Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Alchemy of words: Short piece


Alchemy of words

By Armando Ortiz


The tears of our mother cut through the ground making natural mesa roads.

A tear gently rolls down your flushed cheeks falling to the thirsty ground.

Barren land becomes a field of flowering shoots of morning greens.

Your warmth gives me inspiration, and your hot skin determination.

She is our Holy Mountain of sacred valleys prospering under cloudy skies.

But your body becomes home, and I get lost inside the carnal labyrinth.

You carry a breath that is a blanket for my sleep.

With a belly that keeps a wild garden of roses and delicate blood orange poppies.

The alchemy of your words is the spider web of your presence that has me in a spell.

She calls out our name and gives us her daily bread, and now she cries.

But you know my name, bearing the fruit of promise, giving me reason to stay awake.


Saturday, December 12, 2015

Winter Day: Arbor Day at Honey Badger


Winter Day: Honey Badger

by Armando Ortiz


We sat there on the benches recalling,

Arbor Day in Ann Arbor, like it was yesterday.


Precambrian weather and frozen plains,

Hanukkah aligning with the stars, and

Saturnalia directly following along.


Rompope warmed our hearts, and

hard-sauce calmed the cold, putting it at bay, though

frosty nights took over the long evening, with

Bullring hours that tackled our sleep.


Negligee dreams during those winter days gave way to lights

Rear-ended by morning glory rays of light.


Now mornings are warmed with cups of champurrado

soothing our bodies as the cool chill is pushed aside

and a new day is about to rise.


Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Thoughts and sketches


Thoughts and Sketches

by Armando Ortiz


1. Anger takes a hold of us all

words of hurt are like waterfall

that hurt you more than the gnaw

that is produced when to them a

truth whose door has been opened ajar.


2. If you are thrown into water infested with jellyfish how will you make it out?

How do you survive an onslaught of stings and make it to the surface, but then how are they removed?

How do you stop the trajectory of a bullet that has been released from the barrel of a shotgun?


3. When you smell a rat, you get out, and fast.

When things are not working out and words

do not match the reality then something must be wrong.

How does attitude affect the outcome in many instances?

How does one create characters that come to life?


4. Waves produce an image that

reminds me of when you slept.

Even sleep can be a pleasure

when peace takes hold of our senses.


5. Rolling hills of endless orange groves

sit idle under the early summer sun.

the citrus scent taps and opens memories

when our youth seemed to last forever.


6. He would make paper airplanes

and from the second floor of the school building

would launch them out and see the planes

slowly sing and glide towards the roof of the cafeteria.


7. Corn shoots emerge from the ground

nourished by the volcanic soil of the land

and tended by dark hands that were dipped

in buckets of light, making them cracked with bones exhausted.

A language sprouted from the earth and conquered by foreign language.


8. Silence in the eyes, and the mind

containing secret memories of things unseen

and told by the outside.

A vessel filled with thoughts and experiences.

The beauty of landscapes misinterpreted and lost in the

soul of a young child replaced with modern words

and linear worlds.


9. Rats devour the spirit

and gnaw on the soul.

Rodents run around hallways

searching for prey.


10. Exponential experiences end up expanding

our elemental minds.

Intention transfers over to the over.


11. The imprint of out mother

appears through the air

a thin veil cover her hair,

revealing her pink lips.


12. truth is released through the final exhale of life.


13. Turtle island is where we live

and with every war the shell gets

brittle.


13. Natural and man-made

artifacts alone are just objects.

We imbued things with the energies

that radiate from within.

the human condition,

hard to contain and impossible to

Decipher.


Sunday, August 16, 2015

Drifting Swifts: Hirundinidae of the Mind


Drifting Swallows: Hirundinidae of the Mind

By Armando Ortiz

If I were to choose a bird to become, then a migrating swift would be the choice. They shoot through the air, as I climb the Baldwin Hills State Park dirt trail that brings back scenes of things I once saw. These passerine birds travel and wander from north to south during winter, spring, and fall moving according to natures’ cycle of seasons, making one wonder where we fit in this enormous circle of life.


I see Hirundinidae travel high across the lavender sage sky, towards the eastern horizon that’s splashed with hibiscus. Flying, flapping its wings, like the hands of a gypsy belly dancer, a silhouette of black hands swaying in midair, swirling like the martins I saw in China; gliding and diving fast, inches above the edge of hills and slopes, centimeters from the surface of Weiming Lake, catching food, and eating tiny insects. Making Buddhist hand poses that pass me bye, and become the hands of Chinese sword dancers- invisible limbs gliding toward unknown trajectories, manipulating themselves and maneuvering toward their destination.


All I do is hike along the trail on this barren Los Angeles hill, where wild grass has turned golden, and diving birds that brush their breast against the long narrow leaves with pointed beak to the heavens. Ivory belly cliff swallows with rust colored throats, like a four fingered hand making a W that slashes the edges of the dried desert grass, manicuring the mounds, and wicking away tiny locusts that jump out of the bristles of golden wheat. Starting from some imaginary peak above the highest point of the hill, and freely letting gravity take hold- like a roller coaster that goes down that steep fall, stomach touching your throat. Diving into a dense fog of humanity with feathers being at its control, and nimbly swimming through the wind like Kamikaze divers. Swerving down a winding road like a wild skateboarder, in absolute control of its moves. Yet all that moves are my legs that fight against gravity with every rise and push of the knee.


They continue to pass me bye, flapping, scissor shaped bodies that cut the onshore breeze that moves east as the sun slumbers down the horizon. The silhouette of these migratory birds, black against the red coral sky, dancing in the air and ceremoniously waving at the sun as it sinks down, becoming shadow puppets that are alive, saying goodbye to day-time. But there is more to be told, because on a trip to the Northwest, it was blue martins and green swallows that I saw. Glimmering martins clothed in lapis lazuli that kept circling around me as I walked toward Jimi Hendrix’s grave. I even had the chance to record this very miracle, where royal purple was the main color of the flowers growing along the edge of his memorial, and strokes of shimmering indigo were the birds that flew around the granite pillars, performing a midday light show welcoming this southern visitor.


Along that same trip, I saw smaller versions of these swallows, but green was their garb, a green that was closer to emerald or maybe metallic green, but not as deep and dark as a quetzal- a shimmering green. They probably spend their time diving between the plateaus of Oregon and Washington on the wide Columbia River gorge. Sidewinding like a roller coaster through the air, free to move anywhere opposite to where the summer winds go, and maybe occasionally swooping down to get a sip of water. I’ve only advanced a few feet, trudging up the hill slowly reaching the top, to see the skyline, and these migratory birds compel my mind, involuntarily springing forth memories that become one endless connection between past and present. These tree swallows are quite a wonder making you think if it’s bad to be envious of such a wanderer. If even for a second I could be- then I’d tilt my wings on an angle and let the force of the wind take me up, drifting with the jet streams of time, and then, maybe then, I’d reach the top of the highest mountain.



Monday, July 6, 2015

Rolling: Short Piece


Rolling

By Armando Ortiz


A ball bounced and floated like a soap bubble,

yellow as the bright sun was the tumbling sphere,

along a path it randomly made on the golden grass,


Behind it was a child of three that trailed behind,

zigzagging with every fragile step and ecstatic laughter

moving like the tumbleweed that rolls along the desert wild.


Saturday, July 4, 2015

Roberto Bolano's Nazi Literature in the Americas: Book Review

Roberto Bolano's Nazi Literature in the Americas: Book Review

by Armando Ortiz

Roberto Bolano’s Nazi Literature in the Americas delves into the lives of writers from North and South America, as well as Europe. These writers are scattered across vast expanses, embodying the diversity and geographical expanse of the continents. Some are free to roam, residing in valleys, deserts, mountains, or coastal regions, while others are confined in a prison cell. They sustain themselves at the grassroots level, gaining recognition within their local communities. However, the novel introduces a third ideological element, with many of these writers being sympathetic to Nazi ideology, amidst the competing power of right-wing governments and leftist Communism. 

The book sheds light on the writing and publishing processes these writers undergo. Some sell their self-funded publications outside soccer stadiums, while others create magazines while incarcerated. There are those who profit by copying the works of unknown and obscure writers, and some publish pamphlets that generate initial “buzz” but fail to last the test of time. Capital constraints or preference for exclusivity may limit printing to a few copies distributed to a select few.

Bolano’s narrative parallels the real world, where writers seek an audience for success as novelists or poets. Acquiring a following may not be as difficult as it seems, yet to reach a broader audience, these writers often embrace ideologies that appeal to those with more power and wealth. While the superstructures of the writing scene may lean toward a quasi-conservative stance, they are not as extreme as the writers found in Nazi Literature of the Latin Americas. These writers’ work are naturally imbued with anti-Semitic, anti-Black, and anti-non-European sentiments. Many of them are Nazi sympathizers or artists supported by conservative right wing governments or patrons, aligning with the ideologies embraced by those in power during the 20th century and beyond. 

This novel becomes even more poignant as Bolano reveals how some of the countries where these writers live undergo military and government changes, resulting in the imprisonment or death of left-wing political thinkers and sympathizers. The mysterious and dangerous character of Hoffman, supported by the Pinochet regime, exemplifies this. Additionally, remnants of the old “European colonial” mentality persist in countries like Bolivia, Ecuador and Mexico, where only select segments of society are encouraged to write and receive funding.

These sympathizers aid the writers in their escape and reemergence in different parts of the world. A writer born in a small suburb of Brazil may find themselves in a gangster hideout in the streets of Chicago or become a right-wing artist whose avant-garde expression involves displaying mutilated bodies, reminiscent of the Japanese occupation of China during World War Two. Such images, although not considered art, were captured through the lens of a camera and published in newspapers for many to see. Moreover, post-World War Two, numerous German war criminals sought refuge in countries like Brazil and Argentina, living secluded lives for years. The reception and consumption of ideas and art depend not only on the appeal they hold for those with capital, but also on the process by which the public engages with writer’s thoughts but also an artist’s creations.

Bolano presents plausible scenarios where writers driven by persistent urges to write, extreme values, and unique perspectives can rise to power and become leaders. Hitler, who also authored a book, serves as an example. However, there are established writers who garner respect among their peers. Nevertheless, Bolano’s underlying message  remains that a writer must write, despite the countless obstacles faced on this solitary journey.

Looking beyond Bolano’s novel and considering the vast scope of writers that exist, both past and present, it becomes evident that they possess distinctive characters, ideologies and struggles. These range from endemic alcoholism and drug addiction to quasi-new age religious beliefs or a preference for solitude. Some may embrace the limelight of society, while others wish to maintain no with it. Bolano’s characters, renowned in certain circles, have yet to achieve the levels of recognition attained by established writers in the Western world. This raises questions about the insulation of literary structures and the criteria employed to recognize writers as writers. In Bolano’s universe, independent individuals create their own paths and find their place within their respective cultures through the power of the written word. 

Roberto Bolano also emphasizes that writing exposes oneself to the world. Even when forgery is employed, one’s true nature inevitably reveals itself to readers. While writers may exist in isolation, they still rely on a readership to develop their craft. It is the readers who find a storyteller’s thoughts and ideas provocative and appealing. Thus, both writer and audience contribute to the existence of literature. Writers are products of their environment, and when they expose themselves to the world, readers find affinity in their works, perpetuating the continuity of language in its written form.

Despite varying opinions on the existing superstructure of writing, books publishing, the role of agents, and the numerous writing clubs across the Americas and the world, there is no singular approach to disseminating one’s thoughts. Countless avenues exist to accomplish this goal. Bolano’s work shows that even when the established writing world turns its back on writers, they persevere and continue to write, fueled by an unwavering internal flame. Bolano’s characters create their own blueprints for publication, and despite their lack of fame, they persist in their struggle with words and pens. This prompts reflection on the significance and symbolism of the numerous clubs and associations within specific geographic areas. By immersing ourselves in the biographies of these imagined people, we cannot help but feel challenged and inspired by their sheer will to write.

Finally, Roberto Bolano creates an alternate world within a vivid and historically grounded reality. As readers, we gradually accept the plausibility of these characters, as his ideas and writing immerse us in his literary realm. Bolano’s work is incredibly unique because his characters possess gritty resourcefulness in disseminating their stories. He reveals the secret to being a writer in real life: to write, persistently, and restlessly. If one desires to write, then they should write and distribute their thoughts in the manner they deem best, building a following and utilizing any medium available to share their written works. However, it is crucial to remember that countless others are also engaged in this wild and crazy endeavor, experiencing similar struggles but possessing vastly different perspectives of the world. Writing, therefore, becomes an endeavor of immense worth.




Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Zzyzx Anniversary: Short Piece


Zzyzx Anniversary

By Armando Ortiz

On Zzyzx road- one year more,

writing to move farther than before,

shooting for the stars with lyrical arrows,

attempting to make a mythical ladder

that takes us to legendary lands of lore.


With song and word we get closer to that place, where

words last longer than the first sound of yonder,

making ink-wash paintings of meanings and dream,

hoping these humble writings last a bit longer,

and continue to move along that endless shore.