Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Swing
Swing… Swing… a tear is finding its way. I have no time to weal. I am gaining momentum. Why don’t you fuck off? I am not waiting for a beep. My body is disintegrating. Catch this chunk if you can. Tonight, I am spitting on every inch of my bed. I am marking my territory. My brush is striking at a metronome’s rhythm. There is anger, fear, aggression, madness and so much more. I will be in all my states. Alone. Every state will last for a split of a second. You'd better catch up. I will leave you behind. Butterfly of the squealing guitars, I wanted to melt into that sound. Why don’t you fuck off? I will massage every inch of my bed. Long whispering of under-the-sheet stories. My body is itching, come and get me… © El Matador
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Vertical Day
This morning my bed is obsessively vertical
Perfectly aligned with my spine
Supporting my spine, my entire body, my spine, entire body…
All condensed into one long Giacometti figurine
My feet are so far away
Let me wrap my snaky legs around your neck
The rest of the world is floating around
You're hovering in the asphyxiated air too
Let me pull you vehemently towards my lips
I extend my legs far, so far, to save you from oblivion
My hands are growing longer and longer to grab you
Together we can form a wide circle around the world
© El Matador
Perfectly aligned with my spine
Supporting my spine, my entire body, my spine, entire body…
All condensed into one long Giacometti figurine
My feet are so far away
Let me wrap my snaky legs around your neck
The rest of the world is floating around
You're hovering in the asphyxiated air too
Let me pull you vehemently towards my lips
I extend my legs far, so far, to save you from oblivion
My hands are growing longer and longer to grab you
Together we can form a wide circle around the world
© El Matador
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Cubbyhole (Part I)
The door of the cubbyhole was swiftly closed. I tried to convince myself that there was actually a separation line between the wild hunting ground of the Hammam and the flimsy intimacy of my cubbyhole.
After brushing my body against various kinds of flesh and looking into the eyes of a multitude of males then mentally scanning potential images of shagging, my choice finally landed on a tall man who was persistently staring at me.
He was confidently guarding his den. His large body was almost entirely blocking the cubbyhole’s entrance. I approached him hesitantly discovering gradually his features in the dim light. He pulled me towards him in an elegant move worthy of a dancer. For a second, I thought I heard tango rhythms fluffing up the air. I even saw myself carrying a rose in my mouth. My blood pressure dropped down smoothly when I learned that my prefect stranger was Spanish. It was like being transported from this perfectly functional room where every detail was conceived for the best time-efficient basic sexual encounter into my Spanish classroom. I started patching up sentences in Spanish to talk about the weather, my country, my job then slowly slipped into another darker territory. I asked him to talk dirty in Spanish. I looked at my sweaty face in the mirror as he embraced me and poured his tongue into my ears. We lied down and made out. Every time we moved, our sweaty bodies made squeaky sounds as they interacted with the cheap leather mattress. I felt like a porn star watching myself in the mirrors placed on every wall and the ceiling of the cubbyhole. Javier had this amazing talent of having the generic one night stand while showering his partner with fatherly affection. He was my perfect sugar daddy. I never saw Javier again. The last mental image I have of him is one by the lockers of the Hammam. He was saying goodbye like a sailor embracing his mistress before disappearing into the sea. He took my phone number as he wore his Speedo. I turned my back to him and went to look for my friends. With every step I made I hesitated for half a second. A question kept flashing in my head: Shall I make plans with Javier? But I never turned back and Javier never eventually called. © El Matador
After brushing my body against various kinds of flesh and looking into the eyes of a multitude of males then mentally scanning potential images of shagging, my choice finally landed on a tall man who was persistently staring at me.
He was confidently guarding his den. His large body was almost entirely blocking the cubbyhole’s entrance. I approached him hesitantly discovering gradually his features in the dim light. He pulled me towards him in an elegant move worthy of a dancer. For a second, I thought I heard tango rhythms fluffing up the air. I even saw myself carrying a rose in my mouth. My blood pressure dropped down smoothly when I learned that my prefect stranger was Spanish. It was like being transported from this perfectly functional room where every detail was conceived for the best time-efficient basic sexual encounter into my Spanish classroom. I started patching up sentences in Spanish to talk about the weather, my country, my job then slowly slipped into another darker territory. I asked him to talk dirty in Spanish. I looked at my sweaty face in the mirror as he embraced me and poured his tongue into my ears. We lied down and made out. Every time we moved, our sweaty bodies made squeaky sounds as they interacted with the cheap leather mattress. I felt like a porn star watching myself in the mirrors placed on every wall and the ceiling of the cubbyhole. Javier had this amazing talent of having the generic one night stand while showering his partner with fatherly affection. He was my perfect sugar daddy. I never saw Javier again. The last mental image I have of him is one by the lockers of the Hammam. He was saying goodbye like a sailor embracing his mistress before disappearing into the sea. He took my phone number as he wore his Speedo. I turned my back to him and went to look for my friends. With every step I made I hesitated for half a second. A question kept flashing in my head: Shall I make plans with Javier? But I never turned back and Javier never eventually called. © El Matador
Thursday, August 30, 2007
A Gentlemen's Agreement
We were each lying along one edge of my bed. Between us, a narrow fault drawn roughly by the lines of our bodies quickly took shape. We both reverently respected the separation line adjusting our bodies’ boundaries from time to time only. As usual, I tried delicately to prevent the flesh of my buttocks from flooding beyond its normal confines. He puffed on his cigarette and caressed his shrinking uncut penis in a slow ritualistic movement.
We barely looked at each other. We were each fixating a point on the crimson curtain in front. I occasionally peeked at his prepuce to study how it covered vehemently the head of his penis. The scene of the aftermath was aesthetically set in a way that created perfect theatrical tension.
“I will make it up for you in the second round,” he said before sipping loudly from his whisky glass. His words provoked an annoying sensation of itching. I felt the solidified particles of sperm disintegrating as I scratched my belly. Somehow I was gained by a liberating urge to rebel against the whole status quo that had heavily established itself between us.
“Don’t be mad, there won’t be a second round. My feelings get always totally messed up after sex,” I said. He kept quiet. He was probably waiting for a more elaborate answer. “I understand,” he finally muttered.
Slowly, we were dragged into a mundane talk about his life, my life, his job, my job, his family, my family… We both showed veiled interest in each other’s stories. We were kind of determined to finish our “gentlemen’s agreement” as decently as possible.
I avoided looking at his ugly elongated face. He shunned my overly hairy legs.
Half an hour later, I found myself brushing alone the edge of my bed. It took me some time to re-seize control over its total surface. I finally managed to extend my entire body all over. One thing cut me off from regaining total serenity, the lingering smell of his cigarette… © El Matador
We barely looked at each other. We were each fixating a point on the crimson curtain in front. I occasionally peeked at his prepuce to study how it covered vehemently the head of his penis. The scene of the aftermath was aesthetically set in a way that created perfect theatrical tension.
“I will make it up for you in the second round,” he said before sipping loudly from his whisky glass. His words provoked an annoying sensation of itching. I felt the solidified particles of sperm disintegrating as I scratched my belly. Somehow I was gained by a liberating urge to rebel against the whole status quo that had heavily established itself between us.
“Don’t be mad, there won’t be a second round. My feelings get always totally messed up after sex,” I said. He kept quiet. He was probably waiting for a more elaborate answer. “I understand,” he finally muttered.
Slowly, we were dragged into a mundane talk about his life, my life, his job, my job, his family, my family… We both showed veiled interest in each other’s stories. We were kind of determined to finish our “gentlemen’s agreement” as decently as possible.
I avoided looking at his ugly elongated face. He shunned my overly hairy legs.
Half an hour later, I found myself brushing alone the edge of my bed. It took me some time to re-seize control over its total surface. I finally managed to extend my entire body all over. One thing cut me off from regaining total serenity, the lingering smell of his cigarette… © El Matador
Sunday, April 15, 2007
A crystalline moment
Almost ten years separate me from this crystalline moment. It was my first real “voyage”, far from everything that was familiar to me. I was feeling the eagerness of savoring every ripe moment of my youth that had been confined for long in a box of social conformism.
Two weeks had passed since my arrival to Paris. I was rambling aimlessly in the intimate corners of the city. With every step, I was attempting to pull myself away from the disappointment of my first night with a man. My brain cells were naturally rejecting the mediocre images of my first sexual encounter, the astonishment with which I reacted at the sight of his genital organ, the clumsiness with which I grabbed him, the tearful eyes with which I faced his breath… It was all emanating sensations of disgust and shame.
At the end, my wandering thoughts and body strangely led me to another man’s arms. My sight was timidly crossing his. His eyes were filled with promises of love. But I was convinced back then that the idea of a man loving another man could only exist in the realm of my fertile imagination. My puerile innocence was bouncing off the walls of the quaint Romanesque church colluding with the waves of the Soprano’s chant. I had no idea what to do, or if, anyhow, I had to do something. He was sitting on a chair few steps away form me. Throughout the concert, I got filled with all sorts of feelings. All possibilities of me and this man were valid, and yet irrational.
Everything that took place after that first look of desire seems trivially inevitable today. His dimly-lit room, the soft surface of his skin, his bulging penis, the pulse of his wrist, the small pearls of sweat around his neck. So many detached, incoherent images that haunt me everytime I think of this city.
Later, I found myself with him on a boat, secretly uncovering his face as he floated his sight between the cracks of the city. I recall noticing a tender look directed towards me. I remember getting filled instantly with a sensation of immense joy that lingered blissfully along the delicate waves of the river. It was at this moment that I felt my whole being carried into a light world. My body was gracefully detaching itself from its earlier existence. I was unaware then that the coming years would be overcrowded with confusion and chaos, but also interrupted with little love stories with no beginnings and no ends.
He did nothing, nothing but whisper few words that shook me violently. It was a revelation, the first real revelation, and certainly –now I can confirm it- the only one. “You are beautiful, my love”. These words slowly escaped his mouth and kept on resonating throughout the city for hours.
Later, I must have heard these words many times under various circumstances, said with numerous pitches and tones. Somehow though, they sounded outrageously frail, or even pathetic, I would say. © El Matador
Two weeks had passed since my arrival to Paris. I was rambling aimlessly in the intimate corners of the city. With every step, I was attempting to pull myself away from the disappointment of my first night with a man. My brain cells were naturally rejecting the mediocre images of my first sexual encounter, the astonishment with which I reacted at the sight of his genital organ, the clumsiness with which I grabbed him, the tearful eyes with which I faced his breath… It was all emanating sensations of disgust and shame.
At the end, my wandering thoughts and body strangely led me to another man’s arms. My sight was timidly crossing his. His eyes were filled with promises of love. But I was convinced back then that the idea of a man loving another man could only exist in the realm of my fertile imagination. My puerile innocence was bouncing off the walls of the quaint Romanesque church colluding with the waves of the Soprano’s chant. I had no idea what to do, or if, anyhow, I had to do something. He was sitting on a chair few steps away form me. Throughout the concert, I got filled with all sorts of feelings. All possibilities of me and this man were valid, and yet irrational.
Everything that took place after that first look of desire seems trivially inevitable today. His dimly-lit room, the soft surface of his skin, his bulging penis, the pulse of his wrist, the small pearls of sweat around his neck. So many detached, incoherent images that haunt me everytime I think of this city.
Later, I found myself with him on a boat, secretly uncovering his face as he floated his sight between the cracks of the city. I recall noticing a tender look directed towards me. I remember getting filled instantly with a sensation of immense joy that lingered blissfully along the delicate waves of the river. It was at this moment that I felt my whole being carried into a light world. My body was gracefully detaching itself from its earlier existence. I was unaware then that the coming years would be overcrowded with confusion and chaos, but also interrupted with little love stories with no beginnings and no ends.
He did nothing, nothing but whisper few words that shook me violently. It was a revelation, the first real revelation, and certainly –now I can confirm it- the only one. “You are beautiful, my love”. These words slowly escaped his mouth and kept on resonating throughout the city for hours.
Later, I must have heard these words many times under various circumstances, said with numerous pitches and tones. Somehow though, they sounded outrageously frail, or even pathetic, I would say. © El Matador
Frida, Mon amour
Sometimes when I wake up, I am haunted by one vision. Frida Kahlo transfixed in her bed, swinging between an extended squealing of pain that emanates from every cell in her body and an elation that attempts to elevate her to the world of thoughts and images.
It is just days or maybe months after her accident. Her father had installed a mirror above her bed, for her not to feel lonely, he thought. The artist in her is being conceived and awaiting birth.
She is floating in the fuzziness of her own existence, trying to contain herself within defined boundaries but ends up escaping second after second through every pore in her distorted body. She’s like an amorphous being that expands pseudopodia in a frenzy in search for any palpable de-emotion. Every bit of her is worming its way towards new territories. Her thoughts are emitting their elements from a disintegrating core. It's another failed endeavor to be saved from the insanity of suffering.
Her eye is mesmerized by one still image fixed on the mirror above her bed. Her cruel crystal-clear motionless reality is spitting in her face everything about herself she was eager for and yet refused to see.
She is in an endless state of paralysis.
Quickly, every struggling whisper in her manages to defeat this reality and blows her up into tiny pieces floating in the emptiness of her room. Eventually, her particles lose their momentum and end up like dust impregnating restfully every inch in the room.
No matter how hard she tries to pull her existence together and wipe her particles away from substance around her, this one fixed vision lingers.
She screams, she shuts every tiny outlet in her, she blocks light from piercing her soul, she sinks into her bed sheets in pain. All in vain. Reality, the reality of helplessness, is so invisible, so slim and so persistent… © El Matador
It is just days or maybe months after her accident. Her father had installed a mirror above her bed, for her not to feel lonely, he thought. The artist in her is being conceived and awaiting birth.
She is floating in the fuzziness of her own existence, trying to contain herself within defined boundaries but ends up escaping second after second through every pore in her distorted body. She’s like an amorphous being that expands pseudopodia in a frenzy in search for any palpable de-emotion. Every bit of her is worming its way towards new territories. Her thoughts are emitting their elements from a disintegrating core. It's another failed endeavor to be saved from the insanity of suffering.
Her eye is mesmerized by one still image fixed on the mirror above her bed. Her cruel crystal-clear motionless reality is spitting in her face everything about herself she was eager for and yet refused to see.
She is in an endless state of paralysis.
Quickly, every struggling whisper in her manages to defeat this reality and blows her up into tiny pieces floating in the emptiness of her room. Eventually, her particles lose their momentum and end up like dust impregnating restfully every inch in the room.
No matter how hard she tries to pull her existence together and wipe her particles away from substance around her, this one fixed vision lingers.
She screams, she shuts every tiny outlet in her, she blocks light from piercing her soul, she sinks into her bed sheets in pain. All in vain. Reality, the reality of helplessness, is so invisible, so slim and so persistent… © El Matador
Thursday, April 12, 2007
A straightforward encounter
I’ve always thought I liked straightforward people. They are pragmatic. They don’t lose their time devising intricate games of seduction. They just state bluntly and clearly what they want from you. Nothing more convenient for someone like me who grew tired from viewing too many profiles and having to go through endless dates before finding The Special One.
The virtual conversation on MSN started with him in the most boringly natural way. “ASL?,” he asked. For those who can afford the luxury of bypassing the complex network of desperate men and who are not familiar with the jargon of chatters, ASL simply refers to age/sex/location. Of course, the middle information required i.e. sex is purposeless since everybody on the channels that I frequent belongs to the male category (or thinks he does). Anyhow, I answered him and prepared to affront a new series of questions about my “stats” (height, weight, eyes color, hair color and sometimes dick size), what I was looking for, what my profession was etc.
Instead, this straightforward pragmatic guy just directly spitted in my face his list of sexual practices. And placing the cherry on the cake, he stated: “And by the way, I don’t suck guys.” After absorbing the shock, I decided to ignore this little humiliation that was just bestowed on me and move on with “softer” questions: “What kind of movies do you like?”, “Do you prefer the beach or ski slopes?”, “Do you like cooking?”… I have to admit that I was not feeling very much inspired. I was more responding to an exercise in a book for English language learning, and more precisely in the chapter dedicated to making questions.
But the guy became quickly irritated. His answers were getting shorter and his silences longer. He ended up expressing bluntly his exasperation. “Listen, I don’t have time. I am horny and I want to have sex in half an hour. Do you want to meet or not?” Not one pause between his sentences. He just sent the whole paragraph as one block. I was cornered. I obviously could not wallow in the luxury of time. His photo displayed on the small box of the chat window was ok but not really inspiring. As usual, I was driven by my impulsiveness and finally accepted to meet him on the corner of an anonymous street. “Do you have a mobile phone number?”, I asked him naively. “I do! But I can’t give it to you now, I don’t know you yet!”. His answer fell as a slap on my cheek. So we were going to exchange body fluids and have our body parts rubbing against each other but it was inappropriate to exchange phone numbers???!!? I swallowed this new dose of humiliation. “Fine, let’s just see where this will lead to,” I thought. After all, I could always back up at the last moment and block/delete him without running the risk of getting a phone call from him later.
I comforted myself with these thoughts as I dragged myself to meet him. Every step forward towards the meeting point was followed by five mental steps backwards. After a short fashionably acceptable delay, he showed up. I was instantly relieved by his looks. He had a shy look and a genuine smile. “I am sorry I am late,” he said coyly. So this childish guy is the screeching sex master I had come across on the net!
Anyhow, I did not complain. I just went with the flow and engaged in what remotely seemed as a friendly conversation as I led him to my place.
He entered the “privacy” of my room, looked around quickly and without losing a second he started undressing. He then jumped naked in my bed and with a big smile extended his arms in a seeming gesture of invitation for me to join in. The whole sequence of events took place so quickly that I barely realized what had happened. His innocent reticent look was suddenly wiped out and replaced by a kinky devilish expression. So now I am the guest? What shall I do? Look offended and ask him to leave? Join him in my own bed? His insistent head and arms’ movements did not allow me to indulge in my mental questioning. I ended up accepting the situation I had idiotically put myself in. We were now both as God had created us, in bed. What next? And just like in a restaurant when one has to choose from a menu, we looked at each other briefly, wondering where to start? I finally decided to kiss him, the usual prelude of any prosaic sexual act. I closed my eyes decently and pressed my lips against his. This classical moment was abruptly brought to an end when I realized that my tongue was being forcefully rejected by his tight-up lips. It suddenly hit me like 1 + 1 = 2! Of course, the guy must be one of those who don’t kiss. A slap fell on my other cheek. I had to save myself before turning into a Jesus. I was not going to accept my new role as Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I gathered all my strength and pulled myself out of the bed (I was so confused that I was not sure anymore whose bed it really was!).
“I am so sorry but I can’t really go on with this…”, I said and I dropped my head in a theatrical movement my eyes shying away from his sight. With an equal vehemence, he dressed up as he muttered some insignificant words then snapped the door behind him. I felt I had greatly matured just in the lapse of few hours. At this point in my life, I felt I could safely say I had seen it all. A new species of psychos just passed by my bed! I have come face to face with the species of “those who do it without kissing”. Later, I asked him on msn about the reason for refusing to kiss me. “I only kiss someone I love!”, he said. I sighed. He might be right after all. Why offer a kiss to a stranger! Few seconds later, with a few mouse clicks, I erased the non-kisser from both my virtual and real lives. © El Matador
The virtual conversation on MSN started with him in the most boringly natural way. “ASL?,” he asked. For those who can afford the luxury of bypassing the complex network of desperate men and who are not familiar with the jargon of chatters, ASL simply refers to age/sex/location. Of course, the middle information required i.e. sex is purposeless since everybody on the channels that I frequent belongs to the male category (or thinks he does). Anyhow, I answered him and prepared to affront a new series of questions about my “stats” (height, weight, eyes color, hair color and sometimes dick size), what I was looking for, what my profession was etc.
Instead, this straightforward pragmatic guy just directly spitted in my face his list of sexual practices. And placing the cherry on the cake, he stated: “And by the way, I don’t suck guys.” After absorbing the shock, I decided to ignore this little humiliation that was just bestowed on me and move on with “softer” questions: “What kind of movies do you like?”, “Do you prefer the beach or ski slopes?”, “Do you like cooking?”… I have to admit that I was not feeling very much inspired. I was more responding to an exercise in a book for English language learning, and more precisely in the chapter dedicated to making questions.
But the guy became quickly irritated. His answers were getting shorter and his silences longer. He ended up expressing bluntly his exasperation. “Listen, I don’t have time. I am horny and I want to have sex in half an hour. Do you want to meet or not?” Not one pause between his sentences. He just sent the whole paragraph as one block. I was cornered. I obviously could not wallow in the luxury of time. His photo displayed on the small box of the chat window was ok but not really inspiring. As usual, I was driven by my impulsiveness and finally accepted to meet him on the corner of an anonymous street. “Do you have a mobile phone number?”, I asked him naively. “I do! But I can’t give it to you now, I don’t know you yet!”. His answer fell as a slap on my cheek. So we were going to exchange body fluids and have our body parts rubbing against each other but it was inappropriate to exchange phone numbers???!!? I swallowed this new dose of humiliation. “Fine, let’s just see where this will lead to,” I thought. After all, I could always back up at the last moment and block/delete him without running the risk of getting a phone call from him later.
I comforted myself with these thoughts as I dragged myself to meet him. Every step forward towards the meeting point was followed by five mental steps backwards. After a short fashionably acceptable delay, he showed up. I was instantly relieved by his looks. He had a shy look and a genuine smile. “I am sorry I am late,” he said coyly. So this childish guy is the screeching sex master I had come across on the net!
Anyhow, I did not complain. I just went with the flow and engaged in what remotely seemed as a friendly conversation as I led him to my place.
He entered the “privacy” of my room, looked around quickly and without losing a second he started undressing. He then jumped naked in my bed and with a big smile extended his arms in a seeming gesture of invitation for me to join in. The whole sequence of events took place so quickly that I barely realized what had happened. His innocent reticent look was suddenly wiped out and replaced by a kinky devilish expression. So now I am the guest? What shall I do? Look offended and ask him to leave? Join him in my own bed? His insistent head and arms’ movements did not allow me to indulge in my mental questioning. I ended up accepting the situation I had idiotically put myself in. We were now both as God had created us, in bed. What next? And just like in a restaurant when one has to choose from a menu, we looked at each other briefly, wondering where to start? I finally decided to kiss him, the usual prelude of any prosaic sexual act. I closed my eyes decently and pressed my lips against his. This classical moment was abruptly brought to an end when I realized that my tongue was being forcefully rejected by his tight-up lips. It suddenly hit me like 1 + 1 = 2! Of course, the guy must be one of those who don’t kiss. A slap fell on my other cheek. I had to save myself before turning into a Jesus. I was not going to accept my new role as Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I gathered all my strength and pulled myself out of the bed (I was so confused that I was not sure anymore whose bed it really was!).
“I am so sorry but I can’t really go on with this…”, I said and I dropped my head in a theatrical movement my eyes shying away from his sight. With an equal vehemence, he dressed up as he muttered some insignificant words then snapped the door behind him. I felt I had greatly matured just in the lapse of few hours. At this point in my life, I felt I could safely say I had seen it all. A new species of psychos just passed by my bed! I have come face to face with the species of “those who do it without kissing”. Later, I asked him on msn about the reason for refusing to kiss me. “I only kiss someone I love!”, he said. I sighed. He might be right after all. Why offer a kiss to a stranger! Few seconds later, with a few mouse clicks, I erased the non-kisser from both my virtual and real lives. © El Matador
Monday, April 9, 2007
expectation, disappointment, expectation, disappointment...
Two words that every respectable man needs to understand thoroughly before venturing into the cyclical world of gayety.
At the top of the wavelength lies Expectation: from the Latin word expectare which means await or hope. The ex-refers to thoroughness and sepctare to the act of looking. In the dictionary, expectation is defined as a belief that someone should or will achieve something.
At the bottom of the wavelength lies Disappointment: from modern French desappointer which means to undo the appointment or remove from office. In the modern sense it is to frustrate expectations. In the dictionary, disappointment is defined as the feeling of sadness or displeasure caused by the nonfulfillment of one’s hopes or expectations.
Of course between the top and the bottom lies the whole spectrum of states in between.
Lie in Shavasana (relaxation of body and mind in the position of lying on the back, palms to the sky and legs open shoulder-width.)
Close your eyes and concentrate on the center between your eyebrows.
Visualize mentally the wings of a bird spreading then folding repeatedly as you inhale and exhale.
I invite you for this session of meditation! © El Matador
At the top of the wavelength lies Expectation: from the Latin word expectare which means await or hope. The ex-refers to thoroughness and sepctare to the act of looking. In the dictionary, expectation is defined as a belief that someone should or will achieve something.
At the bottom of the wavelength lies Disappointment: from modern French desappointer which means to undo the appointment or remove from office. In the modern sense it is to frustrate expectations. In the dictionary, disappointment is defined as the feeling of sadness or displeasure caused by the nonfulfillment of one’s hopes or expectations.
Of course between the top and the bottom lies the whole spectrum of states in between.
Lie in Shavasana (relaxation of body and mind in the position of lying on the back, palms to the sky and legs open shoulder-width.)
Close your eyes and concentrate on the center between your eyebrows.
Visualize mentally the wings of a bird spreading then folding repeatedly as you inhale and exhale.
I invite you for this session of meditation! © El Matador
Friday, April 6, 2007
To SMS or not to SMS
Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name. Hello, I love you, let me jump in your game… Hello… What a great sensation of lightness and floating emotions Jim Morrison was conveying! When I think of all the chains that I have broken in the past ten years and the easiness I feel about who I am now, I pity the complexity of my relations.
One day, I would like to just wake up and think of HIM in the simplest terms ever; without going into intricate analysis of his behavior in the previous nights, without attempting to study carefully in my head the way he opened his mouth and directed his look seconds before he uttered a certain word. I just want to be naked in front of HIM with all the fragility of my feelings for HIM. I would like to send him a message, a short condensed message that will escape “the center for interpreting words” in his brain.
I pity all the complex and intense moments I spend during the long journey of producing a message.
First, surfaces the embedded concept of sending an SMS. Words start floating. Some are discarded on the spot. Others get barred by mental obstacles. Others are naturally selected. Then, every single word of these blessed ones becomes subject to various chemical and physical tests. In these meticulous scientific experiments, every observation and every result are significant. Elasticity, density, impact, viscosity, binding capacities, all these are crucial elements to consider before coming up with the final product.
And once I am tired of all the possible combinations and discover the limits of my cerebral exercise, I surrender to the realization that there is no best outcome, that all my attempts will anyhow be mediocre. I just send one version, any version. I am so much suffocating from getting myself into such risky and murky territory that I want salvation at any price.
Then comes a phase of slow inertness marked with moments of aimless agitation as the words venture into the virtual space of cables and waves to reach that of brain cells. The guilt of the crime I have committed weighs heavily on me. All the lessons I have learned from my own long experiences, sharp advice from friends, endless writings of experts on love, seduction and relationships form one massive front to rebuke me for my pitiful behavior.
“Don’t send him honey words. Men like challenge, adventure. Take him to do a risky activity, he’ll feel an emotional need.”
“What? You sent him an SMS saying you had a good evening with him? Are you out of your mind!”
“Don’t make him feel you want him. Just be tough and he’ll come crawling.”
When the answer flashes on the screen of my mobile (or doesn’t), comes the bitterness of the disappointment. Why was I so carelessly over emotional? Emotions are meant to be buried or strangled or disguised or colored or remodeled or… or…
I am fed up. Will the illusion I cling to of having at least preserved my true human sincerity, of having risen above the pathetic nonchalance of men, of having triumphed to my true self really matter?
Disillusionment is a double-edged sword. You might think it leaves one relieved to be disillusioned with the race of men, but in reality, in every disillusionment, there is a tiny trap made of hope.
The next ride will be different, so I convince myself every time. What a blasphemy!
Save yourself while you can! © El Matador
One day, I would like to just wake up and think of HIM in the simplest terms ever; without going into intricate analysis of his behavior in the previous nights, without attempting to study carefully in my head the way he opened his mouth and directed his look seconds before he uttered a certain word. I just want to be naked in front of HIM with all the fragility of my feelings for HIM. I would like to send him a message, a short condensed message that will escape “the center for interpreting words” in his brain.
I pity all the complex and intense moments I spend during the long journey of producing a message.
First, surfaces the embedded concept of sending an SMS. Words start floating. Some are discarded on the spot. Others get barred by mental obstacles. Others are naturally selected. Then, every single word of these blessed ones becomes subject to various chemical and physical tests. In these meticulous scientific experiments, every observation and every result are significant. Elasticity, density, impact, viscosity, binding capacities, all these are crucial elements to consider before coming up with the final product.
And once I am tired of all the possible combinations and discover the limits of my cerebral exercise, I surrender to the realization that there is no best outcome, that all my attempts will anyhow be mediocre. I just send one version, any version. I am so much suffocating from getting myself into such risky and murky territory that I want salvation at any price.
Then comes a phase of slow inertness marked with moments of aimless agitation as the words venture into the virtual space of cables and waves to reach that of brain cells. The guilt of the crime I have committed weighs heavily on me. All the lessons I have learned from my own long experiences, sharp advice from friends, endless writings of experts on love, seduction and relationships form one massive front to rebuke me for my pitiful behavior.
“Don’t send him honey words. Men like challenge, adventure. Take him to do a risky activity, he’ll feel an emotional need.”
“What? You sent him an SMS saying you had a good evening with him? Are you out of your mind!”
“Don’t make him feel you want him. Just be tough and he’ll come crawling.”
When the answer flashes on the screen of my mobile (or doesn’t), comes the bitterness of the disappointment. Why was I so carelessly over emotional? Emotions are meant to be buried or strangled or disguised or colored or remodeled or… or…
I am fed up. Will the illusion I cling to of having at least preserved my true human sincerity, of having risen above the pathetic nonchalance of men, of having triumphed to my true self really matter?
Disillusionment is a double-edged sword. You might think it leaves one relieved to be disillusioned with the race of men, but in reality, in every disillusionment, there is a tiny trap made of hope.
The next ride will be different, so I convince myself every time. What a blasphemy!
Save yourself while you can! © El Matador
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Breakfast at Tiffany's
… I installed myself comfortably on the couch. The decors around me were reassuringly those of a trendy but cozy café. I opened my book and reclined to savor the coming moments of self-definition. The scene was quaintly familiar. I was simply preparing to meet another guy with whom I had exchanged on msn some insignificant words punctuated by brief instants of unjustified hard-core expressions of jubilation; I was about to meet my blind date that is.
I looked at my watch frenetically from time to time. He was late but I was strangely relieved. I had time to readjust the small details of the image I was intending to project. Shall I look like an experienced blasé character whose mind is focused on recounting an accumulation of bold adventures and mischievous tendencies? Or shall I radiate a childish energy, that of a teenager open and excited about the dullest details of life? These were a bit the questions that floated between the lines of the book I was pretending to read.
I felt suddenly face-to-face with someone I supposedly know very well: myself. But this self was stuffed with incongruities and imperfections. I now had the duty of “deconstructing” myself and then patching the pieces back together by adding a charming thought here, a witty observation and a predatory look there. I had to save myself and the other from getting acquainted with the real me. I felt like a romantically helpless character in a black and white movie. I was like locked up in a perfectly neat bedroom writing in a frenzy a letter to a lover and then repeatedly tearing it to start all over again.
As I got tired from arranging tediously in my head the events of my life in an intriguing fashion, it suddenly hit me that I had not yet started seriously drawing the fanciful traits of my blind date. I knew deep inside that I had to take delight in this orgy of concocted images and delusions. Only because the moment of dull reality was getting near. My upcoming story with this stranger -no matter if it would last for minutes or years- was already known to me. At the moment, I refused to admit it as usual. No matter how much I try to lure myself that the future of my relationships would not be bleak and cling to the hope that magic would majestically prevail at the end, I always find myself screaming a dramatic “Ahhhh” while falling from the high towers of my expectations.
Anyhow, my whimsical mental masturbation was abruptly interrupted by his arrival. What followed next was the usual mix of intermittent wows of admiration and recurrent pffts of deception. I remember that as reality came into focus, I was already losing interest in myself and him. One thought struck me. I was summing up in a perturbing condense fashion the last years of my life when I realized how often I had done that. It was like a sounding alarm of what my life has been reduced to. Jumping on a train to meet a stranger, throwing at him my stuffed life, dreams, thoughts, visions in a ready-to-use can and then jumping off to catch the next train. That was what my “love” life was reduced to! I felt I was doomed to repeat endlessly the tail of my past life to strangers in an attempt to impress and arouse curiosity and attraction. I was like Sisyphus rolling a stone up a hill of desires and expectations only to watch it later roll down mockingly and carelessly. But I had the seeming luxury of rolling up a different stone each time. It was even more depressing and more illusionary. I was lured by the different hair colors, heights, width, body expressions, voice… The bottom line was, it was all the same, cruelly the same story.
Later that day, I went to bed for a stranger. Needless to say I was already a sedated corpse by then. © El Matador
I looked at my watch frenetically from time to time. He was late but I was strangely relieved. I had time to readjust the small details of the image I was intending to project. Shall I look like an experienced blasé character whose mind is focused on recounting an accumulation of bold adventures and mischievous tendencies? Or shall I radiate a childish energy, that of a teenager open and excited about the dullest details of life? These were a bit the questions that floated between the lines of the book I was pretending to read.
I felt suddenly face-to-face with someone I supposedly know very well: myself. But this self was stuffed with incongruities and imperfections. I now had the duty of “deconstructing” myself and then patching the pieces back together by adding a charming thought here, a witty observation and a predatory look there. I had to save myself and the other from getting acquainted with the real me. I felt like a romantically helpless character in a black and white movie. I was like locked up in a perfectly neat bedroom writing in a frenzy a letter to a lover and then repeatedly tearing it to start all over again.
As I got tired from arranging tediously in my head the events of my life in an intriguing fashion, it suddenly hit me that I had not yet started seriously drawing the fanciful traits of my blind date. I knew deep inside that I had to take delight in this orgy of concocted images and delusions. Only because the moment of dull reality was getting near. My upcoming story with this stranger -no matter if it would last for minutes or years- was already known to me. At the moment, I refused to admit it as usual. No matter how much I try to lure myself that the future of my relationships would not be bleak and cling to the hope that magic would majestically prevail at the end, I always find myself screaming a dramatic “Ahhhh” while falling from the high towers of my expectations.
Anyhow, my whimsical mental masturbation was abruptly interrupted by his arrival. What followed next was the usual mix of intermittent wows of admiration and recurrent pffts of deception. I remember that as reality came into focus, I was already losing interest in myself and him. One thought struck me. I was summing up in a perturbing condense fashion the last years of my life when I realized how often I had done that. It was like a sounding alarm of what my life has been reduced to. Jumping on a train to meet a stranger, throwing at him my stuffed life, dreams, thoughts, visions in a ready-to-use can and then jumping off to catch the next train. That was what my “love” life was reduced to! I felt I was doomed to repeat endlessly the tail of my past life to strangers in an attempt to impress and arouse curiosity and attraction. I was like Sisyphus rolling a stone up a hill of desires and expectations only to watch it later roll down mockingly and carelessly. But I had the seeming luxury of rolling up a different stone each time. It was even more depressing and more illusionary. I was lured by the different hair colors, heights, width, body expressions, voice… The bottom line was, it was all the same, cruelly the same story.
Later that day, I went to bed for a stranger. Needless to say I was already a sedated corpse by then. © El Matador
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Once dead, always dead...
I am sinking in my bed. Yes, the sheets are blue: soft, dreamy, acid blue… I was dead and I got resurrected. I'm floating in my own odorless insipid diffuse self. Yet again, salvation was too close to be real.
I wake up with a rumiation dangling from the weary network of my memories, thoughts and illusions. Was he tall, short, disproportionate, large, compressed, elastic, enlarged, suppressed, extended? Is that his smell carefully hidden in the folds of my bed sheets? is this the color of his eyes suspended in a morning ray pointing at my bed? Is this his cranky voice lingering in the corners of my bed? Was he really here?
We all sometimes welcome someone in our own bed. We think it would help us build up immunity against loneliness. We strip ourselves naked and enjoy a touch on a dissimulated patch of our bare skin. We’ve reached “la petite mort”. Withdrawal syndromes start kicking off before we even realize it. It’s already too late. By our side there is only a corpse ready to be stacked in the closet.
This space is an homage to all those who are killed and kill day after day in their own beds. To all those who continue to dream of getting trapped endlessly in their own beds despite all the hustles of their strangely slow-paced fast-moving lives. Life moving so fast to a point where events turn into one familiar and painful nightmare unfolding endlessly. A nightmare disguised every time in different stats and measurements.
To all those who wish and pray every night for an elevation so they could float forever above the mediocrity of their human condition.
To all those who can still hear their dazzling shadowy prince making his glorious entry through their window's shattered glass even when their sweaty bodies are twisted in an unnatural and humiliating position and a stranger's tongue is stuck somewhere on the crook of their neck.
To all those who mock and defy the strange realities of nature, human nature.
To all those who know how to shrivel up with the dignity of an immaculate angel while holding the weapon of their own crime.
Death is in my bed… © El Matador
I wake up with a rumiation dangling from the weary network of my memories, thoughts and illusions. Was he tall, short, disproportionate, large, compressed, elastic, enlarged, suppressed, extended? Is that his smell carefully hidden in the folds of my bed sheets? is this the color of his eyes suspended in a morning ray pointing at my bed? Is this his cranky voice lingering in the corners of my bed? Was he really here?
We all sometimes welcome someone in our own bed. We think it would help us build up immunity against loneliness. We strip ourselves naked and enjoy a touch on a dissimulated patch of our bare skin. We’ve reached “la petite mort”. Withdrawal syndromes start kicking off before we even realize it. It’s already too late. By our side there is only a corpse ready to be stacked in the closet.
This space is an homage to all those who are killed and kill day after day in their own beds. To all those who continue to dream of getting trapped endlessly in their own beds despite all the hustles of their strangely slow-paced fast-moving lives. Life moving so fast to a point where events turn into one familiar and painful nightmare unfolding endlessly. A nightmare disguised every time in different stats and measurements.
To all those who wish and pray every night for an elevation so they could float forever above the mediocrity of their human condition.
To all those who can still hear their dazzling shadowy prince making his glorious entry through their window's shattered glass even when their sweaty bodies are twisted in an unnatural and humiliating position and a stranger's tongue is stuck somewhere on the crook of their neck.
To all those who mock and defy the strange realities of nature, human nature.
To all those who know how to shrivel up with the dignity of an immaculate angel while holding the weapon of their own crime.
Death is in my bed… © El Matador
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