Spledors: Prose

Splendors

by Armando Ortiz

The splendor of 500 golden Taj Mahals

Hand built by generations of personal rebirths

Would speak but a few phrases, of

A love that’s deeper than the ocean blue

One hundred hail Mary’s would not be enough

To thank the heavens for making us copulate

A thousand crosses cannot bleed the memories

That on this short lived life we’ve made

I still hold that plastic red cup

While you fill it to the brim with cold water

That freshens my soul, and cools my fatigue

While I analyze your peasant hands, and look at your granite eyes

If all of this were to happen again

I would be left with an unfulfilled desire

To call out you name, and

Declare my deep attachment to you

The exhausting migration of a monarch butterfly

Cannot compare the distances I’d travel to see you

I’d head west, and walk into the ocean

While my shadow would linger and talk with the setting sun.

While my shadow would linger and talk with the setting sun.

Let's Float: Poem

Let’s Float

by Armando Ortiz

Let’s float on a bed of lilies, under the company of blue

‘Cause on this clear spring day that’s all there is to do,

I see you from afar and admire the art of nature’s style,

But the mind is where these images make hope dwell in mire,

You are the elegant painted portrait and the youthful vivid flower,

That makes me long for magical conjuring powers,

Let me place a crown of flowers on your head,

As I admire your beauty and get drunk with your scent

Let’s follow the path that leads to the garden

Where silence rules and nature sings,

Although we are all fated to return to the land of dreams,

The present that life is turns tears into streams.

High Desert Spring: Poem

High Desert Spring

by Armando Ortiz

A week ago poppies with ripe orange tints,

carpeted the hills of the Antelope Valley.

Today I only see a scattered quilt

of cool yellows, faint violets, and brown patches.

Now the dry poppies shiver under the toasting sun,

And the wind dances tango with the golden grass.

A lizard sticks its head out from the desert fibers,

And from a distance I hear a voice say, “Cold beers!”

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Eleven): Saturday Services

Part 11: Saturday Services

by Armando Ortiz

After the church had been fully restored service began to be held there four times a week. One day, out of the blue, some people showed up for the Saturday evening service. A couple walked inside the church and were quickly guided by the ushers to sit on any of the two columns of wooden pews. Churches never refuse entry to anyone who might be in need of a heart change, and even in the deepest recess of the heart there always lies a desperate voice that seeks answers in all kinds of places. The inner workings of the congregation usually didn’t apply to visitors so people were always welcome.

They headed towards the front and sat on the bench that was before the altar. The first row seats were usually reserved for young adults, musicians that performed, visiting preachers and wives of those running the show. On the altar was an old wooden pulpit with a holy cross. A plastic stained glass decorated the front of the standing oak box with a brass outline seemed to hold the multi-color jigsaw puzzle in place. We sat on the left like all the men, and the girls like the women, on the opposite side of us, on the other column of pews. The couple sat a few feet away from us on the front row. The pastor was preaching to the audience and saw the man and woman that had just sat down to his right. The women of the congregation who were to his left were glancing at the recently arrived couple. They somehow seemed out of place.

They just sat there, listening intently to the sermon being given by the evangelist. As soon as they sat down the man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the sweat from his bald head, it was as if someone were cleaning a ball peen hammer. Their eyes were locked on the pastor’s every movement and occasionally would slightly turn and talk into each other’s ear. The lady’s hair was gathered up into a bun. Grey earrings with onyx beads dangled from her earlobes matching her silvery roots. They both had a stoic appearance, and seemed to be entranced by the preacher’s sermon. The preacher was fully aware of their presence but he was used to sudden appearances and change in audience attention, so he knew the cues. The man had a gold earring on his left earlobe that contrasted with his dark skin, like the gold foil that is used to wrap a chocolate coin. We couldn’t hear their conversation, and don’t recall what was spoken that night, but I do remember that after we got back home and turned on the television the news was showing a man that had been caught for a crime south of San Pedro and Adams. His wife or girlfriend wasn’t there. It was only him, with hands behind his lower back held in place by handcuffs. There were times when people in the church, after lengthy songs of worship and prayer, would receive the holy spirit and speak in tongues. All we could hear from them were rushed whispers.  

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.