it's the person who won't talk with me.
it's the person the next night who will.
it's the water that goes cold while the lather still covers me. it's the wet, slippery floor that scares me more than the edge of a cliff. it's the water i can't brush my teeth with.
it's the shining sun. it's the freedom of the road. it's successful communication in a foreign language. it's the warm clasp of a handshake.
it's the order to switch rooms. it's the hangovers from red wine. it's the rambling, nagging sweet dreams and cryptic whispers of unknown poets in my brain that emphatically implore me to cease the necessary activities of a responsible life, that crack the harsh whip of creativity at my feeble spine while i limp down the sidewalk, that command me to immortalize them in mountainous, sparkling words, everyday.
it's rare meat. it's good beer. it's the unique stare that she focuses at me.
it's writing in an exploding stream of consciousness that makes no sense at all, that swings away from the forest of towering trees and the screaming crows that clutch them like a mother would a dying child. it's dry fire hydrants and cold stoves. it's broken clocks and clogged drains. it's the most overwhelming sadness that an honest person can feel. it's a staggering event that changes the taste of air and the feel of her hand. it's remembering that she left you today. that she left for good and will never come back to you, to anyone.
it's also the guy yelling into a megaphone and getting a good exchange rate. it's your austrian friend picking up the tab and the smiling cook. it's the colors that run through your brain and the curve of her eyes. it's her beckoning head and smile.
it's the wrong crowd. it's the long bus ride through bland landscapes. it's that guy over there who thinks that the things in my bag belong to him. it's the unanswered e-mails. it's the pull of home that lies down a scarcely remembered road.
it's nations. it's flags. it's hostels. it's bars. it's the staff. it's the teachers. it's the travelers. it's the stories. it's the locals. it's the people.
no it isn't.
September 2005 - Mendoza, Argentina