i once stayed in the marriott hotel, the airport marriott outside Panama City, Panama for a handful of days when i was waiting for my “real life” to begin. i say real life because i saw the burnished tiles, interior courtyard, tennis court and pool as all being the overpriced luxuries of a cage. that the real life i was anxious to embrace was the ninth grade seems typical of me at the time–hated getting behind or missing school, but now i know i could have enjoyed the hiatus more.
i remember that hotel because this one has the same spanish colonial interior. i walk vertiginously along the balcony, prone to indulge my fear of heights.
if i didnt think it would be intrusive i would add this to my list of corrections for carl: it cannot be sticky sweet there if people can suspend gravity and fly, if gravity itself is just an old man with an elegant beard sitting at the pool of heaven saying, dont worry boys, here you can run as fast as you want, as people themselves drift nonchalantly across the field of his vision, his ancient, perfect eyes.