I stepped out to get some clothes altered and discovered it is a BEAUTIFUL day outside. I reproached myself for not stepping out more often, made a resolution to do a decent walk or run daily - which I knew I would break - and set off for the park.
I found myself at the same spot where I sat in a blue funk six weeks ago, and absent-mindedly observed that this time I felt an almost unbearable lightness of being: that the thing that had weighed so heavily on my shoulders back then, had lifted completely.
I also absent-mindedly noticed the faint smell of poo, fairly ubiquitous in Mexico City, but probably set to intensify with the temperature.
Then I started noticing all sorts of things that I hadn't seen last time: the monstrosity in the middle of the circle of chairs may possibly be the ugliest public fixture ever created.
It's a rectangular, beige block of cement - about eight metres high - which sits in a pool of water with fountains spurting up in a circle around it. There is pigeon shit all around the top, sort of dribbling down, and the pool is painted the tackiest bright aqua you can imagine.
It is surrounded by a ring of cement paving, which is surrounded by a chain of metal lace benches, on which I and my fellow man are seated. Behind us are fields of deeply shaded dirt, with those squared hedges tracing little labrynths all over them.
It's strange that we're all here, we've all placed the water/clock/fountain thing directly in our line of vision, but the sound of the water is soothing, only marginally dented by the high-pitched squeals of children, and there are sparrows flying around, so in Mexico City terms it is peaceful.
The first thing I notice, immediately after my happiness, the smell of poo and the ugly monument, is my company.
Two kids are riding round and round the water fountain, each lap takes about 20 seconds so I wonder why they don't strike off a little further afield but they seem perfectly happy. The little girl has metalic tassles fluttering from the handlebars and the little boy has a very round - if not fat - face, and not much else of note.
Across the way, there is an old man and woman sporting exactly the same shade of yellow-grey hair. She's got a walking stick and he's got a white cap, cast jauntily over his knee.
On the next bench is the second homeless man from my last visit here. He's wearing the same red parker and green trackie-dacks that he had last time, but his grey hair is so neatly combed that I wonder whether maybe he has a home and is just here to watch the children.
Beside him is a young guy in jeans, ensconsed in the book he is reading. Then there's me. Then there's the oldish lady in a navy suit and very high heels, smoking what appears to be a neverending cigarette.
Then there's the family that's spawned the two bike-riders, and beside them a girl who looks very cool, also reading. Then there's the mother's group - two blonde women and their blond children, one's behind is still exhibiting the effects of pregnancy.
And then there's the balloon man, with his omnipresent cloud of hot pink metallic air-holders above his head.
I find myself thinking that it's amazing how, despite the decor, these people are all happy. But then I realise of course I can't assume that, maybe this fountain is surrounded by sad people.
It's strange to look at the balloon man and wonder whether he's happy or sad. Half of Mexico City lives below the poverty line, and just because I'm sure he's in the poor half does that automatically rob him of his happiness?
Maybe I could say he's got a hard life. Or maybe I could say he gets to spend his days wondering in a deeply-shaded and peaceful park, making people's lives brighter with his wares.
I look at the homeless guy. He's looking at the kids and after I've wondered if he's a paedophile, I have an overwhelming urge to go and say, "Are you happy?"
Maybe he's got no home, but maybe he lives having a park as his home.
Still, hunger never made anyone happy.
Then, out of the blue, the clock in the beige concrete tower chimes. Beautiful chiming, it is. Kind of like an ugly person with a nice personality. Kind of like Mexico.
And that means I've spent 20 minutes here, looking at all this, and the chiming of clocks always makes me remember that time has passed. The water droplet from the fountain that was in the air a moment ago, is now in the pool with all the other droplets of water.
This happiness I hold, only sits in the moment in which I hold it. It's part of time, and gravity. Everything passes. What goes up must come down.
Iñaki was right: you can't hold anything, just because you want it to last.
You can't hold the moment that you feel this way. You can't hold the person who makes you feel it. So, what can you do?
I guess all you can do is make yourself the most likely receptacle for happiness to come to rest.
The scene starts to move, dismantle. Some big yellow and brown dogs start making the mum's group feel edgy, so they set off with their designer collection: strollers and babies.
The old couple totters towards my side of the fountain, really they're not making much ground, and at one moment are almost run over by the two kids on bikes. It's a strange juxtaposition, young barrelling over old... old getting out of the way.
The man is feebly waving a white napkin - maybe his signal to the children - and I am delighted to see the two old devils slip through a hole in the hedge and set off across the dirt. Why stick to the path if there's no grass to ruin? Why stick to the path anyway?
They leave in their wake the homeless man, who's stopped looking at children and is now noticing me noticing him being read to by the guy with the book. The guy with the book slides down the bench to be closer to him, and keeps reading. I find myself wondering what on earth is the nature of their relationship. They quite obviously came separately (if one arrived at all, or rather, woke up) so why is the young guy reading?
Then I notice the suspiciously thin pages of the book and the way the old guy is nodding politely but his eyes are sliding sideways: it's a Bible, I'm sure.
The stoic cigarette woman picks up her wallet and packet, and waddles off in her super-high heels.
A photo shoot arrives and I wonder why on earth they're photographing this girl here? Until I catch her profile and realise anything would look good compared to the background, so maybe they were hoping to distract the viewer.
As for me, I am a curly-haired foreign-looking girl wearing disgraceful sandals outside. Bathroom slippers (or what I prefer to call 'thongs') in the street. I pick up my Telcel bag and pass the photographers, noting that the girl is actually a guy with long hair.
The clock will keep chiming, the water will keep being thrust upwards, only to fall victim to gravity again. And people will move in and out of the scene.. they will make it as they come and go.
Some will be happy, some sad. Some will leave sad and come back happy. And that is what I call The Cirle of Life.
No comments:
Post a Comment