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. 

oh, the guilt

It is raining. It is the middle of the summer. It is Friday. I'm about to pee. I'm about to log into a Zoom conference. I'm about to focus on a scientific paper. I'm about to fall asleep. I think I could do anything. I think I could do nothing. All Friday afternoons seem to be electrical. Even if it is not raining. Even if my life is a disaster. Friday afternoons are noisy and relaxing. A paradox. This Friday afternoon in particular reminds me of all those Friday afternoons when I was in high school. This Friday afternoon makes me wonder why did I waste my time for several years. All I did was moan and cry, to think about girls, fall in love with the wrong square-minded girls, to write about them, to feel guilty 'cause it seems to me that I was the wrong one, that I didn't fit in. I used to moan and cry, and to believe in a promising future. That, eventually, things would get better. And they did. I had several bad experiences, I met terrible women who made me feel worthless, who squeezed my heart like it was trash. Sometimes I felt like my life was over, that it would be the same, that I will not find my soulmate. But I found the love of my life, unexpectedly.

Today I ran 5 km in the morning, not my best record, then I went to the university. There, I had a couple of meetings with pupils –I'm their Thesis advisor–, and later I voted for a candidate to the Leadership of the Health Sciences Department. He promised to do everything possible to convince our colleagues to hire me, to give me the opportunity to become a permanent professor. It's almost five years since I arrived at this university, and I have not gotten anything except temporary contracts for two quarters per year. I am the perfect candidate for this position. None of the candidates are psychologists with a PhD in Biomedical Sciences like me, none of them have the experience I have, but the authorities decided to not give me the opportunity to compete. 

I was listening to Pearl Jam and waiting for my Uber in one of the school yards, trying to get rid of these thoughts, when D appeared out of nowhere. She said Hi and then asked me if I was able to be her Thesis advisor. She told me more or less her proposal and she asked for an advice, she wanted to know if that the degree was worth it. I could tell her that this Bachelor's Degree in particular has so many flaws, but I told her positive things. She's too young, why should I spread the truth to her...? 

J appeared later and asked me if it is true that I will not longer continue at this university. I got surprised by the way rumors spread. Sometimes it looks like pupils know things before academics do. I told her that authorities not only decided to not give me the opportunity to compete for the Leadership of the Health Sciences Department but that they don't think that I am necessary for the Department. How's that! I don't believe it! I like your classes so much!, she said. 

The Uber arrived. I felt a kind of bitterness. If someone with a billion dollars appeared out of nowhere and got an interview with the authorities of the university and knew about me, what kind of profile I am, and what kind of profile the Department has, I'm sure he/she would realize the pointlessness of financing anything at the university.

I know that in a few hours I'll be drunk. I will forget everything, I'll have a few blackouts –Gosh, reality it's so unfair and so harsh!– and I'll feel guilty. And upset. And sick. And frustrated. But, to be honest, nothing's wrong with me. Just like I realized in high school that the girls I fall in love with were square-minded, now I've realized the same thing: authorities are square-minded.

The World Is A Vampire

8: 33. Sometimes life is a deep breath into the unknown, but, for many people, is just a glimpse, or a brief dive into a bathub. They are on the surface of everything, and, for example, ask you "What have you done to be recognized?”, but they only have kids and awful lives and seem to be convinced of their moral superiority. Or they buy cars, and fight to death for a spot in a parking lot. Or they travel around the world and they need to tell it to the entire world, as if the experience of taking many planes around the world, automatically could turn on the darkness of their minds, when they don't have a single personal opinion or thought about nothing... In the same way, some guys despise the government and make public statements against the government in their podcasts, which they record in their fancy Apple devices', in their nice apartments by the beach, at their small studios in which they collect signature guitars on the walls, just for hobbie. Other adults behave like geniuses with revolutionary ideas, when they only make a living of taking photographs of semi-naked women in underwear, which pretend to seduce the camera for pleasure, for money, for virality... or for all of them. It doesn't matter what's their worst experience: they seem to believe that their lives are tough and special —that they have real jobs and that they make an extraordinary effort to keep their jobs—, and so they make tough (and deep) declarations against the government, or anyone which they perceive to be an obstacle to them, from their very small perspective —totally brainwashed by their “smart” friends and gurus—, and they act like victims and survivors of their particular poverty (mental...?) That's the way we employ social networks. If you don't share it, it didn't happen.

Runny Nose And Runny Yolk

We're about to leave the city. 

As I'm blogging, my wife is waiting for the moving truck.

The apartment is a disaster. 

There are boxes everywhere.

The cats are so freak out. 

I'm web surfing on a Samsung tablet, sit on an old easychair. 

It's one of the few furnishings available. Everything else is wrapped on plastic.

The first thing I did today was to caugh. 

I feel dizzy and ill. 

In the whole year I never got sick, but I had to get sick precisely now. 

I would like to rest the entire day, but I'll have to be awake. 

Our new house is about an hour and a half from here. 

Things have to be done.
I prefer to be sick right now than to be healthy and unemployed the entire next year.

This is the price I have to pay. 

The last six months I was looking for a better job.

I was about to quit and to give a different direction to my career. 

A month ago, out of nowhere, my boss told me about a potential opportunity. 

We're moving to Lerma. I got a new job. 

It's going to be the best job I ever had. 

It's better to have a sick day than to have a dark future.

In The Someday, What's That Sound? 

Ella Se Quedó Sin Boda Ni Arroz

Short before I received my PhD, my wife and I had to move from the apartment where we used to live. It was a small place, but it was located in a nice neighborhood. People was nice and respectful. They never had noisy parties late at night. They didn't listen up awful music at a very high volume. They didn't mistreat pets. 

We had to move to a cheaper place 'cause our homemade was about to increase the rental and we wouldn't have enough money to pay it. My scholarship was about to finish, and we didn't want to acquire debts. Even when my advisor believed that I was not a truly productive guy -not to mention that he was convinced that I didn't have my own ideas-, all I wanted to do was to publish more papers than I needed it to get my degree, and so I ran out of time. I could focus on the writing of my doctoral thesis to obtain my degree as soon as possible, but I wanted to have more papers as first author. 

(So far, I'm the only one of his graduates with the record of more papers published as first author -as a student, obviously-, in his lab).

Fortunately, my wife also had a job -then she worked in a maritime import and export company- and we survived for almost a year with our savings and her money. 

From that time, when we moved here, I had to put up with my advisor and his crazy mood changes for almost half a year more. 

He wanted me to stay in the lab endlessly, with a ridiculous salary. 

It wasn't even the third part of the rental I had to pay month after month. 

We moved in here, on August, 2013. 

This apartment is located in a cheap neighborhood, just a miles away from the airport and one of the biggest avenues of the city. You can hear the planes crossing the sky all the time. 
You are immerse in the horrendous city traffic all the time.

We live in the 5th floor. Since there are many factories near the building, heavy trucks circulate along the avenue all the time. When this happens, the building moves and it feels like if you were in the middle of a slight earthquake. 

Sadly, you get used to all these issues. 

Also, people is noisy and disrespectful in this neighborhood. They have noisy parties and they force you to listen to their loud music all the time. The rule seems to be that "adults" have at least a couple of kids, at least one car and at least one pet. The rule seems to be that they throw the trash in the street and that they mistreat all human beings. They behave like if the most important thing in the world was to reproduce and to have a car. 

My wife got the apartment for us. She knew someone who used to live in this building. 
One of my wife's friends is the owner. 

Due to the terrible stress I had to deal with in the lab for almost my entire postgraduate studies -my advisor seemed to be a very gentle and a nice guy, but when I published my first paper he became aggressive and tried to humiliate me as much as he could-, I started to use drugs. 

For almost three years, I used to smoke pot and tobacco and to drink alcohol, desperately.
I needed a maintenance dose of everything.

I used drugs in such an awful way, that I ended up with health problems. 

Apart from that health issues, several times I developed psychosomatic dermatitis and I was about to have a nervous breakdown. 

When my wife and I moved to this apartment, I was almost an alcoholic. 
I drank and smoked on a daily basis, to the point I couldn't stop nor do anything else if I hadn't drank or smoked. I was tired and depressed all the time. I had some sort of purple haze within my brain, like that Jimmy Hendrix' song. 

   
A few months after we arrived to this apartment, the owner of the apartment moved with us. 
She lived with us for almost half a year. She's younger than my wife -she's the youngest of her friends- and she had a very close relationship to her parents. 

She needed a place to live in 'cause her parents had moved away from the city and she just had been accepted to study in the School of Medicine. It was her second career. 

All my life I have been a lonely guy and drug abuse had strengthened my need to be alone. 
So, when that woman moved to live with us, it was a truly complicated situation to me.

(It was so complicated, that I couldn't even write in the entire period she lived with us. Not a single story, nor anything else. I even left my blogs). 

Almost on a daily basis, her parents visit her in the apartment. 

Sometimes, they even came to the apartment with her sister and her small son. Everyday was like a cozy Sunday breakfast. 

The worst of all was that they -the entire family- never warned us -not to my wife, not to me- that they would go to the apartment. They simply did as they pleased. 

I couldn't stop thinking that they just didn't care about me. I felt that I was invisible and that my opinion was useless, but -as it happened with all the annoying issues related to the neighborhood- I had to get used to it. 
I had to adapt to their lifestyle. 

(Wasn't it too abusive?) 

After an ordinary day in the lab -then I had a pos doc position at Universidad Autónoma Metropolitana-, I got home, wanting to drink and to smoke, or wanting to write and to listen garage punk , or wanting to read a book in silence, or wanting to play the guitar, or wanting to watch porno -in resume, wanting to do all the things that I was used to do for almost 6 years, the time my wife and I were married and living together- but the apartment was, as I mentioned, some sort of a cozy Sunday breakfast. 

My personal space was occupied. 
My wife's friend settled in my studio, so I couldn't use it.
When she wasn't slept, she was talking in there with her sister and her mother. 
They came precisely when my wife wasn't home. 

Her father was watching TV in the living room. Even if I tried to focus on writing -and to avoid alcohol and tobacco, 'cause the small nephew of my wife's friend was running everywhere and I didn't feel free to use drugs-, her father insisted to talk to me.

(Apparently, he thought I was wasting my time on Facebook, or something like that.) 

It was a truly complicated period to me. 

Not just for these issues, but 'cause them never had seen me as an adult.

They don't even know, nor care about what I do -I suppose they think that I'm like a teacher in high school-, but they were always speaking of the father of the kid and all the amazing things he did in his job. 

I still don't have kids nor a car, and apparently they think that both things make you an adult.  

When I finally had a moment alone, I drank as crazy and I tried to write, or play music, in my studio. But my wife's friend was kind of distracted and dirty, and she used to left her underwear lying on the floor or on her bed. 

If I was really high at that time, I couldn't stop having impure thoughts.
I had to quit writing and to left the studio immediately.
Her underwear put me really mad and furious. 
Couldn't focus on anything else but her underwear. 

My wife's friend left the apartment almost three years ago. 
Obviously her family stopped making a Sunday breakfast on a daily basis in the apartment. 
Drug abuse provoked me a gastric problem, to the point I had to have surgery.
I feel free, again. 
I returned to my lonely habits -except that I don't drink nor smoke- and I stopped arguing with my wife.

(We had a lot of problems, when her friend's family used to come on a daily basis to the apartment). 

Last night, out of nowhere, I had a weird dream.
I was at the University and suddenly my wife's friend appeared. 
She dressed her classical lab coat of a student of the School of Medicine.
She smiled and then invited me to the movie theatre. 

I asked here if I could invite my wife, too. 
She said "No" 'cause she didn't want to worry her. 
Even though I thought she was flirting, I accepted.

When we were about to watch the movie, she stared at me.
We were sitting next to each other, almost in front of the screen.
The flashes on the screen illuminated my wife's friend's face.
Her lips were so fleshy and her eyes were possessed by desire. 
I thought she was about to kiss me, but she just put one of her legs around one of mine.
The touch drove me wild. It was like an electric trim. 
Her leg was warm and it made me feel so excited and guilty.
I woke up. 

Dunno why, but I remember my wife's friend each time I hear one song of Clics Modernos.
I'm almost able to see her dancing while the music elapses.
Mainly with the first chords of the song.

This is the song:

Nos Siguen Pegando Abajo 

Love Myself Better Than You

A month ago, I was sick. Thursday morning, I had an interview outside the city. I woke up early that day. I was nervous, but fine. Basically, I had to speak about my own research to some peers. Every time I have to do something like this, I feel anxious and kind of stressed. The interview happened as I expected, I felt smart enough, but immediately, as I took the car to return to the city, I started to sneeze, as If I just got the flu. My eyes watered all the time. I could not breathe at all. I had a headache, and I was, from one minute to another, surprisingly weak. I had a meeting in the evening -a celebration for the year that it is about to finish-, and I really wanted to go, but at that point I felt so sick that all I was able to do, was to rest in bed.

I had a terrible night. My nose was full of snot all the time, and I started to have sore throat. All night long I was feeling bad, and I could not sleep at all. I did not want to be as sick as I was a month ago. At the beginning, I thought it was a sort of allergie, but after that terrible night, I was convinced I was about to become ill, again.

The physician told me that maybe it was an allergie, but also that it might be possible that my immune system is a disaster. As I leave the city a morning before, I was close to a nurse, and all the week I was close to a guy who got the flu. Damm it. It is possible that I was stressed enough to ignore the illness, but as I stopped being stressed the illness came out. 

I have spent the last three days in bed, and now I feel better but weak. I still cannot breathe completely well. I cough terribly once in a while. I have experiments to do, and I am afraid to get worse if I leave my house and expose myself to pollution. The last time I was sick, I was in bed for almost two weeks. 

via GIPHY

I really hate most people. Most of them are irresponsible, when they cough and sneeze freely without any precaution. They do not seem to give a fuck if they infect someone else. On the other hand, it is amazing that viruses run freely in the wind. They are invisible, but could be letal. People fears of God, but they should be afraid of Nature. 

I am so fragile -my health is so fragile- that I cannot stop thinking why does it seem too damn difficult to wear a scarfe or anything else to cover up your mouth when you are fucking sick.

On A Plain (Unplugged)

On A Plain (Nevermind)

I See You Shaking In The Light, Reading The Headline News

On December 4th, it was 6 months after my surgery. It has been a very low recovery. I've been nauseating and weak most of the time. Sometimes, I'm just tired of eating the same food everyday and avoiding anything else I like.

Physicians have told me to be patient. And warned me to not drink alcohol -or to do any other drug- in excess, ever again. Supposedly, I also have a weird heart condition and I can't smoke anymore. It's easy for them, to ask me things like that. But I cannot even drink a cup of coffee, neither eat a cheesecake nor bacon, without becoming ill.

I don't believe in God, so praying is not an option to ignore my  disease. I still don't have kids, so becoming a daddy it's not an option for getting better. I just like things that put me sad, like literature and music. I used to enjoy to be alone, but now it's sort of a hell. I try to do all the things I like, and that I'm able to do, as much as possible, but sometimes it is frustrating to feel nauseating in the middle of a reading or while I am listening music.

I love to hear live music. Sometimes I still feel ill in the middle of a show, too. And it sucks. Sometimes, when I write, I'm so sick that I cannot stop writing about anything but illnesses. When I read, I try to not focus on melancholy. But it's impossible.

Anyway, on Sunday 4th, I went to a show. Lee Ranaldo was about to play with another musicians in Mexico City. They formed a band to play live music for Georges Méliès' short films. Sonic Youth is one of my favorite bands, so I couldn't miss the opportunity to hear Lee Ranaldo's live music, again.

Before the show, in the mezzanine of the Auditorio Blackberry, I bought Acoustic Dust and The Rising Tide and when I did it, a guy told me that Lee would signed up some albums shortly after the show. I didn't think of it a lot, but as I was just right in front of Lee when he played, I was determined to make him to signed up one of the albums I bought.

When the show finished, I was so nervous. Lee is one of my favorite musicians, and I couldn't believe it would be possible to get close to him in order to get his autograph. I really love his music and his lyrics, and I can't say anymore.

In a few minutes, the mezzanine was full of guys looking for a photo with Lee and I thought that I couldn't even get closer to him. It was a little bit chaotic, and I had to get rid of some guys.

I realized Lee was asking their names to the fans, so I got even more nervous. When I arrived close to him, I was shaking. So, to avoid a confusion, I told him "I'm Marcel, like Proust..." and he smiled and told me "Like Duchamp, too"

My wife took the photographs, and Lee was a very nice guy. I still can't believe it.

Wish Fulfillment

Your Purple Prose Just Gives You Away

I just hate sickness. For the last two years and a half,  I've been constantly medicated. Almost eighteen months ago, on May 17th, 2015, I smoke my last cigarrette. On April 20th, 2016, I drank my last beer in a Guns N' Roses show. I have a balanced diet -meat, fruits and vegetables included- on a daily basis. I don't drink soda nor sweet beverages. I avoid palatable food and desserts. If I eat something so crazy -as Chop Suey, or regular cheese, or a small slice of a chocolate cake!-, I feel immediately ill. 

I start to suffocate with my saliva and with deleterious vapours coming from the upper part of my esophagous. It really sucks. Just my wife seems to imagine how I feel. 
People often underestimate my health problem. They always seem to believe that I am being dramatic -that I just experienced a silly transient stomach pain-, but it really is annoying and weakening. If I really had been overreacting, physicians would not had proceeded with a surgery. 

No matter what, I feel sick almost all the time. A week ago, I was recovering from a pharyngotonsillitis. Now, I've got the flu. Of course I went to the physician both times. When I'm not sick in this way, I feel nauseating.

What else can I do? 

I wish I could be healthy, as I was when I was a teenager.  When I got sick, I didn't even need to take drugs. All I mattered about was idleness, music, literature and girls. I miss the comfort in being healthy. I don't even remember how it was.  

I am nostalgic about the first years of highschool. Rappers were trendy, and there was a band called EMF. They had a song called Unbelievable. They sounded rapper and rocker at the same time, and I liked them. I had a crush on a girl that liked NKOTB, and I always thought of her when I heard EMF. She could be my girlfriend, but I never asked her on a formal date. 

I remember how simple it was to go to the movies. When Tim Burton's Batman came out, my parents took me to the movie theater. I was completely amazed by the darkness and beauty of the film. It was a little violent, too. And cryptic. Now, I have to leave the cinema when I feel about to threw up. 

You don't know the boundaries of normality until your not a normal guy. 


Unbelievable

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

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.

Here Comes Sickness

A week ago I was almost recovering from pharyngotonsillitis. Tuesday and Wednesday, I was OK. Thursday and Friday, I felt nauseating to the point I had to stayed home on Friday. On Saturday I went to a second check up, and the physician told me that nausea was originated from the antibiotic intake in combination with gastroesophageal reflux, and gave me some other drugs to control it. 

Saturday afternoon I was exposed to cold for a few minutes, and started to feel sick again by night. Sunday morning, I kinda got the flu. Monday I was unable to work again, and now I feel terrible. I have a sore throat and I'm sneezing a lot. At this time, I feel sick of being myself. 

I wish I could avoid reality, thru dreaming, but I can't breathe normally. I envy your health.

For now, I think life is staring at palatable food, but unable to smell it nor eating, under a fasting condition. Life is also having hallucinatory-like dreams, under an insomniac-like state. 

Oh, You Know That I'd Do Anything For You

My grandfather had a birthday party when my brother told me he knew someone who could give us a cat. His friend had an older cat with kittens, and she couldn't take care of all of them. We just had had a French Puddle, and it really hadn't been a good experience, so I had no idea if having a cat would be different. Nevertheless, I was sort of enthusiastic 'cause I had seen alot of kittens and I thought they were interesting and mysterious. I felt attracted to cats, 'cause they always seemed involved in honest playfulness or boredom. Certainly, cats were not like a noisy, smelly and dependant dog. 

Once I was kind of convinced by my brother, we started to talk to our parents. When they were kids, they were more the kind of kids with dogs, so I thought it would be difficult to convince them of having a cat. Besides, we didn't take a good care of that French Puddle we had. 

Surprisingly, my father was enthusiastic, too. He told us that, among several dogs, he had had a little cat when he was a kid, and he immediately asked us "How are you gonna' call it? Is it a male or a female?" My mother wasn't sure at all. "You're not going to take care of that cat. You didn't do it when you had a dog", said. After all, she was right. We didn't care, or even got sad, when one of her friends took away Cookie from us.

After a long discussion, we decided to call it "Socrates", and I don't remember exactly why. I think I wanted to name it "Kerouac" or "Hitchcock", or something like that, but my brothers just thought those names were so pretentious.

Socrates was an amazing cat. He looked like a tiger and he was so intrepid. In a few hours, he learned how to climb up the stairs. He was really too connected to me. Early in the morning, he just scratched the door of my bedroom to wake me up and asked me to feed him. Standard food was available for him all the time, but I just gave him palatable food every morning. 

I opened the door and he started to purr and allowed me to touch him. He used to sleep in my bedroom all day long, and I remember being writing or reading a thousand times, while Socrates just stared at me with his sleepy gray-yellow-blue eyes. Somehow, he seemed to know how much I loved my books, 'cause, even when he scratched or bit everything, he didn't touch them. 

Socrates grew up too fast, and started to run away from home. He learned how to run away after three or four months since he arrived home, and I thought it was the most natural thing to happen. He used to dissapear for days and then to returned thin, starved and dirty. He ate desperately and slept for hours. 

At the age of six months or so, we decided to neuter him. It was thruly sad. He changed alot. It was like if he were angst and couldn't understand why in the hell we had done to him so. 

When he recovered from surgery, he became more rebel and intolerant than he ever was, and he started to run away from home more frequently than before. One night, Socrates went away and never returned. For months, I couldn't stop thinking how would it be for him, if he could survive. I didn't want to believe that it might be possible that he was already death. It was awful. I felt terrible. 

via GIPHY

After almost ten years, I still miss him. He was my best first friend. 

A dog-lover would say it was karma, for not taking care of that French Puddle. 

WHAT else do they know?

You're A Shooting Star

I had just finished packing my luggage. I was exhausted, and indescribably sad, ready to go to the O'Hare Airport and then to return to Mexico City. My labmates were slept, and I just watched them as I kinda thought of my life. It was a dismal environment, almost sickening. 

I started to listen One In A Million thru my headphones. The song put me nostalgic. It had been my first time in USA. The annual meeting for the Society for Neurosciences had been amazing. Never thought it would be as big an intense, as it actually was. Lab colleagues had warned me about it, but I just thought they had been dramatic. I even spoke to Eric Kandel, or, more precisely, he asked me if I knew where could he check in and pick up his bag and his badge. He came closer to me, as I was about to buy some tea in a Starbucks in the McCormick Place, when he did it. When I told him what to do, pronouncing my best english, and he said "Thanks" and walked away, people watched me, as if they were thinking "Why did Kandel talked to him?", or "Why he didn't asked him for a photograph?" I knew my advisor would kill for that opportunity.

For a while, I interpreted the presence of Kandel in my life, in that precise moment, as a reminder of my compromise with science. Sometimes during my postgraduate studies, I realized that maybe I wasn't too smart, or too commited with science, to become a real 24/7 scientist. I didn't like all the topics in neurosciences -even though I assumed I had to learn and comprehend the basics-, and many times I preferred to read a novel or to write a short story rather than read or write a scientific paper.

Under the dismal atmosphere on that Hilton room, as one of my labmates snored over and over again, I thought it had been an exciting trip, but anyway I felt alone and dumb. Close my eyes and tried to focus on the lyrics of that Guns N' Roses' song, and then I felt I was kinda an immigrant and a fagot at the same time, while waiting for a Greyhound to travel to LA and hoping that the travel induced a great change in my life. As that annual meeting progressed, I started to consider that my poster -the resume of my academic work until then- was insignificant, as compared to the standard posters of other postgraduate students, obviously supported for first world science. I wanted to cry. It was frustrating.   

Day after day, I woke up early, took a shower, had breakfast in a nice restaurant called The Bakery Shop, and then I took the official bus to the McCormick Place. I attended the meeting from 8 am to 17 or 18 pm and I returned to the Hilton hotel, everyday, while I was on Chicago. The day it was my poster session, I stayed there the whole period, almost 4 hours, or so. I met asian, european and african scientists and, obviously, US residents and scientists. Japanese seemed interested in my poster, but as I asked them if they wanted me to explain it to them, they just ran away. "We do not tell english well", said one of them. 

Women were beautiful. They were from all over the world. I was only married a year, or so. Maybe less than it. Definitely I will always like women, and I felt kind of guilty when I was looking at those gorgeous women from all over the world, considering what would I do if I had the opportunity to have an affair with one of them. 

As we walked to the subway and took almost an hour to get to the airport, I watched the suburbs of Chicago and thought of the crimes of Al Capone and the italian mobs.  

I was excited for the experience, but sad. I couldn't even meet the Aragon Ballroom nor the Metro. Chicago seemed a beautiful and great city to me, but I just ran that very last day, early in the morning, to meet the Soldier Field. 

I found out that my work was meaningless. I guess I never recovered from that impression. 

One In A Million