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   tijuanagringo.com diary.blog before  next  calendar  latest.final

diary@blog   18.autumn   7.moon  49.spaceage
(9.oct.5)
    I am working here yet industrial art writing reproducing electronic pages come next

(subcomment).

Sunday water on San Diego bay

poemas turinfo escritoresTJ

and now there's inSite 05

1.

I go to San Diego today. To meet and lunch with the parents and my son and brother and his three. Celebrate my birthday yesterday. Now I am legally speeding. I.e. traveling in excess of fivehundred and fiftyfive. Five thousand and 5.5.5. Octo ocho 50. That was me screaming there infant, long long ago gasping first breath of air after nine months in the womb of pure water, in the sea, in the wet, wild, mother ocean, yes. We monkeys all be fish in the beginning. Perhaps that is the secret of the science fiction fantasy me. Nothing less nor more than ontology recapitulates philogeny.

2.

A man shouting at the border gate line
You better not cut in front of me -
you want a piece of me -
suck my dick !

Do you mind? There are children here?
complains a nearby woman.

I don't give a damn, he snaps back.

I think: Don't make eye contact.
Don't open your mouth. Don't interfere.

Security approaches from two directions. The
crowd begins to speak, now, as if unleashed
by uniform presence. I believe they are speaking
to the officers, not the mad man. Security!
Terrorist! That's three years in prison!

But the man is suddenly silent. Not a peep
after minutes and minutes of shouting.
I can smell his fear replacing the
previous, rampant, rage.

I cannot hear a word the agents are saying.
They are too far away. Speak low, firm.

Me, I only feel guilty to be healthy
and intelligent.

On the trolley I just hope he
doesn't get onboard this car. No.

My arrogance, silent shall not save
me from our common fate to
come :

the sweet lady death.

The trolley train rocks.
Several kids rap.
I write.

There are powerlines. There have always been powerlines in this lifetime. He does not remember a time when there we not.

We do. We remember.

Elemental, god-like force surges through the wires strung from towers and poles. This power awakens our city, turns night into day, weaving everywhere the bright butterfly tapestry of light. We feel it coursing through the wires. We remember.

Humming silently. Burning anyone who touches our divining force. This is far, far beyond fire. But that is where it began, long long ago when the monkeys first picked up a blazing branch and said yes.

EITHER WAY

young vagrant lights a cigarette,
steps in front of a bus —

jumps back.

The new baseball stadium
next door doesn't give

a damn.

The Maleteros Art Exhibit

you will find it by the bike renting shop and the other stores there where a northbound sidewalk sometimes backs up all the way past the pedestrian bridge over that roaring street, there, leaving Tijuana.

The exhibit gate has been shut every time we have seen it, and today, too. We should'v gone to look on the big weekend when we saw Aerial Bridge and Hospitality, but we didn't. On the wall is painted a map of both sides of the gate, with dots all over it supposedly for the cargo-carriers, those men and women with dollys ("diablillos") and shopping carts, who will carry your burdens to the international gate along the long, long sidewalks there are on both sides of the twin crossing. Gate has two meanings, here. One is shut when we get there. The other is always open and rejecting and accepting. Heaven hell Saint Peter checks his visa here. And the Maleteros will carry your burdens. Partway.

Pedestrians literally must walk a mile, sometimes, to get across and/back. The maleteros offer their services to people with bags and multiple boxes. This is the San Ysidro and Tijuana redcap porter service, these are the maleteros painted into dots on the wall that is always closed to the public whenever we went there. Do not interpret.

The men and women carrying cargoes, the suit-case luggers, the carriers of maletas, suitcase-bags, these are the art project, not any painted wall. Rolling their dollies and carts around up and down in front of the gates, these gangs of mostly middle-aged men or women, thread their way between monumental art and 2005 reconstruction Chaparral brick. On the U.S. side, coming down from the ramp or alighting from the traffic turnaround by the superimport Store, you will find more reconstruction: the sidewalk being done over as an entire map of the Californias showing both their missions. At the end, the bell.

Up to, and away from. Up to, and away from. They hand and unhand packages.

And then the gate, clatter clatter turnstyles two go round and round clatter clatter clang. On the other side, other maleteros wait to carry. Up to, and away. Up to, and away.

Up and back to all of this the maleteros rattle towards and away, back and forth, or lumber with heavy loads on their wheels, carrying the personal baggage from this river of thousands of feet and backs and hours and minutes and day after day after day the people come back and forth and some of them, many of them, are carrying things. A few of these get to know the maleteros and their help.

Ten dollars. Will save your back from a half-mile worth of walking with all those suitcases. On the other side there are more of them. They are everywhere in the busy hours, until at night most of them go home. This is the geography of their working day, this smoking mouth of many many cars where a few still come on foot, alighting from bus or trolley train or let off a car by the turn, yes, on either side, by the turn, each as two sides, which makes, theoretically, four main zones where maleteros focus their effort. Except some of the half-sides have two more branches before they end or begin, and maleteros double and double again. On both sides. Carry your bag?

Once upon a time three maleteros helped Maria Teresa and Daniel Charles find their way to each other at the border gate when he got there early then went to a slightly different spot, and she came, not finding him, went to look off in a third area, but talked to the maleteros, and when he came along later looking for her there, they saw him and asked him: Are you the gringo looking for a chaparrita?

IN THE BELLY OF THE B-39

COLD WAR IS OVER

WHAT WILL THE NEXT Generation of war museums
look like ? Airliners crashing into towers ? Helicopter gunships straffing desert mountain camp caves ? Motorcycle bombers hurtling past in the blink of an eye... MMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmm the empty submariner's cot not empty there are three tourists picking their way through the tube round doorways @ 10 dollars the head hablo el buey y dijo mu

"Ships are the nearest things to
dreams that hands have ever made."
Robert N. Rose, Ships

like a tourist in my own town
on the waterfront

so much has changed
the paradigm shift

from working fishing form water
front to tour cruiser promenade

50 years and everything
is different

a plastic glass of beer at
Anthony's

some things have not changed

seafood restaurant @ sunset

I want to go home
and sleep all night .

After long family lunch I go visit ships in the maritime museum on the waterfront. The old Berkeley Ferry that used to cross San Francisco bay when I was much much younger in another lifetime I remember when they evacuated the city after the earthquake, yes.

The steam driven yacht Medea with its lovely salons and elegant paneling. I did not know the owner even though he employed some sea men ever and again.

The great sailing ship Star of India.

The ex-Soviet submarine where I sat down in a tiny, cramped cabin and wrote a few notes. Should've done more of that. Go to fascinating places and sit down and write about them and whatever.

Or lie down and sleep a dream in that special place, different.

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other sectors:   poemas   turinfo   escritoresTJ

copyright 2005 daniel charles thomas

tijuanagringo.com diary.blog before next calendar latest.final diary@blog 18.autumn 7.moon 49.spaceage (9.oct.5) I am working here yet industrial art writing reproducing electronic pages come next (subcomment). Sunday water on San Diego bay	poemas turinfo escritoresTJ and now there's inSite 05
1. I go to San Diego today. To meet and lunch with the parents and my son and brother and his three. Celebrate my birthday yesterday. Now I am legally speeding. I.e. traveling in excess of fivehundred and fiftyfive. Five thousand and 5.5.5. Octo ocho 50. That was me screaming there infant, long long ago gasping first breath of air after nine months in the womb of pure water, in the sea, in the wet, wild, mother ocean, yes. We monkeys all be fish in the beginning. Perhaps that is the secret of the science fiction fantasy me. Nothing less nor more than ontology recapitulates philogeny. 2. A man shouting at the border gate line You better not cut in front of me - you want a piece of me - suck my dick ! Do you mind? There are children here? complains a nearby woman. I don't give a damn, he snaps back. I think: Don't make eye contact. Don't open your mouth. Don't interfere. Security approaches from two directions. The crowd begins to speak, now, as if unleashed by uniform presence. I believe they are speaking to the officers, not the mad man. Security! Terrorist! That's three years in prison! But the man is suddenly silent. Not a peep after minutes and minutes of shouting. I can smell his fear replacing the previous, rampant, rage. I cannot hear a word the agents are saying. They are too far away. Speak low, firm. Me, I only feel guilty to be healthy and intelligent. On the trolley I just hope he doesn't get onboard this car. No. My arrogance, silent shall not save me from our common fate to come : the sweet lady death. The trolley train rocks. Several kids rap. I write. There are powerlines. There have always been powerlines in this lifetime. He does not remember a time when there we not. We do. We remember. Elemental, god-like force surges through the wires strung from towers and poles. This power awakens our city, turns night into day, weaving everywhere the bright butterfly tapestry of light. We feel it coursing through the wires. We remember. Humming silently. Burning anyone who touches our divining force. This is far, far beyond fire. But that is where it began, long long ago when the monkeys first picked up a blazing branch and said yes. EITHER WAY young vagrant lights a cigarette, steps in front of a bus — jumps back. The new baseball stadium next door doesn't give a damn.		The Maleteros Art Exhibit you will find it by the bike renting shop and the other stores there where a northbound sidewalk sometimes backs up all the way past the pedestrian bridge over that roaring street, there, leaving Tijuana. The exhibit gate has been shut every time we have seen it, and today, too. We should'v gone to look on the big weekend when we saw Aerial Bridge and Hospitality, but we didn't. On the wall is painted a map of both sides of the gate, with dots all over it supposedly for the cargo-carriers, those men and women with dollys ("diablillos") and shopping carts, who will carry your burdens to the international gate along the long, long sidewalks there are on both sides of the twin crossing. Gate has two meanings, here. One is shut when we get there. The other is always open and rejecting and accepting. Heaven hell Saint Peter checks his visa here. And the Maleteros will carry your burdens. Partway. Pedestrians literally must walk a mile, sometimes, to get across and/back. The maleteros offer their services to people with bags and multiple boxes. This is the San Ysidro and Tijuana redcap porter service, these are the maleteros painted into dots on the wall that is always closed to the public whenever we went there. Do not interpret. The men and women carrying cargoes, the suit-case luggers, the carriers of maletas, suitcase-bags, these are the art project, not any painted wall. Rolling their dollies and carts around up and down in front of the gates, these gangs of mostly middle-aged men or women, thread their way between monumental art and 2005 reconstruction Chaparral brick. On the U.S. side, coming down from the ramp or alighting from the traffic turnaround by the superimport Store, you will find more reconstruction: the sidewalk being done over as an entire map of the Californias showing both their missions. At the end, the bell. Up to, and away from. Up to, and away from. They hand and unhand packages. And then the gate, clatter clatter turnstyles two go round and round clatter clatter clang. On the other side, other maleteros wait to carry. Up to, and away. Up to, and away. Up and back to all of this the maleteros rattle towards and away, back and forth, or lumber with heavy loads on their wheels, carrying the personal baggage from this river of thousands of feet and backs and hours and minutes and day after day after day the people come back and forth and some of them, many of them, are carrying things. A few of these get to know the maleteros and their help. Ten dollars. Will save your back from a half-mile worth of walking with all those suitcases. On the other side there are more of them. They are everywhere in the busy hours, until at night most of them go home. This is the geography of their working day, this smoking mouth of many many cars where a few still come on foot, alighting from bus or trolley train or let off a car by the turn, yes, on either side, by the turn, each as two sides, which makes, theoretically, four main zones where maleteros focus their effort. Except some of the half-sides have two more branches before they end or begin, and maleteros double and double again. On both sides. Carry your bag? Once upon a time three maleteros helped Maria Teresa and Daniel Charles find their way to each other at the border gate when he got there early then went to a slightly different spot, and she came, not finding him, went to look off in a third area, but talked to the maleteros, and when he came along later looking for her there, they saw him and asked him: Are you the gringo looking for a chaparrita?
IN THE BELLY OF THE B-39 COLD WAR IS OVER WHAT WILL THE NEXT Generation of war museums look like ? Airliners crashing into towers ? Helicopter gunships straffing desert mountain camp caves ? Motorcycle bombers hurtling past in the blink of an eye... MMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmm the empty submariner's cot not empty there are three tourists picking their way through the tube round doorways @ 10 dollars the head hablo el buey y dijo mu "Ships are the nearest things to dreams that hands have ever made." Robert N. Rose, Ships like a tourist in my own town on the waterfront so much has changed the paradigm shift from working fishing form water front to tour cruiser promenade 50 years and everything is different a plastic glass of beer at Anthony's some things have not changed seafood restaurant @ sunset I want to go home and sleep all night .		After long family lunch I go visit ships in the maritime museum on the waterfront. The old Berkeley Ferry that used to cross San Francisco bay when I was much much younger in another lifetime I remember when they evacuated the city after the earthquake, yes. The steam driven yacht Medea with its lovely salons and elegant paneling. I did not know the owner even though he employed some sea men ever and again. The great sailing ship Star of India. The ex-Soviet submarine where I sat down in a tiny, cramped cabin and wrote a few notes. Should've done more of that. Go to fascinating places and sit down and write about them and whatever. Or lie down and sleep a dream in that special place, different.