Which is to say that the only true thing about California is the land...for the people, the equation es caca...those poor souls of San Francisco and their identities, their polo-tics, their sex and more sex...I was a dead chained soul amongst the chains of dead. I wanted to be one of those brave enough to live with art...”only those who know the ocean ponder death...” So to the ocean it would be...
2
And here I am. Costa Rica. This night I was afraid. That a voice comes in the night where having sat in the dirty and dark kitchen of the whores I had dreamed of, igniting the incendiary and guileless blood that was now bursting up and out of my lotus heart, caught in the grip of enemies...I was so afraid. The enemies are the mind, the doors, the broken keys, half starts...I had been walking in one tremendous Calle de los Blancos and it was March in Central America...I was reading Lawrence for the second time...”Sons and Lovers” and am thinking now of “Women in Love” with its strange hesitating paramours like begotten children...and the children I had found myself eating cinnamon fried plantains with some mornings...whores, or their imitations, children, lovely generous children...the whores and escorts; the truth; they’re all coming at me here, from fetters, from chains, from beatings...to slander, a twisted form of truth from Maya...all are bandits or Imperials...I was thinking the other day in Belize that romance was invented by John Lennon...
But back to Belize...My mother had moved there after thirty five years in Colorado...she was divorced from my father with the malaise and the sundown...tho’ it was she who fled the Colorado winter...I was also a broken man, a cuckold, a failed dying bird, orange and black and red in the throat...I had to leave San Francisco to find boredom, to somehow break my heart there...there was need for complete break and it would be my will to subjugate desire to its own ends...I will make masterpieces and I will make bombs...I have this image of myself over a typewriter and there is death on the page, on these very blood tracks...It is this recognition, the rotting personal detritus, the air around my failures that has brought me to the brink of dispassion and an awkward grace...
-Michael Price
