Monday, October 27, 2014

Third Hand Reporting - Murder?

{sketch-while-wait}
On Friday, while Human and I were well into our nearly 3 hour wait on the border to cross into the US, cops came around to the lot that half-way surrounds the house to collect a dead body. In case you lost count, this is dead body number 2 this year found in the lot. Human's mother was at home watching all the cops swarm in and comb the grounds. She didn't know what was going on until they asked permission to look around the 'yard' for the object that killed the man they found- a knife. Or so they said. And she watched as they wheeled the body out.
The victim was a known vagrant who was often seen riding around Rosarito on a bike. I must have seen him dozens of times while walking around. They said he was stabbed to death in the lot during the dark hours- maybe 2 or 3 in the morning- If the dog trying to wake up Human's mom was an indicator of something going on outside at the particular time. None of us were disturbed by anything on that occasion otherwise. (Thank you sleepy herbs.)

I am still trying to figure out why parts of me seem to be getting softer with each death that happens around here. Why am I not becoming numb; desensitized like the boys at their video games?

Life is not safe outside the imperial American delusion
Out here, no one hears you when you whine
(to be read also read as threaten to sue)
And I keep testing myself in that outside place
I don't hide in a gated fortress with other gringos huddled around
I live where everyone has the chance to gawk at the girl(-boy)
("What the fuck is that supposed to be!")
I don't drive everywhere hidden high away in a shiny SUV
I walk the stinking streets and crumbling sidewalks
I dodge the drug addicts, bums, and leering gossip-men

I stand in the lines on the border where everyone bares
Their diabetic sores and missing limbs to you
Selling their wounds, selling their hard life and chicle, chicle
Where all the fried foods fill the air with an over bearing carnival smell
Music is played in an unraveled way, incongruous with the next busker

Then to have lunch on India Street
With maybe the stink of an open sewer somewhere in my clothes
I can't acclimate to all-organic, hypoallergenic sunshine glances and smiles
The crows come to pick from these carcasses so I will do the same
The dark birds, more my kin than human shapes of any social status at this point

There is a Fifth Ave to walk down in San Diego to the trolley line
And on the way down you can see into all the restaurants full of gentles
These well off gentles sit, well lit and wined, smiling around white teeth shaping
American words endlessly sucking and spilling like the hissing tidal flow not far off
Vacuous and happily one with the one that is the ego of self
You can flirt with all of them if you have a striking look, striking to their liking
A storm coming ashore to lean in on paper houses? wearing a velvet blazer, wine red?

On the blue line trolley appears a beautiful family, homeless
Young parents toting a pair of skate boards amongst their baggage
Black skinned, skinny and altogether handsome-like to be models, if only
Kindly-voiced Papi polite to know enough Spanish to
Sell large (but not large enough for some) Hershey's chocolate bars out of his pack
Something sweet to end the working week for mostly sleepy Mexicans
Bringing brand names back home with them like good slaves to the consumer system
A woman with knees to me clutching a KFC bag full of dinner bought her bar
Weary Mami with head held barely up by a manicured hand explained
To a curious man with a Little Caesar's pizza box on his lap
A story told like something familiar to my ears
Moving from motel to motel with a baby in a backpack
And a mannered toddler trailing talkatively cute
They are not shabby in their poverty 
As they simply cannot be if they are in San Diego
Trying for something better than what they have

Can my Walt Whitman love for any of them as they are me as we are one
Help any of this ruined reality?

Then come to a home supposedly mine to sit in death's lap
And serve the cause of art happening 3000 miles away
All stress and no glory

All is wonder
All is a joke
 
What have I to show for these tribulations in the desert?
These words?
Huh.






Tuesday, October 7, 2014

The old papers


Back before we were all bathed in glowy, glow of 
0110111101101110011001010111001100100000011000010110111001100100001000000111101001100101011100100110111101110011
we were bathed in mangled trees; lignocellulosic fibrous materialpaper. Hard copy. 
My parents sent me a box of personal history in the mail awhile back and I have been looking through it a little bit here and there. Scraps of stories, dream diaries, poem fragments: the work unfinished. Sorting through it all in itermittent burst of curiosity prevents me from breaking down into tears. Though, I just might as well. Some items I pick up and literally throw them down because they evoke such strong memory - feeling. I browse bits of paper that record my decent into madness in my hometown, my travels in the UK and the US, my uncomfortable history in NYC... paper that reminds me of how much struggle I have gone through- right to the present. To still struggling. Plain, embarrassing evidence that I have tried to create and live in a reality kinda skewed from the common baseline. Tried and have found very little success in it. I have bank records with all those little, unfeeling numbers to prove that much. The sum of my life in a pile of burnable paper - not even neatly leather bound.
Since falling in to the Web, I've been putting out doubly intangible thoughts. The world is saved from the clutter of marked up objects. But the clutter of thought? It is still a hanging lead fog. Servers hold the bytes instead of shoe boxes and scrapbooks somewhere in the world. The claw marks of effort are there... Wildly unnoticed, surrounded by 7 odd billion other claw marks...




Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Postcard from my subconscious


{ wish you were here }


Saturday, September 20, 2014

Keeping the Viva

{ bright the eye }
This week was a lost one. So much time went to dealing with Mexican Independence Day celebrations during a  heatwave. It was like early July all over again. Except more uncomfortable.  I lost writings because the electronics couldn't deal with the temperatures in the house. My work laptop kept overheating.
I tried to go with it; make the most of the whole experience. I mean, 'magic' is supposed to happen when you are forced out of your comfort zone... meh.
My thoughts get a little ahead of circumstance now that the heat has had it's run. I roll my eyes at the prospect of  wearing gloves and winter coat inside... I might officially hate this house...
So some of this writing that I lost was another version this very blog post. It was going to be all about the parade. Oh the parade- let me start again about the parade.
Preparations started well before the start of it.
I mean there were these kiddy hit squads that got together right out front and began doing their drills at like 7:30am.  Mexicans have enough fervor for pageantry to get them up so early!? They probably hadn't bothered to practice all summer and were trying to make up for it. So I was up, and there was drumming and trumpeting and no way to get back to sleepland. The was is shut, people.
Human wanted to go out to get pictures of the people and said he was going to bring back an energy drink... he returned at about 1pm empty handed. So I was in wait mode the whole damn time. I made an effort to find him out on the street. I just got so many uncomfortable looks, I gave up and stayed at the gate. From there, it seemed like this parade formed everywhere on the boulevard at once.
They stalled until 11am or so because all the ranchers showed up late like the divas they are. Yeah, even the military came rolling up late in their pixel desert camo, and the antique cars are ever impressive,  but it was the ranchers that took the spotlight. I knew they were gathering. I saw them trickling to the back of the line up. I just had no idea there would be so many.
My sleep deprived brain could not even count the number of horses. I don't think I have ever seen so many horses together at one time here. My modern suburban/urban, sleep deprived brain all too aware that it was perceiving a rare thing. And for that, I went into the house when it was over and actually sobbed a bit. Second to needing proper rest, I think I need to invest in a better camera... or a good lense...

{ drilling while we wait. and wait }

{ all going the the wrong directions }

{ today's make-believe playtime theme: arrested }

{ Estrella- nervous at the gate }

{ not painting it black. painting it viva }

{ so many things happening here }

{ marvelous nonsense }

{ making a stand against the 'big dogs'  }

{ bikes ain't got nuthin' over horses }

{ yes. that is all beer. }

{ classic 'ew fingers,' but on horseback }

{ fresa ranchers }

{ thee parade queen }

{ interactions }

{ just wow }

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Friday, September 5, 2014

Nothing else for it.

{ Familial feet }
Blog's been quiet for a while now. I'm sure by now all six seven of you subscribed readers are desperate and foaming at the mouth to have another precious gem of a 'me' filtered blog entry.
(Can you even imagine the layers of embittered sarcasm in the tones of that sentence? Probably not. But no matter.)

I'm still coming back to myself. Been traveling. Been sick. Been working.

For a while, I purposely walked away from my self imposed obligation to write, doodle, dance, be creative in any way, or actively absorb anything to feed my creativity. I needed to step out of the conference room in my head wherein every one of my creative and (practical parts too) have been basically drinking lots of coffee and yelling at one another, and me; and nothing is getting done.

Reboot.

{ Eastern water }
Thanks to random turns of events, I found myself in tranquility on Martha's Vineyard, then surrounded by family on the Massachusetts mainland: an un-thought out working vacation that nudged me back over into a healthier state of mind/spirit. I didn't ask myself to do anything, but work on a brochure design and telecommute every now and again to the 11249 office. Everything else was no pressure. Even seeing family.
This adventure came on the heels of travel to Spain- Which was truly wonderful, but not healing. Not for me. I think it was a healing for my Human to retrace his steps there. But that is another ball of falafel to deep fry.
The MA journey could have been a running off and renting a room in Portugal for one. I had a very real opportunity arise through a Facebook connection, but I was not ready. Clearly.
With all this screaming and arguing and nonsense going on under the skin/behind the eyes, I went back to my roots. It seemed the thing to do. After a few hugs from family I had not seen in a while, I felt somehow more healed and quieted than I had felt in a long time.

So what now?
It's back to plunging a head on a path that isn't there.  I have a pocket knife and I face the tangles of a vast jungle. Same as always. With few safeties. No such thing as failure. It goes on. Little changes or no. There's nothing else for it.

I've submitted a performance art proposal to to be a part of an exhibition of Rosarito art at CECUT. (And I have to resubmit it translated into Spanish. -Who knows what language now?) I don't feel like I am a proper Rosaritense, but hey, I live here, I have made and am making art here and so, why not show it in a museum? I am not holding my breath for this one. It is all out of my hands at this point.
Usually is.