wama

01.08.06

Each morning I drink coffee. We ran out of finely ground Arabica with cardomon imported from someplace far, packaged in Brooklyn, then carried on board, across the border to Tijuana. It was a small gesture a housewarming. We drank it all slowly boiled, so now we drink coarser grounds from Chiapas. They seem out of place in a French press, but the results are good, we can live with it. Las tazas. Bonitas, chiquitas, con rayas de varios colores: azul, naranja con rojo, Amarillo con naranja, solo falta verde. Las tazas. De otra vida. De que. Maybe el dia segundo o tercero recorde. Recorde que en la casa de la mama tuya, hay estas tazas iguales. Las mismas. Really. I know it. We drink coffee from them. They are every day tazas. Tazas in your mother’s house. Locked up. throw away the key. No one will return. The cups will sit on the shelf waiting if we are lucky. Or we will see them at the bottom of shreds of walls in a photo in a newspaper - on the nightly news. The small cups with colorful stripes that never did anything to anyone broken, crushed. And next to them all the other small things left behind because you didn’t need them at the moment that you left the house. A belt, a box of photos, some paints, the dvd you borrowed, the book of poetry she gave you. And the big things - paintings, old cameras, books and books and books, your bed, a chair, your closet, the plants on your balcony looking out on your street busy with people. All things you can do without for a short time. You didn’t want your bag too heavy burdensome. Just take the essentials leave the rest, you’ll be back soon enough.

Locked up. Throw away the key. Maybe your mother has the key in her bag. She comes across them looking for a pen, then later reaching for her lipstick. And you too. You put the keys in a small pocket in your backpack. A set of keys: the front door, the gate downstairs, your car, your moto -- no you got rid of that last summer. The front door, the gate downstairs …

posted by la kara @ 03:15