Los Techos

Coming from a one-story county, I've always been obsessed with the roofs of this city. Unitedstatsian houses are made of wood and debt, Mexican houses are made of brick and cement and debt. The roofs of Mexico City are the only place where one can encounter the sky in any meaningful quantity. There does also exist a possibility of horizon, but generally that's too much to ask.

Laundry dries on the roof. The tinacos––plastic tanks––sit in mediation on the roof, storing water for when the pipes fail to deliver, which happens everyday depending on the neighborhood. (People here would consider living without a tinaco complete foolishness). We grow an occasional tomato and strawberry on the roof. I hang my audio recorder over the street side and record the yelling of daily life––sounds that don't let me ever sleep deeply now, but sounds I know I'll miss when I'm not here.

I've written all these poems about the roofs, over and over. I was in Guatemala when I first realized that the rusted rebar left sticking out of the walls of every house (and capped with plastic coke bottles for safety) are antenna for the lesser-recognized frequencies of faith and optimism. That is to say, the rebar is hands in prayer, a latter-day cultural custom meant to express the hope for expanding the house someday. Expanding vertically.

From my small desk here all I can see are roofs, an empire of tinacos and abandoned antennas. I do miss the horizon.

I seem unable to make any order of anything. This blog is beautiful and completely overwhelming at the same time.

I'm not sure what I'm creating, if anything.