interested13563 53M
985 posts
5/25/2006 1:44 pm

Last Read:
10/5/2006 4:05 pm


Like a dark sheet of yesterday, evening is
spreading itself on the Great Plaza.
A lot of people are walking in front of the
illuminated stores, well-dressed people.
Jewelery in silver and turquoise is heavily
set in the windows and around the
attractive bodies of luxurious women.
The spicy aroma of red chilly peppers,
roasted in the sun whose heat is still
trapped in the soil walls of the adobe is
infusing the dry air.

In front of the entrance of a big store
belonging to whites, there where the
mother-earth tradition becomes picturesque
consumerism, a group of native young
men are playing flutes and drums, advertising
their soul for money in harmony with
the rings and necklaces in the showcases.
The sound of their music seems to emerge
from the ground like the spirits of the
Anasazi, melodies of the long-lost West
and South. Rhythms in the shape of wavy
mountains are undulating the soil. The
faces are wide, the eyes sparkling dark,
the legs are supporting temples. People
are gathering to listen.

The old-Indian, the drunkard, is approaching
slowly amongst the crowd, ignored and
ignoring the spectators. The music is
flowing through his weakened body. On his
face, wrinkled like a canyon, the rhythm
serpents along the valleys, together with
dizziness from cheap tequila. Slowly the
melody is spreading to his tired limbs.
The old body is starting to move to the
rhythm initially in small, then in bigger
oscillations. One arm to the front, the
other to the back. One leg is hitting
the earth to the right, the other is readily
copying to the left. The pace is becoming
faster. The world is changing in front of
his blurry eyes. Eagles are flying over
the Rio Grande, buffalo are roaming the
wide valley, the people are riding free.
His mind inhales the tones of red rock.
The sky is clear, the scenery is arid,
the sun is relentless. All is life together
and the people are part of it.

But time passed. The music ended, the
spectators dispersed to continue their
leisurely walk by the windows. The evening
deepened. The eagles returned to the
mountainsides of the Gallinas. The buffalo
withdrew into the shadows of the mesas.
The musicians left together with some
tall blond women whom they had been
pursuing for a while.

The old-Indian, the drunkard, his eyes fixed
on the dead ground, took his steps
slowly, walking away, an old forgotten rug
pushed by the nightly breeze.


Copyright 2006 by interested13563

rm_FreeLove999 46F
16127 posts
5/27/2006 12:09 am

... some really beautiful images in here ...

[blog freelove999]

interested13563 replies on 5/27/2006 5:38 pm:
Thank you Free!!! I hope you are allright and happy!!!

papyrina 51F
21133 posts
5/31/2006 2:31 pm

at the beguinig i thought you were decribinh Plaka

I'm a

i'm here to stay

interested13563 replies on 5/31/2006 4:38 pm:
Papy mou, indeed there is a lot of similarity. The style
of music is only different!

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