cultural criticism | photography | place & space

Echo I

Damn, and it’s cold here too on this altiplano — and beyond — where the jagged earth rises up to meet my sore feet. How close to the equator, but how much closer to the moon. Swift, agile, barrel-chested youths race by and by, up and down tracks with cords of knots.

It’s too numb cold right now, and the air doesn’t satisfy me either — like trying to bathe in just one drop of water; I have to get back. But I’m not even sure how I got here...or where back is for that matter. Back in time, deeper into my mind, some other land...still yet, further out of my mind, or back to the future. I focus again. Why are all of these people here — with their eyes full of stories and their mouths full of secrets.

Searching for the lost gold — isn’t that why everyone comes here — fumbling Pizarro dropped those buttery bricks. Goldbricks, the shape of butter sticks. Isn’t that why I’m get a taste of that buttery gold. How many sticks would I have to eat to get my blood just the right shade. Do the alchemists know. That intense bright, bright red...the red of gold based hemoglobin...not that dull rusty red of the iron based, or the blue of the silver based, or green of the copper based that you find in deep trenches under the sea or on orbs beyond the moon. We’re so much closer to the moon.

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