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eladatl colima at night_

 

LOS ANGELES ATLAS

LOS ANGELES ATLAS PROJECT TIMELINE
November 2012- LOI guidelines posted
December 31, 2012- LOI deadline 5 p.m. Both digital and paper applications must be received by the project director by this date.
February 1, 2013- Announce first round of proposal invitees March 1, 2013- Full proposal deadline
April 1, 2013- Announce final writers. The final selection of writers will have six months to complete their essays, due October 2013.

COMPLETE LETTER OF INTENT PACKAGE:
____ Applicant contact information form (see below)
–––– Work sample of relevant recent work that demonstrates your capacity as a researcher and writer
____ Resume or CV

LOS ANGELES ATLAS APPLICATION PROCESS
This is a two-part process. First, you need to submit a Letter of Intent that will be reviewed and evaluated by an advisory committee of leading Los Angeles writers, scholars, and thinkers. Selected applicants will then be invited to submit a full proposal to the committee, which will allow you to more fully develop your idea for consideration. Please direct your LOI and any questions or inquiries to losangelesatlas@gmail.com.

Please attach a letter of no more than two pages that addresses the following questions:
• What are the core themes or questions are you seeking to answer and address through your essay? What special skills or perspective do you bring to the investigation?
• What makes this a quintessentially Los Angeles story, something that couldn’t be replicated in any other place?
What kind of research will be required to tell this story? • How do you envision mapping your essay topic(s)?

Old-Typewriter

Dear Patricia,

This letter addresses the following questions.

Question #1: What are the core themes or questions are you seeking to answer and address through your essay? What special skills or perspective do you bring to the investigation?

Answer: Core themes and questions addressed through the essay are as follows:
+ What are the mysteries of East L.A.?
+ How do the mysteries of East L.A. rate? Are the mysteries of East L.A. (such as, how do the people survive? Mentally, spiritually, partially?) of importance in a World of Mystery?
+ Which are the first rate Mysteries of East L.A. and how were they discovered?
+ High Low Radiance Corridor
+ Geysers of El Sereno
+ Walls of Mystery: The Wall That Broke Open, The Erased Virgins, Paul Botello Murals That Appear and Disappear, Floating Murals
+ Lost records and evidence of The East Los Angeles Dirigible Air Transport Lines
+ Unknown Famous Strangers of East L.A. History, the Virgin Defacer, Juan Fish, and other strange individuals
+ The Indian Mass Grave of Cal State University at Los Angeles
+ The Vex: Now You See It, Now It Exists in Your Ears—and other Musical Mysteries
+ Botanicas of Mystery
+ Stairs to Nowhere
+ 17 Lane Freeway Interchanges and Heart Infarction Vortexes

Special Question #1b: What special skills or perspective do you bring to the investigation?

We have conducted numerous walking surveys of varied night terrains and Eastside neighborhoods saying we were writing a book about this stuff for many years and we even wrote parts of it already. As if we were special agents of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints without skinny ties or even bicycles going here and there through the streets and alleys or standing on doorways. We have conducted countless interviews of dozens or hundreds of secret hipsters of East L.A. such as Ruben Guevara of Ruben and the Jets, Oscar Zeta Acosta and Juan Fish, and we have collated this information with locations of birria joints and taco trucks. (Our work sample is available for view 24/7 on-line at http://www.elaguide.org, be sure to visit, for example, the People’s History Tour and download the PDF maps and click on musical and auditory links for the full effect.)

Special Question #2: What makes this a quintessentially Los Angeles story, something that couldn’t be replicated in any other place?

That’s a hard question, but I can answer it. We actually tried replicating parts of this study and some of this research in Amish villages and Mexican meat packing plant towns of Central Iowa, Rock Springs, Wyoming, the Nez Perce Reservation, Lapwai, Idaho, Canyon de Chelly (Navajo Reservation), Hopi Third Mesa, AZ, Managua, Nicaragua and barrios of Mexico City, but only met with limited success. Therefore, we can safely say that the answers to questions related to East L.A. and Northeast L.A. can only be answered by the strange famous unknown individuals involved, some of whom have been erased or mostly forgotten in official histories (when we contacted him in 2009 for this study, Antonio Villaraigosa, Future First Chicano President of USA, refused to publicly state exactly where in City Terrace he used to live and the Roybal family likewise wishes to keep their unknown famous family home in Boyle Heights an official secret), but we know for a fact that generations have survived here in these locales, but who knows how they did it?

Other Question #3: What kind of research will be required to tell this story?

We must continue our interviews with characters involved, including the reluctant (Oscar Zeta Acosta), or disappeared (The Body Doubles of Antonio Villaraigoza and Gloria Molina), or relatively unknown (Papier Mache Harry Gamboa). We muzst collate information from vast lost files of the East Los Angeles Dirigible Air Transport Lines with site specific knowledge that proves the existence of anything we say, like photographs of stuff and holes. We cannot forget California Brittlebrush and Wild Rye and what do they have to tell us, it has to be asked.

Special Question #3b: How do you envision mapping your essay topic(s)?

We will map it out graphically on maps with related web page where people can go for more information, including downloadable PDFs of informative indoctrination and pamphlets or propaganda to get their heads oriented right. Cuz sometimes when we want people to view the materials we want it to change their lame-ass ideas, as one of our sources puts it. (We will change what they say to make it sound better or like more polite.)

Sincerely,

Sesshu Foster and Arturo Romo-Santillano
revumbio@yahoo.com

(Our work sample is available for view 24/7 on-line at http://www.elaguide.org, be sure to visit, for example, the People’s History Tour and download the PDF maps and click on musical and auditory links for the full effect.)

 

2010_08_10_maconmoffett

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when we had hot water in our veins I was kissing her nose that was also running it tasted of salty strawberries her dog was barking above noises we were making I was telling it to shut up it was vibrating like a strawberry I was nibbling from lips or fingertips of somebody who had crossed a desert to walk up my street and deliver it whose seagulls banked and soared in a guttering breeze sands flapping in the gusts of crows when we had sugar and salt on our skin chewing leafy parts licking lemony fresh tendrils when we both had blisters you could peel and reveal whitish red flesh like strawberries sleeping like any old person in daylight

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

jayne cortez 1936 – 2012

There It Is

And if we don’t fight
if we don’t resist
if we don’t organize and unify and
get the power to control our own lives
Then we will wear
the exaggerated look of captivity
the stylized look of submission
the bizarre look of suicide
the dehumanized look of fear
and the decomposed look of repression
forever and ever and ever
And there it is

JayneCortez

 

 

image by james gulliver hancock

image by james gulliver hancock

 

brilliant 2013 new year of mist and shells

hot and cold running lizards, fishy clouds

all that happiness of blurriness and metals,

cities and countrys, good for you!

from ocotillo, sesshu, yucca, hills, crows, decayed granite, sparkles, flying seeds, poppies, girls, skink, horny toad, oaks

 

catalina kayak sfoster3 bunker hill1

 

Stuff They Got

1. M. got 3 dogs, bicycle thingy, 2 bikes, driver’s permit, 4 x 4 Toyota Forerunner, contact lens solution, beers, a ligament from a late teenage girl in her knee.

2. U. got an outstanding Haida or Tlingit silver bracelet, a bunch of clothes, a week of sunshine bracketed by forests of rains and snows, Indian ear rings, friction, beers, spilled coffee or something on her laptop kevboard, ruined it.

3. C. got a fish she named “Lingling” and told her boyfriend to take care of it, a piece of luggage, corn tamales, The Casual Vacancy by J. K. Rowling, a glass candle holder and a candle.

4. D. got a glass bowl with a brilliant red flower in the center, 2 flannel sheets, 120 tamales she made herself, a bracelet that looks like aluminum with letters and numbers from me, red and black silk scarf with a Haida design, walks in the arroyo.

5. I got another cup of coffee, 3 pounds of coffee, valiant purple wool sweater, more requests for recommendation letters from students, walks in the arroyo, a rack of pork that I barbecued, hand-printed commemorative certificates for the attendees to the Ray Foster Memorial Pancake Breakfast, fresh and sunshiny mornings.

 

 

look around you—
the litter in the stairwell—5 janitors have been laid off
(that graffiti in the parking structure—they were laid off)
likewise the light fixtures out in the corridors and various broken things—
plus the overcrowding: faculty have been reduced, staff laid off
—the buses too no longer run as frequently (bus drivers laid off)—
imagine being told to find a job to feed your family in this economy—
people were told to find their own transportation, if not—too bad—
crowds mill on the street corners sometimes waiting—
one kid i know was attacked by a gang of (he said) a dozen 12 to15 year olds
they sucker-punched him and when he turned to push them off
one pulled him down by grabbing away his backpack (it was a robbery)
and he struck his head against the curb and suffered a concussion—
these circumstances are generated by policies carried out by administrative
bureaucracies and boards, handed down piecemeal by supervisors and
bureaucrats who often hate to be the bearers of bad news, but they bear
any news they are given; a girl who worked for me was leaning back
napping, resting her head against the wall, when i joked, “wake up,
don’t be so lazy,” and she ran from the room weeping—
she was exhausted, working full time to support her unemployed parents—
her dad dying from congestive heart failure, did die in a month—
(when we parted, she gave me a box of chocolates and a hug
to show she had no hard feelings, only the kindest feelings of a sweet kid)
—those sending the memos and making the policies have already xeroxed
their condolences to everyone who suffers these actions and these
famous policies of budget cuts and downsizing, everyone who falls
under the fallout can count on a form letter of some kind with official sympathies—
(maybe not 168 children killed in drone strikes in pakistan—the others in yemen,
sudan, afghanistan, etc., maybe not them, they get no official notification,
no trial, just bombs)—look around you, that burnt out carcass of a car—
on a cracked and broken sidewalk, homeless people wearing blankets
leaning against the hospital fence—a cold cup of coffee under the weird cold blue
moonshine from the street lamp—
(look at that blue light up there, maybe it is you)

 

 

bunker hill

Horacio Castellanos Moya’s novel — his first translated into English — views atrocity through an ironic lens

by Bill O’Driscoll
from http://www.pghcitypaper.com/pittsburgh/uncommon-senselessness/Content?oid=1340617

The genocide that accompanied Guatemala’s long-running civil war has been called “the silent holocaust.” From about 1960 until 1996, when peace accords were signed, an estimated 200,000 civilians died. Most were indigenous people of Mayan descent, and most perished, often horrifically, at the hands of the Guatemalan military. But the atrocities committed in this small country just south of Mexico are much less widely acknowledged than those that occurred even in Nicaragua and neighboring El Salvador, then suffering through their own bloody civil wars.

If awareness of Guatemalan genocide is scant, it’s not for lack of information. In the 1980s, at the height of the army’s reign of terror, human-rights groups issued reports with titles like Guatemala: A Government Program of Political Murder. And within three years of the war’s end, two major reports, one of them by a United Nations truth commission, documented the full extent of the horror. They identified the killings as genocide — the deliberate, systematic destruction of a racial or cultural group — and laid the vast majority of the blame on the U.S.-backed Guatemalan military.

In 2002, the acclaimed Salvadoran novelist and journalist Horacio Castellanos Moya was in self-imposed exile in Mexico City. He had fled El Salvador in 1997, after his controversial novel El asco (Revulsion) drew death threats. Broke and looking for work, he now began writing what became a new novel, one partly inspired by one of those human-rights reports, the Catholic Archdiocese of Guatemala’s Guatemala: Nunca mas! (Never Again!). Moya’s novel was structured as a book-length monologue by an alcoholic, anxiety-ridden editor assigned to proofread a similar report. The novel was published, as Insensatez, in 2004.

Now, about two years after he moved to Pittsburgh through a program for persecuted writers, the novel has become Moya’s first to be translated into English. Senselessness makes striking, darkly comic use of both its narrator’s fevered voice and rapidly disintegrating psyche, and of material from the lightly fictionalized human-rights report itself.

Moya — whose work is still controversial in his former homeland — belongs to the new wave of his region’s literature, and Senselessness has been reviewed in periodicals from Publisher’s Weekly to The Village Voice, which called it “an innovative and invigoratingly twisted piece of art.” Meanwhile, the new attention for Moya, and for the book, also forces readers to reflect on the ways in which we seek to understand the outbreaks of mass violence that are a hallmark of modern times.

Moya, in 1980, works on his first collection of short stories in San Jose, Costa Rica

Moya, in 1980, works on his first collection of short stories in San Jose, Costa Rica

Senselessness begins with a confession: “I am not complete in the mind.” The line is a quotation. It’s cited by the book’s narrator — his shocked repetition of words spoken by another man, a survivor of genocide whose story he reads on the first day of his three-month proofreading assignment.

The sentence, he says,

dumbfounded me during my first incursion into those one thousand one hundred almost single-spaced printed pages … I am not complete in the mind, I repeated to myself, stunned by the extent of mental perturbation experienced by the Cakchiquel man who had witnessed his family’s murder, by the fact that this indigenous man was aware of the breakdown of his own psychic apparatus as a result of having watched, albeit wounded and powerless, as soldiers of his country’s army scornfully and in cold blood chopped each of his four small children to pieces with machetes, then turned on his wife, the poor woman already in shock because she too had been forced to watch as the soldiers turned her small children into palpitating pieces of human flesh.

Yet, after first deciding that “it was the entire population of this country that was not complete in the mind,” the editor realizes the diagnosis applies to him as well. After all, he is reading of these horrors in the palace of the archbishop in a Central American country which is never named (though it’s clearly Guatemala). And, he reflects,

only somebody completely out of his mind would be willing to move to a foreign country whose population was not complete in the mind to perform a task that consisted precisely of copyediting an extensive report of one thousand one hundred pages that documents the hundreds of massacres and proves the general perturbation. I am also not complete in the mind …

The 142-page novel’s tone and style — comically profane self-absorption and accusatory bile expressed in rambling sentences of 200 words or more — reflects its essential dynamic: the narrator’s struggle, by any means, to distance himself from a manuscript he insists he is editing only for the money.

Moya’s narrator, who is never named, attempts to achieve this separation physically, with frequent breaks for beer in neighborhood cantinas. In his intermittent rages, he fumes over slights like not getting paid on time, even building revenge fantasies from the descriptions of brutality he’s proofreading. He plunges into attempted seductions of young women, with raunchily funny results. (He is repulsed by one woman’s smelly feet.) But most intriguingly, he attempts to escape the report by sinking into his fascination with the very sentences spoken by the survivors of atrocity.

Struck by their odd syntax and vivid imagery — most of the testimony was either given in Spanish as a second language or translated from one of many Indian dialects — he begins copying such sentences into a small notebook. He comes to regard the statements (“Because for me the sorrow is to not bury him myself,” for example) as a kind of poetry. And he foists these aesthetic objects on others. “You’re a poet, just listen to this beaut,” he tells a friend: “Their clothes stayed sad … The houses they were sad because no people were inside them …”

While most of his friends are unimpressed, he goes on to juxtapose the report’s horrors with his own trivial woes. At one point, the editor summons the words of an elderly man whose entire family had been murdered — “If I die, I know not who will bury me” — to express his own anxiety over learning that a woman he’s just bedded has a potentially violent boyfriend. (Meanwhile, the narrator can’t even bring himself to face a woman whom he learns is an actual victim of atrocities.) The paranoia heightens his suspicions that retribution awaits anyone involved with the report: Certain he’s a target, he eventually flees the city, and then Central America entirely.

But Senselessness is not simply an ironic joke at the expense of a self-absorbed proofreader. While the narrator might be paranoid, for instance, someone really might be out to get him. That possibly jealous boyfriend is after all a military man, in a country where political murder persists. Part of Moya’s balancing act in Senselessness is to keep readers wondering which threats are imaginary and which are plausible. In an echo of real-life events, the novel ends with an e-mail from a friend in Guatemala: The bishop who delivered the report has been murdered. “They smashed his head in with a brick,” the friend writes. “Everybody’s fucked. Be glad you left.”

Moya, 50, is slightly built, with a small paunch, short dark hair and round-framed glasses. He has a high forehead and searching brown eyes, and in his book-jacket photos he can look severe. But in person he is almost boyish, dimpled, with an animated manner. He speaks English fluently, with an accent, and smiles and jokes readily. For two interviews with CP — each at a different North Side watering hole where the bartender knew him by name — he wore a ballcap, T-shirt and jeans, and leather sandals he doffed before curling up on his seat. At one bar, when an anomalously grand, throne-like armchair in one corner was pointed out to him, Moya joked that it might be a self-esteem aid. “If you have some personality problems, you can sit here!” he said, laughing.

Moya began to write Senselessness in Mexico City, where he was jobless and living with his former partner and their two children. In Guatemala, he’d read parts of Nunca mas. As a veteran political journalist, he’d known of that country’s dirty war, but he’d still been shocked by the savagery the report described, and by its concentration among the indigenous population. Rummaging through his belongings one day, “I discovered a notebook where I had these kind of phrases,” he says — the testimony of indigenous victims. Like his fictional editor, Moya was mesmerized by how these survivors spoke.

His narrator, in turn, channeled some of Moya’s own inability to shut out a troubled world. “I think I was so fed up with everything, that it was easy to get this kind of character, that was completely like affected by reality,” Moya says.

Photo by Heather Mull

Photo by Heather Mull

Moya plans most of his novels carefully, but Senselessness “was written on a kind of impulse” — often in snatches in the notebook he carried around. He finished it the following year, in Guatemala, where he’d gotten a newspaper editing job. There, it was easy enough to re-enter his narrator’s mindset: “Guatemala is a very violent society, so it is very easy to get paranoid,” Moya says.

Contemporary Guatemalan politics were forged in a CIA-led 1954 coup against Col. Jacobo Arbenz, whose land reforms threatened powerful agricultural interests. Repressive military regimes ruled for nearly the next half-century, with Guatemalan officers receiving training from the U.S. military in their battle against leftists. The army’s torture and killings were part of a strategy — considered unique in its ferocity in Central America — to terrorize even potential guerrilla supporters. (International human-rights activist Aryeh Neier has written that deaths in Guatemala nearly equal “the known total of all those killed in war and repression during the 1970s and the 1980s throughout the rest of the western hemisphere.”)

About 200,000 Guatemalans died — the equivalent of every 20th person in the country. The vast majority of victims were Mayans, who make up 60 percent of the population. Hence the later charges of genocide. The country is still rife with both political violence and street crime, and according to a May 2008 report by Human Rights Watch, “impunity remains the rule when it comes to human rights violations.”

Guatemala’s civil war was less widely publicized than those in El Salvador and Nicaragua: U.S. involvement in those countries was much less covert, and most of the butchery in Guatemala took place in remote villages. Though human-rights concerns curtailed U.S. backing for Guatemala’s regime during the Carter administration, military aid escalated heavily under President Ronald Reagan. In 1982, as the slaughter peaked, Reagan called denunciations of then-president Efraín Rios Montt by Amnesty International and Americas Watch “a bum rap.”

The U.N. truth commission’s 1999 report, titled Memory of Silence, blamed the military for 90 percent of the killings. Its three authors, two of them Guatemalans, wrote, “[N]one of us could have imagined the full horror and magnitude of what actually happened.”

Both <strong>Memory of Silence</strong> and the Archdiocese’s 1,400-page<strong> Nunca mas </strong>were meant to expose the truth so national healing could begin. Bishop Juan Gerardi, who shepherded Nunca mas to completion — and was murdered two days after its release — had said he wanted a report that would “enter readers through their pores.”

The first-person testimony in Nunca mas is wrenching. What we have seen has been terrible: burned corpses, women impaled and buried as if they were animals ready for the spit, all doubled up, and children massacred and carved up with machetes. The women too, murdered like Christ. Such utterances, meanwhile, sit strangely with the academic, even clinical language of the report’s authors: “[T]he predominance of the military aspects of the guerrilla struggle, coupled with organizational rigidity, bred insensitivity toward suffering …”

Senselessness is literature, not history. But its approach to genocide — a sort of black comedy orchestrated at arm’s length from its source material, and even further from the killing itself — might seem odd. This is, after all, an era of harrowing nonfiction accounts of mass atrocity like Philip Gourevitch’s We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families, which indelibly documented the horrors of 1990s Rwanda.

In its own way, though, Senselessness asks readers simply to see. Its narrator, says Moya, “doesn’t want to be there. … He doesn’t want to recognize that he is being affected not only by what he’s reading, but by the whole situation in that suppressed society.”

In Central America, says Moya, “If you are urban middle class or you are in the capital city, you don’t want to know all the killing that is happening outside. … That’s why these societies recycle violence: because societies are not dealing with what happened.”

Some reviewers have found Senselessness to fall short. “It isn’t clear whether [the editor’s] aestheticizing of traumatic utterance is intended to inspire our wonder for the indigenous or our contempt for the narrator,” wrote Harper’s Magazine’s John Leonard, in his review. “About the only thing we’re sure of at the end of Senselessness is that the victims of genocide have not yet found a witness worthy of them,” concludes Leonard — a judgment that seems to critique both Moya and his fictional narrator.

In an otherwise admiring review on the Web site readysteadybooks.com, Stephen Mitchelmore wonders whether Moya’s brief treatment of the killings, like the fleeting excerpts of the survivors’ testimony, lets readers off the hook. What if, Mitchelmore asks, rather than fleeing, the narrator had become “a witness for the witnesses”?

Others say Senselessness hits the mark. “This carefully arranged mix of many bits of testimony and a dearth of complete scenes [of brutality] gives the reader the impression of advancing into the dark, surrounded by a cemetery of voices portending terrors that will be fully realized toward the end of the book,” wrote critic Mauro Javier Cardenas in the San Francisco Chronicle.

Perhaps Senselessness is best understood as writing that shares the experience of living in a world where mass killing is a fact of life. As Moya says, his character flees because “reality is kind of … brutal, really.” In his Village Voice review, Jed Lipinski wrote: “The process by which the victims’ testimony gradually engulfs the narrator’s consciousness is Senselessness’ most impressive achievement … yet the tragedy of mass death is overcome by Moya’s perverse sense of humor, as morbid and resilient as a laughing skull.”

The late Chilean novelist Roberto Bolaño, author of  The Savage Detectives and a friend of Moya’s, once wrote that Moya had proved himself “the only writer of my generation that knows how to narrate the horror, the secret Vietnam that Latin America was for a long time.”

Moya was born in Honduras, in 1957. A few years later his family moved to El Salvador, where he grew up the oldest of three brothers. By the 1970s, political turmoil was brewing in the country, which had been ruled by military dictatorships for decades. In 1975, for instance, when Moya was 17, at least a dozen students were massacred at a public protest. In 1979, just months before a military coup heralded civil war between the Salvadoran government and leftist rebels, Moya left to attend university in Toronto. Aside from one brief visit in 1980 — when “the killing was terrible,” he says — he didn’t return until 1991, living mostly in Mexico.

Moya’s first novel, La diaspora, published in 1989, told a story of young Salvadorans growing disillusioned with leftist politics. Like most of his eight novels and five short-story collections, it was written while he worked in journalism; in Mexico, for instance, he covered regional military and political issues for Proceso, a national newsweekly. Years later, prominent U.S.-born, Guatemalan-raised novelist Francisco Goldman would write that La diaspora “was the first novel I read by a Latin American of my own age, and it showed me that young writers were finding their own ways of renewing the novel.”

For decades, Central American literature had been overtly political, often poetry identifying with the revolutionary cause. Literary fiction was further marginalized with the emergence in the 1980s of the genre known as testimonio. These were usually first-person accounts of social injustice; the best-known example was I, Rigoberta Menchu, a 1983 autobiography of a 23-year-old Guatemalan Quiche Indian whose experience with poverty and repression led her to social activism. Menchu (based on interviews with Latin American anthropologist Elisabeth Burgos Debray) was translated into a dozen languages, and Menchu herself won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1992.

But along with such writers as fellow Salvadoran Claudia Hernandez, Guatemalan writer Rodrigo de Rosa, and even Savage Detectives author Bolaño, Moya heralded a new wave of Latin American novelists, whose less-dogmatic approach radically broke with tradition. That newfound sensibility only grew stronger after Moya returned to El Salvador in 1991, a few months before peace accords were signed.

Moya had hoped post-war El Salvador would have room for public discourse transcending the old divisions between revolutionary left and nationalist right. But endeavors like Primera plana, the monthly politics and culture magazine he co-founded, made friends on neither the Salvadoran right nor the country’s left with their willingness to criticize both. “There is almost nothing in the middle in a political way,” says Moya. “They are still very polarized … with that mentality, there is no way of doing thinking. There is no way of doing anything.”

In 1997, Moya published his third novel, El asco (Revulsion). Subtitled “Thomas Bernhard in El Salvador,” it was an extended homage/parody inspired by the late Bernhard, an Austrian novelist known for his splenetic characters whose ranting, paragraphless monologues disdain Austrian culture. El asco’s self-exiled main character has briefly returned against his better judgment. He spends the book venting to a character named “Moya” about his forsaken homeland, from its public art (“only a troglodyte mind could have conceived such monstrosities”) to its politics and even its national beer (“pigswill”). An excerpt published in translation in the 2007 Anchor Books anthology Words Without Borders culminates with “Bernhard” vomiting in the fetid bathroom of a whorehouse his brother has dragged him to — although his biggest anxiety is that he’s lost his passport, his only ticket back out of the country.

Anonymous death threats referencing El asco followed; strident Salvadoran nationalists revile the book to this day. But even as Moya fled — the start of several years during which he lived in Madrid, Mexico and elsewhere in Central America — his literary reputation grew.

Alexandra Ortiz Wallner, a Salvadoran-born literature instructor, was living in Costa Rica when El asco came out. She recalls the book as a literary event: In a region with a weak home-grown publishing industry, it was among those works circulated in photocopied versions. “It was something totally new, totally original,” says Wallner, 34, who now teaches Moya’s work at the University of Potsdam, in Germany.

“I would consider [Moya] one of the most important writers in the region today,” says Misha Kokotovic, an associate professor at University of California at San Diego. Indeed, with the publication of Senselessness, Moya became one of a handful of Salvadoran writers translated into English. (He’s also been translated into French, German, Italian and Portuguese.) He is among the few Salvadorans to be carried by a major publishing house in Spain: Tusquets, which has published his four latest novels.

Unlike traditional Central American literature, says Kokotovic, postwar voices like Moya’s are urban, not rural. (This also distinguishes them from that other dominant strain of Latin American literature: magical realism from the venerable likes of Gabriel García Marquez.). They’re concerned not with the collective consciousness, but with the individual’s, and unlike revolutionary literature they don’t propose any answers to society’s travails.

Meanwhile, as in Moya’s earlier novels La diabla in el espejo (The She-Devil in the Mirror) and El arma en el hombre (The Weapon in the Man), the narratives are often first-person, suggesting the testimonio. Perhaps they even parody it: Those two novels, after all, are from the perspectives of a politically conservative upper-class woman and a demobilized death-squad soldier named “Robocop.” But the works aren’t apolitical; they simply denounce both official lies and free-market depredations in a sophisticated literary form, revealing an extreme disillusionment with both the violent realities of life in contemporary Central America and the unfulfilled promise of reform.

Senselessness, says Kokotovic, “ends up finding a new way of criticizing the society about which it is written.” It’s a condemnation perhaps more appropriate to a cynical postwar atmosphere than earnest testimonios and 1,400-page human-rights reports. Yet at the same time, says Kokotovic, “The novel works to undermine its own cynicism, or that of the narrator.”

“This book is like a wink, saying, ‘Come on … You can deal with this without being so serious,'” says Moya. He adds that his narrator’s reaction is “[p]erhaps closer to the way in which common people deal with [atrocity] in those societies. Because you are not complaining every day. You have to live.”

“I think that this work is really brave,” says Wallner. “It’s touching some really sensitive things for Guatemala and the Latin American people.”

Senselessness might be even braver than many readers realize. Kokotovic notes that a key to the novel’s blending of fiction and fact is the way the narrator, who’s fled to Europe, repeats the last of the quotes he cites from the human-rights report: “We all know who the assassins are.” In the novel’s final pages, he’s no longer savoring the aesthetics, but rather relaying the sentence’s actual meaning. Moreover, he’s doing it in a bar in Switzerland where he imagines another customer is a brutal general from earlier in the book named “Octavio Pérez Mena.” The name suggests Otto Pérez Molina, a real-life Guatemalan general who was active during the war and last year unsuccessfully ran for president.

It’s a “ballsy thing” to “publicly call this guy out as a torturer and a murderer,” Kokotovic says. Moya, he surmises, “is a little bit fearless.”

Asked about the character, Moya says, “I was just trying to show an archetype, not any particular person.”

Moya’s next move in life is uncertain. He’s living here thanks to City of Asylum Pittsburgh, a branch of an international writers’-refuge program that provides housing, a living stipend and health benefits. It’s his first extended stay in the United States. Through City of Asylum, he’s done a series of readings at regional universities. Moreover, this summer, venerable New York-based independent New Directions Publishing arranged several readings for Senselessness, in Manhattan and Princeton, and at San Francisco’s legendary City Lights bookstore. Other support has come, indirectly, from the National Endowment for the Arts, whose $20,000 fellowship for translator Katherine Silver was instrumental in getting Senselessness published in English.

Meanwhile, this past spring Moya taught a class in contemporary Latin American fiction at the University of Pittsburgh, and will do so again this fall. And on Sept. 11, at the New Hazlett Theater, he’ll read as part of a Pittsburgh Arts &amp; Lectures program called “An Incident of Human Rights” alongside his friend Francisco Goldman, the novelist whose 2007 nonfiction book The Art of Political Murder investigated the killing of Bishop Gerardi — the event whose fictional analogue concludes Senselessness.

Best of all, City of Asylum — like a sister program that hosted him in Frankfurt before he came here — lets Moya forgo a day job. That means he’s busy writing. “When I did most of my novels that are known, I didn’t have a life as a writer,” he says. “Now I have a life as a writer.” His ninth novel, Tirana memoria (Tyrant Memory) is due out this fall, the third in a trilogy about modern El Salvador as lived by three generations of a single family.

But the asylum program lasts two years. And Moya’s two years are up, even if Henry Reese, the businessman who sponsors the program with partners including the Mattress Factory museum, won’t just boot him from his North Side house.

One place he’s not headed is El Salvador. His mother still lives there, but the murder rate is among the world’s highest, which Moya views as symptomatic of official corruption.

“The police are the killers. They are the kidnappers,” he says. “The criminals are in charge of law.” (Human-rights groups have noted longstanding links between Salvadoran police and vigilante groups, who are blamed for political violence of the kind that’s claimed two dozen leftist activists in the past two years.)

And for Moya, there is still the matter of how his former countrymen see him. On June 9 — the week he debuted Senselessness, at the reading in New York — an editorial in the right-wing Salvadoran daily newspaper El diario de hoy decried that Moya’s controversial El asco is still taught at Salvadoran schools and universities. The unsigned editorial called it “a book whose title says it all” — about “the class of writing that it is [and] the mental state of the author.” A week later, another anonymous El diario editorial about the sorry state of education again blasted El asco (“whose author is a native of Honduras”) as “a kind of bitter revenge for imaginary affronts.”

Moya expresses dismay that El asco is still vilified 10 years after it was published. He notes that, a generation ago, El diario also disparaged Archbishop Oscar Romero, who criticized the army for human-rights abuses — and who was assassinated in 1980 while offering mass. The right wing’s links to the death squads of the civil-war era still haunt Moya. “These people are bad,” he says. “I don’t like the idea that they still remember me.”

To be sure, Moya has many supporters in his El Salvador. Last year, Miguel Huezo Mixc, a columnist for rival daily La prensa grafica, marked El asco’s 10th anniversary by writing that “the novel gave shape to the frustration of post-war El Salvador.” Earlier that year, El diario itself touted Moya’s new novel, Desmoronamiento (Decay), with a feature article that said “it seizes the reader from the first with its devilish pace of dialogue.”

But Moya says that in 2004, when he left Guatemala for a writers-in-exile program in Germany, there was a “campaign” in El Salvador to question Moya’s claim that he had received death threats over El asco. The phone calls that terrorized Moya can’t be documented, and a La prensa article questioned whether Moya truly qualified for refuge. A sidebar quoted no less than President Elías Antonio Saca, who said, “Here no one is persecuted for his ideas.”

Often, Moya says, he feels he has become a nonperson in his former homeland. The sentiment recalls the relative invisibility of the Guatemalan genocide whose echoes he conjures in Senselessness. It also suggests Moya’s decision to not explicitly name the novel’s setting. As he has learned in his years of exile, universality in fiction can be preferable to focusing on a part of the world that is easily overlooked. “I’ve been out of the region long enough to know that we almost don’t exist.”

(2008)

Translation assistance by M.A. Vignovich.

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I love WORLD BALL NOTEBOOK by Sesshu Foster from City Lights Books. It’s a collection of microcosms, mostly prose poems, that examine minute social interactions, mishaps, conversations, travelogs, and emails. The poems are placed within the context of a ubiquitous game, so that the people in each poem become players, unaware of the game’s rules and ultimate goal. What condenses over WORLD BALL NOTEBOOK’s 137 pages is a beautiful, pathos filled, picture of humanity that is both entertaining and visionary.

thanks, Ben: http://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2011/01/things-ben-mirov-thinks-are-rad-post-4-of-.html

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Ben and I visited Owen Brown's grave. I pointed to Owen Brown's bones mouldering in the grave. Then I went to Self-Help Graphics and parked in the adjacent parking lot.

Ben and I visited Owen Brown’s grave. I pointed to Owen Brown’s bones mouldering in the grave. Then I went to Self-Help Graphics and parked in the adjacent parking lot.

Teto was right there doing MONO-PRINTS FOR THE PEOPLE and selling his Compendium of Industrial Knowledge. I was going to purchase five of them.

Teto was right there doing MONO-PRINTS FOR THE PEOPLE and selling his Compendium of Industrial Knowledge. I knew I was going to purchase five of them, so I looked around to see who was watching.

Sandra de la Loza was sitting with him selling her book Pocho Research Society's Field Guide to Erased and Invisible Histories, which commenced inversions.

Sandra de la Loza was sitting with him selling her book Pocho Research Society’s Field Guide to Erased and Invisible Histories, which commenced inversions. Inversions that only intensified and radiated, while outside the whole building, a row of metal masks watched from the Gold Line platform.

Her boyfriend William was in the print room helping people run off their own quick-made prints on the big presses.

Her boyfriend William was in the print room helping people run off their own quick-made prints on the big presses.

Reyes Rodriguez in his fedora was spinning music on the sound system at the table next to Sandra. "Check this out, see if you can recognize it, an Indian version of a Rolling Stones song, check it out."

Reyes Rodriguez in his fedora was spinning music on the sound system at the table next to Sandra. “Check this out, see if you can recognize it, I thought of you when I heard it, an Indian version of a Rolling Stones song, check it out.”

Then I talked to Don Newton, too, who with Poli Marichal represented a collective of artists, a clandestine project of crazed individuals, banded together to hack away at everlasting rubber bands. That keep springing.

Then I talked to Don Newton, too, who with Poli Marichal represented a collective of artists, a clandestine project of crazed individuals, banded together to hack away at everlasting rubber bands. That keep springing. And Daniel Gonzalez.

Lalo Alcaraz of pocho.com (trained as an architect at Berkeley, works as a cartoonist) had a table but I couldn't get around to that part of the room.

Lalo Alcaraz of pocho.com (trained as an architect at Berkeley, works as a cartoonist) had a table but I couldn’t get around to that part of the room.

Felicia Montes, daughter of Carlos our neighbor, was there with her fiance (I told her I saw she had gotten engaged from a Facebook foto, I congratulated her).

Felicia Montes, daughter of Carlos our neighbor, was there with her fiance (I told her I saw she had gotten engaged from a Facebook foto, I congratulated her). I met some people.

4 UC Riverside poetry grad students, Vicki Vertiz and Kenji Liu, Angela Penaranda and friend, who happened to be in the area and who stopped in (I had dinner with them in the mall next to campus when I read with Juan Felipe Herrera in October)---I tried to talk poetry bizness with them but I got the word somebody was hungry, I was hungry too, it was time to go.

4 UC Riverside poetry grad students, Vicki Vertiz and Kenji Liu, Angela Penaredondo and friend, who happened to be in the area and who stopped in (I had dinner with them in the mall next to campus when I read with Juan Felipe Herrera in October)—I tried to talk poetry bizness with them but I got the word somebody was hungry, I was hungry too, it was time to go.

Dianna (Teto's wife) was glad the semester was closing out at Cal State L.A. and Cypress College. Here's a picture of her students performing presentations of City Terrace Field Manual.

Dianna (Teto’s wife) was glad the semester was closing out at Cal State L.A. and Cypress College. Here’s a picture of her students performing presentations of City Terrace Field Manual.

Jose Lozano was vending his outstanding Japonesa Lounge prints (I already had two of them, one framed for my birthday!) from a table at the rear, where he had muralized the black walls with white figure drawings of Jose Lozano people, so when poet Gloria Alvarez sat next to him I told them I saw them as a crowd of Jose Lozano people---Jose and Gloria looked dapper and piercing like Jose Lozano people suddenly.

Jose Lozano was vending his outstanding Japonesa Lounge prints (I already had two of them, one framed for my birthday!) from a table at the rear, where he had muralized the black walls with white figure drawings of Jose Lozano people, so when poet Gloria Alvarez sat next to him I told them I saw them as a crowd of Jose Lozano people—Jose and Gloria looked dapper and piercing like Jose Lozano people suddenly.

Gloria talked to your mom for a while saying she really enjoyed seeing your Facebook postings and Citlali's Facebook postings, and asked how Citlali was doing during Hurricane Sandy---she was worried how she was doing during the storm. I said she was fine, the electricity all important to computer and cell phone charger stayed on, she had food and power, only the subway filled with water for a week and she couldn't travel. Gloria was looking good.

Gloria talked to your mom for a while saying she really enjoyed seeing your Facebook postings and Citlali’s Facebook postings, and asked how Citlali was doing during Hurricane Sandy—she was worried how she was doing during the storm. I said she was fine, the electricity all important to computer and cell phone charger stayed on, she had food and power, only the subway filled with water for a week and she couldn’t travel. Gloria was looking good.

Afterwards I took a major person to dinner in nearby Las Flautas Mexican restaurant where crowds packed it in to watch the boxing match where Manny Pacquiao was about to walk into a terrible hard right fist that smashed his brain back and knocked him out to fall face first flat on the ring, knocked out cold. (that's what causes that brain damage.) We ate flautas and birria and got out of there as it was getting louder and more crowded with buckets of Coronas on ice and happy fans, and Major Persons went to watch the fight at abuelita's house with abuelita, while I was tired so went home and watched a Cyndi Lauper concert on youtube... with youtube you can fast forward thru songs like "Girls Just Want to Have Fun"... Cyndi Lauper is very girlish and I watched her thinking perhaps wearily that women are great, that Lauper expresses that great female positive energy that is one of the only lights against the world's doom...

Afterwards I took a major person to dinner in nearby Las Flautas Mexican restaurant where crowds packed it in to watch the boxing match where Manny Pacquiao was about to walk into a terrible hard right fist that smashed his brain back and knocked him out to fall face first flat on the ring, knocked out cold. (that’s what causes that brain damage.) We ate flautas and birria and got out of there as it was getting louder and more crowded with buckets of Coronas on ice and happy fans, and Major Persons went to watch the fight at abuelita’s house with abuelita, while I was tired so went home and watched a Cyndi Lauper concert on youtube… with youtube you can fast forward thru songs like “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”… Cyndi Lauper is very girlish (or she works a persona that is) and I watched her thinking wearily that women are great, that Lauper seemed to express that great daffy and perky female positive energy that is one of the only lights against the world’s doom…

Today’s Program!

* opportunities to adjust sticks of branches and plants!
* listing to chances, to lights and spots, and to most things—
* ample lonely glowing stained hues fortunately tinted!
* farting on hills, spanning a minute, furling, nostril—
* lovely ravens telling us how to behave, instructions—
* modern alphabets! gnat policies! go to the water!
* riding and combing happiness and bubbles of the fishes!
* bold inclines, somewhat soon, nopales and rocks!
* propensity to o’erleap, intense sleep and mustard flo’ers!
* interior avenues of beetles and ants, the mottled comings and goings—
* foggy hills, hey ho! hey ho! before and behind, it was green—

penguin-knitting-book-cover

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