Luis J. Rodriguez's The Republic of East L.A.: Book Review

 

Luis J. Rodriguez's The Republic of East L.A.: A Book Review

by Armando Ortiz            

It’s said that sometimes reading books transports you to distant lands and takes you into the world that the author has created. What I recently read not only did that, but it also brought back many memories; familiar sights and sounds; of places I’ve been in Los Angeles. Although Luis J. Rodriguez’s collection of short stories, The Republic of East L.A., centers around downtown and the eastern parts of Los Angeles. The places the author mentions are places that I have driven through, are near places where friends live or are locations where I ended up for one reason or another. One of the stories in the book takes place in and around USC-L.A. County Medical Center where, “a lot of Chicanos inhaled their very first breath,” which reaffirms where I was born, and is a place that I have visited since I was a little kid.

In one of his stories a lady takes her granddaughter on a trip to Downtown LA, where they end up shopping at Grand Central Market. Just mentioning that place conjures up images of when I was a little kid and my mom took my sister and I down to the big market that was directly across the giant skyscrapers. There she’d buy fruits, meats and vegetables. Every time we took a trip down there she’d buy us some tacos from one of the stands inside and we’d go find some seats. The tacos that they sold there were gigantic. This also brought back memories of a man that sold beans, rice and other dried food stuff. It was there that my mom would buy pounds of rice and beans. She’d also buy tiny star noodles that she used to make chicken soup with.

In another one of his stories he talks about the poverty that is a reality for many families in Los Angeles. Although I never did see kids kill pigeons to take home and cook, I do remember hearing stories of people killing ducks at MacArthur Park and Lincoln Park and cooking dinners, and of course as a little kid seeing the people that fished at MacArthur Park made me want to fish there also. I remember catching one or two tiny fish which my mom then fried for me. At such a young age one doesn’t consider what might be lurking inside those man-made lakes, but nevertheless the silvery fish tasted good.

There are several stories that stand out, but I won’t dive into each individual one. They are all good and have a different perspective of the city. I particularly liked the limo driver who was also a member of a garage band. That story touched on a point that one usually doesn’t think about. That aside from the stereotypical people that exist in the poor Spanish speaking barrios of Los Angeles, there are creative minds pursuing their hearts calling and are making a positive impact in their community. In addition the majority of the people living there are working class folk that have jobs and struggle just like anyone else would in any big city. Other stories are tragic and touch on things that almost every family in this world experiences at one point in their lives, a family member that struggles with drugs or alcohol. 

There was another story that was excruciatingly powerful, and that’s the one where two sisters have to fend for themselves most of the time. The girls suffer the consequences of irresponsible parents, but are at a point where they are beginning to start their own lives, but starting their lives in tough circumstances won’t be easy. Nevertheless, the story shows that people are resilient even in tragedy and that there are other people out there that are trying to reach out to kids like Olivia and Luna, and show them that there is another and better world out there. A world that doesn’t have to be like their present and that this better world can be theirs as well. It is a world where creativity and imagination are practiced, like writing, painting and performing, a world where anger and desperation are defused via creative outlets. Though it is a short story it shows what teachers working in poor neighborhoods throughout the United States, and the world confront. The challenges are daunting, but even in such bleak environments there are glimmers of hope and compassion.

The stories contained in this collection are teeming with life, love and hope. I particularly liked the fact that the characters are a common folk. There are local eses that have grown up and are working blue collar jobs, single mothers are pushing ahead with their lives and trying to do something for their kids, and there are kids that are simply trying to survive their environment. There is a tremendous amount of love and kindness that is showcased. Be it from the next door neighbor that shares their awesome pozole with the other neighbor, to the grandmother that shows her grandchild that sometimes one has to dance their emotions away, and finally to other working folk sharing their wisdom with the young naive person.

Joseph Campbell: The Mythical Journey

 Yesterday I finished reading Joseph Campbell's Myths to Live By. The book is a collection of lectures/essays that he presented in the 60's and 70's. This particular book deals with myth and modern life. A few days back I found this video on youtube, where Campbell talks about life, psycheledics, psychosis and mysticism. This particular talk can be found on chapter ten and its titled, "Schizophrenia: The Inward Journey." Enjoy.

Roberto Bolano's Antwerp: Book Review

“An urge, at the cost of nervous collapse in cheap rooms, propels poetry toward something detectives call perfection.” – Roberto Bolano, Antwerp

Roberto Bolano's Antwerp: Literary Shadow Puppeteer

by Armando Ortiz

Let me begin my discourse by talking about Roberto Bolano’s novelette, Antwerp. It’s a brief and compelling novel. In the story, a detective searches for a missing person, their role in the crime unclear. It also includes a woman that might be a prostitute, a vagrant or then again she might be a victim of a crime. In addition, the novelette includes a person that’s either a cop impersonator or quite possibly a dirty cop that is using his badge to exploit people. Lastly, there is a writer who is living a vagrant’s life or better put, the writer is poor. 

One of the recurring scenes found in this particular work are of people being in and around a campsite. There is a camp keeper, who is always watching television, and inside the camp people wash their clothes, do their cooking, and in one extended scene they set up a makeshift screen using a white blanket to watch a film. They mostly lurk behind trees or are walking around their tent which in turn gives the reader a sense of them being shadows. A gruesome discovery is made on a path leading to the campsite, and no one seems to know what’s happened. Everything is a mystery to the reader and to the characters. The work also shifts scenes alternating with a seaside town during its winter season, so people are few. Another setting is of his characters walking up the stairs or closing doors, and in essence closing the doors to the world. It’s in their rooms where they become themselves.

All these characters seem to be in search of something. Whatever that is, it’s at hands reach, yet far enough to be unreachable. It's as if the characters in the story were aware that they are dreaming but cannot find a way to wake themselves up. The reader suddenly becomes a cast away with the characters in an ocean of uncertainty, and we wait for help to come. The story setting, to me, is very postmodern. This is due to the barren and somewhat lifeless landscape that he describes, yet the elements of nature are there, present. It’s a stark contrast to the energy of a bustling cosmopolitan city. Hashima Island a.k.a. Battleship City, is an abandoned Island that was used for mining, and once housed as many as five thousand people. It reminds us of the extremes we sometimes go to exploit the earth, and our own people, and then leave them abandoned and forgotten like many towns in the American Rust Belt. 

Bolano tells a story that revolves around the overlooked people of society, those of whom everyone’s turned a blind eye -the forgotten ones. Since, no one really pays attention to them; the detective spends more time suspecting strangers and distant shadows than actual suspects. People, if you can call them that, in both books are out living and surviving in an environment that seems metaphorically post-apocalyptic, but that quite possibly represents the fringe and marginalized of every society. It is a reflection of those whose life and death is at play every second of their life. At times I got the feeling that I was looking at a photo album, a collection of slides that had been abandoned in an alley dumpster.

Antwerp is a very illusive piece of work. It’s like being in a dream or watching a mystery film. There are moments where one gets the feeling of being sedated and high on drugs. The characters are desperately searching for that elusive dragon, seeking the master key that will solve all the world's questions. It’s as if one is on the operating table and the anesthesia needle has already pierced the vein and the white liquid is about to enter the bloodstream. 

Bolano’s brief novel challenges Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, as his characters survive the desolation without resorting to cannibalism, yet both authors metaphorically employ similar themes. In McCarthy’s novel, some characters hunt humans for nourishment and for pleasure. Scavengers walk around ready to pounce on anyone that’s weak and in plain view. Antwerp portrays a world of fringe characters who exploit each other, including the dirty cop preying on vulnerable women, without the backdrop of a nuclear winter. 

Bolano’s Antwerp reminded me of Jim Morrison’s book, The Lords and New Creatures. Morrison’s writings seem to naturally fit well with Bolano’s story.

Cinema derives not from painting, literature,

sculpture, theater, but from ancient popular

wizardry. It is the contemporary manifestation

of an evolving history of shadows, a delight in

pictures that move, a belief in magic. Its

lineage is entwined from the earliest beginning

with Priests and sorcery, a summoning of phantoms.

with, at first, only slight aid off the mirror and

fire, men called up dark and secret visits from

regions in the buried mind. In these séances,

shades are spirits which ward off evil.

Literature, like cinema, has its roots in theater, oral tales, and what Morrison labeled “ancient popular wizardry.” Though Bolano’s is telling a story and Jim is describing the inner trappings of the ancient practice of show play, both works complement each other. Jim describes what Bolano, the storyteller, is doing- is a symbolic form of shadow puppetry. His literary voice becomes a light and with a combination of words he manages to create objects that come alive, which in turn project shadows in the corners and crevices of our mind. Jim specifically talks about the history of film and goes back to the days of shadow puppetry, and keeps going farther back in history all the way to the Shamans who told their stories around a bonfire. 

This eerie reality is also, in a sense, what Bolano conjures up by telling his story. He gets us, sits us around the fire he’s made, and begins his strange tale. 

Morrison tells the reader the following:

When men conceived buildings,

and closed themselves in chambers

first trees and caves.

(Windows work two ways,

mirrors one way.)

You never walk through mirrors

or swim through windows.

In Bolano’s piece, one of the characters thinks, “who was the first human being to look out a window?”  You find yourself looking through a peephole, and looking at things that ought to be private. The torture of a person is supposed to be anonymous and secret, yet he puts the reader there, in the middle of everything, and describes the scenery in rather pornographic and violent detail. The reader becomes a wall in one of his scenes, an insect, a book- an accomplice. We become peeping toms. The peeping tom only looks and observes, just like we all do when we look at ourselves in the mirror or peer through the windows to see if it will rain.

Cinema has evolved in two paths.

One spectacle. Like the Phantasmagoria, its

goal is the creation of a total substitute

sensory world.

The other is peep show, which claims for its

realm both the erotic and the untampered obser-

vance of real life, and imitates the keyhole or

voyeur's window without need of color, noise,

grandeur.

Bolano has a cinematic effect that is hard to describe, it seems that his frugal use of words works wonders, and conjures up images in every reader. As if his writing has a preternatural energy, which makes such a short story worth reading. One will not be disappointed and the images and thoughts it brings forth from the mind will have the reader making connections with things that the mind has seen, heard of and experienced in life.

Hashima a.k.a. Battleship City, Japan

 This video will be a part of an essay where I talk about Bolano's writing style, which will touch on Jim Morrison's and Cormac McCarthy's writing. Enjoy.

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.