Always the same dog from the same pool of genes. Sometimes flattened on the road, half flattened on the road, or half flattened against a wall because the streets are so narrow and the busses so wide. Sometimes standing erect and teeth barred with bristled shoulders, or erect and looking abused by life, or semi erect in some stage of decline, or dead and waiting to be flattened. In Mexico every form of animal, domestic or wild, is flattened on the highway. They are all in some stage of either mummification by elements or freshly killed and being eaten by other animals, flying or earthbound. On occasion those eating become flattened in the joy of nourishment.

It is 60% humidity today, a fairly good day to build a guitar. If started now it will begin its life at this optimum moisture for the village. It will rain hard, but the maker will still work with the drops making a thunderous noise against the tin roof, and the humidity will rise 20% to 40%, and the wood, as human skin, will change. To the builder it will make little difference although wood must be stable throughout the building process. Maybe a window will be shut and a small space heater will be turned on as if an umbrella in a hurricane.

The dirty cotton ball clouds are arranging themselves over the near mountains; the village is at 7500 feet. There is fresh corn being roasted over a half metal barrel container. An Indian holds her hand up to me from the sidewalk and looks down. That dog is eating a corncob. The cab I had exited is old and of a kind I’ve not seen in the States that I picked up in Morelia after a night of rest from my flight from Germany. My head feels overweight and puffy but I need to be here.

Next: Jazz Republicans in the Tule Fog