There’s some distant things that are hollow sounding and distant things that pull me along with far flung promises and distant things that dig me deep and knowing. I try everyday to step forward along the russet colored sky bent down banana trees little hermit crabs crawling to and fro getting ready I wonder how they know, and all along the horizon bits of angel feathers float down to land at my feet they have red tipped quills reminiscent of every single time I took the easy way out and let the lies cool on the windowsill. It is trying me trying me the way the Spanish words are jetty on the cool blue ocean waves and sand sinks into the margarita glass and causes sadness and worry, give me your Jalisco, give me your little dogs all hungry and sick from eating red scuttle crabs and drinking salt water. If you don’t latch the gate they will come in late after you’ve been asleep and when you awake they have turned into armadillos with clackety claws tapping across the concrete to get out before I see them, but I see those armadillo dogs with wagging spitless tongues, ears cocked and listening.
I watched from the cliff the boats come in loaded with tourists I dig my toes into the crevice, my bare toes, squint my eyes and whisper to Pepé. Later I go to la cocina and cut mangoes into containers with Isabel, the matron, the art dealer the writer the keeper of the villa, Ana, the frail, olive skinned girl with big dark eyes and a British accent, and a woman from British Columbia who couldn’t take the heat and while she didn’t complain, certainly she wanted to. When a mango fell off the tree, landed on the roof and rolled into the court yard I went and got it. That’s how I might have first noticed the peyote in the terra cotta pot.
In the morning with the sounds of flopping fish on the rocks below and swooping gullet birds gulleting and gulleting how they are so gutturally inclined like snorting pigs with wings eating up the beach rocked flopping fish for breakfast. It sounded just like rain, those flopping fish. I swing off the bed and fling out to see, perched there on the cliff above the sea, hair messed up from sleep watching the fishermen with their boats make for the place with the octopus and red snapper, bring me both, I’m so hungry.
When they come back the boats are met with the citizens with pesos to purchase fish flesh and I like to help them kill the octopus make them soft on the rocks and with a knife we slice the snapper under it’s tiny chinless fillet it open slice down the belly with the biggest knife on earth and with a little lime juice make cerviche for lunch.
There’s a million things to do if you want to do things and need to get them done. There really are a million things to do but we don’t live life like that here; the jungle is just kept at bay, it is never conquered.
Mis amigos jump off the cliffs in hang gliders under the moon. At night a black piano is played high up on the mountain and we drift up into the underbrush listening and humming, the night blooms eternal, nocturnal and thirsty we feed it with our eyes that see in this darkness, accustomed to our little world next to God.