Ghost of Oaxaca – Page 2 – Just When You Thought

October 22, 2013

El versus Yo

I was sitting down alone at the Split Coconut, trying like mad to mind my own god damned business. But loudmouth, sitting (ohhhh, say) 10 feet away or thereabouts, was well on his way to irritating the fuck out of me. Thankfully I had been drinking.

“Well Dylan wrote that song because…and this one guitar player in my first touring band just wasn’t getting it…I’ll take old Canadian Blues any day over that new shit from the states…so I finally had to tell Liberace that it’s a guitar song, not a piano song.”

The hot sun was setting over the warm sea. The boldest cloud in the sky took after Motzart. The whole moment had me in a trance. Right then i overheard Jackass tell the server that he didn’t want avo on his burger because avo isn’t good for you.

That’s it! I slammed my thrid and finul beer. I stood up, did a couple of full neck rotations in both directions, a few light back bends, cracked some knuckles, put the mean mask on, and walked over to his plastic table in the sand. And This Is How She Blew:

Yo: What’s up Jimi? Hey i tried my absolute best to under-hear most of the cocky nonsense that was spewing out of your Canadian pie chute, but couldn’t. You are Canadian right? Wait, let me guess… you’re some hot shot blues guitar player from the Toronto scene?

El: Who the fuck are you asshole?

Yo: Yeah, I’m just the guy your inflated guitar hero ego hates to be around. Stroking that string instrument like it’s your tiny dick. I’m so sick of guys like you. You ain’t no fucking artist. Your a musical widget! Dime a Dozen! Now get over yourself!!

El: What the fuck are you talking about?

Yo: I don’t care how good you are, or how much you know, or how much stupid equipment you got, or how many loop pedals you push down on stage, or who you know, or where you’ve toured. I don’t care where or how you plug in, and I don’t care about your Les Paul or your Kirk Gibson or any of your other closed minded musical spew. And i don’t give a fuck if you got more talent in one of your fat fucking fingers with your eyes closed than i will ever have!

El: Huh?

Yo: And furthermore Susan, i wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if you will never be as indie or as slick as me, because my shit is the truth, and it’s from the heart. And if I want to play Little Feat or James Taylor on the keys to an audience of nobody, then you better give up your seat, because it’s standing room only for you, and it’s coming in hotter than any of that 1-4-5 crap you put out.

El: Hey dude, I don’t know who you are, or what you’re on, but I suggest you take a hike before you get yourself into more trouble than you can handle.

Yo: Can you sign my T-shirt?

El: Beat it Shroeder!!

October 21, 2013

Pick My Poison

Buenos Dias lasts until about 10 in the morning. It seems that Buenos Dias begins and ends when the roosters say so. Then comes Buenas Tardes. Buenas Tardes sticks around longer than you think it should. There really isn’t a time limit on Buenas Tardes, but typically around dark is when Buenas Noches gets fired up. Though there are sure to be some that might not begin using Buenas Noches until around midnight.

That is why I stick to Buena-uh-huh. It can work anytime anywhere. To ensure its effect, it should be confidently mumbled . [Hold that Thought] If it’s 8am and clearly a Buenos Dias moment, as an elderly man or woman is coming my way, then of course I greet them with a proper Buenos Dias. But 19 out of other 20 times that I become aligned with the need to personally salute another, it’s Buena-uh-huh out of this guy.

October 14, 2013

Once Written

a hunger to prevail near remote waters

is but the sundae, topping out the cherry

adhering to the writings in the sand

authors its affect on the more fortunate

once fading creations with pumping souls

now fastened to the dream of one leader

the only strings that stay attached

become the fire whose aim is art

it’s a democracy so few live to experience

this soiled pilgrimage back to mother earth

embracing wide eyes, baring timid souls

making unconditional love so addictive

often used as a definition for accord

partners for life, sparing little shame

what emerges from this obligation

is natural law worth documenting

the advance that is sure to exist

will all but make feelings taste

the engagement that comes to pass

is sure to bring fear to the vicinity

but to cubby-up and wonder-lust

like caution outperforming wind

is to mask the paramount omens

and abandon ones personal rainbow

October 6, 2013

Dog Day Afternoon

The old black haired dog slowly made its way to where i was sitting. His eyes had a twist of glaze. Despite my complete captivation with the canine, my first thought was that I hoped he would walk on by, scratch at the hot dirt under the shade tree, and nestle down into a cold hole. Basically my way of telling myself that I didn’t want to pet the old beast.

I really figured it didn’t want to be pet either. Not because dogs don’t love being pet, rather this was a real old dog probably looking for peace and quiet. Where is it more safe and quiet for a canine than the inside of an unearthed hole that has just been personally dug? A small racetrack of fleas and such were swarming around his white muzzle.

When Blackie got to me, it stopped and looked right through me. In turn, I was able to see my calling within the glaze. I put one index finger directly under his eardrum, and made slow motion, circular movements. He froze and smiled. When i stopped, it went downward dog on itself, before stretching out both hind legs independently.

It didn’t want any more or it would have made it known. In my best baritone, I told it that I got why it decided to stop at my foot. During our talk, some dog action erupted nearby. The old black dog naturally opened its mouth to bark. Little came out. Again, it looked right at me. He seemed relieved that natural instinct wasn’t able to get the better of him.

October 1, 2013

Namaste

Hurricane~Queen Jane Approximately~Nettie Moore~Talking World War III Blues~Jokerman~Like a Rolling Stone~Tangled Up In Blue~Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues~Boots of Spanish Leather~Masters of War~North Country Blues~Simple Twist of Fate~Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right~Only A Pawn In The Game~Rainy Day Women #12 and 35~Pretty Peggy-O~Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance~Talkin’ New York~I Want You~Song To Woody~Bob Dylan’s Blues~Oxford Town

Standing Deep Breathing~Half Moon w/ Hands to Feet~Awkward~Eagle~Standing Head to Knee~Standing Bow Pulling~Balancing Stick~Standing Separate Leg Stretching~Triangle~Standing Separate Leg Head to Knee~Tree~Toe Stand~Dead Body~Wind Removing~Sit-Up~Cobra~Locust~Full Locust~Bow~Fixed Firm~Half Tortoise~Camel~Rabbit~Head to Knee Pose with Stretching~Spine Twisting~Blowing in Firm

Namaste

September 20, 2013

Deep Thoughts by Whoa Guy

it was 9ish. in the am. it had rained all night. i got on my piece of shit bike and zig zagged my way to hwy 200. lots of big clouds billowing amongst the tall mountains. the air was clear. it was both warm and cool. probably 75. i had a shirt on. the front derailer on my piece of shit bicycle was rusted stuck in the small ring. nothing i could do about it at the moment. i was feeling good though. a tailwind was in affect, and mostly downhill where i was going. i was headed to main beach hoping to see some monsters get ridden. the indicator flag was showing medium offshores. again, i was in the zone, and had so many reasons to feel that way too. more than anything, i was grateful & satisfied.

and then i saw the dead dog laying in the highway. now if a similar sketch could be drawn up in The States, it likely wouldn’t have been a dog afterall. it would have been a skunk, raccoon, maybe a cat. if it were a dog in the US, there would have been five people crying, one person suing, two policeman policing, a pet insurance agent, a pet cemetery rep, and 20+ lookie-loos. here in puerto, there was a dead fucking dog on the road. a young dingo style female. blood and guts everywhere. eyes were closed. if that dog were mine, it would be alive today, and, after a life filled with every possible opportunity to understand mankind, that dog would die a different death. but this dog wasn’t mine.

when i first came here in 2005, that dog would have been mine. when i began coming here in the winter for two months time, that dog would have been mine. the past few years, as two months were converted to six months, that damn dog just might have been mine. but today…that dog wasn’t mine. i gestured up. i thought about a dog or three. but that was it. there was a dead dog on the highway, and it was my time to deal straight. at least it was good and dead i thought. versus perhaps a starving, dying dog. i decided to handle the situation like the dogs mother, brother, or pack buddy would have coped with the plight. i put it behind me, and rambled on down the road.

September 19, 2013

Movin’ On Up

I’m movin’ on up, to the south side

To a deluxe apartment a La Punta

I’m movin’ on up, to the south side

I finally got a piece of the Tlayuda

Dogs ain’t tied to a short leash

Plastic don’t burn in the hills

It took a whole lot a trying

Just to swallow some of them pills

But now I’m up in the fruit trees

Papaya & Mango out the back

A dozen dogs policing, A couple roosters cackling

There ain’t nothin’ wrong with that

Yes I’m movin’ on up, to the south side

With a maid and hot water, two-plus stories high

I’m movin’ on up, to the south side

I finally got a piece of the pie…

September 16, 2013

Cielito Lindo

i came across the humble man that is respectfully known for consistently shaping and glassing the best surfboards here in puerto escondido. he was retrieving mangos off his tree with an extension pole connected to a metal bucket. i had never met him, but i knew who he was. in person, i was surprised how much he resembled the decal he uses on his boards. before asking for my name, he asked if i wanted some organic mangos.

we talked about earth, wind, fire, and of course surfing. i told him that i am new to town again, and that he and i were going to be neighbors for the next six months. his beautiful daughter came out in the street to watch her daddy be nice and gentle to a “middle-aged man pretending to be a kid.” i mentioned that i am saving up all my pesos in my very own piggybank so that one day, when i grow up, i can buy one of his boards.

he handed me four mangos. he told me that the milk like substance oozing out of the skin can potentially wreak havoc if it got on my skin. i told the nice man that i am indestructible, despite my left foot being swollen 2x the size of my right one. i noticed his daughter was wearing a pink shirt, and on it was Mickey Mouse playing the piano. “No se que Mickey Mouse toca el piano?” I said. she squirmed and looked at Pa.

her father said that his daughter really wants to learn how to play a musical instrument, and all indications seem to be pointing towards the piano. “the ‘pro-lame’ Aron, there isn’t really anybody in town that has a piano, and certainly nobody that is willing to teach her to play,” said the talented surfboard shaper. that sucks i thought. i thanked the man, ‘pounded him out’, and rode my bike without brakes down the steep hill.

September 15, 2013

Good Omen

He must have chuckled when he heard my promise. puerto escondido was being sandwiched by Manuel and Ingrid. heavy rains had made it near impossible to venture out anywhere. the injury to my foot made all matters laughable.

I told the kid that i would pay ALL my rent up front if he would give me my fair asking price. his knees wobbled. he pretended he was uneasy. he told me that he normally would have to check with his wife. how cute! he was using all MY moves.

He agreed to 5000 pesos per month, which is $400 to you and me. so I needed 25,000 pesos and the ATM only gives out 6000 per day. so each day, for 4.17 consecutive days, i found a way to get to Central in order to keep my promise.

I think he was surprised at my due diligence. truth is, i didn’t have to keep my promise. nobody keeps their promise around here. i just figured i would perform the unthinkable, hoping that it would lend itself out to a groovy brotherhood.

He handed me the four keys it takes to fruitfully live at his three room hotelito. two keys for the front door, one key for the gate to the stairs, and one key for the gate to the compound. the over/under bet on keys lost by March opened at 11.

I asked his age. he told me he is 37. i asked him his birthday. he said June 23rd. no way..that was my grandmas birthday i told him. and it’s mine too I said with a wink. he is 6/23/76, and i am 6/23/67. numbers can mean everything.

He offered up his truck to help with my move. i passed on that kind gesture for the time being. i told him that my game plan was to perform solo on a dozen or so stealth missions using just my backpack and my bicycle. he understood perfectly.

September 13, 2013

Chess Pain

**jimel, is this your email? please reply.

**Yes sir, this is my email. And im gonna keep beating u in chess (jimel the master) “Im the assassin” You better practice cause im coming in strong, if you don’t you wont even be able to keep up with me. Im just tell in u. From jimel the assassin to hudiny.

**yeah we’ll see tough guy. right now it’s 3 for you and 2 for me. beginners luck my young mexican friend. you ain’t seen nothin yet…

**Jajajaja, Im like Mohamed Ali. I talk but I also do what I say, so watch out brah cause im young, strong, not distracted…
And that game that we played wasn’t even all what I got, im just testing you ja. watch out, from JIMEL THE ASSASSIN to hudiny the beginner

**you ready to play tomorrow assassin? we can play at your house. i will bring my set. and by the way, it’s Houdini. ok let me know..

44 hours later

Friday The 13th

I showed up lame with ice-cold ice in my hand. The taxi kid said he couldn’t continue any further, forcing me to limp up the muddy incline towards the iron gate surrounding the compound. I was only 36 hours removed from stepping on something razor sharp with my bare left foot. Could have used a shot of tetanus.

The boys mother was in the kitchen. She said her middle son would be home shortly. I began icing my foot. Mom brought me some chia seed water and a plate of brown rice with cooked platano. My foot was freaking killing me. The Assassin showed up at three sharp. His younger brother and father led him into the ring.

Before we began, I wanted to make sure he understood the en passant. He said that he did. He wanted to make sure that I knew who the current world chess champion was(is). I told him that I hadn’t a clue. “Well it was this 19 year old Russian, but a 12 year old boy from India just took him down.” He opened first.

We played ten games in six fast hours. I won games 3, 9, and 10. Throughout the painful ordeal, his mother brought us whole bean soup, and homemade tostadas. After all the rain had fallen, I was searching for excuses. Not surprisingly, so was The Assassin. His father drove me home. Heavy rain had once again begun to fall.