Our Journey to Ixtlan

Somehow we've been living in Oaxaca for nearly two years and managed to miss going to the mountains. Sure, there was the time we coaxed our reluctant vocho up the first peak, to get a blast of cool, fresh air, before careening back down to Oaxaca proper.

We decided that, with the swine flu epidemic supposedly raging somewhere just out of reach (maybe in Texas?), we might as well go camping. Now, I'm not a camper. I was a Girl Scout for a couple years, but I was in it for the HoeDowns (and Thin Mints). I don't like sleeping in tents and waking up in cold dirt and a semi-warm shower located across a public campground. And I really have to ignore that "we're getting everything dirty" obsessive streak of panic that runs through me.

Camping near Ixtlan de Juarez, the mountains to the north of Oaxaca City is altogether different. You go to the town center and stroll around until you find a sign about ecotours. You call the numbers on the sign and no one answers. You check your guidebook and call those numbers and get someone. Just not someone who knows what you're talking about when you ask about "hay una cabana disponible para esta noche?"

As you wander aimlessly around the zocalo, chasing after your three-your-old, you see the only open door in the center. It's the office to the ecotour company, randomly open on a Sunday afternoon during a holiday weekend with a flu scare on. You go in and they shrug. "Sure, there's cabins. Just head on over there."

Sure enough, a simple 4.3 kilometers away, after several prominent signs, we found the ecotour campgrounds. We drove down a gravel road, parked, and found ourselves in the midst of a pine forest, not a sight to which I'm accustomed in Oaxaca. It was so...California, down to the overly dry conditions.

It was my kind of camping. Cabins with beds and furniture. There are fireplaces and logs. There are porches for lounging around. Private hot showers (well, hot for two minutes).

We took the kids down a trail that led across a rope bridge to a cave, where we could hear bats squeaking. Then, it was to the ropes course. Max and I rented mountain bikes and careened down to a river where we threw our shoes off and chased tadpoles. We watched trout swimming in the pond before trudging and semi-riding our bikes back up the mountain. We ate fresh Oaxacan cuisine at the lodge and collected pine cones. The next day, Geni and Max tried horseback riding. Geni threw a tantrum when we pulled her off the horse, crying "burro burro burro!"

And all of it about a 40-mile trip from our house. How about that? And I would have thought this an impossible thing for me to say just a week ago, but I look forward to camping again soon. But next time we bring Carolos Quinto chocolate bars, Maria cookies and bon bones for the Mexican version of s'mores. Can't believe I forgot that stuff.

Dia del Nino and My Rant Against Trazzler

It's strange circumstances, to be sure, but it's Day of the Child in Mexico. We remembered at around noon, so we went off to Chedraui supermarket to buy a cake and celebrate.

So, it might be the cake talking, but I'm in a bad mood. This freaking Trazzler travel website that I hate deeply keeps sending me newsletters and there is no way to unsubscribe. They say you can unsubscribe, but I just get in an endless loop of complaints that won't be registered without my email, which they say is not registered. Then how am I getting this useless, annoying newsletter in the first place?

I originally thought I'd apply to write for Trazzler which, upon reading the fine print, looked like a terrible idea. Very scammy. I read on their forums that some users are beginning to think Trazzler is a scam, too. If not a scam, then Trazzler is at least unethical and annoying, with no contact email addresses and a help forum that won't let me publish my query. With Trazzler, I am like those suckers who got lifetime magazine subscriptions through AOL and could never cancel them, doomed to pay for bad magazines for an eternity. I am Sisyphus pushing that heavy rock of Trazzler spam emails up the hill.

Boo Trazzler!
Trazzler, I do not like you.
Trazzler, I agree with those on the forums who beg to be set free from your spam.

My Neighborhood and Swine Flu

It's day two of the quarantine or whatever you want to call it. I've had a lot of people writing me, asking what it's like to be in the belly of the beast, though, really, we're more in the knee, somewhat below all the action.

I'll begin by saying we live outside the immediate town center, about a mile or so to the northeast. Here, it's been quiet. A little too quiet. There are far fewer gas trucks blaring their "Oaxaca" song and dragging chains behind them. The old vocho that chugs around with a megaphone on top, announcing "Tortillas! Tortillas!" has not been making its circuit. No such luck with the orange truck, though, Steve's nemesis, that has a tape reeling over and over about fresh oranges from Veracruz, juicy and sweet, fresh for your juice, for your kitchen, from Veracruz. Hardly a nieve ice cream pushcart, announced by a honking horn.

The real absence, though, is the children because, no matter what block I'm on in Oaxaca, from the busiest highway to a random dirt road, there's kids running, backpacks slapping their backs, mommies carrying impossibly big babies (rare to see a stroller or even a baby pack) and the constant laughing, shouting and crying that goes along with all of it.

So I was surprised to find our Tuesday street market on in my neighborhood, full of vendors, but very few customers. The customers that were there were not crowding the prepared food booths as much, but there was still quite a bit of trying on shoes and examining designer knockoff purses. Some vendors and customers wore blue or white face masks, but most did not.

As I walked from here to the west side of the town center yesterday afternoon, about a 45 minute walk, I noticed that, as I approached the tourist part of town, more businesses were open.

I passed the ADO first class bus station and saw a mobile vehicle parked at the doorway, stocked with medical equipment and staffed by people wearing face masks. There was a small satellite dish atop the vehicle, generating, I believe, a wireless signal, because the medical staff had laptops. People were standing at the tables and gathering pamphlets and flyers. Just a few feet away, inside the bus station, the tourist information kiosk was open for business.

There was a big book fair on in Llano Park, with probably five times as many vendors as customers, but that could have been the hour. On a tree was nailed a forlorn paper sign: zumba class was canceled. To think that the only person who bothered to notify people of a closure was the teacher of the outdoor zumba class. Here, too, there was a mobile health vehicle.

I cut through Conzatti Park, where there were no teenagers making out, a major shift in the park demographic. From there, I walked on the outer edge of the grounds of the Santo Domingo cathedral, past the open doors of the Oaxaca Spanish Magic language school. I peered through their courtyard and spied two people semi-dozing on patio chairs--not magic, but not an infernal hell of a pandemic, either.

I arrived at La Biznaga restaurant, where I was meeting friends. The staff all wore face masks. There was only two tables occupied, but one was filled with young Mexican hipsters, drinking cocktails. Only one had a face mask, loosely hanging around his neck.

By the time we left La Biznaga, a couple hours later, the quietness was more noticeable. By 7pm or 8pm, Oaxaca usually wakes up. Stores reopen after siesta, restaurants start filling up, bars open their doors. None of that was happening. It started to feel like...Portland, Oregon, after 9pm, not a late-night kind of town for the most part.

Today was equally mellow, though we snuck out to the park and found a couple kids on swings and two teenagers, skateboarding while wearing face masks. It was so laid-back around here that I was honestly surprised when I found out the WHO raised the alert level to phase 5.

What to do when there's nothing you can do

Bizarre times, these days, with Mexico closing down all the schools until May 6th due to swine flu. We are nowhere near the major outbreaks, though my friend told me Oaxaca has its one and only case over two weeks ago, in which the person died at the hospital and they shut the whole hospital down. But, since then, nothing that I know of.

Not only are we to keep the kids out of school (and they've only been back one week since their two-week spring break), but we cannot go to the usual kid energy-guzzling places I adore, such as bouncy castle heaven Poing Poing, TerraLandia (Gymboree-ish, but with more challenging stuff), Cinepolis for first run movies, Pochote for old movies, toy stores, the children's library, the English library, Las Brisas swim park, the Hacienda de Santa Marta buffet and play area, the children's area of the Stamp Museum and of the Textile Museum--it has made me realize how many kids' places I'd racked up in my mental itinerary of things to do.

So, I'm digging out the old camp and day care memories, channeling Jenny who was so good of making fun out of thin air plus, sometimes, a little bit of stuff. We started this afternoon by making homemade limeade and squeezing limes, sampling the results in shot glasses and painted gourds.

Tomorrow, I think, will be fort day, with blankets and pillows and stuffed animals camping with us. Perhaps a picnic lunch on the rooftop.

There will be days lazing by the kiddie pool on our terrace and evenings around the warm, cozy DVD player. I've already looked up how to make playdough (if I can just find "crema de tartar" at the market). Perhaps some flashlight games. Build a puppet theater or, my lazy way, a finger puppet theater. Maybe it's time to sketch out a mural for the garage wall. We could plant a garden or at least get rid of dead plants and replace them with some tough cacti. And isn't it time to go through all of the old toys and clothes and make up boxes for donation?

Somewhere, in there, I will get some work done, as well as attempting to apply for a couple gigs to heal the wound of my killed story.

So, it sounds doable here, in blog land, but that doesn't account for the mess and the cranky, the bedtime fight and the homework that is still supposed to get done. Not to mention Geni's long-standing proclivity for flooding rooms. If I can make it through this week without screaming at them (you know, a bark or two is totally acceptable in my book), well, then, that would be startling. Let me make that my benchmark: no screaming. I'll check in and let you know how it's going.

What happens to a story killed?

Does it dry up
like a Lindsay Lohan in rehab?

Really, it's just sagging like a heavy load right now. And the story just sits there, killed.

I should figure out the way to negate this having happened, like send out 10 pitches and apply for 10 gigs next week.

But, right now, a bad movie on cable will do the trick.

From Strep to Pinotepa in Three Days

Watching Geni's little throat minute by minute, wondering if the little white dots coating it will be moidered by antibiotics in time for her to strut the streets of Oaxaca tomorrow.

Because the time has come for another calenda, little Geni dressed in the Pinotepa costume of a flowered blouse and flouncy skirt, parading with the 20-some preschools selected from throughout the city. It's firecrackers and showers of candy, cloth-covered globes and cellophane colored lanterns, banners and a live band, the streets closed so tiny children can announce the annual preschool indigenous dance festival, known as Guelaguetza Infantil.

And, if I weren't so tired, maybe I'd be prouder, but Geni sick is not a pleasant person during the nighttime. The only thing that chilled her out was watching YouTube videos of Dana Carvey singing "Chopping Broccoli".

The upside of all the chaos and the sleep deprivation: we found a great pediatrician, perhaps the best ever. I'd write her name if I remembered it. Beatriz Sumero is 50 percent of her name. She's on Murgia street, I believe, half a block to the west of the Alcala. She interviewed me and talked to Geni and slowly, slowly built up Geni's confidence so she could do a thorough checkup. Geni was happy, I was elated. I mean, I didn't have an appointment, and she snuck me in first, ahead of when her 5pm appointment showed (she's only open 5-8pm). No insurance, no problem, the cost out of pocket was 300 pesos, or about 25 bucks and she spent half an hour with us.

She even said my favorite words a doctor can utter: "I hate to prescribe antibiotics". Good things. But, of course, with strep throat we needed to bring in the antibiotics, so let's just get this kicking in so that my Geni can perform at the Guelaguetza. Maybe I have the makings of a stage mother...

Las Oaxaquenas

I had breakfast with my Oaxaquena posse this morning and I again was struck with what luck I have had making friends in a foreign country, speaking in a foreign language. To be sure, there are huge gaps in my understanding that seem to arise more from cultural differences than linguistic differences, like the look of shock Flor gave me when I treated for her breakfast as a belated gift. Al norte, it would be so easy to insist, "I'm treating!", but here it felt like I had done something terribly strange.

The strangeness aside, though, my friends always shock me with some little bit of information, an insight into their version of contemporary Oaxacan culture, that makes me appreciate them so. For example, they often complain about machismo or women not being able to stand up for themselves in certain situations, and it just goes against this stereotype of the more traditional Mexican woman. They rehearse strategies for speaking with their husbands about touchy subjects, and we all argue about approaches and commiserate.

I walked home feeling elated that they would welcome me and trust me so, but I might also have been fueled by the two cups of coffee I drank, not a typical ritual for me (but necessary because La Geni spent midnight to early morning grumpy with a slight fever and I awoke thinking I could not bear to socialize in Spanish for three hours).

What Oaxaca and just expatriation does to people is of an eternal fascination to me, because I am only starting to understand the magnitude of our decision to sell everything we own and live in Mexico. For me, it was a test sort of, a wondering, if I could really live somewhere foreign and feel like it was home, especially in regard to forging new friendships, something which rarely comes easy to me. It's never smooth but, in some ways, foreign friendships can be more freeing, because you have to let go of so much of your worries and your past, unless you have the time and the grammar to adequately express it all.

Festivus!

Well, the Semana Santa silent processional with crucified Jesus no sooner cleared town than we had an alebrije and a black pottery festival in the appropriate villages. Having gotten a chunk of freelance work, I finally bought some bigger pieces of artesania, like a hand-painted alebrije-style chair for Genevieve and an intricate necklace of black pottery beads wrapped in silver wire.

Next up was the festival of the Tercera Raiz, a festival of the culture of black Oaxacans. There was live dance and music in the public plazas, including a band with percussion played on the giant jawbone of a horse or a cow.

After the spring break crush of tourists cleared out, I thought the hype might die down a bit, but then I got word of the CuentaCuentos festival, a series of storytelling events around the centro. I took Max to the stately library building with its massive courtyard and creeping vine giant plants and we heard stories by Peruvian and Brazilian storytellers. I was excited because of my sister Jenny's illustrious career as a folklorist, performance artist, storyteller and front porch gossiper, but I also worried that Max might feel too old for the scene which was full of little ones.

I needn't have worried. The performers unrolled these beautiful story quilts and, lo and behold, they were three-dimensional, with pockets and puffy parts hiding and holding props, figures and all sorts of surprises. Max was entranced and we stayed until the end. I imagined Jenny sitting with us, taking mental notes, because she would want to discuss every little thing later on the living room couch. Which is where I sit now, having the conversation with my blog, hoping that at least one little detail of the evening I experienced would resonate with her.

Coming soon are the Humanitas Festival, celebrating the cultures of the Mixteca, Puebla and...Spain?...and the Guelaguetza Infantil children's folk dance festival, in which Genevieve and her classmates from Colegio Teizcali are supposed to participate but Geni may choose instead to burst into tears or stand like a deer in the headlights.

And, if you're in town, do not forget Steve's annual mole enchilada party this Sunday at 3pm, a great new Oaxacan tradition.

Your Year-Round Film Festival

I'm reading the book Julie & Julia which, upon my Googling the title, has come to my attention that it was also made into a movie. So I feel a little unoriginal reading it now, with it being made by Nora Ephron and Julia Roberts being in it but I can be excused because I really have not gone to movies much since having children. Sometimes I fantasize a life of going to a different movie every night, like my dad does (happily taking advantage of his senior discount).

The movies I see now tend toward the animated variety which, in some cases, is all right, as in the case of the surprisingly semi-feminist "Monsters vs. Aliens" which kicks Disney's ass in the possibilities for skinny pretty girls department. Sometimes the movies are not quite so great, like "The Other Egg Movie and a Chicken" a made-in-Mexico "children's" movie that makes much of the fact that egg is also used as a metaphor for private parts. Ah, the double entendre. These are the films of Cinepolis, Oaxaca's version of the mall multiplex, complete with overpriced popcorn and surprisingly good Nutella crepes.

Other movie possibilities are at Pochote cinema, the free art theater under the aqueducts that I love so dearly. Not all films are that comprehensible to me there, but the experience is beautiful. Pochote figures into my "someday a nightly movie" fantasy.

There's cable, too, which we got for the first time in our lives. Cable seems to favor all of these violent action films I've never heard of that always have either a guy shooting someone or a woman about to be attacked. Not my favorite themes.

And then there's la pirata. Ah, the bootleg DVDs, it's a big, big deal down here. People set up stands full of them, and there's a whole routine for buying them. You have the vendor bring up the DVD menu on a little TV or player in the booth. You go through the menu and a couple scenes to make sure the quality is OK and, if it's important, that there is an English option. Very recent movies follow the joke on "Seinfeld", having been filmed directly in the theater, with people passing by the screen, audience laughter, popcorn spilling, the whole enchilada.

Imagine my delight last week when we happened upon reels upon reels of classic "Batman" episodes from the '70s. But, as often happens when we try to actually buy things in Mexico, no one could figure out what the price should be. They finally guessed at a price and it was far too high for our meager budget, so we passed. Little did I know Max would then spot "The Egg Movie" part one, without the chicken, and forced us to buy that for him.

Someday, a movie every night, and no eggs as stars.

I'll take the bus this time

I think that's how the Jonathan Richman song goes, about the delights of bus travel. But try convincing my bourgeois son Max that a bus is a better way to go than a taxi. He likes the directness of taxis, but it's the things off your route that are always the most promising.

I was on the Oaxaca city bus, one of my favorites because it had been painted a lurid red through the interior which went great with the purple tinted windows. A guy got on and gave the driver a look. I'd seen that look before. It's this quick look of asking permission, to which the drivers typically nod.

When he got on, I could see he had a large display shelf slung around his neck. He was selling pens. But not any pens--Papermates. He pronounced each syllable Spanish phonetically, like pah-pare-mah-tay. He was working those Papermates, slashing ink on a little pad of paper and showing the results. And then, yes, he pushed the Papermate and it became a flashlight, not with any power to illuminate anything per se, but with a glowing tip.

The passengers seemed noncommittal. But I am always fooled by Mexicans' stony stares. There is never a discussion, not even a rummaging for change. They just suddenly wave their 10 peso coins in the air and grab at the item for sale. Which they did. They were going nuts for the Papermates! And he hadn't even gotten to the free gift. Highlighter pens. The whole bundle was going for under a buck, including the ineffective flashlight pen.

The women across from me were trying out their new pens. They called the vendor over. There was a problem, you see, that the flashlight wasn't shining brightly. He switched theirs and then, they couldn't help themselves, they bought another set.

I was happy to see my stop coming because the excitement had me tempted to score some Papermates and, really, I just did not need them.

As I got off the bus, two clowns got on. Who knows what they were selling.

Jenny Makofsky the shining star

She knew all the words to the theme song of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air".
She argued based on reviews of books she hadn't read.
She played smackdown wrestling with Max. He always won.
She worried about him losing affection for his auntie.
She spent a lot of money on clothing and a lot of time on finding clothing bargains.
Movies. Once, we saw a crummy movie about to start on television (it was "Miss Congeniality"), and we gasped together in excitement.
No coffee, not since the crying at the museum line incident.
She loved sweets and snacks.
She read the ends of books first, so the suspense would not override her enjoyment of the story.
She read reviews of movies before seeing the movies, and liked spoilers.
She carried bags jammed with stuff and papers. When she filled a bag, she set it in her room and started another one.
When she was little, she'd play side 2 (I think) of the "Robin Hood" record over and over again.
Later it was David Bowie, The Doors and The Beatles.
Later it was Hole and Nirvana.
In elementary school, she scored higher on the ESP test than I did. She could read minds!
She wanted to hear your version of that jump rope rhyme or counting-out game, jotting down each word and comparing it with those of other people.
She wanted the details of that story, please.
She had humorous dreams integrating pop culture figures.
She once told Meg and I the entire plot of a "Mr. Belvedere" episode as we awaited the beginning of the Shakespeare in the park production.
She loved her eating club. They always over-ordered on the plantains.
She was a most loyal, sentimental friend, who stuck up for someone when others would not.
She collected stationery, black boots, alebrijes and rubber chickens.
She was my best friend, my social outlet and my shared memory. It saved me a lot of effort.
She was a love, and many people called her soulmate.
Jenny Makofsky, my beautiful sister, to the stars through difficulties. She took it all too far, but boy could she play guitar.

I found an old story of Jenny's

Jenny loved jokes. As a child, she checked out compendiums of old jokes, read them repeatedly, and memorized them so that she could tell them. I found this great story she wrote about jokes and thought I would share it.

Only When I Laugh

These days, it's hard to think about Woody Allen without getting creeped out. But I remember before he was creepy, before he married his stepdaughter. When he just seemed funny. Annie Hall was my favorite movie in those days. I liked the way he began and ended the movie with jokes. He starts with the one about the two women in the Catskills, remember? You know, they're sitting around, kvetching about the food, and one of them says, "Isn't the food terrible here?" And the other one says, "Yes, and such small portions!" He goes on to say -- that's what life is like. It's full of pain and misery and heartache and loss. And it's also much too short. Such small portions! I think sometimes about what the opening joke would be for the movie of my life. I think a lot about jokes, even though I know that it isn't always a good idea to do so. For example, there's a joke that one of my middle-school students told me once. It goes like this: How is a giraffe like a turtle? They both have long necks. Except for the turtle.

I told this joke to my sister and she said, "You know, a turtle does have kind of a long neck." "You're thinking about the joke too much," I said, "it doesn't work if you think about it too much."

But even though I know this -- that it's dangerous to think about jokes too much, because then they stop being funny -- I still think about jokes all the time. I always have. When I was a kid, I would check joke books out of the library, huge treasuries of jokes with names like "Bennet Cerf's Cavalcade of Laughs." And I would study these books,and analyze them, as if they were the Talmud. One joke that confounded me for years was this one: A man walks into a coffee shop and says to the waitress, "I'd like a cup of coffee, with no cream." She answers, "We're out of cream, but I can give it to you without milk."

God, this was baffling to me. I couldn't for the life of me make sense of it. It was like some kind of freaking zen koan. I asked my mother to explain it, but she never could -- to my satisfaction. Why, if there was no cream, was there even a problem? Maybe this should be my opening joke for the movie of my life. I could explain -- that's what life is like. People are always offering you solutions that have nothing to do with your problems.

But is that really how I feel, about life? In my life, and in my jokes, I am more frequently drawn to wordplay. My third grade students like to tell me this joke: Why is 6 afraid of 7? Because 7, 8, 9. I always answer back: Have you heard about the new corduroy pillows? They're making headlines!

But neither of these jokes really work as the definitive opening joke for the movie of my life. Actually, the corduroy pillows one doesn't even work as a joke for third graders. I always get the quiet stare in response. I can almost hear them thinking, "Headlines? What is she talking about?"

There is no heckler as harsh as a third grader when your jokes don't measure up.

Except a 6th grader. I told a group of 6th graders this joke: Have you heard about the new restaurant on the moon? Great food, but no atmosphere! When they didn't laugh, I said, "Oh, maybe you didn't understand that joke." "No, we understood it," they said. Ouch. That hurt.

Maybe you think that, because I am a lifelong teller of jokes, this is the response I fear the most. The quiet stare. The steely look. But actually, when I told jokes as a kid, after carefully memorizing those quips from "The Omnibus of Fun," or whatever other joke book I'd checked out, my most dreaded response was not silence, but laughter. I would stand in front of my family, reciting joke after joke, expecting -- what? Tears? Applause? I'm not sure. But if they dared to laugh at me, I would become enraged.

Once, after they laughed at one of my stand-up routines, I was so furious with them that I sequestered myself in the bathroom for a half-hour. When my mother came to check on me, she found me sitting on the cold linoleum floor, tearing up the toilet paper piece by piece, exacting my terrible revenge on all of them.

Considering this behavior, maybe the right joke to open the movie of my life would be this famous one: There is a man who has been shot through with bows and arrows; arrows are just sticking out of his back. And someone sees him and says, "My god, doesn't that hurt?" And the guy with the arrows says, "Only when I laugh."

MY own vignette, about not wanting my family to laugh at me, reverses the meaning of that joke. The joke itself begs the question, Why would a guy all shot up with arrows be laughing? Why would he laugh, when he hurts? But in my case, the question is, why should it hurt, for them to laugh?

I outgrew that reaction, of course. Later on, I figured out that it was good to be the one that people laughed at. See: it only hurts when you don't laugh. Maybe that is the clue to my opening joke. I want my joke to say, "Life is absurd; it's hilarious; just laugh at it. It only hurts when you don't laugh."

Of course, sometimes there is pain. And what do you do abou this? What if there is heartbreak? Well, if there's heartbreak, then maybe you sculpt your broken heart into a Marcel Duchamp sculpture. Maybe you push at it and prod it until it reels in its own absurdity. How can you not laugh at pop art?

And maybe there is loss (there's bound to be loss). And if there's loss, then maybe you turn it into a song, a song that makes you smile every time you sing it, because it's so damn funny. Just listen to the difference between these two songs: (singing)

On top of old smokey
all covered with snow
I lost my true lover
For courtin too slow.

As sure as the dewdrops
Fall on the green corn
Last night he was with me
Tonight he is gone

And then there is this version:
On top of spaghetti
all covered with cheese
I lost my poor meatball
when somebody sneezed

Humberto Batista's strange, beautiful assemblages

I recently wrote an article on "The Wild Visions of Oaxaca's Painters" which included a section devoted to my friend and great artist Humberto Batista.

We bought our beautiful papaya, pear, and Olmec head painting, "Viva la Raza" from Humberto. He has also been working on assemblages that incorporate antiques, found items and bits of random hardware and junk shop kinds of things, and it has this beautiful nostalgic quality. They look like totems or talisman.

Humberto is fascinated by the theme of "el nahual y la muerte", which is essentially the notion of human beings containing an animal being or soul that is wild and joyful, and how that concept is reconciled with the inevitability of death.

I'll post pictures of his assemblages soon.

Rising, Like Phoenix, From the Ashes

It was about 30 minutes out of Los Angeles when the car windows stopped working. And the fuel gauge, temperature gauge, air conditioner and the tiny little fan that you never think about but is actually quite important that is hidden inside your vent. And the seat belts in the front.

But I wanted to get out of California before we got caught in some traffic jam, so we sped on until Max threatened to pee in the car.

We made Phoenix our goal. A big city, lots of cheap motels on the outskirts, an easy spot to find dinner. We jammed on with our broken car. At a truck stop, we stopped to buy fuses, but they only had some of what we needed. Steve was determined to conduct a full fuse makeover to see if the various problems would go away, so he got what they had and we moved on, the seat belts just hanging there lifelessly in front of us, as if to mock us about the fixer ticket we were sure to get.

Phoenix is far, so we stopped at rest stops and raced each other to the vending machines and back again. Before kids, I was never a rest stop person, I was like Calvin Trillan in that essay Jenny read me, putting the car in neutral at red lights and running to switch drivers, all in the name of making "good time". There is no good time with children. But good times, yes! Like Geni singing to us from the car seat or Max spending two hours muttering to himself in an alien voice, lost, somewhere.

It turns out Phoenix does not exist. I don't understand it. We looked and looked for it, we even exited at a sign that seemed to imply Phoenix, but it wasn't, it was just an empty business park, like a deserted movie set for the movie "Phoenix". Is Phoenix an empty business park?

We wound up on an empty, dark street way far from the freeway, with no restaurant in sight and the kids crying from hunger. In the distance, like a beacon, I saw a neon sign with a red K. If I hadn't seen "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" in college (maybe thrice, even), I would not have known what I was seeing: Circle K. We pulled up, bought crap, had a picnic on the cold car hood in the dark while some serious street action rolled around us in the parking lot. I went back in to ask the cashier that all important question: "Where are we?"

Phoenix.

Tomorrow: Tumbling tumbleweeds

On and on and on the road

It occurred to me by day three of our infinite road trip from California to Oaxaca, Mexico, that I had never done anything like this before with my children or even with Steve. Our longest car trips had been a couple days to Portland or Seattle and then back to Oakland. I watched them sleeping in their hotel beds and wondered what on earth I had been thinking to not only agree to this road trip, but to actually be the person who thought it up, convinced others, and planned it. No one to blame but myself.

I learned things about Steve that before, I had only suspected: When in doubt, he drives fast, perhaps to flee a situation. He's not the car-singing, car-game type. He forgets to check the price of that three-dollar bottle of water at the supermart. He not only hates papaya, but he believes the person who deigned to serve it to him did so with malice. Steve was also full of pleasant surprises, thankfully, like when he jammed his booty into the back seat as I screamed along at 80 mph, so he could set up the laptop and catch a little “Scooby Doo” with the kids. Or how, when we would run out of cash, he would magically pull a $20 out of his pocket. He also guarded our possessions with his life, hauling a guitar, mandolin, two laptops, mountains of stuffed animals, clothes, and Hanukkah presents into room after room and out again.

Day 1 was the ride to Los Angeles, where we were full of hope, anticipation, clean laundry and visions of Disneyland dancing in our heads. We arrived at the evil Hyatt Regency Orange, my Priceline “bargain” which is lovely but is staffed by people as mean as I remember them being six years ago when Jenny and I were there. I think the beautiful suite, bargain price, and free shuttle to D-land made up for the visible sneer on the receptionist's face when she saw I was a “third party payer”, i.e. Priceline customer. But, let's face it, I was going to have a great time no matter how disappointed she was with me, so it was time to move on.

Meggie met us at the hotel, greeting me with, “Oh my god, they are so rude here!” Then we set off to buy tix for the next day and to admire the rocking Tokidoki selection of items at the Vault store (I was doubly pleased because I just got an assignment to write about Tokidoki for a fashion magazine). We also toured the Rainforest Cafe like goggle-eyed babes in the woods, oohing and aahing over their beautiful assortment of plastic animals.

We hit D-land at 8am the next day, maps and intricately-drawn plans in hand about how to run to the first ride and how to itinerize the rest of the day so we broke what I like to call The 20-Ride Barrier. I do not call a trip to the D. successful unless we get in 20 rides, ten of which should be before lunch. With little kids, it was more challenging, but luckily there is the Fast Pass system where you get an appointment to wait in a shorter line, so I made my personal goal easily. Max hung with the scene for 15 hours straight, until I begged for mercy. It was 11pm, misting, cold, and Space Mountain was still advertising a wait of 75 minutes, so we hit the gift shop to score Geni a Peter Pan action figure set and then hobbled to the hotel shuttle stop where Max huddled shivering on a concrete bench and considered crying but then decided to reminisce about Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, one of my favorite rides as well. I mean, you go to hell, with a shimmering devil and all.

Tomorrow: Forcing my kids to eat dinner at the Circle K mini mart in Phoenix.

Oaxaca Reads My Mind

Last July, when we came back to Oaxaca after visiting family in the United States, my adopted city felt like an acquaintance who you run into on the street and to whom you can't think up anything to say. This time, returning to Oaxaca feels like arriving at the place I chose.

My first day back, the city keeps reading my mind..It began this morning, when the house was just a mess from construction workers. I called Angelina to babysit (because we all needed a break from each other after 8 days on the road together) and she told me her sister-in-law could come as well to clean up the place. Shortly after, they arrived with the construction worker who set to finishing our rooftop garden with palapa roof.

This left me the chance to work, so I packed up my laptop and walked to the center of town. There lies Cafe Brujula, which I believe translates to the witchcraft cafe, home to what may be Oaxaca's only chai. Unfortunately, it is also carb heaven/carb hell depending on your perspective. I found myself desperately wishing for a fruit plate to offset my weakness for their bagels and such. There appeared on the corner, across from the cafe, a woman selling a tray of mixed fresh fruit which I got with the usual lime and chili.

Inside, the wireless connection was great, an art show was on and the chai perfect. I set to writing. After a couple hours, I headed out to Llano Park to meet Steve, Max and Geni, but I saw a new gallery on Calle Juarez, so I popped in. While I was looking at the paintings, the gallery curator said, “You know there's an installation.” This is one of my all-time favorite phrases. Jenny, Megan and I often traveled hours to hit art installations, like the funky junky Michael McMillan environments made of trash and old belongings, or the room-sized Voudoun altar at Baltimore's Museum of Visionary Art.

This one was modest in comparison. It was set in a series of adobe mud rooms, in the dark. As you walked through, slowly these shrine box apparitions of wax embedded with remnants glowed to life and then faded, while some sort of melancholy music played. I became overcome with my great fortune and decided to feel a little sad about how lucky the morning had been, like my experience of Oaxaca is a work of heartbreaking beauty.

RIP Oscar Grant

My heart is breaking for Oscar Grant, the African-American man shot by a white BART transit cop this week. He was the father of a 4-year-old girl. He's the age that my first group of elementary students that I ever taught would be right now.

City Vs. Country

Jenny loved the Jonathan Richman song "City Vs. Country":
I want to live close to downtown to be near my friends
I want to be close to them,
And still be out by the trees and the wind
Having both will be hard to find I'm sure,
But then ain't that the way of the world,
I want the city but I want the country too.
I want to be with my friends by the fire and the starlight
But I want music, music in my life
Yes, I want a bar hopping music scene
And I want to pick from ten or fifteen
I want the city but I want the country too.
My mind is quiet, when my thoughts are slow
I stop to learn what I been wantin' to know
I need to live in the ancient world
If I'm gonna do what I want to do
I want the city but I want the country too
I'll never have both moon and sun
But one never knows, does one?
I want the city but I want the country too.

She had the same love that JoJo does for both. But I think she might have leaned more toward the country. She told me she would like to live in the roots of the trees at Redwood Regional park.

Or amongst the Anasazi cave dwellings.

Somewhere in a cave littered with petroglyphs, where she could watch the moon change.

Ziggy Played Guitar

This video was a bone of contention between Jenny and I.

I was always trying to get Jenny to admit that Bauhaus' version of "Ziggy Stardust" was better than the David Bowie original.

I finally got her to admit, at least, that it was louder. And, for me, louder is better.

Jenny always preferred Bowie, The Doors, The Beatles to my Dead Kennedys and Bauhaus (not to mention the bands I'm less proud of having liked, such as Iron Maiden, Def Leppard--what was I thinking?)

Housekeeping

One book Jenny loved was "Housekeeping", by Marilynne Robinson. We first read it when we were in a book group featuring women authors.

The book affected Jenny so deeply that she bought a copy whenever she saw it, on the premise that she might give it to someone as a gift or require an extra reference copy. This meant we had quite a few "Housekeeping"s sitting around the house.

The book might be too sad for me to read now, because it's about sisters, but I do remember one of Jenny's favorite passages that she referenced in a performance piece. The sisters, I think, are reminiscing about a beautiful pocket watch that, even as they hold it, fills them with longing for the pocket watch. Then, Robinson cites a poem by Basho:

even while in Kyoto
when I hear the cuckoo sing
I long for Kyoto

A bloggy find

Whilst researching how to build a tiki bar (for an article, not for real life...though I should add that work soon re-commences on our rooftop palapa hut and garden area), I ran into a lovely blog:

Junkyard Clubhouse

Now I am a dedicated anti-consumerist, and rarely feel the need to identify with anything considered stylish or supposedly necessary, but when met with the raw beauty and allure of the Lego Halloween set discussed in this blog, I was tempted. How to resist a Lego coffin and a ghost in chains?

The Miracle Drug

The first year we lived in Oaxaca, I was befuddled by the absence of all my favorite home and alternative remedies. I love zinc and airborne and certain vitamins that I just could not find.

The second year living here, I have developed newfound love for Oaxaca's home and alternative remedies. I take Una de Gato to fight a recurrence of cancer. I take SimiImmune (from Dr. Simi!) for everything. I love sal de uvas--grape salt--for tummy stuff. And then there's Vitacilina.

Vitacilina is one of those things I started out mocking. I was over at a friend's house and she saw the bloody gash on Max's arm from when he put his arm through the window at school. She scolded me, "Aren't you putting Vitacilina on that?" Well, I would if I knew what it was.

She ran and procured a tube of it from her medicine cabinet. It was a small green and white tube and inside, was, I could swear, just plain old Vaseline Petroleum Jelly, the gross yellow color and the haunting yuck of petroleum products bringing me back to my Nana's bathroom where she had some scrungy old jar of it on the counter, covered in the dust of time and baby powder.

Vitacilina. Well, why not? When in Mexico...

Max's arm healed up, and we had the remainder of the tube my friend, Gabi, had given to me. Geni had diaper rash, so we splooged on some of it. And then there was the bug bites Steve got on his ankle. I had itchy legs from the cold weather snap (yes, folks, it dipped below a high of 75). Steve got a little rash on his back, or sunburn. I had a scar from when I cracked my head on the tile floor.

And so we find ourselves buying more and more Vitacilina. I have grown to appreciate it almost as much as those pharmacists who have tile murals dedicated to its image plastered on the outside wall of their shops. There it is, in nine square tiles, a beaming giant tube of Vitacilina, with the pharmacy's entire exterior often painted a complementary color as if to say...this Vitacilina, this is what we are about.

I understand the seductive power of Vitacilina when I find myself reassuring Max, "Don't worry, we'll put some Vitacilina on it." Mothers everywhere in Mexico are midnight witch doctors, rubbing Vitacilina on everything from blisters to bites, reminding their children that soon, so soon, everything will be better, because Vitacilina has this mystical power to carry all their woes and worries away.

Cult of Popularity

I've been researching cults for an article and I was fascinated by one of the conditions that is necessary to create thought control:

Put forth a closed system of logic and an authoritarian structure that permits no feedback and refuses to be modified except by leadership approval or executive order. The group has a top-down, pyramid structure. The leaders must have verbal ways of never losing.

This concept, to a T, was applied in my Open Court training program for Oakland public schools. It is so challenging to capture the evil of Open Court but, in essence, it was a scripted reading curriculum that was about eradicating critical thinking in favor of the "drill and kill" approach to teaching students, in which they had to repeat finite, decontextualized bits of information ad infinitum.

The truly fascinating, horrible thing about Open Court were the trainings to which I was forced to succumb. They were at the Oakland Airport Hilton and they were as scripted as the curriculum. We were not permitted to argue Open Court's merits, or lack thereof, and were essentially directed to repeat the crappy information, just as we were instructed to do for our students.

And then there was a catered lunch, and back for more horrible thought control. I always told me students, "I am presenting this information because I have to, not because I believe in it. We will get through it quickly and then move on to what really matters." But what was I really modeling there, I always wondered. That we must swallow what we are given publicly and wage our revolution privately? That we as students and teachers ultimately have no power and have to follow the ill-advised directions of our supposed superiors? That our own voices and thoughts are to be mistrusted as somehow being less?

Someday, Open Court will be revealed for what it is: a curriculum that hates the poor, hates people of color and, most of all, hates individual voice and thought, just like cult leaders do.

I Don't Mind the Gap

The language barrier is one aspect of living in Oaxaca that must be overcome. But since I can handle some street Spanish and academic Spanish, I find the culture gaps more challenging and fascinating.

Yesterday, Geni's teacher at Colegio Teizcali came to me after school. "She doesn't eat her lunch."

"No?"

"No. So I have made a list of the foods she likes."

This was so incredibly kind! I do really love Geni's teacher and how she looks after every little thing. I took the list and read it: "Jello. Marshmallows. Chocolate." I looked at the teacher. "Thank you so much, maestra. But don't these all have a lot of sugar?"

She nodded. "Yes. Maybe just send Jello."

Can you imagine how ecstatic my children would be to get lunches of Jello, marshmallows and chocolate?

Obama Obama Obama

My head just keeps saying "Obama" to me over and over again. I did not think my country could pull this off.

I have to admit, I have the tendency to hang my head in shame whilst making my rounds in Oaxaca, what with my representing the land of take and take some more. While I would never say I am proud of being an American or proud of my country, since the election results, I felt some of that shame wash away from me.

A Oaxacan friend said, "This is the revolution."

Max said, "Maybe the teacher won't keep saying how bad the United States is."

Our friend, Dave, who lives in Kenya wrote, "Kenyans have named tomorrow a national holiday."

And I flashed on a moment, a decade ago, of me standing in front of my fourth grade class. I was teaching them about Malcolm X, because I wanted them to talk about him in conjunction with Martin Luther King, Jr. They sat in front of me, African-American and Latino, and I desperately wanted to think that their vision, their voices could somehow be a part of what happens to the United States. And I wanted it to happen by any means necessary.

Never did I dare to hope that in my lifetime my country could make this kind of a turnaround. And if it can do it once, it can do it again.

Go Obama! Let's get on with it!

Art House

I posted a picture of our new painting on my Mexican Pop Spot blog, but I wanted to post this one here, showing Maxito in his lucha libre mask and Superman pjs. It's just a little strange and melancholy.

Walking Home

One of the great joys of my life here in Oaxaca is that I get to take Maxito and Geni to school every day and then walk home. We live on the fringe of the absolute edge of the center of town, right before it gives way to a giant grass-filled ravine. I seem to discover a new route home every time, by accident, because I have no sense of direction. I have found:

The neighborhood of Infonavit, where there are more pedestrian alleyways than roads, with names like Walkway of the Pilots and Walkway of the Teachers. Sometimes I enter the alleyway labyrinthe and find little shops and, once, an outdoor church (on Walkway of the Secretaries).

A street I like to walk on, though it's an indirect route: Virgins of the Volcano.

A little green pasture where someone, upon occasion, places a tiny fence and lets the sheep and goats go grazing, right on the street corner.

The streets filled with mototaxis, which are built up, three-wheeler motorcyle taxis that cost 5 pesos per rider, with a discount for kids. When the vocho fails us, we go moto. Most mototaxistas decorate their motos with bumper stickers and nicknames like "The Little Devil" and "The Bad One". Sort of a bastardized version of the dashboard shrines on buses.

This corner, where men gather. They always say something to me right after I pass, and I can never figure out what it is. We drove by their corner the other afternoon, and I saw why they migrate there without fail. They play dominos.

A New Hit

Every once in a while, I go to Google and do a search on "Jenny Makofsky" and "Jennifer Makofsky" to see what I get. I'm delighted to have found a new hit. Jenny is apparently cited in this wonderful-sounding book. Somehow the author got information about Jenny's extensive research on jumprope rhymes.

Jenny wanted to write a thesis or book on jumprope rhymes, counting out rhymes, and general street folklore. She deeply believed in the power and voice of folk culture. She interviewed and taped her students, my students, my mom's students, and friends' students chanting out rhymes and arguing over the variations. I think I kept Jenny's research on the subject. She would be delighted to hear the rhymes Max and Geni are learning in Mexico.

Come Together, Right Now

The vocho is fixed and, for once, the mechanic did not come back with a bottomless pit of things wrong with the car. How cool to have a mechanic we like that works on our block.

I just got another group of articles approved, so I'll be busy writing about Day of the Dead, Oaxacan chocolate, and, yes, "Desperate Housewives" this week. Should be interesting.

With the car and the writing both going well, I feel like things are just about...right. I almost hesitate to say it, for fear I'll jinx it. I'd like it if these articles paid better--good, there's a complaint! Aha, another problem: Geni has a cough, though it's getting better.

I am really thinking Obama could win this, but is that just a perspective from someone who lives out of the country and can indulge in wishful thinking without too much reality getting in the way?

We bought a great surreal painting by our friend Humberto Batista. There is a papaya and a pear and a massive Olmec head statue, against a flat blue horizon. I'll post a picture soon.

Max wants to be a pumpkin for Halloween. I keep trying to persuade him to be a devil or a skeleton, because these are the two costumes that are traditional to Mexico and its comparsa ritual, which is like a manic dance parade where everyone wears one of these two outfits. Geni will of course be the devil.

Naughtiness on Parade

Traviesa. It's a big word in Mexico, and it's a word we use here, in the house, and at school, a lot. It means mischievous, though you can also use it as a noun, I think, as in "What a scamp!"

Why do we use it so much?

Right here.
Do you see that little one in the lower right-hand corner? The one making the mad dash down the hill before she veers for the middle of the street? Meet Genevieve at three years old, just as out of control as she was at two, but now with greater speed and ability.

Yesterday, when I picked her up at preschool, the teacher apologized. "She has no socks on."

I asked, "Why?"

"She got them wet."

Right at that moment, I could tell Geni's teacher was trying to cover for Geni. The jig was up. "What did she do?"

"She and her friend Diegito snuck over to the water jug and pulled down the tap. They both got all wet."

"Oh, teacher, I'm sorry. She's so traviesa."

"No, it's good. She's learning."

I didn't have the heart to tell the teacher that Geni has already mastered the naughtiness-with-water curriculum pretty thoroughly. At home, she waits for her opportunity to run in to the shower and turn it on full blast, or to sneak into the kitchen and upend water glasses on the counter.

What's next, Geni?

A Find?

Last weekend, we headed out to Tlacolula to the Sunday tianguis. It's a huge, rambling outdoor market that frames their stunning church and its courtyard. We braved many a tope bump in the road to get there and check out the offerings.

My first sight was a little boy walking his goats on a leash as if they were puppies. I can imagine the fate of those goats, and loved them dearly as they kind of bleated/sang while trotting down the street.

The market was in its early stages, which is good for many reasons. Less crowded, a relaxed pace, not getting pushed to the side, the vendors are not as pushy yet and, when you purchase, they kiss the coin and cross themselves because it's the first sale of the day. As did the indigenous woman wrapped in rebozos when I bought ten boxes of matches for ten pesos.

In a random corner, there was a woman without a stall, just a giant garbage bag. She was announcing she had shirts for 25 pesos, or $2.50. Well, all right. I stopped and had a look. They were your basic t-shirts you'd see on the endcaps at Target for $9.99 or something. I grabbed one in that ethereal light green color that I keep buying in an attempt to replicate a t-shirt I had in the early 1990s and can never seem to find again. It may be because that t-shirt was not truly light green, but rather the lightest lemon yellow with a hint of green, but I keep trying nonetheless.

And then I saw it. An indigo shirt with a yellow pattern. The pattern was wild, like some combination of an Indian or Mayan design, blended with flowers, giving this overall effect of like a bubbly paisley. I'd never seen anything like it before, and here it was for $2.50. Sure, I didn't like the little pockets or the tight little piping on the sleeves, but that pattern! I could paint it on a canvas or something. So, I snapped it up. Such a find. Upon bringing it home and taking the shirt out so to admire it, I found the origin of my mysterious pattern. The shirt was covered in the faintest outlines of Tweety Bird. I bought a shirt covered in abstracted Tweety Birds. Someday I'll post a picture of it here so you can laugh and laugh at me.

Abastos with Insiders

This morning, I went with my buddies Liz, Nina, and Miguel to the Central de Abastos. This is the main city market that I've been to many times, but it was only the second time I've been there with a Oaxaquena. And that makes a huge difference. Rather than do the unending circle of the lost white girl, past the shoes then the meat, the shoes and meat (it's like in the movie "European Vacation", when Chevy Chase says, "Look kids, Big Ben. Parliament. Look kids, Big Ben. Parliament" ad infinitum), I had Liz and Miguel to lead us straight to what we needed.

You say you need pinatas. Bam! 50 pesos, man. Candies in bulk for the pinatas? In moments, Nina was hooked up. A little apron for Geni for painting? Here's the section with stall after stall of embroidered aprons ("Too expensive," clicked Liz, making that little slightly disapproving sound with her tongue) for 45 pesos.

Bananas, art tables, free soda samples, mandarinas--everything we needed, we got. But the stumper has always been plates. Liz and I had been two weeks ago, and no one sold plates, just mountains of bowls and cups. Plastic plates, there's a ton of them, but nothing in beautiful ceramic. And then we went to a friend's house and she had these great ceramic plates. Liz jumped on our friend, "Where? How much?" Our friend drew us a map of how to find the stall in Abastos and we set off. Turn left at Shalom furniture store, duck under the tarps, and, yes, there were the plates. Dark blue painted flowers on white ceramic. I was so happy. "How much?" I asked. When the lady said 55 pesos for the big ones and 25 pesos for the little ones, I steeled myself. Liz clicked her tongue. But I jumped in regardless and came home with plates. Steve asked me, "Why didn't you buy more?" but, honestly, I had to risk the wrath of Liz to buy the five I came home with!

And I did get a discount in the end, the other benefit of going to Abastos with a Oaxaquena.

Living 'Round a Rosy

When we first hit this neighborhood, way back in May, it seemed on the fringe of things. I mean, not like before when we were up in the mountains. It's funny, though, because up there, it was so remote, I got to know the few businesses very well and had my rounds: the green healthy juice lady, Julita who ran the store and comedor, the little library open in the late afternoon, the lady at the cheap barber shop, the play room and its staff at the park. When you think about it, what else do you need?

I thought I needed centro. It's what Portlanders for some reason call "close-in", meaning near downtown. So, we moved here, on the absolute fringe of centro, and I promptly felt a little lost.

Now it's four months later, and I've made some happy discoveries. There's Plastic Man, the guy who runs the cleaning products and plastic toy store around the corner. He seems to know absolutely everything, like when the trash truck isn't going to show up and when it's going to come at exactly 11am instead of 8am, and why.

There's water guy who pushes an extremely heavy cart loaded with water jugs up and down our hill, servicing the neighborhood.

There's Tortilleria Elvis, where the tortillas look nothing like Elvis, but they are hot and fresh and 80 cents a kilo.

There's the hidden little park four blocks away with a slide the perfect height for Geni to climb, and that glides to a gentle landing. I don't know why, but a good portion of slides in Mexico are built very steep, involving the child sort of crash falling on their butt as a landing. I see it over and over again and wonder why a Portland-style slide can't made here.

And then there's the jewel of my life these days: Jugos Rosy. Rosy runs a little hot comal grill where she makes mushroom tacos, squash flower empanadas, spicy chicken taquitos, and also fresh-squeezed juices. You pull up a stool and ask, "Que hay?" and then it all happens, beginning with her patting out fresh masa for hand-done tortillas. But the real surprise was that I already knew Rosy, I just didn't realize it. She is the mother of one of my students from the English school when I first arrived here. So, upon meeting her, I felt like I had a friend in my new neighborhood. And the mushroom tacos are 90 cents. That's friendship, man.

Art Crap!

I am writing an article on artist statements, and I found a great crap-o-meter tool that generates fake art statements. Here's the statement I created:

Work of Meta-Art in the Age of Symbiotic Reproduction

The vortex creates, the chaos profligates. In the trans-gender hallucination, art objects are resurrections of the musings of the vortex -- a vortex that uses the chaos as a zeitgeist to enmesh ideas, patterns, and emotions. With the devolution of the electronic environment, the vortex is superseding a point where it will be free from the chaos to consume immersions into the machinations of the delphic hallucination. Work of Meta-Art in the Age of Symbiotic Reproduction contains 10 minimal flash engines (also refered to as "soundtoys") that enable the user to make brilliant audio/visual compositions.

measuring chains, constructing realities
putting into place forms
a matrix of illusion and disillusion
a strange attracting force
so that a seduced reality will be able to spontaneously feed on it

---

Serena Makofsky's work investigates the nuances of vibrations through the use of stopframe motion and close-ups which emphasize the Symbiotic nature of digital media. Makofsky explores abstract and cutting scenery as motifs to describe the idea of hyper-real hallucination. Using surreal loops, cathode rays, and allegorical images as patterns, Makofsky creates meditative environments which suggest the expansion of art...

My Crazy Sexy Cool Career

Divining the depths of Craigslist for writing gigs can be a downer of an endeavor, considering that many ads suggest that the writer get paid nothing. Or close to nothing. Of course, I live in the land of low wages. Mexican minimum wage is, I believe, five dollars per day. Most people make more than that, far more than that, but the kids at the tortilleria down the street? Probably 50 pesos for a day's work. Which is about what some of these writing jobs pay--one cent per word, including all research and editing time.

I saw a funny response to one of these low-paying jobs on Craigslist:

IN RE: Horse Racing Article Writer Wanted

---

Reply to: gigs-836217168@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2008-09-10, 11:08PM PDT


So,

You are looking to hire a person with extensive knowledge of horse racing and excellent writing skills. You want to pay $0.01 per word through paypal.

This might become a long term gig.


OK ... lets me get this straight - YOU WANT TO PAY ONE CENT PER WORD.

Since I am a writer, I am terrible at math. Hang on, let me get my calculator...


......


Back ... OK, for a 1000 word article, you are willing to pay $10.00!

You have a deal! Here is my first article:


And the Horse You Rode In On.


Please credit my 7 cents to ... pay_me_you_cheap_bastard@yahoo.com


Please let me know when you are ready for my second article.

What She'd Be Doing Now

I always think of Jenny when I watch the "Where the Hell is Matt?" video. She would have been there, dancing.

APPO and beyond

A lot of people ask me what went on in Oaxaca two years ago and what's going on now. I'm a member of the Oaxaca Study Action group which addresses political issues and social movements in Oaxaca, in Mexico, and in the world. Another member, Scott Campbell, recently posted this excellent article that summarizes some of the issues at hand.

The APPO two years on: Where now for Oaxaca's social movement?
By Scott Campbell
September 5, 2008

This fall in Oaxaca marks a season of commemorations. Already marches for fallen APPO members Jose Jimenez Colmenares and Lorenzo San Pablo Cervantes have woven their ways through the streets of the city, pausing at the spots they were murdered in 2006, holding ceremonies at the Cathedral. Twenty-four more such processions await Oaxaca in the coming months. That number will only grow as efforts are pursued to identify the, at minimum, eight bodies in hidden graves discovered recently in Oaxaca's main cemetery.

In what is a lifetime for social movements and a blink of an eye in history's ledger, a little more than two years have passed since the people of Oaxaca erupted in spontaneous but ingrained rebellion against the barbaric rule of Governor Ulises Ruiz Ortiz (URO) and all that he embodies. Mere days after URO's storm troopers raided the city center on June 14, 2006, in an attempt to remove the encampment of striking teachers (after regrouping, the zocalo was retaken by the teachers and their supporters), the Popular Assembly of the People of Oaxaca (APPO) was formed. At its core, the APPO was a consensus-driven, horizontal grouping rooted in the millennia-old indigenous practice of assemblies. David Venegas, APPO participant and member of the anarchist group VOCAL, recently wrote in the Oaxacan daily Noticias that "the Popular Assembly of the People of Oaxaca is, naturally, opposed to power, since horizontalism, respect for consensus and respectful dialog are the fundamental principles of the assembly."[1] For more than five months, APPO controlled the city of Oaxaca and much of the state. Not until Vicente Fox, in one of his parting shots as president, sent in paramilitary federal police on November 25 did URO regain "control." Rather it would be more accurate to say the APPO lost physical control. Much has been written and recounted about those "days of freedom", as one friend called them, that it is unnecessary to relate them here. For a comprehensive recounting, I recommend Nancy Davies' The People Decide: Oaxaca's Popular Assembly, available from NarcoNews.com.

Two years later what is left now in Oaxaca? Has the APPO been reduced to a memorial mechanism to commemorate its fallen? Is it accurate, as URO keeps insisting with epileptic vigor, that, "nothing is happening" here? Or are we seeing a movement in chrysalis, reconsolidating only to reemerge just as vibrant, but even smarter, than before?

To be sure, there are conflicting messages and what will emerge is far from predetermined. A bleak picture can easily be painted. For starters, the APPO for all intents and purposes no longer exists, in terms of an assembly which meets, makes collective decisions, and takes action. However, many organizations that were part of the APPO still use that name when publicizing their actions and sending out communiques, which ironically - or tragically - frequently denounce other organizations that were APPO members and who also use the APPO label. Obviously this creates confusion at best and dejection and disillusionment at worst.

There are no clean divisions here, but the conflict can be uneasily broken down into two general camps. Those who have chosen to use the political and social clout of the APPO to engage with the current political system and try to get what they can from it and those who reject any relationship with the system that in 2006 was killing and disappearing their comrades. This has created, as Kiado Cruz, editor of OaxacaLibre.org, wrote, "a general paralysis"[2] within the social movement and in its current formulation there is no hope for forward progress. This loggerhead has led to diminishing displays of social mobilization under the banner of the APPO, and in further blows to the now agency-less entity, these disputes between the two camps often take place publicly.

One example of the mutual animosity occurred during a march on August 10th, marking the murder of Jose Jimenez Colmenares. While the procession paused where Jimenez fell, anarcho-punks spray painted the walls of the building Jimenez was shot from. A couple of the slogans included denunciations of Zenen Bravo. "Our fallen don't fit in ballot boxes. Understand that, Zenen!" screamed the walls. Bravo is now a state representative in Oaxaca, a former council member of the APPO, and an organizer with the Popular Revolutionary Front (FPR), a Marxist-Leninist-Stalinist group. Elected in 2007, his decision to run on the joint ticket of the PRD-PT-Convergencia ("center-left" political parties) was a major blow to the integrity of the APPO which as a general rule rejected involvement with political parties and electoral politics. Later on in the march, German Mendoza Nube, another leader of the FPR, was heckled with calls of "traitor" when he gave a speech. FPR members rushed the hecklers - who were the anarcho-punks, members of the anarchist group VOCAL, and other - and an intra-APPO street fight nearly broke out.

The next day, along with the dispute being mentioned in the media, the "official" APPO website, run by an FPR member, exaggerated the incident and denounced VOCAL. The following week a march occurred for Lorenzo San Pablo, another murdered APPO member, organized by VOCAL, and the "official" APPO website did not see fit to mention it.

While this dispute plays out in the streets and the internet, the power-hungry members of APPO continue their dance with their former oppressors, now colleagues, while those seeking to stay true to the original premise of the APPO propose to construct something new. It is this phase of consolidation, deliberation, and reconstruction that many believe hold the promise for a successful social movement.

Many initiatives have taken place in recent weeks which display this new trajectory.

* A five day citizens' forum was held in the upper-class neighborhood of Reforma in early August. It was inspired by the community's successful effort to block the construction of a Chedraui (a Wal-Mart-type business) store after the company cut down 200 trees in a park there at 4am where they hoped to build their store. The forum focused not just on what to do with the denuded site but also on "participative democracy, what kind of city we want,"[3] and the problems facing each neighborhood in the city and what actions, independent of political parties and the government, can be collectively taken to deal with those problems.

* Going on right now is a "barefoot researchers" seminar organized by VOCAL and alternative education project Universidad de la Tierra (Unitierra). This free and open project meets every two weeks for five hours over the course of several months to undertake, among other things, "a systemic reflection of the economic, social and political situation in Oaxaca, with a national and international perspective, with an emphasis on autonomous social movements; that is to say, those that struggle from the grassroots to transform society without taking power."[4]

* Most recently, the First Assembly of Community and Free/Pirate Radio Stations was held in Zaachila, Oaxaca, at the end of August. There participants created a permanent assembly for the promotion and defense of community and indigenous radio stations, one of the most important tools of the social movement and which is under constant attack by the state.[5]

In a recent interview with Noticias, Gustavo Esteva, president of the board of Unitierra and long-time academic specializing in social movements, was described as noting, "Without a doubt"...in his 50 years of observing the social situation in Oaxaca, "I've never seen such movement and effervescence from below", which should worry the government...He explained this social effervescence is "invisible to the media because there is nothing spectacular; it is not defined by marches, but the solidifying of initiatives for the generation of a new social fabric".[6]

Reflecting on this new movement, Kiado Cruz labels it "communalocracy". "It is important to reflect on our actions if our movement is really to be beyond ideologies or if we are really to be movement that has a face and a heart that we intuitively know is based in the depths of our way of thinking, feeling and acting that we inherited from our ancestors...With this intuition we can be sure that amongst ourselves we can define the constructive means of action."[7]

What results from these forums, seminars and assemblies remains to be seen. However, it is clear that though the APPO may be broken - just as much by internal splits as government repression - the will of the people to continue the struggle has not waned. The focus on face-to-face, direct, horizontal community organizing, and the rejection of interacting with or relying on political parties, government and hierarchical organizations, holds great promise. It ensures that what emerges will be a movement that is genuinely one of the people of Oaxaca. A movement whose direction, actions, and victories will belong to the people.

And as David Venegas writes, "Power, as much as it licks the superficial wounds put on its body by the insurrectionary actions of the people in 2006, and although it paints and adorns itself with words of social peace, reconciliation and development on its horrendous body, it will not be able to cure itself of the deepest wound caused by the people in 2006, the wound created at the source of its strength by the consciousness gained by our people of the unsustainable situation and of the need to fight tirelessly to obtain true justice, freedom, dignity and peace. It is this mortal wound that resides in the heart of power and from which it will never recover."[8]

Scott Campbell is an organizer from the SF Bay Area currently residing in Oaxaca. All quotations were translated from the Spanish by him. He posts observations and translations Oaxaca-related material at http://angrywhitekid.blogs.com/weblog.

1 Venegas, David. "El equilibrio del poder." Noticias - Voz e Imagen de Oaxaca. 13/8/08. http://vocal.lahaine.org/articulo.php?p=179&more=1&c=1. Noticias did not publish the Op-Ed online.
2 Cruz, Kiado. "Dar vuelta a la esquina." Oaxacalibre.org. 24/8/08. http://oaxacalibre.org/oaxlibre/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2082&Itemid=29.
3 http://www.kaosenlared.net/noticia/oaxaca-ciudad-de-ciudadanos
4 http://www.kaosenlared.net/noticia/diplomado-investigadores-descalzos
5 http://oaxacalibre.org/oaxlibre/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2096&Itemid=1
6 Matias, Pedro. ""Incompetentes juegan con fuego": Gustavo Esteva." Noticias - Voz e Imagen de Oaxaca. 3/8/08. http://www.noticias-oax.com.mx/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=6583&Itemid=31.
7 See Cruz, Kiado above.
8 See Venegas, David above.

The Real September Finally Arrived

I try to have faith in what Steve tells me. For example, when he said freelance gigs slow down in late August and don't pick up until after Labor Day, I decided I could deal with that. But then, when the day after Labor Day came, and the day after, and I wasn't hearing from any of my regular editors nor from any news ones to whom I had pitched articles, I decided, "No, it's not the Labor Day thing. There's a problem here. The economy in the U.S. is down. At least half my clients are in the U.S., and they're not buying right now."

I went on a pitch frenzy, and sent out resumes left and right.

Suddenly, today, I got two new jobs. And then two of my regular editors contacted me. I realized Steve was right. I'm only six months into freelancing full time as opposed to doing it as a supplementary gig, so I haven't lived through the cycles of it yet. I have to remember that freelancing is like chaos theory, so if I can hit an average amount of gigs/money over the course of a month, I needn't worry. Now if I can only tell myself this is January and February, which Steve claims is another tough stretch.

Enough blogging, I have writing to do!

The Breakfast Club

It started last year. My dear friend, Gaby, gathered a group of us mommies for breakfast at Marco Polo restaurant in Oaxaca's Reforma district. We met again yesterday and I just can't believe my good fortune to know these women and see how they view life in Mexico. There's Flor who is a businesswoman and into fashion; Tere who's smart and diplomatic, from Guadalajara but has to move wherever her husband gets a math professor gig; Liz who is hilarious and sharp, a revolutionary and an expert bargain-shopper at the market; and Gaby, my Oaxaquena chakra-cleanser and buddy.

We gossiped and complained and joked and interrupted each other. After awhile, my brain was snapping with all the Spanish slang and double meanings. But I think I maintained at about 80 percent comprehension. We were there for four hours and I have rarely felt so at ease with a group of people who I'd only known for a year, mostly having crossed paths at school drop-off and pick-up.

I told Steve that it's such an honor to be included in their company. That's the thing about being what they call "a foreigner"--I always feel a little bit onstage, that my words and actions represent a whole culture of a place (a place with which I have a difficult relationship, to say the least). And that what I do has to counteract years of bad politics, racism, and stereotyping on the part of the United States.

But there, at the table, it was simpler than that. We could just laugh at things and even at ourselves. I hope I'm not the only one wishing that there will be a third annual breakfast club, too.

Oaxaca Appreciation Day

Well, we passed our first year in beautiful Oaxaca and I realized that I was spending all day on writing and editing assignments and weekends doing chores, errands, homework, and less and less time appreciating the place I chose to live.

So, I want to reflect on recent Oaxaca adventures, to remind myself not to take it all for granted. We took some friends into Octolan to visit the market and it was sublime. An old lady had her honey in old coffee jars, and we bought a jar that had a couple bees floating in it. The most delicious honey ever, which could be maybe not the best discovery, actually.

We took the guests over to Calle Mina and hit the chocolate factories. I know everyone loves Mayordomo, as do I, and that the Chowhound foodies go on about booth...83?...at the Juarez Market, but I'm all about La Soledad. Sentimental, maybe, as it was the first spot I hit in Oaxaca when I arrived 11 years ago (well, the first spot after the second class bus station which, really, is not worth getting sentimental about). But I like that it's named for Oaxaca's patron saint, the Virgen of Soledad, or Solitude, which was an art piece I did years ago that Jenny's put on her CD release of her one-woman show. I also enjoy their free samples and it seems to me that, whenever I go, the men in the party appreciate that there is a little mezcal-tasting area.

We went to the Mercado de Artesanias recently, which always involves the requisite 20 minutes of getting lost and the asking of directions to at least three people. On the way, I found bootleg Hello Kitty pjs, sorta ugly cute, for two bucks. Genevieve was delighted, immediately pulling the shirt on over her legs.

I was out in the campo today, chaperoning a field trip, and the hills were startlingly green, even the rocky outcroppings by Yagul that always look like faces carved into a lunar landscape. But there I was, on a field trip, with naughty Yeni to reign in, junk food to buy for Max, and the inevitable dishes, sweeping, and all when I got home. Somewhere in the daily life drudgery hides those freaky rocky cliffs or, at least, the taste of chocolate, the kind with chilis or cinammon ground in, no milk--it's an edgy kind of sweet, which suits me.

Flutter Away

The worries fluttered away when Yeni woke up healthy and cheerful and went to school without wailing. The moment we entered her classroom, I knew things would be cool because Yeni ran over and started rearranging chairs. She always moves furniture when she's happy.

It makes me think about what I do when I'm happy, here in Oaxaca. I sometimes find myself singing in public. I may buy a shirt, or an agua fresca. But I think what I tend to do most is joyfully stare out the windows. Maybe create a little windowsill scenario integrating toys, art, and good luck charms, like a mini-art installation or altar.

Counting out worries

I like to think I'm carefree, but I think it's time to sort out my worries.

Today: The first day of school worries about friends, teachers, homework. It's over. We made it through the first day! Max made new friends. Geni shrieked as though the world was ending.

Tonight: Yeni took a tumble off the couch. Not even a cookie could stop the tears. Now we check on her every hour to make sure she's breathing while she sleeps. Weird flames and smoke are rising down the block. Steve researched it: two little old ladies delighted with themselves for doing a controlled burn on their yard.

Soon: Can I get this wretched cast off? Will my latest writing gig pan out? Am I just blindly stumbling through this life?

September: I'm supposed to get my mammogram. Damn.

One worry I had last year was based on what other expat families told me: nobody visits you after the first year abroad. I'm happy to say the second year started with visitors in July. We get Leslie and Garth this weekend. Then we have two rounds in October, one late Nov-Dec., Mikey and Marcia in Jan., and two more rounds Feb-March. This is great news for us, and particularly for the kids who always want fresh victims.

Maybe I can send my worries up to the sky, adrift with those sparks those ladies are cackling over. Maybe I can decide that, left to their own devices, many of those worries resolve themselves.

Butterflies for Lunch

I was trying to insert sparkly clips in my hair, using my left hand, and a wave of nervousness washed over me. For what? School starts tomorrow! I can't believe it could affect me so, but here it is, Max going to 2nd grade and Yeni on her first year of preescolar. The Kung Fu Panda and Sponge Bob backpacks are straining under the weight of too many notebooks. The Taz and Flintstones lunch boxes hold yogurt and pasta and carrots.

Yesterday we had the good fortune to meet Nina and Miguel, Inoa and Caio, and Max was thrilled to hear Inoa would be in his class. A friend! He says he's ready for school, hardly nervous.

And me, a little bit of a wreck. Because what I can't prepare for is that moment when they see their new teachers. Please let the teachers be kind!

Good times

A couple of great days amid a rather sleep-deprived summer. Yesterday, I got the stitches out of my head. It took two seconds and cost two bucks. Max and I walked to the children's library where he stacked up 20 books in Spanish and read through them all. I felt a little useless, my favorite feeling to have around children. Autonomy!

Max got a chemistry set and Steve was very funny, getting very controlling about it. So I took over and everyone was happier. Max loves holding test tubes over candle flames, watching the substances bubble. Then we played a round of the Mad Magazine game. We'd lost the dice, so we had to hold out fingers on the count of three, add it up, and make our moves. Yeni decided to use her potty, singing "yayayayay" after each visit.

We hit Dr. Manuelita's office for a little pendulum-swinging to determine Yeni's bedtime rebellion. The diagnosis was that something frightened her. We got some natural remedy and Yeni went to bed in 5 minutes. Coincidence?

Today was more experiments, more potty, and a visit to pay the water bill. Mexico's largely a cash economy, so you don't send checks to pay bills. You go to the office and pay. So we braved downtown traffic and double-parked in front of the water bill office to pay our $2.60 bill. And it was right next to a great sock store, so Max y Yeni loaded up on cartoony sox, 12 for $6 on sale.

Still typing with one hand, but getting around better. August is slow for writing jobs so I've decided it's a good month for a writer to break her arm.

Friday: Ocotlan with Leslie, my old Worldview partner-in-crime!

One-handed Typing

You know, I've always hated that rule about no running in the house. I always said that if you can't run around and yell in the house, what are you doing?

So there I was playing tag (in flip flops) with Max, yes, in the house, and I slid and fell from the house down a step into our tile courtyard. I'm so not the type to break a bone--hate skiing, not into steep places--but here I am, typing with one hand. Fracture on the elbow. And, for good measure, some stitches in my head and a big black eye.

Still, I wonder: can't we jog in the house?

Guelaguetza Popular

Hombro a hombro
Codo a codo
La APPO, La APPO, La APPO somos todo

Oaxaca celebrates indigenous dance every year with Guelaguetza, a folkloric dance event in an outdoor amphitheater. The event has packed the town with tourists who fill the sidewalks and the Alcala tourist corridor.

But I didn't see the tourists in the zocalo last night. Instead, it was Mexicanos out to celebrate the Guelaguetza Popular, a "People's Guelaguetza" intended to both celebrate Oaxaca's diverse regions and also to get the message out that these people of Oaxaca are oppressed by its government.

The Calenda processional went on for blocks, and the zocalo was the most packed I had ever seen it. Everyone was shouting political chants for APPO, the controversial coalition of unions that held high-profile strikes and protests in 2006. Loosely known as "the teachers", APPO also has groups representing farmers, students, and indigenous groups. Other sites would provide more detailed information, while mine here will be more experiential.

And my experience was: powerful. Here was a deeply political gathering, fueled by injustice after injustice (including some political prisoners who still have not been released by a government who has been on Amnesty International's shit list since the uprising), but the mood was also festive and vivid.

There was a contingent of people in elaborate devil masks, with levers for opening and shutting their eyes. There was a group of black-clad punky boys pogo-ing as they circumnavigated the zocalo. There were women in elaborate feather headdresses and men clad in white with ponchos holding ceramic jugs. Giant puppets were held aloft on people's shoulders, and one group of men took turns being a "bull", dodging through the crowd while carrying an elaborate wooden frame will a bull's skin stretched across it. There were old women and well-dressed young men, teenagers and small children, all chanting for their rights.

It proved to me something I had suspected. Since I arrived, I had heard from one bourgeois source after another that APPO is corrupt, that the people don't support APPO, that the APPO often ships people in from other regions and pays them to strike. Last night proved them wrong. This was no staged assembly, the people were clearly Oaxaqueno, though many not from the city, and their hearts were on the line. They raised fists and shouted with passion. As a person raised on protests, I know a remarkable demonstration when I see one. Here is was, the revolutionary spirit, expressed through dancing in the streets. Muy mexicano.

La APPO vive
La lucha sigue

La APPO vive, vive
La lucha sigue, sigue

Viva La APPO!

No Sleep 'Til...

Brooklyn? I'm not sure. Just no sleep. The kids have stopped sleeping. Or they take turns sleeping in little bits, harassing us in between. Max has phobias and Genevieve just prefers to yell and play all...night...long. How can she function? She slept 10pm to 4am the other night, getting up twice during that stretch to scream and mess around.

How can we function?

Tomorrow, it's to the pediatrician and the flores de bach lady to see if something is wrong and if something can be done.

Somehow, we are muddling along through this hysteria. Steve and I spot each other for naps during the day (the kids don't typically nap), because Maxito and Yeni are on school break until August 18th. August 18th can't come fast enough.

On the bright side, our dear friends Do and Erik came with their son Lake and we had dinner together last night. They spoke of living together in a dark room for 2 weeks as a kind of meditation or ritual practice. Do spoke of her home (Italy) and how different it is from Erik's home (Norway). And now they are moving to Berlin, because it's full of artists and cheap rent. They say on Sundays, the bars open and serve brunch outside and everybody comes for a huge community meal along the avenues.

Off to usher the children off to pretend sleep. Wish me luck.

Vacay!

We just returned from a whirlwind East Coast vacay. It began with Cape Cod, to see the in-laws. I've never been much of a Cape Cod kind of person, even though I desperately love beaches. I've gotten spoiled, I think, by the Mexican beach model of palapas for shade and grilled mariscos lunches while watching the kids play in the sand. But we hit Sandy Neck and Peter's Pond and managed to find our groove with the Atlantic side of the world.

Then we popped up to Maine to a place called Squirrel Island which was a very different experience. It's a summer colony, meaning, I guess, that the weather is a little too desperately cold for unheated beach cottages once October hits. Steve's sister Mary invited us to stay in their 5-bedroom cottage rental. I'd never been to a place like this. No cars or bicycles are allowed and there are no restaurants or shops. You bring everything over by ferry and, basically, only the residents (or renters) are there. This is a pretty cool setup when traveling with two young children. They loved running all over the grassy fields and through the forest of fairy houses (built from shells, sea glass, rocks, and strange little objects). The sea glass beach brought out the obsessive collector in me. Maxito and I spent a couple hours poring over the glittering jewels, which are also known as Mermaids' Tears. Other beaches have rocks for climbing, tide pools, or some decent wading. The library is in a gorgeous building with window seats. There are strange little art books and even some multicultural children's books. The house where we stayed had a wrap-around porch and a big hammock and I noticed (as did Mary) that, as time went on, outdoor life became the default and indoors was where you went to fetch something before returning outside. This was a great experience.

We managed to sneak into Boston to the Fogg Art Museum and Indian food (hooray!). We also hit New Hampshire (new territory for me) and then, my favorite, Chicago! What a blast buzzing around the inner city after all the languid beach days. The Art Institute is incredible, and borders Millenium Park, home to a sprayground that is now Yeni and Max's fave spot in the city.

Now I'm back in Oaxaca which, after all these far-flung places, is home, more than ever. But I'm also left with a longing, I must admit, to still be looking at the sea glass in the sun, with nothing more pressing than a date to make s'mores at the fireplace that evening.