Saturday, June 16, 2012

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 cafĂ©, 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.


Friday, June 15, 2012

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

Friday, June 1, 2012

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.


Tuesday, May 29, 2012

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.


Sunday, May 20, 2012

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.

Monday, May 14, 2012

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.


Wednesday, May 9, 2012

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!”


Tuesday, May 8, 2012

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.  


Friday, April 27, 2012

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.


Thursday, April 19, 2012

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.


Monday, April 16, 2012

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.


Thursday, April 12, 2012

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.