Colombian Woman Quotes

Down the Peninsula at Cypress Lawn Cemetery, a woman in a paisley turban climbed out of a battered automobile and trudged up the hillside to a new grave. She stood there for a moment, humming to herself, then removed a joint from a tortoise-shell cigarette case and laid it gently on the grave. "Have fun," she smiled. "It's Colombian.

Six centuries ago, the pre-Colombian natives who settled here named this region with a word that in their language translates to, 'The Mouth of the Shadow.' Later, the Iroquois who showed up and inexplicably slaughtered every man, woman, and child in those first tribes renamed it a word that literally translates to, 'Seriously, Fuck this Place.

On an impulse he cannot explain, he buys himself a one-way ticket - and the evening of that very same day finds him wandering the streets of the old colonial quarter of the Colombian town. Girls in love with boys on scooters, screeching birds, tropical flowers on winding vines, saudade, and solitude, One Hundred Years of it; and then, as the tropical dusk darkens the corners of the Plaza de la Adana, he sees a woman, her fingers toying with a necklace of lapis lazuli, and they stand still as the world eddies about them.

The Colombian from Caramanta sees Jorge Negrete with his guitar, his big sombrero, his pistols, and reacts to the hero in the same way as the little Indian from Tlaxcala, the cholo from Cuzco, the Juan Bimba from Merida. He too longs to have a girlfriend with bottomless eyes and black braids, a spirited horse, a noble guitar full of songs, and a wonderful manly voice to sing them. Jorge Negrete was, in the movies as in life, what millions of American men, poor and sad, alone, without a woman, a horse or songs wished to be.

As she piped rosettes, docked a sheet of dough, or doused a tart with sanding sugar, another world occurred on the doorstep. Now Avis answers the door herself and leads surprised delivery people into the front entrance, across the living room, and through the heavy swinging door to her kitchen. She almost enjoys the contact with the outside world. On Monday, there is a Colombian man who delivers free-range eggs and unpasteurized milk that glows like satin. Tuesdays, a woman from Lima bring special concoctions of candied lilacs and fruit peels and 'gelees,' and later a young boy comes with a box filled with dried starfruit and bananas and fresh tea, mint and sage from his father's botanical garden in the Redlands. She asks and forgets everyone's names, but next week, she thinks, she'll ask again. Some deliveries- like those from her son's market- come every week, others- like the fig balsamic vinegar- were special-ordered to accompany a single chocolate strawberry ice cream cake.

La Tata’s eyes conjuring a memorized motherly anger, the same anger brought on her by her sick mother, by the vecinas, by her patronizing sisters, an anger spilling out of every single mother, a rehearsed womanly conviction, a learned frown, hands arched on hips, pursed lips, eyes vaguely shut vibrating to the rhythm of the vocal cords—the posture of every Colombian mother, a hologram passed on through generations to land on the next girl’s body in a Now you are gonna tell me ahora mismito where carajos are you getting all that money y ay Myriam del Socorro Juan that you lie to me. Y agárrate muela picá que lo que viene es candela. Myriam

According to pre-Columbian legend, the Cihuateteos . . . were the spirits of pregnant women who died in childbirth. They immediately became warriors because they had died in battle--the struggle in life to produce "a new life for the empire." This deified the women's souls, since their spiritual role complemented that of the male warrior, who assisted the sun in its journey across the sky. The spirits of these females supposedly carried the sun from its midday zenith to the west, it's place of descent. The spirits of male warriors carried the sun from daybreak to its zenith. The grieving husbands were expected to safeguard the bodies of their deceased wives, becaise young warriors would mutilate and steal the middle finger from the left hand of a Cihueteteo as a talisman. These feared women were associated with bodies of water, the transformative element of the journey of death, and crossroads. They were believed to return to earth on five special days each year to torment children. Thus the legend ofmthe Llorona, the weeping woman, emerged from this ancient myth.

And like cocaine before it, the illicit painkiller trade was dominated by one state: Florida. But the similarities between cocaine and oxycodone ended there. Oxycodone wasn’t created in Colombian jungle laboratories or smuggled in suitcases or on thirty-foot “go-fast” speedboats. It was manufactured in pharmaceutical plants in St. Louis and promoted on highway billboards, and in page after page in the back of the New Times, a free weekly newspaper in South Florida. The bigger advertisements usually showed a woman holding her forehead and wincing, or a man’s torso arched in agony. The ads blared: “CHRONIC PAIN? STOP HURTING AND START LIVING!” Then, in smaller type: “Walk-Ins Welcome. Dispensing On-Site!” Some offered coupons or specials. One clinic’s ad said nothing about pain itself and simply displayed the goods: an amber prescription bottle, dozens of little blue pills tumbling out.

Antonio Wayne was the flame in the proverbial quote of a moth’s destruction— the kind of man your mother warned you about; it only added to the temptation of bad boys and the trouble they could and would cause a woman.

It was the mailman's last day on the job after 35 years of carrying the mail through all kinds of weather to the same neighborhood. When he arrived at the first house on his route he was greeted by the whole family there, who congratulated him and sent him on his way with a big gift envelope. At the second house they presented him with a box of fine cigars. The folks at the third house handed him a selection of terrific fishing lures. At the fourth house he was met at the door by a strikingly beautiful woman in a revealing negligee. She took him by the hand, gently led him through the door, and led him up the stairs to the bedroom where she blew his mind with the most passionate love he had ever experienced. When he had had enough they went downstairs, where she fixed him a giant breakfast: eggs, potatoes, ham, sausage, blueberry pancakes, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. When he was truly satisfied she poured him a cup of steaming Colombian coffee. As she was pouring, he noticed a dollar bill sticking out from under her bra cup's bottom edge. "All this was just too wonderful for words," he said, "but what's the dollar for?" "Well, last night, I told my husband that today would be your last day, and that we should do something special for you. I asked him what to give you. And the jerk said, 'Fuck him, just give him a dollar.' The breakfast was my idea.