tonight, dream you're an acrobat
. . .on top of the world.
This has been a most peculiar day, half music and half birdsong through tears. Right now I'm all a tumult on America's birthday, fireworks and humidity.
So I've returned from Mexico, changed a little as promised. I'll never forget the kids I met and befriended there, and I hope to do them one better - I hope to return to them, only this time for longer. I've been writing a lot of correspondence, so I hope you'll forgive me for using clips of Anna's/Justin's e-mail as to a description of the trip.
~
Really, it was an amazing trip. We flew there with no difficulties, other than most people's lack of sleep - we had to get up at a quarter to three in the morning, and all slept over at Saint John's. Fortunately for me, as soon as we were dismissed from prayers at 11, I got a pillow and the quilt from the youth room and went to bed. This was to the chagrin of Trip and Nolen, but I valued my sleep a lot more than Dance Dance Revolution. Anyhow, we arrived in Leon at about 1 or so, and then relaxed the rest of the day in our guest house (a lot like a cabin in the city, replete with wooden bunkbeds and a few scorpions).
We spent the rest of our time in Leon painting one of two houses (of the four orphanage houses) - Rosas Moreno, the older girls' house, or Trojes, the older boys'. I spent all our days in Rosas Moreno, where I painted stairways and acted as the go-between for the St. Johners and the tios at the house. It was a hectic but immensely rewarding morning - we would paint about four hours every day, after a scrumptious breakfast of tortillas and fruit. Then we would eat lunch and greet the Rosas girls as they would come home from school. Then was the summer camp.
Que loco! We had about four games of soccer or catch or whatever going, and then the craft tables. Depending on the day, we painted, made murals, drew, made God's eyes, bracelets, necklaces, balloon faces, etc. It was an explosion of creative expression, and so wonderful to see all the kids blossom. This made me think, of course.
Here are kids that have had some of the roughest lives imaginable - they have been abused or abandoned on the streets, some girls even were saved from when they had been prostitutes. But here they are! dancing and singing, as happy as any kid you've ever met. It certainly says something of how resilient we all are, and most certainly carves a permanent place for them in my heart. As soon as I've loaded the pictures onto the computer, I'll send some to you. Oh, on Sunday we went to the zoo. It was awesome, so much fun!
For the last two days we travelled to Guanajuato and stayed there, a city named a "UN heritage city." It was the flipside of smoggy, frightening Leon, with beautiful boulevards and alleys directly from Spanish architecture. We got to be tourists, which was a break from watching our backs in Leon, but I missed the kids so much. I lost it when we left; I just bawled, and subsequently apologised for being so damn sentimental.
But I can always go back.
The only downsides to the trip, really, were Montezuma's revenge and the fact that about half the youth decided to talk the no-alcohol rule into their own hands. I obviously didn't take part (I mean, guys, get a life! It's a church trip!), but did take records - 63 shots, spaced over 7 people. Oh, joy.
Oh, yeah, and the fact we were marooned in Houston overnight coming home because we were so delayed.
My highlights of Guanajuato was probably going to "En Busca de la Perla Negra" (In Search of the Black Pearl), which was a simply phenomenal street play I went to both nights - the second night translating it for Nolen in its entirety. Faramir = Love. That, or running through the pouring rain at 11 o'clock at night with Ally and Nolen to fetch ice cream, sandals soaking and smiles lighting the alleys.
Mariana, Luz, Angel, Gloria, Tio Pancho, Carina - all of you. You are all in my heart.
~
On a different note, as I boarded the airplane to take me home to Indy I finished "Becoming a Man," the stunning memoir of coming out and coming of age by Paul Monette. I wrote my thoughts in my cow notebook, and let them here stand as a testament.
(6-29-07 : 12:55 pm Friday)
Though I sit in the low buzz of an air-conditioned plane, I feel like paper moths caught within a lanter. It is plagiarism from Monette, I know, but how I else do I describe the fragile, incendiary beauty of his words, his love? I cannot immagine playing empathy to him, who was struck by the holocaust of 'raining fire' even as he found the hand of his beloved. Pretending nothing, I'll sit here in my 7E seat and feel the deep quiet sobs of what has been lost, and what never will be; though he has gone like Rog and Cesar, such a testament of true love will hold places close to the soul.
Monette's closet could be called that only as a colloquial reference. In real life it was a gag, a garrote - dark and humid gallows hidden from the leering public. I know not the intense societal terror occupying my every action, nor do I face my persisting shame alone. I do bear the curse of always a vigilant eye and never a public kiss, the hand in mine pulled away after brief, mute seconds.
No, I do not hang mut and trapped, prison to my own reconciled desires. But I am branded, at least and most by myself, with a scarlet Q - perhaps one day to be mistaken for Quizzical or Quixotic, but for all my self-mocking smiles and brushing off, now Queer.
That's all, and really, this entry is getting far too long.
At five I'm going to a Wabash 4th of July celebration, really the last thing I want to do. I want to sleep, and be left in utter peace. That is why I have spent my waking hours (quite few after the late late night of the wonderful over night in the playroom with Sarah, Leah, and Laura) corresponding via this lighted screen.
The fireworks last night were beautiful, the best the golden glitter like weeping willows and the scarlet tracers like red fireflies. I miss you, darling, come back through the chill night and take my hand again.
Love.
This has been a most peculiar day, half music and half birdsong through tears. Right now I'm all a tumult on America's birthday, fireworks and humidity.
So I've returned from Mexico, changed a little as promised. I'll never forget the kids I met and befriended there, and I hope to do them one better - I hope to return to them, only this time for longer. I've been writing a lot of correspondence, so I hope you'll forgive me for using clips of Anna's/Justin's e-mail as to a description of the trip.
~
Really, it was an amazing trip. We flew there with no difficulties, other than most people's lack of sleep - we had to get up at a quarter to three in the morning, and all slept over at Saint John's. Fortunately for me, as soon as we were dismissed from prayers at 11, I got a pillow and the quilt from the youth room and went to bed. This was to the chagrin of Trip and Nolen, but I valued my sleep a lot more than Dance Dance Revolution. Anyhow, we arrived in Leon at about 1 or so, and then relaxed the rest of the day in our guest house (a lot like a cabin in the city, replete with wooden bunkbeds and a few scorpions).
We spent the rest of our time in Leon painting one of two houses (of the four orphanage houses) - Rosas Moreno, the older girls' house, or Trojes, the older boys'. I spent all our days in Rosas Moreno, where I painted stairways and acted as the go-between for the St. Johners and the tios at the house. It was a hectic but immensely rewarding morning - we would paint about four hours every day, after a scrumptious breakfast of tortillas and fruit. Then we would eat lunch and greet the Rosas girls as they would come home from school. Then was the summer camp.
Que loco! We had about four games of soccer or catch or whatever going, and then the craft tables. Depending on the day, we painted, made murals, drew, made God's eyes, bracelets, necklaces, balloon faces, etc. It was an explosion of creative expression, and so wonderful to see all the kids blossom. This made me think, of course.
Here are kids that have had some of the roughest lives imaginable - they have been abused or abandoned on the streets, some girls even were saved from when they had been prostitutes. But here they are! dancing and singing, as happy as any kid you've ever met. It certainly says something of how resilient we all are, and most certainly carves a permanent place for them in my heart. As soon as I've loaded the pictures onto the computer, I'll send some to you. Oh, on Sunday we went to the zoo. It was awesome, so much fun!
For the last two days we travelled to Guanajuato and stayed there, a city named a "UN heritage city." It was the flipside of smoggy, frightening Leon, with beautiful boulevards and alleys directly from Spanish architecture. We got to be tourists, which was a break from watching our backs in Leon, but I missed the kids so much. I lost it when we left; I just bawled, and subsequently apologised for being so damn sentimental.
But I can always go back.
The only downsides to the trip, really, were Montezuma's revenge and the fact that about half the youth decided to talk the no-alcohol rule into their own hands. I obviously didn't take part (I mean, guys, get a life! It's a church trip!), but did take records - 63 shots, spaced over 7 people. Oh, joy.
Oh, yeah, and the fact we were marooned in Houston overnight coming home because we were so delayed.
My highlights of Guanajuato was probably going to "En Busca de la Perla Negra" (In Search of the Black Pearl), which was a simply phenomenal street play I went to both nights - the second night translating it for Nolen in its entirety. Faramir = Love. That, or running through the pouring rain at 11 o'clock at night with Ally and Nolen to fetch ice cream, sandals soaking and smiles lighting the alleys.
Mariana, Luz, Angel, Gloria, Tio Pancho, Carina - all of you. You are all in my heart.
~
On a different note, as I boarded the airplane to take me home to Indy I finished "Becoming a Man," the stunning memoir of coming out and coming of age by Paul Monette. I wrote my thoughts in my cow notebook, and let them here stand as a testament.
(6-29-07 : 12:55 pm Friday)
Though I sit in the low buzz of an air-conditioned plane, I feel like paper moths caught within a lanter. It is plagiarism from Monette, I know, but how I else do I describe the fragile, incendiary beauty of his words, his love? I cannot immagine playing empathy to him, who was struck by the holocaust of 'raining fire' even as he found the hand of his beloved. Pretending nothing, I'll sit here in my 7E seat and feel the deep quiet sobs of what has been lost, and what never will be; though he has gone like Rog and Cesar, such a testament of true love will hold places close to the soul.
Monette's closet could be called that only as a colloquial reference. In real life it was a gag, a garrote - dark and humid gallows hidden from the leering public. I know not the intense societal terror occupying my every action, nor do I face my persisting shame alone. I do bear the curse of always a vigilant eye and never a public kiss, the hand in mine pulled away after brief, mute seconds.
No, I do not hang mut and trapped, prison to my own reconciled desires. But I am branded, at least and most by myself, with a scarlet Q - perhaps one day to be mistaken for Quizzical or Quixotic, but for all my self-mocking smiles and brushing off, now Queer.
That's all, and really, this entry is getting far too long.
At five I'm going to a Wabash 4th of July celebration, really the last thing I want to do. I want to sleep, and be left in utter peace. That is why I have spent my waking hours (quite few after the late late night of the wonderful over night in the playroom with Sarah, Leah, and Laura) corresponding via this lighted screen.
The fireworks last night were beautiful, the best the golden glitter like weeping willows and the scarlet tracers like red fireflies. I miss you, darling, come back through the chill night and take my hand again.
Love.