i needed to leave the house today. its tense. the combo of last night and this morning has made things tenser and my mental anticipation of what is going to to happen today is making it worse.

last night yassir put on some rap from the states and asked me if i liked it, i told him no, told him why, fran came home minutes later and asked me the same, then ronmel came home and got the hat trick and then i became upset, felt upset and my tone of voice had probably changed. translate the words yassir said, fran said i couldnt that i didnt know how to translate it into spanish, didnt know the words. that did not help my mood. yassir asked me again to translate, again if i liked it, cause it was cool. i said no, i dont like this music, i like hip hop and not rap, this has no melody, no compliment, no depth. again he asked for a translation, and so i gave it to him. the band was talking about drugs, selling and using them, talking about violence and fighting, talking about how you´ve got to fuck people up to get the top - yeah, im about to stereotype - but normal lyrics found in popular rap music. so i told them, yeah they are saying 'fuck everything, do drugs, steal things, and be violent.' and 'that this music is garbages and those rappers are parasites' i was visibly pissed and frustrated with what happened.

upset that they kept badgering me about shit, upset that they assumed i couldnt translate the song cause i didnt know enough, and that these assholes from the states are influencing the way yassir, the poor as dirt 15 year old from nicaragua, is going to see the US, going to shape his worldview, and influence the way he interacts with other men, women, and gringos. not in good ways.

whats worse: when during semana santa(holy week) fran and ronmel are drunk for hours straight and then invite me to go watch reggeaton videos with them, i say no the first time and then accept the second offer hours later when they are less drunk. in the states, when i watch music videos or tv I can seperate the reality from the fantasy and i understand that is just a video, a story, or a dream. there are people who cant do that in the states. In my family here, no one knows the difference between the real US and the music videos, magazines, or movies they watch. I sat through about 20 minutes of bling bling, booty shaking, high end booze drinking, money flashing, gambling, fancy car driving, expensive clothes wearing posturing by the rappers. i listened to fran and jay(cousin) argue about which rapper belongs to which label or which group they affiliate with as the five of us sit in an adobe hut, with a dirt floor, with one bed made up almost entirely of blankets, card board and newspapers, another bed smashed against the wall and more bed like but still not anything to put on mtv cribs, there is no working door here, one light bulb held by the electrical cord and holes between the roof and ceiling and if you really pushed hard enough you could kick through the adobe walls.

it was in this setting that i listened to my host brothers argue about which rapper is better or who belongs to what group, or to imitate the gang signs flashed or pretend to be singing along. this is coming from someone who had to leave his own country to find a job, fran, and has been held up by gangs in el salvador, this is coming from people who live in dirt floored buildings have outdoor kitchens, share a shower with 7 other people and shit in a latrine. and who are being paid to house a gringo in their best room.

its was in this context that i became so enraged last night, shakingly so. it was bad. i hate this shit, i hate watching yassir pretend he is gangster because his actual opportunities are horrendous, depressing and chances are he aint going no where. so as he and fran glorify gangsters and violence and then assume i cant translate what some dumb fucks from nyc are saying and then have them invite me to the 'girlfriend' who only charges 50 cords for fuck and thats cheap, yassir says by touching his elbow. its this fucking context that im living in right now and this is whats supporting my anger this morning.

why? yassir walks by marcelita(2 year old) and fake swings at her, she moves to get out of the way and stumbles, falling into the concrete sink. yassir keeps walking. marcela(grandmother) notices and turns and hits yassir with a plate for doing that. i applaud in my head. yassir turns and yells at her, then he asks me if i saw him hit her, i say nothing while thinking that while he didnt hit her, he made her fall and the result is the same. but i still said nothing, marcela asks what do i have to do it with it, yassir says i have eyes and that counts. i have to get up and go.

to where? my room, all the windows and doors open, the same room marcela uses to sew and cook in sometimes, the same room marcelita plays in. its not my room, its the living room converted into a bed room for three months. and i know that i could not stay there any longer if i take the position with Centro. the culture clash is so much and so intense to take everyday that i...its really hard, to live there and to watch life and to stay apart, intentionally for self protection and to make sure that i do not disturb too much or affect too much what is going on.

i want to be a part but i want to be apart.

wow.

mhm. that does bear repeating now.

wow.

today, i was told that on monday, i was going to be offered a position with the Centro de Idiomas.

and life is good.

so i waited to do this, though i wanted to immediately after i got your fabulous letter when i got home. i wanted to write that whole week but i let it sit, let it settle and enjoyed the time in a quiet ocotal. i wanted to write last week when i looked around at some of your favorite things. the flowering bush in the church courtyard, the liliac copycats just past fritanga hermosa and the hilly neighbourhood to the right of the school.

i wanted, while you were here to beg you to to stay, to promise things i couldnt deliver and just hope that you were going to stay.

i wanted you to have my email address, because you have my mailing address.

i wanted to wait. i want to write you a novel, an essay, a poem or a short story about how much i want you to be here still and how empty the streets are and how much less english i speak and how there are pages in my journal that just get filled up with stuff i know we could of talked about.

i want to ask about ome about puerto rico about where ever you are right now. if you got on the ferry in one piece or if you had to dash off to rivas, and how you dealt with your unsustainable travelling set up. i dashed back to ocotal the next day because i realized that i just wanted a few hours to be alone and settle and not to galvanting across nica by myself during the week in which everyone is drunk and everything is closed. dhyana laughed when she saw me walking up the street the next day because she was sure that the travelling was a coping mechanism.

ocotal is the same as you left it, your family is fine, your brother is delivering juice and yasser has forgotten all about you.

so, where and how are you? what are your next plans?

we just learned the subjunctive and yeah, dont worry ive got notes for you but its a punk.

escribame.

first bike accident in another country! YES! First time being hit by a door! Yes! At least the 33rd time someone has almost killed me and not said anything that might resemble an apology! ARGH!

Anyway, Dhyana and Angela have me watching their house today where I will be nursing my wounds and trying not to think too much.

Scrapes:
Left Elbow.
Right Palm.
Left Stomach Side.
Right Upper Shin.

Entonces, that sucked and the guy really didnt even say anything, even after I ate shit right in the middle of the main avenue. I called him an asshole and rode off. Im going to get my hair cut. Maybe. Its not quite shaggy enough yet to go back to Buzz Lightyear style. Even though my spacesuit is at home. Gah. Frustrated.

Ok.

mhm. got some letters. mhm.

got some letters indeed.

ahem.

so ive got to write about sex, doing it, makin out, getting it on.

I want to.

Both write and get it on. However, I doubt that I can successfully simultaneously.

what specifically though? cross cultural gettin it on? the normal gringo get down? just makin out? just flirting? what i like best about getting? how to tell someone to do it to me in spanish.

and the rain is beating down so hard outside right now. what a crazy fucking time. i am not going anywhere until that rain lets up.

or about who id like to do it with? that is always a fun topic...

sex.

is communication. an expression of our wants with or without speaking. it is the most honest way to communicate with someone you care about. for me, thats why i love sex, because i am a communicator, a talker, the kind of person who approaches strangers and asks for things, the kind of boi who loves talking and sharing and expressing myself with others, with strangers or familiar lovers so that i/we may find that needed connection, so that we may touch upon the reason we started this conversation. the reason we began this back and forth, this dance of our bodies, we didnt start fucking to fall asleep, we started fucking to talk to each other, to communicate to express what we each are holding on the inside.

i havent had sex since january 4th of this year, yeah i know. its given me time to think and masturbate, making me realize what an amazing source of communication and power good sex is and also making me realize how much i miss it, and what a grumpy bastard i can be without it. its also given me time to realize what an amazing partner i have. she is an amazing communicator, before, during, and after sex, without her, sometimes i wouldnt have anyone to talk to.

but i dont want to get mushy. good sex is about screaming or being silent, good sex has ass smacking invovled or ass kissing, or toe kissing, or miles of kisses slowly planted from top to bottom of your lovers body. or there is no talking at all, just grunts and moans and deep breathing in time to the motion of your hips. sometimes good sex will leave you with rug burns or bruises, ones you are proud to show off, or ones that you hide if you lean towards the demure side of life.

all this talk of sex is just making me horny.

but sex, sexual satisfaction has no rule set, you do what makes you satisfied, you do what makes you comfortable, you push and decide your limits, you articulate your boundaries, a must in any sexual act and you communicate your needs, dont hold back! this is sex, not essay writing not cricket or polo. you are communicating, you are fucking, not sleeping! be passionate, be disgusting, be honest, ask your partner for the night or for life to do something to you, you´ve always dreamed of. or ask them what they want you to do them tonight.

dont be scared.

i was about to start writing emails off to the world in my manic and all consuming search for a way to live down here for a few years when i just couldnt start writing. i realized that what would of come out would of been mental explosions relating to my emotional state and nothing that is sane or has to do with job and volunteer applications.

sigh

the heat is oppresive today. weighty, like a hunk of meat on your face. it sits there, your viens throb, your vision echoes and your skin is like an iceberg melting in the sun beds of glacial water rolling down your cheek and splashing gayfullly on the cool tile floor below like an olympic diver cascading end over end into that crystal clear video monitored water during which the panel of international judges will be critiquing every flinch every drip every twitch of your body as you sit waiting out the heat the humidity the class and the questions.

you look up at 530, class is over, your dive was good, you won a medal, but it doesnt matter because you are still bathed in sweat and will be for hours.

there has been a weird surge of...what am i talking about?

this is totally normal. i get sad. i then reach out to others for support. this is totally normal for me.


...


you know what i do not want to do right now? go to church. at all. or be drunk. those things are the farthest from my mind. i want to eat ice cream, talk with friends, and cuddle.

spanish is hard. anyone who tells learning you first second language is easy, is full of fucking shit, even immersed in the language learning that shit is really fucking hard. you are actually creating a new space in your brain to store this language, it will - hopefully - grow to be the same size and shape as the part of your brain that holds your first language. clearly this is no easy task, not at all, but its what you want.

you want to be able to feel the language like you feel english(for me) you want emotions and experiences to come and go in this language like they come and go in english and its just fucking hard.

part of me is scared to death to lose my language, english words expression through voice or writing is like my food its my relief and my inspiration, its my solace and my joy its my rage and my calm, its my heart and its my fist. at times to me my actions come second to my words. losing english is scary. its like losing my heart.

i know that another heart is growing inside, another tongue, another place for me to exist and smile and cherish all that is beautiful about language and expression, but this limbo, this wordless hell this silent hell goes on and losing my confidant, my ear my one opportunity to open and let go of all that was bubbling and boiling inside of me has crippled me in this silent hell and i wish that she was still here.

i know.
this hurts.

its morning in granada, the hostel is rising, rising slowly steam from coffee lights the eye lids of the drowsy and the drip splash crash cascade of shower noises beating down on tile walls and water falls of body dirt soap let me know that now its time to go.

and that is what i feel like doing, i think i want to go back to ocotal today, i know i can do it, and that today is my best bet for doing it without hassle. but im definately hesitant at leaving and returning there, there are negatives and positives but im trying to decipher what to do that would be best for me. decisions, decisions, sometimes, i hate making them.

demetrius

wow. granada is hot and not home.

i dont like it. and i want ocotal.

so i flee. but to other mountains and cities for comfort and stimulation.

it feels really real right now. thats too many r´s in one sentence for anybody. it hurts right now. two r´s lets try for one next time, shit, two again, i just cant seem to get away from that number, it haunts me and just keeps coming back for more, the word semi professional lingers in my head, tomorrow, i edit a website and maybe tonight i start writing the ocotal survival guide, the how the fuck do i live in this town after a month and i dont know what to do with myself, where´s the ice cream? where´s the juice? where´s the people i can talk to who i know know where i am coming from or at least will not laugh in my face when i try to explain how im feeling, and where for fuck´s sake can i get the coldest or darkest beer in this little town? and does anybody have decent wine around? urgent pressing questions, that must be answered, and so ive set forth that task for myself.

if for anything to maintain a level of creativity and forward movement so that stagnancy doesnt hit like a brick in the face late at night, and speaking of late at night, does that even exist in these parts? i dont really think so. its not like there are semi-violent street kids out at 1030 or 11pm, its not like anyone just tells those silly fifteen year olds to go back home and study or do their laundry instead of hanging out on the stoop and pretending to be tough or something equally absurd.

the days are long here, and while people crack the dawn like eggs in a skillet over a wood fire they run from the night like children run from santa claus or the wierd uncle, they seem to recoil at the option of being out late, like being out late is something bad, its only home to the bagos the drunks the roamers those who dont have a home to go to or those who dont have anything home to go to and maybe thats why in new jersey we were always drawn to the night because here people have something to go home to, they have family, they have community, they have connection and smiles and they have a meaning in their lives that we lack in the united states, that open and loving connection that everyone has because we are all part of the community here, even me, the stupid fucking gringo, is part of the community and i feel pretty fucking special because of it, and tonight, for as goddamn sad as i am i am not going to go drink anything except for maybe something sweet, i will not hide in this like an addict, i am going to face it, to buck up and love it cause this is my life right now, these are my feelings and this sadness is as legitimate as the same happiness that i share with people that i love the same.

entonces, community and the night life, its dead, its mismal and its seriously lacking anything challenging, stimulating, or enjoyable to do for kids, god where have i heard that story before, hm, maybe nowhere? maybe new jersey, maybe mahwah? they wonder why we are zombies who scream for connection contact and love and latch on to anything that can provide us with smiles, happiness and a feeling of identity based in numbers strength and something positive, can i send a resounding but appreciative fuck you to DART right now? yes i can, thank you! fuck you!

and moving on.

morning in ocotal, cool, crisp and grey dawn rising with streamers of red gold yellow cutting slices of the sky like a slices of pie but with the sun as the knife. alissa wanted pictures i wanted to walk and to be with her before she left and to smile with someone so we meet at her corner where i stretched while waiting and then we went into barrio sandio to find the bienvienidos a ocotal sign at the end of a dirt road which bumps into the panamerican, we played stupid gringos for some ocotaleños as she photographed my tattoos in the light, walking home now with the sun high and strong and the traffic of life in ocotal moving briskly along we were attacked by a runaway cow and watched the cowboy struggle to control the steer with his horse, had a double yellow toothed old man ¡oy! us and made music with the fallen ear shaped seed pods of a magnificent tree that seemed to hold the sun in its branches after pictures of our new ears we made music while we walked and eventually smashed our ears on the calle like discarded shells on the beach or smashed plates at a greek restuarant we meandered to the statue of sandino photographed his history, and tried to see in the digital image a revolution, a history of resistance and international solidarity the sun was too strong for that so we just stared at the school children playing soccer below us in pedro joaquin chamorro school. the yarda was next, the mural that connected violence against women to low unemployment our target, we had to ask about words unfamiliar: castigo as she photographed in segments and raged against the shadows that ruined her pictures,

ill return at high noon, she said. i agreed, but knew i wasnt coming with her. maybe thats indicative of our relationship here. together for a day apart for a few and now she leaves, it will feel like a gunshot wound or gash to neck or a tattoo on the shins, repeated stinging pain,jabbing jabbing, stabbing at my skin my muscles my bone when the person that was there for you and whose smile made your days leaves you, unintentionally to survive on your own, you feel that abandonment clearly, you want to abandon to hold onto control, something you want to destroy to demonstrate power, you want to create to build security in the face of insecurity, but you know that friendship is the most secure thing you could build right now and you just hope thats right.

the yarda, less fruitful than hoped leads to dhyanas house, they moved the rainbow colored school bus, i say, yeah she says. we knock knock knock, we threaten to huff and to puff and to blow her house down and she awakes, greats in nighty and promptly collapses on the couch as we talk and mellow out her morning as the both of us are bright eyed and lit up with morning sun adrenaline and smiles. french toast, pinol, hot water are all on order, angela wakes up say, you let these clowns in? i laugh dhyana in her soft way chastizes us by recreating the cat calls that woke her from her dreams angela makes guacamole and we smell delicious on the center plate as marcí arrives to clean the house and the gringo nica tension is crystal clear present, like we are just supposed to accept, smiles are had with the maple syrup and powdered sugar egg butter covered toast and we seal the morning shut with hip hop violins smiles, walks and books being checked out of the library, my appetite for english has been ravenous recently and i dont know why.

we walk more, smile more, take more photos, get one of san fransisco smiling after running into two of alissas family members here i love that 10 o clock here means community, taxis and tampico juice delivery trucks in ocotal the shade of san fransisco lets me hide, lets her shoot and we throw water at each other and she runs and says no! i played this game yesterday with ramon! aye! ok ok, i say, we dont have to play, just take more photos.

we do, just one or two, we say goodbye, i hit home for lunch, sleep, and smiling read some james joyce, before going to class. there are things i am happy not knowing and dhyana thanks for a conversation we didnt have on the beach.

i dash. i hide. i love.

In pursuit of American interests, the US has overthrown or undermined around 40 Latin American governments in the 20th Century. - news.bbc.co.uk 4/3/06