Independently wealthy

Between dances at the noisy Roxy bar last week John, a neighbor of mine, leaned over and asked, “Are you independently wealthy?” I thought for just a second. I have a great family, good health, and enough money to do what I want without being piggy. “Yes. I am, I said.”

Margaret’s sticker is in California. Enough said.It cost me almost $500.00 US. At least it was just money. I was an idiot. The bitch went to the bank while I waited for her in her office. There’s a red flag.

I’ve been in Mexico 6 months, mas o menos. I came with the intention of learning the language and culture. I can only claim to have completed a small section of a Mexico for dummies course, but I like it here.

There is a looseness about Latin life that suits me. They close the streets, sometimes several days or even a couple of weeks at a time for parties. Strangers smile & speak to me for no particular reason other than to connect I think.

Acceptance beats out perfection: comfort-pretension. That goes for their sexuality too; non of that puritan, bull shit, stifling, don’t-touch-yourself-down-there stuff. If my ass hadn’t slipped down to behind my thighs somewhere I would be wearing skinny spiked heels to thrust it a few inches higher myself. I am now a Birkenstock woman.

I love that I can buy one egg. Of if I smoked, 1 cigarette, or 3 slices of Oscar Meyer lunch meat. And a small slice of cheese that is called cheddar but it’s clearly not. The same with Parmesan. Mexicans could care less that the EU courts say only Italy can call Parmesan cheese, Parmesan. Fuck Them. Mexican Parmesan comes from Uruguay. I wouldn’t mess with them about what they name their cheese either.

I’m still a scavenger. Not that I dig through the bastura. Isn’t that word better than garbage? Bastura. But, like yesterday when I saw this nice reed basket…it’s seems a shame to pass up something perfectly lovely or useful just because someone else didn’t like it. Think about it. The luckiest of us will never outlive our usefulness or beauty and hopefully we’ll be used over and over til we wear out. And, I nabbed a cool, wooden box for a night stand.

It seems everyone dances here. Dance-bailar: salsa, tango, and maybe the it’s the Mexican two-step I see the abulitas doing in the park to the spunky sounds of the official city 12 piece orchestra playing in the gazebo. The kids start young. Friday evening as my friends and I sat around a table on the sand watching the sunset, a little girl, maybe 6, danced on the pier. Moved by the Brazilian blues quartet playing in the open air restaurant near by, she dipped & twirled. It was only when she partnered with the lamp post that we glimpsed an even wider range of possible dancing options to choose from.

And sing-cantar. Drunk or sober, good or bad, anywhere, anytime, Mexican people lift their voices in song, especially the men. Arias, boleros, mariachi, or cantos de amour: a capella, or accompanied. It’s a wonderful thing.

And besos-kisses. Kissing is done passionately as it should be. We’re not talking pecks on the cheek here. In the park, on the malecon, or waiting for traffic to move, night or day, couples both young and old submit to emotion & lust without shame or fear of reprisal. It makes me want to grab some old dude and throw him to the concrete, I swear.

Was Mark Twain Mexican?
“Dance like nobody’s watching; love like you’ve never been hurt. Sing like nobody’s listening; live like it’s heaven on earth.
Mexican neighbors are are solid like their houses with backbones of re bar. Built to last. They are hard working survivors: of tropical weather, 500 years of oppression by the Spanish, and rampant gringo infestation.

I don’t profess to understand the violent elements of this society: bullfighting or the bloody pitting of gallos or dogs against one another. Yesterday two hombres carried off two unsuspecting, handsome gallos from my neighbor’s yard. One man stroked his lovingly as he walked up the hill. The executioner giving you a neck massage before he whacks your head off. In this case, throws you into the pit for combat.
Urban women here have gained Independence pretty much like the rest of us in the western world but rural indigenous women are fighting an up hill battle for any rights at all. But, they are fighting. I read about Eufrosina Cruz, a 27 year old Zapotec woman who recently ran for mayor of her village in the mountains of Oaxaca. The male elders tore up all of the ballots cast in her favor. I tried to reach her through the paper, The News, to send her money but even that failed. Maybe the traditional Indian form of government, usos y costumbres (uses and customs) that got legal status 6 years ago, I suspect to shut them up, are in cahoots with the local media. Nothing would surprise me. I don’t care what anybody says, every country is corrupt.
What I haven’t heard here in paradise, except from a neighbor who is a retired Canadian, is whining. It just isn’t done. Get off your ass and do what you have to do. No quejandose.

My friend Linda visited for a couple of days. I introduced her to Yelapa, an old coastal village that finally got electricity 4 or 5 years ago. You get there by panga, a 16 or 19 foot boat. On the way over two Humpback whales swam along side us for a couple of minutes. We were thrilled.

If you go there, wade across the river, hook a left at the wide dirt path, and look for Passionflower Gardens on the right. It’s my friend, April’s place. Oh, my goodness, she can cook. But, that’s not all. She can read your tarot &and make you laugh. How cool is that.

“Do you know there’s a road that goes down to Mexico and all the way to
Panama? And maybe all the way to the bottom of South America where the
Indians are seven feet tall and eat cocaine on the mountainside? Yes? You
and I, Sal, we’d dig the whole world with a car like this because, man, the
road must eventually lead to the whole world. Ain’t nowhere else it can
go-right?” -Jack Kerouac

Paz en tierra.-ruby

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