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Leopoldo

It’s hard to overstate how much this exhibit means to me.

Here I am, on Day One, stumbling across a collection of pieces that I searched for in my old city for months. Nothing like it exists there and when I asked around I only ever got blank stares.

Oh, I made the right decision.

#Leopoldo Mendez #Jose Chavez Morado #Abelardo Avila #grabado #xilografia #litografia #mexico #oaxaca

Working for the Museo de arte prehispánico de México Rufino Tamayo is a dream come true.

Five rooms with the original curation and museografia of Fernando Gamboa and Rufino Tamayo done in 1973.

#Rufino Tamayo #Oaxaca #Fernando Gamboa #pintores mexicanos #arte prehispanico #precolombian art #escultura #pintura

Cold Sweat

I am supposed to be excited for this.

Supposed to.

Instead, my conversations both internal and out loud revolve around my utter dread of this trip. What should be an exciting next step in my life, or so say the people around me, feels more like an obligation that is weighing me down, pressing on my chest more each day.

Conversations about my condition are futile and most often exacerbate my panic. I have a reputation; friends and family members have heard carefully curated stories about my past trips that, like a flashy instagram feed, only portray a sliver of what it was like to live them.

You always have the craziest stories!, I am told.

Wow, I wish I could be as adventurous as you!, they say.

After the fact, what was no more than terrible judgement and an inability to plan comes off as brave and exciting.

The bar I walked into and asked for a job was also where I was harassed and stalked by strangers; where I made an enemy of my neighbor, the crack dealer; where I watched a local cop wave a pistol at a room packed with people for no apparent reason other than to intimidate.

The neighborhood I saw as edgy was where my car windows were smashed in and the AAA technician pointed out the suspicious car that had circled the block six times while he worked, slowing down to watch me as it passed.

It seems that these incidents haven’t shaken me enough to make staying in my city a more attractive option than moving on. Rather than feeling empowered by my past experiences I am weighed down, jaded. I know what’s coming and it isn’t as great as you think. Anyone can make an impulsive move to another city; bad judgement isn’t an asset.

That this move could defy my expectations feels unlikely, but the tickets are purchased.

I have nowhere else to go.

Full Circle

#shinzaburo takeda #printmaking #xilografia #litografia #grabado #mexico #oaxaca #MUPO

OAXACA

Bienvenidos a la próxima etapa de mi vida.

#Oaxaca #Oaxaca de Juarez #Mexico #ventana abierta #viaje #traveler #wandering #Santo Domingo

bolo de chocolate com brigadeiro: um dos prazeres simples na vida

Things that do not translate: Pick up lines Drunken confessions Politically charged rants

#english #português #translations #brazil #brasil #drunk #bébado

Moro em cima de um supermercado

I live above a supermarket. In a city where a good 30% of the street traffic is composed of horse-drawn carts, a lot of the business done here is reminiscent of the countryside where farms rule.

Lacking any sort of loading dock, the market is stocked with goods by hand. My apartment is on the fourth floor and looking out the kitchen window gives me a direct aerial view of the trucks that rumble up every morning loaded with products. The stock boys crowd around the trucks like ants, busily hauling off bags of sugar or crates overflowing with vegetables and passing through a narrow door that leads to the market.

It goes on like this all morning.

By some miracle, I have never witnessed any colossal spills. When I watch them work, I sometimes fantasize about dramatic pratfalls that start with a boy slipping on a banana and end with a plume of white powder erupting from a flour sack. I remain unsatisfied.

A block long line of market trucks means my building is constantly surrounded by a horde of men, mostly sitting by the sidewalk, and leering at passersby heading to shop. Their whistles and breathy comments don't sound like assobios; all I hear are ants chattering in some indecipherable buzz as I round the corner away from the crowd.

Last week, the colony turned up with a new and unexpected find. Late one afternoon, long after the produce and packaged goods had been unloaded and the trucks rumbled off, an flatbed truck pulled up to the curb. The wooden bed was completely empty and unlined and was surrounded by a low wooden railing, like something that might transport livestock.

Moments later, a worker appeared with an open crate something unidentifiable from my perch on the fourth floor. He approached the truck, dumped his crate inside, and a jumble of animal bones came tumbling out. I couldn't look away. Is this really how the butcher disposes of the bones? I sat transfixed as the docile and orderly worker ants turned into carnivorous predators, dumping mounds of remains of their kills into the truck bed. Finally, a man stepped onto the street wielding an entire animal leg, stripped of its meat but still connected at the knee. He swung it around his head a few times for momentum and released the massive limb on the top of the pile.

I was a little upset to see my peaceful colony have such a bloody and messy side. The next time I went onto the street I saw blood lust in the eyes of the men on the street; Stained hands and twinkling smiles. Without a dumpster for waste or a loading dock to stock goods, this underside of the market was peeled open for me to observe right from my kitchen window. Somehow, in spite of the gore and troubling lack of sanitation, it makes me feel a little more comfortable shopping there. As though since the mechanics of the market are part of my environment on a daily basis I am a part of the colony and privy to its secrets.