| june - july 2007 Issue 12 |
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Nothing may be
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ESSAY / POEM
A myriad of mystery still. Mexico. Monterrey.
This foreign country attaches to my veins daily as I fall in love still knowing nothing.
A hybrid of ancient and influenced cultures combine to leave twisted imprints of what it means to be human. Within this
surreal change in my life, culture shock is a very real possibility.
Fluttering hummingbirds suspended in the stale air dart dutifully to and fro. The sweet smell of orange blossoms in
bloom tempts me from mortality. The noise pollution of impatient honks rapes my ear drums to penetrate thoughts of
conscious thinking. Louder is better. Big is beautiful. This obvious observation beats down on me during my daily bus
ride roller coaster of horror. Are we really travelling at 120 kilometres per hour on a side street? I pinch myself. Yes, we
are. We are dodging permanently statue stationed Volkswagens rusted to the crevasse ridden asphalt. The bus driver
has permanent grumpy wrinkles. When I grow up, I hope I have permanent happy wrinkles. We speed by the prison
coloured home fronts, shutter shut store fronts, barred windows common cluster adjacently hugging concrete pads
abused by foot and funk. The taxi posses gather near taco stands of juicy barbequed beef sizzling on the streets day
and night. Hand-made tortillas warm hands of hard work as the masses line-up and lick their chops. Baby goat heads
on the menu apparently as mouth watering as watermelon popsicles on a hot and clammy Mexican morning, so I am
told. In the thick of ordinary business it all comes down to appearances when one’s word is disregarded. Someone
once told me that in Mexico “it is better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission”. Obsession of this “show”
rules pages of ripe strawberry fashion magazines. Here we are introduced to quick fix laser hair confiscation, fake nails
of artwork in inches and extravagantly elegant weddings. Through all this, the unhidden concrete blocks of barrios built
up on the hill side – sore eye. No electricity, no water and the super highway divides prolific scale-tipping divergences
between the have not’s and the have all’s. Humble me furiously and passively. This is the city.
Bushwhacking through chicken and church on a Sunday morning thought roller coaster unable to write the two second
counter change of brain activity. Foreign bugs suck foreign blood feasting furiously and chuckling in the last moments
of their lives. In the super sucking seconds it takes for them to penetrate my pores, hours of itching follow. Desert
wanderings deserve detail like the time the ground moved fast beneath my feet in and around cacti, up and over aloe
as sinister and sharp as ice picks. Fatal. The wounds on my legs look like a bloody battlefield from space. Sick, mange
stricken puppies on the streets seem to call my compassion at every corner. I tried to save two, one survived. I cried for
a long time. The desert sun secretly and seductively scorches tanned bodies leathered by years of forced familiarity.
Donkeys dawdle carrying precious cargo of handicrafts blessed from the soul of the earth. Hot dust tornadoes swirl
and spin bags of sabritas chips and empty water bottles onto the gravel road. Squat women with smiles of silver teeth
saunter slowly. Their youngest children giggle in cloths tied tight hugging hips and ribs. This spectacle, a Masterpiece
theatre with Cumbia and Salsa subtitles, rings in my subconscious. Vast expanses of dry desolation dehydrate any
sign of life. Yet, within this barren soil magic lingers and exhales energy into the feet that walk on it. Rolling hills in the
foreground hold the excitement of steep crags that puncture through the earth’s surface behind them. Breath
momentarily leaves body as beauty is realized. This is the desert.
Downtown nightclubers are fully rampant from dusk until dawn listening to the driving drum-machine dancehall of
reggaeton beats persuading sweat to surface and flow free. Next door, enthusiasm bursts though faces of thrill and
antique musical influence of folklore fantasies causes hips to sway automatically. Uptown males hangout on
sidewalks charged with Carta Blanca beer in hand. They sit on used and reused sofas admiring passers by and
calling cats raucously. No shame, no shame. Strong but silent women with their bastard children inside slaving over
gas stoves of beans and rice fit into the mould of all too stereotypical. Crooked corrupt cops and whistles coming from
cancerous construction sites induce stares of all surrounding people as they glare and bear witness to the foreign
white girl. “Mira, Mira la Guera”. No shame, no shame. (I couldn’t be more obvious if I was wearing an upside-down
clown suit in the blistering 40 plus heat wave, makeup running down my wannabe invisible cheeks.) At the same time,
open arms of sincere strangers welcome me honestly with meets and greets of kisses close to comfort. Friendships
that span an eternity of lifetimes bless me with their generosity. I see family connections running deeper than canyons
of clever wrinkles sparkling on a Sunday in the park. Laughter melts fears of insecurity and I am rescued under wings
of wisdom. Singing out loud, soul proud to the heavens above, this culture radiates echoes of history rooted to the
lands of long ago. These are the people.
Caught between the then and now, my experience lends itself to bias. This is my attempt to begin to describe the
diversity of this shifting society. I open my mind to welcome the unknown of Mexico which has unlocked an intricacy of
queries. Reflecting upon this cultural complexity has helped me to arrive at a global understanding in such a way that I
can understand my own experience differently than I could have understood it alone. As much as I have learned, still I
am at the question crux while my dirty dirt bag feet keep walking.
by Danielle Arsenault
A myriad of mystery still. Mexico. Monterrey.
This foreign country attaches to my veins daily as I fall in love still knowing nothing.
A hybrid of ancient and influenced cultures combine to leave twisted imprints of what it means to be human. Within this
surreal change in my life, culture shock is a very real possibility.
Fluttering hummingbirds suspended in the stale air dart dutifully to and fro. The sweet smell of orange blossoms in
bloom tempts me from mortality. The noise pollution of impatient honks rapes my ear drums to penetrate thoughts of
conscious thinking. Louder is better. Big is beautiful. This obvious observation beats down on me during my daily bus
ride roller coaster of horror. Are we really travelling at 120 kilometres per hour on a side street? I pinch myself. Yes, we
are. We are dodging permanently statue stationed Volkswagens rusted to the crevasse ridden asphalt. The bus driver
has permanent grumpy wrinkles. When I grow up, I hope I have permanent happy wrinkles. We speed by the prison
coloured home fronts, shutter shut store fronts, barred windows common cluster adjacently hugging concrete pads
abused by foot and funk. The taxi posses gather near taco stands of juicy barbequed beef sizzling on the streets day
and night. Hand-made tortillas warm hands of hard work as the masses line-up and lick their chops. Baby goat heads
on the menu apparently as mouth watering as watermelon popsicles on a hot and clammy Mexican morning, so I am
told. In the thick of ordinary business it all comes down to appearances when one’s word is disregarded. Someone
once told me that in Mexico “it is better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission”. Obsession of this “show”
rules pages of ripe strawberry fashion magazines. Here we are introduced to quick fix laser hair confiscation, fake nails
of artwork in inches and extravagantly elegant weddings. Through all this, the unhidden concrete blocks of barrios built
up on the hill side – sore eye. No electricity, no water and the super highway divides prolific scale-tipping divergences
between the have not’s and the have all’s. Humble me furiously and passively. This is the city.
Bushwhacking through chicken and church on a Sunday morning thought roller coaster unable to write the two second
counter change of brain activity. Foreign bugs suck foreign blood feasting furiously and chuckling in the last moments
of their lives. In the super sucking seconds it takes for them to penetrate my pores, hours of itching follow. Desert
wanderings deserve detail like the time the ground moved fast beneath my feet in and around cacti, up and over aloe
as sinister and sharp as ice picks. Fatal. The wounds on my legs look like a bloody battlefield from space. Sick, mange
stricken puppies on the streets seem to call my compassion at every corner. I tried to save two, one survived. I cried for
a long time. The desert sun secretly and seductively scorches tanned bodies leathered by years of forced familiarity.
Donkeys dawdle carrying precious cargo of handicrafts blessed from the soul of the earth. Hot dust tornadoes swirl
and spin bags of sabritas chips and empty water bottles onto the gravel road. Squat women with smiles of silver teeth
saunter slowly. Their youngest children giggle in cloths tied tight hugging hips and ribs. This spectacle, a Masterpiece
theatre with Cumbia and Salsa subtitles, rings in my subconscious. Vast expanses of dry desolation dehydrate any
sign of life. Yet, within this barren soil magic lingers and exhales energy into the feet that walk on it. Rolling hills in the
foreground hold the excitement of steep crags that puncture through the earth’s surface behind them. Breath
momentarily leaves body as beauty is realized. This is the desert.
Downtown nightclubers are fully rampant from dusk until dawn listening to the driving drum-machine dancehall of
reggaeton beats persuading sweat to surface and flow free. Next door, enthusiasm bursts though faces of thrill and
antique musical influence of folklore fantasies causes hips to sway automatically. Uptown males hangout on
sidewalks charged with Carta Blanca beer in hand. They sit on used and reused sofas admiring passers by and
calling cats raucously. No shame, no shame. Strong but silent women with their bastard children inside slaving over
gas stoves of beans and rice fit into the mould of all too stereotypical. Crooked corrupt cops and whistles coming from
cancerous construction sites induce stares of all surrounding people as they glare and bear witness to the foreign
white girl. “Mira, Mira la Guera”. No shame, no shame. (I couldn’t be more obvious if I was wearing an upside-down
clown suit in the blistering 40 plus heat wave, makeup running down my wannabe invisible cheeks.) At the same time,
open arms of sincere strangers welcome me honestly with meets and greets of kisses close to comfort. Friendships
that span an eternity of lifetimes bless me with their generosity. I see family connections running deeper than canyons
of clever wrinkles sparkling on a Sunday in the park. Laughter melts fears of insecurity and I am rescued under wings
of wisdom. Singing out loud, soul proud to the heavens above, this culture radiates echoes of history rooted to the
lands of long ago. These are the people.
Caught between the then and now, my experience lends itself to bias. This is my attempt to begin to describe the
diversity of this shifting society. I open my mind to welcome the unknown of Mexico which has unlocked an intricacy of
queries. Reflecting upon this cultural complexity has helped me to arrive at a global understanding in such a way that I
can understand my own experience differently than I could have understood it alone. As much as I have learned, still I
am at the question crux while my dirty dirt bag feet keep walking.
by Danielle Arsenault
Danielle is my name...passion is my game. Art is
passion. Life speaks louder than eyes of emotion.
Being at part of this process (life) has enabled me
to learn more about myself as a kind-hearted
human and dedicated artist. The way in which a
community of people can support and care for one
another has inspired me to be thankful in the face
of freedom and accept challenges with open arms.
This is beyond me. At the present time while
teaching high school in Mexico, I reflect upon the
place I usually call home, Calgary, and all
continues without me. As a friend, hiker, poet, punk
rocker, actor, educator and lady, attention to the
details of love continues to enhance life’s
complexities.
passion. Life speaks louder than eyes of emotion.
Being at part of this process (life) has enabled me
to learn more about myself as a kind-hearted
human and dedicated artist. The way in which a
community of people can support and care for one
another has inspired me to be thankful in the face
of freedom and accept challenges with open arms.
This is beyond me. At the present time while
teaching high school in Mexico, I reflect upon the
place I usually call home, Calgary, and all
continues without me. As a friend, hiker, poet, punk
rocker, actor, educator and lady, attention to the
details of love continues to enhance life’s
complexities.