I once had a friend.
He was an ex-boyfriend, actually, but we became and remained very close friends for more than a decade after our split.
Then he died.
But that’s not the story. The story is that for many years, he worked for the Swiss postal service (oh, he was Swiss, by the way), a duty he called ‘going postal.’ I could never fully discern if he understood what we meant by that, but it always amused me either way. You’d be talking to him on the phone, and he’d notice the time and announce, “I need to go postal.” or “Time for me to go postal.”
So anyway, I bring this up because originally, this was going to open with a quote from the artist Guagin, but I decide to cut instead to the chase with a full confession that THIS SOLITARY CONFINEMENT SH*T IS MAKING ME CRAZY.
You heard it here first: I am beginning to tilt in the direction of a Stephen King novel. And by that I mean my mental state, not what I myself am working on.
Seriously, how do people do this?
It’s a real double-edged sword.
I’m getting lots of work done.
But I’m starting to really wish someone else was here so I could chase them around with an axe through a snow maze.
At least it’d be a change of scenery.
Hell, I’d play Big Wheel with some evil dead twins or chat with the mildly intimidating Lloyd for hours if the opportunity arose.
Yeah. All work and no play make Vanessa go something something.
In other news, and to make use of what’s already been typed:
“Go on working freely and furiously and you will make progress.”
Note that progress does not mean that you will have ultimate success or that said product will be viable. That stated, I agree with Monsieur Gaugin wholeheartedly. I have made progress.
I have not stopped to edit jack sh*t (despite my pledges to myself to the contrary), but as of today I will have written seventeen chapters. Out of 30. 57%. Heinz 57. (I don’t think I’ve ever tasted it, but how can there really be 57 flavors in that? What is it anyway? Some kind of ketchup? Barbeque sauce? Besides, who would even put 57 ingredients in something? That’s absurd. What, do they think we’re stupid?)
Anyway, as I mentioned, 17 chapters assuming I lather, rinse, repeat as usual today. So there’s that.
I think I saw a movie on Gaugin once. He was the one who went and lived in Central America and the Carribbean in kind of a strange and primitive manner when that was totally unheard of and super uncivilized for a European, right? And he may have looked like Keifer Sutherland?
Meanwhile, greetings from Day 18.
Out of 26 days.
Well, 26 complete complete days, if you’re counting only complete days.
Which I am.
The reasoning for doing so – as I barrel toward the end of this time – is the dawning realization that 30 chapters in 26 days is too much.
Especially as it seems that every weekend (last week being on Sunday, this week being on Saturday) my brain goes on strike, and I don’t even get a whole chapter done. And I have an increasing desire to at least see a little of the area (La Paz, Cabo beaches, etc.) before I’m gone. And not be here next Saturday night when the owners are around.
So I figure if my brain is going to be non-cooperative, it may as well have some fun.
To whit, the two lost days have sucked big time. Last Sunday I was in a total funk (hormonal, in hindsight), and on Saturday the interruption was caused by my landlord.
I’ve mentioned him before. And I’m pretty sure I mentioned that I wasn’t a big fan.
Now I’m less of a fan.
Let’s just say it’s not worth the time to explain in detail, but in general it has to do with widespread inadequacies in the rental situation and rust stains and motor vehicle issues topped off with his coming over here Saturday to announce that he’s apparently getting a divorce and I – the woman renting this house who doesn’t particularly enjoy his presence and has spoken to him a collective 40 minutes in the nearly three weeks I’ve been here – is in some part the cause.
Yeah, you read that right.
He basically interrupted a short-term rental tenant on a Saturday morning to blame his impending divorce on her.
Apparently the Mexican wife thinks it’s a ‘set up’ that I’m staying here and is upset, and has moved out, and left their two and ten-year old boys behind, and (he implied) thinks we’re having an affair.
I’m not even going to get into the last part of that sentence because, to be completely honest with you, it makes me feel ill, and it’s too early in the morning to be all nauseated.
However, if Senora Einstein wanted to check her facts, I would pose but one key question: “If it’s a set up, why in god’s name have I paid you guys all this money?”
Hell, I think I’m the one being set up.
Anyway, lame and unwelcome and unwelcoming and gets my mind wondering why is he telling me this? Is it to be like, “Hey baby, I’m single now.”(And note: I may be going The Shining crazy over here, but not that crazy), and if I have to hear one more word about it, I’m going to run out into the yard and bite the head off of one of these noisy ass desert finches Ozzy Osbourne style.
Actually, I might do that anyway.
Those f*ckers have ruined my sleep for weeks now.
They let out these blood curdling shrieks at all hours of the night that wake me from a deep slumber and scare the living crap out of me and they make this other noise like a jackhammer and they then launch into what I can only assume is a mating call at sunrise (roughly 6:30am) every morning, and I”m over it. They’re dead to me.
Those babies’ days are numbered. I’m taking them out Mexican drug lord style, whatever that means.
Anyway, that reminds me, the other day I was talking to Grady, and I was trying to figure out how long he’d been staying at the casita and he was like, ‘I’m not staying in the casita, you live in the casita.”
And I was like, “No, I don’t live here. I’m just visiting for a few weeks while I write this book.”
And he’s all, “”You have always lived in the casita. I should know. I’ve always been here.”
And then I looked at some pictures of myself and noted that I have started to match the walls of the casita in an apparent concrete Mexican shack/human chameleon spooky-ass oneness, and I realized that Grady was right.