Fotografías de la Ciudad de México desde el aire, Gobierno de Mexico

Mexico City is open beauty, the heart that rests on a lake

by Ulises Paniagua

This city, Mexico City, is a palimpsest. City upon city, city of cities. It has been woven from layers invisible to the passage of time (frames fade and reveal, in infinite succession, at least every half-century). Below, in the subsoil, lie the roots of what we were. Persistent roots that demolish sidewalks. Pre-Columbian roots. In air frozen by the environmental contingencies, what we breathe still resides in our lungs: possibility, longing, the unfulfilled promise. What could have been and did not want to be. Or wanted to, but could not. Fortunately, what was, has been; an ancient city; modern city, postmodern city. A marvel that ties itself to its origins—delicately —to avoid getting lost in the stratosphere of post-truth.

---

Under our skin beat pre-Hispanic cells, viceregal genes, DNA with imperial, libertarian tendencies. A place made of places and a melting pot of cultures: Spanish, indigenous blood, an Arab legacy, Jewish and Chinese influences; the depth of Africa; gamer, otaku, postmodern among plazas and freaky shops. Tenochtitlan. The colony. Indigenous revolts. Slave uprisings. Famines. Luxury. Beauty. Sor Juana’s first “dream.” Everything distils in a cauldron that accumulates the same blood, a landscape made of infinite landscapes: mestizo, eclectic, creole. This city rests on a lake. This place, the navel of the world (a space that the Australian Charles La Trobe called in the 19th century “the City of Palaces”) suffers and sings—sometimes at the same time. It also sleeps. It dreams every night resting on two invisible giants: one freshwater lagoon, another lagoon entirely salt.

---

This city is water. A succession of transparencies. Liquid layers, one over another, until they become stone through the force of time. Here, drowsily, dreams navigate: centuries-old trajineras, tlaloques sail through asphalt ditches, steamships travel along canals full of Porfirian modernity, of the promise of Juarez’s reforms.

---

I walk along Avenida Madero and recognize, at dusk, the damp facades of palaces, and more palaces: particles of memory. I wander through the Canal de la Viga, through the old ditches, through the old San Fernando cemetery. I become substance. What we see does not return to us through our eyes—but by means of the metaphysics of bodies and forms. A city is a hologram, an indecipherable mirage devised by demiurges. The city “is” because it imagines itself. This city, like water, ripples in the body.

Mexico City is a broth of Mexica and viceregal floods: 1446, 1607, and 1629. It is the Chalco flood in 2024. Water truth where a seed of fire arises, the nominations of a first world. It is the endless storm that is missed in times of drought and climate change.

---

It is the home of earthquakes. Geography of disaster, almanac of infamy: collapse of the Regis hotel, the Rébsamen school, the eternal buildings of spinners and seamstresses: terror of Tlatelolco, hipster tragedy of the Juárez, Roma, and Condesa neighbourhoods. Battered empire of political lies, of Monchitos and Fridas Sofías. Hole of heroes, villains, and heroines, of search dogs, city of moles. Our centre, heart that belches terrifying waves. Every so often the reconstruction of our vital signs. 1957, 1985, 2017. The fractures, the damages. The seismic alert that howls at midnight. It is a miracle to be alive (not without scars in memory, not without cancer in buildings), but alive. We should have been buried. The great earthquake will come and will have your eyes. It will come “again, and again,” gentrified. We are the dead who raise other dead. Here we remain, immortally mortal. “Here we had to live.” This city is beautiful, and yet, it moves…

---

Mexico City is open beauty: the charm of the sun, at sunset, on neoclassical facades; it is “el caballito” and the magnificent architecture of Manuel Tolsá that envelops us; the splendour of the palaces of Mining and Fine Arts in their panoramic perspectives. Home and asylum of writers; here visited, resided the Scottish Frances Erskine Inglis (Madame Calderón de la Barca); the beats and their nocturnal adventures: Ginsberg, Burroughs, Kerouac; the Chilean infrarealist Roberto Bolaño; Gabriel García Márquez, Juan Rulfo, Rosario Castellanos, Octavio Paz, León Trotsky, Carlos Fuentes lived here; our beloved chroniclers Carlos Monsiváis, Salvador Novo, Guillermo Prieto, and Manuel Payno. This place is light, the fair. Entry of the Trigarante army; of Zapata’s troops riding along Avenida Madero. The darkness of a buried “Nocturno de San Ildefonso”—next to the Sacristy of the Metropolitan Cathedral. It is the perpetuity of the Templo Mayor, of its Centre, of its streets…

---

Huitzilopochtli, San Judas Tadeo, Santa Muerte, the Virgin of Guadalupe. It is a base, church, convent, Casa da Bolsa, 5-star hotel, point of sale, taquería; mansion and tomb of millionaires. It is beautiful, a city of cycles. The most beautiful because it is mine, because it is ours. A miracle that next year turns seven centuries. Seven fantastic centuries. To her, as loved as distressing, the good children protect her. We honour her with our clay steps, every day, every pulse, with every breath.

To her, I dedicate this literary hybrid; this brief and free essay, which mutates – until the next text: a poetic story.

Mexico City, 22/10/2024, 11:25 am

---

.

.

.

---

Ulises is a narrator and poet. Author of novels, books and poems. Eternal navigator of impossible seas. Ulises is a Mexican artist known for his work as a storyteller, poet, videographer, and playwright. He has authored several notable works, including the novel “La ira del sapo” (2016) and four collections of short stories: “Patibulario, cuentos al final del túnel” (2011), “Nadie duerme esta noche” (2012), “Historias de la ruina” (2013), and “Bitácora del eterno navegante” (2015). His literary contributions have been featured in various anthologies, magazines, and newspapers both nationally and internationally.

Paniagua’s poetry includes four collections: “Del amor y otras miserias” (2009), “Guardián de las horas” (2012), “Nocturno imperio de los proscritos” (2013), and “Lo tan negro que respira el Universo” (2015). His work has been translated into English and Italian, and he has received numerous accolades for his contributions to literature.

In addition to his literary achievements, Paniagua has been involved in various cultural and educational initiatives, including workshops and collaborations with institutions such as CONACULTA, UAM, and the René Avilés Fabila Foundation. His work often explores themes of identity, memory, and the human condition, making him a significant figure in contemporary Mexican literature.