That Stench

I wasn’t sure of what had to be done. There she was, lying hopeless, vulnerable, like a gutted pig. Blood all over, and that stench. It was a mix of the smell of humidity, butcher shop, and that of the inside of a forgotten, old fridge. I’ve always been appealed to the most exotic aromas. The most unpopular of them all. The most underestimated. I love to smell the old, leather-covered books; the fresh paint over cement; the smell of a skunk at the distance in the road, where it mixes with the unpolluted air, and the scent of herbs, and trees, and loneliness; the smell of my bed: virginal, dusty, old. It smells like my evolution. The dead layers of my skin now inhabit its surface. The other I’s.

Who was I? I know my bed stores my many lives. But I can’t recall any complete episode of my life. I just recall specific actions, frozen situations. I recall things just as photographs. Who was I at ten? What were my goals? What smells did I like back then? What did I like back then? I remember the exact moment in which, impulsively, I grabbed that girl Karla’s ass in the middle of the class. I was 17. What a beautiful ass. I remember every single detail about it. The wrinkles in her skirt, the way it adhered to her body so I could see that perfect shape. It was a squared skirt. Red, black, and white. It looks just like this one. Only that this one is a little larger. Karla used to wear short skirts. She knew anybody would kill to have her. Karla didn’t use a pink backpack either. And Karla had breasts. And Karla didn’t have braces. And Karla was beautiful. She looked like she would smell deliciously.

I can only imagine she would smell like this room. Sweet, strange, misunderstood. She could smell differently now. But I don’t think so. She was beautiful. The most beautiful of all humans must smell like this. A smell that has the power to inspire, to fulfill, to complete. Could it also have the power to redeem? To surprise? A smell like the one I’m inhaling, tasting, and feeling in this precise moment. A smell that could be described as a mix of skunk at the distance with unpolluted air, old books, fresh paint, loneliness, humidity, butcher shop, and the smell of the inside of a forgotten, old fridge.
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VFS assignment for "Style" class.

Don't Save Yourself

I heard that Mario Benedetti died. Then I let myself honor him by posting one of his poems. Personally, it is very important and meaningful. It was given to me attached in a mail by my ex-boss at RT&A, when I said good bye. I think it is a very brilliant, versatile poem.

I don´t declare myself an avid reader of Benedetti´s work. But, I hope to get to know him much more.

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Don't Save Yourself
By Mario Benedetti

Don’t remain immobile
At the edge of the road
Don’t freeze the joy
Don’t love with reluctance
Don’t save yourself now
or ever
Don’t save yourself
Don’t fill with calm
Don’t reserve in the world
Only a secure place
Don’t let your eyelids fall
Heavily as judgments
Don’t speak without lips
Don’t sleep without sleepiness
Don’t imagine yourself without blood
Don’t judge yourself without time.

But if
in spite of everything
You can’t help it,
And you freeze the joy,
And you love with reluctance,
And you save yourself now,
And you fill with calm
And you reserve in the world
Only a calm place,
And you let fall your eyelids
Heavily as judgments,
And you speak without lips,
And you sleep without sleepiness,
And you imagine yourself without blood,
And you judge yourself without time,
And you remain immobile
At the edge of the road,
And you save yourself,
Then
Don’t stay with me.

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I hope you loved it and were pushed (like I was) to go deeper into the literature of one of the greatest latin american writers.

When The Music´s Over

Is there anything sadder than the ominous fade out of a song? That´s why Elvis is the king. He knew how to take us from a melodic climax to an acute sadness, and then to another climax, a miraculous one, with his Suspicious Minds. There is also the sudden, abrupt silence of a song. Is there a more hostile and hopeless thing? Of course we´re talking about good music, whatever it means to each person. Anyways, it feels like we lost our ticket to the dreamy world, to the oasis, to the blue bus, to the yellow submarine, to the highway 61.

There are just a few things than can really take us to a state of mind as agitated, primal, stupid, angry, vulnerable, eloquent, articulated, rusty, visceral, lucid, as complete. In drugs, there are uppers, downers and hallucinogens. In music the possibilities are infinite.

But if a song ends, just to let another equally stimulating song start, then everything´s fine. If an album takes its natural journey between the different trails, even though it does not follow the yellow brick road, but still takes us to the land of Oz, then everything´s fine. But when that album is over, that feeling of emptiness returns. And then you urgently need another fix.

Then the ipods came. And with them, music becomes a partner, sometimes an anonymous one, but partner whatsoever. And you get hooked up to its company, as never before. Those overrated, in vogue, great gadgets, give you the opportunity to have a tangible soundtrack of your life. The soundtrack of your life, your walk, your razzle, your fuck, your dinner, your writing. The soundtrack of your essence. And suddenly, before your eyes in disbelief, Vancouver´s Robson St. becomes a Nashville street when “Cocaine Blues” starts; it turns into a street from Madrid when the first, furious notes of “Yo Me Bajo En Atocha” can be heard; and it even becomes a traditional street of Monterrey´s downtown when the subtle, urgent, and intoxicating sounds of “Las Tres Tumbas” fill your ears.

When the music´s over… turn off the lights. The Armageddon is not a global fire, nor a great drought, nor a Texas-sized meteorite striking the Earth. It is silence.

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Original date of composition: Monday May 4, 2009.
10:28PM

I Don´t Regret Yesterday

I´ve heard that the night is pure magic, and that a goblin invites you to a dreamworld.

A creature beyond good and evil. Maybe it´s the spirit of the great loners. The spirit of the Allan Poes, the Van Goghs, the Sabatos, the Travis Bickles... It´s an entity I haven´t met nor seen yet. But it´s there. I can sense it. I know it is by my side when I fall asleep. I know he runs away from those beasts of cement, glass, and metal that stand out there, and comes to seek shelter by my side. Those beasts that watch every single step you take inside their territory. Those beasts that transform you. You stop contemplating, and start being contemplated. They are jealous and they are spiteful. And they are magnificent and they are terrible. Maybe the goblin feeds from them. Little by little. Just like a parasite, he goes deep inside the guts of each beast and starts eating their insides.

Yes. The goblin does not run from them. It uses them.

The goblin, a noble loner, gives me company when the dusk starts its round. It leaves me alone, wandering, rambling, and fighting throughout the day. And then, when night falls, it is all magic. And the goblin really invites me to dream.

And the next day the wanderings, the ramblings, and the fighting come back. Again, you are being observed by the beasts of cement, glass, and metal. You give them the chance to feel they rule everything. You realize, in that moment, that someone´s on your side.

And internally, you start smiling. And the green lights are all on. And the best jam for that specific moment of your day, starts playing. And the goblin, alone, works in your favor. And you´ve got the memory of last night´s dreams as undeniable evidence.

And you feel so strong that you think nothing can touch you.

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Actual date of composition: Thursdat April 30 2009
10:50PM

Arrival, Acceptance, Income

A strange landscape filled my visual field. A mixing of rivers, piles of earth, mountains with snowed tops and the Pacific extending towards Japan, Alaska, and a whole lot of other exotic places. Afterwards, the panoramic view ended to open the way to a pack of trees and pines approaching ferociously to the left in first plane. Some shy houses showed themselves too. But the velocity was constant. Stomping.

Immigration. I have no way to prove that I can sustain myself in Canada for a year. They warned me about it during the process. I knew that was one of the things the Canadian government worried about the most. Letter of Acceptance, Proof of Income. How difficult was it to remember both things? For an asshole who had already seen himself filmmaking in Canada, trying to figure out if Halle Berry would take him to bed even if she was drunk, who saw himself building something in another country… A lot.

Like something made on purpose, the line was relatively short. The thing I wanted the most at the moment was time to think what the fuck I could say if they asked me for my proof of income. There was no such a thing. Yes, it existed. But I had too much time. Enough time to reach several possible answers; getting to believe that none of them would work; imagining myself returning to Monterrey with the word SHAME written all over my face and telling my family and friends: “I’ll be leaving ‘til June… they sent me back”, and so later getting drunk; finding myself suddenly beating the shit out of the fucking korean guy with shit-stinking breath that was just behind my back; seeing myself just like that inside a VFS classroom with a bunch of three-year-younger-than-me guys, at least, beating my ass off and me screaming back at them: “We’ll see each other faces in a Mexican studying program, bunch of fucking pussies!”

Proof of income. It came back with immeasurable force. With a force coming from the big claustrophobic room with a line that now seemed eternal to me. Since I got to the line until now, I had walked just a few human spaces, at the most. I’ll be in this line of semi-open-eyed guys for at least another hour and a half. And I have nothing against them, but the fucking korean guy behind me was not the best introduction to oriental people. Proof of income. My fingers started wetting the blessed Letter of Acceptance which I did bring. Fucking shit.

Minutes. Hour and a half. Proof of income. Two hours. Two hours and a half. “Next please”. Oh fuck. Which were the posible answers?! Shit, I wish I could go back with the fucking korean guy with flatulence-stinking breath! “So, why Canada?”,asked the Asian-African-French-weird man who was like an Alfonso Zayas region one. “Well, why not… right?” Stupid. Stupid. Fuck. “Mmm, what are you studying?, replied Alfonso-Pierre-Zayas-Lee-Murphy. “Writing for Film and TV at VFS.” “What is VFS.” Shit. “Anyway, do you have your L-E-T-T-E-R—O-F—A-C-C-E-P-T-A-N-C-E-!-!” Slowly, without taking off my steady look from the unclassifiable guy in front of me, I took out the Letter of Acceptance. “There ya go…” “It’s OK, just wanted to make sure you had it…”

STOMP.
STOMP.
STOMP.

“Welcome to Canada, Mr. Méndez, hope you enjoy Vancouver.”

Outside that place of hell, a great fucking day was receiving me. A taxi driver who was angry with the whole world took me to my apartment. The more I entered the city, the more I realized that everything had been worth it. About the shopping, I better not talk. Tomorrow I’ll give this city the chance to amend. Shit. “Welcome to Canada, Mr. Méndez…” I even believe it, no shit.

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Actual date of composition: Wednesday April 22 2009
11:30PM