Experiencing such a profound depression - the worst of my life. I have an absolute conviction I cannot write anymore; my talent - such as it is - has given out. I sit for hours in a catatonic state glaring at a blank page - and there is no one I can talk to. I shouldn't be hung up here in Tijuana. Of course take more on account of depression - I should have remained in San Diego.
I don't know what is wrong with me, but it is bad. Every idea outlandish and repulsive - like the presidency ordeal. And everything I write disgusts me. I really feel awful. A feeling of complete desolation.
Around nine I head straight to the whore zone – the Zone takes care of its own, you dig?
With a sigh of relief I found myself sitting in a cheap cantina off Avenida Coahuila – bar Premier. The place was suffused with a subdued blue light – luridly gloomy - concealing the fat and nasty hooker being finger banged by the ancient cowboy in the corner, her silver teeth reflecting the sad bulbs. A moldy looking bullhead mounted on a plaque hung over the mahogany bar. Pictures of luche libre decorated grimy walls along with strings of Christmas lights – most burnt out. The word pendejo was etched in the frosted-glass swinging door. I found myself reading the word pendejo over and over.
Apparently syphoned by phantom hands, I found myself sitting in a vomit reeking booth with two Mexicans, drinking tequila. The Mexicans were dressed in standard hip-hop gear. One spoke English - they were the 'So how do you like Mexico variety'. A middle-aged, heavy set Mexican with a sad, sweaty face sang songs and played a guitar. He sat at the end of the booth in a chair. I was glad the singing made conversation with him impossible.
Two cops ambled in - assumed I might get a shake, so I slipped my stash of weed in my Lucky Strike cigarette package under the table. The cops had a quick conversation with the bartender and then took off.
The two hip-hop Mexicans took off straightway. When I reached under the table, my weed was gone but the cigarette package was still there.
I sat there staring into my warming cerveza Sol when two guys walked into the cantina and sat next to me. I said Howdy; they said Hola; and introduced themselves - Juan was tall and thin with a shaven head, goatee, blue football jersey, and green army fatigue pants. The other guy was a little younger, about 21, with black slick back hair and wore a black t-shirt with dark cargo pants and looked vaguely oriental. After bumming a cigarro, he said his name was Ignacio. Ignacio? What kind of name is that, I asked – the flirting engine began to rev up. I understood full well of the name Ignacio – had several friends named Ignacio – but I thought I’d play the cutesy-pie gringo. And he went into this long tirade about Aztec culture and that Ignacio was a name based in Aztec tradition. Whatever. I flicked a cockroach offa the bar with indifference. Two girls arrived and they sat with the guys. I excused myself and left.
Walking through these dark cracked streets huddled in someone else's coat. I stop under a poster covered street lamp and light a cigarette. The buzzing from the condenser above me fills my head. Banda music waivers down among the shadows intermittent like black wind through dead trees. I look up and the wires criss cross the starry night. I close my eyes and sigh.
In a town of ten million people, why do I feel so alone?