Happy birthday baby brother. This one is on your name.

I like when caffeine kicks in. Not that I´m a coffee addict or anything, only that since I don´t drink a lot of coffee, when I do I can tell the difference. When the caffeine starts to run through my veins I would feel more energetic, a lot more, especially after a double espresso in Milan, Italy. No child´s play here; coffee is a serious matter in this country. 

The energy hits my entire body and I imagine the sequence of the movie Limitless when this wonderful pill hits the brain and everything seems more colorful and clear, and the mind is sharper. I can tell why people drink coffee. I feel as if my eyes are abnormally open.

I have a brother and a sister. My brother died when the three of us were little, he was the youngest; an unexpected gift from the universe, one that stayed with us a little time, but of which I´m eternally grateful with life.

Last night as I went to bed I thought of all the wonderful things the universe provides for me and my family, including my partner, our dog (Dharma, the little bitch we raise as if she´s an arabic princess) and our two cats. How blessed I am because of my friends as well. The old and new ones, especially the newest ones, so unexpected and, as one of them said recently, "just drop-kicking their way in". She was talking about me. All the walls one would build up in order to be safe, broke down with my karate hands. Also grateful for the projects that I involve myself into. Even the weird and awkward situations are a gift, I´m sure they always provide a big part of awfulness and a little part of good lesson; only the awful parts fade away fast and the good lessons remain. I went to bed and I kissed my partner´s lips good night. I smiled in the dark and said "thank you" in silence; I said it mute but I articulated the words with my lips. Thank you.

I woke up and my dream was still clear. I dreamed of my brother. Not alive, he wasn´t there, he was in spirit. We talked about him; we visited a grave that was supposed to be his, but even in my dream, he wash´t there. His corpse had faded away and the grave was clean. Flawless. No leaves or branches. The undertakers had cleaned it up, "because we like him a lot", they said. I guess that´s why I never visit his grave in real life, because I know he´s not there. I smile thinking that he´s everywhere and he accompanies me. I don´t carry him on my back, no. He´s more of a figure that walks by my side.

Before, I couldn´t speak about my brother, I would cry seconds after starting mentioning him. His departure left me a little hole in the heart, that emptiness used to hurt. It doesn´t anymore.

The first time I went to Canada was with my partner at the time. We flew into Toronto and then we left for Quebec, Montreal and we ended in New York City. We flew back home from JFK after 14 days. It was a very cold spring, but a lovely one to always remember.  When in the bus from Toronto to Montreal I was playing a Chill Out record; the first song was Little Brother (by Aromabar, the first version of it, without all the mix effects that now has). The first time I played it while in the bus, made me cry because I thought of my baby brother. I don´t now what it was, the guitar notes in the beginning of the track or the soothing female voice that keeps repeating, "little brother, where are you now?"; she responds to her self, "I am here". To the accords of that song I type this post right now and my heart is happy and my eyes dry. I smile mellowly while typing and I say "thank you" out loud.

When back home, I decided I needed to deal with that subject. My brother was a happy memory that turned sad and hurt when present as a thought. I wanted to be emotionally healthy and remember him the way he was, all smiles and almost my twin (probably not just physically, he was also a pretty cool baby, like I was you know). A happy being in the tale of my life. 

I went through therapy and cried my heart out for weeks. My eyes would pour tears like endless heavy rain, I confronted all these feelings and, in the end, I felt better, I was new. My brother is now one of the most joyful chapters in my early existence, and one recurrent character in the story of my life. Now I speak about him and I feel happy and I would top that happiness with some melancholy, but now the sadness has gone, and the melancholy I talk about is a positive one. You know how energy is neither created nor destroyed? that sorrowful vibe has transformed into glee and enjoyment. Now I can listen to Little Brother and smile instead of feeling blue. I grin while typing this. 

I have always been a very light sleeper. Any sound, no matter how low, would wake me up; I would go back to sleep just as easy, but I´m pretty much always alert. Don´t think I don´t rest, I do, and this "ability" has been very useful when traveling on my own and staying in super crowded dorms in hostels. It has come in so handy, that I remember in Jerusalem (the second or third time I was there), the south african girl sleeping below me in the bunk bed asked me to wake her up every day at 5 am to go to work. She was a heavy sleeper, so I would have to get off my bed on top of the bunk and decidedly shake her in order to wake her up. It was a mission, not impossible whatsoever, but since I´m super responsable, I took it very seriously and I wouldn´t go back to sleep unless she was up and standing on her way to (one of) the shower (s).  

My brother slept in my room. His cradle was just a couple of meters away from me and I always remember my mom getting into the room to check him out in the middle of the night, to cover him back with his blanket in case he would had moved. My mom had a green oversized silky night robe (she was super skinny. She still is); she would wear that one in my memory. I would take a look at them for a couple of seconds then I would go back to sleep. Most of the times my mom would also kiss me good night again, after checking on him and I would kiss her back, all sleepy. She would say, "go back to sleep", while caressing my head. I would obey. Fade to black.

I woke up in a good mood because I dreamed of my mom, my dog, my partner, my brother and I, and my old car, only it was pink; Mary Key pink. My dream was full of love and contentment. Even when we saw the empty grave we felt good, because we all knew that a corpse is just a container and his had vanished. My little brother´s energy will always live inside and around us or in someone else´s heart and body. I believe in reincarnation. So, who knows. Possibilities are endless.

I woke up and my mom had sent me an email, a short one. It was almost as if I was listening her and as if she read my mind: "it´s your baby brother´s birthday. Lets celebrate in joy. I love you". 

Today´s my baby brother´s birthday. He would be 31 years old and I bet we would get along perfectly, like my sister and I. I will eat birthday cake today to celebrate the day he was born. Because the time he was with us was pretty awesome and, since I´m very happy because he existed, I can throw a party now; although, I won't do it because I rather have the entire cake for myself. Not that I´m sheltering in food, it´s just that I like cake very much, and birthday cakes are usually very good, all spongy and full of this "Holiday/Celebration" energy.

This post is a tribute to the little person that sculpted me in a very big way. The therapist ended one of the last sessions by saying that me and my sister should be very grateful to him; because we are who we are because of him; because we turned out pretty good. You know, no drugs or alcohol or bad teenage years at all. We turned out very safe responsible travelers. You see, my sister and I are addicted to traveling and to have this "where the hell am I?" feeling when you get to a new strange country, we love that feeling. Like the first time we went to Egypt in the mid 90s, when no one spoke english and we spent one day without eating because we had no idea what was what and couldn't differentiate a falafel shack from a shoe shop; to our eyes, everything looked the same. So weird.

I have always been very aware of my senses. I´m especially sensitive to odors, doesn´t matter, good or bad. Not that I would get all grossed out with the smell of skunk pee, in a way I think I enjoy it; it reminds me of my neighborhood in San Diego, it was all "foresty" and we would always see raccoons and skunks almost every night. 

One day I was in my room and I smelled incense, a very nice one, like Nag Champa, not fruity at all, more "mystical". There was no reason why I would be able to smell incense coming from the window. Our neighbor´s house was far and my window faces the garden (no smell of flowers in Nag Champa incense. Not that we have many flowers in the garden. It´s green, but there are lots of grass, cypresses and green vegetation). The source of that incense scent was nowhere to be found. On the first hit of the Nag-Champa like fragrance I thought of my brother and smiled, I decided it was him saying hello to his big brother. I said "Hi little brother" back to him.

I´m almost gone to the gym, caffeine is hitting hard and I want to burn it our of my system. I wanted to let him know that I´m here, before taking off. That I´m making our parents proud and I´m living my life responsible but to the fullest. Also that I see him in the the face of my nephews. But mostly that I think of him with the singing of birds and whenever I smell incense. Happy birthday little brother. 

Running through out one of my homes. I prefer green tea, thank you very much.

I love when a city that was strange months ago, becomes this regular place; like a neighborhood, one of your homes. I cannot say my second home, I have plenty of those, at least three: Guadalajara, Barcelona and Paris, in terms of houses, it´s a lot, you have to love them all, how many loves of the same kind can one shelter?.

Although, Milan is becoming so familiar lately, like a new friend that feels old. Of that I know well, I met one of my BFFs in the last few months and we feel like old family nowadays. If you believe in reincarnation and that sorta stuff, you can understand. The first time you meet this type of people seems new, then a couple of days later it feels like forever, like old friends, as if we both were diaper-changed together, or twins split up when born. Now she writes and so do I, her future is success, mine is too. I always wish it is, I hope it is and I work so it can be for sure. Four weeks ahead in time from right this moment I update my status and I end with the phrase, "I love my life". I do, I love my life. Happiness is success. I am happy. Ergo, I´m successful. I have everything I dream of, everything I wish for and I work to make wishes a full choice, one I decide to take. Like a man.

The universe was the one who suggested me to think of today as if it is four weeks ahead. Not that I deny my current existence, four weeks before of this four weeks ahead, everything´s beautiful and I am where I have to be; and of that I´m grateful. My current life is pretty fantastic. It´s just that envisioning makes you build a better scheme, gets your project even more refined; thinking four weeks ahead it´s not just wishful thinking, it´s seeing what you already have ahead in time, a glance of your own future.

Thinking four weeks ahead it´s a tool that gets me faster to where I want and I´m meant to be. The universe is very hi-tech; the advice I received was via email, and when saying good bye, it´s usually on a warm way that makes me feel even closer. Closer than when I see a succession of 1s or a feather in my path. I see those even here, in Milan; just yesterday while running 10 K through out some of the city streets I checked some out. I see. I listen. I learn.

Milan feels like home now. I don´t speak italian but I do. No matter what, I end up having conversations about everything and anything in italian, and when I get stuck, I would say it in english, spanish or french (in that order), and they would say the word in italian; then I would fit the new word in the phrase. There you are, that´s me speaking the language that I have never studied.

Trivialities seem more important when said in italian, especially for a non italian speaker. The language presses so much drama to ice creams or directions, such a passionate joy. You know how they say french is the language of love? well, italian is the language of drama, fake and artificial, but only in the beginning, afterwards one understands that that passion and that drama it´s 100% authentic.

Italian is probably to sexy, what french is to love. If your order a double espresso, long and with sugar in it, you will end up sounding as if you're insinuating an "indecency" to the hot waiter. No matter the gender, the server will end up nodding and looking at you smiling, staring at you directly in the eyes and fanning those curly thick eyelashes. "Chiaro. Di subito|". They would say kindly.

Yesterday I ran 10 K through out Milano. It felt new and also old; like every time I run over Paris, San Diego or from the pier in San Francisco to Sausalito. New because I passed by buildings and squares I´ve never been before. Old because I told the city: "you are home". It´s home when I decide to caress its pavement with my feet, my running shoes. "I like you and I go around you as I please because we own each other in a way". Running through out a city is for me just like what I do when I stay at a place that´s not mine. I move furniture around and add a tiny little thing that wasn´t there before (can be incense or a candle). That way I make the space mine, it´s different than what it was before I got there.

To the accords of an old piano, with a dusty sound in the back, I look out of this tall window, of this apartment, in this avenue and I look at this lady passing by. What would I think if I was her and I´d see me seeing her (in that case me as well): who is this guy, why is he there? must be awesome to live in this area, does he go often to this candy place? where does he take his coffee?

I don´t drink coffee. I always prefer green tea.

Since the very first moment we take misconceptions as truths. She must be married and she´s looking for school material for her children, they just got back to school.

No, she isn´t married and loves to walk around here. She´s secretly in love with the owner of the Bakery. Whom loves his wife. Whom loves the milk man. Whom loves her back.

First time I came to this place after the first couple of times (years and years before that), I practiced a couple of phrases so I could get myself around. Today I just let myself go and I talk to Elisa, a blond skinny girl from the dog park. We talk about how crowded the park gets later and how Leo, her dog, and Dharma, my bitch, get along. Meaning Leo runs around Dharma playful and enthusiast, back and forth to the limits of this confined canine grassy paradise, while she ignores him and sniffs around looking for the perfect scent that will make her pee, pee even more and then pee again. She´s into smells, that´s her fetish. My bitch, making daddy proud.

I remember when my mom suggested I´d listen to what life was telling me at every step. When you´re young you really don´t listen, not often to your mom, let alone the universe. The idea is so vague and abstract, it´s so hard to deal with this sorta concerns when you´re head is full of youth and inexperience. I was 22 I think. Today I still feel like 22. Only by now, I have experienced emotions, trips, people and I have given a long thought to subjects that seemed irrelevant before. That has opened my head, but most important, it has opened my heart... And probably my third eye and all. Did I say that out loud?

Opening a package, getting rid of instructions and the box, and just plugging the thing in without any fear of consequences. That has been me many times. Not that I´m proud. So many times I needed to read instructions before, but even more times this recklessness has taking me places and made me who I am now. Maybe that same rashness is the one that has put me where I am right now. For that I´m grateful. Where was I? Oh yes! Feels unfinished? It´s not, it´s just an anti cathartic paragraph.

Now my friends are different. We are all damaged in some way, bonly or wounds are alike. We also love, we all love with no boundaries. Some take long to say I love you, but at the end we all say it and we mean it. We connect in another level and share points of view. We also have been taking care of the same kinda hurts; some times we carry the same scars. Thyroid tumor and treatment or being dumped the same way by the same sorta person. Bruises look similar among my friends and I, maybe we were injured in the same accident and we don´t know it. By this moment we are all happy enough to cure each others hearts by having a ton of fun and telling happy stories, all sorta stories. We laugh a lot, we got rid of the stones that teenage usually makes you carry on the back. Now I write them and share them. The universe have put us in the same road, we wave hello and decided to stop for a coffee in this dinner. The waiter is not italian, but looks like James Dean. He smokes and also carries a broken heart. Anyways he smiles and shows perfect teeth.

In the end Milan is the place there I am today. In three more days I´ll be back home to Paris and there I will shape myself and my future. First things first. I will kiss and pet my cats hello, walk the dog and then post again here. Pour my thoughts I thought were in order and let them out like the faucet that´s next to me; so stormy, the water comes out as if the ocean wants to come out of there. Hope the pipes can support that.

Running makes me happy. Every time I do it, I thank for every single step I take, for being able to do it. Life is a gift, and I think we all should live it as that, a present that is given to us and that´s being renewed every second. For mine I´m grateful. I always am.