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

   

Part 5: Plum Tree

By Armando Ortiz

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

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

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

Driving through South Central: Sketches of Los Angeles

Driving through South Central L.A.

by Armando Ortiz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tianchi, China: Heaven's Lake: Travels

Tianchi, China: Heaven's Lake

by Armando Ortiz

          The screech of the hawk woke me up. It was the first time I’d heard a sound like that. I stepped out of the yurt and was able to see the hawk gliding over the lake. That small body of water, resembling a mirror, reflected the hawk‘s glide. It looked as if a giant fish was inside the water freely swimming. Both the bird of prey and its reflection were moving at a synchronized pace. The morning was clear, and the air crisp, but a bit chilly to the body. At the distance I could hear the sounds of yak and sheep mingling and disappearing into the pine forest. At the time I didn’t think of my good fortune for being there, but now its like a dream.

           The hawk continued to screech, and naturally the water kept replicating its movements. I walked up a few feet up the canyon. After a slight turn I found the two planks that stood above the hole. I took a piss, and peered inside the pit. Steam was coming off my piss. On my way back to the yurt where I slept that night I passed other yurts that also had traveling visitors from other parts of China and other parts of the world. The hawk kept making circles over the lake, gliding and gliding. The surface of the contained water veiled a serene calmness to the morning. Inside was dark and majestic. I couldn’t quite tell what was more blue the sky or that natural dam.

          Memories, that is what flashed past me as I looked outside the balcony a few years after visiting that place. The weather was cool outside and the cityscape of L.A. was sharp and clear, like it always is after an Autumn rain. Cars passing bye, humming motors and honking horns can be heard. The neighbor’s television blasting the football game through the speakers. I reflected on the past and thought that it all seemed like a dream. Maybe I had been part of an ancient tribe and actually lived beside the lake.

My Mom

My Mom

by Armando Ortiz

As a child,

my mom played barefoot

on dusty playgrounds,

and snacked on orange peels

when the hunger pangs began.

She helped around the house,

selecting harvested black beans,

dusting each dark legume clean,

putting them inside a basket,

following her dad to the cornfields

selecting ears that were just right

placing each husk inside a sack

She tried

catching tiny silver fish

with my aunt who's older than her

using corn meal

sticking it inside a clay jar

then placing the earthen ware

by the river’s edge-

every time she tells that story

there's laughter.

At thirteen,

She was given a ticket to the city,

back then there were only dirt roads,

sent to work in a cafeteria.

and then my mom sent money home,

to her parents.

At seventeen,

She was lost in the concrete jungles

of Alvarado and 6th, where she bought

a gold painted rock for half her paycheck

and sent the other half of the money to my grandparents.

She worked as a housekeeper,

then as a nurse assistant,

all her life toiling,

feeding us, washing our clothes,

driving us to see the doctor,

taking us to the park on her day off,

and sending money back home.

She is still working, but now

she buys shoes when she wants a new pair,

and snacks on green mangoes,

she mainly keeps working

vacuuming the hallway,

and wiping glass windows

and sometimes she gives me money

when I don’t have any.

I don’t think she ever grew up.

Louis Sachar's Holes: Book Review

Louis Sachar's Holes: A Review

by Armando Ortiz

  I have yet to see the film that was made based on the book I will be talking about, but hopefully in the near future this will change. After talking to some people about some books to read with my student I followed my friend’s suggestion and picked up a copy of Louis Sachar’s, Holes. When my student began to read it she mentioned that she’d already seen the film. I didn’t give it much thought and told the kid that because of that it would be easier for her to follow the story. The book starts out with Stanley Yelnats riding the bus to Camp Green Lake. He’s been accused of a crime and despite the injustice committed against him he blames it on his good-for-nothing-great-great-grandfather. The story describes Stanley as being a chubby kid, with very few to no friends, and introverted. He comes from a poor family but they also have a knack for inventing. The beginning of the book paints a character that seems to have been defeated by life at an early age, yet as the story develops the plot becomes more interesting and paints a different picture of Stanley.

Stanley, despite being at camp with real criminals, tries to cope with camp life by writing letters to his mother, and going along with what some of the guys in the group he’s been assigned suggest he do. Digging holes, an assignment that’s intended to build individual character, is a daily occurrence, and once a five by five hole is dug the youths can go back to the wrecked room and relax. Life is pretty monotonous and uneventful. Yet, despite the daily routine, another character, Zero, becomes interested in Stanley’s ability to communicate. One day while writing a letter to his mom, Stanley notices that Zero is looking at him intently, at first he thinks Zero is just reading the letter, but in fact Zero has no clue what is being written because he can’t read.  This is the beginning of a friendship that leads to Stanley helping Zero survive in the desert for several days.

What at first seemed to be a kid that was unable to make friendship turns out to be a kid that holds his ground, is calm under pressure, and has the patience to teach English to a camp mate. Another aspect of the story is the self-image that Stanley has of himself. He is a chubby kid with a taste for reading books yet at school he was picked on and singled out for his image. As a result he didn’t like himself, but at camp he discovers that he is pretty strong, and that he is able to make meaningful relationships. One finds a kid that is observant with a willingness to help out.

One aspect of the book that I liked was how Stanley came to discover his qualities after taking time to help a friend. He blamed his destiny on his ancestor’s past mistakes, but soon comes to discover that helping others isn’t that bad, and that one actually develops a sense of satisfaction. This and the sense of putting oneself out there seem to be the message of the author. Despite what others see and think that we are, if we follow our own path, and give of ourselves to positive activities we might discover talents and abilities that we never knew were always there. Not only that, Stanley comes to like himself, but this self-confidence does not emerge from the praise of others, instead it comes from the fact that after reflecting a bit he sees the positive things he’s done, even though this self-reflecting is done out in the desert while being an “escapee” from camp.

The story has several characters that add to the storyline and the author’s ability to shuttle the reader from Camp Green Lake to the local setting’s past, and then transport the reader to Latvia keeps the reader engrossed in the book and in the evolution of Stanley as a person. One aspect of the story that really stands out is Sachar’s description of the local landscape. It’s as if I was traveling through some vast desert like savannas that I got to visit while driving around West and Central Texas. Overall this was a good read for me and for my student. Though it's required reading in middle school the book is good for anyone of any age, and its message is universal.

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

Part 4: Third Grade- Miss Salaimo

By Armando Ortiz

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

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

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

Snakes: Sketches of Los Angeles

Snakes 

by Armando Ortiz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dorothee de Monfried's Dark Night: Book Review

Dorothee de Monfried's Dark Night

by Armando Ortiz

Dorothee de Monfreid is a French author and illustrator of children’s books. I discovered her work after a student, whom I currently work with, brought it home from the library to read to me. He was pretty excited about reading it, and before opening the book he mentioned that some animals in the story were afraid of a monster, so I was intrigued. My student had already read the book, and now he just wanted to read it to me. The book he’d gotten from the library was, The Dark Night, and as soon as I read the title I thought about batman, but of course there was no batman in the story. There was only a kid named Felix who was on his way home, but gets lost in the woods as night falls. The plot quickly turns and the kid is helped by a smart rabbit that goes out of its way to get Felix back home.

In a quick turn of fortune, while Felix was inside a hollow tree, hiding from the Wolf, Tiger and Crocodile he finds a door. The animals appear one at a time and sit on a stump receiving the warmth of a bonfire, but are scared off by sounds of the other approaching animal.  While hiding inside the tree he finds a door that leads down some stairs. This is where the story turns and becomes entertaining. Though it’s not an Alice in Wonderland type of plot with many twists and turns it does have vague similarities, like a small door that leads somewhere, though not to a separate land, but to a small room. Once inside the small room, and finding no one there, Felix helps himself to the cup of hot cocoa that’s on the table. A rabbit then appears on the scene but doesn’t run away or is not in a hurry to get to some place, instead it quickly asks Felix about his problem and proceeds to help him.

I found the book fresh and fun, because though it deals with fears, these fears are quickly dissipated by the two characters working together. The rabbit sits on Felix’s shoulders and both cover themselves with a black tunic, which the rabbit wears a scary mask. It puts fierce wild animals in a vulnerable position where it becomes possible for strange creatures, wild animals and monsters to be afraid of other monsters. There really isn’t a message that the author intends to send, at least that is my opinion, but instead it tries to convey a type of light hearted take on challenges that people confront. Sometimes challenges aren’t as daunting when confronted, and in fact it might turn out that all one needed to do was ask for help or simply take it one step at a time.

Unlike some children’s books that introduce kids to dinosaurs or have giant animals doing funny things, this one seems to have had a great effect on me. It might have been due to the author’s illustrations, which were simple, with bright colors, yet the characters are funny, naïve, and quite vulnerable despite their fearsome characteristics. Overall the author/artist Monfreid gives me the impression that she has the ability to entertain readers of all ages and backgrounds. Hopefully she keeps publishing more stories and one day publishes something for us adults.

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.