Mexico Or Bust: An Answer To The Question Of Why The Fuck Am I Here

"Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape." 

- William S. Burroughs

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Some of my faithful readers, more so those I count among my friends in the real world (meat-space, as some say) have had one question above all others for me in the last few months; "Why the fuck are you moving to Mexico?"

[[To the right is the United States, to the left is Mexico, don't go swimming here on a hot afternoon.]]

So this post shall at long last attempt to answer that question. To a lesser extent other questions that went along with it, some of which were somewhat insulting to my intelligence, but I don't hold grudges.


OK, that last statement is a total lie as anyone who knows me can attest. I've always blamed being half-Native for that (the other half being Hispanic, a people stereo-typically not known for controlling their anger in the moment) . We hold grudges. We hold grudges like its our fucking job.


The only thing I have found that differs between us is how quickly we act on those grudges and in what fashion. The wisest among us will wait and simply trust that tribal gods, the universe, fate, karma, Jesus, call it what you like, will answer whatever slight or insult began the grudge (but still hold onto it all the same). Then there are those of us who are quick to anger, and will answer a wrong or insult with swift and blinding violence before it has a chance to become a grudge, then hold a grudge anyway. Native Americans are the number two ethnic group killed by police officers each year in the United States. I am in no way saying that is entirely our fault, but we do tend to react violently to threats. Understandable in a historic context, after all, what did passivity and compliance in the face of armed men in uniforms ever get us?


Both examples can be found in my family/tribes. I take after my mother somewhat, thankfully. She was violent, but not at all quick to anger. She had a fuse longer than most. Usually. I'm the violent type as well, but have a fuse so long that virtually none of my friends or loved ones have ever seen me loose my temper, not even in a fistfight.


My mother was a kind woman, giving, loving, and generous to an extreme fault. She was also a brilliant scientist, an accomplished driver of fast sports cars with the Ford Mustang being her personal favorite, she was not terribly good at avoiding speeding tickets however and was perpetually one point away from having her drivers license revoked (and then probably burned) for most of my adulthood. She also had a temper. She was very slow to anger, a trait I thankfully inherited from her, but when she did lose her shit it was something to behold, provided you were not the target of her rage. I saw her cow a lippy (and incorrect) lab assistant with a stern look, I witnessed her square up to a grown man of substantial size (6' 2" at least, and a good 300lbs) and have him back down apologetically. My mother stood 5' 2". He later asked me what the secret was to dealing with her when she lost her temper, how I had managed to survive to adulthood. Easy, I explained, I don't piss her off.

“I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.” 

- William Blake

I once saw her use a heavy, shiny, stainless steel toaster from the 1950's as a flail when she was insulted and shoved by someone. She casually but quickly grabbed the electrical cord and swung it as hard has she could, like a medieval knight on horseback. The sound and sight of the toasters impact on the woman's jaw is one of my clearest memories from childhood. That, and then watching my mother expertly uppercut the stunned woman into, and through, a plate glass coffee table. Hey, it was the 80's, glass topped coffee tables were popular for... reasons.


The slight that started that one-sided fight involved the woman insulting my mother after my mother had extended her a great deal of generosity, then having the nerve to attempt to shove my mother around when she asked her to be a bit more respectful under the circumstances, and in my mothers own home. Most sane people would consider the matter settled after a one-sided fistfight like that.


My mother held a grudge about the insult and shove that started that fight for around 30 years, despite the woman's sobbing apology, and the required medical attention and dental work. The woman told the paramedics and police that she tripped and fell, while my mother stood over her, starring at her, holding me in her arms, with a cold expression that under the right circumstances and in the right location would have insured that Satan needed to ice skate to work.

Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before - it takes something from him. Louis L'Amour
Read more at: https://www.brainyqThe point to all of this is that in my experience those of substantial Native American/First Nations blood are damn good at holding grudges. This is something I have struggled with my entire life, and thankfully have managed to mostly jettison along with some other unwanted personality characteristics over the years. Mostly. Regardless, I don't hold any grudges towards my friends for questioning my sanity or intelligence for my decision to seemingly randomly move to another country alone, save my darling cat, and start my life o

My friends had solid, logical questions and concerns, even if a few of them were less than tactful in expressing them. They know who they are, a few of them might even read this. Relax folks, I'm not going to show up at anyone's house in a few years with an eerily calm expression and an antique toaster in hand to settle up.


In truth there is no singular reason I can point to with any certainty as to why I am here, why I essentially burned my life to the ground to start over in a foreign country. There are a lot of reasons that I uprooted myself from 'The Pitt' and headed south of the border.


I wanted to start over, where things might be somewhat familiar but not entirely. More differences than similarity seemed required. I've lived in different regions of the US. The South, the Northeast, I've spent substantial time everywhere from Manhattan island to Seattle, Washington, and all points in-between including the mountains of Appalachia, and the deserts of the Southwest. The last one is a place I still have a great affection for. Tabby, if you read this, we will be making another of our sojourns to Las Vegas and all weird points west again. We simply must. Its a moral imperative.


My mother and I moved seemingly constantly when I was growing up, never putting down any sort of roots until we moved to West Virginia and I found myself starting high school in a very strange place called Morgantown.


Everyplace in the world has its own feel, and Morgantowns seems to be perpetually feeling as though you are living in the first few minutes of a Twilight Zone episode. Always waiting for the chilling revelation and the first commercial break, neither of which ever come. I couldn't imagine myself there forever, waiting for whatever felt like it was coming to arrive, so as soon as I turned 18 I sold most of my possessions, my mother bought me a bus ticket, and I moved north to Pittsburgh for a girl. Because of course it was for a girl.

"Die young, stay pretty.

Deteriorate in your own time.

Tell 'em you're dead and wither away.
Are you living alone or with your family?
A dried up twig on your family tree?
Are you waiting for the reaper to arrive?
Or just to die by the hand of love?" 

- Blondie, Die Young Stay Pretty

The place I have lived the longest by far is Pittsburgh, PA. Its the place I made many, many friends, some of whom I consider my family as surely as if we shared blood, ran a nearly-world-famous and long running role playing game, the place where what I always envisioned my career being finally started to coalesce into reality up-to-and-including where I directed my first feature film, its the city I found love and then lost it more than once, its the place I got married, the place I purchased a house (seemingly the ultimate expression of 'The American Dream', tm), its the city where my unwanted divorce was finalized, its the city I gained and then lost the only child I am ever likely to want or have call me 'father' (even now all I have of her are photographs and memories), its where I saw some of the most amazing musical performances, a city I made a lot of questionable-yet-fun choices in, its a city where I watched those friends mentioned above find profound happiness and then loose it seemingly just as quickly, where I met and was fortunate enough to know and work with the only man in showbiz I have ever called a mentor and was fortunate enough to also call him my friend. Its where I attended that same mans funeral.


During my last few months in 'The Pitt' I felt as if I had lived an entire lifetime there. Several, in fact. I felt old, beaten, useless, broken by multiple lifetimes where the good times were spectacular, but seemingly so far apart, and getting further apart each time. I felt like I was sitting in my apartment alone waiting for something I couldn't articulate precisely then, but can now. I was sitting there in-between the high spots waiting to die. Waiting to die, and wanting it.

"The pain, so unexpected and undeserved had for some reason cleared away the cobwebs. I realized I didn't hate the cabinet door, I hated my life... My house, my family, my backyard, my power mower. Nothing would ever change; nothing new could ever be expected. It had to end, and it did. Now in the dark world where I dwell, ugly things, and surprising things, and sometimes little wondrous things, spill out at me constantly, and I can count on nothing." - Bob Arctor, A Scanner Darkly (Philip K Dick)

I woke up one morning and realized that I had a choice to make. I could stay there, or in another dwelling, in Pittsburgh through another "Winter of My Despondency". Or I could make a change. It had to be big, something to tell me in every way that I was still alive, that I could still do something useful with my mind, with my life, or I could die in a very literal sense. This wasn't the easy choice it would seem to be.


The condition I refer to when I mention my mental illness is a sort of bastard child of manic depression and schizophrenia, it has a proper title, but you can look it up yourself. I hate spelling it. I had considered for sometime that the way I had been feeling was merely a product of that condition. That there really wasn't anything wrong with my life, with how I felt about it, about myself. It was all 'in my head' and I should simply continue on as I had been. Everything should stay the same, with perhaps some cosmetic differences. More exercise, less drink, more/less medication, getting out and meeting new people, etc. All the things a doctor will tell you in that circumstance.


The problem with that was that I know myself far better than any doctor, and had spent a great deal of time considering the issues. Arranging the variables, gathering data, doing the math. I knew how it was going to go if I stayed in my life as it had been, I started to realize how it was going to end. All roads were leading to Samarra.

Once there was a wealthy merchant in Baghdad who had a servant that he liked very much. This servant came to him one day pale and trembling, and the merchant said, “Whatever is the matter?”

“Master,” said the servant, “I saw Death in the market today, and he pointed at me. I am sure that my time has come, but I think I can outrun him. He seems a bit rickety. Please, master, give me a fine horse and the money to go to Samarra tonight, and maybe I can evade Death. I beg you, for the sake of all I have ever done for you.”

The merchant said, “Of course. Take my best horse,” and he outfitted the servant with fine clothes and food besides. He saw the servant off from the gates of Baghdad. Then, as he was returning through the city, he ran into Death at the market.

“My good fellow,” said the merchant sternly, “why did you point at my servant this morning? You scared him.”

“Oh,” said Death contritely, “I’m quite sorry. I didn’t mean to point at him — I was simply confused, and I was trying to make sure that I still see straight with these old eyes. It’s just that I was surprised to run into your servant here today, for I have an appointment in Samarra with him tonight.” - John Payne, The Thousand Nights And A Night (retelling of an ancient Arab folktale)

I had to leave my life behind, and I chose to do so in Mexico. Not the people I know, the people I love, my career, but the rest of it. I didn't feel compelled exactly to leave the United States, I felt a desperate need to escape my unchanging life. Mexico seemed, to me, at the time, the perfect choice. Perhaps too many Sergio Leone or Robert Rodriguez films as a young man played a small part in the decision. However I had actually been here before, greatly enjoyed it, and knew some of the best and worst parts. If my depression continued as it had then the oblivion I yearned for would come easily, by someone else's hand if not my own. 

So here I am, in Mexico. Minimal possessions, Tessa as my only constant companion, and a life most strange. I have no idea how long I will remain in this city. All that holds me to the border region technically is my cars lack of expensive import permit and my lack of desire to re-load my things into the car. That, and the owners of Vampiz have told me that they have big plans for the place and want me to, somehow, be a part of them. I suspects it has something to do with my experience building or upgrading  sound systems. Maybe they finally found that isolated, half buried Aztec temple their strip clubs theme cries out for.

I don't know. Very little is certain in my life at the moment, but for the first time in my life I take a strange comfort in that. I can honestly say that for the first time since life kicked me square in the testicles repeatedly by having my wife leave me while my mother was dying of cancer with only a few short months left, I have not awakened each morning with the thought of suicide. I wish that were a joke, or exaggeration, but its the truth. 

Every morning for years now my very first waking thought was 'Maybe today will be the day' and I would glance, almost longingly, at the .357 revolver by my bedside. I would stare for a moment, then struggle out of bed to get on with the business of the day. That was the very beginning of my morning. Some people jerk off in the shower to start the day, my routine was a little different I guess.

So far I still awaken in pain, physical pain, which will never change, but despite my bizarre life down here so far I have yet to begin my morning hoping that today would be my last. For the first time in years, when I wake up I feel alive, not just waiting to die.

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This post and its original content copyright James Radcliff, and has been brought to you by Mexico, tequila, and generally poor decision making. If you would like to donate to support this bizarre little travelogue, feel free to do so via Patreon or PayPal. As always, this strange and debaucherous adventure has been brought to your screen by viewers like you. Thank you.

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