My Throat Knows The Pollution Too Well

These desks are white, a muted sterile clinical white. My computer is a greyer shade of this clinical mandate. My computer looks like an odd tumor extending from the counter top.

My stomach is 500ml of caffeine and sugar. My throat and my eyes are a dusty haze of itchy dryness. It doesn't matter how long I swallow or blink, it is that same scratchy dusty itch.

Three inches from my left arm sits about forty to forty-five final exams--they are not graded, but they will be. Its 9:20am and I have until 12:30 to get them done. I want to believe that they will be done. Thy will be done.

I just told my department head what classes I want to teach next year--I didn't tell him that I am not coming back. I watched an interview with Mitch Hedberg yesterday. In response to what drove him to make it as a comedian, "he said, well you got to have a job that is worse than comedy. You got to have that sort of desperate need to make it, because you got nothing else." Allen Ginsberg said his dad was a poet. His dad was also a high school English teacher. He said the difference between him and his dad, was that he had nothing to fall back on.

These tests I am about to grade are a pillow of convenience.

Jamie told me to stop dreaming about the future, and to just be present. I told her its my favorite past time, and the Internet always indulges my fantasy.

My recording microphone didn't make it to her house in time. Jamie is going to give my mic to Annie. Annie is coming in March--I will record pretty things then. I can't get too hung up on clarity just yet.

When I try writing my play, I put the song "Burma Shave" on loop. I don't care too much about the story Waits tells, but I like the voice; I like the chords; I like the poorly articulated vocal control; I like the ambiance.

I just read a poem from a student. She wanted suggestions. She is contemplating the need for acceptance and self-acceptance. After reading the piece, and after responding I landed on the notion of irony--as I understand it. Our lives our battles between what is and what is expected. Often times, our thoughts and actions are geared towards fitting into the expected. We are trying to swim with the current, even if where we want to be is up stream and bautiful, we head towards the falls, because that is where the other fish are flowing. Bubble bubble, gulp.

I have the innate feeling that we all possess some insane piece of greatness, but it is hard to tell if the dream has already been tainted. Hypothetically, I just want to play music in a band and travel the sea of humanity. The dream is music and the connection between souls in the night. The dream is then tied to fame, and dreams of TV and stadiums and fans, and ego. Soon the dream is about TV and success. The true end has become the means, and I am sitting wondering what is true. Is art just a tainted thought of how to be what society wants me to be--a productive contributor of capital and labor?

So, its a cloudy day in mid December. The students are gone, and the grades remain to be given. Hangovers trickle down the hall, and sneezes sneak around corners for conferences with allergies and soar throats. Somewhere a suit kicks up a shiny shoe, and dreams about pay checks and institutional advancement. Some of these teachers are dreaming of better days, true paths, and escapes; others, are dreaming of neat writing and constructive commentaries--objectivity and tidy grades. Me, I am just sitting and dreaming. Coffee is coarsing through the synapses, and my legs twitch as I type.

"They say dreams are growing wild," and the exhaust out of the taxi tailpipe is just another breath of fresh air. To the dreamer in us all.

Catch-up is not just for Burgers

So here we are. This is the night before finals week. Finals week shall entail a shit load of grading. But the reward shall be a trip to Oaxaca.

Much has transpired of late. Here are some pictures and brief words about the happenings. Oh wait, today, in the park, Lucio and Chops caught a pigeon! They rustled it from under the bushes, and Chops came trapsing out with a flapping bloody pigeon in his mouth. It was fucking nuts! Of all the things he has chased, and so desperately wanted to catch, he finally got a bird. The two of them were as happy as some pigs in shit. I had an odd emotion of sadness, respect, and pride. I picked the feathers from his mouth and quickly exited the scene. All the Mexicans looked mordified. Julia and I walked quickly around the corner.

A) I gave my guitar to my friend Pablo and this is what he did with it:




B) I sort of cleaned my car last week. It was rad. I am making my dogs stay in the far back, and the fur levels are down. Of course, when they are wet, and I leave them in the car to go get something from a store, they don't stay in the back. Though I have found, if I leave my car from the back and walk away from it, Flow will sit at the back window so that she can await my arrival--this has helped reduce the fur in the front.

C) Pablo and I have been playing music, and making recordings. Ana, Pablo, and I have eaten Burger King twice in one week. It is always an adventure. This is what Burger King does to Pablo and Ana's faces.

D) Pablo, Ana, and I went to see NOFX play here in Mexico City. I have never seen so many Mexican punks in my life. Some drunk sod-off Mexican tried to grab my shirt that I bought. I leaned into the barachito and said, "I don't SPEAK SPANISH!", and I snagged my shirt back--he was too drunk to take it beyond that response. I didn't take any pictures at the concert, but I did take pictures on my way home.

E) Lucio sired some puppies. He loves them. They are ridiculously cute. Julia pooped one of them out of her rear end. Lucio is still a stud in my book.

F) I have begun writing a play. So far, I think it is utter crap. However, I am utilizing Joseph Campbell's Monomyth Archetype and I hope to weave a beautiful narrative.

G) I love Life.

Life Like a Forest at Dinner

Well, today was a good one. I woke up early. I set my alarm for 8:06am. I stared at my feet for awhile. I pressed them into the high end of my fur covered blue couch--I've gone back to couch surfing--it suits me.

After a few meager groans I got up and dusted off the night time. I flossed my teeth--flossing makes my gums bleed. I brushed and rinsed. I ran my hands over my 5 day scruff. I took my flip flops and cleaning products and I headed to my car. For an hour and a half I scrubbed and slapped, sprayed and rubbed, and sneezed and sneezed. My car was filthy--still is--but its not as bad.

Picked Pahb and Anne up, and then we snagged Mau, and we hit the road. Mau's got a GPS and it guided us to Los Desiertos de Leones--I found it, mom.

We paid 10 pesos to get in. They had signs that said no dogs--there were plenty of dogs in the park. We parked. We hiked passed the monastery and the barbacoa de canejo, and we dropped down the hill side. We spent the better part of the early afternoon sitting next to a running river, singing songs, eating food, and being present. The dogs ran up and down, up and down. They were covered in sticky burs. Since there are no ticks in these forests, sticky burs, are just fine with me. Mauricio, the dogs, and I charged up a hillside and took the deer trail to the top. Flow and I crossed a ravine on a fallen log--I sent Chops below to find his way--he is slightly clumsy and I am not sure he has the nimble feet to cross a high pitched log.

The dogs rolled in horse shit--I washed them in the river.

I brought my camera, but took no pictures.

We drove back, parted ways, and I made my way home.

The dogs slept long and hard. I shaved some of my scruff, and I headed to dinner. Dinner was being hosted by Martha Mendoza and her family: Ray (Husband), Ray (Son), Thomas, Eleanor, and Isabel. They are possibly the nicest little bunch I have met. When Eleanor bit her tongue chewing some broccoli, she leaned into Thomas. Thomas leaned over and told her to breathe, and he gently rocked her--I don't recall the last time I saw siblings actually love each other.

Ray is a stay at home dad, and I think he may be Andy Reynaga in 20 years--he had a lovely disposition, a good sense of humor, knowledgeable about various topics, athletic, and all and all just a being of goodness. He plays guitar. We are going to jam. Martha, well Martha works for the Associated Press. The way she talked about her work over dinner, made me think she was fairly important. She talked about teaching at Princeton and UCSC, turning down at job at the University of British Columbia which had been created for her, and she mentioned stories and investigations that seemed rather high profile--apparently her and John Krakauer have beef. She made a mean dinner: homemade pizza, a delectable salad, fruit, guacemole, salsa, and homemade chocolate chip cookies. The Mendoza's own a house on Cayuga. They lived about four blocks from me in Santa Cruz. I met them here--in Mexico City. I googled Martha Mendoza--this is what I found (click her name).

I think life is a mysterious and altogether awesome.

Today was a damn good day.

Definitely leaving high school teaching.

The Odd Way Lifelessness Brings Folks to Consciousness

Its been awhile. I am compelled to write this post, not on behalf of my travels, but rather a venting of odd emotion. The catalyst for this post is the second student death here at ASF within the first semester. I have just returned to my class, from yet another emergency assembly, in which a student's death is announced in a solemn speech. I am not sure how the hell I feel. The precursor to this death, was last night was "The Oscars"--an annual student thrown party in which students nominate each other for categories such as "Biggest Skank" and "Dumbest Drunk". The party is known at the school, and despite efforts from the administration to thwart the party, it goes off without much disruption. Students showed up to school today intoxicated--one red faced freshman stumbled into my class complaining of a stomach ache--she looked like the bottom end of a New York City dumpster. I sent her the office, and she was sent home.

Now I don't know if this death was in connection to the party--the poor kid fell off a balcony at home at 4 in the morning--however, my suspicion would be some element of relation. The death earlier this year involved a student, intoxication, a bicycle, and a freak accident with a car.

Once again, I am not sure how I feel about this. In both assemblies I have felt this strong aversion to the emotion that I witness--in neither case did I know the student. I can sympathize, but in the moment of mass hysterical crying, I have this incontrolable urge to withdraw and leave. Teachers hugging, their salty faces huddled together for strength--I don't like it. Somehow it absolutely puts me into an isolationist mentality. In some ways I distrust the feelings, I am repulsed by the situation, and it feels odd to feel that way--but I feel it.

I haven't upated this here blog in a minute or two, and this is not how I would like to reconnect, but the spirit has moved me. It is a strange Friday in early December.
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Since last I wrote, much has gone on. I had some car trouble after my epic run through the woods with Julia et al. I think everything is fine, and I am gearing up for an epic road trip through Oaxaca, Chiapas and the Yukatan. For Christmas, I'm hoping to recreate an old Coronoa commercial from my youth: An anonymous gringo strolls a cabana speckled sand bar at dusk. He sets down his cerveza, plugs in some Christmas tree lights on a neighboring palm, returns to his lounger and sips a brew, while the eveing stars harmonize with his vibe.

I am looking for a new apartment. I am hoping to move to La Condesa or Roma. This is a hipster area. I do not want to be a hipster, but I do want to live within walking distance of the dog parque and friends. So my hunt is furiously under way.

My mom came to visit. My mom is awesome. We went to Aztec ruins, Planeta 51, museums, forests, the main central square and cathedral. We ate tacos al pastor for Thanksgiving, and we watched several movies on my computer. My mom made me nostalgic for fall time in Studio City--I love home. I know, eventually, that is where I will hang my hat--that makes me smile.

I went to my friend's birthday party two nights ago. I was extremely tired, but it was extremely fun. I was going to stay for one beer--I stayed for four. I spoke more Spanish with each brew. Good people are good people, no matter where you go. The Spaniards are damn good people--I feel really lucky to have met such a wonderful bunch of creative folks. Work, the day after said party, was tough--I almost fell asleep while showing a movie to my Science Fiction class. Somehow, this reaffirmed my desire to stop teaching.

My allergies are kicking. The winds have kicked up the polen and the poo particles, and my eyes burn and my nose itches, and I sneeze in my sleep.

Yesterday, I had dinner at an organic restaurant. Prior to that I drank coffee with Hector during my Spanish lesson, and I told him the following story:

After dropping my mom off at the airport, I was pulled over by a highway cop for talking on my phone. They told me it was an infraction. They wrote down my license plate and told me they were taking my driver's license. I played up my lack of Spanish fluency (not hard to do). I asked to pay for the infraction. The fat pig slobbered with delight, when I offered this option. He told me that I needed to pay $100US. I told him I had $200 pesos--he laughed with his assumed authority. I told him that I needed to call my friend at the Embassy. I told him to wait. I called Julia. She told me to take down his name and badge number, and to tell him that my friend was coming in 20 minutes with her boss (if need be, she would make this scenario happen--she was at a BBQ and in fine form for some street theater). I told the cop that my friend from the embassy was coming with her boss, and that I would wait for them here, because I did not understand what the problem was or what he was saying. The long and short of it is: The cop gave me my ID back, I paid nothing, and I left. It made me happy to not blindly submit to false authority. It made me happy to use my intellect to out wit a bully.

The above would not have been possible with out the delightful insight provided to me by my neighbor's father, Chuco. He told me to play the embassy card during my next policia altercation--he was right.

At the organic diner last night, I drank Cab Sav and laughed it up. My dogs sat through the whole dinner. At the end of the dinner, a gringa came up to me, and said she had enjoyed watching my dogs. She was older and her husband was younger. She was American and he was Irish. They have a kid. They are starting a new company in San Migul de Allende. She was one of the founders of Burt's Bees Wax. I assume she has a lot of money. I think I am going to try and stay with them on my route North this summer. She had a nice smile. Her name was Sunny. When Sunny hugged you, she said, "Blessings".

Yesterday, my student Karime gave me a tie for Thanksgiving. The tie has a small reoccurring pattern--its a cockfight or a pelea de gallos. It is orange--I love orange.
Blessings.

Long Haul: Good Fun

I exited the car with arthritic thump--after 8 hours in my truck, and the last three in grid lock traffic, well, things had gotten a little tight during my clutchin' and shiftin'. The dogs whined from inside the dust laden car; they too were feeling the pinch of a long haul. As I sorted myself out, I let dem dirty dogs out to relieve themselves. They both quickly pissed, and made a B line for my front door...apparently they were as happy as I was to be home. Now don't get me wrong, the day was amazing, but it is one of those reliefs of the familiar--a warm blanket of goodness.

I made plans earlier in the week to head out to Cholula with my friend Julia and her faithful spud nugget, Lucio. We loaded up around high noon and made our way for the hills. Now, foreign as it is to me, I have seen several people engage in the act of alcohol consumption, while in a moving car. Now in the States, if so much as a cracked bottle appears in the car, you are liable to be swimming in deep poo poo. However, here, given the extreme hap-hazard nature of all things, it is okay for passengers to drink a beverage as long as the driver is not. So, as we hit the Viaducto out of town, Julia cracked a brew, and we cranked the tunes. About 20 minutes in, and nearing the border of Estado de Mexico, a portly piggy waved us down. Reflecting on my first experience with a cop in Mexico, I was more than tempted to keep driving. He pulled up to us once--I looked at him and pressed on. Twice--I asked Julia what she thought. Third--I pulled over. The cop came up, with all of his impoverished girth and began spouting rhetoric about no drinking in a car. I pretended to not speak Spanish. Julia took the charge. She began to argue with man, that it was not illegal, and that I had not been drinking. He claimed, as they had done when I entered this great city, that they were going to impound my car. They asked for a driver's license, and I did not have it with me, as I have become accustomed to not carry anything with me, for obvious reasons. Julia gave them hers. They wrote it down. Julia began to make up a story about us taking the dogs to Puebla for a humanitarian effort. The fat bloated goat began to smile. He said some bullshit about how times were tough for us all. Julia called her friend, spoke in English with him, and deduced that drinking in the car was not a crime, and she should just offer him $200 pesos and be done with it. She informed the fat man of his blunder. He then said the issue was that I did not have my driver's license--we can now see, that they were looking for anything to hold on to. Julia said, "fine then, I will give you $150 pesos" and you can lead us out of the city securely. The fat man smiled and agreed--his stained white lapels and dirty fingernails smelled of neglect, poverty, and low self worth. Julia gave him $200 and demanded change--he brought it. We got back on the road, and the adrenaline was still coursing through our veins.

We spent the next 50 km, rehashing the event. I vowed, the next time one of these podunk periphery hick cops tries to flag me down, I am just going to keep driving--they truly have no authority, and really are just a desperate bunch. As we talked, I neglected the gas that was leaving my car by the second. Pedal heavy and up hill, I remembered my need for petrol upon the empty light flashing. I had mild concern, but I saw a Pemex station up ahead, and well, I felt relief. As we pulled in, I noticed that all of the pumps had no nozzles, and were still wrapped in plastic...I realized then, that there was no gas being served, but a hopeful future. We pushed on. We pushed on through the mountains, completely in the red. As if the police escapade had not been enough, now we were fighting a game of time, velocity, and resources. We continued to push up and up. I was praying for a down hill stretch when I noticed a lovely national park, with camping, forests, and food. I made a note: I shall return here sooner than later. However I digress, we continued to fight and fly in the red...finally a holy sign of a gas pump directed us to salvation. We pulled into the station, and I filled the tank to the brim--it was long over due. The lady attendant asked if we were Americans; Julia told her, "we were looking for France, and wound up here."

We charged and barged down the hill, leaving the beautiful forest behind us. I had sort of hoped that we would stay there, but we pressed on. We dropped into a valley, asked several people about the way to Cholula, and finally arrived. Cholula is where Cortez came after staying in Vercruz for awhile. Cortez put a church directly on top of an Aztec temple: He liked doing that. Cortez set a tone with that gesture, and Cholula holds the most churches per capita. It is a cute cobble stone joint. Apparently, many other Mexicans were feeling the need to go there. It was jammed pack. Our mission was not the churches--we wanted the volcanoes--Two towering monoliths laid above the city's skyline. We snaked our way through the cobblestones, and we found dirt. I dropped the truck in cuatro-por-cuatro (4x4) and we began meandering through the rural outskirts of Cholula.

The city proper faded into the backdrop, and the sun hug heavy in the sky, like a drop of honey slowly amassing itself at the end of a dangling spoon. The volcanoes were our guide: we wanted them; we needed them; we chased them. Periodically, as one street lead to another dusty throughway, we would ask the locals, "How the fuck do you get over to those big things?" They would point this way, then this way, laugh at the two presumed tourist gringos in their Californian Car (which looks like nothing around), and then attend back to what needed attending. I must admit, although Julia felt not fear, I was a little nervous that we were going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, and raped and assaulted by some secret bush clan. Julia laughed at me and my conspiracies. The dogs didn't care; they did care about all the street dogs though--goddamn Chops' bark is loud.

We went through several small villages. I began to wonder, when or where our chase was going to end. Finally we asked, "How the hell do you get back to Mexico City?" They said we can go straight over the mountains, in between the volcanoes--perfect. We started up the road, and by road, I mean a nice paved road. We drove the little god sent for a wopping 5 minutes and then hit a road block. There was a sign pointing to a detour. The detour was in dirt, and through the bush--once again cuatro-por-cuatro was employed and we dove in.

We wrapped and winded through the hills. In my mind, I was thinking it was just going to be a quick re-route. We most definitely drove on an unpaved dirt path, through epic pine forests, straight up a hill, for the better part of two hours. In the end, it had been just what we wanted. A tourist trap for church goers, was not what we were seeking.

In the security of the forest, traveling along with a handful of other detoured folks, we cracked a few beers and several jokes. We discovered, that if sung properly, all songs can relate to the name Lucio. We stopped a few times for some pictures, and we stopped to let the dogs run. Towards the top of the mountain we stumbled across and eco-outdoors camp with archery, fishing, camping, etc. It was crazy how it was nestled right up against nowhere.

Finally, we summited the mountain while the sun set. The sun was flirting with the snow capped peak of the volcano. We stopped for a timer shot, and it was moderately successful--it took a few attempts, and all of them were sort of blurry.

Blah blah blah, we rejoined the paved road, and descended back to the state of Mexico on the Paso de Cortes. It was a trippy scene, as the sun set, and small fires lined the road; relics of the Aztec era, still cooked dinner on the side of the pass--for themselves and the weary travelers. Lights flicked on in the valley miles and miles below like Christmas lights that spilled like gravy across an abandoned dance hall floor. Somwhere after I dreamt up that ridiculous similie, my glasses broke striaght down the center--I didn't know that actually happened, but when you buy $12 prescription glasses from China, anything is possible. I stopped at a refugio to tape them together with some bandages from my first aid kit (hooray for using a contingency!)

The bottom of the hill to the inner city limits, can be summed up by one word: traffic. It was bumper to bumper forever and ever. Mexico is building a great new highway for 2010--they began it 10 years ago, and according to Julia it is in the same state of progress. Due to their lofty goals of construction, many sections of road are limited to one lane. We made the best of it--music and jokes. Julia had to pee. There were no bathrooms--she peed in some bushes by the side of the road.

Like I said, it was a great day, but it was amazing to get home. The dogs and I barged up the stairs. I let out several audible sounds of contentment. I made a salad, microwaved a frozen pizza, and watched the second part of the Project Runway Finale (Mom, Annie, and Maggie--I still watch--do you?).

I slept like a baby. I don't think I made it past 10.

As for today...Well today I will be going back to Parque Ghandi. A fellow dog owning teacher told me about this place, and well it is a gem. It is closer to my house, and it is huge. Today is a Mexican Holiday, and well I don't have school, though I do have plenty of work to do. So it goes.

Love and blessings.

Hittin the Hillsides: Life is Nice on the Periphery

I do some of my best dreaming in the middle of the day. It is a treat and a joy to spend so much time, thinking about what is going to be--and I feel I am still doing a good job of being here and now.

Point in case, yesterday I got up early and went to the dog park. I read a chapter in Slaughterhouse-five, and I enjoyed the early morning light. I made a phone call about a hypothetical plan, which had been hatched earlier last week. After grocery shopping, I got the call that it was a go--dogs included. I hauled the pooches over to Condesa, picked up Them Crooked Spaniards, and we hit the road.

We headed through the fray of DF's traffic. We were en route to Xochimilco (So-chi-milk-oh)--well actually, the mountains above the town. The town is about an hour away from DF proper, and it is still within city limits. In some respects this is a kin to LA living--everything is encompassed within the city.

We took some very circuitous winding roads, and eventually wound up atop a mountain. We made our way down an unpaved road, and found ourselves at a grand old colonial styled ranch. The place was huge. The brick work was phenomenal. There were all sorts of little courtyards and patios. There was a chicken coop filled with prize winning fighting cocks--when released, Flow took a moment to investigate that area.

Horses, hens, dogs, cats, goats, and sheep--it was all there. I was apprehensive to let the pooches loose. They are not privy to the ways of the farm. One time, on a road trip not too long ago, we stopped at a rest stop in New Mexico. Aside from it being the nicest rest stop of my life, there were also a ton of cows, and well the dogs spent the better part of 15mins, chasing cows along a fence. This time around, Chops, did his typical piss-ant tactic, and he barked loudly at the animals he did not understand.

Eventually, Julia saddled up, and we took the dogs out to the hills for a hike and stroll. I let the dogs off, after being urged by Julia to relax and let it happen. Chops and Flow, followed Lucio along side the horse, and we were at peace with the world. The dogs literally walked on the heels of Martin the Great, and did not get the slightest inclination to take a piss at the caballo. We walked along the rural hillside. We came across two burros tied up in a field, and Chops took off. He got right up the mix, and barked his head off. He chased them in circles; Lucio joined in. Chops, thank the lord, does not have any balls left--I think he would be an utter nightmare if he did. Finally the asshole got over his antics--well, Pablo grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him off; Pablo and Ana, were nice enough to untangle the Burros which had been tangled in their own ropes. Watching all of this, were a horde of young hill dwellers. A rag tag group of precocious little Mexicanos and their two bloody dogs--literally bloody. Their pitbull had definitely been commissioned to fight earlier that day. The bitches mockingly said good bye in English--I am getting use to the poor youth trying to grab a little power by mocking the white boys.

We walked back. I climbed a wall to check the scene over yonder. An amazing castle like house lay atop a beautiful piece of land. I then hopped back on my faithful steed, and rode him on into the coral--Chops is my caballito.

We killed the rest of daylight with beers and chips. Near dusk, we laoded up the dogs and headed out of the ranch. We made our way to a little hillside shanty known as Don Pancho's. The Don is known for their Barbacoa--sheep/lamb that is cooked/smoked underground. Well we started the meal with a sweet cup of their home style soup, made from the broth of the pit cooked meat. The soup included spices, garlic, onion, and tomatoes--in all honesty, it was better than the barabacoa itself. I was so freaking excited about the food and the experience--I was giddy. The restaurant was outfitted with pottery, that had to have been made in the hillside community. Everything was a burnt umber red, and it was all pretty. We ate, laughed, drank, and left.

The long road back was just that--long, but not too long. We rocked out to the beauty of the ipod. Everything from Neil Young to Fiona Apple, made the lineup. It was a nice conclusion to a weekend of present moment living.







(Pictures provided by El Zeta and his camera)

Like I Should Look

Sunday Morning...

Art for One and One for Art

"Oh, I am moving. In fact I am already gone. What did you want to remember? What did you want to go and get?"



My imagination has got control of me. I spent the better part of last night, using a drill like saw, and cutting out a face of me, which has evolved through my painting efforts. It started with tracing a shadow, and it ended with a drill. Last night, I threw some ink on a recently finished painting.

Today, I awoke early and took the dogs for a lazy walk around the block. I bungeed my paintings together, and I hailed a cab. I setup my artwork, and I sat. I sat all day long. I sat next to eleven paintings of mine. I put a sign under my paintings, which read: "Email me a picture, and I will paint you and yours." Below this notice, I placed a stack of my "human being" business cards. I brought at least 75 cards. I spent the end of the day writing my email on small sheets of paper--the cards were all gone. "Que Padre. Que Padre. Buenisimo. Genial". Compliments were abounding. I shall see if anyone commissions me to paint them and their children. I can say, that out of two hundred artists, I did not see any other paintings in my genre--which, according to other artists is, "Pop"--as in Pop Art. Fine by me. Call it what you want.


There were other teachers with art. I think there was some cool stuff, and there was some other stuff--some of the other stuff, presented in pretty glosses, sold very well.

This was my first public showing of my art--it felt good. I pushed myself to finish my most ambitious painting to date, and it felt good. I enjoyed the process. Between long stretches of sitting, smiling, and reflecting on my reality, I read excerpts from Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. I was reminded about the beauty of esoteric humor. I was reminded about the fun in creating.

Once again, Mexico is steering me away from teaching. I feel everything the school is offering me (books, art shows, journalism, etc.) is solidifying in my mind, what must be done: I must move on to a life of art. I must leave the safe haven of a career in a salty substitute, and embrace the full identity of a creative being--I am trickling further and further south. Thank you.

I feel at home in this realization, and I feel as if I am figuring out what I have always known. Since I can remember, I have had glimpses of feelings from the future. I can't describe to you those feelings (excitement and happiness are in there), but I have always had this weird intuition of their future existence in my life. When I was five there was a dream; when I was ten there was a moment with my eyes closed spinning on a merry-go-round; when I was 14, there was this moment in band class; in college I had a moment on stage; today I sat in the sun, and it visited me again. Somehow I have always known what I needed to be, and somehow I am starting to feel like my mind is finally willing to consciously carry me there--beyond talent, choices are finally being made. I realize what Shimmy felt for himself many many months ago. It is an exciting place to be. It's as if I am saying to myself, "Yes Elliott, you can go do the things you want to now--you have waited long enough. Go play son, go play."

Here is to the sandbox within us all--I'll see you out there.

Allow Me to Narrate the State of Things

Lately I've been hanging out in the early evenings by myself. I try to bask in the glory of this--------------------------------->

Sometimes I imagine it as the birth of the universe; other times I just think about what colors I see. The story is all in the leaves, I guess. I mean, sometimes the sky gets in on the narration, but for the most part its the leaves that are creating all the suspense and drama--I think they like me when I watch them.

I've been taking a lot of pictures lately. Most of them are spur of the moment and not well planned. I always admired a good eye with the camera. I always figured those people just saw the world in snapshots, so it was easy. I always sort of view the transpiring of life as a trippy little song stuck to a slow moving movie. All of my pictures seem to be lacking true narration, and I think that is just because, for the most part, they are out of context.


About two weeks ago, perhaps one, I gave Lucio back. His owner returned from her overseas adventures. The little guy, although at times was quite a handful, on the whole, he rocked. Julia, met him at the park. Lucio ran to her...it was one of those story book things, you know. I took a picture as night fell. I just figured out, that my camera can deal with a little darkness...once again, its all about the leaves.


Chops and Lucio get nostalgic when they hang around. Sometimes Chops extends a delicate paw in Lucius Lucio's direction--he likes it in a brotherly way.


Last week, I went to a Malaysian restaurant with my friend Julia. Julia did a bunch of art work there, and has a tab--we ate on her tab (there is a joke there, somewhere). We had coconut soup with mussels, shrimp, and tuna. We also had octopus and chicken satay. I found the meal very agreeable, but the next day was filled with odd bowel movements--still, I have no complaints. After the dinner, we went to a Spanish style cantina. It was perfect. I am tired of the poshy posh. It was loud, raucous, and stimulating. I can't recall what we talked about, but it was time consuming. We left at 2 and I had work at 7...the next day tasted a little bitter.


I went the school's homecoming game. I wrote the article for their tri-annual magazine, Focus. The game was fun. I played the snare drum in a sweet impromptu drum core. I think the article turned out well. I sure as hell don't write like I used to. I don't have any notebooks filled with poetry. I find my writing to be sprayed across the digital landscape, and to be half muttered over sloppy chord progressions--I haven't stopped, but it just ain't what it was--perhaps that is perfect.

Work is a fun game of laughing and trying to stay awake. I spend most of my off periods dreaming. I looked heavily into seasonal firefighting work. I have read the entirety of the Wikipedia file on both Vancouver and Montreal--Vancouver gets the nod in my book (Sorry Glo). I regularly look through the available job listings in Austin Texas. Dog walking and sitting seems ripe for the picking. Housing in Austin is also quite cheap. I also talk to one old friend, and routinely we commiserate about the possibilities and "what ifs" of the future. Somewhere, my stomach always tingles when I dream my dreams. There is a sense of flight tucked into these dreams. As if to make one of these choices real, is to commit to creating my life into what I want. I think that is what Mexico was all about. It wasn't-slash-isn't about coming here to reignite my fervor for teaching. It was about the process of getting here. It was about the job fair and the applications. It was about the money spent at the mechanics, and the 3000 miles of sight seeing. It was about culture shock, and language acquisition, new people and new streets. And for all that, it has been great. In many respects, it has only deepened my wander lust. I see the choice to move somewhere new, as a continuing commitment to pursue being someone new--to not stagnate or bog down in the ambivalence. Somehow to move is to commit to grow. I am shedding skins with each bunny hop and it is good. I think I am hopping my ass to where it needs to be. I am shedding my security and comfort. I am giving birth to music and creativity as a center fulcrum. The next city shall be an exodus of the incubation in the womb. That makes sense to me, but I am not articulating it as pretty as it is in my head. Its all coming up to the top.


Saturdays have been good. I like playing ultimate frisbee--I think I need to be even healthier--one day soon.


Halloween was the beginning of my hibernation. Lately, I have loved being in my house. It is quiet, my dogs are quiet, and I feel as if I am studying perpetually: guitar licks and paint strokes abound. Halloween--I was a dog. I think it was a good look. I wore my Maggie Kline Beanie, applied some black makeup to my nose, and wore brown. I also sported Flow's collar. The party was filled with drunks of all denominations. I was but a quiet little angel on the periphery. I drank two drinks and skedaddled home. As I shimmied through the park, I played a little harmonica--people don't mess with a harmonica playing dog.


Sunday was a home day--all day. I watched several movies and played a lot of guitar.


Saturday...Chops hurt his leg. He is ok. My friend Mauricio and I took him to the vet around the corner...it was super convenient, and it was thorough and cheap: the cost for two stitches, cleaning, and medicine--$45. Chops is a trooper. He has been hurt often in his short life--but he is still a lovable little turd.

This is Hector my neighbor and Spanish teacher:












This is the lady who owns the cafe where I have Spanish class. On several occasions she has made reference to kidnapping both me and my dogs--she is harmless and very nice, and she makes some amazing cups of joe.













Pablo, Mauricio, and Ana came over to jam. They all smoke cigarettes.












This is a candle, in front of a coffee, on a table, next to a glass, beyond a couch, in a house of a girl named Monica; Monica is Mauricio's girlfriend.

Reminder

While speaking to a disorderly student, I took a severely serious tone--mockingly authoritative. A sweet student turned to me and said, "You could have been an actor."

Thank you life for reminding me of not letting my talents become a past tense song and dance.

Snail Trails of Rain Drops and Time

So it has been awhile...ahoy. It is raining like a small child's midnight tantrum. Personally, I like it. While the sun sank and my livingroom filled with various shades of blue, I played guitar with the lights off. Two dogs, who I think shall travel many places with me, are lying in a festive slumber--they played for hours, and their only answer is to deep breathe and stretch. I am not saying the world is perfect, but it sure ain't bad. At 10 am I played 3 hours of ultimate frisbee--my body wants to join my dogs on the floor. It is raining right now. I am going to resist slumber and trudge into the wet darkness--there I shall find a cab and head to Condesa. Pablo's parents arrived two weeks ago. They were here on business. Today they left. Some teachers are getting together at 10pm for drinks and music. At 9pm I will meet Ana and Pablo to celebrate his parents departure. Julia will be there. Julia owns Lucio. Julia got back from Barcelona last week. Lucio is with her now. Tonight Lucio will be at her house. Tomorrow I will post a picture of their reunion. Tonight I will not read Slaughterhouse-Five. Tomorrow I will grade ten papers. Sometime next week I am going to paint a picture. Next Saturday I will display all of my paintings at an art show. Yesterday I played the snare drum and I made rhythms with other people. Last night was the Girl's soccer game. The girl's soccer game, was also the homecoming game. I am currently writing an article on the homecoming event. The article is due Nov. 2. I will send a draft to someone sometime this week. The article will appear in the school magazine entitled, Focus. Right now it is 8:30pm, and I need to get going. It started raining during the Nike Human Race, which started an hour ago. I would think it would not be ideal for a race of humanity to happen in the rain--perhaps it is perfect. Perhaps you are perfect. Perfection.

Tomorrow--pictures. Tonight--life.

Fly the Week Like a Flag

Another Friday has saddled up to my half hung eyelids. Actually, last night I curled up around 9:30pm; I was awoken by a taunting text message at 11:30pm, initially thinking it was my 6am alarm, I smiled at the text attack on my weekday warrior status, and I turned a cheek, adjusted Lucio (positioned between my feet), and went back to slumbering the night away.

The weeks seem to be flying, and I am alright with that. I am okay with the workday disappearing like a fart in the wind--its when it lingers that it begins to stink. This week was filled with essay grading (halfway done), new book introductions, good journals and discussions, and a healthy dose of Elliott and Dog time. I also attended Spanish class twice this week, living up to my two day a week goal. Hector and I meet at a little cafe 4 blocks from our house. The cafe is set in the front of a house, and it is run by a pair of pint sized Mexicana twins--I don't know their names, but they are super kind and have a quirky sense of humor--the way most short, slightly round, munchkin-esque women do. I bring my dogs with me, because they are solid warriors of the cafe scene. The two cherub ladies love them. They walk them down the block, bring them water, make itty bitty cute noises in their face, and in general, grovel over them. Aside from the coffee and good vibes, the Spanish lessons are awesome. Hector is a great teacher. I need to apply what I am learning more regularly, but I am definitely acquiring the solid fundamentals.

So politically speaking, this country is in turmoil. On Sunday I accompanied my buddy Mauricio to a used car lot in a far off area of the city. As we walked through the Centro, I noticed that all the newspapers displayed at the newsstands are adorned with graphic front page images of dead bodies, blood, and assault rifles. Now one could say it is just for publicity, and this is definitely true. However, somewhere this shit is real; this is definitely real in the state of Sinaloa, the current epicenter of the drug war (Note: I will not be driving the coast line this summer as I iintended, for this goes through the heart of the Sinaloa State. Perhaps the gulf shall be my route.) In any event, aside from the bloody pics on the newspapers, I have come to learn that the current president, Felipe Calderon, was elected under much scandal, and in many people's eyes, unfairly so. The opposition candidate, and the one who was popularly elected, was far more radical and in tune with the masses of folks living below the poverty line. In any eevnt, last week Presidente Calderon, during Mexico's World Cup qualifier game, sent armed police into Luz y Fuerza, the main provider of electricity in central Mexico. According to Calderon, the company, which is federally owned, was mismanaging and stealing money. So Calderon and his minions, guns en tow, stormed the building, and it was announced that all employees have been fired. I do not know if this sort of news makes it to the States, but it is a big deal down here. Luz y Fuerza is a huge employeer and this action has put many people out of work.

Over the next few days several picket lines and demonstrations have littered the streets of Mexico City. Last Friday there was a march from La Angel (the Angel statue that stands as a beacon for all social gatherings in DF), to Los Pinos, the President's Palace. However, yesterday was the real deal. Sarah and I took the subway home, because the streets were packed with cars. Fired employees and sympathizers from all over Central Mexico, converged on DF to demonstrate their anger, frustration, and collective action. As we walked home from the subway, La Reforma, the main street holding the iconic La Angel, was a see of red claden Mexicans. Hombres with wide brimmed cowboy hats, were obviously workers from outside the city. Bannars, drums, whistles, and battle cries, all saturated the senses. I know there are a lot of people in this city, but to witness this convergence was absolutely insane. I was blown away by their ability to organize so quickly. Groups from all over the country made their present felt.

Sarah and I dipped out of the fray, and we made our way down San Cosme, via bike. We arrived in the Zocalo, and it was already bubbling over with people. In front of the President's palace a huge stage had been erected. Vendors pedaled their goods amongst the protestors and hanger-ons. The vibe was spirited, but not tense or viloent--the people were peacifully demonstrating. One of the largest flags I have seen waved brilliantly in the late afternoon son. Gold trickled over the tops of the colonial montors that flank the four corners of the Zocalo.

After a half hour of observing we skedaddled home. I stopped a street side burger joint--where for two dollars, I had a Hawaiian style burger. I make this promise: if you come to visit, I will treat you to a burger at this 24 hour streetside haven.

After that, I went home, loaded up illegal episodes of The Office--consequently "The Injury" season 2, as recommended by Gloria, is probably the best episode ever--followed by episode 17, of the same season, entitled "Dwight's Speech".

I closed my eyes at 9:30pm, and it felt marvelous.