La Clandestina

nothing is true, but everything is real

La Gringita

La Gringita
July 02
la clandestina
riding the spiral to find the light at the end of the tunnel. here i am in south america tryin to get the fuck away from the north and see what there is to being elsewhere. por eso, me llaman la gringita.



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MAY 16, 2012 10:01PM

i've started to ache for one of my homelands...

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EL RITMO DE MOVIMIENTO: sittin in a sweat soaked bus, passin through the rural suburbia of guatemala. I have the thought: instability is for those who lack love. love allows the mundane to be divine. but it is also a distraction…driftin in and out of some form of meditation, I can sense the world better with my eyes closed. some pirate of a guatemalteco takes my ticket, awakening me into reality. debating over the misadventure of little misguided jane. she’s bound to remain insane. some stranger of a friend is crowding my space. takin away my independence, but givin me the gift of acquaintance. omens all around. I’m an angel…flyin in with unknown fantasies and unproven theories. affecting the world one at a time. now a preacher speaks to me in spanish. I hear his words but I feel the hollowness of his heart more. adios. goodbye. a Dios. to God. it’s all in how you interpret things. evangelical hopes shouting through the peddlers of piñas and aguas. so many brown arms jiggling their wares in my face, wafting scents through my nose. cacti are growing on trees. what is this place I’m in? a dried-out jungle, houses of straw proclaim they have internet, Mayan women carrying their life on their back and their cell phone down their shirt. I’m running back to my home. the steady hearth living in my head. I shut my eyes and I feel every drop of sweat as my pore creates it. I am a creation and a creator. thoughts have long been whirling, spiraling through empty fullness. every time I catch one, the bus stops, for too long. the world is passing by too quickly and I get irritated when it stops. the pirate man’s shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his belly, twinkle in his eye and a hearty laugh of rum. he’s existing in the wrong time. but who am I to judge? so am I. more preachers, more peddlers. movement never goes away. but everything is in the midst of change. disappointed in anything I look forward to. I try to stop looking, but sensory perception goes beyond the eyes. I see my loneliness. I take it as my friend, my partner. but I’m afraid to let it in. if I find comfort in him, I’ll find my world. I’ll stop the movement. I just can’t do that. I need the attention. I let go of loneliness’s hand, wipe the sweat away, and stare out the window again.

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