No Rejection (A Teaser)

Thomas threw the joint away, got up, took the dead rat besides Terry and walked away. Terry got up, his ten years of age on his back, and followed his old master.

Thomas put the rat in rectangular piece of wood near an old oak. He took his old knife from his old jeans and started skinning the animal. It was a medium-sized rat, enough for him and Terry to have a good lunch. He got the peeled skin and placed it carefully in a thin branch of the big tree. Terry, with his ever glowing eyes, looked patiently while his master did his part of the job.

Terry was not the only one who hunted. But in the mornings, he had this valuable habit of proactively rushing to the bush and bring out something to eat. Sometimes he would bring a snake, a skunk, an opossum, and if they were really lucky, even a boar. This time of the year, though, a rat or a wild rabbit were the most common dishes.

Just as the days were beautiful, the nights could not get any better. Dark nights with a clear moon and a splendid, spectacular, roof of constellations were common in the summer. Coyotes howling at the emptiness, at the inexorable wilderness, would be, when they were spiritually tuned, the intros to a 60’s song that Thomas would start singing. The song for the night: Lou Reed’s Perfect Day.

Thomas would sit there, in a rusted rocking chair, near the old cabin. There he was, caressing Terry, enjoying the day’s blessings and living life and not regretting anything, and loving and protecting each other. Night is still night anywhere you go.

Terry was gone. Was it that late? He got up, and started whistling Terry’s tune. No dog could be seen. He went inside the cabin and took a pair of old, weary binoculars. No Terry at sight. Thomas then went to the well.

He started the ascension process. He was almost done when he heard a high-pitched bark and felt a strong push from behind. The bucket went down, and he turned around. Terry was home. And he brought no animal. An extremely emaciated, blue-grayish, severed head was just at Terry’s paws. The face lacked any reminiscence of humanity. Lips all gone, yellow, rotting teeth, a dried up tongue, two holes where a nose should be, and empty eye sockets.


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True Fucking Blood

Let’s leave something clear from the beginning. I don’t watch many TV series. In fact, I don’t think I can tolerate watching series on TV. I always buy them on DVD and most of the times I start watching the series when there are already two or three seasons in that format. There are only two cases in which I bought the first season without the second one was yet on the market. And those two cases are product of the enormous respect and admiration that I have for one series in particular: Six Feet Under. Those two cases are Dexter, who is brought to life by an excellent Michael C. Hall (David in SFU); and True Blood, new series by the creator of SFU, Alan Ball. Both series are excellent in almost any aspect that deserves revision.

Dexter was nominated to the Emmy, as expected. True Blood, on the other side, was totally ignored (with some exceptions in minor nominations).

I really don’t understand why. I’m not going to compare it con the other series nominated because I simply don’t know them. But I think that any person, sober or in drugs, can recognize the great quality of material that HBO gives us week after week. HBO is already a warranty of greatly manufactures series, no inhibitions, and excellent stories. Some examples: The Sopranos, Rome, Six Feet Under, Entourage. And with True Blood they didn’t get off key at all. In fact, with no fear to make a mistake and trusting in the great capacity of Alan Ball, they have risked themselves with a proposal that will elevate the standards of their future offers.

What makes True Blood so brilliant? Everything… with no exaggerations. Technically it is impeccable, but is the story itself, its thematic, and the beings that give it life, what really makes this series something very special.

The series is based on a novel saga called The Southern Vampire Chronicles, and it’s located in the town of Bon Temps, Louisiana. The vampires have “come out of the coffin” and are trying to mix in with society. This is possible thanks to the development and comercialization of the synthetic blood called TruBlood, with which the vampires ensure their good nutrition without risk for the society.

Among the society, there are three sides: the pro-vampires, the anti-vampires, and the neutral. There are vampires that respect society, while there are others who can’t let go off the organic food. As part of the society there’s also a new “drug” that is in vogue: V, vampire’s blood.

In this context, the series follows the fates of Sookie Stackhouse, a waitress with the capacity to hear people’s thoughts. She gets to know Bill Compton, a vampire interested in mixing in with society. Sookie has a fascination towards these beings which increases in Bill when she discovers that she cannot listen to what he thinks.

The story itself sounds very well-worn. It is, no doubt. Many people actually compares True Blood with the vomitive Twilight (it was a real effort to put those two titles in the same line). The similarities are there, no question. Nevertheless, its thematic line is what makes this series something that connects with the audience. Obviously, and like in every story, there exists a subtext much greater than what is seen on the surface. True Blood is a story with vampires, lovers, villains, heroes, sex, drugs. But it is a story about prejudices, phobias, minorities, and polarities.

The vampires are a materialization of those subjects that we as a society have encrypted in a collective consciousness and before which there is an immediate reaction. That is what makes the true identification possible of the audience with the story that develops in that town. The series, chapter by chapter, feels urgent.

This story falls over the shoulders of its characters. Each and every one of them is of the best that I’ve seen on film or TV. Alan Ball is just a master storyteller. But the most important thing is that every one of the characters that appear in this series is a real person, vampire or human. A sensation of multidimensionality, deepness, and authenticity exists in every person that appears in the story. Everyone has their stories, their obsessions, their fantasies, and the most important: all of them are imperfect.

This last quality is something that identifies us with them, and makes them all matter to us. The imperfection of the man is something that attracts us, traps us, and obsesses us, because at the end of the line we see ourselves reflected. It is through those imperfect beings that our own internal struggles, as an audience, are made relevant and recognized. Also, it is through the struggle of each character for being better (because none of the characters is passive), that our personal battles make sense.

If you suffer of my same problem (not tolerating the suspense week after week, between season and season), definitely wait for the seasons 2 and 3 on DVD to be on the market. Really. I can’t emphasize enough in this point. If any “ACTII-series” like Lost or Prison Break causes you problems at the end of each chapter, True Blood leaves you with a sensation of emptiness and need few times seen. The series itself is a movie of 10 ½ hours. Just like that, with no exaggerations. Each chapter starts where the last one ended. And each chapter ends in what is known as cliffhangers (those moments of “cut to commercial” that make you dribble to see what’s next), very effective and powerful cliffhangers.

True Blood is, without doubt, a jewel of TV. It is necessary, very fun, and very compelling. Why it was not nominated to the Emmy? I don’t want to speak more than enough; I would have to know the other series to see if they are in the same level. I don’t think so.
And no, I don’t agree… it has nothing to do with the “movie-I-shall-not-name”. It’s everything that SHIT couldn’t be.

Entre Caderas, Corazones y Divagaciones

So, I won't translate this specific post because it is too personal a message to have something lost in translation. You can, if interested, tell google to translate this... hopefully it'll make sense.
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No tengo idea por qué no puedo sacar suficientes palabras. Es más, no importa si son suficientes o no, pero sí tienen que ser relevantes... no tienen que ser relevantes, tienen que ser urgentes... ¡¿tampoco?! Quizás emotivas... no, eso implica precondicionarte, y eso implica deshonestidad... tienen que ser entrañables... pero mi entraña y tu entraña son diferentes... pero se complementan... te tienen que llegar al corazón... ¡¡¡Carajo!!! Puedo escribir para cine, puedo escribir para televisión, puedo escribir divagaciones, pero nada que te llegue al corazón. ¡No es justo! Quiero regalarte una canción, o mínimo un grito con algo de sentido... no puedo... ¿Cómo llegar a un corazón ingeniero? Es muy complicado para mi corazón caótico.

Aunque... calma... creo que lo escucho... late al ritmo de unas hermosas caderas; se exalta al oír la palabra Gaby; y creo que está algo robotizado... automatizado para bombear sangre extra ante tu presencia. Te metiste en mi sistema y lo modificaste irreversiblemente... ingeniero tenías que ser.

El título que hoy te dan es simplemente una certificación redundante a tu capacidad.

Lo único que no lograrás es hacer que mi corazón hable en código binario... lo siento, preciosa... los ingenieros no son tan chingo10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010
10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101000000000000011
111111111111

...

System Error

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Gaby.exe needed

...

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¡Felicidades en tu graduación, cabrona! Estoy orgullosísimo de tí.



"Es una mujer bonita, la que anduve pretendiendo,
la seguí por ocho meses, y apenas me está queriendo.

Chaparra de mi amor,
no me hagas sufrir ya tanto"

-Ramón Ayala

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Why?

I don’t know how it started. I love porn, like any normal guy. I used to hear things about it being addictive, and that there were this “porn-addiction therapists”. I never got it. Ridiculous, childish, stupid. Another fucking invention to bring paranoia.

Why mess around with sex? It is the most perfect relationship humans can aspire to. That bond, the sudden change of atmosphere it produces. Moods, context, crisis, depression, and the now famous “stress”. All those concepts are minimized almost to the point of extinction if you have a partner. A guy or woman that wishes to share a sexual encounter with you. It is perfect. Rosanna was perfect.

I love sex. Its infinite, hedonistic, magical, and animal values. When both souls share that moment, a strange scent fills the air. And those souls are naked, really naked. They stand side by side: human, vulnerable, and fragile. But sometimes, to some people, sex becomes something infinitely sick, hedonistically nasty, magically perverted, and devolutionary animal. Rosanna embraced sex.

I never understood the almost inherent repulsion to sex and sweat and flesh. People start giving other names to original, beautiful words. “Your thing”; “your private part”. Makes me sick. Penis, vagina, anus, breasts, semen, clitoris. People are constantly trying to dismantle, to castrate all these beautiful, noble words. Suddenly everything related to the coital act becomes dirty, shameful, and overwhelmingly evil. Rosanna was overwhelmed by my appetite.

I love sex, real sex. And real sex introduced its beautiful cousin to me. Her name: amateur pornography. I don’t know when I got into this. I’ve always been attracted to voyeurism. There’s some magnetism when it comes to open windows, open doors. I have to look inside. I’m not the kind of person that will repress any instinctive emotion or action. If they exist, there is a reason. There must be a reason. I’ve followed my gut and my instincts my whole life, and I don’t regret it. Rosanna was my whole life, and I regret it.

Someone enters your life, and something changes. Something primal, deep. I feel that it is a permanent, irreversible change. You leave a door or a window opened and the intruder, voyeurist, peeks in, and enters. But it was fine with me. And Rossana seemed to be ok with me. She seemed happy. Many women spend their days complaining about a fucked up sexual life. It is ridiculous. More ridiculous is a sexual free spirit like Rosanna to betray her essence. The fucking intruder came in, fucked you, and suddenly left. Just like that.

Now I remember. I don’t know why I couldn’t bring another woman to bed, ever again. Everybody looked at me really weird. I felt an outcast, a misfit, a leper. I never had any trouble seducing women. That was, I can say, my only real natural ability. I had the power to lure, to seduce, to entice. And Rossana left, and I guess my powers couldn’t stand the fact of losing her. They vanished.

And since then, every night, I would see myself alone, defeated in bed. And I would start jerking off. And my penis would stay flaccid. I would concentrate on her image, on those nights. But there was no contact, with no flesh there is no blood, and with no blood there is no hard on.

One day there she was, in my favorite bar. She never went there! Why the fuck would she come here!? Rossana’s right hand met a male hand that was not mine. The male hand made its way delicately, up her arm to her shoulder, then to the neck, and dived all along her back to her ass. That ass I had caressed, kissed, and adored just a couple of months back.

I was there just drinking my pain away. But I never had the balls to get up and talk to her. The beer cans became all kinds of weird words and symbols. The couple, Rossana and the guy of the hand, left. I paid and followed them.

They were touching each other as they walked. The motherfucker would not keep his hands to himself. But he didn’t know her, he didn’t know where she liked to be touched. I knew.

I watched the paint peeling off the walls, the roof, my skin started peeling off my body. Waves of cockroaches started invading the house, slowly first, massively later. I got used to share everything with them. Yeah I was not alone...

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Latex

And after a devil-sized drinking reunion, just in the middle of Downtown Vancouver, I saw them again. A reunion that, according to me was not going to happen, because of my weakness and lack of sleep. It was a Friday after school. All week long I had been surviving with the help of coffee and in a constant state of zombiefication which I still don’t understand. I really didn’t have great amounts of work, there was simply something inside me that made my movements weak and clumsy, and my walking slow and confused. There were moments in which I simply stayed lost in a white, blue, green, or black limb of my laptop’s screen.

Ok, after that devil-sized drinking reunion just in the middle of Downtown Vancouver, I saw them again. And I say devil-sized because it really was. In fact, every drinking reunion in Vancouver on Friday is, irremediably, devil-sized. If the responsibilities end at 4 p.m. or earlier, at that time we are in the most-voted bar asking for the first pitcher. That night we started a bit before 4 p.m. in one of the cheapest bars of the area. There were all kinds of chats. That we’re so fucked; That we all need to sleep; That we should go to Vancouver Island next weekend; That there are some motherfucker friends with black vibes; That I am a socialist and that if I inspired my look in Che Guevara. They’re writers but oh, they sure talk.

Well, after that devil-sized drinking reunion in the middle of Downtown Vancouver I saw them again. I’ve already seen them a few weeks ago. It was Saturday or Sunday, there’s no other way. But in a Saturday or Sunday I realized that Vancouver was a city of condoms. Just like that. There were condoms everywhere. There was a pink one stuck on a fence by the Waterfront; There was a yellow one thrown on the street on the way to a pizza place that sells 2 slices and a coke for $3.50. There were many others thrown all around in Gastown, transparent, rotten, fresh. They were everywhere, like Saba in Y Tu Mamá También. But there was one that got my attention. It was in Melville St. It was a condom in an intense yellow color that looked as if it was just dumped on the sidewalk, with the ring bending towards the street, dripping semen. The semen strained by a small crack in the pavement. For me, it was like an image taken from The Wall.

Then, after that devil-sized drinking reunion in the middle of Downtown Vancouver I saw them again. There they revealed before me, in a road parallel to mine. Everybody walking around Downtown, stepping on them, kicking them, dragging them along, and suppressing them. They were there, but they didn’t move. People moved them. They didn’t let them establish their condomistic colony. Among those streets under construction, the condoms were victims of uncountable abuses.

But, when turning left on Melville, I had no choice but to stop and admire. From a crack in the pavement, close to the sidewalk, came a thin green stem that ended in a strange flower. On top of the flower was, clean, with no bothers, a condom in an intense yellow color.