Viejo II

Canimao climbed out of the boat and let the cold of the great water wash over his legs. Looking back across the sea where so much of their lives had been spent in the recent months of their voyage. Here they arrived to find and explore the land of men with no color that would bring them to the land of the men they sought, the men who died in a terrible storm that lashed the shores of Canimao’s home land. Saddened by the lost men and their failed quest…Cinimao’s quest succeeded with his warriors quest to bring them home.
Canimao gathered his warrior’s and searched for the items of the lost men. They were pale men challenging what is known by the people’s bohiques, surmising the dead man’s origin and considered adding the found men to return them to their people and their land…
Canimao’s spear, tethered to his waist, a shield held in his arm, six warrior’s, all exhausted from there long trip, still healthy and fit but thinking of rest and hunger. They found a place to camp among in the tree, hidden from view of any natives. Finding their bodies laid about the beach, Canimao asked his people for volunteers, to help gather their bodies and things then try and transport them all back to their homes, a dangerous and great distance away…The dead men were sailors from a land over the horizon. A consult with the chiefs and bohiques led them to understand where the pale men were from.
Canimao once heard of people like them who’s color was pale compared to him and his people. Their home, a journey long and far away on the great water and much preparation would be involved.
Canimao, I have heard of these men but have never seen them, they are explorers of riches and only riches, the riches of others; they seek wealth from others to add to their already stolen wealth as their own. Your quest is your own but know that their lust stains them as blood. But know the consequences of your journey.
In the year 1491, inhabitants of a land far across the Atlantic, arrived on the shores of Portugal. Canimao and his crew arrived in a large seaworthy vessel with the personal belongings of the men they found after having succumbed to a terrible storm off the shore of Canimao’s land. Each, equipped with survival pouches, and information describing the men whose lives they tried to save; men who arrived across the ocean in a land they believed was in Portugal.
“Canimao, how will we find those who knew those men?”
Shaking his head side to side, “I don’t know yet, we don’t know the language, who the men were, I don’t know how but we shall try with their goods of trade.”

Canimao and his crew disembark from their sailing ships and scan the forests perimeter, looking for signs of life while dragging their boats up from the waves onto the shore. They quickly unloaded the boats of their goods and packed the remains of the men of no color, the items that were theirs and lay them beside the their own and the lay down to relax and rest and ponder their journey. After some thought they walk along the edge of the forest without straying too far from shore to prowl along the forests in search of someone who might help them find the origins of the men they helped. Without calling attention to themselves. Skirting along the edge of villages they judge who they will try and communicate with… They watch the daily lives of the inhabitants of this new land and they wonder…

Tuning Papi’s Chrome Blue Nova with A Warm Glass of Rum

Papi used to tune the 6-cylinder engine to his Chrome blue Chevy Impala with a warm glass of rum.
On Saturday mornings, after spending the start of the weekend sleeping, Papi used to walk out to the car, which he kept parked in front of the red brick tenement we lived in, in Brooklyn. In the trunk he kept his tools and likewise in a greasy brown bag an old drinking glass stained with use and a bottle of dark Puerto Rican rum. He opened the bottle and poured a half glass of rum, warmed by the summer heat that turned the trunk into an oven and cooked whatever was inside. Then he walked around to the front of the car and leaned forward to unlatch the hood through the front grill, lift the hood, take a small sip of rum and then place the glass on the right front fender.
As he worked, Papi would take small sips from the glass for each part of the car he worked on; checking plugs, wires, air filter, belts. Then he would check the engines idle that would actually cause the car to shake more or less.
Taking a small screw driver, he would reach reach deep into the carburetor and turn the idle screw. He watched the glass of rum as he turned the screw and judged his work based on the ripples that formed in the rum. The ripples started at the center of the filled glass, then radiated out to the edge of the glass, then bounced back, creating a storm of waves that seemed to boil the rum. Often I stood beside the glass and watched the storm grow in the rum, until Papi tuned the car. He continued to turn the idle screw until the car settled, and the rum settled. Finally the car didn’t visibly shake, but the rum rippled ever so gently; like the warm pools of water in the mountains of Puerto Rico. The ripples had become shallow, even and fast.
The car was tuned; and Papi was glad…
Papi would stand in front of the car and admire the engine. Then take the warm glass of rum and pour the rest down his throat.


maxresdefault_45The world is watching,
everyone is watching everyone….
all of  our moves, whether you know it or like it or not…
The surveillance is constant so much so that it might make you paranoid…
Constant that,
not only by devices but people employed to do it without knowing it to divulge what they have seen…
what they know what they suspect and…
imagine that…
this has been constant throughout the history of human kind…

The Beginning of an Odyssey

I vaguely recall that summer of 1968 but for my mother’s idea to take me to see 2001: A Space Odyssey. Soon after its release at the Loews King Theatre in Brooklyn on Fulton street not too far from Brooklyn’s city hall even at 8 years of age I was surprised that she had taken to me to 2001. If you knew my mother she was, without belittling her, a simple person, but she wasn’t the best “mother” and she knew I liked science fiction and “space”. I learned from her by observation, never directly. Often I asked a question she referred me in her broken English to the teacher for an answer to answer all “the why’s” I had. As my questions grew in depth she referred me to the library and the books I would ask for birthdays and Christmas. I passed her capacity to teach me at a young age. As soon as I knew to walk to the library safely on my own, the library became my second home. I wasn’t born with the best economic resources so I spent much of my early life finding ways to get the answers I needed through other less expensive or free means; the library, educational grants, low rate educational loans and the like to teach myself. I realized early on that to learn what for me became the establishment I only had myself to depend on. Through established norm’s all I would learn was what all established instructors taught was the same thing which was fine but too often I would find they couldn’t or worse they wouldn’t answer the questions I wanted answered especially when it became obvious to me that they  weren’t prepared to fulfill my needs. Even to the point of having my head slammed down on my desk by the teacher, first asking for questions then not answering a request for elaboration on the article in the NYT we were discussing. But then I was insistent and ended up reporting her to the principal who had her suspended.
Enough of that, I learned no matter because finding answers was the goal. I wasn’t trying just to learn the basics, there was so much more. And more is what I wanted…
I stood up beside my mother as 2001 came to an end and said to her, “that’s what I want, to do that” pointing at the screen I wanted to learn to what the film was teaching, “2001: A Space Odyssey”.  I took awhile to learn on my own the answer(s) I sought to fill my needs; I don’t think I ever will, my life is a question and my life the answers to that one question.
Our life, my life is…
  1. 1.
    a long poem, typically one derived from ancient oral tradition, narrating the deeds and adventures of heroic or legendary figures or the history of a nation.
…never stop asking. If you think you’re done asking, if actually believe you have an answer, you must be dead, or just wrong.

Continue reading “The Beginning of an Odyssey”