The Feast of the Mountains

The sentinels of the valley, the titans, the real heavyweights. They are stand-ins, they are nobodies, here today, gone tomorrow; the young and the old, they’re here for our own sakes. La volcana, Manuelita Iztaccíhuatl, she waits for you to come on that pile of excrement and gold, waits for you like a doorway. She gives and takes in the same indifferent gesture, she feeds you lunch in the morning and has you fuck her in the evening. Don Goyo Popocatépetl, drunken old goat, bus driver in the day and patron of the arts in the night, will be on time for this long-arranged meeting, high as a kite, wary of every obstacle he’s brushed aside for this feast: Sacrifice yourself, sanctify yourself, take us in, do us in, begs the forgotten community who has waited forever for such a showdown. Ignorance and impotence shall merge in blissful reconciliation. There is no history here, only day and night, Ixta-Popo, the flats and the range, the time of your own and the time that belongs to others. There is rushing water and there is fine dust, there is green and there is brown, there is the kernel and there is the sheath. Milk, come, pulque: one blends into the other, the circle is locked, there is no way out, there is no roof but the sheltering dark, the night is pitch black and the little children of the mountain call from the tall wet trees. Warm yourself next to the fire, wary traveler, have a bite and quench your thirst, cop a feel, grab an eyeful, listen to a story, pay your dues. The cold of the night is rushing in.