My room on the garbage cliff overlooking the Juarez poor barrio, tin shacks and white roofs of crumbling adobe, and little dirty gardens down below bounded by the uptown hip cliff and superhighway nightmare 20th century I-10. To stand on my garbage cliff and see I am at the end of Mexico - the longing pulls at me, depression of a million nostalgic images flood my withering mind.
The town is so noisy - dirty, streetfulls of wild boys all night, drunken nacos in yellow Stetsons and sagging pot bellies, restaurants, nasty whore hotels, musicians, half American stores, jumping beans and tortilla concessions, Chinese Masonic lodges & barbers too. Big halls for hip-hop discos and ranchero music, painted crudely with monolithic donkeys. A portrait of a Chihuahua glares down at me donning Sante Fe style kerchief and bejeweled vaquero hat.
I walked through the border at night back to my sad, lonely apartment, a dead silent fairyland of U.S. dusk - deserted ghost streets and sad quiet aircooled diners with white capped waitresses joking softly and no one on the streets.
One more month and I am going back to live.