1.01.13

Never before has anything like that ever happened to me.  I think it was a seizure of some kind or another.  Fuck.  It was the Sound ... it made an assault beyond any visual ground and air attack, striking the resonate frequency of my body with thunderous emphasis, hellbent on a coronary rupture, you breathe deeply to counteract the effects, but inhale only mind-wrenching sickness, a convulsing demonic blindness marked by nausea and crippling tension as the rhythm is beaten into the drums by sheer lunatic volume; it wreaks havoc on the lungs and muscle tissue of the core, the ears ring and scream bloody hell, a sound that severs you from gravity and true North ... escape is impossible until the masses are directed to the exits.  And after a good skin shredding tumble up hill, your soul is returned burnt and smoldering, but it has remarkably survived to face the consequences.  And now we convalesce with Elvis.

1.07.13

Last night there was an earthquake in Valparaiso, as if the earth needed to yawn and stretch itself out for miles, expand the space between vertebrae and allow them to retract, slowly as the house responds, a light shock sent up and through the hill of solid rock on which it stands.  And today I can smell the sea.  I imagine a fissure torn open somewhere beneath the waves, a pocket of salt rising through the center of the bay, bursting at the surface to catch the tail end of the evening breeze.  Inland, just outside the city center is where I sit by my window, where the pacific air mixes with the night blooming jasmine and dirt.   

1.12.13

Again the sky has fallen.  And the horns blast through the fog in long, haunting cries, filling the air and outstretched arms of this coastal town hidden still in dreams of the rising dawn; a morning that will introduce a gloom that will hang over the city for the next three days. 

1.14.13 (written some days previous)

Perhaps the train was a mistake; too much of a day to day commuter mode of transportation.  Like a bus, no privacy at all, no leg room and a howl of voices and noise.  Again a direct contrast to the landscape, slow and desolate like aging ruins of a struggling civilization, nestled into the hills and mountains that patiently wait.  This terrain makes me want to buy a horse.  Somehow I still wish that was a valid way to travel.

 And momentary distractions (good lord, not the girl seen here), a pretty face, and a brash, cavalier display of false machismo, all of my indecent thoughts scratched onto paper unguarded, she is curious as to what I write, spies unaware that I write with a fond wickedness of her, in a language that is as foreign as it is upside-down  … smart leather jacket, dark cedar brown hair, pinned back on one side and eyes that flash and give depth to her beautiful face with high cheekbones and the rarest of smiles, a diffusion of her bold and devilish gaze, one I don't find myself wanting to hide from, but rather, I feel warmly possessed as the subject of her scrutiny. 

And now I'm drinking beer at Johnny Schops.  A provincial indoor/outdoor bar tucked away, a short walk down a backstreet, off the beaten drag at the end of the line; a little town called Limache.

It took me a 15 minutes to work up the proper gumption to even walk in the place, drawn finally by the backyard haven visible though the restaurant from the opposite side of the street.  Shaded and tickled  by the sunshine that passes with the light breeze through the trees … I have already been struck by the peace and quiet of this town, and this Johnny Schops looks to be an extension of that solace.  Which it is, with one caveat.  After finally crossing the street, I make it to the back , successfully order a litre of beer only to realize that an otherwise ideal situation is made fucking weird and unclear by the Barry White pumping through the outdoor speakers.  What would be more awkward for a solitary half drunk recluse gringo than Barry White?  Shit.  Of course I expertly handled the situation by immediately breaking the glass brought with my beer. 

I collected myself in the bathroom, maintained composure and swiftly moved to the table furthest from the main building, far out into the yard and dirt where the prim and modern chairs turn to plastic lawn furniture.  And the music shifts to Isaac Hayes, briefly, better, but after the din and mighty barking ruckus of Valparaiso all I really want is the gentle rustle of deep foliage and the occasional passing distance of an automobile.

And finally silence.  All it took was a plum and stolen rose on a walk; a small, but meaningful sacrifice.  The music returns, but at least in a foreign language.  It suits this place far better.  I've turned into a bumbling, fumbling ass.

1.15.13