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Tijuana Gringo | |
Daniel's Journal | by Daniel Charles Thomas |
30 November 2001. Friday. |
It seems almost every morning I am given the opportunity to rise early. Usually I awaken about five or six. Sometimes I get up, say a brief prayer and/or watch a bit of news. Almost always I go back to sleep. I wonder how my life would change if I were to get up and stay up. What? Early to bed early to rise makes a man healthy wealthy and wise? What? Write? Read? Wash dishes? Eat dawn breakfast? Wait for the winter sun to come in the windows? Clean? Pray? Autumn sun, then.
Night before last struggled with rewriting [bus to Mexicali] from Premiación. Just this morning have put a few finishing touches on it, and will do some more in another day or two. I want to include it with the verses I am sending in my letter to Noel Estergren.
Read more Mexican poetry, Daniel. Yesterday I saw Pedro Solis on the street. Or rather he saw me and called to me. I turned and was happy to see who was calling me. Good writer he is. Good guy, too. Or I think so. Like many writers he can be intense. You have to like that kind of beauty. We went for coffee at the ubiquitous Sanborn's with their not-so-bad bottomless cup of coffee for ten pesos (a dollar and ten cents). Ran into Pancho (Francisco) Morales, one of Baja California's finest poets. If only I could read Spanish more quickly. I'm sure he writes faster than I can read. *Sigh* practice practice Daniel. We all sat together at the counter. I could hardly understand them, they were way up there casting allusions and multiple meanings and words I don't know, and.... Then they noticed and smiled at the irony of a poet who can't hear. I felt lucky and honored just to be sitting with them, and promised myself that one day, one day I will understand more.
Then we talked for a while about Federico Campbell. You were there at his book presentation, no, Daniel? Yes. (Even though I didn't write about it in this journal). I am trying to read his book. La Clave Morse. They recommended Transpeninsular and Tijuanenses. I thought about what Oscar said about his uncle. But didn't say anything. Personal. Campbell signed the book I bought at the presentation. For the telegrapher of the heart, Daniel, he wrote in Spanish. Damn I love literature. You remember one gringo I met mentioned him in his Historia here?
The talk at the presentation was fantastic. Real highbrow doodoo in pure Castilian -- oddly enough this literary crap is still easier for me to understand than the day-to-day slang. Product of liberal education, I guess. The speakers were a couple of local literary lights talking about Juan Rulfo and Federico Campbell in the same breath, and expounding the fact that all writing is lies, fiction, and that So IS Memory. Yep. Yup. Yoop. That's the cutting edge state-of-the-art postmodern party line alright.
Earlier (yesterday) I popped into Willi's place behind the calendar stone. We're on for the next poetry meeting, first Thursday of the month. A ver -- to see -- what happens.
Cortés crumpled a piece of parchment paper
Cast it down before the King of SpainAll those jagged mountains
All these stretching valleysThis, Sire, is very like the new land
That Spanish steel has conqueredFor You
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