Sloth, Who Cares?

I guess I had to come home, some time.

Since I've been back, it's been a characteristically strange experience; after day one, the roommates re-embraced me and my little self. I've third-wheeled to the point where I can no longer look at myself in the mirror; I've fifth-wheeled to the point where it's just an embarrassment. I'm now sharing short stories with a roommate's father, and I've taken to commisserating with other cripples so I can feel alright -- the whole nine.

No, it's been great being back, but I miss Colombia more than I'd care to admit. Mama G says I have a "Wandering Gene," I'd say I have a curious brain. She's probably right.

I miss Colombia, I miss My Friend, I miss Margaret Sands reading next to me as we decided what to do next; I miss it all, especially when I'm here in a city that has little to offer a lout like me. I'm trying to write my short story submissions, I've reveiwed the short films I'm supposed to judge, I walked the dog!

Now, what?

Well, it's Friday -- sooooo, I suppose it's time to ... watch some more movies, see some friends and not care about what I haven't accomplished.

But maybe manana I'll post the precises of the short stories I'm submitting -- even if to hate myself for doing so.

Las Dudas, but Plodding Along

I really stuck it to myself with that phone call home. Knew it'd happen.

There I was, all happy and content, having recently made the decision to come back -- this time, to Bogota -- and I had to hear old Mama G's voice.


Afterward, Ms. Sands -- that matron of sarcasm, sly looks and inspiring, callous wit -- had to watch me arrange all of Little Morgan's (the Little Rat's) baubles and bracelets and anillos, tying it all up with a headscarf. I maybe even wrote her a little heartfelt note. One can never know.

No doubt Sands' stomach was turning over dinner as I spoke about life in League City, TX and who I missed there, and in New York, and why.

We don't ordinarily tolerate droplets of nostalgia, just as we don't make it a habit of discussing Matters of the Heart.

But I couldn't help it.

For the first time, I started to have my Doubts.

"Will I really be OK?" I thought, aware of my trite, internal sobbing, "Can I continue to wrap myself in deflective jokes and delusional optimism?" -- more internal sobbing -- "It's exhausting."

How I longed to call back home and hear Mama G tell me how she thought I was growing "tubby" (de los fotos, and from when she saw me last month and pinched my sides). I wanted to call Brother G and ask him about the upcoming Baby, and share with him that he should rest assured that I still think he's a lout, a wretched -- wretched -- fool, and perhaps my best friend. [In Your Dreams.]

But then!

We got into a cab, Ms. Sands' disgust at the droplets of nostalgia too much to bear -- I mean, who could?

As we had to push the old Colombian cab down a stretch of the highway as I shouted at the driver that he was drowning the engine, I was sure I could keep plodding along.

Yet, still, I came home and tossed and turned until dawn.