Sept. 3, 2013 – Oaxaca

City of colors, art, and chocolate.

7 moles not of the guac variety

Very good chocolate milk

Teachers on strike (not quite as violent as the news makes it look)

I lie in a nylon rope woven type of beach chair on the hostel rooftop, evenly distributing the load through my skin, blue-grey jeans, and prince shirt into a re-bar frame.  The chair frame is fixed and supports itself on 4 triangular legs to a sitting position or, in my current position, can be rocked back to use two rear legs, which results in a view dominated by sky.  Today I am employing the majority of my energy into the vital activity of breathing.  With no intention of contracting unnecessary neck muscles, my head rests on the rear left round of my skull, just behind the ear, and my eyes shift from lap to harmless, clouds resembling white plastic bags carrying grey sweatshirts.  Cars and busses grumble up and down the street behind me and distant church bells echo through the colonial-contemporary bricks as I take as I take turns scribing a few words at a time, resting my eyes for a deep, slow breath, and reaching for the cool, bottled Corona.  The small leaves of aluminum bucketed plants gently caress the ever present flow of crisp Sierra mountain air through the city of Oaxaca (pronounced wa-Hawka).

I chuckle at the thought of how similar my brother and I are.  We champion freedom to the point of inefficiency and obey logic involuntarily.  Presentation of irrefutable information is used back and forth as a means of temporarily enslaving the other.  I again swear to never commit a living situation with him, and, deep down, eagerly await a future circumstance in which I do.

A vicious run up countless flights of stairs to the amphitheater overlooking the artistic, easy natured, foothill city starts the hangover recovery process.  Thirty minutes of cold water allows me to shampoo and condition my dreads and various articles of clothing.  The socks and boxer briefs were left airing on the open window sill, but after a walk to the market, a cup of cappuccino with a dorm mate, and a visit to possibly the most ornately decorated building I’ve ever seen (up there with Grand Central Station and German cathedrals – sorry, no cameras aloud), I find the window closed and no trace of my garments.  Egg sandwich, the 1^st quarter of Pulp Fiction, and up to the roof I go, which brings me to the nylon rope chair.  The Prince shirt has 5 and 8 section radial patterns of royal blue and fire truck red and black, such as a grandmother’s sofa under a black light.  I found it at a Mexican thrift store for 10 pesos. It even has shoulder pads.  All I need now is to get 100 times better on guitar.  After a big day at petrified waterfalls and a big night with my new Australian travel buddies, sitting is all I want.

Jansports last forever

Too much chemical associated with worry floating around in our brains.  People need others to agree.  They feel it’s their work to make others worry.  I want people (myself especially) to lighten up.