« on: Yesterday at 09:42:57 pm »
I was greedy and you are in danger because I was greedy. If only I knew what I was greedy for but everything is fragmented, my memory and thoughts a thousand little coins in the pocket.
The rapid tour of the country went on. I gave up my attempt at even minor communication in Spanish. The coin for butterfly rolled away from me, the coin for lightning spent. Words were more a part of me than I ever realized.
We were in a swanky little establishment called 1492. Itís at the T in Bogota, a night life spot where the elite of the city walk around in clothes worth more than my car. It was Friday. The beautiful people would be out all night. I would not. I wanted to shove away the agua con gas and the guava barbecue chicken wings and the grilled meat skewer stuffed plantain and run, and keep running, this drawn figure shoving through the immaculately tailored suits and stunning dresses and the perfect caramel skin beneath them, past the mall with its shops so exclusive I didít even recognize them. I wondered if they accepted Necronomicoin.
But I couldnít abandon my hosts, my family, not now. I was in no condition to fight whatever was coming. I had no idea what was coming. But I knew something was, and that was more than they did. If I could warn them, maybe my stupid mistake wouldnít get them, what? Killed? Devoured? Torn within and out by small bleating horrors?
Whatever I got out of that shop, it hadnít done anything to assuage my writhing intestines. I was making my way to the bano through a sea of blazers and little black dresses. I wasnít even safe on the toilet.
Sleep was the worst, since the shop. However I wound up in Bogota, it wasnít a dream. This was the first place since we got here that I had a private room. We were ten floors up, not far from the top of the building, with a view of the city stretching out from our perch on the North side. The US Embassy was a few blocks away and I thought about going, that maybe this dissociation with reality would abate once I was on home soil. Past that, the mountains. The cursed mountains.
Before Medellin, before the shop, before the self puppetry Ė yes, that was how I came to Bogota. I was already there. Before that, there were the mountains. Iíd been drinking glass after glass of aguardiente when our host in Cali invited me to his morning bike ride. Four in the morning, up a mountain. He was coaching me, keeping me going the whole way, but I kept finding myself veering off to the side of the road. The side of the road was a sheer drop with a flimsy barrier that I would certainly sail over. I focused on the pedaling and the water, on talking to Arturo and I still inched closer to that precipice. Something was off with the mountains before anything even went truly wrong.
Rather than sleep Iíd been staring out the big window and seeing the stars for what they were. Enormous things burning away and they were painted on the belly of a vast, sleeping beast, all of it an illusion of depth so perfect that humanity couldnít see the difference. I would keep trying to bend my eye to see the trick of dimension but we arenít built to understand it; we are too small. Still I tried rather than sleep.
With this and with whatever illness Iíd contracted here I stumbled past the glittering tables in 1492. A few people couldnít help but stare and I couldnít blame them. Here I was with the gall to ruin their dinner.
I sat down on the tiny bowl and buried my face in my hands. I drew them slowly down, pulling my features across my fingertips and stretching my eyelids and looking up across from me for the first time. There was writing scrawled in huge letters on the wall, such big messy words.
Befriend The Thief
Pity The Ledgerman
Beware The Debt Collector