March 11 Im mourning the loss of my spider. Silver and gold. Arańa Linda. Gone. The vacancy pains me. Life in Central America. Brief. Subject to the contingencies of being alive. More pronounced here than in North America. Come. Live and die here. Suddenly and exquisitely. To draw close to life is to draw close to death. R.I.P. As Jesus states in the Gospel according to St. Thomas: To live in me is to live in the fire. Tonight the three of us celebrated the advent of the gibbous moon with a fifth of Nicaraguan rum. Out here on the perimeter, we is stoned immaculate. In a drunken state we fatuously attempted to take sides on the Plato vs. Aristotle divide. Coleridge stated that everyone is born either a Platonist or Aristotelian. Destiny. He believed it might be possible to convert an Aristotelian, but impossible to change a Platonist. What defense is there against the Socratic method? Only one, hemlock. Exhausted by midnight. Abandoned field of futile enquiry. Left to finish the fifth with a pitcher of juice fresh squeezed from local oranges. Central American magic. Drunken mystery. The Self adorns itself with one transient universe after another like worn out suits of clothes. Earlier today, Nathan took me to the shack next to the bus stop, where Nicaraguan women make tortillas and incredible soup over wood fires. $2. Anyone in Nicaragua who has $2 can eat as much as anyone could want. I could not eat but half of the meal. I gave the rest to Nate. He works hard. Fully utilizes the calories. We ate at the soup shack next to the bus stop and threw the bones to the pack of stray dogs that wait there salivating in anticipation. Beautiful animals. I want to have a dog like those to guard the farm. When I pointed out the protuberant ribs of the dogs to Nate, he said, Its just the breed. Im inclined to name that breed Malnourished. The soup lady tried to shoo the dogs away. She did not want them bothering her VIP gringo customers. The Nicaraguans pay them no mind. Do you think she had much success in her endeavor? Me, I love Nicaraguan soup-bone dogs. I picked out the one I thought was the prettiest and made advances of love and friendship. My attempt at seduction availed me nothing. The Nicaraguans looked at me as if I was out of my mind. Gringo loco.
Posted on: Tue, 11 Mar 2014 23:10:25 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015