We're back stateside now, the world closing in to a fine point, vultures and dogs all encroaching in the dark. The laziness returns, the inactivity. Like a black hole, sapping us of our motion. And so we plant ourselves, sit and watch the sun move across the sky, the day goes down to another, and we watch as life happens everywhere but here.
But that's not going to fly on The Gold. We're here to open it up and talk about the stink... the rotten of the world exposed for all to see. Let the humanity race forward and over the cliff. Let's start in San Jose.
The Capital is the kind of place that perks you up like either a punch in the face or a nose full of thinner. You're going to move your ass here. Sidewalks are rare, cars stopping to let you cross the street even rarer. An acquaintance mentioned that a necessity to bring when visiting any Latino country is a horn in your pocket, just so you'll be able to honk back at the drivers. Because they're going to let it blare if you stumble into the street. It's a game. Some sort of bean-fueled Frogger where nobody seems to care about the outcome. Sir, have you thought your actions through to a conclusion? Because the best I can see out of this situation is a young child impaled through your windscreen, legs still kicking through the shards. So maybe that's why we're all on buses here. That, or the fact that they're 40 cents.
Filth is everywhere, but that's simply a backdrop. The garbage in the gutters is jarring at first, but then you're used to it. The smell of the place lingers - the bus fumes rattle around your chest for days afterwards. A headache is the least of your worries. The 5 years checked off your life by choosing to take that breath through your mouth and not your nose... that's the concern. The rats scurry and play in the ravine of garbage, the smell festering up in the unmoving water. Everywhere there is energy. The buildings themselves seem to move, as we're all going somewhere. It's a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of the city and it's like Carnival. Does nobody work here? Or is there 10 times the population density in the urban areas? The answer comes as we speed away from town, past crumbling casinos and ill-preserved churches. The financial center is a tight ball, condensed and guarded by men with guns. You have to flash ID to use the ATM. You can't help it, there's nowhere to stop. Keep moving, don't look back, and for god's sake, hold hands. You need to feel something other than desperation.
The mountains are a different matter - all wind and atmosphere - peaking above clouds and above responsibility. You could take flight at this height, literally and figuratively, and if your bus catches the wrong rock around the bend, you might see a free fall. From the top of the ridge you can see Nicaragua, the Pacific, San Jose, and a volcano. You can see the land stretch and slope to its termination, the gentle drop of a thousand kilometers, candy for your 2-D Vision. The wall of green and blue, smoke on some distant hillside, and the wind like a soundtrack. Climb fast, and hold tight to the memories, because like any peak, they wear away. The blowing air rattles the windows and unsettles the mind. Things loosen up in the high air, thinning molecules taking longer to grip, the first stages of the bends. Looking down never felt so lonely.
And then for the beaches, that demonic blue pulling you to its crystal berth, drawing you in with the promise of bathwater and a salty recharge. The sun beams heavy, it falls like a slow curtain, enveloping all. Everything slows down, brain included, the waves even crash in long sounding roars. Catch a good view and you can see forever, or at least as far as you would need to. Get down in it, and you can examine the complexity of it all. How can this earth exist on so many planes? If it's that grand, it can't possibly be that ornate. As a friend might say, this is all too kitschy. The island, the reef, the sun, the surf, the breeze at 80 degrees? That's kitsch. Too much. Stop adding things. It's supposed to be simple.
Darkness washes the beach, a sand-cleanse deep and true. The best walks are the dangerous ones, with the surf crashing in some indeterminate distance and shadows creeping along the jungle. Either monkeys or thieves, and the difference lies strictly in definition. One bites, the other howls. Worry seems so wasteful here, to spend valuable mental energy on thinking about anything bad is the closest we come to sin. We pray to the sun, and we worship in all that it brings.
This world will be gone soon, all worlds go down to the black night, and new worlds are born in the sweet residue. The ever-changing politics and economics dance along with the climate shift. The coral feels as much of a crunch as the GDP, possibly more. The system will continue to feed until it dries up, and then New Ideas will come forward.
Until then, we can laugh. And we can swim. And in amongst it all, we can speak to each other and the world.
My speech is a physical one. My worship is a returning. My life doesn't slow down.
You know, I haven't had much of a chance to talk to you man to man, Russ. 
