It seems to be a bad combination that I am a person who thrives on "art," and letting the mysteries of the creative juices flow through me, and yet constantly I want to figure out why those juices work the way they do. So many great artists don't care to explain where it all comes from because they know they don't have the answer.
But then maybe this mental mash of art and scientific method isn't such a bad thing. After all, so many artists sizzle out when they make it big and are forced to wonder what made them so interesting and loved in the first place.
Part of the answer to where it all comes from is greatly described by Carl Jung as "taking your shadow out to coffee." One of the pitfalls about being self-analytical about your creative process is that it can get you hopelessly stuck in a rut if you are asking the wrong questions: "Why am I not a good artist?" "What did Picasso have that I don't?" But one of the best parts about being self-analytical is that, when asking the right questions, it can give you a wholly different approach to the creative process and open up a far deeper understanding of yourself. "What am I blocking that's keeping the juices from flowing?" "What inspired me to make art in the first place, and what do I naturally return to for inspiration?" Most importantly, perhaps, is "Why am I getting in my own way?"
No one will ever come to a single conclusion about what makes great art. If history has proven anything, it is that great art can be created from all different mediums, from any point of inspirational departure, in any corner of the world without regard to sex, class, race, sexuality, set of circumstances or any other determining factors of which you can think.
What is important, and what can perhaps be answered, is "What makes a good artist?" The answer, simply, is someone who is not afraid to be him(/her)self.
As the new year dawns, I have taken it as a sort of sign from the universe that I stumbled upon this website: The Artist's Way. I will be taking this simple exercise to heart as the inevitable apocalypse of 2012 begins.* Happy New Year, everyone!
*Side note: as it turns out, the Mayan calendar never predicted some catastrophic apocalypse. What the Mayan Calendar says about 2012 basically amounts to: "This one's done. Flip to the next system." It's the equivalent of switching your Sports Illustrated 2011 Swimsuit Calendar for your Sports Illustrated 2012 Swimsuit Calendar. But then if I'm wrong we'll all die a horrible fiery death as the bowels of the earth open up and comets rain down upon our most picturesque cities, and then maybe you'll be sad you didn't get that supply bunker ready.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Christmas Alone
My mother and sister left me a paper Christmas tree and a few things to open on Christmas day. That was ever so nice of them. Despite any sentiments I may have voiced earlier, I am really glad they came to visit. Now I face the prospect of a Christmas alone, my very first Christmas celebrated by myself, with myself.
It may sound sad, but I'm really enjoying it so far. I have certainly loved the Christmas times with my family, but something about being alone in this house for Christmas is… I don't know, it's new, it's not stressful, it's quite enjoyable. I am ever so glad, of course, that the internet is at my disposal so I may let those I love know I'm thinking about them. But I suppose my gift to myself this Christmas is giving myself some time. Time to think, to smile, to relax, to cook and draw. That's really what my whole trip has been, but a nice reminder is good always good.
Even here in Mexico they cannot escape the crash American commercialization of Christmas. But there is something different about being here rather than America. There is a care and support for family here in Mexico that seems to stretch throughout the year, and is not simply hoisted upon us as some otherworldly responsibility to be paid in massive quantities of expensive gifts. Indeed, Mexicans rarely leave their families and tend to have the support structure of relatives throughout their lives. While I personally really like the American ambition (or is that disfunction?) of moving about quite a bit, as my life tus far has been a testament to, there is something comforting and unexplainably nice about the way Mexicans don't feel a need to distance themselves from their families. America is not just ripe with racism and sexism, but ageism as well. The posadas I have been to and the families I have encountered emit a sense of goodwill and loving care. Certainly many have their problems, just as any family does, but they stick together where American families pull apart. And part of this is exemplified in the way we Americans have turned the family image into a responsibility rather than a joy.
I would feel I was remise if I didn't take an opportunity to point out the strange morphing our modern traditions have undergone. Though we think of this as a Christian holiday, many educated people know that this holiday was pagan in origin. Many people have a lot of doubts as to whether Jesus was even born in winter, let alone December. But as Christianity gained favor across the world, many of the world's festivals were absorbed by it, as was the case with Christmas. The Yule was the celebration of the winter solstice by the Germanic people of Europe. Often it involved sacrifices for a bountiful new season and consisted of 12 days of feasting. While toasts and sacrifices were made to gods like Odin, it could be argued that this celebration had little to do with religion and was more commonly seen as a gathering of people in midwinter to lighten the load of their dreary weather. The word Yule comes from Anglo-Saxon roots, in the Gothic and Old English languages. An Old Norse text "Ynglinga Saga" first mentions a Yule celebration taking place in 840 A.D. Around this time King Haakon I brought Christianity to Norway from Rome, and melded the two celebrations of Christ's birth and the Yule in order to bring people together and convert them to Christianity. Check out the Wikipedia page, it's fascinating.
However you choose to celebrate midwinter, I would hope it's filled with love and joy, and not polluted with capitalist fascinations. I will be taking some time to delve into myself and contemplate the things that bring us all together, even though I will be alone.
It may sound sad, but I'm really enjoying it so far. I have certainly loved the Christmas times with my family, but something about being alone in this house for Christmas is… I don't know, it's new, it's not stressful, it's quite enjoyable. I am ever so glad, of course, that the internet is at my disposal so I may let those I love know I'm thinking about them. But I suppose my gift to myself this Christmas is giving myself some time. Time to think, to smile, to relax, to cook and draw. That's really what my whole trip has been, but a nice reminder is good always good.
Even here in Mexico they cannot escape the crash American commercialization of Christmas. But there is something different about being here rather than America. There is a care and support for family here in Mexico that seems to stretch throughout the year, and is not simply hoisted upon us as some otherworldly responsibility to be paid in massive quantities of expensive gifts. Indeed, Mexicans rarely leave their families and tend to have the support structure of relatives throughout their lives. While I personally really like the American ambition (or is that disfunction?) of moving about quite a bit, as my life tus far has been a testament to, there is something comforting and unexplainably nice about the way Mexicans don't feel a need to distance themselves from their families. America is not just ripe with racism and sexism, but ageism as well. The posadas I have been to and the families I have encountered emit a sense of goodwill and loving care. Certainly many have their problems, just as any family does, but they stick together where American families pull apart. And part of this is exemplified in the way we Americans have turned the family image into a responsibility rather than a joy.
I would feel I was remise if I didn't take an opportunity to point out the strange morphing our modern traditions have undergone. Though we think of this as a Christian holiday, many educated people know that this holiday was pagan in origin. Many people have a lot of doubts as to whether Jesus was even born in winter, let alone December. But as Christianity gained favor across the world, many of the world's festivals were absorbed by it, as was the case with Christmas. The Yule was the celebration of the winter solstice by the Germanic people of Europe. Often it involved sacrifices for a bountiful new season and consisted of 12 days of feasting. While toasts and sacrifices were made to gods like Odin, it could be argued that this celebration had little to do with religion and was more commonly seen as a gathering of people in midwinter to lighten the load of their dreary weather. The word Yule comes from Anglo-Saxon roots, in the Gothic and Old English languages. An Old Norse text "Ynglinga Saga" first mentions a Yule celebration taking place in 840 A.D. Around this time King Haakon I brought Christianity to Norway from Rome, and melded the two celebrations of Christ's birth and the Yule in order to bring people together and convert them to Christianity. Check out the Wikipedia page, it's fascinating.
However you choose to celebrate midwinter, I would hope it's filled with love and joy, and not polluted with capitalist fascinations. I will be taking some time to delve into myself and contemplate the things that bring us all together, even though I will be alone.
The Last Few Days
Family Visit
From Sunday, 12/18 to Thursday, 12/22, my mother and sister graced my home with their presence. It was nice that I got at least one set of visitors; at the very least they can provide witness that I really was in Mexico and haven't just been writing these blog posts from some café in Santa Rosa.
My sister was just finished with her winter semester at CCA, and mom finally got some respite from the store. Mom will also be taking some time off to travel to Jamaica, so it was nice of her to plan an extra side trip to see me. On Sunday, we hung out in the Centro Historico, and I showed them some of the architecture and art, such as the interior of the Pallazzio del Bellas Artes. Then we met up with Alexander (who is a very dear friend of my sister's) and we went to the Museo Nacional del Arte, which was hosting an M.C. Escher exhibit. There were original prints and pencil drawings of his. It was really neat to see the progression of ideas he went through. Starting out in the 1920's, his stuff was obviously very influenced by Japanese prints, and geometrical shapes played a large role, but there were no optical tricks yet or visual "games." As his skill as an illustrator grew, he became much more interested in the intersection of geometry and illustration. The stuff towards the end of his career is confusing to look at at first, but stunning when you stop to examine it and realize everything is geometrically sound. I wonder what would have happened if he ever tried sculpting. There was a smaller room with an M.C. Escher inspired music video that got me really curious about trying some visual video trickery. Afterwards we ate at the Taco Inn, an uninspired chain restaurant that was close. Despite its "in-authenticity," I discovered Tacoas a la Arracherra, which is meat cooked in fried cheese. It was awesome. We walked back through the Centro Historico and saw the president's house and the church and the old Aztec temple. Mother and Meredith were astounded by the amount of people running around. We made some comments that it was in many ways similar to Europe (though much cheaper).
Los Pyramides
On Monday morning I got up early with mom, and we had a great intellectual chat over coffee, the kind I can always have with her. All of the things I had been thinking, pontificating on, balling up finally had a forum in which to be voiced. My mother is one of the smartest and most intellectual adults I regularly talk to; and it certainly helps that being her son, I tend to have a lot of similar opinions. Even if we differ in opinion we tend to have open minds about the discussion at hand. We covered everything from the Arab Spring and Occupy Wall Street to the metaphysics of the universe. My sister got up, still tired and adjusting to the altitude, and walked right into our fast-paced conversation. Her zero cups of coffee could not compete with my two and mom's four.
We got breakfast in Mercado Portales with Alexander. Later that day we traveled by bus to the Pyramids north of the city. The historical site of Teotihuacán is a vast city, believed to have been built sometime in the second century A.D. No one knows for sure which indigenous people built it, but "…possible candidates are the Nahua, Otomi or Totonac ethnic groups." (Wikipedia) The ancient city includes two pyramids which were temples of the Sun and Moon, as well as a long residential pathway extending between and past the two temples known as the Avenue of the Dead. It is the largest pyramid structure in pre-Columbian America, and the artistic and architectural influence of the early advanced culture can be seen throughout other archeological sites of Mesoamerica. The Aztec would later inhabit this city. The first residents are believed to be a diverse mixture of various ethnic groups; it was a real bohemian center of pre-Columbian America.
It was my first time going to the pyramids, and it was nice to get to experience it for the first time with my family. Crowded throughout the Avenue of the Dead were vendors selling obsidian cats, necklaces and silver for "almost free," or so they said. They were not quite as adamant as some of the street vendors I've encountered in places like Italy, but they were close. We strolled down the Avenue of the Dead and climbed both temples. On top of the Temple of the Sun, we took pictures and rested on a wall for an hour-long siesta, admiring the countryside and talking. This part of Mexico was the first time I felt like I was inside my mental picture of Mexico. The landscape stretched out before us covered in cactus and desert-willow, the mountains of the valley in the distance amidst the atmospheric haze, the sun bearing down warmly as us gringos tried to keep our faces covered. It felt like being inside some of the picturesque scenes from "The Three Caballeros." It was quite a site, and I want to see more of this type of landscape. It was relaxing, and felt like there the land held vast stores of wisdom.
Fiesta Del Arte
On Tuesday Alexander and I had planned an Art Party. We were lucky to reschedule for a time when my sister and mother were in town. That day, before the party, I was apprehensive, nervous, and quiet. I was encountering some of those old feelings only family can give you. Mom had started planning all kinds of food and dishes to make, potato salad, cole slaw, pico de gallo. As happy as I was to have my mother making sure there was food for people to have, I think I felt as though she was taking control of my party. My mother has a tendency to do this, to make me feel as if I'm not the one on control, that I'm not able to do things the right way. It's not intentional, and I always know she just wants to help and has my best interests at heart. It's funny how you can have such conflicting and sometimes contradictory thoughts about your parents. You love them, and yet in some ways know they hold you back from your full potential. So, these thoughts in my head, I went through the day just acting casual and ignoring them. She was only there for 5 days and it wasn't worth it to bring up anything too grieving, I felt. The rest of the day was spent cleaning, arranging, and cooking. I stayed quiet mostly, not too many thoughts in my head besides some stress and agitation. But it got better once people began showing up.
Passion Soup
Meredith and Alexander had an idea to make a soup that tasted like passion. Finally together again here in Mexico City, it was the first thing they set about doing before the party started. I was the unofficial documentarian of this mad escapade. Alexander and I traveled to the local supermarket to obtain some of the important ingredients, including corn flour, honey, chile, and bourbon. Filming inside the store got us in a little trouble with a security guard and the store manager, and we were not able to get permission to film our shopping. That didn't matter because in true guerrilla style I kept the camera on. Later, at the house, the making of the soup was epic. It had a chocolate base, and the two artiste-cooks tried many things. Sautéed bourbon, it turns out, is not very good and when combined with honey turns to a jet black mass of disgusting liquid. I was able to find many a pertinent metaphor for the ups and downs of the process of making this soup as related to "passion." And you know what? In the end, they actually ended up making a damn good soup. It was a thin dark chocolate taste mingled with a spicy effect that hit you after a sweet honey-like sensation swept over you, hitting you in the back of the throat. Happily, like passion, it was warm, exciting, and had a whole lot of phases. Sadly, like passion, it also died out rather fast and had no chance of keeping. Chocolate-based soups must be eaten right away, for reheating is akin to trying to capture the magic again: it just won't work.
The party was nice, though not quite what we expected. We cooked food for about 30 people, about 7 showed up. But we sat around and shared culture and conversation, I met a friend of Patricia's who is hoping to be a Mexican film producer, and Alexander performed Cut Piece book-ended by two poems, one by Ginsberg and the other by some Eastern European.
Sombre Mood
One reason I may have been a little less than talkative was I was getting sick. By Wednesday I had a terribly sore throat, no doubt encouraged by the large amount of alcohol in my system from the night before lowering the defenses of my immune system. It may also have been aggravated by my insisting I sleep on the couch downstairs, which for the first night of my family's visit was numbingly cold. The couch is about half as long as me, so I slept most nights on my side in a fetal position. By the second night, we switched some blankets around and employed the heater I had been neglecting for so long, and got a more viable sleeping situation together for everyone. But the damage of one cold night was done for me. My sore throat pervaded the rest of the day and made my un-talkative, apathetic and slightly morose mood deepen a bit.
But I was determined to be with my family some more and enjoy their company. That day, we traveled to Coyoacán, one of the very nice parts of town and we saw the Frida Kahlo Museum. I enjoyed being back there but my sore throat bothered me a lot. I took a break from playing tour guide and let the ladies wander the premises and learn for themselves. Afterwards we went to the artesan market in the center of town, which was actually rather fun but my feet hurt and there are only so many hand-made necklaces and henna tattoo parlors you can look at before you feel like you've seen them all. Luckily Meredith and mom found plenty of good Christmas gifts for the people back home. I took some time to myself and hung out on the veranda of the second floor in the plaza while the girls browsed, watching the leaves fall, the annoying yet endearing 80's music playing on the market sound system, and observing the beautiful Mexican teenagers make their way through on this picturesque day. I tried to let the thoughts drift away from me and just enjoy the breeze on my face and ignore the pain of swallowing. Meredith and I tried some candy from a dulcería, and I ended up getting a stunningly sweet and bright red thing I was told was Guayaba. Why Mexicans think everything should be dipped in sugar, even the sweetest fruits they have to offer, I don't quite understand.
Because of being ill and a lack of energy on the side of my family, I had to miss a friend's art opening. Kristina Trejo does Bakti designs, which is fabric with dyed patterns that are achieved by applying and scraping off wax in various coats. Instead, mom, Meredith and I tried to go see a movie. Unfortunately, The Muppets was not playing in English, so instead we went to Papa Bill's Saloon and had some drinks. We were all kind of quiet, probably because we had just about run out of things to say. Still, I made the best of being around mom and my sister for the time it lasted. I have to admit I was looking forward to having my house and autonomy back again.
I don't mean to make it sound like I hate my family or despise my mother. The truth is that the things our parents do sometimes remind us of the things in childhood we found frustrating, or the adulthood pains we have had to endure. There is no hiding from your family; fortunately and unfortunately, they know everything about you, for better or worse. I am not planning on staying in Mexico much longer, but I have learned from my time here that I really enjoy being autonomous, my own man, and I want to continue this lifestyle. Being independent is scary but its far better than letting your past constantly define you. Best to let your past inform you, but let the present become you.
Undocumented Worker
Thursday I had to leave my family early, I had gotten a catering gig with Alexander's friend Juliet who was catering at a satellite of the American Embassy. My spirits perked up, and my throat had gotten a teensy bit better. Luckily Juliet liked me so it sounds like for my remaining time here I will get a few more gigs. We had a tense but fun time, as it is with many food-service gigs. Afterwards Alexander took me for some really good tacos around Condeza. And then he took me to Kristina's exhibit, of which I had missed the opening. Her stuff is really good. We discussed our opinions of it as we wandered the interior of the art cafe, also astonished that a fantasy painter was asking for something like 10,000 U.S. dollars for some strange paintings that I personally thought lacked compositional fluidity. But the colors were nice.
Walking down the streets and passing the hip joints of Condeza, Alexander and I shared a very nice moment. Alexander thanked me for being around in Mexico, for having fun with him and being someone to share an experience or two with in Mexico with; mostly just for being a friend. I was really flattered, and I felt the same way. There is something comforting about having another witness to your life, especially when you are in a foreign place and just getting your feet wet learning the ways of life. It seems we are always learning something new about life and ourselves, at least I would hope we are, and maybe those two aren't so very different. We separate these things in our life in some effort to make them more organized, more manageable, but as that wise Beatle said, "Life is what happens when we're busy making other plans."
I just recently finished reading "The Last Kingdom," a historical novel about the Dark Ages of late 9th century England, and its massive invasion by the Danes, commonly mis-named Vikings. The main character is raised by the pagan Danes, and he says often that "Destiny is everything." I have lately been having many thoughts along this line as well, though I am aware I am easily influenced in my ways of thinking when I am experiencing a good story. I am always trying to force my way into some categorized career path, some easy answer that will let me know what I'm going to do with my life. It's maddening and frustrating, dealing with my own delusions of grandeur and wanting to be so like the people I admire; to be wise in the face of stupidity, to be strong amidst adversity, wanting to be famous but abhorring fame, to be calm, courteous and open-minded while also being steadfast and decisive. I linger in meditative thought, trying to calm the raging torrent of my own mind in an attempt to amplify that little voice that tells everyone what is the right thing to do. And I am no big believer in fate, that logical part of me raised on science reminding me that there is no coincidence, that things just are. And yet there is something that lingers in me that thinks there could be some course I may or may not be meant to take.
I am reminded of that psychedelic feelings when it is clear that there is not a grain of sand, a stack of concrete, a footstep that is not exactly right where it should be. I believe that this is not because anything is written or that the present was always meant to be the way it is right now without anything we humans could do to change it. Rather, in the poetic (and paraphrased) words of Cormac McCarthy, there is no would or could or might have been and there never was. We are all creating this world as we go and nothing is out of place in it because there is no way it ever could have been. Life moseys along with us, and we are not powerless to stop it nor are we complete singular masters of our own destiny. We are life, part of it, and we are everything and nothing to it. So perhaps the best thing to do with our lives is simply to follow our passions as fully as we are able with the resources we have available in the present moment, and be pleasantly surprised by where it takes us.
From Sunday, 12/18 to Thursday, 12/22, my mother and sister graced my home with their presence. It was nice that I got at least one set of visitors; at the very least they can provide witness that I really was in Mexico and haven't just been writing these blog posts from some café in Santa Rosa.
My sister was just finished with her winter semester at CCA, and mom finally got some respite from the store. Mom will also be taking some time off to travel to Jamaica, so it was nice of her to plan an extra side trip to see me. On Sunday, we hung out in the Centro Historico, and I showed them some of the architecture and art, such as the interior of the Pallazzio del Bellas Artes. Then we met up with Alexander (who is a very dear friend of my sister's) and we went to the Museo Nacional del Arte, which was hosting an M.C. Escher exhibit. There were original prints and pencil drawings of his. It was really neat to see the progression of ideas he went through. Starting out in the 1920's, his stuff was obviously very influenced by Japanese prints, and geometrical shapes played a large role, but there were no optical tricks yet or visual "games." As his skill as an illustrator grew, he became much more interested in the intersection of geometry and illustration. The stuff towards the end of his career is confusing to look at at first, but stunning when you stop to examine it and realize everything is geometrically sound. I wonder what would have happened if he ever tried sculpting. There was a smaller room with an M.C. Escher inspired music video that got me really curious about trying some visual video trickery. Afterwards we ate at the Taco Inn, an uninspired chain restaurant that was close. Despite its "in-authenticity," I discovered Tacoas a la Arracherra, which is meat cooked in fried cheese. It was awesome. We walked back through the Centro Historico and saw the president's house and the church and the old Aztec temple. Mother and Meredith were astounded by the amount of people running around. We made some comments that it was in many ways similar to Europe (though much cheaper).
Los Pyramides
On Monday morning I got up early with mom, and we had a great intellectual chat over coffee, the kind I can always have with her. All of the things I had been thinking, pontificating on, balling up finally had a forum in which to be voiced. My mother is one of the smartest and most intellectual adults I regularly talk to; and it certainly helps that being her son, I tend to have a lot of similar opinions. Even if we differ in opinion we tend to have open minds about the discussion at hand. We covered everything from the Arab Spring and Occupy Wall Street to the metaphysics of the universe. My sister got up, still tired and adjusting to the altitude, and walked right into our fast-paced conversation. Her zero cups of coffee could not compete with my two and mom's four.
We got breakfast in Mercado Portales with Alexander. Later that day we traveled by bus to the Pyramids north of the city. The historical site of Teotihuacán is a vast city, believed to have been built sometime in the second century A.D. No one knows for sure which indigenous people built it, but "…possible candidates are the Nahua, Otomi or Totonac ethnic groups." (Wikipedia) The ancient city includes two pyramids which were temples of the Sun and Moon, as well as a long residential pathway extending between and past the two temples known as the Avenue of the Dead. It is the largest pyramid structure in pre-Columbian America, and the artistic and architectural influence of the early advanced culture can be seen throughout other archeological sites of Mesoamerica. The Aztec would later inhabit this city. The first residents are believed to be a diverse mixture of various ethnic groups; it was a real bohemian center of pre-Columbian America.
It was my first time going to the pyramids, and it was nice to get to experience it for the first time with my family. Crowded throughout the Avenue of the Dead were vendors selling obsidian cats, necklaces and silver for "almost free," or so they said. They were not quite as adamant as some of the street vendors I've encountered in places like Italy, but they were close. We strolled down the Avenue of the Dead and climbed both temples. On top of the Temple of the Sun, we took pictures and rested on a wall for an hour-long siesta, admiring the countryside and talking. This part of Mexico was the first time I felt like I was inside my mental picture of Mexico. The landscape stretched out before us covered in cactus and desert-willow, the mountains of the valley in the distance amidst the atmospheric haze, the sun bearing down warmly as us gringos tried to keep our faces covered. It felt like being inside some of the picturesque scenes from "The Three Caballeros." It was quite a site, and I want to see more of this type of landscape. It was relaxing, and felt like there the land held vast stores of wisdom.
Fiesta Del Arte
On Tuesday Alexander and I had planned an Art Party. We were lucky to reschedule for a time when my sister and mother were in town. That day, before the party, I was apprehensive, nervous, and quiet. I was encountering some of those old feelings only family can give you. Mom had started planning all kinds of food and dishes to make, potato salad, cole slaw, pico de gallo. As happy as I was to have my mother making sure there was food for people to have, I think I felt as though she was taking control of my party. My mother has a tendency to do this, to make me feel as if I'm not the one on control, that I'm not able to do things the right way. It's not intentional, and I always know she just wants to help and has my best interests at heart. It's funny how you can have such conflicting and sometimes contradictory thoughts about your parents. You love them, and yet in some ways know they hold you back from your full potential. So, these thoughts in my head, I went through the day just acting casual and ignoring them. She was only there for 5 days and it wasn't worth it to bring up anything too grieving, I felt. The rest of the day was spent cleaning, arranging, and cooking. I stayed quiet mostly, not too many thoughts in my head besides some stress and agitation. But it got better once people began showing up.
Passion Soup
Meredith and Alexander had an idea to make a soup that tasted like passion. Finally together again here in Mexico City, it was the first thing they set about doing before the party started. I was the unofficial documentarian of this mad escapade. Alexander and I traveled to the local supermarket to obtain some of the important ingredients, including corn flour, honey, chile, and bourbon. Filming inside the store got us in a little trouble with a security guard and the store manager, and we were not able to get permission to film our shopping. That didn't matter because in true guerrilla style I kept the camera on. Later, at the house, the making of the soup was epic. It had a chocolate base, and the two artiste-cooks tried many things. Sautéed bourbon, it turns out, is not very good and when combined with honey turns to a jet black mass of disgusting liquid. I was able to find many a pertinent metaphor for the ups and downs of the process of making this soup as related to "passion." And you know what? In the end, they actually ended up making a damn good soup. It was a thin dark chocolate taste mingled with a spicy effect that hit you after a sweet honey-like sensation swept over you, hitting you in the back of the throat. Happily, like passion, it was warm, exciting, and had a whole lot of phases. Sadly, like passion, it also died out rather fast and had no chance of keeping. Chocolate-based soups must be eaten right away, for reheating is akin to trying to capture the magic again: it just won't work.
The party was nice, though not quite what we expected. We cooked food for about 30 people, about 7 showed up. But we sat around and shared culture and conversation, I met a friend of Patricia's who is hoping to be a Mexican film producer, and Alexander performed Cut Piece book-ended by two poems, one by Ginsberg and the other by some Eastern European.
Sombre Mood
One reason I may have been a little less than talkative was I was getting sick. By Wednesday I had a terribly sore throat, no doubt encouraged by the large amount of alcohol in my system from the night before lowering the defenses of my immune system. It may also have been aggravated by my insisting I sleep on the couch downstairs, which for the first night of my family's visit was numbingly cold. The couch is about half as long as me, so I slept most nights on my side in a fetal position. By the second night, we switched some blankets around and employed the heater I had been neglecting for so long, and got a more viable sleeping situation together for everyone. But the damage of one cold night was done for me. My sore throat pervaded the rest of the day and made my un-talkative, apathetic and slightly morose mood deepen a bit.
But I was determined to be with my family some more and enjoy their company. That day, we traveled to Coyoacán, one of the very nice parts of town and we saw the Frida Kahlo Museum. I enjoyed being back there but my sore throat bothered me a lot. I took a break from playing tour guide and let the ladies wander the premises and learn for themselves. Afterwards we went to the artesan market in the center of town, which was actually rather fun but my feet hurt and there are only so many hand-made necklaces and henna tattoo parlors you can look at before you feel like you've seen them all. Luckily Meredith and mom found plenty of good Christmas gifts for the people back home. I took some time to myself and hung out on the veranda of the second floor in the plaza while the girls browsed, watching the leaves fall, the annoying yet endearing 80's music playing on the market sound system, and observing the beautiful Mexican teenagers make their way through on this picturesque day. I tried to let the thoughts drift away from me and just enjoy the breeze on my face and ignore the pain of swallowing. Meredith and I tried some candy from a dulcería, and I ended up getting a stunningly sweet and bright red thing I was told was Guayaba. Why Mexicans think everything should be dipped in sugar, even the sweetest fruits they have to offer, I don't quite understand.
Because of being ill and a lack of energy on the side of my family, I had to miss a friend's art opening. Kristina Trejo does Bakti designs, which is fabric with dyed patterns that are achieved by applying and scraping off wax in various coats. Instead, mom, Meredith and I tried to go see a movie. Unfortunately, The Muppets was not playing in English, so instead we went to Papa Bill's Saloon and had some drinks. We were all kind of quiet, probably because we had just about run out of things to say. Still, I made the best of being around mom and my sister for the time it lasted. I have to admit I was looking forward to having my house and autonomy back again.
I don't mean to make it sound like I hate my family or despise my mother. The truth is that the things our parents do sometimes remind us of the things in childhood we found frustrating, or the adulthood pains we have had to endure. There is no hiding from your family; fortunately and unfortunately, they know everything about you, for better or worse. I am not planning on staying in Mexico much longer, but I have learned from my time here that I really enjoy being autonomous, my own man, and I want to continue this lifestyle. Being independent is scary but its far better than letting your past constantly define you. Best to let your past inform you, but let the present become you.
Undocumented Worker
Thursday I had to leave my family early, I had gotten a catering gig with Alexander's friend Juliet who was catering at a satellite of the American Embassy. My spirits perked up, and my throat had gotten a teensy bit better. Luckily Juliet liked me so it sounds like for my remaining time here I will get a few more gigs. We had a tense but fun time, as it is with many food-service gigs. Afterwards Alexander took me for some really good tacos around Condeza. And then he took me to Kristina's exhibit, of which I had missed the opening. Her stuff is really good. We discussed our opinions of it as we wandered the interior of the art cafe, also astonished that a fantasy painter was asking for something like 10,000 U.S. dollars for some strange paintings that I personally thought lacked compositional fluidity. But the colors were nice.
Walking down the streets and passing the hip joints of Condeza, Alexander and I shared a very nice moment. Alexander thanked me for being around in Mexico, for having fun with him and being someone to share an experience or two with in Mexico with; mostly just for being a friend. I was really flattered, and I felt the same way. There is something comforting about having another witness to your life, especially when you are in a foreign place and just getting your feet wet learning the ways of life. It seems we are always learning something new about life and ourselves, at least I would hope we are, and maybe those two aren't so very different. We separate these things in our life in some effort to make them more organized, more manageable, but as that wise Beatle said, "Life is what happens when we're busy making other plans."
I just recently finished reading "The Last Kingdom," a historical novel about the Dark Ages of late 9th century England, and its massive invasion by the Danes, commonly mis-named Vikings. The main character is raised by the pagan Danes, and he says often that "Destiny is everything." I have lately been having many thoughts along this line as well, though I am aware I am easily influenced in my ways of thinking when I am experiencing a good story. I am always trying to force my way into some categorized career path, some easy answer that will let me know what I'm going to do with my life. It's maddening and frustrating, dealing with my own delusions of grandeur and wanting to be so like the people I admire; to be wise in the face of stupidity, to be strong amidst adversity, wanting to be famous but abhorring fame, to be calm, courteous and open-minded while also being steadfast and decisive. I linger in meditative thought, trying to calm the raging torrent of my own mind in an attempt to amplify that little voice that tells everyone what is the right thing to do. And I am no big believer in fate, that logical part of me raised on science reminding me that there is no coincidence, that things just are. And yet there is something that lingers in me that thinks there could be some course I may or may not be meant to take.
I am reminded of that psychedelic feelings when it is clear that there is not a grain of sand, a stack of concrete, a footstep that is not exactly right where it should be. I believe that this is not because anything is written or that the present was always meant to be the way it is right now without anything we humans could do to change it. Rather, in the poetic (and paraphrased) words of Cormac McCarthy, there is no would or could or might have been and there never was. We are all creating this world as we go and nothing is out of place in it because there is no way it ever could have been. Life moseys along with us, and we are not powerless to stop it nor are we complete singular masters of our own destiny. We are life, part of it, and we are everything and nothing to it. So perhaps the best thing to do with our lives is simply to follow our passions as fully as we are able with the resources we have available in the present moment, and be pleasantly surprised by where it takes us.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
A Traditional Posada
On Friday, 12/16, Alexander invited me to a much more traditional posada. His Mexican family was celebrating with their neighborhood. We got a lesson in Mexican time when we showed up at 7pm (a.k.a., "right on time"), and proceeded to watch a Nature channel program on badgers for about an hour. But then, at 8p.m., Alexander's uncle Jeronimo told us we should go over to the gathering hall across the street.
A more traditional posada is celebrated during the 9 days before Christmas. A small gathering site held the local community, about as many people lived up and down for about two blocks. People sat and recited songs in between people saying what they were thankful for, and repeating a litany of... who knows what, it went by so fast that I couldn't understand it. When I realized they were all going in a row, I became deathly afraid that I was going to have to say something to 100 people I didn't know in embarrassingly broken Spanish. They were all mostly old ladies and elder dignified gentlemen, a few parents with young children. I was mortified. Luckily when it came to us we got passed over. I breathed a sigh of relief, but I stayed a little tense as I kept paying close attention to the amazing things I had no idea about. Alexander and I got plenty of happy smiles from those who must have realized we were way far out of our element.
The food, as it is at all Mexican parties, was great. Alexander made me try something slightly opaque and a little squishy that had the consistency of a gummy bear and tasted like bland chicken. Turns out it was cow tendon. Cool!
Later, we all gathered with candles and nightsticks in the street. A portable loudspeaker system crackled in and out of audibility as an older woman led the songs while we slowly walked up and down the street, imitating the pilgrimage of Joseph and Mary coming to the stable. Candles everywhere kept dying out in the wind, and everyone was rushing to one another to keep their lights alive. When we arrived back at the meeting hall, we sang a back-and-forth song imitating the stablemaster inviting Joseph and Mary in.
Then, piñatas were hung in the street, on a rope that was hung between two houses across the whole street. And such piñatas! There were piñatas for the tiniest children, for the boys, for the girls, for the teenagers, for the adults, some were filled with sugarcane, jicama, or sweets, others were trick piñatas filled with paper filler. On my turn, I started whacking that mother fogger straight-up gangsta style. I didn't realize there was a three-hit limit… as I swung my baton samurai-sword style, I started hearing English: "STOP!" Slightly embarrassed, I let the baton go to the next person. But I did some damage.
Though it wasn't quite as "fun" as the last posada, which had lots of people my age and plenty of drinking and dancing, I had a great time. It really felt like I was experiencing something foreign, as I couldn't understand a word people were saying near the beginning. Sadly, traditional posadas of the type I got to witness are slowly dying out in favor of much more western forms of celebration. Even Christmas trees were not common in Mexico until fairly recently. I hope that this tradition finds a way to continue in some way, though the young people find it boring, I found it a great example of the way a culture continues to move their stories and beliefs forward through the years.
A more traditional posada is celebrated during the 9 days before Christmas. A small gathering site held the local community, about as many people lived up and down for about two blocks. People sat and recited songs in between people saying what they were thankful for, and repeating a litany of... who knows what, it went by so fast that I couldn't understand it. When I realized they were all going in a row, I became deathly afraid that I was going to have to say something to 100 people I didn't know in embarrassingly broken Spanish. They were all mostly old ladies and elder dignified gentlemen, a few parents with young children. I was mortified. Luckily when it came to us we got passed over. I breathed a sigh of relief, but I stayed a little tense as I kept paying close attention to the amazing things I had no idea about. Alexander and I got plenty of happy smiles from those who must have realized we were way far out of our element.
The food, as it is at all Mexican parties, was great. Alexander made me try something slightly opaque and a little squishy that had the consistency of a gummy bear and tasted like bland chicken. Turns out it was cow tendon. Cool!
Later, we all gathered with candles and nightsticks in the street. A portable loudspeaker system crackled in and out of audibility as an older woman led the songs while we slowly walked up and down the street, imitating the pilgrimage of Joseph and Mary coming to the stable. Candles everywhere kept dying out in the wind, and everyone was rushing to one another to keep their lights alive. When we arrived back at the meeting hall, we sang a back-and-forth song imitating the stablemaster inviting Joseph and Mary in.
Then, piñatas were hung in the street, on a rope that was hung between two houses across the whole street. And such piñatas! There were piñatas for the tiniest children, for the boys, for the girls, for the teenagers, for the adults, some were filled with sugarcane, jicama, or sweets, others were trick piñatas filled with paper filler. On my turn, I started whacking that mother fogger straight-up gangsta style. I didn't realize there was a three-hit limit… as I swung my baton samurai-sword style, I started hearing English: "STOP!" Slightly embarrassed, I let the baton go to the next person. But I did some damage.
Though it wasn't quite as "fun" as the last posada, which had lots of people my age and plenty of drinking and dancing, I had a great time. It really felt like I was experiencing something foreign, as I couldn't understand a word people were saying near the beginning. Sadly, traditional posadas of the type I got to witness are slowly dying out in favor of much more western forms of celebration. Even Christmas trees were not common in Mexico until fairly recently. I hope that this tradition finds a way to continue in some way, though the young people find it boring, I found it a great example of the way a culture continues to move their stories and beliefs forward through the years.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Do You, Mind?
Sometimes I wish my mind would just slow the fuck down.
I could take you on a tour of the mental gymnastics but its a train wreck in there. Come back later, we're closed for renovations.
I could take you on a tour of the mental gymnastics but its a train wreck in there. Come back later, we're closed for renovations.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Out on the Weekend
Last Friday, I went to my first "Posada," hosted by my friend Patricia. A "Posada" is a traditional Mexican fiesta held before Christmas. It was all young people, about graduate student age. There is drinks, conversation, enjoyment of friends' company, a piñata, and food. Lots of food. One thing about Mexican parties: they know how to keep their guests and guts happy. At one point during the night, a book of songs (I was later corrected that they were "laments") was brought out. one of the children of the guests, a cute little girl named Miley, handed me a candle. Then, half of the guests stood outside the door, their candles lit, and half of us stayed behind the door, our candles lit, imitating the journey of Josef and Mary as they looked for sanctuary in the stable. A back-and-forth prayer was uttered between us, and the guests came in, as we set of some nightsticks. Then, we strung up our piñata across the courtyard of the small apartment complex and had a rollicking good time. I spent the night and left at 7 in the morning, after falling asleep at 3.
As Patricia guided me on the bus ride back to the metro station, she pointed out to me the countless pilgrims riding their bicycles to the Basilica to pay homage to the Virgin Mary (That weekend was the Day of Guadalupe, a sacred holiday among Mexican Catholics). It looked almost like Burning Man, with people camping out in small corner parks, people hanging around laughing, praying, eating food provided specifically for the pilgrims. Most of the food was even catered by local city residents specifically for the travelers, many who had come from miles outside of Mexico City for the stunning service to be held Sunday.
The weekend experience wasn't quite over. That day, Saturday, I had an interview for a modeling agency (of all things) at 11am. They had found me through Facebook, which is a little strange. I had very little prospects of getting the "job," and I had no idea how my Spanish would fare in the interview. So, going into the interview expecting to tell them the truth and be present (as I have avoided in so many interviews; worried about getting the job you agonize over thinking about what they want to hear out of you), I had a jolly good time. By the time I talked to a second woman about the work visa requirements, I was literally only seeing gibberish spew out of her mouth. But I caught enough to make sense, and I think I presented myself well. So, no modeling jobs at the moment, but I felt very proud that at the very least I had gone to my first Mexican job interview.
The building was in the Condeza district, a very nice part of town. With nothing much to do, I decided to take a stroll through the park. It reminded me of Halloween weekend with the guys, strolling on our little daytrip through the SF Botanical Garden, and really taking in the unique different-ness of Mexican flora and fauna. As a sat on a bridge giving a fond remembrance of home, a Jedi talked to me. He called himself Tiny. He carried a divining rod with him. It was very amusing.
Here is a transcribed poem I wrote that afternoon:
"Some moments are meant to be waited for. Walk. Walk. Walking through the park replaying, relaying those fond fond memories of men in a park observing the universe passing by, when you were the finest dudded gent in the playground pond. How does it feel to be the only white skinned devil on the bus of browns, light and dark ones, to be the only one reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Perhaps it is vainly stroking an ego, an id, a thought when someone wants you for your skin and eyes and ears. But the true satisfaction is in traversing the odd-edged sidewalks to the building of pretty gibberish ladies, that you came and went and took your walk in the park, where you met a tiny Jedi and discussed the Sith Lords of America. Perhaps it is the continued waking of this life, a stern continued lack of sleep that makes us weep at the growing, hoarse talking trees and plants and the old ladies waiting at their bus stop churches and all of the things we just can't catch up to. Remember your fine duds and your devil skin and then forget them. The trees will tell you why. Don't forget the way it feels to walk on water, to dance with your chances, to feel like every step is exactly where it should be."
That same day, around 5:00pm, a 6.5 earthquake hit Mexico City. I was back home and only felt a little shake and rattle. I was still incredibly surprised. I had lived a whole year in San Francisco and my whole life in California and never experienced an earthquake. I had to come to Mexico to see one. It was relatively easy-going in my part of town, but Alexander said his whole apartment complex was shaking for a good three minutes. Two people died in one of the poorer parts of town. My friend Patricia, who lives on the fourth floor of an apartment complex, really got a good scare.
On Sunday I went out for a few errands and had a great time getting some final pieces together for art projects. I have been slowly working on a comic bookstore for my dear fairy friend Koala, who lives in Thailand. It will be up on my website soon. I spent the afternoon stapling, gluing, covering, and decorating the book with leaves I found on the ground. I think she'll really like it.
When I got home I realized I had lost my call phone. I got really mad for awhile about that. I had just bought a hard drive that day as well. I think I was getting angry about my seemingly wasted money. Its incredible how worried money can get you about just about everything. So I fumed for awhile, but all in all it was a pleasant day. I still haven't sent the package to Koala, but once I get around a post office (probably this weekend) I'll be sending that shit out.
I've been thinking a lot about where I want to go in life, and where life is taking me, and whether they are the same thing. I've been finding a whole lot of personal power in The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I would like to be in a position where I can meet people frequently from all types of existences and corners of the earth, and invite them over to dinner at my whim. I want to be able to tell stories and travel a lot. I want to have something at stake, to find a way I can use my interests for a public service, and not one that relies on the evil corporate endless economic growth structure. I want to have a house with a garden. Where will home be? Maybe it shall end up being back in the town of my birth. Maybe it will be in Austin. I feel a strong urge pulling me towards San Diego. I want to visit my niece, whom I believe will be turning four in the new year. I am realizing here that I truly love my family. They are some of the smartest, most creative, intellectually stimulating and incredibly interesting people I know. My parents escaped their families because they couldn't find something they recognized in themselves in their families. I don't have that problem, luckily. I want to see my niece, a person young enough still to not need a reason to love anybody. She just knows that she likes her parents, her grandparents, and me, I think.
It would be great to travel Mexico in January or February, go to Merida, Chiapas, and work on some farms through WWOOF. Then Go live in San Diego in my brother's mothers house (which she has offered me to stay at numerous times) for awhile. Then go out and live with dad in Virginia for 2 weeks, a month, or something. I think then I will be ready to start this thing called life. Get a job to support the comic-ing, or apply for that internship at Pixar. Or move to Los Angeles and do improv classes, write some scripts with Omar, do some PA jobs. I'm not sure which to do, but it all sounds like its time for me to get going. My allotted time in Mexico is almost up, I'm about halfway through a three-month stay.
I've always wished I could give myself up to living totally on faith. Like those people you hear about who jump a boxcar and don't know where they're going or where they'll be sleeping. I'd love to have an experience as inspiring and life-affirming and as full of purpose as the one described by Malcolm X when he made his pilgrimage to Mecca. It sounds so amazing to go in search of a spiritual awakening, to run with mobs of people across the desert, screaming to the heavens your faith in the living world, what they call Allah, what some people call God, what I choose to call The Universe. But reading his thoughts also made me realize I have been blessed with a strong and intelligent mind, and if it usually takes me down a path of plans, preparedness and plotting out my next avenue in life, then I should be thankful I have that ability. I believe that living through my mind and my body will fare me quite well, and when it is time to make a journey from which I am not sure I will return, my mind and body will tell me when I am ready.
As Patricia guided me on the bus ride back to the metro station, she pointed out to me the countless pilgrims riding their bicycles to the Basilica to pay homage to the Virgin Mary (That weekend was the Day of Guadalupe, a sacred holiday among Mexican Catholics). It looked almost like Burning Man, with people camping out in small corner parks, people hanging around laughing, praying, eating food provided specifically for the pilgrims. Most of the food was even catered by local city residents specifically for the travelers, many who had come from miles outside of Mexico City for the stunning service to be held Sunday.
The weekend experience wasn't quite over. That day, Saturday, I had an interview for a modeling agency (of all things) at 11am. They had found me through Facebook, which is a little strange. I had very little prospects of getting the "job," and I had no idea how my Spanish would fare in the interview. So, going into the interview expecting to tell them the truth and be present (as I have avoided in so many interviews; worried about getting the job you agonize over thinking about what they want to hear out of you), I had a jolly good time. By the time I talked to a second woman about the work visa requirements, I was literally only seeing gibberish spew out of her mouth. But I caught enough to make sense, and I think I presented myself well. So, no modeling jobs at the moment, but I felt very proud that at the very least I had gone to my first Mexican job interview.
The building was in the Condeza district, a very nice part of town. With nothing much to do, I decided to take a stroll through the park. It reminded me of Halloween weekend with the guys, strolling on our little daytrip through the SF Botanical Garden, and really taking in the unique different-ness of Mexican flora and fauna. As a sat on a bridge giving a fond remembrance of home, a Jedi talked to me. He called himself Tiny. He carried a divining rod with him. It was very amusing.
Here is a transcribed poem I wrote that afternoon:
"Some moments are meant to be waited for. Walk. Walk. Walking through the park replaying, relaying those fond fond memories of men in a park observing the universe passing by, when you were the finest dudded gent in the playground pond. How does it feel to be the only white skinned devil on the bus of browns, light and dark ones, to be the only one reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Perhaps it is vainly stroking an ego, an id, a thought when someone wants you for your skin and eyes and ears. But the true satisfaction is in traversing the odd-edged sidewalks to the building of pretty gibberish ladies, that you came and went and took your walk in the park, where you met a tiny Jedi and discussed the Sith Lords of America. Perhaps it is the continued waking of this life, a stern continued lack of sleep that makes us weep at the growing, hoarse talking trees and plants and the old ladies waiting at their bus stop churches and all of the things we just can't catch up to. Remember your fine duds and your devil skin and then forget them. The trees will tell you why. Don't forget the way it feels to walk on water, to dance with your chances, to feel like every step is exactly where it should be."
That same day, around 5:00pm, a 6.5 earthquake hit Mexico City. I was back home and only felt a little shake and rattle. I was still incredibly surprised. I had lived a whole year in San Francisco and my whole life in California and never experienced an earthquake. I had to come to Mexico to see one. It was relatively easy-going in my part of town, but Alexander said his whole apartment complex was shaking for a good three minutes. Two people died in one of the poorer parts of town. My friend Patricia, who lives on the fourth floor of an apartment complex, really got a good scare.
On Sunday I went out for a few errands and had a great time getting some final pieces together for art projects. I have been slowly working on a comic bookstore for my dear fairy friend Koala, who lives in Thailand. It will be up on my website soon. I spent the afternoon stapling, gluing, covering, and decorating the book with leaves I found on the ground. I think she'll really like it.
When I got home I realized I had lost my call phone. I got really mad for awhile about that. I had just bought a hard drive that day as well. I think I was getting angry about my seemingly wasted money. Its incredible how worried money can get you about just about everything. So I fumed for awhile, but all in all it was a pleasant day. I still haven't sent the package to Koala, but once I get around a post office (probably this weekend) I'll be sending that shit out.
I've been thinking a lot about where I want to go in life, and where life is taking me, and whether they are the same thing. I've been finding a whole lot of personal power in The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I would like to be in a position where I can meet people frequently from all types of existences and corners of the earth, and invite them over to dinner at my whim. I want to be able to tell stories and travel a lot. I want to have something at stake, to find a way I can use my interests for a public service, and not one that relies on the evil corporate endless economic growth structure. I want to have a house with a garden. Where will home be? Maybe it shall end up being back in the town of my birth. Maybe it will be in Austin. I feel a strong urge pulling me towards San Diego. I want to visit my niece, whom I believe will be turning four in the new year. I am realizing here that I truly love my family. They are some of the smartest, most creative, intellectually stimulating and incredibly interesting people I know. My parents escaped their families because they couldn't find something they recognized in themselves in their families. I don't have that problem, luckily. I want to see my niece, a person young enough still to not need a reason to love anybody. She just knows that she likes her parents, her grandparents, and me, I think.
It would be great to travel Mexico in January or February, go to Merida, Chiapas, and work on some farms through WWOOF. Then Go live in San Diego in my brother's mothers house (which she has offered me to stay at numerous times) for awhile. Then go out and live with dad in Virginia for 2 weeks, a month, or something. I think then I will be ready to start this thing called life. Get a job to support the comic-ing, or apply for that internship at Pixar. Or move to Los Angeles and do improv classes, write some scripts with Omar, do some PA jobs. I'm not sure which to do, but it all sounds like its time for me to get going. My allotted time in Mexico is almost up, I'm about halfway through a three-month stay.
I've always wished I could give myself up to living totally on faith. Like those people you hear about who jump a boxcar and don't know where they're going or where they'll be sleeping. I'd love to have an experience as inspiring and life-affirming and as full of purpose as the one described by Malcolm X when he made his pilgrimage to Mecca. It sounds so amazing to go in search of a spiritual awakening, to run with mobs of people across the desert, screaming to the heavens your faith in the living world, what they call Allah, what some people call God, what I choose to call The Universe. But reading his thoughts also made me realize I have been blessed with a strong and intelligent mind, and if it usually takes me down a path of plans, preparedness and plotting out my next avenue in life, then I should be thankful I have that ability. I believe that living through my mind and my body will fare me quite well, and when it is time to make a journey from which I am not sure I will return, my mind and body will tell me when I am ready.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Toluca
Yesterday Alexander took me to Toluca, a small city outside the limits of Mexico City. It was quite nice.
"Toluca" is a náhuatl word meaning "lugar del dios Tolo," or "the place of the god Tolo." Apparently, Tolo was one of the gods worshiped by the Aztecs. We visited two large churches around the centro, the Catadral de Toluca and the Templo de Carmen. They contain some of the bloodiest Jesus statues I've ever seen. There was also the Cosmovital Jardín Botanico, a large building containing all native plants of Mexico. The plants add to the stunning beauty of the stained-glass mural which starts at the entrance, runs along either side of the walls (showering the plants in light of all colors, making them look almost alien at times), over to the back and along the ceiling. The Garden was designed by a Japanese artist who moved to Mexico in the late 19th century. This garden is well worth the 10 peso entrance fee; it is one of those marvelous fusions of art and nature of which we do not see enough.
A few times, I heard locals calling out in English to us. One man passing us on the street did a dead-on impression: "Hey, what's going on, guys?" You would think he was Dave Chappelle imitating white people.
If you wander outside the centro there are some stunningly cheap places to get food. We had a feast of chilaquiles and sopes. I also got a chance to try my first "gordita." Now, some of you probably have had gorditas in Mexican restaurants in America, which tend to be deep-fried burritos. A true Mexican gordita is not the same, though the two are probably on par with each other in terms of health benefits. A Mexican gordita is closer to a Mexican dim-sum. It is a thick corn tortilla stuffed with just about anything, ranging from meat to fruit or anything else. The meat is deep-fried. The tortilla is deep-fried. There is not a single part of this marvelous concoction that isn't attempting to give you a heart attack. There is a reason they call it "the little fat girl." Oh, and I found out afterwards that the stuffing inside my gordita was deep-fried pig skin. I do believe this is what Ambrosia tasted like.
Sadly, the next new experience was not as orgasmic-ally satisfying. After wandering around for awhile searching for a bar, we finally found one thanks to a tip from the lovely ladies at the Fiesta Inn. It was a little tavern in the second story of a building, up a narrow flight of stairs. There, I tried my very first "cubana." This recipe describes a cubana as "10 oz beer, 1 oz lime juice, 9 dashes tabasco and 2 oz clamato juice." I would also add to that list of ingredients "1 heaping spoonful of pure nasty." It is not exactly a pleasant drink to imbibe. In fact, it has the curious effect of getting more repulsive as you drink it. It looks kind of like the tarred-up sludge water at the bottom of a bong that hasn't been cleaned in a year. But, as was my duty, I pressed on and finished the whole thing.
Drunk and tired, Alexander and I made our way back to the bus terminal. Missing the bus by only seconds, we got the next one out, leaving a half-hour later. This gave us an opportunity to wander the terminal which must have been created by some monster from the 70's with an interior design degree. Pure whites and bright orange-browns clashed like titans across the ceiling and floor. Tiring of the visually depleting ensemble, we got pastries and ate them on a walkway looking out over the Toluca freeway. It was a lovely, surreal sight of urban beauty. A concrete pillar walkway merging off in different directions like a spiderweb. In one direction, the lights of a far-off city and the vague outline of a placid hillside. In another, a large set of windows looking in on a karate dojo on the third floor of the building attached to the bus terminal. All along the walkway vendors sat next to large blankets selling strange assortments of goods, like watches, scarves, and batteries. We almost missed the next bus when we got a little too carried away making fun of Catwoman, playing in a Spanish dub on the terminal telly.
It was nice to get out of the city, even if only to a smaller city. Returning to the hustle and bustle of Mexico City felt a little surreal. Next time, I really want to get out of my element and visit a pueblo. Thank goodness there are a multitude of ways to keep your mind open in this world.
"Toluca" is a náhuatl word meaning "lugar del dios Tolo," or "the place of the god Tolo." Apparently, Tolo was one of the gods worshiped by the Aztecs. We visited two large churches around the centro, the Catadral de Toluca and the Templo de Carmen. They contain some of the bloodiest Jesus statues I've ever seen. There was also the Cosmovital Jardín Botanico, a large building containing all native plants of Mexico. The plants add to the stunning beauty of the stained-glass mural which starts at the entrance, runs along either side of the walls (showering the plants in light of all colors, making them look almost alien at times), over to the back and along the ceiling. The Garden was designed by a Japanese artist who moved to Mexico in the late 19th century. This garden is well worth the 10 peso entrance fee; it is one of those marvelous fusions of art and nature of which we do not see enough.
A few times, I heard locals calling out in English to us. One man passing us on the street did a dead-on impression: "Hey, what's going on, guys?" You would think he was Dave Chappelle imitating white people.
If you wander outside the centro there are some stunningly cheap places to get food. We had a feast of chilaquiles and sopes. I also got a chance to try my first "gordita." Now, some of you probably have had gorditas in Mexican restaurants in America, which tend to be deep-fried burritos. A true Mexican gordita is not the same, though the two are probably on par with each other in terms of health benefits. A Mexican gordita is closer to a Mexican dim-sum. It is a thick corn tortilla stuffed with just about anything, ranging from meat to fruit or anything else. The meat is deep-fried. The tortilla is deep-fried. There is not a single part of this marvelous concoction that isn't attempting to give you a heart attack. There is a reason they call it "the little fat girl." Oh, and I found out afterwards that the stuffing inside my gordita was deep-fried pig skin. I do believe this is what Ambrosia tasted like.
Sadly, the next new experience was not as orgasmic-ally satisfying. After wandering around for awhile searching for a bar, we finally found one thanks to a tip from the lovely ladies at the Fiesta Inn. It was a little tavern in the second story of a building, up a narrow flight of stairs. There, I tried my very first "cubana." This recipe describes a cubana as "10 oz beer, 1 oz lime juice, 9 dashes tabasco and 2 oz clamato juice." I would also add to that list of ingredients "1 heaping spoonful of pure nasty." It is not exactly a pleasant drink to imbibe. In fact, it has the curious effect of getting more repulsive as you drink it. It looks kind of like the tarred-up sludge water at the bottom of a bong that hasn't been cleaned in a year. But, as was my duty, I pressed on and finished the whole thing.Drunk and tired, Alexander and I made our way back to the bus terminal. Missing the bus by only seconds, we got the next one out, leaving a half-hour later. This gave us an opportunity to wander the terminal which must have been created by some monster from the 70's with an interior design degree. Pure whites and bright orange-browns clashed like titans across the ceiling and floor. Tiring of the visually depleting ensemble, we got pastries and ate them on a walkway looking out over the Toluca freeway. It was a lovely, surreal sight of urban beauty. A concrete pillar walkway merging off in different directions like a spiderweb. In one direction, the lights of a far-off city and the vague outline of a placid hillside. In another, a large set of windows looking in on a karate dojo on the third floor of the building attached to the bus terminal. All along the walkway vendors sat next to large blankets selling strange assortments of goods, like watches, scarves, and batteries. We almost missed the next bus when we got a little too carried away making fun of Catwoman, playing in a Spanish dub on the terminal telly.
It was nice to get out of the city, even if only to a smaller city. Returning to the hustle and bustle of Mexico City felt a little surreal. Next time, I really want to get out of my element and visit a pueblo. Thank goodness there are a multitude of ways to keep your mind open in this world.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Art, Booze & Foreign Filmin'
I'm doing a lot of art today, it feels good.
I also bought a new pair of shoes! They have long flared tips. I feel very Mexican.
I had a killer headache last night. I'm starting to think I'm too old for alcohol. All I had was a shot of tequila and about an hour later two beers. Maybe its just the elevation and not enough water.
I had a thought last night as I was falling asleep that I need to move my body to really let the creative energy out of me. It's awfully constricting sitting at a desk or drafting table trying to get some little line perfect without getting up every once in awhile.
My friend Alexander and I will be making a foreign film soon (i.e., a film here in Mexico). I'm very excited. I think it's finally time for me to get back into a collaborative film-making experience. I've had enough Ol' Man Grizzles, it's time to embrace my "destiny," if that's what you want to call it. More details to come.
Also, I will be publishing ads on this site, to see how it works out. If you know me personally, PLEASE DO NOT CLICK THEM. Unless, of course, you are actually interested in the product. Haphazard clicking will get my account banned. We all remember cacrew, don't we? In the meantime, sorry about the visual clutter, but hopefully the ads come off as non-intrusive as possible.
I also bought a new pair of shoes! They have long flared tips. I feel very Mexican.
I had a killer headache last night. I'm starting to think I'm too old for alcohol. All I had was a shot of tequila and about an hour later two beers. Maybe its just the elevation and not enough water.
I had a thought last night as I was falling asleep that I need to move my body to really let the creative energy out of me. It's awfully constricting sitting at a desk or drafting table trying to get some little line perfect without getting up every once in awhile.
My friend Alexander and I will be making a foreign film soon (i.e., a film here in Mexico). I'm very excited. I think it's finally time for me to get back into a collaborative film-making experience. I've had enough Ol' Man Grizzles, it's time to embrace my "destiny," if that's what you want to call it. More details to come.
Also, I will be publishing ads on this site, to see how it works out. If you know me personally, PLEASE DO NOT CLICK THEM. Unless, of course, you are actually interested in the product. Haphazard clicking will get my account banned. We all remember cacrew, don't we? In the meantime, sorry about the visual clutter, but hopefully the ads come off as non-intrusive as possible.
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