Suicide Blonde Was The Color Of Her Hair

We lived for years in an apartment. 

When we moved to our own house, somedays, after classes, mom used to go to therapy with one of my brothers. My brother had some troubles with his cruel classmates, as he had a severe dermatitis and everyone was joking about his appearance. 

He's younger than me and he's always been a strong boy, but then he needed to understand kids were stupid. Girls were his only friends and boys thought he was a fragile kid and were jealous about him.  

The therapist's office was at the other extreme of the city, and mom and he spent all the afternoon away from home. 

Dad was at his job –he's a chemist and then he worked at a company located at the boundaries of the city– and later he picked them up at the therapist's office and the three of them arrived home late at night.

In that occasions, my smaller brother and I stayed at home.
Even when this visit to the therapist's office occurred twice per month and it lasted just a few hours, it was an important issue to me. I felt I was an adult taking care of his smaller brother. 

Although I was in Junior high school –I was a teenager– and I just thought about women and music, I considered my parents trusted me and I didn't want to deceive them. 

My smaller brother was at kindergarden. 
As the kids of his age, he was a playful boy. I was a typical eleven-year old-teenager and I hadn't enough patience to play with him. I no longer liked toys neither jumping and running nor play 'seek and hide'. 

To deal with my smaller brother's energy and playfulness I had to turn on the TV, give him a bunch of candys, and leave him there watching cartoons, but he got bored so soon. 

All I wanted was to be alone –dunno remember what exactly I used to do to enjoy myself, but, maybe, I used to listen music or something like that–, so, when he got bored, I started to ask him what he would liked to do. 

He had a strange bound to a Goofy's movie. Didn't understand why he enjoyed to watch the same movie once and again –psychologists argue that it reinforces knowledge at early stages of life–, but I pleased him. 

We had a couple of TVs, one in the kitchen and another in the living room, but just one Betamax. I put the movie in the VCR and I left him there, in the living room, watching the adventures of Goofy.   

Eventually, in one of those days of therapy, I discovered that my dad had some Playboy magazines. From that day, each time mom brought my brother to his therapy and then my smaller brother and I were left alone at home, all I wanted to do was take a look at those magazines. 

As soon as mom left the house, I asked to my smaller brother if he wanted to watch the Goofy's movie again. Fortunately, he agreed always and then I put the movie in the VCR.

At some point of those therapy days, while I was looking for the Goofy's movie, I found a movie I hadn't ever seen amongst the personal collection of my dad.

Immediately, I got excited and freezed. It was called Basic Instinct. Still don't know how he got it. We were in the autumn of 1992 and I guess the movie was still on cinemas, but he had a personal copy. I'd heard about Basic Instinct. It was difficult to ignored all the fuzz around it. Supposedly it was an intense thriller with explicit sex. Supposedly it had been censored in some countries. 

News said it was an acclaimed Paul Verhoeven's movie, entirely filmed in 1991, with Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas as the leading roles. 

De Georges Biard, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9055138

I thought it was, essentially, as a sex movie. Eventually, I knew I was so wrong.

Catherine Tramell was a stone-cold writer and she was dating Johnny Boz, a retired rockstar. The movie begins when the police finds Boz dead. 

Nick Curran was a detective and he had to find out who had murdered the retired rockstar. He and one of his colleagues found that all the beloved ones and the recent lovers of Catherine Tramell had died in mysterious ways.

As the investigation moves on, Nick Curran gets attracted to Catherine Trammell.
She was a successful, smart, enigmatic and beautiful blonde. 
He suspected that she was involved in the death of Boz, but started to having sex with her.
He became a sex-addict and he lost the objectivity of the criminal case.  

When I found out Basic Instinct in the movies' collection of my dad, I convinced my smaller brother that Goofy's movie was boring and predictable, and made up a false story about the relationship between cartoons and intelligence so that he would be interested in cartoons and I could use the only VCR we had in the living room.

He believed me. I guess he trusted his older brother and that he never thought that I was a jerk-off. 

I turned on the TV in the kitchen and left him there watching silly cartoons. Then I ran to the living room and put Paul Verhoeven's movie in the VCR. 

I was very excited and shaky, feeling that my heart was about to explode. I sat in the floor of the living room, a few millimeters away from the television and the VCR, to remain hidden from my brother's eyesight in case he walked away from the kitchen and then I could turn off the television immediately.

It was the excitement of the movie and the excitement of the situation. 
It was an extreme situation. I didn't want to be discovered by my brother watching an adult film and I also couldn't miss the opportunity to see an adult film. 

The first scene was violent and impressive. 
It was a blurry image in movement, reflected in a mirror.
There were soft and  murmuring sounds, which made me think of a couple having sex. 
It was so cryptic and poetic, attractive and ambiguous. 

When, apparently, both of them were about to have an orgasm, the blonde woman on top of her lover took out an ice pick and stabbed him, nailing him fiercely everywhere. 

The retired rockstar had his hands tied to a bar on the bed, so he just yelled desperately, bled profusely and died. 

There was something about Sharon Stone that I couldn't get rid of for weeks. 

I got obsessed about his beauty and ferocity.

Each time I had the opportunity to watch the film, when my smaller brother and I were left alone at home, I just watched one or two scenes. 
It would have been awkward to watch the entire movie, from the beginning to the end, and it would also have increased the risk of being discovered by my brother. Didn't want to deceive my parents, nor wanted to be responsible of exerting a deleterious influence on an innocent mind. 

In fact, I just watched the entire movie a few years ago.
I would sell out my soul for a month to experience Sharon Stone's world.   

Suicide Blonde - INXS

Winded Is The Sailor... Drifting By The Storm...

I woke up this morning from a vertiginous sleep in which I was a teenager.  

I woke up really sad, missing who I was then.

I could be so indifferent to common issues. I didn't need to socialize, nor tell people who I was in the world to feel comfortable.

I thought guys from my age were silly and older guys thought I was silly, but that was OK.

I really did not care about people, nor I really had an interest on what people thought about me.

I studied Psychology 'cause it was a college career between science and literature (or I thought it was so) and I wanted to be condescendent with my mom and dad. 

Then, besides my dad, I was the second in the entire family -I have two aunts and three uncles, and half of them had sons and daughters older than me- to get to college.

I really wanted to be a writer. I wanted to study Letters and to have a degree in Letters. 

Somehow, since I owned a scholarship in elementary school -mom and dad asked me to reject it in high school 'cause they thought someone else would needed it more than me- due to my academic ratings, my family thought it would be a waste of time if I studied Letters. 

They thought I would die by starvation.

I think I would be happier.  

Since I learned to write, I write. 

I learned it when I was four years old. 

Then, as any other kid, I played with toys, but I enjoyed more to write stories.

I remember myself on a sunny saturday morning waking up and writing immediately about a dream I'd just had. It was a sad dream about Mickey Mouse asking Minnie to divorce him.

Mom and dad were slept and the apartment was so quiet. Maybe I was on the first grade of elementary school. I was an advanced student and I was five years old.

I remember feeling in a cathartic way, thinking that I had never felt so focused and excited.

Writing seemed the deepest human activity of all I knew. 

When I played with toys, I loved to play alone. I made up stories with my toys -the kind of stories I saw on cartoons mixed up with the stories of the soap operas or movies my mom used to watch- and I hated when an intruder destroyed those stories. 

(Mom had a friend and her friend had a boy older than me, and the boy went to our apartment to play with me very frequently. He had a Grayskull Castle and he wanted to stole my toys all the time. He was so abussive. When her mother saw him with my toys, he used to say to her that I'd just gave him away my toys, that it was OK with me. His mom forced him to return the toys, but I was so silly -or maybe I just didn't care enough for toys- that I wasn't angst at all for that issue. I really felt uncomfortable playing with him.)  

After all, I was a happy kid. 

When I was a teenager, I devoted my life to literature and music.  
I really never committed to school, to the point that most of my contemporaries saw me as a retarded with a low IQ. 

Once I tried to get involved in a debate team and one student told me that it was so complicated 'cause "I needed to show some kind of  intelligence". 
I wonder in what kind of man does that guy became.
Certainly, to be a teenager, he was so prejudiced. 

Everything seemed boring and exhausting in high school. 

Then, besides writing songs and poems, I played guitar and I read alot of poetry and novels and I listened alot of garage punk and I fantasized alot about girls I liked. I wrote them poems I never gave to them, and I dreamed of them with me in a movie theater, or places like that. Of course I wanted to have a girlfriend, but it was so difficult to me to get closer to girls in a spontaneous way. Do not why, but I always liked older girls from other classrooms. 

I was so quiet that I seemed so retracted and, perhaps, scary.

But maybe when I was about to finish college, I started to care about what persons thought about me. It was so common to find out arrogant classmates presuming what they knew, what they do and so on. 

I started to look for social recognition, but at the same time -which is pretty childish- I grew up thinking that I was so selfish and egocentric. It was a dilemma, a dichotomy between what I hated it and what I needed it.

(That's why I obtained a PhD?) 

Mom didn't like that I was not affectionate with her, and maybe that's why she always told me that I was so selfish and egocentric. As a consequence, I learned to be as quiet as possible, to the point no one really knows who I am or what I do. Sometimes I even suspect that my wife doesn't even know at all why I feel suddenly so sad or angst.  

On the other hand, alot of guys seem to not understand that a conversation implies at least two persons. To listen up everyone around me and to not have the opportunity to be listened up is exhausting.

At this point I'm so frustrated. I think I'm useless.
I have no power to get out of bed. I would like to sleep forever. 
I finish this year being a coward. 

Sometimes I'd just love to yell who I am or what I do, but I must be patient.

Tremor Christ