Monday, January 23, 2012
I finished "The Salvage Detectives" by Roberto Bolano yesterday and ever since I've been dreaming of Mexico. Just like the end of the book, when the characters are driving endlessly through Sonora in the Impala, I too wanted to be on pilgrimage, dust clouding as I set on the horizon. I certainly don't care about fancy hotels, but in this dream I'm not even fussing about a bed, I just want to lay on the sand of the beach, or under the canopy of coconut leaves, or on the floor of an abandoned abode and drift off. Swim in the ocean till I'm pickled, buy avocados in the market with my truncated Spanish, stand side by side with the other vagabonds in the cheap section, our eyes carefully watching the bullfighting ring, our arms up in cheer as the sword goes in between the blades of its shoulders. I don't think they have much in the way of bullfights in Mexico anymore, and I gather it's rather unsafe for a girl to sleep just anywhere, and even a road trip in Mexico is a logistical nightmare but I don't care. I just want to walk a lot in the sun, and read, and eat, and run the thorn of a Saguaro between my fingers before stabbing it into your heart.
Photo: Saguaro Cactus National Park, 1941 by Ansel Adams