A Drive to the Coast, Part 5

Part 5: Your Eyes

by Armando Ortiz

Your eyes light a path that leads to your temple inside the living palace where waterfalls palpitate and your pupils ignite candles that cry inside your chapels. You let me turn your prayer wheels as everyone chants Om mani padme oum.

I proceed to enter the room of a hundred numinous Buddhas and Shamans start speaking with past spirits, talking in flames, while swirling and twirling in coyote pelts.

The wheel of time turns and we open doors to other doors, and the teachings of ancestors turn and turn like the atom, like the mani wheel, like the turning of chariots, like the cycles of days, and the turning of seasons, like the turning of time.

Huddled we watch our mother dance with the Whispering Spirit.

They become swirling dervishes shuffling with the present as the fox chases its tail.

The conception of nothingness is where knowledge emerges.

Kalachakra and Vishvamata disintegrate into ashes and the dust of our delirious steps rise above our feet revealing to us the sacred wisdom of the old self-perpetuating reality that has permanence one conception at a time.

All is vanity under a canopy of frozen tears.

A Drive to the Coast, Part 4

Part 4: Splitting of Electrons

by Armando Ortiz

All you get is the splitting of electrons. That is what she said after I told her what it was that I was seeing and feeling. I had been tripping pretty hard that day and the world that existed outside of me came in to focus. I had been aware of the world that I live in and the daily transactions that take place with others. However, on this particular day things changed, as if my entire world had been lifted up and taken up to outer space, where gravity is less stable, and things tend to have a mind of their own. I was about to step out of my capsule and out into unknown territory, and all communication would be unstable. 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 bye and at times saw the tops of their cars, and at other times I saw people on platforms just enjoying the whole view of the festival taking place. I was at the center of all the chaos that was taking place. Everything was happening before me and around me. I realized that all that was outside was a sort of organized chaos, but I was the center and the central spoke of the center was I. My thoughts were in a state of chaos. The Chaos was somehow hyperbolically connected to the world at large like a chariot perpetually racing competitors inside a hippodrome of consciousness. A silent static took precedence between thoughts and the rest of my physical self.

She’d been listening to me talk, and at times turned away to look at all that was happening down the slope, occasionally spotting random decorated bicycles.

Then she said, “Well, after all that, all you have is the splitting of electrons.”

I gave out a loud laugh, “Hahahaha…” it 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 they 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, and the tall buildings that look offensive when compared to the distant backdrop of the Azusa Mountains. All we have are splitting of electrons, atoms that go round and round, like all that exists outside ourselves. The universe and other galaxies seem to go round and round with no perceived ending to all the life cycles out there. The cycles of time devour everything, and in the end, there all that is left are splitting of electrons.

A Drive to the Coast, Part 3

Part 3: The Cycles of the Setting Sun

by Armando Ortiz

The uprooted window of light, glides in heaven, moving like the mythical quetzal that floats between worlds, slowly slithering, navigating through words.

It emits preternatural rays that reach earth’s bays.

Its voice is deciphered with the blooming leaves of yesterday, and the blossoms of autumn maple leaves.

This powerful dragon ball carries dharma with golden explosions, and from its central point life emerges.

Huitzilopotchi blazes proudly it's aura, refracting its image of polished emeralds in a canopy of greens, perpetuating ruby emblems, as plebeians chant Verde Verde.

The water’s edge mirrors a serpent body that undresses and dips into a deep blue, reflecting a coral necklace that shimmers on the surface.

The Great Spirit wanders through every particle that calls this limitless bubble home.

The sphere slowly plummets under the distant mountain ranges, revealing the silhouette of a sleeping princess who lays trapped in a slumber of dreams, waiting for Perseus who brings Medusa and armor to release her.

Ridges turn into mesas where natural men embark on vision quests that become epic desert wanderings. 

Mountain tops transform the ancient fire and volcanoes implode becoming petrified rock walls imprinted with petroglyph oracles, and hummingbirds begin their synchronized dance.

Passing through giant pyramids that stand rusting they trek into wombs of virgin jungles where the heat doesn’t feel and piranhas smell the blood that pumps through their veins, inside canyons of hidden caves.

Glowing embers dangle above as the eternal pendulum, emitting the decaying heat of summer days reach the old bay, showering us with life and its cycles replenish us.

Pyrotechnic yellows and violent polyhedrons blast into millions of cosmic rays, making nuclear colors burst in purple, and putting on a performance of multiple fireworks that explode as umbrellas that open up and twirl like kaleidoscope sutras.

Oceans of orange prisms travel unfiltered through the pupils of glaring Olmec heads that emit silvery yellow whirlpools with exploding lemon daisies.

The flower of life bursts with bangs, blooming precious particles of our nearest past from where Prometheus stole the three dimensional petal of electric plasma.

Sunflowers follow the trajectory of Rah.

Psychedelic rays of mystical heptagons carry the sacred life forces of elliptical atoms and the hidden messages that Sufi wanderers absorb, which the people attempt to deplore but the tie-dyed colors of the atmosphere melt before us, and paints the life that envelops all.

Nazca spiders weave mythical tales with intricate plasma webs that send prayers to undiscovered realms, putting together eternal dream catchers that communicate with heavenly creatures and perform dramas with Jupiter and Saturn.

Clouds hover above the eternal sea, like black phoebes perching on invisible branches gently parading and floating over peach horizons, reflecting smooth polyester balls that glide past our sight.

Puffy cotton mounds partition a sparse lingering light that sinks into an ocean of gargoyles and pestering ancient parasites.

The geometric visions like the Huichol deer that see all under the canopy of blue stars disappear with the rise of the evening star.

Ancestral spirits exist between planetary valleys separated by sophisticated theological postulations. On imaginary planes light bends and microcosmic elements crash into invisible space.

Petrol hydrocarbons replace dawn’s light, fighting protracted wars with darkness, disintegrating into dusty vapors, giving beings light while entropy laughs its last laugh and disorder persistently expands its parameters.

This perpetual cycle of decay is a battle that’s persisted since yesterday became past and neutrons ceased emitting splendorous waves like the sacred yin and yang of the stars and today.

We join the pandemonium in hopes of finding equilibrium with the elements that ignore our existence and commence cosmic battles.

The wheel of time consumes all under heaven and devours those that are too powerful on earth to be served on ceramic platters.

Yet we continue to build our towers of Babel and our rockets make artificial rainbows, in attempts to replace nature’s power.

Invisible giants trace the dances that Peruvian condors have written with claws on deserted pampa plateaus. Now panthers wander on a plane of sacred and mundane space.

We trace the journeys of these night beings, holding the ancestral fire, and following the outlines of labyrinth journeys.

Preachers predict the coming of a mighty one, but this apocalypse has already commenced, and Peter’s rock melts like a plastic toy that drips mango drops into the precipice of infinity, where Jesus extends his pierced hand at us and cries in ecstasy.

Poverty stricken men prepare for their plundering night as they step out of their dilapidated homes and merge onto old traveling trails imprinted by the three poisons.

A Drive to the Coast, Part 2.

Part 2: The Coast of Los Angeles

by Armando Ortiz

The edge of the Pacific is like the tentacles of a giant octopus and rushes at the boulders that clutter the coast, reaching deep inside the catacombs where rats live, mixing with the yellow piss of drunk weekend visitors.

Soap bubbles come alive with every crash, like champagne bottles striking rocks. The sparkling water fizzles out, leaving behind tide pool swirls, and drying washed rocks.

I see the shore of LA, unnatural and beautiful, curving like the hips of a goddess, stretching south to Hermosa Beach.

Cars roll along Highway 1, swishing south with motors humming, and others zooming north as the rubber tires rubbing asphalt, and from where I sit looking at the water’s edge, on the boulders, the ocean becomes a giant treasure chest of broken wine bottles.

The tide is rising, the moon is lifting, the night turns bluer, and my soul ascends. Granite rocks, rough and warm to the touch are scoops of petrified chocolate chip ice cream frozen in time. These boulders become the front row seats to a grand amphitheater.

The wind and water make a symphony of white noise as the steady breeze lifts the smell of stale beer from the crevices, merging with the ocean mist.

Swarms of pelicans dive into the water and pierce the waves like kamikaze soldiers, catching wriggling fodder that glistens under a veil of water.

Uninvited, the seagulls stand mute, watching the frenzy of dive bombers feasting on their silvery prey. In unison they turn to see the day-visitors play ball, in their play forgetting about their bags.

Rats come out from inside the boulders, observing and inspecting the view, searching for what the two legged beings have dropped on the ground, always giving their back to the rare eyes that see them crawling about.

People linger behind catching the last rays of the warm ember sky, while someone strikes the last serve.

Other beach goers take pity on gulls and open leftover bags, hurling stuff up to the air, and the scavenging birds stab the bread at once.

The wind is like a swarm of honey bees, and waves disappear into the green body that slowly turns into a deep virgin jungle. The organic seashell comes alive when we visit the coast and listen carefully with our ears.

The edge of the pacific is but a few inches from where I sit, where wave after wave slowly sways like a mother cradling a child.

On the other side of the earth are other people invisible to our eyes, sitting by the edge, looking towards our side, everyone sits on the sand and looks out beyond the mind. We see the sun dip into the horizon, while a bloody red dot emerges on theirs.

We share the same thoughts as we bask under the golden sun and see the rays that reflect from every temporal ripple. The shadows of sleeping Buddhas are the same here as over there.

Surfers perform their daily ritual of riding the waves courageously and ceremoniously caress the ocean, hypnotizing the sun that sinks under the horizon, only to return in the mornings to welcome it from its slumber. They get engulfed by spirals, and come out of the tunnels reborn, like the breath that emerges from deep inside a conch.

Pelicans navigate the waters with ease, skillfully feeling the transparent breath of the ocean, gliding over turbulent waves as people dive into them hoping to make it out the other side.

At a distance is the pier where childhood memories were made by the fishing docks, where the crazy drunk jumped into the waters to swim and where churros were sold for fifty cents.

Waves slowly crawl towards my toes, and the sun stains the water with California poppies.

A Drive to the Coast, Part 1

Part 1: Riding the 10 Fwy

by Armando Ortiz

The humming of the tires rolling on the concrete highway gave it an imagined sensation of floating on top of a free flowing river, riding a modern canoe, a tunnel like experience where the movie reel is no longer on the screen but inside an empty paper roll. It’s like rolling paper and peering through the little hole, imagining that what’s on the other side is miles and miles away. My drive down the highway is much more than riding an ancient Studebaker, where only one passenger fits, and the top speed is 35 miles an hour. Unlike the telescope though, things are moving past us, and I ride fast. Everything moving at a steady 75 miles per hour, the trajectory gets closer and closer, and the landscape streaks beyond the horizon to where the sun sinks. Unmovable is the setting sun, leaving the violet sky stained in amber orange. That’s the feeling one gets while driving down Interstate-10, on a late-fall afternoon. It's like riding on a chariot of fire, where the wheels have giant rubber tires and every rotation moves me three feet ahead.

In the past all roads lead to Rome, but nowadays, roads lead to borders, and circumvent the center. This highway, if I drive east, takes me to the Atlantic coast. Drive north from Los Angeles on the I-5 and you reach Bellingham, WA, the last big town before reaching the border of Canada. At historically unimaginable speeds, one can cross the whole sleeping steppes of flats, mountains and plains that exist on this North American geography. The wheels and speed at which I drive still make the humming sound with occasional surreal beeps, the center in sharp focus with endless white dashes that separate the lanes slightly hypnotize the mind. The rubber sticking and slipping from the concrete, and the heat radiating from the ground slightly makes the wheels stick on the ground for less than a billionth of a second. I look at my rear view mirror and side view mirrors to know where the cars are and to check if any car is behind me. I do this to make sure that if anything happens I surely will be able to limit the severity of any problems that might arise.

I turn on my iPod and listen to the most up to date electronic music and immediately I'm transported to a reality that has only existed inside the pages of the most contemporary books, static thumps with a center point that looks as if expanding. Shakespeare never took a ride on a Bentley, and neither did Whitman get to ride a little Toyota while bumping on hip hop tracks. Nope, this moment is singular to what others have lived. The moment, amazingly beautiful and tragically imperfect, yet the earth still circling, circling around the sun. It’s in the direction I am driving on and seems like it’s on an infinite pause, displaying the wondrous splendor while I step on the pedal and dare to race it to the edge. Nevertheless, when one sees things for what they are one sees that things are good, at least here. The weather in Los Angeles during this time is great, the sunsets are millennial, and the people along with the tourists are magical. Where else would I rather be, but here, where I am, riding towards the sunset, on the highway, with some good music blasting, all I need now is my Amazonian queen to guide me into the canyons.

Sunday Afternoon- Griffith Park Drum Circle: Sketches of Los Angeles

Sunday Afternoon: Griffith Park Drum Circle

by Armando Ortiz

Two Sundays ago I hiked up to Mt Hollywood and then descended down the Northeast side to where the Merry-Go-Round and the weekend drum circle are located. I figured it would be a nice place to relax a bit, read a few pages of Joyce’s Ulysses of which I'm almost done, and listen to some live music. I went down the trail slowly making my way to the drum circle. I made my final approach and sat under a tree a few meters away from the circle. I sat on the grass and lounged for a bit under the shade of an oak tree.

I saw people and all kinds of hands slapping drums, congas, djembes, bongos and tambourines or holding sticks that were either striking something or rasping some kind of instrument. Kids were running around, and toddlers dancing to the groove, along with their parents who were enjoying the music. There were ladies who wore speckles on their hips that made shingly sounds. Their hips swayed, rocked, twisted and shot from side to side rhythmically making their speckles shiver under the sun’s heat. The beats that emanated from the circle reminded me that people have been coming here and doing this for decades. The spirit of those that started this circle years ago resonated with childhood memories of when my family would go come to this part of Griffith Park for weekend barbecues. My siblings and I would play in the jungle gyms, use the swings, and slide down the shimmering slides. Occasionally we’d go ride the Merry-Go-Round that would go round and round as the plaster cast horses that were painted in bright pastels moved up and down. Even as we got older and sandboxes were replaced with baseballs, soccer balls, and footballs, we could still hear the rhythmic beats that were being born from that corner of the park.

As I sat down to hear the beats, a whirlpool of memories were brought up in that instant, like a sudden cloud funnel that appears out of nowhere and then disappears in the present nothingness of the sky. At that moment I got the idea to write about this spot, which lies hidden to many people who call Los Angeles home.

It surprises me that this spot is always very intimate and the people that come here are relaxed and are either making percussion beats or enjoying the sounds being made with the hands of a group of people that come from various and differing backgrounds. Some folks instead of drums bring grills to cook meat so as to have some live music in the background. The shade that the old oaks and pine trees make is something special.  Griffith Park is in Los Angeles, and it is only a few minutes away from the I-5, and only ten to fifteen minutes from Downtown L.A.

In between the silhouette of the trees I could see weekend warriors riding their shinny two wheelers glide bye, SUVs filled to the brim with working class families trudging through, and late-model Hondas zooming by, and all of them, no matter who was in them slowed down a bit and momentarily enjoyed the sounds that emanated from the shade. Some made a U turn and parked their cars, while others clapped or cheered, and others just kept driving.  

I can remember many times looking out the window as I scanned the area and wondered who those people were. I usually thought they were hippies having a drum fest, but as time went on I came to realize that it’s a group of people committed to bringing music to the park, and what fortune do we have that it’s at Griffith Park and not some far away location. Not only are they bringing music, but through them one connects to that grander beat that pumps through all the people that call this place home. The sounds truly represent the varied experiences that all have in this city and around the world, and in a way connects us to that time when we first heard the simple, but complex beats of a drum.

Listening to all the performers I was reminded of a Grateful Dead song “Playing in the Band.” The song talks about people of all walks of life that have existed, exist, and will exist. Yet the message of the song is that all of us in some way add our bit of beat to this life, our soul merges with the souls of all others and we make a chaotic choir and harmonic big band that extends wide out and up to outer space. Of course I’m going overboard, but it’s nice to know that on a nice Sunday afternoon we can go to the park and enjoy some of the music that our long past ancestors enjoyed on beautiful days like this past Sunday.

James Joyce's Ulysses: Book Review

James Joyce's Ulysses, 100 Years Later: Book Review

by Armando Ortiz

A few days ago, I finished reading James Joyce’s Ulysses, and what better timing to put this up than today, Bloomsday. The date of when the story is set is June 16, 2012 and ever since its publication people have celebrated this day as the day that we get to experience one entire day in the life of Leopold Bloom.

Though it was a bit of a challenge at times, the overall experience of reading the novel was good. Prior to reading this I had read A Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, and after some encouraging words from a close friend I decided to read it. Ulysses offered me a slice of what Dublin, Ireland was one hundred years ago. Joyce was no longer living in Dublin when Ulysses was written and published, but nevertheless memories of his life certainly must have been as vivid as the images in the book were. Through the eyes of L. Bloom and the voice of many other characters we are able to see what it was like to be in the midst of the hustle and bustle of Dublin. It also lets us understand the multiple realities that are ever present in our daily existence as we walk down a sidewalk or drive down the street.

Joyce describes the countless perspectives that exist in the reality of Bloom’s life, and if one considers that then what was done in Ulysses was an attempt at something that can be a daunting challenge. Imagine trying to capture the multiplicity of what goes on in a moment with the people that are close to you, like your relatives or friends, with your neighbors, with the cat that lies on the floor sunbathing or the flowers and cactus that decorate a balcony. Let’s also consider the squirrel that comes to visit my cat or the crow that paid it a visit when it was barely a kitten.

Yes, the writing is complex at times, but as life and time continues unfolding within the narrative we begin to see a man who loves life, and who relishes and despises it at every moment. Though there are problems in his life, like every other person’s in this world, he goes about his business enjoying the sights that he perceives, which includes the waves by the shore, ladies walking bye, peddlers, cavalcades of soldiers, pub meetings, meals and buildings that house café, restaurant, lawyers, candy stores, and notaries. His mind absorbs only a slice of what it seems, which is a lot, and interprets it. Through him we come to understand that at times we too get caught up in our mind’s thoughts while going through our daily routines like using the toilet, walking to the market, visiting friends and going to work. Our material body is present, but so are many other bodies and individual minds, which are individual universes that think of the past, present, future. At this instant people are recalling the things learned and the things experienced. In Ulysses we experience the ever present moment of Bloom, and see the actions that he takes, and the places where he goes, and the people he meets. Towards the end of the novel  Bloom tries to bring Stephen into a kind of balance between intellectual thought and the spirit through a long and oftentimes disjointed discussion of one’s existence. The story is told in such a way that one cannot avoid assimilating the message of living in the moment, and taking on the responsibility that life demands.

A copy of Ulysses

There were moments where I wondered what I was doing reading the novel. I mean, there were instances where he used some really tough language, but more than that there were times when he would alternate with characters or describe certain settings causing me to put the book down and wonder what I was doing. Luckily, that only happened a few times, most of the time Joyce kept me amused and entertained with his puns and outlandish jokes. Many of the descriptions that he gives are funny and the word play that he uses at times dumbfounded me with amazement.

One of the features that I greatly appreciate from the book is how Joyce turns a “regular day” into an extraordinary experience. It offers us a day in the life of Bloom, a husband, father, friend, employee, foreigner, citizen, lover, a customer and an advisor who meets many other main characters who are imbued with the spirit of life, experience, and emotional voices. The people he meets and sees are the very same characters that one sees in a day, like the homeless man that sits on the bus stop, the window cleaner, works at the local coffee shop, sandwich makers, produce workers, pastry chefs, beautiful ladies that are beginning to bloom, in their prime or past their years of vigor. We see gardeners, firemen, cops, birds, clouds, soldiers, the sky, and in all that there are thoughts within all the millions of people that call the city home.

At times the book made me wonder how he came up with such a daunting task. In a sense I felt challenged thinking about how I could go about writing such a book with such ambition and manage to pull it off all in the scope of one day. How does one character in a book manage to go through so much in such very little time? Well, the answer lies in our own personal lives. Every breathing moment of our lives is an extraordinary event and it certainly is possible to fit in more than 700 pages of prose to describe one day of our lives. Just think for a moment of all the people that one meets in a day, and the stories that they have to share, now consider the inanimate things that come alive vis a vis our communal existence, cars, buildings, light poles, offices, and streets. Without people all these things would just be there, but no, it needs the presence of people to come alive. It needs the presence of multiple realities. It needs a multiplicity of perspectives and experiences and that is what the book gives to the reader.

Statue of J. Joyce in Dublin, Ireland

Life can be overwhelming at times and it can be easy to get stuck on one train of thought, nevertheless, life continues to go, like a river, just like Bloom has to go through all that he goes through, and despite all the routine he manages to reminisce on his dead son, think about his daughter that is in college in some other town and think about his wife and what she is doing at that very moment in the house alone. There is death and life in the book. There is passion, chance meetings, undesired encounters, there are starving dogs and satisfied cats. There are those that talk with a fine English accent and those that talk as Irish country bumpkins. In the end the yes that is repeated a couple of times at the end of the book is a yes to life, and an embrace to the unknown that will one day become known, to the fears that will become common routine and to the commitments that we will follow through to the end. In many ways Joyce successfully captures the continuation of life and all that that entails in the everyday life of a person.

Declan Kiberd is right in his overall take on the book, in Ulysses “people are educated by their sins, and they must learn first how to go wrong, in order, later to go right, only in that way could the everyday be re-enchanted.” Through reading Ulysses we “learn how to watch and look at things.” In addition to morals and instances of humanity, Bloom’s mode of transportation aside from carriage and trolley are his two feet. Most of the places that he visits are done walking. There is an excessive amount of walking that reminded me of the times I’ve walked. It reminded me of when I was a student in South Korea and I would go for long evening walks around Sinchon, where every other person was a college student, and was out drinking with their friends. It brought back memories of when my friends and I would go have dinner together and talk about all kinds of things, and how we’d all get drunk and end up having another meal to sober up a bit. It reminded me of all the times when I was traveling through unknown cities and I would go out for walks and look around visiting ancient temples or museums. It reminded me of when as a kid I was in Chinatown and I saw the Lion dance being performed by 5 guys that were hiding under the giant lion costume. It reminded me of when I’d go to the alleys of Downtown L.A.’s garment district and buy discounted clothes with my parents. It reminded me of how when I was starting college I’d ride the bus and all the weird characters, including me, rode inside, every day, and how I eventually started riding my bike and how that brought new experiences. It also reminded me of the walk I take to the post office at the end of every month to drop off the paperwork that goes to the tutoring office. Life might seem to get boring at times, but there is always life and an abundance of possibilities, and it’s through reflection and our merging with life that we get to live life to the fullest.

Aaron Coleman:Tattooer/Artist

Aaron Coleman: Tattooer/Artist

by Armando Ortiz

                I met Aaron a few years back while I was going around selling art books. It was in Phoenix, Arizona where I began to hear from other tattooers in that city that I needed to go to Immaculate Tattoo and meet Aaron. In my mind I figured that it must have been the place to go if you wanted to get some really good custom work done, I mean, if other shops were referring me to that shop then there must have been something there in the first place worthy of other’s respect and referral. I got to meet Aaron on my last day in Phoenix, and he did buy some books. After that I got to see his work on other people and after a couple of years of traveling and meeting many tattooers I became aware of the respect that he has garnered all across the country. When you meet Aaron, he does not seem like a guy that is highly respected in the industry that he is a part of. He comes across as a nondescript guy that really likes drawing and enjoys rock music. He's been tattooing for almost two decades and has been drawing and painting all his life. When you talk to him you really don’t know that you are talking to one of the more accomplished artists in the tattooing community.

                His work is prolific and his output is outstanding. He has self-published numerous art books, or what tattooers call flashbooks, and seems to have a never ending flow of ideas and drawings. He’s been an inspiration to many people, and a challenge to many others. His work speaks for itself and with his modesty it seems that he will only keep on getting better and more work will be coming out from him in the near future.

                The idea of the interview came about a few months back. I wanted to interview some of the people that I met during my travels and time as an art book seller. There are only a few artists out there that have the work ethic that he does, and even fewer people that have the modesty that he has, so why not show case his work and get to know more about him via a different avenue that isn’t tattoo related. Here is the interview. I hope you guys find it informative and insightful.

-Me: Are you willing to do a mini interview? Mostly about your art and paintings.

-Aaron: Sure, hope yer well. Good to hear from you. If you wanna send me money and books that works. I’m going to Rome in 4 weeks.

-Me: Rome, wow…..cool. When in Rome do as Romans. Let’s start this interview on line. It’s better, clear and to the point. Do you recall your first time drawing or painting?

Pushead

-Aaron: Me and my brother would sit around and draw bicycles and this guy riding a skateboard with his butt hangin out. They all said “ba on em” it stood for bare ass. I think it was t-shirts just a little head sticking out from a guy riding a skateboard. We were maybe 7 or 8.

                When I got into my early teens, around 13, I remember drawing skateboard graphics a lot and re-drawing a lot of the images of the first Suicidal Tendencies album cover.

-Me: Were there any particular artist in that field that got your attention, in terms of their designs? When did you start doing watercolor work?

-Aaron: Early on, I really liked Mad Magazines, skateboard art, Pushead is a stand out and Punk Rock art. Shawn Kerri and of course I always was into comics on some level. Kind of dorky kid, music and art always interested me.

Ralph Snart

-Me: Are there any comics in particular that stand out? In school did you take any art classes or get the attention of other classmates or teachers with your art?

-Aaron: There was a comic called Ralph Snart that I really liked. I was always a huge fan of Mad and Cracked, then when I was 17 years old or so I got heavily into Zap comics and discovered R. Crumb, Robert Williams, S. Clay Wilson, and all the underground stuff which led to guys like R.K. Sloane and Greg Irons and tattoo stuff. It’s all connected.

-Me: Did you ever take any art classes? I have an S. Clay Wilson book and inside there is a nun getting tattooed and above that image it says, “Immaculate Tattoo,” was her referring to your shop? If so, how did you manage to get him to draw that?

S. Clay Wilson's  Checkered Demon

-Aaron: I took some life drawing classes, nothing major. I always loved cartoons and illustration work. I met S. Clay Wilson through Ed Hardy when I was sitting in at Tattoo City. I got to hang with him a couple times at his house. He was really friendly and always tried to get me to smoke pot with him. He was a really nice guy and unfortunately had an accident a few years back and was in a coma for a while. Thankfully he came out of it but I don’t know if his drawing skills have completely returned or if they’ll ever be the same (referring to Wilson’s drawings). I really hope so, because he was hands down my favorite cartoonist.

                He told me some cool stories about him hanging with William S. Burroughs and shooting guns and drinking with Shane Macgowan. Interesting guy, interesting life, interesting style.

-Me: You got to work at Tattoo City? That must have been a great time for you as a tattoo artist. Interesting that you mention S. Macgowan. A few weeks back a local band here in L.A. covered some of their songs. I am not that familiar with Punk Rock or their scenes. I know that in some cities the scene was quite big, how about in Arizona? Was there a big Punk scene while growing up?

Back piece.

-Aaron: Punk Rock was one of the biggest influences while growing up. It shaped a lot of my views at the time, and exposed me to a lot of art, artists, and even to tattooing. I think in a lot of ways it was the last meaningful music movement as far as the first late-70s early-80s wave of it. Punk Rock now isn’t really Punk Rock. I was really fortunate to catch the very tail end of it in the early and mid-80s. I definitively think its part of what influenced me to take the path I did. It definitively introduced me to a lot of the things that I still visually enjoy as well as listen to.

                I’ve always been fortunate enough to work with really talented tattooers. It’s been a really great ride so far and I hope this is just the beginning.

-Me: Tell me a bit more about some of the things about Punk Rock that influenced you besides the art. Can you give some other examples?

-Aaron: I always liked the do it yourself, fuck you, part of it all. Back in the 80s if you saw some other kid wearing a Black Flag shirt you kinda just knew that they were into the same shit. You had a weird connection, shit was a lot rarer and it was kind of like you were superior, like you knew about something that was cool and other people were oblivious to! And most people that were tattooing were like that in the beginning too.  There was a connection and you were aware of something that was great and everybody else was oblivious to. Tattooing was like that in the beginning as well.

-Me: I once saw a poster that you had done at some shop. I am not sure if it was for a show or what but it was pretty cool. How long do pieces that size take to do? Tell me about your comic/cartoon that you once mentioned.

Robert Crumb's Mr. Natural

-Aaron: Not sure what poster. I did a lot of poster art for a little while for a local promoter who was a customer/friend of mine. He paid me well and I got to do some fun stuff, usually he’d ask when I was I was into the bands I did art for, like The Dwarves, TSOL, Hank 3, UK Subs, Jesus I don’t remember, but it was a good thing. Then these other tattooers would see em’ and hit the dude up to do em’ and they’d do em’ just to go to shows for free, and that was the end of that. I got to meet some good people though and I still got a few of em’.

                I always loved comics. Got into the Zap Comics stuff when I was in my teens, and it blew my mind. I wanted to be an adult comic artist, writer, illustrator like Greg Irons or R. Crumb and I loved S. Clay Wilson. Those things blew my mind. I did a comic with a friend of mine, Dave Leamon, who’s a great illustrator out in L.A., he has a website, check it out, but tattooin’ is my true love, once I went down that road everything else got set to the side. I’ve talked with my friend Tim Lehi about doin’ some stuff. Him and Jeff Rassier were doing a comic called Bucks Nort U Want to Do. That kind of thing is just hard for me to allocate the time these days.

-Me: Just for clarification, you wrote that the comic is called “bucks nort u want to do.” I once saw a painting that you made, I think it was yours, where Bush, Osama and Hitler are sorta emerging from the same source. How did you come up with that?

-Aaron: It was a last supper painting that kinda just came about around the time of the whole Osama Bin Laden/Bush was. Same shit different dictators. I guess it’s kinda out dated now.

-Me: How has the economy affected you as an artist? What does art mean to you?

-Aaron: The economy hadn’t really affected me too much, thankfully. Art is how I make my living and hopefully will for a long time.

We have come to the end of the interview. If you are interesting in knowing more about Aaron visit his website at www.immaculatetattoo.com. There you will find shirts, books and some more photos of his work. You can contact him directly at:

1454 W. Main Street, Suite #1,

Mesa Arizona 85201

(480) 668-4940

Huitzil: Zine

I started working on this Zine in late-January. I had to finish it despite the roughness of the art. Nonetheless, here is the finished product. I chose to make hummingbirds the main subject of the Zine for many reasons. All the different instances that people talked about them and conversations I had throughout my travels in the U.S. have culminated in this piece of art. Good day.

Wheelchair Basketball: Sketches of Los Angeles

Wheelchair Basketball

by Armando Ortiz

We’d been in the area before, south of Adams and somewhere in between those old two story homes made out of wood in the early 20th century. Three men were sitting out on the porch talking and hanging out. We hadn’t come to see them though, the address was for a lady who was bed ridden. I guess she was inside. We parked the white van in front of the house. The weather was hot and dry, like a clay oven, so it might have been late-September, but I can’t exactly tell that this is Los Angeles. The house was white with brown molding. The lawn was made up of green patches, but it was mostly a carpet of golden crabgrass. We stepped out of the vehicle and walked to the house. The keys, jumbled together, made sharp jingles.

“Buenas tardes,” said one of the old men.

“Buenas tardes,” we replied in unison.

“Is Betty here?” Juan asked.

I wasn’t supposed to be on the delivery, but lately I’d been tagging along after work. It was a part-time job, and afterwards I didn’t have much to do those days.

“She’s inside,” one of the old men said, quickly swinging his arm as if he was hitchhiking and aiming his thumb inside the house.

Juan went inside the house and I stayed outside with the other men. Santa Ana winds usually added hot dry air to the sunny weather.

“Where did you learn to speak Spanish,” I asked the old man.

“From my wife,” he said.

He stood up and walked towards the front door that was already open.

“That’s her picture over there,” he said, aiming at the fireplace that had been painted ochre. Above the mantle were pictures of a young couple.

I looked inside the living room towards the area pointed out. Black and white pictures of a young black couple were there along with some trophies and other family pictures. One of the photos stood out, and seemed to radiate a warm aura - they looked really happy. His hair seemed to be slicked back and she wore a very conservative dress with cotton trim. It might have been the day they got married or maybe a time when they were celebrating one of their birthdays.

“Is that your wife in the picture,” I asked.

“Yes, that was taken about thirty years ago in New York,” he said, “She moved there with her parents when she was 12.”

“Where did she learn to speak Spanish?” my curiosity seemed to reveal itself like the sweat bead on the forehead.

“She’s Panamanian,” he quickly responded, adjusting his cap. “I am originally from Harlem, but after the Nam I moved to LA.”

Here was a man who could speak Spanish and who had married a Central American woman. Now I look back and consider all the endless possibilities and strange combinations that exist out in the world. Every valley has a story to tell. I was too young to really understand this at that time.

One of his friends suddenly said something about a wheel chair not moving. I was busy looking down the quiet street. It seemed that light and heat soaked everything in sight. Tall slender palm trees bordered the edges of the sidewalk every few meters. The wind made the long palm trees gently sway and bend to the side. Most of the houses on the block looked kept, but it wasn’t like the houses up in the hills, where gardens and lawns were worked on by gardeners. Here it seemed that people had jobs and worked on their homes themselves, none of that hiring help type of thing. I turned around and woke up from my daze. The man was in a wheelchair, had a plain white t-shirt on, and wore some really dark shades.

“Where is the problem?” I asked.

“The right wheel on the front,” he said pointing straight down to the wheel.

“Hmm….lemme see.” I kneeled down and noticed a bunch of hairs that had accumulated on the sides of the wheel.

“When I come back, one of you gentlemen will have to tip him back a bit so I can unscrew the hinge off the wheel,” I said as I turned and started towards the van.

I ran to the van, grabbed the oil can, and searched inside the tool box for a 10. By the time I got back Juan was exiting the house, and said he was going to go get the new mattress from the back of the van. I returned to the man on the wheel chair, and noticed that a scar ran from his forehead all the way to his left cheek.

“I unscrewed the wheel and began pulling all the grey hairs and brown polyester fibers out of the bearings.” Suddenly his voice inquired.

“How long have you been at this?”

“Oh, just a few months,” I replied.

         “Well you’re doing a good job,” he said

I looked up, smiled and said thanks. Then I noticed that the area that had the scar looked lifeless. 

I immediately focused my attention on the task in hand, and wondered what it was that I had seen.

“Were you guys born in Los Angeles?” I asked as I sprayed the center of the wheel with DW-40.

“No. My buddy as you know is from New York, Jack over there, he’s from Cleveland, and I’m from Oakland. We did time in Nam, and after returning to the states we stayed in contact. We all sort of wandered into Los Angeles and never quite left.”

For a moment I imagined bullets flying everywhere and bombs exploding by the side of roads. I’d heard that people would say “hit the shit!” when attacked by sniper fire. Apparently the Vietcong didn’t put boobie traps or landmines where they took a shit though that meant that the soldiers would carry a putrid smell with them afterwards. It was either crap on their bodies or death.

“How long were you guys in Vietnam,” I inquired.

“We did two years,” said the man in the wheelchair.

The sun was hot, and even though we were in the shade the concrete steps and the work made sweat beads gather around my face like morning dew. I soon finished and put the wheel back. I looked up and told him to test the thing. I took a glance at the scar once again, but I couldn’t quite tell what it was that I was looking at. I pretended not to notice. Soon his friend helped him down the steps and now he was swiftly moving around.

“Hey Jack, throw me the ball,” he hollered.

The man who sat silently picked up an old leather basketball that was lying on the porch and threw it at him. He caught it without a hitch, and placed the ball on his legs. He had long brown arms and slender hands. He moved aggressively through the lawn and reached the garage area. His forearms were still chiseled. He began bouncing the ball and making baskets. Then he began to swirl his wheelchair round and round. I was in awe.

“Good job kid!,” he hollered, “Now I can go on whipping ass at the courts. Mother fuckers have been running their mouths about me no longer playing. I’ll show them.”

He returned, once again struggling through the dry grass. He rolled up next to me and smiled. I smiled back. One side of his face was sweaty, while the other wasn’t. It seemed that his left side had melted, but that was strange. An opaque pastiness on the surface of his left side could be seen. He turned around, faced the street and told his friend to put him back on the porch. His friend wore a mechanic’s shirt with the name Donovan stitched on the chest area. The men looked weathered, and sun beaten, but their spirit was still intact. A lot of stories must have been shared between them. The wheels bumped on the concrete steps and made a final thud once on the wooden porch. The old man adjusted something on the waxy side of his face. Up to that moment I hadn’t noticed, but his left side seemed out of place, but after he’d adjusted his sun glasses it seemed his face was symmetrical again.

Juan suddenly emerged from the house with an old hospital mattress and told the husband that the bed was as good as new.

“Le puse nuevo colchon y le ajuste los resortes con un poco de aceite,” he told the man.

I guess they already knew each other. Juan had been working for the company for ten years.

“Ah, muchas gracias amigo, hey, tienes buen asistente, mira al Damian ya puede ir al gimnasio a jugar basketball con los demás cabrones!” the old man retorted.

“What can I say, he’s learning from the best!,” replied Juan smiling and giving a couple of loud laughs.

The man in the wheelchair said thank you and gave me a thumbs up. I smiled back. We all smiled. The sun kept showering us with its rays.