Thursday, January 08, 2009

Words to Live By


Poetry is the universal language which the heart holds with nature and itself
William Hazlitt

Poetry must have something in it that is barbaric, vast and wild.
Denis Diderot

Poetry, whose material is language, is perhaps the most human and least worldly of the arts, the one in which the end product remains closest to the thought that inspired it.
Hannah Arendt

Poetry
makes nothing happen.
It survives
in the valley of its saying.
Maxine Kumin

Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.
Dennis Gabor

Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. It lays the foundations for a future of change, a bridge across our fears of what has never been before.
Audre Lorde




To help kick off the poetic year, I would like to feature ACHIOTE PRESS




Achiote: a shrub or small tree indigenous to Central and South America. Introduced to the Pacific and Asia by the Spanish in the 17th century, Achiote now has firm transnational roots. Achiote produces pink flowers and red spiny seed pods. Peoples have used the seeds as a dye for clothing, arts and crafts, as body paint in times of war and celebration, as spice and coloring for food.

The editorial board named the press after the Achiote tree because they believe poetry has the very same powers to enrich our surroundings, inspire our passions, enhance our senses, and heal our wounds.
Achiote represents the unrepresentable, transnational, migratory, and adaptive. Achiote Press asks what it means to bear witness, to use adaptation as resistance, to cross borders, to map ourselves onto a dislocated world, to speak in exile, and to suffer diasporic hunger.

Achiote Press was founded in 2006. Every season, they publish two chapbooks: a single-author chapbook and a chap-journal featuring poetry, prose, essay, or translation by authors from diverse cultural and aesthetic backgrounds. In addition, we publish special project chapbooks, including chap-anthologies and collaborative work.


The press is not currently reading manuscripts. Please query if you would like to be considered your poetry or your artwork for a future issue.
Achiote Press is located in Berkeley, California.

Craig Perez, Editor

Jennifer Reimer, Editor
Jason Buchholz, Art Director



Ballast (excerpt below)


Ballast IV: Flung Out Like A Fag-End

The ships that sank never really stood
a chance; the captured in the holds, less.
In water, gravity numbed at the cost of oxygen
made their breaths catch for a taste
of weightlessness; space, centuries before
the Buzz became news. Odd, how we explore
the high and deep, rarely the middle - that belt
of rarefied air which balloons occupy, where
the brutal cargo would have avoided the fury
of waves. Battered, at worst, by hurricanes, there
was still the likelihood of a short period of calm
at the axis - a respite from evil winds - before
the centrifugal drag of the eye wall: a flutter of
freed bodies floating to the ends of the world
to feather new nests, a basket falling, an envelope
drifting, a fire augmenting the speed of migration
from Africa beyond a fast-fingered jazz solo, minus
the 500 years of insult: in the bodies, fire;
in the basket, gifts; in the envelope, odds on whether
the seeds of the scattered would have avoided Katrina
- the dancing wind that exposed the unchanging water
-borne illness of prejudice caught in the holds of
the ships that made it across the sky's reflection two
centuries before the eerie shimmer of a hot air balloon.


Ballast X: Final Cries

If the river cries blood, it is not the sun's
reflection rosy beneath a retiring light, it is
not riverside berries, betrayed by skins too gorged
to contain the sweetness of their juice. It is not
a dream. It is our forebears, battered and branded by gain-
seekers, dripping iron, rusting, as they hover tethered
in baskets strung to sun-shaped fabrics that consume
fire to rise above the desire for freedom. Their voices -
like them - know nothing of the borders to come, slip
between clouds to metamorphose into birdsong. They
inhabit the air, absorb its language by osmosis, observe
its scattering versatility - the way it hisses and dances.
Some escape, diving into the spaces where hurricanes are
sown, to learn the equations that govern pressure; how
the cold air is enough to make them pop like champagne
bottles on ice. The fliers bequeath the inheritance of falling
gracefully; a blessing for dancers, a curse in love. Yet
in the end the method matters little. The sea being mirror
to the blue of the skies, the ship is the genetic cousin
of the balloon - both anchored to the Xs of density,
surface area and flotation. The question is of ballast,
that which gives weight to the ship, balloon, story; and this
interpretation is a vessel to reclaim the history of love, a history
of hatred, discrimination, survival, science, music... language.



Nii Ayikwei Parkes is a writer of poetry, prose and articles, and author of the poetry chapbooks: eyes of a boy, lips of a man (1999) and M is for Madrigal (2004), a selection of seven jazz poems. A former associate writer-in-residence for BBC Radio 3, and writer-in-residence at California State University, Los Angeles, he is also the Senior Editor at flipped eye publishing - where he has overseen the production of four award-winning titles. Nii is the current International Writing Fellow at the University of Southampton and his debut novel, Tail of the Blue Bird, will be released in June 2009 by Jonathan Cape.


Cover art by Ketzia Schoneberg. Ketzia Schoneberg creates portraits of individuals of other species in order to show the viewer a mirror - an image of the earthy, biological and spiritual origins we share with other creatures. She does not sketch before beginning a painting; when entering the studio she doesn't know beforehand what her subject or palette will be. This approach keeps her work honest both technically and energetically. She uses live models and photographs as starting points for all of her work. Ketzia's educational background includes undergraduate work at the San Francisco Art Institute, art studies at Kibbutz Yavne in Israel, a BFA from San Francisco State University and graduate work at New Mexico State University. She has been showing her work nationally for over 15 years, and makes her home in Oregon. View more of Ketzia's work online at www.ketzia.com.



Teaching Thinking


Hugo García Manríquez. Author of two books, No Oscuro Todavia, (2005), and Los Materiales (2008). His work has appeared in Mandorla, Damn the Caesars, New American Writing, and others. His translation of William Carlos Williams' poem, Paterson, will be published in Mexico next year.

Originally from Strasbourg, France, François Luong currently lives in San Francisco. Other work of his has appeared or is forthcoming in Cannibal, Parthenon West Review, New American Writing, Mirage #4/Period(ICAL), and elsewhere. He is also working on a translation into English of Chutes, Essais, Trafics by Rémi Froger and into French of Wide Slumber for Lepidopterists by A. Rawlings.

Evie Shockley is the author of A Half-Red Sea (2006) and two chapbooks,31 words * prose poems (2007) and The Gorgon Goddess (2001). Her poetry and critical pieces appear in numerous journals and anthologies, recently including Foursquare, The Southern Review, No Tell Motel, Ecotone, PMS: poemmemoirstory, The Ringing Ear: Black Poets Lean South, Mixed Blood, Center, and Jacket. She currently serves as co-guest editor (with Cathy Park Hong) of Jubilat. A Cave Canem graduate fellow and recipient of a Hedgebrook residency, Shockley teaches African American literature and creative writing at Rutgers University, New Brunswick.

Roberto Harrison edits Crayon with Andrew Levy and the Bronze Skull Press chapbook series. Two full-length collections of his work appeared in 2006: Counter Daemons (Litmus) and Os (subpress). Elemental Song, a chapbook, also appeared in 2006 through Answer Tag Home Press. Recent work can be found in Chicago Review, Brooklyn Rail, Court Green, War & Peace 3: The Future, Cannot Exist, and string of small machines.

Cover art by Mary V. Marsh. Mary V. Marsh has exhibited paintings, drawings and artist books in many venues, including solo shows at the San Jose Museum of Art, Berkeley Art Center, and the San Francisco Public Library. She received an MFA from the San Francisco Art Institute in 1992. Old library books and checkout cards are reconstructed to explore memory, propaganda, and consumer society.

Lisa Alvarado

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Pelé King of Soccer/ Pelé el rey del fútbol


By Monica Brown
Illustrated by Rudy Gutierrez


Do you know how a poor boy from Brazil who loved fútbol more than anything else became the biggest soccer star the world has ever known? Turn the pages of this book to read the true life story of Pelé, King of Soccer, the first man in the history of the sport to score a thousand goals and become a living legend. Rudy Gutiérrez's dynamic illustrations make award-winning author Monica Brown's story of this remarkable sports hero truly come alive!

¿Sabes cómo un niño brasileño pobre que amaba el fútbol más que nada en el mundo se convirtió en la estrella más importante del deporte? Lee este relato y entérate de la historia de Pelé, El rey del fútbol; el primer hombre en la historia del deporte capaz de marcar mil goles y convertirse en una leyenda viva. Las dinámicas ilustraciones de Rudy Gutiérrez destacan vívidamente los momentos recreados por la escritora premiada Mónica Brown en este extraordinario libro.


About the Author

Award-winning author Monica Brown is a super soccer fan whose junior high school coach once nicknamed her Bigfoot! She lives in Flagstaff, Arizona, with her husband and two soccer-playing daughters.

La autora premiada Monica Brown es una súper fanática del fútbol, cuyo entrenador de la escuela secundaria le dio el apodo "¡Piegrande!". Ella vive en Flagstaff, Arizona con su marido y sus dos hijas, que también juegan al fútbol.



Criticas Magazine interviewed Monica

Monica Brown—The Bilingual Biographer
by Adriana Domínguez -- Críticas, 12/15/2008

Since winning the America’s Award for Children’s Literature in 2004 for My name is Celia/Me llamo Celia (Luna Rising, 2004)—her bilingual biography of singing legend Celia Cruz—Monica Brown has quickly become the children’s bilingual biographer of choice.

Read the complete interview at www.criticasmagazine.com


Writing from the Root:
An Exploration of Contemplative Writing



with Alicia Vogl Saenz & Debra Dysart

Shambhala Meditation Center of Los Angeles
963 Colorado Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90041
323-255-5472
http://www.la.shambhala.org/index.php

January 28, February 4, February 11 /7:30 PM - 9:30 PM
Donation: $40 for the series or $15 per class

“First thought, best thought” springs from a clear, processed mind. When “first thought” comes from discursive thought, then it is just confused. Arising from the ground of meditation, “first thought” is clear mind and open sky. The writing emerges from the spaciousness of the present moment.

This class will explore the connection between meditation practice and writing. Each class will intersperse meditation or contemplation with playful and exploratory writing exercises. No previous writing or meditation experience is necessary. Meditation instruction will be given.

Alicia Vogl Sáenz is a student and practitioner of Shambhala Buddhism. Her poetry has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies and she is the author of a chapbook. Alicia was in residence at Hedgebrook in 2002 and is a member of Macondo, a writing community founded by Sandra Cisneros. She is currently on staff in the Education Department at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, where she programs for families and teens.

Debra Dysart fortuitously stumbled onto the path of Shambhala Buddhism 12 years ago and has been engaged in study and practice ever since. She is a graduate of Shambhala Training, Sacred Path, and Shambhala Art and has attended Warrior Assembly and Sutrayana Seminary. Her livelihood is in nonprofit development for the arts where she works every day at practicing meditation in action.

For more information or to register:

http://www.la.shambhala.org/index.php



2008 New Mexico Book Awards Winners




Children’s Picture Book
Red Truck (Viking Children’s Books) — Kersten Hamilton

Children’s Activity Book
New Mexico A to Z (Enchantment Lane Publications) — Jill Lane
READdiscover New Mexico (Sunstone Press) — Kathy Barco

Young Readers Book
Loco Dog and the Dust Devil in the Railyard (AZRO Press) — Marcy Heller

Juvenile Book
From Slave to Superstar of the Wild West (Legends of the West Publishing) — Tom DeMund

Young Adult Book
Lawn Boy (Random House) — Gary Paulsen

Anthropology
Chaco Astronomy (Ocean Tree Books) — Anna Sofaer

Anthology Book
Peace Beyond All Fear: A Tribute to John Denver’s Vision (Petals & Pages Press) — Hank Bruce

Arts Book
Southwestern Indian Jewelry (Rizzoli New York) — Dexter Cirillo
Talking with the Clay (SAR Press) — Stephen Trimble

Biography
Into the Devils Den (Ballantine Books) — Dave Hall & Tim Burkey

Business Book
The Keyword Tutorial Ebook (Feathered Soul Press) — Hope Kiah

Cookbook
Cuisines of the Southwest (Golden West Publishers) — Dave DeWitt
Red or Green (Clearlight Publishers) — Clyde Casey

Gardening Book
Ma Frump’s Guide to Plastic Gardening (Sunstone Press) — Marcia Muth

Health Book
Working Like Dogs: The Service Dog Guidebook (Alpine Publications) — Marcie Davis & Melissa Bunnell

History Book
A Peculiar Alchemy (SAR Press) — Nancy Owen Lewis & Kay Leigh Hagan

Nature/Environment
Bearing Witness: 25 Years of Refuge (La Alameda Press) — Lou Liberty & Margy O’Brien

New Age Book
Soul Oriented Solutions (Soul Resources) — Rheanni Lightwater

Parenting/Family Issues
Syra’s Scribbles (PublishAmerica) — Syra Divine

Political Book
Your Money and Your Life (AU Publishing) — Martha Burk

Reference Book
Decoding Design (HOW Books) — Maggie MacNab

Religious Book
Saints of the Pueblos (Rio Grande Books) — Charles Carrillo

Self-help Book
Dying: A Natural Passage (Three Whales Publishers) — Denys Cope

Travel Book
Backroads & Byways of New Mexico (The Countryman Press) — Sally Moore

Multi-cultural Subject
Patterns of Exchange (University of Oklahoma Press) — Teresa Wilkins

Other Nonfiction
New Mexico: Biographical Dictionary Vol. II (Rio Grande Books) — Don Bullis

Adventure or Drama Novel
Avenging Victorio (Rio Grande Books) — Dave DeWitt

Historical Fiction/Novel
Arizona War (La Frontera Publishing) — Melody Groves
Bell County Bushwhackers (Outskirts Press) — Dave Bushmire

Mystery/Suspense Novel
Turquoise Girl (Forge/Macmillan) — Aimee and David Thurlo

Romance Novel
Annie’s Song (Whiskey Creek Press) — Sabra Steinsiek

Science Fiction & Fantasy
The MoonQuest (Light Lines Media) — Mark David Gerson

Other Fiction
The Pageant Unveiled (Infinity Publishing) — Lucretia Tippit

Poetry Book
Graven Images (Sunstone Press) — Mike Sutin
The Seasons of Yes (Sunstone Press) — Lorraine Schechter

First Book
Our Favorite Recipes (Rio Grande Books) — Albuquerque The Magazine
The Road from La Cueva (Sunstone Press) — Sheila Ortego

People’s Choice
Milagro Beanfield War (Holt Paperbacks) — John Nichols

Best of Show
Into the Devils Den (Ballantine Books) — Dave Hall & Tim Burkey

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Review: Houston, We Have a Problema

Michael Sedano

Gwendolyn Zepeda. NY: Grand Central Publishing, 2009.
ISBN: 9780446698528

Any time I read a novel about singlehood and all that implies about sex, romance, youth, careers, I am glad to be old and out of all that. What a harrowing experience to be a 26-year old single woman making exceedingly bad decisions about virtually everything that comes her way.

But then, a woman reader might take the story in a different light than a retired man. In fact, I'd recommend Houston, We Have a Problema to single men just because of that difference in perspective.

Meet Jessica Luna, men. She's easy and hot to trot. All you need is a good line and a sexy body and Jessica is in your bed on the first date. Actually, it's not even a date when Jessica falls into Guillermo's bed. Guillermo has a few things going for him. He's a painter, Jessica's an Art History major with a knack for web design. She's filled with frustration in a dead-end clerical job in the insurance business. And, although Jessica doesn't recognize the resemblance, in many ways Guillermo is a clone of her father, in the worst ways.

Meet Jessica Luna, women. Confused about her ethnicity, loves her tacos, struggles with a body image problema, resents her mother's and older sister's meddling, and finds herself attracted to bad men because, as Cindy Lauper put it once, girls just want to have fun.

Gwendolyn Zepeda plays Jessica like Shakespeare's flies to wanton boys, torturing Jessica for sport. But makes a point when the chips are down. When sister sets up a cute meet with a successful executive, Jessica falls right into the trap, but with comedic results. Jonathan has all the tools that lure Jessica--car, money, connections--but he's traditional and reluctant to take the first step. Fearing rejection by someone with her looks and allure, Jonathan doesn't recognize that Jessica has the hots for him. When she gets him into her apartment and they begin to undress, his cat allergy acts up and he flees from her grasp.

Jessica's parents have been married too long without talking, just playing their roles. Papi takes his wife for granted. La Señora feels unappreciated and resents her husband's indifference. Thirty years of marriage begin to unravel and the sisters watch helplessly, the older daughter taking the mother's side, her father's little girl sticking with Papi.

Zepeda deftly brings the conflicts up as a slap in the face to Jessica who begins to see her father's racism against whites in her own push-pull attraction to Jonathan, a bolillo like her sister's husband and friends. "You're such a cocoanut" Jessica tells her sister. The Mexicano artist, Guillermo, takes Jessica for granted just as Papi does Mami. The artist neglects Jessica for weeks on end, doesn't call until he wants sex, then resumes the pattern of indifference. When Jessica realizes how history is repeating itself, she liberates herself from the mess and becomes, finally, her own person.

There's only one oddity about the ethnicity schism that adds some life to the story, the single instance of the word "Chicano" in the text. Zepeda scatters the "Latin" label here and there--no "Hispanics" in Houston. Jessica tells a confidante, "that's how it is when you date Latinos. Dramatic. Spicy. Exciting." Jessica's childhood friend is a gay guy who takes her clubbing. Describing the dance floor, Jessica observes the shitkicker outfits on the men, and women dancing with women, then specifically notes "Young Chicanos in the latest fashions spun and shimmied on tabletops." Is that a Texas thing?

Houston, We Have a Problema is neither complicated nor earth-shaking as a novel. Readers who enjoy the sucias novels will find this one agreeable. Still, there's plenty here for a male reader wound up in dating angst to buck up, take courage, and glean a soupçon of understanding that will reduce that looming fear of women and rivals. Anyone can simply allow Zepeda to lead you along to the mostly happy ending and a few hours' diverting reading. The extensive book club material at the end might be useful to see the novel as more than a mere confection.


Not mierda, character!

In his Monday post, Daniel Olivas has a character declare a certain Frida Kahlo work a piece of shit. Now, I know, it's only fiction, but I cannot allow such a remark to go unchallenged, for two reasons. Three. First, I like the original, "Las Dos Fridas" that Daniel's character so chacun a son gouted the joy out of. Second and third, I own a couple of derivative pieces. First, is Alfredo de Batuc's pastische created for Dia De Los Muertos 1981 and printed at Self Help Graphics. It's a beautiful work featuring Los Angeles icons the Watts Towers, City Hall, and the Hollywood sign / Griffith Park Observatory dome, perhaps on fire. Second, is Artemio Rodriguez' hommage quoting the piece itself, done as a lino cut and printed at the artist's now-closed La Mano Press. Both images are © the respective artists.

Daniel, that vato doesn't deserve Juana, whoever she may be. Here's to a nice halibut dinner for him, too.

One to Watch in 2009

It's grand seeing big city newspapers recognizing literature and art, even as many folks bemoan the diminution of space devoted to art and literature. La Bloga friend Gregg Barrios has been included in the San Antonio Express-News' people to watch in 2009, along with eight other artists and writers.

Of Gregg, the website observes,

If all goes according to plan, playwright Gregg Barrios is poised for a busy year in '09.

Part of it is overflow from '08, when his play "Rancho Pancho" generated some big buzz. The piece, which delves into the little-known relationship between Tennessee Williams and Texan Pancho Rodriguez, received an enthusiastic reception when the San Antonio-based Classic Theatre performed it at the Provincetown Tennessee Williams Festival in September. A New Jersey publisher put out a souvenir edition of the script as part of the festival, and, Barrios said, the company has plans to put out an edition in February that will be available at bookstores and online. It will include a piece Barrios wrote for the Texas Observer about his research for the play, as well as an introduction.


The full story on Gregg Barrios and the "Nine to Watch in 2009" is at http://www.mysanantonio.com/sacultura/Arts__Entertainment_151_Nine_for_09.html. My apologies to the others if you're La Bloga friends and I don't know that.


Happy New Year, gente! My gosh, here is the first Tuesday of 2009. Looking forward to a year of good reading, great fun, and your comments. To leave a comment, click on the counter below and share your views.

La Bloga welcomes guest columnists. If you have a book review, an extended response to something you've read at La Bloga, an arts/cultural event that merits coverage, by all means, click
here and let's explore your invitation to be La Bloga's guest columnist.

Monday, January 05, 2009

A Little Bit of Noir

I was chatting online the other day with Denise Hamilton, the Queen of Los Angeles Noir. Hamilton is a former Los Angeles Times journalist who is the author of five Eva Diamond novels, editor of Los Angeles Noir (Akashic Books), and author of last year's thriller, The Last Embrace (Scribner). The Chicago Sun Times says of Denise: "One of the brightest new talents to enter crime fiction over the last few years." In any event, this conversation reminded me that I've written my share of noir short fiction...perhaps it's in L.A.'s water, who knows. But, for something a little different, I'm reprinting one of my murderous stories, "Juana," which first appeared in PALABRA: A Magazine of Chicano & Latino Literary Art (Issue 2, spring/summer 2007), edited by the multi-talented elena minor. Enjoy.

"Juana"

By Daniel Olivas

Juana told me to meet her at El Museo de Arte Moderno. Right by “The Two Fridas” at noon she said. Juana knew that I despised Frida Kahlo’s obsession with herself and that it would have been just as easy for us to get together at the Colón Misión Reforma where she’s staying. And she also knew that she would arouse my suspicions by keeping me away from her hotel. But she always liked to tweak me, get my goat as they say in the United States. I couldn’t refuse Juana, of course. And she knew that, too.

It’d rained all morning but mercifully it stopped just before I went out to flag a taxi. The sky remained gray and oppressive as honking cars and buses strangled the slick streets. I’ve found that my ability to remain calm in Mexico City’s traffic, especially when it rained, has seeped away with each year so that I’d rather spend a few pesos for someone else to sweat through it for me. Though I’d left plenty of time, it took too long to get there. I gave my driver a generous tip and then I remembered that I’d have to pay the museum’s admission fee which annoyed me further. It figured that there’d be a charge to see Juana.

After buying a ticket, I entered the museum and approached the information desk to ask where I would find “The Two Fridas.” The woman offered a smile that let me know two things. First, she didn’t mind the way I looked in my dark, blue suit. Second, she was proud to direct me to one of the museum’s most appreciated pieces. I nodded my thanks and returned her smile. If things didn’t work out with Juana, I figured I could pay another visit to the information desk.

I got to the painting but Juana wasn’t there. I glanced at my watch. I was no more than five minutes late. But certainly even Juana wouldn’t force someone, especially her ex-husband, to meet her at a museum and then leave because of a mere five minutes. A tour of about seven Americans stood too close to the Kahlo painting as the guide explained each symbolic element. He called the canvas a masterpiece of self-awareness. I call it nothing more than solipsism.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

I turned. Juana stood not more than a foot behind me, arms crossed, head cocked to the right pretending to admire the painting.

“Un pedazo de mierda,” I said even though Juana had made her pronouncement in English.

The tour guide stopped in mid-sentence. Luckily the Americans didn’t seem to understand what I’d said. I turned to the guide, offered an apologetic shrug, and tried to lead Juana away. She wouldn’t move.

“Not even a kiss hello?” she asked still speaking in English.

She wanted to annoy me as much as possible but I wouldn’t let her win. My English was as good as hers so I jumped right in.

“But of course,” I said as I leaned in and kissed her cheek. She smelled of cigarettes, perspiration and a perfume she’d never worn while we were married.

“Much better,” Juana whispered. “Where can we talk?”

I scanned the area and spied a free bench by a large Rufino Tamayo canvas. We made our way to it and sat. We looked at each other for a minute or so in silence. I figured Juana should begin since she was the one who had flown to Mexico City to see me.

“I need help,” she finally said.

“I figured as much.”

Juana snorted and turned away from me. Her eyes rested on the Tamayo. I looked at her left hand and I grew excited. Her ring finger sported nothing more than a pale line. Could she have left Reynaldo already? Sure. Why not? I never expected them to last. Two ex-husbands before Juana reached twenty-five.

“Did I waste my time coming home?” she said keeping her eyes from mine.

“I thought San Diego was home now.”

Juana turned to me. I tried to read her eyes the way I used to but I couldn’t. As my curiosity started to swirl and gain momentum, Juana touched my hand. Actually, not quite a touch. She put her hand just above mine so that I could feel the heat from her palm. But she never really made contact with my skin.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Vamos al hotel.”

* * *

As I lay in bed, I rested my eyes on the large and sole window in Juana’s hotel room. It’d started raining again on the way here but the sun was now beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. My stomach rumbled because Juana preferred to make love rather than eat lunch. While we were married, she often made me delay my meals on the theory that a hungry body could feel more sensation. I never believed it. And now as she snored softly next to me, I could only fantasize about gorging myself on succulent carnitas and steaming corn tortillas washed down with cup after cup of hot, black coffee. Juana stirred and before I knew it, her eyes were wide open, staring at me. I reached over and touched her face. She didn’t respond.

“Él está muerto,” she announced without a flinch.

I sat up, confused. “Who’s dead?”

“Reynaldo.”

“How?”

Juana got out of bed. She wore only a large t-shirt that made her look even tinier than she was. She folded her arms and paced back and forth on the red, shag carpet. This room had been elegant once but now it looked a bit frayed at the edges, unstylish, out of a different era.

“I had left him a few months ago,” she began keeping her eyes on her feet as they moved. “But he wanted to see me, to talk.”

I nodded, understanding what Reynaldo had felt.

“And?”

“And so he cooked dinner for me,” said Juana. “Halibut.”

I didn’t need to know what they ate. But I let her continue.

“We were having a good time, really. It was fine to talk. And then it happened.”

“What?”

Juana stopped pacing, dropped her arms and stared at me. “Reynaldo started choking, on a bone.”

Ah, that’s why she mentioned the halibut. But I was still confused.

“So they couldn’t save him from a fish bone?”

Her left eye twitched. And then I understood what she was trying to say.

“You didn’t call for help, did you?” I said.

Juana didn’t answer but she didn’t have to.

“When was the funeral?”

She shook her head.

“Juana,” I said. “When was the funeral?”

She walked to the bed, lifted the covers and snuggled next to me. I sank into the mattress and pulled her close.

“He’s still there,” said Juana. “In his house.”

At that moment, I probably should have jumped out of bed to get away from her. But I didn’t. Instead, I pulled Juana closer.

“When did it happen?” I asked using a tone that would’ve been appropriate at ask a young child where she had lost her favorite doll. Juana didn’t answer as if she had to think about it.

“What day is it?” she finally asked me.

“Sunday.”

“Sunday?”

“Yes.”

Juana exhaled loudly through her mouth. I felt a hot tear fall onto my chest.

“Monday,” she said.

I turned away and looked at the window. The sky grew brighter as the clouds continued to dissipate. Juana’s breathing grew heavy.

“Mi amor,” I said softly.

She didn’t answer. Within a few moments, she snored softly into my chest. I kissed her hair and thought for a moment. I then carefully extricated myself from her body and dressed as quietly as I could. Before I left, I kissed Juana’s forehead and touched her hair. As I reached the street, the sun shone brightly without obstruction for the first time all day. I signaled for a taxi and got in.

“El Museo de Arte Moderno,” I said before I realized it.

The driver nodded and eased his car into traffic.

“Finally, some sun,” he said as he caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

“Yes,” I answered with a smile. “Finally.”

◘ NOW BACK IN PRINT:

Pat Mora's House of Houses (University of Arizona Press)

From the publisher: Combining poetic language and the traditions of magic realism to paint a vivid portrait of her family, Pat Mora’s House of Houses is an unconventional memoir that reads as if every member, death notwithstanding, is in one room talking, laughing, and crying. In a salute to the Day of the Dead, the story begins with a visit to the cemetery in which all of her deceased relatives come alive to share stories of the family, literally bringing the food to their own funerals. From there the book covers a year in the life of her clan, revealing the personalities and events that Mora herself so desperately yearns to know and understand.

“Poet Mora’s complex and dramatic family history comprises more than personal reminiscences: it also embraces resonant aspects of Mexican American history. Mora recounts her family’s traumatic exodus from Mexico to escape the violence of Pancho Villa and his forces and their struggles to begin new lives in another country. To anchor her psychologically rich, dramatic, sometimes funny, often touching multigenerational tale, Mora uses the image of a house—the house of houses—during a single year, a fruitful metaphor that allows her to dwell on the bright beauty of flowers, birds, and trees, emblems of the loving legacy of her nurturing family.”—Booklist

“Mora has created an ingenious structure for these recollections of her extended family, of their lives and the tales they share about the family’s history. Woven in with these memories are recipes, fragments of songs and poetry, folk remedies, and jokes, all of the small matters that most reveal a family’s identity. In a language deftly mingling the natural cadences of speech and precise, poetic imagery, Mora believably summons up both a group of tough, loving, idiosyncratic survivors and a vivid, detailed portrait of life in the Southwest in [the last] century.” —Kirkus Reviews

◘ The new issue of Somos Primos which, as La Bloga readers know, is "Dedicated to Hispanic Heritage and Diversity Issues" and produced by the Society of Hispanic Historical and Ancestral Research. If you want to jump immediately to the literature section of Somos Primos, go here.

◙ That’s all for this week. So, in the meantime, enjoy the intervening posts from mis compadres y comadres here on La Bloga. And remember: ¡Lea un libro!

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Home is Where They Take You

When I was growing up, my father insisted that my family move every two years. It was as if he couldn’t stand the feeling of grass growing beneath his feet. As soon as a house became home we had to pack-up our toys and books, and take the pictures off the freshly painted walls. My mother hated this nomadic existence. “I would have made a bad gypsy,” she used to tell me in hindsight as old age overtook her. If she traveled anywhere for more than a day she dragged along a firm pillow, a hairdryer, and—like a good Latina—a make-up case the size of a toolbox with its own light-up mirror.

The year I turned three my father was diagnosed with ALS, and in the confusion that illness brings, the biannual move was forgotten. We spent the next couple of years traveling to see specialists around the country during breaks from school and my father’s academic job. For the benefit of us children these trips were disguised as family vacations, but though we never discussed it I think all of us knew that our time together was fleeting. Despite the fact that I was quite young at the time, the memories of these family trips are strong, particularly of the motels in which we stayed. Each time I would unpack my bags and carefully place my small clothes in a dresser drawer, no matter how short the stay. I wanted to make the motel room mine…ours. Keenly focused images of these places haunt my memory to this day.

The clearest memory I have is of the Tiki pool house—a popular theme in 1960’s decorating—at a motel we stayed at in Washington D.C. I particularly remember walking out of the main building with my mother and brother John. This excursion was very unusual as it was past my bedtime and my mother had never expressed an interest in swimming, but I was not going to question why and take the chance of breaking the spell. I skipped along, giddy with the anticipation and excitement of swimming at night for the first time. I watched my flip-flops slosh along the wet grass and stones, my thirsty stamped motel towel over my arm, the moon gleaming off of my sloppily painted peppermint-pink toenails. I was mesmerized by the steam that poured from the heated pool house into the cool night air, hovering along the ground giving the scene a graveyard feel. I ran ahead and pushed open the door to the pool house and the heat smacked me in the face reminding me of the annual feeling of stepping off the plane into the heat of my mother’s island. What my siblings and I didn’t know was that the next day, under the guise of a two-day business meeting, my father had the nerves from his left hand moved to his newly lifeless right hand so he could hold the chalk and continue to teach his classes in architectural graphics. After he returned (explaining the bandaged hand as an accident) we visited the Lincoln memorial and the White House and I had that anxious yet happy feeling one has on Christmas Eve. My brothers and sister were being nice to me (I suspect that as they were older they had a better idea of what was really going on) and I had my parents’ attention and affection. I could have lived at that Tiki hotel.

Eventually we moved on campus as Dad’s increasing immobility demanded a short commute. A few months after his death a good friend of his, a rabbi, was mugged and murdered two blocks from our apartment. Though my mother hated to move, particularly at a time when the care of children left at home and her full-time job didn’t allow her the luxury of grief, we moved back to the New Jersey town where I had spent the first five years of my life. It was not the same without Dad.

When I hit my twenties and moved out, “home” became wherever my mother was: Manhattan, Morrisville, Vermont. Whenever I went off to visit her I would tell my co-workers I was “going home” for the weekend, even though I had never lived in Vermont. Eventually I followed her and my siblings north. Now, fourteen years after her death though my husband and I own a house, we yearn for the perfect home in the country, acres of land, the only sound the wind in the trees. I yearn for a place to stay for a long, long time. I think that is why I took so strongly to my Puerto Rican roots and feel so comforted by the silhouette of a palm tree, the song of tree frogs, and the constancy of my mother’s family. For me the island represents a history my own childhood lacked, and a family center to visit now that my mother is gone. I yearn for fertile soil in which to sink my roots. To plant gardens, paint walls, and hang family portraits. To call somewhere “home.”

My eleven-year-old son is very attached to this not-so-perfect house on this tiny street, yet when we take vacations to visit family in Puerto Rico, Canada or Connecticut I’ve noticed that he really doesn’t care if we go home at all. As he sat sifting the sand with his father on the warm Luquillo beach he told me he wanted to stay there forever. Then we gather our things and return to the daily grind of life in Morrisville, Vermont and he loses the relaxed attention of his parents to jobs, laundry, a snowed-in walkway.

I’ve come to realize from watching him and with the settling of middle age that it isn’t “home” I yearn for as in a building, but rather the presence of family, unconditional love and the sense that things are taken care of. Someone else will keep you safe. Home is the feeling you have when you are a child sleeping in the back seat of the car while your parents talk softly in the front seat. Half-asleep, half-awake, you smile, feeling comforted and content. You pretend to sleep as your father lifts you from the car and as he carries you to the house. You are sad that the moment has to end, that after a gentle good night kiss you will be left, once again, in your dark bedroom alone. Perhaps I am misguided in my thinking that a lovely little country cape with lots of windows will fulfill my quest for home. Perhaps I should work on restoring the feeling I got in that D.C. motel with my family around me. Perhaps home is not permanent, but rather something fleeting. Like most precious things are.

Friday, January 02, 2009

Excerpt From Blues For The Buffalo



The fourth installment in my series about the anguished and troubled mid-life years of Denver lawyer Luis Móntez was published in 1997 by St. Martin's Press. I have a very warm spot in my heart for Blues for the Buffalo, for a number of reasons. I managed to turn the germ of an idea about Oscar Acosta into a full-blown mystery novel, without exploiting the man's iconic myth. I presented several themes without distracting from the book's essential detective core; at least that's my opinion. And although it did not win any awards, Blues for the Buffalo was the best reviewed book in the series (a starred review in Publishers Weekly, for example.)


When Northwestern University Press reprinted the Móntez novels in an attractive and affordable trade paperback format, in 2004, I asked fellow mystery writer John Straley to write a foreword. J0hn has written truly creative and intelligent novels over several years; his latest is The Big Both Ways (Alaska Northwest Books, 2008). I hear he also recently published a collection of poetry, The Rising and the Rain (University of Alaska, November, 2008), which I haven't had a chance yet to read, but it's on my list. I'm a big fan of John's and was very pleased when he agreed to do the foreword. Ilan Stavans wrote an introduction to the book, as he did for all of the Northwestern reprints, and together John and Ilan managed to see more in Buffalo than I ever imagined.



Chapter 8 - Blues for the Buffalo
copyright 1997 by Manuel Ramos, all rights reserved

Jesús Genaro Móntez needed a shave. The gray-and-white growth of three days of beard had a silky, almost angel's-hair texture, but it had to go. I lathered his face and then glided his Trac II across his wrinkled skin -- slowly, oh so slowly. The razor had a chipped handle with a veneer of old soap, but with a fresh cartridge it worked fine.

"Be careful, Louie. I ain't got much blood left, and I don't want to lose any because of your shaky hands. You drink too much, son."

"My hands don't shake, but your face sure quivers and quakes. Be still, or we will have a bloodletting. Pretend you're in the barbershop. Gee, Dad, you should try to keep on top of this personal grooming stuff."

"I'm almost eighty years old. Everyone I ever knew is either dead, in the hospital, or in a nursing home. Who am I trying to impress? Shaving is the biggest crime ever inflicted on men. I hate it, always have. This is to shut you up. Otherwise, I wouldn't bother. And I haven't been to a barber shop since Emiliano croaked that day we were all in his shop."

"That was at least ten years ago. Who cuts your hair?"

"That's for me to know, and you to mind your own business."

"I don't know Jesús. You worry me some days."

He started to laugh but he ended up coughing. I waited until he brought his heaving body back under control. I turned down his radio and opened the kitchen window to relieve some of the trapped heat that Jesús had allowed to accumulate in his house. A mix of traffic and hollering children competed with a Mexican music station deejay who jabbered about an upcoming concert at the Adams County Fairgrounds. Ostensibly, the greatest recording artists in the history of Mexico planned to grace the stage the next Saturday night, and tickets were only twenty-five bucks for a couple.

Five minutes later, I finished with his face and rinsed the razor, the soap brush, and the lather cup. He did not use prepackaged shaving cream.

Jesús said he might go to the dance.

I did not react to that statement. I calculated that in the past ten years he had been to a barber more often than he had dragged himself to a dance hall.

"I wanted to talk with you about something that happened back in the thirties. A story of yours that I remember hearing only once, when I was a kid. I think Mom made you tell it, I can't even remember why. You know what I mean, that one about the shooting, in Chandler. You were arrested, your trial and all that. There's something about all that's happened lately that reminded me of that story, but I think I'm just more curious than anything else."

He poured two cups of coffee, handed me one, and made himself comfortable in his big easy chair. He patted his face.

"That stuff you put on my skin smells kind of like anise. What is it? Stings, too."

"Aftershave. Old Spice. You had a bottle in your medicine chest. Whatever it is, it's yours."

"¡Santo Niño, Louie! That stuff is as old as you. No wonder it's burning a hole in my cheek. It must be pure alcohol. What a guy!"

He made a show of wiping his face with his handkerchief.

"I think you'll live, Dad."

"Yeah, sure. With a burned-off jaw."

...

"Anyway, that story. ... I don't like it because I'm not proud of what happened. Those were different times, different people."

"It's part of my history, too, Dad. I should know it."

"Yes, you may be right."

...

"I was a young man, maybe twenty. We lived for a time in Chandler, down by Florence. Chandler's gone now, and the only clues it ever existed are the crumbling pieces of building foundations. They moved all the houses when the mine finally played out. But when I lived there, it was a lively mining town and the miners were all Mexicanos or Italianos. The mine was owned by a man from Cañon City. I worked the mine, and so did most of my family -- the uncles and cousins I lived with in those years. I was the shift foreman. Even if I have to say it, I worked hard. I was honest and kept the men at it, so the company liked me, respected me even though I was a Mexicano. The men respected me, too. Most of them, anyway."

For a few seconds, he stared through me while his brain put the pieces of his past in place, and his mouth found the words that brought back the events.

"For someone like that, there's always somebody else who resents him, who challenges him, even though it may be all one-sided. There was a guy. Alejandro Ozuna. I think he thought he was in a feud with our family. None of us did."

"But he never really took you on, right? It was always someone else in the family, no?"

"Yes, that's right. He left me alone. ... But my brother-in-law, Samuel, was a different story. Samuel was young, younger than me, but much taller than Ozuna. He was hell. Quick to respond to provocation. A quick temper. He and Ozuna did not mix well."

I moved the story along with some of the details that I remembered from the one time I had heard this particular chapter of his life ... .

"It came to a head at one of the house parties the miners had every Friday night. I remember you talking about them. Every week a different house, but always the same party. Liquor, music, dancing, card games. Until the sun came up. And the men checked their guns at the front table. Rows of guns laid out that weren't touched until the party was over."

"Yes, that's how it was. I can still see the barrels of those guns. Long and shiny, resting next to each other like pipes on an organ."

"And at one of the parties, this guy Ozuna decided to resolve his feud, for a purpose only he knew."

"It sounds trite now, but it's true. Our lives were hard and the times were mean. Yo era muy joven, but I remember that part of my life as if it was only yesterday. We knew only work. Death came suddenly and often. Accidents in the mines, illness, and our anger. We had nothing except our friends and families. We had no country. Most of the men could not return to Mexico; everyone was escaping from something. And those of us who traced roots for more than a hundred years in this land, back before it suddenly turned into the United States, we also had no place. It had been taken from us. Men were quick to react because a delay could cost a life. Ozuna knew that, and that was how he acted that night."

He lapsed into Spanish.

Jesús cinched the holster around his waist and checked the chamber of his revolver. He belched, then slipped the weapon into its resting place. Samuel had disappeared, but Jesús could not wait. The sun soon would rise above the background silhouette of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, and he needed sleep. Only one day off from the mines, and it should be a day of rest. Most of his money had changed hands during the card game, and he had not found an opportunity to dance with Marie. The night had not been a good one. Ozuna had taunted the other card players for the entire game. The whiskey mellowed some of the edginess, but Jesús had not had enough of that. He was not drunk.

Manuel handed him his hat and wished him a safe journey back to the house where he lived with several members of his brother's wife's family.


"Next week, the game will be at your house," Manuel reminded him. Jesús stepped into the night.

He normally walked straight down the road from Manuel's home. Chandler was a small town with only a few streets. Even so, the Mexicano workers lived near each
other and the Italians shared the other half of the town.

The cold minutes before dawn hit him as soon as he left the warmth of Manuel's house. He buttoned his thin coat and pulled down his hat's wide brim in a futile gesture to protect the back of his neck. The night air, the cold air, magnified sounds, and his ears picked up the howling of the Sarmiento dog and the icy bubbling creek at the edge of the town. An angry man's words race
d across that same air, and stopped him.

"You've laughed at me for the last time. Prepare for God or the devil!"

He jumped, frightened, but the words were not meant for him. Jesús rushed to the back of Manuel's house, quietly, and with an urgency that made his temples throb
. He stood at the corner of the house, in the darkness, and watched Samuel and Alejandro. The men faced each other across the bare yard. Ozuna's gun stuck out from the top of his trousers, near his right hand. Samuel had no weapon. He had stepped outside for air without retrieving his gun from the front table.

"¡Cabrón! You're not man enough!"

Samuel, the boy, was drunk and he twisted in the blackness as he spoke. He spit at Ozuna, then turned his back. Jesús flinched. His brother-in-law had made a m
istake. Ozuna reached for his gun and pointed it at Samuel's back. Jesús gripped the leathery handle of his revolver, eased it from his holster, aimed, and fired. The roar echoed in the night and rang in his ears. An orange flame flowered at the end of his gun for an instant. His hand kicked back from the gun's reflex. Ozuna spun in the dirt, reached for his side, dropped his gun, and fell. Samuel collapsed to his knees, then tried to make sense out of the night and the wounded man sprawled near him. Ozuna's spasms were quick and violent. A pool of black blood flowed into the frozen earth.

Manuel ran to the men with his own gun in his hand. The
sun popped into view at the edge of the mountains, and Manuel could see that Ozuna was dead.

"I'll find the boss. He'll know what we should do."

He ran back to his house and told his wife to make some coffee. "We have a long morning ahead of us."

Jesús poured himself another cup of coffee as he neared the end of his story.

"The boss ... me conoció y me dió respeto, but even he couldn't stop them from arresting me. I spent several weeks in the county jail in Cañon City. My family visited every week, but it was hard on them. When el patrón testified at my trial, that was all the jury had to hear. I was the first Mexicano in Fremont County who wasn't convicted of the crime he had been charged with. The jury was made up of ranchers and other mine owners and a couple of shopkeepers. They appreciated that the boss thought well of me, that he came to the trial and testified that I was a good man, and that in his opinion, whatever I did was necessary. They let me go, calling the killing justified, and I went back to the mine, where I worked until the boss sold the mine to a company from the East. Samuel moved away, and we lost track of him. Ozuna's family kept up the feud with the Móntez family for years. They made threats to avenge Alejandro ... but nothing came of it. And now I have outlived them all."

...

"It sounds so quick and ugly, yet you reacted in the blink of an eye, quite bravely. But there had to have been a risk to Samuel. In the darkness, with the two men so close to each other, and you slowed by liquor. Why didn't you holler, try to warn Samuel? For our family, it turned out right, but it could easily have gone the other way. What were you thinking when you shot Ozuna?"

My father pursed his lips, rubbed his forehead, and moved his tongue inside his cheek. His face carried the serious look that, of late, he had taken to wearing more often.

"As I said, Louie, men had to act quickly. That's the way those times were. I never liked to talk about the shooting, or the trial, or any of that. The Ozuna family left me alone. It was the rest of the Móntez clan who had to fight with the Ozunas and put up with their insults. Since you ask, I had to shoot. A warning would only have delayed the inevitable. I always understood that I would have to do something very much like what went down that night. We all could see it coming, and so my actions that night were not as impulsive as my boss made them sound in the courtroom. Ozuna and a Móntez had to have a resolution of whatever it was that worked on Ozuna's mind. He had to be stopped and that night, in that place, there was only one way -- with the gun. If I missed and shot Samuel, well, maybe that would have been enough for Ozuna. Alejandro and Samuel were the same; they were both guilty of something that night, and all I could do was stop it. That's what I did."

"Cold-blooded, Dad. But I can see what you mean. At least I think I get it. Sometimes you lose me."

"Ha! The loser gets lost. Pobrecito, all that education and you can't understand the simple stories of your rickety old father. Louie, Louie. What am I going to do with you?"



Later.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

First day of 2009



In no particular order:


I wish for...

Universal health care for all
Universal literacy and the means to achieve it
Meaningful work at a true living wage for all
A planet without us wounding it by thoughtless use of resources
And end to gun barrel diplomacy

I am grateful for...

a spiritual outlook and a real relationship with Spirit
some small gift to be able to write
a larger gift to be able to appreciate the genius, hardwork,
and talent of so many others
Martin Espada
Dina Ackerman
Luis Rodriguez
Pablo Neruda
the blogueros
Ann Cardinal in particular
strength, both physical and emotional
the ability to find joy and beauty in everyday life
the ability to laugh

Lisa Alvarado