2017 May 22

Morning returns the shift from shadow into light sweeping around our world like a rhyme, like a rhythm, again and again and again it seems to come and go –

But no.  We are moving, not it; I, and not they; you, not not.

If I could hear the Earth growling on its axis, would it sound any different? This breath of wind, this breeze from the sea, this sunlight veiled by morning clouds, how. Your whisper of good morning. My eyes, opening. Water on my face.

Toilet.

Breakfast.

Coffee.

If I remember to wash my hands, then I smile in pleasure. God says –

Today. Yesterday. Tomorrow.

We are an unfolding cube, time. Somewhere else, is not here. This –

Monday .

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Tijuana gringo

2017 May 19 – Friday

Yesterday I received an email from a man who has been reading my beloved website, Tijuana Gringo, the labyrinthine matrix of poems, stories, essays, and translations which I basically worked on from 2000 through 2007, after which time I moved back to San Diego and pretty much stopped writing new material for it. It has, however, lingered on in several incarnations, most specifically in three locations, the latest iteration being tijuanagringo dot com, the middle age site being at yahoo geocities, and the earliest pages appearing at gastown dot com xanadu (a website I began writing in 1995 and 1996).

He said he had enjoyed it but advised me that I should update it.

It is sometimes embarassing when your old age comes back to haunt you. Or, wait, I mean the opposite, don’t I? Well, I was so much younger then. Ten, even fifteen years ago when I could still walk five miles across town without batting an eye, so long as I had some water to drink and a bite to eat and a place to sit along the way. Years later, I lose my breath so easily I can scarcely climb onboard a bus without gasping in momentary exhaustion.

I miss it. I miss Tijuana.

The people. The food. The language. The art of life on the frontier of time and space, between two worlds, two languages, two empires, two systems of money.

They have cash registers there that are programmed to ring up your sale in either dollars or pesos.

Not quite inconceivable, but getting there.

You understand me, I hope.

1.

there used to

be a hut

it was

not

 

 

2.

 

. . . for a long time now – I am not certain how long, months, years, decades – I have been obsessed with recreational vehicles.

How so.

?

Recently – this year, last year, at least – I have crawled around the internet webs, sniffing out tidbits and clues and data and

trailers, truck campers, motor homes, and even simpler outdoor lifestyle technology, such as tents and portable stoves, folding tables and cots, shovels to dig six inch deep holes for poop, and

well

you get the idea.

This is prose. Not poetry.

Or not.

(capital letter begin sentence

hut

)

 

 

3.

 

wait – don’t forget – a bow saw

and hatchet

 

campfire

 

warm

.

 

 

4.

 

( quote$  from the 1996 Bounder motorhome manual)

 

EXHAUST GASES ARE DEADLY.

 

DO NOT BLOCK THE TAILPIPES OR SITUATE THE VEHICLE IN A PLACE WHERE THE EXHAUST GASES HAVE ANY POSSIBILITY OF ACCUMULATING EITHER OUTSIDE, UNDERNEATH, OR INSIDE YOUR VEHICLE OR ANY NEARBY VEHICLES.

 

OUTSIDE AIR MOVEMENTS CAN CARRY EXHAUST GASES INSIDE THE VEHICLE THROUGH WINDOWS OR OTHER OPENINGS REMOTE FROM THE EXHAUST OUTLET.

 

OPERATE THE ENGINE(S) ONLY WHEN SAFE DISPERSION OF EXHAUST GASES CAN BE ASSURED, AND MONITOR OUTSIDE CONDITIONS TO BE SURE THAT EXHAUST CONTINUES TO BE DISPERSED SAFELY.

 

 

5.

 

DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES OPERATE ANY ENGINE WHILE SLEEPING.

 

 

6.