Berkeley Crossroads

under these mexico city skies...

i have rarely met a person that easily adapts to a new city without a stage of rebellion that lasts until the first word is pronounced in the local speak, and then buses become coaches, zumo becomes jugo, and cha turns into chai.

my feeling is that it has to do with something about the birth land of each own. right now, as i sit on the terrace at the roof of my house, i can't stop noticing how the chill in my skin tells me what the sky will look like without having to turn my face and see.

the way i see it, and before rushing to an empty paragraph with an empty introduction such as 'it would seem that the wind itself has whispered the name and shape of the clouds above', i find myself feeling that earthy feeling of knowing one's own dirt in such a way as a child does.

there is always the smell of wet dirt before the rains fall into this plateau. you can tell by the few remaining native trees that we're all still nostalgic for something, and the taqueros put up their plastics to protect their customers and the old women bring out their plastic bags that serve as raincoats. and the cars pass on by, and the people on the street seek shelter under each improvised roof, and no one and nothing ever stops.

sometimes there's deafening and plundering thunder.

sometimes there are horrible storms.

the dirt always smells like it's wet. nothing stops. i'm home.

Posted by Jojo at September 25, 2007 07:37 PM