July 24, 2007
I'm trying to remember the things I told myself to remember. On my walk this morning before most of the world woke up, I finally felt free--free to be not a tourist but a simple observer, if there is such a thing. I don't know. I was lamenting in my head that I felt like a tourist all the time, even in my "regular" life. I've lived in California, Connecticut, Morocco, Boston, the wilderness of New Jersey, New Orleans, and Idaho. I've worked at The Witch House, I've been a dogwalker, I've bartended from the driver's seat of a golf cart. Nothing is permanent. Everything I do is an attempt to escape the ordinary.
Lighting and thunder, oh my! It's after 7pm during rainy season, and the daily afternoon rain hasn't even started. Clouds have been looming for three hours...if the rain starts now, will it ever end? My blood blister on my finger has turned black and dried up. No, with some prodding, fresh blood rises to the surface.
Anyway, this morning, before I turned a random corner in a less touristy district of Oaxaca and ran into Shannon O'Grady, with whom I rowed in college (small world!), I wanted to remember the broken glass guarding the roof of a home. And a cigarette in a cape--a kind of superhero ad. And the gorgeous graffiti on a torn-up building in a dug-up park: a woman's face in black, with purple spray paint uncoiling around her, as if she were silently singing her pain away.
And the dog in the sky!
The well-groomed boxer's head appeaerd on top of that beautiful old, ornately trimmed concrete roof--he looked as if he were going to jump. I'd believe it. Wouldn't we be vain if we thought humans were the only animals capable of suicide?
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