#mexican postcards

[mexican-postcards]

The Aztec sun stone (Piedra del Sol), when it was located next to the Cathedral in Mexico City, 1886

[huariqueje]

Brick mantel with Vermeer   -   Elena Climent , 2021.

Mexican, b. 1955-

Oil on linen on bord, 12 x 18 in.

[postcard-from-the-past]

Porter from Oaxaca, Mexico

Mexican vintage postcard

[columboscreens]

[similarfruit]

[postcardaday]

Monument to the Mexican Revolution. Toluca de Lerdo, Edo., de Mexico.

[thats-a-lot-of-cortisol]

Gotta love cataloging sometimes

Caption of a postcard from the Mexican Revolution w/ a photo of a dead soldier on it: "that's a real dead body!" Yeah?? It sure is?? Bestie whoever you're showing this to probably lived through the American Civil War and/or is living through World War I I think they believe you

And another one (more dead soldiers): "kisses 🥰🥰 from your pookums!! <3 <3" sent to a woman in fucking Cornwall England

[dewpostcards]

Sent to Malaysia. From the Brave. Black. First collection. Elizabeth Catlett "I have always wanted my art to service my people - to reflect us, to relate to us, to stimulate us, to make us aware of our potential."

[petitescartes]

CB radio QSL postcard Mexican comic Lawrence Dolores 1970s St Boniface Manitoba

[mouseandboo]

Postcrossing US-9658755 by Gail Anderson Via Flickr: Postcard made from a box of grapefruit Topo Chico. Topo Chico is a mineral water imported from Mexico that is popular in Texas, where I live. I made and sent this for a Postcrossing member in Ukraine who likes postcards made from boxes.

[postcard-from-the-past]

A closer view:

Maison mexicaine à Meudon, Hauts-de-Seine.

[mexican-postcards]

Yalitza Aparicio for Vogue México

[ask-the-turnabout-terror]

YOU WERE MORMON???? I'm sure your parents are happy about you marrying Miles lol

“Okay, family history time.” (I’m not gonna format it like usual, since this is an info dump.)

“My mom’s parents were immigrants from Mexico, and moved to Utah where they accidentally got converted to Mormonism (I don’t really know.) Mama was very much invested in the religion, because as a Mexican among blue-eyed blonde Americans she was bound to be scrutinized- being the most religious and conservative and to-the-bible youth made her fit in more.

My dad was from Phoenix, Arizona. He lived in the tiny pocket neighborhood where most Japanese migrants lived. He was very odd, never quite with any crowd- too formal to be a hippie, but too hippie to go with his family. I don’t know why he decided to go to a Mormon college, or settle with a very religious Mormon lady in LA, but he did. (I’ve asked before, and sometimes he says he just bored.)

When we were kids, I always wondered why Miles’ dad was hesitant at having him come play at my house. Now as a father, I can see that my mom would have totally tried to convert Miles if given half the chance.

I came out when I was 19 as Bisexual (And double whammy, that I was going to college as an Art major at a non-Mormon university) and Mama was understandably upset and cursed everything I was when she realized I was serious. Dad decided that was the perfect opportunity to ask for a divorce and start his traveling spree.

My mom moved back to Utah, and I last talked to her when I was 26. My dad hasn’t been around for a long time, but he sends postcards to Trucy every now and then. I didn’t tell my mom about the wedding, but I did manage to track down my dad and get him an invite. He didn’t attend, but he did send in a few bowls he bought from an ethnic market in Jamaica.”

[postcard-from-the-past]

View of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Mexican vintage postcard

[crowsmischief]

happy birthday James Potter, you will always be my favorite and most beloved sunshine boy ☀️🫶🏼

one of the things i love most in the marauders fandom is that all of us perceive them in a unique way so, in honor of his birthday, here's a couple details about how i perceive James with a little context of my own in no specific order:

sunsets and the beach. since he was little his parents would take him every summer to the beach and monty would enroll him for surf lessons. he remembers the sea breeze and his parents slow dancing with the most beautiful orange sky behind them.

tattoos. got his first one matching with sirius, remus and peter when he turned 17. a year later sirius learned to tattoo and ever since, he would get little significant ones all over his arms. he has the words "mamá/papá" (mom/dad) one in each arm inside little hearts.

legos. he specifically likes the star wars sets, one of his favorite hobbies that helps him clear his overthinking mind and calm his anxiety. this is one of the rare activities he actually prefers to do by himself.

mexican culture. he's half mexican, so of course he loves to talk about the culture and traditions he grew up with, one of his favorites is "día de muertos", so every year he makes an "ofrenda" and never waste an opportunity to educate his friends about the history of the ritual. he introduced traditional food, games and music in spanish to his friends and he loves to speak spanglish.

formula 1. never misses a race, no matter what he needs to do to make it happen. he's a ferrari victim. his favorite drivers are sebastian vettel, michael schumacher and lewis hamilton. his favorite circuits are silverstone and monaco.

books. big fan of a good mystery novel, he really enjoys agatha christie. ever since he saw remus' annotations on one of his oscar wilde novels, he wanted to do it too. while remus' were more critical and analytical, james' most of the time looked like a wattpad comment section. he loves it.

baking. he'd do it with effie all the time when he was little and it's one of his most precious memories. she used to say you do it for the people you love the most in this world. so he does. he often shows up with dinosaur shaped cookies, cars movie themed cupcakes or spiderman decorated brownies for his friends and family on random days, because he loves them always.

memory box. he has this box full of little things like souvenirs, gifts and letters from people that have been part of his life. he has the wrapper of the first chocolate frog sirius gifted him, a postcard remus sent from his trip to argentina, a rock peter painted for him and so much more. he is made of memories.

[apoemaday]

The Hurting Kind

by Ada Limón

1.

On the plane I have a dream I’ve left half my torso on the back porch with my beloved. I have to go

back for it, but it’s too late, I’m flying and there’s only half of me.

Back in Texas, the flowers I’ve left on the counter have wilted and knocked over the glass— I stay alone there so the flowers are more than flowers.

At the funeral parlor with my mother, we are holding her father’s suit, and she says, He’ll swim in these.

For a moment, I’m not sure what she means, until I realize she means the clothes are too big.

I go with her like a shield in case they try to up-sell her— the ornate urn, the elaborate body box.

It is a nice bathroom in the funeral parlor, so I take the opportunity to change my tampon.

When I come out my mother says, Did you have to change your tampon?

And it seems a vulgar life all at once. Or not vulgar, but not simple.

I’m driving her now to the Hillside Cemetery where we meet with Rosie who is so nice we want her to work everywhere. Rosie as my dentist. Rosie as my president.

My shards are showing, I think. But I do not know what I mean so I fix my face in the rearview, a face with thousands of headstones behind it. Minuscule flags, plastic flowers.

You can’t sum it up, my mother says as we are driving and the electronic voice repeats, Turn Left onto Wildwood Canyon Road,

so I turn left, happy for the mundane instructions. Let us robot at once.

Tell me where to go. Tell me how to get there.

She means a life, of course. You cannot sum it up.

2.

A famous poet said he never wanted to hear another poem about a grandmother or a grandfather.

I imagine him with piles of faded yolk-colored paper, overloaded with loops of swooping cursive, anemic lyrics

misspelling mourning and morning. But also, before they arrive, there’s a desperate hand scribbling a memory, following

the cat of imagination into each room. What is lineage, if not a gold thread of pride and guilt. She did what?

Once, when I thought I had decided not to have children, a woman said, But who are you to kill your own bloodline?

I told my friend D that and she said, What if you want to kill your own bloodline, kill like it’s your job?

In the myth of La Llorona, she drowns her children to destroy her cheating husband. But maybe she was just tired.

After her husband of 76 years has died, my grandmother, (yes, I said it, grandmother, grandmother) leans to me and says,

Now teach me poetry.

3.

Sticky packs of photographs heteromaniacal postcards.

The war.      The war.        The war. Bikini girls, tight curls, the word gams.

Land boom. Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe. Southern Pacific.

We ask my Grandma Allamay about her mother for a form.

Records and wills. Evidence of life. For a moment she can’t remember her mother’s maiden name.

She says, Just tell them she never wanted me. That should be enough.

“Red sadness is the secret one,” writes Ruefle. Redlands

was named after the soil. Allamay can still hold a peach in her hand

and judge its number by its size. Tell you where it would go in the box

if you’re packing peaches for a living. Which she did,

though she hated the way the hairs hurt her hands.

4.

Why do we quickly dismiss our ancient ones? Before our phones stole the light of our faces, shiny and blue in the televised night,

our elders worked farms and butchered and trapped animals and swept houses and returned to each other after long hours and told stories.

In order for someone to be “good” do they have to have seen the full tilt world? Must they believe what we believe?

My grandmother keeps a picture of her president in the top drawer of her dresser, and once when she was delusional she dreamt

he had sent her and my grandfather on a trip to Italy.  He paid for it all, she kept repeating.

That same night on her ride to the hospital, she talks to the medical technician and says,

All my grandchildren are Mexican.

She says it proudly. She repeats it to me on the phone

5.

Once, a long time ago, we sat in the carport of my grandparents’ house in Redlands, now stolen for eminent  domain,

now the hospital parking lot, no more coyotes or caves where the coyotes would live. Or the grandfather clock

in the house my grandfather built. The porch above the orchard. All gone.

We sat in the carport and watched the longest snake I’d ever seen undulate between the hanging succulents.

They told me not to worry, that the snake had a name,

the snake was called a California King,

glossy black with yellow stripes like wonders wrapping around him.

My grandparents, my ancestors, told me never to kill a California King, benevolent

as they were, equanimous like earth or sky, not

toothy like the dog Chacho who barked at nearly every train whistle or roadrunner.

Before my grandfather died, I asked him what sort of horse he had growing up. He said,

Just a horse. My horse, with such a tenderness it rubbed the bones in the ribs all wrong.

I have always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long line of weepers.

I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.

My grandfather carried that snake to the cactus, where all sharp things could stay safe.

6.

You can’t sum it up. A life.

I feel it moving through me, that snake, his horse Midge sturdy and nothing special,

traveling the canyons and the tumbleweeds hunting for rabbits before the war.

My grandmother picking peaches. Stealing the fruit from the orchards as she walked

home. No one said it was my job to remember.

I took no notes though I’ve stared too long. My grandfather, before he died, would have told

anyone that would listen, that he was ordinary,

that his life was a good one, simple, he could never understand why anyone would want to write

it down. He would tell you straight up he wasn’t brave. And my grandmother would tell you right now

that he is busy getting the house ready for her. Visiting now each night and even doing the vacuuming.

I imagine she’s right. It goes on and on, their story. They met in first grade in a one room school house,

I could have started there, but their story, their story is endless and ongoing. All of this

is a conjuring. I will not stop this reporting of attachments. There is evidence everywhere.

There’s a tree over his grave now, and soon her grave too

though she is tough and says, If I ever die,

which is marvelous and maybe why she’s still alive.

I see the tree above the grave and think, I’m wearing

my heart on my leaves. My heart on my leaves.

Love ends. But what if it doesn’t?