The Rains Often Arrive on Time

The sky here, at least for the last several days, has maintained a gun metal gray. The rains are without a doubt, heavy in the early evening, and it tends to fire off sporadically through out the night. It's cloudy like my lungs; hazy and dense, but not sickly. The lightening though...the lightening strikes in the streets here. You can watch it touch down. I guess we are so high up, the rules are little different.

Yesterday, I hit the crossroads again: to go or not to go, to the park in The Condesa. I have resigned to flipping a quarter that I keep on my night stand: heads I go, tails I stay; so far it has been heads every time. So just as the sky began to rip open, I lead the dogs out and in to my car. We hunkered down in the safety of my 4Runner. I am finding it very liberating, and very comforting to have my trusty truck with me. It is this nice piece of home--though I have not cleaned the interior since California, and it is embarassing to give people rides--it stinks! In any event, we began our circuitous route to Condesa. The rain started really coming down, so hard that I had to turn up the music. Mini-waterfalls cascaded down my windshield, and the first bolt lightening hit somewhere about a mile off; the thunder aroused both dogs from their car induced coma. As we turn the corner onto Insurgentes, all the cars are shifting over to the left. Flooding. Flooding, during any decent rain is a given. The city's aquaducts are not equipped to handle that hard of a rain in such a short time. Given this fact, it is quite common to see the brave subcompact, who thought they could ford the river, stalled in a tiny ocean. Personally, I kick the 4Runner into 4x4, and cautiously charge through; the clearance between my car and the water is greater than most of the other cars. The 4Runner is proving to be a useful Urban Utility Vehicle. To the right is a picture of La Angel; it is an iconic monument in the city. If Mexico wins in anything, the people flock here. It is the center of a big roundabout, and I hastily snapped this pic while driving; think of the crystal clear raindrops as a metaphor.

I plow through, and make my way through the perpetual traffic. There is no escaping the traffic, there are just different streets you can pick, to sit in it. I arrive, and with minor delay, I find parking. The dogs and I, the only pets and pet owner out and about, charge into the park. I let the dogs off, and they get wet and dirty. I find a covered bench to sit under and I watch it all: the dogs romping in shallow pools; the teenie-boppers huddled under an adjacent bench, giggling as they do; a couple of young machismo punks starring as usual. We stay for an hour, and then I round them up and we head back to the car.

The drive back is equally flooded and long. Thus far I am still enjoying the novelty of driving in another country, so the traffic doesn't get to me. However, if at some point I get jaded, I could see real road rage happening.

I came home and cooked an amazing dinner using soy protein, which looked like tasty little bits of fajita meat. I sauteed them with onions, garlic, and bell pepper, and then added a tandori curry sauce. I made some rice with a can of mixed veggies mixed in. It was a damn good dinner and was a great way to end the day. Flow is a diligent watcher of all events concerning food; I wouldn't call it begging, she just keeps a close proximity.

The rest of the evening was just internet, typing, guitar playing, singing, and sleeping. It was a perfectly mellow scenario.

I'm an Island: Not by Choice, I think...

I find myself, in the bubble of my car, cursing the culture I drive through. While I say obscene blanket statements of frustrated ignorance, I feel a duality: 1) Hell yes, this feels good, I agree, amen! 2) What small mindedness to hold within yourself, how easy this is to answer it all. It astonishes me, and flashes my synapses back to intro to sociology, when I discovered the notion of ethnocentrism. It is this weird game I play, where I feel what I feel, and simultaneously acknowledge that it is not the true truth. I almost laugh, because apart of me feels it with such conviction, and at the same moment I know...I know it is just not that easy to be, "me right and you wrong."

In Mexico, public curbs are co-opted by private citizens, who block them off, and become gutter valets. They back you in, take your keys, and promise to protect, all for a small fee. I find it fucking aggravating, but I am not scraping by in a sea of 22 million. Today, I drove for a little under 2 hours. I was going to a park 2 miles a way. I made it to the park in 15 minutes. I circled the neighborhood for a very long time. Every inch of curb has something in front of it. And every opening is barely big enough to fit half of my car. It is a sick game of chance. Some days, most days, it works out fine--timing is the key, and I have yet to find the perfect recipe.

The dogs ran hard in the park--they have been cooped up with sick old me.

I went to a clinic today to be tested for pig flu. The test amounted to me hocking a green loogie of lung butter into a cup and sealing the top. They said come back tomorrow and we shall see. The doctor, who the school sent me to, told me she could not have me go back to school until she got the results. I have now told everyone that I am being held at bay against my will. But then I thought, who the fuck is this lady? What authority does she have at the school? If I went to school tomorrow, would anyone know that I was not in the clear? I have been proliferating her decree to all that I speak to, so now it feels like god ordained fact, but I still question it. In Mexico, you have a lot of people who assume control over a lot of overlapping things, ideas, places, beliefs, etc. I am learning to live within the many cross sections.

For tonight, I stay up late once again, because I can. My absentee lesson plans are submitted, and might I say, I am doing a damn good job of teaching from a laptop.

So it goes, and the wind can't blow it all away.

The Slow Trickle: Like a Sinus Infection

I awoke on Sunday morning, and there was a twinge in the back of my throat. I knew exactly what it was as soon as I felt it, and I dreaded its presence immediately. I pressed on with my day: Garlic and eggs for breakfast, hoping and hoping; Parque Mexico with the dogs and the Spaniards; Several glasses of tea with brunch and lunch; finally at 5 I went home for a siesta. I was supposed to head out to an art show in Condesa, and when the skies ripped open, turning my kitchen into a shallow swimming pool, I took it as a sign to remain home. The rain and my illness were in a parallel: they grew stronger and more violent through the night.

I awoke at 6am, and I knew then that I was not going to school. I hastily made a sub plan, but the storm had knocked out the internet, so I had to ask Sarah to take it to school for me. I called the sub line, and since it was the first time I had spoken since the previous night, I audibly noticed how sick I sounded.

Today was spent on the couch. It was spent drinking water, water, tea, water, cereal, water, tea. I feel about the same as this morning, with a tightness in the chest, a sinus headache, and all of it is very much green.

At 1pm today I had to walk to the bank and deposit my very late rent money. As I walked, a local school had just gotten out. I, wearing my Norwegian beenie, my Trader Joe's sweatshirt, saggy Ben Davis pants, and my New Balance tennies, well I was a site to be gauked at. My foul mood permitted no mercy for these streetside punks. If I caught one of their eyes, I stared ominously, with the sort of blank intensity you see in celebrity mugshots. I hurried through the crowd, and as one ballsey little nino thought it sweet to whistle at me, I passed him abrubtly and whistled back, not much more was said as I proceeded in front of them on Insurgentes. A note: the whistle here is used continuosly, and with many applications. Sometimes, a hello, a celebration, other times a catcall or a mocking gesture. The whistle is alive and well down here--well, maybe not well, but definitely alive.

I paid rent, and made a long circuit to the grocery store. I bought some herbal throat coat, some peppermint tea, peaches, limes, and instant oatmeal. At the register I signed my debit card receipt in haste. The checker, a middle aged lady who was only doing her job, compared the signatures, and said that they did not match up. "Sweet Fucking Chritst!!!!" I showed her my other, American Debit card, and she said that didn't change how I signed it. From the bottom of my despair I mustered: "Por Favor, Senora!" It was a simple line, but I think it explained every ounce of my current health--she begrudgingly gave me my card and groceries.

Since then, I have sat on the couch and sweated. I just took a shower, and I read a school email. Basically their flu efforts are in full swing. If I go to the hospital tomorrow, and I have a confirmed flu case, well then I am not allowed back at school for 7 days. At the entrances of the school, they are taking temperatures of all entering students and staff; anyone outside of the normal range, will be quarantined to the nurse's office and sent home. Now this sounds all far more dramatic than it really is, but basically I don't see myself going to work tomorrow, even if I felt up to it. So I am hunkering down for the long haul. The dogs, who have slept the entire day in the living room with me, not whining once to go out, are saving my sanity. They periodically come to the couch, sit down, and let me stroke them for awhile; we are in the good fight together.

That being said, don't be alarmed, but in the grand narrative of this chronicle, this episode deserves an entry. So, send me your healthy vibes, and I will see you on the other side.

So, I just wanted to add a few pics. Really, these are not going to be earth shattering, nor will the writing be splendid enough to peek your interest, but it is raining and I'm staying in doors.

That being said, I continued my cleaning today. Yesterday, I swept and scrubbed the floors. Today, I swept again, put away my laundry, cleaned the counters, washed the dishes, unclogged the drain, and swept the entry way. The sweeping of the entry way delivered a treat. Underneath my Yakima Rocketbox, which sits cumbersomely in the main entrance, I spied a postcard dated August 25th. The image on the card is of a fine young Anglo-Saxon chap, begrudgingly accepting a boot pressed against his cheek. His face mimics that of disgust, concentration, and acceptance, all at once. On the back of this captivating image, there was a note of sorts: The High Priest of the Mid-East, Shalom Boyle, wrote me in haste. Things have gotten sticky on the farm front, and he implored me to maintain vigilance in this good fight we find ourselves in. He highlighted the changing landscape of 21st Century warfare, and how if we try hard enough, our ingenuity just might be the creative Hiroshima the world has been looking for. Well me, being the scientist that I am, I take that as a sign to turn on the gas and start a fire. Every good scholar needs an opus, so too, for those so called artists. I am thinking of writing a novel with acrylic paints on 8x8ft canvases. Aside from my horrible spelling and lack of complete conviction, I see no reason for this not to be the answer to all of our problems. And so it is, and together we all say, amen.

This is a picture of the bus driver, our bus driver, coming back from Veracruz. Notice his slightly pontiff style hail he is giving. This delicate celestial gesture was a minute-by-minute mantra for this old concrete highway horse. However, there were stipulations: He only gave this gesture to other bus drivers (you can see the other bus off in the distance). To further narrow his rules of engagement, I noticed that he did not give this gesture to every bus he saw. So what was the distinction? The side view mirrors. Through countless hours of finite observation, I deduced that it was the side view mirrors of the bus, which were to descend from the roof of the bus, in an odd dog/lama ear sort of fashion. If our beloved bus driver, with his gently moistened hands, saw the same mirrors, then he signaled with grace. It was a great mystery to solve; I wish you could have been there.

This is what my class looks like, from the front and the back. The front is a menagerie of SAT vocabulary words, inspirational quotes, personal flags for each student, rock posters, and MLA format guidelines (if you click the picture and look in the upper left corner, you will see a darling little version of me). The back is a party of "I am From" poems, personal flags, and suspended baby pictures; each student brought in a baby photo and wrote an inspirational motto on the back. Now the innocence of their youth flickers above the perversion of their adolescence.

I am Thinking at Work: Maybe This is What I Get Paid For...

Thought 1: If you drink free coffee, at work, and in large quantities, your bowel movements will feel like a holiday sale: a whole lot of crap and not enough to time.

Thought 2: Speaking another language over the phone is infinitely harder than in person, especially when you are still acquiring the basics. I realize now, and I have realized before, but this just reaffirms, how much we say with out words. Ana Jardon y Pablo Z, the Spanish couple I met through my Catalan dog connection, have invited me to go see Jason Mraz next week. Now, as Ana stated, "perhaps you think he is crap," and I do, but this isn't so much about the music, as it's about getting out and risking. Me, the monolingual gringo, a horde of Spaniards, and a crooning Abercrombie guitar slinger, is going to be a Choose Life mandate. I called via Skype, from work, and we traded awkward pauses--the end result being: she will buy me a ticket today, and we will talk on Friday.

Thought 3: I like to daydream; in fact, I spend a solid portion of each day doing so. Of late, I have been thinking about getting my private pilots license. I fear, as I write this, I am committing the sin of speaking before action, and hence, dooming my dream to die as a dream. However, I don't mind sharing. The oldest flight school in the world, American Flyers, has one international location; this location is in Mexico City. Their program costs several thousands of dollars, but it is thorough and well supported. To get the license you are looking at $2000 to $5000. An entry level plane, a 1960-1980 Cessna 172 or Piper Cherokee, runs about $10000 to $20000. I have spent several block periods, while my students were testing, scoping the used plane market. I think I like the thought of having a four seater and cruising the country. Hypothetically, a sweet and dear friend may say, "Hey, you want to come visit us in Chico or Santa Cruz?" I would reply, "Sure. I get off work at 3 on Friday, I will be up around 9 or so, perhaps a late dinner? You still have that yard for the dogs, maybe we can get in a hike on Saturday?" I mean, if I really ran with it: A local agent/promoter/booker calls up, "Yo Elliott, we need you for a show over here in Seattle. We are working on this big project and if you want to paint, or read poetry, or play some of your new music, we would love to have you." I would modestly reply, "My pleasure. I will hop in the Cessna on Friday, and Flow, Chops, and I will be ready and able on Saturday morning."

Thought 4: I am still just a dude in the world. I play songs in empty rooms, and I watch the tumble weeds of fur blow past. TODAY! Before the park, before Spanish conversations, before life...I shall clean. I mean really clean. I am not a filthy person, but I realize now how much Annie took care of the interior. Oh, Santa Cruz.

Veracruz and Today

I hang in hammocks on late nights and dream of loves long since past. I answer emails from memories and we brush over their dreamscapes; they say they know something, and I wonder what it all means...as if destiny never stops making mix tapes to dance to; we know each other too well and somehow that never ceases to be true. I wonder why we are so transparent yet cryptic?
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I stayed up late on Thursday afternoon and made copies and plans. I left the sub handouts and instructions and I went home to pack. I went home to pack, and went to the park. I came home from the park and blogged, and finally at 11pm I packed. The next day, I went to school in dirty clothes and hiking shoes. I loaded a bust in a whirlwind of confusion and various languages. I went to sleep after a conversation about friends and feelings...

I started this post several days ago. I left it until now, to finish, and well, so much has happened since, I find it hard to recount it all.

In any event here it is, shortened down.

Veracruz: Arrived by luxury bus, after two good movies. Got off said bus, and stepped up to the lunch buffet. Day One's food set the bar, and every meal following was a notch up--the food was phenomenal. I bunked with three other chaperons: Alejandro, the photography teacher and ASF grad; Mauricio, the cunning Chilean who never ceases to make me laugh and or think; and Omar Ugalde, dean of students for the high school. It was a great bonding experience, sharing a room with them. After bunking up, came ice breaking, and I felt sort of odd, but fell in the groove. Ice breaking lead to dinner which lead to sleep. The folks running the trip did everything, and we were merely an insurance policy.

Day Two, early rise, and another spectacular buffet. Good conversation and the excitement of rafting. We geared up and began our lessons. In groups of 5 we had to flip the raft over in the pool, have one person get on the overturned boat, and flip it back over, then pile all back in. I was the flipper, and our teamed rocked, a good omen for the day. We created teams--5 students, 1 teacher, and 1 guide. Matthias, a hip Colombian sophomore dubbed us, The Toronto Rafters. Sergio and Juan Pablo were brothers, whom both had a quiet humor about them. Katy was loud and from Maryland, and Nicole was southern shy, from Virginia. We rocked class 3 and 4 rapids, and had a blast.

After the long trip back from the river, we gorged on lunch. Then, I found a hammock off in the shade and took a siesta. I awoke an hour later, and we headed out to zip lining. 5 segments, all awesome, a freakin blast through and through. Mauricio, the relentless negotiator, finagled the deal so that we could ride on top of the truck heading up the hill. On the way back, we shared the roof with the Mexican outdoors team who sponsored our ziplining efforts. We had to duck branches as we came down the hill--regardless of language--laughter is laughter.

Dinner, amazing! Sleep even better. The next day was a good day, a day ready for road riding. We piled into the Bus and strapped in for two more movies. The terrain on the way back, perhaps because I was awake, was beautiful. We passed through jungle, to mountain tops, to foggy washed out roads. It was great. The ride home went quick. I rode next to the faithful and fearless Siri Berman. We had good conversations.

I came home, I slept, I sat, I enjoyed the dogs, I said hello to home.

Well that was an awful shorthand account, but so it goes. During a stop, I watched the gentleman hanging out of the red truck, tazer the livestock. They were a bunch of rowdy bulls, and he had a long yellow electrical stick to humble them with.





Today was awesome. This entire week is taken up by standardized testing, and well basically I don't have to teach. That being said, it has allowed me to catch up on a plethora of needed crap. Blah blah blah, the day kicked on. At the end of the school day, Vanessa called me. Vanessa is the forward young Mexicana who picked me up in the park. She does make-up for commercials and has the day off. I, although interested in seeing her, was not dying to do so--I really wanted to just go the park and chill. We made plans for Friday, though she said, she may go to the park. Great.

Waiting for a taxi, my phone rings again. This time Julia the Catalan calls me. She says she has another Spanish friend that wants to practice her English, in exchange I will practice my Spanish. So we make plans to meet at the park. Julia brings an army of Spanish folks with her--actually three others: Vanessa, Ana, and Pablo. We introduce ourselves, and Pablo and Julia go to get art supplies, while Ana, Vanessa (a Spaniard, not the Mexicana), and I find a bench to discuss. In the back of my mind, I imagine the other Vanessa showing up, and the odd scene that this may appear as. In any event we practice English, which basically amounts to sharing life stories. Both women are here for their partners livelihood, and currently are unemployed and bored. Ana, is a 3D animator, and Vanessa is an economist. They are both qualified, but cultural and situational difficulties are making employment hard. We talk for about 40minutes in English, and then Pablo and Julia escort us to a new section of the park, where they draw us and the dogs, and we switch to Spanish. Their lisp is funny, and it makes me work hard at understanding. In the end, this is perfect.

After 2 hours at the park, we head to a cafe/pub and get some Michelada Cubanas. This is the style michelada in Guatemala, and I dig them. My dogs are freaking angels, while Lucio is a little riled up. We have good conversation and I feel an overwhelming sense of, "Hell yeah, Life!" I exchange info with Pablo, who is really good at correcting my Spanish, and I exchange info with ana too. We all have an eager excitement about meeting again. We are now friends on facebook.

I am happy to hook into an artistic group outside of school. The situations are continuing to rock.

I am tired, and no time to correct. Ahoy!

A Week at the Park: Two Numbers

Well, it is you and me again. Hello. It is so nice to see you, seeing me and all. I mean, what does it take to make us connect: a bottle of words; a wireless connection (pirated for good measure); the mystery of the internet; blogspot; emails; morbid curiosity; the desire to be creative, and so forth. We come together through waves, wires, and wonder.

Week two has been a quick one. It started, and I took this big breath, like, "Okay. Here we go. This is no longer a cute vacation. This is your job now, please enjoy." And to be honest, for the most part, this week was super enjoyable. The classes went well. I made headway with young minds and their knowledge. My classroom is a goddamn explosion of creative personal flags, suspended fluttering photos of baby students, and posters of quotes and people that I like; for five days a week, from 7-3, it feels about as homey as institutional uniformity will allow.

I have spent the last three afternoons in Parque Mexico. I have gotten home from work, thought about sleeping, grading, or planning, and then opted to load the dogs up and go to the park for a few hours. Every day has proven to be perfect. I have figured out my root there, and have found a sweet little pocket, where through the grace of some god somewhere, I find a parking spot within walking distance to the park. The drive has been exciting, a taste of home, and a release. Driving here is a big whirlwind, where you can basically do what you need to do, to get where you need to go, and although you may cut someone off, they may honk, you may stop out of nowhere...it is all accepted and the beat moves on. Its a great release of stress, surprisingly. You are sort of on this offense/defense mentality, and in the end, if you are comfortable with your car and how it moves, you can have a damn good time. But I digress, back to the park.

Tuesday, it was raining; what do I care? The dogs like the water and I own a rain jacket and flip flops. I arrived to no dogs and the slight misting of the ground. I hung around only to meet another wandering soul, Julia the Catalan and her Jack Russel, Lucio the Spiritual. She moved to D.F. 12 years ago for a 6 month trip...she never left. She is a hippy sort, but not the hollow type that has goofy jewelry, hangs out in trees, and dangles organic teabags from their armpit undergrowth. She is a hippy in the sense, that she has a crooked smile and it works, because she hasn't lacquered her face in various ointments and remedies. She is a hippy, because she sheepishly smiles when she says she is a graphic designer and she has some paintings up in restaurant near by. She has to be around 40 or so, perhaps younger and her natural hippyness makes her look older. She brings laser beams for Lucio to chase, and she calls commands in Catalan and Spanish. The dogs have been without a doubt, my greatest liaison to people who speak Spanish and people who have nothing to do with ASF; this fact, has only deepened my love for them.

Wednesday was nicer. School ended at 12:15, but professional development made a long haul to 3:45. The park was at the forefront of my mind. I took 1984 to read, and headed out. Parking, once again, was satisfyingly available. Parked; Walked; Released the hounds; Found a bench and sat down. Chops, as previously mentioned, is a legend in the making. Everyone wants to know about him. So, Irish Wolfhound = Lobero Irlandes. Great Pyrenees = Gigante de Pirineo. Raza = Breed. In any event, a curious young lady by the name of Vanessa, began to inquire. I stopped reading, and started running through the vocabulary I have picked up around this topic. She sits down. We stop talking about dogs and start talking about me. What do I do? Where did I come from? Where do I live? How long am I here? What's your number? Do you want to go out sometime? WHAT!?!?! From what I have gathered, the Mexican women are go getters...and in my book, that is alright with me. In fact that is just grand. So I gave Vanessa my number, and we shall see. She quickly changed from getting together with the dogs, to going to la cine. She was cute and spunky. Not totally my type, but at this point I am just embracing the flow of life. I have met more people in the last two weeks, than I had in the last two years of living in Santa Cruz. Now that is not to say quantity outweighs quality, because in Santa Cruz, I got to know and love some truly amazing people (you know who you are, you silly little sweet spirits), but it is a trip to meet all these new faces and revel in the possibilities. Vanessa, got my number and left. Julia and a dude from Uruguay rolled through. We talked again. Julia was flashing the laser beam for Lucio and he was disappearing in a flurry of Catalan gallops. Then, a true Lobero Irlandes came through the park, by the name of, Lupito. I have seen this dog countless times around the city...not just the park. This fucker is BIG! He strolls up to Chops, and I tell you, Chops looks average, minuscule, regular-run-of-the-mill puppy. Lupito, belongs to an old long haired grizzly faced man. He seems jolly and smells of the sweet herbs, the man, not the dog. The dogs play, and the Spanish flows forth.

Julia and I departed the park at the same time. We walked and talked, she said there were good art classes near by. I think I shall inquire further about this, and see if I can get in. We kept walking, and I realized we were not diverging paths. I made the comment, "Just so you are not worried, I am not following you home, but my car is this way." She cracked the goofy hippy smile, and said, "No, it is fine El-lee-oat, you can walk me home." Awkward yet amusing laughter followed. We hit the round about, and I pointed to my car, and she pointed to her street; We split up, I stubbed my toe, and went home. Currently Beck's "Odelay" has been in my car for a week, and I don't see an end in sight.

Today, Thursday, Park again. Headed over. Sat and read my book, though I never really read, because I am too enamored in the world of dogs and people; the park is prime for watching both. So I sit and observe, and in between lulls I read quick rips of 1984. From behind me, "Hello El-lee-oat." I turn, "Hola Julia Catalan y Lucio el Spear-eh-two-al." We chop it up about the book. She checks it out for a comparison to the Spanish version. She hangs tight for a minute and then announces that she needs to leave. I tell her that I am going to go check out her art next week, possibly with one of my fellow teachers. By the way, my fellow teacher in reference, Tess Wheelwright (affectionaly dubbed "Make'em Feelright") is awesome. She is a writer and an artist. She is going to critique my paintings and I am going to critique her writing. She is going to introduce me to people from another realm of life...a non ASF life. We are also co-sponsoring the Literary Magazine at the High School. Good people. Back to the park: Julia says, "well perhaps I can take you to lunch at the restaurant where my art is." Perhaps. She asks, "do you have time for lunch during the week?". I reply, "Unfortunately, no. I could do dinner." She retorts, "Unfortunately it is expensive for dinner, but we could do that if you like?" I concur, "Yes, I could do that, or we could do it on the weekend." We exchange numbers. She spells her name, I spell mine, and now we both have digital records that the other person exists outside of this park. She leans in, as is customary here, and we do the side cheek kiss and the "Hasta luego/Nos vemos" exchange. I feel like an awkward American. She shouts, "You have to bring three of your paintings, so I am not the only one showing their stuff". I feel good about the paintings I have, and I think that will be just fine.

So that is that. Three days at the park, and two opportunities to hang out with someone from a completely different reality. Who knows what the romantic implications are. Vanessa, she was on the hunt. But Julia, Julia I just think is a life tripper, someone who enjoys a bit of the random. So it goes, and so I go.

TOMORROW: I do not teach. NO! Tomorrow I load a bus with all of the new students in the Upper School. We load and we ride north east to Veracruz. The new students are going on a retreat and I, and several other fine young teachers, are the god-sent chaperons. I left my sub plans and I am heading out. Sarah, the most awesome neighbor next to The Klines, well actually, you can't really compare the Klines, because they are on another level of awesomeness...regardless, Sarah, who is cool in her own right, is going to watch my dogs for me. I am going to find it hard to leave them, but I need to get over it, quit being super attached, and I know it is going to be a blast. Three square meals a day, a hotel room, river rafting, zip lining, and life.

To the ramshackle in us all.

Sunday: Sundreary

The soft hum of a poorly played didgeridoo sneaks its way into my house; the stoner teenagers next door spend most of their lives on the room adjacent to mine--harmless, high, and psuedo-hippy-esque.

The weekend flew by. It is Sunday night and my body is still sore. Saturday morning was spent playing Ultimate Frisbee with a bunch of the other Gringo teachers. We played six on six, with two subs for each team. The altitude and the pollution made breathing fiery. It was great to get out there and play a physical sport. One girl played for University of Michigan. She apparently keeps frisbees in her class, so hopefully some time this week, I can get out there and practice my flick. After Frisbee, I took the dogs to the park in the Condesa. It is a blast letting them play, and it is good for practicing my Spanish, because everyone is curious about Chops.

Saturday night I enjoyed my mom's dinner party via Skype. I sat in my house, and engaged with people through the wonders of the 21st Century. It was good seeing folks, and the familiarity of my childhood house.

After that I met up with some friends and we headed to a party in the South of the city, in Colonia Coyoacan. It was 20 pesos to get in, and 20 pesos for rum and cokes. I don't typically drink hard alcohol, but it felt right. The party was eclectic mix of artists, scenesters, hippies, and beat junkies. In various rooms in the house, artists were displaying their work. A live band, followed by a DJ spinning House music, made for good times. I bobbed and swayed, and rocked and rolled--I talked to a few chicas, but when the closing bell rang, I left with the people I came with. Mauricio, Katie, and I hopped a cab back to Condesa. Upon entering the cab, I realized that the drinks were strong and my blood was permeated with alcohol. I was definitely not enjoying the bumpy ride.

How I remember the rest: Stopping at Ticzoncito for tacos, I ate one taco and couldn't stomach the next; Went to the bathroom, tried to relieve myself, but was locked up like Fort Knox; Began walking back to Katie's and singing loudly with accompanying rhythm claps, "That's the sound of the men (get back!) working on the chain....gay-yee-yang!" I watched some movie with Charlie Shehan when I was little kid, and he played the one white private with a bunch of black soldiers, and well they sang that song with one another, and I have known it ever since. In any event, we got to Katie's, I laid down and went immediately to sleep. I awoke in the morning, Mauricio was already gone, Katie was haggard, and I was bewildered that I had slept till 11. I believe we made it to her house at around 4am.

Long story short, today was spent on the couch. I had big plans, and they all sort of vanished. I took the dogs for a walk, found the local super market, dropped them off, and went shopping. I was in the market for about 40mins, and towards the end I started sweating and feeling a little antsy. The poor bastard bagging my groceries, a young brown skinned chap, no older than 14, wrecked four of my bananas. I tipped him anyway, and got the fuck out of the noise--Mexicans are engulfed in a constant fanfare of fucking buzzers and whistles--THEY LOVE IT!

Came home, got some water from the corner store, cooked dinner on my camping stove, and watched "The Office",

Now here I am. Still tired, and a little smelly.

Happy Sunday.

Week one is Done: My Posture Needs a Reminder

Another walk through the city to cap off my week. The dogs tugged hard on the leash, and it was a walking meditation in not sweating the small stuff. Dusty diesel dries the rain that is to come. Night falls, and the pachucos call from the sidewalks--Teatro Aldama has a show, and every young joven is barking at the passing traffic. Every man for himself, they hustle cars into public spots for small wages. They cry repetitive mantras of "Teatro Aldama! Pasele! Pasele! Adelante! Boletos!" Between the mantra, the distinctive Mexican whistle slices the night air. Its all one big titanium symphony: the barkers are the melody, the exhaust backfire the bassline; the rumble and screech of the local buses provide a tumbling brass section. Somewhere a dog dodges the wheels of a brakeless taxi, and the night presses on.

Week one is done, and on the whole it was good. My sophomores finally figured me out. My Freshman, got me right away--maybe my humor is geared towards 14 year olds and not 15 year olds. In any event, the classes went well. I spent this week doing nothing but introductory group bonding activities. My classroom is now decorated with personal flags made by each student. The flags are filled with symbols to represent their respective lives. From the light fixtures hang baby photos and quotes from each pupil. We finished the week with an "I am From" poem, in which I implored students to embrace the beauty of abstract descriptions. On the wall I posted a quote from Robert Frost, "No tears for the writer, no tears for the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader." On the whole, the students really went for it.

Every class will have challenges--deuschbags, braggarts, know-it-alls and ring leaders. From what I can tell, that is just life.

The English department got together today for drinks and snacks. I truly think the English Dept is a great bunch of people. We hung out, drank some mescal, had some chips and dip, and talked a whole bunch of trash. Like any other school, gossip seems to be a favorite pass time. Some of the juicy bits were face melting material (I wonder if I will ever find the words in Spanish to translate such a sweet slang ridden sentence?). Tomorrow a few of them, and a bunch of other upper school folks will head out to play some ultimate frisbee at the high school. It should be a damn good time. I am excited to enjoy some physical activity. Tonight the party pressed on, but I kept my drink to a minimum and departed at 6:30. Somehow I just can't feature getting really wasted with coworkers, not yet at least. It is exciting, but it is also prime territory to be the talk of the town. I am keeping it reserved for this first round of "how do you do's". It seemed as if they intended to make it an all night thing, but I felt obligated to get home and let the dogs out, and to just decompress. I don't think any offense was incurred.

The Librarian gave me a rad book for my Sci-Fi class, The Matrix and Philosophy. She also gave me a few movies: Bladerunner, Total Recall, The Matrix, and KPAX. I am excited to watch some Sci-Fi tonight and mellow out.

I started a painting, FINALLY, yesterday. It is not quite right yet, so I have hung it up to look at it for a while. I think some layering of new colors is going to provide the clarity I want.

I live with mosquitoes, and I have the bites to prove it. I also really like scratching them in the middle of the night.

Well that is all for now. I need to sweep, sweep, sweep, and clean, clean, clean...tomorrow!

Here is to Friday and no spell check or rereads...perhaps one day I will be a no-typo kind of guy. Tonight is not the night.

Blessings

The Sabbath before the Storm

Tomorrow is the day. Tomorrow I unluck doors and melt faces. Tomorrow is the day that has been a finish line, albeit a beginning. My room looks nice. My motto is: If I am spending the majority of my week in this room, then I am going to make it my home.

I bought a printer from WALMART. I did not read the fine print. Who in God's name, sells a printer without the USB attachment cable? WHO? Hewlett FUCKING Packard, that's who. In any event, tomorrow I shall hunt for a free cable, if it can be found.