by Ernest Hogan
On this, or all 4th of Julys, my wife and I had to get out of town, away from the neighbor recreational explosives, the national political meltdown (what’s a Chicano scifiista to do?), and excessive heat warnings. Off to Northern Arizona, and slightly cooler temperatures.
You never know what you’ll find. Like a pretty Catrina, abandoned in an antique store. Her powerful feminine essence still challenging our consumer society to satisfy her cosmic desires. Will our technology be able to do the job?
Now and then, peeking through the urban developments, visions of a world before the aliens invaded manifest.
Arizona, what are you? America? Mexico? Land of the Sinagua, the Anasazi, the Hohokam, and the dinosaurian sea monsters?
In hidden corners, in places like Jerome, people say “We are all here because we’re not all there” and create their own cultures.
We keep finding references to things beyond this planet’s gravity well. Does Route 66 have interstellar offramps?
Names and owners change. Human beings don’t last. Neither do the things they make. The tacos at the restaurant formerly known as Oaxaca are still great.
Tlaquepaque sells “art” to rich people while its decor conjures fantasies of another place and time. Can you buy mythologies?
Is there a market for mutations like psychedelic mariachis? We are all mutants, imperfect copies and recombinations. Sooner or later, your DNA snaps.
Don’t worry, San Juan de Hollywood watches over tourists. What are the differences between tourists and natives and immigrants and aliens? What you are depends on where you happen to be at the moment, and like borders, can be changed with a little paperwork.
Cowboys and Indians mix with aliens and UFOs. Sometimes you have to blend in with the natives.
Martian or Mayan? Do all aliens look alike to you?
Somehow, it’s all about the tacos. What’s eating you, America?
Ernest Hogan is dazed but working on the upcoming Xicanxfuturist uprising.
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