The Mosquito Coast

The Mosquito Coast

Paul Theoroux wrote this book about Honduras and the family reminds me of Cannery Row by Steinbeck, nonetheless, everyone seems to be searching for the fountain of youth.

Maybe over the next hill, maybe in myths, fairy tales, and Knights of the Round Table there is the Fountain of Youth, I think not. I continue to travel looking for the place where there is more, not less, where it is perfect. I do find perfection only in the perfect storm. There is a great perfection in seeing that nothing is perfect. Everything in the world seems to be done perfectly not up to standards. Once in awhile I marvel at stainless steel in fancy kitchens, it seems so perfect to me, nothing else seems so perfect, however walking into squallor, danger, people living as people live seems also perfect. I do not try to understand why a person would piss just outside their door, but it does seem simpler than having rule on where to piss.

The book is leading away from Fat Boy a big ice making machine that blew up and killed they hope three men. Walking away, thinking about it tomorrow, gone with the wind. All this in the jungles of Honduras, where none of their friends have Spanish names, I think he is winding me up in the ironic mess.

I am happy to know, annoyed in some ways, complacently accepting that to plan is fun, to execute the plan is full of frustrations. Making progress is helpful, however not needed.

I need to make up mind, do I go North, or do I go East, I really feel like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, can I go both ways. Making sense, seem pretty senseless, everything I just wrote made perfect sense to me.


The Mosquito Coast

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