Magical realism
Such nice weather today. Was it Indian winter? I walked to the T from my house. I don't mind it taking an hour to get to work if half of the hour is a walk. Walking in the morning reminded me of being in Latin America - people outside, the angles of early sunlight, passing storefronts and parks, the world waking up, in motion. And as if my daydream invoked it, the people on Broadway started to look Latin American, and storefronts and signs all proclaimed their owners or their wares in Spanish and Portuguese. Now I can never know for sure what East Somerville was like before this morning when it was born as I imagined it. It would seem narcissistic and grandiose if it had not all been so completely out of my control. What will happen tomorrow - will geckos creep around the sides of houses, will the sun shine hotter, will there be music and women selling elotes? Perhaps Broadway will dissolve into a carnival of color and sounds, the ice mountains in Winter Hill melt into the lake surrounding Tenochtitlan, and an eagle fly overhead carrying a snake in its beak, looking for the mythical cactus on which to alight to establish Aztlan. Because Aztlan has already come to Boston in a quiet but steadily growing reverse conquista, and if it is true that somehow or other this Indian land will exert its influence on its inhabitants until, inexorably, they become Indian as well; if no one has said it yet, let me be the first to say: bienvenido.