YEARS AGO, I spent hours in the hammock. Now, I rarely sit there, much less lie down with my feet up. Habits change.
So do neighborhoods. A year ago, I opened the upstairs bathroom window and snapped the top shot. I wrote about it here. That window is the sole spot in the Hacienda where you can look out back. The only other option to see in that direction is to climb to the roof, which is easy to do via the circular stairway on the upstairs terraza. Circular stairways are fun.
I like to peek out that window before I shave and step into the shower stall lined with black-and-white ceramic tiles. Lots has happened on my neighbors’ property this past year. The main thing, which you cannot see because it’s just below the photo, is a high wall that separates them from the street. They had been closed in on three sides, but now it’s the full Mexican four.
But due to our elevated position, I still see easily into their expanding homestead. The advantage of altitude.
At the back they added a room of rustic planks and topped it with plastic and tar paper. At the photo’s bottom right, however, is a more substantial edifice of actual brick. It has a real door and windows and whitewash on the front. The roof is simple, wood beams topped with opaque plastic rectangles. Just outside the door and to the right, they planted a mimosa tree, a nice touch that will grow.
Essentially, they are camping out on a permanent basis.
A huge loudspeaker hangs by that front door, pointing the other way. God knows where that comes from. Mexicans are collectors. You never know when something might come in handy, when you want to play La Cucaracha for the entire town at 5 a.m.
An interesting thing: Look at the rear property wall, there where a bit of plastic roof sheet droops to the left. Behind that hang various artworks of La Santa Muerte. Make of that what you will. In Mexico, many narcos are followers of La Santa Muerte, but non-narcos are fans too.
A few short miles from here, on a road around the big lake, there is a building — a home I think it is, but the people may actually live next door — that is a shrine to La Santa Muerte. It is open to the public and is chockablock with some very weird stuff.
Look at the property ground. Near the out-of-sight gate in the unseen wall is some stone laid in the dirt. The rest is packed earth, which gets swept regularly. How you can sweep dirt is beyond my understanding. Mostly, I imagine, it removes the chicken poop (there are chickens, of course) and provides an even surface. And it looks better that way, which matters.
Suburban renewal. Onward and upward, as it’s said.
* * * *
Habits change. Things change.
When I segued from The Zapata Tales in 2011 to this Moon thing, I wrote that this space would only now and then touch on Mexico, that I preferred other topics. My preference is fiction, the ideas for which usually came to me in those foggy moments of the mind while lying in bed at dawn. Hasn’t been happening lately. Dunno why.
(Plug pause. See the Pearls of Zapata.)
Fiction and the occasional jabs at politics, particularly the diversity and political correctness insanity gripping the traditional white man’s land of the United States and Western Europe. And, of course, its current most visible manifestation, the abominable presidency of Barry.
Diversity and multiculturalism are noble goals. Truly, they are. If only they were workable. Any good knowledge of human history clearly demonstrates they are not, people being what they so sadly are. But I repeat myself. What’s the point?
So I’ve been writing more of Mexico of late. Yuck. You can get that lots of places, mostly praises of sunsets, fiestas and margaritas. And, of course, we lovely people. We, I say, due to my having become one.
I recently opened a Google+ page, and resurrected my Facebook page after a few years of hibernation. If you know the name on my birth certificate, feel free to join me over there. If you don’t know, ask someone. We might have wonderful times together.
None of this is to say that I’m retiring the Moon as I did my previous website. I must at least hang on until my 70th birthday in August. I’m planning to publish my own obituary here, just in case. For me, especially, I feel writing my own obituary is the best idea. I only have two living blood relatives above the Rio Bravo. Here is what they would write:
Sister: He was an old white man. Good riddance.
Daughter: He moved to Mexico in 2000. Adiós.
I prefer an obituary with a bit more flesh, so to speak, so I’ll do it myself.
My child bride could write it, but it would be in Spanish, so few of you would understand. An obituary should be understandable.
I’ll likely keep on trucking past 70, but it’s impossible to know for how long. My father made it only to 75, but mother sailed on to 90, not too steadily, but she made it that far. One thing my obituary must feature is fade-out music. It might be: