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nearly the final resting place |
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la gente de dio |
Like most heroic journeys, the elation of crossing the tropic of cancer again, finally fleeing the heat and oppression and police brutality of the north into the tropics where tortas are thick on the green fields...was followed quickly by trouble. San Felipe is not on my map and I entered that town feeling I could live there but horse questioned my decision and soon the van was coughing in a way I did not recognize. I would soon learn the elastomer valve and accelerator pump gasket had failed, leaking precious fuel onto the hot exhaust manifold. San Felipe had no gas station so I had to flee further south through Jalisoco, Aguascalientes, Durango, into Michiacan. There I would fix the carburetor on an abandoned street. rain falling like the scattered thoughts of a delirious philosopher. The Spanish came here and transformed the Indians with steel and coercion and the bible. the INdians fought back and burned priests. To the north, my ancestors, the English had no transformation in mind and set about to exterminate the locals. In Paracho, Michaocan the priests taught the indians how to make guitars. In Salem, Mass. the Indians were slaughtered. A flawed reading of a compass could have changed history but today this is what we have. Indian/spanish blood lines making tortas and requintos...and Apaches tossing dice on the table of defeat. I can not type on this keyboard. I have been pissing out my ass for three days following an ill advised jugo de cactus. I don{t know why anyone migrated north. it{s is nice here.