On ground. Night of the living dead. Zombie holocaust dream. Flesh eating. Intestines. Blood. Cannibal. No one left. Body parts holed up in my old apartment in Chicago. Not Chicago. A mattress in the dining room. Papers strewn about. A few bookshelves. Everything in disarray.
Burning a plastic bag filled with plastic army men in a tin can out on the porch. The source of the zombie plague. Overpowering stench.
The guy at the internet café. The kid. Saying something about do you want open time. Something like that. I’m still learning Spanish.
Bueno. Todavía estoy aprendiendo español.
What do you speak? Qué hablas?
Oh so do I. California. How much time do you need?
I just have to check a few messages.
So open time?
His shaggy dark hair. Dark skin. Baggy jeans and high tops. Talking to his friend about video games. Smack Down. Gran Turismo. Sitting behind his main computer. Sun bright in the street.
Dream. On stage with PAL without my guitar singing songs. Jumping around. Freaking out. Screaming. Rocking the mic. My turn to play guitar. I put it on. The strap around my shoulder. Tuning it between songs behind my amp. White t shirt. S looking at me. I’m happy. Excited. Walk up to the mic. Wake up.
A movie event. Hollywood types everywhere. A big house. Swimming pool. People want things to go smoothly. Sitting at a table for dinner. Formal dinner. Eating food. I’m chewing on some food. Then a feeling of panic. Terror. Horror. Revulsion. It’s meat. I’m eating meat. Spit it out onto the plate. Chewed up sausage or ground beef. People looking at me. Eyes wide. Take that Hollywood, I think.
So weird to be back at feast. My first Baha’i thing in eight years. Scared. Panicked. Thinking what am I doing here? Looking face to face as they discuss Baha’i affairs in Spanish. Nervous. I know what they’re talking about. They want me to talk about the Baha’i community in Chicago. Join study groups. Play guitar. Sing. What do I know of the Baha’i community in Chicago? I stopped going to things when I was 17. I feel like crying. Conflicted. Feeling like I’m using them. Their kind older faces. The younger ones, eager, ready. What the fuck am I even doing here? I don’t even know what I believe anymore. I’m just trying to be a good person. I don’t know about god. About religion. About spirituality. I don’t know. Sitting in a circle. All eyes on me. Do I tell them the truth? That I’ve got issues with religion. With Baha’i rules. About my crisis of faith. Will they want to help get me back in? I don’t want that. What the fuck am I doing here? Getting out of the house. I’m fronting. I’m an imposter.
On the way to the Baha’i center. The Baha’i man in his 50’s who picked me up at the KFC. Talking to me in pidgin Spanish and sign language. I’m having a hard time understanding what he’s saying without all those articles he’s leaving out. Verbs and nouns and gestures. Immense storm clouds. Dark purple swallowing the sky. The horizon. Dense. Moving slow. Glacial. Scraping the ground. Lightning. Rain on the windshield.
Organized religion. Right now I’m too cynical. I can’t help it. Agendas. Goals. Conversion. I have a problem with this. Trust. What makes one more right than another?
Bus terminal. Northbound. Chihuahua. Sonora. Late afternoon. Kids running around. A two year old chasing a rubber ball. He catches it. Throws it again. Runs after it in his awkward run. Weaving towards the ball not really a straight line. His young dad watching after him.
Group of guys sitting at a table. Smoking. Drinking cans of Modelo. Close to the two fast food stands.
Young mom walking to the phone to one of the ticket sellers. To the tables. She’s pretty. So many seem to have kids. So young. Low cut jeans, tight shirt.
People with their luggage walking to the buses. 90 dollars to Ciudad Juarez. Cool breeze. Sipping coke from a cup. Waiting with Ignacio and Rufina. Watching the clock. 5.50pm.
On the bus back home. Thinking only of the young mom. Looking at her in my minds’ eye so hard. Someone boards the bus up front and startles me. Interrupts my daydreaming. I’m looking at a person where the girl just was. Looking out the window. Rush hour. 7pm. Downtown Guadalajara. The bus stops are packed. The sun slowly going down. The old Spanish buildings. The government centers. The cathedral. The young mom back at the terminal.