PARTING COMPANY: 1 & 2

1. James:

"I love, but do not need,
My fickle heart to bleeed
My jealous hands to grieve
and stomach seethe,
When my love she leaves."

- Who am I? Fucking Shakespeare? Enough bards out there. Too, soppy, too old school. Old school, can be ok tho...Dam! That ass is a sonnet! I should write bout that..."Bouncy bouncy, mangoes in a denin prison. I want to break you out and cover them with.." No, that will never do. Can´t be thinking like that already. Already? Its not so bad I guess. Spose my libido´s fickle if not my heart. Who´s isnt? Is hers? Fuck, I hope not. Is she writing ass poems about some waxed crack argentinian twat? Yeah, leave that line as it is. Libido doesn´t fit anyway. Too many syllables.

"The leaves are turning, will turn again before i see her.
I want her happy, her dreams near,
Affirming forwards our love brings up the rear" - No no no! What a twat, thats terrible. Come on now. Why the fuck is she just standing there? Maybe she´s waiting for someone. But do you really need to point that thing at me? Like the lighthouse for my ship of infidelity. How I long to crash upon those ample fleshy shores! Irresponsible voluptuousness!! Hmm.

"The leaves are turning, will turn back before I see her.
Fruitless months fall, but ripening anew I fear,
That I will fall for some irresponsible voluptuousness,
For the denim nutured fruit of another."

-Ha!

"I´m locked in her embrace, but own the key.
I turned it in its lock, when she packed her case,
I would have swallowed it, for all I felt free.
But now no wind to chase, the leaves from under my feet,
No rushing tide, to wash her back to me,
No time soon, not unless I bleed,
Not unless I trample, temptations from the tree."




2. Jane :

Packing up again. Always think of the first time. Trying to pack light whilst being prepared for everything that a continent could throw at me. Trying to work out which things I didn´t need. James lying on the bed, completely calm. Horizontal, pragmatic and seemingly impartial. "Something for hot weather, something for cold."......"if you think you´ll use it". More concerned about what music I was taking. Making me a library of alluring memories. Someone should have told me to be careful what I wished for! The nostalgia, the aching domesticity: putting away the books he got me, the clothes he held me in, the little essentials I bought from Boots - all the potential teardrops. Its part of the process I suppose, drying them up. Painfully purging myself of sadness. He´d like that. I knew what I was doing though. Part of the process. He couldn´t have done anything but be calm. Supportive and defensive. Intoxicating. A final dose.

Walking up to Plaza Santo Domingo : Quito

   This morning I awoke to a frantic 20s jazz montage. Tumbling drums and chaotic brass blowing somewhere up ahead. A stampede of taxis turning out of the plaza, climbing on top of one another to make their getaway. A woman with a basket fleeing downhill also. I walk upwards, inviting the madness on. Has three days in bed has accelerated the world outside? Shoe keeprs glaze perplexedly toward the unseen source of the commotion. The drums roll on, drawing near. Approaching the lip of the hill and entering the plaza, a column of uniformed school children. Are they something to do with all this? Creeping along one edge of the plaza, a line of shoe shiners, beading at the brow. Amid the flurry of arms keeping pace with the drums, thier suited clients sit low to the floor, legs spread as if at the gynecologist´s chair. They indulge the absurdity and wave instructions. A bandstand emerges as the fountain of the chaos inspiring cacophony. Round it hums the media circus. A disproportionate ratio of blonde women and thier cameramen. Zooming in on wheel spokes. Competing for cyclists.
International pedestrians day fighting against the fumes of Quito.

2. La Plaza de la Independencia: Quito

   Over the trickle of the fountain, and the gentle murmur of traffic - the divine screetch of a madman. How long he`s been there is anyone´s guess. The congregation, seated on benches and the low stone skirting that divides up the plaza, remain dutifuly unmoved. Old timers confess past glories. Parents bring their children to the fountain. A mouth consecrates an icecream. You couples link arms, til whatsoever time do they part. Shoe shiners casually inherit the earth. A policeman knowingly takes in the scene. Some search for salvation in newspapers, a gringo looks in his guidebook. All receiving the mid-morning mana of the sun. All play they parts to perfection.
   The breaking, indignant voice of the Preacher reverberates from the walls of the cathedral, the palace, the swanky hotel and the town hall.

"God gave you life and he can take it away!"

"Your body should be part of God!"

"This afternoon is the Devil! The Devil for all the vice we will commit."

"How will we fight vice?"

   Suddenly, an surge of wind, possibly the wrath of God, sends a thousand dry leaves scattering. For a moment, the sermon is consumed in the blizzard of their scuffling.


   En cima del hilo del fuente y el suave murmujo del tráfico - el divino alarido de un maniaco. ¿Quien sabe quanto tiempo a estado allí? La congregación, sentada en los bancos y un tipo de rodapie que delimita la plaza, sigue sumisamente disinteresada. Viejos confesan a triumfos pasados. Padres llevan a sus niños al fuente. Una boca consegra un helado. Parejas jovens se entrelasan brazos hasta que se separen. Lustrabotas casualmente heredan la tierra. Un policía observa la escenea con complícidad. Algunas buscan la salvación un los periodicos, un gringo la espera en su guia. Todos reciben la media mañana mana del sol. Todos desempeñan sus partes a perfección.
   El voz del pastor, esta acusando mientras descomponer. Se resonsa desde las paredes de la catedral, del palacio, del hotel pijo y del ayuntomiento.

   "Dios les dío la vida, y el puede terminarla!"
   "Tu cuerpo debe ser dentro de Dios"
   "Esta tarde es el Diablo! El Diablo por todo el vicio que cometeremos."
   "¿Como lucharemos contra el vicio?"

   De repente, una ráfaga, posiblemente la colera de Dios, desparrama miles de hojas secas através de la plaza. Por un minuto, la ventisca de sus refriegas, se consuma el sermón.

1. Arrivals

" We´ve lost cabin pressure."   Nobody likes to hear this.

" We have to turn back."   Right.

" We´re jettisoning our fuel."   No, still not feeling great about this.

" This is a routine procedure, no need to worry."   Oh, that´s ok then.

A nervous hilarity: a stiff concoction of impending doom and low pressure drinking, fast descends to forge a portentous cameraderie between myself and immediate seat neighbours. Between jokes about the constant plume of fuel issuing from the wing upon which we sit, and trips to the toilet, we dare to consider what compensation might await us. Quickly imagining a missed job interview, I think 200euros should do it. This sum being universally lauded a fair recompense, we enjoy the remainder of the flight.
   Bouncing like a drunk twat along the runway of Charles De Gaules´ plush but disfunctional airport, we steel ourselves. The plan: go find AirFrance and give it a piece of our mind. Collect our ransom. Go and gringo it the fuck up in Paris.
   Whilst waiting in line to pass customs, we caterpillar behind a German Hell´s Angel who farts stale cheese in a dead rat, in a dirty sock at intervals between 2-5minutes. This is most unpleasant. Emerging from the vaporous chrysalis, I rehearse my distress at having been delayed. I measure the compensation maximising mixture of hungry dog despondency, and affronted mother ferocity. Distilling this into an iron expression and breathing a deep, secret breath, I approach the unfortunate recipìent of my wrath waiting at the desk.

"Hello sir, the delayed flight to Bogota?"    Poor chirpy bastard, I´m going to break you.

   The outcome. Disneyland. "We are contractually obligued to deliver you to your destination, but not to a set time. You can check the conditions on our website." Apparently Disneyland was the nearest hotel with whom AirFrance had a deal to accomodate 300 people at the drop of a hat and, by strange coinsodence, the last place I had thought I would be spending the night. For these reasons, joyous.

1. Llegadas

"Hemos perdido presión de la cabina y tenemos que regresar."    - A nadie le gusta oir eso.

"Desechamos nuestro petroleo"   - No, todavía no sienta muy cómodo.

"Esta es una maniobra rutinaria, no se preocupen."    - Oh, bueno, en ese caso.

   Una risa nerviosa se extendio: un brebaje potente hecho de alcohól consumido a baja presión y la posibilidad iminente de la muerte. Bajo de este ambiente, una camaderia portentosa se formentó entre mis vecinos y yo.

Aterrizando con un vaivén violento empezamos a pensar en cuanto remuneración nos esperaba en el aeropuerto de felpa pero desfuncional del hijo de puta Charles de Gaulle. Inventandome con rapidez una entrevista perdida me parecía que una suma de 200 euros me bastaria. Nos pusimos de acuerdo de que este precio seria justo debido a la molestia que habíamos sufrido. El plan: perseguir a los de AirFrance para el dinero que nos debían; darles una paliza verbal, recoger nuestro rescate y ir de juerga de estil gringo en Paris.

   Mientras esperamos en la cola para pasar por la aduana, hicimos como una oruga (orugamos? se puede? venga! como no?) atras de un Hell´s Angel aleman que hacía pedos de queso pudrido en una rata muerta en un calcetín sucio cada 2 de 5 minutos. Este nos desgustó.

   Salimos de la crisálida vaporosa. Subimos la escalera hacia el puesto de AirFrance. Me repetía en la cabeza la atribulación que me había causado el retraso y sus efectos inquietantes. Me pusé un rasto entre perrita preñado y hambriente. Respiré hondo y en secreto antes de acercarme al desafortunado destinario de mi rencor. "Buenos dias. ¿El vuelo de Bogotá retrasado?    - Pobrecito. Te voy a romper.

El resuelto. DisneyLand. "Estamos contratado a llevarle a su destino, pero no dentro de un tiempo fijo. Usted puede leer nuestras condiciónes en nuestra página web." Al parecer, DisneyLand era el hotel mas cerca con el que AirFrance tenía un acuerdo de acoger a 300 personas con poca antelación. Y por casualidad, el último sitio en lo que hubiera pensado me quedaría la noche. ¡De todas maneras, de puta madre!

The Inadequacy of Goodbyes

A bleary eyed goodbye, the last of them all,
Leaves me to pick at the scaley remainder of parting sentiments,
That murmer below the baby wail birth of adventure,
That scar, and snag painfully from time to time.

Through shallow dusty windows,
I crane my neck to watch the land recede.
Nostalgia, gratitude, fear and best wishes
- fit awkwardly the glass speech bubble, fooling noone.
Wanting to encapsulate, yet bound to be free,
Scattering their ashes, I cross the folding sea.