Bosnian Rainbows: A Los Angeles Experience

Bosnian Rainbows: Blasts from the Past and Scaffolds of the Future, A Los Angeles Experience

by Armando Ortiz

“Perhaps when you watch all your dream lovers die

You’ll decide that you need a real one.” – Townes Van Zandt

Bosnian Rainbows

            A few days ago I went to see the Bosnian Rainbows perform at the First Unitarian Church, which is located on 8^th Street, a few hundred feet east of Vermont Avenue; it was the first time in many years that I’d walked down Vermont let alone 8^th. The band is made up of Omar Rodriguez Lopez, guitarist and overall excellent artist, Deantoni Parks, avant-garde drummer, Teresa Suarez a.k.a Teri Gender Bender, vocalist and performer, and keyboardist Nicci Kasper. Before that I had been waiting for my friend at the corner of Wilshire and Vermont, a major transit point in the city, sitting on one of the benches while reading Bolano’s The Third Reich. On this intersection there is now a subway stop and I can no longer see what it is that was here at this crossroads a few years back. In the past I’ve waited for friends by stations like this one, but outside of Los Angeles in other countries, so I did not think much of the experience. Nonetheless, sitting on one of the benches near the exit I got to see the flow of people; all kinds bodies coming and going, resembling the flow of an airport runway and a conveyor belt of suitcases being loaded and unloaded that were students, daily workers and quasi professionals, all under different hues of skin and wearing different kinds of clothing exiting and entering the underground station. Finally, my friend, Scott, arrived and we walked to the venue. As we made our way there we discussed Lev Vygotsky’s Thought and Language, with him explaining how author argued that language, in a sense, makes us conform to certain boundaries, and identified the difference between teaching, instructing, and learning from experience, yet as we moved toward our destination, I could not help to recall the many times I had walked through this part of Los Angeles, but many years ago, as a child. Hoover Elementary school is only a few blocks away, and as I reached my destination I also remembered walking with my uncle around this area, and looking for a wedding ceremony that he had been invited to attend, and was immediately transported to that day where we aimlessly walked around trying to find the address, it seemed like a distant dream, since these days we use GPS. As we were about to make a left on 8^th street my memories took me back to the day I bought a Chuck Norris action figure from a small toy store that was down the street, and I also recalled how I’d walk back to my house every day after-school. The duplex where we lived was located on Berendo Street off of Olympic Boulevard.

First Unitarian Church, Los Angeles

            Today the streets were lined by a caravan of parked cars, and the movement was unusually heavy for being Los Angeles. Though, in contrast to the past the traffic hustle and bustle of people was significantly more, though not a new thing for this particular area of the city. Across the street from where I waited for my friend the massive steel scaffolds surrounded the metal infrastructure that in a few months will become luxury apartments for the new urban people that will quickly fill the empty rooms and walk on its marble courtyards. The residents that once called this district will most likely be displaced in the coming years, due to the rising costs of living in the city. The church, had a tall four sided tower that pointed to the sky and iron gates at the entrance that quickly let the people that were waiting in line. I doubt there ever was a line of church goes waiting to go inside to hear the sermon, but life is strange. As we entered we saw the beer garden that was located on the brick tiled courtyard, the sun’s lingering light was slowly disappearing, the sky was now a faint yellow and the flood lights were slowly beginning to emanate their electric white glow.

            I had once gone to a church that had been converted into a club in Shanghai, China, but I’d never been to church to see a rock band, so this was a new experience. Like any typical Sunday service, you had the early arrivals, the dedicated people who get to sit close to the stage, and get to choose the right spot where they will be able to see everything that is going on the platform at their preferred angle, taking me back to the days when I’d arrive to church and see the early arrivals kneeling on the ground with their elbows resting on the red upholstered benches, while others were reaching to the sky like baby hoping to get picked up by a loved one. They were praying for something, maybe for some type of relief or a request, but we were there to get good seats and have a good listening spot. Soon the lights dimmed and Sister Crayon, the first band, began their performance and gave an excellent show.

Kali

As soon as the opening band was done, the stage lights began turning purple and the shadows neon green.  Standing there and checking out the band one went from being in a live music performance to drifting from a Sunday sermon into an opera experience of the netherworld. Teresa Suarez's dance resembled Kali, with movements that mimicked the ancient deity that destroys all men, making you wonder where she had come from, definitively an outer space being possessed her body. The wails that emanated from her larynx became calls to the other world and opened up the gates to the gods of old. I thought, what if there was reincarnation, and we returned to this earth, and then remembered the words Marcus Aurelius saying that the good thing about life is that we only have one, all of us have one life and that is it, and again I wondered, what if we had to return to this world as a punishment, like Juan Rulfo’s Pedro Paramo, who returns only to live in a world of personal nightmares and into a place where everyone was a not allowed to enter the gates of heaven. The image of the mountain people coming down to the village and selling their trinkets amidst the rain and cool weather immediately came to mind and at that point a high pitch holler resonated with me and I was there, with the lights flooding the stage and the audience, purple everywhere, with shadows of green. Then a mental image came to life and I saw a series of wooden crosses in the middle of the desert matching the still life photography of Rulfo.

Juan Rulfo Photography

            A particular song of theirs, “Morning Sickness,” made me think of the people we meet and wondered if we ever mutually think of each other at any time of the day. Relationships come to an end and there is always an aspect about a person that though not present is still within our memories and within our psyche. She might no longer be next to you or beside you when you wake up but the faint traces of her smell still lingers. Sometimes though, we think a connection has been made, maybe we are stuck reliving a Garcia Marquez short story, where we only meet our lovers in dreams and wake up to a world of solitude. We might in fact be more selective with the people we choose to remember and the type of outlooks that they might have of the world. Still the very thought that to another person we might not have been adequate or perhaps someone in our life was not able to fill a space in our long term memory might be more telling of the things we find to have value. True beauty, in this sense, is like our memories, selective of the things we wish or have no choice but to recall. As this carousel of thoughts and memories went round and round my mind I returned to my temporal moment, and took a sip of beer. The ceiling was high enough that wails seemed to reach the skies. The haunting cries of a distant love and of a birth untold that yearns to grab hold of something tangible was my impression of the voice that performed on stage. Soon the roof disappeared and all one could see was a collection of stars in the middle of a forest of thoughts, and for a moment the distant galaxy that’s closest to earth came into focus. In between this musical ceremony, we took swigs of our beer, and the rhythmic, and hypnotic dance of the guitar and the base became an old ritual dance that included a synthesizer, and yet I was there in a spot that I had been and walked by many years ago, listening to a band that I’d wanted to see live since the first news of their visit to Los Angeles. Bosnian Rainbows momentarily transported everyone to a world of music, universal sound waves and merged with the resonance of the planets. It was a good show indeed.

Joshua Memorial Park: Poem

Joshua Memorial Park

by Armando Ortiz

In September, the high desert is an oven,

with plastic flowers and visitors,

that can’t silence the laughing crows,

perching on green pine trees.

The last time I saw you,

death had already taken your lungs,

but now artificial carnations wont wither,

and stand straight against the sun.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Fifteen): D.A.R.E. to Save Each Other

Part 15: D.A.R.E. to Save Each Other

By Armando Ortiz

About three of us almost broke down that day. It might have been four, but I can’t exactly remember. Mariela was the one that actually shed a few tears, but they dried before streaking all the way down her cheek. We had finally graduated from the D.A.R.E. program. None of us in the class had signed up to take the bi-monthly class. The officers came and talked about their experiences in the field and the dangers of drugs. I knew drugs were bad, heck, these eyes had seen people smoke crack, and observed crackheads go at it on the sidewalk of our neighborhood, but could not conceptualize drugs in a family or my life. The cop wore a deep blue uniform, and her long hair was kept in a bun. She was Hispanic, with light brown skin and green eyes, which made you think of Veronica Castro every time she visited our class. Her last name was Garcia. Officer Garcia would stand in front of the classroom and talk about life as a public officer and give us many reasons why not to turn to illegal substances.

After the program was over we were going to get awarded a black T-shirt that had the acronym D.A.R.E. emblazoned across the front of the shirt, with bright red letters. If you wanted a shirt and if you wanted to complete the program you had to give a speech/pledge about never touching drugs. Well, the day came and all of us had to go up to the front of the class and each had to promise to never do drugs and explain the dangers of drugs. Two classmates whom I rarely spoke with standout from that day. The first said that he would never do drugs, because drugs could kill people, but before he could complete the word “kill,” he jerked a bit and his face, especially around the eyes wrinkled up. He had dirty blond hair, and his parents were from El Salvador. He liked eating cheese pupusas and his favorite sport was kickball. He was one of the best in our class. The next up was Evelyn. She went up there and stood tall.

“I will never do drugs because drugs hurt your body, and my mother’s cry,” right after she said “my,” she looked at the audience, which was about 25 six graders, who were all too familiar, but now she looked lost, like a deer that was about to get slammed by a car.

She had a desperate look, and those hazel eyes looked side to side after she completed her first statement going on to say, and with a slow tone, “Drugs were dangerous because it hurts family and make grandparents cry.”

Evelyn was from Guatemala, from the highlands of Quetzaltenango, and a bit shorter than the rest of the students, but was smart, witty and always full of smiles. She would tell jokes to make us laugh, but on that day those marble eyes glazed up and got unusually watery, and suddenly turned completely black. After completing her speech she managed to get back to the seat, not one tear fell. Only sniffing once or twice, but we convinced ourselves that it was probably some type of cold that she had suddenly acquired.

It was my turn. I had not given this activity much thought. We had been told weeks prior about this mini-ceremony and that we’d get some T-shirts but we would have to make a pledge. So, the time for me to go up came, “I promise to never do drugs.” I began to choke up, but continued with my talk.

Other students, who made up the crowd, just saw the image of their classmate in the flesh. He promised never to do drugs and to not do bad things, like get drunk because it made the family unhappy. Though it didn’t seem like he choked up, and no one noticed his eyes glaze up. At that instant the cop tilted her head and wondered. Though her body posture had changed a bit she was too preoccupied in fulfilling her duties to really pay attention to what was going on or maybe she was observing.

At that moment as he gave that speech the class before him was silent and appeared motionless. Ms. Hopkins, to the right, was silent and heard our pledge. She wore a white Adidas sweater, and light blue Adidas running shoes. She sat on her desk and took notes. The class was still there, silently listening to all the other classmates go up.  No one really knew what the other was experiencing or going through. We were all inside that shoebox of a room, in the maze of our minds, and the momentary experience of being social, and yet though we were all there, none of us really knew each other or our very selves. Too many things were happening to really comprehend the gravity of life and all its consequences. We were all forced into that situation, as speakers, audience, and public servants, and yet none of us could really protect the other from themselves or their temporal realities. At that instant the handcuffs of the police officer were made obsolete, her gun was powerless, the ears of the audience were blind, and their eyes dumb to the sounds that the children saw in their homes, and the strange and incomprehensible situations that would continue to occur.

That Same River: Poem/Sonnet

That same river

by Armando Ortiz

By the river we shed tears

Reliving age old battles

As the fallen floated by like withered flowers

On the streams we were born with screams of lorn;

Into the flow of time, bloodied, we were thrown-

With her we fell in love, and her milk we yearn

Into the rapids of vice we were swallowed

Hoping to drown the sorrow with handmade gallows

Only to open our eyes to the white garble of life’s desire

The currents are ceaseless, and relentlessly ever present.

The Intercept of Land and Ocean: A Sonnet

The Intercept of Land and Ocean

by Armando Ortiz

Look at the ocean, close your eyes, and see the sounds of midnight;

Waves crash and come alive with the phosphorus glow of magic,

Sit on the sand and feel it adjust like a mattress that offers a starry delight,

Grains, though many, make up a bed of golden feathers found inside heaven’s attic,

Dreams, though never known, come alive with holy heart felt rite,

And play with the words of soul and sole and stroll on the tattered valleys;

Walk in darkness with ease and sleep with the light of sun, lacking fright

Swinging the cane of Cain and carrying on shoulders Sisyphus’ chain

Lying at the edge of the ocean pondering the unseen noises of morrow

And after traversing through unknown lands and pondering the deepest thoughts

Attempting to grasp the complex instances of gesture and words of sorrow

Like Poe we ask ourselves as our eyes look west, and the mind thinks to be; is a dream within a dream.

The Scent of Orange

The Scent of Orange

by Armando Ortiz

Today I remembered those white hands, as I cut these oranges in half. The scent felt like touching fine silk.

You’d wake up in the morning with my hand tracing the contours of your thighs and we made fresh squeezed orange juice. The transparent yellow pulp would float to the top of the glass.

I also remembered the endless rows of orange groves that were hidden from view, off the highway.

My family would drive to Lake Piru and stop the car beside the road and everyone’d get off to pick a few oranges and fill a couple of market bags while cars zoomed bye and paid no heed to the city people that were picking fruit.

A lot of things are hidden from view these days, like your voice, which I carry with me always, and the mornings when we’d have breakfast together on the 17th floor of the building where you lived, hidden from the people outside below.

Somehow your breath is intertwined, like a braid of hair, with earlier memories talking to me in indecipherable languages, and I get lost, like my fingers did when feeling your Hellenic curls.

I squeeze these oranges, to cool my body and absorb its vitamins. The citrus scent you had that night was sweet to the tongue. The taste still lingers.

I recall riding my bike up the Glendale Hills, with my friends, where all the homes had orange trees in their backyards, and we’d stretch our arms and grab two or three, taking them and peeling as we rested. They were sweet and full of water, just like you were that day.

So many images that a simple fruit can conjure up is amazing. What will my future memories be mixed with is a questions that is better left for the present moment I am enjoying

Turquoise and Coral

Turquoise and Coral

by Armando Ortiz

Coming into your focus is my hope,

To exist in your memories the goal

Allow me to enter your world and feel your sorrow

Let’s paint the sky a turquoise blue and shed coral tears of joy.

Let’s go inside the room of silhouettes

Where hopes reveal the path

of coral and turquoise,

The sky dangles from your ears held by silver moon light

And you carry dawn’s aura in your arms

Your eyes are embedded with coral and turquoise,

Your legs feel hot, like the desert air

we bleed sugar cane beads making corral

and turquoise mosaics on beds of bliss

Pink flesh and blue cries

The sky is born from your thighs

And you weep tiny dew drops of ecstasy

We see the true and real

Touching and groping, we traverse dark planes

we are at home with each other.

Dawn is permanently frozen in turquoise and coral