A La Pacha

Incense to paint the air with the spirits of my ancestors and yours
Colors of the land wrapped round our heads and backs, protecting us the way a mother should
The strings and drums and wind songs that fill our lungs, they summon the souls of the past to live in the present
We give thanks
Never ending, never forgetting what she has done for us
We give thanks
Bow our heads where he rises, bow our heads where he sets
We cultivate that which she provides us
We are all of the same round, precious land
We hold hands and give thanks
A La Pacha

And Why is the World Not Dancing?

Maybe if I slept on this drum they would understand why my heart beats.

I don't speak enough languages to be completely true to you...yet. How can I when the world around me is filled with people like myself? Unable to translate the methods with which we build these towers of self; sifting through the scraps of discarded treasures, ripping and gluing and shaping in a way that might make sense to us... Not to make sense in the sense that we want to be seen, rather Need to be heard, felt, loved, Alive. How will I ever understand you? The difference though, the difference is that we try.

We tramp through our lives, intersecting, dividing and paralleling the paths of would-be strangers, would-be partners and friends. But the energy exchanged is something irreversible. And we do all of this because we have to. We do it because it keeps us alive. These interactions, these small steps toward uplifting ourselves and each other, they fill our souls. They provide our hearts with the sustenance that will carry our spirits to the next level. So why is it so hard for us to exist as one? Why do we fight to keep things to ourselves when we are all moving to the same beat, the same drum? Why, why is the world not dancing...together?

Pap Smear

Windows down, guards as well. We drive fast. No looking back, never ever looking back. The world whizzing by, we are still. Our bodies steadily moving in rhythm with the windy road, we are still. Without a look you reach over and gently, briefly trace the contours of my hand with the tips of your fingers. Without a look I turn my hand to meet yours and our fingers naturally find their place interlocked. On this warm spring afternoon, the sun is bound to set. Nonetheless, we drive and drive. We drive until we can't stand the stillness any longer. The pulses felt throughout our limbs are electric. They push and pull and send both our imagination and memories racing. We must get off this road.

Space Heater

If I could capture every memory, every conversation, every half second glance of the most beautiful of beautifuls...I probably wouldn't. Isn't there something to be said about the sacredness of all of these moments? About the need for us to be open to them, to embrace them and, when the time is right, to let them go? I have the tendency to and am certainly guilty of trying to save every single tiny memory I can, down to old, worn out ticket stubs that aren't even legible anymore, just to have Something. I feel like if I throw these things away they will be lost from my memory forever. But what I think is the truth of the matter, is the fact that I don't want my story to be lost. I sometimes have this dream that someone will come looking for me one day. Not to find Me, but to learn my story. I don't even know that I will ever Have a story, but it's just something that has always stuck with me. That maybe, for some random reason, somebody..somewhere...will be looking. I am so intrigued when I open up old books and find old, smelly notes hidden within the pages. Thoughts carelessly scribbled on the back of a receipt, or even on the dusty, bound leaves themselves. I feel like I have fallen straight into the footprint of a complete stranger; holding the aging pages in the same way he or she did years before me. Many a Dollar and Peso have contributed to the collecting of these random souvenirs. And maybe one day, someday, some stranger will find mine. And maybe, just maybe, he or she will save it too.

Esperando La Última Ola

She caught me by surprise today. Things changed themselves a lot today. Today I moved me out...today. If you asked me, I'd say that I think it's about that time that everything starts to shift again. Like the Earth has layed stagnant for a long while and is now rolling over and stretching and moaning and finding a way to reposition herself. Things will be broken, others born, some will fall, others will stand for the first time ever, happy times will be had, losses will be..lost. It's the part of the wave that requires kicking and paddling and kicking and digging and digging, all in an effort to be a part of something great, or to ignite the fire from that tiny spark within, it's time to catch that wave. Today, right now, this is me kicking, this is me paddling, this is me working my way to my feet. I have no intentions of sitting this one out.

Mexico in Argentina

I made food for dozens of strangers today.

And though I am fully aware of our ephemeral relationship, it puts a smile on my face to know that...I might have put a smile on someone else's. Just for a moment...a brief, genuine, thank you for your efforts even though we don't know each other's names and probably never will...smile.

It's things like this that keep me awake, and make sleep more sound when I do finally get there. Thank you, strangers, for letting me feed you. We didn't have to share this day, but we did it anyway.

"You Don't Know Me By Name

....still dooon't"

Aw fuck it. Here I go again, draggin boots through the grass, trying to erase the memory of the shit I occasionally stomp through. Still stompin', still draggin', all the while learning-learning-moving.

I missed my bus last night. Holy shit man, can't afford to make these kinds of mistakes, or can I? I find, as I've found in the past, that there is always something to be learned from this mess. In all actuality, it's not a real mess, it's life. Shit happens, people trip up. Heaven knows I've got my share of scars to prove it. I can't sleep at night, but it's because I'm congested. My shoes are dirty, but it's because I can't stand still. Life down here is somethin' else. People are different, and we all still manage to find a connection. Work is different, but serves a purpose each morning. I wake up in a place that I'm now used to, that once was new, and I like it. We all crave familiarity. The only difference is that some of us have to work harder to find it. I'm working, I am. I fucking explore and I'm poor. I love you. I'll see you soon, I promise.