squeezing time.

Or maybe, perhaps, simply improve my Spanish and learn to love that lispy accent more (I speak Mayan-edged Spanish, which is a second language for the people who taught me how to speak it, too. Moreover, the first Spanish I ever learned was peppered with (unbeknownst to me, for months) Chilango slang - the Tzutujil wanted to know why I talked like I was a street rat from Mexico City…

Anyway…

The offer has come up - fare and a place to stay in Barcelona - and, possibly, the chance to teach English.

I have slept in my own bed twice in almost a month - between loving and flying and New York and a festival this past weekend and, now, work tomorrow out on some land about forty minutes away, I’ve been living the gypsy lifestyle again, and I’m still paying rent.

Why…

I begin to think I’m in a warm-up period - getting some practice living out of bags again so I’ll be prepared again when the time comes, and I believe it’s coming soon.

This, out of all other options so far, seems most feasible to me. Yes, feasible. Flying off somewhere wonderful and as of yet unknown is actually far easier for me to deal with than attempting to fill a societal role I seem more and more incapable of doing.

In September I will have lived here nine months. When I signed the lease I was a little suspicious of that - I questioned what, exactly, I might wind up birthing at the end. I considered various things and tried out various others. I’m almost ripe to bursting now, and still clueless as to the nature of the thing inside me that’s about to come out, but life is starting to appear more clearly now than it has in the haze of hormonal attraction and rainy winter.

Cool, then, let’s get on with things. I’m ready to spread my legs, squeeze out a masterpiece and fly.