“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 again country simple: The Reader will frequently find the same
thing transcribed in the same words. This is not carelessness nor is it for The
Obsession With The Sound Of Own Words Dept... It indicates space-time
juxtaposition...a folding in and back (the universe is curved, whispers a long
dead genius)...point of intersection - PAY ATTENTION PLEASE! - point of
intersection between levels of proficiency where parallel borders meet...
Tijuana: Easy to get in
and hard to get out... ominous addictions on all levels stand at the controls,
the yammering rentboy indigence intercepts a fleeing queen’s rush towards the
Big Brother frontier, the INS warrant waits in San Diego...
Depression hits full
force, haven’t gotten out of 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 blues in the streets like
deep stone canyons, blue doors, yellow lights...little cantinas where sad old
Mexican drunks sniff pensively ...Tapas and futbol scores on the wall...
The town is an
intricate decomposing concrete/wood construct. In some places six stories high
overhanging the street, propped with beams and pillars and bent telephone poles
to form porticoes where the inhabitants can keep out of the swarm of baying fat
tourists who crowd the disintegrated concrete...
“Hey meester, you wanna
see what’s in my shop?”
“Farmacia?"
“You want some pussy?”
Clandestine, snarling
pimps flow beneath blistering humming neon sipping horchata under the obsidian
eyes of placas, lean against outcroppings of rusted steel and crumbling
masonry, speak in silent, rigid gestures, frescoes of elusive decadence, flat,
two dimensional, more over telepathic...plaintive boy-cries drift through the
night...“Saul. Pepe. Juan Carlos. Donde vas?” Stale patter of commerce: “A ver
Maburro!” (Look here, Marlboro!) “You want juicy pussy, Meester?” “Mexican
straw hats?” “Leather bullwhip?” (The best Mexican hats are not made in
Mexico.) A hideous mouth blows smoke rings into the night...“Fuck me, Meester,
soy muy caliente...”
Orale.
The humid night invades
the city in great rank hustler infested parks where rats infected with putrescent
disease romp through ruined kiosks, the stone Emancipator, tired horse and
tired rider...stone generals resemble frozen lunatics who advocate liberty
under the ever-glaring eye of the withered Zonky, two old Mayan pedophiles,
fine as an ivory chessman, convene on an anthropomorphic limestone seat,
sipping limonada... scrutinizing the rent boys slinking past, hawking their
asses…
The smooth brown crotch
of a pimp swells and rots with syphilis, nacos blink in the sun, preteen boys
sit in long rows under shaded galleries reading manga comics - they do not move
their legs as people walk by...
There is something here
the casual tourist never sees nor finds, dirty undershorts thrown over a
disintegrating concrete balcony, blistering iron roofs where nondescriptive
florae in grimy plastic containers grow on perilous terraces, federale in a
black uniform and black glasses, the dull life-sick hate congested in his eyes
like scorpion poison... Smell of el Mar and the mud flats, sewage and drying
marijuana... There are sinister hoochie houses in Centro stocked with doped-up
whores, purposeful agents of disease - the doormen, expert pickpockets like all
in the area, can lift the generalissimo’s wallet with a macho goose and stomp a
drunken faggot into the asphalt...
A young man named Juan
Carlos moved in next to my room, asphyxiating me with futbol scores...thin and
sickly and continually fidgeting with candles and religious icons of that
condescending bitch Guadalupe, goes on and on about his novia and lack of funds
to support her...A cockroach crawls slowly up the blue chipped paint wall...I
look out my window to the hotel across the street. A dark-skinned whore of
Aztec descent with floppy breasts and discolored teeth stood in the door and
asked for a cigarette from a scrawny young man...She steps in and takes off her
pink slip and stands naked...the young man drops his ragged pants - erection
swinging free - and lies down on the dirty bed, smoking a Delicado, hard and
waiting...
Cut to the Plaza...Spilling
out in abstruse cavorting and sudden static outbursts of violence, a young man
leapt to his feet brandishing a rusty machete and spinning around, scream...No
me toca, maricones!...His eyes light up, flicker and go out...he collapses and
shits his pants with fear, the police surround him and stomp him to dust.
Tourists are warned theft and murder are epidemic in Tijuana and usually go
unpunished...there are entire areas, blah blah blah ...tourists amble about
with the shadow of paranoid madness in their eyes...
Stroll through The Park
for borrowed flesh. An old queen consumed in frustrating passion, fidgets on an
iron wrought bench. Two young men saunter past him shirtless in the summer
heat, arms around each other’s necks and corrugated abdomens, the image
seducing his fading flesh to entertain young buttocks and thighs, loose balls
and spurting cocks. A boy turns, snarls at him and spits, “What are you staring
at, ugly faggot?” Their boy naiveté violently slashes across his sagging face
and drooping torso. Inside he screams, outside an enigmatic mask of dark
glasses and ashen face…
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