Archive for March, 2008

Doggone dream

Published on March 28, 2008 in Personal. 0 Comments

About three hours ago I woke up on the floor of a humble domicile in a quaint farming pueblo in the mountains of southeast Mexico. I had been taking a siesta while my wife socialized with a friend of hers. This friend and her husband had invited us to join them for lunch, and afterward, noticing I seemed rather sleepy, they insisted it would fine if I took a snooze on their well-ventilated porch. I gratefully took them up on it, and flopped down on a mat they laid out for me. I must have been out cold for an hour or so when I woke to a dog licking and pawing at my hand. It was not their dog, so they later informed me, but rather some mutt that wandered in and lied down beside me. When my eyes popped open I expected to be on the other side of town, in our own humble abode, and I was completely disoriented for a few seconds as the dog rolled around hoping for a belly rub.

In fact, the reason I was so sleepy to begin with is that last night our host family’s dog, Keeper, broke free from his rope in the back yard and spent hours barking incessantly in front of our bedroom window. Unfortunately, this happens on a regular basis, and our hosts seem baffled as to why this should bother us. In fact, they responded to our initial complaints by getting a third dog, even noisier than the others. Anyway, I spent the night tossing and turning, my mind caught up in imagining the various ways one could silence such an animal—permanently. I finally managed to grab a few winks in the wee hours of the morning, during which time I fell into a powerful dream. I dreamt that I had somehow mindlessly spilled water on my beloved MacBook Pro computer. When the screen began to fizzle and everything froze up, I went into a panic. I ran home and frantically explained everything to my wife. She didn’t seem to understand the dire nature of the situation. As I was carrying on, I began to feel somewhat sleepy, but forced myself to stay awake so that I could run over to my friend Eric’s house, where I had supposedly left the owner’s manual to my computer. On the way to Eric’s place, I came upon a wooden dog in the middle of the street. It looked as if it were made from popsicle sticks, and I could see that it was being moved by some fishing line that led off behind some house. Obviously someone’s idea of a prank, I thought, and I kicked it aside and headed over to Eric’s house. Eric reminded me that I had retrieved my boxes of things some time ago, and that the only belongings of mine he still had at his place were some trinkets from my childhood.

Determined to resolve the matter, I left Eric’s and went to my brother’s place, thinking perhaps I had left the manual there for whatever reason. My brother was there, but not the manual, so I headed back home on a fast trot, resigned to fixing the computer without a guide. As I was running, I took notice that it had started to rain, and also that I was naked except for my underpants. At the latter I was dismayed, not because I was ashamed to be running through the street in my underwear, but because I would have to go all the way back to my brother’s house to get my clothes. I stopped in the middle of the street, rain coming down hard now in the dark of night, and I looked back at my brother’s place as I carefully weighed my options. Something just didn’t feel right. It slowly dawned on me how preposterous it was to think I had taken my clothes off at some point, forgotten that I had done so, then stepped out into the street to head home. I must just be imagining my clothes were off, I thought, and if that was the case then why not simply imagine my clothes were back on my body, thus saving me from having to go all the way back to my brother’s house. With that, my clothes began to gradually appear, covering my skin in a ghostly way, fading in and out of sight. I resumed running toward my place, and as my clothes took on more and more solid form it occurred to me how crazy it was to believe I could simply imagine something and then expect it to actually happen. Life doesn’t work that way, I thought, and imagining being clothed didn’t really make me less naked. Then a thought rose up and broke over me like a huge ocean wave: Maybe I’m sleeping. Maybe I dozed off earlier, when I felt sleepy while complaining to my wife, and this whole running around town bit is nothing but a dream. That would make sense of this trippy thing with my clothes. Not entirely sure about what was really going on, I ran the rest of the way home as fast as I could. I entered the building, which was like a big hotel complex, bounded up the stairs and raced toward the door of our room. A sense of panicky expectation rose up as I opened the door. I was hoping to see my wife, but instead found myself on a mountaintop covered in green grass, the sun blazing in my eyes, wind blowing and clouds breaking overhead, everything moving in slow-motion, my legs and arms flailing as if I were treading water. “I must be sleeping. I must be sleeping. I must be sleeping.” Again and again I tried to assure myself that it was all a dream and that I’d soon wake up next to my wife, rested and ready to tackle the problem of my waterlogged computer.

Then suddenly it happened. The dreaming was over and I was next to my wife, only I wasn’t in a hotel room and my computer was in fine working order, snug in my backpack next the bed. I woke up from the second dream, expecting to be in the first dream, only I didn’t know the first dream was in a fact a dream until I really woke up, finding myself in a quaint farming pueblo in the mountains of southeast Mexico, a dog a few feet away, barking outside my window. I was freaked out and confused, as I would be again a few hours later when I would wake up in another room, in another part of the same pueblo, to another dog clamoring for my attention.

Got it? I hope so, because I’m getting really sleepy and yes, the dogs are piping up again, crying for the moon with the other creatures of the night.

Wind blows… I think…

Published on March 22, 2008 in Personal. 0 Comments

The wind has been blowing hard now for the past two days. I’m talking whipping, gusting wind that just doesn’t let up. At night, the gusts seem particularly threatening, and I haven’t slept a wink the past two nights. Our bed sits near a huge window—about five feet high and seven or eight feet wide I’d say—and there’s no glass in it to keep the wind at bay. There’s a metal grate on the outside that looks like prison bars, to protect against invaders, and some mosquito netting tacked up, but that’s it. All night long you hear the wind whipping through the trees, knocking over woodpiles and shed roofs, and causing our curtain (and old bed sheet) to flap around like a mainsail on a stormy sea.

Of course, there’s also the dust. The grounds surrounding the homes and the streets are nothing but dirt, so the wind whips up clouds of dust that coat your eyes and cover everything in the room. Each time I reach for a book I have to brush off a new layer of dirt. At night though, as I was saying, it’s the sudden gusts, with the accompanying clamor, that keep the stress hormones in steady circulation. It’s like at any moment a cow or a motorcycle could come flying through the window and you’d better be ready to respond accordingly.

This morning we were told that the strong winds are due to a hurricane that’s sweeping through the state of Veracruz. Of course, we have no way of verifying this. There are no newscasts or newspapers to consult. Jesús did talk about tying down the roof, but that was last week, when a similar windy spell came through. The past couple of nights, no one has shown concern, about the weather anyway. The matter of utmost importance was Jesús leaving for the United States, which happened yesterday evening. He said he’d probably be gone for at least a year, maybe a year and a half, depending on the job situation. The rest of the family left the house with him, presumably to see him off. The unceasing winds made such a continuous rustle last night that I didn’t hear anyone return. I also didn’t hear anyone weeping, although Juana told Mary Alice this morning that the whole family cried themselves to sleep last night.

The whole reason we’re here is for Mary Alice to study the effects of out-migration on the health and wellbeing of those left behind. For whatever reason, we didn’t expect our host family to become a case study. It’s too bad the language barrier made it so difficult for Jesús and me to get to know one another. I sat with him for a while yesterday and attempted to make conversation. There was much gesturing and many a confused facial expression, but also something positive in simply having made the effort to connect. I know this will be difficult for Juana and the kids, and I feel a certain sense of responsibility to look out for them, although how that will manifest, I’m not sure. I seem to keep everybody laughing, but otherwise I’m fairly useless. Next time the roof needs to be tied down or the shed rebuilt, I wonder who will be the hero? Surely they won’t expect Sponge Bob to transform into Superman (another popular American show here is SMALLVILLE, which chronicles the life of a young Clark Kent.)

I just finished reading THE MEANING OF HAPPINNESS, by Alan Watts. Basically, he describes the experience of spiritual freedom as stemming from the total acceptance of life, in all its highs, lows and in-betweens. He also emphasizes, as he does in most of his books, that this total acceptance must also include acceptance of our resistance to acceptance. Watts wrote the book when he was twenty-four, yet his words ring with hard wrought insight. Last night, the book still circulating through the synapses, I listened to the wind whooshing through the window and thought: “The wind blows, and I think. Wind blows… I think…” It sounds asinine, I know, but this thought was accompanied by a sense of uncanny lightness, like how one might feel after laughing ones ass off for a ridiculously long period of time. Which reminds me, just the other night, out of the blue, I told Mary Alice that I wanted to change my name to Hallelujah Harrington. It was such a random comment and caught us both by such surprise, that we laughed ourselves to sleep over it.

Anyway, “Wind blows… I think…”—and with that came a moment of sublime peace, the kind of moment I normally am quick to spoil. For instance, Mary Alice and I were walking through town the other day when we came across a pack of mangy street dogs, one of which was walking on three legs. I felt a welling up of compassion for this animal, yet when Mary Alice asked me if I “related” because of my own gimpy leg, I was confused at first. I didn’t consciously make that connection. In the moment, I saw a dog walking on three legs, nothing more, and although I probably spent the entire walk up to that point whining about my knee (as I usually do on our morning walks), when I saw that dog gimping along I suddenly dropped all preoccupation with myself. It was a simple upwelling of compassion. Of course, once I made the connection to my own situation, I tried to make the moment seem more significant, making it into a synchronicity worth writing about later. Then I felt bad for having cheapened the experience, for failing to keep my ego from pissing all over it.

Later, I sat in my chair sweating, mindlessly eating pistachios. There were only a few nuts left in the bag, mostly ones I had been avoiding, ones with shells completely or almost completely sealed shut. At one point I broke one of my fingernails trying to get at a nut. Eventually I was left with about seven or eight nuts, sealed tight and not a nutcracker to be found. Again, my mind started to spin out some crap about the symbolic nature of the situation, something about how the hard things we put off till later eventually must be faced, or some horseshit like that.

Why I can’t simply enjoy some pistachios and leave well enough alone, I don’t know. And, furthermore, if it so happens that a few un-cracked nuts inspire a few horseshit thoughts, so what? Why create drama at every turn? So what if I had painted a picture of the fucking things, or cracked them open with a rock and fed them to a three-legged dog, or six-toed rooster. And tonight, if a cow does come hurtling through the window, well, it’ll just come on through, and even if it’s riding a motorcycle, then all the more interesting. Of course, if my mind gets to spinning too, then I suppose I’ll just let it spin, right Alan, spin like the whirling wind. And when the dust settles and everything is coated with another layer of grime, I will write my name in it, like pissing in the snow.

And my name will be: H-A-L-L-E-L-U-J-A.

Another day

Published on March 15, 2008 in Personal. 0 Comments

This morning, a strange experience: cold. For the first time on the pueblo, I’m wearing socks, a sweatshirt and pajama pants. Mary Alice and I have been getting up early every morning to go for a walk. Today we made it to the lake and back in record time: fifty-one minutes. I jogged a little, but since my walking is still not to perfect form, I’m focusing mostly on my stride, which comes up just short of full extension.

Yesterday while I was in the room doing squats and stretches, Juana was being “healed by a witch” in their part of the house. Apparently she throws up quite often, especially after meals, and she attributes this illness to the negative thoughts of those who don’t like her. I gather that, around here, it’s not uncommon for people to enlist witches to cast spells on people they don’t like. Who knows, maybe someone hexed me on the soccer field in September.

It’s been a week now since my return, and life is slow and easy. While a chilly day like today is rare, in general it’s been considerably less hot and humid compared to the Fall. This means far less mosquitoes and other creepy crawlies. It’s also just plain easier to get through the day when not continuously engaged in a losing battle against the elements.

*

It’s about five o’clock now, the evening settling in like a light wine buzz. Birds are chirping, cows moo, and Pollo (the developmentally challenged boy) is yelping away for reasons known only to him. My legs are still rubbery from the afternoon strength workout, which is phase-three of my four-phase daily rehab regimen. Phase-one is our hour-long morning stroll to the lake and back. After breakfast and coffee comes phase-two, the floor routine, which is mostly stretching and range of motion exercises. Phase- three, at around three o’clock, is squatting, lunging, and any other body-weight exercises I can come up with to build strength. In an hour or so I’ll begin phase-four, agility training, which at this stage consists of side shuffling, forward and backward jogging, and hopping up and down a high curb in all directions.

Mary Alice has just returned from the local grammar school, where she teaches English every Saturday afternoon to any and all interested children. She said class went well today, except that at the end, when the kids were encouraged to ask whatever questions came to mind, most of the kids just wanted to know how to say various cuss words in English. Little shit-heads.

I’m reading Henry Miller’s THE COLOSSUS OF MAROUSSI, and it’s putting me in a pleasant, trance-like state. Of all Miller’s books, COLOSSUS is probably the most relaxed, the least angst-ridden, and perhaps the most full of wonder and awe. Curiously, thus far since my return, I too seem to be uncharacteristically lacking in the fiery angst that fueled so much of my writing in the Fall. I’m content – a rare experience, and one which leaves me strangely out of sorts, but in a good way, like a poor man might feel after winning the lottery.

The sun is falling away and the dogs are barking at the roosters, who are squawking at the pigs, who are in turn telling dirty jokes to the cows and crickets. I’d better get going with phase-four while there’s still a bit of light. Tomorrow waits in the wings and can be bought on the cheap for a backache and a bladder full of urine, or else swapped straight up for a sweat-soaked dream about a dreadfully important exam I seem to have completely forgotten about. The clock is ticking and the test page stares blankly back at me. Looks like I’m headed for another failure. Fortunately, it will be forgotten almost completely upon awakening. I say “almost” because the imprint will still be there, the neurological pattern set a little deeper in its groove, so that when I stumble upon this dreamscape months or even years from now, I’ll be sure to step into the same snare.

*

This just in: Jesús is leaving for the United States one week from today. His brother has a job lined up for him. Construction. Fifteen bucks an hour. Jesús was surprised, as most people are, to hear that I have never in my life made that much money per hour. I can’t blame him for jumping at the opportunity. The decision is laden with risks and consequences, of course. Last time he went to the U.S.—to fry chickens at minimum wage—he was away from his family for a year. If he is able to cross the border safely and undetected—which is in no way a guarantee—it stands to reason that he will be in the States for at least a year. Meanwhile, his wife will have to go it alone with the kids, who will again have to get used to life without their father around.

How this will affect Mary Alice and me is anyone’s guess, but I’ll take a stab at it: It won’t be good. Jesús is a stabilizing force—that much is certain. Juana is a wildcard as it is, but without her husband around, she might become altogether unhinged. The movie MISERY comes to mind, along with images of waking up chained to the bed, Juana standing over us brandishing a machete. Being half-crippled, I still feel somewhat vulnerable, and I’m not particularly enthusiastic about stepping up to be the “man of the house.” Shit tends to happen around here, shit that may or may not require a man’s strength and fortitude. I hope the money Jesús expects to rake in will offset the obvious disadvantages of his absence at home. I hope this for the sake of us all.

Apparently, Jesús had to take out a massive loan, at an insane interest rate, in order to secure the necessary funds for the journey. If his gamble doesn’t pay off, he and his family are fucked even more royally than before. I assume the loan includes some money to tide the family over for a while. If this is not the case, Juana will undoubtedly expect Mary Alice to fork over whatever she can, as often as possible. Even with Jesús here and steady pay for her services as research assistant, she frequently asks Mary Alice for “loans” and advances on her pay, this despite being told over and over again about the grant restrictions, the fact that we don’t have the extra money, etc. Things could get really hairy, and I think we need an exigency plan, in the event we have to get the F out of Dodge in a hurry.

Hope for the best, plan for the worst, I guess. Life on the pueblo is a continual lesson in adaptation. There’s no telling what might happen from one day to the next, and all one can do is be alert, flexible and ready to respond at a moment’s notice. Right now, I will head outside to work on my agility. Then we eat. There will be dishes to wash, disinfect, and be put on the rack to dry. The shower will be very, very cold. Mary Alice will ready the bed, placing the exercise mats under the fitted sheet to take the bite out of the mattress springs.

The air is so thick with dust that, just in the time it’s taken to type these few paragraphs, a layer has formed covering the entire keyboard of my computer. When it’s time to turn in, I’ll reach over to shut off the desk lamp, and I’ll see the dust swirling around the bulb like a swarm of angry bees waiting to take refuge in the moist pockets of my lungs.

Another day.

The Return of Roberto Esponja

Published on March 6, 2008 in Personal. 0 Comments

bobesponja.jpg

“Was Bobby using the poop-stick for the piñata?”

It’s my first day back on the pueblo and I’m already responding to such improbable questions. Let me unpack that one for you. You see, “Bobby” is how we refer to the youngest son of our host family. We use the Brady Bunch reference system when talking about family members so as not to arouse suspicion. If they were to hear their own names popping out through the jumble of English coming from our room, they might think we were talking shit about them. Of course, we usually are, but that’s neither here nor there. So the five of them are Mike, Carol, Marsha, Peter and Bobby. Greg, Jan and Cindy don’t exist. I rounded them up, shot them execution style, and buried them out in the cane fields. Good riddance.

So then there’s the “poop-stick.” Well, upon our return Mary Alice and I made a couple of substantial deposits to the local sewage system, deposits which could not be handled in such large denominations, so to speak. A stick was needed to break things up a bit, and after it served its purpose we set it outside the door for future use. Enter the piñata – one of several surprises awaiting me as I crossed the threshold of “el cuarto,” the belly of the beast itself. The kids had made me a “Sponge Bob” piñata and hung it on the clothesline. And it was damned impressive, really. We filled it with candy, brought it outside and took turns whacking at it. Blindfolded, spun around – the whole nine yards. It wasn’t till afterwards we realized Bobby had grabbed the poop-stick to do the bashing.

They also painted the room a sky-blue and put in a few electrical outlets. All in all, the room looks great. And I’m happy to be back, truthfully. Sure, I’ve already killed two tarantulas and, yes, Mike is getting ready to tie the roof down in preparation for the coming hurricane – but somehow it’s all good this time around.

The main difference, I think, is the fact that I can walk. I was only here a matter of weeks when I went down with the knee injury. Although I still have a long way to go, as far as the rehab is concerned, it’s immeasurably easier to deal with the inherent challenges of life on the pueblo when standing on two legs. Maybe the whole crippling experience humbled me a bit, too. I don’t know. But I do know that I have laughed my ass off several times since I’ve returned.

Did I mention I bashed a Sponge Bob piñata with a poop-stick? What more could a guy want?

pinata.jpg