Pico de Orizaba

Pico de Orizaba
Taken from Huatusco, Veracruz, the closest town to Margarita's family's ranch.

Monday, December 30, 2013

Illusions; the fine membrane surrounding us...

Illusions, like punching yourself out of a paper bag... escape seemingly so easy... close your eyes momentarily... free and resting... open your eyes to the new world, lighter, clearer, cleaner and you notice you're still in that paper bag you punched yourself out of...

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Sexism, Alcoholism, Negligence, and the premature death of Angelina

Angelina Cruz de Robles during her 81st
birthday August 2, 2011
7pm, Monday December 9th, Margarita was informed that her Grandmother (Angelina) died that morning. We quickly packed our suitcases and began an 18 hour journey travelling on 3 different buses to get to her family's ranch on the other side of the country in the mountains of Veracruz. The funeral and the funeral/community rituals ended on Friday the 20th. We began the trip back yesterday Saturday December 21st at noon and are back home in Guadalajara at 8am Sunday...

My mother wrote, "Hope the family has many good memories to remember Margarita's grandmother by. But the end of life is always sad, so sorry."

They have many good memories of Angelina (a very strong woman). However, they also have a very sad memory: which is that the relatives responsible for taking care of her and her husband Oligario (Angelina was blind the 11 years I knew her, and still cooked for Oligario and invited people to eat in her kitchen until she no longer could perform those duties) didn't give her food or water the last few weeks of her life... You've gotta understand that two of her sons, two of her daughter's-in-law and their 15 children (some with children of their own) lived within 100 feet of Angelina's house. My brother-in-law Willy's wife Indez mentioned one day visiting Angelina that Angelina said to her, "Please stay with me. These people don't give me water"... 

Someone said that, the week or so before Angelina died, upon helping her change her house dress, they noticed abrasions on her back and a bump on her head. One of the daughters-in-law said that she had fallen from the bed. Another mentioned that on another occasion, Oligario was found grabbing her hands or arms forcefully and yelling in her face... bringing up the question if Oligario had the tendency towards violence... bringing up the topic of violence in the ranch... bringing up the topic of extreme alcoholism in the ranch and those consequences... My mother-in-law, Angelina's only daughter, and the only child of Oligario and Angelina who was truly responsible towards her parents (but for the past 3 years the care taking of
Angelina with her Husband Oligario
and her daughter Paz

Oligario and Angelina has been divided between Paz, her 4 brothers and her four sisters-in-law [one week one person, one week another person living with Oligario and Angelina]) also mentioned that her husband, my father-in-law Roberto was violent with her (Paz). 

Alcoholism, extreme Male Chauvanism (also taught by the mother's to the sons and daughters, also taught by Paz to her children [preference is always towards the male children], and the extreme unwillingness to reason, limiting the ability towards creating progress in a community extremely controlled by classism and no-regulation of prices), was the constant topic of discussion the past 12 days... Topic of discussion with whom was found talking with me...

My mother exclaimed, "How very sad that a person's life can end in such an unloved way!"



But she was loved... I believe she was greatly loved... (at least by my wife (her grand daughter Margarita) and greatly respected... However, when the mind is tired or strangely undeveloped or undernourished or overstressed or also malnourished, or subjected to alcoholic demention, or alcoholic depression (speaking of the children or the wives of the alcoholics) and they try doing things in a democratic fashion... or in a just way (meaning that Paz and Roberto can't be the only ones looking after Paz's parents, especially if there are 2 families [one of them very large] living next door, while Roberto and Paz live a few miles away...) a great risk is created that someone will overlook an important detail or not consider an important point: that not everyone is responsible or caring or considerate or sympathetic or diligente and another person will be negatively affected:  Angelina died of malnutrition and everyone must live with that truth.  



Wednesday, December 11th, I found myself the driver of the "hearse" since the blood relatives can't move the body of the deceased... I was the head of the funeral procession from the church to the cemetary with the community walking behind the pick-up truck I was driving... Needless to say, I wasn't exactly thrilled with the responsibility... After the funeral, eveyone returns to the house of the deceased and the men generally dive into their drinking.... Wednesday, December 11th was that one day of 365 where I found I could drink alcohol with those who invited me... I found myself drinking Mezcal with Margarita's uncles and some of her brothers. Late in the afternoon, one of Margarita's uncles (Aquiles "Chayo") invited me to take a drive in his car (I thought he needed something from the store and we would return rapidly). One of Margarita's other uncles (Lourdes "El Negro" [blackie]) who had been in the circle of drinkers and who was in the middle of a deep conversation with me in the midst of his tears wanted to go with us, but "Chayo" said, "You no. Get out of the car. You, Ross, sit in the front. Lets find a fresher space"... And he took me to drink in 3 different places, the last one with a group of his drinking buddies, who had also been drinking earlier at Angelina's house... The first two occasions I refused, since I had been refusing beer the whole day. The third occasion I refused, but Chayo insisted and sent one of his buddies for a bottle of Mezcal... Every few minutes Chayo would say to me, "don't worry. We're free"; meaning that we didn't have to answer to anyone (the wives)... until someone (I believe it was my brother-in-law José Francisco) became concerned about my disappearance and went on an unfruitful search for us... But finally, one of Chayo's sons found us and said that the family was looking for me... During that last drinking "session" one of Chayo's drinking partners (also his cousin) "Wicho" mentioned that he knew he shouldn't be drinking since it harms his abdomin, but it is his conscious decision to ignore the health consequences. Of the Morales Robles Cruz family, Wicho is the largest land owner and main coffee producer. His father was one of Angelina's brothers and who inherited the majority of the land holding's of Angelina's father... Angelina inhereted land. But, being female, it was very little... 70 years ago, Angelina's marriage to Oligario was considered "marrying down"... and was frought with all the socio-political consequences of marrying an "undesirable"... I'm writing with a very tired head and a headache... 

It is impossible for me to ignore the question of how different would have been the trajectory of Angelina's life and that of her children and then grandchildren and great grandchildren if her parents believed that she deserved the same inheritance consideration as that of her brother who inherited almost all of her parents' land.  

20+ years later, Paz would repeat the same experience of her father Oligario, since my father-in-law's marriage to Paz was considered marrying down.  Roberto became orphaned as a boy and had been taken care of by one of his aunts who never married.  At the time Roberto decided to marry Paz (16-years old and 17 years younger than my father-in-law) his aunt was considered a major landowner in the ranch.  With her death, Roberto would inherit all of her land.  However, when she learned that Roberto planned marriage with Paz, she sold the land and moved to the city of Cordoba...  Probably knowing how the Morales-Gonzalez family viewed the Robles-Cruz family, Roberto's future father-in-law refused to participate in his daughter Paz's wedding.  Had Roberto's aunt not "disowned" him, Margarita and her brothers would have grown up much different than was their actual experience.
There is a phrase, supposedly dating back to the "American" Revolution but revived frequently after World War II: "A Man's work is from Dawn to Dusk; but a woman's work is never done"... Some people change the word woman to that of Mother... 

 Margarita's family claims that Oligario began drinking after the death of two of his children (two died one after the other; 4 died in all)... In order to find "decent" paying work, Oligario would take the family with him to "the city" of Cordoba, Veracruz. While there working for a British or American man, one of the daughters became ill. Supposedly she became ill after seeing the branding of horses and hearing their whinying... she would have nightmares of those horses whining for days afterwards. One day she started asking to be taken back home. I believe Oligario ignored her cries to return to the ranch. I'm sure he had no idea that she was as ill as she was... and she died. Oligario has always been an incredible worker. And, at the age of 86, if no one is observing, he will just up and go... and walk for miles and miles. The concern is that he will get lost in the canyons or woods or fall... He is now diagnosed with Alzheimers... (I don't like that diagnosis because of his age; Alzheimers is Pre-senile dementia. So, I ask, at what age does one qualify for non-pre-senile dementia?)



Angelina had 9 children. And she also suffered the death of those 2 boys and 2 girls. And then she suffered the horrible alcoholism of the 4 remaining sons and that of her husband Oligario. In the words of Margarita, "How many Friday or Saturday nights would Angelina be seen standing infront of the house till the wee hours of the morning waiting for the drunken return of Oligario and her sons? and she always had food waiting for them." But, back to the abrasions on Angelina's back and the bump on her head leading to my question to Paz if Oligario had a violent tendency: Angelina would wait outside the house until the wee hours of the morning and her husband would return... and he would pull out the pistol he carried or guarded in the house, point it at her or shoot at the ceiling or shoot one of her prized geese or ducks or turkey... And I asked Paz if Oligario was physically violent with Angelina. And Paz said, "just in words, in yelling..." And she quickly slid into the commentary that her husband/my father-in-law Roberto was physically violent with her (Paz)... And Margarita wonders why her mother suddenly slid into that commentary when the three of us were driving to the nearest "city" of Huatusco for buying of groceries and flowers, plates and spoons for the ceremony that ends the 9 days of praying the following day.


Is there a quote about daughter's seeking men similar to their fathers or their brothers...?


This is part of my memorial to Angelina. I visited her house the 9 days of prayer ceremonies... But I didn't pray. Pray for Angelina's soul? Absolutely not. It doesn't need my prayers... She doesn't need anyone's help. She's fine. Who needs those prayer's? The community needs those prayers... But, it doesn't matter how much one prays. Nothing will truly change... I'm not a pessimist. I'm a realist. I have my eyes wide open and have seen and heard plenty during the 11 years I've been visiting the ranch with Margarita, sometimes we stay with her parents for up to 3 months.


Angelina... such a witty woman until the last few months of her life... never had a problem with my accent or the way I spoke Spanish and often explained to others, much younger and better educated than she, what I had just said, since many Mexicans hang onto my accent and don't allow themselves to hear my words... How can a person trapped in so many types of darkness be so witty? How can that person be so appreciative of the presence of others who later on would starve her to death?


But, let's continue with my mother's comment that she must have been a hard worker and my response that begins with "...a woman's work is never done..." 


 The men sat outside drinking and saying stupid things and the women were in the kitchen preparing the giant vats of coffee or hot fruit punch (Pinapple and Apples with raw sugar cane and/or mollases) or hot chocolate... organizing the flowers, cleaning the floors... etc...


No, that is not my true continuation... Angelina's son Aquiles (Chayo) could be the president of Mexico or the Governor of Veracruz or the Mayor of the municipality of Sochiapa. He is tall, light-skinned, stands straight as a board, demands everyone's attention and is openly egoistic. He has been heard saying, "Soy el más chingon", which means, "I'm the best of the best, the strongest here..." When he achieved parenthood of his 12th child, he said to his brother-in-law Roberto (my father-in-law) "I reached your mark..." (But he didn't surpass it).


What do you do with 12 children when you have them? What did my maternal great grandparents do with theirs? I don't know, since my mother's mother (#12 of 12) died 10 years before I was born... But, maybe my mother has an idea... But this isn't about Russia or New York City or my "American" life.


Maybe I should ask, "why would you have 12 children?" What causes you to have 12 children? But, does anyone truly think who is it who had those 12 children? My mother-in-law Paz had 13 children, but one of them died not long after birth...


Chayo's children grew up very skinny. His sons are tall or semi-tall but too skinny... Why?


Margarita says, "If it weren't for Angelina..."


Chayo's wife didn't cook. Why not? Why did Angelina's grandchildren come to her house to eat? Because she always had food ready for the appearance of anyone... But, she didn't say anything to her son Chayo about his alcoholism and about his not feeding his 12 children.


Margarita and her brothers remember that Angelina ALWAYS had something for their stomachs; they could always count on her.


When Margarita and I were watching over Oligario one of these past days and I was painting the house, since it hadn't been painted in 35 years, a 95-year-old woman (Lydia) visited and sat with Margarita who gave her coffee and a plate of food. Lydia had passed the house earlier walking as would a healthy and energetic 20-year-old woman on her way to visit someone and returned... actually, she walked as Margarita and I would walk briskly for exercise in the Metropolitan Park here in Guadalajara. What a woman with her face covered with wrinkles, much like famous photos of elderly Native Americans. While painting, I listened to her conversation about her "comadre" (Comadre is the equivalent of Godmother of the other's child)... Lydia was with Angelina 20 minutes before Angelina died. The last words Lydia heard from Angelina were, Co-madre, forgive me if I have offended you or disrespected you for any reason over the years..." Lydia was walking back to her house when my brother-in-law Gabriel ran to her to inform her that his grandmother had just passed away. Lydia returned to the house to bathe Angelina's body, clothe her correctly and showed Gabriel how to change the crooked expression on Angelina's face by slowly pouring water into her mouth and how to close her eyes by pulling on one of her toes ...


"Whenever I passed my comadre Angelina's house, my comadre would say, 'come in comadre and have a cup of coffee' and she would always offer me something to eat... my COMADRE no longer is here! OH COMADRE!" and the poor elderly woman of incredible strength and beauty cried in lamentation...


What can you do? Change the world? Who changes the world? Do you think that when I write or when I speak I believe I am changing the world or that I can or will change the world?


One could say, thank god Oligario didn't shoot Angelina or that he wasn't physically violent with her... And I wonder if she truly fell from her bed or that Oligario truly grabbed her hands violently and yelled in her face... Those days I talked to various people about the concern in the United States about Elderly Abuse and I always wondered "Who in god's name would abuse elderlies!!!???" But, if there is the concern, there must be the documentation... I imagine if I were writing a scene for "Law and Order", the police would have visited Angelina's house and investigated her death as a crime... But, even if the daughter and grandchildren of Angelina know that she died of negligence, none of them would wish for an investigation... Would I? I don't believe you would appreciate one of my responses: "It is just par for the course"... Margarita would also say that Angelina taught her daughter and her daughter's-in-law to be submissive towards their drunken, negligent and possibly violent husbands... The best thing Angelina said to her daughters-in-law and possibly to her daughter Paz was, "Before your husband leaves the house, do something for them that would decrease the possibility of them being with other women..." The commentary has much more weight in Spanish than in English... something to the tone, "If you want to prevent your husbands becoming hot with other women..." But, she never told her daughter or daughters-in-law how to prevent their husbands from spending all their money in rounds of liquor with their "compadres" that caused the children to grow up malnourished and even deformed in some form or another... The men are kings and the male children are princes... the women are breeders, cinderellas (never to be saved by their prince in shining armour) and, although their brains aren't destroyed by alcohol, as are those of the men, the men claim that only the men have intelligence...


You may ask, "what do you mean, brains destroyed by alcohol?"


If you do any research into the effects of alcohol on the body you will find that of all socially or culturally acceptable that we ingest, alcohol is what causes the most destruction within the body; more than sugars/carbohydrates, cholesterol from animals, trans fats, preservatives and colorants, sodium... Here is the list of how alcohol damages the body from greatest risk to lesser risk:


1: Nervous System-dementia-"craziness"--nervio-muscular disorders


2: Diabetes


3: Cirosis of the Liver


4: Heart Disease...


It's interesting that it is more probable that the alcoholic will die of Diabetes-related disorders before dying from liver disfuntion. The sad thing is that the community will blame his death on diabetes as an inevitable hereditary disorder and not know that what killed him was his alcoholic habit...


Paz is diabetic. Angelina and Oligario aren't diabetic, nor are any of Paz's brothers or uncles... Oligario didn't drink as a father with young children. Word has it that it was his sons who brought him into their drinking circles later on... So, you can remove the hereditary question from the issue... Granted, if everyone drinks to excess and the drinkers insist that the newcomers drink every time their bottle or glass is empty and no one has the courage or strength to say, "no, I don't want to drink..." In Mexico, all politics and male friendships revolve around beer, tequila or aguardiente (Rum/Whisky)... if you are a male and you don't drink you find yourself without friends or political/business partners... Is it hereditary or is it cultural?


The day of the funeral I decided to drink and my body allowed me to and then I said, no, although I still received the glass of mezcal, finally to leave it on the table untouched. I remember Chayo saying to me, "there is nothing more offensive or irresponsible than leaving a beer or a glass of liquor unfinished..." He didn't say that to me because I had just left my mezcal untouched. His commentary occured much earlier in the day. And it was clearly a warning to all listening or it was just a warning to me as a newcomer... So, when do you stop drinking? When the leader stops drinking or when you are falling on the ground. This isn't hereditary. This is socio-political. For some reason I never felt drunk and never lost control physically or mentally. The drinking that day didn't affect my sleep and I awakened the following day as if I hadn't drunk the day before. I received aguardiente or mezcal various veces the following 9 days. Took a sip and left the glass where I had been standing... I was always cordial with "Chayo" and his brothers "Fego", "El Negro" and Gregorio "Gollo", but never found myself drinking with them again. Saturday, the day of returning the cross to the grave, I stayed "home" finishing Milan Kundera's "La Despedida" (The Fairwell Party). I was under the impression that it was a brief ritual and that Margarita would return a couple of hours later, hopefully giving me enough time to finish the book, shower and leave for Mexico City or Guadalajara. It was the only day of the 12 days at the ranch that I didn't go to Angelina's house. Margarita returned 7 hours later. All the men, including her father, became horribly drunk. Margarita stayed to help her mother and her aunts with all the work and the clean-up.


The night before they celebrated the end of the 9 days of praying when they kill a pig and invite the community to participate in the various ceremonies...Carnitas (Pork boiled in lard with herbs, orange juice and wine) and fried pork rinds, red rice, 400 tamales, lots of cookies, hot pineapple-apple punch, hot coffee. That night I entered into a conversation about the alcoholic tendency with Gloria, the wife of Margarita's uncle Lourdes "el Negro". Gloria commented that they only drink during fiestas... And since this is the holiday season. And then she asked me, "are you saying that Lourdes is alcoholic?" I responded that I couldn't know, since I don't spend much time with him... However, that night I had mentioned to "el Negro" that I couldn't eat the pork, since for some reason it makes me horribly sick... And he responded, "Of Course! You've gotta drink Aguardiente (sugar cane whisky that, with a different process becomes Carribean Rum) or your abdomin will become incredibly distended!" Anything to justify the drinking of alcohol...


The following day, they would get smashed again... Is it because of the holidays? Were they drowning their sorrows? The night before only the women cried. Were they crying because of the loss of Angelina? Were they crying because they caused the premature loss of Angelina? Or were they crying because they live an unescapable suffering and that the only escape is in death?


What can you do?


The only thing I can do is think and re-think and try to feel when maybe I'm not feeling, respect what is respectable and share my concerns with others... I write every-once-in-awhile. But, I've gotta manage a business to pay our lives that enables us to hop on a bus or in the truck and make journeys like this past one and help support the economy of my in-laws ranch (I've offered to pay for special schooling for Alin (Alejandro Jr 13-years-old); the first child of my oldest brother-in-law and the first grandchild of Paz and Roberto who scored #1 in state exams for rural/ranch/farmer children. However, the state and federal government that decided to test all Mexican children at a certain age for their intellectual levels and who published the findings and the names of the children in all of the newspapers and even invited them to Mexico City for special ceremonies, didn't offer to place these children in better school systems, meaning that these children will just squander in the same messes in which their parents and aunts and uncles squander.


In one of my conversations with Alin, I mentioned my concern that the Mexican government doesn't place children like Alin in better educational programs and he responded that he felt the same, which greatly surprised me... The following night, his father Alejandro visited me drunk, but strangely lucid because he wanted to talk to me about giving his uncle Gollo a chance to work with us... But, I can't offer work to an alcoholic, even if he is momentarilly dry. I didn't say that to Alejandro, since he wouldn't understand... Later on I asked him if he would have a problem with Alin leaving the ranch to study in a private school. Like Alin, Alejandro surprised me by saying that there was a school an hour or so away where the wealthy and powerful sent their children. A school created by a German educator and that there was the possibility of Alin being able to get a government grant... That this school led to study in good Universities and to study abroad... The only question is would they accept Alin and what is the cost... I told Alejandro to do the research and inform me if there was anything I could do. I looked at Margarita to see if she had a problem with the offer and she said she was in agreement... Alejandro surprised me a second time as the only Mexican male adult who said, "I don't want to see my sons grow up living the life I've live. I don't want them to work as brick masons, carpenters or as taxi drivers" (he's all the above, but the last 7 years drives a rural taxi that has led to horrible back problems)... and he looked at his three sons who were watching tv with Margarita and I at the time of Alejandro's arrival... What I had been hearing from various fathers or about various fathers was, "Isn't enough doing what I do and what your ancestors have always done? You think you're better, more intelligent than me?"


Maybe this is the only thing we can do... give someone else a chance to live better. And don't get me wrong. We're not wealthy. We are far from owning our own house or from having economic security. Infact, upon returning to Guadalajara, the Mexican equivalent of IRS sent Margarita a letter informing her that the "rules" were about to change, meaning that I will have some strange administrative headaches beginning in the near future.


Alin is the first great grandchild of Angelina, and Alejandro (Alin's father) who has always helped care for Angelina and Oligario, taking them to the doctors, bringing groceries or medicine to their house and encountering Oligario during one of his long walks away from home, offering him rides in the taxi etc, was the first of their grandchildren... Maybe this is what Angelina would want for her great grandchildren... and hopefully I can help Alin make better decisions than what the adult males of his family and community tend towards making. The last thing I said to Alin yesterday morning before leaving for Guadalajara was:


"I don't care if you become a wealthy businessman or the governor of Veracruz, what I wish for you is that you become truly intelligent." The comment has much more power in Spanish...

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Igualdad en la muerte; 11 años en Mexico; Masticando Jengibre

Cuando llegue a Mexico, cuando conocí a Margarita, a mis 11 cuñados, fui naif... creí estuvimos iguales... todos nosotros... todos los humanos... Pero, aprendí no importa que creo yo... que importa es que tiene en la mente la ajena... el projimo... sí somos iguales... cuando estamos 10,000 metros arriba la tierra en una avión que empieza desplomar... o cuando estamos en la playa un segundo antes venir el maremoto... Pero, entre el momento de nacer y el momento de morir, no somos iguales... no importa que queremos pensar... no somos iguales. Ojalá pudiera ser diferente nuestras realidad y nuestra existencia...


Quiere ella que todos pagan impuestos como ella, la gente trabajadora, la gente responsable... Yo quiero que los hijos de la gente tengan mejores oportunidades de estudiar en escuelas con profesores de mejor calidad, preparación y intención... y cuando dejan de estudiar, pueden encontrar trabajo que les pagan sueldos más justos y que no tienen que buscar trabajos informales con poca seguridad para el futuro y que tengan la confianza que ganan suficiente para pagar impuestos y que su gobierno (unos de los gobiernos más ricos del mundo) usa los impuestos para protegerles en contra de policias corruptas y extorcionistas y secuestradores o asaltantes quien pagan cuotas a la policia municipal, estatal o federal... Tal vez cree ella floja esta gente y que existe mucho trabajo para empresas grandes y que esta gente prefiera ser vendedores ambulantes o tiangistas quien quiere la vida gratis... ¿que pasaria si a ella ellos ofrecen el sueldo mínimo? Un día de trabajo para menos que gana en una hora un Mexicano trabajando "mojado" en Estados Unidos; el viaje en autobus de la ciudad entre casa y trabajo y regreso a casa puede consumir 50% del sueldo diario... No existe nada gratis y todos pagan en una forma u otra... Pero, un país, un gobierno que ama de verdad a su gente, haria programas para crecerla (los hijos) y no encerrarlas en trampas... 50% de la población Mexicana existe en pobreza extrema. 20% esta en riesgo... Entre #10 y #15 de los países más ricos del mundo de 196+/- países, existe en Mexico una de las situaciónes de disigualdad más extremos del mundo... No creo que es una question de flojera ni de que muchos Mexicanos no pagan impuestos... La gente de un país es un reflejo de sus gobiernos... Si preocupaba por ser responsables de verdad el gobierno Mexicano, haria programas verdaderamente responsables y creceria una población verdadera responsable. Si, tenemos que pagar el gobierno con impuestos. Pero, tiene la responsibilidad el gobierno devolver a sus ciudadanos seguridad para el futuro.


Estoy enfermando... en la boca tengo jengibre... Para dormir anoche puse en la boca jengibre y semillas de cardamomo... En "Anuncio de un Secuestro" de Gabriel Garcia Marquez, aprendí que puedes usar como tranquilizante el cardamomo.


¿quien eres? por qué dice que eres mi amigo? cuando escribo en inglés no me contestas... mejor escribir en español... pero, hace muchos años deje escribir en Español porque nunca me contestaste... entonces, ¿que madres? ¿por qué preguntarte "quien eres?"... Imagino no importa... puede caer el cielo y aplastarnos en esta momento y no importa quien eres, ni si me contestaste en Español o en Inglés. El problema es que estamos vivos en esto minuto... Tal vez esperando vivir mejor. Tal vez esperando morirnos pronto... ¿quien sabe?


Busca la matriz de la madre el alma y nace el bebe... tal vez busca una situación el alma para formarse en el cuerpo humano para esta vida... Tal vez podemos vivir mejor. Tal vez no. Tal vez tenemos que sufrir y no importa que hacemos o pensamos o queremos... Nuestro regidor es el alma y vivimos la vida que escogimos... hace mucho tiempo... antes tener conciencia... Pero, tal vez siempre hemos sido sabios concientes... Pero, tal vez necesitamos andar como ciegos sufriendo parecido no necesario para aprender la lección que escogimos... Tengo que escribir, aunque no lo leerás que tengo que escribir. Pero, tal vez no tiene nada que ver contigo ni con nadie. De verdad, ¿crees que escribe para la gente Gabriel Garcia Marquez o Isabel Allende o José Saramago? Y cuando se murió o cuando se mueren... que pasa? ¿Cambiaron el mundo? Y cuando un gobierno le hace extremadamente difícil para la gente comprar libros y tener acceso a sus lecturas... y darlos niños una educación que les inspira leer... Para nosotros los lectores, que buena experiencia son los libros. Pero, si nadie te dijo, "debes leer ésto"? Y por qué leímos?

No, no somos iguales... tú no quieres pensar... no quieres conversar... eres unicamente una persona material con la ilusión que eres profunda en una forma o otra... Pero, de verdad, piensas?


Vivo mi vida en español... 11 años... Mi pensar, mis pensamientos están en español... Mis sueños están en Español. Pero, casi todos mis "amigos" de facebook son de Inglés o son bi o tri-lingues... y no importa si sea verdad... tal vez tengo más "amigos" de español que creí... Pero, que he visto es que habla menos, lee menos y escribe menos la gente de Español... o al menos, la gente Mexicana... El país de idioma Española más rico del mundo, pero con una nivel de cultura muy baja... ¿por qué? Hablame. Enseñame que estoy equivocado. Pero, imagino he quitado de mi lista de amigos la mayoria de "amigos" Mexicanos porque me aburren... ¿que dicen "amigos" Mexicanos? Estoy ofendiendoles? entonces quitanse de mi lista de amigos CABRONES CAPADOS Tengo 679 amigos... estoy esperando que va en descenso... ¿678? ¿alguien? ¿alguien? a ver... tengo que esperar hasta mañana... tengan una buena noche... "Noche de paz, Noche de Amor..." Pero, escuchala en su forma original en inglés... No, no fue "Noche de Paz, Noche de Amor"... Fue "Noche silenciosa, Noche sagrada"... Como la cancion original de "La deje en un café"... No, fue así... No la deje... La abraze y tal vez la cogí abajo la malecon de Brighton Beach Brooklyn... O, "Navidad, Navidad, Blanca Navidad..." No, no es una canción religiosa, pero una cancion que celebra el invierno con nieve... No tiene nada que ver con Navidad...


¿es ectoplasmo que nos separa? o solo ilusiones... Tal vez es un muro de agua como una cascada entre el aire libre arriba de un pozo profundo y la cueva fresca en que me encontro... No se como escribir palabras... ni en español, ni en inglés, menos ahora que estoy emersado 100% en español... Pero, si, se como pensar y como hablar y como escribir y como teclar... 9 days left... no, no me confundas con Nick Drake... no tiene nada que ver con leaves of album covers... No, no me confundes con él, aunque tenemos voces similares y casi nacimos en la misma fecha (él 19 de Junio, yo 20...)


me preguntó el hermano mayor del cuñado de la casera, "estás agusto en Mexico?" y le conteste, "para mi, no sirve la pregunta..." y a mi esposa, le dije, "nunca le preguntaria al extranjero semejante cosa... a dejarles en paz, no importa su experiencia..."


Cuando llegue a Mexico hace 11 años, creí todos somos iguales... cuando llegue a Mexico, estaba yo muy naíf ...


En mi decimo septimo día en Mexico... Dia numero 17 fui presentado a Margarita y me enamoré... creí que habia yo enamorado muchas veces antes. Siempre tuve una novia o otra... Pero, en ninguna vez sentí o vi que ibamos hacer una vida increíblemente importante juntos como que vino con la cachetada me dio la vida en el momento que me presentó con Margarita, 17 de Febrero 2003... Y juré nunca salir de Mexico sin Margarita. Hemos pasados 3,885 días juntos desde 10 de Mayo, 2003, cuando ella salio vivir conmigo en la capital de Veracruz (Xalapa). No sabia yo que fue día de las Madres y probablemente para mi suegra Paz, fue día de la madre o que fue el día que la di la madre o mejor escrito, la di la torre... hablando en Mexicano... Pero, nunca encontre la forma de convencirme que la vida para Margarita mejoraria en Estados Unidos... No encontre la razon. Estoy agusto con Margarita; con ella a mi lado, he encontrado lo mejor de mi vida; he encontrado mi mejor Ross en los ultimos 11 años y la mejor persona a mi lado... No importa si estoy agusto o no agusto aquí en Mexico. Que importa es que no la dejaré... Fue mi promesa a la vida o a ella o a mi o a la diosa hace 11 años... Es un "ni modo"... es mi cama, tengo que acostarme en ella... agusto o no con una situación socio politico...


Pero, piensalo: ¿Por qué me preguntan estás cosas a vez en cuando los Mexicanos? No saben que un país es una situación socio-politico y no tiene nada que ver con el individual quien me está preguntando? Y si contesto, "no, no estoy agusto aquí en Mexico y casi le odio la gente (general) y la politica o el gobierno..." O si, lo dejo sencillo y digo... "pués, well, a... no... no creo que estoy agusto aca en Mexico..."? Que van a decir? Sabemos que me van a decir: Entonces, ¿por qué no regresas a Estados Unidos?


Mejor empezar como empezé hace unas horas... "cuando encontre con Margarita hace 11 años en 17 de Febrero 2003..." No importa si estoy agusto en Mexico. ¿Estuve agusto en Estados Unidos? ¿Crees que la mayoria de los inmigrantes en Estados Unidos o en otros países son agustos? Pero, existen las razones porque salieron de sus países del origin y porque no regresan... agusto o no... Es porque es mejor no preguntarles cosas así, pero darles respeto y consideración y dejarles en paz... Somos humanos. Dejalo así... Somos iguales y no somos iguales... por muchas razones... pero existe en las mentes de la gente, nace o se perpetua en fílosofias, teologias, y peor en clasismo y lo socio-politico... No importa que pienso, que digo, que hago, que escribo... no somos iguales hasta la muerte... cuando el gran pie del destino nos aplasta... Si te digo, "somos iguales..." Me miraras con una expresión de disgusto o una sonrisa ironica y pensarias, "no es cierto..."


Paso por las calles y siento la brisa de desigualdad aquí en Mexico. Entro en un espacio publico cerrado o paso por un paseo de una feria o entro una habitación o en un autobus o cruzando las cespedes de Parque Metropolitano o viajando en mi camioneta Nissan con las ventanas abiertas y me acaricia el aire de movimento y de la desigualdad... No importa que pienso, no importa que deseo, no importa que hago, siempre existe esta aire cargado con desigualdad, como el aire humido y caliente pero parado antes de una tormenta en Julio...


De verdad, ¿quien hizo la desigualdad? No fui yo... Siempre me encontro peleando en contra la desigualdad como un boxeador de aire, dando puñetazos al viento...


He conocido bastante gente quien parece prefiere quedarse con la desigualdad... como si habian leido y creido totalmente en los ensayos de Alexis de Toqueville; que todos nacen en una posición y deben aceptarlo y no desear mejorarla posición en que encontraron cuando nacieron... De Toqueville fue el promulgador #1 de Democracia "Estado Unidiense" en Francia en la primera parte del siglo 19. Pero, uno tiene que pensar, "democracia para quien?" para los adinerados y para los terratenientes o para los dueños de una parcela de tierra en que construyeron sus casas...


No, no creo en democracia por ser muy farsico... No, no creo que todos somos intelectualmente o espiritualmente o concientamente iguales (mucha gente se comporte sin conciencia y en formes muy egoistas, materialistas, hedonistas, hasta sadicas) para que todos tienen la misma voz para manejar el país. Pero, ¿como decides quien tiene más o menos derecho, quien es mejor para manejarlo el país?


Todo termina en control de poder, dinero, ideas, información, energia, recursos... y volvemos con un super inbalance... el pendulo voltea al diagonal...


El jengibre se deshizo y estoy acalorando y dandome una migraña. Me encantaria escribir más. Pero, no debo... Entonces, mejor me voy mis silenciosos...

Monday, December 9, 2013

Egoismo basico

dice ella: "En esta vida que hay? Justamente este momento... la vida es lo que soy, me rodea.. Las interpretaciones pueden ser millones, pero lo unico que hay en esta vida, es esto que cada uno vive... Existir."

Mi respuesta breve:

entonces, no hay pregunta... tienes la respuesta... es tú vida. Eres tú universo. La vida empieza y termina contigo... Es que ves, que sientes, es que existe aldrentro y afuera de ti... nadie sabe que sientes... que es tú verdadera experiencia... eres tú... muy importante... en una forma es egoista... pero, entender bien la función real de egoismo sin llegar a exageraciónes y enfermedades mentales que te hacen un riesgo para el mundo alrededor de tú ser (tú cuerpo), egoismo te protege, hace que consigues lo que necesitas para vivir... en el principio y en el fin eres tú y nadie más...

¿Quienes somos? ¿que es la vida? calificando la vida y los humanos

Nos preguntó "ella": "Todo el mundo quiere saber que habia antes de esta vida y que hay despues de esta vida.. Y en esta vida? Que hay?...."

Mi respuesta breve:

¿vida humana? ¿vida del mundo? o ¿la vida propria de cada quien? existen muchas niveles... Primero, nacimos en un país en una familia de un clase socio-politico que hace muchos diferencias en experiencias de una y otra persona... Nacimos en una familia con una historia de creencias politicas y, más importante, religiosas. Son creencias que nos enseñan, a veces a fuerza. Entonces, no siempre sabemos si creemos de verdad o es algo que empezo antes que sabiamos como llego ser una costumbre en nuestra ser... Nacimos con caracteristicas muy personales que, uno puede llamar nuestra carta astral... Nacimos en buenas circumstancias y en malas... Nacimos en familias ricas con mucho privilegio pero con adultos abusivos que afecta como vemos a nosotros mismos y al mundo alredador; nos dan fobias, y enfermedades mentales y le damos a otras personas por nuestra propia comportamiento... O nacimos en familias pobres pero sanas, aunque racismo y clasismo hace vidas de callejones sin salida... y muchisimo sufrimiento... Nacimos con enfermedades geneticas o limites geneticas (aunque tal vez no nos limitan intelectualmente o creativamente pero, en formas que limitan ciertas formas de exito en el futuro)... Nacimos con una ruta del alma en que viajamos antes de escoger la matriz de nuestras madres... Entonces, tal vez, esta vida es para aprendir y llevar que entendemos a la siguiente vida... Nacimos con un cuerpo y sexo (male o female) y una apariencia física que es valorada o despreciada en un mundo material-superficial crecientamente crítica... Pero, tal vez nuestra ser física es solo una ilusión, una distracción o un auto-engaño para aprender lecciónes muy difíciles. Tal vez somos espiritus aldentro de cuerpos y no somos hombres y mujeres, nacionalidades, religiones, clases, privilegiados o jodidos... Solo somos y seriamos por muchas vidas o posiblimente por una eternidad...

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Thoughts on Breasts, Mastectomies, Islamic head covering and my painting...

Covered is her head and face... a small window for her eyes to peep through... dark cobalt blue silk to her feet... Groups of people immersed in energetic or relaxed conversations, smiling faces, smiling eyes, serious expressions concentrating upon what is being said by the other, expressions of intrigue or sympathy or disappointment as the conversation goes, suddenly converting to surprise or disdain or fear quickly looking away or maintaining their burning glares or reproach as she floats between the conversations, the crowd parts as Moses parted the Red Sea... However, as if Moses' staff suddenly loses its powers she finds herself surrounded by a group of young men jeering and tugging at the dark blue silk protecting her skin from public view... She responds silently without resisting the violent grasping hands and the tearing of her covering... An uproar of cheers exploads over her intense silence as the silk covering her chest falls away exposing one of her breasts... Someone yells, "Wow! What a breast! Who would have known! expose the rest of her!" and the crowd follows with "Expose her! Expose her!" Suddenly, there's a deathly silence and much skuffling of feet as the rest of the silk covering falls from her shoulders... The young men shoot glances over their shoulders as they quickly walk away. She stands with her arms spread upwards and outwards from her sides, in the form of a cross, palms forward, as if she's asking them to return and look at her with her chest bared and her head and face covered. She looks forward, silent and intensely tranquil. One beautiful breast freed from captivity as the press may have publicized the past 50 years... and where once may have been the other breast, a series of scars from where the other cancer took its toll...

Painting my internal response to (over--on top of) my unfinished surrealist painting of the two breasts that become a highway in a desert at night (painted two years ago) that recently had me thinking of an Islamic woman exposing herself and then converted into that same Islamic woman with a mastectomy... And this is what appeared in my mind at the same time... For the moment the painting is working (for me and hopefully for you tomorrow). If I weren't a Gemini, constantly changing focusses, I would follow the fantasy of painting many women with mastectomies and without niqabs or hijabs, without religiously and politically conflicting messages, since the greatest issue always is not so much religious or political but socially-psychological and deeply personal... since each person relates uniquely to their body and the bodies of others... granted, we learn greatly from how we and others are portrayed by mass media... There was a time when the breasts were not sexual objects or symbols of youth and beauty or measurements of female material value or lack there of. They weren't symbols for anything... but the initial means for nurturing male and female babies (all of us)... So, what happens when a breast is removed? Hopefully the woman is given more time for enjoying and learning from life and sharing with those important to her and vice versa... I'm sorry we find ourselves immersed within this situation. I'm sorry anyone would have to have preventative surgery removing parts of their body. As some of you know, I live with it too... But, my personal experience of preventative surgeries hasn't made me any more concerned with the issues of breast cancer or mastectomies... Don't get me wrong... The painting is painted by a man not thinking of his surgeries, but in how he relates (the evolution of his thinking) with the various and differing issues related towards women as objects in the eyes of everyone, even women... I remember when I would have looked away... Yes, we don't like looking at scars or deformations... But, somehow we've gotta change the way we view... and respond or expect... Imagine the man who goes from girlfriend to girlfriend or wife to wife until he encounters the woman with the perfect breasts... And when he encounters the perfect breasts... he realizes that there are other reasons for leaving her... and or he realizes that breasts weren't all they were made up to be... and this isn't about the man's gaze... it's also about the woman's perspective of her own self-worth and sexuality... what she believes is beauty and if she qualifies... However...

Monday, November 11, 2013

To continue with the memoirs of "Eleven Years in Mexico"... In 2009, A Swine Flu epidemic outbreak began in the region of Perote, Veracruz Mexico. The region of Perote is where the largest pig "processing" company of the world has some of its most important processing plants, since Veracruzanos are huge consumers of pork... and because the land is desertlike, cheap and a few hours trucking from Mexico City (20 percent of the Mexican Population or around 20 million inhabitants). The problem with the proliferation of information of the Flu being caused by pigs was that it threatened a drastic decline in the consumption of pork... So, the Smithfield Foods pressured the Mexican Government (department of Health) and probably the WHO to stop calling it the Swine Flu and call it H1N1... So, suddenly everyone was speaking in codes... Maybe they liked the ring... Maybe they thought they were being scientifically correct, since the newspapers declared that the influenza was not caused by pigs but by the H1N1 virus... BUT, if you look up H1N1 on the internet, you will find that it is a virus caused and spread by pigs... In anycase, I am probably the only person standing on Mexican soil you will hear mention, Influenza Porcina... or Swine Flu... And everyone is incredibly content and satisfied eating their pork... If you drive down the highway from Aguascalientes towards Mexico City any given day, you will pass at least 4 or five two-level trucks packed with pigs suffering under the weight of all the rest of the pigs, with their faces pressed against the grates... If you aren't driving, I imagine you have the opportunity of seeing their suffering and their bleeding... And, if you have ever lived with pigs, you would know that they are more intelligent than dogs (as if intelligence quotient should justify the suffering of or the protection of non-human animals). But, what I wish to say about their intelligence is that their concern and fear and pain or suffering is very clear in the facial expressions... Plus, the more capacity one has for thinking, the more risk of prolonged suffering per minute one has... And, no one seeing a giant truck with dogs packed to the brim, crushed against grates or fences or walls would allow that to go unreported... The problem is our value system or rating system... You would think someone was telling "you" that if we didn't eat meat, we would immediately encounter ourselves at the brink of starvation... I say that, because what else causes us to intentionally blind ourselves to what is obvious and horribly cruel? And, I'm not a vegetarian... Go figure. I guess you would call me a hypocrite. I wouldn't. But, we can start that discussion any time you like.

11 Years in Mexico and Counting...

What's on my mind?  Many things:  Like the idea of writing my memoirs (Ha! Ha! Ha!):  "Eleven Years in Mexico"...  Sounds good?  Ok.  But, I've gotta first return to the U.S. in order to write them...  Return to the U.S.?  You must be kidding!  For 11 years I have always thought about that possibility.  However, each year that goes by, that possibility decreases into an increasing improbability... for now.  So, the memoirs becomes post-poned and maybe the title changes to 12 years in Mexico or 15 years in Mexico...  For a moment I pondered upon the idea of visiting Chile for a month, the month of December.  Alone.  Of all of the Latin American countries, Chile is the only one I've desired to visit if not spend more than a visit... For years, I've had that desire, years before I floated on Facebook...  And then I read recent histories of Chile that haulted that desire, like a Jew who planned on visiting Munich or Warsaw or Kiev or...  But we aren't Jews and we aren't socially minded leftists and we aren't Croatians and we aren't... We are just humans floating in a semi-contaminated sea, that contamination floating randomly on changing currents just as driftwood... and hopefully we can float in opposite directions of that contamination... sometimes we too are part of that contamination... hopefully not frequently...  Years ago a Theater professor at the University of Veracruz in Xalapa said to me, "So, you're a Gringo"... And I said, "I wouldn't call myself that..."  She quickly replied, "But, it's not a bad word, it is historical when the U.S. invaded Mexico in the 19th Century and we yelled at the Green Uniformed soldiers, 'Green Go' (although their uniforms were gray and not green and the Veracruzanos 150 years later don't speak English to know that Verde is Green and Vete is Go).  It's not offensive." And I said, "no, not offensive.  You're just telling me to leave your country everytime you call me a Gringo..."  The Mexicans are concerned that the whole world calls those from the United States, "Americans" as if I decided to claim North and South America my own or as if I was saying that I and the rest of the people born in the U.S. were the only real people living in the Americas...  Now, outside of the U.S. the "intellectuals" with their noses bent out of shape have a valid argument that everyone from the Arctic tundra of Canada to Cape Horn of South America are Americans.  It is so valid that when I write fellow citizens from the United States and use the name they were born hearing, be it from fellow citizens of the United States of more probably from everyone else in the world living outside the U.S., "Americans", I write it in quotations...  Here, the pseudo intellectuals (I call them pseudo because if they had the basic level of intelligence, they would know better than to say certain things such as...) who know better than to call anyone "Gringo", since it's like calling a Mexican "Spic" in the U.S. call people from the U.S. "North Americans".  And no matter how much you explain to them that Canadians are North Americans just as Mexicans are North Americans, they insist on reconstructing continents so they can distinguish the difference between a "Gringo" and a Mexican, believing that everyone born in the U.S. has Anglo-Saxon blood and worships in a Protestant church without images of Jesus bloody on a cross or Saints in all their forms of torture.  Granted, they don't call those Churches Protestant, but Christian, as if saying that the Christians worship a different God than the Catholics, although Catholicism is a Christian religion...  Anyway, I tell "them" almost every day that NorteAmericano (North American) is incorrect.  And they ask me, "Then what should we call you...?"  And, I tell them, "Only in Spanish, since the name doesn't work in English, but the issue isn't there but here, where we speak only Spanish...  To remove US from the "bronca" (conflict), call us or them, EstadoUnidienses... People from the United States..."  Simple... you would think.  Easy compromise for releasing ourselves from the tonteria (foolishness)...  you would think.  But somehow they are ready for THAT, surprisingly and they say, "But, we're EstadoUnidienses also.  This is "The United States of Mexico!"  And, if you look up the history of the legal names of Mexico, you will find that Mexico is not only the Republic of Mexico and Mexico, it is legally The United States of Mexico...  It's on their printed money...  But, I ask, "When someone asks you what you are (meaning what is your nationality, do you say, 'I'm EstadoUnidiense Mexicano'?  When you talk about your country or when others address your country, what is the name used?"  And the answer is, "I'm Mexican, I live in Mexico, They're from Mexico, Cancun and Acapulco and Puerto Vallarta and Tijuana are places in the country of MEXICO... No one says, "The United States of Mexico"...  But, this logical intellectual discussion does not and NEVER results in compromise that one could consider politically correct.  The issue isn't about justice or what is correct.  It is about someone who feels unjustly inferior playing dirty in the attempt towards removing the sense of their inferiority placing the blame on someone who is not to blame...  They strip the U.S. Citizen of their name or their right to call them what they have always been called or decide upon a logical and geografically--historically and politically correct name that "harms" no one, as a group of young thugs would strip a man of his cloths and send him running down the streets naked...  11 years in Mexico... and this is only the tip of the iceburg...

Saturday, November 9, 2013

The untouchable event of you and I

We can't return... at least not in time... and our memories change, become increasingly limited or vague over time.  We can return to the places and the people... But, the places and people evolve... and the events terminated with the events...

I find myselt thinking about that day we visited my mother's house in New Jersey... That last time you went with me to visit my mother... And how I was.  But how was I?  Obstinate?  But why?  And my mother suggested taking you back to the train that took you back to New York.  The following day I encountered the apartment door ajar, the lock broken and believe I called the police, although I should have know it was you.  But so quickly?

I imagine something has me perplexed about the event we can call you and I...  And what it truly "meant" for the one and the other...  Or what it may mean today or tomorrow.  Since everything leads to something else, although we may not know or accept it...  Maybe we invent meanings.  Maybe the inventions aren't illusions or fantasies and share with us some sort of truth about our lives, the universe, the metaphysical...  Maybe...  Maybe those meanings evolve over time.  Maybe we also deny the truth... Maybe it really doesn't matter what is the truth behind all of our experiences.  Maybe it doesn't matter so much what we think.  And the feelings are momentarilly important for moving us...  Maybe there are things we've just gotta do whether we approve of those events or actions or experiences... We are moved for evolving for experiencing for learning for changing perspectives...  We say things that later on maybe we would say we didn't mean...  Of course we meant those things or we wouldn't have said those things...  They had to come out of our mouths so we could learn... so we could react to a situation, to ourselves and wonder why we did such a thing...  Why did we act like a coward, a dependent, an egoistic selfish monster...  An uninterested when we were always interested...  I'm not talking about myself so to speak.  Nor am I talking about you, so to speak.

But I found myself half laying on the couch listening to Los Caifanes, drinking a horrible coffee with milk, since Margarita has the tendency towards preparing coffee much lighter than Nicolas, José or I.  And when you place milk in that coffee, it becomes horribly watered down.  And I was observing Nicolas and José in the kitchen.  José was washing the dishes and I don't know what Nicolas was doing.  And I was thinking about that day and also thinking that I had no desire towards going to the market for vegetables and that I imagine we can get by today.  And thinking about Milan Kundera's "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" I was reading in Spanish.  I had read it in English back in New York in the 90s...

We had planned a weekend visit with my mother in New Jersey.  And at the last minute something happened and I was dodging you on the subway into Manhattan, you directly on my heels with an incredibly determined look on your face.  And you went with me to New Jersey.  And less than an hour later you were on the train back to New York.  The following day you had retrieved some of your belongings... by breaking the lock on the door...  The following weeks I found myself trying to track you down for resolving an unresolvable situation I was trying to disolve for quite a few months...  So, I wonder about those contradictions...  And "who" was it ending the event we called our crazy relationship, if I was always supposedly in-love, although hating every minute of it...  Who was doing the ending if that "someone" wasn't truly you or I?  Foolish questions since I've always understood that answer...  But, if I always understood that answer and how I ended up in Mexico... now married to Margarita 10+ years somewhat successful (much more so than in New York City) and why, then why continue thinking about these things... about that or those events and about you?

Yesterday I saw a photograph on a "friend's" wall on facebook of a woman naked from the hips up and a fish from the hips down.  And that woman was so similar to you... I've seen people who look just like you, and imagine you do some modelling or you participate in certain music videos... a The Roots video filmed in East Harlem...  So, I guess it's impossible not to think about you and the possibilities of your life and what I am doing since that event terminated... And I wonder about my memories and how they gradually fade or evolve.  And I wonder about your and my interactions... and your thoughts that I am sure I will never know...  and why does it matter...  I guess it is interesting.  I imagine you've decided that it isn't interesting and never was...  It must be better for you for advancing in whatever it is the career you are pursuing...  Well, that is my mind partially placed 12 years ago within your obsession with success and glory... And those are my words from back then, probably a bit less intense or critical or accusing, since here in Mexico, I've worked 10+ years immersed in the pursuit of some sort of success and glory...

Remember the S.E. Hinton novel "That was Then, This is Now"?

And that's all we truly have... and trying to understand the difference or the evolution or the consequences...

And had I not met you?  But, you know looking back at the time line and the events and the "coincidences" that fell on that line and how and when they fell on that line, that our meeting and the trajectory of those events and how we ended was inevitable...  So, the better question is;  and with our meeting? what truly happened?  How did it truly affect our evolution?  What does it truly mean for us...

And why attempt returning to those points on the time line?

If I could physically return to that period, that event or those series of events and reactions and attitudes and behaviors, would I?

Or how would I feel?

How would I respond?

What would I change if I could?

I guess we return because there is always something new we can learn from past events...  The problem is that there are many holes in the history, in the memory...  And, somethings scare us if we could recreate the events as we lived them... Do you scare me?  No.  It's not about you, but about me.  I don't scare me in that there is a monster within.  No.  What scares me is being someone I never wished of myself, like running out of restaurants or arguing with you horribly on a busy street or trying to observe you for hours from a hidden place because of my horrible concern about your dishonesty, your infidelity...  What scares me is that part of me that lost control, that obsessed, that couldn't let go, that couldn't just let you live your life so that I could just live mine... The fear of not being as healthy as I would have wished...  Of being out of control... 

So I return for moments at times...  I guess it's because I've evolved greatly and can "observe" from an increasingly healthier place.  Plus, we are aging or getting old.  And somethings we can't do or fantasize anymore... and we observe from a high ledge on the edge of a cliff overlooking a distant beach and the distant waves crashing on that beach and possibly children playing in the surf and their parents and aunts and uncles observing those children as they play freshly...  There are places we can't return if we wish, not even in fantasies...  The fantasies have evolved as has the history and our physical and biological realities...

I like this piece.  And would like to continue.  But, there are things I've gotta do...

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Comments on unfinished "Self-Portrait at 33"


K.L: holy shit. literally. that is incredibly moving, alot to take in at first glance. You are truly an amazing individual, an incredible artist and a striking storyteller. wow. that's all. wow.



Ross: Thanks K... Although I don't believe I'm an incredible artist since it seems that everything seems to have frayed ends... Never polished or finished or near... I think my artwork is a metaphore for my physical reality... I was thinking about this the past few days about my lifetime expectations of myself living with this and what it truly means for me, whether or not I think about it... We're (those with this illness or syndrome) are not meant to complete a lifetime or to relax in their own; always seeing death hiding somewhere in the shadows, below the bed, around the bend. We know it will appear... in many forms, at any given moment. I live life in half denile. I lived it in more intense half-denile years ago before becoming ill again married to Margarita, living here in Mexico without any recourses, knowing that part of me had died and part of me had been re-born and suddenly becoming incredibly health conscious. I wanted to be normal in childhood and adolescence and in some way pretended I was until my last surgery in 2001 when it was impossible to pretend anymore, since the doctor "slipped" or lied and I no longer could impregnate someone. Fortunately the surgery didn't make me impotent or maybe I should have just... at 32 years with my contemporary women in their primes paying so much attention to the tick tock ticking of their biological clocks... But, that's my life and the seemingly spirit of my art: incompletable. It just doesn't make sense. And it seems I'm finally pulling off an adequate self-portrait... granted, 10 or 11 years ago when my body was almost "fat-free" Thanks for being so supportive. Let's see when I return to this.




Mr. Rainbow: Transformation - such a powerful and complex painting with mixed energies and feelings


Ross: Wow! Thats a very interesting analysis. Thanks Mr. Rainbow. Great last name be it real or pseudonymn... I believe humans have grand potential for evolution, change, transformation, although many don't believe we evolve or prefer living in one of many styles of boxes, be it self constructed, socially, politically or familialy constructed...

Tiger Woods: Love the painting Ross!  Powerful Stuff,,,and many Artists feel their work is never complete...


Ross: That's always reassuring Tiger!




Ms. Robideau:  I see Frida in your piece and love it. Please, please finish it when you can. There is a community still rollin with no colon that needs this to represent our unique trait. PS I would buy this.



Ross: Ms. Robideau, in the beginning, the arms were hanging along his sides, and then one of those evenings last week I decided to do something with them. I remember when my younger sister had mentioned to our doctor that she wanted them to place her colon in a jarfor her to take home (thinking about it, very logical, since afterall, it was hers). I guess she didn't know that the colon is 4.5 feet long. She had her surgery at the age of 13 also, 2 years after mine. And I was amazed at her audacity or jealous that I hadn't thought of that! Our doctor just smiled at her like a loving grandfather; and he was warm with us in our bi-annual check-ups for the years afterwards, until he ceased being... In any case, that evening I placed the colon in his hands, the painting became a truly complete "masterpiece" in my mind (if only for me; the paintings and drawings have always only been for me--circumstances). And, yes, I saw Frida, although my paintings have always been "stream of conscious", semi-intentional, they seem to develop themselves. If there is one thing I could have given to Frida in my respect for her spirit, her life, her strength and... (I have the words somewhere within)... I've always felt it a trajedy that she had been born in such a sexist culture in the shadow of the highly trained and skilled, yet artistic coward of a husband Diego Rivera. Mexico has never known a truly artistic spirit as was Frida's and I highly doubt it will; psycho-cultural restraints. Ps; I've never sold a piece of art in my life... didn't study art, have never been in artist circles, not even in New York City where it suddenly appeared in 1997. For some reason all of my friends were writers, actors, dancers... For some reason I didn't meet painters And here in Mexico..., at least here in Guadalajara, where an incredible Guggenheim Museum was planned and then moved to another country due to political stupidity (when Guggenheim had offered to pay all expenses of the construction of possibly their most extravagent project, various friends of the Mayor, including the mayor, entered into negotiations for illegally developing luxury homes in the ecological reserve along the canyon the Guggenheim would be overlooking. In the end, the Mayor's "enemies" began a dirty campaign and the Guggenheim pulled itself out of Mexico; no one made millions from opportunities indirectly connected with the museum and Guadalajara is without an incredible cultural and tourist attraction...), I don't meet artists either...



Savannah: This is awesome, great job!

Mrs. Moilanen WOW


Scarborough Fair: Lots of valid comments here Ross. It definitely made me think of Frida Kahlo and it can be difficult to know when a work of art is finished. On the other hand, I've had artist friends tell me that you know exactly when you're finished, so I guess we're all different. I draw and every time I look at an old drawing I'm tempted to take out an eraser and touch it up. Thanks for sharing this.


Ross: Scarborough Fair, nice to hear from someone from Westchester County Brings back memories... brief, vague... but memories all the same... Gorgeous woods... Actually, this painting is painted on what originally was an attempted seascape, expaining the blue and what may look like leaves, but are small fish. The abdominal region looked like a fishbowl until a few days ago. I wanted to keep it, but didn't see the reason... Until the past 2 months I believed that all drawings and paintings should be respected and kept in their original form and worked on until they worked. But, looking at paintings and drawings that would be almost impossible to improve (to make function) just causes negativity. And, with lack of money for the amount of supports necessary for supporting my "ADHD-like" constant change in focus or interest, storing paintings that I am sure I will not show (if I actually will have that opportunity one day--I'm 44-years-old living in Mexico) renders the storage of them basically obsurd...


Alicia Dolphingirl:  Your painting is very powerful ... although is very colourful there's a huge sense of suffering in it, it's very explicit . I really like it, it's you.

Ross: And much suffering in denile, possibly the only way to survive, although, maybe just possibly denile creates incredible creative restraints... Why share your difference, your weakness, your illness, your "dirtyness", your shame? But, one canNOT live truthfully avoiding themself, pretending they are someone else... It's difficult. A difficult paradox, dilemma. I'm sure a great part of my leaving the U.S. was a running away from myself. Granted, there are many other valid reasons for leaving your country of origin, as I know you know... And you've left more than one... I think it almost impossible not to find fault in the socio-political culture and history of the country or community within which you are residing...

What about Wanda: 

As an artist I totally get what your saying.this is your inner self coming through in your painting..acrylic? Right? This is a self portrait of pain and I see that...it's not finished because you aren't finished accepting and working through what's going on, or what's not going on in your body.ive done the same thing..started but not finished..I have three oils waiting to be finished..will they, I don't know..I feel anger in your brush strokes..it's raw and it's wonderful..and I like it

Ross: Nice "meeting" you Wanda When I first started painting in Brooklyn back in 1998, people said, "your style is so Van Gogh! or so Picasso Blue Period..." I hadn't studied art or art history and knew of Picasso and Van Gogh. But I decided to look at them, especially Van Gogh. I read part of the biography of Van Gogh and wasn't able to look at my paintings; too much anxiety. I found that my drawings (and paintings) tended to become too dark and heavy; how I dreamed of being able to use much lighter tones... It is very difficult for me and I work consciously towards lightening, although truthfully, I don't understand how people do it... Forgive me for my long-windedness... What I'm getting at is that I totally understand you; anything I wish to hide will appear in some form or another in my painting; the anger or rage and possible fear. These days I intentionally work with reds and oranges. But they generally don't work for me, especially orange... If one thinks of selling their art, they worry about what the viewer will see or feel... All subjects of rage or violence or political injustices are shunned, especially in the U.S., where it seems that everyone seeks silver linings. I have this thing for crucifixions... A few years back I had painted a crucified pregnant woman, since the crucifixion is more symbolic and metaphorical than is literal and the people who historically suffer most that crucifixion socio-politically are women. Using Mary as a vessel to create a son of God and then continue calling Mary a virgin, perpetuates that crucifixion... Perpetuation of the worst type of sexism. She is pregnant. She will give birth to many males who will perpetuate the crucifixion... Which is more than ironic or absurd... it's a backwards way of relating towards life, degrading the bringer of life and the cultivator, who truly teaches us and nurtures us and protects us... However, in order to share those ideas, we must offend people's eyes and ideas or senses... And, sometimes that seems counter productive, since it isn't popular. I tend towards being the least popular person in the crowd, since I say what I feel/believe and don't believe in B/S... not a good networker, since I don't believe in playing the game...



Miss Renee: Thanks so much for sharing your artwork. I can relate a lot to your painting. The yellow in the background speaks to me like vibrant energy in the distance, that I, personally, cannot seem to reach anymore since my surgeries. The energy is around me, but always feels out of reach. Maybe it will come back with time. Also, I like that the heart is strong and solid-colored in your painting, symbolizing to me that we continue to love & give love, inspite of the turmoil within our digestive system. Love prevails, through immense challenges. Thanks again for sharing your work!! Hope you'll continue to do so.


Ross: Somehow we must prevail Renee. We've had the surgeries in order for continuing the struggle. I wish our lives were without all the turmoil. But, I imagine that is part of the lesson that each and everyone must live and learn within this lifetime. Although we can't be "normal" or carefree as others, I believe we owe it to ourselves to find the light within ourselves. Love? It is a very contraversial and confusing subject, confused mainly by 20th century disney influenced fantasies that all stories have happy endings... But the true love is what you find within yourself and around yourself; it's what you truly cherish about yourself regardless of your physical health, limitations and discomforts. It's part of your self-respect and what you have to share with others and what you appreciate from others... Painting causes me a lot of stress. Almost all things creative seem to drain me, with the exception of cooking. However, sometimes I believe it is something I must do, as if it will take me somewhere... It did take me somewhere; it helped me understand that there is a whole other reality outside of what we can understand physically or scientifically; that we are not just our bodies and their limits or their strengths. Some people believe that love is the inherent energy of creation. I believe it is the inherent desire to help (nurture) another person achieve the best for themself without expections of interchange. As for love for oneself... You must learn to be good to yourself; I'm not talking about splurging on your favorite foods but truly giving yourself what you deserve and what you truly need. Some of those things are self-respect, putting yourself and your situation into true perspect (being fair to yourself), and avoiding causing additional harm to yourself (unnecessary stress produced by certain thought processes, etc). It is all within you. I'm not saying that you will not feel bad or down. But, you must find personal experiences that show you that, although you experience this or you've experienced that, your life is truly good; you are truly good. You are a survivor who endures something most people don't endure. You've learned much and you are a thoughtful and caring person. But there are things within you that make you shine regardless of the situation and regardless if certain people or other people don't see it... Nothing of illusions of grandeur. They aren't illusions. Most of what causes us suffering in the U.S., Canada, many European countries and some Asian countries in the 20th-21st centuries are modern cultural illusions and fantasies about image and how we should be (how we should perform/success). You can't compete with the fantasies or illusions or expectations; they've always been unrealistic caused by mass media and Holliwood promoted super stars. So, you put things truly in perspective and remove the illusion and you cherish yourself for who you truly are, not for what you think you should be or should have been and not for the illusions they have about you. Thanks for your appreciation. I hope this wasn't too long-winded.

Commentaries on unfinished "Self-Portrait at 33"

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Day 5

The 5th day of what began as a cold and seems to have turned into the flu... Low energy.  Cough diminishing.  But, what seems like increasing nausea...  Reading a little.  Sleeping a little. Little energy for sitting at the computer; it drains me.  Less energy for painting...

Painting now... un poco...  The painting's going well, although a bit slow due to the illness...  

Margarita gave me an herb and alcohol rubdown.  A few hours later, a little fatigued and painting, but cold clammy skin... a cold sweat.

Painted real well for a while listening to the Police live in Tokyo 2008.  I had no idea they got back together.  Sting has aged wonderfully, if he actually has aged at all.

Ate dinner at 10pm.  Want to return to the painting.  Ate well... Margarita's food is extra wonderful today.  However, the eating fatigues me incredibly... that almost nausea... and tension in the midsection...  What can you do?  Now watching/listening to Simply Red live in London 2007...  How these people do it, is incredible.

Today

Today I prepared a Banana-Nut cake with Lime and Coconut... Between fatigues and coughs and laying me downs... I imagine I prepared it for my brothers-in-law José Francisco and Nicolas Federico so just in case we move back into the pastry business one day... I didn't paint, although I painted all last night.  A very interesting painting.  Supposedly myself as an adolescent... headless, because it didn't fit in the square, holding my colon in my hands, a very nice job of my scar.  But, today I didn't resume.  Because of the illness or the sickness... I imagine not the disease, although at this point you can't really know.  4 days sick and coughing.  I dropped 2 kilos in 2 days; 5 pounds of water, yellow water.  What became of the solid food I ingested?  I guess I just burned it away in the not sleeping due to cough.  They loved the cake.  For me too sweet.  Someone said that cancer feeds on sugar.  Someone not living with us.  And I mentioned that most illnesses feed on that sweet substance.  I've never been a sweet tooth; always savory and filling before sweet.  But, Margarita has been making guava juice for me these days.  And today she cut a papaya.  Not a fruit on this planet with higher concentrations of Vitamin C than these two.  But, for some reason, this time around I don't kick the sickness and it hit me like a summer squall at Long Beach Island.  She mentioned that I don't usually get sick.  Maybe it was from a late evening shower.  But, I don't believe Veracruz mountain rancher wives tales, since I've always bathed at all hours of the day, especially in New York City/New Jersey summer heat waves.  Body roasting like a chicken at 1am.  Jump in the shower, as cold as possible and jump into bed wet as an otter...  I never got sick.  NEVER.  The only time I've had a fever was from a dirty I.V. needle at Mount Sinai in New York.  And they discharged me almost delirious.  No one knows sick as I had those weeks afterwards; they almost forced fed and forced walked me at my sister's.  I awakened in the middle of the night knowing aspects of death Joey at my side.  My center was a black hole.  I've never experienced a worse nightmare and don't know how I managed to move past those days. Nights... afraid to sleep and awaken dead inside.  This didn't happen 18 years earlier with the first two surgeries. Now back to Stephen Dédalus and James Joyce and a cough or two imagining this too will pass...