though i too am oh-so-terrestrial these days. i spend my hours occasionally bipedal, poking around in the recesses of my mind while watching dirt get moved around. i am a rat in a cage (despite all my rage!); secured in the safe confines of the Imperial Valley substation, working for a certain southern california energy company as we prepare for a new era of energy in the San Diego area.
so now i call El Centro home. i am fully embracing this agricultural valley, and all its noxious effluents that perfume the air, make my eyes water, and have my throat scratchy and sore. El Centro’s population of 37,000 is largely Mexican (fuck Hispanic, i’m really over that term, you know?!), accordingly Spanish-speaking, and about 30% unemployed. the fact that employment is what brought me and most of my co-workers to this town is one of the things i turn over during my long hours under the sun in a hard hat. mi nuevo abuelo Bobby Sanchez got me a brim for my hat; now the Paleontologist, Biologist, and myself (Archaeologist!) all match the station’s man-leader. Gloria doesn’t rock a brim, but that’s because she’s inside the circuitry buildings mostly. Girl Power!!! the station is a funny little place, but darn normal when compared to some of the other sights around town. yesterday, an old man dressed as Elvis greeted me as he sat busking in front of the Post Office. his voice was actually kinda nice.
other things i think about while biding my time on the bed of ancient Lake Cahuilla : the chorus of ‘Grenade’, Britney’s electo-purr “showww me how you worrkkk it out, out, out”, Ke$ha’s kinda cool disharmonix on ‘Blow’. my new (rental) car and new (un-trafficky!) commute have got me surfing the airwaves. between the 3 radio stations that play American dance music here, one could probably listen to just these songs (okay, and, Lady Gaga’s righteous ‘Born This Way’, and too much ‘Only Girl (in the World)’ but hopefully more ‘S&M’ by Rhianna !) all damn day. Noventa Uno punto Cinco! is a pretty cool station, mixing in a good amount of rock and pop en español to the still abundant dance tracks. unce.unce.unce. these songs are too mechanical, uninspired; digitized noisemakers lacking heart, soul, or balls. when was the last time a song in the top 10 featured a real drummer?
…that question led me to try and find the answer, which only pulled me into an internet-wormhole of distraction and appallment. regardless, the top 10 mostly sucks but still finds a way to wiggle into my brain via earholes. okay, and it’s catchy and fun. it’s long days out there, son.
one of my two friends in-town got me the lovely cake pictured above as a welcome gift. it was lemony, delicious, and the nicest thing anyone has gotten for me in ages. (mm, here is a virtual slice of the double-layer cake for you. Boatwright’s Bakery… A+!) The ‘Tro and I are off on a good foot; it is ‘Hell’ and at the station we have nicknamed our workplace ‘Satan’s Playground':
i am right where i belong.
the last text-words from a friend over the mountains to the West: “embrace the desert madness!” — indeed. only two weeks deep am i into this, but the sparks have ignited and the slow burn of this existence is my constant companion.
the passing of a recent romantical holiday included my second attempt (and fail) at wooing myself with a viewing of Chocolat and a whole bottle of vino. instead, the Biologist and i braved the El Centro sidewalks to eat some great fast-Mex (who ever said it needed to be slow?). he has his reasons for being in the desert, too; and not just to tabulate pigeon droppings. i was happy for his company, and for the deep-fried burrito.
we all have our reasons, for living in a wasteland, or living wasted, or whatever it is. and as i attempt to sift through my own i continue to try and be aware of others’.
relationships. really are not about Whitman’s little boxes of chocolates (though they are good, ooo, back in the day my momma used to shower us with them!) or cliches or fancy dates. all of these things, these traditions, these precedents… serve only as hindrances. …when you’re trying to dig on someone who’s really just an asshole. but of course, love isn’t perfect. we must make it perfect. we have to work. to get along, to forgive, to respect one another. but can it be done? i’ve lost a lot of faith these past few years. it seems to me now that no matter how much experience you have had with other people, not a drop of it tells you shit about the new person in front of you. it’s back to square one. are you ready to work it out? am i? i like to think that love is and should be easy. that doesn’t mean that love always should be. what is pretty much the One reason for existence is still the thing that everyone’s always fucking up/struggling with/making art about. i’d call myself a hopeless romantic any day… emphasis on the ‘hopeless’ part. but there’s still comfort: as semi-Good-Luck-Chuck as i’d been feeling fated lately, i know for sure that other people feel the same. shit, maybe that’s why they made a movie about it….
forgive this rambling; i thought i had something good to say but it is obvious i need to spend some more time in my thinking (hard) hat. i have got plenty of time.
with that, i’ll leave you with a found-treasure. i believe it fell out of a book or the like, years ago in Plymouth, England. i forget this guy’s name (and the scanner cut it off; i guess privacy is important anyways), but i hope Nicki wrote him back.
Long Live Love! (chugs PBR, burps.)