Friday, September 30, 2005

Continuing in Mexico

The good news? I haven't had a cigarette in four weeks and Kathleen's up to nine days or so. The bad news? We've been fighting, the stress unbearable.

I talked to the Mexican D.A. today and he opined that we should be done in two weeks, max. Heard that before. Because it if takes longer, we gotta move. We live in a crappy upstairs room along a main central bus route where the choice is between diesel poisoning and a heat sauna by closing the windows against it.

I often wake up and throw up. It's been better since I quit smoking, but I still wonder, in my doctor's way, if I don't have some chronic cancer irritating the diaphragmatic nerve and making me cough and then throw up in the AM. Then I haven't been losing weight, which is a good sign, and I've let my hair go a bit and almost have a comb-over.

Being in limbo on a toxic street in a foreign country where we know our stuff and dog are being held for ransom roughly three doors down is no fun. If we go to pet Kenyon under the locked, opaque metal gate he whines and cries. Better no contact, I guess. And how much of our stuff is still there? We won't know until the police check. Today the DA said Monday, providing we get two more declarations from the guys who helped move our stuff in there.

Private attorneys won't help. The process proceeds. Later plans to pay police or brigands or breach the castle 0urselves must be put on hold for now. I don't want to end up in a Mexican jail.

Though you could say I am in one now.

Poor Kathleen. Every day we check to see if her hearing mold and tube have arrived; maybe today. I'm here at the mail place waiting for them to unpack all today's boxes. She is shut out socially without her aid; she needs the volume to match to the lips. I never knew how much it helped before. And naturally this puts a strain, along with everything else, on our relationship, as it's hard for me not to reflect some exasperation when I must repeat something four or five times before she gets it. Writing on paper is preferable I think, and we should do more of it. It's just so damn inconvenient.

But she is being more and more marginalized and isolated and I fear is at the end of her tether. I'm nearly at mine, fighting the onset of depression, haven't entirely succumbed yet, don't want to go down in the black hole, do have medications for prevention, but hey, I am a third-generation manic-depressive and if enough stress accumulates I'm going to go up or down. The disease can always override the medications.

I have not tried to be humorous today. I can't seem to summon enough perspective to let the famous Chaffin black humor shine.

Every dog has its day. Let's pray Kenyon gets his.

All for now, Dog!


Monday, September 05, 2005

Held Hostage in Mexico and Tortured by the Deaf

Writing into the electronic ether today from Mexico, having now been here over three weeks, our return to Northern California delayed by the ransoming of all our possessions including Kathleen's hearing-ear dog, by our former maid who was to watch over them and who herself is worth half a million.....

Incomplete sentence fragment above derived from gerund for those watching. Is anybody watching?

Mexico, land of dreams. Our former maid is mainly Indian blood, denoted by her long braid worn down the back; yes, I have thought of cutting it off, but she might become even more imbalanced.

Whatever you leave with Indians becomes theirs, apparently, at least in her mind. Court crawls forward and prosecutors are polite and investigators are thorough but nothing is done, naturally.

For any who wish to read more on the Mexican mindset I've discovered in my years in San Miguel de Allende, may I recommend a terrific essay in Eclectica by yours truly:

My pulp fiction novel is 60,000 words into the second draft; Jim Zola and I are soliciting for the last issue of Melic, as most of you know; and this is my fourth day off cigarettes.

I claim no glory as they were killing me, literally, especially at this altitude of 6000 ft. where diesel fumes choke the streets and dust rises everywhere. God, I hate Mexico! But I can't seem to escape.

Bad joke of the day, original:

Why didn't Jesus have a dog?

Because he wanted to be man's best friend.


My heart goes out to the victims of Katrina but I swear my first wife was worse.


Kathleen had her purse, with passport and hearing aid, stolen, and now it's harder than ever to talk with her. Hearing people really bore her. Why I keep writing? We have a spare and are awaiting a mold and tube from my sister to restore her 5% bass capacity of normal hearing, which though little, seems to make a big difference. But for now conversation seems too much work for all involved. So we point at things. Ga ga, goo goo.

One comment will give me enough courage to go on blogging. Sorry for the long silence, it was unavoidable. Here I am at an internet cafe with my aching back that pays the bills.

All obsecenities you can imagine put here:

(regarding my luck in the last year and a half.)

Thine as ever,

C. E. Chaffin M.D. FAAFP, Hostage

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