A slight downward bend in the street, one block of buildings on 2nd between E & F slightly lower than the other following blocks.  This means, to me, that here once flowed the dry creek draining down from the canyons and gulleys in the hills where the zeburros now sleep in their corrals every night above 4th and 5th streets beyond the park.

It is morning now and they awaken to be led through west end streets six blocks east to Revolution Avenue where they will pass their day munching on dog chow and posing for photographs with the tourists, in front of donkey carts they never pull anywhere, only stand in front of... life is bizarre and "appearances" are everthing, as the Teflon President - a true gentleman I never dared vote for although my grandmother died happy knowing he had been elected - well, that should have taught us all by now twenty something years ago yes that appearances are EVERYTHING and here, in the net web cyberlabyrinth yes you never know which Ariadne Theseus thread will lead you where or when or how.    Yes and it looks like I just told you the burros walk by here on their way to the palace of Minos at Knossos on Crete, well, frankly, my friends, THEY DO NOT I am only remembering how they sleep up in the hills and then walk down 4th street, NOT 2nd.  Speaking of "appearances" Mister Poetpresident No lies please, only... um... disinformation misinformation blogformation diaryablog heh.

I eat breakfast in a hole-in-the-wall on 2nd street near the slight downward bend in the street between E and F next door to the Gnostico cult classroom upstairs and across the street from some motel hotel or another I think it is the Vagabundo but cannot read the sign from where I sit indoors scribbling and when I come to type this later at the internetcafé I will not change this because I shall forget to look as I go out the door saying goodbye thank you etcetera, but breakfast is good and costs me thirty pesos next door to the slight downward bend in the block that says ancient streambed, vanished arroyo, ah yes, geography and the finger of a river.  The river.

A block away, still in this same little mini-watershed, this corner of the "flat space" where they built old Tijuana, over there up against the hills, yes, see... well, now it is all sprawled out to big downtown Tijuana, and the neighborhood laundramat lavamatica is rumored to have its own well from the bygone days before there was no aqueduct (improper use of negative gotosiegheil pedantic grammarprig) and people depended on the water table underground, not on my internal debate as to how to write or speak, depended on something REALLY relevant, WATER, to live and survive.  Without that language is just dried up and dead and I would write nothing nohow what?  What.

But no one drinks such well water in town, no, not now, or at least not without massive filtration and chlorination or at least a delicious process of reverse-osmosis purification which leaves your water tasting rather good like it came from a mountain spring instead of the aqueduct (I never think I spell that word right).  But I IMAGINE (imagination warning - possible makebelive alert) that the well water serves to wash clothes en masse when the city water shuts off (yes, we have water in pipes, here, and electricity and gas and telephones and all that modern $#it heh heh).

There have been times when all the west end of downtown has had our public water shut off, both at Michael's house on 6th and mine on 4th, and when we went to wash clothes down on 2nd street the laundramat was functioning, well, truth be told that only happened once, but there you have it, the birth of rumor and diaryablog "truth" Pontius Toilet asked what is truth are you the king of the Jews who died and made you God?  He did, of course, and they flushed him good.  But I believe, that is true.  Even though Suzie doesn't speak French and her mother, who does, is not Jean d'Arc.

Ahem.  Where was I?  Oh yes.  Eating breakfast.  I wrap a tortilla around the scrambled eggs with ham and eat it, then scribble scribble.  Look how fast he is writing, the waiter says to a regular (funny how you can always tell who is a regular in the little hole-in-a-wall lunch counters yes no matter what language I expect even in China too you can tell ai ya gung how fat choy same to you buddy) says to a regular and so we start talking about this web page and they laugh when I tell them the name tijuana gringo yes but it is still hard to talk fast like them in Spanish and I am only writing in English but yes I do write fast and type type type type this later yes I ad this part and embrace the misspellllled word add it's all a big advert for me self bla babel on meanwhile in babylon the b@$tardos terror blew up 20 more yesterday WHAM thank you Mr. President for getting u$ into That hell siegheil no way I vote for you, no, thankGod for elections yes goodbye ranchero go back to Texas and execute more people than anyone else, thank you.  Watch out for UFOs, however, they are collecting samples.

Ahem.  I do write rather fast, shooting from the hip as it were, run on stream of consciousness shoot from the hip cowboy heh yeah me too I am one loose cannon yeah I even watch Oliver North on TV although DISagree but hey this IS freedom God bless it all yes.

That perhaps is the source of my style run on style, the speed which I write is not as fast as thought, of course, but still

it is not still, not standing still unless I calm down and

gaze into the water

shortly before falling in and drowning as I attempt to

embrace       and  make love to

the

m  o  o  n

like

that old

Chinese poet

whatshisname Li Po

may b e       y e s