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.