The Solipsist

Champagne, Chocolate, and Strawberries

2011-12-27T12:11:00.001-06:00

Bone, whom I introduced in the previous entry, does not try to frame her shots the way that I try to. I have no problem with that. She is, after all, a Romanticist. I am a Classicist. Looking at her photos is for that reason all the more interesting for me.

Sister Lucia

Cousin Esmeralda

Lupita with her mother, Pilar

Guadalupe

Nobody can get Lupe to look directly into the lens of a camera. Holding a gun to her head would not get the job done. On the other hand, Señora Maria has no problem looking a camera in the eye.

Señora Maria

There are five adult women out there. (No acceptable photograph of Verónica.) On Christmas Day I brought two bottles of champagne on ice, chocolate, and a bag of strawberries for those women. Actually, I do know that "champagne" is an appellation d'origine contrôlée. I am not a total rustic. To be precise, this stuff was from Spain, and it was not all that cheap. I also brought five flutes for them to drink it from and told them to keep the flutes. I am not sure what my thought process in this was. I believe that it went something like this:

In the past many other women whom I have admired enjoyed champagne, chocolate, and strawberries.
I admire these women.
Ergo, these women will enjoy champagne, chocolate, and strawberries.

I found that there was a glitch somewhere in that reasoning with regard to the champagne, although there was no problem with the chocolate and the strawberries. The flutes were an unqualified hit. I believe they are now small flower vases. In any event, I need not reprise the champagne on New Year's Eve.

As is probably apparent from the photos above, Bone's specialty is the closeup for the most part. She wants to fill up the frame . . . indeed, overfill it. Most young people do just the opposite with the subject lost somewhere in the distance. Bone can be merciless with the zoom lens. I notice that the older her subjects are--the more distance they could use, in other words--the more Bone bears in on them.

Grandfather Fortino

Here, for example, Bone was intent on featuring my poor, old broken nose. When younger, I acquired the art of civility in my serious discourse with my fellow man in face-to-face settings where a lack of civility had immediate consequences. Country and Western music was usually playing on the jukebox in the background. It is apparent to me that many of those who carry on their serious discourse with their fellows via the far remove of the internet have not had the benefit of that efficacious manner of instruction. Which is the reason, I believe, that civility is sometimes wanting in this setting.

I am not exactly sure what Bone had in mind here, but the more I look at it, the more interesting it becomes.

In my next blog entry I will write about the real point of all this. I will come clean about the thing that is on mind and the frustration of it all. That is my current intention anyway.

Now is a good time to address two issues briefly, only one of which I have mentioned in passing previously. First, I have Fortino's consent and the family's consent to publish these blogs entries relating to them.

Second, there is another issue that unfortunately, I must touch upon. I certainly am aware of the general inadvisability of publishing photographs of children publicly on the internet in the way that I have. However, in this case there are some important de facto safeguards in place. There are serious threats to these children. My blog is not one of them.

Chrismas Day, Colonia Adolfo López Mateos

2011-12-26T21:51:00.002-06:00

This is my pal, Yvón, and I on Christmas Day. Yvón has her left hand extended to keep the riff-raff out of the photograph, the riff-raff in this case being her five-year-old sister, Lucia. It is pronounced ee-BONE, or just Bone for short. Bone is ten years old and one of Fortino's grandchildren. I have written about Fortino many times here and am not going to recap all that. I spent Christmas Day at Fortino's place. During the day it was only the extended family that lives in his little house. As night fell his sisters arrived with their families, and the evening therefore involved the extended, extended family.

I have long invoked the rule of thumb that you tell the smart ones that they are pretty and the pretty ones that they are smart. Of course that is only a rule of thumb. It can occasionally leave you at a loss for words. Then there is that rare young woman in Bone's category. Gorgeous and oh so bright at the same time. I have only met a couple of young women who were brighter than Bone, and they were pretty much helpless. You will have that with excessive brightness in any gender. Bone, however . . . Bone is anything but helpless.

I was not in the mood to take photos on Christmas Day. I turned the camera over to Bone to do with as she wished. She loves to take photographs. I now have 107 of her photographs taken Christmas Day. The following is a selection of her work.

We spent the morning slaughtering and dressing out a hog. When I first met this hog months ago, he was a little pig in the pen adjoining Fortino's patio. I am going to miss him. That is Fortino overseeing the work of his daughter, Isabela, and a son-in-law, Hadin. I wish to assure you that I did my time cutting on the hog.

However, Bone chose not to photograph that. Rather, she chose to photograph me taking a break on my favorite rock having a tamal to hold me.

She did get a decent photo of me slaving over a hot stove cooking that hog though.

The centerpiece for the occasion was not a Christmas Tree. Rather, it was a sort of crèche constructed out of greenery, other plants, and miscellanea. I had no picture of this thing in my mind as we were purchasing the materials. That is it in font of the doors to the house, which are sheets of corrugated steel. Napo is on the roof keeping watch. The birds are in their cage to the right doing the same. Some refreshments are already laid out on the overturned tub.

Here we have the aforementioned riff-raff, Lucia, beside the crèche with her cousin Alán.

This is a detail of the layout inside the crèche. Those baby dolls played a big part in the evening ceremony, which will become clear should you chose to partake of the video.

Bone also shot several very good portraits. Three of those follow:

This is Bone's cousin, Esmeralda, as in the Victor Hugo novel. Esme for short, as in the J.D. Salinger short story.

Another cousin and one of my favorites, Luis Eduardo, with my hat. No nickname. He is always, always Luis Eduardo.

This is the head woman, Fortino's wife, Señora Maria, Bone's grandmother. This imposing, no-nonsense looking lady is actually putty in my hands. Or perhaps I am putty in her hands. Fair to say, I guess, that we are putty in each other's hands.

Bone had never shot a video. She did. While admittedly it is a first effort, in Bone's defense this is not truly a video camera. It is a Canon EOS 7D SLR digital camera that just happens to do video on the side. But the video might give you some flavor of Christmas Day in Colonia Adolfo López Mateos, San Miguel de Allende. We cut it down to six minutes.

Some explanation might add to it. She starts off in the slaughter area. Then she takes you into the house. I take enormous satisfaction in hearing those women's heels clickety-clacking on the floors. The floors were dirt up until a little more than a month ago. They are now cement. I am not buying a door to replace the corrugated steel though. I am at my limit.

The night shots were taken after the extended, extended family arrived. First, there was a session of call and response prayer, very Catholic with a distinctive Mexican touch. Then some of us knelt and rocked those baby dolls, representing the Holy Child, while the others sang and threw confetti. After that we served the sweets, and every one in turn kissed each of the dolls. I found to my surprise that I enjoyed this more than sitting on the couch watching an NBA game. And yes, here my name is Esteban.

I am Content this Christmas

2011-12-23T22:42:00.000-06:00

I am content with the fact that I have no alarm clock.

I am content with lingering in the sleeping bag and watching the sunrise through my windows, which have no curtains and need none.

I am content with my little Spanish espresso machine, especially in the morning. I am more than content with caffeine.

I am content with not shaving. I am content with showering only for special occasions, which are special because they are very rare.

I am content with pulling on my boots in the morning--old friends. I am content with how well they walk on cobblestone. I am content not knowing whether I can still knot a tie--overhand, half windsor, or full windsor.

I am content with not driving for days on end. I am content on the rare days that I do to drive in a city where no other driver is in a hurry.

I am content upon awaking with having no more idea what I shall do that day than I had upon going to sleep the night before.

I am content with not being at the beck and call of anyone.

I am content with Carlos who picks up my laundry at 9:00 on Monday mornings and returns it washed and folded at 6:00 on Monday afternoons in return for a few pesos. I am content with the accomplishment of washing these few dishes myself.

I am content with the shabby loft in which I live. I am content with Laura who cleans and rearranges the place to her liking every Thursday.

I am content not to hate Roy Halliday. I am even more content caring not a whit about Roy Halliday's performance in yesterday's game.

I am content with bill collectors, if there are any who care, having no idea where I am. If there are any bill collectors who care and who know where I am, I am content with their evident fear of following me into this place.

I am content with having no telephone whatsoever.

I am content with receiving no bills.

I am content, after many years of striving, to live on nearly nothing with nearly nothing.

I am content with having satisfied my financial obligations to the mothers of our children. I am content with having paid my taxes.

I am content with my children, all admirable, adult human beings who are themselves now in the thick of it. I could not be more proud of them.

I am content no longer having to pretend for anyone that I have any answers to any important questions.

I am content with my teeth, which are still my own. I am content with the reasonable charges of my Mexican dentist, Dr. Antonio Vega Tellez, for cleaning them, a dentist who is not worried about paying his country club dues.

I am content with my truck, which has demonstrated itself to be a horse capable of enduring abuse.

I am content with no television and the time to read. I am content with time to spare for sitting and thinking on the patio under the Peruvian Pepper Tree as the sun sets. I am content with my tan.

I am content with not depending upon the appreciation of anyone for my feeling of self-worth.

I am content with no wife for reasons too many to list.

I am content with having nothing left to lose that I care about all that much except my life. I would be content with losing my life tomorrow, having already been given these last two and a half years.

I am content with the culture in which I live in contrast with the culture in which I lived. But I know that Mexico is a whore who has created the illusion that she holds me in an affectionate embrace. In truth I know that she is capable at any time of slitting my throat if she gets the mistaken idea that I have money. In which case, we shall both be only disappointed.

I am content with the possibility that I will see no other place before I die. I have seen this place.

Gifts: A Little Piece of Fiction

2011-12-20T00:34:00.000-06:00

He could hear her chirping on her way to the bathroom inside. He settled himself in the upright chair on the second floor terrace awash in moonlight and stretched his legs out, a tinnitus of insect sounds in his ears. The night was still and hot.

She walked back onto the terrace with the baggie and papers that he had purchased for her and stashed in the drawer under the water jug, her heels clicking on the tiles.

I gon make some smoke . . . We had fun tonight you and me. Yes?

We had big fun, baby.

You so funny when you dance, tio. Sometime Louisa does dancing like you. She bery funny, too, when she dance like you. Louisa say you old and crazy. I tell Louisa maybe you old and crazy, but you come with money. You not crazy like Armando. Armando come with no money and expect something will happen with Louisa.

Talk a little more quietly, baby. Dickie is asleep underneath us.

She sat on the leg extension of the lounge chair and leaned into the task of rolling a joint, her elbows on her knees pulled together. Her black hair, highlighted by the moon, hung down on either side of her hands. Her long fingers fluttered as her ancestors' fingers must have fluttered on the loom. She held the joint toward him when she was done. He waved it off.

Why you don do nothing, tio? You pay me for all night and then you don do nothing.

You know the deal, Rosa. I don't pay you for anything.

Jes. Jes. You make a gift of money to me. I make my gift to you later. Nobody pay nobody for nothing.

That's the deal, Rosa.

But my gift . . . my gift is no gift. I love to take my clothing.

To take off your clothes.

To take of my clothing. Jes. She giggled.

Yes, you do. I don't think that I have ever met anybody who enjoys taking off her clothes more than you do, baby.

She laughed, took a deep drag, and dropped the joint on the tray on the side table. Then she rose, walked over, and straddled his legs with her back to him. She bent over and grabbed his right ankle lifting it.

What the hell are you doing now?

I gon help you with your boots.

She began wrestling with his boot.

Rosa, your ass is right in my face, sweetheart!

She dropped his leg, straightened, and looked back at him over her shoulder.

What's the matter, tio? You don like my ass?

Your ass is spectacular. You know how I feel about your ass. But baby, when it is that close, it could make me blind.

She laughed and walked away, exaggerating her sway.

Your feet too big in your boots after you dance again?

Yeah. My feet are big again.

My grandmother's feet get big after she is dancing, too.

Thanks a lot, Rosa. He chuckled.

You ready for your gift now, tio?

I'm ready
.

She walked to the retaining wall and turned, reaching up under her dress to pull her thong down over her hips. She put her hand on the top of the retaining wall to steady herself while she pulled it off the rest of the way, teetering on first one patent leather pump and then the other with their grotesquely stacked soles. She leaned forward slightly and reached behind deftly pulling down the zipper of her black shift, a dress that he had purchased for her and asked her to wear instead of one of those neon, skin-tight, stretch affairs that she favored. The straps fell off her shoulders. She pushed the dress past her hips. It fell around her ankles. She stepped out of it, picked it up, and hung it over the top of the wall.

She turned to him and raised her hands palms to the sky, one leg in front of the other, knee slightly bent—her best imitation of a model's stance. Then she began to dance, slow salsa turns to some melody playing in her head, her elbows working at her side, her eyes on him. He smiled at her, his head cocked to the side resting on his hand.

After a minute she stopped abruptly and looked down. She bent over and jabbed at the side of her lower leg with her fingers.

Tio, I hate my . . . what is the word?

Those are your calves, baby. Your calves.

I hate my cabs. My cabs are too big.

Oh, Jesus. Your calves are perfect just like everything else.

She straightened, put her fists on her hips, and looked at him sternly.

I toll you before, tio, don say Jesus unless you praying.

I forgot. Sorry. That was a wonderful gift tonight, Rosa. Sit down and relax. The fireworks are coming soon.

She walked to the lounge chair and stretched out on it. She worked the straps off the backs of her heels with her toes. The pumps clattered on the tile. She leaned to the side and picked up the joint and the Bic lighter from the table, oblivious now to her own nudity.

Tio, why you don do nothing? You pay me . . . you make a gift of money to me for one night each month, and then you don do nothing. You don even do yourself when I take my clothing.

I'm a little old for that, kid.

She turned her head on the back of the lounge and squinted at him, the joint and the lighter held poised in front of her face.

Maybe you like boys? Dickie likes boys.

It wouldn't make any difference if I did, baby. Dickie's scars look exactly the same, near as I can tell.

She snorted and turned to fire the joint.

You're young. I like the look of you naked in the night. That's all. I'm not quite ready to forget what that looks like yet. It's that simple.

She paused, completely still, and exhaled smoke that roiled and then hung in the air.

Why don you watch movies then?

He laughed loudly and then caught himself, thinking of Dickie asleep downstairs. The laughter was her additional gift to him.

Shit. That's a helluvan idea, Rosa! Why didn't I think of that?

I don tell Louisa you don do nothing. I tell Louisa you are a great lover.

He pulled a Faro from the pack in the breast pocket of his shirt and shifted to retrieve the small box of matches from his pants pocket. He pulled one out and struck it. A sulfury, sizzling piece flew off and arced onto the tiles. From the plaza across the way came the sound, pfffffft, pfffft, pfffft. The sky exploded. He looked up, watching for an orange spider--what he had called it since he was a boy.

He turned to look at her as she stared at the sky. Her face transposed into a deep blue and fading. Her breasts suddenly blood red then melting away. Her belly splashed in green for a moment. Then her legs vermillion. He turned away again. . . .

He came to himself later with a little jerk and tried to see the face of his watch by the moon. He looked over at her. Her hand hung limply beside the armrest of the lounge. Her head had fallen to the side and a drop of saliva on her shoulder sparkled softly.

He stood up and walked inside. He returned with a blanket, bent over her, and covered her. He pulled a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth. He sat back down. Then he crossed one leg over the other knee, bent over with a grunt, and began working the first boot off.

Pátzcuaro Doorway

2011-12-19T09:08:00.000-06:00

12 July 2011

A Cross-Checked Field; A Thing of Beauty

2011-12-19T09:02:00.002-06:00

Is it possible to describe in words the surface planting of a checked field of corn in those days so that one who has never seen it done can acquire the idea of it? And if I describe Tommy Schofield doing it, a master at planting a checked field, can I bring him back to life, some life anyway, for a couple of minutes? It would be an indisputably good thing to do if it could be done. Tommy and his wife had no children. I know of only three other people who might still be alive to remember him.

I have mentioned Tommy before. He was the hired man on the farm owned by V.L. Smith, flat land directly to the south and the southwest of ours. We could see it all laid out below us there from our house on the ridge to the north. In 1957 when I was ten, Tommy was as old as I am now, remarkably old it seemed to me at the time. While I do not wish to belabor this leitmotif any more, I must explain that Tommy had himself lost a farm in the Depression. Instead of abandoning farm work for the city, he afterward labored on farms owned by others.

Tommy used a team of horses to plant his bosses farm, one of the last men in that part of the state do so. This was part of the fascination of it for me. When I got off the school bus and saw that he was in the field with his team, I would saddle up the pony and ride down there to watch for awhile from our side of the fence. This amused him. It was the pot-bellied pony, I think. He might take a short break to chat. It was during one of these breaks that he explained to me the relative safety of hand-rolled cigarettes as compared to store-bought ones while he rolled one for himself.

I described Tommy as a Popeye in bib overalls. I recall that for some reason he preferred Key blue denim overalls rather than the hickory-striped OshKosh B'gosh overalls favored by everyone else. Why does that detail remain in my head? And big, heavy brogans on his feet.

Those were days of transition in the business. In the first half of the twentieth century, weeds in a field of corn were controlled by “cultivating” the corn. Cultivating corn referred to mechanically hoeing between the rows with a cultivator pulled behind horses or later mounted on a tractor. Back and forth. Back and forth until the corn had grown too high to continue the back and forth. In the second half of the twentieth century when powerful and efficient chemical herbicides came into use, the days of cultivating corn in that way were over.

In the fifties even corn planted with a tractor-drawn planter was still planted in “hills.” Hills ideally consisted of three kernels planted together. Because of the imprecision of the planter, it might be only one or two kernels or it might be as many as four or five. You needed the correct size of holes in the planter plates to match the size of the particular seed corn kernels in order to drop exactly three with any consistency while at the same time not breaking too many.

The hills of corn were between three and four feet apart in a row. Today the corn seed is “drilled” continuously in a row. There is no grouping of the seed kernels in hills. The reason for planting the corn in hills in those days was in order to facilitate cultivating in between those hills while still growing the maximum number of plants per acre possible. Average yields were in the neighborhood of fifty to sixty bushels per acre, a fraction of today's yields.

Tommy would string two parallel wires along the ground from one end of the field to another and stake the ends, just like one of the old farm wives stringing twine in her garden in order to make a straight row of lettuce. Unlike that twine, however, this wire had what looked, from a little distance, to be knots in it every three and a half feet. Actually, they were metal buttons, and sure enough, they were called “buttons.”

The two wires then fed into the corn planter. As Tommy's horses pulled the two-row planter along, the wires passed through it. Those buttons then tripped a release in the planter causing it to drop three kernels from the boxes into the two small trenches formed by blades at the front of the planter. Specially shaped wheels at the back of the planter then covered the trenches and those kernels with soil. Hills of three kernels each, three and a half feet apart, in a row. This was called a “checked” field.

If that were all done well and carefully while planting a field north and south, then those hills also lined up east and west more or less. When done correctly so that the hills lined up both north to south and east to west, the field was said to be “cross-checked.” A cross-checked field could then be cultivated both north to south and east to west in order better to control the weeds. Usually, the field did not cross-check perfectly. The east to west rows were rough looking. If they were close enough, that was success. Some farmers in the fifties, my father included, did not even bother with cross-checking any more.

Consider the variables that played into this:

The planter fitted with the proper plates had first to be calibrated as nearly to perfection as possible, a process too tedious to describe here.

Those two wires had to be set with the same optimum tension relative to each other and relative to the previous setting every time. I experienced a nerdy delight yesterday in finding the rule of thumb regarding that tension. Best that there be seven buttons between the point where the wire was suspended in the planter to the point where it touched the ground. Front and back. Every time.

Of course the buttons in the two wires had to be lined up abreast of each other after the wire was set so that the hills were being planted side by side in the two rows.

The team of horses had to pull the planter at a consistent speed throughout the planting process. Their walking gate could not vary. If the planter were pulled too fast or two slow, the seeds fell into positions in front or behind of where they ought to fall. Some teams of horses had rhythm; some did not. Tommy's team had rhythm. Their patient precision was every bit as important as Tommy's patient precision.

The test of success in this had to await the germination of the seed and the appearance of the corn plants. Herein lay the delight and amazement in looking at a field of corn planted by Tommy and his horses. I could look at it from the north and see perfectly straight rows. I could ride the pony over to the ditch beside the road along the west side of the field and look east. Perfectly straight rows. Then there was the real visual payoff. I could ride on to the southwest corner and look back to the northeast. Perfect rows on the diagonal. That field could be cultivated diagonally, too, and sometimes it was.

Later, when the field had been freshly cultivated, the leaves of those intensely green plants undulated in the breeze above the freshly hoed, jet black soil. When one rode in a car down the gravel road along the west side of the field with the dust pluming up behind, the diagonal rows morphing into horizontal rows and then back into diagonal rows, the geometry of it all created an optical effect. The whole thing danced in front of your eyes. On first standing in front of one of Piet Mondrian's geometric paintings in the Chicago Art Institute years later, oddly enough I thought of Tommy Schofield. He was an artist in the same league as far as I am concerned.

And of course I cannot think about Tommy without thinking about his horses. They may have been owned by his boss, but they were his.

The Stephen Bloom Thing

2011-12-15T15:59:00.000-06:00

Observations From 20 Years of Iowa Life

Stephen Bloom in The Atlantic

Plaza Civica Ignacio Allende

2011-12-15T09:39:00.003-06:00

San Miguel de Allende, 11 December 2009.

Quit Bitching and Drive

2011-12-09T06:35:00.001-06:00

In swearing off the expatriate cocktail party circuit and taking up with the economically disadvantaged of Mexico, I did more than trade fresh shrimp and grouper nuggets for two-day-old carp out of the river. I also traded a vague, theoretical, distant, comfortable, soft-around-the-edges sympathy for the plight of these people for the hard practicalities of life among 'em.

Luis Eduardo awaiting departure.

Among the many things that the economically disadvantaged of Mexico live in want of, they live in want of a ride. Which is where the pickup and I entered the picture. The main protagonist in this is Fortino, who has washed and waxed my pickup at curbside for so long now that he considers it his pickup, only on loan to me when he does not have other plans for it.

His plans have included, to name a few, multiple rides up the mountain to the Tuesday market, a ride to Comonfort to eat barbacao; multiple rides to nearby ranchos to watch amateur soccer games on Sunday preceeded by side trips to some god-forsaken pueblo half way to Guanajuato to pick up the goalie and his girfriend; a ride to Dolores Hidalgo with a sick daughter because the clinic here is not up to Fortino's standards; rides and more rides. Not to mention the drive to Dolores Hidalgo to haul a bed back and the trip to the salvage yard with a load of scrap iron. Sometimes Fortino simply enjoys riding around town to show his friends his pickup truck complete with gringo chauffeur.

The team bus.

Moreover, if you are foolish enough to develop a fondness for a man such as Fortino, you are then quickly sucked into an extended family. You get “famlied up,” as I refer to it, very quickly. Mi casa, tu casa. My house is your house. Mi familia, tu familia. My family is your family. Tu camioneta, nuestra camioneta. Your pickup is our pickup.

The upshot is that I have spent an enormous number of hours careering around Mexico with the pickup loaded to the gunwales with poor Mexicans, the ranchero music blaring out of the disk player. It is not uncommon for there to be a mother in the passenger seat with a toddler on her lap. Women in each of the tiny jump seats in that extended cab, each holding an infant. A toddler sitting on the back beverage holder between them. And six or eight others bouncing around in the bed of the truck, adolescents and adults. I do not exagerrate. Ask Fred. And always, always, two or three of them are ill.

Which is why I am disgruntled right now. I myself am sick, although on the mend. I know exactly how that came about. Fever at high altitude below the Tropic of Cancer is a strange experience, not necessarily totally debilitating but mind bending. It can result in some weird blog entries for example. That extended quotation of that 4 December blog entry at Open Salon was from Untimely Meditations by Friederich Nietzsche.

I have learned to live with the empties, the food wrappers, the chocolate smeared on the seats, glops of salsa on the floormats, and the other unidentifiable scraps of Mexican foodstuffs strewn throughout because, after all, I bought that shit for them in weak moments.

And anyway, Fortino will clean it all up when next he washes his truck—for an exhorbitant fee from me, nonetheless, that it seems we must always renegotiate after he has finished. As we Americans learned in 1848, you can easily invade the place and take whatever you want, steal half the country if your Manifest Destiny requires it. But never, ever negotiate with a Mexican. Even when you believe that you have acquitted yourself well, you probably took a thorough, bent-over fucking.

At first I was taken aback watching Fortino's family pile into the truck without my recalling having invited them to do so, me standing there, arms akimbo, awaiting only instructions as to where we are going. Now, I know it is inevitable whenever I go to Fortino's house in colonia adolfo lópez mateos. In preparation for a trip out there, I have stood in front of the mirror and practiced in Spanish, “No, Fortino. Let's just stay home today with the family and grill some carp instead.” So that I can say it with a suitably firm demeanor. But I have yet to get that out of my mouth while Fortino is supervising the loading.

I take comfort in the fact that Fred with his little Honda SUV has almost as much difficulty saying no as I do, even after spending the last fifteen years hauling poor people around six different countries in Latin America. And Fred is about as crusty as they come. He advises me to hold onto a simple “no” for as long as possible. If pressed further for a reason, simply say you don't want to. That reason has the best chance of acceptance. Easier said than done though.

I have seriously considered driving the pickup north, selling it, catching a plane back here, and buying a motorcycle. Then I realized that I would only have to make more trips to the destination of the day . . . each with two toddlers straddling the gas tank in front of me and and an adult behind. The problem has nothing to do with the fact that I own a pickup truck. Rather, the problem has everything to do with my hopelees affection for Fortino and his family. So I guess I ought to quit bitching, sit back, and enjoy the drive. Which is what I always end up doing anyway.

We only paused for a moment before loading up to go for a ride.

Let's Stay Together . . . or not.

2011-12-06T14:12:00.001-06:00

I . . . I'm so in love with you.

I'm pretty sure that is what I am

supposed to say in these circumstances.

Whatever you want to do

Is all right with me.

But when I say stop, please stop.

'Cause you make me feel so brand new,

Well, maybe not brand new,

but pretty damned good, I admit.

And I want to spend my life with you.

Until I don't anymore.

Since, baby, since we've been together,

Loving you forever . . .

Make that six more months or so.

It already seems like I've known you forever.

Is what I need.

At this moment? You betcha!

Let me be the one you come running to.

If you can't find me, leave a message

in my voice mail. I'll call you back

I'll never be untrue.

I said that with a straight face!

Let's, let's stay together,

Lovin' you whether, whether

Times are good or bad, happy or sad.

Whether times are good or bad, happy or sad.

Still, if the cash stops rolling in, I don't expect

to be seeing much more of you anyway.

Why, why some people break up

Then turn around and make up . . .

I just can't see.

I really can't.

Why not just move on?

You'd never do that to me, would you, baby?

Heh. As hot as you are, there is no way that you're

not going to sleep around, too. So I think I can be forgiven

for not getting too heavily invested in this thing.

Staying around you is all I see.

Realisitically, however, I'm going to need

significant time for myself now and again.

Here's what I want us to do.

[Repeat to fade]

Let's, we oughta stay together.

Loving you whether, whether

Times are good or bad, happy or sad.

Yeah, repeat to fade. But damn,

I still love that song!

Don't you?

Let's Stay Together

The Reverend Al Green

(Al Green; Willie Mitchell; Al Jackson)

Al Green Let's Stay Together

Preface to the Corrida [From the Archive]

2011-12-05T04:50:00.001-06:00

Lascaux Cave Painting, Approximately 12,000 B.C.

Reluctantly, I have had to admit to myself that it is necessary to explain further several seemingly unrelated things. I am calling this a preface. I have no idea what to call the last entry. A foreward?

First, it is difficult to write on this subject without using some Spanish words. I am generally against peppering English language text with Spanish words. That is sometimes carried to the point of affectation. The problem is that the Spanish vocabulary relating to the corrida does not translate easily into English. The word “corrida,” for example, does not at all translate as “bullfighting.” I am therefore trapped into using some Spanish words and explaining them as best as I can.

I have been a bit persnickety in my use of the term torero in lieu of the term matador, although native Spanish speakers do themselves use the term matador in the general sense. Technically, however, a torero only attains full matador de toros status with his alternativa, a special performance in a major ring “hosted,” if you will, by a matador who has previously been accorded the honor.

In the previous entry I made mention of a “minor league Mexican bullring.” However, Mexico itself is not minor league. The ring in Mexico City is the largest in the world seating 55,000 people. The Spanish and Mexican matadors at the top fly back and forth to perform in the Plaza de las Ventas in Madrid or the Plaza de la Maestranza in Seville and in the Mexico City ring. I watch them perform here on La Mexicana's television commencing at 4:00 on Sunday afternoons.

This past Sunday I arrived early to enjoy the crowd filtering into the ring. I prefer to buy seats in the sol section, meaning in the sun. This can be downright brutal in the late afternoon sun of Spain. The privileged sit in the sombre section, in the shade. It is in the sol seats that the Marxist's dream comes true, the union of the students and the workers. I do indulge myself with seats in the front row having through the years slowly moved from the top down to the bottom. La Mexicana is game for all of this herself, which is one of the reasons why she is a good companion at the corrida.

Early on well before the parade of the toreros into the ring, we were joined in the first row by four boys. They had determined to upgrade their seats unofficially in the great anarchist tradition. I do not have any problem with that either having unofficially upgraded my own seating in the past in such places as Fenway Park, Wrigley Field, and Busch Stadium. Their parents and older brothers and sisters remained in seats above us.

This is a family affair.

La Mexicana mothered all four of them, but she was particularly taken with the shy, quiet Ulysses. With the permission of their parents, I sprang for buckets of popcorn sprinkled with hot sauce, popsicles, potato chips doused in hot sauce in the tall, thin cellophane bags, and the brown sticks, which look like pretzels but are definitely not pretzels, in the same tall, thin cellophane bags .

Mateo, Diego with his popsicle, Ulysses, and Omar.

In the course of the late afternoon and early evening the six of us together watched as five bulls were killed.

The first was respectably killed by a true novice from San Miguel named Francisco Martinez. Two each were killed by the toreros Rodrigo Hernandez and Poala San Roman in their mano a mano or head to head competition. The point of the whole affair as it developed in Spain after all is the killing of the bull if we are to be honest about it. The rest is artistic fanfare. Which brings me to John Fulton, the one who first made that clear for me in a new way, something I will explain later.

From the Tauromaquia series by Francisco Goya

You will be spared any more quotations of Hemingway, who wrote Death in the Afternoon from the point of view of a fan, albeit a sincerely devoted one. John Fulton is a different case. He was born to working class parents Philadelphia. From the age of twelve he was determined to be a matador.

John Fulton on the right,
Peter O'Toole's double in Lawrence of Arabia

In the entire recorded history of the corrida, John Fulton is the only American matador who did his alternativa in Spain. The other two American matadors, Sidney Franklin, the great friend of Ernest Hemingway and James Michener, and the Puerta Rican whose name escapes me did their alternativas in Mexico and were confirmed in Spain later in their careers.

John Fulton not only became a matador, he was an accomplished painter whose works sold well and a skillful flamenco dancer. It is for the reason of these latter accomplishments, I think, as well as the fact that he was a lifelong bachelor, that in nearly everything written about him the author takes some pains to establish that he was not heterosexual.

If you are curious to know something further about him you can read Tex Maule's classic 1968 profile of Fulton in the Sports Illustrated archives. For a shorter rendition of his life, you can read his 1998 Times obituary, which also happens to be one of the better obituaries that I have ever read. See also the John Fulton Society, particularly for images of his art.

John Fulton lived in San Miguel for a couple of years attending art school and practicing his torero skills on the side at friendly ranchos in the area. He killed his last bull in the little ring here at the incredible age of 61, clipped his pigtail, and retired forever. His book on the corrida from the point of view of a matador is the bible on the subject for the English speaking reader, as far as I am concerned. Yes, he titled it simply Bullfighting. It is now out of print, which probably presages the extinction of the art itself in all civilized countries.

Historically, Latin America has been much more open to women in the bullring than has been Spain. It was Fulton who tipped me off on women in this business with his admiring comments about the great Conchita Cintrón, who began her remarkable career in Lima, moved on triumphantly to Mexica City, and hit the brick wall of bias in Spain. Someone or some few did a wonderful job of writing her story for the English language version of Wikipedia.

Fulton himself faced nearly insurmountable obstacles in his quest to become a full fledged matador in the form of prejudice as a result of his nationality. Although he does not say so explicitly, I suspect that he felt a kinship with Conchita Cintrón and toreras generally because of the bias that they, too, have had to overcome.

I know John Fulton would agree with the proposition that those who seek to excel in any endeavor in the face of passionate bias and prejudice cannot simply become as good as their competition. They must become better than their competition in order to have any chance at all at even mediocre success.

Things have changed in Spain:

Matador Cristina Sánchez, age 24 in 1996,
Plaza de las Ventas, Madrid

Sporting a shiner.

These are adornos, crowd pleasing gestures to demonstrate mastery of the bull. Some adornos can be tasteless and show profound disrespect for the bull. I have no problem with adornos such as this.

Cristina Sánchez carefully establishing the nature of her sexuality for cultural reasons. I am not talking about the Spanish culture as it exists today. I am talking about remnants of the culture of the corrida that still survive.

I am aware that many of the women of Cristina Sanchez's caliber prefer to be described as toreros, in the masculine, just as many women of the stage prefer the term “actor” instead of “actress.” I will happily and generally accede to their wishes out of respect for them. It is just that in the case of the young woman whom I saw perform on Sunday, I prefer the feminine torera for very good reasons because of the distinctive manner in which she does what she does in this early stage of her career.

Poala San Roman, cool as a cucumber with her sword already blooded from a failed first attempt on her first bull.

The Corrida [From the Archives]

2011-12-03T18:24:00.001-06:00

Anything capable of arousing passion in its favor will surely raise as much passion against it. --Ernest Hemingway.

I have been writing a piece without any intention of posting it here in my blog. I simply wanted to record an extraordinary Sunday afternoon at the bull ring while it was still fresh in my memory. It was the competitive end to a series of corridas in the days leading up the biggest fiesta here, La Alborada. Perhaps I will leave it with the many other private things that I I have written that will not be published in a blog or anywhere else, for that matter.

I have started to reconsider, however. I am not one to apologize for my enthusiasms normally. I do not apologize for this one. I am what I am. It is certainly not the case that I continued to attend corridas without any thoughtful consideration of them after seeing my first one in Spain in July 1971.

In fact in the past, I have thought a great deal about the morality of it. The most influential figure in my life, my father, passionately believed the practice of it to be despicable. It is a closer question than he thought, I believe, as so many moral issues have turned out to be. Nonetheless, my father will die not knowing that I ever attended a "bull fight." That issue has become another trivial one. My father at 90 years old now, in an institution, in the end game of Alzheimer's Disease, will die not knowing me.

Recently, I have followed with passing interest the political battle in Catalonia which ended with the triumph of those passionately opposed, as is the king of Spain himself. There will be no more corridas in Catalonia after 2012. The historic ring in Barcelona will presumably be put to other uses, such as outdoor opera.

Now, at this stage of my life, I do not give any private thought to the morality or immorality of it anymore at all. I am still willing to discuss the issue, but I have no enthusiasm for such discussions. For me the corrida is “indefensible but irresistible,” and that is that. I simply vote with my feet, walking to the ring and laying down my money every chance that I get.

Paola San Ramon after killing her first bull of the day.
Plaza de Toros, San Miguel de Allende, 3 October 2010

I am joyous that I voted with my feet on Sunday! One of the few truly great shows of any kind that I have ever attended anywhere, this one in a little minor league Mexican bull ring.

I am joyous because of the performance of the novillera, an apprentice, Poala San Roman. I shall decide soon whether to post more concerning her. The question is whether my writing of her performance and then publishing that here in my blog would dimish her accomplishment in some way. This was one of those rare occasions that was not about me, The Solipsist. It was entirely about her. We shall see if I can write it that way.

Foodie Sunday

2011-11-20T13:28:00.001-06:00

However, this bottle was not marked “poison,” so Alice ventured to taste it, and, finding it very nice (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour of cherry tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffy, and hot buttered toast), she very soon finished it off.

--Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

During a previous lifetime Ragú® spaghetti sauce was my brand. Oh, there might be occasions when I shopped a small store that had only Prego® on the shelves. In that case I would use Prego®. But I preferred Ragú®. Super chunky mushroom, when I could get it. Of course Ragú® also puts out an organic sauce, too, for those who take satisfaction in paying more for whatever reason. Lots of white people love such concepts as farmers' markets, “organic,” “sustainability,” and stuff like that. Makes them feel good about themselves in part because of the higher cost. [Please see Stuff White People Like: A Definitive Guide to the Unique Taste of Millions by Christian Lander.]

Anyway, I read somewhere that our tastes in nearly everything are pretty much locked in before we are thirty. Everything. Not only our taste in food, but also our other tastes, such as our taste in music for example. Also, our taste in art and literature, if we develop a taste for these at all before we are thirty. In fact, a taste for not reading at all can be locked in before we are thirty, too. This researcher admitted that it is possible to open ourselves up to new things after the age of thirty, but it is very difficult. Then again, I suppose different people are different. We're talking the general rule here, but certainly, my taste for Ragú® sauce was locked in before I was thirty.

Which brings me to the Mexicans at LaCosteña® foods down in Morelos, one of the big canned food operations here. Among many other things, they manufacture pasta sauce and put it in jars. Since I have had difficulty finding either Ragú® or Prego® sauce, I had no choice but to open myself up to La Costeña® pasta sauce. They manufacture some good traditional sauce as well as sauce with mushrooms, sauce with cheese, and a Bolognese style sauce that is killer, all safely juiced with preservatives. This should have come as no surprise to me because Mexicans are true artists in the media of cement and tomatoes. Other things, too, of course, but the things they do with cement and tomatoes are standouts for me.

Predictably, many Mexicans find those styles of La Costeña® sauce that I listed to be too bland. Therefore, the folks at La Costeña® also manufacture a spaghetti sauce with Jalapeño peppers in it. In my diet I had previously been slowly moving up the chile pepper burn chain having already reached the low to mid-range Jalapeño level. I may never attain the Habanero level.

This will not be news at all to the folks who live in the southwestern United States of America, but for those who lived their years before the age of thirty in sections of the country that feature bland food, as I did, I wish to tell you this. I now believe that one of the purposes for which God created Jalapeño chile peppers was to serve as an ingredient in shaghetti sauce. But if you are advanced in years, as I also am, you are going to have to find it within yourself to open up to it . . . if you can find spaghetti sauce with Jalapeños in it. Of course you could always try making your own, but I like to leave that sort of thing to the professionals.

It would do you no harm to open up to a few other new things, too, by the way. It is difficult, but well worth it. I hasten to add, however, that in my foodie blog entries as well as everything else that I post here, I am never recommending anything to anyone.

I Used to be a King

2011-11-18T12:01:00.001-06:00

There has not been a musical interlude here since the Erykah Badu video way back in May. It is time.

It is not a good thing to do stuff half-assed. That goes double for the crazy stuff.

A Blog A Guy Can Sink His Teeth Into

2011-11-16T08:37:00.000-06:00

FROM RALPH TINGEY'S OPEN SALON BLOG:

I BUY AN OLD TRUCK:
"A good pickup is a thing of beauty and a joy forever." John Keats

At one time I drove a pink Cadillac, but it disappeared to the Kidney Foundation. Renting a car for every road trip has cost me a ton of cash. So! On my recent road trip through the West, I decided to buy a car in Salt Lake City, and spent two days on KSL.com at my brother Tony's house looking for the perfect vehicle. First, I checked out Subarus; I drive one in Alaska, they have all-wheel drive, hold up well, and seem to be one of the two cars of choice for outdoor types like myself. The other choice is a Toyota Tacoma, however, I'm not really a small-car type guy. My last truck was a diesel, so I checked out all the diesel trucks and found a beauty, a long-bed, extended cab 1992 Chevy with a new engine. It drove like a firetruck; I wanted someone to steer the rear wheels around a corner. Harumpf!

I've owned several Ford F150, 6 cylinder, single cab, long-bed pickup trucks, ranging from 1967 to the mid-1980's. I know that engine intimately. After two and a half days searching I found almost the perfect vehicle, except it was a short-bed. I decided that it had other redeeming features, like a short wheel base for driving over desert roads, and a 5-speed on the floor transmission. Perfect!

It was in Pleasant Grove, Utah, a 45-minute drive south. So, my lovely sister-in-law, Shelly, hopped in her Jeep and drove me south to check it out. There it sat amid a pile of broken glass, trash, and weeds behind a store in the middle of town. It had been sitting for five years, so the tires were hardened and flattened on one side. However, it was otherwise in pristine condition. The guy selling it had put in a new battery, so it started instantly. I checked it out, examined the engine, took it for a test drive and listened to all the sounds it made as I drove it, and knew I had a winner. I do all my own mechanical work; this baby was in very sound condition.

The New truck stares at me from Tony's garage

The price was super cheap! After emptying the ATM at the local bank, I handed the guy a stack of $20 bills (about 75 of them) and drove down the road behind Shelly. Once on the freeway, the set in the tires rattled the truck all the way home. Only one fix: new tires. There was still time that evening to buy them, so for a few more bucks, I had a brand new ride. Awesome.

My new baby!

This would be my new 'home away from home', so I needed a cap to contain all my gear: my 1975 Stella French racing bicycle, a gigantic tub of climbing gear and ropes, a box of tents, sleeping bags and clothes, my stove, a box of cooking gear, and a grub box. These were stored between Tony's garage, and my friends, the Donini's basement in Ouray, Colorado, my next destination. Back to KSL.com. I found the perfect cap; unfortunately it was also in Pleasant Grove. Bummer! Back on the road with Tony. On the way we stopped at an auto parts store to score four C-clamps to hold the camper on. It was night when we arrived at the home; the fellow called his son, "I just sold the camper top. Where's the key?" The son arrived, we lifted the cap onto my new truck, exchanged a hundred bucks, and I was off.

The cap on the bed of the truck.

Insurance next; a phone call to my agent, then to an agent in Salt Lake, decided to register it in Utah; I know Alaska plates are cooler, but Utah is great, too! I dreaded the visit to the DMV, but it was smooth as could be. The clerk ushered me through the whole registration process which turned out to be cheaper than at home. Then she wanted to know about traveling to Alaska for a fishing trip. Now we were bonded.

A trip to Home Depot found the basic tools, and for $19.88 I bought a 4" foam pad for the back so I could sleep in the truck while I went climbing in the south-west desert. A 5-gallon bright orange Home Depot water jug, and a big tarp completed the gear. My brother lent me his huge 5-day cooler, and I was pretty set.

It had taken a week to get the whole rig together, but now I was a happy camper. Sunday Morning was special for Tony and Shelly: the LDS church conference was in session, so they invited Shelly's father and wife to brunch. The two spent the morning making crepes with two kinds of filling: fruit with cream, whipping cream and yummies, or sausage and onions. I had two of each. Now that I was fueled, it was finally time to hit the road.

The previous week I'd flown from Anchorage to Portland to meet my son, Thor, and daughter-in-law, Sarah, ridden south to Lake Tahoe with them (on a wild mountain biking and camping trip), and then hitched a ride with Tony to Salt Lake City. I'd been on the road only a week and had covered about 1,500 miles already. The second half of my road trip was about to begin. My friends Jim and Angela were expecting me in Ouray, Colorado, a 6-hour drive from Salt Lake.

Memories began to fill me as I flew south on I-15; I felt so free, so full of life. One of my favorite books is Jack Kerouac's "On the Road", a volume that has spoken to me many times since I first read it at was age 14. As soon as I got my drivers license I began driving north to the Tetons to go climbing. Then far south into the desert to Shiprock, New Mexico, with my friends Milt and Dave to climb the famous volcanic plug "Shiprock". My parents likely didn't have a clue about my road adventures. During the '60's I drove across the country at least twice a year to attend graduate school in Baltimore, rarely stopping for rest on the 44-hour lightning push before the advent of the 55 mph speed limits set by the Nixon administration. In those days, neither Nevada nor Montana had speed limits, and my 1959 Chevy Bel Air ate up the road on 25 cent/gallon gas. I turned up the radio, searching for good rock and roll music. Today life was good, and I was going climbing.

The old Ford cruised past American Fork, Orem, Provo, then up the Spanish Fork on US 6, over Soldier summit and down the long glide to Price where the great coal mine disaster took place a few years ago. I turned off and grabbed lunch for the road. Another hour and we were past 9-Mile Canyon full of petroglyphs and the Cleveland-Lloyd Dinosaur Quarry and turned east on I-70 towards Green River. I wondered if the truck would make it to 75 mph; no problem! I searched for a station playing rock and roll, but it's tough in this part of the country to find anything but country-western.

I had my sights set on Ouray, but the hour was getting late, and I'd gotten a much later start than I'd planned. By the time I reached Grand Junction, it was dark. Angela had wondered if we would be having dinner together, so I called and said I'd likely not arrive till 9:30, so I stopped in Delta, Colorado, and choked down a McDonalds, but not the whole thing--what wretched fare. It was pouring rain. The wipers afforded me a changing screen of the black road littered with deer at this time of night. Flashing signs told me to slow from 65 to 55 from Oct 1 to May 1 for deer on the road. I know; they are everywhere from Montrose to Ouray. I turned up County Road 14 and into the driveway. The Donini's were in bed, so I slipped into the guest house and lit the fire. The old truck had done a days work and we were both ready for a rest.

Hot Fun in the Summertime

2011-11-15T21:18:00.000-06:00

A little musical interlude:

Or you may wish to check out the latest blog entry at The Other Blog.

Out of a Little Chaos, Order

2011-11-13T21:14:00.001-06:00

Whenever I feel the need to re-attunemyself with the cosmic forces at work around me, I clean out mytoolbox and arrange it in order again. I spent the mid-afternoon onthe patio in the sun doing just that. At one time in another life, Iowned far more tools than this, most of which were the flotsam ofsome particular purpose, purchased ad hoc. What remains constitutesin total a basic toolbox with a few oddities such as a chip pullerfor work on a computer that looks somewhat like a screwdriver.

Some of these tools go way back. Thereis a partial set of box-end wrenches that my father gave me. There isa set of metric sockets and a set of metric box-end wrenches that Ipurchased when I owned a Japanese motorcycle. Both those acquisitionswere made decades ago by a much younger man, a different man. I put themetric sockets back in their blue holder in order. I taped the set ofmetric box-ends together with duct tape since I cannot remember thelast time that I used them.

A view of the tray from the other side.

Then there is a small, pristinecrescent wrench that I purchased just before setting out on this tripsouth for jobs for which the big one is too unweildy. It is asatisfying little tool with no troublesome play in it at all.

There is not too much of anythingexcept Allen wrenches and a superfluous set of blades for a saber sawthat lies abandoned somewhere, I know not where. I have enough ofthose Allen wrenches to equip three mechanics. Why this is so is aquestion that I stopped to ponder for about ten minutes. I think thereason is that in the past I have purchased pieces of furniture thathad to be assembled, and with each one I was presented with a newAllen wrench by the manufacturers of the furniture. These pieces offurniture are still somewhere now, I suppose. The Allen wrenches thatcame with them are here with me in Mexico.

That is a Professional Tuff-Box, by the way, a brand that I recommend even though I never recommend shit to anybody.

When the job was done, there was thatfeeling in equal parts of serenity and equanimity after having imposed order on a little pieceof chaos. There was some small part of what Robert Pirsig spoke of inZen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance about this. I am nottalking about his mental disintegration. I am talking about themotorcycle maintenance. A tiny part of my world that was in disorderhad been put right again. It is a good idea to tackle the small, easythings first. Build up your self-confidence. Then you can move on tolarger things. Someday.

Children

2011-11-10T17:02:00.001-06:00

Luis Eduardo

Armando

Lucia

Yvón

Alan

Esmerelda and Roberto in the middle.

My friends here have gotten the hang of how to make them, but then again I was no slouch at it myself.

-Photos by Isabela

More Mineral de Pozos

2011-10-30T09:31:00.003-06:00

Departure of the Wing Man

2011-10-25T22:12:00.000-05:00

No word yet, but I amgoing to be optimistic and assume that Wings touched down safely inCedar Rapids two or three hours ago. It was a beautiful day for thedrive to little Guanajuato International Airport in Leon late thismorning. As we drove toward the old train station topick up the highway beyond to Leon, we drove by the circus that hadalso completed its run in San Miguel. The Big Top was coming down.

When I last saw Wings hehad successfully gotten his gear, including the new hiking boots,through security and was headed toward his departure gate. It was agood three-week stay for him, I think. He was actually reviewing thehighlights of it earlier today. You never know with Wings, certainlya bona fide character. I really had no idea what his reaction to thisplace would be before he came here. In fact his reaction wasoverwhelmingly favorable with no qualifications.

I returned from Leon, cleaned out the pop-up camper trailer, and cranked down the top making it ready for Hans to pull back into storage. On the way back I had considered whether I would rather help clean up around the circus tent. Wings is the biggest slob with whom I have ever been this closely acquainted. There is no malice in it. He is simply oblivious when he tosses dirty clothes, garbage, and general detritus anywhere and everywhere. He is constitutionally incapable of even rinsing pots and pans and dishes, let alone washing them. It is difficult for him to put anything in a waste basket. Those of us who know him and love him simply live with this because it will never change. As it turned out, cleaning out the camper was not too bad a job. Wings had had more limited opportunity and more limited means to trash out the camper than he has in his own home.

Here the man sits in the cafeteria of the library, believe it or not.

Wings, Michel, and me atthe Pila Seca restaurant in Mineral de Pozos, perhaps Wings' favorite stop. [Photo by the lovely señorita with Michel's camera.]

Boy in the Pila Seca. [Photo by Michel, 9 August 2011.]

* * * * * * * * * *

Here are yet more photos taken on the visit to the abandoned mines near Mineral de Pozos with Wings and Michel. Those photos featuring Wings can be found in the preceding entry.

Wings at Mineral de Pozos

2011-10-24T11:20:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday, 20 October, Wings and I rode along with Michel to Mineral de Pozos, my favorite place in the world. Mineral de Pozos sitting at 7,500 feet is the old mining town that I have written about innumerable times including here and here and here and here. In addition, the entry that I just posted previous to this one relates to a trip out there that Fred and I took in March of 2010.

As always, right click on any photo to open a larger version in a new tab.

I had not previously featured Wings as a hiker. However, he was a trooper on this trip thanks to his new hiking boots.

Here Wings is peaking down into one of the several mine shafts in the area.

The two photos above are of a strange gravel storage facility across the valley and really have nothing to do with the mines.

On this trip we visited an area new to me that featured three smelting ovens that date from the 1590's. Wings deserves the credit for redoing these in black and white.

The Mines at Pozos

2011-10-24T11:01:00.000-05:00

[The following entry is a repost of an entry relating to a trip to Mineral de Pozos that Fred and I made in March 2010.]

Today was a day for another hike. Fred and I drove back to Mineral de Pozos, the colonial mining town about an hour's drive from here. We explored the abandoned mining complex there. The admission was 10 pesos each ($0.79 American; €0.58; and $0.81 Canadian.). A lot of bang for the buck as it turned out, although you already know how much I love ruins.

About the camera again. I continue to struggle with the exposures here. (I must keep in mind that it is only a $350.00 camera after all.) It has come down to this. One cannot let the camera do anything at all automatically out there. The camera is built for moderate conditions. On automatic it will take wonderful pictures of the family around the Christmas tree. But out there in the dessert with the light colors and the intensity of the light, it will continually overexpose even if you use the preset in the automatic mode for “Beach,” for example. I am slowly finding the right manual settings to get that under control.

To make matters trickier, I cannot check the images as I go because it is so bright out there that I cannot see them in the view finder. Just like the old days with a 35 mm film camera and light meter--setting f stops, shutter speed, bracketing exposures, and all that crap, and then wait for the film to be developed to see how you did. I am not there yet, but still, I am getting there, or at least to the best there there is to get to.

Here a little north and west of Mexico City we are in the heart of what was the best mining country in the Spanish Viceroyalty of New Spain, which was comprised mostly of what is now Mexico and the territory that the United States and the Republic of Texas took from the nation of Mexico. The other big mining area in Spanish colonial times was in the Potosí region in the Viceroyalty of Peru.

The mining operation was carried on here at Pozos from the 1500's into the late 1800's, that is, from Spanish colonial times through the early years of independence. The area yielded both gold and silver and some mercury, which was used in the process of extracting silver from the ore. There are several complexes of buildings around the side of a mountain. I have thrown up a couple of scope shots above, but it is impossible for me to provide big photos that give any sense of the place. Therefore, I have determined to put up only some photos of this or that interesting looking detail without much further explanation.

This is one of the mine shafts. These mine shafts go straight down. . .and down.

Another mine shaft.

During Spanish colonial times, some operations dropped Indians into these mines to work. The Spanish would lower food down the shaft to the Indians in return for ore. If the Indians did not send up ore, no food came down to them. Some Indians spent the rest of their lives at the bottom of these shafts, lives that were probably blessedly short.

The roofs were made of wood and are of course all long gone. However, I want to take you into those buildings to show you something that fascinated me.

Some of the pigment of the wall decorations survives. I am afraid that you will have to click on some of these pictures in order to see what I am talking about.

You can see the remnants of a stencil pattern on this wall, for example.

Fred has corrected me. Fred is now a tour guide at El Charco del Ingenio Botanical Garden and Nature Preserve. I have been referring to this as "high desert." High desert is technically what you would find around Las Vegas, for example. This is semi-arid, which basically means that more plant species can survive in it. So anyway. . .

Here is a Century Plant in the high semi-arid.

Manolo's Sports Bar

2011-10-20T08:49:00.003-05:00

Mules

2011-10-18T22:15:00.002-05:00

Until late September just before myreturn to Mexico, I had never given mules much thought in my life. Infact I had never given them any thought at all other than torecognize when a man was riding a mule instead of a horse, such as inthe old Gunsmoke television series, or to recognize that a wagon wasbeing pulled by mules instead of horses in western movies. Otherthan that mules had never, ever entered my mind at all. I ride horses.

Right click on any photo that might interest you for a larger version in a new tab.

Let me introduce you to Rick. I haveknown Rick since I was five years old when we started Kindergartentogether. We discovered girls at about the same time. We were co-captains of our high school football team, ifyou will forgive me for mentioning that. The fact is that it was a truly awful high school football team. Then we discovered beer and women at about the same time.

Rick and his wife Marlyslive on a heavily wooded little acreage on the banks of the nobleWapsipinicon River in Linn County, Iowa. Whenever I am back in thatarea now, I enjoy passing the time of day with him there in thatpicturesque spot.

Rick has owned mules for years. Youmight say that he is a mule enthusiast. It came to pass in lateSeptember, while I was sitting outside with Rick scratching myselfand pontificating, that I remarked on the beauty of the two mules inhis corral. One thing led to another, as one thing always does, andwe decided to ride mules that evening. I went back to the farm and changed intowarmer clothes.

Rick telephoned Matt, a friend of his whom I had not previously met.Matt brought over his mule in a trailer and joined us.

We set off from Rick's house into thewoods along the banks of the Wapsipinicon River toward Waubeek, alittle village down river.

Now about that hat of mine. First, someolder folks from Texas may smile at that hat. It is older than someof you who are reading this and of a style long out of fashion.However, it was the only one that I had left at the farm. Second, andmore importantly, I should not have worn it at all. You will noticethat my companions are wearing caps. We were riding into such brushycounty that a hat like mine is easily knocked off by a tree limb.However, nobody told me that before we started. I never lost my hat,but I did a lot of dipping and dodging to prevent that over thecourse of the evening.

On the trip out it was beautiful alongthe Wapsi on that early fall day.

We had to ford the river once.

After about an hour's ride, we ended upat an old restaurant and beer parlor in Waubeek that has been ownedfor some years now by Tim Kula. The mules have their own hitchingrail there.

After profiling in the beer parlor there for quite some time, we set out onthe real adventure. We headed back in the dead of night. This iswhen I truly came to appreciate mules. Matt and Rick had broughtthree lamps that strapped over our caps or hat, as the case might be,sort of like the lamps miner's wear on their hard hats. The mules didnot need this light at all nor was it any help to them. Rather, thelamps simply allowed us riders to see tree limbs before they knockedus off the mules.

Rick and Matt, who had done thisinnumerable times before, determined to take a challenging route homethrough extrordinarily thick brush, into gullies and out of gullies, over rocks,up and down. Those animals were unbelievably adept at this. I simplygave a loose rein to mine and let her follow the others. As I writethis, I am ashamed that I cannot remember the name of the mule that Iwas riding that night. I will say that she was one of the betterfemales that I have ever encountered in my life. We got along well.

The eyes of these mules at night lead me to believe that they can see in the dark just like cats. It surelyseemed that way.

The point is this. Those of you whohave read this blog for some time know that I never recommendanything to anyone. Not books. Not films. Not music. Nothing. I donot recommend shit to anybody else. I shall here make a rareexception . . .

I recommend mules.

The Goat Banquet

2011-10-18T11:09:00.000-05:00

Last Sunday Wings and I financed a goat banquet at Fortino's house in one of the poorest neighborhoods in town, colonia aldolfo lópez mateos. I shot snippets of video throughout the affair. We had a ball.

I must add that Wings, Fortino, Luis, and Hadin didnot drink all 36 of those 1.2 liter bottles of beer (43.2 literstotal) by themselves. After Wings and the family and I ate, friendsand neighbors dropped by over the course of the remainder of theafternoon to assist in that endeavor. I certainly was not well enoughacquainted with them to shoot video of them.

Should you wish to see still photos of the Alan's birthday party that Fred and I financed last June along with more background on all of this, you can find that here.

Interim Report

2011-10-17T09:11:00.001-05:00

In a desperate effort to demonstrate that Wings and I are not total jackoffs as we meander through the city, I offer this little video of our church visits. I am stalling while I edit the video of the goat banquet that we attended at Fortino's house yesterday.

The following is a video of a brisk walk through the market uptown, mercado ignacio ramírez, culminating with Wings' corn on the cob.

And for what its worth, this is the Chamber of Commerce's video put together to promote San Miguel de Allende. It is a full fifteen minutes long and soon becomes a snoozer. However, the footage of San Miguel taken from a balloon in the first five minutes is spectacular, I think.

The Gigolo

2011-10-15T23:13:00.000-05:00

Wings and I had to take it easy this afternoon--Saturday afternoon-- and rest in preparation for the killing of the goat first thing in the morning at Fortino's "house." Video to follow. The goat will then be cooked over an open fire, as I understand it.

The following video is a leisurely one, eight minutes and change long. It is not of general interest. However, those who know Wings and me might nevertheless be interested in following us around the streets of San Miguel on a Saturday afternoon.

Wings Amid Nature

2011-10-14T22:57:00.001-05:00

Wings is a hedonist. Many of us alreadyknow that. Of course he has loved the food and drink and otherproduct of the countryside here. This was no surprise. However, wehave also indulged ourselves in other activities. He has enjoyedvisiting Fortino's family with me in the poorest neighborhood intown, colonia adolfo lopéz mateos. We drove into the countryside today fora leisurely visit to a little remote pueblo, La Huerta, at the bottomof a rather picturesque canyon, the subject of today's video. Most worthy of note, Wings did thetour of the botanical garden, El Charco del Ingenio, with me. I wasdelighted to find that he thoroughly enjoyed it.

As always, you can right click on any photo to open a larger version in a new tab.

A man of notorious phallocentric tendencies himself acknowledges greatness in another species. Think of it as Hitler visiting Napoleon's tomb in Paris.

Pictured above is probably the mostunlikely duo that you could ever imagine. That is my neighbor Fredwith Wings at the botanical garden. Fred is a former New Yorker whohas visited 34 countries and formerly resided in Havana and MexicoCity. He was an art dealer in Cuba, licensed to export Cuban art. Hesupplies me with back issues of ARTFORUM, Architectural Record, andVanity Fair. He has over the course of the past months beenattempting to explain to me the significance of the thought of theFrench theorist Jean Baudriard.

Fred has a great interest in botany and is fully bilingual.He is a volunteer at the botanical garden and leads the tour onTuesdays. It was his tour that Wings and I undertook. Nobody elseattended that day, and therefore it was only the three of us.

A view of San Miguel de Allende from
the far end of the botanical garden.

Fred has candidly commented that Wingsis the most . . . what was the word Fred used? . . . the mostdecadent person that he has ever met in his life. Perhaps the wordwas debauched. He was awe struck initially. Then Fred began to laugh.And laugh. And laugh. Now Fred regularly comes to my patio atcocktail hour for discussion sessions with Wings.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

For those of you who missed today'svideo at Wings' much neglected blog site, here it is for easy access.

Of course when he speaks of his previous difficulties in uploading files to the internet here, he speaks of his work with the web site that constitutes his business, a web site of now international renown, midwestauction.com.

Wings Over México: Week One

2011-10-12T11:30:00.000-05:00

It has been exactly one week sinceWings and I touched down at the little international airport in Leonand then took the shuttle here to San Miguel de Allende. I hademailed Hans, one of my landlords, in advance to pull the campertrailer out of storage and place it in its old spot here at thetennis complex. Scott has been living since then in that campertrailer across the way from my apartment and in between Courts Twoand Three. It has worked out well for him.

Click on any of the photos below for a larger version.

To date I have not done a good job hereof documenting his visit. He came down for a planned stay of twoweeks. However, we have not yet booked his flight back. I had no ideawhether he would be as enthusiastic about this place as I have sincethe beginning. As it has turned out, Scott is into it big time. Wehave simply walked around the city a great deal for the most part.Believe it or not, Scott is getting his walking legs back under him.However, because of his love for the food and drink here, his tummyhas still not shrunk a bit that I can see.

On day one it became apparent that theworn out sneakers he brought with him were not going to cut it whenwalking on the cobblestone here. Furthermore, he had no head gear.This all required a trip to Mercado Ignacio Ramirez to purchase newhiking boots and a hat. I fitted him out with an extra pocket vest ofmine, and he was in business.

Wings and I took in a basketball game at the park, parque benito juarez, a couple of days ago.

We have sampled several restaurants. Sofar his favorite by far is my own favorite, El Rinconcito, a littlefamily run restaurant about five blocks from here. The couple who runthat establishment are extraordinarily cordial. Their place isclean and neat. The food is spectacular.

Wings is watching the Texas-Oklahoma game at the Longhorn Texas Smokehouse up the street.

So far I think the highlight of Wings'stay has been our visits to Fortino's house out in one of the poorestneighborhoods in town, colonia Adolfo López Mateos. Fortino washescars at curbside during the day on the main thoroughfare here, anchade san antonio. I have written of him many times. He is the greateststreet hustler that I have ever encountered and has regularly bilkedme out of more money than I should pay for a wash and wax of my truckhere. I noticed that Wings recoiled a bit at the poverty of thefamily at first, but Wings is Wings. He was soon right at home withthe help of some brews on ice that we took with us.

This is the kitchen sink at Fortino's family's house.

The barrels behind Wings here contain the family's water supply. There is no running water out there.

The family cooked fish and tortillasfor us upon our first visit. It was admittedly a risk for us to eatthis. However, I talked Wings into sampling the food by assuring himthat they had purchased the fish at the market. I thought that wastrue. Ultimately, I found out that the fish, probably some sort ofcarp relative, had come from the river here. Nonetheless, we livedthrough that meal obviously.

We gave Fortino some money to purchasea goat. This goat will be slaughtered this coming Sunday for aprivate fiesta at Fortino's house with his family. Wings and I willbe in attendance.

Wings has been fascinated with thestreets and sidewalks here as I was initially. I have writtenrepeatedly about the experience of driving the streets here. Scottmade his own little video of this as we drove across town yesterday.

Wings Over México

2011-10-06T12:00:00.001-05:00

In two and a half years of living in Mexico, I have never had a visitor from Iowa until yesterday. I would never have dreamed that my first visitor from home would be Scott Wingert. However, Scott took the plunge. Yesterday, he flew back with me after my visit to Iowa for my mother's ninetieth birthday party.

We took off from the Eastern Iowa Airport yesterday at 6:00 a.m. We landed in Leon, Mexico, at noon after changing planes in Dallas. An hour's shuttle ride, and we were here in San Miguel de Allende. The Wing Man was exhausted. I am not sure, but that might be attributable to the fact that he pulled an all-nighter before we departed. Just sayin'. In any event a siesta on my patio was required before we went out for our first foray together into the town.

A Brilliant Idea

2011-09-22T13:48:00.000-05:00

I had a brilliant idea this afternoon! It had to do with our geopolitical situation. It occurred to me, as these things most often do, in circumstances that I probably ought to replicate more often as a public service given the lightening flashes of brilliance so often generated by those very circumstances.

It came as I set out in the pickup going across town to pick up my mail from my mail service at the Fabrica Aurora gallery complex, doing the Dance of Death in the narrow streets and alleys of San Miguel de Allende with the buses, the taxis, the propane trucks, the water trucks, the señoritas on their four-wheelers, the other pickup drivers with eight Mexicans loaded in the back grinning at me, the family motorcycles with mamas and babies on the back clinging to papas driving with another child astraddle in front, the big black Chryslers with distrito federal plates and blacked out windows—strangers who do not honor the rules of the street here and drive as if they were still in Mexico City.

I pushed the eponymous Led Zep album, their first, into the disk player, the volume set on “sternum vibrate.” Is my favorite How Many More Times? Naw, it has to be Babe I'm Gonna Leave You. Has to be. That blow-your-hair-back bridge with John Bonham's explosive drums, may God rest his soul. Then his high hat so subtle back there during the quiet parts, so perfect.

Perhaps I have not mentioned this tidbit before. Led Zeppelin's first North American tour took place only because the Jeff Beck Group canceled their tour. Led Zep was a substitute! With no album out yet! Can you believe that? And here is another little interesting thing. Initially, in that tour Led Zep was only opening for other groups—Vanilla Fudge, Iron Butterfly, Country Joe & The Fish. However, early on and by the time Led Zep got to San Francisco, the other bands just stopped showing up. Led Zep was blowing everybody away.

If you will check the tour dates of that first North American tour of late 1968 and early 1969, nestled there among dates at other venues—in Vancouver, Denver, Portland, Seattle, San Francisco, West Hollywood, San Diego, Detroit, Boston, New York, Chicago, North Miami Beach and a host of others—you will see an appearance for one night and one night only in Iowa at the old Fieldhouse in the city known locally then as the Peoples Republic of Iowa City. Fifteen January 1969. A young Iowan, a student 21 years of age, a young man of good posture and clear promise though with a remnant innocence, attended that concert in his big swingin' bells.

But I digress . . .

As always I had the windows of the truck open. Air conditioning would be a sacrilege, an abomination. A little Led Zep will do the pedestrians no harm once in a while, even walking by right next to my side windows as they must. I listen to their booming Spanish hip hop when I am walking around.

Today it seemed as if man and machine were one, the Canyon so responsive dressed out as it was in its brand new Uniroyals®. Mid-sized pickup my ass! When we have it working, we are the equal of all except buses and concrete trucks.

Tan in decent shape with a white, Mexican shirt featuring intricate embroidery. The gold Seiko® Mickey Mouse watch flashing. And goodness gracious! The hair! The hair, down and waving in the breeze, was as good as this hair is ever gonna be again. Ever. Add the Ray-Bans®, the only sunglasses, my friends--that is not a product endorsement but rather a simple, unvarnished truth--and you have the picture.

In short it was the full tilt boogie manic phase today bathed as the day was in mountain sunlight. The beauty of it is that since I have been here, I have never, ever had to pay the price for one of these manic phases of high elation in the form of even one teeny, tiny depressive phase. It is like these manic phases are completely free, God's own gift.

And yes, Christ on the Cross was doing his little dance, too, keeping a vigilant eye nonetheless, there on the end of the black and silver rosary that matches the truck and hangs from the mirror, as we bounced together along those cobblestone streets and alleys cruising the town. I held up traffic every time a Mexican lady on the sidewalk indicated in the slightest way that she wanted to sashay across the street in front of the truck and me. Nodded and smiled, caballero that I am.

There came a point when I no longer gave a fuck where I was going, let alone whether I would ever get there. Mail. Shit.

The whole package was one custom tailored for brilliant thoughts at the outset before one settles in too far. One might ask then why I do not do this more often and perhaps solve one of humanities many intractable problems. Only because the voltage maxes out my wiring on these occasions, wiring that is admittedly nearing the end of its useful life. The deal at this point is, use it but don't abuse it. All of humanities intractable problems, therefore, will have to go a begging solutions today in so far as I was concerned this afternoon.

If that paragraph made no sense whatsoever to you, please do not feel alone. I myself am still pondering it.

To tell you the truth the brilliant idea that occurred to me today has now escaped my mind. But what is one brilliant thought that dissolved amid pure animal living right smack dab there in the center of the moment? Which, it seems now, was the real subject of this blog entry today anyway.

	Led Zeppelin - Babe I`m Gonna Leave You .mp3

	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Back Where I Belong Again

2011-08-10T10:03:00.003-05:00

At this point I have completely givenmyself over to my own fascination with the old mining town of Mineralde Pozos, which is a little over an hour's drive from my home here.It is something akin to Oscar Wilde's adage that the best way to dealwith temptation is to yield to it. By my count this is the sixth timethat I have put up photos of either the town or the abandoned miningcomplexes in the vicinity.

At the height of its glory Mineral dePozos was a city with a population of 40,000. Today a little over1,000 people live there. Consequently, the city itself consists forthe most part of abandoned structures with buildings that are nowinhabited sprinkled amid those. The city sits at 7,500 feet above sealevel.

The Spanish started mining operationsin the environs in 1578. Or was it 1568? I cannot remember. Mining ona large scale was being done there in the late 1800's, which all wentup in smoke during the Revolution of 1910. Manpower, capital, spareparts for mining machinery disappeared. The mines flooded. Some minormining operations continued into the 1930's, but nothing to speak of.

The place is preternaturally rich inminerals. Silver, gold, copper, lead, magnesium, mercury, and otherminerals were taken out of the ground there at different times and at significant human cost. There is blood on the mountainsthere, my friends. And blood in the mountains.

Without a vehicle one must changebuses three times in order to get there. That trip would take aboutthree hours. It therefore feels blessedly tourist free. I have never been therewhen I did not have my favorite mining complex completely and entirely tomyself and whoever is with me. Me, a tourist. On Tuesday Michel and I hauled our cameras to Mineral de Pozos. Again, he and I were alone among the mines.

At my favorite site one initiallyencounters a large, elaborate, intricate complex of buildings andinstallation after paying 10 pesos to the old gate keeper whose ancestors were miners. (No photographs of that large complex today.) Then one cancrawl through the barbed wire fence surrounding that and hike about akilometer to a little assembly of buildings on the side of themountain, perhaps the place in the world that I most love now.

There is obviously no secret about what Ido with these photos. I sharpen the raw photos to the point of painfulness.Then I super saturate the colors. This may be stepping over the linefrom digital photography into so-called “digital art.” However,it is only by doing this that I can approximate what I myself see out there. Click on any photograph that might interest you for a larger version.

The site is peppered with mine shafts. One of the delights of Mexico for me is the freedom from feeling constantly swaddled in a paternalistic concern for my safety. Nobody gives a shit about that here. There are no barriers around any of these shafts. No signs even. The tacit attitude seems to be, "You are completely free to fall in a hole if you wish, dumb ass." I love that. One would have to be crazy to take a child out there. Although, I suppose if one were feeling child-ridden, that would be one way to alleviate the problem.

Which is a good reason not to hike out there alone. I am not sure exactly what I would expect Michel to do for me, however, if I fell into one of these shafts. Still, there are worse ways to go. And worse places for my mortal remains to spend eternity. I am rich in magnesium after all. I did lose my one gold filing years ago unfortunately.

The following are an assortment of interior shots taken in the buildings of that remote site.

A year ago dianaani took one of my earlier photographs of that remnant stenciled wall decor and with her amazing equipment made a large print. She then sent it to me. It is one of my treasured positions and sits in a place of honor here in the loft. I will be forever grateful to her for that.

The Island

2011-07-14T14:09:00.011-05:00

I find myself returning often now, returning to books that I have already read, returning to places that I have already been. There is an appeal for me about a return. There is always something new to be found upon returning to anything except people and the United States of America. So it was that last Sunday I returned to the island of Janitzio in Lake Pátzcuaro.

Right click on any photograph that interests you in order to open a larger version in a separate tab.

A commercial photograph of the island of Janitzio is in the foreground with the islands of Tecuena, little Yunuen, Jaracuaro, and Pacanda in the distance. A right click on this one will give you a particularly large resolution version.

This is Janitzio as it looked to me out the back of the boat when I last left it on 4 November 2009.

Janitzio is an island that begs to be photographed and untold thousands have done just that. However, we had some unusual weather conditions on our visit there Sunday, Michel, Ginette, La Mexicana and I. Sane people are normally not out on the lake in such weather taking photographs.

This is Michel's shot of the island with different settings on the approach used entirely without his permission. Consider it copyrighted until we learn differently.

Views from the top.

This is the island of Tecuena with the island of Pacanda in the background.

The following snapshots were taken on 4 November 2009.

The island is dominated by a statue of don José María Morelos, another martyred hero of the war for independence from Spain.

From the docks one climbs up to the summit on a long, winding staircase lined with shops and restaurants. The norteamericano in the red tee in the bottom snapshot is my young friend, Frank, whom I have since lost to the dark underbelly of Mexico.

Frank on the descent in the late afternoon of 4 November 2009.

In addition to the shops that sell the usual tourist crap along that long, long stairway to the top, there are also many charming little restaurants. Isn't that what we always call them? Charming little restaurants? Charming until they poison the shit out of you.

To be honest, though, I have played Russian Roulette with little Mexican restaurants ever since I arrived here with excellent results. You must squeeze fresh lime juice on everything, particularly the fish. You must never buy something to eat from a road-side or street-side stand in hot weather. You do not have to worry about the potato salad. There is no potato salad. With those simple rules in mind, you are good to go.

From the shore on the other side of the lake.

The view out the back this time.

Wherefore are thou?

2011-07-05T23:13:00.000-05:00

Whereas some of us labor in confusion and insofar as anyone cares whereof she spoke, whensoever Juliet asked “Wherefore art thou, Romeo?” and whencesoever she asked it, be it on that balcony wherefrom we overheard her in the night whereinto she spoke and whereon and whereupon he soon appeared in front of that door wherethrough he later proceeded to her bed or wheresoever else, Romeo's whereabouts was not the mystery whereon she brooded. The mystery wherewith she was perplexed was why Romeo did exist, a question whereunto she herself had not the wherewithal to respond, “wherefore” being a synonym of “why,” which means “for what purpose.”

On Second Thought . . .

2011-06-20T14:01:00.001-05:00

. . . perhaps there are a handful of photos of the parade here that are interesting. And after all, I can be forgiven for a second installment of photos this year in view of the fact that last year I posted four installments on Dia de los Locos.

The lesson there, I suppose, is this. Some people are never the victims of any irrational enthusiasms at all. Others have difficulty getting their irrational enthusiasms under control. I am getting this one under control now.

I shall start with my favorite. The reason is obvious. The boy in the lower left. Don't you know that this is a boy being raised in a house full of sisters? Is not that written all over his face?

During these messes, these Mexican parades as I have described them in the previous entry, I am often reduced to putting the camera on the machine gun setting, holding it over my head, and firing, taking a bunch of big resolution pictures--trusting to blind luck that something may show up in this or that corner. Then I crop this or that corner out. My friend, Michel, an excellent photographer who has exhibited his work, is scornful of this technique. In any event this is a crop-out that I like simply because of the gamut of reactions displayed on those faces.

This is a mish-mash, the type of photo that I normally detest. However, there are couple of things that kind of anchor this one, for lack of a better term. The young lady with the black eyes in the central foreground. The smiling young lady out of focus in the lower right. And the upside down umbrella in the upper left. What is the deal with that?

Not a mish-mash, but close to it--were it not for the little guy in the center right.

I am a big fan of out-of-focus for reasons that I cannot explain to you. Perhaps it is because my own most important memories are all out of focus.

I characterize these last three as also-rans. Close, but no Kewpie Doll. Mundane were it not for this or that little thing--yet, this or that little thing insufficient to extricate them completely from the mundane.

Another Weekend, Another Fiesta

2011-06-20T12:51:00.003-05:00

. . . but this fiesta, Dia de los Locos, Day of the Crazies, holds a special place in my heart. In truth it is only another excuse to fire off a truckload of aerial bombs, but I love it. A huge costume party it is. This fiesta also happens to coincide with St. Anthony's own special weekend. He is the patron saint of my neighborhood, colonia san antonio.

Dia de los Locos features a large parade on Sunday after endless partying in the street for a couple of days leading up to it. The participants in the parade assemble on Sunday morning in the San Antonio Plaza, a block to my north. They then stream down my street, callejon san antonio (St. Anthony Alley), to the main drag, ancha san antonio (wide St. Anthony Street) to form up for the parade that heads off downtown. Well, wait a minute . . .

There. Just to orient you. Nice font, huh? (Kindly refrain from sharing that map with any collection people, please.)

Since this all happens right outside my door and so as not to disappoint Rita Shibr, I claim Dia de los Locos as my own personal fiesta. It could form the vehicle to explore any number of high end, intellectual themes. Such as the coincidence of pagan festivals with religious observances. Or the Danse Macabre. Or the place of the mask in Mexican society. Or the institution of the masked ball in western society--I speak there of "ball" in the sense of a large formal gathering for social dancing, not the more intimate encounter. I am certainly capable of writing something along those lines, I will have you know. But in the end, who really gives a shit? (I always put a spike into my blog entries like that in order to render them unsuitable as cover pieces. That sort of exposure would intimidate me.)

If it ain't fun, you and I are not going to do it. So permit me to show you some more photographs instead. Don't forget. Right click on any that interest you in order to see a larger version in a new tab.

This photo portrays my street, callejon san antonio, as it typically appears. We are looking north from the intersection with ancha san antonio toward the church plaza.

I always station myself for the parade near Los Rehiletes, The Pinwheels, which is a little specialty food shop that I depend on for such staples as snooty chocolate; snooty gourmet cheese; snooty, high class bread; and various exotic, snooty nuts.

Here we are looking in the side door of Los Rehiletes as the young lady that owns the place sells stuff out the front door to the gathering crowd on ancha san antonio. I am fond of this lady and always pull for her to make a ton of money on Dia de los Locos. I do not want her to go out of business.

The crowd gathers early on ancha san antonio to await this very popular parade.

I am fond of over sized shades myself.

These pixies will not watch the parade from those positions. They would get trampled. Good spots to wait though.

Still, there are those who are really not into the parade, such as this distinguished lady passing by.

Or this lady walking down the middle of the parade route with her blue checked shopping bag.

All she wants to do is get out of there and get home as quickly as possible.

Then parade participants start to filter down my street toward the parade route. It is a family affair.

Soon the trickle becomes a flood.

Oh, yes. The parade. I must explain. Watching a parade in Mexico is a contact sport. The trick is not to go down. Stay on your feet at all costs. If you go down . . . and under . . . it is over. The following three photos pretty much capture my experience of all the parades in Mexico that I have ever seen. All parades look like this:

The upshot is that I always quickly lose interest in the parade and start photographing the spectacular rear ends of young women in as unobtrusive a way as possible.

And then go back to the deserted refreshment stands in the plaza for a coke.

Finally! My Own Pyramid

2011-06-18T13:47:00.001-05:00

After crossing the border in early June two years ago, feeling as if I had dropped off the edge of the world in that hell hole called Reynosa, I drove nonstop to this city, napping in the truck along the side of the road when necessary. The plan was firm at that point. I was heading toward the deep south, Oaxaca and then San Cristóbal de Las Casas in the state of Chiapas. My only reason for visiting this city was that I had promised some friends, a couple who had visited this city and loved it, that I would.

I set up the camper on the edge of town in the old Hotel Siesta's RV park and slept. When I awoke, I took a walk toward the downtown. Without going into that spiritual epiphany and related hoohaw, I will simply say that on the walk back I knew I was not driving any further. This place was it.The last two years has only proven me correct.

The only little problem, I thought, was that there are no pyramids here in central Mexico. Many of you have visited some of the amazing pyramids elsewhere in this country. The Great Pyramid of Cholula in the Mexican state of Puebla, for example, is the biggest pyramid by volume in the world. Many of you also know that pyramids are powerful medicine.

Then as time wore on I started to hear vague talk of an archeological dig purportedly involving a pyramid near here. The name of the site is La Cañada de la Virgen. I had low, low expectations concerning the place and was not much interested.

The excavation and exploration of the site had been long delayed for the reason that the site was land-locked within a vast swatch of private property owned by a little old lady with no access. You know how little old ladies can be. Finally, the right to construct an access road was acquired from her. The site has been being excavated and catalogued now since 2000 but has not been open to the public. In the middle of this past February, it was opened to the public. Still with low expectations, I made it out there finally last Tuesday with La Mexicana.

The site is about 30 kilometers down the highway toward Celaya. You park at a reception center near the highway. A shuttle bus takes you two kilometers to a bus stop. Then you walk another kilometer up the side of the mountain to the site. I was pleasantly surprised. Not big. Not big. But very cool. As always, you can right click on any photo that interests you in order to see a larger version in a separate tab.

This is what I saw upon approaching the complex. I say complex because it is comprised of several installations. It was constructed over the period 540 A.D. to 1040 A.D. primarily by the Otomí people who inhabited a wide swath of central Mexico at the time. The site had been abandoned for 900 years.

There is a garden there that features the indigenous plants that the Otomi people used for a myriad purposes.

This is one of the smaller and more mysterious installations with the big pyramid in the background. It is difficult to discern it in a photograph, but this is a circular, spiral walkway constructed of stone and mortar. Their mortar was made with dirt and the juice of the nopal cactus. It worked.

The large central pyramid is beautiful. There were no human sacrifices here. Rather, it was used for the worship of the Sun, the Moon, and the planet Venus. The Sun lines up in the groove at the top on 17 April and 25 August, traditionally regarded as the beginning and end of the rainy season.

This is a smaller pyramid and installation as seen from the top of the large pyramid. The excavators encountered two cadavers as they did their work. One was of a small boy surrounded by offerings and accessories. The other was of a chief. However, tests revealed that the chief had died many years before his interment here. His corpse was moved here for some reason long after his death. In any event, these were the only human remains discovered.

This is a view of the huge courtyard or ampitheater in front of the large pyramid. The lay citizenry made pilgrimages to this site for ceremonies. Priests inhabited the site.

I am quite happy with my new pyramid regardless of its modest size. My pyramid may not be among the biggest, but it works just fine for me. Size of course does matter, but pretty counts, too.

A Baseball Homecoming

2011-06-08T16:12:00.000-05:00

It has been said by so many American men that it is nearly a cliché. Had it not been for baseball my father and I would not have had anything at all to talk about. In my case because of baseball we had a lot to talk about. At least until Alzheimer's Disease took away all his interest in the game. Then the complexity of what was happening in a game in front of him was beyond his grasp. This, I know, was frustrating for him. He refused to watch at all during his last years. Even worse from my point of view, he no longer had any interest in reminiscing about the games he had seen in his life.

One has to look on the bright side. We had baseball for many years. My parents started hauling me to the minor league park in my hometown as soon as I could walk. The team was a farm club of what were then the Milwaukee Braves. All of the infrequent trips we took incorporated visits to major league parks. I have a vague recollection as a little guy of old Sportsman's Park in St. Louis primarily because we sat in bleachers high up in the air. Looking down to the ground underneath those bleachers terrified me. Later, we were at Milwaukee's County Stadium when Warren Spahn won his 300^th game against the Cubs.

On the farm there were countless radios, one in every shed and barn. Many times three or four would be going at the same time so that when work took one from one building to the other, the game was already tuned in. My father would have preferred to listen to the Cardinals broadcast, but our reception of KMOX was marginal. Our reception of WGN was exceptional. Therefore, it was Jack Brickhouse and the Cubs. Or Jack Quinlan, who was killed in a tragic automobile collision in 1965. Later, Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau.

The main tractors were fitted out with special tractor radios mounted on the fender. These tractors had no cabs. The radios were capable of playing at a volume that allowed them to be heard over the roar of the tractor in the field. A deafening affair that was. You could hear the broadcast from the house echoing across the field above the noise of the tractor engine.

In my adult life I usually purchased season tickets to the local minor league club and caught a major league game when I could, usually sneaking off to the ballpark at night during some business trip. Boston. Chicago. Kansas City. New York. Detroit. I admit that I probably imposed baseball on my own daughters somewhat against their wills, hauling them to the minor league park constantly when they were little. I hope I did not completely ruin the game for them.

In 1984 there was a young law student working as a summer intern at my law firm. A good baseball man and a White Sox fan when it was difficult being a White Sox fan. We took off together on a lark in early May to Chicago to take in a White Sox game at old Comiskey Park. As it turned out we attended what I believe is still the longest game by time in American League history. The White Sox and Brewers.

The game lasted eight hours and six minutes. Twenty-five innings. It started on the evening of May 8 and ended on the evening of May 9 before the regularly scheduled game that night. Tom Seaver got the win for the White Sox when he finished the long game. He then started the regularly scheduled game on May 9 and got that win, too. Two wins in one night. It was that long game that brought home for me Roger Angell's dictum that one of the beautiful aspects of baseball is the theoretical potential for any particular game to last forever.

When I left the United States and came to Mexico, I left the game behind. It might have been different had I settled in a Mexican city with a team where baseball is still big. Soccer dominates where I live. The only slender thread still connecting me with the game was my own glove, which I brought with me. A 1975 Catfish Hunter model, well maintained. And a carton of new balls, which I promptly gave away to Mexican kids.

And so it was an interesting feeling to ride the subway out to Citizens Bank Park in Philadelphia on Monday night with those Phillies fans for a sold out game with the Dodgers. A real homecoming even though this was a park to which I had never been. I told La Mexicana on the way out to be prepared. This game might be the baseball game that lasts the rest of our lives. She was amazed at the idea.

Others of our colleagues for the evening can be seen here.

At Peace with The Painter of Light™

2011-06-01T00:47:00.001-05:00

I almost dropped the April issue of ARTFORUM when I scanned the table of contents. Almost lost my grip on it. ARTFORUM is a big, glossy magazine that will hurt you if it lands just right on the top of your bare foot. I quickly tire of holding it and move to the kitchen table to read it. Let the kitchen table hold it.

The table of contents promised an article entitled Joachim Pissarro and David Carrier on Thomas Kinkade at page 75. When I turned to page 75, I found that was not an empty promise. An article on Thomas Kinkade in ARTFORUM. I could not believe my eyes. I found that Duke University Press has recently published a book entitled Thomas Kinkade: The Artist in the Mall edited by Alexis Boylan. This book allegedly consists of essays on Thomas Kinkade's work by eight legitimate scholars—art theoreticians and cultural historians—and an art curator.

I also learned that an estimated one out of every twenty American homes has a Thomas Kinkade product hanging on one of its walls, which actually did not surprise me. This means that probably some of you have a Thomas Kinkade product hanging on one of your walls, in which case I can only say to you, bear with me.

Thomas Kinkade is The Painter of Light™. Prints of his paintings are sold in malls, in Thomas Kinkade galleries, over the internet. I think he got his start by hiring Mexicans to sell his work out of the beds of pickups along the side of the highway. In any event The Painter of Light™ is now an empire.

Through the years I have read several articles on Mr. Kinkade and his work. I could not help myself. You know how sometimes you simply cannot resist picking a scab? The man is a marketing genius. His products were held out as a way for people of modest means and no expertise to invest in art. Potential customers were persuaded that if they purchased one of his works, it would undoubtedly appreciate in value while it hung in their double-wide. For an additonal fee, arrangements could be made to have your Thomas Kinkade “personalized,” by which I understood that some additional glitter would be strategically glued to it somewhere so that your product would truly be unique.

The articles that I read were for the most part neutral, reportorial. I did not remain neutral. I became convinced that The Painter of Light™ was just another in long line of hucksters victimizing the dumb-assed consumers of America. I was never shy about voicing that opinion either because, let me tell you, I was sincerely disgusted. I must be honest and admit to you that in those days it did not help matters with me that Thomas Kinkade is a Republican and a born again Christian and does not know how to spell the name Kincaid.

But what really bothered me most of all was that people by the thousands seemed to love this shit.

I am not in with the in-crowd of the art world. I am not in with any in-crowd. Fred downstairs, my supplier of used issues of ARTFORUM and a former New Yorker, is in with the in-crowd of the art world . . . or was. Actually, Fred is now a more relentless dropout than I am. In the art world Thomas Kinkade's pictures are, as this article so accurately puts it, “reviled, if not simply ignored.” As for me, those paintings of cottages drove me up the wall.

Fred hanging a painting for me.

But then these authors say this:

It is hardly polemical to suggest that his pictures bear comparison with canonical works of art history. His Jerusalem Sunset, 2006, for example, brings to mind Corot's Roman scenes. Other pictures—those in which fantasy tableaux are set in utopian American landscapes—conjure up Thomas Cole. Kinkade's Parisian cityscapes, meanwhile, are close in atmosphere and execution to many second-generation Impressionist works. Nevertheless, for many denizens of the art world, his work does not even qualify as art. [Fred being one of those.]

That sent me dutifully trooping back one more time to Thomas Kinkade's online gallery in order to look at this stuff—his Jerusalem Sunset, the Parisian cityscapes, the fantasy tableaux--with as open a mind as I could manage. I know my way around The Painter of Light™'s online gallery, having visited it for giggles several times before. What was my own conclusion? Only that I do not care any more.

In 1939 Clement Greenberg wrote an influential essay titled Avant-Garde and Kitsch, which essentially defined the word “kitsch” as we usually use it today. His thesis was that avant-garde and modern art is a means to resist the “dumbing down” of our culture caused by consumerism. Art-like products, such as Hummel figurines, that appeal to these dumbed down consumers he termed "kitsch." Therefore, Thomas Kinkade's works are regarded by the cool set as kitsch. You needed to know that, if you did not already, for what follows.

This then appears in the ARTFORUM article:

. . . his paintings are openly sentimental and nostalgic. They are meant to be as easy to love as a birthday cake, or fireworks.
Consequently, it comes as no surprise that myriads of people do love his work unrepentently. Yet almost without exception, the writers here [in the book reviewed] are a little squeamish when it comes to granting any validity to the aesthetic judgments of the public. Even if we* are not saying that we love Kinkade's work ourselves, we would argue that a training in academic art history does not put one in a position to dismiss the sincere emotions of millions of people who do love Kinkade's art. Rather, their claims need to be taken seriously and, even more, granted respect. And if one accepts that everyone is entitled to judge for him or herself, one must also face the problems raised by the inherently patronizing notion of kitsch . . . .

You know something? Goddamnit, those boys are absolutely right. Absolutely right. I have no argument with them at all on that.

I have made peace with many things since coming here to Mexico. Many things. I am proud of that. And now I have made peace with The Painter of Light™.

*The co-authors of this review are themselves the authors of a book entitled Art Outside the Art System.

Love Train, That's the Answer

2011-04-16T16:36:00.003-05:00

Soccer on the Rancho

2011-04-06T14:24:00.004-05:00

One of the greatest negotiators whom I have ever encountered is named Fortino. I came to Mexico two years ago thinking that I knew something about negotiating. This man has taught me a think or two. I could get my truck washed much more cheaply at one of the many car wash stands in town. I would rather pay more to Fortino to do it out of a bucket at curbside just for the experience of negotiating the price with him. He is relentless. In fairness, he waxes the truck, too, which would be additional cost at one of the stands. Nevertheless, every time I walk away to get some coffee while he goes to work on the truck, I walk away certain that I have been skinned.

Over time I have gotten better acquainted with him and now with his family. On Sunday I was invited to accompany the family to a soccer game--fútbol here--in which Fortino's son-in-law, Hadin, was to play. I think the fact that the family needed a ride to the game might have had something to do with this invitation. If so, so be it. Because it was a great experience.

Fortino and the extended family live in poverty in one of the poorest neighborhoods in town. Seven live in a cinder block shack with no plumbing at all. None. When I say none, I mean none. Fortino and his wife, his daughter and the son-in-law and their toddler, his son and the son's pregnant girlfriend all share these quarters. Having now visited this place, I am going to complain less about overpaying Fortino for his work. It was sobering. Yet, the hospitality was everything I could have asked for

As it turned out, the game was at a rancho far out in the countryside. These ranchos are sprawling affairs with several different kinds of livestock operations, several different crops--this one included a hazelnut orchard--and horses of course. There are many hands employed on one rancho. There was a little grocery store situated in the middle of this particular one. You have to visit a rancho to appreciate the vastness of the operation.

Also, in the middle of many of these ranchos in this area, is a fútbol field. Teams from the various ranchos play each other on these fields on Sunday morning. Hadin is a member of one of these teams.

These photos depict the scene in the vicinity of the playing field.

The sheep pen abuts the sidelines of the playing field.

It was the same game.They played it with as much intensity as if they were in front of thousands at Estadio Azteca in Mexico City.

The game was complete with a referee who struck me as remarkably competent. As is the case in all fútbol games, the spectators were not shy about disagreeing with him.

-

These are the opposition's fans cracking open some cold ones underneath the tree behind the north goal.

In anticipation of halftime Fortino and I went to the company store and purchased tomatoes, canned tuna, and avocados along with bags of tostadas and Coca-cola. Fortino diced the tomatoes, tuna, and avocado and mixed them together. We slathered that spread on the tostadas.

This is one of the opposition's fans dropping by for a tostada or two at halftime. Superman, I call him. I liked this guy immediately. Perhaps you can see why in his face.
-

Then it was back to the game. The stands, as you can see, consisted of a log.

La Señora's face--this is Fortino's wife--is one of my favorite faces. It is a face that that projects stubborn strength.

And Hadin. I have a career in mind for Hadin, and it has nothing to do with fútbol. It has to do with putting on expensive clothes in order to show them off to best advantage for a fashion photographer.

It struck me, as I watched the game, that in remote places all over the world that weekend, vast numbers of people were gathering together at local fields to watch friends and family play fútbol. It is a nearly universal sport of the people, including the dispossessed. No question about it. At the same time a minority of privileged others were inside in front of a television with the air conditioning artificially cooling them, watching highly paid strangers play other games. That was my profound thought of the day.

Jacaranda

2011-04-05T22:50:00.000-05:00

Keith Richards's Libraries

2011-03-08T12:02:00.003-06:00

Keith Richards is quoted as follows in The Sunday Times of London and other sources as follows:

When you are growing up there are two institutional places that affect you most powerfully: the church, which belongs to God, and the public library, which belongs to you. The public library is a great equaliser.

I consider that to be a remarkable statement and true in my own experience. I had previously known of his love for books because of a photo spread of some years ago in Vanity Fair, I think it was, featuring beautiful photographs of the libraries in his various homes. Inspired by Elijah Rising's book porn link, I trudged off, armed with Google to see if I could find some illegal online digital renderings of those photos. I found four.

This is allegedly Keith Richards's desk in the library of his Connecticut home.

I could not help adding a couple of additional photos here.

Keith Richards in his younger days as many of us remember him.

A more recent photo of Keith Richards, the one without the phone.

Episode 29: Maxi Priest and Billy Ocean :: Live From Daryl's House with Daryl Hall :: Current Episode

2011-03-05T23:47:00.000-06:00

Episode 29: Maxi Priest and Billy Ocean :: Live From Daryl's House with Daryl Hall :: Current Episode

Tequila Sunset

2011-03-01T23:46:00.000-06:00

I am reporting in from the city of Tequila in the state Jalisco some miles short of Guadalajara and about half the way home. Yes, this is the city that sits amid those fields of blue agave, headquarters for the distilleries authorized to label their product "tequila." La Mexicana and I are laying over for the night in the Hotel Maria Isabel.

And let me tell you something. There are a lot of liquor stores here. Every other shop is a liquor store. That is no exagerration.

I am so deep in Mexico right now that I cannot see out. La Mexicana has great difficulty understanding the citizenry's Spanish because of the local accent. So you know where that leaves me.

Or course you also all know the pains to which I go in order to avoid gratuitously insulting any person or group. Therefore, I will simply write one word that captures my impression of the people of the city of Tequila: Deliverance.

Mazatlán Graffiti

2011-02-28T22:20:00.002-06:00

. . .was my title. La Mexicana preferred something like "A Grand Mural of Mazatlán." Just another of those nitpicky disagreements about genre.

That expression "¡Aguas con la violencia!" is idiomatic. The word "aguas" can throw us beginners. La Mexicana explains that in this usage it means careful--"Be careful with violence." I like the realism and practicality of that. The message is not that we must abjure violence entirely. Rather, we need be circumspect in employing violence. That is not asking too much of any individual--or any government for that matter. Is it?

Faces

2011-02-27T11:17:00.003-06:00

Interesting faces, I thought, at this international gathering yesterday. . . .

The Merely Unusual

2011-02-24T20:39:00.002-06:00

On a certain level there is something the same about all beach resort communities. I gave some thought to this. Is it the slightly shabby little hotels of two or three floors all in a row. Is it the abundant souvenir shops and theme restaurants and other concessions designed for only one purpose—to relieve those tourists of as much of their money as possible during their short stay? Or is it the sameness of the tourists themselves, the elderly white men in their awful shirts, mandatory short pants, and over-priced, name brand sandals morosely accompanying their plump white women—“moderately obese” in physicians' parlance--who never shut the fuck up?

In the end I concluded that this sameness resides in the fact that all beach resort communities abut some large body of water and abandoned the whole train of thought as circular.

The point is that I am not going to put up a bunch of photos of the same stuff that you would see in any beach resort community anywhere. Yes, it is beautiful. You can see that from the one photo that I have put up. But a little time at the beach goes a long way for me. I have the craving for landscape, the craving of the flat-lander who has lived his life amid visual monotony. The seashore does it for some of us. Cliffs. Breakers crashing on the rocks. All of that.

It is the mountains that do it for me, but I find myself here on the beach for a good reason that I will explain later.

Still, Mazatlán has its charms. The shrimp boats are a-comin' all the time. After an obligatory pass through the predictably historic, disgracefully clean downtown, La Mexicana and I hit the side streets. We found an old guy selling shellfish on the sidewalk. We had the place to ourselves and enjoyed fresh oysters on the half shell and split a big shrimp cocktail glass full of assorted dead sea life. With hot sauce. It was a delight the likes of which I had not enjoyed since the old New Orleans.

La Mexicana was wielding the little camera today. I know my baseball cap is on crooked. That was intentional. I meant to do that.

The one good thing about tourists is that they are seldom truly adventurous. They confine themselves to the designated tourist areas where they can speak their language to each other; swap stories with each other about the quaint local practices that they have mastered; and then return home confident that they have been to Mexico. This makes escaping them easy.

La Mexicana and I wandered the streets deeper into the city away from the beach and got lost there. That was intentional, too. I meant to do that. There was an abandoned building there that fascinated me.

A tree was growing out of the top of the building that was difficult to photograph because La Mexicana could not back off enough by reason of the narrow street. She did a wonderful job of photographing the rest of it though, I think.

The tree's roots had grown down through the building. All through the building. By my feet you can see some roots emerging from a drain pipe that was built into the wall.

This is a closeup of that very same root.

This is a tree root emerging from underneath a door and running along the foundation. It looked to me like The Blob from the early Steve McQueen film. (Am I remembering that correctly?)

The old shutters were ajar so that one could look into the interior through the bars. Those assemblages hanging down in the middle of the room are tree roots. To tell you the truth the whole thing gave me a creepy feeling.

You have to admit. This is subject matter the likes of which you have not encountered in other blogs here today. Right? Entertainment in the form of the downright bizarre and the merely unusual. That is my game here at The Solipsist.

The Dicky Neely Blues Band

2011-02-15T20:33:00.001-06:00

A Debut Documentary

2011-02-15T10:08:00.001-06:00

When Adriana told me last September that she wished to borrow the video camera in order to make a documentary, I was taken aback. She had never touched a video camera before in her life let alone pressed a record button. She mastered the art of the brutal closeup right away though.

I admired the effort that she put forth so much that I decided that I had to do my part, first in transposing all that footage from analog to digital, a haphazard process at best with the equipment available to me. Let us call the resulting effects cinéma vérité and call it good. Second I had to edit it, all the while trying to remain true to the filmmaker's vision.

I only considered adding music. It was too much fun just listening to the narrator.

In anticipation of questions that may arise regarding the talking head in the video. . .

I have never set foot on the campus of Arizona State University. In a previous life I used to attend the N.C.A.A. Baseball Championship Tournament in Omaha, The College World Series. I needed a team to follow and admired the Sun Devils' coach.

Yes, I normally walk beside her. In this case I did not wish to seem too much the fussbudget about the camera work.

And yes, obviously, if I had known that I was appearing in a film of enduring value, I would have tied up my hair.

The market in question is Mercado de San Juan de Dios, or more properly, a tide pool abutting that sea. In contrast to the two large markets up on the mountain, which are frequented by the tourists, this all lies lower in altitude but higher in my estimation.

It is slow to load. Not much that I can do about that.

Without further ado then. . .”To the Market.”

NOTE: Since this is my blog and not the filmmaker's, I wish to voice my disagreement with the filmmaker's expressed opinion that in Mexico the women do all the work while the men sit.

The Canyon in Oils and in the Flesh

2011-02-13T21:17:00.007-06:00

Paintings by Keith Miller.

I did not want to put the landscapes next to the flower in the previous entry. These two landscapes portray the canyon that feeds out of El Charco del Ingenio Botanical Garden at the edge of town and that vicinity. That canyon is my favorite locally. When one emerges at the bottom, one looks out over the city.

The following slide show consists of photos taken out there in 2010 with a pocket camera. Specifically, it is a Canon Powershot SD880 SI, now in semi-retirement.

An Opening

2011-02-12T18:47:00.007-06:00

Last evening I attended an opening at Galeria Casa Diana over on Recreo. Paintings by Keith Miller were the feature. Keith Miller is billed as a botanical and landscape painter wherever you read about him. That seems a slightly insulting pigeonhole after one sees his work, and I have several times before. I suppose one has to convey something of genre when one is trying to interest the public in a painter's work.

To see his work is to love it. It is that simple. I have yet to encounter anyone who does not simply roll their eyes in a loss for words. Except neighbor Fred of course. Even if your taste runs more toward the abstract, you would find plenty of satisfaction in his flowers. His landscapes are captivating, too, particularly for me when they portray areas where I have hiked. The only problem with the landscapes is that they are often hung next to those spectacular flowers.

I lifted this image of one of his orchid paintings from the site that is linked above. Simply for those who have no interest whatsoever in clicking on anything. If he is upset with me for that, I am close by. He can take it out of my hide.

I am only very casually acquainted with him. . .

By the way. The cuteness of my nickname for that Mexican woman has grown threadbare, I think. Henceforth, we shall refer to her here as Adriana.

I am only very casually acquainted with Keith Miller. To him I am simply the guy that is sometimes with his friend, Adriana. I needed to make that clear for the purpose of what comes.

Mr. Miller strikes me as a natural social isolate by temperament. I suspect that he is never happier or more at ease than when he is alone painting. I know that many times he paints into the night and the wee hours of the morning, sustaining himself with a bottle of wine. I do not know exactly how that works. He must have considerably better lighting in his studio than I do here in the loft.

His flower paintings are not small and not huge. They are in a relatively large format. I have found no dimensions on any of the web sites. If I had known that I was going to write this, I would have investigated.

When I am standing in front of one in the flesh, so to speak, I am busy hallucinating. However, after I have walked away from one, the first thing that occurs to me is that the number of solitary hours devoted to creating it must have been enormous. Finally, he finishes that one and then devotes an enormous number of solitary hours to another. And then another.

And then. And then. After he has created several of these, he must step out of that long solitary existence into the social situation that we call an “opening” at which those paintings are displayed. The wine and cheese; the chitter-chatter. The banal. Questions such as, “How do you do that?” It must be jarring. Misery. Torture.

He politely says to me, “Thanks for coming.”

I politely say to him, “Thanks for your work.”

What else is there to say really? There is nothing else to say. You look at the paintings. It is the paintings, only the paintings, that have anything of importance to say. Not me. Not Keith Miller. Not anyone else.

But openings must be done. Unless a painter is independently wealthy, sooner or later he has to sell a painting. That would seem to me to be the case anyway. Or get a day job at the Post Office.

Guanajuato: Ten Photos

2011-02-11T11:45:00.002-06:00

I had put off visiting the center of Guanajuato, the state capitol, until this past 31 January because I had heard of the series tunnels that one must negotiate in order to get in there. They are intimidating to the first time visitor, not quite like any other tunnels I have driven in. There are underground intersections in that pitch black for one thing. For the remainder of the day in Guanajuato the question remained in the back of my mind, "Will I be able to get back out?"

Even after one is in the city and walking around, there is a bit of a claustrophobic feel to it, not entirely unpleasant after a time.

The people there have a different taste in colors for their homes than I am accustomed to. More pastels.

The opera house, Teatro Juárez, is an extraordinary building.

The old train station has been converted to a market.

There follow some random photos taken out among 'em.

Camera in Your Face

2011-02-05T10:36:00.001-06:00

The previous entry brings me to a subject that I have come to know a bit about. It is a subject, though, that I have not completely thought through yet for myself, although others have had things to say about it. It is this business of taking pictures of people. To put it bluntly, shoving a camera in another person's face. There are many people in this world who would feel more violated only if you shoved a gun in their face.

The intrusiveness of a camera is a serious thing worth some serious thought. I have given it a good deal of thought myself because the business of shoving a camera in a person's face cross-culturally has required that I think about it.

Let us set aside the whole subject of paparazzi. Photographing rich, powerful, famous people without their consent has nothing to do with what I am talking about. Let us also set aside the whole business of photojournalism, also. I regard photojournalism as a necessary evil, a necessary evil like the police. It serves a broad social purpose.

I would love to photograph more people here, close up, candidly. After all, what is more interesting in the end than looking at other people? But that brings with it complicated problems.

There are norteamericanos who come in here and put their cameras in the faces of the people without any conscience whatsoever. One can tell when a week-long photography workshop is going on somewhere in town. They are everywhere then. There was one going on at the time of the last Day of the Dead. When I was in the cemetery taking pictures myself, I saw a guy walk up to a family visiting the grave of a loved one and take pictures of them without a word in advance. Of course there are going to be people in photographs of the cemetery at that time. However, this man was taking pictures close up and personal, apparently attempting to get his own Annie Leibovitz-type portraits.

In fairness there are wealthy Mexicans from Mexico City who come here and do the same thing. The somewhat disparaging word for them is “chilangos.” They stand out like sore thumbs.

Now, you can get away with that here. It is a tourist town. People are used to the intrusion of the tourist and his camera. Many of them make their living from tourism. They want tourists here. That does not mean, however, that people are never offended by the way tourists sometimes use their cameras. It is not a pleasant thing to feel one's self to be an interesting human being only as the subject for a photograph like some exotic creature in a zoo.

You just cannot do that out in the hinterlands, however. Not if you value your camera. Not if your camera is too large to fit up your ass easily.

I have a friend, Kristina from Canada, who is also an avid photographer. We have discussed this a good deal. Some time ago she went on a photographic safari to Cuba. That group's guide, or minder, or whatever, lectured them at length before going out about shoving cameras in peoples' faces without first interacting with them in some meaningful way. Kristina is very good at that now. And she is quite an attractive lady, which gives her an advantage. With men anyway.

There is the key to all this. If one engages with a person first. If one talks with them a bit—admire their products or discuss the weather or something—then one can ask to photograph them. That is not to say that they will always consent. Recently, I so wanted to photograph an old woman cooking tortillas next to the street on a homemade, propane-fired contraption that was fascinating. La Mexicana was with me. We spoke with her first. Still, she declined. Firmly. And that was that. No photos.

But let me tell you something. If you do that successfully and then photograph the person with their consent, your photographs more likely than not are going to be worthless. It is the rare subject who is a natural poser. Therefore, one loses the candidness in photographing the person. The photograph will no longer say anything about them.

Then there is this aspect of it. I have for a long time wanted to do a series of photographs of my beggar women. Photograph the invisible, if you will. They all know me by sight now. I have encountered them regularly for a couple of years, have spoken to them, have dropped coins in their cups since the beginning. I think that I could engage them and get consent to photograph many of them. Some of them are more in the next world than in this one and would not grasp the situation. Bad shape.

But I ask myself why I want to do that? I could say, for example, that I want to show images of this misery to middle-class norteamericanos so that they can appreciate how lucky they are, realize that the pissant problems with which they deal in their lives are as nothing compared to this. But that would be disingenuous. The truth is that I don't give a shit about middle class norteamericanos and their pissant problems.

What I really want are fascinating images of people who have been completely defeated by life. That is not enough to justify the project in my mind. There is something psychologically all wrong about it. Nor would I wish to be seen doing it. They do after all station themselves on the busiest streets. I would have no problem with a photojournalist doing it, however.

In any event it is a complicated subject that I have not completely come to grips with. In the meantime and as far as photographs of people are concerned, the best I can do are things of this nature, “Ice Cream in the Plaza.”

Funeral in Guanajuato

2011-02-04T23:53:00.002-06:00

God, I love this shot, if you don't mind my saying so. A completely lucky hit, it is to me worth hundreds of other photos that I've taken here for reasons impossible to explain. It is tweaked a little but not much. You can faintly see the widow's face through the windshield. The flowers stacked on top. The boy running in front. The mass of humanity behind; the empty street in the foreground.

Of course I felt that I was intruding. This was not the only shot. The new camera was set on machine gun. However, I took may hat off and stood respectively later as the cortège proceeded on by. It seemed to me that all was forgiven then after that gesture.

His World: A Study

2011-01-31T19:17:00.002-06:00

Sunday Afternoon in the City of Guanajuato,

Capitol of the State of Guanajuato

The World As It Is

2011-01-28T11:57:00.004-06:00

Even I get fatigued sometimes sitting around trying to arrange the details of a better human world in my mind. It is one thing to speak eloquently of the better world, the "City on the Hill." Politicians must become adept at this. In my lifetime Robert F. Kennedy was the best at it for my money. It is quite another to get the detail right.

Obviously perfect social justice is impossible. Therefore, in a better world there is only less social injustice and that which remains is of a more benign sort. But what does that mean in practice?

Perhaps, for another example, we can greatly reduce infant mortality. But then at what age is it acceptable for more children to die, as some must? Eight? Twelve?

I always hit the wall rather quickly on this sort of thing. When that happens, I must get out and enjoy the world as it is. Often this involves a walk in the park, Parque Benito Juárez to be specific.

Remember that you can click on any photo that might interest you to see a larger version.

Parque Benito Juárez is a large city block in size. It is planted heavily throughout. There are no open green areas. It is a fecund place with everything from worms to insects to birds and, yes, human beings mating there constantly. You get used to that and simply avert your eyes to give the worms, insects, and birds some privacy.

Yesterday, there was a bonus. Vendors were there setting out their products for the annual plant sale, which is an extravaganza.

At the risk of playing into a stereotype, there are some incredibly talented gardeners and nurseryman here.

The photos above are of giant violetas, violets.

Various orchids.

I presume many of you are already fans of cactus blossoms--so striking, so short-lived, and sometimes so bizarre, such as these, which I had not encountered before.

I put up this apparently mundane group of flower photos simply to make this point. Each and every plant put out at this sale is perfect. Now, you might say to me, “But Steve, of course they only put out their best here.” To which I would reply that it is still difficult to believe that they can generate the best in such huge numbers.

The potters get their cut of the action, too. See those unfired clay pots in the background?

There were clay pots on display around the basketball court of every conceivable shape and size.

A nice assortment of little guys, all perfect specimens.

This is an assortment of tiny bonsai. And in fact another chapter in my own personal bonsai saga has now opened, but that is for another day.

Some Perspective on Mexico

2011-01-27T10:04:00.000-06:00

The boys have a little trouble pronouncing "Juarez," but otherwise quite well done, I thought.

A Morning at the Tuesday Market

2011-01-25T20:23:00.005-06:00

Once again I put up photos of various random scenes from the Tuesday Market out on the edge of town. On those rare occasions when someone up north expresses any curiosity at all about Mexico or what I do here, I never make the mistake anymore of actually trying to describe or explain anything. I simply say something to the effect that it has an appeal for me, but it is definitely not for everybody. I would never try to describe Tuesday Market or explain why I enjoy it so.

This very unprepossessing looking scene is one of the entrances to the makeshift complex that spreads over the area of several city blocks.

These gentlemen are putting out shoes on display early in the morning. The place is a nightmare to photograph because of the tints cast by the variously colored plastic tarpaulins that are hung above for shade, as well as the mixture of the brightly lit and the shaded.

Everything is sold at the market. Food. Clothing. Housewares. Electrical supplies. DVD's and CD's. Hand and power tools. Birds. Collectibles. Antiques. Remote controls. Cell phones. Automobile sound systems. In other words, it is a more human Walmart. One-stop shopping.

This is one of the many large clothing stalls, which will give you an idea of how you must go about shopping for clothing here.

The hand tools and power tools on sale are used, as is much of everything else. Like most men, I can wander around a hardware store for an immense amount of time. This place is even better.

The conglomeration of stuff set out for sale is sometimes mystifying. I have no idea what half of these things are. But there, prominently displayed in the middle was a lonely hand saw, much the worse for wear.

If one had the time, I am convinced that one could sooner or later find any tool or at least a part of any tool.

One of the diners. La Mexicana and I had breakfast out there this morning before she went back to work after her weekend. When I first came here, I was terrified of eating at any place like this. It took me weeks, literally. Now I am in their among 'em.

This is the strawberry lady, obviously. Always there. Always in the same spot.

It is at first impossible to believe that anyone would be interested in buying some of the items on display. It seems to be the case though that somewhere out there is a buyer for anything. The place serves as a sort of recycling center.

To tell you the truth, I did not look closely to determine the sort of thing on sale here. Contrary to appearances, however, I am sure that these are not S&M sex toys.

The country people who come here to sell whatever it is they have for sale are extremely shy people. This old gentlemen stood at attention interminably behind that woebegone tree that he hope to sell, fearful, I think, that he might have to speak with someone.