The Willing Suspension of Disbelief

The discovery of the illusion of implied motion began simply enough with the Zoetrope. When looking at a series of still images, which show the same subject in a slightly different position in time, the rapid succession of those images gets translated in our minds as a moving image.



The theory of Persistence of Vision explains that continual motion is an illusion that occurs in our mind. When the image changes from one to the other, the first image will linger in our mind long enough to have it merge with the second one. The faster the images appear, the less jerky the motion appears.

This process was explored and refined into our modern day films. 24 frames per second is the standard. 24 separate images flash before us in one second, and we see movement.

During grammar school, my classmates and I would grab our books of higher learning and painstakingly go about the business of creating flip books out of the corners. We'd toil away, and I'm sure look quite busy and concentrated, while we drew out stick figure fights, car chases, you name it. We'd become immersed in our creations and by doing so were participating in one of the simplest and most natural of acts.

And we do this all of the time! You and I, participating in the act of beholding and the beholden. Letting ourselves get carried away by the iMAGICnation of our waking dreams. Outside of time, place and space.

Stillness in Movement; The art of motion, and more than this: This is our uncanny ability to believe. This is what allows us to become absorbed in a novel as with words, it weaves and guides us through a perfectly constructed universe. A play, as the bombastic acts of the players trigger in us a recognition and empathy that entertains and reveals. A song, the melody and words that truly create the soundtrack of our lives, the lyrical ebb and flow that is instantly familiar. A Lover, the glorious moment of blending, melting, sharing, where our souls meet and are united in heaven.

It is the moment when we participate in aesthetic arrest. A moment and an action that we surely do not give ourselves enough credit for. The Willing Suspension of Disbelief is a natural skill we all posses and use unconsciously.

All of the time.

We are immersed in the moment and the moment consumes us, carries us, and offers us that wonderful feeling of living, breathing, beauty.

"The aesthetic experience is a simple beholding of the object....you experience a radiance. You are held in aesthetic arrest." - Joseph Campbell.


Here's a great example of a modern day Zoetrope:





http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suspension_of_disbelief

Conviction:

My Grandfather once told me: "Desde que se inventaron las escusas, se acabaron los pendejos." Which translates roughly into: "Since excuses were invented, Idiots ceased to exist." He was speaking about assuming responsibility, the act of embracing one's acts. It is a unique quality of Human Nature that we perceive the act not getting caught with "getting away with it". The entire concept of irresponsibility revolves around the idea of one's acts not being tallied and counted against us.

If there are two things that define a Man, or Gentleman, they are his actions and his word. His word is how he declares his intention. It is his claim that sets forth his path and direction. It is his ability to clearly and succinctly define, who he is, what he is doing, and what he will do. The honorable Man is defined by his ability to "live up to his word." Hence, being a "Man of your word" was considered one of the highest honors any Man can carry, regardless of his social strata. Before laws, contracts, and judgements, there was the word. Deals were made verbally, and sealed with a handshake, which is our second definer of Men: His Actions.

The firm handshake and the word go hand in hand (my apologies for the pun). The handshake was the contract and the affirmation of the word. This was the first action amongst Men. This combination was a guarantee of commitment and results. It was a way of knowing, with certainty, what was to transpire amongst both parties. We agree on an action, and we seal it with a handshake.

I do what I say and I say what I do.

I recommend we dissolve the entire concept of "getting away with it". Let's strike from our lexicon those very words that purport to give us an out. Let's come to terms with the fact that there really is no place to hide. We truly do wear our hearts on our sleeves. The masks that we employ to direct our audience reveal as much, if not more, than what we believe we conceal. All acts reflect on the actor. We carry the mark of our actions in our gait, our look, the way we hesitate. Why pretend, when our very persona broadcasts to the world both our history and our expectations?

Sans judgement. Sans guilt. Sans religion, God, or anything else out there.

Take a stand.

I do what I say and I say what I do.

You don't need to be right. Being "right" is only valid in hindsight. Walk with a sure step. Make the commitment that drives you forward.

Have conviction.

Be a Man.

Times Three

We are all born unfinished. Like the seed, caterpillar, stone, we are un-hued and naturally require the work that pulls, polishes, and sets.

I witnessed my Son in his frailty; a Time Traveler arriving in our temporal reality. Me being his host, welcome young Man to this trip we'll call your life.
I remember you speaking to me, telling me how draining it was to arrive; how it was easy to sleep, to stay between both worlds. but the love we shared served as your guidepost. the lamp you followed to your corporeal beginnings came from our heat, my voice, the touch.

I witnessed my Woman in her distrust; a Goddess walking this earth. You challenged me with your myriad tasks. All designed to destabilize me, all designed to prove that I was worthy of you to open up. And I did. I remember you telling me how you didn't want to be hurt again. How it was too much to let go. But we danced. Slowly, with soft steps, and with a rhythm that is uniquely our own.

I see my Self in my unfolding; Stumbling through the basics. Bopping my head on the obvious. Having to re-learn that "Yes, Abner, you're back in school." "Yes, Abner you need to learn this in order to move on." "No, Abner it doesn't matter if you've done this in the past, you need to do it now." I look for shortcuts and ways out, only to remind myself that there is no other path for me. No other space for me. No other moment than the one I create/embrace/accept.

Untitled

If...

... you give yourself...

... permission...

... to open up...

... you may find...

... that what you feel ...

... is an overwhelming desire to

Love All

...those that came...

...those that left...

...those that stayed...

... we all have room inside of you...

... we all fit ...

in an interdependent causality that moves in all directions

at all times

But...

its too much

too allow yourself to intertwine with the ineffable. to dissipate, dissolve, not cease, but simply, Be.

When what we all long for are the moments of validation. The intimacy of sharing. The dissolution of our very selves; Every fiber, every atom, resonating with the simple fact that we are all truly and deeply intertwined.

El Tropico Nightclub Pt. 2

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One fine evening, in the hallowed, but crusty halls of El Tropico Night Club (The famous East L.A. haunt that specialized in hookers, transvestites, cocaine, and ghosts. "Broken Hearts & Broken Noses")two of my favorite patrons strolled in. One was a retired cop that worked security and had his own mechanics' shop (from his garage), the other was a Cab Driver. They were always quite jovial and had a great knack for telling stories and chiming in with each other. This particular time Jorge, our Cab Driver, walked looking like he had seen death itself. Angel, our retired cop, had his arm around him and looked like he could barely contain his smile. They sat at the Bar:

Me - Hey Man, que traes?

Jorge - Nuthin Man. How you been?

(Turning to Angel)

Me - Sup with your boy? Looks like su vieja se lo madreo!

Angel - Nah Bro. It's better than that! (Laughs)

I pop open a couple of beers (the usual) as they settle in

Jorge - (staring at the bottle) I can't fucken believe it.

Angel - (to me) You see, Jorge here is suffering from what us cops call "shock"; A near death experience; you know, "shaking hands with Jesus"

Me - (to Jorge) Not Jesus, my cousin, but the Man upstairs?

Angel - The one and only! (pats Jorge in the back) you'll make it through this homey.

Jorge - It wasn't my fault...

Me - Relax Man... What Happened?

Angel - (holding back a smile) ...well I don't know about that...

Jorge - (To Angel) Cmon! I just did the usual. (turns to me) I was doing my rounds; you know, hitting all the bars and clubs looking for fares. Its easy money to take a some drunks home. And sometimes I pick some hot Mamacitas!

Angel - (Laughs) ...right...

Jorge - Hey Man! I'm telling you I was just following the game plan! I picked up this old lady, over at Luminarias. She was sloshed! I figured: easy money. I'll take her home the long way, listen to some tunes, and ask her for a nice tip.
(Takes a swig of beer)
...Damn...

Angel - Tell em what she said first.

Jorge - This old lady sits down in the back, and before I can ask where to she says: "All Men are Idiots"

Angel - "Bola de pendejos!"

Jorge - Yeah, so I get her address and we're on our way. I tell her "you shouldn't be so hard on us, some of us out there our good catches..."

(Jorge takes a sip)

Jorge - She starts sighing.

Angel - ya vez las novelas...

Jorge - She says: "Hay Mijo... if you only knew... just what I've gone through..."

Me - ...and she starts crying...

Angel - ...I'm tellin you...

Jorge - Yes! So now I've this drunk old lady just bawling in the back. And I'm trying to calm her down.

Me - Of course you are! Damsel in distress...

Angel - More like Gramsel!

Jorge - Anyway, I'm saying stupid shit like "Oh, it's gona be alright" and "maybe you're better off without him"

Angel - Bad Idea...

Jorge - She cries even louder when I said that! "How could you say that to me?!" she says.

Angel - Real bad...

Jorge - So now I'm apologizing! I'm like "Senora I didn't mean it." and "I'm sorry." and all that.

Me - Ah, my favorite line with my Ladies: "I'm sorry..."

(Me, Jorge, and Angel together) "...it was all my fault"

(clink beers)

Angel - Wait, it gets better. Go on bro.

Jorge - I don't know how I got into this mess, but we go back and forth all the way through. Till finally, I'm at her house.

(Angel is again holding back a smile)

Jorge - I tell her the fare and she says: "Ok, young man. Pay yourself." I looked in my rear view, figured maybe she was gona hand me her purse, I don't know. Oh, man... She's leaning back on the seat. I'm like "What?" and she starts pulling up her skirt! "I said, Pay Yourself! Be a Man. get back here, and pay yourself!"

Angel - Yeah! Get to it Son! (Laughing)

Jorge - I said "Ma'am I'm sorry, but you've had to much to drink. I just need my fare and I'll be on my way.

She says: "What are you? some kind of faggot?!"

... she pulled up her skirt...

...oh man...

(Me and Angel) - ...oh man...

Jorge - "Maricon!" she says. I had to get out of the car and open her door. She wouldn't leave! Just kept saying it: "Maricon! Maricon!"

Jorge stoped and just stared at his beer bottle for a while. Angel and I stared at each other with ear to ear smiles till finally we both broke into guffaws. Angel patted Jorge in the back a few more times. Jorge smiled and shook his head.

Me - Guess you could have told her the usual again...

(Jorge, Angel, and Me) I'M SORRY. IT WAS ALL MY FAULT!

Hold Your Attention Sir!

Disconcerting dynamic of our current times: We've been accustomed to blurb like living. Where our attention is only capable of accepting seconds worth of clips. All popular media is designed around this frame. Whether its news, music, TV, or any other medium, it is all compressed around a tight, minimal attention style.

Perhaps our need for streamlining and efficacy has gotten the best of us. As we've seemed to embed into our day to day an inability to focus, pay attention, remain silent. We are educating ourselves into natural states of attention deficit!

It was said Bodhidharma spent 9 years in a cave, meditating, listening to the ants scream.

Giving himself the time

to unfold



and yet we bombard ourselves with enough static and noise to fill a lifetime of unfulfillment. We create urgency and hurry that drive us deeper into urgency and hurry that drive us deeper into...

Note how we actively seek out continual distractions. Note how quickly we end one task and look for another to fill the space. Note how we cannot simply walk and contemplate without dialing a friend or playing a tune. Have you ever seen anyone simply standing on the street thinking? I mean one who wasn’t homeless. It is not an easy thing to be solely with oneself, yet it is a glorious experience and an exercise in conversation with your soul. The silence may seem like a threatening place, but it is from where you spring forth. You need to go to the point of discomfort, delve into it and find there your revelation; Because it is in the engagement with your shadow, your silent self, that your nature, purpose, and actions can be revealed. Besides, staring at the sun will make you blind. Next time, notice how shadows bring out the beauty and nuance of an object.

Some of us happen to be quite uncomfortable with silence. Silence as reminder of our impending death; as time wasted in a “go get em’” world. If you’re not busy you must be doing something wrong. If the phone doesn’t ring you’re a loser. If you don’t have any emails this morning, other than spam, you don’t have a life. We long for constant validation and wallow in the implications of its repression. Hence silence is proof of failure. Inaction is an example of weakness. Not having validation is a clear sign that we are both unworthy and unwanted.

Let's re-evaluate the implications of silence: Embrace the silence that comes to you; better yet, actively look for moments of nothingness. Pure untouched emptiness. We have super saturated our lives with the constant noise, static, gibberish of the everyday in order to avoid the obvious. Have you noticed how quickly you fill your life with things “to do” from the moment you awake till the moment you sleep? Its no wonder you feel the overwhelming anxiety of not having “enough hours in the day”, when in reality, you are merely filling the voids in your life in order to avoid your responsibilities to yourself.

Pay attention. Its right there in front of you. You may be exhilarated to know that its coming. That its here. But do not confuse that with fear. Know that your task is to polish the mirror of your soul so that you may know, live and understand. And that, my friend is nothing to be afraid of, but rather, it is something to revere. It is the thing you have been waiting for.

Looking back at you.

Now.

Schrodinger's Cat or Why I'm Such a Fan of Kitty

Schrodinger's Cat is an illustration of quantum superpositions. It is a theoretical experiment that goes something like this:

You place in a sealed box a live cat along with a device that releases poison. The trigger to release that poison is a decaying atom. Now, the atom has an equal probability to decay or not. Which means the trigger and poison may or may not have been set off.

Without looking inside the box, is our Kitty alive or dead?



The moment of observation defines the result. In other words, you gotta look, to see what you got. Before the observation our Kitty exists in a Quantum Superposition. He's both alive and dead.

Kind of like flipping a coin. You wont know how it landed, till you lift your hand and take a look. But its not that the coin under your hand has a heads or a tails face up, but rather that the coin is in a nebulous cloud like state. The outcome is now tied to the moment you take a look. You are the deciding factor. you are the decider.

This is the unique position in which our learned men of science found themselves after delving deeper and deeper into the nature of existence and its building blocks. We can only imagine what an awkward moment it must have been for all our lab coated scientist out there when it began to dawn on them that they were actually affecting the very results they were trying to "objectively" unravel. So much for the aloof detachment of Science.

"Boy is my face Red!" said Dr. Schrodinger "What am I? a peeping Tom?!"

The crux of the matter is there are no sidelines for us. This is not a spectator sport. The myth that there exists objectivity in observation has been debunked. The key player is the Eye that opens the box. Lifts the hand. Sees.



If we continue with this premise, the part that becomes striking is not so much that we've stumbled upon the interconnectedness of the self to the universe (ask any Mystic), but rather, that the "moment of observation" is a way of describing a process that is ongoing. In other words: We are always looking, thereby creating and recreating the results of our world.

This is not a singularity, a one time event. The illusory feeling that we are at the whims of the winds of change that are greater than ourselves has been replaced by the knowledge of our unique participation in this drama. The co-creation of the universe occurs continually, incessantly, in a process of observation, gauging, and appreciation.

This is not a singularity.

This is an ongoing and eternal dance.




See also my other posts:

http://thepassionateheart.blogspot.com/2009/03/im-going-to-tell-you-some-stories.html

http://thepassionateheart.blogspot.com/2009/05/on-subject-of-contending-realities.html

On the subject of Contending Realities:

There was a quaint little restaurant on the North side of Chicago that specialized in Spanish style Tapas and flowing libations. It was owned by an Argentinian couple that had settled out of court after the wife was run over by an ambulance. A couple of million, as I understand it. Saturdays at "El Nandu" consisted of an open mic, singing, jokes, or whatever the brave and inebriated ones could drum up.

On this particular day, an older gentleman, in a tweed jacket and hat, the kind of man that can dance a good Tango, walked up to the mike and gave us a gorgeous acappella rendition of "Dos Almas". The ladies swooned and the men reminisced. It was melodic and had just the right touch of nostalgia. Afterwards the man made his way around the tables, drink in hand, talking about the good ol' days etc. When he came to our table we all doled out praises.




I said: "How come your not a professional singer?"

"I should have been."

"In Argentina there was a show that we would all listen to on the radio. It was one of those variety shows where they did skits, and had live music and such. I must have been no older then you. In my prime."

He puffed out his chest a bit, then continued.

"One of my biggest dreams, at that time, was to sing with a group. Like my hero Leo Marini and his Sonora Matancera. When he would come on the show I would always drift off and imagine myself as part of their group. Would believe that they announced a contest to tryout and maybe join his band?! They gave us very specific instructions on how to petition to audition. I think half of Argentina applied. They would announce winners who would then come to the studio and try out."

"I still remember the day they announced the winners. It was a Wednesday,and they played up the whole thing with music and everything. Leo himself announced the winners."

"And how I felt when he announced MY name as one of the contestants?!"

"I was thrilled. I was ecstatic. I knew I was going to walk in there and I would impress them and that I would be asked to join Leo and the band."

"I couldn't sleep for days. All I could think about was the big day. Wednesday."

"The day came and I took particular care to wear my best suit. I remade my bow several times, just to get it right. I even remember the bus ride down to the station; I stood the whole way because I didn't want to wrinkle my clothes."

"When I got to the station the I went right up to the security guard and presented myself: My Name is ________ __________ I'm here for the Leo Marini contest"

"He gave me a puzzled look. Then looked at his clipboard."

- "There's no contest today."

"But there is, and I'm in it. I won the contest for the singing today!"

- "Let me check"

"He went back and called someone. They spoke back and forth and he repeated."

- "I'm sorry, but there is no contest happening today or tomorrow. I don't know what you're talking about."

"...the contest! I'm in it. I don't want to waste any more time! I need to be upstairs!"

- "Look young Man. I cant let you in. There is no contest."

"I'm not leaving here until you let me in!"

"I was so agitated! Eventually, the shows Director had to come down and he re-explained to me how they've never announced any contests of the sort. He apologized for any confusion and thanked me for being a devout listener."

"I felt like the weight of the world had fallen on me. He must have seen it on my face because the Director and Door Man kept apologizing to me."

"I guess it was just a dream. I dreamt the whole thing up."

We all stopped and pondered this Classic Man's story. Someone at the table said that they should have let him up. Then someone else made a joke how we prefer him here with us. Classic Man simply smiled, shrugged and moved on to another table.

Then some drunk took the mike to make a joke about his wife and we all forgot about Classic Man...

Signs and Sadness

My family, on my father’s side came to this country from France. They quickly settled in central Mexico and became a well to do family in the small town of Zinapecuaro. After the war with France (Yes, Mexico had a war with France, it’s were the Cinco de Mayo celebration comes from), given that French weren’t highly regarded during that time, my family adopted the Flores last name.

Having white skin in Mexico was a guarantee of position and status. The dividing line of color and features made it easy to distinguish who was who. Although this presents the easy option to forgo any moral or conscious stance, when you’re on the European side, it certainly does not remove the tragic nature of the conquest. Nor does it remove the obvious subjugation of a culture and a people to the forced semblance of integration which really meant you were the one saddling my horse and shoveling the shit. My Grandfather who was raised by Indians, the caretakers, the dark skinned, felt the growing urge to even out the incongruous rules that made it ok for you to clean up after me, but not to eat at my table with me.

This was the beginning of the wonderful divide that is my family, my heritage, my unraveling. I shouldn't’t have much to worry about, cuz between you and me, the dice were rolled, and I came out whiter than my brother, whiter than most in my family. But the crux of the matter, for me, is my heart. My heart has been seasoned by the dusty streets. Mis tacos de perro. The earth drawn heart that is open, pulses, and drips slowly in the delicious agony of its sensitivity. The biggest subversion of the human spirit is not its divisiveness, but rather, its inclusiveness. The rebellion of the Indian was not to fight back, after all, it was a doomed effort. The Aztecs themselves, just one of the many conquered nations, had foreseen their collapse and had predicted it to the day. The Indian and the European were destined to meet. It had been seen as an unmistakable marker in the future of the Aztecs. The seers had long ago known of the calamitous days that would lead up to the arrival of the bearded men. Quetzalcoatl was returning; The feathered serpent that represents the unification of Heaven and Earth and which is emblazoned in the Mexican flag was coming back on this day to bring and end to the days that once were.

The signs were all around us as they led up to the portentous day when the bearded ones arrived. The comet that hovered over the city of Tenochtitlan which lit up the sky with its surreal glow for hours on end, immobile. The deformed human being, that wandered about the outskirts of Tenochtitlan, showing his dog like face and bulbous deformities in a gleeful dance of revenge. The knowledge, with the accuracy of the stars, that on Good Friday of 1519 Quetzalcoatl would return from exile to stake his claim to his land and his people. On that day, the Aztec sentries saw the massive sights of the Spanish galleons and the armored soldiers as they landed on the sandy beaches of Veracruz. There were negotiations and battles; Manipulations and coups. It was all part of the inevitable events of the “conquest.”

The true coup was not in the subjugation of the people or the destruction of a culture by some marauding Spaniards who were hungry for gold. It has been told time and again: The story of the conquest as a collision between contending cultures, worlds, philosophies. In this version, the two worlds are represented by the misunderstood enigmas that were Cuautemoc and Cortez. I offer you a different version of past events: The true coup was in the planting of the seed of the Indian heart within the souls of this new way that is our modern world. My Grandfather would always say “I have the heart of an Indian.” This was no lie. The Heart of an Indian is that incisive part of us that does not use words but enjoys silence. It is the part that removes its shoes to walk in the dirt. The part that does not run for cover when it rains. The Heart of the Indian is the heart of the Earth. The pulsating certainty that comes when I feel the Wind God stroking my face, letting me know just how I’m doing and what’s in store for me next. Anyone who understands sacrifice and loss will know exactly what I mean. The Sun still rises for us, We are still here.

The Artist describing the Artist describing the Artist...

The scene presented here is from Akira Kurosowa's "Dreams". The film itself consists of a series of dreams that the director himself had throughout his life. From some early childhood moments, to the philosophy of old age, the breadth of his dreams is truly arresting.

Here we have the Dreamer (Kurosowa himself), dreaming of a visit to a Museum. Van Gogh's work is on display. The mirrors begin to reflect upon each other and the events that transpire truly elucidate that ineffable quality of the Artists Passion.

DreamWeaver
DreamChaser
Enjoy...

A short dialogue between a Soldier and his Muse

The scene occurs in Klaipeda; a small fisherman's town in Lithuania during WWII. The Russian army is now in control of the town and have disrupted everyones lives. The people have reacted in many ways; from subversion, to defeat, to survival. HELENA is a local girl that has leveraged her beauty to help maintain the local clinic the town depends on. MIKHAIL is a Soldier that has fallen for HELENA. His conscience and choices now weigh heavily.

EXT/DOCK/SEASHORE/MORNING

MIKHAIL and HELENA are standing at the edge of a small dock. HELENA looks out to the Baltic sea. She has her arms wrapped around herself. The cold morning sea breeze brushes past them. No words are exchanged. Only the crashing of the sea, and the screech of the sea gulls can be heard. There are small empty fisherman's rafts all around them, bobbing in the waves.

HELENA

(softly)

Do you know why the boats aren't at sea today?

(beat)

HELENA

(cont.)

Because the men are being made to build your factories.

MIKHAIL

This isn't my war.

The winds blow stronger, making HELENA'S SKIRT and hair flap violently.

HELENA

(excited)

Do you think you can clean your conscience by

putting yourself above the rest of us? You are

here. You are wearing the uniform. You have

gun in the holster.

MIKHAIL

But I have no choice.

HELENA

(crying)

Then explain to me what I have.

(beat)

MIKAIL

(pleading)

You can leave. Go to Switzerland.

HELENA

Will you be on the boat with me?

MIKHAIL hesitates to answer. HELENA, hearing his response in his silence, turns and runs back to town. MIKHAIL is left alone on the dock.

An open dedication to my unborn Son (L.S.)

You are always welcome here. It’s ok to bide your time. I don’t expect you to do anything other than enjoy your journey. If you decide to grace us with your presence now or at any time, or if you simply wish to remain in anonymity, it is all ok.
Here’s where I am.
Here’s where I stand.
I thought you should know.

Couples & Clubs

I had a suggestion. And I was thinking about it, when we were at the club. You see how couples, over time, have tendency to get stale. So you try to find things that liven up your relationship. And in that process you come up with this pattern of behaviour that repeats and becomes stale regardless.

How do you keep it fresh?

In the case of married friends that want to do "couple stuff". They're wanting to keep their lives interesting so their idea of this if going ice skating. maybe a round of miniature golf. "Let's go bowling"

Let's not negate the value of a good round of put put. Everything can be fun. But I think the critical point occurs when you bring your "home" attitude to the club, to the bar, to the restaurant. Even though you may be in a different background, the people, the character, and the thrust doesn't change. The moment remains the same.

Frankly, that's boring.

I kind of made a joke to you last night when I said: "Do you want, the remote, a blanket, and some ice cream" when you sat down on the couch at the club. Because I found myself not knowing how to behave. What I was thinking was: You've got to take the opportunity to take advantage of being in a different scenario. You use that to allow yourself to behave in different ways.

Become somebody else!

Like that girl with the hair. I'm suspect that that's not how she walks around all day. right?! and yet when you're in this other Universe you allow yourself to be transformed and to behave in a manner which is maybe refreshing and unexpected. But you have to let that happen!

I think I said this to you on my Birthday: "How would you act if we were on a date?" "How would you act if you didn't know me?"

"How would you have fun with me?"

That's what you have to bring to these moments. You attack this moment in a totally new way, in a fresh way. You allow yourself the chance to giggle, to be goofy, to be somebody else, anybody else.

Anybody else!

You know?! Let it happen. Let it take you. And I think if you do that then you get somewhere, then you have a good time, then you discover new parts about yourself. Like when we were dancing and that song came on and you were lifting your hands like: "Hallelujah!"

You let yourself get carried by these moments and you find that you unravel other parts of yourself and your sharing these new parts with your partner. Doesn't that make sense? As opposed to going to the club and talking about Laundry or Work or Bills.

The way it works is that in the old days, when you would have a ritual with music and dancing and it would last all night. The point of that ritual was that transformation. In those moments the spirit or the holy ghost or whatever you want to call it, took you over and you WOULD become somebody else. That's why people would wear masks. They would go through the chanting and the music and the rhythms. That process of tranceformation was refreshing, it was life changing. You would Learn from yourself. The spirit would come down and speak through you and you would have Revelations.

But that ain't gonna happen unless you allow yourself to become a vessel for this new thing. Whatever it may be. All you have to do is want it. That's it. Want it, be open to it, let it happen.

Get on the fucken ride, you know?!

Compare that to those chicks that were...they weren't dancing. They were just going through the motions of something they're already used to. that's why when they went upstairs, from the hip-hop club to the upstairs club, they didn't know how to behave. Because everything they were doing downstairs was a series of patterns and fronts that they developed over time.

It was an act.

As opposed to somebody else, who, is groovin, is thumping around and the spirit moves them. If they want to get down they get down and if they want to get up they get up an if they want to raise their hands they raise them. Its something that happens from inside or outside of them, from some other place.

It's not conscious. It's unrehearsed.

That's when your drinking from the nectar of the Gods

Yulunga dead can dance
Uploaded by paradixman

Dear Blog Reader:

I received the note below to my Hotmail account. I couldn't reply to it so I'm posting it here:



Yes, its the place that was diagonally across for the cemitas restaurant. I went by there in December but it looked closed. Had a big "for sale" sign in the front. Lot's of CRAZY stuff happened there. I'll put up more "El Tropico NightClub" adventures later.



Like when the ghosts would pull my hair at night...



Thanks for reading!!!



The message I recieved follows:



"hola!



this place use to be close to "cemitas", huh? I remember you telling me about this place."

A Pilgrimage in reverse

It was my way of entering the journey; of losing myself in the dark forest. I had no revolution to join, and no flag to carry, so my mission was of singular purpose and selfish intent. It had struck me a while back, that the best thing that I could ever do to help anyone else, was to help myself. I became my own litmus paper, I became my own experiment. It wasn’t that I was weary of others, of joining the “movement” (whichever flavor that may be), but rather, that it struck me that I was coming across shards of answers. There were too many things that worked, but that rung incomplete within me. The puzzle I was piecing together demanded that I take the long way home; that I let go of the reigns and to simply allow my life to unfold.

A pilgrimage in reverse, we took a road trip from Chicago over to New York (during a ridiculously sticky heatwave), down to DC, (where, ironically enough, we stood on the outside of the Masonic Temple and its awesome architecture and where I wondered: Who the heck goes through these doors?!) past Texas, with a pit stop in Mexico City. We went all the way down to Cancun, (hey, I never said my pilgrimage was going to be ascetic and, dare I say it, celibate) some buds and I, in a 2 door dodge shadow. There, we partied and drank ourselves broke. We all had to be gainfully employed. And I took the first job I could find. which was as a...

...wait for it...





...wait for it...





... a busboy.


Getting paid in pesos does something to renew your faith in the American way, and in the fact that you have papers. I think I’m the first Mexican to cross INTO Mexico to be busboy. My first night as a busboy in Cancun had me running up and down the Dady Rock Restaurant. As my first hazing a waiter asked me to grab a small bowl of sauce for him, which had been dutifully placed on the service counter by one of the head chefs. They all smiled and waited for me to grab the scalding hot bowl. I winced and dropped the bowl. Everyone was back working, as if nothing had happened, and the waiter gave me an order to go clear such and such table and to make sure the ice cubes were still cold.



When the night was over the head waiter pulled off to the side, gave me the glorious sum of the equivalent of approximately 5 Dollars and sent me on my way, telling me me I needed to "hustle" more.



The next day I called an old flame back in Chicago. I confessed to her the error of my ways and asked her to send 300 bucks (U.S.) to get me out of this crap. She new I was feeding her bull, but she sent me the cash anyway (Thanks Gris!). We headed to L.A. next.
http://www.dadyrock.com.mx/
http://www.cancuncare.com/Cancun_Nightlife/dady_rock.htm

El Tropico NightClub

One of my many end points was that bar in East Los Angeles. It was not circumstance that brought me there. That part of the world had some answers for me. Some of the answers where in the ring, at the boxing gym where I would train everyday. Some of the answers where in the women, whom I switched every few weeks. Some of the answers lay with the whispers of the dead, and the advice of the living.

It was next to huge cemetery that had been around for ages. Apparently the first settlers in El Pueblo de Los Angeles had buried their dead in that very spot. The city grew around it and we have a Club that specializes in hookers, transvestites, cocaine, and ghosts. I befriended the owner after looking for gigs to play. The place had an ad in a local weekly rag announcing punk rock nights. It was an interesting joint, with a ton of history. It oozed the slimy secretions of scores of lost dreams. It was full of rats, shit, and booze. I told the owner, after a gig played to an audience of 10 ( 5 of which where playing next ) that we were just cruising along, looking for a place to land. I don’t know what the guy saw in me. I’m guessing it’s the same thing that happens to me when I know, I just know I have a relationship with someone that I need to unfold. I like to say that the angels whisper in my ear. He must have heard it too because he offered me this deal: “Help me out with the bar and you can stay in the back.” Not a bad way to land, being that we had been homeless for the past couple of months, living out of our car in the lot by Santa Monica pier. The owner was a large man, larger than most Mexicans. This gave him an edge when he needed to throw out another drunk, punk, or junkie. But he was getting old, tired. And the prospect of one more fight, one more argument, one more hustle was beginning to wear on him. Wear him down, wear him out. He had become the reluctant gatekeeper, holding back the torrential laments of the melancholic dead, the incessant dissatisfactions of the living, and his own impending death. He carried a skull around his neck and on a keychain. “Death brings me luck, I don’t know why” He wasn’t too far from the truth. In true Castaneda fashion, Death was his advisor. By keeping death near, he always knew it wasn’t his time. But Death has a funny way of skewing your perception and seeping into your worldview. Not the healthiest thing an old man with a lot of enemies can do. No wonder he would always complain with aches and pains. Hanging out in the Underworld will do that to you.


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I'm going to tell you some stories...

I’ll try to make them varied and interesting for you. I tell you now with every part of my self that what I will share with you is unequivocally true. It is as true as the solidity of this bench I sit at and its myriad of parts, bolts, wood, or fake wood (molded plastic). I look closely, I hunch and stare, looking deeper, trying to see the fibers that construct this object. It is, as all things are, being held together by a series of atoms (really they should be called intentions, and not atoms. Hey, my .02 cents for my fellow lab coat geeks) that at the quantum level only have a tendency to be there, and only based on observation. Kinda like when the scientist says “cheese” and the world stops for a pose.

This is true, by the way. Scientists, in their infinite wisdom, have stumbled upon the surprising uncooperativeness of matter, at the quantum level. Why can’t a chair be a fucking chair, a table a table. As Scientist peeled back the layers of the infinitely small and took a closer look, they realized that the Newtonian expectations for all things under the sun had gone out the window. Atoms, the stuff that stuff is made out of, only have probabilities, or tendencies, to exist. They only behave and literally react, when being observed. You can’t really blame the poor atoms. Who wouldn’t sit up and act “right” if you knew some scientific stiff with a clipboard was about to pass judgment on your very nature? Who knows what goes on when were not looking. Some ultimate party we’re not invited to (with lots of chick, cuz all ultimate parties are full of em). Maybe God is back there, in the realm of the unobservable, staring back, amused. The world is created upon observation, and we are the observers. Question: What if we were to all blink at the same time? The odds are against it, surely, but it may certainly be possible. Would this collective cessation of creation create some sort of cosmic hiccup? A blip in the fabric a space time were, just for a moment, we ceased to be and became a tendency in the cloud of space/time. Shaking hands with the almighty. Maybe that’s why dreaming, fucking, drinking, and getting hit in the face all feel the same at some level.

My writers bench, a green looking thing with an excellent view over a place called derrusy park. I’m right above the palm trees and can see Diamond Head volcano from here. It’s good.

The Point!

Of this; Here. Words. Now. is to discombobulate the norm. Throw out the standards. Avoid all conventions. I read somewhere, sometime, that "excellence by definition is a deviance from the norm". So we shall deviate. We will be deviants. And in that re channeling and exploring I expect to connect dissect and project an ever growing nagging impulse that demands that I put down, in words, these thoughts.

For you.

Right Now.

Here we go...