HUNDREDS OF WORDS... FEBRUARY 2014
Bent like a question mark. In overcrowded community combie. Everybody queuing at bank. The bars will be busy. The bus driver says. The bus depot. Smells of urine. English cyclist. Shares pizza combo location. And busking stories. Magniﬁcent children. Assist in shows. I daydream they´re inspired. To ﬁll that empty space. In tomorrow´s park.
Arrive at night. Orchigonia. Sleep by window. That in the morning. Frames a view. Of humming birds. And lush forest. The man. Who wears worn out boots. On the wrong feet. Became a star. Then went to sleep. On cardboard. Over there. His name. Is Walter.
A cup of tea. A little sleep. A lot of pee. We left behind. The idea of leaving. And forgot about lunch. Headlight illumination. Exhaust smoke effects. Take coins. And empty bottle. To reﬁll water. Return in second hand suit. Pockets empty. Bottle too.
El Dispensario. Regular corner store façade. Beyond the counter. Back rooms. Lined with expensive brand products. Some had been free trials. Others defective packaging. Others perfectly ﬁne. Girl seemed to invent the cheap prices. On the spot. Like a garage sale.
The combie is called Melquiades. Garcia Marquez´s gypsy character. Ready to roll. Mañana. Or whenever.
The window. Is an ever changing canvas. This morning´s painting. A red breasted Trogon. Pufﬁly perched. Upon a holey green leaf. Lit by a sunbeam. Deliberately so. Two dead leaves. Suspended in a web. A humming bird. Sticking it´s beak. In the ﬂowers business.
Reading “Eating Animals”. Factory farming. Cringe from disbelief. Horror. And guilt. It’s all about money. Unhealthy violent contaminating cents. Sit with women. Sitting on the road. Livestock in their baskets. Tablecloths on their heads. Pat the chicken. Brooding beside me. It chirps. In response to each stroke. A kind of nourishment. In that vibrationally tasty way.
The rain came. Washing away plans. Rehydrating plants. Earthquake dream. Police on ﬂying sedgeways. Others playing games. Calming the community. Picked up. By pickup truck. Wind blew tears. Out my eyes. Wet twigs. Toilet rolls. Aromatic smoke. Campﬁre pasta.
Colder the water. Warmer the post shower air. Combie van expedition. Plods along. Like a slater. Trafﬁc police choreographies. Point left. Point right. Send us in wrong direction. Tribes of trees. Protecting the forest. Dogs crossing the road. Irreverently.
Chewy muesli bars memories. Revived by chewy muesli. One kilo packets. No labels. Scoffed in sticky handfuls. Free water. Reﬁlled for friendliness.
In an ex-ﬁlm warehouse. Converted in a hotel. Sleep in the carpark. Meet the men. That scrape the wax. From the colourful candles. Lit for Black Jesus. Cross the border. No stamps. Seemed sunnier. In El Salvador. Next to the theatre. The famous theatre. The one that can´t be bombed. If war breaks out. I broke the performing ice.
They call Quarters. Koras. Because that´s how they pronounce. Quarters. The shoeshiners wife. Has a pink chicken. If it was Paris Hilton. It would be wrong. Sleep in the home. Of an ex-soldier. Who had been a volunteer. In my show.
Learn El Salvadorean history. In front yards. Of those that lived it. Survived it. Share meals. And stories. Under the stars. Outside open doors. A squeaky swing. Set the rhythm. Of chess games. Played on painted park benches. Change musical pockets. For silent notes.
A trafďŹ c light salesman. That sells racquets. That electrocute insects. Gave me a dollar. But wouldnÂ´t receive. Mine. The morning was spent. To the tune. Of Evangelical songs. Sung next door. The evening ended. Cornered by Evangelicals. Talking to me. Like pyramid scheme salesmen. A lady liked my show. And she barely likes anything. She said.
On the tranquil lake. Scandalous students. Leafblowers. And megaphoned messages. Rocked the metaphorical boat. Water has many skins. Of changing transparencies. Swallows swim through knots of wind. Fish ﬂy through the undercurrents. Balance along beams. Tread around nails. Dive off ﬂimsy edges. Prisoner knit luxurious hammocks. Suspend freedom. As tide crashes. Against the pier.
A little girl. That lives by the lake. Cries all day. Thirsty for juice. Let the ﬂy do its job. It will be less bothersome. Do the shadows. Feel the pain. Of backwhackers? Stare at volkswagon guts. Spanners. Screwdrivers. Steak knives. Hammers. Frustration. Beside placid lake.
Back row. Luggage lumped on lap. Rear door open. Curtains inďŹ‚ating. Flapping. Kid that collects bus fares. Whistles like boiling kettle. A passenger. Has two coins. Lodged inside his ear. In two days. Three strangers. Have lent me their phones. To call the same person. That person tried to call me back. And never reached me.
Salomon. The taxi driver. Worked in a garden. In a home. In the USA. Scaring dears. That tried to eat plants. Prior to this. He plunged his hands. Into frozen swimming pools. To unplug pipes. Each country includes. Its fair share. Of helpful strangers.
Man with binoculars. Reads the electricity meters. From the footpath. Small towns. Seem so peaceful. On the surface. The politics. Invisible to virgin eyes. Are hard to believe. Harder still. To make beleive. Kids ďŹ‚ocked to slackrope clinic. They all found their balance. One way. Or another. On the rope.
Costume drenched. In sweat. Less clothes. Equals less luggage. But also equals. More frequent laundry. Lady asks. If weddings in my country. Are like the wedding. In my show. She said. That weddings in her country. Are less love. Less kisses. More hits. And kicks. Then everyone applauded. Her courage.
Ferris wheel ride. More trauma than tranquility. Sit. On a brick. Waiting. Under a tree. Red. Yellow. Brown. Leaves. Sway down. Return. To their roots.
Jorge. Or in English. George. How long does a rabbit live? Until it dies. The blood blister. Beneath my toe nail. Measures time. Incrementally. We are many. Searching for change. We meet eachother. Changing. From place to place.
Some surprises. Only come. Once we give up on them. The corner store se単ora. Sold me groceries. On tick. Small town trust. In out of town stanger. When we all sleep in. Nobodies late. Or early.
Give up seat to senior. Who shufďŹ‚es to make space for little girl. Who hesitantly sits on edge. But ends up on seniors lap. On the way to Trinidad. Get off bus. Unload luggage. And almost get left behind. In another Trinidad. Every time the bus stops. A potpourri of salepeople. Flood the bus. Pushing their products. Onto the passengers. While they sing the price. And the products name.
From a silent saleswoman. I bought corn. The only product offered. Not wrapped in plastic.
In towns. Where everybody knows one another. Street names become redundant. Delmer lives. Up over there.
In the dark. We arrive at the river. The priest. The mime. And the poet. While they philosophise. We close our eyes. And fall asleep. See the river. In the night. Under the moon. Light. High in the hills. In a coffee growing town. A blind mute. Throws a tantrum. And almost a door.
Converse with an elderly mute. In hoots. Smiles. And happy hands. The coffee picker. That everyone knows. Reads the news. Like an anchorman. There used to be a ďŹ re brigade. But not anymore. The ďŹ re truck is burned out. Abandoned alongside. The autopsy of an ambulance.
Billboard bombarded. By religious. Political. And ﬁzzy agendas. Saving accounts. Saved by God. Save our country. Vote for new savior. The necessary information. Can be found. On misspelt signs. Sticky taped to walls. Teenagers tired of listening. Follow silent instructions. Enthusiastically.
Omar. Since childhood. Plays the trumpet. Without a trumpet. By a highway. Is a rockface. Water rockets down. Buses ﬂy past. And we soak in the hot springs. The caretaker says. It´s an act of god. Halfway. Up the street. Satellite dishes. Serve the community. 280 different recipes.
Australia has vegemite. Honduras pacaya. Foreign ﬂavours. For patriotic taste buds.
Devour pawpaw. Peel for pig. Sitting on doorstep. Long skinny bus tickets. Fat wads of lempiras. Leather belts. Steel bulls. Every hat. Holding stories. Piercing calls. From birds above. Stops me on the spot. Roots erupting. Through scrambled stones. The trees know truths. The tour guides know talk.
The breeze. Blows away my thoughts. Leaves me alone. With rustling leaves. The Guanacaste seed. Smells like soup stock. The wind revives. Fallen leaves. Inspiring spiraling encores. Sneeze sacred spirits. Sneaking up nostrils. Jump on back of ute. It ďŹ‚ies down the highway. From my shirt pocket. TodayÂ´s doodling. Flies away too.
On the other side. The trees cast shady puddles. Cows slurp at the shore. The grass is greener. The ants don´t bite your toes. Lie on a rock. Read Virgilio Rodriguez Macal. And drift away. Fish frenzy. For melon seeds. Cautiously cross. A rickety bridge. I arrived nowhere. I went everywhere.
Jorge knew the names. Of all the butterﬂies. We saw. He knows the currencies. Of all the countries. Jorge is. A collector. We walked. Without a rush. Without a care. And got a ride. We weren´t waiting for. A pair of new thongs. Found my feet. And they ﬁt.
There was no water. To wash the dishes. Take a shower. Nor ďŹ‚ush the toilet. And we left. In the dark. A pickup truck whirred. Parked on the corner. And dropped us off. Where the bus was waiting. Sit up the back. The lady in front. Had just been deported. With her three year old daughter.
She paid. Five and half thousand dollars. To reach the USA. But was detained in Villa Hermosa. Handsome Village. Ten days jail. More garlic than chicken. She preferred the fruit. She still has. Two more chances. Then silence. Searching. She had lost her documents.
Honduras. Opened its doors. All of them. And shared everything. Shamelessly. Clumsily. Loudly. While awaiting papusas. A wild wind blew. A troupe of leaves. Parachuted down. Onto the grill. In case. I never return. I tried every variation of papusa. Possible.
He pushes the wheelbarrow. She sings â€œTortillasâ€?. And they travel together. Through the streets. Of the neighbourhood. Two fry pans. Simulate an oven. The stovetop pizza. Kitchenware hides. In front of my eyes.
By an inner city creek. Chickens. A cat. Two dogs. And a colourful long tailed bird. Eavesdrop on our mediations. Two on a bike. Downhill delight.
With shovel. And sand. They ﬁll potholes. Stand beside them. Outstretched hardhats. Roadwork buskers. With one dollar of Mexican pesos. And a dollar of Honduran lempiras. He hopped off the bus. USA bound. Illegally. Spontaneously. Carelessly free. In furnished homes. Sleep on ﬂoor.
A horn. Or honk. Ensures. The morning. Doesn´t. Sleep by. Pass phone. To lady in street. Who sends her son. To point the direction. The audience consisted of. The very old. And the very young. Living is ageless.
Tamarindo. Ginger. Tofu. Kous Kous. Midnight Oil. Mini ramp. Remembering how to roll. Easy. Remembering how to fall. Painful.
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