Monday, August 25, 2008


I was cleaning my room today and came across an old notebook with a bunch of random stuff in it. Most of it is scribbles and to do lists pertaining to my work in Mexico and my job at UNT. But a few pages in the middle there is a scribbled out journal entry. I read it, I remembered it, and I wanted to preserve it somewhere safe, for posterity.

Written on 3/21/2005 upon returning from a spring break trip to Mexico.

I feel the chill of the departing day sweep over me and shiver. At this moment, I wish I could sink with the setting sun into blackness. Just when I begin to feel enlightened, like I finally understand everything, I realize I don't understand anything. I don't know if the key to understanding my life lies in understanding my past or understanding my future. Maybe I should just try to understand the moment. This moment. This sunset. This first spring breeze. This song. This breath. This thought. What is right now all about?

Each time I return from Mexico a bigger mess than the last time, but a better person just the same. Settling back into the U.S. American way of life after any amount of time away from it is a process much like unpacking. Taking those crumpled, damp or dusty thoughts; haphazardly packed, pushed, crammed and zipped up in my head, pulling them out, and deciding what is to be done with them. How to make those vestiges of Mazamitla fit for exhibition in U.S. American culture, in this life, this place, this moment. Cleaned, folded, tucked neatly, softer and milder than Mazamitla. How to make myself palatable to my culture? What to do with those things that don't seem to fit here, no matter how cleaned or pressed. Toss them back? Zip them up, pack them away until my next trip? Hide those things so no one can see? Hide the things that don't fit, and walk around with huge voids in my heart and mind where the best of Mazamitla would be? The bright colors, the bold flavors, the laughter, the depth, the raw power, the beauty, the emotion. I cannot be without those things. I have become those things. I am Mexico. I am wild, raw, vibrant, and intense. Pressed to the heavens from between the rocks and the earth. I am not something many people here in my culture can tolerate. I am too extreme for America, yet too mild for Mexico.

I walk through my day, interacting with different people, knowing that not one of them understands my heart. Not a single person I meet in the hall, talk to on the phone, drive with on the freeway; not Brandon, Not Syl. They know my mind, my body, but no one yet knows my heart. I sit by the waters edge in the grey early night holding those damp, dusty, bold, vibrant pieces of me, washed in the earth, dried in the moonlight, while the lights from the city twinkle in the distance. I sit by the waters edge, whole. Every piece and part unpacked, exposed and unashamed, my heart on display for anyone to discover. But there is no one. I am alone tonight.

Oh Mexico. Oh how ALIVE I felt in those days. I sometimes wonder if I will ever feel vibrant, bold or excited about life ever again. I truly hope so. I hope someday to find my passion again.

On another note, Brandon? I haven't thought about him in AGES? I wonder what he's up to these days?

Now back to your regularly scheduled dog blog.

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