There's a tiny tornado devastating a little village in the desert of Puebla. Perhaps the inhabitants are abandoning their belongings, running for their lives.
I prefer to imagine they aren't. I prefer to imagine them sitting in postures of calm repose while their homes and crops and stores and statues are unceremoniously ripped from the Earth and scattered in splinters as so many barren and fallow seeds.
The war rages within. Every revolution having been but the busting up of hard and lazy soil, the tilling of the land for a new season of planting. Maybe this time we bury the seeds of Baudelaire's fleurs de mal. Maybe this time we plant rusted flakes of copper piping and blackened oil run out of engines. Maybe this time we plant what we can actually eat.
There's a tiny tornado devastating a little village in the desert of Puebla. Those who survive will be faced with the task of starting this dusty life anew, from splinters and scratch.
Who among us will lend them a hand?
1/28/2013
1 pm
Bus between Puebla and Oaxaca,
Mexico
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