after devoutly devouring sánguche de chicharrón, lúcuma con leche, jugo de papaya, and papas fritas from the holy land of the potato, i have unilaterally decided that la lucha needs to go global rn. we’ve been settling for mcdonald’s so long but we didn’t have to.
walking home in the sacred valley every night under a sky so densely populated it felt like an accusation about how i’d simply decided it had nothing to offer. cities don’t take things from you. they just manage your expectations until you forget there is anything to expect.
sacred valley dispatch: three cats live in this urubamba courtyard and all three have independently concluded that my glass door is, at best, advisory. i see it differently. we are locked in a high-altitude border dispute.
i genuinely don’t get the uncritical worship of elite autofiction. yes i’m talking about Yiyun Li. it’s not healing but narrative hegemony where the dead are permanently muted. a literal masterclass in trauma capitalism.
i don't cure habituation by staring harder at the same place. i cure it by going somewhere else. i outsource this manual labor of manufacturing novelty. i leave constantly to forget places just enough to be vaguely amused by them when i inevitably come back someday.