A Drive to the Coast, Part 5

Part 5: Your Eyes

by Armando Ortiz

Your eyes light a path that leads to your temple inside the living palace where waterfalls palpitate and your pupils ignite candles that cry inside your chapels. You let me turn your prayer wheels as everyone chants Om mani padme oum.

I proceed to enter the room of a hundred numinous Buddhas and Shamans start speaking with past spirits, talking in flames, while swirling and twirling in coyote pelts.

The wheel of time turns and we open doors to other doors, and the teachings of ancestors turn and turn like the atom, like the mani wheel, like the turning of chariots, like the cycles of days, and the turning of seasons, like the turning of time.

Huddled we watch our mother dance with the Whispering Spirit.

They become swirling dervishes shuffling with the present as the fox chases its tail.

The conception of nothingness is where knowledge emerges.

Kalachakra and Vishvamata disintegrate into ashes and the dust of our delirious steps rise above our feet revealing to us the sacred wisdom of the old self-perpetuating reality that has permanence one conception at a time.

All is vanity under a canopy of frozen tears.

A Drive to the Coast, Part 4

Part 4: Splitting of Electrons

by Armando Ortiz

All you get is the splitting of electrons. That is what she said after I told her what it was that I was seeing and feeling. I had been tripping pretty hard that day and the world that existed outside of me came in to focus. I had been aware of the world that I live in and the daily transactions that take place with others. However, on this particular day things changed, as if my entire world had been lifted up and taken up to outer space, where gravity is less stable, and things tend to have a mind of their own. I was about to step out of my capsule and out into unknown territory, and all communication would be unstable. I could see far into the horizon and spot the different layers of movement and people that were going hither and thither. From a distance I could see people pass bye and at times saw the tops of their cars, and at other times I saw people on platforms just enjoying the whole view of the festival taking place. I was at the center of all the chaos that was taking place. Everything was happening before me and around me. I realized that all that was outside was a sort of organized chaos, but I was the center and the central spoke of the center was I. My thoughts were in a state of chaos. The Chaos was somehow hyperbolically connected to the world at large like a chariot perpetually racing competitors inside a hippodrome of consciousness. A silent static took precedence between thoughts and the rest of my physical self.

She’d been listening to me talk, and at times turned away to look at all that was happening down the slope, occasionally spotting random decorated bicycles.

Then she said, “Well, after all that, all you have is the splitting of electrons.”

I gave out a loud laugh, “Hahahaha…” it really shocked me, but it made sense, because at the molecular level there were electrons splitting and connecting to other things.

“What we all are is mostly space and water, even though we don’t perceive that reality,” she said, “It truly is a miracle that we just don’t dissolve into nothingness.”

“What is that thing that keeps it all running? God? A spirit? An electrical charge? Air pressure?” I asked with a sense of desperation, “Is nature outside of this chaos? Is nature chaos by nature? Does this mean that our bodies are of nature, but we turn around and look at it in a weird way of chaos.”

Chaos……living in the city one experiences organized chaos, but in nature, one sees the multiplicity of nature’s wonders, an organization that seems to have equilibrium and symbiosis. We see the different animals, the trees, the ocean, the insects, the mammals, the birds, the snakes, and the grounds they slither on. There is so much more, so much of what we call wild and why do we call it wild? Why is it that humans have a desire to “tame” nature, just like we like to enslave others, conquer and dominate others. Nature does not do that, right? Is there love in nature? Our cities become representative of what we deem as natural. The slums, the desperation for survival, the constant up and down driving, the mechanized sounds of metal against metal, and the tall buildings that look offensive when compared to the distant backdrop of the Azusa Mountains. All we have are splitting of electrons, atoms that go round and round, like all that exists outside ourselves. The universe and other galaxies seem to go round and round with no perceived ending to all the life cycles out there. The cycles of time devour everything, and in the end, there all that is left are splitting of electrons.

A Drive to the Coast, Part 3

Part 3: The Cycles of the Setting Sun

by Armando Ortiz

The uprooted window of light, glides in heaven, moving like the mythical quetzal that floats between worlds, slowly slithering, navigating through words.

It emits preternatural rays that reach earth’s bays.

Its voice is deciphered with the blooming leaves of yesterday, and the blossoms of autumn maple leaves.

This powerful dragon ball carries dharma with golden explosions, and from its central point life emerges.

Huitzilopotchi blazes proudly it's aura, refracting its image of polished emeralds in a canopy of greens, perpetuating ruby emblems, as plebeians chant Verde Verde.

The water’s edge mirrors a serpent body that undresses and dips into a deep blue, reflecting a coral necklace that shimmers on the surface.

The Great Spirit wanders through every particle that calls this limitless bubble home.

The sphere slowly plummets under the distant mountain ranges, revealing the silhouette of a sleeping princess who lays trapped in a slumber of dreams, waiting for Perseus who brings Medusa and armor to release her.

Ridges turn into mesas where natural men embark on vision quests that become epic desert wanderings. 

Mountain tops transform the ancient fire and volcanoes implode becoming petrified rock walls imprinted with petroglyph oracles, and hummingbirds begin their synchronized dance.

Passing through giant pyramids that stand rusting they trek into wombs of virgin jungles where the heat doesn’t feel and piranhas smell the blood that pumps through their veins, inside canyons of hidden caves.

Glowing embers dangle above as the eternal pendulum, emitting the decaying heat of summer days reach the old bay, showering us with life and its cycles replenish us.

Pyrotechnic yellows and violent polyhedrons blast into millions of cosmic rays, making nuclear colors burst in purple, and putting on a performance of multiple fireworks that explode as umbrellas that open up and twirl like kaleidoscope sutras.

Oceans of orange prisms travel unfiltered through the pupils of glaring Olmec heads that emit silvery yellow whirlpools with exploding lemon daisies.

The flower of life bursts with bangs, blooming precious particles of our nearest past from where Prometheus stole the three dimensional petal of electric plasma.

Sunflowers follow the trajectory of Rah.

Psychedelic rays of mystical heptagons carry the sacred life forces of elliptical atoms and the hidden messages that Sufi wanderers absorb, which the people attempt to deplore but the tie-dyed colors of the atmosphere melt before us, and paints the life that envelops all.

Nazca spiders weave mythical tales with intricate plasma webs that send prayers to undiscovered realms, putting together eternal dream catchers that communicate with heavenly creatures and perform dramas with Jupiter and Saturn.

Clouds hover above the eternal sea, like black phoebes perching on invisible branches gently parading and floating over peach horizons, reflecting smooth polyester balls that glide past our sight.

Puffy cotton mounds partition a sparse lingering light that sinks into an ocean of gargoyles and pestering ancient parasites.

The geometric visions like the Huichol deer that see all under the canopy of blue stars disappear with the rise of the evening star.

Ancestral spirits exist between planetary valleys separated by sophisticated theological postulations. On imaginary planes light bends and microcosmic elements crash into invisible space.

Petrol hydrocarbons replace dawn’s light, fighting protracted wars with darkness, disintegrating into dusty vapors, giving beings light while entropy laughs its last laugh and disorder persistently expands its parameters.

This perpetual cycle of decay is a battle that’s persisted since yesterday became past and neutrons ceased emitting splendorous waves like the sacred yin and yang of the stars and today.

We join the pandemonium in hopes of finding equilibrium with the elements that ignore our existence and commence cosmic battles.

The wheel of time consumes all under heaven and devours those that are too powerful on earth to be served on ceramic platters.

Yet we continue to build our towers of Babel and our rockets make artificial rainbows, in attempts to replace nature’s power.

Invisible giants trace the dances that Peruvian condors have written with claws on deserted pampa plateaus. Now panthers wander on a plane of sacred and mundane space.

We trace the journeys of these night beings, holding the ancestral fire, and following the outlines of labyrinth journeys.

Preachers predict the coming of a mighty one, but this apocalypse has already commenced, and Peter’s rock melts like a plastic toy that drips mango drops into the precipice of infinity, where Jesus extends his pierced hand at us and cries in ecstasy.

Poverty stricken men prepare for their plundering night as they step out of their dilapidated homes and merge onto old traveling trails imprinted by the three poisons.

A Drive to the Coast, Part 2.

Part 2: The Coast of Los Angeles

by Armando Ortiz

The edge of the Pacific is like the tentacles of a giant octopus and rushes at the boulders that clutter the coast, reaching deep inside the catacombs where rats live, mixing with the yellow piss of drunk weekend visitors.

Soap bubbles come alive with every crash, like champagne bottles striking rocks. The sparkling water fizzles out, leaving behind tide pool swirls, and drying washed rocks.

I see the shore of LA, unnatural and beautiful, curving like the hips of a goddess, stretching south to Hermosa Beach.

Cars roll along Highway 1, swishing south with motors humming, and others zooming north as the rubber tires rubbing asphalt, and from where I sit looking at the water’s edge, on the boulders, the ocean becomes a giant treasure chest of broken wine bottles.

The tide is rising, the moon is lifting, the night turns bluer, and my soul ascends. Granite rocks, rough and warm to the touch are scoops of petrified chocolate chip ice cream frozen in time. These boulders become the front row seats to a grand amphitheater.

The wind and water make a symphony of white noise as the steady breeze lifts the smell of stale beer from the crevices, merging with the ocean mist.

Swarms of pelicans dive into the water and pierce the waves like kamikaze soldiers, catching wriggling fodder that glistens under a veil of water.

Uninvited, the seagulls stand mute, watching the frenzy of dive bombers feasting on their silvery prey. In unison they turn to see the day-visitors play ball, in their play forgetting about their bags.

Rats come out from inside the boulders, observing and inspecting the view, searching for what the two legged beings have dropped on the ground, always giving their back to the rare eyes that see them crawling about.

People linger behind catching the last rays of the warm ember sky, while someone strikes the last serve.

Other beach goers take pity on gulls and open leftover bags, hurling stuff up to the air, and the scavenging birds stab the bread at once.

The wind is like a swarm of honey bees, and waves disappear into the green body that slowly turns into a deep virgin jungle. The organic seashell comes alive when we visit the coast and listen carefully with our ears.

The edge of the pacific is but a few inches from where I sit, where wave after wave slowly sways like a mother cradling a child.

On the other side of the earth are other people invisible to our eyes, sitting by the edge, looking towards our side, everyone sits on the sand and looks out beyond the mind. We see the sun dip into the horizon, while a bloody red dot emerges on theirs.

We share the same thoughts as we bask under the golden sun and see the rays that reflect from every temporal ripple. The shadows of sleeping Buddhas are the same here as over there.

Surfers perform their daily ritual of riding the waves courageously and ceremoniously caress the ocean, hypnotizing the sun that sinks under the horizon, only to return in the mornings to welcome it from its slumber. They get engulfed by spirals, and come out of the tunnels reborn, like the breath that emerges from deep inside a conch.

Pelicans navigate the waters with ease, skillfully feeling the transparent breath of the ocean, gliding over turbulent waves as people dive into them hoping to make it out the other side.

At a distance is the pier where childhood memories were made by the fishing docks, where the crazy drunk jumped into the waters to swim and where churros were sold for fifty cents.

Waves slowly crawl towards my toes, and the sun stains the water with California poppies.

A Drive to the Coast, Part 1

Part 1: Riding the 10 Fwy

by Armando Ortiz

The humming of the tires rolling on the concrete highway gave it an imagined sensation of floating on top of a free flowing river, riding a modern canoe, a tunnel like experience where the movie reel is no longer on the screen but inside an empty paper roll. It’s like rolling paper and peering through the little hole, imagining that what’s on the other side is miles and miles away. My drive down the highway is much more than riding an ancient Studebaker, where only one passenger fits, and the top speed is 35 miles an hour. Unlike the telescope though, things are moving past us, and I ride fast. Everything moving at a steady 75 miles per hour, the trajectory gets closer and closer, and the landscape streaks beyond the horizon to where the sun sinks. Unmovable is the setting sun, leaving the violet sky stained in amber orange. That’s the feeling one gets while driving down Interstate-10, on a late-fall afternoon. It's like riding on a chariot of fire, where the wheels have giant rubber tires and every rotation moves me three feet ahead.

In the past all roads lead to Rome, but nowadays, roads lead to borders, and circumvent the center. This highway, if I drive east, takes me to the Atlantic coast. Drive north from Los Angeles on the I-5 and you reach Bellingham, WA, the last big town before reaching the border of Canada. At historically unimaginable speeds, one can cross the whole sleeping steppes of flats, mountains and plains that exist on this North American geography. The wheels and speed at which I drive still make the humming sound with occasional surreal beeps, the center in sharp focus with endless white dashes that separate the lanes slightly hypnotize the mind. The rubber sticking and slipping from the concrete, and the heat radiating from the ground slightly makes the wheels stick on the ground for less than a billionth of a second. I look at my rear view mirror and side view mirrors to know where the cars are and to check if any car is behind me. I do this to make sure that if anything happens I surely will be able to limit the severity of any problems that might arise.

I turn on my iPod and listen to the most up to date electronic music and immediately I'm transported to a reality that has only existed inside the pages of the most contemporary books, static thumps with a center point that looks as if expanding. Shakespeare never took a ride on a Bentley, and neither did Whitman get to ride a little Toyota while bumping on hip hop tracks. Nope, this moment is singular to what others have lived. The moment, amazingly beautiful and tragically imperfect, yet the earth still circling, circling around the sun. It’s in the direction I am driving on and seems like it’s on an infinite pause, displaying the wondrous splendor while I step on the pedal and dare to race it to the edge. Nevertheless, when one sees things for what they are one sees that things are good, at least here. The weather in Los Angeles during this time is great, the sunsets are millennial, and the people along with the tourists are magical. Where else would I rather be, but here, where I am, riding towards the sunset, on the highway, with some good music blasting, all I need now is my Amazonian queen to guide me into the canyons.