Apologies for breaking the self-imposed Jawbreaker/DiFranco title lyrics rule, but I’ve gone back to my undying affection for Deb Talan albums. I spent the last day in Lima getting a third sunburn and eating fish and pizza and being sad, as you can tell from this look of angst on the balcony, and not going to sleep. P. wouldn’t go to bed; instead we went out for a midnight dinner and talked about things I can’t remember. I spent the plane ride crying. I just could not stop crying on that stupid plane. It started as soon as we started moving down the runway, and it didn’t stop. Just felt like it wasn’t time to go yet. Now Boston resembles Lima with its consistent fog, and I’m trying to readjust. It’s taking longer than I expected. I’m pretty sure I left about 40% of my psyche in South America and I’m trying to figure out whether I want it back.

I’ve decided to spend the next 24 hours being angsty and depressed, and then I am going to Get Over It and FOCUS. Because there is much work to be done.

:: nothing for the blues when the sky goes grey. #debtalan

The orange air stinks
of nostalgia and wet salt.
What do we do now?

I am leaving in the morning, so… (Ani fans, can I get a holla?)

No, really though. I have another strange sunburn and my eyes are tired from trying to burn images into my memory. Like the light on the water fountain in the pool. Like the way the sky went from hazy sun to unbelievable fog. Like the traffic. Like the way P.’s house smells. Like the view from the roof. Like M.’s knife collection, knives randomly tucked between the car seats. Like the neon cross over the ocean. Like the ocean. Like the endless horizon. Etc. etc.

I am leaving in the morning. Like, dawn. I’m not sad yet, but I will be. Momentarily. And when I lose it, I will lose it BIG.

:: I might wait for you to look for me / and then I might be gone #difranco

by Rodney Jones

Nearly sunset, and time on the water
of 1984. Language its tracer.
No image like the image of language.

I had waded out about thigh deep.
Then a shout from the beach.
I held in my hand half a coconut shell

of coconut milk and 150-proof rum
and dumped it white into the waves
when it came on me how sweet it had been,

then the idea I was not finished,
then the act of reaching down
with the idea I would get it back.

Had a disturbing dream anoche, something about a man chasing me and locking me up and me swimming and trying to escape. This is what happens when you watch Smokin’ Aces before going to bed.

In more bad news, we found out today that one of the female company reps who accompanied us on our journey into the jungle (but stayed there for another week to visit internet cabins) was drugged and robbed on the night bus back. She’s still in the hospital in Huancayo, and my heart goes out to her. Two other telecom reps were injured and robbed yesterday as well, but in different cities. It makes me so grateful for the male chaperones I had on this trip, and the fact that P. drove us to the Amazon, instead having us take buses.

Sometimes I hate being a woman. And uber pale. And blonde. But what can you do? You can’t do anything about that. You just have to be smart, and pray a little.

Courtesy passiveaggressivenotes.com

My big excursion today has been walking five blocks to buy cat food. I have been trying to convert Flip HD files from MP4 from MOV (note: annoying) for FCP 5.1, but it’s taking forever with Compressor. There’s a new houseguest now, J., a German girl who was working here in Lima for 10 months and recently has been traveling to Bagua, to the heart of the indigenous protests, as part of research she’s doing for her thesis. We’re both holed up on the top floor with our stupid laptops — she’s trying to make contacts for more interviews, I’m waiting patiently for Compressor to compress. Neither of us want to go home, although that fate is looming with its teeth bared, an angry dog.

Meanwhile, I just ate another extra large bag of M&M’s.

Scenes to remember later:

1. Peeing on the side of a snake-infested hill in San Ramón at night under a tree while the guys waited below for the roadblock to clear; a boy walked past and pretended not to notice me. Above, there were more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life.
2. Same place, in the car: watching M.’s cigarette ash fall lightly whenever he quietly flicked it against the side of the Suzuki. Something about that scene was very zen. His fingers, the darkness, the stillness, the burning embers. I was sad, even as it was happening, that I would never see it again.
3. Bumping along a dirt road at night in the jungle of Pangoa with my head out the window, remembering a similar night in the back of a pickup in Thailand, laughing with a bunch of stateless Burmese kids. Sometimes it feels amazing to be in the middle of nowhere. You kind of want the earth to just swallow you up.
4. Making espresso every morning in P.’s apartment, with thick cream and cinnamon. Cleaning the kitchen afterward. Writing with Abhi every night until 3a, with smoke dying in the fireplace and an orange smog overtaking the city outside. “Just like hooooooney,” he sings. Makes me laugh so hard I cry. I appreciate this terribly.
5. Buying tampons with Peter. Unsolicited uterus jokes. It’s a good friend who will postpone breakfast to scavenge around a jungle town in search of tampons for you. Seriously, a good good friend.
6. Watching M. sleep. With the tv blaring. Watching P. sleep, snoring. With the tv blaring.
7. Bonding with the man in the hardware store. Letting the woman at the sunglasses store select a pair she thought looked nice. Bonding with the man in line for Terminator when I went to the movies alone for a second time. Walking back along the water at midnight, watching the waves roll in like the heartbeat of a calm divinity; noticing the moon, absolutely huge, and the neon cross glowing on the other side of the sea. Walking away from the cross. Walking past the lighthouse. Walking past the tennis courts. Walking past the solitary men with their dogs. Walking past the women in uniforms, cleaning the streets.
8. Eating P.’s Bavarian weisswurst while he and N. watch Lost.
9. Discussing politics with K. as we played pool in a billiard place full of men. The long walk home; Calle Berlin was all echoes and shadows.

:: none comes at first, and little comes at all – #difranco

I slept all day; it felt like sailing
on seas as thick as honey; woke up cloudy; woke up
heavy

as if I’d carried
a sack back from the black
filled with sunshine, sedated memories and
melted M&Ms.

I checked out the window; the sea was still there
waiting for me to notice its new color:
a muted green. Things are never as they seem.
How have you been?
I’ve changed, it said, while you were sinking
in a dream.

I didn’t sink; I swam, I leaped,
and shook the drops off on the long road back.
Each fell flatly with a silent scream.