It’s great to have a best friend. Capuchi and I went to L' Pettite Abeille for dinner last night and talked for more than two hours about our plans, project and script ideas, love and sex, movies, new media, meditation and the existence of God. “It’s not important to find out if God actually exists” he confirmed, “what really matters is what you can do for yourself.” Two glasses of Cabernet and a shared steak au poivre were enough to put me in the thoughtful mood. Capuchi has been reading Jodorowsky’s Psycho Magic and believes we should start focusing more on our dreams. “What about these mice matting by the table?” I interrupted. “Nothing, it’s irrelevant to think where they come from or what their purpose is,” he said laughing.

Central Park makes me feel good. A blond teenager takes his dog for a walk and I wonder if I will ever have a 12-year old son. It’s probably because of the weather, but there is a swarm of mosquitoes flying above my head. People speaking Chinese, French and Arabic. A young Hasidic couple walks by me, an old guy is sitting five benches away from me, a tourist asks me to take his photo by the pond. I can feel the cold humidity on my face, the fog covers the buildings, the ducks rest over the lawn laying their extended necks. I close my eyes and take a deep breath; it smells like spring.

The week started with bad cramps and allergies. I open my email a dozen times an hour in the hopes to find something that I’m not even sure what it is. I don’t even respond to emails or letters; I just like to be entertained. What was I doing before I had constant access to internet? I should change my habits, unplug the damn thing and just go for a walk even with the cold weather. I don’t want to wait anymore; I want to feel alive with what I have.

Paloma, Capuchi and Oscar are in the living room discussing Buddhist philosophy while I try to edit the video of Ira Sachs and Daniel Burman. I arrived last night from Mexico, my body is aching of tiredness, my nose is bleeding and I somehow regret drinking a glass of red wine. Paloma switched the subject and is now talking about mental disorders and how easy you can suddenly loose it and wake-up in “lala-land”. It scares me. The last time Paloma came to visit was almost four years ago when she was in transit from London. We had both experienced panic attacks without knowing how to name them. Sharing our stories made us feel better; I haven't felt one ever since.

My body is still aching; probably I’m getting a cold. A few days ago we were driving the 1959 Karmann along the Chapala Lake Riviera, I was wearing a long silk scarf and sunglasses, feeling like Isadora Duncan but drinking cold Mexican beer and sightseeing small huts selling fried trout and tiny fish called charales.

I found my weekly philosophy from a list of ten banking principles: what is fragile should break early while it is still small. Nothing should ever become too big to fail. (I love the Financial Times)

I walked as fast as I could on Park Avenue while repeating the same song on my iPod over and over again. I turned left on 54th Street and cross 5th avenue skipping tourists. Laura and Oscar were already at the Burger Joint; it was Laura’s last night in New York but it felt like any other. We are so used to change that these events stopped being surprising.
Genoveva’s wedding was very emotional. Martha and I were standing in front of her, with watery eyes, while she accepted her vows. We know her story and how important it is for her to build her own family. After the ceremony in Central Park everyone was invited to Ben’s apartment for the petite celebration; kirs and sangrias with empanadas and guacamole. I danced all night, until my feet were in pain. There’s no one to blame when someone knows the right steps.

I’ve been always nostalgic about driving in tropical rain; it reminds me of Guadalajara. I loved the sound it made on the car’s roof and how humidity evaporated making my skin wet. We used to drive across the old parts of town listening to Portishead drinking 1-liter beers. I just have one driving memory in New York. Sarah had just bought her old red sedan and we drove one night from Washington Heights to Greenpoint in Brooklyn. As we drove on the FDR we could see all the apartment buildings with their lights on. I multiplied each window by what it represented in terms of stories: love, success, loneliness and defeat. I had just divorced from Javier, and as each window had its own story I wished one new for my own. Now I have it.

Genoveva’s wedding is tomorrow in Central Park. I’m excited about it.

Ideas while riding the subway

I’m riding the N train to Astoria. I felt lost today; tired and out of myself. Let’s say you were born before Internet, with limited information, and you hoped to become an adult in a simpler environment. I wanted to be an adult when innovation gave you the chance to be part of the movement. I’m all about content and how it is transformed into form, but I don’t quite get the new forms. What I want to be? Where I want to be? I forget the description Rodrigo gave on Saturday about Generation Y. I think he said we are addicted to be excited. Is this the way I wanted to live my life? I spend more than 8 hours in front of a monitor. No. What kind of relationship I want to have? I want you to be drawn to me, fall for me, to come and get me wherever I am. I want to be chased. I’m sometimes afraid of the passion that drives me. I’m a predator.

My iPod plays Three Days by Jane’s Addiction: True hunting is over. No herds to follow. Without game, men prey on each other. The family weakens by the bite we swallow... True leaders gone, of land and people. We choose no kin but adopted strangers. The family weakens by the length we travel.
All of us with wings...

I met Ulysses and Carlos last night outside the building where I used to live in Manhattan. They were high as usual, sitting on the doorsteps holding Morris, the aging pit-bull. Ulysses had lost his front tooth during a fight and I could tell he was ashamed, trying to cover the hole with his tongue while we were talking; his face was swollen. Carlos was playing classical Spanish guitar and both were drinking cheap rum mixed with wild fruit punch. Ulysses is a warm-hearted guy, living a fucked-up life, sponsored by a former Jesuit who pays for his drugs hoping to compensate for all the terrible things that happened to Ulysses during his childhood. It’s sad and hopeless.

Laura is using silver string to make herself a ring and Oscar is speaking out loud while resting on the red sofa. We listen to a Chicano hip-hop song. Laura lost her job as a result of the economic recession and is moving back to Mexico next week leaving us without our home-based architect. Maria is moving in next Tuesday.

I read two inspiring art news last week: Ms. Ceballos earns $100 a month and owns one of the only truly independent art galleries in Havana. She has helped to launch the career of some of the most important Cuban artists showing their work in her own living room.
A collective art show in Damascus holds pieces from Iraqi artists that sought refuge in Syria. During an interview with the Financial Times Abbas al-Amar, the painter organizing the exhibition said, "If people start planting roses again, I will go home to Iraq. People who are planting roses are also thinking and dreaming."

For some of us marriage is rebellious. After years of being considered a free-spirit by your family no one expect you to do the things “normal” people do, and they show concern about this “new you” that actually wants to get a diamond ring instead of a symbolic tattoo. When I was younger I systematically rejected everything that represented following the norm, I even thought using a hairbrush was stupid (sigh!). Now, even when I still listen to my old mix tapes ranging from David Bowie to Tricky, I want to be with a man that can wear a suit without blaming the “system” for having dress codes. I feel like my friend Gerry, once he finally got out of the closet, he found himself in love with a woman and everyone was shocked because he was supposed to like men.

Last night I started my volunteer work with Cinema Tropical as I want to get involve in the art/film scene again. After recording a public conversation between two prominent filmmakers, one from Argentina and one from New York, we headed to the Washington Square Café for a glass of wine. In a way, Carlos and Lucila represent a certain influence for me. They are two well-respected film/art promoters who carved their work in New York after coming from Mexico 6 years before me. Like me, they chose to live in this city and call it home. - What is not to love about New York? - Carlos said repeatedly while biting pieces of garlic that tasted like olives. Lucila has it clear; she has never doubted why she moved here, “I always hoped to be taken out of Mexico”. As for me, I just knew I will live here, in the same way I thought I knew I will be a filmmaker. I’m not sure anymore.