Si no estás sincronizada con el flow —con una tanda de personas saliendo del metro o con la luz verde para transeúntes en un cruce como Madero con Eje Central— puedes marearte. Si vas demasiado consciente, incluso puedes paralizarte y solo estorbar; necesitas cierto grado de inconsciencia para entrar en el flow e ir con todos.

También me pasa en carretera: me asombra profundamente esa suerte de sincronía que sostenemos al compartir un mismo camino, montados en máquinas hechas de materiales que pueden deshacernos con facilidad, a velocidades absurdas, como si nuestros cuerpos no fueran lo suficientemente frágiles. Basta una sola falla en esa sincronía, con que uno pierda el flow, para que entonces sí pueda volverse mortal.

Hay que administrarse cierta dosis de distracción, una inconsciencia funcional que permita avanzar sin preguntar demasiado. Una fe ciega en que el otro permanecerá dentro de su línea, en que nadie cometerá el pequeño error que convierta el trayecto en catástrofe. Resulta extraño ese acuerdo silencioso. Puede que la vida se sostenga así: sobre una sincronía milagrosa en la que basta que uno pierda el compás para recordarnos lo cerca que siempre estuvo el desastre.

Photography by Paulina Rodriguez Lopez.

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Sincronía se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

No es la única vez que sucede. Con el paso de los años, las historias cambian. Lo peor es que todas las versiones se dicen con tal confianza y seguridad que ya no sabes cuál es la real. Es claro que, entre más mayor se es, la memoria empieza a hacer de las suyas, y no la culpo: mientras más tiempo pasa, más grande es el catálogo de sucesos. Supongo que ahí se cuatrapean los millones de recuerdos posibles, sumado al lenguaje y al filtro inconsciente que existe al pasar de lo pensado a lo dicho. El resultado es que cada vez que abres la boca, la historia cambia un poco. Basta con elegir un elemento del catálogo (el dije morado) y, a partir de ahí, quién sabe qué parámetro entra en juego para construir una nueva versión.

Así pasa también con los traumas. En mi memoria se quedaron frases fuertes de personas que amo y que, precisamente por eso, se quedaron en mí. Ahora que son mayores, he comprobado que genuinamente no recuerdan haberlas dicho. La memoria es una hija de puta: guarda como trauma lo que quiere, pero muy convenientemente, con la vejez, lo olvida.

SPOILER ALERT: no hay que traumarse demasiado con lo que dicen las personas que consideras importantes, porque cuando llegan a cierta edad, ni siquiera se acuerdan de haberlo dicho. El trauma, al final, es totalmente tuyo.

Entonces, ¿cuál versión es la real, mamá? Le pregunté, y sabiamente me dijo: «Ay, hija, ya ni yo lo sé. Con trabajos me acuerdo de lo que hago últimamente; quédate con la que más te guste».

Photography by Andrea Sánchez S.

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Spoiler Alert se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Just this morning, during my morning walk, I was thinking that everything would be easier if we didn't have bodies. Then, as always, I started to daydream: first I imagined us as bubbles; then, why not, all in the same mold, with the same body, the same physique? After all, what matters is the content of that body. I vividly remember reading Kundera talking about not knowing yourself physically; it blew my mind.

"Imagine you lived in a world where there are no mirrors. You would dream about your face and imagine it as an external reflection of what's inside you. And then, when you were forty years old, someone would put a mirror in front of you for the first time in your life. Imagine the shock! You would see a completely strange face. And you would know clearly what you are unable to understand: your face is not you."

And here I am, recording myself with my phone to see my whole body, replacing my now-nonexistent mirror. What a drag being human and all the vanity that comes with it.

Photography by Andrea Sánchez S.

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Vanidad se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Then I observe myself with that observer and ask: who might be inside me? Sometimes I think there is a being (without a distinct sex, just a being): a deceased philosopher, writer, poet, with a certain degree of madness, reincarnated in me… but it’s not me. There are days when it is very inspired, and others when it simply isn’t there.

There is something that connects. In 2020, I discovered El grafógrafo by Salvador Elizondo, and it resonated deeply with me. When I recall it, I find myself within it.

This text disconnects when I realize that something connects. And I find myself finding myself in authors who are not me.

Photography by Regina Arellano Muñoz

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada El visógrafo se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Esa actitud ya está dentro de mi clasificación de transeúntes: el que considera que la responsabilidad de no chocar es de quien todavía habita el mundo físico, porque él no puede hacerse cargo; está ocupado en otra dimensión.

Perderse en la pantalla mientras caminas comienza a ser algo normal. Incluso hay quienes avanzan con la boca abierta. Comienzo a percibirnos como otra especie: estamos dejando de ser humanos, pero tampoco tenemos el privilegio de ser animales. Ellos no se pierden en pantallas.

Photography by Alejandro Muñoz Aguadero

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Otra especie se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

That bag has gone everywhere with me. To El Tepe in Querétaro, where it was filled with vegetables or seeds from the mill. To the Casa Ley in Puerto Vallarta, full of ice, sunscreen, and groceries.

Now it comes with me to Aurrerá, to the naturist supermarket on Balderas, to the 3B on Morelos. It can’t take much more. Its handles are about to tear, and it’s becoming more transparent every day. Even so, I cling to carrying it with me, to not throwing it away. I’ve bought other similar ones, but none of them sits right with me the way this one does.

Today I washed it. And while it was drying, I thought that maybe I don’t want to get rid of the bag, but of the idea that the things that accompany us for so long can simply be replaced, just like that.

Photography by Larren Lee // Dev/Scan at Foto Hércules

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Mi bolsa verde se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Morning walk. An ambulance siren goes off and, at the same time, my headphones on shuffle decide to play ¡Pum-Pum! ¡Bang-Bang! by Los Esquizitos. I can’t tell anymore whether the sound is coming from the street or from my headphones — maybe the city decided to enter the song. I try to cover the city with music, but the song begins just like the street: sirens, noise. The music doesn’t drown anything out; it blends in.

I walk with the feeling of listening to the same thing twice. The street imitates the song, or the song imitates the street. I take off one earbud for a second, just to make sure the city is still there.

Here comes the elderly man who every morning carries a black plastic bag with him and seems to be another inhabitant of the Alameda, one of those who even sleep there.

Overstimulated from early on; this (like most things for me) is an addiction. The city is an addiction.

Photography by Roberto Alonso Galeana Guerra 

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Shuffle se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Her walk is aggressive and incredibly imposing. The drug makes her feel something so intense that, as she moves, her whole body jerks violently from head to toe, a kind of induced convulsion. It’s clear this isn’t dancing, yet I can’t help but soundtrack the scene in my head, some raw Prodigy track or dirty techno, beats that hit hard. The Prodigy or a techno dirty, beats that hit. 

Please let the light turn green soon, I pray, lamenting that I couldn’t capture this scene, which once again reminds me of a Leos Carax film.

Photography by Larren Lee.

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Bucareli, 7:40 pm se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

I start noticing the people around me more closely. I realize that we are all “famous,” even if we don’t know it. Everyone has something they do well, a quiet talent, even those who seem to have none. Perhaps especially them.

Suddenly, every person walking beside me becomes the author of something important. I don’t know exactly what, and I’m not concerned with finding out. Some knowledge is spoiled the moment it is named.

What I do see clearly is style. That particular way of being in the world. The unique way each person occupies their body, their time, their path. A shine, a rhythm of one’s own. A flow. Not fashion, but proof of being oneself effortlessly.

(Because walking, of course, shows you being yourself effortlessly. How exhausting it would be to go through life walking without being yourself. Walking over and over relaxes the body, adapts it to spaces and surroundings, and allows it to move freely according to your needs. No matter how much you try to fake your walk, there comes a point when you are already being yourself and you haven’t even noticed.)

Photography by Diego Sebastián.

Wendy Sánchez Aldana Islas

Editorial designer who transforms observation, writing, and music into graphic form.

www.instagram.com/wnygd/

La entrada Un ritmo propio se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.