Throwback Thursday: Cuernavaca

The post here was written on this date in 2008. At that time I didn't know that I would be publishing my young adult novel on Kindle three years later. What I do know, and knew then, is that I had many rewarding memories of my year south of the border and one of my favorite places there was the city of Cuernavaca on the southern slope of the high altitude mountain that supports Mexico City.  (Cuernavaca itself is nearly a mile above sea level, hence its comfortable spring-like temperatures year-round, despite its proximity to the equator.) 

Among other things in life, I have taken a stab at writing a novel. The setting for part of the story was Mexico, having lived there a year and having become enthralled by its magic. The Red Scorpion is its working title.*

Last night I came across a disk with some of the slides I took in Mexico that year. Over the next few days I'll try to share some of the images here. The people and places of Mexico, and the accompanying memories, will always have a special place in my heart.

What follows is the beginning of my story.

Chapter 1
He woke abruptly, jostled to alertness by the screech of brakes and final recoil as the bus jerked to a stop. He was surprised to find that he had managed to fall asleep at all. The crowded bus included peasants with chickens, crying babies and a crush of people from all stations in life.

Dr. Comstock, glancing out the window, was dismayed to find the bus had not yet reached its destination. It was picking up more passengers, even though the aisle was now full. Several villagers squeezed up onto the steps, some hung out through the doors which had been left open. The bus lurched forward, gears grinding.

A small boy eating a mango placed a sticky hand on the rail in front of Comstock’s knee. Comstock smiled at the boy, but the boy turned his face away. Comstock was a stranger and a foreigner. The boy had been trained not to trust him.

Once more the bus screeched to a stop. This time he could see they had arrived. It was the last leg of his journey, descending to Cuernavaca from the high altitudes of Mexico City. He was eager to begin his work.

Dr. Comstock, a professor of anthropology at the University of Minnesota, had come to Mexico to locate the final resting place of Quetzlcoatl, the plumed serpent of Aztec legend. This was Comstock's second research expedition in Mexico. He intended to develop contacts that would enable him to obtain funding for a longer trip the following year. It was Christmas break back home at the University. He could think of nothing better than being in Cuernavaca. While arctic winds chilled the Minnesota countryside, flowers remained perpetually in bloom here in the land of Eternal Spring. Red and coral bougainvillea, lavender jacaranda, flaming poinciana, and golden geraniums splashed the air with color and fragrance. The floral tapestry delighted his eyes in every direction that he looked.

His wife Adele had wanted to join him, but he balked at the idea. Her presence would interfere with his work, he said. He promised she would accompany him on next year’s trip if they could find caretakers to run the Eagle’s Nest, the bed and breakfast they owned and operated.

Comstock had an angular face with deep set eyes and thick, dark eyebrows. He wore his hair cropped short. He felt he looked too British to pass for Mexican, though occasionally it worked out that way because he tanned easily and well.

Exhausted from the journey and relieved to have arrived at all, he carried his baggage the two blocks from the bus station to the hotel.

click on photos to enlarge

*The hotlink for the book was obviously not in the original post, since the book did not yet exist at that time.

Throwback Thursday and Other Delights

Pics from scrapbook show the renovation story.

There's a new night spot in Downtown Duluth: The Red Herring Lounge. When local entrepreneur Bob Monohan (Chaperone Records) spied the abandoned space across the street from where his band practiced, he wondered if maybe... And yes, with backing he was able to renovate the dilapidated downtown building and add it to the list of cool spaces to hang out when doing other Downtown hot spots like Carmody's, Tycoons and Luce.

Monohan, who has been routinely associated with poetry and arts events at The PROVE Gallery, Double Dutch and other spaces, has not only turned it into a chic night club but also an art space which will coordinate openings with the Second Friday Art Crawls. It's only a half block from where the Ochre Ghost delivered its three years of service to the arts community. Tonight might be a good night to check it out. They're having Grand Opening Bonanza. Address: 208 East 1st Street. Party begins at 4:00 p.m. till whenever.

* * * *

What follows is a blog post from 2008 in which I shared the beginning of a young adult novel I had written but had not yet published. The trigger event -- for both the book and the blog post -- was finding some slides from my year in Mexico (1980-81). I did not know at the time that three years later I would be publishing this story as an eBook...

Among other things in life, I have taken a stab at writing a novel. The setting for part of the story was Mexico, having lived there a year and having become enthralled by its magic. The Red Scorpion is its working title.

Last night I came across a disk with some of the slides I took in Mexico that year. Over the next few days I'll try to share some of the images here. The people and places of Mexico, and the accompanying memories, will always have a special place in my heart.

What follows is the beginning of The Red Scorpion.

Chapter 1
He woke abruptly, jostled to alertness by the screech of brakes and final recoil as the bus jerked to a stop. He was surprised to find that he had managed to fall asleep at all. The crowded bus included peasants with chickens, crying babies and a crush of people from all stations in life.

Dr. Comstock, glancing out the window, was dismayed to find the bus had not yet reached its destination. It was picking up more passengers, even though the aisle was now full. Several villagers squeezed up onto the steps, some hung out through the doors which had been left open. The bus lurched forward, gears grinding.

A small boy eating a mango placed a sticky hand on the rail in front of Comstock’s knee. Comstock smiled at the boy, but the boy turned his face away. Comstock was a stranger and a foreigner. The boy had been trained not to trust him.

Once more the bus screeched to a stop. This time he could see they had arrived. It was the last leg of his journey, descending to Cuernavaca from the high altitudes of Mexico City. He was eager to begin his work.

Dr. Comstock, a professor of anthropology at the University of Minnesota, had come to Mexico to locate the final resting place of Quetzlcoatl, the plumed serpent of Aztec legend. This was Comstock's second research expedition in Mexico. He intended to develop contacts that would enable him to obtain funding for a longer trip the following year. It was Christmas break back home at the University. He could think of nothing better than being in Cuernavaca. While arctic winds chilled the Minnesota countryside, flowers remained perpetually in bloom here in the land of Eternal Spring. Red and coral bougainvillea, lavender jacaranda, flaming poinciana, and golden geraniums splashed the air with color and fragrance. The floral tapestry delighted his eyes in every direction that he looked.

His wife Adele had wanted to join him, but he balked at the idea. Her presence would interfere with his work, he said. He promised she would accompany him on next year’s trip if they could find caretakers to run the Eagle’s Nest, the bed and breakfast they owned and operated.

Comstock had an angular face with deep set eyes and thick, dark eyebrows. He wore his hair cropped short. He felt he looked too British to pass for Mexican, though occasionally it worked out that way because he tanned easily and well.

Exhausted from the journey and relieved to have arrived at all, he carried his baggage the two blocks from the bus station to the hotel.

click on photos to enlarge

* * * *
Other events to check out this weekend include:

• Lonnie Knight tomorrow evening at Amazing Grace, 8-10 p.m.

• Wanda Pearcy's Excellent Organic Plant Sale (Friday thru Sunday)

• Erik Pearson's Art Opening and Reception at The Red Mug (Friday, 5-7)

• And Saturday, if you're in Kingston, New York, the Smoke Without Mirrors opening at the KMOCA Gallery there, a double feature showcasing the work of Steve Derrickson and Dennis Adams.

Meantime, art goes on all around you. Dig it.

Local Art Seen: Duluth All Souls Night

Last night Duluth celebrated a Northland version of Dia de los Muertos, or more commonly called All Souls Night. Its origins, date back to Aztec times in which the goddess Mictecacihuati, Lady of the Dead, was celebrated. It’s actually a two-day festival that corresponds with the Catholic holidays of All Saints Day and All Souls Day. For those unfamiliar with South American history, one of the Spaniards' most potent tools for subduing the native culture in the Americas was the blending of Catholic religious ideas with pre-existing legends here. (e.g. Quetzlcoatl)

In preparation for the celebration of Dia de los Muertos people built altars (called ofrendas) which they decorated with sugar skulls, photos of deceased loved one, and the favorite foods and beverages including “pan de los muertos”, which is bread of the dead. So it was that the Great Hall in the Depot was filled last night with numerous altars emulating these ofrendas.

From 6:00-8:00 p.m. the celebration included drums, a parade around the library, stilters, and dancers accompanied of shouts of jubilation. Face painters were busily applying black and white face paint to all who were willing to wear the death masks. The festivities here then moved up to Sacred Heart where there were more displays, a poetry reading and music. Historically the event is an acknowledgement that death is a part of life. Locally, it is one more venue for the display of Mary Plaster’s enormous creations, though a whole host of people and organizations deserve the big thank you for making this happen.

For me, this Day of the Dead is associated with memories from my own year in Mexico. The larger than life puppets that Mary Plaster first began creating as part of the Heart of the Beast Puppet Theater in South Minneapolis have their roots in these Mexico celebrations. Plaster, who lived in Mexico for three years herself, experienced first-hand a Dia de los Muertos there. I myself saw a similar celebration with its parade and enormous plaster figures while in Tepotzlan during Easter weekend in 1981 and it made an impression on me, so much so that Tepotzlan and nearby Cuernavaca became the starting point of my novel The Red Scorpion.

Three years later John Huston filmed Malcolm Lowry’s Under the Volcano there in this setting on the southern slopes of the mountain where Mexico City resides. It is a region rich with history, a place of intersecting cultures, values and expectations. On its list of the 100 best English-language novels of the 20th century, the Modern Library gave Lowry’s book a rank of #11. It is a story immersed in symbolism, its center being the collision of darkness and light in one man’s soul, on the Day of the Dead. Once you get into a certain frame of mind the closer you look, the less you see, until it is much too late.

But that's another story. And having passed through one more Day of the Dead in Duluth, we next approach Thanksgiving... and the Black Friday that follows in its wake. Darkness and light in a perpetual dance around a center that never holds. As it was in the beginning...

Photo top right courtesy Jean DeRider

15 Random Thoughts

A short list of topics off the top of my head on Wednesday, June 17.

1. Interesting that Twitter postponed its maintenance in order to keep communication channels open for Iran protesters.

2. What will be the net-net of the apparently stolen Iranian elections?

3. Friends of ours were in Iran as missionaries when Khomeini overthrew the Shah. They sold their house and their possessions and exchanged all they owned for 3 Persian rugs and a gold belt which she wore out of the country as they escaped by night through Turkey.

4. When Susie and I lived in Mexico for a year we visited an orphanage in Cuernavaca which was very near to where the Shah of Iran owned an estate. The world's richest lived on this street that we had to walk past in order to get to the orphanage, which was in a poor area a stone's throw away. Richard Nixon had a place next door to the Shah, or a few estates down. They were all gated homes.

5. Cuernavaca is nicknamed The Land of Eternal Spring because of its beautiful year round weather. It is on the south side of the mountain upon which Mexico City sits, but elevated enough to avoid the tropical heat further down the mountainside below.

6. On one occasion, while driving home from Cuernavaca, we took an alternate route to the west and as we climbed an intolerably steep road to the top of the mountain, we found that the car had overheated. We were in the middle of nowhere, so I put the car in neutral and we coasted down the other side of the mountain. There was a small lake (large pond) on that other side and I refilled the radiator with water from this pool.

7. That particular landscape, was like the rolling hills of Wisconsin, lush, green, beautiful... Never saw anything like that in all our other travels south o' the border.

8. I remember a farm there which had made a fence entirely of the hoods of Volkswagen Beetles. They were all different colors, side by side.

9. Many people do not know that in 1863 the French took over Mexico. It was during our Civil War. The U.S. was too pre-occupied to enforce its "Monroe Doctrine."

10. The trigger event for Mexico being taken over was the death of seven or eight French soldiers on the beach at Vera Cruz. France used these lost lives to stimulate war fever. Because their "honor" was besmirched, they sent armies across the ocean and took over the whole country.

11. Maximilian, of Austria, was installed on the throne of Mexico, an ill-fated plan that resulted in his death by firing squad a few years afterwards.

12. Imagine that.

13. Last night I measured and priced out more than eighty paintings and drawings for an art show I am considering in July at The Venue.

14. Drudge Report must be on the ascendancy because it is in the Top 20 searches today on Yahoo, #12... up from 28.

15. Six Flags is bankrupt. Makes me curious about the theme park business in general. What happens to the rides when people no longer want to pay to play?

Well, it's time to start my day. Make sure you make the most of yours.

Under the Volcano

“The novel explores the Consul’s past and present, relates his private doom to the tragic fatalism of the Mexican scene…” ~ Stephen Spender

Under the Volcano is a novel written by critically acclaimed Malcolm Lowry. The book eventually became a film starring Albert Finney and Jacqueline Bisset, directed by John Huston. Both the film and the book failed to reach a wider public despite the brash, braying praise of critics.

Like Lowry, I lived in Mexico for a time, from fall 1980 till late 1981. During that time we traveled to a number of places including two trips to Cuernavaca. I loved Cuernavaca, the city where this story primarily occurs, the Land of Eternal Springtime where Cortez established his winter palace. Like Lowry and the tragic hero of his novel I, too, was present in Tepoztlan on a holy day when the dark-faced peasants in loose white clothes and wide hats brought out Christ and the Virgin from the shadows of monasteries, parading, holding high large displays and brightly colored pillars, burned incense, celebrating intently the blended religion of the peoples.

This story covers 24 hours in the life of an alcoholic, his last 24 hours, with his singular preoccupation on where he will get his next drink, simultaneously immersing the reader into his internal despondency, hopeless self-wreckage, introspection and hallucination. It is a tragic life culminating in a tragic end, perhaps intended to be the mirror of a forlorn culture shrouded in apparitions of death.

I originally took an interest in the book because I’d read that it was supposedly structured like the Cabala, the chapters being a series of steps toward enlightenment. My first effort to read it in the late 80’s left me flat, however, and I placed it back on the shelf for a couple years. The second attempt ended about a fourth of the way through with the same frustration. A couple more years passed, and upon beginning the story I was transported inward to the heart of the characters, the culture, and the bleak futility of the hero’s quest.

John Huston took this very complicated ball of knots and attempted to straighten it out into its essential story. The film, inadequate to the task, did capture facets of the book’s essence. There is no way it could capture the spinning surrealistic writing, compelling inner monologues, and painfulness of Lowry’s heartfelt bloodletting.

Malcolm Lowry wrote the first draft in Mexico while living in Cuernavaca in 1938. Director Huston does an outstanding job of giving the feel of Mexico during this time frame. And the film brings to life many vivid memories of our time there…

Despite its shortcomings, I found myself still moved by the film. This is the second time I’ve watched it and this time I did enjoy the performances of Finney and Bisset, whom some have been especially critical of. Finney is nearly perfect throughout in his portrayal of a wrecked man. Bisset is equal to the task she must perform, confused, frightened, compassionate, pained.

The weakness of the film is perhaps the feeling that it was put together by a nostalgic older director who could have done more with the music, the camera work, the edits. Great films often grab you from the opening images, credits and soundtrack. I found myself having to overlook what I considered a weak appetizer that insufficiently lured me into the depths of our hero’s heart, mind, soul, struggle.

Huston could have done more with the film, but did not. Perhaps it is because of the era. He did not feel it necessary? I can’t say. The grandeur of his foreign setting is hinted at, but hollow. I cannot blame the actors for this. Finney was remarkable throughout, almost over the top. Bisset’s broken heart shone through with clarity.

It’s a good film and a rich, but difficult, book. If it is too depressing or too convoluted and enigmatic, you’re under no obligation to finish. But if you can’t put it down, then don’t.

“Time is a fake healer anyhow. How can anyone presume to tell me about you? You cannot know the sadness of my life…. Alas, what has happened to the love and understanding we once had?” ~ Geoffrey Firmin, Under the Volcano

All photos on this page are original, shot in Kodak Ektachrome, property of Ed Newman

Copyright 1981, Ed Newman

Permission to use is granted when attribution is cited.

All the Pretty Horses

Watched All the Pretty Horses earlier this week, a much better film than I was led to expect. Having read Cormac McCarthy’s superb book this past year, I decided to pick up the film when I stumbled upon it at Blockbuster on Tuesday. Billy Bob Thornton directed this year 2000 film starring Matt Damon and Penelope Cruz. And whether it was short lived in theaters because of bad reviews or poor marketing, for sure it seems like a good “big screen” film with its Mexican vistas and panoramic camera work.

It’s a coming of age story with two teens from San Antonio heading south o’ the border to find work and, perhaps, adventure. John Grady Cole is the central character (Damon) in this story of innocence lost. The film remains faithful to the the book for the most part. And maybe that is what carries the film because it is a powerful story.

Some aspects of the movie were formulaic. The usual Hollywood plot twist occurs at 25-27 minutes.

If you watch any film on DVD, check out the elapsed time when the plot turns, and you will find, nine times out of ten, that this is so. It’s called writing by the book. The book, by the way, is Syd Field's Screenplay. This is the book 1990's Disney producer Robert Schwartz sent to me when I wrote my first of three Hollywood screenplays... none reaching the silver screen. Producers, decision makers, will turn to pages 25-27 to see “what happens” with the assumption that any screen writer who knows what he’s doing will make this part of the movie into a plot twist. Instead of reading a whole screenplay, the length being one page per minute of screen time, they take a short cut. Once you see this skeletal frame, you may have difficulty closing the curtain again for a while.) Anyways, Thornton’s film follows the formula. And if you wish to take an original approach to writing screen plays, you'll discover this is why the best creative screenwriters have had to go outside the system.

Damon got very critical reviews for his performance here, but I did not expect a lot, so I ended up surprised. The romance between Cole(Damon) and Cruz has suppressed steaminess that is believable. The film does a good job of portraying the collision of cultures in their relationship. Like the book, his heart is cut out and filleted by the whole series of events that proceed naturally from the opening decision to go south.

McCarthy’s characters are superbly crafted in his books and the settings so vivid you are transported easily and longingly. In the film, the scenes and settings are honest replicas of reality, and one is not distracted by any false notes anywhere in the film, other than the fact that Damon and his friend Lacy Rawlings look a bit older than the 16-year-olds they were purportedly portraying.

Of the images on this page, I painted the horse head last year in the spring, acrylic on paper. The photo was taken in Kodak Ektachrome near a river west of Cuernavaca, Mexico, in the spring of 1981. It was a beautiful horse. (As always, click to enlarge.)

As regards the book, here’s a paragraph from a reviewer at amazon.com that summarizes my impressions of the book:

“Many people compare, fairly or no, Cormac McCarthy's "All the Pretty Horses" to William Faulkner's literary work. What is neglected is the strain of Flannery O'Connor that runs throughout the novel as well. At any rate, "Horses" more than stands on its own as a startling achievement. It's prose is more accessible than Faulkner, and its themes less esoteric than O'Connor. "Horses" is an immaculate novel, dealing with the extreme facets of the everyday and the ways in which people become who they are.” ~ Melvin Pena

Cuernavaca

Among other things in life, I have taken a stab at writing a novel. The setting for part of the story was Mexico, having lived there a year and having become enthralled by its magic. The Red Scorpion is its working title.

Last night I came across a disk with some of the slides I took in Mexico that year. Over the next few days I'll try to share some of the images here. The people and places of Mexico, and the accompanying memories, will always have a special place in my heart.

What follows is the beginning of The Red Scorpion.

Chapter 1
He woke abruptly, jostled to alertness by the screech of brakes and final recoil as the bus jerked to a stop. He was surprised to find that he had managed to fall asleep at all. The crowded bus included peasants with chickens, crying babies and a crush of people from all stations in life.

Dr. Comstock, glancing out the window, was dismayed to find the bus had not yet reached its destination. It was picking up more passengers, even though the aisle was now full. Several villagers squeezed up onto the steps, some hung out through the doors which had been left open. The bus lurched forward, gears grinding.

A small boy eating a mango placed a sticky hand on the rail in front of Comstock’s knee. Comstock smiled at the boy, but the boy turned his face away. Comstock was a stranger and a foreigner. The boy had been trained not to trust him.

Once more the bus screeched to a stop. This time he could see they had arrived. It was the last leg of his journey, descending to Cuernavaca from the high altitudes of Mexico City. He was eager to begin his work.

Dr. Comstock, a professor of anthropology at the University of Minnesota, had come to Mexico to locate the final resting place of Quetzlcoatl, the plumed serpent of Aztec legend. This was Comstock's second research expedition in Mexico. He intended to develop contacts that would enable him to obtain funding for a longer trip the following year. It was Christmas break back home at the University. He could think of nothing better than being in Cuernavaca. While arctic winds chilled the Minnesota countryside, flowers remained perpetually in bloom here in the land of Eternal Spring. Red and coral bougainvillea, lavender jacaranda, flaming poinciana, and golden geraniums splashed the air with color and fragrance. The floral tapestry delighted his eyes in every direction that he looked.

His wife Adele had wanted to join him, but he balked at the idea. Her presence would interfere with his work, he said. He promised she would accompany him on next year’s trip if they could find caretakers to run the Eagle’s Nest, the bed and breakfast they owned and operated.

Comstock had an angular face with deep set eyes and thick, dark eyebrows. He wore his hair cropped short. He felt he looked too British to pass for Mexican, though occasionally it worked out that way because he tanned easily and well.

Exhausted from the journey and relieved to have arrived at all, he carried his baggage the two blocks from the bus station to the hotel.

click on photos to enlarge