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200 pages, Paperback
First published April 24, 2021

In Port of Spain I found a bookstore with the most original classification system I've ever come across. The volumes were piled on two long wooden tables, each with its own sign: one side was "Dry Books" and on the other "Books with Rainwater Marks." The latter were cheaper. Right there and then, I decided I wanted to write that genre of books and no other: books with rainwater marks; nevertheless, I've since then systematically reneged on that decision by writing rather dry books.
According to Saducismus, the witches of Blockula walked backward, they danced back-to-back and had sex with the Devil ass-to-ass, like dogs. Snakes and frogs were born from that abominable union. But my ass-to-ass copulation with the Reggaeton witches didn't result in frogs or serpents because, at the doors of the Nuestra Senora de Regla sanctuary, a santera was kind enough to reveal to me that I'm irremediably sterile. "Your wife will fall pregnant, but it won't be your child," she pronounced as a form of epilogue.
With increasing frequency after two in the afternoon, hundreds of airliners describe an elegant curve over Benjamin's house before taking aim at one of the ancient airport's two runways. (It has always amazed me that those runways should be named 5L/23R and 5R/23L, as if we weren't capable of recognizing that there are precisely two of them and therefore they might as well be called One and Two.)
i'm pretty sure there's no god of recovering drug addicts, just as there are no other gods, but the act of repeating a gesture or a set of random words, putting one's mind and body into that repetition, is sometimes enough in itself to reassemble the shards of the spirit and reestablish the most beautiful fiction we are capable of inventing: the fiction that, in spite of all, some order does exist. a perhaps precarious, provisional order. a map that is in constant transformation even as we live within the territory it outlines, and which remains stamped in our memory when we—finally—move to another place.a set of ten autobiographical essays, planes flying over a monster marks the first non-fictional book-length work of mexican author daniel saldaña parís to appear in english translation — following his two previous novels: among strange victims (an anti-bildungsroman picaresque featuring a post-capitalistic, ineffectual, millennial bartleby) & ramifications (a less playful tale of maternal abandonment and its lifelong repercussions). set across a series of different cities (mexico city, montreal, madrid, havana, brooklyn, cuernavaca, etc.), saldaña parís's essays chart his coming-of-age, both as individual and as a writer. from drug addiction and recovery meetings and ducharme expeditions and long walks across montreal island to sexual awakenings, parties, and the most vile piñata imaginable in the mexican capital city to a temporary and fulfilling foray into diversionary falconry in hidalgo to a brooklyn-based viewing of a video which captured a childhood spent, in part, within the confines of a cult.
from the beginning of my adult life, and even earlier, that space of values and equilibriums where everything is a sign or a warning has been romantic love, the partner in life. i have no need of a fixed direction or a mission clear enough to be articulated in a single, memorable catchphrase. i have no need of a community walking in synchrony or a ritual dance around a fire. for me, meaning is what happens between two people who, curled up on the couch of a temporary dwelling, in an apartment where they won't spend longer than four days, are capable of creating a climate of intimacy, an improvised stability; are capable of sharing stories about the past and constructing, from the few, fragile elements life hands them, a present in which those stories fit and can breathe freely.