good good good good vibration

I lost it.

I had been out and about and when I returned to the park there were people everywhere. Trailers had been moved, Class A motorcoaches were squeezing into whatever spot they could find. The park had filled to the max. After my displeasure of the night before, I was feeling cranky toward my fellow RVers, especially the ones who have been coming here for years (as they remind you over and over) and who "jokingly" think you should give up your site to make room for them.

I had had enough.

I went off on two women I don't especially like.

I cried to The Texans "I want out of here."

I took to my bed and cried some more, hiding from Mrs. Texan, The Skeeper and a musician I had met just an hour before.

I was a fucking basketcase. The last time this happened to me was over a year ago when one of my neighbors at The Home of Dashed Hopes unleashed his alcoholic fury on me and others gathered around my fire pit.

In the middle of the night, as I listened to the fat pigeon of a dog snoring outside my bedroom window and Osita's easy breaths from where she slept on my sofa, the similarities of those two nights came into focus. I have a tendency to take on others' moods, to allow negative energy to gnaw at my nerve endings, and so it's important for me to be aware of that, to center myself and to imagine a grid of protection. It sounds corny - that last bit - but it seems to work.

I feel much better today, even in spite of the fact that plumbing problems have spontaneously erupted all over my casita chica. This evening I have a dinner date with a man who I think lives in his car, some sort of eccentric egghead, and I'm interested in learning more about his life. The Musician is also an interesting guy - talented, handsome and wealthy if he is to be believed on the latter (and The Skeeper thinks it's probably true). Sitting with The Musician was a whore who gave me her necklace when I admired it. She was a sight to behold, dressed in tight black pants and a black halter top with the Playboy Bunny logo over her left breast. She also sported a jagged scar on her left shoulder which looked too haphazard to have been done by a surgeon.

Before meeting The Whore and The Musician I had stopped by the Bicycle Vendor's casa to drop off a bag of aluminum cans for recycling and I met his daughter and his grandson. The Bicycle Vendor wanted me to stay and eat popcorn and watch television with them but Mexican soap operas are a bit difficult for me to follow. (Earlier in the day when I told him I would be over at 2 o'clock he said "Mexicana or Americana?" meaning was I going to pull a "manana maybe" or was I really going to show up?)

This is the stuff I love about being here in this Mexican village. As for the rest of it, I have imagined a beautiful sparkling grid of protection....ohmmmmmm.