andy bondi
I am a prisoner in Van Gogh’s bedroom
perhaps living in all 3
together
not knowing which room
I am in
I lie in the orange bed
in an altered state
happy in the color
confused by the color
I am only waiting
perhaps waiting to leave
the color
but not sure that I can
walk on these variegated floors
not yet
established in unswerving rest
A green window
opague
slightly ajar
perhaps I can open
the green window
peer out
of Van Gogh’s bedroom
or leave forever
through the blue door
We drove into Brussels about an hour before dark. Sally was consulting “Europe on $5 A Day” looking for hotels under the label “cheap”. “If we go straight here, then turn left, turn right, we will be in the “cheap” hotel district”.
I went straight, turned left, turned right, and there we were. Several hotels lined the street on both sides. We parked and walked to stretch our legs. A small town square was at the intersection of several streets. There were no bombed out buildings, no US military rampaging. There was a sense of peace though, a quiet that we wanted, a quiet that we needed. It was like the sound of the world had been turned off. The people of Brussels walked these streets, mingled in the town square, with the sound off.
As we walked, holding hands, Sally said, “I need a nap. Let’s find that cheap hotel”.
There were many hotels in block of buildings near the square. They all looked the same. Storefront window, narrow street entrance door, brown brick exterior. We checked in, carried our luggage up 2 flights of wooden stairs, went into our room, laid down, and went into a deep, recuperative sleep. The sound turned off.
The sound seemed to still be turned off we went down to the street after our nap. We walked into the square where people gathered to chat, feed the pigeons, generally lounge. We were invisible in the square. Or perhaps just another couple strolling as the day turned to night.
We were hungry so we looked for a restaurant. Next to our hotel there was a neon sign in a store front window in 3 languages- Moules, Muscheln,Mussels. Mussels in Brussels.
We walked through the door of the Mussels restaurant and the sound turned on. It was full of diners of every type. Working people, men and women in business attire, people sitting alone, people in groups. Classical music played softly and was mostly drowned out by the sound of clinking glasses, the clatter bussing of tables, and the chatter of the patrons and wait staff.
We were seated by a host in a white shirt and black apron. A waiter came up to us quickly as we looked at the menu and we asked in English what was recommended. He said, “Mussels in red sauce, our house bread, and our house salad.” He spoke English. Of course, we were in Europe. The land of multilinguals.
We both looked at the waiter and said, “Okay”.
Our dinner arrived. Muscles and pasta first. Just as we began eating an older women entered the restaurant. For a moment the restaurant quieted as the patrons watched her entrance. She was dressed like an aging, yet still glamourous, Hollywood actress, in a sequined green dress with white fur collar. The green dress bulged a little in places it likely fit perfectly 40 years ago. She stopped just inside the restaurant door as if she was waiting for applause. None came. Her face was made up with pancake makeup and her lipstick was ruby red and slightly wide of her lips. She had a large white bulldog on a leash. The bulldog was tranquil as the restaurant host and a waiter walked up to her together. The host took her arm and guided her to what must have been her normal table.
The older woman was seated with a flare as another waiter immediately arrived with a bottle of white wine, a glass, and a basket filled with a sliced baguette. The waiter stood next to her, slightly behind, and out of her field of vision. She ignored the dinner crowd. The white bulldog settled under the table and promptly fell asleep. Wisps of quiet snoring leaked into the room.
This was and orchestrated and well practiced event. The soup arrived, the waiter whispering something to the grand lady. The waiter departed. Another arrived 15 minutes later with the fish. A new bottle of wine was produced and poured. Then cheese with another wine. The bulldog snored.
Sally looked at me, “She must be an actress or a faded society person. She does put on a good show, but I’m tired. Let’s pay and go.”
We walked out into the street. Night had settled in. But it was not dark. We walked a little, hand in hand. Down the street, in the direction of the square, the store front windows were glowing with red light. We walked a little way and wondered. In every window a young women sat in a chair, legs crossed, wearing lingerie. Some were smoking, some reading, some doing both. The sound was still off in the red glow of the street. We turned into our hotel, past its storefront red light, and walked up the stairs to our room. The day of quiet was over.
Rusty hinge
The door appears locked
Hummingbirds gather
as if to watch
I walk through
the breath of their wings
I push open the locked door
effortlessly
In the dim light
in a corner of the dim light
a small chest
Ernesto 1929 inscribed
I run my fingers through dust
covering the chest
making tracks tracks in dust
A low round table
2 broken chairs
a coffee grinder
2 people could sit
share
Perhaps my grandfather
was here
Ernesto inscribed
In a far corner
in the dim light
a mirror
I clean the mirror
with my sleeve
I see myself as
dust is cast up
up into old dreams
A door easily opened
perhaps by hummingbirds
a table chairs
a mirror
Ernesto inscribed
O take me back
to all that I have forgotten
reposted from Baja Report blog 1/9/2013
So you are hanging out in your house in El Norte, the heat is turned down to 60 as you are really getting tired of the $500 utility bill at your suburban home in the beautiful Rancho Rolling Hills of Tuscany. From under your REI, gortex sandwich, Shetland Wool blanket, where you and your beloved are reading the latest Vampire Trilogy with your trusty Maglite flashlight, you poke your head out and look up at your constellation glow-in-the-dark ceiling. You wonder if there any annoying Vermin in Baja. You hope not, as you are longing for a golfing, surfing, romantic, drunken, WARM vacation in Area Sur. And you are afraid of bugs, snakes, mice, rats, lizards, scorpions, and such. This has been a long-term problem for you ever since your mom let you watch Deadly Mantis, Black Scorpion, and the Fly in one night on Turner Classics “Bugfest”. You couldn’t go to school for 2 days after that one. Had to detox with 4 teddy bears cuddling in bed. Bug flu.
But you forget about your fears and book the trip. iPad, flashlight, done. You turn the heat down to just above freezing; put the dog in a kennel, and GOOMBYE EL NORTE. Don’t email me I’ll email you.
You and your beloved land in Cabo. You love Cabo, the food, the golf, parachute rides behind a ski boat in the blue bay, the giant Sombreros with attachable beer bongs in this perfect holster thingee. You spend a few days of revelry in the sun and sin capital of Baja. You have conquered the waiters at the Giggling Marlin by throwing up on their shoes. 10 straight shots of mescal, BAH, child’s play. You have played the perfect round of golf. 18 holes of triple Bogie. You did the parachute ride, no biggee. But enough fun is enough fun(read you really need some sleep). Plus the Greens Fees are getting to you. SO it is time for a road trip to Pescadero, 45 miles north of Cabo. A little time in the country. Continue reading “Cockroach Samarai”
We were sitting on the steps of the small gasthaus, chatting with the owner Leonie. Sal and I had just told Leonie our story of the night before.
“Bitte, verstehen. (Please understand). Ve like the soldaten.” Leonie insisted on speaking English with us. She wouldn’t let me speak German. Leonie wanted to practice speaking and listening.
“You like the American military? They seem a little rough and rude to us. And violent.”
“Ja, bitte vertehe, in Europa we are sleeping mit ein bear. Ve never know the bear roll over on us. With tanks. We are happy mit dem US militar. They have many tanks und vill protect us from der Russischer Bär. Ve don wan Prague spring in Deutchland.”
“Ja Ich vestehe.” Time to move on. “Do you find English helpful in the gasthaus?”
Oh ja, I spreche English with the US militar soldaten und they buy more beer in the bar. Oh ja, I like English. Und Ich talk with, uh, drogenleutedat, that stay in das hotel.”
Sally squinted at Leonie, “Drug dealers?”
“Ve like them too. More than Amerikanishe Soldaten. Sometimes they leave in mitte das night in a grosse hurry. Und forget their money. Sometimes a lot of money. They don’t come back so we get das gelt. Das drogengelt helps mit das overhead.”
Amerikanishe Soldaten, the bear, drug dealers and overhead. Our heads were spinning. So Sal changed the subject.
“Leonie, can we ask you for some help with something?”
“Ja, bitte.”
“We need to buy a car. An inexpensive car. To drive to England to see my sister. Do you know of anyone that has a car for sale?”
“Ja, Ich do. Meine father, Herr Pilot Hugo. Er war in der Luftwaffe. Er has ein Taunus. In Amerikanish it a German Ford.”
reposted from the Baja Report blog 1/12/2016
A long time ago, perhaps as much as 40,000 years, a lone grey wolf entered into the light of the fire ring of the human family. This wolf was less afraid than other members of the pack. Or perhaps it was very hungry. That first family had always been afraid of wolves. They are wild animals. But this time it was different. The human fear of the wolf and the fear that the wolf felt was a little less than before. The wolf found a scrap of food and ran from the light of the fire ring. The humans did not give chase.
The next night the grey wolf came back. Maybe it stayed a little longer, maybe it had a companion. Later somewhere in the well of time that wolf became the camp dog. Then it became camp dogs. Everything for the human family changed. A symbiotic relationship unlike any other in human experience became a part of daily life. Man began to rely on the dog for protection, comfort, warmth, companionship. The dog relied on humankind for food, protection, comfort, warmth, companionship. The human family became the parent of a former wild animal.
When we first came to Baja 25 years ago the descendants of that first dog were often the 3rd class citizens of Todos Santos and Pescadero. The local population was mostly very poor. And, as in poor third world or developing countries everywhere, the dogs had to struggle for food and care. They were on the outside looking in and often stranded in loneliness and illness.
On our first trip to Baja we were walking through a palm forest. A medium size black dog was following us. We would stop, he would stop. We looked at each other, wondering. We wondered about the dogs health, whether he was eating regularly, if he had a family.
The dog looked at us with a type of hopefulness. We could not return that gaze. We couldn’t respond at that time as we were new to the area, didn’t know what would be appropriate, didn’t have the time or circumstance to reach out.
Over the years everything has changed for the local dogs. Groups have formed to help dogs in distress. A retired women who settled here opened a refuge for dogs, providing shelter and medical care for rescued dogs, as well as adoption services. A young couple developed rescuing dogs as a way of life. Free spay and neuter clinics have been set up a few time per year to help reign in over breeding that results in an increase of at-risk dogs.
Today we see fewer dogs that are in very poor shape in the 2 towns nearby. Usually they are picked up by one of our many caring neighbors that live here and in other Gringo neighborhoods. They receive medical attention and are brought back to health in a loving environment. Often they are adopted by the rescuing families or a neighbor. They also find homes through a pipeline of dog adoptions from Baja to both the U S and Canada.
Sally and I have found and brought to health several dogs over the years. Our dog Mari is one. Nine years ago she followed us home from a beach walk. Apparently abandoned and very thin but not ill she became ours in 1 day. Two of our rescues were so ill they did not survive but spent their last days in comfort and in companionship with other dogs and people at the refuge. The others we have adopted out. These are dogs that have always given more than they get.
Rescuing a Baja dog is a type of alchemy. The alchemists of history attempted to change lead to gold. The process was both a physical process and a ritual of personal change. When a rescued dog experiences healing in the company of humans the rescue families go through that same experience. We hope the dog gets better, that it is allowed to reenter the fire ring of the human family and become the dog it was meant to be. As this happens we become the people that we are meant to be. We become the healers that are healed by the dogs of love.
A story of the 4 Juan’s plus 1
Off the coast of Southern Baja, about 50 miles north of Cabo San Lucas, the Espiritu de Jesus fished the waters of the Pacific for shrimp. By day she moored out to sea about 1 mile, straight out from the little town of Pescadero. By night her crew ran Espiritu de Jesus up and down the coast several miles, dropping the big shrimp trawls into the sea to catch their livelihood. She usually worked and moored near the shrimp boat La Rana (The Frog) named for its green paint. La Rana was owned and operated by Capitan Gonzales, a man of many years fishing.
She was called by her crew Espiritu. The crew was made up of the 5 Juans. Juan Barragon was El Capitan. The other 4 Juans were identified by their positions: Primier Oficial ( Mate) , Apprendiz Oficial (2nd mate), Cocinar (Cook) and Mecanico (Mechanic). These designations were too much to utter for the crew under normal circumstances. So they had adopted a numerical system. The Mate was Dos, the 2nd mate was Tres, the Cook was Cuatro, the Mechanic was Cinco. There was no Uno, as El Capitan wished to remain unnumbered. Whether called by Juan, their official, ocean going titles, or their numerical designations of convenience, they were all Pescadoros (Fisheremen). And they all called El Capitain Malvado (Evil).
El Capitan loved this name. It was his ambition to earn it for his whole life. He had wanted to legally change his last name from Barragon to Malvado but his mother, La Mala (Bad News), the only person in his life of whom he was afraid, forbid the change. She would not have him dishonor the dead from whom the name Barragon had descended. La Mala also told him she would kill him if he changed his name. He thought this was a little strong, but he did not push the point. He had learned that La Mala would always get her way. He also remembered that his father had disappeared many years ago without a trace. And the worst part for him was that Espiritu belonged to his mother. So he settled for the nick name Malvado. Evil. He often thought to himself that if he lived in an English speaking country they would call him Johnny Evil. That name alone could make him rich. In Mexico it merely served define him in his own mind.
Malvado had admired evil wherever he saw it and sought to copy it. As a child his mother read to him about pirates in children’s books. He could never forget the pictures of El Capitan Pirate forcing an enemy to walk the plank. He regretted that he could not do the same, or at least use a cat of 9 tails on occasion when Cuatro served a burned Mole. Unfortunately he had to settle for verbal abuse. He so enjoyed yelling at the crew, calling them names, reviling their ancestors, mothers, sisters, and pets. But he felt a lack. He was unfulfilled. Merely yelling and cussing was small time evil. Even when he added a violent waving of the arms it did not satisfy. But it was all he had. So he tried to enjoy it as much as possible. Continue reading “Espiritu de Jesus”
Juan Rogelio was born to the fields. His life was measured by planting, hoeing, harvesting. As he grew up he was happy in the fields. But he was much happier once he had his own small farm. It wasn’t much, but his uncle had left him enough land to live, to grow food, to tend animals, to sell some of what he raised to pay the taxes and raise his family. It was a life of hard work. But a good life.
One day Juan Rogelio went into his house after checking the fields in the pre-dawn light. He said to his wife, Renata, “We have a pig.”
“We do not have a pig,” replied Renata.
“ Well, yes, we do not own a pig, though I have dreamed of owning a pig many times. We have a visiting pig. It visited our watermelons last night and ate many.” Juan Rogelio was upset. He cherished his watermelons and they were a good cash crop.
Renata was also concerned, “What will you do about this pig?” she asked her husband.
Juan Rogelio stood up straight, looked Renata in the eyes, and said, “I will catch this pig. We will then have a pig and also save the watermelons.”
A young girl
perhaps no more than 14 her auburn hair
in braids down her back
paddles a blue kayak
on the slack green river
She has no destination
the kayak half drifting
half directed
in small circles
in a slow river eddy
The kayak stops moving
The young girl is waiting looking
A blue heron
across the river
draws her attention
for a moment
The girl is not a madonna
or a girl with a pearl earring
She is rather a young girl
perhaps 14 auburn hair
in braids down her back
paddling a blue kayak
Frank’s father was a fallen away Seventh Day Adventist. His mother a fallen away Baptist. Instead of spending their lives in healthy pursuits and church functions, Franks parents loved to party. His mother, who did not work except at fun, would have a martini at lunch and then golf. His father, an insurance executive, would have 2 martinis at lunch and then golf with clients. Frank’s parents loved this life style so much that, when Frank was 8, they moved the family to Las Vegas. Party time.
Somehow Frank fell far from the tree. In fact, he seemed to inherit all the guilt his parents might have had if they were not so busy having a ball. Frank wanted to do the right thing. He pressed his own pants for school, studied hard and got straight A’s, kept a neat room with no posters of Led Zeppelin or Frank Zappa on the walls, and generally lived the straight and level. He even joined the Boy Scouts in the mistaken idea that it would be a haven of good behavior. His parents didn’t notice. They were too busy with the community theater production of Bye, Bye, Birdie.
By the time Frank was 15 he was a full blown obsessive compulsive. He went to college and studied chemistry in a perfectly clean dorm room with thick insulation glued to the walls to keep the bad noises out and 3 locks on the door the keep the bad people out. Frank graduated with honors, went to work in the food hygiene business, and lived a life busy with keeping things tidy. Eventually he started his own business, became very successful and lived in an antiseptic modern house with a lot of hard surfaces.
Eventually Frank married Samantha, a fallen away Catholic. He had fallen in love with her because she was, “A handsome woman.” She loved him for his organizational skills and his courteous ways. They lived in a semblance of order and domestic success for many years. But as time passed things changed for Frank. His exceedingly temperate and hygienic life style began to irk Samantha. As a former Catholic High School girl she loved to party, travel, spend time in the woods and the beach, and then party some more. Frank liked to keep things clean and keep his top button buttoned. He wore a tie every day including Sunday while Samantha ran around the house wearing only a smile.
One day Samantha said, “Frank, I am leaving you. You are just no fun.”