Rolling
By Armando Ortiz
A ball bounced and floated like a soap bubble,
yellow as the bright sun was the tumbling sphere,
along a path it randomly made on the golden grass,
Behind it was a child of three that trailed behind,
zigzagging with every fragile step and ecstatic laughter
moving like the tumbleweed that rolls along the desert wild.
Roberto Bolano's Nazi Literature in the Americas: Book Review
by Armando Ortiz
Roberto Bolano’s Nazi Literature in the Americas delves into the lives of writers from North and South America, as well as Europe. These writers are scattered across vast expanses, embodying the diversity and geographical expanse of the continents. Some are free to roam, residing in valleys, deserts, mountains, or coastal regions, while others are confined in a prison cell. They sustain themselves at the grassroots level, gaining recognition within their local communities. However, the novel introduces a third ideological element, with many of these writers being sympathetic to Nazi ideology, amidst the competing power of right-wing governments and leftist Communism.
The book sheds light on the writing and publishing processes these writers undergo. Some sell their self-funded publications outside soccer stadiums, while others create magazines while incarcerated. There are those who profit by copying the works of unknown and obscure writers, and some publish pamphlets that generate initial “buzz” but fail to last the test of time. Capital constraints or preference for exclusivity may limit printing to a few copies distributed to a select few.
Bolano’s narrative parallels the real world, where writers seek an audience for success as novelists or poets. Acquiring a following may not be as difficult as it seems, yet to reach a broader audience, these writers often embrace ideologies that appeal to those with more power and wealth. While the superstructures of the writing scene may lean toward a quasi-conservative stance, they are not as extreme as the writers found in Nazi Literature of the Latin Americas. These writers’ work are naturally imbued with anti-Semitic, anti-Black, and anti-non-European sentiments. Many of them are Nazi sympathizers or artists supported by conservative right wing governments or patrons, aligning with the ideologies embraced by those in power during the 20th century and beyond.
This novel becomes even more poignant as Bolano reveals how some of the countries where these writers live undergo military and government changes, resulting in the imprisonment or death of left-wing political thinkers and sympathizers. The mysterious and dangerous character of Hoffman, supported by the Pinochet regime, exemplifies this. Additionally, remnants of the old “European colonial” mentality persist in countries like Bolivia, Ecuador and Mexico, where only select segments of society are encouraged to write and receive funding.
These sympathizers aid the writers in their escape and reemergence in different parts of the world. A writer born in a small suburb of Brazil may find themselves in a gangster hideout in the streets of Chicago or become a right-wing artist whose avant-garde expression involves displaying mutilated bodies, reminiscent of the Japanese occupation of China during World War Two. Such images, although not considered art, were captured through the lens of a camera and published in newspapers for many to see. Moreover, post-World War Two, numerous German war criminals sought refuge in countries like Brazil and Argentina, living secluded lives for years. The reception and consumption of ideas and art depend not only on the appeal they hold for those with capital, but also on the process by which the public engages with writer’s thoughts but also an artist’s creations.
Bolano presents plausible scenarios where writers driven by persistent urges to write, extreme values, and unique perspectives can rise to power and become leaders. Hitler, who also authored a book, serves as an example. However, there are established writers who garner respect among their peers. Nevertheless, Bolano’s underlying message remains that a writer must write, despite the countless obstacles faced on this solitary journey.
Looking beyond Bolano’s novel and considering the vast scope of writers that exist, both past and present, it becomes evident that they possess distinctive characters, ideologies and struggles. These range from endemic alcoholism and drug addiction to quasi-new age religious beliefs or a preference for solitude. Some may embrace the limelight of society, while others wish to maintain no with it. Bolano’s characters, renowned in certain circles, have yet to achieve the levels of recognition attained by established writers in the Western world. This raises questions about the insulation of literary structures and the criteria employed to recognize writers as writers. In Bolano’s universe, independent individuals create their own paths and find their place within their respective cultures through the power of the written word.
Roberto Bolano also emphasizes that writing exposes oneself to the world. Even when forgery is employed, one’s true nature inevitably reveals itself to readers. While writers may exist in isolation, they still rely on a readership to develop their craft. It is the readers who find a storyteller’s thoughts and ideas provocative and appealing. Thus, both writer and audience contribute to the existence of literature. Writers are products of their environment, and when they expose themselves to the world, readers find affinity in their works, perpetuating the continuity of language in its written form.
Despite varying opinions on the existing superstructure of writing, books publishing, the role of agents, and the numerous writing clubs across the Americas and the world, there is no singular approach to disseminating one’s thoughts. Countless avenues exist to accomplish this goal. Bolano’s work shows that even when the established writing world turns its back on writers, they persevere and continue to write, fueled by an unwavering internal flame. Bolano’s characters create their own blueprints for publication, and despite their lack of fame, they persist in their struggle with words and pens. This prompts reflection on the significance and symbolism of the numerous clubs and associations within specific geographic areas. By immersing ourselves in the biographies of these imagined people, we cannot help but feel challenged and inspired by their sheer will to write.
Finally, Roberto Bolano creates an alternate world within a vivid and historically grounded reality. As readers, we gradually accept the plausibility of these characters, as his ideas and writing immerse us in his literary realm. Bolano’s work is incredibly unique because his characters possess gritty resourcefulness in disseminating their stories. He reveals the secret to being a writer in real life: to write, persistently, and restlessly. If one desires to write, then they should write and distribute their thoughts in the manner they deem best, building a following and utilizing any medium available to share their written works. However, it is crucial to remember that countless others are also engaged in this wild and crazy endeavor, experiencing similar struggles but possessing vastly different perspectives of the world. Writing, therefore, becomes an endeavor of immense worth.
Zzyzx Anniversary
By Armando Ortiz
On Zzyzx road- one year more,
writing to move farther than before,
shooting for the stars with lyrical arrows,
attempting to make a mythical ladder
that takes us to legendary lands of lore.
With song and word we get closer to that place, where
words last longer than the first sound of yonder,
making ink-wash paintings of meanings and dream,
hoping these humble writings last a bit longer,
and continue to move along that endless shore.
Gustav
Klimt made magical paintings. The bright color combinations are executed in
such a manner that they are emblematic of the ever present. The master pieces
remind the onlooker of life’s dissipating moment that escapes our hands like
water. Klimt’s creations nonetheless flow in a timeless river where rocks are
suspended by the currents of nature. To see them, is to be transported into a
world that continues to exist, the works being a wormhole into the anxieties
and dreams of the living artist, that stands observing his patient models, and
evergreen landscapes, making representations of that instance, where flickering
hearts mirror the flames inside through the eyes of living goddesses. 
Sacred Time
Armando Ortiz
Life is not the holy moment; at best this mundane time becomes a break into the extraordinary, where eureka is hollered after years of mistakes. Nirvana is only the waking of eyes, where for a lifetime your pupils are pried wide, and blindly live every second that passes, thinking that life is forever.
This dream is just as a rose dropping its petals, a sakura that is released from a branch, only here for a moment. Our Mother’s hand slowly opens, letting tiny birds take flight, while Father’s arm swings, to sow seed into the air that becomes a cloud of butterflies floating on bye.
Love and Hate: Five Pieces
By Armando Ortiz
1.
I love you like party time,
as the sun goes down, and
bed sheets cover us to hide
what we imbibe.
2.
I hate you like the emotional isolation
that is felt when beside me you cry,
shedding those tears
through the night.
3.
I love you like party time
that’s when its Friday at midnight,
and though tired I fight the urge to sleep
keeping on the mild cool light.
4.
I love you like dark chocolate chili
that is sold in the old markets
of towns found in between green valleys
where on deserted imaginary lands
abuelitas wearing aprons
carry those delicious goblets
on dry baskets, and covered
in golden maize husks.
5.
I hate you like clammy handshakes
that leave that water residue on the skin
as a sign that time has come to say goodbye
like eyes that splash you with darkness
with abysmal irises of black unknowns.
Life and Death: Short Piece
by Armando Ortiz
Yes, we all die
but that doesn’t answer the question
as to why.
Into this confusion we are born,
and just when we thought that this fusion,
of love and nature could endure,
your neighbor dies and
souls begin to knock on our door.
We end up visiting the hills where people,
still cold and stiff, are laid to rest
and every time we return, it seems that life’s
duress reveals its empty self in the shape of death,
where memory can no longer regress to that time when
lawns were used to play ball, and trees blanketed
us with that cool shade.
No one knows the suffering of others.
we walk kilometers forgetting that there are those,
who’ve trampled through the heat of humanity,
walked through valleys of glowing embers and silently
swallowed the bitter drink of life.
Broken remain those who hang from trees and tattered are
the happy times that we barely reclaim, yet
there is no prejudice with life and death.
It’s the stuff in between that stirs waters,
that creates hurricanes and tsunamis
of labels and names, and
painful experience.
Peasants
by Armando Ortiz
Sun weathered,
weather beaten.
Feeling mother’s warmth
inside the furnace of creation.
Where the wheat
is sheared and beaten.
You embody the perfect mirror
un-fragmented by life’s tears.
A Shadow Beyond Midnight
by Armando Ortiz
There are times when things get jumbled up and one loses track of chronological time. We reach a point where time becomes a vast plane of unwinding events that seem to flow through us at a speed that is undecipherable to the human mind. At other times mundane tasks take on a life of their own, washing the dishes that have accumulated in the sink, brushing your teeth before and after sleep. Time seems to fly right past us, and the daily grind of repetition seems to become a necessary evil. We all become that boxer that after being knocked down gets up and goes back to that same fighting position. Training most of his life for these battles has made his skills become second nature. Sometimes the fighter ends up prevailing but sometimes he goes down again. For Will, it was supposed to be like any other night, but things transpired so fast that now it is hard to tell what is and isn’t real.
He was down to his last pair of jeans, and needed to get ready for the coming week. Most of the dirty clothes were piled up making a smelly mountain. With arms crossed, he stood beside it and stared at the small mound. Putting the dirty clothes in a sack brought back memories of things he had done the week before, wine that he’d drank, tomato stains from the pasta he’d had with his date, and numerous chili bean stains from the countless lunch breaks that were enjoyed at Tommy Burgers. Bright reds and dirt browns seemed to be the variants of the soiled laundry.
He had decided to do his laundry at the usual time-past midnight. The 24 hour Laundromat down the street would be somewhat empty at night, and he wouldn’t have to worry about the crowds or the eye contacts. Being in a place where many strangers gathered, especially in a public facility, where different characters always came in and out made him a bit uncomfortable. You never knew what would happen in a place like that.
He packed his stuff in the car and returned to his apartment to get some loose change and a bottle of detergent. The golden yellow detergent was hidden in between his plastic file cabinet and his drawer. He got back to his little four door sedan, turned it on, and pulled out of the parking garage. As he drove out of the building and attempted to turn on the radio, someone yelled, “Hey Will!” He stopped the car and rolled down the window to see who was hollering. At a distance he saw the dark silhouette of a heavy set woman walking her dog. He resumed his driving, and the steady metallic riding of the hi-hat beat came from the speakers, “Footsteps in the Dark,” by The Isley Brothers began to play. As the car slowly accelerated, he noticed a rusty substance smeared on the ground a few feet in front of the vehicle.
After making a left at the corner, he noticed that while changing lanes the streaks were still there. The headlights lit a path that was only several feet ahead which added to the confusion as to what was beyond the lights. This particular evening was extraordinarily dark. He turned on the high beams, but the streaks seemed to move further up ahead to where the light merged with the darkness resembling the long shadows that late September sunsets make. The funky slide base of the chords coming from the speaker created a soothing box of safety within. Once again a voice pierced through his thoughts, “Hey Will, look!”
Stopping at an intersection, he saw a crowd of people on the opposite side of the street. For Will, the voices sounded familiar, but he couldn’t make a visual connection with the faces. Then out of nowhere, he heard a voice say, “Looks alive.”
Inhaling deeply into his lungs, he heard himself say, “Keep calm. Relax. Stay focused, and don’t slow down or swerve around the thing.” He tried focusing on the steady bass drum that seemed to beat a bit faster than his heart.
He’d never noticed the neon signs that decorated the streets of Los Angeles by night, but today the lights were magically iridescent purples, shimmering in crimson reds, incandescent yellows, and metallic steel blues. It was as if things were moving slowly and now he had time to see the signs that he’d driven past so many evenings. The night air felt cool and crisp. A voice once again spoke and calmly said, “Breathe in, breathe out. Relax. Get some air.”
He drove a bit further passing some old shops and a couple of residential areas. Reaching an intersection, Will swerved to the left hoping to outwit the thing that was ahead, but it was useless. He once again heard the unknown voice say, “Turn slowly with your arms at an angle. Imagine yourself carrying a heavy log.” Will’s conceptual reality was melting into a dream, and he couldn’t quite tell if the thing that he was following was talking to him or if it was the voice of some other being.
He reached the intersection and the traffic light shone incandescent red. At a stop light, another car pulled up to his left. His vision was becoming a blur and his mind unfocused. The passenger looked at him, and covered their mouth in horror. Their look made him feel dizzy and nauseous, transforming everything around into a dizzying haze. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. He wanted to take another look at the face inside the other car, but thought twice about it. Making eye contact with the wrong person in Los Angeles was always a tricky thing and most of the time opened the gates to a river of curses and threats. “Ah fuck it, take a look again,” he thought. As his eyes opened and turned to see, the traffic light simultaneously lit its green light and the car sped off.
Adjusting the rear view mirror he only saw his own pair of obsidian eyes staring back at him. A cold breeze began crawling up his leg, like an ant that’d just come into a cozy home from the outside. A cold invisible fog kept creeping up his body gathering at his torso. He felt he had cotton balls inside his throat, and the pounding of his heart radiated in all directions. Breathing was becoming abnormal, and the car kept moving to an unknown destination, lights began flashing all around him. For a moment he thought he was lying in the middle of a carnival. He heard childish chatter, and the yells of unseen women, light bulbs seemed to circle all around. Then, out of nowhere, the profile of a deer appeared that made eye contact with Will. Its hazel eyes connected with Will’s volcanic eyes, and for a moment it seemed that both vehicle and wild mammal were on the same lane about to slam into each other. Yet, all that was happening was too overwhelming. The body was now trembling, and a sudden sound of black rubber and asphalt was heard.
The car rolled into the parking lot of the Laundromat, and suddenly a crowd of people emerged. The car wildly came to a screeching stop. There was a bundle of flesh and hair on top of a puddle of red liquid. A frightened human circle absorbed the car. Someone in the crowd yelled, “I think he’s alive!” “Someone clean him up!” There were countless eyes surrounding him, so he closed his eyes. He hated going to the Laundromat. A stranger ran up, and while checking for a heartbeat searched his pockets for a wallet. The hazel eyes now had a sweaty human face that seemed to look at Will with determined emptiness, and as soon his leather pouch was found, took off running like a wild deer, disappearing into the midnight.
“Will wake up! Will! We’re gonna be late!,” he was shaken awake.
“Wha….wha,” he sat up, “What’s going on!”
“Dude, you were deep asleep, but we have to go, remember that we need to be in Amboy before noon. So get up and start taking down your tent.”
Beijing Winters
by Armando Ortiz
Winter evenings in Beijing are frigid, and nights bring freezing winds.
Though at noon the skies are clear and sunny, you don’t want to be outside for too long.
Peddlers abound during this time, selling crab apple sticks that are sealed fresh inside, and hardened with caramel sugar or offer piping hot yams warmed inside coal heated barrels.
Seasonal preparations for the New Year begin, bringing red pasted banners and signs on the sides of doors welcoming another prosperous year, because to live is to see the magic of life unfold.
Though the eye is blind during these months the flavors that season the soul are many, and are an excuse to engage in endless conversations over hot black tea.
Handmade noodles made to order are at hand and served on steaming white bowls that are topped with thin slices of beef and for an extra five cents topped with a fried egg.
Who knows if it’s still there, but when I was there you could feast on street huoguo on random corners, where you sat on tiny chairs and miniature tables.
It’s also the time when one takes liberal servings of dumplings of all kinds; cabbage and pork,
pork and chives, mutton and onions or the veggie and egg kind.
Artificial lakes become frozen, and children along with students rent ice skates, and glide over these ancient bodies of waters that were once meant for the Emperor’s pleasure.
It’s during the night that the dry steppe air of the North passes through the city, which is further depleted of its humidity by the centralized heating.
Miles of hot tubes connect to a network of pipes that pump hot oil and water from a coal furnace that keeps blocks and blocks of people warm and with severely dry throats.
When those nights of lonesomeness get intertwined with nightmares it’s as if one were being choked by the devil’s hand and one awakens desperately reaching for water.
Yet in the mornings you stand huddled beside the radiator, thinking twice of walking to the bathroom and showering your sleep away.
Winters in Beijing also bring into focus the celebration of the Winter Solstice, which I did once, outside a pub, while eating grilled chicken wings and drinking Yanjing.
This is the celebration of the longest night and the conception of spring, when the worst has already passed, and preparations for Chunjie begin to appear.
People bundled up in layers and layers of thick cotton and synthetic wool slowly start to go back to their hometowns, and the looooooong lines at train stations become the norm.
It’s the sign of optimism that we all have survived the terrible winter and begin to celebrate, buying rolls and rolls of firecrackers and rockets, and stocking up on food.
For a week, fireworks will light up the midnight sky, and all the ghosts that crept into our lives and are fast asleep, will awaken and are scared to go back to where they belong.
For days on end, streets are closed and food stalls appear, with caramel artisans making ancient Chinese mythical characters,
And tamed birds fly high in the sky at a whistle or with the waving of a dollar bill come to you and with their tiny beaks take hold of your money and fly back to their master.
We triumphantly declare to spring to open up and begin forth the colors of life and the blossoms of spring.
The first snowfall that blanketed benches, and topped the pine trees melt from the memory as the changing jet stream shifts from Northwesterly to Southeasterly direction
Winters in Beijing are long, but now they seem short and distant, like an old recurring dream that disappears with every waking moment.
Mulholland Memorial Fountain
by Armando Ortiz
He walked past the fountain
and childhood chatter
got intertwined with the white noise
that came from there.
In summers past,
children jumped inside
and stood under giant spigots,
dancing and celebrating the sun.
They played
in fresh waters
brought by invisible
channels.
Time got lost
in rushing waters
that in days past
cooled his body.
Laughter
joined the twang of the air
that awoke those memories
from its slumber.
Instances- forgotten,
mostly ignored,
but still there, out there,
everywhere-
were remembered.
He was soaked
in work and worries,
but that place-
the fountain
where he played,
where time lasted longer
than it does today,
was still there
that day.
Yesterday I recalled driving around Kansas City, MO. It
was a few years ago that I was selling books over there, in the middle of the
US. It was during the autumn of 2009, and the landscape was unreal, but what
could a guy from Los Angeles expect and how could he interpret what he saw?
Coming from Southern California, where the sun is always out, and it seems that
I never gets more than ten days of rain in throughout the whole year. Anyhow,
walking past a giant oak tree brought back some memories of the fall colors in
Kansas and Missouri, in fact I drove through other states, so I will say that
most of the American Midwest. 
 |
| Beijing, China |
Eres Mia
by Armando Ortiz
Eres mi sol de mermelada
en las mañanas y una taza
de luna en las noches,
Te conviertes
en agua helada
en el desierto
de mi mente,
Revives mi alma
y calmas las tormentas
del cuerpo sin calma,
Tus sorbetes son de fresa
que derriten en mis labios
cubriendo mi ser con sabana.
The whole time living in
Beijing, the music blasted from the speakers, inside my little apartment while sitting
behind the desk, spending hours trying to decipher Chinese characters, and
writing characters over and over and over and over again till I had memorized
them. The symbols became internalized in my being in the same manner that the
beats made me reach that level of energy of focus and creativity. The numerous
tracks on the album helped me navigate through the labyrinth of Mandarin,
helping to stay focused, giving a musical adventure that I never tired to
re-experience.
At the end of the day I
was just a consumer, and bought what I liked and never did read on the
magnitude of Madvillainy till years
later and hours of listening. There was no clue that it was a critically
acclaimed production. The purchase had prompted me to find out more about the
artists behind the album, but that happened two years later. I discovered that
Madlib had produced the beats, and had his own Jazz band, Yesterdays New Quintet, where he played
different instruments. MF Doom was the guy rapping and had a wide variety of
other albums, such Mm.. Food. They joined forces, and became Madvillain and produced one
of the most critically acclaimed albums of the 21st century. 
