New Shoes

Earlier today, I was checking my e-mail (gmail) and - an anomaly - six different friends of mine, from various walks of life, were available to I.M. It's strange that we live in the modern world of instant communication. Is it a coincidence that, at this same moment, the UPS truck pulled up in the drive, bearing my new leather shoes which traveled all the way from England? "Hey, man," I said to the UPS truck driver, who looked like Migraine Boy, except only slightly more Scottish. "Hey," he growled from behind his Oakley Razorblades (c), thrusting the box my way.

The drawing above is a self-portrait, but I'm saying Victor Hernandez's words. No, not Victor Hernandez Cruz. Just Victor Hernandez, a poet from Mexico City stranded in the U.S. of A. He's saying "I do not understand this. I do not know how I ended up here. I do not even know where my People are. But under all this not-knowing, there is an aspect of myself that watches softly, that does not need to understand, for there is nothing it does not see or know, including all that is inevitable. My human eyes yearn to know what this hidden portion of myself knows. My human eyes hunger, and covet, and search. But the inner eye simply watches. In rare moments, the two eyes meet and a wave of serenity washes over my being. The engulfment that says Everything Is Good. Between those moments, however, my eyes reflect the hunger of my destiny."