Tag Archives: chiapas

Humans in Heat

I was standing outside the wine bar feeling indignant. Ola would show up any moment and my thought to bring the dog made the place inhospitable to us.

She arrived. We hugged. I told her the situation and suggested another bar. She good-naturedly agreed. We walked at a brisk, bouncy pace both of us, and at length, when we arrived at bar 2 to find it closed, we circled back to my hostel, dropped the dog off and returned to the wine bar where we got a nice table right away, right against a wall looking out onto Real de Guadelupe’s foot traffic.

We sat close and she strongly pulled me closer at times.
She was playful and good-natured. My willingness (enthusiasm) to have sex with her was established early on. She was seeing someone and didn’t want to make it complicated.
I didn’t pout. I talked with her. At one point she got quiet and looked straight ahead paying attention, because I didn’t know what to do. She started pulling me closer affectionately and saying in a sing-songy voice, “We are friends! Can you be my friend? Ja! We are friends.” She held me around the neck and hugged me as she sang. I was under her spell.
We looked at each other’s hands. We held our hands close to each other’s.
She lamented how her hands looked aged and weathered.
We got closer. Held hands. Played with each other’s hair (*my bald head*).

The walk home was surreal. I walked her home. We were pushing each other, dancing twirling each other, holding hands, linking arms. I picked her up like a fireman when she started hitting me. She said ‘put me down’. I put her down. We continued frolicking up the street listening to ‘silly dance songs’.

Her head was wrapped in a reddish silk scarf with a floral pattern. She looked so sexy and cool. And she was playing with me! The street was our playground and she was prodding at me and my reservedness—like the little girl does to the little boy in Up.

I felt young and beautiful. Our inner children enjoyed each other. Her centre of gravity would shift into within mine and force me to catch myself or get thrown off-balance. I kept my hands moving when putting them on her. Our hips moved together in a dance that was whatever it was.

We got into her neighbourhood. I walked her down the long stretch of street before stopping short of her street. She reiterated that she had someone and then began the movements of goodnight. The gentle swaying in and out, daring the other with locked eyes. Her pupils were dilated and it wasn’t from drugs. I let my desire show, but only through my eyes and gentle rhythmic incursions of my inner toroidal field into her inner toroidal field. There was nuzzling, hugging and cheek kissing, and then, just before stepping apart, our lips touched for the briefest instant.

We stepped back from each other, and she turned, looking back once as she rounded the corner. I felt mind-fucked. It had been the most wonderful walk home. The brownie I had eaten fuelled some of the surreality to be sure, but nonetheless, we were two kids frolicking in a playground.

I never had a friendship with a girl like this.

*********************************************

This experience redeemed so many years of awkwardness around women I like. It was a challenge and an adventure; she was strong and challenged me physically. Her challenge was contending with my greater mass and roughness of movement; my challenge was staying radically present with her in the moment, staying ‘locked-in’ and not drifting off and imagining our lives together, or how she compared to other women I’d known.

In closing

We’ve been dancing around a get-together for a month, and this evening together almost didn’t happen because she was tired. I told her it was my last night, and her response was ah ok fuck it.

I liked that.

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Covid Refugee (A Blog Post)

Friends,

Greetings from Chiapas, Mexico. It’s been some 13.5 months since I left Canada in October 2020 and as it stands I’ve no plans to go back. It started with 7 months in Mexico where I more or less kept up the tempo of event-hosting I had started in Canada in summer of 2020, followed by 6 months in the United States, where I found myself a job in the Arizona wine industry. Now it’s back to Mexico to work on my visa application for re-entry into the US, then hopefully a greencard after a time, and citizenship in the longer-term.

I’m done with Canada. It’s (f/c)ucked. In fairness, it’s hard to tell exactly what’s going on there from the conflicting reports I hear, but having lived there most of my life, certain criticisms seem predictable and plausible—particularly those developments which pertain specifically to public complacency and the citizenry just rolling over to show its/their collective belly. Some people—those I reckon are most like me—tell me it fuckin’ sucks and is sliding further into communism. “Imagine getting out of Russia in 1916…” was a thought that played over and over in my head (for better and worse) during the last six months in the US.

From my series #ShredalSeerRizon; made while in Arizona

Better because it strengthened my resolve to make a clean break.

Worse because living isolated out in the desert as I was, I might have been more susceptible to a general paranoia.

Does it break my heart that I see my country of birth sliding further into communism? Especially since I spent time in the military, etc? Not as much as you might think. I’ve always been drawn to the US; particularly the deserts of the south-west. It always seemed like the place to be for me, and getting caught up in the patriotism of being in the army and then deploying to Afghanistan might have—in retrospect—delayed me from really embracing this goal and pursuing it in earnest.

Even though I don’t feel conflicted about following my heart however, there is still a weird feeling about openly speaking so treasonously. I’m afraid because my best laid plans to obtain residency and then citizenship elsewhere might be for nought and then it will be back to the frozen north for me with egg on my face and nowhere to go. That is my biggest fear in fact—being stuck in Canada.

To be Fair

Canada was a good place to grow up. There are more safety nets there and a general niceness which helps ease one into the real world. I know some friends for example in the States who went through the criminal justice system early on—in some cases upwards of 20 years ago—and they are still feeling the effects of it. Not to say, you can’t get caught in the system in Canada, but for whatever reason I never did, whereas I feel the likelihood would have been higher if I was born in the States.

On the other hand, Canada’s safety nets and collectivist leanings also mean that there is a lower ceiling for what one individual might accomplish—especially one who works in the arts as I have (mostly) have since 2013.

Do I owe Canada anything for the relative safety of my upbringing? Maybe.

If I do, have I already paid it off? I would say most likely.

The only pang of guilt/regret I feel is to the fine men and women I served with. I admire their love for the country. To one comrade (no pun intended) in particular whom I feel most accountable to, I have stated that I feel more loyalty to the US at this point, acknowledging that this might seem like a betrayal. Better to stab someone in the front than in the back right?

Canada has always had problems; Covid has simply thrown them into sharper relief. At the same time, it perhaps also gave me the push I needed.

Thanks for reading.

-Dre

PS Stay tuned for the serialized release of Covid Refugee (The Memoir)

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