Tijuana Gringo | |
Daniel's Journal | by Daniel Charles Thomas |
24 August 2001. |
09:27 + a.m. - - - A tambor duel just started out by the sidewalk; only one drum and a clarinet, but piercing and strong, cutting across the parking lot, into my window. Two songs before they move on down the sidewalk. Now I can barely hear them somewhere off in the distance -- probably down by the church that makes our park seem so much like the plaza garden at the heart of town -- the central plaza that Tijuana doesn't really have, poor little border town, without its ancient Mexican plaza where the government palace and church and cantina all face off against & with each other like brothers from Spain and Aztec/Maya mixed together....
But there is this park. Yes. With its bandstand at the heart surrounded by benches and towering trees. With its old men sitting, chatting, I'll be one of them soon. With its children running and jumping onto the swings in the corner playground, I remember not too long ago. And yes, Tere likes to swing, heh. Yeah. One thing I like about her. Still so childlike even though she's a great big grown up girl with her licenciatura and office and job....
Traffic rumbles. The paleta (popsicle) shop refrigerator roars like a seasick ocean. Out my back windows, the laundramat sighs and gurgles smoke. But there, in the distance, still comes that nasal whine whine of the reed, like some piper calling us on, on, away, away, nee neeble needle nibble nuuuuu, and the faint tap tap tappity trot tap of the drum pummty pyum.
Drink my instant coffee. Dream of going to eat breakfast and read the newspaper. Been so poor I couldn't or wouldn't even buy a paper. Borrowed twenty dollars from Carlos yesterday. Still haven't spent any of it. It needs to last a week. Went walking last night, tempted and tempted every step, every turn of downtown blocks and corners to buy a drink, buy food, buy buy buy but I bought nothing. Another sort of wealth -- I felt and tasted the night and the heart of town. The raucous roaring madness of R-E-V-O-L-U-T-I-O-N AvenuE ! ! ! Ah, Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, where are you?
Went up to Balboa Park day before yesterday. Looking for a job in one of the museums there. Coming back I felt that old thrill of crossing over into Mexico. It comes whenever I cross over long enough for the sociocultural environment to cause a shift in my psyche. Most people think of it as a sensation of difference outside. But feelings and sensations are part of our own reflection within. Still....
I wrote about this a couple years ago. Put the poem, Passage, into the manuscript that won me the award last December.