Today, in the past.

I'd settle for a cup of coffee but you know what i really need.

Of memories and change

Pull out the fear of silence / Put out the need for guidance / Put out your own devices
And don't be afraid of the cold / Afraid of the cold / Afraid of the time / You've got no where to go but here.

---Silversun Pickups "Growing old is getting old"

It's always though coming back home. The cliché says that you can never go home again, and I always thought it was

because it was oneself who changed (and maybe matured) enough to feel a little out of place.

But no, I think I was wrong. I think I'm still the same person as I was when I left in 2008 (same weight, smaller size, thanks, Sheffield steep hills!) but Mexico is in a bit of a state. Not only due to some socio-economical turmoil I can't stomach to type, but also because of my acquaintances.

People getting married left and right, divorces, moving out of the country, people getting pregnant, so many things that I know eventually happen to most of us, but it's hard to marry the idea of your best friends going through that. You'd expect something as big as (let's say a child) would be something significant, that things would change and some sort of ceremony or summink would happen.

But no, it's mostly a whimper. And that's what is getting to me: how underwhelming are these “big events” and how I still not look forward to any of it. I should because of my age, which is when people start going “legit”, but still I feel that there's something missing that is not letting me and go fulfil those adult responsibilities.

I got called “niñote” the other day. That just means “big kid” but I think the proper term in English is “arrested development” (great show, btw). I sometimes DO feel out of place in Sheffield, hanging with people quite younger than me. But I feel out of place in Mexico, with people my age.

So... what should I do? Can't think of anything, so I'll just sit by, review some stuff and have a few sips of coffee while Silversun Pickups and their brilliant ditty, 'The Royal We', soothe my mental anguish.

Decatur (or the power of the windows to the soul)

I've got three friends that currently are very important to me and although i don't have "that feeling" for them, I still think they've been pretty important for me this year.

One has very dreamy eyes. The other one has very sparkly eyes, vivacious, ferocious. The third one has the same eyes as Jennifer Aniston. Talking with any of them at any given time it's a joy, but when I get to speak to all of them on the same period of time, that's one of the few occasions where I can feel truly happy.

I usually pride myself on not being superficial/banal but there's something about eyes, about the look someone gives you that can say so much without actually having to exchange a few sentences. After hugs, I feel eyes are the second most pure thing in the world. Hugs and looks are such giveaways.

All three of these persons have changed my life in the last 3 years, sometimes in a direct way, sometimes in a very direct, clear cut way. Funny how sometimes it's not how a person talks or what they do, but just their presence (or absence) and the side effects of it.

The other day I almost choked when I thanked two of these 3 persons for what they did for me (they indirectly made me face a fear and get over a creative hurdle). I felt pretty good after that and maybe it's the holiday cheer getting to me, but that was a very emotional day.

I will be meeting with person #3 this next tuesday, for coffee, pancakes and general gossip (the expression in spanish is "echar el chal"). Of all three, it's the person I have least in common, but I still can get along with said person and if I get any Christmas gifts, I wish they are in the form of a continued friendship with three pair of magnificent eyes.

PS: Funny posts will resume soon :)

Of sharks and writing.

So after a massively weird November (derailed postgraduate degree is putting it mildly), comes December and it's that time to look back on the year.

Eeek! Better not! I left a trail of damaged good, stupid kneejerk reactions and a few things I think I didn't meant to say and write.

But hey, you live, you learn, you love, you learn and...whoa, am I citing Alanis Morissette?

Jebus almighty... anyways, December is always that introspective month that feels like those sleepless nights when The Worries (TM) come around an' play Fear poker in your head. All those things you've done and that uncertainty that you might've messed up more than you've helped.

Still, what's done is done. Flea from the Chili Peppers said once that "it's better to regret something you did that something you didn't" and although I regret that writing binge, I would've regretted more the fact that it's been 8 years since I've been able to finish writing a book/novel/short story.

I still got two to finish and here's hoping that I can finish one that's been on the backburner for the past three years.

The criticism that I got for my first book (self published and all) did get to me. Of that I'm sure. And it was Nanowrimo what made me see that. I was afraid of writing for fear of just crash and burning again, but thanks to Nanowrimo and the very friendly chaps from the Writing Society (loveable Amris, cool cat Matty), I managed to finish a story that I had in my head for the past five years.

Funny enough, yesterday I dreamt of sharks on the streets.

I gotta tell you something first: I've dreamt about sharks for ages. Usually they were jumping out from the sea, looking threatening as hell (thanks, Spielberg), sometimes able to walk on sand, sometimes the sea overflew and they came around to chomp humanity.

Heck, one of the best dreams/nightmares I've had was one where I was walking in the ledge of clear water cove and I could see the bottom of the water, with magnificent reefs and fishes and all sorts of wonderful animals and lo and behold, several big sharks. I remember thinking on that dream "I'm so close to death, but still, everything is amazing".

So, yes, I dreamt about sharks again yesterday. I dreamt that there was a flood in Sheffield and the water brought sharks. Very nasty Mako sharks. I woke up scared and refused to go back to sleep unless Noah and the Whale soothed me back to sleep.

I checked today about dreaming of sharks. It's a sign of pent-up anger, frustration or hidden feelings. Maybe things are starting to surface and writing is what helped my subconscious shovelled it out of the depths?

I'll sleep on that...

Armies of the night - Intro

the wardrobe beckons mE

it's never a problem, as denim is my uniforM

every friday is the samE

i want to quit my job. have sum fun 4 a changE

Manotas, Duckman and Mocos are waitinG

every friday is the samE

with the beers and the prog rocK

..and the pork rindS

sometimes we go for some tacoS

sometimes we play a few videogameS

everyone moved oN

but we are on a cycle, stagnatinG

the years accumulate, the body failS

and my denim jacket is my tattoO

they are my friends, it's not their faulT

that i'm just a shallow maN

we will march every fridaY

we will be here every nighT

the cycle never finisheS

even after deatH

we all stay in a state of decaY

every day is the same, bang your head, feel no pain.

Fear and loathing in Room 7: The Ex.

It was just another Friday. The trilby was in place, the coffee was exacerbating my arrhythmia and the vodka bottle seems to evaporate per ACT OF THE GODS.

Everything's good in Hill City. The sun shines through my window, in another one of those FREAK events of God, who decides in HIS glory that 8 pm is a great time to have daylight. But who am I, OH LORD, to question your daylight savings time?

Ah, the demerara sugar + fairtrade bullshit coffee + twinnings instant cocoa mix is doing the trick. No more Writer's Block. No more fear. I am part of a writing surge. No longer does my body control my fingers nor do they obey The Words in my brain. No. It is them, those Tenacious Ten, who have a creative orgy over the keyboard and it's up to my brain to think of words, to string them along in strange ways, hoping to hit gold.

But no, it's only blanks that i shoot. The holes in the wall show the endless dart games that end up in my disgrace. The peanut crumbles and grapefruit skins in the floor are a reminder of my growing hernia. My lifestyle determines my deathstyle. Selah.

Will I ever finish this? Who cares? Not me, as I re-read this drivel and only find errors. Mistakes appear like relatives at a funeral. Nonsense prevails. Breaking the fourth wall and stream of consciousness are so horrible, the overused excesses of bad writers. Even worse when they are self-aware.

Mayhaps I need a new career?

The phone rings. I promised to change the current ringtone to something maybe a little more modern. Fads come and go.

It was Ronnie, my exgirlfriend. It always feels weird talking to an ex, as there are Words that you can't say anymore, phrases you can't kick around and memories that are best left in a shallow grave in the forest.

Still, The Conversation is enjoyable. Quirky, but enjoyable. Common stuff (family, Fear of The Future, coffee recipes) is discussed thoroughly and after ten minutes, she says goodbye and I continue typing away.

A friday like this can go on for so long. And yet, you know that all good things come to an end.

It started like a small buzz. A really distant sound. I thought nothing of it, but then it increased and increased until IT BECAME A THUNDER!!!

Ye Gods, it's the FUCKING RUSSIANS! You maniacs, you did it, you FINALLY DID IT!!!

There it was, flying towards me: a black hornet.

No warning, no previous dialogue mediated by Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton. It was ME against Nature. And Nature is a Bitch from Hell.

I dived, duck and rolled. No cover was available, but this Infamous Insect had invaded my private space. My room was mine NO MORE. It was HIS and mine.

Where, oh, where is the telethon to save me? Where is the charity record for my plight?

Then the phone rang again. The black hornet saw it. It acknowledge it. A DAMN INSECT RECOGNISES MOBILE PHONES! WE ARE DOOMED!!

The damn thing crawled toward the mobile, taunting me. I threw a piece of peanut, which clicked the left mouse button (I'm an excellent marksman). THE THUNDEROUS MUSIC startled the Hunching Hymenoptera and I made a run for it. Fuck it, no one lives forever.

I snagged the mobile from the desk and then a panda roll but me away from harm's way. Me: 1. Forces of Nature: Zero.

It was Ronnie again. I don't know if it was The Sound of a Female voice or just being out-awesome'd by me, but the Hornet o'Horrors (TM) did not took kindly and went hellbent on me. I threw myself to a side, with the hornet ripping a bit of my shirt off.

"What's that noise? What's going on?" asked Ronnie in horror while listening to me struggle. I did another panda roll, hurting my collar bone, but I managed to leave the room and lock the door.

I explained to Ronnie that I was under attack. The Reckoning had started and God decided to mess with us with Hornets.

She says that there are days when she thanks we are no longer together. Shrug.

"Are you a man or not? Go merc the insect!" she says but I stall. I'm a lover, not a fighter. We talk for a few minutes when my sweet, AMAZING music becomes a horrible, soul-destroying dirge that was a violation of my eardrums.

"That's it, you Terrible Tiphiid" I said while rolling a few bits of the Guardian's sport section. "You will get out of there".

The volume increased. This WAS A WAR and there WILL BE CASUALTIES. Preferably on Nature's side.

I kick the door in, throwing newspaper balls in the direction of the wasp. The insect deftly avoided the attack and flew to a higher position. Ye gods! From the ceiling that insect could be manager. Director. GOD.

It flew towards me, with MURDER in its multiple eyes. Oh, Lord, what is I gonna do? Will the last time my ex-girlfriend listens to me will be when I'm turned into grated cheese by a flying murder machine? IS THIS IT?

Then, my brain, that blocked up matter that hasn't produced anything for weeks, devised a plan. Quickly I crouched, waiting for the sonufabitch to be in range and then THAT BASTION OF KNOWLEDGE, the Torygraph, ehrm, Telegraph, was a Saving Shield.

Yes, a friday edition of The Telegraph saved my life. Stuck in the middle of Alan Duncan's horrible mug was the wasp, stinger embedded in His Living-on-Rationness.

I flicked the newspaper off the window. May Jeremy Clarkson's wig have pity on the horrible insect. I continued to talk to my ex and everything seemed to be smooth sailing.

Until she popped the question, that horrible MOMENT I dreaded all my life: "Say, why do you have Coldplay in your laptop?"

My reputation...ruined!!!

The Pill Generation (6)

Funny enough, it is as they said.

I met Katia when I was seventeen. It was a bit random, but then again, my life is like that. I was just hanging out with my cousin Ciro and our junkie friend/dealer extraordinaire, Monch. We had this stupid class about literary analysis and we were flunking it.

Still, it was top quality gear, man. Monch had this primo stuff and a hitter, so it was easy to conceal.

So there we were, laughing our asses off in a classroom, when I notice this yellow notebook in the seat bellow Ciro. I bent down to get it.

"Man, and I thought Joni Mitchell looked like shit" joked Monch.

You see, I have this problem with my knees, so I really can't crouch, I have to bend. And I had a predilection for baggy clothes.

It was 1994, man, cool Britannia and grunge were the fads du jour.

I flipped through the pages while Ciro and Monch took a big sized hit. There were little notes, small poems, drawings and song lyrics. I remember feeling an instant collection. Whoever owned this notebook had it in for Soundgarden, Counting Crows, Smashing Pumpkins and Collective Soul.

If I might stand in my soapbox for a bit, I'm gonna say that Collective Soul, Candlebox, Therapy? and Gin Blossoms are the most underrated bands from the 90s. Thanks, I'll be in 1994 all my life.

Anyways, I remember that I read the whole thing for hours. I felt bad, I guess, I was snooping around, but I couldn't stop reading. She was in love with some dude called Julio. Fair enough, she hasn't met me.

Powertripping. It so fuckin' rules.

Anyhow, Monch had the munchies (that's where he got the nickname), so we went to Don Chucho's Hot Dog cart in the back of the parking lot. He had the best (and unhealthiest) hot dogs ever. Sure, he supported the wrong squadron, but he always gave us a discount. It probably had to do with the fact that Monch always gave him a Henry of yeyo at the end of the month.

For the record, Ciro and I stopped hanging with Monch in 95. It got really bad.

Anyways, Ciro and I drove back to mine. He started living with my family in 92 because of a horrible situation in his house. My mum was very supportive and always thought of him as part of the family and my dad loved to discuss with him about astronomy. Me? I got the brother I've never had, and Ciro got the family life he never knew, so everything was alright.

"So, who's the girl who owns the notebook?"

"How d'you know it's a chick, C?"

"I can read you, mon brave. Spill the beans".

"Someone called Katia Miller. Never heard of her".

"I think she knows Cuchillo".

"Who?"

"Danny. The blonde dude with the Stanger".

"Does he know anyone called 'Julio'".

"Man, you might as well ask for 'Pedro' or 'Juan Pablo'. We know about 14 Julios".

"Well, this guy's special".

"You are funny when you are jealous, mon brave".

We fired up the SNES and beat the shit out of each other in SF2 until it was lights out. Back in my room, the moon crept in the floor. I love nights with full moon, even if it irks me that I don't know the name of the star that is sort of close to the moon. It's very bright and I wish I was as good with astronomy as Ciro.

I sigh. The way my room is built, the moon shines like a spotlight. I would sometimes just look outside while listening to The Cure ('Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me', of course) and just aimlessly wander in my head.

I thought about Katia. Even if I don't know her, the notebook told me enough. She has a copy of her classes there. I'll pop by and hand it over. If we click, it'll be nice. If not, at least I could put a face to the writings.