Eric,
I’m writing you this email to let you know that this dead man has really fucked me up. It didn't before, but it is now.
I haven't had time to process it--seeing him, smelling him. Bouncing back and forth between my favorite chemically contaminated community of mission and Tucson with their no more deaths, i haven't taken time to let this all--my life, these travels, this weight—sink in. It has.
I’m going to give you something, and i don't think that I’m going to give it to anyone else. No promises.
"All I want to do is shout and sing and laugh and cry and dance, dance, dance. Dance. Dance in full-on sweat. Dance with my face buried in some woman's hair, my body pressed against hers. Dance
until the throbbing music becomes my throbbing body. Boom. Boom. Boom. Dance until my legs go tired, my arms go limp, my feet burn and I sit, wasted and euphoric.
I want my body to ache, and I want to be completely, utterly depleted.
I want to dance just to remember that I'm alive.
Jesus, what a privilege. To be alive and to be healthy. To have a family and friends that are alive and healthy. Well fed. Housed. Privileged."
It's not just the dead man: it's the poor and the mother fuckers who ignore them. It’s the contaminated and the lawyers who take advantage of them. It’s you and me and those who actually want to do something, anything, and those who just don't care.
I'm crying the middle of a restaurant, and the waitress keeps asking me "if everything's okay." How
ridiculous.
Merry margarita,
I’m writing you this email to let you know that this dead man has really fucked me up. It didn't before, but it is now.
I haven't had time to process it--seeing him, smelling him. Bouncing back and forth between my favorite chemically contaminated community of mission and Tucson with their no more deaths, i haven't taken time to let this all--my life, these travels, this weight—sink in. It has.
I’m going to give you something, and i don't think that I’m going to give it to anyone else. No promises.
"All I want to do is shout and sing and laugh and cry and dance, dance, dance. Dance. Dance in full-on sweat. Dance with my face buried in some woman's hair, my body pressed against hers. Dance
until the throbbing music becomes my throbbing body. Boom. Boom. Boom. Dance until my legs go tired, my arms go limp, my feet burn and I sit, wasted and euphoric.
I want my body to ache, and I want to be completely, utterly depleted.
I want to dance just to remember that I'm alive.
Jesus, what a privilege. To be alive and to be healthy. To have a family and friends that are alive and healthy. Well fed. Housed. Privileged."
It's not just the dead man: it's the poor and the mother fuckers who ignore them. It’s the contaminated and the lawyers who take advantage of them. It’s you and me and those who actually want to do something, anything, and those who just don't care.
I'm crying the middle of a restaurant, and the waitress keeps asking me "if everything's okay." How
ridiculous.
Merry margarita,
ryan
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