rlbourges

One more for the road

In Film, Food, Hautvoir, Local projects, Music, proto drafts on October 2, 2015 at 8:20 am

oy. The upstairs neighbor has a voice that could cut through a chain link fence. (No, this is not because I have a hangover. Until late last night, I was in a venue where people do a free consumption of spirits. However, had I done the same, I wouldn’t have found the strength to walk myself home.)

As it was, I walked in slow deliberate one-step-at-a-time mode, happy to rediscover, mid-way up the steep hill that: A shorter steeper hill is better than one with less steepness spread out over a greater length. The kind of notion a body registers with appreciation as it stops to puff a little while pretending to take in the play of street lights on the flowing river.

Voilà. We have achieved the shores of today. Today promises to get active in the afternoon/evening segments.

Last night was the Off segment of the opening of the town’s cultural season. Tonight is the official opening. I’ll try to grab at least one decent shot of the Mayor. A stipend puts all the onus on results, doesn’t it. So, decent shots of the official part, even if the Off segments give off that impressionistic blur of happy people enjoying their spirits, a collection of 45 rpms from the mid-sixties, and shorts shot in 8 or 16 mm, or vids, or phones.

My favorite of the shorts being a nothing in terms of image and sound quality. Four minutes long, shot off a phone app and titled La Patrona, it shows the women of a small Mexican village doing what they’ve done for over ten years now: cook up food, pack it into plastic bags and stand by the railroad tracks. Desperate migrants from the South ride the train, conscious of the fact they run a huge chance of dying on their way toward their dream of a better life.

When the train roars through, they hang out the windows or off the platforms. The women, spread out from one end of their village to the next, throw the plastic bags at them. Some of the migrants have written a song about them.

The train rushes on. Grinning and excited, the women – old, bandy-legged, fat – walk home with their empty wheelbarrow. They’ll start all over again tomorrow. I took a real liking to the bandiest-legged one. Way to go, mamma.

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