El Perro

I forgot about the mutts. From my brief period of observation, Mexican dogs are one of the most advanced breeds. This conclusion is supported by a few of their everyday behaviors and exchanges. Mexican dogs carry on stimulating conversation with greater frequency than your average golden retreiver. Dogs all across the city, from junkyards, to haciendas, to tienditas, can be heard exchanging yelps and howls. To the untrained ear, this is just noise. But, just yesterday my mother listened in on two mutts talking about their owner. One bragged to his pal, I bet I can make my master come out first and bring me in by barking louder than you. Another group of ruffians were roused over a new dog in town. "Hey cafe, did you see that new vato in town. Sure did picasso, let's show him who's boss." They began to raise the pitch of their bark, as others in the gang quickly joined in with gusto. These dogs scheme. And they have to, because their resources are limited. Unfortunately, many roam the streets without owners; they are raggedy, which makes them so adorable. The urge to take them home, follows you like a moapy shadow. To make matters more heart-wrenching, they can pick out the retired Americans with a few extra pesos. This one followed my mom all the way home the other day. She was at the biblioteca when he locked eyes with her and proceeded to do figure eights through her legs. On the way home, she kept pushing him away, but he kept nipping at the tie of her capri pants, buttoning his nose at her. When my mom crossed the street, he would cross the street. He would say, "Hey, what about me, hey, you're forgetting about me." I sure hope all Mexican dogs go to heaven.

Un Perro Y Una Guitarra

On la Calle Relox, there is a woman who plays three strings. She plays the same off-pitched amalgamation of strings on her guitar perpetually until the sun hides behinds the buildings of my colonia. And with the vibrations comes a melody, which does not really have melody, pitch, or any other features common to music. Her composition lacks what is commonly satisfying to the ears, but perhaps this is because it exists on its on scale, its own wavelength. I am reminded of a vocal Brittish man I listened to at a party last night extol the value of judging artwork properly. "Well of course you can have an opinion about art, but unless it is backed up with the proper training and agreed upon by an expert community, it is meaningless." Well of course we can come to a concensus about that which is slightly more pleasant to our eyes or ears. But this judgement is meaningful only to a few, and is based on a mere whimsical set of preferences. Perhaps a more meaningful conclusion can be found in listening for the sound that all human beings produce, that which is neither good nor bad, pleasant nor unpleasant, but simply is. This is the sound which these three strings and a rough, worn hand produce so beautifully, I think. It is also embedded within the Brittish man's words, but beneath their superfluous content. Though I prefer to hear the guitar, I try to listen carefully to both. And I wonder, after so much time spent on la Calle Relox, how this woman hears her melody.

Buenos Dias

Hola,

Me Llamo Abe Levine. Only one of my friend's calls me Lee, but that's the name I'm using here because it sounds appropriate for a blogging, faintly-hip, type. Other than my nombre y appelido, I am a Chinese-Jewish, Buddhist, Environmentalist, Salsa Teacher currently residing in my mother's house (la casa ana) in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. This publication is, thankfully, much more about the place and space than about moi. The taste of San Miguel hits you in the nose like the slap of a Buddha's palm, hence I am left with no option but to twist my hips, react, and spin San Miguel outward to anybody who wants to listen. Coincidentally, yesterday I was flipped face down onto a matt in an Akido Dojo, but that's a different story. I hope that my future entries will strike a chord of cultural awareness and appreciation for the very simplist transactions between us and the cosmos, much like when a masseuse locates and presses hard on a sore tendon. Or, maybe you'll just smile once with me.