Thursday, January 19, 2012
Friday: market day at Conzatti. Woven shopping bags pink and orange and blue and green. Summer in Oaxaca City.
Ten minutes to get from the hill streets of San Felipe, past Avenida Niños Heroes, to the zocalo. Porfirio Diaz was a southbound street, one magnetic rail flush with the ancient green cantera flagstones. Braking energy collected downhill was saved for the uphill climb on the other end of the city to the top of San Felipe del Agua. Past la Iglesia de la Soledad. The street car's transparent cowling was sun-warm, but the soft white noise of the blending fans kept everyone on the inside calm and cool and the random jingling of the bells kept everyone happy. Each streetcar has 126 silver bells in its grate floor. Each time the streetcar opened its doors it sounded like it was taking a huge breath. Cool air stayed in. Warm air gently enswirled the passenger as they stepped outside.
Through the tranvía's gaped mouth a grandma was exhaled gently onto the smooth concrete platform. WIth just a hint of electro-static to momentarily repel airborne allergens. He liked to add little extras that made people trust his inventions. People trust things that protect them. Trust promotes adoption and loyalty.
Silent pulsing pinholes in the platform's stainless steel perimeter agitated the dust from new passengers as they arrived from the market. The tranvía-driven magneto vacuum drew down the dust from their feet and their rolling aluminum market baskets into the negatively charged stream of water that cut under the station.
A rose bush adhering to the stream of water. Branches radiating, roots polarized to grow in the shape of the stair-step Mitla band.
It was a beautiful plan for a beautiful city. She folded the old black portfolio's leather flap over the drawings and wound the thin paper cord in a figure eight to seal it.