My Life is a Teenage Movie

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The last week concentrated the intensity of at least two regular months of my life – although there is no such thing as a regular month in my life. As intensity and I are old road buddies, I apparently always say “It’s been the most intense week ever!!!” My friends sweetly make fun of me when I come up with that statement.

But this time, it is true.

It all began on Monday evening. I was at home writing a letter to H, sketching the portrait of a character that I want to develop for our next script. “I don’t have her name yet, but it should be a morbid and poisonous, maybe latin sounding name. She’s a thanatologist, a death expert. She studied the sciences of death.” 

At about 10pm, I put my pen down, and without knowing why, I downloaded a stupid dating app on my phone. A girl contacted me right away. I remembered liking her on another app a few days before so we started chatting. We shortly found out that we were neighbours. She lives in the block of warehouses right next to mine, but as our buildings have separate entrances we had never met each other.

She asked me what I was doing right now. It was about midnight. I traded my pyjamas for jeans and she picked me up with her car in the middle of the night. She had brought take away tea. “How many sugars?”, had she asked on the chat right before I left the house.

We drove to the woods.

She put a CD with hits of the 90s, we smoked mint cigarettes. “Who said romance is dead?”, she said with a laugh. I was feeling like a teenager. It was awesome, because I never felt like a teenager when I was a teenager. I’m discovering the butterflies of adolescence in my 30s.

Then, fate hit me. She said she was a funeral director and had studied anatomy and mortuary sciences. Her name could have matched the one I was seeking for the character of my movie. I had manifested her.

On the side of living in the same spot of earth now, we had lived or hanged out in the same spots of earth before. New York, Brighton, and she wanted to travel to Iceland. She had something to do with most of the destinations I write about on this blog.

After a couple of hours unravelling our respective life story and being amused by all the coincidences, I spitted my gum so she could kiss me. I eventually got my belt undone. Yes. We did have car sex in the middle of the night, in the middle of the woods.

All of a sudden, we saw car lights coming in our direction. They got closer to us. Really close. It was a police car. We covered ourselves as fast we could, both panicking and giggling. Thank God the windows were all steamed up. “I am providing a training at 10am tomorrow, I can’t afford to be arrested!” I said, putting back my sweater inside out. The car went past us and they lit the blue police light when reaching our level. They surely guessed what was going on inside, but chose to leave us alone.

We got back home at 4am. I slept 3 hours and went to work with a dumb smile on my face.

Since then. I saw her the day after, and the day after, and the morning after since she slept over that night, and the day after again. She crosses the yard in the middle of the night and pays me visits at indecent hours. Whatever part of her boyish tattooed body I touch, I ask her the scientific name for it. She told me: “If I opened up a body for you, I could teach you the name of every single muscle.” It killed me.

She always comes to mine since her bedroom has no walls.

My bedroom does have walls which are witnessing our sleepless deep human connection.

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El Dia De Los Muertos

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There was a woman in the 5 Rhythms workshop in Philadelphia who told me her story at a Mexican restaurant one night. She had burned out because she had always been pushing herself too hard. When her nerves collapsed, she became so sensitive that she could walk around strangers and pick up fragments of their life, reading their aura. Simultaneously, some bruises started appearing on her body and she found out that she had been going for years with bone fractures she had never acknowledged.

If all my moral bruises were suddenly showing on the surface of my skin like her fractures, I would probably look like a Smurf. Maybe everyone is a Smurf on the inside from all the metaphorical bruises we get. Some people bruise more easily than some others, though.

I came back from America on Monday, replied to a house share advert on Tuesday, visited the place on Wednesday and moved in on Saturday. It was my dream home: big artist warehouse outside London, high ceiling, natural light, creative peeps, etc. My housing lucky star was finally back into action after months off. One of the flatmates told me that there used to be a brothel next door, and that he was meeting hookers on cigarette break in the corridors. I’d love to have hookers as neighbours. They don’t judge.

There was a Halloween party thrown by a street artist in the flat upstairs on the first night in my new home. I found myself with lots of strangers in fancy dress among which Hulk and Frida Kahlo.

I lent my maid of honour dress to a friend of my new flatmates who really wanted to be costumed as a girl. I love boys in dresses and I kept complimenting him about how he looked better in it than I did.

I was the first one to go to bed. At about 5am, I got woken up by someone shaking my leg. The dude in dress was standing at the foot of my bed. He was stuck in it and asked me for help to remove it, which I mechanically did because I always help. Once he was standing in knickers in my bedroom, he invited himself in my bed and his hand invited itself under my top before I even realised what was going on. When he got all over me, I raised my voice and I had to insist several times that I didn’t want him to touch me. He finally emptied the premises of my intimacy, leaving me in a weird state of mind.

I woke up disturbed and felt fucked up for a couple of days. Just as I was starting to find the affective sanity which had deserted my life for a consequent chunk of time, just as I was starting to pave the way to healthier relationships, a random asshole was ruining the faith that I had been struggling to build step by step.

I wasn’t only aching for myself but for womanhood as a whole. Many new questions were arising in my head. I was thinking of the number of stages to my legitimate space this guy had violated: my bedroom door, my sleep, my bed, my judgment, my clothes. I wanted to be in his head for each of them, just to get a sense of how people grant themselves a moral or physical right on others.

I was considering for the first time the actual meaning of rape, the ultimate stage, when someone gets inside your body against your will. I thought of the girls I know who have been sexually abused. I have never been afraid of rape, and I am not going to start after this. I don’t take inconsiderate risk, but I refuse to be run by fear and this will continue, because I think the threat of rape is one more way to control girls. Whether you are afraid or not, I realised how quickly and unexpectedly it can happen to anyone though: a drunken guy who thinks it is funny and that’s it.

This man wasn’t particularly bad, I believe. I don’t think he would have been physically violent. He apologized the day after, put it on account of alcohol. Oh yes. I get drunk too and I don’t pay midnight visits to strangers. I didn’t want to get overdramatic about it but I tried not to minimize it, and I said with a smile that he’d better not do that ever again.

I went to the local cemetery that day. I wanted to see trees, for they were the healthiest creatures in my immediate surroundings. I hanged out with the dead for a long time. At least, they had quit behaving like assholes a while ago. I went through contexts in which the boundaries of my intimacy had been crossed over the years, starting when I was 11, then 14, until now.

On the way back home, I entered the anglican church. There was an office in memory of the people who passed away over the last year. Some nice old ladies talked to me and I decided to stay to be physically surrounded by family-friendly vibes. I sang all the songs. There was a gathering with tea and cakes afterwards. I found myself in a circle of old lovely stereotypical Brits. I was glad I was wearing the pink angora cardigan which my aunt gave me, to blend in more. I was only trying to dissimulate the skull buttons which I had replaced the original ones with. People asked me who was the person I lost. They didn’t quite get what I was doing there, but I didn’t either so everyone was happy. I got a lot of attention from kind people and this is what I needed in that moment, along with kickassing pastries and Earl grey tea. I understand people who turn to church or traditions, because freedom (which implies loneliness) is terrifying.

Later that night, I told α my misadventure and my day randomly dedicated to the dead. She replied: “Haha. El dia de los muertos!”