Trying not to do the same old tired. Not to fail. How to think: this that place, buying indigenous languages on the white white sand, why we cross this line (why cuts just north of your city instead of a few hundred miles north of mine), how to be open when we stepped on your collective foot, get off my foot you said. Looted the cigar store, robbed all the shells from the beach, stole the plastic bottles and the wrappers little ones dropped on the street. To purchase sand and lay trailers on cliff sides, ranches where tumbled weed, organic wine is sacred now. Bribed the police for minor infractions, buzzed through no customs agents, brought home to mantelpieces to museums toasting to your beauty, your pristineness. The escape alludes constantly still, we want more always.
Sold you for cheap, bottom dollar prices, unbelievable buys and investment opportunities. Websites dedicated to your sand, your low wages, your literary prowess. Used resorts beaches tequila las putas del sur a long line of frat boys to get into your living room. All of it, and so cheap, all our friends on planes to your parties jail cells street parades cemeteries peaceful horizons palms and limping graygreen dogs. Where’s the best beach but I don’t want any goddamn Wal-Mart. Don’t want to seem touristy. Gotta be different. And how.
Marxists say capitalist rapings will go on all the time. Invasion reverses Fox programming, Mike said. Anger is real. Yours. Frustration is understandable. Rage is rational. 500 years of. Just new again. The next: through Costco aisles, march across the sun-baked Sam’s Club parking lot, hasta llegar a la ciudad, hasta llegar al centro. Say, all those spring breakers, generations of gamblers and womanizers. Protect the kids, we’re coming. I repeat what you said as if no implication’s implied. Repito lo que dijiste como si no hubiera culpabilidad ninguna.
But. There is. Like what’s above: a prelude to a wider opening. Just guilt trips are not as much fun as the beach. And no more necessary. Elena told me guilt motivates her. Never knew the face could contort to smile and cringe at the same time. See, the same philosophical dilemmas. Knowing philosophy drives you. We could have had so much in common. But never it seems.
So over repeating the same old tired tirades. Balance evades capture.
Not buying it. Not buying: stay home all good. What I don’t know is what I am. And knowing there’s nothing to find there. To help, in the end, you can’t go home. Can’t go where you cried the first time, to the blocks around the hospital room. No fit there, more natural. Always eternally cast adrift. Unknown and unknowing. A sentence with no subject no verb no object. A lack. And always the movement around.
Not like erasing. Visits produce knowledge. What’s critical is what happens after. Maybe like spying is the only way we have to begin. Any of you or us that is.
1 comentario:
I like Batahola and I like youre response to her post maybe I'll add her to my messenger.
Publicar un comentario