I got a plan to get us outta here

This song meant nothing to me. The first time I heard it I was in my third semester of university, I was attending an English class thought by a professor from Minnesota –a huge Vikings fan–, whose classes were fantastic, dynamic and fun. Her name was Karen. Once she played this song in class and asked us to translate it into Spanish, or something like that. We only spoke in English in her classes. 

As I listened to the song, I vaguely recalled Tracy Chapman. Perhaps I had heard "Fast car" by chance on the radio at some point of my life, and I knew who Tracy Chapman was, but nothing more. As the song played on, Karen sang along very softly. Dunno why but I got the impression that the song really moved her, that she really felt the song –that she was enjoying it while simultaneously feeling its pain. Never paid too much attention to the lyrics. I always thought it was a song about a car accident.  

I dreamed of you for the first time since we had to say goodbye. In my dream, you were that incredible, strong cat you were before you developed kidney failure. This was the first song Lizzie and I heard in the first Uber after saying goodbye. Since then, the experience has happened each time we are inside an Uber talking about you, or thinking about you. It happens almost once a week –practically on one out of every third Uber rides we take together. That's why I think of you each time I hear this song. 

Yesterday was our weeding anniversary and Lizzie's birthday, and we took an Uber –she was very sad, she misses you every second–, and "Fast Car" played again. We took the song as a sign that you are watching over and thinking of us from heaven. We miss you so much, Jackson, you were an awesome cat. 

Yesterday, while having dinner, a sudden memory came back to me: I saw Yoko and Gattuso walking toward the dining room, and for a moment, I thought you were with them—that you would appear coming down the stairs, just as you used to when you were healthy, moving your muscular legs, one step after another, like a formidable feline. It was such a vivid sensation.

Then I returned to reality, and almost at the same time, I remembered your final minutes with us: first in Lizzie’s arms and then in mine, like a little kitten. You were no longer in pain; you looked so peaceful. And now, as I write these lines, I’ve realized what this song is really about. Like Karen, I feel this song deeply; it truly moves me. We will always miss you, Jackson.

sear those thoughts of me, alone and unhappy

Supposedly, this song reflects «a desperate, broken state of mind», mixing drug use and co-dependent relationships. I got this info from Reddit and Google AI, they even quote Billy Corgan's interviews from different sources. 

Why I am listening to this song? 

Apart from this question, it sickens me to write in my cellphone: I'm almost unable to write a single word, the style corrector “predicts” what I want to write and it always fails and I always have to re-write what I want to write, cellphones always remind you that you're another human in the world, just like everyone... Anyway, I'm awake from 4:30 AM and I got up from bed and as usual I bled and wrote my glucose levels on a notebook and wrote what I did and thought about my most recent days on earth on another notebook, while I was sort of pissed.

Yesterday I woke up and checked my e-mail, the Editor in chief from Current Behavioral Neuroscience Reports informed me that they accepted for publication this MS I wrote between July and August 2025, that I left aside from September to October 2025 and that I formatted and submitted it to Psychopharmacology on December 2025, the Editor in chief from that journal told me that «they had more job than they could handle» and recommended me to send the MS to Current Behavioral Neuroscience Reports.

Then, between December 24th and 25th, I re-formatted the MS and submitted it to Current Behavioral Neuroscience Reports (I'm ommiting the part of reading the requirements of each Journal —Cover Letter, scopes, references and citations, abstract extension, etc.—, and uploaded all the files to the system of each Journal and, before all of this, I'm ommiting the part of finding an appropriate Journal for the MS); more or less, and after I had to make another style corrections asked by the Editor of the Journal, I received a response from the Journal on January-February 2026, in which they informed me that they had asked 10 reviewers to check the MS...

Then I received an e-mail with the referees comments' on March and the Journal gave me nearly 3 weeks to resubmitted the corrected MS with a point-by-point PDF directed to the referees... Those were unusual weeks —the Yorkshire of my sister in law got very sick and its condition worsened in a few days, after a long week my sister in law decided to say goodbye to her Yorkshire, it was so sad, then my wife got very ill and ended up in ICU, it was awful, my wife was so sick, I never felt so sad and vulnerable...

For the first time in my life, I had to ask for an extension, the Journal gave it to me, and I worked and worked on Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays, I almost went nuts, but re-discovered how much I enjoy this specialized job —intelectually, creatively and emotionally demanding, besides being hard-working—, and resubmitted the MS to Current Behavioral Neuroscience Reports a week ago.

Yesterday, as I wrote, I received an e-mail and the Editor in chief informed me that it was accepted for publication. As I am not officially the Corresponding Author —even though I did all the Corresponding Author job—, I can't proceed with the next steps. And I'm sort of pissed off 'cause these guys I'm eventually working with, don't give a f#$k. I sent them a WhatsApp nearly 24h ago and they haven't given me an answer. And I understand, we are on Sunday, yesterday was Saturday, we are in the middle of holidays. But I'm also aware that one of these guys I'm working with called me, out of nowhere, on a Saturday of July 2025, while I was having breakfast with my wife in a Toks, to remind me «You have to write this MS» (obviously, then I had already started to write this MS) and then, between August and September made another “out of nowhere”-call, to demand my attention on why did I put myself as Corresponding Author and First Author in the MS  This MS is part of a deal these guys I'm working with proposed me on June 2025. They paid me off 3 months, I worked from September to April without receiving incomes. They told me we would speak of businesses when the MS would have been accepted for publication. It was accepted for publication yesterday. And they just haven't answered.

Who understands? What's the point? I wouldn't be so pissed off, if he just hadn't called me up whenever he needed to talk with me. Assuming that I'm always able to talk. Each time I try to call him up he's not able. It seems that I have to make an appointment.

Do you see it? I hate this isn't reciprocal.

Writing and submitting this MS and responding the referees comments' to this MS was a though job; don't get confused: to start from scratch and get accepted for publication in nearly 6 months, it's not usual, it's not standard, it's that I am good at my job.

And I'm so proud of it. This is the third MS I publish in 3 consecutive years. I can write and publish in peer-reviewed journals by myself. I don't need anyone. Sometimes, it would look like no one cares, not even the co-authors. Sometimes, it would look like this isn't relevant. Sometimes, it would look like I didn't do the job: that I just followed orders and that, when I say that I write, I say it 'cause I read a poem on a Mother's Day Festival at elementary school and my mother and my grandmother listened to it and told me «You're a wonderful writer!»

manifest density

I'm so tired of being like this, a week ago I got the flu, ten years ago I got this curse, looking for a full tenure track position is an endless job, it doesn't matter how much I try, this year I read and sent tons of applications, wrote tons of research projects, wrote tons of intention letters, read tons of diplomatic rejection letters, got used to be frustrated, all I wanted to have was the type of job that I deserve, and then this girl appears out of nowhere, and then this dream screams deep inside of me, it's annoying, I'm sick, I cough, I spit myself in two, dunno how much will I resist, I'm kind of sick of all, in this moment I'm not even able to get up and run for an hour, I'm just what I am, no matter how much I try.

We see people brand new people

As I register and tell my name to a woman at the entrance of the auditorium and sign a sheet and she gives me a gift backpack, a folder with several documents and a badge with my name, I sort of remember that I came here, to this very auditorium, almost 20 years ago. Those were different times, I was just an inexperienced guy with a degree in Psychology, months ago I had just graduated from the School of Psychology. The opportunity to start as a teacher of a Motivation & Emotion course appeared out of nowhere. One of the members of my thesis jury used to work at Ibero, and I didn't know it, but then, at some point of the review process of my thesis, I asked him if he knew how could I get involved into academia, that I wanted so hard to acquire experience in teaching, all I had done was to give two or three classes of one of the courses of my advisor. 

I've been exhausted all week, between Monday, Tuesday and Friday I teached 12 hours of classes, I still haven't adapted to this new stage of my life. I've also been writing a manuscript, it's a collaboration that someone proposed to me, this manuscript will be the second manuscript I write in 2025. Honestly, I haven't enjoyed the writing process, I am working against the clock, is not fun. I've been so busy that I haven't been able to go out for a run. For the last two weeks I've been waking up very early in the morning and starting to write this manuscript and studying and working for classes, and fixing some demanding bureaucratic issues. A month ago I was relatively free.

As I walk through the auditorium, I wonder how much the university will pay me. I can't stop worrying about money; it's a pain. I'm a Level 2 National Researcher, which isn't easy; I should receive the salary corresponding to this distinction, but all year I've been looking for an opportunity; I sent almost 15 applications for full-time permanent academic positions to almost 10 universities. None of them saw my potential.

Anyway, I look for a spot, find it, sit down, and have a flashback. I remember that Saturday, it must have been January 2005, I was completely different from who I am now, the only person who'd ever loved me had just sent me to hell, I didn't know how to teach a course, I was so näive, still lived at my parents house. 

I take a deep breath, I should be writing this manuscript. 

Then I see you. You're in the front row, your straight, horsehair-like hair drawing me in. It's so hypnotic and shiny. As if sensing that kind of mental empowerment, you slowly turned your head to the left. I sat to your right, and our eyes make contact. You're smiling at nothing, wearing magnifying glasses. I can't help but glance briefly at your breasts, and I'm shocked. I'm stupid. I shouldn't be thinking this. I wonder what it would have been like to meet you 20 years ago, I wonder what it would have been like to have sex with you. 

I'm sure I'll continue writing this manuscript when I get back home, but I'm sure I'll drink a couple of Jim Beams and also write a story about us, about how we met 20 years ago in a frivolous world, while academia is collapsing and we're listening to this Iggy Pop song about humans being like ice machines.

I Miss The Comfort In Being Sad

I wake up from this dream and it's 6:14 on Thursday, July 17th, you appeared out of nowhere, we're just “friends” on IG, I sent you a request in March, then I just had 200 followers or something like that (at this time, I have almost 750), and I did it 'cause we met and we spoke at a Sleep Medicine Conference, specifically when we attended a talk on Narcolepsy Type 1 and just as I was asking the lecturer if Sodium Oxybate was available in Mexico the microphone failed, your mentor and you were in the seats in front of me and you said Taking advantage of the break, Dr., I want to tell you that I saw your content on social media and I loved it. Perhaps I said Thanks and asked you if you had attended to my talk earlier that morning, it was Saturday, March 22nd. At 8: 30 I had spoken of Sleep and Metabolism and I had coordinated a Simposium, you said No and I smiled and the technicians fixed the microphone.

That was the last day of the Sleep Medicine Congress, I was more melancholic than usual, since October I'd been looking for full-time permanent academic positions at 6 or 7 seven universities, writing 3 or 4 Research Projects, several Letters of Intent and one paper that was published in February in a Q1 Journal. 

I'd already looked at you, it was impossible not to notice you. In addition to attending the Sleep Medicine Congress, you had participated in a poster session, you had given a talk a day or two before and you had won the first place of a research undergraduate contest. Many scholars had spoken to you, perhaps they were attracted by your clinician research project but also by your youth and your beauty, you must have been in your 20s. 

Besides being more melancholic than usual, I had been tired and sleepy in the entire Sleep Medicine Congress, I'm allergic to air conditioning and I had been exposed to a tons of air conditioning machines. At breakfast and dinner, I had spoken several times with a colleague of my age, he was also looking for a full-time permanent academic position, he had an academic profile similar to mine, we were disappointed, about to quit, to leave academia. 

At some point, when I became aware of your existence, I dreamed about you, the way you seemed to look at me, like if you were frightened or something, like if you wanted to tell me something, and I realized how easy it would be to impress you, and not because of you but because of the way it is, I remembered when I started as a Subject Teacher and students were easily impressed by me, they sort of saw me as a role model. Then, some of them, as the semesters ended, sent me weird e-mails and stuff like that. 

Anyway, the point is that I just dreamed about you, and it's 6:14 on Thursday, July 17th. 

In my dream, we were in my childhood apartment, there was another woman about my age, dunno why but the three of us had some sort of ambiguous relationship. It was early in the morning, we were in the bathroom. As I was brushing my teeth, you took off a bathrobe and you looked at me like if you wanted to tell me something, like if you were frightened or something, and I couldn't stop looking at your naked body, I wanted to feel you in my arms, feel your young and smooth skin, like if you were hungry for me. We kept in silence for a minute or two and then we kissed precisely when the other woman came into the bathroom. As she had some sort of relationship with me, it was awkward. Immediately I felt guilty, I guess she represents some sort of alter ego, how would I feel if I quit academia. 

In the real world, my colleague spoke me on the phone two days ago, he said he finally got a full-time permanent academic position, between March and July I've sent 3 or 4 more applications to 6 or 7 universities, I'm writing another paper, I got a Subject Teacher position at the same university where I started almost 20 years ago –it's like if I started from scratch–, everyone around me seems to get a full-time permanent academic position, I saw Game of Thrones last night, specifically the episode in which Stannis Lannister takes Melisandre on a table, she wore some sort of a bathrobe and she took it off, just like you did in my dream, there are no hidden messages, it is just what it is.

I should be in bed, I'll be sleepy all day long.

And now I'm ready to close my mind

 

As I walk thru an alley, looking for a bathroom, and I leave the university, I feel so relieved. For an entire week I had been obsessively working on my 20-min talk. Since I woke up earlier this morning, all I wanted to do was to give my talk, to end up with this tension and anxiety.

I'm about to enter the bathroom and I'm thinking about the near future in this university. Twenty years ago, I started here as a Subject Teacher, it was my first experience. I also think about the details of my 20-min talk and the interview, from almost two hours ago. I also think on how my colleagues gave me a tour across the university, whether I really have a chance to get a full-time permanent position or if things will continue as usual.

Suddenly a song appears in the middle of the alley, it comes from an invisible speaker hidden in the walls. Three chords from the electric guitar, followed by the bass and the drums, hit my brain. It's a fuzzy guitar, and I know that I've heard this chords a thousand times before but I cannot identify which song exactly is. I vaguely remember a woman singing it, maybe Kim Gordon, but I know this is not a Sonic Youth song nor a Kim Gordon song. Then, a man sings...

«So messed up I want you here

In my room I want you here»

... but I don't recognize the voice, it confuses me even more, I guess I was expecting a different voice but dunno exactly which kind of voice, it's like if I had heard this song a thousand times before and simultaneously for the very first time.

I stop walking and close my eyes, What's the name of this song? I wonder, and try hard to remember. 

It was possible that twenty years ago, when I had my first chance to be a Subject Teacher, I also walked thru this alley and that I also heard this song, maybe this song comes from the Radio Station of the Ibero, twenty years ago they had this Radio Station, it seems that I start from scratch, I will be again a Subject Teacher, but I'm twenty years older, I have an experience of almost 70 undergrad courses and I have published almost 20 papers in peer-reviewed journals, I'm National Researcher Level II. Dunno if this would be my last experience on academia, perhaps I will stop looking for full-time permanent academic positions, but, as Neil Young, more or less, said, music never dies.

I was sitting there in a comfortable chair

I walked out from this dream in which I was simultaneously a PhD student and a young professor teaching a Neuroscience course, the classroom was a big auditorium at the School of Medicine, we were more than 200 students and the place was barely enough for so many students. As a student for some reason I was late and I had to sit between a couple of men in a pretty awkward position. I felt suffocated and anxious and irresponsible. Like if that were not my place in the world.

Dunno why but I had no notebook but a Telecaster. It must have been 9 or 10 o'clock, the auditorium and the students reminded me of my first days as a PhD student in a Neurochemistry course in an auditorium at the Institute of Cellular Physiology, it was humid and hot, just like the weather between summer and autumn. At times, the place also seemed a fancy party hall.

As I felt awkward in this seat between a couple of men, I saw myself in front of the audience, as a professor. I was not exactly myself, but I knew I was the professor, it was some sort of a weird doppelganger. I saw myself as an enthusiastic professor, I looked like this guy performing Matthew Kimble, the brother of the main character of The new adventures of old Christine, maybe he appeared in my dream 'cause I recently saw him on Fargo, his real name is Hamish Linklater, but in my dream he was me and he was not an actor but a neuroscientist, and he was pretty young. He had a few tics, he constantly stuck out his tongue while he spoke and ran his tongue over his upper lips, he looked natural and enthusiastic. He had long, somewhat curly hair. His hair was so pretty. He was wearing a blue long-sleeved Benetton shirt, quite similar to the one I have. I kinda sensed that girls adored him, each time he spoke and ran his tongue over his upper lips and kept sort of freezed for a second or two, looking into infinity, perhaps organizing his thoughts, girls sort of murmured and sighed. The situation was funny, it didn't seem a PhD course, but a bachelor's degree course.

Hamish-myself walked in front of the blackboard with great confidence, and he spoke about the brain and how we have brain circuits for building a pencil and also a spaceship, but he really only touched these topics superficially. He looked pretty happy. He really seemed to enjoy his job.

Somehow, he took us to a place in which neuroscience seemed so cool and important, but, as I mentioned, he only touched these topics superficially. Nonetheless, the audience looked satisfied. At a point, he gave us a brief recess in which he took a marmalade sandwich or something like that, he said he hadn't had breakfast. Suddenly Hamish neuroscientist was sitting next to me, the couple of men had disappeared, and he smiled at me and winked, like if he knew we were the same person. One girl or two approached us and asked him if he'd ever play guitar just for fun, maybe at the end of the course. Then I realized Hamish had told the students he also play electric guitar and I thought of my Telecaster and wanted so hard to play a song.

I'm listening to this White Stripes album, I read somewhere that it was released 20 years ago and I think of you, the phone calls we had 20 years ago, when I had just bought Get Behind Me Satan and was so obsessed with you and dreaming about you while listening to this album. Did you remember me and saw me as I saw myself in this dream?

The sky is cotton candy

You appeared out of nowhere. In my dream I knew you, I knew your name, you were a student, and I was looking for something in a box, the box looked more like a wooden chair than a box and it was painted in blue. The wooden chair was placed at the desk, the desk was some sort of operating room. I was pretty focused in this sort of mental surgery.

We were inside a classroom, it was cold and pale. Lights were the kind of dim lights you'd find in an operating room. The day was so cold and cloudy. It was the end of a class. Students were leaving the classroom.

Accidentally I found a letter inside the box, and it was a letter from you, I knew your name, I pronounced it in my dream, our eyes met for a moment, you smiled. The letter was written on a white sheet of paper, had some paintings and a cryptic message, it looked like the artwork for Incesticide, Nirvana's B-sides album published in 1992, and the message implied that you were in love with me. 

I woke up and I don't know who you are. I forgot your name. This song hits my brain.

«I got my diddly spayed!»

«I got my diddly spayed!»

«I got my diddly spayed!»

Before going to bed I came to the studio, the cats knocked some things out of the closet and I picked them up and the situation reminded me of an Incesticide T-shirt I own. It's really nice, but I hardly ever wear it, it's too big for me. But the dream is not about a T-shirt. Or about you. You could be anyone. 

Maybe it's not that at all. 

Maybe it's that I'm getting old and it's about me returning to this elite university where it all began. Maybe it's that I'll find students like I did back in 2004 but I'll be older and I'll be mentally sterile.

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...?

The Line Begins To Blur

I still feel the cramps, like a thousand ants running thru my back, arm and fingers. Dunno if, someday, I won't feel them anymore, without realizing it. Dunno if there will be ever a night when these cramps won't wake me up, interrupting my dreams, like this dream I was in with one of my brothers chasing Trent Reznor. The NIN founder lived in an apartment on a horrible street in Mexico City. We needed so bad to speak with him. Suddenly we got to his apartment and knocked at the door, and he looked out the window, it looked that he was naked. A few seconds later, he left the apartment by jumping out of another window. He wore a bathrobe and Dr. Martens.

These awful cramps, this electric itch, this stabbing pain, this feeling of pins and needles running through my back, arm and fingers, interrupted the story, so I will not know. 

Weeds Between Buildings, Pictures On My Hard Drive

Out of nowhere I am seeing all these guys. They talk, they seem to have fun. I'm drunk. Again. Dunno when or how, but I am here. Again. A few moments ago, I was in the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. My face gave me the creeps. It looked like I was totally fucked up. Again. I know I won't remember several things. It's another blackout. Dunno remember the first time I experienced one, but, at some point, I must have realized that I was speaking with someone else, about who knows who. We were inside a dark and noisy room, we were surrounded by a lot of people, and I said something, I sort of woke up from a dream and then I was talking, and this girl was looking at me, explaining to me that I wanted to get into the ladies room, and then I hated myself. 

A few days ago, I did it again. I went to the opening of a clinic, there was a lot of wine. I sat close to some sort of Raoul Duke, he was my mentor 10 years ago, and he started to talking about how I made him angry, I tried to not contradict him, but I remembered in particular a tutorial exam, he asked me something about my doctoral project and I knew the answer but I hesitated and then he said exactly what I was thinking, and I said it, and obviously I made him angry. Suddenly, we were talking about a professor that was his first PhD student, this guy drove racing cars and I met him in my last work at the academy. Duke at some point said Good Bye and then I moved to a group of colleagues, they were talking about silly things, but I really had to lead the conversation to another topic, we ended talking about politics and psychiatry. 

At some point, I went to the bathroom and I realized that I was so fucked up, I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I had this stupid and uncontrollable smile, and flashbacks of these Korsakoff's psychosis –how gorgeous and elitist was this colleague I was talking with?–, and I just wanted to disappear. I hate to end like this. I must quit, stop drinking wine. I quit smoking twice. But I cannot stop drinking alcohol. I barely remember that someone gave me a smoke. That I said something wrong. I will feel so guilty. A thousand years from now.

I'm Disconnected By Your Smile

The aeroplane stops over the sea, I can hear the roar of the engine, it seems it's gonna crash, I feel so excited, I sense the end of my world, the end of all my frustrations and my rage, and I cannot stop thinking about a fatal accident, the sea is so close, I know I can die, I feel so excited.

Out of nowhere, I remember that Smashing Pumpkins' song, that song I used to listen to when I was such a moron, when I was in my first year of Psychology, when I really didn't want to study Psychology, when I just wanted to become a beatnik... 

I close my eyes. I see myself back then singing in my mind...

I'm disconnected by your smile

I'm disconnected by your smile

I'm disconnected by your smile

... and I remember myself feeling so heartbroken for this girl, Lily, the one I loved back then, she was older than me, she was everything I wanted, she seemed so mature, she was so enigmatic, so distant, so smart, so cold, she looked like Cecilia Suárez, she was my everything, and one day at school I spoke to her and we sort of started a relationship, I asked her for her telephone number, we started talking about The Beatles, she was a big fan of The Beatles, and I called her sometimes on the telephone, and then somehow she became interested on me, and then she started calling me on the phone, and we spoked many many times thru the night until the dawn, and then two months later or so she quit school and we became some sort of girlfriend and boyfriend, she was sort of dating a guy older than her and she told me that she was confused, he was a dancer, and then one day after school I went to her apartment, she lived so close to the school with a couple of roomies, and it was so fantastic, I felt so excited, we ate pizza and we drew as we spoked about Van Gogh and Monet, and then we sort of freezed for a moment –we were alone, her roomies were at school–, and I remembered one of our recent calls on the telephone. She had told me What would you think of me, if I told you that I have a boyfriend and that I want to kiss him and that I want to practice with you? and it was so clear that it was gonna happen, and then I looked at her, I hadn't ever felt so connected to anyone in my entire (brief) life, and I took her beautiful hands and I kissed her and it was so silly, I felt we were some sort of robots or sister and brother or something like that, but the entire situation was so great. I felt my dreams had come true, I couldn't believe it. Then she went to live to the beach. She was a dancer. We used to write, she sent me tons of letters. I sent her tons of letters. We saw each other again years later, she was pregnant, she loved someone else, I'd had a girlfriend, an amazing relationship that turned so toxic, we had broke up recently, I was about to start my PhD, we were the same but we were not the same. 

In my dream I look at the sea thru the window, the night is so dark, I think of that Beatles' song.

Bright are the stars that shine

Dark is the sky

I know this love of mine

Will never die

And I just know that I am in danger, that I can die, and I start to record everything on my cellphone. 

Then I wake up from this dream but I am still dreaming –I am still on the plane next to the window– and I have a blackout, like if I'm so drunk that I cannot remember anything. I looked at the window again. The plane is still flying over the sea, the night is so dark, the water is so clear that I can see some dolphins and algae, and then I realized I do not know where my cellphone is. I feel so attached to my cellphone, my cellphone (in my dream) is some sort of Lily, my cellphone is my everything, and then I started looking for my cellphone here and there, and I feel so desperate, but somehow we just landed and people start to getting off the plane and I see a cellphone on the floor and I know it is not mine, but I feel that I am not alone, that someone else has lost his cellphone, too, and this is a metaphor of my life. I'm not talking about cellphones and airplanes –my life is like being on a plane about to crash–, I'm talking about your cellphone, the one you were checking at when I saw you yesterday at the dining room, the one you left for a moment on the table when you got up from your seat.

I pound on the computer keyboard. I think of myself at the dining room, yesterday. 

Dawn is breaking, my wife and my cats are still dreaming, I am listening to this song and I cannot stop thinking about your smile.

I'm disconnected by your smile

I'm disconnected by your smile

I'm disconnected by your smile 

And I don't know what's going on. And I don't want to think about it. I know this isn't real. I sort of sense that you're not real. I don't want to think about your smile, but I must admit that this song has taken on a whole new meaning. What's wrong with me?, I am just this moron...? Are you acting or are you as lonely as me...?

Crystal Water Covers Everything In Blue

I hate it. I just wanted to fall asleep. Had a hard day. I woke up early, got to the university, taught my neuropharmacology class at 8 am, spoke about LSD and Ken Kesey and T. C. Boyle and the Dark Side of The Moon and “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”, spoke about pharmacokinetics and pharmacodynamics, absorption, distribution, proportion of water in the body, blood, plasma, serum, typical and atypical neuroleptics, Oliver Sacks, Awakenings, alcohol, benzodiazepines, applied an examination, go to my temporary office –would you believe me if I told you that I just received the distinction of National Researcher Level II of the SNII, almost ten years ago I was obtaining my PhD, I have almost 20 published papers but I've been always on the run, I've never had the opportunity to have a definitive tenured track position...?–, I read a paper of THC and dopamine –next Wednesday I will give a talk about brain mechanisms of marijuana consumption– and I felt so tired and empty, like if someone kicked out my brain, I evaluated some examinations, I read another paper, I received a few WhatsApps, I ate with a colleague, I returned home, the Uber driver drove a beautiful car, I got out of the car, I ate again, I drank a couple of Jack Daniel's, I listened “Alone + Easy Target” and “Resurrection Song”, I took an Uber to a concert, Madame Rita –the first band– started playing at 11 pm, Seattle Supersonics started at 12 am, the show was great, I drank three Victorias –1.2 L each–, I came back home and I fall asleep and I dreamed of you, Todokoro.

Why do you appear in my dreams?

I've only seen you twice in ten years. You are my worst nightmare. It's getting boring.

Let's Do Something Crazy, Absolutely Wrong

You were there, it was real. You didn't know I had been daydreaming of you, in the fog of my thoughts. I had been sick for almost a couple of weeks. Then when you asked me on the phone if I wanted to join you at the dining room, I thought “Ok”. And then we talked for half an hour or so. You spoke a lot, I told you a few things. Basically I told you how sad and frustrating it is to be like me. Like having this big desire of writing, a thousand ideas filling my brain like bees inside a swarm looking for air, and then to make a thousand mistakes while beating up the wrong letter in the computer keyboard. Basically I told you how bittersweet it is to be who I am. You know. I am experienced, I love my job, but I should have an opportunity to stop looking for temporary contracts. You know, I've been looking for opportunities my entire life. Ten years ago I was having my PhD dissertation, so far I have almost 20 published papers, ten years of teaching experience, I am National Researcher Level II. And in the near future there are no opportunities for me to stop looking for temporary contracts. These kind of contracts give me the opportunity to teach, but they're so short –from 3 to 6 months– and I can't perform my own research. Besides, they will not last forever. 

Of course I told you these things differently, not as I am writing of them right now. I am tired, Saturday morning is about to come. As I am waiting for the miracle to come, as Leonard Cohen whispers thru the headphones. I am asleep. It's 6: 30 am. And I've been wasting my waking time for almost an hour. 

As we spoke a couple of days ago in the dining room, I felt you were interested in my talk. It was weird. For times I remembered the way I had been daydreaming of you, when I was sick, in the fog of my thoughts. Sunlight irradiated your face. I hadn't seen the color of your eyes, neither the color of your hair. But sunlight made them look so warm. And you smiled all the time, and I couldn't stop telling myself that I was an animal, that I couldn't stop thinking that I would make it with you, that I would like to discover what kind of woman are you. Then you told me that you cried in a meeting. That you felt awful and silly. Then we talked about diseases.

I felt you sort of admired me. And I sort of remembered how it was our first meeting, 3 years ago. Then I was so sick of being some sort of academic outsider. I had 3 years working in the same university, but I was stuck. It was not the best time of my life. Then you appeared out of nowhere and you walked beside me and you ignored me. I saw you were so tall and I thought you were sort of conceited. I sort of hated you. 

Sunlight irradiated you face. You spoke about a couple of students that told our Department Head that they didn't like you. That they were not the biggest fans of psychoanalysis. I told you I understood your point. I told you about my own experience with a few students in the Covid-19 pandemic. When Zoom was the only way we could teach classes. When I had no recess, when I worked from 8 am to 10 pm on a daily basis, when students were some sort of ghosts behind the closed cameras of Zoom. 

I need go back to sleep. I have a terrible headache. I am tired. I am listening to Leonard Cohen, in particular this song I used to associate with an ex, but now I know I will associate it with you. I will remember this meeting we had a couple of days ago in the dining room of the university, as students walked and talked and ate around us. I wonder what did they think about us. I will remember how you behaved. The way in which you seemed to admire me. I don't know your age, I just kinda sensed that you're younger than me by the way you hear me and look at me, and I also kinda feel that I'm at this age in which people like you seem to know that I am not nobody. I don't know if I am being clear enough. I sense that people like you look at me as an experienced guy. Like if I were in an 'interesting age'. That I know something. That, if I wanted to, I could make it happen, that I could make it with you, that, ironically, I could make the biggest business of my life.

But I am just waiting for the miracle to come, as Leonard whispers thru the headphones.