this is what i do at work

They pay me money to do this.


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That one time I met Fernando Pessoa

I was in Paris when I saw Fernando Pessoa. It happened in a bar at Belleville, at Rue du Faubourg du Temple, where I was killing time and waiting for a Alba. It seemed strange, because Pessoa never left Lisbon. When I went up and asked for a light, he seemed almost frightened. I asked his name, Ricardo Reis, he said. Of course, I thought. So, my name turned out to be Manuela Bonifacino, and I'm from Italy. Neither of us were fooled, but our delusions were bordering on maniacal.
He was a doctor and I was a patient. I started talking without waiting for answers, but secretly willing them. He drank the cheapest wine, his sad grey outfit screamed everything but worldly. I drank jack on the rocks, which is not the way of italian ladies. I talked loudly and complained about the weather and the men whispering cat calls in the 13th arrondissement. The bartender, a matronly-looking woman eyed us and complimented us free drinks from time to time. The wood counter was discolored from too many years of wiping, but it still looked greasy.
He interjected and told me that my incessant complaining about the italian government was tiresome, and that I should learn to mind my manners. He called me young and irreverent, his voice full of disdain, as if about to hurl. As I talked, he got more and more agitated, and interrupted me more often, until the only voice heard was his. Ricardo, the monarchist, complained about my outfit and my hairstyle. He wondered what kind of education they were imparting upon me, and I am pretty sure he called me stupid, although I didn't understand most of his insults. After a while, he asked me what I was doing.
“Waiting for Alba”, I said. He must have noticed something in my voice. I had changed, of course. I was no longer Manuela, because I had made her up to match his Ricardo. I really was waiting for Alba, but I didn't mind the weather or the wait.
“Who's Alba?” His eyebrows unfurrowed and his mustache didn't seem so abrasive anymore.
“She's a person I want to be in love with.” I said. I peaked his interest, the possibility of a homosexual relationship? A masculinized woman?
“Love is too much work” he declared, a bit too quick.
“True, but what else is there but waiting to die otherwise?” I prodded, half-believing what I was saying.
He didn't bite, he lowered his head. I twisted my mouth and felt guilty for a moment, but I didn't say anything.
The bartender saved us, and she asked: “Monsieur, tell us about the woods at home”. He was a patron, apparently.
He, Ricardo, Alvaro, or Fernando, started to tell a story about walking in the woods. Those woods looked like the ones near the beach in Uruguay, like the Bois de Boulogne, like the ones behind the Deerfield river. It wasn't a forest he had ever seen, but trees are trees are trees everywhere. Dark and green. His soul was in shards, he lost track of who he was walking next to in those woods. He talked about men and gods, about mystery and dreams, and his gods were mine, and his voice, soft and feminine, sounded eerily familiar. The way he smoked cigarette after cigarette, the way his drink moistened his mustache every time his arm raised to pour some more wine into his mouth. I had seen this movie before.
His words had been living with me for a while before he said them out loud. Once he said them, I already knew their meaning. My ears made those words real. I was sure I was listening to myself. I was sure no one else could hear them. But I mostly peered into his little black eyes, introspect. Will he ever step out of there? Is there an actual person inside of there or just a mirror, dark shiny surfaces?
Alba came in through the door and smiled. Her eyes are blue and clear. Her skin is wet from the rain.
“How are you?” she asked in broken English, but she didn't really want to know. I didn't want to tell her.
As she demanded a screwdriver (“the shittiest vodka, please”) I turned to the mirror, checking my hair.
“Look, it was nice to talk about semiology with you” I told him, “but I always thought you were kind of an asshole”. He seemed hurt. “It's okay, I'm an asshole too”.
He smiled, he knew.
“Goodbye Fernando Pessoa”, I said wrapping my coat around Alba.
“See you later, Laura”.

coffee-induced panic attacks

I just finished watching this kind-of-docu film about Rock Hudson. It is called Rock Hudson's Home Movies and it is a great film. Sad. Rock Hudson, if you don't already know, was the biggest shit on the Hollywood block in the 1950s and 60s, big, masculine, more than 2 meters tall, dark, handsome. Oh, and also gay as a unicorn. Getting pounded by another unicorn. 

Afternoon Delight

Rock was in the closet all his life, obviously, because no one could ever be out in the 50s, because he was famous... he was motherfucking Rock Hudson. Because fate is a bitch and has a twisted sense of irony, Rock died of AIDS-related complication in 1985, he was a little over 60 years old when he died. (Later, I can write a little rant about how much I HATE THE MOTHERFUCKING AIDS BITCH CUNT)

The movie in question (which is on Netflix Instant Play) treats his life with humor but also decency. The movie understands that the clips they are showing are funny, but the fact that Rock was made to say these lines (lines dripping with implicit homoerotic content) is fucking indecent and mean. Directors and writers casted him in movies in which the recit would question Rock's character's sexuality. Several times, he played a straight man playing a gay man to get the girl. But he was gay to begin with. Ironic? Fucking mean? In the industry, everyone knew he was gay and still gave him these "innocent" lines to perform. They still made him get married and do a different kind of performance. Being a 'bachelor' turns suspicious after you turn 32, Rock. 

Knowing little grin.

And then, and then and now I think about all the actors that we know and love now, and how many of them are still made to be in the closet. I refuse to admit that in Hollywood, there is not ONE A List actor who is gay. Bulllllshit. But they are married, or otherwise don't say anything about their sexuality. Kevin Spacey is one of those, if you consider him A List. It makes me so fucking upset! Really, guys? Do you think you couldn't land a straight role if people knew for certain that you're gay. I mean, probably, yes, but that's fucked up. I bet there's Rock Hudsons out there, suffering. It blows. 

Got that right, Gervais. (also, fun fact, when google image searching "fuck hollywood", I saw a lot of dongs and vajayjays)

I mean there's rumors about John Travolta and Tom Cruise and, while I believe them, and I am frustrated that they won't come out, I understand. I'm really sad about living in a world where this happens. 

who are you kidding, my man?

In other news, this week was weird: I had two panic attacks, probably caused by drinking too much coffee, but it freaked me out. I hadn't had full on panic attacks for many years, and now they start up again. It obviously has to do with me leaving the country and my friends and everyone I know. And it's not like I'm going somewhere horrible, Jesus. Why do I feel this way then? My problem is that I get too attached to people and then I have to leave. I guess it's good, makes me a good friend, but it hurts so much. No one else seems to be getting this upset about leaving or... well, actually, leaving me. Behind. That is what I feel. Irrational? Probsies! 

But at least I watched awesome movies and TV (Born in Flames, The Hunger, Working Girls, Angel, A Bit of Fry and Laurie) and read awesome books (American Vampire, Interview with a Vampire) and articles (some Pessoa bits [of which I will write more in depth laterz], Laura Mulvey's various essays, and much on queer film theory, which was HILARIOUS because the scholar writing these [mostly gay themselves] would describe themselves as midle-class white queens with ridiculous tastes in movies). 

Thank god Stephen is out and proud. 

Oh and we also watched The Mummy and painted our nails Friday night instead of going out. 

They fucking SPARKLE!

<3

gabriela mistral

what the fuck, america?

I just came back from CVS pharmacy. They informed me that the medication (one of) that I take to be somewhat sane has a copay of motherfucking 45 dollars! A month. For 30 pills. I realize that Uruguay's drug prices are on the ridiculous side of cheap (3 dollars a prescription), but this is insane! It's an antidepressant! It probably costs 5 cents to make! I hate hate hate my insurance! They should die, literally, I would not be sad at all if whoever made that ridiculous decision died right now, horribly.

give it!

What the fuck, America? Birther bill? Seriously? We are going into another war right now, and you keep pestering us with that bullshit?

What the fuck, America? Cutting NPR of all its funding? Trying to shut down Planned Parenthood? We are going to have a lot more STDs running around if that happens. And orphanages will be overcrowded. More.

What the fuck, America? Trying to define rape rape? Because there is rape that is fake?


DOMA? God hates fags? Are we still homophobic? Why why why is this happening? Are we in the 50s?

What the fuck, America? 16 and pregnant? Celebrity Rehab? Sister wives? Jersey Shore? Linsday Lohan? CHARLIE SHEEN? Westboro Baptist Church?

tiger blood isn't funny, neither is the charlie sheen bullshit

well, maybe this is ok

America, you have been really good to me, and I love you. I really do.

lovers

People like these two are allowed to exist. New York is in America. The best fashion in the world exists here and you can be as flaming as a homo can be. College is here, the best education one could wish for... Burgers and coffee mugs and fast internet and every beer ever and bikers and music everywhere and a sushi place next door to an argentinean bistro and rap music and poets and television.


But, please, for your sake, just stop.

What comes after Sunday?

Dudes! I am so sorry I didn't write for a while. I mean, no one else is sorry, but I am. Writing (on blogs) helps me with my shit. But, so it happens I haven't had much “shit” lately, which just reinforces my theory that only pain produces any sort of worthwhile writing. 

That, or drugs.

But I just had spring break, and it was awesome. I went to the city and spent too much money on alcohol but it was fucking worth it. I promised myself that one day I will live in New York, at least for a couple of years.

From a cab cross the Brooklyn bridge.

On the days I was lazy I watched the new season of skins. It is pretty good, although the kids seem much much younger now. The Frankie chick is hot and really queer, so that's nice. But nothing will compare to the last generation... so much hot teenage sex... grr.

LOL

Anyway, I had a lot of good conversations while on break. My and my friend Margaret discussed how ridiculous old professors are, and how they think that the internet is evil and how it's fucking up our “communication”. Fuck off, old bat, I can speak to my mother every day who is in Uruguay. They also think that their bullshit revolution is still relevant. No, sir, our revolution is being made on blogs, stencil art, and dance floors, on a personal level, because your grand cultural social revolution created more questions than it answered and so now we are stuck with your emotional baggage and bills. I know you wear an earring and think you're 'with it' but you really ain't.

And then Margaret and I shared some heavy shit and it made me feel great that I have so many wonderful friends in so many places, but also sad that I can't see them all everyday. I stayed with many friends, some new and some old. The last couple of days have been fabulous and hilarious and full of Rebecca Black jokes.

I also ran into * literally ran into * one of the first friends I made in America and have always been in love with. She is squatting in Brooklyn. It made me happy to see her and to see that people can still live off the grid in a city like New York. However, a lot of things about her life made me not so happy. But we had dinner and we laughed and her dog was super cute and she met some of my friends. She said she is very glad I have many wonderful people in my life. I told her she should get some herself.

Friends like these two.

My friends each have a little piece of me and I am never ever going to be complete until we all move into a big house by the beach. Deal? Deal.

Vamo' questarde

Then, after watching the muppets show when I was hanging out with the cutest fucking little boy in all of history, I had awesome dreams about Lil Jon being a host in the muppets show. And also how Mos Def invited and drove me to a party. I am really popular in my dreams.

Marry me, Mos

Anyway, I found THIS today. I wrote it a while ago, and I was asleep. Every once in a while I literally write while I am completely asleep. There's also a bit about a kid named Jake driving up to a camp in Vermont. I'll try to make that into a story.

Here it is:

Suddenly, this stupid laser-like beam thing comes full throttle into your eyeball and messes with your concentration, even if your eyelids are closed, this defiant attitude, you know, I can't see you, i'm probably asleep. Kindly fuck off. Blinding light after a nice continuity of heavy summer foliage shielding your eyes, keeping your soul all brooding and in the perfect mood for soulful trip-hop music. Suddenly, the sunshine reminds you, aw fuck, must be happy. Your body reacts with violent burst of energy, the summer is here, and you must go outside. Vitamin D is calling.

What am I doing?

weheartit

Anyway, today is terrible and grey and FUCKING SNOWING AGAIN. It's the first day of spring, man! Come onnnnn argrghghsghagfpnrkuga. I have much much work to do, but I am feeling pretty happy and nice and warm so whatever! Have a good day!

<3

popoverload

In the past 48 hours I have listened to Chromeo ft. Elly Jackson - Hot Mess (right click for download) like 20 times. And if you know how many hours of those 48 I have been in class/work/sleeping, the number is pretty impressive.

Like all La Roux songs, or any song that La Roux is featured at any point, this song is freaking amazing! Be sure to check out all of the remixes on hypem.com. There is also a new song by Kanye called My Bitch.  A wonderfully feminist title, that one. Thanks Kanye for making it so easy to love you.

I'm never going to get over this, am I?

Friday we had  a party, themed "Cowboys vs. Aliens". It was a success in the sense that I truly looked like an actual alien, which is a bit disheartening. Too convincing. After the party I almost died from back pain, I need a doctor #LORDOFTHEDANCE. When I was 12, I almost broke my back, and was in pain for years after that. It's starting to come back. At the time, my doctor said my injury was incurable and I just had to deal with the pain. THIS IS HOW PEOPLE GET ADDICTED TO THINGS.

In television news: me and jwife finished watching Buffy, the whole thing. I mean, I had seen it before duh but she hadn't. I cried at the season finale. Again. I need to get a life. Possibly two.

Also, I watched thd first five episodes of the new generation of Skins (the real one, not the US one), and it FUCKING SUCKS. The characters are lame and there is like no gay sex. After Naomi/Emily, they can't just leave us high and dry without any teenage lesbian love. OMG I am going to jail. At least the main character is a girl and she dresses awesome. Mini LaRoux.

"What?! I don't have a type, what you say??"

In film news: The Oscars happened and it was boring and all the predicted movies/actors got all the awards and they DIDN'T MENTION Corey Haim in the dead person section. Other than that, I am currently avoiding to write a paper about auteur theory in film.

Anyway, I wrote this the other day:

--

Night before last

Your smell is old blood and hair

The rest of you sticky, sewn to my black sheets

You are the queen of limbs

Green under this light

You are the small child

An inconvenient body

The cracks of your lips

Dyed black by the Shiraz

Stretch in polite gesture

When what you really want to do is write poems about yourself.

 --

You guys, WHERE did Clea Duvall go?

My teacher said it "takes no prisoners".  Annnyway, I am thinking of writing a story about my family, but that will be in Spanish. My family has this weird tendency to create its own sayings and idioms, and most of them are hilarious. Actually, more than a story, I would like to document first. The stories (fake or real) that my great-aunts tell, the anecdotes of other kids in their childhood neighborhood, the way so-and-so couldn't pronounce a certain word. It will give me something to do when I go home.

Every day is closer to graduation and I feel specially tiny.

But also, the recent news about outlawing unions and state senates passing anti-abortion laws make me a lot happy about going back to Uruguay. Specially because they are about to pass a law that would allow people to grow personal amounts of weed. Can you see my mother riding a scooter around with a personal pot delivery service?


Yeah, neither can I.




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