El camino al teatro

This morning I woke up early, ate Pan Bimbo pre-toasted white-bread, cold, with pineapple jam. Stuck a paintbrush in my ponytail and walked down the big hill, surrounded by medium-sized green mountains and the city below me, over a rickety pedestrian bridge and up a curving calle that hugs Parque Tuxtlan. On the way there's a little old man with rockstar sunglasses who presses fresh orange juice on the side of the road, leaving a big netted-plastic bag of orange skins on the edge of the sidewalk, and by the next day they are sour ant cities. Crossed Avenida Tulipanes, until I arrived at the Panamerican Highway. Walked East past the McDonald's and jumped on the 52 Combi, paid my 40¢ fare, and stepped down at the third Pemex. Past the store that sells giant fiberglass crucifixion scenes, around the edge of the lake of mud that has decommissioned the street outside the semi mechanic's lot. Stepped over the pile of matted brown hair that's been sinking into the mud for weeks, worrying me on my way to work at the theatre. The streets are unpaved, full of mud and potholes and stray dogs and kids on bikes. Houses under construction with metal rods reaching out of the roofs for another storey and the worker's hammocks hanging in the unfinished bedrooms. Turned left at the pile of garbage that appears on Mondays for collection, and again the mountains opened up in front of me. I took off my sandals because they get stuck in the mud of the newly-cut camino, and the gravel feels good on the soles of my feet. Into the yard of the theatre, my unfinished mural waiting for me. Painted all morning in the sun, painted heart of the beast birds and a big red tree. Spent the afternoon teaching a workshop on how to make comics with little kids, ended up also learning how to make paper boats and wooden airplanes. Home now, exhausted, bedtime. 

(2008)