At an age when most men begin to look forward to the halcyon days of retirement, Theo yearns for adventure; to feel hot blood coursing again in his veins, so he’s about to make the most reckless or sanest decision of his life. With nothing left to lose except the relationship with his daughters, Theo feels that if he doesn’t break free now, he never will, and life for him might well be over.
“Evidently the only way to find the path is to set fire to my own life.” — Tagore
Early reviews for ‘The Love and Existential Tumult of a Man called Theo’:
“Your writing makes me laugh, shocks me, moves me, and totally captures my attention. Colorful, witty, interesting, intellectual and fun at the same time.” – Betty M.
“So brave of you to bare your soul. When you share what your heart is saying, it causes others to listen to their own.” – Carole H.
“I absolutely love it. I laughed…I shook my head in amazement. I love how it feels like you are talking directly to me, it reads like a conversation. LOVE IT!” – Isabella E.
“I’m finding it hard to stop reading!” – Mary H.
“Only on Chapter 2 of Theo’s Journey, but I am so impressed! The imagery is spot on and your writing is so full of life and energy it’s like you are talking to me. I love the touches of humor sprinkled throughout – I have laughed out loud more than once. It’s wonderful!” – Laurelle A.
Chapter 1: Querencia
In bullfighting, a bull may stake out a Querencia in a part of the ring where he will gather his energies before another charge.
I’m 54 and about to make one of the sanest or more damaging decisions of my life.
Reckless for sure.
All because of eclipses and a termite-ridden book.
Four years ago, I moved out of my house and divorced. Three countries, fourteen moves; when will I stop. As I unpacked what must have been two-hundred books, I found one, I swear to you, I don’t recall purchasing. Written in 1956 by a man in his early twenties, its dust jacket was torn, and most of its pages pinholed. I find that irresistible, as I find ramshackle barns, dark narrow alleys, and Byzantine eyes irresistible. The unpacking had to wait.
Reading it caused such upheaval, I felt something crack inside me. I finally understood what Kafka meant when he said that a book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. Cracking was the ice that had kept me long numbed in a kind of cryogenic suspension in a dreary sea; the sea of the commonplace, tedious world in which most of us unwittingly waste our precious time on earth. For a brief, rapturous span, I was a flying fish, breaking free from the stultifying waters in which I swam, purblind among my kind. Soaring above the surface, the atmosphere was electrifying, and the air tasted of expectation, adventure, of life more abundant, and as I looked down, I realized I neither liked, nor believed anymore in the story I was in.
Then a few months ago, I chanced upon an enigmatic correspondence between significant events in my life, and the 18-year astronomical cycles called ‘Saros’ that chart the eclipses of the Sun and Moon. It was happening again; another life-changing moment. I became convinced that at the eve of my Fourth Saros, Fortune was once more moving the tiller to alter my course, and that unlike other times when I’ve simply allowed circumstance to shape my destiny, now I had to either consciously thwart her designs, or stop resisting, surrender to her whim and wind, and become her shipmate, no matter the cost.
Break out or perish! The clarion call was getting louder.
I’m packing now, stuffing yet one more t-shirt into my neon-blue hiking backpack already bulging like a body-bag weighed with the corpse of a full-grown bulldog. I’m not very practical, yet. By this time tomorrow, I will be on an Alaskan Airlines jet in route to the coastal town of Sayulita on Mexico’s Pacific shore in search of my Querencia; what could well be the first waystation on my journey across the Fourth Saros of my life.
Didn’t sleep much. Ever since I read that book, I figured I would waste enough time once dead, and decided I shouldn’t, while still alive, so I am usually up by three. This morning though, a vivid dream woke me at one. I was in a shack by the ocean. Ink-black, and a raging storm outside. Waves pounding fury on the shore. It was humid and hot. Barefoot, shirtless, and sweating, moon-maddened, howling like a wild beast, I pounded on an old typewriter, struggling to bring forth what I felt trapped within my breast-bones; something luminous swelling to break free from the dark.
I wonder if that’s all I need right now, a Querencia. Like water, fractured by a fall, needing to remain briefly still in a tranquil pool, just long enough to reconstitute myself, before charging ahead again. But charging ahead towards what, whereto, I do not know.
Sayulita was not my plan, because I have no plan, nor a job, or house of my own, and little savings, so when my friends invited me to come along, I took it as another sign from the universe; a luring call with visions of a desolate beach crowned by palm trees swayed by a warm breeze and lulled by the waves’ wash, with a shack nearby, where I would finally be free to do what I believe I was meant to all my life. I accepted without hesitation.
We’re planning lots of cool guy stuff for the first part of the trip: spearfishing, surfing, drinking, smoking, and likely exchanging locker-room humor. Might the underlying drive impelling such pursuits be but short-lived attempts by us men to make-up for the absence of ecstasy in other spheres of our lives? Is that why we go to war?
I question everything. Read too much, see and feel too much and too deep. Maybe that’s why I suffer.
For a while I’ve been wrestling to define for myself what it means to be a man in the 21st Century. Somewhere between John Wayne’s macho or Bond’s coolness, and the ‘I don’t wanna grow up’ stance of a Japanese Grass-Eater, is as far as I have gotten. The answer is urgent because I believe men are fucked, and soon to join the floppy disk, 411, the payphone, and the VCR, if we don’t get our act together. I’m afraid we’re entering the Era of the Amazons which might not be a bad thing for our ravaged planet.
I don’t consciously choose to burrow through these existential dilemmas. They simply find me, and then demand to be mined, relentlessly lashing my hide until I strike the gold of my own understanding. It’s a curse.
The blame for the issue of masculinity hangs on the horns of an Elk.
It happened during one of my solitary escapes to a beach about an hour from my house. It was cold and foggy that weekday morning. Like you’d skirt a nest of vipers, I avoid walks in nature on weekends. Don’t like crowds on hikes, or during sex.
As the narrow road curved sharply and rose, I spotted a large silhouette on a small hill shrouded in mist. I pulled over and reached over to the back seat for my camera. It’s the analog kind. I can’t see myself switching to digital. I prefer delayed gratification, in photography, as in…well, you know.
I got out of the car and advanced toward an imposing Elk Bull, with a towering rack, gradually materializing through the fog. The animal stood firmly in front of six cows lying on the short, wet grass. Approaching – stopping and wincing every time I crunched gravel under my shoes, my breathing shallow – I expected the Elk and his harem to bolt. Instead, it slowly raised its head, nostrils steaming, and fixed me with a poised stare. We were but fifteen feet apart, separated by a three-foot-high, weathered wooden fence leaning toward the curb. Only fifteen, yet I felt an unbridgeable chasm between us, and that instead of the short fence, an impenetrable barrier separated me from that noble, powerful presence. It wasn’t a sense of alienation from the natural world; no maudlin pang at the loss of kinship or such other new-age nonsense. I just felt emasculated and diminished.
The Bull kept me locked in sight, so I looked down, my body slumped, shoulders sagged, the camera still in its case pressed against my right leg. I did not dare take the photo. It felt undeserving. With head hung low, I retreated to the car a smaller man than I already am, and sped towards Keeho Beach.
As I hiked the mile or so on the narrow path leading to the ocean, cutting through low, fragrant brush on the left, and a ridge to the right dotted with grazing cattle, I could feel myself becoming defiant, angry, near savage. I tried to mimic the fierce intensity of the Elk’s stare but felt foolish and fake.
Then, like bursts of machine-gun fire, I heard these short phrases in my head:
Thunderbolts in my hands! Spear through the black heart of a crow! Orgasms like Supernovas!
My steps slowed as dirt turned to deep, cold sand underfoot. Below, a slow-moving river widened, and flowed into the ocean. My spirits lifted as I imagined myself walking across a rugged, sun-drenched landscape down a rocky trail to a secluded beach on a Greek island.
Right after my businesses collapsed at the start of my third Saros – what I call the Age of the Fisher King…of those years in forced exile, lost in the wasteland, I suggested to my wife we live in Greece for a few years to try and make sense of what had happened. There’s something about Greece that has intrigued me for quite some time. Ever since I read Durrell describe its landscape as pure nude chastity, and its light, like coming off the heart of some Buddhist blue stone or flower, always changing he said, but serene and pure, and lotion-soft on the iris. Or perhaps it was when I came upon his alluring account of the women of the Mediterranean, whom he said burn inwardly like altar candles, that they are the landscape wishes of the earth whose overpowering sensuality have driven great poets to open their veins, or soldiers to start unjust wars in their name like Helen of Troy did. I don’t know. Or maybe it was when I first stumbled upon Zorba the Greek by Kazantzakis, his Report to Greco, and the poems of Sikelianos. Earthy and lustful writers these guys…wild men.
There is danger in reading their words, and about their lives, especially for contemporary men…so dispassionate, timid, afraid. They make our lives seem insipid and uninspiring.
Perhaps one day I’ll discover in Greece my spiritual homeland, just as Sils Maria was for Nietzsche. Ikaria sounds like a good starting point. Who wouldn’t want to live in a place called the island where people forget to die.
Anyway, I lumbered down a dune to the vast, solitary expanse of sand, backdropped by the early steel grayness of the thundering Pacific. Like a shredded veil of a fleeing bride, the fog floated inland in wide, fraying sheets. Took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pants, and ambled toward a rock cliff cleaving the ocean.
Then the voice resumed:
Become Zorba! Carefree, expansive, coarse but gentle, generous, voracious, sensual, uninhibited, incandescent and wild. Spread and lift your arms high up in the air, snap your fingers and stomp, lunge, jump and twirl, as you dance barefoot under the stars.
I couldn’t contain myself, and began muttering, first under breath, and then louder and louder:
I want to carry thunderbolts in my hands. My blood to burn. Dance barefoot in mud while drinking rain. Pluck a slippery fish from an icy stream with bare hands and tear its flesh with my teeth. I want to swim in the ocean and not bathe for months. Push massive boulders down steep, rocky mountains. Prance and lock horns with goats in the Alps. Punch a white shark on its snout and watch it sink, cross-eyed into the abyss. I want to shoot a spear through the black heart of a crow. Women to cower when I look at them with rapacious eyes with the radiance and intensity of stars. I want orgasms like Supernovas. I want to crush pungent leaves and rub them all over my body; I don’t want to smell like soap but loam. I want to throw my shoes into a lake and never retrieve them. I want my flesh to be lacerated by branches, dirt and grime under my nails, fungus eating away at my toenails, heels like sandpaper, and to yank snakes from my nostrils. I want to slap the young to wake them from their stupor and then inflame them. I WANT TO KISS A WOMAN WEARING A PLATE INSIDE HER LIPS, HAVE HER DEVOUR MY HEART, SPIT THE SINEW, AND SWALLOW THE BLOODY PULP. I WANT TO COMMUNICATE BY DRUMBEATS, WALK NAKED INTO A FOREST FIRE, BLOW SMOKE ONTO WOMEN’S SMUG FACES WHO REFUSE TO FEED THEIR MEN RAW MEAT. I WANT TO SEW BLOODY FANGS ONTO EVERY CHILD’S CUDDLY TEDDY BEAR. TUMBLE WITH A GIRL WHO WEARS A NECKLACE MADE OF MEN’S SKULLS. I NO LONGER WANT TO TIPTOE MY WAY THROUGH LIFE, BUT STOMP. NOT WHISPER BUT SHOUT. I WANT MY TUMULT TO BE HEARD!
I stopped and sat down, shaking…afraid that my dad’s bipolar gene had activated in me, and that I was about to unleash the same destructive force. That I too, would end up barricaded one day inside a luxurious hotel suite with a necklace of Bic pens over my bare chest, writing my own version of the Bible on its walls while my wife slept curled inside the lobby’s bathroom and the night clerk dialed the local police to break down the door and arrest me.
I’ve often wondered if Hitler infected my father that day he tousled his hair when he stood in formation among other kids of the Hitler Youth, watching the Fuhrer stride past, inspecting the sacks of animal bones they were ordered to collect from neighborhood butchers which were crushed to extract lubricating oil for the planes of the Luftwaffe.
It also occurred to me that my own fate might have been sealed during those grisly nights inside a German castle where my grandfather sliced open the chests of doves to spatter blood on the naked bodies of women.
There. All packed now. At least I think I have everything. Too much actually. I’m starting to sicken from all the stuff we accumulate. Like a stealthy vine, our junk coils itself around our lives and slowly tightens its suffocating grip until we are weighed down by an invisible anchor. I saddle myself with the backpack and realize how painful it will be to carry it on my shoulders. But I’m done. And why so many shirts and shorts, Theo? The time wasted matching them. Vanity for one. And that middle-age, pathetic, and desperate struggle to remain physically alluring. I’m not…ok…at least should not, be thinking about the women I might meet in Sayulita. After my friends fly back home, the purpose of staying behind is to determine if that’s the right place for me now. I can’t get distracted. Besides, I have girlfriend now. Yes, bad timing I know, but this time around I wasn’t looking. She came back into my life after thirty years.
Outside my bedroom window, the broad maple tree is beginning to blush. I’d miss this place. More so, and above anything, I ‘d miss my younger daughter. I could always refuse the call, and get another job in my field, which would secure a substantial, life-time pension in exchange for another ten years of my life. I would finally settle and root. But at least, I should figure out what this whole thing is about; if it’s real, or just another fanciful notion of mine. I intend to find out by keeping a receptive ear and keen eye to not miss any sign the universe might send my way.
Chapter 2 – Hope Your Dreams Don’t Fall Asleep
“May I ask you a delicate question?”
“Sure.” I said.
“Are you suffering from some sort of mental illness?”
Scanning the shelves at Staples for the green binder my daughter asked me to purchase, I pulled the cell phone away from my ear and laughed, and then resumed the conversation with the man fifteen hundred miles away.
“I don’t think so. If anything, I feel more awake.”
As soon as I told my friends I would join their expedition, I decided to travel with the eyes of my spirit wide open to the possibility that Sayulita could be my Querencia. It didn’t hurt her case that some websites claimed her name to be Nahuatl for ‘Little Girl from the Sea’, rather than the true ‘Place were Flies are Abundant’. Had I been more diligent in my research, who knows where I’d be now. Tempting me further, besides the tropical allure, was the almost-certain probability of spearfishing in blue-water amid a tuna run. But what really stunned me – what finally convinced me I was in the presence of a real, clear call from the universe, was a difference of just thirty miles.
If I were to move, my younger daughter would remain in the Bay Area, fifteen hundred and fifty-eight miles North from the tiny hut I reserved on Airbnb for the second part of the trip. My girlfriend, on the other hand, would be South, fifteen hundred and ninety miles away. A mere difference of thirty miles, or twelve minutes in flight-time, could not be coincidental.
Having once read that the moment one definitively commits, then providence moves too; that boldness has genius, power, and magic in it, I began telling everyone what I was considering, and soon, had been referred to several people living in the area, Lucas among them, tactfully inquiring about my mental health.
As I roamed the aisles looking for the three-inch binder, I tried to explain to him what I’m looking for: how I’d walked away from my job, relinquishing more than three-quarters of a generous life-time pension – a juicy carrot dangled, and mine to seize, in exchange for chewing on the bit for ten more years with blinkered eyes. That I was thinking of surrendering my possessions and moving, should Sayulita resonate with me. I’d need a job right away, but didn’t care what kind, as long as it allowed me time to write. The more mindless and physical, the better. With the boldness of a seasoned hunter, I told Lucas how I plan on feeding myself mostly from the ocean, so the pay isn’t that important. I should have kept in mind I wasn’t sitting next to someone from Marin County at an outdoor café sipping on a Kombucha cocktail in a mason jar and snacking on roasted kale chips dusted with Tibetan sea salt blessed by the Dalai Lama himself, but talking to a Mexican. That would have stopped me from mentioning eclipses and Saros and twelve-minute serendipities, and instead, been more levelheaded and upfront, and told Lucas that other than cooking, my practical skills, fishing included, are close to nil. Having been raised in a country and station that afforded me the ease of not ever having to work with my hands – a luxury I now see as my greatest limitation – my capacities for survival are lodged in my brain.
“Don’t worry.” Lucas said with that smooth, hustler’s tone. “Call me as soon as you land and we’ll get together to figure it out.”
With the stars properly aligning, and all the pieces falling smoothly into place, I am in a spirited mood as I watch the weekday commuters on the drive to the airport.
“Do it!” my friend spurs me, as we inch our way across the Golden Gate bridge. “A friend of mine recently told me about a friend of his who twenty years ago quit his high-paying corporate job to search for treasure off the coast of North Carolina. Seems a distant relative of his was a daring and successful pirate. I don’t remember if the family found a map, or how exactly he knew the location of the sunken ship, but he just did it, and is still at it. And not for the money. I think he’s donating the entire haul. He did it just for the thrill. The hell with all this! I would if I could. I’m sure many would pay to hear your story. Since too many are afraid, at least they’ll live out their fantasies through you.”
Inches above the swell, a Pelican flock glides westward, rising, falling, rising again; attuned to each other’s intention, riding over the waves’ shook foil glitter. A sailboat leans toward the rock cliff on which stands the Point Bonita Lighthouse. All sails unfurled, she too heads west, to sea. I think of Jack London as a fourteen-year-old on the skiff he purchased from the money he earned as a newsboy. Desiring, as he said, to taste the salt spray for himself, wanting to get away from monotony and the commonplace.
I set sail, he wrote, casting off, taking my place at the tiller, the sheet in my hand, and headed across channel. I was no boy of fourteen, living the mediocre ways of the sleepy town called Oakland. I was a man, a god, and the very elements rendered me allegiance as I bitted them to my will. At last I was living.
When was the last time I felt that way?
As he taught himself to sail, Jack’s skiff became a place of contemplative solitude, where he would read and think, his young mind hungering to ponder the big questions of life, measuring possible answers by his one sure test: Will I trust my life to it?
His own Querencia, I suppose.
As I stare at the grim, lifeless faces inside the jammed cars rolling at a snail’s pace across the vermilion expanse of the bridge, I imagine myself inside the tiny shack by the ocean smashing everything inside me: all the ideals, illusions, mythologies; the supposed truths and isms I have accepted without question, and then asking anew: What constitutes a live well-lived? What does it mean to truly love? Who is a good father? What is man’s role in this century of female ascendancy? How do we come to terms with the angel in ourselves and the devil in ourselves? Are the Self and happiness only illusions? Can we die with valor and dignity, without regrets? Can we rid ourselves of the straightjackets sewn by our own hand?
As we cross the toll booth, I see myself as the guy who is still out there, off the North Carolina coast, hunting for treasure, but of a different kind. My gold, if I am to find it, is to be a new orientation to life; my very own, forged in the crucible of my unique understanding. And if lucky, if the universe grants me a few more breaths of salty air, I must also share the haul.
I don’t think fear is what holds us back, I tell my friend. If it were, it would mean that at least we are examining our condition. Maybe we are enchained and don’t realize it, or have stopped questioning, so the suggestion we let go of what imprisons us, sounds oddly like a sacrifice. Because they’ve become so familiar…those chains, we prefer them to a life of uncertainty. We much rather feel secure, than vulnerable without our fixed moorings; lost and unremarkable without all our stuff. If we only realized that the word security comes from the Latin ‘securus’ which means being free of care, those chains would dissolve without causing us pain.
In line at the security checkpoint, I text my younger daughter: Stay strong, beautiful, original, and funny as you’ve always been. I feel as if I am shedding old skin.
Seat 22D. Always the aisle seat. I urinate with worrying frequency, but now it’s more like milking a tired, uncooperative snake. Beside me sits a young Asian girl in short, loose shorts. Her sing-song, nasal, valley-girl voice seems almost feigned; it is that true to the stereotype. A bachelorette party boards. Bride-to-be appears hungover. As soon as the plane begins to taxi, many of the passengers break out into cheers: “A-ya-yay! Mexico baby!” I roll my eyes but fill the thrill.
My two friends sit in the back; aisle and window seats. Wedged between, sits a late-thirties redhead with more facial hair than me. As the wine keeps pouring, their voices and laughter become louder. My British friend’s accent is unmistakable and irresistible. I remember – with envy – the many instances that silky, sticky gift of his lured women at bars, while my Hispanic one – who many mistake for Canadian – has never worked that magic, no matter how thick I lay it. He imbues even the most trivial utterance with commanding gravitas – He (left eyebrow raised): “Fancy a shag?” She (quickly melting, fanning herself): “Oh my God of course!” – Handsome as well, the bugger!
I close my eyes and doze. A slap in the arm wakes me up. My friend (the non-British one), stands…just barely, and grins. “I think Stephanie is becoming annoyed with us, but seems to be enjoying our humor. I have asked her several times to feel my pecs but so far she’s refused.”
I envy this guy too. A cross-fit junkie, along with other extreme physical challenges: kite-surfing, spearfishing, diving for abalone in frigid, dangerous waters. He recently purchased a hunting rifle and soon plans to roam the Sonoma hills shooting wild pigs. A self-made, successful entrepreneur as well, the fucker!
“I offered Stefanie to pay for her breast implants.” He says.
I shake my head.
Whereas before, turbulence would have unsettled me, I am unfazed by the plane’s drops, bumps, heaves, and lurches as we approach the landing strip at Puerto Vallarta. I think I am losing my fear of death.
The airplane door opens, and a hot, humid air blast fills the interior.
My friends want to wait for Stefanie to deplane, along with her seventeen nurse colleagues. I am in a hurry to get to Sayulita, but must confess I make my mental pick from the eighteen-nurse lineup right behind us as we pass immigration. The shortest one with the lively hazel eyes.
After clearing customs, we walk across a wide, high-ceiling bright corridor crowded with hawkers besieging newcomers with offers of sailing excursions, taxis, hotels, free cocktails, fishing expeditions. It is the tail-end of the low tourist season and locals are desperate; they are running on fumes, and their children are hungry. How will I survive here?
Heriberto, our chauffeur, greets us at the exit. Tall, corpulent, cheerful, obsequious, with short, black spiky hair and the signature thick mustache and Guayabera. “!Bienvenidos a Méjico!” Everyone shakes his hand. It’s firm, trustworthy.
We pass through the town of Bucerias – sprawling and chaotic. I miss chaos…a bit. It sharpens my senses, quickens my pulse, and makes me more resourceful. Bucerias is where I will spend three days on my own after my friends fly back, staying in a Palapa I found on Airbnb for sixty bucks a night. No photo of the hut or surroundings on the property’s profile. Just a fuzzy image of a sunrise over a mountain range behind a tranquil body of water. But sixty bucks is more than I can afford right now. Much like dietary restrictions, choices are for the rich, I reminded myself as I clicked on the “Confirm” button. After receiving my email explaining what I seek – becoming an author, maybe opening a tiny restaurant with my girlfriend, finding my tribe – the hostess vowed she’d convince me to become an expat.
That word does not resonate in me. I feel rootless. No longer suffer from nostalgia for the country in which I was born and raised. Nor feel the pain on the side of country exiles talk about. Why? I wonder. And the thought of leaving the U.S. in which I have lived in self-imposed exile for twenty years; the country in which I raised my daughters – the thought of letting go, doesn’t stir feelings of great loss either. True, I have become intimate with the natural beauty of the area in which I live: the ocean, its swirling fog, mountains and crystalline lakes, the sunburnt, ocher hills in summer, the diffuse humor of its seasons, its proximate wildlife: mountain lions, bobcats, hawks, coyotes…my soul has been nourished by it all, especially in times of great despair. I know I will miss it, but something stronger is impelling me to leave, and my roots have not sunk deep enough to keep me anchored. Perhaps I was born to be a vagabond…at home everywhere. Hydroponic? Out of place? There is a Greek word for this: ‘Atopos’. But beyond “out of place”, it means “disturbing”, “perplexing”.
Costica Bradatan, the author of ‘Dying for Ideas. The Dangerous Lives of the Philosophers’, wrote that “The more comfortable you feel in the world, the blunter the instruments with which you approach it. Because everything has become so evident, you’ve stopped seeing anything. Exile gives you a chance to break free. All that heavy luggage of old “truths,” which seemed so only because they were so familiar, is to be left behind. Exiles always travel light. There is in every community something that has to remain unsaid, unnamed, unuttered; and you signal your belonging to that community precisely by participating in the general silence. Revealing everything, “telling all,” is a foreigner’s job. Either because foreigners do not know the local cultural codes or because they are not bound to respect them, they can afford to be outspoken.” Alexis de Tocqueville comes to mind.
I like the term Bradatan uses: “Metaphysical Gypsy”, or my personal animal totem: The Flying Fish.
As we drive across the foothills of the imposing mountain range of the Sierra Madre Occidental, the road narrows and cuts through dense jungle on both sides. My friends are glued to their phones; I am awestruck by the lushness. One of them shows us photos of two of his buddies in camouflaged hunting attire (smeared face paint, thumbs up) over dead Bison and Bighorn sheep killed with bow and arrow somewhere in Montana. Trying to make contact with the Wild Man, I think to myself recalling the book by Robert Bly I read long ago:
“The true radiant energy of the male does not hide in, reside in, or waits for us in the feminine realm, nor in the macho, but in the magnetic field of the deep masculine. The key to the cage where the Wild Man is imprisoned is hidden under the Mother’s pillow.”
I spin the phrase “under the Mother’s pillow” in my head as we turn left into the town of Sayulita. Is that the secret place where mothers’ store their expectations of how their sons ought to behave? Where they hide their tools – the athames, pentacles, wands, cauldrons, chalices, thuribles, and spell books – to tame and domesticate the masculine spirit? Is this the reason so many young men turn savage, rather than wild? And since we’ve locked up our tribal elders in senior living communities, there is no one to prowl the American suburbs and cities snatching teenage boys in the middle of the night from their comfortable beds and glowing screens to lead them to the Holy Forest, away from Mother, to have them die as children and reborn as men. And even if we did release them, if once again we gave our elder men their due, their rightful place, I suspect most would not know what to do…how to guide the young. Uninitiated themselves, they’d still be nursing their own inner wounded child, while perfecting their golf swing.
The road narrows further. The van crosses a flooded part where the river has broken its bank, swelled by a heavy storm the night before. We arrive at the property we’ve rented for the next three days: spacious; its décor making a failed attempt to realize the ‘Mexican’ feel.
I step out to one of the partially-shaded patios to smoke a cigarette. I can hear the surf close by. Up in the wide canopies, parakeets shriek as they feast on fruit, making small pieces of peel rain on my head. From the wall behind me and within the palm-thatched roof, the distinct chirp of Geckos. The intense heat, and dense, humid air, accelerate the burn of my cigarette.
Before dinner, we head to the ocean for a swim. The water is invitingly warm, almost too warm. The swells are high, the sun setting, lending a peach complexion to the pristine sand. As I face inland, my gaze scans the long stretch to my left heading away from the town’s hub. “A glimpse of immaculate sand that awaits my footprints” I quote in my head.
“This is the life!” One of my friends shouts over the roar. “This, is why we work so hard!” As I wait for the right wave to bodysurf back to shore, I feel outraged. Seriously? Must we now work eight, twelve, sometimes more hours just so we can float and frolic once, or maybe twice a year? To give up no less than a third of our lives for simple pleasures which have always been within our reach, for free?
A shower, and we head into town for dinner. I become alert, receptive to any signal that might tell me if I am on the right path.
We crisscross flooded, poorly-lit streets and walk over a bridge to the town’s Zócalo, or central plaza. Flanked by dense vegetation, the river below flows languorously into the ocean reflecting mauve and steel gray clouds. On one of the bridge’s concrete parapet walls, in faded green letters, I read: HOPE YOUR DREAMS DON’T FALL ASLEEP. My hair stands on end with anticipation.
The main street leading to the town’s center is intersected by shorter ones, dirt and cobblestone, leading to the beach, some palm-lined and festooned with pastel-color paper flags fluttering with the late afternoon breeze. Like scattered M&M’s, bright-colored structures lend the town a festive and dangerously-alluring Hakuna Matata atmosphere.
Chapter 3: Theo Encounters a Mexican Yoda
A sour geyser wells up my throat and jolts me at five in the morning with the lees of tequila and fiery Devil-Shrimp sauce left over from last night’s dinner. I reach for my eyeglasses, climb out of bed and tiptoe in the dark to the condo’s kitchen. I make coffee, and warm-up two Mexican Conchas sweetening the air with the smell of sugar, butter, and toasted bread flour. I turn on my laptop to post on my journey’s log book:
“I’m here, but unsure what to think of the place. People are certainly welcoming and gracious. All smiles and hospitality. But Sayulita seems like any other quaint, lively beach-town, with its street-side cafes, bars, and restaurants with glowing patio lights, the yoga and tattoo studios, the t-shirt and trinket shops. Groups of young surfers huddled on the beach under makeshift awnings, watching friends ride the waves. Dreadlocks…blaring rap music…the skunky smell. I could be anywhere. Not quite fitting the fanciful notion I dreamt-up for my Querencia:
A rustic shack – airy, bright, and uncluttered – perched on a small hill by the sea. By a large, open window, a small writing desk, flanked by bookshelves, filled with books. The ocean’s seductive voice beckoning. A trail leading down to the beach on which a landed dugout canoe is tied to a palm tree. The canoe is white with seafoam trimmings, loaded with a casting net, spear gun, and free-diving gear. By the shack, a small garden with a pergola, weighed by flowering vines casting their scented shade over a long, rough-hewn, wooden table: the hub of comradeship – of prolonged meals and conversations – gathering loved ones and friends. Often visited by the occasional wanderer, staying with us for a few days, delighting us with tales of her adventures, before setting off again. Or even more generous, serving us the wounds she’s suffered in life’s honorable combat for us to dig our forks and knives into, consuming and nourishing ourselves from her suffering. Next to the table, a stone fire ring, serving first as grilling pit to cook the day’s catch, and then, as the night wears on and the sky dusts with starlight, drawing everyone around its warmth, to drink, sing, dance, laugh and weep, as we grapple with the enigmas of life and love. A small town nearby, reached by foot, bicycle, boat. Its streets preferably paved with cobblestones to slow everyone down. Where its inhabitants wake up with genuine smiles, and goodwill, always willing to lend a shoulder, asking neighbors not “how are you”, but “how are you not”, more interested in what we lack or need, than what we have, hoping for the chance to give of themselves to fill our voids. A love transfusion, if you will. A town whose main din comes from the raucous laughter of children and folksongs of fishermen and other villagers heading to work. The women with their skin somewhat concealed to reveal their mystery, arousing desire, not lust. Where young men strive to be men, and old men wear their age proudly, lavishly dispensing the ripe fruit of their wisdom to the young. Where everyone is afflicted by philoxenia: that ancient belief that anyone who knocks on your door could be a god, or angel in disguise, and thus, must be welcomed as one would a dear friend or loved one.
A dog barks. Wakes up the rest. Pandemonium breaks out. Dogs don’t bark much in the U.S. Why so? Are they mimicking their tightly-wound owners who don’t much laugh, or weep without restrain? Makes me recall the time when we were driving across a small coastal town in Guatemala on one of our annual, summer trips back home. My younger daughter, who must’ve been six at the time, asked as she kept looking out the window: “Daddy? Why do people here laugh so much if they are so poor?” A cock crows. A bus lurches across the puddled road past the main entrance to the condo, filling the air with the familiar hiss and squeal of its air-brakes, and the groan of its shock-absorbers. Just how quiet do I need it to be in order to write? It is offseason. Imagine what it will be like when the snowbirds descend on the place. And it’s already oppressively hot and humid. Could I write in these conditions? And when the hell did I acquire the Goldilocks Syndrome? Too hot-too cold, too hard-too soft, too big-too small. Cities of Gold, Fountains of Youth, Holy Grails…ideals, illusions, utopias – the stuff of crusading zealots, romantic knights, and wild-eyed explorers. I must strip them off! Was thinking of taking a dip in the ocean but we leave at eight to slaughter some unsuspecting fish.”
I close my laptop and begin to prepare breakfast for my friends: scrambled eggs with chorizo, refried beans, and tortillas. The inviting scent drags them one-by-one out of the rooms, tottering like haggard mummies into the dining area.
Our driver, Heriberto, shows up punctually in a powder-blue Guayabera; his hair, gel-tamed and shiny, the van redolent of Old Spice aftershave (“If your grandfather hadn’t worn it, you wouldn’t exist” was the brand’s slogan. The promise of instant manliness and sex-appeal inside its trademark, nautical bottle). Across paved, heat-shimmering roads, Heriberto drives us forty minutes to the town of Punta de Mita to meet up with our free-diving guides, Pedro and Arturo.
They teach us how to load and handle the spear guns – wooden, long, and menacing. What are we hunting for, whales? Not like the small one with a trident point I used during diving trips I made as a young boy with Dad and my brothers. We fit our masks, fins, tight Lycra shirts with chest-loading pads, and weight-belts.
A blue sky with a scattering of high clouds vaults above as we walk towards the rocky shore where our small, open boat awaits. I am struck again by the majesty of the Sierra Madre Mountains, surging to the South in successive tiers of imperial blueness from the fathomless rainforest of El Tuito – Nahuatl for “Place of Gods”. Staring across Banderas Bay at those jungle-clad mountains, I feel a strong, inscrutable, primal tug, and resolve to explore them first thing if I were to move here. I would later learn that I was staring straight at the beach town of Mismaloya, the main set for the John Houston movie ‘The Night of the Iguana’, based on the work of playwright Tennessee Williams, starring Richard Burton, Deborah Kerr, Ava Gardner, and Sue Lyon.
At fourteen, Lyon was cast in the role of Lolita, the sexually-precocious protagonist in Nabokov’s novel. Lyon first married Hampton Fancher, who in his early teens, ran away to Spain to become a flamenco dancer. She then married famous black football player Roland Harrison (Lyon would go on to marry three more times). Lyon and Harrison had a daughter, Nona, whom Lyon kicked out of the house at age twelve. A year later, Nona was taken to a half-way house, and later interned in an insane asylum. She’s fine now, writing her memoir.
The human spirit is incredibly resilient. We worry too much about our children. We hover over, and protect them too much. Burden them with too much. We want to shield them from all danger and uncertainty, and pave for them a frictionless road to the land of plenty and lifelong bliss. Never tested, they hardly shine. Not surprised that privileged youths are among the most emotionally distressed young people in America. Norman Douglas, the author of ‘South Wind’, noted that the children that have the most fun, the children who are most inventive, are those who have absolutely nothing to play with. Growing up in Guatemala, I remember how I envied the shoe-shine kids that plied the meandering paths of the park in front of my house; how they laughed as they raced behind discarded bicycle rims, deftly propelling and balancing them with long sticks held by their stained hands. “Children have two advantages”, Botton says: “they don’t know what they are supposed to like, and they don’t understand money, so price is never a guide of value for them.” They do things out of sheer delight in the here and now. Become like children and you will enter the kingdom of heaven, Jesus said.
Our first dive is in relatively shallow, unruffled water close to shore. I slip into my fins, place the mask over my face, bite down on the snorkel’s mouthpiece, and slide off the side of the boat. Warm, saltwater fills my mouth. I bob gently with the ripples, and wave my fins to stay above surface. Arturo tosses my spear gun into the water. I load it with great effort against the chest-pad on my neon-blue shirt, and move out on my own, away from the group. The visibility is good. From above, I scan the fringing reef twenty feet under. Several shoals dart, glide across, and circle around and under the manifold coral formations – a bustling calcium carbonate city of swaying fans, antlers, pillars like church organ tubes, stacked plates, and massive brain-shaped colonies in a dazzling array of colors; an almost-complete painter’s palette daubed with a kaleidoscope of pink, orange, deep red, pale yellow, purple, sugar-white. I dive, stopping at about fifteen feet, remaining upright in quiescent suspension, hoping I can still manage to stay down long enough for a kill. Not a sound except my heartbeat and the crackle from fish feeding off the coral. The silence engulfing me feels safe…a briny womb. Mesmerized by all the life around me, I stay underwater longer than I should, and start to grunt as my body exhausts the oxygen reserve in my lungs. I dash to the surface. Feel like a young boy again.
We drift the reef twice, and a few hours later, have enough fish for lunch. I did not catch anything; everything looked too small and beautiful. I’m going to starve here if I don’t brittle my sensitivities. Tomorrow, I’ll shoot at anything, big and small. Heck! Even if I come across that cutesy, little rainbow fish from that children’s book. You know the one…the selfless tiny one that shares his shiny scales with his buddies, keeping only one for himself. That one. I’ll pulverize the fucker with my gun! Besides, one of my friends caught most of our haul for the day, igniting my male competitiveness. The game is on.
We bring our catch to one of the few restaurants by the beach and it is returned to our table part pickled in a tangy, spicy ceviche, the other fried to a perfect crisp. The restaurant is empty except for a shirtless, sunburnt, balding, middle-aged American ex-pat sitting behind us sipping on what I calculate to be his tenth beer based not only by the empty-bottle count, but by the sheen in his eyes and the way in which their washed-out blue irises glide in torpid, haphazard orbits across bloodshot sclerae. That, and the crooked drop of his lower lip as he laughs at his own vapid jokes. With bare feet widely apart, arms resting heavily on his lap and potbelly spilling over his crotch, the man attempts to engage anyone with a moment to spare and willingness to listen. The waiters treat him with familiar, polite tolerance drawn with thin smiles of commiseration, so it appears he is a regular at the joint. We attempt to ignore him as he rattles on about the services he provides other wannabe expats in paradise: car importation, cheap rentals, moving services. Not quite fitting the free, zany, vivacious, and interesting people I hope to encounter in the next waystation of my life.
We head back to Sayulita for a nap, then walk down the crowded beach. We sit at a white, plastic table set on sand in front of one of the beachside restaurants. Order drinks, and a platter of grilled octopus in garlic sauce.
Entertaining two men sitting one table over, a wizened local with a tattered straw hat plays a guitar connected to a rusted red amplifier by his feet. The guy at the head of the table stands, tequila bottle in hand, and begins to follow the corny love song with a pretty decent baritone voice that makes many turn their heads.
‘Aca entre nos, quiero que sepas la verdad: no te he dejado de adorar.’ (Between you and me, I want you to know the truth: I have not stopped adoring you). I brood melancholy and text the lyrics to my girlfriend while doubts whirl in my head.
What if she doesn’t go along with this half-baked idea of mine of leaving everything behind – my house, my job, pension, car, my stuff – in search of what is still a nebulous aspiration? This spreadeagled jump into the unknown. Will it prove what Lawrence Durrell speculated: that man is made of both clay and spirit, and no woman can nourish both, making me lose her as a result?
I spin the word in my head like a heavy marble.
Losing presupposes prior possession. Not what I want. My love for her must reach such a degree of selflessness that would make me rejoice should she find her happiness elsewhere, or with someone else. Isn’t jealousy but insecure, self-love? I must not allow my concern to widen beyond her wellbeing. That is, if I truly love her.
The old musician plays a livelier song. The growing crowd joins with claps, whistles, cheers. The baritone’s gay friend – bright-eyed and tubby – stands, and begins to sway his wide hips, stretching his knee-length shorts printed with leaping pink dolphins to their maximum extension. I’ve seen this before…six years old, at the Reforma movie theater in Guatemala. The Dance of the Hippopotamus, in Disney’s ‘Fantasia’.
A soft breeze flows warm as the sun begins to set behind the surfers angling across the waves cresting in front of a glowing horizon tinted blood-orange. A young lesbian couple lies in the sand close to where we sit. The more beautiful one rests her head on her girlfriend’s lap, cascading long, soft auburn curls over her thighs. A tight, sleeveless crop-top, accentuates her shoulder’s musculature and firmness of her breasts. She extends one arched bare foot, and rests it against a cooler. Digs the other into the cooling sand and flips her toes. Her girlfriend places her left hand on her exposed stomach and pets her over and around the bellybutton, softly splaying and closing her fingers over her tanned skin, gliding them downward with every pass, moving closer, then daringly beyond the edge of her black hipster swimsuit bottom. All the while, she plays with her girlfriend’s hair and kisses her head.
Inside the open restaurant behind us, tone-deaf people are singing boleros: those maudlin, Latin love ballads, in which neither man or woman appear able to live, or be complete without the other. The bearded, gentle-eyed, husky fellow we encountered the night before, moves from table to table hoping to shake a few pesos by impressing customers with his dreadful whistling skills, blowing downward into his cupped hands, attempting to mimic several bird calls. I could use that talent, once improved. His clothes are soiled, and he looks stoned and bewildered. But he’s polite, his smile benevolent, and every time they hand him a crumpled bill or loose change – even when they ignore him, or shoo him off with upturned palm or a flicker – he places his hands together, prayer like over his chest, and bows with grace. What a pity, Henry Miller wrote, that ours is not a society which permits a man to squander his days, and rewards him – with a crust of bread and thimbleful of whisky – for keeping his tail clear of trouble and ennui.
A steady stream of beach hawkers makes its pilgrimage around the tables, offering silver jewelry, hammocks, wood carvings, clay whistles. Maybe I could trade my words here for a shrimp taco and a cold beer: A poem Meester for the beautiful Señorita?
Also working the tables is the occasional stealthy purveyor of marijuana, muttering under breath: “Ju wanna pot?” And dogs. So many sniffing, panting strays, scratching their scabies, poke about the sand in search of scraps.
Right after the old musician finishes, a band of roving drummers installs itself, facing inland, on a level patch of sand. Venus appears, low on the darkening horizon. They light a semi-circle of torches behind them. A short, dark-skinned girl strikes and shakes a tambourine, flashing her bright smile to call everyone’s attention. Her teeth are the size and color of Chiclets. Indigo harem-pants and midriff blouse; large, silver hoop earrings, and a stack of bracelets running all the way to her upper right arm. The youngest male drummer whoops, and begins a seductive thumping beat on the Djembe drum hanging from his neck and over his bare, muscular, tattooed chest and abdomen. The other drummers follow. The girl closes her dazzling black eyes and undulates her arms and hips in sinuous lateral waves. I am enthralled, bewitched. She triggers that archetypal “attractor switch” that has caused me so much trouble in life.
We pay the bill, and head towards the town’s plaza. A strident brass band plays in its central gazebo. Street vendors stand by illuminated food carts lining the sidewalks, scenting the air with piquant aromas. My mouths waters at the sight of sizzling green chiles wrapped in bacon, oozing melted white cheese that bubbles, browns, and crisps upon contact with the cast iron griddle laying over red-hot, smoking coals. We must try this, I tell my friends.
Chiles in hand, we make our way back to the condo, making a final stop at an Al Pastor taco truck for a final bite. The cook stands in front of a vertical grill, spinning a hunk of tiger-orange, adobo marinated pork, charred in spots and dripping fat. A pineapple chunk is skewered above the glowing grill. He glides his butcher’s knife across the meat, and sets the thin, juicy slices over freshly-made corn tortillas resting on a plastic plate he holds with his left hand. He then nips a small slice of the pineapple, and with a flick of the knife, sends it flying onto the plate without bothering to check its trajectory. I scan the floor beneath the cook, admiring that there is not one piece on the ground that has missed the target. I could use this skill too. Any skill, to survive.
Before bed, we sit around the living room under rapidly-spinning overhead fans. Like butchers after a long, blood-spattered day at work, the conversation revolves around the cuts of the female anatomy which had been on display under scant covering at the beach. A beef chart projects inside my head with a cow in the middle, its flank dissected with dashed white lines. From each unit – chuck, flank, sirloin – black lines are drawn towards the corresponding grouping of images of the specific cuts of meat found in each section: blade chuck, shoulder roast, bottom round rump.
“What about the _________ of the girl in the black thong, eh?”
“But did you see the _________ of the one walking to her right? Jeeeezus!”
“I kind’a liked the exquisitely-toned shoulders of the lesbian beauty.” I add. “They reminded me of Jennifer Aniston’s. I find her shoulders and arms incredibly alluring.”
They all lift their eyes away from their phones, and look at me with disbelief.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” One of them shouts, raising his arms.
“What!” I strike back, shaking my head, arms outstretched with open palms as if I was getting ready to recite the ‘Our Father’ while leaning backwards against the chair, “I like shoulders, so what?”
I recall the time my Dad and I were waiting by the parking lot of a burger joint in Massachusetts. Already in his late-seventies, I caught him checking-out a young blonde in a tight yellow miniskirt strutting past us, and nudged him. “Thoughts?” I asked.
“Not thinking at all. Just imagining her thick, golden mane splayed across my pillow,” he whispered.
Perhaps writer Stephen Marche is on to something when he calculates the quantity of locker-room talk to be inversely proportional to men’s familiarity with women.
A few minutes before dawn the following day, I step out to smoke a cigarette. The sky is clear, Orion straight up, a half-moon smiling, the neighbor’s cock crows.
Across the white exterior wall of one of the bungalows, a beam of light glides, then stops. The rusted wrought-iron gate to the complex squeals open. A light-blue, open buggy rolls in and parks. A man in his late fifties gets off.
From the start of the trip, I vowed to speak with anyone and pay careful attention to pick up on any signal from the universe, so begin a conversation by complimenting his sensible choice of vehicle.
“It’s practical.” He says, nodding, as he walks towards me with outstretched hand.
I stub my cigarette against the wall, and wipe my fingers on my off-white linen pants. I shake his hand.
He’s clean-shaven, in good shape, and smartly dressed in a long-sleeved white Polo shirt and tapered khaki shorts. Bronzed, clear skin. Salt and pepper thick eyebrows arching gently over luminous blue eyes. Thick crop of short wavy white hair splashed with black brushstrokes. The man shakes my hand.
“Enrique, un placer.”
The serenity in his countenance, firm handshake, and tranquil bearing briefly startle me, but then a warm feeling sets in. I feel relaxed, and allowed to be myself. Absent, is the posturing that occurs when men, who are strangers to each other, meet: the stiff guardedness; that impenetrable armor of invulnerability that we wear to protect ourselves, a brittle husk that blocks any meaningful conversation. Maybe that’s the locus of misogyny: the place to where men escape, frightened by their need for tenderness.
“You live here?” I begin.
“What do you think of it? I am thinking about moving here soon.”
“Depends on what you are looking for.”
[That nagging question again: What am I looking for?]
“I’m a writer…of sorts.” While still ambivalent, it is the first time I have used this appellative to describe myself. “I have several unfinished projects, and looking for a quiet place to finish them.”
It’s quiet now, but once the tourist season begins next month, it’ll be anything but .” Enrique says.
“What other places do you suggest I look at? I’ve heard of San Pancho. More tranquil they tell me. Smaller.
“What’s wrong with the place you live in now?”
The rose hue of dawn matches the peaceful glow on Enrique’s face. It intrigues me. He seems like a man who has come to terms with life’s hardships.
I rub my fingers over my constantly-furrowed brow, and light another cigarette.
“Nothing wrong really.” I explain. “In fact, quite the contrary: it is too perfect, too orderly. Antiseptic is the only word I can think of. Without texture, or depth. A place of more and more entertainment and less and less joy. In any case, the amount of life one must give up in order to afford living there, is a price I am no longer willing to pay. Where I come from, you’ll mostly encounter people working feverishly, compulsively racing…too busy, always busy…way too busy, in a kind of aggressive haste, knocking against each other, overwhelmed, our brains on overload, zapped by hundreds of messages, pummeled by information coming at us from all directions, demanding immediate action, relentlessly competing for our attention, surrounding us with inaudible, nerve-jarring noise. Our brains and senses overtaxed and overstimulated to the point where we no longer are fully receptive or aware. No surprise that travel is advertised as an escape. Or that once the weekend rolls around, we are either too tired to enjoy it, or enjoying it becomes compulsive like everything else…another box to check.
But for the frequent nods of his slightly-tilted head, and soft smiles that light his face with compassionate intuition, Enrique stands immobile, while I rattle on.
“Something is calling me, I can feel it, but don’t quite yet know what it wants from me. Does this make any sense?”
“Makes perfect sense.”
“Sorry, would you like some coffee?” I offer, out of breath, mouth-dry, and sweating.
“I’d love some,” Enrique accepts without hesitation, as if what brought him here was nothing more than to listen to my bullshit. He seems unhurried, willing to set aside everything, to respond with the gift of himself to my implicit plea for guidance.
I bring out the coffee, and we sit under an open, circular Palapa by the pool. Close by, the crashing waves sound like an approaching giant. The air warms up quickly, fanning the surrounding palm trees. A lime-green flock of parakeets swoops down and alights on a tall tree to begin the day’s feeding ruckus.
With eyes closed, and deep delight, Enrique takes a sip of his steaming cup, and then turns to look at me. His movements are graceful, deliberate, and his eyes expressive with warm awareness. “The tilt of the Earth’s axis is changing,” he begins in a deep voice that sounds as if coming from the distant past, a distant place, around a campfire say, somewhere on the African Savannah.
“It’s changing, and with it, the Earth’s vibrations are changing too.”
Oooh dear…here we go!
My bullshit detector snaps like a steel drawbridge over the moat of my cynicism.
Pass the peyote, the opium pipe, the ganja, the coca leaves, the Ayahuasca, or whatever the fuck you’re high on. Watch! The guy’s gonna run to his car, and bring back one of those poor-quality tri-folds, promoting his Shamanic retreat, with grainy pictures of naked white people standing in a circle in the middle of the jungle, holding hands and balancing hot healing stones on their heads, while a pot-bellied, local medicine man makes everyone kiss his Cosmic Anaconda.
But I check myself.
Listen Theo, dammit! For a change? With your heart and intuition, rather than your arrogant brain. Ass!
I take a deep breath, and lower the drawbridge to let Enrique in.
“This shift in the Earth’s vibrations heralds a new age – an age of greater light, and more open and compassionate hearts in the world.”
“You’re an optimist.” I interject.
Enrique disarms me with an affectionate look and thin smile. “In his current state, man is but a bridge, not the end. To get to the other side, one must free himself – one after the other – from the shackles with which he is bound.”
“I don’t see that we are doing this.” I challenge. “On the contrary, I see man forging tougher manacles with which to restrain himself.”
“Every revolt comes with great upheaval.”
“And resistance.” I add.
“Especially resistance…” Enrique nudges me on.
“That’s precisely what I’ve been feeling! A resistance growing stronger with every step I take towards the path I feel is opening up for me. Like it’s warning me of great danger.”
Enrique shakes his head. “It’s only testing your resolve. The more important…the more urgent a call is to the soul, the greater the resistance.”
We fall silent. He places a hand on my knee and gets up. “I must go. Thanks for the coffee. Go to San Pancho. You might find it more suitable for what you need right now.”
We exchange emails. I walk back into the house to get ready for our second day of spearfishing. I open the blinds and look out the window. Enrique opens the gate and gets into his car. I stare, dumbfounded, as he drives away.
“Who was that?” a friend asks. “Your Mexican lover?”
“No, I reply,” remembering the faded writing on the bridge urging me to keep my dreams awake and alive.
“That was Yoda.”
Chapter 4: Tempted in Paradise
An opportunity presents itself for a one-night stand. Theo is at a beachside bar in Mexico – the music pulses, a warm breeze flows, tequila shots and bared flesh abound. Theo is engulfed by an intoxicating cloud of ‘Opium’ worn by an alluring late twenties noirette sitting next to him. She’s celebrating her upcoming wedding with wild abandon in tropical paradise. Theo’s girlfriend is three-thousand miles away.
“Are you here alone? Do you have a girlfriend?” Her eyes twinkle.
Now, I am really tempted.
I run all the possible meanings and undertones of her questions in my head; all the possible scenarios. The pulsating music is not helping. Neither are the two double-scotches warming my insides and clouding my judgment, making me believe I still got it. Nor is Azra’s ‘Opium’ and exquisite bare feet, nor is all the exposed flesh inside the bar. I feel like I’m in an Abercrombie & Fitch store.
I might yet be incapable of spearing a fish, or a diving instructor, but what about Azra?
Why not? It would be her last fling in paradise before she marries, and my chance to nail a prize pussycat, confirming I still hold the power. Who can possibly find out?
CHAPTER 5: ‘THIS CAN’T BE REAL!’
Theo arrives at the Villa and believes he has finally found his Querencia. After engaging in a fulminating soliloquy with Jesus, he considers staging a coup to overthrow the Villa’s caretaker, using his charm and guile to convince the owner’s daughter to, instead, hire him, in exchange for living there, rent-free.
We sit out in the open under a milky, sweeping star swath. The atmosphere is one of tropical languor, shushed by the whisper of the small waves rolling marbles on the shore, the chirping of crickets and tree-frogs, and softly illumined by the yellow candlelight on the table. Miss Edith sits at the head, I’m to her right, the owner’s daughter next to me. As I look with curiosity at the rest, I notice that they all bear tattoos with enough colored ink etched on their skins to fill a comic-book series.
From above, the caretaker shouts into the night air: “Too late! You obviously weren’t planning on me joining you since there is no place for me at the table!” Her heavy footsteps recede. A door slams shut. The windows shake.
I turn to the owner’s daughter. She sighs heavily, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. “She always eats with us. I don’t see why tonight, of all nights, she needed a formal invitation. Says we didn’t invite her because she’s black. Such nonsense!”
“How long has she been here for?”
“About six years. She looks after the Villa, and helps my Dad with the rentals on Airbnb.”
Like those exploding powder flashes used in old photography, a ruse lights up in my mind: What if I drove a deeper wedge between these two women, overthrow the caretaker, and install myself in her place.
It would be the perfect coup.
CHAPTER 6: WAYFARER, THERE IS NO PATH
Theo’s scheme is thwarted, so he now heads to the town of San Pancho under the protection of Mexican drug cartels. Encountering local shamans and hustlers, Theo relives the events at the end of the Second Saros of his life that precipitated the crisis that obliterated his erotic power and manhood.
As I shake his coarse hand, I try hard not to keep staring at the broad scar – about an inch wide – that runs from his sternum, all the way to his bellybutton. His body, rugged and muscular, seems forged from the same mold as Jose Maria’s; their faces similarly angular, their jaws equally square. They both look like fierce city streetfighters transplanted onto a tropical paradise. I run my tongue over my teeth as I glimpse at the man’s own jumbled set flash at me with a smile. What’s with dentists around here? The man’s small, dark-brown eyes have the keen shine of a stealthy hunter, narrowed further, perhaps, by the tension of the pony tail in which his black, coarse long hair is tied. A few bristly hairs sprout from his upper lip and chin.
Unable to contain my curiosity, I point at his scar. “How did it happen?”
The man looks down, and rubs his fingers across its entire length. He grins, with an impish spark in his eyes, and shrugs his shoulders. “A fight over a girl.” (he squares his body in boxing position). “I was ready for a clean fistfight (throws a punch in the air), man-to-man (jabs), but the sonofabitch just stretched out his right arm sliding a sharp knife from under his sleeve, then he lunged (jumps back, arching his body, re-enacting the swift maneuver that saved his life), and sliced me!”
“Puta Madre!” I exclaim, my eyes wide. “You were lucky. Is the fucker in jail?”
The man stares past me, then looks at Jose Maria as if wanting to check with him before he answers. I wonder if I asked a question I should have probably kept to myself.
He clicks his tongue. “No,” and slowly shakes his head. “They killed him on the spot.”
CHAPTER 7 – USE THE FORCE…LET GO!
It’s the moment of reckoning for Theo. He must choose between the road well travelled, and one fraught with uncertainty, insecurity, and peril. Will he listen to his head or his heart?
What would happen if I relinquish my dream of becoming a writer once and for all? To strangle that eight-year-old boy and never look back again? Is Mary Oliver right to say that the most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave it neither power nor time?
What happens to all those unlived lives within us to which we turn our backs?
Where do they go?
CHAPTER 8 – WYLIE COYOTE
Having ran off the cliff, Theo waits for that offer he won’t be able to refuse. In the meantime, he reminisces about the recent occasions in which his reason was blinded by whirlwinds of passion and swept under currents of impetuous infatuations.
I feel like Wylie Coyote, unwittingly having ran past the edge of a precipice while chasing the elusive Road Runner, and suddenly realizing that there is no solid ground under my free-floating feet. I no longer stand on the edge of the abyss, but have jumped, and must now quickly flap my wings to prevent a free-fall and crash. But I have no wings to flap, and even if I did, I wonder if it’s the flapping that must stop; the compulsive urge to propel oneself; the need to feel one is getting somewhere despite not knowing exactly where that is. Why not surrender to the wind, as novelist Toni Morrison suggests, and just ride it?
More than fear, it is anxiety’s implacable hands which have me in their grip, squeezing my entrails almost to the point of suffocation. Yet, despite the uneasiness and uncertainty, I don’t remember having felt this alive.
CHAPTER 9 – MEMENTO MORI
A crucial piece in Theo’s plan refuses to fall into place, and with his eyesight worsening, and the discovery of a cancerous tumor in his father’s bladder, the search for his Querencia could be derailed.
I open my email to check if Burt has made up his mind. Nothing. I rest my forehead on my palm. By the end of December, I will have spent most of my severance, and have no alternative but to move, and if not Mexico, I’ll have to find a shared-living arrangement here in town, or farther North where rents are lower. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, stretch my head to relieve the tense pain in my neck, and exhale. I remove my reading glasses to wipe them clean. The sight in my left eye is getting worse. Not blurry, as would signal the need for a change of prescription to my contact lenses, but strangely distorted. With the fingers of my left-hand numbing and tingling during sleep, my left toes turning purple, and my left eye failing, it’s as if the entire left-side of my body is being devoured by a virulent parasite.
CHAPTER 10 – NIGHT OF GHOULS
With things at an impasse, Theo unwillingly goes to his ex-wife’s birthday party held at the house they used to share. Amid the masquerade, he relives tender and painful memories, defines his meaning of friendship, and reflects on the conflict between following one’s passions and fulfilling one’s duty.
We all have many interior lives. Many unexplored dimensions, undiscovered or denied essences. And only one life. Doesn’t it become necessary then, for us – as the only species gifted with imagination – to bring all of it into the light? If we don’t, what happens with all that unlived potential? Doesn’t it turn into regret? The things we think of on our deathbed but dare not speak. What is life for if not to live it as variedly as possible? Man, as William James said, is a being with an exuberant excess of subjective propensities. His wants, his desires, are to be trusted; that even when their gratification seems farthest off, the uneasiness they occasion is still the best guide of his life and will lead him to experiences entirely beyond his present powers of reckoning. Prune down his extravagance, sober him, and you undo him.
CHAPTER 11 – TRAIN TO NOWHERE
With the path to Sayulita blocked, and the return bridges burning, Theo stands at an empty station, heading nowhere.
“Now what? I can’t spool the line back. The swarm of snowbirds are about to descend on Mexico making any other rental unaffordable until March or April. Dad’s not dying, so what would be the point of going to his side? This is not how a hero’s journey is supposed to play out: the hero receives the calling, answers it, and when he is ready to cross the first threshold, the call goes quiet and the threshold disappears? Was it only a prank call? Or perhaps, I have not given clarity to my intentions, haven’t filled my sails with the wind of unwavering determination. Where the f#@% is the mentor, the Wise Man, the one who is supposed to show up at his juncture to guide me…where is Obi Wan?”