The Way Things Are

The nights were awful and too dark, to see you. The days were terrible and too hot, to touch you. Your mouth was too quiet, to kiss you. Your hair was too fragile, to caress. But I was really in love with you. All I miss right now is the scent of your love. Once you wanted to give it to me, and I rejected it.

There were some really good things. The intense smell of your lips. The huge landscape of your neckline. The beauty of your hair dangling between my hands. The mystery inside your feisty honey eyes when I looked at you. Despite I was really in love with you, I couldn't stop thinking that you were younger than me. 

I hope to resign myself soon. I can't stop listening Fiona Apple. 

A Single Word

It´s not a matter of time, but quality  The kind of book that you would buy, just because it has an unusual title  The kind of friend that always be there for you whenever you need not to be disturbed -like a young couple of pigeons, at their very first romantic night after the weddings' vows- The kind of song that you have figured it out in dreams -more specifically, in nightmares- The kind of musician that's able to smash you up a guitar in the head -no matter how difficult is it to find out that guitar- The kind of guys that arrive early at the arena to buy tickets and watch the show from a short distance from the stage -in a musical event of heavy metal- The kind of food that you would swallow just in case that you haven't eaten for a while  The kind of audience that it's no longer interested in whatever you are saying   It's not a matter of time, but quality  (and I still feel guilty somehow) The kind of woman that calls you up in the phone just when she feels devastated The kind of life that is coloured by a pale sky, and supported by stressing earth The kind of feeling that you hate to feel

Un ' Estate Italiana

Gus was my friend. He was older than me. 
I was on the last year of elementary school and he was in junior high. 
Everyday, after school, we used to hang out.
Basically we just rode our bikes here and there. 

Sometimes we even played soccer. 
There was some sort of soccer fever in our neighborhood. 

One day, we rode our bikes as usual, but Gus asked me to follow him to another neighborhood. 

It was July. 

A few hours earlier, Italy and Argentina had played at Stadio San Paolo, in Naples. On the previous years, Diego Armando Maradona had managed to get Naples soccer team' to win important tournaments in Europe.

He was an idol and had a lot of fans.
Some journalists believed that Italian fans would support Argentina, due to the devotion that some of them professed to Maradona. 

Nonetheless, tifosi supported their national team and booed and insulted the South Americans from the beginning of the match. 

Maradona had been the best player of the previous World Cup in Mexico 1986, but he was injured and his national team was a disaster and depended on his geniality. 

On the round of 16, in Turin, against the powerful Brazilian team -one of the favorites to win Italia 1990 World Cup- Diego appeared out of nowhere and dribbled almost the entire rivals midfielders' and then gave a pass to Paul Caniggia, leaving him alone in front of Claudio Taffarel. 

Caniggia took advantage of his position and scored the only goal of the match.  

On the round of 8, in Florence, Diego had failed a penalty kick against Yugoslavia, but Argentina -with an astonishing performance of Goicoechea- had made up to the semifinals.

In the beginning of the championship, Gus supported Brazilians, but he was so impressed by the geniality of Diego, that he supported Argentina on that semifinal match in Naples. 

We couldn't believe that Argentina had defeated Italy. 

Though Toto Schillaci scored first, PaulCaniggia tied the game and scored the first goal that Walter Zenga received in the entire tournament.  

We arrived to a fancy neighborhood. 
We stopped in front of an old house. 
He knocked the door and a bearded guy opened it for us. 

The living room was a disaster. 
It was full of drunk people and it smelled so bad. 

There were 10 guys or so, around a table.
They were older than us and the air was so filthy.  
They were dumbfounded.

Then she appeared. 

Her name was Toby. 

She was a gorgeous woman. 

Though she was clearly stoned, she could barely walk and her eyes couldn't stay quiet, she told us the price of the stash. 

Even though it seemed a very expensive deal, Gus agreed and Toby had no problems to fix and to sold us a joint.

We left the house and rode our bikes to his house. 
His dad had died when he was a child and his mom worked at a furniture store all day long. 

He turned on the TV and lighted the join. 

He smoked desperately. Later he coughed.

As the penetrating aroma of the burned grass flooded the living room, a sports' TV program was about to commence. 

The opening song was this song. 

Whenever I smell the penetrating aroma of the burned grass, for a second I think of Gus and Diego Maradona. 

tribunero.com

[Un ' Estate Italiana-Gianna Nannini & Edoardo Bennato]

We Love In Vain, Narcissistic And So Shallow

I hate some egocentric people. Some of them behave as if they were closer to be a God than to be a human. The worst part is that they think you should please them all the time.  

I met once a guy of this kind, in a literature workshop. We were involved in an underground magazine, and we all wanted to publish our writings on it. We were talking about deadlines to send our work to the editor of the magazine, so he could manage the writings in order to publish, monthly, as much as possible of our work. We were almost 20 young writers. Some of us wrote tales, poems or literature essays. We were as enthusiastic as a young writer can be. Another part of the writers, were horribly narcissistic, like this teenager. None of us would receive any penny for the writings, it was all about fun, but he immediately asked for money, because he considered that his poems were at the level of Rimbauds'. 

He also complained about the deadlines, because he considered himself an authentic artist, and so he was not able to work under pressure. He said that his inspiration was so fragile and so fickle. I just found him boring, arrogant and stupid. He couldn't even distinguish Ezra Pound from Edgar Allan Poe.

I just hate this kind of guys. Sadly, many musicians I know behave like that, too. I have this terrible idea of playing in a garage punk band. I have looked for drummers and bass players, because I play guitar and I just like power trios, even though I want to have a band like Sonic Youth. 

At the beginning, when I find out some guys to play with, they tend to be enthusiastic. Nevertheless, gradually they simply expect me to forget them, or to pay them to play with me. They skip rehearsals and never answer my messages nor my calls. They make me feel like an amnesiac old dude or a retarded booze addict. Obviously, it's not their duty to like my songs, but  I'd really appreciate if they told me that they don't want to be part of my band.

via GIPHY

Normally, I try to avoid this kind of guys, but, sooner or later, I have to tolerate them. Like this egocentric PhD student I'm going to write about. It was my first time in the biggest annual meeting for Neurosciences, and I had to share a room with him. As soon as we arrived to Chicago, we looked for the Hilton that was assigned to us. We walked  late at night thru the cold alleys and streets around Michigan Avenue. Suddenly, several homeless stopped me and asked me for money. Even though he had been before in situations like that, and so he knew how to deal with homeless, he didn't warn me about them. I was so scared. Thought homeless were about to assault me, or to shot me, or to slash me, for nothing. 

When I looked for him, he just had disappeared. I had to walk faster, running away from the homeless, and finally, scared to hell and exhausted, I found him at the Hilton. He was in the lobby, in complete iddleness, playing with his smartphone. With some sort of a sarcastic tune, he said: "Homeless are so annoying!"

In the room, he choose the best for him. He occupied the bathroom for hours and put his bags and things all over the room. I just could put my stuff in the small bed that he generously gave me. I had nausea, and I was starving, so I didn't want to discuss about his behavior. The worst of all, was that even though he said that he had quit smoking, he started to ask me for cigarettes. When the cigarettes went out, he said to me: "We have to make an effort to not smoke a lot and to save some money to buy another pack of cigarettes". What a jerk off!

At the annual meeting, he just wanted to seduce women. Of course, he failed all the time. He was not interested in science at all, he just wanted to look like a neuroscientist. 

Now, he has a better job than he deserves, and a better health than me. I quit smoking 18 months ago, and he just keeps stealing cigarettes from anyone. Hope he is not playing in a garage punk band nor that he is finished a novel before I do.