Oaxaca // Finding the emotions
This place, so heavy and dense.
It has enfolded me in its palm and I lay here, gently, on the hot surface.
Sometimes gasping for air.
This week my word count has piled up and they are stacked neatly in my computer, waiting for the day they see the light. I have found them and I spew them out as water comes out of a geyser - forceful and necessary. I've found while writing that some characters don't have as much of a voice as I thought, and others are stronger. It's a strange process, writing, and the tiny threads you think won't mean much reveal so much more when pulled. I enjoy pulling stray threads and seeing where they take me. I write each day, every morning into early afternoon, and see where the trail takes me. I jot down notes and talk with George frequently so I can be sure to have details correct. Technology lets us see each other's face as we connect every morning and evening, love never losing itself over the thousands of miles.
I've said before that missing him is the key to me writing the bulk of this story. Many times, as I meandered in the zocalo or on side streets to find a piece of the story, I've felt alone. When we hustled into town for the Dia de la Independencia (Independence Day) the rain pelted us, and as my hood was up and I became drenched, I felt a feeling akin to where will I turn for comfort? None was to be found, just walking and walking until I reached my destination. As independent as I am, I believe these feelings have been afforded me so I can sense some of the desperation yet happiness he found all while being lost.
We traveled to Ocotlan market, a town some forty minutes south of Oaxaca, and spent the day there browsing the wares. It was the cleanest and most delightful market I've ever been to, with the lushest produce and flowers I've seen. The art and handcrafted wares were incredible, and I succumbed over and over to impulse buying. We also said goodbye to Allie, one of my fellow residents, who inspired me with her quest to find a part of her father here in Mexico - a place he was made to leave behind.
Most importantly, though, I found my way to the old train station - the one where George disembarked and found himself in a lush city, teeming with people. The place where as a six year old child, he looked around and felt emotions of loneliness and uncertainty. When I walked in to this place my eyes pricked with tears and a feeling I couldn't explain welled up in my throat. It was the most connected I've felt in my entire two weeks here, and I walked the length and width of the unused tracks and old train cars until I had my fill. I ran my hands along the chippy paint and iron that once robustly ran the tracks until it reached its destination. I was able to climb up on the train itself, rickety and rusty, and peered in and breathed the air around it. The air was different around this place, somehow sacred, and although George will laugh and tell me - Babe, I'm here. I'm not lost anymore - I know he downplays the emotions he feels. A small boy was playing near the caboose, and he appeared to be around six years old. I approached him, with his mother sitting on a bench near the station, and asked him if I could take his picture. Embarrassed, he ducked his head, but soon looked at me and nodded yes. I captured him looking at me in-between the wheel, and the irony of it stung me. This place was a highlight, and I left filled with something I hadn't felt before.
I have one week to go, and I'm working hard to write as many words as can find me. I reach out in each space and tuck it inside my brain, to pull out when it seems difficult to write. This story is hard, and I'm telling it harshly - we aren't holding anything back. You will find it shocking, heart-rending, and maybe see some hope in-between the dark places. There's always a hope, isn't there?
It has enfolded me in its palm and I lay here, gently, on the hot surface.
Sometimes gasping for air.
 |
| Graffiti, beautiful and evocative. |
This week my word count has piled up and they are stacked neatly in my computer, waiting for the day they see the light. I have found them and I spew them out as water comes out of a geyser - forceful and necessary. I've found while writing that some characters don't have as much of a voice as I thought, and others are stronger. It's a strange process, writing, and the tiny threads you think won't mean much reveal so much more when pulled. I enjoy pulling stray threads and seeing where they take me. I write each day, every morning into early afternoon, and see where the trail takes me. I jot down notes and talk with George frequently so I can be sure to have details correct. Technology lets us see each other's face as we connect every morning and evening, love never losing itself over the thousands of miles.
 |
| Santo Domingo cathedral |
 |
| The church George took his coins in and asked God to help him. |
I've said before that missing him is the key to me writing the bulk of this story. Many times, as I meandered in the zocalo or on side streets to find a piece of the story, I've felt alone. When we hustled into town for the Dia de la Independencia (Independence Day) the rain pelted us, and as my hood was up and I became drenched, I felt a feeling akin to where will I turn for comfort? None was to be found, just walking and walking until I reached my destination. As independent as I am, I believe these feelings have been afforded me so I can sense some of the desperation yet happiness he found all while being lost.
 |
| Drenched on El Dia de la Independencia |
 |
| The frutas in Ocotlan market |
We traveled to Ocotlan market, a town some forty minutes south of Oaxaca, and spent the day there browsing the wares. It was the cleanest and most delightful market I've ever been to, with the lushest produce and flowers I've seen. The art and handcrafted wares were incredible, and I succumbed over and over to impulse buying. We also said goodbye to Allie, one of my fellow residents, who inspired me with her quest to find a part of her father here in Mexico - a place he was made to leave behind.
 |
| Beautiful graffiti at the train station |
 |
| The little boy I captured. Such irony. |
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| I climbed the train. So cool. |
Most importantly, though, I found my way to the old train station - the one where George disembarked and found himself in a lush city, teeming with people. The place where as a six year old child, he looked around and felt emotions of loneliness and uncertainty. When I walked in to this place my eyes pricked with tears and a feeling I couldn't explain welled up in my throat. It was the most connected I've felt in my entire two weeks here, and I walked the length and width of the unused tracks and old train cars until I had my fill. I ran my hands along the chippy paint and iron that once robustly ran the tracks until it reached its destination. I was able to climb up on the train itself, rickety and rusty, and peered in and breathed the air around it. The air was different around this place, somehow sacred, and although George will laugh and tell me - Babe, I'm here. I'm not lost anymore - I know he downplays the emotions he feels. A small boy was playing near the caboose, and he appeared to be around six years old. I approached him, with his mother sitting on a bench near the station, and asked him if I could take his picture. Embarrassed, he ducked his head, but soon looked at me and nodded yes. I captured him looking at me in-between the wheel, and the irony of it stung me. This place was a highlight, and I left filled with something I hadn't felt before.
 |
| The old train station. So many emotions. |
I have one week to go, and I'm working hard to write as many words as can find me. I reach out in each space and tuck it inside my brain, to pull out when it seems difficult to write. This story is hard, and I'm telling it harshly - we aren't holding anything back. You will find it shocking, heart-rending, and maybe see some hope in-between the dark places. There's always a hope, isn't there?
 |
| Magical city streets |
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