Every time I think about writing I find. Una chica gritándome de su padre, de lo que le hace falta que la ventana del carro se le quebró y todo con una sonrisota de éstas que dan alegría. A nail to be torn out fallen bikes and Fourth Street a medic train of both careful and careless strangers. A softly healing wound whiteness of peeling flesh, red of scabs. An Arizona monsoon sun shower cloud stream to wander through on eye planes, a sandstorm to merge with dusted eyes and the joy of particulate scalded ankles and forehead. A website to emerge onto idiotically pandering to the basest of monoconsensual desires. Dos bandejas de enchiladas que me urgen hornear porque vienen al rato las chicas para comerlas y me da prisa. Que me da pereza esto de explorarme a mi mismo, más vale walk in the desert see saguaros and pink sunbath at endday, the language made by me, you coyote, you desert lonely for a reason to do handsprings. Javelinas ocotillo and chollas laughing. This landscape tells I'm too old for writing too old to care what you think. The cat needs food reshuffled, the orange trees wilt and dry out their leaves shreaking and shrinking the tiny black tubes shuttling water to inflate their shiftless roots. And somehow the physicality of my living satiates, hides me away. And when the words begin to flow, they.
Stop.
But somehow encountering a way to push these pebbles out, these leaves mesquite and yearning, this speaking accompanying me and none of it tangible in contact, all of it not here any longer after I push these keys, make these letters appear on the screen. La necedad de la narrativa, dices. And then into another combination of these the same letters, a movement from one tongue, yours, to another, yours as well. The foolishness of narrative makes this not my tongue either. My tongue is the hard tiled floor at my feet. The same thing, words pour out now as they do rarely. Who knows why it matters for the wind to be granted a set of letters that correspond to it? To its feel on my neck, on my perineum, on the bottom of my feet, in my tangled dirty hair dangling bottle brush branches bouncing bracingly bounding around my head, scratching my back. And now to report back to you about these things not with these things but with these unnecessary, incompetent authorities, these words surrounding and compounding an inability. Because the experience of life is one and words another inseparable speakable reality. Nonetheless, the forgetting threatens even before the last drop falls from the shower and as I watch the flow turning around, swirling through the slight rocky ditch, I towel off, move forward, think, if I were to write this now, there would be only words not the softly drooping plant, not a trusting friend on a futon, not the puffy black cat dismounting from the roof of that shed, scuttling down the tree, no, surely not. Only these inadequate, easily criticized words and not the brick softly drying, the moon in blurred perfection not the sound of water falling on brick from showerhead, not crusty washtowels and starlight filling darkness. None of it, just keyboards and an urge to speak in spite of.
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