It is here at the waterfall where lovers unite and embrace,
and smile and pose, shrouded in hazy vignette.
Behind, the white column divides the cliff,
suggesting symmetry where none exists.
The balance is beautiful from below,
from a distance—
The white tongue laps up the same water it’s poured,
flinging glittering droplets into the air,
saturating the moment of romance,
which is beautiful from below,
from a distance.
However,
The real swell-in-the-chest euphoria
is to abandon what is safe and climb,
to look from above, from behind,
to peer down the mountain at
beauty born, lovely and new
So I climbed.
The stream it at peace with its fate as it accelerates to the edge
but I am unsettled and I follow the flow, chasing it
to its terminus, where the known unknown
draws me closer, closer to the edge.
I swell with energy and advance
toward the roar, to the edge
until I am looking down
over the edge
into the mist.
When there is no continuing on and the river drops
a settled soul might sigh and retreat
and descend safely to
postcard moments.
Scenic frosting.
But today, the river carries me
over the edge and I am
falling, falling, falling,
waiting to disappear
into the mist.
I had gone to Misahualli, Ecuador with a water engineer to bushwhack through the nearby jungle to find the source of a clean stream of water. Turns out the water wasn’t that clean.
So we spent some time in Misahualli. In the village square squirrel monkeys bounded about on balconies, roofs, and trees with no fear of the cars and people of the town. Every new visitor intrigued them, but the monkeys’ curiosity was not harmless.
You see, the monkeys of Misahualli are heartless criminals. They steal. They’re interested in visitors because they’re scouting an easy mark.
The best thieves work in teams. One is the actual perpetrator and the other keeps watch. Or not…
Occasionally, the partner serves like a magician’s assistant by being a distraction. I was the sad victim of one of these clever plots even after I’d been warned.
“Watch your things closely here,” my friend told me. “They’ll take anything: hats, bags, food, or whatever they can get their hands on.” He seemed disinterested in the farcical performance going on around us, but he added, “And a little warning: if they do take something, you’re better off letting them have it. If you try to take it back from them, all of them will jump on you. Watch your things. They’re thieves. You laugh, but I’m serious. I was throwing a football with my son when a monkey intercepted a pass and scurried up the tree with it.” He laughed as he recalled what happened next. “It pealed open the football like a fruit. It didn’t like what it found inside and tossed it back.”
After a quick snack, I headed alone to the town square. I saw one monkey sprint down the plaza carrying high above his head a small bag of Doritos he had just swiped from the local market. He approached a bench, leaped several feet into the air, reared back and slammed the bag down with a loud pop. The chips spilled out and he and his friends gobbled up the nacho cheese goodness. These corrupted primates don’t subsist on bananas but on chips, candy, and soda.
I had a bottle of Coke and my camera to snap photos of the monkeys. I was tentative at first, keeping a safe distance. Slowly I moved across the plaza until a little devil raced by my feet and under a nearby bench. I took a video as it moved a rock from the ground to the bench.
What the hell is he doing? I thought. He was putting on a show for my benefit. Suddenly, his partner sprinted behind me and attempted to snatch my Coke out of my other hand. The bottle fell between me and the monkey. We stared each other down. I knew I could take the little critter, maybe scare him away, but I remembered what my friend had said. I didn’t want to end up under a heap of monkeys, scratching and clawing at me. Finally, it snatched the Coke and ran off. Then the fight ensued.
They understood the concept of a twist off, but couldn’t quite get it. Finally, they found a local sitting in the park. The monkey ran up to the guy, jumped on the bench next to him and placed the Coke between him and the man. The man looked at the monkey and shook his head like a parent disappointed in the antics of a child. Nevertheless, the man opened the Coke and gave it back.
I am fated to meet her one day
and as she awaits me,
weaving her stories as great authors do
and preserving evidence of her existence
on the flax paper of a burgeoning scrapbook,
I do my best to avoid her as I craft my own story
that at the moment seems to be going nowhere.
Nothing I invent rivals the vast arcs and clever ironies
the sadness and humor
the suspense and tranquility of her epic creation.
She is omnipresent
through my mundane tasks and mindless activities
through my successes and failures, which seem minuscule in the grand scheme.
What stories could this character inspire?
I never evade her pursuit because she is one step ahead,
always knowing where I’m going.
I am fated to meet her one day
whether I greet her at the front door
or let her sneak in through a pried window.
Fate will find her way in
and we’ll sit together
reminiscing on our story replete with pivotal moments and plot twists I’d missed,
all the clues neatly placed as in a perfectly unfolding novel that I didn’t quite get until the very end.
I found the following gambling story of Monte Carlo in an 1882 issue (Volume XXXVIII) of Baily’s Magazine of Sports and Pastimes. The factual basis of the story is about as dubious as a fairy tale, but the writer of this piece found no need to question its authenticity.
The hero in this story is a man who had come to Monte Carlo not for the gambling but to watch the pigeon shooting. Because Monte Carlo never overtly advertised the casino but instead showcased its abundance of gentlemanly activities, there were a lot of men who were in Monte Carlo to pursue purer interests other than gambling. The modern day equivalents are the people who claim they go to Las Vegas for the shows.
Anyway, after watching a fair amount of birds blown from the sky from the platform located behind the casino, our hero wandered through the casino as a spectator, had a nice meal, smoked a pipe, and went to bed at 11:40 p.m. (I love how precise details are scattered throughout the story to make it more believable).
At 3:00 a.m. his dream began. (I, too, keep accurate logs of the precise hour when my dreams begin)
“Listen,” said a voice that seemed to address him; “listen to the hour, it is striking three; there the last stroke has been struck, now look at that procession, it will begin to-morrow exactly at three;” and there passed before him twelve priests, each bearing a banner on which was inscribed a number alternately in black and red ink; following the priests came two little girls, bearing a waving sheet of some fabric, on which was printed: “You have seen your fortune; go and seek it!”
When the man awoke the next morning he had the wherewithal to immediately write down all the numbers and the corresponding colors in his notebook: 19, 17, 36, 13, 29, etc. He must have known these would be important.
After having breakfast he decided to wander back to the casino to spectate a little more. He waited until the clocks read 3:00 before he approached a roulette table. It was just then he had the sudden realization the priests of his dream were relaying a message to gamble their numbers. He placed two Napoleons on 19. The ball spun round and round, and lo and behold, he won!
The next time he doubled his stake, and when 17 hit, he won again! He bet on 36 then 13 then 29 and came up a winner each time. He continued this for all twelve numbers but never had the courage to bet more than 5 Napoleons. The writer of the article concluded with the following assessment:
I only wish that I could have such a chance, I should go the whole maximum and no mistake. Being the narrative of a dream, I dare say many persons will think the foregoing story a pure invention, but I have every reason to believe it true.
If it were me, after the 11th consecutive win, I’d have been sweating bullets that I was just about to be simultaneously struck by lightning and consumed by a tornado while being attacked by a thousand stinging bees.
It’s one thing to ascribe great gambling wins to incredible streaks of luck, but I find stories that attribute gambling success to divine intervention particularly intriguing. If gambling is a sin, would God reward a person who commits this sin? The next Monte Carlo story is one that I’ve encountered in multiple sources even thought it’s the hardest one to believe.
A noble lord was having a bad week at the tables and took a break from the casino. He stopped in the church but stayed only through the last verse of the hymn preceding the sermon.
He slipped out and took a stroll toward the casino, the music and words of the tune still in his head. Simply wanting to watch the action, he had no intention of gambling once he entered the game rooms.
From the table to his left, he heard the croupier call out, “Thirty-two!” He suddenly remembered that thirty-two was the number of the last hymn he’d heard in church. From the table to his right, the croupier announced “thirty-two” as the winner. He knew he had something here so he approached the table ahead of him and put all the money he had on him on thirty-two. Of course, he won. He moved from table to table playing the same number until he’d won £500.
He told friends of his story and the story quickly spread around Monte Carlo. The next Sunday the church was packed. The offertory was as large as the church had ever seen as the parishioners contributed a little extra for good luck. Just before the last hymn was announced, there was a hush in the church as everyone bristled with excitement. As soon as the hymn number was announced, there was a mass exodus to the door. Everyone hurried to the casino.
By several accounts, many were successful playing the hymn number at the roulette tables.
The non-gambling members of the congregation were shocked by this behavior. The church quickly made it a rule that no hymns under 37 would ever be sung again.
What I love most about the story is its inclusion in a short book of gambling systems published in 1902.
There’s no attempt to discredit the story, and in all seriousness, the author offers the following conclusion:
“The moral of this, when you have discovered a really good system, keep it to yourself.”
DF Salvador 