Articles by Julio Sueco

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- Run!
– What’s that noise?
– It’s the chopper, órale! Run!
– Hide by those bushes.
– I can’t, their too low, and there isn’t much to hide in.
– Chale homes! You got the cast light on you…
– What? I can’t hear you? What did you say? It’s too bright!
– Damn, here comes the migra now… fuck! just lie low…

The barren soil didn’t have much of anything on it. It’s famous for its arid terrain and the refusal of the US government to allow any building to be built there. For years the only thing in sight from this side of the border was what seemed to be a car lot. As the years went by my imagination concocted more serious and credible theories, drug smugglers came in handy to depict that parking space, maybe even crooked INS agents dealing in smuggled and stolen cars, who knows.

Between the thin wire netting, no-man’s land, were littered sniff-glue bags, filled with dried yellow glue  popular back in the 80′s an d90′s. Broken bottles and rags strewn about covered with hundreds of cigarette butts lay strewn. The soil is dry, and the wire that separates the countries was full of holes; the marines set up other measures now. Tortilla curtain was the response from indignant neighbours. I was born less than a kilometer from this other country, Tijuana.
State your citizenship. – American

Our eyes met, usually they looked at you from the very depths of their eyes to see whether you lied. Sniff, sniff seemed more like it. Bean sweat, not hamburger or saurkraut nor cole slaw, anything smelling near like maize was suspicious. “American Citizen”. The badge on his shirt spelled his name, I noticed there was an absent accent in the o of his last name. I laid my eyes on it, to see if he was raza, my lips uttered some words: ‘American Citizen’. The hand waved me away not seeing another citizen such as he, but rather more like a nuisance, laws must be abided, an undesired though with ‘rights’. I slid across, like always, my xicano look helped me over. ‘Go ahead’, the migra said, ‘pásale,’ I heard. I took a leak by the nearby toilets, like every time, my confident act; the luggage detector passed countless of bagage. I veered off and left my mark in those prison like toilets, metal urinators and metal toilet seats. They seemed like nice bathrooms, clean. I took a drink of water, something you can’t do in México’s government buildings. The hospitality greets you even when they’re assholes. I never looked back. I smiled, the red San Diego Trolley pulled in. It’s a wonderful view, like coming home. I walked forward but voices could still be heard from where I was: state your citizenship; what was the purpose of your visit to Mexico?; Are these papers for real? I went in to Mickey D’s as the voices drowned in the background

I always wondered why was it that the INS allowed, for what my suspicious eyes detected as criminals, to thrive so near the border, la línea, right next to them. I spotted them right away, you knew those people weren’t up to no good, there they were, pulling in people right smack in the middle of their faces to board buses towards Los Angeles or selling fake papers with the right connection. I mean I even sold papers there my self! I’m sure that doesn’t happen anymore, but that’s how it was, right next to them, those light green colored vehicles couldn’t figure out what those thicked mustached people were talking about or doing standing there all day and yet dress so nicely, so Mexican. Stereotypes and what people want see, that’s what made it possible, preconceived notions of what other races are like. Off course the INS was a federal institution but come on! Couldn’t they at least observe a little what was going on right there? So I grew suspicious with time, you know, the lonely citizen that watches its surroundings but is powerless to do anything about it? That’s me, not that I would rat on my own brethren mind you.

I never payed to travel on the Trolley back then. It used to be that one would declare itself illegal rather than pay those hefty fines and best yet, back then the gringos bought one’s name no questions asked, so many files on illegal immigrants in the archives of the old INS bear names like Pedro Infante, Vicente Fernandez, José Alfredo Jímenez, Chapulin Colorado, Lola Beltrán, Juana Inez de la Cruz or Paquita del Barrio, you never knew what the raza might come up with to avoid giving in one’s real name. So I travelled for free, whilst I wondered whether I should stop and visit my Aunt who lived on 8th and National or whether one should by a refeer in Chula Vista, mostly though one would rather go to San Diego’s porn shops. Though Tijuana is a sin city it had very little or not at all porn shops in the 80′s, off course why visit those shops when you can be part of a real live sex scene? It made sense for some, though for the likes of me, sex went beyond the flesh and fornication of the open prostitution markets of Tijuana’s Coahuila sector. I wanted to see naked güeras and best of all, those fancy underwear that look so delicious and tempting, lingerie. Now that was worth a run for the border.

Update: For those of you that know Swedish Eva Zetterman has placed on the web a little bit on art and media related to chicanos: Att skapa ett vi – gatukonst i Kalifornien

She has also done it in English, so there is no need to panic: Signs of Identity Processes – Street Art in California Eva Zetterman. And get aload of the title of the pdf file: haina_6_zetterman.pdf

First published: December 31, 2006 @ 21:36

Finally. I found this paper I knew was cooking because I spoke several times to the researcher myself. I managed to ask her once, right smack in the middle of her research if it was possible to see her work but that proved be a no-no and ever since then I have been out of touch from the lovely gal. Either way here is an excerpt of her work and if it interests you one can download the frigging thang here.

Author: Jonsson, Carla
Title: Code-switching in Chicano Theater: Power, Identity and Style in Three Plays by Cherríe Moraga

Keywords: code-switching, Chicano theater, Chicano, Chicano discourse, power, identity, language ideology, third space, style, hybridity, code-mixing

The thesis examines local and global functions of code-switching and code-mixing in Chicano theater, i.e. in writing intended for performance. The data of this study consists of three published plays by Chicana playwright Cherríe Moraga.

Another proyect on the go is by an old professor of mine at Stockholm University, she herself is mexican and has lived many years in Aztlán.

‘Food and Identity in Late Twentieth-Century Chicano Literature’

Even though the importance of food in the individual and collective identity of a group of people already has been studied in detail by the social sciences, literary criticism has paid little attention to the presence of food and drink in literature in general, and, much less, in Mexican and Chicano literature. Still, the presence of these everyday elements in literature in not arbitrary, it is an important part of the literary work; by the use of factors related to food (such as the preparation of dishes, the ingredients used, and the very act of eating), the texts attempt to help the reader understand the association with the Chicano identity discourse.

Mexican identity shows itself in various ways in a great deal of Chicano literature. The Aztlan myth is a fundamental element that both Mexicans and Chicanos have in common. Both groups can be considered as one, since the search for the Aztlan of the Aztecs has been and still is an important factor for all descendants of Mexicans. Aztlan, a mythological place that occupies an important part of the collective consciousness of all Mexicans (including Chicanos) cannot be placed geographically. Thus, what is ‘Mexican’ cannot be defined as something that only exists south of the border, but something that all descendants of Mexicans have.

Sounds rather interesting to me and I can wait to get my hands on this one. I never really gave much thought to food issues in Aztlán so this paper ought to wake ones appetite quite exquisitely.

Lastly, I want to mention a few other goodies. Firstly, Chicano culture is making headlines overhere and in proper Aztlán too!

Gregory Rodriguez: Swedish Mexican Food, Straight From the U.S. Sweden indulges in American culture by going on a taco binge.

You see, here — as in other parts of Europe — Mexican food was not brought over by Mexicans at all. Rather, it was introduced by American TV shows and movies. That explains why there’s a “Gringo Special” on the menu at the Taco Bar, a Swedish fast-food chain, and why nearly all the Mexican products in the grocery stores — “Taco Sauce,” “Taco Spice Mix” and “Guacamole Dip” — are labeled in English.

Beleive it or not a swedish blog got mentioned in the article so it made the rounds quite nicely.

Lastly, this blog is linked in a wiki paper! No kidding joe

I was walking towards the bus stop. I had decided for a new route and while this new-old routine paved the way for what am about to detail what made it special was a series of incidents, curious ones at that. I had left work a bit too early to rush downhill as I usually do. I tend to time the time I take to make it just in time with a few minutes to spare while the bus arrives from its departure point to my spot. So I ventured on a different venue risking somewhat the time space I usually have for this daily chore. On my way I recall being hesitant about an idea that was lurking behind my head and persisted in convincing me to go to some After Work event. This rather insistent idea was no doubt brought upon a news advertisement I had earlier seen in the morning paper where said organized venues for debauchery of these sorts are held. Mind you, not that I don’t myself engage in the pleasures of Bacus but I often tend to resist the mingling that accompanies said public displays of ethylic atmospheres preferring instead to do so before the written word. Either way, like always, I can never convince myself to go or I can never muster enough gull to venture in a pub to drink a few good old beers in company of others.

I felt thirsty and I stopped at the local kiosk, as they are called here in Sweden, to purchase something to quench my thirst. These sort of huts serve as the local junk food provider for the vicinities as they too tend to sell all kinds of disturbing media for my mexican catholic eyes as well as the local gossip yellow press. I stopped to form a queue and while I was awaiting my turn to buy my pop soda a small boy was buying candy. Now, I only have so much time to play around with so I couldn’t help but feel stressed at the little boy’s patience as he decided with intense interest over the candy he wanted to buy. For a moment I just stared at the boy and looked upon the clerk who tended the boy’s taste and choice of candy erstwhile the child verbally pointed out to the clerk what he wanted. It seems to me that he must of have named like fifteen different sorts of candies all by their name before I finally heard that there was but 50 öre left in the purchasing thus calming my impatience somewhat. This made me reminisce if I ever also once long ago knew the names of my candies.

I even entertained the thought that I perhaps felt somewhat jealous at this ability to name candy by its name. I bought my soda and went along but I can’t seem to forget this incident, however weird it was, and yes, I made the bus too.

I believe I just shook the living lights and faith foundations out of a European or Scandinavian as they prefer themselves to be known. I don’t normally like to engage in this sort of intellectual bouts with any human being beside the blank pages that the Internet offer at the disposal of those who are in the know to use said device to churn out intellectual waste such as mine. I say so because I don’t consider my intellectual output to be of the most pristine sort, indeed, I deem it pretty much low carb if you will as it is very light in many respects and albeit with as little substance as possible though its appearances might at times indicate otherwise or right out deceit the eye though I intended not to do so.

I confessed to a person who is being tested on its friendship. Said person seems to be friend material both intellectually and spiritually as well. The outpour tested his beliefs as I pitted my beliefs against his. I flatly renounced all judeo-christian faith right in his face. This rendered asunder all faith platform said friend material stood upon. One might very well wonder what sort of being would test a friend on an intellectual basis and I would readily answer, I. However, this is a point of contention that we shall quibble further on as I proceed forward on. The gist of my spiritual platform resides on the idea that Christianity is an alien form of spirituality to Native Americans. The voices of my ancestors are still to be heard inasmuch as their voice still lingers on both in the flesh as well as in the past because it hasn’t been more than 500 years since the Christian alien force invaded our shores. This very much baffled our guest at hand. Even moreso as I called his faith a malignant virus. Though the malignant adjective was left out in the conversation but was rather implied as being such.

In retrospect I am glad I came clean about my religious beliefs to this honest to God earth man. I wish not him to believe me a man of the Church though I may convey so in our conversations. Hopelly I managed to come across as a man with not much to hide. After all, I did spoke of my spiritual convulsions during my puberty. This I speak not lightly off to anyone, in fact, not too many people in my life know of my spiritual crisis as a young pre-puberty years. Yet said person now knows of this. A gift I was willing to hand to a person I deem highly in spiritual terms. I hope he understood that.

I seem to recall Bartleby, that old Melville character that so baffles many of us in this so called modern world, whenever I cherish the idea of entertaining thoughts on Chicanismo. I feel am so way beyond that that the mere thought entails and automatic I prefer not to.

I believe I have lost my English voice and I do not know how and when this happened and worst yet why. It seems as though Spanish has taken sole control over what I say, communicate and invent via the written and oral means of parlance. Mind you, this area used to be the sole realm of English hence my bafflement. As soon as I am done with the day’s rant or keyboard orgy of thoughts I am done for whatever reason and pursue only that thought in all the vanities that entail being a blog writer and in Spanish. What is up with that? One reasonable explanation is that Spanish provides a more rewarding exchange. I noticed this when I began communicating with other English writing bloggers. I could never identify with them due to some odd chasm of sorts whereby what would otherwise seem to be on the surface unity factors created deep underlying differences. Mostly because the 2 or3 years I spent peeling off propaganda from my Xicano identity Read the rest of this entry »

I don’t think many mexicans care much about the aid but rather care about were that aid will end up. Many mexicans in my generation have known for years about the crookedness in the upper echelons of our society so it is not surprising that we tend to resist any help from the US. This resistance tends to be misread by the media at large which still holds a sway on a narrative that belongs more to the better half of the latter 1800′s than the 2000′s.

We know, for example, that the leaders of our political elite will rather distribute the goods amongst themselves rather than see the needs of the nation. Those elites are like hungry beasts that require feeding to be appeased. The US happily provides the chow for them. In return, the US is content with exploiting a situation that benefits them although shortsightedly, ignore, at their own peril, the dangers it treads upon as if those dangers were more of a nuisance rather than a prevention plan in action. So the US pays a hefty sum of money for a return that consequently only creates more problems rather than offering a solution for the best buck.

Hence, pouring down money into mexico’s elite will only help the US gain incentives and create more resistance to US ideas in Mexico. While in the short run this would seem the ideal thing to do, history will repeat itself. Friedman’s Shock and Awe economics are coming to a halt and sooner or later the democratic system we all favor will have its day in Mexico. At this point in time, I suggest that the US await for more friendlier attitudes from the population in México for its help. As it is now, the US is going over the heads of the mexican population. Remember, Calderón is considered an illegitimate government, whether Americans like it or not and those are the rules of a democracy.

Hold tight to those purse strings Washington, the day when we really need you is yet to come. After all, it isn’t as if we don’t care for those territories we lost back in 1848.


One does after all feel as throwing the towel. I do feel that I am losing it. I never had trouble dealing with two languages. Yet being so far away from the center of gyration that rules my bilingualism has caused an atrophy of sorts.

One can not complain after all, it has been little over a decade since I partook of the nourishing soil that bore fruit to my bilingual status and here I am now struggling with the fruit of being a trilingual. Curiously enough I posed this very same problem to the spanish community in my Spanish blog and as a result my head got chewed and spitted. I was being too much of a show off.

I have never been to good of a peacock. I flaunt feathers yet unbeknownst to me people react mysteriously aggressive to it. In English there seems to be less care for the language realm, one can be multilingual and be no reaction to it. Either way.

Swedish has become a nuisance. There is too much noise for me to make sense of it at times. Like watching the war of the ants. Like noise interferes with English and Spanish rendering nonsense and leaving me speechless, for what else is there left for us bilinguals that must store several languages in our brains?

I have come to the conclusion that I don’t like wordpress. IT makes it difficult for me to save and I find it too troublesome to do anything with it. For example, the tags I use for technorati disappear everytime I edit the post. Perhaps I should learn to wait for the tags until am thoroughly through.

Another thing is that I don’t like my categories. I restrained myself somewhat so I now don’t know what to do except that starting all over makes one lazy at the sight of the very idea yet I see no other solution.


I know

that smile




the lips I once


or caressed

the moment I caress the calaca. It pleases me to no end to see you satisfied you got the best of this life.

Yes, that smile of yours, that repressed smirk, will have its day,

it’s gaudy day:

when I bite the dust.

I know you await the day my lips are sealed forever.

Uterus fighting the bean stalk Wonder Bra Part 1 whilst the Easter Bunny seeketh ancient ritual to pen a trite old fashion. A seahorse is thus seen a far … yeah.

Something is happening to my English.

I am becoming more aware of it. Ever since I took on the job of learning Swedish this change has been brought upon me through a very surreptitious way that, sutil.

Though I insistently argue that Spanglish is my first language due to ideological reasons, and more importantly because of environmental reasons, I was born, after all, in Tijuana, I cannot deny the fact that Spanish has been a determinant in that equation given English a sort of an uncomfortable second place in lieu of the fact that I cherish English so. However, this reasoning has its flaws because English ceases not to amaze me in contradicting the above specified. Evidence towards the latter have surfaced via real acts of isolation which would produce a deteriorated quality in the English I posses yet this has failed to materialize.

[astute language freaks will notice the running sentence there ...]

Yet this fallacy has yet to pass a crucial test because I have managed to, much to my ignorance, succeeded in learning Swedish, albeit, it took ten years, but nonetheless.

I try not to convince myself too much of the achievement because my standards are too high to fully declare victory over the Germanic language of the swedes.

We bilingual people hold very high ethics what separation of languages are concerned because if there is anything we most be honest about it is about the capacities of our own capabilities regards language. There is a systematic order in keeping the two languages at hand separate for all kind of needs.


care not

and it’s
a wake:
pues Lázaro

Dear One

Would it just be possible to somehow churn out something in English these days? Frankly speaking, I am at a loss, have I abandoned the I which speaketh the Bard’s tongue? And do tell, why is it that I harbor no animosity towards Shakespeare yet I do so towards el Manco de Lepanto? Isn’t there anything for me to contribute to this language called English these days?

I believe that Chicanos in general ought to stay clear out of politics. And if they must they should not use chicanismo as a tool to said enterprise. Chicanismo ought to be as American as American Pie. For example, no one questions white folk their background, do they now? Yes smart aleck, there is some questioning but not in the sense that it insinuates  that one is not American.  One is American, one need not explain why one is American, one is, period. It should not be up to negotiation. With it I mean one’s chicanismo. If one is to live to said standards one must also live accordingly, that is, not live as if one is American but as an American does.

Just when I thought that I was out they pull me back in” Michael Corleone in The Godfather III.

According to Carlota Cardenas quoted by Alicia Gaspar de Alba in the book that reviews the CARA Exhibition named “Chicano Art” she says, that . [sic] to apply (the word chicana) [sic] to oneself is a political act.

Chicana Feliz a.k.a Zulma Aguiar.

I refuse, or resist in this case, to render my identity to to a political act. Being Xicano is beyond a political statement. Perhaps it is so for my brethen under that Damocles’s sword called USA. I, on the other hand, long ago moved to another post. Heck, said sword proved beyond me. I am beyond the Star and Spangle. If anything, I am beyond any political ideology. Long I discovered that I need not stress to be that which my land gave as a birth right. I am, to certain extents, beyond Xicano rethoric. I am beyond the recruiting offices of Aztlán and their zealous drive to impose the ideology of this or that. I am simply a desert Xicano which claims the Southwest as its birthplace, nothing more.

I am the first to stand on my own two feet. I shame not for my accent when I utter my tongue. I shame not for my past or ancestors. I shame not for that which I am.

I will not let ignorance dictate the course my forefathers, my foremothers, treaded upon. Words will not destroy me nor will they lay out the course of my destiny. I am beyond that and more.

This fight sort of reminds one of the one the Swedish-Finish folk stride for in Finland.


The Swedish text reads as follows:

The Finish can never take care of the Swedish language and the Swedish culture. Only we, the Swedish-Finish, can do that.

Backside of the Sagrario Metropolitano in Mexico City, DF.

This parish church, quite independent of the Cathedral, adjoins it on the east. Built to the design of Lorenzo Rodriguez and consecrated in 1768, the Sagrario Metropolitano is one of the finest examples of Mexican Churrigueresque.


Detail of Mexica


Incredible, I seem to have extricated myself from one of the most dominant issues that impregnate the Xicano ens: immigration.

I don’t know why, exactly, we xicanos entangle ourselves so much with immigration. Immigration as phenomena to live the everyday, to give rise to consciousness, that thing you do when you wake up in the mornings, to create a drive to live is astounding in us. I suppose that we are so wrapped in it as children that slowly the fabric becomes the very meaningful existence of the sunrise in our daily lives. Immigration gives us sorrow, a fighting chance, happiness, excitement and a stake in that America that so often we portray as a foreign agent in our political discourse.

I feel nothing for immigration. This disinterest for the very issues that feeds much thought in Xicano narrative in the US is all but bygone. I first noticed this a few years ago but until now it has managed to manifest itself as formulated thought. It all came to light because I found myself surprised at an article that appeared in Svenska Dagbladet on how illegal immigration has saved an all gringo (pure and unstained from xicano culture one would guess) town due to the influx of illegal immigration. I’ve complained before about the skewed view this newspaper gives of illegal immigration in the US but to little or none effect, my thoughts have gone the way of disregarded thought, by the turn of a head, by unexpressed critic like ‘rubbish’ and so on.

One seldom sees an article explaining the phenomena or the causes of immigration in the Nordic press but rather one hears through the Swedish language the ailing and wailing of the American conservative outcry (a phenomena that started out in the middle of the 80’s) that mexicans are running over the USA. Perhaps that is to change

I guess that is what most riles a decent xicano about pochos. They seem to be able to have superseded this intrinsic drive and are as aloof as gringo can be. We hate that. We don’t like that. Yet here I am, away, the umbilical cord of immigration cut. I feel nothing and as if disfranchised from my community I must now seek my path. I sound like Geronimo, I know.

Luckily for me xicanismo liveth not only out of immigration.

God People

I am a spiritual being as much as the next José. I have read many words and thoughts which spring forth out of this fountain of faith. Both current thought to early greek notions of the Great Beyond. By far and not least the one that has impacted me the most and thereby influenced me since I read them has been Plotinus‘ 6 enneads. I am no stranger to Martin Buber or the hyper optimistic culture laden rethoric of Joel Osteen nor am I a Christian buff since I have read bits and pieces of other religions such as Confucius, learnt about Shinto through Yukio Mishima.  Let’s not speak of our American homegrown religions such as voodoo or ancient tribal American tradition which are more nature bound.

Yet it creeps me out to read American blogs that are heavely impregnated by their religion. And it sure astounds me to read people being driven by their faith which is reminiscent of the impulse of predestination. What surprises me the most is that they lead a life impulsed by what they believe God tells them to do. Oh, and I hate it when they say they will pray for good will.

I pray the Lord saves them from themselves and their little bubbles filled not with the love for humanity but a destructive drive that revolves around ignorance.

We have a very nice snippet of a side of Aztlán we seldom get to hear. Yes, there are countless of stories about how we came to be in Aztlán but very seldom is there any picture or specific location that pin points the odyssey. A fellow conciudadano of mine, Omar Pimienta, he of the Bookleggger collection has done it again, here he presents us with a new version of how things really are.

The old classic one from the Booklegger Manifesto:

The bookleggers manifesto:
Border scholars Javier Durán and Juan Carlos Ramírez-Pimienta have theorized the notion of “educated” Mexicans residing in the United States, Mexicans who have emigrated to the United States as well as to U.S education during their formative years and who are referred to as “Wet Minds”. The natives of the Mexican northern border states, many of whom have been pushed abroad by centralist education, cross the border on a daily basis. Since this phenomenon of the “Commuter minds” first occurred, the US immigration officers have been on the lookout for books as incriminating evidence for the crime of getting educated.

Many imprudent prospective “Commuter Minds” get caught and their rights to cross the border are taken away.

Our job is, as Capone once stated, to supply a demand.

We are the bookleggers.

Octavio Castellanos
Omar Pimienta
Clavo: Juan Laguana

Been sort of following the fuss that a candid outburst by Jessica Alba has created.

I first read it here and then occasionally peek here for any further reactions to it. I don’t think Jessica Alba realizes how much rooted racism is there in her candid declaration that she ain’t no’mo Mexican. I don’t think that she even realizes the extent of ethnic depletion she’s been through. She fails to understand that a choice by her father, to repress anything Mexican because they are ‘Americans’ burst out into a third generation still untreated. She must of still suffered along the way ’cause of the color of her skin. She inevitably fails to understand that just because a snake sheds its skin it doesn’t necessarily cease to be a snake.

As if Mexicans weren’t Americans. As if American meant WASP English speaking only. She ought to listen to my concuidadano J. Carlos Frey instead. He says that on immigration we have been told about it the wrong way, in essence, he argues that we are not immigrants. Heck, I’ll buy that any old day.

Sorry Jessica, not even  Pilatus got away with trying to wash himself from the problem and I see that not even becoming invisible nor the shield shields you away from esa sangre nuestra.

And ps, it isn’t mexicans the ones churnig out loads of kids,  heck, I say we are lacking in the dept. The US has a population over three times the size of México and in the US it is the white people that are the majority, not mexicans. White people tend to be nuclear and hence seem like they are less, we mexicans just tend to prefer family bonds and ties so we tend to look big but in fact are fewer than gringo nuclear peeps.

While denankius can trace its origin to mockery of the imitation of saying de nada with an Anglo pronunciation thus producing the lexeme denankius its ramifications are yet to be explored.

Denankius occurs because we southwestern peeps try to do a reduplication, a rhyme if you will. tenkius, denankius.

Denankius arises as a silly imitation to try to be anglo-speaking as well though only to signal that the speakers is not an anglo-speaker. From a phonological perspective this is highly possible because the slide from a fricative to a velar is not hard at all.

Also notice how easy it is to apply certain anglo grammar rules to new espanglish words, de nada, two words become as a compound once the transformation has occurred.

A closer research for the post of the day provides interesting results:

Denankius in google

Post originally appeared, though under different circumstances in Xicano hasta las madres.

Can barely move a finger without causing a tsunami of sweat in me. Profusely alltså. I suppose its to do with the mexican gene thang. Had I been in good ol’Califas this would not be so notorious. After all, one is by default a shadow seeker. We seek the fresh of the darkness. Either that or an air conditioned milieu. Acá is another story, as soon as the sun hits the Swedish Highlands n’ombre, am sweating like I have my own personal shower head above me. This tends to cause all sorts of conmotion from the non-using-deodorant-swedes. The same people who are blissfully unawares that their armpits reek, no, make that, stench, frown upon the beeds of sweat rolling down  in my face.

I can’t stand it. Once I start sweating it is a machine with a slow shutdown process. Or my body kicks in in Calido Forno mode. Who knows. I just can’t seem to make it stop. Luckily for me here in Sweden this sort of mild heat, ’cause I suppose we are nowhere near the temperatures of Death Valley, is a passing phenomena, so far eitherway.

I used to think that we mexicoons had an appetite for salt due to just the sweat common to us all Californios. I used to argue, with no credible evidence at hand to support my bullshit that we ate salt like cotton sugar because we sweated salt pits hence an excuse for the salty buds and the need to replenish said salts

Here in Sweden there is no salt culture, in fact, most of their foods tend to lack the old conservative spice. When I so happen to forget my place in this ancient bastion of protestantism, I often ask for some salt because my paladar somehow lures me to imagine that salt is common and is just but a matter of asking for it. What I get instead is a weird look as if I was asking for the God’s ambrosia.

- Why, pardon me sir, we don’t usually receive said request, why, we are in fact stunned at the fact, that someone would indeed ask for salt. 

So yeah, it’s hot today.

With the English Only debate raging across the states of the US and a personal conclusion along the linguistic lines of learning a new language there is much to be said regards the topic at hand.

English Only is one of those distracting issues which political Republicans in the dual political establishment of Washington tend to chew at every now and then to draw attention away from the electorate. Nothing like a thorny and contentious issue to give beleaguered leaders a fresh breath of air. I personally don’t understand how in the world a language can save identity or strengthen it when language, and I speak from experience, is nothing more than a communications tool best manipulated by people who know languages and not by so-called nativists and monolinguals who are too lazy to even bother to research their language beyond the charms of the dialectal aspects that make up a given population. And I suppose that English Only proponents might find the English language the most natural language for the US but alas! by applying said thinking they are exacting a price on the Americas still fresh out from colonial rule. Forget the most natural languages of America, those spoken by natives of the land.

The most curious thing of the English Only gang is that they want to do their bidding in a democratic fashion by squashing all forms of attempt to communicate with the government in none other language than English hence creating a so unamerican institution such as a hierarchy between those who know and those who don’t know and their meddlesome middlemen otherwise known as translators. Which is ironic in some fashion because that would mean that the democratic principle of one man one vote would in effect exclude said votes inasmuch as voting in America is a federal institution who, if there will be such a mandate to implement, create a transloacracy peddling interpretations at the best price. I can now see the interests group market drooling that a new cadre of power peddlers are creating their own niche and the commissions they will exact to them for stomping on their grounds. This may sound dirty but it seems that those proposing their own agenda to fulfill their need of belonging at the expense of others are willing to throw the baby along with the water.

Then again these days it is not so much about democratic ideas but of extreme principles and dire consequences isn’t it? We must heed the cry of the leaders that decry the sky is falling. It has happened before and it will happen again, so there. Embolden the bilinguals of America to take a stand, they ought and we ought to raise our voice once and for all to this silly notion that America the Great only speaks English, caca de toro sayeth I.


Well, I finally realized the futility of it all. Learning a third language has cost me my dignity, my self esteem and countless hours of intense and embarrassing pain that still manages to kick in a pang or two as we speak. The excruciating pain I tell you. O-uch10.

To put it simply it has not been worth it. I suppose that I could of chosen a more lenient language variant other than the Swedish one but I ended up with this one due to family and unlike friends well one can’t choose that either. Please, allow me to expound.

What has made me to come to such a drastic decision, and some have said superfluous and ludicrous at some point during the past 2 weeks where I have ventilated said dangerous and precarious period in my life, well ten years of trying to master the Swedish language, that’s what, I have retorted randomly in minor tones as well as exaggerated ones and at times, I do confess, with a tad of irritation in my voice which has thrown some of my acquaintances off guard, no doubt partly due to some intoxicating spirits. And some impatience of mine to thwart off the masses appeal of learning a third language so positive in society. There has not been any positives in acquiring a new language as of far. At least not in the everyday if you will.

Learning Swedish has been a gateway to many treasures, yes, one cannot deny the fact of that yet on the other hand it has also been a constant source of irritation on one account. I am not sufficiently proficient at it to make my point come across. There, I said it, am not a good Swedish speaker. So learning a third language does bring its limitations along with it and that is that one must be ready to surrender the I of one’s constitution and let it be thrown to the hungry and savage beasts of ignorance to be had for brunch and leftovers. Either that or I am a jinxed motherfuck who has been lotted nothing but unkind and unfriendly sentients on this earth of ours all whilst I try to communicate with the so-called earthlings on this far fetched patch of mostly frozen dirt. Yes, I am reduced to nil every time my mouth opens to communicate in Swedish. This has been hard to endure because I have sacrificed personal development at the expense of trying to be understood, and I pray feverishly most of the times for it, halfways.

Swedish people will not meet you halfway when learning a new language. They will neither try to correct you nor they will try to finish your thoughts thereby creating a bridge for a common understanding. The pro’s an con’s of this attitude I have not weighted with earnest and I only mention it here because I have a grudge at it. I am most certain there is a positive in their attitude towards Swedish language learners yet I fail to grasp the purpose in it. This attitude as only left me rueful at best.

But the important thing here about my firm, unwavering adherence to the judgment upon my third language learning is that it limits me as a person in the everyday. Speaking Swedish means a certain death for me as a person because I cannot fully express myself. I can at most present a half cooked notion of my full potential and pray it is welcomed with open arms yet that seldom happens.

I like the swenglish version of the word time. They write it the way I titled this post, tajm. It occurred to me that I place a somewhat sentimental value to it inasmuch as it reminds me of the Spanglish word taimar, which means to tame, because tajm happens to have nearly the same phonological properties as taimar, excluding the -ar off course. Hence the association.

Though these days am far from being able to accomplish said feat. I am, you see, at an awkward position in my life and I feel time more like a sharp arrowhead on its way to pin me down like a dead insect on a wall. Though that only bespeaks half the story inasmuch that I cannot fight the propulsion of time setting its rushing intentions to penetrate the living matter that constitutes my ens.

I think pinned down would be utmost appropriate to describe the rush to beat the incoming arrowhead with its dead certain bull’s eye accuracy. Though one must admit the futility in it all, I am not denying the fact that I posses the knowledge to outsmart the trajectory of the flint. I have at my disposal a number of strategic mental solutions to beat the inevitable and in the end smile at the fact that even though I dodged the course set before me I will at most end up only moderately bruised bi it and yet succeed at any rate albeit my way.

I have always been unable to deal with success. Now am not boasting about the kind of success that one often associates success with but rather those minor successes that make the very fabric of ordinary life.

I recall that I once became some sort of an unintended hero to my fellow classmates. I then attended a middle high school in Tijuana. The name of the school was Secundaria Para Trabajadores Federal número 42. It was a source of great pride for me to attend that school because it lay in a corner of great importance for me and the city. It was in the Lázaro Cardenas grounds, a piece of dirt dear to us tijuanenses. I don’t exactly recall the lesson at the time but I recall more the people and the act I unsuspectingly became a part of in a web of events I did not fathom as much back then. I had spitted from a second floor and my spit had landed on our teacher’s head. Without much hesitation we all rushed into the classroom and pretended nothing had happened. That however, did not hinder the teacher from finding out exactly who it was who had perpetrated the deed. I seem to have been expulsed for a day and when I returned the following day I was received with a standing ovation that shook my senses and rendered me unable to deal with the acclaim. I then proceeded to ignore the acclaim and much to my own surprise thought myself above the acclaim and started to belittle those applauding me by simple going to my seat!

It just seems that I sour the moment near success and I suppose that is what ails me timewise these days.

Have had a weird headache today. Someone told me it was because thunder weather was in the air. I never realized that one could be influenced by the weather in such a fashion. I suppose I never thought about how the weather might affect the body. It reminds me a little about the crazy notion in México that pregnant women have to wear a safety pin somewhere in their garments when the moon is out. Now I never paid much attention to this type of relations to weather conditions, until today. What if that is true?

I was, am ready to believe that for an awkward reason if you will. Am I becoming more gullible as the years go by? Here in Sweden they tend to fear the thunder and yes there is such a thing as thunder weather, at least here in the Swedish Highlands anyway. People scamper like silly ninnies whenever the roar of the old Gods are heard above one. Like I said, I have lived pretty much the rest of my life not associating weather and corporal ailments like the one today but somehow I need and explanation for my headache and that seems to suit it well. I usually have all kinds of aches but am so dum that I just ignore them and never really seek an explanation as to why, I nurse them, they go away and that is what usually goes by with me and pain, until today I suppose.

I suspect another reason though. This weird association is somewhat flattering to my ego because in a weird way it makes me part of the milieu, Sweden, a part of something. Oh well.


Ready made blogs seem to make it easier for a lot of bloggers. Gone are the days when the blog masses seemed to spend as much on the blog as they spent writing on their blog. I suppose there was a collective short circuit and many just couldn’t deal with the symbiosis of both being a sort of techi and a writer. I should know what am talking about. I still deal with strange blog phenomena.


Scheweden is receiving nice like sirocco winds of a sort. Ja! For this corner of the world anything above the freezing level is a hot summer day. So everything is falling in place like any other season, that is if we are not suddenly attacked by martians for being such the sneaky voyeurs always spying on them or a terrible dislocation of the earth’s poles sending day and night to different dimensions of sorts. Flowers bloomed, are blooming, the neighbor smiles more often and I fight the lawn and a pile of guilt about time pressure to finish a 7000 hour ago project today rattles menacingly by the second. Either way, I expect that the normal june rains will make their entrance any day now.


Have kept most to myself these days.

Elections will be held today in the mexican state of Yucatán. I shall briefly discuss some issues of pertinence and what I believe are issues of significance to mexican politics as a whole.

Normally state elections in the highly centralized Tenochtitlán don’t get much attention but these elections are being used as a barometer for the credibility status of beleaguered president, Felipe Calderón. The current cynicism that prevails in the masses is already giving out the outcome to the duo of the PRI and PAN otherwise known as PRIAN since many don’t see any difference between the two latter political parties.

The Felipe Calderón camp is betting, of course, for a continuation of the PAN and current thinking is that the PAN has negotiated the favorable outcome in Yucatán in exchange for a less and minor victory in the next state elections of the aztec federation which are to be held in Baja California in August of the present year at hand.

The problems are not little because in Yucatán the forces there are controlled by the nefarious personality of Don Diego Fernández de Cevallos. This politician casts a very dark shadow steeped in the most conservative of mexican politics that it has to give. He is often portrayed in political cartoons as an old Conquistador because he likes a strange kind of power which dates back to master and servant relations in México. He seems to prefer a weak mexican state because his political trajectory has been one to favor big business and old rich mexican families which traditionally dislike all sorts of government interference in their daily affairs. Ever since the so called alternancia,, that is, the transition of powers in México, and before that in the Salinas government, he has been an important power broker in mexican politics and hence it would be most unlikely that he would let his native land fall to his bitter and staunchest enemies, the left. Having accumulated so much power over the years it almost seems impossible that he’d not use that power to influence the outcome of the elections and that to his favor. So the governorship of the most secessionist state of México, will most likely continue to be held in the hands of the PAN although it is going to be disputed to add a pinch of credibility to the elections.

Of course, the PAN is also not keen to be to seen as a continuation of the perfect dictatorship as the Peruvian writer Vargas Llosa once called the PRI so this year we also have the novelty that for the first time in México’s political history independent candidates are being allowed to partake in the kerfuffle of mexican politics. However, it is unlikely the PAN is ready to let go of Yucatán since they firmly believe most people still believe they are democratic and the huge oil interest that abound in the yucatan peninsula, which happen to be of interest to those who trickle down the Potomac, lie underneath the struggle for power in that state.

This puts the Calderón posse in a bind because it is also unlikely they will want to give up the cradle of their symbolic democracy movement which happens to be Baja California. But if anything is true of the PAN these days is that ideology means nothing to them. I say this not lightly because current criticism of the PAN is that they have forgotten their political roots in exchange for a status quo that endangers the very institutions of the mexican nation. They are in fact prolonging a politic ideology that prefers a weak state, one that easily subyugates to the whims of the West wing.

Yucatán then is a good barometer not just for democracy in México but also as a thermometer which can tell us how hot things are to get the next coming days. Remember, México is undergoing dramatic changes as we speak even though one wouldn’t hear it from the major media outlets of the world.

Somehow all of my permalinks got extremely fucked up and I had to go under the hood of this contraption to figure out just what in heavens tarnation went awry. I quickly came to the conclusion that it was eons if not eras since I was under there. I had to get the curiosity trinket to get me interested all over again in the php, html and other jargon that induces behavior I desire in the blog. Alas! I failed to get the old drive in me to figure out what was wrong and decided best to just change through a lame form what I wanted to see not as it was before but what was available to my knowledge base which was emptier than a jug at a hillbilly whiskey contest. So a lot of the permalinks out there that redirect to certain pages in the blog are in effect only redirecting to the blog main index giving the reader the awful task of doing the search for desired document by hand if you will. I just hope the reader has more stamina and success to search said desired documents than me trying to understand blog behavior.


On other unrelated news I finally changed some of the songs in the radio blog on the sidebar. Enough with the techno industrial ding a dong and onto the Xicano stuff, I’m on an Aztlán ese! mood. Though I frankly fail to grasp if the radio is seen in the US (my main source of readership) since I get the impression that broadband is limited in the US. In Sweden broadband is the norm rather than the exception. I get this impression mostly out of the Agonistas which post at the Agonist and who have created a niche on the internet situation in the US albeit somewhat shallow though enough for my attention retention span which has a breadth of a whopping 0.34 miliseconds capacity.

Ever since mexican President Felipe Calderón entered office in Los Pinos, the mexican equivalent of the White House, the mexican military has had more than its share of the limelight.

Before Calderón, the military was a topic of dubious temptation because many in mexican society decried the mexican military to be some kind of social panacea to the ills that ail the mexican nation. Mostly as a panacea to the ineptitudes of the judiciary system which has been, up to date, inefficient in combating all sorts of crime.

The military has now been in action since the inception of the Calderón presidency and as always, the military has had clashes with how society works. A cultural shock is in place as we speak. A deadly one might I add.

This after it finally had cleared itself from the 1968 Tlatelolco Massacre.

One would have to ask the mexican military with what kind of bedfellows it beds with.

Ever since Calderón came to office the military has had to endure ridicule at the hands of the President beginning with a portrayal of Felipe Calderón in military garment that barely fitted him making him look like a Charles Chaplin in a drunken haze to the accusations the military has not been able to shake off of violating an elderly autochtonous nahuátl inhabitant of Veracruz.

Add to that that today five military service men died at the hands of narco men then one begins to suspect that the panacea was less than the expected maná which was to quell the hunger for justice in the old Aztec nation.

In a nation with a tendency to undermine its democratic institutions like a Hong Kong under British rule one can scratch its head at will.

The military is in disarray and in need of direction.

This ultimately affects the US in one way or another. For in the long run the policy towards the South has been quite at odds with public discourse.

And this doesn’t bode well with the flow in the Potomac because there seems to be a flow against the current, and if a lowly citizen can detect that then the Powers to be have to explain a lot just exactly is it that is going on South of the Border.

Ask a Mexican in Svd

Click on image to enlarge.

I could scarcely believe my lying eyes when I landed on the article. ¡Ask a Mexican! By Gustavo Arellano in the Swedish press. I have known of this column since the blogsphere presented it to me some two odd years ago. I had reservations at first but somehow I still keep on reading it as many chances I get to read it. It’s funny, what can I say.

Mexicans in the Swedish press tend to be quite either the exotic beings with a rich cultural past or the more gringo traditional take on the mexican, a burden like a pest.

When Swedes speak of mexicans in the US its more like two birds of a feather flocking togehter, the Swedes, the US. Like Swedes saying we understand your dilemma. From a law perspective off course. The focus lies on the illegality of things.

One seldom sees an article explaining the phenomena or the causes of immigration in the nordic press but rather one hears through the Swedish language the ailing and wailing of the American conservative outcry (a phenomena that started out in the middle of the 80′s) that mexicans are running over the USA. Perhaps that is to change?

The present article brings the aforementioned forth adding that to its merit that is precisely what Ask a Mexican! does: pin point the absurd in gringo mentality by declaring some aspects of an equation in immigration as illegal [mexicans crossing illegal into the US] but never what other aspects contribute to the equation, in this case, that employers that hire illegal immigrants don’t get the notion of illegal either since it is illegal to hire illegal immigrants.

Source: Image in blog comes from a photo taken on Monday the 30th of April and the article thereby presented appears in the printed Sunday edition of the Swedish newspaper Svd on page 21 in the International section.

First posted at the Agonist.

First and foremost I would like to point out that despite Sean Kelly’s bragging about his Spanish skills there’s still isn’t a México category in the topic section of the dairies. Though I guess one not ought to complain since the label Latin America ought to suffice for more than 22 countries that speak Spanish, including México in that lot.

Having let that grudge out of the chest we shall move forward with the business of extrapolating mexican politics in an very brief and concise manner. Though space is not an issue I must take into account for two factors in the exigency at hand, one, the short attention span of the blog reader who mostly out of happenstance clicks on the link and the other less likely these times, interest in the topic at hand.

Botched attempts at legitimatizing Calderón via the US media have resulted in awkward spells the sort that remind one of Macbeth. And at home the thing doesn’t get any better.

So beside the media blitzkrieg which has characterized the Calderón presidency thus far what is said beyond TV, and by it I mean the net, I am, after all, in Sweden, might I remind those not in the know, the Spanish written outlets paint a not so pretty picture for the current TV and Big Business sanctioned president of México.

First, allow us to remind ourselves that Calderón started his troubled presidency by trying to present an image of a tough man of the law. He brought out the army out of its barracks to fight lawlessness, created by none other than his predecessor, Vicente Fox. The idea was simple: since police enforcement was so corrupted that the federal government had to use its last credible institution to fight crime it had no choice but to enforce the law by means of military intervention.

It backfired.

By declaring war on crime many who entertained the idea that something was left of a powerful and centralized government received a shocking truth. They earnestly thought the government would quell bad boys and they praised the government for the initiative. Alas! the mexican army has not only exacerbated the situation in the 31 states that make a quasi highly centralized federation called México by staining the thin line between civil and military laws it has also exposed the men in green to the follies of a society which revolves around a corrupt spin in every event of its daily life. The military has put into question the very fabric of the federation and placed a thin rope on a Democles Sword above a fragile constituency. The Army is now stained with murder, corruption and above all, is acting as if they themselves are above the law.

Second, Calderón has made a series of blunders that inevitably will affect not only the nefarious NAFTA deal co-signed by the Salinas-Bush gang but the very fabric which has distinguished Canada, the USA and México in this lofty yet spurious accord. This no doubt in part with the USA’s aid. Now, I say the latter because the USA has a record of a Catholic priest on penance on Easter Sunday. Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa can be heard every day in the US media, at home but abroad, the story is different. Abroad, these Utilitarian and old Methodist evangelical sons and daughters would give two rats about the very land they so dearly want to save for the Lord they purport to serve. Indeed, one can even give a stretch of the imagination and argue that if it weren’t for all those pesky mexicans which insist in being in México things might just be a tad smoother for all concerned.

Those blunders start with the very presidency he purports to represent, which Fort Knox springs to mind since Calderón can’t be seen around the people that elected him to the chair he so comfortably sits in because repudiation will sprout like a stubborn weed that just keeps coming back.

And oh yeah, then there are those pesky budgets which of lately are spilling the beans like wild grass in early spring. Yes, discrepancies about Vicente Fox’s use of taxpayer’s money are flourishing like flowers on a green meadow. He has lots to explain but don’t expect him to get caught by the amputated arm of the law in México. Nope. Now that would be akin to a wanker’s wet dream coming through.

The list goes on and the fight even more so. To the point that even the Catholic church has stepped to defend its favorite candidate this despite the fact that the mexican constitution prohibits the clergy from partaking in politics, but does the Catholic church care? Go read mexican papers to find out.

Well, I suppose that what I want to say is that México is on the verge of something, may it be 2010 or a real democracy unfolding south of the border I know not. But something is afoot, and that’s for sure.


thou sayeth I ain’th a Xicano

in every stop in your language

thou ain’t

sayeth thou

What is then one to do

with the language wiring

which spreadeth itself like a posin ivy


my spiral spine.

Thou aren’th born in Califas but in Tijuas.

’tis true sayeth I.

That Tijuas saw to it fit to mother the I’eth

which constitueth

the I in me.

I then am an illegal alien in a spiritual body

which can not see beyond

its carnal knowledge.


None feeleth the goose bumps


they arise

e my

brown skin

as I


the tunes


for America the blessed one




gets stoned

for questioneing

the status quo

I have always had trouble believing am a Xicano. No matter that the evidence points to the fact that I am just that.

This has become even more apparent for me here in Europe. the Nordic corner, isolated from Aztlán. Being away from the motherland has proven a sky that raineth a manna of ideas. I started out by declaring myself a prop. 187 exile. The first Xicano in exile driven away by Pete Wilson and his conservative tirade of this and that of the likes of me. Then I wrote. I wrote and I discovered the real Xicano in me through the written word. I did this both in Spanish and English.

This has proven quite productive because xicanismo is closely tied to language. I am fortunate to love language so in the process of peeling the core that I had in proper Aztlán, using language as a peeler, I discovered layers of myself that I figure I would not have otherwise managed to put in evidence to the naked eye of the I.
Through my language [read: English, Spanish, Spanglish, Espanglish, the southwest dialect] I learned who I really am. I found my roots. Being away from the American psycho identity dominatrix that usually sadomasochistic fellows like me tend to bed with gave airs of freedom unbeknownst. It was a breath of fresh air away from the stars and stripes which hangeth upon the xicano ens like a Democles sword.

We xicanos tend to prefer the gringo in us because it is just the gringo in us which makes us. And because some of us only understand that side, and use our mexican heritage like a mourning gown we never take of, we react defensively to anything that threatens this ‘identity’. Though this theory is hardly embraced because it means that Aztlán lieth not in one nation but precisely in the being of two de facto lands. So don’t expect people to nick away in approval at the latter exposed idea.

Little is known about the degree of gringoness in each and one of us. We discuss this not because doing so would mean too much differentiation rendering atoms a mere metaphorical image. So while we spouse in all glory all México we seldom do so our American side. Yuck say some. Too pocho, too gabacho. Yet it is this very aspect that we tend to let radiate most in us.

We don mexican heritage like a perennial día de los muertos affair, in all earnest, we live a past and live the gringo present. Although some xicanos drape themselves in their mexicanness like a fashion gown, alas! their appearance or self image, shallow like a dead river bed. This gringo alienates us from one another because as gringo nature is we feel different. The kind of different that says am better than you. An am and you world which builds canyons the like of the Grand one. It is a fact which cannot be denied. Tis easy to lay claim to Aztec culture and ignore the rest. Tis easy to lay ink to flesh temples of the Maya when Geronimo, so close yet so far away from Quetzalcoátl, remains in the sands of the Sonora Desert surrounded by the silence of time.

I, for example, have been excluded from my so-called brethren from both sides. My brethren xicano infected by Manifest Destiny from Los, desperately trying to integrate to US society after more than 150 years of ‘integration’ and by my xicano brethren infected by over 70 years of mexican nationalism who are yet to realize how xicanos they are because one tends to cease to be mexican once one ceases to be present in México or adopts strange customs. Never mind those customs have nothing to do with, say, Tijuana.

I feel the difference like a slight scent of garlic because am not fully Mexican and because am not fully American, that is, I lack the papers on the one side and I lack presence on the other. That is my most natural state. A state that perhaps ensued in me a quest for learning to command the whip which castigated me the most, language. So I learned to command what the land gave me as a birthright. And this difference became even more apparent. I went below the shallow.

I was born in Tijuana, raised in Southwestern traditions from the San Francisco Bay Area to San Diego County. Of recent I have reached a sort of compromise with myself. I say am a xicano tijuanense. Un xicano de este lado. That is, a Xicano which is not born in the US.
By adhering to this formula I allowed myself to become closer to my own surroundings. That is, I saw that which nurtured me whilst I breathed Geronimo’s sand through nostrils filled with muck from other lands. Santa Ana winds cleared the way and I now spouse the indigenous in me and do not let myself be fooled by common Chicano semiotics.

Off course it still irritates me to be xicano in the vicinity of my gringo cousins because though I speak english I am not a US citizen. Here in Sweden they a saying about Germans: there is a little Hitler in every German. I can say this about my gringo Xicano cousins: there is a little migra in every US born Xicano.

Híjole, we must be the only race in the world that is consumed by itself.

By Frank Jack Daniel

MEXICO CITY (Reuters) – A moth with a big appetite that once chomped its way through huge swaths of cacti in Australia has landed in Mexico, where the spiky plant is a favorite food stuff and major agricultural product.

Officials said on Friday a moth trapped close to the beach resort of Cancun this week could be the same species that destroyed some 50 million acres of cacti in Australia, opening the possibility the moth will spread to Mexico’s cactus farming regions.

The Cactoblastis cactorum moth landed on Mexico’s Caribbean island Isla Mujeres last year, sparking a major government pest control operation.

Pest control agents have set up hundreds of traps along the coastline and are searching hotels and private homes for further signs of the moth.

“This is war,” said Enrique Sanchez, head of plant and animal health in Mexico. “If lots of them arrive we will try to destroy the largest number possible with pesticides.”

The edible cactus, or nopal, industry in Mexico is worth about $150 million each year. About 10,000 farmers cultivate the plant.

“Before the Chicano and the undocumented worker and the Mexican from the other side can come together, before the Chicano can have unity with Native Americans and other groups, we need to know the history of their struggle and they need to know ours.  Our mothers, our sisters, and brothers, the guys who hang out on street corners, the children in the playgrounds, each of us must know our Indian lineage, our history of resistance.”  – Gloria Anzaldua

Well, it seems that the gorge of buddy making in the so called blogostitlán is done and over with. Many of the bloggers that started out as a chain like minded club barely write anymore or stand out as islands these days with no direction in sight.

I did the rounds on the links I have and many wail that they don’t write anymore and there interests for things Aztlán is long gone. Long gone are also the questions that forced a label upon them and long gone are also the memories that usually permeated the posts of said bloggers.

Many failed to realize that Chicanos are too different from one another to really form any group and many failed to realize that their superordinate label ‘American’ supercedes any notion of Chicanismo in their lives. What I mean by this is that the fear of being labeled alien is stronger than the fashionable chicano, we all love the stars and stripes but even more, we fear the questioning of our americanism.

Many also fell into the trap of racism accusing chicano culture of being essentially racist. Terms such as raza, güero, gringo and other terms raza uses to discuss the Other became a point of contention amongst some bloggers that just wanted to question us rather than explore the origins of said terms or why we used them at all. Many backed off quickly and began recoiling at the idea that their chicanismo was a sort of racism in disguise. They quickly forgot that chicanos embrace all forms of races in its ens.
Others just simply wanted out because blogging requires incredible amounts of energies to pursue its goal, to write on a frequent basis.

Then there is a point of contention being boiled as we speak, what is the Xicano blogsphere? I, for example, prefer a more militant form of xicano blogging that stands in direct verbal confrontation with the Other. I prefer cholo xicano and older more akin to the culture of xicanismo I grew up with.

Then there is a more pocho culture that embraces both cultures more openly which tends to cause friction with the latter above mentioned. Then there are the new arrivals to Aztlán which lack any form of direct contact with Aztlán which tends to cause friction with the latter two mentioned.

Be that as it may while the Xicano blogsphere seems to have dwindled somewhat in some corners though in other corners it blossoms. There are many sites and blogs that bespeak of xicanismo in all sorts of form. It is spreading out and the singularity factor that dominated the birth of the Xicano blogsphere. Even the kind of xicanismo that I spouse seems to be coming out.

Though I have nothing against the xicanismo which embraces Aztec and Maya semiotics, at the present time I give more time to my own kind of Xicanismo, desert related xicanismo which has been but forgotten.

I recently put this WTF blurb over at technorati.

Tijuana has for the past several years been a constant source of talk. If it’s not politics, police, music or arts Tijuana is doing what it tends to do best, get wasted.

Tijuana is a city which lies on the furthest northern area of México. It borders the USA and i’s neighbor is San Diego. It faces the Pacific Ocean. There is an incredible amount of business going on around Tijuana both legal and illegal but its usually the illegal sort of business that tends to attract the limelight. Specially the drug related kind which is so powerful that it tends to corrupt every form of institution on both sides of the countries, the US of A and México.

Native population of Tijuana is rather small. We are referred to as tijuanenses and tijuanenses tend to be bilingual, that is, we speak English and Spanish though this might be lopsided as there is an incredible amount of Mixtecos, people from Oaxaca, México, native to Tijuana too and whose own language is preserved so tijuanenses can be and are probably trilingual as well.

It has a population of about 2 million with a floating population of 500, 000 give or take.At the present time Tijuana is governed by a notorious person whose reputation is questionable, Jorge Hank. This man of politics belongs to one of México’s richest families and has several dark rumors always following him. It is rumored that he has mafia ties and that he is the intellectual mastermind behind the assassination of a journalist from Tijuana. May people dislike him and one can imagine he is getting a bad rap. He will soon leave office to run for governor of Baja California.

Tijuana recently became a bit of world wide news because the federal government in México ordered the military to take the town by storm, and that they did. They came and attacked the police! That’s right, when the federal government sent the men in green they didn’t go after the bad guys they went for the local police. They disarmed them, had them fingerprinted and left the city without a police corps for nearly a month. The police decided to ridicule the federal forces so they started to fight with rocks and slingshots …. Funny thing is that for a while not having the police armed proved to be a sort of blessing in disguise, crime went down and the city was calm. The federal police are still in Tijuana but the bad guys seem to have grown restless so everything is back to the same smut as always.

Tijuana has always been a little clandestine for puritan güeros from the US. Americans have been coming to Tijuana since the prohibition era to get shots of tequila down south and the stream of gringos hasn’t let up since then.

Tijuana, however, has also been getting loads of news from an unusual front, its arts.

As always, the cultural duality that permeates its citizens is the source of admiration both abroad and at home. There are writers whose lingo is well admired and a source of admiration for many. Many Chicanos hail from the city, Luis Alberto Urrea and Lalo ALcaraz are some of them. The tijuanenses which tend to embrace its mexicanness tend, however, to ignore its American side due to indoctrinated ideology of refusal for anything gringo. Spanish writers from Tijuana are the likes of Federico Campbell and Luis Humberto Crosthwaite. Yes, with last names like that they still insist in being an all mexican or nothing lot.

Some L.A artists have said best:

we’d like to proclaim the Mexican City of Tijuana as the new “center of the art world”. Henceforth, we think that all trends in contemporary art should be set by those artists residing in Tijuana, and that international artists should trek to the city along the U.S./Mexico border in order to find inspiration, make connections (and of course sales), and study and work with some of the finest artists in the world.

There is Yonke Art as well.

Musicallywise there is world acclaimed Nortec, Julieta Venegas and a host of other people which escapes my mind now.

There is a blog culture as well but seems quite dormant these days.


where just gonna hafta dock some pay out of your check ese.

Pero porwhy eses?

Chale homes, you like pay more attention to the Spanish and Swedish blogs nowadays than me ese.

Pero its not done intentionally ese!

Sorry, a dock it is.

I hope la Raza de LA, Aztlán proper, receives this jerk like he deserves it, like the traitor he is to mexican democracy!


For more info where this non-democratic friendly fiend you can click here.

Want to send your letter of protest to the center which is to host this undemocratic fellow?


Subject: Fox

I am offended as a Mexican citizen to read you are having Fox (the man who betrayed Mexican democracy)speak at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. This thing that you are doing is sending the people of Mexico a clear message that you value those who undermine people’s rights and democratic values.



I found this pic over at flickr. Viva la raza.

One wonders if it is indeed a case of self-censorship.

Had they gone ahead with the results I imagine it would had been quite an odd thing to pour graces on a person who is non grata. It would certainly go against the anti-communist mentality that still prevails in spirit if not flesh amongst the politburo elite in the US or the flow of the Potomac though the Cold War vanished years ago.

I am speaking of Time magazine’s recent internet poll on who should be the Person of the Year.

I first became aware of the poll via Sendero del Peje a liberal, leftist blog that espouses Andrés Manuel López Obrador’s ideas in its crusade of going against the Carlos Salinas de Gortari gang. The Sendero gang encouraged its readers to go and vote because Hugo Chávez, the President of Venezuela, was amongst the persons nominated amongst a plethora of bad guys. The poll seems clearly intended to steer support for George W. Bush.

Oddly enough Time Magazine chose a person that wasn’t even nominated in the first place, You.

The liberal gang over at Sendero interpreted this as a cowardly act on behalf of Time magazine, arguing that to have Hugo Chávez as a winner would have been too much. And I tend to concur because having a Hugo Chávez win would go against the grain of the very fabric of capitalist mentality where things such as this tend to be viewed in a perplexed state of mind. All this comes at the backdrop of Gore Vidal’s visit to Cuba. He once said that if the US really had a free press, things in the US wouldn’t be as muddy as they are now.

I suppose the press has been far the cry they claim to dictators and I would almost guess those very dictators are learning valuable lessons from our “free press”

I also suppose that the press builds an ideal of itself like we all tend to do with ourselves and yet never match that ideal in anyway.

I reason that our press, because this issue also affects México, becomes part of the establishment when the Press gains more by being on the side of the power brokers than the people they are supposed to be telling the truth to.

Some might argue that freedom of press is to debunk the very flow of lies that encroach upon us and our so-called liberties, and since there are many whose voices are heard anyway, this very freedom is alive and well as we speak.

Truth be, it is all a pack of lies. There isn’t freedom of the press because the truth, however uncomfortable, never leaves the presses without a negotiation or adjustment to suit the buyer. The Media Conglomerates are favored by Powers To Be by making said news kingpins official and sanctioned authorities for the real truth.

The road to debunk said official truth is arduous and long. And in the along all kinds of human phenomena materialize and the people never see the real day of light come to their front doors.

Then again, no one said the truth is a here and now experience.

Firm Contracted to Build Fence on US-Mexico Border is Fined for Hiring Illegal Workers

One of the firms working on the US-Mexico Border Fence has been fined $5 million for hiring illegal immigrants. This controversy was ironically predicted by comedians such as George Lopez, who jokingly says in his new act, “They want to build a fence along the border to keep out Mexicans, but who’s gonna build it?” Answer: Mexicans.

The Golden State Fence Company will not only pay a major fine, but two of its executives will have to serve jail time for the hirings.

Wonkette has a wee bit more

what this decade needs foremost
is a Richie Valens

in the course of humanity
has there been
a better time
to be

Prouder can’t One be.

Well, how does it feel to be latinamerican, Spanish speaking and mexican these days? That is the most common question in form of jest jeer I get since that fateful day in early december, I dare not recollect, to paraphrase Cervantes.

I honestly feel awful. We mexicans are at a crux in epic proportions.

Upon us are several mythological spells that have us spellbound.

The nearest one coming is 2010.

According to this myth México is to have a revolution every 100 years. 1810, 1910, and now 2010.

The next one has to do with the renovation Aztec mythology stamped its soul with: 2012, december of all dates are to conclude a period in México. Total nihilism is to be present on that date.

Besides that we have only ourselves to blame.

From the North even mild mannered anglos turn to the left and to the South all countries are regaining a sense of overcoming a history that has been unjust to them.

We mexicans?

We don’t even recognize ourselves in the shattered mirror Octavio Paz left behind to reflect ourselves upon. More and more it looks like a mirror from the ancient past: obsidian and ready material for sacrifice. Oaxaca anyone?

The opposition decries foul play accusing the PAN of being a party of the rich and obscure interests. They are accused of serving themselves the very best whilst the crumbs of the nation fall upon a mass that can’t even get a glimpse of it since the dissolution can’t reach all.

A wild capitalism that only serve to finance riches untold for every day that nation exists in its present condition.

Those in power accuse, in turn, the oppostion of sedition and of being a danger for the nation. The government even dares pin fault to the opposition for the very crimes they themselves committed during the swearing in of the said constitutional president of México. A president that rabidly accused the oppostion of tainting democratic institutions while they crookedly interpret laws to their hearts delight.

George W. Bush, México’s friend and the now Democrat held congress winking OK at the situation they have before themselves.

This in spite that the Council on Hemispheric Affairs (COHA) alarmingly stated a widely held belief in Spanish speaking América: With Calderón’s Deeply Troubled Inauguration Last Night, Amidst a Deteriorating Security Situation in Oaxaca, the Possibility of a New Mexican Revolution Cannot Be Ruled Out

The bad omen list goes on forever: there is no happy future and only a narrative that serves the purposes of the current capitalistic ideology see a future for their interests: reminds one of the first chapter of the Matrix.

The biggest irony lies in the Emperor’s new clothes: The PRI won big: the chameleon managed to infiltrate itself in the fabric of all parties. The PRI is de facto represented in all mexican parties.


Tagging México in Technorati can really give a jolt to ones self-steem. Really. A throw back to the days of the Black Legend. Jíjole.

Estados Unidos: El sorpresivo voto asiático
alejandro maciel

Los Ángeles, Cal., 20 de noviembre (apro).- En silencio, la comunidad asiática de California fue la gran sorpresa electoral del pasado 7 de noviembre. Logró, entre otras cosas, que 19 de los 20 candidatos que lanzaron para puestos de elección popular, triunfaran de manera arrolladora en el estado de California.

Con estos triunfos en posiciones estatales, la comunidad asiática logró aumentar a 20 los funcionarios electos de ese origen, obteniendo la mayor representación política en su historia.

La victoria de John Chiang como contralor estatal atrajo la atención de los medios de comunicación, ya que se convirtió en el primer asiático en ocupar ese puesto. Sin embargo, en otras áreas del gobierno estatal la presencia de esa comunidad es mayoritaria.

La oficina encargada de expedir el número de identificación para que los negocios declaren sus impuestos, llamada State Board of Equalization, está formada por cinco miembros. Después de las elecciones, cuatro de los cinco representantes, son asiáticos. El único puesto en poder de una persona no asiática, no estaba en disputa.

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lyrics here

One must understand the vortex

If the aztecs counted 52 for every end
Xicanos can hope for less in one generation.

is in door

We face an existancial crisis every 30 years

like a blood transfusion


El problema “latino” en Estados Unidos

El profesor de la Universidad de California en San Diego, Jorge Mariscal, resalta la desunión de los latinos para lograr reformas a su favor. Ante la problemática de los hispanos, visualiza una literatura empapada con la ideología de la neoasimilación.

Enrique Mendoza Hernández

A propósito de las elecciones para renovar el congreso federal en el vecino país, el Doctor Jorge Mariscal, profesor del Departamento de Estudios Chicanos y Latinos de la Universidad de California en San Diego, platicó recientemente con ZETA sobre la cultura chicana, la división de las comunidades latinas, la falta de una agenda política profunda en cuanto a asuntos migratorios, el renglón electoral traducido en muro fronterizo y la forma en cómo ha evolucionado, a grandes rasgos, la literatura chicana.

El Movimiento Chicano, aquella comunidad prácticamente contracultural de los 60s surgida en pro de los derechos civiles en “el otro lado”, hoy se encuentra dividida y hasta desconocida por los inmigrantes recién llegados en busca del “sueño americano”, sobre todo por los más de 16 millones de latinoamericanos que arribaron a Estados Unidos de 1990 a 2002. Las diferencias son evidentes:

“Los mexicanos ricos en los malls en La Jolla (California) o El Paso (Texas), tienen poco en común con los migrantes que pizcan fresas, empacan pollos o trabajan en los swap shops; los recién llegados desconocen el mundo del chicano de la segunda, tercera o cuarta generación”, dice el activista de YANO (Youth And Non Military).
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(The sorry state of politics in the Chicano community)

By: Herman Baca, President
Committee on Chicano Rights

The 2006 elections are over! President George Bush and his Republicans party have righteously lost mainly because of voter’s opposition to the war in Iraq. Democrats have reaped the benefits by winning both the U.S. House of Representatives and Senate. As for the Chicano community the political question remains, how did we fare politically with the elections? Did we remain the same, go backwards, or move forward?

The question has to be put in context. I remember when I first got involved (1968) in Chicano politics with the Mexican American Political Association (MAPA) that their was one elected Chicano in the state legislature, Assemblyman Alex Garcia from Los Angeles, and in San Diego County one elected person of Mexican ancestry, Councilman Louie Camacho from National City.

To further answer the above question, we should look at what happened in National City, California (my home town) because as I have stated in the past: it is a microcosm of what is going to happen in California in the not to distant future.

National City, like most cities in California with large Chicano populations, is an old city, the oldest after San Diego proper. Also as will be the case in California the majority population (65%) is of Mexican ancestry, and Anglos with 20% of the population the minority. Economically, NC is the poorest in San Diego’s County and suffers from some of the worst social, economic and political conditions. Like most Chicano communities in California those conditions include, unaccountable politicians, the highest crime rate, worst police community relations, housing, recreational services, youth and senior problem, to name a few.

Politically, the city government is presently controlled by “Hispanics” Mayor, Nick Inzunza and City Council persons, Louie Natividad, Frank Parra, and Rosalie Zarate. However as is the case in other Chicano communities in California, the Anglo minority continues to control National City’s economy, politics and “Hispanic” politicians. Reasons for this are the massive economic power of police, firemen, city unions, Chamber of Commerce, Mile of Cars, builders, developers, and lobbyists, most who do not reside in the city. These outside interests control politically by providing contribution to “go along” His-her-panic politicians, while the right wing pro-business Republican controlled San Diego Union endorses and props them up.

So the question remains, have Chicano communities such as National City’s and others in California after 38 years of fighting issues, registering people, fielding candidates, campaigning for and against propositions, recalls etc, gone backwards, remained the same, or moved politically forward after Tuesday’s election?

In my opinion, after 38 years of political involvement and reviewing Tuesday’s election results, we are going backwards!

In California, Ex. Lt. Governor Cruz Bustamante, a candidate for Insurance Commissioner, who was the first Chicano to be elected to statewide office in the last 125 years, was the only Democrat to lose state wide office by being soundly defeated! With Bustamante’s defeat, California’s Chicanos, 35% of the state population are now left without representation in California state wide elected offices. In other words, back to the 60’s!

Locally, especially in National City the political answer is even more conclusive. National City Chicano community after Tuesday’s election is witness to the unbelievably political spectacle of “Hispanic” politicians, the mayor (run out of office after being accused of being a slum lord), and 3 “Hispanic” council persons handing political leadership over to an Anglo, (elected Mayor Ron Morrison) who represents 20% of the population.

While there is nothing wrong with a qualified Anglo (with a track record) of serving and leading the majority population, the historical political fact is that the Chicano community has never been politically represented. Whether newly elected Mayor Ron Morrison proves to be different remains to be seen.

Other troublesome voting factors in Tuesday’s election were: only 33% of NC 15,901 registered voters (4875) bothered to vote, and the arrogant attitude of “Hispanic” mayoral candidates who refused to respond to questions, or state their positions on issues to a survey forwarded by our organization.

With the low voter turn out, the above attitudes, and lackadaisical campaigns of the out of touch “Hispanic” candidates, Anglo Mayoral candidate Ron Morrison cruised to an easy victory. One that will now allow him to govern National City, with barely a 12% mandate out of 15,901 registered voters!

Other regional races involving “Hispanics” provided the same disastrous results. In Chula Vista (a community with a heavy population of persons of Mexican ancestry) first time Mayor Steve Padilla got handily beat by right wing Republican Cheryl Cox. In Escondido two racist incumbent councilpersons, Marie Widman and Dick Daniels who supported the racist anti Mexican can’t rent to Mexicans ordinance cruised to an easy victory. This in spite of a valiant effort by Ms. Olga Diaz who received only 15% of the vote in a city where the population of persons of Mexican ancestry is close to 50%!

Even though their was some political success at the lower levels of the political chain (school boards, council seats, etc.) it should be obvious by the disastrous election results that if even though our population has increased by leaps and bounds, our political involvement, astuteness and representation has not. At best we are living politically with the illusion of inclusion, and at worst appear to be returning back to the 1960’s! Time for La Raza Unida Party?

First found at la Prensa-San Diego and then copy pasted without authorization because this stuff needs to be spread.


I like to be organized yet when it comes to music I fail to find any pleasure in this otherwise mundane chore.

I feel bothered by t hings that are not straight. This is part of this little knack in my personality. Though I can live with chaos around me I inevitably fail to do so for long periods of times. I will pick up the mess sooner than later.

So I find myself spending huge amounts of time looking for songs to my hearts delight on the net and then pile them up in some folder with no particular order in itself.

I organize them only to then discover that such order bothers the living daylight out of me because the chaos that provided the exalting delightful surprises is not there no longer.

There is a crux in this that I fail to yet appreciate. I wonder if I will ever do.

I liked the following political cartoon by T. Sifuentes P.

I did so because it typifies to the dot the inmigration problem between US and México.

On the one side we see Uncle Sam leaning against a wall that our good friend Jorge doble U Arbusto signed into law. On the other a what may be perceived as a mexican peasent trying to hold back Uncle Sam’s weight.

It is laughable because one of the many current storms hitting México these days is the fact that güero Americans are more and more choosing several mexican states as their primary choice of retirement these days.

So many states in México, say, Baja California and Baja California Sur are being flooded by retirees of all kinds from the US.

What is the inmigration verbal tit for tat rethoric gonna do for our North American lives is yet to be known.

Yet, as an spectator, I can’t help but see irony in all of it.

The iberoamerican, as we are known in Spanish lingo, in the cartoon, is trying to hold back a Güero civilization that is already in place and Uncle Sam reclining against a wall they themselves built to detain a force they don’t understand.

There are many interpretations here at once.

But one can’t help seeing the irony reflected in the cartoon. And am all for it.

Argh, so much shit is happening in Oaxaca that the linguistic pull is inevitable, I spend tremendous amount of time trying to keep up to date with the conflict. I sometimes collaborate with the Agonist and turn in pieces there but right now I just read and keep on reading.

I am kissing my broadband cables as we speak because I get to listen and see the events in a minute by minute fashion. It is just too bad that I need to sleep and believe me when I say that had I the chance not to I would.

In México the universities are supposed to be autonomous but they really aren’t. This PAN lead government really are a bunch of weird burocrats. Am sick of their policies and I just want them to get the hell out of the political spectrum.

I realize that conservatives besides being the bulwark of change also have the duty to take advantage of every loop hole they can find in order to stop even more sinister forces from taking over our system but, but, they are also a force that must be battled.

This is the nature of politics and as a political creature I tend to represent the other side. How have we allowed the conservatives to gain so much power is beyond me but I can imagine things that now I see as being necessary evils, such as the conservative purpose in our society.

This is the society that my generation has created. By being unsymphatic to the whole establishment we allowed for conservatives to take over and now we are paying high for not participating in a system that only has its rules about change rather well cut out, fit to made, for those in upper echeleons.

If we manage to gain power I hope that we destroy every piece of conservative shit that only benefits the few.

A ver, I had to rub my pinches ojos and wash my specs at the very sight.

I couldn’r freaging believe lo que leía delante de my screen.

Oso + Sensory Overload = true?

Of all the unlikely people. I just can’t get it over my head. Shíjole ese.


You don’t need my stinking blessings.

Aztlán is only the better for you guys having met.

Desde Sweden, un toast.

I just asked Logovo to send me some pills. Mind you I just want them for the looks. There is something about having the medicine in my house that is comforting.

I guess that one can go on about nostalgia and all that but for me it seems to be more than that. Seeing the product in my bathroom cabinet makes me feel at home. I know it’s weird.

So everytime I leave Sweden for Aztlán I inevitably end up carrying wads of medicine that in most parts goes unused, out of date and in thrash cans.

I guess am a real Xicano, after all, I also tend to recurre to household medicines passed on on to me by my kin. I already introduced the honey and lemon cure for coughs to my kiddos and I told them just about probably the same stuff my own did to me.

However, seeing the old medicine boxes are there for more than just easing the longing. They are their to remind me of my past, just like honey and lemon.

My God. I think that I have been more consistent in my efforts to diary here more than previous failed attempts. I spent nearly a whole year without doing any effort to write and here I am.

I believe that I can safely return to the posting thang more often now.

I was musing about the state of poverty, yeah, that’s me, the muser. But in all earnest, I am troubled by it. Though I think that it will never change, no Star Trek fantasies here. Money? Right.

Christianity is the culprit. I blame the cristian faith for more things in this world so I’ll pile it up on that piece of crap.

I betcha some people with get offended by that. Who the fuck cares about these christian taliban anyways. I do, apparently. Either way, they annoy me. I hate the faith but at least I have spent the time reading it. I know most of my bible and not just the stupid King James one. I know the catholic one too.

Anyhows, I worry that poverty can never be eradicated. I mean, look at governments around the world. I was watching I can’t fucking remember what some stupid middle class sport event and I watched intently at the facilities for said monkey show. Wads of bucks spent to make the place spic and span. If only people had the same drive to try and help people there wouldn’t be so much fucking discrimination. Which brought to my attention the fact that government does actually engage in discriminatory acts that favor, constantly, proyects for the middle class and only for the middle class.

Fucking politicians, they never care about the people, they only care about their stupid wallets, am telling you.


I can’t recall what Shakespeare play was it that I noticed a small flaw, it was in the chain of command somewhere.

I noticed it and my teacher just remarked that there are always flaws somewhere. This brought to memory the only Australian I have ever read and enjoyed: Patrick White.

Now, watching the film Mission Imposible III, I am again reminded of said episodes from a long past.

I watched the movie and said to myself: My god, the gringos are afraid of the future: We mexicans expect ours to become to the point of the letter. That is, we know we have it coming.

Yet gringos do really live a fantasy world don’t they?

After writing this post on my Spanish blog am convinced the latter holds more than a grain of truth in it.

In the business of brain development.

Jode, that surely doesn’t pay off.

In the age of the blog, Stream of consciousness will revolutionize neurosis in ways only television can understand …

Yesterday, my closest friend ever said the unthinkable, he said, I hate Hitler.

I couldn’t believe my ears. He said, upon me asking why, that it was because of him, a state of Israel exists today.

I said, politically speaking, Israel lives in a perpetual state of doubt in the now.

I fail to understand his new gained insight in world affairs but a small inkling tracked me down all the way here.

I nearly got on my knees, I begged, for him to expound.

Had ony Hitler let be, Israelis would never had accepted a state for their physical selves.

Befuddled I implored for more.

Jews suffered their extermination in ways we fail to understand.

But had Hitler just let be, he insisted, maybe jews, the elite, would never ever had agreed to religious zealots dreams.

Instead, zealots, rule Israel.

with that he failed to utter more.


Somehow I gathered enough gull to pen what might potentially be the post of the day. Mind you, I have been posting somewhere else; ’tis a trilingual thing, you wouldn’t understand. Ok, that last nasty bit is just pure ruefulness which would suck the living daylights out of the current post if only dare I expound ramifications already seen as flotsam and jetsam here.

I guess am going against nature, ran the thought as I elaborated the first lines in my thoughts I wanted to start this post with but heck, what felt wrong a few seconds ago, seems to be ok this second now.

As a good latino I tend not to do things when there aren’t ganas on it. Perhaps that explains why we embrace many a siesta which seems odd to many a dirty stinking Cromwell lover protestant.

Cromwell is really the war general of the protestant movement; I need to read a bio on the lad. I mean the guy juggled the Spanish Crown in its heyday.

Ok, I will get to the nature of this post, Geezes fucking cryst, I have so much fucking shit to unload, perhaps that explains my reluctante to retake the bull by the horns. I suppose I have been neglecting the English lingo somewhat; I have been neglecting to express myself, my thoughts, in English, that is.

I have been of lately observing myself more carefully than usual. My metalinguistics are in red alert. I had not done this since I left Aztlán proper for Sweden more than 9, kissing the ass of ten, years, fucking eternities, ago.

My, what would be 12th & 10th year Swedish high school kids, have pointed this out to me.

At one point I was amazed and a tad disappointed, in all due frankness, that I was compared to Cheech and Chong. Another one wanted me to do the texan accent again upon hearing the latter I promptly responded that I would have to get in the mood to do it which aptly reserved the response that I need not do that.

Lord have mercy upon este nopalito reprimido.

Living in Califas undertakes a great deal of duress. Remember, I was an illegal alien. Mind you fully bred in the land of my ancestors. Politics and citizenship aside one as a mexican american learns quickly to adapt. Assimilation is assassination might of have been the beacon that guided us through thin and thick during much of the 70′s and 80′s but it didn’t bring bread and butter to our tables.

We simply had to disguise ourselves. One way was to sound blue eyed blond gringo. Though our English was firmly wired in place we had one huge defect: we spoke it with a mexican melody. So for many of us this meant to hide that mexicanness when we spoke. The slightest slip of the wrong /e/ or /i/ sound would suffice to bring upon a host of dirty looks that decried alien! to one.

Conundrum of sorts because this hasn’t a negative clang to it in Sweden, instead I should embrace it now that I have the ooportunity to be who I really am but I inevitably end up not doing so.

I still strain my self to be a Cromwell American lover and am befuddled all by it.

Relacionado a este madre de debrayes mentales: Roots and Poetry

As an Agonist reader, I am often appalled by what is churned out via the newswire. Not appalled because the news make it to the front pages [or blog chatter] but rather by what I consider deterioration of that America that raised me. And I think am not alone. After all, the people that bother to go through the paces of blogging a news article at the Agonist do so because they find said news somewhat touching, alarming. Disturbing.

I suppose I ought not to have an opinion on American politics but I inevitably end up doing so eitherway for reasons best explained below.

I am not a US citizen so why should I give two rats about deterioration of the America that saw me fit to be one of its own? California took care of me for many years, shaped me after its image and many of my relatives call California its home, heck, my eldest daughter is a Californian born child. Despite what Malkin might say about my previous status in California or that of my child, having grown up there and having my child born there, there is something that many US citizens fail to understand about the Southwest and northwestern Mexicans: love of land. We have historical ties to the land that law abiding citizens from the rest of the federation fail to grasp in their logic based notions of what a nation ought to be constituted of.

So even if I have no US citizenship I still belong to the culture by geographic default as well as liaisons provided by persistent US politic noise from the cherished old family.

Hence, it is therefore interesting to see this backward progression of progress catapulted by malignant organs at the very heart of the constitution of America. Yes, I know, I have a reference of an America that ceased to be a long time ago. By that I suggest the progressive and concerted effort of the dismantling of longstanding American values in favour of raw power, spoused mostly by the Rightwing of American politics. There is almost an illusion that things have been this way for a long time. Leave it to Beaver wasn’t just an American television show, for me, it was the very fabric of a lifestyle I lived.

This America, the freedom spousing one, is sadly, more and more becoming a distant memory. How has this become possible?

I don’t think that a doctoral thesis on the subject can cover enough ground to explain the latter. Yet the outcome is here, our worst nightmare come true. For many years we feared the red boogey man and our driving force was detente of this monster, a small levee preventing this night terror from landing in our shores. Alas! the wolf came dressed as a lamb.

The very society that we avoided, worked so hard to demolish, instead, we imported. We got duped. A quack came by to our town and sold us quackery at a very high price. How else can one explain the model of society in our days when we give everything to government instead of being afraid of it as our culture prescribes? At the behest of the chief in arms we are ready to dismantle America to please our modern day politburo.

There is, however, no turning back, we like macho police people who use the long arm of the law to comply with our innermost desires, and fears. I suppose white America had to be next, we Mexicans, blacks, reds and Asians have been experiencing the brunt of American law down our throats for decenniums on end. Countless politicians have played this card for personal gain, contrary to our past as a culture, but hey, who wants to look back to our past to learn from our forefathers to lead us in this brave new world?

Our own personal wild West and its gun touting sheriff lives on.

I suppose that it had to happen someday, America lives a life draped in a starry flag that twinkles to draw attention to its whole and less to its parts. So that Mexican history and its living culture in the southwest goes largely unnoticed in favor of more whole common traits such as white America or black America; direct talk about mexicans in the US tend to tilt towards the legality issues of the culture in US territory. The law this or that.

Be that as it may it still breaks my heart to read news of people being arrested for expressing thought. Every time someone gets arrested or harassed by government cronies sends shivers down my spine because there is a change going on that I dislike.

For good or bad, it is here now. The killing has been done, ’tis time to ask the questions.

sent to:

Congressman Sensenbrenner:

Kimberly Clark’s illegal actions in Mexico, as documented by the electoral tribunal, caused the demise of our fledging democracy. In addition, the racist bills you have introduced show the kind of poor insight you have. I do not intend to ever again buy any of Kimberly Clark’s products.

Julio César Martínez

Congresista Sensenbrenner:

Las acciones ilegales de Kimberly Clark de México, tal como lo asentó el tribunal electoral, causaron la muerte de nuestra naciente democracia. En añadidura, las leyes racistas que ud. ha propuesto muestran la clase de persona que es ud. De ahora en adelante jamás compraré mas sus productos.

Julio César Martínez

Reading the blog of the year, Sendero del Peje, I found this post on their site:

Ya empieza a chillar la Kimberly por su relacion con el racista hijoeputa James Sensenbrenner.

En sacaron esta nota:

“Kimberley-Clark is a publicly owned company, and has no heirs, as has been alleged in unfounded statements circulating in the internet. Congressman James Sensenbrenner is simply one of thousands of shareholders of our company, and his political beliefs on immigration are solely his own.”

I was tempted to pass the torch and allow the propaganda to go on but as I searched the above site there was no news release as Sendero del Peje states.

Either way, the boycott continues as I see it.

And get a load of these hipocritical muthaf***ers:

Rep. James Sensenbrenner is at the center of what appears to be a classic case of hypocrisy and crony capitalism. In case you’ve forgotten, Sensenbrenner is the chief advocate of a get-tough approach to undocumented immigration. He rails against illegal immigration as this nation’s biggest national security threat and pushes harsh enforcement and builiding a wall around America as solutions. Now a new report reveals that Rep. James Sensenbrenner is not only making money from companies that use undocumented labor but also from his investments in firms receiving contracts for the government’s border security program that Sensenbrenner champions. No wonder he has pursued the immigration issue so fiercely he’s earned the name “pit bull .”

Go read Tom Paine for more on this.

Finally, I think I pretty much got rid of all the readers that I accumulated over the years. Intrinsic nihilism what not.

Well, not entirely, I am afraid that I have to be more honest in my rudeness.

Fact of the matter is that I am a trilingual writer. No if’s and’s or but’s, fair and square I must admit that being the trilingual as I so often laud ain’t a piece of cake. I often argued that there was no diference between languages since in the rock bottom end I am but one person who happens to master three languages. I argued, in all earnest, that I am the sum of all those languages hence I should have been able to be a consistent writer in the aforementioned languages. Alas! I wasn’t.

I suppose if I kept my opinions shorter these might contribute towards a smoother and more manageable enterprise. This so happens to be my achiles heel. I tend to write long pieces and this tends to wear me out. So writing in three languages is no easy task.

If I count the days when I did manage to write reasonable bits of text based elocutions then the numbers will not tend to be impressive at all.

Since the balance of the past years, a little more than 3, has been heavily tilted to Spanish it is Spanish where you will find more consistency in blogging as far as daily entries are concerned. Neither English nor Swedish can match the overwhelming expression of thought that I have dedicated to it using Spanish as the language medium to express said thinking.

Spanglish gets token use, few pieces in my repertoire of blog entries in both Spanish and English.

Truth be I am mostly a Spanish writer. So far. I say so because I believe I have finally come to a point were the things I had to say in Spanish have practically been said. I find myself leaning more towards the germanic aspect of the linguistic sphere that dominates my thought process.

The experience has been enriching for a number of reasons. One, I found out I am not the language I speak but that which I use.

This tends to cause a tectonic shif in a host of values. Were I am a certain value carrier in the one language this vale tends not to directly be carried over to the next language. Most monolinguals will fail to appreciate the last cognitive piece. Monolinguals will tend not to experience beyond their own point of reference that their language gives them. There is no trascendence beyond what Spanish calls as a cosmovision. That is, the realm that encompasses every language. I suppose politicians of all sorts tend to argue for the nativists approach, after all, it is easier to deal with monolinguals than bilinguals.

One hardly sees so many subtitles on a book, but in Greg Grandin’s book, Empire’s Workshop, we do. More aptly, we are bombarded by the word Empire, just in the cover book we find it three times over. I resisted this term because I have a hard time believing that the US is a design meant to be an Empire, not yet anyhow. Our western narrative has made sure that empires are not good, that its ultimate destiny is to unravel into oblivion. Asimov what not. For a country based on Republican values this tends to send shivers down the spine of the few who retain nostalgia for the Old America.

Even more appaling regards visuals in the book is the flag of the US in an upside position which to most knowledgeable people means distress. Perhaps the more succint example of this kind of flag use is best described by the movie titled the Last Castle where Eugene Irwin (Robert Redford), “a military hero by all accounts, is killed for calling attention to atrocities committed by ugly Americans.”

In Empire’s Workshop, Grandin describes the US as grappling for its very soul. Grandin’s book is a refresh button for us that have enough RAM that stretches back a while. A fortysomething book perhaps, a book for the ageing X generation or university students taking foreign relation courses. It is intented to be provocative not because it opens old wounds but because it details how the wounds were opened in the first place. Both physically and spiritually.

Grandin analysis how Latin America has served as a training ground for its Empire designs. I suppose I am to be appaled by the atrocities being commmited or that were comitted, documented and all; pondered upon, at times, in huge swaths, in Grandin’s book. [He tends to get ahead of himself at times]. Yet the fact of the matter is that personal psychology helps little in this case. I can feel disgust at what the narrative so vividly brings fourth, but let us face the facts, I was not in in El Salvador, Guatemala or Honduras nor belong to the upper echeleons of the Latin America créme de créme hence little simpathy can be drawn from me there either. I have long known that the rich class of Latin America is far from being the patriotic ideal spoused by any decent country in the world whose foundations are based on Republican values.

Suffice to say, after reading the Latin American passages I find it rather ironic that those very mercenaries the US trained during the Cold War are now at the service of the mexican mafia, Kabiles I believe they are named. Or that Ecuadoreans are serving as hired guns to protect the Green Zone. Which is kind of actual as we speak now.

On a slight humoristic side, we are reminded of that great actor of our times, Ronald Reagen, in an astonishing manner tha it provokes the imagination to believe that perhaps Reagen kept its senses to the end while we believe it to be otherwise, purposesly or not. Is Elvis in the house?

Spiritual wounds are ones whose core is always open. There is no closing. Grandin maps, however crude, America’s eternal mana, predestination. The problem with predestination is that it never achieves a climax. There is always more one is predestined to do. But allow us to assume that we have achieved the goal set. And this is where the problem begins because the job is never done. So we are asked to envision the unimaginable. Worse yet, Grandin assures us that the US Empire design proyect is unfullfilled. Except that perhaps we have now turned a corner, flipped a coin what not. Lull before the storm etc.

Like I said, I suppose that one can be appaled by the atrocities Grandin describes in Empire’s Workshop, it is, after all, in our christian nature to deplore crimes against humanity. Consistent with our times open debate about christianity in our present time, I suspect Grandin also suggests, however slight, that predestination mechanisms are being used for ill purposes. Our modern day theocracy maluses the most common drive in America: the belief that we are meant for something aka we are predestined for schemes alien to the founding fathers intentions of our beloved land. Grandin never mentions the Calvin in all of us who nurture America in our hearts, but somehow he insuniates in the narrative that we are a herd whose leaders are awry.

Lastly, I was amused by the Mary Shelley prologue quote. Shelly warns us that resurrection is futile. No matter how grand our proyect. Yet Frankenstein remains in our minds, forever, no matter how monstrous the beast is. Is Grandin suggesting that Empire is not a business the US should not be resurrecting?

As an American myself I have always mulled the fact that we are a new race of people. It would behove us not to imitate the dirty concoctions of our European ancestors. We ought to come up with grander designs for our continent. I hope we do so.

Well, well, well. What do we have here.

The past two weeks have been rather interesting for mexican politics, so to judge.

The moral head of the Catholic church in México, Norberto Rivera, has been tied to a pedophile. This has kept mexican cartoonist busy, some of the pics here, here, and here.

They acuse the cardenal of abetting and concealment of known pedophiles within the church.

The stinging blow comes from none other than good old Aztlán, Califas, or the good ol’ USA for you non-chicano peeps.

As soon as they landed in México, to present their accusations, they were stopped by mexican migra.

The pic of the whistleblowers being detained by mexican migra agents here.

Felipe Calderón, México’s president elect guy, has declined to say anything on the matter.

This has only aided the left. AMLO, remember him? Is getting stronger and Felipe Calderón hasn’t seen the day of light on his electoral victory. Shrouded in the dark of maquiavelian politics one wonders who is behind these right out scandals that are shaking politics south of the border.

I don’t believe in coincidences so my first thought is to ask who is AMLO getting help from in ol’Aztlán? Or as my old latin ancestors said: Cui bono?

Are the effects of the anti-Bush movement trickling down to México or is this real as in the “here and now” and not a chain of predestined events?

Who knows, but it is of utmost interest to see that even dirtier laundry from across the power hierarquies spectrum are also rearing its tentacles.

A mexican- arab rich guy by the name of Kamel Nacif Borge has also been tied lately to the pedophile image of México. Nacif has just managed to stain several political heads in the Mexican congress with a Vicente Fox scurrying to control damage though the head that was tainted by the allegations was from the Old PRI cadre.

In spite of all these scandals Forbes decides to call a meeting of the richests witches in SA and call it a business as usual day in México.


Why demonize the so far pacifist left in México and poke it as a hornest nest?

Who stands to benefit from so much unrest?

On the one hand we have people rocking the moral conscience of the mexican people, our leaders are so corrupt their potruding bodies are unbearable and on the other hand the higher echelons insist that everything is as usual.

The Right is sitting it out, going about its business while the Left is crying out that Felipe Calderón is about to sell out all mexican oil to Halliburton [link is in Spanish].

So were are we in México? Is the power struggle in México reflecting power struggle in the US?


Drropy eyes
burped the last gas

had more time

Though the clock
’tis struck

I am miserable. Some bug decided to house itself in my body and alter the course of the daily affairs. I thought some whisky would kill it but it didn’t work. When it comes to colds I should just stick to my old ancestor’s household remedies, either tequila or mezcal. Some people would have a hard time swallowing the latter, specially in these Dr. Phil days but it’s true. Mezcal does the job.

I got a book from the Agonist team. Empire Workshop. I have just finished reading chapter one the preface, last night. And I already got some reservations about it. The front cover has a little Old Glory on it, albeit upside down. For those in the know the sight of such a flag implies and SOS. Then there is the Mary Shelley quote from her book Frankenstein. Frankenstein did not have a life of its own. This is contrarian to Manifest Destiny ideology.

This just might be a book about the Ugly American in the Good, the Bad and the Ugly American.

My ideas are starting to fly around, I want so earnestly to see if the author delves in the complex mechanism of language differences of Spanish and English and the power hierarquies between the more personal, one to one, we are all equal attitudes of gringos and more formal relations that characterize Latin American societies where, in essence, the Thou address is alive and thriving.

Like I said, I already have reservations. I have loads of history from México both at the book level and what my relatives have told me about gringos.

Greg Grandin doesn’t delve so much into it in the first chapter but the US prior to the Mexican Revolution owned huge swaths of land all over México. To mention just one guy we have the Hearst family which practically owned Chihuahua. Lore from my family used to tell that whenever the Hearst family wanted to over their domains they needed over two days in train to cover their land possesions.


Chapter One: it’s not for the layman. It is stricly an academic chapter which requieres heavy historical baggage and a lot of pity. It’s a me, me, me tale of US power. Lopsided if one wills.

The optics focus heavily on what the US foreign policy has caused in LA through its business proxies throughout the 19th century.

The enemy that has fought the US merits no more mention than the footnotes on top of diverse and selected words.

This chapter has a thin veil of approval of that sureriority that its is spoken of at the beginning of the chapter.


Several optics at looking at his: (1): you are an American and say: God, how can my government be capable of these atrocities (2) You are a Latino and say, Goddamnit! I knew these mutherfuckers had no heart and I hate them the more for so, (3) Grandind is building a case for himself, that is, trumping up credentials in the event the American government makes an about face in foreign policy (doubt it) and suddenly a Carter Like figure comes along (4) You admire Grandin’s narative and not think about the many religious references Grandin uses to make his case.


Chapter 2: Where in the hell is Belize in all of this? I have a hard time believing this narrative about American imperialism without America’s fave poodle in the court.

I won’t be writing about the Swedish elections. They are too confusing for me to even contemplate the idea of doing so. Mostly because the Swedish system in many ways is akin to the American system, be it Republicans or Democrats the bureaucrats always win.

In Sweden it is the welfare state that inevitably wins. So it is difficult for me to even understand the political party I often tend to agree with the most, the Socialdemocrats. They mix capitalist ideas with social issues like old grandma weaving yarn in her machine. It just comes naturally to these guys to be capitalists with a gasp! human side to it.

That is why it is so confusing for me to understand the so-called Right in Sweden. What do they want when the Socialdemocrats practically bend over to please the Right in every other aspect of their politics except taxes? Wanna take a peek at the current proposals? Go head, just hold onto your chairs.

I do confess to wilderment to that thing people call justice in Sweden. In Sweden if you do someone it can give you less time if you try to cheat on your taxes. Economic crimes, in this socialist government, can bring far more years in the can than killing a joe.

Eitherway, today there are elections in Sweden. One gets to vote in the local, municipal (akin County) and national elections. As some of you might know, Sweden is a parlamentary government. For the local level I voted for a local party that tends to give the big parties a run for their money. I thought that would be healthy for local politics. Municipal elections I voted for my fave political party, the Socialdemocrats. For parlamient I voted for the newly created party called Feminist Initiativ mostly because I believe that women can be as evil as men.

The current government has been sitting in power for the past ten years. Just as long as I have been living here. Göran Persson, itches for more, he is running too in this year’s elections.

I get the distinct feeling that he won’t get to savour more. I could be wrong. You see I live in the heart of what is known in Swedish lingo as the Swedish Bible Belt. You know where these God fearing folk tend to lean on the political spectrum so one tends to get smothered about the one or other proposal that is better than the Socialdemorats current state of affairs blah, blah. So I may have been tinged with the local aspirations for political will when I write this. Even mass media or international media have drawn from this longing to report on the Swedish elections of today. Aquí, aquí y aquí for back up on that line of thought.

No frills or thrills in this election either. The most polemic issue on the table? A hacker who hacked the socialdemocrats intranet and managed to peep into the sheenanegens of the Socialists. And wait, it wasn’t even done because some huge computer brain nerd spent hours trying to hack it. No, it was because someone from the rightwing coalition at a Socialdemocrat convention happened to log on a wireless network and stumbled upon the opened access to the socialists intranet. It turned out the administror for the network used the same login word for his or her password.

Dang, I think I just chattered about Swedish politics like forever. Oh well. Digest at will.

* I originally worte this at the Agonist.


someone please explain to me why do politicians like to pick on Mexicans? Mexicans are not illegal aliens, well, some might be without documents in the USA, but they sure aren’t the majority in that category. Why can’t they place Chinese, Irish, English, French people with expired visas burning flags instead?

Los Republicanos en Winston-Salem, North Carolina are desperate. Heck, isn’t NC closer to Canada? Pick on Canadians for once. I guess am in the minority in thinking that this kind of race playing, coming from an African American is/will just be the beginning of the divide and conquer strategy. The seeds were thrown, now we sow.

I’ve been speaking Swedish for the past 4 days due to my job and man, it oozes out of my ears as we speak. Most people who speak a third language will inevitably confirm the follwing: it is tiring to shift gears to a language one isn’t accustomed to speaking on the daily basis. Heck, it certainly doesn’t give me a headache to speak Spanish let alone English.

So yeah, my brain is fried to burnt toast. Though I confess that I have been pleasently surprised at the improvements I have made in the Swedish Dept. Off course there is always the little matter of not having someone confirm what I claim. Be that as it may, my metalinguistic awareness will suffice for said purposes.

Things that I have noticed I use more when I speak Swedish.

1.- I am more careful not to let the words come out as if I were to speak Spanish or English, that is, I am more concious about the pronounciation of the words I use when speaking. This would seem somewhat tedious but after a couple of years this has become more a custom than a nuisance and parlance comes out more fluid than one would suspect. Swedish are appreciative of the effort. Pronouncing v’s the way one ought o, that is, not to be lazy and pronounce them as b’s, tends to hike up status in the eyes of the Swede at hand.

2.- I tend to use more idiomatic phrases to capture whole abstract concepts of the everyday. This gives the illusion of the local. That is, there is a sensation that bespeaks of my endurance in the vecinity of my newly established roots. Meaning, though am an immmigrant I have taken the time to not only understand my surroundings but also live them and experience them.

3.- It is good if you use references of the layman. The local experience. Common lived experiences via the news or a problem that the collective has experienced is always good to have as baggage.

I am so frigging stoked, dang ese, this is HUGE.

Tezozomoc Aug/04/2006

De Suecia, come mensajes de personas that just can’t do without their weekly TEZOZOMOC CHISME! Pues Julio Martinez de (de Suecia), Tezzy hasn’t forgotten all his cuates, not only from the barrios del USA, pero también, we especially have you in our hearts and minds when you are so distanced from your Gente!! Glad you are still drawing your Chicano “Alma y Sentimientos” de La Prensa San Diego. We try to keep up our special ALMA de La Prensa and hope we (the hard working staff of La Prensa) will be able to maintain el espírito de mi gente, no matter where you are at. Suecia is a long way off but where there are two RAZA… I know that their will be our special sentimiento in the wind and it will be source of strength to you, when you find yourself isolated and lonely! El Indio TEZZY never forgets his GENTE no matter where they may be at!

Ey! What’s that? Nada ese, just a little rock on the corner of my eye, lemme me rub it off. Chale ese, can no one get a little dust in ones retinas theese days?

Escandaloso, yeah, I know, je!

Güeno, it gladdens me to no end to see myself before the thoughts and presence of good’ol Tezzy. Jo’er that guy has done bundles for San Diego Xicanos, heck, what am I saying? for Xicanos in Tijuana too!

Go give la Prensa-San Diego a read ese! What, still here? What are you waiting for ese? That Rumsfeld give a shit about this treaty? òrale, git otta hea!

Enjoy. Like always, dame las gracias later ese.

The power of the word never ceases to impress me. Especialmente cuando esas palabras conforman parte del lienzo donde se pinta al ser que supuestamente debería corresponder a la imagen que las palabras muestran. This becomes moreso a truth on the internet where the word adquieres ready made power, so much is taken for granted that one does not immediately realize it. El messenger es uno de esos aparatos que le dan a la palabra su poder más intoxicante. I can tell someone “It is 6am here and am having a glass of whisky”. This will usually induce incredubility at first. Todo lo que tengo que hacer es matar esa incredubilidad. “Yes, it’s true”. Esta confirmación hará despertar en el lector opuesto una serie de reacciones morales que pintaran la imagen de mi ser en el lienzo de su mente. What the reader at the other end doesn’t realize is that this may or may not be true; the word is taken at face value and it must be believed in order for it to become “true”. Y es más fácil creer que dudar, me lo imagino, pocos son los que se toman la molestia de tomar esos comentarios como “juegos” mentales. So the reader at the end will believe my written words as if we were sitting together in some cozy lounge somewhere facing each other eye to eye. El poder de la palabra en estos medios es increible. Surprise, it is not called lying, it is called mind control, manipulation of the image one wishes to present to others, ambiguity is after all a pursuable goal in the written letter. Es lo que más da prestigio, imitar pues a la mentira es la meta.

One really must fight this sort of imagery that the word tries so deceptivily to imprint on our minds. Lo peor que puede suceder es que termines como una pintura de Jackson Pollock.

There is an element of faith involved in writing for the internet crowd. El blog es otro de esos mecanismos donde la palabra se aloja creando imágenes de uno que pueden o no pueden corresponder al autor del blog. The blog and it’s author are intimately related with one another; one cannot escape the mutual dependency that exists between the blog and the writer. No es como un libro, el libro existe aparte del autor. Then again, this may or may not be true en México where it is not uncommon to treat the book and the author as one and the same; there is a cult for authors and these latter ones derive great respect for having written a book. Me imagino que esto es un modo de ser pre-hispánico, donde los escritores eran una clase aparte, no sé, puedo estar equivocado.

So the word paints images of one. ¿Qué más hacen sino evocar? I tend to evoke the past. Me gusta acordarme, pintar esos paisajes del pasado. I like to paint images with the word; it is stimulating. La ficción eso es, una imagen, se presenta una imagen alterna a lo que es creible. Fiction grants a license to lie until your toes twigle in delight. Mas yo sostengo que la palabra, al menos que estes presente, y sólo bajo ciertos críterios, siempre es ficción. Which criteria could that be? Se reduce a ciertas frases que sólo son verdades porque son verificables justo en el momento en que se dicen, suelen ser frases que tienen relación inmediata con la realidad presente. “I have a bruise on my wrist” is a phrase that one can readily test against these notions of true and false that so haunts us in the every day. Lo puedo confirmar, podría mostrar interes, “a ver” y si el susodicho sujeto me lo muestra y lo confirmo con mis ojos, entonces las palabras esas adquieren el matiz de “la verdad”. But if I hear “I went to Egypt yesterday”, there is no way in hell that I might ever with all certitude know that that which was uttered is true. Por lo menos no es tan fácil de confirmar lo anterior.

But off course, not everyone worries about these notions when they write, that is why it is so easy to believe the written word as it appears, or as the word is. Por eso cuando la gente escribe se ve como “su verdad” sease esa credibilidad que se le ascribes verdad o falsa. There is no time to waste on the vericity factor.

Y eso es lo que diferencia a ciertos lectores de otros lectores. To read is an arduous job but one that one can live with in order to fill the canvas of ones mind even more richer; life’s rich tapestry. So hay que luchar contra la imagen creada por la palabra, saber distinguir y sobretodo darle tiempo al ojo de la mente análisar las imágenes que se plasman en el lienzo de la mente pues el palete del pintor lo proporcianas tu.

When I go the market I look for fresh produce be it vegetables, fruits or, je! beer.

Yet the brits somehow have a weird and twisted meaning to it that just baffles the living daylights out of my Xicano skull.

Israel in fresh Lebanon strikes

Fresh fighting on Lebanon border

Fresh Lebanon bombing kills three

Dozens die in fresh Lebanon raids


From now on we just look for produce.

On other unrelated scenarios of the anima kind:

I got to thinking if the Generals ’round the planet didn’t wish the good ‘ol days before internet were back in vogue.

Jíjole, am sure more than one is whishing it could work in peace.

Después del todo, speculation hasn’t had brisky business since, well, newspapers came up with the idea that reporting on the elites was good business.

Generals ’round the world are set against a magnifying glass which scrutinizes their every move for, dios mio! profit.

Place your bets on the odds.

More and more businesses across the world speculate on conflicts and how generals will react.

Poor souls, can’t do their jobs in peace and quiet anymore.


Listen: Los ABCs ¡Qué vivan los muertos!
Sing Along
Download the song!

Los ABCs: is a five-minute Xicano docu-animation cataloguing the real-life testimony of skeletons who have returned to tell their stories of life and death at war. Do you remember your ABCs? No? Well, you’re in luck. Sing along with this group of animated Mariachi social documentarians who will guide you through in a history that will make you laugh, cry, and wonder why.


rock of predestined relationship. Qingdao Pre-destination. I recall this worm in my belly. It used to be that I felt predestined to be a writer and it often permeated a great deal of my everyday life more oft than not in my love affairs.

This is quite intrinsic to Americans, specially the WASP kind and by default those they embrace in their culture expansion such as the likes of Aztlán. We xicanos are no exception to the rule though this is somewhat meated out by catholism hence the schism that so neatly portrays us mostly through hyphens.

Though right not am not thinking about American culture in particular. Am thinking about one man and the crisis it must be ensuing in him by now because of failre of acomplishment.

This man is a leader of the USA and is obligued to embrace this religious belief of pre-destination embedded in gringo culture thanks to Calvinist thinking.

I wonder how does it feel to have to realize that one is not all that pre-destined to nothing.

Off course, one can always opt for repression, heck, pre-destination is a drug and once you taste it nothing stops you.

This goes too for Israel an their notion of a Greater Israel.

Pre-destination is no dish served on a silver platter. In the event that it is the waiter has to walk a path filled with good intentions and we all know were those paths lead to.

I haven’t seen much clamoring on the American blogsphere regards Lieutenant Ehren Watada. In fact technorati gives a graphic whereby we can see its reader cause and effect.


Some of the big honchos on the net and which tend to attract large crowds to their jangle are also somewhat mysteriosly quiescent on the issue. The Kos gang, for example, did a diary on the subject at hand yet for all the hurly-burly other posts create this one got a stingy 7 comments and I do not dare read what was said.

This has baffled me somewhat because as a frecuent reader of so-called progressive blogs I find the issue of conscientious objector oddly absent in the noise of the dem crowd.

This is perhaps due to the nature of the blogs a I frecuent, like The Agonist, Dalily Kos, Juan Cole and other of their ilk which tend to cover US foreign relations from a military perspective.

Their narrative often speaks well of the Military Industrial Complex of the US despite the fact that they question the leadership therein.

Which is near outré since that is precisely what Lieutenant Ehren Watada is doing, questioning the very war blogs in the US blogsphere aptly denounce as wrong.

This offers a rare glimpse into American behaviour as Lieutenant Ehren Watada position highlights a taboo in, what seems by now, a large segment of American society: infringement of civil society in military affairs is out of the question.

Wiki on Watada

Am rather amused at the fact that I can post stuff at the Agonist. It just tickles my belly to no end.

Off course, the fear that I might not do as expected haunts me like the Llorona does to every kid with mexican blood world over.

Do I expect to be censured? Of course, we are taliking gringo here. Wait, are you saying that Agonistas are incapable of understanding a Southwest/Norteño kid the likes of you when it comes to world afairs?

No, what am saying is that perhaps the editing dep has different ideas about what is stated in letters. It’s not precisely China but am sure many a linguistic Wall will arise now and then.

Are you going to be a prolific diary writer? By far, I think, and am grateful, that today was a beginning that I hope will bring a new morrow dawn with new vigour to do what I did today. Rather, I like to opine.


Nothing but Is-ra-el.

Poor israeli citizens. They must have some kind of post traumatic disorder in full swing by now. They never rest. I don’t care how tough they are am telling you, keep it. I’d rather live in México or Sweden any day of the world than in Israel. That God ain’t worth it.

Poor souls. Can’t sleep, can’t walk and can’t stop hating each other not because the ordinary citizen doesn’t want to but because all kinds of politicians and world leaders insist in making life miserable for all parties involved.

You think that Israelis have it easier because they have electricity? Believe me, they suffer too because they know they can’t walk or be anywhere in the world without feeling hatred breath down their necks. Am sure their conscience is riddled as well with guilt by what their government does in their name.

Am sure they are in some kind of psychosis by this stage. The psychological barrier for Palestinians is also on the edge except that they have a goal in mind while the Israelis don’t. Israel just tries to keep a hold on what it has and pretty much its ambition of a greater Israel is reigned in by so-called world leaders.

No peace in the middle east, how can people live like that? Is their God that much worth? The curious thing about the bible is that it actually asks of its flock that they pray for world leaders. Praying for these war mongering, war hungry leaders is like asking the wolf to wolf down the flock in a sitting.

1 Timothy 2:1-4
Hebrews 13:17 Obey your leaders

Pray all day cause it ain’t gonna happen.

RIP Agent 007s unlikely alter ego – Sir Peter Smithers

He was a secret agent, diploment and scholar, but few knew of Sir Peter Smithers’ most exotice role: the likely model for Ian Fleming’s James Bond – reports The Canberra Times. [...] He kept in his bathroom a photograph of the Imperial Navy’s Yamato. (Ever the aesthete, he admired the graceful lines of this huge enemy warship sunk off Okinawa in 1945.) But his most important wartime work occured in and around Mexico.

Along the American seaboard and in the Caribbean Sea and Gulf of Mexico during the first six months of 1942, German U-boats and mines sank 397 vessels, at the cost of some 5000 Allied lives — more than twice the death tool at Peral Harbor. Historian Gerhard Weinberg has called the episode “The greatest single defeat suffered by American naval power”.

Lieutenant-Commander Smithers was sent herriedly to Mexico City as naval attaché in Mexico, the Central American Republics and Panama charged with charting U-boat refueling operations. His espionage led to expertise in photography — at first enemy shipping and later of flowers.

In Mexico he met and married after a three-week courtship Dojean Sayman, a divorced American heiress of part-Mexican ancestry who owned a gold typewriter. This machine made a cameo appearance in the Bond novel Goldfinger.

Reading this sent revulsions of all sorts down my spine.

The most famous record of slave life, Frederick Douglass’s “Narrative,” rendered vividly the vile mix of lust and domination practiced by slave owners.

This is a bunch of poo in the loo in my eyes. The most famous is by far Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl.

It just turns out that the aforementioned article writer chose to elevate the one mentioned for the purpose of highlighting a sucession of possibilities for the benefit of present company.

Slavery is not something that ought to be awakened so easily for the purposes of gaining favor in some. Slavery is a gross crime from the past that is yet to be addressed or resolved.

Republicans and their cronies ought to feel embarrased for allowing this kind of crap to crop in an era like ours.

Hope the article writer gets chastised by a few or more.

A poem I wrote on the subject at hand not long ago.

Well, let’s git to the knilly willy of the ninny lilly. Elections in México, el suspenso is killing me.

I wrote in my spanish blog that Calderón was already a winner, ooops, it’s a cultural thing would say this guy who contradicted the IFE’s version of the early poll results arguing that the northern states of México (the least populated of all states in México by the by’s) have better digital infrastructure therefore giving the illusion that Calderón was winning when the South vote wasn’t even yet in. So yeah, norteño me, I single handedly admitted Calderón’s win because, alas! I read mostly norteño newspapers.

Some people are giving out the Bush blue-red state semiotic propaganda. Why is this is beyond me since México is a multiparty system and painting it yellow-blue does not reflect the realities on the ground at all. Then again, what do you expect from a newspaper whose traditional ties to the military are well known.

AMLO is putting up a fight and the Mexican blogsphere did its bit too. Oddly enough there has been going on a wad lots of hacking talk with reports that a site allied to the leftist candidate has been shut down as well.

Mirada Pública, Public Eye, tried to do a site that collected posts related to the election with the specific theme to denounce any irregularities the bloggers saw or encountered during the election day. Drip, drip … sirap moves faster. The fact of the matter is that this is praiseworthy despite my sarcastic sentence back there. It’s a humble start for a nascent internet community and a mexican blogsphere which tallies a membership of 5948 weblogs. According to me a poor reflection of the sphere’s real number as I suspect that site colludes with G men in México.

AMLO presented a video arguing evidence of fraud but that has backfired in his face.

Either way the biggest loser here is the IFE although you wouldn’t know it by either American opinion or hasty congrats on part of the EU as well as Bush Inc. Though Bush has backpedaled a wee bit. Ok, I can’t resist, this exchange of the matter offers an example of overlapping authority on both nations, believe me, it’s funny.

Q All right, then what do you think — or what does the administration say about a foreign politician denouncing domestic legislation in the United States, and particularly Calderon’s denunciation of stronger border security and an extended fence?

MR. SNOW: Last time I checked, Calderon did not have any official authority over the activities of the United States government.

Q Can I follow up on that?

MR. SNOW: Yes, very quickly. Sure.

Q The call the President made to Calderon to congratulate him, that means that the U.S. government already recognized him as the President-elect of Mexico? Can you explain what –

MR. SNOW: Well, I believe the electoral commission had, in fact, declared him President. And according to the laws of Mexico, at this point, he is President. Should there be a recount, should there be another adjustment, should there be a change, then the President will acknowledge that, as well — Mexico, obviously having the ability to decide who, as a result of transparent elections, is the President of the country.*

The last word hasn’t been said yet, Calderón isn’t officially declared a winner. Give Tom Paine a read for more on this.

One thing that bloggers on the progressive sphere are admiring is the paper trail of the Mexican election and reminiscenses of Florida have been flourishing just about everywhere envying the paper trail and hating more and more Diebold. This is intense irony for me because as a Xicano I have what now can be deemed as old fashioned American values. I often pained as a young mexican man to see the democratic system in my country of birth which word by word ultimately was referred to as a dictadura light. We admired the democratic system of the US as an example to follow. And now our gringo vecinos are admiring us? Jesus! What has the world come to? Will pigs now walk on the moon?

Since this is the first time we mexicans abroad get to vote it is noteworthy to note that most of us voted to the right, ajem! present company excluded of course. Of 32, 632 who signed up to vote 33,111 did so from 71 countries world wide. 19,016 voted for Calderón and 11,090 for AMLO including therein my humble and historic participation in the process.

The opposition has decried Felipe Calderón and his party, the PRIAN (PRI+PAN=PRIAN), as hypocrite because Calderón adamantly defended the mexican vote moral validity when he was a congressman for the LV Legislatura (1991-1994). Off course, those principles are now trashed because he and his current cronies are accusing, an intolerant attitude on their part if one may say so, as renegades those who are using the justice system to question the results of the elections. A very dumb ploy and name calling from President Vicente Fox since it reminds people of things like chusma, a lower class of people that well-off mexicans have been avoiding like the pest and which are unworthy covenance with gente decente, that is, nice, rich civilized people.

Well, am sure there are people out there giving other versions of what is going on in the election and I recommend Machete as a good read if this kind of stuff lies in your neck of the woods.

I was away. I went to Germany, enjoyed Bavaria; passed by Austria, saw Innsbruck by the roadway and spent quite a few days in northen Italy, specifically in the in and around the Brenner Pass. I came quite close to Milano but never got there. Though I did get to see some of Bergamo and Verona.

All this was acomplished because my father-in-law drives a trailer truck delivering goods all over Europe. I was invited to travel with him for a week that lasted nearly 9 days. This gave me an opportunity to get the living heck out of my tiny village here in the Swedish Highlands which after two years were beginning to wear me out a tad.

You can get to see some pics here and a small narrative of the trip in video format albeit in Spanish plus you get the extra added no preservatives version of my face dare you face the truth behind Yonder Lies It.

I said what I had to say on Israel long time ago. Israel is a bully, period. And the more I read about others thinking along the lines as I do, the more I think that am not too off in my own thinking regards Israel.

[...] the Israeli army, once the finest in the world, has been, as all armies are, coarsenened by the occupation. The Israeli state bemoans suicide bombers, then kills Palestinian opposition leaders with rockets – rockets they know will cause collateral damage (a phrase that means “will kill innocents”). They have complete access to the country and could easily assassinate people cleanly, without collateral casualties – they choose not to. They could arrest those same people, again easily. They chose not to.

Personally, I think that Israel has been hijacked by ideologists who have lost track of reality.

We here at the offices root for Israel as much as we root for Palestine. Israeli and Palestinians are subjects to extremists on both sides.

Problem is that the ones who can stop it don’t.

Other reading: Press furore over Gaza offensive

Has the Pentagon changed its mind?

Because it seems to me that more and more the MSM talks, walks and quacks like a liberal blog. What ever happened to respectable types the likes of 60 minutes ….

Is it just me?

Wish the Kos gang would have been around the turn of the 19th century, heck, what am I saying, just a few decades ago.

History here.

I have never liked the terms latino nor hispanic though I advocate latino more than I will ever do Hispanic.

It seems that whenever the ‘majority’ in the US speak of us they inevitable tend to use either monicker to refer, in essence, to mexicans. I can’t get why the US doesn’t acknowledge the Xicano community in Texas or California. To much linkage to the past, I suppose. But labelling us as latinos or hispanics has other intentions as well.

It ignores us.

Whenever the government and its ‘majority’ speak to us they refer to us not as natives but as something alien to the US. It is not we, Xicanos, who are divisive, its the US government and its lackies who insist in not accepting the fact that we are just as native as they are.

Either way, history has a wierd way of repeating itself in the US. How many times have mexicans been robbed of elections in the US? And who said anything about it? Wish you were there Kos, wish you were there.

Suggested reading: Steiner, Stan. La Raza: The Mexican Americans. New York, Harper and Row, 1970. Chapter XIV: The Secret Politicans

Believe it or not Sweden is too having an election this year but you wouldn’t notice by the raucus the elections churn out in news pieces such of the likes as whether a politician can make noise at a local shopmall rather than the issues at hand, what issues Julio?

Yeah, me and hundreds [of] others seem blissfully ignorant that we are about to have elections in Sweden aka Sverige and the weekend that just passed relished instead on an old sun ritual rather than reflect, wait this needs a period here, otherwise my spanish will get the better of the english. So there, got a fresh breath of air yet? Rather than reflect on whether the Moderaterna or the Socialdemocrats are better than the environmentalists or the lefties. Swedes are doing what they do best, live in Sweden.

Don’t ask me about the issues ’cause you’ll end up recieving an invariable uh? in bold letters.

What is a country like Sweden to do when its democratic system seems like a utopia in America? The Spaniards see it as the future to be and France envies its law and order while England can’t get enough of its exports and the germans adore its forests and moose trafic signs.

Homelessness? Forget it, there is little or next to nothing compared to other states in developed countries which of course, doesn’t mean there isn’t a problem. The solution however, is devoid of that long term aspect that it has, for example, in the USA. Here, homeless people have all kind of resources to resort to get out of the situation there are in and, believe it or not, homelessness, at times, can be a lifestyle choice.

Ok, how about government graft? that’s sure to rile a few folk here, erhm, not, the last graft issue involved a minister who used her government credit card to buy diapers for her baby. Ok, other stuff might have ocurred since then but that has stuck tills now.

Urgh, as a Xicano with dual citizenship that means I get to vote and as I’m a leftist, voting leftist here makes me look like a conservative. Göran Persson, the prime minister who has overseen the institutions that oversaw my permanent green card and dished out my citizenship is as popular as I stepped in unto these nordic lands. Today he seems perpetual like that even the opposition flirts with him. Gosh.

Are things that great in Svealand? and what does this teach us about democracy once nearly all acomplishable things are acomplished? Is it that better to steal from paul rather than peter?

yes, I know, your dirty, cynical stinking thought process will immediately recall greek dictatorships where, we are told by dubious characters, that everything was nice and swell. Far from the realities as we see’em to-day.

It’s just that our mess doesn’t look like your mess. Perhaps it’s that Swedish attitude towards the environment which manages to lull us into believing that everything is alright. The environment affects us all and the Swedes have been good at hiding the mess we are all in, masquerading all to fit our surroundings. One reality at a time.

At times one would think that Sweden lives a life separate from that it presents to the rest of the world, even themselves. At times you can see the triple reflection on the mirror but you have to be quick at the blink to see it or just sit and contemplate as the Swedes do. Am sure they do. What they say and what they do is not consistent t all, but heck, which country doesn’t do as they do?

Either way, the midsummer was good. What did I do? I got drunk, as a good Swede, I will not fail my country.

Holy molly!

Well slap me in the face and call me aunt Jamina, I was linked by the Agonist. Jíjole mano! I better clean up the place, I never expected visitors to this place from that corner of the net, shit, this is huge. Thanx for the Link Sean!

I was rather amused at the noise the progressive blogs made yesterday. They relished a vid snippet crooks and liars dished out on the net yesterday. Turns out the wingnuts are eating their own. O´leilly not only ridiculed Malkin, a special cucuy for the Xicano gente, he, some argued, made sense on immigration.

And lordi lordi lord, even the wsj did too as well a few days ago.

Are they re-trenching to their so-called old values to rescue the few and not-so awed anymore?

What is going on here? Have they seen something we haven’t yet? All this is making my speculation antena shoot up in the sky like a beanstalk on viagra.

Me thinks the wingnuts saw into the future and came around the real impact May 1st will have on the upcoming elections, in turn, they are softning their positions to appease the May 1st crowd? Ah, gawd knows. It sure smells like it though.

Alright, alright already ese!

So I’ve been recycling news yet there are less folk out there concentrating on the mexican elections than there are concentrating on it. Erhm, did that make sense?

Either way, these elections matter. Lots. Beyond lots. Way beyond. (ok Julio, we get your drift.) I got the gut feeling that mexicans, some of us either way, are causing some kind of like dent somewhere and policy is being formed to mend the dent. Riddles. What am saying is that even though mexicans abroad seem not to be interested in mexican politicians my hunch tells me this is not entirely true. Those in the business of interpreting these kind of things tend to like huge numbers in order to make predictions and tend, as well, to be off the Southwest area making residency instead in seats of power. The Southwest has a life of its own that many suits fail to see.

I have argued that most mexicans who vote in the elections rather take the highway and use the oportunity to visit the motherland instead of going the IFE way. However, there are quite a proportionate number of mexicans who fear deportation the moment they come near a mexican embassy though most mexicans would not have an idea of the kind of services and embassy and its consulates offer the mexican citizen because said places are mostly seen as an establishment of the upper classes. This is very much ingrained in us. I remember how I felt the very first time I sat a foot on the premises of a mexican consulate. One has to understand that the mexican government is at times little interested on its subjects and when they show interest one does well in being cautious. Those who do know tend to be already familiar with the shenanigans of said institutions. These are the people that go and vote in places like Tijuana as they did back in 2000. They are known as emigrados. Amongst other things. Be that as it may, the politization of the mexican masses, illegal, legal, mexican-americans and other identity contraptions of our Gente is in full swing in the good’ol USA.

My question here pertains the Xicano community since the political leverage must balance somewhere and will either alienate or coalesce. The Tomás Rivera Center gave out a lofty little phamplet outlining some of its ideas in 1994 titled Latinos, Global Change, and American Foreign policy. In summary, it predicted that we were to start flexing muscle in our country of origins but since the Bush gang took over the White House they stopped listening to anyone outside their circle of realities. Nonetheless Xicanos who tend to be in positions of power understand the importance of México. Though we haven’t seen much evidence for the aforementioned for obvious reasons. The fear machinery that is intrinsic to American politics has the Latino community in a weird state of mind since most latinos have adherence to their homeland and this is not seen particularly well by the powers to be and is a strategic tool to keep that population at bay lest they begin flexing muscle as seen on May 1st. This in turn keeps many latino leaders off the ramp light as was evidenced by the L.A. Mayor who decided to take of to Texas on the most important day in American politics in many years.

I think that his fear mongering will soon stop having its effect on Latinos. The more they assert their americanness and start painting their own America instead of having others paint it for them. The sooner the better.

If Manuel López Obrador wins I think this idea will accelarate since many suspect that many mexicanamericans will lean towards the PRD. This in turn will fuel a more direct engagement with mexicanamericans and start building the necessary bridges to create a stronger Xicano community both economically and politically as well. Fox realized this only too late as evidenced by his flurry of trips to the USA where he met representatives of the mexicanamerican community. I believe gringo mentality will have a hard time swallowing this idea of a more present México in their midst. We have been in their midst for a long time. We have adapted. Its their turn to do the same in kind.

Related: What a wall can’t stop

Stratfor says …

Mexico: Why the Upcoming Election Matters


Sixteen days before Mexico’s presidential elections, the two leading candidates — leftist Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador and conservative Felipe Calderon — are still in a dead heat. Roberto Madrazo, the Institutional Revolutionary Party candidate, remains in third place but he is not so far behind that a Madrazo victory can be completely ruled out. Polls also indicate that no party will win a majority in Congress. This will restrict the next president’s ability to pursue any policy in the short term; but the candidates’ positions on policy issues are so different that the outcome of the upcoming presidential election will matter in the long run.

Wanna read more? Read it here or read over here.

As Elections Approach, Mexico Faces Internal Instability

Weak governance and deteriorating social conditions have steadily increased political and social instability in Mexico during the past several years. Rather than soothing the country’s rocky political and social environments, the results of Mexico’s upcoming general elections will heighten this instability. More concerning, however, are tightening U.S. border security and immigration reforms. These measures may provoke economic instability in Mexico, further destabilizing the country’s political and social environments in the months ahead.

Vicente Fox’s Big Shadow

Washington Post/Mexico Votes – For those of you just dropping in on Mexico’s July 2 presidential election, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought Vicente Fox was seeking a second term. The man who ended 71 years of rule by the conservative Institutional Revolutionary Party, known as the PRI, continues to dominate the polls, headlines and even the airwaves

Blimey o’reilly!

I actually felt a whiff of hot air run through my scarcely hairy arm yesterday. I know, it’s summer, finally, no, really, I mean finally. I can tell because my skin gets a glow on it and man does it look good. I love the alive look on it. No, am not a metrosex man but here in Sweden I’ve become an expert of sorts on hand and facial creams. My skin tends to dry up as soon as a cloud manages to block the sun. So I had a few beers at my father-in-law’s house and every now and then I would peek at the glow in my arm. I was at peace with mother nature. I smiled to it all.

The glow, by the way, is a sort of sweat, perspiration if you will, that reflects back light, ergo, you know.

I opened the window and I was bared chested. The landscape offers a nice patch of land where agriculture is carried out. The green field is wide open, the sky semish baby blue and the air amazingly lukewarm at 6:30a.m. I usually get up at 5a.m. everyday and no, its not something from my days in the barracks because I have never been an army man.

I sustain the theory that my body clock hasn’t really adjusted to Sweden yet. This easily rationalizes away all kinds of irrational unconcious behaviour from my part and shoos away tiredness. This because at times I experience minor, and I joke here, unexplained narcolepsy. Couple that with the normal depression season here in Sweden during winter and you’ll get my drift.

Either way, just forget about the disgression there, I was stunned to feel the air in my bare chest, it felt good. My beer belly got all ticklish and the view my corner of the swedish highlands offered to my lagañosos eyes was not picture perfect yet amicable as a good nature morning salutation.

The thing is that though summer is here I hate the profution of sweat that I produce at the slightest feel of a sunray on my skin. This is another one of those mutant changes I suffered, I believe, the moment my feet landed on nordic soil. Yes, my whole constitution is in total disarray yet I live.

Loads of seagulls. One would expect this nearby beaches not inland. What the hell do they do here in the Highlands is no mystery. They are after the crayfish on the countless lakes that Sweden is made up of and scandinavian bread leftovers that my neighbours and countless other swedes throw out to the birds.

Swedes tend to be really concious about their discards. There are even garbage disposal spies ready to rat on you the moment you leave plastic on the paper container. No, really, garbage facism does exist here. So food either gets the decompost treatment or its thrown to the birds. One would think the birds be having and overweigth problem but they don’t. They are nice and lean and still manage to do their primal instinct chores: look for yummy earthworms, as my grass attest to witness because every now and then I manage to find patches of uprooted grass here and there, or are those hedgehodges doing the nasty work?

’nuff w/ the summer.

Reading through Crooks and Liars I came across Malkin, a name I have learned to loath ever since the recall days in California.

Ever since then she has gained prominence amongst R wingnuts who like to put a little color in their ugly and nasty rethoric when it comes to Mexicans and well, anything that can push a button and make money, cause, really, she ain’t all that.

Crooks and Liars redirected me to this little link, Mrs. Malkin’s sacrifice, where I discovered Malkin’s distaste for all kinds of immigration with loopholes in it.

Turns out Malkin is herself an undesired immigrant the likes she herself proposes to ban all over America. She is an anchor baby herself.

Pinches Irish, there’s always something to learn outta them …

The backgrounds to Mexico’s struggle against Spain for its independence have been argued to have taken root as early as 1650, when an Irishman, William Lamport, attempted to revolt against Spanish rule in Mexico, cause an uprising among the Mexican people, and overwhelm any resistance of the Spanish.

Via Military history of México

From our own Richard Rodriguez ( de reciente acá se está haciendo muy relevante el compa que todos antes odiaban; everybody in the past little Xicano hate object seems to be becoming more and more relevant in American discourse, at times, I think, that he is the last real essayist America has, and he’s Chicano too!)

A great many Americans are alarmed by how much of Mexico is within the United States – the tongue, the tacos, the soccer balls, the street gangs, the Spanish Catholic Masses, the work force swarming into New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. The extent of the Mexicanization of U.S. culture renders any notion of a fortified border irrelevant. Twenty-five years ago, Joel Garreau wrote “The Nine Nations of North America,” in which he described a nation he called “MexAmerica” – a puzzle to both Washington and Mexico City – encompassing much of the U.S. Southwest and Northern Mexico as well as Baja California. A quarter-century later, one is struck by how prescient Garreau was but also how modest his forecast was.

Aztlán as a metaphorical place to call home – From el Universal, Mexico News.

A TOOL OF LIBERATION What it has meant, in short, is an inspirational tool of liberation – a “metaphoric center place” in the words of the book’s two lead authors – for a Chicano population historically repressed at worst and ignored at best. Reviving the idea of Aztlán in the 1960s and 1970s not only reinforced for Chicanos a sense of where they came from, it allowed them to still be there.

Aztlán, then, is today not so much a mapable geographic location as it is an allegorical construct that, as lead authors and the exhibit’s curators Virginia M. Fields and Victor Zamudio-Taylor, tell us, “represents a place of origin, a point of emergence from the past, and a focus of longing.” Aztlán’s rediscovery coincided with early Chicano activism, which was led by (but not limited to) Cesar Chavez’s efforts to organize California farmworkers.

“Aztlán – as a symbol, an allegory and a real and invented tradition – served as a cultural and spiritual framework that gave Chicanos a sense of belonging and a link to a rich and extensive history,” Fields and Zamudio-Taylor write. As valuable as the point is, the language used to make it is unfor tunately typical of much of the text in “Road to Aztlán,”

Music: Genesis, Illegal alien

So the mentally spic and spac clean hygiene WASP government in DC insists on putting a wall across the border. One would not expect less. I wrote a minifix on the wall a couple years back.

The wall wasn’t going to go nowhere, really, it was too good an idea and one of the major and best thriving industries in the US has always been security. The jail business has been having its agosto since the late 80′s. So it really ought not to be a big surprise there.

Though the Xicano community has flexed muscle recently, the message of the protests got distorted in all kinds of wierd ways so that gringo mentality managed, as it always does, to get its message across by distorting the very notion of the protests. I am sure Henry David Thoreau was turning over to get a tequila shot at the very moment he heard the stomping that Homeland Security mistook to be an enemy at hand.

Xicano mentality is long from making a dent in American both discourse and narrativewise. I say so because Xicano mentality is different from gringo mentality. We differ radically in so many ideas we could easily make a third party and give both Democrats and Republicans a run for their money.

Both of those parties ignore Xicano concerns.

But Julio, what do you complain about, you are no even an American citizen.

I have sworn allegiance to the stars and stripes too, what makes you think I don’t love the nation that saw me grow in its midst and gave an idea of how the world ought to be? Most of my relatives are American citizens and they raised me like one of their own. I too have sung the American anthem, so it does pertain me, what matters if I am not an American citizen when the land saw me fit to be one of its own?

Either way, the mentality is far from making inroads in Washington because there the framing of the issues is not about concerns that affect my cousins nor my uncles or aunts. It’s about the law and how the law is broken and how gringo folk interpret those laws.

No matter that everyone and their mother in Washington is breaking the law these days.

Tales from TJ
Gay life below the border

This article is not an attempt to reverse all of these popular assumptions about Tijuana, but rather to supplement and complicate them, and to describe our rather boisterously fun bar crawl. Tijuana deserves some of its press. It’s largely considered one of the most corrupt cities in Mexico, but at the same time, it’s one of the richest. (Of course, San Diego is one of the most corrupt cities in the U.S., as well as one of the richest.) TJ is not just the touristy border town it once was, but it’s because it’s a border town – perhaps the most border town-ish of all border towns – that has made it so exciting, liberal, raunchy and wonderfully bizarre. Partying in Tijuana, in gay Tijuana, is, well, boisterously fun, but being gay in Tijuana, living gay in Tijuana, is more complicated. According to gay men living in San Diego who were born in Tijuana, their hometown is a terrible place to be gay. At the same time, gay men living there now have a different view.

Via: The Gideonse Bible: It’s gay! It’s TJ!

I can’t help notice the noise that the right wingnuts make regards Aztlán and Chicanos and the whole culture clash enchilada. Specially English.

I still have a few problems with English. I grew up never feeling that English was part of me. It was a terrible atmosphere. Every vowel, every consonant got the third degree. You can imagine how that makes a brown kid feel surrounded by adults telling you that you don’t speak English when all along that is all you ever do.

The pocho phenomenon is a reaction to this constant language tit for tat in California. Pochos just realize what we dummier chicanos refuse by resisting full assimalitation: they integrate and merge in the culture forgetting and asserting their americanness at the cost of Spanish and our culture. At least they skip the language pains that are detrimental for later self-steem.

Up to this day I still don’t feel American enough. Though I am. It is easy to put in words and write down, yes, am American, pocho, chicano, watcha gonna do about it? Another to live it.

For many of us, English has always been a language of repression. The language that white americans use to put us down because our language alas! merge with our Spanish and churns out new sounds that are alien to ‘real’ English speakers.

That is why many Xicanos seek themselves to academia, to heal themselves, to prove the very thing they have always suspected, that they are American, that there is nothing wrong them.

I don’t know why gringos always feel we are never American and just wish they stopped there but they don’t. They have to have proof that we are Americans. Gringo Americans will always deny our existence. They are not ready to admit that our history is tied to the land and that even though part of our history doesn’t appear in English it sure does appear in Spanish. Why are they ready to deny us our existence as a people baffles me. It is almost as if they believe so much in their destiny, their place in history, that there is no room for nothing more tham white America in the good ol’ US.

Juan Cole says:

Shimon Peres says he wants to remind Iran that it, too, can be wiped off the face of the earth, implying that Israel is capable of obliterating it with its nuclear arsenal. Peres also had the gall to blame Iran for provoking a nuclear arms race in the area!

Is Peres really implying as much?

Reading Reuters has become a painful act of recently. I just don’t know what pseudo reporters or their honchos do with language but they sure need more time to invest in language courses. One of those phrases that riles me a whole bunch is the following:

By Dean Yates and Allyn Fisher-Ilan

TEL AVIV (Reuters) – Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who has called for Israel to be wiped off the map, should bear in mind that his own country could also be destroyed, Israeli elder statesman Shimon Peres said on Monday.

I learned via the Agonist and Juan Cole that Ahmadinejad has said something very different:

The speech in Persian is here:

Sorry that I misremembered the exact phrase Ahmadinejad had used. He made an analogy to Khomeini’s determination and success in getting rid of the Shah’s government, which Khomeini had said “must go” (az bain bayad berad). Then Ahmadinejad defined Zionism not as an Arabi-Israeli national struggle but as a Western plot to divide the world of Islam with Israel as the pivot of this plan.

The phrase he then used as I read it is “The Imam said that this regime occupying Jerusalem (een rezhim-e ishghalgar-e qods) must [vanish from] from the page of time (bayad az safheh-ye ruzgar mahv shavad).”

Ahmadinejad was not making a threat, he was quoting a saying of Khomeini and urging that pro-Palestinian activists in Iran not give up hope– that the occupation of Jerusalem was no more a continued inevitability than had been the hegemony of the Shah’s government.

Whatever this quotation from a decades-old speech of Khomeini may have meant, Ahmadinejad did not say that “Israel must be wiped off the map” with the implication that phrase has of Nazi-style extermination of a people. He said that the occupation regime over Jerusalem must be erased from the page of time.

Translation are trycky but even more tryckier are the personal translations we do to serve our own purposes.

Some of the Xicanos in what can, & only can, be deemed as a loose confedaration of goodie-two-shoes Xican@s bloggers who can’t seem to make up their mind about nothing, have sent me an email whereby I get accused of not only being a lousy pocho but a traitor to all semiotic principles to which Aztlán adheres to.

Yes, I said what?, too.

I know who hijacked the nascent xicano blogsphere from its craddle and turned it into this ugly no determination sissy crowd that we see now a days. But I won’t say who it was because I might hurt his feelings.

Either way I got the mail. These artificial xicanos would have me believe that because I don’t adhere to the Aztec/Maya mythology I am not a Xicano, besides, they say, you live in Sweden, not Aztlán. Ok.

First of all these are the same Xicanos that will defend spanish above all decrying that spanish is tantamount to xicanismo. That is a lie. For centuries there has been xicanos whose first language is not spanish but one of the 62 native languages from proper México that raza have brought with them to the US as they trekked the land towards Aztlán or that they had way before 1848. I think in particular the Apache languages and the Comanche and Yaqui languages just to name three.

Second of all. While the Aztec culture gave me a sense of belonging it also gave me a sense of feeling betrayed. My raza is Southwestern and most southwestern indigenous cultures are far and beyond the Aztec/Maya duality that tends to nurture the Xicano ens. This means that most of my real history has been erased from my conscience.

I am a proud Xicano from the Southwest and from the Norte of México. My language and manners will attest this any old day of the year for those who want to question my Xicano ens.

Dios mio, I didn’t know California was a spanish word either!

Could someone tell the Israeli friendly newsoutlet called Reuters, yes, I know, I am on the fringe of being called antisemitic, never mind am only 39 and really have not a shred of anything to do with nazis or any simpathies with a destruccion of beautiful Tel Aviv or beautiful arab-israeli Jerusalem under the rule of right wing nuts the likes of Binyamin Netanyahu otherwise known as bibi or the butcher of Lebanon known as Sharon in a coma, that California has and will always have a spanish history?

Or am I to understand that even though Reuters is a well and successful newsoutlet their reporters can and only can deal with the present when and only when the Reuters top honchos deem it it is worthy to dig into the past?

Can you imagine a California, a New Mexico, a Colorado, a Nevada, a Texas without a spansih past? English speaking Reuters seems to think so.

Dragging it through the mud for personal gain.

I mean what else can be said of those that are insanely obsessesed with the idea that Xicanos are helt bent in returning Aztlán to México. It be suicidal, I have argued, it would be a kamikaze act on part of the Chicano people to return Aztlán to the México yet the wingnuts in the US hearken nay.

Specially at technorati. The Aztlán tag is filled with right wing nuts decrying an invasion of sorts.

Take back Aztlán from the right wing nuts who’ll distort the very fabric of América. Xican@: everytime you write of Aztlán in your blog make a tag for it at so that technorati can pick it up because if we don’t do it now it might just be too late later.

Ok, there needs to be a Congress of Xicanos soon to speak about Aztlán, what it stands for and specially what kind of flag, if there be need for one at all, shall we lay our eyes upon.

PS: if the protests on May first didn’t make it clear for all, Tijuana is Aztlán!

Heck, let’s ruffle some feathers over at Michelle no ethics Malkin:Juan ManuelFoto originally uploaded by Juan Manuel. Kiss, kiss darling.


My fellow citizen Lalo Alcaráz, je, no, am not being biased but he does seem to subscribes to the same idea I have about xicanos not being immigrants, as pictured here:cucaracha Here is another one by Sergio Hernández that I think describes the nation’s mood rather well:sergio

Dang, people were desperate for news or commentary on the boycott that even I made it not only to technorati but another place as well.

My rants tend to give odd kinds of results. Suffice to say I’ll let it stand. Interpretations are weird and it is pretty much useless to combat notions arised out of single, fast-paced readings of any text. I know where I stand and if people perceive the wrong impressions, well, so be it.

So the boycott is nearly history and we will have to wait for the fall out, ’cause there’ll be one. However, like everyone else, the Latino community has a short term memory as well and November, well, November is far away and unless there is a turn about in the language to address the American people English is and will remain the language of power and pretty much well after November. This means of course that those rethoric books which started to gain dust in the 60′s are about to get a dust off. People will have new problemas to deal with in November. The Powers To Be aren’t happy, as it were. They did a pretty goood job in dictating the power base to spread ambivalence though it trickled fairly slow down to the masses. Will the Latino vote in November as they voted yesterday with their feet?

The big fish that might have some chewing their nails off next quarter profit reporting: Kimberly-Clark.

I am guessing that they will come out with some sort of announcement distancing themselves from James Sensenbrenner. Boy, talk about stupid. This guy ought to know that one of the fastest growing populations is precisely the one he is trying to kick out of the US and that means a lot of diapers out there. Good old monopolies aren’t just what they once were. All is not given though, the Mexican blogsphere was pretty much abuzz this fact though it stands to see if it made it to the streets. If it did then Kimberly-Clark will most likely feel a drop and I don’t mean a poo-poo in one of their diapers.

Though it might sound like there were a lot of people out there on the net reporting the boycott the fact of the matter is that the numbers don’t go beyond my two hands. And that in spanish. Very few dedicated people were alighting their keywords with flames in their fingers or was it because they were too busy out in force allá en Aztlán? The next following days should see a huge load of posts related to the boycott with memories and nostalgia what not.

Those of us who sat it out in countries, like say, Sweden, rather enjoyed the efforts put out by Juan Manuel this guy got the pics, the vids, 1, 2 and the text to back up the reporting from both Tijuana and Sydro as the locals call San Ysidro.

Alt1040 was doing good as well urging his base to feed his blog with news. Two rather interesting bits came out of there, the Kimberly-Clark bit and the floodsite.

Olganza and Regioblogs were at it too in part reporting and in part doing compilations of news reels about the boycott. Like I said, the Xicano blogsphere must of have been out in force.

Other pics from the frontera can be seen here and here.

Guys and gals: I can’t thanx you guys enough for the work you did.

So not Kimberly-Clark anymore

Blogger is not being nice. I got two accounts there and I can’t post what I am doing on the net regards the boycott. So be it. Watching the news reel from the spanish blogsphere. These are the following links:

Juan Manuel, Olganza, El gran boycott en marcha, Alt1040, Regioblogs.

Pop the popcorn, am watching now!

PS: David, thanx for stopping by!

Ah, yes, your retinas desire a visual then and now, Nathan Gibbs and Manuel are providing the goodies.

Yes, we know that you wanna do something that makes you feel good besides eating popcorn and watch, so go here, as Alt1040 suggested y deja tu browser open, flood rhose wingnuts.

Pinche raza: Bush, escucha, estamos en la lucha!

Just watched on one of those cnn live video feeds: what’s your legal status? It’s irrelevant here, you should be ashamed for asking that question, we are all americans here [L.A] …

Am hitting the sack but check out TVAzteca live coverage as well, man this is exciting ese.

Ok, I moved some numbers on the css and the context box and sidebar box of my wp based blog and are now at different variables than before. I wanted to add the radioblog, check it out. It’s got a few swedish indy selections and other goodies that are given free on the net.

Right, so I downloaded the spanish versión of the Star Spangled anthem over at I love the Military Industrial Complex mexican newspaper El Universal. Go give it a listen.

First impresions, wuacatelas, not my pinche cup de manzanilla té ese. I suppose that some people might find something positive about it. Not this old school Xicano. The one that gives me the goose bumps is by far and large the english version. Some nutcrack ought to go ahead and do the Mexican anthem in english just to ruffle some feathers though if one is to trust what lies in the archives of the wiki link then touché!. Heck, if the Americans turned the Canadian flag upside down the only rightful thing to do to integrate even more our NAFTA loveable nations is to keep stepping on each others toes, man it’s getting crowded here!

Sí, sí, the boycott, blah, blah. Reminds one of the Wobbly army that wanted to take over Tijuana in 1911. And because the people of Reagen are seeing red all over the boicott since it will be held May 1st, an ominoius day if there ever was one in the States and in Califas as well, many are voicing their last Cold War caca at it. Unions are jumping at the event that will be and promises to be one of its kind since, well, the Woblies … Yet the steam is hot and some are calling it like it is:

Third: for real hardball -why has the Democratic party not sent out investigators to find firms run by Bush pioneers use which mostly illegals? (Hint: start with the meat packing industry.)

And over at Kos gang: May Day Nationwide Immigration Strike Heats Up

I come from a very conservative family myself and whenever that day appeared my uncle always murmured things the likes of if it is Workers Day the best thing you can do to celebrate it is by working. No arguing there, and I mean no arguing, jíjole I worked. I hear the same clamor over at the Tijuana blogsphere where some voices are tired over the hyped up event.

L.A Mayor and Xicano at large Antonio Villaraigosa has run-off to Texaztlán claiming business issues but everyone knows the burden of the ambivalence in the air has him under pressure. I mean come on. Bush as been against the boicott and now the catholic church has put their two narco-stained pesos on the latino mexicano protest. Talk about turning tides, one remembers well how Arnhold was very much against immigrants but now California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger is suddenly pro-immigration and pro-marches and pro-boicott. Sheez, qué sabe Anhold que no sepa Villaraigosa?

My street,
this Swedish
Spring day,

insists on
blue sky

caress my cheeks

I feel blood rushing.

last autumn’s


brittled noises
on the local
where nordic winds

at earshot speed

a now
hardened golden brown
last year’s autumn
green shoot

who once stood out on a limb,
fell, sometime ago
intent on
the passing of the fall

I saw it rock and roll


the beautyful meaningless of the everyday

which tends to runaway from us

I heard it tumbling by, I want to hear it again.

I do confess
’tis was silent
when it made
turn my head.

It rolled,
a moment

I can’t forget.

Zulma Aguiar, another Chicana de la frontera, or so it seems: welcome to the fold, the more the merrier.

As we merrily recall, Geronimo, pops and I, she once left a message at the offices asking us to check out some grrrls at a flickr acount she has. Well, now we know she has a blog too.

De por cierto, El Pocho abogado is doing a good thing by propagating a website where students who walked out, in conjuction with the greatest American protests ever against any piece of legislation, can get legal advice and help due to their God given right to Civil Disobedience.

Me hacen proud mendigos, snif, chamacos condenados, ya hasta una lagrima me hicieron correr.

We all know how those George W. Bush sicko sycophant lackeys can get.

Ta-ta, es todo por hoy.

- I have noticed that more and more you liken the desert. The very one Geronimo stares at when at the offices. Does it not worry you that, in the end, your voice will end up a mere grain in the sand inasmuch as your voice is a scream in space?

- Those two concepts, desert and space, are two interesting images. In order to answer your question I must accept the fact that the aforementioned images exist. Yet my blog exist too as soon as your eyes lay their retinas upon them.

- .

Must … refrain… from, Garh! I can’t yes! yes! Yes!

Michelle Malkin is about to bite the dust. Daily Kos, thou art now forgiven.

Yes Sean, we knew the moment we read the phrase pinche gringos written across this post that your position was loud and clear. Thank you for stopping by this Xicano nordic corner and we’ll keep reading your posts and keep an eye on your future Iran trip hope your Iran trip comes true. We have good memories of your silk road trip and expect no less from your Iran trip.

I must also say that though the Daily Kos: State of the Nation gang hasn’t necessarily ran deep into the debate about the protests, some positions have been taken to address this hot tamale issue no one seemingly wants to hold for too long in their hands. I just wish they did.

Richard Rodriguez:

By and large what we have seen is a refusal of the official left or the right to speak well of illegal immigrants. I think what that has done is allowed American nativism — and I use that word advisedly — allowed American nativism to participate in a drama that we have seen along the border a century ago, as early as the 1920s and ’30s. When Americans had finished with the labor they wanted from the Mexicans, we decided to send them back. Of course 10 years later during World War II we wanted that labor again, because American men had gone to the European and Asian theater. We go through these cycles of wanting the Mex-ican’s labor and not wanting the Mexican. Of using his or her energy and then pretending we never wanted it in the first place.

And this from Dos Centavos:

That someone I have known and worked with would be threatened for simply fighting for the rights of people. I would hope that progressive people take note and march on April 10th! March to support hard-working people!

2¢-avos can keep hoping.

I have been complaining that, as far as the blogsphere is concerned, very little items have been posted on the matter and this from the big fish the likes of Daily Kos and The Agonist, je, those are the ones I visit most frecuently. I find it odd, at best, that these people who decry everything that is wrong with the Bush administration aren’t focusing on matters that concern America. Sadly, when they do, their true colors arise and it becomes a nasty tit-for-tat vitrolic argument from people who don’t really say what’s in their corazones.

Instead of informing and take a position, like, for example, when they so fervently state, am against the war, these folk don’t even bother to say where they stand. I guess that pretty much sums it up.

Two rather interesting posts out of Brown Kingdom:

Why is it that you hear mexicans refer to the “whole” United States as LOS??


To be Chicano means to have learned of respect, to have practiced understanding, and to have been moved by social injustice to the point where the person sees it as his duty to fight wrongs wherever they may be found. Chicanismo also means to teach humanism and to love (with respect) all of our fellow human beings who also cling to this earth.

Go read’em now!

I know some in Aztlán, our own extreme right, despise the idea of homosexualism or marimachas, as forming a part of Aztlán though am not persuaded by any of their arguments.

I find the whole marica/marimacha culture rather intriguing not only because I come from Tijuana, where jotos and she-males form part of the fabric of my city but because they are different and at times better than heteros. Of course, what I most admire is their intellectual prowess and sophistication too.

That is why I was cracking up when I stumbled upon queer raramuri out of Austin, Texas. This mariquita is proud to be one and will sell you a shirt with a unique slogan that erodes the negative and pursues the positive in the words that are used to despise a los jotitios and the marimachas.

ramblings by a queer xicano that is not a descendant of warhol, moctezuma or cortez… but of sisnett, anzaldúa & the young tarahumara whose name matters to few

Here are some pics of the slogans in his shirts:

Puñaljotoyou bring out the joto in meI make Juan Gabriel look butchChorizo Lover

You can purchase them at Joto Power where amongst other things you can also buy a poetry book of his titled: Santo de la Pata Alzada: Poems from the Queer/Xicano/Positive Pen.

Oh finally, the Kos gang has opined on the immigration protests back in Aztlán. I suppose they can’t be seen allowing the right wing machinary having a field day (more like a shark feeding frenzy) on the immigration protests without them putting their two cents on it, just to, you know, not to let it pass they hadn’t said anything on it.

Though the Kos gang seems to be seeing beyond the xenophobic right-wing smoke screen. They seem to be realizing that americans have a right to opine on matters of US national interest in whichever way they see fit to do it. After all waving a flag is a form of freedom of speech and americans do have a tradition of protesting through civil disobedience unjust laws.

It does not matter how they do it, regardless, they are americans, period. They are exercising their constitutional right to protest against legislation that might harm them.

Right wing nuts want to tell people how to be american in such an unamerican fashion that it is nearly facist. They only want one and only kind of americanism and that is blue eyed, blonde and white. Anything else is alien.

The right wing nuts will distract the message of the protest by focusing on the flags and the identities of mexicans. This tactic was used by Michelle Malkin to derail Bustamante’s aspirations to the California goverment house back in the old recall days of Ahnold S in 2003.

Wanna read what this craze looney, who sways opinion on national matters when immigration matters alight on the nation, has to say nowadays? Read on.

After that unhealthy dose of right wing propaganda go read Ed Brock’s Why ‘MEChA’ won’t conquer the Southwest, to regain conciousness again, sorry for the brutal blow to your retinas, but this is an immigration issue and one that divides, like all immigration debates ought to do in Aztlán.

Ah, yes, I know, you love to regurtitate more, here’s more for your over exercized brain, go on, click on it.

Dedico este poema a mi amigo Luis A. López, Aztec Poet at large.

I am Xicano mexicano ese
though not del Otro Saite.

with spanish colors
my brown iris paints
la Línea, el bordo,
muros and walls
of my cantón

I became
what el desierto made out of me.
With the aid of a syphon
The sand blew
Its red stained history
my poros borders.

The yaqui and navajo
Me dieron vida
sus voces
of great ones told
Geronimo clamours yet
The yaqui still fights the mexican.

Mastico the anglo bard’s tongue
like saucy and spicy tacos de lengua.

With my jainas
and los vatos de la ‘hood
I cruise dauntaun

Con los pachucos, cholos
wainos y saicos

I straddle two cultures
I see them all

The Southwest
my house
La frontera
mi home

Mi raza xicana es

the heat waves of the Santa Ana winds.

Blue red
is the color of my soul
blanco & rojo

Two eagles apart
Soaring above Aztlán
Mark my heart .

- Apá, the earth is trembling.
- M’ijo, it’s only the raza making their voices heard.
- Con sus feet ‘pá?
- It is an ancient custom de nuestra gente, we move with our feet. Aztlán is based on that and la pobre raza have always voted with their feet when it comes to México, we can’t help it. Most pueblos in the Southwest were to a minor or greater degree nomads as well.
- Pá, why is the mezcal bottle half empty?
- It’s Geronimo’s fault, he made me drink it.
- Pinche viejito.
- Más respeto escuincle cabrón.
- Ok. But people are clammoring at the offices for some kind of commentary on the immigration phenomenon that it is ripping wave after wave of commentary all over the blogsphere.
- Any wise word from your part?
- M’ijo, how many times have I told that you and Raza are not immigrants? How can you be a foreigner in your land?
- Right. Pero I can’t go on with those fairy tales of yours, I suppose I ought to make something up.
- Chamaco cabrón, am’onna hafta give the Oaxaca jug a hit before I can answer that. Mira, we are not criminals and we have never had any intentions to hurt what is already ours. The fight is on another plane, a visionary plateu were Manifest Destiny meets Aztlán. The right wing nuts wanna make it look like mexicans want to take over but those are only terror tactics for anglo fear consumption, not brown. What gringo folk don’t wanna understand is that most raza have more love for land that legislative argot. Gringo mentality is based on the word; what the consensus of a majority agree upon but raza retain a memory for the land, not documents. Remember Reies Tijerina? Yes you do, he was here last night, chingandose un tequila that his homie, Corky Gonzales brought to him not so long ago. When he tried to enforce the laws, western style, more cowboy than Marlboro and Broke Mountain …
- Pá, that was a gay movie …
- Chin! Really? Well, either way, did he do it for the belief that the institutions the güero built for güero and the güero only or for a love of land?
- A love of land.
- Así es m’ijo, we have fought many wars that the gringo leadership has called us upon to do, even when the righteous view of the güero boot stood in our necks, asfixiating us, we have stood side by side the star spangled banner. Brrr, gives me the goosebumps just to think of it. Gotta love gringo land for other reasons than that.
- Are you saying that politicians have distorted the view, the vision, of a multicultural land for personal gain?
- Yes, am saying that. Ever heard of the Good, the Bad and the Ugly American? Well, it really ought to be gringo. Se tientan el corazón in a rather odd way. It is all about race m’ijo. We are now seeing the Ugly side of the gringo, these are dark times and as always, we stand and look. Will it change? It stands to see, I can only tell of the things of the past and not those to come.
- Then the trembling soil ought to bode good tidings pappa, nothing but good tidings ….

Apparently, all democrat things considered does not include what democrats are doing, in terms of immigration, at Daily Kos. Mexican newspaper El Universal is hailing John Kerry a heroe for presint’s Fox number one cause: immigration to keep low paying jobs at work in Mexico while syphoning skilled and dissenting voices to the US.

Fustiga senador John Kerry iniciativa migratoria
Señala el ex candidato presidencial demócrata que con la aprobación del proyecto enfrentaron a los republicanos que vieron la reforma de migración como una oportunidad para castigar a los inmigrantes

One just wonders why?

Yes, yes, I know that you are hopelessly monolingual and despite that Spanish is your next door neighbour, well, you haven’t really bothered to understand it, so here it is, a rather close approximation to it, that is, the news.

I hope that Mr Kos doesn’t complain about Kerry’s Spanish as he did Mr Bush, digo, don’t wanna causar too many malestares, dig’me?

The weird and odd thinker at Daily Kos [too asimilado for my taste] had nothing to add to the immmigration issue and the mass protests that ensued thereby. So much for crashing the gates. There is a thing that assimilated to the core Xicanos loath most and that is Raza being raza. For these kind of Xicanos these raza aren’t gringo enough. Oh, but they’ll go on and on about the US Constitution this and that.

Zúñiga, who hates it when his last name is mispronounced by the general media, no, not Zúñiga but that other funny sounding name, Moulitsas, states that “My heroes are Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero, Cesar Chavez“.

I think that this hip young raza man, whose blue-red blood runs deep enough to ignore the raza sediment in his veins, is beyond gente.

Am I being evil? No. I think that he is using his origins and color amén de su nombre to gain political gain. Is that bad? No, but it ain’t honest either.

Yes, I know he is busy being the good Democrat. Oh, am sorry, am not an American? That am a Mexican Xicano, should I have not opined?

PS: the Kos gang zoomed on my post like a rabbit out of the blue, erhm, that doesn’t make sense does it? I wonder what they thought? Sure’nuff and item on the protest appeared on the matter [though, we must admit, that we do not know if our blog had anything to do with that decision, that is, to mention, the protest], jíjole, even on a bullet! Wait till I tell the folks back home about it *insert a jethro from Beverly Hillbillies laugh here* I made a difference.

Gad am I longing for a bit of soil from las Américas. Fuck me triple but Europe might have culture but they lack sun. Give me sun I say. There is so much a son of the Calida Fornix can take I tell you. Ok, so last night I dreamt I was smoking a refeer. Fuck. Europe does suck. I even caught myself perusing the products of a legal herb site from Hawaii whilst my lips dripped goo to the keyboard. Give me a jolt, give me a yahoo, anything to shake the doldrum out of my rutine euro trahs day, please, do end it!

Calm down Julius, so a few grey days might seem a tad boring but think of the whisky. Fuck, whisky my ass. I developed an intolerance to the point of not caring for my liver and wondering if it is all worth it. Whisky doesn’t cut it anymore though am sure its ripping my guts apart!

Even drug users have a bad time in Northern Europe.

On other great and uneventful news, not that my psychological constitution would be of any concern to you reader, spring has finally, I repeat, finally reappeared after a long and mystirious absence. The snow is giving way to the warmth that inevitably had to start churning heat.

I do long for California though. Been too long aquí. Time to start ordering tickets to Tijuana, ask the bank for a loan and preparing intoxicating days in the motherland where hangovers aren’t even an issue.

By the way, did I say that this a PG post? Fuck It.

Believe it or not the snow refuses to part. It’s been a crazy marzito, como decía mi abuelita, Marzo loco y Abril otro poco, but men! this is going too far. Ah, what the fuck am I babbling about anyways. Sun never makes a good impression, the next thing you’ll be hearing from me is that it is too fucking hot and that the weather hasn’t been this strange, well, since last week. Fuck, my body does really need to be attuned to mamá naturaleza.

Humbug. Must be the grey weather. The fizz in blogsphere is dwindling, like there is no tomorrow. Hardly anyone is blogging nowadays. So fucking what. Oh, yeah, I finally caught up with a thought that escaped me a few minutes ago. I want to nag about los pinches güeros here in Sweden.

It turns out that many here refuse to see my gringo side. They seem to have this godforsaken odd thinking that to be american you have to be güero. Fuck, this really tends to piss me off like there is no tomorrow, yes, I wrote that phrase two paragraphs ago smartaleck. Eitherways, I feel robbed, ultrajado, desposeido. I have no other way of being but the Xicano being. I have days when I am more mexican than others and I have days when I am more gringo than others, why can’t the pinche crazy monolinguals get this? But that is diverging the gist of the message towards another venue.

I know I have dark skin, cafe con leche, black hair and pretty lovely sort of hazel eyes [yes, am talking nice about myself, gotta a pro with that?] but that doesn’t automatically mean am not a gringo though I be hard pressed to have someone tell me, hey, aren’t you a gringo? ah, what the fuck, no one seems to know what a Xicano is in Sweden eitherways, so what the fuck am I grumbling about anyways.

I leg all


Photo: REUTERS/Lucas Jackson

I have always argued that mexicans in the USA, specially the Southwest, shouldn’t feel ashamed of their ethnic background. They should assert their americanness no matter what. They should assert that spanish has a history in the Southwest. That we are an essencial component of California.

For far too long have we felt the force of the blue eyes upon our dark skin.

Don’t let anyone question your americanness because of the color of your skin, because of the accent you speak.

1970 – Diana vs. State Board of Education of California – Spanish speaking children were placed in classes for children with mental retardation on the basis of individual intelligence tests that were considered culturally biased.

We all remember that afternoon. The clouds hung at an uncomfortable low and the heat made the humidity stick. It was then the town council in all its wisdom had decided to pass a non-bilingual bill, despite the majority of the town’s opposition to it.

What hurt more was councilman Richard Rodriguez vote. He, raised amongst the locals, turned his back against his own folk.

- “Why, just last night he come over to take a’drink wit me, that bastad!” lauded Tauwny.

Tauwny was an immigrant from French Guyana and appealed most fervently of all for the dual capacity bilinguals have only to fall into deaf ears. The future couldn’t look bleaker for him. He had two sons and every February the third made a curios display of patriotism by taking out a flag no one but him knew where it came from. The vote had barely passed by a slight majority, and as the crowd gathered in front of the municipal building, the politicians where getting ready to read a statement to announce the town’s continuance of a monolingual policy for all.

Albert Villahermosa had been ambivalent throughout the debacle. His forefathers had moved from the city of Torreón in the state of Coahuila to what is now known as the San Joaquin Valley in California but then just another town in Alta California, not long before the American invasion of 1848 led then by Commodore Stockton. His great grandmother, or bisabuela as he would know her, would tell him “not to many freckled faced boys roamed the streets yet back then.” He was a fluent mexican spanish speaker but barely had need to use it except at family gatherings where he would endure a host of questions regarding his “Mexican-ness”.

He looked on the mass of people, wondering just what was he doing there amongst the throngs of angry people demanding that the city council reverse its vote. English after all, he thought in the back of his head, was what united everyone. It was the bridge that made this multicultural town what it was.

He headed homewards. That night, Angela, his wife of three years, had made a special dinner, mole, a chocolate spice sauce dish that Albert loved and as he readied himself to sit comfortably in the dinner table he heard on the radio that a protest had turned into a scuffle and Tauwny had been arrested for punching Councilman Rodriguez in the face. He could distinctly hear Tauwny’s voice in the background, yelling “traitor, traitor!”, as he was being dragged on while the radio reporter continued to report live from City Hall. Angela could be heard saying a few pity words for Tauwny but not much that moved Albert into a civic mood to go and demand Tauwny’s release, although the issue of bilingualism had slowly crept into his mind as the night passed on.

The next morning proved decisive for the whole town, during the course of the night many residents had gone out and held a vigil for Tauwny. They nearly broke the windows of Councilman Rodriguez car, had it not been for Sheriff Gonzalez timely intervention, although many would later wonder maliciously where had he been at the time of the punch that gave Councilman Rodriguez a black eye. A few had ventured to suggest that it was because he too had been on the pro-bilingual wagon but others spoke out plainly that it was because it had more to do with his insurance business where Rodriguez had recently taken out a policy insuring the 1956 Desoto he owned.

On the way to work, Albert met with disgruntled and sleepless neighbors who wondered where had he been all night while the town’s very essence was at stake. He shook his head in bewilderment at the utterance of those fancy words unable to answer quite right until he met his cousins walking by.

- Hey! Wuz up cuz? Were where’ya last night? Thought you be ‘round but I never caught sight of you …
- I went straight home from work, I was tired.
- Yeah, well, tomorrow were gonna be at it again till they change that fucking law, are you comin’?
- Don’t know, well see.

He never really understood his cousins; they didn’t even speak spanish although they belonged to the 1848 Committee. A group that demanded that the lands he grew up in be given back to México. As he walked by his neighborhood, he pondered what it was to be bilingual. Though he didn’t come to a clear conclusion as to its significance or its bearing to his town or himself. Worse yet, he was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the whole idea of this discussion coming up so high as the to waste precious council time and taxpayers money on such a, what he considered to be, trivial business.

He pondered about the language he first heard at home, the one that nurtured him and the one language that soothed him so much whenever he came home from school. His mother tongue as it were. It was the language of the house, the one mama and papa spoke. The one he discovered the world with, the one that first made him cry and the one that first made him laugh but also the one language that left him so many scars. He remembered all too well how his teachers would chastise him whenever homely vowels blurted out of his mouth but that were foreign to the teacher: “greasy language” the teacher would decry. At one point he adamantly refused to speak that wretched language. A choice that only brought him acrimonious chastisement closer to home and in the streets, the children would call him “beaner” and make him feel a stranger in the only land he ever knew.

- “Spanish has been nothing but trouble for me and I don’t want that for my children, that’s for sure”, he thought.

At work there weren’t to many bilinguals so the topic never really came up and the day proceeded as normal until the waterman came by.

- Hey Albert, how is it going? Heard what happened last night?
- Yeah, pitiful ain’t it?
- What?! You mean you stand by those crooked gringos ese?
- Well, not really, well…, I don’t really know you see …
- Well would you look at’cha! You’re the only mexican here and yet you wonder, how cozy homes! Meanwhile, us little guys who’ve been here before these gringos ever came to run our lives and are now telling us how to speak have to fight for our very existence.

Albert just stared; it never occurred to him that he was being run over by people who until this time had been his co-workers, neighbours, friends and associates. Albert didn’t have any more strength to continue the conversation and walked away from the water fountain leaving the waterman shaking his head. That the whole issue had come to his work was more than he could tolerate and made it a point to get the issue out of his head for the rest of the day.

Then, it dawned upon him. The division of the town was the division he had so long felt within himself. Never really belonging here or there, always having to choose sides. Yet essentially, whatever it was that made him who he was, a straddler, a walker of in-betweeness, a hyphen between the anglo and the mexican and the rest of the world, it was also happening out there in the streets. He walked back to his office shaken by the realization. All along, since he was a child, translating for his mother, speaking for his father whenever they went to shop or do some business with the rest of the community he had to be the middleman between two worlds in his town. Now he understood what it was the throngs that so baffled him were all about. He thought pensively for the rest of the day and decided to take a stance.

On his way home, the issue of bilingualism had died down, the city council had backed down from its stance and Tauwny was free. The town went about its business in a regular fashion and Angela awaited to tell him of the funny language his son uttered, a mixture of English and Spanish, they called it spanglish. Albert now stood feeling better about his new identity. His new self to the point of considering running against counculman Rodriguez only to later recant, “one step at a time” he thought, looking outside the window of his house as life returned to its normalcy to his beloved city.

poema en espanglish hecho en paint


Well ex-Q’s-me. Off course there is a difference and off course it’s divisive.

And that fact that Real Americana star spangled Chicanos don’t wanna take issue with the question at hand shows that it has been decided for us Tijuana Xicanos, citizenship, apparently, doth seems to matter.

Oh, like you didn’t know Lalo Alcaraz was from Tijuana and that Luis Urrea too and let’s not forget George Yepes.

Hence, I reiterate: does citizenship matter to be a Xicano?

For those new to the argument I would like to point out that I claim that Tijuana is Aztlán too. I’ve argued for it in spanish as well as in english that this is so the case.

Well, many would say, it isn’t certain, Mr. Martínez, because at this stage, any decent spanish speaking, english talking Xicano would have its fists up in the air by now, and abandon altogether the more familiar Julio Sueco nickname, to argue with me about the current kerfuffle.

The question pertains to the realms of Aztlán.

Within Aztlán, does citizenship matter?

I haven’t checked the state of the xicano blogsphere and I frankly don’t have the ganas. The fact of the matter is that we are different. I have mexican values ingrained in me like a tattoo in my nalgas. Though I harbour gringo values in my xicano DNA the fact that am not an american citizen sets me apart like a ten feet pole does whenever you don’t want someone around.

Citizenship does matter. And even though you hear that xicanos are discriminated chicanos themselves discriminate against those that are not American citizens. This fact has always permeated the Xicano ens and it will continue to no end forever and ever until people start talking about it. Does citizenship matter to be a Xicano?

Personally I think that citizenship should not matter. Though we are with our families our illegal alien cousins, nuestros primitos mojados, make us forget the obvious: there is a difference. We say it in many ways. One of them is markedly shutting them out from our hip lives.

I always used to hate it when my gringo not chicano cousins born in the USA distanced themselves from the kind of activities I pursued. Their enlgish speaking I have mexican parents but don’t speak Spanish friends always came first, the hip of the hip and the real beaner left out, yeah, that was me.

Amongst chicanos speaking Spanish can be a detriment or a plus. Some chicanos even look upon us in a condescending way as if it were a pest of sorts. I know a little Spanish as if solidarity meant to feel sorry for one for being so different ….


The sun is shining in Sweden. This means lots of welcomed warmth. Please, allow me to expound, the sun is actually heating up the surface. Yeah, no big news round the world but here in my corner of the earth this is like a million bucks. So you’ll find many swedes basking in the sun before their snow-filled yards. You read right, there is plenty of snow to make a snowlady.

Two more months and it will mark my 9nth year in beautiful Scandinavia were nothing but pretty white people live.

I don’t know, I have been thinking about it lately, what have this long stay in Sweden given me besides buckets of bitterness? A language, check. A new culture, check. A new citizenship, check. A profession, check. Tortillas and refried beans? I wish.

So I suppose that growing older ought to smooth out the edges and this will eventually turn out to be a not-so-bad expierence. I still long for Tijuana though and given the right circumstances am willing to drop everything and head back home. Am ready. Off course, that will take a little matter of around the sum of a million bucks or so to persuade me to head back home. My telephone bill assures me am a long way from reality.

At least the sun shines today and I have a Czech beer by the computer.

I stood in shock and speechless at the very image that was unfolding like a motion picture right before my eyes. I understood the power of cultural shocks, the power of cultural encounters and the power of feeling superior right after the incident. I know how to eat an avocado, un ahuacatl, and my swedish suegro, my father in-law doesn’t. I was with him last night. We were sharing a meal and I brought some vittles. I slid the kitchen knife smack in the midle of the aguacate, and cut it in half. The one half retains the big seed and the other shows a perfectly shaped half hole, un hermoso huequito. At the same time he asked me what that was, perhaps enticed by the glowing fresh and en su punto green color of the fruit, he picked it up and began to cut a wedge much as you would cut it from a lemon. I saw aghast that he did not take the peel off as his hand promptly placed the verdura in his mouth. The reeling of the movie was almost life like to be true, wait, it was life like, I kindly told him not to eat the peel. He didn’t, he said ok in a non-chalant manner, not noticing perhaps that this was the first time he ever tried the sacred fruit that brings so many memories of an ancient civilization to my mind, soul, the Aztecs.

I realized then how superior can one sometimes feel over other people. I felt pity for my father in-law for not knowing how to eat an avocado. Maybe it’s a mexican thing. On after thought it is also a sign that he has stopped seeing me with those eyes of his that always saw strangeness in me. The differences of another culture that popped, oozed out me, after 9 years, doesn’t seem to bother him anymore and perhaps he is more ready than ever to start trying the very things my strange culture has to offer. Maybeso, who knows. But I still feel sorry the poor lad was about to eat an avocado peel had I not stopped him in his tracks….

My fellow citizens in Tijuana are a wad unawares of world affairs.

This tends to irk me like a rash on my thighs. WTF? It totally escapes them that having one of the most powerful naval fleets in the world next to them is, least to say, important.

The security apparatus must be mind staggering. Yet no second thought on the issue is given at all in no discourse whatsoever or the secretive nature of mexican talk escapes me in an ineffable manner.

I put three articles by Stratfor, or rather snippets thereby, of security issues concerning the mexican border on my spanish blog. This helped me gauge the issue amongst the blogotees in the Tijuana sphere who tend to give me a read. They have no idea what am talking about.

Let alone deduct conclusions.

One is left but to wonder if they are just wary and hence silent on the matter or they are really not interested in world affairs.

I have always found spanish media a tad cumbersome. They inform the public, period. Rarely do they call to agitate. Tijuana spanish media always has this ‘miralos, miralos, pinches gringos, ya ni la chingan’ attitude. Probably party line stemming from Mexico City. It is inherent in our society to have echelons. So this is also plastered in the news. Hence nothing ever gets too out of proportion.

Most spanish newspapers go from the perspective that people are just plain dumb altogether. There is a sense that they are doing the people a favor. But let me back up some. When I say they inform I mean they pass on the information as if it had nothing to do with the community. It is always somebody else doing the action, unknown actors so far removed from the community as posible that it bears no resemblance with us to the extent that they even seem unmexican. Stories also tend to have no secondary sources or opinions being consulted to confirm or back up the ‘truth’ of the story. One must wholy rely on the integrity of the reporter that tells of the news, reports it. That is it.

A newspaper has so many facets. So I am just gonna be referring to a greater extent to the news that concern border issues which often tend to be matters of state. This in turn always leads to finger pointing of the worst kind at all levels of government administration. Just as well, rarely or seldom at best, is there a public reaction to anything, the San Andreas Fault could come loose and tijuanenses would be the last to know. There is no sense in the population to bring accountability to the powers to be . This goes back to the echelons I bespoke of before. Power stems from the top down and not the other way around.

Tijuana is a city populated by immigrants, which at any given time, constitute the majority of the population. So the spanish media more often than not has to address this crowd, not the native population. The latter has to do with second rate publications, plain old gossip or look to San Diego or L.A. for deeper analysis that concerns their region. The immigrant population tends to also be less educated than the native tijuanense. Immigrants have different customs and traditions. They come with a sense of human relations that is almost alien to the native tijuanense.

Immigrants tend to respect those in power. They revolve around power like sycophants. Immigrants tend not to question authority [feeling of not belonging what not] and those in power are looked upon as a hierarchy that is unremovable, except, off course, every three years which is when Tijuana has to go to the polls to elect a new mayor. This explains rather well the misunderstood feeling that native tijuanenses feel every three years.

It is not that there is apathy running amok in the city. It is the general lack of interest for the city as a whole. Tijuanenses in general do care for their city but because immigrants carry with them this sense of feeling that Tijuana is not their city and that they will not be staying in Tijuana too long no matter what, [they are just passing by] why vote. If they do vote it is so because they get something in return. It gets them something that puts food on the table. Immigrants outnumber tijuanenses and politicians understand this very well and fully take advantage of it. But I digress.

People born or raised in Tijuana tend to have a higher degree of education not because they attend institutions of higher education in masse but because we are bombarded day in and day out with all sorts of information from two language sources. Sadly enough there is also a brain drainage from the city. Educated tijuanenses are ill understood because we do not have the more mexican accepted customs in our sociological view of the world. This tends to askew the mexican view of how the world ought to be and which thereby tends to loath independent thinking. This makes for poor readership and least to say, leadership. This makes the many educated and well raised look elsewhere for a better future for themselves, for their personal development and their own good. Forget about the mexican diaspora, what about the tijuanense diaspora? Lalo Alcaraz, Luis Humberto Urrea, beisbol players, arquitects and a whole lot of other people that are later ‘forgotten’ by the city’s leaders or populace because they left the city. They may have left the city but the city never left them. They proudly say where they come from. But I digress once again.

On the other hand, whenever I read American anglo newspapers detailing news of Tijuana one is often struck with a sense of awe at the portrayal of heroism that a few mexicans seem to acomplish, read: it is laudable to be able to see ourselves in the mexican character because someone did something Anglo America can identify itself with which in most cases tends to mean progress. Progress is always a headline whenever Tijuana or México are talked about in the San Diego news media. It is news whenever we seem to be moving forward. The kind of ‘forward’ anglos seem to be abe to relate to.

News articles about Tijuana, or México, are designed to make us english speaking mexicans feel good. We like to hear and read about the bastards down in México, who did us wrong, get in trouble. They also tend to be articles that cause ‘indignación’ that is, these pieces of information are made to cause public reaction. Speacially concerning border issues. They agitate, they are a call to do something about the current situation at hand and that will inevitably affect the lives of our people for generations to come.

This has very much to do with the anglo American sense that Washington just can’t get away with anything it wants. It must have and does have opposition to its will. There is a price to be paid for messing with public opinion not so in Tijuana, México.

So this tends to create more news. This off course has more to do with the ‘business mentality’ of our gringo neighbour than anything else. More news means more stories, which in turn means more readers and more newspapers being printed and sold, so these articles tend to be follow-ups which in turn creates a loyal and interested readership. Everybody loves a good a fight specially when the big guy is getting knocked down.

This ‘indignación’ is far different than that from mexicans that are not from Tijuana where ‘indignación’ is often toothless and damped with a sense of resignation and powerlessness. The articles tend to be more informative with third party involvement. They are often small pieces of investigation, or so it would seem, though I suspect this is more rutine than ‘investigation’. The difference is a legal one. In Anglo America they are afraid of being sued for libel, so they have to get their facts straight. Besides, at the local and civic level, the code of ethics is much higher in San Diego than in Tijuana. What matters is to get to the truth regardless of who is affected by it. In México, people can also be sued for slander and libel as well but differently.

I imagine it is very hard to get people to talk or express their opinion or professional opinion on any matter that may affect them because they fear retaliation.

Some rather interesting blogs are beginning to surface, for example, Xicano Militant Califas Xicano. This guy is giving out the word on other aspects of xicanismo, streetwise. He has been at it for a year now and the writ stuff is golden. His kind of xicanismo is one that I no longer associate myself with but one that I can certainly relate in many respects.

His semiotics deal a lot with aztec/mayan lore. I have long distanced myself from such mythology to associate my xicanismo with because of where I come from: Tijuana/San Diego. [for the unknown reader: I am not a US citizen, I am from Tijuana] I long ago concluded that while the aztec/mayan lore has nourished my soul it is the indian tribes of my birthplace [Kumai, Pai Pai, Navajo, Apache, Msyo, Yaqui] that are closer to me rather than the aztec or mayan brethen.

Either way, Xicano is a fine lad. There is enough dosis of self doubt to make it worth your time. I say go give him a read.

Giving a go to his blog I think that xicanismo and blogging is the very push that xicanismo needs to move on. I think that it is good that we write our own, independent thoughts about what we think xicanismo is, we are defining ourselves and that is muy bueno ese.

- Pops, we got mail from Oso, didn’t know you had a fan of that sort.
- M’ijo, Oso is a fine, fine acquaintance of sorts. We were once to get together in San Diego, back in 2004 but I was on memory lane and far from the highwire communication lines. Little too late did I found out he wanted us to get together. So yeah, what does he say?
- Quién sabe pops, Geronimo opened the letter because it dispelled old memories. He fired his 30-30 carabina in the air not out of rage but of respect for his elders, or that is how I interpreted it anyways.
- A jíjos! Pinche Geronimo, since when does he have permission to open letters aquí en las offices? I told you to get rid of him.

Geronimo sideglanced and placed his finger on the trigger.

- Geronimo, pops, you guys need to get a long. Besides, it was a sad reminder, maybe Geronimo lived something of it.
- Bueno pues, what was it about?
- It’s about when migras, rangers, used gases to cleanse mexicans as they crossed over to the US because mexicans not only looked dirty but smelled ugly too or so the güero thought back then.
- Oh yeah, no wonder Geronimo blew a casket. Sad episode. Güeros will talk about how race doesn’t matter but their actions are all about race. Get me that mezcal bottle m’ijo.
- I thought you only drank out of that bottle for special reasons.
- This is a special reason, am gonna drink it allwith Geronimo. His people have lost many soldiers due to chemicals. His ancestral land nuked and his people let to die in strange lands. For once am ready to join him in peace and quiet. All I wanna do is look far and deep into the horizon, just as he does, you know?
- Yeah, I know, I always wonder why he does that.
- He does it because he mourns son, he mourns.
- Pops, he’s dead.
- So what? Rest in Peace is a güero concoction. Did your abuelita ever rest at night when you went out to party? No m’ijo, one doesn’t stop worrying about ones own gente. Never.


I pray I find you in good spirits. The Jews and christians call you God, the bhuddists call you Bhudda and the Muslims refer to you as Allah.

So I address you.

I, on the other hand, am but a mere soul. Since childhood I have learnt the way of the loner. I am a lone sentient. I wish not to offend and seek only dialogue with thee.

I wrote the piece long ago, for my few english readers who insisted that I write something about environment and border cities. The few readers that then subscribed to the rss flow even offered me an advance payment in the smal sum of 3 dollars and 25 cents to encourage me. I gladly accepted the offer because in essence, it was my first paid piece ever and besides, I needed the dollars to start my pay pal account. I have now clipped and pasted the story for my spanish readers though I suspect many will just open and close the page as soon as they see english written all over their screen. I did it because the original buyer’s of the story never claimed any rights on it and besides, when is art ever really finished?

Though am not to mention the act without merit because that would be unchristian and least to say an offense to my english readers. I mention it because I am reminded of a cruel and dire reality.

As I was re-reading the piece I came across the very notion that most people in San Diego have very little idea how poverty stricken some of their neighbours are. People actually have to steal electricity in order for them to suvive. They do it by placing cables on the live wire. They are called diablitos, little devils.

Though the border is one were affluence is most seen as equitive, the truth is that people have to resort to stealing basic things as electricity to make it through the day. Now this is food for thought


Ok, two rather odd issues are coalescing today though with a very intriguing geographic location in common: Texas.

First things first.

I was reading some of Daily Texican’s posts today and I was reminded of a very old sting I suffered at his hands. If you read very carefully, DT’s blog has a warning text on top of his blog. It states the following:

Ojo: The “Cholo Word Of The Day” is simply for fun. This is not an academic exercise, therefore I do not spend much time checking for espelling or grammatical errors. Most of the words are not only used by “cholos,” but by many people in S. Texas – and their usage can vary. c/s

That was done for one person in mind, me. One day I got the very crazy idea to dip linguistics to a comment I left in some word he pondered upon and he just blew a casket all over the issue. Man was I stung. So everytime I go to his blog am reminded of the sting. Ouch!

Gonzales, hmmm, we here at the offices have lent kudos to the man because, yes, we admit it, he is of mexican descent. We thought, we rationalized, that past güero attornies have done worst behind the scenes and that it was pretty darn honest of a Texan to say uppfront what güero folk deny on the ramlight but do a escondiditas.

This kind of stuff kind of gives food for thought though and makes us question our thinking.

Am in the mood to spill a few vaulting ninny sentences. It has been snowing like there is no tomorrow for the past days here in the Swedish Highlands. Worst part of it is that I have to shovel the fluffly white stuff only to have it blown in my face, urgh. Its one of those days. My body aches and I really don’t want to shovel snow. urgh and argh mind you.

I finally turned in a 5 point essay for a 5 credit course. I have been struggling with the language. Academia is the worst place one can turn in a paper. Not only is ones language scrutinized for all possible sign of defects, the audience that reads your paper is next to nil. So one is in essence forced to write a piece of paper that meets academia criteria which one of its main goals is that the language therein ought to be readable for others. What others? It is a 5 point essay, it won’t even get shelved in a library, most likely it will suffer the fate of being stacked. If luck would have it, so long as it takes at the top of the stack of some poor soulless academician’s office who grumbles all day that his genius is being passed over for correcting my essay.

People in academia have egos. But that’s not my rant today. I still wanna rant about the stupid paper I just turned in. I think one of the main objectives of any paper that academia wants is to secretly inculcate humility, that loathsome and veiled Christian moral that all God abiding christian cherish as a good value to force feed one in a veiled fashion.

not proud or haughty : not arrogant or assertive

God forbid that a paper would make your ego inflatable.

Oh, and let’s not forget about the language. Monolinguals never realize how sensitive to language bilinguals can be. You can’t tell us our language is wrong because we start running to the bedroom to cry our souls out while we sob the blankets soaking wet.

So after receiving my essay back, with countless of errors and ‘suggestions’, the first time around, this is my second time, I can’t wait to get it back because I know it will come back like a boomerang. My essays tend to do that.

In the end one does learn a few things or two but it amounts to ridicule when one thinks of the kind of institution I decided to do this with. I am a teacher so the teaching institute that is training teachers doesn’t even know how to handle its own students. Those academics really need to be nicer. I mean really nicer.

I must confess that when I think of this blog its death is my wish. I want to do away with it yet somehow, it remains. This is due because all my ideas are channeled throught the spanish blog and by the time I near this blog I have emptied my soul unto God’s language. Or so said Carlos V that when he spoke to his horse he spoke in german and when he spoke to God he spoke spanish.

Am waiting. At this particular point and time am wasted, outdone and sin ganas to do anything with the english language. I have no inspiration and the sad realization that I am not going to win the Nobel in litterature has set a dark horizon looming like a bad black cloud downpouring on me its constant water.

So I want to kill my blog, pull the plug and just concentrate on spanish.

But will I? I sincerely doubt it.

I realize that reading Octavio Paz was a bad taste of Castor Oil. I remember clearly refusing to read anything of him after I read El Laberinto de la Soledad. I was extremely offended by the chapter : Pachucos y otros extremos.

For some reason I thought it reflected the general attitude most mexicans have of us Xicanos. And it still does. In hindsight it has given loads of food for thought.

Oso does the chicano ensemble.

Many self called latinos are rather amused when they are made to look at themselves as they are.

Little do they realize that they are in the process of becoming, continuosly.

People who call themselves latino and proudly carry the star spangled banner in their veins, and ass if they could, will shed their latino roots immediately if questioned about their brown origins, as if being american meant not being latino or brown.

It is a state of continuos confusion both for the latino that sees not his or her latino roots as well as the one who dares open the can of worms that represents asking someone their true identity.

Am an American.

And not many americans dare question this oppressive state of being. This is so because America is always at war and hence ones americanness is always questioned. The number one lesson is to never be perceived as unamerican. And one will defend this idea of americanness to the end. It goes beyond citizenship.

To be American is to denounce all that is not american. Even if you are american the idea that you might have another language, another way of being is not only loathsome but immediately sets you apart from America.

So it is only natural to denounce ones origin. One is never at ease with ones americanness if one happens to be brown, or that a knowledge of another language is lingering at the back of ones head or burning flour tortillas in the oven.

It even gets worse when society sends conflicting messages that one ought to embrace ones cultural background. So we allow ourselves a certain tad of permissiveness by admiting our past but never our present. Yes, we were once that but we are not that now.

That is why so many hispanics allow themselves to be humiliated at the registration offices of many government buildings when one pronounces ones first and last name. They twist, chew up and spit out a concoction güero and their assimilees invent on the spot by spelling our names wrong and step on the goddamn form with so many foreign characters if one asks for a correction of ones name. One wonders indeed why such a name like Schwarzenegger sounds better and provokes more patience for spelling than Bustamante or Navarrette. Though hispanics are not the only ones to undergo this process of americanness. All people of color go through it.

Explicate it.

Oh no you didn’t.

Boy do I have bones to pick here.

I shall be dishing out more than I bargained for but one can’t overstate the deliciousness of the subject. Right now I am about to do serious deconstructing over at Wikipedia and give them a verbal whipping or two.

Coming soon, more Xicano rants than expected, stay tuned.

People don’t inmediately associate the word each with one. But it is, in essence, a synonym of One. Ain’t that crazy?

Am not a on demand writer.

I hate writing on demand. I just don’t have the gusto for it. Hey! did you know that the word gusto is also a Swedish word? I was amazed when I found about it. I was writing some rant or the other about teachers in Sweden when I wanted to use the word gusto and ¡jíjole mano! it’s used in Sweden too! I’d be damned. But to retake the initial conversation about writing and demands, I seldom succeed in writing at the request of others.

I have tried several projects before, here and Living in Sweden/blog [out of the cyber world and only on cache from nowadays] can you see my lukewarm successes.

I like to write, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I don’t like to write sin ganas.

By nature I am antisocial. Don’t get me wrong. It is just that I do not know how to work with other people. I was raised not to trust myself. There wasn’t someone telling me how good I was; quite the contrary, there was always someone telling me how wrong I was.

So when people come and tell me, gee Julio, you’re just a swell fellow. I never knew you were such a fab pal, you rascal you. It tends to not just turn me off but also make me wary as a freaking porcupine just about to be run over on Texas highway road.

I don’t do well and am afraid as a motherfucker in Dante’s inferno to disappoint people. When I do consent to do works the pressure is on. I miserably end up being a failure of sorts because then I am pleasing others, a skill I am not skilled at.

I tend to do well when no one is looking, perhaps a habit I gained from writing dairies all my life until, voila! someone came up with the idea that a blog was just as good as a diary, and off course I bought the whole shebang with a sidedish of enchiladas along. So here I am.

Be that as it may I would like to thank the folks at Global Voices for linking me in their exile department seemingly at the indefatigable hands of David Sasaki. Its nice to get traffic from the far corners and reaches of the USA. Besides, its an opportunity to poison minds with my diabolical world domination plans, muahahaha …Hey! where’d that come from?

Wow. There is a Xicagoblogsphere. Gotta love that X. Bloggeros Xicagoenses. Gone are the days when our good friend, now proud mother of one, was a loner on the Chicago blogsphere denoting herself as Xicana.

Now they are 12 of them. Hell, when a good writer like Sandra Cisneros comes out and writes her Americana lifestyle to the acclaim of the nation you know that something is brewing and sprawling.

There is something about Chicago that mexican americans there are not that repressed when it comes to their cultural identities. That is, they readily seem to embrace their mexicanness as opposed to Californios such as the writer at hand. Californian mexicanos have a ready made grab bag of repression stories. We were forbade to speak Spanish and that is one theme that includes corporal punishment. Mexican americans from Chicago don’t seem to have grown up deploring the one end of their cultural mestizaje. This could have an easy explanation such as the constant fientlighet atmosfär som råder i Kalifornien, je, couldn’t resist saying that in Swedish. What I just said that that could be partly due to the constant animosity that tends to pervade in California between the two cultures.

It’s as if its not dirty to be mexican or an able spanish speaker in Chicago though I could be very wrong.

I wrote this on my blogspot blog in 2003:

When it comes to languages it seems to me rather curious the stance some people take. I remember as a child how embarrassed I was to speak spanish. I recall how one day we came to my grandmother’s in TJ and how, inspite of being raised by her, and just only two years before all I spoke was spanish I claimed not to. English was my de facto lingua. Later, as I grew I did everything in my power to disguise my spanish accent to the point of only thinking, eating, walking and peeing in english.

However, we are products of our environment and the oppressive years in California, oppressive for me because I lived in such an environment, spanish was worst than the black plague, it gave you away as a foreigner, in your own country.

That’s why I get goose bumps whenever I come across blogs that blend in spanish and english as if that is the most natural thing in the world to do. Blogs like Fernando Graphicos who not only embrace spanish but you can see that it is an integral part of their lives.

I think it is natural for the development of the Xicano community to start embracing their cultural roots more and more. I think that Xenophobia is a bad thing for America and that it doesn’t allow for real democracy to bloom in America. English speakers will now have to give leeway for the other native tongues to start making inroads in the conscience of Americans. Spanish speakers have a long tradition in the legal framework of the nation that spells right out that Spanish is a language which is part of America. Spanish is american and it will not deteriorate English speaking America just as French didn’t ruin Canada either. English speakers really need to stop bullying bilinguals or native american speakers because in order for America to move forward it needs to start embracing not only other languages but its native population as as well.

And Xicanos are as native as you get.

I have been in Europe long, really long. Though most scandinavians would wonder that thing about Europe. In fact, most scandinavians, were one to trust my infallible judgement, seem not to consider themselves all that European.

I notice this when I watch tv, that I have been in Europe too long and not that thing about scandinavians … erhm … you get what I mean.

Specially shows that are Law and Order related. I hate the smart guy. This is exactly the kind of mentality that those shows ought to avoid but no, here in Europe, if you are an American, and with several years in Europe, those are the very kind of shows that exact a My God, what is that ghastly behaviour doing on my tv? Are those my people is the second thought right after the first one.

I suppose that the West never really stopped being the West, it just changed clothes and artilugios, erhm, gadgets in english.

I do loath the smart, determined will get you if it is the last thing I do Joe on those tv shows.

Worse yet, one really does wonder why do they put so many intelligent people at the service and behest of brutes whose groal is enough to make King Kong jump up out of fear.

There are many case in point but CSI is a classic one. I mean, these guys do really need a life. They are so obssesed with their case load that entire institutions are crawling behind them like some wacko sycophant who thrives in feeding the ego of others and the more it does it the more determined their host gets. They do love seeing a fat ego grow.

I once read in a newspaper or some kind of media thrash somewhere, you know, one of those media byte size news that sticks like goo for the rest of your life, regarding the dumbing of America. This in the 80′s ok?

It is still going on.

Ever noticed how Hollywood always put the smart ones in roles that resemble an idiot savant? Well, you observed right, they are real idiots because they allow their thinking to be used by brutes who keep and swallow all the glory for themselves erstwhile the real thinkers get a woof and groal as a thanks.

Wouldn’t be surprised if twenty years from now Hollywood is confronted by these idiot savants for treating them like crap on the screen. I can imagine a bourgening business around them too, psychiatrists, psychologists and the like trying to comfort them for having being used in that fashion. It won’t happen today though, those idiots think they are being chic and the latest fashion models of some sort. And until then, the show must go on.

Oh, this is just damn dandy, hilarious and outrages. Another year, as if. You know that saying about a hole and a head, you get the drift. Am on my second day of it and am already feeling old and tired of it. Where is my mojo? Who knows.

On the first of what we are made to believe is a new year, I woke up and looked outside my window, gaddamn, it looks just like the one before, I swear to God.

Abject New Year. It’s gonna be the same fucking shit as always in the english world.

The military industrial complex of the USA will keep shoving us lies up our ass like there is no tomorrow so they can kill more people and have more fun inventing more ways to anihilate the human race as fast as they can erstwhile calling it protection of our life style. They will still concoct ways to convince us that because other poeple of other thinking and other ways of seeing how the world runs is bad for us and good for them because that way their power hierarchy basically remains unscathed adn they get to make a pretty penny while at it.

Christians will still keep shoving their doomsday crap and cultural assasination in the name of God over and over again for 363 days. Christians will still not find it contradictory that God has chosen tribes for when He comes to our rescue and takes us to his Paradaise while millions upon millions still don’t believe in Jesus or God and hence making Christians nothing more than charter agents for a paradaise trip to heaven for the few selectee. Christians will still believe that other cultures are an afront to Jesus Christ God the Trinity and will stop at nothing to eradicate them in the name of Love and the Word while their churches and ministers smile and laugh all the way to the bank.

White people in the US will still be in denial saying they are not racist while they hoard the best they can for themselves calling whatever crumbs happen to fall down the ground good deeds. White people will still be unable to see that people of color are not a threat to no one. White people will still be unable to understand that they are more favored because the people that best resemble themselves tend to favor those they resemble most and since white people are the majority and never the problem they will never see the solution.

Rich people will still call poor people lazy.

Children all over the world will suffer hunger and die of starvation.

US citizens will still be in denial that they finally have a president that is honest, truthful, and open. They will be unabe to see that George W. Bush at the very least hasn’t tried very hard to hide from the rest of the world and them what the rest of the world knew already for decades before they did, namely, that the US engages in Big Brother activities all over the world, tortures people of all walks of life in the name of democracy and that they will stop at nothing to comply with the law even if that means breaking the law.

Race will stll be race and people of all walks of life will loose their life because they are either the wrong color of skin, they have a difference of opinion or because, worst yet, they adore a different God than yours.

The incessant hot spot Israel-Palestine will still keep the world holding their breath.

The citizens of Israel will still be pounding the living crap out of the palestinians with their superior military power. They will still prevent any democracy in Palestine because, in essence, that is not in the interest of Israel, no matter what you hear in the news, Israel is run by a conservative line of thinkers who actually are on record for hating palestinians and anything to do with palestinians. [and they will still act surprised whenever Iran says anything bad about them] The jews will still remember nazi Germany reminding us how awful the human race can be everyday of the year while other genocides by other people in the world will go largely unnoticed by the world leaders. The jews will cry out that what I am saying is unfair, antisemitic and call me, a mexican who writes english, antisemitic though am barely 37 and have nothing to do with Europe, Germany, Jews, Israel and basically, try and keep my opinion out of the great ideas of the world because I so happened to have an opinion on the jewish state of affairs of the year 2006 and that is bad enough for some ultra jews who will stop at nothing so that no one speaks ill of Israel because they do loath a good comment resembling anything to the truth. I will still not see a black or arab jew run for any government office in Isreal on television in 2006. Nor will I see Ariel Sharon brought to justice for the crimes against humanity like we saw Pinochet before a court of law.

The palestinians will still hate the jews and will stop at nothing to destroy the state of Israel though technically that is an imposibility due to Israel’s huge superior military power. Palestinians will not be able to run their lives normally because they too, like the jewish people who want to live in peace, are run by extremists though Israel’s extremists are more acceptable because they look and talk like its western counerparts do and the beown palestinians don’t.

Africa will continue to be raped, be sumerged in misery and suffer many epidemics because the pharmaceutical industry in the West just can’t see any profit in helping the human race there.

México will still continue to be corrupt and the hyper rich will get even more hyper rich. Unless there is a tectonic shift in the hierarchy of power in México no real change will occur this year. Drugs and money will still cause damage around México. Juárez will remain largely unsolved and the judicial system in México will become an extra pawn in the power struggles of the drug dealers and the misery in which the mexican government keeps its employees and its citizens.

The indigenous people of America will not get their due even though their presence is still resounding more and more in the news. They will not inherent this 2006 nor gain their world vision any great strides.

In other words, capitalism, money, wars, hate for each other, complete disregard for other human beings will still be the order of the day all around the world.

So another new year just means more of the same fucking crap over and over again.

Kellog Cesar ChavezPocho extraordinary and a real spanglish speaker and writer at that, (Recycled) Cholo Knows …, has in his blog directed us to an abomination of sorts. No entiendo. What is it gonna take to convince the commercial aspect of the consuming world that mexicans/latinos deplore having the people they look up to used for commercial purposes?

More at it here and here.

It is disgusting ese.

Caló people

 Teens rounded up in
Teens rounded up in “gang crackdown”, 1942 Los Angeles Daily News Negatives Collection

I have come to realize that monolinguals and bilinguals aproach language in various manners.

Monolinguals just don’t feel the sting of language as much as we bilinguals do.

Language hurts. Bilinguals feel language and we are more sensitive to it. It is something that monolinguals fail to understand.

I suppose it has something to do with the constant correction we ourselves make to our speech, our writing.

It is called with a very fancy name: metalinguistics. It is a monster that it is constantly breathing down ones neck. Shaping it, correcting it and scolding us.

It is, however, one thing that one gets criticized in the privacy of ones own mind and another having it heard from the lips of another person.

That is why it stings.

I suppose that to monolinguals a criticism about language is no more than an objective observation.

To us is an infringement on a privatre conversation.

Though what hursts the most is when we are told that we don’t speak any language right.

People really need to stop saying that. It stunts growth.

Alright, I’ll spill the frijoles de la olla. I have always desired to look more gentlemanly like. You know, GQ like. Tux, cigarr, style and all that. Sometimes I feel I was born into it, damn if I don’t feel like a mill bucks on any damn afternoon in May along the park. It’s like a tranvestite feels except that I have a gentleman buried deep down in me that never gets to be the drag queen. It’s always me that gets the better of this feel.

Me. Jeans that barely fit, wrinkled shirts, months old calzones that only get discarded when the holes in it are bigger than the hole where my two legs need to go in first. And they go painfully, by the time slit gets to them I’ve gotten to know them so well that its like parting from a precious heirloom, though I would be hard press to think that someone in this life would find it appropiate to give calzones as an heirloom. Either way, the story about my wardrove is a failure of historical proportions.

I believe that this can be due to my humble origins where one only gets to dress nice when one partakes in the Catholic rituals of Communion or someone’s wedding somewhere. Otherwise its the same old pair of stinking socks for every other aspect of my social life.

It embarresses me sometimes. I want to look better and classy, damn it. No, am not a traitor to my class. I just think that people like Sean Connery or Anthony Hopkins embody a style of manhood that I find quite tasteful, in my taste. Hell, I want to be a wine connosiuer. I want to be able to appear in control of the english language and most of all, I wan to get angry in style, just like the aforementioned actors do in their acting roles.

But no. Were there a show that somehow requiered profound and complete knowhow in the manners of Extreme Casual Wear I’d be a top payed consultant on the matter. Come on, it takes years to remain largely unawaress of one own pantalones size, it is an art to go into a store and come out with a pair of jeans that are either too long or too tight for one. And let us not forget that jeans are always the du rigour daily wear. Shirst? Ja, you think that wrinkled is just a laziness attribute? Think again, wrinkle betrays days of deep concentration and wasted hours in the absence of the mind.

Oh well, the drag will just have to wait. But one day, one day, I will, at the very least, look the part. Near it either way.

To the legions of my reader fans who await not a minute before I clamp down the keyword with whatever oozez down my brain, I say no x-mas to you. Alas! I am desillusioned with the lot of humanity so seek not the jule tides with jingles in every pimple million of innocent smirks cause. Humbug! I am a bitter soul the likes of one Bartleby. I stand idle waiting for death to appear down the horizon any day. No friend however curios of life cometh to visit my prison-like solitude nor do they worry about the lot of the world.

X-mas is just a reminder nowadays of how cruel and vicious humanity can be towards one another. People are dying this very instant in some part of the world while someone is buying a present thinking of that dearly beloved one. Bought with the very money the bullet, that killed that unknown in a foreign land, earned in an unethical slushfund on Wall Street. Millions rejoice in América with their cherished ones, eat, drink and piss in tranquility while half the world is protuding in misery.

I have heard the angry ones who will stand not a sight the likes of me. Go to Africa! if thoust must cryth the X-mas dappers.


Is it too much to ask for a little reflection some other time of the year other than the 24th of Dic?

Kill x-mas, it has become a lawyer for good tidings.

Even the title of the movie is ambiguous: Something the Lord Made, with Alan Rickman and Mos Def, both, without doubt, astounding actors who contribute to their art in many ways. The movie is set in the Jim Crow era when blacks had to seat at the back of the buses and when blacks had to pee in coloured designated bathrooms, hence the ambiguous title.

I do love a flick that manages to cast subtle critique at academia. Frankly speaking, I think academia is the last bastion in modern society that still safeguards old hierarchical values. Academia is infused with so many ceremonious bullshit that while its arguments á la Pound and its tradition arguments are solid, the fact that it hides an order is quite obvious. An order that sets a system well into place where it really shouldn’t be anymore, not now, not in this age, not this era I live in.

Academia is a frustrated limelight seeker that gives two dead rats over humanity. In academia everybody wants to be a star and everymotherfucker that steps unto its aisles is made to feel it is next in line to see God and hence a natural superstar that just needs to wait a bit before humanity bestows accolades upon accolades for nearly making it to the realm of the gifted ones.

It is nearly to the point of being poignantly ironic that at the end of the movie, Vivien, the star of the flick, gets its portrait hung amongst white intellectuals who are donning the cloth of academia while Vivien was painted wearing a suit. There are multiple interpretations to this dress code but it isn’t easy to not notice the snob.

I don’t like academia, specially the rules that surround its institutions. Academia is a very nasty beast that is a Golden calf that needs to be overthrown, a false God that cares not for humanity nor the advancement of humanity. Specially nowadays. The lifeless bloodsuckers that stand guard to its interiors are but a pack of bitter beings who are loath to admit their jobs are no better than a bureaucrat at the county offices of any county seat. These useless leeches have to go over a mountain of papers before they get any close to the chambers of God and while they peruse the stacks of papers they bitterly argue against their lot and how a waste of time their mundane chores are, that is, correcting papers made by mere mortals, Lord forbid they had anything they would be willing to teach humanity.

Damn, I just had my time confiscated by gringos. I was reading over at the Agonist chunky bits of wisdom that, alas! goes unheeded by most and, as Dr. House points out, the White House ain’t so cause of the facade. (forget what episode). Either way, just grab a wad of these as we are about to masticate some grungy ideas here:

Most crime is created by the government by choosing to outlaw something.

People like forcing other people to obey their morals.

Then there is what sociologists call labeling. Simply put, if you’re white, you won’t be stopped for driving while black.

This is particular pertinent to us Xicanos and Xicanas as we are indeed on collusion course with gringo mentality. Xicano values differ radically different and we like to put spagguetti onto sanwiches so our normal radar functions in odd ways over at Smiths.

This tends to cause friction and alienates us from mainstream America. Mainstream as white protestant value added society. The very way we think causes a furor. The mentality is that while all are created equal the guardians of procuring said right will act not as an enforcer but as giver, as if equality is to be dished out in rightful portions. This is the current mentality.

We Xicanos need to start focusing on strategies that help us be, allow us to be the way we are, assert our americanness into mainstream america. This needs to be repeated over and over until the normalized curve peaks and we are accepted as one with America not as a part of America but a whole of America. And don’tcha let no one tell you otherwise.

Este gabacho gives the Maya Culture a new cultural twist

In fact, I liked the story so much that I hijacked the entire narrative and placed it here, where it might get a chance to stand on itself through your Xican@ eyes.

A young Mayan woman walks along the Laguna de Chicabal. The lake is in the crater of a volcano and is the home of one of the gods of the Mayan spiritual pantheon. It was May 3, 2001. On this day every year, the Mayan shamans journey to this holy place. It is a family event. There are a couple hundred Mayans picnicking, talking, playing, and worshiping. Above all, the lake is respected. No one is skipping rocks, swimming, or bathing.

The lake has an eerie life about it. The fog of the cloud forest swirls around the lake giving way to brilliant sun of the Guatemalan highlands. Bubbles of volcano gas disturb the lake’s surface and join the wind and the fog. It is never lost to me that these people think there is a god in that water. My western mind does not buy it. But if somebody offers me $1000 dollars to swim to the other side, I wouldn’t do it. “Dude, what happens if there is something really pissed off at me in that lake?”

The lake is ringed with bunches of lilies and small shrines made from branches. As we walk around the lake, we hear the chanting of the Mayan shamans back in the dense forest. Chicabal is habitat for the very rare Quetzal bird. We look, but it remains as hidden as the god in the Laguna.

The only person I see touch the water is the young woman. She walks slowly ankle deep; there is a kind of rhythm in her step. She seems to be lost in a conversation. Is it with the god in the water? There is a legend that a young woman from the village at the base of volcano swam out into the lake to which she gave her spirit. Is she talking with this spirit? She stops and turns to the center of the lake. The “conversation” seems to intensify. Her body seems like it is being pulled further out into the water; she takes another small step. I gasp. But she stops, but just barely. We continue on our walk.

Even now, this scene haunts me. I know I was an intruder. This was not my world. In fact, my world has treated the Mayans as enemies from the time of first contact. I have been obsessed with the number of questions: Why have indigenous people been so threatening to Europeans? Is it religious intolerance? Our stories are at least were about clearing a promised land of unrighteous and ungodly. Is this all that it is? How could we as Europeans even think of planting flags on the land of others and claim it in the name of God? Is this an anomaly, or does it proceed from the core of my spiritual ancestors–Abraham and Sarah being promised land by Yahweh which eventually require genocide via holy war?

Somehow the Columbus’s and the Pisarro’s believed that land not claimed by another European country was fair game. Land not lived on by Europeans was uninhabited. But now we do not believe that, and still indigenous peoples can still threaten the “civilized world.” Why would this be? There seems to be something very profound about this question?

The encounter with the woman of the Luguna de Chicabal acts as a window into my identity as white, Euro/American, male, and even further into the world that has created that identity. I have come to view Western modernity as a kind of beautiful galaxy. To use this analogy, the aspects of the West that are so admirable, the technology, the personal freedom, the economic opportunity, are the visible aspects of this galaxy. But it has only recently been discovered that most if not all large galaxies have black holes at their centers. These black holes are essential in some way to their formation possible continued organization. As you might remember, black holes are not visible because they are so massive as to prevent light from escaping.

The young Mayan woman was for me to gain a clue as to the nature of the black hole that is at the center of modernity. Although I do not consider black holes as an image of evil, you can reasonably expect that in this case I am speaking of a kind of heart of darkness which helps to organize the whole of Western civilization, is essential to its existence, and which assures its demise. But this dark post must give way to the beautiful sunshine that is shinging. Maybe I will write more later.

I got my first anti-aztlán comment in like eons or shoud I say first one at all? Come to pappa baby, let me see you walk …

I think that this “Aztlan” bull-s**t needs to end NOW! The Government claims that it is finally going to do something about it, but until I see bus loads of illegals heading home south of the boarder I will not be satisfied. What we need to do is take apply the lessons learned from the Eisenhower administration in Operation Wetback. A similar policy is desperately needed now, more than ever.

Read the rest of the comment here.

It was written by this guy whose ip address is stated as Vancouver, in Washington.

I always wondered a lot about the term Aztlán and Google. This idea of ours is being trashed around by ultra neo conservatives like a threat greater than you-know-who.

We got history behind us, they, they just have a stupid argument based on ideology.

Can you see a smile in my face? It’s right here, next to my dimple …

Tijuana is a city that goes above “violent & chaotic”. Is volatile like the souls that utilize it as a springboard to jump accross to the other side, thru the river or the desert. It is a mixing bowl of cultures. It is the bar & whorehouse of the gringos. She is inocent & perverse. She is the battle line, the microcosm of what is and will become Mexico, the beachhead for the Hispano-American wave that will reach all the way to the tip of South America. It is the city that scares everyone. She is considered terrible, everyday we become more Americanized, but the United States also becomes more Hispanized every day. But who will assimilate who? What would be the name of the nation which has as its base this new breed?

It’s a long ass post but men! It’s full of goodies :) get more popcorn, please

Dios mio, like finding the Holy Grail:

LV: The problem is very deep here. And I hope that in this interplay, as we get cultural exchanges and we get more aware, that Mexico will begin to see it’s own reflection in Chicano works like we see ourselves in Mexican works.

VP: And is that already happening?

LV: I think there’s a great deal of dialogue that’s happening. It’s a flow. I think San Diego/Tijuana is one of the key joints in the whole mechanism here, because there’s a steady flow here. And there’s really in some case very little distinction between a Chicano in Tijuana and a Chicano in San Diego.

Híjole, this is huge.

I have been arguing for this possiblity here, here, and here albeit in spanish.


The query at hand is what is a Xican@?

I readily admit that this frase in itself is a rather ambiguos one at that. I may apoligize for that at some time in the future, though that future escapes las yemas de mis dedos in this moment.

Now, I wrote at la Bloga a discourse that has been developing at Academia.

Namely the Spanish factor.

As far as the Spanish lingua is concerned where are we headed?

And I joke not when I ask this because the majority of the narrative that Chicanismo feeds on is anglia rooted.

As much as I am love with English as a language I also despise it very nature. So it is.

Though I confessed an optimism for Spanish I’ve yet to see the fruit mature, will I see a full blown literature, knowingly of itself?

I usually don’t mingle my Spanish and English though am known by my most fervent reader, editor, proofreader, slacker, güevón, patron (that is, me) to occasionally indulge in doing so. So far I have managed to mesh the prime philosophy behind my chicanismo, that is, Xicanismo from Tijuana. I am from two nations albeit my xicanismo of lately has had the gull to push me into stating what I have always been, a Mexican citizen. People think that Xicanos are a social construct from the US. I would like to think that I am proof that that is not so and fervently will go to no lengths in discussing with everyone that because I exist, Tijuana must be a realm of Aztlán too. Don’t ask how much of this stuff is a social construct. I suppose that some of it is, gained knowledge that just piles up on old stuff like an Aztec pyramid. I base all of my xicanismo on linguistics. The truth, the being in me that cries out Xicano, bases his ens on language. I trace my being on the spoken word.

I speak therefore soy.

But the point of this is not that but the following. A little background is need though. Eduardo Valle is in self imposed exile because his sort of journalism brought him too close to the mexican mafia. He left México for security reasons and ever since has been writing for newspapers. I have followed his career somewhat and read when chance presents itself what he has to say. I have been doing so for the past diez o quince años or so. For the first time, today he has disappointed me. You can read the rest on the post why was I left muy encabronado.

En referencia a: ¿Jim Crow o John Brown?

Ideologicamente estás equivocado y realmente no estas sintonizado a la esencia mexicoamericana. Mucho más desde donde estas (creo que te encuentras en Washington) pues no estas donde las cosas de Aztlán se discuten en su mero apogeo, el Southwest.

Digo ideologicamente equivocado porque eres monolingüe y tu cosmovisión sólo abarca la ideología interpuesta por el español.

Acusar a los mexicoamericanos de no decirle nada a Hungtinton deja ver tu carencia de lectura en la red o por lo menos de frecuentar tu biblioteca más cercana. Deja ver mucho tus creencias personales además de la extensión de tu comprensión de este grupo étnico [¿qué tanto te has molestado en estudiarnos?] que nada tiene que ver con tu nacionalismo o tu frustración. Por estos días hay cientos de blogs que cubren un buen el espectrum de la comunidad mexicoamericana del Southwest. Te recomiendo que nos leas a diario por lo menos un año para que te puedas formular una idea de lo que semos. Busca en la red la respuesta y leenos en inglés ya que en español casi no escribimos [muy poco diría yo, pero ya nos estamos reacostumbrando] además de que estoy seguro que nuestro español no lo comprenderias por no tener el bagaje cultural para ello además del histórico prejuicio que la clase media mexicana ha inculcado a los monolingües hispanoparlantes sobre nosotros los mexicoamericanos.

Te recomiendo que leas Latinos, Global Change, and American Foreign policy. Un proyecto de la Stanley Foundation en colaboración con The Tomás Rivera Center (1994), para empezar, es un buen punto de partida.

Tú lo que buscas es un lider que se ajuste a tus criterios políticos dentro de Aztlán y eso no va a suceder por dos cosas y no por cuestiones nacionalistas: Una, estamos muy sintonizados a las ideas sobre racismo tanto mexicanas como estadunidenses, lo que tu ves como debilidad nosotros vemos como fuerza, creemos en la constitución americana; dos, compartimos el sueño americano, el mismo que se puede leer sugieres descartemos, no porque lo queramos sino por cuestiones religiosas, somos tanto católicos como protestantes. Una dicotomía dificl de comprender y que lleva muchos años en estudiar.

Comprendo el proceso de adaptación que estas pasando, por eso pasamos todos, después del todo, ¿que llevas en el exterior? ¿10, 15 años? Se entiende, lo que no es comprensible son tus acusaciones sin fundamentos algunos que sólo conllevan a una meta, la distorción de la imagen de los mexicoamericanos en México.

The good xente over at la bloga have a good discussion going on. Not because the comments of the offices at Yonder Lies It received an answer but because it is clear to the xente del más allá, who for an odd reason of sorts, frecuent the offices, seem to be in agreement (though Geronimo keeps rather silent most of the times) that a Chicano Norton Anthology literature compilation is needed and I see it on the horizon. [yeah, that's a long ass sentence there, got a problem with that?]

Except that instead of naming it Norton Anthology we could name it like Santa Ana or Stockton Anthology maybe Zorro but that would be a long shot perhaps a lady heroine of sorts. Like the Pachuca Anthology literature for the vox populi in Aztlán proper. Cherrie Moraga or Gloria Anzaldua Anthology would read just as well. But the title we could discuss much later.

There are many threads to start a good huipil with here.

There are the linguistics aspects that I brought forth con todo y my cultural baggage. Though the very fine gente at vivir latino raised the issue of racism in the lengua issue I brought forth.

Make no mistake about it, when it comes to languages, the issues are not about racism. They are instead ones of purity. I understand that the word purity has that race purity what not, connotation but it has an entirely new sense when I use it with language. Instead there is what one can very well see as social fabrications of languages. Everybody thinks they speak real english though there isn’t such a thing as pure english. That notion is just a pure concoction from the last century that has managed to creep itself all the way to this century. In fact, english has about as much latin words in its vocabulary as about spanish does. Well, maybe not, but a good chunk of it composes much of the prestige vocabulary of english. [no, am not about to give you examples, you go find for yerself that ese!] American english speaks wads about it since much of its cowboy mythology is composed of words that have a root on the mexican spanish that helped compose the West/pioneer myth.

Be that as it may we continue con la literatura, in this case, literatura Chicana. Now, english and spanish have had a tumultous upbringing in the Southwest.

For the past 150 years or more english has had the upper hand. Spanish has had to bear the brunt of classroom spankings for utering its vowels in the midst of angloparlandia. Though the first european languages that the land of Aztlán heard were spanish vowels in all the splendor that the conquistadores and Friars used back then.

In this lingua fight, it is we the Aztlán generation that have had to bear the whips and lashes of both households. Both from the spanish part and the english part as well. We can not simply speak anything without having a rebuke at hand to remind us that we speak gibberish at best.

We don’t speak good english and worst yet, we don’t speak good spanish and even yet worst we don’t take care good of our siblings, the new Aztlán generations, from this violent circle. We simply allow the violent language to continue unchallenged with each generation taking sides with either spanish or english or every now and then a few wise voices stating that both languages are good this and that. Or having to hear, like Richard Rodriguez argues, much to the chagrin of the many in Aztlan proper, that english is our light that shines at the end of the tunnel.

It is hard to please two cultures. We have not managed to come across as a unifed entity, at best, we are a footnote in the many essays, commentary, books out there.

But that is ok. We are still defining ourselves. Though I must confess that the issues that we blanket ourselves with are very universal and literature, canon literature at that, is universal driven. Perhaps the issues lies in the universitality of our speech. Perhaps we need to take advantage of this. No matter what english or spanish have to say about it because by then, we will be a different lingua to be reckoned with.

Apá cierre las ventanas, the swedish winter days with their cold winds are sneaking in, there is a draft.

Txale m’ijo, don’t give me any of that military jingoism in the weather nor that Father Winter caca, fuchila. The only winds allowed here are the Santa Ana winds. Traitor to proper mexicans and an unholy father to the Xicanos. Curios how…

Pa’ dont go on with those soliloquies of yours. Besides the Santa Ana winds have nothing to do with Antonio López de Santa Anna.

M’ijo, ese, am dead, you’re not, let me tell my own tall tales will you? So keep your beak shut. Maybe you’ll learn something, Right Geronimo? Besides, patience es the virtue least sought these days so be paciente.

Paciente? am not sick ese.

I tell you Quetzalcóatl, please don’t let me say something that I may regret.

Pa’, you don’t understand my english so why should I understand your spanish?

What the? Either way, as I was saying, Santa Anna, the unholy father of the Chicanos, hardly gets credit. kinda reminds me of la Malinche. I saw him the other day. He stopped by the offices here at Yonder Lies It.



Good fellow. he was looking for his leg. He had it buried with full military honors and then forgot where he buried it. He smelled that stuff Cuco Sanchez drank before his death.

You mean Gusano Rojo?


M’ijo, it’s getting cold in here, you shut all the windows?

Pa’, am telling you.

tejaztlanI’ve seen Califas. Writing Califas in a piece of paper or anywhere else, your left buttock, for example, means that Aztlán is not too far from you. Usually the address is Califas, Aztlán. I suppose that Tejas would be the one to drape it self with the word Aztlán all over. Like a sarape from Saltillo. And get a load of that J in Tejas!

On the internet it is the Chicanos from Texas the ones that are putting up the fight for the rest of us. We Xicanos from Califas are seemingly the fashion staters. Texas, in my opinion seems more and more involved in this cultural identity on the politics of the nation. They say what they want to say and best yet, they have, for far longer than the Xicanos in Califas, putting up a fight for our political rights. We all have a dream, Aztlán. Yet Texas, more than any other state, seems to be working harder at it. In fact, Texas produces more Chicanismo than any other state in proper Aztlán. It seems to permeate it’s living life somehow. I don’t know why it is so but it is. I mean my political heroe (RIP) is Henry B. González.

I wrote this not so long ago:

I wish we had Henry Gonzalez around, the former Democrat from Texas who dared challenge Bush Senior then. In 1993, Flag Day he did the unthinkable.

Jeanne Beach Eigner from the San diego Union Tribune reported the incident thus:

During the 1988 presidential campaign, when George Bush attacked Micheal Dukakis for vetoing a bill mandating the recital of the Pledge of Allegiance in Massachusetts public schools, the members of the House of Representatives began a tradition of saying the pledge at the beginning of proceedings every day.

Three weeks ago on Flag Day, Rep. Henry Gonzalez, D-Texas, vented his outrage at the practice, reports Roll Call. ‘Nothing is sadder’ he said in a speech on the floor of the House, ‘than to see the herd instinct in taking the Pledge of Allegiance here in the House of Representatives. What is that pledge? That Pledge was not around until just three decades, three and a half, four decades ago … We have taken an oath, an that oath is to the Constitution, not the flag … Here we are, like a good little herd, reminiscent of the Hitlerian period: ‘Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil.’

Where o where art thou now Henry?

Así que saludos van pues, a la gente de Flaco Jímenez.

Tejaztlán can be found on the internet here.

More and better explained than in this post can be found here: Chicano Nationalism and Its Philosophical Roots in Texas

TIFTON — Saddened by the killings of six Mexican immigrants in his town, Mayor Paul Johnson flew their country’s flag outside his City Hall in their honor.

Foreign flags weren’t a first for the south Georgia city — Canadian flags routinely fly outside motels there in honor of snowbirds who drive through to spend their winters in Florida.

Johnson didn’t expect to be criticized for flying a Mexican flag. But a local radio station received seven back-to-back callers Thursday who said the U.S. and Mexican flags should not fly together.

Johnson, a veteran who is well versed on flag protocol, said he made the decision to fly the Mexican flag after consulting with the city attorney.

“I did that as an expression of sorrow to the Hispanic community,” said Johnson. “For those who we offended, I apologize, but I think it was the right thing to do.”

Read all about it straight from the hourses mouth at The Tifton Gazette
More at google

*** that’s a nice way to put your town on the map

Aztlan Raider

I got a hold of this post on Shovelware. Go read it, it’s full of godies from the San Diego-Tijuana border area, my area. And more text related theories on Xicanismo, links and what not. It’s an update, I know, am munching it as we speak, qué esperas, órale! I may spit out a few comments on it later, this is too good to let pass on a simply post.

For the first am thankful I was introduced to Sal Rojas, damn, has he got THE website and THE Blog.

Tags: Like Blown Away.

Writing in blogs has given me a distaste for much of what I deem cultural ideologies. For me, this means the one that says we are descendents of spaniards and aztecs. I now laugh when I hear people in my surroundings expressing admiration at this ‘fact’. I generally feel repulse at what europeans have done to indigenous people of México and further more I loath the cristian faith. Get the popcorn, am a roll here.

Never mind that I was raised in Tijuana, Baja California, México, that I have two religions inculcated in me which are based on the christian faith and that for all intents and purposes there are some kind of euro genes running amok in my old bag of flesh since though not white there is a certain indelible shade of that pigment. If there a re stories about black children trying to scrub their blackness away, I tried to do away with the white with mud, el color de la tierra.

So when I write fiction, be it in spanish or english, I readily dispose of myths. My heroes are people out on a vegeance path and will exact their repressed anger. I don’t like history, it makes me sad.

The cultural ideology part is a bit trycky though. Most people are content to be called, for example, American or Mexican without given it further thought. The package, after all, is neatly envuelto, packaged. It comes with a cultural bagage with enough info to provide a decent dose of cultural pride with the occasional bad remorse of conscience for what either part of the equation has done to each another. Because, if you are from the part of the world I come from, America, inevitably you’ll end up raised believing that whites and indians made you who you are though at the expense of cruelty from both parts.

Not me. I look at my surroundings from the comfortable age that am in now and I wonder. I see who has been shoved around and worst yet, the sham that state ideologies can be.

The older I get the more I see the harm that christianity has done. The christian faith has been nothing but a destructive path for that better half that is either me or that is either a fabricated social part of me, American indians of all races. The christian faith destroys. The christian faith does not engage in salvation, it engages in whole sale destruction of civilizations and there is almost nothing on its way stopping them.

Oh, and you can’t convince me otherwise. But you can try.

I speako el inglish ese. Though judging by the nature of the media that streams from Amerikkka one be hardly pressed to see that here in Europe, ok Sweden pues. Ok, so am not an american citizen, well wait, I am, but the kind that one usually associates american with, gringo et al. blond, blue eye and california suntanned, nope. Yeah, that’s what europeans, ok, pues, swedes, think about americans, and then of course there are blacks. Nothing in between, forget he latte kind, like we.

I must confess that whenever swedes pick Americans for their english I get tummy aches all over. Hell, am a native english speaker no? They pass me over. They only see the Mexican in me. Txale. Explaining what a Xicano is to swedes requieres a year’s worth of anthropological courses. Ahhh, fighting media raised ideas about what an American is only leaves me, get a load of the violin in the background, sad.

So I grapple a lot with english. Can I really be called an english speaker and a native english speaker at that? These past months I had about two of those spams, thoughts were I ponder my english and I reflect the way it came into my life and whether english is my language or not. Argh.

Ark, bly me. You see my existencial dilemma. Although this was a problem in proper Aztlán too. However, there, english had this smoothness to it. I was using english to pretend to be an American Citizen. Heck, I was an illegal alien, I had to pass off as the legit stuff.

Alma Lopez has a blog! I’ll be damned homes! …

October 2, 2005

Chihuahua News

Teacher Murders Tied to Organized Crime, Politics?

It was a fateful autumn stroll. School teacher Sonia Madrid
Bojorquez and 19-year-old Maria Isabel Carrasco Vasquez
were walking along a street in the Chihuahua City
neighborhood of Nombre de Dios last Tuesday, when suddenly,
a group of men in a Grand Marquis automobile pulled up to
the two women. Shots rang out from the vehicle, striking
Madrid three times. The 39-year-old educator died on the
way to the hospital. Carrasco suffered a nervous attack but
was physically uninjured.

A local official with Mexico’s National Education Workers
Union (SNTE), Madrid was the latest in a string of
educators in Chihuahua state to fall victim to murder or
suspected foul play this year. Although no suspects have
been publicly named in the Madrid slaying, Chihuahua SNTE
leader Miguel Ramirez declared that organized crime was
sending violent messages to the union. Ramirez did not
elaborate. Union leaders called on law enforcement
authorities to capture Madrid’s murderers and clarify the
motive behind the killing.

The Madrid murder occurred within two days of planned
visits to Chihuahua state of two political rivals who are
involved in an all-out battle for control of the
Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI) : presidential
hopeful Roberto Madrazo and Elba Esther Gordillo. As the
largest teacher’s union in Latin America, the 1.5 million-
member SNTE is a vital part of the PRI’s mass base. The
longtime head of the SNTE, Gordillo recently resigned as
the PRI’s secretary general, threatening to split the party
apart on the eve of the 2006 presidential and congressional

Gordillo controls a potentially huge base of votes critical
to the PRI’s prospects in next year’s elections, especially
in a tight race between a Madrazo candidacy and front-
runner Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador of the Party of the
Democratic Revolution. Close to President Vicente Fox and
his wife Martha Sahagun, Gordillo’s flirtations with the
National Action Party have inflamed her opponents within
the PRI. Gordillo also confronts long-running opposition
from the left within her union.

Gordillo’s planned visit to Chihuahua City was cancelled
after Madrid’s murder, but Madrazo’s campaign jaunt in
Chihuahua state went on as scheduled. One of two
candidates for the PRI’s presidential nomination, Madrazo
met in Ciudad Juarez with campaign supporters headed by
businessman Federico de la Vega. Madrazo’s stop in the
border city was marked by a demonstration by pro-Gordillo
protestors from the SNTE, who charged the former Tabasco
governor with being a “liar.”

In Ciudad Juarez last month, another teacher and SNTE
activist, Alma Delia Moreno Cadena, was abducted and
murdered along with her 21-year-old daughter, Diana Ortega
Moreno. The younger woman was also raped. Three men,
reportedly affiliated with a private security firm, were
quickly detained for the murders by Chihuahua law
enforcement authorities, but the suspects made
contradictory statements after their arrests. Moreno was
the wife of a former mayor of San Buenaventura, Chihuahua,
a town once reputed to be a recruiting ground for mafia

Also in Ciudad Juarez, a young teacher and SNTE member has
been missing since last May. Edith Aranda Longorio
disappeared after going to a job interview in downtown
Juarez. Fitting the profile of previous serial killer
victims, Aranda vanished in the same district where
numerous other young women and girls went missing in recent
years. Many were later found raped and murdered.

Sources: Norte, September 29 and 30, 2005. Articles by
Nicolas Juarez Caraveo and Margarita Hernandez. Diario de
Juarez, September 29, 2005. Article by Mauricio Rodriguez., September 28 and 29, 2005.

Frontera NorteSur (FNS): on-line, U.S.-Mexico border news
Center for Latin American and Border Studies
New Mexico State University
Las Cruces, New Mexico

For a free electronic subscription email

El fact of the matter es que el mundo is just ripe enough para algo. Qué algo no sé. Mas el sistema que cunde por el mundo doesn’t necessarily apply to the structures that govern us. Governments try to play the ethics rule for the majority pero la minority that rules the world no juega por esas rules. That is the bare truth. So we have rich guys running about doing whatever they want on different playing grounds because they have the money to do it and government stands idle doing nothing about it because the rich obstruct real change for all. Though please notice that poor have to abide by the rules the rich dictate as decent society. God forbid that poor people start acting like rich people. What we need is democratic change and democratic change away from rich people because the real cancer lies with them. They still hold the knowledge and they don’t want to share. Democracy in a lot of so-called democracies are nothing but small dictatorships who hold the purse strings. Like having a thief hold your wallet.

Just look at the USA. The rich rule them and they send the poor to defend a system that is unsustainable. Innocent blood is spilled and they can’t even provide bullet proof vest because the ultra rich can’t even make a donation for their own.

Where is the Bush clan and their patriotism? But the generals laugh and provide intelligence and propaganda for more unwanted murder for the rich. They use their own. Red star spangled blue stripes? For whose benefit one may very well ask. The military seems nothing but the ultra rich hitman.

Los ricos, who can buy their innocence in as much as catholics could buy their soul freedom before Luther came with his thinking and casted down the system of sin washing via means of monetary ways, will die only for their only cause. That is the real catalyst for the past milenia.

Is this fair? Off course not. The moment one starts asking for better treatment of the people the rich people best vested to make change will spare no time to make the changes to change them. The rich will spare not a cent to sustain the very system that has sustained them for a milenia now. They say that no kingdom can last a thousand years but the truth is that the rich caste has governed the world for the past two milenia! They rather die than conduce themselves via the path of change. Once we start asking for equality their favorite word red will appear a pandenium epidemic on their lips.

Real thinking and real convincing methods, far beyond those that Chancellor Brown from England has managed to this day bring forth need to happen more often and on a daily basis to gain a new view for the future. A future there everyone is on an equal ground and advance humanity, not destroy it like the Bush Clan and their God and their stained hands have done to the world up to now.

Only once it stood there
a japanese wooden artifact
T’was I who saw it the most
staring at it endlessly I cried

laughter and tears of joy rolled
I stared at it on and on
sliding through its curves one by one
I relished the emotional ride

I pondered the relation
the space between me and the artifact
entering my sight
taking over my mind

A delectatious arrest
It overcame me with its beauty
I equated beauty with hapinness
No one else seeing it more than I

I loved it

Everytime governments claim innocence and fairness my nose begins to smell rotten values and the reeking stench of dead morals. My nose tickles wanting to be itched. Read this: Police chief blocked Brazilian’s death probe.

Did the government of England have to an image that they would act ruthlessly after what happened to them in June of this year? Yes. Did they need to send a message to would-be copycats about how government would react and disseminate information about police rules and the like? Yes. Is it acomplished? Yes.

Am I saying that government in UK sought a target to acomplish this? No. But the actions surrounding the death of Brazilian Jean Charles de Menezes and the handling of the case leaves much room to come to these kinds of conclusions.

I am so sick and tired of the Israel-Palestinian conflict that the more I hear it the more i want to puke. Blagh.

Worst yet I am sick and tired of the legion of supporters that Likud has for its ideology. You would think that all those people that see nothing but terror before their eyes speak for the lot of Israel.

But they don’t.

Likud ideology seems to be on the wane. One would certainly hope so.

Israel, as the superior power in that conflict, really ought to see more eye to eye with the palestinians, but the goons running the israeli government are not allowing any of that. Terror, and more terror, and more terror they cry while they bomb to the stoneage anything palestinian and worse yet, any young palestinian is a threat before their eyes. One can’t even breathe disent in proper palestinia because it brings on the kosher boots of the IDF.

Israel in fact, has much to gain with the current situation. They have the superior power. They can control via repression the entire population of palestinians and worse yet, their army of special interests in Washington have readily convinced the American congress that allowing for an economic flowering of the palestinian people is a dire detriment, watch this, to the jewish state. Not Israel, the jewish state. Whatever that is. There is no nifty talk here about globalization and the wonders of capitalism. There is no talk here how globalization will help the poor rise like Nazareth from the ruins it was. In fact, keeping the palestinian economy in dire straits is in Israels best interests because that way they can buy their way in to palestinia. They can divide that house too. They will pit family against family for a few Shekels. Do jews have qualms about this? Where is then their humanity. Come on, if a bloque like me can realize this am sure the very brightest minds that the people of Judea has can too relaize this. Do Israelis sleep at night well?

Having young palestinians throw stones at the army tanks of the IDF in fact legitimizes Israel possesion of territories. How else is one to explain the argument in Europe that fruits and vegetables coming from Israel must state their provenence? They exploit the ocuppied territories and whenever palestinians even dare complain Israel likudists see terror, harrasment by those that don’t want to see the Jweish state. The Jewish state has been a de facto state since 1948. Yet one would think those arguing for repression, oh, am sorry, did I say repression? I meant punishment of the palestinian people for even thinking of exterminating the Jewish state did not know this. As if the Jewish state was a weak entity that any suicide bomber can bring to its knees.

I don’t condone suicide bombers. For me they are equally as horrendous as helcopters hovering above the Gaza strip pointing their sophisticated weaponry at criminals surrounded by innocent people or the torture methods of the Mossad.

Israel is by far a weak state. In fact it seems to be a threat to world order. The main thinking around the world is that Israel has nukes and if they do have them am sure they are willing and are ready to use nukes if and when the need arises. Why else have nukes then if you are not going to use them? For decoration?

Having nukes is a threat. A threat to civilized order. It is a bargaining chip and it is a show of power. But I digress. The main point is that Israel really needs to stop being a bully and if they are so fucking smart as they fucking say perhaps they need to start showing it otherwise instead of creating more enemies in their house with the passing of every day, every generation.

The USA really needs to stop seeing the conflict in terms of religion and special interests groups. The USA needs to pressure Israel into doing the right thing. Otherwise, the carnage will continue and another generation of news readers like me will have to deal with hearing, seeing, reading every day how palestinians and jews hate their guts to death.

Luis Valdez: “Somos como extras”
Los chicanos ante Hollywood
Columba Vértiz

Luis Valdez y Edward James Olmos, acaso los dos más grandes creadores del cine y el teatro en California, Estados Unidos, cuentan a Proceso la reticencia de “la Meca del cine” ante el arte chicano, hablan del desconocimiento que existe sobre el mundo latino, de la lucha por competir frente a una concepción tan dura del mercado económico, y de la necesidad de combatir los estereotipos de los hispanos como los malos o criminales. La irrupción de mexicanos en Hollywood les parece tan positiva como la de los indocumentados, pues el intercambio entre México y Estados Unidos es completamente dinámico, lo cual hoy instan a reconocer “por las buenas y por las malas a la vez”.

El cineasta y dramaturgo Luis Valdez señala que el cine chicano no recibe el interés directo de la industria hollywoodense:

“Nos ven como un fenómeno, un reflejo de la cultura mexicana, por lo tanto mejor tratan directamente con México, por eso hay más entradas para nuestros colegas mexicanos que para los chicanos. Nosotros ya somos como extras, como si fuéramos el pilón, pero seguimos luchando…

“No culpo de ninguna manera a nuestros colegas mexicanos, al contrario, celebro los éxitos que han tenido y sigo apoyando todos sus esfuerzos para traer imágenes, pensamientos, otras ideas y visiones de México acá, a Estados Unidos.”

—¿Cuál sería el camino para los cineastas chicanos?

—Urge que se presten más a sus raíces, que hablen más de quiénes son.

All articles posted under fair use rules in accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, and are strictly for the educational and informative purposes of our readers.

Filiberto Ojeda Ríos

Como todo buen hispano, de Pancho Villa hasta Reis Tijerina, Filiberto Ojeda Ríos has died under the güero gun.

The language to disseminate the news is awful. The most humane headline can be found at the above link. The rest is just güero dribble gore about law and order rethoric that they have been pushing to us since the West rose. One wonders why the FBI is so keen in arresting the lesser evils of society when it is at the top of the food chain where the real menace resides. For example, why aren’t there any names with the heist of the one billion dollars in Irak?

Filiberto Ojeda Ríos

and what we consider criminals are your heroes …

I wrote this separately but this, this is too goddamn juicy and it brings my dead brain cells a much needed mental orgasm, ahhh, Vatican details, as they say in law lingo, the devil lieth there ….

Power struggles in the Holy See, who would of have thought …

  • Noticed the recent spats between Il Vaticano and the Mex Gov? One would think the unthinkable. Very few people take seriously the power struggles allá en la Santa Sede. First things first. Fox is the head for a well known group called Yunque, an offshoot of this organization who by the by’s is challenging the very fabric of Opus Dei. Old Europe, what have you, will not have a Mexican org dictate its cojones. So first the Vat says that Mexico this and that drug barons blah blah. Then comes a statement by an obscure priest from a forgotten village in some Sierra of sorts saying illegal gains get purified through alms giving. A chisme that sets a flurry of otherwise silent intelectuales debating the very issues that, ajem! are well known in Mexican society (brings to mind the Godfather flick right?) but are never discussed in public. The same Pope that dictates more bible reading ought to be instituted now dictates to us that ethics discussions are forbidden. All in all, the Vat gets nervous and then reissues a statement that praises Mexico for its superb (my adv) fight against criminal org’s. Checkmate? Impasse? Who knows but they seem to stop kicking sand to each others ancles at the very least.

    Para más información chekea estos links aquí, aquí, aquí y aquí.

Quote unquote:
“Por ejemplo, si en una alcancía de una iglesia, un señor de estos (narcotraficante), deja un rollo de billetes, ¿quién lo puso?, sabe Dios, ¿serán del narcotráfico?, sabe Dios, puede ser que sí, puede ser que no… ese tipo de cosas no las podemos evitar”.

For example, if one of these guys (a drugdealer) leaves a wad of bucks on an alms box, how are we to know who left it there? Only God knows, it could be so, it could also not be so, we can’t avoid those kinds of things.”

Javier Eulalio Gómez,
Presidente de la Confederación Franciscana de México, al hablar de las ‘narcolimosnas’.

President of the Franciscan confederation when he spoke of the so called drug-related alms giving.

Go read a mi conciudadana Jade at Te darìa mi vida pero la estoy usando… Her acculturation just rips my guts apart pero that’s what the process indicates.

Para empezar, I`m in a new school in the US. I studied there before, a long time ago, and I missed being foreign because gringos think you can`t understand shit and since I`m a girl and my smile has dimples, people treat me like a princess. So that`s nice.

Pero la realidad ya es otra, los gringos blancos, the hot caucasians are simply not there. THEY are the strangers. Por cada gringo, hay 9 pochos, 3 asiàticos y 0.5 negros.
Recientemente dejaron salir a los gringos y ya los puedes ver màs seguido, pero los pochos estàn por todas partes (by the way, if you are an asshole who thinks I`m a pocha because I write in spanglish, fuck you, hablarè de mis problemas de lenguaje en otro post).


  • He descubierto que el Mezcal no sirve para las actividades mentales. Es una bebida bruta. Si tomo whisky eso ayuda, no sé porque, ni me pregunten porqué. Sólo sé que Mezcal no sirve para disfrutar un rato la computadora. Or at the very least it takes a while before one can enjoy the effects of banging the keys and allow the enjoyment of vitamin B depletion on the brain
  • Noticed the recent spats between Il Vaticano and the Mex Gov? One would think the unthinkable. Very few people take seriously the power struggles allá en la Santa Sede. First things first. Fox is the head for a well known group called Yunque, an offshoot of this organization who by the by’s is challenging the very fabric of Opus Dei. Old Europe, what have you, will not have a Mexican org dictate its cojones. So first the Vat says that Mexico this and that drug barons blah blah. Then comes a statement by an obscure priest from a forgotten village in some Sierra of sorts saying illegal gains get purified through alms giving. A chisme that sets a flurry of otherwise silent intelectuales debating the very issues that, ajem! are well known in Mexican society (brings to mind the Godfather flick right?) but are never discussed in public. The same Pope that dictates more bible reading ought to be instituted now dictates to us that ethics discussions are forbidden. All in all, the Vat gets nervous and then reissues a statement that praises Mexico for its superb (my adv) fight against criminal org’s. Checkmate? Impasse? Who knows but they seem to stop kicking sand to each others ancles at the very least.

    Para más información chekea estos links aquí, aquí, aquí y aquí.

Nortec Collective continues to define the sound of Tijuana

You just gotta love the title of this news article. For the rest of the story clickeale acá ese.

By the by’s, if you wanna try your good rotten luck, a veces these guys give out free music en su saite.

The president’s office said Thursday that all available evidence suggested bad weather led to a helicopter crash that killed Public Safety Secretary Ramón Martín Huerta, Federal Preventive Police Commissioner Tomás Valencia, five other passengers and a crew of two.

The fact of the matter is that arms smuggling from the US into México has increased dramatically. Check this NPR audio for more. Personally I think that Fox is making the blunder of his administration. Then again one does have to contend with a very powerful NRA whose tentacles stretch far and beyond the Río Grande.

Hence the question, why is Fox covering it up? It is in everybody’s lips, this was sabotage with big guns. Off course, what the mexican government doesn’t want to do is produce copy cats. But still. This off course just exemplifies the ineptitude of the major intelligence operations in México. They neglected to imagine that something like this would one day occur., it has now ocurred.

Arms flow from the US has steadily increased for the past years. The border between the US and México is very porous. There is no one checking no one as one crosses from the US into México. México sends drugs and the US sends arms. Powerfuls one too.

So, while it is in everyone’s lips the the helicopter was gunned down nobody wants to see the reality. And Fox, like every US administration when it comes to drugs, will not contend with issues that produce sickning amounts of money. And so Fox allows Washington more time to get away with everything. México ought to bitch just as much as the US bitches about México. In fat, I wonder how Washington would react would México now institute a certification process as well.

Ok, first and foremost my deepest apoligies to Pachuco, who surprisilingly enough, agrees with me that returning territories to proper México contravenes the very fabric of the Xicano ens But señot Martínez, what are you apoligizing for? Sí, that is correct, forget my digressions. It is a custom I drag over from spanish. It is a well proven fact that spanish speakers tend to lag when it comes to getting to the point. A thing that tends to irritate english monolingual speakers. Perdón, I digressed again.

I apologize to Pachuco, owner and distributor of Chicano t-shirts zupdog (perhaps Lotería Chicana ought to look into it since she seems to have a fondness for said objects) because, I in all my humble ignorance, forgot to uncross the little box in WP that indicates it to allow for member registration.

I am flattered that Pachuco went throught the ropes for membership. However, at this time I am not contemplating the idea, much like Oso does, to have a blog with multiple users. Perdón.


Logovo, Ilich, Rael, Elenamary ( I thought that the RSS feed was solved girl, am still on the requested list m’ija) Thank you, mil y un gracias for all those comments. The conversation will take place on the internet. Wait. Why did that just sound like Gil Scott-Heron “the revolution will not be televised’?

Señor Martínez, you are aware that putting so many links in a text is a turnoff right? :)

Ana Castillo is blogging, seemingly, full time. Viva Chicago ese!

While you are at it go watch a video that my conciudadano Ilich Sabotage made. It’s a fictional account of middle class drug dealers in Tijuana, it’s just as if it were the bare truth ese.

It did good to distant myself from my Xicanismo. I realize that writing the stuff that I would normally write in spanish in english will be of little appeal to the english blogsphere. There isn’t any interest yet in mixing the problematic of border xicanismo like mine that includes both english and spanish as its major sources of inspiration. I think that english xicanismo tends to rely on the past of Mexico to talk to itself and in order to identify and seek out its roots. While border xicanismo is more attuned to the problematic that affects both sides of the languages we have.

What am I saying? Am saying that semioticaly speaking border xicanismo tends to include more modern day problems in its daily life to try and make something of itself as opposed to the interior Xicanismo that tends to occur at the academic level and our near abroad such as Chicago, Ohio, Washington et al which seeks out the past to explain itself.

Before I hear the buts role in I am referring to Xicanos and not the causa, got it?

This idea needs more sharpning in order to make sense and I think that as I write more and more it will clarify itself. In the mean time, if the idea seems redundant and meaningless adding no new insight to the current ideas of Xicanismo I alone stand for its contents.

One of the characteristics of the 70 year PRI reign in México was its alliances with the cultural elite. If the neocons of the Bush clan in the beginning began to blame the malaise that affected American society on Hollywood only to then raise ‘acceptable’ cultural icons at a later stage (for example when elections came around) then the PRI resorted to more crude methods to achieve the same goals. Questionable methods that so far have not been spoken of such as intimidation, cerrando filas as it is said in spanish, and coertion and influence peddling.

México has always had its cradle of cultural elitism based in DF. So the cultural establishment has always been on a short leash in México. The direction of the movement of whatsoever cultural movement has always had its defenders, often on the payroll of government, and its detractors, who are also on the goverment payroll, yet attain its sacrosanct aura of which my conciudadano Federico Campbell spoke of recently here.

Though allow me to open a parentisis here regarding my fellow conciudadano. I believe there is no word in english that is equivalent of that word in spanish. Federico is making a distinction that is in accord with the accepted notion that writers need to be universal. I agree that there needs to be a universal of humanity in the writer and of what he writes but I am afraid that we, as a people, as a people of Tijuana, are far from it. Ironically enough, while my fellow conciudadano says that it is good that there aren’t any feelings of sacrosanctness in the mexican writer he places himself there, in a sacrosanct position that challenges us to try and dethrone it. I believe that we need to be rural, we need to stay within our borders to explore ourselves. So that when our eyes look further than the horizon we can see and compare and come to a just conclusion about human affairs. What my conciudadano then is saying is a parroting of what is already known and adding very little new to the real debacle that the mexican cultural bearer has to contend with. Our reality, as border town has to be explored, we must understand our demons and our angels within the very fabric of our being to udnerstand ourselves better. End of parantheses.

So México and its powers to be have an unholy alliance with the cultural establishment. It has continued uninterrupted even to this day.

One of the bearers of this alliance is called the CISEN. México’s CIA. It is in charge to keep an eye on the population though it contravenes the constitution and its history is marred with accusations of evesdropping on all sorts of public citizens throughtout its natural institutional history. There hasn’t been a period of government administration that has abused this institution for its own personal gain, sort of what the Bush clan has done with the CIA.

Which brings me to the next point, is the mexican blogsphere infected with CISEN agents?

Historically, the CISEN has had a covert operation, sort of like mandate, that it must keep mexicans on a short ideological leash, whoever speaks of México must do so in accord with accepted norm so as to keep the false notion that México is a homogenous nation. Kind of like following a style book at a newspaper office. Things must be done in accord with what the DF wants. Hence the shutting down of dissenting voices that go against the grain, the voices that differ radically with the notions that are disseminated with the approval of the big honchos at the top. That is why one hardly hears from Yaqui voices in the desert and when one does it occurs under the narrative of the ‘victim’ tale.

the thing that bothers me about the war the US is waging: the curtailing of civil liberties in the name of the war. Curious how ineptitude on the top always means more repression for those of us on the bottom. Because that is what it is. Government wasn’t inteligent enough to predict an assault on american soil let alone have good old fashion common sense to stop the attack. Huge amounts of money are funneled to countless of agencies in that country whose budget is tallied in the trillions. Yet the best those agencies can do is spy on their own. All that technology to self-destruct the very fabric that made us who we are. They are unable to infiltrate the Other when it matters.

By this am not saying that those agencies haven’t done good nor am I calling for the scrapping of those agencies, by far. What I am saying is that because those agencies failed once, the collective is being punished. Not because the collective was not prepared nor because ‘we were to liberal’ in admitting the Other into our midst but because the agencies were to busy being cocky thinking that they know everything. They don’t. So they repress and America stands idle giving more power to government to repress the american population even more. The picture isn’t pretty. The criminals aren’t in American soil, they are beyond the Potomac.

The fact of the matter is that the American people have been suckered. Worst yet they have crooks in power whose only interest is making money without the meddling of anyone. Capitalismo salvaje. The people are in the way so the neocons constructed themselves a road where only they can traverse.

Bush and Co. learned well. It is a single handed coup from a familiy that knows the ropes well. Governance is a skill. They just happen to be the bad guys and even if they are wont to appear all american they are only so because they know in their innermost guts that the question that matters is not the outside but the inside that matters.

The day he died was the happiest in his life. The answer to the why is simple. He made it, he made it without harming no one and best yet, he would no longer pose a threat to harm no one. He was dead.

Vaya. I received with great astonishment the news that Elena is running for representative for Mexicans in her corner of the world. I know of no other person better suited for the job than her. I have been an avid reader of the travails that she has gone through in trying to help others meet their new culture with honor, decency and courage. At times, showing us the difficulties along the way in just trying to be nice to one another. If you think I am exagerating when I say that then I suggest you don yourself with not only spanish but mexican indigenous languages. Then walk the landscapes of the Midwest to try and help people adjust and make it through the day in a new environment, a new language in the fields of prejudice, ignorance and just plain disregard for others with only hope as a burning torch guiding the tired, the poor and hungry without a second thought.

Elena is best placed to represent Mexicans in Ohio because she understands both worlds and is an on hands person. She is not only well versed in the problems affecting the mexican community of Ohio and the rest of her community she is also there with them, trying to solve the problems with them.

I am a strong supporter of Elena Mary Costello Tzintzún. I believe
she will fully and honorable represent Mexicans and Mexican-
Americans. I encourage you to please elect Elena Mary Costello
Tzintzún as representative for all Mexicans in Ohio, Kentucky and

Bouyed by Tejano Insider I went ahead and read this story were as I read I stumbled upon this word: comeuppance. Always being upanted by my curiosity I headed deep into the entrañas of the internet and quickly asked Merriem Webster what’s up with that word. They had this to say, yet it seems the meaning differs widely across the lexicographers web because word reference has this to say. One would think its use somewhat obscure yet the opposite is quite the contrary. Google gave less than a thousand hits shy og 600 thousand ones. So, where does this word come from? Etymology is sketchy with Merriem-Webster offering little clues.

Leonard Thomas, de 23 años, muestra su congoja luego de que policías allanaron la vivienda en la que permanecía junto con su familia, en Nueva Orleáns. Algunas personas denunciaron que se habían metido ilegalmente en la casa, pero fueron liberados cuando probaron que era suya

One wonders why didn’t Daily Texican mention that he appeared in ¡Ask a Mexican! by Gustavo Arellano. Though I wouldn’r be to surprised, the language there is a tad crass at times yet it does jank a smile or two from one. Oh well, check out the mention here.

Acabo de subir un guatomadral de fotos que tomé este domingo en una ciudad de Suecia que se llama Kalmar. Si quieren pueden wachar un buen resto de ellas aquí.

This is exactly what is wrong with the preemptive mentality. In order to flush out bad elements it only produces more. It is like trying to kill a cell that when once cut in half in actually produces two of the same. Cut it again and then it produces four more.

First of all I would like to thank all who dare venture a click to see what is happening here in this blog. As what can be seen by the dates that appear here and there on the blog it would somewhat offer a hint that nothing much is happening. In fact, due to the dates one could very well and rather easily and with no little haste come and jump at the conclusion that abandonment is the most fitting word to describe the state of affairs here. Alas my friends, I will irrevocably dissent at such easyly made judgement calls, I beg to differ. I am nurturing the words. I am incubating my thoughts and the time is not ripe to announce all that needs to be announced.

However, today I want to bring to your attention a little blog and the repercussions it is unfolding on certain corners of the Aztlán homeland. Fellow citizen and tijuanense pal such as I Ilich Sabotage brought to my attention a recent blog that seems to be one of those people who dare go beyond the most common mentality arising out of Xicanismo itself. pochospeak Weblog Journalism for the Pocho Crowd. This is a blog to look out for across time just to see the result that might be arising out of the research itself. ài’tamos pues.

PS: Lo de Tercera Raza was taken from this post Chicanos on line. La tercera raza from Sintetika Dreams. Normally I dislike how most of my fellow border mexican citizens perceive us Xicanos, even if we too can be deemed a part of Aztlán, though I thought this Tercera Raza nick befitting somehow. It fights off this crazy notion that some spanish speaking monolinguals have of Tijuana as the last corner of Latin America. As if Aztlán wasn’t part of the larger narrative of Latin America. I like it.

Got one of those spam mails today: High quality Replica. Now, how in the hell can a replica be of high quality to begin with? It’s a fucking replica for crying outloud ese!

It rains here. In fact it has been raining most of the summer. kinda reminds one of the first time I heard something about this weather. The weather is a güero thing. Though I veer off. “Welcome to the Swedish summer” was the greeting that carried a couple of whiskey glasses and a few beer cans up in the air. I suspected it said more than it meant. Some sayings take years to understand and now, 5 years later, I understand. This summer has been drenched and cool and cloudy, grey, breeze, wet, full of moist everywhere. Just the way I like it. I live in the Swedish Highlands. The trees, the grass, the leafs anything green thrives here. It looks fresh, verde, el verde mojado me gusta un harto, me encanta, es por eso que ver todo lo verde verde mojado es alentador, maybe its the irish in me. Who knows. Pero me gusta. I wasn’t ever much of a sun lover, in fact suntanning wasn’t my major thing in Aztlán. Though I saw it millions of times and stood still while the hordes stampeded in craze at the in thing I just sort of stared in wonder.

So yeah, my summer has had many a good day with fog as a greeter in the morn. Banks of clouds I saw a many time through my window in my house that has a view, if I may inventory the landscape, a field where some kind of farming undergoes. I know because every now and then a stench of porcine piss manages to jolt my olfactory senses. The horizon is covered with pine trees, birch trees and what not, loads of forest around here. So the banks of clouds roll eerily by patches that can be seen through my window. The Highlands, it sparks the imagination and yeah, those Beowulf tales seem to draw the source of its unfoldings.

Swedes wrap pepinos in plastic. I have seen some asian countries wrap in paper mandarins (no pun intended) but cucumbers? I mean come on, what’s up with that? I suppose it has to do with the reveration involved around it. It envelopes a country’s idea about certain food items. Un pepino in my alley has no more status than say a mango. It shares the fate that watermelons, papayas, pineapples and jamaica do: it gets its buena dosis de chile en polvo, lemon and salt.

Pero estos?

By the way, the Swede is an unlikely candidate for salt. Not a big fan of it. I attribute it to the fact that this society hardly moves. It is not like they don’t exercise, they do and the obesity index is quite low for an industrialized country like this one. Then again for a society whose main course meal is in the afternoon and the total absence of a dinner culture one does expect they hold the line in is proper place since food doesn’t have that ritual like we have back home in Aztlán. 3 full course meals is du rigour en Aztlán. Aquí, in good old Svea, in the morning is just a cracker, fancy at that, ornamented with a leaf of sorts and cheese and butter, and oh yeah, on some lucky mornings the cucumber comes along. Y después hasta el late afternoon que aquí is, hold tight to your seats, starts at 11a.m. Yes, lunch starts here at eleven am sharp on the clock, you can’t out do the protestants in the cradle of protestantism ese. And like I said, there is no certain ritual for dinner. One seldoms gathers at night to finish off the rest of the day around your family and discuss the days events. Nor is it a cuisine fanfare either.

La codiciada bandera de El Alamo is the story of the La Jornada Article. A newspaper well known for its leftist tendencies and the like. I dunno who they are doing a favor with this headline and story. To top it off I read in the Agonist the very alarmist news that Texas: It’s Not Just For Whites Anymore! sardonic news for the unsarcastic challenged. Come on. What the fuck. Why are we always deemed less than the White american? WE too are American. We have argued in the pit of the abyss that we too are Americans & Quetzacoatl only knows how many full moons.

We are not a minority nor have ever been one. Tis your view White dude that sees us as such.

Ahora, la bandera esa, yeah. Resemblance, a battle that still burns holes in many hearts, least to say this one. Argh.

Ok, a little fantasy here. I am just going to imagine that a few of you out there just might have had a go at the contact form. Alas! the form isn’t working. I tried it myself and zip, zilch, nada. Sorry for the waste of time.

I wantcha to stop in your tracks right now and head on to lotería chicana‘s new site. I mean wow! Frazer from Seinfield style. I was blown away ese. If you are still reading this then you are not where you are suppose to be ese, what’s up with that? Git there now homes!

This blog has become one of no-writing, why is that so is like trying to explain why the sun rises on the East. Does it now? Either way, I feel like I need to explain the total absence of letters here, but that is what has become of this blog. This blog is about the absence of letters. There are no letters here. However, am afraid that I created a monster of sorts.

There is nothing worse than the sore sight that an unupdated blog presents, in that respect my blog is a sore, a languishing remain that is begging, so will the imagination and the demands of the refresh society of the internet would will it, to be killed, that someone please pull the plug, but alas! Mis dretactores mios, this is my blog and here I do as I please. I never intended to create a blog to please. If my blog has become a sore to the eye than I intended not to create such a hedious monster however, one learns as one surfs on the web that things sometimes can generate life on their own.

Time, on the internet, is something we like fresh and now, like newspapers on our doorsteps in the morning. We want it according to what our watches, our little regulator on the corner of our machines, dictates. Here we go not by the dictums of father time nor of the fiats of lady Greenwich but of the sayings that appear on the horizon and if there is a writing on the wall they will appear on this blog, on the meanwhile sit back and enjoy. There is more than meets the eye here.

Well I just renewed my webbhotel again. Ever notice that webbhotel gives that prostitute feel to it? Either way, am on for another year at the offices. Though I must confess that last year wasn’t a good one for the letters of the bard. I slacked. I’m true to my generation and am a slacker. I’m a slacker ese, so what homes? Yeah, so the only blog that has its own MySQL database goes on, and the beat goes on tunes in in my Xicano soul by Love and Rockets. Yeah, am that old ese! Hopefully there will be more sources of inspiration out there. Like I said before, spanish has churned out a lot of letters out of me. Perhaps I have more to say in spanish than in english. Truth be told am kinda of in a gooey sticky kind of phase right now.

Ever since I did a 15 page article on Miguel Mendez book Peregrinos de Aztlán I have been quite at odds about languages and Aztlán. Spanish seems to be getting the forgemenot flowers at a declining rate. The word ‘commitment’ (as in Aztlán needs to told in both spanish and english) has been chiseled in my cabeza. Oh well, enough with the speeches and the moanings and the chilladero, gonna attract la Llorona pretty soon. So yeah. One more year.

PS For some odd reason my older post from blogspot are still available in blogger, I deleted the blog but the archives remain. If you feel you can’t get enough of my xicanismo, this is the reason why. Where it all started.

Dios mio santísimo! I was mentioned in an article in Hawaii, well a post. Somewhere buried in all that saying are buried the offices titel. Híjole mano! Still, news here at the offices and Geronimo cracks what seems to be the beginnings of a smile from his corner where he likes to sit and keep an eye on the desert and another one at the things being said. To be frank more than once the thought that he’s here to spy has crossed my mind, you know how things are when it comes to tradition. Came to realize that I need to brush up on my Chicano/a inspirational sources. Am still stuck in the 80′s and 90′s. Who are the ones for this new century? Anyone give me a hint?

Lo que pasa es que am kinda of attached to old Richard Rodriguez. He embodies a lot for my generation. An American voice that transcends. Gay, Catholic, Chicano a huevo, brown, savy, and one of the few ones that made it on the ticket of national centrum appreciated by all. All on his own. A tie-your-bootstaps-on-your own kinda guy. Though I still can’t get over that he ran over a serpent. I read it in Brown.

Telegram: Telegram? might as well revert to morse code, a ver, qué dice? When. going. to write something. substancial.?

Picnhes readers, no perdonan even in the middle of vacation season….


Buoyed by Elena‘s enthuastic encouragement I downloaded the google map program. I inmediately went to Tijuana: Amazing. I just took a peek at the serpent like metal fence that separates our two countries across my native birth state of Baja California. I was awed. I even took a trip down memory lane and headed to Redwood city, I looked at some old neighbourhoods. I am delighted. Thanks Elena for the tip esa.

Rheinland-Pfalz (Capital: Mainz)
I was finally able to retrieve from my surrounndings for a week. During week one of the year (1999) I took a very much sought after trip which had languished back in time for sometime now. I must say it was a trip that fulfilled all my desires. I went to Germany. I enjoyed very much my trip and saw some of the best wonderful Rheinland-Pfalz countryside Highway 61 had to offer, specially the road from Neuweid to Worms which has a bridge to match the Golden Gate in size. The valleys, however, cannot be compared and the mountains neither. The weather was perfectly clear so my eyes were not sored by the clouds which, I think you might agree, robs much of the light that would give the valleys a majestic hue. My landscapes kept changing as we went from one part of the region to another and, I believe, it was a good fortune the Rhine was on the way and by all the places we went to. It was a most welcome delight to see the Bayern country fields surrounded by so many mountains indeed.

Neuweid viz Koblenz to Frankfurt am Main thereafter to Worms.

I was, however, drawn into my innermost feelings every now and then. No doubt caused by the music we listened to as we travelled the highways which evoked in me all kinds of emotions. Memories of you. I travelled all those days thinking and feeling all my memories and everything posible I could say to you. Memories I enjoyed very much, though tinged by tristesa, were as much of my trip as the views of that region of Deutchland. One can well say that remembrances of yore are best when one is still able to feel them completely. I was also able to taste some of the best and tastiest Bayern beer. Of course, Kassel, Worms and Franfurt am Main are places of long beer tradition. I will probably never taste again those beers in my life. of course, such statementes are unfair to life; one is very well drawn to formulate such conclusions since one time just seems just that “one time”.

I started at Hauptwache.

I had the good fortune to see Frankfurt am Main. A small section of it, indeed, I don’t think am unduly boasting to say that it was a destiny of sorts for me to see such ancient part of it. As luck would have it, the driver of the lorry had to have a nine hour rest before he could start again. And, knowing myself well, I did not hesitate much to venture into the city for nine hours would give ample space for that. Taking into consideration a sort of ill omen would cross my way and get lost I set about on a reconnaissance voyage but as my stars would have it I was easily able to find my way around always taking careful mental notes as to where I turned and such directions. I jumped on bus 37 j.Kircher-Ahz to Hauptrahnhof where I found a city in motion, that is, compared to the industrial side of the town were my fellow companion was resting his hours.

I arrived in that section that houses most of the city churches. Wonderful pieces of restoration. for, as you might well know, much of that city was left in ruins during WWII. And I hope you allow me to make a comment of sorts here, for I am of the opinion that one cannot mention Germany without it having some reference to WWII. I also, as you are a seasoned traveller yourself and might find this truthful, had the good luck to arrive on a wednesday which implied free access to much of the local museums of the city. As I was short of monetary resources ( a deutch mark costs 5 swedish crowns) this was a most celestial welcome.

Meanwhile back at the offices …

-m’ijo, pass me some of that coffee made out of those coffee beans marquitos from Chiapas sent me.
-marquitos? sent me!! a ver a ver, what’s pasando here pop’s, creo que si sent it to the offices, and if memory doesn’t fail me hasta le hiciste fuchi a la idea. Now suddenly he’s you special buddy and their your beans?? Ya lo oiste Geronimo? Bueno, wait a secs pop.
-y no le des al Geronimo, am getting sick and tired of his silence.
-Hold that carabina on its place Geronimo. you guys best start getting along. Quieres yours with piquete too Geronimo?
-pour un chorrito extra to mine, do we still have that stuff Monte Albán from Oaxaca that Porfirio Díaz sent us to kiss up?
-yes pops, we still do.
- Pon that new record, Chavéz Ravine on. Mi compa Lalo Guerrero se avienta those songs you know, corrido de boxeo, los chucos suaves, and I like that rolita, what’s its called? muy fifi.
-by the way that link that you just put there doesn’t do justice to the record, they put links to las rolitas más peorcitas.
-it’s a good record, where you get it from?
-mi compa …
-men, what’s up with all these compas pops?
-ah chamaco maleducado, haven’t I told you not to interrup me when I’m speaking? En fin, mi compa from Sweden, that fine fine lad llamado Julio Sueco borrowed it from the local library allá in those swedish highlands. Can you believe that? Híjole mano, remember he borrowed that cd too del Flaco Jímenez? I still can’t believe it, qué está haciendo la raza over there? Ahhh, this coffee is good, men those piquetes give it the extra punch you know.
-pops, the readers are begging us to finish these payasadas and start writing some real stuff. Our readership went down since we opened this yonderliesit offices dialogue window, que es puro cuento dicen. And they don’t seem to be buying ese cuento de que Geronimo comes to the offices con su carabina 30-30 to hang out.
-Hey, diles que es security, con eso de que los minutemen andan about …, tell’em we had to get some kind of security.
-Ehh, ahora sí comes Geronimo handy, ay pops.

*Chávez Ravine

I have a swedish-mexican mojado xicana daughter born in Califas. I myself am a mojado, a xicano wetback. Today the star spangled gave me goosebumps when I heard it sound its majestic noise. Am I entitled to celebrate it? I grill today. In my swedish backyard somewhere in the swedish Highlands of Smaland my daughter wondered what is the 4th of July.

Ay güey! Nunca pensé que the day would come. One of the darling conversations that so closely unite us Xicanos is Mexican racism. Nothing would give that cup of chocolate more flavour than tearing apart the thin veil of racism in our culture. Long has been known to us how our brothers and sisters, granpas and granmas, mothers and fathers would slightly through us off with their racist remarks. Specially when babies are born, ay que morenito, ay que blanquito, and it’s the blanquito one that gets the better end of the stick ese, always, yeah, we prietitos have always borne the brunt of the lesser praise at the cradle. Y no te forgets about those damn soap operas, puro whity on the top homes. Híjole, tears us apart our little hearts to see those indios do all those minial jobs. Y qué me dices de the worst insult one can receive en México, pinche indio they say. Let’s see how mexican denial that we are not racist fare in this storm, pero no, look at’em, ya están deciendo que they don’t understand us and the like. Y what about that movie where la güera esa da un baby negrito? Yeah, you know what am talking about, yeah Angelitos negros, that always used to bring tears to Aunt Luchita. A ver que pues.

Little did I know I was living the good times, back when I was an undocumented alien in Califas though I felt the same way that this dude down here is feeling I could do basically anything I wanted. Nada me detenía, in comparison …

Though I do not deny my roots and where I come from, I can only say that Mexico is not my home country. I have been a victim of identity theft because my boundaries have been determined by a sheet of paper and not by the customs, tradition and language that I mirror.

My undocumented status impedes me from entering a university, driving, boarding an airplane, crossing the boarder to visit my father, and even simple things as to open a bank account, rent movies, and enter night clubs because these actions require a federal ID or a social security number.

For a nice recap of mexican history in California I suggest to take a read at this …

The premise that the Akaka Bill would open the doorway to Mexican claims for establishing the nation of Aztlan engendered a huge and unforeseen response. As would be expected there were supporters and detractors to the idea. Based upon the content of the responses a number of issues should probably be clarified.

First is the actual Akaka Bill itself. It strictly defines who qualifies to be considered “native Hawaiian” and whether or not a person will be included on the “roll” of those eligible for that status. The wording of the bill makes the nature of that eligibility abundantly clear.

According to Oppenheimer Rice committed a major faux paux. Well, least to say I missed yet nunca es tarde to delight in those little things that jar that ajarred door in relations between anglos and latinos in the USA.

Lo único que pasará a la historia de la reciente asamblea de la Organización de Estados Americanos en Florida no tiene nada que ver con lo que se discutió en la reunión, sino que será lo dicho por la secretaria de Estado de Estados Unidos, Condoleezza Rice, cuando se excusó por tener que irse antes de tiempo: “Tengo que regresarme a Estados Unidos”, explicó.

Condoleezza se aprestaba a viajar de Florida a Washington. Cuando se bajó del podio y algunos diplomáticos latinoamericanos le recordaron con sorna que Fort Lauderdale —la ciudad donde se estaba realizando la reunión— y la vecina Miami todavían están en Estados Unidos, Rice levantó las cejas y se rió con ellos, según me contaron más tarde dos diplomáticos latinoamericanos testigos de la escena.

If Condi did indeed say that it would be an oddly rare display of discomfort, like being at a house of relatives where you don’t really want to be at.

In essence and a quick translation, what the passage says is that Condoleezza Rice said during the OAS meeting in Fort Lauderdale that she was headed to the US, a quip that some diplomats didn’t let her slip so easy and sarcastically reminded her that she was already in the US. Hmmm, one wonders if this will be picked up elsewhere, this is hilarious.

Could someone please tell me how did government of the people, by the people, for the people become against the people?

What I like about Sandra Dionisi’s painting is that it both reflects a snake and a scorpion at the same time in her work.

Que viva la reconquista!

La Malinche.” Slave, interpreter, secretary, mistress, mother of the first “Mexican.” her very name still stirs up controversy.

Associate Professor of History R. Douglas Cope teaches Mexican and colonial Latin American history. He is the author of The Limits of Racial Domination: Plebeian Society in Colonial Mexico City, 1660–1720.

*please notice the 666 on the php doc :)

It is not for me to glee at the desgracias de otros pero this motherfucker left una puta espina clavada long time ago. And I for one, (Me persino and all that crap) am glad this motherfucker is going down.

He made a career out of spite for illegal immigration making us tijuanenses and imigrantes his target. The public loved him and I hated him, made me spit the ground he walked, el perro. I hope he pays por todas las desgracias que causó.

èl es una de las razones am en Sweden. He created un climate donde I realized that me and mi now eleven year old güera swede mexican chicanita could not thrive in proper Aztlán. Perro

Though this written sentence just managed to uplift my spirits (heck, that and the scotch)

Now, it seems some pesky government do-gooder types are asking whether something might not have been quite above board about all this.

Pinches güeros, they know how to yank a smile out of my bigote donned face …

For too long I was embarrased of my Xicano accent. Frankly. I cringed into a hell of angst and embarrassment whenever my i’s* faltered and betrayed an otherness that was far from the american ideal.

Here in Europe I can retrace and notice this patttern of linguistic perfection sought out by english monolinguals in proper 51 and a DC. Spanish people can still notice whenever someone says a double ll in the form of a y or whenever someone pronounces their z’s like s’s. Sweden is the same, you can’t pronounce a word wrong because all hell breaks loose.

The same way in WASP land. Since they only speak english they tend to be preservationists of a sort.

People will actually doubt if you are an American based on the way you pronounce your english, such are the state of things in our beloved Area 51.

So I cringed and hurriedly tried to cover up my imagined nakedness. I felt uncovered.

*Jejeje, I wrote this back before the Blog Era, check it out, however, if you don’t wanna here is the relevant snippet for this piece:

In my first year of study, that would be Winter 2000, I studied phonetics which was as strange to me as the relativity theory. At any rate, the book assigned for the reading is titled `On Pronounceable English’ by David Minugh, (a New Yorker) University of Stockholm 1991 (Corrected Edition). On page 47 you’ll find how to pronounce the vowel `i’ as in /sit/. Along that pronounciation there is a word of caution, get aload of this, and I quote ” …But if you pronounce an accented /I/ like /i:/, as in >>kid , kidnapper< <, you will sound like the stereotype Mexican bandit!" Talk about a 60's flashback.

It cracks me up. One of the things that I fight and strive for in this blog is to defend our nativeness. For far too long have been led to believe that we are immigrants, illegals, and other nonnative beings that one easily bypasses the fact that we are Americans inasmuch as George Washington was one. Through time and bad policy the American narrative has made us look like anything but Americans. As if the Southwest has always been ruled by white America. That is their greatest victory, that they managed to convince us that we do not belong there.

So I find it funny how this kind of situation still happens.

MAPISTAS & the GREENPARTY ( El Partido Verde) want nuestra Gente to know that the forced shipping out of nuestra gente, back to Mexico, in 1929-1944 , under “The Mexican Repatriation Program,” that saw 400,000 American citizens of Mexican descent illegally sent off to Mexico, has been repudiated by an overwhelming vote in the California Senate! SB670 and SB 645, authored by Joseph Dubb (D-Orange County), establishes that a Commission will make recommendations as to what the appropriate monetary compensation can be made to the victims of this racist act that was carried out upon Mexican Americans of the State of California. Those wanting further information contact Hugo Vera, President of The Sacramento Mexican American Political Association or your Assembly Representative or Senator in Sacramento.

Not lon ago yet in eon years blogwise, Elena my buddy, pal, amiga, compa, friend and all that wondered about Spreading God’s Love. I even added my two centavos to the issue.

Today I find two of my favorite blogs in that isue wondering about the issues that so gives so much food for thought.

he reflects on how different people are the further they come from. Something that has always intrigued me is how few groups from San Diego come down to work with us. We have groups from all over the states, the western half of Canada and one group who comes every year from Australia to serve the people of Tijuana, but very few from within a hundred miles of the border.

Read the rest here.

It gives such a nice glimpse into that world that so otherwise passes unnoticed in my city. Cool.

I remember rather clearly
how the cherry tree
blossomed after a long winters rest …

extra extra : nordic sea winds sweep swedish highlands
though caressing blow kissed the white lilly petals …

it was the time of dispersement
the cherry tree’s flowers
flew aided by the airs …

My green grass filled with spring petals
I remembered autumn that day …
white lilly red petals
of the cherry tree flowers
strewn about my green Savannah…

The apple tree too
furnished the lawn
with white red petals of its own

seems my tongue will
caress its paladar
with swedish red cherries and yellow apples again …

I remember with great joy my college days at San Diego City College. Back in those days schools didn’t give a damn fuck whether one was an illegal alien or not, what mattered was to get educated at all costs. It was a breeding ground for other sorts of nationalism back then, such as the raising of this Xicano can attest.

I particularly cherish those memories when the teacher would come in to the classroom, everybody would greet the teach with a cheerful Good Morning! smile and all and a few waved their hands in the air.

A particular form of resistance to assimilation was to remind people of their place: I would say: Buenos Días!

This brought upon a host of chuckles and giggles from those present …aaah, those were the days.

Just for the record am rather unhappy with the css layout of this site. Geronimo sits and nods. His comanche compadres from Texas have come to zip coffee from Chiapas, a gesture I had to force myself do in order to appease all the elders that hang out here including grumpy grandpa who complains that they are all nothing but freeloaders. Man, am running some sort of convalescent home or something.

-Solidarity my ass I said, it all comes from my pockets ese and revenues aren’t exactly rolling in homes.

Though I caved in at the very last since my eye caught sight of some very angry Yaqui folk gathering with some Navajo folk outside by my 1956 Chevy looking at it with their magical eyes. I said, je!, pinches dólares, what are they for anyway?

The beans came the other day and like out of thin air everybody came to see the wonder beans handpicked by lacandona maya indians and they all wanted to hear the letter SubMarcos sent along.

They seem to still have a sort of a hangover because Corky Gonzales appeared in their midst. The last I heard was Qvole! and suddenly there they were, Reis Tijerina, who by the by, still owes a few thoughts at the offices of Yonder Lies It, Gloria Anzaldúa, Chalino Sánchez, Henry B Gonzales and César Chávez. Heck, I was taken aback at the sudden presence of these great ones.

Acá in Sweden the reports of the LA Mayoral race have come in odd tones. It was brought to my attention by erudite Tomas Rivera, what’s up with that he said, cómo que gang member becomes mayor of LA?


All I could say was that I was sending a letter of protest for the inapropiate heading in that piction, though no promises are made.

That’s when I snapped, don’t you guys have anything else to do other than come to breath down my neck ese?

Just when you thought it couldn’t become more obvious …


The future in a video game …

Reading this article am inspired to write the following

I have stated numerous times that the idea of returning the Southwest to México (a preposterous idea if there ever was one) would be detrimental to our culture, the pachuc@, chol@, lowrider, poch@, malinche, chican@, xican@ culture. The moment that the Southwest lands in the hands of México we cease to be all that has happened between now and 1846.

What makes us us is the very conflict that breeds between the two cultures.

However, I must admit that the polarization of the Aztlán homeland is taking place as we speak. Aztlán has reached a critical moment in US history, Aztlán is finally a discourse in American politics and a tool to defeat opponents in democratic held elections, people are taking a stand on Aztlán. The myth of Aztlán is competing with the myth of the American Dream head on.

Though we at the offices of Yonder Lies It insist that the fundamental question that needs an urgent addressing is our stance as americans, that what we as the Xican@ culture of this century must assert is our americanness. Which is far more important than discussing the corner alley impossibility of returning the Southwest to México because the Southwest is not comprissed of one ethnic group anymore and we must respect that, show them that we are different from them.


Reasons to turn the tables around in the national discourse for the soul of the Southwest and our denied americanness:

We have assimilated no matter what Huntington says or others attest. Our imagination includes Bejamin Franklin, Abe Lincoln and Ralph Emerson to name just a few of the voices that run in our conscience and we speak inglés. Nor have we only assimilated the gringo lifestyle, we have taken it as our own, that it differs from the more WASP vision and its racist legacy is another matter; in fact, we have stretched out a hand numerous times to those Other Americans yet they continuously refuse to shake our hand. They belittle our culture and refuse to acknowledge us as a people. When will they assimilate to us? When will they speak spanish?

We are a culture that the rest of America doesn’t know or isn’t aware that we have a huge lot in common. This needs to change and be transmitted to the rest of America: we have always existed and it is time they stop denying our existence. If Washington fails to stop this the spiral towards confrontation and ethnic cleansing is at hand. Do we really want a repeat of that in our history books?

Aztlán is no threat to the fabric of the US, what is a threat is the very denial of Aztlán and regard it as a foreign influence when it happens to be an american idea in par with the American Dream just like apple pie is.

Here in Sweden ears see english and eyes hear english. It is a second language or an unoffical language. It is a bastard child no one wants to admit as their own; they refer to it as främmande. Which is to say strange, främmande is also a word they use when they have guests in their house, har du främma? Do you have strangers at your house? So english here has quite a few speakers who will readily admit to you that they aren’t english speakers at all, kind of reminds me of my swedish. I will readily admit to anyone and everyone that I do not speak swedish though I join the million immigrants that speaks one form or another of swedish.

I thought about this the other day.

The curious thing about it is that society just goes about without giving it much thought. This despite that one of the industries that Sweden exports the most is music, yes, in english. Teachers at the University of Stockholm also go about without giving this idea of english as an unoficial language very much tought; they teach it as a foreign language even though english lessons are given to children already in grade three.

When is language a mothertongue?

So here I am teaching english to english speakers. Who am I to correct an english that has millions of speakers who live in denial they don’t speak english at all?

I thought about this the other day.

My own dialect, Chicano English suffered, and probably still suffers, the lashings of WASP people who have considered our way of pronouncing english wrong. And here I am correcting others how to pronounce english, an unwilling participant of this charade ….


I do not understand how is it that the devil hasn’t made a move yet. The circumstances are ripe for him or her or whatever that christian concoction is, to do so. Devil, where the fuck are you motherfucker? Òrale, (imagine Neo here bending his fingers beckoning Mr Smith to bring it on). The mattter of the fact (does that go like that, who cares, it’s the order that I wanna mess with …) is that christianity is suffering from overpower. This is the culmination of 2005 years of christianity. The jews know it better than we, heck, they invented that wretched cult. So, christianity is suffering a dizzy oh my gosh am drunk with power, give me another cup god damn it (God’s last name ain’t damn it) of that stuff. So evil converging with goodness, heck, separation of powers just lost all its relevant gibbirish babble and blah blah to the nth degree.

With George W. Bush in power the christian agenda, the kind that is united in its hate for other forms of lifebeing and thinking, hellbent in its sureness anything not christian is bound for hell, has come to a peak.

Three cultures converge in this bag of flesh. Their languages I have suffered in my flesh. Three peoples ways have I walked upon; three manners and attitudes I have had to adapt to and assimilate, mine eyes have seen the souls of a many folk. Yet I still miss my own, I still remain tijuanense, xicano.

I saw this pic over at DDBlase. It is the small gestures that make you gush with pride:

Cinco de Mayo  US stamp


Issue: Cinco de Mayo
Denomination & Type of Issue : 32-cent Commemorative
Format: Self-adhesive Pane of 20 (one design)
Series: Holiday Celebrations
Issue Date & City: April 16, 1998, San Antonio, TX 78284
Illustrator: Robert Rodriguez, Pasadena, CA

Because I am. No matter what you say.
America is not a government. I am America, América.
I may be illegal, wetback, mojado and all that;
I remain no matter what, un Americano. Un gringo más.
A Xicano.

I subscribe to google alerts. I receive news of la raza whenever the words Chicano, Chicana, Xicano and Xicana blip on the radar of the internet galaxy. So far they have been all American newspapers. That’s one, second, a few have come the way of spanish newspapers since the word chicana i sthe same word for chicane. Kind of reminds one of la Malinche, pocho and hell, those negative connotations haunts us like la Llorona does, it is there wherever three or more mexicans find themselves gathered.

However, the recent newsalerts of lately just crack me up. The 5 de Mayo celebrations that the raza is associated with are viewed from the anglo angle in a rather odd way with caution and warnings as guides of the ever expanding fiesta. This year the headlines bear puritan thinking such as Save Cinco de Mayo from tripping into the gutter, an article that curiously enough warns that we not allow 5 de Mayhem go the way of Saint Patrick’s day.

Others just don’t seem to grasp these Other American citizens and their strange customs: Hundreds celebrated Hispanic heritage during this year’s Cinco De Mayo parade. Hispanic heritage? I suspect that reporter was hungover when he wrote that, and in Bakersfield CA of all places!

Yet what inevitably remains and this has been so since my days in Aztlán and just as almost a part of the narrative that flows around these days, is the explanation of just what 5 de Mayo is. Is it mexican independence day? Is it Budweiser day? Is it Chicano day?

There is this need to explain ourselves to the rest of America, as if the dialogue that occurs across the tabloids, the newspapers, the overall media, was one were there is a need to explain to a higher authority just what the heck is this strange noise being made. There is a need and a demand to explain ourselves to the rest of America not for understanding but to alienate.

We can never be part of it or be accepted as part of America as if what we celebrate lacked an ever essential americanness to it and is therefore alien to the very fabric of the US.

Heck, why can’t we just have a celebration without having the need to explain it away to smithreens? Why can’t there be a day to just be Chicano. Celebrate our americanness in as much as we celebrate el cuatro de julio? You don’t see newspapers articles everywhere asking why is it that chicanos have carne asada and mariachi during the course of that day. Really, more than anything else, more than trying to pervert the holiday with beers let it not turn it into an alien holiday.

It’s a Chicano, Chicana holiday period.

The victories came as Congress, in party-line votes in both chambers, approved a $14 trillion budget resolution for 2006.

Jejeje, pardon me, BUT HOW THE HELL does a nation with that kind of budget still have homeless people and children going hungry?

First world? My ass!

Ok, am slowly but surely regaining my confidence again on this site, what I will most likely do is keep this crap at a mininum, the blogging part, not my writing, jesus, it feels as if I should be writing about other stuff and not the trauma this crappy tech stuff is causing on my badly guilt ridden conciencia. Anyhow’s, thank you all for the great messages and support I’ve received via email or comments. I feel I belong, hug time! So yeah. I fixed the template and perhaps I will be able to move along rather soon, like I said this crappo stuff just left me unwilling to do other thinking besides the aforementioned.

So I will keep just the english blog on its own site. Spanish and Swedish will just have to live it out somewhere else.

It’s crazy I tell you. However am the one to blame for the fine mess am in, el gordo y el flaco comes to mind. The thing is that am a very curious person and I delve into my curiosity like a clavadista in Acapulco, head on. So, hopefully in another few more posts I will get back to the office of Yonder Lies It. I heard Geronimo was peeking at the windows of the virtual premises were we lodge our rants and other stuff. He’s a great one, though a bit too quite for my taste. I think I missed out on the great reception Corky Gonzales received on the hall of Chicano fame en el más allá, though am a tad worried with the passing of so many Chicano leaders over here at this life, we are left leaderless yet in Aztlán heaven there is nothing but celebration.

Every incarnation we have had, pachucos, chicanos, pochos and other manifestations of our gente we have had many great leaders and there is yet for the Xicano manifestation to appear in its carnal version, who will take the Xicano banner?

Right now we are dealing with many issues and the splittering of our ens just keeps expanding to unknown dimensions yeet we remain.

To all my readers thank you for stopping by, as soon as I get my act straight I will come back again with my rantings. Right now I have been going through a bad streak of bad luck, am “salao which is the worst kind of bad luck” as the narrator says in The Old Man and The Sea.

My site has been bombarded day in and day out with spam which seriously took the fun out of blogging in english. I changed and rechanged and then changed again templates and blog programs to no avail spam just came back all the time.

The current template sucks.

So I am unable to write in english because the surmounting work ahead just isn’t too appealing. I hate erasing spam.

So, I will come back again soon, there’s loads to talk about and God only knows that I would have done something about the Corky Gonzales passing, he so happened to pass away just when my site got taken offline due to bandwidth problems.

So yeah, gracias por todo. I will probably open something else at blogger and just remain there for the rest of my natural writing existence. This whole crap about owning a site just left nothing but a bad flavor in my mouth.

I shall no longer be subjected or fall into that treacherous pit, I am mexican Xicano and I speak english as a primary source of communication. I shall no longer care or worry that my brethen down south or within our culture think I may have gone lost with no return. I was born in no man land’s, it is my natural state. I shall no longer partake in the mourning or loss of this or that culture because I no longer speak spanish. I have matured, I am mexican, I am gringo, I am those two, I am Xicano.

Though I speak english I talk mexican Xican@. If the spanish speaking majority find this as regrettable I find it sad that they would come to that conclusion for I am mexican Xicano though I speaketh the anglosaxonist tongue. Spanish does not have a sole right to the mexican culture, nor do their other dialects. I am an expression of that mexicanness regardless of that ostricism that some practice to obligate, force their view of their ways to people like me. I am Mexican Xicano and I speak english. So weep not that I may have lost this or that caracteristic of my race, celebrate fool! Celebrate for this is the dawn of a new culture, a culture that is yours, mine theirs, american!

To the very contrary as supposed and mourned I preserve, I retain those values, I used to be though of another opinion. I used to feel obligated to preserve, no longer is such thinking the mana of my soul, I now know that I am because I have that which you have said I no longer have, though I ceasesly tried to convince you otherwise, I now know that that thinking is akin to racism, you want to me to be different from you. Though I am not, for I am an extension of that expressión and as such a part of you.

When you say I am lost and that I have lost my culture not only do you denigrate my culture but you also denigrate my familia which has learned to love me for who I am.

Last Autumn Day

The long many metal blades caress
the soggy brittle leaves that layeth
strewn about
that a
sudden October gust
of a now long past nordic wind rearranged;
in their grey and misty morrow litteredness
which greets mine eyes
they become entangled in their thin tin nails

It is still warm,
descended dew
covers the brown dotted yard

the fallen ones are gathered
all those damp leaves
in a sweeping motion

the fresh green grass
uncovers a field of joy
vibrant wet savannah for my receiving eyes

Well I’ve been slacking.

I was forced upon a swath the size of the Congress Library of work to do, and what did I do today? Slack, that’s right ese! so yeah, and my own personal protestant guilt tormentor from Queen Elizabeth’s time is beating the living crap of any shred of self-steem that still manages to eek a wriggle out of me (Cromwell, is that thou?) for being a slacker. It’s a mammoth sentence I know, so don’t get me started buckwheat!

So i’ve been reading loads of chicano literature in spanish. In spanish you might say raising an eyebrow or two, three would make you a freak. So yeah, Peregrinos de Aztlán by Miguel Méndez which is rapidly becoming a must read and taunted along the lines of Juan Rulfo which is to say a lot.

So my line of studies consists on focusing on the institutions and the making of the destitute in the novel.

In both cultures, because the characters revolve around Aztlán, which gives a huge boost to my theory that Aztlán lies south of the border as well, the institutions partake in the making of the destitute, that have no rights. It spells out in the desert, Califas and Tijuana.

The characters, the downtrodden mock the institutions that are supposed to protect them. The characters speak of the hypocrisy that the servants of the law engage in, specially those servants of the law in the United States which see the Chicano as nothing but a nuisance in all their protestant pulchritude. In fact, the Chicano character in the novel who is sentenced to jail by the judge whose story is detailed in french fetichism can not speak to the judge in the same language because he speaks chicano, not english.

There is also a mockery of the law institutions in México whose servants of the Law only serve the money God. They are depicted with even more desdain since at one point there is girl being used and raped and as she asks for help the police only tell her she is going end up in the can if she doesn’t stop the yelling.

The church institution is also made a mock of here because the outstanding citizens that abide by the laws of the christian Lord do not pay attention to the destitute.

The medical establishment is also made fun of here since no poor person can ever receive the same treatment as those destitute souls ans o eah, you get my drift.

I have always wondered why the mexican government hasn’t really taken advantage of the bilingual population that it has alongt its 3000 kilometer long border con los gabachos. I mean it’s an increible asset right? people who actually understand bilateral communication, but no, few, like counted in the fingers of a hand, can say they actually work as they wish or could to their utmost potential for the mexican government. The fact is that ideology still permeates to the hilt the relation between the native of the Baja or for that matter entire 3000 border population and the centrist macho I am mexican at all costs burocratic employee in Los Pinos.

Such is the case as well in the US of A.

It seems as though that the English love affair with China and India has more than seeped into the anglo gene, I mean, you’d think that América Latina would stand in priority A one list over at the Washington offices, but no, last if not the very end of a reminder thought like a comets tail it is seen that América Latina is here, on our backyard or should I say home?

As far as Xican@s are concerned the matter is far more important than matters should suggest.

Ten years have now gone since The Tomás Rivera Foundation sponsored by the Stanley Foundation in collaboration with The Tomás Rivera Center gave out a little pamphlet called Latinos, Global Change, and American Foreign Policy Report of a New American Global Dialogue Conference October 7 – 9, 1994.

I have always reckoned that the ‘new’ in that sentence has always meant the introduction of Mexicans into the close-knit circles of the anglo Washingtonean spheres.

Here are some ideas that the little pamphlet highlighted for the reader:

”…to promote an exchange of ideas … about the current and future role of Latinos in US foreign relations”

”…because of this new environment, Latinos may increase their influence over the direction of American global activities.”

”…regional and group agendas have come to the forefront to displace the national perspective of the past.”

”…many Latinos are already substantially involved in the foreign relations process”

“One of the more daunting challenges for Latinos is making explicit the common interests that may unify them.”

“The chances for unification are better as Latinos understand that their domestic converns are directly linked to global issues.”

“Latinos are uniquely suited and situated to link the United States to emerging Latin American markets.

That was then, the matter is that things remain more or less the same. Latinos are still seen as nothing but canon fodder either for the war machine that Washington greases its power like a liftweighter might with steroids or as a little gimmick to the rest of the world that the US of A takes into account all of its race sectors in its now in serious doubt democratic society; in which case we are but the less for it and far away from the 15 minutes Warhol stated everyone has a right to.

We are

I Xican@
Shall nothing to do
About losers and winners
that 1848 date
long ago come to pass it has
That bloody threshold birthing
— Crieth the child hast —
that now Breathes new life
And suckles the milk and honey
Of the magic corn
From whence nurture and nourishment cometh

Strong and vital
Celebrate I do
The foremother/father
Earth Madre cactus desert thy warmth thou giveth me
From running lives like dried river beds that suddenly life gain
Across the orality of their sayings
Fillith my head
Pass on their language/words/umbilical linguistic essence
Impregnated in their love for the land
New Mexico, Arizona, California, Tejas, The Southwest, La Frontera;
the landscape our crib is.

I see three pressing issues that the Xican@ must face soon, or in the near future.

1.- Not all Xican@s have spanish or derive pride in the ideology which infuses nationalistic hues in the mexican soul; some are very resistant to the whole concept of mexican as we know it to be, some are still fighting the spanish. For a glimpse of this check out Mixtec, a nicely articulated post done by our own Elenamary. We must simply go beyond the Aztec and Maya dichotomy

2.- Not all Xikan@s are the color of the earth. There is a substancial amount of black Xican@s outthere, for a closer detail and look plus background check out Bobby Vaughn’s The Black Mexico Homepage. I have been reading this guy’s page for over two years and there hasn’t been any substancial change to his page but the contents are bona fide research.

3.- The sexuality thang. There has just got to be a stop to this homophobia in Xican@ writing though I suspect that this issue has long range solutions. For more on this subject I redirect you to Seyd who wrote something about it not long ago Aztecs and Homosexuality

So there are dualities in Xicano bilingualism. However, I believe that what am about to divulge here covers pretty much trilinguals and quatrilinguals as well because in essence that which I have in mind is language shifting that is, adjusting one’s way of speech according to one’s environment.

So it does not matter if Xicanos, who by the way not all speak Spanish as their first language nor English, know two or three languages. In fact it could very well be that said Xicanos have an indigenous language already so that by default they are trilingual inasmuch as they not only shift between the Anglo world they must also shift languages style when they confront the Mexican Spanish world.

Ok, what I have in mind is the following and all because I was standing in one of the cafeterias at Stockholm’s University minding my own xicano business when my eyes suddenly came to a table where three young people sat and talked. Two were girls of obvious middle eastern background and a swede. What caught my xicano attention and started my cogs on the go was that they spoke what seemed to me a very Stockholm Swedish, that is, to put in equivalent xicano terms, the girls were speaking as if a xicano spoke like a white dude or dudess for that matter.

It made me reminisce about my old California days. I used to live in Redwood City, (Bay Area) were talking the old RWC with its little Michoacan town and all. However since I was so-called “illegally” in the US I had to adjust a lot so as to “pass off” as a native. Never mind that I spent quite a few years of my infancy there as well, hence the English, but that is another story for another post. At any rate this situation meant that I had to spend, according to my very young logic then, time away from the “mexicans” and so I lived and worked basically in Menlo Park, güero town as güero gets. My English changed dramatically from one that was purely Chicano to and all out assimilated English, in fact, I know this because I used to get recriminations about it every time I called my relatives and they remarked and answered as if I was a gringo.

So there is a duality in our manner of speaking which raises several interesting ideas regards the sole identity of the Xicano in Califas, Aztlán.

Am nearly certain that we are still doing this in Califas, the question is, when are we going to stop doing this and what will it mean?

Spanish has always been a problem in Aztlán.

Though am second guessing this problem is slowly turning a leaf in the collective concious in as much as Native Americans are more and more preferring to be addressed as that or have that as part of their lives.

Geeeeez, even my second generation mexican american cousins are teaching their children spanish.

Back in my days having someone hear you speak spanish was tantamount to labeling yourself a foreigner; one only scurried fast enough to blurb half chicano english phrases to assure the observer one was as American as burritos on a taco stand in LA. It was tough beating the “bad looks” that disfranchised one from one’s society. I still shiver in embarrassment at the thought of it.

I even remember not speaking spanish, my heady days as pocho as pocho can get.

Though it is no surprise that such societal effects have taken place in the history of the Southwest; we are one of many groups who has been questioned about our “english” purity by the white majority due to the color of our skin or our racial looks.

And little wonder is it then that second generation Xicanos/Chicanos (girls and boys) have such a schizophrenic attitude towards mexican spanish because mexicans are ill-spoken of all the time. In fact, am willing to bet a whole wad of pesos that the number one source of embarrasment for many second generation mexican americans is just that, that they are referred to as mexican, beaners, wetbacks, and all that.

This off course has a well intented purpose, one to debase the human being being labeled as that and the other to assert majority opresion and to let you know who the boss is.

So spanish betrays.

Curiosuly enough on both sides. The “english” purist camp arguing that this and that on assimilation and the spanish “purists” arguing that we don’t speak enough of a good spanish at all.

But let’s keep the spanish “purists” out because those mostly stem from one’s house criticism rather than the world out there, that is english America.

So if you are not well informed about your own self then and have half cooked notions about your surroundings, like the most of us do, then your self steem falters like a San Andrea’s fault on any day. You are vulnerable because the majority has dictated what an “American” is, no matter the past, history or your background, if you fail to pass the “American” test, that is, speak fault free General American english, your out like a bat. That is why we Xicanos speak english/spanglish one way with our close ones and another more common, out there, english which makes us sound like gringos. But mostly when we are caught speaking Chciano english we become unwanted, that is American society for you. Because we are not interested in ideals that the government sells: we are all equal under the law blah, blah, we do not take that up. Here we are just concerned about what the average Xicano experiences when he or she confronts the rest of America and what the rest of America has said about him or her and his or her background beforehand. A pre-established frame society carries around to see the rest of society with.

So spanish is seen as a foreign language, it doesn’t belong in California, never mind that half of its history is written in just spanish. Society renounces this altogether and chastises the vowels whenever it hears them out. I am sure I don’t need to remind no one about the hundreds of cases pending in courts about discrimination for speaking spanish in the job.

So, for the most part, knowing spanish in Aztlán is a detriment rather than a plus.

So yeah, that, today.


Passively scouring the media
Sifting through human remains
Am bombarded my eyes shot red

Left riddled with half-cooked notions
I trod on in ether all teared
Through the bardwired wide world web

Seeking not knowing what
Respite from the pain perhaps
Of seeing all those deadly aims

I stand idle in oceans of hate
Watching the waves of utter despair
I am but the sum of the day

Western Zilch

Luther in Me

My awareness
One moment to another
Measured by the morning sun
Finished by the nightly stars
Skirrs like the wind that fills my lungs

I sense no motion
Only conmotion
I dread the passing of the hours
Making me feel pointless
as I awake and it’s 7 o’clock already.

t-90:sd at 2am

metal twisting
engine sounds
that promise
clear blue skies
on a loft out there.

The clouds were in a hurry today. They moved like on a call. Giving out a radiant white look, they were cumulus on a majestic trek.

I saw the wind too shake the electric wires hanging midair between the sky and the ground.

A green covered landscape peppered my sight with pines trees and a few buildings dotted it with their recently rain soaked streets as well.

Then it suddenly came into view. A single black bird in the middle of all that, being columpiado by the swift and sudden mild-to-fresh nordic winds. He went along and permaneció, swinging.

A few sunrays later, which somehow managed to escape the hold the cumulus had on the horizon above brightned my day as I went about.

I thought about the grass how green it is now and how soon yelllow, browm, beige it will get until all whited out ….

That one dawn

That night spelled out so many things, like a petate strewn on the floor.

My brain lay idle awaiting answers.

I couldn’t figure A from Z to be frank, and I was. Frank’s the name. I was born in Aztlan.

And the rays of the dawn broke not only my concentration, it shattered my soul.

What was I doing there?

I listened to the morning’s dew make drops one by one and the spiders and other critters scurried for them, I thirsted for more.

I quenched too.

I sensed the beginning coming, the end far from now.

Unwillingly I stared out to the open space, my self in a cosmos star spangled and all.

I dragged the moment even more like a pillow.

My eyes wondered about.

We met, eye to eye before the bye bye.

The music of yore embraced me, I felt nearly strung out.

Until this morning everything else made sense.

When the chateu clerk came by I was dreaming; skiing on some mystic alp on the Inca empire land.

I haven’t the slightest idea who came up with such a catchy name but let me tell you, it ain’t good. It is supposed to resonate in the mind of the gringo and it probably will.

I can imagine some republican speech writer coming up with it in some smokey republican board room saying it in a very zealous and outloud voice ” I know! Let’s call them Barrio Warriors!

The fact is it also smacks of some FBI or Home Guard sting to root out potential Aztlan fervents outthere who might be ready to pull a Reies Lopez Tijerina on the Southwest.

Hopefully it will just stay as a dirty campaign trick from the part of Republicans, wait Julio, you’re not making any sense now, Oh yeah, I do have some readers don’t I? Sorry about that.

It turns out that while minding my own Xicano business and pleasantly enjoying a nice Sunday morning here in Sweden, all while enjoying as well that fine fine internet Aztlan newspaper of Califas, La Prensa-San Diego, with a cup of coffee, like any good hearted citizen of Aztlan would, I read the Xicano spiritual voice of Tezozomoc.

It nearly yanked my quetzal colored eyes out of my sockets.

It turns out that the dirty campaigners of the Republican party are getting help from the Schwarzenegger campaign staff. Remember how they used the Raza word to decry our culture habits as racist? Well the Republicans are sending little chain letters to each other stating the following:

Democratic Presidential Candidate Senator Edward Kerry and his wife, Maria Teresa Thiersten Simoes-Ferreira Heinz Kerry are supporting the “Barrio Warriors” a supposable radical Hispanic group whose primary goal is to return all of Arizona, California, New Mexico, and Texas to Mexico!

So I did a little googling and put the words Barrio Warriors in the search field; heck, the pachyderms are at it again. It looks like a little anthill of comments all whispering and telling each other about how Teresa funds Barrio Warriors. Just the thought that anyone in the R camp is buying this makes my faith in Republican intelligence somewhere there I last had my faith on the Christian God, next to zilch. If that’s what they do to their own ….

Want to read more about it? You do the googling, it’ll come up, I promise you.

Whether Xicanismo likes it or not there is a latino force outhere to be reckoned with and it must embrace it. I say this because I have just been listening to Pepito for the past two days, an SF based band with ties to my birth city of Tijuana and a lad from Cuba. And I mention Xicanismo because Xicanismo/Chicanismo is impregnated with nationalistic hues albeit our nation in the green fields of our collective imagination.

However, the very same force that drives regular citizens away from patriotic jingoisms is making Xicanos of all walks of life turn their sights away from the entrappings of the cultural narcisstic mirror that Aztlán represents; there is a sense that latinos, as a major umbrella which encompasses all spanish related roots in the american culture, are becoming more the norm than the exception. This force must coalesce in order for it to become the norm, so that we Xicanos stop being an unknown force America.

Curiosly enough just as poverty is the hallmark that makes one nostalgic for Mexico, La Causa, immigration and the illegal alien is hindering xicanismo from becoming more mainstream if you will. We cannot see beyond those two issues hence the different types of Xicano that makes up the lot we are. Pochos, Chicanos, Mexican-American, Wetbacks and all that are but an expression to break lose from the chains that bind us to our past; there is no expression of xicanismo without the latter mentioned. Is there Xicanismo without immigration? Is there Xicanismo without la Causa? Does one exist as a Xicano in the everyday life? What does it mean to live a Xicano life? I dare not say lifestyle. Yet one must take into account that if culture is a mass product then we consume culture habits. Does listening to xicano music, Xicano rap and salsa makes one a Xicano? Do I choose to live a Xicano life and if I do is it a preference one can choose away? Apparently so because in our culture lingo there is the dreaded pocho, the dreaded soldout label.

Therefore the gains in latino preference, even our good friend in Chicago, Sandra Cisneros calls herself latina, and even I, have expressed this sentiment as well. In the bigger picture we must become a force within the emerging force of latinos. However, to answer myself the questions posed earlier as to whether I choose to be Xicano or not I believe that for me it represents more of an affirmation. I do not live in Aztlán proper. Like mexicans who live Aztlán and who long after México I yearn after Aztlán due to my exile. It affirms to me that I am a Xicano because I have so much of it and it delights me to read, see and hear Xicano matter. I do not represent your average Xicano. I am far from the marketing kingpins who appeal to the fibers of the Aztlán nation with their gimmicks. So there is no such thing as a Xicano lifestyle, however, I suppose there are xicano-philes.

And we must embrace the latino force in the US. However let us not be deceived as to what latino implies. There are those who will argue that latinos are the white upper class of hispania. When I say latinos I mean latinos in the senseit is used in the US. Latinamerican.

Despite my seven long years in Sweden am still surprised to find myself smiling and waving at people I don’t know. This oft more than not causes me to loose my morning cheeriness and wipes my Xicano smile of my face and a small Homer Simpson rebuke, dope! can be heard in the back of my head.

I live in the Swedish Higlands, in the boonies to be more exact and the small towns are, well, really small, mine has a population of 800 or so and everyone knows everyone here.

I have also recently gained the insight that I carry some city behaviour to small town Sweden with the consequences above mentioned, people don’t say hi to each other in small town Sweden if they don’t know them. Let alone mingle with them but that’s another story. Anyways, I figured that, what I deem an odd behaviour, god knows they deem mine so as well, has to do more with city habits than small town ones.

In big cities there is a necessity to say hi to each other because in essence no one knows no one there but in small towns they don’t have this habit at all, since as soon as one steps in their territory they know a stranger when they see one.

However, this might seem an obvious feature just about everywhere there is small towns, but you have to remember that Sweden has a huge territorial extension of small towns everywhere making American habits like mine odd at best.

So yeah, that, in Sweden.

Well I can officially kiss the suntan I adquiered during my sojourn in México adios. Its been raining cats and dogs in Sweden for 6 weeks in a row now and that means I will probably miss not only the summer the rest of the planet is probably indulging itself in right about now (- sticks tongue out to the rest of the whole wide world -) but also because of the cloudy skies that have been carrying all this water, something that ironically enough moved me from the metaphorical to the literal since I am now officially a wetback all day long, hey! try moving the lawn on a rainy day will ya?, (damn, that’s a long ass sentence, but hey! it’s my blog right?) I will also miss the blue moon on the 31 of July, rats!

Speaking of wetbacks, Kevin Sites has a story that one only hears about it in rumours in the press, this (get a load of the phrase) Mexican-Born Marine has something to say.

“When he was nine years old Carlos Gomez crossed the Rio Grande from Mexico to the U.S. with his father, mother and two sisters. They had heard stories about the opportunities in America, dreamed about them, wanted them so badly they ran through oncoming traffic on the 805 freeway to get to them. They didn’t stop until they reached San Diego. Fear, fatigue and La Migra slowly fading into the southern horizon like their homeland.”

Though clearly mr Sites needs to brush up on his geography a tad (or stop trying to romantize this kind of things) …erhm, last I crossed the border to the US via México the Rio Grande was a river in Texas and boy! running that 805 all the way from Texas to San Diego must of have been a real marathon! Wait … isn’t the 805 in San Diego?

On the glader side of the news, wait! There aren’t any with this freaking weather, I suppose that explains all the vodka consumption in this country, gotta get that chin up somehow.

Good thing I still have some of that tequila I brought back from my stint in the motherland. Salud!

Remember my post unscathed and alive whereby i related a blogsphere incident regards Tijuana identity? What i failed to take into account and just dawned upon me to tell my Xicana/o readership (is one allowed to use indiscriminately the suffix –ship when one but speaks of two? you’re damn right one can!) is how ignorant and prejudist seven headed eels reared their ugly electronic binary assumptions in monolingual and monocultural Mexico.

The assumptions ran from feeling pity for uprooted mexicans who found themselves in a cultural limbo (the link leads to a text in spanish written by Burgues) to people who radically complained about the constant memorabilia shopping spree we engage once on mexican soil like local Tijuana writer Rafa Saavedra says: Pochos who never learn to speak spanish y que vienen a comer tacos with mucho guacamole and to buy some galletas and cobijas pa’ taparse del frío racial en su home.

Inded, there is a belief that mexican natives have of Xicana/os that teeters on the border of despise. For local boys and gals in Tijuana all chicana/os and Xicana/os are nothing but pochos. Unlike we who like to distinguish between a pocho and a Ch/Xicana/o, local folk on mexican soil fail to differentiate the latter by any means. There is a common thinking best expressed succinctly by another blogsphere intellectual from Hermosillo Sonora named, after the blog, Humphrey Bloggart according to him Xicana/os romanticize México and long after the motherland. The conclusion is that we are basically bastards whose father constantly denies our existence and nothing more.

But that wasn’t really what i wanted to write about today though be that as it may it did spring out of another thought that just dawned upon me, yeah, it dawns like crazy today!

i sudddenly realized a parallell betweeen the mexican culture and our Xicana/o culture: we both deny an integral part of our reason for being; this thought also, by the bye’s, came into being due to my cuatro de julio post from yesterday.

We deny, in as much as we can, our American aspect in the same manner Mexicans deny Cortes.

Ain’t that something now?

boy, have i said enough about the weather here in sweden? jíjole, me thinkest i’ve becometh too gringo like, pero i can’t seem to stop complaining about the summer that wasn’t. here we are in the first days of july and the sun? muy bien and thou? it has been nothing but cloud after cloud over here, speak of climate changes ah? though sticky is the operating word today, i seem to enjoy cutting wood, yes siree, woods the name for me, nothing but rugged country and away from the hot steeming sun, though i seem to be in the minority as always mind you, don’t wanna break any patterns here any time soon. so yeah, my daughter complained about a fly buzzing about our table during lunch, “take a good look at it cause that’s the only one you’ll see this summer baby” i said with my half sardonic joking voice.

have i said that i live in the swedish highlands? yeap, only about a gazillion times, so yeah, one group that absolutely strays from the norm, even further than i do, are the jehova’s you know which ones, don’t wanna get hits because of that phrase, poor suckers, don’t stand a devil’s of a chance here in uniform lutheran and half cooked baptist lands of nordic sweden. though my liberal education seems to take pity on them since every time they come knocking at our door i’m the only only paying any attention to those poor suckers, when everybody else is either ignoring their calls or just plain ignoring them, i take their pamphlets as a kind gesture and it makes me wonder who is the cruelest, me for making them believe they just planted a seed in this wasteland of a temple i call my body (they don’t know i sold my soul as a child when once i was tempted to get at any cost a butterfinger bar) or the people that just refuse absolutely any commitment with them. swedish people are kind of funny that way here, they don’t go about on the streets but boy do they ever peek at the windows. so they know who’s coming before you even take a step in the yard.

So yeah, small town mentality in the highlands here, that.

The good offices of were kind enough to send me via internet Luis A. López recent book titled Warrior-Poet of the Fifth Sun, innercircle publishing 2004.

I must confess that if poetry has the quality to speak to the soul, Luis’s book not speaks but guides the path to be taken. This is Xicano poetry at its best and represents many of the spiritual dilemmas that we Xicana/os and Chicana/os battle within us in the everyday identity war field. His poetry soothes and describes in detail our inner spiritual wars; the conflict we have in dealing with our Spanish heritage; the loathing we have at times towards catholic dogma and the religious battle within ourselves to either believe the Christian God or our ancestors Gods, Quetzocóatl. There is also the fine fine tradition that stems all the way to Lope de Vega’s El Arte Nuevo de Hacer Comedias en Este Tiempo whereby Lope de Vega urged his countrymen to speak to them in their language. So does Lopez, and not only does he gives praise to other poets, he speaks to the universal in Spanglish. For let us not forget, and Lopez does not allow us to do it, spanglish is the language of our brethren from other parts of the latino world, the lingua franca amongst us latino who are bilingual and connects us to the Cuban, the puertorican, the Columbian. There is a profound sense of wanting to reach what Plotinus calls Beauty and the One. He reminds us of our nation Aztlán and speaks for the voiceless ones who cannot speak to monolingual America. He paints for us the streets as they are, were rutine meets the spirit of Hermes in those of us who need to detail what we see to others, yes Luis, you are meant to be a writer, and we can thank Quetzocóatl for that carnal.

i felt the breeze-to-rain on my brown hairy arms
here in these Swedish Highlands
my skin rejoicing with the wind’s humidity
the fresh air blowing icy comfort to my Xicano de Califas delight

and in my mouth when i rode my baika
down my throat an alien being in the snowy winter came in
though the climate was heavy with heat,
it wasn’t until i scratched a surreptitious bite i knew summer was here.

Shhh, listen to me now …

(i once sought their hibernating grounds with vengeance in mind with little success, step by step, only still brightly coloured wings which fluttered no more, six legged shells
and uninhabited dusty old cobwebs greeted me on the way,
though lifted did i rocks the creepers seemed oddly enough with the reaper away)

then the spiders are about
scouring its proximant victim
when the desperate buzz came to my ears
i knew the cobweb did its job
as i turned my eyesight towards it
i saw my arachnid friend wrapping its lunch

so the air in the skies is fresh and nice
the summer that wasn’t parting its way
as nature cares little for my sun tan
though complainaith i not.

life goes on.

I often find it amazing how America Gringa refuses to acknowledge some of its own history, twist it and bedmake it to sleep with the Other in its own house. I suppose it is easier for Gringo USA to see its own population thus. It is afterall, easier to manage since the Other in the United Gabacho States is a minority to whom the vast majority see nothing more than troublesome sectors, resistance fighters who do not fit in the “Good” category. Such is the misconception that Reuters recently reported on Aztlan and which you will find on the post below this one. I suppose it is easier for gringoland to see Aztlan as a cry of the return of lands (lost/gained?) from the 1848 mexican american war. Nothing can be further from the truth, in fact Aztlan is a concept, a semiotic idea to unite and to give a sense of identity to us who are impregnated with gringo and mexicano culture.

Aztlan can be best described by an act done by a man whose name is seldom seen or mentioned, he represents, in reality, the real cry Xicanos all over demand: Justice.

“ For most Americans the drowsy little village of Tierra Amarilla in northern New Mexico was first placed on the map June 6, 1967. On the second morning of the Arab-Isreali six-day war, newspaper readers all over the United States turned from the Sinai struggle to a national item that made them hastily recheck the dateline to be sure they were still in the Twentieth century.” Peter Nabokov

Reies Lopez Tijerina demanded that landgrants given to his descendents be honored by the US government, when this failed to materialize he raided a courthouse that sent shockwaves throughout the world wide over.

That is the one of the rallying cries for Xicanos in the US of America, that the Tratado de Guadalupe ne honored and that landgrants be honored, not that Aztlan be returned to a political establishment or institution.

Anyways, allows us to examine the article by Reuters, one done by a person who bears the name of Alistair Bell.

Let us see the repertoire of phrases which caught the eye of this citizen of Aztlan

Phrases from articles 1 to 3 are here:

“a warlike tribe with a passion for human sacrifice, wandered the badlands of central Mexico”
Hmmm, ok, wanna add some background on that that doesn’t give a christian spin to a culture who hadn’t notions of the judeo-christian persuation?


“Aztec legend says little about Aztlan”

Ouch! Separation without anesthesia is near criminal, if the aztecs have Aztlan as part of their repertoire then why not try to understand their culture in order to find more clues about it?


“Little stirs on the mosquito-infested islet nestled in a salt water lagoon on the Pacific coast.

An expected tourism boom to the state has mostly failed to materialize and the islanders still scratch a living from fishing for shrimp and lobsters.” [my bolds, not balls nimcopoop!]

Raid anyone?


“Try telling that to the growing number of Mexican immigrants in the United States for whom the idea that Aztlan was in Utah or Colorado has become a matter of doctrine”

Ok, this is the best example of a reporter who fails in every degree to understand its own history, (hope the newshound is american gringo), as far as I know, the Aztlan notion and concept is a purely Xicano-a/Chicano-a affairs of state since most mexicans coming from México to the US have little or no knowledge of Aztlan because of differences of ideological rearing.


“With this massive wave of immigration from Mexico now, the immigrants are saying, ‘We are returning to Aztlan,’

Read the above.


“The issue of where the mythical Aztlan is has been thrashed about a lot. They haven’t located it definitively,”

Try my head, you’ll find it in the area formerly occupied by a Judeo-Christian God.

sources: Tijerina and the Courthouse Raid (1969) The Ramparts Press Berkely, Califas; Reuters.

I am ocassionally given to the reading of books which I, more often than not, peruse more than finish when the need arises to let time pass by in an adequate manner. So whenever I find myself answering the calls of mother nature I am of the habit of calmly answering it whilst I read a few paragraphs here and there. I also, whenever I have a chance, crack open a book at the library or the bookstore to see what a sentence might have in it. I am also of the disposition to take books with me to places where I know I shall be spending some time in idleness. It is a chore which I have acquiered through the years and one that has proven to be quite the rewarding one least to say a satisfactory one. Indeed, I have a chock-full bookcase of books in my library that are waiting for my eyes for this very chore, at times, I suspect, unpatiently since everytime I happen to pass by there I receive this eerie sensation of being drawn to them to comply with the promise I made them once they arrived to their current place in my humble library of no more than a 1000 volumes of which I have read no more than 200. It is a curios thing that once the coveted book has reached its goal to tend to gather more dust than use. Although, truth be told, I make the commitment of opening them every now and then to remind me of their position in the bookshelf. Such was the case of the only spanish book I have on Chicanos and why I started all this in the fashion I have done so.

Tino Villanueva, Chicanos (selección) Lecturas 89 Mexicanas Cultura SEP 1985.

I was rather surprised to find the following information regards Pochos on page 11 & 12 while I awaited my daughters to finish their swimming lessons, here on the Swedish Highlands one rather windy and partly cloudy day last week. Tino begins as thus: (loose translation):

I will open a long parentheses to discuss the term Pocho which according to Ramos I. Duarte, the first one to prove it, is derived from the Sonora ( a state along the Southwest border) word pochi (adj) which means “[c]orto (short) ; rabón (tail-less). Unos pantalones pochis cortos (short). Un perro pochi: rabón.” (Feliz Ramos I. Duarte, Diccionario de mejicanismos: Collección de locuciones i frases viciosas, Imprenta de Eduardo Dublín. México, 1895, p.408). And here we find the same definition half a century later by Francisco J. Santamaría in his respected Diccionario genreal de americansimos, first edition, II volume, Editorial Pedro Robredo, México, 1942:

Poche, cha m. y f. Name with which northamericans of spanish extraction, specially mexicans, are designated, in the south of the United States, particularly in California. (In Mexico the most common thing to say is pocho or pocha and it doesn’t present itself to be too odd that its origen stem from pochio, a sonorismo (from Sonora) which very likely stems from the yaqui; also meaning short in limitations. More clearly, stupid) 2.Corrupted spanish, a mix of english and worst spanish which northamericans and foreign residents of spanish origin speak, mainly mexicans, in California (USA) [pp. 504-505]

A similar definition added to a more ample, clearer explanation with a linguistic and historic link and that I shall now gloss is that of Horacio Sobarzo (Vocabulario sonorense, Editorial Porrúa, México, 1966, pp. 258-259). He considers the word pochi (pocho) an “authentic sonorismo” and traces it to two autochtonous sources. In its first sense, Pocho “originates from the ópata potzico, which means to cut, to yank weed or grass; potzi, very simply, has the connotation of cutting or recutting, anything [...] and the particle tzi once adapted to the spanish phonetic system sounds like chi. Potzico in the middle of the 19th century meant metaphorically “ the art of yanking weed” in reference to the “compatriot which was yanked from our nationality”. On the other hand , the idiom which connotes a tailless animal is derived from another ópata word: tacopotzi which means without a tail. In short, the ethymological evolution of our word has two potential autochtonous sources: 1) potzico > potzi > pochi > pocho. 2) tacopotzi > potzi > pochi > pocho.
Though dictionaries assign Pocho the meaning of discolored, colored crackled, Sobarzo affirms that “within the pochi classification it was to be understood as well all of those that, inasmuch weed was, were yanked of their nationality and had the same fortune of that territorial portion which se pocho from our country, whites, blonds, blacks, morenos, colored and discolored”.

In another passage I also read that Pocho is older than Chicano. I read the following, in english too! this snippet by Américo Paredes: It was tthe barrio that produced the pocho, the early version of Chicano” … (Hey! Those 3 dots mean I am tired of translating) Further more I also read that José Vasconcelos confirmed that in the California of the 30’s pocho was already in use to mean those who deny their blood, dang.

Well, that explains that, doesn’t it!

The sad truth is that I might be the only one advocating Aztlán in Tijuana, but like in the movie, if you call them they will come. You think there is resistance to America still in Aztlán? truth be told I haven’t the slightest idea. I suppose that with every generation of Xicanos, Chicanos, (jainas included there too ese!) there is a new rallying cry for something, mine happens to have Tijuana see itself in the mirror a little more deeper. I just come from a cultural war of sorts on the Tijuana blogsphere front and oh boy did I take a beating, on the other hand I got them to think somewhat about their role in society and the labels they attach themselves. I hate the word “fronterizo” which many had started using to call themselves in Tijuana (many Julio? They were only four!) and I inadvertadly unleashed the mother of all blogsphere posts after posts diatribe against me, but I took the volley of rethoric and insults fairly well if I might say so myself. I more or less came out unscathed and left the matter at a stalemate, or, impasse as I said, man, I tell you, it was just little ol’ me there fending off some 7 blogs all against me, snif. There is so much resistance to America that it borders on the xenophobic, specially to us who have the guts to call themselves Xicano, and in Tijuana, the frontline of cultural wars, alas! civil strife is what it is but it only because the gringo there plays no role whatsoever. I supoose that it is here where Xicanismo fed itself, you know, the resistance from our abuelos, our parents to American dominion, in my youth days (when the Bionic man was popular and Wonder Woman made me tingle all over, yeah, that old ese!) when the rallying cry was “assimilation is assasination”. So it is with my fellow citizens in Tijuana. They adamantly refuse to see that they are assimilated into the Xicano culture in more than one way. We. i.e, Xicanos, stopped long ago, I believe, denying our americanness, mostly due to the english language and because many mexican americans got fed up and stood up against these derogatory rumors about being this less or that more, lacking that or being this from those filthy tongues coming from México ideology about the Other.

So yeah, that.

Dear diary, as the clouds perform their daily trek due south, due north at the whims of the winds, I strike the metal to the logs making a damp thump noise to make ready firewood for the incoming winter. It is the season, here in Sweden, of the fattning of the spiders. I heard today, dear diary, the desperate flapping of wings, the crying buzzing of a language I didn’t speak yet I understood the fear I felt, so universal to us in this planet. I swung my eyes to the window of the cabin where my ears caught the incoming SOS. I noticed the pane was littered with insect remains of a past feast and many more layered on the wood of the window sill. The cobwebb was impecably clean and built around the corners of the frame, except for the struggle taking place it was a nice opaque white spider web. It was a fly, a black tiny fly, the same kind I too kill at will on these hot spring-to-summer days on these swedish highlands.

And I thought, isn’t it funny how no one, of the letters I scour, speak of drinking water nowadays, how no one tells of cold mountain water runnning down your ribs, and how fresh it feels to have it downed through your throat?

Meanwhile, the arachnid, oblivious to the fluttering, circles the fly about, mapping out the best way to wrap the fallen critter for a later meal.

Ok, am’onna be real frank with’ya pancho. I ain’t got balls at all. Yeap, am a dinky mouse, a chicken shit and if am telling you this now, however that might surprise you, am trembling all the way down to the bladder, which is about to explode and make me pee in my pantalones ese; let it be said, as I speak these unlikely and unwilling words that I ain’t got jack shit on you compita and no huevos at all ese, nada, zilch, to even begin to think where to start to tell you off. So yeah, that.

-Once said that, he turned around and began zipping his tecate beer again. The night kept falling, the darkened shadows becoming evermore pitch black, like a bat’s wings fluttering above the sky, radar and all, all the way to his home. His only thoughts were “if only this were Scandinavia, yeah, midnight sun and all, yeap, that be nice ese, jijole, really nice homes.” Although truth be told, he only said homes to himself once things got acomplished and done, which in his case, wasn’t that often, so tonight, as he drew the pinkish-yellow, blue indigo flowered curtains in his room, to lay his head were he wished she was awaiting him, “just like good ol’ times”, he remembered fondly those northern lights dancing above in the dark skies of his cherished Norway.

He was the kind of guy that never came up with any witty remarks, and for the most part, he thought of replies way too late. Like days or hours after the incidents that had left him thinking passed away, much as the morning dew drops he so much enjoyed watching evaporize as the sun made its morning rutine and then trying to retell how they looked. His friends hadn’t the slightest notion what he talked about. Nor could he either make people laugh, yeap, this country, this new land was at times to much to bear. He longed for Aztlan, where he could make people laugh and hear his people’s voice, but that too was far away, love pulling in different directions. She in Norway and his soul somewhere in Aztlan, He, he is here. After 20 years in exile being a globetrotter has lost much of its appeal though he wasn’t too sure about visiting places anymore since what mattered the most was the ride, he loved the motion of travelling. It had something to do with this crazy notion that his mother travelled a lot as well when she was pregnant with him, and that, he reasoned it was why he felt a sense of security from a to b.

He just couldn’t explain his lack of courage. received two rather interesting emails from two concerned Aztlán citizens just a little less than what it took you to read this.

On the one hand, one email writer, mind you, at we faithfully hold to the anonymous right of the writer in question to maintain his or her full anonimity. As this was requested, we at respectfully respect the right of the said writer to full anonimity. So having cleared the legal mumbo jumbo, I was saying that the one writer objected with rather strong words to the idea that Aztlán be projecting Manifest Destiny ideas all the way to Tijuana. I quote: I think that Sir Julio Sueco is nothing more than a gringo from the 19th century trying to pull off even further the ideas of Mr Polk himself, who no doubt, is delighting himself in his infernal tomb as he sees with glee, from those burning flames in hades, Sir Julio Sueco expound his silly notions of Aztlán all the way to Tijuana

In our defense, we at can faithfully attest that nothing can be further from the Quetzacoatl truth. The only Polk we cherish here at the offices of are the polkas from Flaco Jimenez and the accordion sounds of the corridos of the Cadetes de Linares. Here have we, a number of times let it be said for the record, that we are dead set against said nefarious thoughts, notions, inklings and whatever incubating thought that resists the good sound judgement of the Aztlán nation altough truth be spoken, were it not have been for those gringos we in Aztlán could not exist as we are today. Besides, there was no need to offend as the writer referred to this letter answerer, as, and I quote again a “gringo”; that’s hitting below the waist, but in the interest of the public and so as to avoid future criticism of censure, we allowed said insult to remain, but dear readers, please do remain concentrated to the issues that affect all good citizens of the Aztlán nation. Having said that allow us to proceed with the next letter.

The second reader, who wrote in fault-free spanglish, no doubt an educated and outstanding citizen of the Aztlán nation and of the high crema and neta of Aztlán, referred to me, in nicer and kinder words than the last writer, no doubt a real connosiuer and a man of full integrity and taste, that I was somehow allowing, with my thinking, to germanate notions that México was bent on getting back the territories they lost back in 1848 and that the Tratado de Guadalupe sealed forever. I quote: Ese, what’s up homes, first of all, qvo, I was leyendo tu blog homes, and sabes, the idea struck me, like they always do as soon as I read your posts, men, the New York Times has nothing compared to you ese, please forgive me if I digress pero ya sabes homes, ando medio grifo now, anyways, that perhaps, estas allowing and feeding las nociones of the ultra left in México and dándoles ideas en general about getting back the terres ese, that’s not too nice homes, sincerily, Paco el Pachuco de long ago?

Qué onda homes, allow me to reassure that México has but all forgotten our struggle and that their only fear and concern lies at the very border where Tijuana lies. That is why I argue that with them it’s nothing more than jingoism, so allow me to alloy those nasty concerns which have no place in the good hearts of the citizenry of Aztlán.

We at have one and only one idea about Aztlán: the boundaries that concern the two nations that have been mentioned before bear no bearing on Aztlán since Aztlán is beyond the USA and México. Aztlán is México and the USA. Aztlán is an independent nation in the hearts and minds of its citizens who are free to be as they choose and can be on whatever side they want to be on. Aztlán does not condone any thinking that comes out of the Chicano/Xicano mind as those very thoughts are what constitutes the very fabric of our fragile nation.

Gracias for the continued and kind readership.

General publisher and editor of, Julio Sueco.

The Republic of East L.A. – Stories (2002) by Luis J. Rodriguez

I am invariably always surprised at the ease with which I can understand Chicano literature. I can see right throught it. I figure it must be the cultural baggage. I mean I understand every concept, image, and connotation implied in those letters. I, at times, can’t help but feel sorry for those who aren’t acquainted with the fine letters my people are churning out, much to my delight, I can sit on any given midnightsummer day and just let the evening run its course while my head roams the loving fields of Aztlán, well, in these case the streets of LA.

I, incredibly enough, along with the Cisneros Caramelo book, bought these books here in Sweden, Stockholm to be precise, yes folk, our literature is going international!

So yeah, this fine fine book maps out rather nicely some of the territories that the Xicano soul has traversed in its relatively young culture. Rodriguez stories handle despair, hope, misfortune, treks, confrontation with the now defunct migra (INS), the confrontation and disregard that gringo institutions have given us, blue collar worker lifestyle (gloomy) have given us and well, the list goes on. His characters all have this snappy survival attitude to them and one can easily relate to them.

He even touches upon the different sorts of chicano manifestations that arise from our unique culture such as chicanos who dislike mexicans and who feel cheated because according to them mexicans from proper México give a bad name to american (USA) chicanos.

There are 12 short stories in this book and I personally loved reading My Ride, My Revolution, Las Chicas Chuecas, Oiga, Miss East L.A and La Operación, this particular one touches upon the migrating patterns of some indigenous people who are forced out of their homes in the Sierra Madre mountains in Chihuahua by drug lords and then by the migra once in the US, in essence, how they live only to be repressed by their governments and discriminated by their fellow brethen both in México and the USA. Heck, there is even one story there about my hometown Tijuana, I liked that one rather much I must say.

Rodriguez is a master storyteller, no doubt, but he has some flops in there but be they flops they are ok regards the theme they present. He uses a lot of chicano language that arises particularly along the border, I can even go so far as to say that southwestern spanish is nearly absent but I won’t. I was certainly surprised to see many words in there that we appearently use all the way up to L.A. This is not just english sprinkled with spanish words, there are unique chicano/pachuco words like wino (although I dislike this spelling since I think that it does not render the full phonological essence of the word. I think it should be why-no, whine-o, or wayno, but since the book is intended for an english audience I suppose the editors thought that this was the best option), neta, qué hubo, (I didn’t like this either, it should be Qvo), cagando el palo, rifar, and the likes of zafada. It is this sprinkling of full phrases in spanish (mind you, surprise! no translation is offered except in one or two cases!) that add its pizzazz to the telling and at times a rather amusing touch to it all.

Oh, and did I forget? He wasn’t born in the USA.

I consider myself a Xicano, with an x mind you.

A Xicano from Tijuana or a Xicano mexicano as I see it in order to disntinguish myself from my brethen on the other side of the border, Californios and all. But in reality am no more than a minority. Not everyone in Tijuana has this vision that Tijuana is a part of Aztlán. It does not matter that Aztlán is only a geographical area in the imagination of Xicanos, though it be a palpable one.

That is why I am utterly surprised at this sudden surge of interest (again?) in the border. I for one haven’t the slightest idea what the border might mean because in Tijuana there are just too many interests and mexican natiolistic jingoism at play to consider the border as nothing more than a political boundary; a divisionary line which has nothing to do with Tijuana nor San Diego for that matter.

The history of Xicanismo begins when he or she reaches the border and it is the darling theme of san diegans and certain minorities from Tijuana. University posers who want a quick shot at stardom as if it were a buck away from your local quickmart. These very same souls that are neither interested nor know nothing of Xicanismo because their prejudice is the greatest divide.

It isn’t necesasary to explain that we are hated because we don’t know how to speak spanish, the proper and correct way as some are quick to remind us. More oft than not we are loathed because we are a race that has its own vocabulary and use the languages that permeate Aztlán to forge a unique identity. We are a race apart and clearly a threat to those ideologies that Washington, Madrid and México promulgate to ostent an identity which has nothing to do with Aztlán (read: Tijuana). So please, do tell, what is the Aztec Emperor doing in Tijuana’s boulevards when Baja California has its own indeginous population? And don’t even go near Jefferson nor Lincoln, what do those bastards have to do with the Californias?

Truth be told these concepts, which no one questions and which permeate the identity of Tijuanenses all over, is swallowed everyday no questions asked. So how are we to ask Tijuana citizens what is it to be a Tijuanense? What does the border mean? This is more than a slap in the face, as our good fellow Manuel says, this is a kick in the balls that runs up deep in the ass.

Am not about to entertain the idea that I might offend someone with these letters, yet these mamadas de Tijuana Tercera Nación is just one more ideology thrusted upon our throats from México City to squash the notions that Tijuanenses (at the very least those ones I know, my Tijuana that I see, saw and will keep seeing) have and who they really are but no one dares speak of, we are more mexican-american than ordinary mexicans.

It is like that directive that came straight from the centralist government more than a score ago. It demanded out of the local city government that they stop registering children with anglo names, so yeah, suddenly we were not that free to choose, or when we are encouraged to spend more pesos than dollars or when we are told that evangelists are a thing of the devil (mind you, in Tijuana when people say 3pm they mean 3pm, not 3:20pm like a good catholic might understand it) or that it be denied that there is a small but growing bilingual minority in Tijuana (even unwanted, when will they put Lalo Alcaraz or Luis Alberto Urrea in the Paseo de la Fama in Tijuana?). In other words, this is more centralism to stamp the cactus and the eagle in our foreheads and nothing more. These are ideological wars that attract people because the money is good. Just imagine, a spaniard is behind all of this! Antonio Navalón Sánchez, a representative of the Prisa group and a member of the spanish consortium Santillana, hmmm, one wonders indeed what these fellows want, conquer Aztlán?

That world renowned artists might attend this exposition and that they come to speak about their vision of the wonders that Tijuana is is another story because truth be told they have her all figured out in very romantic terms. As always the real Tijuanenses shall remain in the dark until all the reflectors, both from the US and México City, are gone. Only then can we begin our daily trek of criss crossing from one side to the other without being hailed as the 8th wonder of the world for being so tolerable to others.

I sincerily hope that this proyect becomes a resounding success, after all there are many Tijuanenses involved here, believe me I hold no deep grudge. I long ago realized that Tijuana has many realities nowadays. Here I only try to iron out that this is repression, like it always has been, and that is the repression of the bilingual Tijuanense, the catholic/protestant Tijuanense and above all, the mexican american Tijuanense. Truth hurts, I know.


The phoneme /w/ [a voiced labio-velar approximant, lip rounding] has multiple and productive sounds in the spanglish and espanglish Xicano community.

For us there are choices to be made between:

Güey, huey and wey
Güero, huero and wero
What, guat and huat
Wacatelas, guacatelas and huacatelas (seldom seen written as thus)
Wayno (although to english this is better represented by why-no)
Wuacara, guacara
Wacha (watch) (notice the eliptic u [it sounds as guacha]once it is pronunced in espanglish)

The fact is that this phoneme has various representations when it comes to the written spanglish/espanglish Xikano language.

However, there is a clear distinction once it is blurted out of ones mouth.

I particularly noticed this in my trip to Mexico City. They had a curios expression going on there. More than several times I noticed that people responded with a what? when addressed, although their what sounded more like a guat with a /g/ (clear and distinct velar stop), and were, for the most part, unable to render a clear and pure /hw/.

The curios thing about this phenomenon is that it would seem to appear that it is stricly a border phenomena.

Note: Especially in AmE and Scots, there exists two allophones of /w/ that actually become separate phonemes, /w/ and /hw/. The /hw/ is a voiceless labiovelar approximant, like a /w/ with a puff of air (an /h/) to start it off. It normally is spelled with [wh-], as in [what, where, whistle, whoop]. It is becoming increasingly rare in EngE and has no major significance in AmE, some people using it and others not.

Note: Like /j/, /w/ is a semivowel; they are proniunced like vowels, but function like consonants. (notes: David Minugh, Stockholm University)

The point here is that there is a semi-vowel shift going on just now in the border towns, which makes for a pretty interesting thang, so yeah, that.

These days I find myself deeply fond of XX century thinking.

From Volume IV Number IV
The New Criterion A Quarterly Review October 1926
New York Chronicle: Gilbert Seldes

There is an attitude of mind familiar to observers of American intellectuals which Europeans ought to understand; I find it so often undermining my own judgement that it would be unfair of me not to state it. It is the tendency to misprise the purely American thing, the provincial or the local, as a method of glorifying whatever in our arts has the pretension of being universal. For example, although I am keenly interested in the natural development of those cadences and rhythms which, much more than slang and individual words, are making the American language, I can find nothing attractive in the nasalities, the hard utterances, or the drawls which give us, in various parts of the country, the American accent. We are hardly ever pleased by the literary or social success of anyone or anything because of American ?quaintness?; to ourselves we are neither picturesque nor quaint, and except for those who are trying to isolate America artistically as well as in politics, we wish to be loved as equals. I can see no impropriety in this attitude, and am actually concerned with its results. The popular and journalistic success of Mr. Sinclair Lewis’s novels was remarkable; yet it remained for the English critics to hail them as exceptionally fine works of art in the satiric vein; to us they were rather pedestrain reporting only interesting for their temperamental dislike of our commercial middle class, a dislike which we had passed through perhaps ten years earlier, and had lacked the acumen or the energy to record, probably because we felt the whole thing had been done by the French Romanticists and had achieved perfection in Madame Bovary. (…)

I came to my ancestors land yet just as I saw Aztlan
you hovered over my every concious moment,
(even in my sleep at times)
making sure I knew who was it that I was,
since your job was to remind:
how much a part of that no more I was.
(Only a false memory you tried to convince me)

Though every living tissue
Of my constitution claimed its ancient stake.
You made sure I was dead scared.
Not unlike you now, ghostly reminder.

Yet I convinced myself all the time
(that’s how I battled you)
‘Tis here you belong, Aztlan is your home.

Yet you flew free in my thoughts.
(unlike me, in the land of the free)
You kept whispering your reality in my head: I am illegal.
I tried to ward you off.
By simply being who I was: a Xicano.
(I belong cried out a million times in the chambers of my noise-proof head)

I expelled you with ancient incantations,
by presenting you my roots.
Though you always found a way back into my soul.
Until I decided to be no longer with you,
I moved away, and kept you at bay.

I was saddened, exiled and far.
I know who I am, yet I never vanquished you.
I see with my tears as I contemplate now.
How hard it was to be then Xicano in Aztlan.

Yet thanks to that I am who I am now.
The ghost now gone and dead,
(vanquished at last!)
Occasionally raising to remind me,
how it took all that, to be me today.

I went to the beach in Tijuana. It was crowded on Sunday, it was sizzling hot. So yeah, there are we, strolling, me and my friend. So I tell him, let us go to the fence. It was already corroded, the sea salt did it and the stupid army surplus material which was used to build the fence up is rapidly deteriorating. There were some kids on the other side of the beach the so called, otro lado. The migra came to them because they were having conversations with Mexicans on the other side. They asked for identifications and those were provided. But suddenly one of the migras asked if we had not seen the paletero. The migra wanted a Mexican ice cream and the little crowd that formed to see the agents do their job, with jeers and boos tried to be friends. The paletero came and he bought an ice cream, I could not resist asking if he did not have pesos on him. I do not need to he said. Why not I answered back, we carry dollars with us, right?

So I was there, giving the agent a hard time, those poor souls in those green uniforms, under this heat, seeking out a threat among us, this is Aztlan I told him, as I pointed to the both sides of the land, separated by a corroded fence, he craving for an ice cream and I craving for an anger to be let loose, it was after all, safe therapy.

Recientemente Osito came up con la idea of a diccionario en spanglish. I wholeheartedly think que es viable. Pero one must be careful sobre las variantes de spanglish. There is lo que I call Spanglish and (e)spanglish (otherwise known as border lingo). El spanglish es un phenomenon que se da en Los, (USA); el (e)spanglish in Mexico.

Spanglish, I have said en differentes ocasiones, is more like the cosas we used to say with amigos and the like. La people se impresionaba de our modo de talk, code-switch era la word que abrio el path para toda una culture que poco by little se afirmaba. We, los suit suiters, los cholos y all ese talk of low class chicanos se hizo un badge de honor. It was our lengua and it still is, de hecho, it is so new, that it hasn’t even finished being popular. Hay unos pockets de resistencia here and alla pero son considered como ignorantes and the like. Gone estan los days que la people se ashamed de escuchar how we speakeabamos, de acuse us de raza who didn’t know ni una ni la other lengua. Ese era el argument then, pero se hears aqui and alla still, una small nagging minority.

Mas el spanglish de Los se diferencia markedly con el (e)spanglish del mexican border pueblos like mine, Tijuana, pues en Los el estratum es patently obvio. Hay Xicanos of generations and then there is Xicanos like me who are first generation pero que aprendieron el english right away como un native. Then there are los immigrantes. Xicanos employ muchas veces, code-switch and calo, slang proper to our cultura. Pero como we can’t detach ourselves de nuestros parents we also pick up los tries que hacen nuestros fathers and madres to adapt to la new culture. They speak and add a new variant to the english language. It is from those sectores que el spanglish feeds itself as well, son palabras que ellos use in spanish pero que son words in english. De este array de words other things in the linguistica came to el conociemiento de us. Calque es one of them, por ejemplo, many confuse la libreria as the library when la libreria is a bookshop y el otro is la biblioteca. Words que son usadas por those que no understand el ingles are such como, vacumear, apodar (no, its not to nickname), groseria (no, its not to curse or cuz out and others that I borrowed from our good friend Nelson. There are other more tecnical terms to differenciate estos fenomenos in spanglish pero asi lo vamos a leave por esta time.

El (e)spanglish es un phenomenomen que da in border towns. Son words que nos llegan from Los and there were no traducciones directas to it in spanish, por alguna reason u la other. Asi que la people se apropiate it them y las usan for si. Palabras like troca, brekear, mofle, birria, daime, nickle, cora, vaipin, sueter, zipper, batear, cachear, pichar, and many other that postearee later offer una gama diferente al spanglish. Inclusive there are also incursiones sintacticas del english al spanish already in the spanish populations del border.

So, eso es just un little de lo que nos awaits if we pull off este diccionario para la raza, good luck Osito, and hay mas where this came from ese.

Well, I went and did it, not planned, not anything, just out of the clear blue sky, there we go. Would you believe that of all the places in the world for me to find another Xicano would be there? Well, I did, I was minding my own business looking around at the construction of one of the churches when someone spotted me as one of their own. (Picture a texas drawl) pretty hot today ain’t it? I suppose my aztec codice t-shirt, blue jeans and sneakers plus the fact that am brown gave away somtehing. I mean I can’t figure in all the world how the lad figured I spoke english. I guess I was looking too much like a gabacho, that tends to happen. Specialy at the vending places, they see me and the prices hike up immediatey like 30 percent more than they are, “hey, no me mire con cara de gabacho” pure indian blood here amigo, no me chingue …. I mean I have to remind my own people that am one of them!

So yeah, I was there, I saw the catheral were Juan Diego saw the virgin, damn! Even gabachos knelt at the sight, so I did as well, however I can’t muster an adoration to the virgin, must be all that protestant genes we carry due to the freckle invasion of yore. So I just knelt an muttered some words to that high deity I have no name for. It was interesting to see the little cerrito, how do you say cerrito in english? I mean, mountain seems a little to big, perhaps hill? Tepeyac hill? Oh well.

Otherwise it has been boring without you, no beer guzzling or any debauchery like I should, just moderate drinking and dangerously putting my stomach on the line, I buy street stuff. Just stuff like quesadillas, gorditas and other unhealthy fried and scrumptious delicacies of the mexican cuisine. Today I wondered to what must surely be the longest street market. I mean it just never ended. I even bought myself a beer that the vendor put in a plastic glass with salt and lemon, I just kept strolling gayly skipping people, listening to the music, the hollering and all that mexican urbane noise to the delight of my senses. I just can’t explain it really, I mean I was enjoying the stroll, my people, the smells, the crowd, I felt at home.

Later ese!

We did not give a fuck.

The cop stood outside the patrol car for a sec or two, hand in gun ready to shoot at us the moment we made a false move. We were brown and we had a 1954 red chevy truck with chrome tires in a toll road built just a few months ago before the new years eve 2034. I saw his glasses reflect the lights of the chevy in his black what looked like Mark Vinci of Italy design eyewear. I remained cool, rolled down the window and waited with my hands clearly visible on the chain steering wheel. What the stupid white cop did not realize was the stealth motor I had placed on my chevy. It didn’t even sound on. The moment he approached to ask his dum racial apartheid questions I pressed the accelator so hard he didn’t even get to see the color of my eyebrows and all I saw last was how his hand reached his holster. We were too far for any shots to be heard by then.

The thing was simple, I was in a jam and needed dough fast and now, so I hooked up with a few acquaintances while I climbed the social ladder. Theyre easy going, simple folk who didn’t care to much for the infectious lifestyles that Holywood cried out for, yeap, these folks, like my folk, cared just for one and one thing only, their own. I on the other hand have always wanted to trascend borders and always wanted to go beyond that which my gente gave me. So I said yes, I would, no big deal. The only obstacle was to come across the border. A thing I had been doing all my life. It was a reward which was to give enough to take care of my current problems.

When the winds hit you right, he said, it gives a thirst, thats when they face the sun with their eyewear on and when they get distracted cause they drink their water, your window of opportunity opens up. I was instructed to pass thirty ounces of it and was not even informed what those thirty ounces stood for, all I knew was that it was precious and many people were eager to see it across the border.

I really don’t know when it all started but I heard enough stories to know it was not all that long ago. The walls were ten stories high, 30 kilometers wide and made a part of the landscape were I was born. To me, like the sea, they had always been part of the environment I called home, except I was gifted. The government, spearheaded by what then were known as hawks institutionalized de facto a state of emergency on the nation. Today they are just called Patriot Citizens. A little structure that got its idea out of a former red committe outfit which gathered information on everyone the minute they stepped into this earth. You were born into it, like being a Catholic, you know? It basically erased out of history more than 200 years of good sound democracy but hey! Who cared? It was history to me, things schoolbooks I read said. So long as Hollywood produced good comedy democratic stuff like voting was a geek think an act ridiculized by wealthy middleclass snobs and cool dilettantes. More guards were busy there then at any post across the divisive line that separated the two nations. I always passed no hitch, get my drift? So anyways, those stories made more sense now, I was nervous and needed a cause behind me. I heard my grandmas voice tell me of those gone yore days, how the gringo suddenly erected the wall. How thousands of Mexicans were shuttled across the border in an ethnic cleansing sweep that would make the Isrealis and Serbian leaders of the 20th century green with envy. They had God on their side, but my uncle always quipped, we have Gods mother on our side.

I had to device a way to cross the border on my own terms and without being detected. He said clearly: you get busted for this, you end up away from here in flesh and spirit forever, theyll clean your brain out nice and clean and Human Right groups will not have a thing on them since they will leave your body unscathed, get me?

The night fell, and after the the high speed escape I was tired from the speed I drove the Chevy, totally drained. I came home, Mexico, to my futon, hit the light swith and as I faced down the pillow the door bell rang. What the? I opened up the door after checking who it was, Sheila came in. She wanted to talk, but my ears and eyes zoomed into her cleavage. Her breasts always talked to me better than her mouth, or was it the other way around? My fantasies always confused me. This time though, I reacted, the nervousness kept me more sober than ever. Come in I said as she walked straight in and her body left a trail of an intoxicating fragance as I walked behind her, Poison I thought, my fave.

* It’s nearly one in the morning watcha want?
* Bill kicked me out of the apartment, he has a new broad with him now so am ancient history. I need a ride across the border, can you fix that?
* Can’t honey, gotta split early there but gotta do it alone, so can help you, sorry babe.
* I’ll pay you good, you know those bastards at the crossing don’t allow pedestrains anymore on the the weekends and Monday is so far away from now.
* Come on baby, I’ll do anything you want me too.

Ok, so this is a nice set up I thought, the girl I always wanted is offering herself to me of all nights tonight.

* Tell you what, you sleep over there and in the morning we split 7am sharp, get my drift? I take you across, hand me over the dough now and we call it even right? You got your papers in order right? I don’t wanna get stuck in Homeland Security Detention because of you.
* Off course I do nincompoop, come here, lemme give you a kiss in the mouth.
* No thank you babe, it’ll do seeing you naked babe but no touching.

The night went smoothly. The ultra marine dress slipped out of her body and out bounced her breast like two firm well done cups of jell-o in the semi dark room and handed me over her panties. I sniffed them out of their delicate fragance as I stroked harder and harder inside my pants. She looked at me beginning to masturbate and she began to caress her breasts as she side glanced towards me. The more I saw her do it to herself, the more I got into it. I got lost in my thoughts seeing her legs spread out, I felt heat and sweat beginning to build up in my body. Her hand slid down to her pubic hair, she clearly wanted me to see her every pour open. She laid down in the floor. Her ass jumped up and down hitting the woodfloor with a tump tump the closer she came to an orgasm. I came all over my pubic hair the moment she turned around doggiestyle. Her pussy showed a very swollen opening, damn, I just had the best orgasm in days I thought and crashed in the futon with my hand feeeling the warmth of my liquids.

By the time I woke the clock struck 6:45am and Sheila was no where in sight. She had scrammed, took my Lowrider magazines from the 1990s and left my place all messed up, I was knocked out with gas. No time to think, my head hurted tad though. I dressed up and ran to my truck to meet up with the Dropper. I still hadn’t figured out a way to get those 30 ounces across.


I came around to the cul-de-sac where the dropper was, a simple looking farm picker it seemed, but then again his revolver was quite visible. I got out of the car and started to walk towards him. The air was fresh and the morning dew could be seen in the grass, the Dropper had huaraches on.

-What up ese?
-Buenos Dias, here’s you stuff.
-What’s this shit?
-Be careful, you don’t wanna be caught with that, you’ll liable to end up in problems. Don’t open it, no matter what, just take it across and there you’ll meet Chilangito, he’ll take it from there.
-How am going to pass it? – That’s for you to figure out, the product is expected, so hurry up ese.

It wasn’t bigger than a zip it bag, and it weighted exactly 30 ounces. I didn’t even know what it was and I was expected to cross it over. I put it inside the headlights, so long as I din’t turn’em on there wasn’t going to be a problem, although it did seem a little bumpy. I’m hardly ever stopped, so I headed towards the border. It was jammed packed. Cars were cutting each other. I was tempted to do the same, but I didn’t want to raise any suspitions. This time I had something to hide so I played the good citizen.

The imposing walls freaked me out, although I have always seen’em their brown exterior seemed a little more rusty than before. Pinches güeros would say my grandmother everytime we passed through them, as if we were to take back all the states they robbed us. She was keen in reminding me that all the time, in a very loud voice too, precisely as I would turn my docs to the migra..

Curiosly enough I had built high expectations regards these past few days.

I was particularly enthused by the announcement of the Democratic party declaring that the response to President Bush State of the Union address would be retorted in spanish by the Governor of New Mexico Bill Richardson, he is Mexican American I’ll have you know. However, scouring the internet in my local holes I saw nothing regards that, nothing along my alley so I suspect my search will have to be more thourough and that means only one thing: the opposition has been filtered. Reuters did not have anything on it at any any rate, not even la Opinion. So where does one seek? I had to go to the DNC webpage to get the news and translated at that, so here it is, in english sadly enough but ok, I am not willing to surf anymore for the real mccoy right now.

One thing though is good, it seems that George’s untouchable aura is on the wane. As it were his croonies are being revealed for the crooks they are and the old Samuel Johnson adage that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel proves true once again. Not only is Ariel Sharon in dire straits with the law in Isreal but Tony Blair is once again being questioned by his own constituency for his misleadings. If only the American public were to do the same, wait a minute here, are not the laws of the USA supposed to provide these kind of channels for the citizens to question their leaders, are not American values supposed to be a beacon of democracy throughout the western world? Why is it that Isrealis, Italians and Britons are showing the lead?

Anyways, it was good to read in la Opinion the kind of healthy questioning that is needed in these times. Their editorial 21/1/2004, titled El Mensaje de Bush, says he used recycled ideas! Furthermore they found the whole sham una desilusion! Further furthermore, they say that because of the war in Irak the world is not that safe at all! Ahhhhh, L.A. spanish politics, reminds one of the good old days when Ruben Salazar was around. He then Times reporter and agit voice who acording to L.A. TImes George Ramos was killed in the chaos following the end of an anti-Vietnam War march in East L.A. on August 29 1970 age 42 or when Pedro J. Gonzales, the 1930’s radio discjockey of then LA’s only spanish radio station KMPC, who fell out of grace with the gringada who later framed him. His fell out of grace because he had the balls to decry the ethnic cleansing gringos committed against its own citizens back then.

Patriotism sucked then and it sucks now. Few voices are heard to challenge Bush and his brand of militarism and Isreali style bravado. The problem doesn’t lie in that whether ideologically the left would have liked to have waited and see whether Saddam had weapons or not, but the manner they went about it. These same fools who argue the strict followng of the letter of the law go about every crooked way to distort the very laws they purport to defend and off course, they have to get paid in kind as well. This kind of patriotism is divisive in all manners. The left is militaristic too and I would like to think not as impulsive as the right with its values slogan and righteousness which really ought to be more crookedness than anything else. Bush and his gang are just out for a buck, care only for their own and know how to play the game. The question is whether they will get away with it, were is the law then in these precaurious times?

I wish we had Henry Gonzalez around, the former Democrat from Texas who dared challenge Bush Senior then. In 1993, Flag Day he did the unthinkable.

Jeanne Beach Eigner reported the incident thus:

During the 1988 presidential campaign, when George Bush attacked Micheal Dukakis for vetoing a bill mandating the recital of the Pledge of Allegiance in Massachusetts public schools, the members of the House of Representatives began a tradition of saying the pledge at the beginning of proceedings every day.

Three weeks ago on Flag Day, Rep. Henry Gonzalez, D-Texas, vented his outrage at the practice, reports Roll Call. ‘Nothing is sadder’ he said in a speech on the floor of the House, ‘than to see the herd instinct in taking the Pledge of Allegiance here in the House of Representatives. What is that pledge? That Pledge was not around until just three decades, three and a half, four decades ago … We have taken an oath, an that oath is to the Constitution, not the flag … Here we are, like a good little herd, reminiscent of the Hitlerian period: ‘Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil.’

Where o where art thou now Henry?

Citizens against citizens, a view of the blog world led me to interesting commentary on this as they avalanched Cruz Bustamante on his allegiances to MeCHA. There was a conserted effort to question Bustamantes real intentions to get to power as if becoming governor of California would entail the power to return California back to México. We should of ridiculed them right then and there, laugh our heads off all the way to the ballot boxes just like Arny did.

Ah politics, divide and conquer.

Yet they paralyse us like they always have, they paralyse by demanding our allegiances, the age old trick the gringos have always been playing on us, on the meanwhile they get to hoard the goods because we wanna prove to them how good Americans we are.

It is an insult, as a matter of fact, that politicians and the entertaintment industry coalesce to form a front against us Xicanos.

Nobody is questioning that Arnold has charges pending about sexual misconduct yet Judge Clarence Thomas did’nt even get a chance. Tell me there isn’t a conserted effort on part of the white establishment for color preferences? Where was the hounding of the media? Better yet, where is the hounding of media now? So far the pending charges have been given passing mention that Arny should come clean. And there stops the story.

Most disgusting of all was how the entertaintment industry is aligning itself with politics. Oprah Winphrey’s Empire and Jay Leno all pitched in to help Arny. More on this on today’s LATIMES

This is were Latinos of all walks of life should flex their economic muscle to insure that future entertainers do not abuse of the confidence placed on them to promote their politic agendas, they should be boicotted right here and now. I believe it is time we start taking ourselves more seriously and don’t allow the ideology of the white dominated media and body politic to question our seriousness for the American Project. We also have our own Manifest Destiny. Nobody questioned Arny about his ties to Austria where he got some help, nobody wonders whether his ancestral home, as he surely is fond of, is a detriment to the USA and California thereby. Yet We, the Xicano people and thereby latinos of all walks of life who have a vested intterest in the well bieng of our beloved state get chided for claiming our state as ours. We have historical, lingüistic and blood ties to California. California didn’t get named that because some pilgrim came over and named it thus. Yet Manifest Destiny servile agents from out of state do come and try with all their might to insure that California remains within the ideological principles that have California as it stands, so why should we be embarrased about our ancestral homes and our native ideas? There isn’t shame in that, shame be on those who would want to still puppeteer us instead.

Links that contributed to this post California Recall rant …

Michelle Malkin Before it hit the gig time …

Curiously, as we drove down from Sweden’s Highlands to Paris back in July of this year, I noticed along the German Autobahn and other less known roads to Liege to Paris, that trailers from Portugal carried a legend in their back of their trucks that said: VEHICULO LONGO.

I loved it, and I would have taken a picture of it except that it is very difficult to do so in the freeway at those speeds, at any rate, I admired the words in those trucks as my imagination flew to prototype spanglish and how Portuguese has certain elements in its language that can be thought of as proto-spanglish, this came to mind today as the morning progressed with is daily chores.

I was sitting in the cafeteria, by building A at Stockholm’s University, waiting for an Argentinian friend to show up for a date we had agreed upon and as she came promptly and fashionably late a friend of hers tagged along. We had a very lively discussion until we came to the topic of spanglish and this friend of my friend said odd things about it, you know, you have to understand that my friends at this level of my studies are usually friends that I’ve made during the course of my studies and usually, they are at the same academic level as I am, but lo and behold! I had to confront the very face of ignorance while sipping my cup of coffee trying to understand this human being.

Well, suffice to say I was placed at a very odd position and left rather uncomfortable about it, it had been a while since I last seen this ugly sorts of prejudice hate to my language rear its head, so I was quite frankly bent out of shape, I thought that those issues were resolved once I learned that the very enemy of spanglish is ignorance, but ignorance seems to be a pretty nasty beast of sorts.

Well, my love for Spanglish and its Portuguese, as I call it, proto roots, got its reconfirmation today because as I was leaving my dorm, heading towards the computers I heard from one of the windows of the dorms, adios meshicano! being uttered by some Portuguese neighbors of mine! I was so ever glad to hear that …

Now, I don’t know about you, but if Meshicano doesn’t do anything for you, than spanglish isn’t your language …

-mesh (implication: mestizo)

Upon the mountain sits young Ximenez
Looking at the sunset, thinking about Icarus
Wondering Icarus goal, seeing the sun’s rings
Staring at the albino white display of the disc as a cloud of a menacing storm whizzes by in late formation

He wanted to rip the curtains of the charade
That which is between the sun and Ximenez
Icarus felt to the ground burnt he thought,
imagining the smoldering wings on the dirt.

He wants to feel it, the blinding white light,
Ever present in his surroundings. Unable to come to it
His body pains in desire to get through
The thin veil of reality as his eyes achingly saw

Poor Ximenez, only a short distance away from it
Long for the soul to reach and pass into it
He gets up from the mountain and stretches his arms
Embracing the air like a goodbye hug, he closes his eyes as the pain is to much to bear.

He turns his back to the sun, with his eyes still closed
As the eyelashes opened the lids of his window’s soul
the light of the sun sneaked back into his life
There it was again, waking his desires for it all over again.

We, the Xikano raza, have become inheritors of Adam, Jefferson, Franklin and Washington’s democratic principles.

They understood we would understand as soon as their heirs lost all sight of all the goals of the American Dream due to their stupid blinding patriotism. Off course, I know they were all dead before we were even born, but they laid out plans for such an event and thank God! We, Xicanos, can talk to the dead, we of mexican pure extract sort, with an added pinch of salt, can see the dead too.

So yeah, they were here, and el notario came to confirm, “We the people of the United States,” said the notario, “hereby declare that all Xicanos are now inheritors of the Ideology behind the greatness we crafted for America”.

Dang, I said, as I sat there with wide eyes looking at the crumbling age old piece of paper, it ain’t even recycled said I, shit homes, along with the dead looking funnily at me as I spoke, that’s a whole shit load of work, those gueros left us, I thought in my dreamy head.

Ni madres, said I rather out loud, this is every decent American that calls himself or herself American, American’s home, why dontcha leave it to All the Americans who still believe in the American dream and not to folk bent on war?

Franklin, the mild mannered kite flier, electricity entrepreneur, still under the shock of my language, and taking notes to send it to Noah Webster, said, what? I suppose it does make sense to give it to the American people.

Ni madres! said I again, as Franklin scurrilously tried to jot down the very words I spoke and looked at Jeffereson to see if they were still in America, “the last time you said that, the gueros thought you meant the white folk ese, so I suggest that you leave to Americas current founders who happen to be of any race and are Americans by virtue of being born here or Americans by virtue of having ties to the land and or live here whether illegally or legally but respectful of the laws of the country and caring for this great nation.”

Here here said George, ax in hand and mistress on hand, I agree, it shall be left to the people who are constructing our modern nation.

Chale, good thing I objected said I in the privacy of my thoughts, it would’ve meant a whole shit of load of work, …pinches gringos, all work and no fun ….

Funny how things work out in the day-to-day basis.

As I sat in the kitchen absorbing the days events I pensively mourned Anna Lindh’s death, I didn’t think too much, only a few conspiracies crept up in me, and I began to wonder how is it that I am so affected by the death of this politician, how did she manage to come into the stream of my consciousness? Perhaps it is my admiration of this society to include women in the everyday affair of government, how her face dominated the news when it mattered to express her views, those views from the government and how she fought to promote those opinions in the face of harsh criticism, because she so much also represented my views. I felt that she genuinely represented me, in those meetings, by being outspoken, saying her mind, and it didn’t hurt that she was beautiful as well, I always found her smile a glowing shine in the midst of gloomy faces in those men’s meetings, in other words, she made me proud to see her fight the good fight.

My wife is also going through the same pangs except that she has other worries in her head, she wants to know why the doctors acted the way they did and wants to know what they did, she comes in a hurry, to see more on the TV, I say, how can you? There aren’t any more news at this time, and she answered something that made me feel Anna Lindh was still with us, she said “ They don’t care about anything else, Anna Lindh is dead.” I listened dumbfounded at the words, how even dead Anna was still very much with us. I realized too how instinctively my wife knows her own people.

It’s very hard for other countries to realize the society Sweden is, especially Stockholm, with its lifestyle and open society, I may complain all about how I perceive them but I never argue about their society because its so perfect that it’s actually dull, there isn’t much to criticize, the locals might differ, but I come from two different societies that make Sweden look like a paradise. There isn’t a perceived menace here, not even in the streets, society is built on a premise that everyone respects everyone, and that so long you don’t mess with me, I won’t mess with you, people walk around like there isn’t much to worry about in the street, a pick pocket here and there, maybe a gang related crime in the suburbs but for the most part, this society is safe in every sense of the word. People care for people here.

It is a paradise, indeed, and Anna Lindh was one of it representatives, a society that feared very little, has no security concerns and is the envy of the world because of its well functioning government. Swedes live in peace, very much unscathed from the rest of the world who is seemingly falling apart; in Sweden, they live the morrow others can only dream of, Swedes invented the future, as a Spaniard friend of mine told me and many countries in the rest of Europe see this society as a roll model, they are the future.

So it is a shock, a rude awakening, that things have changed, that Swedish society is vulnerable, a place were maybe its openness is a now a luxury of sorts that Sweden didn’t know it had, and a commodity that was ripped by the knife of the murderer who took Anna Lindh’s life, Sweden’s essence, away from us.

Some crazy ass shit, white man’s preoccupations and the plight Africa underwent.

So here at the university of Stockholm English Institute one of their favorite texts is Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. The idea is to dissect the text and look at it through the prism of many researchers eye and even to shed some light into what others think about it, now please, bear in mind that I am Mexican, worse yet, am a Xicano, so whatever argument dished these guys up and the interpretations they make out of it is like watching two kids fight it out in the street for the mere pleasure of standing there and see the fight, in other words, as Tina Turner would say it succinctly, what’s love got to do with it? Even more I believe they give this text out for the sole purpose of entertaining the swedes as the swedes are central to this text’s narrative.

The text in itself is really about some old geezers sunbathing in the Thames one late evening in August and really there is nothing more than the comparison of two empires at play here, one, the Roman Empire and the other the British Empire.

However, there is a sense, a dimension at play here that is akin to an apology, a justification of sorts, a catholic/anglican church mea culpa, a Pontious Pilatos washing of the hands.

This text has a bad rap and I can see how the Africans are enraged by the narrative of this text, regardless of the value of the tale, its sole purpose is to whitewash the sins of the fathers. In other words, this text is merely apologizing for crimes committed against the people of Africa, (Judge Garzon, where are you when you are really needed) worse, making the British people have a heart of sorts, furthermore, and most disturbing, and whence the governments claims innocence of the acts of their subjects, is that they can claim innocence and distraction of their duties and play the good cop routine.

A perpetuation of the empire by benign means is at play, in others words, while crimes were committed in the name of the crown, the crown can always and always has the option of disclaiming itself from those crimes by alluding that its good intentions were hijacked by bad elements, and this is the case with this text, Joseph Conrad is apologizing for the acts of his people to the African folk, atonement, in English manners.

Curiously enough most of the critics in this book we are made to read are and have germanic last names, whether they are white, or black I have no idea, but it doesn’t stop me, a Xicano from finding this aspect as curious. Even more interesting, there seems to be a belief amongst critics that so long as one has a valid criticism about the text it is valid in all its aspect regardless of race, never mind that those races happen to be, for the most part, of the caucasian persuation.

It has occurred to me that Xicanos are a new sort of mestizo, a raza in itself.

While our ancestors are for the most part mestizo in as far as they are of two races, one combining aspects of the more European traits and another one and perhaps the raison de etre for the most of us, an indigenous and powerful trait. However, we Xicanos have attained a mestizaje of a new sorts, we have blended in two cultures, two languages, two religions at the very least. Let us not forget that many a Xicano are not necessarily mestizo, in fact they may be people whose people have resisted mestizaje and therefore warriors who remained to themselves and kept their culture intact, traditions alive and customs enforced, so that while they may speak Spanish their real mother tongue is an indigenous one. Hence they may be already bilingual by the time they assimilate to the Xicano culture which in its most mainstream self is bilingual and bicultural, so as not to exclude that vital link between our brothers and sisters we must keep in mind that Xicanos can have many cultures already in themselves.

This is the new sort of mestizaje I speak of, the intrinsic blending of these cultural traits. So just exactly what is this new sort of spiritual mestizaje anyways, and why is it so important? Perhaps if we seek help from our past can we clear the confusion surrounding this issue now. For many years our existence was denied, our world was repressed, our incarceration bears no tangible, nor physical proof. Throughout the inception of Aztlá we have been denied in the most bastards of ways, curiously enough through this Catholic of acts, the forced relationship of the US and México gave birth to an unwanted child, one that remained in the side shadows of the two nations history up until recently.

We were a bastard child, so generations of Xicanos lived in denial, punished at every institutional level, for how they looked, and how they spoke, and what they spoke. This caused many mutations of spirituality in various forms. We were rejected by both our parents for what we were not. This has caused much pain to many indeed. Because our parents are more than ready to turn away from us, leaving us at the mercy of each other. The US has rejected us because of the color of our skin and México because of the sounds that come out of our mouth and our lifestyles.

However, we are no longer dependent upon the approval of our parents, parents who, like any other child would, still love. We have grown independent from them and are beginning to form our own identity. I can not truthfully say that I am Xicano if I deny one of my parents, as much as my hate still boils in me, they gave me existence, therefore, I am that which was given, a part of an act, Xicanos where born out of two at times out of three intrinsic and complicated cultures that we had to digest even if the taste was acrid and acrimonious.

Yet this Castor oil proved to be a healthy one indeed, seen from a historical perspective of the world where nations have been known to exterminate their offspring. We, while maltreated, grew up and have assimilated our cultures pro’s and con’s. We indulge well in tamales and Hot Dogs; We drink Tequila as well as Bourbon; We fluently speak two languages in one, our greatest source of pride is our own lingo; We love Mariachis as much as we love the Sex Pistols.

Lastly, this new mestizaje has barely shown its multifaceted potential. Our greatest assets is the recognition and acceptance of our many manifestations, we are Xicanos, Chicanos, Pochos, Mexican-American, Mexicanos, and a host of other selves in one way or another, we can the one minute be Xicanos, another Michoacanos, zacatecanos, Californianos, Tejanos, from Chicago this internal diversity is an asset if we are to take into account that this trait is American in as much as Apple pie is. We must rejoice at our selves, and content ourselves that finally, our multifaceted self being is no longer rejected as much by our progenitors.

I for the one consider this flexibility of being an asset of inmense value, I believe that I wouldn’t have had so easy a time to learn another culture, another language as easily as I have and all thanks to my Xicano history.

Good follow up reading:

From the book, Oppositional Consciouness: The Subjective Roots of Social Protests. A tasty essay by Marc Simon Rodriguez titled: Cristaleo Cosnciousness: Mexican American Activism between Crystal City, Texas and Wisconsin 1963-80 that delves into more or less the subject am touching here and points out the consciouness and trasnformation of the U.S Mexicano population and birth of the Chicano Movement.

It seems as though Pochismo is hailing a revival unprecedented in the history of our young culture. Just as chicano was once a denigrating term and later spoused as a badge of honor so is pochismo doing that as well and with what a bang!

Curiously enough, pochismo is embracing that which many chicanos are leaving behind them or has not taken into account.

They embrace the mexican culture with glee and commercialize it in very creative ways that do not insult our traditions, in a way they enhance it and promote it. Frankly, it pleases me to see all of this taking place now. In fact, much of the internet entertaintment by way of Chicano culture, for my part anyways, is coming from those aspects of our culture that is/has been ostracized, the pocho culture.

Let’s see, were do I stand in this continuum of our very undefined culture?

As I recall I too fell prey to this moniker but quickly shrugged it off, I must’ve been 9 or so just when I returned from my childhood stay of two years in CA, my friends that I had left behind in Tijuana saw the change, and quickly began the dismantling and I off course abided by it quite naturally. In fact, I turned myself against this form of change, I also called people pochos and pochas although I fear that the degree of despectiveness has something to do with how much acculturation one has intrinsically. That is, it depends how mexican you are or how much you feel offended by the turncoat itself. (in essence the offense lies in the denial of cultural traits by the pocho which the mexican assumes the pocho has even though the pocho denies that and of course which causes a serious offence in the more mexicanized fellow or so thereby)

Where was I?

Oh yeah, the revival of mexican attributes by pochos has taken a different turn though, its seems to me that pochos are bringing in home, curiously enough, since pochos are somewhat banned from the community, the more mestizo aspects of the mexican culture. This is indeed something worthy of observence since Chicanos are more of an indigenous oriented type, the symbol of the Chicano has more to do with the aztec, maya, toltec and so on while the pocho is incorporating the more mestizo aspects of the mexican culture into his identity. That is why you see more things of that nature in pocho semiotics like mexican hero wrestlers, loterísymbols and tipical mexican games, and things that are widely shared by the mestizo population of Mexico.

Even Richard Rodriguez has jumped on the bandwagon too, his latest book, Brown, is in essence an act of conciliation, read it and tell me that his take on the mexican aspects of his book are not about that, indeed, RR has come into the fold, whatever that is, but is adding something, at last, a partial recognition of his identity to the rich and varied culture that is composed of the USA and Mexico.

I wouldn’t be surprised that our culture, which is and should be about the blending of our two cultures, the Mexican and the gabacha, chrysalises out of Pochismo! Who would of thought that they be the torch carriers of our culture ….

Pocho sites:


Yesterday I was such the decade ago, I swear to god, I was deep in a contorted repressed laughter and in awe at the things I did. So what did I ever do that threw me back not only a decade but nearly a decade and a half back? Well for the first I peeled off a Rancid poster off a wall in the very trendy street called Gotgatan by the Metro station slussen in Stockholm, so yeah, I did that, burrrrr, shaking in disbelief. The other thing is even more dismally shrieking, I bought, get a load of this, I bought, now remember that am a poor student with very little resources as ways go for monies, and hold tight now, and don’t hold your breath,I bought a Compaq Presario with windows 95 on it! with two whole gigabytes in it ….jejejeje, it was only a 100 bucks or a 1000 Swedish crowns but hey! I can now, watch this, I can now write documents in my dorm, which by the way won’t be happening anytime soon since I still have to add working hours in that antique piece I bought, yeah … you got it right, I’m erasing everything in that thing and setting it up with all the modern goodies of this year, anyhow, you’d think I bought a 1956 DeSoto or something.

So yeah, those are yester antics, today, less see what happens …

Going even further more in time I am writing a C level essay on Hemingway, so am reading, as of now, The Sun also Rises and The Old Man and the Sea, I will be concentrating on the issue of Machismo. I chose Hemingway because he is such the American icon, plus, and get a load of this, plus, he incorporated rather well the Hispanic sentienty of the Latin world. So am looking forward to interpret these works of his. So expect comments about those two books in the coming weeks ahead as I will be dealing with that …now let’s see if I can distinguish sober writings from unsober ones ….

Ok, now this is really something that makes you definitely scratch your head, I mean, this is amazing stuff in that if you thought of talking pointlessly in very fashionable manner then Husserlian thinking is the answer for you.

Who is Husserl anyways? just click away but don’t blame me later if you just shake your head in utter confusion.

It’s rather hilarious actually, so far I have read only 12 pages of Inlet to Husserlian Phenomenology by H. W. Fawkner and already I had a few cracks at it. This is what I so far have come to in this 50 page document that was sent to me via email in conjunction with my D level course at the English institution:

1.- There are a lot of hyphenated compounds to explain single variable concepts or meaning carrying units, in essence, as far as I can visualize this theory, what the meaning of these compounds give, to use an example, is best represented by the very hyphen that seems to unite this tripartite item.

2.- I haven’t figured out yet how to apply this course of events that Husserlian theory intends to describe so I won’t bother you with interpretations that might be false but in essence much goes out to discuss a certain middle ground between two acts, such as the utterance the tree.

you, the interlocutor says the tree ———> the hearer hears you, the tree but Husserlian theory is not concerned about the interpretation of tree in the hearer nor the utterer, it is concerned with the ’——->’.

Yeap …I haven’t either even figured out if I got it right but my hunch says that it is going along those lines

Let me put it another way, the document uses the analogy of offside from sports. If you are a sports fan you might understand that technical term which I have at least heard in some soccer games although I have been at a loss as to its significance until now. Ok, I confess am no sports buff, but hey! am still ok right? Anyways, since you are into sports then you know the object is to win, if you loose, well then a series of events unfold that carry dire consequences at times, and here is where I can find a suitable explanation and real comparison to what Husserl is trying to say, and again, I confess that I might be wrong, but you know that expression ‘it’s not important to win, what matters is how you play the game’? Well, it is my belief that Husserlian thinking goes along those lines ….jejejeje but seriously folks, I mean it.

I lived in England once in 1998, Bournemouth, in Dorset, and while that coast town brought nice memories, far more than Paris ever did, believe me, the biggest impression left on me wasn’t the quaint seaside lifestyles nor the fact that Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley is buried there but rather England’s immigration and customs services.

At the time I hadn’t become an EU citizen so I carried my Mexican Passport. Having being accustomed to travel unhindered in Europe it came as a natural surprise to me that I was stopped at Heathrow because of my nationality. I was offended, quite frankly, to be made to sign a waver of rights in order to be able to enter the country. In essence Mexicans seem to have a bad rap there and are in the habit of entering the country to ask for UK benefits. I guess I might be wrong but I didn’t quite get the logic behind the waver nor as to why Mexicans were singled out for this list of people who come in to the country to milk its welfare system.

In general, I think of Britons like most Americans think of them, snobs. Having gone through what I did that day my attitude hardened considerably more after that incident. However, let’s not confuse government employees and the beasts they become when ordered to enforce laws nobody understands with people of the everyday caliber. Most Brits I’ve met seem quite down to earth just as much as the next bloke around the globe. Yet immigration, a ghost that has chasen me all my life, is an issue I carry deep inside me so I react quite normally, in indignant tones, whenever I’m stopped by these services countries have in order to syphen out unwanted elements.

Nevertheless, I find those services in the UK ugly, the same goes for America and certainly from any other part of the world, It is hedious that governments around the world engage in this humiliating act of stopping people because of their nationality.

Yeah, I know, it’s 2003, the shadow of Terrorism covers every human soul nowadays and this is idyllic thinking and quite leftist humanitarian wishful reckoning but I can still dream and no terrorist organization nor stupid evil government like the USA has now can stop me from wishing for a better tomorrow today.


There is a discussion going on between those who share spanish as one of their tongues. Some say Hispanic should be the all representative word and other Latinas/os. I say that if you are to represent spanish speakers from America then it is Latinos, if they are from Iberia Hispanics. There isn’t a doubt that Spain is in our very bloods, we can never deny that but I as a Latino fear that my whole life experience with Iberians has been one of total rejection. Hispanics are arrogant according to me and hence make a clear distinction that they are a race apart from Latinos.

What kind of Latino am I then? I am a Xicano Latino.

The afternoon gave out a strange light for that particular hour of the day. It was August and around this time the harvest was due for picking yet the day was infuriatingly red. The clouds carried a strange blue hue and the winds had a distinct smell of protuding carcasses. The nearby factories exuded more than their usual output of smoke. Jane observed all of this while walking towards her house, a scant mile from the factories and as she looked on pensevily at the strange combination of natural and unnatural phenomena she suddenly could not breathe with ease, a slight cough cleared her throat but only temporarily, the fumes in the air became stronger and stronger as her eyes faintly made out some twirling blue lights and dust clouds behind them. She continued walking not making notice of her health and just an earshot away some siren sounds were heard. Her steps carried her homewards, and the small shack were she made her home was impregnated with a stench so familiar to her that it made no difference to her nostrils anymore.

She turned on the light, a bulb attached to a live wire from a nearby electrical post, like everyone else, she stole her electricity too which was meant for the factories. She undressed herself, having worked all day at the recycling center, she frecuently came home more dirty than she would want to and started the gas stove she had for a kitchen. Having boiled her water she took a shower the only way she could, placing the water in a plastic bucket the factories usually dumped nearby, she doused herself with a casserole and quickly shampood herself, her long black hair ran to her shoulders and as the water ran down her hair, she felt alive and clean again. The tattoo from her local barrio became particularly aglow with colors as the vanilla colored skin that constituted her body gave way to the colors of her Virgin Mary tattoo on her back, I sat there, watching her very wide shoulders become wet with the water as it let steam rise as soon as the water ran down her vertebra.

-How’d it go today honey?

No answer, the water kept running, splashing on the only piece of concrete of the house, down a funnel that made its way to the other side of the plywood wall and let out its contents on the dirt, were previous waters had made a course, as the small stream of water made its way down the hill were greenish like algue formed its way along colorful oily bubbles the never seemed to pop. I stared at her breasts, awashed with steaming vapors, hard, nipples aroused, walking towards me, to grab a towel, her long brown legs were shinig the bulbs light, and every step brought her closer to me.

-Dry my back, she said to me as she threw the towel on my face.

I did, as I passed the towel to dry off the remaining water drops on her back. I got excited as I wiped the back of her body, and she knew I was turned on. Forget it was what I heard as my hand passed her wet buttocks. She was afraid. She had just lost her baby, prematurely and without a brain. Such things happen in this city, and the experience had left her numb, I could understand but to the local government these factories meant revenues and the people only a nuisance, so when she delivered her baby, it was only one more statistical number piling up until international pressure built up, only then would the municipal burocracy heed the environmentalist warnings, but until then, the factories kept spewing its toxic waste and we couldn’t do much about it.


I’ve noticed that my admiration of the natural elements such as the clouds, the air, the atmosphere, the day in itself, requires of me new forms of expression. I tire of the same old description quite easily. I hope though I come up with new forms of description since what my eyes see and what emotions are awakened by this peculiar phenomenon in nature, the swinging of the branches of the trees by the force of the winds never ceases to sooth me and being the egoistic observer I wan to capture said outward event in words. Yet my words are becoming readily trite. Not only do I want to change the way I jot down these events but I also perceive that my outer milieu demands this of me.

I am forced to come up with a more abstract thinking than I am perhaps unable to perform. Although I must admit to myself that this presents a tempting challenge of sorts. How am I to wrap up this life experience into words is more challenging than a navy’s knot master class. The medium at hand being easily transmitted by the eyes? canny ability to trap the essence of the spiritualness that lies in the observance of nature is not so easily entrapped in nicely packaged and ornamented words, no, indeed, and therein lies the challenge.

In my roundabouts of the blogsphere I have read here and there that words carry certain energy in them, this happening, of course, in the more mystic prone language of Spanish. In the event that this is true, and I hereby declare that I am not denying that it doesn’t exist, then words have a more potent effect on the human being than I am willing to grant them. I have watched and read with great care how the government of the USA goes to great pains in choosing its vocabulary to produce certain desired effects onto the end receiver. So if were to be a government employee then I would be careful about the words I choose in the expectations of a certain reaction from the end receiver. However, as am more interested in retransmitting an ocular/emotional event I am more concerned with pathos of a different kind. Or am I?

What exactly is it that which is wanted to be transmitted? The ocular or the emotional or a combination of the two thereby? The combination of the two would indeed be most optimal since what is wanted is a description that said trees as the wind swings produces on a human soul which in turn happens to be in a heightened emotional state nearing a certain peacefulness and lightness of air attached to it. One can very well also attach an interpretation to said movements, like the wish of a reunion with the elements or certain identification with them. Perhaps that can aid to a near description of the elements that one wants to describe.

Well, this has been a nice exercise in trying to understand my own writing, I managed to come up with two very important observations: interpretation and identification. Now All I need to do is explore these two concepts further when I find myself moved by the elements that surround me here in the Swedish Highlands.

In retrospective I seemed to neither stay the course nor fallen of it, at least I’ve managed to not run amok with war conspiratorial theories and spend less time writing on it if that. I do read it, but that is another story. The thing about writing fiction and short stories in a blog is that it consumes more space than am comfortable with. But all is not lost as I am constantly reminded that in reality I’ve only started my writing career with earnest, as a discipline and with gusto and within the course of a years’ writing I can see whether I am made to cut the muster or not, I’m giving myself that leeway, a breather room if you will since I’ve barely made the 6 month benchmark.

So far I’ve gotten tastes and reactions as to what my writing produces. It has also given me many restraints however, daily interaction with blogger and the comments that rise due to the posting thereby could just be a blog phenomenon and hence nothing to do with real writing which is my goal here. What kind of restraints you might ask? Well, it adds heat to the cooking pressure of the internal editor, that’s how, one has to adjust, and does adjust, to the readers imagined expectations, which curiously enough, one builds of said imaginary folk and the values we so imaginatively attach to them. Real writing, and just what is that Mr J? What I mean by real writing is the writing that I ceaselessly pursue, which is the creation of a novel or so thereby.

One goal that I imposed on myself is that of writing 6000 words ( a rumor has it that Vargas Llosa has that for discipline…) a day and I believe that that aspect is slowly but surely coming into fruition as I do write about 2000 words a day these days, although it’s in my three languages… the modest goal would then be 2000 words per language.

ey, no me lo cases – que no es gay? then again I think *everyone is gay* no, really

Logovo slash reader/critic, fan and sci-fi savant.

Comment taken from the comment box in my Spanish blog of jueves, agosto 14, 2003 titled Random Access Blog microphones

I think that as far as the human constitution goes there is room for every possible sexual exploration, tendency, inclination or thereof in a human being.

Heterosexuals are by far the most bisexual of all, according to me. Heterosexuals are just conforming to a sorts of social more to be as indicated by the norms as established and actively encouraged by a group of people who have vested interest in this sort of enforcement as to what a human ought to comport itself to be when sexual emotions are at play.

The brain has a say in this too, but my point here is that everyone has a potential to be gay in the sense that they have homosexual tendencies whether one is a guy or a gal. That includes me, who gladly confesses that he has had several sexual fantasies about sleeping with another guy, albeit, and ideal sorts of human that happens to be of the same sex as I. Most curiously, this sort of wanting happens mostly at a peak in my sexual arousal every now and then.

For the most part I think of sex as a burden, when am sober if one can say that of the sexual urgencies that envelopes one during certain periods of biological redistribution and periodical movements of the bodily fluids, then I tend not to be at all that concerned about sex or its nature.

And before you start jumping to conclusions allow me to express that having sex is most healthy indeed, it’s just that for a sentient being such as I, these sort of cravings come at a weird time and worst of all unexpected thus interrupting other activities that I’m doing. Quite frankly it disturbs me when I’m robbed of my concentration. I say robbed because it feels as though am being pulled away against my will at times. That and hunger, it just gets to me. Anyway, before I start sounding even more defensive I will continue this gay issue in more detail.

I don’t get why there isn’t more acceptance of the myriad aspects of a humans sexual tendencies, as you read this, you might of noticed that I hint at a possible aspect of humanity that it is very much neglected and that is that humans might just not be of just one sexual orientation at all, there could be more and that if sexual tendencies are any indication, sexual urgencies are more animalistic than one is willing to admit. I say animalistic in the sense that there isn’t any control as to how our sexual desires are being expressed except by our repression thereby.

Why do we try to rein in this wild animal in us I can imagine very well, but since we have been trying to put in order, categorizing and setting up rules as to what is and what is not allowed in humanity, we can at the very least allow the human constitution to express those ones that are most healthy without the diatribe that our so-called modern society underpins individuals to submission.

I’m very proud to say that I belong to a culture that has had an indigenous population that has prehispanic roots and that for hundreds of years have been concerned about gender roles in their milieu. This society of old ways, is to be located in a state in Mexico called Oaxaca. Anyways, the point about the genders is that for many years the Juchiteca society was thought of as a matriarchical society since women there took care of many aspects of society that traditionally in the more Western world is done by males. This society has by the most part been anything but that since the daily chores are divided and only in our western perspective do we interpret said society as matriarchical. And just where does the gay issue coming in here Julio? Well, am getting there, here it is, they’ve included and accepted homosexuality as a distinct sexual orientation from that of a man and a woman. They have a respectable position, as I understand it, in society. I knew of this society via the blogsphere since the Spanish one circulated this bit of info much gladly due to that some “muxhe”, as they are called in their native language, were running for congressional seats in their state. I found that amazing, that a society, in my conservative and backward country, indigenous people with annals going back hundreds and hundreds of years are more modern then modernity itself.

Rain, icy fresh air and sea sounding,


as they wavered back and forth

with the force of the wind,

swaying as they did,

producing the sounds of the waves.

I like that, despite the fact that am so far away from any shore,

these trees reproduce the magic

the grey,

cloudy days on thousands of beach fronts around the world awash

with their swish swash on contemplating ears and eyes.

The panes bear the day’s raindrops …

A potent glow that pulsates within me
As I like Atlas continue in this unwilling state
Regenerates automatically with new force
Threshold my goal of a place I know

The pursuit is intricately endless
Pointing towards an unknown date
A smile on the horizon drags my life
Where I can rest this constant restlessness
In peace, surrounded by those I cherish

Trapped in this grey zone called the present
I dream of a future I once saw in my past
Will it be there when I arrive?
This mortal coil I bear in my shoulders,
Will it be there too?

Am a Californian not only by heart but by residence as well, I lived under its shadow for over 30 years and my daughter was born in San Diego, California, I grew up in Redwood City for a couple of years and during my younghood I lived, worked and studied at some of its finest institutions in the Bay Area and San Diego County as well. My brain has its share of allocated archives of pure and unquestionable memories from California. The state where I was born is called Baja California and further down the stretch there is even Baja California Sur. Two countries 3 Californias’ that share not only historical ties but linguistic ties as well and have shared institutions for over 300 years now. Alta California and Baja California are those three states former names. California got its name because the spanish explorer that came about this stretch of land said of it, in the first comment about the weather in that part of the world that it was a Calido Forno which translates to English as Hot Oven, hence the name California.

I love California, for me it has more than a beachy cling to it, in fact, beaches have never played a central role in my vision of California, it has been more of a home to me, as homes go one doesn’t give much thought to it, one merely lives there, and so, I fluently speak both of the two most important languages that make up the character of California, English and Spanish; I lived there and that is where all of my mexican familia lives, either in California or Baja California, so I think that I can without a doubt call myself a Californiano which by the way, sounds more native than the English counterpart Californian.

Yes, that sounds nativist and I am. That is why it causes me great pain to hear that some Austrian guy that hasn’t even been born there is running for governor of my precious state. The whole idea and fact regurgitates in me. I quite frankly don’t believe that Xicanos and Mexicanos and the whole Hispanic crowd can get together on this one to stave off this Republican nincompoop from coming to power. Senator Dianne Feinstein has openly opposed this guy and I guess that bodes well for this state but I cannot help but see illbodings for the next months ahead, however, I harbor a small inkling that he will stop running for governor as soon as his coffers begin dwindling down in monies and that spells nothing but good.

Cruz Bustamante is my man because he is a Mexicano. We have waited for over 150 years to get back in power, Pío Pico was the last Mexican Californian governor and I believe the time is ripe for a takeover of power there. Although Chicanos are becoming the majority I spouse serious doubts about the coming elections and the results, I frankly believe that we need to start putting aside our differences and let the bickering resume after the election and not before, at best I hope Grey Davis gets reelected.

The only positive thing of all of this is that the anti immigration rethoric has dwindled down a tad and immigrants are being treated more fairly, at least until elections are over. Immigrants, which so happens to be a synonym for Mexicans in California often bear the brunt of the economical woes in Califas and thus become favorite targets for out of state people like Hufftington who relish and spews nothing but hatred for illegal aliens as opposed to her who is a legal alien. The tidings being promised to immigrants these days is actually an appeal to Hispanics in California because those issues are closer to the spanish speaking populace of California than to the average CA man and woman. This litle fact makes me grin with delight because it means only one thing: the Mexican vote is upp for bidding and the best wager gets the votes. I hope we dont bet wrong because the Grapes of Wrath will be ripe for harvesting after the election.

One of the things that bothers me about the treatment, from this distant distance in Sweden, and the conditions surrounding the Maya in Chiapas is how little heed the government gives them. All over the western world governments are caving in to the demands, rightful and long over due, of their native inhabitants. In Mexico this seems to be not happening. Surely there are many people in Mexico that have benefited from government however there are a few disenchanted members who argue, quite rightfully, that they are being pushed to abandon their customs and ways in order to receive said benefits. One sees a dark hand at work here and surely enough conservative voices opine that the indigenous forms of living are incompatible with the current vision of living ways. For the most part indigenous societies are collective, a tradition that goes way back than the more individualistic capitalist oriented vision of our days.

Whats more, indigenous societies are by far few and inbetween, so I quite frankly don’t understand why does the government insist in pushing these people to accept a newer form of living than the one they’d lived for centuries. What does Washington fear? Why this aberrant insistence on dominion, a shackle we don’t seem to rid ourselves from? Why does this vicious and ugly nature have to come to the surface of government when government is to reflect goodness, shouldn’t this dark emotion be held in check? Yet the insistence of some members of the Mexican congress to deny all rights to its indigenous population, the right to govern themselves is seen as a threat to the social fabric of our culture. Why? Because they want to live the way they’ve done so for thousands of years.

I for one agree with the indigenous people of Chiapas and their demand that they be ruled according to their customs. They should have more autonomy than they have now and their thinking about life should be allowed to develop. However, I believe there is a deeper fear here than one can imagine. The kurdish folk come to mind. I believe that Mexico fears a sort of development that the government in Turkey fears with its kurdish population and a persistent belief in a kurdish state of their own. Does Maya writing call for a return to a state of their own? I wonder since maya thought is not widely distributed and hence what little we know has mostly come out expressed by the EZLN, yet there most be outside thought besides that one. I wonder how these dreams and longings are expressed indeed.

Guatemala is a good case in point, there, the civil war engaged in a blatant carnage against the indigenous people financed and fought by Pentagon planners. Thinking and wanting is a dangerous practice indeed, and what would seem baffling to us, oh, let us say the fact that most of the indigenous people refuse to partake in such institutionalized practices that any citizen or active member of society takes for granted such as registering you child, or registering to vote are indeed a sort of message to government which refuses to understand its own subjects if you will. Is government by the people for the people at work here then? Whose interest are then government protecting here? Even if its citizens refuse to vote government has an obligation to its citizens of all persuasions. Government is government regardless if it has voter legitimacy or not because government will rule with or without said legitimacy. Why does then government refuse to listen to the indigenous population in Mexico? It doesn’t seem to mind the money that it collects from tourism which is connected to indigenous practices, never mind giving back a little that it collects back the community.

All in all there isn’t a case for not listening to Chiapas inhabitants and their demands, so why the deaf ear? Government has failed to address the needs of the people there and furthermore it is on the verge of acting unconstitutionally and violating its own law, never mind that art.39 has not been heeded for fear of setting a precedent but I believe that government should indicate a more willingness than it has shown so far. It should see eye to eye with the leaders of said communities and partake more and more in the lives of all mexicans in general.

Well, it’s been a sort of Mexicano week this early in august late summer and I don’t know how that fits in there but ‘late summer’ is what the Swedes call august … so yeah, Mexicans came by, all dressed in their scottish skirts and bagpipes, I believe they’re called that over there in those other Highlands. As the very insensitive newsreporter from our local, and I mean local in all its real potential, said, but so what if they’re Mexican… that’s the spirit *says grinning very seriously …*

The thing is that dudes from the capital of my wonderful and stupendous country (go ahead, you can say that about your own country and get away with it …) decided some moons ago to build a bagpipe band and yes it became a Scottish one at that, then by some weird twist of history, as I was told by one of its members, they wanted to find a connection between Mexico and the Celtic world.

As it so happens, when the now USA that we all know didn’t have those famous states such as Texas and California, a war broke out given birth to those states in a new union. I say that because Mexico is a union as well. During the bloody battle that left many bittered parts tills this day on, back then some very conscientious Catholics felt remorse about killing their fellow brethren in the battlefield so they switched sides …

Yes, you guessed it, they were Scots and Irish men who turned their backs against the USA to whom, by the byes, are traitors and to us, Mexicans and Chicanos alike are heroes. Suffice to say that’s where the connection came in and even congress in the Mexican United States hired them once to commemorate said battles …

So yeah, that happened here in my part of town, in a small city called Eksjö which is celebrating its annual Tattoo festival.

And today about 20 of us mexican residents are gathering in Sweden’s little Jerusalem, known by its real name, Jönköping for a little meal of sorts and chit chat off course.

Now that doesn’t happen so often …

There is a certain texture about a day that begins with slight greyish opaque clouds and nippy air, you notice how silence gradually turns colder as you becomes aware of the day’s atmosphere. It is one of the few calm and tranquil aspects of the landscapes I am made to experience here in this lonely village, up in the Highlands of Sweden. As I awake to the everyday, not a few number of those mornings turn out to be just like that, there is a quietness that engulfs one and the noiseless streets and still trees suddenly become silent partners in a framed still life.

It is these mornings that make me realize how common and everyday my life is, amidst the blue skies behind the thick clouds drifting away to unknown welkins leaving only its humidity in the immovable air. Once in a while this quietude is torn asunder by the passing of a car on its way to somewhere, leaving behind a disconcerted and deeply in thought mexican man who awakens from a deafening and pacifying atmosphere.

I turn my gaze to the window where the pine trees are forming rows upon rows of trees in an up and down triangle spike like form and a wide open space for cultivation is visible, a few stacks of rolled hay in white plastic dot the field, the green seems wet as it is a deep dark verdure giving one the impression that there is an element of water at hand in its looks.

I slowly walk towards the front porch and I feel the wind caressing me with its crispy fresh hand as the chime sounds its metal clinging to evoke a chinese, japanese, oriental paradaise some distance away and I feel how the temperature is far from mild, closer to fresh yet chilly enough coming from indoors. This very texture brings to mind a sort of seclusion, a fragile apparent solitude that surrounds my senses and which can be broken any second; life is such, still and raucous and me inbetween.

I remember one conversation I had with an acquaintance of mine at Stockholm University. The English department there has a farewell party to close the end of the semester and since I usually am alone, this time too without fail I was alone. I went to the gathering where teachers and alumni mingled with each other in an atmosphere of smoke, laughter, beer and little groups of people with 80’s music blaring nostalgia and oozing yore out its loudspeakers.

As I was alone, and unusual and sad looking spectacle in a society that abhors that kind of sights, I walked in to the place were said event was taken place which for the most part happens at a house-bar called Gula Villan.

Since I am no stranger to most of the people there I did get some greetings and looks as I entered and headed for the bar to get a cheap beer, because that is what one gets in that place, as is advertised that way by the way. Some of them were classmates during the semester and from past semesters as well.

My acquaintance came up to me, greeted me and proceeded to ask me if I came along with someone to which I promptly said no. However, she was with a whole group of people as company who sat out in the lawn and chatted away the early pre-midsummer evening in turns.

As she, according to me, felt pity for me, she invited me to be with her and her group. However, I mistook said invitation to meant a conversation with her. So there I go, along with a beer in my hand and a conversation partner along. However no sooner had we sat down that strange looks began to appear in her eyes to indicate me to join in the group.

She began, simply put, to get uncomfortable with the idea that we were having a conversation aside from the group that she had been previously partaking in and I’m sure that her friend’s constant neck turning to hear what we were talking about while the rest of the group paid attention to itself and laughters which could be heard outloud didn’t contribute to appease her preoccupation. Her whole body exuded nervousness and quite frankly I couldn’t finish my beer fast enough, the whole thing was a cultural clash of supernova proportions. I drank my beer, excused myself and said I had to tuck in early. I think that both of us were relieved that the ‘situation’ had finally passed by, I got up and I parted as I came, alone.

Am in utter disbelief that it’s Thursday already, I mean, like yeah, speechless, you know? I woke up and there it was, in yerface! You rise and it’s like, you know, what day is it? and wam! there you have it, someone makes you realize that it’s Thursday, you know? It’s like dumbfounding to know it, I mean, then you start wondering why is it that you’re a day behind, It felt like a Wednesday, early in the week, fresh and perky, nearly having birds chirping in the dawn, slurping the morning dew in the background but nope, it’s Thursday and all the weight of four unaccounted days of your protestant life goes down the waste basket of your Gregorian calender time and up your humpback like a ton of unloaded crap; am just glad that all in all I only regret that I didn’t live up Wednesday more than I did but then again here I am mourning Wednesday on a Thursday …If I could just feel the same way I did before I realized that it was Thursday I think I can get back on the tracks of my time absent mind ….

The relation between me and the arts has been quite diffuse at best. I like to go to museums which tend to house large numbers of paintings because I admire painters and curiously enough I’ve been to several cemeteries and seen some tombs of quite a number of famous writers. History then is a big part of this acculturation process that seems to be an integral part of my life. In my head, a number of writers have significantly influenced me while others I just like them because of their lifestyles and their convictions which have moved me; painters on the other hand have moved me by the motives they’ve chosen to depict and curiously they seem to express their political motivations in them, a few of them have even written about it such as Salvador Dali’s Dali by Dali originally given out in French and in very quixotic terms and thoughts that house contradictions, a trait I seem to be very fond of lately.

Although some paintings are well renowned for their active and forceful depicting of gross human affairs, like Picasso’s Guernica, other ones, mostly Germans, do it through a curious way that interpretation is done almost exclusively for and by academic circles. Paul Klee’s Revolution des viaduktes is the most recent example I have in mind. This type of protest is subversive at best, hidden and difficult to manifest itself in the public eye. This sort of art leaves one wondering about the belief some painters have regarding the interpretations the unconscious has on the rest of the self which consciously reacts to what the unconscious digests in secret. Yet as I recall my infancy, during my elementary school years in Tijuana, in the Alba Roja school by Third Street now a school long gone and replaced by some ugly modern contraption I remember seeing a deer with a human head in my first grade classroom, years later, when I had become acquainted with some of my own culture’s treasures, I realized that what my child’s eyes had seen was Frida Khalo’s el Peque?o Venado (1946) am almost dead certain that it attracted me because to a child a deer with a human head would most indeed catch ones attention, specially one that has been pierced with 9 arrows.

Paintings however are a new sort of inculcation for me, what really got my brain wondering about the importance of culture has been literature and the ‘classics‘. I wonder where did this admiration for famous books got started. Did it start by reading comic books? Did it start in school, elementary? How did this avid interest increase, did I became enthralled by what I read and by what others said about said books? No doubt there was an interest awaken when somebody else highlighted the importance of those works of letters. I fear, however, that social status had also a hand in this …

My interest for the classics arose most certainly due to an influence a friend of mine placed on me. His name is José and he used to hang out at a bookstore that sold second hand comic series and other cheap novels that folk in México tend to wharf down like hot salsa tacos after painting the town red. In the store that housed series after series of all kinds of Revistas as they are called, and where folk have a stop in their routine chores like buying milk and other stuff, he sat (or stood) there and read for free the used and very much reread purple novellettes. Inevitably, as I spent more time with my best friend I came to hang out there too. It must’ve of been through conversations were the ego is mostly exposed to such showmanships that I was impressed about the knowledge that it was necessary to have in order to have a good conversation or at the very least sound interesting to others. An ear being the most important object in peoples lives, I wasn’t about to let myself go unsurpassed, I wanted attention too, surely, I guess, that’s how it all started.

Some of the Spanish blogs I read and which I keep in my Spanish/spanglish weblog seem kinda strange for this blokehead called J. It is so weird (yes it’s a neologism) that I feel am intruding in a circle where anyone else but the voices in it are part of it. It’s been six months since I entered the TJ sphere and for the most part were looking at a circle of artists, news writers and apparently some are writers which like to hang around with themselves and thus form a certain type of closed circle. There aren’t that many joe average blokes out there. I know my city and it is highly much like the rest of the country, un pais de contrastes, so most of the blogs in that clique are middle class people with their own values, and of very good families, there are about 30 to 40 such blogs and happily, they do not represent the mil or so inhabitants of Tijuana. Like I said, I just feel intrusive, at first I was delighted to find so many blogs that had to do with my city but no sooner I started to read them in earnest that I discovered that they are very conscious of the vocabulary they use, I can just imagine the pressure to adjust to a certain type of code of conduct between themselves and therefore careful of what they write about. At one one I even had to defend spanglish because they so rabidly were dead set against it.

There are very few blogs out there that do speak as if they were out there, in the streets, that is the vocabulary I seek, and every now and then I find a word here and there that confirms my own vocabulary. My social background growing up in my city was of very humble origins, my grandmother had a very modest curious shop in a jungle full of capitalist savages, her being single and raising two children and lived most of the times near the border so money wasn’t really an issue when it came to food but other pleasantries in life were of course a more luxurious event, it sort of reminds me of Edmund Gosse’s child rearing but without the religion involved. Anyways, the point being is that I for one do not feel like I can relate to their values at all and in fact produces anxiety in me whenever I read them, I just can’t seem to swallow their experiences without criticizing them. It’s a clash of values am sure.

I am glad that Tijuana has so many talented youth to represent her and am sure that they are doing a fine job out there in doing their expose’s and I hope the very best for them since they are doing exactly what I would have done so as well had I had the same opportunities as they have. It goes to show that my city is growing in wealth and not just materially but in people who are proud of her as well …

Go Tijuana!

It wasn’t anymore the suns rays which shone goo like light on cracked up faces that became the center of attention of his obsessed eyes that’s for sure; no, the purplish neon lights in his apartment did the daily life chores that amusement provided and consequently bothered him for their obvious necessity in life to move on. His list of intrinsic complaints aobut life read like a monk’s desire to seclusion in Nirvana.

He begrudged meal times, hunger pangs being a distraction from the rest of his pursuits; whenever his penis would turn hard the agony was to much to bear at times and he loathed all the ensuing activity required to get back on track; sleep, baggy eyes, and a weak body yearning to lay down sent futile signals to his brain for a pause in activities, and he fought effortlessly to keep awake to no avail, nuisance he thought of it.

His superhuman soul search considered such carnal demands obstacles in his life long quest to continue on and on, awake, on an intellectual pursuit of the mind.

Industrial deco design goods cluttered the four spartan walls on his 5th ave apartment in the 800 populated village of his. A swash shadow that liken Gotham darkness covered the tranquil going small town of his whenever he peeked through the blinds of his drawn curtains.

Martin Estrada Canberry was born on an August evening in the star spangled skies of the Florida everglades.

Recently I have made some observations regarding my own writing:

1.- Interpretation is everything: How I interpret is what counts and my contribution to the text. I nearly kicked myself on the butt when I realized that one, duh! like I have been making interpretations since day one, I mean, am a trilingual now!

2.- Writing is a descriptive chore, I am in the business of description and that for others, it is a blatant lie that I am writing for my self, it is an utterly and hedious misconception to myself to accept that as a truth, I write not for me. What I do do is control and have a say in the manner I conduct such description.

Of lately, oh, let us say since Bush’s war with Irak, this blog has been ranting about war issues and what are my interpretation of world affairs. I have come to realize that it is time to make a leaf turn or said more appropriately, to turn a leaf. I wanna concentrate more on my poems and fiction writing, I hope I stay the course …

Ok, back from France …and yes pissed off too!

Do I ever have a bone or two to pick with them. So there am I, and do they even care to speak English? No! They refuse adamantly to even utter a single word from that language which has so much vocabulary that those bastards left when they invaded Normandy. I mean they are so fuc… ugh! I left bitter, I mean don’t even try and buy a piece of bread in English cause you’ll meet the very wall we so jokingly say in jest that one meets with hard headed heads. And get a load of this, even when you address them in English they insistently continue to speak to you in that wretched language of theirs they call French, no offense out there to those of French origins but French folk have a lesson or two to learn when dealing with joe average, I mean if they have a fight to pick with Anglo speakers, hey! take it to them!

So yeah, I retorted to my good faithful Spanish to subjugate them, literally, I swear!

-Here, dame uno de esos!
-Pardon mua monsieur?
-Pardon my ass, dame uno de esos pendejo …!

After hearing my not so docile Spanish many just grimaced and acquised to my desires…

At times I just spoke money, an international language it seems, but I fear I could have been ripped off more than a few times, but I hope no more than 5 euros or so …

What is the blogsphere?

That seems to be the reigning question out there, everyone tries to contend with it or answer it.

What is life?

There is also this thing about definition, what is a blog?

Blah, blah, blah … amazingly enough there is someone doing research on this very topic, academia talk … gotta love it, anyways, why am typing all of this, hum, it all seemed so clear in my head as I sat in the loo, as the Brits are wont to say, thinking about world affairs, the state of world peace and my handy dandy solutions for an everlasting safe and sound environment answer to planet pollution, way before I sat fingers to keyboard, hum, I know I had something utterly vital to say about my self therapeutic rehab attempts …

Oddly enough it seemed to do with the curios phenomena of time. I know I haven’t posted anything to my English blog and it seems like eons ago I posted anything, yet the last time I did was Thursday. Curios, off course time in the internet is another whole ball field. You think you got 24 hours to post anything again anywhere in the vicinity of decency yet the weird aspect is that what this blog reads as one hour I experience another one. Different time zones allow for breathing room and yet, and yet, still give me ample space to keep up with the discipline character that I’ve imposed on myself.

Still, that’s just half of what I wanted to write about …dang!

I got the English bug in me.

Would you believe that an English man came to my door to day? and that he had visited my hometown, loveable Tijuana and been to Rosarito? Believe it. A ordered some stuff over the net (on/over the net? hum …) and it got delivered today. I didn’t figure him out for a foreigner although he wasn’t blond nor white (tanned perhaps?), I just listened to the Swedish and it didn’t ring or raised any flags that he was alien, as I. ( Americans say alien, so that micas, some sort of ID card that states your residence in the US, carry the legend Legal Resident Alien)

However, he certainly picked up I spoke English by the Swedish I spoke. That always manages to surprise me, that people can pick up that am an English speaking person by the accent in my Swedish, I mean, considering that my real first mother tongue is Spanish, although I claim to have two mother tongues, Spanish came first) you’d think that people would hear Spanish substrates in my Swedish instead. It makes me blush with pride, I love it when people hear that in me. Anyways, suddenly two foreigners where speaking English in my kitchen front door, him and I. I didn’t ask him where he was from in the UK, but his coming tomorrow to deliver the package he meant to deliver today, the thing is that he wanted money we didn’t have in the house, so he’s coming tomorrow, I’ll ask him then where in heavens tarnation is he from.

It turns out he has visited my town, dang, I mean, what are the chances that that would happen today? In the village I live in, speaking English and about my town, I was impressed, I know, it’s the little things that count, but hey! you’d be surprised too if you lived right smack in the middle of nowhere and be an alien in it …sheesss …

He used to smoke pot like a motherfucker, all the time and loved metal, that boy had cassette after cassette of metal from all kinds of bands from all over the world. He was a head banger if that term still exist. Somehow he used to maintain his cool which used to bring bouts of jealousy from my part, I wanted to be like him, off course, I wasn’t. He had everything: money, no work, just fun and play. He was good at math and came from Bolivia, he was a Chinese of sorts and spoke Spanish, if you took a good look you couldn’t figure him out for Bolivian, gringos from Redwood City wouldn’t make him out for a Latin American, no way in hell they figured that out, fucking gringos they can’t see the world in more than black and white, for all their color naming they are actually color blind when it comes to Latin Americans, for that matter I’m too, but once you see’em hanging out with the Hispanic crowd then you know he’s gotta speak Spanish, besides, there’s this vibe all Hispanics feel when one of theirs is around, so it didn’t fail to turn up in my radar once I spotted him. So I used to go his house ‘cause of this Spaniard from Basque country that bought himself American citizenship with false papers once an amnesty for illegal immigrants kicked in 1988. He claimed to have worked in the fields, picking tomatoes or what not, stuff gringos don’t usually do. The now defunct INS bought it, it only costed him 500 bucks, he had bought the letters from a crooked farming business that made tons selling letters ascertaining that said person worked there then and then, motherfucking Spaniard, never seen a field in his life, that’s all, two years later he was a full blooded American Citizen, anyways, I knew him that way, he was a roommate of the Spaniard. There are only two things I remember about him, he used to brag that he didn’t know where or how his parents earned their money and perhaps the most revealing part he left me, he said once to me: how can you explain the color orange to a blind person, describe it then!

I was impressed …

- No. final, that’s it, I won’t accept any other outcome.
- Am afraid things have changed.
- You were told exactly how the outcome was to be accomplished.
- Certain unexpected events arose during the execution of the command.
- Were there any non-friendlies around?
- Those that were were properly dealt with.
- Good.

The office of the 78th floor on 4th street was ample, the carpets white and as Victor rose from his leather chair behind his mahogany desk, he lit a Cuban cigar. His face became bright with the flames of the cigarette lighter and casted whirling shadows as he lifted his eyes to meet those of his worker. His workers were used to this ceremonious walk and remained still as Victor proceeded to walk around his employee. From behind his employee’s back, he let out cigar smoke, puffing very loud and clear, much like a tiger would growl encirculating his prey before the kill.

The bright light that I saw
when you were born, as I felt overwhelmed with love and tears rolled down my cheeks,
I realized one thing …life

Through the legends and the words of my land, I felt their hate, I became aware of them, of those other lands, of the injustice inflected upon us.

Through their love of beauty I aspired to reach their goals.

One fate-full day I left running, leaving all that behind, and a family sick worried about me.

I went to those foreign lands that our narrators of yore tell about in our mother tongue.
I saw those places, now long traversed; now being traversed …

Little by little, as I saw and lived amongst those people my folk and kindred so ill spoke of, I began to see their dreams along the dreams of the land of my birth.

In the along I questioned my origins and the very voices that gave me an identity. I wondered out loud whether I was who my people said I was. (Was my mind freed?)

For every sojourn I undertook: left behind was the time I spent there; in return my luggage was heavy with memories of theirs, remembering how for a while I was one of them.

People too, wondered: whence cometh I ?, so many times, that I lost myself and began seeing me as much as they did.

(To the contrary) In an effort to recuperate a sense of being I became more like my ancestors: I lived like I thought they lived just to exercise how they were; how I used to be; how I am.

( Nowadays, it seems at times) All I have left is my one and only remaning value anyone can associate itself with me: life.

In English I am a rabid atheist. I frankly don’t believe in the paranormal when it is told in the English language even though my mexican culture is filled with it, however, told in Spanish, I am more prone to believe it.

The belief systems are of another kind in these languages. The belief system in Spanish has an aura like attitude towards it. Usually what happens is that when you hear a story about a paranormal event in Spanish it happens through a medium that has been used through centuries in our culture: oral narration. This puts you face to face with the narrator and hence, I believe the belief trigger is more apt to accept said events ‘as probable’. ( notice that even as a write this in English my attitude is one of resistance) In English, it usually doesn’t happen that people tell each other those kind of stories, face to face, unless you are at campfire and even there it occurs collectively. It so happens that when one does come across those paranormal stories they tend to occur in the third person and distant from one, prepackaged in nice little news bits and therefore more liable to be questionable.

For those of you who are monolinguals this would seem quite odd indeed, because it raises several questions no doubt but most importantly, what does this fragment say about language, belief, and how the brain works?

First of all, how is it possible to believe in paranormal activity in one language but no the other? Alas! The human constitution is not as stable as one might possibly think, just as the planet with its seemingly stable and daily routine gives us the impression that everything remains the like forever so does the body. The truth is that the planet can go haywire any minute of our lives, the poles can change, and earthquakes can hit us and change the course of our lives in just a second. The body with its many liquids and chemicals are like the ocean under the influence of the moon, except that in our case every other human being we meet are each one of those like a moon rotating around us and under the pull of our gravity.

This can most easily be proven if you are abroad, regardless of the country that you are from the minute you leave it one amazing thing begins to happen: you begin to see and recognize your own kind. It is a feat that it is nearly dormant and occurs only every now and then in your place of birth, you can tell when someone is a foreigner. Abroad this sort of recognition radar has a mystical aura to it. I believe that establishes how the body is not as consistent as it might seem although language might give the illusion that things are firm, monolinguals seem more prone to stick to one sort of belief in practice, they might read about others but not incorporate it.

The curios thing about languages is that there are image carriers and therefore agents of change. When a bilingual is raised its not only passively taking in words and an accent free language, it is also taking in adaptation methods to deal with the many contrast that exist between cultures, for example, I carry the Mexican and American culture within and they are deeply rooted in my soul. This has produced a middle ground in me that it is referred to by many as Chicanismo. The thing is that the human soul cannot exist too long in caos and a sense of normalcy must abide every now and then therefore the culture clash that every Chicano/Chicana experiences is felt to be safer blending these two cultures to form one. Chicanos are most readily able to accept change and adaptation because that is their life training, finding the middle ground. Experience dictates as well how one is to react with the other, mores are like etiquette books for us, that is why we can change culture norms in the snap of a finger, or as linguists prefer to call it: code-switch. It is hence, possible for me to believe that in Spanish, which has a long history of telling paranormal stories to its children ( la llorana for example) to believe that this sort of thing happens since one is inculcated into it. On the other hand fairy tales and santa claus are disseminated and dissected for their belief as early as 7 years of age, we are trained in English to start questioning those stories and argue vehemently that they are not “real”. A factor I believe has more to do with evangelists fervent impulse and influence on American society to root out all evil in all aspects of society.

What it says about the brain is that the brain is elastic and gooey-like and thus able to function within several or more ways of dealing with life and its myriad manifestations so-called cultures. The brain then is independent from culture and thus more universal than one can imagine, the brain is not the property of any one society; how we incultate the brain manifests itself in the way we react and respond to each other. The brain is religions worst enemy, one would safely conclude since it can betray faith in all manners, perhaps that is why many revolt at the very idea of changing religions, it sickens them not because they abandoned their faith but because they too can fall prey to the brains brainy ideas of independence from the yoke of unilateralism.

The distance between you and me isn’t much;
Your freedom, say the Americanos, stops where your nose begins.
I miss, missing is wanting, to covet.
The monarch is an immigrant.
Do they too yearn after the forest in Michoacán?
Or are they happy in Canada too?
Perhaps they like the ride more than the stops ….

I read in a computer magazine that they sell at Kvantum that weblogging is the hottest new thing around, could it be? Frankly it worries me when things get popular because the minute it skyrockets in the media’s front pages it means that the new darling of the press will soon fall to its demise.

Weblogging for me is a practice thang to keep abreast with my writing skills and a demonic tendency to believe that I might actually publish something some day, if only I could figure out in what godforsaken language I should do it.Writing in three languages is like having multiple personality disorder, really, one body and three different people acting all very weirdly.

It is a gigantic task to be able to say the only one thing you have to say and believe that you have three different ways of saying it. I’ve discovered that it principle if I have something to say it becomes very difficult to come up with something more original than that even though it was said in a different language, Its repetitious, really.

I wanna write and I wanna become a writer, even a shabby one ..erh …I think am that already, but really, I wanna… I just don’t know how.

We might go to Paris, I never been there, but Paris has certainly been inside of me for a long time. It all started with Pepe Le Pew , a Warner Bros cartoon character that enthralled us with his amorous stints and failed attempts to get a lover, he tried that French voice of his. For a while I thought that love was a French domain, way before I discovered that it really belongs to the Latin family which comprises of all that which has Latin roots. America’s infatuation with France is always a love affair. Lingerie, champagne, perfumes et cera …! When I think of Paris I inevitable think of the Eiffel tower. France is such a strange place, to the point that I never in the world might of thought that I be there, maybe ….

France … I have a luggage full of prejuicios as we say in Spanish. Cinco de Mayo, Maximilian and Carlota, Sinaloco et cera.

France also has the charm of being an old enemy. Well, inasmuch as English is my language I know the chisme between the English and the francophones …gosh, why is it so difficult to be americano these days ?

On the cover of the book, you can tell he’s flirting. There he is, on the front cover, staring at you, sideways, coquettish almost, with his blurred hands in a pose that exudes calmness and a defiant attitude, just Chicano enough to fool you to believe that it is what you are seeing, a real tromp d’oiel. Near his Indian looking face there is the word Brown. You know it’s subliminal, he’s toying with raza, you know brown is for us like red is for indians. He is actually not even that brown as the cover of the book presents him.

I feel he wants to get closer to his xente, there are too many words in his recent book that have those extras that english doesn’t have and that Spanish abounds with, little accents and other orthographic niceties, I mean why in the world would he otherwise employ the diaeresis in naïve? Or accent other words? Then there is the word “discovery”, yes, in quotations, you know that has been a darling word in raza speech for years.

I’m not done withya yet Richardito …

Meanwhile, at the paper company where paper for stocks are made a Q & A was taking place …

- When the stars shone ..that’s when.
- Any particular motive as to why just then?
- Look Ed, the guy is a fraud, there is nothing more to it.
- Here, take my handkerchief., you seem to be developing a sweat in your forehead.
- Jaja, very funny.
- Exactly when did you see them like that together?
- I’m distraught, can’t you see?
- I see what you mean, but I, in as much as I sympathize with your emotions, the company requires of me to record all activity that took place prior to the incident.
- “incident”? is that what they’re calling it?
- I really don’t have time, if you want to I can send some other people to …
- Fine!, I caught them in there with their clothes nearly off, my girlfriend laughing and the guy sweating like a hog, there, happy!?
- Just procedure Mark, some valuable paper was destroyed in the ensuing passion and now they have to pay for it ….

I think I finally figured it out, I mean it’s like I have spent thousands upon thousands of neuron cells, good ones too, prima qualité, on the issue. I just couldn’t come to it by any other means, beer, cigarettes and the like erh, forget the like. I just felt like crap and I finally come to a sane and probable cause as to the root of said evil. I’m married and most of the people I hang out with are single. I naturally get a conflicting reaction when I come across them.

This is a nightmare of sorts. People actually wonder what am I doing in their solo midsts. It’s not my fault, I swear to God, but I forget what savage world the single scene can be, everybody is on the hit move. Heat too. The sad truth is that I get accused of hitting on girls just for talking to them, you think am paranoid? Just try and have a normal beer and a normal conversation in a bar anywhere in Sweden and all sorts of paranoia sprouts like wild weed on a hot humid summer day.

Girls will inevitably start wondering why am I even bothering to listen to them when I’m, I believe it to be so, having a common conversation. “Right …” goes through the mind of the now half drunken girl, “you want me!” What the?

Ok, time to go to my wife and kids …nice talking, I think, to you …

It is this sort of paranoia shit I have to put up with some of my friends, I swear to God, I need some real married couple friends to avoid these sort of single entrapments …

Ok, little by little I’ve managed to notice some things about my writing. The energy I place on the subjects I like need to be taken into account in which language they sound best …not.

Reading some of the articles on Chicano English (ChE) has been quite the rewarding event. It seems, first of all that there isn’t really a consensus about whether there is such a thing as ChE, typical isn’t it? Worse yet the bickering that we have out there in our big family about what to call us seeps all the way through academic papers in linguistics as well. So far I’ve read about three articles on it and they use everything from Che, MAE (Mexican American English) to English of people of mexican descent …jejeje qué mamones really. Anyways, the features for ChE is unlike AAVE. They (AAVE) speak a dialect but we seem to still be out in the patent office somewhere held up, apparently what researchers are befuddled about is the constant input of Spanish in our English.

Unlike the a-prefixing that dominates in AAVE, or third personal use of pronouns and possessives amongst other features typical of AAVE, (ChE) has only to its favor the prosody, that is, the way we talk when no gringo is around.

So the big question is still out there, is our english a dialect or not? Can I say, with all assurances, ” órale homes, I speaketh Chicano English ese …” ?

The buzzwords here are interference, code-swithching, and other bilingual goodies.

Granted, but my research ain’t done yet …so hold your breath while I see how we incorporate our special kind of English into the national conscious of the USA.

Fluffy grey cotton hovering over my head
endarken the grey matter in my brain.
My humor becomes inswept by a melancholic ghost of yore
who showers a song about water over my head.
I scuba dive this deep crazy mood,
engulfing me in a tormented soul
I knoweth no longer.
Yet 70% of me flies high into the sky.

My brain longs after it. It’s like wanting to be filled, to feel full again, but with what? Am I the world swallower, Galactus, from the X-men series? To an extent yes, writers do create entire worlds, don’t they? I crave it, you know? A story, I want one, it’s been a while, I need my fill, please, something classical of preference, something that has been established as a story, I tend to disregard new models of story telling. Don’t ask me why, it’s just that I feel that I haven’t even come out of the 19th century at times, and the fact is most of the best literature was written in those days. Nowadays very few writers are as exciting as those from the beginning of the 19th century; nowadays writers are just concerned with money, and they don’t live out their lives as writers did then. Richard Holmes is one of those very few who meet my stringent criteria for such writers, being that he is a modern writer in the sense that he is alive, David Lodge is intelligent. Nothing more, there is nothing artistic about him. On the other hand I could be dead wrong and he be an artist of highest rank.

I get these cravings for literature when I’ve worked on linguistics. It’s as if I’ve famished my lit side of the brain, I haven’t managed to convince that side of the values inherent in having a linguistic powerhouse as one’s ally.

Dressed in black
A wicked half circle on your mouth
Dragging your feet
10 minutes before doomsday
Dirty laundry stacking up
putriding morals lay unhung
Wilst propaganda laughs all the way …
Wake up !

Light through the windows
Air by the night
A single breeze swooshes the silver green curtains
My skin gets goose bumps
I sip a drink of life
as my eyes slowly close down its eyelids
I whiff the currents of passion running like wild horses through my veins
Naked as I am I leave my soul to return to my flesh

The nascent grass
From the window of an Iron Horse,
gives life through the windows of my soul.
I get nourished
by the infrared light
that decides like the many colors the sun gives to a rainbow
how I see the world

Literature for me is one of those things that nearly compel me to continue writing, except that every time I feel the compulsion I realize I don’t have what it takes. Or at the very least ‘am not ready’ mantra envelops any hope of or attempt at writing. Am practicing for God knows what. I used to half jokingly tell me that I continue to write so that at the very least I learn how to write a good letter, but there is an unconscious impulse at works here, I am headed to ‘somewhere’ it’s just that I won’t know until I get there. I think that am barely getting the ropes or hang of the writing craftsmanship, and therefore need more time, but more time for what?

I don’t like to believe it but more and more am leaning towards it: am not 20 anymore thus I can’t write poetry with that energy that seems to permeate other peoples work. I know that am wrong, and its an excuse to attribute my failed attempts at this ancient art, I just can’t seem to juggle it well. I’m not loosing hope though, there is something about poetry that I want, I want to wrangle images with language.

Today I came across some info about the way Chinese Americans have to adapt their writing methods to fit those of America and I must say I liked what I read. It turns out that Chinese culture doesn’t allow for the writer to logically give away the story as we are want to here in the West, no, no, it’s not allowed at all, the writer is to make the reader think and, get a load of this, no two readers shall have the same interpretation of said work. The writers task is then to force the reader to be an active partaker of the story. Quite fascinating stuff coming from the East I tell you …

The windows are dirty;
doors whose hinges are rusty;
crackling wood eaten by termites;
The sun eating away at the paint;
My feet are not as might as I thought.

The windows are dirty;
doors whose hinges are rusty;
crackling wood eaten by termites;
The sun eating away at the paint;
Today I woke up and my head was not as might as I thought.

Behind our eyelids
We long
Strange worlds
Uncommon to none

Let it be us
you and I
Who lift lids
Of those to come
Welcome them within
wake their ids

Wake up say !
Partake, undertake
Assert yourself !

I don’t understand how is it possible to explain that literature has many manifestations but only one way to teach it. I read and read that this technique does this and that for this effect and that outcome. I can see that hence I can learn it. I am totally contrarian to the idea of stripping art of its unconscious aspects and turn it into a mechanized tool to be toyed with. One thing was to learn that authors that I considered nearly God-like because of what they wrote to be nothing more than artisans who knew how to use a tool and hence far removed from what I would deem demi-gods of the mortal world. This was a devastating truth that I wasn’t ready to see yet I saw it. I understand it yet there is a resistance within me to believe that texts that I have enjoyed have been nothing more than Aristolean tricks to move me into pathos. There must be something called pure art, I don’t know where it is but if they say that imitation is the highest form of flattery then I will probably end up doing so as well, how tragic and dreadful it is to live in a world devoid of higher entities, realizing that the only entities we have are those very same ones we construct to believe in.

One of the biggest coups then acted upon humanity was religion making us believe that there is something else out there, we were taken away the right to deify the wooden god, an earthly being for a fantasy-like-being that doesn’t even exist, alas! At least we knew that wood was something tangible.

On the other hand, if the stream of consciousness within literature is to reflect real life then I suppose it is not entirely wrong to use said to tools to manipulate outcomes and produce effects. Real life then is a daily construction of our selves and the tricks we use to make us feel more better about ourselves. This off course, brings a disturbing question beforehand: how conscious are we then of our real lives …?

Ok, so today we nailed the last nail in the CW writing course, and the coffin is slowly going down in the history grounds. I talked to some of the other students about the success of the shop, and pretty much everyone, (about three people) were rather content, to use sophisticated language, with the outcome. It seems people out there really enjoyed the course, off course they were all girls, so I don’t know how biased the opinions were. Most of the Swedish girls seem to treat the teachers as rock stars and as Swedish standards go the real shit really doesn’t start coming out until the grades roll out. Well, suffice to say, our last CW shop brought good healthy advice from a novelist who seems to know the ropes. Lots of tips and the tip of the hat goes out for Jon for allowing this dude to come in and dish out some of his Via Dolorosa experience through the muck that the publishing businesses seem to be reeling in.

Today we close our Creative Writing course. A course that promised to be exciting turned out to be very strange because we were pretty much left to our own devices, sweden is strange in that way, social contacts acquire a near pathological stress whereby contact is akin to confronting your worst fears face to face. Much of the course I spent talking to (few/some/counted with the fingers of my hand) classmates via the internet yet even there the dialogue in the internet is void and empty as much as the real world would be, as it were Sweden is one of those places where conversation is in the primitive stages and they tend to prefer silence for fear of looking dumb. Strange world, I never really end up understanding any of them. Although they seem to master the muscles in their face to convey all kinds of sardonic expressions and to put down people that way, weird, I never in my life thought that a country puts so much utilitarian value to simple words or daily conversations. No wonder they are so stiff.

Ok, so this was supposed to be a CREATIVE WRITING course …the following then is de rigueur: Did I come anywhere close to approach that which is creative?

I think our teacher did a marvelous job in showing us the different genres out there and what is being associated with creative writing nowadays. For the most part, I think this concept has been hijacked by the more radical deconstructionists types who abhor all sorts of form and desperately want out of the straightjacket they seem to believe academia holds on writing as a whole. Some valid arguments, sure, but not entirely, there is some interesting stuff coming out, certainly from the so-called experimental forms which is rapidly becoming its own genre, maybe we’ll even get them out of our hairs for those of us who still prefer the more Aristolean methods.

At any rate, for this course I think that everyone will have a definition as to what creative was/is/will mean henceforth. For me it just meant getting my ideas out of my head, set them down on a piece of paper or punching them in on the computer. Playing around with the effects of the words/scenes/events and placing them here and there was also jolly good fun and certainly showed me loads that I otherwise wouldn’t have noticed so in that m?n,( I just love that Swedish word, for you non-swedes, respect) I think that creative was fairly well accomplished.

Other issues concerning this course that improved my writing was the issue of editing, I can comfortably say that I am better at editing my own stuff, at the very least.

Well, my Creative Writing course is coming to a screeching halt and off course the evaluations will certainly start rolling in as well.

My concern here is not whether my teacher was a good teacher or if the course delivered that which it promised to deliver.

My only concern here is whether I as a student accomplished anything worthy to remember and whether I learned something or not.

The obvious answer is that yes, I learned something, I learned discipline, discipline to write.

Do I write well or any better than when before I started this course?

Hard to say, but writing needs encouragement and I encourage myself to write everyday. Regardless of whether I have something to say or not.

Indeed, that most valuable lesson here is how to write something to say and package it neatly for the consumption of the masses.

Another thing that comes to mind regarding this Creative Writing course is the issue of voice.

The question then is, did I get/find a voice?

In retrospect, I believe my voice has been thoroughly misunderstood. Having recently gone through most of Maxine Hong Kingston’s Woman Warrior it struck me how familiar the tone of the memoir was to me and that was when it struck me: I have a ‘we’ voice as opposed to a western ‘I’ voice. When I address an audience I tend to prefer a ‘we’ collective as opposed to an individual ‘I’ as is most preferred by English speakers. It’s in my culture. I don’t think that too many people at the English institution are aware of this collective ‘I’ that exists within the non-anglo community within the United States. We speak English as fluently as any other folk but we prefer to address a wider collective as opposed an individual.

Hence my voice tends to be militant, rebellious, and accusatory towards a collective that only exists as an ‘I’

Is it really that strange?
stranded, aloof, hungry
By the sea and by the ocean.

I want to spill some words, is it strange? gg

gg __________________—-fg

tfyhdf ? sddr7

No meaning whatsoever, is it odd?

as in oddly enough?

The curios thing about new literature models, whereby form is the goal to avoid, is that no matter what you choose to do, it will still retain some form of unity, regardless of the message stated. The laughable part is that in an effort to construct a world that wants to deconstruct itself is that inevitably it will take shape. The universe with all its glorious chaos still remains in order, the laws seeketh anarchy but anarchy evolves into order sooner or later.

Not U ese

From my humble bag of flesh
my crystal brown eyes
races from yore see wanton destruction

“That nation is evil thinking God is on its side, ”
My ancestors muse from a past where God hasn’t been born.
“claiming earth shall be free, pillaging everything in its path.

Tis the markets that chain people,
while crying shame as the enshacklement begins;
Magically portrayed as liberators
While children starve to death begging for a Wrigley’s chewing gum”

My eyes watch television and my ancestors nod their heads:
As their voice echoes in my veins, they transport a burning flame in this caving madness:

I am not a destroyer of civilizations

C – You see the world as a mirror image of You -

mirror, mirror on the wall …

I am told am not that
Far from being a consumer
Tribes people remain tribes people in my forlorn specks
You are not me

What will you do when the competition comes along to offer a better freedom than yours?
When they start dumping their ideas of a better day
Offering all sorts of liberation
Are you then to turn a ruthless freedom fighter?
Is this world not big enough for two fighter freers?

Shall there be only one?

Recently, that is, fairly recently, Iraki war II, does anybody remember that? the media got embedded we were told, so as to inform us, the public-o about the action involving said parties …. Yeah, right, the issue of self-censorship arose. Later, as things of this nature are want to, we, that is, those of us enough interested in it anyhow … were told that in order to curry favor, some reporters in the White House were willing to touch up their stories and go the way of the West Wing. Nothing surprising there except that the media is probably so self aware that nobody else ’bout a few info yunkies like yours truly here pay attention to those real life truths ….Meta awarenesss of ones market.

Anyhow, it strikes me then that this phenomena extends itself to gazilian other burues (how do you spell that word??? to lazy to loo it up …) might just, I say, might just, but most likely do follow a secret style manual that governments give out, albeit spoonwise, to inform those news bureaus of how they would like to see their words in print …breach that style manual and well, you can see what kinds of reprimands and punishments are at hand.

kiss goodbye freedom of speech, to make your own conclusions and all that nice stuff that democracies are supposed to promote. Access then is limited to a handful few who go by the book …

In other words, by the time we get any news at hand it’s already tinged with government propaganda, remember, whatever the big media thinks, their reporters have to abide by the style manual that those media concerns have which in turn have been influenced by government perks for access to the powers to be … (I can just hear it: choose your words carefully or here are a list of words we prefer to see in print when describing such and such …) nada pendejos los bueyes ….

Cui bono??

I developed a theory about a liaison between the Fifth Column and Government worldwide. I stated in many words what am about to say in less then fifty five: Media and Government engage in a horse trade of words so as to make it palatable both for the government and the public, the media then is out for perks and government out to polish its image thorugh careful selection of words and those that come out and wants to see in print.

How, one might just wonder, is this possible? Well, allow me to put forth a question: have you ever felt gratified that Word Perfect and other types of software that aid in the documentation business, help you in your spelling?

Now imagine this, the media concern, whichever for this purpose, orders a software application for its company, the media concern orders it tailored made, the corrector mechanism is to have its style manual as the correcting alternative.

So the reporter is already being corrupted in its choice of words, he/she are not allowed to choose as the unconscious self is want to do, those words that come right out of their live experience, no, they are already being tainted and censored by the very same software that supposedly aids you in correcting your possible spelling mistakes.

Cui Bono?

From my humble bag of flesh
my crystal brown eyes
races from yore see wanton destruction

That nation is evil
Thinking God is on its side
My ancestors muse from a past long gone
Destroying everything in its path
Claiming Earth shall be free

Tis the markets that chain people
while crying shame as the enshacklement begins
Magically portrayed as liberators
While children starve to death begging for a Wrigley’s mint chewing gum

My eyes watch television and my ancestors nod their heads
As their voice echoes in my veins they transport a burning flame:
I am not a destroyer of civilizations

You see the world as a mirror image of you: mirror, mirror on the wall

Yet I am not that

I do not consume

I let be

You are not me

Recently, we were told that the USA has decided to stop the importation of tuna fish, later we find out that certain companies don’t get awarded this or that contract in punishment of the pre-Irak behavior and for ‘letting down’ the USA.

One of the most disgusting behaviors seen during the pre-war days was the wholesale of the American way of life, we started to bribe countries and the one country most known for corruption didn’t even buy it: México.

Since when, the USA, the beacon of high moral values for the worthy cause of the Pursuit of Happiness is in the business of selling its soul to the devil to accomplish its aims?

Isn’t it so that the very detractors of America saw clay feet? and that’s why they attack the culture we all love? Do we, the culture we built up, have clay feet?

Am beginning to think that maybe, it isn’t the feet, but that hyadra called the bureaucracy …

The USA has no credibility left in the world, in choosing the path of superior strength it has squandered the remaining moral status it had after WWII. Thanks of course to George W Bush who is by far the leading right wing hawk of the world and its fascist allies. I don’t even know how he can even call himself a Christian, his thwarted sense of moral duty is equal to the debts he has, give to Cesar what is rightfully to Cesar said the Lord and that’s what George W is doing ….

I say this because Powell and the rest of the pro-Irak war mongers are touring the world in search of compromise and as the fifth column says, to mends fences. Yet that is but far in the agenda of Bush W, he is already gearing up for the 2004 election and the demeaning is already started for Mexicans living in the USA, we are going to be pitted against our own blood and as usual we are to squabble with a few coconuts. Nonetheless I don’t know what Rumsfeldt and Co.really want , they’re old and they can’t really enjoy more power than they already have, who are the heirs of said empires? Because this is exactly what we are staring at from now on, the building of the first worldwide American empire, Bush W, declared that the war is over, yeah, so what the hell are we still doing in Irak then? We are beginning to colonize the world, because a few in the military Industrial Complex can’t conceive a better way to build things that don’t require oil, that’s why.

the ends justify the means
The USA, Israel, China, Russia, North Korea, England et al mock the means of justice to justify their ends …

The gutter smells so much nicer this time of year …

It seems to me, since I have experienced it and lived it, that when it comes to writing, the essence, the emotion of what you want to say is independent of language. For me, at least, this is proof that what I feel is a pure an unique feeling which is separate from language.

I say this because in the past couple of days I have been busily engaged only with one of my mother tongues, Spanish. Curiously enough, since I feel that I need to write everyday in all my languages to improve said skills, that is writing skills, when I get to the point of wanting to write in English, I don’t know if it is due to exhaustion or laziness, but I feel that I have said that which I needed to have said for that day.

If that is the case, then there is really no point to the argument that one language is better than the other to express this or that since the core source of inspiration is the inner self, independent of language …

Of course, this feeds well in to my argument that the written language is in the stone ages, why? because it leaves one sorely unsatisfied that that which we wanted to express via written ways falls short of telling all …

Being Chicano is a sense of essence you see

I couldn’t belong to this idea of democracy because I am what exactly what your idea of democracy demands from you: that you churn out rebels.

I am a rebel, a thief, a frito bandido and I am aware because you gave me free will.

I may come back on occasion and I appreciate you giving me awareness as much as a Cheyenne appreciates you for giving him civilization you see, and it’s funny that you attribute my awareness as your God given gift to me because that is exactly what you always stated: you came to give but instead you came to take and you took and that is whay I can’t belong to you and I know I don’t belong to you because you can’t make buñuelos ni champurrados nor tamales, so there.

Things to do tomorrow: Stop believing in the USA

I firmly believe that the bible is the devil’s prima facie work

Capitalism is dead …

More and more I see the fascists future

The very chains that capitalism promised to unshackle melted into iron bars

Prisons, security and more policing to protect free markets

Oh! dear friend of mine
now that the war is over
& your moral qualms gone
can we go second-hand shopping
for discarded goods
and old fashions to wear?

There is a masquerade tonight
it’s really no biggie
we’ll just have to put up a charade
nothing you haven’t done before
can you do that for me?

The aisle was carpeted with a carpet named Yielding Effects and the color was, according to an old catalog my mom had left behind, Oriental Jade. The walls bore paintings from the family’s efforts to inculcate their children artistic talent that only now stand there as testimony to their good intentions and their immense faith they had on their children. Family photos also hung here and there of relatives now gone to better pastures. In the middle of the aisle stood an eighteenth century mahogany longcase Grandfather clock with a rocking ship in the dial and a quarter-chiming movement that used to bring shrieking screams from my mother every time we rushed by the aisle to get to the table during dinner time. It was her pride and joy and only remnant of a past she never tired to remind us of. It now stands there marking the hours as it always has done, ticking away the light of the sun and welcoming the shadows of the night, collecting dust by the minute every day.

To a larger degree, this very aisle has been witness to many an historical and turning point in the affairs of our family and also a silent onlooker to many a fight between mon and dad and we siblings. The trip to Cantabria reached a final decision right here, by the copy painting of Monet’s Waterlilies, Green Reflection, Left Part. Over there, by Toulouse-Lautrec’s The Toilette poster, bought during a small sojourn mother took in Paris, my sister fainted because, as we lesser beings unaware of the mysteries of womanhood later found out, she’d been then 7 weeks pregnant already.

Maybe the reason for this flurry of activity in an aisle was due to our bathroom being there. Many screams to hurry up were shouted on top of our throats to the door and yet here I stand now, in front of it, alone at last, and somehow It doesn’t feel the same….

Just then a voice from the distance interrupted his thinking – ” Are you coming George?”

- Wait a sec hon … I’ll be right there. George walked into the bathroom and took a piss, zipped up fast and then headed for the car.

- Boy! Why do you always have to take so long every time we stop at your mom’s old house? I mean every time we stop here you always seem to take an eternity for just taking a piss ..

- Just drive hon, just drive …

Well, suffice to say my spanish blog has sucked a lot of time out of me and it’s because my blog community is so responsive to the text I write and I believe I have developed a sort of friedship with some of them. Well, after all they are from my native city and we have lots of common, I just can believe how great this blogger thing can be! I know, I sound so cliché but it’s true! I just love it.

Anyways, our good friend Logovo answered an observation on a blog post in Spanish [ Tijuana en el Exilio : Thursday, April 17, 2003 ] I made regarding the direct translation of a well known phrase in English ( I can’t believe I just did that ) to Spanish. It sounded foreign in Spanish, because it is not lexicalized (yet) in Spanish, so I pointed it out to her and she so kindly said:

Direct translation… yep, it’s just in my system. This is what happens when I’m trying to say something but my brain will provide me with only one way of saying it. It knows that it’s given an answer and refuses to make an effort to search any further. ” (my italics)

Now, bear in mind that the following text am about to write here is in response to the text and as my Creative Writing teacher Jon Buscall says: you are attacking the text, not the person in question.

I refuse to believe the above mentioned assertion because I know how a bilingual brain works, I had one for 36 years.

I believe in incubation, I think that if you leave the problem in your head long enough, it will provide a solution to the translation issue in question.

However, this is the tricky thing about being bilingual: you must do maintenance work. If you do not balance how you feed your languages it will turn into a lopsided affair.

This happened to me not long ago. The thing is that I only took care of English, you see, I only read and developed my ideas in English. I left Spanish to its own devices, and that’s why many point out that Spanish is the language of the house.

That’s why you can relate when I say that English is more of an “intellectual” issue for me, since I have overdone the idea department to an English only area.

Are casseroles flying yet?

Yet more exciting information at hand from the Lexicography dept:

Dictionaries: Collins English Dictionary Fourth Edition updated 2000 according to the blurb: 21st Century Edition

The New Britannica-Webster Dictionary and Reference Guide 1981

The query at hand: Compare the macrostructure of the two dictionaries:

“A dictionary’s macrostructure refers to what constitutes an entry in a dictionary and how the entries are arranged.” Lexicography: An Introduction – Howard Jackson (2002)

I took a common prefix: im- for the investigation of this quest.

The Britannica-Webster refers me to seek in- in the dictionary. So I did and at first we get a definition of the prefix. Then, a three small column of a list of words beginning with in-. In fact, the prefix in- enjoys a set of entries in the dictionary at hand, and every sense of it has a full headword status. Aside the above-mentioned list, which has 69 words that have a correlation to in-, there is a plethora of words with the prefix in- in alphabetical order. Words that have morphological bending are treated in the same headword but the dictionary only provides the abbreviated suffix of said morphis.

Collins, on the other hand does not redirect me but instead tells me that im- is a variant of in- ¹ and in-² with superscript indicating sense status. Although there is no redirection indicated, I believe one is to assume that if we are to look for the ‘real’ definition of im- we are to understand by the word variant, that this prefix is nothing more than another form of in- hence I ought to look in the direction of said prefix. So I did. In- has two full headword status in the dictionary and thereafter a host of words with that prefix are shown although intermingled with other words that have no relation to the prefix in question. So that while you can find inappropriate in the list following the definition of the prefix, you will also find a definition for inasmuch as. Words that have a morphological bending are shown in boldface type along the whole spelled word and not just the suffix. So that if you look for inarticulate, you will also find within that same headword, inarticulately and inarticulateness.

While our current reference book for this course indicates that words that enjoy full headword status in a dictionary are more easily accessible, it is of the opinion of this student that it really does not make much difference whether a word has full headword status or not.

The reason for this statement is because it is in the understanding of the student that the approach to words is according to the next of kin method, and as we scan the headword in question, scanning is done in a vertical manner.

When we find that which approaches our search we scurrily take a quick glance to the next headword to seek for a potential similarity but in the event that said word is not there our eyes takes a horizontal turn and down the headword that most resembles that which we seek until we find it.

Vertical descension take that! You downward spiral, your days are over! jejejeje, over dramatized it a little, didn’t I???

Rolling in laughter yet?

Further jolly good fun from the folks at the lexicography Dept.

The dictionaries chosen at will:

Collins English Dictionary Fourth Edition updated 2000. According to the blurb: 21st Century Edition and The New Britannica-Webster Dictionary and Reference Guide 1981

The query at hand: Compare the prefaces of said dictionaries:

The dictionaries in question do not have a section called preface in their books, but according to the etymology of the word from the Britannica-Webster its origins are : [Middle French, from Latin prefatio “foreword”, from praefari “to say beforehand” from prae- “pre-” + “fari” “to say”] and according to Collins preface comes from [C14: from medieval Latin praefatia, from Latin praefatio a saying beforehand, from praefari to utter in advance from prae- before + “fari” to say] hence I will use the Foreword, indicated in both dictionaries, to mean ‘preface’.

Collins seems to address its audience with much more in mind to say since there are far more wordy compared to Britannica-Webster who has less than a half page dedicated to their foreword. Collins has one and a half pages addressed to its readers. The information presented in the Britannica-Webster is placed smack in the middle with three short paragraphs and the one presented in Collins has one full page of information in two column rows and a second page half full also in a two column row formation.

Britannica-Webster has a near childish approach to its reader, and the emphasis on the didactical aspects are way over done. More oft than not it sounded like a blurb, highlighting much of the contents and what it had. It is a mere self-laudatory foreword to the dictionary as if the selling pitch has to continue to convince the reader that said dictionary is a sound investment. A few recommendations as to what to do first with the dictionary were dished out by the Editors. Collins also has the tendency to hype up its foreword by lauding its efforts in bringing about said dictionary, much of the information, if you bypass the sales pitch that seems to permeate every other labor that was done in an effort to bring the dictionary about, is handy and I guess that credit must be given were credit is due.

Bloody good review if you ask me!

Having fun yet?

I was recently told to compare the microstructure of two dictionaries in my very exciting lexicography class which makes me question WHY is it that I like lexicography so much, specially etymology.

The dictionaries chosen at will:

Collins English Dictionary Fourth Edition updated 2000. According to the blurb: 21st Century Edition

and The New Britannica-Webster Dictionary and Reference Guide 1981

The query: Compare the microstructure of the two dictionaries:

I took the entry: rest

The results:


· This word has a superscript number for the headword to the right of the word. The dictionary indicates that all homographs are so treated.

· Word class is marked by italized abbreviation and if a word has more than one part of speech it is separated from others by a lozenge

· Pronunciation transcription according to the IPA is provided

· Senses are numbered and if there is more than one sense within the same number an alphabetical order is attached to the number.

· Fixed noun phrases are given full headword status

· Etymology comes at the last of the definition of the word which is indicated by bold brackets [ ] and according to the Guide to the Use of the Dictionary, ‘ The Etymologies show the history of the word both in English … and in its pre-English source languages.’


· This word has a superscript number for the headword to the left of the word. The dictionary indicates in its section titled Using The Dictionary that ‘The order of homographs is historical.’

· Pronunciation transcription is provided right after the boldface entry word is shown.

· Word class is marked by italized abbreviation. If the word has another part of speech it is given a separate entry.

· Following the word, pronunciation and word class, the Britannica-Webster offers synonym paragraphs because according to the dictionary ‘[they] help the reader discriminate among a number of similar and often confused words.’

· Senses are numbered and if there is more than one sense within the same number an alphabetical order is attached although the number does not follow and the alphabetical letter stands alone. Every definition in the Britannica-Webster is set off by a boldface colon whether or not there is a number before it. When a meaning has multiple variations, the meanings are given according to their historical status with the oldest recorded meaning having first status and newest ones last status.

· What Collins refers to as idioms the Britannica-Webster refers to as run-on entries and they do not have headword status in this dictionary, nor much by way of distinguishing them either, they are ‘ … the last element of many entries.’

· Etymology is in square brackets following the definition. In the etymology, the entry’s history is in italics and its definition in quotations marks.

Exhilarated yet?

I believe in the USA and its constitution.

It has helped many people and probably will continue to do so.

But right now there is a group of people who have hijacked this ideal and turned it into a venture for their own enterprises.

This sector is bound to foster conflict because they are in the business of conflict and their enterprise is conflict. They manufacture products for the use in conflicts.

What will happen in Irak is that the USA will ‘manage conflict’ I got this idea from years of following the Palestine uprising against the nation of Israel to assert its right to existence. This is another rightful and moral idea that has been hijacked by businesses that have for business the manufacture of products for use in conflicts.

Unfortunately the USA cannot do without this sector since it brings in much needed revenue to sustain its mammoth government.

The influence of this interest group has been going on since the Reagen years. The Right, and its fascist allies, are giving the constitution a false interpretation in as much as radical fundamentalists are giving the Koran a false interpretation or The Zionist menace twisting the Talmud to their own gain.

I believe also that it is unhealthy that there is no real opposition within the USA to withstand the onslaught of radical patriotism which is now embroiling the USA.

We must, for the good of the USA, show opposition to the USA so that it see that they can’t do willy nilly as it pleases.

The recent war, (? : a silly joke in as much Israel is at war with Palestine. How can a superior power be at war with a much more weakling state such as Palestine and Irak?) while I applaud the so-called liberation of its people, it worries me as well since patriotism and business have now colluded with that mysterious faction called the Military Industrial Complex.

However, one mustn’t undervalue this kind of intervention which really was a ‘nicer’ model of destruction in that even Washington felt the pressure of the international community.

The Bush term is to be seen as a fiasco in liaison with big business and however moral and preachy and evangelical this man is he is unhealthy for the future of the USA.

There was only that one chance. The crowds were thick enough to create a diversion and grab it. The moneybag lay idle in the counter, so it would be enough for a fire alarm to cause a small panic, stretch the arm, grab the dough and make a run for the door. The only obstacle would be the guard at the door, a buffy looking security agent who seemed in love with his job. He had the handcuffs in plain view, as well as a can of pepper spray and a mean looking baton, which he caressed with his left hand like a cat owner would his pet. Just then a scanty clad dame popped in distracting the guy who comported himself like a gentleman by pointing her to somewhere and then walking with her a bit. Gary saw his chance and walked towards the book section and stopped near the emergency fire alarm, pulled it and started to walk in a steady pace towards the counter so as not to raise suspicions. At the sound of the alarm everyone became disconcerted and moved quickly to get the heck out of there. Gary grabbed the dough just when the clerk was trying to figure out what was happening and made a dash for the door. He ran as fast as he could and swung the doors wide open with all his might.

Ernest didn’t feel like opening that can of beer, he had enough of the drudge monotony that was beginning to fill his daily evenings. So he picked up his keys, put his jacket on, checked that the radio was off and left his flat. Down the elevator, he came across a neighbor he was pissed at so he just gave him looks that killed, and then proceeded as they wlked out to cheerfully and out loud say hi to the first passerby he met just to piss off the neighbor even more. 9pm and he took a whiff at the city, it smelled like buttered popcorn does at the movies except that it was drizzling. So he kept walking, destination unknown, thinking maybe that it was time to pay a visit to his old girlfriend. A few blocks down the road he found a quarter, still wet he picked it up and started to flip it up in the air as passersby whisked along. Should he walk there and see her or should he take a cab? Should he just drop by or should he announce his visit? He kept a fast pace as he took off the hand from his palm to see how the quarter landed and see what fate had sealed for him.

Olga was in the mood for some shopping. She donned a miniskirt, and a shirt that fit like a glove that marked her voluptuous body at every curve. The stiletto high heel shoes put the extra touch in a very nice outfit. Looking outside the window she noticed some small rain drops in her pane. She grabbed an umbrella just in case her hairdo came into danger. Looking one last time in the mirror, she checked her deep red lipstick color in her lips, pursed them inwards and made a loud pop! sound from her mouth. She walked the stairs down to the street, it was busy and the city noise became a second background as a known passerby to her stopped her and a loudmouth crowd passed them by. They exchanged some salutatory greetings and after that she went her way swinging the unneeded umbrella in a circular motion as her hips moved to a salsa song in her head. A few blocks well into the city and ad caught her eye, 35% off on all Calvin Klein products. She went in.

The weather was gray and the city noises were a mishmash of screams, crying and yelling with that of cars passing by and a police car with its siren still on. The ambulances had the siren lights on, resembling a disco death of sorts. To the left of the sidewalk, were curious onlookers stared, were bundles of money and shiny coins scattered across. They stood in wait, like vultures, for a distraction from the only police car to have arrived at the scene of the accident. Some handcuffs lay strewn on the street, and a security guard sat by the sidewalk with a bruised head and what seemed to be blood running from his nose, dripping down to the wet asphalt mixing with the gasoline and oil stained flow of water near a gutter. Medics were attending to three people and one was already being carried inside the ambulance in what seemed to be an unconscious state, it seemed he had suffered a deep concussion to his head. Another man was lying down in the wet street complaining that the back of his legs hurt ‘like a motherfucker’ and that he might also have a fracture to his kneecaps. The other body, a female, had some red lipstick smeared in her face and a miniskirt displaying fine long looking legs and some broken high heel shoes. She was being pumped air and an injection being administered to her in her left arm glared all the lights that the city could reflect on its metal needle at that moment.

A small whisper coming from the crowd fought its way through the noise and the lights, ‘Hey! What happened here?’

Linguistics is one of those fields that have no real use for those of us who are natives to the language in question since much of it is already ingrained. It only becomes a useful tool when studying a foreign tongue. Reading Patrick White has given me the opportunity to put into use these tools in a new different way. Had it not been for those studies I think I would not have enjoyed Patrick White’s autobiography Flaws in the Glass as much.

In it you’ll find the usual British English with many instances of articles or conjunction elicitation. At times the nominalization is eye-catching in its use in Australian English such as fossicking and acquaintanceship, I mean, how do you fossick and since when did an acquaintance become a process? As far as I know how to use ‘acquaintance’ it is more of a stage rather than a continuous process.

There is a fondness for compounds too in the first 40 to 60 pages, almost as if the language didn’t, couldn’t do with single words and wasn’t enough to describe the environment. We have examples such as, double-youlker, biscuit-colored, not-so-successful, stage-struck, tea-trays, pansy-shaped, bomb-scarred, green-to-yellow tones and many many more, almost, as I suspect, as a manipulative technique on the part of the writer to emphasize his roots to the land. It is as if there is a need to stretch the language to the maximum; as if it is incessant to unify words to explain a whole.

Furthermore, you’ll find in the text that nouns enjoy some of the most wonderful modifiers like the following ones I loved so much that I underlined them and kept them for myself: the odd recce, those ochreus houses, a packet of foolscap, grubby at the edges, an etiolated beauty, the maker’s fretsaw and smiling treacly smiles. Possessive noun modifiers also gave a new twist to the tongue such as: a welter of adenoidal sighs … nosegay of pink oxalis. Some of the biggest noun modifiers ever brought uncountless giggles to my face, just take a peek at this:

It is also why an unlikely relationship between an Orthodox Greek and a lapsed Anglican egotist agnostic pantheist occultist existentialist would-be though failed Christian Australian has lasted forty years. p.102 (my italics) or

Language is indeed what makes this text so fresh and new despite the fact that it has been on the shelves a long time, I was rather thrilled in finding so many new words and phrasal verbs that I have never seen before, it refreshed my language. New phrasal verbs such as junk up and bawl out and even a few idioms like odd and sods sparked a curiosity that I hadn’t seen in ages.

I also increased my vocabulary immensely with new words that my CD ROM Macmillan (American) English dictionary lacked a definition for such as, saltpetre, planchette, latticed, caryatid, pinchbeck, gunyah, tittuping, thick fug, flibbertigibbets, archimandrites, sabras, a revenant, doxie and a slew of other vocabulary that the book indicates with an asterisks as if the language wasn’t foreign enough already.

Although there is a knack to hold in high esteem the mother country, the UK, the local language is used to de-colonize the mentality as the list of words above indicate, there is a preference for the local and new as opposed to the old and known.

Just as well because I somehow have an underlying belief that he uses/manipulates language to suit his aim, purpose, to convey his roots. There is a sense that he enjoys language so much that even when he breaks off from a relationship like the one with Sir William Dobell when they were ‘…belting out obscenities as hard as [they] could.’ He says, ‘I believe the chandelier tinkled a bit …’ this is giving language more power than one would expect.

On another plane, Patrick White, born in London, raised in Australia, is one of those expats who are more citizens of the world than the country they profess to belong to. Like Robert Graves, he just went through a minefield unscathed while serving in the army during WWII where he became a well-traveled man and during much of his stints abroad he picked up on the romantification that writers tend to exploit once in a foreign land. I often wondered as to the significance of geography in autobiographies and pondered what do we want to rub in or what kind of statements are we making when we do so? I mulled this as I went along reading getting the sense that the writer wanted to pull us into a glitzy glamor that we are suppose to know of and thereby cause some sort of envy.

Much of the autobiography is a retelling of uneventful nights made pleasurable by the uncanny eye of the narrator. He has dexterity to describe psychological states, like when he describes Baron Charles de Menasce smile, he says the following: ‘Round the corners of his mouth clung that faint webbing which cynicism leaves on those too tender to have faith in others and, worse still themselves.’

Homosexuality plays a significant role in identification but it is not the whole of the story here, while it is part of the telling, it is a part as much as in any other person when he or she says they are Catholic. There is much self-retrospection or reflexive thinking going on here as far as autobiographical interests go, so that at times you’ll read that what he is reliving all this, to tell you, the reader, he’ll say he is doing nothing more than ‘recycle shit’ yet for the same token you’ll here that what he is doing is ‘painting this self-portrait’. More oft than not, one gets the sense that more things are being said than what it is written.

Patrick White focuses much in the habits of others which begs the question, what does he want to say by making note of the habits of others? From my point of view, I think we have a case, if not an inkling, of an author wanting us to get closer to him.

The issue of influence is also a recurrent one, which necessarily raises the question: Why give a historical account of others and their fate in an autobiography? Worse yet, inevitable, as a writer, one becomes aware of one’s place, which is nearly God-like since one is retelling the fate of others as one sees fit, and according to one’s agenda. I say this because the juxtaposition with the fate of others, to that of ones own, can be used to justify ones being and is very much present in this autobiography. At times Flaws of Glass just plainly resorts to vignette biography to justify ones judgment of others. I find theses vignette biographies interesting though because they serve to reinforce how the author thought and gives great insight into the ontological and epistemological value system of the subject.

All in all this autobiography gives much into the account of the writer in question, the only flaw I saw was that of relying so much on the lives of others but in the end I guess we are all nothing but the product of our surroundings.

Last night I dreamt I held in my hand an apple sized kiwi.

I looked at it in bewilderment as I knew it to be a hybrid.

I went about to set my teeth to it so as to indulge in it.
I hazily lived this dream through patches of foggy scenes and much the way I would see the world without my glasses, blurryish.

The rupture of the light mustard, bristle texture of the kiwi peel ran much the way a fault would in the event of an earthquake as I with the strength of my hand, squeezed it.
The interiors were a tempting ambrosia my passive eyes knew of; I stared in wait of that juice enveloped in that transparent husk which soon would fill my flesh with uncountless experiences.

It was a scrumptious experience leaving me very unsatisfied.

Fiction is the idea that we must invent worlds and that we must somehow demonstrate, for the sheer purpose of the readers sake, a sort of description without giving too much of what is being told. The idea is to allow for the reader to make up its mind of what he or she is reading, in other words, I must leave the facts to stand on their own and that somehow my opinion shouldn’t butt between the reader and what I am writing. This is otherwise known as the Show don’t Tell technique used in most Creative Writing courses. A difficult task indeed because we are more prone to telling than showing. Indeed, one can even argue that at any given moment our culture inculcates didacticism as well. So it reflects very well in what we write hence those of us ambitious enough to embark in the mammoth enterprise of improving our writing skills often end up with our egos bruised and a healthy dose of reality check down our throats. If it so happens that the teacher in question doesn’t have a hidden agenda you’ll get all the support that a teacher really ought to give his or her students and with any luck the above mentioned technique will do wonders to the writing world or at the very least improve your everyday letter writing.

And if the teacher has a hidden agenda, your lucky if you end up at your local therapist couch, such is the nature of writing were words can be daggers sharp enough to cut through the thick muck that we call the world.

Fiction offers unlimited possibilities for the writer at hand who has something vital to say, indeed, for those of us who enjoy a good story, we are more than glad that such people exist, but we must also we willing to admit that the call for the quill and the ink has its own ilk.

‘Voice’ is a hard subject. I feel I have no voice to which I can attach a determined form of writing. However, I do notice that my voice, when am writing, tends to be a melancholic one, a serious one and one that is reflective of what it is writing, As if the way I look at the past affects my writing. Rarely do I tend to write on the future. Perhaps I say I don’t have a voice because I exhaust my reading material by the time I reach to English. At any rate, voice is a fruitless job to think of at times. What is a voice anyways? When does one feel finished as a writer to be able to have a voice, does it mean that I lack one now? Does it mean that I must search a form of writing?

Curiously enough I’ve detected that one can become ‘dried’ out if you will from inspiration. One is forced to go to the fountain of inspiration and fill ones chalice every now and then with other writers thoughts. Thoughts produce thoughts and now that I’ve been largely absent from literature I see a dearth of topics to write. On the other hand it has given me a great deal to think of my writing and how it works.

I want to write something beautiful, I don’t know what but I hope that I’ll soon know. I believe I like writing because somehow I too want to depict scenes. The problem is that I don’t have much to say. However, I like words so much I spend a great deal of time reading them. I am in the habit of always picking them up everywhere I find them. I make lists of them if I find strange and odd words and the more I know about a particular word the more I become interested in it. I find my relationship with words a strange one because I often find them difficult to deal with only to comeback to them later. I also tend to forget them very easily and at times it bothers me when I can’t spell them. It causes me to wonder if am not developing Alzheimer’s or some sort of mental ailment. But in general my relationship with words tends to be friendly. I gather great joy out of them when using them as I write along and quietly detect how words link phonetically to each other.

I don’t know what is it about the Swedish nature that somehow always seems to seep in my writing. Language reflects the environment it is said. Presumably my writing betrays this influence. What is it that appeals to me so much in this essence I seem to want to depict so bad? I mean, do I want to capture it? Do I want to somehow to convey through words the stillness that I as a nature observer detect as I absorb it when I walk in its midst? I guess it is more like wanting to recreate this atmosphere which brings to me so much delight.

The trees had been planted by some immigrants at the time Alaska belonged to Mother Russia. They were not native to this soil but adapted themselves very well, spreading far and wide across the valley and even proclaimed a natural reserve not so long ago. It now attracts tourists from afar as Siberia and a few dachas are built around its edges although government regulations have prohibited more be built.

Boris looked on this piece of land as if it were his. His ancestors were raised here and their ashes spread across the forest as was their last wish in this world. These mornings Boris woke up particularly early since a long awaited event was to take place at around these dates. Everyone waited for the right temperatures and weather conditions waking up expectantly in search of this long awaited act of nature. During a certain point in time during the early days of march the morning dew gave a delicate scent that locals were very well aware of and kept it a secret so that no brochure ever mentioned it. It was a time when the Atlantic dropped its water inland and the mild winds shook the top of the trees and the early spring warmth pressed the sticky pine oils from its bark. The drizzle made the soil dispel a natural smell that combined with the pine scents, a natural, rich in nature, odor enveloped the whole village for a period of two to three hours depending on the strenght of the sun.

It was during this season that one morning Boris caught eye of a woman. She sat in a position that resembled the Yoga position of Lotus, dressed in a white garb, and on his property. She seemed peaceful and her hair hung loose. Unsure wether to go there and start a conversation, Boris continued looking on until the lady got up. Aware that she was being observed, she turned her head towards Boris and waved from afar a salutatory greeting. Boris waved back but continued where he was as the lady went about her way.

There was only the air left between you and me

As the moon glared behind the translucent clouds Inringed by the rainbow of your smile

Thinking about you, sucking warmth of your memory

Your lips Your smell,

Your intoxicating love scent

Greg drew sketches of objects his irises picked up ‘outside him’ he says.

Carl on the other side of the studio wrote sketches. He used words like puzzle bits and his pencil like a brush. ‘The mind’ he said, ‘is the canvas’.

There was a particular one that drew my attention, so to speak. It had words which I fail to recall one by one but suffice to say it was about a tree. The ground were it stood describes ‘an April, early spring, just when the sun began to melt away winter’s remaining snowfall.’ ‘The dirt was wet’, I remember it said, ‘soft enough to leave a knee imprint of a careful tending gardner.’ The soil gave the impression of being brown and rich with an occasional patch of a new shoots of green grass and here and there even a weed was mentioned as part of the scene ‘waking to the mild efforts of the sun and its exertion to warm the land and do away with its cold, arctic wind competitor.’

There after the sketch read a bit more different because the task at hand required a great deal of dexterity on the part of the describer. The sketcher must be well versed in the study of forestry in as much as vocabulary goes. One would argue, to paraphrase Gertrud Stein, a tree is a tree is a tree. No doubt the masses would agree but to the artist at hand, every word is like a different shade of color added to the ‘object’ being retold in words. There is no doubt that color is recalled on the mind, in ‘the canvas’, of the reader but it in itself is not solely the only part which is vital.

Linear aspects must also be taken into account. The background provides dimensionality to the description. The word is in the stone age compared to the eye. So as my eyes scanned the sketch for those qualities, my soul looked into my mind for these details, ever so important to the description, in order to see what this poor alphabetical system of ours had to offer. Needless to say, if the sketch manages to redraw its purpose/object in the mind and then recreate the image, see able by the ocular capacity of the mind, then it has succeeded.

But I will digress no more. Please bear in mind that I’m merely paraphrasing here because I can never really describe what I saw in that written sketch but merely tell you what I saw.

The tree had been trimmed and what seemed attempts at hacking its life from the ground with little obvious successes. It stood, the tale tells, ‘between a half corroded fence and some rusty railroads where commuter trains passed by every fifteen minutes’. The tree was dark-brown in color, almost surely filled with soot due to the surrounding industrial complex and the passing of the locomotives. Branches spread out and the bark gave it a respectful and peaceful look. Its branches weren’t that thick, I read, but sturdy enough for a child to cling to it and swing about somewhat. It was more in looks like the hand of a rheumatic in old age except these boughs were sprouting new leaves, receiving nourishment, no doubt, from winter’s past snow.

It was a sign of hope in a wasteland.

I don’t know if it has been done before but since I certainly haven’t seen it done in the English language am giving it a shot. Although I must confess that it worries me that it has been done before. I frankly don’t know and am doing it, if and only, for the sheer purpose of writing practice because I certainly don’t consider myself, by a long shot, anything but an apprentice of the craft. I am referring to a short sort-of experiment that I am developing and that has been shown here in this blog [Yonder lies it Thursday, April 03, 2003]. It is what I like to say, to borrow a well known concept within the painting arts, a triptych. The idea is to present a three character story and a scene whereby the three characters meet. The end or results or consequences would then have to be figured out by the reader. I got the idea from a film by mexican director Alejandro González Iñarritu called Amores Perros, translated loosely as “Love’s a Bitch“. (quotation from preceding link) I believe it presents many possibilities for mental entertainment. Anyways, I hope it turns out well.

Have you ever had a glass of clean, fresh, pure mountain water run your throat all the way, cascading down your ribs? At times the Nordic winds give the same feeling except that these gusts are cool and cold in a caressing manner. The spring heat is enough for the body to feel grateful at this gesture of nature. I personally like it when it’s cloudy and the outside airs are brisk, strong enough to lift my jacket, embrace me and make me feel its chill. It seems as if it wants to push me to the ground and play, jostle, laugh together with my life. I smile and feel tickled as that is the most I am willing to give back.

I love to see last autumn leaves being raked by these winds, rushing past me, cleaning my yard of debri while tending my tulips. The branches in my trees are cleared from old and brittle ones that didn’t make it through the winter, such is nature. People indoors prefer a nice warm chimney but I stay outside trying to keep my scarf in place to no avail, it blows too playfully, though it doesn’t bother me one bit. I have often realized that once inside I am only reminded of its presence outside since my house creaks and sways at the rhythm of the currents. The sun plays too as it likes a hide and seek game which as the light grows stronger you vaguely hear through the swish a peek-a-boo.

There was only that one chance. The crowds were thick enough to create a diversion and grab it. The money bag lay idle in the counter, so it would be enough for a fire alarm to cause a small panic, stretch the arm, grab the dough and make a run for the door. The only obstacle would be the guard at the door, a buffy looking security agent who seemed in love with his job. He had the handcuffs in plain view, as well as a can of pepper spray and a mean looking baton, which he caressed with his left hand like a cat owner would his pet. Just then a scanty clad dame popped in distracting the buffy looking guy who was being a gentleman by pointing her to somewhere as they walked together a bit. Gary saw his chance and walked towards the book section and stopped near the emergency fire alarm, pulled it and started to walk fastly towards the counter so as not to raise suspicions. At the sound of the alarm everyone became disconcerted and moved quickly to get the heck out of there. Gary grabbed the dough just when the clerk was trying to figure out what was happening and made a dash for the door. He ran as fast as he could.

Ernest didn’t feel like opening that can of beer, he had enough, really enough of his drudge monotony. Nearly fed up with the daily drinking. So he picked up his keys, put his jacket on, checked that the radio was off and he left his flat. Down the elevator, he came across a neighbor he was pissed at so he just gave him looks that killed, and then proceeded to say hi to the first passerby he met. 9pm and he smelled the city, it smelled like popcorn does at the movies except that it was drizzling. So he kept walking, destination unknown thinking that maybe it was time to pay a visit to an old girlfriend of his. On the way there he found a wet quarter, picked it up and started to flip it up in the air. Should he walk there and see her or should he take a cab? Should he just drop by or should he announce his visit?

Olga was in the mood for some shopping. She donned a miniskirt, and a shirt that fit like a glove marking her voluptuous body at every curve. The stiletto high heel shoes put the extra touch in a very nice outfit. Looking outside the window she noticed some small rain drops in her pane. She grabbed an umbrella just in case her hairdo came into danger. Looking one last time in the mirror, she checked her deep red lipstick color in her lips.

The weather was grey and the city noises was a mishmash of screams, crying and yelling with that of cars passing by and a police car with its siren still on. The ambulances had the siren lights on, resembling a death disco of sorts. To the left of the sidewalk bundles of money and shiny coins were scattered across it, were curious onlookers stared, waiting, like vultures, for a distraction from the only police car to have arrived at the scene of the accident. Some handcuffs lay strewn on the street, and a security guard sat by the sidewalk with a bruised head and what seemed to be blood running from his nose, dripping down to the wet asphalt. Two bodies were being attended by medics and one was already being carried inside the ambulance in what seemed to be an unconscious state. The other body, a female, had some red lipstick smeared in her face and a miniskirt displaying fine long looking legs and some broken high heel shoes. She was being pumped air and an inyection glared all the lights that the city could reflect on its metal needle that moment.

I think that sometimes I overwork my poetry. I think I need to let it stop there it ends, in that brief moment I get when I’m overwhelmed with its inspiration, lulling me, whispering me its heartbeat. And if I ever manage to capture its essence, I need to allow my dream catcher to snatch it and take what it is in as is.

For sometimes I know for a fact that these moments of one with life melt like a snowflake in the palm of my hand.


Airs of change blow by the meadows of the threshold

Alluring me into its fold

I leap forward to rest on its pasture

Laying back, I feel them run over me

Contemplation slowly takes of me

The future, is it worth?

Caressing the possibilities of a past long gone

Embracing dreams of yore

I hold fast to the roots of my past.

Passively scouring the media
Sifting through human remains
Am bombarded my eyes shot red

Left riddled with half-cooked notions
I trod on in ether all teared
Through the barbwired wide world web

Seeking not knowing what
Respite perhaps from the pain
Of seeing all those deadly aims

I stand idle in oceans of hate
Watching the waves of utter despair
I am but the sum of the day

Western Zilch

When the trees started to swoosh with the force of the winds my hair began to be caressed by the gusts of the fresh morning breeze. My neck felt the coolness of the early hours light and I kept walking against the gales and ended up loving the chilly air touching my face, I fell in love with my life, that moment anyways, for the very first time in many months.

As I passed my surroundings, keeping straight along the asphalt of the walkway, I noticed, as I went along, the early grass sprouts shooting up as August Strindberg would say, amongst last autumns fallen leaves, looking rather curious as their pointy ends barely made it through the brownish brittle leaves and other tree debris that covered the ground. It had been a hard winter and the landscape offered no consolation for months on end, but now all that was changing. The sun paid us more visits and the weather gave us chances to take off our jackets and wear light clothing. It brought also lighter moods as more laughter could be heard as people walked by each other, people seemed cheerful and willing to meet each other.

I had decided to pay a visit to an old friend of mine that day, who I hadn’t seen in many weeks and as I heard he was about to embark on a long trip, I wanted to give him my best wishes for the duration of his sojourn.

On way there, looking up towards the partially clouded sky, I was amazed at the majesticity of the shapes and colors of the clouds. It was nice and the few patches of clear sky allowed for the rays of the sun to shoot off straight lines of light through the bluepurplelish hues that the soft cottoned looking clouds had. In that scene, there was that God element in it that made one see how insignificant one is at times in the presence of such marvellous nature.

On writing

When I write I like it when it gives rise to phonological linkage. This happens very much in both my native tongues, Spanish and English, as Swedish is still hatching from the shell it is incubating in.

When a line comes to mind and I write it down, type it, remember it by heart etc, etc … I make a conscious decision or an effort, exercise to tag along the sounds said sentence gives rise to.

Sometimes I get so bogged down by this that the image comes second to melody.

I’ve noticed that more and more I like to say ‘more and more’, it seems to be my favorite intensifier now a days …

Anyways, more and more I try to keep, with much success, if I may so humbly opine that of myself, my language consistent in as much as it remains in the same semantic field.

Off course the good staff at the Department of English in Stockholm have much to do in this awareness awakening since it has been by their guidance that I’ve come upon this self-discovery.

Digress, digress …

I try, in conjunction with sounds to, themselves?, evoke, suggest, imagery.

In the future I would like to create image clashing, but that is another topic for another blog …

Lastly: I pursue the image through vocal sounds that the very words I use produce when they are pronounced. I like how sounds, by their very pronunciation can give rise, hint, suggest other imagery that it is not necessarily implied by the very text one reads, but rather by the sound in it ….

Vera Brittan recounts her fight for her independent self as an uphill battle. We get this, as it seems that she is engaged in a Sisyphus task in order for her to accomplish her education.

Our hero is put to test her belief; the devil is society, her milieu.

I find it amazing how Beauty for these Victorian writers seems to be the highest ideal of all. Edmund Gosse, for example, became offended because zealots in the Christian community destroyed pieces of art in museums. Vera Brittan, p.48, says that ‘…my sexual curiosity was always a bad second to my literary ambition.’ And war is ‘…an infuriating personal interruption …’ to her studies.

The appreciation of a literary education is on a higher pedestal, and a higher social class. There is no higher aspiration than to acquire a profound knowledge of the arts, letters and conversation. Social life is at best a nuisance, an obstacle to that end. Although fine coterie is desired.

Spanish philosopher and novelist writer Miguel de Unamuno comes to mind at times when one is reading this autobiography. He comes to mind so much because this autobiography has what he terms ‘intrahistoria’ that is, the story of the common people, away from the shakers and movers of power.

World events were just in the way for her, hindering progress, her way for an upper education. There is much time spent brooding over how these significant events like war, Edward the seventh’s postponed coronation or the death of the Queen played little importance in the life of Brittan in the early chapters of the novel. (p.98,110)

Our pity is for her, the invocation of pity according to Aristolean principles that leads to catharsis?

This histrionics idea bothers me more and more. I suppose she is bound to histrionics (hysteria?) but only, I believe, in her life, the hurdles she encounters on way to meet her goals. I would prefer to name those acts as acts of indignity. She is indignant at how others react to her femininity, gender. How she developed this acute sense of independence is not told I believe, but her impulse, metered by her patience and temperament, is in the end met. One thing disturbs me here though, inasmuch as men are granted the belief that they are ‘predestined’ for X why isn’t this same belief granted to females? Robert Graves after all did the same, although he expressed it in the name of valour, is this a minimizing of the female voice once again?

Wherein lies the feminine here? In the way her indignant voice comes out? In the display of shock at the behaviour of her surrounding ‘barbarian’ society which fails to include women? I believe this is so since she is battling a society bent in turning down her best desires. She asserts herself as a woman through many emotional perils.

The space keyboard brings insecurity to my typing. It is wobbly, in a fit of misdirected force I became irate and hit it thus making the spacebar wobbly. It’s nearly reflecting my approach to writing. As I always fear the power words have, and ultimately the power the reader has; unto them, I stand needlessly out in the open.

The one because I don’t know how to control them. Ornamentation is hardly my forte, I, like botanist Carl von Linne, care only to classify them, words are pretty in themselves, but it takes a real flowerist to make arrangements with them and draw awe; to offer a sense of beauty and spiritual oneness with nature.

The other because it is he or she that will ultimately cast judgment, draw conclusions and offer words that will reflect its reaction to that which as been read. The reader, I fear, is an unwelcome gardener that pulls weeds and prune trees. It plants seeds where none perhaps are needed. It comes and disturbs the peace of the bed where I toil the soil. Although more and more I come to see this stranger as a welcome part of the ecosystem. Like bee’s and other insects who bring pollen to my lot, I am amused at how flowers I thought I never sowed suddenly sprout adding color and delight to my otherwise green collection.

I have come to realize that it is good to be cultivated.

Being trilingual has caused interesting activities in my brain.

Although I’ve never had any problems with Spanish and English sharing the same mass of grey matter, it seems that English and Swedish are just being too concomitant with each other, like lost cousins they intermingle. They’ve cozied up too much producing a dissonance in my phonological sphere. Words just sound too familiar with one another and what I think is right and makes perfectly good grammatical sense turns to be later a hybrid of sorts, specially in the preposition (a closed area) areas. I am glad that I have a high metalinguistic awareness, because I hate to go through life speaking Spanwednglish.

For example, yesterday I confused until with unto, (the Swedish negation word inte, could it also be somehow involved here?). The discrepancy in sound is very limited although I would assume that monolinguals would have no problems in identifying this word no pro. However, and not to digress but to expound, there is also a possible phonetic sway. The dark l, I’m gringo American, easily can be confused by what phoneticians call a minimal pair with the sound of the vowel o. Until – unto [inte ?]. Just a small difference, nonetheless, It troubles me to make this discovery in my head.

Further commenting on this issue shall be duly noted. It must happen when am the most taxed, hence, the reason mornings are best for me.

Dear diary, not!

I reached a point of observation, on top of the lighthouse I saw with the aid of the ramp light a common scene, the sea. I saw millions of sparkles in its water, all very amazing in varying degrees, yet I saw a struggle there too, namely, the need for uniqueness.

Half of what of I written has been modified by the WP, am I being too complacent in allowing the WP to dictate to me what’s right or what’s wrong?

As a writer, if any cuneiform of writing makes me a writer, then I shall be one, in accord to the fact that I am writing, there isn’t much left to indulge our heads. The writing system is exhausted, a well dried out. Nothing is new under the sun sayeth the book of Ecclesiastes yet we tinker along. I fear though we seek in vain. No new forms of writing within our present writing system is allowed, we have stretched it out to its limit. The letter is dead!

It’s ridiculous. Watching the war on the news in so many possible channels with so many perspectives. All the same, in English. Tone varies though if you suddenly choose other languages, but the truth is that the only ones having a ball here are the capitalists. Markets are soaring. They seem happier, yet we lesser beings, left with qualms, are made to partake in this carnage through propaganda filters and newspeak. We fear.

I heard some US lawmakers are finally questioning the patriotism that led to this assault. A little too late; I suppose they didn’t want to be seen less democratic than the Brits. The question is then, what am I doing to lessen this war, this life pilfering? I can refuse to purchase American objects in as much as I refused to buy French wine because they conducted nuclear testing in spite of world protest. This war also means the death of the belief that by boycott we damage through economic means others. Globalisation is so deeply rooted that if I were to boycott American products I’d only be hurting or threatening jobs here in this country.

What to do?

Refuse to believe. I will no longer believe in the idea that America is the beacon of light and freedom it purported to be. The foundations upon which this so called democratic country has been laid stand now to rot. Power, raw power, has taken over the ideal of a true free world. What good does it do to live in a free country when patriots take over and start to persecute those with different ideas? We have all heard how in the name of National Interest people are persecuted for having a difference of opinion, this in the USA. The American Dream is in its last phase. People there, my kin, have become agnostics. It isn’t a regime change we are witnessing, it is a dream change. Who will carry the dream of equality in the next thousand years? Who will dare live in a world of peace whereby humanity can live in real peace, real development? Capitalism is thriving, just about the only ones. The USA has allied itself with the very same forces it purports to abhor.

If the US has set on a course to free the Iraqi people who is to free us from the black and white patriotism of the US?

It’s just a question…

Then that same night he told her he couldn’t lie, they drank beer, lying right there on the spot to each other. He had that flash, that flash that’s like a chain and ball, heard the chin-cling loud and clear and wanted freedom. He felt high as ever, didn’t really want part of her, he wanted to run, he didn’t like her, liked her; he wanted no part, wanted all her parts.

Then it took him 24 hours just to get her out of his system, to stop feeling any good about her and the time they spent together talking about the theater and how she was the way she was, while he just sat there listening, listening to her voice, melodious, almost like Ulysses being strapped to the mast, listening to the sirens, calling him, only he wasn’t strapped, he was there, willing, he wanted her, I was intoxicated. Me and my little voice struggling there, here in this piece of paper, trying to sort this out, and I can’t, I can to a certain extent. Me and my little voice, counseling me, do it; don’t it. Lie, don’t lie; tell her, how much you want her, tell her the truth, maybe she’ll buy it. Stop thinking about her, I can’t stop, I want to say so much, then reality sets in, I can’t, I must abide me, it be wrong to hurt someone else this way, lying …. All’s fair in love and war?

When it comes to languages it seems to me rather curious the stance some people take. I remember as a child how embarrassed I was to speak Spanish. I recall how one day we came to my grandmother’s in TJ and how, in spite of being raised by her, and just only two years before all I spoke was Spanish I claimed not to. English was my de facto lingua. Later, as I grew I did everything in my power to disguise my Spanish accent to the point of only thinking, eating, walking and peeing in English.

However, we are products of our environment and the oppressive years in California, oppressive for me because I lived in such an environment, Spanish was worst than the black plague, it gave you away as a foreigner, in your own country. Unknowingly we youth, as we grew older resorted to a much vile new form of language that everyone from México to Spain disliked, much as Estuary English in London. Spanglish was only spoken then by pochos. Later it became a badge of sorts of pride, to distinguish our unique culture, because we had two cultures, we had things that couldn’t be expressed in neither language except by code-switching.

Spanglish is now more popular than ever to the point of having a translated piece of art like Don Quixote, curious how the world changes.

What is it about two people that just want each other? There are two things I loathe, hunger and sex, they distract me from my studies, they do, they really do.

- Wanna drink coffee?
- No thanks, am bored, I don’t know where am going, what I want nor a purpose; I am already high, thank you.
- I least you have politeness, come again sometime?

‘The sun shone, the last I saw her’ He said, ‘the curtains in my flat were drawn, and I had Blue Six on. Some silky song about some naked pair, somewhere in Paris. I didn’t feel for the news so I kept the TV in the dark, or was it the other way around, I just don’t know anymore who is it that keeps who in the dark.’
And then, like a hit soul by Cupid he thought on: he kept fantasying.

- I didn’t really wanted to say I love you, but I did, in my head; I did wanted to tell you, but I didn’t, didn’t I? Then he answered himself
- No, I couldn’t read your mind that day. He thought of speaking to her: there is a secret, a secret that will destroy this, which we have now, this time, this hour, the present.
- Come again?
- I already have, once or twice, and am still feeling ill, the good kind.

Then he kept quiet. Only to mull once more.
Three days and four moral scolds have gone since I saw her, and through two days I sent her a million sms’eses in my head while battling my emotions, compulsions. I didn’t fuck her, and I feel fucked all the way, my brains juiced out of power; I been way too long alone with someone else, I needed a woman, and that woman just had me for hors d’oeuvre.

What is it about women and their fragrance? Just leave me alone! They drive me nuts, I don’t want any of it, let me smell it! I say, quietly, to myself, and I run back as fast as I can to her presence in my head. I want her intoxicating voice, just let me have a vowel or two, let me have you again, and again over some beer at some pub, music sounds better with you. I want to pretend that which I am not, you give me life, woman, I love you and desperately need you out of my life, you disturb everything I have. My fantasies of you are just plain weekends, so I can return back to my double life. But I want to send you so bad, an SMS, only one; please get yourself back together. Compose yourself, so I did.
By midnight I composed a letter, far from being an SMS and short from turning into an e-mail, it was about recalling that fateful day of her appearance, her powerful stamina, and my weak sentimental constitution as I waited hoping for her not to come, to come to me. I was no match for her; she was a sturdy femme fatale….

Since last monday Jean Paul Marat has been in my head. In particular the painting Jaque Louis David did of him titled Marat Assasiné . I first came across him through a book by Peter Weiss that I must of surely found in a second hand bookshop back in the states. I must of liked the cover, it had the painting mentioned above, and then became enthralled by it because I do remember that I read it right away. The title of the book? The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade– more commonly known as Marat/Sade. ( More pictures ) I loved it and ever since there there are two quotes which have lasted within ever since:

Act one, Conversation Concerning Life and Death:

Marat: The important thing
is to pull yourself up by your own hair
to turn yourself inside out
and see the whole world with fresh eyes.


Act one, Continuation of the Conversation between Marat and Sade:

Marat: I never believed the pen alone
could destroy institutions.

Well, that’s what has been haunting me since monday the 13th.

Act one: Drama out of proportions

Anton: It will go fast, the remorse and qualms ails us, I promise it will go quickly.

Cleops: We can not stand idle and do nothing. In history we will go down as the most cowards of all generations. Having power, we did not use it. Instead, we remain, frightened. So the the military will just have to put us out of our misery. This wretched dogging must die.

Anton: By the time we are back in our dancing studios, our favorite drinking holes, our luscious desires for money quenched and aspirations of a better life, You won one million dollars! dreams are put to place again, we will have forgotten.

Cleops: Suffering children will not accost us anymore, the thought of bombing people because the fear of our western brothers made us compelled to protest in silence shall be no more. We will go down, the showdown is about to begin! CNN awaits your active participation. Take out the popcorn, cokes and all. Stocks soar. Soon those brown faces will disappear from our consciousness our moralizing about how others are to be shall continue after the pause, Gad, how I miss the crusades ….

I find it interesting to find interesting people. But these dark glasses season has got to stop, a little sunlight and suddenly non-vampires turn vampires, the sun turns into an anathema and the curses begin. Maybe it’s all in the squinting. Sweden is funny in that way. They curse the winter and they curse the sun. Of course not that I have glasses 24/7-365 on me made any difference of opinion. Or maybe it did? Gosh, the difficulties am made to face, couldn’t God, in all its might, figured out a better plan for this bloke? I mean, Jesus Christ! Give me something to chew on here …

I noticed much to my chagrin that my English is being corrupted by all sources from the UK. And it doesn’t help that WP’s correct errors because these WP’s usually tend to prefer English from England, It’s a struggle I tell ya ….May the best idiom win.

Well, being a writer is far more difficult than expected, and this at the Creative Writing level. It occurred to me the reason, the possible raison d’être, that many writers lead a life that is tumultuous is because to many this is the only source of inspiration, they love so much what they do, that they engage in all kinds of acts. Writing feeds off ones life experience. It is in trying to formulate our feelings so as to make them real for others outside our entities that makes writing what it is. The imagination might be in itself a good way of putting things into perspective, but by far, I believe that ones inner experience forms a huge part of writing. I mean what does one do when there isn’t a plot? When ones well is dry? These and more question arise more and more as I try to exact what is it that I want from my writing …

Went out for a stroll and decided to take a book with me, so I took David Lodge along. I started reading Consciousness and the Novel (2002) in the beginning of the term. I found it in the New Books section of Stockholms Library. Of eleven essays, two I totally skipped, of which the remaining 9 others were succulent pieces. He definitely treats the subject well, that is, how conciousness exists in novel characters.

He has an eye for criticism, for example, I was very much amused and amazed at a critique he made regarding an essay on E M Forsters novel Howards End, titled Forster’s Flawed Masterpiece. He says: “Some of the purple passages towards the end of the novel sound like George Meredith on a bad day …” I mean, to make that kind of critique you really must be well versed in literature. And he sure sounds like he is. He is one of those novelists that also sidejob as scholars, like Richard Holmes. He has good, delicious essays on Evelyn Waugh, Kierkegaard, a nice discourse on Philip Roth’s geriatric sexual habits. A topic I only seen touched on by a swedish writer, Theodor Kallifatides in Seven Hours in Paradaise ( De sju timmarna i paradiset ). Dickens came along as well, and this essay covered mostly things of a nearly biographical nature. Although very informative stuff about his sexual life and the near lack of conciousness in of some Dickens characters.

Dear Lisia:

Every now and then I get this sort of melancholy and I come to think of you. I often feel I betrayed you, that in the course of that drink we had, that intoxicating love we shared to the last drop, somewhere, lies were swallowed. Fantasies were lived and I was stabbed by my cowardness in the back. I still think very much of you as you can see by these letters.

Its been five years now, nearly that anyway since I left. I couldn’t leave my children. I have a fractured past you see, I am a fatherless child, my mother an alcoholic that through the years, I’ve come to understand her decision not to be around us. It spared us a lot of pain and probably thought it best that my grandmother was a better home for us. And that is why it was so painful to contemplate the idea. I backed off. Back in Stockholm its only the forest that knows how much pain I came to deal with when we parted, they are the keepers of my unyielding belief in love, I screamed them to deafness.

You might question then that what I expressed at the height of our deep love affair was just the effects of the moment. You penetrated me more than that. I know.

Will I ever go to Gent? Most likely, when? I don’t know, and I won’t just go there to see Jaque Louis David’s Marat Assasiné. I dream of walking the streets you might walk in, the air you breathe, those kinds of things, maybe have a beer, sit down and enjoy the Belgium sun.

I still miss you and often wonder how you are, if you are married and wonder if you have children, those sort of things….


Went out for a stroll and decided to take a book with me, so I took David Lodge along. I started reading Consciousness and the Novel (2002) in the beginning of the term. I found it in the New Books section of Stockholm’s Library. Of eleven essays, two I totally skipped, of which the remaining 9 others were succulent pieces. He definitely treats the subject well, that is, how consciousness exists in novel characters.

He has an eye for criticism, for example, I was very much amused and amazed at a critique he made regarding an essay on E M Forsters novel Howards End, titled Forster’s Flawed Masterpiece. He says: “Some of the purple passages towards the end of the novel sound like George Meredith on a bad day …” I mean, to make that kind of critique you really must be well versed in literature. And he sure sounds like he is. He is one of those novelists that also side job as scholars, like Richard Holmes. He has good, delicious essays on Evelyn Waugh, Kierkegaard, a nice discourse on Philip Roth’s geriatric sexual habits. A topic I only seen touched on by a Swedish writer, Theodor Kallifatides in Seven Hours in Paradaise ( De sju timmarna i paradiset ). Dickens came along as well, and this essay covered mostly things of a nearly biographical nature. Although very informative stuff about his sexual life and the near lack of consciousness in of some Dickens characters.

The soft velvet fabric of the sofa invited relaxation. The bar atmosphere was soothing and not too many people smoked. Chris and Licia sat by one of the sofas, ordered some red wine and began talking. They spoke of mundane things like the horoscope, what they liked, music and so on. A few giggles and laughter were heard. The hours on the clock in the wall tick-toed its way, only witness to the migrating lightness, and the coming dusk. By the third glass of wine, Chris and Licia had became attached to one another so that Chris’s arm streched itself out and began caressing Licia’s ear lobe with the tip of his fingers. Then everything stopped, body language could be seen. Their eyes met. He let his fingers slide, feeling intensely how Licia’s gentle skin gave an inmense pleasure as they moved slowly through the lines of her cheek bones. I could see how carefully the tip of the fingers from his hand made their way through her neck and how Licia moved her head sideways so as to make more room for Chri’s caressing touch. Stopping at the cleavege of her blouse, he aproached his head to hers so as to place his lips by her cheeks, gently gliding, barely touching the surface of her skin. Surely pheronomes were about this time dispelling scents that only they could detect provoking untold desires in them. They stopped for a moment, looked at each other, seriously, in approval, with penetrating looks. They seemed infatuated, unaware of the world outside their enchanted affair.

I’ve read thus far in this term several auto/biograpies/memoirs from the Victorian period, Edmund Gosse, Robert Graves, Strachey, Eminent Victorians: Florence Nightingale, Oliphant, Autobiography. Ed. Elizabeth Jay, and Virgina Woolf, “The Art of Biography”, “Sketch of the Past”. Its strikes me as curious how all more or less come from the same middle class background and how much importance they attach to their acquaintences. Its filled with what we nowadays call name dropping. Their relations with the upper echelons seem to make them who they are regardless of their chores in life, they belong to one and the same innercircle. The name they bare sets them aside from blokes, say, like me. Therein lies the difference, as far as I can see between Brits and Americans, while I haven’t read any memorable autobiographies, biographies or memoirs of Americans I know the value system in the States are different, because I know that what is valued in the US is the ability to exceed above your deficiencies, society will reward this. About the only thing worst frowned upon in America is the Nouveau Richie. This class is seriously out in a limb there but they seem to love a story of the poor farmer who made it to the top.

The metereologist had predicted sunny weather with partial clouds during and only in the afternoon. The city’s only meteorologist had a reputation to keep and almost all of his weather instruments, financed by the city’s coffers, were up-to-date, state-of-the-art technologies. He had a Perception II stand-alone weather station plus hand-held wind speed indicators and a handy weather forecasting quick reference card and not to mention a brand new Vantage Pro weather station for monitoring barometric pressure, temperature, humidity, rainfall, and wind speed and direction. So whenever the prediction failed, the mayor would get an ear-full of calls from angry residents demanding were had their tax money gone to and wondered out loud whether he hadn’t favored his crony friends at the time of the bidding for the equipment. Everyday the mayor would follow the day with the prediction in hand and reports from other local agencies as the day went by, gladly enough, today the prediction fulfilled its job and the mayor busied himself with other businesses that demanded his attention.

At the other end of town, a happy sunbather had just finished basking in the sun, content that the sun had come out and that finally he could show off his male bikini to the neighbors across the street who were only too willing to see what he was up to these days. Rumor had it that he had won the lottery somewhere else in the county and his lifestyle certainly fed to that gossip. Nobody knew exactly where this fellow had come from, only that one early week in May a moving van had pulled up in front of an abandoned house known to the locals as the Old Murray residence. About three weeks thereafter a classic Mercedes-Benz SSK (1928), designed by Ferdinand Porsche, drove in to the garage much to the bewilderment of the tight community. What did he want in that middle class neighborhood with a car like that and a servant at his disposal was the hot query in the mouths of much of the populace there.