Arrived this afternoon via Autobuses del Norte. I write as sunset slants through a guava tree across this stony little courtyard.
I had a couple hours waiting in the big terminal, pushing through the crowds of Mexicans to buy tickets. They don't form lines; they just stand around the counter and hold up a hand, or money, like they were bidding. Still, someone does attend me in time, by whatever mysterious charity, and there's a couple of hours to wait for the bus anyway. No one seems upset or even bored; I entertained myself imagining they could wait as well at the station as elsewhere. The kids stop at me to stare absorptively, and as I type I realize it's not like cattle exactly, but as though I were cattle, or an orang, or something too altogether foreign to respond.
The bus rocks through fairly eternal suburbs, with tall Barrier-Block-style rectangular housing perched on improbable slopes. It's a darwinian theory of construction, I suppose: those buildings that survive the rains and quakes will tend to remain, and what remains will eventually house the greatest number of people in the smallest space.
The hills outside Santa Cruz feel like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, at Disneyland. The road careens so narrowly all I see outside the window are the rocks. A goathead pokes around the seat from beneath the clothes of the senora in front.
For a second I imagine it has just done nursing. "O walleyed, unrepentant goat" -- insouciant, with his legs, I have to imagine, tied -- "tranquility to accept the things I cannot change" or "so placid and self-contain'd." But then, he's probably birria by now. /I'm stewing. But then, he's probably stew./
With the rocks parted, Santa Cruz opens below like sunrise, roads flickering in and out of red and goldish rocks, sparse nopales and mesquite, darker green gathering towards the copper lake below, and pink narrow spires rising above the town.
From closer, dust dominates. I can't say I mind, now that it's no longer midday and I'm no longer stomping from hotel to hotel with that GI dufflebag across my neck, but I wonder how the farmers manage. Maybe it reaches a point where as much topsoil lands as leaves, but I'm suspicious.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
DF
I cannot rent this room, the concierge tells me. When I ask Whyever not he says they rob the güeros frequently, that I look too obvious: he points to his eye and to me, then to the bag with this computer.
I'm fairly happy, though, and happier to sleep. I walk stairs to the ninth floor, where a naked bulb hangs some eighteen inches by a wire.
I hit the light, tie the computerstrap to a wrist and run the strap under my back. A moth lights on the window way up here above traffic, and refracted headlights cast across the ceiling from below.
Morning,
I leave the bag of clothes and grab a train to Librería Gandhi. It's closed, but the sun's still low, and I eat tamales beside some stand with some chocolate corn drink so thick it barely pours, almost a pudding or a porridge, and walk the damp streets. We must have had a light rain last night.
A woman sits crosslegged on the sidewalk, weatherburnt face, rotting teeth, legs doubled, a scanty rebozo beneath and around her.
I want to avert my eyes, but as she reaches towards me, lifting her hand, her arm, her mouth, her eyes, I see the baby nursing, wrapped in a woolen blanket. A large smooth, full perfectly formed breast pulls from its lips so softly my tongue presses against the roof of my mouth.
I'm fairly happy, though, and happier to sleep. I walk stairs to the ninth floor, where a naked bulb hangs some eighteen inches by a wire.
I hit the light, tie the computerstrap to a wrist and run the strap under my back. A moth lights on the window way up here above traffic, and refracted headlights cast across the ceiling from below.
Morning,
I leave the bag of clothes and grab a train to Librería Gandhi. It's closed, but the sun's still low, and I eat tamales beside some stand with some chocolate corn drink so thick it barely pours, almost a pudding or a porridge, and walk the damp streets. We must have had a light rain last night.
A woman sits crosslegged on the sidewalk, weatherburnt face, rotting teeth, legs doubled, a scanty rebozo beneath and around her.
I want to avert my eyes, but as she reaches towards me, lifting her hand, her arm, her mouth, her eyes, I see the baby nursing, wrapped in a woolen blanket. A large smooth, full perfectly formed breast pulls from its lips so softly my tongue presses against the roof of my mouth.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
I'm back -- or forth
I'll explain.
I'm in a hotel on Benito Juárez off the Zócalo in Mexico City. I took a gamble, figured my money would last longer. I paid the ISP up front, hung the bike from a rafter in my dad's garage, and hiked up to catch a train to LAX. I'll wind up on my his door again; he'll wind up supporting this project another way, but six months later, so I won't worry when I write.
The trip -- everything officious at LAX, this plane a snug living room with almonds in the sky, the California grid computer chip grids in someone's rumpled motherboard below; then Tijuana streets some cattywampus termite-lust linguine, here sofas on the boulevard, there a bridge to zilch.
At Mexico City a thousand cabbies flood the airport. Nobody asks; the quickest grabs my bag. I grab it back. I do not own enough to pay someone to carry belongings, and no one carries my computer. The cabbie hollers something through the crowd, some explanation, I suspect, though it sounds like a complaint. He has waited because I'm a tourist, and now I won't produce him any money.
"Perdón."
Lo siento, I have been told, is sorry. But it translates as "I feel it," something I'm trying to not say in this crowd. The next cabbie grabs at my bags; I hoist one on my shoulder, hang the computerbag by a strap from my neck and plunge off towards the metro, at the end of the airport.
The second I hit the platform at the bottom, I find a slim young man beside me. He looks slightly shy behind thick, Ginsberg glasses. I notice he's in uniform.
"This is hard," he said. "You travel very far from home."
"I love to see all this." I adjust the army duffle square between my shoulders, cock my head to nod around its bulk. The boy's too young to be a cop. His friend, another cop, stands at the entrance looking with what seems distaste.
"I think I find it very strange to be far from my father. Somewhere I can't read the signs I don't know what to do."
"One makes mistakes. People usually forgive."
"Sometimes. But I would want someone to help. It must be very hard."
The train came. I waved and smiled patiently, perplexed at his attentions and only as the train pulled out noticed the sign behind him:
BULTAS GRANDES PROHIBIDAS
VIOLADORES SERAN MULTADOS
I'm in a hotel on Benito Juárez off the Zócalo in Mexico City. I took a gamble, figured my money would last longer. I paid the ISP up front, hung the bike from a rafter in my dad's garage, and hiked up to catch a train to LAX. I'll wind up on my his door again; he'll wind up supporting this project another way, but six months later, so I won't worry when I write.
The trip -- everything officious at LAX, this plane a snug living room with almonds in the sky, the California grid computer chip grids in someone's rumpled motherboard below; then Tijuana streets some cattywampus termite-lust linguine, here sofas on the boulevard, there a bridge to zilch.
At Mexico City a thousand cabbies flood the airport. Nobody asks; the quickest grabs my bag. I grab it back. I do not own enough to pay someone to carry belongings, and no one carries my computer. The cabbie hollers something through the crowd, some explanation, I suspect, though it sounds like a complaint. He has waited because I'm a tourist, and now I won't produce him any money.
"Perdón."
Lo siento, I have been told, is sorry. But it translates as "I feel it," something I'm trying to not say in this crowd. The next cabbie grabs at my bags; I hoist one on my shoulder, hang the computerbag by a strap from my neck and plunge off towards the metro, at the end of the airport.
The second I hit the platform at the bottom, I find a slim young man beside me. He looks slightly shy behind thick, Ginsberg glasses. I notice he's in uniform.
"This is hard," he said. "You travel very far from home."
"I love to see all this." I adjust the army duffle square between my shoulders, cock my head to nod around its bulk. The boy's too young to be a cop. His friend, another cop, stands at the entrance looking with what seems distaste.
"I think I find it very strange to be far from my father. Somewhere I can't read the signs I don't know what to do."
"One makes mistakes. People usually forgive."
"Sometimes. But I would want someone to help. It must be very hard."
The train came. I waved and smiled patiently, perplexed at his attentions and only as the train pulled out noticed the sign behind him:
BULTAS GRANDES PROHIBIDAS
VIOLADORES SERAN MULTADOS
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Time for Sale
I know why Earl kept my number. I thought he figured I was smart or something. He wants me to buy a house.
I have no money, as you know. But Earl assures me that money is no problem. The problem is that the house is not for sale.
That could be a long wait in Tunis. On the other hand, to write even a small book, to even pretend I'm doing what can be done, I need six months relatively free. For continuity, I need the time together if I can get it.
So think 1,000/month for six months = $6,000 up front. I'm easily $2500 short, maybe $3500 after whatever goes wrong that can.
I could get a job, but that doesn't leave me much time to deal with the package.
I have no money, as you know. But Earl assures me that money is no problem. The problem is that the house is not for sale.
"We've drawn up all the papers; the bank will take it. No one's been by the place for weeks. We need a buyer. You have no record."
"I can't buy a house."
"Oh, you can if you want to. You don't have any debts, right? You need a job anyway; when you get it you qualify. This just lets you leave early. We can help each other, but we need to trust.
"I'll trust you with the down payment; I trust you to actually buy the house. I mean, if you don't do it, I can be nasty, but you can hide, and I have no legal recourse. I trust you because I observe that you understand; you can trust me or not, based on the same reasoning.
"I provide the down payment. You buy the house from me. Go ahead and move in. If I were you I'd make payments. That looks a lot better. Of course, someone does own the house. In three days or three months, the owner shows up and kicks you out.
"You're going to play dumb. After all, all you did was buy a house. Oh, someone suspects; they'll ask. But I figure you know better than to confess. I'm the one who knows. I have no interest in confessing, and, trust me, I won't be around. You default on the loan. Your credit is ruined, of course. But what can that mean to you?
"We arrange to meet somewhere, say, a cafe in Tunis. They speak French, but that won't bother you. I wouldn't travel earlier than six months, maybe eight. It looks suspicious. We meet. I pass you your share of the money, and we never see each other again.
"No hard feelings, you understand. That's just safer for each.
That could be a long wait in Tunis. On the other hand, to write even a small book, to even pretend I'm doing what can be done, I need six months relatively free. For continuity, I need the time together if I can get it.
1 Room Westside________$750-
General utilities________0-
No car.
Food__________________150-
Cell___________________50-
ISP ___________________50-
So think 1,000/month for six months = $6,000 up front. I'm easily $2500 short, maybe $3500 after whatever goes wrong that can.
I could get a job, but that doesn't leave me much time to deal with the package.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Rose Cafe
I felt so flattered this morning.
This may take me a few days.
Dr. Huffman called -- a biologist for the Alliance for Survival -- he said he wanted to drive up to talk.
We picked the Rose Cafe, since he knew it: straight up from the breakwater at Belmont and two blocks in. I pedaled down the riverside path and arrived early. He had three hours' drive up the coast, so I had time to wander in the bookstore on Los Coyotes and Bellflower, whiff the books and riffle passages to play with the rythmns of the texts. I strummed a few pages of Whitman, then Miller -- it's a mood thing, dontcha know. In bookstores I like to read from mid-paragraph to mid-paragraph, try poems backwards, so nothing exactly begins or ends.
What comfort we must take from speech before we know the words.
I arrived with time to gloat. I didn't know I was til later. The Rose has those odd tiny high stools that keep one's feet off the ground, those and the tiny tables that force one to be more than naturally precise with drinks and food and give some feeling of daintiness, I suppose. I perched. Everything cost two to three times what it would without the tiny tables and peppermint trim, or a block further from the water, but I'd decided to let the oddness of it all seep across me -- the unaffordable women in outfits calculated to some mildly alien algorythm. I suppose I savored my difference, whatever that is -- my ability to momentarily exist in their jardin like a foreign phrase or an absentminded gesture, obdurate in insignificance or unmindful of whatever meanings I might provoke in this context.
I felt friendly towards the girls and counters in an almost indistinct way and recognized the doctor the second he entered. I thought he scanned ruefully, but he took me in quickly, and I nodded him over.
He asked if I were an engineer, if I worked directly at the Casa Republica Plant, if there weren't some vital significance, some large specific infraction or documented manslaughter that he and his staff might have passed over in the documents, and nodded twice softly, eyes lowered, at my last No: "I thought not," he said. "I hoped perhaps." His palms fluttered, turned down towards the table carefully.
Doctor Huffman spent some time with me. He may have wanted to wait before driving several hours back down south. I had time to mention the pressurizer, the jumpers, their badges, the fishkill, the broken and unrepairable steamgen tubes, the missing uranium rods and pellets, the series of ad hoc experiments with water treatment to try to slow the rusting eating away the irreparable guts of the plant.
He nodded. He confirmed a few conclusions, added some detail, some legal context, radiation measures from the hills around.
"There were four items we didn't know about in all that stack of sheets. I do thank you for those, we do. And we appreciate your intent."
But I should realize that The Alliance seldom pays its labor, operates strictly on donations and volunteers, that kids like I saw in that office scanned through the documents one after another and tried to read them, that unless information can give some decent, concrete results, it only discourages the people who process it.
He shared some stories, things like camping out on the beach nearby when the radiation started to climb, and people still within the breeding population moved off. The others finally investigated the plant and found someone had left a door open, perhaps on purpose. I mentioned my fear of reprisals from ECorp, wasted his time with that; he nodded.
"You can't worry about that. My mail arrives opened. My phone clicks and buzzes and cuts out at odd times. You get used to that. But they won't kill you for sport. They'll sue you just for advertising or convenience if they can, but killing causes problems. I'd love to have something they might kill me for. I thought I might today.
"You know, this plant is a rhinoceros. It's bigger than you and I together. In some ways it's noncomprehending and aggressive. We hunt with an air rifle. There's only one soft spot, and it's right - in - the - eye. You cannot look at that eye long before the eye sees you. And if you're close enough to hit that eye, you're close enough it can hurt you. You're going to cause it any damage, you've got to take that one best shot.
"You're welcome, you know. We'd love to have you, and your talents, and your insights, any time you decide to get serious."
This may take me a few days.
Dr. Huffman called -- a biologist for the Alliance for Survival -- he said he wanted to drive up to talk.
We picked the Rose Cafe, since he knew it: straight up from the breakwater at Belmont and two blocks in. I pedaled down the riverside path and arrived early. He had three hours' drive up the coast, so I had time to wander in the bookstore on Los Coyotes and Bellflower, whiff the books and riffle passages to play with the rythmns of the texts. I strummed a few pages of Whitman, then Miller -- it's a mood thing, dontcha know. In bookstores I like to read from mid-paragraph to mid-paragraph, try poems backwards, so nothing exactly begins or ends.
What comfort we must take from speech before we know the words.
I arrived with time to gloat. I didn't know I was til later. The Rose has those odd tiny high stools that keep one's feet off the ground, those and the tiny tables that force one to be more than naturally precise with drinks and food and give some feeling of daintiness, I suppose. I perched. Everything cost two to three times what it would without the tiny tables and peppermint trim, or a block further from the water, but I'd decided to let the oddness of it all seep across me -- the unaffordable women in outfits calculated to some mildly alien algorythm. I suppose I savored my difference, whatever that is -- my ability to momentarily exist in their jardin like a foreign phrase or an absentminded gesture, obdurate in insignificance or unmindful of whatever meanings I might provoke in this context.
I felt friendly towards the girls and counters in an almost indistinct way and recognized the doctor the second he entered. I thought he scanned ruefully, but he took me in quickly, and I nodded him over.
He asked if I were an engineer, if I worked directly at the Casa Republica Plant, if there weren't some vital significance, some large specific infraction or documented manslaughter that he and his staff might have passed over in the documents, and nodded twice softly, eyes lowered, at my last No: "I thought not," he said. "I hoped perhaps." His palms fluttered, turned down towards the table carefully.
Doctor Huffman spent some time with me. He may have wanted to wait before driving several hours back down south. I had time to mention the pressurizer, the jumpers, their badges, the fishkill, the broken and unrepairable steamgen tubes, the missing uranium rods and pellets, the series of ad hoc experiments with water treatment to try to slow the rusting eating away the irreparable guts of the plant.
He nodded. He confirmed a few conclusions, added some detail, some legal context, radiation measures from the hills around.
"There were four items we didn't know about in all that stack of sheets. I do thank you for those, we do. And we appreciate your intent."
But I should realize that The Alliance seldom pays its labor, operates strictly on donations and volunteers, that kids like I saw in that office scanned through the documents one after another and tried to read them, that unless information can give some decent, concrete results, it only discourages the people who process it.
He shared some stories, things like camping out on the beach nearby when the radiation started to climb, and people still within the breeding population moved off. The others finally investigated the plant and found someone had left a door open, perhaps on purpose. I mentioned my fear of reprisals from ECorp, wasted his time with that; he nodded.
"You can't worry about that. My mail arrives opened. My phone clicks and buzzes and cuts out at odd times. You get used to that. But they won't kill you for sport. They'll sue you just for advertising or convenience if they can, but killing causes problems. I'd love to have something they might kill me for. I thought I might today.
"You know, this plant is a rhinoceros. It's bigger than you and I together. In some ways it's noncomprehending and aggressive. We hunt with an air rifle. There's only one soft spot, and it's right - in - the - eye. You cannot look at that eye long before the eye sees you. And if you're close enough to hit that eye, you're close enough it can hurt you. You're going to cause it any damage, you've got to take that one best shot.
"You're welcome, you know. We'd love to have you, and your talents, and your insights, any time you decide to get serious."
Monday, August 20, 2007
Fin
Done!
I can't believe it took me so long. In some way, I romanced myself (take that as you will) with the business of writing this thing up, with my attachment to the project - to such an extent that I didn't realize there would be other people fighting against the plant who would be happy to get information I could give them, who know other people, who had some idea what to do about it.
Today I just walked in to the office, call it office, of the Alliance for Survival. They're in an old house with the pillarpost porch just west and south of downtown. I made the requisite trip by bike without event. I didn't bother with the stupid tie or jacket; I didn't have to strap the stupid bookbag on the frame between my legs.
And I rode back with an empty pack, playing with traffic.
So, home free.
The kid behind the desk at the Alliance -- sneakers, T-shirt, all that -- said they had a lawsuit in progress about the very plant, seemed pleased. I left him the number at my dad's and an email, said I'd answer questions if there were any and apologised that the docs were pretty scattered and disordered since there didn't seem to be any one special way to order them, and walked out the door.
So, in net, I had earned a little over three thousand bucks. Voltage had called before I got back. I called Moneypenney, who seemed pained. Apparently LISA had called with the complaint that I had "simply not done the work." I pointed out that they might have noticed a complete absence of work before four months, particularly given that they had laid off over 90% of the people who started with me before they dropped me. She mentioned that LISA was "strange," and not for the first time, but seemed incompletely convinced.
I could read her reaction, and LISA's, in a lot of ways, I guess, but I doubt I'll need either. I'll pedal down the river to Seal Beach tomorrow, then call Carl and Colin and see who's renting out on the Westside. Rolling into summer Patrick will will have work on the trucks, so the next few months I can find money without temping. And whatever the Alliance finds to do with those docs, LISA isn't likely to have more on me than whatever they have now.
And if they do, I'm relieved to have nothing whatever that I can do but sleep.
I can't believe it took me so long. In some way, I romanced myself (take that as you will) with the business of writing this thing up, with my attachment to the project - to such an extent that I didn't realize there would be other people fighting against the plant who would be happy to get information I could give them, who know other people, who had some idea what to do about it.
Today I just walked in to the office, call it office, of the Alliance for Survival. They're in an old house with the pillarpost porch just west and south of downtown. I made the requisite trip by bike without event. I didn't bother with the stupid tie or jacket; I didn't have to strap the stupid bookbag on the frame between my legs.
And I rode back with an empty pack, playing with traffic.
So, home free.
The kid behind the desk at the Alliance -- sneakers, T-shirt, all that -- said they had a lawsuit in progress about the very plant, seemed pleased. I left him the number at my dad's and an email, said I'd answer questions if there were any and apologised that the docs were pretty scattered and disordered since there didn't seem to be any one special way to order them, and walked out the door.
So, in net, I had earned a little over three thousand bucks. Voltage had called before I got back. I called Moneypenney, who seemed pained. Apparently LISA had called with the complaint that I had "simply not done the work." I pointed out that they might have noticed a complete absence of work before four months, particularly given that they had laid off over 90% of the people who started with me before they dropped me. She mentioned that LISA was "strange," and not for the first time, but seemed incompletely convinced.
I could read her reaction, and LISA's, in a lot of ways, I guess, but I doubt I'll need either. I'll pedal down the river to Seal Beach tomorrow, then call Carl and Colin and see who's renting out on the Westside. Rolling into summer Patrick will will have work on the trucks, so the next few months I can find money without temping. And whatever the Alliance finds to do with those docs, LISA isn't likely to have more on me than whatever they have now.
And if they do, I'm relieved to have nothing whatever that I can do but sleep.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Sensible | Sensate
A belated happy 267th to the Marquis de Sade; let's everyone go make sense:
IF the plant leaks once in a while,
THEN almost no one dies of it,
SO it happens once in a while,
SO it is news,
BUT it is not important.
IF the plant leaks every day,
THEN many die of it,
SO that is important,
BUT it is continuous and we cannot sort out which individuals die because of the plant,
SO that is not news
AND no one wants to know.
C'est logique, non? -- what we use whenever a thing does not make sense at all. And what's a few roentgens between consenting amis?
The majority of the scientists at Los Alamos signed a petition that bomb that landed on Hiroshima be detonated at an unpopulated site in Japan, to demonstrate it. With all the times I've heard people discuss Truman's decision to drop the bomb, the option has never been mentioned.
Rudy's planning his class action suit. He called to say first that he spoke to some lawyers, then that he's planning to. I sent him the email addresses, let him go. If he thrashes enough, maybe he'll kick up someone I can hand this stack of papers off to. But I'm not running interference -- have to work, I say.
"How are you going to take care of yourself while you're doing all this?"
"Oh, my old man's got a house he needs painted. I'll just live in it while I paint it and fix it up. I'll have to bring some birds across, too."
Birds?
"Tropical birds. They don't cost anything down there cause they flit through the trees. People pay big money. Pet stores and them."
I mention the little legal issue; he's not dissuaded.
"They're easier than people. A little tequila, they keep their mouths shut all the way across."
"The birds are mum."
"Yeah. I'ts great; you can't let them get too much, though. Then pull them out of the socks soon as you get good across."
"Socks?"
"I visit my cousins, then stop off in Rosarita on the way back. I sit on the beach with the birds and the laundry and give the birds a little tequila. When they fall over, I pop them in a sock, one by one."
"Yeah. That's a few thousand dollars in that basket if they're all still good. "
When I was a kid, our parakeet always looked a little glassy-eyed.
IF the plant leaks once in a while,
THEN almost no one dies of it,
SO it happens once in a while,
SO it is news,
BUT it is not important.
IF the plant leaks every day,
THEN many die of it,
SO that is important,
BUT it is continuous and we cannot sort out which individuals die because of the plant,
SO that is not news
AND no one wants to know.
C'est logique, non? -- what we use whenever a thing does not make sense at all. And what's a few roentgens between consenting amis?
The majority of the scientists at Los Alamos signed a petition that bomb that landed on Hiroshima be detonated at an unpopulated site in Japan, to demonstrate it. With all the times I've heard people discuss Truman's decision to drop the bomb, the option has never been mentioned.
Rudy's planning his class action suit. He called to say first that he spoke to some lawyers, then that he's planning to. I sent him the email addresses, let him go. If he thrashes enough, maybe he'll kick up someone I can hand this stack of papers off to. But I'm not running interference -- have to work, I say.
"How are you going to take care of yourself while you're doing all this?"
"Oh, my old man's got a house he needs painted. I'll just live in it while I paint it and fix it up. I'll have to bring some birds across, too."
Birds?
"Tropical birds. They don't cost anything down there cause they flit through the trees. People pay big money. Pet stores and them."
I mention the little legal issue; he's not dissuaded.
"They're easier than people. A little tequila, they keep their mouths shut all the way across."
"The birds are mum."
"Yeah. I'ts great; you can't let them get too much, though. Then pull them out of the socks soon as you get good across."
"Socks?"
"I visit my cousins, then stop off in Rosarita on the way back. I sit on the beach with the birds and the laundry and give the birds a little tequila. When they fall over, I pop them in a sock, one by one."
"Yeah. That's a few thousand dollars in that basket if they're all still good. "
When I was a kid, our parakeet always looked a little glassy-eyed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
