I hate discords, I turn my back to conflicts, I loath aggression of any kind, I dislike domestic fights carried out loudly and without as much as a whiff of logical argumentation, I hate gratuitous mean words or thoughts, I hate anything that disturbs my senses which are otherwise so extremely finely tuned to anything beautiful and to the peaceful realm of harmony. I’m a fucking Ferdinand the Bull. I would sit all day long smelling flowers in a pot, tasting a good white wine while, eating my latest culinary creation and admiring beautiful bodies sunbathing on my beach raising prayers to God for all His gifts to my so brittle senses. That would make me a creep? A hedonist? A pleasure seeker, right? Well, the answer is yes and no. That depends. For a psychopath all the disturbing violent habits described above are the embodiment of a thrilling pleasure so am I still a hedonist to you now or just a normal sane in the head person? If whatever I loathe is a Bonanza of pleasure to somebody, that someone would be for sure my second ex who was living the time of her life fucking me up emotionally all day longer than a year. Whenever I suffered she thrived and later she would forgive me and offer me the generous comfort of her arms. I was totally bewitched by her beauty and by her tricks and illusions. All narcissistic psychopaths are excellent disguisers. They are mirroring back at you whatever you wanna see or hear, they almost clone you up, you and your thoughts, and whatever you see and fall in love with is basically another version of yourself. I adored her mirror until it broke to pieces and Dorian Gray popped out from behind to mess me up like a Russian MMA fighter after I cussed his mother in a club. Bottom line, my ex got herself a green card to Pleasureland and I was handed one to Hell and to me it became clear that both of us we were somehow bizarrely alike. Both of us we were driven by the same insatiable thirst for pleasure in life and if so then the only logical conclusion was that there must exist at least two major types of fuels in our universe to make that happen: a positive charged harmony and a negatively charged harmony, both equal and of course opposite in forces. Let’s get generous, shall we, and accept the possible existence of other highly sophisticated infinite variations of those two laid out in between. She might have not realized early in life that chaos and violence were tickling her joy but I’m sure that by the time I met her after every fight she would genuinely feel a pain inside her chest, or at least a tiny speck of remorse. I refuse to accept that she was a total wacko. I’m placed 180 degrees on the other side of the spectrum of wacko, I’m an old school purist so I’ll stick with the most hardcore definition of positive harmony there is, to the original Bironesque crappy mothership of harmony because I’ve noticed this borderline gay sensitiveness tendency of mine to react psychosomatically to the slightest sign of ugly such is wearing Birkenstoks with socks, for instance. I hate those mofos so much that one single sight of this combo and my day is ruined. I needed the second marriage as a lesson to better understand myself and combined with my almost half a century of self observation I finally figured it out that I thrive exclusively in a positive harmony and I totally drown in its opposite. It was about time. The culprit in this story is our cerebral design, the place where our pleasure sensors are fed by harmony and its bigass engine needs endless loads of that crap thus our desperation to procure tons of it no matter what. Harmony gives us pleasure, pleasure brings us happiness (positive or negative) and the rest of the process is pure chemistry. It’s a simple equation. Where to look for harmony is the real trick. Most of us (at least intuitively) know where to dig it out but sadly only a handful of us knew how to harness it and hold on to it for the later rainy days. I’m talking about relationship for it’s the most important supplier of our much needed fix. There are some other fixes equally powerful. Money, for instance, power or fame but these are harder to dug out and usually they don’t require the help of a partner. This is mostly a solo journey. The first place that pops into our minds where to search for harmony is romance. It’s easier. You rely on him or her to provide your pleasure but since each individual is ruled by his own ideal, it might not be yours as well. He or she might fool you initially but sooner or later he or she will come out the woods and surprise you. To my total bewildering, one of the few first ex’s words addressed to me when she asked for our divorce was that I, unlike her, I’m living by myself in a idealistic world. My ideal was “love” in all its shapes and forms, she said it was hers too, so I focused on my ideal like a guided missile. I ran a NORAD command centre for that shit. Nothing else mattered to me. Love for her, for my daughters, for my family. What’s so wrong in that? She enjoyed the fruits of my “idealism” for twenty six long years and she never complained when I treated her with respect nor when I covered her with gifts, kisses or my unconditional affection and dedication… until she didn’t. Maybe I was too much to her. Perhaps she was secretly lingering for a macho latino passionate abuse from time to time or an occasional cheat with our maid or with her best friend. I was a wuss. I could only guess that whatever good I did from one point onward was taken for granted, it didn’t matter anymore to her. She needed badly to increase the dosage of whatever she was missing. The excitement of the unknown, the thrill of frivolous stolen kisses from strangers on her way to the night’s club bathroom, an ass grabbing, the butterflies of an adventure and the curiosity of learning what a “walk of shame” is. She certainly lacked imagination if she needed to experience all those in real life and today she’s paying the price. I can tutor anyone curious on those matters. I can be an total jerk, an asshole and I did tutor some of my girlfriends on what a wretched man is but it saddened me later. My own conscience bitchslapped me later for my all my wrongdoings. It turns out that I can be that horrible person 24/7, actually this is the perfect time to be a predator if you want to have your fun with impunity, but I choose not to be one instead because, remember, like I said it before, it is not in my nature. I’m a fucking Ferdinand the Bull. By my side the mother of my children would’ve died a highly respected lady (by me), adored, spoiled but sadly an ignorant wife. Now she’s a powerful independent 50 years old eligible wise bachelorette. Good for her. Back when she evoked her reasons for a divorce she left me perplexed. I never got her then, I still don’t get her today but that’s ok now. Pfff… An idealistic world. Is this a thing? It sounds that bad to you? Why wouldn’t I live in an idealistic positive world if I have this choice? To me, striving to build and live by the true (to me and to the majority of us) meaning of the word is mandatory if you wanna better yourself as a human but with one condition, of course, and that would be to never let yourself be completely absorbed by your fantasy which, by the way, it will remain only a fantasy if you won’t do anything about it, and with that bomb shell the logical loop is closed. In Ancient Rome there was this say Mori memorias non somnia (Die with memories not with dreams) and I took their advice literally, word for word. After my divorce I created my memories in my quest for an ideal: perfect Harmony. My dreamy world is a life crammed with loads and loads of that shit, top to bottom, and I’m not just fantasising in my sleep about it, I also act and as a consequence inevitably I’m also creating memories in the process. Not necessarily only good ones. I often tend to fail in my attempts. Memories of me fighting for whatever I’m dreaming for are literally most of my nightmares which sometimes are keeping me awake at nights or waking me up in the middle of the night covered in sweat along with a pain in my chest. Living your life completely unaware of its harsh reality like an autistic and getting surprised by its brutality is one thing, and fighting to materialize your dreams fully aware and against it is a totally different ball game. To surrender yourself to reality’s ugliness is a sign of weakness in my book. For instance, I will never accept the modern definition of love and everything related to this subject. I believe in the old ways, in mutual respect, in trust, in team effort, in friendship, in common values, common aspirations and mutual admiration, ideally one for another instead of both for one. I chose to fight what apparently is our century’s reality and if my resilience would mean that I’ll die alone then so be it, I’d rather die alone than to surrender for half or fractions of her affection dictated exclusively by her material or emotional temporary interests. I refuse to be just a few steps in anyone’s life, I want to be the whole staircase, it’s either that of nothing. Been there, done that, I was left with scars which will never ever fully heal. Call me a modern day Don Quijote, I guess, fighting the windmills. At least this is how I feel sometimes. If I’m after what I believe it’s worth something then I’ll do it like an Alabama bloodhound sniffing the ground like a hoover, I don’t give a flying fuck for the consequences so no wonder that compared to the most of you I could easily pass for a bloody anarchist, and I am one, truth to be told. For twenty six years I never cheated on my partner in a world of cheaters, I was a feminist before it became a thing, I was a me too most vocal advocate since Weinstein’s birth, I’ve always swam upstream like a salmon instead of falling like a spineless, faceless hipster desperate for any sort of visibility for the so-called trends of the day only for the sake of gaining a flimsy and temporary validation of some sort. Why? Because to me it felt right. It was the right thing to do and the proper answer on my behalf whenever I was facing any form of injustice. I dunno what’s like to be a good person, I’ll never know so fuck that. But what I know for sure is what a correct person is and I’m a fuckin’ Joanne D’Arc when it comes down to it. If you treat me fairly my imediate non negotiable response to you is to treat you back with double the fairness, but if you’re a bitch with me then I’m a pimp with you and I’ll pick up my pimp stick, my fedora leopard hat, my long ass pimped Buick and I’ll bitch slap your ass old school. Tit for tat. I knew who I was from the day one and I immediately cringed. The moment I understood who I was I kinda felt that I was promised a life of constant struggle. I’ve always felt different and I hated that because I’ve instinctively knew what I was going to deal with onwards all my life. What I sought for since I gained a conscience? Harmony. Such a beautiful word. A blend of simultaneous rhythmical occurrences (sounds, feelings, colours, faces, gestures, thoughts, materials, objects, tastes, textures, shapes) of different pitch or quality creating together chords. I’ve been searching for it in every aspect of my life since I can barely remember and now I’m turning fifty. Well, almost. And the harder I seek to find it the more I convince myself that harmony is like gold, barely visible specks of dust scattered all over the places and the grim reality is that most of us must shovel, wash and sieve entire mountains to collect only a few ounces of it in an entire lifetime. Shiny tiny particles of harmony, that’s what most of us get. Nuggets of that shit are reserved only for the truly lucky ones. I’m not that lucky. Never counted myself among the lucky ones. Speaking of counting, I’ve opened my laptop to count my hours until I change my numbers and the machine in front of me had just delivered the answer in the most chilling fashion ever conceivable that I have only 182 days, 11 hours and 40 minutes left until I’ll squeeze the shit out of my forth decade of existence. So little time and yet enough, I guess, to make all the difference in the world. Who knows, one lucky strike of a pickaxe and I’ll dig out a ginormous nugget or a pebble. Six months and change ’till fifty. A pinch of time left at my hand to overturn my paradigm. I must show some positivity… perhaps It’s exactly like when you’re cooking a meal and one tiny pinch of salt dropped elegantly into your pot minutes before it’s done changes everything. It’s like magic. Those tiny crystals at the end are bringing your volcano of bubbling ingredients together offering you a state of pure pleasure when you take a spoon to taste it. To me it’s exactly like that “good morning, love” rolled out of her mouth paired with a wide smile just as the sun popped out from behind that distant rocky body that emerges from afar. I’m not exaggerating, or am I? Without that smile her simple “good morning” would be just a cold machine-like politeness expressed earlier in the morning, that’s all. Add it to the same words and you get the epitome of perfection itself encapsulated between two warm and silky breaths. Harmony, oh how I loath your scarcity. Do you see how one insignificant add-on such is a pinch of salt, a smile, a hello, a nice gesture, even one single warm look are enough to overturn (not change) someone’s entire world? … They would in my case. I can only imagine what I can accomplish in six months with a bit of luck… One day I’ll find whatever I’m looking for and when I’ll do I’ll keep it close to my chest to never let it go. During my last five years my life hasn’t had much sense, let alone harmony, so I’m heavily relying on the celestial powers to spare me a second and allow me to find it before I reach my self imposed deadline. Salt is a detail, a smile is a detail, six months are a detail on the greater scale of an average person’s lifetime but I’m a sucker for details and six months could be an eternity and a split second all together, depending on which side of the fence I’ve placed myself. Will I find it? We’ll see… Oh, boy it must be the fumes the reason you’re babbling in your head… and the thick brush I was holding in my hand thumped loudly at my feet.

I poured myself a glass of white wine and I walked outside to stare at the beach which stops at the foot of my house. I turned around and I admired the shitty facade which needs some repairs and a coat of painting and I reflected at the thoughts I had inside. I’ve been busting my balls to make my beach house fully habitable, not only the ground floor which I took care of it months ago earlier. I furnished my living room, that’s how I started my renovation project because I needed a place to sleep. I bought my house empty. Each time I was home (and by that I meat every three months or so) I would crouch on my sofa under the cover of a thin dark gray Ikea blanket dreaming on how I would soon fix the rest of it. I spent all year designing it and redesigning it countless times in my head. I struggled to connect myself to the inside space in order to let her speak to me, to instruct me on what she wants, not what I want so we can both live in harmony until I have finally heard her opening her mouth to me. To make it happen, now that was the real challenge. I dreaded this moment since day one and I knew I had no other choice but to pull myself together and just do it. The rest of my house, which consists in the three rooms and a bathroom occupying my entire top floor and the terracotta terrace above were left a wreck, exactly like I found them when I signed the papers one year ago. I didn’t procrastinate, I had my reasons; first of all I was literally scared of myself. It’s the schizophrenic inside me whom I fear. I fear that “that guy” because once I start only Lord knows when or where I’ll ever be able to stop. It must be a medical condition, I guess. Plating a dish, concocting a recipe, doodling a pencil drawing, building a wall, creating a piece of furniture or restoring a motorcycle, anything, they’re all triggers in my case… I’ll always be guided (or misguided) by the idea that it’s never perfect and it’ll never be perfect. I’m left with a permanent impression that I didn’t do enough to make it perfect. That’s who I am. On top of my apparently schizophrenic patterns, my entire top floor was really in a bad need for lots of tender love and care. The walls, floors, it needed woodworking and I’ve never had enough time neither the mood to fully commit myself to the ambitious task of fixing them, especially for a guy of my age, all alone and far away from any really good DIY store to procure all the necessary materials, a thing which is a job by itself in Tenerife if you don’t know your way on that island, and I don’t. Who to talk to, where to go, what are the prices, who can you call etc. Besides that, I’ve never had the opportunity to rent the proper vehicle for this kind of massive job and, to be honest at the end of the day how could’ve I? I don’t own a car in Tenerife and both Canarian airports don’t usually rent out vans designated for construction jobs to their customers. They do rent, though, armadas of petite convertibles or tiny bubbles on wheels which are understandably more suitable to serve the purpose of a turist’s arrival and that’s usually, of course, a fuckin’ long well deserved vacation. Painting walls or erecting scaffoldings and such were never taken into consideration. Another good reason for my project’s tardiness is also my village with its bloody geography. It was erected in a latin fjord like every other fishermen village in this Atlantic archipelago. Close to their boats, duh and my house is one of the closest. I can literally fish sitting comfortably inside my home. To reach the shores there’s a 300 feet drop from the main road to the ocean, accessible by car barely two thirds of the distance leaving the rest of it to be covered by a healthy pair of legs through the bottomless steep meandering narrow steps. Trust me, it could be quite discouraging to anybody, not just to me, including to the delivery company who’s men disappeared into a mist like partridges after a gun shot when I asked them to deliver a washing machine. I gave them my address and bam! bye bye, they became ghosts in a split second… I could hear the crickets singing in a field. Oh, come on, guys, there is worst and you know that… come back!… it could’ve been El Barrio de Los Duros built entirely on the side of a mountain with no roads!… Any previous attempts to carry down all the shit that I needed to start the renovation gave me nightmares and tons of sweat so imagine the state that I was when I have arrived home before Christmas if in spite of all that nothing stood between me and my plans to make the necessary amends. It was a now or never thing. The pain of my daily existential reality overcame any conceivable physical challenges. It was the perfect time to do something. I’ve literally violated and disgraced my white tiny VW by stuffing it like a zucchini with an unbelievable amount of weights and objects and I gained the arms of an Orangutan dragging down to my beach house gallons of buckets of paints, pounds of screws, various tools, a heavy wood ladder, brushes, electrical cords, one brush pole, a bunch of long ass wall wood moulds, saws, drilling machines… followed later by small or big furniture, rugs, a whole bigass bed and its mattress from Ikea, lamps and many many countless other large and heavy bags of shits. And in between, groceries, right? I needed water and food. And wine, of course… I was determined to finish this job no matter what and my tiny car was the collateral damage. Three weeks, three rooms to deal with, that’s what I had in mind. My house, my life, my plan, my way… I took a sip from my glass of wine and I smiled with an eased chest. It felt so perfect. My top floor is almost done and I’m proud of my work, especially of my Berber Lounge which is now turned into my painting room because of its light. I stopped painting 35-37 years ago. Wow, that long?!… I was quite good at it and it wasn’t me who said it, it was my master whom I assisted as an apprentice for three consecutive years in his “atelier” and it’s for the first time ever since when I really missed it and I did something about it. To me that’s the clearest sign that my almost complete healing is close and I’m so eased by my discovery. I say almost because my scars will stay with me as a reminder of my “battles”, but the rest of me is finally healing and gaining peace. Perhaps it’s the house, could be the beach or the ocean, I don’t know and I don’t care, the reality is that I finally feel truly connected to the matrix of my personal harmony and, OMG, its taste is so sweet. Ay, que rico! Remember when I said to you that I’m out of luck or never been lucky? Well, in this very moment, having all these warm feelings, holding my glass of chilled white wine in one hand and a lit cigarette between my lips, with the blue waters of the Atlantic knocking the shit out of the rock beneath me and staring at my tiny but chic crib… I dunno… I’m not so sure anymore… this scene, this reality is kinda remodeling my whole perspective over everything in the same way I remodeled my home, right? Perhaps I’m the luckiest sons of Adam and on top of that, still, I have six months left till I’ll reach my deadline… Plenty of time. Salud!

Tenerife