THE SIXTIES

My adolescence came like the hurricanes in the Caribbean, a little bit out of context since we were in the south of everything.

My romance with life collapsed, and that little blonde who played in the sidewalks of the neighborhood in Flores transformed into the classic rebel of the times. Crisis with traditional education, crisis with the values that I had received and with the prefixed destiny of an upper-class bourgeoise girl. Change of skin, change of look, like every adolescent, change of ways and directions.

At 16, I published by first book of poems, "Time to Love", a collection of nihilist poems that I still like.

I took James Dean off my bedroom walls and Beckett, Che, Simone de Beauvoir, Borges and Cortázar came in.  I felt that my destiny was to become a writer, I used to look at myself in the adolescent mirror with an angry gesture and John Lennon full blast in my Winco disturbing my family's sleep.

I wanted to be different, conventional women were a bore and foreseeable destinies, a punishment from the divine.  During that time, I used to visit cemeteries to take a dark stroll over the nonsense of Humanity.  I studied literature at the university, and I would spend the afternoons with my idols at the Di Tella Institute. I wanted to change the world, write in the bars of Corrientes street, go to the Lorraine movie theatre. Consumed and underlined books: the typical childish dogmatism of an adolescent, and then, the attraction for the basements where I placed my definite passion: the theater. The bigger the basement, the more intense seemed the world to me.  Or, better yet, that kind of underworld made me want to have dark circles under my eyes, or become addicted to some hard drug: but I could not do it. My addiction was and still is writing, drawing, and reading. I used to hate this health that I grateful for today.