blotgood, busking Mexico City 1993, fiddle and Love with a baby in the oven

Busking in the Zocalo of Mexico City, 1993, with Becca Bashara. Little did we know, Surreal was inside, growing. It wasn't Montezuma's revenge, at all. Underneath my tapping hippie foot, the ruins of the Aztecs, and their caves of larval gold, their dust eagles and pikes broken.
     Maybe it was my long red hair, maybe it was my shredded Okie attire, maybe it was the gentle nature of humanity that loves all music, and wanton courage of the traveler.
    We were embraced by ears and a few pesos, and made it back to the border with only enough for the bus ride back to OKC. My shoes were stolen from the foot of my sleeping torso in the train station, as we slept, and I traveled the last 800 miles barefoot, with the glare of the Greyhound man doing himself no favors.
     The stone of the Zocalo sopped up my sound like yet another offering from the blot godi of centuries past, the skin sacrifice, the off kilter meandering self disbursement of skin and calloused feet pads, and wind worn thumbs of hitch hiking nomads. I'd been there before.