In most of the world, dogsdon’t have names. Some have a few. Here,in Guanajuato, the dogs come inevery shade of peach.If the sea wants you, it takes you.But the sea doesn’t want, desireis a human trait.*I nearly drowned on Christmas Evein the Pacific. It was my fault. I swaminto the tide. I drankup the brine. I lost the seabedand turned our sunset swiminto something vulgar. This lifeis enchanted.*We took an empty highway throughthe Sierra Madre Occidental.The road was unfinished,blocked off, butwe did it anyway. We sharedthe highway with iguanas,cattle, no humans,and birds. I wonderedhow far we’d push itI didn’t say, turn back, turn back.I wanted to see it to its end,but a tunnel stopped us,one we couldn’t hold our breathslong enough to travel through.*On Christmas Eve, I heardthe voice of God. It was clearand loud and sounded likemy own voice when it venturesinto the outside worldand croaks a good morning, sunshine. But I don’t worship anyoneor anything except the seaand the mountains and they willkill me eventually, and I will die willingly.That is my only prayer.In my notebook from that dayis written this: not every experienceis worth recording; I ammore cage than bird; reverence,I am writing with reverence.