Round faces

We could lay in the dark all night and talk about love but in the end we’ll always be in the dark. Is it so inconceivable to love more than one person at once? You’re dangerous. We are all dangerous. Changing paces. Fleet of foot. Changing faces. I found your face in the dark. I stumbled upon her hair in the chasm. Scraping the walls of this endless cerebral well I found myself pondering about every lover I’ve ever had. I figured out what love was in the dark. The well was deep. Love was beneath my fingers. Then I turned on the lights and realized it had slipped through. The window was left open. Must have gone with the breeze. The winds are strong here in the Rio Plata. Better hold tight to your pretty laden scarf. It might find itself in the well or the river.

Many rivers currents are determined by the amount of snowfall in the winter. It’s different every year. The river you’re so fond of might not flow as fervently as it did last season. I’m blaming this one on climate change. Human made of course.  Ostensibly it is a completely different river. I’ve been lost in the desert amongst red, orange and black striped boulders countless times. This creek is the creek I crossed last spring. I’m not lost but I might be. Can you truly know it’s vigor if you don’t swim in it? I think so. That’s like saying you can’t know what intimacy is if you don’t make love to someone. Just half your foot in the frigid creek is all it takes to redden your five little toes. Lay next to someone for hours without ever kissing. Some say sleeping is just as intimate as sex. I read that in The Paradox of Love by a French bloke named Pascal Bruckner.  I’d concur too. Dreaming next to each other for the recommended eight hours of sleep. What’s more intimate than that? Well, I am not going to go there. You can jump in or you can admire the rivers vitality however you please. Either way you shouldn’t be ashamed of loving someone even if you haven’t kissed them or if you have forgotten the lines the creek has carved along your fondest bend. You can always discover another secret spot along the creek. Just get lost.

We all think we’ve found it. But what is it? Forget it and embrace it. I am not ashamed to say that I don’t know what it is. I don’t need an answer for it. It ebbs and it flows. Cliché. I should let you know I’m a cliché.  Just eat grapes and be happy. You could make wine from the grapes too. Then things could get real wild. I’m a wild grape nourished by the rivers of the Willamette Valley. I am tired of writing about wine. This is the last of it. I swear to the god I don’t believe in. In this case I’m throwing up hail mary’s to Dionysus.

Ciclos. Cycles. Circles. Round and round. Round faces. They all have about the same form. When I kiss one round face I find the same shape in it that I found in another. It’s because they are all round. Round and round the rivers bend. Don’t turn on the lights because you will realize you don’t know who or what it is. Perhaps the least I had discovered in the dark was that my nepenthe was her lips speaking a language I am slowly coming to understand.

Jacaranda

Just the typical day in Montevideo. A truck outside is blasting Beethoven. It’s transporting fuel to distribute to the neighborhoods. Fuel on wheels. I’ve only seen it occur here. Things seem so different here but it’s only because I haven’t disrobed the mystery yet.

A little stroll along La Rambla. Every time I encounter someone new. People are pleasant here and people are pleasant there. They see in me the same mystery I see in them. It brings us together.

It sometimes gets lonely when you aren’t in the land of your tongue.  But I’m charmed by this loneliness because I know it will bring a verdant future much like spring after an arduous winter.  I adore the dead purple blossoms resting on the brick sidewalks dropped by the Jacaranda tree. You should see the Ceibo and her blossoms. Just one. I have to take just one flowers life. Slip it in my ear to feel her red fingers touch my cheek. It is just what I feel like doing. To be a part of the mystery

How many sentences are uttered in a conversation over wine? Cabernet sauvignon from the vineyards of Uruguay along with the mystery of a language not yet fully known. Red teeth, red tongue. Shame comes from the fact that I have a piece of paper that says I should understand it. Hand gestures and the little vocabulary we know uncover the thoughts we are trying to express. To speak. Hablar. It’s much harder than you think. But the red wine eases my tongue and allows me to roll r’s without shame. In the land of the trees and mist I haven’t listened well. I haven’t been so zen in the desert either. Escucha. I’ve realized that while being in Villa Dolores. How ironic. Dolores is a very common name. It’s a very common feeling as well. Pain. Dolor. The realization that I’m not as good as listener as I thought brings this one on. An old lover that I hardly know anymore told me this recently. It hurts to get slapped in the face with that one. I am listening now. Trying to understand every word from the mysterious tongue of Spanish. It’s so beautiful. So elusive. I thought I was elusive. Try learning a language you don’t know. It’s a good thing I’m in love with mystery otherwise I’d probably turn my back on her. I want to grasp her and understand every word that comes from her mouth. In time. Patience. Like I’ve expressed I don’t understand a lot of what people to say to me. Through hand gestures, miscommunication and laughter we paddle through the ponds of languages we both don’t know. I understand her eyes though. They speak to me. They tell me it’s safe to swim around in her language. At least I can float. That’s a start.