Smelling Dead Roses

I was having a silly conversation with some idiots, when I saw her for the first time. 

These idiots wanted us to go to play pool to a seedy place.
One of them wanted me to give him some money. 
He was such a bully. 
His family had several businesses in the Mercado Sonora and he thought it gave him the right to behave as some sort of cacique.  

We only shared some classes, but these idiots thought we were friends. 
Sometimes we hung out after classes, but it didn't necessarily mean that we were friends. I didn't have real friends. I guess I didn't want to be involved in such a big commitment. I hated to get involved with people.

They were the kind of guys whose only life goal was to get enough money to spend it all on expensive sneakers. They were so crazy about basketball that they wanted so bad to have the sneakers of the most famous basketball players. 

Ivonne walked in front of us. 

Her hair was so blonde that it almost left me blind. 
I was about to collapse. She was so beautiful and she seemed so innocent. She was so perfect. She was the type of girl who had always attracted me.  

Ivonne was chubby and small.

As she walked, her hair floated around her shoulders and distilled some sort of haunting perfume. For a second, she looked at me and smiled. Then I was about to have a heart attack. 

Her eyes seemed green or almond.

For an entire week I was thinking about her. 
I wanted to know her name, but I didn't want to be such a typical guy.
I did not want to chase her like a mad lover and approach her as anyone would have.

One afternoon, we got on the same transport truck...

I couldn't believe it!
Ivonne sat next to me! 
We were so close that our legs touched! 
I was so nervous and about to collapse!  

Dunno remember exactly how, but I started to speak her. 
Contrary to what I had thought, she did not freak out. 
She was so tiny and adorable. 
Her blonde hair was so impressive.
Her eyes were green. 
Her voice was so feminine. 

Dunno remember how it started, but I'm pretty sure I spoke about music. 
Silverchair was one of the bands I listened then. It was a punk band of Australian teenagers. Back in 1994 they won a contest of demos in their country. The contest gave them the chance to record Frogstomp (1995). Their first album was recorded in 9 days...! 

Rolling Stone and Allmusic gave it almost the highest score. 

The members of the band were 15 years old, as me. 

Tomorrow and Israel's Son are the most known tracks of that album.

Someone had lent me a copy of Freak Show (1997). 
Freak Show just had been released. It had really god songs.
The songs were fast and furious. They talked about the rage and the violence provoked by the expectations of Silverchair's album debut. Some of them were more elaborated than the standard track of their previous album. 

The singles Freak, Abuse Me and Cemetery reached the top ten. 

Ivonne got off the truck a few blocks away from Delegación Venustiano Carranza.

We shook hands in a pretty formal way. It seemed that we were closing a business.

I felt so dumbfounded. Her hands were so soft and pink. 

She told me she was a couple years younger than me. It was tender and annoying. 

Thenceforth, we spoke regularly. 

On a day, I told Ivonne that I was crazy about her. She smiled. 
I was so confused–maybe she knew it from the beginning. 
I had thought that she would reject me immediately. 

I regretted having told her. 

I really enjoyed to talk with her, but I wasn't really sure if I wanted to have a girlfriend. 
I hated to get involved with people. 

Suddenly, a bully started to flirt on her. 
This guy was older than me. He even had a beard. 
He was a good-looking idiot. He smoked all the time, behaved as an outlaw and his friends played in the football team of the school.  

He was sort of popular among girls. 

Ivonne became his girlfriend soon. 

On a Valentine's Day, more than twenty years ago, the idiots with whom I shared some classes had bought a few roses. They were pathetic and they tought that they would be appreciated by the girls they liked, if they gave them roses. 

None of them had accepted the roses. 

One of them asked me to hold him one of the roses for a second.
At the same time, the other one pushed me.
Maybe he had seen Ivonne walking by and so he pushed me against her in the precise moment. 

All of a sudden we were face to face.
She smelled like vanilla.  

I felt so stupid with the silly rose on my hand. 
Ivonne stared at me in a very cozy way. 
She asked me if the rose was for her. 

I thought about it, but I told her the truth. 
She pushed me against a wall and walked away.
We never spoke again. 

The guys laughed. 
They just wanted to have fun. 

I wonder what will she do right now. 
Will she remember me?
Did she marry the bully?
Do they have kids?

I'm not sure if she even remembers my name. 

Smelling Dead Roses

This Is Not About Love

What was that? What was that you had that drove me wild? 

Though it happened too many years ago, I still think of you once in a while. We shared a few memories but they were so intense. At least, I think so. 

I still remember the madness of meeting you. 

Out of the blue, while I was bored and sad, when Silencios Incómodos were about to play, you approached to me and you asked me if I could light you up a cigarette. 

I was smoking and I gave you my Zippo and then you lighted your cigarette. Meaningless seconds elapsed and you returned it to me.

A few songs later I wanted to light another cigarette, but I couldn't find the Zippo. 
I thought you had kept it for mistake -I was a little bit drunk- and I looked for you.
When I found you, I asked you for the Zippo. 

Then I saw you in detail, under the dim lights of Foro Alicia. 
Dunno why -maybe I was drunker than I thought-, but I liked you a lot. 

As your closed eyelids reveal some kind of devotion, your lips tasted like youth.

They were soaked in alcohol and they were simultaneously tender and aggressive. 

A week later, we met in a park. 

Honestly, I didn't like you under the daylight. 

I felt abusive and stupid. 

You were several years younger than me!

We talked on the telephone for several months.

I got used to your voice. Guess I knew you and got interested on you, in this way. 

Sometimes you were the only person I heard all day long. 

I remember smoking pot one night and thinking about you. 

I was listening to Fiona Apple's Extraordinary Machine. 

I started to read a letter that you had written to me. 

It turned out to be one of the funniest experiences I ever had. 

Your words where so innocent and reflective at the same time. 

It seemed that you were just playing the fool. 

On that letter you said that one night before you were about to sleep. 

You were brushing your hair in front of the mirror and then you felt excited for an unknown reason. Then you took away your shirt and started to look your naked breast. 

You said that I could see your breast, though we were not closer friends. You wanted me to ask you to be my girlfriend. 

As the piano sounded on my bedroom and Fiona sang This Is Not About Love, I become obsessed with your breast. 

Had it been necessary that you had specified on the letter that you were wearing 36-B bras...?

Sometimes you were so direct and I was so stupid.

I used to feel terribly guilty.  

Another night we went to a bar to drink a beer.

We sit face to face. 

You wore a blouse with a neckline. 

The blouse was green and the neckline was amazing. 

I drank beer after beer. It was impossible to not sink into the abyss of your breast. 

Nonetheless, sometimes you were so cruel. 

I guess you got tired.

You were willing to do what I wanted, but I did not do anything. 

You said that I was too polite and too respectful and too different from the guys you used to hang out with, but you also incessantly said that I was a real bad kisser. 

I guess you just said so to provoke me. 

You wanted me to be a little bit disrespectful, but you got bored of my endlessly politeness and then you started to hate me and then you decided to ignore me. 

Our relationship finished. 

It was easy for you to broke with me, even though you were not exactly my girlfriend. 

They were another guys interested on you. 

Immediately, I felt so ill and I tried to write about you.

It was too recent and everything I wrote sucked. 

I started to care a lot about you. I wanted you to be my girlfriend.  

I wanted so bad to be with you, but you just rejected me. 

All the songs I heard were about losers and guys in love with wrong people. 

Each time I heard Extraordinary Machine, I felt so sick. 

I wanted to threw up. I wanted to stay in bed all day long. 

I thought you deserved more than words. 

Now I can write about it. 

[This Is Not About Love-Fiona Apple]

And The Stars Look Very Different Today

It's 3 o'clock in the morning 
The city has a silent mood
Meg White plays drums underneath my brain

I'm lying on the matress 
The blanket is full of cozy childish thoughts

I'm quite dumb 
In my dream, I repeated to myself 
'I would love to fall in love' 

The sunlight spots spit slowly into my mind 
I was in another bedroom
It was full of magical trees 
It was full of gigantic wooden buildings 

'How much do I desire to fall in love?', I asked to myself

I thought everybody lies, loves and hates on a daily basis
I saw myself as a stupid guy, sporadically writing and looking at the clock
Burned memories crossed the alleys of my brain
Maybe I was too stoned to understand all the symbols 

Suddenly, my left arm was damaged
It felt like if a hot needle scrapped thru my skin 

'Well, you're in love', I repeated to myself
There was a Queen possessing my brain 
She was a chubby girl and she looked like Meg White 

She raised her eyebrows and her eyes were covered with sun glasses 
Her lips were made up like a woman of nineteenth-century royalty
And I thought that she had a perfect vision and that her lips were murderous 

Off this space 
Burned memories floated like a sneeze  
As they crossed the alleys of my brain 

They were also soaked by some kind of bloody water 

'I like you so much...', I repeated to myself

My skin crashed with a deafening and invisible touch
I thought it was the way DNA exploded thru hallucination

'I cannot stop thinking about you...', I repeated to myself and I felt so guilty

You're so cruel, lady!
Leave me alone!

I still feel you
Inside my head
Scratching my skin 
Like a needle attached to a loaded heroin syringe

I'm counting backwards 
Like if I was about to escape from Earth 

This sensation is painful 
I hear this song out of nowhere 
As I remember you as Meg White 
As I feel devastated by the deafening drums 

I'm waking up 
I feel so thirsty that I could drink gallons of water 

3: 00 a. m.

This powerful silent mood of the night
Whispers to me like a drug

I'm too dumb and I still think about you 
I still close my eyes and I see you
I still sigh and I remember your smell 

You smelled like a nineteen year old girl
But your soul was an older soul 

You smelled like burning sex
Like starved Emperor penguins feeding each other
Thru the endless winter

[Space Oddity-David Bowie]

Music Is Like A Volatile Tiny Little Girl

This blog will be a writing experiment.

It will be inspired by music, literature, some pieces of science and women.

All these interests will somehow appear together on the posts.

They won't necessarily be coherent nor have rhythm. 

They will mainly be a confusing mix of reality and dreaming. 

They would mainly appear in the form of an unsatisfied desire.

Women are so important to me. 

My life would be hellish if they did not exist.  

At some point of my life, I fell in love with several women.

Most of the time, I wasn't what they were looking for. 

I hope none of the women I'm going to write about, feel offended in any way. (Obviously, I'm not going to reveal their real names. But if you know me a little bit, you easily will find who they really are.) 

Music is so important to me. 

I would be some sort of mentally ill guy if music did not exist. 

Music has been my most loyal companion. 

It's like a volatile tiny little girl.  

All the songs I'm going to write about are electrical transmitters of deep emotions. 

Dunno exactly why, but surely they will have been stored in my brain and they will come to the outside in some strange way. Some of them will eventually cut my throat. 

These songs I will write about, surely have made me (or will make me) feel extremely happy, angst, mad or sad. These songs will be my greatest hope at some apparently hopeless periods. 

I'll write about the way they provoke me and what kind of memories they remind me of. 

All the posts I'm going to publish will be based on dreaming. 

Reality sucks most of the time. 

Everything seems to be an appearance. 

Money seems to be the ultimate product of evolution. 

I hate that people be so simple and silly.  

They are the worst enemy of the world. 

Effortlessly, they seem to believe what do you do and what do you care about, only if you keep yourself telling them all the time what do you do and what do you care about. 

Even if you tell them all these things out of nowhere. 

It's exhausting. 

I don't find a reason to tell you every time that I like to write since I was born. 

I don't think you need to know if I play guitar since I was 14 years old. 

I don't believe you want to know if I'm caucasian or a neuroscientist fighting in the Third World, or just a guy with some sort of pathological attraction to loneliness. 

I don't consider important to speak you about the authors I love and what kind of novels I enjoy nor how many books I read each month. 

But it's pretty annoying when someone, that supposedly knows me, starts to assume that I don't even like music just because I don't speak of Mozart or Beethoven... or that I don't really like music 'cause I haven't experienced how it is to play an instrument... or that I'm not a scientist 'cause I never presume my academic achievements.  

Music, literature and science are my interests.

I know that I should be passionate about science in the first place, but sometimes it seems that technology is most important than research questions.  

It is common to read a paper of the top three scientific journals and to forget about the point, due to the exacerbated quantity of control experiments required by these journals and due to the sophisticated explanations that authors have to give on the sophisticated techniques they employ. 

Methodology is pretty important, but it should be a tool to shed some light on physiological phenomena. It shouldn't be the phenomenon.  

Also, it is devastating the way people in general think about science. 

They seem to believe in science exclusively when someone tells them that an apparently serious scientific study showed that laziness, grumpiness and egocentrism are related to intelligent and successful people.  

Or they simply confound science with technology. 

Or they simply employ Albert Einstein's quote ("I believe in God...") to argue that science and religion are not on different paths... even if they haven't read Baruch Spinoza and so they do not know what kind of God was the one Einstein spoke about. 

The worst of everything is that they lie and sin, and that they believe that we all are the same and that we all should be frightened, tempted and punished by the same demons and gods. 

They could quote Charles Bukowski to speak about psychoanalysis or Aristotle to speak about networking coaching. 

They're amazing, in a real bad way.  

In this period of my life I barely have the opportunity to enjoy music (I hope it eventually changes), 'cause I have too many papers to read and to write and too many things to do. 

I always wanted to be in a garage punk band -I suppose I have never tried to do it fiercely- and all the music I listen up its related to this genre.

Currently, I just listen up a few bands like Sonic Youth, Mudhoney, Melvins, Dinosaur Jr., Screaming Trees, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Butthole Surfers, Nirvana... 

From a few months until now, I have been listening to some bands I know I will eventually stop listening to.  

The Cure (Pornography and Wish are awesome records), Siouxsie & The Banshees (what kind of dark and beautiful post punk songs they played!), The Doors (despite they were more into the hippie 70's vibe, they have really awesome songs, lyrically and musically), Jimi Hendrix (I'm not sure if he was really the awesome guitarist people talk about, but definitely he was a rock n' roll artist ahead of his time) and The Rolling Stones (they're just as legendary as The Beatles!) 

I'm not gonna lie: I'm not a big fan of The Beatles nor of Bob Dylan; I prefer Neil Young, Mark Lanegan and Kurt Cobain.

(Did I mention that I'm left-handed and that I play guitar? 

Heart-shaped box is by far one of the funniest songs to play I have ever learned. She Loves You and I Want To Hold Your Hand are fun to play, too.

Nirvana is the band I hear almost all the time.

Despite he is one of the musicians I feel more attracted to, my goal it's not to play guitar like Kurt Cobain. 

I think his music was about to turn into blues and folk. He seemed to be bored of the Nirvana formula. I'm pretty sure he would have recorded albums like Mark Lanegan has done since he quit Screaming Trees.) 

I always wanted to have a job in which all I had to do was to read and to write.  

If I found a job like that, I would live in Paradise.

At the time I'm posting this, I'm a meaningless scientist and a meaningless writer. 

I hope it will change in a few years. I'm working on that. 

I would like to have enough guts to make a better life in another country, but I'm afraid I'm scared to make it.

I cannot stop thinking in all the pros and cons, especially in the cons. 

(Is it a disease? Am I too pessimistic?) 

By the way, English is not my native language -you can check it out my EGOTECA-, but I find it pretty fun to write on English... besides, I hate when people lie about their language' skills. 

Thus, METASTASIS OF SOUND is some sort of testimony of my English' language skills.

Maybe someday I will need to test that I'm really able to write on this astonishing rhythmic language.  

I invite you to read my posts while you listen to the song I will write about. 

Dear reader, this is the aim of this blog. 

I'm pretty sure you're gonna read it when I die.