Once upon a time in Colombia
Blackout – definition. A period during a massive power failure when the lack of electricity for illumination results in utter darkness except from emergency sources, as candles, or a period of total memory loss, as one induced by an accident or prolonged alcoholic drinking .
Put your money on memory loss by alcohol.
But, this time it’s different from the last time. Each time is always different from the last time. At least the location and scenery have changed. This time. I sit here, precariously teetering on a dirty three legged, off white plastic chair, staring across the small marina that is safe harbor to several sea worthy vessels. Drinking a can of Aquila Light, a local brew that might be used to power boats anchored in the bay or light a section of Caracus. The sound of surf licking the shoreline drifts to my ears, crossing the street to the small, and mostly deserted, outdoor bar & restaurant where I rest my tired old ass.
The first Spanish settlement in South America. Santa Marta, Colombia. South American coastal city on the Caribbean sea in the Northeast of Colombia. Inhabitants: a half million or so tourists, descendants of conquistadors, slaves, Indians, and expats. Crime rate is rising. Blame it on Simon Bolivar. Or, Muduro’s Venezuela. Or, my vociferous Colombian wife.
Charles C. Mann’s “1491” is a great book for enlightenment on American Indians. South and North.
As night begins to fall and the sun quickly drops behind the horizon, I pull the tab on another brew. Ella Fitzgerald’s angelic voice fills my head with Misty Blue as it floats effortlessly from my JBL Charge 3 Bluetooth portable speaker. The pungent smell of piss and puke mixed with cigarette smoke, riding the night breeze to my nostrils, interrupts my temporary departure from reality and returns me to the impending train wreck in my head.
Ladies of the night begin their slow, deliberate, extraordinarily provocative parade of flesh, each being devoured by the eyes of their needy, potential clients, their libido stoked, caressed and aroused, intensified by alcohol , memories, and semi nude women. Colombian women are blessed with bountiful tits and ass. Magnificently developed mammaries and buttocks. I am delighted.
Must not revel too long tonight. I might fall asleep and miss my stop. Hate the long bus ride home.
Drink too fast. Age, disease, control my alcohol consumption these days. Still , one every 15 minutes or so. When I drink. Which is not often due to elderliness and health. Slowdown. atherosclerosis, dementia. Think a lot on mortality. Mortality and sex. Wonder if it is better to check out on one’s own terms rather than…….wander into the path of an oncoming bus.
This past June I began my 76th year as a dues paying member of humanity. And, I still love women – sexually. As a non deductive thinker in my adolescence I failed to ascertain that boys and old men think similarly, and continually, about the same thing – sex. The only difference between the two: the boy thinks about sex with a hard dick in his hand, and old men just think about it. Women-sex. Think about it.
Personally, I prefer women younger than myself. My mind’s eye does not see me as a 76 year old. The thought of being with someone my own age is not the way I want to begin each day. The age difference in my relationships varies from 20 years when married the first time at age 57 to a present day 31 years. As I get older the women I am with get younger. My wives and girlfriends comprise an international smorgasbord of diversity: Japanese, Chinese, Filipino, Vietnamese, African (Zambia), Colombian, None lasted longer than a few years. I am not good at maintaining long-term relationships. AGR (age gap relationships). I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A survivor of three heart attacks: a double bypass, four stents, three double hernia, cataracts, cancer, three marriages, three divorces, three DUI’s, sleep apnea, stock market crashes, a couple of dogs.
Cats are not difficult to train once you realize they are stupid.
The number three is bad luck.
RICHARD CORY
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from from sole to crown
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
and he was always human; when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich–yes, richer than a king-
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine. we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
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