Should we talk about the octopus? It scares me, but the writing has to be honest. It must; if not, it’s not art. I know this, but the octopus is a scary concept some might find hard to believe, but it’s certainly the truth. I move in truth, not lies; that’s why I get in so much fucking trouble. The world is always insisting you gotta be lying, escaping the truth or being prudent. Fuck prudence. Truth is truth, like the fact that I shouldn’t have said fuck. Language has power, a lot of it. God talked to us through a book. Language is gold, very much so gold, very, very much so gold.
The writing, it is at times very trying, always writing, always reading. For example, the second book: all during the World Cup, in a month, whilst traveling and building a company. The editing of the beginning of the story: finished. Then comes Spanish, and I gotta do it myself, because I speak it and the art has to be real, especially for my people in Mexico.
But it takes time, it seems. There’s always something else to do: more time, more work, more time, more work, more money. Then I gotta deal with Rogan and the Octopus, and it doesn’t help: most people would imagine I am psychotic or insane if and when I mention the Octopus. It’s all secretive; the world of entertainment and Hollywood often is.
I don’t like that. I write for a living. If you write, you are very honest, if you write well, that is. So I like talking about the Octopus, but I must not. Or maybe I can. He says he likes me and I’m crazy; his money is a lot and sickens me. But Mr. Octopus, although he has a very nice garden under the sea, is not God. He is just a man.
No more about the Octopus. I like his tendrils and his training. Call me insane. I am/not. Maybe? No. Yes, but not about that.
Okay, work. Work is getting the better of me. It’s so much pressure. But I gotta do it. I actually stopped it after the third Octopus encounter; there I go again, talking about the Octopus. I had to center myself and remember my values before I could move on, so I had to pause it all, with patience. It’s the building of a structure; for the building to grow and aguantar un terremoto, it has to be built on the rock. So that’s what I am doing, yet it can be tedious, repetitive and uninspiring.
And part of building on the rock is simply waiting in poverty. Which is awesome but also sucks fucking balls. Sorry.
The company is mostly working well, except for my father and Catalina Salim, whom I love very much. They believe I am insane. They’re incredulous. Let them. As the Octopus’s tentacles said, “Don’t tell them. You can if you want, but they won’t believe you,” and he was fucking right, by the way. Rogan, Rogan, Rogan. Soon. Patience. God. God is God, not Rogan.
Okay, fuck, let’s get to the sickness part and dribble a little with words. Poetic? Raw? Words? Anyway. I got sick before a wedding. And what a wedding it was.
I got a bacterial infection. I didn’t do anything about it. When I began to be a little sick, well, I let it be. I had too many things to do to worry about a little mucus, so I let it be, and it grew and it grew. Around three weeks later, I was so ill I couldn’t really do anything, so I went to my mother. I love you, Mom. Te amo, mamá.
My phlegm was yellow, big, juicy and constant. The pharmacist said it was a bacterial infection and gave me medicine. I was so sick I spent around a week in bed. I couldn’t really be active, or I would begin to feel and be sick, especially up there in the mountains, in the cold. So bed and covers and sickness and Bible and God and no masturbation.
What happened when time stood still in sickness in that room? I looked at it. The walls, the books, the bed, the garden through the window, the climate, the voices of my family outside the room. And I felt… Love. I felt Love for my family like I had never felt before. Thankfulness to My Mother and Father for giving me a childhood and a home.
My world was this house. As a child, as I discovered reality, I moved between these sacred walls, sacred for me, a temple of growth into humanity that God chose, next to four other voices. My father. My mother. My big brother. My small brother. My family. Me. It was a temple where I read books and showed, with yells and no belief in God. But a gift. I was thankful.
But I couldn’t move because I was sick, so I slept and watched movies, movie after film, after movie after movie, read Sculpting in Time by Tarkovsky and watched movies. And that reminded me and got me thinking, and I thought, and I was tired yet happy.
Cinema. What is it? It’s a moment in time, caught in a mirror that just captures a reflection. You can’t really physically have or own it. It happened in time, and it’s lost there, but a reflexion of a reflection is left and accessible. There you inhale and digest culture and time. But you don’t own it. Nobody does. Time owns.
So it doesn’t matter if a movie is watched in the cinema, or on your phone, or on a TV. That is people trying to own the moment. We can’t. So the reflection is worthy in any place. Actually, cinema on the phone, sick in bed, is better than going to a theatre. Why? Because it reminds you you don’t own it. It’s lost. You just see a reflection of the director’s mind, then the crew, who, through him, also expand their soul in time, and then time itself, and place, of course: Japan, Russia, America, Norway, Mexico, Brazil.
Reflection of time and space. See, cinema is not like literature in the way that I can, through words, create what isn’t there, and it comes to be in the mind through the will of life. It’s beautiful, it is! And I love to write. But cinema. In cinema, you just point and capture reality. What is already there, no matter how much money or production or whatever the fuck you do. It is reality you are capturing.
So my philosophy is: capture my reality, which I know, so it will be best. More on that with the Red Dress. So the error is thinking money is good cinema. No. Good cinema is a soul capturing what it feels and sees through God in reality, in a reflection of time that isn’t owned but perceived. Beautiful. Not everyone can do that, because you have to be an Artist for that.
So, sick in bed, I thought about the Red Dress. It will be filmed in 2027, with or without the Octopus, but I do love the Octopus. If you are reading, Octopus, I like you. You just scare me, but you know you do, and it’s on purpose.
We thought about the wedding. Actually, I was asked by one of the groom’s children, who apparently has read my stuff, to write about the wedding, a little bit about him. I love that guy. I really do. He fucking rocks! Before the wedding, which was to take place in San Miguel, I had to find out if sickness would allow. So medicine, movies and rest and childhood memories and showers with the Holy Rosary.
I talked to my mother and asked her where the wedding was to be. She said, “At the ranch.” I said, “What ranch?” She described. I was astounded. There was no way I wouldn’t go, even if I was dying, and here’s why.
Months before, I had a recurrent dream, like Joseph, and a memory of a place, long gone. I couldn’t find out if it had been real, or a fantasy, or a dream. I remembered, or imagined, the place: a little pond, in the center a little bridge, playing, then swimming, getting cold and a motherly woman helping me put on my clothes. It was repetitive. I let it be. I was just curious: had it been real, or a dream? When my mother described the ranch, I knew it was that place. It had been real, somewhere in my infancy, in the past. I had to go.
The couple, the couple that was getting married. Here goes: I FUCKING LOVE THOSE TWO HUMANS! I do. When I had nothing, they saved me! They were the first people to trust me apart from my family. I had no place to live in Texas, defamed about the nonexistent rape… On drugs, in pain. They came to visit. They saw me, they hugged me and I cringed, like a beaten dog. They bought me food and clothing. They gave me a home for a year as I fought against the Devil.
A Home, in America, in Texas, although they were all the way in Mexico. A home. For me, the “Rapist”. Love. It was love. Nothing else. Maybe they themselves didn’t realize how much love, but at that time… It was the only love the world showed me. So I love them. I had to go. I went.
San Miguel de Allende and a seven-hour car ride with my demonically possessed parents. They are not bad. My parents are the best; they always believed and trusted in me. The thing is, what happened was pretty rough, and the scars, they have them too. And the pride against Jesus Christ doesn’t let him in, and the demons come in. So yeah, demonically, but the demons aren’t them. They are real metaphysical demons attacking them.
So the full seven hours, I heard insults and I didn’t reply, except: “I love you, Mom, I love you, Dad, I love you, Mom, I love you, Dad.” Fucking seven hours, but seven is biblical. I like seven, I sell seven, I invest in seven. The founding members of Julian Enterprises get 7%. So that’s good.
Anyway, we got there, and I jumped out of the car and walked San Miguel de Allende in the sunset. And then it was night, and I walked, and I saw San Miguel. In the center, I kneeled and kissed the floor of the Independence church. A bell sounded. I get it, writing this. I walked, at night, alone, orange, yellow, Mexico, walking, elotes, gringos, silence, wind, streets, night, loneliness, savannah, walking, Mexico, elote.
I went to a restaurant and ate by myself, a burger. I didn’t really finish. I looked terrible, wearing a turtleneck, a white turtleneck. I looked like I was dying, very skinny. The sickness took its toll. I ate. I heard Americans talking. I ate my burger.
Then live music: salsa. They played it. And I remembered the Bible. There’s a verse: David danced before the Lord. I’m not David. But I danced before the Lord, meaning what? I was sick, and medicated, and surreal, and there was salsa, and the sky could be seen, and I went to the dance floor and danced for the Lord. David danced before the Lord. I love that verse. I sweated, danced well, had two Topo Chicos and left.
On the way out, I saw a bar. It was filled with rowdy, drunk American women. They were being drunk, and conceited and Americanly stupid. I was filled with hatred. I talked to them. They said they were from Texas. We talked. It all ended in me yelling at them: “I was falsely incarcerated in your country!” Something came over me. Of course, no violence, and anyway, I never really got to tell anyone off for that, and it served a purpose, although it was most definitely incredibly wrong, so I showered and prayed for love, comprehension and forgiveness to come to me, and my grudge against Americans to be let go.
And the wedding commenced the next day. I was still very sick, and quiet. We got on a bus, and I talked with a woman about Chihuahua, where she came from. It’s big, and there’s a lot to do, apparently. I got to the ranch.
It was that ranch. The pond, the bridge, the pool, and the motherly woman is the bride-to-be. Everything was tense before. People were trying to check each other. I ate quietly. Drinks were served; people relaxed. I had my golden rehab coin. I caressed it. No need and no want to drink, but why not bring it?
And then I got to dancing. Like a madman, all over the dance floor, like a famous person. I danced like David, and I had fun, and others danced, and we all laughed. Fantastic. And the couple. Love. Love.
There was a beautiful woman, not in a red dress, in a blue dress, but blue dresses are pretty; they are just not red. All the boys were all over her. Who could blame them? It was funny. I danced. Ask around, I really did dance.
I was intercepted by the family, the kids, and we talked about the past. It was alright. One of them took me to a golden chapel within the ranch, a fantastic golden chapel. He wanted to confess something, but what he really was trying to say was he had nothing to confess, but felt like he had to confess. The world does that to you. He didn’t confess his non-confession, but he did, and I love the guy for that. Poor guy. The world does that to you. You gotta forgive the world as well.
The octopus was slightly present at the wedding, I think. So many tentacles; some aren’t. You begin to believe they are. I was still sick, but danced like David, celebrated love and had fun.
The night I walked San Miguel, I wanted to buy a homeless woman some food. I had no money, so instead I sat with her and talked for around three hours, waiting for morning. She was crazy, smart, cool, indigenous and well-spoken. I told her all she needed was Jesus. I also told that to the other kid in the chapel. Poor kid. He did nothing. He is just honestly himself. The world hates that. The world hates honesty. Jesus.
I talked about Jesus with her. She touched my arm and wanted to get laid. She was a pretty homeless woman, and I was dressed up, looking handsome in my wedding suit. Obviously, I didn’t have sex with her, but she was so interesting I did get a boner. I just talked to her about Jesus.
We drove home. I got sick again on the highway. This sickness is not leaving me. My parents were happy. They were glad. They were joyous. They were protected, but the demons will come back. The best way to help is to help me.
As to the happily married: You are filled with love, human, with worries, mistakes and pains, but I have seen the truth of who you are when someone has nothing to offer, except maybe societal withdrawal by contact, and the answer was love. You answered love. I had a home. You are married. You have a home. God is good, and he is great.
The groom looked on at the wedding, his family, his garden from the ranch, serious, but happy. A good man. The bride was nervous to begin with, as all brides are. She clothed me as a kid, out of the pool, and gave me a hug. She listened when no one did and gave me a home. An exemplary woman.
The woman with the blue dress. She is pretty. She had a blue dress. I am looking for the woman with the red dress, in casting, in Helen, in marriage. Where is the woman with the red dress? I am not in Georgia any more.
Prayed the rosary in the shower and prayed to comprehend Americans, so myself? I took my golden coin out, and remembered. I am glad today I dance. Now it’s time to work. Faith.
