It's almost midnight, almost tomorrow. I remember this morning... here's the draft I wrote on paper when I woke up:
Thursday -- Jueves 5 Octubre 2000I began to think about this week of festival, day after day of all the ding dong church bells ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing ringing....07:05 dawn grey clouds cup of instant
coffee last night Saint Francis fiesta
in front of church people playing
loteria, eating tamales, elotese a r s -- of -- c o r n
church was packed for the seven p.m.
mass celebrated by a stream of
white-robed priests including someone
excelentisimo or another I stood
in back listening to a ten minute
choral piece echoing from the
loft creating a most moving momentin the crowd all standing all
it was -- h a l l e l u j i a
stately serene beautiful catholicon our feet, then I left &
went back outside to watch
the universal night and people.Began to feel lonely.
St. Francis smiled sadly, shook his
head at me, asked in my heart:
"Where is your woman, gringo?"
And then who should walk into the park but my cousin Daniel. "What the hell are you doing here?" I asked himeself, "It's almost ten p.m.?!"
"Decided to rent me an apartment."
"Huh?!"
"Why not? If my cousin Mikey can do it, then so can I, no? Besides, if I'm gonna write about this place, like you, I better spend some more time here." He grinned, "Have to give you the credit, though, for doing it first."
"Well..." and then my natural affection overcame our rivalry. My father and his mother were estranged for many years. Hadn't spoken even when Dad got shot down over Hanoi and never came home. I didn't know Daniel was in San Diego until he came looking for me last summer and found me in Tijuana. Talk about split personalities, this character writing is wild. Split meanings, rather. I shook his hand. "Congratulations, gringo."
"Thank you, Michael."
"Where did you find a place?"
"Right there -- see where it says FARMACIA? Upstairs, in back, are apartments."
"Uh huh." I looked, and laughed, "Hey, wait a minute -- isn't that the Hauter brothers' building?"
"Yeah. The doctor and the chef. You know them?"
"Know of them. My landlord, over behind us, on Fourth, told me about them."
"Mmm-hmm. Nothing good, I hope!"
"Well, what's his name, the chef... Carlos?"
"Yep. My landlord."
"Well, my landlord, Agustin, is jealous of him, I think." I frowned, "How'd you meet him?"
"He's a customer at Costco -- you know, where I work?"
"Ah...."
Daniel looked around last night, asked me, "Hey, Mikey, where's Maria?"
"Uh... I wanted to spend the evening alone."
He shook his head, disbelieving, "A sweet woman like that, who obviously cares for you, and you want to spend the evening alone?! Hello!!! What the hell's wrong with you??"
That's what Saint Francis had meant when I thought of what he would say to me. But I say nothing to my cousin. Only write.
Later doing laundry today I wrote this [editing is in brackets]:
My laundry goes around and around in
the dryer. It's getting so you never
know if I'm really writing this here or
leter, eh? Such is the recreation
of self [and other living with foreign
other]. But I tell you, I promise you
[te lo juro, si], I am here, now, wait-
ing on the dryer. The lunch counter is [stands]
closed although it's almost nine o'clock in
the morning. I wonder where Brian is?
also went to class tonight
TLACUILO& there's much more
personal culta
poliglota
experto materialesconsulta a los dioses; su lugar:
templos, palacio del gobierno, escuelasaber como se vestia cada nivel de sociedad
con su tipo de manta, colores; estratos socialescomo se elaboren los ritos; dia, mes, ano
estilo y futuro de vida de un individuo
I have been spending the days in a blizzard of composition and revision. Saw Daniel again in the mirror, hazy with smoke, tezcatl - popoca, bent over his identical table, in reverse, anyone smell wood burning?today we wrote Narco Frontera
eating breakfast. another political poem
I wonder if, when we look back, we will think these were the happiest hours and days of our lives, flaming hot with the fires of creation, tempering and beating out the steel of cold, hard, verse.
Yes. I will, at least.
And so will my twin, mirror cousin. I saw it in his eyes behind the glass as we wrote in tandem at our table beside the wall covered with mirror tiles.
Furiously scribble a line of verse and then stop, think, weighing each word agianst the others, brain echoing Ezra Pound's dictum: there MUST be a reason why each AND every WORD stands in the line, let it stand, Daniel, I tell him, let it go, Michael, he tells me, and side by side at our tables beside the mirror, we compose, balance, and re-compose.
I read out loud to myself; he listens.
"This will do," I answer myself, "This will do."
We are going to make the deadline. I am going to make the deadline. He is going to make the deadline. We are going to enter the contest with a complete manuscript of verses, many verses all about Tijuana and the border. My left half and I, my right half and me.
On the seventh day he rested.
That WILL be good. Yes.