Archive for the ‘Soraya vs. The Universe’ Category

Cinéma Vérité

Her New Friends

It was only several months later, when Soraya faced a battery of eager photographers flash click flash, that she remembered the impression that the film had made on her, to such an extent that she was unable to recall even the title, so moved had she been after the drama or rather the depiction of the drama, transported to somewhere and something almost akin to envy which crystallized into words that fused together to make the question: WHY CAN’T THAT BE ME?

The plot of the film had been flimsy and the artistic merits none, but the production was exquisite and luxuriating and Soraya felt, irredeemably, that she HAD to belong to that fantasy world of gorgeous lingerie and breathtaking loveliness.

Six months of crippling diet, day-long sessions at grueling gyms and bootcamps and hairdressers, not to mention the outrageous number of surgical interventions at the most renowned-yet-affordable beauty clinics, plus life savings spent on “meeting the right people”, “being in the right place at the right time” and generally gate-crashing just about any soirée of note on either side of the Atlantic, had been enough for Soraya Campos to be accepted to model for Victoria’s Secret on the Pasarela Zaragozana.

In the front row, Heen and Sheen Martínez sat agog, transfixed by the metamorphosis of their friend. Soraya had been virtually a third twin at times – neo-sister to Sheen and neo-lover to Heen, confidante and accomplice of both, on and off, lately rather more off than on as she re-set her career compass and began to focus more or less exclusively on the beauty business as a viable profession.

Modeling was, notwithstanding, soon to become merely a stepping stone as the shimmering destiny of Soraya Campos seemed to soar to new heights, as this evening acclaimed film director Alejandro Amenábar was to shoot material for a docudrama based on her meteoric transformation from an overweight, unwashed COU-dropout/couch potato (a couch she shared with a bottle of vodka, a bag of Rufles de Matutano, a pack of Ducados and a stinking cat) to one of the most desired creatures in the Solar System.

Amenábar impersonates Adrian Monk

Amenábar watched, detachedly you might say, as Soraya’s newly-lengthened legs gracefully took her to the end of the cat walk where she dazzled one and all with a smile which managed to be sizzling, sweet and sultry, all at the same time.

Heen shook his head in disbelief. This was the girl he could have made his soulmate.

It has to come to this. She has come to this, he thought.

And several months later, as he watched the film on TV, late at night, when the house was silent and empty and dark, he slowly sipped the bitterest whisky he had ever drunk, put the glass back carefully on the table, picked up his revolver, put it between his teeth as if to bite the end off a cigar, closed his eyes and

Cut! Alejandro clapped. Good job, boys. Heen, nice stuff. OK, take five.

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Aghast there, ye lovers

whale

Soraya says:

 

I know you all are been missing me sooooooo long but OK I am here fresh exciting a new for everybody:

 

This is:

 

My intensivo English course are finished! Now everything without mysterie for me read English newspapper watch CNN see movies on original version. My live am so changed now is like the window opene I understanding and feel of belonging of the world!!

 

Of course a lot of thank is for my friend Sheen that she animates me and enforces. Too, Heen, maybe yes maybe no.

 

Over all, most best particular teacher reach the place. Oh yeah.

 

Now I speaking English, I am writting poem special for reader is called Aghast there, ye lovers

 

 

 

AGHAST THERE, YE LOVERS

 

When the seasurge spilleth its benthic bile,

Speweth forth and without,

The turgid ripple that tugs my yearning while

Strewn ashore, Moby howls out

Whilst harpooned, doomed, entombed,

Creaking and croaking on the playa.

Don’t call me Ishmael,

Call me Soraya.

 

You Put A Spell On Me

cemetery-ok

Sheen says: This post was going to be written by Soraya, as promised in the agreement we reached with Heen a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, for reasons which will become clear later, she is barely in a fit state to write anything.

 

I’d known for some time that Soraya’s mother was a bit on the weird side. When we were kids, she was the kind of person our mother used to steer us away from. We were told to spurn her gifts and politely turn down invitations to her house. We knew she had a daughter, a few years younger than Heen and me, but we rarely saw her. We knew her name was Soraya, and she went to a different school, on the other side of the city. It was only when we had left school and started going out to bars and other places that we got to know Soraya, and she soon became a close friend of mine. Heen has always thought she’s deranged, but I know he has a soft spot for her, and they get on well together when he’s not in one of his moods.

 

Soraya’s mother disappeared in mysterious circumstances a few years ago, shortly after our parents died. From then onwards, Soraya has become almost a “third twin”, and I see her most days. The three of us meet up at least once a week, to go out for a drink, or see a film or something. It’s true that Heen and I sometimes make fun of her (she has the kind of personality that almost deliberately invites it) but it’s more frequent for Soraya and I to gang up on Heen (in a nice way, usually). Before long, I’m sure Heen and Soraya will join forces against me, but that’s OK.

 

A few weeks ago, Soraya revealed to us that her mother was a witch. She went to great lengths to explain that she was a “blue witch”, a term that I’d never heard of. It turns out that “blue” witches are neither evil nor good. They don’t go round killing children or helping people recover their loved ones; they’re more interested in their own lives, finding out what they can do with their powers, performing pointless experiments, creating dubious works of art, interfering with the weather, etc., just for the hell of it. I asked Soraya if her mother had ever cast a spell on her and she replied that her mother had occasionally helped her pass her exams at school, but had also got her expelled. Heen wanted to know if her mother had left her any spell books and that’s when we got our hands on “The Book of Blue Shadows”…

 

The book is written in a strange language we haven’t been able to identify. It took Heen several years to begin to decipher it, mostly by trial and error, and there is still an awful of which seems to make no sense at all.

 

One of the spells that most caught Heen’s imagination was entitled “Being Pamela Anderson” and seemed to involve a method to convert a normal human being into Pamela Anderson. After many months’ hard work, Heen declared a few days ago that he had cracked the code, and knew how to carry out the spell. All we needed now was a human guinea pig, and, needless to say, Soraya volunteered, anxious as ever to get into Heen’s good books.

pamela-21

 

Obviously, the spell called for a full moon, so we had to wait a bit. We took advantage of the few days left to assemble all the ingredients necessary for Soraya’s transformation. The toad’s spleen and lyophilised bat’s vomit was easy enough to get hold of (it’s amazing what you can get at Carrefour these days) but we had a hell of a time finding extract of Cleopatra’s gall bladder (thanks, Abdullah!) and had to improvise a few bits and pieces.

 

Eventually, the right night arrived, and at about 9 pm, the three of us made our way to the municipal cemetery. Getting in was no problem – we climbed the wall with ease, and then searched for a suitable tombstone. It was smooth and flat, and we laid a blanket on it, and opened a bottle of cava to celebrate (Anna de Codorniu, Heen’s favourite). An eerie heaviness descended on the graveyard as we sipped the silent bubbles.

 

Soraya burped. “That might be my last burp”, she remarked quietly. Heen and I didn’t know what to say.

 

I started to empty the contents of my rucksack onto the blanket. Heen opened the Book at the right page and got to work.

 

The first thing to do was to bind Soraya in pink wool. We used acrylic four-ply “Istanbul  Rose” by Sirdar, but I’m sure you could use anything. Then we had to brew a kind of tea using the bits of bat, toad and gall bladder, with thyme, tapioca and cardamom and then add a good splash of cava. According to the “recipe”, we had to swill this around in our mouths and then spit it out into Soraya’s face. The taste was foul, as you can imagine, but it was kind of fun spraying it at Soraya.

 

Phase two was to bury Soraya in a heap of rotting maple leaves. We made do with the leaves from the branches that hung over the tombs because, as Heen pointed out, “maple” was probably a generic term and anyway, Soraya’s mother had probably never seen a maple tree in her life. Soraya gasped uncomfortably, but on the whole took it well, knowing that her Pamelization was inexorably underway.

 

“I can’t breathe!”, she complained.

 

“Hold your breath and think of Tommy Lee”, said Heen.

 

“That’s not nice”, I said.

 

When Soraya was well and truly buried, we had to perform a sort of Apache war dance, trampling her underfoot and chanting “Wachapacha – magachumpa” which was how Heen transliterated the bizarre hieroglyphics in the Blue Witch manual.

 

The final phase involved a unicorn but we had to waive that.

 

“Right. That’s it. Now we just have sit hear and wait for something to happen”, announced Heen. “It should take about twenty minutes.” He coolly switched his iPod on and started drumming his fingers on an adjacent tombstone. I thought I recognised “Starless” by King Crimson – quite fitting for an evening in the cemetery.

 

I could see that Soraya was writhing unpleasantly under the leaves and thought I heard her groan once or twice but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I nervously went for a little walk, wanting and not wanting to look at my friend. I discovered that the grave to my left was occupied by Gervasio Pérez Torres, born 1923, died 1971. I wondered what kind of life he’d had on earth and what he was up to these days.  On my left there was a very elaborate mini-mausoleum in memory of Asunción Fernández Miralles. A bunch of plastic gladioli had been deposited by the side of a grimacing cherub. 

 

“What if the spell goes horribly wrong?”, I turned to ask Heen.

 

He shrugged. “What’s the worst thing that could happen? Soraya will have a few aches and pains and will need a shower, that’s all. We’ve got nothing to lose and a lot to gain. And just think…” He turned off his music and I could see a wild glow in his eyes. “We could manufacture a whole colony of Pamela Andersons.”

 

“But you’ve never liked Pamela Anderson!”, I protested. “What is the matter with you? Maybe it’s you that’s been transformed – into Borat!”

 

Heen grinned. “Aw, come on, you know it’d be fun to turn Soraya into Pamela Anderson. Let’s just wait and see what happens with this Blue Witch Project.”

 

The heap of leaves was churning, and there was a strange squeaking noise coming from underneath.

 

“Something’s happened all right”, I muttered.

 

“Shall we have a look?”, said Heen, clearing away the leaves.

 

The first thing we noticed was that Soraya had shrunk. The shape of her body was very different. We picked off the last of the leaves. Something blue emerged.

 

“Oh my God”, I gasped.

 

“Hmmm… this doesn’t remind me of Baywatch”, observed Heen.

 

“What are these… thorny things??”

 

“They look like spines.”

 

” Oh my God”, I repeated, “What have we done?”

 

“I think the experiment has gone a bit wrong”, admitted Heen. “Instead of Pamela Anderson, I think we’ve turned her into …SONIC THE HEDGEHOG!”

 

“AAAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!”

 sonic-2

(to be continued….)

 

Soraya vs. The Universe, Episode One

Hola a tod@s

 

En primer lugar, déjenme agradecer de todo corazón a mis amigos Heen y Sheen Martínez, que me han permitido adentrar en su maravilloso blog y, de paso, en el corazón de todos ustedes que me están leyendo.

 

A modo de presentarme, me gustaría citar una de mis canciones preferidas. Se llama “Almuerzo o cena” y es de Pimpinela.

 

El día termina, me voy del trabajo, regreso a casa,
Camino despacio mirando el anuncio de un cine cualquiera,
Mirando las cosas de alguna vidriera,
Y abro la puerta, recojo el diario,
Me quito la ropa, enciendo la radio,
Preparo la mesa, me lavo las manos,
Y mientras espero, me voy tras el humo de un cigarrillo,
Que quiere escaparse, lo mismo que yo. . .
Almuerzo o cena, que más da,
Si el plato es el mismo, la soledad,
Almuerzo o cena, es igual,
Cuando en la mesa hay un solo lugar. .

 

Creo que esta bonita canción refleja no sólo mi estado de ánimo, sino la clase de persona que soy yo: una chica trabajadora, soñadora, independiente pero, al fin y al cabo, sola.

 

Soy española, de Zaragoza, pero de raíces muy diversas. Mi bisabuelo, por parte de mi madre, era sirio y mi abuela paterna es colombiana. Creo haber heredado una mezcolanza enriquecedora de rasgos vitales que me ayudan a afrontar el castigo de vivir desenamorada sin que ningún hombre de bien se me acerque y me diga, “Toma, cariño: las llaves de tu nuevo Porsche”.

 

Pienso aprovechar esta oportunidad que mi amiga Sheen me ha brindado para lucir lo mejor de mí. Lo que llevo dentro, ustedes lo verán aquí. Les espero.

 

Un beso,

Soraya.

 

 

 

 

 

Heen says: We have a saying in Spanish: “Lo prometido es deuda”. I promised I’d translate what Soraya wrote. God forgive me…

 

Hello everybody (there’s a horrible “@” sign here, used by misguided Socialists and women with beards.)

 

I would like to thank Heen and Sheen, bla bla bla, (I hardly dare translate the bit about “getting into your hearts”)

 

To introduce myself, I want to share these really profound reflections on the human condition, as expressed in the nihilistic lyrics of the song “Lunch or Dinner” by Pimpinela. (If you can stomach it, link here:

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=LbtbvuaK35U

I couldn’t find a Youtube for Lunch or Dinner but this one is equally tragic and dreadful.) 

 

When I finish work I go home

I have had a sad boring day because I am a sad boring person

I do sad boring things

And it doesn’t matter if it’s lunch or dinner

It’s all the same to me

Because I am a really sad boring person

And, guess what, nobody loves me

Because I am a sad boring person.

 

(Well, OK, that’s a free translation but you get the idea)

 

I think this song shows the real me. I am hard working (sic.), dreamy and independent. But nobody loves me because I am a sad boring person, bla bla bla.

 

(Soraya goes on to explain her family roots, how she has a Syrian uncle or something and a Colombian housemaid. No, wait, it’s a grandmother. Oh, and she wants a Porsche. She is waiting for some guy to drop out of the blue and whisk her off her feet. Aren’t we all?)

 

And she ends up by saying: I am going to take advantage of Sheen’s kindness revealing what I have inside. 

 

A kiss,

Soraya

 

(By the way, thank you to all those of you took part in the contest by not writing to any Scandinavian or Balkan newspapers mentioning the word “spinach”.)