October 2006: Mesa of Death, Tucume, Peru
The midgator knights of resonance phalange from the ground on Cerro de La Raya, a
mountain renamed El Purgatorio by 16th century Spaniards. Waving like titanium,
their green is purple. Bursting orbs of bristle, brocade and epaulet. Explosions of
rank and reward, indicative of high degree status in Chimchuties. She undresses everywhere.
Taut and ferocious. Muscular and gleaming. Fierce, loving, with no softness. The most
dripping draping pre-sex wetness and benevolence with no presence given over
to sentimentality. She knows I'm watching. She glances over her shoulder, a gleam and
flash of tooth, claw and chrome purple green musculature. She's dangerous. I'm not afraid
of her at all.
It grows dark and I practically skip down the loose dirt and rock of La Raya, goat confident,
no trace of human high foolish. Just sure-footed and aware. My only regret is to not get to
sit in the dark with the knights. But the walk back with Catherine is full of bellyache and
laughter, Huachuma shufflewise. Celebrating this frabjous day with Lewis Carroll’s vorpal
sword, which does indeed go snicker snack.
Hours earlier, on the way up, I thought just to myself of Frank Zappa, who died in 1993 of
Below, we gather around the Mesa of Death, then the fire. Don Blanco asks us all, are you
absolutely free? After a long pause, no one has answered. I volunteer, yes, but don’t forget
about Freak Out and We’re Only In It For The Money.