Seeing the Unseen: My Journey with Dragonflies

 Seeing the Unseen: My Journey with Dragonflies

By Armando Ortiz

Life presents us with patterns of interconnectedness, whether we choose to see them or not. Some feel random, but in hindsight, they form a web of meaning. As humans, we weave significance into the things around us, creating symbolism from what appears to be chance. It can be playful or overwhelming. Ultimately, we decide how to process it.

In the early 2000’s I spent time studying in South Korea and China. After completing my graduate studies, and no longer able to continue studying Mandarin, I moved on to other ventures. I spent some time teaching English in South Korea before using my savings to start a business back in Los Angeles. My idea was simple: people in the U.S. would buy East Asian art books.

From 2007 to 2011, I traveled frequently between the U.S. and China, also visiting South Korea and Japan in search of books. At the peak of my business, I traveled to China at least once or twice a year. I drove to many parts of the Western and Midwest regions of the U.S., met many artists, and saw many different places. I was fortunate.

Most of my books came from Tianjin. I chose the city simply by browsing a Beijing bookstore and gravitating toward a particular book. The publisher that resonated with me was based there– about 70 miles from the capital, roughly the same distance as a drive from Los Angeles to Ventura. I remember my first trip: all I had was an address and a printed map. The beginning of my business was more of an adventure.

This reflection is less about my business and more about the randomness of interconnected moments - the meanings we attach to things, in this case, dragonflies. 

While in Tianjin, on my way to the bank with a publishing company secretary, I spotted a dead dragonfly on the sidewalk. I picked it up and examined it. Its body shimmered metallic green and blue, catching the sunlight. Its transparent wings had disintegrated, leaving only delicate filaments– traces of its former flight.

A few days later, in Beijing, I checked into my room and rested. Suddenly, a dragonfly landed on the outer edge of the air conditioner. It lingered there and died. The heat that day was intense. I opened the window and saw its iridescent body up close. I left it where it was but felt oddly lucky to have noticed it.

Two weeks after returning to Los Angeles, I encountered another dead dragonfly on Wilshire Boulevard, near a palm tree. As before, I picked it up, examined it, then returned it to where I’d found it. This one wasn’t metallic like the ones in China– it had muted shades of purple and gray, with hints of sage. There was no hesitation in picking it up; it felt natural, as if I was meant to find them.

Curious, I looked up dragonflies but didn’t research deeply. I learned they mostly live near water and that thousands of species exist. 

Months later, after summer had passed, I found myself in Tucson, Arizona. Taking a break from selling books, I visited a weekend arts festival. There, I came across an artist named Magdalena Nowacka. Her paper cutout artwork, inspired by Native American religions, was intricate and thoughtful. As I browsed through her collection, I found an affordable piece– a card with a dragonfly at its center. It immediately brought back memories of my recent encounters.

The design was inspired by Japanese motifs. That evening, I researched Japanese symbolism and learned that many believe Japan, when viewed on a map, resembles a dragonfly. The insect is also called the victory insect because of its agility, vibrant colors, and appetite for mosquitoes. I jotted these findings down in my notebook, along with my growing list of connections.

Later, my niece asked if I had ever written a poem about dragonflies. She told me that she had a toy dragonfly and wanted to read something I had written on the subject. Her question caught me off guard– I had never considered writing about them before.

Then, as if the universe had nudged me again, a friend invited me to a birthday party at a venue called The Dragonfly. Inside, a massive dragonfly sculpture loomed over the stage. I took it as a sign. I needed to gather these experiences and make something of them.

In time, I learned about damselflies, their smaller and more delicate relatives. I also discovered that my home state has 77 recorded species– 47 dragonflies and 29 damselflies. The most common? The Flame Skimmer.

The connections continue. On a weekend hike, I spotted dragon flies hovering at the top of a ridge, far from any water. Had the wind carried them from Burbank to this pass, where mosquitos might have gathered? I couldn’t say. But I had already begun the process of stringing these moments together, and I was enjoying it. 

That’s the beauty of story telling– how one thing can lead to another, creating patterns where none seemed to exist. The key is to draw the reader into your world; your way of seeing.

The more I noticed dragonflies, the more they seemed to notice me. Maybe it’s time I finally write that poem.

Peru Chronicles: Inca Trail Hike - Exploring the Path to Machu Picchu Part Two

 

Peru Chronicles: Inca Trail Hike - Exploring the Path to Machu Picchu Part Two

By Armando Ortiz

Into the Lush Andes:

As we continued, the path became greener, a sign that we were approaching the lusher side of the Andes. We were seven miles in, yet each turn revealed something new. Our guide stopped and pointed to the river we had been following–the Urubamba. It winds through the Sacred Valley before merging into the Amazon. In a way, we were seeing the Amazon itself. I gazed at the river, imagining its vast journey and the communities it sustained.

A Film Scene Come to Life:

I was then taken back to the first ten minutes of Herzog's film. I imagined being a soldier in that army of land pirates on my way to a lost city. “This must have been where they filmed it,” I thought. “I’ve seen this before.” The film had captured the mountains, clouds, and winding trail well- but now, I was inside that very scene. 

I watched trekkers descending the same stretch I had hiked two kilometers earlier, while my own group ascended behind me. For a moment, it felt like I had wandered into Herzog’s film, retracing the steps of his lost conquistadors.

We weren’t drifting down the river like Aguirre nor renouncing our homelands in search of gold. I discovered something beautiful to bring back: the memory of these mountain ranges and the river. As many Peruvians had told us prior to this hike, Machu Picchu has a lot of positive energy. It leaves you in awe. There’s something undeniably special about this place.

As we hiked, I told Yeny about another Herzog film, where a madman hauls a boat over a mountain to build a theater. The same actor starred in Aguirre, but this time, he played Fritzcarraldo. It was during the filming of that movie that the native extras offered to kill him for the director.” She just smiled and nodded. I, on the other hand, couldn’t shake these films from my mind.

The Final Climb to Machu Picchu:

We were down to three more kilometers before arriving in Machu Picchu, but before that we’d have to go through subtropical terrain where ancient plants like ferns and orchids grow wild. Just before Inti Punku, the Sun Gate, the final eighty to ninety feet would be the steepest climb. But the reward was worth it- from here, Machu Picchu came into view, and the trail finally descended.

The trail continued down and opened up into Machu Picchu. After seeing countless images of Machu Picchu- tourists posing before its vast ruins, many remarking on its unexpected scale- I was finally here. The sheer scale of the site struck me- its magnitude, its importance to humanity. I walked the same ground the Inca once did. It was a magical moment. 

Standing Among History:

Some terraces remained covered in overgrowth, hinting at how much of the city lay hidden beneath time– just as the ruins we had passed along the trail hinted at a forgotten past.

I also imagined runners in their early 20s taking these long treks, and having a place to rest where food was available. A place to bathe and relax, while farmers transported supplies to these sites with caravans of llamas. 

This hike deepened my curiosity about the Inca, the trail, and Peru’s geography.

The Inca Trail- A Journey Through Time:

In total, we hiked about nine miles from the trailhead to the bus that took us to Aguas Calientes. The hike took most of the day with about 9 hours of hiking, which included pausing for our guide’s historical explanations, to ask questions, and to take breaks for snacks. 

We were a group of 13, moving together as one. For future hikers: the group moves as a unit, which may affect pacing. Total elevation gain was 2,744 feet, which means that about five and a half to six miles of the trail will include stairs and ascents. 

With each step, I felt the weight of history beneath my feet. The Inca Trail was more than a hike–it was a journey through time, one step into the past with each ascent.

Peru Chronicles: Mountains, Mysteries, and Herzog’s Aguirre

Peru Chronicles: Mountains, Mysteries, and Herzog’s Aguirre

By Armando Ortiz

Inca Trail - Part One: Reflections on a Film:

My first glimpse of the Inca Trail came through Werner Herzog’s film Aguirre, the Wrath of God. Back then, as a regular at the local video rental store, I often noticed the film’s striking cover: Klaus Kinski’s crazed expression as the titular character, Aguirre. Eventually, I rented the movie, drawn by its exotic imagery. At the time, I saw it as a surreal fable, a tale of conquistadors in helmets juxtaposed with indigenous people in vibrant beanies. Kinski played the crazed soldier gone mad, seeming out of place in the lush green environment, his demeanor almost alien. The setting- a humid, swampy jungle– didn’t quite align with the costumes, and I struggled to make sense of it.

As I grew older, the film’s premise became clearer: the pursuit of gold and glory for the Spanish Crown. Yet, as someone whose education revolved around North American, U.S., and Meso-American history, I hadn’t connected the story to the Inca civilization or life under Spanish rule. My understanding of geography and human environment interaction was limited. One of my university classmates once mentioned that the rapper Tupac was named after Tupac Amaru, a Peruvian leader, but even then, Peru’s history felt distant and unfamiliar.

Before leaving for Peru, I revisited the film, watching the first 15 minutes. This time, the mist-shrouded green mountains and narrow trails carved on to sheer cliffs captivated me. The imagery was haunting yet magical- a line of soldiers and enslaved men snaking precariously along the trail, their journey echoing the danger of the llama that slipped and fell into the abyss below. As the train carried us to the trailhead, the eerie resemblance between Herzog’s landscapes and the unfolding reality stayed with me.

The train ride itself evoked an odd deja vu. Herzog’s original German dialogue was poorly synced with the English dub, resulting in voices that didn’t match the actors. A performance by the crew in our train car echoed the film’s mismatched dubbing: English voices floated from hidden speakers, out of sync with the actors’ lips. It was as if Aguirre himself were speaking in an unsettling, borrowed voice.

Later, I learned that Herzog had filmed parts of Aguirre at Machu Picchu, on the Huayna Picchu trail, and along the Peruvian Amazon. His main character, based on the historical Lope de Aguirre, led an expedition to conquer Peru via Panama. Defying orders, Aguirre sought to rewrite history in his favor. But his rebellion ended in 1561 when he was captured, dismembered, and executed. Herzog also drew inspiration from Gaspar de Carvajal, a Dominican friar who chronicled a similar journey along the Amazon two decades earlier.

The film, released in December 1972, immortalized these landscapes and themes of ambition, madness and conquest. Revisiting it before my journey added a surreal layer to my anticipation. As I prepared to walk those trails, the film’s haunting imagery lingered, merging history and myth with the undeniable pull of the Andes. For the first time, the Inca Trail felt less like a distant fable and more like a real, living connection to the past I was about to experience.

Roberto Bolano's Cowboy Graves: Book Review

Roberto Bolano’s Cowboy Graves: Book Review

By Armando Ortiz

Roberto Bolano’s collection, Cowboy Graves, was published posthumously in 2017. The English translation was released in 2021. Known for his novels 2666, and Savage Detectives Bolano offers readers three novelettes that are partly biographical and woven into his broader literary world. This collection serves both as an introduction to Bolano’s world and as stand alone narratives that will captivate fans. The tales explore themes of revolution, artistic ambition, and identity, set against the backdrop of society’s underbelly. Bolano’s characters grapple with antisocial tendencies, revolutionary aspirations, and the challenges of navigating life’s unpredictable events, yet they hold onto the hope of changing the world.

In the first novelette, Cowboy Graves, we meet Arturo Belano, a Chilean born in Concepcion, who moves to Mexico City and later returns to Chile. Through Arturo’s recollections of his father, Bolano explores themes of identity and belonging. Arturo recalls moments with his father, a man torn between bravado and a desire to display his Mexican vaquero roots. In Mexico City, Arturo forms a friendship with “The Grub” as is drawn to leftist ideologies, prompting his return to Chile and joining the revolution. However, his outsider status leads to incarceration and violence. Despite the challenges he faces, Arturo’s love for literature remains his lighthouse like an unmovable rocky coastline. Following Arturo’s journey, the second novelette introduces a new character in a different setting. In this case he is offered a chance to go into exile in France, but also to live in the sewers of Paris.

In French Comedy of Horrors, a young poet in Guyana that has just witnessed an eclipse decides to take the long way home only to find himself lured into the underground world of surrealists by a phone call from Paris. The caller attempts to convince him to relocate to Paris, promising an artistic awakening. This story delves into the multifaceted nature of literature, contrasting mainstream and unconventional writing. Bolano highlights the choices writers face: pursuing fame or evoking emotions and actions. Yet, it is the individual who decides what community he will join or what lane his art will take. Ultimately, the story underscores the idea that whatever path we choose, we may become exiles due to our art, ideas, or geographical moves.

The third novelette, Fatherland, reflects on the concept of homeland and its implications for both Bolano’s characters and the reader. It prompts reflection on how we define our place of birth and lineage, asking whether we reside in the motherland or fatherland. This story expands on Bolano’s experiences in Chile and the leftist revolution, but also contemplates physical and mental exile. It examines how past, present and future environments influence writers and their creations. In this way, Bolano invites readers to ponder the impermanence of places, material possessions, identities, and even ourselves.

The stories in Cowboy Graves are engaging and original, though parts of “The Grub” appear in The Savage Detectives. Additionally, the scene where Arturo shares his fiction with a Jesuit echoes themes from another of Bolano’s novels. Nevertheless, like much of Bolano’s work, these posthumously published stories challenge readers to explore the motivations behind their writing and inspire them to continue their creative journeys. They also serve as a mirror, reflecting on our favorite writers, the makeup of our identities, and how life’s contexts lead us to make unexpected choices that can result in voluntary or involuntary exile. Bolano’s Cowboy Graves not only enriches our understanding of his literary universe but also invites us to reflect on our own artistic ambitions and identities.

L.A. Mountain's Call: Prose

L.A. Mountain’s Call

By Armando Ortiz

My mind, 

a nomad’s wooden chest-

untouched mementos

gather dust, long forgotten.

A hiker on the trail,

this old mountain seems frozen,

I walk the long adobe road-

smells of wild weeds

and a cloud of baking dust

engulf my body as I near the turn;

a familiar, forgotten present.

L.A.’s mountainous backdrop, 

their slopes like weathered lemon peels,

fade into the city’s afternoon haze.

I disappear into the clay ground and chaparral

a figure in a timeless portrait.

Along the fireroad

deer forage the slopes.

Sunbathed cactus thirst for water

at the border of evergreen oak’s shade-

this is where I eternally wander.

Butterfly shadows

circle around me.

Signs warn of rattlesnakes,

but nature has its own bustle,

lost in its own pulse.

Only the slithering 

shadows of heat

radiating from the ground

are seen on this ascent, 

enduring coastal desert.

A diamondback lies still,

as silent as a dead branch-

danger at arm's length.

Calm and relaxed, it waits

Startled, I continue.

At the intersection, scents

join the trail to the barren mountain top,

treating me to spectacular views L.A.,

where the landmarks of the past are seen.

Standing at the summit,

a hummingbird zooms past,

reminding me it too is there.

Coyotes, the forever jokesters, play-

hide and go seek, even with the past.

As I turn back and descend

a school of wild quail,

is suddenly heard.

The male stands

on the top of an branch-

wearing a black top hat

and a zebra skin suit.

Strange characters live up here-

a diorama of memories,

Earth's procession of life.

Everything alive before my eyes,

sweaty and accomplished, I reach my car,

tomorrow, the hike will fade; 

my legs will ache,

but already, I hear the mountains call.

A Quiet Retreat: Free-verse Reflections

 

A Quiet Retreat: Free-Verse Reflections

By Armando Ortiz

I sit here along the coast after a thirty minute drive on Pacific Coast Highway, lying on the sand, watching the waves roll in, each one bringing solace.

The crashing waves blend with memories of hiking the Sierras, where a cool breeze touched my skin as I prepared myself to enter the alpine lake. In the deepest silence, as the waters pulled back, a tiny mosquito pierced my skin with its sharp bite. 

Lost in thought, the crashing waves transform into a gentle rustle of aspen, pulling me back in time. The memory intersects with the present, where the sounds of water and breeze become a delight. 

No need for kegger parties or psychedelic nights; just nature’s embrace heightens the senses, offering deep insights. This mid-July heat wave intertwines with every other summer breeze and every tiny insect that takes flight. 

A single mosquito stands as a buzzing reminder, its bite added to my life's itchy welts. Palm trees and cottonwoods wave gently at the endless stream of people, serene spectators to the flow of life.

If only my tent could transform into a permanent retreat, a place to watch sea lions surfing the dawn’s first light. Or a home nestled among oaks and pines, their gentle shade shielding me from the afternoon’s oppressive heat.

High on a hill, where no buzzing mosquito will dare to exist, a refuge of tranquility. Back at the coast, the sand scorches beneath my feet, but the ocean’s blue embrace offers a cooling reprieve. 

Who needs a retreat when nature’s wonder is just a few minutes away?

Shadow, Shade and Stars

Shadow, Shade and Stars

By Armando Ortiz

Under the shade of the eastern face, 

the shadows of the day gave way

to a flickering sparkle of night; 

a tiny light in the sky appeared.

In the shadow of the mountain,

the sun sank behind the western ridge, 

and the summer winds cleaned the sky; 

more stars began to emerge.

Under the stars, I sat beside a rock 

that shaded me from the wind. 

Towards the eastern horizon,

the moon began to cross the shadow plane.

Beneath the shadow of earth, 

the crescent moon appeared; 

speckles of glass marbles scattered, 

dawn became a portuguese tiled floor.

Inside the shade of the pass, 

a warm breeze swept down the valley. 

The purple shadow became a blue mosaic 

that spread across the dye of darkness.

Under the stars,

the shade of trees 

and shadows of rocks 

merged with the night.

Within the darkness of time, 

shadows roamed the forest; 

fires floated in the shade of an ocean, 

on the horizon, fireflies flickered.

Covered by the shade of sleep,

I dreamt of shadows that blended into each other 

while the northern constellations of night slowly 

ascended and descended from the sky.