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the journal of a small time hustler hiding out in Mazatlan
Thursday, July 17, 2003
It has been a very long time since I last wrote in this journal. I wish I could say that I have been too busy to write, but that would not be totally true since I find time in my busy schedule to take a 2 hour siesta every day. Nevertheless, I have been keeping myself occupied during my waking hours. The last entry to this journal showed the perilousness of my situation. I have found in Mexico, the opportunity to reflect, and capitalizing on that opportunity, have come to the choice of whether to act on these radical thoughts, or to hold them at arms length as one would hold a baby while wearing a new suit, ever concerned of the unpredictable substances that could come spewing out of such a precious creature.
The episode in the turtle mountains, mentioned previously in this journal, was an isolated incident. Like a sudden break in the clouds, it left me breathless and amazed, grateful of the brief respite from my turbulent world of survival. Muscles I had never known were in use suddenly relaxed, indeed, eyes I never knew were closed were briefly opened. Yet, like the man dying of thirst who finds a small amount of water will swallow it all but taste nothing as the water soaks into his desperate body, I was too astonished of that oasis of peace at that pond, that I desperately tried to take as much comfort and joy from that place as possible, leaving my parched soul satiated for the moment but my mind unable to grasp the implications of the miracle.
Where in the turtle mountains I was allowed a taste, here in Mexico I am allowed my fill. And as any commodity becomes more plentiful, it depreciates in preciousness, but gains the value of practical use. I had found a nugget of truth, now i seek to mine the source. I found against all logic, a small store in this Mexican town that sells used english books. I remember when I was in high school, before i dropped out, the only class that I found interesting in the least was english, and while the other guys would complain about having to read the books that our English teacher Mrs. Pearson gave us, I secretly enjoyed reading them, and writing the necessary responses. After I dropped out of high school and and found my place on the street, I read less and less eventually forgetting the joy I had found in a good book. Walking into that illogical store I dusted off those memories like an old treasure and decided at that moment to buy the thickest book in the store and read it during my stay here. It didn t take me long to pick out the thickest book, there was only a selection of about two hundred books most tattered copies of romances with a few Louis Lamour westerns for good measure. I reached past the romances and past the westerns to a huge book resting towards the back of the shelf, turning it over I saw the name. Les Miserables.
To say that I dove into the book rekindling my youthful love of literature would be false. After the initial excitement of my rediscovered passion, I became apprehensive of the actual task of opening the massive novel. I feared that my time spent cultivating the skills necessary to survive on the streets had left little room for the finer aspects of art and that perhaps my very ability to appreciate literature had been ground into the dirt, fertilizer for those baser needs. Despite these fears, my time spent in Mexico had awakened in me a thirst for knowledge which I now had the leisure to pursue, and I went about it with the same tenacity that made me successful as a criminal and dangerous as a man.
I have already made mention of the charming cafe Machado which I frequented nightly, and now I must mention it again, for it serves as the setting of this account. Some places carry with them the spirit of those who dwell there, some places are imbued with the spirit of the city they reside in, still others, small though they may seem, may embody the spirit of a nation. I saw Mexico from those white iron worked chairs. I spied through the surrounding iron fence not people passing by, but a People in movement. In being welcomed and befriended by the meseros, I was welcomed by a country. No doubt the stigma of that place was added to by the recent awakening of my senses. the strangeness of my physical surroundings: sounds, smells, tastes, even the light was foreign to me, combined with the violent rearanging of my heart and mind to create a place full of magic and hidden meanings. It was here I chose to read my book and in so doing, change my direction. And so, I sat down in that surreal little cafe where the meseros were ambasodors, and the children were ghosts content to laugh, where the sun dripped, rather than shown, down on us all and I started to read.
I had never heard of the novel before, nor the author Victor Hugo. I only surmised that it was written in a different language because of the translators name on the cover. I did not know when it was written, where the story takes place, or even what genre to expect. When I opened the novel for the first time, I did so with a mind desperate for nourishment, a mind made innocent through it´s ignorance.
One hundred pages were turned that first night, a number inconsequential in relation to the things I had learned. There were words I did not understand, but rather than hindering my understanding of the text, I felt my perception heightened as I took each into my mouth tasting it like a new and exotic fruit. These intellectual stumblings delighted me, and I chuckled aloud as I sounded out the complex french words. I felt liberated in my mistakes, since most of my life I have lived fighting the triple current of law, survival, and human nature, where to fail is to be swept away either to jail, death, or that final stage of poverty which is the bankruptcy of the spirit. How refreshing to fail and fall only to my knees! That night I read until the early morning hours before, with sore eyes, full of cigarette smoke and fresca, and a certain lightness about my entire body that made it difficult not to smile, I shut the book and walked back to the apartment I shared with the Old Woman.
This sequence of events became to me something more than a habit, leaning more towards an addiction. Every evening I would say goodnight to the Old Woman and head down to the Machado, stopping to stock up on cigarettes whether I had some or not. Walking the narrow streets, the raised sidewalks scarcely wide enough for two people to pass abreast, I noticed differences around me that were in fact reflections of the changes taking place in my mind. No longer would I look at the buildings and homes I passed searching for weak hinges or an unlocked window, instead I noticed the colonial architecture, the Mexican color, and the wide sweeping balconies. No longer did I watch the people I passed with suspicion, or size them up for the hit, instead I looked at them and wondered where they came from, and where they were going. If I had lent the thought, I would have noticed that the faces of people I passed on the street were kinder than what I was used to. For the faces of strangers are often mirrors of your own, as quick to reflect kindness as suspicion, interest as disdain. Occaisionaly I even found strangers smiling at me, a markedly new experience. My walks in the streets invariably led me to the Machado, where I poured over Hugo s tome which led me to different places altogether.
Without going into detail about plot, allow me a few words about the novel Les Miserables. I have already mentioned the difficulty of the language, yet I found hidden in that tangle of unpronouncable words a landscape of history, religion, adventure, and romance. One walking that landscape meets men like mountains, massive, humbling, and noble; from whose shoulders can be seen the wide vista of human dignity, the cliffs of self sacrifice, and the snow white summit that is a heart focused on God. One also will meet men who encapsulate the abyss of moral degredation, the black valleys of hopelessnes, and the deserts of human depravity. In men like the former I glimpsed where I wanted to go, while in men like the latter, I looked with new eyes at exactly where I had been.
to be continued.
Maxwell
The episode in the turtle mountains, mentioned previously in this journal, was an isolated incident. Like a sudden break in the clouds, it left me breathless and amazed, grateful of the brief respite from my turbulent world of survival. Muscles I had never known were in use suddenly relaxed, indeed, eyes I never knew were closed were briefly opened. Yet, like the man dying of thirst who finds a small amount of water will swallow it all but taste nothing as the water soaks into his desperate body, I was too astonished of that oasis of peace at that pond, that I desperately tried to take as much comfort and joy from that place as possible, leaving my parched soul satiated for the moment but my mind unable to grasp the implications of the miracle.
Where in the turtle mountains I was allowed a taste, here in Mexico I am allowed my fill. And as any commodity becomes more plentiful, it depreciates in preciousness, but gains the value of practical use. I had found a nugget of truth, now i seek to mine the source. I found against all logic, a small store in this Mexican town that sells used english books. I remember when I was in high school, before i dropped out, the only class that I found interesting in the least was english, and while the other guys would complain about having to read the books that our English teacher Mrs. Pearson gave us, I secretly enjoyed reading them, and writing the necessary responses. After I dropped out of high school and and found my place on the street, I read less and less eventually forgetting the joy I had found in a good book. Walking into that illogical store I dusted off those memories like an old treasure and decided at that moment to buy the thickest book in the store and read it during my stay here. It didn t take me long to pick out the thickest book, there was only a selection of about two hundred books most tattered copies of romances with a few Louis Lamour westerns for good measure. I reached past the romances and past the westerns to a huge book resting towards the back of the shelf, turning it over I saw the name. Les Miserables.
To say that I dove into the book rekindling my youthful love of literature would be false. After the initial excitement of my rediscovered passion, I became apprehensive of the actual task of opening the massive novel. I feared that my time spent cultivating the skills necessary to survive on the streets had left little room for the finer aspects of art and that perhaps my very ability to appreciate literature had been ground into the dirt, fertilizer for those baser needs. Despite these fears, my time spent in Mexico had awakened in me a thirst for knowledge which I now had the leisure to pursue, and I went about it with the same tenacity that made me successful as a criminal and dangerous as a man.
I have already made mention of the charming cafe Machado which I frequented nightly, and now I must mention it again, for it serves as the setting of this account. Some places carry with them the spirit of those who dwell there, some places are imbued with the spirit of the city they reside in, still others, small though they may seem, may embody the spirit of a nation. I saw Mexico from those white iron worked chairs. I spied through the surrounding iron fence not people passing by, but a People in movement. In being welcomed and befriended by the meseros, I was welcomed by a country. No doubt the stigma of that place was added to by the recent awakening of my senses. the strangeness of my physical surroundings: sounds, smells, tastes, even the light was foreign to me, combined with the violent rearanging of my heart and mind to create a place full of magic and hidden meanings. It was here I chose to read my book and in so doing, change my direction. And so, I sat down in that surreal little cafe where the meseros were ambasodors, and the children were ghosts content to laugh, where the sun dripped, rather than shown, down on us all and I started to read.
I had never heard of the novel before, nor the author Victor Hugo. I only surmised that it was written in a different language because of the translators name on the cover. I did not know when it was written, where the story takes place, or even what genre to expect. When I opened the novel for the first time, I did so with a mind desperate for nourishment, a mind made innocent through it´s ignorance.
One hundred pages were turned that first night, a number inconsequential in relation to the things I had learned. There were words I did not understand, but rather than hindering my understanding of the text, I felt my perception heightened as I took each into my mouth tasting it like a new and exotic fruit. These intellectual stumblings delighted me, and I chuckled aloud as I sounded out the complex french words. I felt liberated in my mistakes, since most of my life I have lived fighting the triple current of law, survival, and human nature, where to fail is to be swept away either to jail, death, or that final stage of poverty which is the bankruptcy of the spirit. How refreshing to fail and fall only to my knees! That night I read until the early morning hours before, with sore eyes, full of cigarette smoke and fresca, and a certain lightness about my entire body that made it difficult not to smile, I shut the book and walked back to the apartment I shared with the Old Woman.
This sequence of events became to me something more than a habit, leaning more towards an addiction. Every evening I would say goodnight to the Old Woman and head down to the Machado, stopping to stock up on cigarettes whether I had some or not. Walking the narrow streets, the raised sidewalks scarcely wide enough for two people to pass abreast, I noticed differences around me that were in fact reflections of the changes taking place in my mind. No longer would I look at the buildings and homes I passed searching for weak hinges or an unlocked window, instead I noticed the colonial architecture, the Mexican color, and the wide sweeping balconies. No longer did I watch the people I passed with suspicion, or size them up for the hit, instead I looked at them and wondered where they came from, and where they were going. If I had lent the thought, I would have noticed that the faces of people I passed on the street were kinder than what I was used to. For the faces of strangers are often mirrors of your own, as quick to reflect kindness as suspicion, interest as disdain. Occaisionaly I even found strangers smiling at me, a markedly new experience. My walks in the streets invariably led me to the Machado, where I poured over Hugo s tome which led me to different places altogether.
Without going into detail about plot, allow me a few words about the novel Les Miserables. I have already mentioned the difficulty of the language, yet I found hidden in that tangle of unpronouncable words a landscape of history, religion, adventure, and romance. One walking that landscape meets men like mountains, massive, humbling, and noble; from whose shoulders can be seen the wide vista of human dignity, the cliffs of self sacrifice, and the snow white summit that is a heart focused on God. One also will meet men who encapsulate the abyss of moral degredation, the black valleys of hopelessnes, and the deserts of human depravity. In men like the former I glimpsed where I wanted to go, while in men like the latter, I looked with new eyes at exactly where I had been.
to be continued.
Maxwell
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
We are entering the seventh month, according to the locals july is when it starts to get hot. I have slipped into a pretty easy routine down here. It is hard to look back towards the united states, all i see are heat waves. When I was young i remember my friend Rudy T and I jacked this car from some old womans drive way and went joyriding. We ended up overheating after a couple hours and were stranded somewhere in the turtle mountains. We decided to hoof it out of there since we didn t want to be caught trying to fix a stolen car.
We walked for about an hour and passed a few farms, but didn t want to call anyone that close to the car and kept going. After a while we walked around a curve, and Rudy T saw something in the woods. I followed him as he took off into the forest. There only about fifty yards from the road was a small pond surrounded by boulders. The rest of the ponds we had seen had been watering holes for cattle, but this one was strangely untouched, the water was clear and sparkling in the noon sun. There we were, two toughs who had never been out of the city before confronted for the first time with a place of peace and beauty. I started to feel a strange tightening in my throat and for some reason my eyes started to itch. Thankfully the moment was splashed aside as Rudy T let out a whoop and throwing his clothes on the bank did a running cannonball into the pool.
I silently scoffed at Rudy T, he was a good guy, but i always guessed he was soft. Look at him splashing around like a little school girl. I noticed a particularly large boulder on a small knoll inbetween the pond and the trees. I walked through the tall grass until i could reach and pull myself up on the boulder. It felt like something was crawling on my legs, and when i lifted up my pant leg i saw three brown flat bugs making there way up my leg. I picked them off and through them into the grass. I took off my shirt and found two more on my stomach. I sat on the boulder picking the strange flat bugs off my body, while Rudy T floated in the water.
From the top of the boulder, the plains of stretched out as far as I could see reminding me of a multi colored jail. I could see a few tractors tooling around in the perfectly square fields, inmates pacing their cells. It was strange, those fields never seem so square when you see them from the window of a stolen car. The idea of hidden patterns and disguised order sent a chill down my back. It was beautiful though, I ll admit it now though i never would have then. As I sat there, i realized i was completely out of my element. It struck me that there weren t any easy marks walking by demanding my attention. I could hear no vehicles or human voices. For once it seemed that my mind was free to wander.
This is not to say there wasn t anything happening around me. On the contrary, a wind was rustling the elm leaves above me and it sounded like rain. Rudy T was floating on his back in the pond, and every time he kicked his legs or waved his arms to stay afloat the water sounded like breaking glass. the longer I sat there in silence, the more noises i heard. Something cracking twigs underfoot, measured steps in the forest, the scurrying and chatter of squirrels, and the hurried deliberations of the birds.
Slowly, it came to me. It was not that I had left society and civilization behind, rather, i had simply moved from one society to another. No doubt there was a snake or a fox out in the woods right now watching for their easy marks, listening to the racket of the living forest. But here in this society I could only be a spectator. The feeling of opportunities lurking around corners just out of my sight had left me, freeing my mind to contemplate things other than survival and the next score. I decided that I was glad that the old womans car blew up where it did and that Rudy T saw the water from the road, even if that did make me a pansie.
That time in the turtle mountains overlooking the plains was the first time i tasted the bittersweet juices of self reflection. Here in Mexico is the second time. In the narrow streets of this town i will never know, amidst the voices of these people whose meaning i can never comprehend, surrounded by this mysterious culture and magical land, once again, i am forced into the role of the spectator and once again my mind is free.
hasta luego mis amigos
Maxwell
We walked for about an hour and passed a few farms, but didn t want to call anyone that close to the car and kept going. After a while we walked around a curve, and Rudy T saw something in the woods. I followed him as he took off into the forest. There only about fifty yards from the road was a small pond surrounded by boulders. The rest of the ponds we had seen had been watering holes for cattle, but this one was strangely untouched, the water was clear and sparkling in the noon sun. There we were, two toughs who had never been out of the city before confronted for the first time with a place of peace and beauty. I started to feel a strange tightening in my throat and for some reason my eyes started to itch. Thankfully the moment was splashed aside as Rudy T let out a whoop and throwing his clothes on the bank did a running cannonball into the pool.
I silently scoffed at Rudy T, he was a good guy, but i always guessed he was soft. Look at him splashing around like a little school girl. I noticed a particularly large boulder on a small knoll inbetween the pond and the trees. I walked through the tall grass until i could reach and pull myself up on the boulder. It felt like something was crawling on my legs, and when i lifted up my pant leg i saw three brown flat bugs making there way up my leg. I picked them off and through them into the grass. I took off my shirt and found two more on my stomach. I sat on the boulder picking the strange flat bugs off my body, while Rudy T floated in the water.
From the top of the boulder, the plains of stretched out as far as I could see reminding me of a multi colored jail. I could see a few tractors tooling around in the perfectly square fields, inmates pacing their cells. It was strange, those fields never seem so square when you see them from the window of a stolen car. The idea of hidden patterns and disguised order sent a chill down my back. It was beautiful though, I ll admit it now though i never would have then. As I sat there, i realized i was completely out of my element. It struck me that there weren t any easy marks walking by demanding my attention. I could hear no vehicles or human voices. For once it seemed that my mind was free to wander.
This is not to say there wasn t anything happening around me. On the contrary, a wind was rustling the elm leaves above me and it sounded like rain. Rudy T was floating on his back in the pond, and every time he kicked his legs or waved his arms to stay afloat the water sounded like breaking glass. the longer I sat there in silence, the more noises i heard. Something cracking twigs underfoot, measured steps in the forest, the scurrying and chatter of squirrels, and the hurried deliberations of the birds.
Slowly, it came to me. It was not that I had left society and civilization behind, rather, i had simply moved from one society to another. No doubt there was a snake or a fox out in the woods right now watching for their easy marks, listening to the racket of the living forest. But here in this society I could only be a spectator. The feeling of opportunities lurking around corners just out of my sight had left me, freeing my mind to contemplate things other than survival and the next score. I decided that I was glad that the old womans car blew up where it did and that Rudy T saw the water from the road, even if that did make me a pansie.
That time in the turtle mountains overlooking the plains was the first time i tasted the bittersweet juices of self reflection. Here in Mexico is the second time. In the narrow streets of this town i will never know, amidst the voices of these people whose meaning i can never comprehend, surrounded by this mysterious culture and magical land, once again, i am forced into the role of the spectator and once again my mind is free.
hasta luego mis amigos
Maxwell
