The Wedding March o La Marcha Nupcial

      We exited the restaurant onto dimly lit Calle Moctezuma heading west towards Esther's house. She needs assistence now to walk on the narrow uneven sidewalks because her vision is failing. I held her arm as best as possible and warned her of imminent dangers as there are many. I often joke with her about holes and crevices. I place all impediments in the category of "mata suegras". Mother-in-law killers. "Cuidate, esto hoyo no tiene fondo. Es una mata suegra." Circe was leading the way illuminating the sidewalk with her cell phone. Slowly we advanced on the dark street. When we reached Iturbide we noted the sound of music drifting towards us but because Mexico is often alive with sounds my attention was not immediately focused on the origin. Circe commented, "What's that"?  Ten seconds passed and she recognized it as a wedding. I caught a movement in the distance. A wedding I thought,, in the middle of the street? By now the music of a mariachi band became evident. I am at a disadvantage and yet befuddled  by mexican customs. The dimly illuminated street, the mariachi playing El Zopilote Mojado, (The wet Vulture) a glitter in the distance, none of it,  registered wedding in my mind. Although there are 30 churches and chapels in Tenancingo the music was a blocks away from any one of them.

     A procession approached. El Zopilote Mojado marked the cadence. The violin and the drum coupled strongly and the cool december eve claimed a sort of victory. We stopped in a large space between two parked cars.The presentation march tempo called to us, urging us to concur and mark time but this night parade had other intentions. Then she appeared out of the sound and dimness, a bride, a specter of promises adorned like a mariposa blanca gigante in a white batteau gown. I couldn't help but notice her white teeth beaming joy. Wow this is really cool I said. Any custom that stops traffic always excites me. Esther asked me what I just said. "Bien chido," I replied. Satin bows and flowers were tied atop her head and from them cascaded fresh dark curls. I could see her well now. Her skin was a luxurious mexican bronze that a white person would die for or at least attempt to duplicate without success. Bronze mexican skin is lustrous and deep. The groom, a chubby pie faced smiler at her right side, was dressed in black. He looked over at us proudly smiling like a winner as we began to applaud. A young lady, one of the participants, in heels sheathed in a long pink dress adorned with sequins passed unsure of her feet. She glittered like a supernova. We clapped even louder as I could feel my deceased mother's words creep into my head attempting as always to consume this moment of delight. She recited this phrase at all weddings. "I give the marriage a year." With some effort I pushed the words aside and secretly wished the couple a lifetime.  

   Salimos del restaurante a la calle Moctezuma, débilmente iluminada, en dirección oeste hacia la casa de Esther. Ahora necesita ayuda para caminar por las banquetas angostas e irregulares porque su visión está fallando. Sostuve su brazo lo mejor que pude y le advertí de los peligros inminentes ya que hay muchos. A menudo bromeo con ella sobre agujeros y grietas. Considero todos los impedimentos en la categoría de "mata suegras".  "Cuidate, esto hoyo porque no tiene fondo. Es una mata suegra". Parece que le gusta este humor de reproche. Circe iba al frente iluminando el sendero feo con su celular. Lentamente avanzamos por la calle oscura. Cuando llegamos a Iturbide, notamos el sonido de la música que flotaba en el aire de la noche hacia nosotros, pero debido a que México a menudo está lleno de sonidos, mi atención no se centró de inmediato en el origen. Circe comentó: "¿Qué es eso"? Pasaron diez segundos y ella lo reconoció como una boda. Capté un movimiento en la distancia. Una boda pensé, ¿en medio de la calle? A estas alturas se hizo evidente la música de un mariachi. Estoy en desventaja y sin embargo confundido por las costumbres mexicanas. La calle tenuemente iluminada, el mariachi tocando El Zopilote Mojado, un brillo a lo lejos, nada de eso, registró boda en mi mente. Aunque hay 30 iglesias y capillas en Tenancingo la música estaba a una cuadra de cualquiera de ellas.

      Se acercó una procesión. El Zopilote Mojado marcó la cadencia. El violín y el tambor se acoplaron con fuerza y la fresca víspera de diciembre se adjudicó la victoria. Paramos en un amplio espacio entre dos autos estacionados. El tempo de la marcha de presentación nos llamaba, incitándonos a estar de acuerdo y marcar tiempo pero este desfile nocturno tenía otras intenciones. Entonces ella apareció entre el ruido y la penumbra, una novia, un espectro de promesas adornada como una mariposa blanca gigante con un vestido blanco batteau. No pude evitar notar sus dientes blancos radiantes de alegría. Wow, esto es realmente genial, dije. Cualquier costumbre que detenga el tráfico siempre me emociona. Esther me preguntó qué acabo de decir. "Bien chido", respondí. Lazos de raso y flores estaban atados sobre su cabeza y de ellos caían en cascada rizos oscuros y frescos. Ahora podía verla bien. Su piel era de un lujoso bronce mexicano por el que una persona blanca moriría o al menos intentaría duplicarlo. El novio, un regordete cara de pastel sonriente a su derecha, estaba vestido de negro. Nos miró con orgullo sonriendo como un ganador cuando comenzamos a aplaudir. Una joven, una de las participantes, en tacones enfundada en un largo vestido rosa adornado con lentejuelas pasó insegura de sus pies. Ella brillaba como una constelación. Aplaudimos aún más fuerte cuando pude sentir las palabras de mi madre en mi cabeza intentando consumir este momento de deleite. Ella recitaba esta frase en todas las bodas. "Le doy al matrimonio un año". Con algo de esfuerzo, dejé las palabras a un lado y en secreto deseé a la pareja toda la vida.           

A Glory Hole Moment Of Truth

     

     Gas. "Dame mas gasoliiiinna." That song by Daddy Yankee always evokes a nervous chuckle from me.    https://youtu.be/2CiHQpN58Mo     It gives me gas to think about gas,,,, and we have gas problems here with the corrupt gasoline union,, Pemex and their collusion with huachicoleros,,,, those that tap into pipelines and steal gas,,, 12 million liters every day for the last twenty years. Narcos and gangs have been moving in on lucrative gas theft. 

A few years ago this occured in the State of Hidalgo: 

Hundreds of people were killed when a fuel pipeline exploded outside Mexico City, unleashing a massive fireball after frenzied residents tapped into the duct to steal buckets of gasoline, officials said Saturday.The explosion late Friday occurred in the midst of the Mexican government's campaign against oil theft, which costs the country about $3 billion per year. Earlier this month, Mexico's president, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, closed many of the country's pipelines, saddling dozens of cities with an acute gasoline shortage.

As of Saturday morning, Mexican authorities were still searching for missing people at the scene, raising the possibility that the death toll could rise. Many bodies were burned so badly that the victims were unrecognizable.

Videos of the incident show flames leaping roughly 50 feet into the air, as people attempted to carry bodies of the injured away from the conflagration.

    This rant about gas is a reaction to a statement by a family member from the States with three houses, five cars, and a good pension complaining about the price of gas. The disaster mentioned above in Hidalgo brought on by a hysteria for "free" gas is as absurd as my family member's complaint. As"numbing time" ambles onward and like opening up your skull and pouring in glue, we are losing perspective and cannot appreciate the joke. How much is enough? Not everything can be measured by the price of gasoline,,,in fact that concern is just foolish and self-centered. Wether we live in a glut of things or gross insufficiency, what is most important are the ties that bind, the smiles offered on the street, a good conversation laden with understanding, a healthy skepticism, a slowing down, and not in a vehicle, to know your own backyard. What seems like nothing can lead to something! Take what you have gathered from coincidence and run with that apple pie for a while leaving the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and cooked apples for all to inhale. Hold a narrow concern for gas prices, what your house is worth this week, or wether or not the stock market is up which will obscure a potential glory hole moment of truth. The subtitle to all this is a simple, "God I feel like I won something when an orgasm comes from the engagement of the mind which feeds the intellect, which engages the mind, etc. , or the alternative in which you can choose to live a god damn insecure nightmare running scared like a rabbit trying to escape a blue tick hound". 
     Estoy Felice,,,la vida no vale nada sin una meta sencilla (life isn't worth anything without a frugal goal). 

Santo y El Remolino

      Santo always took the same path with his five cows from Teneria via the old trail to Malinalco. He climbed up past a small pasture of nopales that resembled lollipops until he encountered the steep incline then turned hard right transversing the belly of the mountain towards a pass between El Balcon de San Elias, part of Nixcongo, and La Campana, the side of the mountain where he presently walked. Ahead, the ocotes and oaks gave way to a corner, a plate that served up the sky like a seamless blue mole, where the path widened revealing a clearing and a reliable patch of fresh grass, even now in October. It was a good place to stop and let the cows feed before resuming his journey. 

     That day seemed perfect. The sky was blue, undisturbed, and the view towards Tenancingo was spectacular. When the cows saw the grass their slow motion gait turned to a trot as a yearning for greenpasture consumed their conciousness. Santo corraled his cows with his stick as they trotted towards the fresh feed. After all he didn't want them to near the steep incline between the two mountains. Santo sat stared out across the valley towards Cristo Rey and thought of the sermon by Padre Carlos two sundays ago. He peroused over a quote from Saint Francis de Assisi. “Lord, help me to live this day, quietly, easily. To lean upon Thy great strength, trustfully, restfully. To wait for the unfolding of Thy will, patiently, serenely. To meet others, peacefully, joyously. To face tomorrow, confidently, courageously.” 

       Santo felt content. He smiled at himself and the lush landscape, like a loving pillow after a day of hard work. He sat in silence for some time. His thoughts were interrupted by the familiar tearing and crunching of grass by his cows. They moved in slow motion intent on their feed. He watched them and thought, they are dumb,,, but noble,,, like Abel his cousin with sindromo de downs.  They sensed his respect and he knew their minds. 

     Santo noticed the sky had begun to change, the wind having picked up a little. It was time to move on. Up ahead he still must pass "the funnel", a fold in the mountain beside a deep rift between El Balcon and La Campana, where La Campana descended into the cut between the two mountains. It was in this place, like a graveyard, that many trees had been shattered by wind that often screamed down from La Campana routing itself into natural bottleneck howling as it gained momentum pouring into the chasm between the two mountains wreaking havoc until, like a large breaking wave, ran up against the other side tearing itself asunder. 

     Santo gathered the reluctant cows wielding his stick and calling, "Heyep, andale, we need to move on, the day is waning". They trodded, as the wind increased. He heard some thunder and his urgency to pass the the funnel drove him with more alacrity. Tranquility was just a few folds of the mountain away. He thought of Padre Carlos and Saint Francis. "You call it a sin that I love the dog above all else. The dog stayed with me in the storm, the man, not even in the wind". The wind suddenly doubled arriving in crushing waves that bent the ocotes in obedience,, yet they seemed to protest their wrenching in screaming creaks. The cows gathered as best they could on the narrow path, transfixed, occiasionally bellowing. Santo spiritedly began to pray. "Oh Señor, te suplico que dejes pasar hoy a este humilde servidor y a su pobre rebaño con tu protección todo poderosa. Prometo volver y rendir homenaje, hacer una ermita para honrar tu voluntad. Padre nuestro que está en los cielos...." The wind gathered itself and then exhaled bravely yet this breath seemed wearied perhaps having been itself tormented by the Santos's supplication. The landscape slowly returned to its former tranquility. 

     Santo kept his word. He fashioned an idol of The Son out of white cement and cera fina and attached it to a large tree. To this day people sit under this tree, below that now worn image of Christ knowing the legend of Santos, seeking that tranquility that comes after the storm has passed. 

         

Thoughts on Solitude and Real Freedom

     Every culture has its laws of the jungle,,,often defined by economics.... but not always. There are surprises once in a while that will stagger. When I was 16 years old and on a juvenile spree in New York City some friends and I were robbed at knifepoint of all that we had. Suburbanites just vivibly sweat invitations. It was 3 in the morning with no way to pay the subway and train back to the safety of our manicured communities. After the incident we were running down the street happy just to be alive when a roly-poly gentleman who was entereing his brownstone stopped turned and said, "what's the matter boys"? I don't know how he knew we had a problem but then again suburbanites visibly sweat invitations. We explained what occurred. He listened then pulled a roll of bills from his pocket peeled off a few and gave it to us saying, "Go home boys". That was a surprise concoction of coincidence and kindness that I will never forget. Country people are definitely different. They, on the other hand are always inviting you into their house for cookies, jam, and dilly beans or tamales, mole, and a cahuama depending in which landscape you dwell.    

     In the world now trends are like barnacles that attach themselves to people's consciousness. "The Attached" are so engrossed in the vapid narrative that they don't even realize that the boat is slowing down. 

     I climbed up to Santo Desierto and the Carmelite Monastery via pie de monte. It was july and there was a mini marathon from the center of Tenancingo to the top over the highway. I climbed the shorter but much steeper back way while the participants ran up the  road. They beat me. I went around back of the monastery to visit El Balcon de Diablo. It is a cliff with an incredible view of the valley below. There, where the trail turned down towards Pachuquilla, I encountered two teachers walking up from the valley floor after their teaching day was done. Imagine teachers in the U.S. walking up a mountain for an hour and a half to go home after work? These two were very energetic about their profession. Young, full of zest, and dedicated to their work,,,,,yet who knows what will chip away at their desire over the years, a 6 year mortgage on a car perhaps. 

     I got up at what I thought was 6:30 and it turned out to be 5:30. I wondered why it was darker than a crow's asshole on the road this morning in my bicycle. There was no moon to speak of and there wasn't a car to light the way even for a few instants. I couldn't see the road at all. Riding blind I could have hit the carcass of a dead dog or a person. I tried to steer for the center but where was that? Riding blind,,like in a drunken haze,,,forward, but with medium control. Truth is like that. You know it or some part exists but when you are riding blind you are more likely to encounter it.

     The hours I have been keeping,,,,,,,,from the dark mornings in bicycle to here, the hotel, staying here until 8:30 at night have me a lttle exhausted,,,yet it is the kind of exhaustion that does not paralyse the mind,,,,just presents some bodily aches and pains,,,,,all I want is to go see a good cock-fight. Death is a cure for the tribulations of life. I have lived my life through books because I am vicarious,,,,,, yet I have a need to buy a motorcycle. When you feel a little down or a little restricted what is the cure but school or a motorcycle! One of Circe's cousins is organizing a trip from Mexico to the Panama Canal a year from October. Imagine that!  Dodging dilapidated trucks, and latter day bandits on the pacific highway. Mi sobre mi moto, solo mi en la tierra nueva. I just might continue to Ecuador, pull up on the beach put up some plastic to keep out the rain, and like Mersault said in A Happy Death by Albert Camus,  "I'd  buy myself a cabin on the beach, put some glue in my navel, stick a flag in there and see which way the wind blows".  I'd like to be like everyone else in Central America for whom the past and the future are non existant physics. I would be devoid of false promises and lacking responsibilidad to anyone. It might make the premise of a good, not great novel,,,,,,that person who chucks it all for a life of isolation on the beach,,,,,no no not the beach it is too cliched,,,but a small forgotten Pueblo in Equador, where nobody speaks English and you need to travel 60 miles to buy an elastic band. I haven't got the balls to do that. 

      However I see a novel with this fictional guy in the fogotten fictional pueblo in Ecuador who by chance comes across the collected stories of William Faulkner in English left by the last foreigner in town, a german student looking for another Troy on this continent to discover. For even though our fictional hero has made some friends in the Pueblo he knows that their conversation revolves about the specifics of their immediate families. Gossip is their tool of unification. Gossip is a social tool most often used in the present tense.They and their ancestors may have lived in this place for thousands of years but gossip about what happened yesterday and today is all that matters. He realises that the sum total of his own past is useless to him here. What good is your knowing Babe Ruth, Paul Robeson, Hank Williams, and the atomic bomb in this place. They would be met with blank stares.  He, out of sensual deprivation, far from his homeland reads Faulkner over and over and over again because there is nothing else. He begins to see affinities with the author and himself and comes to know Faulkner as he would the defects on his own skin,,,,,and yet somehow like magic there are always new relations to make between what he is encountering now and what he has brought with him from the past, but all prompted by the readings of the same book ,,,over and over. Dilsey and Sam Fathers and Icamatubi,and Colone Sartoris become his alter reality.  He finds in the characters of Faulkner a link with his past and a tool to deal with his present. His life, past and present become the verbal ghost of Faulkner's heart., and he is satisfied. He has metamorphosed from an alien to the easy going guero who can be often seen resting on his hoe when planting beans. He makes a spiritual life from his repetitions like a latter day buddhist,,,,,but sated with the chemistry of his past and armed with the world of Faulkner he needs no lover, no other routine........What do you think? Stupid no?