Allow Me to Narrate the State of Things

Lately I've been hanging out in the early evenings by myself. I try to bask in the glory of this--------------------------------->

Sometimes I imagine it as the birth of the universe; other times I just think about what colors I see. The story is all in the leaves, I guess. I mean, sometimes the sky gets in on the narration, but for the most part its the leaves that are creating all the suspense and drama--I think they like me when I watch them.

I've been taking a lot of pictures lately. Most of them are spur of the moment and not well planned. I always admired a good eye with the camera. I always figured those people just saw the world in snapshots, so it was easy. I always sort of view the transpiring of life as a trippy little song stuck to a slow moving movie. All of my pictures seem to be lacking true narration, and I think that is just because, for the most part, they are out of context.


About two weeks ago, perhaps one, I gave Lucio back. His owner returned from her overseas adventures. The little guy, although at times was quite a handful, on the whole, he rocked. Julia, met him at the park. Lucio ran to her...it was one of those story book things, you know. I took a picture as night fell. I just figured out, that my camera can deal with a little darkness...once again, its all about the leaves.


Chops and Lucio get nostalgic when they hang around. Sometimes Chops extends a delicate paw in Lucius Lucio's direction--he likes it in a brotherly way.


Last week, I went to a Malaysian restaurant with my friend Julia. Julia did a bunch of art work there, and has a tab--we ate on her tab (there is a joke there, somewhere). We had coconut soup with mussels, shrimp, and tuna. We also had octopus and chicken satay. I found the meal very agreeable, but the next day was filled with odd bowel movements--still, I have no complaints. After the dinner, we went to a Spanish style cantina. It was perfect. I am tired of the poshy posh. It was loud, raucous, and stimulating. I can't recall what we talked about, but it was time consuming. We left at 2 and I had work at 7...the next day tasted a little bitter.


I went the school's homecoming game. I wrote the article for their tri-annual magazine, Focus. The game was fun. I played the snare drum in a sweet impromptu drum core. I think the article turned out well. I sure as hell don't write like I used to. I don't have any notebooks filled with poetry. I find my writing to be sprayed across the digital landscape, and to be half muttered over sloppy chord progressions--I haven't stopped, but it just ain't what it was--perhaps that is perfect.

Work is a fun game of laughing and trying to stay awake. I spend most of my off periods dreaming. I looked heavily into seasonal firefighting work. I have read the entirety of the Wikipedia file on both Vancouver and Montreal--Vancouver gets the nod in my book (Sorry Glo). I regularly look through the available job listings in Austin Texas. Dog walking and sitting seems ripe for the picking. Housing in Austin is also quite cheap. I also talk to one old friend, and routinely we commiserate about the possibilities and "what ifs" of the future. Somewhere, my stomach always tingles when I dream my dreams. There is a sense of flight tucked into these dreams. As if to make one of these choices real, is to commit to creating my life into what I want. I think that is what Mexico was all about. It wasn't-slash-isn't about coming here to reignite my fervor for teaching. It was about the process of getting here. It was about the job fair and the applications. It was about the money spent at the mechanics, and the 3000 miles of sight seeing. It was about culture shock, and language acquisition, new people and new streets. And for all that, it has been great. In many respects, it has only deepened my wander lust. I see the choice to move somewhere new, as a continuing commitment to pursue being someone new--to not stagnate or bog down in the ambivalence. Somehow to move is to commit to grow. I am shedding skins with each bunny hop and it is good. I think I am hopping my ass to where it needs to be. I am shedding my security and comfort. I am giving birth to music and creativity as a center fulcrum. The next city shall be an exodus of the incubation in the womb. That makes sense to me, but I am not articulating it as pretty as it is in my head. Its all coming up to the top.


Saturdays have been good. I like playing ultimate frisbee--I think I need to be even healthier--one day soon.


Halloween was the beginning of my hibernation. Lately, I have loved being in my house. It is quiet, my dogs are quiet, and I feel as if I am studying perpetually: guitar licks and paint strokes abound. Halloween--I was a dog. I think it was a good look. I wore my Maggie Kline Beanie, applied some black makeup to my nose, and wore brown. I also sported Flow's collar. The party was filled with drunks of all denominations. I was but a quiet little angel on the periphery. I drank two drinks and skedaddled home. As I shimmied through the park, I played a little harmonica--people don't mess with a harmonica playing dog.


Sunday was a home day--all day. I watched several movies and played a lot of guitar.


Saturday...Chops hurt his leg. He is ok. My friend Mauricio and I took him to the vet around the corner...it was super convenient, and it was thorough and cheap: the cost for two stitches, cleaning, and medicine--$45. Chops is a trooper. He has been hurt often in his short life--but he is still a lovable little turd.

This is Hector my neighbor and Spanish teacher:












This is the lady who owns the cafe where I have Spanish class. On several occasions she has made reference to kidnapping both me and my dogs--she is harmless and very nice, and she makes some amazing cups of joe.













Pablo, Mauricio, and Ana came over to jam. They all smoke cigarettes.












This is a candle, in front of a coffee, on a table, next to a glass, beyond a couch, in a house of a girl named Monica; Monica is Mauricio's girlfriend.