Curious Hugo

I dreamed that I published a book

H.R. Vargas — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 23:51:30 +0000

I dreamed that I published a book. It was a real book too. Not one of those eBooks that arts and crafts, macrame-superstar moms seem to be putting out by the thousands, or one of those Japanese cell phone novels that become best-sellers lord knows why. It had character and looked gorgeous. It was printed on real acid free paper and the first few copies that had been delivered to my house smelled like a delicious combination of recently printed ink and the unique sensation of success. The logotype of that famous publisher shined in glossy black, and on the dust cover, three of my favorite authors had written reviews praising it as some of the best writing they had ever read.

Of course, since this was a dream, it did not strike me as odd that at least one of those authors had died long before I was born. “How nice of him,” I thought, “to read my humble prose from the other world.” I wondered if they had sent him the manuscript or if they had done the whole thing over e-mail. It was my first book, after all. I did not know what was common in those cases. Dead reviewers must be difficult to reach. That made me appreciate all the hard work my editor had put into the project even more. I had been lucky I had found her… Or had she found me? I didn’t know for sure.

I knew one thing, though. The book was damned heavy. I estimated it at around four hundred pages, which meant that I probably had a lot to say about that topic. In dreams, people usually don’t read–it has something to do with the brain functions that are inactive when you are sleeping, or something like that. (From this explanation, I assume that it was not on cognitive science). What was it about, then? I picked it up from the box and looked at the neatly designed cover. It looked beautiful indeed, but I could not believe that I did not remember what the book was all about? It didn’t even cross my mind to open it. That brought me back to my initial line of questioning. Who was my editor anyway?

“Amazing,” someone interrupted my wondering from behind me in a female voice. “I just finished reading it and I can honestly say that it is one of the best works I have read in this genre.” I turned around and it was my mother. Okay, she did not look anything like my actual mother. The woman in the dream looked more like Candice Bergen, but in dreams someone can look completely different and yet one knows exactly who they are. I innocently asked her what it was about and she burst into laughter. “As if you didn’t know dear,” she said making a slapping motion in the air. “I am so proud of you.”

I have to explain that I have had the idea of becoming a writer ever since I was a teenager. I have done the exercises and read the classic books on how to do it well. I have also written my share of things on topics I care little about, and I have read my heroes a thousand times, hoping that some day I will get the inspiration to write about something I love. In the meantime I have taken a detour into modestly satisfying lines of study and work that involve some writing. The problem is that the quest for the perfect topic to write about has yielded nothing, and so I keep having an excuse not to write that book that will give me the right to call myself an author. That is, when people ask me what I do for a living at dinner parties, preferably in Manhattan.

So back in the dream, recalling all that, I started to get anxious about everything that I seemed to ignore. How could I write something apparently so good and not know what it was about? And who was this mysterious editor that had been so helpful; how had I met her? That seemed like an important moment to remember. Why couldn’t I just read the book, and why did my mom looked like Candice Bergen? One cannot ask oneself so many rational questions in a dream and not realize one is being a victim of the subconscious. I began to become aware that I was dreaming.

From then, I knew that I had only a few seconds before the conscious mind hit the reset button into awareness and I struggled to find out the the theme of the book. I turned to my mother and asked in a casual way, “what was the single passage you liked the most?” She looked at me with those Candice Bergen squinty eyes and said, “oh, clever boy; good try, but you have to wake up now and actually find out yourself in real life”. She started waving as a bright light came over everything in the room and I woke up. I still didn’t know about what I should write a book, but I certainly knew the essence of this little story.

Unwelcome Guest

H.R. Vargas — Mon, 30 May 2011 18:41:47 +0000

I decided to get rid of him on a Friday night. I had gone through much trouble to arrange for mostly interesting people from the New York publishing scene to be present at what I thought was an intellectually stimulating evening and he was ruining it. One by one, editors, writers, journalists, and critics had made their presence evident, sharing interesting stories, not only related to the pieces featured on their prestigious newspapers and magazines, but also about their normal lives; trivial information that helped making the event human and laid-back.

The editor of the online version of one of the oldest magazines in the city was focusing on the most discussed articles on their website; among them, one about the financial aspects of the new co-ownership of the Mets and another one about the death of the “Godfather of rap”. A senior editor of another influential magazine devoted to music, politics, and popular culture had left work behind and was sharing a story about riding her bike on a full tummy. She was also telling us about how she had “extracted” a splinter buried into her thumb with a pair of tweezers. At the same time, the famous finance blogger at one of the biggest news agencies was in the middle of a heated argument about journalistic quality. He disagreed with someone who had said that putting pressure on reporters, by having them post, update, tweet, podcast, webcast, put together slideshows, and shoot videos about their stories simultaneously, was affecting the quality of the content they produced. For him all those things improved, rather than detract from that quality. Meanwhile, in another corner, the international magazine writer was telling people that the third production of the Men in Black franchise was being shot on her block, while the Nobel prize winning economist and op-ed columnist argued furiously that some right-wing financial writer was distorting the facts when discussing the present administration’s health policy on one of those journals with a time fixation. Suddenly, someone disrupted the atmosphere with the most annoying activity anyone can do at these gatherings. He delivered a sales pitch.

I didn’t know him that well. After all, we had become acquaintances more out of reciprocity than anything else, but he was crossing the line. For a few minutes, the conversation shifted towards all the artists he represented. It would have been okay if they had been two or three, but there were hundreds, and he was squeezing each and every one of them into his advertisement-like monologue. One after the other, he went on about gorillas, satirical rewritings of A Christmas Carol, poems that positively channel anger, slime balls, and the fact that one his writers had written only six hundred and twenty-eight words that day. In addition, he did not waste a chance to direct our attention to his self-published books and his blog.

The others had slowly become quiet and, eventually, he was the only one putting thoughts into words. He was killing the feeling; the vibe I had prepared so carefully. That’s when I decided that I had to put an end to his monopolization of the evening. It had been enough. For several minutes, I thought of what I was about to do and decided it was the only solution to the problem. Although I don’t feel proud about it—he was a nice guy after all—, I went ahead and silenced him. I singled him out, took one last look at his Twitter profile, and clicked on “Unfollow”. My home page looked much better after that.

Hugo R. Vargas

In Distress

H.R. Vargas — Wed, 25 May 2011 17:41:50 +0000

I was waiting for my friend Andrea in front of one of those neighborhood ponds that are so common in Dutch cities when I heard a big commotion across the street. A pair was in the middle of what appeared to be a fight. At first, I didn’t know what to make out of the whole situation, because I didn’t speak their language. I wasn’t sure if they were actually fighting or if that was just the way they expressed themselves, but she was clearly shouting and trying to walk away from him. Her follower didn’t say much—or much I could hear, anyway—, but he was chasing after her insistently. Whenever he would get too close, she would change direction to evade his attempts to corner her.

I watched the entire scene as they got closer to me, trying to decide if I should do or say something, but I had learned that in those cases it was better to let them sort it out. I remember that my grandfather used to tell a story of a day, back in the fifties, when he punched a man who was beating his own wife in public and the woman started yelling at him to leave her husband alone, among hysterical insults and threats. I decided to keep an eye on them, however, just in case I had to step in at some point. In the meantime, they had crossed the street and her shrieks had gotten louder, and what I thought to be more desperate, as she eluded him over and over.

As far as they were concerned, I didn’t exist. Urban living had taught them to ignore my kind, but I remained there, trying to make sense of the situation. Suddenly, he jumped closer to her and revealed his intentions. As if nobody was watching, he tried to force his body upon her and she quacked as loud as she could. That’s when I realized how distressing the situation really was. I had to do something. I could not let it happen. I was the only one who could stop him. I walked over to the male and began shushing at him, waving frantically, and kicking in the air around him. I don’t know if that’s how you scare ducks away, but he got the message, fortunately, and headed back to the pond. “I don’t care who or what you are,” I said, “but no means no!”

As I walked away, telling Andrea about the whole episode, the female duck continued to quack incessantly. I would like to think she was glad that I had showed up; that I had rescued her. Nevertheless, I could not help thinking that all those final quacks might have just been hysterical insults and threats directed at me for interrupting their mating ritual. It was spring after all.

Hugo R. Vargas

A Story Told with Music

H.R. Vargas — Mon, 23 May 2011 18:00:15 +0000

I am about to sit down in the living room with a drink in my hand when he begins his story. From the start I know that my role is to be quiet and and just listen as he shares it with me. He has probably told it a thousand times in countless places, but now it’s my turn; now I have to hear it. It’s a story many men have lived before and I know that when someone has to tell it, he is not looking for an opinion, but an attentive ear. I expect anger and bitterness from a man in his situation, but he is not like that. This tall black man is kind and his speech is calm and tender. His voice carries only a small portion of the burden of expression. He is a man of music and it is with music that he reveals his feelings. I notice that he is not simply going to tell the story. He’s going to relive it; he’s there and although I cannot see her, she is there too.

Deep bass notes take over the room, bouncing off the walls and hitting me from all directions. The tune is repetitive and accusatory, even before his voice is heard for the first time. The periodic intervention of a dissonant guitar signals that what’s about to happen will not be joyful. He is going to confront his lady about something that’s eating him up inside. He needs to talk to her about an incident that awoke his jealousy and insulted his pride. Soon I find out that the two of them were walking down the street when a man gave him a challenging look, unprovoked. The tune continues uninterrupted, repeating the same bass line until he lets her know that his first reaction was to turn to her. As he speaks about this, the sounds of strings invade my living room with notes in rapid succession that arise tension, only to reveal that her response was to quickly look to the ground. Something had not been right at that moment. That’s why he now wants her to tell the truth. He says that he doesn’t know who that man was, but he thinks that she does, and since she doesn’t respond, he utters his first verbal sign of anger, even if still in his calmly tone; “dadgummit!”.

The bass continues its rhythmic pulse as Bill tells her that he doesn’t believe that the man was someone just passing by. His voice is still calm, but the glass-breaking sound of a wooden tambourine tears the air waves abruptly, as if his angry fist pounded on the table. Her reaction is to nervously clear her throat, confirming all his suspicions; at least in his head. Bill’s voice raises and many accusations follow, accompanied by high pitched violin notes that fly across the room like spears that soar from his mouth directly into her body. She tries to make her case; to explain that men don’t have intuition, but it’s too late. For Bill that is just wishful thinking. It’s over; she has wrecked their home. He wants her out of his life, but not without one last demand. His voice now overpowers all the music, reducing her to a pulp of shame and guilt, as he repeats endlessly: “dadgummit, who is he and what is he to you?”

That is the last I hear from him. He doesn’t come out of the trance and walks away, mumbling that same last phrase as the strings and playful wacka-wackas fade and I am left sitting on my couch, perplexed by what I just witnessed. For the first time I feel like I experienced sounds instead of only listening to them and I have the sensation that for three minutes and thirteen seconds I was transported back to 1972. I look down and notice the drink in my hand, still untasted. I take a sip and decide that this is a story that needs to be written; a story of betrayal and deception; a story of music and feelings; a story that I am hearing for the first time four decades after it was shared with the world; a story first sung by Mr. William Harrison “Bill” Withers, Jr..

Hugo R. Vargas

Free

H.R. Vargas — Fri, 20 May 2011 18:00:51 +0000

That night was terrible. Because of an act of nature, I was forced out of my dwelling. For the last few months I had been living in a small place that, although not luxurious, was comfortable enough to call home. I liked spending hours and hours there, listening to the sounds of silence with my eyes closed, enjoying my solitude. Being alone with my thoughts was worlds apart from the crowded situations I had lived earlier in my life, during which I could swear I was always surrounded by millions of individuals. The quietness inspired me. In this new home the ground trembled from time to time for reasons I still cannot explain, but I had grown used to it and it didn’t frighten me. Although I used to be alone, I always had the feeling that there was something or someone out there looking after me. It certainly did not feel that way that night, however, when the walls that used to muffle the outside noise so well started to collapse behind me, literally pushing me out into the chaos.

It happened so fast that my mind repressed most of the incident immediately, but I still get flashbacks from distinct moments that make me grab hold to the sheets. I remember being covered in blood, out in the cold, screaming out of despair. I wanted to go back into my home but they wouldn’t let me. The place was gone; it had been changed forever. My eyes burned and everything was blurry; I didn’t know what to do. I was surrounded by voices and hands that pushed and pulled me around. Someone cleaned the blood from my forehead and put a cloth around me. I don’t know if it was real, but for a moment I felt the presence of the thing that had always been looking after me and I understood that everything was going to be fine. After that, my body shut down and I lost consciousness.

I woke up still disoriented who knows how much time later and I found myself laying on my back. My eyes still burned because I could not get used to the damn whiteness that surrounded me. Someone had come and tied me from my left arm. I had done nothing wrong and felt that I didn’t deserve to be treated like a prisoner, but I could not utter a word to complain or demand an explanation. Gathering the little strength that I had, I started trying to free my wrist from the foreign constraint wrapped around it, but I was weak and the task seemed impossible. I did not give up, however, finally breaking loose after much time. In the background I heard people talking words that would take me many years to understand:

“That’s the second identification wristband we’ve put on him”, said one of them. “It’s hard to believe he was born a few hours ago. Look at him go”.

“That’s my grandson”, a deeper voice spoke proudly. “He will go far in life, you see; he is symbolically breaking all his restraints”.

Hugo R. Vargas