The conundrum of writing when multitudes of special things happen;
This is where I stand, making haiku to gather up image and thoughts.
Madcap high-schooler, mooning traffic-slowed cars from his school bus window:
What more, besides a timely cellphone call, can make Saturdays such fun?
Applying for my Mexican driver's license was easy as pie.
A visa and a payment, a sitting before the camera. Done.
A postponed tour of an art patron's frenzied world bore a small world tale:
The kind woman to my right knows a good friend of mine down New Zealand way.
Dear friend, Rachel, lands in the City for a week of adventuring.
Next day, my Matrix is towed from Condesa's streets (parking anarchy).
Two rescuing souls in button-up shirts and ties banish fear with help.
Taking a taxi to Bellas Artes palace, our thoughts leaned toward dance.
Shen Wei's company left us breathless after their second performance.
Temoaya, where we watched the clouds and listened to clear water running,
And voices speaking Otomi carried themselves across stone and town.
Bar Chon: where ant eggs and chrysanthemum petals are served up for lunch.
Simply a good start, for the evening held promise of lucha libre:
A universe of masks, sparks, raised fists and popcorn--nothing, if not fun.
Slow, coffee morning preceded night, and my face smeared with birthday cake.
Tradition let me plant a frosting kiss on the cheek of the culprit.
A gorgeous day through canals in Xochimilco meant celebration.
I had turned 30, with a thriving sense of wonder still intact.
Palm Sunday having passed, we walked through the streets of Villa del Carbón.
Buying fine leather boots, I hoped for miles to go before I should sleep.