Sunday, July 5, 2009

Being Filthy

I´m filthy. I have scabby sores on my legs which originated over a month ago as simple horsefly bites on Rhiannon farm. My Leatherman knife cut my finger (while attempting to open a bottle of wine in a hostal that outlaws booze). My feet are black and brown with Loja city grime. I am peeling. My hair is still full of sand. A black ball-point pen burst in my slacks´ pocket. I got shit on by a bird while drawing Iglesia San Francisco. There´s a spot from Patate on the leg of my slacks. I haven´t been in Patate in three months. Deoderant doesn´t work.

I really don´t feel bad about it. I really looked forward to a hot shower upon arrival in Loja from the beach. I have yet to follow through in over 72 hours in Loja. In an entire day of eating, drawing, walking, I wasn´t able to make it to the lavanderia to wash my clothes, cause I don´t give a shit.

I´m wondering what this means. What is it that keeps me comfortable, even more comfortable, a bit grimy? Is there some sort of ideological thing that it stems from? Am I just downright lazy? If there is an ideological underpinning, and I get a job wherein I have no choice but to bathe often, will I be violating something important to me? Think on that.

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