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.

Contemporary Los Angeles Muralists: El Mac and Retna

Contemporary Los Angeles Muralists

by Armando Ortiz

I recall seeing murals when I was a little kid. Anyone born in Los Angeles, at one time or another has to ride inside a car that passes through the 101 and the 110 Freeway intersections. It was there where I saw images of Roman pillars floating in space, and satellites with robotic arms studying space rocks. It was on the walls of these intersections where I saw giant paintings of marathon runners, commemorating the 1984 Olympics, and images of toddlers picking up basketballs and attempting to kick soccer balls, celebrating childhood. It was in these areas where one of the more iconic Los Angeles artist painted his images, Kent Twitchell. As a little kid his murals appeared larger than life, they really were larger than life, and they contained an energy that other images I saw lacked. Under the freeway bridges of Echo Park on could see the enormous faces and hands that he’d painted years ago. Most, if not all the images described, have now disappeared, but there are always other artist picking up the slack creating murals on other walls of Los Angeles.

Growing up in Koreatown, the accessibility of murals was limited. The nearest mural was at the intersection of Olympic Blvd and Western Blvd. It was a gigantic image of a traditional Korean dancer painted by Dong-in Park. I would stare, and get lost in my imagination every time I saw this mural. I never imagined that one day I’d visit South Korea though, but that’s a whole different story. Most of the murals, while growing up in the 80’s were located beyond Alvarado Blvd to the east. I might be wrong, and if someone reads this that knows better can correct me, but it seems that most murals were closer to Downtown Los Angeles. I can recall walking down Broadway and seeing big murals on the sides of buildings. Unfortunately, one grows up and responsibilities along with work seem to overwhelm the senses and makes us forget what we saw as little kids.

Upon my return from living abroad, I began to discover murals that I’d never seen before. The images contained an energy that connected with me, reigniting similar feelings I got as a kid while staring at murals. The first mural I came across is found inside a car wash that’s on Western Blvd a block north of Melrose Ave. Its the image of a giant Buddha in the style that I often saw in South Korea. The painting was amazing. Every time I drove by the image I couldn’t help to think that it looked like an actual sculpture. “Its only a matter of time before people begin to worship the image,” I thought every time I drove past the image. Then to my amazement another mural appeared. On La Brea Ave, a block south of 3rd street a portrait of a woman that seemed to be lost in her dreams appeared. The style of the mural was similar to that of the Buddha image found inside the car-wash. For several months I kept seeing both images and kept trying to drive slow enough to get the artist’s name, but despite writing down the artists names, El Mac and Retna, I was too lazy to stop the car and take photos or simply forgot to look up the artists on the Internet.

One day, as I was about to make a left turn on Hollywood Blvd to get onto Western Blvd another discovery was made. This intrigued me and made me decide to one day go and take photos of their work before thugs vandalized the images. Sadly though, I never made the time to acquire personal images of the murals, but kept uncovering their work in different pockets of Los Angeles. While driving around the city I came discover murals created by these two talented artist on Pico Blvd, Wilton and Hollywood Blvd, La Cienega Blvd between Adams Blvd and Washington Blvd. Even while traveling and visiting other cities I continued to come across their work.

Outside of California, I was lucky to come across their work as well. In Denver, Colorado while driving down one of city’s main avenues I spotted their work on the top of a building. In Salt Lake City, Utah I got to see the magical portrayal of the Virgin Mary in person. In Downtown SLC, few blocks away from the Mormon Temple the image of Mary was beautifully rendered on the wall of a building. The last mural I discovered outside of California by them was while driving to my uncle’s home in Florida. I was leaving Miami Beach, and driving north, when suddenly to my right I saw a giant preternatural image of a man looking up to the heavens. I was impressed and in awe.

About two years ago I got the privilege of shaking hands with both El Mac and Retna. Though I knew that Retna was part Central American I didn’t really get to talk with him, however I did get to talk with El Mac, briefly, and he told me about Caravaggio. I got to tell him that the stuff they were doing was amazing, and that the appreciation murals had made a full circle in my life. I never imagined that the stuff I enjoyed watching as a child was actually being affecting me unconsciously in a such a powerful way. A few months later, I bought a book they put out and have continued to follow their work.

When one looks at the various muralist that have painted the sides of buildings across Los Angeles, one sees that every artist has managed to leave their energy behind. What El Mac and Retna do with their work is along those same lines, but there is something more that is included in their images. The sense of hope or what we call ‘esperanza’ in Spanish is what their collaborative murals contain. Images of people always looking up to the heavens as if in prayer, peering beyond the walls and into an imaginary image across our vision as if in defiance or staring down to the infinite space within the paint and an unknown mirage that’s created are powerful inference to a world beyond reality. It gives the viewer a glimpse into what drives humans to pursue their vocations. Either way, both these artist manage to conjure up emotions within the viewer, and if that can be accomplished then the message of hope can be understood even within the hieroglyphic like script of Retna, and the life like images of El Mac. These two artist have certainly managed to create magic with their art.

The Odyssey: Hospitality Among the Ancient Greeks

The Odyssey: Hospitality Among the Ancient Greeks

by Armando Ortiz     

The Odyssey was written around three thousand years ago. It is believed that the author of the epic story was called Homer; he was the first to have written the oral story. The book is about the trials that Odysseus, a main character in the story experiences, goes through as he tries to go back home to Ithaca. After taking part in the great Trojan War, which lasted thirteen years, he begins the journey. On his trip home, the nymph Calypso takes him captive holding him captive on her for seven years. Eventually, he is set free, and given provisions to go back home. After a couple of skirmishes with other people and other gods, he finally lands on Ithaca. There he defeats the men who have been leeching of his estate, and finally reunites with his wife Penelope.

The epic tale contains many moral stories that can be used to teach a lesson or give an idea of what upright characters ought to have. An idea that is explored throughout the story is hospitality. In the Odyssey, hospitality is given to a person who is wandering through town or in need of help. The person is taken inside the house of the host, where he or she is fed until satisfied, then given a place where to sleep. When the person decides to leave, a gift is given to take along their trip, usually food was given upon departure. One might wonder why hospitality is given to strangers in need. According to the Odyssey, Zeus is among strangers. Zeus protects the weak, and makes it a duty for people to be hospitable to persons in need or else there will be consequences.

To understand Greek society we must understand the significance of the book. The Odyssey gives a glimpse and describes how Greek society might have been during the eighth century B.C..  Many books have influenced modern society, one of which being the Bible, yet one cannot claim that that book describes everything that we do, such as traditions once followed, but the moral stories or ideas it offers can give us a window from which to understand our society. The Odyssey serves this purpose also. In Greek times, the Odyssey was part of its oral traditions and literature, and was used to teach character and morals; festivals and traditions were held according to customs. It had a strong influence over society. In the Odyssey, hospitality is something very important, because the author directly associates the stranger, beggar, or visitor to the Greek god Zeus. For example, “this man is an unfortunate wanderer who has strayed here…we must look after him, since all strangers and beggars come under the protection of Zeus, and to such people a small gift can mean much,” (p.91). “…. For strangers and beggars all come in Zeus’ name,”  (p. 209). “Zeus, the Strangers’ god, whose wrath is aroused by deeds of cruelty (p. 215).” The Greeks had many gods, but the father of all the gods and mortals was Zeus. He is described as being the god of thunder, the host of host, and the god of strangers. Since Zeus protected strangers, it would not favor the person who mistreated a stranger, that is why it was important for a person to welcome a stranger into the house and treat him with hospitality. It was believed that Zeus would lead a stranger to a person’s house, “god has brought you to my door, my long suffering friend,” (p. 218).

Hospitality is described as offering your house to some stranger or person who is in need, usually they are fed, bathed before departing, and are given many gifts when the time comes to leave. When Odysseus was wandering a young lady saw him and said, “give him food and drink, girls, and bathe him in the river where there is shelter from the wind,” (p. 91). When Odysseus was disguised as a beggar, his servant, who did not know it was Odysseus, “invited him (Odysseus) to sit down on some brushwood that he piled up for him and covered with the shaggy skin of a wild goat, large and thick, which served as his own mattress,” (p. 208). In the story people tend to be hospitable out of reverence to Zeus. Being the host of host, Zeus would bring about disaster to any one who would not treat a guest generously.

When Telemechus is about to sail home, an escaped criminal comes up to him and asks him to give him refuge. Telemechus answered, “I shall certainly not bar you from my good ship, if you wish to sail with us, come along then; and in Ithaca you shall be welcomed to such hospitality as we can offer,” (p.231). Others took pleasure in being hospitable to their guests. Alcinous, king of the Phaeacians, went as far as to sacrifice a dozen sheep, eight white-tusked boars, and two shambling oxen, so that Odysseus could eat. The King put on a show for Odysseus, he let him see some sport competitions. The king also gave him bronze gifts, provisions, wine, bread and clothes, he also ordered Odysseus’ ship to be polished. “When they had come down to the ship and the sea, the young nobles who were to escort him took charge of his baggage, including all of the food and drink, and stowed it in the polished ship,” (p.195).

Other times people were treated badly, but in the book there are punishments waiting for those who mistreat others. For example, the way Polyphemus treats Odysseus and his crew, when they land on his island. Polyphemus, a Cyclops, does the opposite of being hospitable. Instead of feeding them and letting them stay for a couple of days, he eats some of the crewmen. Odysseus tells Polyphemus, “He (Zeus) is the god of guests: guests are sacred to him, and he goes alongside them,” (p. 132). Cyclops did not realize what was about to happen to him. Zeus punishes him for mistreating Odysseus and his crew, and makes Odysseus gauge his eye with a stake, leaving him blind. The book, after careful analysis, makes you realize that being hospitable to your guest is very important. The same happens to the Suitors.

The Suitors have been in the home of Odysseus for sometime, eating and courting his wife Penelope. When Odysseus finally arrives on Ithaca, he disguises himself as a beggar, and goes home. He spots the Suitors and begins to beg for food. Instead of feeding him and offering a place to stay, the Suitors begin to mock and throw things at him. Hospitality is important, not because the stranger demands it, but because Zeus is protecting him and expects it. Zeus punishes the Suitors for not being hospitable, and Odysseus slaughters the Suitors. The old saying is correct, do not bite the hand that feeds you. The Suitors had been eating food that was not theirs, and despite that they were unwilling to share it with the owner.

This is how Greek society might have been during the time of Homer. Hospitality is something that is essential to our daily lives, as it was back three thousand years ago. When we see homeless people in the street today and do not care to think of their situation; begging in corners, and on the streets. Many people shun them because they ask for money. The Bible teaches that when we help someone in need, we are not helping the person but helping Christ. It also says, “ anyone, then, who knows the good he ought to do and doesn’t do it, sins.” Hospitality is something that is morally correct but is not practiced by many. People claim that homeless people are lazy, criminals, and drug addicts, yet they have never talked to a homeless person. Some homeless cannot work because they are mentally ill, and others who have had traumatizing experiences in their lives. One day I met a man, who had graduated from Cal State San Bernardino with a bachelors in history back in the 1960s, but was drafted into the army and sent to fight in Vietnam. Another time I met another person who had come from West Virginia to work in construction, but life took a turn for the worse. These two people have had tough life experiences that have disabled them from being capable of living a normal life. It is true that there are those who are lazy, but it is better to give than to receive.

The Odyssey has good insights, as to how Greeks viewed and practiced hospitality, they knew it was important and I think that is why they associated Zeus with the needy and strange. It is no wonder that in the Odyssey there are many different examples of hospitality. It is so that the listener and eventually the reader could somehow see that ultimately we are in debt to the creator of this world, and a small way of repaying him is through helping those in need. Much is given, much is expected.

William S. Burroughs' Ah Pook Is Here

William S. Burroughs' Ah Pook Is Here

by Armando Ortiz

This short film came to life via the collaboration of William S. Burroughs' recording of Ah Pook Is Here, which he wrote, and artist Philip Hunt, who made the book come alive with this short film. William S. Burroughs (February 1914-August 1997) is considered one of the great writers of the 20th century and one of the main creative forces behind the Beat Generation.

This is a fascinating critique of power and its uses. Burroughs uses Mayan gods as examples/representatives of contemporary symbols of war and destruction, without changing what pre-Hispanic societies believed these symbols to be. Rarely does one get the opportunity to find literature that includes Meso-American or Native American cosmology/myth in contemporary American culture discourse. I define American culture as being the collective cultures of North, Central and South American societies, which is like a multi-colored quilt of varying patterns and designs.This collective culture includes the cultures that existed in the Americas before its "discovery", and yes, this would include the Norsemen of Newfoundland, and all the European groups, along with African groups, as well Middle Eastern, and Asian groups that settled the Americas. The collective experiences shared by those born in these lands are closely linked with weather, geography and environment. Therefore to not look at what former societies perceived to be good and bad or what their beliefs were in these lands, is like ignoring the fact that water comes from our local mountains. It is essential to always be looking for ways to look at our contemporary life from different perspectives via History, Anthropology and Philosophy. Burroughs does a fantastic job at combining all those elements into his short writing. Never forget that the roads we walk on or drive on were walked on by others thousands of years ago. Enjoy.

Juan Rulfo’s World of Fiction

Juan Rulfo's World of Fiction

by Armando Ortiz

I thought I knew about Latin American writers. I’ve read Borges, Garcia Marquez, Neruda, and Paz. Of course I am also sort of familiar with some Central American writers like, Asturias, and Dalton. In reality though, my knowledge of Latin American writers is limited. So when the opportunity arose to read a Roberto Bolano book I thought it would be a good thing to do. He was from Chile and I‘d never read a novel from a Chilean author. Reading his material it became evident of how ignorant I am to the world of Latin American literature of which I have yet to seriously explore.

Juan Rulfo (1917-1986)

I have only read a small fraction of the works that exist in this world and have yet to read Joyce, Dante, Shelley and Shakespeare. After finishing 2666, I decided look up information on Rulfo. I got the chance to speak to an acquaintance, Arnoldo, who is very familiar with Latin American writers. It was through him that I discovered Marquez and aside from literature he also reads lots of science related material. In our discussion regarding Rulfo he told me that there was one particular character found in Rulfo’s book of short stories, El Llano En Llamas, that stood out, Lucas Lucatero. I was intrigued and wanted to know more about this writer whom I’d never heard of or read. According to Arnoldo, reading his stories gave one the feeling of walking on dusty roads.

Rulfo stands amongst the great short story writers of all time. He will be read for many years to come, and hopefully more people will come to discover his stories. What I found particularly appealing about Rulfo’s writing was the manner in which he describes the life of poor peasants.

Mexican Revolution (1910-1920)

The poor, without taking into account the social and economic forces behind poverty, are his main focus. Yes, the stories take place after a time period of great violence; The Mexican Revolution (1910-1920) and the Cristero Wars (1926-1929), but poverty is the environment from where his stories emerge, and poverty has existed in societies for hundreds of years. For Rulfo, the violence he describes are not bad dreams or an unknown realm, but are recent experiences deeply personal and intimate. Violence, was and still is very common in Latin America, even now as we speak violence is happening. One thing to remember though, violence is relative and can happen anywhere. However, there are parts of the world where lawlessness exists, but it seems that the proclivity for violence by people is higher in places where access to fire weapons is readily available, which is a chronic reality in Mexico and Central America, and where lawlessness and corruption permeate society.

Cristero Rebels (1926-1929)

Juan Rulfo was an author that wrote one collection of short stories, El Llano En Llamas (The Burning Plain and other short stories) and one short novel, Pedro Paramo. His whole written canon is made up of two books. There is another book that was made, but that’s a collection of photographs that he took throughout Mexico. He was born in Jalisco, Mexico and for a number of years was raised by nuns in an orphanage located Guadalajara, the province’s capital city. Despite these misfortunes Rulfo managed to study accounting and went on to be a successful author and salesman. He received a prize that enabled him to dedicate some time to writing.

After publishing his only novel output ceased and he embarked on a journey with photography. Reading his works one easily gets lost in the web that is woven by his prose which becomes magical inside the minds of readers. His descriptions and emotions blend to become enigmatic of what word play should be and are a template for good writing.

In Juan Rulfo’s world people are always coming and going. Going to places unknown and never seen before, while others are coming from locations with strange names and sites where prayers go unheard. Characters are always passing through towns where the inhabitants seem more like wandering spirits in purgatory than real people with real concerns. In his stories people have condemned themselves or have earned the condemnation of others. Though not spoken, each character’s perception, hand gestures, physical movements and journeys to certain places indicate their destiny. Fate in a sense has become an individual’s collective decision and collective future. Bandits are shot at night in the middle of a robbery. Murders are swept away in torrential rains or are relegated to haunt towns forever.



Choices that were made at a time of heated passion, anger and depression become part of the condemnation. Death becomes imbued with sentimentality and regret. Revenge almost completes the cycle of justice but the circle is never really closed, leaving the door open to more misfortune. Incest brings about hidden desires and outward shows of affection towards the dead through hollow rituals.

Rulfo’s world takes place in a time of unrelenting violence, rape and pillage. The poor travel by foot or donkey, while the rich gallop around in horses. In the scenarios he creates, ghosts are condemned to carry fire wood on their backs on a path that leads to no where- forever. Horse riders become the embodiment of the pale horse rider found in the Book of Revelation, and are not given the sacred sacraments from the priests to enter heaven. Salvation is inches away but never acquired. No one is immune to the sins of humanity, and to the consequences of violence. Heaven has become a mirage that exists only in delirious dreams.

Life, in his imagination, takes place in small towns where rivers are streams of water that feed the wild weeds. There is hardly any water that’s drinkable, irrigating the cornfields is a precarious endeavor, and the fruit that is harvested isn’t sweet. Bitter, is the taste life. When the rains come, which are downpours, streams transform into rivers capable of taking small adobe homes down canyons and arroyos, and the possessions of poverty stricken families; a cow, a pair of pigs and occasionally a relative; are washed away. Life is harsh, but nature seems to be the cruelest of them all.

The sun hangs, like an old clothes iron that one fills with hot coals, over the heads of everyone. When it rains it pours and when it pours the tears of his characters’ eyes flow as fast as the savage rivers. The sky is blue, and lifeless. Even in the oppressive heat the sky remains cold and silent. The winds walk down corridors like lost children at the mall, wailing for something. Waking life becomes an itch that has no origins and no cure for it can be found. Sleep becomes torturous, because the weather is uncomfortable and secrets can’t get lost in the darkness. Night quickly disappears and the rising sun quickly wakes everyone one up from their slumber. Superstition becomes an outlet for hope where there is none. Saints bleed tears of remorse, because no god exists within the lines of Rulfo’s stories. With the unrelenting heat of the dangling sun and the trampling of dirt roads, dust rises. The floating sand particles enter through the mouth and nostrils of the characters making breathing, even for the reader, difficult. Life is tough.



His world revolves around violence. Exploitation is a byword for the impunity by which people live bye. Killers that escape are condemned by their own crimes and their sleep becomes one where ghost talk and victims scream at night. Violence becomes the accepted norm, blood the sacred liquid that is supposed to cleanse, just gets coagulated with dust, dirt and sweat infecting the body. The sick are relegated to sweat it out in their own mental sweat lodge, and cling on to the hope of going to the bigger town to pray to the holier relic. Virgin statuettes shed tears that are artificially placed on its eyes by priests in the morning. Idol’s hands spread like branches accepting all, listening to the incoherent cries of believers. Carved dolls cannot see mourners because of the thick incense smoke and their own wooden eyes are blind to injustice. Rulfo, in essence walks the reader through the Valley of Death and tells them that the journey never ends because even after death spirits wander in his stories in their own hell. Infinity is not something worth talking about or worth discussing because the present moment is too bleak and death so certain. Its just a matter of time before we once again wake up and have to deal with the realities of life.

Despite the suffering that many of his characters live through, every one of them wishes to keep on living. Suffering, everyone goes through it, everyone in life carries a cross, and complains about the vicissitudes of life, but when the times comes to confront death everyone tries to run away. Like Antonius Block, the Crusader in Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, they try play chess against death and make excuses to prolong the game. Wishing to hold on to life a bit longer, the sweetness of sautéed onions with garlic and olive becomes delectable to them. Morning toil becomes dawn’s morning glory. The gun to their temple makes his characters kneel down and beg for life. Any how, this existence is rough but also bearable.

In a way we see the complexity of life through Rulfo’s writing. He reveals that humans have physical desires ranging from sexual to the unknown desire to steal. Along with other needs like love, nurture, hunger and compassion. In his writing humans also have a spirit. Spirits that at times depend on the blessings of priests, blessings that money can and cannot buy. Individuals that have to be forgiven but are not, and people that want to be forgiven for crimes committed. Everyone at some point wants to be forgiven for something. Remorse, even in death, is what many spirits continue to carry.

All images were taken by J. Rulfo except for his portrait and two that have captions.

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.

Genetically Modified Oragnism: Rice and Future Implications on Culture

Vienes caminando

y no sabes tu destino

coquistando suenos

suenas llegar a ser deidad

Sigues caminando

sobre viejos territorios

invocando fuerzas

que jamas entenderas

Y vienes desde alla

donde no sale el sol

donde no hay calor

donde la sangre

nunca se sacrifico por un amor

pero aqua no es asi

Vienes caminandp

ignorando sagrados ritos

pisoteando sabios templos

de amor espiritual

Largas vidas siguen 

velando el sueno de un volcan

para un alma eternal

cada piedra es un altar

Y vienes desde alla

donde no sale el sol donde no hay calor

donde la sangre 

nunca se sacrifico por un amor

pero aqua no es asi

- Saul Hernandez, Caifanes

The vulture was perched on the highest branch of a ceiba tree, the eagle spotted him and flew toward the branch landing besides the vulture. They began to talk about things past and present. Then the eagle asked, “Why do you like eating dead animals, and things that are decomposing?,” The vulture replied, “Well, why do you like to kill your prey?”

-Central America folk tale.

Genetically Modified Organism: Rice and Future Implications on Culture

Introduction

Rice is one of the most important staple grains we have on this world, and almost every country consumes rice.  Science is a leading source of answers to the problems people have in our modern times. We rely on science to improve our lives. It was not until recently though that science drastically altered the evolutionary process of rice. For centuries, people depended on this grain so much so that in some parts of Asia ideas and folk beliefs evolved from the harvesting and production of rice.

Rice is grown in hot places where shallow marshes are located, and where water is abundant. There is an estimated one hundred twenty thousand rice seeds in the world. There are many categories from which to study rice production, ranging from the methods of cultivation, the use of fertilizers, ways of storing rice, milling and controlling the economic value of harvested rice. 

There are four simple steps involved in the process of harvesting rice, and these are “(1) planting the seeds, (2) the flooding of rice, (3) the maintenance required during growth stage, and (4) the reaping of the harvest” (Grist).  In between these important steps are many other steps that involve the production of a plentiful rice harvest, such as the use of fertilizers, insecticides, and the amount of water used in rice fields. 

Scientifically improving the quality of rice for better harvest yields and increasing its nutritional value affected traditional ways of harvesting. For centuries, farmers used rudimentary methods to inter breed rice with other types of rice, slowly creating a better quality rice. However, a few decades back, with the increasing dependence of petroleum products and the rapidly growing population scientist replaced simple age old ways of harvesting rice by developing insecticides to kill off pests that lived off rice and apparently helping farmers have greater yields. 

Rice is mostly grown in Southeast Asia, mainly to support its own population. The US is a big exporter of rice and has had a significant scientific impact on the quality of rice strains. In the past, growers saved their seeds from their harvests and used them to replant the seeds the following year. However, we have become so involved in the process of rice production that new super-seeds are being made, but these seeds and other scientific advancements do more harm than good. In addition to the ecological impact, these super seeds make farmers dependant on the producers of these genetically modified seeds. The farmer no longer depends on nature for the seeds, but on companies that manufacture the seeds. Companies such as Monsanto, sell agricultural products that are useful to farmers but dangerous to the environment.

The obstacle for some companies is not the use of insecticides to control pests, but how to get the greatest output from the little land available, and a preoccupation on monopolizing their newest discovery. This is the reason why “genetically enhanced” seeds appear to be the solution to this increasing problem. Currently, the entire production of rice in the world is six hundred seventy eight million tons, but it must increase to eight hundred eighty million tons of rice by 2025 in order to feed the earth’s population.


A Bit of Historical Background
Rice seeds native to certain geographical areas of the world have evolved natural defenses unique to their environment. For example, in West Africa rice grows with very little water and through time, have evolved natural defenses that protect it from heat and periodic drought. With the evolution of human cultures and further development of agricultural techniques people began to crossbreed seeds from different regions. Crossbreeding is a simple form of modifying seeds genetically that man used in the past to create new seeds for climates where other seeds would never grow. This continued for many centuries until we reached the twentieth century.

Thirty years ago, Asia had to double its rice production because of overpopulation. Different kinds of tests were done, like altering water levels to see optimal growing conditions. Soon it was discovered that it was better to keep water levels low for rice to grow and become strong, thus producing considerably more yields than high water levels. Cross breeding became more refined  and quicker, which produced a new seed strain which was strong and could “generate a greater harvest”(Ecos).

Today, most rice is harvested with the use of chemicals. According to manufacturers insecticides aids rice by killing “natural predators,” such as “beetles, grasshoppers, caterpillars, snails and worms” (Grist 290). The Monsanto company claims:

                   “Integrated pest management, conservation tillage, chemistry and biology applied in concert can increase yields, improve the quality of our food and save our soil, Monsato’s contributions to food production can and will meet the requirements of sustainable agriculture to provide for basic human food and fiber needs, enrich the quality of our lives, preserve natural resources, enhance environmental quality and ensure the economic viability of farming,” (Monsanto).

Some tests reveal that where insecticides are used, “larvae were significantly more abundant in the no-insecticide plots, but numbers were not related to a yield difference”(U.S. 52). Genetically engineered seeds, like insecticides, fight against disease and insects offering resistance to pollution and water levels, but both alter the ecosystems and most of the time the genetically modified seeds that are harvested are sterile, only good for one harvest and nothing else.

Organic harvesting disregards insecticides or any other chemicals and allows insects to live. Masajo, interviewed by Ecos magazine, believes that “ insects control insects” that would otherwise kill or destroy the rice plant. He also states, “All animals must be preserved, no matter how harmful a ‘pest’ might be perceived, because any reduction in biodiversity ultimately will damage the quality of human life”(Ecos). Organic harvesting not only promotes a diversified ecological cycle but also creates a healthy food cycle. Masajo also said,  “Yes, there are insects in my crops. Yes, there is some visible damage to foliage. But this doesn’t translate automatically to an economic cost, to a detrimental impact on yield” (Reinventing).
Using genetically modified rice benefit us in many ways, but nature’s equilibrium is drastically altered with these seeds. Scientific intervention in rice harvesting and other areas of agriculture has had a great impact. Livestock used to till the land, and animals raised for human consumption have not been immune to science and the industrial companies that promote their antibiotics and steroids. So far these advancements although good, have created scenarios where serious ramifications might arise for not properly understanding how some companies are drastically altering the earth’s ecology for the worse.

Effects on Nature and Humans

Chemicals in the insecticides kill insects affecting the ecology of nature at the micro level, which is a vital source of food for other creatures. The natural ecological cycle serves as a symbiotic defense mechanism for rice and other harvested grains. Birds eat bugs that live in the rice fields, which have eaten other insects that destroy the rice. However, when insecticides such as “DDT, carbon bisulphide, BHC, chloropicrin” and other products are introduced into the harvesting process, this delicate cycle is broken, causing insects to disappear (Grist 291) . As one insect disappears so do other kinds until they have all disappeared, forcing birds to migrate to other areas where there is food. In addition to birds, predators begin to leave their surrounding areas, and move to habitats where they don’t belong.

One approach to this problem is the development of an improved seed which doesn’t need the aid of insecticides or chemical agents to grow and produce large numbers of seeds. These seeds have a defense mechanism, so that they can be “drought resistant and pest resistant” (Reinventing). Seeds that were going to Bangladesh probably can be made to be flood tolerant. These new seeds can be made to produce in virtually any kind of environment, but instead big companies have decided to take it a step further by creating seeds that are genetically altered, and their seeds end up producing a sterile harvest making farmers dependant on their product.

Scientist have created new seeds using “more than 100,000 samples of rice” that are stored in large inventories (Reinventing). From these seeds, companies such as the International Rice Research Institute construct super seeds by using genes gathered from rice already growing under harsh conditions like West African seeds.

The Monsanto Company is one of the first to create similar type of seeds, and have filed “patent applications in several countries” (Kluger). Patents are important to a company like Monsanto because it prevents other countries and companies from copying their seeds or even replanting them. These patents make a company richer because they have a monopoly over seeds. Monsanto seeds can produce so much that the harvester would gain enough money to buy seeds the following year since these new seeds are sterile after one harvest season.

The way Monsanto produces “sterile seeds” is: (1) taking a seed-killing toxin from another plant and then inserting it in the genome of rice, (2) they add a blocker in order to keep the toxin dormant until exposed to an enzyme that removes the blocker, (3) the seed is planted and begins to grow. Finally, the toxin is produced and sterilizes the seeds. These new seeds cannot be combined with other seeds, making the farmers dependent on this type of rice. These seeds still harm the environment where buyers grow their new rice, as Kluger states in his article, “the company has also developed plants with a built-in toxin that is harmless to humans but lethal to insects”(Kluger).

For the past several years, the population of the world has been growing rapidly, through industrialization and other technological advancements drastically altering age old ceremonies that revolved around the planting and harvesting of rice. In addition, to the concerns that this paper is focused on, animals are also being injected with antibiotics and steroids to apparently immunize animals from potential diseases, and to extend the use of particular animals used for tilling the land, further degrading the natural cycle.

Culture of Rice and Harvesting

For centuries, Chinese planted and harvested rice that fed lots of people, and the process of harvesting deeply affected their culture. Aijmer, author of the Dragon Boat Festival says, “The concern of the whole community and the participation of the officials in the ceremony should be connected with this communal interest” (112).  For Chinese, the Dragon Boat Festival was a ceremony closely linked with planting and harvesting that was “concerned mainly with the cultivation of rice”(Aijmer 13). They did not have control over the harvest but something greater was in control. It was thought that ancestors lived in the spiritual realms and their ceremonies guided the “rain-producing lung dragon” to the rice fields via the help of ancestors (Aijmer 112). The symbiotic relationship between the divine and mundane realities was acknowledged through the ceremony. A connection with “the transplantation of rice” and the dead existed and was recognized in the Dragon Boat Festival (Aijmer 108). In the past, there weren’t as many people living on the earth as there are today making it possible to reap plentiful harvests. There was always a balance between nature and man or at least there existed an attempt to keep a balance with nature.

Genetic engineering is leading us into a new era of agricultural and social change where, in order to survive, we have to compromise with what is available and what nature allows us to create. Humanity is reaching a point where it is no longer in balance with nature. We are exhausting the land of its resources, trying to get as much out of it as we can, and in the process seeds that have been used for thousands of years are now quickly disappearing from the face of the earth. Human intervention in nature will not magically solve population and harvest yield problems. There will certainly be ramifications, one example of these problems is that some countries can not compete against countries that use genetically modified seeds, while at the same time the pollen of these super seeds kill off the naturally occurring seeds of staple grains. We have developed super-seeds that can kill insects and still produce “high volumes” of rice in very limited areas of land, and in some cases, we use insecticides to kill insects that are vital to the food cycle in order to reap a greater harvest. We are continually destroying nature’s balance to meet our needs, and still expect more from the land.

It seems perfectly logical to follow this course of living, but in reality, this is not healthy. Nature has already placed its boundaries and we have reached them. Instead of accepting reality as some ancient people seem to have done, we become arrogant and refuse to accept the destruction and dangerous cycle that is being made. Mother earth is the source of all creation and almost everything here is composed of carbon, oxygen, hydrogen and nitrogen. There is always an imbalance of things but this imbalance is always fluctuating from one extreme to the other. Currently, humans are on one side of the extreme that’s heavily exploiting and demanding much from nature, and eventually, nature will restore that balance, whether through our own destructiveness or ignorance. We are now living in a period of time where aside genetically modified seeds being used for agriculture, antibiotics and steroids are being given to animals we use for agriculture and consume on a daily basis. Now, when there are outbreaks of e coli or foot and mouth disease the viruses are also stronger and tougher to eliminate precisely because what we have thought was good for some few businesses has turned out detrimental to more people. 

Older cultures on this earth had an understanding of the balance that needs to exist, and it is seen through the ceremonies they performed before and after planting rice and other staple foods. They wanted approval from their ancestors and their gods in order to have a good harvest. Whether their beliefs about their ancestors and gods were true or not they knew they could only do so much to ensure a good harvest. Constraining nature will only make it harder to grow healthy crops, because we need to submit to nature’s boundaries and keep the balance that is necessary for insects and humans to live. We will be eating unnatural food that has anti-pollutant, anti-insect, and anti-disease genes. Cases have already been found where cows injected with antibiotics and steroids, after dying severely affect the cycle and kill other animals, like the vultures which are sacred in some cultures. In his article Brittenden states, “Ancient rites of farmers to save their plants may soon become a thing of the past. Science is threatening a farming practice as old as agriculture itself” (Brittenden). The technological advancements in rice production is making us forget that we once depended on nature to stay alive. Farmers planted and waited for nature to do its work. We can’t have control of rice yields and its surrounding environments, therefore we cannot intervene with a process that has existed for many years. Some maize strains have been genetically altered, and now in the US only two types of maize are grown, sweet corn and industrial corn. We went from growing several types of corn ranging from small cobs, multi-colored corn, small and big kernels to two types of corn, eighty five percent of which is genetically modified. 

Memory and ceremony cannot be linked to giant industrial companies, they should not be allowed to have control over basic things that humans have practiced through out time. A collective memory of harvesting and raising animals is being shattered to pieces. In ancient times cultures had various types of gods that had their origins in agricultural production, god of wine and excess, the god maize, the god of rain, and currently we have this concept of mother earth which is being quickly replaced with father scientist and mother chemical factory.