The ghost loves you.

(Continues from "A bonfire in the basement")

I heard a creepy voice coming from the room. It was not exactly unnatural, but it was forced and the pronunciation was almost painful. Plus, the first thing I heard it saying was "...came to visit again, also with a skirt, isn't that romantic?" Romantic. RO-MAN-TIC. I've never worn a damned skirt ever since, let me tell you. My blood was half frozen by now and my curiosity was about to flood the entire building. I stepped forward silently to get closer to the window hole. I wish I didn't, but honestly I would be living with the doubt and curiosity, instead of the image I saw in there. First, of all there was a corpse. A dead guy, all of the guy (ok, no, some chunks were missing) wrapped by all the things you can point at and say "construction worker gear". Helmet, belt, boots and what not. That wasn't as bad as the other thing there: an elderly woman, pruned, wrinkly, dry. And naked. Oh yes, she was naked, except for some oil she rubbed all over her body. Oil or mud, maybe, I don't know, I didn't stop to take a careful look. I wanted to run away forever, in fact, but my body was frozen solid and my mind was whimpering. You've never heard a brain whimper? It's pathetic.

"My baby boy stole her little heart, un. She can't escape."

I got so dizzy... Then she laughed, and I finally snapped out if it and started retreating as fast as I could. Adrenalin was running free through my body, I guess. She knew I was there, she knew I saw, because she didn't even turn around and she yelled "HE LOVES YOU." Then she started running after me babbling something about true love and romance and it made no sense or I wasn't paying enough attention, take your pick. Of course by the time I reached the following floor I found the stairs blocked by garbage, no surprise there. I kicked it around and felt my legs failing, I had to hold on to the handlebar. I heard her steps getting closer, and started kicking despite my legs' refusal to cooperate. I felt an electric chill when I saw her legs covered in thick scars, bruises, dry blood and boils. She had what it seemed like a 1/2 wrench hanging from a chain she was wearing as a necklace. She had way too much skin. I jumped down the stairs, landing awkwardly on my knee, scratching it. I got up as fast as I could and kept running down, scratching myself some more. And the damned woman kept up with my pace. Like a nightmare, she was always right behind me, going on about her darling boy loving me so much. I screamed as loud as I could. For release and to get some sort of attention, no matter whose. She had a putrid scent. Climbing the last staircase down, I tripped and my scratched knee failed, sending me rolling down to the ground, which fortunately sent me away from her fast enough to get an advantage. I could see the kids gathered outside, behind the mesh.

One of the little girls caught wind of what was going on, sort of, and she climbed up and ran to me, helping me walk. My leg was done with my shit for the day and refused to work at all. The kids were staring at me in mute amazement, I had to yell them to snap out of it and call someone.

"The police, the fire department, the major, whatever!"

Two of them ran away to find a payphone, and the rest (except the other girl and the runt) pulled down the mesh further and when I made it there, helped me and the girl out of the place.

I turned around, looking for the woman, but there were no signs of her, she must have not followed me outside, fortunately. The kids were bombarding me with questions, but I had no mind to answer and no heart to describe anything. Soon I heard the reassuring sound of an ambulance siren. I sprained my ankle severely, and my knee was relatively ok, the lying bitch. I was taken to the ER, released in a couple of hours and told to stay at home for at least a week, I've never been happier to obey. That night, in my bed, in the threshold between consciousness and sleep, I was glad to hear some tapping and scratching on the window. The next morning I remembered I wasn't at home, where the tree branches normally tapped my window, on the second floor, but instead I was at my relatives' home, on the first floor. They had no plants around.

The kids came to see me during the week, the helping little girl first. She was a neighbor of the crazy lady and she knew the woman was scary. I could piece together a bit of what happened thanks to the testimonies of all of them. The company that was in charge of the building had few concerns for security, accidents happening often, but it was when a worker fell down the elevator shaft and broke his spine down there, dying, that they lost their license to operate. The mother of the deceased, already unstable, lost her marbles for good after that, disappearing. She went into the building, we know now. The woman was found next to the body of her son, which she dug out, no lie, and taken to a mental institution. Resilient old thing.

I was supposed to stay some more weeks, but the second I was allowed to walk I went straight to the airport... Well, I bought some toys for the kids first. Their eyes widened. They were way past the scary moment by then. I wonder if they even remember by now.

Needless to say, I've never returned to visit my extended family.

A bonfire in the basement.

(Continues from "Rubble at the bottom of the shaft.")

The place had to be abandoned for some months, at least, so that arm must have been done rotting, I thought. I took a better look at the shaft. No way it ended on the first floor, it must have gone deeper… maybe there was a basement somewhere. I didn't find the entrance on the first floor or outside the building, though I saw a strange patch of plaster. I started kicking it, and the plaster came off immediately. Certainly, that wasn't originally part of the plan. There was a narrow door under the plaster, which was locked, but so rusted I could kick off a chunk of it, kneel down and crawl into a little room that led to a staircase. I found the basement!


I turned on my flashlight and climbed down. I felt a chill; the place was colder than the rest of the building. It was strange how in this isolated environment I could hear the echoes of laughter, couldn't be anybody but the kids, but they sure didn't sound childish. I closed my eyes and took a good deep breath. I smiled at how silly I was being, scared of nothing important. I saw the elevator doors almost entirely open, rubble coming out of it, at least 3 foot in height. I got closer and looked for the arm and whatever else could be attached to it, interrupted by a sneeze caused by all the dust flying around after my footsteps. The echo of my sounds felt so loud, I suddenly felt tiny and hopeless, half buried in darkness. I shrugged it off and pointed the flashlight to inside the shaft, there was the metallic reflection. I stepped forward to se… To see that it was a shirt with a glove holding the wrench. I lifted the fabric, there was nothing inside. Who the hell does that? I dug around the rubble, there was nothing there either.


I turned around and checked out the rest of the room, light in hand. Mostly empty, not painted, just rubble… no spider webs on the corners. Across from me, near the wall I saw a pile of stones. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was the aftermath of a bonfire. I shook my head and headed back up the stairs but the hole I came in through had been covered from the outside with what I guessed was a rock. A friggin' rock. I tried pushing it away and hitting it to no avail. I went back to the basement to see if I could find a pipe or a tool that would help me move the boulder, but instead I found another door that escaped my previous scan of the room. In my defense, I had a terrible little flashlight. Also, in my defense, I am cooler than you.


Anyway, this door wasn't locked, and led to a very narrow staircase, dark too. When I stepped in, I heard a faint voice coming from outside, saying "the ghost loves you". It was high pitched and it made my back feel like a bucket of ice water was just poured on it.


I hurried up the thin metal stairs, holding on to the rail, the metallic sounds hammering my ears, heart racing in my chest. I had lost all sense of time by then, so I had no idea how far I had climbed, when I saw the stairs lead to a tarp. I pushed it with all my force and climbed out. The sun was setting but by contrast, it felt incredibly rude shining on my face. I was in the roof, which had no rails, just a couple of water tanks installed. I still hadn't decided what to think of the voice I heard, but since the feeling of claustrophobia had passed, I decided to explore some more. One of the tanks had been broken on the side and filled with all sorts of rubbish, wrappers, bits of glass, plastic, scraps, a thing that looked like a ball of fur and I did not dare find out what it could be… there were also leftovers from the construction, broken safety gear and a couple of rusty tools. I had enough and decided to go back. By this time it was no surprise that access to the service stairs was blocked by wood, wires and a couple of bricks. It was easy to kick them away, though, and I went down... until I saw light coming from one of the rooms that had no windows, on the third floor. Curiosity won over self preservation, and I went to see what was going on.

I'm in a weird mood

Originally posted in my other (now dead) blog 3/25/11

Some times I wonder, when people need me or want me, what or who am I the substitute for, I can guess, I can see when I'm a vehicle and not an end. On a bad day it will bother me. It's a trigger that starts a reaction of questions: Am I as honest as I think? Do I use people too? Can I stand to be used? Am I that cynical? I'm not romantic. I am not frail and I don't need a protector to look for me and defend me. Am I tender or am I needy? Who am I?

It's not like I am a stranger to myself, I know the core. Most of it. What I doubt about is a number of little things that gravitate some of my features, the differences, contrasts and variations are some times obscene. The things I like not always make me happy. The things I do some times have no concrete motivation some times. I let unimportant things bother me. I know I should not and I know I have the strength to cast them away and keep them there, but I let them toy with me as I toy with them, though I gain nothing from this. I wonder what part of my essence to keep and what should be changed, what should I go back to.

What kind of behavior of mine should never change, why am I allowing changes, and should I really let this happen. When should i trust my own feelings and when should I try to be more objective and get assistance from others. Why am I friends with the people I befriend? Should I let them influence me? Am I betraying myself when I do things I have not done before or I am becoming more of myself with it?

It's tricky.

I know pain makes me grow in the right dose. I know I can learn from good and bad. I know I am not useless, I can take risks and face the consequences.

It's more like... intricate.

The question is not "who am I?" really, the question is "how to be me".

I would, if I could, take a vacation from being me to keep my mind off my life for a while and then come back rested and refreshed and see all the things I miss and react in a better way. Alas I can't, but I can try the next best thing. When I figure out what it is. Perhaps I need to sleep. I'll try that first.

Where have I been

Originally posted in my other (now dead) blog 8/6/10

-Monday-

Okay, so I am minding my own business in my computer, about to read Soren Bowie’s column when there is a click sound coming from my hard drive, and the computer just fucking freezes. I wait TEN MINUTES. Still frozen. Yep, time to restart. Well, I’ll be damned, it says “Machine exception” and won’t open windows. Maybe in safe mode. No? Not even safe mode? Okay, let’s go to the repair guy. WHAT DO YOU MEAN ON VACATION? WHO GAVE HIM PERMI- okay, let’s cool down. There is another one closer to my house, actually. So by the afternoon I can have my baby back, it seems it is a virus. Just wipe C: leave D: alone, all my files get saved, we all end up ha- WAIT NO my fonts, and winamp skins and chat logs. Oh you can back them up too. So today, just later than expected. Fine, fine. Okay, tv, it is time for us to spend some time together, show me what you’ve got… WHAT? SAY WHA-? Another channel… OH MY GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS? Hell, I guess it shall be this other channel no- OH COME ON (one hour later) I can feel my brain slowly drying up. I need some Asimov. Oh that is better. But wait, it is late, my baby is supposed to be ready any second. And there is the phone ringing, it must be it. Yes? Yes, the compu- oh. OH DAYM. Yeah, I can wait another day. Tomorrow afternoon, yes because the hard drive is being a little bitch. Sure, discipline the wench.
-Tuesday-
Not yet. Because it is a physical issue. So a new (and bigger) hard drive is to be installed, and the old one to be a slave. I can’t say I don’t like the arrangement. Yes I am crazy, thank you for asking. So, a couple of hours too? Oh, more like tonight. Sure, sure as long as it is read today. Hey, it’s getting late, I wonder what is going on. Longer than expected? Ah, I see. Tomorrow around noon. Okay.

-Wednesday-
No machine can recognize the old hard drive? Alright, one moment, I will just tear up here over the last year and a half worth of files that are getting lost. Meanwhile I can have my baby back with the new hard drive and HELLO WINDOWS 7 you are not such an asshole after all, it seems. The old drive will stay with repair guy, so he can salvage something. I need to go rant. Oh bless the skies there is internet for tha- WELL, SHIT. NO INTERTUBES. WHAT IS THIS FAGGOTRY!? Now the phone company is going to fix this problem or suffer a surprise massive enema full of pins, needles, razors and Tabasco sauce. Prerecorded tape, the problem is theirs. Fuck. Oh well, at least they are working on it. THEY BETTER BE.

-Thursday-

Still no intertubes? This is getting out of hand. No prerecorded tape today. But six minutes of ads. Whatever, just let me know what- Oh yes, hello. My modem? Yes it has only one light on, in red. DEAD? Oh glee. That’s just fan-fucking-tastic. What now? Replace it. So if you send the report RIGHT NOW I can go to a store and get a replacement for free. NOW WE ARE TALKING. When? TOMORROW. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? TOMORROW? It’s the fucking MORNING, you send it THROUGH THE MAGIC MACHINE. Oh MAYBE today after some hours. Yeah, no I have no idea what is it to wait for a couple of hours and ending up waiting for days, no. Is there anything faster? Oh sending the report to the tech guys. So they get the info right now and? Oh, they come to MY house with a new modem! Good, when do they arrive? AT LEAST AFTER 72 HOURS? THAT IS FASTER? Faster because they get the report faster. Yes, I meant HOW CAN I GET MY INTERBUTTS FASTER? I should go to the store and see if the report arrives in a couple of hours, if not, go tomorrow. Why, if you send the report RIGTH NOW and the stores ALL THE STORES IN THE CITY get it, they have to wait until tomorrow? You don’t know. You don’t make the rules. Of course you don’t, if you did you’d get paid without working. And if I did you would have been fed to the robo-velocirraptor-cops years ago. OF COURSE THE STORE CLOSES STUPIDLY EARLY! IT IS NOT LIKE THEY DO IMPORTANT STUFF, LIKE YOU KNOW, PROVIDE A SERVICE. So I have to come tomorrow EARLY. Hell, I am starting to plan on CAMPING OUT HERE so I can slap every single bitch that works in this place. Anyway, It’s been four days, almost, so I should go let people from the internet know I am fine. In the library. WELL IS THIS NORTH KOREA? So only government sites. Yeah, whatever. I’ll go to the café internet right over the- yeah, I should have seen it coming. It’s now a convenience store. No intertubes for rent, sorry. Well. Well, well, well. Universe, are you having fun fucking with me? I really hope you do while you can. Go on, laugh. One day, mark my words, universe, one day, I will take a microwave oven, stuff it with tin foil, steel cutlery, pencil leads and ninja stars and turn it on while I throw it to the core of the hardon collider. It will destroy you, universe. I know it will destroy me in the process but you know what? I am willing to go that distance to teach you a lesson because you are being a little bitch. You stupid bitch, get a sassy gay friend already and give me back my technology.

-Friday-

SO I EED A FRIGGING ID and I was not told, so I have to go back home, get the fucker and get back to the store. And wait until super fatso and mr mustache are done with their intertubes contract. But HEY Intertubes! This all happened because voltage variations have been “hectic” lately, which means apparently this city became FUCKING CALCUTA when nobody was watching. But I have a regulator now and internet and I can go back to pretend I don’t live in this stinky hellhole. Cheers!

I EFFIN HATE PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION

Originally posted in my other (now dead) blog 7/30/10

...and love it at the same time. First off, let's all wait for the can of sardines to be fully packed. All seats occupied PLUS around 10 people standing, holding on from those sweaty, greasy little attempts at anorexic stripper poles. Once full, the bus lazily starts rolling. This is a temporary excruciatingly slow speed, soon it is time for the driver to dare others, preferably cabs, to see who makes it first to the traffic light. Whenever a curve appears, the whole bus tilts to a side, making me feel it will fall on the side, windows crashing and blood spilling, the traffic laws be damned.

The chit chat inside is interesting at times, mostly gossip about people and places that the rest of the users don't know. The criminal pages of the newspaper too "Can you believe this? Where is this going to end?" how that news anchor that today appears to be so elegantly dressed started out speaking terribly, curling her back, seemingly trying to hide inside her jacket from the camera, like an awkward turtle. The same song keeps playing, the five minute long cumbia the driver just adores.

Half of the trip is very nice, a woman in her mid fourties hugs her bag next to me, her thigh just a couple of inches away from mine, both sharing a harmless, cozy warmth. Some people start coming down, the environment improves significantly, some seats are now free, except that huge box the girl reading a book has sitting next to her. A woman asks her to move the box, so she can sit. Book girl refuses, visibly offended. Right across, two people offer to squeeze themselves to the sides, so the woman can sit. Book girl doesn't find out, she is, again, paying close attention to her literature piece.

As the red light stops the traffic of our lane, a man asks permission to the driver to come up without paying. He soon starts reciting what must be an already memorized speech "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, I am here not to intimidate, not to mug, not to harm, not to steal, I have done so in the past and payed my debt to society with five years and two months of prison, I now find myself unemployed, so I am not intimidating, I am not menacing, I am begging you please gift me a couple of coins so I can buy candy and sell it for a profit. I am clean now and only wish to make an honest living. God bless you, miss. Thank you, sir. If any of you have friends or family members who suffer from alcoholism or drug addiction, please aid them, as they will lead themselves to a dark hole, to crime, to despair, to prison or a dirty rehab house, which is hell on earth. For the love of god, help them. God bless you all" he comes down after collecting the coins right after the next traffic light.

Soon, the woman in her fourties exits the bus, and Fatso McIdon'tknowwhatpersonalspaceis sits next to me, pressing his adipose extremities against mine every time the bus takes a curve or accelerates, which is often. His temperature is getting on my nerves, as the sun decides to aid him, they both soon make me sweat. I press myself against the window to avoid any contact, in exchange finding the glass and metal a lot more hot. And a lot less disgusting to touch. Fortunately, the bus is half empty, and before I ask Fatso to let me stand so I can sit elsewhere, he leaves the bus and my life forever.

Speed bumps make the bosoms of all female passengers jump to the ceiling, or at least to try. Then there is a healthy sideways shake, it is almost a choreography, it is almost as if the bus wanted to make sure those are real flesh and fat lumps, nothing else.

The bus is nearly empty, a man comes in to be transported no more than two streets, must be terribly lazy, or get very tired very fast. Next to come down is a girl with a limp. One of her legs is thinner, shorter and curved in a way that makes most other passengers cringe. She takes a lot more time than others to climb down the steps, making some drivers behind start yelling and honking their horns. The driver, either used to this girl or simply more efficient at empathy than the drivers, soon invites them to stick a phallus up their rectums. I smile, the girl does too, limping away.

Finally I announce I am going to leave the bus to head home, of course, two streets before, of course, the driver stops two streets ahead. Thank god I am not there anymore.

You are a funny thing

Originally posted in my other (now dead) blog 7/2/10

Aren't you? Days of idyllic feelings of "just right, just good" brought by a couple of words, then three new words bring it all down, you see your solid castle as it is: a structure of cards easily destroyed. You try not to think it is and you tell yourself the cards are blocks of concrete and change your mood to cold indifference when you are very far from that. You know you turn to acid and will do some damage, and you don't care now. You know the name of your emotions and you fear to even think about them and you know that makes them jump higher. You tear up and scold yourself for your petty motives, the absolutely petty reasons it all comes from. You hate the uneasiness it brings, most of all. You fight it in ways you know are not going to help. You want to change your immediate past, you know you can't, you refuse to let go, you boast in your own negativity. You are hopeless, clueless, sad and you tell all this to yourself, you write it down for yourself, you call yourself "you" in an attempt to exorcise your feelings, and you know how useless it is. But you do it anyway, you funny little thing.

Culinary sexism

Originally posted in my other (now dead) blog 7/1/10

According to wikipedia, the burritos are called that way because their inventor had so many requests he had to buy a donkey to transport them (donkey means burro). Cute story, but there is another version around: when "gringos" ordered special tacos without ingredients that would pierce their intestines, local taco makers used beans, meat, cheese, some times vegetables or rice, and told each other "The food for those burritos (little donkeys, ignorant people) is ready"

***

"Gringa" is a dish composed of tortillas, "pastor" meat (or any other kind of chopped meat, lately) topped with cheese, salsa is given optionally and it is best enjoyed with beer. The story is this time confirmed, around the 60s two American students living in Mexico City due to budget issues had to often eat tacos at "el Fogoncito" and they asked for cheese in their tacos rather than salsa to preserve the integrity of their innards. Many locals started to order "what the gringas are having" and soon the concoction found its place on the menu, under the name of  "Gringa"

***

So why the benevolence of the latter and the ill intentions of the first taqueros? respect for the women and hatred for the men? No, racism for both, only in the second case, coated with sugar. Because undoubtedly the taqueros at El Fogoncito wanted to bang the gringas. Not the dish, I must say.