A Little Proof I Am Still Alive

More Soon

Here I am. You know? Living the life. I am…

A Beautiful E-Mail

Enjoy the sun!

P.s. I was originally just going to write “I hope you die…” and hope you got it.

Fiending Poetic Endings

I want an epic duel in the streets. I´ll get to choose the weapons, because I´m undefeated at deuls and have learned my lesson not to challenge someone to one just because they stole my girlfriend, or something else as meaningless as that. It would just be murder, because I never lose, but I fiend for poetic endings.

I want a romantic journey filled with confused feelings of sadness. I want to send photocopies of postcards to people I don´t know. I´d like to feel indifferent when she speaks of parting, and destroyed when she actually does. I want to buy roses and give them to people we think are beautiful. I want to run from our imaginations, and laugh the whole way. I want to wear giant sombreros in the rain. I want to have paint fights in the streets, keeping enough around for anyone who feels inclined to join. I want to dress in fine matching Italian suits, and declare the end of the world as we roll around in puddles of mud.

I want a watch that goes backward, so I get younger as the day passes. I want you to get off of your god-damned iPhone or Blackberry, and just tell me about whatever. I want a staring contest where we both smile and forget that we´re not supposed to blink. I want all my ex-girlfriends to tell her not to waste her time, and for her to respond that, ¨time enjoyed isn´t wasted¨. I want to get caught staring, and not know what to say.  I want goodbyes to be too painful for tears. I never want to get rid of this akward feeling that none of you know what I´m talking about.

Fuck.

Accomodating public opinion destroys unique interpretation. Assuming what´s best is what´s wanted shows ignorant desires for financial compensation not personal desire to improve one´s art. Art is a dirty word manipulated for artists to announce their superiority. Read the dirty words of a dirty man. Allowing you to write is creating another generation of slaves; a word so utterly despicable many die to allow its destruction. While slaves themselves know nothing of the word, and despise its end; having to fend for themselves after its destruction. Do you understand the word, or do you despise its end?

Migraine Headache

Its all coming together now. The haze encompassing several days passed has blown into the ocean. We are riding around on a quad with more people than tires. Each of us holding on for dear life as the pot holes forcefully bounce us up and down on the thin metal bars we´re sitting on, and holding for dear life. I sit and do my best to watch for the pot holes, but Daniel is sitting on the front blocking my view of the road.

I anticipate our quick turns onto dirt roads. There are far less potholes, and constant traffic only makes them better by compacting the dirt. The asphalt roads break and dismember under the weight of cars, motorcycles, buses, horses, and donkeys. Making our weighty quad trip difficult for all but the driver, and since the driver doesn´t have to suffer any of his driving decisions then why not speed up for potholes. I would laugh.

The dust from the sand, and anything else that makes dirt blow into town covers the asphalt roads, the buildings, the food, the mosquitos, and even the people, but right now we´re above the people living in a giant house with other white people in a very brown country. Like many other minority ruled countries that have eventually fallen to the majority. We´ll see what happens.

Ecuador´s wealthy class is white people who speak English, surf all day, and generally despise the lower class for no reason other than their own ignorance. And people from Southern California fit right in as if we were made from the same earth as them. As if we blatantly despise the blacks and people without money. As if we couldn´t imagine living in the average Ecuadorian house, which are in far worse condition than the worst Los Angeles ghetto.

Their are entire families living in small quarters. Buying a little concrete when they can, and a few bricks for their new paycheck. Adding them slowly to their next story to lighten up the load on the first floor, and make their living conditions a little more comfortable. Usually just in time for the next baby of one of the women in the house. Not necessarily making more room for everyone, but room enough for more people.

¨Devin let´s go…¨; ¨Ok.¨

Playas.

I wish I had a camera already. The glory of Latin America is almost too much to explain, but I’ll do my best. I’ve caught my first Latin American cold, so forgive me if I don’t quite delve into these ideas as deeply as I could.

Before I left San Clemente I watched a four year old kid buy, and open a pack of cigarettes. It didn’t seem like he wanted to smoke them, but it was still very exciting for me to see a child actually purchase a pack of smokes for his parents. I wish I could bring that child home with me, and use him as a spokesperson for cigarette companies. “I can buy cigarettes without getting addicted myself.” If I accidentally have children they can be good for something. Running down to the store, and buying daddy his smokes, so I can sit on the couch, watch tv, and drink beer.

Everywhere you can possibly drive in Ecuador has vendors selling hot food, and cold drinks on the side of the road. You never have to wait in the terribly long lines of a fast food restaurant. You never have to search one out either.

Fuck. Whatever. I’m sick. I have a headache. I’m going to go take a nap.

Fucking Thirteen Year Olds

Culture shock is a mother fucker. I´ve gotten so used to my little California life of beers and blunts with people of my own age with similar interests that coming to South America with the intention to stay for quite awhile leaves me in a constant state of shock at the seemingly absurd lives of the Ecuadorian people.

If you´re just checkin in, I am in an extremely small town on an Ecuadorian beach. The weather is always warm. The mosquitos think I´m delicious. And there is no drinking age. The only requirement to drink is that you can lift the glass your beer has been poured into.

All week is left open to sitting on the beach and reading one of the hundreds of books I brought to read while I surprisingly never get sun-burnt. And the minature mosquitos, to small to see, chomp at my ankles unceasingly. Its unlikely to see anyone all day beside some random visitor who stops by to chat in Spanish while I do my best to understand and relate.

The whole country is a ninety-nine cent store next to a popular taqueria in a sweat lodge. You only need to be able to order carne asada without mayonesa to survive, but if you want to have a good time you need to know what a cervesa is and more or less be able to pronounce the word correctly. Smile when someone says ¨bueno¨ or ¨buena¨ and they´ll assume your friendly enough, and they´ll consider you a friend. Everyone says ¨no worries¨ and means it. They try to pawn their daughters off on you, and this is where I´m constantly shocked at their discretion.

Last night I attended my first quinceñera. The party was dominated by thirteen to seventeen year olds wearing bikinis and leis at night. There was a group of parents who stood nearby drinking caña manabitia from the bottle while their children drank whiskey and water, or whiskey mixed with something sugary, or cervezas with ice. I sat by silently as the children passed me their drinks demanding that I drink with them. Smoking cigarettes and attempting to explain as much about myself as I could to their approving parents while their daughters, basically naked, grinded into some dudes thrusting pelvis.

But they all seemed to be having a good time listening to the same three techno songs over and over again. The words ¨Its going to be a good, good night¨ still ring in my ears, but I´ve got to admit it was. Altogether an eye opening experience as to the culture of the Latins.

Not a single one of them likes to be told what to do, and its a rare occurence that one of them is told what to do. They make their own decisions. My discussion of ¨The land of the free¨ last night comes to mind as I place these words into this falsified universe. Its more like ¨the land of those enslaved by the dollar¨ although that´s a hard phrase to understand without escaping that world for a brief history of time. Without the knowledge of the counter balance to this sort of life its hard to fully understand what I mean even if you have an idea. I had an idea before I left that this was true, but I´m only now grasping the idea more fully.

It does seem like being exposed to this life style at the age of thirteen allows everyone time to grow up before they´re forced into responsibility. I see very few people who never grow up, but that´s probably because they only come out to moan into their bottles on the streets after everyone else is gone home. Everyone else manages to live a ¨freestyle¨ life with ¨no worries¨ fairly consistent with what those words actually mean. Although thirteen year olds without fear of having children absolutely terrify me, if I were born nearer the equator they probably wouldn´t.

 

Tranquil

The tangible manifestations of careless decisions, heated contort uncontrolled outward actions, chasing the good life but melting before realizing solid interpretations. The sweat lodge of hallucinations is the country of recooperation. The reticent voice of a talkaholic accelerates cogitation. Ions traverse neurons without necessitation of realization all for the desire of imperturbation. It all happens now. What is tomorrow anyway?

The Mafia

I was well recieved by Pablo´s family. His mother Haiti, and his father Chino are great people who love company. They provide food at every meal, and they talk a lot about the people around them. They´ve had a visit from the chief of police in the area and they discussed people. There are so many people around that the chief doesn´t know that he must ask about the ones Pablo´s met. I assume they´re tied in with the cartels, and he is really doing research for them. Pablo explained the situation to him very well. They seemed to be pleased with his home.

This night Ryan and I stayed in a big house down the road. It has been long abandoned, and we´d been asked to make room for all the tourists in town, so Pablo and his family could make some additional money. We wandered down there. I was sober, but after drinking some water I began hallucinating. I´d been drugged by, I assumed, the cartel police officer. It took awhile to recognize the way I felt. I asked Ryan how he felt after drinking the water. He spoke as if through a haze. He didn´t know what´d happened, but he said he´d felt as if he´d been knifed in the face.

We were in the dark, so I lit a match to see if I could see anything. I didn´t see anything like blood in his face, but as soon as the match went out. Ryan disappeared. I searched the whole house for him, and found drugs planted in his bag. I immediately went outside to look for him, but couldn´t find him. I ran out of the house into the streets screaming that he´d been kidnapped. The drugs ran intensely through my mind and body, but I didn´t know what I´d been given. There is a chemical here, which creates temporary blindness and insanity, and makes the victim extremely susceptible to suggestion.

I heard a voice in my head telling me what to do. ¨Keep walking slowly¨ it said. I kept walking until I saw people, and then I started running. I was captured by the cartel and eventually brought back to the house to be watched. The house next to this one was the cartels strong hold. They were moving trucks in and out of the house with obvious loads of cocaine. Although their interest was on the gringo who interrupted a small shipment. They suggested that they wanted to know all about the American international borders. They locked me in a tent and made all sorts of suggestions about what they wanted. I kept as quiet as possible knowing that Ryan had been kidnapped, and that it was because of Pablo although inadvertently. I was eventually allowed to sleep since they weren´t getting any information out of me and the bosses of the cartel were the ones who took interest. I thought of where Ryan might have gone. If they were going to send him out of the country or use him as a drug mule. I didn´t know, and I was extremely worried about when they would call the police to find the planted drugs. I couldn´t do anything.

In the morning… Ryan was back. He reassured me that he was there all night. So… Ryan is in with the cartels. He helped plan this as much as they did. Alright Ryan… I see how it is. But what could you be getting out of this? You´ve always been such a nice guy. If you´re in on it then Pablo must be too. What´s next? Oh, you´re turning me over to the international police to be dealt with for my misgivings in Dallas and Mexico. You´re going to make sure I´m treated well? That´s good. I´ll stick around. There isn´t anywhere I can go at this point. ¨Hey Pablo. What´s up my man?¨