Aug 9 Sunday
Puerto Escondido: finally we're in paradise, I am so thankful to be in the tropics at sea level— after a rough morning. Dropping my camera on the cement floor like that, I am without my eyes, and that she bitch on the other side of town, made it the way all to the plaza before dying. People walked around her, thinking she was asleep. And in death she achieved the escape she sought.
Would they understand if I had put her out of her misery? The slow lingering death of a dog one tropical summer afternoon. Her bony hips like a blonde mountain. She died silent, not noticing the change from day to night.
Would they understand if I had put her out of her misery? The slow lingering death of a dog one tropical summer afternoon. Her bony hips like a blonde mountain. She died silent, not noticing the change from day to night.
Without eyes, my mind frames photos all over the place. We're staying in the best hotel in town, at $23 a night, but it's worth it. Yesterday with no room reserved we went to El Jardín, only to witness the patron stash a few ounces of grass outside our window.
I'd had bad vibes about the place since we first set foot in it. John was saying, Any port in a storm. A shitstorm waiting to happen. And we got it the hell out of the place with fear in our eyes.
The first hotel we wanted, Hotel Santa Fe, suddenly had a room available. The gods were with us. But sleep was fitful. I kept waiting for the masked entrance of a murderer.
In all of this traveling, I've lost a few days. Here in Mexico, only a week; I feel like I've had three vacations. First in Mexico City, second in Oaxaca, and third one here.
Gabriel from DF (De Effe), Mexico City, is translating some North American poets Lowell, Whitter Bynner, etc. He gets to stay in paradise for a month. God, that restaurant facing the sea, barefoot, enjoying cafecitos. Eating pulpo al mojo de ajo every night, and putting a serious dent in the octopus population. Ah, to have a palapa in Yelapa.
The geckos have come out, hunting moths as the gray sky fades to obscuridad. Too bad they don't hunt mosquitoes too. A gecko nearly shits in my dinner. Beware of small foreign objects falling from the ceiling.
Pulpo al mojo de ajo—octopus and garlic. Divine.
Yesterday, a man walked from the surf carrying a small octopus.
Today's dinner?
Puerto Angelito
Snorkeling in murky water, angelfish dark and rise in a multitude of blues. A boxfish eyes me. Blennies and wrasse everywhere. Blennies, with their suction mouths, move away, the wrasse follow the path we break in the water, nibbling on extra tidbits kicked up by our passing.
If I hadn't put Sunday in my journal, I couldn't have dated this entry.
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