9/27/2006
I was telling you on the "Ghost Road" posting about my dread of the Teresita-Mind. Where all things are sacred and many things are holy. Where the day tastes so sweet it hurts, and pain is deep blue and joy is some sort of golden stitchery on the morning. It's a hard place to be. I know it wore Teresita out, as it wears many masters and medicine-people and good preachers out. Do you get a black-belt in holiness? Or do you become a shuffling holy fool like Jack Kerouac? Or a charred mad balladeer like Bob Dylan? I don't know. I am unwilling. But the Cabora-Mind finds you--let one crack open up in your armor of the modern life, and it will rush in like flood water or daylight. Like this: I was flying last week. Yeah, haha, I was flying--I mean the plane was flying and I was sitting inside it. I'm not that far gone yet. And you know, you get up there in the realms of ether and clouds and the spirits and spooks can get at you. I was going to Phoenix--not knowing that I'd be startled by over 400 people at the library, and my good pals the police dept. detectives with their Glocks there to keep psychos and border ruffians from killing me (hello, Detective Abril!); then on to San Francisco, where my friends came to visit in library and bookstore. Many many autographs and good laughs and some tears even. Flying America West, with my iPod going trying to make the time flow. I had seen the Kiefer Sutherland thriller on the last flight. So, get this: Teresita whomped me somewhere above Kansas. I looked up, and this old woman got out of her seat and stood in the aisle. Then, struggling, falling back, then rising, then stumbling, then rising again, came her old old husband. He wore a track suit--a deep blue warm-up zipped sweat shirt and running pants. And he was palsied. His hands vibrated and jumped, alive unto themselves. He had the hardest time getting up and turning around to face the rear of the plane. She held him, encouraged him. His eyes were bright as my daughter's, made huge by his glasses. And he shivered and shook and strained down the aisle toward the bathroom, a look of determination on his face as if he were climbing the Rockies. And a thought rose in my brain like a bubble, uninvited: Old man, you have led a good life. I am so thankful you were here. Oh crap. I started to cry. Oh no! Not now! Not Hummingbird-itis! Not here! I couldn't stop crying, man. I tried to look like I was yawning and wiping tired eyes. And I almost got it together. BUT HE CAME BACK. His hand clutched the seat back beside my face, and he wobbled a few times and went on to his seat. But she was there, open arms, waiting for him. Receiving him. And he went to her like a little one learning to walk. And she grasped him and whispered to him. And then, that no good bastard the iPod, did me in: The Who, from "Tommy," the 1921 song. Remember it? "I have a feeling '21 is going to be a good year. /Especially if you an me see it in together. / I've got no reason to be over-optimistic,/ But somehow when I see your face I can brave bad weather." Aaaahhh! I started to really cry. Stop it! Stop it! And then, thank God, relief: the iPod shuffled up the evil punk band Fear and their song "I Don't Care About You": "I don't care about you! I don't care about you! I don't care about you! Fuck you!" Whew. A last minute save or I would have fallen on the floor bawling. Fear--agents of God. I bet that's a new one for them. It's coming on me. I hear its wings. I smell it like distant rain. Am I ready to go? XOX, L
Still Alive & Kicking
9/18/2006
Thanks to my dear friends at the San Francisco libraries and city hall--including our future president, Mayor Newsom--Hummingbird is at # 2 on the SF best seller list. It has been fascinating to watch the book surge and retreat over the months, but never quite go away. Oddly, the recent propaganda and inflammation-irritation over immigration made Devil's H go on wild sales surges too. So I've been racing myself around amazon.com's sales lists. Interesting. It's as if I had signed up for a samll experiment. Also, the old books seem to wake up and stagger out of their caves once in a while and start to rack up sales. I actually got a royalty check for a book that had never earned any money before...and then I lost the check! Thanks, all. Luis
The Ghost Road
9/14/2006
This is a true story. An Oglala Lakota (Sioux) medicine man was visiting New York, and he went with a group of friends to view Ground Zero. They were on the subway heading toward the site, and he was forced off the train by the power of the voices of fear and pain still radiating from that terrible day. Energy still pulsing from the pit. We live in a field of strange flowers, my friends. Things inexplicable and largely invisible surround us every second of the day. Angels are whispering. You don't believe me? How about devils? How about we forget angels and devils both and hear the other whispers that assail us, but we don't hear because the iPod's cranking "SexyBack," or the trash truck's too loud, or the phone's ringing, or the TV is blasting the latest episode of "Lost." Listen. It's in the wind.
I was always amazed at people who did not believe in ghosts. It struck me as funny then, and astounding now, that we don't all see the whole world is a haunted house. We might as well be in line at Disneyworld, getting on the Haunted Mansion ride. What is memory but a haunting? I was torn open by the Teresita experience in ways I have not yet really shared, except with the medicine people and my Cinderella. Maybe Dave of the Pike Bishops (see their myspace website and listen to some songs I wrote with Dav-o). I call being Aware (yeah, cap "A,") being in Teresita-Mind. It must have exhausted her!
Being in Teresita-Mind is an exciting and vivid place to be. But it's not fun. Not fun to be open to the tree's complaint, or the mountain's lonely spirit. Skeptics now can say: he's babbling. My lit crit colleagues can say, Ah--the pathetic fallacy at work! But Hummingbird fans know. You know what I'm talking about. It's easy now to laugh at Jim Morrison wanting to hear "the scream of the butterfly."
If I am to write well, for my style of writing, I must re-enter Teresita-Mind. It's a lot of work, man! It's all chi energies and discipline, prayer and OPENING. I'm tired. I'm not ready. I'm not willing. I'm bored. I'm watching TV. I'm reading a cool book. I'm listening to a cd, dude. All these things were what I'd say to God when it was time to go back into Tijuana and feed the poor. Don't wanna be open. I wonder if strippers feel like that--not tonight, don't want to be exposed.
Teresita-Mind is a haunting. It is being aware of the ghosts all around us. Let us not talk of spirits and the like. Let us imagine the real ghosts of this world. Imagine this: you can look upon an old, used pair of shoes, and they can make you cry. I love being there, and I don't like it at all.
Today, I drove home from UIC on the Chicago Ghost Road, old Ogden. Route 66. How many thousand drivers go down that battered old path of dreams and hauntings and never see the riders packed in their back seats? I can see Capone on that street, John Dillinger, Muddy Waters. I look west and see Rocky Mtn air wadded up and super-saturated by Nebraska and Iowa, lifted high and heavy with rain, coming to me on a Japanese wind. They're all before me--Issa, Basho, Doc Holliday, Tom Horn, Crazy Horse, Geronimo, Teresita, my mom, my dad, and you...you whom I think I have left behind, but who pulse in my blood. Ghosts.
The late, great, Chris Whitley sang: "My secret Jesus/ The Good Red Road/ On blood antenna/ Dust radio...."
What I'm listening to: Lots and lots of Bob Dylan. Also: The Who, Mastodon, Gustavo Cerati, Wolfmother, Ozric Tentacles, Nine Black Alps, The Church, Tom Russell, El Gran Silencio, and the long-lost 1969 power-trio, Fields.
4ever, Luis
Good News/Bad News
I was always amazed at people who did not believe in ghosts. It struck me as funny then, and astounding now, that we don't all see the whole world is a haunted house. We might as well be in line at Disneyworld, getting on the Haunted Mansion ride. What is memory but a haunting? I was torn open by the Teresita experience in ways I have not yet really shared, except with the medicine people and my Cinderella. Maybe Dave of the Pike Bishops (see their myspace website and listen to some songs I wrote with Dav-o). I call being Aware (yeah, cap "A,") being in Teresita-Mind. It must have exhausted her!
Being in Teresita-Mind is an exciting and vivid place to be. But it's not fun. Not fun to be open to the tree's complaint, or the mountain's lonely spirit. Skeptics now can say: he's babbling. My lit crit colleagues can say, Ah--the pathetic fallacy at work! But Hummingbird fans know. You know what I'm talking about. It's easy now to laugh at Jim Morrison wanting to hear "the scream of the butterfly."
If I am to write well, for my style of writing, I must re-enter Teresita-Mind. It's a lot of work, man! It's all chi energies and discipline, prayer and OPENING. I'm tired. I'm not ready. I'm not willing. I'm bored. I'm watching TV. I'm reading a cool book. I'm listening to a cd, dude. All these things were what I'd say to God when it was time to go back into Tijuana and feed the poor. Don't wanna be open. I wonder if strippers feel like that--not tonight, don't want to be exposed.
Teresita-Mind is a haunting. It is being aware of the ghosts all around us. Let us not talk of spirits and the like. Let us imagine the real ghosts of this world. Imagine this: you can look upon an old, used pair of shoes, and they can make you cry. I love being there, and I don't like it at all.
Today, I drove home from UIC on the Chicago Ghost Road, old Ogden. Route 66. How many thousand drivers go down that battered old path of dreams and hauntings and never see the riders packed in their back seats? I can see Capone on that street, John Dillinger, Muddy Waters. I look west and see Rocky Mtn air wadded up and super-saturated by Nebraska and Iowa, lifted high and heavy with rain, coming to me on a Japanese wind. They're all before me--Issa, Basho, Doc Holliday, Tom Horn, Crazy Horse, Geronimo, Teresita, my mom, my dad, and you...you whom I think I have left behind, but who pulse in my blood. Ghosts.
The late, great, Chris Whitley sang: "My secret Jesus/ The Good Red Road/ On blood antenna/ Dust radio...."
What I'm listening to: Lots and lots of Bob Dylan. Also: The Who, Mastodon, Gustavo Cerati, Wolfmother, Ozric Tentacles, Nine Black Alps, The Church, Tom Russell, El Gran Silencio, and the long-lost 1969 power-trio, Fields.
4ever, Luis
9/13/2006
All right, so the Spanish edition of Hummingbird is available now. La hija de la chuparrosa. It's gorgeous, and brilliantly translated by my cuz, Enrique Hubbard Urrea. He's the Mexican consul general in Dallas. Everything about it is delicious...except there's a grammatical error ON THE FRONT COVER! This could be seen as a really funny li'l joke, I guess. I sweated and labored over the inner materials, and wrestled with the long complex critical blurbs inside with Manuel Munoz. But I didn't see the little tiny blurb for the front cover of the book that says "Una novela belleza..." which doesn't make any sense at all. A beauty novel? Ouch! I don't know what Little Brown is going to do. But Hubbard's not happy, and I know Mexico will laugh us off the shelves. How weird is that--one small word can put a dent in a 600 page book. Wow. Stay tuned on that one. And while I'm delivering bad news, I still can't figure out why the audio is still not available. We rushed and did everything in a mighty surge of insane recording, engineering and producing, and delivered it by the nearly impossible delivery date. It had to be rush-rush. Then...it sat. I must just be cranky because I haven't had my coffee yet. Don't worry--soon I'll be back to hummingbirds and haikus. The lesson for today is: there are always circumstances outside of our control. Lemonade, anyone?
Here Comes the Flood
9/08/2006
Semi-quiet in the madhouse this Friday night. Ma and the big kids are off to the high school football game. This is baffling to me. I was in that bohemian crowd in high school that never went to a single football game...ever. Did you know those guys? The ones who knew the weirdest records that nobody else knew? That drove around in foul and suspicious vans or Jeeps? We did both. My boy Bimbo La Cruz had a van whose shifter was some kind of human legbone. And it was paramount that we avoid dances and social events. Read Ferlinghetti and Brautigan books. Sneak around with the football jocks' girlfriends. But here I am, suburban midwest social dad. Huh. Weirder and weirder. So Chayo and I are watching Fairly Oddparents. I'm telling you, you can't imagine how exotic and deluxe a writer's life is.
The Spanish editions of Hummingbird arrived today. I've been reading them all afternoon. Enrique Hubbard Urrea, my ambassador/consul general cousin, writes like a genius. No, wait. I wrote it, but he translated it. But his translation stands there in its own language like its own book. I'm confused. All I know is we make a great team.
I got back from the SF trip and went right to work. I don't know how long I can juggle teaching and...what do you call it? Faming? As I have said elsewhere, forget writing! Writing? Ha! Hahahaha! I go too hard and come home with a cold and teach. But aside from actually writing, this has been a productive lull between massive bouts of travel (again).
Let's see--I have been meeting with book clubs. Amazing events. If I can get to your book club meeting, I will. I have been working on my big lit judging gig (can't tell you about it). I have been playing tv series script cross-country electronic ping-pong with my pal, NineDragon. We might just actually get a Tijuana/Border series going--who knows. I have been working more with Luis Mandoki on the Hummingbird movie ideas. Answering a billion emails. And getting ready to go, go, go.
It looks like I might be adding Guadalajara to the Fall epic tour. Watch the calendar, I guess. Hope I see you on one of these visits.
But, you know, as dull as it sounds, sometimes I'd like to just stay here with the kid and watch Spongebob.
Thank you, World--
besos y abrazos--
L
Bullitt II
The Spanish editions of Hummingbird arrived today. I've been reading them all afternoon. Enrique Hubbard Urrea, my ambassador/consul general cousin, writes like a genius. No, wait. I wrote it, but he translated it. But his translation stands there in its own language like its own book. I'm confused. All I know is we make a great team.
I got back from the SF trip and went right to work. I don't know how long I can juggle teaching and...what do you call it? Faming? As I have said elsewhere, forget writing! Writing? Ha! Hahahaha! I go too hard and come home with a cold and teach. But aside from actually writing, this has been a productive lull between massive bouts of travel (again).
Let's see--I have been meeting with book clubs. Amazing events. If I can get to your book club meeting, I will. I have been working on my big lit judging gig (can't tell you about it). I have been playing tv series script cross-country electronic ping-pong with my pal, NineDragon. We might just actually get a Tijuana/Border series going--who knows. I have been working more with Luis Mandoki on the Hummingbird movie ideas. Answering a billion emails. And getting ready to go, go, go.
It looks like I might be adding Guadalajara to the Fall epic tour. Watch the calendar, I guess. Hope I see you on one of these visits.
But, you know, as dull as it sounds, sometimes I'd like to just stay here with the kid and watch Spongebob.
Thank you, World--
besos y abrazos--
L
9/01/2006
I was in San Francisco. I was there to see the mayor, Gavin Newsom. We was driving his big black Dodge Charger. I wasn't scared of the likes of him. I was in my forest green '67 Mustang GT fastback. I chased him up the hills. He was fast--damn fast. But I was faster. Newsom went airborne coming down Lombard. So did I. We leaped and crashed, leaped and crashed, going 90 mph, sliding through the turns, burning rubber around cable cars. Or maybe not. I'm confusing my trip with Bullitt. Sorry.
I was in SF for their opening of the one city read, or One City One Book, or All City Reads One Book, program. That book happens to be Hummingbird's Daughter. How astonishing. Posters and building banners and signs inside all the city buses. Wouldn't Teresita have been happy. We met for breakfast in City Hall--where my mom and dad hab been married in 1954. I was walking with World's Greatest Publicist, my honey Bonnie Hannah, and her heels echoing in the hallways made me wonder if my mom's heels sounded exactly like that so long ago. Mayor Newsom arrived among the gathered potentates and dignitaries, and I managed to have one mango slice before we started talking. This is good: The Book Tour Diet. I had some fun, opening my remarks by saying, "I'm honored to be here with President Newsom." This got laughs from the crowd. I said, "I'm just trying to weasel my way into the West Wing when you get there." We adjourned to the June Jordan high school for a visit and some Q&A with the wonderful students. People who despair about the United States and what has become of us should go to June Jordan and see real hope alive and kicking.
And those kids love their mayor. I was happy that Tom, our Little Brown west coast rep was there, and arranged for the seniors I talked to to receive their own copies of the book. They were asking me how much it cost--I didn't want them spending their hard-earned money on my book. So Tom heroically stepped up for them.
I caught an early flight home. I was in Mick Jagger mode--in at 10:00 on Tuesday, out at 4:00 on Wednesday. Had to get home to the kids. We were all up at 6:00 doing the Mr Mom thing. CJ, the Puggle, looked at me with great big love-eyes and laid a stanky muffin right on the carpet again! At least this time I didn't step in it. But Cinderella comes home today. Whew.
All death details and funerals are over for now. I can get back to teaching my classes and boarding planes every other week.
Yrs., L
I was in SF for their opening of the one city read, or One City One Book, or All City Reads One Book, program. That book happens to be Hummingbird's Daughter. How astonishing. Posters and building banners and signs inside all the city buses. Wouldn't Teresita have been happy. We met for breakfast in City Hall--where my mom and dad hab been married in 1954. I was walking with World's Greatest Publicist, my honey Bonnie Hannah, and her heels echoing in the hallways made me wonder if my mom's heels sounded exactly like that so long ago. Mayor Newsom arrived among the gathered potentates and dignitaries, and I managed to have one mango slice before we started talking. This is good: The Book Tour Diet. I had some fun, opening my remarks by saying, "I'm honored to be here with President Newsom." This got laughs from the crowd. I said, "I'm just trying to weasel my way into the West Wing when you get there." We adjourned to the June Jordan high school for a visit and some Q&A with the wonderful students. People who despair about the United States and what has become of us should go to June Jordan and see real hope alive and kicking.
And those kids love their mayor. I was happy that Tom, our Little Brown west coast rep was there, and arranged for the seniors I talked to to receive their own copies of the book. They were asking me how much it cost--I didn't want them spending their hard-earned money on my book. So Tom heroically stepped up for them.
I caught an early flight home. I was in Mick Jagger mode--in at 10:00 on Tuesday, out at 4:00 on Wednesday. Had to get home to the kids. We were all up at 6:00 doing the Mr Mom thing. CJ, the Puggle, looked at me with great big love-eyes and laid a stanky muffin right on the carpet again! At least this time I didn't step in it. But Cinderella comes home today. Whew.
All death details and funerals are over for now. I can get back to teaching my classes and boarding planes every other week.
Yrs., L
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