"Beam me up, Scotty"

I have come home and it is a fairy tale land. With water that you can drink from the tap, tomatoes that do not have to be desinfected before you eat them and bikes on which you can go anywhere. And no-one stares at you, I am free and I even love the rain.
Like in fairy tales there are also evil events and people, but I keep my world small, just as small as I can handle for the moment, although you cannot escape all of it. The photo camera shop does not want to open my camera to see what is wrong with it. "It is a nice camera but it is more costly to repair than to buy a new one." Culture-shock? Throw-away society? A new one costs a lot of material and a months salary, well in Chiapas. But in Chiapas they would open my camera, and simply try. Poverty makes creative and that is what I most miss.

I am happy to see my friends and family, very happy. But at the same time have to be on my own a lot. I sometimes still feel like a scene from Startrek "Beam me up, Scotty", but part of me was left somewhere in Chiapas, and part of me seems to be lost in air above the Atlantic Ocean. I notice at night, when all is still and I look at my blurred photos (all of them failed as there still was water in my camera), that my body and mind are still trying to reassemble bits and pieces. It is a physical experience and it scares me.
But then again, I am probably not made for the modernity of rapid transnational flights.
I want to plant some cabbage plants in my garden, if they root, maybe I root again aswell.

My heart and soul feel divided over an old love that should by now be a new friendship. It drains away all the energy and illusion I felt about my new plans for my internship with Dutch farmers. I feel down and it seems like I am watching all day long to a repetition of a repetition of an elegant dancer on ice, knowing that she will fall on the moment she makes the triple piruette. Knowing it causes me pain and an enormous tiredness and I should have stopped watching by now. I cannot. Maybe because some very little part in me hopes that this time she will make it, as I love her as a part of me, but it is a sad, tragic form of love. I even sometimes wonder if the taped dancer died already in real life, but I dont check the date of the video. Maybe she never really existed. The best thing would be that by her own magic she would convert herself in the dove she has always been and fly away. Set us free, both of us.

To not leave you and me sad, I wanted to give us a tale. It has nothing to do with us, but it makes me laugh like most of Marcos' writing.

http://enlacezapatista.ezln.org.mx/eventos/783/