Mommy

Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get
bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart
it don't mean a thing. ~Toni Morrison, Beloved, 1987

I love this quote. They must be out there, but I don’t know a single mother who considers age a factor in the art mothering. It’s what gets us in trouble with our kids.
“Mom! I’m an adult! I don’t need your advice, criticism, lecture, opinion, counsel or presence"…….Ahh. Sad is the mother who believes this.

Yes, we need to step aside while they make their own mistakes, sometimes we need to push them into the risky unknown and then hide our angst while they explore it, and we definitely need to get completely out of the way when they tattoo their bodies or pierce their nose for some ungodly reason, or take a same sex, different race, conservative, or liberal, lover. (Or any other element disagreeable to us)

But like Mother Earth, we need to BE there, obvious and evident with our love, our wisdom, & our support. We need to tell them the truth; teach them to both give and receive, and respect. There isn’t much mention of wisdom in our society in the United States. Maybe some adult kids think they can get wisdom on the web, or they don’t know that it comes from living and that we have it and are willing to share or even that they could use some.

I remember after Reagan fired the air traffic controllers, my mother, Alice, was afraid to fly so she took the train from Pennsylvania to California to visit me and my kids-her beloved grandkids. The trip lasted three days; she was in her 70s so I know her back must have ached something terrible as she sat looking out the window at the passing scenery or read a romance novel that transported her back to her youth. I don’t know what she thought about as the Zephyr rolled away from the lush Allegheny Mountains into the mid-west plains, and over the forbidding Rockies. I wish I did but she quit writing a diary after she lost her virginity at age 18.

All I know is what I thought. Even though we had a hard time when we were together-in person-head-to-hard head, my mom and I were in love. I never lost sight that she gave me life; I counted the hours and minutes until her arrival. I made sure Kirk was home, that there was gas in the car to pick her up, that the house was somewhat tidy and that the kids were presentable.

I was 44 when the train pulled into the Martinez station. Just like in the movies, the passengers spilled out of countless doors all at once making it difficult to spot a single person. But, finally I saw her soft gray hair at the top of the steps. As I ran to her I yelled, “Mommy!”

Mourning, Celebrating, Remembering, & a New Name.

When I read in the paper last week that most of the humpback whales were heading north I felt a pang of melancholy-a bit like when my children left home. I remember mornings when the kids were little. I would look at them a minute before I woke them up. My heart would fill. Then when I wasn't yelling at them because they couldn't find their books, or homework, or didn't take the dogs for a walk, I'd watch them interact: Alice methodical and prepared trying to help (or discipline) Anna for dawdling & playing. I would laugh because they were so consistently opposite and interesting.

Almost every morning the past couple of weeks I've watched the whales frolic out front while I drank my morning coffee. Who said you can't weigh a ton and be graceful! The humpback whales are acrobats of the sea, breaching, sky hopping,and flob tailing. Yesterday afternoon I watched with glee as one flob tailed for about 1/2 hour. Over and over, at least 20 times,(I lost count) she lifted her massive butt into the air and crashed her gorgeous obsidian flukes that glinted in the sunlight onto the water. Voyeurism is exhausting.

The male humpbacks are the Pavarottis and Domingos of the sea.They sing these eerie, beautiful, and complex songs that are said to last up to half an hour and are repeated continuously for hours. Ten or so years ago when my daughter, Anna, got married in Maui her husband, Dave, I think it was, was swimming and heard them singing. When he told us I plunged into the warm water and listened. For a minute or so I heard it; a brief U Tube concert. Next year I will be ready with some snorkeling gear so I can hear a whole song.

Still on singing. Sitting in front of me on the beach a few days ago were two teenage girls. One of them sang for the other who listened intently, nodding her head in approval. This kid sang bluesy Mexican tunes with Amy Winehouse gusto. I was happy to just sit and watch her appreciate her own voice enough to share it.

Puerto Vallarta is partying again. The catholics here mourn during Semana Santa, the week leading up to the Crucifixion then everyone parties for another week -for Pascua, to celebrate the Resurrection. How could you not applaud the concept of rising from the dead? The beach is a giant swath of color, music, dancing, cooking and mayhem.

When Sophie and I were slogging through the surf Thursday, I thought about the summer vacations me,my mom and her friends-all sexy, vibrant women, took to Lake Erie. We stayed at The Village, a motel on the beach that had a series of weathered clapboard cottages with tiny kitchens. But the real draw of The Village was its nightclub with a large dance floor and a full-on orchestra: trumpets, saxophones, trombones,drums, bass,a piano...These women LOVED to dance.

I have a vague recollection of Smiley, the orchestra leader's Irish charm. But it is my mom who would never forget him. You see, she had his child.

I remember that trip as being a fun one. I was 9.Me,Mom,her friend Tacy, and my dog Niki, drove Mom's Ford Skyliner 2500 miles to Santa Monica, CA. There are no pictures of Mom on that trip but I remember her wearing loose mu mu type dresses. She had naturally large breasts so the combination kept her swollen belly well hidden. The day she gave birth, Tacy and I were at Grauman's Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Blvd. Tacy sobbed so loud during the movie, Shane,that I was embarrassed. Of course I know now that she probably didn't even notice the sad movie; she was crying for her friend who was giving birth to a daughter she would never see.

Mary Leslie Sten,pumping with irreverent Irish blood was given to a Swedish family. The reason, I found out when I was 40 something; when mom's dark secret burst forth, was that Mom refused to see her child grow up condemned and ridiculed for being illegitimate. She alone would pay the price of her own sin.

There are pictures of Tacy and me and one with me and Tonto. When we left Pennsylvania I had great hopes of seeing Roy Rogers,Dale Evans or Gene Audrey but was happy with Tonto dressed in full Indian regalia. I took souvenirs back to all my friends. I would rather have had a sister.

At 11 o'clock on Good Friday, my friend, Laurel and I joined the procession of Christ to Calvary. The route here goes from Woolworths to Our Lady of Guadalupe Church over part of the mountainside. This is no easy trek. It involves two very steep hills difficult to climb in sturdy shoes carrying a bag of groceries much less barefoot lugging a heavy wooden cross-not to mention the Roman guard hitting and shoving you because you aren't moving fast enough.

Laurel and I caved after the first hill. We took the lowland route directly to the church steps. Waiting for the procession we had a conversation with a family from Walnut Creek, CA, whose kids go to a Catholic school, about some new commandments the pope has made. The woman said she wasn't a particularly good catholic but she didn't think that he could do that-that they were probably amendments to the commandments. Amendments to commandments. Whoa. Maybe he has finally listed pedophilia as a bad thing.I read somewhere recently that he said women should be more like women than men or something to that effect. Fine with me. Keep your penis but I'm serious about equal wages and having control over my body. I marched the soles off my shoes in the 70s so my daughters and granddaughters would have choice and equality in every aspect of their lives. Personally I think that even the gentle Christ would have a difficult time with some of the rigid rules the Pope imposes on women.

Last week I got a surprise email from Jon Hammond,Tehachapi's unofficial historian and expert on flora & fauna. He honored me by giving me the name Tavi Nomo'o, which he said, means Sun Woman in the Kawaiisu language, the area's indigenous Indians. He said the name reflects my bright spirit and my current sunny surrounding. How sweet is that!

It's Easter Sunday. The church bells are ringing. If I hurry I'll have time to put on my new Easter outfit with the matching shoes and sombrero & catch the 11 o'clock service.

God Bless Us Everyone. -Tiny Tim or maybe Timmy. I can't remember.

"It's a shallow life that doesn't give a person a few scars."
-Garrison Keillor

Paz en tierra.
Ruby Tavi Nomo'o

Estados Unidos & back

I've been back from the Estados Unidos a couple of days now. It's good to be home. My own crazy home. From the PV airport I took the local bus into El Centro but couldn't bring myself to lug my heavy bags full of essential Trader Joe & Ikea stuff up the hill to Camp Aldama, so I took a cab. The whole tab: 450 pesos or $4.50. I dumped the stuff inside and sprinted across town to get Margaret from Liana's locked parking area. I waited an hour for someone to show up with a key. But it was a good hour. Dana & Mark Zellar, an expat couple, from NYC, were singing Broadway tunes in an art gallery across the street for a fundraising benefit: " If I were a rich man...la la la.. The place was packed and folks spilled out onto the street. Sweet.Come to find out the gate only looked locked. But who cares about that.

I feel heady with my new legal-to-drive status. Under the dappled sky lit by a quarter slice moon, I headed up the Rio Cuale to Paso Ancho to get Sophie. I bumped and jolted over cobblestones many of which I'm certain were last anchored into the street around 1912. I zipped along, dodging people, critters & hot carts of roasted papas and plantains. I dipped into culverts and leaped over speed bumps that are called topes or sleeping policemen here, as if Margaret were Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Not even the dumpster diving horses were fazed. Many people let their livestock mosey around town at night and collect them in the morning as they do on the Lions Trail from Tehachapi to Bodfish.

Carolina, the primo dog sitter in Paradise, has a lively, colorful, bungalow that she built herself. The dogs share the space with her; no outside kennels for her guests. It's the Regency complete with grass for rolling and your own bed. This evening in addition to Sophi, she was hosting three chihuahuas, her adorable mutt, and a rowdy golden retriever who just wanted to play, dammit. Sophie tolerated the crowd like an aging great aunt.

On the way home I stopped at Rizzos, the local market that caters to everyone. After asking three different clerks for leche de soya we finally found it. Soy Dream-SoyMilk Original Classic USDA organic. The boy read the label. "Soymelk. soymelk." Si, I said. "Milk - leche." Ahhh." I threw it into the cart and headed thru the aisles for peanut butter to go with the bunch of celery I had found. Celery on steroids. Truly, the stock or bunch is as long and thick as the calf of my leg. I am not lying. But, all of the Mexican peanut butter I could find seemed to be a product of the US but had added sugar. Why is that? Finally, I found Laura Scudders Natural Peanut Butter. Yes!

This morning, in the light of day, I saw the prices of my coveted items. Soymilk: 62.42. Over six dollars for soy milk. Jesus, Mary & Joseph! And the peanut butter with nothing but fuckin' peanuts: even more 63.26. Good thing I'm wealthy.

I've only been gone six months and all the kids I know have grown like they ate one of Alice's magic cookies. My grandson, Avery, still 2 til April, aside for asking, "Grandma, What you doin?" a zillion times a day is so-so grown up, he has formed definite opinions. "No. I not using the potty. Not now. It's not so good." We bonded in train town.

I loved visiting with my friends and their families. Michelle and Miranda, Stan, Sabrina and Miles. I kept Stan up way past his bed time. We met at the famous Holy city Zoo comedy club on Clement St in San Francisco, maybe around 1980. What a treat.

And Tehachapi is home. Since I was ten I've never lived anyplace where I feel so loved. And my friends know how to play. Well, just look at the picture. There is Pat, Kathy, & me in the Bouldin's hot tub. Dave is our personal 'pool boy.' Cindy took the very tasteful, don't you think, picture. Not one nipple showing. How did she do that? Dave, delivering libations, including the aged, pure agave tequila Kathy requested I bring from Mexico said, "Being pool boy is lots of fun." I admire him most though because he is a man who weeps from the force of love for his granddaughter, Lilly.

Cooper, my granddaughter, who is a young woman of 14 now, wrote her name in the wet concrete on the stoop at Falling Apple Ranchita when I bought it-6 years ago? Some of my son's ashes are at the Kirby's: most of them are in Pennsylvania nestled in a box Steve made in the 7th. grade. Annette, my partner in crime, my sister. Family. Sisterhood. It's a true thing in that small mountain town.

But I got off the track.

The Lathams came over and helped us drink the tequila. One shot at at a time, it was gone. Poof. The following morning, the lovely tequila showed it's class by not a single one of us having a hangover. When I was 5, my grandpa took me on a train to NY where I attended my first horse race." Always bet on class, Honey," he advised. He was a wise man.

Where did the time go?On Coronado Island I stayed in Cooper's room as I usually do. This time we planned for our Hawaii trip this summer. And we had sushi twice and Vietnamese food. It was like having a three day sleep over with a good friend.

My daughter, Alice, is a photo maven. Her walls are lush with photos that evoke memories for me: my son laughing with Johnny Cash, Alice, age four or five, pushing her younger sister and friend Marvin in the stroller. Her arms are straight up because she can barely reach the handle, striding. It's a b&w photo I took and printed in our basement, in the old days.

She has a Ruth Bernhard nude print. (she gave me one a few years ago for Christmas). Beauty in a box. There was a woman who knew light. She could see. What a wonderful photographer. Ruth just died in the last year or so. She was 101! Ruth Bernhart. Wow.

And I love to shop with my daughters. Alice has this eye for detail that I've never had. Franz, her dad, said I was knitted with a big needle- loopy. I'm not sure what his point was? Maybe it had nothing to do with detail.

Today, from my window I watched with binoculars as a mom whale taught her baby to breach. I can tell you it takes many belly flops, patience and perseverance to become a ballerina. The mom swam around her while the baby repeated the moves over and over. I bet they were out front at least 15 minutes, just doing these maneuvers. After they left two more showed up within the hour. It was a trip.

"Damn the lights. Watch the cars. The lights never killed nobody." -Jackie
"Moms" Mabley

Paz en tierra

& have a raucous St Paddy's day

Ruby

Independently wealthy

Between dances at the noisy Roxy bar last week John, a neighbor of mine, leaned over and asked, "Are you independently wealthy?" I thought for just a second. I have a great family, good health, and enough money to do what I want without being piggy. "Yes. I am, I said."

Margaret's sticker is in California. Enough said.It cost me almost $500.00 US. At least it was just money. I was an idiot. The bitch went to the bank while I waited for her in her office. There's a red flag.

I've been in Mexico 6 months, mas o menos. I came with the intention of learning the language and culture. I can only claim to have completed a small section of a Mexico for dummies course, but I like it here.

There is a looseness about Latin life that suits me. They close the streets, sometimes several days or even a couple of weeks at a time for parties. Strangers smile & speak to me for no particular reason other than to connect I think.

Acceptance beats out perfection: comfort-pretension. That goes for their sexuality too; non of that puritan, bull shit, stifling, don't-touch-yourself-down-there stuff. If my ass hadn't slipped down to behind my thighs somewhere I would be wearing skinny spiked heels to thrust it a few inches higher myself. I am now a Birkenstock woman.

I love that I can buy one egg. Of if I smoked, 1 cigarette, or 3 slices of Oscar Meyer lunch meat. And a small slice of cheese that is called cheddar but it's clearly not. The same with Parmesan. Mexicans could care less that the EU courts say only Italy can call Parmesan cheese, Parmesan. Fuck Them. Mexican Parmesan comes from Uruguay. I wouldn't mess with them about what they name their cheese either.

I'm still a scavenger. Not that I dig through the bastura. Isn't that word better than garbage? Bastura. But, like yesterday when I saw this nice reed basket...it's seems a shame to pass up something perfectly lovely or useful just because someone else didn't like it. Think about it. The luckiest of us will never outlive our usefulness or beauty and hopefully we'll be used over and over til we wear out. And, I nabbed a cool, wooden box for a night stand.

It seems everyone dances here. Dance-bailar: salsa, tango, and maybe the it's the Mexican two-step I see the abulitas doing in the park to the spunky sounds of the official city 12 piece orchestra playing in the gazebo. The kids start young. Friday evening as my friends and I sat around a table on the sand watching the sunset, a little girl, maybe 6, danced on the pier. Moved by the Brazilian blues quartet playing in the open air restaurant near by, she dipped & twirled. It was only when she partnered with the lamp post that we glimpsed an even wider range of possible dancing options to choose from.

And sing-cantar. Drunk or sober, good or bad, anywhere, anytime, Mexican people lift their voices in song, especially the men. Arias, boleros, mariachi, or cantos de amour: a capella, or accompanied. It's a wonderful thing.

And besos-kisses. Kissing is done passionately as it should be. We're not talking pecks on the cheek here. In the park, on the malecon, or waiting for traffic to move, night or day, couples both young and old submit to emotion & lust without shame or fear of reprisal. It makes me want to grab some old dude and throw him to the concrete, I swear.

Was Mark Twain Mexican?
"Dance like nobody's watching; love like you've never been hurt. Sing like nobody's listening; live like it's heaven on earth.

Mexican neighbors are are solid like their houses with backbones of re bar. Built to last. They are hard working survivors: of tropical weather, 500 years of oppression by the Spanish, and rampant gringo infestation.

I don't profess to understand the violent elements of this society: bullfighting or the bloody pitting of gallos or dogs against one another. Yesterday two hombres carried off two unsuspecting, handsome gallos from my neighbor's yard. One man stroked his lovingly as he walked up the hill. The executioner giving you a neck massage before he whacks your head off. In this case, throws you into the pit for combat.

Urban women here have gained Independence pretty much like the rest of us in the western world but rural indigenous women are fighting an up hill battle for any rights at all. But, they are fighting. I read about Eufrosina Cruz, a 27 year old Zapotec woman who recently ran for mayor of her village in the mountains of Oaxaca. The male elders tore up all of the ballots cast in her favor. I tried to reach her through the paper, The News, to send her money but even that failed. Maybe the traditional Indian form of government, usos y costumbres (uses and customs) that got legal status 6 years ago, I suspect to shut them up, are in cahoots with the local media. Nothing would surprise me. I don't care what anybody says, every country is corrupt.

What I haven't heard here in paradise, except from a neighbor who is a retired Canadian, is whining. It just isn't done. Get off your ass and do what you have to do. No quejandose.

My friend Linda visited for a couple of days. I introduced her to Yelapa, an old coastal village that finally got electricity 4 or 5 years ago. You get there by panga, a 16 or 19 foot boat. On the way over two Humpback whales swam along side us for a couple of minutes. We were thrilled.

If you go there, wade across the river, hook a left at the wide dirt path, and look for Passionflower Gardens on the right. It's my friend, April's place. Oh, my goodness, she can cook. But, that's not all. She can read your tarot &and make you laugh. How cool is that.

"Do you know there's a road that goes down to Mexico and all the way to
Panama? And maybe all the way to the bottom of South America where the
Indians are seven feet tall and eat cocaine on the mountainside? Yes? You
and I, Sal, we'd dig the whole world with a car like this because, man, the
road must eventually lead to the whole world. Ain't nowhere else it can
go-right?" -Jack Kerouac

Paz en tierra.-ruby

Birds, the beach, and an occasional surprise.

It's super Tuesday and the first time I haven't voted since 1961. Do I feel guilty? Only if Obama loses by one vote.

Good things come to those who wait? Maybe. Mostly it sucks. Waiting in lines for stuff: the bank, grocery store, a toilet. And the good ones: the birth of your child, Christmas morning when you were a child, your birthday before you were 30...

Yesterday I watched brown pelicans circle above the surf, fishing. When they see lunch they plunge head first straight into the water. The first time I saw these magnificient birds was 34 years ago. I was on a summer road trip in Mazie, our burgandy and cream VW bus, with my three kids and two teenagers. We were staying at a friend's beach house on Santa Maria Island off the west coast of Flordia on the Gulf Of Mexico.

Besides playing in the warm, phosphorus water that turned our bodies a magical silver, my favorite place was the pier. A hubbub of fishing activity, brown pelicans circled overhead ever viligant for an easy meal. They were as guileless as Hansel and Gretel-never suspecting some of the fish they sought were already caught. What? Fish close to the surface just sliding along?

So the magnificant birds plunged, swallowing both the fish and the line.Predictably they were then dragged on to the pier where the pelican was held down by several people who extracted the fish. Usually the pelican flew away a few minutes later-confused by what had just happened. I don't know if any of them learned their lesson or if they thought the experience was a one time thing. Someone told me that pelicans eventually go blind from the force of the water on their eyes. That is a bum deal.

The Bald Eagles on Homer Split in Alaska are about as bad. On a tip from a fellow drinker at the local American Legion hall in Stuart, I watched several eagles hover above the Homer pier waiting for salmon parts-mostly fins and heads to be tossed to them or into the water where they could just scoop them up. I was disappointed because I thought our national bird was classier than that but feeding yourself & a couple of chicks is not easy regardless of status.

My new Spanish tutor dumped me. I admitted to not being the best student ever but told her that I thought my enthusiasm would overcome my lack of disclipline. She wanted me to write Enero & Agosto 10 times & wasn't satisfied with my answer when she asked me what people do in other countries when they can't speak the language? I casually mentioned that I married my algebra tutor back in the old days, that he obviously hadn't been so picky when it came to academics.

I want to be like Sophie. When a perfectly coiffed standard poodle strutted by her on the beach this morning she didn't even raise her head. She is absolutly comfortable in her own aging skin.

Sitting on a beach chair in the sun I counted how many men I saw adjusting their balls in an hour. 11. I noticed that adjusting and spitting are highly public functions here. My mother would be appalled. Rest her soul.

Last week my Mexican doorbell rangout. Standing outside was handsome Ivan Gustavo. As you might imagine, I was thrilled. " Ivan, I called out over the railing, good things do come to those who wait! Here I am waiting for my car and a good looking, hunk-o- man appears! Lucky me." Driving isn't everything.

Humor is reason gone mad. -Groucho Marx

Paz en tierra. -Ruby

Esperando

Esperando: waiting, hoping, expecting

Yo estoy esperando. I am waiting. Yo espero. I have hope. I am waiting and hoping and expecting - for a letter from customs.

Last week sophie and I went to the post office to see if it was there, maybe forgotten on a shelf somewhere. Really we went because I feel I have to DO something besides wait.As we walked I practiced my spanish on her. " Yo estoy esparando para una carta de aduana en Mexico. Sabe usted esta aqui?" close enough. I am waiting for a letter from customs. Do you know if it is here? The postal clerk looked. It was not.

My problem is that Margaret, my mini cooper, has been in quarantine since Dec 17.

It happened like this. I was driving my Dutch friend, Sasha, and I to the cinema. She said,"Vers yur ticker fur yur kar?" I said, "What sticker?" "Da oun dat ya ned ta driv en Mexico?" "I don't know. Noone gave me one." "Ohh, I thk dats bad.I thk dey cud tak yur kar avey frevr widoud da ticker."

That is bad.

Sasha was right. They could. For forever. So, I paid 350 US bucks to a woman to write up the proper paper work which will result in permission, in the form of a letter that allows me to drive back to the border legally, to get the sticker. I will have 5 days to do this.I don'tknow if those 5 days are from the day the letter is mailed or the day I get it. She said I could expect the letter to arrive in a month-mas o menos. That was December 17th so it's already mas. And getting more mas.

I'm not good at esperando. Most Norte Americanos aren't.We expect quick service. When it doesn't happen we get bitchy.Quick is not the Mexican way. I am struggling to adjust. On Friday my neighborhood post man was coming out of the building as I was going in. We spoke in spanglish. He asked me to tell him what it was I was looking for. He promised to watch for my letter. He got my phone number and said he would call when it came in. Yo espero.

As soon as the letter comes I will leave Sophie here and drive north for a turnaround trip for a fucking sticker. To southern California it takes three days. Amazing. What century is this?

A few blocks from me a faded sign reads: Maria Calendaria Authentica. Who knew Marie Calendar was Mexican?

My new favorite food is alote or esquite: corn in a cup. They boil corn kernels in big vats then spoon the hot corn into plastic cups: a little mayo, queso, lime, & some hot sauce.yum. And homemade ice cream: vanilla, coco, or another one I forget,and long skewers of grilled shrimp or fish fillets squirted liberally with lime, and fresh fruit and cucumber sticks, on the street! I love the street food.

In addition to the kid who bangs on the pan behind my departmento, and the gallos and barking dogs and very loud even for me music, there is someone tonight playing the tuba. I kid you not. It's been going on for over an hour, BOM bom BOM bom. bom bom Bom, bom.. It's not bad tuba playing. Just different. I never lived next to a tuba player before.

My neighbors are eating the pigeons. I've watched several pigeons come and go from various cages on the wall of the house behind me. It wasn't until I saw a woman stroking one and then put it back into a small cage that I got suspicious. When I observed them throw out corn meal to fatten them up I was certain.

My suitor from Guadalajara called me last saturday night. It was the 3rd or 4th time he's called and I've missed them all. Sunday I decided to call him back. I went to Lianna's so she could interpret for me if I needed her to. With the speaker phone on I asked " Es esta reyes? I asked. He said, "No." It's incorrecto or something to that effect. Wrong number. Wrong number? He hung up. I think he panicked. I'd used the redial so it couldn't have been the wrong number. The lying bastard. I called back. A woman answered. She said she was his wife. Lianna did most of the talking." She asked what did we want? Who were we?" Lianna said, Nada. Nada. and hung up. I wanted to call back and say, " I am a woman he calls, a woman he met in a bar." are you really his wife?

What is up with that? Why would a carousing man give a woman his phone number where his wife lives-which he did, and why would he call this woman on a phone that is apparently a home phone? Color me perplexed.I will never understand men.

Our cold spell is abating. If anyone has the notion to visit the weather is perfect. The bay is dotted with white sails. You can have my undivided attention porque yo estoy esparando.

paz en tierra,
ruby

"You were born with wings. Why prefer to crawl through life?" -rumi









fgt

Camp Aldama

Camp Aldama is arriba on Calle Aldama above the Pacific and the malecon. The street stops-but doesn't end when it runs into the concrete wall that keeps the dirt of the hill from collapsing. At that point Aldama Privata continues up the hill by the way of steps that I'm sure go all the way to heaven and Emilio Caranzza begins where Aldama ends by making a sharp right and going south to Gringo Gulch.



From my west window Camp Aldama has a lovely view of the ocean, roof tops, the sky, and into the neighbors windows if you care to look. From the roof the view is spectacular. Out the back the view is east into the hills and of the houses stacked on top of each other. the amazing thing is they have all been built by hand. Burros, prodded by a huffing and puffing man with a small stick or rope that switches their butts when they falter, haul the sand and bricks up the steep hill to be made into concrete and walls by the amazing Mexican builders.



Directly behind me, one story higher, I had an exhibitionist for a few weeks. After some procrastination I got my long lens ready to take his picture-but he hasn't appeared lately. The neighbors are loud. One man sings the same notes as the gallo crows. It's not as pleasant a sound coming from a man. Dogs bark, chickens cluck and crow, & children scream. The Mexican doorbell is standing in the street yelling or whistling. All household essentials are sold through the streets: water, propane, honey, flowers..I am sure there are other goods I am not aware of. Reyna owns the launderia where I have my clothes washed.





My dpartmente is a one bedroom with a bath that has a shower with enough warm water for a quick washing. That is the only place there is hot water. My shit is mostly too large for the toilet so the plunger is indispensable. there is no TV, no oven and glacial ice has overtaken the small fridge. But, the bed is comfortable & the space conducive to work & reflection plus the requisite siesta I have gotten used to.



Puerto Vallarta is not necessarily old Mexico. It is populated with many gringos from Canada and the States both as permanent residents and tourists. Several very large cruise ships arrive and depart every day. because of the large influx of English speaking folks it is taking me much longer than I imagined to learn Spanish.





There have been several issues of note that I will post in the next few days: Margaret did not have the appropriate paper work so is in quarantine. I visited Guadalajara and some of Michoacan over Christmas with my friend Susan and my friend Xochili invited me to Mexico City to spend Three Kings Day with her family last week. The humpback whales are here for birthing and fucking. I have seen them from my window once so far. Mexican men apparently have no concept of seduction-at least the ones I meet. This very evening I sat beside one in the main parque to listen to the orchestra play favorite Mexican songs that most people knew the words to.



Before I learned his name he asked me if he and I could walk to my house. I said no. He said porque? I said I didn't even know his name. He shrugged. Perhaps I have it all wrong. Maybe names aren't important. At my friend's house, her dad grabbed my crotch at each opportunity and wanted to take me to a hotel or just to bed me in his house. No. I said.. Porque? he asked. I am not comfortable. I said. I hardly know you. He shrugged.



I guess I'm a picky Norte American bitch. At least with my diminished libido I don't care much. There is a man-Reyes, that I met in Guadalajara. He strikes me fancy but when he calls he is apparently either drunk or can't think of something to say in English or simple Spanish. it will be a minor miracle if we ever see each other again.



My book is coming along as much as possible considering my limited disclipline and organizational skills. I have met an angel named Yolanda. She runs a wonderful place for disabled kids, Pasito de Luz. I plan to spend time there raising money and holding the children.



I love sitting on the beach with my friends having a drink, listening to music while watching the sunset and walking along the malecon the weekends when the clowns are performing in the entertainment pit, and the food: corn in a cup with mayo and hot sauce, aqua fresca, made in a big gourd with nuts and fruits for a buck! The people smile at us -sophi and me. Especially the kids love the big dog. I say, no muerte alot so they aren't afraid. That seems to be enough.

The folks in the picture are: Lianna, yo y Sophi having drinks in the Rio Cuale before dinner, an old woman in Michoacan taken by Susan, GI Joe in a lancha de coco, the upside down dog barks thru the quadrafoil (sp?), Quimixto beach I think, and the pier in Pv where we watch the sunset and get the panja for Yelapa and Huichol ninas.


Enough now. hasta luego. rubi