Mi ne Komprenas Vin
He awoke deliriously in the darkness of a Mexican bungalow, a small, rudimentary cottage in a desolate fishing village on the Pacific coast. Zapotiltic was a few days behind him -- as was the train ride that took him there. A few days before that was El Paso, now nearly forgotten.
After stepping off the train in that dusty farming village, he hitched a ride in a weathered pickup down to the coast. He and the driver -- a ranch hand at a nearby cattle farm -- rode in silence together along the bumpy road to the beach. And along the way, he gazed out over the drab, dry Mexican landscape. When they arrived, he handed the driver twenty-five pesos, which was all he had in his pocket at the time.
He unloaded his beat-up leather bag from the back, and as the driver turned the pickup around to depart, he raised his hand in the air to say thanks and goodbye. The truck then disappeared down the road in a choking haze of dust.
Now, for three days, he'd been sleeping in the darkness, the constant sound of the nearby ocean accompanying his deep breaths. He'd woken briefly to slake his thirst -- he drank from a pitcher of water next to the bed in the darkness -- and occasionally he would nibble some now-stale tortillas that were purchased in Guadalajara. But mostly he just slept.
He felt as if he hadn't slept in years. He'd forgotten what it was like to wake from that total, all-consuming, dreamless sleep, the sleep that comes like an angel to nourish and repair the very fiber of one's body and spirit. And that's why he came here: to be repaired.
What was left behind -- north of the border, and in the years that preceded this day -- was a failed marriage and a job that slowly and ever so surely, year in and year out, managed to wear down his soul. And now, after several days of travel, he'd finally arrived here, at this place, the end of the road. A place completely off the grid, a place where he could sleep undisturbed. And when he was done sleeping, he would decide what to do next.
He had liquidated his portfolio, withdrawn his savings, extracted every last cent from his 401k. He didn't consider this the beginning of any great adventure, nor did he even feel that he was running away from his life. He was simply stepping out for a while.
As for what was left back home, he wanted to simply box it up -- his life, or what was left of it -- that is, the frayed and creased scraps of his life. All these bittersweet memories, packaged into a neat little box; a shoebox left on the kitchen table where the sun shines in through the window. He would leave them there on the table; when he got back, he would go through those scraps and see if any of them were worth keeping.
What he didn't know right then was that he'd never make it back.
But for now, he was just enjoying the opportunity to be repaired. He awoke on that third day, refreshed but confused. He looked around in the blackness of the foreign bedroom, momentarily lost. The only light was an incandescent sliver projected onto the floor from around the corner. The strip of white practically burned his eyes. It was daylight from the next room over, sneaking into the room from a crack in the door.
He realized he had no idea what time it was, how long he'd been sleeping, or even what day it was. When he stood up, he felt the peculiar feeling of rough carpet on the soles of his feet. He opened the bedroom door and walked out into the sunlit room, blinking painfully bright light of mid-morning.
Still wearing his wrinkled clothes from three days ago, he opened the front door and stepped outside. Instantly, he was hit by the sea-salt aroma of the nearby ocean. And as he looked around, he felt that the nearby houses, painted in pinks and browns and greens, were more vibrant than he remembered them, as was the sky -- cloudless, blue. And he was keenly aware of a constant sound in the air: the ocean's rolling, incessant crash. Not a series of pounding breakers here, for the surf was wild and unpredictable along this stretch of shoreline -- but rather the soft, consistent roar of the eternally churning Pacific.
He decided, quite unexpectedly, that he would walk to the ocean -- no, he would walk in the ocean. He felt a strangely compelling desire to feel the total coldness of the Pacific encircling his feet and ankles -- and then his
knees, his thighs, torso -- until the power and sweep of the surf engulfed his head and he was completely consumed by the shorebound current. To be submerged in the frigid, rushing mass of water -- this is what he wanted, the energy of the swirling ocean embracing his body, for he knew the sea was something raw, beautiful and dangerous, something that smacked of life itself. And what he wanted so very deeply at this moment was to be connected to life, even to the point of death. He wished that every single infinitesimal cell of his being could be entirely surrounded by the waves. To feel the sheer force of a world of water pressing against him -- that he might dissipate, be scattered across the deep, and be one with God.
After stepping off the train in that dusty farming village, he hitched a ride in a weathered pickup down to the coast. He and the driver -- a ranch hand at a nearby cattle farm -- rode in silence together along the bumpy road to the beach. And along the way, he gazed out over the drab, dry Mexican landscape. When they arrived, he handed the driver twenty-five pesos, which was all he had in his pocket at the time.
He unloaded his beat-up leather bag from the back, and as the driver turned the pickup around to depart, he raised his hand in the air to say thanks and goodbye. The truck then disappeared down the road in a choking haze of dust.
Now, for three days, he'd been sleeping in the darkness, the constant sound of the nearby ocean accompanying his deep breaths. He'd woken briefly to slake his thirst -- he drank from a pitcher of water next to the bed in the darkness -- and occasionally he would nibble some now-stale tortillas that were purchased in Guadalajara. But mostly he just slept.
He felt as if he hadn't slept in years. He'd forgotten what it was like to wake from that total, all-consuming, dreamless sleep, the sleep that comes like an angel to nourish and repair the very fiber of one's body and spirit. And that's why he came here: to be repaired.
What was left behind -- north of the border, and in the years that preceded this day -- was a failed marriage and a job that slowly and ever so surely, year in and year out, managed to wear down his soul. And now, after several days of travel, he'd finally arrived here, at this place, the end of the road. A place completely off the grid, a place where he could sleep undisturbed. And when he was done sleeping, he would decide what to do next.
He had liquidated his portfolio, withdrawn his savings, extracted every last cent from his 401k. He didn't consider this the beginning of any great adventure, nor did he even feel that he was running away from his life. He was simply stepping out for a while.
As for what was left back home, he wanted to simply box it up -- his life, or what was left of it -- that is, the frayed and creased scraps of his life. All these bittersweet memories, packaged into a neat little box; a shoebox left on the kitchen table where the sun shines in through the window. He would leave them there on the table; when he got back, he would go through those scraps and see if any of them were worth keeping.
What he didn't know right then was that he'd never make it back.
But for now, he was just enjoying the opportunity to be repaired. He awoke on that third day, refreshed but confused. He looked around in the blackness of the foreign bedroom, momentarily lost. The only light was an incandescent sliver projected onto the floor from around the corner. The strip of white practically burned his eyes. It was daylight from the next room over, sneaking into the room from a crack in the door.
He realized he had no idea what time it was, how long he'd been sleeping, or even what day it was. When he stood up, he felt the peculiar feeling of rough carpet on the soles of his feet. He opened the bedroom door and walked out into the sunlit room, blinking painfully bright light of mid-morning.
Still wearing his wrinkled clothes from three days ago, he opened the front door and stepped outside. Instantly, he was hit by the sea-salt aroma of the nearby ocean. And as he looked around, he felt that the nearby houses, painted in pinks and browns and greens, were more vibrant than he remembered them, as was the sky -- cloudless, blue. And he was keenly aware of a constant sound in the air: the ocean's rolling, incessant crash. Not a series of pounding breakers here, for the surf was wild and unpredictable along this stretch of shoreline -- but rather the soft, consistent roar of the eternally churning Pacific.
He decided, quite unexpectedly, that he would walk to the ocean -- no, he would walk in the ocean. He felt a strangely compelling desire to feel the total coldness of the Pacific encircling his feet and ankles -- and then his
knees, his thighs, torso -- until the power and sweep of the surf engulfed his head and he was completely consumed by the shorebound current. To be submerged in the frigid, rushing mass of water -- this is what he wanted, the energy of the swirling ocean embracing his body, for he knew the sea was something raw, beautiful and dangerous, something that smacked of life itself. And what he wanted so very deeply at this moment was to be connected to life, even to the point of death. He wished that every single infinitesimal cell of his being could be entirely surrounded by the waves. To feel the sheer force of a world of water pressing against him -- that he might dissipate, be scattered across the deep, and be one with God.
posted by Jeweled Accumulation at 4:03 PM
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