Omaha, Nebraska: Poem

Omaha, Nebraska

by Armando Ortiz

There are secret rooms 

under each brick building,

and below the Old Market 

perversions were done and sold.

Slaves were traded and 

gambling dens proliferated.

Outside people smiled 

at the picture being taken,

as men hung on poles 

and burned unaided.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Ten): Church Services

Part 10: Church Services

by Armando Ortiz

I grew up going to a Pentecostal church and our pastor was Bernardo Marquez. He was from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Occasionally a pastor from Panama would also visit and give some memorable sermons, his name was Bolivar Guevara, from Panama. He lived in Fresno, and the first time my family went to Fresno was to visit his church. The homes in Fresno were big with a low profile, and the trees were tall, giving lots of shade. The other times that I remember going to Fresno we ended up going to Yosemite National Park, while the last time we went there, as a family, was to his wake and partake in the burial of his wife.

As a kid, church was a big part of my life, not because I personally chose to go, but because my parents seemed to like going. I still have pictures of myself at 2-3 years old standing in front of the church that was on what used to be 9th street, a block east of Alvarado. Sometime later the congregation moved to Pico and Bonnie Brae street. Sunday service was sometimes held in MacArthur Park. Back then the park’s name didn’t conjure up images of bums, drug dealers or dead bodies. El Piojito was still across the street and the street vendors had yet to claim the corners as theirs. McDonalds was across the street from the park on Alvarado. Inside the burger joint was a giant mural of ancient Mexica designs eating hamburgers. Meso-American hieroglyphics had been turned into clever advertisements and all I understood was that these gods or mythological figures weren’t feasting on venison, wild turkeys or tortillas but on burgers. Those murals left a deep impression on me, and ever since then I’ve haven’t been able to come across any comparable images as those put there. Talk about clever marketing and using culture to promote a company’s image. Being near a park would always guarantee great returns to their investment. Our church was in the business of saving people, so in terms of evangelizing and reaching out to lost souls, Sunday was a good time to go to the park and proselytize because everyone one that lived in the surrounding area went there to relax.

At times it seemed that the only permanent location for church services was at the park among the patches of crabgrass and the palm trees that stood tall. The members always formed one giant circle and sang songs like, Alabare, Alabare, which in English means, I will worship, I will worship. As a kid, the park was always a better location than being inside the confines of a room where the preacher would occasionally give a loud burst of praises. One also had to stand up and sit down, stand up and sit down, and repeat the cycle about five times before the preacher gave his Sunday service. Nevertheless, the congregation, La Senda Antigua, kept moving locations and kept adjusting to the needs of its congregation. Though the church made up a cohesive group of worshipers and the preacher made the nucleus of the congregation, as a group, we were more like a lone electron trying to fit into the larger flow of the city’s beat.

The church soon moved to another locale, which was on Alvarado and 3rd. At this time the church began to focus more on trying to raise money to buy its own property. We’d have a permanent location and we wouldn’t have to be moving around. The building where we had recently moved to was small, but big enough to fit the eighty or so members. It seemed like this place was geared to house a small shop, but people always find ways to make sanctuaries out of random places, and landlords never mind renting out space when money is tight. For many years after we moved from that location the place functioned as a pawn shop, a flower shop and now it's a thrift shop selling 80’s vintage clothing at dirt cheap prices.

Occasionally, we would meet inside a church that was located on Grand View street, between Olympic and 9th street. This church was owned by a Korean preacher, who mainly used it to minister the congregation he led. He rented out the space to our pastor for weekday services and occasionally for weekend services. The church, from the outside, looked like a big craftsman house, but once inside the house became a real church, with balcony seats, and a basement that had been converted into the children’s Sunday church area. The floors were all covered with a deep burgundy carpet, and the stairs at times seemed to take you into another world. Christian movies were shown in the main auditorium most of the time. As a kid, images of those films would occasionally haunt my mind. There was this particular film of a man that was a race-car driver that ended up dying but somehow returned to visit family. He realizes that he is going to hell because he hadn’t accepted Jesus into his heart, so he decides to return and warn his family.

It seemed that the places where we met for church were indirectly showing me the surrounding landscape of what I called home and would be driving through as I got older. Weekend evening services were always memorable because we had service for kids, and food was sold to raise funds for other church activities. At the 3rd street location the ladies of the congregation, who always cover their hair, would make different snacks like nachos or atole de elote. They also, on a regular basis, made pupusas, which are handmade tortillas with cheese in the middle, but with that special touch of Central America flavor that was topped with pickled cabbage and a light and spicy tomato sauce. My parents usually bought one for my sister and I, and were always left wanting more.

Neighbor: Poem

Neighbor

by Armando Ortiz

Mocking birds began their song 

the morning the neighbor died.

It had been a long dry season, 

and so was his death.

Exhausted was his body, 

and brittle like the golden grass.

Drizzle was all there was, 

making the hills green.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Nine): Conjuring up Monsters

Part 9: Conjuring up Monsters

by Armando Ortiz

My fourth grade class was not immune to superstition. We’d occasionally hear stories from different kids that lived near the school that the house next to our school came alive once the sun set. Noises were heard from the halls, abandoned rooms let out a slow hum, and a lot of booze was spilled by the cholitos. Some of the kids would tell us that if we stepped inside that empty shell of a house we wouldn’t make it out alive. Another story told by other classmates was that of Bloody Mary.

Bloody Mary could appear in the bathroom if you stood in front of the mirror and called out her name several times. The mirror would turn into a window and she’d come out of the glass and snatch kids away. One of my classmates even had the good fortune of escaping but not before she changed one of the shoes he was wearing into something completely different. Because of this, it was believed that Bloody Mary did, in fact, exist. I sort of believed the story, but there was something within me that made me go to the public library and get to the bottom of this.

One day, after school was over I went directly to the local public library nearest to my house, which was on Olympic. Eventually the library became a dental office and finally an aquarium. Today that place is painted in navy blue with gold fish floating on the concrete blocks. Occasionally one spots the acronym of the locals that claim that as their territory and who’ve seem to have dug in deep roots. The Korean man that owns the aquarium has no clue what was there before he moved in and who are the thugs that spray paint on his wall.

I walked into the library and asked the librarian for help. Inside were books, and the mellow yellow glow from the lights made the walls, books and furniture have a dark beige aqua tint aura. The librarian looked ancient, but was very kind and helpful. I wanted to find out more about Bloody Mary, if she had really existed and eaten her kids and drank their blood. Of course what I was undertaking was tantamount to learning things from the occult, but I was not frightened away, somehow I had this belief that a book would have concrete information about this so-called Bloody Mary. The book was opened by the librarian. Her slow moving fingers that looked like dried mango peels directed me to the section that talked about Bloody Mary. In that small section I discovered that she had been the Queen Mary the First of England, and that she had had several miscarriages, which at that time I wasn't sure what it meant. Then right below that was some information about a drink that involved some vegetable juice and alcohol.

What was odd about this whole superstitious event was that it permeated into our regular student lives. Bloody Mary could be summoned in the bathroom of our school, and could even change your shoes to give you a good scare. I tried calling Bloody Mary a few times, and I was really scared. The times I tried it I expected glowing red eyes on the other side of the reflective glass but only my own reflection could be seen. I prayed before calling out her name, and I was glad that nothing happened afterwards.

What was a story about the Queen of England  doing in our elementary school? Well, the only explanation is that we were students in the US and we were growing up in a community that had its strange beliefs of “La Llorona,” “Judas,” “El Cucuy,” and “El Chupacabras,” but we were also, by osmosis, being exposed to the greater culture that existed. Of course all the names mentioned above plus Blood Mary created fear in us. We’d debate amongst ourselves trying to figure out the overall profile of the Blood Mary. Some said that she had long bloody fingernails that were dripping in calves blood, while others just mentioned the eyes that glowed red or green. No one ever really had a good view of her because they were too scared to stick around and see her come out of the mirror. Yet, it left one wondering. None of my classmates ever did disappear because they’d called her name. 

Memories: A Poem

Memories

by Armando Ortiz

Our memories

are fading photographs

hidden between pages

inside forgotten albums

Where fading peach sunsets

border the Polaroids,

with surface scratches

and faint glimmers of light.

Memories,

are stained-glass windows,

that filter dawn’s light

inside neglected chapels.

The walls are

bordered by alleys,

where street kids fight, and

bleed tears that

give life to rose gardens.

The past

are forgotten morning dreams, where

summers were spent inside pools,

and winters opening gifts.

We return to the neglected sanctuary,

where recollected experiences lay shattered and

are swept away by an invisible hand, that

makes a mosaic of memories

that’s as old as yesterday.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Eight): El Piojito

Part 8: El Piojito

By Armando Ortiz

My dad once told me a story. It was about how my mom got swindled out of fifty dollars. It took place a half a block down the street from where I stood that day. In front of the Botanica del Pueblo, on the corner of 7th and Alvarado, is where a man and woman desperately approached my mom and sold her a gold nugget. They told her they needed the money in order to fly back to their hometown. It turned out that the stone had been painted over with gold paint. The tricksters probably bought food and laughed at how another poor and naïve country bumpkin had been fooled once again.

El Piojito or in other words The Tiny Lice was near that intersection and directly across the street from MacArthur Park. Its logo was a cartoon of a smiling kid who had two antennae coming out of the top of its head. The store wasn’t the size of a louse, but it was a nice way of referring to a store that was small. One could buy all kinds of things inside. El Piojito was a downsized version of a third rate mall and we went there every other weekend to buy stuff like pans, slippers, shirts, detergent, deodorants and maybe a couple pairs of pants. One day, I wandered out of the store and decided to wait on my mom by the sidewalk. Out in the open things moved and the hum of cars could be heard.

I saw pedestrian traffic pass bye, and observed people float on towards unknown places. You could also see the street vendors that peddled their mangos, cacahuates Japoneses, and pepinos with sal and limon. It all seemed like water coming out of a faucet that pours onto the sink. The swish of the movements was like artificial white noise to my ears. I stood outside the entrance, looking across the street where three giant fountains were spewing water up into the air. The mist of the water was picked up by the wind and it slowly floated down settling on the one natural lake where ducks still waded. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a group of people all huddled together.

My curiosity got the best of me and I walked over to see what was happening. A game of hide the ball was taking place. The man in charge of the game was using baby food caps, colored in blue, and a tiny foam ball that looked like it had been used for so long that the yellow had turned brown. He kept repeating in a loud inquiring voice, “Adonde esta la bolita, adonde esta la bolita!?” He was dexterous like a magician and shot words rapidly. His eyes goggled every which way resembling those stuffed bunny rabbits. Occasionally he’d stretch his neck and turn to left and right as if to see what was happening on opposite corners of the street. The foam ball hovered on top of the black velvet cloth that the man had placed over his makeshift platform. He moved the caps swiftly, but I could see where the ball was going. The tiny inanimate object was directly across from my eyes. The sidewalk everyone stepped on was speckled with black spots of bubble gum contrasting with the grey cement. For some reason the sky that day was a deep blue, unlike any other sky blue I’d ever seen blanketing the city.

       

The man’s skin was a red mahogany. He wore a brown shirt that had white stripes running horizontally across his upper body. His hair was uncut and large curls were forming. He’d been out in the sun for longer than a day. I couldn’t quite tell if anyone was winning or losing money. I wasn’t playing nor could play because of my age and because frankly speaking kids weren’t the target for these hustlers. It was other people they were trying to get and who knows if they were successful at what they were doing. I found it fascinating though, and twice was able to guess where the ball was. Of course with those types of games odds were drastically stacked against the person betting their money. Looking back now I imagine that the man running the game most likely had some watchers and some people standing guard in case something funny happened.

I don’t remember what happened after my mom stepped out of the store. We probably walked to the car, got into the little Datsun and rode back home. I do remember telling my mom that I’d guess the location of the ball twice. She just smiled and swayed her head left to right in disapproval. “Did you win anything?” she inquired. “No,” was my reply. Her arm extended outwards and with her finger pointed up to the sky and reminisced out loud on that Tuesday afternoon that she left her town. 

Andy Zamora: Artists in Los Angeles

Andy Zamora: Artists of Los Angeles

by Armando Ortiz

The purpose of this interview, and all future interviews, is to showcase and briefly talk to artists that reside in Los Angeles, and how their work was influenced by the city and inspired them to continue on with their interest despite the bad economy. I will focus on their early development as artists to see where they get their inspiration, and who’s motivated them. Most of the people I will interview are regular folk that make a living through their creativity. The artists interviewed are some of the few people that don’t have an eight hour job or have to follow a strict schedule, though that doesn’t mean that life are any easier. They are working artists, local community artists that are trying to perfect their craft, who continue to get inspired by life, and in the process inspire others with their own work. Some of these artists are connected to the community while others prefer to do their work and live their lives like anyone else, without the spotlight, while establishing themselves are reputable and quality artist.

The first artist to be interviewed is Andy Zamora, a tattooer that works at Inkfiendart Tattoo, which is located in Alhambra, CA. I met Andy a few years back through a mutual friend. It was at our friend’s pad that we briefly talked about Jimi Hendrix, art and his future tattoo career. While drinking our beers we heard a mixture of Hendrix, blues and other classic rock jams. In the years since then he’s become a tattooer and continues to develop as an artist. One feature that I’ve always seen from his is his style. What style is that? Well, it’s a blend of psychedelic, death metal and graffiti-esque paintings, along with imagery of skulls and devils. In the last five years he’s honed his craft as a tattooer steadily becoming a well-rounded black and grey artist. I have always liked his psychedelic take on old classic rock paintings and posters, along with his personal interpretation of street life in Los Angeles.

This interview took place over a span of several days through the internet, since we both live in different parts of the city, and we both have different schedules. None the less, you will find that Andy opens up his life and tells us how he evolved from a kid that liked drawing on paper to an artist that is making a living through tattooing and painting.

Me- What’s your first memory of doing art?

What kind of influence has music played in your life, but most importantly in your art?

Andy- My first memory of doing (art was) when I was 3 years old. My dad used to work at a paper company, so he used to bring boxes of white paper, (and) I would sit down for hours drawing with crayon, and my mom would praise everyone. So I kept doing it. As for music, it’s my obsession! Its been my obsession since I was 8 years old, (ever since) when License to Ill came out. I listen to every genre and as long as its heavy on the bass and drums. Hip-hop, Classic Rock, Reggae, Jazz, Corridos, etc., etc…In my art, music has definitively rubbed off, mainly 60’s Psychedelic and Death Metal. I think imagery wise thought two genres (of music) have very appealing imagery to me.  As far as when I’m creating art, playing music helps me release a certain flow. For drawing, Hip-hop or reggae sets a mellow mood, and for painting, Hendrix, Coltrane, and Miles kick of the flow. If I’m feeling lazy, some Cannibal Corpse gets me off my ass!

Me- What were some of your first art projects?

I know you’ve done album covers for some bands, what were these band and when did you start?

Andy- (I) started in high school doing paintings in the auditorium and for background scenery in the (school) plays. Then flyers for punk shows. Soulless was one of the bands I did a logo for and (then a) Grind band called Endless Demise, formerly knows as Terror and Nausea. I did cover art, and will be doing more, for the L.A. Grindcore scene.

Me- How did you end up painting in school and background sceneries for plays?

Andy- My Art teacher recommended me to the Drama director.

Me- How did public school affect your artistic development?

Andy- My Art teacher was very encouraging. He pushed me to try new mediums. I actually looked forward to going to school. One period I was painting murals in the auditorium and another period I was in a small room messing around with airbrush, clay, paint and what not. I think I still would have done art if hadn’t had those classes, but having those classes my art was displayed publicly and it put me in touch with the public, which artist have to do to start networking.

Me- Is that how you met the people whom you went on to do album covers?

Did you ever think that you’d be making a living as an artist?

What mediums are you using these days to express your art?

You mentioned painting mural, are there any muralist that you admired then and now?

Andy- Yeah I worked as a muralist for the Hollywood Beautification Team in the late 90’s and early 2000’s. Back then my biggest influences, mural wise, were Paul Botello and George Yepes, and of course graffiti artists like Retna, Mear and FX Crew. Now it’s all about Mac and Retna.

Me- Is that how you met the people whom you went on to do album covers?

Did you ever think that you’d be making a living as an artist?

What mediums are you using these days to express your art?

Were you born in Los Angeles? How does your art reflect life in Los Angeles?

How has the city influenced your art? Do you feel you’ve influenced it?

Andy- One of my good friends <was> the drummer for Soulless, so that’s how I met them. With Endless Demise, I met Victor, the vocalist, online. He liked my tattoo work and was really interested in getting work done. It turns out we knew a lot of the same people and we hit it off, getting high and talking music. I was into the Grind scene in the 90’s, so it was cool being (a) part of it and doing artwork, and yeah since high school I knew that that’s all I wanted to do. I was shooting for comic book artist though, but ended up in a different route. I like using all mediums. I paint with acrylics, draw with pencils, ink and charcoal. One of the funnest medims is mixed media; color pencil, acrylic, watercolor and ink. I was born in Northern California, in San Jose, but my parents moved here, to L.A., when I was 6, so I was raised here in L.A. That’s all I know, L.A. and it definitively has had an influence in my art. It all happened when I had to do four months in the County Jail. The gang imagery stayed with me forever. The gangster letter, the black and grey tattoos etc. etc. There’s no rougher and tougher city in this country than L.A., so when I draw something it has to look hard.

 

Me- Please explain what gives something a “hard look” in art.

Andy- Yeah. It has to look Gangsta or wicked! Even when I was a kid drawing comics I wanted my characters to look tough and crazy. Its art for the fellas I guess. Kinda like hardcore hip hop. It’s mainly for the fellas but I’m pretty sure there’s some girls out there that are down with that. Then I add a little trippy. The psychedelic trips I had when I was young stayed with me forever.

Me- Is there anything that you’d like to say in relation to art, your art work, and what you do these days? Thanks for telling me about your artistic life. I’ll post the interview in a few days.

Andy- The economy is part of the reason I had to switch shops. Tattoos are luxuries, so people are cutting back on those type of things.  I'm working less on projects that were custom and (doing) more walk-in type of stuff. That made me have less enthusiasm and my inspiration was getting lost. It’s like a rollercoaster though in the tattoo scene. It’s bound to go up again.

Feel free to grab any pictures you want from my Facebook folders. Personally I like the Chalino painting, the drawing of a demon that’s holding a skull with fire in the background and the archangel Gabriel tattoo, but grab as many as you want.

Me- You have any photos of when you were in high school and the work you did back then?

Andy- At my parent’s house I should have some things.

Me- Lemme ask you this one last question. Is art important in people’s lives? If it is please explain why art is important.

Andy- To artists its very important. It pays our bills and keeps us out of the Looney Tunes bin….LOL….for non-artists its important because everything is art; clothes, music, architecture. It would be a bland world without art. 


(All art work was done by Andy Zamora, feel free to contact him via facebook)

  

Families: Poem

Families

By Armando Ortiz

Families are wild flowers.

nameless

is the creek

where baptized words

float away.

Lineage,

there is none,

just endless 

rebirth.

Stories lost

in the sound of water.

there isn’t 

much to say.

Daily, 

they bud 

and wither

living

just a miracle.

Hummingbird No.2: A Poem

Hummingbird No. 2

by Armando Ortiz

Let the bullets of war 

become shooting hummingbirds 

that pierce armors of fear and 

pollinate the hearts with courage

Waiting: A Poem

Waiting

by Armando Ortiz

I wait for you to return to this side where the earth is young,

Laying here marking off the days that fall like dead leaves,

And hoping to see the blossom of your rose again.

The rocks underwater kept silent the day I caressed your skin.

and the trees around us became a collective yakshi that saw it all.

In our mischief we didn’t hold back, and lost ourselves in revelry.

That afternoon a part of me entered your sacred sanctuary.

The barn swallows living under the concrete bridge,

Are witnesses to the memories that flow down river

And accomplices to what happened that day.

Let’s be the holiness of the first birth, and the miracle of the moment.

Let me enter, and experience the rebirth of what I was before.

The sun rises as the flowers of life open, slowly moving across the earth.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Seven): Splitting of Electrons

Part 7: Splitting of Electrons 

By Armando Ortiz

All you get is the splitting of electrons. That is what she said after I explained to her what it is that I was seeing and feeling. I had been tripping pretty hard that day and the world that existed outside of myself came in to focus. I had been aware of the world that I live in and the daily transactions that take place with one another. However, this particular day it all changed. I could see far into the horizon and spot the different layers of movement and people that were going hither and thither. From a distance I could see people pass by and at times saw the tops of their cars, and at other times people I looked at the people on platforms just enjoying the whole view of the event. I was at the center of all the chaos taking place. Everything was happening before me and around me, and I realized that all that was outside of myself was a sort of organized chaos, but what about myself, my mind, my being? I was the center and the center was a mess. My thoughts also represented a type of chaos. Chaos that was disorganized or organized? But what of my thoughts and the world at large? What was after all that? What was there between my thoughts and the rest of the internal chaos? She’d been listening to me talk, and at times looked around and spotted random decorated bicycles.

“Well, after that all you have is the splitting of electrons,” giving a smile after her reply.

“Hahahaha…” that really shocked me, but it made sense, because at the molecular level there were electrons splitting and connecting to other things.

“What we all are is mostly space and water, even though we don’t perceive that reality,” she said, “It truly is a miracle that we just don’t dissolve into nothingness.”

“What is that thing that keeps it all running? God? A spirit? An electrical charge? Air pressure?,” I asked with a sense of desperation. “Is nature outside of this chaos? Is nature chaos by nature? Does this mean that our bodies are of nature, but we turn around and look at it in a weird way of chaos.”

Chaos……living in the city one experiences organized chaos, but in nature, one sees the multiplicity of nature’s wonders, an organization that seems to have equilibrium  and symbiosis. We see the different animals, the trees, the ocean, the insects, the mammals, the birds, the snakes, and the grounds the slither on. There is so much more, so much of what we call wild, and why do we call it wild? Why is it that humans have a desire to “tame” nature, just like we like to enslave others, conquer and dominate others. Nature does not do that, right? Is there love in nature? Our cities become representative of what we deem as natural. The slums, the desperation for survival, the constant up and down driving, the mechanized sounds of metal against metal, the tall buildings that look offensive when compared to the distant backdrop of the Azusa mountains. All we have is splitting of electrons.

Poem: Trying to forget you

Trying to forget you

by Armando Ortiz

The last plum blossom has fallen,

joining past events,

in that precipice of forgotten decay.

Soon leaves will be a cicada green,

And we will explore other valleys,

While seeds die and repeat this infinite scene.

When winter returns,

You will have disappeared from my thoughts,

And the last leaf will descend with the frost of night.

If I am unable to eat from your tree,

Then being pushed by the unknown breeze,

will be my final decree

as I unroll my sails and sail away free.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Six): El Biker

Part 6: El Biker

By Armando Ortiz

Back when my dad had volunteered us to work at the recently purchased church new people began appearing randomly for a moment or decided to stay for a long while.It seemed that the congregation kept getting bigger and bigger, hence the need to move to a larger locale. Relocating to the new church meant a lot of sacrifices for the congregation that was made up of blue collar workers. Some members would end up moving to other churches after the newly acquired church had been restored to a new glimmering sanctuary  because they felt that the congregation was no longer homely. The stained glass windows, which were in fact made of some kind of plastic, now filtered light much clearly and one saw strawberry reds, deep metallic greens, and gold chocolate foil.

During the time that was spent restoring the church there came a new member of the church who dressed like a cowboy, well more really like a stockier, taller, and darker version of Wyatt, one of the main characters of Easy Rider. In the film Peter Fonda was a more refined version of a biker/smuggler, Carlos on the other hand was Central American, and his hair was curly and his shirts seemed a bit tight at the waist. I don’t recall much of the person, though he once said he was from El Salvador. There was this one time, while he was working on the chain link fence that some of my buddies and I approached him. We peppered him with questions about all sorts of things. He wore black cowboy boots and claimed he’d been a biker. For the past five years he’d been riding here and there and everywhere. I didn’t pay much heed to what he said, but I thought the boots were cool, so was his belt. Maybe the question arose because compared to all the members of the church who dressed conservatively with their church etiquette, he stood out. 

He kept working on the chain link fence that stretched to the other end of the lot, and then pointed to the bike he rode. “I used to ride around with bikers and we’d go up to the mountains and have barbecues.” The bike was black with some orange lettering on the sides of the gas tank. The two piston motor glistened, reflecting the afternoon sun. The handles were slightly lifted and the back wheel was enamel black. It wasn’t new, but it was clean. The front wheel was chrome, and gave the motorcycle a certain character; a certain aura projected that emanated flawlessness. The church brother certainly had taste. “It’s a Harley-Davidson,” he said, “Though if you ever get a motorcycle get a Honda. Ese bolado’s given me many problems, but it’s all mine.” He seemed out of place in the church and out in the real world, but he was being helpful and doing good work.

We once found him playing the piano inside the church, we asked him what he was playing and he said he was playing Sonata Bach. We asked him if it was his girlfriend, and he said it wasn't a woman but a musical piece by a man that no longer was living, but that one day, if we remembered we’d re-discover his beautiful music. That day he wore a leather vest, over a white shirt. He continued playing on the old wall piano. We just stared at the strange cowboy that had appeared out of nowhere. He’d close his eyes, and his fingers dexterously moved left to right.

“Jose!,” someone called out. Marco, the guy supervising the restoration of the church signaled that our help was needed outside. He got up from the stool and headed towards the entrance to the church. The pack of church kids followed behind. Outside the weather was typical Southern California weather, sunny and warm. Two palm trees were on the curbside of Adams Blvd.

One day we were coming back from playing basketball. The adults had set up a half court in front of the church’s parking lot. We’d been called to go inside and help around. We were carrying some stuff to the pulpit where once again we found him sitting on the piano bench. He was having his lunch, Louisiana Chicken, which he’d brought down the street. He squeezed the ketchup package on his food, topping the fried chicken with the red sauce. I asked him why he ate his chicken with ketchup, “That’s how I like to eat fried chicken,” he replied with a smile, looking straight into my eyes. He was a jack of all trades. I don’t recall much after that and it seems that as he appeared from out of nowhere to help in the rebuilding of the church, once the project was done he disappeared in a snap, merging with traffic, either driving east or west on Adams Boulevard. He probably drove west and saw the sunset before he followed wherever his wandering soul took him.

Aldous Huxley's Crome Yellow and Roberto Bolano's 2666: On Society

“No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.” Roberto Bolano, 2666, p.348

Aldous Huxley's Crome Yellow and Roberto Bolano's 2666: A Discussion on Society

By Armando Ortiz

A few months ago I met up with some old acquaintances for lunch and to catch up on life. Back in 2004, we had spent time in China traveling, studying and hanging out. Now it was 2011, and at some point in our conversation I told them about the author, Roberto Bolano and his last book, 2666, but then drifted to talking about Aldous Huxley's writings. I was not prepared to talk about the books or the authors, but for some reason I told them that they were worth reading. The brief dialogue left me wondering why they were important, but then the thought disappeared, and I went on with life.

Nevertheless, today while coming back from a long walk I was reminded why they are important. Something had triggered a memory that connected to what I had read in the recent past. As I walked, at a distance, there was a man riding on the back of an electric wheel chair. The driver was handicap, of course, but the man riding on it was not. The man on the back of the wheelchair had a dark blue sweater and stood on the batteries. Some of his hair fluttered, since the electric chair seemed to move at a stead 15 miles per hour. That reminded me of two things, one, a scene/story that I read in a book, and two, Profesor Morini, a character in 2666.

I couldn’t quite remember in what book the strange tale was in so, I wondered if it possibly had been Oscar Wilde’s last short story that I had read, but it wasn’t. I was tempted to stop and ponder, but I’m a multi-tasker, and figured it’d do me some good to seriously think for a bit and briskly walk. I tried remembering the title of the story, but failed to pin point the name. So I so I kept on with my power walk. Realizing it wasn’t Wilde I began to mentally retrace the story and thought about Huxley’s Point Counter Point, but it wasn’t that story because I’d never come across anything of Huxley’s that’s as dark as the story I was trying to remember, so I thought. Then it hit me, it was Huxley’s Crome Yellow.

About the authors:

          Aldous Huxley (1894-1963) was born in England and is best known for his novels Brave New World, Point Counter Point, Island, and numerous essays that touch on topics of culture, society, the human body, medicine and religion. At some point in his life he saw his house and everything in it burn to the ground. He continued to write all the way up to his last days. Though he is not widely discussed in our perspective society he’s had a significant impact on the way many of his readers approach life.

          Roberto Bolano (1953-2003) was born in Chile, but spent part of his life in Mexico, and briefly visited El Salvador before moving to Spain. There he had several odd jobs before having success with his writing. In between his travels, temporary jobs, and writing he became addicted to drugs, but managed to get himself clean. All throughout his time he managed to create a new literary circle which was labeled Infernal Realism, and though it was a short lived circle of writers, each took it upon himself to write in that newly created genre. His hugely successful Savage Detectives, Distant Star, and Nazi Literature in the Americas catapulted him to the top of the literary world and caught the attention of international critics all along going at his writing as usual. In between his writing he spent hours devouring the great writers and those unknown. He was a writer’s writer.

Why Huxley matters:

          In Crome Yellow there is a story that is told by one of his characters where a dwarf ends up inheriting the family house along with the family fortune. What was strange about the dwarf was not his size or the fact that everyone around him was regular sized. It was the manner he went about transforming everything around him to conform to his inner ideals and desires. His parents loved him and gave him the best education that was possible. Then his family began to die, making him thinking about his life and the legacy, if any, that would be left after he died. The dwarf’s preoccupation with marriage and having children made him start dating, but in his mind stature was a problem. For a time he dated a woman that was of normal height and they got along well, but that still didn’t satisfy him. He didn’t want to live in a world that reminded him of his short stature. So he paid a match maker to go out and look for a woman that was about his height and came from a respectful and decent household.

The matchmaker ended up finding a fair woman who also was also a dwarf, and soon she was brought back to the estate. They soon married and managed to live two years together without having children, since he was preoccupied with the fear of having regular sized kids or worse, dwarf kids. The man of the house went about reducing everything inside to fit their size. The tables and chairs were reduced in height, and the doors and beds as well. He also proceeded to slowly fire his servants and replace them with servant dwarfs. The couple also found ponies to replace the regular horses. By the time their first and only baby son was born the whole mansion and people living there had been transformed.

          The baby grew, and by the time he was a few months old they knew he would be a regular sized person. What had kept them from having children in the first place came to be. All the work that they had put into their house thinking that they’d live a dwarf’s life became a bit problematic. Nevertheless, the kid grew and went to school and by the time he was eight years old was as tall as his father. Instead of dealing with the problems the child would face living in a dwarf’s house, the parents decided to send him to boarding school. The kid’s primary and secondary education were spent studying somewhere else, but of course the kid returned home for the holidays and for summer vacation. As time passed, his visits and his attitude grew more and more aggressive towards them. He’d purposely broke things and mistreated the dwarf servants. The story continues to unfold and eventually leads to some very unfortunate and sad events, but I will let the reader finish the story themselves.

In the book, Huxley briefly mentions the Nazi, but this short story found in the novel Crome Yellow can be seen as an allegorical allusion to what the Nazi would do in the years to come. The Nazi government and everyone that took part in all the atrocities during World War Two tried to change their society to the extent that they began removing Jews from the general population, then the handicap, then gypsies, then homosexuals, and even then some Jehovah Witnesses. They were moved into ghettos and then into concentration camps to be separate from the German population initiating the attempt at the slow eradication of their populations.

The Nazi believed in a pure and strong race where every German idealized quality that was prized could be seen in its people. Yet, Huxley’s story begs a question- what if they would have been successful in their attempts, and they would have cleansed their society of every perceived ill or threat? Would evil and prejudice itself have disappeared from society? What would have become of their society? Would less criminal activity exist? Would prostitution have been eradicated? Would everyone have had equal access to goods and services? Would poverty have been wiped out? Would the violent and mentally ill no longer exist? Would the chronic poor no longer exist? Huxley points to the son that the two dwarves produced and says no. Human beings are too complex to define them as this or that. Yes, there are people that have different cultural backgrounds, but to have the certainty that by ridding society of certain groups of people for the sole reason that they have some marked difference or strange tradition will never be a valid reason to exterminate other humans. Though, of course, history is riddled with such events and not one piece of land on this earth has been immune to this reality. Instead of focusing on the things that mattered in life, the dwarf focused on changing things around him, though he could not control how his own son would grow up to be.

Trying to alter your surroundings in such a way that it meets your idealized vision of how the world should run will never work. Even today with all the technological advances that we have has proven that humans still need to go out and work, and be active or else they turn into something that disturbingly unnatural. One thing remains certain, and that is the randomness and serendipitous nature of life and human nature and the human spirit. Good and evil cannot be walled in or put into an ivory castle because no matter how good a society might be or think it is there will always be an element of evil and deviance in human nature. Huxley suggests that things ought to be left alone and that we ought to just live life. Living with the aim of being aware of what is going on in our society and being the change we want the world to be.

Why Bolano matters:

          An aspect of Roberto Bolano's 2666 is that he makes us see characters that we usually over look by presenting characters that are not your common every day folk. Of course, characters that are made up by writers will usually be out of the ordinary, though in this case it seems that Bolano has purposely chosen these characters to bring home his message. At times, society can also be oblivious to the life of their marginalized population. Huxley talks about changing our surroundings, while Bolano focuses on how our contemporary surroundings and the margins of society are affected by society at large. It is either society or the powers that be that create a collective amnesia, making us blind to what really is happening to our communities.

The electric wheel chair made me think of the short tale within Crome Yellow, but it also reminded me of 2666. A reason for thinking of Bolano's book was that one of the characters that he creates is the handicap professor Morini, who is an expert on the literature of the elusive German, Benno von Archimboldi. He also happens to be the chair of one of the academic circles that oversees which papers make into the academic journals. Morini seems to have an interest in outsider art and is particularly interested in the life of a marginal artist who at one point in his artistic career decides to cut off his hand and turn it into an art piece. In the novel, the artist briefly appears in a dialogue with the professor, and explains to him that the reason for chopping off his hand was for shock value and monetary gain.

          Bolano’s characters are people who we usually don’t think about and in many ways are the forgotten people of a community that is stereotyped. When we think about authors, when we think about experts, when we think about status or power we don’t consider the characters he writes about. The novel is riddled with writers of all sorts. These are struggling writers that are barely making ends meet, but they are publishing books and articles- though in small time publications. Life for these artists is tough, but they have committed themselves to the life of a writer.

Oscar Fate is an American from the east coast, and works for an African American magazine. Though he isn't big on writing investigative articles circumstances force him to explore the seedier side of Santa Teresa's criminal underworld. On one occasion he visits the training compound of a boxer and there he finds another black man that’s from Los Angeles and is working sparring partner. Though much isn’t said about him one gets the impression that he prefers Mexico to the US. There are several Chicano characters that appear in the novel. There is the writer, Josue Hernandez Mercado, who was born in Mexico, but raised on the US side of the border and works for a small community newspaper. The books he's written and published are a written in an unorthodox manner, with a strange mixture of Spanish and English, making him an intermediary character on the crossroads of two cultural fringes. A small time literary company from Texas has published two volumes of his poetry and two novels.

Though both these men never meet they take it upon themselves to uncover the murders and atrocities that are happening on the border city of Santa Teresa. Oscar manages to escape in time with Rosa, but it seems that Josue has been murdered. The person who picks up from where Josue left off is a Chicana writer from Phoenix, who is also a writer for a small time newspaper, Mary-Sue Bravo. All of these characters point to a larger and more serious issue. The problems of a society though intimately known by the marginalized ghetto dwellers will never get resolved and understood unless the powers that be take action and find practical solutions to the ills that affect the poor.

Bolano, being the clever author that he was, reveals that this might not be possible, because in the end it is the powerful that are letting the murder of women and the disappearance of males happen. Nevertheless, one of the broader themes that he deals with is precisely the life of the poor and wanderers who live on this earth. The over looked are left to fend for themselves and to find some type of concrete solution to their daily survival, which turns into fear of being involved in anything that might jeopardize their lives. Though there are crimes and violence being perpetuated in Santa Teresa it is mostly ignored and usually gets the attention of sensationalist magazines or simply too taboo to talk about the subject. It makes one wonder how many crimes really happen in marginalized areas of our contemporary cities that never get solved or get the attention they deserve. Witnesses to crimes prefer to run away so as to not get involved and be implicated in a crime. Cops and doctors rarely show up on time, preferring to let time pass so as not to have to go through the whole process of questioning people around or not hear anything that the dying victim might say.

It seems that there is an abundance of jobs in Santa Teresa, but not enough time to get stuff done, and not enough income; pay minimal at most or delayed at worst; to rest. There is a sense that people are able to sustain themselves, but not in the manner that is intended for humans to further develop ie socially, communally and culturally. There is also a constant influx of people into the city, partly due to its proximity to the border with the US, and due to the demand for cheap labor. In essence, the fictional city of Santa Teresa is representative of the pressures that developing nations confront in their societies. The need to make enough income to survive for the day, but also finding the ways and means to make ends meet.

Another example that he uses towards the end of the book is of the soldiers that are used to fight in the Russian front. Most of them are descendants of the very same German peasants that fought the wars of the powerful and returned to their hometowns maimed and handicap attempting to resume their “normal” peasant lives. Just like some of the cops that are members of the police force in Santa Teresa that come from the chronically poor parts of Mexico, and whom allegiances fluctuate between government officials and powerful narcos, both groups are given food, pay and gun to kill or protect higher ups. In the end these cops are also powerless.

Somehow, we are also accomplices to this problem, because ignore certain ills that exist in our perspective societies. At times we fail to see the big picture and the forces behind why people migrate and why the poor fight wars for their countries. Why is it easier for the media to talk about a girl that was kidnapped somewhere in the Mid-West, yet not talk about the numerous women that get disappeared in South Los Angeles? Why does a hot dog eating contest winner get more air time on television than a war veteran who’s returned from abroad? There are those that do look at the other side of life, the grimy and overlooked side, but those eyes are few and the voices have yet to reach the ears of the general population. The people that are out there trying to serve the underrepresented come across the characters that Bolano describes.

Conclusion

Both authors touch on subjects that are rarely discussed. In 1921, when a young Huxley wrote Crome Yellow one could only gather hints as to what would happen in Europe in the next few decades, yet he was able to embed his criticism of society within his writings and look ahead to the on coming problems. Eighty-three years later, when 2666 was published, Bolano, though no longer alive, managed to touch on many issues that are over look these days. Both point to something that ought to be considered when thinking about trivial matters such as the end of the world or humanity's collective destruction via nuclear war or some type of catastrophic religious or race war. As long as humans walk this earth the greatest concern and fear is not what might become of us, but of what we are now and have been for centuries - human. 

Metaphorically speaking cannibalism does exist in our societies, and everyday people are being exploited and used for economic and political gain, more specifically undocumented immigrants, the chronic poor and women. The machine continues to churn and devour those whose voice is not heard. In the past, concentration camps segregated certain segments of the community, which in turn were sent to gas chambers and pyres. In Europe, Jews were seen as expendable, and these days its people that are deemed illegal aliens and have no rights. There will always be oppressed and ignored people and those in power will try to rid themselves of the unwanted by using force or nowadays the media with its endless entertainment will create a collective stereotype and amnesia of people that lack political and economic power.

In the past, Empires exercised force, and everyone knew empire was being created at the expense of other societies. In the 20^th century empire and conquest began to take a new shape, being that the media became more refined via film, radio, magazines and newspapers. During the first half of that century those in power knew what was going on and Huxley suggested that force and elimination of the unwanted solved nothing. Now, Bolano shows us where the ills of society are. People in the Americas know that the economy of the US is what moves us and that it dominates most economies in the Americas. Yet what happens to people outside of the US becomes the insignificant collateral damage of something that is beyond our present realities The Oscar Fates of the United states have no idea that we are benefiting from the fruits of the terrible exploitation of human and natural resources around the planet, but there comes a time when chance and time reveal these things, but the irony is that all around the world, the poor and marginalized, the invincible, are the ones who become keenly aware of the forces that affect the lives of other invisible populations. To them what happens in the streets in nothing new, but what was happening in Santa Teresa and is happening in real life in parts of Mexico is shocking.