Pain is the language that was spoken to me

 

Before I went to bed, I saw this video of a Marilyn Manson show in Rockville. Apparently, a guy recorded it with his cellphone camera. The sound was amazing, the guy must have been in the front rows. It looked like a cloudy afternoon, and I dunno why but, just when I saw Manson walking onto the stage, sort of wrapped in white smoke, and I heard the first lines of the bass guitar, I immediately felt that I was in Rockville, that I was a teenager, that music was the hardest drug I'd ever tried.

I woke up an hour ago, I have answered the comments that one referee made to a manuscript that I wrote and I sent to review to a popular science magazine, but I had a dream in which I was working at a university. Although it looked like my ideal job –an academic position for the rest of my life–, it seemed a silly job, it was not really what I expected to be.  Somehow I'd gotten that position in a very easy way. 

So, in my dream, I was with these guys. In the real world, I know one of them, I met him a couple of months ago, at a dinner in Monterrey, and we spoked about my employment situation as we drank a beer. This guy and the other two, at a point, walked out from the university and asked me if I wanted to go to eat at Tres Marías with them, in the car of the guy I know in the real world. It looked weird, it must have been midday on a weekday. The point is that my ideal job was a farce. 

Pull my brain stem out and unplug myself

I just walked out from a dream, it's 6: 30 am, I just cut myself in two, I cleaned up the vomit from the cats, they ate some sort of purgatory herb, 151 mg/dl of glucose, the day seems too cloudy, pretty closer to those yesterdays, when I was naive and had achieved nothing in academia, it's 6: 30 am, I'm listening to Rollins Band, Henry Rollins screams out something that sounds aggressive and painful, but I cannot stop thinking about what I dreamed.

We were together in some sort of auditorium, you were at my left, your sister was at my right, we were about to hear a lecture, maybe a false prophet of science, you were sad and cozy, with your big dark brown eyes, with those enormous Margaret Keane painting eyes, suddenly you started to touch my hand, I felt sort of excited, my mind started to fly away, then you started to touch your sister's hand, it was cozy. The audience was not aware of our existence, we were lost in the second or third row of seats.

In a moment you were touching my chest and then my abdomen and then you were caressing my crotch in a very slow and seductive way, you didn't stop looking at me, and I couldn't believe it, my mind started to fly away, I knew everything was possible between us, sooner or later, I would see you as I had always wanted to see you, since I saw you walking and wearing those tight-fitting leggings, when I was naive and had achieved nothing in academia and you lived for a period with your sister and me, it's 6: 30 am.

You kept caressing me, you did something that made feel about to explode, you kept looking at me, you told me something like: 

«What was that? It seems you really liked what I did! I liked it too...» 

My mind started to fly away, I knew everything was possible between us, sooner or later, I would see you as I had always wanted to see you, since I saw your crazy underwear when you lived for a period with your sister and me, everything was possible, I would see you sooner or later down on your knees, like that dream I had once, when the world was apocalyptic and we stared thru the window how a building collapsed in the early hours of a weekend, we were sort of drunk and we just had fucked it all, we had had a crazy night and had ruined everything for a few wild minutes of pleasure. 

estrella de miel tan beautiful

I'm drunk, I've heard the echoes of your loneliness and I've inhaled the signature of your hair, I'm drunk on you, I've seen your new nose and I'm in love with it, it really fits you, it resembles your original nose but it's better than your original nose, it really fits you, and I no longer want to think why you had cosmetic surgery. 

While we spoke about nothing and the apocalyptic sun was hiding behind the clouds of this sandy sky, two days ago, upon arriving in Monterrey, I just wanted to be so close to you, dunno why but I have a feeling we could have been friends in another time, maybe if we had known each other decades ago. So, as the van crossed the city and drove us from the airport to the Safi hotel, I just wanted to be free, to have a smoke with you, to drink a bottle of wine with you.

Now I'm drunk on your nose, on your loneliness, on your hair, on your moves, on your eyes. 

I'm feverish, lying in the bed of this room, 890 km away from home, closing my eyes, in the dark, thinking of you, trying to dream of you, in my dream we're here, in this bed, earlier you looked at me, you were on your knees, and I couldn't believe it, it was finally happening.  

Cuts You Up

It must have been April, 2007. I was listening this song of Peter Murphy. His voice and his music, thru my headphones, screamed strange memories of things that I didn’t live. Suddenly, you appeared and we started to talk about nothing. We were in the middle of an almost empty Ciudad Universitaria, between Torre de Humanidades and Las Islas, it must have been Semana Santa. You were no longer my pupil. The course of Sensation & Perception was over. It had been my first experience at UNAM as Subject Teacher, with a crappy temporary contract with a very low salary and a few hours of classes. I’d enjoyed it, but I was convinced that it could have been a better course. 

Dunno how but at the end of the course you had started to send me emails. I suppose you wanted to know how was it like to be a young academic. Also, you were sort of naive, maybe you saw me as a role model, or something like that. Then you asked me if I wanted to go to the movies, there we're not really nice movies to watch, except a movie of the tragic death of Princess Diana and another low-budget horror movie in which the main character was a guy in his twenties. We moved to the movie theatre, we continued talking about nothing, I was heartbroken, I'd been in love with a girl, the classic story: she’d rejected me, her ex had recently appeared, she didn't want to know nothing about me, I was obsessed with her, they were so happy together. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. And I told you so, and you didn't care and we sort of kissed later, in the middle of that horror movie, and we ate popcorns, and it was weird, I felt like I was kissing someone of my own family. Didn't like it. We never met again. This happened almost twenty years ago, but it seems it was yesterday. I wonder what kind of guy you think I am. I hope you’re doing well.

Be quiet and drive (far away)

 

I just found out on a Facebook page that «Deftones' iconic music video, directed by Frank W. Ockenfels III premiered on this day in 1998...», and I felt a little dizzy and I tried to ignore the fact that I have to start from zero again, yesterday I rejected a bad job opportunity, yesterday I officially knew about the third colleague who obtained her permanent academic position –none of them have the distinction of National Researcher Level II I have from January– and then I watched the video on YouTube for the first time, and now I wonder what was my life like back then, I must have been a sophomore in Psychology, maybe I didn't hate my life at all, I must have been in love of Lilly and dating Carmela, I must have thought I was an amazing beatnik-type writer, I must have written a thousand poems a week, I must have ignored school, I must have been reading Patrick Suskind and similar writers. Life must have been something hot and strange.

Was my life better than now...? I don't think so.

Antes de tres lunas volveré a por ti

Last night I was feeling a little dizzy and nauseous, before going to bed I'd eaten a bag of very greasy potato chips. I was watching a movie. I'd seen it before, but just finished reading the book in which it's based on this week. While Tom Waits as Renfield was eating a couple of bugs and I sort of pictured myself acting in the same character as him if someone had asked me to, suddenly I thought of you. 

Perhaps I'd checked my Instagram open account earlier and your profile appeared as “suggested for you”.

At a first glance, I did not recognize you. Dunno remember when was the last time I saw you, I just know it must have been on September, at the end of an Interdisciplinary Project class. There you told me that you were going to Poland, or something like that, on an academic mobility stay. You told me that you couldn't take the last part of the course and you asked me if it was OK for me. So much time has passed since then. I've been out of college for almost half a year, I started writing a MS, the MS was published a week ago in Pharmaceuticals, I've been surviving, I got sick...

In my dream I was walking thru the alleys of a weird high school, it looked like the typical high school I've seen in movies. It was a sunny day, I had a stomach ache, I wanted to threw up. Somehow I saw you in a bathroom, it was really dirty and it made me sick. You said “Hi” and smiled. Although I was feeling so bad, your presence sort of woke me up. Then I walked out of the bathroom and into a classroom and I felt so powerful as if I were a Roman emperor. 

I just woke up a few minutes ago, and I cannot stop thinking of this song by Mikel Erentxun.

Swallow My Pride

As soon as I wake up and I get ready to get out of bed, and I fight with the incessant morning sickness, the chorus of this song repeats in my head –«This ain't the summer of love», «This ain't the summer of love»–, and it doesn't really mean nothing but that I was thinking the entire night why should I start over again and again, why should I become some sort of ghost writer. 

Everything was OK on Monday, they said it was a Blue Monday, but I went out to get a haircut, I took an on line Seminar, I spoke with some colleagues, I ran 7 km, and I wrote about Blue Monday on my new literary project. And I did all the things that I usually do besides being a scientist with a record of ~20 published papers –the most recent one dated on April 2024, and, as I write these lines, I am waiting for the verdict of another one–, an academic with a record of ~40 undergraduate and graduate courses, and so on. That's not subjective. Starting in January 2025, the National System of Researchers gave me the distinction of National Researcher Level II. That's too much even for some academics with permanent contracts and with a longer academic careers than mine that I have worked with.

I even received a couple of good news. I worked on a new academic project, too. I finished a research project I started to write on Friday, too. Everything was cool. But I contacted her via What'sApp, I asked her how she was, she did the same, I asked her what's going on at the university I worked for the last 6 years. And then she said that things were some sort of tense, and that she just won a permanent full-time academic position. I felt my heart break, again. Not just because I competed for that position, too, and not just because the committee considered that my profile was not what they were looking for, but because she's the third colleague I know that was a temporary professor, as I have been my entire life, that got a permanent academic position. Also because we recently spoke about these things and we were worried about the same. She's a friend of mine, and it's nice that she's about to leave this academic uncertainty. A couple of years ago she received the distinction of Candidate for National Researcher and about 6 months ago, we used to talk every Thursday while eating at this university where I worked for the last 6 years.

Via a What'sApp voice note she also told me that, if I wanted to, she could incorporate me to her research projects, as a fellow researcher, at this university she got the full-time academic position. She also asked me why I don't look for another postdoc in the US –7 years ago, I finished my third year of postdoc–, things that we spoke before. 

I cannot stop thinking what's wrong with me. Should I start over again and again...? Should I become some sort of ghost writer...? Should I swallow my pride, again...?