It was perhaps the most depressing Xmas of my life. Ufff… Now, at least being somewhere which allows me to access internet makes it ‘un poco suave’ in a manner, loosens my fingers and unfreezes my mind. The bleakness here is almost unbearable, and were I not less drunk, I would describe it in a marbleizing manner. The conversation I had with the only human in this wilderness that I remotely care about cerca two days prior revealed the same sentiments as I have. A prolonged visit here would result in suicide. I want to go to Pecos, Texas, to be reminded. I want to see the grave and cry. The claws of time and of atrophy have torn me to pieces. Why did I ever return to the Good Ol’ USA?

I took a ride with Amy last night. Amy is my cousin. 10 years my superior. We paused for a delicious meal in Arlington (Indian). Our conversation centered around something I have rarely discussed with anyone in my lifetime - that is, our relationship with our parents. And especially the rodina of my father and her mother. I will begin with an instance she explained to me concerning a great uncle by the name of Lynn who used to live in Walla Walla Washington (or so I am told). It shocked me.

Lynn was my father’s father’s brother. Apparently, he had a daughter who’s name I have forgotten. Something beginning with an E. One day, when E was walking home from school (it was not far from home), she was joined by a black girl her age - in her class - a friend, I assume. These girls were 10 years old at the most. They paused for some moments outside of E’s house to finish their conversation. They dawdled there for some moments, enough for the household (Uncle Lynn) to take notice. The black child left finally and E, I would like to think, smiling, rapped at - or just opened - the front door to enter her home and perhaps do her homework or even prepare for dinner. I do not know the details. Nor did Amy. Uncle Lynn was outraged. E was caught by the scruff of her neck like a misbehaving bitch and dragged into the bedroom where she was beaten until her breaths came in gasps. I imagine the pain suffusing her body. Uncle Lynn used a belt… the normal sort that even a kind man might wear about the waist. I believe she was hospitalized, but I do not know the entire tale. It is a sort of black folklore in my family.

Strange weekend. My kyla has been unexpectantly benign. I suppose I should be happy about that. So happy that it does not choke. Ufff.

Tomorrow I go to fabulous Fort Worth to visit my family. Moje rodina. It has been a long time. I wonder how much more alienated I shall feel during and afterwards. After the discussion with Chris today about his hopelessness, the whole idea of staying here for a lengthy time frightens me exceedingly. Everything here irritates me. Even the voices. That accent! Eructing words into ill-built phrases. Je odporny.

I have forgotten how absurd the culture of commercialism (the one that Michael found so unique and fascinating) is.

After not using the Dvorak keyboard (not out of choice, but out of necessity) for some time, I am entering these very enticing words by the means of the once abandoned keyboard layout. I am rather slow and clunky at it. I have lost my touch.

Does the bud or even the stalk of the plant still love its roots? I despise what gave birth to me. Botanical schizophrenia. My eyes still bleed those olden red notions, but the ink they become fades much too quickly.

The firm, barred back of this ancient, wooden chair bites into my back and I flash back to the dim yet burning sensations of my youth. I took a stroll today. Through the park in which the red, ufo of a carosel stood immobile in the dry, bitter wind. Where the chains of the swings jingled greetings to their old solitary friend as I passed. I circumnavigated the pit of a swimming pool, protected from molestation by ragged and crumbling chain-link fences. My feet kicked up dust along the shoulders of the old Alpine highway and passers-by gave glanced at me oddly as if I had been naked without the ugly bulk of automobile clothing hanging about me. Entering the ‘Alamo Grocery’ where a piece of gum used to cost one cent and four years prior, my handsome friend, Chris Bender, bought at least six lottery tickets, I thought momentarily of purchasing a Root Beer but then decided with a stupid simper on my face to get a Snapple instead.

Fucking America again.

In two days, i depart.

Night train to Madrid.

Flight to NYC.

Then to Dallas, then Midland.

It will be odd to be in the desert again.

Speaking of deserts, this last weekend, i bussed to Barcelona. Wonderful El Paso-like landscapes on the way (in specific, through Aragón). Maybe I shall enjoy being in the desert again.

I do not like Heineken at all.

Rain. No sign of its end. My Jesus on Mount Urgull is bleeding but the outcroppings have stolen the red of his blood. Now only salty rain. I am freezing in this cafe. Not another soul in sight. I could walk out without paying. Maybe I shall. Or maybe I will remain here until Sweet Entropy comes again to claim me. Four months without her is a long stretch. Has it been four months? Yes. Nearly five.

In one week and two days, my current Spain adventure shall cease to be. I wonder what all my friends are doing now in their shelters huddle amid Texas, California, New York, North Carolina. I’d like to huddle there with them for a time (strictly platonically, however). I wish the bleeding rain would stop.

After talking to my parents on Saturday night, I have decided, because of, for the most part (not withstanding my horrific guilt concerning the fact that i have not seen them in three years), my complete lack of funds at present, that I shall go to visit my parents for Xmas. Hopefully, I shall have the time and funds to see my wonderful friends who live within the same state (that means you, Tony). Speaking, parenthetically, of Tony, I hope that he reads this and realises that I have no guitar with me and that he should provide one (no matter the quality) so that we can at least create something dismal whilst I am in Austin. I want to play music, tone-tone. Can we? You would not believe the amount of paucity inhabits the silent tunnels of the past two years. I need some noise to gear up my pathetic life. Co delas? ¿Que sabes? What do you think?