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.

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.

Clouds at a Distance: Sketches of Los Angeles

Clouds at a Distance

by Armando Ortiz

He sat on the slope of the hill, under a tree, watching the tears fall onto the ground. Every falling drop looked like dense soap bubbles, shimmering on the surface. It was an oily substance which the sun had been extracting from his body all afternoon. Disillusionment had betrayed him far too many times, but today it was replaced with a tremendous sadness that he hadn’t felt in years. Time, it seemed, was suspended within those tears, creating a whirlwind of tie-dyed colors. Sitting there, sobbing, watching every teardrop soak the ground unveiled a terrible beauty in that falling liquid which came from the core of his being. His heart, ever since he’d decided to take the journey north, had turned into a tiny factory of tears, and it seemed that blood no longer pumped through his veins, instead it was an emotional substance of which he had yet to know the name.

The recent heat wave brought back hidden memories, when as a kid his grandfather would threaten to put his hand on the comal, which he had the luck to feel twice, but the warnings and threats never really amounted to much. He covered his face by bending it a bit, and pulling his baseball cap over his forehead. Memories of his past youth rushed through his body like a cold river, giving him a slight shiver. He recalled playing street ball on the dirt roads, where his imagination was as wide as those rural streets, where most of the time those roads were trampled by cattle and sheep. In that old town, where he bought frozen topos from the old lady down the street, small plastic bags filled with sugar cane water mixed with vanilla. It tasted divine, and immediately cooled his body.

In a split second he was transported back to where he was, under a tree, on the side of the cement trail, inside Pan Pacific Park, on the westside of Los Angeles. He could hear the chatter of kids and the splashing of water that came from the public swimming pool that was above from where he sat. The sparrows sang their listless chirps. The croaking crows were especially oppressive, as if they were all opening up beer cans in unison, and gulping down a cold one just for their amusement. They gave off a devilish laughter that could only mean one thing, they knew who the culprit was, but they had no intention of snitching. Birds of all types perched on branches, crossing through his vision and circling around him, as if they were checking to see how he was doing. They were a silent collective witness to what had just happened. A hollow ting suddenly pierced the summer sounds. His eyes wandered for a bit to find its origin and then he spotted the kid, who had just hit the ball and was sliding into first base. The first base umpire’s body language made it clear that the kid was safe.

Los Angeles had been enjoying one of its lingering late summer heat waves, business was booming, and the area where Esquiviel was working was fairly safe. Yet today the cards were not on his side. He had taken the deal, and taken a slight risk. All there was left inside the popsicle cart was dry ice. Dry ice was all that there was inside the cart, and its vapors were quickly disappearing into the invisible air.  Not only had he sold all the popsicles by early afternoon, but he was getting ready to watch a soccer game, when suddenly out of nowhere, a fist hammered his temple, which then became a pair of hands that stole the money he had made that day, all 80 dollars. His wallet, his only treasure, which contained some photos of his wife and child, had been snatched from his pocket.

He laid on the ground for a few seconds. Then some ladies spotted him. A group of ladies taking their afternoon walk noticed him on the ground, unconscious. They ran over to see what was wrong with him. Maybe he needed some medical help. They found him in a complete daze. Seeing the old ladies that were helping him revived scenes of the women that regularly attended mass in his hometown. They wore headscarves, long sleeve shirts, and long dresses, but no, he was here, not over there, and their clothes weren’t as colorful as the ones worn back home. These ladies were simply helping him out.

As the landscape came into focus he saw three sparrows under the shade of a shrub, three small creatures that were dust bathing. He could make out an imaginary triangle that the birds made, while they wiggled and made tiny little dust bowls. He didn’t really understand what the voices were saying, because he didn’t know English well. As he was trying to decipher the strange language spoken to him, one of the ladies pulled out a handkerchief, and walked over to the water fountain to get it wet. She returned in less time than it took to get there and wiped some of the dirt that was on his face. He was dizzy, like when he got really drunk with his buddies. He felt hot, as if he was back in his hometown, under an oppressive humid heat. The sweat on his shirt gave him a tingling cold shiver, but the warm hands of the lady brought him back to the park. Her granite eyes made contact with his obsidian eyes and for a moment he felt like a kid again. The sparrows dared to get closer and see for themselves what was going on. He smiled, and said, “ees ohkay, no problem.” The same lady that had wiped his face sat him under a tree, while the youngest one, who was about twenty-four years old, brought the popsicle cart over to him. Their words sounded like early Sunday mass prayers, he thought. Once they saw that he’d just been knocked unconscious, and nothing serious was happening, they smiled, waved at him and resumed their walk. The sparrows took flight when the ladies left.

He sat under the shade of a tree thinking of what had just happened. Within 5 minutes he’d been knocked unconscious by a stranger, robbed of his money, helped to regain consciousness and cleaned by a group of kind ladies. Yet despite all this drama time hadn’t stopped, the chatter of kids could be heard, the sun above was still there, as hot as ever, and birds continued to fly here and there.

He gazed at the park, moving his head from left to right, and right to left, taking in the moment. Kids were playing baseball, the playground was full of toddlers running around playing tag. Other kids sat on swings that swayed left to right, and side to side. At a distance he saw two sun bathers, laying on the grass on a slight slope, reading some magazines. Not too far away from them he also saw some homeless people sleeping under the shade of a tree, above the cool grass, with their bikes next to them. The soccer match had already started, the one he’d intended to watch, America vs. Chivas.

A nice breeze blew through his face and the palm trees rustled. The pine trees moved, as if the pine needles were sweeping the invisible landscape of time. The wind, and the trees were cleaning the air, and moving the smog to another place. The warm air dried up the tears that had been running down his cheeks a moment ago. There and then his frown became a smile. The whole moment swept him into a realization that all that was before him was beautiful. The clouds at a distance moved unusually fast, and would soon disappear.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Three): Stained Glass Windows

Part 3: Stained Glass Windows

By Armando Ortiz

One never really thinks of the events that are happening before one’s eyes. It's as if one is performing on the world stage, yet not conscious. We only become aware of the fact after several years have passed. This was the case for Pedro, who even after 20 years of having seen the events that are about to be described never gave it much thought, but dispensed of the memories like any other event. He was at the Getty museum visiting for the first time and was impressed at the amount of religious artifacts that were on exhibit. Upon entering the hall that contained Medieval art brought back a flood of memories that surprised him to say the least. At least that is how it seemed, but maybe these past events in conjunction with a series of religious symbols had a stronger and more profound effect on his unconscious.

When Pedro was a kid his dad volunteered the family to work in the restoration of an old church building that had been recently purchased by the congregation of which they were members. Being the son of a carpenter meant that he would be doing some painting, some cleaning and some looking around. There were many rooms on the second floor of the church, and every room had one or two stained glass windows that could be slightly opened. One could look down the side of the building from these windows, and see the bricks that made up the outer wall of the church. To the north of the building was an alley, and to the south was the main entrance. There were two entrances actually, one to the west and the other to the east, nevertheless they all faced south.

Stained glass windows, he’d never seen stained glass windows up close, and when he saw pieces of it on the ground thought that if improperly picked up the pieces would cut his fingers. He soon discovered that the crimson pieces that were found on the floor were made of plastic and not glass. The pieces being part of the church obviously carried an aura of sacredness, but even these pieces had to be thrown away. Most of the colors were like that hard candy that we love to eat as little kids. Jolly Ranchers are solid candies, made up of primary colors that taste sour, sweet, and tangy. Except that the stained glass was just plastic, that’s all it was. But looking at the windows he felt like he was actually seeing a mosaic of hard candy colors made to fit a puzzle. This puzzle was placed on an opening of a wall, filtering the outside light that entered the inside of the sanctuary. There was something about that observation that made him think that stained glass windows were as sacred as a cross. The alley had many pieces of this stained glass and for some reason most of it was raspberry red. All over the edge of the wall that faced the alley the ground was littered with raspberry red plastic.

Occasionally some boys showed up on the side of the church that faced the alley. They would meet up in the afternoons and just hang out and write on the walls with spray paint. Breaking open the empty paint cans used for their graffiti they would inhale whatever fumes were inside and get high. Sometimes they’d be seen drinking old Schlitz 40oz bottles, and after emptying them of beer would start throwing them on the ground. It was suspected that they’d broken the windows of the basement, but it was only a guess and no one ever confronted them, and besides the building had been empty when it was purchased.

In the alley where the kids congregated was an old burned out car that was all tagged up. It seemed like the car had been there forever. It was incinerated, lacking windows, and doors. Only the metal skeleton of the car revealed that it had once been driven and abandoned there. The seats of the unknown car had been pulled out and placed by the wall, and some of the leaders would sit on them and get plastered. The kids would smoke whatever they smoked and ride around the alley on their bikes. The alley was their secret get away where they could get intoxicated and hang out. It must have been their escape from the reality of the outside world. Amongst the ruins of a post apocalyptic scene they found an embryonic solace that most likely was not available at home. Yet this solace was found next to a church, which they probably assumed was not being used.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Two): Outlines

Part 2: Outlines

By Armando Ortiz

Another memory that comes to mind, when the citipati comes out and circles around my mind, is the sudden appearance of two images in the middle of the playground of our elementary school. Our school didn’t have a grassy area, it was just one long asphalt field where kids played basketball, tetherball, kickball and other games. In the summer the black playground seemed to radiate more heat than the sun’s rays. The images resembled astronauts spacewalking, suspended in space, like the image of the first cosmonauts that orbited the earth. In between these two images was something that we believed to be a light-saber, like the ones used in the space wars film.

The unnatural beings appeared to be suspended in mid flight within a petrol background, giving the impression that time had suddenly stopped for the astronauts. Space, in this case, was where we played kickball. A black lake of asphalt with solid yellow lines indicating where kids lined up in the mornings and played during the day. Outlines, these were the only remnants the travelers had left behind, as if the black grounds had made them disappear.  The ground was hard, and we ran from one end to the other. We stepped on the outlines and bounced the basketball over the images for days, weeks and months until the rubber of our soles and soccer balls finally made them disappear. Those that had laid there were no longer present, leaving behind a cookie cutter image of themselves. Maybe it had been kids writing on the ground, dreaming and drawing what they would be when they grew up, space explorers. Similar to the assignment every kid gets by outlining one’s body on a piece of paper, cutting it out and drawing in personal details.

Who had been outlined on our playground and why hadn’t the markings been removed soon afterward is something that I ask myself. Why did these images give the impression that they were men in space, lethargically moving and floating in a cold environment that very few people get to experience. Is death an experience so individual and so haunting that even as a child I ignored it and believed that quite possibly these images were of two people break dancing to the music that was popular back then. For a long time my naïve mind wasn’t able to conceptualize what the white outlines were. Looking back now I realize that this was a crime outline of two people who had lost their lives on our playground.

Across the street from the school was a house that was covered with evergreen vines, and everyone in our class thought it was not only haunted but kept by a solitary strange lady. We’d heard that an old lady lived inside. Next to our school was also an abandoned house that sheltered occasional vagrants and unknown people. Strange things were said to happen inside that house, things that as kids we didn't want to dwell too much on, like wandering spirits and those that loved the night. These residential areas were creepier and haunting than the images that had been aero-soled on the ground. We thought twice about going near those places, yet we didn’t care if the outlines were possibly of two people who had been characters in a real life game of Street Fighter. 

These images revealed things that kids were too young to understand, the increasing problems that the city was facing was one part. What kept us preoccupied most back then was going to recess, eating lunch and playing with our buddies. After school we all went back home and watched cartoons. Occasionally stopping to look at the supposedly haunted houses next to the school. It was believed that at night screams could be heard from the empty house. From the outside we could see the acronyms sprayed on the walls of the house and the nicknames of unknown ghosts painted on the stairs, names like Spooky, Tecolote, and Sombra. Everything seemed to exist in the magical realms of cartoon reality and primitive necessity. The perceived unknown was familiar to us, like a gun fight taking place in front of our homes, and the stories told by parents and what we saw on the screens brought fear to our thoughts, like the wicked witch of the east.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part One): Drawings

Part 1: Drawings

By Armando Ortiz

Memories of my elementary school years suddenly dance out from the hidden catacombs of the mind, like citipati. Salsa or Cumbias are not emanating from the bowels of my subconscious; it’s more like simple ritual dances meant to honor the moon and ancient spirits. Images seen with the eyes but not lived or experienced become more and more haunting as I become older, and at times can only understand or explain things under the hypnotic rattling coming from an old tortoise rattle. 

I was in the second grade, and on a particular day was drawing on a notebook. A bunch of buddies of mine were drawing spaceships and rockets.  Each one had their own notebook or piece of paper to draw their image. One of them, who was from El Salvador, kept drawing some strange things. We found it strange the way he drew his bombs, and couldn’t pinpoint what were the things drawn or how those instruments could be used. Generally speaking, projectiles with bombs flew to the heavens, but this was different. The drawing he made looked like pointy dreidel tops that are used for games where one spins the tops, and instead of having markings that told the player what they had won after the spinning had stopped his bombs were left blank. There was no reason to draw these funny looking things, but that is beside the point. The point is that it created vexation amongst us because it couldn’t be identified; maybe I was the only one from the group that was unable to see the meaning behind what the kid drew. 

I remember asking him, “What are those things?,” and he replied with a blank stare, “Bombs.”

“Bombs?,” I replied with an incredulous wave of intonation.

“Yes,” he said.

The only images I had of bombs back then were of dynamite sticks that resembled large firecrackers. Big red dynamite sticks that had ACME plastered on the sides and came out in cartoon programs. The missiles that projected out of the television were always shooting up to the heavens. Interestingly these missiles, as they were drawn by me were always pointing up or passing through clouds.  I recall going back to my desk and drawing a version of what proper bombs looked like to show him, drawing them all cool and explaining to him how real bombs went up and how sometimes if they were made of gunpowder its fuse could be lit with a match. Dynamite sticks could also be turned into rudimentary rockets that could be ridden, like the coyote who was always chasing the roadrunner.

Almost anything that was related to bombs or missiles always went up into the heavens, hypnotizing audiences across the US while in other places bombs were falling projectiles that struck their target. On the other hand, here in the states we were busy stargazing, looking up at the shooting rockets or at stars that came out on television every day. Living a reality that was carefree and easy going and detached from the life of those that were migrating to the US, more specifically Los Angeles. 

Our classmate had escaped a civil war. His depictions of bombs were based on his personal experiences. What he drew were actual hand grenade sticks, RPGs and mortar shells that had fallen on people from his neighborhood, ammunition that he’d seen guerrillas and government forces carry by the loads. The bombs he drew actually fell, landed and blew up, bursting with loud bangs, giving sudden roars, raining showers of blood, brains and dirt. Unlike the coyote though, people that survived a bomb explosion rarely continued going about their business or had a quick recovery like he had.

Kids born in the US had no idea what war was, and what real bombs were. We were in second grade, it was the mid-1980s, and the Civil Wars in Central America were at its peak. People from El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua and Guatemala were flooding the streets of Los Angeles, more specifically Alvarado and Pico. They hadn’t had time to recover from the violence that was happening around them, but quickly left those places, and unlike the Coyote didn’t fully resume with their daily lives. It was during an era of Michael Jackson, Madonna, Pink Floyd, and Guns n Roses were at the top of the pop charts. The War on Drugs against urban centers and the poor was just beginning to take effect. Punky Brewster hadn’t had her breast reduction and Gary Coleman was being swindled by his own family. We were growing up in fast times, gazing up into the heaven looking at stars, and at school playing kickball at recess and tetherball for lunch was our main concern.