MEXICO III

S.C.d.l.C. --> Oaxaca; Walk where. Just walk, walk until lose safety.
13 blocks or so, then turn right.
A woman exits her front door a few paces in front of me. I don't want to scare her, walking tall on dark street. Conversely, she doesn't seem to notice me at all. This is a main street that she lives on— It is hard to surprise a woman who is expecting the street.
    Another right, and a deeply satisfying burning smell wafts from somewhere. A Spanish burning, across dry hills, the puebla of Soto, old Roman in Rioja. My father roasting a red pepper right on the gas burner, drinking a beer, making us dinner. "I'll do this math and then we'll eat." (Same smell in Toniná, and driving back to San Cristóbal as dusk fell on green hills, a smell essential to the landscape, that burning.)
    A stray dog up ahead (earlier, with Conejo, her friend's scraggly white pup, "no toco los perros"). Strays in Chiapas all seemed completely amiable. Check if its tail is wagging to see if it's happy. This one has no tail to wag.
    No matter how tan I become I'll always have my height to give me away. At least I have the decency to wear pants (urban Mexicans, well, Chilangos at least, don't wear shorts), and to keep my camera in my bag when I'm not using it. And to take a photo shamefully, covertly, realizing that what I'm doing is equivalent to theft, cultural misinterpretaion/fetishization, and rape.
    I don't give a damn about the Beatles or NOFX, Quentin Tarantino or Daniel Johnston, just like you don't give a damn about cumbia villera. This is one form of culural discomfort, an unremovable barrier. You don't like Americans but you like American movies, music. I don't like either but I like John Adams. I think that's difficult for you to understand. Cumbia Villera is way more subversive, innovative, and exciting than Bouncing Souls. To me, at least--

    

 
Benito Juárez as a boy shepherd. The rational principles— Round up these beasts, keep them quiet, don't let them wander. Don't lose one.

lo mejor tipografia

Solito. Wandering in the dark with my bag. (Which, according to Beckett makes me a woman) (I disagree, knowing also how a woman can give up when abandoned) (arms crossed, legs crossed) (After being abandoned I begin to wander in the dark with my bag).
    Tinoco y Palacios. The grey darkness of being. Crespo. The grey darkness of being. Morelos, Hidalgo. The never abolished threat of grey darkness. Las Casas, 20 de Noviembre. Under the never abolished of the grey darkness of the One. Where the One bears the torture of its own identification.
    The— Tinoco y Palacios, this time as Two. Imagined multiple: "I've waited for you for maybe four years." (Waiting, but not immobile) (Wandering in the dark after affirming the lack in all except that which I await). Four years, Colonia La Soledad.
    The inaugural figure of the two. "We drifted in among the flags and stuck."
    Zócalo: Let me in. (Pause)





Whilst living among the German people I learned how easy it was to be punctual. Should have said, "I'll be there at exactly once y media and no matter if I'll never see you again I won't wait more than a media hora for anyone." Fuck it, I'd rather eat at the Fondas anyway. Cocina económica, eso es lo que me gusta.



Mercado 20 de Noviembre, a place where hunger is a precious commodity, not to be squandered.

Aimless way to live ... bags and beds ... sensuality + sentimentality. Wandering in the darkness of sensuality and sentimentality, with a bag, renouncing both, looking for the guarantor of the sensible night.
    Sings Alain, "the rustling night of leaves and plants, stars and water." Yes, thank you— these things. Nights authorized to rustle, stars dripping, sky water. The 2nd Nocturne.
    "Magic is epic and it's also sex and Dionysian mists and play."
    The opening of the waters.

My name? Solito Sabroso.





    Mexican pines sun-dappled, large needleballs like a porcupine or a firework, crowding together. Under the sun, these needle's ball needleball's needle-balls, let's just say pine-tufts, create a shadow-shape of a diffused circle. This creates a subtle visual effect, the green diffused circles of pine-tufts mixing with the diffused shadow circles then there's the spiky golden grasses, positively parched under the blazing sun. I will always think of: Mexican pine seen through bus window opiate vision.
    —"passing the winter famously"
    —personal Mexican chess record: 1 win, 5 losses.
    —My last two days in Oaxaca were overcast, with clouds hanging low between dry hillocks most of the way to Mexico City.
    —Two American hippies in Benito Juárez airport one wearing trekking gear and rhythmically shaking vanilla pods, another wearing poncho and blue jeans, spitting air through a fake indian flute. I fantasize approaching them: "Hey dudes Mexico is a pretty spiritual place isn't it?"



© 2009 solito sabroso & 1976 TORTEC® tortilla machines