I want to say, here is every instance of being naked. But I’m not exactly sure how to do this.
Today, I cried at lunch. I was looking at the ocean, and all the critiques of the world dumped themselves into my noodle stir fry, and I ate it. Something is happening here, and I have not experienced it before, but I think it is an attempt towards and.
There’s ghosts in this place and at every window, too. I have not approached death’s vulnerability, or all the ways of being naked. But it has approached me. It comes in through the dream space and calls me Darling Pie. I awake and look at the ocean, and it consumes all reality.
I’ve never tried so hard to be an and as I am right now, and all I am doing is sitting here. Sitting with an abundance of observation.
“We are an exploded form of one another.”
— Danielle Vogel
Now is that moment when you hear your ex-lover’s name coming through the intercom as she’s asked to report to the information desk. You were quite sure she wasn’t here though; quite sure she didn’t even know about this. But you were also quite sure of what you heard. You reassure yourself that there’s more than one person in the world with this name.
You look up. Look across the ocean. See how many shades of blue there are in just one field of vision. Multiply that number by how many people in the world are currently looking at the ocean. Making math out of the ocean makes you forget the language for the time.
DAY 1, 8:45 pm
What do I know about Honduras? Murder capital of the world. I once read that the name translates as “depths.”
“Gracias a Dios que hemos salido de esas Honduras.”
“Thank God we have departed from those depths.” —Christopher Columbus
What do I really know about Honduras? Last summer I floated on a private beach and drank strawberry daiquiris. No one wanted to go to the murder capital of the world, so we didn’t call it that. We called it the beach – no country, just the beach – a slip of semantics. African lions in a cage, toucans in a cage, horses in the water, a sign that read, “hello i love you.” Sure, I’ll have another daiquiri; I paid a lot of money for this.
To look at the ocean is to absolve yourself of time.
A friend and I drink prickly pear margaritas in Tucson, and I’m overwhelmed with disgust. Not with the drink, not with her, not with this evening; the disgust is for myself and my implicit role in borders. But I’ve been looking forward to seeing her. We’re fundraising for the desert, celebrating the cactus. Sure, I’ll have another margarita; we’re raising money for a good cause.
To look at the desert is to look at eternity in a repetitive sort of way. By this I mean, both past and future.
DAY 2, 3:30 pm
I’ve never seen so many shades of brown before. Look up. Look across the desert. See how many shades of brown there are in just one field of vision. Multiply that number by how many people in the world are currently looking at a desert. Making math out of the desert makes you forget the language for the time.
“You already know more than most people involved.” —Isabel
Brown in a desert. Brown in a cage.
“I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake. I can’t have illegals working for me, and therefore, we fired them.” —Mitt Romney
Every migrant is an island looking for the center of themselves. A driveway down, children play basketball. Behind through the bushes, people have sex on their back porch. I’m in the liminal place where my eyes and ears have separate experiences. I think about how many people in this desert are experiencing confusion. I want to stand alongside another human again. This is a possible example of a contradiction. You’ve already told me this before, but again please, tell me I’m here, and I’ll believe you.