That Time, Again

The Persistence of Memory - Salvador Dali

Happy New Year! ¡Feliz Año Nuevo! 

It's that time again when time marches on at the speed of light, waiting for no one, and there's no time out.  Which somehow reminds me of a music mix I put together for Christmas, 2000.  Yes, before 9/11, COVID, Trump, weather psychosis, and several other harbingers of dystopian catastrophes.  It seems so long ago, and yet like it was only yesterday.  The CD turned out to be a nostalgic, elegiac, even sentimental review of the big questions we all ask but never really answer - like what's it all about, and what happens next?

Here's part of what I wrote for liner notes to the CD, which I entitled This Time.

"Son los años.  The problem really is one of too much material.  May I recommend three fairly recent collections that deserve attention:  Los Lobos - This Time; Van Morrison - Back on Top; and Bob Dylan - Time Out of Mind.  All about time, and lack of time, and time outs, and time after time, and time heals, and time will tell and -- you get the idea.  Oh yeah, and any version of Puño de Tierra .... And what about In My Life by the Beatles?"

This is the list of songs I finally chose for the CD (followed by five video selections from the list.)

This Time - Los Lobos

Time Has Come Today - Chambers Brothers

Time is On My Side - Rolling Stones

This Time - Troy Shondell

Funny How Time Slips Away - Al Green and Lyle Lovett

I Fooled You This Time - Gene Chandler

Let the Good Times Roll - Shirley and Lee

Years from Now - Jackie Wilson

(Night Time is) The Right Time - Ray Charles

Sleepy Time Down South - Louis Armstrong

Summertime - Billie Holiday

Time Out for Tears - Helen Humes

Now's the Time - Charley Parker's Ree Boppers

'Round Midnight - Miles Davis Quintet

Take Five - Dave Brubeck Quartet

Midnight Blues - Bessie Smith

Three Hours Past Midnight - Johnny "Guitar" Watson

First Time I Met the Blues - Buddy Guy

In Time - Sly and the Family Stone

The Times They Are A-Changin' - Bob Dylan

Seriously, my wish for you is a happy, healthy, creative, and prosperous 2022.

Later.

__________________________________

Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction. His latest novel is Angels in the Wind.

Chicanonautica: Taibo’s ‘68

by Ernest Hogan

Real life goes beyond the horrors of fictional dystopias. ‘68: The Mexican Autumn of the Tlatelolco Massacre, Paco Ignacio Taibo II’s memoir of the 1968 student movement in Mexico City that ends in the Tlatelolco massacre makes all the YA dystopias of the last decades look lame, and the characters are far more interesting. 1984 was a long time ago. Fahrenheit 451 is a nightmare for bookworms. Hunger Games? Back in the 1970s, as a teenager, I had to sign up for a lottery where I could have been sent off to a real life war . . .

I first encountered the writing of Paco Ignacio Taibo II on the campus of the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. I was just visiting, a turista. In some outdoor halls students were selling used books. There were some magazines with the words ciencia ficción. I got excited. On closer examination, they were two special issues of Comunidad CONACYT, the magazine of Consejo Nacional de Ciencia y Tecnología, that were devoted to science fiction. I bought them.

They were mostly articles about American science fiction, and the authors were quite knowledgeable. The language barrier is also a one-way mirror–they can see our side, we can’t see theirs. But there were also stories by Latin American authors. One that impressed me the most was by Paco Ignacio Taibo II–it was about the future of Mexico, and was quite dystopian, and rooted in and inspired by, reality.

Since then I have sought out more of Taibo’s works, and have not been disappointed, from his novels about detective Héctor Belascorarián Shayne, to his historical, and political nonfiction. I highly recommend him.

‘68 is short, but packed with juicy substance. It probably shouldn’t be read fast. A lot happens in each, brief chapter. More than you’ll find in a lot of fat novels.

He had meant to write a novel about the subject, but couldn’t. It probably would have been too much. And there's no romance, no happy endings, and the devastating ending, which after all is a massacre . . .

And the powers that be keep trying to erase it, which is the dystopian way.

Which is strange in this world where dystopia is a subgenre of escapist entertainment, youthful revolution is the stuff of video games, and people think everything is fake.

But then real revolutions happen in extreme slow motion, over decades, not in street brawls, but in the often dull places where laws, and minds are changed. 

As Taibo put it: Demythification is not the only option. Another is remythication.

It’s all about messing with mythologies. 

In the meantime, I recommend ‘68 to readers of Silvia Moreno-Garica’s excellent bestseller Velvet was the Night, to provide some context.

Ernest Hogan’s new story “Incident in the Global Barrio” will soon appear in El Porvenir, ¡Ya! Citlalzazanilli Mexicatl Chicano Science Fiction Anthology. ¡Chicano sci-fi refuses to die! ¡Viva Zazaismo!

El Brindis del Bohemio

English translation below

El Brindis del Bohemio- 1915

Guillermo Aguirre y Fierro

En torno de una mesa de cantina,

una noche de invierno,

regocijadamente departían

seis alegres bohemios.

Los ecos de sus risas escapaban

y de aquel barrio quieto

iban a interrumpir el imponente

y profundo silencio.

El humo de olorosos cigarrillos

en espirales se elevaba al cielo,

simbolizando al resolverse en nada

la vida de los sueños.

Pero en todos los labios había risas,

inspiración en todos los cerebros,

y repartidas en la mesa,

copas pletóricas de ron, whisky o ajenjo.

Era curioso ver aquel conjunto,

de aquel grupo bohemio,

del que brotaba la palabra chusca,

la que vierte veneno,

lo mismo que melosa y delicada,

la música de un verso.

A cada nueva libación, las penas

hallábanse más lejos del grupo

y nueva inspiración llegaba

a todos los cerebros

con el idilio roto que venía

en alas del recuerdo.

Olvidaba decir que aquella noche,

aquel grupo bohemio

celebraba entre risas, libaciones,

chascarrillos y versos,

la agonía de un año que amarguras

dejó en todos los pechos,

y la llegada, consecuencia lógica,

del feliz año nuevo...

Una voz varonil dijo de pronto:

¡Las 12, compañeros!

Digamos el requiescat por el año

que ha pasado a formar entre los muertos.

¡Brindemos por el año que comienza!

porque nos traiga ensueños;

porque no sea su equipaje un cúmulo

de amargos desconsuelos.

Brindo, -dijo otra voz-, por la esperanza

que a la vida nos lanza,

de vencer los rigores del destino,

por la esperanza, nuestra dulce amiga

que las penas mitiga

y convierte en vergel nuestro camino.

Brindo, porque ya hubiese a mi existencia

puesto fin con violencia

esgrimiendo en mi frente mi venganza,

si en mi cielo de tul limpio y divino

no alumbrara mi sino

una estrella brillante: "Mi Esperanza".

¡Bravo!, -dijeron todos-, inspirado

esta noche has estado

y hablaste breve, bueno y sustancioso.

El turno es de Raúl; alce su copa

y brinde por... Europa,

ya que su extranjerismo es delicioso...

Bebo y brindo, -clamó el interpelado-,

brindo por mi pasado,

que fue de luz, de amor y de alegría,

en el que hubo mujeres tentadoras

y frentes soñadoras

que se juntaron a la frente mía...

Brindo por el ayer que en la amargura

que hoy cubre de negrura

mi corazón, esparce sus consuelos,

trayendo hasta mi mente las dulzuras

de goces, de ternuras, de amores

de delicias, de desvelos.

Yo brindo, -dijo Juan-, porque en mi mente

brote un torrente

de inspiración divina y seductora,

porque vibren en las cuerdas de mi lira

el verso que suspira,

que sonríe, que canta y que enamora.

Brindo porque mis versos cual saetas

lleguen hasta las grietas

formadas de metal y de granito,

del corazón de la mujer ingrata

que a desdenes me mata...

¡Pero que tiene un cuerpo muy bonito!

Porque a su corazón llegue mi canto,

porque sequen mi llanto

sus manos que me causan embelesos,

porque con creces mi pasión me pague...

¡Vamos! porque me embriague

con el divino néctar de sus besos.

Siguió la tempestad de frases vanas,

de aquellas tan humanas

que hayan en todas partes acomodo,

y en cada frase de entusiasmo ardiente,

hubo ovación creciente,

y libaciones y reír y todo.

Se brindó por la Patria, por las flores,

por los castos amores

que hacen un valladar de una ventana,

y por esas pasiones voluptuosas

que el fango del placer llena de rosas

y hacen de la mujer la cortesana.

Solo faltaba un brindis, el de Arturo,

el del bohemio puro

de noble corazón y gran cabeza;

de aquel que sin ambages

declaraba que solo ambicionaba

robarle inspiración a la tristeza.

Por todos estrechado alzó la copa

frente a la alegre tropa

desbordante de risa y de contento.

los inundó en la luz de su mirada,

sacudió su melena alborotada

y dijo así, con inspirado acento:

Brindo por la mujer, más no por esa

en la que hayáis consuelo en la tristeza

rescoldo del placer ¡Desventurados!;

no por esa que os brinda sus hechizos

cuando besáis sus rizos

artificiosamente perfumados.

Yo no brindo por ella, compañeros,

siento por esta vez no complaceros;

brindo por la Mujer, ¡pero por Una!

por la que me brindó sus embelesos

y me envolvió en sus besos:

por la mujer que me meció en la cuna.

Por la mujer que me enseñó de niño

lo que vale el cariño

exquisito, profundo y verdadero;

por la mujer que me arrulló en sus brazos

y que me dio en pedazos,

uno por uno, el corazón entero.

¡Por mi Madre bohemios!

Por la anciana que piensa en el mañana,

como en algo muy dulce y muy deseado;

porque sueña tal vez, que mi destino

me señala el camino

por el que volveré muy pronto a su lado.

Por la anciana adorada y bendecida,

por la que con su sangre me dio vida

y ternura y cariño;

por la que fue la luz del alma mía

y lloró de alegría

sintiendo mi cabeza en su corpiño.

¡Por ella brindo yo!

dejad que llore y en lágrimas desflore

esta pena letal que me asesina;

dejad que brinde por mi madre ausente,

por la que sufre y siente

que mi ausencia es un fuego que calcina.

Por la anciana infeliz que sufre y llora

y que del cielo implora,

que vuelva yo muy pronto a estar con ella;

por mi Madre, bohemios,

que es dulzura vertida en la amargura

y de mis negras noches es mi estrella...

El bohemio calló.

Ningún acento profanó el sentimiento

nacido del dolor y la ternura,

y pareció que sobre aquel ambiente

flotaba inmensamente...,

Un poema de amor y de amargura.

***

A Bohemian Toast

Translated by Heart Bitz

Written by Guillermo Aguirre y Fierro

Around a cantina table

on a winter’s night

rejoicefully were sharing

six happy bohemians.

The echos of their laughter were escaping

and, from that quiet town

they were going to interrupt the imposing

and profund silence.

The smoke of aromatic cigarettes

in spirals was raising to the sky

symbolizing, as it dissipated into nothing

the life of dreams... the dreams of life.

I neglected to tell you, in that evening

this bohemian group

among laughter and sorrow, were celebrating

the happy arrival of the new year.

Suddenly, a manly voice said

It is Midnight, comrades

Let us all toast for the year

that has become part of the Dead.

Let us toast to the year that starts

May it brings us sweet dreams

not sour grief

Let us toast this time to the hope

that Life throws at us and the pains alleviate.

I toast that, in my existence

already riddled with violence and vengeance

if, in my heaven, from yours – clean and divine

would shine but

a star … my hope.

I drink and toast to my past,

which was of light,

of love, and happiness,

and in which the gorgeous foreheads

of seductive ladies

had joined mine.

I toast to Yesterday that, with sorrow

today covers with darkness my poor heart

scatters its comfort

bringing into my mind the sweetness

of joy, of tenderness, of good fortune, and concerns.

I toast that in my mind

sprout a torrent of divine inspiration,

that the chords of my lyre vibrate

the verse that yearns, sings, and fall in love.

I toast that my verses

reach the center of the woman that I love

for that with interest my passion pays off

for that I get intoxicated with the nectar of her kisses.

Continued the barrage of meaningless phrases

of those so human

and, after each phrase of ardent enthusiasm

applause would grow.

They toasted to the Motherland, to the flowers

to the chaste loves and to heated passions

that fill with roses the mud of pleasure.

Only one toast was missing, Arturo’s

the pure bohemian of noble Heart

he stated that he only wanted

to steal the inspiration from Sadness.

And this way he spoke, with inspired intensity.

I toast to the woman, yet not to the one

in which you find solace in sadness

not to the one that gives us her charms

when you kiss her soft and scented curls.

I do not toast to her … No, comrades

Sorry that this time I don’t please you

I toast to the woman, but only to one

to the one that offered me delights

and engulfed me with her kisses.

I toast to the woman that tucked me in the crib.

I toast to the woman that taught me from childhood

the value of profound and truthful love

I toast to the woman who cuddled me in her arms

and that bit by bit gave me her entire heart.

To that golden and blessed old lady

that with her blood she offered me life

to the one that was the light of my soul.

today I toast to my Mother, to my darling Mother.

To that sad old woman that lives and cries

and to Heavens implores that I return

to my Mother, bohemians, who is the sweetness

poured into my sorrow and, in this night, a star

who wishes that I soon be with her.

The bohemian became silent

and not a word spoiled the sentiment

born from pain and tenderness

and it appeared that, over that atmosphere,

was immensely floating …

A Poem of Love and Sorrow.