Listening to composer Erik Satie’s Gymopedie No. 1, sitting behind a desk here in southern Mexico considering suicide the way one should consider dessert.

I managed to make myself sleep from about 8 am hasta 3 pm today. I kind of victory but I’m not sure who would be celebrating that type of victory.

Why the classical music? Because I’ve never heard this symphony before and I’ve not had the chance to attach any psychological meaning to it. YET. After this listen, I’m certain it will be impossible for me to listen to, though I must say it is rather pleasing so far. I fell asleep listening to Gustav Mahler this morning mostly because starving junkies can’t fall asleep to Velvet Underground’s “Waiting for the Man.” Listening to some Hezeltine after this.

I’d enjoy watching or reading a bio of Oscar Levant if one exists though Amazon doesn’t ship this far south. You can’t even get a birthday card down here. The mail is a longshot, unless it’s a bill from TELCEL. I used to tell my friends that if they wanted to write me down here to find a TELCEL envelope or an envelope with the name of some Mexican business on the return address so it looked like a bill. That’s the only kind of stuff that gets delivered, in my experience. Mail is delivered by guys on bicycles here. I’ve only seen maybe four of them in my three years living here. It’s possible I’ve seen all FOUR times the guy came to deliver mail, actually.

I watched “On the Road” last night. Such an awful book after you’re older then 14, but I was interested to see how this one looked. Really, it’s not Kerouac’s fault, but he comes off as a moron. All the romance of actually going on the road, living without possessions has been stripped from this pelicula in favor of sex scenes, which, if you’re going to do them, might as well do them right. The closest I think to reality was when the Steve Bushemi character takes it up the arse from Neal Cassady in a roadside motel room. Then, the next day in Denver, having just arrived, Kerouac and Cassady sit down at a diner to eat and then as soon as the food comes, Cassady complains about having to earn money that way and then goes out to presumably look for his lost father. This is not the way genuinely hungry people act. They don’t leave as soon as the food comes in a restaurant. Kerouac was such a drunk that his liver basically exploded one night but is never shown really even drinking for the most part. The closest is when there is a montage depicting the kids slamming open tubes of Benzadrine and removing the paper inside and then putting it in their mouths. But they do this as though the stimulant is really some kind of LSD sugar cube. You shouldn’t be allowed to depict drug use unless you’ve actually used, I think. What kind of a moron would intentionally include scenes of heroin addicts seeing a baby crawling on the ceiling ala  Trainspotting? I don’t guess that Scottish heroin is cut with DMT, but you never know. William Burroughs is depicted as a loving husband albeit one who is nodding off with his baby in his arms. More believable, though Jane is depicted as sweeping the lizards out of a tree. Probably based on fact. That kind of speed use can do things to your mind. That kind of not sleeping can do things to your mind. Peggy from Mad Men plays Ed Dunkle’s wife. Who knew that Ed Dunkle would end up marrying the girl from Mad Men?

Walking home after talking with my friend David whose father is 85 and is married to a woman of 34. He has 10 brothers and sisters, all from different mothers. He thinks he has about 65 sobrinos. His oldest sister is 60. His youngest brother is 8. He thinks he has about 20 other bothers and sisters that he has never met but who knows. His father owns a mezcal farm, or an agave farm I guess is more accurate. At one time, the cartels approached him to grow marijuana and poppies for them. Then about a few years ago they stopped bothering. All the junk that the cartels sell is made in labs these days. Meth and fentanyl more or less. It’s the most profitable. Now, instead of worrying about the campesinos stealing opium or the feds raiding the land, the cartels can focus exclusively on killing their rivals to secure trade/smuggling routes. This is thanks to the legalization of marijuana in the USA. It’s not profitable to sell weed here anymore. You can buy a kilo of dirty pot here (meaning uncleaned, with sticks and seeds) for about $35 or so.

A Canadian friend once asked me to obtain some pot for her. I received a huge shopping bag full of it from a guy I know. It cost me about $15. She wanted some and she had people staying at her house who wanted some. I tried to estimate correctly but they turned down most of it. They paid me $1000 pesos for some fraction that they’d pay $60 for in the Us or Canada. It didn’t even make a damned dent in my supply.

A hitman costs about $50 here, though there’s always extra hidden charges, such as body removal. Those vats of acid aren’t free. The murder industry is like the Columbia House record and tape clubs from long ago. Seems cheap up front, but from what I’ve heard you end up paying for shit you don’t want every month afterwards.

Monday is the first day of school for the kids here in Oaxaca. They will not be going. The CTNE, the militant teacher’s union is striking again and have threatened to “hunt down” any teachers who show up for class.

When I can occupy my mind with enough “stuff” I am not as suicidal, but it’s very hard to do most times. I’m supposed to get up at 10 am tomorrow morning to eat tlayudas with my friend, Adan. First, this means any time from 11-1 pm in reality. Or, it could’ve just been a polite way of leaving for the night.  Or, based on his own particular algebra of need, he might show up at 10 am on the dot expecting me to be ready to go. Which would actually be a bit rude if I wasn’t a gringo.

This business of suicide. It comes over me quickly like thunderclouds. Suddenly, I want to go stand in the middle of the road and see what happens. I’m sitting here trying to pull my hair out. Drinking milk. I feel a tickle in me somewhere –a tickle that can’t be addressed without a huge amount of heavy bodily pain very soon. Like now. Feels like being a heroin addict and waiting for the sounds of your connect opening the door. You can hear every squeak. The sound of his car among thousands of others. Dope-addled synesthesia.

I’m going out for a walk.