From a City-sponsored flyer available at the local Tourist Information Bureau and translated, lovingly and very unpunkly, by me:
“So you want to adapt quickly to San Marcos Sierras?
• Say hello to everyone you come across in the street
• Give the right-of-way to pedestrians, bicycles and horses
• Smile, even for no reason
• Throw trash in the provided bins
• Never drive faster than 30km/hr
• Walk a lot, and at some point in the day, go barefoot
• Enjoy the silence of the Sierra
• Be kind, simple, and understanding
• Take the time to share maté with friends
• Play in the sand, the river, and with the children
• Always direct your attitude and your thoughts towards positive things
• Look up at the night sky and discover how many more stars there are than you’d ever imagined
• From the moment you wake up, breathe deeply
• Discover new paths in the hills
• Only camp in indicated spots
• Eat bread, honey and homemade sweets, all with the faint aroma of nature and campfire
• Try and distinguish the smell of the tree from its fruits and flowers
• Don’t write on the walls or on the rocks of the river
• Love things the way Mother Nature made them
• Do a tour of the plaza “to see what’s new”
MOST IMPORTANTLY: BE HAPPY”
Seventeen-year-old me reads this (she’s been nagging at me lately) and I can hear her now. She’s ranting, “This is bullshit! You can’t expect me to read a fucking flyer and then suddenly follow all your rules on how to be happy. I’ll smile when I want and breathe how I want and camp where I want. You pretend to enjoy silence and sniff the trees and you walk barefoot, you fucking hippy.” And I would have punkly crumpled up the flyer and tossed it right in your face. In my face. Into my own face, because now I like this flyer. I love it actually. It’s obviously directed at a certain kind of S.U.V.-roaring tourist who needs to be brought down a notch and I love that I live in a town where the municipality funds pointed hippy drivel like it. But seventeen-year-old me is still indignant. She wants to headbutt me in the face and break my nose. She wants to paint the cross on the hill black and urinate publically on the mayor and move the fuck out of this hippy bubble to somewhere that’s really real. Fortunately, forty-year-old me is still one tough cookie and she backhands seventeen-year-old me and tells her to shut the fuck up, or else. This leaves us both rather quiet for now.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
I APO-LO-GIZE
When I was a fourteen-year-old punky pube of a kid, I started working at Harvey’s fast-food restaurant on Great Northern Road in Sault Ste. Marie. My mother got me the gig so I could help out with my outrageous hairspray bills and it seemed like a pretty harmless idea at the time. So I dawned the brown polyester overalls and the oversized pin that read Extra Pickles With That?? and I hid my six-inch mohawk under the provided orange gingham cap and within two shifts, I was promoted from fryers to grill and then to cash. Who would have thought, WHO???, that twenty-five shitwhoring years later I would still be plowing away in the service industry, fetching extra ketchup and saying with that fake, snide smile, just like I learned at Harvey’s, “Enjoy your meal and have a great day!”? Not my poor mother, that’s for sure, the woman who took me travelling and bought me books and fed my mind with words like “international lawyer” and “romance language expert” so that I would never have to spend my life working in the Steel Plant like she did. She lived—the happiest day of her life was the day I got into McGill—and died for me to move beyond her. What would she have thought of her girl, her only girl, the one she pinned all her dreams and hopes to, the one that was supposed to “amount to something,” spending the next quarter of a century reading the day’s specials or getting another pitcher of beer or providing a new fork please—“there’s something wrong with this one!”—to an endless stream of rude and needy ingrates the world over?
Twenty-five years of “service,” despite the dreams, despite the education, despite all the other opportunities. Twenty-five years of servitude. I went from Harvey’s to the Omellette Factory to the Royal Hotel. Then I started to travel and worked the Press Klub in Prague and the Quiebra Canto in Cartagena, Las Hamacas in Coroico and all of the better restaurants on the north shore of Lake Atitlán. I did a stint at Porter’s Café in the French Quarter of New Orleans, rocked two funk-filled years at the world-famous Montreal Bistro jazz club, and I ended my career on a high note working three-to-four-and-a-half-star weddings at the fancy-pantsy Palais Royale Ballroom on the shores of Lake Ontario. Yes, I did end it, once and for all times, on August 22nd, 2010, the night I dropped my last plate, threw my serving cloths in the air and at thirty-nine years old, swore on my mother’s grave that I was not going to be a forty-year-old waitress.
This is what it means to NOT be forty-year-old waitress:
It means that I am no longer a well-paid, snidely underhanded half-cunt for eight to twelve hours a day, pretending that it’s my pleasure to fetch your fourth basket of complementary bread, or to bring you a tenth round of tequila shots even though you’ve just vomited under the table, or to send your pasta back to the kitchen and remove the basil from the pesto because you’re suddenly allergic to herbs.
It means that I no longer have to APO-LO-GIZE because you are an obnoxious, impossible-to-please, natural-born complainer who lives to complicate the lives of waitstaff the world over and all I really want from you is a decent tip.
It means that I no longer have to listen to the self-important natterings-on of angry, drug-addled, schizophrenic chefs who view servers as inferior beings and treat them worse than most customers do.
It means that I no longer have to work twice as hard running behind and picking up after the veritable army of authentically inferior servers who are only working until they finally get that breakthrough call-back and who don’t give two shits about the quality of their work or the actual service they provide.
It means that I no longer (never again!) have to defer to everyone else’s always being right—the customer, the chef, the manager, the owner. Everyone is the boss of the server. But not anymore! I am the only boss of me now.
I have to admit, though, it wasn’t all that easy at first not being a forty-year-old waitress. When high season hit here in San Marcos Sierras, with all the restaurants full and me completely broke, it would have been so natural, so simple, to fall back into the business, despite the sacred promise I made to myself and to my dead mother. I had to fight my urge to serve, like a newly clean junkie tries to steer clear of trigger situations and not return to her old destructive habits. All the local chefs, like mean-eyed dealers, would stare me down—they knew who I was and what I could do. They wanted me and it took all that I had to not give in and take “just one night a week,” just as a favour, just to help out. That twenty-five-year habit was still alive in me, just like the addict who, no matter how long she’s spent in rehab, still battles the overwhelming urge to jab the needle into her vein, at whatever cost. But then I’d see a waiter get reamed out by a chef or a waitress fend off the advances of a sleazy, obnoxious tourist and I knew, deep in my cunt, that I’d rather die than serve another plate again.
So I took to cleaning hotel rooms instead, picking up after the gross tourists where they shat and slept as opposed to where they ate, all for a whopping three dollars an hour. I also taught Spanish to a lonely, hard-headed, near-illiterate Yankee for five dollars a class. (He learned 32 words in four months.) And I started taking care of an old lady a few days a week, keeping her company and wiping her bum and making sure she and her walker didn’t tip over and break any joints. (This was slightly better paid.) I’d have done anything, ANYTHING, not to waitress again. I’d have given handjobs behind the bankmachine if that’s what it had come to. But fate was on my side and I stuck to my guns and luckily, everything worked out in the end. Now, I am no longer known as “Hey Get Me Another Glass Of Wine,” or as “I Sweep Up Pubes For Cash,” but as Miss Eva, the village’s new profesora de inglés. Teaching English, for most of my life, was the absolute last thing that I ever wanted to do. Now, it’s merely the second-to-last.
Very important note:
I am not ashamed IN ANY WAY of having been a waitress for all those years (though it does feel tremendously good to say “those years” and not “these”). Maybe my mother would have been disappointed in me, but I have no regrets about the way I earned a living from 1985 till 2010. I do not feel like I wasted any of my professional potential nor would I have traded in my waitressing career for any high-fallutin, over-stressed profession that my university edumacation may have provided me. As a server, I met more cool people, saw more amazing places and had loads more money and freedom and fun than most people could ever dream of. I do feel slightly bad though, I have to admit, for those poor customers in my final embittered years of waitressing who just came out for a good time and a nice meal and got sarcastically abused by a burned out, smart-mouthed, attitudinal half-cunt of a server. To all of you, with my fakest, most sarcastic smile, I do absolutely and most insincerely APO-LO-GIZE.
Twenty-five years of “service,” despite the dreams, despite the education, despite all the other opportunities. Twenty-five years of servitude. I went from Harvey’s to the Omellette Factory to the Royal Hotel. Then I started to travel and worked the Press Klub in Prague and the Quiebra Canto in Cartagena, Las Hamacas in Coroico and all of the better restaurants on the north shore of Lake Atitlán. I did a stint at Porter’s Café in the French Quarter of New Orleans, rocked two funk-filled years at the world-famous Montreal Bistro jazz club, and I ended my career on a high note working three-to-four-and-a-half-star weddings at the fancy-pantsy Palais Royale Ballroom on the shores of Lake Ontario. Yes, I did end it, once and for all times, on August 22nd, 2010, the night I dropped my last plate, threw my serving cloths in the air and at thirty-nine years old, swore on my mother’s grave that I was not going to be a forty-year-old waitress.
This is what it means to NOT be forty-year-old waitress:
It means that I am no longer a well-paid, snidely underhanded half-cunt for eight to twelve hours a day, pretending that it’s my pleasure to fetch your fourth basket of complementary bread, or to bring you a tenth round of tequila shots even though you’ve just vomited under the table, or to send your pasta back to the kitchen and remove the basil from the pesto because you’re suddenly allergic to herbs.
It means that I no longer have to APO-LO-GIZE because you are an obnoxious, impossible-to-please, natural-born complainer who lives to complicate the lives of waitstaff the world over and all I really want from you is a decent tip.
It means that I no longer have to listen to the self-important natterings-on of angry, drug-addled, schizophrenic chefs who view servers as inferior beings and treat them worse than most customers do.
It means that I no longer have to work twice as hard running behind and picking up after the veritable army of authentically inferior servers who are only working until they finally get that breakthrough call-back and who don’t give two shits about the quality of their work or the actual service they provide.
It means that I no longer (never again!) have to defer to everyone else’s always being right—the customer, the chef, the manager, the owner. Everyone is the boss of the server. But not anymore! I am the only boss of me now.
I have to admit, though, it wasn’t all that easy at first not being a forty-year-old waitress. When high season hit here in San Marcos Sierras, with all the restaurants full and me completely broke, it would have been so natural, so simple, to fall back into the business, despite the sacred promise I made to myself and to my dead mother. I had to fight my urge to serve, like a newly clean junkie tries to steer clear of trigger situations and not return to her old destructive habits. All the local chefs, like mean-eyed dealers, would stare me down—they knew who I was and what I could do. They wanted me and it took all that I had to not give in and take “just one night a week,” just as a favour, just to help out. That twenty-five-year habit was still alive in me, just like the addict who, no matter how long she’s spent in rehab, still battles the overwhelming urge to jab the needle into her vein, at whatever cost. But then I’d see a waiter get reamed out by a chef or a waitress fend off the advances of a sleazy, obnoxious tourist and I knew, deep in my cunt, that I’d rather die than serve another plate again.
So I took to cleaning hotel rooms instead, picking up after the gross tourists where they shat and slept as opposed to where they ate, all for a whopping three dollars an hour. I also taught Spanish to a lonely, hard-headed, near-illiterate Yankee for five dollars a class. (He learned 32 words in four months.) And I started taking care of an old lady a few days a week, keeping her company and wiping her bum and making sure she and her walker didn’t tip over and break any joints. (This was slightly better paid.) I’d have done anything, ANYTHING, not to waitress again. I’d have given handjobs behind the bankmachine if that’s what it had come to. But fate was on my side and I stuck to my guns and luckily, everything worked out in the end. Now, I am no longer known as “Hey Get Me Another Glass Of Wine,” or as “I Sweep Up Pubes For Cash,” but as Miss Eva, the village’s new profesora de inglés. Teaching English, for most of my life, was the absolute last thing that I ever wanted to do. Now, it’s merely the second-to-last.
Very important note:
I am not ashamed IN ANY WAY of having been a waitress for all those years (though it does feel tremendously good to say “those years” and not “these”). Maybe my mother would have been disappointed in me, but I have no regrets about the way I earned a living from 1985 till 2010. I do not feel like I wasted any of my professional potential nor would I have traded in my waitressing career for any high-fallutin, over-stressed profession that my university edumacation may have provided me. As a server, I met more cool people, saw more amazing places and had loads more money and freedom and fun than most people could ever dream of. I do feel slightly bad though, I have to admit, for those poor customers in my final embittered years of waitressing who just came out for a good time and a nice meal and got sarcastically abused by a burned out, smart-mouthed, attitudinal half-cunt of a server. To all of you, with my fakest, most sarcastic smile, I do absolutely and most insincerely APO-LO-GIZE.
Monday, May 16, 2011
No Deal
It’s been fifteen years since we made the pact, the Tarantula and I.
From the hammock’s rope she looked down at me accusingly. It’s possible that at first she was afraid, but that didn’t seem likely. She was a giant motherfucking Tarantula, after all. I was in the hammock, prone and most likely stoned, and I was definitely afraid. But what could I do? There was no calling out for help—I was in an isolated cabin in the Colombian mountains and the closest person to me was a French base head in the main house, a good half-kilometer away. And if I moved at all from the hammock I risked pissing the spider off or shaking her loose or bringing her closer to me somehow. So I breathed in once and froze. And she froze. And we stayed like that eyeing each other up from a few feet away for a long time. A very long time.
She was an enormous hairy, scary mother of a spider, but she was extremely beautiful too. The more I looked at her, the more I was sure that she was pregnant, she was so gorda. Her legs, covered in long, black, velvety fur with orange markings around something like her knees, were almost as long and as thick as my fingers. There was no question that she was elegant, downright stunningly so, but I’d seen enough nature shows to know that, more importantly, she was nothing less than deadly—Look out, Peter Brady!—and I played my own horrific death scene out in my mind on eternal repeat. One wrong move and she’d be on top of me in a second and a half, sucking out my poor gringa blood with those inverted vampire teeth of hers. Even if I didn’t move (which I couldn’t do anyway as I was paralyzed, too scared shitless to even shit my pants), the Evil Queen could still have me for lunch.
Time thickened around us. The Tarantula’s shiny dead eyes remained fixed on me and my unblinking eyes never left her. A thousand years later, I eventually managed to start to breathe again. Shallow, but at least in and out, for the most part. Was she breathing? Did she even have lungs? What was going through her mind? Did she have a mind? Or just an instinct to kill me? In all the eternity we sat there staring at each other, she didn’t twitch once, not even move a muscle. (Did she have muscles?)
I went over the situation in my head: Colombian Monster Tarantula Spider in her natural element versus stoned little dinky Canadian tourist paralyzed in a hammock. I was fucked, que sí o sí. But my instinct for survival wasn’t that thin. I continued (what else could I do?) with my mind-racking, heart-wrenching calculations and after many, many more minutes, I came to the conclusion that there was still one thing I could try. If I wanted to get out of this situation alive, I had to get over it. My Fear. If I could do that one thing, if I could conquer my plain and basic terror of the Tarantula, I’d no longer be her prey. We’d become equals and she’d respect me and have no reason to eat me alive. Desperate stoner gringa logic, yes, weak and almost laughable, but I had no other.
So that was it then. The time was now to GET OVER MY FUCKING FEAR. I breathed in as deep as my lungs would allow and began. With the punkest eyes I could conjure up, and with all my intents and purposes, I stared at that goddamned spider for the next forever-many minutes, calling on my dead mother and on all the Saints to help me face that basic genetic fear, the most common of all human phobias, of being bitten by (and dying painfully) at the “hands” of this God-awful creature. After an immeasurably long chunk of time, I managed, drop by drop, to gather the courage to embrace my terror, and, in turn, to break it down, iota by iota. Then I started to push it out of me in increments, like it was a giant zit, or like I was squeezing a sausage out of its skin into a pan. But not for one instant did I stop staring at the Tarantula, and all the while she watched me—she knew exactly what I was doing.
Eventually, something nameless in the room clicked. My breathing went back to normal, my heart returned to its natural rate, and my collosal fear dissipated almost entirely. I was calm and so was she, by the looks of it. Her eyes no longer shone pure evil and her posture no longer read Pounce and Kill. We were just two of God’s creatures kicking back in a Colombian cabin in the woods. Everything was cool and we both knew it and at that point, in complete wordless confidence, we made a pact. The Tarantula promised that she wouldn’t fuck with me—I could sleep that night in complete safety—and in turn I wouldn’t fuck with her, or any of her kind, from then on. It was a good deal all round and in no time, I closed my eyes and slept peacefully through the night.
And for the next fifteen years, I held up my end of the bargain. I never once, not deliberately anyway, killed or injured any spider of any kind under any circumstances. I habitually and gently rescued them from sinks with spoons, I apologized out loud before brushing away their webs, their homes, from the corners of my room and I always gave them the chance to run out from the broom when I swept. And for me, of all the basements and attics I’ve known since then, of all of the campsites and tropics and infested hotel rooms, never once has a spider fucked with me or given me cause for retaliation. But all this changed a few weeks back and now the Arachnid Pact is off.
At first I thought it was a particularly itchy mosquito bite just below my shoulder. But by nightfall it had swollen up and turned hard and burgundy. By the next morning it was a big round hot welt and for the next six days, it continued to grow and spread and harden. My entire upper right arm had been transformed into a fiery, mottled, painfully itchy piece of taut flesh, as if an alergen-giant’s burning hand had grabbed me and dragged me along forcibly all the way down histamine lane. My muscles felt bruised and achy and the arm itself felt heavy, almost too heavy to lift. Not the bee stings or the two scorpion bites, not even that nasty worm that nested itself in my belly button, none of the insect malevolence that I’d ever suffered could compare to this (besides the scabies, of course, but scabies aren’t insects, they’re mites, satanic microscopic mites).
I showed my alarming arm to everyone who would take the time to look. “What the fuck is this?” I demanded. Tourists were frightened and grossed out but the locals were sure. “Spider bite,” they all said. But...but we had a pact, I thought, and remembered for the first time in a long time the Colombian Tarantula and my night of terror. I was sure that I had never once shirked my promise to her and to the arachnid world. But when I thought about it, she hadn’t betrayed me at all either—her only promise to me was to not kill me that one night. Since then, I’d just sort of taken for granted that overcoming my fear and not fucking with spiders at all meant that they’d never fuck with me either. Fifteen bite-free years, by coincidence or cosmic deal, was without doubt a good run, but now my arm was rotting hotly from the inside out and I was pissed. So out loud and with the universe as my witness, I withdrew my participation and revoked any part I may have had in the original arachnid deal.
I began to look at all eight-legged creatures with a new and violent distrust and in the coming week I started washing all lost spiders down the drain, helping them reach their demise with the vengeful part of the spoon. I swept them and sprayed them and flicked them off tables with my nail and I even stepped on one on purpose and only felt a tiny bit sorry.
But after about a week, the bite’s swelling went down and the itchiness and the feverish pain all went away, leaving only an odd discolouration, like a rosacea patch or an old sunburn, along my whole upper right arm, which is bound to disappear eventually. I also got over the “betrayal” and managed to let go of my vengeful bronca against the eight-legged world in general.
But what about the pact? I wanted to renew its terms, I wanted to live in relative arachnid peace again. So the other day, when a goofy-looking Daddy Long Legs—the perfect eight-legged representative to negotiate with—came crawling down the curtain, I grabbed him by one of his squirming string-legs and said, “New deal, buddy. It’s time.” He flailed about and I continued. “You and your people, YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH ME,” I said, shaking my finger at him to show him how serious I was. “Capisce?” I wanted to look into his eyes to see if he was listening but he tore free and ran away with only seven legs now. I followed him along the floor. “Wait. Don’t worry!” I called out. “Really, I won’t fuck with you either. That’s the deal. The new deal!” He was at the wall now, climbing for his life. I blew on him and he stopped and I picked him up and he died in my hand. I’d killed him. That was not part of the deal.
I sighed and the imaginary Werner Herzog that I sometimes play host to in my mind piped up and grunted sharply. “The common denominator in the universe is not harmony,” he said high-germanly, “but chaos, hostility and murder.” I took the dead spider and his eighth leg which I still held between my fingers and dropped them into the compost bucket with a silent sorry. Just then the Daddy Long Legs twitched—he was alive!—and I reached in to rescue him. But he was covered in wet oatmeal now and for the second time that minute, died in my hands. Herzog grunted again and concluded, “You were the loser. Now you are the winner. You will be the loser again.”
From the hammock’s rope she looked down at me accusingly. It’s possible that at first she was afraid, but that didn’t seem likely. She was a giant motherfucking Tarantula, after all. I was in the hammock, prone and most likely stoned, and I was definitely afraid. But what could I do? There was no calling out for help—I was in an isolated cabin in the Colombian mountains and the closest person to me was a French base head in the main house, a good half-kilometer away. And if I moved at all from the hammock I risked pissing the spider off or shaking her loose or bringing her closer to me somehow. So I breathed in once and froze. And she froze. And we stayed like that eyeing each other up from a few feet away for a long time. A very long time.
She was an enormous hairy, scary mother of a spider, but she was extremely beautiful too. The more I looked at her, the more I was sure that she was pregnant, she was so gorda. Her legs, covered in long, black, velvety fur with orange markings around something like her knees, were almost as long and as thick as my fingers. There was no question that she was elegant, downright stunningly so, but I’d seen enough nature shows to know that, more importantly, she was nothing less than deadly—Look out, Peter Brady!—and I played my own horrific death scene out in my mind on eternal repeat. One wrong move and she’d be on top of me in a second and a half, sucking out my poor gringa blood with those inverted vampire teeth of hers. Even if I didn’t move (which I couldn’t do anyway as I was paralyzed, too scared shitless to even shit my pants), the Evil Queen could still have me for lunch.
Time thickened around us. The Tarantula’s shiny dead eyes remained fixed on me and my unblinking eyes never left her. A thousand years later, I eventually managed to start to breathe again. Shallow, but at least in and out, for the most part. Was she breathing? Did she even have lungs? What was going through her mind? Did she have a mind? Or just an instinct to kill me? In all the eternity we sat there staring at each other, she didn’t twitch once, not even move a muscle. (Did she have muscles?)
I went over the situation in my head: Colombian Monster Tarantula Spider in her natural element versus stoned little dinky Canadian tourist paralyzed in a hammock. I was fucked, que sí o sí. But my instinct for survival wasn’t that thin. I continued (what else could I do?) with my mind-racking, heart-wrenching calculations and after many, many more minutes, I came to the conclusion that there was still one thing I could try. If I wanted to get out of this situation alive, I had to get over it. My Fear. If I could do that one thing, if I could conquer my plain and basic terror of the Tarantula, I’d no longer be her prey. We’d become equals and she’d respect me and have no reason to eat me alive. Desperate stoner gringa logic, yes, weak and almost laughable, but I had no other.
So that was it then. The time was now to GET OVER MY FUCKING FEAR. I breathed in as deep as my lungs would allow and began. With the punkest eyes I could conjure up, and with all my intents and purposes, I stared at that goddamned spider for the next forever-many minutes, calling on my dead mother and on all the Saints to help me face that basic genetic fear, the most common of all human phobias, of being bitten by (and dying painfully) at the “hands” of this God-awful creature. After an immeasurably long chunk of time, I managed, drop by drop, to gather the courage to embrace my terror, and, in turn, to break it down, iota by iota. Then I started to push it out of me in increments, like it was a giant zit, or like I was squeezing a sausage out of its skin into a pan. But not for one instant did I stop staring at the Tarantula, and all the while she watched me—she knew exactly what I was doing.
Eventually, something nameless in the room clicked. My breathing went back to normal, my heart returned to its natural rate, and my collosal fear dissipated almost entirely. I was calm and so was she, by the looks of it. Her eyes no longer shone pure evil and her posture no longer read Pounce and Kill. We were just two of God’s creatures kicking back in a Colombian cabin in the woods. Everything was cool and we both knew it and at that point, in complete wordless confidence, we made a pact. The Tarantula promised that she wouldn’t fuck with me—I could sleep that night in complete safety—and in turn I wouldn’t fuck with her, or any of her kind, from then on. It was a good deal all round and in no time, I closed my eyes and slept peacefully through the night.
And for the next fifteen years, I held up my end of the bargain. I never once, not deliberately anyway, killed or injured any spider of any kind under any circumstances. I habitually and gently rescued them from sinks with spoons, I apologized out loud before brushing away their webs, their homes, from the corners of my room and I always gave them the chance to run out from the broom when I swept. And for me, of all the basements and attics I’ve known since then, of all of the campsites and tropics and infested hotel rooms, never once has a spider fucked with me or given me cause for retaliation. But all this changed a few weeks back and now the Arachnid Pact is off.
At first I thought it was a particularly itchy mosquito bite just below my shoulder. But by nightfall it had swollen up and turned hard and burgundy. By the next morning it was a big round hot welt and for the next six days, it continued to grow and spread and harden. My entire upper right arm had been transformed into a fiery, mottled, painfully itchy piece of taut flesh, as if an alergen-giant’s burning hand had grabbed me and dragged me along forcibly all the way down histamine lane. My muscles felt bruised and achy and the arm itself felt heavy, almost too heavy to lift. Not the bee stings or the two scorpion bites, not even that nasty worm that nested itself in my belly button, none of the insect malevolence that I’d ever suffered could compare to this (besides the scabies, of course, but scabies aren’t insects, they’re mites, satanic microscopic mites).
I showed my alarming arm to everyone who would take the time to look. “What the fuck is this?” I demanded. Tourists were frightened and grossed out but the locals were sure. “Spider bite,” they all said. But...but we had a pact, I thought, and remembered for the first time in a long time the Colombian Tarantula and my night of terror. I was sure that I had never once shirked my promise to her and to the arachnid world. But when I thought about it, she hadn’t betrayed me at all either—her only promise to me was to not kill me that one night. Since then, I’d just sort of taken for granted that overcoming my fear and not fucking with spiders at all meant that they’d never fuck with me either. Fifteen bite-free years, by coincidence or cosmic deal, was without doubt a good run, but now my arm was rotting hotly from the inside out and I was pissed. So out loud and with the universe as my witness, I withdrew my participation and revoked any part I may have had in the original arachnid deal.
I began to look at all eight-legged creatures with a new and violent distrust and in the coming week I started washing all lost spiders down the drain, helping them reach their demise with the vengeful part of the spoon. I swept them and sprayed them and flicked them off tables with my nail and I even stepped on one on purpose and only felt a tiny bit sorry.
But after about a week, the bite’s swelling went down and the itchiness and the feverish pain all went away, leaving only an odd discolouration, like a rosacea patch or an old sunburn, along my whole upper right arm, which is bound to disappear eventually. I also got over the “betrayal” and managed to let go of my vengeful bronca against the eight-legged world in general.
But what about the pact? I wanted to renew its terms, I wanted to live in relative arachnid peace again. So the other day, when a goofy-looking Daddy Long Legs—the perfect eight-legged representative to negotiate with—came crawling down the curtain, I grabbed him by one of his squirming string-legs and said, “New deal, buddy. It’s time.” He flailed about and I continued. “You and your people, YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH ME,” I said, shaking my finger at him to show him how serious I was. “Capisce?” I wanted to look into his eyes to see if he was listening but he tore free and ran away with only seven legs now. I followed him along the floor. “Wait. Don’t worry!” I called out. “Really, I won’t fuck with you either. That’s the deal. The new deal!” He was at the wall now, climbing for his life. I blew on him and he stopped and I picked him up and he died in my hand. I’d killed him. That was not part of the deal.
I sighed and the imaginary Werner Herzog that I sometimes play host to in my mind piped up and grunted sharply. “The common denominator in the universe is not harmony,” he said high-germanly, “but chaos, hostility and murder.” I took the dead spider and his eighth leg which I still held between my fingers and dropped them into the compost bucket with a silent sorry. Just then the Daddy Long Legs twitched—he was alive!—and I reached in to rescue him. But he was covered in wet oatmeal now and for the second time that minute, died in my hands. Herzog grunted again and concluded, “You were the loser. Now you are the winner. You will be the loser again.”
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Back to Bidet
When I first got to Argentina, I thought the little porcelain apparatus sitting beside almost every toilet in almost every bathroom (even some public ones) was a pissoir for men to use to not dribble up the toilet seat when peeing. My friend from Spain said she and her people used it mainly to wash their feet. And Fritz the Swiss assumed, naturally, that it was for women to wash their pussies before (and, if necessary, after) sex. (Yes, the same Fritz who forced me to break up with him in Thailand after repeatedly calling me a “hobby writer,” and who then showed up here three years later and pranced around my yard wearing nothing but his euro man-panties, like an exhibitionist Doctor Oetker, for eleven straight mornings.)
But this foreshortened co-toilet of which I speak is neither urinal nor foot bath nor pussy washer (though it can be easily used for all those things). It is a bidet! A bidet! A post-poop ass-washer! In South-East Asia, you use the little tube coming out of the wall to spray your crack clean. In India, beside the hole in the ground you do your business in, there’s usually a tap or a bucket of water to wash yourself with afterwards. Here, and in big parts of Europe, you see the more elaborate and decorative bidet. Most of the world, in fact, insists on washing their asses after shitting. So how do we North Americans get by with only a wipe or two? Why have none of us two-ply-paper-wadding Gringos ever once dreamed of installing a bidet (or a tube or a bucket of water) snug beside the toilet, and using it every day (or at least every day we take a shit) as part of our normal business. Do we really think that a few squares of flimsy Cottonelle can get us clean?
[This topic of “business”, I’m sure, makes many Gringuitos very uncomfortable. Farts and puke are generally okay topics for humour, but shit, sheizer, stools, and excrement, especially our own, is pretty much out-of-bounds for civilized discussion. But after so many years of living in the tropics with bacteria and amoebas and year-long bouts of diarrhea, for me, talking about my shit-life is completely natural. (Talking about my love-life would probably make me more uncomfortable.) When I was in Ethiopia with the Giullari, for example, we all knew the state of each others’ shits—the consistency, the frequency, the urgency with which we went. It was just a natural part of the trip. Living in Guatemala, one’s shit was usually a top-three topic for discussion on any given day, with any given person, even relative strangers, especially between May and October when the rains would wash the toiletless locals’ shit down the mountains and into the water sources, causing mass cases of regional runs.]
But back to the bidet. Once I discovered it—it took me a couple weeks to really get comfortable with it—this beautiful bathroom implement became an essential thing for me. The height of bathroom civilization. I mean, how did I think I could ever wipe off all the bad with just a couple swipes of paper? You don’t wipe dishes clean with a bit of Scott Towel, do you? No, you need water and soap to get your plates, and your ass, really clean. The bidet makes this easy (for the ass, though I suppose you could also wash the dishes in it) with its hot and cold taps and its little spray nozzle, allowing you to lather up then adjust the perfect stream of water to shoot up and wash your butthole to a squeakily spotless state. (I had a Welsh boyfriend once who said he always washed after shitting and he claimed, at fifty years old, to have an anus “as pink as a little baby’s.”)
The last house I lived in didn’t have a bidet, so for four months, I called a two-liter bottle of water a bidet. Make-shift and much more awkward, but it worked. Here in the new place, the bidet is right where it’s supposed to be, a foot away from the toilet, so that when my loaf is squeezed out (is that the expression? Or do I pinch out a puppy?) I just transfer my cheeks directly over, set the stream to high, and wash that dirty, dark part of me clean clean clean!
Yes, I believe clean cracks are a mark of true civilization.
You know what they say...Once bidet, never back.
But this foreshortened co-toilet of which I speak is neither urinal nor foot bath nor pussy washer (though it can be easily used for all those things). It is a bidet! A bidet! A post-poop ass-washer! In South-East Asia, you use the little tube coming out of the wall to spray your crack clean. In India, beside the hole in the ground you do your business in, there’s usually a tap or a bucket of water to wash yourself with afterwards. Here, and in big parts of Europe, you see the more elaborate and decorative bidet. Most of the world, in fact, insists on washing their asses after shitting. So how do we North Americans get by with only a wipe or two? Why have none of us two-ply-paper-wadding Gringos ever once dreamed of installing a bidet (or a tube or a bucket of water) snug beside the toilet, and using it every day (or at least every day we take a shit) as part of our normal business. Do we really think that a few squares of flimsy Cottonelle can get us clean?
[This topic of “business”, I’m sure, makes many Gringuitos very uncomfortable. Farts and puke are generally okay topics for humour, but shit, sheizer, stools, and excrement, especially our own, is pretty much out-of-bounds for civilized discussion. But after so many years of living in the tropics with bacteria and amoebas and year-long bouts of diarrhea, for me, talking about my shit-life is completely natural. (Talking about my love-life would probably make me more uncomfortable.) When I was in Ethiopia with the Giullari, for example, we all knew the state of each others’ shits—the consistency, the frequency, the urgency with which we went. It was just a natural part of the trip. Living in Guatemala, one’s shit was usually a top-three topic for discussion on any given day, with any given person, even relative strangers, especially between May and October when the rains would wash the toiletless locals’ shit down the mountains and into the water sources, causing mass cases of regional runs.]
But back to the bidet. Once I discovered it—it took me a couple weeks to really get comfortable with it—this beautiful bathroom implement became an essential thing for me. The height of bathroom civilization. I mean, how did I think I could ever wipe off all the bad with just a couple swipes of paper? You don’t wipe dishes clean with a bit of Scott Towel, do you? No, you need water and soap to get your plates, and your ass, really clean. The bidet makes this easy (for the ass, though I suppose you could also wash the dishes in it) with its hot and cold taps and its little spray nozzle, allowing you to lather up then adjust the perfect stream of water to shoot up and wash your butthole to a squeakily spotless state. (I had a Welsh boyfriend once who said he always washed after shitting and he claimed, at fifty years old, to have an anus “as pink as a little baby’s.”)
The last house I lived in didn’t have a bidet, so for four months, I called a two-liter bottle of water a bidet. Make-shift and much more awkward, but it worked. Here in the new place, the bidet is right where it’s supposed to be, a foot away from the toilet, so that when my loaf is squeezed out (is that the expression? Or do I pinch out a puppy?) I just transfer my cheeks directly over, set the stream to high, and wash that dirty, dark part of me clean clean clean!
Yes, I believe clean cracks are a mark of true civilization.
You know what they say...Once bidet, never back.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Guilt is for beginners
No Glob entries in two weeks. Major guilt because I haven’t written more than ten words in that time. That’s an exaggeration—I’m working on something that sucks and I’ve spent at least three hours on it, meaning more like thirty or fifty sucky words, filling me with even more guilt for not producing something, at least something, of some quality.
During this time, as a partial excuse (and increaser of guilt), I moved. Into the loveliest house in La Banda. It’s called La Kalimera (Good Morning in Greek) and it has indoor heating (in one room) and trees of all kinds: mandarin, orange, grapefruit, lemon, peach, apricot, avocado, guava, walnut, almond, and of course, my favorite, the Pink Peppercorn tree called the Awarivay. There are also eight olive trees, fully loaded and ready for harvesting. Scoring this place was a stroke of beyond-luck and I’m doing everything in my power to accept it graciously and guiltlessly. Very difficult. Despite years of specific battling of the big G, it seems to be, in many ways, my natural state of being. D. says that guilt is for beginners and that I am at least a semi-professional by now so-get-the-fuck-over-it-already.
More guilt (combined with love and shining pride) in the form of my sister’s new book, recently released EVERY TIME WE SAY GOODBYE. It took me about a day and a half to read, every minute of it an odd, relativistic delicacy. The story is loosely (not that loosely, actually) based on her/our family history and never before have I encountered a “me-character” in a story that wasn’t my own. Luckily, “Amy” was just a child and so I had little reason to hate or resent her. As for my sister, an immature part of me wishes I could hate or resent her for having published two books to my NONE books published. (They think Jamie “puts Sault Ste. Marie onto the map with her latest book, EVERY TIME WE SAY GOODBYE?” Just wait till they read my perfectly unpublished SKID!) But I support my sister and instead, hate and deeply resent myself in equal, alternating parts. My lazy self. My more-fearful-of-success-than-of-failure self. My absolutely not talentless self who seems to be waiting for some magical publishing elf to find the novel, the screenplay, the graphic story, and the twenty odd essays and short stories stashed secretly in my computer and send them off to the perfect agent who is DYING to find a writer like me to represent and usher into literary history.
I am such a freak.
I am, almost schizophrenically, my own highly critical, perfect readership of one, and at the very same time, a lazy-assed, addicted-to-guilt-and-literary-self-flaggelation semi-writer who feels an almost desperate need at this exact moment to turn off the computer and go out and collect the nuts and fruits that have fallen to the ground. Or hand wash my scarf collection. Or maybe make a black bean soup. Or play with Rita Ciccarelli the dog. Or polish my Tango shoes. Or maniacally cut my bangs again. Something. Anything to avoid this guilt-if-I-do-and-guilt-if-I-don’t feeling I have about writing. My writing.
Jesus cunt fuck.
I have to get over this.
(Here, the Anti-Guilt Fairy, bless her heart, comes down and says, “Lighten up—at least you managed to write these 573 words. It could be worse.” So I do lighten up and take some momentary solace in imagining a handsome sculptor engraving those exact words onto my tombstone: IT COULD’VE BEEN WORSE.)
And now I guess it's time to mop the floor.
During this time, as a partial excuse (and increaser of guilt), I moved. Into the loveliest house in La Banda. It’s called La Kalimera (Good Morning in Greek) and it has indoor heating (in one room) and trees of all kinds: mandarin, orange, grapefruit, lemon, peach, apricot, avocado, guava, walnut, almond, and of course, my favorite, the Pink Peppercorn tree called the Awarivay. There are also eight olive trees, fully loaded and ready for harvesting. Scoring this place was a stroke of beyond-luck and I’m doing everything in my power to accept it graciously and guiltlessly. Very difficult. Despite years of specific battling of the big G, it seems to be, in many ways, my natural state of being. D. says that guilt is for beginners and that I am at least a semi-professional by now so-get-the-fuck-over-it-already.
More guilt (combined with love and shining pride) in the form of my sister’s new book, recently released EVERY TIME WE SAY GOODBYE. It took me about a day and a half to read, every minute of it an odd, relativistic delicacy. The story is loosely (not that loosely, actually) based on her/our family history and never before have I encountered a “me-character” in a story that wasn’t my own. Luckily, “Amy” was just a child and so I had little reason to hate or resent her. As for my sister, an immature part of me wishes I could hate or resent her for having published two books to my NONE books published. (They think Jamie “puts Sault Ste. Marie onto the map with her latest book, EVERY TIME WE SAY GOODBYE?” Just wait till they read my perfectly unpublished SKID!) But I support my sister and instead, hate and deeply resent myself in equal, alternating parts. My lazy self. My more-fearful-of-success-than-of-failure self. My absolutely not talentless self who seems to be waiting for some magical publishing elf to find the novel, the screenplay, the graphic story, and the twenty odd essays and short stories stashed secretly in my computer and send them off to the perfect agent who is DYING to find a writer like me to represent and usher into literary history.
I am such a freak.
I am, almost schizophrenically, my own highly critical, perfect readership of one, and at the very same time, a lazy-assed, addicted-to-guilt-and-literary-self-flaggelation semi-writer who feels an almost desperate need at this exact moment to turn off the computer and go out and collect the nuts and fruits that have fallen to the ground. Or hand wash my scarf collection. Or maybe make a black bean soup. Or play with Rita Ciccarelli the dog. Or polish my Tango shoes. Or maniacally cut my bangs again. Something. Anything to avoid this guilt-if-I-do-and-guilt-if-I-don’t feeling I have about writing. My writing.
Jesus cunt fuck.
I have to get over this.
(Here, the Anti-Guilt Fairy, bless her heart, comes down and says, “Lighten up—at least you managed to write these 573 words. It could be worse.” So I do lighten up and take some momentary solace in imagining a handsome sculptor engraving those exact words onto my tombstone: IT COULD’VE BEEN WORSE.)
And now I guess it's time to mop the floor.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Go Lotus Go
It’s been one year and a day since I left Africa. No turning back. Step away from old self, from old expectations, from old needs and desires and move only forward now, on the quest for more. All this (all of it!) thanks to Ethiopia’s ten thousand orphans and those particular seven smiling Italian clowns. What magical god (Karma? Krsna? Lady Luck?) arranged for the jaded and so very tired waitress to meet up with and join that volunteer circus troupe on her, and their, very first day in Ethiopia? Who do I have to thank for this? For the opportunity? For the joy? For one unforgettable, life-altering moment after another? Three whole months worth. Three short months that overtook all of my years, and when they were over, they led, more or less directly, to this. To Argentina. To the dropping of everything I thought I’d built, que ca s’écroule, je m’en fous!, and to my own personal reformation.
But one year and a day later I continue to flail dryly in the grand wake of such a perfect tsunami. How to live up to such an extraordinary experience? How, really, to live it down? It was Once In A Lifetime, obviously. But there’s no turning back now—I know what I know. So if I can’t reproduce it (and I can’t), I must at least create some circumstances where the general fantasticness of it all can be matched, or neared, or something close. Thus, Argentina. Still, every single thing since, even the most beautiful and profound, has rung of anticlimax, as I knew it would. On my way back from Africa, I actually hoped that the plane would crash before it landed in Toronto. That way, I could shirk the responsibility of living out the rest of my life knowing that nothing would ever be that good again.
Even more challenging (¡dificilísima!) after having lived the absolute time of your life is writing about it. No one wants to read about pure beauty and joy and discovery. No matter how well it’s done, it invariably ends up sounding shmaltzy and dull. D. tells me: “Write it like it was!” But it was like that—all fucking beautiful. Non-stop, time and again, moment after moment, even the three and a half bad minutes, all fucking beautiful. How do you make “all fucking beautiful” into interesting reading? With what vocabulary? And into what structure? I suppose I could contrast it all with the shite, the formerly eternal shite. But I’m sick of the shite. I want to grow out of it. I want to be the lotus that emerges from the swamp, rises above it, and flowers. See how lame that sounds: I want to be the lotus!? I can write scabies and cancer and crack babies into interesting reading until the anal tears stop pussing and finally scar over. But love? Truth? Generosity of the soul? Blah!
But, still, whether I like it or not, the bar’s been set. And the plane didn’t crash.
There’s no turning back now.
So just go, you fucking lotus! Go!
But one year and a day later I continue to flail dryly in the grand wake of such a perfect tsunami. How to live up to such an extraordinary experience? How, really, to live it down? It was Once In A Lifetime, obviously. But there’s no turning back now—I know what I know. So if I can’t reproduce it (and I can’t), I must at least create some circumstances where the general fantasticness of it all can be matched, or neared, or something close. Thus, Argentina. Still, every single thing since, even the most beautiful and profound, has rung of anticlimax, as I knew it would. On my way back from Africa, I actually hoped that the plane would crash before it landed in Toronto. That way, I could shirk the responsibility of living out the rest of my life knowing that nothing would ever be that good again.
Even more challenging (¡dificilísima!) after having lived the absolute time of your life is writing about it. No one wants to read about pure beauty and joy and discovery. No matter how well it’s done, it invariably ends up sounding shmaltzy and dull. D. tells me: “Write it like it was!” But it was like that—all fucking beautiful. Non-stop, time and again, moment after moment, even the three and a half bad minutes, all fucking beautiful. How do you make “all fucking beautiful” into interesting reading? With what vocabulary? And into what structure? I suppose I could contrast it all with the shite, the formerly eternal shite. But I’m sick of the shite. I want to grow out of it. I want to be the lotus that emerges from the swamp, rises above it, and flowers. See how lame that sounds: I want to be the lotus!? I can write scabies and cancer and crack babies into interesting reading until the anal tears stop pussing and finally scar over. But love? Truth? Generosity of the soul? Blah!
But, still, whether I like it or not, the bar’s been set. And the plane didn’t crash.
There’s no turning back now.
So just go, you fucking lotus! Go!
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
April 25th
Today would have been my great-grandmother Eva’s 125th birthday.
On a more contemporary note, today is San Marcos Day, all over the realm. Here in this San Marcos (Sierras), the stores are all closed and most of the people kick back digesting yesterday’s Easter steaks and cheap waxy chocolate eggs. But the Gauchos, both pseudo- and neo-, are out in full force. They’ve dawned their boots and their berets and their fancy chaps and they ride their handsome steeds around, looking completely out of time, until their cell-phones goes off with an Eminem ring tone. Or maybe Chakira. In the afternoon, they gather in the lot beside the church, along with the most celebratory of the town’s paisanos, and fire up a ten-foot-long grill to sell barbecued chicken by the half or the whole. There’s also wine available and Fernet and Coke served in former one-liter plastic water bottles halved down the middle. A hammered old man sings to a back up CD and a dozen couples dance chacarera and paso doble, kicking up enough dust to block out the sun and make me choke on my chicken. It’s a typically criollo sight, earthy and without pretense, and I wipe my dry, priveleged eyes and fall even deeper in love with this place.
But a part of me can’t help myself. A undoable slice of my mind keeps flying back towards The Other San Marcos, La Laguna, Guatemala, my former Home and the seat of the bulk of my nostalgia. There, an entire town, an entire Lake of Mayans, and a bunch of motley ex-pats too, are coming out to celebrate Saint Mark the Evangelist. But ironically, this is the one day San Marcos’s incessant evangelizing will cease. Today is a party day and even if the irritating religiosos wanted to keep preaching the word of their angry god, no culto’s loudspeakers are powerful enough to compete with the turn-it-up-to-eleven sounds of marimba and human merriment.
Days, weeks even, before the 25th, bombs and firecrackers start going off at all hours of the day and night. The locals, some of the poorest in the Americas, love to spend their microscopic sums of money on explosives—not visually pleasing fireworks, no Roman Candles, no Horsetails, nothing sparkly, just earth-shaking, eardrum-popping bombs, driving the dogs and the meditators to seek some peaceful shelter. (Futilely, of course.) Then there’s the marimba. The fucking marimba. From the Muni on the hill or from the basketball court in the middle of town, sometimes at the same time, Metallica-sized stacks of speakers stream live these ten-piece, xylophone-centred bands from about six am until three or four in the morning. And there is no escape for anyone unless it starts to rain or the electricity goes out. (Both very likely at some point, but neither will last long.) The only real cure for Feria is to bite the sound bullet, embrace the insanity, and join in the fun.
When I lived there, I loved San Marcos Feria like a child loves to be wrapped in her mother’s arms. This is what I wrote the last time I was there:
“I felt summoned by the Feria. I could tell the rain was just about to begin but I set out anyway. I had to hear the music up close, see the musicians in their tired matching suits and their funny little almost-in-sync moves. I caught a glimpse of the Big Act’s sexy dancers running out the back of Suzy’s restaurant. I saw Bartolo trying to hold up Isaías’s father (or maybe it was José’s uncle) and I saw another dozen late-stage drunks obliterated by cush. But my heart swelled and my eyes filled and I found it ALL SO BEAUTIFUL. I smiled as I passed the fetal alcohol family and I found them BEAUTIFUL too. The pile of pink-tinged dog shit that a bit of rain revealed to be a plastic bag that some hungry mutt couldn’t help but ingest, then expel. BEAUTIFUL. The half-tree all marked up by ritualized machete slashes. BEAUTIFUL. The bald-necked chicken running wildly through the feet of the passersby. BEAUTIFUL. The cheap Chinese chachkas, the trash and the bombs, the hand-powered Ferris wheel and all the drunken human destitution. All so beautiful today, or as beautiful as ugly can get. It expands in my chest and I feel like I’m going to choke on it. The rain falls at perfect angles and the sun is almost out and a part of me will surely die when I leave this place.”
In the end, I left and that part of me did not die, but just crystalized into a slice of blissful, purgatorial nostalgia.
What more is Home, anyway?
On a more contemporary note, today is San Marcos Day, all over the realm. Here in this San Marcos (Sierras), the stores are all closed and most of the people kick back digesting yesterday’s Easter steaks and cheap waxy chocolate eggs. But the Gauchos, both pseudo- and neo-, are out in full force. They’ve dawned their boots and their berets and their fancy chaps and they ride their handsome steeds around, looking completely out of time, until their cell-phones goes off with an Eminem ring tone. Or maybe Chakira. In the afternoon, they gather in the lot beside the church, along with the most celebratory of the town’s paisanos, and fire up a ten-foot-long grill to sell barbecued chicken by the half or the whole. There’s also wine available and Fernet and Coke served in former one-liter plastic water bottles halved down the middle. A hammered old man sings to a back up CD and a dozen couples dance chacarera and paso doble, kicking up enough dust to block out the sun and make me choke on my chicken. It’s a typically criollo sight, earthy and without pretense, and I wipe my dry, priveleged eyes and fall even deeper in love with this place.
But a part of me can’t help myself. A undoable slice of my mind keeps flying back towards The Other San Marcos, La Laguna, Guatemala, my former Home and the seat of the bulk of my nostalgia. There, an entire town, an entire Lake of Mayans, and a bunch of motley ex-pats too, are coming out to celebrate Saint Mark the Evangelist. But ironically, this is the one day San Marcos’s incessant evangelizing will cease. Today is a party day and even if the irritating religiosos wanted to keep preaching the word of their angry god, no culto’s loudspeakers are powerful enough to compete with the turn-it-up-to-eleven sounds of marimba and human merriment.
Days, weeks even, before the 25th, bombs and firecrackers start going off at all hours of the day and night. The locals, some of the poorest in the Americas, love to spend their microscopic sums of money on explosives—not visually pleasing fireworks, no Roman Candles, no Horsetails, nothing sparkly, just earth-shaking, eardrum-popping bombs, driving the dogs and the meditators to seek some peaceful shelter. (Futilely, of course.) Then there’s the marimba. The fucking marimba. From the Muni on the hill or from the basketball court in the middle of town, sometimes at the same time, Metallica-sized stacks of speakers stream live these ten-piece, xylophone-centred bands from about six am until three or four in the morning. And there is no escape for anyone unless it starts to rain or the electricity goes out. (Both very likely at some point, but neither will last long.) The only real cure for Feria is to bite the sound bullet, embrace the insanity, and join in the fun.
When I lived there, I loved San Marcos Feria like a child loves to be wrapped in her mother’s arms. This is what I wrote the last time I was there:
“I felt summoned by the Feria. I could tell the rain was just about to begin but I set out anyway. I had to hear the music up close, see the musicians in their tired matching suits and their funny little almost-in-sync moves. I caught a glimpse of the Big Act’s sexy dancers running out the back of Suzy’s restaurant. I saw Bartolo trying to hold up Isaías’s father (or maybe it was José’s uncle) and I saw another dozen late-stage drunks obliterated by cush. But my heart swelled and my eyes filled and I found it ALL SO BEAUTIFUL. I smiled as I passed the fetal alcohol family and I found them BEAUTIFUL too. The pile of pink-tinged dog shit that a bit of rain revealed to be a plastic bag that some hungry mutt couldn’t help but ingest, then expel. BEAUTIFUL. The half-tree all marked up by ritualized machete slashes. BEAUTIFUL. The bald-necked chicken running wildly through the feet of the passersby. BEAUTIFUL. The cheap Chinese chachkas, the trash and the bombs, the hand-powered Ferris wheel and all the drunken human destitution. All so beautiful today, or as beautiful as ugly can get. It expands in my chest and I feel like I’m going to choke on it. The rain falls at perfect angles and the sun is almost out and a part of me will surely die when I leave this place.”
In the end, I left and that part of me did not die, but just crystalized into a slice of blissful, purgatorial nostalgia.
What more is Home, anyway?
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Thirty-Forty Split
These are some things that happened to me in my thirties: I got pregnant in a drunken one night stand by the third back-up guitar player of some two-bit Guatemalan rock group (he fucked me after I passed out and all I remember about the entire thing was that he had on a nice shirt); I eventually lost the baby in a near fatal miscarriage in a dirty public third world hospital (even though it was a date-rape baby, I still wanted her desperately); I hemorraged for six months afterwards and was eventually diagnosed with a seven centimeter pendanculated fibroid tumor (which I have to this day); I got held up on New Years Eve by gunpoint and machete (and with my pad money stolen, I was forced to sit on a chicken bus for the next four hours bleeding visibly through my light yellow cotton pants); I did cocaine for the very last time with, Charlie, the American junkie epileptic hitman (who, despite/because of all his failings, I loved very deeply); I was robbed of the chance to say goodbye when Charlie died a few months later, sick and forever alone (but I did eventually write a lovely comic about it—sadly, the greatest romance of my life); three of my four dogs died in one night, and the fourth died a few years later (I loved that last one, Three-toe, more than any other living creature before or since); with increasing bouts of severe asthma and chronic bronchitis, after twenty-five years of over two packs a day, I finally quit smoking cigarettes (the single greatest achievement of my life); I started to black out out every time I drank, and woke up many mornings in the most extreme of circumstances (front door smashed in, mean Frenchman snoring beside me, and my bum bleeding profusely, for example); I took a Greyhound bus to Sturgis, got hammered, and fell off a balcony—twice—demoing the left side of my body as if I’d really been in a motorcycle accident (lightning bolt scar still hangs off my left eye for proof); I got hepatitis and almost died from liver failure (the absolute best thing that ever happened to me); I never started drinking again, but instead fell in love, for the first time in ten years, with the meanest, most arrogant alcoholic alive today (who ripped out my heart and spit and shit all over it, leaving me permanently bitter and fearful of love).
Also: I left the Third World, I moved back to Canada, I became a slum lord, I made peace with my father, I lost my best friend, I swam in the Mekong River, I shook Werner Herzog’s hand, I wrote a book, I learned to garden, I quit waitressing, I discovered Istanbul, I went on a pilgrimage, and after living the three most random, thrilling and intense months of my life touring Ethiopia with seven hot Italian clowns, I realized I’d never be the same again, nothing would ever be the same, and so I said Fuck-It-All and moved to Argentina.
And now I’m forty, finally learning to Tango.
Also: I left the Third World, I moved back to Canada, I became a slum lord, I made peace with my father, I lost my best friend, I swam in the Mekong River, I shook Werner Herzog’s hand, I wrote a book, I learned to garden, I quit waitressing, I discovered Istanbul, I went on a pilgrimage, and after living the three most random, thrilling and intense months of my life touring Ethiopia with seven hot Italian clowns, I realized I’d never be the same again, nothing would ever be the same, and so I said Fuck-It-All and moved to Argentina.
And now I’m forty, finally learning to Tango.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Ear Plugs and Pack Wrecking
I open my eyes and she knows it. How she knows it, I don’t know—I haven’t stirred or even yawned. But still she’s waiting. Rita Ciccarelli is waiting for me to wake up. Not the singer with the mini-non-hit that rocked Toronto AM radio sometime in the early 80s, but my dog, Rita Ciccarelli. I’ve just called her my dog on public internets, so I guess it’s official now: this bitter little bird-faced, Border Collie dwarf cross (who was originally known as Chiquita, a name that I deemed very early on as too boring for such an extraordinarily agile and skiddish ankle nipper) has finally gotten her way. Rita Ciccarelli and I are now an official item.
“Hallo!” I call out to her through the window in a funny accent. Today it’s Swiss. Yesterday was Chinese. Tomorrow may be Coronation Street or Lionel Richie. Sometimes I use the Conky voice, but not usually this early in the morning.
I talk to all the dogs in English. There are 23 others where Rita Ciccarelli came from, just next door, on the other side of the fence. And they can all understand me perfectly. But only four of them, besides my girl, are small and/or agile enough to pass back and forth, from that side to this: Pepina, also known as Peanut (to celebrate her rancid peanut butter breath that you can smell from ten feet away), Dante La Roux, the long-legged teenybopper with fish eyes and a tendency to lovingly eat poop all afternoon (very lovingly, like he was enjoying a full-on dégustation of foie gras and chocolate truffles), Hilacha (literally, Loose Thread), the off-white arrogant skank ball who I never pet, and the newest addition, a nine-week old black puppy, the fugliest little fucker I’ve ever seen, with crossed eyes and a skin disease, who I call Little Scabie Bear.
These are just the crossovers. The other nineteen have to be invited in and let out. As a rule, I only do this for one of them, Poom, my champion, lean and brindled and wolfy with a missing back leg and an affinity for pancetta. He also has half an ear chopped off and six toes on one foot. I like to scratch his one side and watch his ghost leg twitch joyously. The rest of his pack stays pretty much to their side, though I do reach through the fence every now and again with a cookie for old Luba or crazy little Ting Tong or maybe a careful pat on the head for Koochi, the hyena off-shoot.
Now that Rita Ciccarelli is sure I’m awake, she sits in the flower bed under my window, tail all aflutter, and starts to sing-moan-howl-whine, and she won’t stop until I open the front door and take her into my arms. Is it me she loves? Or the crackers that I will give her in a few minutes? Or just the bits of exclusive and trusty affection I make a point of giving her, even when the cuter puppies are around? She’d obviously been abused, majorly kicked around, before she was rescued by Moni and taken into the big pack next door. With me, it took months of pointed work and a variety of pork products before she’d even let me pet her belly with my foot. And in the end, for better or worse, she adopted me. Of my 24 neighbours and the hundred other local strays, I frankly never would have picked her. She’s a little too small, a little too skiddish and yippy, not exactly easy to love. (A canine mirror, perhaps?)
But there’s no fighting fate. It’s a done doggie deal. Four months I spent twenty feet away from Moni and her twenty-four dogs (I’m probably the only person in town who could have held out for so long in this place, thanks to a preference for mutts over people and a nine-peso set of earplugs.) And Rita Ciccarelli courted me the whole time. So when I leave here in a couple weeks for my new (amazing, truly amazing) house, I’m going to have to break up the pack and take the little ankle nipper with me.
Dear Cesar Millan, Dog Whisperer, Hot Little Alpha Mexican Dude,
I am writing you from San Marcos Sierras, Argentina, to tell you about a very special dog person. Her name is Moni and she is the local “protectora de perros,” a lone woman who personally and thanklessly provides all the services of a Humane Society in a town that lacks any such group.
Between the local criollos, who really don’t give a shit about their dogs, and the hippies, who come and go as they please, leaving a whole slew of sweet but maladjusted dogs in their wake, Moni has her work cut out for her. She cures street dogs who’ve gotten roughed up in fights, she provides food and adoption services for pregnant, unwed doggie mothers, and she encourages, and often pays for, the spaying and neutering of dogs of all kinds. [“Castration” as it is called here, is very looked down upon in all of Argentina. Even the local vet has to be pressured and coaxed into snipping the balls of a healthy boy dog—he seems to take the whole thing very personally, like his own cojones were the ones being taken out of commission.]
But on top of all this outreach, Moni provides a permanent home for 24 rescued dogs (and counting), many of whom are too ugly or sick or plain all-fucked-up to have a healthy place anywhere else in this world. Here, just on the other side of the fence, all these critters get a bed, a big yard to play in, and two plates of homemade food daily. She goes through each of their coats every night, removing fleas and ticks, and she tours the yard twice a day, playing with the mutts and cleaning up their shit (though Dante La Roux, Poop Gourmet, helps her out a lot.)
Cesar, I think this woman, this pack leader and benefactor, this neighbour and friend, is amazing and I nominate her to receive your coveted brass-plated pooper scooper prize for outstanding effort in the field of international canine affection and rescue. If not, maybe you could at least send her a bit of money to help pay for the new puppy’s stage-four mange treatments.
Sincerely,
E. the Pack-Wrecker
“Hallo!” I call out to her through the window in a funny accent. Today it’s Swiss. Yesterday was Chinese. Tomorrow may be Coronation Street or Lionel Richie. Sometimes I use the Conky voice, but not usually this early in the morning.
I talk to all the dogs in English. There are 23 others where Rita Ciccarelli came from, just next door, on the other side of the fence. And they can all understand me perfectly. But only four of them, besides my girl, are small and/or agile enough to pass back and forth, from that side to this: Pepina, also known as Peanut (to celebrate her rancid peanut butter breath that you can smell from ten feet away), Dante La Roux, the long-legged teenybopper with fish eyes and a tendency to lovingly eat poop all afternoon (very lovingly, like he was enjoying a full-on dégustation of foie gras and chocolate truffles), Hilacha (literally, Loose Thread), the off-white arrogant skank ball who I never pet, and the newest addition, a nine-week old black puppy, the fugliest little fucker I’ve ever seen, with crossed eyes and a skin disease, who I call Little Scabie Bear.
These are just the crossovers. The other nineteen have to be invited in and let out. As a rule, I only do this for one of them, Poom, my champion, lean and brindled and wolfy with a missing back leg and an affinity for pancetta. He also has half an ear chopped off and six toes on one foot. I like to scratch his one side and watch his ghost leg twitch joyously. The rest of his pack stays pretty much to their side, though I do reach through the fence every now and again with a cookie for old Luba or crazy little Ting Tong or maybe a careful pat on the head for Koochi, the hyena off-shoot.
Now that Rita Ciccarelli is sure I’m awake, she sits in the flower bed under my window, tail all aflutter, and starts to sing-moan-howl-whine, and she won’t stop until I open the front door and take her into my arms. Is it me she loves? Or the crackers that I will give her in a few minutes? Or just the bits of exclusive and trusty affection I make a point of giving her, even when the cuter puppies are around? She’d obviously been abused, majorly kicked around, before she was rescued by Moni and taken into the big pack next door. With me, it took months of pointed work and a variety of pork products before she’d even let me pet her belly with my foot. And in the end, for better or worse, she adopted me. Of my 24 neighbours and the hundred other local strays, I frankly never would have picked her. She’s a little too small, a little too skiddish and yippy, not exactly easy to love. (A canine mirror, perhaps?)
But there’s no fighting fate. It’s a done doggie deal. Four months I spent twenty feet away from Moni and her twenty-four dogs (I’m probably the only person in town who could have held out for so long in this place, thanks to a preference for mutts over people and a nine-peso set of earplugs.) And Rita Ciccarelli courted me the whole time. So when I leave here in a couple weeks for my new (amazing, truly amazing) house, I’m going to have to break up the pack and take the little ankle nipper with me.
Dear Cesar Millan, Dog Whisperer, Hot Little Alpha Mexican Dude,
I am writing you from San Marcos Sierras, Argentina, to tell you about a very special dog person. Her name is Moni and she is the local “protectora de perros,” a lone woman who personally and thanklessly provides all the services of a Humane Society in a town that lacks any such group.
Between the local criollos, who really don’t give a shit about their dogs, and the hippies, who come and go as they please, leaving a whole slew of sweet but maladjusted dogs in their wake, Moni has her work cut out for her. She cures street dogs who’ve gotten roughed up in fights, she provides food and adoption services for pregnant, unwed doggie mothers, and she encourages, and often pays for, the spaying and neutering of dogs of all kinds. [“Castration” as it is called here, is very looked down upon in all of Argentina. Even the local vet has to be pressured and coaxed into snipping the balls of a healthy boy dog—he seems to take the whole thing very personally, like his own cojones were the ones being taken out of commission.]
But on top of all this outreach, Moni provides a permanent home for 24 rescued dogs (and counting), many of whom are too ugly or sick or plain all-fucked-up to have a healthy place anywhere else in this world. Here, just on the other side of the fence, all these critters get a bed, a big yard to play in, and two plates of homemade food daily. She goes through each of their coats every night, removing fleas and ticks, and she tours the yard twice a day, playing with the mutts and cleaning up their shit (though Dante La Roux, Poop Gourmet, helps her out a lot.)
Cesar, I think this woman, this pack leader and benefactor, this neighbour and friend, is amazing and I nominate her to receive your coveted brass-plated pooper scooper prize for outstanding effort in the field of international canine affection and rescue. If not, maybe you could at least send her a bit of money to help pay for the new puppy’s stage-four mange treatments.
Sincerely,
E. the Pack-Wrecker
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The Good Life Part One: Clogged Arteries
First off, the word “barbecue” is a lousy translation for the carnivorous Argentine concept-lifestyle of the asado. The North American barbecue, so easily foreshortened to a mere “BBQ,” has the two most basics in common with the asado: food cooked outdoors, and people gathered there to eat it. But there are no hamburgers or weiners at an asado, there are no charcoal briquettes fueled desperately by zippo fluid. And I’d be willing to bet that there is not one single over-priced, tank-like, gas-fuelled BBQ, like the ones so many Gringoes up north are so proud of, with their extra burners, and their side sinks, and their bullet-proof silky silicone covers, no Colemans or Brinkmans or Char-Grillers, in this whole country (not owned by a self-respecting Argentine, anyway.) I’m not being an ungrateful cunt here—some of the best moments, and meals, I had back home were driven by a barbecue on someone’s deck or in their backyard...warm summer afternoons with hot Italian sausage juice dripping down my neck, or crisp fall nights with grilled salmon brochettes and foil-wrapped potatoes, or even that Christmas turkey we had to cook on the ‘cue because the electricity had gone out.
But here, BBQ is beyond all that. Here, the asado is not just an important part of Argentinian life, but it is an actual Way of Life, an all-encompassing socio-religious philosophy type thing. To begin with, it’s an integral part of Argentine history—think sexy Gaucho on the plains grilling up one of his twenty thousand heads of cattle, no cutlery, no plates, no accoutrements, just the knife unsheathed from his hip and a couple co-Gauchos gathered around the fire, feeding themselves under the stars in the most sophisticatedly primitive way imaginable. Nowadays, maybe the lead-up has changed, but the asado itself remains basically the same.
Anything can call for one of these meat-driven gatherings, a kid’s birthday, a 50th anniversary, an average Wednesday night after work, any and all occasions, and while an asado is no big deal, it is at the same time a full-on party, no matter what. Each one, big or small (though really, there are no small asados) is a unique, down-home celebration of humanity and the dead animal(s) that it’s managed to acquire. [I won’t get into the modern-day problem of the mass sowing of un-mouth-watering soya for sale on the Chinese market, replacing vast tracts of traditional cattle-grazing lands, driving the price of meat up by 50 or 60%. Just the word “soya” is enough to drive an average Argentinian into a passionately angry tirade, especially if he has a chunk of meat in his hand. And yet, if the worst thing that can happen at an asado is to run out of meat, these people, hearty and crafty and true to their land, despite the rising costs and bad economy, always somehow seem to manage to find a way to grill up a surplus of carne. Ironically, it’s also a big faux-pas to have any meat left over at the end of an asado, encouraging excess and over-gorging for all. Everybody’s broke, but their bellies are full and their arteries stay hard. Way of Life.]
The fire, the heart of the asado, never gets started before sunset, which comes very late in summer (hypoglycemics, take note and bring a secret sandwich). The wood must burn itself down to a very specific size and quality of coal before any meat can be placed on the grill. And the grilling area can really be anywhere—I’ve had fantastic asados downtown Buenos Aires cooked completely on a piece of corrugated tin on the cement—but most people have built a long, waist-high, brick grilling-bed somewhere in their yard, where all the holy meat-fire action takes place. The point is: none of this can be rushed. The pace of the asado is always slow, deliberate, and invariably pregnant with plenty of human revelry and chamuyo (useless blah-blah-blah). (Most people would also cite the necessity of several bottles of wine to accompany the meat and the night, but this seven-year-sober chick doesn’t feel that necessity anymore. But hey—go ahead! Salud!)
When everything is perfect, the grill burned clean, the coals just right, the people on fire with hunger, then and only then are the sweet potatoes and onions tossed straight and naked into the coals. After that come several of a dozen cuts of beef I’ve never even heard of—vacio, palomita, nalga, matambre—all doused with rock-salt (hypertensives should maybe think of doing a double dose of Lipitor) before being placed lovingly on the grill, alongside spurting homemade sausages, thick and gloopy blood sausage (I’m still not quite there yet), fatty pork solomillo, and sometimes chicken. The key to perfect grilling, I’ve been told by some men (there seem to be no women asadoras) is not to watch or smell the grilling, but to listen. If you can hear the meat’s fat dripping onto the coals in perfect intensity and rhythm, you’ve got yourself a proper asado.
Once the first round is cooked (there are always at least three), the whole lot is laid out on a big wooden board in the middle of the table and people reach in and help themselves. No pass-me-this-or-pass-me-that manners required. Forks and plates are also optional. Sometimes there’s a salad, but who fucking cares. It’s ALL about the juicy, succulent, carnivorous perfection that has gifted me, time and again, at every single asado I’ve ever been to, with the best meat I have ever, EVER put into my mouth. Piece after chunk after slice after wad, sweet grease blotting my chin and knuckles, my chest afuckingglow with the best that Argentina has to offer, asado makes me stupid, giddy, alive on death, and I wonder, retardedly, how the country’s eight vegetarians manage to do without.
I’m drooling while writing this.
And I’ve never been fatter in my life.
But here, BBQ is beyond all that. Here, the asado is not just an important part of Argentinian life, but it is an actual Way of Life, an all-encompassing socio-religious philosophy type thing. To begin with, it’s an integral part of Argentine history—think sexy Gaucho on the plains grilling up one of his twenty thousand heads of cattle, no cutlery, no plates, no accoutrements, just the knife unsheathed from his hip and a couple co-Gauchos gathered around the fire, feeding themselves under the stars in the most sophisticatedly primitive way imaginable. Nowadays, maybe the lead-up has changed, but the asado itself remains basically the same.
Anything can call for one of these meat-driven gatherings, a kid’s birthday, a 50th anniversary, an average Wednesday night after work, any and all occasions, and while an asado is no big deal, it is at the same time a full-on party, no matter what. Each one, big or small (though really, there are no small asados) is a unique, down-home celebration of humanity and the dead animal(s) that it’s managed to acquire. [I won’t get into the modern-day problem of the mass sowing of un-mouth-watering soya for sale on the Chinese market, replacing vast tracts of traditional cattle-grazing lands, driving the price of meat up by 50 or 60%. Just the word “soya” is enough to drive an average Argentinian into a passionately angry tirade, especially if he has a chunk of meat in his hand. And yet, if the worst thing that can happen at an asado is to run out of meat, these people, hearty and crafty and true to their land, despite the rising costs and bad economy, always somehow seem to manage to find a way to grill up a surplus of carne. Ironically, it’s also a big faux-pas to have any meat left over at the end of an asado, encouraging excess and over-gorging for all. Everybody’s broke, but their bellies are full and their arteries stay hard. Way of Life.]
The fire, the heart of the asado, never gets started before sunset, which comes very late in summer (hypoglycemics, take note and bring a secret sandwich). The wood must burn itself down to a very specific size and quality of coal before any meat can be placed on the grill. And the grilling area can really be anywhere—I’ve had fantastic asados downtown Buenos Aires cooked completely on a piece of corrugated tin on the cement—but most people have built a long, waist-high, brick grilling-bed somewhere in their yard, where all the holy meat-fire action takes place. The point is: none of this can be rushed. The pace of the asado is always slow, deliberate, and invariably pregnant with plenty of human revelry and chamuyo (useless blah-blah-blah). (Most people would also cite the necessity of several bottles of wine to accompany the meat and the night, but this seven-year-sober chick doesn’t feel that necessity anymore. But hey—go ahead! Salud!)
When everything is perfect, the grill burned clean, the coals just right, the people on fire with hunger, then and only then are the sweet potatoes and onions tossed straight and naked into the coals. After that come several of a dozen cuts of beef I’ve never even heard of—vacio, palomita, nalga, matambre—all doused with rock-salt (hypertensives should maybe think of doing a double dose of Lipitor) before being placed lovingly on the grill, alongside spurting homemade sausages, thick and gloopy blood sausage (I’m still not quite there yet), fatty pork solomillo, and sometimes chicken. The key to perfect grilling, I’ve been told by some men (there seem to be no women asadoras) is not to watch or smell the grilling, but to listen. If you can hear the meat’s fat dripping onto the coals in perfect intensity and rhythm, you’ve got yourself a proper asado.
Once the first round is cooked (there are always at least three), the whole lot is laid out on a big wooden board in the middle of the table and people reach in and help themselves. No pass-me-this-or-pass-me-that manners required. Forks and plates are also optional. Sometimes there’s a salad, but who fucking cares. It’s ALL about the juicy, succulent, carnivorous perfection that has gifted me, time and again, at every single asado I’ve ever been to, with the best meat I have ever, EVER put into my mouth. Piece after chunk after slice after wad, sweet grease blotting my chin and knuckles, my chest afuckingglow with the best that Argentina has to offer, asado makes me stupid, giddy, alive on death, and I wonder, retardedly, how the country’s eight vegetarians manage to do without.
I’m drooling while writing this.
And I’ve never been fatter in my life.
Monday, April 18, 2011
No Safer Place
In honour of my fast approaching fortieth birthday, I decided to tempt fate and all the muses by dropping acid for the first time in more than ten years. What a frikkin feat! And what a thrilling relief to reacquaint myself with Don Acido, feel him course down my spine, through my mind, and up behind my cheek bones, once again, after all these years without. Back in the day, in the ugly 80s, acid came to define me as a person, my habits, my mental aesthetic, my raison d’être. It was even my nickname in highschool. The first time I tried it, on a warm summer Soo night when I was only 16, I swore, as soon as the feeling had me taken over completely, that I would continue to drop “until I died.” But aging forecloses itself on such lofty ideas and there came a time, a million trips later, when I wanted nothing more than to want to do acid, but only that initial idealized desire remained. I had, like little Jackie Paper, unwittingly grown up and in doing so, grown away from my dragon, who, without me, sadly slipped back into his cave and ceased his fearless roar. (The song still makes me cry.)
But the other day, right out of the bluest skies, opportunity, in the form of a little square paper, fell right onto my now-willing tongue. I loved the idea of dropping acid ten days short of my fortieth birthday—I could still be a rebel and do irresponsible, ungrown-up things, even AT MY AGE! And no one could stop me! (“Fuck You I Won’t Do What You Tell Me!”) And with that one little hit, I was led directly to twelve straight hours of virgin-pure pleasure and play, Fun with a capital F and laughter straight to God, and I’m sure it trimmed at least six months off my total year-bank. Surrounded by clean dirt and stick-bugs, I tripped around the Rio Seco, my pockets heavy with quartz and candy, and the sun bored itself into each and every one of my pores and my sweet skin shone with the heady security that THERE WAS NO SAFER PLACE IN THE WORLD FOR ME. I was carried forward by my armpits and set down face to face with the wind and that secret underscore of reality that Albert Hoffman, that blessed old Swiss dude (R.I.P., old friend), gifted us with, from that fateful moldy piece of bread, over 70 years ago.
To my surprise (and relief) I managed to trip the whole trip in Spanish. Even with all the liquids in my head gone bonkers (flowing snot, salivation turned up to eleven and tears popping uncontrolably from my eyes—but still no dislodging of the puke ball trapped in my throat) my mind wrapped itself around the Spanish version of the words and they actually emerged as such, from my mouth, whenever necessary. That little slice of our psychedelic world remained for me and my tripping partner, A., consistently, linguistically, hispanically, intact. This was a good sign—I am a better person in Spanish, and the fact that I could not only PERCEIVE in Spanish, but COMMUNICATE too, upped my ante as a human, in my own eyes anyway.
After it was all over, I waited for the comedown for days. But there was none, not even an iota. The whole post-trip week was sweet and light as cotton candy. I ate well and slept full and felt consistently giddy and grateful. Eight days later, good things continue to happen to me and the hit’s blessings continue to shine on: an older body but one more connected to its own fountain of truth; a stronger, saner, more situated brain; and a heart safe and relaxed enough to truly embrace the coming Argentine autumn (and beyond that, the first full winter this cold-sensitive ass will have faced in seven years.)
But I have a tuque now.
And a hot-water bottle.
And an acid connection.
I have almost grown-up.
But the other day, right out of the bluest skies, opportunity, in the form of a little square paper, fell right onto my now-willing tongue. I loved the idea of dropping acid ten days short of my fortieth birthday—I could still be a rebel and do irresponsible, ungrown-up things, even AT MY AGE! And no one could stop me! (“Fuck You I Won’t Do What You Tell Me!”) And with that one little hit, I was led directly to twelve straight hours of virgin-pure pleasure and play, Fun with a capital F and laughter straight to God, and I’m sure it trimmed at least six months off my total year-bank. Surrounded by clean dirt and stick-bugs, I tripped around the Rio Seco, my pockets heavy with quartz and candy, and the sun bored itself into each and every one of my pores and my sweet skin shone with the heady security that THERE WAS NO SAFER PLACE IN THE WORLD FOR ME. I was carried forward by my armpits and set down face to face with the wind and that secret underscore of reality that Albert Hoffman, that blessed old Swiss dude (R.I.P., old friend), gifted us with, from that fateful moldy piece of bread, over 70 years ago.
To my surprise (and relief) I managed to trip the whole trip in Spanish. Even with all the liquids in my head gone bonkers (flowing snot, salivation turned up to eleven and tears popping uncontrolably from my eyes—but still no dislodging of the puke ball trapped in my throat) my mind wrapped itself around the Spanish version of the words and they actually emerged as such, from my mouth, whenever necessary. That little slice of our psychedelic world remained for me and my tripping partner, A., consistently, linguistically, hispanically, intact. This was a good sign—I am a better person in Spanish, and the fact that I could not only PERCEIVE in Spanish, but COMMUNICATE too, upped my ante as a human, in my own eyes anyway.
After it was all over, I waited for the comedown for days. But there was none, not even an iota. The whole post-trip week was sweet and light as cotton candy. I ate well and slept full and felt consistently giddy and grateful. Eight days later, good things continue to happen to me and the hit’s blessings continue to shine on: an older body but one more connected to its own fountain of truth; a stronger, saner, more situated brain; and a heart safe and relaxed enough to truly embrace the coming Argentine autumn (and beyond that, the first full winter this cold-sensitive ass will have faced in seven years.)
But I have a tuque now.
And a hot-water bottle.
And an acid connection.
I have almost grown-up.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Immigrant Tuque Chick
Eva Perón came to me in a dream last night to give me some sound, compassionate advice. I can’t remember exactly how it went, but it was something like the country (me) was made up of good parts and bad parts. We (I) had to have more compassion for the bad (which is never really bad) and actively work to encourage the good. A National (Personal) Balance was possible, according to Madame Perón, and I woke up feeling light and ready to heed her challenge.
(Do new Argentine immigrants in Canada dream of Stephen Harper? What symbolic shite would he try and feed them?)
For the first time in my life, after all my travels and all the far-off places I’ve lived and tried to become a part of, I am, here in Argentina, now, finally, an actual immigrant. When I was in the States, I was way too illegal to feel settled. In Europe, no matter what I tried, I was always too New World. In Colombia, I was too drugged out to be truly welcome and in Guatemala, I was too utterly foreign to ever have more than TOURIST stamped in my passport. (I did adapt to Guatemala, but it never adopted me. I managed to live there for years though, but always in a state of happy ex-pat otherness.)
In Bolivia, I came close to settling and getting my actual residency—I spent months going back and forth to the capital, struggling to get all the right papers, going step by step (or more like one step forward, six steps back) through the opaque and illogical third world bureacratic machine. I found a sponsor, paid my dues, even managed to get my INTERPOL clearance. But on the way to hand in the final forms, the ones that would lead to my permanent, legal residency, I got cold feet, stopped at a travel agency and bought a one-way ticket back to Central America. I had this idea in my head that if the shit really hit the fan, and everything collapsed, I’d never be able to find my way back home to Canada to die near where I was born. I’d never make it from Bolivia to the Soo, but I could probably manage it from Guate. So that’s where I went. Back to Guate. For four more years of wishy washy ex-pativity.
These days, I don’t really care how close I am to “home” when I die. The quotation marks symbolize evil anyway. What I do want—it’s very clear to me—is to live out my years here. And if the shit does hit the fan (Oh 2012, will you prevail?!), I’d much rather be in these parts, with these people. In these hills. In this country of immigrants, I am not an ex-pat, but a simple Canadian immigrant, starting a new life, and feeling safer and more at home here than I ever did anywhere in North America.
And ironically (I feed off this shit!), I have finally found and proudly wear, here on the opposite side of the world, the ultimate symbol of my Canadianness: a tuque. It cost two bucks at the corner store and now my life is complete. This is not an exaggeration for an old, cold-headed punker of Northern Ontarian origins. For half the year, I’ll sleep with the thing on, unfolding it down over my eyes like a blinder, then take it off only to shower and work. Or maybe go to a nice restaurant (but in this case, I’ve sent a request that my purple angora tuque be shipped to me from Canada.) Since I lost my original tuque on the bus on the way here, I have for the last seven bare-headed months, felt obliquely empty. This new tuque doesn’t just complete my fall-winter-spring look, it completes me. Like high heels complete a certain kind of woman or a favoured ball cap completes a certain kind of guy.
Big dreamer. Recent immigrant. Tuque chick.
We all eat succotash on this newly autumnal sunny Argentina afternoon.
And the south winds blow.
(Do new Argentine immigrants in Canada dream of Stephen Harper? What symbolic shite would he try and feed them?)
For the first time in my life, after all my travels and all the far-off places I’ve lived and tried to become a part of, I am, here in Argentina, now, finally, an actual immigrant. When I was in the States, I was way too illegal to feel settled. In Europe, no matter what I tried, I was always too New World. In Colombia, I was too drugged out to be truly welcome and in Guatemala, I was too utterly foreign to ever have more than TOURIST stamped in my passport. (I did adapt to Guatemala, but it never adopted me. I managed to live there for years though, but always in a state of happy ex-pat otherness.)
In Bolivia, I came close to settling and getting my actual residency—I spent months going back and forth to the capital, struggling to get all the right papers, going step by step (or more like one step forward, six steps back) through the opaque and illogical third world bureacratic machine. I found a sponsor, paid my dues, even managed to get my INTERPOL clearance. But on the way to hand in the final forms, the ones that would lead to my permanent, legal residency, I got cold feet, stopped at a travel agency and bought a one-way ticket back to Central America. I had this idea in my head that if the shit really hit the fan, and everything collapsed, I’d never be able to find my way back home to Canada to die near where I was born. I’d never make it from Bolivia to the Soo, but I could probably manage it from Guate. So that’s where I went. Back to Guate. For four more years of wishy washy ex-pativity.
These days, I don’t really care how close I am to “home” when I die. The quotation marks symbolize evil anyway. What I do want—it’s very clear to me—is to live out my years here. And if the shit does hit the fan (Oh 2012, will you prevail?!), I’d much rather be in these parts, with these people. In these hills. In this country of immigrants, I am not an ex-pat, but a simple Canadian immigrant, starting a new life, and feeling safer and more at home here than I ever did anywhere in North America.
And ironically (I feed off this shit!), I have finally found and proudly wear, here on the opposite side of the world, the ultimate symbol of my Canadianness: a tuque. It cost two bucks at the corner store and now my life is complete. This is not an exaggeration for an old, cold-headed punker of Northern Ontarian origins. For half the year, I’ll sleep with the thing on, unfolding it down over my eyes like a blinder, then take it off only to shower and work. Or maybe go to a nice restaurant (but in this case, I’ve sent a request that my purple angora tuque be shipped to me from Canada.) Since I lost my original tuque on the bus on the way here, I have for the last seven bare-headed months, felt obliquely empty. This new tuque doesn’t just complete my fall-winter-spring look, it completes me. Like high heels complete a certain kind of woman or a favoured ball cap completes a certain kind of guy.
Big dreamer. Recent immigrant. Tuque chick.
We all eat succotash on this newly autumnal sunny Argentina afternoon.
And the south winds blow.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Getting Up There
Car ride to the city today! (Excited like a little dog!) But the result wasn’t so thrilling—it was time to say goodbye to my favorite little old lady in the whole world. I watched her wheel off through the airport doors and I walked away, but then I surprised myself a bit when I turned and headed back to wave one last time. And she was there waiting, waving too! I’d taken care of her a few times, shuffled her around, wiped her bum, absorbed her company. It made me feel useful for the first time in forever. Fucking fulfilling to be of service and yet not in the service industry. (My sacred vow NOT to be a 40-year-old waitress still underway.) With R., it was as if I was recooping some of the bad care-giver karma I’d earned over the years, taking care of my mother and my Uncle Ray. Where I was so torn and resentful with them, my own blood, I was all patience and understanding with this near stranger. I liked her and I liked serving her. I loved her, even, and we spoke only in French.
The other French-speaking old ladies that I’ve loved, the women who helped raise me, have all been dead since the early eighties. And this year will mark, just after I turn 40, the twentieth anniversary of my own mother’s death. Georgia never got to turn into one of those old ladies, gone at 46. She seemed so old to me at the time, but now that I’m nearing that same age, I can see the tragedy of it all, not just from the point of view of a resentful twenty-year-old forced to drop out of school to take care of her cancer-sick mother, but through the eyes of a strong and beautiful woman, mother, friend, worker, in terrible pain, having to say goodbye to it all, and worse yet, be cared for by that aforementioned, whiny, self-centered cunt of a daughter. What would Georgia think of me today? Would she have approved of San Marcos, of how and where I’ve chosen to live out these years? Or would she be disappointed by my lack of career, lack of family of my own, lack of all those things that most people my age have?
All this, and more, morbidly adult shit racking my mind as I approach (so quickly! just a few more days!) forty. FORTY! The age of an undenyable grown-up. And what have I got to show for myself? Not a hell of a lot. A bicycle, and a good sense of humour. I know it’s no excuse, but I really never thought I’d get this far—I truly never planned on ageing. When I was young, I didn’t think I’d live to 19. Then surviving that with flying colours, I upped the ante to 25. Then 30. On the eve of my 33rd birthday (the Jesus year), I actually thought I’d magically die in my sleep, avoiding the future entirely. But awaken I did, utterly unprepared for a life in the long term—I had a massive life insurance policy, but no health insurance; I had a legal will, but no plans of any kind. I knew more people that had died than I knew new-born babies and I could much more easily envision my own death than giving birth to my own child.
Today, almost seven years later, the Córdoba sun rises on me and my experience (all I’ve really got, besides the bike and the sense of humour). I cashed in my measly RRSP last week for meat money for my birthday barbecue and I’m still ignoring even the possibility that I’ll become one of those French-speaking old ladies who needs her bum wiped by a stranger.
Making me think.
Will I ever grow up?
The other French-speaking old ladies that I’ve loved, the women who helped raise me, have all been dead since the early eighties. And this year will mark, just after I turn 40, the twentieth anniversary of my own mother’s death. Georgia never got to turn into one of those old ladies, gone at 46. She seemed so old to me at the time, but now that I’m nearing that same age, I can see the tragedy of it all, not just from the point of view of a resentful twenty-year-old forced to drop out of school to take care of her cancer-sick mother, but through the eyes of a strong and beautiful woman, mother, friend, worker, in terrible pain, having to say goodbye to it all, and worse yet, be cared for by that aforementioned, whiny, self-centered cunt of a daughter. What would Georgia think of me today? Would she have approved of San Marcos, of how and where I’ve chosen to live out these years? Or would she be disappointed by my lack of career, lack of family of my own, lack of all those things that most people my age have?
All this, and more, morbidly adult shit racking my mind as I approach (so quickly! just a few more days!) forty. FORTY! The age of an undenyable grown-up. And what have I got to show for myself? Not a hell of a lot. A bicycle, and a good sense of humour. I know it’s no excuse, but I really never thought I’d get this far—I truly never planned on ageing. When I was young, I didn’t think I’d live to 19. Then surviving that with flying colours, I upped the ante to 25. Then 30. On the eve of my 33rd birthday (the Jesus year), I actually thought I’d magically die in my sleep, avoiding the future entirely. But awaken I did, utterly unprepared for a life in the long term—I had a massive life insurance policy, but no health insurance; I had a legal will, but no plans of any kind. I knew more people that had died than I knew new-born babies and I could much more easily envision my own death than giving birth to my own child.
Today, almost seven years later, the Córdoba sun rises on me and my experience (all I’ve really got, besides the bike and the sense of humour). I cashed in my measly RRSP last week for meat money for my birthday barbecue and I’m still ignoring even the possibility that I’ll become one of those French-speaking old ladies who needs her bum wiped by a stranger.
Making me think.
Will I ever grow up?
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Crystals and Donkeys
I wake up today, slowly, heavily, as if I had mercury coursing through my limbs. This happens sometimes here in San Marcos Sierras. The town is built on a giant slab of quartz crystal and some new age “experts” say that sometimes the energies or the biorhythms or the fuck-knows-what reverses itself and sucks downward instead of emitting out. This supposedly brings some of us down. I wouldn’t know if others share my weighty blood today, because I’m not getting out of bed. If I chose to, I’m sure I could consult with a reflexologist or an airetarian or an Akashic channeller as to why exactly my body feels so heavy. And they’d probably prescribe me some bitter tasting drops or an impossible-to-pronounce meditation or maybe just give me a big, energetic hug. Don’t get me wrong—I believe in a bunch of weird shit myself. It is how it is and not how it isn’t, or so I’d like to think. But really, I need these people, these all-walks-of-freaks surrounding me and I insist on living in a community like this one, full of all sorts of whatnot. It makes me feel safe. And a bit normal. For a change.
Here, and not tucked away but prominently situated in town, there’s a magnesium-chugging “Prophet” who’s building a 100-meter-wide inverted pyramid into the earth, there’s at least one U.F.O. research station on nearby Mount Uritorco, there’s a yearly gathering of South American Women For The Healing of the Planet that draws thousands of people, and I’d be willing to bet that ninety percent of the population knows both their Chinese and there Mayan zodiac signs. So my love for bejeweled baby Krsna and my glow-in-the-dark rosary (blessed by revolutionary Peruvian priest, Padre Cipriani), my magic rocks and my voodoo oil, and my decision to stay in bed all day because my limbs feel weighted down by some mysterious crystal powers, all these have a place here.
There is only a light breeze blowing through the trees outside, the mulberry, the fig, and the pink peppercorn tree they call the Awarivay. But the tops of the crazy-tall eucalyptus up the road are gnashing about in another, more violent stirring of wind. A High Wind playing out on another strata. If there were a tall building in San Marcos, five floors or more, it would be swaying. But two stories is as high as it gets, and there are only a few of those. People live close to the earth here, everyone. The local Criollos, the Gaucho types, the hippies and the urban dispossessed. The Original Inhabitants called the Comechingones (literally, Dirt Eaters.) And the barren gringa herself. All of us. Maybe not all down-to-earth, but still earthy nonetheless.
A boy comes by my door with a rope in his hand. He’s lost his donkey, he says. I don’t get out of bed, but talk to him through the window. “She’s white,” he calls out. I know what his donkey looks like—she’s a rebel donkey, always running away, and the poor kid is kind of retarded and spends half his days searching for her. I haven’t seen her, I tell him. Sorry.
She could be anywhere.
There’s not a single traffic light or paved street in this whole town.
And it seems that rebel donkeys are not as susceptible to mysterious mercurial crystal tugs as I am.
Here, and not tucked away but prominently situated in town, there’s a magnesium-chugging “Prophet” who’s building a 100-meter-wide inverted pyramid into the earth, there’s at least one U.F.O. research station on nearby Mount Uritorco, there’s a yearly gathering of South American Women For The Healing of the Planet that draws thousands of people, and I’d be willing to bet that ninety percent of the population knows both their Chinese and there Mayan zodiac signs. So my love for bejeweled baby Krsna and my glow-in-the-dark rosary (blessed by revolutionary Peruvian priest, Padre Cipriani), my magic rocks and my voodoo oil, and my decision to stay in bed all day because my limbs feel weighted down by some mysterious crystal powers, all these have a place here.
There is only a light breeze blowing through the trees outside, the mulberry, the fig, and the pink peppercorn tree they call the Awarivay. But the tops of the crazy-tall eucalyptus up the road are gnashing about in another, more violent stirring of wind. A High Wind playing out on another strata. If there were a tall building in San Marcos, five floors or more, it would be swaying. But two stories is as high as it gets, and there are only a few of those. People live close to the earth here, everyone. The local Criollos, the Gaucho types, the hippies and the urban dispossessed. The Original Inhabitants called the Comechingones (literally, Dirt Eaters.) And the barren gringa herself. All of us. Maybe not all down-to-earth, but still earthy nonetheless.
A boy comes by my door with a rope in his hand. He’s lost his donkey, he says. I don’t get out of bed, but talk to him through the window. “She’s white,” he calls out. I know what his donkey looks like—she’s a rebel donkey, always running away, and the poor kid is kind of retarded and spends half his days searching for her. I haven’t seen her, I tell him. Sorry.
She could be anywhere.
There’s not a single traffic light or paved street in this whole town.
And it seems that rebel donkeys are not as susceptible to mysterious mercurial crystal tugs as I am.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Tango Tonight
Tango tonight and still that little chunk of rotten pukey stuff stuck in my throat. This is not a metaphor. It is real. Just Google “little puke-smelling ball in back of throat” and you’ll see. Tango here in the Sierra is much different than Buenos Aires Tango. I’ve only heard...I never saw any real Tango in the twelve days that I was in the capital, before I was run out of town by my hysterical ex-boyfriend and his even more hysterical girlfriend (one of several) when all I wanted to do was stay and fall deeper in love with the smooth, free-basing junkie Jew that I’d been pining over since Colombia, fifteen years before. I couldn’t dance Tango then and it was probably a blessing that the shit hit that fan and I left town on a late night bus in a flurry of tears and rencor. (I could write a tango about it!) But twelve hours later, I landed here, in San Marcos Sierras, the provincial capital of hippies, honey and traditional Folklore dancing. Where I have incongrously decided to pursue my long-time passion of Tango. In the Sierra, you can dance Tango wearing running shoes or Crocs or gaucho slippers. I’ve even seen a hippy go barefoot once, which pissed me off, making me feel old. In the city, as in Buenos Aires, the birthplace of Tango, it’s regulation footwear all the way. Or so I’ve heard. I’ll go back there and dance someday. And kiss the junkie Jew before he dies.
Sometimes when I close my eyes and a classic Tango comes on, one of the 1349 greats I’ve got on my computer, I breathe in deep and I am THERE, in Mi Buenos Aires Querido, in 1912, clutching onto some mean, greasy fool, in some whorehouse on the riverfront, with a raucous little three-piece playing, wielding, chopping out this new musical form. And the hunger and the longing rush through my chest, hips, then extend down through my leg and my toe (I am wearing heels in my historical fantasy, not Chucks) traces out dramatic eights and fours, soft hooks and violent caresses. I let myself, the forever woman, be entirely led, because that is the key to Tango. And that’s probably been my biggest challenge here, something I face every class—the difficulty of handing myself over to the power of the man, to my partner, and letting him Lead. With a capital L. Not an easy task for the controlling and ultra-independent gringa chick who’d only ever slow danced once with Grampa at a wedding. But I’m getting the hang of it. There are only a couple guys in the class and they’re both pretty strong. There was another guy, that shitbag that I fucked that won’t even say hi to me now, but I’d be willing to bet a bunch of pesos that he won’t ever be back at Tango. And anyway, he fucks way better than he dances. I hope that comes off sounding like the insult I meant it to.
I wonder if Cherry Halls smells too medicinal up close.
I guess I better buy a new pack of mints.
Sometimes when I close my eyes and a classic Tango comes on, one of the 1349 greats I’ve got on my computer, I breathe in deep and I am THERE, in Mi Buenos Aires Querido, in 1912, clutching onto some mean, greasy fool, in some whorehouse on the riverfront, with a raucous little three-piece playing, wielding, chopping out this new musical form. And the hunger and the longing rush through my chest, hips, then extend down through my leg and my toe (I am wearing heels in my historical fantasy, not Chucks) traces out dramatic eights and fours, soft hooks and violent caresses. I let myself, the forever woman, be entirely led, because that is the key to Tango. And that’s probably been my biggest challenge here, something I face every class—the difficulty of handing myself over to the power of the man, to my partner, and letting him Lead. With a capital L. Not an easy task for the controlling and ultra-independent gringa chick who’d only ever slow danced once with Grampa at a wedding. But I’m getting the hang of it. There are only a couple guys in the class and they’re both pretty strong. There was another guy, that shitbag that I fucked that won’t even say hi to me now, but I’d be willing to bet a bunch of pesos that he won’t ever be back at Tango. And anyway, he fucks way better than he dances. I hope that comes off sounding like the insult I meant it to.
I wonder if Cherry Halls smells too medicinal up close.
I guess I better buy a new pack of mints.
Monday, April 4, 2011
San Marcos Sierras
Glob
Jamie, my perfect published sister, says it’s time to glob. The way of the fucking future. Jamie, who’s my only reader so far, will hate that first line (she’s usually such a fan of my first lines) but she will be relieved to know that at least:
I’m globbing.
This is the glob about my life in San Marcos Sierras, Argentina.
I’m writing this from underneath the mosquito net that my travelling friends left me. Three months in South America and they didn’t use it once. How many travellers buy mosquito nets before leaving home, only to never take it out of their pack? It’s too hot right now to be fully dressed, even though the sun is setting and Autumn has begun (Opposite Land, where fall is spring and the south winds are the cold ones). And this Off shit doesn’t work a damn. So I’m spending more and more time lately in my bed, under this blessed net. The fuckers hover just outside and they land on the soft white tela. Here, and only in here, I am superior to them.
I did it with a guy on this same bed last week. I felt wholly superior while it lasted, blessedly womanly and free. Nobody had touched like that in years. I floated around for two days afterwards on the memory of it, then I saw him in the street and he didn’t say hi. Sick. I almost puked on the spot. I rode off reeling, and am still reeling. It’s me that disgusts me. Not him. In two weeks I will be forty years old and despite all the healing and the growth, despite all the forward fucking movement, I still haven’t managed to progress from attracting the truest, lowest, shit scrapings type of man. No wonder I’ve been single most of my life. I’ve made my motherfucking bed. And I lie in it. Alone.
Worse, I have at least one (actual) glob somewhere in my throat that I can’t get out. Dislodge. This has been happening for a while, this trapping and rotting of little food balls in the folds of the back of my throat. I can see them and smell them, these little former chunks of oatmeal or salami, and I have to carry mints around, especially for Tango—partners are hard to come by and respect is key. When the glob finally does come out, I squish it between my fingers and it smells exactly like vomit. I have one chunk in there that’s been trapped since the night I fucked Buddy. And every morning I aim a chopstick at my tonsils and try to pry it loose, and all I do is gag, and tears stream from my eyes, but I can’t for the life of me choke it out.
Two guys ride by on horses, as real as Gauchos get, with their red berets and their unsmiling eyes. And the dogs, as they must have done for millenia now, go absolutely crazy.
I don’t want to live where I can’t hear the horses.
As for the dogs, I’ve got earplugs.
Coming soon: The 23 Dogs
Coming later: Tango in Converse
Jamie, my perfect published sister, says it’s time to glob. The way of the fucking future. Jamie, who’s my only reader so far, will hate that first line (she’s usually such a fan of my first lines) but she will be relieved to know that at least:
I’m globbing.
This is the glob about my life in San Marcos Sierras, Argentina.
I’m writing this from underneath the mosquito net that my travelling friends left me. Three months in South America and they didn’t use it once. How many travellers buy mosquito nets before leaving home, only to never take it out of their pack? It’s too hot right now to be fully dressed, even though the sun is setting and Autumn has begun (Opposite Land, where fall is spring and the south winds are the cold ones). And this Off shit doesn’t work a damn. So I’m spending more and more time lately in my bed, under this blessed net. The fuckers hover just outside and they land on the soft white tela. Here, and only in here, I am superior to them.
I did it with a guy on this same bed last week. I felt wholly superior while it lasted, blessedly womanly and free. Nobody had touched like that in years. I floated around for two days afterwards on the memory of it, then I saw him in the street and he didn’t say hi. Sick. I almost puked on the spot. I rode off reeling, and am still reeling. It’s me that disgusts me. Not him. In two weeks I will be forty years old and despite all the healing and the growth, despite all the forward fucking movement, I still haven’t managed to progress from attracting the truest, lowest, shit scrapings type of man. No wonder I’ve been single most of my life. I’ve made my motherfucking bed. And I lie in it. Alone.
Worse, I have at least one (actual) glob somewhere in my throat that I can’t get out. Dislodge. This has been happening for a while, this trapping and rotting of little food balls in the folds of the back of my throat. I can see them and smell them, these little former chunks of oatmeal or salami, and I have to carry mints around, especially for Tango—partners are hard to come by and respect is key. When the glob finally does come out, I squish it between my fingers and it smells exactly like vomit. I have one chunk in there that’s been trapped since the night I fucked Buddy. And every morning I aim a chopstick at my tonsils and try to pry it loose, and all I do is gag, and tears stream from my eyes, but I can’t for the life of me choke it out.
Two guys ride by on horses, as real as Gauchos get, with their red berets and their unsmiling eyes. And the dogs, as they must have done for millenia now, go absolutely crazy.
I don’t want to live where I can’t hear the horses.
As for the dogs, I’ve got earplugs.
Coming soon: The 23 Dogs
Coming later: Tango in Converse
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