THE WRITER'S BLOCK AND THE RED LIGHTS
People say that there is nothing more scary for a writer than a blank sheet of paper. I say that there is nothing more terrifying than a writer with a blank mind. A few days ago I shined with pride for my discovery: If I don’t know what to write about, then I will write about the fact that I can not write. A few days later, I also discovered that this had already been said by my beloved Bukowski, something that gave me mixed feelings. "Better write about the writer's block than nothing."
I had the same idea with him, but a few years little later. Does that mean I am just as genius as him or that I am not enough of a pioneer to think something before someone else has already said or thought? The future will tell. The previous one and a half paragraph was enough to take me out of this black hole.
K was angry. -I call him K because I have a lot of difficulty giving fake names to real people-. There was something about his mother, his former relationship with life, his former relationship with me, no one knows and no one ever will. I was going through a phase of self-discovery with the help of pessimistic thoughts, fumes from the past and a few bottles of Casillero del Diablo. A cheap wine, but with a spicy name, a scent like spring bumps and a taste that spoils your tongue leaving an aftertaste of wet stones. He on the other side, remained faithful to his own preferred tasteful delights, mainly derived from black chocolate and lemon flavored carbonated water. Our kisses smelled of all this and many more, entangled with a bit of sweat and Ralph Lauren perfume. Classy and dirty, exactly how it should be.
That night we cried, our cheeks blushed, and then we cried a little longer. We smoked, we got drunk, we paused for a few minutes and then cried again. My tears were charged with liberation and my veins felt like a highway on a rainy day. Pandemonium.
We stepped outside on the street. The air stretched our skins and some smells of the city, made us forget the emotional struggle for a while. We walked and walked and got lost along the neighborhood canals, carefully, without letting romance overtake us. Such a passionate lover that is. I'm talking about the city, not K. We found ourselves somewhere between red lighted displays and a Christian Hostel. We both laughed with the irony of the city’s structure, making some jokes that made us understand our urging need for fun. K was looking at the women behind the window displays while I was courageously looking inside their eyes: Just like scarecrows that are stranded in the misery of a life. His existence next to the half-naked women disturbed me. This nuisance did not come from a comparison between myself and the other women. It was more because of the shallow, childlike expression that his face took while he was chuckling about the hip size of an African prostitute. I smiled at her, as if I had to apologize for his rudeness and dragged him away from the panic of neon, latex, and big hips. We traveled for a while in controversial alleys filled with cheap fragrances and heavy curtains with signs that spelled OCCUPIED until we arrived at our destination: The city’s cultural torture.
- "Do you like it here?" he said. I looked around. No sounds coming from human musical creation, no faces of real people dugged up from life, no profound decision of the owner to put some of his soul in what he calls a bar. No profound decision by the customers to put a little of their soul in their glasses - or in their words.
- "Can we sit outside?" I said. It was my last chance to avoid this feast of bad European Americanism.
- "I will not die from the cold because you want to smoke 20 cigarettes with your whiskey" His answer was just as annoying as his face.
- "Can I have a double Four Roses without ice?" I asked the waitress calmly and in response to his comment about smoking, I lit up a cigarette.
-" Does your dad drink that? "The waitress giggled, losing her tip with this irrelevant comment.
-"Yes. Shortly before he died" I replied, stopping her stupid laugh. I did not accuse her. She was also looking to somehow show her personality behind that glass tray. I used to do the same.
- "You are not satisfied with anything. I'm not good enough for you". He said, making me understand that his macho insecurity, had created him some sort of need to solve all of my problems through his own decisions.
- "I'm not satisfied with half-meters. All or nothing. The right bar or nothing. The right cigarette or nothing. The right life or death.’’ In my last statement I felt a bit more dramatic than I should, but I was pleased with the sound of these words, and that was enough.
The drinks came, the cigarettes finished, he left the night was over, this story is over, maybe not with the perfect end, but that's it.