season of avocados: You couldn´t number the times the sky will turn pink, even if you wanted to. Or the number of ways you´ll create reasons for wanting this so much. The lazy afternoon siestas. The bluest blue of a lizard. The elongated twists of words and words and words. You´ll grow wild and dreamy, both. And yet, still so still. The least known of your favorite lines will cross every bit of you. And those roads. Always those roads, with hands weighing everything down. Weighing all the rain down. You´ll smile and sigh amidst all the chaos you´ve created for yourself. And he´ll go dance you a billion more hurricanes, with the most shining eyes.

The days follow here, never-ending. And the whole time you´ll feel like you´re waiting for something. Something to happen. Something to POP! Or Poof! Or go crazy. Something that could bury you. Or make you fall. Or perhaps, even burn. And you can´t help thinking to yourself, oh god, please let me burn, or i´ll set this place on fire.

But then, there are other days. Days he ever so carefully peels and slices clean through an avocado; everything is suddenly so calm and quiet. A bubble. He asks you to sprinkle on some salt and drizzle a little olive oil, while he squeezes half of the smallest and greenest of limes over the softness and yellowness of the insides of the avocado. All the while, you can´t help remembering a phrase you stumbled upon to somewhere:

For you, a thousand times over...

And yet, you still feel yourself preparing for some kind of fall. Some kind of mad twist. Some kinda of suicidal run. Some sudden unforseen realization of reality you´ve always refused to believe in. Nuts you will go, waiting, knowing it will come: A choice. A hard one.

Meanwhile, the whole of Santa Clara is running hot and cold as usual. Crazy camareros wearing silky smiles. Slinky mulatas and their steely soft eyes. You´ll fall all over them, strolling along the Boulevard in a sea of drunken laughter, guitar music and fresh bread smell floating straight from the panaderia, where pretty boys dressed all in white talk and tell stories the whole night through. Nothing ever changes here.

In another lifetime, maybe you would have had the audacity to make it easier for yourself. Created a box for yourself instead. To lie in. Following a path everyone knows they´re supposed to take. With equal steps and equal measures. And everything in the right place. The simpliciy of it all. But in another lifetime, you wouldn´t have found yourself under a Santa Clara sun, awake and alive and falling in love with the strange, sweet, almost-bland taste of a ripe avocado.
posted by mira 12:33 pm