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