What to write about? Myself, again? No, the ego suggests, write about something important: the forced entry of a Central American nation by her rich uncle, prying her stick legs apart; the economy, its “recovery” as convincing as a doddering old man making his way — all on his own! — to the toilet; or perhaps the birth of a New Age, by bloody Caesarean, mother and father protesting loudly — this isn’t what we planned — shiny scalpel twinkling like a star.
But I’m still writing about myself, aren’t I? What can I say about El Salvador that isn’t flavored with the salts and bitters of my days, my ludicrous faith in the rebels, my cynicism about anyone in power (landlords pretending they’re revolutionaries; revolutionaries yearning to be landlords; the landlord’s daughter safe from no one). What can I say about the world that isn’t a mirror of my own heart?
