My Caledonian eyes bespeak my Celtic roots – ancient mysteries forgotten, but perhaps in my deepest unconscious I can still listen to them, should I still sufficiently the present tense that so clutters our brain. My face reveals my link to my Malinchero heritage - mezclado inextricablemente since the first conquistadores debarked on the sands of Mechique. It also speaks of the travels and travails of the peoples of this continent, las idas y vueltas, of peoples between Old World and New. If I relax my hair, encourage the sun to wreak its havoc streaking it to a shade quite rubia – I can quite “pass” for una Angla. Do I strive to reach the definition of fashion in my time, or do I honor my history? How much to I change my outside, before I look at myself and see a stranger? Or how much do I change my outside, before I look at myself …. and finally…. see myself?
Such are the strange thoughts that fly at me in the sleepless night.
Quando sono sola sogno all’orizzonte e mancan le parole
the quiet wakeful hours
