Maybe everybody already knows it, and that's why small houses here aren't any cheaper than half a million dollars in most places in the Bay Area. The quality of life is amazing. People are more relaxed, and the food is better and comes from nearby.
Today I came down from the hills in Berkeley to see some friends in Oakland. The past three days up in the hills were mellow and relaxing. It's good to spend time with people older than me that are already parenting and further along in their lives and careers, but doing it in a much more radical way than any other models that I've seen and admired. My friends Antwi and Lemlem are sending their daughters to spanish-language immersion school and they understand Spanish just fine.
Laleh and George took me hiking in Joaquin Miller Park in Oakland, with acres and acres of huge clusters of redwood trees. They mostly grow together in clusters, like families, sharing the same root structures.
Then we went to my friend Saneta's house and ate a delicious dinner with most of the fruits and vegetables from her backyard (lemons, plums, artichokes, oregano, salad greens, tomatoes).
Tomorrow...Golden Gate Park.
I haven't written much about the tour with the band, largely because I haven't had too much spare time or energy on the road, even rolling in a tour bus. Rest was still kind of hard to get on the road. Lying down was always possible, but getting a restful sleep wasn't always easy.
The Santa Cruz show was beautiful, off the hook, crazy energetic with good performances...the two San Francisco shows were very good but I don't think they matched up. The music is hot weather music, and for everything to sound right, for people's bodies to feel right, it helps if there's a certain heat and humidity.
Well, not exactly, but some powerful forces are pulling it that way.
Some developers plan on building 40 story highrises on the site of the most sacred place in my neighborhood--a one-square block of overgrown abandoned lot on the banks of the East River in Williamsburg.
I have been going to the river there for over ten years, and very soon, I may not be able to enjoy it anymore. The neighborhood has been very vocal about this, but it's hard to tell the outcome. I want to be positive, but capitalism is a steamroller and most people these days want to get behind it rather than in front of it.
A friend of mine's boss, a long-time neighborhood guy from the Italian-American community, is all in favor of the building, hoping that it would increase business to his restaurant. I'm sure many other local business owners and property owners can't help but see it in the same light.
What will these towers mean? First, there is their sheer physical and visual presence, which will steal from us in perpetuity the view to the sky, the clouds, and parts of midtown and upper Manhattan, and the East River. For the people who live north of the towers in Greenpoint, they will most likely fall in the shadows during many of the juicier parts of the day away from the kisses of the sun.
Traffic will increase. One third of our neighborhood youth already suffer from asthma, several times the average of the rest of the US. Will all these cars help them breathe easier?
More people. Do we need them? It seems like we have enough already. A walk around Bedford and North 7th street, one of the 3 or 4 main hubs of transport and business activity, we see a healthy amount of people, shops. Subway platforms are already packed at peak hours, and there is a steady flow of people twenty four hours a day.
There is so much more to think of...will rents go up? Probably. Pollution? Probably? Even more rich, disconnected people trample the dignity of those who have been living there a long time? Probably.
Perhaps those who are in favor should truly reconsider the long-term effects that this type of development--this may be the first, and definitely not the last--will have on all aspects of our lives. And perhaps those against this idea--even those with just the slightest inkling of a consciencee--should organize and fight this. Only good things can come of it since the process of organization and community building is always a constructive one.
-----------
All this headiness has been brought on by meditation and reading Octavia Butler's "Parable of the Sower" recommended to me by Brett Cook-Dizney and given as a gift from Xiqui. I have blazed through the first hundred pages in a day and a half and am intrigued and horrified about how much our world is resembling that of the world that Butler portrays in the year 2024. All I can say is read it.
Happy belated May Day.
Thanks to everyone for making my 30th birthday weekend such a special one. To my mom and dad, the rest of my family, and all my friends and all the people I didn't know who came out to our shows in New York, Philly, DC, and Baltimore.
I am privileged to walk the Earth and promise to do my best this year and beyond...
So I started writing an entry called "10 minutes before 30" but Safari crashed and I lost it. So here's the revised version as the clock has already struck 12:00.
Two things blew my mind today, both revolving around the idea of Meditations as an artistic practice and a prominent part of the artistic statement: Brett Cook Dizney's "Meditations" exhibition at Zilkha Art Gallery at Wesleyan University, and Carlos Mena's "Hip Hop Meditiations." I have had the pleasure of spending some deep time with each of them over the past few days and definitely count them as heavy mentors in my own process. They are a few years ahead of me and definitely inspire me to tighten up my game.
It was great to get to see Brett's work assembled and reassembled, especially the pieces like "Blackness" and "Grandma" (those aren't the proper titles, sorry) installed today after seeing them so many times at his old studio in Harlem. They had changed, grown, embellished. Mostly the same objects, but rearranged, each time in a more expressive, meaningful way. Like a mandala or a shrine to an orisha, or elders, or to the Virgin. The physical space was beautiful and Brett really worked it, especially with the colorful clear-mylar paintings of from the Bronx Museum hip hop series.
I got to meet Carlos Mena in person Sunday night after the Fu ArkistRa show at Zebulon, after playing phone tag on two coasts and three continents over the past few months. We are working on some long distance collaborations passing audio tracks over the internet, working on them, and sending them back. This is the first time I'll be doing it. It is really time and energy consuming to have to learn all this recording stuff, but at the same time it is very rewarding and empowering as a musician to have the ability to record a whole bunch of stuff at your fingertips, in your bedroom, or if you're lucky, you're living room. It was great to finally meet Carlos and I was inspired by his vision, the music he's making, and the way he is putting so many people together on this project, from Osunlade to Michael Spiro to Vinia Mojica and a ton of other people on different coasts, different countries.
The process of bringing so many people together to create community through music and artistic collaboration is an important one.
----fin
After seeing soot from Brooklyn traffic pile up on my windowsill, I wondered what it must be doing in my respiratory passages and lungs, and I bought myself an air purifier as my birthday gift to myself. The more I think about it, the more it sounds like something from a sci-fi or George Orwell book. But enough about that.
One other thing...I recommend seeing "What the *@#&$ Do We Know?" Its a movie really unlike anything I've ever seen, and is mostly a dialogue about reality, the nature of matter, and God, with quantum physicists and other Western scientists waaaay deep into their respective fields, basically concluding and acknowledging things like the ultimate unity of all existence, the power of positive thought and prayer, and the existence of a collective consciousness, among other things.
Okay, now I'm really fading. Tomorrow will be a long and beautiful day. Sweet dreams.
Finally, another entry in the blog. It's been a little while. The Antibalas tour in France/Spain/Belgium/Netherlands was great...productive, exciting, healthy, well-organized, well-nourished. The best part of it was getting to perform live with Tony Allen and to deepen our relationship with him and with the roots of Afrobeat.
I came back to the city and moved into a new apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which I been living and/or working in since 1995.
I have been back in the city for a few days now and am in the thick of a number of musical activity mainly:
1. learning and working on new songs with Antibalas
2. recording with TV on the Radio
3. recording with Dragons of Zynth (a Brooklyn based afrotek group)
4. finishing the second Ocote Soul Sounds/Adrian Quesada record
5. recording random folklorico-influenced original songs with guitar and vox
6. taking shekere classes with Madeleine Yayodele Nelson
7. Afrocuban dance classes as Djoniba
8. Long distance musical collaborations with Carlos Mena
9. Long distance musical collaborations with Quantic/Todd Simon
10. Performing with Antibalas and Fu Arkist Ra
In other news...
Biodiesel
The new car is running well, on diesel (and biodiesel, when I can get it). I am checking out different conversion kits (May use a different kit than Greasecar.). I would like to do this conversion myself now that I have a much better idea of how it's done.
Superadobe
I went out to Cal Earth to visit my teachers and study some finishing techniques that I will be using on the temazcal in Mexico when I get a chance to go back. It's been 14 months since I've been back and I miss my peoples...all the kids will be a good six inches taller...
Literature
Trying to hustle a children's book about the 2003 NYC Blackout, a collaboration with Ricardo Cortés, author of It's Just a Plant. If you know any good literary agents specializing in illustrated childrens books, let me know...
That's all the news for now. Several other projects in the works, in formative stages and/or too top secret for the world to know about...
We have lost another elder, Pancho Quinto, master drummer, olubatá and rumbero, on February 11, 2005.
Here is an obituary in English.
Last week Lazaro Ros, singer, musician, priest, living encyclopedia of folklore and rhythm, entered into the spiritiual plane.
While his music, wisdom, and talents were crucial to the maintenance of the body of knowledge of the Yoruba tradition in Cuba and the Americas, his talents can be appreciated by anyone.
Yesterday, at Spoken Words Cafe, members of the community, accompanied by the batá of Carlos Gomez, came out to celebrate and honor the legacy of Lazaro Ros. Thanks to Chief Dayo who opened his beautiful space up to us, and may the energy and aché continue to multiply.
The cycle of life and death continues. While spirits departed smiled down on us, little children clad in white, ran through the room, as a pregnant woman danced the steps of the orisha.
Here is the obituary en español.
Gracias, Baba Lazaro. Seguimos aprendiendo las canciones aunque nadie las canta como Usted.
The Style Wars site is up and is the most beautiful website I have seen so far in my life.
The Mindfully website is equally overwhelming in the quantity and breadth of health and environmental information they have.
Time to dig deeper! (click)
So it looks like I will be committed to living in the Northeast for the next few months, as my mom's cancer has taken a turn for the worst. I sent out an email to several friends and acquaintances in New York a few days back and a number of people responded, who happen to be going through the same thing--seeing a closed love one fight with cancer.
The whole experience makes me realize the extent of the epidemic, and the reality that cancer has taken the lives of too many, too soon.
I think about all the money that is made on the cancer industry, from all the well-meaning people who provide compassion and kindness and draw their salaries, to the developers of the drugs and the pharmaceutical companies, who make billions off of "miracle drugs" which don't cure, but merely treat the cancer, to the industries which spit and belch out carcinogens in to air, water, and food we take into our bodies, to the government officials, who accept millions of dollars for looking the other way and convincing people like me that we're "safe."
I worry about using my cell phone too much. I worry about my laptop getting hot in my lap, the electromagnetic waves centimeters from my vital organs. And I know I'm not going to get the truth from the government when I look for that information.
We didn't get it about 9-11, or Iraq, or Vietnam, or Russia, or Bush's service record, or the ballot-counting in the elections, or anything.
That is why, I, in good conscience, will not file or pay federal income tax this year for the eighth year in a row, and will instead reinvest that money into projects which forward education and sustainabile living in communities where I live and work.
An unknown source confided yesterday that Condoleezza Rice wears dreadlocks under her wig, and she been working with Rep. John Conyers to implement a massive reparations package in the works for 2006.
The source went on to report that she has been secretly writing weekly love letters to Mumia Abu-Jamal in prison since 1987.
You go, Ms. Rice!
Attorney General Alberto Gonzales unveiled plans to annul the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, returning Tejas, California, Arizona, Nuevo Mexico, Colorado, Nevada, and parts of Utah, to México by the year 2012.
The first phase will involve compulsory Spanish language education beginning with students entering first grade in fall of 2005. An extra $25 billion has been allocated for remedial classes for non-Hispanic students and students classified as "Pocho" through their NETA test score results.
California governor Arnold Schwartzenegger was not available for comment.
So I'm back in the USA, LA to be exact. I lost a bunch of money in Japan and spent the last two days improvising, to take care of a roof over my head. I wish I had a better story about how i lost the bread (21,000 yen or about $205 US) but I think it straight fell out of my pocket, unless I was pickpocketed, which is unlikely but possible. Ugh.
The first night (after Antibalas check out of our cushy Shibuya hotel) I went to Nagoya with our man Tetsuro and Amayo, and we sat in with Funk Syndicate, a Japanese blues-rock band. It was not my normal scene, but the people were so friendly and appreciative, and we had a ton of fun. We drove back to Tokyo and slept a few hours in the rental van outside the hotel, where we used our leftover breakfast coupons in the restaurant. (You thought I was kidding when I said I was hustling).
We caught up later in the morning with Tim Perry aka DJ Grinch, a Bay Area hip hop head who has been living and working in Tokyo for six years. He took us around Shibuya to some of the record stores and to a hot soba noodle shop in Musashi-Koyama where he lives. He shed some light on what it is like to be gaijin (foreigner) in Tokyo, and we tripped on all the "Engrish" we saw on the street signs (stay posted for my own photos). Later on, his lady cooked us up a delicious nabe sort of like a Japanese sancocho with veggies and seafood and noodles and broth.
Later that evening, I caught up with my homegirl Ai Shapiro who was just returning to Japan from NYC. She is a top notch masseuse, aikido whiz, folk singer and all around rebel. Unlike most people in Japan, she never went to school in her life and is one of the smartest, most astute people I know. We rode the train out to Keido? a suburb of Tokyo where we crashed with close friends from her hometown. I never slept so well in my life that night!
I dreamt I saw my friends Rico and Ernesto out in the ocean from my balcony, and somehow I went out to meet them in a hot air balloon. Interpretations?
The next morning we went for a walk and happened upon a beautiful hillside overlooking the city, and a Shinto shrine.
Now I'm out in West Hollywood for a minute, looking forward to meeting up with some dear friends and musical colleagues and trying to dodge the swinging batons of LA's finest.
I did a search for my great grandfather and namesake Adrian Bourcart and this is what came up.
Today, I woke up, ate granola, went up to Williamsburg and gave my friend a flute, waited for the subway, bought a Japanese phrasebook and a pair of pants.
Meanwhile in Iraq...
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On Alternet I came across an interview with Aidan Delgado a conscientious objector who served at the Abu Ghraib prison and other sites, and has returned to the US. He mentioned a website called Iraq Veterans Against the War.
The only way we can end the war is by connecting and supporting the veterans who are returning, and giving them space and support to tell their stories. This first hand information is the only thing strong enough to sway public opinions.
Those of us (like myself) who only know war in the abstract sense have very little credibility to those in power and those who still support the war because we have been on the outside.
These soldiers have seen with their own eyes injustices and atrocities that can bring the US war machine to its knees if, we can help them get their stories out to the media and directly to our communities. Please give them all the support you can.
It is not our place to judge them. We have all done things that we're not proud of, and I can't begin to imagine what good-hearted soldiers have done at the insistence of their superiors and peers. We need to let the soldiers know that we are happy that they are alive, and use our imaginations to find a healthy place for them back in society where they can heal and use their abilities in a more positive way.
salaam alaikum
I have found myself with a few free hours in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a neighborhood where I used to live for five years, from 1995-2000, and on-and-off in short stints since then.
It has changed immeasurably since I first came here in the fall of 1994, and everyone who has been here has there own stories to tell, from the Puerto Rican and Dominicans and Chassidic Jews of the Southside to the Italians of the other side of the BQE by the Lorimer St. subway, to the Polish of North Williamsburg and Greenpoint, and all the other characters who lived among them before Williamsburg became a locus of first art and music to the inevitable gentrification and speculation that follows such a flash of spontaneity and brilliance.
And inevitably, it ends of choking and displacing the very elements that give birth to its creativity.
Memories
Rollerblading up and down Wythe and Kent to the Domsey Clothing by the pound warehouse. Bicyling and dodging feral dogs on Kent by the Navy yard exit.
People parking their cars and having picnics on the (now-collapsed) pier at the Kent Ave. waterfront.
Living in a small Italian house and walking up the stairs to hear an at 8 year old hiss "nigger" at my dearest friend through the chained door.
Fellow teachers at El Puente Academy having to move far away from the school because they couldn't afford to live close by anymore.
El Puente's battles for environmental Justice as increasing numbers of neighborhood youth contracted asthma every year.
Bars pop up, seemingly once a month, three years in a row.
Bands I remembered like TV on the Radio, Interpol, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Liars, Antibalas appear on MTV and at Festivals all over the world. And when I see them, they're all still broke and struggling.
The orchestras of flying birds, appearing at dusk and swinging symphonies over 5th floor walkups at dusk. Did they dance like this when there were trees standing here?
Skinny hookers, still hustling on Metropolitan and Driggs, on Wythe and Kent, after all these years.
Shanty towns and squatter settlements that would pop up amidst the rubble and weed trees and abandoned buildings along the waterfront. It was the urban frontier.
-----
It's 2005, almost 10 years since I first lived here. I am sitting outside at the Lucky Cat, now starting to feel the cold after about 25 minutes of typing, body shivering from a cup of coffee three hours ago.
Everything is in motion, all around us. Yet in some spaces, vortices are created which make time, change, creation, move at much faster paces. It has been intense living in this one, and preparing to move on to another. I am curious to see how things will match up in ten years.
To be continued.
Death touches all of us at some time or another. Sometimes it's people far away, in another country, another state, another neighborhood. As the deaths of the tsunami seemed further and further away, becoming images on the cover of the New York Post or pixels on a computer screen, someone I know, someone that touched my heart, is now gone.
Fran Czabator, a longtime friend of my mother's family, died of a heart attack yesterday. Just like people were crushed instantly by the tsunami, travelling at the speed of an airplane, I was told that Fran dropped dead suddenly in his kitchen.
I spoke to my uncle and to my mom today, and they were both dealing with the pain of death in diffferent ways. My uncle, healthy, fit, young, energetic, was crushed as we spoke over the phone, the conversation stretching thin over long sorrowful silences and deep breaths. My mom, fighting cancer for the third time in 6 years, was shocked, but a lot calmer.
I just found out a few hours ago, and immediately remembered the last time I saw him. We were in his kitchen eating a huge pot of beans that he had proudly cooked, from scratch, with tortillas (not from scratch!) while his massive friendly dog (and adopted child) Gandhi humbly and eagerly waited for scraps.
He lit a joint and passed it a to my mother. He had helped her many times cope with the pain of chemotherapy and radiation. Sometimes she would spend the night on an Aerobed on his living room floor after coming up for chemo in Philadelphia. I spent the night there, too, waking up to eggs vegetable stir fry, toast, strong coffee, funny stories, mad ideas, and trivia, wild speculation and knowing predictions.
So Fran, before I go to sleep, accept my offering to you, one who I cherish as family, a puff of smoke into the air that you now inhabit...some sage to clear your path on your spirits way to your next destination, and some mary jane, to lift your spirits higher and higher.
So...I haven't been blogging too much, lately. The Antibalas Who Is This America? tour finished up with a bang in Northampton, except that George Bush was announce as the winner of the presidential elections. Our next shows are up on the website, and we are just about to make our first trip--a very short one--to Japan in January!
There have been widespread accusations of voter fraud. Here is a little flash animation piece which illustrates some key facts and figures regarding voter fraud in Florida, Ohio, and other key states.
My mom's spirits are lifting quite a bit and I have been cooking her some good healthy meals every day. Today we walked around a wild bird refuge and a state park that used to be a WWII military installation...watched A Day Without a Mexican, a schlocky but amusing and well-done "mockumentary", as well as Supersize Me. Go Morgan Spurlock.
Another hearty congratulations goes to a dear compañero of mine, Ricardo Cortés for his book It's Just a Plant a beautiful and thoughtful story for parents to illustrate their children about marijuana. If this book existed when I was a kid, I wouldn't have freaked out on my mom when I found a dime bag while snooping around in her room. I nearly called the cops, and my world was temporarily turned upside down, thanks to Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" policies.
Nowadays, mom is using marijuana medicinally as per doctor's off-the-record recommendations to help her offset the side effects of cancer chemotherapy. She has used marjiuana the past two times she has had cancer since 1998, and swears is is more effective and pleasant than any of the anti-nausea pharmaceuticals she has been prescribed...and cheaper too. Please get well, mom.
leave the comfort of this Tucson Arizona cafe.
1. Thanks to Dirty Dozen Brass Band for the schooling me during their blazing set at the Austin City Limits Festival. The bari sax player Roger Lewis invited me to sit in on the last tune, which was an old Dixieland classic that I was completely ignorant of...I didn't embarass myself but almost...
2. You can hear the music of TV on the Radio streamed for free at:
These are good friends of mine (I have slept in their beds while they were away on tour) and I played flute and saxophone on a few of their songs. They are much deserving of love and appreciation, so listen and dig.
They are on tour even more than Antibalas, so if they come to your town, please bring them something good to eat.
3. This is an odd place to give thanks, but thanks to my ancestors for continually guiding me to the right places during my journey. Please don't let me stray too far from your watchful eyes.
4. What is with all the "Viva Bush" signs on the highways of New Mexico and Arizona! There are definitely some privileged Latinos here who stand to benefit from Bush/Cheney's continued corporate welfare, but something smells funny.
...is the name of a documentary that Brett Cook-Dizney shared with me. It blew my mind. It is the true story of the people of Bougainville, an island off the coast of Papua New Guinea in the South Pacific not far from Australia. They had been exploited by various colonial powers and then by a mining company in the 1960s, and their sovereignty was given to Papua New Guinea. The massive mines laid waste to one of the richest parts of the island. The people struck back, driving the mine company off the island, and staving off the larger, better funded Papua New Guinea Defense Forces and surviving a siege by naval blockade.
But this revolutionary army is not just a fighting force. You see pictures of all sorts of crazy resourcefulness, discipline, singing, industrial design, permaculture, spirituality,hydroelectricity, biofuels. It is all integrated in a new revolutionary society. And the leaders of the group seem to be conscious of this. They are grateful that the blockade for making them use the opportunity to develop ways of self sufficiency that are brand new and brilliant.
I want to find out more.
This (March 15) marks the day of the murder of Julius Caesar. I always wondered what ides are, and thanks to the internet, I found out quickly.
Yesterday was a rainy day in Austin. I went to Zilker Park, in the drizzle. It is a massive park that hugs part of Town Lake (aka Lower Colorado River) and a tributary creek. Despite the waves of drizzle, Austinites were out, walking, running, biking, playing frisbee and soccer.
Just down the road is the Botanical Garden. I went straight to the "Oriental Garden" (will someone please tell me if this is not PC...that's what they called it there), and ended up under a tree by a small, shallow pond looking at dozens of orange carp swimming by. It was very calming for the nerves, which have been tested by my recent circumstances.
Later in the evening, Celeste had some interesting people over--Miguel Alvarez and Romeo Navaroo and Bboy City people. It was a chill evening, just eating good food (Celeste's spring rolls with peanut sauce), good music, sangría and chocolate blunts.
Hopefully Antibalas will make it down here soon and we can do something with the bboys, who are world-class dancers.
Before crashing, I watched a documentary called Split Decision (Decision Dividida) about a local boxer named Jesus Chavez (came to Chicago at age 7) who was at one point deported to Mexico for a crime that he had committed while a minor. He was barred for several months from fighting in the US, including proposed world champion featherweight matches, for which he was top contender. I don't care too much about boxing, but I really had to admire Jesus' dedication and discipline, and also his patience and willingness to make the most out of any situation, be it jail, deportation, and long periods of limbo dealing with bureaucracy.
That's all for now. It is threatening to rain this afternoon, but I'm out for some fresh air.
Hopefully tomorrow night I'll be on the road back to NYC.
Austin is a beautiful place. There is a lake in the middle of the city (actually a dammed part of the Lower Colorado River).
There is good Mexican food everywhere.
It is mid-February and the sun was hitting my shoulders as I walked around in a white tank top.
Adrian and Celeste are taking good care of us here. Last night they showed us a tape of bboys from Texas--some of the most incredible breakdancing I've ever seen.
Hard to believe GWB was running the show a few blocks away from here for so long.
Give thanks.
even down here, where time moves slower and nothing seems to change, the days are flying by. in 11 days or so I will be heading back to New York, back to the winter, back to the concrete, back to the empire, back to lots of friends and family.
alejandro and i were driving into town today, remarking on how cool it was that our neighbor refused to accept any payment or even gasoline for an hour's work with his chainsaw. "la gente de aqui son tienen menos presiones" People here have fewer pressures. That is why everyone is so nice... Nobody has to hustle each other for a piece of land, to worry about rent, etc. Yes, there are worries about basic needs, plus the anxieties caused by watching too much tv, but besides the two small grocery stores in town, there is nowhere to shop, and I have concluded that thatis a very good thing.
driving only twenty minutes into a larger, urbanish area, the vibe does change. there are still friendly people here, but the pressures are palpable, as is the dust and smoke from the highway and trash fires. the ideal size for a town lies somewhere in between.
to all the readers:
my apologies for the lack of new photos. the internet service here is very slow. it took me 15 minutes just to open up my hotmail inbox. we have been taking lots of snaps which will be uploaded soon.
on the plus side,
three different people have dropped by to share the local michoacan cannabis flavor with us over the past few days...probably three or four ounces in total (that is a new york street value of around 1600 dollars for those who care to calculate)
being able to smoke something that is an everyday plant instead of a commodity changes everything.
my neighbors hadn't heard of fruit dehydration so i built a screen and we are going to try drying out some papaya later on today...perhaps some tomatoes, too.
thousands of pounds of fruit go to waste because there is simply too much, and it gets too ripe before it gets to market.
time to dry...
Little had changed since I left. All the kids are about six inches taller. A few people have really cool outdoor bread ovens...and when I came up the hill to my house expecting to see the yard overgrown with vines, it was all pretty clean, with little piles of burning leaves.
My neighbors had taken machetes to it and straighten up for me in the yard. They are the best neighbors in the world.
When we opened up the cabin, there were over 10 separate wasp nests. Lino, one of my neighbors, helped us take them down. He stood on a chair, can of beer in one hand and a cup of gasoline in the other, throwing gas at the nests, and cursing the dead wasps as they fell limp to the floor.
Then he brought us a huge branch of mota from a small crop that he had planted in the rainy season.
The next day we were treated to four papayas and all the grapefruits we could carry from the fruit-heavy trees in his backyard.
The above is the title of an amazing encylopedia written by Richard Evans Schultes, head of Ethnobotany at Harvard, and Albert Hoffmann, chemist and discoverer of LSD. It has been one of my most treasured books since I found the hardcover version in Spanish in Cuernavaca a few years ago.
So a few days ago Alejandro and I went deep into the desert to camp for a day and find, cut, and eat peyote cactus.
It was my first time eating the cactus in its natural environment. I had eaten it once before in Mexico City, in the hills on the south side of the city beyond Xochimilco, in an area just beginning to suffer from the crazy urban "development."
We had hiked for a while trying to find the path to Cascabel, a small clearing where Ale and Don Luis (a local sage who taught Ale and other friends from Mexico City how to find and cut peyote). We found the path and began walking, until we reached a waist high stone wall. As soon as I opened my mouth to ask Ale a question about the peyote, I looked down, and at the bottom of the shrub was a small, Oreo cookie (pardon the reference to junk food)-sized greenish gray disc, lying flush with the ground. I was sure it was peyote, and hollered to Ale to come look. "Si, es hikuli."
I wanted to cut it right there and then, but he assured me there would be plenty more where we were going. He pulled a branch of the shrub aside, and there was another peyote, about the same size.
We continued walking, and found Cascabel, a small flat clearing with a fire pit and a 12 foot high tree--the only one of its kind that I saw, to give us shade. We pitched a tent and put our sleeping bags in and went to gather firewood--mostly branches and dried whole lechugillas--cactuses which look sort of like aloe vera plants but much tougher and prickly, with a dense root system that when dry makes for good firewood. We came back with our loads of firewood, each eating a button of peyote along with some lemon to cut the strong taste, and went out for more firewood.
While it was still light, we started the fire, and the peyote began to settle in.
more to come...
Malaria
honor the moment in
honoring the vastness of time
the whims of fortune
honor the moment
with open ears
open eyes
and an open heart
smell the moment
taste the moment
connect each moment to the strand of moments
in your life
beginning on earth
at the moment of your birth
but really dipping in and out of bodies
like a dolphin
leaping up out of the water, floating beautiful above the surface
die-ving back out of sight of the naked eye
into the depths of another world
the dolphins flight, a series of moments
in one continuous arc of grace
rising, peaking, falling
and never hesitating
never looking back
or side to side
never worrying about what the other dolphins would say
grace is effortless
concentration
undisturbed by
earthly arrows
immune to mosquitos of form and feeling
the mosquitons spoil
each moment with an itch
so we spend more time scratching
than living
more time covering our scabs with fresh bandages
honor the moment cultivate immunity to the malaria of the spirit.
the malaria that keeps us sick our whole lives
unable to experience joy
ecstasy
growth
as we lie bed-ridden
in jobs and situations
that keep us inside the hospital room
looking out the window
at the children playing outside
malaria is an epidemic
of which nearly all of us are touched
some consumed
some periodically
like a cough
or weekend fever
but each of us
holds within ourselves the cure
each of us can learn
to honor the moment
When I tell people what I am doing, I see there eyes light up and at the same time an expression on their face forming like "This is too good to be true." If it were possible we'd be doing it already.
There are pioneers doing non-toxic, earth-friendly architecture, fuels, transportation, health care, etc., as well as ancient methods, but there are too many industrialists who have suppressed these techniques.
It is up to each of us to be models of new technology and new models of self-sufficiency.
We can start small, perhaps just by crocheting a scarf instead of buying one, or sprouting some beans or seeds in a jar in our kitchen instead of buying chemical-sprayed veggies that come from 4000 miles away.
Everything is important.
to my mother
to the rest of my family for helping me and supporting me in numerous ways
to my godmother for helping me work out all the metaphysical details of the trip.
to my friends in New York who have contributed with their enthusiasm, support, and love to make this all possible.
to my ancestors and to other spirits who have my back at all times
Thank you!
it's now 6:40 am. i decided to spend another night here rather than leaving in the PM. I'm a little better off for it...more rest, a little more time to spend tightening everything up. It's a lot easier to do certain things from home than from on the road, like make silly entries like this and get travel insurance over the internet.
the prayer calls from the mosque are about the only sounds I heard, along with the occasional bus grinding down Fulton St.
in a few days it will be roosters crowing in the dawn.
The car ready to go in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn
this is what I look like sometimes
