Monday, August 22, 2022

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 simple goal). 

Chiapas a Novel Chapter I

 

  

     2003  Before the Avenida Pino Suarez Cleanup

 

 

     In Mexico City the corner of Pino Suarez and Republica De El Salvador is alive with human traffic, like a continuous undulating ribbon of half empty souls. The streets are lined with people selling goods, and tourists edging towards the Zocalo. However all seem oblivious to a deteriorating plaque pegged to the wall on the side of a Church and the Hospital of Jesús Nazareno supposedly marking the spot on the causeway where Hernán Cortés, cocooned in steel, and the feathered Moctezuma II met for the first time in 1519. This plaque marks the most decisive event in the history of the Americas.

     It was Cortés who ordered the hospital built to tend to soldiers wounded fighting with the Mexicas. It is the oldest western hospital in this hemisphere. In fact Cortés' remains were placed in the church section in 1774. At the same time a bust was created of the conquistador. This was highly unusual for there are few memorials to the man who brought the Spanish language, catholicism, social upheaval, and great suffering to Mexico. One time a plaque inside the church indicated the conquiatador’s tomb. However, in August 1882, there was a proposal to move the remains and place them next to those of some of the heroes of Mexican War of Independence, but this caused great clamor. Some even attempted to desecrate the tomb in the church. The remains were discreetly removed to  another site.

     On the opposite side of this famous corner stands El Museo De La Ciudad De Mexico. Originally the museum was a residence constructed in the baroque style of the era for one of Hernán Cortés’s supporters. One corner of the museum has incorporated into its construction the large carved stone head of a serpent salvaged from the conquered city of Tenochitlan . The architectural contrasts are remarkable. The euopean baroque masonry  of rectangular shapes, arches, and walls faced in red lava tiles co-opted from the fallen city itself all now tread upon the head of a wincing snake.

     When Hernan Cortes, the conquistador, and his men entered the city of Tenochitlan for the first time in 1519, it seemed to float upon Lake Texcoco. They were dwarfed by its magnificence. The encounter was recorded in the accounts of Bernal Diaz Del Castillo, a footsoldier in Cortes’ army:

   

      Within the lake of Texcoco and all around its edges were countless dwellings. Three causeways led from the mainland to the island center of the city, and a grid of canals laced the Metropolis. The lake and the canals were filled with canoes and the whole scene was alive with people. (Estimates indicate that the full zone of the city embraced 60,000 dwellings and 300,000 persons. ) When we saw so many cities and villages built in the water and other great towns on dry land we were amazed and said that it was like the enchantments on account of the great towers and cues and buildings rising from the water, and all built of masonry. And some of our soldiers even asked whether the things that we saw were not a dream? I do not know how to describe it, seeing things as we did that had never been heard of or seen before, not even dreamed about.

   

     Cortes returned in1521 and with the help of his multi lingual concubine, Malinche, alliances were formed with tribes that were enemies of the Aztecs, and perhaps with his most important ally, small pox, he advanced on the Empire. Cortes prevailed.      

     During the final seige, Cortes’s army began to systematically level the city in order to create a battlefield cleared of any obstructions. The Spanish destroyed the fresh water aqueduct and slowly advanced tumbling the buildings and filling the canals with their debris as smallpox, that unseen ally, continued to devastate the population. The defeat was nearly complete. All that was remained was used to rebuild a new world order atop the ruins. It was to resemble a classic european city using the very bones of Tenochitlan.
    

    

                         Chiapas

 

     It is said the people of Chiapas are a people without a history yet for at least two thousand years the Mayan culture flourished in Central America. The conquest didn’t erase the history of the people of Chiapas, it ignored it. All people, great and small, create histories. First there are trickling springs that seep from the cracks of ancient stones, joining to form small brooks, that empty into larger streams to eventually become rivers that flow from a region. The rivers are more evident.

     Luis Marin, one of Cortez’s officers arrived in Chiapas 1523. After three years of battle with the indigenous population Marin was not able to exert complete control. The Indians of the highlands resisted ferociously. Cortez dispatched a new military expedition under the command of Diego de Mazariegos who had more success. Faced with capture and inevitable slavery, many indigenous warriors chose death over the loss of freedom. In the Battle of Tepetchia, many Indians jumped to their deaths into the deep Cañon del Sumidero. After that indigenous resistance weakened. By the end of 1528, the conquest of Chiapas was complete, with both the Tzotzil and Tzeltal Indians subjugated and repressed. On March 31, 1528, Captain Mazariegos established Ciudad Real in the Valley of Jovel.  Ciudad Real was later renamed San Cristóbal de las Casas.

     On the afternoon of October 12, 1992, there was a protest march of indigenous peoples in San Cristóbal de las Casas. In front of the intricately carved sandstone façade of the temple of Santo Domingo stood the monument to Diego de Mazariegos, founder of the city. One man attacked the statue with a sledgehammer and then the crowd closed in reducing it to fragments, taken as souvenirs. One noted symbol of the conquest was erased, five hundred years after the bloody conquest and its subsequent oppressions.

                                                     Prologue

 

      It was said once in a book that people who dwell in the mountains theoretically live just a little longer than those below. They spin faster relative to those that live at lower altitudes because they are perched upon the margins of the planet,,, just as a bicycle wheel rim spins faster than its axel in order to cover the greater distance of its perimeter at the same time that the axel makes one revolution. The climate is different in the mountains,, usually more temperate. The sunlight is more intense in the thinner air. The atmosphere is compressed as it flows over the peaks and increases in velocity, distorting and stretching the shapes of the clouds it bears making them seem as if they were high jumpers leaping over a bar. Mountains have figured prominently in human mythology, as the lofty place where Gods roam. They are gateways to heaven,, and sometimes portals to hell. Spirits are said to haunt the peaks of these disturbances in the earth’s skin. People living in the mountains are like those living on an island, isolated,, sequestered. Their home, an atoll pierces an ocean of sky.

    

                                               

                         Chapter I

                  Primavera1890

 

     She often climbed Monte De Plata to collect plants. Monte de Plata was an an ancient volcano, elongated and flat topped, its sides deeply furrowed and blanketed in a quilt of pine and oak. It was called Monte De Plata not because there were deposits of silver but because of its color in the afternoons when the afternoon sun struck the bunches of ocote needles. Then the trees resembled a sheeps rolling fleece glistening argentine. On the way up, close to the path, she passed a small deep stagnant pool, edged in thicket and viney arabesques,  just a saturated pocket in the mountainside that yielded special plants, not suited to the higher richer well drained forest. The mountain was an agreeable place.The summit’s deep friable soil supported an old growth woodland, moist all of the year, which provided a good habitat for gathering. Where a broad crowned oak or a tall tubular ocote had long ago crashed to the earth having perished from old age or strikes by lightning, vast holes were torn in the thick forest canopy which allowed wide shafts of light to enter illuminating portions of the woodland floor. The now prostrate rotting trunks were smoothed and muted by deep carpets of moss, ferns, treelets, and a diverse assortment of plants. It was early yet, perhaps 11:30, and the day was growing hot. Her bags of ixtle were almost filled with many small sheaves each neatly tied with a sedge leaf. Cloak fern, deer’s tongue, and gorse had been taken from the wetter areas. From the forest she gleaned pokeweed, wild geranium, pimpernel, burr cucumber, verbena, heliotrope, nightshade, and much more.

     “The foraging has been fruitful by God’s good grace”, she said to herself.

     A fresh breeze aroused the trees from their apathy and they began to whisper, declaring their presence.

 

     They are gossiping about their neighbors”,,,, she thought, a little amused.

    

     She began to move towards the path taking a few steps when a sound rent the air. Chi,,,, Chi,,, Chi,, Chi, ta chiiiiiiiii.  A rattle, like a vigorously shaken cup of hard dried peas penetrated the air. She knew immediately what it was but could not locate the source of the sound. It seemed to be coming from everywhere. The rattle grew in intensity accompanied by a hiss. She remained still and scanned the terrain before her,, then her eyes caught the slightest of movements. She had surprised a large albino cascabel, coiled  in the sunlight a few feet to her left on a large flat stone. Its long rattle stood erect vibrating rapidly.  She startled and a chill came over her but soon she recuperated her poise. Her mother had taught her composure in the face of any change in the landscape.

     She studied the snake with her eyes, assessing his behavior, then spoke aloud and deliberately with a courtesy backed by generations of reverence .  

     “Ahh, Q’uq’umatz, it is You, feathered prince of the creation, Knowledgeable One, good day Master,, You who are the Lord of change,, I honor Thee,, always,, and I ask pardon for this trespass.”  She began to move cautiously to her right away from the snake while still speaking, now a little more submissively. “I have not come to do harm, for You can see I am only a lowly collector of plants, a healer of Your progeny,,, those You have created. I humbly ask Your permission to allow me my work. Let me say that I for one do not believe all that is said of Your fierceness, but even if what they say is true, You are the great transformer and are always capable of a change of heart,, and You know me, as I am Thy respectful servant. If You will allow me to pass, when I return I will make offerings unto You of zapote, cane liquor, and pumpkin.” She saw that the snake followed her movements with its large diamond head as if he were listening to her plea. His tongue slithered in and out as it probed the air. The rattle ceased. When she had edged herself six meters away from the snake, she bowed to him and said in gratitude, “Thank You, lordly One, we have each made our promises. I will honor my vow. For seven days I will make offerings unto You.” 

    

 

    

     When she reached the path she made her way angling down along a route that ran below an exposed sheer rock face to a familiar spring that emanated near the ground beneath a large square smooth expanse of stone on the edge of a wide path. Water collected in a small clear pool flecked with grayish pieces of limestone that stood out against the dark bottom On the other side of the path where the runlet exited down the hillside, the constant trickle disappeared into the soil and tangled roots, however the water that was perpetually seeping into the earth had left a wide trail of green for a great distance on either side and there sustained columbine, mint, stinging nettle, and horsetail.

     The pool was like a tiny lake whose shoreline was populated with feather foil and fairy moss. Here, in the shade she would rest, eat, and quench her thirst before returning to her pueblo. She emancipated her hair from her tight braids and let it loosely fall onto her shoulders as she bent over the pool regarding her reflection for a long moment. The spring marked the time dripping haphazardly from a large patch of spongy saturated plants pegged to the stone. Cupping her hands she dipped them into the pool disturbing the surface, creating wavelets upon which floated her distorted image. She applied cool water to her face and neck,  filled her gourd, and drank deeply. The water was fresh and delightfully tasteless like water at its best. All was perfect and tranquil. The sound of a primavera calling his mate gave depth to the forest.

     She crouched before water and woods for a moment awash in satisfaction yet before she could reach for her cache of food, a sharp sound trespassed upon the lush moment. She could hear the scrape and clop of a horse’s hooves on the stony path. She stiffened with apprehension and quickly scuffled to her feet. She haphazardly tried to arrange her ixtle bags. A horse snorted and sniggered as he and his rider came up and into view. It was a high stepping large chestnut and white paint. The rider ducked to avoid some limbs. The movement drew her attention away from the paint and towards him. "He wore high black leather boots, a long loose sleeved flaxen shirt, and coffee colored riding breeches. His saddle and stirrups were studded with silver conchos. The spurs of silver and colored rhythm beads adorned with small silver bells jingled, sending out a bright metallic sound. The walnut butt of a rifle protruded from a scabbard tied to the saddle.

     She had been surprised by his jingling presence and stared, yet at once sensed her gaze was indelicate, perhaps even indolent and quickly returned her eyes to the the ground before her. The horse’s mouth was lathered in spittle and his nose, which was tightly reined almost touched his arched neck, while his head swayed from side to side with the rider’s restraint. As it came to a stop the horse moved slightly sideways while high trotting in place. She faced them, silent, eyes almost imperceptibly downward, intimidated by the size of horse and horseman. The rider raised his head slightly surveying the woman before him her hair freely flowing down as if he had caught her at some mischief.

    “Well, well, well”, he repeated resting on the horn of his saddle. “What have we here,,,,, a dark one,, and, unbraided.”

     She did not understand his words for she spoke only Tzotzil. The saddle creaked like a new fire as he slowly dismounted. He led the horse to the water. The thirsty animal bent and immediately began to satisfy its thirst. It immersed its nose up to its nostrils, sucking loudly as little islands of lathery spittle, separated from its mouth and floated upon the pool. The rider then loosely tied the horse to a nearby bush.

     “This is a beautiful place, is it not? All stop here for the water.” He dismounted and strutted towards her and squatted before the spring in front of her.  His tall leather boots stretched and creaked. He began to tap his goad upon his palm slowly shaking his head as if agreeing with his own words, and repeated in a low primeval voice “yes hija, the water here is the best in all my countryside,,, cool,, clean,, refreshing. He stopped speaking, turned his head, revising her meager possessions, then began again while indicating her bags of ixtle with his goad. “I see you are collecting herbs. From where do you come?”

     She was silent, still, with a cold abstracted look which bolstered his social bearing. Five hundred years of domination had bestowed upon him indignancy and unalienable rights, now practically a genetically altered state. The same five hundred had relegated her to a submissive role that imprisoned even the slightest movements of her face. She must be blank, not to incite his rage.

     “You are mute”,, he said his voice rising with a slight chuckle. “No I think not,, you cannot understand a word of what I am saying,,,,,,  another ignorant indio,,, but a fine specimen, handsome even,,,, that is true. You indios are a different breed of human.”

     He continued his dissertation feeling free to express himself for they were alone. He was masked by this remote place and her dumbness to his words. She stood motionless assessing the menacing sound of his phrases and even though she could not understand she recognized the domination in their tone.

     “What plants have you gathered little one? You and your kind know. Once we called on one of your curas when our son was ill with an unbreakable fever. He gave him a mixture of herbs and teas and warbled many unfamiliar sounds. The boy’s fever however did finally break.”

      There was a pause as he seemed pensive.

      “Perhaps we could live side by side can we not, or no? Not like dogs who argue over a scrap of fat but like animals that know their belonging. There is a social contract written by man yet signed by God.”

     He looked up, his eyes squinting in a philosophical haze.

     “Forgive me and my inebriation for I am afflicted with years of neglect and need help for to heal. I for one do not believe you are all bestial and it is after all we who have given you a life. We landed here by God’s will,,,”

     There was a pause in the parody, then he resumed with renewed vigor,         “It is a clear case of a civilized society entering a primeval realm”. He paused and then added, “Look, I have seen you give yourselves to anyone for a mirror or a handful of beads,,, coram populo,,,  originally Jews I have read,,, dark and dirty and smooth skinned.”

      He then took note of the smoothness of the flesh of her exposed upper arms. He stared at her midsection. She cautiously bent stiffly and slowly down and awkwardly began to gather her things.

     “Wait hija, don’t leave just yet”, and as he said this he brought his goad around and touched her ankle like a doorstop. He seemed to enjoy his own discursive soliloquy and wanted her audience and to keep her in his gaze. He rose and she slowly stood more upright her things amassed haphazardly in her arms. Her gourd fell to the ground. The horse whinnied and snorted.

      She slowly bent down again to recover the gourd but he quickly spun on the balls of his feet and arrived first. They both slowly stood while facing one another. The scent of leather plugged her nostrils. The tart self indulgent sound of his words and his ultimate actions triggered fear. He held the gourd not really offering it. She managed to extend two fingers into the mouth of the gourd and gently took it from his unwilling hands having to bow slightly towards him in order to maintain hold of her possessions..

     “You are handsome morena even with your age”, He touched her left calf with the goad. She reacted a little defensively yet cautiously closed her legs more tightly at the same time moving her calf out of reach. He pushed forward again touching her calf another time toying with her, edging her sarong up matter of factly as if inspecting goods, then letting it fall back into place once again. They stood, two distinct birds, not moving for some time. Then he brought the goad upwards barely touching her clothing, up across her belly and stopping just beneath her breasts. She trembled slightly, and recoiled. He pressed the goad harder to her body focusing his gaze trying to penetrate her husk and eviscerate her essence.

     “Be still”, he blared, and she stilled from the tone of his voice.

     He arrived at her breasts lifting them a little with the goad and gently held their weight balanced upon the shaft. He slid it slowly up over their roundness catching her nipples which retsrained for an instant the goad’s upward progress. He advanced stopping just beneath her chin forcing her to raise her head slightly. His head was bent sideways as if he were evaluating a horse. Her eyes looked down at the goad with a mixture of defiance and fear but she withdrew the former submerging an assertive attitude as fast as it had arrived. It was then she knew. It was at that moment that she began to disengage from her feelings, to seek another place where she could bear whatever was to come.

     He snorted, “This is My spring, morena, it is part of my family for more than 100 years and all who come to drink here must pay me for its use.” He was close now and the odor of sweat and alcohol coldly unfastened her. He changed his tone and feigned softnesss and brushed her hair with the back of his left hand as he let the goad drop to his side. She detected smell of tobacco on his hand. She thought at that instant she might break and run but she knew better. He might run her down with his horse, and he had the rifle. He was filled with tyranny and high station and kindled with desire. He deliberately pressed himself to her so she could feel his manhood. “Mira nada mas con esto caloron y su pulgero que traen de vestido”, speaking now in a kind of denigrating growl. The goad spun about with lightning speed and struck her on the upper thigh with a resounding thwack. She was abruptly roused from her distance and brought back to the darkness. She took a step back and dropped her possessions. They fell helter skelter in a heap between the two of them. Surprised, he retreated slightly, instinctively offering more of his side than his front. She slowly and cautiously raised her hands, took a step back, then resolutely reached for the waist of her huipil with crossed arms and quickly pulled it up over her head baring her upper torso. He relaxed a little then regained his former poise, staring intently at her breasts excited even more now by her willing subjugation. He had been reaffirmed as man,, of all men, owner of a great hacienda, de gente y tierra, rico y todo abajo de su voluntad,, como un Rey.  He thought of the broad wallowing whores with whom he had romped in Ciudad Real, who gave themselves to him for a peso. He grew consumed with lust and distended. She released the waistband of her sarong and stood before him completely naked now staring out with hollow emptied eyes, and then placed her sarong and huipil reverently on the ground as if making her bed. She lay down upon her clothes on her back and raised her knees and spread her legs slightly with her arms at her side, motionless, like stilled paddles. She had made her decision, desecration would be a better than violence. She prayed silently that it would end quickly, and then for the second time since the arrival of horse and man she whisked herself away, to a another place without feeling, or mercy. She closed her eyes and disinherited herself from all her senses, falling into a chasm where she was untouchable replacing reality with an alternative to what was happening. She fell into pure blankness,,, peering up at an endless sky patterned with amorphous clouds, although now she was blinded to beauty, and she could hear her voice speaking a prayer but there was no sound. She saw the face of Q’uq’umatz, his tongue flicking,,,, you have broken your promise,,, and she felt a surge,,  a pulsating wetness,,, and then the wind abruptly arose clearing what remained of her consciousness and blew away all the debris that remained.

Sunday, August 21, 2022

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. 




























         

Sunday, August 14, 2022

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?