"Your reports must be much more carefully detailed to be of any use to us. Your experiences must be cataloged... with painstaking accuracy."
I said it before and I'll say it country simple: The Reader will frequently find the same thing said in the same words. This is not carelessness nor is it for The Infatuation With The Sound Of Own Words Dept...It indicates space-time juxtaposition...a folding in and back (the universe is curved, feller say)...point of intersection - PAY ATTENTION PLEASE! - point of intersection between levels of experience where parallel lines meet...
Tijuana: Easy to get in and hard way out...Junk sickness stands at the control box, the yammering Rentboy need intercepts a queen's rush for the Big Brother frontier, the INS warrant waits in San Diego...
Depression hits full force, haven't gotten outta bed all day. What is important when nothing is important? Grey pictures on a grey screen, fading slower and slower (Was this before or is it now?)...Centro, rich yellows and blue hashis in the streets like deep stone canyons, blue doors yellow lights...little bars where sad old Mexican drunks sniff pensively...Tapas and soccer scores on the wall...
The town is an intricate decaying concrete/wood structure in some places six stories high overhanging the street, propped with beams and pillars and railroad sections to form arcades where the inhabitants can keep out of the swarm of baying fat tourists that crowd the frozen concrete...
"Hey meester, you wanna see what's in my shop?" "Pharmacy?" "You want some pussy?"
Ambiguous flashy pimps - Negroes, Chinese, Indian - drift under blazing humming neon drinking frescas under the obsidian eyes of placas, lean against outcroppings of rusted steel and crumbling masonry, talk in silent, catatonic gestures, frescoes of delicate depravity, flat, two dimensional, telepathic...plaintive boy-cries drift through the night..."Paco. Joselito. Enrique." Stale patter of commerce: "A ver Luckies!" (Look here, Luckies!) "Nice girl Meester..." "Panama hats?" "Squeezed-down heads?" (The best Panama hats are not made in Panama.) A hideous mouth blows smoke rings rings into the night..."Fuck me Meester I'm so hot...."
Orale.
The cold night invades the city in great rank hustler infested parks where rats infected with Earth-Eating Disease gambol through ruined kiosks, the stone Liberator, tired horse and tired rider...stone generals like frozen lunatics advocate liberty under the iguana's eye, an old Mayan, fine and yellow as an ivory chessman, sits on an anthropomorphic limestone seat, sipping paregoric...
The smooth brown loin of the pimp swells and rots with syphilis, albinos blink in the sun, boys sit in long rows under cool arcades reading manga comic books - they do not move their legs as people walk by...
There is something here you never see or find, in a silk stocking thrown over a rotten teak balcony, up under town's sizzling iron roofs where plants in tin cans grow on perilous balconies, federale in a black suit and black glasses, the dull liver-sick hate congested in his eyes like toad poison...Smell of el Mar and the mud flats, sewage and drying marijuana...There are sinister hoochie houses in Centro stocked with whores, purposeful agents of disease. Dope peddlers lurk in the toilet with a loaded needle dart out and shoot it into a tourist without waiting for his consent - the doormen are cops, expert lushworkers like all cops in the area, can lift the generalissimo's wallet with a macho goose, and club a drunken sailor into the mud...
A boy named Josilito moved in next to my room, suffocating me with soccer scores...was thin and sickly and always making magic with candles and religious pictures and drinking aromatic medicine in little plastic eye cups...A cockroach crawls slowly up the blue chipped paint wall...I look out my window to the hotel across the street. A whore half Negro and Chinese with high small breasts and white teeth stood in the door and asked for a cigarette...She steps in and takes off her pink slip and stands naked...the boy drops his clothes - erection swinging free - and lies down on the dirty bed, chewing gum, hard and waiting...
Cut to the Plaza Santa Cecilia...Spilling out in ambiguous dancing and sudden electric outbursts of violence, a young man leaped to his feet - thrusting out a knife and spinning around, his knife vibrating with a sort of electric life scream...No me toca, maricones!...His eyes light up, flicker and go out...he collapses and shits his pants with fear and rushes out...Theft and murder are epidemic here and usually go unpunished...There are whole areas, etc...People walk about with the shadow of paranoid madness in their eyes...
Stroll through The Park for borrowed flesh. The old queer squirm on a limestone bench. Indian adolescents walk by, arms around each other's necks and ribs, strain his dying flesh to occupy young buttocks and thighs, tight balls and spurting cocks. A boy turns, grins at him and yells, "Hola, chief," their boy innocence aching whip across his sagging buttocks and drooping loins. Inside, he screams, an enigmatic Sybil with dark glasses and a grey face. Piss blood warm on his withered thighs...
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