Two faces: all gods and all times have two faces, male/female, loving or cruel, past tense and present tense… only in love and in art can they come together again… art is nothing if not the stutter of words being made into flesh. Five hundred years ago King Nezahualcóyotl, the Hungry Coyote, decided to build a temple of poetry and indulgence, of order and nature, in the mountains overhanging the Valley, and the patron of this site was the sign of water, fountaining thru hanging botanical gardens and zoos, thru miles of mountain waterways running from glaciers, flowing blue thru scorched brown earth and high mountain grass.
And his poet’s dream was to defeat the dark dream of Mexico, to turn the bloody face of Tezcatlipoca, at once smoking black mirror and red night jaguar, male and female, mother and son one for the other, (…otherwise called Pan/Dionysius, god of human sacrifice or drunken stupor, of vines or slit throats…) to invert the burning pathos of ritual and death and turn it into the lustful abandon of reconcilement… to turn the face of Thanatos around from living blood, press the face of Eros into his crotch.
He of course failed and died old and fucked up and tired, the spear of the age in his side, and only then he knew that the dream of art was old and frail, and that death was young and would rise erect again like the ravenous island-city shimmering in the lake of Mexico. Yet the living water would flow on, bathing cunt and cock, the dead or the living alike, until the time came when the city would go up in a fiery pyre, and so it would to this day.