Here's a snail I saw after hearing Carlos Fuentes died.
Just before receiving this email, the homeless, erotic film maker calls from the Mission to tell me he is off to SPPL to read up on magical realism--for one of his new screen plays. Because I called him on the plot of the porn star who loses her legs. Amputees get so much action, don't use disabled women to take-you-low-get-you-high, far too predictable, etc. I also asked him if I was as good as Maraiah Carey, the social worker in Precious. Then, I got him to sign my release and added him to my numbers. Better if we had just stuck to the theme for the sidereal shoot. Stars (Latin for desire or is this reverse?) are out of reach for a reason. Note, Pnina--the restorative yoga teacher said--when the body wants to move in reverse and then allow it.
Aura, Fuentes' perfect novella, in which desire and death are prolapse/enfolded. He took care to tuck it back in for me. Aura as in not the purple light around our bodies, but a crusty greenish old gold light. Catelan
form of 'oro'. But I could be wrong. Have put Aura (I'll be there/Come here--'horita, Aurita) in a box on my alter and lit a mint white candle.
Today, also, I met a man who has been living in an institution for many years, Laguna Honda. A quadriplegic named Felipe (but not Montero). He was bowling in SF City Hall (with its crusty gold trim everywhere). My coworker, who is from Mexico and has run a program to repurpose used wheelchairs for Mexican women, was helping him fit the adaptive Wii control to his head.
The erotic film maker reports to me on the phone that he has done his laundry and gotten a haircut. This seems good and safe. Stale pieces of epithelial cells are falling everywhere. I lay down with the cat while it is still light out.
""Finally you can see that those eyes are sea green and that they surge, break to foam, grow calm again, then surge again like a wave. You look into them and tell yourself it isn't true, because they're green..."
--Aura. Funetes
