“I can still feel you, even so far away”

People suffering from Capgras delusion believe their loved ones were replaced by impostures. A loved one may look the same, but no longer “feels” the same. Another possibility, is while a loved one may look the same, but no longer “feels” the same because the patient believes that he or she is dead. In that case, the delusion is known as Cotard.

I cried at my grandparents’ funerals. At least, that is what I recall. When my maternal grandfather passed, I was in the third grade. It wasn’t the first death introduce me to the thought of my mortality. The first is actually accredited to my cat Chauchi, who was hit by a car when I was about five. When I told my teacher that I would miss school to attend the funeral, she sent me to speak with the counselor. I didn’t go. Instead, I roamed around the campus until I felt enough time had passed. I wasn’t sad. If anything, I was more confused. Why had I been sent away from class?

When my paternal grandfather died, I was a bit more devastated. Again, I can’t remember crying. It wasn’t until my maternal grandmother that I felt an ounce of true loss. She was the only person, despite my inability to return her affection, who got me. The only one who stood up for me when I screwed up.

Sometimes I’m not emotionally invested in things. Ask any of my ex-girlfriends to confirm this. Like that Silverchair song – I loved it when they loved me, but I hated when I had to return the love. I may say I didn’t love them, or like them, or whatever misplaced emotion I had for them, but there was something that kept me beside them for a period of time. It’s something I can’t explain. Perhaps it was the sheer helplessness of knowing I wasn’t like anyone else. And while they didn’t fully understand me – despite their best efforts and continual need to say otherwise – I think the only reason I stuck around was because they made me seem, well, human. It showed others that I could make some human connection and the side whispers would stop.


Silvi: how do you detach yourself ?
Guillermo: beats me
Guillermo: i’ve never felt much for people
Guillermo: i guess they forgot to give me empathy when they made me
Guillermo: where I should feel for someone, or just feel sorry for them. I just pity them
Silvi: yes but have you never wanted to be with a person so bad it breaks you ?
Guillermo: Jyg, really.

On my way to work, I saw a kid bolt into traffic after being scared by a dog. I played it in my mind. I watched him get struck by the white car as it barreled towards me. I covered my mouth. I waited. The car stopped on a dime. Change to spare. The kid wasn’t hit. It was almost anticipated. Part of me wanted to see it happen. That part of me always frightens me.

Silvi: i don’t know what it is for me
Silvi: i just feel too much
Guillermo : i guess you inherited what i never got
Silvi: a little too much
Guillermo : I don’t want to feel too much
Silvi: a cynic is a disappointed idealist
Guillermo : i just want to feel something
Guillermo : be a little more human
Guillermo : because sooner or later, i’ll break
Guillermo : and I’ll either kill someone
Guillermo : or myself

The first time I realized my condition was when a classmate died in an automobile accident. Entirely his fault. Drunk. He died upon impact. Or maybe it was a slower death. The school was in tears the day after. He was a popular kid that I felt got what he deserved. My opinion wasn’t popular – it would never be popular. I showed no remorse. No sadness of hating a person who just died. When the school planted a tree in his memory, my first instinct was destroy it. Humans are a cancer. They’re even worse when they’re memorialized for their stupidity. The kid died of his own hand. He made the choice to drink. He made the choice to get behind the wheel. We should be grateful that he didn’t take out a family while he was at it.

Cotard delusion vs. Capgras

I garnered a semi-reputation with a few people of being heartless – again, my exes might be able to confirm this. When others loved me and hoped for the affection in return, my first plan of action – and still is to this very day – is bolt into the oncoming traffic of the world and hope that I somehow survive unscathed. Everyone except Jyg. After all, she is my balance. Not a crutch. Not a person who I mooch affection off of and never return it. She epitomizes moderation. The hours I spend with her, I neither feel too much or nothing at all. I just am. Complete. The missing part of the puzzle.

There are times when I recall doing things that don’t come naturally to me anymore. I have the experience memories. I remember the feelings I had. I remember the scents. I remember waking up happy, sad, or angry. I remember having more than one emotion. I remember being hurt. I remember feeling loss. I remember hoping things never got any worse or any better. Sometimes I wonder if I have a Cotard/Capgras hybrid, if there is such a thing. I look like me, the way I sorta imagined myself to appear as an adult. But I don’t feel like me.


A few words about Lady Gaga

Lady Gaga and Lady Starlight performing at Lol...
Image via Wikipedia

I like pop music as much as the next person. Let me rephrase that, I like pop music as white noise when I’m doing my job. Or when I’m writing, which I also like to consider part of my job. It gets me rolling and keeps me concentrated because I don’t like like pop music, I prefer listening to something like KMFDM or Skold or Marilyn Manson or Nine Inch Nails or…well, you get my point. So when you see Lady Gaga or Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera or Katy Perry on my playlist, you know it’s because I’m about to go to work. I can already hear it, “Sure, Willie. Sure.” But it’s true. I work/write more efficiently listening to pop music because I cannot sing along. And if I’m distracted, I get the job done in a timely manner than, say, having me zone out when “Error 404” by Skold vs. KMFDM starts up – trust me, this happens all the time.

Like everyone, I was intrigued with Lady Gaga when she first appeared. For a split second, I thought I was looking at Marilyn Manson’s latest gimmick. Then I was convinced she was Line Trap a.k.a. Harley Quinn a.k.a. Bailey Jay. I listened to “Poker Face” picking at the lyrics – all in good humor – for subliminal messages admitting she was once a man. I loved Manson’s remix of “LoveGame.” But there was something off with her. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. But as quickly as she appeared on stage, her fame quickly diminished. Only it didn’t. In fact, it grew. And grew. And grew.

Last summer, “Alejandro” was constantly sung by a baseball player every day in the locker room – only he sung it as Alejandra. Lissie’s cover of “Bad Romance” sparked my interested in the talented singer. It was suddenly clear to me that Lady Gaga wasn’t going to go anywhere; she was the Sarah Palin of pop music. Just when you think she’s gone – BAM! – right in the fucking eye!

In this month’s issue of Esquire, Stephen Marche asks the fifty-nine questions about Lady Gaga that I was beginning to wonder, including, but not limited to, “Why is she so famous?” and “What if she never goes away?” What really boiled my blood about Miss “Born This Way” was her use of retarded (which she later apologized for). Apparently, in that moment of bad judgment, Lady Gaga forgot that men tattooed to resembled zombies aren’t born that way, but most mentally handicapped people are.

And it seems that Lady Gaga knows how quickly she can be forgotten, which is why the first single of the upcoming album seemed quickly put together and, as Stephen Marche, sounds “just like a Madonna’s “Express yourself,” only emptier.” Who knows, perhaps the entire new album is just cut and paste lyrics thrown together to keep her fan base happy. Isn’t that what it’s really about? Pleasing and fooling everyone into thinking you’re deep and different, while just retooling things that have been done before by people with real talent?

But the blind will continue to hold her up as the role model savior, while bashing Katy Perry. What they don’t seem to grasp is that Lady Gaga is no savior. She isn’t even the gay messiah. She’s nothing but a product on display, rolling in the money until the next thing tumbles out of the manufacturing line. She’s got every one fooled and for that, they will continually throw money her way. If anything, Lady Gaga is doing more damage to the cause than supporting it.

So I urge fans to pay closer attention to Lady Gaga. Soon enough, you’ll see the layer of deceit fall away. It’s okay. I’ll grab you some tissues.

Writing & Writers

But the earth did swallow him whole

There’s this young man and he’s running. Every so often he turns around to see nothing but the open road expanding behind him. The city, the trees, the people he loved and loathed are all gone. And somewhere in the expansion in front of him is little Fiona, waiting. Watching. Yearning for him to come closer. So that she may sink the knife into his chest, smiling as she does so. Not watching his step, the young man slips into yawning ground; the earth swallowing him whole.


Forget taking me out to the ball game, just take me out

Welcome to Summer Hell

As none of you know, each summer I work at the Edinburg Baseball Stadium, the current home of the Edinburg Roadrunners. I love the job, don’t get me wrong. This post isn’t about bitching. The general manager, as well as, all the other uppers, treat me well. They keep me paid during the summer and they never abuse my kindness. I can’t say the same thing about the baseball teams, but that’s expected.

A while back, I reported that the Edinburg Roadrunners were no longer a part of the United Baseball League, but a merger league called the North American League. Well, I go into work today – they called me in to help J. put up signs on the wall – and sit down for a breather. As I wait for J. to arrive, I read Doc by Mary Doria Russell and look down at the schedules stacked neatly on the front desk. Having already seen the schedule on the right, I focus my attention on the ones on the left. I heard that we were planning to host soccer games at the stadium, so I quickly write it off as that – completely oblivious of the baseball and bat printed on it. I snap back to the Roadrunners’ schedule and see that several of the teams are missing. So I asked D. what’s going on with the the ones from Illinois. Apparently, they went belly up and sold off. Besides, even I knew how much of a pain in the ass it was going to be to send the teams back and forth.

That’s pretty much when D dropped the news on me – what I had thought of as the soccer team was really the newest team in the league. Apparently, Coastal Bend Thunders are now the McAllen Thunders. I wasn’t even aware that McAllen had a baseball stadium. You learn something new everyday, right? Only, McAllen doesn’t have a baseball stadium (that I know of) and the Thunders will call Edinburg Stadium their home.

Wait. If the McAllen Thunders are playing at Edinburg…that means the Edinburg staff… Oh. Fucking. Hell.

The news that I will be taking care of not one but two home teams was only made worse when I also learned that a new manager was thrown in the mix. Hold on. I’m having a heart attack. You mean to tell me, of all the people I convinced to like me last year, the only one coming back is the one who threatened to choke my ass?! Excuse me while I go bang my head on the wall for a few hours.

San Angelo is still on the roster, which is great. San Angelo liked me enough not to kill me, but not enough to not blare their music in the locker room. Guys, I’m here to keep the peace between you and the umpires. Don’t make my job any harder.

Hope shines like a beckon in the horizon. Workforce has stated that we might get the program again this year. I’ve asked for four workers – two in the morning and two at night. If we don’t get them, the stadium will have to hire me a buddy – hopefully someone who won’t try to screw me over.

Well, it’s still early on. Changes happened after a month, but I hope they don’t happen again. Because I can seriously say, I’m not looking for the hectic scheduling. Oh, and I observe the right to ask for the 19th and 20th in August. If we have all the help we need, this shouldn’t be a problem. I have a girlfriend whose birthday always seems to land on a home game. And they’re this year.

Music · Writing & Writers

Sköld, Writing & F(r)iends

The Messiah Cometh

Sk0ld released the single “Suck” on 12 April 2011. I’ve listened to it since yesterday, feeling the intoxicating sensation that comes with good music. And it isn’t just Sköld’s new stuff, I’m listening to. I’m also listening to his older stuff, the Dead God EP, stuff from Shotgun Messiah, KMFDM, MDFMK, Marilyn Manson – the Tim Sköld years – and Skold vs. KMFDM. Coupled with my new friend on Twitter – @mr_sean_maguire – it’s turning into an endless industrial party that’ll last me into the weekend, possibly beyond.

There’s just something hypnotic about Tim Sköld‘s voice, his lyrics. It puts me in the mood of writing dark, decadent things – as oppose to the light, cheery things I write about. But I can’t focus on that. Not only am I working on a new draft of “Zombies in the Outfield” – which is the working title, but not the actual title – but I’m working on revisions of “Note to my 12-year-old Self” and “Teenage Love Story,” which started out as a fun story about two misanthropic people – a story I promised a friend on Tumblr – but turned into a story about two damaged people incapable of feeling anything.

Your opinion is irrelevant.

While I’m on the subject of Tumblr friends, apparently my egomania cause someone to unfollow me. It’s been in the making for a while – possibly a long while now. What I saw as misanthropic and different was actually a ploy. Apparently, being a poseur is still a hit these days and I’m feeling a fool for falling for the ploy. The unfollowing took place, it seems, after I called her out on the blatant hypocrisy – apparently she’s allowed to express her opinions on everyone, but her followers – the so-called friends – weren’t to express theirs. It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t attached to her and her place in my online life has already been filled with a capable person. 

The problem wasn’t that she was being a bitch – opinionated ladies are my favorite people – it was that, after a while, it seemed the only reason she was being so negative about everything wasn’t because she was expressing her opinions, but because she wanted to garner some attention from others – to become, if you will, semi-Tumblr famous. Anyone using a social network site for a popularity contest is obviously not a person I want belonging to my online circle. This is the last I’ll talk about the subject because I honestly don’t care. It’s just my life is pretty much pathetic, so this was possibly the most interesting thing that’s happened to me this week – I know, it’s sad, ain’t it?  

I’m content with my new Tumblr homies, consisting of Luna, Jason Walsh, Silvi, Ana, Sam, Amanda and Michael (who isn’t really a homie because I rarely speak to him, but I wanted to somehow sneak in the fact that I purchased his collection  of short stories, Early Onset of Night, on Smashwords the other day).

I think that’s it. Take care.

Books · Doldrums · Writing & Writers

Erotica? Why not?

Need I say more?

Disclaimer: In respect with the terms of service this site asks me to uphold, the links posted here are very “work safe.” That is, they link to sites like Wikipedia and the Daily Beast – a news blog of some sort – and other sites in the same manner. The nature of the post isn’t to promote pornography – or even discuss it, for that matter – but to talk about why I like erotic literature. With that in mind, I don’t know why I’m calling this italicized paragraph a disclaimer. It should be called a major let down. Am I wrong?

It’s no secret. In fact, I’m proud of it. I used to write blog for a porn site a few years back. It paid and I was in need of money, so why not? The site has since gone defunct – which, I like to state the runners were just using the site as a front and were really dealing drugs (but I’m a fiction writer, so what do I know?).

The gig asked to write short, 100-word entries about the porn clip I embedded. Which meant, I had to watch the clip – the secret is to watch the first few seconds, a few seconds in the middle and see how it ends. That gig lasted a year – 12 months, actually – before I threw in the towel and didn’t ask to renew my contract – yes, there was a contract involved.

Image via Wikipedia

Around the same time I was writing for the site, I also applied to write porn reviews. I got the job, but realized I had to pay for the membership to view said pornographic films and I’m just not the sort of guy who wants to pay to watch porn. I mean, who does that anymore? Not to mention the gig was reviewing homo-erotic films, which didn’t bug me. I’m not like most men who feel weirded out when two guys get it on – I did like the flick Shortbus, mind you, and laughed my ass off during the three-way scene. Coupled with the fact that I can’t write a review worth a lick of spit led me to turn down the job. Besides, pornography doesn’t amuse me in the way it’s supposed to, you know what I mean? Even during the times I was writing my posts for the blog, I felt silly. Even silly.

Where pornography fails to amuse me, Erotica attracts me. It always has, truth be told. While Erotica is usually (in theory, or stereotype) aimed toward women and gay men – at least market wise, considering there are several straight or “non-labeled” men who like reading erotica – I prefer reading over watching. Rather than watching porn, I prefer to watch erotic movies or shows. Where sex is presence, but isn’t gratuitous. Erotic holds sex in its purest state, in other words, where pornography bastardizes it, turns it into a caricature. And while the new wave of pornography is attempting a more arty, romantic and/or less cheesy stance – just look at the “arty,” skin flicks of Eon McKai – or don’t, I don’t care either way – it’s still porn. It’s like what Scott McGowan said about Eon’s films, “If people jack off to your art, then you’re not the artist you think you are.” Whereas erotica has merit, has a purpose and isn’t pretentiously calling itself art because others are doing the labeling for it.

And it’s not that I’m a prude – I have a sex shelf containing books of erotica and sex studies and philosophies – something I’ve been labeled because the lack of sex in my stories – trust me, there’s plenty of sexual frustration in my tales, what else motivates my characters to do the things they do? I’ve surprised a couple of people when admitting my admiration toward the erotic. It’s always the same reaction, “You? Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.” To which I reply, “I just never write about sex because I suck at it.” And you, like everyone else I say that to, can take it to mean anything you want.


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