Solamente en San Miguel

So one of my stories that originally appeared here on this very blog is now published in the

2nd volume of Solamente en San Miguel, a collection of writings about San Miguel by local writers.

You can read my contribution entitled 'Burdens' here.

The Sacred and the Profane

The solemn pilgrims bearing the bloody "Lord of the Column"

arrives at dawn in San Miguel to church bells and fireworks

after an all night pilgrimage from the sanctuary of Atotonilco.

Later the same day, a parade of costumed "locos" dance and march down our street

to the lively blaring of a brass band to celebrate who knows what.

In Mexico, everything is a contradiction. Or maybe it just appears that way to those of us who are accustomed to a logical order to things and a predictable, insulated life. In order to maintain one must learn to be in the moment and remind oneself over and over that everything changes constantly. Because it does.

Not only in the external world, but in the emotional world as well. Moods swing from elation to sadness to frustration to tenderness in a heartbeat.

Easter is coming and the suffering of Christ is celebrated with elaborate ceremony. Thousands of pilgrims carry the bloodied and beaten image of Jesus several miles through the desert arriving at dawn in San Miguel to fireworks, the clanging of church bells and beautiful carpets of scented flowers releasing the scent of chamomile, fennel and oranges as the dusty feet of the pilgrims trample them on their journey to the church. Clusters of shawled grandmothers sing hymns and battered trumpets play a sad and mournful tune as the hunched figure of the 'Lord of the Column' wobbles by above the dark heads of the faithful.

We sip chocolate atole and munch tamales from the sidelines as the sun rises into the lightening sky, casting macabre shadows on the nearby crumbling walls.

In the afternoon I run out of my house to the sound of oompa music, only to see doorways opening up and down the street from which dozens of costumed people emerge wearing masks and feathers, dancing and wiggling down the street followed by a brass band. Old ladies and children dressed as birds, aliens, rabbits and devils. The 'Locos' bumping and grinding and twirling down the cobblestones under plastic banners, surrounded by clouds of dust and crazy joy.

***

Paintings from the Rooftop

"Peregrina"

"El Autor"

"Esperanza"

Here are some 12"x12" paintings on paper and canvas I've been working on.

My studio is on the rooftop overlooking San Miguel.

Roof Dogs Revisited

The Roof Dogs of San Miguel

Since my blog post "Roof Dog Rant" appeared two years ago, I have been photographing them on the rooftops of San Miguel. These days it seems as if the roof dogs are getting smaller, yappier, and certainly more decorative and fashion conscious than ever before. There is even a clothing shop down the street and also at the Tianguis market that specializes in doggie attire. Poodles and chihuahuas strut their stuff in ruffles and courderoy, much to the delight of the passing camera toting gringo tourist.

But it is when they are on the rooftops that they move into their power. In total charge of their lofty domain among the tinacas (water tanks) and the rebar, they command attention from all who pass beneath them, yapping and howling their little hearts out into the sharp blue sky.

As annoying as they can be, you've got to love them. I mean, its not as if you have a choice, after all...

***

¡Ay, Chihuahua!

The ultimate chachke.

Who wants one?

¡Feliz Navidad y Prospero Año Nuevo 2010!

Here's wishing you all a magical and colorful holiday season,

however you choose to celebrate!

***

Dancing with the Mojigangas

The Mojigangas of San Miguel

So you may be wallowing in the blues because your lover just left you for another, or your cat just died, or you are just having a menopausal day and feeling fat and old and worthless, hanging your head in the Jardin in under the laurel trees feeling sorry for yourself. It happens to us all. But when the mojigangas come waltzing around the corner of the church with their giant heads bobbing, swinging their arms and flashing their brightly painted smiles, you can’t help but laugh out loud.

Bouncy music sputters from the loudspeakers as the giant puppets twirl into the plaza, braids of yarn and colorful ribbons flying around their bodies that tower above the children that come to greet them. They sway and spin as if to say alegre! alegre! and before you know it you are up and clapping your hands as a fifteen foot high lady puppet comes wagging her way towards you and pulls you into the circle to dance, practically scooping you up in her enormous paper mache bosom that swells out of her ruffled hot pink dress.

It is impossible to stay depressed in this town. It won’t let you mope around for long before fireworks punch your eardrums or church bells slap you awake or music shakes your bones as if to say Hey! come on out and play! The laughing painted eyes of the mojigangas tease and flirt with you as if to show you that life is a playground, a party, a fiesta after all, and there is precious little time to be sad or angry at the world. So you bump your hips from side to side, awkwardly at first, shy and self conscious before this enormous creature, then poco a poco you find a rhythm, feel a loosening in your spine, and you begin to dip and turn, stomping your feet on the worn stone streets.

The feet of the mojiganga wear a pair of old sneakers with holes in the toes. The frayed edges of blue jeans peek beneath her skirts, where a teenage boy watches you out of the folds of lace and fabric. He sees a white middle aged gringa, her silver bracelets jangling as she raises her arms over her head, and something like a crazed grin creeping across her face as she sways from one side to another, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. As if she has been dancing this way her whole life.

***

Oh Christmas Tree!

Mexico City can now boast the largest artificial Christmas tree ever, thanks to Pepsi Cola. Measuring over 240 feet high it is an impressive changing light show- seen here in three of many versions. Can't wait to see what Coca Cola comes up with to compete.

¡Viva la Revoluciòn!

It is the 99th anniversary of the Mexican Revolution, and hundreds of moustached, rifle toting bandoliered second graders march through the streets of San Miguel like miniature Pancho Villas.

I am watching the parade from the sidelines, crowded under the shade of the laurel trees with the rest of the onlookers cheering on group after group of children and adults, including one band of old ladies in colorful skirts, toting rifles and marching left to right, left to right. Ten year old kids wielding machetes clashing them together over their heads in unison, enormous flags bearing portraits of Villa waving over dark heads shouting Viva! Que viva!

The other night from the comfort of our king sized hotel bed we had watched Antonio Banderas’ personification of Pancho and his bloody revolution and subsequent rise to power and eternal legend in a somewhat askew version of Mexican history.

But isn’t all history a romanticized retelling of monotonous and flawed facts of human blunder?

What makes Pancho Villa particularly juicy is his larger than life persona, his rise from rebel peasant to power and corruption, a story that seems to repeat itself over and over throughout the world. The eternal promise of change continues...

The Migratory Life

“No soy de aqui, ni soy de alla,
no tengo edad, ni porvenir
y ser feliz es mi color de indentidad”
-Facundo Cabral

(I’m not from here, nor from there
I have no age or future
To be happy is the color of my identity.)

There is a Mexican folk tale about a donkey that was extremely hungry. At the same time he was also very, very thirsty. To the right of where he was standing was a fresh pile of hay, and to the left a cool river of clear water. He turned toward the right to eat, then realized how really dry and parched he was and so turned to the left, only to feel the ache of hunger in his stomach crying out for food.
Thirsty. Hungry. Food. Water. Left. Right. What do do?
And so they found him, both dehydrated and starved to death at the same time, unable to make up his mind….
Grim, I know. And yet whenever I think of this story I have to admit that I feel an odd kinship towards the donkey.
It scares me sometimes.

*

Well, we have been back in the US for 2 weeks now and I spent the first one wandering lazily about the house in a semi stupor, as if waiting for my soul to catch up with my body. Maybe it’s because I am getting older. Maybe it’s because I am feeling more displaced these days wondering where my true home is. Or maybe, like everything else lately, it’s just another menopause thing.
At any rate, it seems to be taking a lot longer to adjust to the change of environment.
Everything about being here is so different from where we just left.

At 6,000 feet in the high desert of Mexico the air is crisp and sharp and dry.
The senses are constantly assalted by smells both delicious and repugnant, the daily inescapable sounds of barking dogs and crowing roosters to church bells, fireworks, music. It drips with rich earthy colors: ochres and reds, a sharp blue of sky, deep purple shadows.
Mexico is a culture that nurtures creativity and spontaneity and human contact.
It is intense in every way. It can overwhelm you and enchant you. It can charm you and exhaust you. It’s sheer and constant aliveness both seduces you and drive you crazy at once, like a wild love affair.

Here, on the other hand, my skin gratefully soaks up the moisture on the grey cloudy shores of Aptos, among the gentle soft blues and greens and beiges and greys. In my house I can hear the sound of the ticking clock and occasional passing car, smell the occasional whiff of the vague sea air and spring blooms.
On one of my return trips from Mexico I found myself lying in bed irritated by what sounded like the bass notes of a not too distant boom box that went on and on. After awhile I realized to my astonishment that it was actually the beating of my own heart in the immense unbelievable silence of the night.
It feels peaceful and predictable here. Refreshingly dull and insulated. The perfect place to rest and regroup.

So what to do? North. South. California. Mexico. Why not both?
I do love the migrating lifestyle, being of two worlds. Each complements the other, each fills me up in a different way. It is a definitely a lifestyle that is challenging to maintain logistically, mentally, and physically, however, and one must adapt to a sense of flexibility in life as well as a defined structure to make it work. One must embrace a sense of home in a different way, as a citizen of the world, where traveling and daily life are the same. I’m working on it.

***

Why is it, when I am in Rome,
I'd give an eye to be at home,
But when on native earth I be,
My soul is sick for Italy?

Dorothy Parker
(from On Being A Woman)

***

Just a Position

"Toro, Toro"

Erongaricuaro, Michoacan, where Andre Breton once lived.

"The Virgin and the Chachke"

Outside the church of the Virgin of Salud (Health) in Patzcuaro, Michoacan.
Cheers!

I once read that the surrealist Andre Breton came to Mexico in 1938 to give a talk at a conference on surrealism. After getting lost in Mexico City he stated:
"I don't know why I came here. Mexico is the most surrealist country in the world".

What could he say to these people that they didn't already know?

***

¡Orale Güey! Year of the Ox

Patience and hard work are the attributes of the Ox.

Not my birth sign, that's for sure...
This one in San Miguel Viejo seems to be enjoying the fruits of his labor.

•

One of the most common slang words heard in Mexico is the word Güey (pronounced wey).
It is usually used by guys, and is thrown around in the same way that people in the US use the word Dude.
When I looked up the meaning and origin of the word I get the following info:
Some sources say that it comes from the Aztec Nahuatl word Huey, which is a word for respect.
But most sources agree that most likely it comes from the word Buey, which means Ox.
Rough translations include:
¡Orale, Güey! Yo, dude!
¡No mames, Güey! Don’t kid me, dude (literally don't suck)
¡No te hagas Güey! Don’t be such an idiot!
¡Ay ,Güey! Oh shit!
It began as a derogatory term, but like most Mexican slang words, the meaning has become complex.
It is now commonly used among enemies as well as friends and strangers.

•••

Invasion of San Miguel

Last year around this time, Starbucks opened on the corner of the central plaza in San Miguel. A small contingent of gringos stood across the street on opening day holding protest signs.
This year a Walmart appeared on the edge of town.
Secretly we are all hoping for a Trader Joe's, so that there will be no reason left to go back to the US....

And the guys with the guns? Just a part of the military parade celebrating Allende day.

***

Obama's angel

Watching the presidential inauguration at Juan's Cafe Etc. in San Miguel,
accompanied by a portrait of his son, Juanito, as an angel.

***

Waiting for Obama

Getting ready to join the expats in front of the TV at the local cafe for the Big Day.
WooHoo!

***
(image made at obamiconme.pastemagazine.com)

AgaveMania!

I have been having fun making these little illustrations inspired by the Agave, or Maguey.
Above are Fridagave, Catrinagave, Diego Riveragave, and of course, La Virgen de Agavelupe.
I don't know what's gotten into me...



(for other posts on the Agave see "Into the Heart of the Desert" - January, 2008)
..."Now the Agave begins to appear in my paintings in silvery greens and dark blues. The overlapping patterns of spines and thorns slowly unfolding to reveal a protected heart that is ready to blossom at any moment."

***

Frankincense, Myrrh, and Barbies

"Get your Super Heroes! Cheap superheroes here! Muy barato! Three for ten pesos!” A woman holds up a plastic Superman, Spiderman and Batman in one hand, waving them at the crowd that squeezes by her towards row after row of booths selling toys: Pink baby dolls, Tonka trucks and tricycles, scooters and teddy bears. Games, puzzles, soccer balls. A virtual orgy of plastic and color. Things that beep and whir and spin and flash. Dolls in every shape and size, each with it’s own wardrobe.

“Hey, this doll only has one shoe!” one woman cries, holding it up to the weary seller. “What will my kid think, that those pinche reyes brought me a doll with a missing shoe?” Everyone around her laughs. It's late, and the mood is joyful and fun here at the all night toy market on the eve of the day of The Three Kings. For in Mexico it is they, not Santa Claus, who deliver the goods to children all over the country.

In the plaza the three kings themselves arrive on mounted horses sporting turbans and cardboard crowns, trailing their gold lame capes behind them, surrounded by costumed dancers in clown masks. Helium balloons are handed out to all of the children tie pieces of paper with their wishes on them to send up to the sky, asking Los Reyes Magos for what they want the most. Then it is off to the all night toy market with their families, where the dizzying array of offerings await. Vendors sell tamales and atole and steamed corn to the hungry shoppers. Kids squeal and point and plead after shiny new bicycles and dolls that wiggle and roll their eyes.

Off to the side a woman in a shawl sits on the pavement, holding out her hand to the passersby. Her young daughter lies asleep in her lap. When I stoop down to offer her some coins I see that someone has placed a brand new pink Barbie doll wrapped in cellophane on the girl’s chest. It is a surreal sight, touching and sad, yet I can't help but smile. It is still a gift given with humble generosity. And as in the giving of any gift, ultimately it’s the thought that counts.

***

Post Holiday Blues

Whew!

Well, the Christmas lights are half burnt out, the pinatas are torn and faded, and the nacimientos are getting dusty. Fireworks are blessedly absent, and children are eagerly awaiting the arrival of the three kings to bring them their gifts. The rest of us are all at loose ends, waiting for life to get back to normal, whatever that means...

***

Happy New Year from San Miguel

New Year's eve in San Miguel de Allende
Sparklers, fireworks, salsa music and dancing.
All in all, a wonderful party and great beginning to the new year.
Photos by Jan Baross


***

Art from Trash

I have been keeping an art journal here in Mexico, incorporating my writing with imagery.
Its a wonderful medium and adds a whole new dimension to the experience of place.
Now I have begun to pick up interesting trash from the street.
Not the safest thing to do considering the dusty condition of the streets here,
but hey, it's for arts sake, after all. And art, as you know, is a dangerous pursuit.
Here is a page from my journal made from a Faros cigarette pack
I found on a trail in the desert outside of town.

***