Flashing clouds, Sunset Heights, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
August 2017
Born in 1995, founded by Donna Snyder, the Tumblewords Project
is a writing workshop that occurs every Saturday at the Memorial Park
branch of the El Paso Library. Each week, a workshop leader suggests
writing prompts to the participants; the prompts usually follow a theme
the leader chooses for the session. Everyone is enthusiastically
welcomed. If you're just passing through El Paso and happen to be in
town on a Saturday afternoon, go! My related posts here.
Below are two of my poetic attempts in response to the writing prompts that one week's leader gave us. Gosh, I wish I were more meticulous about writing dates and workshop leaders in my notes. I am embarrassed at the oversight.
Outside My Window at Night Train. Two blasts. Mockingbird. Sweet syrup song. Dogs. Bark Bark Bark Bark.
I Am the Center of the Universe
I moan in the pain. A rosebush leaps from the ground to see what is happening. Which is as it should be. When I am in pain, it is about me and me and me. Clouds gather and darken and Shed angry tears and Shout epithets and shoot spears of Shocking lasers. All in alliance with me, my pain. The wind, my El Paso sister, Calls at my windows and door, Swirling and screaming and Sissing at my sorrow. The unfairness of it all! She agrees. The soil of the earth Arcs up and around in Twists of infantile fury to Show its Fealty to my woes. The stars refuse to come out at night. The moon grants only a slice of light. The sun pulls his cover over. All eclipse to Signify their Loyalty to me and my Moan.
Graffiti, mural, Tbilisi, Caucasus Georgia. May 2012.
Born in 1995, founded by Donna Snyder, the Tumblewords Project
is a writing workshop that occurs every Saturday at the Memorial Park
branch of the El Paso Library. Each week, a workshop leader suggests
writing prompts to the participants; the prompts usually follow a theme
the leader chooses for the session. Everyone is enthusiastically
welcomed. If you're just passing through El Paso and happen to be in
town on a Saturday afternoon, go! My related posts here.
Chauncey Low, a wildly talented writer in the Tumblewords Project, led the workshop one Saturday.
I can't speak for the others in our group, but for me, he cracked open a smudgy window to let me peer into a hidden room.
The underground is inviolate. It is not a street, a neighborhood or a certain city. It is a metaphysical space located where bohemia intersects with the demi-monde. Not everyone from bohemia can descend into the underground just as not everyone in the demi-monde can find their way to either bohemia or the underground.
If you do not have a functioning criminal class in your art scene you have academia and while academia is a reflection of the art world it can never be the art world.
The Lower East Side of New York used to be filled with poets, writers, actors, musicians, photographers, filmmakers, junkies, whores and weirdos. Now it's filled with college students pretending to be poets, writers, musicians, actors, photographers, filmmakers, junkies, whores and weirdos, in other words the ten most popular kids from every high school in the world are now living in downtown New York. Those are the people who most of us who ran away to New York came here to get away from! Nobody who was popular in high school can ever be hip. It's not possible. If you were popular in high school, that was your peak. Be satisfied.
Am I Mad At You?
Then there was an outrageously wicked, terrible-licious, no-boundaries poem by Vampyre Mike Kassel:
Am I mad at you? Of course I’m not mad, whatever gave you that idea? Just because I’m sitting here pushing pins Into a little wax doll With a lock of your hair in it? Just because I burned the panties you left here And buried the ashes At the crossroads at midnight? Just because I sent the nude pictures we took of you To Cattle Breeders Digest? Just because I welded the doors of your car shut?
I’m not mad, whatever gave you that idea? Just because I wrote your name and address On the men’s room wall Of every biker’s bar from here to Bakersfield? Just because I made three hundred copies Of your apartment key And handed them out To every junkie and wino in the Tenderloin? Just because I switched your birth-control pills for Ex-Lax, Spiked your shampoo with Nair, And hid an electric cattle prod inside your favorite dildo? Just because I pitchforked your mother, Got your kid sister ten-dollar tricks, And strung out your cat on speed?
No, I’m not mad. And, by the way, Have you got a dollar?
.... which Chauncey followed with his own, equally wicked version.
Then we workshop acolytes took a turn at dysfunction. Here's mine, taking a more passive-aggressive tack:
Pistachio Ice Cream
Did I remember to bring you your pistachio ice cream?
Of course, I did. Why are you using that accusatory tone? I bought it and I paid for it and I personally witnessed the cashier putting it into my reusable bag, You know the one, that lavender and green one? Oh, you've never seen that bag? Well, it's my favorite. You never notice anything I like. I put it on the passenger seat right next to me.
It was such a fine day and I rolled the windows down. And so I was driving home and I stopped at a red light. I had my favorite song on, You know the one. Oh you don't? Well that figures. All of a sudden, A hand from nowhere Reached in and took the bag!
With your pistachio ice cream in it.
The Real Me
Chauncey presented us with a poem by another contributor to the Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, Kathi Georges (now using Kat Georges). Title: The Real Me.
I am laughing at myself because The Real Me is so in-your-face (ahem) that I feel sheepish about posting it here. It startles, but then one - "one" being a woman, specifically - gets it, and says, "Yeah." At least metaphorically.
But you can read it over here, where Chicano Poet has shared it without any bashfulness.
In addition to being a poet, Kat Georges is the co-founder of an independent publishing business called Three Rooms Press.
Art or Commitment?
Chauncey also re-introduced me to Bob Flanagan, the artist who nailed his penis to a board.
Bob Flanagan, who died in 1996 from cystic fibrosis, used intentional pain to master the involuntary pain associated with his physical disease.
Here is Mr. Flanagan singing an explanatory song that he put to the melody of Mary Poppins' Supercalifragilistic:
He frequently pauses to clear phlegm while singing the song.
So the unoriginal question: Is public self-harming, such as when Mr. Flanagan nailed his penis to a board, art? Or is it self-harm that is a function of a mental illness, like cutting, and which calls for an intervention?
Maybe it's the intention that pertains? I have proclaimed this as art, therefore it is art. Versus I am hurting myself because I am in pain and I don't know what else to do.
Or maybe it isn't the performance of the act that is questionable, but the decision to make it public and call it art that presents the puzzle. Can one defecate in public and call it art?
A park stalker, in hiding. Upper Tom Lea Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
August 2017
In late evenings, still daylight, I went to Upper Tom Lea Park to try and capture the resident roadrunner in a photo. That mission failed, but one evening, I did happen upon a lovely butterfly, which I proceeded to stalk, as you can see in this video:
"Stalking" is such a harsh word. Let's call it a patient shadowing of a painted lady butterfly. Should you feel so inclined to skip toward the end, you'll see the beautiful detail of its underwing and fluffy, bird-like head, and long, elegant antennae.
Oh yeah, there were ants, too. And did you notice the big E on the mountain?
Here's a fine photo of a painted lady from someone else:
Painted lady butterfly. Credit: Fir0002/Flagstaffotos
As is always the case at Upper Tom Lea Park, there were other things to see, too. Knowing I'd have to say goodbye to one of my favorite El Paso spots soon, I took a couple of pictures of the views looking north instead of my usual south.
Upper Tom Lea Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
Upper Tom Lea Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
Turning south again, I saw that El Paso High School had repainted its athletic field for the coming school year.
View of El Paso High School from Upper Tom Lea Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
View of El Paso High School from Upper Tom Lea Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
And a loving so-long to El Paso's downtown skyline, the Mexican Red X, stacking clouds, and the wide, flat basin that holds millions of families in the sister cities:
View from Upper Tom Lea Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
View from Upper Tom Lea Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
View from Upper Tom Lea Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
And, oh yes. A second photo of the other patient shadower in the park:
I was on my way to the Tumblewords Project at the library in Memorial Park. Beau Jocque was playing to me.
Through the top of my windshield, a dark shape swooped down and across the road and up to a tree on the left side of the road. I pulled over. Got my camera out.
It was a very large hawk. It landed on an outer branch toward the tree top, and peered down into the greenery.
Hawk, Memorial Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
It hulked there. Like a member of local royalty who barged into the home of a subject, seeing what he might take for himself, because he could.
-- Or was that the story at all? The photo below suggests that .... maybe .... that was actually its home? I saw a small bird fly out from the tree, following the hawk. But in the photo above, I see an extended wing inside the branches and another bird flying away.
Hawk, Memorial Park, El Paso, Texas. August 2017.
I snatched a bit of video, which I unfortunately ended before he made his move and was subsequently chased out of by one of the diminutive owners of that small home.
Born in 1995, founded by Donna Snyder, the Tumblewords Project is a writing workshop that occurs every Saturday at the Memorial Park branch of the El Paso Library. Each week, a workshop leader suggests writing prompts to the participants; the prompts usually follow a theme the leader chooses for the session. Everyone is enthusiastically welcomed. If you're just passing through El Paso and happen to be in town on a Saturday afternoon, go! My related posts here.
Below is my output (since edited) from one Saturday. The binding threads are illusion, delusion, and acceptance.
Highway 371, Navajo Nation, New Mexico. May 2013.
Loess
We were pretty smug
In our specialness,
Our quick wit,
Our close-knittedness,
Our uniqueness among the rest.
Handsome and pretty, they said.
Smart as whips, they said.
Ready, always, to advise, solicited or no.
Analytically confident about others' lives.
Such good mothers, good fathers,
Good siblings, good children,
Good wives, good husbands.
Shimmering heads atop a grassy hill,
Breeze ruffling through thick hair.
Eyes alert, clear, penetrating the valley
Below.
We stood atop a grassy hill
Of loess.
We thought our foundation firm.
But it was just windblown dust.
Fresh and faded, Carencro, Louisiana. February 2015.
Evidence
I look in the mirror.
The evidence is there,
Undeniable.
I'm a woman of a certain age.
Not always fair, how it turns out. But
Inevitable.
No use to rage.
Radical acceptance? .. to flaunt the
Inevitable!
The silver bespeaks a sage?
I see the not-so-beautiful parts,
Undeniable.
But I am here, so smile, girl.
Accept.
Not untrue
I won't not tell you
If you don't ask me
But if you ask me
I'll not not misinform you
Of how it might be if
I were like this and
You were like that
Or maybe I mean
If I weren't who I am and
You weren't who you are
White Sands National Monument, New Mexico. March 2010.
The rule at the Tumblewords Project is that if you write something, you've got to read it. No explanations, histories, excuses, or any other blablablahs before reading, with one exception. You can preface your reading with "this is shit." I always chuckle at this.
Here's a piece I wrote after a reading prompt on one Tumblewords day (with some editing):
Be Silent
As we dance, be silent please.
I don't know you,
I just dance with you.
If you talk, you may reveal things
I don't want to know and
Your unwelcome noise will
Scatter the waves between the music,
The singers' songs, and
The sway of our bodies,
The vibration in the air above us, and our
Touch, and yea, even the occasional
Lock of eyes between us.
Because you may say something
I don't want to hear about
Your neighbors or your exes or
"Those people,"
Whomever those people are to you,
Who you denigrate with your
Moral superiority.
I want to dance and
I want you to just keep your
Mouth shut (please) and
Let me fold into the silence of
Your reality to better imagine
Myself in the dream of
Dance and the union of
Souls and the sound of rhythms,
Like our ancient ancestors did before us,
As they swirled around the large
Fire
Beneath an inky sky freckled with the Milky Way.
Scenic Driver Overlook at 7:46 p.m., El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
Through a drape of summer rain, sister rainbows arced from the heavens into El Paso and Juarez. Fat brother clouds cut a border between light and dark.
Scenic Driver Overlook at 7:46 p.m., El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
It was the golden hour on the Scenic Drive Overlook.
Scenic Drive Overlook at 7:57 p.m., El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
I'd brought my sister here when she visited from Colorado for a long weekend.
Scenic Drive Overlook at 7:57 p.m., El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
A train snaked through the city.
Scenic Drive Overlook at 8:04 p.m., El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
Scenic Drive Overlook at 8:05 p.m., El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
The eyes of Duran attracted me in 2012 and 2013, when I lived in Alamogordo:
Eyes of Duran, New Mexico. 2013.
On my way back to El Paso from my 2017 Missouri Flash Trip, along Highway 54, I felt eager to slap my own on them again. Here they are, four years after ours first met:
Ohhhhhhhhhhh, how nice it was to re-ride Highway 54 from Tucumcari to El Paso. I drove this path so many times when I lived in Alamogordo in 2012-2013.
Come with me. We'll listen to oh-so-good music on the way.
Here's Highway 54 mile marker 165, between Corona and Carrizozo, accompanied first by Connie G in Let the Good Times Roll, followed by Boozoo Chavis with Johnnie Billy Goat:
Here's Highway 54 mile marker 155, between Corona and Carrizozo, as we're a tiny audience to the renowned Canray Fontenot's quiet song, La Tabla Ronde:
I had to pull over to the side of the road between Carrizozo and Tularosa to take in the beauty of a train against the mountains and a splendid sky, while being serenaded by the now-deceased Buckwheat Zydeco, with Tee Nah Nah:
Close to home here, between Alamogordo and El Paso, accompanied by the Balfa Brothers performing La Danse de Mardi Gras:
On my way back to El Paso from my Missouri Flash Trip, I passed through Alamogordo (my old home!) and stopped for dinner at the Subway on the north side.
This was in the ladies' room:
Hellfire in Alamogordo. July 2017.
I had just seen a family leave Subway after eating. What looked like a youngish dad with his youngish wife and two daughters. The woman and girls were dressed in the long skirts with the long hair that bespeak one of the ultra-conservative Christian sects that put women and girls into a box of submission. No different from the ultra-conservative Jewish sects or the ultra-conservative Muslim sects.
I have no patience for that kind of thing anymore, "that kind of thing" being the denial of an individual's rights to self-determination. In this case, a girl's or woman's rights to self-determination. Some people want to call this kind of thing "culture" or "religious freedom" as a way to deflect criticism. But it's nothing more than garden-variety oppression. It's on the same continuum of oppression as female circumcision, child marriage, and so-called honor killings.
So when I saw the pamphlet sitting on the white sink of the ladies' room, I picked it up, crumpled it, and put it in the trash. Then I walked across the way to the men's room and looked inside to see if there was a pamphlet in there that I could destroy. No.
Lucha libre mural, Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico. January 2017.
I am in love with lucha libre.
A lucha libre family. Lucha libre, El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
It has everything: drama, humor, theater, athleticism, violence, art, color, surprise, sex, choreography, bravado, danger.
Lucha libre poster, Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico. January 2017.
Even so, while entranced and entertained, I could see how the danger is not just theatrical, but real. A missed kick, a poorly-executed throw, a bad fall, a wrong push - any of these could result in serious injury or death. And it does.
Luchadores Black Widow and Perrush K, lucha libre, El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
There've been several documentaries on lucha libre, aka Mexican wrestling. Viva la Lucha is one that's online in its entirety:
The event I attended was the first episode of the second season of a TV show called Lucha Frontera.
Luchadora Delilah, lucha libre, El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
The audience was engaged, the music on point - loud, familiar old-school rock, for the most part - which matched the energy of the luchadores. You know, like Eye of the Tiger, which was the theme song for either Delilah or Black Widow:
Lucha libre is a family event. Many fans buy posters of the day's event and get them autographed by the luchadores. Or have their t-shirts autographed.
Lucha libre, El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
I could get hooked.
Luchador VIP. Lucha libre, El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
Lucha libre, El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
Lucha libre, El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
Lucha libre, El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
Luchador Perrush K. Lucha libre, El Paso, Texas. July 2017.
