Wednesday, May 9, 2007

Leaving Puerto Vallarta


Wind is everything. When it dies, we become morose. I sit at the tiller, thinking back over my life. “Literature” incites nausea, so I read detective novels and sometimes a really stupid one. Adam does the same thing and later we discuss them. I’ve begun eating rhythmically. Turtles pass by with seagulls riding on their backs. In two days we go thirty miles, arriving in the village of Tehuamixtle, where it would not seem strange to see Tennessee Williams and John Huston with their shirt sleeves rolled up, khaki pants belted at the waist, to hear men talking like they do in movies made in the fifties, sitting under the shade of the restaurant that serves cocktels de camarón in thick glass goblets and shredded marlin on fried tortillas. We walk up the dirt road out of town. A man grills his dinner on the rim of a tire, chickens pecking in the gravel below the porch. The cactus look fresh and green amid the dry brush before the rain begins, and a lost goat bleats somewhere on the hillside.

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