Pico de Orizaba

Pico de Orizaba
Taken from Huatusco, Veracruz, the closest town to Margarita's family's ranch.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

One response to letter written to James 7 years ago...

Rage and "releasing boys from our souls..." and I stopped painting and drawing seven years... and I gained weight not dropped for 11 and all the related physiological stress... and I picked up the paints and pencils again 4 years ago and painted and drew like never before... and that dream dissipated... the boy flew the coop as a bird and as he flew, his wings dried up and fell off. Plunged from the sky the boy once bird fell into a deep dark sea and began swimming, developed gills and the ability of breathing below the waves. I stand on the shore and watch him swim by... The boy maybe once I... Or maybe these are just the illusions we use for understanding who we aren't or maybe who we dreamed of being, when we were boys. Or maybe I am looking at the boy I truly am but don't accept or understand. And as I don't paint for 7 months now and don't dream of being that heroe I realize that there is so much more to life and living than who we think we should be... And as I stand on that beach on the edge of that deep dark sea, I see myself emerge from the surf, on all fours, gasping for breath as I've decided it's time I learned to breath again. My gills dry up and seal over... And I run into the arid mountains; a hairless Aztec dog, "ixuintli" silent and intense pursuing the moments that inevitably convert into the past although I'm running towards the future. 3 months have passed since I awakened to a different physiological possibility and am much healthier than before. And those pounds gained over 11 years? Say good-bye...

But maybe we don't understand so much (until tomorrow which is now today, which is now yesterday and we still don't understand so much until tomorrow). And maybe it doesn't matter that I don't write so slap stick, hip hop, spoken word or stream of conscious as I had 7 years ago. Maybe my writing isn't so cool and slick or sly (are those tears in my dry eyes? no, "baby don't cry") as it had been in Brooklyn walking the streets and crossing the boroughs... But, I didn't construct or design those streets or boroughs I walked. They weren't me.

Maybe it doesn't matter what others do to themselves... and that they don't listen... or they don't take heed... or that they don't understand the concepts or ideas you share... Maybe we shouldn't expect so much from them (And don't for one moment believe I'm talking about blood relatives... Life is much greater than the boxes within which others may live...) and relegate those expectations towards ourselves...

The moment we say, "I didn't understand that about..." we've begun gaining that understanding; moment worth a momentary celebration.

Reading this letter to James, written 7 years ago, I realize that 24 years have passed since those days of those fantasies possibly shared... when he took me to Greenwich Village for the first time. And I know that there was something I may have sacrificed. But, maybe what I sacrificed wasn't truly mine. Maybe it wasn't what I truly wished for. Maybe it was a reaction to a very difficult situation... a distraction... the writing, the painting... the dreams of becoming THAT heroe... Sacrificing a style or a being that was a replacement for what I wasn't... a dream that couldn't be... But, maybe it is and we unwrap it little by little... A gift of ourselves that maybe couldn't be offered to us as we thought the gifts were given to everyone else.

There is a place towards which we journey. And maybe there is a place from which we are journeying... And maybe the past holds onto us, although maybe we wish that it stopped weighing us down. But, we are formed and informed by all that passed. And as we journey, what we see in the distance approaching changes perspectives and passes us as it slips into the past and we continue seeing an evolving horizon. And maybe what we thought we were journeying towards isn't truly what we had expected. But, what we left behind us continues slipping further away...

And James? Nice fantasies, not necessarily shared, as each was a very personal and separate or individual experience. Visit me in Mexico? We're not friends; his decision 3 years ago. But, how do you qualify friendships? When were we friends? And what does that mean anyway?

We weave illusions. Nos alimentamos con fantasias... (we nourish ourselves with fantasies)some ideas are better written in Spanish... And then one day you awaken to the realization that all you ever truly had was reality and that that is all that you will ever have... weaver of dreams or not... And maybe you awaken to all you've done and what you have and are doing at that moment and the people who share your life with you and you realize that it is really good; possibly much better than what many others have. And maybe you don't own your own house and have financial stability guarranteed until death do we part, or a Hollywood movie life and I'm not publishing or selling my paintings. And I'm not famous. Nobody's heroe... Nobody's role model. Don't have kids. But maybe it's much better than what others have. Because I have myself and am true to myself, although maybe this bores you...

So many years priding myself on my cooking, international... What is another person's fantasy, I can reproduce in my kitchen. Then suddenly I realized that removing simple carbs from my diet was the ticket to health and a youth I thought was long passed. And WHAM, so much of my cooking repetoir and all those culinary fantasies of creating in the kitchen and eating or sharing with others... GONE... Remove the simple carbs and what do you have of a Chinese or Thai or Russian or Italian or Indian or Middle Eastern or North African or Mexican or Caribean culinary fantasy? But, what is better? to be thin, svelt, healthy, energetic, attractive (many ways of defining this beyond what is commonly judged as attractive) and content... or eating all of the possible fantasies you can reproduce in the kitchen? And, no, it may not be about self-control or about measurements...

Reading "Big Bad Leroy Brown and Don Juan's Reckless Daughter" I found myself very impressed and yearning for that writing again. And I thought I was inspired to write something much different from what came out... But this is what came out. Boy how I've evolved! Damn!

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