infosoldier.com

To me the toilet was usually a place to do one thing only. Relieve myself.

Keeping the toilet clean so the toilet keeps me clean is as far as it went for the both of us. A clean toilet is a happy toilet. A happy toilet makes for a happy butt. It doesn't rhyme but you get my drift; I hope.

I say this because I know a large percentage of people spend uncanny amounts of time in the john. They read the newspaper in its entirety. They check their bank accounts. Check in with their mothers, and assorted loved ones. They fantasize about being green. Ecological.

But not me. Well, not till this year.

This year I became a toilet reader.

... And started hating Stephen King with all the sissy hate my sissy guts could muster.

It's not that Stephen King is a bad writer. It's not that Stephen King always writes the same kind of story (seriously, what else do you expect? I'd copy myself a thousand ways if I were as successful.) And it's not that he's famous and could probably sell his shite between a pair of book-covers.

The thing I hate about Stephen King is how effortlessly easy it seems to write about everyday things. How criminally clear he makes some concepts be easily understood.

The toilet has been a silent conspirator in fueling my hate towards Stephen King.

Before, you see, I used to be an avid out-of-the-toilet-reader. I could chow down an entire paperback in two evenings. I'd read four dozen comic books a month. But no more. I just don't have the time.... Or the peace of mind. Except in the toilet.

So, for a little while after I've been about my main business with Mr. John, I stay in its company. Reading. It can be twenty minutes. Half an hour. Maybe a little bit more.

And I read King. Because, for a person such as me; that seeks the art of writing with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel, I can't not read Mr. King.

And hate his guts...

oh shi~

What the fuck's wrong with me? O h yeah... Mental instability... Insane...

Am I?

I am "functioning" properly. I guess. I woke up early (despite being up late, yesterday). I woke up my daughter early too. She's with me this weekend. I wanted to get McDees Deluxe Breakfast for both of us. So we did that. But wait, before that she didn't want to brush her teeth. So I performed fatherly duties and looked all stern-faced and commanded her to go brush her teeth...

So we went through the drive-tru... Hehehe... And as always they fuck something up with the order. I kind of expect it nowadays. I didn't even get angry. I just thought, "Well, they only charged me for one 32 oz. orange juice so when I get home I'll split it up with the Lil miss. Everything will be hunky dory..." Is that how it's spelled? "Hunky dory"?

We had breakfast...

While watching Family Guy...

Thank goodness my daughter didn't understand the more mature jokes.

We finish breakfast and she gets her Nintendo DS right away... I keep on browsing the Internet...

And right then I feel this sudden urge to cry...

And all I can guess is, "Well, that is it. My mind finally snapped. They are gonna carry you away and put you in the looney bin. Wooo wooo wooo!"

But I quell the urge to cry. I bark orders at the brain to stop this insanity immediately! Or else!

Or else, what?

Well, the daughter is here. Do you want her to see you cry? She worries about you you know? You may think she doesn't notice, but she does. Yes, she does.

Tears are gone. Tears were never really there, in fact.

I start writing this up. Trying to capture the essence of the moment. Trying to... Let the steam escape in another way.

I am almost finished writing. I look at the other tabs in the browser and realize what I read that almost made me cry:

"Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me"

And I realized what my brain was thinking without me even consciously realizing it:

I no longer dream about being loved...

Mi primo Pirulo tenia un Nova del '76 que le llamaba La Bestia.

Aquel Nova alguna vez había sido negro, pero ahora el Bondo™ le rondaba rojo, chinita y rosita por todos lados. Aquel Nova había cogido además de moho muchos cantazos en la calle. Quien se le hacia un corte de pastelillo a aquel Nova lo hacia solo una vez. Aquel Nova injurioso fue el primer carro que yo guié en una calle oficial del estado de Puerto Rico.

Pirulo me enseñó que aquel armatoste de carro que pesaba una tonelada y estaba hecho de acero era

"... fácil de controlar. Los carros tu los controlas igual que tu controlas a las mujeres... Con un dedo."

Claro, el Nova tenía power steering.

Pirulo era una bestia. Un mastodonte de hombre que aparte de la barriga cervecera era todo musculo; producto de poca escuela y muchos años de trabajos de construcción pese a ser poco mas viejo que yo. El que fuera poco educado no significa que comandara poca admiración de mi parte. Yo ya me había convertido en un mama's boy que poco despegaba la vista de libros, enciclopedias, periódicos; y ya tenia un interés marcado en el mundo virtual de las computadoras. Pirulo era uno de mis pocos enlaces con el mundo "real". Pirulo había corrido bastante, bebía y fumaba y sabrá dios que mas, había ido a los niuyores y había tenido par de jevas... or so he said.

Pirulo me ayudo a conseguir mi primer trabajo "real". También, otro día, Pirulo, mi hermano, y yo, por poco nos montamos en La Bestia para ir a matar a la mujer de mi hermano. Pero esas son historias para otro día.

Pirulo me dijo un día:

"Te quiero."

Y yo que ya para aquel entonces sabía lo que era un gay (especialmente porque algunos de mis primos estaban declaraos y otros estaban en el closet) le dije:

"Cabrón, vete pa'l carajo!"

Y el me contestó:

"Tu eres familia. Familia es amor. No matter what... Por eso te quiero."

Su lógica era innegable. Aun así yo no pude entender sus palabras por muchos muchos años.

Y hace muchos años que no veo a mi primo Pirulo. Indudablemente, mi notoria incapacidad de mantener lazos afectivos ha tenido algo que ver en eso. Pero cuando lo vea lo primero que le diré sera...

— the information soldier sometimes learns slowly

Veinte diez. Dos mil diez. Nuevo año, nueva vida. Feels ironic somehow...

Ciento noventa. Uno. Nueve. Cero. Son los días que llevo... llevaba... sin escribir en el blog.

Como dice Vico-C en Aquel Que Había Muerto:

Leo un corréo electrónico. Me lo envía un ex compañero de trabajo. De cuando inútilmente me daba de con las paredes intentando mejorar al país. De cuando recibía porrazos, bien merecidos, de aquellos que habían venido antes de mi. De aquellos que sabían que esto no lo mejora nadie.

Me acordé. Porque había empezado yo a escribir el blog. Para el desahogo personal. Para aflojar la creatividad usando la escritura. Para hablar de lo único de lo cual creí que estaba cualificado para hablar. De mi.

Pero...

El desahogo...

El desahogo fue la razón principal.

...

...

Es tiempo de volver...