that struggled to remain glued together in early-morning delerium. Heat from the sixth level of Hell ushered me through clutters of cacti the day before, so when the beginnings of a terrible storm reared its ghastly head in the late afternoon, I welcomed the heavenly extinguisher. The next morning, I cursed precipitation.Retrospectively, I should have invested slightly more energy in pitching my tent while eyeing the storming schmoo, because the pool of water that collected directly above my head defied gear physics and breeched the impermeable skin. In a dreary attempt to dodge the aquatic globlets, I rolled over, expelling a frustrated groan at the tiresome trickle. Moments later, concurring with the unpredictable dispensation of dribbling liquid alarm clocks, the droplets fell into my ear. Understood, I awoke.
Slightly off-balance due to the inequilibreum of my auditory orifices, I scrambled through my food stuffs mumbling ¨fee, fi, fo, fum,¨ knowing that the blood of an Englishman surely wouldn´t do. Instead, drugs were on my mind, the sort that when pulverized and mixed with boiling water, initiate an artificial awareness that salvages mornings for millions of commuters around the world. Black gold be found, I staggered to the outlet that´s conveniently stocked in municipial campgrounds. Rather than fussing with the minute mechanics of a stove that requires honed motor skills, I resorted to the electric water heater common with most maté-gobbling Argentinians.
Cup in hand, prongs posed to release potential power, I inserted the plug. ZAP! 220 volts of agitated electrons went bolting through my system. Coils smoking, cup tumbling, I found the jolt I needed. Awake indeed.
With my wits about me, I realized the error. Metal mug, filled with water, through which an electric current passes. Any elementary electrician could have foreseen the resulting surge I felt pulse through my body, but with only a fraction of neurons firing, I fell victim to the painful results of learning by doing.
Later, still feeling a slight tingle in the point of conduction, I became
excited at the prospect of improving my luck, seeing a bountiful crop of cactus fruit. Sifting through the overgrown barbwire, I plucked a plump speciman, still cool from the shade of a poplar grove. The thorny lobes were easily dodged, but what I didn´t expect were the microscopic spines that covered the fruit itself. The slivers dug into the crevices between my fingers and remained there for the remainder of the day. No matter how desperately I scoured my palms, scores of thorns evaded my extraction attempts. Even my tongue managed to get stuck, perhaps while licking the corner of my mouth that, apparently, had also been afflicted.
Omens have never held much water in my pool of thought. If they did, my plans would have led
me into a comfortable living room long ago, where nothing but the glare from a window behind the blaring television could harm me. No, I interpret experiences with debateable logic, not interpretable mysticism. This way, I´m able to cruise through a series of seemingly dooming encounters with the knowledge that, at a certain point, circumstances will improve, just as sure as an uphill will eventually cease, opening the floodgates for a thrilling descent.
Cup in hand, prongs posed to release potential power, I inserted the plug. ZAP! 220 volts of agitated electrons went bolting through my system. Coils smoking, cup tumbling, I found the jolt I needed. Awake indeed.
With my wits about me, I realized the error. Metal mug, filled with water, through which an electric current passes. Any elementary electrician could have foreseen the resulting surge I felt pulse through my body, but with only a fraction of neurons firing, I fell victim to the painful results of learning by doing.
Later, still feeling a slight tingle in the point of conduction, I became
excited at the prospect of improving my luck, seeing a bountiful crop of cactus fruit. Sifting through the overgrown barbwire, I plucked a plump speciman, still cool from the shade of a poplar grove. The thorny lobes were easily dodged, but what I didn´t expect were the microscopic spines that covered the fruit itself. The slivers dug into the crevices between my fingers and remained there for the remainder of the day. No matter how desperately I scoured my palms, scores of thorns evaded my extraction attempts. Even my tongue managed to get stuck, perhaps while licking the corner of my mouth that, apparently, had also been afflicted.Omens have never held much water in my pool of thought. If they did, my plans would have led
me into a comfortable living room long ago, where nothing but the glare from a window behind the blaring television could harm me. No, I interpret experiences with debateable logic, not interpretable mysticism. This way, I´m able to cruise through a series of seemingly dooming encounters with the knowledge that, at a certain point, circumstances will improve, just as sure as an uphill will eventually cease, opening the floodgates for a thrilling descent.
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