I have no clue how a bird made of concrete can fly.  But I have no doubt that it's flying.  Rows and rows of chairs are delicately arranged inside it's belly and every seat is full.  A Oaxacan Jazz band is playing modern jazz songs inspired by Mixtec traditional music.  I'm fascinated, the music emanates through the people, feeding them life.  They are the birds cells, they are particles of partially digested worms and bread crumbs.  Behind me the birds giant concrete stomach rotates, mixing wet cement and waiting for the jazz to push us back into it's swirling mass to be digested and converted into the spectacular energy that keeps this giant avian airborne.  The jazz jumps and sputters, tickling my brain.  Maybe I am a mitochondria.  A long table of meticulously arranged wineglasses awaits as people dressed in T shirt tuxedos pour bottle after bottle of pinot nois to entertain the guests/masses of food until they hit the stomach acid.    I sip delicately, not worried about being digested, it's all part of the cycle of life.  With each powerful flap of it's concrete wings we move forward in time, soon we arrive at yesterday, even though it's two and a half weeks forward on the timeline of this story.  The bird has a craving for the flavor of melancholy, and so thus it begins my retelling at an emotional low point, which is, not so surprisingly, an introspectional high.  

I was sadder than I've been since I've been down here, for no good reason, just on that side of the pendulum's oscillation.  It's amazing how moods change your perceptions of things.  The brightly painted building stood out almost offensively against the stormy sky and the constant motion of the passersby seemed obsessive.  I sat in various parks and smoked a few single cigarettes, which you can buy from indigenous women and children who walk around with little portable convenience stores strapped around their necks.   

In these types of moods, I become enthralled by small details.  Little things that pop out of the landscape and call to me.  I feel like they're also lonely and that I'm the only one who's paid attention to them, despite their hidden value.  One of these things was a wounded monarch that limped around my patio.  I photographed it and then it got killed by the cat.  

Another was a small section in an auto parts store that sells bonsai cactuses.  I walked by the place and stopped to take a picture of the huge sign that said "Autos America" on a sign in the shape of Mexico with a US flag painted across the country.  I realized a tiny little black sign with white letters beneath the huge monstrosity of advertising.  It said: "Bonsai cactus."  I walked in and it was just like a dirtier version of Les Shwab.  Hubcaps and engine parts and the types of guys who spend their whole lives working on cars and thinking about cars.  It's a huge store.  People filled it with chatter about cars.  It took me a while to find the Bonsai section.  It was through a little doorway with a curtain.  Another little sign hung over this entrance, which was even more subtle and unobtrusive than the first.  I waked through the curtain and almost ran into a little man who was taking care of his cactuses.  There were about ten of them, in a room smaller than my walk in closet at my apartment.  They were all rare cactuses, kinds I've never seen before.  I had been taking pictures everywhere I went, but I felt it'd be inappropriate in this little oasis, so I just looked and appreciated them in the moment.  The little man was old and retired, he'd worked as a bus driver for years and had been part of the workers union.  He retired and bought this closet from Autos America and now he stayed there all day taking care of his prickly friends.  I asked him if he got a lot of business and he said no, people usually just wander in here while waiting for their cars to be repaired.  They cast a disinterested eye around the small room and go back to "America" to argue over the price of their tune up.  I asked him about each cactus and he told me where it originated, it's name in latin, how he cared for it.  I told him about how for probably about 5 years now, I'd been buying my dad bonsai cactuses to keep in his office at work.  The same bizarre gift every year.  He's got a little collection, and its always meant a lot to me that he keeps them alive.  You only have to water them like once a week or so, but nonetheless, many people let them die.  His little collection has moved though three different offices in the five years.  If I could somehow send him one, I'd buy one right now, I said, but since I'm not going back for 40 days, and I don't want to carry a cactus through Central America, I don't think it'd make sense.   He said not to worry, unlike most Mexican vendors, he didn't pressure me to buy at all.  He said he didn't open this shop to make money, which was obviously true.  He didn't seemed bothered by the noise from the store next door.  He'd created a little corner of Zen.  I must've been in there for 20 minutes to a half an hour, looking at the little plants and chatting with that little man.  I left feeling the same, and went looking for another place that seemed out of place and matched my out of place mood.