September is still grey. But shiny gray, like highly polished silver that reflects all the colors with which God weaves existence. September also, and in México Mágico, it cannot help but remember earthquakes. And that resonates. In the great earthquake of September 2017, I was fortunate to be late for my newspaper at the time. A few moments added to a couple of minutes change everything. And that has been the second best delay of my life: I was saved from leaving at dawn, with bleeding fingers from what I saw that day. I had the gift of, as Hemingway describes in Breaking Dawn, having a lonely morning, from the happiness that one finds in owning one’s actions. Well, I had that option or another, one of those that are not planned, but rather inspired, and that other way to spend the day was to invite an archaeologist with infinite obsidian eyes to breakfast.
I opted for the second route. And already at noon and in the Rosales square, before the September sun of light that warms without burning, life went through using WhatsApp. Reality broke the illusory mirror of calm date and worry released lava. The center of my world back then was in City of Mexico, and I needed to know how many people were doing. I should have realized then how much I would come to love the person whose welfare in those minutes was my priority. In A Scandal in Bohemia, Sherlock Holmes describes the same thing from a very Victorian perspective: how the arrival of disaster makes us show what really matters to us.
from the lit side from its darkness, the moments of crisis and high discomfort give us the clarity of who the really important people are, what is vital in our center of the world; the bad moments appraise what we are made of.
This 2022 tremor didn’t give me that much clarity. Now that, the tremor of Thursday morning worried me about the people who estimate the being that interests me. And that also resonates.
I first thought of the idea of the center of the world when I was five years old, when my mother gave me a globe. And even more so after seeing a German film of the same name, Die Mitte der Welt, from 2016, at the Cineteca Nacional. I don’t recommend it if you don’t have the stomach for homoerotic scenes, -it’s a bit strong-, but it handles some very well thought out ideas about how “the center of the world is different for everyone, because it depends on where we are and what we love”.
I extrapolated the feeling of that idea to the reality of Sinaloa after seeing Aroma, by Teresa Díaz del Guante, a work that won the National Award for Dramaturgy “Emilio Carballido” 2019 and that I saw last week at Socorro Astol; in it, the author of it brings to the stage and with great respect, the painful reality of women who are looking for their missing loved ones, her “treasures”; for them, I think a more than vital part of the center of her world.
Personally, the center of my world is more in me than ever. Like that of others, it is a void that is getting smaller and smaller, thanks to memories, knowledge, and moments with those who love. And thinking about that gives color to this immense month.
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