{"id":1390,"date":"2020-05-27T21:17:22","date_gmt":"2020-05-27T21:17:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/?page_id=1390"},"modified":"2020-10-18T15:57:34","modified_gmt":"2020-10-18T15:57:34","slug":"juan-david-cruz","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/?page_id=1390","title":{"rendered":"Juan David Cruz-Duarte"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Juan David <\/strong>was born in Bogot\u00e1, Colombia. He earned a doctorate degree in comparative literature from the University of South Carolina. His work has appeared in M\u00e1quina Combinatoria, Fall Lines, Five 2 One, the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Jasper Magazine, Blue Collar Review, Burningword<\/em>, Escarabeo,<\/em> and elsewhere. He published a collection of short stories titled Dream a Little Dream of Me: cuentos siniestros<\/em> (2011) and the short novel La noche del fin del mundo <\/em>(2012). His first collection of poetry, L\u00e9ase despu\u00e9s de mi muerte<\/em> (Poemas 2005-2017),<\/em> was published in 2018. He currently lives in Bogot\u00e1, Colombia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Juan David Cruz<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n
Bogot\u00e1: June 24 \/ 2020<\/strong>\n\nIn loving memory of my grandmother, Cecilia Su\u00e1rez\n\nI am doing alright. It\u2019s June 2020,\nand I am doing alright.\nAt least half a million people have died\nfrom the damned virus. But I\u2019m doing alright.\nMy grandma died of old age while we were all quarantined.\nI was not allowed to go see her.\nWe weren\u2019t allowed to bury her body.\nThat was more than two months ago.\nIt was all very sad, naturally.\nBut now I think I\u2019m doing alright.\n\nSometimes I cannot sleep at all.\nSometimes I cannot get out of bed.\nSometimes I see a man standing at the corner.\nHe doesn\u2019t talk to anybody.\nHe just stands there for hours and hours.\nHe carries a black backpack with a red rag\ntied to one of its straps.\nRed rags stand for hunger.\nThey are a call for help.\nSometimes a band comes and plays a few songs.\nI wonder if people actually throw them some money.\nIn the city\u2019s poorest neighborhoods\nred rags hang from the windows,\nlike lazy flames.\nHunger is catching like a wildfire.\n\nI sometimes hear voices outside. Men and women\nscreaming on the streets, asking for food or money.\nMost of them are Venezuelan immigrants.\nI was an immigrant once; I see myself in them.\nBut I\u2019m doing alright, and they are not.\n\nAll these things are breaking my heart.\nBut everyone tells me I should be grateful.\nEveryone tells me I\u2019m doing alright.\n\nHowever, I wonder where we will bury grandma\u2019s ashes \nwhen all this is over.\nBut it will never be really over.\nBecause nothing ever ends.\nAnd we will always be waiting for the next big death wave,\nas we dig shallow graves\nfor those who didn\u2019t make it.\n\n<\/pre>\n\n\n\n
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Juan David and Cecilia Su\u00e1rez, 2020
Photo by Julio C\u00e9sar Cruz<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n
Bogot\u00e1: junio 24, 2020<\/strong>\nA la memoria de mi abuela Cecilia Su\u00e1rez, con amor.\n\n\nEstoy bien.\nEs junio 24 de 2020,\ny yo estoy bien.\nAl menos medio mill\u00f3n de personas\nhan muerto a causa de este maldito virus,\npero yo estoy bien.\n\nMi abuela muri\u00f3 por causas naturales\nmientras todos est\u00e1bamos en cuarentena.\nNo me estaba permitido ir a verla,\ns\u00f3lo la habr\u00eda puesto en peligro.\nFue todo muy triste, por supuesto.\nPero creo que, por ahora, estoy bien.\n\nA veces no puedo dormir,\na veces no puedo levantarme de la cama.\nA veces veo a un hombre parado en la esquina.\nSe queda ah\u00ed, inm\u00f3vil,\npor horas y horas.\nLleva siempre una mochila negra.\nEn una ocasi\u00f3n cre\u00ed ver un trapo rojo\ncolgado de su morral.\nUn trapo rojo es un llamado de auxilio.\nA veces, una banda viene al barrio,\ntocan unas cuantas canciones y se van.\nMe pregunto si alguien en el edificio\nles lanza de vez en cuando algo de dinero.\n\nEn los barrios m\u00e1s pobres de la ciudad,\ntrapos rojos cuelgan de las ventanas\ncomo llamas pesadas y perezosas.\nEl hambre se esparce como un incendio.\n\nA veces oigo la voz de hombres y mujeres\nque gritan en las calles.\nPiden comida, ropa o dinero.\nLa mayor\u00eda son inmigrantes venezolanos.\nYo fui un inmigrante alguna vez;\nen ellos, me veo a m\u00ed mismo.\nPero yo estoy bien\ny ellos no.\n\nTodo esto me rompe el coraz\u00f3n,\npero todos me dicen que sea agradecido,\ntodos me dicen que estoy bien.\n\nSin embargo, me pregunto d\u00f3nde enterraremos\nlas cenizas de mi abuela\ncuando todo esto termine.\nPero esto no terminar\u00e1 nunca,\nporque nada termina realmente.\nY siempre estaremos esperando\nuna nueva oleada de soledad y muerte\nmientras cavamos tumbas poco profundas\npara todos los que dejamos atr\u00e1s.\n\n<\/pre>\n\n\n\n
A New Kind of Loneliness<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019ve experienced loneliness<\/p>\n\n\n\n
in many of its forms,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know the shape of its hands<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and the cold wind of its breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know that it hurts,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know that it heals,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know<\/p>\n\n\n\n
that there is no escape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know that loneliness is at the core<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of the so-called human condition.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know the speed of loneliness,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know the color of loneliness;<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I came to memorize<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the sound of its whispers,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
like Borges did before me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But this is a kind of loneliness<\/p>\n\n\n\n
that I did not know at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Your eyes, so close,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
your voice, so clear,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
your skin\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
so far away<\/p>\n\n\n\n
from my touch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Your lips,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
thick and slow,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
uttering words of affection<\/p>\n\n\n\n
that cannot save me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
at the other side<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of that cold screen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like a fish,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
staring through the glass<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of a fishbowl,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
quietly and pointlessly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This is a loneliness<\/p>\n\n\n\n
that I did not know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tired fingers on the keyboard,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the sound of static<\/p>\n\n\n\n
in my headphones;<\/p>\n\n\n\n
this is so very new to me\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
How strange,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
how very strange<\/p>\n\n\n\n
is this new kind of loneliness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Una nueva forma de estar solo<\/strong><\/h4>\n\n\n\n
He experimentado la soledad<\/p>\n\n\n\n
en muchas de sus formas,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
conozco las facciones de su rostro,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
conozco el viento fr\u00edo de su aliento.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
S\u00e9 que puede doler,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
s\u00e9 que puede curar,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
s\u00e9 bien<\/p>\n\n\n\n
que no hay salida.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
S\u00e9 que la soledad est\u00e1 en el centro<\/p>\n\n\n\n
de la condici\u00f3n humana;<\/p>\n\n\n\n
conozco su velocidad,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
conozco su color,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
he memorizado sus sonidos<\/p>\n\n\n\n
como lo hizo Borges,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
como lo hizo mi t\u00edo H\u00e9ctor<\/p>\n\n\n\n
muchos a\u00f1os atr\u00e1s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Pero esta es una soledad<\/p>\n\n\n\n
que yo no conoc\u00eda:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
tus ojos, tan cerca,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
tu voz, tan clara,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
tu piel\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
tan lejos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tus labios,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
lentos y gruesos,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
susurrando palabras de afecto<\/p>\n\n\n\n
que no pueden salvarme.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
T\u00fa,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
al otro lado de esa pantalla fr\u00eda.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Y yo me siento como un pez,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
vi\u00e9ndote a trav\u00e9s del vidrio de una pecera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Silencioso.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Carente de prop\u00f3sito.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Este es un tipo de soledad<\/p>\n\n\n\n
que yo no conoc\u00eda.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
L\u00e1grimas en el teclado,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
el sonido de la est\u00e1tica en mis aud\u00edfonos;<\/p>\n\n\n\n
esto es nuevo para m\u00ed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Qu\u00e9 extra\u00f1a es<\/p>\n\n\n\n
esta nueva forma<\/p>\n\n\n\n
que ha asumido mi soledad<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Perfectly Dark<\/strong>\n\nA cup of coffee in the morning,\nantidepressants after breakfast.\nAnother cup of coffee in the afternoon,\nalways before five.\nThese are the things I need\nto make it through the day,\nevery day.\n\nAt night, a small meal,\nnothing too heavy.\nBefore going to bed,\ntwo sleeping pills\nand a bit of water.\nThese are the things I need\nto make it through the night,\nevery night.\n\nAnd still,\nsometimes I cannot sleep,\nunless the whole world is submerged in shadows,\nand my own mind\nis perfectly dark.\n\nPerfecta oscuridad<\/strong>\n\nUna taza de caf\u00e9 en la ma\u00f1ana,\nantidepresivos despu\u00e9s del desayuno.\nOtra taza de caf\u00e9 despu\u00e9s del almuerzo.\nEstas son las cosas que necesito para sobrevivir al d\u00eda,\ntodos los d\u00edas.\n\nUna comida liviana en la noche,\nun par de pastillas para dormir\ny un poco de agua antes de acostarme.\nEstas son las cosas que necesito en la noche,\ntodas las noches.\n\nY, aun as\u00ed,\na veces no puedo conciliar el sue\u00f1o\na menos de que el mundo entero\nest\u00e9 sumergido en espesas tinieblas,\ny en mi mente no haya m\u00e1s\nque una perfecta oscuridad.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n
Motivational Videos<\/strong>\n\nLife is like a marathon, I suppose.\nWe\u2019re supposed to run until we can\u2019t go on.\nHave you see those motivational videos\non the internet? Videos about people\nrunning in a marathon. Sometimes they fall,\nbut they don\u2019t give up. They roll and they crawl.\nIt is all very motivational,\nas long as they don\u2019t shit their shorts, of course.\n\nSometimes these videos take an unexpected\nturn: a good Samaritan helps the fallen\nathlete. This is beautiful gesture,\na great gesture of selfless compassion.\nThese videos sure are motivational.\n\nWe have all felt like those fallen athletes\nsometimes. Crawling like mutilated dogs,\nsweating on the floor, trying to finish\nthe race. Sometimes, a good Samaritan\ngives us a hand. We must learn to be thankful.\n\nBut please, the next time I fall just let me be.\nI\u2019d rather sleep on the pavement for a night\nor two. I will not crawl like a moron.\nI think I still have a drop of self-respect.\nI don\u2019t believe in finishing the race.\nIf you see me there, sweating on the floor,\ndon\u2019t grab me by my shirt and lift me up,\ndon\u2019t drag me to the finish line, because\nI\u2019ll only slow you down, and truth be told\nI never really cared about this race.\nYou see? I never cared to begin with.\n\nI don\u2019t want to be part of the show.\nPeople can find inspiration elsewhere.\nSo, the next time you see me on the ground,\nif you really want to help me, just stop\nfor a minute or two. I\u2019ll shake your hand,\nwe will have a polite conversation,\nand I\u2019ll ask you to call me a taxi.\n\n\nVideos motivacionales<\/strong>\n\n\nEsta vida es como una marat\u00f3n,\ny se supone que debemos correr\nhasta que ya no podamos seguir m\u00e1s.\n\u00bfHan visto esos videos en Internet\nde atletas corriendo en una marat\u00f3n?\nA veces, uno de los deportistas\ncae derrotado y no puede seguir.\nPero el verdadero guerrero nunca\nse rinde. \u00c9l se arrastra hasta la meta.\nTodo esto es siempre muy motivacional,\nsi el pobre no se caga en el camino.\n\nA veces estos videos toman un\ngiro inesperado: un buen samaritano\nle da una mano al atleta ca\u00eddo.\nEs un gesto desinteresado\nde juego limpio y compasi\u00f3n. Hermoso.\nEs un espect\u00e1culo conmovedor.\n\nTodos nos hemos sentido como\nesos atletas ca\u00eddos alguna vez.\nArrastr\u00e1ndonos por el suelo como\nperros mutilados, sudando sobre\nel pavimento caliente. Tratando,\na toda costa, de terminar esa\nmaldita carrera. A veces, un buen\nsamaritano se detiene a ayudar.\nAprendemos a ser agradecidos.\n\nPero, por favor, la pr\u00f3xima vez que\ncaiga s\u00f3lo d\u00e9jenme tranquilo.\nNo me molesta dormir en el suelo\npor una o dos noches.\u00a0 No me arrastrar\u00e9\ncomo un idiota. A\u00fan conservo\nuna gota de amor propio. Adem\u00e1s,\nyo no creo en terminar la carrera.\nSi me encuentran sudando en el suelo,\nno me agarren de la camiseta\npara levantarme, y no me arrastren\nhasta la meta. Los retrasar\u00eda.\nY, la verdad sea dicha, la carrera\nno me importa. Nunca me ha importado.\n\nNo quiero hacer parte del espect\u00e1culo,\nla gente puede encontrar inspiraci\u00f3n\nen cualquier otra parte. Yo me rindo.\n\nPor eso, si un d\u00eda me encuentra tirado\nen el suelo, y en verdad quiere ayudarme,\ns\u00f3lo det\u00e9nganse por un minuto\no dos. Deme la mano y charlemos.\nPero, por lo que m\u00e1s quiera en el mundo,\nh\u00e1game el favor de llamarme un taxi.<\/pre>\n\n\n\n
  • \"\"
    \u00a1Santafecito Lindo!<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/li>
  • \"\"
    Self Portrait Blue Background<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/li><\/ul>
    From the Series Self-Portrait
    Juan David Cruz Duarte
    Color pencil on paper
    Bogot\u00e1, Colombia
    During COVD- 19 – 2020<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
    \"\"
    “Out in Space”<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n
    \"\"
    From the window
    Juan David Cruz-Duarte
    Bogot\u00e1 – Colombia
    during Covid -19<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
    Juan David was born in Bogot\u00e1, Colombia. He earned a doctorate degree in comparative literature from the University of South Carolina. His work has appeared in M\u00e1quina Combinatoria, Fall Lines, Five 2 One, the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Jasper Magazine, Blue Collar Review, Burningword, Escarabeo, and elsewhere. He published a collection of short stories titled Dream a…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1708,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1390","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","empty-entry-meta"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1390","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1390"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1390\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1796,"href":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1390\/revisions\/1796"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1708"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/garcialemos.me\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1390"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}