alma sketches

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2011-01-10T14:05:00.000-08:00

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2010-10-22T12:50:00.000-07:00

time's truants

2010-10-02T13:53:00.000-07:00

they are standing on opposite sides of the street.
she is waiting for the light to change. he is passing the time with a cigarette against street lamp.
she has seen him, and he has seen her, only she does not yet know that she has been seen.
the light changes, and she crosses the street. she is walking towards him, and now has a choice to make. will she walk behind the street lamp, or in front of it? he is looking in her direction, but past her, as if to be focused on something in the distance and beyond, and her eyes rise in order to make her decision. they are not met; she walks in front.

it is spring in buenos aires. in villacrespo today (thursday?) the time on television screen reads 4:15. the television is on-and the boys are awake and watching-on account of the drama in their homeland of ecuador, the attempted coup against the democratic government of rafael correa. were it not for this, the boys would likely be sleeping well into the evening, tho this afternoon saw them awake initially on account of a separate incident, or is it all one and the same. i rarely sleep well on my wafer-thin colchon, layed out by the foot of ernesto's bed, and tossing in my sleeping bag i'd been aware of him returning home, and now noticed irregularities in his sonorous snoring pattern. he began to rustle in his sheets, and then cursed, i heard his feet hit the floor just before the vomit was heaved from the depths of his paunch in a continuous 3-second stream, splattering all over wooden floor and each of our beds. in the afternoon, at which point we could no longer ignore the rancid stench, i helped him carry two bags of puke-drenched linens, towels, etc. to the lavanderia. the woman's face was stone as we handed over the bags; she grimaced before naming a steep price, paused to consider her offer, and then proceeded to raise it.

in the mornings i wake and walk the streets to the verduleria of jose ruben. our building neighbors another verduleria, but ruben has chicken, better fruit, and buena onda. on friday (assuming yesterday was indeed thursday) i load up on mandarin oranges for ernesto's breakfast and set them out on table for when he wakes. the air is cold but the sun is out so i grab geetar and climb the stairwell to the rooftop azotea. i sit in the sun and play a tune for nola, and before long i am booted from my perch by an old woman who claims the azotea to be hers, and tells me her son is sleeping. back downstairs, a french girl with cigarette in furious fingers is knocking angrily and cursing at the door. ernesto opens it with sleep in his eyes and she blows smoke in his face as she stomps past him and inside. what the fuck, man?, is all he can manage, and we return to the dark of the bedroom where felipe is whispering with beatrice, the lovely italiana that stays over frequently, this morning in ernesto's tiny bed. he informs me that the old woman above has neither a legitimate claim to ownership of the building's azotea nor a son.

have you ever felt the electricity of love?
if the voltage ever subsides, i will answer in the overwhelmed affirmative, but the truth is that i still can't quite believe that i met her playing beer pong at el alamo. in her purse she brings me vino and a porro, along with a recent painting in brown paper bag. the two of us stroll around, we play aluminum games in the street, zip around in taxis with limbs intertwined. beneath the flicker of a dangling construction lamp, a kiss is time's truant as my arm extends into the street, a taxi slows, and off we go again.

brannigan and its discontents

2010-09-22T10:06:00.000-07:00

i wake early.

i never could sleep in the morning, what with that mystical nascent breeze. it always blows, before the sun beats down. ringo manages to sleep even through this, when the sun beats down, but just the breeze is enough for me. he sleeps fully clothed. our sleeping situation is stark and experimentation in minimalism, tho it is always too hot for clothes. buck's matress is all we need, hauled in and out to accomodate for boxing, and we just lay down and sleep, simple as that. ringo is blending well, with mouth shut is barranquillero, and damnit if he's going to muck that up even in sleep, and so he sleeps fully clothed. he says also that the mosquitoes are devouring him. they do not bite me anymore, or perhaps my body no longer responds, an antibody has been developed in the occult.

while at breakfast we saw a ghost. we take the jugo first. buck has the rare ability to expertly discern negotiations, choose them wisely: taxis always, juice never. you gotta just let em make the shit, he says. else you end up with that watery tomato piss, you complicatin' sonofabitch. buck's supervisor walks by on the corner, izzy missed his class again this morning. a lovely plate of scrambled eggs and platano browns is available for pennies. 3 are ordered, and after 1 hour, 2 are served. and on we go, but for a moment there we all went pale.

in the park we find izzy, reclined on a bench, wearing sunglasses. once all seated with beers, he removes them to reveal the shiner, compliments of a busboy with whom he'd scuffled on his way home last night. he told the school he fell in the shower, but the real trick would be explaining it to his girl, especially in the midst of the divorce. he carried a book with him that day and while enjoying alcohol and air conditioning in the casino, it spoke to us: we buy junk and sell antiques, it said. if you want to be fighting against the established system, know that you have become the established system. it is like giving ammunition to the enemy. izzy touched his eye. let's go play some music, he said.

outside the corner store she sips coca-cola through plastic straw from beclouded bottle and the raindrops roll off her hands. izzy's girl has opened the home for us, opens arms, bares her soul and thighs and hosts in what doubles as her tienda. she is 45 and 10 years his senior, a fashion designer and ex-model, and they had fallen in love at carnival where izzy was drumming 10 years ago, back when she was his age now. fingernails are her pheromones and her dress has dancefloor hypnotized, first time i met her, says buck, izzy flung her to me on the floor, wanted to give it a shot but damn, you can almost only watch her.

hair's name is product of a birth certificate blunder on behalf of his mother.

this is what he says. but it is the hair, he says also, that does him in. a woman's hair has powers telekinetic, when it flows into a crowded room, when it sails on a street corner breeze, when it trickles thick between fingers and envelopes hands. when she loses it. we sat around her showroom and let the music perspire with our bodies, and we got wet. izzy on the conga, hair on wood block, myself on geetar, buck on my 6-note tuner and of course he hits genius with the thing. she played a drum, her thighs, and sang with me and to him, and izzy smiled in his trance and winked through his swollen eye.

El Tango Te Va A Esperar

2010-09-17T06:27:00.000-07:00

The man danced the tango in the evenings.

At 6 o'clock he dressed, combed his hair into place, and in the foyer he put on his coat and his hat. The man's son was 16 and played guitar in a band which rehearsed in the adjacent room.

Before he left one evening, the man stood in the foyer and watched his son, and a smile of contentment was born on the man's face. For not so long ago, the man had been a boy, and he had played the guitar in a band, watching each evening as his father dressed by the door in coat and hat on his way out to dance. The man stood watching his son, who looked up at the man with wide eyes of admiration, suddenly unsure of himself and his instrument. As the band played on, the man smiled lovingly at his son, and approaching him he whispered into the boy's ear:

"No te aflijas...El Tango te va a esperar"

on trousers, umbrellas, and boxing

2010-09-16T13:54:00.000-07:00

the umbrellas are out, only now that the storm has folded.

moments ago, raindrops were grenades in the arroyo. the arroyo: this most recent was humble, but the streets of barranquilla, sans sewer system, become veritable rivers, wash away children, hurl buses into buildings, specifically yesterday into the institute where buck is teaching. an old barranquillero totes weathered wooden boards and sets up to allow folks passage across the arroyo. his service is free of charge, tho should times get tough, buck is in good with lifetime passage, as for the initial passage he forked over a 2000 peso note (US $.50) and so when it comes to the arroyos, buck is royalty.

but now the sun has returned, and with it the umbrellas, the costeñas and their curious relationship to the light. the costeños, too, puzzling me in this heat, always with their trousers, never neglecting shirts and the opportunity to be fully and inappropriately clothed. i have questioned this: they cannot tell me why, but as i know and also know why they cannot tell me, i hardly hesitate to fit right in amongst the outcasts and gutterpups, sporting homemade shorts and ambling around topless. ringo, what with his fijian skin and apparent costeño resemblance, is surprised to fit right in, and in his excitement he won't squander his fortune, dressing the part in trousers and shoes. buck cannot be camouflaged, but he has become costeño in his own right. across the puddled street he hops on hunks of stone, haphazardly laying there you think, but this shit is chess, they know strategy here.

and, because of this, buck is a costeño in his own right, employs strategy where others might fluster and walk away. he'd come to the coastal capital in caribbean colombia in march and written to me in uruguay about landing a gig teaching for the state department. at the time, he was living in the rear of a barbershop and attempting to resist or at least minimize relations with his beautiful 17 year-old (legal age in colombia) students. there were too many girls, he said, and he had recently secured new lodgings in an apartment above an autoshop in industrial barranquilla, and i was welcome anytime, and so having had enough of texas for the time being i set off with ringo for colombia. buck lowers and cocks his head and furrows brow to negotiate with security outside the institute, and in we are ushered to perform for the students a rendition of the egregious country tune "chicken fried". i am inclined per usual to call attention to the irony but buck will not have it, and naturally it is a hit, wailed with conviction, which everytime trumps all.

furthermore on strategy: one is being devised at present, that which will address our days in barranquilla, what to do, how to sleep. buck has graciously gifted us his mattress which we lay out on floor of the front room, on which we collapse and sleep until the heat and mosquitos get to us; i am averaging a patchwork 3 hours in every 24. humidity works into the bones and we are often too hot wet and sticky to do anything, even in shorts and out of shirts. we take walks to the mall where a good portion of the population gathers to worship air conditioning. we soak up the cool, hydrate, and head back to the apartment: buck is off at 2PM and hosts boxing until the only thing we can bear is cold beer for the remainder of the night, until we fall, the mosquitos stir in the heat and wake us again.

packin´ koozies

2010-09-13T10:14:00.000-07:00

ringo bombay arrived in texas on saturday with a bump on his head.
we have been acquainted since high school, when he preferred to munch pringles in stoned silence, and i would agitate by including him in schemes and rabblerousing, often to his surprise and chagrin. always in loose contact, i had encouraged him over the years to join me on adventures, and finally he agreed. ringo has spent the month previous motel hopping in the san francisco bay area. he stayed in motels because they were inexpensive and because of the fresh towels. he changed motels with such frequency because his girlfriend had established a proclivity for bedwetting. on his final night in california, they had a good fuck and passed out head-to-foot, and before long the wetting began. customarily, their heads rest in a common direction and so when the wetting begins he feels it on his legs and manages to ignore it or at least tolerate it with a somnambulist's grace. but now on this occasion the wetting had begun and was dampening his chest and working its way towards his face, and so ringo being of practical mind decided to reach out a hand and simply plug it up. this woke the girl immediately, and still drunk she screamed at him: "don´t fucking touch me, pig!" and clocked him square on the forehead. without a word he took a moistened bedsheet and spent the rest of the night on a cold floor before catching his plane at 6AM the next morning. so ringo arrived in texas on saturday with a bump on his head.

on sunday, i awoke in the motel with a bruise on my right pectoral muscle. there is dirt between the bedsheets. the evening previous we had taken beers and gone to the river for a swim and then played music on 6th street. a pretty girl recognizes us from the motel. we returned later without ladies, but during the night the girl came into our room (door is left open) and climbed into bed with me. i became aware of this shortly after and despite my confusion i went right on with my slumber. i slept until i felt a powder-like matter on and around my legs. upon investigation i discover that the girl has worn a pair of combat boots to bed. this is typically a non-issue only for some reason now it irks me and i asked her kindly to remove them. when she only mumbled unintelligably, i slipped down to remove them for her. but upon taking gentle hold of a boot, she began kicking at me and landed a blow to my chest. i used some scurrilous language, she kicked some more, and finally she got up in a daze and stormed out. so i awoke on sunday with a pectoral contusion.

danny and johnny needed to be back in new orleans by evening, so after a mate we bid them farewell and saw them off. now it was just ringo and me in a motel in texas, but i came to discover that joanne bellamy was in town and that afternoon she picked us up and we sat in a field with beers well into the evening and watched the sun go down over texas. attempting entry at bar i am once again denied-no demin shorts!-and having thrown a good many back i am confrontational and challenge doormans intelligence, when-in this case especially-i should challenge only my own.

in the morning, ringo and i fashioned ponchos from oversized garbage bags and braved tropical storm hermine to fetch hot water for the mate. it is not available at the motel, save for from the shower, which is alright, save for wide fountain head which decimates the careful distribution of yerba in the bowl. the baggage handlers managed to crush the wire gourd stand, but all is well:
we´re packin´ koozies.

vamos a texas

2010-09-08T09:07:00.000-07:00

on friday morning at dawn she ran through the kitchen.

i caught her in the hall, sat her on the cedar banister, and kissed her up against the wall.

she was off to austin today; why so early, i hadn't a clue but in fact i knew even if i didn't know i knew at all. i had planned to fly into austin on saturday morning, but the boys were driving out and so i figured i'd blow off the flight and roll through with them. the girls had told us they were headed there too and danny had suggested we all drive together, run chinese fire drills, pass notes and people between cars, etc. but the girls were hastened and we are forever on their trail, so i watched her breeze through the swinging door and strolled briskly to the boys bunk where they snored in drunken stupor. i shook danny-vamos a texas!-five times before they stumbled awake to gather their things. at the station across the way we stocked up on petroleum, water, and sunflower seeds, and i sat with ole' cade on the hood of his buick to talk muddy waters, po' boys, and the pretty girls in new orleans.

so we drove to austin. outside of houston, i practiced yoga in a parking lot while danny played pacman in a laundromat, and nola called to tell us that the only affordable lodgings left in town were at the motel 6 on i-35, and as we pulled into the lot, muddy rattled the speakers and i hung out of the window, eager to get that first glimpse of her in texas. i had brought her a taco and my patience from louisiana but was informed mid-kiss that she was leaving tomorrow for dallas, and that was that. tonight would be our last night together in physical form for however long, and to celebrate we would spend the whole night making the love we had promised each other we'd make in texas. in the evening we all went out to brave the 6th street circus. in the coyote ugly, her friend consumed herself with all things blackberry, and nola and i had a sweet and tender moment on the patio where she noticed my eyes calm and content to look into hers without worrying about the others. words are her weapon too, but perhaps she understood my expressed desire to minimize them with her. don't we get the joke? nola, nola, it is the contradiction which defines us, this intricacy, this abiding sense of irony, and tho i'll always be inclined towards aureate utterances, the love we would make tonight in texas would prove their frivolity. in her deep brown eyes and on those wicked lips i saw the taijitu completed, and she saw my absolute soul, stripped and naked, love itself but finding its reflection in her, able for the first time to truly focus on a woman but hesistant to do anything more than BE with her, ser y estar, in the time and eternity that graces us, intent only on remaining undressed, vulnerable, and celebrating the love, rhythm, and swarth that lives through us. to me she is not, and could never be, conquest; there is nothing to rush with her, she renders hurry impossible, for every atom of her aura and being is too intricate and ambrosial to do anything else but take my time.

and then a funny thing happened. walking 6th street, the girls marched up ahead and quickened their pace, disappearing into the crowd. and as soon as we lost sight of them, i understood.

there would be no final night together, and that was that. danny and i were denied entrances to the bars on account of a backpack and lack of sleeves, respectively, and so we found a shitty joint where we could take beers outside and drank up before the town shut down at 2AM. we ate sausages out on the street and played in the young rain. unable to find a bus, and knowing a taxi back to the motel would be a chunk of change, i ran into the street and flagged down a car stopped at the light, and the three of us jumped in. the girl in the passenger seat had polychromed hair, cigarette between her fingers, and eyelids half-shut on account of her plastered state. the girl in the drivers seat inspired less hilarity but looked only a bit less inebriated. "where are y'all from?" the passenger girl asked. the boys told her and i used a slight accent to pretend to be native argentine; the foreign effect, if it can be assumed and especially as it can work in the states, is often too priceless to pass up. "oh my god, that's so cool that you're in my car!...this is MY car, she's just driving it cuz i am sha-IT faced! ahhh shit...haley, are you alright to drive these for'n boys?" haley hadn't yet responded before the car bombed over a curb. "AHHH shiiiiiit bitch, learn to drive!" the girl slurred at her friend. on the highway overpass she decided their direction was impaired and began screaming at haley to turn the car around, "the mo-tel is THAT way bitch!" when haley finally pulled into the lot, we were still alive and the girl said "i TOLD y'all i knew where the mo-tel was, bitches...it was so gooood to meeeet you!"

we slept soundly, and johnny woke early in a sweat from a dream which he scribbled in my notebook. as he was finishing, there was a knock on the door. i pulled it open with the deadbolt still fastened and saw her brown eyes look up at me from under wavy billows of her thick dark hair. she had come alone to say goodbye, and i opened the door so that she could bid the boys farewell, the four of us and our swarth, she had adored them and they too had loved her and her onda so. out on the balcony in bright sunlight she wore a white sundress, and i was still clad in my black leggings on account of the renegade motel air conditioner. i held her one last time, kissed her hair, her hands, her shoulders and spine and those holy lips, thanking them all for their time with mine. she turned and walked away, dress fluttering with whisps of her hair in the texas morning. i blew her a kiss and went inside where johnny already had geetars out and we played the blues.

somos swarthy

2010-09-07T12:24:00.000-07:00

on canal street she kissed me and it tasted just like whiskey. and i wonder what she'll drink in dallas...

often, i am inappropriate. but i figure the soul finds its footing in these irrationalities.

on the front porch in new orleans i clanged screen door shut, overheard something she'd said, and laughed heartily. and when she looked at me i just smiled through it, through any upset her tender heart could muster, and i reckon she saw that i'm just a laughing fool and already thought the world of her for sincerely speaking her soul, damn the critics. nola sparrow is a swarthy bird, swooping through new orleans on her way to los angeles, she told me why and maybe i'll never understand but it's alright that way. lithe and ethereal, supple like her gypsy hands and her hair is thick and sticks to her brow in the southern heat as her head rests serenely on streetcar window and she breathes deep and with lips of gratitude for the breath, our hustle, and the kiss after it distracted us so much so that we had to make a run down the tracks and hopped on just in time.

earlier and over lunch at monica ramsey's adorable and delectable slow food mecca, the eco cafe, danny and i enjoy portobello chimichuri as johnny muches contented on his turkey club and i tell them of los biscochos! her girlfriend seemed a tad hurried and preoccupied but nola has the swarth stirring in her soul, and she would use the very word later in the evening. she had emerged in summer dress as we drank beers and played geetars, her zipper fell and i touched her spine before she put her healing hands on mine, soothed the soreness and cast her spell.

outstretched on the grass we found freckles, told secrets, and she read to me from her book.

the flame was cellular and i was overcome by all the beautiful things i wanted to do with her, all the love we could make with our kindred spirits, but we have only to be, ser y estar, nada mas.

what i really want tonight, she said, is to dance with you. will you take me out to dance?

on frenchmen street danny scouted a joint and with band wailing we slipped in and got down.

the groove was deep and pulsing and bewitched by the screaming saxophone i slid towards it on the floor and he stepped forward to vibe with me, blew those lines straight into my face, and when i did the same to the guitar riffing she slid her hands around my waist, i dipped her and we found our rhythm. with the boys i said some prayers over fine tequila and outside i kissed her and tasted the spirits in the sweat around her mouth. fa eva is grilling burgers as we swordfight with cardboard dowels. i order a few and share one with her, and with mouthful of burger she told me "i lie shaaiwing ttshings wif you." we vibed with the street crowd and ministylz graced my notebook with a burger poem, and together we dug it excitedly. laying together against the brick i held her and kissed her shoulders. danny and johnny emerged and we walked back sipping early morning beers. back at our place we slipped out of clothes and into bed, and sweating on the plastic sheets i held her and placed every kiss with care and a prayer for our love and swarth, undeterred by synthetic linens.

games they don't play outside most bars

2010-09-02T05:28:00.000-07:00

it is 7:30AM. i am awake and sipping peppermint tea, perturbed by the beer and heartsick again. i saw emily from the moment she walked into the india house, looked up from my business and noticed her sweet form, that honest lovely face, her legs, her gentle brown hair. tropical storms besprinkled the day and i sat with los colombianos, danny and johnny, drinking beer and watching the downpour. in the evening we set out with two welsh girls for food, and over pizza and beer came to realize their lesbianism, to our collective dismay. but fish are what we have in the sea! we set out to the french quarter and duck into a joint to drink and listen to a quintet, and from our table i saw her come in again, those legs and her hair flowing. they sat with us and we dug the bass and clarinet before adjourning to street where emily and i talked and played handslapping games and engaged the typewriter poets. at the spotted cat we dug the band and she and i danced to dixieland. johnny layed across our laps in the cab and back we went to play our music, drank beer and played the blues outside for an hour when she went up to her room, thinking she'd turned in for the night. but once more, i saw her come with that hair and those long legs, and last i remember was a sweet but insufficient kiss before she walked away again and i watched her hair and legs go.

love to the rhumba beat

2010-09-01T13:13:00.000-07:00

summer in california, daphne breezing by me, her rose-hipped perfume on the tip of the wind, i'd say it slipped through my fingers but it was gone before i could even extend a hand, and i reckon that's how it ought to be, that these sketches are just therapeutic, never to capture, just hazy adulterated recollections.

tuesday morning just after sunrise i sat in the garden saying my prayers beneath the texas almond, thanking the plum tree for fruitful harvest, wishing the apples plentiful growth, and took off down new orleans, on the go again. i carry with me backpack, murse (man purse), and plum the guitar. previously i've neglected to carry most common 1rst-world technological amenities (cellphone, ipod, camera, computer) but am now toting new hp mini netbook and nikon digital cam in order to attempt commercial productivity on the road. the hp was picked up on account of battery and power adapter for my macbook shitting out (by design?) and to replace em would cost me the same as picking up this little baby, give or take a few bucks, but i could fit this sucker in the murse and so i sprang for it, and while it's already giving me some trouble i reckon i can be gentler with it and we can compromise to remain in relationship and get somewhere.

on the bus out of louis armstrong i meet two british travelers, traveling separately and soon we all recognize we're headed to the same joint, india house in mid city off canal street. approaching apparent location i notice up ahead a grand old southern house, worn and tattered elegance, a big front porch with all kinds of slovenly characters sitting out, drinking and celebrating the evening. this is our place. in the bawdy evening we walk to fetch beer beneath the oak trees as the crickets roar and along the way i meet a man who needs a cold one, a new orleans boy who roots for the cowboys after all the heartbreak his saints have put him through, a genuine bluesman with a graveley melody sung with busted lips and a pair of teeth. homes are boarded up, the air is thick and sticks to my skin as the sweat drips down my neck. a tip on burritos in the vicinity leads me off again and at juan's flying burrito i enjoy a most delectable green burrito and several bowls of chips and salsa. sitting at the table across from us is the most precious doe-eyed girl, pregnant with an autumn baby, stuffing her face with nachos, and we looked at each other and shared a mysterious smile. back at india house a crowd of rowdy brits notice me with guitar and we fall into a raucous sing-a-long jam before heading out, beers in hand. i give my pocket spare to bobby jackson, leader of a bourbon street brass band, and we head off aimlessly on street car to end up at a hopping joint uptown near tulane. i commonly refrain from going out with a pack of males, as circumstantially the odds are only impaired, but the problem was solved for me as i stood in line and was approached by a lovely brunette from tulane and complimented on my style: i was wearing janelle's unicorn bandana and a backpack. she was dressed to play the game but like me plays a different one, and her nose was delicate and distinct. i forked over the ridiculous cover and entered to spill drinks and be tossed around moshing with the crowd. we dripped sweat and danced filthy salsa to the pulsing hip hop beats before ducking out to walk. the night was muggy and i held her tiny hand as we walked through sleepy opulent hoods and squinted to see the few visible stars. i looked at her breasts and her nose and the few pieces of clothing that clung to her body and listened to her voice in the sultry night. they were all contradictory and crashed in front of her only to leave the steam of warm breath and the sweet scent of rum and coke seeping from her pores. on the tulane campus we layed down and talked eros, agape, and amor. we scurried up a fire staircase and ladder to a puddled roof and kissed up against the wall. later we layed our hands on a sopping oak tree and the bark disintegrated in our fingers.

post

2010-08-19T13:53:00.000-07:00

pachamamas: the diablo stories

2010-05-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

somewhat regularly in my life, i'm glared at as a wastrel of sorts, and there are people who are inclined to call me lazy. i am at present grateful for the lack of attentive photographic equipment in this place, for if more folks saw how we're living here i imagine there might be an overwhelming consensus of sloth. oh, the shame! from the hammocks, waiting for waves and pachamamas invitation, erins coffee sneaks up our nostrils and a cup must be enjoyed. alvan wrestles the dogs in the sand and alain scoots around with sponge and broom, cleaning bathroom and kitchen, his presurf ritual. sabrina has just jumped down from the window, scoops mate off table in front of us and tiptoes back to the laundry line to fetch her little clothes. the time is often curious but i just laugh at it now, this is the time and we are life. we are taking it and giving it back and we have found our place to do so, unimpeded and appreciated.

in april, summer sneaks out on the uruguayan coast and the fishing village of punta del diablo goes from a hotspot of thirty thousand back to quaint at maybe three hundred. we have all come to the embrace of el diablo tranquilo, come to life here on the water, of simple grace and sunset surfs, barefoot benevolence and never knowing what day or time they say it is. we are content to be, and to be patient. i came to stay here as a proper guest, and enjoying freshly baked bread with jam one morning, learned that it had been baked by the little old woman down the road. she is feeding me and i am feeding her, and it is like this here. folks have filtered out in this young autumn season but there are currently a few girls still here which i fancy for skinnydipping and stories to be written, and so i offered my services and general enthusiasm to capitan brian in exchange for a small plot of sand out back on which to pitch a tent.

our patience is permitted by our cockeyed dedication to the little things. we have all the time in the world and spend a great deal sitting around in the sand with the dogs. we have our projects too, however: alain has ridden his motorcyle down from northern canada to ushuaia and is surfing his way back up. two years he's spent on the road already and between sets is committed to home renovations, leading the charge to rearrange and repair our kitchen shack, a renegade homemaker dolling out duties and pushbrooms. i have been immersed in the whole thing, our surfing discipline, preparing to write as well as assisting with interior decorations and walking into town to escort guests from the buses in the dark hours. on tuesday the rains rolled in and when my tent collapsed i took refuge in the bunker out back, scrambled up onto a bunk with alvans feet hanging beside my head. manager erin runs a magnanimous ship but she has become keen to the bunker door always left open and the dog kennel we have inadvertently conceived, and she will delicately break it to us that we can love the dogs but they are not permitted in our beds.

in the evening we are sitting in the sand outside the kitchen shack and suddenly begins an impromptu painting project. we crowd around the little kitchen painting the walls, ceiling, etc. paint is everywhere and after going at it with gusto we drop our brushes, sticks of wood, sponges, and run down to the water for a heated game of futbol as the sun sets. afterwards and all together, we wade into the waves, cleansing our bodies and souls, paint and pains all washed away as the ocean purifies all, heals us and is the keeper of equilibrium. we have waited all day and now here come the waves, we paddle out, our patience has paid off but in itself it is plentiful.

la caña del terremoto/harbinger hips

2010-03-04T13:47:00.000-08:00

there is a sort of hangover in this place, on the streets of valparaiso, la caña del terremoto. i have managed thus far to scribble only garbled little notes by daylight, still vertiginous from all that´s transpired, externally here and internally too, tho they are one and the same. the house is lit only by flames flickering, and then by a most tender vitality we´ve found in the aftermath. electricity has just been restored but remains ignored as we have come to prefer it this way. perro is underneath the window with ear on end, listening to his kind in the street chasing cars and howling beneath the ruins, and beside him sit aria and vinny speaking softly in shadows. jota and chilenas dance in kitchen as he works feverishly on next batch of caipariñhas with miners head lamp. and in vaulted center room of this humble architectural wonder, beneath towering trapeze bars, a candlelit circus rehearsal is underway.

we are one and the same, sick like the earth, only the earth knows it and wants to heal. it feels and trembles too, just like me, and they call it sad terrible crazy but it is just and nothing more.
chronologically, if only briefly: we´d all arrived seperately earlier in the afternoon and in a young morning a chilena glazed my eyes with swiveling hips from kitchen dancefloor, and those hips were prognostication of sorts, of rhythm and gyrations to come. we are seated around wooden table engaged in rounds of vulnerable storytelling. clara was admitting adoration of henry miller when it came on subtly: i stood first and looked at the chilena who had stopped dancing and slowly set tall glass down on table. now the whole place began shaking violently and everyone scurried into two wide doorways opposite each other, must have been 11 of us crammed in there, all holding each other as the place shook. no one spoke and there was a beautiful silence as we all swayed in awe. then the power cut out, and in the dark the shaking intensified. prayers became audible, one boy with lips in the air chanting hare krishnas with eyes squeezed tight. when the tremor subsided, there was another most holy silence and we quietly dispersed, wandering the house, walking into each other in deep beatific embraces. the street is flooded with gray mist and blue emergency light, and soon saw people scampering up and down the hill with babes in arms, cars tearing around, sirens screaming and people began to wander, quivering zombies stumbling to equilibrium above as the sea throbbed black in the night. we sat in the dark, in the most angelic stillness and curious tranquility, gently strumming guitar, drumming hardwood floor and singing softly. as the sun was sneaking through windows we all got into our beds together and instantly fell fast asleep, y el sueño continua...

how it came to be is irrelevant; it IS. we are above water still in dear valparaiso, precariously perched just above lifelines, sea level, the soul as we know it, and here we have moved beyond the myth of stability. i don´t know how i came to be here or what´s next, don´t even know where jenny is after all this, can´t reach her yet. last time i heard from her was night before it all: we sat at bus station looking out over rusted tin roofs at grapefruit sky and heavy clouds rolling in. her head rested on my shoulder as i lapped at my ice cream cone. you know, she said, how they say it rains when something sad-but beautiful-is happening? dense violet defeated our grapefruit glow, i kissed her and hopped on my bus.

penumbra butterflies

2010-01-31T18:27:00.001-08:00

the rooftop of hotel appo, crumbling sanctum of la selva sintética, we watch backlit butterflies flutter through penumbra.

qué quires de tu vida?

vivirla. qúe pasa despúes?

no hay despúes.

the day here is queer. i have only visions of sleep in the torrid humidity. i rise early to fetch coffee and sit with norman on roof for wonderfully informal english classes, held three times per week, and this accounts for a substantial portion of my rent here. we are prostrate; the heat is only our excuse. per schedule, norman sleeps at 1AM when boca awakes to sit before television with baguette on door duty. at 1:30 sharp his head falls back and routine concerto of epic snoring backed by inane bullshit from tv begins and lasts until 8AM when he rises, wipes mouth, and walks out door to his job at fish market. in addition to providing norman with colloquial education, i am working evenings at cockeyed downtown holistic language institute and occasional afternoons at corner restaurant for (vegetable) panache. eduardo the surgeon returns from shift at hospital and we sit in mate circles discussing galeano and talking multi and sublingual trash. she has gone now. in the evening ernesto calls: i am to meet him at corner of gorriti and billinghurst at 11PM with whiskey. tina has gone too, back to france. las mariposas salen en el dia; los lobos salimos en la noche. and so in joyous misery, aware of this eternity, we sit on weathered curb to howl at moon to have mercy and bring our butterflies back.

over dinner at the deli, with connie jessup, we are too excitable to eat. connie and i are known in some underground circles as a dance-floor pair to be reckoned with and we do have a rhythm. we are mutually keen of scent as well and our vino contains essence of nicotine carcinogen, vapor rub, and ham. they are analyzing animal worlds, salmon and turtles, but we know their secret. discussions of dualities, drama of sexes in latin america, home. in cobblestone eternity of bollini street we swig wine, tease architecture, and are called on by a sphinx walking four poodles. despúes, it is about going home. connie and me, salmon and turtles, we know how to get there.

and the butterflies know it too. at least maya does.

she waits for me and under la luna del lobo we walk to pasaje russell, sit on narrow sidewalk, wrapped up beneath bougainvillea. her tender shoulders tremble with my lips touch and her heart too, begging me to move slowly so that she may catch her breath, for she is curiously asthmatic. so work the celestial mechanics of penumbra butterflies as boys stomp home from unforgiving bars.

coocoos nest

2010-01-19T09:29:00.000-08:00

2/15/04
twas a woman who drove me to drink, and i never had the courtesy to thank her. -w.c. fields

i have today become an official resident of the great circus city of san francisco: i now lawfully inhabit an apartment in potrero bordering the dogpatch. for six months prior i have lived in this city, bouncing around neighborhoods and across the bridge to marin, sleeping on any available couch, floor, balcony or rooftop. but now-ah!-to have the peace of a room in which to write!

i am consumed in a sideshow (among many) which deepens by the day. six months ago i began studies in an underground performing arts plot captained by an old opera queen by the name of claude margot. a great many showbiz hopefuls have been roped into his operation and it is booming for him, and for me as well. shortly after beginning with claude i met pianist jackie molineaux and began to work with him in his basement flat under an old victorian mansion on webster. jackie is a brilliant artist and despite his delirium he possesses an oblique grace. he is wrapped up in a torrid love affair with ray gentry, another sf pianist with whom he studies and fucks for two hours each day. in the few hours immediately prior to their rendezvous jackie experiences a particular psychasthenia that sees him a veritable wreck, popping pills and scurrying around basement shrieking little curses at ray and of course it is these hours when our work is scheduled.

jackie introduced me to ray on the street one evening outside the bar we were playing and ray invited me to record in his studio. jackie is a skiff in claude margots turbulent seas, tossed around at his fickle beck and call, but ray is an ivory-tickling hustler with a uniform gig: he plays the stratford hotel seven nights a week and makes a decent buck for it too. but some people are just too full of genius and generosity to keep up appearances and rays living situation, which is also his studio studio situation, speaks this truth with resonance. word has it he owns property here and there along the california coast, but he holes himself up in his own little basement apartment off polk street, a one bedroom shithole with bedroom used for storage. this leaves the slightly larger main room right off a kitchenette and bathroom evermore graced with myriad variety underpants. he appears to sleep in a hallway hide-a-bed which is always folded up haphazardly with bizarre stuffed animals peeking out. his mistress is his music and also his kitten. she is tended to with no less than eight food dishes scattered around the place, in bathtub and on bookshelves, and food is always ground into carpet, and due to this particular extravagance the stench of feline hits at the front gate and trails on me as i leave and fling it shut. somehow, ray has managed to cram a steinway grand into the main room, just larger than the piano itself, and i consider the pear in the grappa bottle and wonder about relation of riddles. around the perimeter of room and on dozens of makeshift shelves sit thousands of records. visits are tutorials in highly realized chaos: ray runs out barefoot pulling up pants to let me in and rushes back in to fiddle with a song or feed the cat or tend to something on the stove, and he is always cooking something. it gets increasingly interesting when he takes in down-and-out friends and their pets, such as alvin yen, his replacement pianist who with long hair and willowy frame appears strikingly feminine. jackie develops a biting jealousy, and when alvin fills in for ray at the hotel jackie will pay a visit to complain about the tasteless floozy at the piano. when alvin stays with ray he is accompanied by his two weimaraners and chaos has reached the pinnacle of profundity.

and i stick around this lunacy because ray and jackie are each others women, as maybe fields meant it somehow. they drive each other mad and i never spend a dull moment with either clown. they sing each others praises and curse their names in singular breaths, and each time one of them sits at a piano and lays his hands on the keys it is plain to see that it is not a piano at which they sit but an altar at which they worship their divinity and serenade that which they will never wholly grasp but which they refuse to abandon pursuit of, for we have the courage to love and lend ourselves as the gravedigger perspires behind us.

in the old wooden rocking chair at bookstore, upstairs and sun pours through window and skitters along hardwood beams to the feet of a girl just walked in, the one ive waited for and knew id find here eventually. i only see her feet now as my eye follows the sunbeams, as she saunters over to shelf beside me, as my eye traces up from black boots to white linen dress flutters in window breeze and aphelian hair graces naked shoulders and just then-NOW-she turns to look at me and tender burnt eyes belonging to me meet longing and alacrity in hers and there is the holy moment of recognition. but footsteps on the stairs and now a man appears. heads have been dropped again, he walks towards her, they share unspoken words. he moves towards bookshelf across the room from her and here i sit at the apex of this fateful triangle, but i just end up in them and never know quite how.

motel gypsies

2010-01-16T12:01:00.000-08:00

so it was that i met a gypsy woman one fateful evening at years end.

this title i give her was deserved deep within for from the outside she appeared to be like any other. i met her at a bar for christsake-and swank silly one at that-so now im supposing gypsies are all in disguise just like everything else.

she rescued me from the road one night. she drives and i long for a life that replicates it and all its audacity. its immediate i recognize the danger im in (with her[in car]) but i breathe, who knows the road better than gypsies, forever on the move with 4th nail, long as im with her im untouchable too. she drives and decides fatefully in flow, doesn't need to think for she knows but knows too WHEN to think, driving forever the road eternal and always one-handed. sailing calmly through soaked red intersections shes sized up 8 blocks before, seems concerned only with light from penumbra moon, zoom zoom zoom.

there in her bedouin automobile we became a bonafide pair of motel gypsies, bewitched by beat down places and intimacy in strange quarters. we had a corazonada then that this is all best sorted out with two people on motel floor, talking jazz, making love, no bleak ideas in being that there is any sensible direction to go. make love all night long as you live and breathe, like my father taught me to with each and every breath, and then the bottom line is its that simple, let the art flow through you and you're an artist, nothing more to it.

police are parading and we needed to get off the road in rain so we whip into lot of dodgy inn. no one in office so we ring bell, minutes pass and old indian woman enters from stygian shadows, not one word and she and gypsy hammer out the deal in silence. the room is miserable and id drink myself into oblivion if it weren't for her. stiff board of bed under shitty thin hawaiian bedding. carpet seems wet. LIGHT doesn't work. but me and the gypsy, we know this deal, settle in to drink to dionysus.

daisy/notes from the sea

2010-01-12T14:36:00.001-08:00

one stays in a place til one needs to go, i reckon. ergo you go til theres a reason to stop awhile. we stop for different things, i suppose. ahora: ice cream, el mar, and that girly sitting unapologetic in the hallway with those long long legs decorating the floor.

no need to wait, it is unnecessary, its comin or it aint. she was a daisy at some point in time on california cliff, plain to sea. left lithuania and walked runways in milano til it was time to go so here we are. ill never walk the same again, i think.

was either too large or too small, she says of runway, found a different one now. i can still taste ice cream on my lips from minutes ago and cant tell whats more pure and lovely, genuinely stumped here. suspicious of soul shared but if not she wins. vibe this girl, book and butterscotch grin, que buena onda.

in chimney street shadows i sing to her but she wants only for my sincerity, wont make requests, only songs from my soul or shut up and lets listen and we do. here is a map to where im going, tuck this away somewhere, use in emergency or just let deteriorate to dust and blow away.

the tramps of mariposa: working excerpt

2010-01-11T19:38:00.000-08:00

see, these were better days before technology had made everything easier, as they say. telephones tempted fate but texting slaughtered it. the tramps were in tune and found each other or else they didn´t and this happened every so often too. there was an april evening:
jasper was off with kimmy stargazing from pickup bed or some field somewhere, oscar had hit the road to be with tess over in berkeley. hughie was hustling petty dough off suckers at a string of house parties, leroy had ballet, and ace and rex were out on the boat cruising the lagoon with stockpile of waterballoons.

at the witching hour six cimmerian figures slipped into the park from different angles and silently the dance began: on the old wooden play structure the boys engaged in great contests of their collaborative creation. to passerby it was a moonlight vision of ghouls leaping from platforms, scampering across beams, dropping from trees. indeed this is how it appeared to caroline kelly when she arrived. jasper had invited her as he´d intended a roofing expedition following the game but when the rains came they devised plan b.

the sycamore was an historic adult features theatre on the outskirts of mariposa. at any hour of the day or night you could spy men sneaking inside, peeking back over shoulders. every woman in the county despised the place and anxiously supported legislation to demolish it, making way for condos, condos to deliver their men from evil and steady their marriages. it was rumored the features were twisted but since none of the boys had ever managed to make his way in exactly how remained unknown.

abe sat behind the counter with mixed nuts and miller high life. he ran the whole show at the sycamore. maybe he hired mexican help for an hour to mop floors and wipe down vinyl seats but he did most everything else there was to do on his lonesome. at 2:47AM a young man, scuffed and sopping wet, breezed into the lobby. jasper stood tall as possible, all 16 years of him, in formidable shadows of vintage beauties prodding him from the walls.

lotus poets: transcription segment 108

2010-01-09T05:35:00.001-08:00

EMI: how to write a story...
ENZ: how to write history?
EMI: does it mean we can...
ENZ: how to write herstory...
EMI: can we say that history is the story of yesterday?
ENZ: can we say that the mystery is the story of tomorrow?
EMI: is it dealing with the present...the gift...right now?
ENZ: is it hidden?
EMI: by ourselves?
ENZ: history is what has been written...herstory will remain hidden...
EMI: the meaning of spirituality...
ENZ: of LSD...
EMI: anticipating tomorrow...
ENZ: for a better today...
EMI: and what for blind people?
ENZ: braille...
EMI: are there many blind people here?
ENZ: too many, yes...
EMI: ah man, it´s so funny because in my mind...i am thinking we are the same as all people...trying to ask some questions of ourselves...trying to validate...but always it seems to be in vain...
ENZ: the one-eyed man is king...
EMI: but of the world?
ENZ: ah man, eyes are fucking bastards...
EMI: so what can we trust?
ENZ: tom hanks...
EMI: do you think?
ENZ: absolutely not...
EMI: ok...i´m feeling much better now...
ENZ: me too...
EMI: ok let´s go play tennis!

how to beat addiction

2009-12-26T12:56:00.000-08:00

do not try. hope is hopeless.

our captors are all and entirely illusory, but even illusions have their seasons. our weaponry is moth-eaten, our warfare antiquated. what lies ahead is a new art of war, yet to be actualized, one that is not opposite of creation but is creation itself. it will be the art of struggle, in which opposing forces need not combat and destroy each other but honor and embrace each other as necessary for progress, equilibrium, evolution, revolution.

to myself i promise strength in words and blood. to my father i confess; he offers strength and peace of mind and i believe i can overcome with determination of spirit but addiction is in the blood i write with, cannot be conquered in combat, esto también pasará. christmas alone in la selva sintética, sunlight seeping through splintering shades, just me ginsberg hitchcock and the fix to be found. she has not arrived and so off my legs go tho head says no and i take a big expensive meal in restaurant of the blue tree hotel, me with my books and habit spread over table, waiting for her to walk in and save me.

dear penny, i think that is love. vulnerable and courageous, seeking the fulcrum, in and out of time and reality. we breathe the duality, juggle cravings, snap cigarettes and thumb wrestle spoons. dance with the devil and try to keep your kisses or don't, let it go and celebrate with all these 12/25 buenos aires gunshots and sooner or later the bullets will run out and the devil will walk away satisfied for a while.

we do not win; we only walk. teetering on the tightrope, la lucha es el amor. to destroy the opposition is to miss the point entirely: i will dance with it. and all with love: i speed in taxis through cities in christmas rain only to reach her door and be brought to my knees, but i am kneeling with heart overflowing and soul still sovereign , always watching her go.

el engaño y la libertad

2009-12-11T09:39:00.001-08:00

it was the second time she had asked in as many minutes. why are you worried about the time, i answered back half-rhetorically, for given the circumstance i was too. there was a beat, her eyes fixed on mine as if attempting to calculate the probability of her answer being understood. and then she spoke: because i'm a woman, she said, and it is our greatest fear. wrinkles, stretchmarks...time is an obsession, a delusion we can't shake. it may trouble men but it is always with a woman, a recurring nightmare, haunts her even in sleep.

we'd ducked out of the party earlier and packed in the elevator a man said to me: you are a fucking great artist, i'm gonna make you famous. i was touched and repulsed by his respective comments, but then don't they go together today. he'd been filming me earlier, and while it's possible he'd appreciated my artistry, i knew it was my image-or his images of me-that sold him, would sell me. i suppose this is why i write. we are lost in the image.

of course people don't read anymore. i witness the conundrum, a poet robbing words of their power, in a new john mayer video. it confirms a collective consciousness, that we still believe we can capture it all, tachistoscope frames, dancing, cute faces over vino and the bill. the writer is indeed dis-eased, walking alone between worlds, he himself the mirror he longs to elude. he pushes on while words disappear but every so often a panic afflicts him and he scrambles for the camera. i have become wary of anyone photogenic, for we are being cheated, we the sincere, the photophobic, complete only in live motion and stillnesses. love is not photogenic and we cannot be captured.

all we can do, as emile would say, is share the time. it is all that we have and the beautiful thing is that we don't really have it at all. i arrive at the apartment at 11pm with dish in hand, an hour late for the dinner party and upon my entrance the boys decide only now it is time to run out to purchase food. there is no time here. nor is there time in san telmo: ernesto has been at the brazilian's place for three days now with lola, drinking and fucking, they have not left the bedroom they've borrowed. for three days at least, they have sequestered themselves and discovered love free from time.

digestion

2009-12-05T10:01:00.000-08:00

there is something i cannot digest.

the struggle in my stomach is not owing to vino and appetite alone. a hidden hunger usurps my appetite. i am full and still i am starving for something. i am hungry to digest.

on a podium a marionette is tap dancing and we are entertained. in california the train rolls on, into the evening, my father works the land and then sits out on the porch, listening. the birds return to the trees and a squirrel scampers across the texas almond to steal a meal but there is no theft. i have escaped to exile. peace has its price. here i am and there i cannot be.

it is she i suspect when i find borges in my notebook:

Dios mueve al jugador, y esté, la pieza.

¿Que Dios detrás de Dios la trama empieza

de polvo y tiempo y sueño y agonías?

it is she, the world. it is my move, to take her into my soul, cost what it may. she needs something i don't; i fear something she won't. la lucha continua, siempre así. i will not have only fragments, i cannot be selective. i am starving for her, too full to digest.

with every swig

2009-11-27T15:13:00.000-08:00

felipe can wave his hand at the door of any joint in the city and we are in, i figure he's done something for all of them in some way or another. on friday he was working a grand fiesta at a posh residence and could sneak us in, he said, open bar and bound to be a bounty of beauty. buck and i are waved in; ernesto stops just past the door to power on plastic glowing devil horns he wears to most every fiesta we attend. i have yet to decide if an open bar is perk or liability. buck is chirping at women and i am content to observe leaning against wall with drink. an old man chugs up to me and in english speaks into my ear: "that guy...has some EPIC fuckin goggles." i begin speaking with a girl from paraguay. we share a longing and also a desire to smoke. we run up flights of marble stairs to the roof, it is pouring rain so we huddle beneath the asado veranda and talk quietly and all i really remember is how lovely she looked, her hair wet and fallen across her forehead.

i am having coffee at the deli when buck meets me the following afternoon.

BUCK: got a text from some girls we met last night. told them to come with to the thing tonight.

i sipped my coffee. it is always "we" and this is fine by me.

ENZO: do you remember these girls?

BUCK: ya man, they're cute girls.

i sipped my coffee.

ENZO: hmm. you know, i can't say i remember too much, but i have the strangest intuition that "we" are going to be surprised.

but buck has his convictions and so i sipped my coffee with great anticipation.

that evening i arrived late to the party with ernesto. buck walked directly up to me with a maniacal grin.

BUCK: alright, you were correct, i'm sorry, this is so fucked up...

the women that showed, quite sincerely, blew any imaginations of heinous mystery dates clear out of the water. and buck, dear soul that he is, sat with them the entire night and chatted patiently before going home with the one resembling a musk ox in heat.

and hours later he's escaped and the two of us are lost again, walking no direction home. a girl at the party had told a story of becoming very sick from white wine and so she no longer drinks it. mistakes are proof of vitality. some remain afraid of them, but buck drinks them in with every swig.

los chicos y nuestro amor

2009-11-26T08:50:00.000-08:00

enter 10 colonel diaz apt. 6A, through the secret door in back of kitchen like always. there is no key, only finesse. kitchen is dimly lit with one overhead bare bulb, meat left out on counter, faucet broken so always running. no towels, looks to be no dishes and there are none.

los chicos y nuestro amor. felipe and larry share a porro watching futbol while nico milks the guitar. chipi sings while cooking in the dungeon. ernesto is in love with lola in felipes bed and the room is strictly off limits. buck nurses a hangover with a beer sprawled out on couch, his very own bed these days.

the avocado pits are kept in the guacamole to keep it from browning spoiling gods fruit. that is what larry tells me. we sit around table in rickety chairs; después, amidst smoke with guitars on salvaged sofas and it is always desperate and full of love in this apartment.

to be vulnerable and remain courageous, to seek the fulcrum, that is love. alma is from the soul and she recognized mine. i have waited to kiss her, wary of the ease with which she gives kisses away but she has reasons that need not concern me. at the elevator we stood talking until we realized it was already at our floor. it's so funny how we've been waiting, she said, it's right here. she asks me if i am real but then we both know that only einstein understood. no te conozco como quisiera pero si te quiero como si te conociera. you are a person i know i've never felt but feel i've known before and forever.