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1.30.13

You attempt to drown out the the sound of the badly tuned guitars, but find it difficult, even in the dark.  People are simply trying to survive, these imperfect reflections of yourself found wanting in  mirrored revelations.  And the train stops in the Sun and even then wish you had brought a sweater.  Do I look so tired?  At every stop silhouettes like the dead wander the platform, shapely figures, shadows waiting in shadows for cheap public transit to the other side.  And you are reminded of the buses like traveling fishtanks at night, aquatic blue, aqua marine worlds, roaring machines that allow you anything but to forget your dreams as you do your best to hold your breath against the stench.  Both forms of transportation cost less than a dollar. 

1.31.13

Another month shot down one day at a time.

2.5-9.13

After each passing town my eyes become heavier, close over an all too familiar sense of foreboding.

I am on a train to Chillan.  It is a town 4-5 hours South of Valparaiso and further inland.  It is country that reminds me of Southern Idaho (as it turns out, this held true except that when we got to our final destination I began to notice the tropical aspects of the landscape/climate ... lots of bamboo, flowers straight from the jungle; it was an odd, but pleasant mix).  It is flat mostly, but the foothills of the Andes lie in the near distance; our destination.  Not for the first time the landscape plants an unmistakable urge for me to buy a horse; it seems to be the only proper method of transportation.  But the train is nice and I can pretend that the child sitting next to me did not just projectile vomit all over himself, the floor, his mother and the back of the seat in front of him.  The smell is instant and repulsive.  And I'm tired.  My day started early, say 6:30am and it's hard to tell what I want more; a catnap or a stiff drink.

But this is not some random getaway, oh no, there is a beer festival this weekend.  My housemates are going to try and peddle their homemade crafts, paintings, prints and jewelry and such.  I'm just going for the beer.  And the quiet.  Or the experience, however you want to name it.

The table is littered with signs of the dead.  And the flies have returned.  The smell may not be pleasant, but I am alive, drinking my coffee and brushing off my understanding of my most recent reincarnation.  The text is in spanish, so the going is slow, but I just saw a horse drawn carriage swing by the house, so I could make the argument that I am simply living life in accordance with the local surroundings.

Strange dreams last night … there is no explanation.  Funny that I am homesick right now.  And I can't go more than two minutes without acquiring a new stain somewhere on my person; coffee, paltas, sun screen, unidentifiable substances, it is all there mapping my descent into some sort of sweaty, filthy abyss.  But shit is really coming alive now, the sun high and hot and aptly described as one blistering son of a bitch, it is going to be difficult to curb my drinking in this heat.





Found a small dirt paradise on the river this afternoon, upstream, a short backwoods trek from the major swimming hole.  It is deep only in spots where the currents have eroded the bank creating a sheer drop-off on the far side.  From these cliffs natural flowing spring water trickles down through the embedded river rock, an ancient meditative sound that spills into the river below the soft moving breeze.  I sat there naked for some time in the dark black, sand coarse and forgiving near a wall of uncounted thoughts, near infinite thousands, small droplet waterfalls that sing all together before plunging into the river.  I swam alone and still against time … this is the second instance I've been to ancient China.  The benefits of time travel I suppose.  But if people knew the truth I would be accused of a bad split, too much time spent in the past, though I doubt they can see the cause, that I topple over, stumble backwards and fall the exact moment before I achieve balance in the present.  This is a serious problem.  There is no forward movement, just accurate projections based upon inevitable future static. 

The flies have penetrated my brains, their flickering, precision sharp movements and the uncomfortable tickling sensation on your skin when they crawl and glance the proper gray matter causing wicked, spastic limbs to jolt upwards and out in violent search of sounds, both aggressive and damaging, insects with no sense of common decency or the evolutionary hierarchy.  Fuck.

Surrounded by a fortress of bamboo, magic sustained by a bountiful source material, running water, cities made of sand and river silt are carved from the banks; a driftwood castle sits embedded into the soft ground marking a severe fall, a perfect microcosm of dangerous and magnificent terrain made passable by two long, natural stick bridges ending in an elaborate antlered gate, a labyrinth of sorts, menacing as it is beautiful … every action here is hard except meditation.  I see supplies are routinely delivered by ants. 

Down river a slow curve is held firm and guided by well worn, well rounded stones, a wall of collected souls, once wanderers that remain stoic against the languid rush, that direct you through the Bamboo Tunnel that opens onto the Deep Lagoons, pools of thought above the Basin of the Great and Fallen, dry as salt in the riverbed detour followed by a winding stretch interwoven with the massive Turtle Rocks; the current here is fierce.  And this is a mosquito hell bordering the ancient High Country, a kingdom built on opposing sides of a canyon and at its center the Twin Arbol Giants, monoliths that suspend themselves towering over the water, their exposed summer roots shed light on the marvel, on the secret underwater bridge that will lead you to the edge of the realm, past the Silent Legion, pass a kind word to the Trembling Stickman who lives in perpetual fear beneath an impressive felled tree held in limbo solely by a slowly eroding bank.  And after, walk the edge of the bird sanctuary, the cacophony of noise wild and imaginative and unseen amidst the Elephant Trees, a herd of proud beasts with trunks raised to the sky in wordless exaltation; they all wait for the cold snow and spring rains that will flood the land to become a river Atlantis hidden from the world until Summer once again returns. 

additional notes: I am alive and I just got home.  Been off grid for the last week.  Made a trek into the mountains.  I spent a lot of time swimming in rivers, hiking in rivers, eating, swimming, eating, hiking, eating, eating some more, swimming naked, meditating naked, swimming, eating, hiking ... I think you get the picture.  There was also much wine, more beer, some french card game I can't remember the name of, cousins, fathers, mothers, aunts and uncles, brothers, sisters, girlfriends ... it was crazy.  Communication was limited, but we got on alright, especially when I made them Bad Ass American Cheeseburgers for lunch yesterday.  Yezzir, it was a grand spectacle.

2.11.13

Riding the train back to Valparaiso I was struck by a profound sadness, a deep saturating feeling.  One that shifts and is alive with every muscle movement.  It is not a separate element, but one with my body.  Two days later I will be laid out by the flu.