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February 2001
March 2001 April 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 October 2007 December 2007 January 2008 Now contact:
syndicate me:
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Tuesday, April 20, 2004 -
It's ironic that the three lines which best describe my life for the past year were first heard in a hot mineral water spa bath at the foot of Macchu Picchu, the single place on earth that I felt like I most belonged.
Que voy hacer. je ne sais pas. | I can see little, I don't know. Que voy hacer, je ne sais plus. | I can see little, I don't know much at all. Que voy hacer, je suis perdu. | I can see little, I am lost. -Manu Chao, "Me Gustas Tu" How tragic is that? I have this sanctuary, this place where I feel comfortable, I know what I want, I know how to decide about who I am, where I want to go... And then I come down off the mountain and hear this song at Aguas Calientes. The melody is tragic and haunting; it bellows out of the speakers so carelessly, and it knows where I will be three years later. And ten years later. And forty years later. And I didn't understand it then. I know I will find my way; I know I'll make my choices, and will feel right again. But whenever I start to lose it, I'll always go back to where I knew everything, and there will always be that haunting melody whistling to me, and there will always be the poolside bar with the kids dancing and smiling. This is the place I write stories about. Not the mountain, not the incense and tobacco overlooking Mamma Pacca. But down in the valley, with the people and the dull stones that got in between your toes and the salt water and the blaring speakers. I'm not sure which place, my confidence or my doubt, that I relate to more these days, but I know that my doubt makes a better story.
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