Walking Around It so happens I'm tired of walking around. I'm tired of walking in zig-zags and curliques and figure-eights and circles even to avoid the plants. They are after my clothes again; each plant, I don't care what its Mexican name is, has spines designed specifically to attack my gringo clothes. It is like warfare. It is a cultural situation: they don't want me here. Plants have jaws. They yell at you. Get out. You walk around them gingerly so as not to disturb them, to rouse their ire. It so happens I'm tired of this ire, of getting yelled at each time I poke my body into something. I'm sorry. Fuck off. They attach themselves to my pants. With long langourous strokes they mournfully tear the shirt off my back. They want me naked. And there is a place in a dried up creek bed where the willow branches have long golden threads that stroke you as you pass. * by Norbert Ruebsaat