Thursday, March 03, 2005
átmosfera
Using a friend's socks and the energy bestowed upon those who have nothing to lose, I think I may have landed a job at the Mexic-Arte Museum. This space, one of three in this entire country dedicated to the advancement of Mexican art (a concept I loosely adhere to) is both a protest to those who think we're all mariachis and tequila and to those that think we don't read. Nationalism is something that I abhor and kinda cling to like a kid to his mom's side--for comfort, rationalized purpose and for the illusion of community. Not to sound cynical, but I have beef with cultural propriety as well as relativism (moral or cultural). But, as the wise Westsyyyde representative, Nate Dogg once whoofed "it ain't no fun if the homies can't have none"--homies in this case encompassing humanist impulses and not the sex tones the song entails. Community is more complicated than most discourses understand it to be. It can hurt you. Or give you joy.
Writing is going well--working in the daytime is great, but once in a while staying up all night and fleshing out a story makes me feel like this. I'm finally midway through Marias' novel and its wonderful and wonderfully dense. Márquez's autobiography reads like a novel (granted, one that blurs voices and temporality). Nalo Hopkinson's book transports me to spaces where time is on display. In non-Mexican art museums.
You saw that one coming, didn't you.
