Is not this a wonderful morning to be alive? Assuming that you are alive and that it is morning there?
I awoke, sat up, and swung my feet out of my single bed onto the floor. I stopped. Pushed my hair back out of my eyes. The pleasure of it all was nearly overwhelming. I have been bee busy with the delectation of it since. Each moment exponentially better than the last, improbable as that may sound.
The moment in which I write this paragraph is a better one than the moment in which I wrote that last paragraph. And let me tell you something. The moment in which I wrote that last paragraph was a pretty goddamned good one. Of course I realize that there is a love-the-one-you’re-with aspect to this. En este momento.
Earlier on the second floor patio under the luxuriant Perule in the cool of this morning for example, espresso on the ledge, I was watering the potted magueys. The Vermilion Flycatcher, who also lives here alone, up and about, too–waiting for the flies to emerge from their night torpor. The alley cat ambled by, dragging his ass home for some sleep. The Fence Post Cactus in front of my patio with its fruit serves as a humming bird feeder. I never have to refill it. The racket of those muy macho roosters across the way made me smile.
I paused, espresso in hand, to watch the Mexican lady work on her backhand again with the saintly patient Walter. Court Number One is below me. I saw little improvement yet.
Early morning church bells and aerial bombs midweek for some reason. I must check the liturgical calendar so that I can revel in missing the homilies on whatever the dreary occasion. An old pagan buccaneer here disporting in the pleasure dome that is the heart of Mexico. And not a vulture in sight.
Excuse me now. I shall wander off and wallow in the remaining moments of this morning; fill my belly with chilaquiles and café americano at an outdoor table in the sun. This business of being alive is an astonishing thing, is it not? Seems too good to be true.