In naps, I dreamed of shins—of shins tilting up hills, of uphill climbs, of an uphill that endured until it tipped into downhill. In mud, I thought of water. Crossing water, I thought of stones. During the grand rain, streams were called rivers, and rivers were called floods. The water rebelled past the lines the tree roots had drawn for it. It spread past the edges of bridges, and in one forest, a fallen tree seemed a safer crossing than the footbridge. More than many things, I feared slipping a foot into wetness. The river rocks that you must hop across could be covered in slick moss, or your backpack could topple you. And if your socks soak themselves, how will they ever dry in this rain? Walking with wet feet equals blisters, and you can’t stop walking yet.
I don’t feel love for my daughter Zoë right away. I feel a tightness in my stomach. She thrashes in the car seat, shrieks in the stroller, screams in the swing, and generally hates to sleep. I bounce her and pace for hours in a dark room. I leave her alone howling in her crib; in my own bedroom, I scream into a pillow so loudly that the back of my throat burns, and I pound on the wall so hard the paint cracks. Then I rush back and scoop her up, shattered with guilt at her terrified wails. I’m sure I am the worst mother, especially when it takes all of my remaining emotional strength to fight the urge to pin her against the mattress. Read more →
When I was seventeen some dude and his friends came running at me holding a small woven pouch that looked just like mine. “There’s $60 in there. And your pipe. And a bag of weed. And I think some hash or something. And it looks like half a dozen tabs of acid.” He shook his head. The isolated concert hall had been filled with smoke and flashing, strobing lights and terrible music for some time now. Dragged to my first rave, I had found a decent people-watching space with a friend as we waited for our ride to take us away from the brackish air and chill of the salt flats. The dude kept his arm outstretched, the pouch—my pouch—presented in his palm, ready for me to take back. He had a jester hat on and his friends were piled in bright colors and patterns and grinning faces. I took back my pouch and said thanks. Remembered that some minutes or hours earlier the jester had asked if I had a pipe to borrow and I’d handed over the pouch and shrugged. Read more →
I never would have met Charlie-the-girl if my high school guidance counselor had not lied to me. She, the guidance counselor I mean, not Charlie, was a burly woman with wide shoulders and almost comically oversized glasses. Her office was a windowless, cinder block-walled room in the basement of the school. Around the ceiling of the room were thirty-odd pendants from different colleges and universities, pointing down like a long row of technicolor shark teeth. Read more →
My dad is a politician. He’s four decades older than me and I’m 10. He hates the police. Maybe just the police in Colombia. Or all over the world. I don’t know. I’ve never been in a car with my father anywhere else. When I’m in a car with my dad, he’s always giving me advice on life. He has four decades full of advice to give. Sometimes he talks to me about God. Sometimes about power. He likes those two words very much, especially God. These drives are boring as hell. Read more →
It came to me late at night. I was asleep, and then I wasn’t, and then it came out of my mouth and that was that. I didn’t notice because it was late and dark and I was, as I said, half asleep. But the next morning there was a strange taste in my mouth. Something earthy and foreign. There also was a change in the air. The apartment felt stuffed. Rarified. Do you know the feeling of being observed you get at airports, or malls, or the subway? It was like that, except that I couldn’t pinpoint why. In those places, airports and malls and the subway, you are actually being observed. I guess I was too but, at first –at least first thing in the morning–, I couldn’t notice. There was no way for me to see it. It would take more space, it would become visible, just not then. Not at that exact moment. Read more →