our kitchen fruit basket – foto by smith

Recent Notes From Backside The Mirror

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As we walked into the 6 block square Abastos Market, one sidewalk vendor called low in English to me, “Welcome to the jungle.” So rare to be greeted with such truth by the money stalkers in the temple of Mammon.

Our previous visit to Abastos to buy a bed, the taxi driver warned us of pick pockets. Two weeks ago one of our gringa friends had her gold necklace ripped from her throat within 10 minutes of entering the market. Another gringo told us of taking a friend there and warning him of the pick pockets. His friend gsaid don’t worry, he’d been in some of the worst places in the world and had never been pickpocketed. He put his wallet in his shirt pocket and buttoned it. Once in the market he wanted to buy something so he unbuttoned his pocket, took his wallet out, and found it empty.

We’ve walked through the market three times and were left alone. Probably because we do not look rich (or even well off), Lady never wears jewelry there, and I keep my money in my tight front pocket. I feel a hand in there, it better be my wife’s.

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I try to live and let live, unlike the Mormons, but enough is enough. Fresh out of the shower, a fly kept landing on my back where I couldn’t reach, so I got out the fly swatter. Usually that’s enough – they see the swatter and split. This one flew towards me instead and landed on my nose. That’s crossing the line. I shut the door, shut the window, hunted it down, killed it. On one level I feel wrong because it was just a fly following its flynessness – but while landing on my nose may have been just a small step for fly-kind, it was major mocking to me. Reality played its little joke, and I killed its punch-line.

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This morning’s walk I was trying to think positive thoughts to jump-start my day when a small orange & black butterfly flew in front of me. I stopped to watch as it danced before my belly for 30 seconds then flew off. Just before I’d seen a hummingbird briefly land on an electric wire. Magic everywhere.

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While adding flowers to our Mixtec friend’s Day of the Dead altar, I saw a peanut had fallen from the bowel. I ate it. Then wondered if I’d insulted her dead, and found another peanut to replace it. Discovered later anything still edible is consumed on the third day anyway.

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We’re laying in bed cuddling 1,946 miles south of Cleveland when below our window in the street a car stops and sits blaring out “Walk The Dinosaur” by Was (Not Was). Not what one expects to hear south of the border down Mexico way. Last time I heard it was 3 years ago and 1,946 miles north.

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And here for extra credit is a Zen clone koan: is one the end of zero?

Day of the Dead cut-out paper display – foto by smith