San Pancho, MX Spring Soltice This little town is very much like old tyme Brooklyn neighborhoods. For example, anything one needs is available from the back of a truck or Chevy. There's even the Mexican variety of the Good Humor Man complete with bells! Need tools or fishing line?

"Perhaps some spray paint mucho colores, I can make you an incredible deal you won't believe!"

Kitchen appliances, knives sharpened, pastries on Friday nights? Veggies several times a week, water, propane or live poultry? How about shrimp, octopus or hosiery? Some vehicle will soon blast the news of it's arrival throughout town on external speakers hooked up to tape recordings. "Propana ggggaaaaaasssssssssss."

Cheap boom boxes? Go to the corner on Tuesday nights or wait for the Thursday mercado in la pi–ata. Or, don't wait, just sit in your car and blast your sounds into the street and everyone's living room!

On warm evenings, everybody is outdoors in front of their homes. Many kitchens are outside in the rear. If there were ten steps like in Bensonhurst or Flatbush, folks would be sitting on them while watching children chase each other up and down cobbled streets as the older ones worked on homework beneath fading afternoon light while dogs chase each other for a piece of ass. Just like Brooklyn. Buenos tardes!

And, as if to prove that wherever you go, there you are, when I got back to town after a week in Sayulita (to clear this space out for a while) I walked directly into the oncoming wave of scapegoat energy. Ain't nowhere to skirt around when they're coming at you with lies, innuendo, false statements from third & fourth party hallucinating witnesses within ugly small town politics.

Seems a thirty year-old single mother from la Cuidad, who's been living here the past couple of months, flipped out big time complete with visions of taking her child's heart out, Aztec style. One or two of the Argentinean Women swore to many they saw this woman in and out of my RV several times in the three days prior to her episode.

"Phoenix has salvia, he must have dosed her and then left town!" was the lie I heard and it was spreading.

So much bullshit. The women ended up being hospitalized by a local beach living Columbian doc and I spent some time with him when I got back to town.

I first checked in with Mr. Big which may have been the brightest thing I've done in my entire life! Big is a gringo with fifteen years in town, the first gringo to relocate here, married to a Mexican women for almost thirty years and he's the unacknowledged Gringo Mayor. Big stands 6'7" and is close to 270 lbs and all of what ain't gut and muscle is heart! And, he knows everyone in town and what is going on.

Big translated between me and the Doc. I had already accomplished a meeting of minds with Big's Argentinean woodworker contractor after he earlier had very very angrily confronted me in the street in front of his shop threatening to take me apart! His wife and the flipper are close and since he is also Argentinean, he was privy to the lies of at least two whining woman who obviously are vision challenged from observation points two hundred curved meters away from my casa.

The truth is always the funniest part. The flipper women has never been in my RV or even over for a visit. I left the salvia in Calif prior to my return here. Then we find out she's a manic depressive, had been hospitalized at least three times prior, had never raised my name to anyone in connection with her condition (at least she wasn't hallucinating that!). Contractor, Big and the doc all believed me, the Argentine circus is almost run out of town, and funny enough, one of those liars has been ill since my return proving effective the finger I pointed at her belly when I confronted her after speaking w/ Big & doc and flat out asked her if she saw Ms. Flipper near my casa or told folks she had been there. she say me, "No", to both, webbing herself deeper and for good. Then her stomach got into turmoil. Sorry baby!

Meanwhile, Ms. Flipper is with her father who seems to be in some denial about his daughter's condition after getting her released from a week's observation.

And Friday, enjoying a late morning siesta I'm awoken by a guy MC almost tore into as he approached the napping puppy protecting his napping food source. The guy, let's call him "Joe American" asked if I'd mind if he pulled up here. Dropped the names of Big and another guy who is a new and close friend, and said he needed a spot to park his camper for a couple of nights. "Of course" I replied. "There's a lot of beach," as he begins to mark off a spot about twenty feet directly in front of my RV and my front window to the ocean and the palm trees and the world.

"How about to the side instead of in the middle or god forbid, since I have been here for almost three months, perhaps someplace behind me that wouldn't block my view?" of this soon to be sold off multi million dollar beach access.

His attitude was so "fuck you!" that I pulled up stakes and left only to have Big, after I had already hugged him "goodbye see you in October" tell me to go back and tell the gringo he said to move out of there. Didn't work, but when I pulled back into the spot I had earlier vacated, at a slightly different angle and now most of his vehicle was no longer in my direct view (lending credence to the physics of the outcome of a chaotic action can so alter perception and so significantly alter the question that the logic and new reality [and of course, old] is twisted!) Early the next morning, the guy pulled out and hopefully won't be back.

He doesn't know how lucky he is that there's a lot of Brooklyn out of me, (yeah, a shit load remains!). I'd considered and dismissed all of the following by the time he woke and left: superglue in all his locks making it darned near impossible for him to exit his camper shell or to open the front doors; bananas in his exhaust; towing him into the bush; flaming his entire rig (my flame thrower is right next to me!); leading a pack of stray barking dogs back here after I wake at 4:20 am; snatching him his own personal rooster and some other things not that pleasant with morning coffee or in mixed company.

4:05 AM, Monday, 22 marzo 2004

Time wanders in and out with the tide. Thousands of nano-seconds have ebbed and flowed like quantum waves in a quantum ocean, onto ocean beaches of time and space. In their wake are shells and sand and life. It or they mean nothing and there is nothing and in great abundance this nothing is everywhere.

Today is my last day on this beautiful stretch of Mexican beach. With tomorrow's first light, I head north leaving behind good will, fine vibes and energy and a cleaner beach. My moop patrols have been successful and I'll leave a roll of garbage bags tied to that palm tree over there!

I'm almost out of weed, which is not a good thing, not having a supply to reach the border. Today I'll find a nickel bag, just like Brooklyn and send email to Malibu with an ETA!

Doesn't appear as if I'll be back in this spot come end of October. Hopefully, I'll have land and/or a home. But then again, it's just a (bus) ride and the world could end if I ever got on the right bus at the right time but since we are all still moving, especially while standing still, every boarding has been the right trip, and I am of course just exactly where I am supposed to be. That's how I arrived. How do I know and confirm this? Because wherever I go, there I am.

Dar thinks this incredible and about to be developed 5,000+ sq meter piece will be under construction (of course by him) by October. Thinks he just sold the lot ending the feud between two SoCal gringos who each claim title, saving them decades of Mexican courts. Five homes on the beach with ocean views and a swimming pool. After it's landscaped, it will be difficult to view one home from another. when complete, it will be worth in excess of three million u.s. dollars! I don't camp out in cheap locals!

Of course I asked him about being "grand-fathered" into a section of the space. If you don't ask, you'll never hear "No" and never have a chance to hear "Yes."

So, it's time to round up $60,000 to purchase Puerko's back 1350 sqm piece, the one with killer ocean views and a south and west slope and half a steep valley just awaiting landscaping. A 30x20 level pad will cost about five thousand to fill and level giving me the potential of a ground floor, one above it with a rooftop deck & palapa, and two floors stepped down - the bottom a rental. For an additional $120,000 I could have an incredibly gorgeous home looking west to the ocean about a half-mile and nicely tucked into the hillside.

There's money down here and more moving south by the day. Folks who rent homes up in the gated gringo village report their phones "ringing off the hook" since the AARP article. There are very definitely many more tourists, and not kids on Spring Break, here in this little town then any time during the previous three months. Skewed in the opposite direction. Gringo retirement interest in this coast is already driving up the value of land and there are already at least fifty thousand U.S. military veterans retired between Puerto Vallarta and Guardalaraja. (Accding to U.S. Consulate.) On a stroll through town yesterday, Sunday, I observed gringo couples in front of each of the closed Real Estate offices taking notes on the listings.

Yesterday I saw up close a women sharing a table with a couple beach acquaintances who's camped up the beach a bit for a week. Shy to approach beautiful single women, I avoided her. This morning the three of them were having b'fast at Dar's and I asked if I could join their table. MC cuddled up next to me. After a while, the two other guys left and we began to talk. A lot of what she shared I somehow knew and man, that's strange! There's an instant familiarity we share that's good. Her openness opened me like an ocean crater and a beautiful couple of hours of sharing rounded off a great shrimp omelet b'fast.

I've been dreaming of this women for hundreds of years. I've seen her at concerts, on the beach and in towns and villages on two continents and always with a partner. Sometimes, I get the glance, "Another time," or "Yeah, that was then."

The first time I saw her this lifetime we were both kids and in Flatbush, around Avenue I and 22nd, on the same street where my Great Aunt Dolly and Uncle Joe lived. Her name was Marcella Greenbaum and we were both fourteen and wondered if we'd be adults together. I didn't see her after that summer but have thought of her for forty-five years.

Black hair, thin and strong and muscular, clear grey-blue eyes and high cheekbones and thoroughly Italian, thirty-five, single, oh, so bright and an artist. Calls herself a Gypsy, and this child of the Summer of Love, is. Tattoed on her back is a bird coming out of flame. This means nothing Phoenix, I keep repeating to myself! The old mantra.

There's nothing here for me in the present however, just another fine female friend from another dimension some time ago or to be. She's somewhat afraid of love yet desires to open back up to that phenomena and I'm so used to being single and by myself. My world is already perfect. A good thing I roll with the morning sun. If she asks, "Will you stay with me," I ain't going nowhere!

Brooklyn is everywhere.

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