(no subject)
Mexico has many ghosts.
I stood atop the pinnacle of a mountain that overlooked an enchanted pueblo. There have been reports of alien craft landing here for 2,000 years. I saw none for the storm that was literally pouring over the top of an adjacent mountain and proceeding in a dark wave toward me. I did see strange, large insects that moved erratically and seemed to look at me with ancient eyes. There were two large crosses commemorating the deaths of people who had died here on this bare knob, thousands of feet above any habitation. As I took in the vista and breathed heavily with my accomplishment, I saw a man standing below me with a machéte, gazing up at me as if perhaps I were one of the aliens his granparents had warned him of since his youth. He was an Indian, dark and solemn with flared nostrils, black hair and a face lined with the knowledge of his ancestors. He nodded, lowered his machéte, and began working again, chopping, always chopping.
So I continue to climb, here in México or en los estados unidos...no me importa. Climbing, always climbing to a pinnacle that, thank God, can never be attained.
Luís Spíndola is a student of the transmutation of energy and light. He will read my palm tonight, smile with his silver teeth and reveal to me a portion of my fate. He will take his brown hands and feel me without touching, know my energy. México is a place of magic.
I stood atop the pinnacle of a mountain that overlooked an enchanted pueblo. There have been reports of alien craft landing here for 2,000 years. I saw none for the storm that was literally pouring over the top of an adjacent mountain and proceeding in a dark wave toward me. I did see strange, large insects that moved erratically and seemed to look at me with ancient eyes. There were two large crosses commemorating the deaths of people who had died here on this bare knob, thousands of feet above any habitation. As I took in the vista and breathed heavily with my accomplishment, I saw a man standing below me with a machéte, gazing up at me as if perhaps I were one of the aliens his granparents had warned him of since his youth. He was an Indian, dark and solemn with flared nostrils, black hair and a face lined with the knowledge of his ancestors. He nodded, lowered his machéte, and began working again, chopping, always chopping.
So I continue to climb, here in México or en los estados unidos...no me importa. Climbing, always climbing to a pinnacle that, thank God, can never be attained.
Luís Spíndola is a student of the transmutation of energy and light. He will read my palm tonight, smile with his silver teeth and reveal to me a portion of my fate. He will take his brown hands and feel me without touching, know my energy. México is a place of magic.