on my swimsuit earlier, but I wish I did since it was a new one meant for the summer.

When it was my turn to get the torpedo from the floor, I swam through schools of transparent and yellow fish, saw starfish and the ground was covered in white sand that made the entire airport brighter than it already was. As I looked for the torpedo the copper colored boy followed me. I saw a rock statue about the size of myself glistening a few meters away and decided to swim towards it rather than look for the torpedo.

The statue was decorated with gold and pearls and glowed more and more as I got closer. The boy was next to me too and seemed just as mesmerized by the statue as I was. I was next to the statue at this point, almost out of air and took a look around. The water was crystal clear, people’s legs and feet dangling as I saw from below, the sun shining through with all its power, and the president’s face taking up the main wall in the airport as usual, reminding everyone that he is always with us. I touched the statue and it fell very quickly, revealing a drain on the ground in which all the water seemed to instantly go through.

The airport was left in a disgusting state with all the fish flopping around - at least people could take these to cook for dinner, the walls stained, the air hotter and oppressive. Everyone was looking for their belongings and repacking in a chaotic manner yet with no rush. Once my family and I had everything we needed we headed to my grandma’s house about 20 minutes away in the city.

Brandy

“I’m really scared that you’re going to die,” I said looking up at my grandma while the sun shone behind her blonde hair, oh she looked like an angel.

“But my love, we are all going to die,” she said with a smile on her face as she grabbed my hands into hers.

My throat tightened, my eyes became watery, and all I could imagine was my dead grandma in a casket and all of my family looking at her.

I admired her elegance. It was the kind that was unmistakably foreign, yet somehow the fact that it was foreign is what made this shithole cohesive.

“You’re so black, let’s reapply some sunscreen before you get sunburnt,” she said.

“Noooo! I want to be black, I’m so white most of the year and I look better black,” I explained even though she was already making her way to the woven patio table that held all sorts of pool toys and the sunscreen I dreaded so much.

“Come,” she said as she looked at me and waved the sunscreen.

I obeyed, stood a meter away from her with my back to the soft wind, moved my wet hair over my shoulder, and spread my legs apart at the same time I lifted my arms and went in starfish position. She sprayed sunscreen on my back, legs, and arms as I struggled to stay in place given how cold it was, particularly when I was overheated from being on the patio all day playing.

I sat on the yellow striped chairs that matched the woven table in such a tropical manner. Grandma started watering her plants with the hose and I just observed her every movement, already forgetting how dramatic I was a moment ago. I walked a few steps towards her and asked if I could water the plants. She agreed and handed me the hose but didn’t trust me to do a good job so she stayed close and watched that I watered every plant without overdoing it. Guasimo, sansevieria, zamioculca, coleus, brazilwood, aloe vera, desert rose, garden croton, caladium, crown of christ, pothos, and indian cane were just a few of the many, many, many plants she had. All sorts of critters lived in her jungle; frogs, toads, grasshoppers, cats, iguanas, hummingbirds, and my favorite, the glorious macaw that would faithfully visit, remind us that she is a natural beauty, roams freely, and is admired for simply existing.

We were towards the back of the jungle when we both heard the daily ring ring ring! We looked at each other in excitement even though this happens every single day.

“Go get the money under the TV in the kitchen while I go check if they have the icecream you like,” she commanded. I dropped the hose, and rushed into the kitchen from the side of the house, grabbed the money, and made my way through the front of the house to meet my grandma and the ice cream man. I shoved the money in her hands and scrambled all the options in the poor man’s ice cream tub until close to the bottom I saw that bright purple cone shaped ice cream that I was craving. I yanked it out of the frigid tub and immediately started eating it with a flat wooden spoon. The bubblegum flavor was the most refreshing in that scorching heat, even my grandma had her own. As we said bye to the ice cream man, my parents parked right in front of us and all three dogs came out to bark at these intruders.

Timba, the fierce pitbull with sad eyes but a happy tail. Montero, a jolly mut, but which mut isn’t jolly? And old Brandy, a walking cloud. They didn’t come out too often because of how hot it was but would always come out when they heard people arriving. They might as well be old widows gossipping all day.

“Montero, remind me who that is again,” said Brandy.

But Montero was way too busy sniffling my parents.

“Brandy, that’s mom and dad,” I said as I lifted him up from the ground into my chest and squished my face into his. He twisted his face and then his whole body until I really couldn’t keep him in my arms anymore, so I set him free. He eloquently ran into the house, safe from the heat and me.

“Oh that girl has gotten so big she can carry me,” said Brandy to my grandpa.

“I know isn’t she beautiful, what a blessing to have grandchildren,” responded my grandpa as he lifted Brandy from the crimson tiled floor onto his lap as he laid on the hammock.

“Hey, what are you two talking about?” I asked excitedly.

“Oh just how ugly you are and how much we want you to leave already,” answered my grandpa in a non-serious way.

“He’s only joking sweetie, they love you so much here. I must say though everytime you come I’m nervous that you’ll grab me in a way I really don’t like,” said Brandy, looking at me with far more superiority than anyone in this household.

“How do you like to be carried then? I can’t resist myself!” I said.

“Oh dear don’t even try because I like to be carried by men, your grandma knows this well and I only pray that you understand this,” explained Brandy.

“Well, at least I can fit in the hammock with you two and watch whatever this is,” I said as I first sat on the hammock, next to my grandpa, lifted my legs and slowly rotated to finally lay like a sausage next to my grandpa and Brandy poised on the other side.

We all giggled at how ridiculous we were to be squished in the hammock. It was some soap opera on the TV that my grandma was probably watching and now my grandpa was too. I stared at it and loved to listen to the accents the ladies in the show had. As we swung on the hammock, and heard its rhythmic creak from the hooks on the walls, and watched the soap opera in silence, Brandy enjoying it most of all, a typical thing happened which I wasn’t accustomed to.

The TV flickered a few times and voila! It’s the country’s president on a national broadcast. The camera is zoomed in on his face, with little background. Any second he could jump out of the TV and join us on the fine hammock.

“Change the channel!” I said.

“Go for it,” said Brandy.

I got up and looked for the remote on the nearby chair and started channel surfing. Every single channel was the same protagonist on the same show.

“Come on, let’s see what’s for lunch,” suggested my grandpa.

We marched to the kitchen only to hear the president’s voice rambling about the Empire. My grandpa turned the radio off and asked, “What’s for lunch?”

“Pumpkin soup, rice, chicken, and plantain,” answered Timba.

“Well help me set up the table,” said my grandma to everyone.

We all scurried and set up the dining table although no one was particularly fancy - I was still wearing my swimsuit. Brandy was already in his spot when I finished setting up the table and decided to sit next to him and wait to be served.

“Brandy,” I said as I turned and realized we were at the same eye level.

“You’re 16 now, that means in dog years you’re…” I couldn’t do the math.

“112,” said Brandy.

“Wow! 112! Aren’t you afraid of dying anytime now?” I asked.

“We are all going to die honey. I used to fear death at your age too, and I continued to fear it and I fear some dogs and people my age never stop fearing death. I only realized that it isn’t worth fearing because I’ve lived a life worth living. It’s like when you eat something you didn’t enjoy, you want to make up for it with something that you do enjoy, and then you can stop thinking about eating because you’re finally satisfied. It’s the same with life. Although we don’t choose when to die, we can be ok with dying if we are satisfied with the life we’ve lived,” said Brandy.

“Are you satisfied?” asked Timba with her long blue face.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“You should be. But you’ll know soon enough, and you’ll likely be unsatisfied for a long time and remember we had this conversation and come to me for advice and I’ll be long gone. But then, you’ll be satisfied once more girl,” said Brandy reassuringly.

“Are you all ready?” asked my grandma as she and my mom started to serve the soup.

“Yes, we are,” answered Montero.

Tati

I couldn’t stop twirling in my sparkly silver dress! It was straight out of a fairytale. Twirl and twirl I twirled.

“You’re going to get tangled with the fan!” shouted my mom as she quickly ran for me and contained the chaotic twirling which was lifting me up towards the ceiling.

I giggled. She wasn’t happy though. My hairstyle looked like it had seen the dawn of day and the evening was only beginning.

We were in town for my aunt’s wedding, and I felt like a protagonist with such a dress.

“You need to keep it together until we are done with pictures, which is still in a while, so stay put,” ordered my mom.

I walked to the guest restroom on the first level of my grandmother’s house, which was right below the stairs, so the tap tap tap of every woman’s heel in my family was quite disturbing. This is what my beta fish must feel like I thought. I was just trying to put my hair back into place. I had a half up-do with big, thick curls brushing my shoulders.

The bathroom was dark, the walls were an old turquoise color that matched the toilet color, and the sink was black. There was a small painting of a prairie that reflected in the mirror. The yellow tones seemed to be the only thing giving the room a glow I thought. And as I looked at myself in the mirror and admired my dress, I knew I was giving the dark bathroom the real glow. Curl by curl, I managed to organize them in a neat fashion.

I heard my name being called and as I proudly walked out of the bathroom, shut the dark wooden door behind me, turned left and walked up a few steps, turned left again, I saw my beautiful fake-blonde aunt in her meticulously crafted dress sitting on the light brown couch, along with other family members. I had two older male cousins who were my friends too. Especially the second to oldest. They both had dark thick hair and cow-sized eyes. The oldest was noticeably skinny and tall. There was Tatiana the shih-tzu, a feminine white haired dog with dirty eyes whom I’d known my entire life. Tatiana was overstimulated and so emotional about the night ahead. She acted proper nonetheless and understood that these photos would be forever. They were waiting for me to take photos.

She was young, had full rosy lips, pink apples for cheeks, a fine natural nose, and the kindest brown eyes. The dress fitted her tightly around her chest, waist, and arms, but loosely fell below the hips all the way past her toes only to be admired like a peacock. As one of the smallest in the family, I sat next to her on the left side. Her left arm was behind me, her right arm on my lap, and the snapping of photographs began. I didn’t mind this many photos being taken, or holding the pose, the feeling of feeling beautiful was entirely new to me. Not even the bloodthirsty mosquitoes that could not be more oblivious to the photoshoot going on could bother me at this point.

My grandmother was a sculptor and painter. Many of her works were in her house but the one that always caught my eye for better or worse was one that I kept looking at while we posed. It was in my peripheral vision, but I could feel the hairy body on the canvas looking at me. The hairs weren’t fluffy, but rather, long, dark, greenish, grayish, and covered this body from head to toe. In the head, the hairs wrapped around in a horizontal fashion, covering everything except the eyes, which were two black holes. The body was sitting on the ground, against a corner wall, with both legs extended to the side, one on top of the other, while the hands rested on the body’s lap. The background, two walls, were also painted in a dark gray tone. It was an unpleasant painting. I believe my grandmother’s friend gifted it, but I would’ve picked a more hidden wall in the house to hang it. Next to this painting, there was a collection of horse sculptures much more enjoyable to look at.

After a few different poses, we were ready to go to church. As I climbed into the back seat of the car, I couldn’t believe how much space my dress was taking. The music wasn’t one I particularly liked, and I only heard it when I came here, but it was special for that reason. It was a folkloric tune that everyone knew. The lyrics were about love and dancing the night away. And although the man singing didn’t have the loveliest voice, his passion was felt in my young heart.

As we turned onto a small street, there it stood, the majestic light blue with white detailed church. The facades were hard to miss, and possessed such wonder, like a fairytale castle. I waited for my moment to walk down the aisle and throw the rose petals in the most elegant way some random woman was explaining to me moments before. I had no doubt in myself. The same random woman whispered in my ear to start walking. I did, and I rhythmically tossed the petals as people photographed me yet again. As I approached the altar, my mom waved at me and motioned her hand so that I would go to her. I turned left and sat next to her in the front row. Every moment after was entirely about the bride.

At the reception, I put two chairs side by side, lay down, and fell asleep unnoticed.

Yellow and orange spots were bothering my eyes. I opened them, and was facing the window with no blinds as the sun blasted through it. I turned to face the closet and saw that my baby sister was there sleeping. Very odd as she would still sleep with my parents typically. This was my father’s childhood room, although it wasn’t very childish at all and I doubt it ever was. The closet was an entire wall that ran the length of the room, the doors being a deep brownish purplish that matched the bed’s headboard. The walls were white, with many paintings my grandmother made and a full length mirror. There were fantastical masks hanging off the mirror. Who knows where these masks came from or how old they were, but they did seem to have lived a life of their own.

I had to pee, so I walked to the bathroom inside the room, opened the big brown door and shut it behind me. Tati was there.

“Tati, what are you doing here?” I asked as I pulled down my pajama pants and underwear.

“I was in here all night you know,” answered Tati.

“Honestly, home was the best part, the part was whatever, I fell asleep quickly and don’t even know how or when I got back here,” I said while I peed.

“I don’t know how I feel about it all,” confessed Tati.

“About her getting married?” I asked.

“Yeah, we talked so much about her feelings and she tells me how much she loves me and we cuddle, watch soap operas together. She’s my best friend. I don’t want anything to change and we were already so happy. I don’t want a new person’s attention, and I don’t know him well,” Tati said as she paced in and out of the shower.

“Well I don’t know him either but I think you three will be ok, right? My other grandma has three dogs and I’m sure she’d take you too, but I don’t think you want to leave, or do you?” I asked, feeling strange that I just peed in Tati’s presence.

Tati ran out of the bathroom to who knows where.

I wasn’t bothered by this and just wiped myself and flushed, pulled up my underwear and pajama pants, washed my hands, and headed out of the bathroom.

My sister was still in the same position, but Tati was sitting, her hair perfectly straight and combed, not moving an inch. Her eyes gazed into nothing, and I walked to her as though she had possessed me. I leaned towards her, stroked her hair, and she burst as though I had popped a bubble.

“TATI!” I screamed.

My sister woke up and rolled up to see me shocked.

I ran into the room next door screaming, “Tatiana just disappeared! She was talking to me in the bathroom while I was peeing and then she left and then I touched her and now she’s gone!”

“Oh dear,” said my mom as she started to get up. My dad was already on his way to my room and saw a small puddle where Tati was last sitting.

“Yeah, she’s gone, let’s not tell anybody about this yet. But it’s ok, she was old, and probably sad. It’s good that she passed like this and is on to her next life in doggy heaven.”

“But but, she wanted to be loved, she didn’t want a new man, she was ok and then everything was ruined. Why doesn’t anyone care?” I said as I sobbed.

“She was a dog, with a great life, she wasn’t sad and didn’t have a reason to be. Those dogs on the streets are sad, Tati was basically born into royalty and lived like a princess, don’t worry,” said my dad reassuringly.

“But she didn’t feel like one!”

—---------

Mugged

“Alibombobombombera Alibombobomboba Alibombobombombera Alibombobomboba” was blasting from static sounding speakers while 40 other kids sang along in high pitched voices. Even mothers were joining in on this well known children’s song. I looked up to my left and saw that my grandfather was singing along too although not using his full lung capacity like the kids in front of us were. The noise probably didn’t bother him because he was half deaf already. But I definitely was not engaging as much as expected. Not that I had a frown on my face, I simply could not sing, “Alibombobombombera Alibombobomboba Alibombobombombera Alibombobomboba,” and take myself seriously.

At this point the sun wasn’t blazing on us like it was a few hours prior, but rather, it was kissing us and saying goodbye. Still hot, but not uncomfortable. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to do this activity around noon. They shouldn’t be allowed to even operate at that time of the day. And as I turned my head to the right, put my hands on the semi-rusted but brightly yellow painted metal of the train, I gazed into the dark blue-green lake. The waves were coming towards us, all the way from the city across the bridge, only to smash against the park’s wall. These waves carried the entire country to the shithole I was currently in. A far far away hot land. The sky never matched the lake. I stared into it and saw brushstrokes of very light baby pink clouds against a warm light blue. It was a baby sky contrasting a senior lake. In the distance, there was a fine gray line that almost marked the horizon like a datum. Past this brutalist datum, there was a never ending thunderstorm. A place I had only heard of and didn’t know anyone that had been. It seemed fascinating enough to want to go but too remote that only the storm chaser photographers would plan to go. And after the perpetual thunderstorm, there was the beginning of the longest mountain range on Earth. Past this, I could not see so I can’t tell you what is behind.

A flock of fucsia flamingos flew in a perfect V alignment towards the thunderstorm. I would never see such a sight back home. But I did appreciate the quietness of our suburban home at this time. I was ready to finish listening to such irritating sing-a-longs. The kids here had a way to achieve higher notes than the ones back home did somehow. It’s possible that the constant hot climate made the voices higher.

My back was moist from my sweat even though to let it breathe I wasn’t resting on the metal back support. I could see my grandfather unbothered by the music or heat as he simply sat in peace, with his left arm stretched in front of him, grabbing the back support in front of him, sweat spots all over his button down, and his belly resting on top of his lap. As I stared at him, he suddenly and swiftly squished the top of my left thigh and I completely, dramatically, and to the best of my ability screamed and laughed as this was the most ticklish spot on my body as he very well knew.

“STOP IT!” I screamed at him as I sat at the edge of our car with barely any security rope keeping me inside.

“Hahaha, you’re ticklish aren’t you?” he asked as if he didn’t know.

I decided to do the same thing to him, and he laughed and begged me to stop. It seemed like we were part of the same bloodline.

The music never stopped playing, even when the conductor announced that we had arrived and we could get off. As we did, the next round of passengers eagerly climbed into their seats. My slightly older cousin was with us although I had fully forgotten he was there. We walked to the edge of the park to look at the lake and the waves crashed until we waited for my grandmother to meet us. I was wearing a Thing 2 red and black t-shirt from a recent trip to some theme park closer to home. While we waited, our grandfather got us freshly sliced mango with salt and lime. Everytime I came here I craved this snack to the point where I’d eat so much of it that using the restroom as frequently as I had to was ok with me because I knew I wouldn’t have this mango again in a while. It was slimy, but each piece was a different consistency of slimy. I could suck or chew on it and the mango would still find a way to penetrate the in betweens of my teeth, leaving the acid and sweet taste long lasting. I would put some extra salt just so it would burn a little extra making my tongue numb, my eyes roll back and my brain feel a rush of dopamine like nothing else. After this addicting experience and all three of us had had our pleasure with the mango, we waited some more for my grandmother. As my grandfather was in the mood to spoil us, he offered shaved ice. Just to add to the acidity and raspy tongue I had, I asked for the lime flavored shaved ice. It came in a small transparent thin plastic cup, and I licked the top of the ice like a cat cleans its body. Again, I closed my eyes and enjoyed this treat because there was nothing similar to it back home. This shaved ice was watered down, and due to the heat, it became watery quicker than I could eat it. After a few minutes, it was all liquid. But this part was still highly pleasurable because it was simply lime juice with a lot of sugar.

I walked to the nearby blue trash can to throw away our cups and felt fatigued, but happy to be in that state of sugar rush, tongue burning, chicken skin enjoyment that only something edible could produce.

My grandmother could be seen from a distance. I always thought she was a peacock looking woman. Her hair was dyed red and cut short. A pixie cut for a peacock woman. Her eyebrows were non-existent so she faked them with eye brow liner. These were not too thin and not too thick, and were an appropriate brown. Her eyes. They had excessive skin, making her actual eye opening small. Her eyelids were a bright ultramarine blue which I had never seen her not wear. It was not evenly applied on her eyelids. It seemed like she used a finger from her non-dominant hand to rub the eyeshadow without the use of a mirror. Her glasses were quite minimal as they were frameless with black legs. Again, her skin knew gravity and made her pink blush look like it was melting. But her smile was fabulous. Thick upper and bottom lips framed her perfect fake teeth in a natural way. She wore a matching blouse and pants that were white with big multicolored flowers that seemed like a watercolor print. This outfit was quite baggy. Quite different from my colorblock t-shirt and fitted bermudas.

She floated to us and as she did, everyone turned to see her. They all knew who she was or knew of her. So it took her quite some time to get to us as she had at least 5 different conversations with different people along the way. It was one of her many talents. She eventually reached us and said, “Hello hello! How was the train ride?”

“It was good! And we had some mango while we waited for you,” answered my cousin.

“Oh I bet the mango from the tree at home is much tastier than the one here,” she said.

“This one was actually really good, but we can try knocking down some mangoes tomorrow too!” I chimed in.

“Of course we can! I’m sure your grandfather will be happy to do so,” she said.

My grandmother held my grandfather’s hand very tightly, as though he were going to escape. We walked near the street vendors towards the car. It was a slow walk and I chatted with my cousin about how we’d get mangoes from the tree back home. The parking lot was quite dark, but we made our way to the silver car. And there, two men with black masks, knives in hand, asked for the keys to the car. There was no hesitation from my grandfather, and he handed the keys and we watched as the car was driven away. I was speechless, hugging my grandmother, she was trembling.

“Hey, they just took away the car, can you pick us up?” asked my grandfather over the phone.

“Your dad will be here quickly, I’ll call the police and see what can be done, but there’s nothing to worry about. We are ok, ok?” said my grandfather to all of us reassuringly.

“Ok!” said my cousin.

In less than five minutes my father was there with a friend, in another 5 minutes we were at my grandparents place, and within 20 minutes they were able to locate the car thanks to a GPS tracker it had.

My aunt, uncle, other uncle, his wife, my other cousin, my mom, my other grandparents, and some neighbors all came to the house to accompany my grandmother.

“And then they drove away!” she said as she ended telling this highly invested audience about her day minute by minute.

“It can’t be”

“I’ve heard this happening too much!”

“We need to avoid going there when it starts to get dark”

Everyone had something to say, and I was almost happy it happened because I was enjoying the unexpected reunion too much.

“Oh look! It seems like they’re back!” said my aunt pointing at the front door.

“We got it back!” said my grandfather.

“That’s amazing!” said my grandmother.

“I’m going to order pizza and refreshments, any requests?” asked my grandfather.

“Pepperoni!” I said.

“Yes, but you’re trying the Hawaiian one, my favorite,” he requested.

As soon as everyone had a drink, my grandfather and father started to explain how they recovered the car and recommended the GPS tracker to everyone. I was not interested in this part of the story as I was playing board games with my cousins.

“Hey,” said my cousin.

“Hey,” I said back.

“Is that the first time you’re at a crime scene?” he asked.

“Yes I think, why?” I asked.

“That was my second, but this one I knew would happen, it was too easy of a target and dark, grandfather is stupid,” he said.

Freedom

The security bar, which didn’t seem to offer much security at all, lifted for us to drive through. The road needed repair and as the car bounced from side to side, I remembered our recent trip to a theme park back home. Rollercoasters terrified me to the point of crying uncontrollably even on the one’s meant for toddlers. Instead, I had preferred the gentle, scenic rides— those slow-moving trains that took you through artificial jungles, plastic medieval castles, or entire futuristic mini cities. We eventually found a parking spot not too far from the entrance. The deep purple privacy film on my grandparents’ car windows made everything outside look dim and surreal, as if we were watching the world through a pair of oversized tinted sunglasses. It wasn’t just for privacy; in this city, you needed it to survive the relentless sun. My grandfather took out the sun shade which was a bright silvery rectangle I had never seen anyone use back home and placed it behind the windshield. It took a few seconds to feel the heat overtake the interior of the car once it was turned off. When the first door opened, a wall of heat rushed in. The walk from the car to the entrance of the mall was around a minute or two. A long minute or two. For a minute or two everyone was concentrating on getting through the doors of the air conditioned mall. It was a popular day and time to go to the mall. A swarm of people were trying to get through the entrance while others waited for taxis.

The taxis here were relics of a different era. Decades-old Fords, Dodges, and Chevrolets, their paint dull from years under the sun. They were in between a taxi and bus, offering rides for a fraction of the price of a private car. Their drivers leaned against them, smoking cigarettes or chatting with each other in clipped, familiar tones, waiting for the next group of passengers. They typically served a lower socioeconomic class.

The women in this area were wearing breezy gowns with geometric patterns of bright pinks, oranges, yellows and purples. They let their long dark black thick hair flow against their backs, past their waists, brushing their hips in a majestic, siren-like way. The hair didn’t move with the wind, but with the waves of the lake only a few miles away. The way the fabric caught the wind gave them an effortless elegance, as if they belonged to a world of old stories and whispered myths. In fact, they did belong to that world and we were just in it. The name of the state is an indigenous name, coming from an indigenous princess. And the name of the city is after an indigenous chief who resisted colonizers. My paternal grandfather was said to be of this indigenous tribe but “white” nonetheless. It essentially meant that he had indigenous blood and grew amongst them but also had influence from European settlers. It was typical to see writing in Spanish and the indigenous language right underneath it. It was not similar in the slightest, but I actually knew an entire poem that my grandfather taught me and all of my cousins. It was his proudest moment once we could fully recite it after years of practice. I never knew what it meant.

We passed close to another group of women in the area who wore brightly colored biker shorts that seemed a size or two too small, paired with t-shirts in clashing shades. Their clothing clung tightly, highlighting the texture of their skin, the dimples of cellulite visible under the harsh daylight. They carried themselves with confidence, their neon outfits a sharp contrast against the muted tones of the aging taxis and sunbaked concrete. Again, I saw the metallic boy walking outside the mall entrance, his skin had its own atmosphere which glistened as I grazed his chest with my shoulder, sending a cool wave through my own body. His eyes were a red copper that locked with mine. We were being pushed to walk in opposite directions but I understood what he was telling me.

“I saw you in the ocean,” he said.

“Yes, I was just arriving!” I answered.

“I was too, and I’m glad I had some time to enjoy the water because it’s scarce up at my family’s place,” he explained.

“Oh, is that far from here?” I asked.

“Around 40 minutes in the car. I’m getting into it now.” he said.

“I’m getting on the escalators,” I said.

He didn’t reply.

It was the first time I was able to communicate without having the other person right in front of me or on the phone.

“We are arriving!” said my Grandmother as she squeezed my hand. And I could see in the distance, past the food court, the kids park which included a trampoline to which you could be harnessed to extra stretchy and jumpy bands. This was something I looked forward to every time I came here. I was strapped in, started to jump, and eventually started to do flips in the air as my Grandmother took fotos, which would later become a physical album. After my time was up - and so were my hairs - we went to the food court to get churros. The churro place always overdid the caramel and chocolate sauces, but precisely this fattiness is what made it so delicious. After dessert, we went to a few other stores and then back to the car, which was flaming hot and we needed to turn it on and wait a few minutes before sitting in it. We sat down and turned on the radio - it was some classic folkloric music from the region. There was traffic on the way home and I fell asleep as the sun’s warmth was cradling me. Next thing I know, we are at a restaurant and my entire family was there. I was excited because the outdoor area had a playground and a funny mural of a character doing different activities. My cousins were outside already playing and I didn’t even mind ordering food. We were playing tag with other kids until we were called inside to eat. Boy was it good. And my favorite part was the soda which was a specific reddish pinkish soda that didn’t exist back home.

After everyone was done with their meals and drinks we skedaddled to the cars. There was something evidently different. The air felt like a weighted blanket. The parking lot looked exactly the same as when we first got to the restaurant - all the same cars, the same spots were empty. There was no street beyond the perimeter of the lot, which was lined with palm trees. What used to be the asphalt road was now a camel orange dusty scene. A few tin houses were scattered about in the distance. Other houses were made of cinder blocks and half painted in bright pinks, greens, and oranges. They all had a DirecTV satellite dish next to a plastic blue water tank on the ceiling. 7 skinny goats were coming towards us and I could hear roosters in the distance. The sun had just finished rising, it touched everything in sight for the first time. This sun was mesmerizing, but it would soon turn to a hellish one, as if this place did something to it and now the sun’s mission was to burn it. We got into the cars and decided to drive anywhere and hope we’d be home soon.

The scene was all the same except for the restaurant which started to look fainter and fainter as we drove away. Some of the indigenous women were outside of their homes tending laundry. Their children running around, and no men in sight. The sun ascended in the sky and it became light blue. The air condition in the car stopped working - so we rolled the windows down but this was not of much alleviation.

“Welcome to my home,” a familiar voice said to me.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Nearby. Close enough that we can do this,” he said.

“I don’t even know how we got here. All we did was go eat and when we came out we were in this deserted wasteland,” I explained looking for answers.

“Do you think it’s ugly here,” he asked.

“Not at all, but there’s not much other than the random trees, scattered houses, dust, and somehow it is 10 times hotter here,” I complained.

“Yes, the heat here has given my people the worst hardship… drying up all the water. But it also keeps foreigners away. Why would anyone ever want to be here? These people even have their own law, they don’t abide by the national law,” he explained.

“Do you like it here?” I asked.

“It’s difficult, it’s simple, it’s unwanted, and that is why it is special. I do not like it for myself because I did not grow up here, but it is a haven nonetheless. What happens here stays here, and not much happens. A bubble that not even colonizers were interested in. Maybe it is a mediocre culture,not studied enough, but it is one that is protected by nature even if nature is not providing water. The people make life work this way,” he said.

“I spoke to someone like this before, was it with you?” I asked.

Sister

“IT’S BLONDE! IT’S BLONDE!” the nurse’s high-pitched American accent shouted as she took pictures of a baby being held by many hands and wiped. The baby screamed at the top of its lungs as they do when they are welcomed into this world.

“IT’S A GIRL!” yelled a different nurse with a nervous voice. We knew it was going to be a girl, but it’s tradition to say what it is when it’s born anyways. I guess you never know. This was my first sister being born. I was six. I was brunette. She was blonde.

Blonde wasn’t enough—she had a full head of straight white hairs that seemed razor sharp. She was chubby and pink like cotton candy, and her nose was somehow a little orange. We didn’t really know what color eyes she had, or what her name was either.

“She’s born, she’s born!” my grandma said to me while we walked down a hallway at the hospital. It was a green and brown hospital with infinite stories, endless hallways—how did anyone know where to go? I was wearing a green long-sleeved t-shirt with a heart on the front that said Big Sister. My pants were brown. And at this point in time I could not bear wearing white socks so they were fuchsia, matching my fuchsia sneakers.

“I know, I know! Why is everyone repeating everything they say?” I asked with excitement.

“Everyone is so happy about your sister and you being an older sister now,” she said as we kept walking down the hallway.

“I always wanted this,” I said with a smile from ear to ear.

We approached a vending machine with many candy and chip options but I went for a red Jell-O because I wanted what my grandma was having. It was a long day of not doing much other than waiting around in the hospital with much anticipation.

“I think it might be time that we can finally meet her. What name do you like?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t even know the options,” I said. It was true. So many names had been thrown around and no one was really asking me to name her so I didn’t mind what she was named as long as they named her soon.

I imagined her with different names. Valentina, Lucia, Andrea, and pictured her face changing with each one. Valentina had caramel curls, eyes the color of honey, and a sly little smile like she knew secrets. Lucia had glossy black hair, a wide forehead, and soft eyes that made everyone instantly calm. Andrea looked like a firecracker—light brown hair always a little messy, and a laugh you could hear across a playground. I wondered if names made you who you were or if you just grew into whatever they picked for you.

When we turned the corner to the maternity ward, the hallway felt colder and the lights brighter. A cleaning lady walked past pushing a cart of mops and supplies. She gave me a knowing smile.

“Big sister, huh?” she said.

I nodded proudly.

We passed a room with a big window, behind which rows of babies were swaddled in plastic tubs like muffins cooling on a rack. Grandma lifted me up so I could see better.

“Is that her?” I asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said, squinting. “Too bald.”

There was something sacred about the glass between us and them. Like a zoo, but for miracles. One of the babies yawned and stretched its arms. Another was crying like it had been abandoned.

“She’s probably hungry,” I said.

“Or she misses someone she doesn’t even know yet,” Grandma added.

Later, in the room where my mom lay tired but glowing, I finally saw her up close. My sister. My very first one.

She was asleep. I thought babies were supposed to be awake and dramatic. Instead, she lay there all pink and pale and with those terrifying sharp blonde hairs. I inched closer.

“Don’t touch her face, just her feet,” my mom said gently. “They’re more durable.”

So I poked one of her feet. It twitched.

“She moved!” I said.

“She’s saying hello,” said Grandma.

“I think she looks like a hedgehog,” I said. “A soft one.”

But as the adults began talking around me, the warmth turned into a hush. There were too many sideways glances, too many half-formed whispers that floated around like flies. She was so pale and blonde they even checked if she was albino. That word appeared in more than one conversation, never when my mom was in the room. I didn’t know exactly what it meant, but it felt sharp and pointy.

I overheard my aunt, my dad’s sister, whispering in the hallway with a nurse. Her voice was low but too dramatic to ignore.

“She might be,” she said. “I mean, look at her. They’re not going to tell the mother until they’re sure.”

They didn’t know I was listening. I stood behind a hospital curtain like it was a magic cape. My heart pounded. I felt like I was part of something important, something secret. Was she really sick? Was something wrong?

None of us looked like that. Our skin was warmer, our eyes darker. I started comparing my brown arms to hers in my head like a game. What if I had a sister who wasn’t really like us?

“She looks like Emily,” I said later, trying to sound casual. Emily was a girl in my class, blonde, pale, always sunburnt.

Everyone laughed. Even the baby stirred like she knew she was being talked about.

My grandma caught my worried face.

“No, mi amor. She’s just the first to look like that. Like my mother. Your great-grandmother had hair like wheat and eyes like the sky. Sometimes it skips around, lands on someone new like a surprise.”

I blinked at her. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, you wouldn’t,” she said, settling into the hospital chair like she was about to tell a fairy tale. “We didn’t know much about her either. She was German. Orphaned, because her father disappeared in the war. Missing in action, they said. And her mother… well, she left. Just left her behind. So she grew up without a real home.”

My chest tightened.

“She left Germany as soon as she could,” Grandma went on. “Ended up in France. And there, she met him, my father. A Spaniard running from his own war. They didn’t even speak the same language. But you know how love is. It doesn’t wait for translations.”

“They just… understood each other?” I asked.

“Enough to make three daughters,” she laughed softly. “Your grandmother was the first. Born in a strange country to two people who barely had a common word between them. And they left again, when I was still little. Got on a cheap boat and went south. They made a life out of nothing.”

I stared at my sister’s sleeping face. That delicate nose. Those blue-shadowed lids. I tried to imagine all those stories folded up inside her like notes in a bottle.

“So she’s not sick?” I asked again.

“No, baby. She’s just the first of all the cousins to come out looking like that. It doesn’t mean she’s not one of us.”

I nodded. But the thought stuck with me like gum under a desk. I started watching everyone more carefully, searching for who she looked like. Her eyebrows were barely there, but her lips curved like my mom’s when she was sleeping.

When we got back home that evening, the car ride quiet and golden from the setting sun, I held onto the Big Sister balloon someone had given me. It kept bouncing against the car roof.

That night, I dreamt I was in a forest of white-haired babies. They all had my sister’s face, and they were all crying, and I was the only one who could understand what they were saying.

“She’s here now,” they whispered. “What will you do?”

I woke up before I could answer. I looked out the window and watched the sunrise. The city looked pink too. Everything matched her.

The first few days at home were a blur of smells: powdery, milky, and a new one—something like soft bread. Everyone cooed at her like she was porcelain. I hovered near her crib like a ghost.

“Do you want to hold her?” someone asked.

I didn’t. What if I dropped her? What if she started crying and I couldn’t stop her?

“She doesn’t even look like a *****,” I said.

“No,” my mom laughed. “We named her something else.”

They had finally chosen. And when I heard it, I was shocked. It was a name with rhythm, with gravity, with a kind of elegance I hadn’t expected. A name that could win awards and command stages. It was, if I was being honest, better than mine.

“Wait, that’s her name?” I asked.

“Yes. You like it?”

I nodded, but inside I felt a tiny stab. Jealousy? Maybe. I suddenly wished I’d been named something like that. Something that felt like it came with a future.

But when I looked at her again, I knew it was right. That was her name. Of course it was.

I leaned over her sleeping body, the sharp white hairs finally softening a little, her skin already darkening slightly under the gentle sun that streamed through the window.

She yawned.

“Welcome,” I whispered. “You better be good. I was here first.”

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

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Toda mi vida ha funcionado así: me propongo algo grande como vivir en Nueva York, ser arquitecta, ser completamente independiente. Y ahora que logré esas cositas, me quedo sin metas gigantes que había planeado desde que tenia 12 años. Entonces, ¿se supone que ahora tengo que “explorarme”? ¿“Cuestionarme”? ¿“Descubrirme”? Como dicen todos esos textos: tus veintes son para renacer. Tengo 24 y en dos meses tendré 25, cuando se supone que mi cerebro termina de formarse.

Pero bueno… cuando tenía 15 también me estaba “conociendo”. Y a los 18. Y a los 21. Ningún día me despierto pensando: “claro, esta es la Sandra de verdad”, pero sí hay días en los que me voy a dormir diciendo: “ugh, no me gusta esa versión de Sandra”.

Pero pensemos un segundo. Cuando has amado a alguien, estas al tanto de sus defectos, no? Igualito escoges amarlos, y eso es ser incondicional. En esta época de sanar y amor propio, la regla #1 es…. you guessed it! Love yourself. Entonces, te tienes que querer con defectos y todo incluido. Nunca deberíamos pensar que no nos gusta cierta version - por que cada version nos termina de completar. El problema esta en que, nunca vamos a saber quienes somos de verdad. Será cuando me muera que puedan decir, “y esa fue la Sandra de verdad”. Pero por ahora, con 24, y la edad que tenga la persona que me lee, somos una acumulación de memorias que forjan nuestra identidad.

Volviendo a la ambición: hace poco mi hermana me llamó preguntándome si yo sabía lo que estaba haciendo cuando estaba en la universidad, que no fue hace mucho. Obviamente no. Mi estrategia era hacerlo TODO. Cuando digo todo, es todo: estar en mil clubes, meterme en clases que no tenían nada que ver con arquitectura, trabajar, conocer a la mayor cantidad de gente posible porque mi mentalidad era: si no es ahora, no es nunca. Duermo cuando me muera. El que tenga miedo que no nazca, como dirían en Venezuela.

Sí, estaba cansada. Exhausta. Pero llena de experiencias, y memorias, nutritivas que han expandido mi horizonte de una manera que me hace agradecer todo lo que viví en esos años. Y haciendo ese TODO, fui entendiendo qué cosas no me gustan. Con quién me cuesta relacionarme. Qué tipo de tareas se me hacen imposibles. Qué música detesto.

Y me di cuenta de que, como soy tan moldeable, tan camaleónica, entenderme es más difícil. Encajar también. Pero si sé qué es lo que no me gusta, entonces puedo mirar lo que queda y convertirlo en lo que sí. Estamos tan desesperados buscando la película que nos encanta, la música que nos mueve, el deporte que nos define… que no nos damos cuenta de que no sabemos qué es lo que no nos gusta. ¿Y si nos despertáramos todos los días pensando: “hoy quiero descubrir qué es lo que NO me gusta”? Capaz, por descarte, encuentras exactamente lo que se siente como casa.

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¿Estás preocupado porque no sabes tu “propósito”? ¿Y te sientes perdido porque no lo encuentras? Lo estás haciendo todo mal. Nadie tiene un propósito. Y tu propósito no debería ser encontrar un propósito. Lo que sí te debes a ti mismo es descubrir qué te llama. Y si tu respuesta es que nada te llama… creo que no estás viviendo suficientes experiencias. O posiblemente no estas recordando lo que has vivido.

Seamos ambiciosos por explorar. ¿Acaso eso no es la curiosidad? Y si la curiosidad mató al gato, menos mal que tiene siete vidas, porque yo prefiero morir de ganas que morir con ganas. Léelo otra vez.

Y si eres nuevo por acá, te cuento: estudié arquitectura cinco años y jamás sentí el llamado de ser la próxima Pritzker-winning architect. ¿Pero quién “descubre” su llamado en la universidad? El llamado no es un título, es algo que siempre estuvo ahí. A lo mejor Bolívar no nació diciendo “seré el Libertador”, pero sí nació con un llamado a la libertad, a liderar.

Yo siempre supe que tenía que leer y escribir. Me costó muchísimo aprender a leer, tanto que me hicieron exámenes para ver si era especial. Pero un día, de repente, las palabras dejaron de ser un rompecabezas y pude pronunciarlas. Y ese sentimiento nunca lo he vuelto a sentir igual. Fue una claridad instantánea. Y como amar leer vino primero, escribir vino natural. Y nunca dejó de gustarme.

Todo el mundo lee y escribe, aunque sea por texto o por emails del trabajo, pero desde chiquita yo sentía el llamado de comunicar mi experiencia. No para tener tu atención; si quisiera atención lo haría en plataformas más visuales. Lo hago para decir verdades que muchos sienten pero no saben descifrar.

Y yo paso ratos intentando entender qué significa ser mujer, ser hija mayor, ser hija de inmigrantes, ser inmigrante donde sea que esté porque nunca soy de aquí ni de allá; ser creativa; ser mujer en una industria profundamente masculina; ser viajera; y, sobre todo, entender qué es mi casa. Porque de verdad siento que no es lo que nos enseñaron de chiquitos. Y definitivamente no es lo que diseñamos los arquitectos cuando hablamos de “vivienda para una familia”.
Documenta tus experiencias, que sean memorias que se caramelízan, y en esas memorias es donde te vas a encontrar cuando sientes que no te gustas. Y si no te gustan esas memorias, pues adivinen: haz nuevas mañana y aférrate a ellas. Eso intento hacer.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

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The question then arises: do zombies have beliefs and desires? On one view, the answer is no. Beliefs and desires are often thought to require consciousness, since they are tied to inner motivation and subjective perspective. A zombie version of myself may rise each morning, drink coffee, and chat with my family, but it does not desire the coffee. It only behaves in a way that perfectly imitates someone who does. Without consciousness, it cannot genuinely hold beliefs about the world either. For example, I might believe that my family had a great day at the beach, even if I turn out to be mistaken. That belief depends on my conscious representation of their experience. A zombie, by contrast, cannot represent the world to itself in that way.

Still, there is another perspective to consider. If a zombie is molecule-for-molecule identical to me, then from the outside it will appear to have beliefs and desires. When it says, “I believe it will rain tomorrow” or reaches for a cup of coffee, those actions are behaviorally indistinguishable from my own. Observers might conclude that the zombie must have beliefs and desires, even if it does not experience them consciously. Whether this counts as real belief depends on whether one thinks mental states can be fully defined in terms of behavior and function, or whether they require conscious awareness. The debate is precisely what makes zombies such a provocative philosophical tool.

A related question is whether it is possible to imagine a creature that has conscious experiences but lacks propositional attitudes like beliefs and desires. Some argue this is impossible, because to be conscious is to have a perspective on the world, and that perspective necessarily involves at least rudimentary beliefs and desires. Even simple creatures like mosquitoes can be described in these terms: they “desire” blood to survive and act as if they “believe” flying toward a host will provide it. Without such minimal attitudes, it would be difficult to see how consciousness could serve any role in guiding behavior.

Yet one might still imagine a being with what philosophers call phenomenal consciousness: the raw experience of sensations such as color, sound, or pain, without attaching beliefs or desires to them. Such a creature would feel something like “redness” or “warmth,” but without any conceptual thought about what those experiences mean. It would live in a stream of sensations without organizing them into judgments or motivations. This distinction between phenomenal consciousness and what is called access consciousness (the ability to reason with experiences, form beliefs, and act on desires) shows that the link between consciousness and propositional attitudes is not straightforward.

In the end, the zombie thought experiment reveals just how elusive consciousness is. Zombies raise the possibility of behavior without awareness, reminding us that outward similarity does not guarantee inner experience. Questions about their beliefs and desires push us to clarify what mental states really are: functions of behavior, or phenomena inseparable from conscious awareness. And the possibility of creatures with consciousness but no propositional attitudes challenges us to imagine what it would mean to experience the world without organizing it into thought. These puzzles do not provide easy answers, but they sharpen our understanding of why consciousness remains one of philosophy’s most enduring mysteries.

And yet, I cannot help but think about how close we sometimes come to living like zombies ourselves. In New York, I see it in the subway: faces blank, movements automatic, the same morning rituals repeated without thought. We can get so caught up in routine, or even in the pressure to build a routine, that we forget to internalize what is happening to us. Stress piles on, chemical imbalances creep in, and we ask ourselves why we feel “crazy” until we stop asking altogether. At that point, we aren’t much different from zombies. Functioning, producing, walking through the world, but no longer processing it.

This is where identity, memory, and home matter most. To be conscious is not just to survive or to act; it is to remember, to situate ourselves, to ask who we are and why we are here. When I write about home, I realize it is not just a physical space but a way of grounding myself against the risk of becoming automatic. Memory rescues me from routine by forcing me to stop and reflect. And identity, fragile and shifting as it is, reminds me that I am more than what I do. Perhaps that is what makes us human rather than zombies: the ability not only to act, but to pause, to remember, and to see ourselves living.

Even popular culture teaches us this. In The Lion King, Simba goes through trauma, avoids it, loses himself, and seems lost. Yet he meets his father’s spirit, who tells him a simple, timeless phrase: “Remember who you are.” Simba is Mufasa’s son, heir to the Animal Kingdom, and has a role to fulfill. None of us inherit kingdoms, but we do inherit our lives. We must find our ikigai, our reason to live, and actively live by it.

Especially with the news lately, both in the US and abroad, I keep wondering if we’re reacting at all. Sure, if you doom scroll, it might look like there’s outrage everywhere, but is anyone really questioning? Really debating? Or are we too scared of saying the wrong thing, of being cancelled, of being chewed up by the machine? Sometimes it feels less like people are speaking and more like they’re repeating, echoing headlines without digesting them. Has society itself become a kind of zombie society? Not just us individually, but all of us together.

How shocked would we really be if tomorrow there was breaking news that an asteroid was going to hit Earth in a few days? Would we actually scream and panic, or would we shrug, send a few memes, maybe make a TikTok about it? That’s what scares me most. Not disaster, not endings, but numbness. It’s okay to feel negative emotions, to be uncomfortable, to let ourselves be shaken. It’s human. And I think that’s better, infinitely better, than drifting through the world in a zombie state.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

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At the film store they told me nothing was wrong. The roll was only 24 frames, which in half-frame means 38 photos. She wasn’t broken, she was simply finished. Waiting for a new roll.

Sometimes I hold too much inside until there is no more space. I need to let go, to develop what I’ve been carrying. Here in Seville, walking slower, stopping at Moorish facades, sitting with old friends and family, I remember what it feels like to restart again.

The camera wasn’t broken. She was only reminding me to pause, and begin again.

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Dia Beacon - Train Ride - Upstate - Light, Shadow, Texture everywhere. Perhaps the most serene museum I’ve been to in America. So zen it made me forget that I was in New York. It’s a place to fall in love all over again.

I’ve taken this photo many times. But it was always a sunny one. The Earth shook here last night, signaling for a change, a wake up call. Be prepared.

Makeup is a mask. The mask I wore, no more.

Foliage is necessary here. It is the filter, the beautification, of a broken system. In the end, nature will take over.

A walk after work is the right medicine for me. Seeing water is healing, bringing me directly to the ground.

A walk to work is nothing if you don’t look up. Light, texture, shadows, all in the work of nature and man brings me delight on these walks in the middle of the city.

Summer outside in familiar places. Places I’m familiar in. Fraternal faces, meeting someone new.

Walking to you, waiting for you, watching them watching them.

gloo glu

Sundays with a cross, to hope for a better day. But the street is skipped, crossing to the next.

A blinding sun, that makes our shadow seen.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

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Film, on the other hand, was something I did not explore until the pandemic hit. I purchased a bunch of disposable cameras and had them developed at CVS. I did not love the results of those photos and I was about to travel to Asia for a few months. I really wanted to capture the trip on film. I went for one of the cheapest options I could find. After doing extensive research I learned that it really matters more how the film is developed than than the camera itself. So I got a Kodak Ektar H35. The best thing about her is that she is a half frame camera. This means you can get seventy two frames instead of thirty six because the frames are divided in two.

There is something evergreen about film photography. Photos on your phone seem so deletable, which is why we take so many. In this new journaling style, film photo journaling, my intention is to share moments that are definitely intentional. Even if they did not seem like it in the moment, the fact that they were captured on film makes them evergreen. As a visual person, I see this practice as a way to reflect differently, to revisit my memories with more care, and to keep learning about who I am.

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Black and White because I’ve never used it before. I’m a very colorful person from a colorful place, but in a roaring city I need to take out the color to see past it. This is Cartagena, Cartagena de Indias, a steamy, cultural clash, not far from home. The outdoors are bright, you need to squint your eyes, it’s so bright when you walk in, the eye cannot adjust and everything is darker than it actually is. Nothing exists without light, nothing exist if we cannot see it. Yes, you can see in your imagination too.

Light, dark, light, dark. Looking up, looking up. Exposed skeletons for new urban design, wires during the day that light at night. But it’s as old as electricity. Two symbols, one for the future, one for the past. A reminder of where I come from, for even when I hadn’t moved to Maracaibo, she was standing tall. Chinita.

Back in a city that never fails to surprise me. Mexico City is cosmopolitan, chic, chaotic, and has character. Mexico City is a man, a good one, a center for me and my friends that live in LA. It’s a gift to be able to come all together to celebrate one who is saying goodbye to being single forever. While some are figuring out work, moving places, getting engaged, thinking of grad school, we must have patience and walk our own path, a path we create.

My dad x LA. Sounds like the name of a cool t-shirt brand. I lived in LA for 5 years, went to school there. It’s a puzzle of a city, with each neighborhood teething into each other to form LA, but none of it really makes sense. I feel like it’s even worse for someone that didn’t spend much time at all in California growing up. The culture is a mystery to me. I think it’s because when it comes to nature, it truly is breathtaking and so accessible still. So diverse. I remember when I first moved how weird I thought the plants were, kind of like Dr Seuss ish if you know what I mean. Honestly, even the people are characters from children books, in the best way possible I mean.

I took my dad to one of my favorite spots, which is no secret, please go if you can. Point Dume, out in Malibu. Maybe these pictures should’ve been shot in color. No, no. The whole point of this was to lose the color to see something deeper. I know. The Pacific. I was used to the Caribbean Sea, at most the Atlantic Ocean. But boy, the Pacific is the deepest thing I know, the thing that makes me feel deep without being in it. Small. It’s lovingly haunting and I think about it often. There’s nothing in between my father looking at the ocean and I guess… Japan? In Venezuela if I get lost I hope I would eventually see some island, but out in the Pacific? No chance… it makes me think of Life of Pi (please go watch the movie if you haven’t). Look at those two tiny figures on the rock against the ocean. I cannot explain this feeling because it is not the same as looking out into the Atlantic from the East Coast. This, this is other worldly and I guess growing up with it, as many Californians do, makes them the way they are. To me, it is incomprehensible, yet an addicting feeling.

Work trip meets Cozumel. An unexpected and lovely trip with my coworkers. Anyone I tell about is in disbelief. I remember how lucky I am. Cozumel is in Mexico, a country I visited three times in the first half of 2025, a country that amazes me, not just with its capital, but how diverse the land feels. Something about it is ancient, like this land is older than other continents. Do you see how this sea doesn’t look or feel as eternal as the Pacific? The horizon is closer somehow, the world feels smaller here. Too inviting.

My dream city… New York City, is it the city, the people, the work? I don’t know anymore. It is not under any circumstance a beautiful city. I’m in Sevilla as I write this and Sevilla is a beautiful city. But my dream city has something indescribable that people have written, sang, made art. movies, about. At some point, a small tiny dot in time, I was doubting the city and then, it was Spring, and I saw flowers bloom, to reminder me that we are blooming too.

But it’s a concrete jungle after all. I wouldn't be here for the flowers. So I pay attention to the buildings too, not just the skyscrapers but the pre-war buildings that tell history in their facades, their stairs, the people walking in and out.

And then there’s DUMBO. I recently learned that DUMBO is Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. Lived there for a year and my my was it a dream to see Manhattan across the water, to see the imposing bridge, to walk on the history of Brooklyn. Now that I live in Manhattan, I must remind myself to visit Brooklyn often.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

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Siempre pensamos en el tiempo como una línea. Como si de verdad lo entendiéramos. Primero pasa esto, luego pasa aquello, y ya. Nos enseñan a organizarlo desde que somos niños, a poner los días en un calendario, a dividir el reloj en horas, minutos, segundos. El periodismo funciona igual: primero lo que pasó, después lo que sigue, lo que importa es que todo quede en orden. Pero cuando lo pienso bien, siento que esa forma de ver el tiempo es demasiado limitada. Porque no es así como vivimos las cosas y mucho menos como las recordamos. Yo no recuerdo mi vida en línea recta. No pienso en mi año en Nueva York como una secuencia ordenada de meses. Más bien son fragmentos, momentos que se repiten, ideas que vuelven, olores, personas que aparecen y desaparecen y luego vuelven otra vez. Todo se siente más enredado que lineal.

Tal vez por eso me gusta tanto cuando los directores juegan con el tiempo. Christopher Nolan, por ejemplo, que para mí es el rey de eso. En Inception los sueños se anidan unos dentro de otros y de pronto no sabes qué es arriba ni qué es abajo. En Tenet ya ni siquiera sabes si vas hacia adelante o hacia atrás. Y en Interstellar, que es mi favorita, el tiempo no es el mismo en todas partes: un minuto en un planeta son diez horas en otro. No vivimos el tiempo igual en todas partes ni en todos los momentos. En la tierra de los relojes un minuto es un minuto, pero cuando tienes miedo ese minuto parece una eternidad, y cuando te ríes se esfuma antes de que lo puedas atrapar. Me gusta pensar que el tiempo funciona como en esas películas: con pliegues, con saltos, con giros raros.

En Occidente casi siempre lo pensamos como una flecha: nacer, vivir, morir. Y ya está. Un camino recto. Pero en otras culturas se percibe como algo cíclico, como un eterno regreso. Me llama mucho la atención esa visión, porque siento que encaja más con la experiencia real. Claro, uno puede decir que un ciclo también tiene principio y fin, pero a mí me gusta verlo como algo sin origen, sin destino final, algo que solo se repite, se transforma. Y quizá pienso en esto porque justo hace un año, el 8 de septiembre del 2024, llegué a Nueva York. Llegué con mi mamá, con dos maletas, a un apartamento en Brooklyn que nunca habíamos visto en persona, solo por FaceTime. Y un año después ya no vivo ahí, ahora estoy en un estudio en Manhattan que encontré casi de milagro.

Pero si lo pienso bien, no siento que haya un principio ni un final en todo esto. Siento que sigo llegando, que todavía no he terminado de aterrizar. Y me impresiona cómo el tiempo en Nueva York funciona distinto que en cualquier otra parte. Un día parece durar tres, pero a la vez un año se esfuma sin que te des cuenta. Es raro, porque ahora mismo estoy recordando mi llegada y parece que fue ayer, pero también parece que pasaron diez años.

Agosto, por ejemplo, se sintió eterno. No fue mi mes. Tenía que mudarme del apartamento más cómodo que cualquier recién llegada puede pedir y no tenía control sobre nada. Buscar apartamento en Nueva York es un deporte de alto riesgo, una prueba de paciencia y resistencia. Estaba al borde de ataques de pánico, y eso que siempre me considero alguien que resuelve. Me encontré escribiéndole a todo el mundo que conozco, preguntando si sabían de alguien que necesitara roommate, mientras me volvía adicta a StreetEasy, Zillow, Apartments.com. En dos semanas hice por lo menos nueve tours. Nueve. Y después de trabajar todo el día. Estaba agotada. Y los apartamentos… oscuros, diminutos, carísimos. Espacios del tamaño de un baño con renta de lujo. Hasta que un día me llama Carol, una broker a la que le había escrito semanas antes. El apartamento que yo quería ya lo habían agarrado, pero me dijo que tenía otro. Fui y resultó ser perfecto. Cerca de una de mis mejores amigas, dentro de mi presupuesto, y lo podía pagar sola. Les confieso que lo que más me daba miedo no era la renta ni el espacio, sino dormir sola. Nunca me ha gustado. Pero tengo 24, y tarde o temprano tenía que enfrentar ese miedo. Llevo apenas una semana viviendo aquí y hasta ahora todo bien. Un paso más hacia la independencia, aunque todavía no termino de entender qué significa realmente ser independiente.

Julio, en cambio, fue lo contrario: ligero, lleno de visitas, de risas. Me visitó una de mis hermanas y siempre me impresiona lo avispada que es. Tiene once años menos que yo, pero a veces me dice cosas con más lógica que cualquier adulto. Tal vez es por eso mismo, porque todavía no tiene tantas capas encima, tanta experiencia que nubla el razonamiento. Su mente es clara, directa. A veces me pregunto si con los años vamos perdiendo esa claridad.

Junio fue para mi otra hermana, la que se graduó en Maracaibo y ahora comienza su vida en Los Ángeles. Ahí es donde vuelvo a pensar en los ciclos: yo me mudé allá en 2019, ahora ella lo hace en 2025. Nada empieza ni acaba, se repite, se transforma. Yo viajé a Venezuela para celebrarla y me di cuenta, una vez más, de que aunque ellas siempre vienen a mí en busca de apoyo, soy yo la que más aprende de tenerlas.

Y en invierno, de enero a mayo, estaba al fin en mi rutina. El frío me arrastró hacia adentro. Nadie quería hacer nada, incluyéndome, y fue justo ahí cuando empecé este blog. Me refugié en el dibujo, en la lectura, en la escritura. Empecé con cuentos cortos de realismo mágico, aunque siento que para escribir bien sobre Latinoamérica desde esa voz necesito estar más cerca de allá, y ahora mismo estoy demasiado sumergida en mi presente. Igual, el invierno siempre me lleva a pensar en el pasado. Conocí gente nueva en esos meses: algunos se quedaron, otros se fueron, otros todavía están en proceso de encajar. Fue como un filtro natural. Nada trágico, nada dramático, solo lo normal de la vida: hay personas que encajan y otras que no. Y no me da tristeza porque sé que las cosas cambian. Hoy alguien no encaja, mañana quién sabe.

Y si pienso en la primavera, me acuerdo de los tulipanes. Las calles llenas de tulipanes. Una flor que nunca vi en Venezuela, ni en Los Ángeles. Y aunque extraño la naturaleza californiana, esos tulipanes fueron suficientes para volver a enamorarme de esta ciudad. A veces basta un detalle mínimo para reconciliarte con el lugar donde estás.

El otoño pasado fue otra cosa. De septiembre a diciembre estaba aprendiendo a trabajar. Y no me refiero a las tareas del trabajo en sí, sino a trabajar como un adulto: cumplir un horario, cocinar para tener almuerzo al día siguiente, dormirme temprano, cuidarme física y mentalmente para rendir en la oficina y en la obra. En la universidad todo era por mí y para mí, pero en una empresa de menos de quince personas todos dependemos de todos. Y eso me gusta, porque me hace sentir que importo, que soy parte de algo. Y he aprendido tanto que siento que en un año aquí aprendí lo que no habría aprendido en cuatro semestres.

Y ahora regreso al inicio, al 8 de septiembre del 2024. Ese día llegué con mi mamá, con dos maletas, con una idea de ciudad que no se si sigue existiendo. Un año después estoy en un estudio en Manhattan, viviendo sola, aprendiendo a no tenerle miedo a la oscuridad. Y no sé si lo que he vivido este año fue una línea recta o un círculo. Tal vez ambas cosas. Lo que sí sé es que sigo llegando. Y sigo empezando.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

Hace poco llegamos a los 200 suscriptores y me emociona muchísimo ver cómo este espacio va creciendo poco a poco. Quiero aprovechar para compartirles algunas de las cosas que he estado consumiendo últimamente, un pequeño vistazo extra a mi vida. Ojalá lo disfruten tanto como yo al ponerlo todo junto.

1. Una exhibición en Nueva York

Hilma af Klint at the Moma - What Stands Behind the Flowers

2. Una película del 2022

Aftersun

No es solo la historia de un padre y una hija, sino un retrato íntimo de lo invisible: el dolor callado de los padres que siguen descifrando de adultos. Crecemos creyendo que son invencibles, hasta descubrir que también cargan con miedos, heridas y preguntas sin respuesta. La película nos recuerda que entenderlos no es justificar, sino reconocer su humanidad: que hicieron lo que pudieron con lo que tenían, que su amor pudo ser real e insuficiente a la vez. Y aunque nunca tengamos todas las respuestas, mirar atrás con esa conciencia se convierte en una forma de sanar y tender puentes con quienes fuimos y con quienes nos criaron.

3. Un poquito de psicología

Taking a break from your loved ones might be painful – but it’s the only way to grow

4. Algo del mar

Giant Octopus Grabs Camera From Diver and Films Itself

5. Una artista latina

Juana Subercaseaux

6. Un poco de arquitectura

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Final Design Was Finished 66 Years After His Death—And You Can Watch Its Construction

7. Un antojito

The 25 Best Pizza Places In America

7. Un poco de sabiduría Irlandesa

If you loved this post but can’t subscribe, you can always buy me a coffee. Es la manera más simple de apoyar esta cafetería de palabras.

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Lo que me frenó, lo que me cambió el verano, empezó en el apartamento de Brooklyn. Parecía un sueño: espacioso, iluminado, con lavadora y secadora adentro, dos terrazas, gimnasio y dentro de mi presupuesto. Éramos tres, y la convivencia iba bien… hasta que empezaron a llegar visitas una tras otra una tras otra.

—Niñas, no quiero sonar intensa —les dije un día, viendo otra maleta atravesar el pasillo—, pero el apartamento se está volviendo un hotel. Yo soy flexible con los invitados, pero ya esto se siente exagerado.

Mar y Cielo me miraron raro. Mar bajó la vista, Cielo apenas asintió, como quien dice “sí, sí” solo para salir del paso. Pensé que lo habían entendido.

El lunes siguiente me citaron en un Zoom. Yo abrí la pantalla con un café en la mano, medio dormida. Ellas estaban juntas en el sofá.

—Sandra —arrancó Cielo—, creemos que no podemos renovar el contrato contigo. Ya no es… compatible.

Me quedé fría.

Esa noche hablé con Mar, que estaba llorando en la sala.

—Es que necesito más espacio —me decía, con la voz entrecortada—. Quiero poder traer a mi familia, tener a mi mama aquí cuando lo necesite.

Yo la escuchaba y por dentro pensaba: ella con 29, yo con 24. Ella en otra etapa, apurada, y yo todavía con ganas de seguir descubriendo. Sentí que vivíamos realidades distintas, pero yo pensaba que eso estaba bien, que podíamos convivir.

—Mar, yo jamás les he puesto peros para que traigan a su gente. Podemos hablarlo, buscar una solución —le dije, tragándome la rabia.

Ella asintió, todavía llorando. Yo quise creerle.

Pasaron los días. Yo seguía convencida de que podía quedarme, conseguir otras dos roommates y salvar el apartamento que tanto me había costado conseguir. Hasta que vi algo que me tumbó la ilusión: un nombre nuevo en el portal del alquiler.

—¿Y esta persona quién es? —pregunté en el chat.

La respuesta llegó rápida, sin rodeos:

—Ah, es que renovamos el lease con otra amiga.

Listo. Todo lo demás, las lágrimas, las excusas, las palabras bonitas, había sido puro teatro barato.

Y ahí, entre ese sainete de apartamento, me cayó encima una pregunta de esas de entrevista de trabajo: ¿dónde me veo en cinco años? Pero no en lo laboral, sino en la vida.

La diferencia de edad con Mar y Cielo me mostró un espejo incómodo: yo no quiero llegar a los finales de mis 20s siendo incapaz de decir las cosas de frente, disfrazando decisiones con dramas, inventando cuentos para no asumir lo que de verdad quiero.

Yo quiero ser yo. Una versión más auténtica de mí misma.

Y ser auténtica empieza por la gente con la que te rodeas. No quiero estar cerca de quienes no inspiran ni empujan. Prefiero ser “la más bruta” en la mesa, la que más tiene que aprender. Porque ahí, en ese límite, es donde uno de verdad crece, se descubre, se inventa.

Por eso, después de semanas callada, aquí estoy de nuevo. Escribiendo. Y pronto les contare de alguien que si me inspira mucho y de nuestra colaboración escrita !!!

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

That tension feels especially sharp when you consider the Virginia State Capitol, designed by Thomas Jefferson in the 1780s. Perched on a hill in Richmond, modeled almost exactly on the Maison Carrée, a Roman temple in southern France, it was meant to symbolize American democracy in its purest form. Jefferson wanted to define a national identity through architecture, something noble and monumental. He once called it “the most beautiful and precious morsel of architecture.” But what we’re rarely taught is that while he was designing that temple to freedom, he was also enslaving hundreds of people. In his lifetime, Jefferson enslaved over 600 people and only freed seven. The contradiction is carved into the foundation.

The Virginia State Capitol. From Library of Congress Prints & Photographs Division

Maison Carrée. From Smart History.

Richmond wasn’t chosen randomly. It was strategically located on the James River, a vital route for importing not just goods like salt and cotton, but also enslaved Africans. These trade routes, the auctions of land Jefferson organized, and the wealth that funded so many of these buildings were all made possible through Black labor. So when we look at neoclassical buildings, such as, the Capitol, at the museums, at the marble steps, we have to ask: whose freedom do they represent?

Jefferson, for all his brilliance and polymath genius, could not imagine Black people as fully human. In his Notes on the State of Virginia, he writes about being “visually appalled” by Blackness, claiming that Black people lacked beauty, intelligence, and imagination. He even compared them to animals, arguing that inferiority was divinely ordained. He dismissed people like Ignatius Sancho, a brilliant Black writer and actor, suggesting his talents were the result of white influence rather than his own merit. These weren’t fringe ideas. They were part of how early America rationalized slavery while writing about liberty.

The men who spoke most eloquently about freedom were often the same ones who excluded it from others. The same people who built temples to self-governance were also shaping a nation where self-ownership was denied to so many. Architecture helped carry this illusion. It gave a clean, symmetrical face to something violently uneven.

This is why I find projects like the Million Dollar Blocks map so powerful. Created using criminal justice data, it visualizes how mass incarceration has become the primary form of public investment in certain neighborhoods. It shows entire city blocks where the state spends millions locking people up instead of supporting housing, health, or education. The same country that once rationalized slavery through pseudoscience now justifies incarceration through policy. But the architecture of exclusion remains.

Data in geographic context shows people in prision are highly concentrated in specific neighborhoods.

Added up block by block, it cost $359 Million Dollars to imprision people from Brooklyn that year.

It cost $11,839,665 to incarcerate people from these 11 blocks in 2003. They call these Million Dollar Blocks.

Source: Columbia Center for Spatial Research - highly recommend.

But America isn’t just this contradiction. It’s also the place where immigrants arrive, survive, and remake themselves. Watching Bad Bunny’s video for “Nuevayol” this week reminded me of the New York I love: layered, improvised, full of immigrants building something out of nothing. It’s a reminder that architecture isn’t just made of stone. Sometimes it’s made of sound, of choreography, of resilience.

What Jefferson and others failed to imagine is what we now live every day, that liberty isn’t found in mimicry or monuments. It’s found in the messy, beautiful ways people hold onto memory and carve out a home. It’s found in the rhythm of a song that turns a city block into something sacred. It’s found in those of us who were never meant to be written into the story, but are still here, writing anyway.

If we’re honest about what America is, we have to look past the marble façades. We have to see the people who were excluded from its promises but not its labor. We have to understand how identity and power are spatial. How race, economy, and beauty are all embedded in the built environment. But maybe most of all, we have to ask ourselves what kind of story we want to leave behind.

Is it one of imitation? Or invention?

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

Recientemente comencé a utilizar mi cuaderno más frecuentemente para todo. Cuando te digo todo, es todo. Listas para el supermercado, recordatorios diarios y semanales para el trabajo, apuntes de reuniones, medidas de paneles de vidrio (soy project manager para una subcontratista en Manhattan, qué rico se siente escribir eso). También tengo dibujos para explicarle cosas a los ingenieros o a mis jefes, pero también hay doodles y patrones que no tienen nada que ver con nada.

¿Por qué decidí usar este cuaderno como un de todito en vez de usarlo estrictamente para el trabajo? Pues, si tuviera varios cuadernos, uno para el trabajo, uno para diario personal, uno solo para listas del súper, la verdad es que nunca usaría ninguno porque yo misma me estaría preparando para fracasar. En mi experiencia, a veces ser demasiado organizada resulta en menos productividad. Y sí, una de mis metas este año era comenzar a escribir más a mano porque siento que así recuerdo las cosas mejor. Al utilizar mis ojos, mis músculos, tinta y papel para darle historia a lo que sea que tenga que anotar, ahí se queda, con una historia, parecido a como cuando publico algo por acá: es mucho más oficial, en mi opinión, que solo escribir algo en mi aplicación de notas en el teléfono. Pero así opero yo, un poco anticuada.

Creo que ha llegado el momento perfecto para contarles cuál es mi película favorita de todos los tiempos y por qué. Es Life of Pi, escrita por Yann Martel, aunque debo admitir que sé cuál es el libro gracias a la película que salió en 2012, el mismo año que nació mi hermana menor y juré que su existencia en la Tierra iba a durar apenas unos meses, porque el 22 de diciembre se suponía que se acababa el mundo según los mayas. Pero aquí seguimos. De pronto por eso la película fue tan impactante la primera vez que la vi. Pasé todo el año con una ansiedad absurda que mi madre se tenía que calar. De verdad pensé que íbamos a explotar todos en diciembre; apenas tenía once.

Si no has visto la película o leído el libro, se trata de un chamo hindú que crece en la India en un zoológico familiar. Por razones políticas y económicas, la familia decide vender el zoológico y usar el dinero para mudarse a Canadá y comenzar una vida nueva. En el barco rumbo a Canadá hay un montón de animales porque valen más en Canadá que en la India. Les advierto que hay spoilers, así que no sigan leyendo si les molesta eso. Hay una tormenta horrorosa que causa que el barco se hunda de una manera trágica, pero el protagonista, Pi, logra sobrevivir en un barquito, y para su sorpresa, un par de animales, incluyendo un tigre, también están en ese barquito en la mitad del Pacífico.

La mayoría de la película se centra en la relación de Pi con cada uno de los animales, principalmente el tigre, hasta que llegan a México y el tigre se va a la jungla como si nada. Luego, unos humanos rescatan a Pi. Cuando lo interrogan para entender qué pasó, nadie le cree que estaba en el barco con los animales, entonces Pi hace la pregunta: ¿realmente importa si fue verdad o no que los animales estaban con él? ¿Le creerían si sustituyera a los animales por humanos? ¿Importa si son una metáfora? ¿Acaso eso no es lo mismo que nos han enseñado en cualquier religión? En mi caso, la católica.

Cuentos como el arca de Noé, como Dios hizo a Eva, David venciendo al gigante Goliat, hasta cómo Dios creó la Tierra en siete días… es para cada quien decidir si estos cuentos literalmente ocurrieron o si son ficticios pero igual de relevantes como si fuesen hechos.

Hace poco me di cuenta de que a lo largo de mi vida, en cualquier casa en la que he vivido, he estado al lado de algún establecimiento religioso. En Maracaibo, al lado de un colegio católico donde viven unas monjitas; en Los Ángeles, en frente de una casa donde se reunían todos los viernes y sábados un grupo de mexicanos evangélicos bastante energéticos a cantar hacia el Señor; y ahora en Brooklyn, vivo en frente de un templo—¿realmente no sé cuál es el término correcto?—budista. Este último me fascina porque desde mi balcón puedo observar a los hombres budistas scrolleando en sus teléfonos por horas como si esa fuera su práctica de meditar. ¿Será que todos somos budistas y ni lo sabíamos?

En fin, lo que quiero decir, y disculpen que me desvíe, es que me emociono un poco, es que la proximidad a distintos edificios religiosos a lo largo de los años me ha hecho pensar en la religión de una manera que únicamente entendí cuando vi Life of Pi. Verás, Pi está obsesionado con todas las religiones. Su postura ante la vida en la adolescencia es: ¿para qué seguir una cuando puedes seguirlas todas?

Pero lo que más me gusta de la narrativa es que no está imponiendo su perspectiva ni su opinión. Simplemente la comparte con una curiosidad genuina, que es la misma que tenía yo cuando le preguntaba a mi mamá cómo era posible que hubiese tantas vírgenes si son toda la misma. Yo no fui a un colegio católico, entonces mi mamá se tenía que calar estas preguntas existenciales de una niña ladillísima como lo era yo. Pero es eso: siempre quise entender por qué hay tantas vírgenes, por qué algunos son santos y otros no, por qué tengo que tener fe y creer en algo a ciegas.

Nunca lo sentí en mi alma como lo sentirán otros. No se me viene natural. Como con todo, la manera en que pienso necesita una razón. Y esa es mi debilidad, porque entro en una impotencia sin cura cuando algo no se puede explicar o no logro entenderlo.

La razón por la cual les cuento todo esto, y por qué les recomiendo que vean Life of Pi (o mejor aún, que lo lean), es por algo que leí en el ensayo de Joan Didion. Ella llega al mismo punto que Life of Pi en cuanto a desafiar si realmente importa cómo recuerda ella los hechos. ¿Importa si la parte ficticia alimenta lo real? Claro, el punto de ella viene desde la práctica de tener un cuaderno a toda hora y escribir lo que sea para grabar algo que, si no lo hace ella, es como si nunca hubiera pasado realmente. No son entradas estilo diario donde expresa todos sus sentimientos o dice cosas que nunca pudo confesar en voz alta. Es más bien un estilo cotidiano. Así me siento yo en mi propio cuaderno, aunque debo admitir que quisiera comenzar a escribir conversaciones que sobreescucho. Hay tantas cosas raras en Nueva York que escucho, que luego olvido, y no las quiero olvidar.

Uno de los temas principales que trato en mi Substack es la memoria. Realmente, nosotros somos los autores de nuestras vidas. Pero no quiero decir que tenemos el control sobre ella, sino que nosotros mismos nos estamos narrando absolutamente todo lo que nos pasa, lo que no nos pasa, lo que pensamos que va a pasar, lo que pensamos que pasaría si hubiese pasado otra cosa. Y entramos en un overthinking excesivo… bueno, así soy yo, discúlpenme. Y es darnos cuenta de que realmente nunca tendremos una versión objetiva de cómo vemos nuestras propias vidas. Entonces, ¿por qué no decorarla como hace Life of Pi, como hacen las religiones?

Si al final todo lo que nos queda son memorias (y ojo, muchas enfermedades nos las van a quitar igual), ¿por qué no hacer de estas memorias algo que nos deje wow, eso sí fue cool? No digo que inventemos nuestras vidas ni que les contemos a amigos nuevos cosas que no son. Pero si de chiquito aprendiste a nadar en la piscina de tu tío y se sentía como el océano entero… recuérdalo como el océano entero, ¿no?

Porque al final, todo se resume en cómo decidimos recordar. Un cuaderno, una película, una creencia. Y si lo que recordamos no es exactamente lo que pasó, pero nos hace sentido, nos consuela o nos hace reír… entonces que sea así. No quiero una vida perfectamente documentada, quiero una vida que se sienta mía cuando la vuelva a leer. Y si me toca inventarme un tigre para sobrevivir ciertas tormentas, pues que ruja fuerte en cada página.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

The Bench

I sat down on the black metal bench. The temperature was perfect, just as it usually is in Southern California. People between 18 and 25 walked and skateboarded in all directions. The skateboarders, in particular, looked glorious, their hair trailing behind them like halos as they moved with a god-like stride. The grass was neon green and crisp. Too perfect to lie on.

I was waiting for my father to pick up. He was three or four hours ahead, honestly, I wasn’t even sure. As soon as he answered with, “Hey, how are you?” I burst into tears.

“Papá,” I said. “I can’t do this. The books on my syllabuses cost over $200. How am I even going to eat if I need those just to get through class? I’m taking 18 units. That’s six classes. Some of them aren’t even for freshmen. I signed up late because I was on the plane—”

“Stop,” he said. “You can always come back and study here. I don’t have a problem with that.”

And that’s when it hit me:

I was an adult. Fending for myself. Far, far away from home and from anyone I truly trusted.

“No,” I said through tears. “I don’t want to go back home. I’m here. I’ll figure it out.”

Even though I wasn’t sure I could.

The Confession

Hello, my name is Francesca. I want to tell you Father sins that aren’t mine but I’ve somehow come to repeat. Why do we do this? We grow up seeing others do wrong, they tell us not do wrong things, and when we do we are punished but I go and do it as an adult anyways. When I am conscious, aware, developed, educated, independent. This does not make sense in human nature. Why would god make us this way? I have gone against him in a way that is all too familiar. I’ve seen this in books, songs, movies, men and women I know. Yet I am too dumb, too lazy, too volatile. I am not patient, kind, or fulfilled enough. Father, if these sins are not mine to own only, but rather, I have imitated the sin many have committed, why is it still a sin, why must we go against what we want to do so ardently. It is temptation yes, the devils calling, But why must we cancel the devil in the name of God. Did God not love the devil enough? Why does the devil want me so badly, it speaks to me loudly, I try to not listen, to not give in, but it’s too late when I realize I have given in to temptation. Why doesn’t god save me? Is it just me saving myself? Am I god? Am I my own god? I grew up happy, but my aunt told me the other day that she knew I was not a happy child. Why would she tell me this? I never thought I was an unhappy child, misunderstood a little, but I always had understanding chill parents. Is she the one that’s messed up? I just want to know if my sin is actually wrong, people have done it to me, is it wrong because I feel wronged, because I wronged someone and I don’t even know if they know. Do I tell them? No one else knows.

The Week

1. Tuesday: Meet up with a friend from college at Hanamizuki Cafe. Watch F1 at AMC.

2. Wednesday: Pick up sister and cousin, 12 and 14, at Penn Station. Take them to Dumbo.

3. Thursday: Try to get off from work early. Take the girls shopping. Zara, Uniqlo, Macys

4. Friday: WFH until noon. Take the girls to the MET and walk Central Park.

5. Saturday: Mini golf, shopping, walking.

6. Sunday: Mass. Girls leave. Drink wine on my rooftop with friends.

7. Monday: Wake up at 6 am. Install project in Long Island City.

A girl crying on a bench because adulthood felt too big.
A woman questioning if her mistakes are truly hers.
A calendar filled with small errands, joy, and responsibility.

It’s part of wanting to be good without knowing how to manage the weight we have inherited.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

Tendré que caminar con un norte claro,
con un guía ciego guiando a más ciegos.
Como siempre, el sentido tan vacío.
Siempre parece que sí… hasta que ya no hay más madrugadas.

Entrando por un oído y saliendo por el otro, somos.
Peleando guerras solos.
En tiempos solos y solidarios,
en tiempos de hacer todo y nada.

Anunciaremos que la educación fue frágil,
porque domar la materia no es expandirla.
Al final, ninguno tendrá la culpa.
Al final seremos ingeniosos… pero mal educados.

Yo ya no creo en ninguna causa.
Estaré entre aquí y allá.
Puse palabras en tu pantalla.
Veinticuatro años me pusieron en una oficina en Manhattan.

Con la pata caliente me muevo el piso.
Y recibirás más de lo que me das.
Dios nos enseñó a ser misericordiosos.
Sélo contigo, tu mamá, tu abuelo.

Los enemigos son cosas del pasado.
Estarán siempre pensando en un problema.
Como si hubiera una guerra en su casa,
pero ni pueden sacar al perro a andar.

Y andan en clubes exclusivos, selectivos,
creyéndose emperadores y faraones,
sin darse cuenta que lo material llamativo
es la causa de su malestar y su pecado.

Mi tía dijo que fui triste sin darme cuenta.
Lady Gaga, Rawayana y Shakira.
Las hojas, los colores, los sabores.
Las fiestas, tus valores, mis demonios.

El matrimonio, la luz, la bebida.
Las preguntas, las ubicaciones no compartidas.
Te quiero, te odio, la película.
El calor, el negocio, el robo… y mis dos hermanitas.

Ahora soy esta mujer cínica.
Cuando nos encontremos de casualidad,
dame un abrazo sin pensarlo dos veces.
Y si tengo la mirada vacía…

Estoy encandilada como Ícaro.
La brisa del sol me quema,
sopla como un ángel en el infierno.
Pero tranquilo, mi vida… cosas de estar viva.

Tan solo es la canción de mi alma.
Me gusta andar sin mirar atrás,
oyendo todo sin escuchar nada.
Qué rico estar presente…

Para poder recorrer las memorias de mi infancia,
de la niña que leía,
del 9131,
habían promesas honestas.

Conversaciones de aquí a la luna.
No soy tu payasa personal.
En un mundo lejos de la paz…
me gusta andar sin mirar atrás.

Me gusta mirarte cerquita.
Me gusta andar sin mirar atrás.

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025

Esta es la primera vez que publico un poema... de pronto me tomé un café de más.
Pero si te gustó y quieres ver más de esto de esto, me puedes invitar un cafecito.

In Mhoze Chikowero’s Is Propaganda Modernity?, he writes:

“Radio propaganda created the simulacrum of a ‘global village,’ in which British imperial values, attitudes, and beliefs were naturalized and internalized as modernity.”

But Chikowero is quick to point out this wasn’t a one-way transmission:

“Africans did not just listen; they read the propaganda… They interpreted and responded to it in ways that exceeded the intentions of colonial authorities.”

Global solutions, local contexts? More like global agendas, local adaptations.

I think about Chikowero’s essay and the term “global village” and how it sounds dreamy. Cosmopolitan. But in reality, it often means exporting a one-size-fits-all blueprint for civilization, a kind of IKEA instruction manual for “how to be modern.”

And yet, there’s always someone flipping the manual over. Scratching it out. Starting from the back.

Take Yona Friedman. The guy wanted to build a museum that was literally just a collection of how locals build things. Basket weaving? Scaffolding with bamboo? Yes please. He wasn’t trying to bring a new architecture to Chennai, he was trying to let it speak for itself. A museum of means, not ends. The kind of project where every element is both the artifact and the author.

As Friedman himself stated:

“The architect must cease to think of himself as the planner of cities… but rather as an educator who gives the tools of design to the user.”

Meanwhile, Friedman teams up with Nicholas Negroponte, and instead of flying to every country to “fix” them with Western design logic, they go full nerd and build software that lets people design their own homes. Flatwriter. You draw your own apartment. Which draws your neighborhood. Which redefines the role of the architect as not a god but a ghost—hovering nearby, maybe offering tools, but never holding the pen.

Steps of the design interface, source: “ARCHITECTURE-BY-YOURSELF, An Experiment with Computer Graphics for House Design”, Siggraph 1976

Negroponte, in a 1970 MIT report, described the vision behind the project:

“Flatwriter aims to allow the inhabitant, not the architect, to define his environment.”

YONA’s interface, source: “ARCHITECTURE-BY-YOURSELF, An Experiment with Computer Graphics for House Design”, Siggraph 1976

Radical, really. Because it means no two villages will look the same. Because no two lives are the same.

The deeper I fall into these texts and projects, the more I realize architecture has never just been about space. It’s about power. About naming. Categorizing. Like Said’s Orientalism, where the East becomes a kind of projection screen for the West’s fantasies and fears. An invented “Other” to justify everything from colonialism to tourism. And the maps? They lie too. Who gets to be at the center? Who’s looking from where?

Edward Said writes:

“The Orient was almost a European invention… a place of romance, exotic beings, haunting memories and landscapes, remarkable experiences.”

It’s wild how often people accept the map instead of walking the land.

Which brings us to camps. Agamben says the camp is a space where normal law is suspended. A space of exception. But sometimes, these “exceptions” become the rule.

In Means Without End, Giorgio Agamben writes:

“The camp is the space that opens up when the state of exception becomes the rule. It is the hidden matrix of the political space in which we still live.”

Like the prisoners of Ritoque who wrote plays inside their confinement, acts of rebellion through imagination. In Ana María León’s Prisoners of Ritoque, she reflects on how this confinement became strangely productive:

“Confined, isolated, surveilled, the prisoners created a parallel society that offered a glimpse of the world outside. In doing so, they reimagined their own imprisonment.”

Or Ellis Island, where people were processed like goods. Labeled, quarantined, classified. A machine designed to dehumanize under the guise of order. Designed, quite literally, to spatially and architecturally sort the “healthy” from the “unfit.” A spatial manifestation of eugenic logic.

Even education isn’t safe.

In the early 1970s, during the height of political upheaval in Chile, the Open City School (Ciudad Abierta) emerged as an experimental learning community created by the architecture faculty of the Pontificia Universidad Católica de Valparaíso. This was shortly after the 1973 coup that ousted President Salvador Allende and installed Pinochet’s brutal dictatorship. Thousands were detained, tortured, disappeared. Fear lived in the walls.

And yet, on the coast of Ritoque, a poetic resistance took shape.

The Open City’s premise was strange and beautiful: detach from institutional rigidity, live and build together, blur the line between learning and being. Structures were improvisational, often built communally out of local materials like driftwood, clay, concrete, and reeds. Poetry was carved into surfaces. Walking was a form of design.

León describes it this way:

“The Open City allowed for a different way of being in the world, where architecture was not imposed but emerged through ritual, rhythm, and play.”

The school called it “voluntary imprisonment,” but it was also a refusal. A refusal of the state, of hierarchy, of fixed meaning. Students weren’t assigned dorms, they built them. Professors weren’t authority figures, they collaborated. Everyone ate together. Everyone swept the floors. But just beyond the dunes was the Ritoque Detention Center, a secret political prison. The school’s detachment from Chile’s broader political nightmare has drawn criticism, for better or worse.

Location of the Ritoque concentration camp (provided by Miguel Lawner, former prisoner) and the Open City school. (NASA's Earth Observing System)

This conscious removal from politics was meant to be freeing. But sometimes the choice to disengage is itself a form of privilege.

“The apolitical stance of the Open City,” León writes, “was a poetic detachment—but also a convenient blindness.”

Still, there’s something beautiful in the attempt. In the idea that people can build differently, not just physically but ideologically. That a bamboo scaffold or a software program or even a shared silence can resist systems that want to flatten us into sameness.

So maybe the question isn’t “Is propaganda modernity?”

Maybe it’s:

Whose modernity?

Whose village?

And can we please stop pretending the global is neutral?

By Sandra Maestre · Launched in 2025