Welcome to Mexico

Yesterday, I met up with Muriel, a Spaniard I met on my Veracruz trip with the school, and whom I re-met in the dog park. She invited me to go hiking with her friend and her friend's daughter. We met yesterday at around 10, and we headed out.

We made our way to Los Desiertos de Leones. I have been there once before, but I went to the wrong area. Muriel knew of a hiking trail which was off the beaten path, and which lead to a little refugio where an old lady and her blind husband made food. Her wood log shanty held great smells, and her old teracatta pots were scorched with age. I had two tacos with chorizo and ongos. They were quite delactable. At some points through the woods, the wind kicked up to such a fervor, that all you could hear was the mounting rush through the leaves. Flow rolled in several mounds of horse shit, and Chops ate some. I wanted to be mad, but what for? "So you want to roll and shit and frolic? You are in a city and this is nature, and well, ok then." I gave Flow a bath upon coming home.

I got home around 4, and walked to order a pizza. I had built up this event as a scary one. I often times over analyze my cultural role as a foriegner, and well I assume, that in the non-touristy parts, they have an aversion to my bad Spanish and weird clothing. Beto's pizza, was a friendly place, and their cocinita (little piggy) pizza is amazing. I ordered a family size, which would be about a medium or large in the States. I started it last night, and finished today.

Today, I have done little, and it has felt great. I finished watching "Fargo", and I just finished watching "Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels". I talked to my mom on Skype. I took Flow to the farmer's market, and I got a whole bunch of goodness for under $10: a bundle of bananas, a head of brocoli, 4 mangos, 4 avacados, 1/2 kilo of chopped mixed veggies, 4 carrots, and a bottle of fresh squeezed mandarin juice. TASTY!

Now, after the pics upload, I am going to head to the park. Then maybe a coffee, a little supermarket action, and then home again. And then, and then, and then--well, school tomorrow.

Tuesday Inspirational

There is just absolutely nothing wrong with this right here:
Al Green - People Get Ready

Yes!

Everyone is phenomenal--you can watch the jerry curl juice drip of the elated drummers forehead; Al is 100% immersed in confident showmanship; the back up singers are smoothing it all together; the bassist is sliding in the licks at opportune moments; and the crowd is right there with it. The breakdown at the end is absolutely mesmerizing.

It Was a Sunday

When I shimmy through the memories of my life, there are some damn good ones (and this is just here now):

• Five years old, I use to play squirels with a fellow class mate at my Mom's preschool, Born Learners. We would hatch escape plans. His arms had more hair on them, probably still do, which allowed for a greater holding of sand, and hence more squirelness. I was always a bit remisced by the fact, that if caught, he definitely had the better disguise. Also, on Thursdays, I went to school with an attractive young teacher at my preschool. Her name was Nikki, and one time we listened to Paula Abdul's song, "Opposites Attract", and at 5, I was pretty sure that song was about her and I.
• 10 years old, I went to the La Brea Tar Pits; I ran to the entrance, tripped on a rock, skinned my knee through my pants, and spent the whole day bloody and excited--I still have a saber tooth from that trip.
• The middle years, my mom enrolled me in musicals and plays. It was awesome--despite having a flat voice. My mom let me dress up in all of her green clothing, because I was playing the wizard in the wizard of OZ--or maybe I was the mayor, or maybe it was a different play--either way, I was decked out in green.
  
• 14 years old, I was fucking phenomenal at flag football--catching passes was like this locked in moment of perfection.
• Most of my childhood, I would play catch with my dad in the park--I mean, like straight up Leave it to Beaver, 50's style nostalgia--catch in the park. One year, I lead the league in home runs. I wasn't that good, just fast for my age.
  
• 16 years old, I used to park on Buffalo Ave, across from school. Only teachers were allowed to park there. Gloria and I would meet in the mornings and talk there. She got in trouble, and I did not. Her car was bigger. I had my Dad's black Mazda MX-6--in its later years, the driver's side door did not open, it had a busted rear side window, and a slipping transmission--it died two days before I went to College.
• 18 years old, I moved into a dorm room and made a great friend. 7 years later, I officiated his wedding to a lovely lady named Claire.
• 22 years old, I worked at NBC with my father. I bought a 1968 bus and I had long hair--both my parents loved it!
• 23 years old, I became a teacher. My mom has taught her whole life. Teaching is a calling and a skill, and teachers, the real one's, are great people. I met some real one's in my teaching program: Annie, George, Tom, and David Hicks--genuine people, with genuine skill and heart.
• 26 years old, I drove to Mexico in a truck that I love. I went with a friend, and we covered roads and valley's and ideas. Two dogs sniffed the wind, and I realized, that, "Yes, life is about choice."

And now it is Sunday. I have started cleaning my house. I haven't done it in so long. I had told myself, that I was moving, and that I would wait until I moved out, but that pursuit has slipped away from the immediate and become more of an eventual step.

Saturday, was a day spent in smokey guitar playing, napping, eating, and napping. It was a day of absolutely nothing--though I did go for a walk and buy some produce. I had not eaten any fruit for a week--I ate 7 apple bananas and two oranges--I also ate an avocado if that works for you. It was magical. I slept hard.

I awoke at 8 and began" I started with a little stove cleaning, and then dropped the close into a soapy bucket (they are still there, and will be attacked post blog), I swept up a sweater's worth of fur, dust, trash, and stuffing--my dogs have effectively disemboweled a giant bean bag. I have lit some incense, and I have talked to my dad. I think my mom is at church. I am probably going to call Gloria and sing a song on her answering machine. Shaun comes at the end of March. I go to Santa Cruz by way of LA, in May--Andy is picking me up at SJC. I talked to Shimmy yesterday; Ah wait, that was yesterday...

I had a shimmy through my memories of Santa Cruz, and I felt tangible longing for what was. I listened to an evening of poetry which Shimmy organized. He read poetry, and I mutilated the microphone with musings and short writings. In any event, I heard laughs, and I knew who they were: I heard Jen Cohen's gasp for air; Judith's belly laugh; Annie's laugh and crack; Molly's car exhaust sputtering; Lindsay's smoker cackle; Dustin's knee stomping; Devin's repetition of absurd lines; and Shimmy's encouragement. It was a group of people and time which pushed me towards a direction, to which now, in DF, I feel like I am finding my way back to. Part of me thinks, if I say it enough, it will be the collective agreement amongst the people that I meet, that indeed ART is what I must do. So all these musings, and reminders, and conversations are the mortar of the blocks of art I am building as my home--that is a horrible analogy, but I sort of know what I mean.

Regardless, last night was nostalgic, and I laughed at myself and my memories. Note: Be where you are NOW, and share who you are NOW!

Note: Mexicans like to tinker with their cars in absurd ways: neon lights, goofy horns, rims, body kits, spoilers, lifts, lowers, and so on. They put a lot of shit on their cars, which truly serve no purpose. Here is an example: On the back of a water truck, I spotted these: Skulls with swastikas on their foreheads--these were his brake lights and rear turn signals. Now, I strongly doubt that the brownskinned Naco driving the car, has Nazi inclinations--but somewhere, at some point, he decided that his truck needed these. Here here Mexico--here here.

30 to 40: See You There

From the 30's to 40's I explode with lasting creativity. 30 is the new 20. I'm in my 20's. I'm still studying. This is about studying.

Today was a rainy one. I had plans, and with each drop they faded into oblivion. Today consisted of cereal, coffee, TED Talks, and guitar practice. It was a good one, though as the light is fading away, I am wondering where it went--the day that is. So it goes. Its a Mexican holiday. It was the best Monday in quite sometime.

My Internet is extremely slow, and I find myself welling over with anger at its lack of speed. What a hasty little yuppie I have become.

Is Mac really better than a PC, or is just the marketing--I wonder? Somehow, I am pretty sure I am just a pawn like the rest. I am slowly accepting the fact, that the individualistic nature of American society, is simply marketing. In truth, they want us to be sweet little lambs, and for the most part, I do believe we are--bah bah black sheep.

If you are not privy to Bon Iver and his album For Emma, please privy yourself. With the rainy weather, he has crept back into my rotation.

Addendum to my first statement: Aside from exploding with creativity, the 30's and 40's see me in perfect physical shape and balance--hazzah!

Well, there is not "a black crow sitting across from me" ("re: Stacks"--have you listened to his album yet?), but there is a stack of papers--three weeks worth to be exact, and that is a "crispy realization" (go! go now and listen!).

Blessings

The Excitement of Honesty

So this was me, about an hour ago. I was a nervous wreck. This week has been an up and down sort of thing. I have been looking for housing, and hitting road blocks, I have been having good and bad classes, and on and on. I have felt sort of like a chicken with its head cut off, and no real means of getting a grasp on all that is spinning around me.

Well today, started with a good omen. I walked into the main office, signed in, and checked my mailbox--ahoy, there was a package. My glasses, which I ordered a month ago, finally arrived. This was a great way to start the day. I bought two pairs, and the new pair, a model I have no previously owned, fits immaculately. I slid them on, and felt the cool comfort of control.

Finished my first period, with walking around the student project fair--it was great to see all of the creativity.

I came back, and I decided the time was now: I was going to tell my principal that I was not coming back next year. I skyped my mom, talked to a few other teachers, and I was ready to go. Well actually, I stumbled across this link on Ted Talks, and pretty much, I took it as a sign from the all knowing universe:

Stefan Safmeister: The Power of Time Off (I will be making a plan for the next year of progress)

I rehearsed in the bathroom, and talked in the hallways, and finally I ran in to her office. My voice trembled something awful, but I slowed myself down. I explained how nervous I was, but that I would not be acting in integrity, if I did not tell her that I was not coming back, before she went to the international job fair. I told her that my mom was a director of a school as well, and that she had reiterated the woes of late announcements of departure. I was NERVOUS! I told her that at 26, I feel this calling to pursue my art, and to make it my focus. I told her that moving here has made me realize that the time is now. She told me an anecdote about her friend, and her similar drive to become a teacher. I told her amen. She said that we needed to hug. We hugged. I skipped down the hallway, and this is me now:





Praise the power of taking conrtol of the things I have control over--praise to proactive choices to become a better citizen. PRAISE LIFE!

Two Weeks is Mama's Advice

Today my hair is a little bit longer, a little bit dirtier, and a whole closer to where I need to be. Yesterday was like a weird little eddy of emotion; I was spinning around in the current of negativity. There was no direction, and everything felt so far away. School was a blur of disappointment and aggravation. I left my house for Condesa at 3:55pm, and I didn't exit my car until ten after five---I made it to Condesa in 15 minutes--parking was a meditation in my lamentation.

I was heavily focussed on the negativity, on what I did not have: I did not get the dream apartment, I did not find a parking space, I did not have a good day at work, and so on. I did have two cool dogs, and good conversation with a friend over tacos.

My mom gave me the simple advice, that in two weeks it will all change. And in the grand schemes, that is humbling. Two weeks to get over my pity party--I think I can deal. I can't find an apartment I like, its not as if I am dealing with the atrosties of a natural disaster...I need to humble my little party for one at Cafe Pity.

Today was good. Today is better. I think I am on a path to where I need to be. I am going to decide whether or not to take an apartment, that is super close to the park, but not super big, but has a patio, but not as cool as the other one I saw, which is still cool, and sort of funky, and would be easy to clean, and and and...Sometimes it boils down to just making choices.

And so it goes.

No it is time for department meetings.

Midday Realization: Three Classes in a Row and a Realization

My friend Shimmy once told me, "I'm fucking tired of dealing with incompetence". I agree. When the little pre-madonna, gucci high heal wearing, longostas--lobster is an affectionate term for promiscuous young women--when they continue to talk in that ditsy rollercoaster inflection, they call speech; when they do this, I think of Shimmy's words, but I ad, "I'm tired of dealing with incompetence, and having to maintain my composure." The same goes for these little Abercrombie studded young bucks, who look like the thick inbred phallice of the industrialized world--their bravado and cavalier nature...well it makes me long for the understanding of what a hard right hand feels like while crossing the stagnate surface of a cheekbone.

But alast, I wear this ID. This ID is me smiling at my financial security. This ID is a day when I wore a tie, and my hair still had bounce to it. This ID is why I am scared to make a meeting with my principal and tell her that I am not coming back. I feel a slight limbo right now. I feel like I am waiting for this change, and I fear it. I know I want next year to be about art. I fear I will fail at my conviction, and I will just struggle to pay bills. I know that ending my job before contract will be a symbolic commitment to this change. I know that I need to take this risk, to know that I am living my life, instead of just feeding a secure future.

I have been a full time student and a full time teacher, and ALWAYS a part time artist--I know that this ID needs to be retired to a part of my history.

To the Journey At Hand.

Wasting Time

Its the end of the day, again. Well, it is the end of the work day. I have about 20 minutes until that little bell rings and rings. Tomorrow, will be new classes--new classes which need plans. I know I should use this time, to lay it all right. I know that I should work now, but I won't, I will not, and I refuse. Instead I talk to the various names in my chatbox--we get all chatterbox with each other, about this and that. Their news reminds me that this world, is somehow moving on, and somehow, there comes a time to harness your direction.

Remember that painting that I did in the dark? It was fun, and it seemed like a direction was found in the curious night. I am excited about all the good that lies ahead. I like the present too. I met a new friend in the park, Marta Italia--a 30 something psychologist from Italy, by way of Brazil. And so it goes, new peeps and new conversation.

I been trying to write some music in my spare time. A lot of starts and stops, but it goes. My fingers are turning gray with practice.

I fell in love with a French girl who plays covers on ukulele. She goes by the name of Scampi. I am more in love with her musical taste. I am more in love with my dreams.

Currently, I am listening to The Kooks performing in the back of a London bound Cab. There is a program called the Black Cab Sessions. It has eaten up a lot of my time lately.

Here are my Faves:

Lykke Li
The Kooks
Fleet Foxes
Seasick Steve

I love it. A simple and beautiful idea. I think life should be simple and beautiful--the complicated shit is too much talk---me cago en la leche (literally translated, I shit in the milk, figuratively, not sure how I am suppossed to use that. I will get back to you.)

A kid asked me if this is the longest my hair has ever been...I said I wasn't sure, but I think it is going to get a lot longer. I am going for some ankle flaps.

Well I have effectively wasted the rest of my lesson planning time. Godspeed.

Living in the Dark

Electrical work in Mexico looks like shoots and ladders for the epileptic. Wires extend from all cracks and crevices. Wires mate with other wires in a series of bootlegged bandages and Where's-Waldo-type love. Street lights are borrowed from with crow bars and electrical tape; Neighbors are siphoned from with a secrete twist of two haggardly cut electrical currents; there is an end to the world, but it won't be found in the resourceful half-assedness of Mexicans.

The wires that reside near my circuit breaker have been molested countless times, and are some sort of inbred genetic freakshow. That being said, it smelled like a fried short when I walked through the front door. Luckily, my crockpot was still crocking, and my newly compiled sausage, onion, and tomato stew, was simmering away. I poured a bowl, grabbed a piece of bread, and headed for my living room. When I flicked on the lights, I watched the lamp, which was already on, flicker and then die. The whole house died. I grabbed my headlight, and since my wireless is borrowed from a neighbor, well, I still had service.

I promised a student I would paint her a picture of her and her friend, for her friend's birthday. I tried a watercolor about a month ago, but it didn't really pan out. Her friend's birthday is tomorrow. With a headlamp in hand, and several old candles, I crawled back to my ramshackle art studio. I set it all up under the small frame light emanating from my forehead. I slipped on my crusty smock, and I hunkered down. I made a playlist with 70% battery life left on my Mac. I hunkered down. In the dark, I had no need to be precise. My recklessness with the brush and eventually the pallet knife, had me worried: was this going to be another mediocre attempt at art? I promised a painting for a present, and I don't have much time for excuses.

I painted in the dark, and when I turned my headlamp off, I could see nothing of my work. I snapped a picture with a little flash, and loaded it up. I have 5% battery now.

I am out and gone. Until we meet again.

This post was for Peter Kline.

Oaxaca: A Hodge-podge of Facts and Fantasy (No Order)

Here is a back log of notes. Events and thoughts from the Christmas break:

Mexico City:

• Mauricio's Party and the confirmation of "Jace" and "Scanderay". A mantra for the road that lie ahead.
• A few afternoons at Parque Mexico.
• The introduction of Michelada Cubanas and Don Keso.
• Outdoor Japanese BBQ at Mikasa

Oaxaca City to San Jose Del Pacifico - 12/25/09 - Christmas Day

The road from Oaxaca City west can be described as nothing short of scorched. Dry barren dessert flanked us on all sides. The desolate landscape finally gave way to lightly tree peppered hills. After several hours and a federal check point, we reached the forested mountains. Once again, around any corner, the landscape of Oaxaca changes--microclimates, so they say.

We twisted our way up and west. The hillsides dotted with small chimney adorned adobes. Some were made of red clay, and others lightly stained and sealed timber splits--all were beautiful. We finally rounded the corner and arrived at our Cabanas.

Based on the internet representation of the town, one would think they were the only cabanas in town, however it was just clever marketing. They had grabbed a hold of the domain name sanjosedelpacifico.com. Turns out there were cheaper stays in town, about 1km further up the road, but how were we to know. We unloaded and settled in.

NOTE: The time of the Jeep Wagoneer must have made a big impression in these parts. Relics of those iconoclastic behemoths litter the street in various states of functionality. It made me nostalgic for 70's flannel.

We took the dogs and walked into town. Everything here, and I mean EVERYTHING, is centered around ongos (mushrooms). Every restaurant and tienda is adorned with wood carved ongos, ongos light fixtures, ongos silverware, ongos paintings, and so on. The legend here is that some witch from the north named Maria Savina, rolled into town and made a worldwide phenomenon of the local mushroom crop, which is quite abundant in the rainy season. Apparently she was the shaman for such notables as Jim Morrison and The Beatles. Regardless of her star studded escapades, she made quite an impression on this little mountain town. The local indigenous ladies all knit mushroom beanies and other small items. They sell them on the side of the road, and they look like they are tripping to me.

We had lunch at a comedor which overlooked the entire valley. This lady had one of those Hollywood Hills million dollar views. We were her only customers. She let the dogs come inside, and they promptly passed out on the ice cold concrete floor. As we waited for our mole, we stared out at the endless blue which draped over the endless expanse of the Oaxacan Sierras.

As we walked back to our cabana, I began to conspire on all that I saw; everyone was on hallucinogens, and I knew it. The old lady in the shallow grass had a crooked smile, and she seemed to be drooling. The three little boys on the curb had pupils like agate stones. The three gringos with mushroom beanies seemed to be floating through, and gafas shaded their obviously dilated pupils. We met a Colombian--he said he had come here to climb the trees, but he only found pines, and there lack of low lying branches, and their abundance of sap, made them impossibly sticky and not much fun--he was knee deep in a psychadelic trance.

At dinner time we crept back into town. We made our way into the one open restaurant. There we met Alan and Kiara, two Tijuana natives on holiday. They were just passing through for the night. They were mushroom hunting. We sipped some mescal and Alan made good on the wearabouts of the town's crowned jewel. The waiter told him to walk to the speedbump and turn left into the small house.

We all went, dogs en tow. Alan approached a wide-eyed old man and enquired about the ongos. The old man said he had some preserved ongos in honey--we were not in the right season. He produced a sick black jar of honey soaked mushrooms. His eight year old grand daughter was there to transfer the the contents of the jar for him.

It was Christmas Eve, and we were witnessing the purchase of mushrooms in a hillside shanty. After the procurement we spent the rest of the evening on the sidewalk drinking beer and clear grain alcohol from Chiapas called Posch. I snacked on chapulines, and we rambled into the night. It was an odd magical blend of lack of tradition and new moments. I told the Tiajuana Travelers that we were heading to the coast, and if they needed a ride we had plenty of space--they respectfully accepted.

Merry Christmas from the middle of nowhere.

We arrived to Mazunte on Christmas Day. The road was windy and long. The air was thick with humidity. When we finally got out of the car, I let the dogs go without much thought. I did not notice the free range chickens. Flow and Chops went right into the hunt. Flow was wrangled, and I chased after Chops who blew into the back enterance of a beach side restaurant. I went in after him. He snapped and nearly beheaded the chicken. The woman chef swung her broom at us both. I lunged but Chops dodged my grasp. He shot through the beach side seating and burst onto the epic expanse of the beach. I came flying out after him. It was like a movie--a crazy chase scene and then the odd exposure of a natural beauty. I stood on the beach in jeans and a button down shirt--it was a hell of an entrance. Chops played keep away for awhile, but finally we got back.

Basically that was the grand entrance and the rest of the week went like this:

Wake up early and hit the beach. The dogs would shit and play. Jamie and I would sort of tan and read books. We would then hit up a breakfast joint. We would return to the sun for more reading and tanning. Then at 2 we would return to our room, shower, and siesta. At 5 or so we would go check the sunset, and then hit up some grub--fish was damn good and damn cheap, I ate it every night! We would drink a few drinks and then rinse, wash, and repeat. WE DID THIS FOR DAYS. During this time we met some great peeps, had some great conversations, wrote a song about our travels, and burned the shit out of ourselves. Only now, on January 18th, am I beginning to peel--I blame the altitude

I wanted to leave the beach early, but was obligated to meet a friend--I learned that I will never again commit to setting a time frame on my travels. Lesson learned. In the end, staying through new years, was beautiful, and I am so happy that it worked out that way.

The drive back to DF was all about getting back. The drive was long, and not the same without Jamie, but it went along. I camped on a beach one night and arose for the sunshine the following day.

I have never been so happy to return to my little home.

It was a magical trip, one that deserves far more detail than this simple synopsis, but so it goes. And here I go, away to eat a cookie and drink some milk.