Happy Thanksgiving

To the El Salvador comedor owners

After three difficult weeks,

the hunger sensation in my body has returned,

and my apatite is feverish;

just in time for a handful of pupusas tonight

out of Los Naranjos.

But here is my heads up

to the El Sal comedor owners,

apron wearers,

pupusa molders,

maiz, atol venders,

chuko mixers,

horchata sharers;

I am on to you, like

kobayashi on hotdogs, like

santa clause on christmas eve rooftops, like

nerves on the lips

of new-years eve kiss

wanters.

I am everywhere,

and will de-vour

pupusas

till curtido is my credo,

empanadas, pasteles, yucca

till oil pools in my naval.

Four weeks until christmas

I am going big,

then going home,

(returning of course).

Depulping Intro Video: October 31, 2011

"Where's your string?"

(I set pen to page, squared up to my failure; from the notion that blogging is easy, living is hard. If my world is grey, the people written about are painted solely from the motivation to draw from a colorful source).

I built a fence for my father, the summer after my freshman year of college, that, despite his hesitations, is still standing to this day.

There are a few beams, I'm confident he wanted dug deeper, but, at the time, he didn't have the time to stay, and help me through it, only 15 minute intervals between meetings, inspections, and orange-cranberry snack breaks at Dunkin Donuts; which, nearly always began with, "auhhh Michael," rolling his eyes, "I wanted the beams on the inside," or, "auhhh Michael," with hands in the air, "these posts need to be at least two more inches off the ground; the grassline is gonna grow right over the base, and then they're ruined;" meanwhile, grabbing a brick and two-by-four, he suggested I position it beneath the fence, standing on the two-by-four which had, by that point, been placed onto the brick, creating a teeter-totter like effect, hoisting the fence to the desired two inches into the air, where he then recommended I screw it into place; all before, "Oh! I'm late," running quickly back through the house to his truck.

But the one command, I still hear, anytime leveling is in need, is the one to stretch a string.

As if I didn't have enough on my hands, attempting his fulcrum-hoisting strategy, with screw gun in right hand, and six panel, double sided fence held in place with the other, he would call it from nearby windows, or out the screen patio, where he would stand, and watch through, "stretch a string Mike; you need a string; how are you gonna know when it's level if you don't have a string Mike?"

I love my father; I think the fence is fine. That question seems to come to mind, when watching projects like the one today; and when mindful of my life's, metaphorical fence, being unleveled.

The construction is moving quick, and I'm scrambling to learn how to take and edit video, while trying not to overdue things i think are nice.

Bare feet concrete

Drying patio construction at Beneficio El Manzano.

Ever since moving to El Salvador, I've wanted to capture cement mixing in some form. No matter where you go in the country, at every construction site, you will find men mixing their concrete in this manner.

They start by creating a pile of cement mix and sand, before hollowing out the center; at which point they pour water, creating a pool within their man-made crater. They then slowly, and always in pairs, work the the mix from the outside, into the middle, until water has meshed with mix.

I've always loved watching it, and noting the far greater implications for the development of societies. If the states are cement trucks, mixers, and work boots, rural El Salvador is this video, and barefoot.

El Manzano Lab Roaster - Eduardo Mendoza

The best part about this video is the gentleman in it. Eduardo works in the lab at the mill, and runs all the samples for every batch of coffee, therefore he roasts and cups daily, and with my "office" being in the cupping room, made me his pupil.

The kid (30) is gold; honestly, pure gold.

To Eduardo; to the fact that you cannot read this, and to your off-tune angelic voice. You are a sincere friend.

I carry a camera, but the question is does she still call me aperture

it’s, a canon

shiny, clear black,

nice

i bought it new

when she said to

after dry heaving

on the price tag,

it seemed selfish, then

it was selfish now

because between the two of us

we already had four

and she knew so

hers were brown

mine green

and not a person in the world

had ever owned one, or two,

or three,

years

we carried them, to ledges

beside railroad track

to red boots, alaska and back

to lighthouse hammock, augustine

over a stone wall,

up a water,

passed my fear,

fall.

(when all else blurred

she called me aperture

when she smiles

i call her beautiful)

we developed so many pictures

facebook couldn’t handle us

twitter had no place for us

she was my status

is my status

she will be

tomorrow

when i wake

i’ll drink coffee

in my left hand.

and right hand,

holding newness,

rub my eyes,

through a glass lens, and

always catch the suns

glare. (hear me clear).

if buying a camera

sounds good to your ears (you've got four already),

save your money,

don’t finish grading

keep your day job,

and leave.

buy her ice-cream

cone,

walk the boardwalk,

sit on stairs,

walk more.

but love her,

lover

love her

like waves do shore,

like i do,

and when the old man asks,

if you are lovers,

say always.

I took a picture,

wednesday morning, at 4 am

beneath my throat

where my soul sits

midway from my stomach

and sent it in an email

i’m positive it was everything,

and blurry