Rumble: Theatrical Version

“Charlie no!  Charlie no!  Charlie no!”

To these words and to certain canine whines and whimpers, moans and groans I begin to rise onto the day.  Kate is getting ready to go teach sex ed, and Charlie, well “Charlie no!”  (More on the negation of Charlie tomorrow)

Kate’s gone, I’m up, it’s not raining= dog walk.  We are passing the shed where the cows get milked and I stop to say hi to Roger and Carlos (two friends that work on the farm; Carlos is our neighbor).  Kaia obviates the social formalities and goes straight to a bucket of milk that she’s recently become acquainted with.  Charlie is tied on the leash so no such luck. 

We continue on our walk—we being Charlie and me—cause Kaia could care less about us at the moment.  And given that during her 9 years of being with me, she has earned my trust amply, she roams freely, as she pleases.  So Charlie and I go up the hill.  Chepon is coming down, leading the two oxen that lead the cart used to take milk to the cheese factory.  We talk about corn, Ruddiger, hunting, motorcycles, work and the Northern winds that won’t let up, effectively blocking our rainy season (as I type this is it sunny as butt; contrast this to our posts from 2 years ago.  Time’s a changing, and there’s no country for old men…)

Charles and I continue. He’s testing my triceps and biceps, pulling like a mutha.  A quarter of a mile up the road, we stop to see some white-faced capuchins as they eat some small fruit.  A “brave” one, doubtless a male (I see his balls, ok?) gets as directly over us as he can, and begins breaking branches—I think—with the intent of hitting/scaring us. A “smart” one (genitalia unseen), stays back, eating the shit out of an insect nest on the tree. 

“Buah!” The twig thrower barks at us, raspily. 

Charlie is not impressed.  A lady, north American it seems, stops to look at the monkeys too.  “Su perro es muy bien con los animals” she says, pointing at the monkeys.  “Lady, if only you knew” I think to myself. 

We walk on, the road, that is winding. More monkeys, more smart asses trying to hit us with branches. Their aim is terrible, even if their intent is strong.

On our return, right at the spot where we saw George’s curios genitals, I hear a damn loud noise.  It sounds like an 18-wheeler coming down the little road to my left.  The hell?  No way a truck could go up, or down that rocky road.   More noise, more rumble.  Big branches begin to fall, the prequel to trees. 

Maybe those balls are bigger than I thought…

But no.  Aint no genitals got nothing to do with anything now. 

Ah yes, an Earthquake: we meet again.  The thing about existentialism: unknowable outside of the state.  Trancends time, sort of like mystical experiences.  “It” happens, and when not, it is purely a theoretical understanding. 

I’m glad I’m outside, and I’m really “in it”.  It’s like when I realize that I’m dreaming and I allow myself to soak it up so much.  Sometimes it’s too much and I wake.  Other times it blows me away.  Now, I’m not waking and I’m becoming more the sponge to this geological stretch.  Shit, it is pretty cool.  The trees are really moving, and the soundtrack is loud.  It feels like I go 3 feet to the right, then three feet to the left.  There’s no up and down to this one, and this allows me to soak it in better, as I ride the biggest long board ever. 

Charlie is bored.  Can we move? 

It stops shaking and I hear a characteristic yell of a Costa Rican male, the kind you would let out at the soccer stadium if the ref slips and falls on his ass.  It’s a yell to mock, but also to point out an incongruous happening.  It’s an attempt to assimilate congruity. 

Now, the social effervescence.  Now we share stories and check on each other.  Rashomon emerges and the stories bring us closer.  At the shed, I hear how Roger dropped the welder and ran outside, fearing the roof would collapse on him.  He says he thought that Nene’s house would crumble. 

Macario comes out, lighting a cigarette. “No me gusto…”  (I didn’t like it…)  Macario feared the trees (I, it should be noted, feared an electric post).  

“Roger, venga vea” (Come see).  Even though it was Roger who was summoned, Macario and I tag along.  We are characters in this story too, and democracy reigns.  I check in on Chepon, who tells me about the epicenter. His wife is on the phone, and excitement accompanies the breath that pushes her words. 

It’s really nice, seeing no damage, and just being small equals.  I’ve said repeatedly “it was real strong, and long!”, and I’ve received reaffirmation as much as I’ve affirmed others. 

Two missed calls on my cell phone when we return to the house (still standing, intact),  Kaia vigilant at the door (I told you we can trust her.  She has more sense than most of us will ever have.)

I talk to Kate, and she’s good.  She was with Anibal, who led her through the experience (being the novice that she is, geologically speaking). 

I talk to Papi (maternal grandpa) and he laughs, mentioning how Abueli (maternal grandma) summoned all the saints.  My dad is ok.  My sister is ok.  Isabel (in San Jose) is ok.  I’m ok, and Charlie doesn’t give a damn. 

Darwin drew from Charles Lyell in applying an “uniformitarian” perspective, in which small gradual changes over long spans of time result in drastic changes (like the formation of the grand canyon, or the origin of new species).  In 1972, Gould and Eldredge (in the spirit of Cuvier), relive the role that catastrophes can play in evolutionary processes, stressing that punctuations in an otherwise state of equilibrium result in the formation and extinction of species.

There’s a sociological analog to the evolutionary perspectives outlined above.  We live, patterned, gradually, unrecognizing the structures that make sense of our experiences.  These can and do become punctuated by events unexpected.  Yes we live in land of Earthquakes, and yes we’ve been through thousands of them.  But outside of the moment, it’s all ideas.  The experience reigns its own kingdom, and the fall of the monarchy re-births democracy.  We commune and communicate differently, innocently after an uncharacteristic event. 

Art is existential, Miles Davis was blue, and Charlie still doesn’t give a shit.  And you, my friend, from where you sit:  Do you witness geology interspersed with evolutionary and sociological terminology?

Shit, I need another cup of coffee.