What to do for fun in Papantla, from July 10

What is this feeling, boredom? Every time it comes, I grow anxious and almost desperate to drown it out, suffocate it however I can. With boredom comes its companion, a deep, lurking fear that life is meaningless. All the actions we do are meaningless. But what is meaning, anyway? Who really defines it? Is that really what I’m looking for? And why am I driven by that fear, that thought? If I let myself keep thinking, I’ll probably spiral downward. I see meaningless and meaningfulness as two sides of the same coin, the same reality that’s just perpetually spinning around and around in the air…

I feel more and more like I’m in a waking dream; isn’t that reality is, though? That sudden, shocking thought surfaced I when I was still so little, just a kid of 4 or 5 years still haunts me: what if this is a dream too, and I’ll wake up any second? Is this the truth? Is there truth?

Life seems so strange right now- I’m sitting in my lightless room and can hear the poor retarded kid making strange noises and laughing outside my door, perhaps on the stairs. Whenever I see him, I think, how does he work? How did this happen? And if I can’t relegate him to human status yet I still respect him as I would a human, does that mean human and animals are all on the same page? The only thing that makes our species think we’re better is that our limited view point and ignorance of the future makes us think we’re the best there will ever be.

Where does that kid live? He’s always here, but I saw Polo the elder being sort of rough and cruel with him, making him carry that big box of rotting stinking trash down the stairs on his dirty back, like a regular Quasimodo, coming down from the bell tower. And Polo is so aggressive, he gets this glint in his eye and I could see how it could be intimidating. That combined with his disheveled out of control eyebrows and crazily glinting silver teeth; might as well be a star in a horror film.

Who is this boy? Where did he come from, who is the stranger that gave birth to him? How old is he? What does he do? I’ve been politely ignoring my own questions, and smile and make small talk with him as much as I can to cover my discomfort and guilt. I barely understand a word he says, but when I saw him on the street he yelled something after me, and earlier he sat at the top of the stair behind my office; I don’t know if he was watching me, but it seemed like it. He is always curious about what I’m doing in my stair step office. Que haces, amiga? I tell him like I tell everyone- working. Talking to my boss. The less questions the better.

Which reminds me- Enrique and I bumped into each other twice today- the first on my way to go find some fruit for dinner, and he walked with me to find there was none and then walked with me to get water. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks. I tell him my friend is coming and I’m going to go visit Linda to go visit the waterfalls. “When will you be back?” I tell him I don’t know (and if I did I wouldn’t tell you, I’m sorry). He continues this painful dialogue with an equally painful look on his face, as if he knows he’s a dog being kicked but keeps coming back to whimper, just to be kicked again. He said, “Would you mind coming with me for a second? I’m going to give a guy a massage.” At first I thought he said he was going to give a guy a message, so I agreed, trying to play it cool, and when I figured out what he really meant and we arrived at the man’s house (which was really close) I bowed out really fast and said I had to go. “But wait, I’ll walk with you.” And he walked toward me as if there was no question. No, no thanks, I almost plead, I can make it back fine, I’m ok. Esta bien. I’m worried he might see right through my thin mask, whose veneer is peeling off at the prospect of him following me to my apartment. “Are you sure?” he says, repeatedly. Yes, I’m very sure, thanks. See you later! And with that I turn and walk away, feeling like I just barely got out before the shit hit the fan. The people in the house had looked confused the whole time, even after we had walked up and Enrique said, “oh, this is a friend.” I wonder what they thought; I tried not to look into their faces. Did they think I was some loose little American girl? Did Enrique want me to come so he could show me off and insinuate something that didn’t exist?

I got home safely, did a mandatory email check, and went upstairs to read or something (I already can’t remember!) Soon I got hungry, and so walked down to the corner store to get some peanuts. On my way back, lo and behold- Enrique calls my name in the dark. I call out cheerfully back to him. Play it cool, play it cool. I don’t even think he would really do anything, I just don’t want to give him the opportunity to let the thought even enter his head. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me. Leave me alone. Just 100 ft to my apartment. I offer him some peanuts, and we repeat the painful dog whipping; he seems to have forgotten the answers to all the questions he had asked before. Perhaps he’s smitten. He almost looks like he’s ready to climb the stairs ahead of me (good god, he knows which room I live in!), but I don’t even go near the stairs. I stay and do the dog kicking, declining his invitations to hang out with a cool face and vague lies like, “well, my professor said she’d be on after 9 to talk” (after asking him the time and saw it was 9), and “oh, I don’t know when I’ll be back but we’ll probably see each other since we always seem to!” (no I don’t want to see you again, bug off!); with perhaps obvious relief I abruptly blurt out, “Well, since we don’t know if we’ll see each other again thanks for everything and it was great meeting you!” He looks confused, a little hurt; perhaps he could feel my real thoughts. Ok, he says, yes it was wonderful meeting you! And shakes me hand a couple of times, kisses my cheek, hugs me in an awkward attempt to hang around for a little while longer while my mind is already hurrying up the stairs, getting away, feeling the relief of his absence.

What gets me is the not knowing- can I trust him? Is he just a friendly, lonely guy looking for a friend? He seems nice enough, but I just can’t take that chance. It’s too risky, and I won’t go down that road. I don’t really feel guilty though, unless by not taking a risk it will have been my own loss.

And as I walked down the dark street tonight, I clenched my fists as a huddle of men, standing in the dim puddle of light cast by the leaning street lamp, turned towards me to look. Or at least so I imagined. And I imagined all the dirty things they were thinking, my jaw clenching as tight as my fists, my eyes growing hard and angry. Don’t look at me, or I’ll beat the living shit out of you, I thought, over and over, more and more angry. I’ll beat the living fucking shit out of you, assholes. Don’t try anything. I felt like I shouldn’t be angry, I had no evidence of what they were thinking, and I have no responsibility for that, anyway. But those same fantasies I had as a kid alone in the car, in the parking lot of the grocery store came back; try to touch me and I´ll kill you.. All that anger, twisting me in it’s hot fury, hot lava spouting from a well of deep hurt and fear whose origin I know nothing of. Fear cultivated by the media? But I think it is deeper than that; when I was so little, no older than 4, I got so angry at people looking at me in my bunny costume. “Stop looking at me!” Mom reports me saying, in a hissing voice poisoned with hatred. What is that hatred, what is that fear? Can I tease it out with rationing and thoughts, or will I just have to do the hardest thing, cut it free, and just let it go?