ABSTRACT
Guanajuato, Mexico Here I am, an industry without chimneys, looking for an alternative to abandoning privilege, looking out from my long floral porch which is not a porch but an expatriate way of life (he hates her, she hates him, but they can't leave), leaning over the intricate stone railing, over the caretaker asleep on the ground, toward the haciendas on the opposite hill which seems so luxurious without cactus. Surviving "turistas," the physics of the fiesta and the intimacy of our schizophrenia, we have arrived, not without mercy, to render unto trees and flowers and hills our unnatural, filling-laden homage. Across the way, they may be watching, mineral water in hand, the spectacle-clad vermin. But we do not think ourselves unhealthy, if afflicted. We do not think ourselves visited 14but visitors, without undue recompense. If the trees bow slightly, that is alright. And if the flowers bloom indiscriminately, we can accept such favors. We knew before coming we must restore to its altar the spine of the tree, and the ebullient blooming to its rightful position. We knew before coming that notoriety was wrong everywhere, though trusting the wealthy North American. But the causes of suffering are like impure water, which one must walk beside and ingest until one is covered completely in the sweaty afternoon. And the momentum of the rains is like the momentum of the bells, penetrating and cleansing the lush cover. Here, every workday is part of a pilgrimage for which the church tolls the approximate hours. It's true, we have paid too much attention to our mouths. We have the expression, "like pulling teeth"; we have words for the cabinets of our emotions. But the caretaker has pulled his bad tooth without fuss, and now weathers his senses in sleep. And we, compensating witnesses, lead his concurrent lives, take place in the garden of his salvation, in the hierarchy of anonymity, and in the masterful units of his siesta, and always did.
