Meet Hisham Mayet of Sublime Frequencies!

Photo: Hisham Mayet

You're probably already aware of the effort by Mr. Alan Bishop to make Sublime Frequencies the amazing CD and DVD label that it is today, but another guy who is at the SF office every business day is Hisham Mayet. That is, when he's not deep in Thailand, Niger, Libya, Morocco, or elsewhere, using his digital video camera to record ground-level musical performance, completely natural soul, and ecstatic truths, all with the kind of sheer simplicity, both technical and emotional, that makes entire museums blush. After being knocked out by four Mayet-filmed Sublime Frequencies DVD releases in a row, Larry "Fuzz-O" Dolman had to e-mail him some questions about what he does.

blastitude.com: Where are you from, where did you grow up?

Hisham Mayet: I was born on the Barbary Coast of North Africa a block away from the Mediterranean sea. From there London England was home for 4 years and then most of my adolescent years were shaped on the gulf coast of the southern USA.

blastitude.com: I gotta ask about this capsule review of Niger: Magic and Ecstasy in the Sahel that just ran in the Chicago Reader, by Peter Margasak. He uses the first couple sentences to praise the music that is documented, but then closes with this: "Aside from a vaguely anthropological explanation of possessions in the Bori cult, this could be the footage you shot with your videocam if you had wherewithal to travel this deep into north central Africa." How do you respond to that?

Hisham Mayet: You know man, guys like Margasak and people from The Wire like Clive Bell ("cheap as chips" & "smash and grab") come from the point of view of the established old guard. These guys are looking at this stuff in such the wrong context. I think they believe that if you haven't spent 10 years in film school or studied in a musical conservatory that your art does not count. They have been trained to debunk any sort of independent moves from outsiders like us. Do you really think that if Joe Blow went out to Niger he would have gotten the same footage? And what is that trying to say about the accessibility of this stuff? I could go on forever on these guys but I don't have the time, I'm working on three new films that can be panned in the future! All of these DVDs combined have been produced on a budget that's less than a week's catering bill for any kind of Indy film or financed documentary, and that fact alone I think pisses off a lot of people. It's being done and we are breaking down these walls to this stuff and it's shaking the foundation and taking it out of the hands of academia, the corporate industry, and the bureaucracy of the funding agencies that prohibit this material being dealt with in the now! When it matters most! It's analogous in so many respects throughout the 20th century in all mediums of art. In Painting, the "fauves" or wild beasts, as they were known, broke from the "impressionistic" traditions and started a revolution in art, and were ridiculed for it. The same can be said about free jazz in the 60's, or the Punk rock movement that liberated the bloated corpse of R&R in the 70's. There was always antagonism toward these movements and only time and history can tell how they have and will change the landscape of the times.
Where's the next trip and is there a certain music you're looking for there? I will be in Western Sahara and then overland to Mauritania for the month of February. I am specifically looking for a particular style, and from the research I hope to find it in all its electric glory!

...for the complete interview click here...

HISHAM MAYET FILMOGRAPHY

Jemaa El Fna: Morocco's Rendezvous of the Dead

Folk Music of the Sahara: Among the Tuareg of Libya

ISAN: Folk and Pop Music of Northeast Thailand

NIGER: Magic and Ecstasy in the Sahel

all available at sublimefrequencies.com

OTHERS

Berber Monkey Chants 2002

The Party (30 min.)2003

In Cold Blood 2003

Man Tit 2003

Sublime Latitudes 2003

Nostalgia 2004

UPCOMING

Morocco: Musical Brotherhoods from theTrans-Saharan Highway (60 minutes)

(premiere at Arthurball Feb 25 2006)

Stencils :: San Cristobal, Chiapas, Mexico

Some of my favourites of hundreds of stencils I photographed on the walls of the city in the mountains of southern Mexico - San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas:

Latin American Stencil Festival :: in Oaxaca, Mexico

The festival has already happened, it is history, but of the future. Go check out a friend's blog here http://miradalibre.blogspot.com/ for links to galleries of Latin American urban street art...here a small selection:

Migrants & Minutemen :: Border Film Project

For Border Film Project, Brett Huneycutt, Victoria Criado and Rudy Adler spent three months on the U.S. Mexico border filming and distributing hundreds of disposable cameras to two groups on different sides of the line: undocumented migrants crossing the desert and Minutemen volunteers trying to stop them.

Check it all out here (well worth watching the little films with migrants and minutemen): www.borderfilmproject.com

Dulce Pinzón ::The Real Story of the Superheroes

BERNABE MENDEZ from the State of Guerrero works as a professional window cleaner in New York. He sends 500 dollars a month.

ADALBERTO LARA from the State of Mexico works as a construction worker in New York. He Sends 350 dollars a week.

MINERVA VALENCIA from Puebla works as a nanny in New York. She Sends 400 dollars a week


LUIS HERNANDEZ from the State of Veracruz works in demolition in New York. He sends 200 dollars a week.

photos & text by Dulce Pinzón (born 1974, Mexico City, lives in New York) from www.dulcepinzon.com

After September 11, the notion of the “hero” began to rear its head in the public consciousness more and more frequently. The notion served a necessity in a time of national and global crisis to acknowledge those who showed extraordinary courage or determination in the face of danger, sometimes even sacrificing their lives in an attempt to save others. However, in the whirlwind of journalism surrounding these deservedly front-page disasters and emergencies, it is easy to take for granted the heroes who sacrifice immeasurable life and labor in their day to day lives for the good of others, but do so in a somewhat less spectacular setting.

The Mexican immigrant worker in New York is a perfect example of the hero who has gone unnoticed. It is common for a Mexican worker in New York to work extraordinary hours in extreme conditions for very low wages which are saved at great cost and sacrifice and sent to families and communities in Mexico who rely on them to survive.

The Mexican economy has quietly become dependent on the money sent from workers in the US. Conversely, the US economy has quietly become dependent on the labor of Mexican immigrants. Along with the depth of their sacrifice, it is the quietness of this dependence which makes Mexican immigrant workers a subject of interest.

The principal objective of this series is to pay homage to these brave and determined men and women that somehow manage, without the help of any supernatural power, to withstand extreme conditions of labor in order to help their families and communities survive and prosper.
This project consists of 20 color photographs of Mexican immigrants dressed in the costumes of popular American and Mexican superheroes. Each photo pictures the worker/superhero in their work environment, and is accompanied by a short text including the worker’s name, their hometown in Mexico, the number of years they have been working in New York, and the amount of money they send to Mexico each week.

dulcepinzon@mindspring.com

It doesn't happen here - but now

If you think Amnesty International doesn't have the guts to get the message out: think again. Check out this add campaign currently seen at bus, train stops & phone boxes around Switzerland. Go to the Swiss Amnesty International page, then click on the picture for the slide show.

Sergei Mikhailovich

'A zindan aka prison circa 1907-15'

'Dagestani types circa 1907-15' (Photo: Sergei Mikhailovich)

For the rest of this photo collection by Sergei Mikhailovich, from old Russia and surrounds, go to pratyeka.org/prokudin-gorskii.

If you are keen on learning, or learning about, languages like Pali (the classical, literary language of Theravada Buddhism); Sanskrit; Lao; the Cambodian system of writing; adapting your keyboard to Arabic etc etc - or just check out another photo collection from early 20th century China - this all hosted by the same website at pratyeka.org/hosted.php3.

Poets are not moral examples to society

I was pulled in by this glaring silver book of a faceless man covered with "seeing the light" (and published by City Lights Books). it's by experimental californian filmmaker James Broughton who died some years ago, and produced his first film in 1946. some of his words:

"'Try, as if you were one of the first men, to say what you see and experience and love and lose,' wrote Rilke to his questioning young poet. Only thus will you discover what Emerson called your own peculiar 'angle to the universe'. True poets are as anarchic as Jesus and Lao-Tzu. They particularly love revolutions, for revolutions are symbols of freedom from the majorenemies of art: cops, critics, and collective inertia. Every artist is in revolt. Because he is revolted by the passion for ignorance, greed and laziness in his fellow men. He knows a livelierrealm where they might dwell, if only they could see the Light. So he tries to show them the Light. And they can't see it. They don'twant to see it. They say, 'I don't see anything in it.' So he tries again. He lights another lamp, he makes another revolution. But let us keep clear what kind of revolution we are talking about. Poets are not moral examples to society. Their value is in being obstreperous, outlandish and obscene. Their business is to ignite a revolution of insight in the soul".

George Gittoes

Welcome to Khanounous (Middle East): Oil on Canvas, 245cm x 183cm,2002.

"George Gittoes is an artist of our clime. He travels, he witnesses, he creates. With driving curiosity he crosses genres and eludes both aesthetic and political stereotypes. A witness of the particular – this person, this sect, this horrendous time and place – he represents the universal, that is, you and me. The interest of Gittoes remains in his compelling representations primary questions, deeply dyed in the fabric of our lives. The question of evil, for instance….. “
Ihab Hassan (in preface to the monograph, ‘George Gittoes’ by Gavin Fry, pub. CraftsmanHouse.1998)

I just met this remarkable Australian artist - George Gittoes - working on a trilogy of films. Starting with Soundtrack To War, and now Rampage will be out in cinemas soon. In Rampage, Gittoes documents with his camera (and his life), that the Miami ghetto of "Brown Sub" makes Baghdad look like Disneyland. Go to www.dialecticradio.net to hear some of the hip hop soundtrack.

Check out www.gittoes.com to glimpse his paintings, photographs and stills. Scroll to the bottom of the site to read 'The Persistent Witness: George Gittoes'.

Cidade dos Homens (City of Men)

If you've seen City of God, you ain't seen nothing yet. The story continues in much greater depth in City of Men, which tells the stories of Acerola (Douglas Silva) and Laranjinha (Darlan Cunha), two best friends who live in a notorious Rio favela, teenagers struggling to fulfil their dreams amidst the pressures of drug dealers and hustlers. Watch this to understand life of the invisible masses in the lost cities.

The official Brazilian site is at cidadedoshomens.globo.com
Get the details in English at en.wikipedia.org/wiki/City_of_Men

Notebook :: Creative Capitalism

Scanned from a forgotten notebook - writing saved as a jpg - words as an image? Here is an example of what I just sent to www.creativecapitalism.net, for their Notebook project, a collection of stuff that has come about fairly quickly, but you think has staying power and complexity...

The Animal and Insect Act

The Animal and Insect Act
by Cecil Rajendra (Malaysia)

Finally, in order to ensure absolute national security they passed the Animal and Insect Emergency Control and Discipline Act.

Under this new Act, buffaloes cows and goats were prohibited from grazing in herds of more than three. Neither could birds flock, nor bees swarm…This constituted unlawful assembly.

As they had not obtained prior planning permission, mud-wasps and swallows were issued with summary Notices to Quit. Their homes were declared subversive extensions to private property.

Monkeys and mynahs were warned to stop relaying their noisy morning orisons until an official Broadcasting Licence was issued by the appropriate Ministry. Unmonitored publications and broadcasts posed the gravest threats in times of a National Emergency.

Similarly, woodpeckers had to stop tapping their morse-code messages from coconut tree-top to chempaka tree. All messages were subject to a thorough pre-scrutiny by the relevant authorities.

Java sparrows were arrested in droves for rumour-mongering. Cats (suspected of conspiracy) had to be indoors by 9 o’clock. Cicadas and crickets received notification to turn their amplifiers down. Ducks could not quack nor turkeys gobble during restricted hours. Need I say, all dogs – alsatians, dachshunds, terriers, pointers and even little chihuahuas – were muzzled.

In the interests of security penguins and zebras were ordered to discard their non-regulation uniforms. The deer had to surrender their dangerous antlers. Tigers and all carnivores with retracted claws were sent directly to prison for concealing lethal weapons.

And by virtue of Article Four, paragraph 2 (b) sub-section sixteen, under no circumstances were elephants allowed to break wind between the hours of six and six. Their farts could easily be interpreted as gunshot. Might spark off a riot…

A month after the Act was properly gazetted the birds and insects started migrating south the animals went north and an eerie silence handcuffed our forests.

There was now Total Security.

poem appears in From the Republic of Conscience: An International Anthology of Poetry, edited by Kerry Flattley & Chris Wallace-Crabbe (1992, Aird Books)

How To Write About Africa

The 'magazine' I most admire in the world (one of) is Granta, and one of its regular authors Ryszard Kapuscinski I also admire (one of) most in the whole wide world. Respect. Coincidentally the Kapuscinski's book about Africa is entitled In The Shadow Of The Sun...but don't let that title deter you...read on...here is a story (by a Kenyan writer responsible for establishing Kwani?) in the current Granta 92: The View from Africa:

How to write about Africa by Binyavanga Wainaina

some tips: sunsets and starvation are good

Always use the word 'Africa' or 'Darkness' or 'Safari' in your title. Subtitles may include the words 'Zanzibar', 'Masai', 'Zulu', 'Zambezi', 'Congo', 'Nile', 'Big', 'Sky', 'Shadow', 'Drum', 'Sun' or 'Bygone'. Also useful are words such as 'Guerrillas', 'Timeless', 'Primordial' and 'Tribal'. Note that 'People' means Africans who are not black, while 'The People' means black Africans.

Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don't get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn't care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care.

Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.

Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can't live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.

Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.

Among your characters you must always include The Starving African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless. She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment. Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).

Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the West for Africa's situation. But do not be too specific.
Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life—but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.

Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative, recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the 'real Africa', and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.

Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people's property, destroy their crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern accents. Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).

After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists are Africa's most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or 'conservation area', and this is the only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a conservationist, one who is preserving Africa's rich heritage. When interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their employees.

Readers will be put off if you don't mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical—Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. When writing about the plight of flora and fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids and War (use caps).

You'll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and expats hang out.

Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.

E.Z.L.N. is in L.A.

Nomadic Sound System payin' respects to the anniversary of the assassination of Emiliano Zapata...

Zapata Vive!

Hundreds of Indigenous Mexicans today blocked highways in the state of Chiapas, to commemorate the 87th anniversary of Emiliano Zapata's death (photo courtesy EFE).

From the Republic of Conscience

In one week, I have just said goodbye to my brother moving to Adelaide to fight for a future World Championship; our eighteen year-old dog topples over and dies; my sister packs her bag for eight months in her birth country Switzerland, that she left as a five-year old; learnt where my mother and grandmother's first experienced life by finding home in two long lost brothers, who have also just returned to Nairobi. I've been shown a window of opportunity of a job in Melbourne, but I can't look through it until I'm called, for fear of falling again. Meanwhile I'm living on the island still. In the republic of conscience?

I have just sat in the shadow of the rising sun, watching the calm harbour waters in a sheepskin jacket, reading these words by Seamus Heaney:

From the Republic of Conscience

I
When I landed in the republic of conscience
it was so noiseless when the engines stopped
I could hear a curlew high above the runway.

At immigration the clerk was an old man
who produced a wallet from his homespun coat
and showed me a photograph of my grandfather.

The woman in customs asked me to declare
the words of our traditional cures and charms
to heal dumbness and avert the evil eye.

No porter. No interpreter. No taxi.
You carried what you had to and very soon
your symptoms of creeping privilege disappeared.

II
Fog is a dreaded omen there but lightning
spells universal good and parents hang
swaddled infants in trees during thunderstorms.

Salt is their precious mineral. And seashells
are held to the ear during births and funerals.
The base of all inks and pigments is seawater.

Their sacred symbol is a stylised boat.
The sail is an ear, the mast a sloping pen,
the hull a mouth-shape, the keel an open eye.

At their inauguration, public leaders
must swear to uphold unwritten law and weep
to atone for their presumption to hold office -

and to affirm their faith that all life sprang
from salt in tears which the sky-god wept
after he dreamt his solitude was endless.

III
I came back from that frugal republic
with my two arms the one length, the customs woman
having insisted my allowance was myself.

The old man rose and gazed into my face
and said that was official recognition
that I was now a dual citizen.

He therefore desired me when I got home
to consider myself a representative
and to speak on their behalf in my own tongue.

Their embassies, he said, were everywhere
but operated independently
and no ambassador would ever be relieved.

From Tijuana With Love

Un conquistador tijuanense me envió esas fotos de su última obsesión...
A Mexican friend just sent me these photos of this lovely lady (with Zen leanings) that he is obsessed (and tormented) with...

But - to our neutral pleasures - his current girlfriend thinks otherwise:

His Masterpiece

He is writing his life’s work: he knows it. It started at University, or maybe before, or after. Maybe he didn’t go to University. It doesn’t matter: no one has written this before. But he is never happy, with what he writes. He keeps every bit of paper he has ever held in his hands, in elaborate filing systems. He adds rooms to his house filled with papers, notebooks, and drafts of drafts. He can’t admit that he lives in fear. He could lose historic work: future masterpieces. His ideas could be stolen, if any paper left his home. The paper builds up. It is everywhere. He has exhausted his block of land, the bottom two floors of the house have sunk into the ground. But paper is still being delivered. He keeps ordering it, scouring catalogues for the best deals. He steals the neighbour’s junk mail: these references of our times will one day carry meaning. He knows the capitalist system will capitulate. He collects ideas, but has no time to order them. He orders his papers, but has no time to think. Except when sitting on the toilet bowl. He sits there, thinking, oh how nice it is to just switch off. So he sits there not thinking about anything. Is it possible not to think about anything? He writes that down. He thinks some more about not thinking. He has a smile playing on his face, and climaxes in a contented sigh. Perhaps he is influenced by other feelings, of bodily functions. He writes down: “influence of bodily functions?” He is afraid to flush, but discovers he has absentmindedly slipped the notes on toilet paper into his pocket. Nevertheless, he checks with the brush, to ensure he hasn’t wiped with important notes. Whilst he is on the toilet, there is a delivery of paper. It is of the best quality, neatly lined, and the delivery has come from the other end of the state. The truck driver lights up a cigarette and rings the bell. There is no answer. The truck driver leaves a burning cigarette on the doorstep. Finally having flushed, the writer goes to the door. He opens it. He stomps on the burning cigarette butt, but doesn’t curse it. The delivery truck has left, and he curses that instead. He curses the strong wind, air that is so careless about direction. He walks to the road in front of his house, to look for signs of the truck. There is a note in the letter box, saying that the paper has to be picked up at such and such. What a hassle. The cigarette butt has blown indoors. He doesn’t see that it is still glimmering. He doesn’t remember hearing an explosion. He has blacked out. While he is being rushed to hospital, fragments of text cover the city. Rains of confetti are reported on the News. A pedestrian stops and tries to make sense of these fragments, but it doesn’t make sense, and turns on the television instead. Journalists have been sent to analyse objectively. A stupid old man that some thought wise, uses it as mulch. Words, words, words. It keeps raining and raining - the rivers of confetti become the sea. Our writer wakes up, and sits up in his hospital bed to watch the spectacle he has caused. Our writer records his emotions of the spectacle. There is no bibliography as his library is confetti now. His influences are destroyed; picked up by the wind that has no care in the world. He is a writer, he is on the news. He becomes filthy famous. Bits of paper with his words are sold to collectors, like concrete fragments of the Berlin Wall were. Collages are auctioned. Biographies about him become best sellers. The writer is invited on TV. Scientists are trying to crack his code, apparently. But no one cares, art is belief. He never has to pick up a pen again, or tap at a keyboard. Anthologies of his scattered words are released and translated into 12 languages. His publishers sue an experimental German writer for plagiarism, because he made a collage of random words. Our writer is happy. He knew he was close to writing the masterpiece.

Butterfly Man

He never says anything, but it is apparent to all that he is wise. They call him Holy Butterfly Man. He is beautiful, but humble, it is apparent to all. People come from far away to ask. But he doesn’t say a thing. He is wise. He collects butterflies. Hands back the blank piece of paper, in answer to every question. Then he nods off in deep contemplation. He farts excessively. For hours a vigil is held - fart smells are filling the room - but the watch is held. He could wake up again soon. Clouds of smell are bottled like holy water. They are exported. He had once been beautiful, but now he is curling up. He had been light in spirit, with wings, his clothing colourful. Now his skin is turning green, flabby, and hangs from his bones. His neck disappears. The blankets wrap him in a cocoon. He is fat. He has become a caterpillar. With his every wink and nod, advice is still taken. He doesn’t say anything. He never asked for anything.

War Photographer

I just watched a Swiss film called War Photographer by Christian Frei, about US photographer James Nachtwey. "Every minute I was there, I wanted to flee. I did not want to see this. Would I cut and run, or would I deal with the responsibility of being there with a camera?" asks James Nachtwey in the film. The photo above he took in Chechnya. Check out Nachtwey's gallery here.

It is a film that any journalist should watch. Anyone working in a conflict zone: exotic or domestic. It reminds me of a 15-year-old from a rich Jewish private school, whom I met taking photos at The Block in Redfern, Sydney. Some days later I invited him for a coffee, and was amazed by his photos of Redfern he brought along. "I want to be a war correspondent," he told me, "and this is Australia's war zone." One day I'll look this guy up again. One day soon I hope my writings I did to accompany his photos at the time, can be published in some shape...

On my wall, I always have stuck these words:
"You have to understand and accept the dignity other people, and share their needs. But it is never enough, to only risk your life. What is most important is the respect towards other people, about whom you are writing."
from Ryszard Kapuscinski, Die Erde ist ein gewalttätiges Paradies

Pu-239 and Other Russian Fantasies

A friend who plays in a Russian criminal band, emailed me saying he enjoyed the Mexican 'La Cervecita' joke on this blog (scroll down to find it). I asked for something alike, from Russia:

"Little Ivan comes home and asks his Mum: "Am I Russian or Jewish?"
"What! Why do you ask?"
"I'm feeling very confused. Igor next door got a new bike for his birthday, and I can't decide whether to bargain with him, buy it from him, and then sell it for a profit; or just steal it and break it."

For an illuminating look at the apparent Russian attitude towards capitalism, read a story called 'Salt' in Pu-239 and Other Russian Fantasies by Ken Kalfus.

for MUSIC go to dialect-ic.blogspot.com

To prevent music, Dialect-ic & sakamoiz take over this ChaleChole blog, a new blog has been created at http://dialect-ic.blogspot.com. If ya into beats, rhymes, glitches, scratches, mashes and the latest Dialect-ic playlists, sakamoiz gigs, hypes - you now have another site...

clicks/beats/scapes/states :: Crash@Inflight

Hobart's first multilingual dancehall showcase event LINGO, started with a 100% dub gig the next night. Then it was only pumpin' booty shakin' events. But now the ambient/electro/experimental/dub nights are back at Inflight, and they are known as CRASH. Costa Rican born DJ Hot Property followed a reggaeton-hiphop LINGO set with his own original beats the next night at CRASH, although he holds several Melbourne residencies as a DJ, this was the first exposition of his original work in over a year. Brendan Palmer provided a visual&sonic showcase of his 2003/4 Melbourne club: environ. Inflight is Hobart's only artist run gallery space, and has now become an even more important cultural hotspot on the island of Tasmania. Stay tuned for upcoming events by joining the Uber_Lingua mailing list...

Dirty Laundry :: warehouse party flyer

Speaking of flyers, there should be someone archiving e-flyers. I might as well start now. The easier it is to send information, the more disposable it becomes. Deleted with click. E-flyers also make it possible to be invited to raging underground warehouse parties in far away cities, even when there is no way of ever making it to that party. This is the case with this flyer and the photo-map sent to me by the lovely Ida & Vlad. Indeed, Australia has a lot of dirty laundry that needs to be cleaned, and the type of people looking into that are most likely to be living in the grubbiest parts of Sydney such as St. Peters...

Terraphonic Sound System

Silence on this blog, means all the more noise in my engagements with music. 2006 is building up to be a huge year, and I'm involved in gigs in Tasmania, Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide, Canberra, Perth and hopefully Brisbane.

But before I announce these tours, I wish to pay my respects to my home island's Terraphonic Sound System - especially their 'Weld Benefit Gig' flyer. I'm gonna make sure I get a hoodie with that design, highlighting the continuing killing of Tasmania's ancient forests - home of the last large remaining tracts of temperate rainforest.

www.terraphonic.org

One Earth One Tribe

Earthtribe were formed before the ‘Asian Underground’ had arisen, and remain at the core of the British-Asian ‘scene’. But their style has always been as much about the west as it is east. They break down all musical and racial barriers and communicate through the ethnocyberfunk sound, a universal language. It’s a rhythm thing: electro, trance and breakbeat are subtlely blended with global grooves from India, Africa and South America. Add a generous sprinkling of funk, dub, tabla and sublimeIndian vocals to the melting pot and the music is complete: an indefinable concoction...

Why am I talking about Earthtribe? Because their powerful album One Earth One Tribe that speaks the language of ChaleChole from London to Sydney, is now out! Check it out here.

More emphasis on Us and Them

Where are you from? What do you do? What is you background? Uh, I see, but where is your accent from? Interesting, were you born there?

Sohail Dahdal was actually asked these questions in party last week, all by the same person, and in the same sequence! This situation poses a dilemma.

Sohail’s Dilemma (as posted on mediamedia)

Country of Origin: Palestine (now called Israel as opposed to when my parents left it)
Country of Birth: Libya (not that I ever lived there, we left when I was too young to remember)
Nationality: Australian, but I also feel Palestinian, and let’s forget the whole issue around Arab nationalism, that's another story
Original Nationality: I was holding a Jordanian passport, but was considered Palestinian by Jordanians (again refer to Arab nationalism issues). Confusing?
1st Language: None (but I'm thinking about mastering Spanish and making it my first language)
2nd Language: Arabic (with an Australian accent), English (with an Arabic accent)
Ethnicity: Of Middle Eastern Appearance (although a taxi driver told me last night that I look Italian or of Mediterranean Appearance, when I asked him, why not Middle Eastern he said I smile too much to be Middle Eastern!)
Culture: Hmm, this is a tough one: I like poetry, the desert, mountains, and the moon, I read lots, and love soccer too, I like Salsa... and the beach
Religion: Christian (not really practicing, and most people think I'm Muslim being of Arabic background)
Sexuality: Heterosexual, but being gentle, soft spoken and considering, people always think I'm gay, and sometime I'm called Metrosexual, again having a hairy chest (and not interested in shaving it) I might not entirely qualify to be Metro, is there such a things as gentle manly man?

Confused? Me too.

I'm beyond confused, I'm fed up, I want to celebrate who I am without having to define exactly that I belong to this group or the other, I think the tribal mentality is really, really hard to sustain these days. Having said that, and knowing very well that we are heading to an era of even more emphasis on "US" and them "Them", I propose that if you (the receiver of this email) feel fed up too, and can't think of one single group that represents "YOU" wholly then join me in calling for a PLU "People Like Us".

This will be (Yes, yet another group) all of us that don't feel like we simply can be grouped as this or that, we are the fringes, we are not the war on terror, nor are we the terrorist, we are not the masses, nor we are the elite, we don't just spend the day watching footy, nor do we live in the library. We don't work 9-5 same job for ever, nor do we live in a commune, smoking hash, We are simply PLUs.

People Asking

People ask ya:
“Where ya from!?”
As if they were saying
“Oh I’m so sorry”
“What’s wrong?”
And I stand there,
don’t know what to say,
like when your friend’s friend
has passed away.

I have a mother and a father,
like all of us,
once.
“And fortunately I happen to know who mine are,”
I reply.
“They came from their parents,
as far as I know,
and beyond that;
god knows
it if was apes”.

To Kiss The Wind

Still in the air your eyes hang,
carried by dissolving imperfections.

Blind
I seek your scent,
naked
I feel.

My tears trace these words,
falling from this autumn pen.

Drums and flutes charm your presence
slithering away.

I wear my clothes you wore,
wearing out the smell of you.

There is no air to keep,
there are no footsteps to remember;
only your breath walking away
to kiss the wind.

Poets With Websites

Cordite Poetry Review believes "words are bullets". So do I. "Moses Iten" is proudly listed on Poets With Websites. That's why I occasionally post something purporting poetry.

Cordite Editor David Prater (pictured above in photo by Kim Hyun-tae) is currently on an Asialink Residency in Seoul, and was just recently written about in a feature for the The Korea Times by Bridget O'Brien:

Over the course of two months Prater has visited a different PC bang in Seoul every day and wrote about an ``imaginary city’’ in each one. As he says, PC bangs are imaginary places: Business people go there to shoot aliens, gamble and check out Cyworld homepages.

His project was initially influenced by Italo Calvino's book ``Invisible Cities,’’ in which Marco Polo described a series of fictional cities (all of which were really Venice) to the Emperor Kublai Khan. "For me this book, with its meeting of East and West, says a lot about the Western imagination and how it projects its own view of the world upon ``the other,’’ whether this be Asia or any other alien place. So, instead of writing about invisible cities, I decided to write about imaginary cities.’’

Of course Invisible Cities has been covered before on this blog, right here.

Dialect-ic on Edge Radio :: Socrates

These flyers 'bout my radio show on www.edgeradio.org.au (you can stream so listen via internet) are now hitting the alleys of Hobart. So far the beard has been identified as "Karl Marx", "Terrorist" and "Leonardo da Vinci".

In fact it is Socrates...check out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portal:Philosophy

Arrested for exhibiting gang-affiliated tattoos

Whilst living in Mexico, I would occasionally spot an article in a local newspaper detailing the capture and deportation of members of Mara Salvatrucha or Mara 18. A gang of Guatemalan origin, passing through Mexico or embroiled in violent clashes with local gangs. For reasons I am writing a book, essays and short stories about, I chose to use the above photo as a cover for my first sakamoiz mixtape (ask me for the CD if you want a copy).

Inevitably, the civil wars of the 1980s have now become the gang violence of the 21st century. I have been reading the work of academic Patricia Gonzalez whose specialty is post-conflict violence. She generously put me up when I found myself without cash in Guatemala City. For a brief but concise introduction to the contemporary troubles of Central America, check out the latest issue of Five Minutes To Midnight:

"People are now being arrested for what is known as "illicit association," following which two or more gang members are prohibited from being together. Youngsters can also be arrested for simply exhibiting gang-affiliated tattoos," reports Jennifer Yang in The Gang Crisis in Central America.

These are Yang's sources:
Grim News in Central America: Wave of Gang Violence Grows - Resource Centre of the Americas. 29 Jan. 2004. 1 Dec. 2005.
Gangs: The Fatal Compulsion To Belong - Resource Centre of the Americas. 26 Apr. 2004. 1 Dec. 2005
Central America's Gang Crisis - Resource Centre of the Americas. 17 Sep. 2004. 1 Dec. 2005
Ex-gang members find jobs in region scarcer than ever - Resource Centre of the Americas. 25 Apr. 2005. 1 Dec. 2005
Central America's Crime Wave Spurs Plan for a Regional Force - Resource Centre of the Americas. 16 Aug. 2005. 1 Dec. 2005
In Guatemala, a rise In vigilante justice - Christian Science Monitor. 6 Oct. 2005. 1 Dec. 2005
A South American Import - National Alliance of Gang Investigators ASsociation. 12 Apr. 2005. 1 Dec. 2005
Central America's Street Gangs Are Drawn into the World of Geopolitics - Power and Interest News Report. 26 Aug. 2005. 1 Dec. 2005

Anti-hero, God :: Maradona

Maradona. Some call him a God, but anti-hero is more appropriate. I grew up with this man. A hero, who became spaghetti-western. Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anti-hero to find a list of anti-heroes. Someone should add Maradona. This photo from Reuters was in an article quoting the man as being sued by his illegitimate son (living in Naples with a former flame of Maradona) for defamation.

Alif :: The World Game & Hip Hop

On the road in an unfamiliar corner of the world, how do you walk into a raucous crowd yelling a language of which you don't understand a word, and make an immediate lasting and friendly impression? The World Game. Whether playing with barefeet kids on remote tropical beaches; kicking a fluorescent Finish ball in the snow; juggling a ball at a Lombok bus stop or being invited to join a tournament in remote Indonesia - I can only speak of positive experiences. Even playing table soccer with non-athletes or discussing politics with Mexican punks selling "Football Is The Opiate Of The Masses" stickers.

Same goes for music, today in the shape of the hip hop. Like football, hip hop is a diverse and wholistic culture. If you look at what you see on television alone, you have no idea. The girls pictured above are Alif from Senegal. Check out the rest of their label Out Here Records.

More to come...

La Cervecita :: a little not-politically-correct story

If you would like an insight into stereotypical Latin American male-female politics, I’ve translated this little not-politically-correct story, just emailed to me by a self-confessed notorious womanizing Mexican friend of mine:

La Cervecita
A couple that married only two weeks ago had the following conversation, because the husband, although feeling happy, already felt like going out on the town, so he said this to his wife:
“My beautiful, I’ve gotta go.”
“Where are you going, darling?” (With the expression of a newlywed).
“To the bar honey, for a little beer.”
The wife puts her hands on her hips and says to him:
“Would like a little beer, my love?” And she opens the door to the fridge to show him 25 brands of beer from 12 countries: Mexican, German, Dutch, Japanese etc
The husband doesn’t know what to do but the first response that pops into his mind is:
“Ay, my divine treasure, but in the bar, you know, the chilled jugs...!”
Before finishing his sentence, his wife interrupts:
“Would you like a frozen jug my love?”
From the freezer she takes out a jug, chilled, frozen, white, so white that it’s almost cracking with cold. The surprised husband says:
“Yes my baby, but in the bar they serve unbelievably good snacks with the drinks, I’ll be right back, ok?”
“Would you like some snacks, my love?”
She opens the oven and the fridge again and pulls out fifteen dishes of different snacks: olives, empanadas, fries, tacos, peanuts, popcorn, cheeses, pate, caviar, cold meats, etc.
“But honey, at the bar, you know, the filthy language, tough words, blokes talking, and all of that…”
“Would like some tough words, my love? Then take the fucking beer, in this jug full of shit and eat the bloody snacks, but you’re not leaving this place you son of a bitch!”


La Cervecita
Una pareja que tan solo llevaba dos semanas de casados sostiene él siguiente dialogo, porque el marido, aunque sé sentía feliz, ya andaba con ganas de irse de parranda, así que le dice a su mujer:
“Mi vida, ahorita vengo".
“Adónde vas, cariño?" (Expresión de recién casados).
“Al bar mi cielito, a tomarme una cervecita".
La mujer se lleva la mano a la cintura y le dice:
“Quiere cervecita, mi amorcito?" Y en eso abre la puerta de la nevera y le enseña 25 marcas de cerveza de 12 países diferentes: mexicanas, alemanas, holandesas, japonesas, etc.
El marido no sabe que hacer y se le ocurre decirle:
“Ay, mi gorda divina, pero en el bar, tu sabes, la jarra helada...!"
No terminaba de decir esto, cuando la esposa interrumpe diciéndole:
“Quiere jarra congelada mi amorcito?"
Saca del congelador una jarra helada,congelada, blanca, tan blanca que hasta temblaba de frió. El marido sorprendido dice:
"Si bebita mía, pero en el bar sirven unas Botanas riquísimas, vuelvo enseguida, Si?"
“Quiere Botanas, mi amorcito?"
Abre el horno y la nevera y saca quince platos diferentes de Botanas: aceitunas, empanadas, papas fritas, tacos, cacahuates, palomitas,quesos, paté, caviar, carnes frías, etc.
“Pero caramelito, en el bar, tu sabes, las maldiciones, las palabrotas y todo aquello..."
“Quiere palabrotas, mi amorcito? Entonces: ¡Te tomas la puta cerveza, en esa jarra de mierda y te comes esas malparidas Botanas, pero de aquí no sales, hijueputa!”

An Obituary :: Chrottästei

Photo: A road near Toad Rock damaged by the heaviest summer rains in recent history of the Swiss Alps (courtesy Korporation Unterägeri)

The Stumbling Block Is Gone

Some say, it will last another thousand years. Others believe with the next big rains, a giant of a hundred tonnes will roll and destroy us all. Since the dawn of humanity, the villagers have shared divided opinions.

“It really does look like a toad,” a Father says to himself, although aware he has an audience. “It used to be a test of a boy’s courage to jump off it. An initiation into a gang,” he continues, now directly to his eldest son. “It really does look like a toad,” says the Father.

It is a stone, sitting in the forest. On the hillside, a few hundred metres from the village. Engulfed by trees. Covered in moss. Rooted in the soil. Boys crouched on their hands and knees to glimpse the gnomes living underneath. The first leaps of faith - by generations of boys – were taken off the rock into the foliage below.

Village elders walked with their grandchildren to the rock, and stopped in front of it: “See that toad there? This is where we used to test our courage.” The stone has always been there. No one put it there. It was just there. Prominently perched for passersby to ponder, for boys to plunge. Courage tested, imagination flexed. Until now, nobody had ever asked: “Who put it there?” or “Why?”

“It really does look like a toad,” the Father tells his eldest again, whilst rummaging for a pair of scissors. “I have to keep this photo. This is historic,” he proclaims, before cutting out this first and last photo (and article) of a rock that had never before interested the media. A fact the article nonchalantly admits: “This block of rock has been under observation since the end of August of this year.” The rest of the newspaper filled with success and failure, lands in the bin. “This has to be pegged to the wall. This rock is memory,” exclaims the Father, exasperated.

The rock’s age is apparently of no relevance in its own obituary. Age is imperative: just ask James Dean. The age of dear relations, like the rain, is also nowhere mentioned. It’s approximate girth and weight are what is recorded: “With its size of almost 40 cubic metres, it weighed about 100 tonnes.” The danger it poses, is what has blasted it to stardom and the executioners overnight.

“A bulldozer broke the rock into bits, and deposited them at the Hole-In-The-Bucket,” the Father is reading from the article to his perplexed firstborn. So the Father explains: “The Hole-In-The-Bucket is a spot nearby in the forest.” The son chuckles. “All the forest has names. Like the Little Paradise. I used to know all the names, of every path, every feature.”

“The Stumbling Block Is Gone,” announces the newspaper headline, and concludes with the sober sentence: “As such, Toad Rock will live on in the memory of the local villagers.”

Hermano! Brother! I've found you in Tijuana

What the fuck is he doing there? Well, his name is "Radiante" and he talks of a Tijuana that we take everywhere; a fragmented city, confronting and diverse in its haceres y quehaceres; a place alive that moves and touches us. Man don't listen to my dodgy translation. Radiante grabs the concept of a border as a field of action, a platform for networking projects and the opportunity to recreate/subvert/deconstruct its multiple languages and processes...

Radiante Says:

Radiante apuesta por instalar bases para el debate de las ideas, fomentar el análisis de la vida cotidiana y la sociedad de la información.
Radiante aborda la necesidad de tocar temas que corresponden a un momento determinado (éste, el que viene, el que ya ocurrió).
Radiante habla de una Tijuana que llevamos a todas partes; una city fragmentada, confrontada y diversa en sus haceres y quehaceres; un sitio vivo que se mueve y nos conmueve.
Radiante toma el asunto de la frontera como un campo de acción, plataforma para proyectos en red y la oportunidad de intentar recrear/subvertir/deconstruir sus múltiples lenguajes y procesos.
Radiante no reconoce dogmas. Tampoco raíces.
Radiante es un cóctel molotov directo a la barricada de apatía.
Radiante es producto de la heterodoxia.
Radiante apuesta por la circularidad de la información.
Radiante es un desliz intergeneracional.
Radiante es una estampida creativa.
Radiante es mutante por naturaleza.
Radiante es algo más que un adjetivo luminoso.
Radiante es un proyecto de comunicación.
Radiante eres, radiante somos.

Ya está Radiante 01 en .pdf (disponible para su free download)http://s56.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=3JUKU3ZI46WIW1ZHW9DXU11LI6

painting little robots on a private beach :: Goodguysneverwin Toy Co.

Once upon a time I played a bit-part in a student film. Dressed as a fantastic warrior. Here is the latest news from the Indonesian artist that co-instigated that experience:

I finally built my castle and am now gearing my latest project : GOODGUYSNEVERWIN Toy Co. Please check out my latest model designs at http://ciptathewolf.multiply.com/


The month of Ramadan (the season of fasting) is now over and the hubbub that is Jakarta continues...spent much of the time on Pulau Macan painting little robots on a private beach…even had fireworks and only one of them shot straight into the stomach of our poor Italian chef Massimo, exploding a meter away from his head, showering us all in what you can imagine to be lots and lots and lots of tiny granules of burning gunpowder. Very exciting.

My latest action-horror flick will hit the Indo cinemas at the end of the year if the Executives don't request yet ANOTHER revision from the special effects department...all those explosions cost a bomb... haha get it, explosions - cost...a...bomb...oh nevermind...and the motorcylce is STILL being built.

Eating Roots Until Forgotten

Some selfish @(#&(@!)()*$ flogged this black jacket of Rastafarian colours at the launch of Über_Lingua's Sydney club. If you see someone with it they are most probably the only Oz owners of it. Good luck to him/her. I got it at Mexico's El Chopo 'punk' markets and will look for another next time there. How nostalgic I feel about the loss of that jacket...as well as a break in weekly Sydney gigs.

When in Melbourne, head to a place called St Jeromes for Über_Lingua vibes of multilingual mayhem. You can meet and hear people like Curse Ov Dialect, bP and Isnod. Here are some relevant words I once jotted down in between selecting tunes:

Humus – human;
earth, ground -
of man.
So-called reason is Latin farmed:
eating roots until forgotten,
languages hunted and gathered.

The most fertile soils
of lush native jungle floors succumb to easily,
washed away without conscience;
heaped compost, brown – black! – treasure;
even the skin of famous red soils pierced to push
nutrition towards the heavens.

Grab enough air to eat;
priceless, tasteless.

White are the dead shells, ground by water;
our colourless, omnipotent lifeblood.

It is not the voice that commands the story: it is the ear

Genghis Khan founded the biggest empire the world has ever seen. Genghis was of "Barbarian" hordes of the steppes; he hated cities and razed them to the ground. The militaristic empire didn’t expand on building anything but on ruins, souls: invisible cities.

Marco Polo came from the powerful city state of Venice, controlling a global empire whose cultural legacy inspires to this day. The city father’s previous home had been razed to the ground by "Barbarian" tribes of the north, and they built Venice on 118 islands joined by 400 bridges. Since being built, the commercial empire has inevitably been sinking into the sea.

Marco Polo visited Genghis’ grandson Kublai Khan, who listened to him and made the Venetian an advisor of his court. In the last few decades, the ocean has been rising.

Kublai asks Marco, “When you return to the West, will you repeat to your people the same tales you tell me?”
“I speak and speak,” Marco says, “but the listener retains only the words he is expecting. The description of the world to which you lend a benevolent ear is one thing; the description that will go the rounds of the groups of stevedores and gondoliers on the street outside my house the day of my return is another; and yet another, that which I might dictate late in life, if I were taken prisoner by Genoese pirates and put in irons I the same cell with a writer of adventure stories. It is not the voice that commands the story: it is the ear.”

That is the voice I listen to: the ear. Cities, cities, cities: the noise of buskers, graffiti, slang spitting in the face of injustice fill my ears. Italo Calvino in Invisible Cities carefully constructs an image to slash it up, slams poles into the ground to let the foundations sink:

I do not wish your eyes to catch a distorted image, so I must draw your attention to an intrinsic quality of this unjust city germinating secretly inside the secret just city: and this is the possible awakening – as if in an excited opening of windows – of a later love for justice, not yet subjected to rules, capable of reassembling a city still more just than it was before it became the vessel of injustice. But if you peer deeper into this new germ of justice you can discern a tiny spot that is spreading like the mounting tendency to impose what is just through what is unjust, and perhaps this is the germ of an immense metropolis….

Mark Vallen :: My Nature Is Hunger

"One of my latest oil paintings has been published as the cover art for My Nature Is Hunger, the newest book of poetry from award-winning Chicano author, Luis J. Rodríguez...I talked with the author prior to creating the preliminary sketches for my artwork, and he told me that the poems in his book were about the numerous types of 'hunger' people live through - the hunger for justice, fulfillment, love, dignity - and always the hunger for a better life".

That explanation is from the blog of Mark Vallen, an artist influenced by life & Goya and Daumier, German Expressionists and the Mexican Muralists. Punk publications, Central American refugees, Nixon, and the Black Panthers were his earliest subjects and outlets.

Anger and passion all mixed-up, I found these words of naïve compassion in one of my notebooks (and published them in VIVA LA RAZA sparkles when the sun hits):

I am in love,
que taaaanto amor traigo adentro,
but on the outside, híjole,
just think about it:
Are hunters only the hungry?
Are fighters attackers or the attacked?
An intellectual needs to be constantly questioning:
how can a revolutionary drop the revolver to remain evolving?
Never standing still to build a house.
Never getting comfortable to drop the weapons.
Never eating enough to stop the hunger,
staying awake until collapsing into sleep:
hasta que caigas del sueno
para seguir, con el sueno de que te despierte la libertad.
Do you go hungry before becoming a hunter?
Do you wait to be attacked to fight?
Hunger attacks every day...

THE POINT OF THIS STORY IS: Mark Vallen's paintings will be on display at, Both Sides of the Border: Latin American and Chicano Art - a major exhibition of over forty artists from throughout Latin America and the Southwest of the U.S. The show runs from Nov. 19th until Dec. 30th, 2005. For more information, including previews of the art, a full schedule of exhibit related events, and directions to the gallery check out the website.

What to do with those whom society cannot accommodate?

'Globalization' oil painting by Mark Vallen

What is my book No Subtitles about? Asking questions? Like, what is a Cholo? The latest Mexican dictionary doesn’t list the word, and I’ll leave it for you to find out. Read my book when it's out bro. It will also contain the work of a man sticky like water, head down and fist up! Here is one of his answers I got by email (with plenty political references&wierd spellins I won't explain here either):

"Aye moi, hookn up with ya never came about. I’m still in DF battln, grubby and agro. Feeling a lot better than i did a week ago. Hitched. Had to lug this heshin bag a books along the fukn highway, onto truks, vans and whatever would pick us up. The bag ended up with indigenous prisoners incarcerated after the EPR attacks. We stayed with women, children, and some men who have been released, in a space that was given to them by the government, after politicians and their wifes got sick of the 4 year protest camp in the zocalo, where the women and children lived in boxes. Heaps of these loxichas have gone missing, been brutally slaughtered, tourcherd and all the rest that goes along with being an indigenous revolutionary south of the border. Besides learning bout the sitch and doen some soli work, i made 200 pesos in 3 days from tourists with some tale i wove, bout being robbed in Guatemala, and trying to get home. Yeah thats right, i ate like a king and feasted on the regions amazing chocolate and mezcal every day. Oh yeah and robbed 3 new books from some gringo store, one called Always Running (bout cholo coming of age, I recommend this book) Latinos in the USA…".

So I also got into this book written by a guy in LA called Luis J. Rodriguez: "It never stopped, this running. We were constant prey, and the hunters soon became big blurs: the police, the gangs, the junkies, the dudes on Garvey Boulevard who took our money, all smudged into one. Sometimes there were teachers who jumped on us Mexicans as if we were born with a hideous stain. We were always afraid. Always Running."

That is how Rodriguez begins his book, compelled to write it to speak to his son falling into "gangs" (like he had in his own youth). Why run? And how (and why) stop? The book has plenty good questions. Oh, and a glossary that defines Cholo: "A low life".

Toss me a coin, My headphone trussed love

BUSKERS. I lived in a city called Sydney four years, and I left it frequently. I developed a ritual where every time I returned I had to give a busker - any busker - in the tunnel, a generous donation. Other people visit their favourite god, donate to charities. Buskers are often around places where travellers arrive, at least in Australia and Western Europe. In Latin America, the so-called "Third World" busking is a serious occupation: on buses, intersections, metro. But still I can somehow associate it with being on the move. Medieval artists travelled to seek work: performers, sculptors, musicians. I've busked only once (so far), as an adult anyway. A story to save for later.

Now a friend in Sydney called Amy, has just sent me an email about buskers in that tunnel: "Here's what i just wrote cause i felt dumb about giving some coins to a musician in the tunnel without listening to what he was even playing!"

so:

Toss me a coin,
Gold, silver or faded
My headphone trussed love

Dreamy girl, my dream
Walk with sure timed steps
Trodden to music only you hear

I’ll play you a tune
Throned in my tunnel;
An amphitheatre of sound
with audience capacity infinite

Flick me a coin, dear
And I’ll pipe so divinely
Twiddle my bow or trill my flute

How we’ll dance together
My love, that those walking right
will be so entranced that they’ll turn left

Such musical quality
My hands and head possess
Created with desire for you
But plugged in you’ll hear me not

So just toss me a coin
And keep on walking
I’ll keep on playing

Imágenes de la Filosofia Iberoamerica :: Luis Villoro

El filósofo y la fotografia. In 2002 I met a guy for whom a camera may as well be a third eye, an extension of his body. No se llamaba Juan Villoro, pero Germán Romero Martinez. You can see Germán’s photography featured in my projects, and I hope to keep including his insidious work: of both philosopher & photographer. Que estas esperando, vete a Michoacán a ver sus imágenes, y escuchar Luis Villoro. Rumours of a Latin American Film Festival in Sydney will become reality in 2006, and ojalá you will see some of these images on exhibition there...

Evasion :: travelogue of thievery and trespassing

"We fell in love in the wreckage, shouted out songs in the uproar, danced joyfully in the heaviest shackles they could forge; we smuggled our stories through the gauntlets of silence, starvation, and subjugation, to bring them back to life again and again as bombs and beating hearts; we built castles in the sky from the ruins of hell on earth".

Yeah, that sounds very much like something I would write after a typical, everyday weekend. But in fact I'm quoting the introduction of the US-based CrimethInc. Worker's Collective. I found myself on that website after having read their book Evasion:

"A 288 page novel-like narrative, Evasion is one person's travelogue of thievery and trespassing across the country, evading not only arrest, but also the 40-hour workweek and hopeless boredom of modern life. The journey documents a literal and metaphorical reclamation of an individual's life and the spaces surrounding them—scamming, squatting, dumpstering, train hopping and shoplifting a life worth living and a world worth the fighting for."

Some fifteen months ago I toyed with the idea of publishing an anthology entitled The Anti-Travel Files. It is yet to happen, containing some of my own stories as well as anonymous and known contributors - from harassment at Israeli checkpoints to strip-searches by Japanese customs; spending the day with English homeless to hijacking Mexico City buses. Interesting stuff not PC, and not found in the average travel-book section. Inevitably this anthology will be published though, perhaps as the second ChaleChole title?

Evasion partly motivated me to do this blog, before I've got the cash to publish The Anti-Travel Files, and this morning I just found a bookmark with some of my notes in Evasion with these ideas for a blog:

How much do I shape culture as opposed to being shaped by it? Is submitting to instinctual compulsive behaviour more influential than a well thought-through structuralist approach? Which poetry is most real? Do seeds of destruction or the ashes of construction bear richer fruit? Is freedom destructive? Why don't you trust to listen to the talk of a trumpet or the whisper of wind as much as words on a page? Have you ever felt good AFTER eating Maccas? [An idea for some writers with cans at selected establishments?]