Tuesday 18th Feb

I’m currently sitting in the courtyard of my apartment in Antigua, Guatemala, listening to the crickets, my tinitus and what’s presumably a Brit over the road shouding “Olly, olly, olly. Oi, oi, oi.” etcetera. Even when you think you have escaped the lord’s grip, he will remind you of his mighty reach and power.

It’s my second day in Central America, which means I survied the New York cool-off period before travels. Between being flogged infront of an audience, catching up with special souls, and teaching the gays of Hell’s Kitchen that there is indeed more than one way to have your hair cut, I reckon I gave the short stay a run for its money. Thank you to Todd for hosting me – It’s always so grounding to be reminded of the gentle company of timely friends.

It’s those time-fed friendships which keep you most honest and true. Thats why, upon my arrival, Todd promptly remarked that I looked like a ‘Bushwick Tramp Hedgefund Baby’. This sort of candid nature would not have been nourished with the gentle leaves of a germinating friendship. But, as those lush green leaves turn to bark, charcoal, or maybe even crude oil beneath the earth’s crust – we learn that the only worthwhile action is truth. Along those lines, It would have been dishonest if I had retorted to Todd that he looks like a waining twink, so I did not.

Having now landed in Guatemala, and finding myself mostly alone, I’ve come to quickly appreciate the calm my friends and family must have in order to sound my vulgar blurts and sometimes embarrassing sense of humour. Now, by myself, I am submitted to my own torture, and have gained a newfound understanding of what it means to be by my side. You’ll be glad to know my notes are filling up quickly, and as of yet, all thoughts when slept on, bar one, have been observed as completely unremarkable when consumed over a morning coffee.

The one, however, that’s really stuck, is a bullet poem written while walking through Gowanus (gross yummy mummy industrial area of Brooklyn). On my way past a couple coffee shops, a school, some hairdressers etc., I was struck by a certain manic nature, which I channeled into my Tim Cook Cauldron™️ – let it conjour up hell. Do read it as you light a match to burn your crotch-worn Lululemon leggings atop your ex-boyfriend’s ‘✌🏻’ embroidered cap. Sprinkle that flame with week-old piss and chicken shit.

• Hair cream
• Wu tang gang (tshirt?)
• Kick the healthcare out of me (foot fetish though.)
• If you are the Bank of America 
• Venmo me that toothpick money
• Hair cream
• Organic tacos juice with pizza and pasta (etc.)
• If your preschool is my meatloaf
  • Look up and see the insurrection
  • Skip with me
  • Cancel your yoga class

Wednesday 19 Feb

A confession: I started writing this on Day 2 of being in Guatemala, but now it’s Day 3 and I’m still writing, so I’ve settled in a little more by this point in the newsletter. That poem? That was yesterday. I’m better now.

Again, it’s 9 in the evening, but a different energy. The owner of the appartment complex is sitting in the jacuzzi with his boyfriend (nice surpirse). They’re both enjoying a Lana Del Rey omnibus with a platter of what I presume is Guatemalan sausage rolls balanced by the water. Once my spanish is good enough, I, too, hope to va-va-voom in the jacuzzi with them. But alas, this week I’m still Alan Carr on Holiday waiting for my Amanda Holden to arrive. They’re giggling amidst long, pensive silences – the sure sign of two philosophers at work.

Tomorrow, like every morning so far, after making war in a local cafe toilet, doing my homework, and working out, will get to work. I will channel my inner-golem to scrub my clothes in the bottom of the shower. Legs akimbo, toes between the grates, I’ve never felt more connected to my route chakra. The owners told me they’d do my laundry, but so far I’ve recieved two pairs of socks back better suited as willy warmers (I’ll let you imagine your own size, and God bless you if they still fit on your foot). Hence my dedication to this skelatinous ritual – a spell to avoid looking skimpy around conservative Guatemalan boys.

In the afternoon, after taking my hips to their limits in the shower, I usually join my spanish teacher for class. 52 year old Sylvia waits for me in a tropical garden. We sit there for 5 hours on green plastic furniture discussing politics, local gossip and exorcisms in broken spanish. She tells me Guatemala has a gay ex-president who sauced his little twink into a governmental position, and that if I wanted to do the same, the Guatemalan people would hate me too for stealing their money in the name of romance. She also tells me that the number 25 in Guatemala is not just vientecinco, it’s ‘choca’ – the phrase used to describe someone who is blind. I am ‘choca chico’ now, and if it weren’t for this being somewhat derogatory, I’d have it tattooed above my ass crack.

Sometimes I feel like love-bombing Sylvia, but I hold back, because I know that by week four of our lessons, she will feel what now she does not know. By then, we’ll be listening to The Killers through shared earphones on the rubbed-bare back-seat of the chicken bus, and I’ll be throwing grapes into her mouth as she reads my tattered flash cards aloud. We’ll grow old together, and I know it’s not your usual ‘urinals in the Queen Adelaide’ kind of love, but you’ll get over it.

No book talk this week – I left Blessings on the plane right before I finished it, so I presume It’s being enjoyed by a fruity air steward between meal services. He’ll be looking at the way I folded the pages to save my space, wondering who hurt me as he learches forward to the touchdown at Gatwick. The truth is I have indeed been hurt, but it’s got fuck all to do with the way I fold book pages.

I’ve recently started ‘The Orange Eats Creeps’ by Grace Krilanovich. Naturally, being a surrealist-psychobilly-crustgoth-type novel, I’ve yet to understand a single word. I have the impression it’s a better-than-you-goodluck-understanding-this-crap page turner, but if things change, there will be notes. For now, I hope this quote will suffice:

[The vampires] dry hump reality, with only a tenuous grip of decent living. they live parenthetically to organized society. Slutty first and foremost (sorry Nan/Grandma), an organizing principle, united by teen vampirism, hunted by militias and bounty hunters, reviled by polite dads and police everywhere.

If anyone can decode that I’ll give you a foot massage. Both left and right.

So that’s where we’re at, really. More additions to come to the bingo, and I’m still taking suggestions. Please for the love of god send me ones that will fit in the bingo squares in the last newsletter. Jamie sent me a bible-sized suggestion and I’ve had to cast a spell on his dance shoes to teach him a lesson about using his brain.

If anyone has any PDFs going of good books send them over. I’ll put em on the e-reader like the nark i am.

Thursday 20 Feb

I didn’t send out the letter yesteday because I got distracted, which means you get to read this little update today.

Lucky me, I was invited to va-va-voom in the hot tub with the owner and his boyfriend after school today. Shit was kinda awkward to begin with because my spanish is so abismal so far.

While dissolving into the water, I took the liberty of asking the couple about their Lana omnibus last night. As it turns out, the owner had very little idea who Lana Del Rey was. For him, and for older family members reading this, her music sounds akin to the gentle cries of a baby birthed by Kate Bush, who smoked during pregnancy due to the insuffereble melancholia of the father, Nick Cave. His boyfriend, Brian, however, is a more serious fan.

This feels a little sinister on the boyfriends behalf – slowly doping a mid 40’s man with audio himbo potion until jeans turn to jorts turn to booty shorts, and all is lost… or gained. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same.

Alas, time to clock off. I’ve got nothing good left to say.