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.