Wondering about wandering
Monteverde Travel Blog› entry 15 of 47 › view all entries
...5:00 a.m. don hiking boots and head for the hills...
this place could be bewitched
all the people of costa rica have been turned into trees and are planted here
savvy saviour of pseudo somnambulance
single solitary, solo sanctuary
sometimes certain, seldom sorry
on the road
a woman making her way alone
Travel is solipsism, no matter how you look at it. The frame. The words. The contexts. All mirrors refracting my instance. My angle of incidence
how can i speak the mocha decadence of the moss
clinging to the trunk of a rain forest tree?
i want to slip thru the forest's foggy messages
i want to find words to float in the rich voices of this silence
the whispering that lingers among these branches
a cool breeze, quick and cutting
passing through my skin
Yet, we are bound to the stories of our past & the language of our present can only speak in borrowed definitions.
a feedback loop
caught in the iteration of: this is who you are
a language of being
where being single comes slowly
One dark night, about two weeks after arriving in Costa Rica, I slipped outside into the rich courtyard of my Tico host family. I had been plowing thru Spanish verbs, & was tired. I had been playing with the children, Laura and Oscar, & was tired. I had been engaged in the intense concentration of small talk, plucking inanities from a foreign dialogue like scientific equations in a lecture on nuclear physics... & I was tired damn it. My new Costa Rican friends couldn't really understand why I wanted to be alone so often. For them to be alone was to be separate, alien from the community that establishes their identity. On this particular night, however, they were content to let me wander.
& this moon could be a christmas ornament
lit among the orchard's shadowy branches
Citrus trees have lovely smooth bark, cool to the touch. Reaching up thru phantom leaves, I pluck a green lemon & pull back its slim rind. The sour makes my tongue think of young kisses. The forbidden more pleasure than the taste.
The air is crisp & there's hardly any breeze. My host family lives in a tiny hamlet over an hour away from the hustle of the city--its rural roads more populated by freshly fallen rose and hibiscus pedals, than by automobiles. Above me the sky is abuzz with the lights of stars, and somewhere in the distance a dog's howling has become a song. Content, I search for constellations & let their dancing lights cascade over the clamouring of my exhaustion. Eventually, sprawled out on the wide cement premonitary of the curb fence leading up to the family drive, I close my eyes to the slightly foreign patterns. But just before I fall asleep
somewhere between the fiction of knowing and the poetry of a dream
I am visited by Michael's colours. Bright. Insistent. As if my eyelids were a movie screen. Demanding points of light.
I knew then there would be problems. All the problems that come with expectation & disappointment... His name flashes like letters across a computer screen. A tatoo stencilled memory invading my script, both obscuring and lighting this Central American horizon, a monochrome monitor dressed up as something more.