The Light, the Tunnel

Today was the Viernes de Dolores, or the Friday of pain, translated literally; it’s the Friday before the Friday before Easter, when hardcore Catholics make alters to the Virgin Mary of Sorrows.  Although I was raised Catholic, I never studied the Bible – this shit is pretty crazy.  Mary’s sorrows were serious, definitely surpassing most of the grievances I hear from modern parents: 1) Your son is going to be circumcised. Okay, that’s not the end of the world -- unless you’re French. . . but it gets worse.  2) You’re going to have to flee your home to escape the guys who want to murder your son.  Lame.  3) You’re going to accidentally lose your son on a trip to Jerusalem.  A worrisome nuisance, even though you find him again. . . 4) You’re going to meet your son and he will be bleeding from some radical headwear.  He will also be bearing a cross. 5) Remember that cross?  Your son will be crucified upon it.  6) Your son will be removed from the cross and placed in your arms.  7) Time to bury him. 

 

All of Guanajuato -- a conservative Catholic town where drivers adorn their cabs with religious iconography, men cross themselves before sleeping with their mistresses, and only scandalous women, university students and gringas wear shorts – alighted with alters to Mary and her sorrows  last night.  The arteries that carry tourists and Guanajuatenses throughout the city’s multitude of winding cobblestone streets and mysterious callejones -- delivering them to cultural events and family gatherings -- become clogged with vendors selling tacos (of course), but also flowers from the surrounding countryside, and plastic egg-shaped novelties from China.  The flowers were originally meant to decorate the alters to Mary and her sorrows (remember?) but somehow the tradition has transmuted into one in which drunk teenagers use peer pressure to sell flowers to anyone they perceive as being a couple.  Girls wear their shortest miniskirts -- strictly forbidden on any other day of the year -- in anticipation of the dances that take place on the night of Viernes de Dolores.  I don’t really get the dancing part – aren’t we supposed to be meditating on pain?  Anyway, I can’t remember the last time I was antagonized by a 15 year old. . . oh wait, I did almost get into a fight with some kids in my neighborhood recently.  Nevermind.  Teenagers are a nightmare, the world around.   At least some things are consistent.

 

Anyway, it’s interesting how traditions change and are arguably bastardized as they travel through space and time.  One could say the same about yoga, or Chinese cooking. . . not that I’m such a traditionalist, but I do think it’s interesting how people make things their own.  I suppose the same could be said for me, here in my annual retreat location in Central Mexico – maintaining my late dinners and adherence to green foods.  Fortunately my friend Hugo is no stranger to unconventional ways of being – he did live in Portland for 15 years – and we tend to see eye to eye about things. 

I’ve spent most of this week up high -- in my head, writing stories; and sitting on the roof of Alma del Sol, my home in the center of Guanajuato -- soaking up the mountain sunshine and listening to the operatic clatter of traffic and taco making in the streets below.  I go out when the sun begins to set, making my rounds at the track or going in search of dinner in a pleasantly lit room.  I avoid the crowds, the main roads, finding beauty and inspiration in the periphery.

Planetary Alignment, and How to Wear a Python Onesie

I’ve been wearing a lot of reptile prints the last six months or so – one could argue that Maison Martin Margiela, Loehmann’s and a militia of gay men who work as professional trendmakers are indirectly responsible for introducing this exotic animal pattern and texture to my wardrobe.  This stylistic compulsion could also have been fueled by an impulse to embody the snake -- to shed the old skin; to slither around, over and through impossible obstacles; to move quickly and stealthily.  The snake was one of four animals in the martial art I used to practice – however it wasn’t my personal ‘spirit animal;’ mine was the crane – a large bird with long legs, a long neck, massive wings, and a propensity for elaborate mating dances. . . AHEM.  Anyway, cranes are fast, fierce and usually airborne, so watch out!  This description is consistent with what Hector at Miami Beach’s ‘I Run’ shop told me a couple of hours ago after videotaping my running style on a treadmill.   He showed me my video in slow motion – which revealed a tendency to be hovering above ground a lot.  Hmm.  Too much flying, then landing without the right shoes might account for a lot of my injuries.  I’m starting the new year with new shoes – hideous florescent things, but Hector claims that old school running shoes (big ugly ones that weigh more than five ounces) are the way to go. . . sorry to burst your bubbles, barefoot runners and Vibram aficionados!

Miami

Miami

         

In December, I spent a week in my favorite paradise in Colombia, training with some clear-eyed sages on the dynamics of the animal kingdom, did some cleaning up and made room for vision.  December 21, 2012 – no great surprise – turned out to be little more than a rather successful marketing scam for selling apocalypse survival kits and resort packages – and was celebrated throughout Latin America as much as it was dreaded by new age spiritualists.  Word on the street is that while the latter foretold a doomsday, their anxiety was perhaps owing to a misinterpretation of the Mayan teachings.  It wouldn’t be the first time that people had different interpretations of the same information; I guess this inconsistency is what creates the kaleidoscope of life, dizzying as it can be.

Miami

                                           

I’ve avoided consulting the oracles too extensively on the upcoming Year of the Snake – which actually doesn’t begin officially until February.  While 2012 involved big upheavals for a lot of people around me and certainly included dramatic shifts throughout the world on many levels, 2012 was my year (Year of the Dragon), and was less apocalyptic for me personally than for some of my compatriots.  I prefer a more subtle and on-going ‘unveiling’ rather than a big dramatic one -- I guess we don’t always get to choose – or maybe we do get to choose and we just don’t always realize we have a choice.  In any case, apparently lots of Chinese people scheduled their pregnancies and births for 2012, hoping to bear lucky and powerful babies – as dragons are reputed to be.  I’m going with my intuitive understanding of the focus of the Snake year -- to let go of that which no longer fits or suits you.  That’s why I was forced to buy three new bikinis. 

Miami

Miami

From cleansing and consciousness building to – well, we’ll just say a ‘different’ sort of consciousness, I teamed up with Doug in Miami for the new year – after a lovely visit to my family in Boston for Christmas.  Having recently watched “The Queen ofVersailles” on Netflix, I’d had my primer on Florida and the internal platform-wearing, boob job-donning, paparazzi-attracting glitterati -- and co-mingled among them in South Beach. . . sort of.  I did meet what Doug and I consider a 'spirit visitor' on New Year's Eve.  Doug and I had just made our wishes and set them into the flames, and he appeared out of nowhere and started asking me questions.  He was recovering from a bad trip -- and he watched The Snow's one and only and soon-to-be-accompanied music video and told me that I am a genius.  I'm pretty sure he wasn't still tripping but one never knows.  I did appreciate his enthusiasm and interest, and that he put down his box of raw food and his carrot juice and immersed himself completely on his iPhone, listening to the lyrics and understanding all the layers and details quite lovingly considered by the songwriter, the director and all participants.

Getting back to layers and the idea of finding the right balance between the old and the new, all the hotels along the strip in South Beach maintain their original signs and marquees – so most of the hotels have not one, but two names and identities.  In the Native American tradition, it would be sort of like ‘Dances With Wolves. . . and Also Wears Tranny Heels.’  I guess it’s these sorts of dualities and contradictions and layers that make us interesting.  The key is knowing when it’s time to employ the sugar scrub, shed the old skin, replace the running shoes, and step out into the new day in a costume that fits perfectly and makes you look like your hot amazing self.

Colombia

new skin