Respect that people are busy, precious time. Recognize that much of my writing is too descriptive, not enough story-telling. In other words, much of my writing is crap. Sometimes surprise myself, pleased with ephemeral writing elements. Rather than force readers to wade through the swamp, will post short pieces and excerpts here.
Content may be dynamic, subject to addition and deletion. Prefer essay and short story, likely reflects my limited intellect; also reflects why I enjoy the freedom and flexibility of writing The Daily. In a decade, perhaps there may be a collection of essays that reflect a theme, or trace an arc, perhaps something worth publishing, or, perhaps, simply misguided.
Get out your trash cans and vomit bags, it’s the Best of the Worst.
SAT 03 FEB 2024 | excerpt from Down Under
Move to new destination, believe that it’s going to be better, but it’s not – it’s different – but not better; it’s never better.
FRI 10 MAR 2023 | excerpt from Texas
At sunrise, walk across Paso del Norte International Bridge, six pesos to cross, from Juarez to El Paso. At the bridge summit, politely greeted by US Customs who ask to see my passport. There is no line inside the customs terminal, and return to Estados Unidos. American flag shimmers in the early morning light; cross land border on foot; tears in my eye; lump in my throat, unable to speak.
WED 01 Mar 2023 | excerpt from Mexico
TUE 2/28: wake up with headache; air quality is poor, high winds blowing sand and wildfire smoke. First class bus departs 7:00am, four-hour trip to Mazatlán, Sinaloa state, final beach resort before heading north towards Texas.
Bus is pulled over at Villa Union, just outside Mazatlán; tractor trailers pass by; five first class tour buses in a column. As bus comes to a stop, watch agents tear apart the interior of a passenger car. Federal Police look in the bus baggage compartment, for drugs perhaps. No. Agents step on the bus; recognize almost immediately that something isn’t right. Passenger body language becomes tense. I get out my passport, but it’s not an ID check. Agents are aggressive and intimidating, lean-in towards each passenger and extort money in broad daylight. How much do you pay? How much do you have? There is no one sitting next to me; when the agents see my US passport, they pass by without saying a word. Agents backslap each other as they step off the bus with a colorful wad of pesos. Maybe they need the money. Passengers are middle-class Mexicans; they have been victimized and violated; feel sorry for them. After emotions calm down, talk with the Mexican sitting across from me; he tells me that this happens all the time; passengers pay, or get removed from the bus and detained. Sinaloa Cartel is considered the largest and most powerful drug trafficking organization in the Western Hemisphere. It’s possible that the extortion was in concert with the cartel, likely clearing $5,000 per hour. Welcome to Mazatlán.
060 | WED MAR 01 2023 | Terminal too
Cross land borders in Central America, often anxious, felt like I would shit my pants. More likely explosive diarrhea; would have to burn my clothes.
In advance of the 13-hour overnight bus from San Cristobal to Puerto Escondido, spent the afternoon at Starbucks. Didn’t feel great, headache, chills, body ache, low back pain, and diarrhea.
Bus has a bathroom, really just meant for pee. Out of precaution, I take an Imodium, it doesn’t fix anything; shove a cork up my ass, and hope for the best.
Eat something for dinner. It’s a mistake, I feel worse. My body is getting hot, I want to lay down, but there is nowhere in the bus terminal. The urge is overwhelming; leave my backpack unattended in the terminal, and step outside into the parking lot. There’s a small strip of grass, and a dog. I stare at the dog and whisper with forked tongue. Whimpering, it cowers off, with its tail between its legs.
I assume the position, wide sumo stance. I’m puking up dinner. Then, I’m puking up food that I haven’t yet eaten. I’m trying not to spray my pant legs or shoes, but it’s not working. Bowels decide that the stomach is having too much fun, sphincter opens up, and diarrhea joins the party. I’m filling my pants with foam, thinking, “You have got to be shitting me.”
I’m a hot mess, but I feel better, how could I not. Hear boarding announcement. Are they calling my bus? Do I have to sprint?
“Can you smell that,” tourist asks quizzically.
“Smell what,” I reply stupidly.
“Smells like diarrhea and vomit,” says the tourist with disgust.
I would have to lie, “No, I can’t smell anything” as I swat away black flies.
Bus boards in thirty minutes. Pick up my backpack and waddle to the bathroom. The security guard at the entrance of the bus terminal just stares at me with disbelief.
United States is the land of the free. United States has free toilets. This is not the case in Mexico. Over six months, I have never used a pay toilet, out of principal. Not this time, this is the best seven pesos that I have ever spent ($0.35). If McKinsey needs a case study question to screen and hire MBA candidates, I might suggest asking, how much do pay toilets contribute to Mexico GDP.
I step into the last bathroom stall; remove shoes, pants, underwear. Sit down on the toilet, and water pours out of my ass like I’m attached to a garden hose. Makes the bathroom scene from the film Dumb and Dumber look like a children’s movie. Toilet should have a seatbelt, if not a seatbelt, than stirrups and hand grips, to hold on for dear life, like a carnival ride.
The carnage pauses for a moment. I look around the bathroom stall, there is no toilet paper dispenser. I step out of the stall, bare-ass, and find the toilet paper dispenser attached to the wall. There is something written in Spanish that says something like “take only what you need.” Yeah, right; clean-up in aisle four.
I’m wondering if I should free ball, or put on clean underwear. Given how I’m feeling, I put on clean underwear. Strangely enough, my pants are clean. Low-rise trunks are skin tight, surprisingly, contained the damage. I’m wondering if I should throw them away. Calvin Klein, likely not.
Toilet flush mechanism is like a gas pedal, you step on it. I step on the pedal, nothing happens. I’m now standing on the flush mechanism with all my body weight, thinking, “dear God and sonny Jesus, please flush.” The toilet flushes, I would feel sorry for the custodian.
Spent and exhausted, I get dressed, and make my way to the sink. I’m cleaning my underwear in the sink, like I’m three-years old, not 53-years old, and place the wet trunks in a Ziploc bag.
I step out of the bathroom, chest held high, proud, and smiling. It’s all too funny to be embarrassed; too sick to be embarrassed. Locals in the waiting area stare at me with disinterest and disdain, like I’m the village idiot.
Passengers begin boarding the bus, it’s a new bus. I don’t know how to say in Spanish, “stop the bus, I need to puke.” The bus driver would probably kick me off the bus out of principal. It’s a thirteen-hour ride to Puerto Escondido, if there was ever a night that I wanted to curl up in the fetal position and go to bed; not an option. Travel is hard sometimes, even harder, when not feeling well.
An overnight bus ride isn’t interesting. Puking in the parking lot and shitting my pants in public, now that’s a story. This is all true, couldn’t make up the details if I wanted too. Pure pay dirt.
Didn’t burn my clothes, only have one pair of pants.
037 | MON FEB 06 2023 | Terminal
Boarded the chicken bus from Antigua to Guatemala City. The bus is audacious; paint job, chrome wheels and spinners, air horn. It’s like attending a state dinner with a prostitute, which is probably an insult to prostitutes.
Bus drops me off in the city, which must be the auto repair section. Tire shops, body shops, chop shops; stacks of car doors for sale. Pasty, white gringo sticks out, but everyone ignores him; perhaps everyone is just too busy with their own work.
Step into a Starbucks to get some work done before the evening bus to Flores. Starbucks is mostly empty. Order a drip coffee, but I don’t get drip coffee; I get coffee beverage, which looks like coffee, but there is no amount of cream or sugar that will resuscitate, and it contains no caffeine. I need a kick in the pants. I have a sore throat; feels like swallowing broken glass.
Starbucks is playing music from the 1980s, I could probably sing along, and resurrect my glory days from middle school. Actually, there were no glory days from middle school. I was an awkward teenager. Awkward adult, too; some things don’t change.
Late afternoon, walk down Seventh Avenue, in the financial district. It’s mostly deserted, unlike Wednesday. I don’t feel unsafe; it makes crossing the street much easier.
Step into a Taco Bell, it has WiFi. There is no touch screen kiosk for ordering, and there is no bean burrito on the menu, so I punt, and walk down the street to McDonalds.
I hide out in back of the restaurant, charging my iPhone before heading to the bus terminal. Bus terminal is only a block away; I make the decision to walk to the bus terminal after dark. Of course, I’d be terribly bothered if I got mugged one block away from the bus terminal. Anything is possible.
Arrive at the bus terminal, the same location where I bought the bus ticket on Wednesday afternoon. It doesn’t look any better in darkness than it did during the day. It would be easy to complain about the bus terminal, it’s far more difficult to say anything nice.
It’s made of concrete blocks, not unlike a prison cell. It’s dirty, I don’t even want to rest my backpack on the floor. There are crushed Oreo cookies under my left foot. There are bright LED lights in the ceiling, which helps to highlight the stains on the wall and floor. To my right is a toddler, who is sneezing and coughing up phlegm. I hope that he doesn’t sit next to me on the bus.
There is an older woman sitting across from me. There is a gentleman accompanying her, maybe her son. He obviously cares for her a great deal, his sense of compassion is palpable. He gently takes her elbow and guides her along the stairs to use the bathroom.
Tourist wanders in to the terminal. She is wearing an enormous backpack on her back, with a bright yellow rain cover, and a smaller backpack in the front. She appears over packed; a person couldn’t walk with that much weight, would have to take a taxi. Her hair is tied up in dreadlocks. She is chain-smoking hand-rolled cigarettes in the parking lot. It would be easy to judge her, and that would be a mistake. She speaks fluent Spanish, and jokes with the bus drivers loitering in the parking lot.
We board the double-decker bus; I’m sitting on the second floor, in the front, with a birds-eye view of red tail lights in front of me. Leaving Guatemala City, traffic is congested, the driving is slow. The bus driver is right below me; he’s playing music, all I hear is thumping. He might be chain-smoking cigarettes, too, because smoke is wafting up. At some point, I get bored of watching tail lights; lean the seat back and close my eyes.
I’m wearing all my clothes; t-shirt, long sleeve compression t-shirt, and a windbreaker. The bus is freezing cold; I am freezing cold. I fall asleep, but fitfully. I can tell when the bus stops moving, to pick-up and drop-off passengers. At one point, a police officer comes on board, and asks to see my passport, which I hand to him, half-dazed. My contact lenses are dried out, I can barely see.
Bus pulls into Santa Elena, just outside Flores at 5:00am; wake up abruptly and my head is in a deep fog, I might as well be drunk and hungover. It’s a short walk across the causeway to the hostel. The birds, maybe grackles, are deafening. Hostel guest departs early, and lets me in. I find some cold coffee in the kitchen, and sit down to write up my travel notes. Mid-morning, I’ll go out into town; need to find a bus that goes to the Mayan ruins in Tikal.
021 | SAT JAN 21 2023 | Cookie
In fall 2021, visited National Parks in the U.S. desert southwest, a region of the country that I enjoy. In September, visited Zion National Park in the southwest corner of Utah, to hike the Narrows, along the Virgin River. Most of the hike takes place in the river, not on a traditional hiking trail.
One of the dangers is hypothermia, as the narrow canyon receives little sunshine, and the water temperature is cold. Water was often knee deep; in a few places, waist deep; one crossing was neck deep; placed iPhone and car keys in my hat (on my head), and hoped that I didn’t slip and go under.
It was a wonderful day, hiking the ten-mile round trip; one of the few days in my life where I was palpably happy. After the hike, drove southeast towards Kanab, to stay overnight at a local hostel.
Didn’t eat breakfast or lunch; after checking-in at the hostel, went to the kitchen to make dinner. There was some banana bread and a chocolate chip cookie left on the counter, to be shared. The banana bread was dry as dirt. I devoured the cookie. I like cookies.
This was not a chocolate chip cookie.
When I sat down to eat dinner, I felt different. Perhaps low blood sugar from fasting, or perhaps hungry after the hike. Slowly realized that it was neither. It was likely the cookie; likely a cannabis cookie.
By the time that I finished dinner, the room was spinning. I don’t know how much cannabis was in the cookie. Understand that the effect from edibles is stronger than smoking. Concerned about possible side effects, and concerned about triggering a migraine. Drank some water and went to bed. Woke up the next morning feeling okay, pretty relaxed, pretty low-key. I had command of my faculties, and drove south towards the Grand Canyon. Registered at the Backcountry Information Center, to hike the 45-mile (south) rim to (north) rim to (south) rim, the following day.
March 7th 2022 | excerpt from S
Wrote this post from Mexico, at an obvious low point. Open the kimono to bear witness; raw and unvarnished, but better than the alternative.
S is for suicide.
Contemplated suicide for more than half my life.
Intention,
not to end life.
But rather,
to end suffering.
Suffering.
Overwhelming.
Suffocating.
Drowning.
In the United States,
suicide is tenth leading cause of death.
More than 45,000 people per year.
Death by suicide every twelve minutes.
Suicide.
Permanent solution to temporary problem.
Taboo.
Don’t talk about the elephant in the room.
Music, military, business.
Never good enough.
Damaged.
Defective.
Dented.
Broken.
All of the above.
Internalize everything.
Accept that,
some things can’t be fixed.
Tired of hating my self.
Hatred destroys the vessel in which it is contained.
Suicide ideation.
Destructive and dysfunctional coping mechanism.
Kate Spade.
Anthony Bourdain.
Had everything.
Fame, power, wealth.
Demons never go away.
I see you Mara.
June 2012.
Drive Pacific Coast Highway.
Walked across Golden Gate Bridge.
Didn’t jump.
Obviously.
Look down at the toe rail.
Don’t see San Francisco skyline.
Received Buddha’s precepts.
Disciple of Buddha does not harm or kill, but rather, cultivates life.
Suicide does not end suffering.
Transfers suffering from victim, to family and friends.
Lived in a monastery.
Return to the marketplace with gift-bestowing hands.
So un-skilled.
Worth less,
than
spit in the desert.
What is in my head,
isn’t reality.
But often,
perception is reality.
Often wish that I was never born.
Often wish that I was given the choice.
Wouldn’t have to choose suicide.
Am I okay.
Not always so.
a
joy
less
life
Suicide.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
But,
likely inevitable.
Not pretty.
But,
pretty honest.
Brutally honest.
Too honest.
Maybe.
Not.
garthmonroe 