Genesis - Turn It On Again (Three Sides Live) HQ

Broolyn Funk Essentials Live at Carhaix music Festival, 2001

Panteon Rococo - La rubia y el demonio

La dosis Perfecta/PANTEON ROCOCÓ/Dir. Luis Enrique Villaseñor

PANTEON ROCOCO 'Vendedora de Caricias'

Clandestino (Live)

What Of Yours Can You Not Give Away, letter response to a friend...

Hopefully the Buddhism will help you not need your handful of meds... One problem I found with cooking Asian cuisine was that I always had to visit different stores for different ingredients, even in New York City.  Sometimes I devoted half a day just for the damn shopping.  WOW! Mentioning this I just remembered how I bumped into that friend/neighbor who gave me her oil pastels and set the ball rolling for my belief in spiritual reciprocity (is that the word?)  What was her name? In any case, I made it onto the subway in East Chinatown with at least 4 big grocery bags nearing the breaking point (always did that).  But, leaving the subway station in Brooklyn, this young blonde woman offered me a hand with the bags.  It was raining and she carried half of them down the hill to my apartment building.  She lived a block up from me.  We bumped into each other randomly. She was a fashion design student at the Parsons School of Design.  I remember her inviting me to her apartment once.  She had some modelling photos of herself naked in her bedroom.  There was absolutely NO sexual energy between us.  She was purely a decent person with me.  Why she felt connected with me...  Who knows?  Everyday angels I guess.  The day she invited me up to her apartment she told me that she had some art supplies for me.  And she gave me a big bag of oil pastels...  That's when I began giving things to people too...  But I only gave if I felt driven internally.  Vicki once asked me sarcastically, "Ross, is there anything of yours you can't give away?"  It was a stupid question, because there truly isn't a thing I truly can't give away.  But, to satisfy her I responded, "My full-length green coat..."  Somewhere between New York City and Mexico I gave away my leather jacket.  Another suddenly appeared memory...  To whom?


In any case, I'm glad you're having this Tibetan Buddhist experience and I hope that it's true that there is something that being connected with me shifts in you...  I always write about how meeting so and so sent me spinning and that "I hope there was something I did for them...  But I will never know.."  Before leaving for Mexico I met the mother of an acquaintance who always was playing chess in the Tea Lounge in Park Slope, Brooklyn.  She supposedly is an expert in Numerology.  That evening she did my basic numerology and explained to me that I am a teacher.  But not in the traditional sense of the word.  I'm a life teacher.  However, something within my numerology causes people to negate what I tell them.  She said, "most of the people don't realize what they had in you until after you are gone.  The problem is that you get tired of waiting for them to awaken and you continue on your journey.  It's a reality you must accept..."  I have so many little street and cafe stories (If I can retrieve them from my memory).  But I don't know how to tie them together...  I'm going to post this little blurb to you, as a reminder and because I think it's something interesting for people to think about...  I'm also attaching the Mussaman Curry Recipe.

Manu Chao - Clandestino

Manu Chao - Desaparecido

MANU CHAO "Me Llaman Calle"

Mano Negra - Sr Matanza - konik polny remix

MALDITA VECINDAD / PURA DIVERSION (video oficial)

Maldita Vecindad - Un gran circo

Multi Culturalism; Conversations with a Past Life, May 10th

   

w Natalie:

New York City was a great time for me, it exposed me to a lot of diversity. My goal was to work for Sotheby's or Christies Auction house. Although that didn't happen. 47th Street was great in some respect and not in other ways. They have their own rules. The Chassidims welcomed me and some had great senses of humor. They look so serious in their attire, yet under all of that they are interesting funny people. Though on a hot summer's day, I wouldn't ride the elevators, I'd take the stairs. The heavy coats they wore didn't help the aroma in a small contained area. My husband's great-grandfather was Jewish. He was a Vaudevillian who died in a fire. My uncle married a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, so 3 of my frist cousins are Jewish and another another cousin by marriage. Nothing, like a Jewish wedding! I love dancing in the circle to Hava nagila. Some closed minded people don't realize all the wonderful things different cultures offer. Their loss. That's what makes NYC great, such a melting pot of culture. Here in Flemington there still isn't much diversity. We do have a mexican community, which provides a nice mexican market we use for our chili peppers. Newark is great, we go there often to the Iron Bound for dinner and for the Brasilian market. Branchburg just got it's first Indian restaurant. Wooo Hooo! I don't recall Ess'. Though nothing like a NYC deli and a hot pastrami sandwich. The word you were looking for is "Kaht_Leh_Tyee". Time for work and some Brasilian Coffee! Have a great day!

Ross:

o    There are Hasidim in Mexico City also; with their heavy coats, and the women with their wigs... It's funny, if you study the origins of the Amish/Mennonites and the Hasidim, you find that their "sects" were conceived exactly at the same time, almost in the same part of Europe for almost the same reasons. I imagine it was a response to the industrial revolution and both groups decided to vehemently protect their present day culture (200 years ago). The difference was that the Mennonites were farmers and the Hasidim were scholars and merchants. Until Napolean invaded almost all of Europe, freeing the Jews and giving them citizenship, Jews were denied the right to own land, which is what kept them from being farmers. They were forced into occupations later used against them in anti-Semitic Rhetoric. I also believe Hasidism was a reaction against the gentrification of Jews. It was a way to protect themselves against mixing. All over Mexico I'm seeing an increasing population of Mennonites I imagine dropping down from the U.S. because land cost and scarcity has risen greatly... That's what I loved about NYC also, the diversity. I'm very tired and burning out quickly, although I would love to respond to all you said. Later on... Hot Pastrami on Delancy street... Eastern Orthodox clarinet playing in Astoria Queens on January 6th, the original day of Christmas..., Klesmer Music is Jewish, but there is so much similarity in Greek and Czechoslovakian folk music... Everyone is so similar. But so many people want to believe that everyone is different from THEM. My in-laws are from Veracruz, Mexico hillbilly culture... The only difference culturally from what you would find in Appalachia is Spanish. But the dancing, the "moonshine" whisky, alcoholism, anti-education, style of talking, racism, etc and etc is basically the same. I develop a racist tone in Mexico, due to a ton of frustration. I want to speak positively about the people and the culture here, but I've learned that the negative way outweighs the positive. I believe there was famous fire in the Jewish vaudeville/yiddish theater district around the turn of the 20th century. But, I wasn't able to find the information. I've read a lot. The information is there, but I don't know where it came from, what book. When it comes to mind, I'll share it with you. Oh, did I tell you, growing up I was only interested in baseball, pizza and hamburgers and french fries and Sports Illustrated?... What are the best things about New York City? Crossing Queens from Astoria to Far Hills, you cross a different country every 5 blocks. That's how I learned to cook food from all over the world; street eating... I prefered entering small immigrant stores or restaurants and bought food to walk with. Occasionally I would sit down in a restaurant with the girlfriend of the time or a friend of mine. When I came across something new that blew my mind, I had to find the best cookbook from that country, locate the recipe and then locate the store that sold the ingredients. I travelled all over New York City looking for Thai, West African, Persian, Indian, Mexican...grocers. The only food I didn't like in New York City was Philipino... Greenpoint had my favorite Thai restaurant and the best Polish donuts. I wish I were there at this moment for the Kielbasa. Mexico has it's equivalent called "Longaniza"... The best Soul Food is at Charles Southern Style Cooking in deep Harlem; the only Soul Food that made it high on the Zagat's rating... and it is an all-you-can eat buffet... Cafe con Leche Puerto Rican style in Spanish Harlem and on 14th street near 7th avenue. Puerto Rican blood sausages... Jamaican beef patties all over the city... Damascus Bakery (syrian) near downtown brooklyn. Yemeni cuisine in the same neighborhood. An incredible Jewish delicatesen on Kings Highway around the corner from where I lived on Ocean Ave... Turkish Kasseri cheese, Fish from the Chinese Markets near Brighton beach. Gayanan cuisine between Park Side and Crown Heights Brooklyn.. Chinese steamed buns in Chinatown. Souvlaki in Astoria, All the diffferent forms of Falafel, from Greek, Israeli, to Egyptian, to Lebanese... (the lebanese had the best, not in pita pockets but rolled like a taco in giant "lebanese bread")... I could go on and on. And, as you can see, I didn't cut so short the response...

Time -- Poem, January 25, 2000

Time erases people erases pain erases confusion

People build structures upon the cemeteries of their past

Rivers of experience of preoccupation of denile

Deposit silt and sediment upon memory plains

We walk away we drift away we fade away

With the wind with the rains with the tide

Our tears become ocean currents and disappear with granuals of sand

Our smiles become the dawn, the midday sun, the various stations of the moon

Ross Jason Goldstein -- January 25, 2000

The Name "Shit"; interchange with Natalie, Conversations with a Past Life May 28th

Sorry to hear you have an allergic reaction. Fred is sensitive and has allergic reactions. Once I changed clothing detergents, and for a few days he complained about itching. Then on Saturday morning his face was deformed. I rushed him to the hospital and thank God he recovered. Fred was born May 17. He is definitely not Fred Mertz. (although does a great Ricky Ricardo impersonation, because that is what my Dad sounds like since he grew up in Caracas, Venezuela) He says he would have rather have been born with the name "shit". He's a third generation Fred, so he's a junior. He suffered greatly in school with name Fred Ferry.  Though I believe it's made him who he is today and I couldn't imagine him with any other name. I was supposed to be Peter, named after my Dad. Although, oops I came out a girl. My father's parents believed that the woman makes the decision of the sex of the child and my mom intentionally selected me to be female to spite them. So, she didn't get the bedroom set they promised to buy if I was a boy. As it turned out I had a great relationship with them. 

It is interesting who Todd decided to pick on. I wonder now, knowing what I know about him through you if his issue was that I was Ukrainian.  Perhaps it was about my last name and not my looks. If that is true, his hatred obviously came from the influence of his parents. Sadly, his mom was in denial that he was a bad kid. Had she stood up to his father/her husband, perhaps he wouldn't have been such a bad kid. But I don't believe in judging people I don't know, for that matter I don't believe I have a right to judge anyone but myself. I can only assume and protect myself from who people may be. I don't believe people change that much. I do believe that people are sheep or they lead. Perhaps Mike S, was a sheep and since he was away from the herd, he could now be the nice person he actually is. I've recently learned quickly from the Branchburg kids that they haven't changed. Interesting how the hot girls got fat, the fat girl is now hot.

But they still are who they are.... though they've only changed physically not mentally.

Thank you for sharing your thoughts on what's going on in Mexico. I think you would enjoy talking to Fred about that topic and perhaps other topics as well. He's open minded politically, listens to everyone's point of view, and then votes for whomever will work in the best interest of Nat and Fred. Sadly, we have lost friendships over the last election. But it's for the best. When people you've known most of your life start calling you communist because you voted for the first black president it's time to start re-evaluating that friendship. It's interesting how people who are unemployed/bankrupt forget that they are and vote against what might help them. We couldn't have survived the last few years without the unemployment extensions that Fred was receiving. I'm not educated on politics, though I do try to read up on current events and go with my gut with what I think is right or wrong.

Natalie, I like that name "shit"... Yes, I think I would enjoy meeting Fred.  I didn't like my name until recently.  I spent my young-adult days changing my name, hoping that I would become a poet or a writer, giving me license to a pseudonym, such as Leslie Alan Ross (my father's names switched around--yes, his middle name was Leslie, also she was my first "girlfriend" in second grade, before she became better friends with Nancy Hayes and then moved to Readington).  In NYC I signed my drawings and paintings RJG, not Goldstein (personal rejection due to concern about anti-Semitism), not Ross, because that's a popular British/Scottish surname), here too. But here I tell people, "call me Ross.  That's who I am."  I've never had nick-names and don't know myself as anyone other than Ross. In Mexico the men say, "Nice to meet you.  I'm Rodulfo Javier Pliego Santander, at your service" and I say, "Nice to meet you.  I'm Ross."  And there is a silence as if they are waiting for me to say my last name or last names...  And it's awkward.  But I don't put so much stock into my last name.  Here because there are so many Miguel Angels (Michelangelo) and Juan Pablos (after Pope John Paul) people feel it necessary to give their two last names to show authenticity...  Your father could have named you Petra.  But, thank God he didn't!  I know a Petra here.  One of my first memories of her is she's in the room I was given at the ecological tourist ranch where I volunteered where Margarita and I met.  She was cleaning there and in the middle of a difficult conversation (since I spoke very little Spanish at the time) she lifted up her shirt, showing her bra.  It was something she did regularly, as if it were subconscious.  It seemed so natural to her that one would think she was just trying to air herself...  Later on, I realize that maybe she was trying to see my reaction. Later on her younger sister Rosa married Margarita's younger brother Gregorio (Goyo).  

Speaking of your grandparents...  In college I read a wonderful book published by an asian Indian Poet who teaches at Barnard, Faultlines.  She was born into the highest caste in India, the Brahmas...  However, she was born dark-skinned and was harshly discriminated against by her grandmother.  She went on to study at Oxford and, I believe lived in the Middle-east...  Faultlines is an explanation of how color discrimination is universal and is directly used in classism...  It's to say that you discriminate against the color of the skin at the most basic level of society, within the family...  Thank god you developed a good relationship with your grandparents...  Too bad for your mom. 

I thought about that "Ukranian" question regarding Todd.  But, it would have had to be at a very spiritual level, something like past life or collective conscience levels...  Look, everything I say regarding this "spiritual" stuff should be taken lightly.  I don't read or study this stuff.  I see "new agism" as a lot of "hogwash" manipulative fantasies and wishful thinking...  However, I do believe that something truly exists.  But, writers shouldn't fabricate fantasies out of impatience... I don't believe Todd would have known that it meant, had you said in class that you were of Ukrainian descent.  I highly doubt he knew where was the Ukraine...  At the time he had war board games that take place in Israel and all the movements were between Israel, Egypt, Jordan and Syria. Yes, he was very informed about the middle-east wars.  But, I don't believe he was informed about the Pogroms, the holocaust and the Republics of the Soviet Union.  He was a horrible student.  

Very "white" Americans blatantly ignore me in Mexico. They don't accept me as "American".  Is it because they are racist or is it because they sense that I don't belong to THEM? But, that doesn't have to be connected with spiritual levels. But, I do believe that Todd could have been connected with his Russian Jewish ancestry (and who knows if his family wasn't from Ukraine...?)  Lyubov was much different in essence than is Anya.  Then again, Georgians often greeted Anya as one of their own, since she has a very Georgian shaped face.  Burcü (my Turkish friend who has not entered yet into the story) looks much more Persian than she looks Turkish...  Selling cupcakes in the lakes of Xalapa, Veracruz, a young German couple, studying at the foreign students' school, passed by our stand...  I made the mistake of telling them that my last names are German and telling them what they are, Goldstein Nacht.  The young woman moved back a step, turned to her boyfriend and said in a very low tone almost in his ear, "He's a Jew"  But, I had pronounced my last name in German Goldschtien, instead of in English, Goldsteen...  I figured that "Goldstein" was an Americanized name and had little Jewish significance outside of the U.S.  Could it be that Nacht (night) was a Jewish surname in Germany?  I have a friend in Aguascalientes who is from Germany married to a Mexican woman.  He speaks Spanish with what sounds like a very heavy Scandinavian-like accent.  I imagined that the German accent would be harsher.  Some Mexicans think I'm from Germany with my, at times, harsh hitting accent...  Robert never showed one sign of anti-Semitism.  But, yes, I always wear my concern as a second skin... 

The metaphysical or ascetic is very hard for me to write or explain.  But, the ideas seem so clear in my mind... There must be a way of successfully putting them onto paper... 

At summer camp we had a few campers who recently came to the U.S. from the Soviet Union as political refugees.  I'm sure that at the time, every synagogue (temple) had their "Russian" families hoasted within the community.  A few of those kids went to the New Jersey "YMHA YWHA" camps in the Poconos.  One of my friends from early on at camp was Olav.  But, he wasn't a recent arrival.  So, he didn't get picked on.  But the others were called "commies"  and I'm sure we taunted them with, "go back to Russia/Kill a commie for mommy".  The horrible thing is that these guys were Jews fleeing the oppression and discrimination of the Soviet Union... I imagine that I write about this stuff because it burned a hole in me during childhood.  

I don't know if you understood way back when in my earlier writings that I tried to kill myself in 1988.  This shouldn't be read as "too much information" because it is not meant as a sledge hammer or as psychological manipulation.  Just as part of explaining things...  I believed that it was a direct response to catching Francesca Mendrick cheating on me down in Long Beach Island. And then I explained to myself that I had fully lost faith in my capacity to turn good all the bad that I lived from the time of my father's death until 14 years later...  It could have been fear of not being able to enter adulthood successfully. But, I think it was a true lack of faith in humanity.  I felt and saw too many things, too young...  I say this now, because I still worry about these things now...  Who was picked on in childhood.  The things said and done.  Who was excluded.  Who we picked on, because I participated in certain games...  It could have been a sense of guilt; the not being able to live within the paradoxes, contradictions and hypocracies...  Yesterday there was a news artical in the Mexican papers titled "The Federal Law Enforcement Agency of Mexico (PGR; Procuraduria General de la Republica) reveals that 60% of people who suffered "bullying" commit suicide"...  I thought about mentioning that in Facebook.  But then declined.  For one thing, I have doubts about the numbers and how they locate victims of bullying who didn't commit or try to commit suicide.  Plus, I think that attempt was an easy way out. And think about it...  being born Jewish in this world subjects you as a member of a locally or internationally identified and isolated Jewish community to bullying...  How many Jews committed or commit suicided directly related to anti-Semitism? I think they are very strong people as a group...  I also think that, as a group, they can be very neurotic in certain ways..., which gives birth to a modern history of great creative artists (writers, actors, comedians, painters, comics...)  Ya basta!  

Later on in New York I tried it again.  But this was more like a game of defying "God"... connected with certain things I heard, were told me or told my mother since that suicide attempt in 1988...  Part of this has a great influence in understanding the base of my metaphysical beliefs and how and why I'm in Mexico...  After trying to kill myself on Mercer Street in 1988, I spent a month at Carrier Clinic.  My psychiatrist Dr. Brian Brown could not diagnose me.  That must have been his worst fear as God, not to be able to diagnose a patient before that patient escaped from his claws.  During one visit, my mother brought two cassettes, the first Tracy Chapman album and a recording of her visit with a female psychic. Those were her tapes and she didn't leave them with me.  But, later on I ended up with the one with the psychic.  I had it with me in NYC until I left for Mexico.  It was lost in a flood of my mother's basement with all my poems and drawings and recipes and cassettes my first few years in Mexico (a sign that my life in the U.S. had truly died)...  What the psychic said was uncanny, and the reason I looked for the cassette after graduating college.  My mother is agnostic.  She believes strongly in the Jewish community and in the human community.  But she doesn't know if she believes in God. She visited psychics in New Hope and other places, clear childhood memories.  She visited the psychic while I was in the hospital.  But she ignores everything I say about what's happened in my life that I call "natural miracles" and attribute to God, "the spirits" and something unseen but traceable and clearly connected to our experiences...  or mine.  1988 the cassette with the psychic.  October 15th 2002 "Estrella Botanica" on 5th Avenue, Park Slope.  Mauricio in Xalapa 2005.  November 2007, my grandfather appears in the photograph in my mother-in-law's kitchen.  Harry Nacht was born January 24th 1911.  Paz Robles Cruz was born January 24th, 1954.  Paz's youngest brother Gregorio was born on March 12.  My younger sister Beth was born March 12th.  Paz' son Gregorio was born April 26th. My older sister Sheri was born April 26th...  Joey was born exactly 7 years, 7 days and 7 minutes after I was born.  Her father Joe was born on March 12th.  Her mother was born on March 7th...  Joey returned to Denver on an airplane August 15th, 2002.  The first thing Estrella said to me October 15th, 2002 was, "Your girlfriend left you exactly 2 months ago..."  And I said, "Ok, let's go"...  He said that she was much more attractive than I was.  (Her mother was black, her father white, she was a ballerina and had an incredible muscle structure and great hair)...  I asked him about the importance of the number 7.  And about the 3 7s.  He said that 7 was the highest spiritual number and that 3, the trinity, is a connection with God.  Then he yelled at me, "Forget about her. It's water under the bridge.  You will not see her again.  She's gone.  She lost her Prince Charming.  When a woman let's go of her Prince Charming, she doens't find another one.  But Prince Charmings always find their princesses..."  He then said, "In less than 4 months you will leave this country.  Probably to Europe..."  And I said, "You're Crazy!"  I'm not leaving this country.  He said, "fine, have it your way.  You won't be leaving the country. But you will be leaving New York.  I see a lot of trees and a large body of water where you are going.  You will meet your last girlfriend when you arrive at your destination.  It's not a perfect relationship.  But it's a good relationship.  You will not have another relationship in the time that remains for you here, nor in any other location, until you meet her..."  He then said something about businesses. Said that I was a writer or had something to do with the theater and I said no.  And he had a pained expression on his face.  Then, suddenly he said, "I KNOW.  You are a chef!  You work in a restaurant!"  And I said, "there you go.."  These are very long stories Natalie.  But they must be written. In the connecting of the events and the people, I am sure I can show something...  There's a conversational energy between you and I.  It could be my projection.  But, James, Michael, Milo, Jonathan and other important friends don't inspire these writings and "conversations"... I'm sorry if that comes across manipulalitively...  I don't expect anything from you in the future and don't feel that I'm using you and clearly understand that any of these "conversations" can be the last...  I hope they are useful for you, at the very least as a form of entertainment or at the most some form of a connection...  All this is chance. A chance "meeting" on the internet.  But there are chances and there are chances...  Michael connected me with Margarita without intending.  He did his work.  James introduced me 20 years ago to my future destiny as a potential writer of "Stream of Consciousness"  that was supposedly invented by John Dos Passos (The author of Manhattan Transfer written in 1920--I'm reading one of his books I found in a used bookstore in Aguascalientes 2 weeks ago.)  I had stumbled across him during research on one of my papers in College 18 years ago, just a blurb from one of his books describing a conflict on the railroads out west; something about the Wobblies... I'm having difficulty reading this book.  So, I decided to look him up on Google to try and understand why he reverberates in my mind all these years.  It is explained in his biography that he invented "Stream of Consciousness"...  I thought the "father of Stream of Consciousness" was Jack Kerouac.  Although James introduced me to "stream of consciousness" I refused to read the beat writers (because he said I should)...   There was a conflict I had with James; he had to much freedom to be coming from a comfortable background.  I distanced myself from the hippies and the neo-beats and the Dead Heads for this reason and have never read about Zen Bhuddism for this reason:-)

But I think it's time to grow up a bit.  

A Black, African-American, of African Decent, or Female President; Conversations with a Past Life, May 28th

Hey Natalie.

I was in the process of breaking the world record for the longest email response when Margarita asked me if I wanted to go to a local wedding.  The answer was "no", but I decided to go with her because it's something she wished to do.  Actually, I took Margarita, her mother, sisters, sister-in-law and nephews to the church and returned to the computer and then met them at the celebration...  Somewhere during that period I realized that there were a few things I should spare you for the moment.  So, I have a very long response saved and I'm halfway through your letter. 

Todd's father was a very big man.  I don't think Jean could have done anything other than kill him in his sleep...  Plus, I believe she came from an Orthodox Jewish background, (like most of the Jews persuing their "American Dream" out to the suburbs and downgrading their practices...)  So, she would have put up with the abuse...  You've gotta remember that our parent's generation was actually just before the true feminist movement of the late 60s and 70s...  which would have left the women straddling two ideologies...

I don't know about the Branchburg kids being the same into adulthood.  I think those who stayed in the vecinity and are beauticians, yes...  But I was surprised by various who moved out of New Jersey.  I've gotta be very careful not to worry what these people think about what I write, see and believe.  Truthfully, I don't know what will come out of who's head.  For the moment I can't worry about that, or I edit myself.  And the key is in the writing and not the editing.  Lately I've written about my views and gays/transvesties, racism, poverty verses wealth, etc...  At any given time one of these people can boycott me.  I wouldn't be surprised that some or many would shut me out knowing that Margarita is from a poor farming family in Mexico. This has worried me about, if we were to come to the U.S.  Who are true friends and truly decent people?  Granted, I wouldn't jump at the first invitation if we were in Flemington.  I am very selective how and with whom I spend my time (the gregarious hermit)...  In the forms for Margarita to enter the U.S., I will put my mother's address as where we would live.  My sister Beth, lives one block away.  They live right of the Route 12 circle that takes you to Frenchtown or to Turntable Junction, the Clothing Mansion...  But, I just can't imagine what the hell I would do out there...  These are things I work out through my writing.  Why did I leave the U.S. and why would I return...?  You know that Hunterdon County is a very Republican county?  When Mexicans asked me what my thoughts were on the election of Obama or Hillary Clinton, this is what I said:  Regarding Obama, "It really matters none if he makes for a good president.  The international "battle" against racism and discrimination will have won something irreversable.  And in the U.S., it would be unprecidented to have someone of African descent as president of the U.S., the country with one of the worst and longest histories of exploitation, oppression and exclusion of people of African History in the world...  The worst and most embedded racist system in the U.S. is and will always be that against blacks...  No one will replace them..., not Latinos, not Asians, not Jews...  If Hillary is elected (mind you I don't like Hillary Clinton), the same...  The U.S. is way behind many countries with female political leaders."  How many female American governors exist in the U.S?  Mexico had one in Zacatecas and Quintana Roo (Cancun and Playa del Carmen) has a female governor.  Chile has a female President...  Merker in Germany.  Never to forget #1: Margaret Thatcher...  Who else?  I don't believe in Presidents and polititians...  But I do believe in the power of symbolic gestures and their potential effects on society and the minds of the people, such as having a female or a black president.  I interchange Black, African-American and of African descent... due to certain experiences I had when at R.V.C.C. I first started fighting the racism built into me and our society.  Would you believe that I belonged to the Black Student Union for about a month at R.V.C.C.?  One of their young activist/intellectuals "flirted" with me on and off on campus.  I don't remember how it began, nor do I remember her name.  But I remember her face...  Part of the intellectual "flirting" led to me asking her if she would admit me into the Union.  She gave me an affirmative NO. But, for some reason she talked with the leaders of the group and they said, "YES"...  The reason for the question is that of semantics.  If they say, "NO" then they are discriminating.  But how can they say yes, if I am not a black student? They were very warm to me.  But, nothing much was happening in the Union.  One day I surprised them by manning one of their information tables during an event of theirs.  The following week various classmates came down on me.  During Public Speaking class, during one of my presentations, a few of the students interrupted me with comments such as "nigger lover"...   The professor said nothing.  At the time I was very timid, especially infront of groups... I had always been shy.  So, my presentation didn't go very well. 

My mother's husband Bruce was Flemingtons Democratic Campaign leader for Obama or something like that...  I don't believe in Party Politics.  I was very frustrated with them during Bill Clinton's campaign.  I immediately saw Bill as a salesman and believed that they would support any Democratic candidate...  I don't think that takes brains.  I do believe that Bush got in twice on blatant fraud and never would have accepted him...  But I don't believe that one party is good and one party is bad...  I think, in the end, politicians are salespeople and jugglers.  And that they pander to the interests of those in social and economic power.  In the end, it's the economy that determines whether or not a country can protect the "best interests" of the majority of it's people.  However, I don't believe that all things done in the name of security and economy are good and protect our future interests...  A Mexican friend recently gave me a Matt Damon narrated documentary on how the economic crises began...  Within the documentary it is shown that bank/real estate/Wall Street deregulation began with the Reagan Administration, was continued through the Clinton Administration and ignored by the Obama Administration (I don't mention Bush and Bush) because it is unnecessary to write so many names.  But it is important to emphasize that the same negligent and destructive politics was performed through all political parties from the early 80s through 2010...  I believe the average American will ignore the bad done the moment they return to their economic potential as consumers. That means that they forget about human rights issues and the effects upon hundreds of millions of people caused by certain political policy and events as long as they return to their comfort zone.  Does that make me Communist? Absolutely not.  It just makes me thoughtful and considerate. I want to live comfortably too.  But, at what cost?  And, the question is, what is necessary?  Again, Mexico is the 12th richest country in the world.  It has the wealthiest man amongst others.  The daily minimum wage (which is very normal) is $5/dollars/day.  Do you know how many Hummers, Cadillac Trucks, Super Pick-ups, Mustang GTs, Audis etc are seen on the streets?  The poverty level is 50%.  The "middle class" just struggles to keep it's head above the water... The senators and representatives earn more in Mexico than in the U.S., something like $20,000 USD per month... Should they earn that much?  Well, do you think their work is worth that pay?  If so, yes.  But, the problem is what the rest of the people earn...  You raise the wages of the people at the bottom so they can have room to think towards creating a future for themselves and for their children.  You keep the middle wages somewhat where they are and you remove the super excess at the top.  This isn't Communism, it is Logic. By the way, Socialism was a Capitalist theory.  You protect the interests of the rich by creating a more livable situation for the workers...  That means you give them adequate health care services at adequate prices, good educational systems and training for their children, safe work environments, an economy that enables them to maintain a healthy life-style (being able feed themselves and their children in a thoughtful way, not out of desperation) and enables them to put aside for future endeavors...  Like opening up their own shop or business, instead of always working for someone...  I don't think that sounds Communist.  Would you elect me for president?  If so, I'll return for the following campaign...

It's time I return to the first response I haven't sent you.  It will be edited.

Ross

Memorial Day in Mexico...Conversations With a Past Life; response to Natalie: May 26th

You have long responses and yet you maintain a sense a humor as well throughout your writing! I don't have a typical sense of humor, I often laugh at things others don't laugh out. I think I've always been that way, though after meeting my husband, I think he draws more of that out of me. Also, he has unintentionally taught me how to come up with quick witted responses for people who say stupid or ignorant things to me. I'll share some of that at a later day. I never have enough time to write in the morning, though do like to read my emails in the a.m. I think you would enjoy talking to Fred, I've shared a lot of your stories with him. My birthday is November 21, and yes I have another question. On Cinco de Mayo do the Mexicans go to Chili's or Chevy's and have Margarita's for happy hour? LOL!

Yeah, well Memorial Day is a U.S. thing.  Mexico didn't have many wars...  It had other ways of killing many people and continues perfecting those ways...  What's the difference between Memorial Day and Veteran's Day?  The date...  Yes, I thought that could be...  I wasn't an expert on holidays.  Mexico closes the schools and offices and banks any chance it gets...  So, it should have its own Memorial Day.  It has a holiday for when the Government expropriated petroleum from outside interests.  But this is a lie.  It has the May 5th (Cinco de Mayo)  holiday celebrating the Battle of Puebla when the Mexican forces pushed out the French.  But what they don't celebrate is May 6th when the French returned and massacred the Poblanos...  September 15th is celebrated The Scream of Independence... when war was declared against the Spanish.  But they don't celebrate a day of Independence.  Why not?  Because there wasn't one...  November 20th is the date celebrating the beginning of the Revolution that began in 1910 to liberate the humble Mexicans from exploitation from the rich.  Almost all the revolutionaries were assasinated by their fellow revolutionaries after coming into power.  Today, the wealthiest man in the world, Carlos Slim, owns half of Mexican stocks.  Supposedly no one has the right to what is below the ground; it's the Mexican Government's domain...  After Carlos Slim, two of the richest men (billionaires) in Mexico are miners...  Mexico is #1 in the world in natural resources.  But this can't be filtered down to its people; and I'm not talking about socialism...  OH!  THIS IS A GOOD EXAMPLE OF WALKING ON YOUR HANDS BACKWARDS. 

I would love to have a good Margarita on happy hour. It's probably been a year or so since I last had one; usually when my mom visits us...  I don't know Chevy's.  I've seen Chili's, but never entered one.  Mexicans don't drink Margarita's since the drink was invented for American tourists who wanted to say they drank Tequila...  I think it would be interesting to see a Taco Bell in Mexico.  Mexican's have a tendency to throw aside their wonderful food traditions for commercial garbage that comes from the U.S., just to create the illusion of "moving on up"...       

                                                                                                                                                                   If Fred didn't draw things out of you, he wouldn't be functioning (Fred Mertz just came to mind.  I don't think that's your husband, nor do I think you are Ethyl. But, I am Ricky, Margarita is far from Lucy).  Most people don't know that about relationships.  They just focus on the material value of the other person.  I went with a New York friend, Michelle, to an open house at the Center for Kabbalism (Jewish mysticism rejected by the modernists...).  We sat in on a seminar about Soulmates...  The rabbi started by mentioning that most people when they think of being with their soulmate, they think of being in a constant state of bliss, no more suffering, no more pain.  What I appreciated most was his immediate response to that fantasy...  If you feel that way, you are far from being with your soulmate.  With your soulmate, you suffer.  Why?  Because they inspire you to improve yourself.  You can't feel complacency... You must grow.  You must improve yourself...  That doesn't mean that you don't enjoy yourself and your time with your mate.  But you are not in bliss.  I believe that if the connection comes from the soul level (to say that the soul is a spiritual connection with others or is a channel shared by others you will meet in this lifetime and others) it's not for pure enjoyment.  "God didn't put you here for recreation" (I put that in quotes because there isn't a way of writing that correctly, like "God putting you here...").  You are here to learn something, to grow, to help someone learn something and grow... to share your "knowledge" and experiences, to send someone spinning in a new direction...  I don't know what exactly was said that half hour or so; it was at least 10 years ago.  Most of what I say people say is some form of paraphrasing and mixing of ideas connected to or inspired by the conversation in question... 

In New York City I read a book written by a psycho-therapist on the subject of love...  The author claimed that anyone can feel "love"; it can happen at the moment of orgasm with a prostitute; the fool feels it and says, "I love you" to the prostitute.  (And for that reason and that feeling that he no longer feels with his wife, he becomes a loyal client to the prostitute or others.  Joey had those when she was a "massage therapist")  I didn't invent the man with the prostitute...  That is an almost direct quote.  The psycho-analyst said, "When you truly love someone, you want to help them grow as a person.  You don't want anything more from that person than what you want for them..."  All other "love" is projection, obsession, illusion, fantasy, infatuation (my words)...  You should grow with your spouse and your true friends and be aware of your own psychological "games" you may play with yourself that only function to confuse the truth with negative fantasy...  Do you know the song by Led Zeppelin, "Ramble On"? :-) 

The vision of Todd Golub putting his face up to yours and saying "K-9 power" plays in my head repeatedly like a video.  I vaguely remember him doing that.  I also vaguely remember you back then.  I've looked him up on the internet.  But, I don't believe the person I find is Todd.  I don't believe he is a doctor.  Nor do I believe he is fat. I don't believe he would have had the discipline to do the studies.  I can see him with the Jewish Defense League hunting fugitive elderly Nazis with canes or in wheelchairs or even digging up their graves in Mexico, the U.S. or Argentina and slapping them on their decomposing faces then hand-cuffing them and taking them to trial…or I imagine him in the Israeli Army killing Palestinians and Hezbollah...  But a fat doctor? 

Why do I look for him?   

                                                                                                                                                        Problably with the hope that he had grown up and grown out of how I knew him...  Probably so I could put some things in the past...  Maybe he became a fat doctor…  When I met Michael Szymanski at the route 202 gas station where I worked for one day back in the 80s, Michael’s sincere friendliness helped me put his bullying in the past...  and gave me some faith in people.  If I can forgive him and appreciate him as a person, I know others can do the same with me...  We can all advance healthfully (hopefully). 

For me to write about my experiences in Mexico, I have to go back years before leaving the U.S.  and it is causing horrible difficulties with the flow of ideas and the writings...  I don't want it to be pure fantasy.  Nor do I want to project myself as a hero or a superstar.  That would mean that I didn't get the point of it, nor of my life in the first place...  I don't buy no one's shit, nor my own.  The problem is that most people want pure fantasy. 

 At the moment the stereo is blaring Emenem...  The intensity of his music, of his anger and cynism, becomes embedded in the hearts of many Mexicans, although they don't know what he is saying.  I happen to enjoy listening to his music (that I never heard in the U.S.).  It connects with a tension I carry within...  But I also appreciate Emenem's inventive qualities of making bullshit seem real.  I imagine that is the concern of many middle-class families, boards of education and church committees, that the children don't understand that it is all BS directed at a lucrative market and that they may be inspired to kill their girlfriends, parents, teachers and other high school oppressors all because they are horribly bored by having access to too many things... causing the devaluation of life in general...  That's why it's best to truly suffer as a child; you still have hope towards finding enjoyment later on; you appreciate the little things...  (My mother had a novel titled “Suffer the Children”…  on the cover is a baby doll with its head broken and bleeding…  I never read the book; I imagine it was horror.  But, as you can see, I never forgot about it…)  When everything is served on a platter, all that is left for you to accomplish are the big things.  And the big things are much less likely and much less prevalent and much less accessible... Granted, the little things are truly the big things and the big things are truly the little things.  But no one understands that paradox... 

The Mexican spirit is a walking on their hands backwards...  That's how things are done and lived here...  Felipe Calderon invites the DEA and other departments of the Pentagon to help his government against the "war on drugs".  He even reclaims the U.S. in not physically helping Mexico sufficiently over the past 2 years. Hillary Clinton gives the 12 richest country in the world hundreds of millions of dollars for that so called war.  The U.S. military informs the Mexican government where are all their highest level criminals, which leads to the arrests and/or killings of many of them at the hands of the Mexican military.  Calderon admits that due to corruption, the Mexican police force is incapable of doing its job.  A U.N. expert in organized crime, corruption and the economic effects upon governments warns that Mexico is on the brink of collapsing if it doesn’t "nip things in the butt..."  The U.S. names a handful of large Mexican companies that help finance and launder money of the criminal organizations, asking Mexico to turn over to the U.S. the owners of those companies and to block their bank accounts and sanction their companies...  Mexico blatantly ignores the U.S.  The U.S. ambassador to Mexico, who probably became too personally involved in genuinely helping Mexico (because that was not his job) is quoted on Wikileaks as saying that Calderon is irresponsible and that he and Mexico obstructs attempts at truly cleaning up the problem here.  Calderon condemns the U.S. Ambassador who promptly renounces his position (why would you want to help someone who, due to foolish pride, doesn't want you "meddling" in their affairs, although they insist on you helping; if you don't help, they say, "look, those pinches Gringos just turn their back on us...")  Calderon says, "How dare he say those things about us!"  and the Mexicans are in uproar and say, "those pinches Gringos".  And then the U.S. offers an apology and Hillary Clinton sends more money.  And Calderon insists that the U.S. keep the doors open to undocumented Mexicans, although his cartels control over 80 percent of drugs trafficked in the U.S. with 900,000 gang members working in the U.S. for those cartels...  How many of those are Mexicans I've met who've returned from the U.S...?  And when one racist or heavy handed American law enforcement agent kills a Mexican crossing the frontier (and who knows what was the true event?  How many cross the border armed transporting drugs and money to the other side and become involved in an armed conflict?  No one here mentions this possibility and how many Mexicans are returned to Mexico after being arrested and held in U.S. state penitentiaries for 6 months... I've met some of them.  They like to talk to me.  But they don't realize just how stupid they appear)...  everyone in Mexico hears about the event and you hear the uproar pass from "alma to alma (soul to soul)" THE PINCHES GRINGOS JUST KILLED ANOTHER OF US!  But, little do they know that a few months later it would be discovered that the Mexican Immigration Services that warns its own people against the risks of crossing the deserts to get to the U.S. cities, would systematically pull off buses, cargo trains and trailers thousands of Central and South Americans trying to get to their American Dream (the same dream shared with their Mexican brothers and sisters) and "sell" them to organized crime to sell or to ransom and then later kill and bury in mass graves in 6 states of the Republic... 

I'm going to leave you with this.  It was totally unexpected.  But, hallelujah, that it came out! 

Maybe I'll find a way of completing the thought, a form of regurgitation...  If I think about what I want to write, it all becomes tangled...  

I can't withhold from giving you long responses...  But, I am very grateful to you for inspiring the writing...  Do you have any more questions? ha! ha! ha! 

A Moment in the Life of a Walking Poem in Brooklyn and Manhattan...

I didn't "publish" onto my blog various letters and poems I wrote between 1999 and 2001 thinking that I would dedicate a few weeks towards writing about my life as an "artist" in Brooklyn, the 5 years before leaving for Mexico.  The problem is that I remember so little of the details.  Why is that?  I believe that immersing myself in the Mexican Spanish language and all of the conflicts I have encountered here, caused the shutting down of the English side of my recent memory.  My Brooklyn experience was incredible.  I left it behind because I knew that I wasn't going anywhere there.  Granted, I was meeting some wonderful people.  But, New York City became horribly expensive with the apartment rent deregulations in 2000...  Plus, in as much as I loved the intensity and vitality of New York City, I also longed for living closer to nature...  I thought the best of both worlds would be Portland, Oregon or Seattle, Washington.  But for some reason I ended up in Mexico instead.


During the history of 20th Century art, there is a "school" of painters called "Naive Art"...  One of the concepts behind Naive Art is the idea of not focussing upon realistic or accurate portrayals of human, animal or plant forms.  Many of the artists paint figures and objects like one would think a precoscious child would paint.  When I think of my lack of artistic training and the conflict between that lack of training and my perfectionism, I consider the artistic validity of the Naive Artists.  What liberty I would experience if I could release my critical eye and perfectionism from my drawing and painting.  When I read my poems, I sense clearly my poetic naivity.  When I think about my experience in New York City, I see myself as that same naive walking poem on the streets crossing Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens and the Bronx.  It's too bad I've lost all of the spoken word I wrote in 2001 and 2002.  Reading these naive writings I feel inspired, I feel transported back into a long lost dream, back to a person I ceased being when I decided to become a man in Mexico.  What does it mean "becoming a man"?  It means putting aside fantasy and poetic styles of being for a responsible planning.  It means putting aside self-indulgence and destructive egoism for better relationships with others, especially with my wife, Margarita.


Halfway into my relationship with Mónica the Puerto Riqueña, I fled my apartment on the edge of Prospect Park for the alternative cafés in the East Village of Manhattan, "Alphabet City" before she returned from her work in the evenings.  I met so many people, men and women.  So many alternative styles, so many artists and poets; Americans and internationals...  My life was a mixture of exploration, trial and error.  I was 28-years-old.  I was the same age as Van Gogh when he started painting...  I lived a semi-crazy life.  But I wasn't crazy.  They say that Van Gogh was schizophrenic...  I don't know about that.  But I know he was very anxious and he was a hell of an artist.  People said that I drew and painted like him.  After reading his biography, I stopped looking at those paintings and drawings.  And I worked actively towards removing that anxiety from my artwork. Now I'm not so concerned about that issue.  I am Ross with all that that entails.  But, truthfully, I stopped "liking" the artwork of Van Gogh.  I find it very stressful and depressive.  People also said that I painted like early Picasso and Francis Bacon.  In fact, the man who said I painted like Francis Bacon and whom I met in one of the coffee houses where I was drawing asked me to paint the backdrops to his theater production on which he was working at that moment.  I didn't paint for him.  I imagine the reason was because he couldn't pay me.  Or maybe he was gay and I was afraid he was hitting on me.  Or maybe I was afraid because I didn't believe I was at that level with my painting...  What I remember vaguely is that I didn't understand his "language."  He was mentioning things and people so foreign to my experience.  Francis Bacon?  Sounds Revolutionary War history.  Wasn't it Lord Francis Bacon or Sir Francis Bacon?  How could my style have been like that?  Had it not been for these people saying these things about other artists and my drawing and painting style, I would never have known about those artists.  I knew about Klimpt and Monet and Van Gogh and Munch because of the posters the university students had on their walls.  During my first week at Hampshire College a poster vender visited the campus and set up infront of the library.  I saw The Scream and had to buy it.  During my 3 years at Hampshire, I had The Scream on my door as a reminder of how I felt day in and day out struggling with the complicated "curriculum" requirements...  I was naive. I am naive...


I met people all over the city.  That was such a wonderful experience, an experience horribly lacking here in Mexico.  Every once in a while I remember a friend or an aquaintance I had.  But I don't remember their names, nor how or where we met.  Or maybe I remember the hows and the whens, but I forget the whys, hows and whens we stopped being aquaintances.  I met people in cafes, on the subway, in parks, in museums.  In New York City there is no limit to the possibilities of friendship and other forms of relationships... For me to write adequately and accurately my experience in New York City, I must remember these people and those experiences; what we did.  Paul the Lebanese poet I met at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and who took me to an Arabic writing center/library and read me the most beautiful Lebanese poetry.  He was Aries and had a horribly explosive temper.  The last time we saw each other he almost punched me in the face.  Why?  Bi-Polar?  Very expressive?  I remember going with him to an Egyptian club off Delancy Street.  I remember him picking up a very elegant woman directly out of a hierogliphic...  We bumped into her at an art exhibition in SOHO.  She didn't take any of his shit, although she enjoyed his poetic game.  At another art exhibition to which Joey invited me (years before we "fell-in-love") Paul hit on a French woman and discovered that her friend Delfin (Dolphin in French) needed a share and I had a room available...  Delfin was an aspiring actress and singer and drove me crazy with her Edith Piaf she was practicing for an off off off off Broadway musical theater performance.  If you want something to do in Manhattan or Brooklyn, just hang out where the artists hang out and you'll be invited to theater, musical and dance performances a few times per week; to art exhibitions and alternative parties...  I remember going to CBGBs to see a wonderful female folk rock singer who was a Johns Hopkins friend of Mónica's older sister Sinsi.  The friend rocked the house.  But couldn't gain a recording contract because she was one of many female singer/guitarists with a Melissa Etheridge style in the late 90s...


I met many young women while drawing in the cafés I approached them awkwardly due to my shyness or they approached me due to the intrigue of a man drawing intensely in a café.  One day a young woman approached me saying that she knew me at Hampshire, but had dropped out after the first semester.  At the time she worked in a café in GreenwichVillage on 6th Avenue.  She was interested in me.  But I was concerned about the fact that she still lived with her parents in New Jersey on the other side of the Hudson.  She was a Capricorn; I was attracted to her witchlike darkness...  For some reason I bumped into her randomly in the 3 sides of Greenwich Village.  I remember bumping into her in the predominantly gay café in the West Village, The Big Cup.  The last time I saw her Vicki and I were walking hand in hand on the Bowery towards East Houston one night in the East Village.  The Capricorn was with a friend of hers and was excited that they were on their way to a Natalie Merchant concert.  But she noticed my hand in Vicki's and I never bumped into her again. 


I stumbled across two poem letters I had written to women I had met during that period of 4 months between Mónica and Vicki.  For the life of me I didn't remember those women.  I wracked my brain until I figured out who was the woman of the first piece I'm about to share with you.  And remember that I met her where I met Mauricio, between Bleeker Street and 8th Street, where Michelle told me that she could imagine us marrying and raising children, although she was Lesbian, where Joey and I parted so many times when we were just friends, hugging at the top of the subway stairs infront of Joe's Pizza...  Little by little appear the memories.  But I won't have time for this this time around, since 18 hour days of 25 days straight work calls us in two weeks...

To Anne Marie Drummond Lee:

So...

I had wanted to kiss her so badly. Her lips. Her jaw. Her chin. She in mid-sentence. 

The compulsion... I couldn't understand such desire...  

Have you ever passed a bakery, the sweet smells wafting out the door... You can almost see the aroma butter and cream and confectioners sugar passing beneath your nostrils. 

You become the main character Looney Toons or Tom & Jerry cartoons, the scent becomes a finger beckoning you through the thresshold, a winter wonderland of buttercream, edible pink cupcakes sprinkled with multicolored ice pellets; pastries covered with a dusting of sugary snow. If you're strong enough to continue onward, you hear strawberry shortcakes calling your name, pursuing you for blocks and blocks and blocks. 

Puerto Rican Confectioners in Spanish Harlem 115th Street to Kosher Bakeries -- Chocolate Ruglach and Babka -- 72nd Street - West Side - to 2nd Ave. of the East Village and the Lower East Side to Borough Park, Coney Island, and Forest Hills. Posh French-Italian bakeries in the West Village, the East Side, Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill and Park Slope. Lebonese Baklava of Atlantic Avenue, Greek Baklava from Broadway to Ditmars Astoria. Russian Bakeries in Brighton Beach, Ladies Fingers and Halva at Damascus Syrian Bakery on Atlantic Avenue in Downtown Brooklyn.

Is your mouth watering? 

The longing, the desire, 
the compulsion so strong an aroma you can taste it?

That was me. 

Foolish me. 

Impulsive me. 

And she sat across the table unaware that beyond enjoying her conversation, I struggled against interrupting her flow of words with a kiss. 

Soft. 

The softness of her lips, 

the shape of her jaw. 

No, I wasn't thinking about drawing her face, although the curve from her eyebrows through her nose was the line of early Picasso cubist paintings. 

No 

it had nothing to do with that.

BUT... 

My powers of control... 

The notion that a kiss would be much too presumptuous a notion... 

Broke down. And I kissed her. 

I had no intention beyond a hug. Beyond a hug. 

But I must hug her. 

Afterall, 

had we not hugged we could never continue this friendship. 

So I sheepishly asked her if she hugged. 

And we hugged on the corner of West 8th and 6th Avenue (twice mind you). 

The first time... 

Well, it was just a sign; 

a very good one at that: 

As the hug ended and we disengaged, my head turned, 

as if directed by some inner spirit. I kissed the side of her head 

above her ear. 

And she said, 

"That was a nice hug." 

And I am glad. 

But I kissed her. I kissed her lips for the world to see 

(twice if you don't mind knowing). 

Of course that wasn't my intention. 

It was as if the hand of God had intervened. 

Although, of course, it was a gentle touch the second time. 

So, just possibly, the goddess Venus passed her hand down my spine. 

Just because it was devine intervention doesn't exonerate me from concern. 

I kicked myself down the steps onto the subway platform. 

Apologies trailing me as I paced the length of the platform, hoping Scott was home, 

wishing that Just Maybe One Of These Damn Phones Worked! 

"Oh My God Scott. I don't know what I did! I just kissed Anne Marie and I don't know if she'll talk to me again!" But my train came and Scott wasn't home anyway.

Yet, I know it's OK, 

because there are much worse ways of showing affection to a person you recently met. 

And, if in fact I was a frog that could never turn into THAT prince, she would get over it one of these days. And who ever said that being kissed by a frog was REALLY that traumatic an experience? I just hope that I didn't trespass. 

For I don't think that would be fair. (AYE YA YAY! TRESSPASSING? I KISSED HER DAMN IT AND THAT'S THAT!  GOOD FOR ME. THANK GOD I HAD THE NERVE TO DO IT. August 2011 editing)....

So, in any case, 

I must apologize for the little boy in me 

forgetting that just because it smiles at you from the other side of the window 

doesn't mean you can take it home with you without permission.

I didn't see or hear from Anne Marie after that meeting. To her email she had given me, I sent her the poem or the apology. She never responded... Why would she respond to a sheepish fool who just ruined the spontaneity of what happened that evening?  In anycase, she probably had a boyfriend and was thrilled at breaking those rules.  Afterall, she hadn't done anything.  That was foolish me...  Stupid, naive Ross...  


I have absolutely no idea who was the recipient of the following poem, what happened, how we met, nothing.

To Margarita Agudelo:

Margarita,

If I could

Shake this dizziness

And join the morning sunlight rays

Glinting off ridges of water

Lower lake...

Had I known

You were a swan gliding across the surface

And I a dove wishing for a deeper connection

Expressed wordlessly in song

Carried upon the backs of leaves;

Petals floating in your wake...

Should I discover

The essence of day lillies bathing in June's sunshine

And Weeping Willow hair kissing the soft skin of your watery pool in July...

Then Maybe...

Just possibly we could discover the nest

Laying somewhere between my words and my thoughts

August's poetry

Unexpressed.

Margerita,

Sat quietly perpendicular to my profile Friday night 

as I struggled with migrains and 

intense infatuation with a woman with 

soft brown hair and coffee colored eyes in a pink blouse.

How I wished I could stare at you indefinately 

without causing you discomfort. Yet, 

I also understood the discomfort I created within myself 

by looking at you and not 

being able to draw or write or even speak. 

A poem is just my expression of appreciation; 

gratitude that, even if just for a moment, 

your presence brought me closer to my heart. 

I wished I could understand what lay behind your eyes.

If you could understand...

If you could comprehend...

Why.

Then... Maybe

Just maybe you would know that I

Am affected by

Things beautiful and true (did I hear someone say "gag me with a spoon?")

That my heart communes with butterflies and wildflowers

Ducks in flight

That when I'm touched by a woman in sight

I understand that sense, essence and sensuality

Are inseparable from pollen,

The scent of honeysuckle carried upon breezes,

Horses grazing in fields wild and free,

Cats laying against one another asleep.

That moment I sensed you...

That moment was enough to remind me what it means to be alive.

And why we must cherish the interconnectedness of things.

And why I couldn't just walk away

Ross

OK.  That poem wasn't so bad.  But it did embarrass me at this moment a month or so after actually writing this on my blog...


In August 1998, I was drawing in the cafe at Barnes and Nobles on 7th Avenue in Park Slope. In front of me were two woman, one of them strikingly beautiful with long curly brown hair.  I tried drawing them subtly but they noticed me.  One of the women approached me, looked at the drawing and beconned her friend or sister over to my table.  They were very impressed and the woman I was drawing asked me if I could give her the drawing.  I said that the problem was that it wasn't finished.  She responded that it wasn't a problem and gave me her telephone # and asked me if I could paint her at her house...  During a brief conversation with the potential model she told me that she was Colombian.  I sensed a romantic risk in the tension or the insinuation within her invitation, since New York women don't hand out their telephone numbers to strangers and invite them to their house during any given day, when everyone else is working.  I started creating stupid fantasies in my mind and became scared.  What if she is married and her husband is drug Capo?  I never called her.  However...  The woman sitting at the table next to mine had been paying much attention to the conversation and approached me after the Columbian woman left.  She asked me a bunch of questions and then suggested we find a more private place for talking in a corner of the basement floor where the occult literature is found.  We talked a lot about who knows what and then she got up to go.  At that moment I had a brief crisis; the conversation about who knows what had a lot of sexual tones, as if we had met in a bar or at a party.  (No, I don't believe it had a lot of sexual tones.  But there was some sort of energy telling me that something was happening other than Johanna offering to model for me...)  I didn't know Johanna more than an hour, but I felt that there was something I must do.  So I suddenly grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her mouth against mind.  (No, she got up from where we we sitting on the bottom floor in a far hidden and intimate corner of Barnes and Nobles and said that she had to be somewhere.  So...)  Surprisingly she opened her lips and received my tongue passionately.  When we withdrew from the kiss she said to me, "I was wondering if you would finally make the move, because, had you not kissed me, I would have understood that we had absolutely nothing to do together."  It turns out that Johanna is a poet of Egyptian-British descent and writes a lot of feminist eroticism...  She suggested we meet the following day, but at my apartment on Seeley Street and Prospect Park SW.  

I haven't written about how Mónica and I met, about the "horrors" of our relationship.  That means that I can't write about how she finally left my apartment after battling with her for 9 months...


About a week or so ago (I am re-reading this piece August 11th) I was inspired to write in depth about this experience, how it finally freed me from the relationship with Mónica and about the beginning of my relationshio with Joey, etc...  However, when I was about to send it to a friend of mine on Facebook, I lost the piece.  I also lost what I wrote about how Mónica and I met and how that was related to Cathy telling me that she had married Billy... Divine intervention.  Who knows?  Now that I am about to start selling coffee intensely for 24 days, the thoughts will come out clearly and I will be able to share with you something I believe can be very interesting.