One day we took a road trip to Mayaro, stopping sometimes to buy doubles or beer. In those days we still preferred the raging highs of alcohol to the breezy euphoria of marijuana. We sang loud and badly the whole way.
Is this the real life?
Is it just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide.
No escape from reality.
I loved how the roadscape changed as we got further away from the nerve centers of the island. I wanted to take a picture of every lonesome vegetable stand with pathetic bundles of pak choi and lackluster bhodi.
The rumshops were the best - the smell as you entered, a mixture of piss and puncheon; the banter; the masculinity standing at attention as three females strode up to the bar to order drinks. Something clever and crude would inevitably be said. And something clever and emasculating said back. It was only after each party had proven themselves formidable in this way that we could recognize each other as friends. This is the only decent way to accept free drinks from strange men. These were probably the best days of my life.
By the time we smelled salt air and pulled up to Mayaro's choppy brown waters, the sun was already close to the horizon. More beers were bought and a favorable location to consume them sought. Then we lay back. Only able to grasp the majesty of what was spread out before and above us in a faint, primitive way, we sought each other.
Everything still mattered then, every ephemeral sentiment, every whispered word, every bleeding insecurity in our vulnerable beings. And we wrung our wasted hearts over it all. This process is only possible at a certain point is one's life.
Slowly and beautifully the orange sky turned purple and then black strewn with silver sand. The breezed cooled and grew strong. We absorbed what we could before returning to the car. Then we went back in silence. Someone attempted to turn the music back on but this met with a chorus of air being sucked through teeth. We drove back to lives that had not yet begun.
Is this the real life?
Is it just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide.
No escape from reality.
I loved how the roadscape changed as we got further away from the nerve centers of the island. I wanted to take a picture of every lonesome vegetable stand with pathetic bundles of pak choi and lackluster bhodi.
The rumshops were the best - the smell as you entered, a mixture of piss and puncheon; the banter; the masculinity standing at attention as three females strode up to the bar to order drinks. Something clever and crude would inevitably be said. And something clever and emasculating said back. It was only after each party had proven themselves formidable in this way that we could recognize each other as friends. This is the only decent way to accept free drinks from strange men. These were probably the best days of my life.
By the time we smelled salt air and pulled up to Mayaro's choppy brown waters, the sun was already close to the horizon. More beers were bought and a favorable location to consume them sought. Then we lay back. Only able to grasp the majesty of what was spread out before and above us in a faint, primitive way, we sought each other.
Everything still mattered then, every ephemeral sentiment, every whispered word, every bleeding insecurity in our vulnerable beings. And we wrung our wasted hearts over it all. This process is only possible at a certain point is one's life.
Slowly and beautifully the orange sky turned purple and then black strewn with silver sand. The breezed cooled and grew strong. We absorbed what we could before returning to the car. Then we went back in silence. Someone attempted to turn the music back on but this met with a chorus of air being sucked through teeth. We drove back to lives that had not yet begun.
