Blood Mother

Buick Sundays

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 05:31:00 +0000

Sundays were always special because mom didn't work on that day. She was tired from six straight 10-hour nights of waiting on tables. No one could blame her if she didn't feel like cooking, cleaning or driving. She'd let me drive the old Buick my Grandpa had given us, and by old I mean made of steel and without power steering. Driving to Louie's Drive-In to pick up tamales and comic books was my job. I was twelve and very responsible, but in my mother's mind I think that meant I was thirty-two.

It was fall in Santa Fe, a frosty nip in the air, but no snow on the ground. My brother was only five and stayed with Mom and was totally not my responsibility for that one day. Everyone stayed inside, but my hangout on Sunday was the Buick I'd managed to park safely in our narrow driveway (there was a telephone pole planted right in the middle of the entrance). I made the car cozy with pillows and a comforter. It took on a greenhouse effect with all that New Mexican sunshine filtered and magnified through the windows. I left them cracked, and the scent of pine and aspen wafting down from the Sangre de Cristos was a welcome counterbalance in my little hothouse.

Stuffed with spicy tamales, I'd snuggle down and read Superman, The Incredible Hulk, The Fantastic Four, Wonder Woman, Tales From Beyond, and something called Classics, which was a retelling of stories like Romeo & Juliet in graphic form. When I'd finish my series, I'd take them inside and exchange with Mom who'd been reading Batman, or Silver Surfer. We were getting along in those days.

That night Mom might cook a one-dish meal like macaroni made with Velveeta Cheese. The nights were cold, but we were warm and full. Mom sometimes sang and danced when she cooked. She teased and complemented me. We laughed and I remember distinct happiness. On Sunday nights, I went off to bed and read some more, only books this time, and the house was quiet. I was fed on multiple levels.

Mom began to come home late. When you get off at 3 a.m. late is arriving home at dawn. I was worried, upset, angry . . . and curious. I began to wake up in the middle of the night and wait for her. She was full of excuses: she'd gone out with the girls for breakfast; there was an after work party; her car broke down; her girlfriend's car broke down. I was furious and jealous and possessive, and suspected sex was happening, but only in an amorphous, nonverbal way that made me afraid of losing my mother.

I was afraid of a lot of stuff in those days. I was almost thirteen and hadn't yet started my period. Every one of my girlfriends had breasts and had been menstruating practically since birth. They were short and curvy and cute, and I was not. Mom and I began to fight everyday, and I missed a lot of school because I overslept. My mornings had always been spent alone because she and my brother slept late, but now I learned that she habitually peeked into my room on the way to the bathroom. This was our closest connection.

"Aren't you going to school?" I wanted her to make me go, but Mom couldn't even make herself come home after work. On some days, she didn’t make it home at all. The Sunday I gouged out a hunk of my thigh in a bicycle accident I needed stitches, but didn’t tell Mom about it when she finally came home. She didn’t notice anything until years later when she asked about the huge scar on my thigh.

I passed thirteen and we fought and I challenged her and we fought some more. I was angry all the time and mean to my little brother. On Sundays Mom was exhausted and withdrawn. She cooked, but there was no laughter. I stopped reading comics in the Buick, but read Dostoyevsky by the light of a little portable electric heater bedside until Mom’s car entered the driveway. I’d quickly shut my book and pretend to be asleep. We didn’t talk until I decided to go live with my Dad in Texas, and then I slept with her and my brother every night until the day arrived for me to leave. It was my last belonging.

For the year that I was gone, we remained close. Her letters were long and full of love and trivia. When she called long distance, she’d ask if I wanted to talk to my dog and cat. Long distance was expensive in those days and the gesture meant a lot to me. She was home, she was family, and my dad and his new wife were not.

I returned to New Mexico carrying the secret Mom had shared with me in her last telephone call: I now had a baby sister. Dad squeezed his Caddy between the telephone pole and the wall and made it down our narrow drive. Before he’d turned off the motor, I’d jumped out and entered my mother’s waiting arms. She looked tired and ill. She’d had to stop waitressing as her pregnancy advanced, and had taken a babysitting job for a family that lived in a trailer park on the outskirts of Santa Fe. There was a real outdoor swimming pool there, and my brother and I swam everyday under our mother’s watchful eye.

My dad wept when he found out about my sister. He begged me to return to Texas with him and warned me about the bad boys who would swarm all over me when they found out about Mom. He frightened me, but not enough to endure my stepmother again. Winter and high school and bad boys were months away. Mom was resting and getting well and eventually she’d return to night work. In the meantime, those days at the trailer park pool were like a summer full of Buick Sundays.

The Dark Good

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 23:47:00 +0000

Writing Blood Mother prompted me to visit a number of sites online dedicated to vampires. I’ve perused countless meanderings into the dark and tortured soul of this enduring archetype of humanity. You read me correctly: vampires underline all things human.

The vampire examines his prey the better to survive, and in the process provides us with a philosophy of good and bad, right and wrong, and dark and light. The juxtaposition of the undead with the living plays right into our shadow selves. The descendants of Dracula are capable of love, of thought, and of making choices. They have free will, and perhaps even a soul. They’ve retained some element of humanity, of their better selves even as they must drink blood to survive. Through them we learn not to automatically equate darkness with evil, or goodness with light. They possess a dark good.

The dark goddesses symbolized death (Medusa, Kali, Hecate, Nyx), which for the ancients was only one point in a spiral which began with life and continually renewed. Their role was neither good nor bad; their fearful aspect evolved later. This doesn't mean that evil people don’t exist. Some of them wear a mantle of goodness, barely embracing the turgid depths of their humanity. When a vampire struggles with her drive to survive, seeking balance with an equally intense fascination with all things human, we understand her turmoil. Undead and human intertwine. Vampires cannot exist without us, and we will never let them die.

Where to Get a Good Bite

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 21:21:00 +0000

Let’s start with vampire bats. These creatures are so cool in all their creeping stealth. In full frontal photos, they look like mini Nosferatu's caught by the paparazzi.

They nip the flesh, usually around the lower leg of an animal, and then lap it up. They are all about sneaking up on a sleeping animal, not disturbing it, having their meal, and getting away asap so they can return and feed another day, I mean night. Their method does not require a vein or an artery, which is where we enter the realm of the undead.

The classic vampire of fiction and film traditionally prefers the neck, and more specifically the jugular vein. Dracula just wouldn’t have the same cachet if after gazing deeply into Mina’s eyes he then bypassed her creamy neck and heaving bosom to lift her skirts and bite her on the ankle. Hmm, actually now that I think of it . . . . so many places to bite, so little time.

The undead are obsessed with the jugular, but their knowledge of human anatomy may be limited. The carotid is located on both sides of the neck and right next to the jugular. It’s the artery in the side of your neck where you take your pulse. Only a true artiste in bloodsucking could narrow their bite to pierce one and not the other.

Since the carotid is a part of the aorta, the usual six- foot stream of blood would be apparent, not all of which the vampire could swallow. A huge mess would be made. More than likely the vampire wouldn't drain a victim. They need to hide things a little better. How do you explain a corpse with no blood left in it? You don't. Assuming discretion is somewhat important in the vampire world, the undead might take a few lessons on tidiness from the vampire bat.

Folktales suggest vampires bite above the heart, or between the eyes (Ouch! On the temple, maybe. Very thin people sometimes have visible veins there, some even look knotted and throbby.)

Other places to get a bite:

The median cubital vein-- This vein is the one in the elbow where, if you've ever had blood drawn, that is where they stick you.

The ulner artery-- This is the artery in the wrist. After the neck it seems to be the second favorite place for vampires to bite.

The greater saphenous vein-- This vein runs along the inside of either thigh. The vein is large and deep; it would take a big bite to get down into it.

The femoral vein-- This vein is the one at the back of the knee. It lies close to the skin and is an easy bite if you have a victim face down and not kicking.

I think the big toe would be a good source. Earlobes are full of blood, and erect penises. The list goes on.

I've squeezed the bloody pulp out of bloodsucking, but please comment if you have some juice to add.

Bullying and the Media

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 18:42:00 +0000

This blog topic is the result of a discussion on serial killers in another forum. Reasons were given for the damaged psyche of a homicidal maniac, and being on the receiving end of bullying was one of them. Someone used the Columbine school shootings as an example to justify his point that the bullies were more at fault than the shooters (the Columbine perps were not strictly serial killers.) Bullying is a subject close to my heart. If I had not been bullied, I might not have achieved any success in life, but I'm not so sure the same set of circumstances would apply today.

I was bullied in school. Lot's of people are bullied in school. All teenage movies w/ a high school setting pay tribute to that skewed social system.

What is different now?

I see more emphasis on "winning" in the media no matter what the cost. Yes, it always existed, but what is reality TV, but a soap opera about winners and losers, whether you're in the boardroom, a kitchen restaurant, or on an island.

A single mother and a black and white TV raised me. Life seemed lonely and hopeless enough without having the unerring dog-eat-dog lessons of survival currently being promulgated on television. You all know my fondness for vampires so is it just me or is it only TV vampires who have ethics, can commit to eternal love, and understand forgiveness?

No wonder the big competition for reality TV shows are the unreality programs dealing with the paranormal. People want to believe in something greater than themselves, it seems.

The news is no longer new. There are so many pundits and talking heads dissecting the news that the news is hardly reported. This brand of reportage is all about winning, too, getting viewers not by telling the truth, or reporting the facts but by flaming, by stating an opinion through capsulation, with the sole aim of delivering maximum impact for short attention spans.

The difference I see now is that there seems to be no room for humanity in this program. We might as well be in an x-box game for all the good thinking and feeling is doing anyone. I can understand how the Columbine guys felt: not just the usual teenaged outsider angst, but flamboyantly edged with a reality show segue to the usual debacle. These guys were starring in their own forever YouTube. Standby for previews.

Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 23:57:00 +0000

Hope to see you there!

Group Event for Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery

Start: Sat, 08/29/2009 - 3:00pm That’s next Saturday!
Location:
Vroman's Bookstore
695 E. Colorado Blvd
Pasadena, California 91101

Group event for Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery - featuring: Alicia Gaspar de Alba, Linda Quinn, and S. Ramos O'Briant

A gripping anthology of short fiction by Latino authors that features an intriguing and unpredictable cast of sleuths, murderers and crime victims.

Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery
ISBN-13: 9781558855434
Availability: Usually Ships in 1-5 days
Published: Arte Publico Press, 03/01/2009

Bloodsucking: A primer

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 20:32:00 +0000

In classic vampire movies the fang marks always seem too close together. The Nosferatu style with the two sharpened front teeth are more practical, albeit less alluring.

When I was a child, I imagined the fangs were hollow with a suctioning action like a straw. And once the skin is pierced do they suck, or lick the way vampire bats do? Doesn’t seem like you could get very much blood that way, and yet in books the term “drain” is often used, which brings me back to my first observation which is that the two fang marks are much too tidy.

Humans evolve and so do vampires. Retractable canine fangs have become trendy in movies. Not only do they allow vampires to mingle with humans, but they can do so without any annoying speech impediments.

Fangs are one problem. Where to bite is another.

The Vampire Priest and his Nemesis in "Thirst"

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 23:08:00 +0000

Vampires have historically been considered evil, but fictionally they are currently not considered 100% bad. If you add a bit of trendy perversity, perhaps even martyrdom, to the mix you might get an instant hero, or the 20th century equivalent – the antihero.

Antiheroes are the ultimate outcasts, and if they are self-loathing, that’s even better: the romantic, but evil, protagonist is born . . . or reborn. Who better to personify those attributes than the modern fictional vampire? In Korean filmmaker Park Chan-wook's "Thirst" the vampire hero is a priest whose intended martyrdom gets undone by an accidental transfusion of tainted blood.

There are no Van Helsings in this story, no tortured explanations of what could possibly be wrong with Father Sang-Hyeon, no stakes, crucifixes, or fangs. He knows he’s a vampire, and he also quickly figures out the disfiguring facial blisters which continue to plague him can only be cured by a fresh infusion of blood. So vanity, and self-preservation, inspires his thirst, which leads to the bloodsucking, and as a kind of afterthought, the sex.

Nemesis was the Greek goddess of indignation against evil deeds and undeserved good fortune, and the good priest’s nemesis is introduced in the form of Tae-ju (Kim Ok-vin), an innocent, possibly abused young wife. She walks and acts as if half-asleep, in a surly don’t-wake-me-up doze. She’s subservient, wounded, her lips pouting like a baby waiting to suckle. Only when Tae-ju runs barefoot in the night do we see a semblance of the quiescent strength roiling inside her like lava. The Father takes her in his arms and they take flight, hopping buildings like the superhero he is in her eyes. Who could resist such a savior? Certainly not Lois when Superman carried her aloft.

"Vampires are cuter than I thought," she says. This could have been uttered by the besotted teen in Twilight, but with this actress the action takes a decidedly adult turn. More Lilith than Eve, this isn’t about love, at least not in the beginning. She wants to consort with demons, and relishes her newfound freedom, strength, and ability to break the bonds and bounds of her marital, and human, slavery. Not since Claudia, the ancient child vampire in Interview with the Vampire have we been treated to such anger, brutality and guiltlessness. And we love her for it, as does the Father.

Hero and heroine cover their secrets . . . scarred and bruised thighs. Both are self-mutilators, his arrived at in an attempt to drive away his demon erections, and hers a deliberate attempt to manipulate the vampire into a bit of husband killing by making him believe her spouse is abusing her.

All it takes is the vampire’s blood to uncap the volcano within her.

He does not seduce like Dracula, turning virtuous Mina’s into tarts. The priest is seduced, but even then he seems more interested in biting her than in intercourse. A disconcerting slurpiness saturates the soundtrack where even kissing is treated to the same absurd sound effects as ravenous bloodsucking. This is part of the humor in the film, and pokes fun at not only the genre, but also the sexual fetishes that are part of it.

The underlying BDSM inherent in most vampire films is highly pronounced here. For me, this was relieved by the blood appearing too thin and watery, like the sweet syrup it probably is. Still, there’s plenty of it for you connoisseurs, and it’s often associated with sex.

The French title for the movie translates as the liturgically evocative "This Is My Blood." The body and blood, as well as the prayer for martyrdom recited throughout the film, (“pull out my nails, so that I may grasp nothing") strikes at the heart of this morality tale and the vampire/superhero mythos.

Mortals and Vampires

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 19:14:00 +0000

Based on recent focus of vampire/human love affairs in both literature, movies, and television it seems normal for humans to fall in love with vampires and for the undead to rise heroically to their siren call.

Or is it the other way around?

Each one offers the other what no one of their own kind can. For the vampire, the human is a succulent swamp of scent, taste, warmth and fluid breath. But more than anything, the human is a test in restraint, a nostalgic foundering. For the human, the vampire is overlord, a master with a knowledgeable touch and cold genitals, perhaps the ultimate parent.

There's an element of the rescuer on both sides.

Nippled Irish Royalty and Their Less Fortunate, Usually Dead, Nippleless Relatives

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 17:22:00 +0000

My museum time today yeilded the following:

Sucking a King's nipples was an ancient Irish form of submission. It rains a lot here (Dublin) and is rather chilly, so I would think the King would cover his chest. That means there must have been royal reception days when the King exposed his nipples in order to facilitate nipple sucking.

So much easier to just bow and kiss a ring.

As with all royalty, there were power games in the nipple hierarchy. Cutting off a royal descendant's nipples made him ineligible for kingship. Not as subtle as poison, but undeniable evidence of his unsuitability for a kingly role. No nips, game over.

Maybe his nipples were only important when celebrating Lughnasa, the harvest festival where the King was wedded to the Earth. His kingly role required him to keep nature and society in equilibrium. A little nipple sucking would surely increase his self-esteem and help him on his way.

Unpopular Crow Dies Savagely

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 19:04:00 +0000

A crow's caw is discordant, but part of our neighborhood backdrop, and easy to ignore. Just now, they set up a racket, the kind that usually heralds their spotting some tasty dog kibble left in the backyard, but this time it was more riotous than usual and was accompanied by a great beating of their wings.

They are big birds and some of them have a 3-foot wing span so if a few of them are together they manage to pound the air and stir things up. A panicked, pleading sound underlay this display, almost like that of puppy being tortured, yet more avian than canine. It was pitiful enough for me to put down my laptop and go investigate.

At first I thought the crows were going after a more mundane bird, but it was one of their own. A giant crow, glossy-black and commanding, was attacking a smaller crow. He was accompanied by three henchmen, and oddly, a bluejay.

The victim flew off, crying and begging, and the others followed. They circled back and the smaller crow tried to move into deeper tree foliage. The bigger one swooped in hard with a premeditated body blow and knocked it off its perch. Then, all of them took turns swooping down on it. It happened so fast and with such a flurry of wings that I couldn't tell for sure if it was being pecked. It managed to right itself and fly off again followed by the crowhood.

The boss's calls were louder than the others and angry, definitely not a dog kibble caw.

They circled back. The blue jay landed on a telephone wire to observe the proceedings. He didn't do any attacking, but still this was crow business, was he crazy? Or, maybe he was just curious like me.

I tried to keep still, but they saw me, and simultaneously cocked their heads in my direction. I quickly calculated how fast I could get inside the house (damn you, Alfred Hitchcock!) They flew off into another yard, but I could hear the attack continuing.

What did the smaller, presumably younger, crow do to deserve this punishment?

Were any of my neighbors aware of this event, or as usual, am I alone in my observations?

Go to Crows for more info.

Wow, this was a surprise. Usually it's the males who have to leave a pack, but this site indicates that the daughters are expected to leave the territory -- this may have been a daughter who needed some urging to leave.

FIDELITY & MORTAL ILLNESS

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 19:02:00 +0000

How would you feel about your mate having an affair if you were stricken with a mortal illness and unable (or uninterested) in having sexual relations?

Once upon a time, I hooked up with a cheap bus tour in Venice, Italy. The good thing about this tour was that it was packed with Europeans, --- Germans, Irish, British. In fact, the only Americans were a Sikh family from Silicon valley. There was also an Iraqi couple.

But it was the Irish couple who fascinated me. They were in their forties, possibly early fifties. Attractive in a dull, settled way. The wife was a bit tight-lipped. Pissed, actually. The husband was in a constant low-key frenzy trying to please his wife.

After awhile it became obvious that there was something wrong with her. I decided she was mortally ill, and that this vacation was supposed to be a last hurrah for them. Not that she ever got sick in front of us. It's just that his behavior became more frantic at the same time that she looked around and said angry goodbyes to everything. It was as if she hated the way life just went on ready to skip right by her.

I was wallowing in my European jaunt, one of the happiest periods of my life. One night in Rome, the three of us had an interesting dinner together. She ordered a lavish meal and didn't touch a bite of it, just jousted with me all night, looking like she wanted to scratch my eyes out. And not because of her husband (with whom I had no attraction whatsoever), but because I was so damn cheerful.

Death had a grip on her and she had a death grip on her husband, ready to drag him into the grave with her and not because she loved him. Because she hated that it wasn't him dying instead of her.

This is an extreme example, but I think it's true that the ill and dying can be selfish. Anything that helps the living, replenishes their spirit, so that they can give support to the stricken is fair to me.

When it comes to an "affair" the person I pity is the consort or object of affection outside the marriage. Man or woman, I don't see them enduring in the relationship.

Creepy Come Ons

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 18:14:00 +0000

Channeling my youth. Awakened thinking of this one:

My bff in hs, Claudette, invited me to visit her older sister who was living in Questa, NM. Her sister had one kid and was expecting another. We took a bus out to Questa which is in the sticks and beautiful country. A small town, lots of mountain scenery.

Her sister's husband was in the armed forces, I don't remember which one, and he'd been wounded. There was something about a plate in his head, but I didn't pay too much attention cause I'd just gotten my license before we left and Claudette's sister owned a '66 Mustang.

Wow, was she insane to let me take that car out on the open road or what? I drove the mountain roads with the pedal to the floor and with both of us squealing as only almost sixteen-year-olds can do. I wheeled around switchbacks skirting the edge until Claudette begged me to stop. Deer and bunnies spread the word to stay off the road.

The husband hadn't been home for a few days. On the bus ride to Questa Claudette shared tidbits she'd picked up about him; he drank and had psychological problems, what we'd term post traumatic stress disorder nowadays, but again adult stuff - not all that interesting.

The house was small and Claudette snored, so I slept on the couch. One night the husband was home. He took us out for burgers, but was mostly quiet during dinner. In the middle of the night he crept into the living room where I slept. Literally folks, the man was on his hands and knees. I'm a light sleeper, and I'm also near-sighted, but the blurred vision of his stealth crawl is vivid in memory.

He crawled over to the couch and started touching me on top of the blanket, kind of petting me like I was a cat or something. I was totally freaked and pretended to be asleep. He reeked of liquor and mumbled some b.s. I could barely understand telling me I was beautiful and that he wouldn't hurt me. My heart beat so hard it filled my ears and drowned out all other sound.

I've always wondered if my heartsound woke up Claudette's sister. She tiptoed into the living room, but stepped on a squeaky floorboard as she rounded the corner. Busted! He immediately laid down on the floor like he was passed out. She went over to him whispering, and he acted like he didn't know how he got there and that he'd fainted. I was still pretending to be asleep.

I could barely look at them the next day and remember nothing more about our stay there.

Shite like that was always happening to me. For a long time I thought I must have some sort of electromagnetic draw for all the adult creeps in the world.

shame

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 31 May 2009 22:33:00 +0000

Paulo Coelho

“The secrets we take to the grave are sexual in nature.” Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology.

I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

I don’t think my kids would be surprised at learning - if they don’t know already - that I celebrate my (past) sexual experience. I wish I had a youtube of my memories.

Revelation, not discretion, is our pop goddess and public mea culpas and apologias are so in vogue, and yet so tiresome.

What shames me more is revealing fear and vulnerability. Don’t care who knows it when I’m dead, it’s the here and now of it that’s more frightening.

Murder and Mayhem, Coast to Coast

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 12 May 2009 19:13:00 +0000

My short story, "Death and Taxes . . . and Worms" appears in this anthology. I will be reading
Saturday, May 16, 2009 3:00 p.m. at

The Mystery Bookstore

1036-C Broxton Ave

Los Angeles, CA 90024 (Westwood)

convenient parking in city lot on same street

3:00 p.m.

Meet S. Ramos O'Briant and L.M. Quinn

Other contributors:

Mario Acevedo
Lucha Corpi
Sarah Cortez
Carolina García-Aguilera
Alicia Gaspar de Alba
Carlos Hernandez
Rolando Hinojosa-Smith
Bertha Jacobson
John Lantigua
Arthur Muñoz
R. Narvaez
L. M. Quinn
Manuel Ramos
S. Ramos O'Briant
A. E. Roman
Steven Torres
Sergio Troncoso

Other Venues:

Texas
Friday, May 8, 2009 6:30 p.m.
Murder By The Book
2342 Bissonnet
Houston, TX 77005
Meet Lucha Corpi, Sarah Cortez,
Bertha Jacobson and Arthur Muñoz

Thursday, May 21, 2009 5:00 p.m.
The Twig Book Shop
5005 Broadway
San Antonio, TX 78209
Meet Bertha Jacobson and Arthur Muñoz

New York
Thursday, May 14, 2009 6:00 p.m.
East Harlem Cafe
1651 Lexington Ave (@104th St.)
New York, NY 10029
Meet Carlos Hernanez, Liz Martínez,
Richie Narvaez and Sergio Troncoso

Thursday, May 21, 2009 6:30 p.m.
Mysterious Book Shop
58 Warren St.
New York, NY 10007
Meet Sarah Cortez, Carlos Hernanez, Liz Martínez,
Richie Narvaez and Sergio Troncoso

Saturday, May 30, 2009 3:30 p.m.
Author Signing at BookExpo America
Jacob K. Javits Convention Center
635 West 34th Street
New York, NY 10001
Meet Carlos Hernández, Liz Martínez,
Richie Narvaez and Sergio Troncoso

Colorado
Thursday, May 21, 2009 7:30 p.m.
Tattered Cover
2526 East Colfax Ave
Denver, CO 80206
Meet Mario Acevedo and Manuel Ramos

To My Son on His First Day of College

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sat, 02 May 2009 20:15:00 +0000

Comment | Copy This

People Are Strange

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 03:24:00 +0000

My thoughts are on strangers: a Venetian beauty with the stunned expression Venus should have had when she emerged naked and fully grown from the clamshell; the everyday strangers in one's own family; and my favorite song about being strange.

The Birth of Venus, Botticelli, 1482

My mother enjoyed talking to odd strangers (the Tattoo Lady) because she could be wacky with them; this embarrassed me to the extreme since I was cultivating a shadow presence. In my inbred and criminal-laden school district, I learned to keep my eyes straight ahead and not speak lest I be accused of giving someone the wrong look of the day. Survival is it's own reward, as is blogging about childhood tortures. Besides, now I’m more like Mom.

In Venice, I stood in a long line for gelato in the Piazza San Marco, and kept my eyes on the server, a young woman whose beauty was dulled by a stunned expression, as if the repeated impact of nothing happening had made her deaf, blind and mute. I wanted to see her smile; an open-mouth laugh would have been a special Venetian treat.

The line moved forward and one tourist after another, and not just Americans, approached her and pointed at the flavor they wanted, sometimes grunting at the same time. I looked behind me; the line stretched into the middle of St. Mark’s Square. Turning back to my creamy gelato lovely it seemed as if her Botticelli eyes barely registered her surroundings.

It was my turn. I smiled and asked her in the Italian that I'd just learned while in the queue to pronounce cioccolata for me. We laughed at my attempts and her smile was enough to make me her slave. I thanked her for serving me, but I’d only taken a few steps away when I glanced back for one last look at a real Botticelli babe. Her robotic expression had returned.

Every encounter is a chance for interaction. Not everyone is open to it, but sharing a laugh with a stranger creates a connection with the world that makes me feel significant, almost like I’ve performed magic, kind of the opposite of Morrison's song.

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
People seem wicked when you're unwanted Streets are uneven when you're down
When you're strange, faces come out of the rain When you're strange, no one remembers your name
When you're strange when you're strange when you're str-ange

Jim Morrison
The Doors

1967

HIT LIST: The Best of Latino Mystery

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 22:58:00 +0000

My story, "Death, Taxes . . . and Worms" appears in this collection. The following review appeared in the El Paso Times:

Fine collection should engross any lover of mystery (not just Latinos)
Daniel A. Olivas / Special to the Times
Posted: 04/19/2009 12:00:00 AM MDT

With the newly released "Hit List: The Best of Latino Mystery" (Arte Público Press, $19.95 paperback), editors Sarah Cortez and Liz Martínez have succeeded in bringing together some of the best mystery fiction being written today.

This anthology features the work of Mario Acevedo, Lucha Corpi, Sarah Cortez, Carolina García-Aguilera, Alicia Gaspar de Alba, Carlos Hernandez, Rolando Hinojosa-Smith, Bertha Jacobson, John Lantigua, Arthur Muñoz, R. Narvarez, L.M. Quinn, Manuel Ramos, S. Ramos O'Briant, A.E. Roman, Steven Torres and Sergio Troncoso.

In the foreword to "Hit List," Ralph E. Rodriguez, an associate professor in the Department of American Civilization at Brown University, observes that the reader "will find no boring Latino caricatures or stereotypes in this volume." There is no doubt about that.

The anthology begins with a tightly wound, two-page bit of tough-talking noir by best-selling novelist Mario Acevedo titled "Oh, Yeah." In it, the narrator attempts to teach a seemingly dimwitted accomplice named Canela how to play a supporting role in an armed robbery. Of course, things go awry, but with a twist only an accomplished writer such as Acevedo could pull off.

There's some great humor here, too, such as S. Ramos O'Briant's sardonic "Death, Taxes ... and Worms," where we're introduced to a very proper Nellie Gallegos, who knows a trifle more about the death of her neighbor than she initially admits.

Several of the stories veer into wonderfully strange territory. "The Skull of Pancho Villa" by mystery novelist Manuel Ramos is based on various rumors as to the whereabouts of the Mexican revolutionary's head. The narrator, Gus Corral, informs us that the skull ended up in his family and recounts how it gets stolen from his sister's house. If you don't laugh out loud while reading this story, you have no sense of humor.

In "Nice Climate, Miami," award-winning author Rolando Hinojosa-Smith, a professor of English at the University of Texas at Austin, brings us an icy killer named O'Hara who is hired to kill a man who has failed to pay a debt. The fact that O'Hara does not appear to have any connection to Chicano or Latino culture is proof that the editors saw no reason to pigeonhole or unduly restrict Latino mystery. Hinojosa-Smith's piece is crisp and smart and fits perfectly in this anthology.

But ethnic identity is certainly part of the collection. Sergio Troncoso's "A New York Chicano" involves one Ricky Quintana, an El Paso native who has made it in New York working for Merrill Lynch and who has developed a deep hatred for a bloviating, anti-immigrant host of a television show titled "America's Watch." What Quintana does to appease this hatred proves that he hasn't lost his identity at all.

No mystery collection would be complete without a lost soul or two. Alicia Gaspar de Alba's "Short Cut to the Moon" gives us exactly that in a troubled young woman who goes deep into alcoholic homelessness when she believes that her cousin has been murdered. Her search for the truth eventually converges with an understanding of her desperate need for help.
Space constraints do not allow for a description of each story in this landmark anthology. Suffice it to say that the stories in "Hit List" will engross, entertain and fully satisfy any lover of mystery fiction.

Daniel A. Olivas is the author of four books and editor of "Latinos in Lotusland: An Anthology of Contemporary Southern California Literature" (Bilingual Press). His newest book, "Anywhere but L.A.: Stories" (Bilingual Press), will be published this fall. He shares blogging duties on La Bloga (http://labloga.blogspot.com). His Web site is www.danielolivas.com and he may be reached at olivasdan@aol.com .

FORGIVENESS & FORGETTING

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 22:16:00 +0000

The Tree of Forgiveness

Edward Coley Burne-Jones, 1885

Greek legends tell how Phyllis, queen of Thrace, fell in love with Demophoön, king of Melos, who visits her court en route for Athens after the Trojan War, where he had hidden inside the legendary Trojan Horse. He left the court, but when he failed to keep his promise to return within a month, she committed suicide, whereupon Athena, taking pity on her, turned her into an almond tree. Eventually, Demophoön returned to Thrace and, discovering what had happened, embraced the tree, which immediately burst into blossom.

Between you, me, and the almond tree, in the painting above Demophoön looks as if he doesn't expect to be forgiven. Is it really possible to forgive and forget?

Memory is very important to me, but I don't hold grudges. Grudges are all about keeping your pain and anger alive for the purpose of revenge. By doing this, you allow the grudge to control you by letting the memory of what happened eat you from the inside out.

Forgiving means that the memory no longer has the power to control you, to make you suffer in quite the same way. The blade of memory may make you wince, but you no longer bleed so profusely. You've taken the pain and anger and sorrow into you, but you've released the vilest portion of it, the part that made you feel less than, lowly, vulnerable. Lack of forgiveness, grudges, and revenge arise from a lack of hope.

I never forget, but I have discovered the capacity to forgive. This happened when I had a solid sense of who I am, and knew that the essential Sandra would persevere, and happily so because the joy I feel in the world starts inside of me and radiates out.

I'm not a Pollyanna, a foolishly optimistic nutcase, but I have felt both despair and hope; I know where they live.

Passover Math: x = Old Friends divided by New Thinking

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 22:53:00 +0000

We have Passover dinner every year with old friends. Our sons no longer speak to each other because of a disagreement over the Middle East. A deep and ancient divide has caused a modern rift between two young Americans who've known each other since the third grade. But our friends are cool, especially my Israeli girlfriend. Not a rifle-toting ex-Israeli army girl, but from an Orthodox family that managed to get her service excused. Her husband is a mench, and together they are the kindest, most generous couple I know. Their older son will soon marry a beautiful Eurasian girl who works part-time as a flight attendant, and whom her father characterized as going to college to get her "M.R.S." degree .

Before dinner we read from the Torah. I didn't get to read my favorite part of the Egyptian/Hebrew story, but got stuck with the section that had a lot of math. Something about God coming down on the side of the Hebrews and 50 plagues only it was recalculated 4 or 5 times by lofty scholars in elaborate contemplation and argument with one another and ended up being 150 plagues, all of them really nasty.

The age range at the dinner table was 20 to 65. Our friends are now solidly Republican, although they started as Democrats. The fiancée’s family is also conservative. They complained a lot about Obama, don’t appear happy with anything he’s doing, but offered few alternatives. It seemed to me that they really want Obama to fail, which even if you didn't vote for him, is soooooo unpatriotic.

We discussed major world events of the 60's and 70’s, and M.R.S. daddy postulated that nothing now compares. I pointed out that Americans electing the first black president in our history was major, but couldn't get him to agree. One of the other old folks brought up that Obama had bowed to some middle-eastern dude and that that was wrong. America may need to float a loan from said lavishly rich swimming-in-the-black-bubbly country, so showing some respect may be good for us in the long run.

I had a great time. Passover is so not boring when people who have a totally different take on the world surround you. What do we have in common?

My girlfriend and I have an innocent history of standing in the sunshine outside our sons' elementary school. When I complained about working more than full time running a business that I loved, but feeling guilty about my son, and resenting my husband who seemed unaware of my conflict, she told me a story of her mother advising her on her wedding night to always pretend to be able to do less because it was the nature of men to take advantage of women.

At the time, I was astounded and dozens of feminist arguments sprang to mind, but I said nothing because the statement also felt true. This was the beginning of my understanding of my own victimization in terms of the feminist mandate about "having it all." Having it all was exhausting.

There was a time when I saw my girlfriend almost everyday, and when we were together we laughed until our sides ached, looked at each other, and laughed some more. We did a bit of that last night, but it wasn’t the same.

Of Sons and the Wizardry of Love

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 21:40:00 +0000

Today I am recovering from the spoils of high living and hard loving. No, not drink, although there was some of that, and no, not a lover's caress, although I received that, too.

My youngest son, the one I have always felt took second shift to his brother, my work, my ego and its petty fears, came to visit. That's him on the right at a Press Conference answering the question, "Why?"

He's part of the group Wizard Boots out of Portland, Oregon, and they've been spreading the answer on tour. They played San Diego and then stopped in L.A. to visit us, and rest up for their San Francisco gig tonight.

I was surrounded by he and his friends and their interests and gladly took a backseat. His story is not finished; he's at the eternal beginnings part of life: spring surrounds him like a lush and everblooming garden. He's okay. Better than okay. He's loved, and not just by his dad and me. He's built a life and we're allowed a part of it, and I'm so blessed that I weep.

Breaking the Rules: Confession and Revelation

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 06:19:00 +0000

Someone recently summed me up when I revealed my Catholic encrusted childhood. That knowledge muddies the waters in any relationship carrying with it preconceived notions of stereotypical neuroses. Guilt is one. Sexual addiction is another. Together they form their own twisted helix of desire and denial. Totally not me. Really. There is neither room enough nor time enough to properly examine the subject, and I hate long blogs.

The question at hand is Breaking the Rules, which for both Catholics and Buddhists segues into confession and revelation. The former lets you off easy, the latter involves learning something about yourself.

A confession: I delight myself when I break rules.

Wish I could say I'm an original, but both my parents were sociopaths. Mom taught me how to peek at presents before Christmas and Dad told me to pick up a brick and hit the kid next door with it the next time she beat me up.

The Church wouldn't give Mom communion when she divorced, but she took it anyway. They wouldn't let my aunt take birth control, even when the infant she bore every year had increasingly disturbing problems. Mom took her to a clinic for b.c., but my aunt was afraid of God, so she drank instead. She drank to the point that my uncle lost interest in bedding her and the babies stopped. Maybe the Church won that round because then she was abstinent. He wasn't.

My last confession was when I was twelve. Went with a group of girls and when it was my turn I confessed to playing a kissing game with boys. The boys and I played baseball everyday, and the kissing was a new and exciting after game activity. Certainly it was a sin of the impure thought variety, although I wasn't exactly clear on that aspect. I expected to have to say lots of rosaries, and get on with my day, it being perfect baseball weather where the games lasted until we couldn't see the ball and/or we took an afternoon break and hung out in whoever's house was empty of adults. Revelation: I had a typical Catholic's understanding of the machinery of confession since I had every intention of kissing my team again.

The priest on the other side of the confessional screen had different ideas. He asked me questions about tongues and probing hands in panties. His breath was halting and heavy, too, kind of trembly in an unpriestlike way, and I got all sweaty with the rising humidity in the confessional. Very creepy. Worst of all is I knew it was taking way too long and people were going to start to wonder about Sandra and her Sins. Finally I told him I was feeling sick and he dismissed me in a sad, resigned way with only three Our Fathers and three Hail Mary's. My girlfriends gave me the what the hell squint when I came out. It was so embarrassing.

Confession implies guilt and censorship and is a bit dirty. It can be demanded and enforced, and foments revolution in Sandraland. The rules are imposed. Revelation involves sharing and openness, and should flow in a natural exchange of thoughts, philosophies, and experiences where unfinished people learn something about each other and themselves.

My last official confession was when I was twelve. Revelation is an ongoing process.

CYBERNATION: SEDUCTION & FLIRTATION

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 23:20:00 +0000

Usually Eros as Cupid is represented flying around or sneaking up on two human lovers with his quiver of arrows. This is a rare print (in my experience) of Cupid kissing. Perhaps he has already shot himself in the foot and she is Psyche. Is the shot in the foot the essence of Seduction?

The following was posted anonymously in Paulo Coelho's blog: “I feel that I always have to be relating with someone – and so I am forced to be fascinating, intelligent, sensitive, and exceptional. The effort of seducing makes me give the best of myself, and that helps me. Besides, it is very hard to live with myself.”

I think this was written by an unmarried person, but the sentiments expressed also apply to married people.

I felt uneasy after reading this person's thoughts. I’ve had good reason to contemplate flirtation recently. It does bring out the best in me, as well, and I like myself very much during these provocative flare-ups. I identify with much here, but my distrust of the feelings expressed goes deep. Is this a statement dressed up to disguise unease in one's brain when distraction is not allowed to disturb the quiet? Is it a soul afraid of the roiling in one's mind when silence prevails and pretense is not required?

I think so. I treasure solitude and my own thoughts, living inside my skin, pleasing myself until I’m open to another interlude . . . of my choosing. Not because I’m compelled to relate, to beguile, to subjugate my consciousness to another, but because I nourish myself with the exchange. Reciprocity is key; there is a creative flow.

But if one flirts, does that mean they are open to seduction, and more importantly, can we want what we already have?

The Difference Between Wealth and Money

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 22:37:00 +0000

Been sidelined with life, but like all of you I can't ignore what's happening in our country and in our world. The financial news is harrowing, the numbers staggering, and I can't keep the words "Worldwide Depression," out of my mind. I've started to hoard cans of beans and fruit, and yet I live in paradise, pick oranges and lemons off a tree in my backyard, and grow vegetables year round. I have a husband who loves me and healthy, smart children. The sun feels good on my skin and I love to dance whenever I can, but the bottom line has been shrinking. Our money is diminished, but not our wealth.

There's a difference between wealth and money, people. Alan Watts said that forty years ago. It's the difference between actual resources, the bone and muscle and materials required to build a dam, repair a pot hole, or fix a fence . . . and a system of numbers invented to keep us organized. He gave an example of a home builder showing up at a project only to find the foreman and all the workmen doing nothing.

"We can't work today," the foreman explained, "cause we ran out of inches."

The builder looked around the project. There were materials: lumber, nails, tools and the manpower necessary to get the job done, but w/o inches --- an arbitrary quantifier --- no one was working.

We have worldwide resources in humanity and we just need the will to get what needs to be done done. The hell with the numbers. Let's fix stuff!

If Alan Watts' example doesn't work for you. Try Deepak Chopra over at the Huffington Post.

The Valentine's Waltz

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 03:32:00 +0000

Art by Kelly Boyle

Stay.

Lydia’s parents danced a slow waltz in the smoky honky-tonk for Valentine’s. They held her easily between them, even though at five she was no skinny waif. Lydia felt their heat, the thump of their hearts and the low growl of her mother’s hum as she led them, her body swaying, her face in rapture. Lydia’s father lowered his head and her parents kissed, still moving with the music. Their hearts realigned in tempo, pounding hard at Lydia from two sides. The music swirled around them, and wrapped in their love, she almost felt their kiss.

Skip ahead.

She led her husband around the bedroom in a marijuana-soaked haze, forcing his hips to follow hers, the better to feel the music. He’d do anything she wanted. She kissed him, but it wasn’t the same. Her parent’s dance could not be matched.

Turn back.

A double-date jaunt to a small Mexican beach resort. The two older women were drinkers, the two younger women pot smokers. They breached the generation gap and indulged in it all. In a secluded nightclub frequented by honeymooners on a budget, Lydia and her lover swayed in a tight synchronous circle. She leaned her head back, and Karen tongued the hollow of her throat. When they kissed, Lydia tasted the memory of the valentine’s waltz.

Let the Right One In

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 02:49:00 +0000

St. Martin's Press, 2007

Loneliness plays an important part in coming of age stories. Toss in brutal bullying of a latchkey kid, single moms, a nondescript – read soulless – apartment complex, an assortment of teenaged glue sniffers, drunks, and other layabouts living on their disability benefits and you have the makings of a contemporary take on the usual outsider story.

Add a bleak, wintery landscape and a pedophile, Hakan, who moves in next door to the 12-year-old protagonist, Oskar, with his “daughter” of the same age, and you might have a predictable story. Except that in John Lindqvist’s “Let the Right One In,” the girl, Eli, is a vampire.

A series of gruesome murders occur and Oscar compiles newspaper clippings in his scrapbook. This is not morbid behavior. The story is set in 1982 and the Nintendo Entertainment System hasn’t been invented yet. Anyone who has played a video game knows that plenty of slaughter happens on the screen. Parents reading about Oscar’s scrapbook actually wish their kids would turn off the video games and read about murder in the newspaper.

Hakan is to Eli as Renfield was to Dracula, only with a sick twist. He worships Eli, but it’s his sexual compulsion which drives the truly horrific, and the sickly comic, aspects of this story. He supplies her with blood . . . at a price, but his ineptitude leads to his capture. Even here, Eli takes pity on him, but her sympathy leads to a further twist in the story and Hakan becomes a zombie with an erection. This is new in vampire lit. It is also social commentary. Hakan is a pedophile who will never be rehabilitated, much less killed.

These three are the fulcrum around which the intersecting stories of a multitude of characters converge. The chapters are short and the author feels free to jump into all his character’s minds as they aimlessly head for disaster. This is author as God, but Lindqvist doesn’t disappoint. Even the short chapter where we’re in the mind of a squirrel is well-written and packs a punch at its end. Don’t misread my words – I loved this book. It’s every writer’s dream to be able to get away with these POV shifts. Only a good plot and an author who knows where he’s going can do it.

These twists wouldn’t be enough if they weren’t contrasted with the everyday terror of schoolyard bullying, leading to the eternal question of who is more violent, the humans or the vampire?

The friendship between Oskar and Eli is tender and nonsexual. There is a gender-bending aspect which underlines their bond, and is a further contrast to the adult lives around them. Like some alternative Charlie Brown Cartoon Special, all the adults are marginal or missing. Those that are present are shadowy losers, except the gym teacher (go figure), and he provides only minor optimism. That arrived toward the end of the book so I knew more bad stuff was going to happen to Oscar.

Just when I thought he’d solved his problem with the bullies, they come back in force. In my heart, I was rooting for Eli to appear and save Oscar, and you will be too.