Navel Gazing and Rambling at 8:38

Okay. I don't really want to be doing this but water has to go somewhere and we know it seeks the lowest level which, at this moment, translates into me slouched in my chair staring at the monitor, palms of my hands resting on keyboard, typing whatever comes into my head, the sounds of the house in background ... the squeaking of Mr. Lee's chair in the next room, the tapping of his keyboard, the whir of the fans in the laptop to my right and the quieter fans in the tower under my desk. There is also a low level hum in the walls. I don't know what it is. The heat's not on. Just a hum. Can you hear electricity in the walls? I sometimes think I can. Maybe it's just the tower. And then there's the infernal ringing in my right ear. When we were in Costa Rica recently, I realized that the ringing in my ears sounds exactly like the high pitched toneless buzzing of insects in the jungle. I don't know which insect, maybe some kind of jungle cricket, but the sounds are identical. That is some comfort actually because I like the sound of insects in the jungle and really don't like the ringing in my ear. I do my best to not obsess about it. Obsessing about it is definitely not a good thing so when I discovered the similarity between the buzzing in the jungle and the ringing in my ear, it was a relief. But enough about the ringing. Like I say, I don't want to obsess about it. I have that tendency. I am listening to the buzzing jungle.

Gustavo didn't seem to mind

So on to better things. What else grabs my attention this evening? I am too full, too hot and tired but it's too early early to sleep. I am too hot because the house is too cold so I have too many clothes on to stay warm. But now I'm hot. Which brings me to the thought that there must be a lot of people in the world who, in spite of the ringing in my ears, would be grateful to change places with me. People who are starving or cold or both. God. Life is fucked up. And this brings me to Catholic Guilt. I'm not a catholic anymore but seems most of us Xs never get free of the damn guilt. Which reminds me of my patron saint. You might wonder why I have a patron saint being an X catholic. Aren't saints basically a catholic thing? Actually, I'm an X everything. These days I don't trust any dogma. However, when we were in Oaxaca a few years ago I found a saint I can do business with. My son was in the military at the time and overseas on a peace keeping mission. The entire time he was gone I lived in an undertow of deep unrest but sitting with Gustavo in the corner of that old stone church gave me some comfort. I didn't use the kneeler. Gustavo isn't that kind a saint. I sat in the chair.

Gustavo helped me sit with it

Actually, I'm not sure his name is Gustavo. There was a tombstone looking slab set into the floor or wall, I can't remember which, with the name Gustavo Santa Ana caved into it so I call him Gustavo. I spent a lot of time there. I even wrote a couple of poem based on the place and named them both Contact Language although one is subtitled letter 611. I've been thinking about Gustavo on and off these last few days. I wish I were in Oaxaca. I feel like sitting in the gloom with him. I googled Gustavo Santa Ana just now and, although I found nothing on my Gustavo, I came across an article in the Orange County Weekly Navel Gazing section by Gustavo Arellano announcing that Jesus Christ Himself will be at the Santa Ana Artists' Village tomorrow to join the protest against the God Hates Fags protest Fred Phelps and his Westboro Baptist Church are waging against the Artists' Village because the theater is staging The Laramie Project, a gay-rights themed play. Just sayin.