La luna no dice nada
El amor es un flor
con sueños de un gran emancipation la estrellas dicen todo
Este agua es para su dolor Los Angeles, California es fea necessita su corazón
He dreamed three dreams. There was the general dream, and the two dreams within a dream. A dead coyote.
“Not a single thing is yours to eat here until you tell where I am from.”
“Where am I?” asked the traveller.
“You are where paths were fated to cross and have,” said the healer, patting the traveler’s head with oils. “See that mountain ridge over there? Where color is enunciated in a way to never have to say hello or goodbye? It is the mountain ridge of a city that was to come, when we humans learn to live of wisdom and of love.”
The traveller woke again thirty minutes after the word love. He remembered parts of what the healer had said, and the parts he remembered echoed in his mind. This is a city of lesions and blisters he remembered her saying. A city of lesions and blisters.
It felt like a city where tear gas had been used enough to contain dissent for years to come. The same could be said about police bullets and heavy batons.
Jasmine. Butterflies. Mountains. Beneath the myth of this city’s quartz lay another city, where one could wave hello to an elder on a patio on a jasmine scented night.
“Hi everyone! Please take a seat!”
A young woman in red presented on the virtues of resistance and the path forward to revolution. Rebellion was needed to get to revolution and their rebellion would have to be one of disobedience, mass disobedience. He looked around the room and saw others, all pensive like him. None seemed part of the up and coming liberal youth of this city.
Disdain. Agony. He felt agony and disdain at the end of the meeting, for a single reason: he did not believe that this was the way forward, but the others did.
As she presented, he dreamed.
This time in a green hat matching the green of a garden he was spending his afternoon in, he could not stop laughing. He laughed with both his hands on the wood bench he was sitting on, then with his hands on his stomach, then with his hands on his hat, then with a hand on an arm. He stood up to laugh, then sat right back down to laugh. He let his back slide down the bench as he laughed, and as he was losing balance, it began to thunder and rain.
He had been asking himself why the lady in the linen dress, in the braided sandals, and the straw hat was laughing, that is until he himself began to laugh uncontrollably.
The sun was radiant and beautiful as it always is and so were bird chirps. Pots were filled in with dust and mud, waiting to be used.
The lady in the linen dress, braided sandals, and straw hat, turned to ask him a question. “It’s been a sad day”, she said.
“Why has it been a sad say”, he replied.
Both had stopped laughing. Lightness filled the air, an uncontrollable lightness, impossible to refuse.
“Sealight” she said and turned. He waited.
“She moved away from the sea one Thursday evening because she was tired of crying for food. She had too many wrappings, peelings, and bags. She moved abruptly, leaving behind her a group of well wishers she knew well enough to name friends. They would have all told her a warm goodbye.”
By now the man was looking into space, with as much focus as the lady was in filling her basket. Day seemed to have receded, or at least how he defined day, and life came into play. How one must feel when one has accomplished something dear.
He turned to her. “My name is Tzintzuni and I live on the slope right above the Rock Corral Canyon”. It was the very first time that he had uttered that sentence in his life.
She spoke a few minutes after him.
“He had spent the early morning wide eyed awake, reluctant to make his way to the beach. He had wanted comfort, not joy. After three hours of this, he went back to sleep.”
In light of their having met in sunny Downtown, Los Angeles, they made up their minds to one day move together to Mexico City as they walked block after block of night, as a middle school majorette continued to beat her drum loudly in a teal house with a white fence. Mexico, because they felt the urge to name an unknown home, an unknown of cafes, songs, convictions, gardens, but an unknown nonetheless, one that sparkled both their eyes. It rhymed with sea, their willingness to go, and with song, but not with chronicle or mirror. She loved his face in the light.
They talked as they walked of other things, too. He had seen a ghost that morning, or had dreamed of a man that he had never met, a man from century past with dirty suspenders, muddy boots, and an awfully scratched face, as when men shaved with rusty knives as a rite. That man, the ghost said nothing at first, staring into space, and then staring right at him. He grunted, then left. He seemed to be from a century ago, and moved in that way, before the advent of anything that resembled today. The ghost was a fright, yes, and he was frightened, as much as he could be. He had yet to tell about this ghost, and was waiting for the right moment to.
Should he? Would she understand his folly, obsession even. He could not tell her about either the ghost or the fact that their relationship felt more like love to him than anything else. He watched his words when around her, not to scare her, though he had no idea what scares her. He assumed it, though he did not assume most things about her.
“Do you see that sign? 6’8? It’s the fiftieth anniversary of 1968.”
It was a parking lot sign that told drivers that their cars could not be any taller than 6’8. As he went on telling her about his fascination with the events of 1968, in France, Senegal, Mexico, she commented back: “it’s also a just a sign.”
He laughed when she said this, holding her hand in his, as she also did.”
He did not respond to her: there was no need to. She had ended her story with a “goodbye” and had walked away.
That night he dreamed a second dream of a bird that pooped out chiles, and of woman in bracelets, a dress, and sunflowers for eyes telling him that the bird’s name is aj tso yup, as it has always been. The mountains were dark purple in his dream.
In the dream, he was on a horse and wore an officer’s Jacobin jacket from the 19th century. “General La Saint Jean, named after the Haitian butterfly”: she presented herself without any hesitation. He got off his horse, and bowed.
“Where are you from?” She smiled.