30.10.06

manic you so manic

manic you so manic in the morning why you so up so goddamn early experience translated through a filter of individuality/panic (what you smell like at this time of day and is my smell in there too?) sounds all tinny muffled far away no highs or lows fewer dimensions than I'm used to compressed, cannot place the voz, locate the site, I'm all bumping around in here all stumbling n shit flutterbumping up against walls with my fingers

in my eyes; smells do not manifest in three dimensions, really, they are more infinite than that, poking in your nostrils tickling hairs up into your brain and back in time past the moment of your birth—smells are hardwired into the infinite spacetime curve of the universe and your most embarrassingest and most happiest bare-assed moments ever;

if we could understand smells on a cognitive level they would tell us approximately where we've been and exactly where we're going, you and me—

"Listen: If you really want me, then you will stop wearing deodorant, you will not bathe for several days, you will grab me by my hair and shove my face into your armpits, and between your legs, you will unmask yourself for me."

29.10.06

murciélagos y mariposas

Poison can travel via many different routes, in many different dimensions/realms.

Fast food, cigarettes, sex, television, longing, eye contact, digital communication, nostalgia, nihilism, individualistic, egotistic, perverted desire.

Merely opening oneself to the transmitted signal of/possibility of interaction with, poison, is enough sometimes. Do not be fooled by elapsed time or distance. The possibility of contamination does not weaken over distance or time because poison doesn’t operate according to our everyday experience of time and space.

Like love, poison can enter through your nostrils, your eyes, your boca, your ears, your genitals, your anus, your skin pores, your hair follicles, the silences between the words you speak/do not speak. This is why you must be careful how you open yourself up.

Your vision becomes cloudy, you cannot smell properly, your taste buds oxidize, everything sounds tinny and faint, two-dimensional, your body grows weak, feverish, chilled, you crawl into bed and want to die.

Poison heads straight for your stomach, your intestines, spreads out through your bloodstream. First your body is vomiting whatever was left in your gut, then it is wracked and vomiting bile from the emptied void, then later it is shitting diarrhea. This is a good sign: Your body is rejecting the poison, and the poison is working its way downward and out.

It is when there is no reaction at all that you should worry.

Apathy, numbness, paralysis—these are signs that you have come into contact with a powerful poison that has taken control of your entire being.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
—from Alejandro Jodorowsky’s autobiografía, La danza de la realidad:
“Aquí el diablo no es una encarnación del mal sino un ser de la dimensión subterránea que se asoma por una ventana hecha de espíritu y materia, el cuerpo, para observar el mundo y aportarle su conocimiento.”

—read:
The Master and Margarita, by Mikhail Bulgakov

—watch for:
mariposas dancing, fluttering; do not touch their wings, the oils in your fingertips are poison to their beauty.

—listen for:
murciélagos dancing, fluttering; remember that there are other ways of seeing, moving through the world—difference in form of vision does not constitute blindness.

22.10.06

la otra campaña / el otro lado: magic, migrations, machetes

[note: For images and audio, including an audiocollage of interviews, speeches, son jarocho in the street, and ambient sounds, go to: http://www.sicklyseason.com/laotradelotro/index.htm ]


Wednesday night starts at Cal State Northridge with a screening of student Miguel Duran’s new documentary about the founding of CSUN’s Chicana/o Studies department, Unrest. The Student Union is packed. Afterward, Luis (friend and fellow artist) and I speak with professor Gerard Meraz, a producer and the faculty advisor on the film. He tells us they are still in the process of editing the film to make it “pop,” a final edit will start screening probably in December, look out for screenings around town.

Later, we meet at the Chicano house, where we will head out with a caravan of CSUN Mechistas. Little by little everyone arrives, all strangers/new friends to me, several cars, we gather in a circle before the trip, Sirena passes the sage and a few people say some words, then it’s off. Quick stop at the gas station (I get some apple flavored gummy rings), then another stop near UCLA for some other Mechistas who plan to join the caravan. We wait a while, I call up Rerun just to say hey while we’re waiting, they don’t show up, we split. By the time we hit the road, it’s about 11:30. Sirena flies down the 405 and the rest of us struggle to keep up. Orange County is a blur of sick mega shopping mall outlets and grotesque cineplexes, sprawling auto showroom lots, fake-looking office buildings, a massive die-o-rama of sick, diseased space. Rudy rides with me and Luis. Rudy is a trumpeter. We talk about music (Coltrane or Miles?) while listening to Marion Brown’s avant garde jazz, and we talk about San Jose, my hometown, which Rudy has been visiting all his life and which he has come to love, and which I have been visiting about half my life now and which I’ve come to...not quite love. We arrive at our destination near the U.S. side of the border around 2:30 a.m., throw down sleeping bag, grab a spot to sleep at the host house, insist we’ll wake up at 5 so we can get to Tijuas for the morning opening ceremony, and Mechista Marcos Z saying, Yeah right, it’s not going to happen, tomorrow is a long day, let’s just get up at 7.

Five a.m., several alarms going off simultaneously. All of them: Snoozed.

Seven a.m. bathroom scramble. Coffee, pan dulce, swipe a few fast veggie burritos quick from the restaurant next door before hopping the red trolley, Marcos was right, of course. Our morning ceremony is a walk through the new polished silver gates at the border and then a quick taxi ride to the “Multikulti” punk venue where the Otra Campaña encuentro will take place.

The Multikulti is an old baroque movie house on Avenida Constitución between 6th and 7th street in downtown TJ. After passing through the dark entrance area, you emerge into a large open-air amphitheater. It looks like there might once have been a roof, but it has been removed, or maybe there was never a roof. The walls are ragged concrete covered in graffiti, and they rise up high all around us and then crumble off against a sharp, stunning blue sky. We sit on a concrete floor that slants up from the stage several hundred feet to a terraced section that goes up another hundred feet, maybe more. I feel like I’m somewhere between Mad Max and Fellini, Thunderdome and Santa Sangre, and I’m expecting some carnivalesque funeral procession of psycho-road warriors to emerge at any moment with machetes and trombones. At one point, a brilliant, articulate young girl named Mixtla, around nine years old, spray paints graffiti on the wall after delivering a stunning speech, while up above on the terraced area, an elder compañero stands all by himself half in shadow, half in bright sunlight, while playing the violin.

Under the deep blue open sky, Delegado 0 sits onstage taking notes and a contingent of Chicana and Chicano Brown Berets stands guard on security detail all around the venue, while people go up and give their palabra all day. Activists, educators, community members, ex-braceros, workers, mothers, fathers, Chicanas and Chicanos del otro lado, anarchists, Wobblies, sons and daughters, our brothers and sisters, compañeros y compañeras.

Some bring gifts for Sub. Marcos. Some perform poetry, teatro, music. All speak from their hearts, their experiences, their realities, their hopes and dreams, their rage, their resistant, insistent love. They describe the experiences of neocapitalist, neoliberal oppression in their own communities, the attack on—and struggle to maintain—family ties, the migration and labor exploitation, the patriarchal domination, the heterosexism and homophobia they encounter daily, the violence against youth and women, the racist, genocidal practices of the prison-school-military-industrial complex; and they talk about the work they are doing in their communities to maintain dignity, to remain connected, to fight back, todos dando sus testimonios, everyone sharing and learning from one another. Often, they, and the audience, are brought to tears. Luis and I, both sons of immigrant parents, are especially moved by the testimony of one elder ex-bracero, and his insistence that we maintain connection with family across the border, across the difficulties of migrant life and disrupted relationship, especially between parents and children; and we are also very moved and impressed by our own young Mechista Marcos’ powerful speech about his LGBT group (much later, still overcome with emotion, Luis can’t help but give Marcos a huge hug and congratulations on his speech, making Marcos blush very cutely). After many speakers are done giving their palabra, Sub. Marcos stands and greets them, shakes hands, exchanges hugs. Repeatedly, Chicanas and Chicanos apologize for their pocho Spanish, but they try anyway, and later, Delegado 0 will address this in his own concluding remarks—how we speak with whatever languages we have, however we can, regardless of the discriminatory and divisive educations that a racist society has imposed on us. He talks about how we construct new geographies with the languages we use, how we shape new communities of resistance by insisting on communication from the heart, sale como sale, English, Español, Espanglish, lo que séa. At several points, Sub. Marcos even throws in a few pochismos of his own.

After Marcos gives his closing remarks, summarizing all that he’s heard all day, commenting, analyzing, etc., I interview some of the Mechistas to get their immediate response on audio recording. We are all moved and inspired, not just by Delegado 0, but by all that we have heard and seen and shared all day long. I tell Luis how I am glad to have seen Marcos here, in Tijuana, at the border, because I am a border creature, an urban halfie with one foot on either side of multiple borders. Then security clears out the Multikulti to prepare for the music performance later, and we all pour out into the street in front of the theater.

The street has been closed off, and it is already filled with people from the encuentro and members of the general public. All are welcome in front of the makeshift stage that has been erected at the theater entrance. Again, while Sub. Marcos stands behind the podium, people go up to give their palabra, including Don Juan, who breaks it all down clearly and elegantly, emphasizing the ecological dimensions of capitalism’s destruction, how we are destroying not just humanity, but all life, destroying the planet itself. Then Sub. Marcos speaks again, blasting the politicians—the leadership of Tijuana and Baja California, the falsely elected president and the false alternative parties. Marcos insists that this presidency will not last to the next election in 2012. He also insists that the Zapatistas have no interest in taking over this false, mal gobierno—they only want to destroy it, because under the local, autonomous self-rule of Zapatismo, there is neither want, nor need, of any government.

Then, afterwards: son jarocho in the street for hours, looking for lost Mechistas, finding them, a quick meal nearby while two cops, a man and a woman, sit a few booths behind us, and I remind Luis (and myself) that we have to remember that they are human too, otherwise, they have won.... then: later, still outside on the street, brief audio interview with a beautiful, badass anarchist Wobbly from San Pancho, then brief contact with a beautiful undercover cop who flirts with me to try to get some information, I give her a fake name and email address, she gives me her own fake name and email address, it occurs to me that it’s not much different from a real flirtatious exchange and what passes as human contact in our fucked up society, fake names fake personas fake communication fake life fake love fake fake fake all trying to pass for life and truth, all wearing us down with death death death, the whole thing rattles me and bums me out for a while and I forget my own advice and forget that she is human too, and for a little while, they have won again—after such a beautiful day of human re-connection and interaction, community, reality, truth, it’s a reminder of why things are so fucked up, why we have to fight, why it is so hard to connect with other human beings in this world that capitalism has created, why it is so hard to hold onto our humanity.

But then we go back into the theater for the music, and after moping a bit, smoking like crazy sitting on the ground, while Luis slams my shoulder with his fist and tells me to forget about it, don’t let them get to me, that’s how they win, that’s how they undermine our humanity, I finally start to dance a little and start to shake it off.... meanwhile: all around, flirtations, smiles, innuendo, laughter, playing, dancing, having fun, giant EZLN banner above the stage, cosmic chicano music from aztlan underground, beautiful bodies moving, circling, pulling away, playing it cool, everybody just chilindrina, shake it off, get back, close eyes, let go.... and meanwhile: reggae beat under open night sky, dreadlock rastaman gliding around creating space.... then: jump into tijuana no’s mosh pit, counterclockwise swirl young beautiful tijuapunks elbows in the air colliding, sweating, Luis jumping in like a madman all elbows and knees dropping down to half-height disappearing into the crowd of punks, and the punks circling, some arm in arm wall of threefourfive abreast, and centrifugal force holding me in for a few rounds, then wildly spinning off the circle and collapsing, lungs screaming, should not have smoked that last cigarette (or the ten before it) in Tijuana’s unforgiving air.... then: 8 of us piling into a honda accord everybody sweaty smelly exhausted crammed in like payasos in a circus car through the streets of Tijuas, 2 a.m., jump out at the border line, scramble past the line of cars, walk back into the other side of hell... arrive L.A. 6:30 a.m... exhaustion...exhilaration....


For images and audio, including an audiocollage of interviews, speeches, son jarocho in the street, and ambient sounds, go to:
http://www.sicklyseason.com/laotradelotro/index.htm

7.10.06

full moon lithium blue

In San Jose, the orchards brought pickers, the pickers brought canneries, the canneries brought converted lofts and isolation booths for young urban professionals. Somewhere in there my dad and mom came, separately, in the 1960s, bound for a tragicomic collision course more tragic than comic with my life making up the bulk of the comic part. In San Jose the cops give you a $250 fine for riding your bicycle at night without lights. Last year it was voted Safest City in the nation, or some shit like that. There was a bar my dad went to, I think it was called Lupe’s or something, and they had all these pictures of Prince back when he first started hitting it big, Delirious, Controversy, Little Red Corvette. My dad always took me to the bars with him after we finished working at his wrought iron shop. I knew all the divey Mexicano places around town, which ones had jukeboxes with cool music, which ones had pool tables, which ones had table Ms. Pac Man. Alberto’s, Latin Village, La Estrellita, Mario’s, El Dorado. But this one, Lupe’s, with the Prince posters, I always got this vibe there. I was a pretty young kid, but kids are way more hip to that stuff than we remember once we grow up. I remember my dad was really tight with the owner, Lupe, this big, loud woman in her fifties. The place was more than anything else a hardcore Mexicano place, but like I said, there was also this other vibe to it. Maybe it just had a gay night once a week, maybe it was totally gay, maybe they just had very effeminate pictures of Prince all over the place (is that redundant?). Anyway, there was something going on there with my pops. I mean, even if he wasn't bi (or gay?), it's really cool that he would hang at a gay bar and not trip out.

I remember one time we went to Lupe’s during the day. My dad had a black eye from the night before. Next to the bar was a patch of ivy in front of the parking lot. He starts combing through it, tells me to help him find his sunglasses, which apparently fell in there when he got his black eye—the black eye, of course, being the reason he really needs them now because we have to go visit one of his customers. They were those big 1970s aviators with gold frames and gradient brown lenses. We were there a long time poking through the ivy, but we never found his lentes.

Now the place is part of this big yuppie monstrosity of trendy bars and restaurants, and in another part of town, my dad is a born-again evangelical Christian who sells reptiles, t-shirts, and baseball caps at local flea markets (last I heard, anyway). He transports all his reptiles and other merchandise in a converted mobile home van full of aquariums. I haven’t seen him in about five years; before that, it was eleven years. I’d really like to ask him about Lupe’s, but he’d probably be all stupid weird and macho and fundamentalist Christian about it now.


TRANSCRIPT: 5 OCTOBER 2006, SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA, USA
Persona A: “I’m glad the moon isn’t totally full tonight.”
Persona B: “Why?”
Persona A: “Cuz it’s bad when the moon is totally full.”
Persona C: “Why?”
Persona A: “Cuz when the moon is totally full, people get crazy.”
[pause]
Persona C: “But it’s not just bad. It’s also good.”
Persona B: “Why?”
Persona C: “Well, it’s bad when the moon is full, cuz people get crazy. But it’s good when the moon is full, cuz people get crazy.”


(Prince: “I get delirious, whenever you’re near. Lose all self-control, baby just can’t steer...”)


I once found a text message scribbled on a Post-It note: “I HAVE TAKEN A SACRED VOW OF TEXTUAL REPRESENTATION. FROM NOW ON I WILL ONLY REPRESENT MYSELF VIA HIEROGLYPHS, BINARY DIGITAL CHARACTERS, AND PHOTOGRAPHIC IMAGES. NO BODY LANGUAGE! NO ORAL ALLOWED!”


I’m a persona, he’s a persona, she’s a persona, they’re a persona, wouldn’t you like to be a persona too?


Have to keep in mind at all times just how damaged we all really are versus the need to jerk somnambulists/self to life. Note: There is always risk involved in approaching/detaching from those who refuse to take risks; for some it’s easier to analyze dreams than to actually dream.


I once received an anonymous electronic love poem in Spanish. It vanished as I read it, each word dissolving as soon as my eyes took it in. It was a sweet gift, but it was addressed to the wrong persona. I responded:


DEAR ANONYMOUS LOVE POEM SENDER,

I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR TEXT HAS DISAPPEARED DUE TO CONTACT WITH THE WRONG CONTEXT. THESE DAYS I AM HAVING TROUBLE RECONCILING MY NIHILISM WITH MY NEED FOR LOVE. UNFORTUNATELY, ACCORDING TO THE LAWS OF PHYSICS, THERE IS NOWHERE LEFT TO FALL ONCE A PERSON HAS HIT THE BOTTOM. IN THIS KIND OF SCENARIO, THE ONLY HOPE FOR FLIGHT INVOLVES: A) A TREMENDOUSLY IMPRESSIVE GUST OF WIND (AS FROM A NUCLEAR BLAST, FOR EXAMPLE); B) A NEW UNDERSTANDING OF QUANTUM PHYSICS THAT DOES NOT RELY ON WRITTEN OR SPOKEN LANGUAGE FOR ARTICULATION; or, C) MAGIC.

IN ADDITION, PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT THERE ARE RUMORS FLOATING AROUND THAT FASCIST ELEMENTS IN THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT ARE ABOUT TO ALLOW PART OF ITS NAVAL FLEET TO BE SEVERELY ATTACKED AND SUNK BY IRANIAN MISSILES, IN ORDER TO CREATE AN ATMOSPHERE OF TERROR AND ULTRANATIONALIST PATRIOTISM, AVOID LOSING REPUBLICAN CONTROL OF CONGRESS IN THE UPCOMING NOVEMBER ELECTIONS, PROVIDE AN EXCUSE TO IMPLEMENT THE DRAFT, AND PROVOKE THE START OF WORLD WAR III. APPARENTLY, U.S. NAVAL STATIONS HAVE BEEN EMPTIED OUT WITH SHIPS BOUND FOR THE MIDDLE EAST. I REALIZE ALL OF THIS COULD BE SEEN AS JUST ANOTHER ELABORATE ATTEMPT ON MY PART TO AVOID ROMANTIC ENTANGLEMENT, BUT THE TRUTH IS THAT I AM ALSO EMPTIED OUT.

HOWEVER: THIS IN NO WAY IMPLIES THAT I NEED OR DESIRE VALIDATION OF ANY KIND. THE TAOISTS SAY THAT IT IS THE SPACE INSIDE THE BOWL, NOT SIMPLY THE BOWL ITSELF. LIKEWISE IT IS THE SILENCE BETWEEN THE WORDS, NOT SIMPLY THE WORDS (OR THE SILENCE). ETC.
AT THIS POINT, THE RESPONSE TO YOUR ANONYMOUS LOVE POEM HAS, OBVIOUSLY, GROWN FAR TOO LONG FOR THE FUNCTION FOR WHICH IT WAS DESIGNED. BUT THIS GOES WITHOUT SAYING.

SINCERELY,
XXXXXXXXX

P.S. The everyday lived experience. Grand festival, insane, asylum, arguments, gossip, expectations, desires, bodies colliding, disappointments, bodies engaging in private and communal acts of consumption, digestion, defecation, sex, defiance, all of it mixed up, intermingling, lips engaged in sacred oral sex soon kissing cheeks in sidewalk greets, hands, fingers, pores retaining someone else’s pheromones and other chemical traces of desire long after the moment has passed, shaking hands, preparing to eat, all of it sacred, all of it holy, every living thing, conversations, communicating something else always, shaping space with our bodies and the languages we use, shaping our bodies with the languages we use, tagging one another with existential graffiti, false claims to flooding honesty flooding honesty with noise to signal, constructing ourselves, over and over, empty texts, palimpsests, illusions stenciling our fears and desires onto one another for the whole world to see, smell, taste, ignore, x out, buff, replace, comment, count the hits, don’t count the misses.