Before my imagination and my recollection...

become a bannana milkshake of jumbled images, I oughtta recount the last few days.  Not so ironically, I am drinking a milkshake right now...so that not so creative metaphor is really not even "not so creative."   This being the first entry, y'all deserve better than silly brain milkshakes and rants that continue on for rediculous lengths of time before actually recounting anything... But given that it is the first real entry, I'd just like to say: This is a blog for y'all, and thank you so much for having interest in my life.  But, if it gets tedious and too absurd to  follow, I apologize in advance and I offer this disclaimer: this bolg is also for me, as  I attempt to define my relationship with my amygdala, my hippocampus, my mammilary bodies, or whatever mysterious pieces of meat actually send and receive electric shocks back and forth through my milkshake (which I now realize is beginning to melt).  In addition to that disclaimer, I also offer this system of color coding.  

Black (or standard text color in this format)- connective text(like ligaments that hold it all together((sort of))), 

A Green sentence signifies I'm telling actual memories, 

Red-memories tainted by imagination,

  Yellow-ranting (careful, may be abrupt and offensive), 

Orange- memories from before the begging of this timeline, 

Purple- brief arbitrary comments (and an excuse to include purple which is a great color), 

Blue-prophecies.  

The sections continue in their given category until the color changes.  So, before I find myself drinking banana flavored milk, here come the moderately modified but factually based stories.

I flew into Guadalajara with the intention of visiting the University.  We walked down the stairs and onto the tarmac to board a stupid little bus which, after waiting for each of the 40 or so passengers to stumble off the tiny jet we took down here from Houston, drove about 50 yards to drop us off at the terminal.  I could understand this service if we were all crippled in one way or another, but as an able bodied person, I found it absurd.  Just to satisfy I wandered around with my burden multiplying the force of gravity, pulling me closer to mexican soil as I scrambled words around in the comal of my hippocampus, trying to reorient myself, o sea reanimar the mexican part of my brain.  I'm thinking I'll need some tacos al pastor and a michelada to set this process in motion.  Unfortunately for my shoulders, I always consider it worth my while to find a cheap as dirt hotel, even if  I have to wander for hours to achieve this task.  Luckily I found an expensive hotel right away...and  the girl working at the desk happily gave me directions to the district of cheap hotels.  En routa, I saw the shadow of a cow walking up the side of a building.  The cow shadow must have been wearing specially designed bovine golf cleats or something, because it left a trail of dripping yellow footprints on the wall where it's feet had punctured the edifice, spilling neon mustard colored blood out over the building's concrete epidermis.  The blood of a standard office building probably carries hope, ambition and desperation, brought in from the outside in the minds of it's employees, into the heart (the CEO's office) where the hope and ambition (carbon dioxide) are filtered out, to later be redistributed in synthetic form (corporate advertising), and the desperation is pumped back into the employee red blood cells through protein chains of paychecks.  But that doesn't explain why the blood is yellow, or where the cow went that cast this shadow, or why, when I look at the picture I took, the cow is now white and three dimensional the mustard colored blotches now resemble giant cells and the the wall is dripping with shadow blood.   Photos don't lie I tell myself, it must have been the amygdala and it's troops of emotional cues marching posteriorly across the temporal lobe towards the barracks of learned and spatial memory in the hippocampus.  

I was on the train; I love trains.  I'm very disappointed that I haven't spent more time riding them.  Maybe someday I'll take a clue from my uncle and hop one hobo style and end up who knows where.  They seem an incredibly authentic way to travel.  Both inner city metros like this one and long distance spanning freights.  Especially the freights actually.  If legs were genuineness, the freight would be the millipede to the metro's common house spider.  Maybe that's just an outsiders romanticized impression, but one way or another, in a train I don't lose the feeling of an honest pedestrian even though I'm relying on a machine to transport me.  I thought about this until I got to San Juan de Dios, an inner city barrio with ample cheap hotels. I spent 10$ on my hotel room and the (at least) 10$ that I saved by finding such cheap lodging on a 10$ digital watch that makes me look like a power ranger!  Then I set out to remexicanize myself a bit with a bite of tacos and a gulp of michelada.  This was an easy task.  Then I went to a pool hall for a while and had a few more beers with some locals.  I try to interact with lots of people in Latin America, just to leave a positive impression, that of an atypical gringo who cares enough to learn the language and isn't a fat stupid tourist or a heartless businessman.  The stereotypes that the rest of the world uses to understand America are well deserved and well founded, but I do my best to chip away at them bit by bit.  Sometimes I throw starfish into the sea to save them...

That night I tried to retire early, but one quirky occupant, who'd been living in this filthy hotel like a roach for two months, knocked on my door at around 11:30......

let's continue the story in the next blog eh?