Monday 27 April 2009

Faith

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

So last week after a few stressful, tense and unsteady days with me and Marie worrying about money, worrying about work - me not having any; and her not liking hers - we had a bit of a meltdown on Sunday when we got up, as Marie'd gotten completely bombed the night before as her response to the stress, and I'd gotten pissed because I'd just wanted to watch a damn movie, not to mention that both of my ex-wives had cheated on me in that kind of blind drunk, and of course seeing her like that brought up some old feelings that I guess I still haven't fully processed. Ain't life a bitch. And Marie didn't like hearing my thoughts, as like she had told me a few days before: "There's not much room for me with all your ex-wives hangin' around." Well, fuck me... And after we argued and I'd told her that it really bothered me seeing her that way - blind piss drunk - and she'd told me that she didn't want to feel judged I got out of the house for a while on the invitation from an old friend from Utah who lives around the corner and wanted to know if I wanted to watch the NBA Playoff game at the bar. I just wanted to get out of the house for any reason right then.

At the bar, gettin' out of town seemed like a good idea after a couple of beers as I felt like I was stuck in some sort of bad rerun of my previous relationships. And I knew how the show ended: the woman gets drunk and cheats. 'Fuck that', I thought, 'I'll just get the hell out of here.' I wasn't gonna wait around for that to happen. I was feeling like shit anyway. I was broke, jobless and feelin' like a leper that no one wanted around. I felt like I was just a fucking problem, and that getting out of the way would solve the problem.

After the game I followed my old high school friend to a birthday party deeper into Brooklyn where I stayed for an hour or two and had a couple more beers. And somehow just being out of the house started to ease my mind some. I just needed to relax. I just needed to chill out. Things would work out. And when I got home Marie told me that her best friend husband were on their way over. They showed up not five minutes after I walked in the door. And I guess that Marie and her friend had talked about the meltdown we'd had earlier that day as Marie's friend's husband asked me if I wanted to go upstate with him for the week and paint their house for some money while he worked on some cabinetry for a client in New York. And I went. It was perfect. It would give me some time to think and make some money. And it would give me and Marie a probably long over due break.

Marie's lucky to have those two in her life. They're great. And I feel lucky to have them in my life too. I needed a little help, and they gave it to me. I consider them family. The husband put me up, bought my food and alcohol, rented us some movies to watch at night and paid me at the end of the week. It was just what I needed, as I realized how much I loved Marie being away from here for the week. And I realized how much I didn't want to go back to Austin and how much I really wanted to be in New York. And I knew I had to stick it out, come hell or high water.

I was feeling pretty depressed for a few days up there, as I felt like my life was in limbo. I felt unsure of how to break into New York and not just get a toe hold into work, but also how the hell I was going really change my life and become a writer. Fuck, I was havin' a hard enough time just keepin' my head above water, let alone becoming a writer. And one day when I went jogging - to knock the depression back - after painting the house all day I saw a bluebird out of the periphery of my vision, just like the one tattooed on my arm with the banner - Faith - written across it, and I nearly cried as the sign was clear - just have a little faith man.

Love

Saturday 18 April 2009

Diary Of A Working Boy, Cont., Cont. - Encounter With Jim Jarmusch

Ecuador

I only made it at the ultra cool Topshop in the Topman department for three days. The highlight of those three days came when I tried to help Jim Jarmusch find a polka dotted shirt that he was looking for, and got to meet him and his charming significant other. I spotted him (he's hard to miss if you have even the vaguest idea of what he looks like) waiting in the long line for the dressing rooms. Then I saw that he and his significant other were walking away from the line without having gone into the dressing room. This I couldn't take as I loved the movie Ghost Dog and would like to be able to train with Sifu Shi Yan Ming who made an appearance in the movie. I also loved the fishing with John and Jim thing that was on the IFC channel sometime back, which basically consisted of some guy named John (I can't remember who he is right now - maybe John Leary?)and Jim Jarmusch fishing out in Hudson bay in a rowboat drinking beer. Well, Jim wasn't really fishing. From what I remember Jim didn't really seem to be a totally willing participant to the whole thing. He seemed to've been halfheartedly drug to a rowboat, then halfheartedly dragged out into the bay, then he kind of bitched and moaned about what the hell they were doing out in the middle of the Hudson bay in a small rowboat in the middle of shipping lanes while they drank beer and talked about filmaking, and that guy John fished and caught, like boots and tires and tin cans and things. I could have the whole thing wrong, but that's what I remember. And I liked it. I thought it was great. And I didn't want Jim Jarmusch not to be able to try on a shirt that he wanted in the establishment that I was working in. So when Jim couldn't get into the Topshop dressing rooms I took it upon myself to move myself up the food chain of command and rectify the situation. And as he and his significant other came walking towards me I asked him if he needed any help, stepping way above my $7 an hr pay ranking. He said that he just wanted to try a shirt on but that he didn't want to wait in the half hour dressing room line. I told him that I understood, and I said that I could help, which was a bit of an exaggeration. I'd heard of a VIP dressing room and mentioned that he could change there, but I also had no idea where it was. So then I suggested an area where the employees could access the back halls of the place, the other floors, the break rooms, offices and the stock room and that he could change there. There was an elevator waiting area just before the doors to the back corridors and said that he could try the shirt on there - he was a totally amenable guy and accepted. And while he tried on the shirt next to the elevators I went to ask one of the kids where the VIP dressing room was: opposite side of the floor. When I went back to check on Jim he asked if we had the same shirt in a bigger size. I told him I'd look. I was really steppin' over pay scale then. I couldn't find the size he wanted in the stock room, but a guy down there told me where I might be able to find one on opposite of the floor of Topman from where the original shirt had been found near the elevators. When I got back up to the elevator waiting area I told Jim the mixed news and we went to search for the shirt on the other side of the Topman floor as his significant other asked me if I was a student. I told her that I didn't know what I was. "Still searchin'" she said. I guess so. It looks like it. And as we looked for the other shirt - only to find a different color in the size that he wanted, then tried on in the elevator lobby again (I tried the VIP room, but it was full) we somehow got talking about South America and they told me how they'd gone to a Che Guevara museum in the slums of Buenos Aires that only had a tobacco pouch that Che had reportedly once touched, and a few photographs. They weren't blown away. And they told me how one in four Argentinians were in therapy. And I told them that it would be my luck to try and 'get away' to Buenos Aires, as I'd talked to Marie about doing if we sold our books and live for a few years and write some more, only to end up in therapy. They thought that was rich. Me too. And in the end I couldn't procure the shirt that he was looking for, but we had a good little talk and it was the highlight of my New York City experience up to that point. We shook hands and parted ways. And I only lasted another day at the Topshop, then went to work with Marie on a job. But that's a whole nother' story. Fuckin' work.

Love

Thursday 16 April 2009

Diary Of A Working Boy, Cont.

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

So, suddenly there I was at work, like a freshly powdered baby sent out into the world to face the day, a baby boy who'd just been smacked on the ass and told to "go getem' tiger!". It happened quickly. One minute I was dropping off a resume, the next minute I was working at clothing store called TopShop in SOHO along with about 6 other day laborers... Needless to say I was a little bewildered and teary eyed, to say the least. And this is the point where I nearly snapped - like those crazy women on the Oxygen Network - and broke down. It was discouraging folks. The lights were bright and shocking. I was in the show and ill prepared for the spotlight. The place was hoppin' when we walked through the front doors. I mean, literally, clothes were flying off the racks. Recession my ass! People were going after four floors of clothing like vultures going after a roadside carcass. The place was nuts. It was like the fall of Saigon with all those people trying to get into the American Embassy kind of nuts. I was afraid for my life. We'd walked into a feeding frenzy at newly opened store where we were supposed to work, but whe'd gone in the wrong door - the front door. Immediately we were ushered out and told to go around to the back, as I'm sure that our beleagured appearances were sobering to the purchasing public - nobody likes to buy shit with poor folks standing around looking desperate and miserable. It's fucking depressing man...

So we walked our tired bodies around the block to the back door. Once inside we were given a brief tour and sent to our respective posts. My post was the men's department in the basement called Topman. The managers and coworkers were all hip kids in tight pants and ironic clothing half my age. And I was their beckon boy. The store was probably one of the hippest places on the planet at that moment in time and I was a desperate 35 year old man struggling to survive (very unhip) making minimum wage (7 fuckin' dollars and change people!). I was being bitched around by squirrely little kids half my fuckin' age (actually most of them left me alone all day long as they thought, as I found out at the end of my shift, that I was a confused shopper who didn't know where he was - like an old man who couldn't remember his name or some shit). For hours I walked clothing from the dressing rooms back to the racks in virtual daze as I fought back the urge to start crying, as a knot of nerves, anxiety and nausea built in my stomach. And by the time I made it to my first break and walked around the corner outside where I could sit by myself and catch my breath the tears were welling up in my eyes as I tried to figure out where I'd gone so terribly wrong in my life (many places it seemed). I was a crushed spirit. And for the fifteen minutes that I sat there on a stoop in the cold and drizzling rain I contemplated walking to the subway and going home. But I needed the money and I didn't have any other leads for work at the time and I didn't want Marie to worry about me making rent anymore.

So I sucked it up and went back.

Love

Tuesday 14 April 2009

Diary of a Working Boy

Well, I got a job… that was easy. A great job? No. A good job? No. A decent job? I guess so. At least it’s something for now so that I’m not sitting around the apartment freaking out about not having a job. That’s not good for anybody. It all started out fairly innocuous yesterday. I mean, I got up and had some coffee with Marie – really I got out of bed, put the coffee on and pulled the covers off of Marie and told her to get up as she had to go into the office… as, well, somebody’s gotta be working. And while we were having our coffee (after she told me I was a bad man and crawled out of bed) Marie must have figured that if she had to fucking go into the office then I should suffer too. And suffer I did: humiliation, ego crushing, masculinity stomping, overwhelming desperation and nearly a few tears of pitiful sorrow were shed – we’ll get to that later. Marie suggested that I put in my resume at some temp agencies in NY. So I got online. There were a few professional looking temp agencies that looked like they fit my meager skill set and I sent my resume in as per request. There was another temp agency located in Manhattan that looked like it was for the average man, and looked more like a Day Labor type place that wanted you to show up in person - that was a bad sign, i.e. they need bodies, not minds. So I got my shit together and went into the city. Once again I got a little lost, but eventually found the place. It was a Day Labor place for sure as it had the defeated and destitute feel of a waiting room for the next bus to Death. People - mostly black or hispanic (now that I think about it I was the only white person in there besides a couple guys that worked behind the desk) - were sprawled out on chairs in varying states of conciousness either watching an afternoon gameshow or yelling at someone on their cell phone about how they were trying to get a job. My gut hurt as I filled out the paperwork as I thought about all the poor decisions I'd made in my life that had led me to that waiting room of eternal suffering. Then one of the white guys that worked in the office got up in front of us to give us a motivational speech about 'hanging in there' while they looked for work for us as the television blared inanities in the background. He told us how shitty the economy was and how the whole country was going in the shitter because of the Recession and he drew a big imaginary line with his finger going down the dirty stained wall behind him towards the worn out and sad floor. Then he told us all to hold on a little longer and that they'd get us work. Nobody said a word. And when I turned in my paperwork the girl behind the counter looked up at me and said: "You know this is only paying minimum wage right?" as she looked me over, I think determininig that I looked to clean or not broken enough to be in there. I sensed I still had an air of hope about me, as I have some big dreams keepin' me afloat in these hard times. But who was I, jobless and all, to turn down the prospect of work and money? And I asked her what minimum wage was. "$7.50 an hour." She said. "Okay." I told her. Then she asked me if I could work that day. I wasn't quite prepared for that one and I told her that I had an appointment that afternoon, as I wasn't really dressed for manual labor and I didn't have my manual labor mindset - I was still hoping that I might one day be a writer and sit behind a desk: SOON. I kind of did have an appointement at NYU. I was going to stop in and talk to an advisor about their adult education Bachelor's program that gave credit for life experience - I've had a lot of life experience; in fact I was in the process of having another one. Then the girl asked if I could come into the office at 5:00 the next morning and she could try to get me on the same job that she wanted to send me out to just then. And she asked me if I could do retail. Sure. Retail. I liked the sound of that. It wasn't a wharehouse. I hate warehouses. Then she said that the store was in SOHO. I like SOHO. It's nice down there. And I told her that I could cancel my appointment. That way I wouldn't have to get up at four the next morning and I would increase my chances of not working in a warehouse. An hour and a half later about ten of us were on our way to SOHO on the subway following a lady from the office like we were on a field trip from school. But I'll bet they would have at least paid our subway fare on a field trip from school.

Love

Thursday 9 April 2009

Something Is Happening... Nothing At All?

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I walked perhaps another eighty miles today to simply drop off two resumes: one to a guy who at first wanted to throw me out of the venue that was only open at the time because of work being done inside; the other to a kid mopping the floor of another venue who looked like he was half my age. That's become a bit of a theme over the past few days (besides the endless walking which will sort itself out once I get a better grasp of the city and subway, stop getting on the wrong trains, stop walking the wrong way, and stop getting lost): kid's who I give my resume to that look like they're half my age. I did see one older looking guy at one of the six places that I dropped my resume at in the last two days - the one who wanted to throw me out initially. Point is, I think my time in the Rock n' Roll world may have passed me by. Rock n' Roll is for the kids. It's not that I hadn't noticed it before in Texas, it's just that I was in it - can't see the forest for the trees type thing. And thinking back most of the 'older' guys were either in charge of something or someone important, i.e. they'd worked themselves into a position of some prominence - while I was slowly getting nowhere. The other 'old' one's were just plain cranky and pissed off that they were still in the industry, or they were druggies who didn't fit in in the 'real world' and wanted to have a 'lifestyle' at their age that included lots of drugs and alcohol, or they were just plain old dip shit drop outs. I, like I said, was working my way up there to oblivion with the old dropouts... slowly but surely. And it's not that I really give a shit that the Rock n' Roll world may have passed me by, I just give a shit that the one thing that I've been able to latch onto to get me by - barely - for the last little while in my life, seems to be passing me by, as I haven't quite ascended the Rock n' Roll heap to a position of prominence. Sure, I've got some skills and some know how and had become a supervisor and can keep famous actors out of the cocaine room if I need to, I just don't have a glorified job title that demands glorified money. And that's what it comes down to - money. I need money. I need a job that pays some decent money. And I'm feeling like the one little niche that I have (that I never really intended as a 'career') may be passing me by. And I'm thinking I may need some more specific money making skills and credentials here SOON. The problem is, is that's it's hard to even think about the future when rent is coming due again. And that's how you get 'stuck' doing something that you don't really want to be doing - it pays the immediate bills. But I'm feeling like I'd do just about anything right now that could relieve the stress of not having money. It follows me around like a plague - poverty. It's been the central diseased theme of my life and every meaningful relationship I've had - lack of money. Somebody bring me some money please. And it's rearing it's ugly head again in this relationship. And the lack of it, desperation for it, and fear that I may always be a fucking slave to the lack of it leaves me feeling a little bit ashamed, saddened and hopeless, as I keep feeling like if I hang on long enough in this life my proverbial ship will come in and I'll have a reason and a meaning and some stability and a thing that makes me happy to be doing. But that thought just keeps on seeming like an oasis, as I still don't really know what that 'thing' is that's supposed to make me happy. And I'm tired of just stumbling along hoping that one day I'll stumble into it. I'm tired of just holding on. I think that writing is about the closest thing that I have to that elusive 'thing' that will make me happy, that I really want to be doing. As when I think about writing - authors, books, magazines, newspapers, blogs - it gives me hope as it seems to be one of the few ways to transcend the pain and suffering in this life that I can tap into, as somehow, magically, the written word gives me hope. And hope is no small thing to come by in this life. So I'm looking at taking a year long certificate program in journalism at NYU that starts this summer to get some of those 'skills' that I was talking about. Let's just hope that I can make rent so that I'll still be here when summer rolls around. Until then I'll keep walking my ass off handing out my resume. Right now, nothing is happening. But it still feels like something... sort of.

Love

Thursday 2 April 2009

New York Fuckin' City

Ecuador

We made it back - barely. Well, I barely made it back. We (read - I) had ticket problems. Too much to go into right now, but basically my ticket disappeared (read - banditos). And what it came down to was that I (read - Marie) had to buy a brand new ticket to get me out of Quito, Ecuador to Medellin, Columbia for around $300. We only had about a half an hour to make the decision there in the airport once we found out the score. I tried to call Cheapoair who we bought the tickets from but the phone connection from the telephone booths in the airport was so shitty that the Indian phone center workers on the other end at Cheapoair couldn't hear what I was saying. And my cell phone didn't have any service. We looked on the Cheapoair website and it said to just buy the damn tickets and we could get refunded at a later date - that's not proving to be so easy. So we got the damn ticket and I got on the damn plane, but not before we (read - Marie ((she wasn't a happy camper)) had to pay an $80 damn airport fee. We were bleeding money (read - Marie was bleeding through the nose) to get me home. But she was an angel. She didn't bitch at me or curse the day I was born, or shoot me in the leg, or bite my ear off. Rather she told me that she wasn't leaving me in Ecuador and that we'd work it out. She did almost bitch slap a curt little LAN Chile airline employee who seemed to be taking extreme personal pleasure in our dilemma. But that was understandable. The woman actually smiled and nearly laughed at one point - she was a bitch - while Marie tried to explain. I, on the other hand, was just nauseous. We got on the plane and hoped that when we got to Medellin, Columbia that we could work something out with Avianca Air, who we were flying with back to New York City, as we had a six hour layover. And for a minute it looked like we might not have to buy another ticket to get me back to New York City when we got to Medellin, as a guy from Avianca Air really seemed to be doing his best to help us out, but ultimately the result was the same. And I (read - Marie) had to buy another ticket, this time for about $800 to get my ass home. I was even more nauseous than before and I started to drink to quell the melancholy that was slowly setting in. Marie, on the other hand, said that it would be okay. Did I mention that I love her? I do? I really do. Did I mention that Marie has a big heart? She does... I would have left my ass there in Columbia drinking Pilsner beer. After that, things didn't go so smooth, as the airline people, immigration authorities, and some lady in a booth with a stamp, all had some difficulties and issues with getting us out of the country - the issues were varied and convoluted at best, annoying and aggravating at worst. On the way into the country the Immigration Officers had somehow stamped Marie's passport with the date 2006 instead of 2009 and the airline wouldn't accept her passport on the way out, and they told us to go to the lady at the booth. The stamp lady at the booth, behind the window with the stamp said that we didn't need a stamp and that we had to talk to the Immigration Officers. The Immigration Officers didn't want to talk to us. And when we went back to the stamp lady at the booth behind the window she said to go to the airline and tell them that we didn't need a stamp. Which we did, but the airline lady at the counter said that we did need a stamp. All this was happening after we had already been in line for over two hours. We were cutting in front of people, behind people, around people, past people, none of whom were to happy as they'd also been in line for hours. So we went back to the lady in the booth behind the window, once again, cutting in and out of throngs of angry passengers. The lady in the booth behind the window told us to go to the Immigration Officers again, and somewhere on the way to the Immigration Office I started to lose my cool with the whole damn thing. I mean, I really just wanted to crawl under a rock and die. I was already disgusted about all the money that we (read - Marie) had to put out, and I just started to wish that I wasn't me and that we were safe at home in New York City with that $1,100 snug our pockets (Marie's). And when we got to the Immigration Office and found that they, once again, didn't seem to want to help us much I wasn't really wanting to hear their indifference. And as I took my sweater off to show all my tattoos and my face started getting redder and redder, and I started tensing up and raising my voice in my chicken peck Spanish telling them that, "ella hablas es NECESSARIO hablas TU!", they started to become somewhat alarmed. And I guess that it appeared that I wanted to rip their heads off and use them as bowling balls, as one of the guys started to tell me to calm down - tranquillo - and Marie told me to chill out, which basically amounted to me being sent to timeout. So I went and sat on a bench and watched the soccer game by myself and let me Marie handle the situation. And the only justice that night was dished out by Venezuela, in futbol, who handed Columbia their asses, beating them 3-0 in the game that I watched from timeout while drinking Pilsner. And I hope that Columbia loses every game they play the rest of the year from here on out. That goes for Ecuador too. No, actually I hope that we, the USA, Columbia and Ecuador all make it to the World Cup next year in South Africa, and I hope that we play them both, and I hope that we make them cry - their entire citizenries (especially their airline employees). Meanwhile Marie was handling things and we were back at the ticket counter as there was another problem. What the problem was we weren't sure, but (of course) it seemed to be with me. They wanted to see my boarding stub from the last flight from Ecuador. And of course, I couldn't find it. And Marie told me I needed to learn how to keep track of my shit and scolded me like a child, and I told her that she wasn't my fuckin' mom and that she and all the airline ladies could shove my lost boarding stub up their asses. And all the airline ladies backed off and started gossiping about me. And Marie said we shouldn't fight (she was a trooper) with each other, and I felt like an asshole and just wanted to cry. And the airline lady with the bug up her ass ran around the airport with our tickets and passports. We would see her appear and disappear again every ten minutes or so out of different offices for about an hour until we were the only people left in line and it looked like we were going to miss our flight. And Marie and I were resigned and accepting of our fates at that point, as we had no more fight left. And then the Immigration Officers wanted to talk to us and wanted our passports, but the airline lady had them. And I'd given up. Marie had too. We'd both lost the will to carry on, and had lost hope of ever getting home. And at the last second the airline lady showed up with our passports and gave us $4,000 Columbian dollars which was like $10 that the airline owed us for a mistake on my ticket. And the Immigration Officials fixed Marie's passport. And we were free to leave... But we hadn't eaten yet and Marie was dying and she was frantically trying to buy us some food. And the Immigration Officers wanted to shut the doors to the international departure gate, and Marie wanted food, and for a second it looked like a Mexican standoff. Marie ended up winning, as she was very hungry. And the officials waited while our two little sandwiches were microwaved (lettuce, tomato, mayo and all) to an indecipherable taste. Then the Immigration Officials stamped and sent us on to the prison like waiting area where the Policia searched through everyone's luggage as we all sat around and watched as though we were being taught some sort of cautionary tale about packing our suitcases really well in case 50 strangers were for some reason to watch them be rifled through. And that poor bastard who had half his suitcase packed with potato chips. What the fuck was he thinking? I bet he learned a valuable lesson. Although he looked too drunk to remember the lesson. But who can blame him really? You know? Who hasn't been shit face hammered and just wanted some fuckin' potato chips? And then we were on our way on a red eye flight over The Caribbean and up along the Eastern seaboard. And needless to say it was a great fucking morning when our plane touched down at JFK as the sun started to rise. And as we got into a taxi that whisked us along the BQE into the burrow of Brooklyn the sun and the New York City skyline rose up in the distance of the beautiful cold morning.

And next time I'm fuckin' drivin' to South America.

Love

Wednesday 1 April 2009

Shamana

Ecuador

The other reason that Marie and I went to Otavalo - besides the market - was that we'd read in the guidebook that there was a town just outside of Otavalo that was home to quite a few Shamans. The book didn't say much else besides that. So I wasn't too sure of what to expect when we got there the day after we went to the big market. We took a taxi to the little town that was only about 10 min away, that sat at the base of the giant mountain peak that jutted up into the clouds. The driver dropped us off in the center of the tiny, quiet town to the casual looks from some of the local Indigineous folk sitting around the square selling fruit, or sitting in their doorways. We started walking up what looked to be the main cobbled stoned street of the town, just lookin', as the guide book had mentioned that some of the Shamans advertised on the side of their houses. We'd only walked about two blocks when we saw a sign hanging above the door of a home that looked vaguely mediciney and Shamanistic. There was a young woman standing outside the door and an older man sitting down inside the darkened doorway. They both glanced at us as we passed by. I stopped after a few feet of passing the door, turned and asked the woman, "Shaman?". "Si. Si." She said as she pointed to the old man, and we turned and followed him into the small house through what looked to be a sort of waiting area and into a tiny box of a back room where there was an altar in the corner and two benches along the walls. A table stood in front of the one of the benches that had his Shamanistic setup of candles, small statues of various sorts, rocks - Shamanistic things... and he motioned for us to sit down, gave us each a candle and told us to rub them over our bodies then blow our energy or spirits onto them - all of this in Spanish, but we got the idea. Then he lit our candles, lit himself a cigarette and blew the smoke of the cigarette onto the candles. And the candles spoke to him. The candles told him all about us. He sat there blowing smoke onto them, then listening to their tales. Then he told us what the candles said. But it was all in Spanish and difficult for us to understand. But we gathered that my heart used be hard, and that it was softening. And he seemed to indicate that me Marie were good together as he put his index fingers together and smiled at us a lot and said "bien ano" or something like that. And when he was done with our candle reading he asked us if we wanted a "cleaning", which we did, and he asked us to remove our clothes down to our underwear - no bra for Marie. We stood on a couple of straw rugs and he proceeded to spit Ecuadorian moonshine all over us, rub us down with eggs, spit on the eggs the set them in the corner, blow fire on us by holding our candles up in front of us, then spitting the moonshine all over us. He whacked us with poison ivy all over our bodies and had us jump on it. He knighted us with spears and yelled at the spirits to go away. Then he spit perfume all over us. He had us spit on our eggs in the corner of the room, and he burned them, the poison ivy and the spirits in the corner. All this over the course of about an hour. Then he told to us to put our clothes back on, hugged us and smiled and told us not to wash for two days. And we went on our way smelling like perfume and moonshine, welted up from the poison ivy, feeling alive. It was far and away the coolest thing that I've ever done.

Love