Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Hello Little Rock and Roller
Fast forward to April, 2011. While visiting Greenville, several friends mentioned having seen her (yes, she's a she) speak at the Greenville TED-X event, and one friend who'd recently met her, said Marshall often visits San Miguel de Allende. Who knew?
Last week, we received in invitation from our close friends Warren & Tuli to attend a potluck dinner and private concert at their home, featuring none other than Marshall Chapman.
What a serendipitous delight! After having rained like a bastard all afternoon, the skies cleared, the wind freshened and we were given a perfect, clear, cool summer evening. We sipped wine and tequila as Marshall mingled with us in a tank top and flip-flops. We enjoyed an over-the-top feast. Warren built a crackling bonfire as the sun set. And soon we two dozen guests gathered around Marshall -- no one further than 15 feet away -- and lost ourselves in her funny, sweet, meandering acoustic set. It felt so intimate I never even took a photo. I was afraid to break the spell, the intimate connection we all felt with her and each other. Karen and I agreed, it was truly one of the most magical evenings we've ever experienced any time, anywhere.
At one point, between songs, she looked up and asked "Which one of you is Goot?" Everyone pointed; I think I actually blushed. She said numerous folks had told her she needed to meet the Goots in San Miguel. I suspect we didn't much measure up to the hype, but it was a fine "fifteen minutes of fame" moment nonetheless.
Now Marshall and I are in the same Warren Hardy Spanish 1 class together, three mornings a week for three weeks. It feels sort of like we're new-found friends, the only two South Carolinians in the room. Whatever. It's an amazing, small world we inhabit and San Miguel continues to be an inexplicable magnet for kindred spirits from near and far away. May it long continue.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Have a _______ Day
Have a ______ Day
by Lou Lipsitz
Have a nice day. Have a memorable day.
Have a day of soaking rain and lightning.
Have a confused day thinking about fate.
Have a day of wholes.
Have a day of poorly marked,
unrecognizable wholes you
cannot fathom.
Have a ferocious day, a bleak
unbearable day. Have a
riotously unproductive day;
a grim jaw-clenched, Clint Eastwood vengeful
law enforcement day.
Have a day of raging, hair-yanking
jealousy and meanness. Have a day
of almost grasping
how whole you are; a finely tuned,
empty day.
Have a nice day of walking and circling;
a day of stalking and hunting,
of planting strange seeds and wandering in the woods.
Have a day of endearing nonsense,
of hopelessly combing your hair,
a day of yielding, of swallowing
hard, breathing more deeply,
a day of fondness for beetles
and macabre spectacles, or irreverence
about anything you want, of just
sitting and wondering.
Have a day of wondering if it's
going to help, or if it just doesn't matter;
a day of dark winds
and torrents flowing though the valley,
of diving into cool water
and gasping for breath,
a day of sudden hunger for communion.
Have a day where the crusts you each
were given are lost and you stumble
with your fellows
searching endlessly together.
I Wish I'd Thought Of This
Today I shouted, "YOU'RE NOT MY REAL LADDER!!" at my step ladder.
Of All Places...
Last weekend we attended what was billed as a Corn Festival, hosted by a local organic farmer. Nice event – the farmer provided baskets full of freshly picked sweet corn, guests brought their own picnic fixins and beverages. The farmer, an American guy in jeans and a work shirt, was gracious and folksy, showing off his fields, mixing with the crowd and encouraging them to drive out to buy fresh organic veggies. If we had a car, we certainly would. We were floored, however, to find out this was just his little hobby farm. Turns out he owns thousands of acres outside of town, where he grows cucumbers for Vlasic. He employs hundreds of workers who have to pick the cucumbers when they reach a very specific size – to fit uniformly in pickle jars – and immediately load them onto waiting 18-wheelers. 17 hours later they’re in Texas somewhere being made into pickles. Who knew? So next time you tear into a jar of Vlasic pickles, think of the Goots down here in the agricultural heart of Mexico.
Friday, July 01, 2011
The Spirit of Independence
I don’t know why, but this poem seems to capture the weird spirit underlying our move to San Miguel. Enjoy.
Bandito
By Eleanor Lerman
What gets you up in the morning?
For me it is the thought
that someday, I will be
as far away from here
as I can get
Watch me
rubbing out the lines behind me
I recommend it
I recommend
fooling everyone into thinking
that you have settled down
and then heading for the hills
The dog will bare his teeth
if instructed and meet up
with you later. It's good
you named him Bandito:
he'll watch your back
This, by the way, this is not a fantasy
It is page 69 (ha ha!) of the manual
I read when we were planning
the takeover
So it didn't happen—so what?
This is better
Wait until I tell you
what's on the next page
A World of Trade-Offs
"In some parts of the world they don't have clean water. But they also don't have Kardashians."
Kinda says it all, doesn't it?
