As October grows near, I am reminded of my trip to the Yucatán last year.
It was magickal.
I stayed at a resort, and sunbathed on white sands.
Playa del Carmen is probably the most beautiful beach in the whole world.
It is a warm womb of a beach.
It is a beautiful aquamarine, with gorgeous iridescence dancing on its waves depending on the weather.
When I was there, hurricanes were rampant in all parts of the world, including the Yucatán. I was terrified of going, but I knew I had to.
On one particular day, a thunderstorm erupted and everyone ran to their rooms. The seaweed had come to surface and it tangled around my toes and legs.
A reminder of its loneliness.
The roaring wails above me illuminated the sky like a spotlight. Soon, small droplets began to fall on my face.
The best kind of rain.
Purgatory rain, I call it.
I floated like a corpse, letting the waves carry me deep into its middle.
With eyes open, I watched the light show flash like a petulant child, and I lovingly listened to its cry.
I opened my mouth and let the rain feed me its spit.
I drank heavy, and smiled at my luck.
The heat at night would fog up my glasses, and when I walked into that aquamarine ocean in the dark, the water looked black; melted chocolate running through my hands.
This October, there is no trip, no resort and no aquamarine beaches.
There’s no scary plane rides, no turbulence.
There’s just an apartment on Alvarado St., and two humans trying their hardest to do the “thing” in-between working, driving, living, and listening to the rhythm of the silence and the pauses.
“That’s where the magick is,” we say, “that’s where the fucking magick is…”