Cuyutlan, Mexico.
A beautiful dawn after a very rocky night. Intense seas… my grandfather seemed particularly disturbed by the fact that “you can’t see any stars”. Off the back of the boat, the ship throws off so much light, and the streamers of exhaust from our “environmentally conscious” cruise liner totally blot out what SHOULD be an immense panorama of light.
There – Mexico is a good vacation spot, perhaps, for those who need to feel better about themselves and their homes. A jaunt to safely contained ghettos surrounded by people that we really don’t understand.
Good good food in Cuyutlan. Best food of the whole cruise. During our exploration of the marshes (I know I’m getting dates mixed up somewhere, just bear with me, please), our guide, Noe (pronounced “No Way” but meaning Noah complete with Biblical reference) stops the boat and points out an empty canoe half-hidden on the treeline. He calls out in rapid Spanish, and a fisherman comes wading out of the muddy waters. Noe asks him if he’s caught anything and the fisherman pulls out a MASSIVE fish, fully a meter long. He’s been fishing for telapia (God KNOWS I’m spelling that wrong), but caught this rovalo in the process. Our guide buys it from him on the spot and holds it up triumphantly.
It becomes our dinner at the Plaza Genoveza – a ghost of a resort in a ghost of a resort town, where nevertheless I have the best fish I’ve ever had… OUR fish! Incredible salsa – something exquisitely like taboule but with ground fish as opposed to bulgar wheat – and lime instead of lemon. Lots of cilantro though, just like I make it.
Oh, and the woman that served it? The most beautiful woman in all of Mexico, and NOT cause she smelled of lime and cilantro. I think.
The aesthetic perfection of the Brazilian race is now unquestionable. There’s a woman who passes by in white diaphanous dress that flows and sways in her passage. She’s dark skinned and ice-eyed and long brown-honeyed hair like H1’s. She is stunning and unimaginably perfect.
She won’t haunt me like this woman from Cuyutlan.
I bought my second ever beverage o’ alcohol from her. I’ve fallen in Love with tequilla, and had to buy a bottle of it.
Domique Ava sucks.
Well, she’s okay. But… all THAT fuss? Psh.
I had my first real panic attack about the water tonight – in the dark, surrounded by it, shivering and out of breath. I had to sprint up three flights of stairs witht that expanse of nothing reaching for my back.
Yeah, that scares the shit out of me – perhaps just because it’s so incomprehensibly huge – dark and hidden. It’s like space or like death and really could simply hide anything.
Bare light bulbs
filament glow – strand of yellow
humming and spitting with an electric chair glow…
chain of them rattling
not soft – never was, never will be.
Cigarette ash
ashing on the side
the wrong side, relly
into the light that shade of yellow falls
so swift
so soft
I never saw it burn at all.
At this point, my Little Black Book seems to sprout even MORE bad poetry. But there were a couple of gems…
Thoughts – Whisper in my good ear please. THose angels never remember what they whisper when they’ve been drinking (and they’re never honest when they’re sober) And those angels will refrain from noting my beauty when they’re sober. Because a kiss can be drunk so deep when you’re high and be just a thimble when you’re sober.
Thinking about her and her and her alone. I get down when I think too much. Shame about that, cause you know I was always such a BRIGHT CHILD.
