there you go, and all the rest

(The following is from an email I sent out during my time in Mexico over the summer – not sure why I didn’t post it here then, so I am now.)

I’m having an amazing time. So amazing that it is difficult to try and sort out specific moments/events in my head, but in an effort to justify this email I will persist.

This film festival puts all others to shame. Profound shame. The filmmakers are treated like royalty, and – as such – there are so many special events (dinners/wine tastings/etc.) for us that it’s gotten a bit tiresome, and difficult to find time to see actual films. Sunday morning there was a “Hair of the Dog” brunch in a crazy-fancy restaurant, which essentially involved us sitting around being served free drinks and gourmet tapas for three hours as a swarm of Mexican media hovered around taking photographs. Later that night they showed “Tartuffe” (old silent film) in the town square accompanied by a symphony orchestra and followed by fireworks.

Here in San Miguel the festival puts the filmmakers up with residents – I’m staying in a huge apartment with an older expat artist named Roland. I have my own bedroom/bathroom/balcony, and his apartment is on top of a hill with a view of the whole town. Roland is in his 70’s, originally from NYC, and has been a painter all his life. He inherited the apartment from his father, who lived there until his death three years ago. He is a fascinating man and has gone out of his way to make my time here even easier than it already is, and we’ve become fairly good friends over the past few days.

San Miguel is indescribably beautiful, and it’s hard to walk around without taking photographs of everything.

Tomorrow the festival shuttles us over to Guanajuato for the second leg of the festival, where they put us up in a hotel and (I’m told) the events get even bigger, which is (truly) hard to imagine.

So there you go, and all the rest.


I don’t blame me

I spent much of the past week being pissed off about this ridiculousness with the subletters, during which time they bombarded me with phone calls from restricted numbers and essentially behaved in the duplicitous and childish way they’ve been behaving from the start. I got an email from Laura on Monday in which (among other things) she patronizingly explained (using psychoanalysis) why I was being so difficult and then explained why she was right. At one point she actually wrote “I am a very smart person,” which is a phrase usually reserved for the mentally retarded or (as in this case) the delusional.

So I decided to give in and move my shit, not because of anything that anyone had said or written (although I’m sure this will be the assumption), but because I simply need to get on with my fucking life. When I went over to the apartment on Friday, I noticed that the stuff I’d left had multiplied significantly, and now included other items from the apartment that the subletters didn’t want – neat. I said nothing, I just smiled and moved it out as fast as I could, while noticing that the apartment smelled like cigarettes, which is against the provisions of the (still unsigned (Laura’s job)) lease. I really hope I don’t have to deal with those people again, as I probably won’t be able to smile next time.

Anyway, that’s done.

I drank a lot this weekend, and the hangover that resulted was profound and overwhelming. It left me virtually immobile for much of this afternoon, and there’s nothing I like more than wasting my Sunday nursing a hangover. I don’t blame me, though – sometimes the demons need a good alcohol flush (or two) to be exorcised. I shan’t be pissing on the floor or stabbing my privates with a crucifix any more, god willing.







As it is

Without boring/depressing you with details, I will write that the aftermath of the breakup continues to get worse. The situation with the subletters is the main issue, and last night it resulted in a screaming phone conversation complete with threats and accusations and the word “lawyer.” Situations like this really bring out the worst in people, and her worst continues to surprise and sadden me.

Until the phone call last night, I was having a rather good weekend – I’d just gotten back from a housewarming party, and was planning on museum-hopping with a friend this afternoon. As it is, though, I was up too late last night trying to process and calm down, and this afternoon I’m struggling to get moving. How long is this shit going to keep coming back to bite me in the heart?



7th & 9th