una noche enmascarada

         The colorful holiday of Los Días de los Muertos, The Days of the Dead, is celebrated in Mexico to honor those family members or loved ones who have died. These two days, November 1 and 2, are also the Catholic holidays of All Saints Day and All Souls Day. Altars are created in homes and feature portraits, favorite foods and personal items such as reading glasses and hats.  The cemeteries are filled with family members gathered together lighting candles and adorning the tombs with Marigolds and Cockscombs. In the streets there are often parades and fairs, music and dancing. During many of the traditional performances the dancers wear masks that represent old men, death, animals and other characters to better tell their story.  The dances are comprised of steps passed down over the years along with other traditions such as making sugar skulls and hanging decorations like banners of papel picado, cut paper, to make the fiesta more colorful and bright. Los Días de los Muertos are vibrant and lively days focused on the precious memories rather than the fear and gore focused Halloween holiday that we in the US typically celebrate.  

Celia Rose recently relocated to Nashville from Guanajuato, Mexico. Unlike the mountainous desert town where she had been living for the past three years, there are few opportunities to enjoy the outdoors in Tennessee without either the mosquitoes, the humidity or the bitter chill driving you back inside.  Not wanting to miss the chance to spend a night under the stars, Celia Rose organized an evening of art and music to celebrate Los Muertos at Mas Tacos Por Favor, a taco shop in East Nashville known for their tasty tacos and delicious soups, for Los Muertos.  

 Paper mâché and horchata were among the supplies scattered across the tables Thursday night while the first round of mask-making got under way.  Among the many artists were a mother and son team, and one boyfriend who surprised his girlfriend on her spooky birthday. Friday night, the taco truck was posted up outside of the East Nashville location of Mas Tacos and kept cranking out pork and vegetarian tamales while local bands New Pleasure  and Promised Land entertained the ever-growing crowd that was gathered outside.

Among the confetti and paint, and behind the masks, there was a beautiful combination of cultures and traditions.  The left over jack-o-lanterns smiled on the table next to the sugar skulls as the last of the spirits slipped away into the night. No matter the tradition or the language, the turning of the seasons seems to spark that sense of nostalgia in all of us.

lighting up the dark

I found it in a palindrome.

My purpose, I share with the moth.

in girum imus nocte et consumimur igni

we go wandering at night and are consumed by fire

Lo encontré en un palíndromo. 

Comparto mi proposito con la polilla.

in girum imus nocte et consumimur igni

vamos girando en la noche y somos consumidos por el fuego

read between the lines

Rusted is the copper chime, her spirit gone for now.

Not to the stars, heed not the lies, the murmurs of the crowd.

Her echo is loft across the map but listen! For it isn't loud.

She belongs not to the sea nor land, yet uses each at whim

to tune the notes. The fire is stoked, yet she soars with her kind, the wind.

And, as the moon, the seasons change, thus shall the rose turn, too,

back to the ones she calls her own. Tho she fears it won't be soon.

mad. rid.

So it goes beyond all of  my formal training and street cred to say Madrid (read like: I am mad. I can't seem to get rid of these pesky mustard stains).  I went with my aunt to hear for myself and, bless their hearts, that is how they pronounce it in New Mexico.  Throw it in the bucket with Santa Fe, Tennessee and Amarillo, Texas and Louisville, Colorado and... if you're from anythere, or if you've been anythere, you know the theres that I am talking about.

The little gaggle of houses and a once-was coal mine is found tucked in a curve along the Turquoise Trail between Albuquerque and Santa Fe.  Precious. And well worth a visit.  It is full of little art galleries and a couple of dueling coffee shops; this little town sees no less than 20,000 people a year according to some local artists. And the locals, though scarce, do exist. If you care to rise early with the sun you can catch a few of them in Java Junction getting their cuppa joe. I am seriously considering applying for my residency.

All the smears of blue that so beautifully mimicked the heavens that day reminded me of my blue bike momma.  Suggestion: eat at the Hollar... another chance at rubbing elbows with the regulars and to grab a (locally bred) buffalo burger, it comes on a biscuit. And sub the fries for the okra... I am the final word on that particular veggie and I say sí.

Where are you from?

my aunt and uncle just called...
they've been in DC for a few days now -I stayed here to take care of the kitties- and they come home tomorrow.
they didn't say it, didn't have to, I heard it in their voices the desire to get back... the anticipation of arriving at the house... to their home... to security and comfort.
it made me sad... made me jealous... I don't remember the last time I felt that. At home... nor when the next opportunity to feel that will present itself...
belong somewhere... to someone, maybe.
I don't know how to answer when someone asks:
where are you from?

me acaban de marcar mis tíos...
llevan unos días en Washington DC -me quedé aquí a cuidar a sus gatitos- y mañana regresan.
no lo dijeron pero escuché en sus voces el deseo de regresar... la anticipación de llegar a casa... a su hogar... a seguridad y a comodidad.
me dio tanta tristeza... tanta envidia... no sé la ultima vez que sentí eso. en casa... y cuando me presentará la chance de sentir eso...
pertenecer a algún sitio... a alguien, tal vez.
no sé que responder cuando alguien me pregunta:
de dónde eres?

serendipity is a wonderful thing

To be in the right place at the right time... or to get to the right place at the right time. Either way, it's gotta be more than luck.

I was offered the amazing opportunity to attend Lisa Sonora Beam's Creative Entrepreneur Workshop at Hacienda Mosaico in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.

Since dawn on Thursday I had been trying to convince the gas company to deliver gas... or rather, to do their job... so that Estacion Esperanza wouldn't have to go a day without gas... hot water... or the option of cooking.  My pleas were denied. Supposedly the driver would get a huge fine for being on a pedestrian street and in a school zone at the hour which parents are delivering their children and niños swarm everywhere. Safety or fines or some crazy excuse.

Around 7:30 I decided to check my email before crawling back into bed.

A happy little message from my aunt brightened my day... and I do believe that Betsy, her friend who let me attend the workshop in her place, altered my life.  The beach - and a week of paid breakfast and lunch -  was only a 9 hour bus ride away!

Sammy and her little dog Estela welcomed me at when I arrived at 6:30 a.m. on Monday morning.  After a much-needed shower to rid myself of the filmy bus smell and a quick nap, I awoke to the best breakfast I had eaten since the pumpkin pie I gobbled down in November before catching a flight from Nashville to Mexico City.  

Every morning and at lunch I devoted myself to the devouring of the loads of fresh pineapple, guava, star fruit, kiwi, strawberries, raspberries, oranges, mangos, granola and yogurt, hot cakes with fresh blackberry jam, salads piled high with jicama, olives and beets, rich black coffee, bacon, frijoles, eggs, blue corn marlin empanadas, huitlacoche and squash blossom quesadillas, fresh molcajete salsa, mango juice, hibiscus water... there is more... much more... I won't torture you.

Glass hearts and mosaic tiles glittered all around the hacienda and we were welcome to lounge anywhere we felt like landing during our free time.  Chaise lounges next to the pool, sofas with pillows scattered around, a hammock and a pool. Nothing is lacking at this wonderful refuge from the noise of our apocalyptic world.

After my first full night in Vallarta I woke and found my way to the beach to let myself soak up as much of the sea as I could. Guanajuato had almost no rain in the past year and they are already cutting off water all over the city in order to reserve as much as possible before the heat and real dry season hit.  I walked along the pebbly shore gathering sea glass and bones. At one point I thought to myself that I would steal only a few more treasures then head back to stuff my face with whatever deliciousness that Alicia and Cristobal had decided to prepare for us. Not three minutes later, a wave came up and charged me for my souvenirs... the flip flops that a friend had lent me with the understanding that he would cut off my hair did I not bring them back. I knew something had to go wrong with all of this perfection flying around.

I want to share some links to the marvelous mujeres that put up with me that week.  Please take a moment to check out their creations. All are genius and accomplished... I was blessed to be among them!  

Ulrieke Benner - Art You Wear

Art by Joyce Durand

TranquiliT

Kimberly Wilson

Throughout the week I was surrounded by an inspiring and intimidating group of women who were nothing but supportive and loving. I needed to be in that space and exactly in that moment. I had been feeling lost and suffocated... alone and reverting to muscle memory.  

In the workshop, Lisa guided us through our creative, business and personal goals while we cut and pasted and shared and supported one another.  We could use the studio any time we felt like it and a couple of nights I stayed up there alone singing songs in my head so as not to wake the others.  It was a great time to develop some new techniques and experiment with budding ideas.

I searched for solace among the sand.

The motion of the waves in the stillness of my mind was comforting.

The night breeze felt amazing and the humidity revived me while walking along the Malecon.  It was high season in Vallarta but it was not very crowded. Taxis lined the streets and some electronica bars looked nothing but pitiful with a hand full of people in them, mostly employees.  I spoke with some of the merchants and the taxi drivers and they commented that, apart from the all-inclusive hotels, resorts and cruise ships, many people were scared to venture far from their comfort zone. Much of this is due to negative publicity and a fear-based propaganda campaign that is prevalent in the U.S.  There are parts of Mexico that are dangerous, it is a reality.  However, there is no reason to hole up in a sterile hotel room while you wear your wristband like garlic to ward off vampires.

Sammy, our host at Hacienda Mosaico, is an amazing jewelry designer.  I drooled over the rings and now wear the earring that she gave me as a reminder of the tranquil and pampering week that I spent at her beautiful hacienda.

The last day I decided to change my bus ticket so that I could spend the afternoon at the beach and then sleep on the overnight bus.

I sat in the shade of an umbrella wearing long pants. I slathered sunscreen all over my arms.  It felt good to be greasy; I knew the arid desert air would turn me into a snake again only too soon.

Spiderman parachuted by every so often while the others that were paragliding just made me mad because I would love to fly one day.

Back to reality.  

Chaos and art class awaited me in Guanajuato... but I didn't stir once I boarded the bus. I dreamt that the motor of the bus was the ocean and the light from the television was the full moon shining her light down on me as I traveled east. 

i don't know why

I don't grasp being envious of someone who is miserable despite being surrounded by friends and family. Who just doesn't know why she is depressed in her home. Who can't explain why she can't just get a job to pay the bills.  Someone who talks about being blessed and excited to see a new place, learn a new language and live a life that so many dream about... because she does realize, she does... but who breaks down in front of her fellow passengers when boarding for the first leg of the trip because it hurts so bad to leave the people that she loves and that love her despite truly knowing her. 
It isn't something I choose, really, this life that happens to me. I would choose, probably, to not work for minimum wage and 30 hours a week. I would opt not to spend money on plane tickets and oil paints. And I would probably get a government job that would pay me to go to the places and do the things I want to do. They would pay me to learn all the languages on my list. It would be much easier that way. And I'd probably have health insurance. And a company car. And a house. No debt. (I know you know what I'm talking about.) 
But I can't just do that.

flashbacks

Like depicted in movies and on television, tunnel vision and hearing loss set in without warning as I fleetingly relive a moment from my childhood.   I relish these trips down memory lane that are most often triggered by the olfactory glands.
One of the most distinct and frequent memories that I recall is of taking baths at my grandparents' house in Oklahoma.  The undercurrent of well water is lacking, but every time I use Noxema face wash I revert back to that mini-me with my cheeks and chin lathered up just right; Papa's Colgate shaving cream and his old, razor-less Bic poised for action.
There are two perfumes that have the power to spike my senses and send me sniffing around like the best of hounds.  To be honest, though, I have no idea which specific scents they are; I only know my history with the women who wore them.
There are moments when I am back in the house from my McDowell Elementary School days.  The perfume my mom would don before going to a show in Nashville with dad or before her Thursday bunko nights was a spicy floral and I am almost certain it came in a delicate bottle with a tiny golden lid.  The closest I have come to finding a similar scent, that doesn't come in a ninety-nine cent aerosol bottle with a name resembling that of a romance novel, is one from Tokyo Milk.  Of course I don't recall the name of that flavor, either.
Sometimes I stop and look around to make sure my babysitter from preschool days isn't standing next to me. Naturally, she isn't, but once I accidentally smelled a woman onto the next aisle because I wanted to have Miss Tammy around just a little bit longer. Iced, sprinkled, strawberry Pop Tarts and Full House jump into my mind when I smell her perfume.  I think of teddy bears and my first roommate in college, too.
I believe that our lives flash before our very eyes daily.  More often, if we are lucky.  I know my eyes remain open and my motor skills haven't failed me, yet.  When it happens in the car, I keep driving but I confess what I see is not the scene I am passing. What I see is being projected onto that part just behind my eyebrows and forehead. That part of the skull seems to be where I look, as if staring at a movie screen.  Don't judge, everyone has been driving along and then suddenly wondered how they arrived at their destination.
Memory is the trickiest of characters.  I lose my keys within moments of entering the house but, when a waft from back in time drifts up my nose and into my memory files, I am suddenly eleven years and singing, word for word, Juliana Hatfield's Spin the Bottle while wearing my best friend's Flapdoodles.

technology is trash

heard on NPR

i felt moved to tell the world

those who read will know

You Renew

And we went walking:

Almost Heaven

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

This song has the same effect on me as when I am annoyed by people whom I love most in this world.
The whistling gets real old real fast. The words ring too true. The memories trailing along with the melody are bittersweet.
My jaw clenches and a pressure develops where my Adam's apple would be if I were a boy. However, with the release of that first breath I feel a sting in my eyes, fuzz in my nasal cavity and the tightening of my heart.
I love it.
Two of my very best friends moved out to West Virginia at the beginning of December to work as ski instructors. It didn't matter that they had never skied before.
So, we went.  
Food and music: we were prepared. After driving through the night, nothing but the sunrise tinted with colors of salmon, cantaloupe and glacier water could give caliber to that drive into the peaks.
When I arrived, the house swallowed me in an unforeseen comfort. Finally with my friends, we were us once again.
They owned that town and could already ski down that hill. Backwards... while wrangling niños.  
Also, they now know what radiators are. Life stops when you stop learning.
Only after spending my quarters on the juke box and my dollars on drinks did I borrow another friend's skis to zip down the bunny slope just to say that I did. That was enough. The rest of the weekend went by without a pause; we spent our limited time causing scenes and reveling in each other's familiarity.

The mountains were as majestic as our nation's anthems proclaim them to be and I was thrown back to the time of my grandmother's stories about kin folk and moonshine stills. The train tracks and plaid jackets strengthened the nostalgia that had, for me, permeated the tone of the trip from the genesis. 

Alas, the tune escapes through my pursed lips and so it will be that the customer's will carry it through the cafe doors and out to the world. 
Home.