lake atitlan is vast, but tiny compared to lake michigan, even tinier compared to the ocean. and this gringo new age community, these indian weavers and coffee-pickers have such a well-contained life nestled amongst these volcanoes. one can easily forget there´s life elsewhere- banks, universities, capitol buildings, squats, salt flats, the massive variety and expanse of our earth.
and ill leave the lake, ill wander... in search of novelty, ecstatic emotions, the sublime?
and deborah will sit every morning in front of her tienda, sometimes blue markings under her mascaraed eyes.
are our sadnesses similar? how does their depth compare and in what proportion to the respective bodies of water at which we gaze?
the vastness of wanderings, the elevation of the intellect, don´t translate to the sublimity of experience.
leaving judgment behind....
Fernando, the mexican artisan I live with says, ¨I love, but I have no feelings.¨he has no attachments, didnt blink when he lost his three thousand dollar golden watch, never cries.
we have different kinds of spiritualities. i like to get ecstatic while dancing, hoot holler and sit in circles of emenating love.
but he is not more spiritual than me and i am not more spiritual than him and deborah with her child at 16 and the rest of her life selling mangos at the tienda in barrio 2 is as spiritual as either of us.
quantities are useless anyhow. didnt marx teach us that?

i hear that as mountains get older they get flatter. imagine a world that will one day be totally flat, all the mountains get old and lose their points, sucked down millennium by millennium to the crystal earth core.
or is there always regeneration?
will there ever be a flat world? will i ever attain equanimity and calmness of emotion?

I better go jump off the diving platform into the lake and cleanse all these ruminations. value? thought? sensuous experience?
´the wilted flower of her youth´
heehee