Roberto Bolano's Savage Detectives: Book Review

The Savage Detectives: A Review

by Armando Ortiz

In his famous novel The Savage Detectives, Roberto Bolano sheds light into the lives of many Spanish speaking poets that make up the worlds of Arturo Belano and Ulyses Lima’s circle of friends and acquaintances. These two main characters embark on several journeys that parallel the experiences of those in the Odyssey and in a way resemble the young and adventurous life of Arthur Ribaud, who despite the works he produced at a young age decided on a life in the African frontier, working as an arms dealer, adventurer and desperado. The presence of Pynchon’s Slothrop of Gravity’s Rainbow is there as well since he too is on a journey or more like an escape, wandering around the earth in search of something. Bolano describes the youthful experiences of these two poets, and those that form a loose circle of poets called the Visceral Poets.

As he details the lives of Belano and Lima one is taken on a 15 year journey where one sees the vicissitudes of poets that have decided to take on the adventure of life and all its risks. Both of these poets experience love. Separately, they encounter their own rejection. Other times, they share drinks with other poets and desperados. They live the life of vagrant poets that take them throughout Central America, Europe, Israel and Africa. Through their adventures and as time passes they continue to live their lives as wandering barbs, diving into the underworlds of Communist plotters and freedom fighting vagabonds though always keeping a fierce independence, knowing very well that all that is available to them is their freedom and mind.

They come to discover the real rivers of humanity that flow from South America all the way to the borders of the United States that by the 1980’s were becoming more and more intense. The civil wars happening in several countries would eventually make the routes for other illicit activities. They discover that even in tough circumstances poetry can be a common ground for even violent people and artists who the thought of poetry or writing never crosses their mind. They carry that impulse to create within them as does the light that shines in darkness. In the book the real artist can live the life of a thug, and might not be at all linked to a creative group. 

There are various camps of writers and artists in the book but the main group presented is an insignificant speck when compared to the larger camps of writers that existed back in the late-60s in Latin America, and the world at large. In Mexico, there were two large groups of writers, one was supported by the governments which represented the established powers of government with their censorship, and the media that published and made writers famous. The other group was made up of leftist writers and were supported by foreign governments or by a small circle of leftist elite who’d been allowed to have the opposing voice. However, Bolano presents an alternative group-other poets from the lower ends of society, who express themselves with raw sentiments and navigate the world of poverty and struggles. These poets, despite their modest means, make their presence known throughout time. Going against everything that represented money and power, and living out their lives as artists, and crashing literary events that they felt were masked to represent writers that were not talented. Their unsettling sentiments create havoc and chaos to the literary establishment.

The Savage Detectives lacks the violence and is not as dark as 2666 but it definitely demonstrates Bolano’s ability to capture a reader’s imagination and take them on an epic journey. One learns of Lima and Belano via others who have met them and have had conversations with them; poets, revolutionaries, prostitutes, house wives, professors, lawyers, vagabonds, swindlers, editors and cops. Through those descriptions we are able to piece together the rough outlines of two men who decided to be poets. 

Their lives became one epic poem that unfolded with one journey after another, an adventure begun with every ending adventure. We see two young adults dive into their journeys head first and with fists flying. Towards the end of the book these two are mere shadows of who they were and now have to deal with the realities of age, the mind’s exhaustion and the quest for more journeys and adventure. Yet they continue on with their lives in search of that thing that keeps their flicker ignited, that will satiate their thirst for poetry, literature, life and adventure.

The Savage Detectives is a remarkable novel that seamlessly fits within Bolano’s larger-than-life world. Bolano’s skillful use of language creates a palpable texture in his writing, immersing readers in vivid imagery. It is evident that Bolano aimed to create a lasting work of literature. Moreover, his profound understanding of the power of the Spanish language allowed him to captivate the imaginations of readers within Spanish-speaking communities, while also introducing readers from different backgrounds, different nations and language, to a world that might have remained hidden in plain sight.

A Drive to the Coast: Part 7

Part 7: Dawn Awakes

by Armando Ortiz

Sculptures create artificial shadows where white plaster bodies and papier-mâché skulls animate themselves under the bonfire and painted murals transform into the plastered walls of sacrificial ball courts.

Everyone embarking on the night’s journey rowing Mayan canoes of brown mahogany

They kick comets from here to yonder. Heads roll to their destiny.

Charon leading the procession of pasty white skeletons

Souls crossing lakes where caiman float prancing through valleys of spears swiftly hopping through old growth forests like jack rabbits that disappear into the chaos of nature’s pulse.

Persephone greeting the agonies of people whose journey continues to drown rivers, and we speak to screaming spider monkeys.

Peace is found inside Tibetan skulls that are traded at midnight along the trampled caravan roads, and grains are poured out from the heads of pious souls.

Boat burials take us to destinations that are as old as clouds that hover over unknown trails where spotted orcas and elephant seals guide spirits and morning vapors ride the fog of night.

Even after life, our trajectories are clearly uncertain, and the bubbles of our childhood will one day cease to be.

The pitch black pumas of yesterday become the third eye of the rising Huitzilopochtli.

Mocking birds coo their calls, reminding us that this night is not eternal.

The huitzi sounds, and the hum of tiny lustrous birds welcome the morning dawn revival.

A sunrise in pause gleams of morning light approaching, yellow needles piercing the armor of demons, vanishing with buckets of spiraling fire and everything is engulfed by morning’s dawn.

Streets polluted with plastic bottles and trails trampled by rising pedestrians. All is flooded in beige, and contrasted by morning shadows.

We follow the giant green serpent and hide with bushmasters waiting to pounce.

Devouring all under their view under that golden dinar that never loses value.

Purple violets surround opposing yellows in pink and everyone emerges with a stretching pose. The prickly pear cactus sheds a morning drop.

The sun sends thunder in waves repeating the cycle and we ride the ocean of snakes while our mother rides the carp of dawns orange that takes worshiping parties to a day of pleasures and mourning.

We bathe in the amber nectar of gods.

Laurie Lipton: Artist in Los Angeles

Lauire Lipton, Los Angeles Exhibit

by Armando Ortiz

            A few days ago I visited the Laurie Lipton exhibit being held at the ACE gallery in Los Angeles which is on Wilshire Blvd a few blocks west of La Brea. After decades of living abroad the artist decided to return to the states and make Los Angeles her home. The current exhibit she has on display is superb. Her style and the medium she uses are at the height of any master artist’s abilities. The space where her exhibit is being held is huge, and at times it left like it was an extension of the LACMA.

Her images are amazing and she certainly took a lot of time making the intricate designs come to life. The quality of her work shines through all the bleak subject matter. It shows what American contemporary society and western culture is and brings up questions as to what our realities ought to be. She showcases the daily grind of life, of money making, survival, and the machine that is churning away at our being. Our soul, and death, in this case, time and consumerism, is the all-consuming knitter of reality. Like Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son that eats all there is, her images also unveil the grotesque that exists in our daily life. Her current exhibit is a critical take on capitalism and modernity with the age old subject of death.

            Quality aside, her take on city life and that of Los Angeles is quite superficial. If what best describes Los Angeles is fake and superficial and one’s existence in Los Angeles correlates with her personal vision then ones reality is truly sad. Nonetheless, that is what her work portrays, a superficial take on the anxieties of a few people in this city. The majority of the people living here hardly have the problem of dressing up in the morning and walking their dog along well-manicured lawns. And though many might be slowly murdering themselves to death by the many plastic surgeries they have and the daily grind that takes place, it does not represent the majority’s experience. She presents something that is and at the same time isn’t, because in reality the death that takes place is usually unknown and her work seems to muffle that reality even more.

            Her topics though they reveal the prevailing anxiety of life in the city are rather bland because there exist death and there exist Death. Death is what everyone has to face and has to come to grips with. On a daily basis there is exploitation in this city, and on a daily basis a type of violence takes place and these are things she refuses to touch on. Her preoccupation with death as the horror at the end of the tunnel and how it ultimately is above time comes through her work. The skulls that emerge from her mind and onto the paper are great, but it’s a reality everyone has to face. Death is a whole different matter when one considers the exploitation of illegal workers, the risk that sex workers face, the violence that gangsters and thugs exercise on their enemies and the random unknown victims that never make it on to the local news. It’s as if she herself is consumed with the idea of consumerism, media and modernity while refusing to touch on justice, love and life.

            She’s a great artist, no doubt about that, but there is something missing. She uses graphite/ pencil to render amazing images that reveals the worst of modern society. The mechanizations behind what we perceive to be reality seems to control the reality that we are experiencing, which at this time of year with the presidential election looming just over the horizon and the media frenzy surrounding really shows that politics are about- image over substance, and showcases our anxieties of our waking life. Yet, where is life in all of this, and what about the other reality? Aside from the “office workers” waking up in the mornings and having their cereal, and the “house wives” walking the isles there are people who are working their tail off and yet are managing to live a life that is worth living. Out of the 24 hours of time that we have in a day only eight are dedicated to work, and another eight are dedicated to sleep and in between all that there is time to spend on hobbies, time with family, listen to music or go to the beach. Her work makes it seem as if everyone in the city lives to work and does not work to live.

            The horror that she experiences in her daily life are not what kids living in the poor neighborhoods experience. Theirs is a more raw reality of what city life is all about, and consumerism, the media, plastic surgeries, white collar office work, and wealth are not a part of their reality. Living in the midst of drug dealers, trannies walking down streets, amongst the general violence and poverty that they experience is a reality that they deal with and yet continue to push through in their life. It makes one wonder if Laurie is living in Los Angeles, the city, or the Los Angeles that is made up of hills, Hollywood stars and lofty lofts that are more like fortresses, because she only reveals a partial slice of a city that is far more complex than she creates on paper. But I am sure that this is not the case, because despite of what she has experienced in this city, she probably has favorite music that she listens to, enjoys a walk by the beach, and finds pleasure being with close friends.

            Nonetheless, there is more to her art, and maybe what isn’t spoken is her ultimate goal. Some of her pieces are very Gustave Dore-esque like her presentation of The Consumption, where a shopper is faced with an endless row of items to purchase. Her skulls are life like, and her images come alive through our own anxieties with death. I certainly work eight hours job, but I also go to school, read books, listen to music, dance, enjoy nature and have moments of bliss. And these things are lacking in her work. It’s as if the grotesque is presented in all its glory, but the missing piece to what truly is real has to be there because there are those that don’t go with the waves that society conjures and certainly do not experience a life the way she makes it out to be.

            

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Thirteen): Morning Quake

Part 13: Morning Quake

by Armando Ortiz

Back in the mid-eighties there was an earthquake that happened early in the morning during school hours. The ground began to move side to side, like a rocking chair, and I began to run, but running was like racing across an old suspension bridge. Then the teachers began to yell to get on the ground, which I immediately did. The swaying seemed to last forever, the ground seemed to rock up and down, the telephone cables were swinging round and round but without anyone jumping over them, and the red rubber balls seemed to be confused and could not stop rolling in circles. The earth was churning and something was brewing under the earth. That day we came out early from school. I had to wait for an hour or two on the playground. My cousin came and picked me up, we both hurriedly walked back home.

A Drive to the Coast: Part 6

Part 6: Descent and Ascent

by Armando Ortiz

The sun descends into purgatory and wild shape shifters appear from hidden parts of the land.

Grave robbers come out, and pirates land to pillage in places where faceless people rest in peace.

St. Anthony emerges from his cave unharmed playfully pretending that captivity is a sacred past time from a self-imposed exile in a tiny Buddhist tomb.

Separate worlds running parallel to each other meet on the axis of all gravitational centers where dawn remains infinitely on pause and the sacred mornings of death are trampled by greed, hunger, and desperation.

Black panthers devour pythons and anacondas swallow the pale moon whole while caiman lie ready to devour the wandering soul.

Men snatch the precious coral, layered onyx, fine embroidery and speckled gold pins of yesterday exchanging it for paper gold.

Prometheus arrives carrying the sacred fire, and starts setting piles and piles of plywood over mounds of paper preparing for the sacred ceremony under the sky.

We circle and dance, panting, and singing praises to past ancestors using old Zippo lighters to illuminate our way and in unison attempt to ignite the fire.

The torch handed down to us is sent soaring into an arch, and starts the pyre.

Gentle waters reflect the trajectory of the speck of light that ignites a day within the night. 

Whispers from the morning air pass through our bodies.

In this sacred conch of wind and water are waves of yonder that mix and get lost in our parade of wonder.

Miniature protons ignite the needed flame to keep this performance going all night.

An artificial day in darkness is born, and our hearts illuminate our steps, bringing up postulations for contact and lightness of touch.

Ecstasies of cosmic paragons start to happen and sacred creatures that paraglide next to soaring peregrines experience interstellar parallax.

Shadows are cast aside and reveal the door to our hearts.

The earth palpitating thermal waves turn cold, the grains touched with every ponderous step as we dance to the beat in a splendorous trance.

The moon casts her dress on the ocean water. Now her body is naked, and shimmers on the dark waves like the paleness of her white dress.

The dark silhouette of the mountains hold up the cobalt glass above us and the obsidian waters reflect the shivers of the midnight stars. 

Childhood: Poem

Childhood

by Armando Ortiz

As a child mother took him to the park

and there she bought two bags of popcorn.

One bag was to feed pigeons and the other

they had to share with each other.

They walked along the cement trail and through a tunnel

to get to the sandbox where the swings and slides were.

The metal structures were huge

and glistened under the gigantic lamp of light.

Those scaffolds of youth and imagination

now bring back old memories as he drives by

of when he would let go of mother’s hand

and under her watch lose himself in the playground.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Twelve): After the Rain

Part 12: After the Rain

By Armando Ortiz

He walked outside to smoke a cigarette, and downtown LA’s skyline could be seen at a distance to the east from where he stood. It had rained earlier so the view was quite fresh and crisp. The lights at a distance flickered and he could see the old neon sign that read, Westlake Theater, suggesting to people that a long time ago the swap meet where everyone shopped had once been a venue for black and white films. A white Datsun could be seen at a distance driving west towards Vermont, and a thin haze of grey clouds hovered over the cityscape.

Standing on the roof of the apartment building, he lit his drag and suddenly heard symphony music at a distance. He looked around to see where the music was coming from but couldn’t quite make out its location. The music sounded important, with its violin and suspenseful melodies, conjuring up images of a distant love and present royalty, as if some queen or prince had decided to visit the neighborhood and the only proper thing to do was to put Beethoven or Mozart. None of that was happening though; it was a girl down the street that was celebrating her 15th birthday, a quinceanera. He soon spotted some kids dressed in long sleeve shirts that had been neatly ironed, wearing grey vests and pressed black pants, the shoes they wore, like the puddles by the sidewalk, reflected the liquefied amber color of the street light above. Somehow he’d linked the orchestra music to some embedded feeling or idea that he’d assimilated in the past. He wasn’t sure though.

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.