Disco Magdalena

(written last weekend, I think)
There is a congregation here tonight. A Belgian-Nicaraguan guy, a gal from Quebec, and a man from Demascus have started a discotheque on the porch of this 115-year-old farm house. We are drinking beers where 25 years ago, farmers worked for the Somoza regime. We chat in four different tongues about modern things: music, travels, our friends at homes so alien to this context.

Among these people, who am I? I do not count myself among these backpackers, seekers of adventure and encounters with the other--though I certainly enjoy their company. And though the local people increasingly know who I am, and I spend more and more of my time with them over travelers, I really have more in common with the travelers. It's a strange in-between place I'm in. There are certainly other people like me living around here, and even passing through, but we hardly form a cohesive group.

So I go back and forth between all groups. And this is good.

Still, I'm wishing for some Richard Hugo and fresh rivers full of salmon. Alpine lakes and flower meadows still adorn some inner landscape. I remember bean bags and Coltrane, roof-tops, fresh muffins, the Arboretum, four-square, the Bathtub. It would take a lot to dislodge these things from their places in my identity.