Still or alive, hungry or not, the beauty of childhood and innocence mixes with the injustice of selfish humanity.
How naive of me to say such a thing,
We should know better.
He is me.
I am him.
We have been each other since the beginning.
As I traveled to Oaxaca, my first encounter was this Abuelita.
She is a hundred years old.
She can’t talk anymore, she sat in the kitchen pealing her cocoa beans.
I was invited for lunch, we became friends.
How absurd and meaningless time is.
She is an eighty-four year old Mixe with severe Parkinson’s.
She stares at me really hard, knowing by now that a photograph is her only chance to be immortalized.
People who suffer from Parkinson’s can’t keep their eyes straight.
In this case, she stares at me so hard, that her eyes stop shaking but her face can’t.
So much beauty, courage and dignity, all dressed in white, defying the bad, as all Mixes have done through time.
She spoke to me in Mixe, somehow I understood that she was talking about her great life.
She wanted to change her dress for the photograph. I told her it was alright.
She insisted on wearing the traditional scarf from her village.
These are the true heroes. Hanging on to their values and culture, resisting time, invasions, exploitation, poverty and hardship.
They are the heroes found in shadow of time, the forgotten, the hidden indigenous, the backbone of the occult Mexico.
They stand with their heads high, noble, defying age, time and all odds. Their only weapon, being themselves.
I walked into this room full of objects, dust, memories, laughs and tears.
Here we are, upon this wall, united forever, separated by the present. How absurd.
I stare at the faded image, mirror of our union immortalized on faded paper.
I can here the music from another generation, perhaps mine.
I have found the shadow of time, or, it has found me.
From where I’m standing, my life and my heart, will never be the same again.
She is seventy-three, full of life, faith and compassion.
In her humble home, she takes care and feeds the two ill women here above.
When I ask her, where does she get her resources, she answers, friends and God.
She loves life, her life as well as humanity. No sadness, no regrets, only a smile on her face.
She offers me bananas
She opened her humble home to us.
She introduced me to her children and grandchildren.
We didn’t speak the same language, but it wasn’t necessary to speak.
The greatest words are often spoken in silence.
They were swaying above our heads, between fear and innocence. Nearby, the little grave with its falling fence and cross.
So much grief and so much lost to time.
I tried to capture the essence of what I saw, of my own losses.
I walked around in silence, looking at all these dancers and little people, some covered in mud, others in grass,
all keeping that same expression as the day were born.
The absurd of beauty and grief united en La Sombra Del Tiempo.
la isla de las munecas ( The Island Of The Dolls).
In the heart of Mexico City, in Xochimilco, right in the swamps, there is a tiny Island called Santa Barrera’s chiampa..
About fifty years ago, a man lived on this island with his daughter. She was seven when he found her drowned.
He buried her on the island. At night he heard strange noises. He was convinced that bad spirits came to haunt her grave.
He proceeded to hang her dolls to chase them away. During many years, he collected dolls and scattered them all around.
He has now passed away, but the dolls stay, hanging, as well as defying time.
so i’m dropping seeds
in foreign soil
to sprout in the light
of every tomorrow
that i will not see
In the old city of D.F. appears this staircase that splits in two.
I wonder, how many lives, how many footsteps, generations, stories have climbed and come down these steps.
Which way have they gone, to the left or to the right.
Does it really matter, although many have gone, the stairs remain standing, mocking time.