ambo's mundos (next) ((not last just next))

This is already well-established, then.  What this is, then.  This story, told from the other side of the grass, from my point of view (one of the dead ones), and told all over the heads and hearts of these few people that I have decided are important enough to me to pay attention to, and there is a complex web of relationships that might not be altogether related very much at all altogether told, but if they do all have one thing in common, it's that they have not forgotten how to talk to the dead.

That is exactly what makes this a love story, then, not because those who don't believe in ghosts can't love, they can, but it's entirely different, and a different kind of passion, then the kind that builds with intensity, intensities based sure on friction and physics, repetitions of movements of the flesh that wake it up and make it hungry, but also here for the necromantics it's that these movements also wake up the cells of the ones who passed on, and they want to come back, and their only chance is through trances or trance dances or occasionally through another birth.  But no one is getting pregnant in this story yet, it's not another human birth that I want, that would be another story altogether.

But it is a love story, it's always a love story, the pilgrim who progresses through sloughs and things isn't interesting me these days, because he ends up pure in god's love and light, like all pilgrims do, and that's one reason among many that I can't stand pilgrims.

The reason we're still in the Mundos shop is because it's not done yet, and in truth it will never be, because everything in the world/s happens here.  And the best things that happened here are things that haven't even happened yet, so while he is trying to think about what to draw on her napkin to let her know something important, there are other things at work, things that have nothing to do with who he or she might be right now.  On certain nights of the year, lovers are stuck in time, stuck in spaces they once were and never could leave, because they left pieces of their hearts there.  Out in the back, where no one who is of a pilgrim lineage ever dares to go, there are a hundred pancakes, half-eaten, left in the dirt by the lover who chose the object of her affection over the butter, and if she were ever to come back, she would see a hundred versions of herself, looking for traces of half-finished meals, wondering if she hadn't made a bad decision.

It's not a story about bad decisions, though, because all decisions are right if they are made, and if she were to look around long enough, she would find the signs he left for her on the wall that sealed him to her for a time longer than she imagined would be something he wanted.  If he were to visit, and stay well past dark, in an abandoned house that no one ever lived in, he would see the things she drew on his chest with her nails, and he would also see the marks of the other lovers that marked him even long after he was convinced her marks were the last.

All to say, they continue, this genetic material continues to take root and form, and tries to find the right path, when sometimes the only right thing to do in the dark is to say happy birthday and wait for more light to come, when the morning seems to be refusing to turn, but it always relents, because it is being pushed by the ocean.

He is in the shop, then, drawing something on her napkin, and wishing that she would turn into a mermaid so they would never have to worry about having to pretend they were perfectly happy being mortals, with court cases and circumstances and desires that come to make spirits feel less than light, and chained to the bones that don't want to know who they are. 

(and more)


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