a night at the movies

So we went to see a movie, they were playing Shame. We had been trying to get together for a while, her best friend had told me she was just waiting for me to make the move. It was a perfect chance to be crazy, the theater was empty and alone we could just give up to each other. The theater was old and dirty, the floor was full of trash and darkness concealed it all, we felt we could breath. We sat on the top seats, but due to the layout of the place, we had the entrance to our backs, you would be getting very nervous about this. But this would help avoid most prying eyes. The movie started and we had a full on view Michael Fassbender, the man was naked in an impressive way. It was not what we expected and we laughed about it, as the first five minutes were obscured by that, well, big dick. The balls were nothing to write home about though.

After a few minutes, I looked around just to be sure, and then took your hand and put your arm around me. We looked into each other, there we were naked as always, that would be a problem, but tonight it only led me to your lips. Neither small or big, but pink and sweet, like an ice cream Sunday with a hint of chocolate. So while scenes of sex played along, we took each other in, our tastes so personal; your lips wet, I’m kind of a sloppy kisser luckily just enough to not disgust you, our tongues casually acquainted. A bite of your lips and you leaned back, all the space I needed to put my hands on your subtle breasts.

I love your boobs, though tiny or like you said sometimes, lacking, they pound with your heart and I can feel you growing anxious, the layers of cloth between be dammed. I slowly move my right hand down your flat stomach and stop to play with your blouse.  Deftly I open the top button of your jeans and slowly creep down to my favorite spot. The movie now played indifferent, I think by this time Michael had already tried to fuck a coworker with no success. But I was getting somewhere, feeling you shaved and slowly going towards your lips. 

My fingers already know their way to their home tonight. You finally get nervous about the fact we can’t really see the door, but a bite of your lips and a flip of our tongues make you ignore the fear. Yet your heart pounds harder, and I don’t need my hand to feel it, I know you’re excited about it. I play with your lips and I can’t find your clit for a moment, but then I let my fingers do the work and it’s theirs; you moan into my kiss and I want to bite your lips again but I stop.

Slowly I stick my finger between those lips; my fingers call it home, because tonight you let it be mine. In this game, ownership is fiction, but you play none the less and encourage the fantasy. I can feel you slowly getting wet, my finger working hard, and I bring my hand up. I have to taste you. I lean back and look into your eyes, I feel so naked to them. It scares me sometimes, and I just touch my lips to taste. It’s not sweet or sour, bland or salty, it’s just you. You lean into me and pull my hand down, taking over for my hesitation. You and my fingers apparently don’t really need me. Your crotch is warm and moist, I rub, hard and your little moans fill my lungs. I love your quiet excitement, how you just let the moment come, your heart screams but your lips keep quiet.

And then I can see the lights turn on, your eyes still closed need a second more and we lean away. You grab my hand, and I offer you my fingers, you lick them and give up one final kiss. By that time the door had opened and a man was behind us, asking us to leave. We just got up quickly and walked fast towards my car. There I grab your arms and pull you in, we kiss again, I can still find your taste on those lips. And we start laughing, even if you were a little angry, we can’t stop laughing like teenagers who’d just been caught. That’s the moment I feel in love and fucked everything up.

randomness

I tried to write about depression, since being so down as of late got me thinking I might be depressed. So I started off with something pretty simple, exactly like this: “Is depression like a woman’s orgasm? You don’t know if you’ve had one until you’ve had one? Ok, maybe that’s not really funny, but it’s not supposed to. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, “Everyone occasionally feels blue or sad. But these feelings are usually short-lived and pass within a couple of days. When you have depression, it interferes with daily life and causes pain for both you and those who care about you. Depression is a common but serious illness”. Ok, so by these guidelines I can’t really say I have ever been depressed. But that’s talking about major depression, but there’s also Dysthymic disorder, or dysthymia…”, so yeah it does sound sooo dull, and if you look at it, think it through, and look at yourself, fuck, we’re all sort of depressed. 

So I thought about it, and decided that the best thing was that I should write about being happy. So yesterday’s post was about that particular subject and my not totally uncommon ideas about that, not a bad idea considering I was feeling down, right? I think it’s always best to think about the opposite of how you’re feeling. I guess the distance from the more intimate knowledge of the feeling gives you some perspective. It is easier to hone in those rare moments when everything else is gloom. The do tend to shine over the rest.

But sometimes those happy memories can be painful to the reflective mind. That’s why some might choose to just go on, you know, just continue and leave all the shit the mind might accumulate behind. It’s kind of like mental “fat”, it’s just this thing I read about on a sports column, I think Pat Riley said something about that. The idea was that mental fat accumulated after accomplishing stuff, be it complacency or just plain old laziness, it was all the bad shit we start to carry as we age. I see it as those we lost, those we loved and didn’t love us back, and those we care about even if they forget about us; maybe it’s all the mistakes we think we’ve made in life, plus all the regrets of stuff we didn’t do. 

I personally don’t really believe in regret, because all of my mistakes have led me somewhere. While I do regret not having the consistency to follow through with a lot of stuff, I am trying to do something about it. So that’s the whole idea of this, writing anything, even the dumbest crap I can drop on the web. The truth I’ve wasted a lot of time not really working towards my goals. So while I might find it forgivable to not know what you want to do with your life and go on that way for a long time, I find myself on the opposite edge, having known for a long time what I’ve wanted to do, and failing again and again to do it. 

“I can’t stand her eyes looking at me, I feel naked, vulnerable, and it’s all because she knows the truth”; and that she can be anything, in my case, it could be a person or just a reflection of a memory left behind. But I’ll just keep on writing; maybe I’ll just end up finding myself somewhere else again tomorrow. Self-discovery can be a long and crazy road, kind of like a bad trip to and Andean city. Enjoy the ride.

Horst’s Diaries entry 1 ver 2

Horst’s Diaries

…Antonio Zeno was the eldest son of an Italian family with a long sea fairing tradition. His name, given to him by his grandfather, came by him through an ancestor, the allegedly true discoverer of America. He loved the sea from the first time his father took him to fish on the family dingy. On the other hand he inherited his interest in archeology from his mother’s great grandfather, who had visited the Egyptian pyramids while serving under Napoleon. 

He had a lot in common with his father, especially in his angular face. Their sharp jaws covered in shaggy black beards played perfectly with their physical nature. Like him, he had also lost interest early on in the world of academia, choosing to leave home at 15 to become a sailor, and by his 23rd birthday he became captain of his own ship, the Scylla...

March 15, 1xxx

… Since I had been in a rush to arrive to our meeting. Today I had the interesting pleasure of meeting a young captain named Zeno.  My office window looked out to the bay, and the rain hid most of the horizon from my sight. Most of the ships had been docked until the storm broke, and Zeno’s Scylla was one of the few still braving the maelstrom. I knew the boy’s father; we had been partners in a couple of expeditions to southern Africa over 20 years ago. But that had been a long time ago, during my late thirties I had been somewhat of an amateur archeologist and history buff, fancying myself as something of a sleuth. But that rainy afternoon, young Antonio came to me with some interesting project of his own. Antonio had a particular style, with a long overcoat, beige with deep pockets from which he produced a couple of notebooks. 

He started talking about a German explorer, Horst Zeiller, who had been presumed lost after an expedition to Greenland had vanished without a trace. I vaguely remembered hearing about this man, and was quite intrigued by the young sailor’s tale. He didn’t give me a chance to examine the books, smart boy. He talked about a man who had some very outrageous theories of the discovery of America, something about the tribe of his mother’s ancestors, Magnusians he called them. He believed that this tribe had in the year 913, led by a man the diaries called Ulfrd Gunnbjörn, his ancestor. Then he dropped it on me, after years of research Horst had discovered a link between these first settlers and an expedition of Temple Knights in the year 1306. The boy knew my weaknesses no doubt with his father’s help. 

So his plan was to complete the missing parts of the diaries continuing with Zeiller’s travels, and both him with Scylla and his father with Charybdis. They needed me to finance part of the expedition and to be the diaries’ decipherer. I was intrigued to say the least; the potential of any discovery besides Columbus had immense consequences, but the link with the knights? And the date 1307? A fundamental year, because that was the year when King Philip used all of his power to eradicate the order with the intent to clear his considerable debt with them; abusing his power over the church, he managed to discredit and eventually disband them. Since childhood I heard about the amazing riches the Knights of the Temple left that the evil King of France was never able to find. 

Those stories were told to me by my grandfather, Alphonse Turpó, a French immigrant who painted boats for a living, drank his life away and died poor, in my parents’ attic telling me these stories. The mix of fantasy and history excited my imagination. I remember one day I got home from school and ran up the 32 steps between the entrance and his little room. He was sitting against the backboard of the bed, a greenish gray, like a green turkey, with his eyes fixed on the high little window. That little window let a little of the salty air into his musky room, and that afternoon it was dank I could barely breath. I sat on his lap and he never moved. A few hours later my mother came in and panicked. I always thought it was because she hated the old man. I never realized he was dead. I was just 9 years old.

Readers note: Most of Mr. Julio Viteri’s notes became lost after the Charybdis sank near Cape Horn, they were discovered in a makeshift camp in Tierra del Fuego, there 3 tents partially remained, but no bodies were ever found. He had been last heard of as being part of an expedition to Greenland on the Demeter, looking for traces of earlier European settlements in America. Because most papers were lost or damaged due to water, investigators have only been able to piece around half of his travel diaries.

happiness

Happiness

I talked a few days ago about feelings, but I didn’t talk about happiness, at least I’m pretty sure about that. So happiness, happiness, shit where do you start with that? I guess you can say they are moments, like everyone says. Or it’s about attitude when facing things, a general outlook on life. Or it can be just something. I don’t think you can always be happy, maybe content is more of an appropriate all the time feeling.

 I think it’s interesting that the happiest moments in our lives are not a constant stream that drowns us. Don’t get me wrong I’d love to be happy 24 hours and 7 days a week. But maybe we need to ration those moments, least we start to lose appreciation for those. Maybe that’s being a little bitchy or there’s a beautiful Spanish phrase for this, come mierda or a shit eater. I like it, it conveys so many things so easily, you can say it about a person who loves to start trouble; or a person who likes to see others as miserable as them. And more, it’s so very versatile. 

I know people can make you happy, sometimes I don’t know if it’s the time we spend together or just being with them that makes. I’m partial to both, so I guess it has to be a mix of both. When we are with people we like, we can create happy memories doing anything. Or maybe, sometimes I doubt all of these things, especially because I’m not very good with other people, I don’t think of myself of as a curmudgeon, more of a selective recluse? Or a partial hermit? There are so few people that I actually enjoy spending time with, it’s too bad I don’t have a chance to spend more time with them, or at all with some.

For example, I had this trip with a couple of friends to Cuenca. For starters the trip was a mess, we had car trouble on the way and I’m pretty sure we got lucky to actually make it to the city. And to make matters worse, I had the greatest idea ever to go to these old Incan ruins. This 40 minute trek ended up being something like a 3 hour odyssey. Not to make too much more of it, if it wasn’t because of two very understanding and cool friends, I would have probably had the worst time ever. 

Sometimes I also think about how people talk with such wonder of meeting a particular person. I know I said people can make even the least enjoyable of times, fun, but even if I have had people who’ve marked my life in even a small way, I don’t ever think of a memorable meeting. I’m not sure that came out right though, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t believe those meet cute stories. I’ve met people in interesting ways, but the people who mean the most to me I’ve met in just really mundane ways. So for me it’s more like you create memories and those influence the way we remember the past we share with these people. So tainted memories of the past, influenced by the present, yeah, those surely are the foundations of our stories and our future angst and pain. 

Intro

“…I just had to look, having read the book...”

A Day in The Life, The Beatles

“… La nación se despierta con gran tristeza por los acontecimientos sucedidos, hoy poco antes del medio día…”

“…los infaustos hechos acaecidos esta mañana en el campus universitario…”

“… tres disparo al pecho y dos a la cabeza, ha caído muerto en el lugar del hecho…”

“…el pánico se extendió entre los presentes que aun al ser calmados por miembros de la guardia privada del lugar, entorpecieron la labor…”

“… a caído el tirano, el pueblo se ha revelado…”

“…no hay noticias de otras víctimas mortales, entre los heridos se cuentan…”

“… Abogado Miguel Ángel Pretina, de cincuenta y dos años, los últimos cinco ejerciendo…”

“…Esta mañana ha muerto un patriota, al que nadie llorara, nadie olvidara y nadie perdonara…”

“… ha triunfado la revolución, la real revolución ciudadana…”

“… la policía no tiene pistas, tampoco ha sospechosos al…”

“… se sospecha que la ejecución fue llevada a cabo…”

“… se cree que fue un solo hombre, miembro de la…”

“…un héroe anónimo, imposible rendirle más honores, la falsa revolución tiene a su mártir pero nos han entregado al nuestro…”

“…criterios divergentes sobre los motivos del homicidio, quedan muchas dudas sobre la identidad de…”

“…se allana a todos los cargos, sorprendiendo al país, recordemos que fue parte de…”

“… El juicio ha terminado con un veredicto de culpable, el cabecilla del atentado del presidente ha sido sentenciado…”

“… ejecución a llevarse a cabo, la mañana del 3 de diciembre del año, los demás…”

“… en otras noticias, una explosión sacudió el sector de Los Ceibos, un departamento…”