Lluvia en la Carretera.
Rain on the Highway, Part One.
Surrealistically speaking, the following is a tale of a man on vacation. In the name of magic realism, many of the details have been falsified to varying degrees, though the heart of the findings remain intact. To me, this is a story of the possibilities revealed through deceleration, reflection, and finding a light already within you. The accompanying photographs stand as examples of portals one may allow themselves through (should they be so ready) to look away from the bright lights of seemingly obligatory forward momentum.
The soundtrack for this story may be found on Spotify.
Disfruta / Enjoy,
Daniel Thomas Williams @danielthomaswilliams
In the shelter of the only available shade, I sit pressed up close to the cool stone wall. High overhead, the sun remains uninhibited by clouds. Cross legged in the sand, alone with the ghost of Carlos Casteneda and the washed out reverb of strings, I quietly survey the coast that curves west towards Playa Principal. The surf dissipates as waves crash into the rocky point, leaving a subtle haze of mist that traverses the scene. A salty sweet atmosphere mingles with the subconscious. Shimmering illusions all the more convoluted by cheap lenses. A thin film of dried salt, sweat, and oil, not so much removed but repositioned by the sleeve of an old shirt.
After some time watching the surfers I set out down the beach. Finding a spot as good as any other, I wrap my few possessions into a neat bundle of Turkish towel and place them in the sand. The tide takes me in with a natural purpose, its intentions left unclear. Soaked in salt water, the past events which have led me here and my predictions of events to come dissolve and drift with the current just out of reach. I welcome the severed connection. I do not extend my hand. Nurtured by a nature both compassionate and a threat, it is the waves not the water that moves me.
Ambling through the side streets, the past tense pavement comes to an end and my feet meet the dry sand earth. Out of the corner of my eye, in the shade of the palms, subtle patterns flicker and curl their fingers suggestively, beckoning for attention. Maybe it’s the spirit of don Juan Matus. Maybe an ally disguised in the dull. A subconscious influence lures me to a heap of large stones, though, in contemplation, I see it as space that’s been made. Where there once lay an obstacle, an opportunity for solutions is presented.
Staring into the otherwise insignificant, my gaze is reset at the source. My perspective shifts, no longer internal-out. I see myself from overhead, the set, the setting, and the back of my own eyes. I become aware of the disturbing rattle of my defaults worn thin, though as if by acknowledgment, it settles to a low hum and I am awash in absence. No longer bound to a tangible world, I feel, I see my bare feet barely above the ground.
Pulled by ultraviolet strings from one spot to the next, I become aware of the playful gestures, the hints, offered by the banal. In cinder blocks and bricks I see the reflection of dormant potential. The surrealistic mundane takes my hand and, embraced by the extraneous, I am enchanted.
I awake some time later, as if from a nap or meditation, quite unclear of how or when I made it to my bed. Although confused, I feel no sense of alarm. Upon scanning the room, I easily locate my belongings in exactly the positions I would have left them. Testing the door, I find that it is locked. I pull open the curtains and take a seat at the small wooden table that rests beneath the window. With my hands placed in front of me, left on top of right, my eyes disconnect from focus on the area just above my knuckles. The floor tiles cool on my feet.
After a brief moment with the white noise, the sound of the beaded strings of the ceiling fan, gently rocking into each other, brings me back to being. With the small trimming scissors from my toiletries kit, I snip down a dry, leafy Mexican bud and roll myself a cigarette. Walking down, to, and through the courtyard of my modest accommodations, I reconfirm my theory that I am the only guest in residence. This feeling of loneliness warms me with a unique comfort.
Taking my remaining mango, the middle piece with the seed, I let myself out into the street and walk down the hill to the beach. Sitting in the warm sand I watch a caballero and his horse saunter by. He raises his hat to me and smiles. At his back, the horizon glows crimson and tangerine. The cherry of my cigarette follows suit and smoke drifts out my nose. I unwrap the mango and settle in to savour its fragrant flesh. Gently pulling my teeth across the seed, juice drips down my chin and plays a silent symphony just for me.
Daniel Thomas Williams @danielthomaswilliams
Lluvia en la Carretera // Rain on the Highway Part Two
Soundtrack on Spotify