Sunday Afternoon- Griffith Park Drum Circle: Sketches of Los Angeles

Sunday Afternoon: Griffith Park Drum Circle

by Armando Ortiz

Two Sundays ago I hiked up to Mt Hollywood and then descended down the Northeast side to where the Merry-Go-Round and the weekend drum circle are located. I figured it would be a nice place to relax a bit, read a few pages of Joyce’s Ulysses of which I'm almost done, and listen to some live music. I went down the trail slowly making my way to the drum circle. I made my final approach and sat under a tree a few meters away from the circle. I sat on the grass and lounged for a bit under the shade of an oak tree.

I saw people and all kinds of hands slapping drums, congas, djembes, bongos and tambourines or holding sticks that were either striking something or rasping some kind of instrument. Kids were running around, and toddlers dancing to the groove, along with their parents who were enjoying the music. There were ladies who wore speckles on their hips that made shingly sounds. Their hips swayed, rocked, twisted and shot from side to side rhythmically making their speckles shiver under the sun’s heat. The beats that emanated from the circle reminded me that people have been coming here and doing this for decades. The spirit of those that started this circle years ago resonated with childhood memories of when my family would go come to this part of Griffith Park for weekend barbecues. My siblings and I would play in the jungle gyms, use the swings, and slide down the shimmering slides. Occasionally we’d go ride the Merry-Go-Round that would go round and round as the plaster cast horses that were painted in bright pastels moved up and down. Even as we got older and sandboxes were replaced with baseballs, soccer balls, and footballs, we could still hear the rhythmic beats that were being born from that corner of the park.

As I sat down to hear the beats, a whirlpool of memories were brought up in that instant, like a sudden cloud funnel that appears out of nowhere and then disappears in the present nothingness of the sky. At that moment I got the idea to write about this spot, which lies hidden to many people who call Los Angeles home.

It surprises me that this spot is always very intimate and the people that come here are relaxed and are either making percussion beats or enjoying the sounds being made with the hands of a group of people that come from various and differing backgrounds. Some folks instead of drums bring grills to cook meat so as to have some live music in the background. The shade that the old oaks and pine trees make is something special.  Griffith Park is in Los Angeles, and it is only a few minutes away from the I-5, and only ten to fifteen minutes from Downtown L.A.

In between the silhouette of the trees I could see weekend warriors riding their shinny two wheelers glide bye, SUVs filled to the brim with working class families trudging through, and late-model Hondas zooming by, and all of them, no matter who was in them slowed down a bit and momentarily enjoyed the sounds that emanated from the shade. Some made a U turn and parked their cars, while others clapped or cheered, and others just kept driving.  

I can remember many times looking out the window as I scanned the area and wondered who those people were. I usually thought they were hippies having a drum fest, but as time went on I came to realize that it’s a group of people committed to bringing music to the park, and what fortune do we have that it’s at Griffith Park and not some far away location. Not only are they bringing music, but through them one connects to that grander beat that pumps through all the people that call this place home. The sounds truly represent the varied experiences that all have in this city and around the world, and in a way connects us to that time when we first heard the simple, but complex beats of a drum.

Listening to all the performers I was reminded of a Grateful Dead song “Playing in the Band.” The song talks about people of all walks of life that have existed, exist, and will exist. Yet the message of the song is that all of us in some way add our bit of beat to this life, our soul merges with the souls of all others and we make a chaotic choir and harmonic big band that extends wide out and up to outer space. Of course I’m going overboard, but it’s nice to know that on a nice Sunday afternoon we can go to the park and enjoy some of the music that our long past ancestors enjoyed on beautiful days like this past Sunday.

Wheelchair Basketball: Sketches of Los Angeles

Wheelchair Basketball

by Armando Ortiz

We’d been in the area before, south of Adams and somewhere in between those old two story homes made out of wood in the early 20th century. Three men were sitting out on the porch talking and hanging out. We hadn’t come to see them though, the address was for a lady who was bed ridden. I guess she was inside. We parked the white van in front of the house. The weather was hot and dry, like a clay oven, so it might have been late-September, but I can’t exactly tell that this is Los Angeles. The house was white with brown molding. The lawn was made up of green patches, but it was mostly a carpet of golden crabgrass. We stepped out of the vehicle and walked to the house. The keys, jumbled together, made sharp jingles.

“Buenas tardes,” said one of the old men.

“Buenas tardes,” we replied in unison.

“Is Betty here?” Juan asked.

I wasn’t supposed to be on the delivery, but lately I’d been tagging along after work. It was a part-time job, and afterwards I didn’t have much to do those days.

“She’s inside,” one of the old men said, quickly swinging his arm as if he was hitchhiking and aiming his thumb inside the house.

Juan went inside the house and I stayed outside with the other men. Santa Ana winds usually added hot dry air to the sunny weather.

“Where did you learn to speak Spanish,” I asked the old man.

“From my wife,” he said.

He stood up and walked towards the front door that was already open.

“That’s her picture over there,” he said, aiming at the fireplace that had been painted ochre. Above the mantle were pictures of a young couple.

I looked inside the living room towards the area pointed out. Black and white pictures of a young black couple were there along with some trophies and other family pictures. One of the photos stood out, and seemed to radiate a warm aura - they looked really happy. His hair seemed to be slicked back and she wore a very conservative dress with cotton trim. It might have been the day they got married or maybe a time when they were celebrating one of their birthdays.

“Is that your wife in the picture,” I asked.

“Yes, that was taken about thirty years ago in New York,” he said, “She moved there with her parents when she was 12.”

“Where did she learn to speak Spanish?” my curiosity seemed to reveal itself like the sweat bead on the forehead.

“She’s Panamanian,” he quickly responded, adjusting his cap. “I am originally from Harlem, but after the Nam I moved to LA.”

Here was a man who could speak Spanish and who had married a Central American woman. Now I look back and consider all the endless possibilities and strange combinations that exist out in the world. Every valley has a story to tell. I was too young to really understand this at that time.

One of his friends suddenly said something about a wheel chair not moving. I was busy looking down the quiet street. It seemed that light and heat soaked everything in sight. Tall slender palm trees bordered the edges of the sidewalk every few meters. The wind made the long palm trees gently sway and bend to the side. Most of the houses on the block looked kept, but it wasn’t like the houses up in the hills, where gardens and lawns were worked on by gardeners. Here it seemed that people had jobs and worked on their homes themselves, none of that hiring help type of thing. I turned around and woke up from my daze. The man was in a wheelchair, had a plain white t-shirt on, and wore some really dark shades.

“Where is the problem?” I asked.

“The right wheel on the front,” he said pointing straight down to the wheel.

“Hmm….lemme see.” I kneeled down and noticed a bunch of hairs that had accumulated on the sides of the wheel.

“When I come back, one of you gentlemen will have to tip him back a bit so I can unscrew the hinge off the wheel,” I said as I turned and started towards the van.

I ran to the van, grabbed the oil can, and searched inside the tool box for a 10. By the time I got back Juan was exiting the house, and said he was going to go get the new mattress from the back of the van. I returned to the man on the wheel chair, and noticed that a scar ran from his forehead all the way to his left cheek.

“I unscrewed the wheel and began pulling all the grey hairs and brown polyester fibers out of the bearings.” Suddenly his voice inquired.

“How long have you been at this?”

“Oh, just a few months,” I replied.

         “Well you’re doing a good job,” he said

I looked up, smiled and said thanks. Then I noticed that the area that had the scar looked lifeless. 

I immediately focused my attention on the task in hand, and wondered what it was that I had seen.

“Were you guys born in Los Angeles?” I asked as I sprayed the center of the wheel with DW-40.

“No. My buddy as you know is from New York, Jack over there, he’s from Cleveland, and I’m from Oakland. We did time in Nam, and after returning to the states we stayed in contact. We all sort of wandered into Los Angeles and never quite left.”

For a moment I imagined bullets flying everywhere and bombs exploding by the side of roads. I’d heard that people would say “hit the shit!” when attacked by sniper fire. Apparently the Vietcong didn’t put boobie traps or landmines where they took a shit though that meant that the soldiers would carry a putrid smell with them afterwards. It was either crap on their bodies or death.

“How long were you guys in Vietnam,” I inquired.

“We did two years,” said the man in the wheelchair.

The sun was hot, and even though we were in the shade the concrete steps and the work made sweat beads gather around my face like morning dew. I soon finished and put the wheel back. I looked up and told him to test the thing. I took a glance at the scar once again, but I couldn’t quite tell what it was that I was looking at. I pretended not to notice. Soon his friend helped him down the steps and now he was swiftly moving around.

“Hey Jack, throw me the ball,” he hollered.

The man who sat silently picked up an old leather basketball that was lying on the porch and threw it at him. He caught it without a hitch, and placed the ball on his legs. He had long brown arms and slender hands. He moved aggressively through the lawn and reached the garage area. His forearms were still chiseled. He began bouncing the ball and making baskets. Then he began to swirl his wheelchair round and round. I was in awe.

“Good job kid!,” he hollered, “Now I can go on whipping ass at the courts. Mother fuckers have been running their mouths about me no longer playing. I’ll show them.”

He returned, once again struggling through the dry grass. He rolled up next to me and smiled. I smiled back. One side of his face was sweaty, while the other wasn’t. It seemed that his left side had melted, but that was strange. An opaque pastiness on the surface of his left side could be seen. He turned around, faced the street and told his friend to put him back on the porch. His friend wore a mechanic’s shirt with the name Donovan stitched on the chest area. The men looked weathered, and sun beaten, but their spirit was still intact. A lot of stories must have been shared between them. The wheels bumped on the concrete steps and made a final thud once on the wooden porch. The old man adjusted something on the waxy side of his face. Up to that moment I hadn’t noticed, but his left side seemed out of place, but after he’d adjusted his sun glasses it seemed his face was symmetrical again.

Juan suddenly emerged from the house with an old hospital mattress and told the husband that the bed was as good as new.

“Le puse nuevo colchon y le ajuste los resortes con un poco de aceite,” he told the man.

I guess they already knew each other. Juan had been working for the company for ten years.

“Ah, muchas gracias amigo, hey, tienes buen asistente, mira al Damian ya puede ir al gimnasio a jugar basketball con los demás cabrones!” the old man retorted.

“What can I say, he’s learning from the best!,” replied Juan smiling and giving a couple of loud laughs.

The man in the wheelchair said thank you and gave me a thumbs up. I smiled back. We all smiled. The sun kept showering us with its rays.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Eleven): Saturday Services

Part 11: Saturday Services

by Armando Ortiz

After the church had been fully restored service began to be held there four times a week. One day, out of the blue, some people showed up for the Saturday evening service. A couple walked inside the church and were quickly guided by the ushers to sit on any of the two columns of wooden pews. Churches never refuse entry to anyone who might be in need of a heart change, and even in the deepest recess of the heart there always lies a desperate voice that seeks answers in all kinds of places. The inner workings of the congregation usually didn’t apply to visitors so people were always welcome.

They headed towards the front and sat on the bench that was before the altar. The first row seats were usually reserved for young adults, musicians that performed, visiting preachers and wives of those running the show. On the altar was an old wooden pulpit with a holy cross. A plastic stained glass decorated the front of the standing oak box with a brass outline seemed to hold the multi-color jigsaw puzzle in place. We sat on the left like all the men, and the girls like the women, on the opposite side of us, on the other column of pews. The couple sat a few feet away from us on the front row. The pastor was preaching to the audience and saw the man and woman that had just sat down to his right. The women of the congregation who were to his left were glancing at the recently arrived couple. They somehow seemed out of place.

They just sat there, listening intently to the sermon being given by the evangelist. As soon as they sat down the man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the sweat from his bald head, it was as if someone were cleaning a ball peen hammer. Their eyes were locked on the pastor’s every movement and occasionally would slightly turn and talk into each other’s ear. The lady’s hair was gathered up into a bun. Grey earrings with onyx beads dangled from her earlobes matching her silvery roots. They both had a stoic appearance, and seemed to be entranced by the preacher’s sermon. The preacher was fully aware of their presence but he was used to sudden appearances and change in audience attention, so he knew the cues. The man had a gold earring on his left earlobe that contrasted with his dark skin, like the gold foil that is used to wrap a chocolate coin. We couldn’t hear their conversation, and don’t recall what was spoken that night, but I do remember that after we got back home and turned on the television the news was showing a man that had been caught for a crime south of San Pedro and Adams. His wife or girlfriend wasn’t there. It was only him, with hands behind his lower back held in place by handcuffs. There were times when people in the church, after lengthy songs of worship and prayer, would receive the holy spirit and speak in tongues. All we could hear from them were rushed whispers.  

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Ten): Church Services

Part 10: Church Services

by Armando Ortiz

I grew up going to a Pentecostal church and our pastor was Bernardo Marquez. He was from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Occasionally a pastor from Panama would also visit and give some memorable sermons, his name was Bolivar Guevara, from Panama. He lived in Fresno, and the first time my family went to Fresno was to visit his church. The homes in Fresno were big with a low profile, and the trees were tall, giving lots of shade. The other times that I remember going to Fresno we ended up going to Yosemite National Park, while the last time we went there, as a family, was to his wake and partake in the burial of his wife.

As a kid, church was a big part of my life, not because I personally chose to go, but because my parents seemed to like going. I still have pictures of myself at 2-3 years old standing in front of the church that was on what used to be 9th street, a block east of Alvarado. Sometime later the congregation moved to Pico and Bonnie Brae street. Sunday service was sometimes held in MacArthur Park. Back then the park’s name didn’t conjure up images of bums, drug dealers or dead bodies. El Piojito was still across the street and the street vendors had yet to claim the corners as theirs. McDonalds was across the street from the park on Alvarado. Inside the burger joint was a giant mural of ancient Mexica designs eating hamburgers. Meso-American hieroglyphics had been turned into clever advertisements and all I understood was that these gods or mythological figures weren’t feasting on venison, wild turkeys or tortillas but on burgers. Those murals left a deep impression on me, and ever since then I’ve haven’t been able to come across any comparable images as those put there. Talk about clever marketing and using culture to promote a company’s image. Being near a park would always guarantee great returns to their investment. Our church was in the business of saving people, so in terms of evangelizing and reaching out to lost souls, Sunday was a good time to go to the park and proselytize because everyone one that lived in the surrounding area went there to relax.

At times it seemed that the only permanent location for church services was at the park among the patches of crabgrass and the palm trees that stood tall. The members always formed one giant circle and sang songs like, Alabare, Alabare, which in English means, I will worship, I will worship. As a kid, the park was always a better location than being inside the confines of a room where the preacher would occasionally give a loud burst of praises. One also had to stand up and sit down, stand up and sit down, and repeat the cycle about five times before the preacher gave his Sunday service. Nevertheless, the congregation, La Senda Antigua, kept moving locations and kept adjusting to the needs of its congregation. Though the church made up a cohesive group of worshipers and the preacher made the nucleus of the congregation, as a group, we were more like a lone electron trying to fit into the larger flow of the city’s beat.

The church soon moved to another locale, which was on Alvarado and 3rd. At this time the church began to focus more on trying to raise money to buy its own property. We’d have a permanent location and we wouldn’t have to be moving around. The building where we had recently moved to was small, but big enough to fit the eighty or so members. It seemed like this place was geared to house a small shop, but people always find ways to make sanctuaries out of random places, and landlords never mind renting out space when money is tight. For many years after we moved from that location the place functioned as a pawn shop, a flower shop and now it's a thrift shop selling 80’s vintage clothing at dirt cheap prices.

Occasionally, we would meet inside a church that was located on Grand View street, between Olympic and 9th street. This church was owned by a Korean preacher, who mainly used it to minister the congregation he led. He rented out the space to our pastor for weekday services and occasionally for weekend services. The church, from the outside, looked like a big craftsman house, but once inside the house became a real church, with balcony seats, and a basement that had been converted into the children’s Sunday church area. The floors were all covered with a deep burgundy carpet, and the stairs at times seemed to take you into another world. Christian movies were shown in the main auditorium most of the time. As a kid, images of those films would occasionally haunt my mind. There was this particular film of a man that was a race-car driver that ended up dying but somehow returned to visit family. He realizes that he is going to hell because he hadn’t accepted Jesus into his heart, so he decides to return and warn his family.

It seemed that the places where we met for church were indirectly showing me the surrounding landscape of what I called home and would be driving through as I got older. Weekend evening services were always memorable because we had service for kids, and food was sold to raise funds for other church activities. At the 3rd street location the ladies of the congregation, who always cover their hair, would make different snacks like nachos or atole de elote. They also, on a regular basis, made pupusas, which are handmade tortillas with cheese in the middle, but with that special touch of Central America flavor that was topped with pickled cabbage and a light and spicy tomato sauce. My parents usually bought one for my sister and I, and were always left wanting more.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Nine): Conjuring up Monsters

Part 9: Conjuring up Monsters

by Armando Ortiz

My fourth grade class was not immune to superstition. We’d occasionally hear stories from different kids that lived near the school that the house next to our school came alive once the sun set. Noises were heard from the halls, abandoned rooms let out a slow hum, and a lot of booze was spilled by the cholitos. Some of the kids would tell us that if we stepped inside that empty shell of a house we wouldn’t make it out alive. Another story told by other classmates was that of Bloody Mary.

Bloody Mary could appear in the bathroom if you stood in front of the mirror and called out her name several times. The mirror would turn into a window and she’d come out of the glass and snatch kids away. One of my classmates even had the good fortune of escaping but not before she changed one of the shoes he was wearing into something completely different. Because of this, it was believed that Bloody Mary did, in fact, exist. I sort of believed the story, but there was something within me that made me go to the public library and get to the bottom of this.

One day, after school was over I went directly to the local public library nearest to my house, which was on Olympic. Eventually the library became a dental office and finally an aquarium. Today that place is painted in navy blue with gold fish floating on the concrete blocks. Occasionally one spots the acronym of the locals that claim that as their territory and who’ve seem to have dug in deep roots. The Korean man that owns the aquarium has no clue what was there before he moved in and who are the thugs that spray paint on his wall.

I walked into the library and asked the librarian for help. Inside were books, and the mellow yellow glow from the lights made the walls, books and furniture have a dark beige aqua tint aura. The librarian looked ancient, but was very kind and helpful. I wanted to find out more about Bloody Mary, if she had really existed and eaten her kids and drank their blood. Of course what I was undertaking was tantamount to learning things from the occult, but I was not frightened away, somehow I had this belief that a book would have concrete information about this so-called Bloody Mary. The book was opened by the librarian. Her slow moving fingers that looked like dried mango peels directed me to the section that talked about Bloody Mary. In that small section I discovered that she had been the Queen Mary the First of England, and that she had had several miscarriages, which at that time I wasn't sure what it meant. Then right below that was some information about a drink that involved some vegetable juice and alcohol.

What was odd about this whole superstitious event was that it permeated into our regular student lives. Bloody Mary could be summoned in the bathroom of our school, and could even change your shoes to give you a good scare. I tried calling Bloody Mary a few times, and I was really scared. The times I tried it I expected glowing red eyes on the other side of the reflective glass but only my own reflection could be seen. I prayed before calling out her name, and I was glad that nothing happened afterwards.

What was a story about the Queen of England  doing in our elementary school? Well, the only explanation is that we were students in the US and we were growing up in a community that had its strange beliefs of “La Llorona,” “Judas,” “El Cucuy,” and “El Chupacabras,” but we were also, by osmosis, being exposed to the greater culture that existed. Of course all the names mentioned above plus Blood Mary created fear in us. We’d debate amongst ourselves trying to figure out the overall profile of the Blood Mary. Some said that she had long bloody fingernails that were dripping in calves blood, while others just mentioned the eyes that glowed red or green. No one ever really had a good view of her because they were too scared to stick around and see her come out of the mirror. Yet, it left one wondering. None of my classmates ever did disappear because they’d called her name. 

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Eight): El Piojito

Part 8: El Piojito

By Armando Ortiz

My dad once told me a story. It was about how my mom got swindled out of fifty dollars. It took place a half a block down the street from where I stood that day. In front of the Botanica del Pueblo, on the corner of 7th and Alvarado, is where a man and woman desperately approached my mom and sold her a gold nugget. They told her they needed the money in order to fly back to their hometown. It turned out that the stone had been painted over with gold paint. The tricksters probably bought food and laughed at how another poor and naïve country bumpkin had been fooled once again.

El Piojito or in other words The Tiny Lice was near that intersection and directly across the street from MacArthur Park. Its logo was a cartoon of a smiling kid who had two antennae coming out of the top of its head. The store wasn’t the size of a louse, but it was a nice way of referring to a store that was small. One could buy all kinds of things inside. El Piojito was a downsized version of a third rate mall and we went there every other weekend to buy stuff like pans, slippers, shirts, detergent, deodorants and maybe a couple pairs of pants. One day, I wandered out of the store and decided to wait on my mom by the sidewalk. Out in the open things moved and the hum of cars could be heard.

I saw pedestrian traffic pass bye, and observed people float on towards unknown places. You could also see the street vendors that peddled their mangos, cacahuates Japoneses, and pepinos with sal and limon. It all seemed like water coming out of a faucet that pours onto the sink. The swish of the movements was like artificial white noise to my ears. I stood outside the entrance, looking across the street where three giant fountains were spewing water up into the air. The mist of the water was picked up by the wind and it slowly floated down settling on the one natural lake where ducks still waded. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a group of people all huddled together.

My curiosity got the best of me and I walked over to see what was happening. A game of hide the ball was taking place. The man in charge of the game was using baby food caps, colored in blue, and a tiny foam ball that looked like it had been used for so long that the yellow had turned brown. He kept repeating in a loud inquiring voice, “Adonde esta la bolita, adonde esta la bolita!?” He was dexterous like a magician and shot words rapidly. His eyes goggled every which way resembling those stuffed bunny rabbits. Occasionally he’d stretch his neck and turn to left and right as if to see what was happening on opposite corners of the street. The foam ball hovered on top of the black velvet cloth that the man had placed over his makeshift platform. He moved the caps swiftly, but I could see where the ball was going. The tiny inanimate object was directly across from my eyes. The sidewalk everyone stepped on was speckled with black spots of bubble gum contrasting with the grey cement. For some reason the sky that day was a deep blue, unlike any other sky blue I’d ever seen blanketing the city.

       

The man’s skin was a red mahogany. He wore a brown shirt that had white stripes running horizontally across his upper body. His hair was uncut and large curls were forming. He’d been out in the sun for longer than a day. I couldn’t quite tell if anyone was winning or losing money. I wasn’t playing nor could play because of my age and because frankly speaking kids weren’t the target for these hustlers. It was other people they were trying to get and who knows if they were successful at what they were doing. I found it fascinating though, and twice was able to guess where the ball was. Of course with those types of games odds were drastically stacked against the person betting their money. Looking back now I imagine that the man running the game most likely had some watchers and some people standing guard in case something funny happened.

I don’t remember what happened after my mom stepped out of the store. We probably walked to the car, got into the little Datsun and rode back home. I do remember telling my mom that I’d guess the location of the ball twice. She just smiled and swayed her head left to right in disapproval. “Did you win anything?” she inquired. “No,” was my reply. Her arm extended outwards and with her finger pointed up to the sky and reminisced out loud on that Tuesday afternoon that she left her town. 

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Seven): Splitting of Electrons

Part 7: Splitting of Electrons 

By Armando Ortiz

All you get is the splitting of electrons. That is what she said after I explained to her what it is that I was seeing and feeling. I had been tripping pretty hard that day and the world that existed outside of myself came in to focus. I had been aware of the world that I live in and the daily transactions that take place with one another. However, this particular day it all changed. 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 by and at times saw the tops of their cars, and at other times people I looked at the people on platforms just enjoying the whole view of the event. I was at the center of all the chaos taking place. Everything was happening before me and around me, and I realized that all that was outside of myself was a sort of organized chaos, but what about myself, my mind, my being? I was the center and the center was a mess. My thoughts also represented a type of chaos. Chaos that was disorganized or organized? But what of my thoughts and the world at large? What was after all that? What was there between my thoughts and the rest of the internal chaos? She’d been listening to me talk, and at times looked around and spotted random decorated bicycles.

“Well, after that all you have is the splitting of electrons,” giving a smile after her reply.

“Hahahaha…” that 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 the 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, the tall buildings that look offensive when compared to the distant backdrop of the Azusa mountains. All we have is splitting of electrons.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Six): El Biker

Part 6: El Biker

By Armando Ortiz

Back when my dad had volunteered us to work at the recently purchased church new people began appearing randomly for a moment or decided to stay for a long while.It seemed that the congregation kept getting bigger and bigger, hence the need to move to a larger locale. Relocating to the new church meant a lot of sacrifices for the congregation that was made up of blue collar workers. Some members would end up moving to other churches after the newly acquired church had been restored to a new glimmering sanctuary  because they felt that the congregation was no longer homely. The stained glass windows, which were in fact made of some kind of plastic, now filtered light much clearly and one saw strawberry reds, deep metallic greens, and gold chocolate foil.

During the time that was spent restoring the church there came a new member of the church who dressed like a cowboy, well more really like a stockier, taller, and darker version of Wyatt, one of the main characters of Easy Rider. In the film Peter Fonda was a more refined version of a biker/smuggler, Carlos on the other hand was Central American, and his hair was curly and his shirts seemed a bit tight at the waist. I don’t recall much of the person, though he once said he was from El Salvador. There was this one time, while he was working on the chain link fence that some of my buddies and I approached him. We peppered him with questions about all sorts of things. He wore black cowboy boots and claimed he’d been a biker. For the past five years he’d been riding here and there and everywhere. I didn’t pay much heed to what he said, but I thought the boots were cool, so was his belt. Maybe the question arose because compared to all the members of the church who dressed conservatively with their church etiquette, he stood out. 

He kept working on the chain link fence that stretched to the other end of the lot, and then pointed to the bike he rode. “I used to ride around with bikers and we’d go up to the mountains and have barbecues.” The bike was black with some orange lettering on the sides of the gas tank. The two piston motor glistened, reflecting the afternoon sun. The handles were slightly lifted and the back wheel was enamel black. It wasn’t new, but it was clean. The front wheel was chrome, and gave the motorcycle a certain character; a certain aura projected that emanated flawlessness. The church brother certainly had taste. “It’s a Harley-Davidson,” he said, “Though if you ever get a motorcycle get a Honda. Ese bolado’s given me many problems, but it’s all mine.” He seemed out of place in the church and out in the real world, but he was being helpful and doing good work.

We once found him playing the piano inside the church, we asked him what he was playing and he said he was playing Sonata Bach. We asked him if it was his girlfriend, and he said it wasn't a woman but a musical piece by a man that no longer was living, but that one day, if we remembered we’d re-discover his beautiful music. That day he wore a leather vest, over a white shirt. He continued playing on the old wall piano. We just stared at the strange cowboy that had appeared out of nowhere. He’d close his eyes, and his fingers dexterously moved left to right.

“Jose!,” someone called out. Marco, the guy supervising the restoration of the church signaled that our help was needed outside. He got up from the stool and headed towards the entrance to the church. The pack of church kids followed behind. Outside the weather was typical Southern California weather, sunny and warm. Two palm trees were on the curbside of Adams Blvd.

One day we were coming back from playing basketball. The adults had set up a half court in front of the church’s parking lot. We’d been called to go inside and help around. We were carrying some stuff to the pulpit where once again we found him sitting on the piano bench. He was having his lunch, Louisiana Chicken, which he’d brought down the street. He squeezed the ketchup package on his food, topping the fried chicken with the red sauce. I asked him why he ate his chicken with ketchup, “That’s how I like to eat fried chicken,” he replied with a smile, looking straight into my eyes. He was a jack of all trades. I don’t recall much after that and it seems that as he appeared from out of nowhere to help in the rebuilding of the church, once the project was done he disappeared in a snap, merging with traffic, either driving east or west on Adams Boulevard. He probably drove west and saw the sunset before he followed wherever his wandering soul took him.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Five): Plum Tree

   

Part 5: Plum Tree

By Armando Ortiz

During this time, I was just in third grade, as mentioned earlier. In the front yard of the duplex where I lived was a plum tree, and every spring there was a blossoming of violet papier-mâché like blossoms. I really didn’t give it much thought back then, to me the tree was all that it was, a tree, but I do recall spending hours playing around its cool shade. Sometimes I would go up and play with my G.I. Joes, other times I would climb up and get lost in the labyrinth of my imagination, thinking of the tree house that could be built on it and of the endless vistas that I could see while resting on the branches.

The fruit that the tree bore was not that tasty; at least that is how I remember the tiny peach/plumbs being. The fruit seemed to never fully ripen and even after they reached the delicate yin yang of yellow and orange they still were not sweet. My mother would cook the peach/plums to caramelize them by mixing water, cinnamon, panela and pieces of platano along with the small fruit. This rustic process made the sour fruit edible and delicious. A few days later, when the tiny peach/plums were ready to eat my mom would let us eat them. The caramelized fruit would stay in the refrigerator for a few days inside a round glass bowl and everything inside would slowly disappear.

Something that did annoy me was the incessant amount of resin that came out the tree. Sometimes while climbing the tree my hands would get smothered by a glob of young amber. The tree trunk had it on its bark, and so did the ends of the tiny fruits, it was as if the tree was always weeping this sticky substance. In the hot summer days I especially loved climbing up the tree and lying on one of the branches pretending to be lost in the jungle, hiding in the cool shade of the dense green foliage. Now the tree is no longer there, I guess a few years after we moved out the owners decided to cut down the tree.

Driving through South Central: Sketches of Los Angeles

Driving through South Central L.A.

by Armando Ortiz

He witnessed the palpable urgency in the people passing by. Each street seemed to possess a small shrine on the corner, devoted to the Virgin Mary. The image of her adorned the walls of mom and pop shops, and every exchange of money was accompanied by expressions of gratitude towards the heavens, thanking them for the chance to live one more day. These celestial powers favored those who would rest with a full belly and allowed them to offer gratitude as they strolled in and out of random 99 cent stores, liquor stores, discount fashion stores and auto part stores. This part of the city’s fabric was woven with the working class, pimps, mechanics, kids sporting USC shirts and sweaters, street vendor, city employees, undocumented workers, DVD bootleggers, street women, tamaleros, sellers of pleather belts, punk rockers, rural cowboys, fruit salad peddlers, and street corner evangelists. It blended together into an exotic tapestry reminiscent of a travel journal chronicling a journey through an unknown third-world country. These streets offered anything and everything one could be purchased while driving through them.

If one found themselves running late for an appointment without having eaten, they could purchase a tamal from a sidewalk vendor. The tamalera usually sold cheese tamales with jalapenos, green chili tamales with chicken and spicy red sauce tamales with shredded beef. On cold days, selections of champurado and atole were also available. If one was on their way to pick up a date, they could drive down to the next block, buy a freshly cut bouquet of red roses, and have someone across the street expertly gift wrap a present. In these streets, no one had rest, and everyone worked on New Year’s day.

It all felt surreal, yet it was here that the true Southern California car culture thrived at its peak. This was where motorized movement converged with human movement, creating an unforgettable and distinct experience he had never witnessed before. It was a cosmopolitan scene that heightened all six senses.  Every individual, whether actively engaging or merely driving through, played a role in this grand drama unfolding. Exhaust fumes mingles with phone conversations, music blaring banda or hip hop from every speaker, and the hum of passing vehicles. The scene was punctuated by the motorcycle cop’s siren, halting an Asian man driving his BMW right in front of a beauty salon and a fish frying market. Everything seemed to dissolve into an intangible force that the wind uses to transport objects, its destination unknown.

Driving through the streets of South Central transported him to another world, replete with forgotten realities. Every other corner boasted a taco truck, with a patient line of seven customers eagerly awaiting their food. Old car lots were repurposed as outdoor diners where the aroma of freshly grilled chicken or fish permeated the air, detectable from blocks away. People gathered at bus stops, embarked or disembarked from public transportation, and walked away from MTA stations. Everyone surrendered themselves to the prevailing forces, immersing themselves in the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles as they merged with the natural ebb and flow of life, each with their own chosen destinations. So much movement transpired that he struggled to grasp its significance. It reminded him of his childhood trips to the river, where he would plunge beneath the rushing river.

Submerged in the river’s depths, he observed gray granite boulders, bubbles ascending lazily, and settled sediment that remained motionless. The river’s current forcefully pushed his body, guiding his face and eyes towards a singular direction. As a child, he wondered of the consequence of surrendering to the river’s force, but the silent boulders hinted at a painful end. He, too, was driven by the urgency to make this month’s rent. Yet amidst the bustling scene, he realized his insignificance in the grand machine of reality. He was a mere cog caught between many gears that propelled the wheel of time forward. However, dwelling on such thoughts was futile. The wheel was turning, and as long as things moved, wether forward or backward, everything would be fine. Rent could be paid, showers could be taken, and later in the night, he could join his friends for a beer.

The urgency with which people moved and acted was difficult for him to comprehend, but he yearned to capture it all. His life was a constantly changing tableau, where greens transformed into browns and grays metamorphosed into ocean blue. The views from his window had changed so frequently that he became attuned to the different cloud patterns in the sky. He noticed that the sun was less intense in the flatlands compared to the mountains, though that also depended on his current location. The air became drier a thousand miles to the east of Los Angeles, while it remained mild near the coast. Today, though, he found himself driving through South Los Angeles, navigating Central Avenue from north to south and driving east to west on Adams Boulevard, Gage Ave and Florence Avenue, zigzagging his way towards an elusive pot of gold.

Unlike his experiences in Asia, where he had traveled extensively, Los Angeles granted him the freedom to point his vehicle in any direction and drive without being confined to long queues or waiting for the next train. In his city, he had the liberty to go wherever he pleased, as long as his vehicle kept running. He was a part of the greater scene, and integral spoke in the wheel, as nature followed its course like a river overflowing its banks and streaming towards unknown destinations in search of lower ground. These invisible spokes of time devoured everything, yet birthed an infinite number of possibilities. A sense of overwhelming desperation engulfed him, causing a shiver to ripple through his body..

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Four): Third Grade

Part 4: Third Grade- Miss Salaimo

By Armando Ortiz

Sometimes people are endowed by the gods, and their assets become more valuable, but all this happens by chance. I came to realize that I was sinning while staring at my teacher’s birthmark. It was strange to look at that mole. I’d confused that dark spot on her skin for a black bean. The moment it had come to focus I immediately felt connected with her. I thought that Ms. Salaimo also ate beans, but then something strange happened. I kept looking, without realizing that the small dark spot was no longer in my visual radar, her cleavage deepened as I lowered my view, and for some reason there was this strange feeling in me. I was looking or at least hoping to catch a full glimpse of the teacher’s breasts.

I was in third grade and all I cared about was playing tether-ball during recess and picking up the games at lunch time. Everything else was just a pastime of amusements and forced work. But today for some reason it seemed different. I kept looking, and wanted to see more, but what else was there to see beyond cleavage, that’s what I kept wondering, but nevertheless it left a deep impression on me and ever since then I stared, though I am sure that she caught on, because there came a point that she scolded me for no apparent reason.

She was a nice teacher and I recall winning several guessing games during the spring of that year. She was one of the first teachers to like my writing, so much so that she entered it in the writing contest that the school had. I recall staying after school and making the book with her. She taught me how to make the binding and put the pages together. In the end the book that I had made looked strange, because it was bigger than the rest, which for some reason I didn’t like. It seemed as if she had tried to make it stand out amongst the other books. I think she really liked her class and simply tried to make us stand out amongst the other third graders. In the end though someone else won the prize, but I won't forget that she helped me make my very first book from scratch, which till today is a memorable experience, and of course for the other memories that would go on to shape me as a man.

Snakes: Sketches of Los Angeles

Snakes 

by Armando Ortiz

He picked up the Diamondback using two sticks, and kept it at arm's distance while observing its body. The snake was brown gray with delicate yellow striped scales that crisscrossed the top of its long body, making four pointed diamonds. Upon being released it slither back into the dry bushes. Later in the evening the snake that he had picked up in the woods showed up at his home. It had mysteriously separated itself into three pieces and somehow gotten inside his room. Every part of the reptile’s body that had been touched by the branches had detached from the other parts and lay on the hardwood floor. The head, with its eye slits that opened and closed had a tongue that kept sticking out and slightly jittered. The body, which was the biggest and longest piece, had an eerie resemblance to beaded jewelry as if it were a Native American belt from the Northwest. Its tail was cut off a few inches away from the rattler and when the acoustic vibration woke him up he recognized 6 layers of hollow cartilage. For a moment Paul thought it was strange to see a rattlesnake on the floor of his room, but he remained calm. The head was near the bookshelf where most of his books were neatly placed. The body was beside the coffee table, while the rattler was laying by the entrance door directly below the poster of Jimi Hendrix.

He was trying to sleep in his own dreams, but was unable to rest. He kept wondering where the loose snake parts were, especially the triangular head.

“A rattlesnake’s head will bite even after being chopped off from its body,” his grandfather once said.

The day’s long hike had really sapped his energy and a dead snake was not going to move him from his spot. He slept on a brown leather couch that had been salvaged from the street a few months back. Prior to having a couch he’d slept on the mahogany floor. Having a bed inside a small studio took up too much space. It was located on the same wall as the entrance, but on the other corner of the room. From where he was he saw how all the pieces and himself made an imaginary trapezoid.  The fact that there were snake parts scattered inside the bachelor pad was a bit worrisome. Every now and then he’d raise his head and see if there was danger nearby. He had the same sensation that he got when he went to visit his mom, who lived near downtown Los Angeles in one of the more interesting neighborhoods of the city, Pico-Union.

The parts were now in different parts of the room. The head had wandered near the entrance of the kitchenette, and the body was right next to the book shelf directly in front the first row of books, while the tail was directly below the key holder that was next to the entrance and announced "Aqui estan las putas llaves." Every individual piece had a mind of its own as if each part were slowly transforming into a snake.

Paul kept trying to fall asleep attempting to ignore the visitors. All of them were inside the room, alone, with four walls and a ceiling that enclosed everything. The room had good insulation and kept things tidy during the winter. The pieces were scattered, and kept wandering. For a moment it seemed as if Jimi’s eyes were blinking. At first he hadn’t thought much about the snake being in his house because generally snakes are harmless to humans. This was different though, it was inside his room. The snake had become an intruder, an unwelcome interloper. The detached parts seemed to mind their own business like they would out in the wilderness. Nevertheless, fear kept shaking him awake. The head opened its mouth and quickly closed it shut. Fright steadily spread through Paul’s body like an oil spill that just keeps moving and sticking to everything. Western Diamondbacks carry lethal venom. Tired, he turned around to see where the snake parts were, and once he spotted them tried going back to his erratic sleep but the malignant slick kept him awake. The walls seemed to be moving closer from all directions, including the ceiling. There were crawling noises that resembled a vinyl record being played. There was a faint popping and rasp as when the music on a record player is about to start with air pressure vibrations going through the needle converting them into sound. Something was slithering out of the speakers of reality before the actual music had commenced.

Paul kept thinking about the length of each fang. He imagined the fangs being three inches long and that somehow they'd pierce his neck. A sensation of being pierced spread through his body and made him shiver. He finally sat up to see where the snake pieces were. As his upper body lifted itself from the warm cushions his eyes saw the detached head of the diamondback swallow its own tail, which then proceeded to swallow its body. It was the craziest scene that he'd ever dreamed.

The scene startled him awake. The shirt he wore was wet on his back and his face was pale. He really believed there was a snake around where he lay. Convincing himself that nothing was meant by the strange dream, except that it's best not to have poisonous snakes as pets, he quickly sat up.

“If one comes across a dead snake while hiking, dispose of it as soon as possible” he remembered his grandfather telling him once.

"It's best to let snakes deal with snakes," he mumbled to himself.

He put it in the bin that was in the kitchenette, pulled the bag out making a knot, and headed to the backdoor. Turning the brass door knob he felt the cold from the outside. Opening the door brought in a nice cool breeze. Breathing the early morning air gave a soothing sensation to the lungs. He stepped outside, and carrying the bag, he walked to the dumpster that was around the duplex in the alley. His feet felt the cool cement, it was nice to walk on it at this time. The morning was fresh and the stars were still out. It was barely 4a.m. and there was hardly any sound in the streets. There were no bird sounds. They were all snuggled up in their tiny nest and dreaming good dreams. There would be no more snakes in his home or in his dreams ever again.