GMC

On the other hand I am a fool for my pickup truck, a 2005 GMC Canyon that hauled me all the way to Mexico pulling a camper trailer to boot. I mean that I really love my pickup. That pickup has done every single thing that I have asked it to do since we first became acquainted in November of 2005.

Eaarth

Once previously I have written at length here on the desecration of the planet as I knew it in my youth. And only once. There is no reason to rant on the subject. Nothing can be done. We are far beyond the “tipping point” already. Moreover, it is boring to read rants on the same subject over and over.

Notice that I have written nothing concerning the oil spill in the Gulf, a catastrophe of a magnitude beyond imagining. How can one project the effects of the destruction of 25%, perhaps more, of the entire wetlands of the United States of America? And wetlands are only one issue among many.

Excerpt from Eaarth

I only raise the subject again because of this new book. Bill McKibben eloquently portrays the current situation of the planet better than I can. He has devised a new name for the planet we inhabit now, "Eaarth," to distinguish it from the planet we formerly inhabited known at "Earth." We disagree on only one thing. He apparently believes that steps can still be taken to preserve the species. From my point of view, his proposals fly so flagrantly in the face of human nature as to be impossible. Still, as I said, he has a very perceptive grasp of the planet's current situation.

I would like to explain this to him. The central idea of The Enlightenment was the idea that man could gain control of nature through science, science being the application of pure reason. But The Enlightenment is over now. There is no way that we can reason ourselves out of this predicament.

Why do the people who have a realistic grip on the environmental situation as it exists right now all live in Vermont?

Buried in Big Books

It is conceivable that one of the volcanoes in the area could come to life again. A big eruption might spew ash over San Miguel and bury it. I am of course thinking of the example of Vesuvius in A.D. 79, the eruption of which buried the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum. The event happened so quickly that the citizens were caught and forever petrified or mummified or whatever in various postures, almost in mid-gesture.

Sun Tea

When I was attempting to describe the distinctive character of the month of May in the climate scheme here, I was tempted to write that it “enervates” you. However, to me the word “enervate” had a pejorative ring to it. I looked it up. Sure enough, it means 1. to reduce the mental or moral vigor of; 2. to lessen the vitality or strength of. Clearly, if one is enervated, that is a bad thing. So that is not what I wished to say at all.

My moral vigor is patently better than it has ever been, but that is not saying much. It is a lot easier to maintain your moral vigor when you are 63 as compared, say, to when your were 33. My mental vigor has not been affected. It is still very much the same. I am still a moderately bright American male with just enough mental horsepower to get him in trouble. Lastly, I am satisfied with my vitality and strength with the exception of my shoulders with which I am a tiny bit dissatisfied right now.

So exactly what was I trying to say? The rhythm of life—and I now firmly believe that there is such a thing and it is quasi-tangible thing; it is not just a touchy-feely, meaningless phrase that some artsy nut came up with—in May in San Miguel slows one down in a very pleasing way. There is a mellowness about it all just like sun tea. Sun tea tastes differently. If one drops a tea bag or a tea ball into boiling water, there is an edge to the taste that results, a bit of acidity. However, if you drop a bunch of tea bags in a pitcher of cold water and set it out in the San Miguel sun in May for an hour at midday, there is no edge to the taste at all. Perfectly smooth.

There are times when an edge is good thing. Sometimes an edge is not only a good thing but a necessary thing. For the moment, I am thoroughly enjoying the absence of any edge whatsoever.

Which brings me to the subject of my pickup truck. . .

Status

A bit about the character of the month of May here. Every month has its own distinctive character. I have lived in Mexico for nearly a year now, having crossed the border on June 3. Last May I was still fooling around in central Texas at this time.

I returned to find the campground entirely empty with the exception of my friends from Germany, Joachim and Bärbel, the Pan-American travelers who adamantly insist every month that they are about to leave and never do. They have been here since before I came. The tourists are gone. The city is relatively quiet. There are no huge fiestas in May. Cinco de Mayo is not celebrated in Mexico as it is in the United States of America.

It is very dry. The mornings are cool. I had breakfast at an outdoor cafe this morning at approximately 9:30 a.m. after dropping off my truck for service. When I left to go there, it was 62° F. (16.7° C.). I have been walking around town since, but in the afternoon it is time to get out of the sun. By mid-afternoon the temperature has risen to 95° F. (35° C.). The sun is powerful at this altitude. I have found that it is very effective for making sun tea by the way.

The stores routinely close at around 2:00 p.m. and reopen at 4:00 p.m. They then stay open well into the evening. One adopts the lifestyle that includes the afternoon siesta very quickly simply as a result of the May weather pattern. It is the way to go.

This lifestyle is also very lethargy-inducing, however. That is in great part the reason that I have not been putting up entries here as regularly as previously. Second, and very surprising to me, I have had to re-acclimate to the altitude all over again since my return from the Midwest on May 1. I have not had much sap.

I am coming around now, however, and will be back more regularly henceforth.

Where is the Graveyard of the Dead Gods?

by H. L. Mencken

Where is the graveyard of dead gods? What lingering mourner waters their mounds? There was a time when Jupiter was the king of the gods, and any man who doubted his puissance was ipso facto a barbarian and an ignoramus. But where in all the world is there a man who worships Jupiter today? And who of Huitzilopochtli? In one year--and it is no more than five hundred years ago--50,000 youths and maidens were slain in sacrifice to him. Today, if he is remembered at all, it is only by some vagrant savage in the depths of the Mexican forest. Huitzilopochtli, like many other gods, had no human father; his mother was a virtuous widow; he was born of an apparently innocent flirtation that she carried out with the sun. When he frowned, his father, the sun, stood still. When he roared with rage, earthquakes engulfed whole cities. When he thirsted he was watered with 10,000 gallons of human blood. But today Huitzilopochtli is as magnificently forgotten as Allen G. Thurman. Once the peer of Allah, Buddha and Wotan, he is now the peer of Richmond P. Hobson, Alton B. Parker, Adelina Patti, General Weyler and Tom Sharkey.

Speaking of Huitzilopochtli recalls his brother Tezcatilpoca. Tezcatilpoca was almost as powerful; he consumed 25,000 virgins a year. Lead me to his tomb: I would weep, and hang a couronne des perles. But who knows where it is? Or where the grave of Quetzalcoatl is? Or Xiehtecuthli? Or Centeotl, that sweet one? Or Tlazolteotl, the goddess of love? Of Mictlan? Or Xipe? Or all the host of Tzitzimitles? Where are their bones? Where is the willow on which they hung their harps? In what forlorn and unheard-of Hell do they await their resurrection morn? Who enjoys their residuary estates? Or that of Dis, whom Caesar found to be the chief god of the Celts? Of that of Tarves, the bull? Or that of Moccos, the pig? Or that of Epona, the mare? Or that of Mullo, the celestial jackass? There was a time when the Irish revered all these gods, but today even the drunkest Irishman laughs at them.

But they have company in oblivion: the Hell of dead gods is as crowded as the Presbyterian Hell for babies. Damona is there, and Esus, and Drunemeton, and Silvana, and Dervones, and Adsalluta, and Deva, and Belisima, and Uxellimus, and Borvo, and Grannos, and Mogons. All mighty gods in their day, worshiped by millions, full of demands and impositions, able to bind and loose--all gods of the first class. Men labored for generations to build vast temples to them--temples with stones as large as hay-wagons. The business of interpreting their whims occupied thousands of priests, bishops, archbishops. To doubt them was to die, usually at the stake. Armies  took to the field to defend them against infidels; villages were burned, women and children butchered, cattle were driven off. Yet in the end they all withered and died, and today there is none so poor to do them reverence.

What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley? What has become of:

Resheph
Baal
Anath
Astarte
Ashtoreth
Hadad
Nebo
Dagon
Melek
Yau
Ahijah
Amon-Re
Isis
Osiris
Ptah
Molech?


All these were gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Yahweh Himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following:

 
Arianrod
Nuada Argetlam
Morrigu
Tagd
Govannon
Goibniu
Gunfled
Odin
Dagda
Ogma
Ogryvan
Marzin
Dea Dia
Mara
Iuno Lucina
Diana of Ephesus
Saturn
Robigus
Furrina
Pluto
Cronos
Vesta
Engurra
Zer-panitu
Belus
Merodach
Ubilulu
Elum
U-dimmer-an-kia
Marduk
U-sab-sib
Nin
U-Mersi
Persephone
Tammuz
Istar
Venus
Lagas
Beltis
Nirig
Nusku
En-Mersi
Aa
Assur
Sin
Beltu
Apsu
Kuski-banda
Elali
Nin-azu
Mami
Qarradu
Zaraqu
Ueras
Zagaga

Ask the rector to lend you any good book on comparative religion; you will
find them all listed. They were gods of the highest dignity--gods of civilized
peoples--worshiped and believed in by millions. All were omnipotent, omniscient and immortal.

And all are dead.


Reprinted without permission in the good faith belief that permission is no longer needed.

Mood Elevation Strategies

I have been reading a fascinating history of Mexico. The book is Mexico, Biography of Power, A History of Modern Mexico, 1810-1996 by Enrique Krauze, translated by Hank Heifetz. Of course right in the middle of that span of time occurred the Mexican Revolution of 1910—Zapata, Pancho Villa, and all.

It just so happened that the Mexican historian, Arturo Morales, was giving a lecture today at the public library entitled “Myths and Rituals of the Mexican Revolution.” I firmly determined to attend when I read of it in the newspaper this past weekend. I was looking forward to it yesterday. I awoke early today in order to complete my errands in the cool of the morning and attend this lecture at 1:00 p.m. I had tea in the cafe outside the lecture hall while I waited.

While I was having tea, I decided to skip the lecture. What a wonderful feeling of freedom, the very stuff of irresponsibility! It elevated my mood to no end.



This is a very happy Señor Steve standing outside the closed doors of the hall while the lecture by Arturo Morales entitled "Myths and Rituals of the Mexican Revolution" is beginning inside.

I learned this trick when I was attending the university. There is no feeling that quite compares with the feeling attendant upon skipping class. It is important that you do it correctly, however. You must maintain the full intention of attending the class right up to the point that the class is scheduled to convene. It is best that you be standing outside the lecture hall as the doors close having intended right up to that point to go in and sit down. This intensifies the feeling of relief and freedom that results from skipping that class session.

As always, there is larger lesson here. We do not have to be the victim of our moods. We can actively change our moods with strategies like this one.

The Return

Toward the end of my stay in the United States, I noticed myself starting to get shrill again when discussing Wall Street, mine disasters, oil spills, politics, and ambient knuckleheadedness. Late yesterday my plane touched down in Mexico. I took a deep breath, enjoyed an hour's ride back to San Miguel in a big, gas guzzling Suburban on a beautiful afternoon. Voila! The register of my voice returned to what had become normal over the past year.