That was me

Victor in his home village

His cousins, I think. We left Xalapa to visit his relatives in a little village. We got lost in the hills. The town had Olmec heads that no one paid any attention to. They were just there and no one bothered them. I must have been wearing bell bottoms. It was 1974

I spent two weeks in this Mayan village. Slept in a hammock. Ate in this house.

In Palenque

Before swimming in the Mayan waters, despite the warning.

The Admiral

Back in the day.
In Goshen.
He did popcorn.

Punk Rock Days

I was publisher and editor of Hick City/Alien Nation. The fans were named JerriLeek and... I forget her name. Helen, that was it. Odd name for a punker.

That was me

I should put Paul McCartney's song, "That Was Me," on this. In the more complete version, I will.

Places I've lived. People I've known.

Mayan huts. Me as a punk publisher, circa 1977, with punkettes. Jan at Teotihuacan, with Sol beer tradition.

Etc.

My Forearm Tattoo

The Mayan symbols are these.

The Presentation of Chan-Bahlum as Heir

Palenque lineage jaguar lord (Henry)
Mah Kina Chan-Bahlum (Ernie)
Divine Palenque Ahau (Miles)

He was born (Father)

How I Spent My Birthday

Last night, the twins took me out to eat at the reservations-only Guatemalan restaurant.  I had been wanting to go for some time.  I skipped church that morning because I knew my cusp-of-two-signs birthday would be mentioned in the bulletin and I try to forget my birthday and did not want to be reminded of it.  I told the twins that I was going to spend the next day reading David Copperfield and The Nonviolent Atonement, and disconnecting the phone.

Fate willed that someone from church, the chair of the Colombia committee, also came to the restaurant and came over to wish me happy birthday.  "You want to make God laugh?" I said.  "Tell her your plans."

I slept in late, waking at 5:50 a.m.  In the silent dawn, I made coffee, took notes, performed the ritual reading of the New York Times.

I meditated.

In the hammock, I read more of The Forest of Kings, the Mayan archeological study with pages and pages of images, trying to choose which symbols I would choose for my tattoo.  I also read the Mayan issue of National Geographic, which directly furthers the study in the book.  The emissary from Teotihuacan who conquered the Maya, Smoking Frog, for example, should really be named Fire is Born.  Earlier last week, I had been writing about the time Henry and I sat atop the Pyramid of the Sun.  In the NG maps, I calculated the area where I have spent days, where the current Mayan villages in the Yucatan were, and recalled the Mayan ruins not on any map that I had managed to visit, being led by mud-hut Mayans.

I have stopped wearing a watch, so when the sun rose to a certain degree, I prepared for my ritualistic drive through the sacred corn fields.  On the way, I stopped by the DVD rental store to get Chris Marker's films, La Jetee and Sans Soleil, having become impatient for Netflix.  As I left, the clerk -- someone I did not know -- said, "By the way, happy birthday."  It must have been in their computer system.

There was a card from my district manager waiting for me in St. Joseph.  It was written in (bad) Spanish and included a $2 bill.  Another surprise.

The weather was perfect.  The countryside, the mazes of corn -- walls of corn on either side of the narrow country roads -- a sort of perfection of infinity.

I thought I might watch parts of The Fountain and Apocalypto in the evening, to see more Mayan imagery.

At Mrs. Schumaker's house, I always hand deliver a newspaper.  She was waiting for me with a large, homemade, criss-cross crusted, candle bearing, beautiful rhubarb pie.  "How did you know?"  I asked.  She had remembered from years ago apparently.  Rhubarb is my favorite.  She knew this as well.

Once home, I got mail from a syndicated columnist thanking me for informing me that the News-Gazette had inserted a paragraph promoting Champaign-Urbana into his column.  It was in tonight's paper and I wrote him and he replied quickly.  "This is not Kosher," he wrote.  The Gazette will probably try to fire me... again.  I've been fired three times from the newspaper so far. 

But I cannot help being outside of society.  It is my nature.  I cannot play the game.  I have to be what I am.

I meditated.

Back in the hammock, filled with pie and chocolate, I read portions of Blossom of Bone ("Reclaiming the Connections between Homoeroticism and the Sacred"), about the various two-spirit beings in cultures throughout history and their role in religion and sacredness. As Oscar Wilde wrote in De Profundis, "The Mystical in Art, the Mystical in Life, the Mystical in Nature -- this is what I am looking for.  It is absolutely necessary for me to find it somewhere."  Or, as Gore Vidal wrote, "I live no longer in the usual world.  I have forsaken the familiar."

Henry chatted with me via Gmail.  We talked about tattoos.

Ernie called.  We talked about tattoos.

For all my attempts to avoid the phone, it has not been possible.  Just as I was returning to the hammock, the phone rang again from an unfamiliar number.  I nearly shouted downstairs, if it is for me, I am not here.  But I picked it up nonetheless, thinking it was probably for Miles.

It was Israel, the pastor in Colombia. He sang Happy Birthday, in English, and I was glad.  One never says simply "Goodbye" to Israel or anyone from Colombia.  Their goodbye is an intense ritualistic sequence of bear hugs, blessings, salutations to be sent, and -- should the conversation continue past the point of these farewells -- it becomes necessary to do it all over again.

Darkness has now set in, since the time I started writing this.  I will look again at the symbols and discern what tattoos I might choose -- one for each son (and each son wants to bear the same symbol on his own skin), one that may symbolize the mystical and Christ, maybe one that stands for "Dad" alone, because today in the country it seemed that, for maybe the first time, I felt competent to own the designation, something seemed real about this skin, I don't know.

I am 58.


 

George Landow aka Owen Land

I've been thinking a lot about George Landow lately. 

Where is he?  The last time I saw him, I ran into him on the street in the West Village.  His long red hair was scraggly and he was staring into a shop window and talking to himself.  He barely recognized me.  I had interviewed him extensively for Film Culture.  I have pictures of him sitting in Allerton Park, sitting on a Foo Dog. 

According to the Wikipedia listing, he has made very few movies in the last 20 years, after changing his name to Owen Land.  Maybe he's in England.  A tour of his 70s films showed up at Harvard last year. 

I wish I could find those films, Wide Angle Saxon and his Christianity movies.  They are etched in my haunted consciousness.  Some samples can be seen at http://www.ubu.com/film/landow.html .  I keep hoping that -- like the works of Broughton and Brakhage and now some Anger -- Owenlandow's films will be issued on DVD.  And Bruce Baille.  And Ken Jacobs.  I won't hold my breath.

For better or worse, these are the films that move me.  I once spoke with Broughton and Brakhage in Montreal -- they were walking out of a screening together -- and they asked me if I was a filmmaker.  I said, no, I just wrote about experimental film.  They both seemed so sympathetic and sad at that.

Brakhage didn't exactly say, "That's an even more difficult way to make a living than it is making experimental films," but something like it.  Maybe he simply said, "You poor thing."  No, that would have been Broughton to have said something like that, stroking my hair most likely.  They're both gone now.

My own YouTube collection, particularly the Baudrillard series (yousleep.blogspot.com), would probably do quite well at the Ann Arbor Film Festival... of thirty years ago.  So much for being avant-garde.

Sinéad

After the Russian mp3 site had been yanked, I stumbled onto what is probably its successor, mp3fiesta.com.  Albums are 99 cents, which costs less than the old site, but the selection is weaker.

Still, they got the new Sinéad O'Connor double set, Theology, so I snapped it down and returned the unopened CD to Best Buy.

I would never have cared much for the Irish bald one had I not seen her at Lollapalooza one year.  I think I was carrying Ernie on my shoulders; he was obviously too young to be there.  But we were enjoying the rock madness and when it came time for Sinéad's set, I got taken aback. I was unprepared for the volume and passion of this seemingly-diminuitive woman.  After her self-introduction and a few words about leisure and work, she stomped into her songs with pure voice and lyric (with no flailing of limbs or excessive animation), held tight, and never let go.

I've heard her music in a different way ever since.

On this new work -- which uses religious texts, including the Bible --  I especially like the cover of Jesus Christ Superstar's "I Don't Know How To Love Him," but that's the track most critics probably will disparage.  I don't care. 

Deadwords

People often spoke of the "Shakespearean" language in the HBO series, Deadwood, but I had ignored the series until recently.  No more Sopranos, welcome to Deadwood.  The first season finale is one of the best hours that such television has to offer.  The Sopranos were a metaphor for what we are today; Deadwood may be a metaphor of how we grew up to become Americans. 

Apart from the excellence of the acting and the wild west ambiance, it is indeed the language that makes this a superior program.  Whether historically correct or imaginatively invented, it delights one's sensibilities.  I would hope the subtitles do it justice.  I particularly like this because one of my pet peeves is period language that hasn't a clue.  So many movies about the 1960s through 1980s use language or gestures that had not yet fallen into the vernacular.  The black sports "based on a true story" movie, Pride, succumbs to this several times.  The young swimmers say and do things that didn't really happen until some twenty years later.  Bobby, about Kennedy's assassination, also lost me several times when people said and did things that rang false.  The costumes may have been researched, but the way people talk wasn't very well.  Happens all the time.

One of the best things about Zodiac, about the California serial killer, is the fact that it was painstakingly tweaked for authenticity, in look and word.  It's coming out on DVD soon.  Like Deadwood, I'll want to re-watch it, not for the story so much as for the careful re-creation of a time and place.

Summer Zen Again

new Colombian hammock busy doing nothing not even a poem meditation stretching out all morning blur breeze emptiness thank god is god breathing

nose job

Every doctor and dermatologist I called in town gave me basically the same story.  A hundred bucks to walk in the door (after I'd already paid $80 to go to the first doctor, who only wanted to refer me to a specialist).  Then, $175 for the biopsy on this inconsequential bump on my nose, not much more than a pimple that sort of comes and goes in a monthly cycle for the last six months.  Then, lab work would be sent out, with costs estimated between $500 and $1000.  It's pricey, the first secretary had told me.  Total: $1200 for the diagnosis.  Well, I already knew that it was possibly a basal cell carcinoma, according to Lee's health book.  I've been slathering it with aloe vera gel.  I believe in both self-diagnosis and self-medication.  If I weren't scared, I'd just cut it off myself.

Besides, I don't trust doctors.  When I went in for the first consultation, I also had Doctor Achmed look at a hemorrhoid that had popped out between the time I made the appointment and the visit.  In 50 odd years, I'd never had that problem before.  Was it dangerous?  No, he said.  But it won't go away, he said.  You'll have to have it removed.  He made another appointment with another specialist for surgery.

I didn't keep either appointment.  The hemorrhoid wasn't dangerous, it didn't bother me, and why bother, I thought.  

The thing is, it did go away when I was experiencing the healing effect of walking New York City streets.  The doctor was wrong.  Again.

But I thought maybe I should get the nose thing taken care of.  I needed another trip to Guatemala, where I was sure they'd be able to lop it off for a pittance.  Adding air fare and time off costs, it would be cheaper than having it done here.

Last entry in the Yellow Pages, an ad, Naresh Goel MD FACS, reads (verbatim) "Removal of Skin GROWTHS, CYSTS, MOLES, WARTS, TAGS, CANCER, etc of face, scalp, nose, eyelids, lips, ears, mouth, etc. etc. DONE IN OUR OFFICE WITH PRECISION"

An irresistible appeal.  I call.  I'm driving through the country, my arms covered with white, pasty zinc oxide, stuffing tubes and talking on the phone.  The woman who answers the phone is very informative.  One day a month, they offer a free clinic for those without health insurance, a diagnosis with no charge.  Then, if they deign to remove something (on second appointment), it might be in the neighborhood of $200.  Cheaper than Guatemala, alas.

"I want to make two appointments," I tell her.  One for me and one for Lee, who has had a large skin tag sticking out of her swimming suit on her buttocks for the last year.  I tried to tie it off with a string, but it didn't seem to help.

I called Lee and told her to mark her appointment book.

"Is it two-for-one day?"  she asked.

"Yes," I told her.  "They will put my nose next to your bottom and do us both at once."

Actually, it's all a ruse to put my proboscis in near proximity to her posterior.

So, now I feel better and actually am looking forward to the appointment, potentially a healing adventure almost as good as a dip in Lake Atitlan.

Les Cousins

C'est Gregoire et Jan.
They are first cousins.
They once traveled to Greece together, to Mykonos, where Jan met her future husband on clothing-optional Paradise beach.
Gregoire hitchhiked back to Europe on his own.
They have many stories.

looking north to the U.S.

The American Wall

 

I have seen and touched the American Wall

made of upended railroad rails, rusty military surplus steel -

backed up on the American side

by bright, bright stadium lights.

 

If the wall is ever finished not much can flow north

not festivals, celebrations, central parks

 

A Mexican restaurant owner near the wall

told me she did not mind the fence.

The north bound migrant traffic through her restaurant

is the same.  She said.

"Takes them 5 minutes to go over with ropes.

But I dislike the bright lights,

I do miss being able to see the stars at night."

 

Not sunshine and warm beaches,

Not music and community dance

The wall with Canada will be virtual, they say,

High-tech towers and infrared sensors.

The enemy swarmed over the Great Wall of China,

Hadrian's wall in UK overrun in 367,

Maginot Line breached easily, Israeli walls on the West bank

destroyed a peace process,

and the Berlin Wall:  "Mr. Gorbeschev, tear down that wall"

(Wild cheering)

 

Not saints' days or holy pilgrimages,

Not the joy of a different world,

but if America stops the flow of the poor,

what will they say in church?

"Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven?"

And who will pick the strawberries in the hot sun?

 

But I want a wall.  

A wall so high that even Santa Clause cannot pass south

leaving only Midnight Mass,

nine days of posadas, Christmas candles -

a wall so high that only poets, scholars, and humble people

can fly over.

Quentin Kirk, somewhere in Mexico

Chat with Andres

1:13 PM  Andres: hola

  ase rato no hablabamos

 me: si estoy aqui por fin podemos charlar

  como estas?

1:14 PM entiendo que quizas usted va a quedar un poco mas en alemania?

 Andres: jeje

  no ya no

   pensaba estudiar

  pero sale dificil

  pero ahora estoy haciendo papeles para en un ano probar

1:15 PM me: bien

  hablaba con israel y loraci un poco recentemente

   hay tantos problemas alla, con el carro, con otras cosas

1:16 PM  aqui en la iglesia pensamos en como podemos asistir en obtener otro carro, pero cuestan tanto

1:17 PM  Andres: si

  los problemas alla estan grbes.

  pero yo tampoco se muzcho de ellos.

  yo estoy estudiando mucho por q tengo q escribir un previo en dos semanas.

1:18 PM el examen de aleman aver como esta mi idioma.

  me: en dos semanas? y como esta la idioma en estos dias?

   el idioma

1:19 PM mejor que antes, creo...

  quizas usted puede ir a bogota y con la ayuda de los pastores que conocemos alla, puede encontrar un carro mas barrato que los carros en bucaramanga

1:20 PM Andres : si

  yo presento el examen el 19 de este mes.

  y el 20 de agosto viajo de nuevo para colombia.

1:21 PM me: ojala que yo pude ir a colombia para saludarte alla... imposible...

1:22 PM Andres: por q?

  depronto yo balla para usa

 me: muy bien. es bienvenido.

1:23 PM Andres: si

  gracias.

   porq el examen q presento ahorita es para el certificado q quiero tener.

  me: yo, no tengo dinero y tengo que trabajar cada dia...

  Andres: si logro tenerlo.

   dejo de estudiar aleman y empieso con ingles.

1:24 PM  me: OK then, we can start right now.

   a is for apple.

  Andres: yo tampoco, tengo dinero y yo tengo mucho menos q tu.

  me: verdad.

  Andres: pero aqui estoy.

   gracias ala iglecia a mi familia a ti, y mis tios

1:25 PM gracias a dios yo he recibido muchas bendiciones.

 me: es un gran placer para nosotros que usted puede ir a alemania

 Andres : y trabajando cada bes q puedo.

  gracias.

  ahora hago tambien un curso de guitarra.

 me: que bueno

 Andres: para aprobechar el tiempo.

1:26 PM me: y canta tambien? los vallenatos?

  es el dia de independencia aqui en los estados unidos.

  Andres: jajajajja

 me: jajaja

1:27 PM Andres: si pero es muy dificil.

 me: quiero oirte cantar

 Andres: el ballenato necesita muchos acordes

  jejeje yo creo q no querras despues de empesar

  me: es dia de fiesta. no hacemos nada. comemos mucho. estoy tomando guarapo en este minuto... pues, es cerveza.

1:28 PM jajaja

  Andres: jejeje

1:29 PM  yo tengo ya tanto tiempo sin guarapo

  ni panela

  ni la yuca q aqui no existe

  todo eso hace falta

1:30 PM  me: si, entiendo.

   pero es posible vivir en alemania sin tomar cerveza?

  Andres: jjejejeje

   no

 me : jejejejejejejejje

  Andres: yo he tomado mas aqui q en colombia

  me: claro

1:31 PM  Andres: aqui es mas barata y hay muchisimas

   cerbesas no!!!!!!!!!!!

  sin malpensar

  jejejej

 me: no es un borracho ahora, verdad?

1:32 PM Andres: jajaja

  nbo

   claro q no

 me : en la iglesia, el domingo que viene, yo voy a hablar un poco de las noticias de colombia y de usted, tambien

   no es chiste

1:33 PM  Andres: uhy

  me: de veras tengo que presentar algo

  Andres: por favor muchos saludes

  me: ok, si

  Andres: uedo yo ayudarte en algo?

   algo q pueda averiguar para ti?

  yo tengo q llamar ala casa manana. asi q pregunto.

1:34 PM me : pues, si. despues de hablar con la familia, escribame cuales noticias y saludos hay...

1:35 PM  Andres: bueno

  yo tengo q irme ya.

  lo ciento

 me: no hay problema.

 Andres: ya es tarde para mi, y no estoy cerca dela casa.

  pero fue muy chebere hablarte

   yo te cuento q ahy de nuevo.

1:36 PM y pregunto mucho

 me: pues, estoy pensando de ti

 Andres : y estare conectandome el jueves en la noche.

  me: muy bien.

  Andres: chao

  me: chao

Trailer Life 1972