Jumpin in Atitlan.
On the run are we. It won’t last forever I know. And this is why, perhaps, we’ve been running so hard. Because before we know it we’ll be back in our PNW SUVs heading to PCC(I miss it), texting LOLs to our BFFs. Just kidding on that last part, I don’t do that.
There’s a breeze right now that’s nice. It’s sticky from the saltwater, but it’s quite a nice respite from the 100 degree days that filled Semana Santa. Poneloya is the place. A nice but unremarkable beach where we sit writing in tandem own private thoughts, and silence- waiting for the waves to turn up and the wind to peace out.
Our relationship has had some tribulations. Just last night I was elevated to a state of irrational anger and refused to walk home together, so close to screaming in the street I knew I needed space. So I unwisely left him, mapless, really fucking clueless where we were since we had circled ten times in our argument of being lost, and started walking towards every sexually aggressive and scary male in the confines of Leon(one with a stick that followed me). Lessons.
Or there was the other day we were fighting in public and I ejected again to party with some Nicas in the street, listening to mariachi bands-and wound up closing down a bar with the bar owner drinking Mezcal into the wee wee’s. Of course when I got home and our host father said Bdo had been looking for me for 2 hours worried, I realized this complication of being mad, needing space, but being in a mans world with only a vagina. Oops.
But it’s been a trip. The people have been rad and have touched a stoke I haven’t felt in some time. Here in Nicaragua, there’s a genuineness in people, an openness with flirting smiles and a grasp on life that feels in touch with things I worry our culture has lost permanently.
Honduras I could argue has been the most fun but for superficial(in traveling standards) means. Partying on two story docks and jumping in after 10 shots of 10 cent tequila with a smart foxy boy. He managed to distract me from myself for almost a week but in the end I had to get going, this is life running, no stopping over for romance now.
And Guatemala, fucking Guatemala, was my favorite. The culture- it’s Maya everywhere- in the dress, the markets, the goods, the sharing and simplicity. The fincas, the food, the lakes, mountains, forests. I fell in love at the border and it’s a country I could see living in. More on that later.
Another liter has come and it’s time to start running.
This city is beautiful. Exhausting. Constantly probing- full on accosting attacks to which no non cubano is safe.
With reason. Poor versus poverty. To need versus to want. To be faceless, to be told you don’t want. It’s a study of the human psyche and certainly shortages and asinine rations play roles. Socialism is dying here- I see it in the faces of the solicitors. Capitalists.
But this city. BEAUTIFUL. Pretty. Enchanting. Amazing. Not enough-There are no words for it. Like the most gorgeous mujer I’ve ever seen. The buildings, the architecture and plazas are her skin-wrinkles showing when she laughs. The music everywhere-it’s the soul of the woman and all dance to her beat. The people of the street sway as they walk as if counting salsa steps. The cars here: old, classic, colored pure and bright and frequently breaking down- you can view one with a wrench cranking in it on any street corner, 2 modern tainos crouched over yelling staccato Spanish too loud. They stop just long enough to give an obligatory whistle to the girls walking by.
Havana, so aggressive you’re borderline abusive. So breath-taking its impossible not to fall for you. I guess we”ll just have to settle on an abusive relationship.
It started subtly. And then It gripped me completely. That feeling so surprising- light breath and restless-heart rate increasing. But not love. More rare even.
The sounds of party were starting to take hold just below our beautiful terrace. The sun was dropping, but not before it pointed it’s last rays into viewed windows, slanting it’s warmth on walls inside. Bars were springing to life-the shit bands playing their first notes, Mayan, Spanish and English conversations being spoken on the outskirts of center stage over cigarettes-all of it being heard from my bathroom window while I gripped the toilet and trash in tandem-shooting out pieces of myself and Guatemalan agriculture from the atitlan region.
My neighbor at the hostel, a pretentious type American who will be forever faceless, told hours of bad jokes and stories, somehow impressing the insipid(I could only assume) girls that were his audience. It became a special melody:
Bad Yankee joke.
Bad American political lecture.
A disgustingly punk rock song of traveling.
And inside my perfectly terraced lake view room I cringe and realize cynical philosophical truths that are cliche like: were all alone in this world, As john paul emailed today, all just destined for the same plain dirt hole in the ground. Also, goddamn how much money am I paying to puke off a room with a view? And is it possible for your intestines to come out your mouth?
Today is a new day and I am a veritable Phoenix of Latin American rotten food.
Onwards to eat more culprit food, drink more culprit drinks. But farewell toilet and trash- I’ll never forget the sunset we shared together- the last rays cutting across the dumpy mildewed flooring. It was memorable, part of the experience of Guatemala. Xo, kristen
The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering.
—Tom Waits (via observando)
As I exited the Ballard building this morning amongst the bustling setup of the farmers market, the dull whine of vacuums were cleaning up Saturday night and I wished they could somehow also clean up my guilt. That mick feeling when combined with a hangover is somewhat unbearable.
"And as I read her words, I fumbled uselessly with my handy man tools, wondered when the last time was that I changed my cleanest dirty shirt, and recounted ruefully how I never put it in her ass."
I’m looking for someone in the 30-35 box that knows what to do with mine.
I want someone who knows how to punctuate properly but is never perfunctory.
I need a man that can snake my drain, oil my engine, while probing my appetites and wetting my organs.
A man with a sense of humor and direction. A sweet guy that let’s me eat them all.
I want a fit man that plays outside. A deep man that seeks. A man with a mouth that makes the dirtiest words seem eloquent and beautiful. He’s going to have an ear that can articulate music in the plainest of beats.
A man that holds me close but gives me space. One with a vision not found in a television. A most courteous, very unholy, heretic.
He has to be a special mix of rebellion and control; adventure and comfort; natural and learned. And he’s going to have to be reckless, careless, yet thoughtful for me to look twice.
A naughty man, in mind and body that knows politely which fork is for salad and which knife for filet.
I need a nice guy whose a smart ass. And I’d prefer he be a smart guy with a nice ass.
One that understands when to hold thy hand and when to sex thy body.
A thinking man that knows Beauvoir, Hunter, Camus, and why I hate Cromwell.
A cute boy that hugs his mother and mine.
He’s going to have to be a fighter that knows when to relent yet also a pacifist that knows when to stand.
A man of good taste in food, in art, in music and people.
A dude that can mick drink with me which means he can drink lots of mickeys if need be.
A man that can look at me- malcontent, vexing, contrary, never precise, but often exacting- and still see me and think we should still be.
And til I find him, I’ll just be him. I complete me.