My head is as hot as my feet. Pounding with words and ideas. As any writer knows, when you get the impulse to write, it doesn’t diminish if it is not immediately fulfilled. It pounds incessantly on the door of your mind until you release a torrent of words. I have just walked dusty, exhaust filled streets (calles) in Oaxaca, Mexico. My arrow was pointed towards a funky cafe I’d read about. I brave the unfriendly sun and walk with heavy computer bag to the designated street, only to find that in a space of 1/2 km there are two streets with the same name. I’d chosen the wrong one.
Now, with 8 minutes to spare before I watch Frida, the movie, at The Lending Library, a gathering space, mostly for retired North Americans, vacationing to the sun, I sit in the most expensive cafe I’ve visited since I entered Mexico, but not the one I wanted. I write of my frustration. It needs to be cleared, skimmed from the top to uncover the stories of ancient Pyramids, vivid colours, mole and more.
Slowly, as each finger moves over the keys I begin to unfold, rachet tight muscles. I sit in front of the recognisable and watch a cursor give birth to the words that had bottlenecked in my head. With a promise to return.