First, I am beginning the process of returning to my commitment to creating. That sounds so non-committal, I recognize. I simply haven't had much creative inspiration lately (I can come up with a number of reasons for this, but that isn't the point). I haven't posted a Sunday Sound in weeks, and the ones I have posted have been decidedly lackluster. I am hoping to move forward and resume the series; my posts may not have the same Colleen sparkle right at first, but I am convinced that forcing myself to resume will stir up some creative juices. So there we are. Returning to my creative self. Returning home.
Second, I have been blessed with another option for decent Mexican food in Massachusetts. While there are countless world cuisine options around these parts, there is no MEXICAN. This has always depressed me as a sizable chunk of my life (ten of my nearly 28 years!) was spent in the El Paso, Texas / Ciudad Juarez metropolis. Living in a border town offered all sorts of delights... knowing plenty of Spanish by age 10, an enduring fascination with el Dia de los Muertos, walking amongst a group of Crip Killers (I was excited that they were throwing out my initials!), and a dependence on copious amounts of tortillas, cheese, salsa, and beans.
And I returned home when I walked in to El Potro. My roommate and I strolled in and were greeted by the familiar and comforting sounds of Mariachi. That's right. REAL MARIACHIS IN SOMERVILLE. I was immediately transported to the days of my youth when I could easily cross the border in to Juarez and eat outside the mercado on Avenida 16 de Septiembre. That was before all this drug cartel business. I captured one of the most amazing moments of this night... when the lead vocalist held out a note for TEN SECONDS. I couldn't keep myself from screaming out (don't worry, I captured that, too). Here's a listen...
The President of my Church shared a portion of Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood by William Wordsworth. I cut the below audio snippet from his talk. The entire poem strikes me, but mostly this line:
We come from God, who is our home.
THE SUNDAY SOUND: April 1, Mariachis and Monson.
For those following along in an RSS reader, click through to the original post to hear today's piece.