On a night of clouds, in the middle of the city that struggles in its lust for space to break the valleys or create new ones, we scale the hill amidst the press. Atop the rise hails a 300 ft flag pole like a telephone line to God. I guess they don't know him very well, becaue he talks to me in the supermarket sometimes. The brick court yard around the pole holds many people at bay who would fly out over the city where the lights stretch to where they blend together to make waves of civil electricity. We come because the stars have died under a shroud of smog and city glow--ironic. The million tiny shining points look like jars of light, carefully packed in a storehouse of God's creation, ready to be flung up into the sky. There's a planet next to that galaxy. Or maybe they're angels fallen from heaven, but not the good kind. For in their pride they have stolen the real stars and pretended to look like them. I wonder who died in the city tonight alongside the glowing towers of concrete.
Outside the city, older towers glow with purer light. The white rocks of Huasteca reach up higher than la bandera en la colina. The crystaline rocks leap straight up hundreds of feet all around us like enormous salt formations. They add flavor to the barren mountains in the surrounding area. Bits of rock, fallen from the surrounding cliffs, are worn round by an ancient river that no longer flows through the valley. A horse races by, the stones sound like ancient clattering voices under the horse's hooves. In the nearby dessert, on the edge of a barren plain, high on the face of a grim mountain, gapes the mouth of a humbler world: a world of wonders burried in darkness. Grutas de Garcia reveal the secret of a hollow mountain, the wonder of empty space where rock should be. I guess more than purification happened during Noah's day. Now, after years, ages, men, cities, nations, births of paupers and emperors, wars and the day's bit of gossip that changed someone's world, the caverns remain: ever dripping, ever shifting in a slow, mineral slide of bulbous rock. Little dark patches look at me between the stalagmites or from under a twisted brown formation of crooked stone as if indifferently daring any rare creature who passes to discover its secrets beyond.
Every day, I get ready to go to work by eight o'clock. Homero picks me up and we start the day off with a whirl in the van. We work till lunch, then sup on tortillas and beans. After he leaves me at two, I am left to fend for myself against the onslaught of more than twenty niños cansados. The day oozes like black tar in the summer sun. I know every minute intimately. All I can think of is leaving. But the end mocks me from an unassailable possition in the future called seven thirty. But these days do not last forever.
None of these things last. The city lights go out in the glare of the sun and some day they will disappear entirely. No cavern or mountain or sea will remain unchanged. But one place remains. It shines like an eternal surprise: a kinder egg that never ends.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
because you asked
The Alamo, where many men died
This tree is old, but the well is older. The water hole has been there since the outpost was a mission.
This old building is the capital of Nuevo Leon. It is more of a historic site than governmental center, but it still houses the governor's office.
Monterrey is full of statues.
Neptune, King of the Sea. I'm shocked by his naked sprites.
Notice how Mary is higher than Jesus.
The city has lots of smog and lots of VW Beetles. The Beetles are even used as taxis and police cars.
Should we walk, ride horses, or have this guy take us up to the waterfall? We chose this guy.
Like Rain on the Mountains
June 20
Rain drops fall down, giving the leaves little earings then colliding in the streets to search for a drain. If one exit is full the rain drops four down to the next and the next until they reach a river or the sea. In a puddle the raindrops blow bubbles as if causing a chemical reaction that will purify the air and disolve the plastic bags and candy wrappers in the streets and wash the graffiti from the shop corners. The view out my window presents a concrete wall and a tangle of trees. It looks like a rain forest--wishfull thinking.
Earlier today, I needed to move--to get away. Often, I look up where the speckled houses creep up the side of the mountain like raindrops that have reached the sea and found it full. (Sorry, the ocean can´t take any more water today.) And I am tempted to walk to those people, see who they are, and keep walking. I don´t want to stop until I reach the place where there aren´t anymore houses to block my view or even trees to get in the way. Only the sky surrounds me. But first I have to walk. So what if it´s private property? Who´s going to stop me? The people on the hill? I think they would understand. They look up there every day where the earth stops and even the clouds take the time to brush by.
What is a passport good for except to prove that a person is free? And yet, the freedom costs. the little blue book of American pride requires stamps that merely give permission to the bearer to perpetuate the belief in freedom. Even then, the document belongs to the federal government and ¨must be surrendered upon demand made by an authorized representative of the United States Government.¨ I wonder who that person is.
Today I walked to the store even though it was a couple kilometers away. I didn´t need anyone to drive me. I had a passport. Visiting a Home Depot, I took great pleasure in feeling the spirit of my countrymen who want to fix things themselves. Moreover, Coldplay streamed over the PA system like whistling rockets during the 4th of July. I don´t know why I like it. I just do. Then I went to Super Wal-mart and lusted after all the American irony made right here in Mexico. Everyone spoke Spanish but I knew this was truer American soil than the embassy. Eventually, time pushed me toward the door where water bounced off the pavement and filled the streets. All the shoppers with there grocery bags of plastic happiness huddled under the awning just outside the store. I joined them while we all considered the climate controled comfort of the dry building and the proposition of challenging the force that had put Noah in the ark. Then an hombre stepped boldly forward as if the sky were clear. He opened his arms and mocked the sky, getting soaked in seconds. Suddenly, I could see what he knew all along. Behind lay perfectly plotted aisles: sparkling clean and spacious. Outside, drenched and dangerous, loomed the entire world. A moment later my clothes hung heavy from my body as the liquid filled my soul. The future lay obscured by dark water but I laughed as I ran because I knew that no one could stop me.
Rain drops fall down, giving the leaves little earings then colliding in the streets to search for a drain. If one exit is full the rain drops four down to the next and the next until they reach a river or the sea. In a puddle the raindrops blow bubbles as if causing a chemical reaction that will purify the air and disolve the plastic bags and candy wrappers in the streets and wash the graffiti from the shop corners. The view out my window presents a concrete wall and a tangle of trees. It looks like a rain forest--wishfull thinking.
Earlier today, I needed to move--to get away. Often, I look up where the speckled houses creep up the side of the mountain like raindrops that have reached the sea and found it full. (Sorry, the ocean can´t take any more water today.) And I am tempted to walk to those people, see who they are, and keep walking. I don´t want to stop until I reach the place where there aren´t anymore houses to block my view or even trees to get in the way. Only the sky surrounds me. But first I have to walk. So what if it´s private property? Who´s going to stop me? The people on the hill? I think they would understand. They look up there every day where the earth stops and even the clouds take the time to brush by.
What is a passport good for except to prove that a person is free? And yet, the freedom costs. the little blue book of American pride requires stamps that merely give permission to the bearer to perpetuate the belief in freedom. Even then, the document belongs to the federal government and ¨must be surrendered upon demand made by an authorized representative of the United States Government.¨ I wonder who that person is.
Today I walked to the store even though it was a couple kilometers away. I didn´t need anyone to drive me. I had a passport. Visiting a Home Depot, I took great pleasure in feeling the spirit of my countrymen who want to fix things themselves. Moreover, Coldplay streamed over the PA system like whistling rockets during the 4th of July. I don´t know why I like it. I just do. Then I went to Super Wal-mart and lusted after all the American irony made right here in Mexico. Everyone spoke Spanish but I knew this was truer American soil than the embassy. Eventually, time pushed me toward the door where water bounced off the pavement and filled the streets. All the shoppers with there grocery bags of plastic happiness huddled under the awning just outside the store. I joined them while we all considered the climate controled comfort of the dry building and the proposition of challenging the force that had put Noah in the ark. Then an hombre stepped boldly forward as if the sky were clear. He opened his arms and mocked the sky, getting soaked in seconds. Suddenly, I could see what he knew all along. Behind lay perfectly plotted aisles: sparkling clean and spacious. Outside, drenched and dangerous, loomed the entire world. A moment later my clothes hung heavy from my body as the liquid filled my soul. The future lay obscured by dark water but I laughed as I ran because I knew that no one could stop me.
Monday, June 18, 2007
God's plan
The Sabath is the one seventh of a man's life that is given back to him to be his own. I rested well this Sunday. But then today I worked enough for three days and I'm worse off than when I started. I worked in the sun making beds for the kids until sweat was dripping from my face and 50% of the salt in my body had stained my shirt. Then I went around the rest of the day with white specks on my back and chest. I kept thinking of the way all the kids have runny noses and eat lots of corn products. I worried that they would gather around and start licking me. It was rather disconcerting. The rest of the unnaturally stretched-out day I spent fighting with one child or another over who hit whom first. When I get through with this, I'm either going to be the worlds greatest dad or simply hate children for the rest of my life.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Homero, mi hermano
It would seem I underestimated the power of language. A difference in tongues creates plastic people--figures that look alive but have skin that is hard and cold. Deep in their eyes lie their souls but the things they do and say don't seem human. Some of the missionaries I have met who are only here for a short time and speak no Spanish have this view. I can tell. They wish to reach out, to connect, to set up some kind of LAN in order to communicate and see the souls of the Mexican people. But they can't. A firewall keeps knocking them down. Then when a language is learned, a spark seems to build up over time to warm and liquify the insides. I can see those around me are real--that they breathe and feel. But to me they are still covered in plastic wrap. I can feel their warmth, sweating underneath, trying to get out and touch me. Little by little, I peel away a layer and learn a new word. But there are still those low-whispered secrets, quick sparkling jokes, and sincere moments that I can't share. Even if I can tell them when I'm thirsty or that Miguel wet his pants, I can't show them who I am, what I feel, or what I believe. I am plastic too.
Then again, my friend Homero is almost completely real to me. He's the kind of guy who always buys pop for his friends and never rushes through breakfast. Everywhere we go, people know him and joke about the bad influence he'll have on me if I'm not careful. I wouldn't mind if it were true. Driving through the labyrinthine streets of Monterrey as if he'd left the stove on and the baby on the table, he seems like one born to walk the streets of this city. He bounces along the patchwork roads and buzzes around corners, dodging seven people with every turn. But then, when we go to the hardware store and everyone slaps him on the hand and greets him like he were passing out thousand peso bills, his smile seems more suited to a cafe in a tiny village where his boisterous laugh could be better recognised. Judging from the place where he has come from, any town would benefit from this man. I have been in the concrete hut his mother calls her home on the verge of the city, where everything is tied together with string and nailed down to keep it from sliding off the hill. I don't know why he took me there--maybe to show me how much wealth I have--maybe to show me how much wealth they don't have. I said hello to his Mama and brothers, trying to imagine what the house would be like with my family in it. Homero's own house is further down the hill, where the streets are a little straighter and the cinderblocks are painted shades of white and green. It's clean and comfortable enough. When I commented that I liked his house, he told me it was small (pointing out the relative truth that is different in every part of the world). I responded by telling him that I used to live in a house just a little larger, but with eight people. He seemed to like that very much and laughed when I said I used to spend a lot of time outside. In the morning, he always offers me some of his amazing breakfast that is made by his wife and probably doubles his cholesterol with every bite. I don't know if I should laugh or cry every time he eats another taco. But when we go to pick up the ninos from school and I'm supposed to get them in line but none of them is listening to me, he comes up, gives them all spankings, and I know he's my friend.
Then again, my friend Homero is almost completely real to me. He's the kind of guy who always buys pop for his friends and never rushes through breakfast. Everywhere we go, people know him and joke about the bad influence he'll have on me if I'm not careful. I wouldn't mind if it were true. Driving through the labyrinthine streets of Monterrey as if he'd left the stove on and the baby on the table, he seems like one born to walk the streets of this city. He bounces along the patchwork roads and buzzes around corners, dodging seven people with every turn. But then, when we go to the hardware store and everyone slaps him on the hand and greets him like he were passing out thousand peso bills, his smile seems more suited to a cafe in a tiny village where his boisterous laugh could be better recognised. Judging from the place where he has come from, any town would benefit from this man. I have been in the concrete hut his mother calls her home on the verge of the city, where everything is tied together with string and nailed down to keep it from sliding off the hill. I don't know why he took me there--maybe to show me how much wealth I have--maybe to show me how much wealth they don't have. I said hello to his Mama and brothers, trying to imagine what the house would be like with my family in it. Homero's own house is further down the hill, where the streets are a little straighter and the cinderblocks are painted shades of white and green. It's clean and comfortable enough. When I commented that I liked his house, he told me it was small (pointing out the relative truth that is different in every part of the world). I responded by telling him that I used to live in a house just a little larger, but with eight people. He seemed to like that very much and laughed when I said I used to spend a lot of time outside. In the morning, he always offers me some of his amazing breakfast that is made by his wife and probably doubles his cholesterol with every bite. I don't know if I should laugh or cry every time he eats another taco. But when we go to pick up the ninos from school and I'm supposed to get them in line but none of them is listening to me, he comes up, gives them all spankings, and I know he's my friend.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
International Conversion and Coffee
The smog covered the sky this morning, as thick as refried frijoles, plugging my nostrils and stealing the mountains. Whenever I think that the city might be a passable place to live, the fumes of industry boil up from under my very feet and separate me from the sun. I've heard Chicago has clean air. I'll try living there next.
At about 10:30 or 11:00 at night, a linguistic lever trips in by brain like a circuit breaker guarding against overload. By 12:00 I no longer care about verb conjugation or what the heck anybody is talking about. God must have put some kind of fascintation with words in people's minds that Satan has twisted into a system of deranged cruelty. They know that my ears are clogged with a self-presservation that screams into my brain to just go into the bathroom and curl up on the floor to sleep. But instead of giving me any pity, they ask me questions in rapid blows, then sit back to enjoy the warmth of my blank stares. The worst part is that most of what they ask me is probably nothing at all--just simple demands for information. But when my white blood cells are colliding into the walls of my arteries because they're all sleeping at the wheel, everything pertains to either national security or the state of someone's soul. And I sit cursing the people who built the tower of Babel.
Whenever we go anywhere, the people from the Casa Hoga never tell me where we're headed. Either they assume I already know, or they realize that it would probably take longer to explain it to me than to just go and let me find out. Once again, we jumped into the 12 passenger van like an insurance agent's dream come true. But this time, since the older kids were still in school, one person stayed behind with the little ones and all the mujeres piled in. After my ordeal with the Spanish inquisition the night before, I fell asleep in the front seat to everyone's further pleasure. When we passed a little outside the city and arrived at a surprisingly clean, well organized collection of buildings inside a common wall, I had no idea what would come next. A man greeted us and told me he was from Indiana. Taking one look at his face, I knew he must be lying. He just watches a lot of Smallville, I thought to myself and continued moving forward. No doubt, Sirens waited up the hill to lure me into believing I wanted to live in Monterrey for good. But then I saw her, like Aphrodite emerging from the sea, bathed in droplets of pale, American glory--a woman with blonde hair. She sat us down and served us black ambrosia that slid warmly down my odyssian throat and told me Ithaca still existed somewhere beyong the border checkpoints. This time, when our host from the Crossroads of America used my native tongue, I welcomed his token of peace. His words blessed me by explaining that we now took refuge in a missionary outpost. All the American workers on the campus lived to searve the orphanages in Monterrey through whatever ways possible. Many short term missionaries came throughout the year to stay for a week of service. While I sipped my coffe without the pollution of milk or sugar, I watched as the mujeres very politely listened to the Golden Goddess trying to explain to them that they could have the items on the ajacent table as gifts. A collection of assorted lotions, shampoos, and other beautifying products awaited them, no doubt donated from some mega church north of the Rio Grande. The mujeres gratefully accepted the gifts and moved to look through the items to choose which ones best suited their individual tastes. However, the products turned out to be like a bunch of canned vegetables with all their lables torn off. No one could read the English so they all tried to guess which were body wash and which were extra moisturizing hand cream with deep penetrating aloe vera, while Aphrodite fumbled through all the words of Spanish she could remember to little avail. Holding tightly to my cup of caffeinated joy, I carefully explained everything, to the admiration of my friends and the woman with ivory skin. After everyone finished, I again sat with my Mexican amigas and realized beyond all expectation what God was trying to show me. I saw that I would rather sit struggling through a conversation with Gabby, Conchis, or Mari then fluidly talk to my own Anglo-saxon countrymen. The driver Homero is a mustached man with a big belly because he likes tacos too much. He is one of my best friends here and we have spent many hours building beds for the children and driving all around the city running errands. I stood by him and chatted with him about the traslation of a sign in English while the women finished choosing thier gifts. After that, I went and spoke with a group of American high school and college students who were there for a week. Strangely, I felt no regret when the time came for us to get back in our four-wheeled barque. Contentment, like the charcoal aftertaste of a morning brew filled my soul. Halfway down the driveway of the campus, the mujeres wanted to stop to pray for the missionaries and I knew that these people are my friends. Meanwhile, the Lord never ceases to watch over me, sending me the double-edged pleasure of meeting my own people who unknowingly severe my English umbelical cord and make me realize that the Holy Spirit moves between those who share joys and hardships and strive to do His work as a body.
At about 10:30 or 11:00 at night, a linguistic lever trips in by brain like a circuit breaker guarding against overload. By 12:00 I no longer care about verb conjugation or what the heck anybody is talking about. God must have put some kind of fascintation with words in people's minds that Satan has twisted into a system of deranged cruelty. They know that my ears are clogged with a self-presservation that screams into my brain to just go into the bathroom and curl up on the floor to sleep. But instead of giving me any pity, they ask me questions in rapid blows, then sit back to enjoy the warmth of my blank stares. The worst part is that most of what they ask me is probably nothing at all--just simple demands for information. But when my white blood cells are colliding into the walls of my arteries because they're all sleeping at the wheel, everything pertains to either national security or the state of someone's soul. And I sit cursing the people who built the tower of Babel.
Whenever we go anywhere, the people from the Casa Hoga never tell me where we're headed. Either they assume I already know, or they realize that it would probably take longer to explain it to me than to just go and let me find out. Once again, we jumped into the 12 passenger van like an insurance agent's dream come true. But this time, since the older kids were still in school, one person stayed behind with the little ones and all the mujeres piled in. After my ordeal with the Spanish inquisition the night before, I fell asleep in the front seat to everyone's further pleasure. When we passed a little outside the city and arrived at a surprisingly clean, well organized collection of buildings inside a common wall, I had no idea what would come next. A man greeted us and told me he was from Indiana. Taking one look at his face, I knew he must be lying. He just watches a lot of Smallville, I thought to myself and continued moving forward. No doubt, Sirens waited up the hill to lure me into believing I wanted to live in Monterrey for good. But then I saw her, like Aphrodite emerging from the sea, bathed in droplets of pale, American glory--a woman with blonde hair. She sat us down and served us black ambrosia that slid warmly down my odyssian throat and told me Ithaca still existed somewhere beyong the border checkpoints. This time, when our host from the Crossroads of America used my native tongue, I welcomed his token of peace. His words blessed me by explaining that we now took refuge in a missionary outpost. All the American workers on the campus lived to searve the orphanages in Monterrey through whatever ways possible. Many short term missionaries came throughout the year to stay for a week of service. While I sipped my coffe without the pollution of milk or sugar, I watched as the mujeres very politely listened to the Golden Goddess trying to explain to them that they could have the items on the ajacent table as gifts. A collection of assorted lotions, shampoos, and other beautifying products awaited them, no doubt donated from some mega church north of the Rio Grande. The mujeres gratefully accepted the gifts and moved to look through the items to choose which ones best suited their individual tastes. However, the products turned out to be like a bunch of canned vegetables with all their lables torn off. No one could read the English so they all tried to guess which were body wash and which were extra moisturizing hand cream with deep penetrating aloe vera, while Aphrodite fumbled through all the words of Spanish she could remember to little avail. Holding tightly to my cup of caffeinated joy, I carefully explained everything, to the admiration of my friends and the woman with ivory skin. After everyone finished, I again sat with my Mexican amigas and realized beyond all expectation what God was trying to show me. I saw that I would rather sit struggling through a conversation with Gabby, Conchis, or Mari then fluidly talk to my own Anglo-saxon countrymen. The driver Homero is a mustached man with a big belly because he likes tacos too much. He is one of my best friends here and we have spent many hours building beds for the children and driving all around the city running errands. I stood by him and chatted with him about the traslation of a sign in English while the women finished choosing thier gifts. After that, I went and spoke with a group of American high school and college students who were there for a week. Strangely, I felt no regret when the time came for us to get back in our four-wheeled barque. Contentment, like the charcoal aftertaste of a morning brew filled my soul. Halfway down the driveway of the campus, the mujeres wanted to stop to pray for the missionaries and I knew that these people are my friends. Meanwhile, the Lord never ceases to watch over me, sending me the double-edged pleasure of meeting my own people who unknowingly severe my English umbelical cord and make me realize that the Holy Spirit moves between those who share joys and hardships and strive to do His work as a body.
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