Bellingham Update

Hello Loved Ones. In addition to the music update I attached from a local music magazine, I thought I'd add a slightly more personal update.
I've returned to Bellingham because I finally was able to act on the realization that health insurance or not, I'm not going to heal where I'm not happy. I came back up where I feel supported by friends and community. And it actually looks like the health insurance will be okay sooner or later. In the meantime I have been taking trips back to the Bay Area for medical care. I've been able to book wedding gigs, private parties, and/or concerts to help pay for my trips down there.
Through the help of a dear friend and patron of the arts who happened to have some cash on hand, I have purchased a half interest in a house here in Bellingham. I am managing it for the other half owner, filling the house with tenants, acting as a landlord, and contracting improvement projects on the property. Simultaneously, I am designing and building a mother in law cabin in the backyard that I will live in once it is completed. This whole project is a way that I can have some security in a rapidly booming community that I am endeavoring to put down some sort of roots in. Once everything is rolling along in a couple months, I should be able to live in my simple way comfortably without worrying about the increasing rent here in gentrifying little Bellingham even if I am only living off of the pittance of a disability check I might recieve from the Social Security Department. And that seems to be a worst case scenario.
As for best case scenario: I seem to be living it. I guess I'm technically living as a professional musician. It strange and exciting. I believe I am as successful as I could possibly be for a musician only performing concerts in Whatcom County. Still, despite the fact that I am playing in a widely diverse range of musical projects, I am already feeling my creative head hit the roof a little bit. There are only so many people to make an audience out of in Bellingham, especially playing 3-5 nights a week.
When I moved back up to Washington I had a list of goals I hoped to achieve in the first year or two: To find a home to call my own, to be playing in some exciting and well recieved roots music projects, to play in a rock project with Ian Voorhees that would parallel and exceed the excitement and popularity of my last project with him, and to call a monthly community square dance that was exciting and well attended. I have gotten to the place I wanted to be a lot faster than anticipated (3 months or so), so I'm now trying to focus on my next set of goals.
Getting the best of my cancer before it gets me is of course a constant goal I'm striving toward. I have finally allowed myself to start seeing a therapist and I'm working on dealing with cancer fears and everything else that bemuddles me emotionally. Musically I'm trying to focus on travelling with my projects (I'm trying to plan some spring and summer tours for a couple of my bands) so that I don't overplay myself in little ole Bellingham. I'm also trying to finish 2-3 records for Springish releases. I'm long overdue. Let me know if you've got an uncle, agent or mystical cancer healer that can help me with any of these goals.
Anywho, I love all ya'll and hope that things are moving forward positively for everyone. Below is an article that appears in this months WhatsUP, the Bellingham music magazine.

Brent Cole (The Editor of WhatsUP) asked me to write about coming back, about my observations on the current state of affairs in Bellingham, about my cancer and about my music. So here I go:
I spent the last three years living in San Francisco and Oakland. I did a lot of street performing, played a lot of weddings and private parties and taught a music program for students with emotional disturbances. I missed Bellingham constantly and I returned about a dozen times while living in the Bay Area. I returned as often as possible to play some shows, visit friends and just to be in Bellingham. I came back so much that a handful of people I've talked with recently didn't even realize I'd left. And I guess in my heart I never did.
CONDOHAM
Yes, i've noticed Bellingham is changing drastically. It's more expensive, gentrifying, it's more difficult to live here as an artist. But guess what? It's happening everywhere. Any beautiful place that cultivates a thriving artist scene will face this struggle. But what are we going to do? I don't mean that rhetorically. When faced with this dilemma, besides complaining about it, what are we actually going to do?
We can run somewhere else where the squeeze isn't on as severely yet, we can give up, stay and gentrify along with the rich folk moving in, or we can do something to help the community continue to be the amazing place we fell in love with. We can try and help push the change in the direction we want.
I came back from living in San Francisco where the fight for a community like this is still happening, believe it or not. Sometimes it looked to me like the fight had been lost. Other times I would notice a vibrant community of artists down there who have had to ban together, get their shit together and resist all the more intelligently and soulfully. I didn't feel like a part of the community there, but I witnessed it. There are a great deal of people continuing to live life in meaningfully artistic and musical ways despite incredible challenges. We've got years before we face a San Francisco sized squeeze in Bellingham and we've got piles of strong brilliant people, so I have hope that some of us will do what we can to ensure a future for the type of community we want. We can see the direction things are heading, maybe that means we can prepare and prevent some.
I don't begrudge anyone who is leaving because they feel squeezed out, especially those folks who fought the good fight and left this community better for their efforts. I just don't want to invest energy into complaining about it if I'm not investing energy into figuring what I can do about it.
I think believing that you can run away from the squeeze is naive. Unfortunately, it's going to follow you. It's everywhere, and at some point you have to decide where you are going to take your stand. I've decided to take mine here because Bellingham has been so good to me and I will always love her. I want to fight on home ground and with friends.

SCHMANCER
I have cancer. A softball sized tumor in my right shoulder. It's called Desmoid Sarcoma or Aggressive Fibromatosis, a really rare form of cancer that the doctors don't know how to deal with. I've tried a lot of different things and continue to try a lot of different things. It's slow growing and might not kill me anytime soon, but it hurts horribly all the time and has messed up the mobility in my right arm something awful. Accordion is a lot harder to play than it used to be and frailing (one of the styles of banjo playing I do) has become painful to such a point that I avoid it lately.
What else do I say? Cancer is a big reason I returned to Bellingham. When I first got diagnosed, a bunch of angels I'm fortunate enough to call my friends threw a big benefit for me at the 3B. I got on stage to express my gratitude but got choked up and couldn't continue. At that point the large roomful of people clapped and clapped and clapped while I stood alone on stage in tearful silence. Jordan Francisco called it "claptotherapy".
The night of my benefit concert I felt like a whole community let me know they appreciated me. A lot of individuals approached me and let me know that I had somehow inspired them, moved them or touched them with my music. That phenomena continues to happen. Many of these individuals are people I have great respect for. I have to acknowledge that without the crisis I'm facing, I might never have known how they felt. It's one of the greatest things I've gotten from my struggle for health.

I've been trying to return for the last two years. Health insurance and medical care worries prevented me from returning for a while, but I'm finally back where I should be. I am scared about my right arm's deterioration and that seems all the more reason to be performing as much as possible. I am scared about the things happening in Bellingham. The 3B, the Nightlight, Smash Your Guitar, The Weekly, all gone? Yes I'm a little scared, but Bellingham is still about the greatest place I've ever been and I want to hang on and fight for it's continued beauty. You can't swing a cat without hitting a musician I'd like to play with in this town, and I'm taking full advantage of it. I'm back and playing music full time, feeling happy, and feeling like part of a community. If cancer's killing me, then I'm dying happy. And If I'm getting better, then I'm living right.

BANDS and MUSICAL PROJECTS

THE GALLUS BROTHERS
Devin Champlin and I play wild ragtime and old country blues. He's a great fingerpickin' guitarist and has a sweet voice. I get a chance to play my bizarre suitcase drum kit I made(see photo). We have a variety of vaudeville style stunts (I stand on his shoulders while we play a song, we juggle while playing the guitar together etc.) and have had a great showing at our recent concerts where crowds actually dance. It's always fun to be in a dance band and I feel especially lucky to be in a two-piece dance band.
The Gallus Brothers play every Monday night at Boundary Bay beginning in January. Admission is free.
THE SQUARE DANCE
I started calling square dances about a year and a half ago. It's about the best community building activity I have ever been a part of. I call dances the last Sunday of every month at the Fairhaven Firehouse. Lots of young hip folks come, lots of families with kids, a great showing of an older generation show up and everyone dances with everyone else to a live, local old time band. People who expect to hate it have a blast. People who expect to like it end up hopelessly addicted, calling me in the middle of the night halfway through the month begging me to call dances more often.
This month's dance: Sunday, January 29th, 6-8pm. $3 at the Fairhaven Firehouse.
JILL BRAZIL
We reformed this band in early December in order to play the 3B once more before its demise. We have had our share of packed, wild shows there and we thought one more would be appreciated and fun. The line up has had to change because of logistics, but one of the many upswings of the new line up is that we will be playing regularly again. I'm incredibly excited about the current possibilities of Jill Brazil. We have the same unique approach to writing and are drawing from the same set base as before, but the possibilities for exciting new originals seem even greater now. It's a little weird to be playing saxophone again after all these years. I guess I'm surprised at how easily it comes back.
Jill Brazil plays Saturday January 28th at Chiribins with the Sweaty Sweaters and Hicks Machine.
HICKS MACHINE
My solo project involving a sample pedal and lots of beat boxing. Weird and fun.
See above show schedule.
THE TANGLERS
A banjo-accordion band. Sarah Holmes plays accordion to compliment my banjo playing and Ian Voorhees plays Bass. We play and sing a number of old time tunes, some klezmer music, a Venezuelan waltz, an Italian tarantella, some minstrel tunes from the 1800's, some Eastern European music and even a bluegrass tune or two.
The Tanglers are performing at Bison Printing Press on Friday January 6th with the great Ben Todd. 9pm. All ages. 5$.
A digression:
Many people think that bluegrass is a term for just about any kind of American roots music. It's not. It is a term referring to a subtype of music that became formalized into a genre in the1940's by the popularity of Bill Monroe and his Bluegrass Boys. It's a common mistake. The editor of this magazine, in fact, has been known to make that mistake. Actually that guy makes a lot of mistakes, I oughta start a band named "Brent Cole needs to learn to copyedit," or "Brent Cole always misses the opening band because he's too drunk". No, no those are too harsh, I just want to playfully rib the guy, I'm grateful for all the hard work he's done for the music community. Still, I would like to lightheartedly yet publicly sort of make fun of him. What if I called my band.....
THE BRENT COALMINERS
I don't like most bluegrass. Most as in 99%. Most of it is slick and trite and predictable and the rowdiness seems contrived. And the fact that it is all the rage right now and every hipster on the West Coast plays it has burnt me out on it even more. So how did I end up playing banjo in a bluegrass band again? Because when it's great, when it's that small 1% that is genuine and raw and fun and sincere, bluegrass is really great. It's a raw, soulful howl of Americana. And Stell conned me into it.
I'm honored to have the opportunity to play with such an amazing line-up of musicians (Stell Newsome on Guitar and Vocals, Ian Voorhees on Bass, Chris Glass on fiddle).
My aim is to let Ian's unorthodox rockin' bass style pull us out of the expected, to shoot for the 1% that is good bluegrass, to write more weird instrumental pieces and vocal tunes that challenge the form and to let my distaste for all the tasteless Bluegrass out there help guide us toward something better. And if we don't succeed, I'll just kill the other members in their sleep and then burn down my house. The Brent Coalminers play the first and third Wednesdays of this month at Boundary Bay. Admission is free.

Bellingham

I've returned to Bellingham, perhaps this time to stay for an extended while. I'm doing my best to get very busy with music and etc. I'm playing music with old rock and roll connections, tinkling the banjo with old and new friends and CALLING SQUARE DANCES THE LAST SUNDAY OF EVERY MONTH. I'm also looking for under the table work and volunteering at a radio museum and looking for a lover that won't blow my cover.
I'm planning on returning to Mexico for a big ole rodeo in Febuary and searching for a travel mate to go to the east and or Colorado this fall. That's it.

Leaving Copandero. Leaving Mexico.

My last day in Copandero I spent walking around with my banjo and playing for people who would call me over and ask me to play. It was beautiful and sad and I had an amazing day but spent it wondering why I was leaving.
I travelled with Pancho to Moralia and made tortillas again with Ophelia and then set out in the morning for my plane. Spent some time in Phoenix with Sally and Tony and the hopped on the plane to San Francisco. A woman on the plane recognized me from playing music around San Francisco as did a crazy young fella who sat near me in business class.
Back in San Francisco I played a couple shows (one at a very artsy smartsy gallery/vineyard in Napa) and now I'm in Oakland hoping to finish my album before I get bogged down too much by the crushing amount of obstacles (cancer, health insurance, housing, money etc) weighing me down.

Undoubtedly the Climax of My Trip

I made my way from Patzcuaro to Moralia via the bus and the ride was as pleasant as the others I've taken. In Moralia I waited a long time for the bus and when it finally picked me up I was welcomed by the blaring Mariachi and Banda music that all the Copandero buses play. Several men on the bus shouted my name as I got on and I smiled and waved.
Many folks on the bus were familiar to me and the girls next to me were all smiles. Eventually I was beckoned to the back of the bus by a young man who speaks a little English. I must have met him at some point in Copandero but I don't remember when. He and his friends were drinking beer in the back of the bus and were excited to have me along with them. I could barely understand my companion, partially due to the language barrier and partially because of the incredibly loud and happy brass music shaking the bus through the speakers.
I arrived just in time to play at the cafe. Juan, Lupita and the girls from the cafe were all relieved to see me and had been worried about me out alone in the Spanish speaking world.
A family from Moralia had come all the way to Copandero to try out Juan's Lasagna. Juan had convinced them to stay for the entertainment (me). I had fun playing for them and the rest of the crowd, but my favorite was all the little babies dancing in their seats. All the young kids danced and clapped, especially Juan and Lupita's daughter Natalia, who had greeted me with a sweet little, "Hello Lucas", when I arrived.
I had the large family from Moralia come up and put on my various instruments and they took a photo with me. Marina had come for the show and I hugged her and gave her a gift from the Fabriqua.
Juan and Lupita are incredibly gracious hosts and Lupita tells me that this is my house. Two and half year old Natalia helped her mother make my bed and they bid me goodnight.
I can tell I'm back in the heart of Michoacan. The gas man is no longer playing jingle bells as he did in Uruapan. Everywhere I've slept while here in Michoacan, whether at the hotel in Patzcuaro, houses in Copandero, downtown Uruapan or homes in Moralia, there are roosters crowing early every morning (and often most of the night). I've grown accustom to the sounds of animals everywhere I am and it only just occurred to me how novel it is for me to hear such sounds in largely urban areas.
In the morning I had breakfast in the cafe. Some police officers knew who I was and asked me to join them. One spoke proficient English and we had a nice conversation. They both commute several hours to work and say that such an arrangement is common for police officers because it's safer to work in communities they don't live in. They both say they are glad to work in Copandero because there aren't any gangs.
I went over to Pancho's house and gave Ulyses some juggling balls so he could practice what I had taught him. I also made a bucket bass for Guera. Pancho wasn't quite ready to leave for the Jaripeo (Mexican Rodeo) so I sat and watched a black and white film starring Professional Mexican Wrestlers and laughed and thought of my dear friend Doctor VanVeerhoog.
Poncho and I and several young men in cowboy hats and wranglers piled into the truck and drove through the town picking up more of the same. Juan Carlos (my cholo friend) came up to the window and looked like he wanted to go. He looked incredibly sad. One man in the car said something aggressive sounding to him and we drove off while they all made fun of him.
On the ride to San Augustin, David and Pancho did most of the talking. I understood only small amounts but recognized that every curse word I am able to identify in Spanish came up repeatedly and often in David's speech.
David speaks a little English and asked me questions about girls in the US. He asked how many girlfriends I had had. I told him I wasn't sure and he convinced me to take a guess. The whole truck erupted in victorious applause at the approximated number, for apparently it was a lot in their view. David told me I'm mucho cavrone which I believe is best translated as a bad ass.
At the Jaripeo I sat in the empty bleachers and watched Pancho, David, and some of the other men from Copandero unload the bulls out of a truck. The operation took about seven men and each bull took a few minutes to get out of the truck. Two young men on top of the truck would lasso a rope down into the truck. Once the bull was hooked they'd throw the rope to a man behind the truck, who would yank on the rope until the bull was positioned to walk out down the ramp. One of the young men would swing down and kick the bull in the ass and shout until it ran out of the truck. Everyone would then run willy nilly out of the way while two young men inside the pen pulled the rope taught higgeldy piggeldy until the bull was fastened securely to the pen.
Copandero is a major jaripeo town, Rodeo is life, and so bulls for jaripeos are very often from there. This jaripeo was no exception. After the ten bulls from Copandero were unloaded we all went and ate at a nearby restaurant and I had my first shot of tequila of the night.
I sat in the bleachers with Aunt Prissy and watched the crowd file in. Very quickly a sea of cowboy hats had arrived. Vendors prowled the bleachers selling plastic bulls with riders, beers, hot chips and cotton candy. I sat next to two boys probablly twelve and thirteen years old. They both drank beer and smoked throughout the jaripeo. A large portion of the crowd appeared underage and most of them drank beer they purchased directly from the vendors.
A twelve piece brass brand in purple uniforms played loud fun Banda music. They played while the cowboys transitioned a bull into the starting cage and trussed him up for the rider. The cowboys put styrofoam pads on the bulls horns and tie a rope around his chest for the riders. The riders kneel before the cage and pray to a prayer card while an assistant ties spurs onto their boots. Once the bull is prepared the rider usually puts the prayer card in his mouth, genuflects (sp?), and then straddles the cage from above. They test the rope and often make the sign of the cross again before they drop onto the bull and the gate is opened.
Many riders I saw were thrown off, but a fair amount stayed on. The cowboys inside the pen lasso the bull's horn (rider on or rider off) and wrastle the animal back into the bull pen, diving and dodging as necessary to avoid the stomping and the goring and the death. The band plays the entire time, with a specific diddy for when the bull throws the rider and for when the rider stays on. The loud exciting brass music I hear on the Copandero buses suddenly makes sense.
After five bulls it was time for me to go onto the stage and play banjo for the 2,000 folks attending the jaripeo. The jaripeo announcer kept saying my name and people near me motioned to me get my banjo out and hurry to the microphone. I smiled and gave the brass band the thumbs up and walked past them to play. The sound was terrible, lots of feeding back and reverb but the crowd roared with applause nonetheless. I played two songs and then a little spoon fandang and they responded loudly.
I repeated the Spanish phrases Pancho shouted up to me and whatever I said was extremely well received by the crowd.
I got off the stage and large portions of the stadium were chanting Lucas! Lucas! Lucas! Apparently I was supposed to play another song but didn't understand. Pancho drug me into the middle of the bull ring with the announcer of the jaripeo. The announcer put his arm around me and said a bunch of words in Spanish. A lot of words. I was led out of the pen and stood by the ring to watch the riders. I was handed two beers and drank them quickly in succession. A huge man brought me a shot of tequila and he and I laughed and watched the crazy cavrones who strap themselves to a thousand pound animal with horns.
After one more bull, I was pushed back onto the stage to play again. After another round of shouts from the crowd, Pancho motioned me back into the bull ring with the announcer. I said gracias, gracias into the microphone and then Pancho pulled me out of the ring and left me in the charge of two short drunk men. One took my banjo and awkwardly slung it over his shoulder. They held a tarp out between the two of them and motioned for me to follow them.
I followed the two drunks around the bleachers as many many people threw money down from the bleachers and into the tarp. I waved my cowboy hat and shouted gracias till I was hoarse. Many men came up and gave money directly to me and shook my hand telling me what a cavrone I am. Several handed me beers and wouldn't take no for an answer. I very quickly became as drunk as my tarp wielding companions. Young gals shoved each other up to talk to me and then chickened out, throwing their money into the tarp and darting away.
As my Mexican caravan rounded the bend the drunk who was carrying my banjo bumped into a young woman holding her baby. She had her back to him and the zipper to my banjo case somehow got hooked into her hair. The drunk kept walking and the woman screamed in pain. I shouted until the drunk stopped walking and motioned for Pancho to come help. He held the banjo and we tried to set her loose but couldn't. She hadn't seen what happened and thought the whole thing was my fault.
While the whole disaster was unfolding folks were shouting my name and handing me money and beers. I tried to be gracious but at the same time be apologetic to the banjo case victim. We tried in vain to free her and then the hot chips vendor pulled out his pocket knife and lopped off the entangled hair. The woman was very upset with me but I had no time to make amends as the crowd which had gathered around me pushed me on. I continued waving and thanking them all the way around the bleachers and then shoved the wads of money in my pockets after tipping the drunks.
Pancho drug me back into the ring and up to the announcer who had since found an interpreter for me. I felt like Stalone in Rocky IV and said things to the crowd about how great Mexico is and how Michoacan must be the finest state in the Union. I then discovered, through my interpreter that the announcer had told the crowd about my cancer and that he had said a prayer for me over the loudspeaker.
I hopped over the fence as the next bull was being prepared and was pulled back into the area where all the riders hang out. Crowded in by friendly, happy, drunk folks who wanted to talk to me and shake my hand, I couldn't help but feel a little nervous about so obviously being the guy with large amounts of cash stuffed in his pocket. The entire evening I was closely surrounded by people shouting and laughing and it was nigh impossible to understand anyone or even be certain what language they were speaking because the 2nd brass band (an amazing all women Banda group) was so incredibly loud.
In addition to all the outside stimulation, I was drunk. Too drunk. I had to begin refusing beers. I took to holding an open beer so folks wouldn't be offended, although even then beers were stuffed into my empty hand.
At the end of the jaripeo they moved the bulls and opened the pens and the band continued to play. People filed down out of the bleachers and danced like cowboys dance. It was an enormous Mexican redneck rave that went late into the night. I danced with three young girls (perhaps David's daughters) and we laughed and had fun. A woman brought me a cooler full of chicken tacos and I ate until I wasn't so drunk.
As Pancho, myself and the rest of the Copandero cowboys left the stadium people everywhere shouted, "adios Lucas!". In the car David reaffirmed my cavrone-ness and they all marveled and laughed about how famous I had just become. Pancho insists that I return in February and play the huge jaripeo that happens in Copandero. Approximately seven thousand people supposedly attend annually.
Back in Copandero I recounted the evening's events to Juan who sat wide eyed and shook his head in disbelief. He said that I had experienced more out of Mexico in my three weeks here than many Mexicans do in their life.
Today I went to a very small jaripeo in Santa Rita, the next pueblo over. I got there hours before it actually started and hung out with all the cowboys. This jaripeo was very different. They drug the slightly smaller bulls out in the midst of the crowd and we all had to run and climb gates to get out of the way on occasion. All the riders I saw were probably fourteen or fifteen year old boys who clearly have some serious cajones.
Afterwards, I walked back towards Copandero in the rain for about fifteen minutes until a farmer pulled his pick up truck over for me. I climbed in back with a family and two young fellas I recognized from my shows at the cafe.
Back in Copandero I hung out with the girls in the cafe and we sang ALLA EN EL RANCHO GRANDE out of tune at the top of our lungs. We sat and ate dinner and then they taught me some hand clapping rhyming games.
I leave for Moralia tommorrow and then Wednesday leave this beautiful state. No Tango Ganas though, no tango ganas.

Mexico embraces car culture with a vengance

I'm in Parzcuaro now. I'm feeling far too much like a tourist. I came here to look at the blankets. They are beautiful but there is little middle ground. Junkier blankets made with acrylic and cotton are cheap but not well made, whereas there are some astoundingly beautiful wool blankets for mucho dinero. The all wool blanket I would most like to take home with me is 250 dollars. I don't think I'll come home with a blanket after all.

The native ladies come down from the hills and into the cities to set up on the sidewalks and sell their wares. They are beautiful, dark old ladies with long black or gray braids. Their clothes are beautiful and they all wear riboso's (the mexican style shawl). They sit on the concrete and peddle their wares to tourists as the endless car parade spits high emision exhaust at us all.

I'm feeling incredibly sad about leaving on Wednessday. I'm so happy here and this experience seems so important. I can't believe it is coming to an end. I want to stay and learn the language and learn more music. I don't know when I'll be able to come back. I don't want to come back to the stress of what to do, where to live how to get by. The dollar goes so far here I can live modestly off my disability check and not worry too much. In the states, I have little hope of living off my disability pittance.

Today I go back to Copandero to perform. I hope to visit a friends farm while I'm there, give Marina a gift I purchased from the Fabriqua, and learn more nouns from the kids. I will be staying with Juan and Lupita and will hopefully have a chance to cook them breakfast. Tomorrow Pancho will take me to the Rodeo to perform.

Friends

Alfonso

Fri, August 12, 2005 - 2:45 PM
Uruapan is definitely a city, dirty and overwhelming, but I'm enjoying myself nonetheless. I've noticed that there are a lot more tall folks in the cities and I don't stick out so much. After exploring the plaza, I wandered down to the Fabriqua in the afternoon. I had a hard time finding it at first and a nice young man gave me directions when I was a few blocks away.
I came into the Fabriqua compound from the back as a heavy rainstorm let loose. The compound is enormous and I walked through two large empty warehouses before coming to the rear of the building I recognized from the day before. I came in through the bottom of the building past some workers who looked suspicious or surprised to see me, past countless textile machines and up into the upper level, finding myself in a large room full of paintings.
I later found out that a painting class is taught there. It is taught by an Iranian refugee who is one the greatest living painters of that nation. He has been living there for five years and teaches painting to the local youth.
I took a handful of photos in the fabriqua and looked around. I waited a long time for the downpour to cease, feeling awkward every time a worker, Walter, Bundy or Rewi walked by. I'm uncertain as to whether I'm welcome or not and feel that I haven't made a great impression.
I've maintained a lot of silence in the company of these people. They know nothing of me except that I don't speak Spanish and they seem perhaps annoyed at that. Well me too. Walter and Bundy have a lot to say and I haven't room to say much so perhaps they mistake my silence for stupidity.
I could understand such brilliant people having little patience for a stupid tourist who doesn't speak the language arriving at their doorstep expecting a welcome.
I purchased some things from the Fabriqua and left after the downpour stopped.
I found a cafe and had a great dinner. The restaurant was closing but they motioned me in anyways. My waiter proceeded to introduce me to every young waitress in the restaurant as if they had all been asking to meet me. They each embarrassedly shook my hand and smiled shyly in that confidently flirty shy way that Mexican women are so skilled at.
On my stroll back to the fabriqua I ran into the young man who had given me directions earlier. He was building doors and window frames in a garage and after I fetched my grip from the fabriqua he and I and some neighbor boys made fast friends. I played some banjo for them and he and I had a ball attempting to communicate. His English was only marginally superior to my Spanish.
After my new friend Alfonso introduced me to half of the neighborhood he said, "Okay my friend, lets go!" And he and I walked down to the plaza with no particular plan (or at least not one we could communicate).
Alfonso and I went into a fancy bar and I bought us a couple drinks. He is twenty five years old, a petite short man with a lazy eye and a very gently innocent manner about him. He talked about how much he enjoys the company of women as frequently as other Mexican men I've met do, but there is a gentle sincerity that set the conversation in contrast with my previous brushes with Mexican Machismo.
Alfonso speaks two of the native languages in Mexico, Purhepechan being one of them. He expressed a strong desire to also become skilled in the English Language. We said goodbye and I told him I would send him a copy of my new album once it is out.

My Friends Bundy and Walter

Fri, August 12, 2005 - 3:43 PM
When I got back to Walter and Bundy's they were at the table with the lamp on. I sat down and Walter asked after my day. I recounted it and they both seemed tickled that I had made a friend. The conversations turned to music and travel and we had an excellent conversation.
Bundy grew up knowing Happy Traum (a major figure in education tools for folk musicians) and we talked of him as well as Pete Seeger whom she also calls a friend. She even went to a few parties that Leadbelly attended.
I began sharing my perspectives on music and Walter became excited and said that he should organize a few of his workers who are musicians into playing while I am visiting. He and Bundy both suddenly lamented the fact that I would leave in the morning.
Walter and Bundy have done just about anything worth doing in their lifetime. I gather they both speak a multitude of languages (Walter speaks English, German, Spanish, Danish, Swedish, Chinese, and Purhepachan at the least). They both tell fantastic stories and have a library I could spend a lifetime reading, digesting and discussing.
Walter was a principal teacher and organizer of the co-operative schools in China prior to the revolution and his mind clearly contains invaluable information for those who hope to build a cooperative community anywhere. The communities he lived in were completely self sufficient and had an enormous output of goods in addition to being a center for learning. He has endeavored to create similar communities in many different places, and he and Bundy's Fabriqua is the current culmination of their efforts toward that end. Their son Rewi and his sister run Mexico's only fair trade avocado packing business.
Walter told a story about leaving Sweden (I believe in the forties) in the winter by crossing the frozen river. His visa had expired and it was time for him to go to Finland where he had a visa that was not expired. The Finnish refused him and he traveled back and forth across the frozen river until the Swedish authorities allowed him to stay in the country...in jail.
His cell mate was a Laplander. Because there existed no kitchen in the jail, it was one of the officers duty to take Walter and the Laplander out to eat everyday. They would usually patronize a fairly upscale restaurant, presumably because the officer wanted to get a good meal for himself. Once their documents had gone through, the Swedes gave Walter a basket of food and paid for his train ride out of town.
Walter wandered off to bed while Bundy pulled down cassette tapes, excited to show me a few certain recording. We searched through the recordings until fairly late and then said goodnight.
In the morning, they fed me orange juice and oatmeal and I talked about the countless hummingbirds I had just seen when at my mother and pop's cabin in Western Colorado. They enjoyed my retelling of the birds antics and Walter told me about going to stay with the Quakers in Costa Rica (the Quakers had fled there before WW II in order to escape the US's increasing militarism). The vast amounts of land the Quakers purchased are home to countless flora and fauna and Walter's description of traveling across the treetop cables painted a beautiful picture of birds and flowers beyond compare.
They both seemed truly sad to see me go and welcomed me to come back anytime. They both were sorry they hadn't heard me play music and I was tempted to stay a little longer and play, but I had set my mind on leaving. They both hugged me and Bundy kissed me, Walter wishing me well in Spanish as I left.
I marveled at their change in behavior as I waited for my bus. Perhaps I was too intimidated to open up quickly. Once I had an opportunity to share a bit they both seemed pleased to have me as a visitor. They were definitely quite busy with their work while I was there and I sensed the timing must have been intrusive. Whatever the reason, I left feeling inspired by two incredible folks who I feel welcome to visit again. I would love to visit again as I recognize an incredible chance for learning in my association with them.
My bus ride to Patzcuaro was beautiful and relaxing. I could ride the buses here all day long. It gives me a chance to reflect, write, and study.
Perhaps nothing noteworthy will happen today and I will have chance to catch up on some entries I haven't transferred from my notebook to this posting. Saturday I play music in Copandero again and then go to the Rodeo (to play music) in Moralia with Pancho.
Today I recieved an email from Flora. Unfortunately all the pictures she took (and allowed me to take for my own) on her digital camera were set on the lowest definition so the photos leave something to be desired. Ay Caray!

Solitide, Uruapan, Politics and American Hospitality

Gabacho Enjoys Long Walks, Time Alone, and Not Being Able to Communicate, Does not Necessarily Seek Same

I feel slightly less inspired to write today. I think perhaps I'm weighed down by obligations stateside. Loved ones close to me are struggling in the states and I'm unable to help. I must return soon and work towards finishing my album and figuring out how the devil I'm going to have health insurance if I resign from my job at Seneca. I don't want to leave so soon and fantasize about coming back soon, but it is so expensive to get here and I have already sold a saxophone to get here this once. Once I'm here I can hack it but getting here... I wonder if I will really be able to disentangle myself enough from whatever life is awaiting me to return for as long as I hope.
My experience here is exactly what I want from my life right now. Cancer or no cancer, I have put off experiences like this, experiences that I realize are essential to becoming the man I want to become, for far too long and for spiritless reasons.
I want to bring all my loved ones with me here, although having this experience alone has shown me how much I've changed in the last few years. I enjoy this trip solo immensely.
Five or six years ago, I took a trip throughout the Western U.S. I called it my Wingnut Tour of the West and aspired to visit all my crazy friends who had inspired me greatly in the past. I also hoped to visit as many very small towns as possible.
I did what I set out to do and definitely had some noteworthy adventures (I may post them at some point in the future), but halfway through my planned trip, I became lonely and truly did not enjoy the trip being alone. I called my girlfriend at the time to come and join me and bail me out of my loneliness. She did and we definitely had a fun trip but I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in myself for not being able to hack it alone.
This trip is very different. I'm really enjoying my own company and the freedom to do whatever I want. I feel strong and independent and confident even though I am unable to communicate well. Some of the difference is undoubtedly due to the contrasts between traveling in Mexico and Traveling in the U.S., but I attribute a majority to internal shifts of my spirit.

Uruapan, Politics, and American Hospitality

Meeting Walter at the Fabrica was a very memorable thing. He is a man of advanced years and vast experience. He lived in China for twenty years and was there during the Communist revolution. He was part of it all and was/is close friends with many who would later become major leaders.
He also lived in Berlin as the Nazis came into power, working for the American Embassy. He witnessed the victory march of the Nazis as they marched the "poor bastards" they had defeated in France through the streets of Berlin.
Walter and his wife Bundy moved to Mexico fifty years ago and helped bring water to a remote mountain village. Seven Kilometers of pipe was laid without machines to dig the trench or tote the pipes. The project utilized only unpaid volunteers from the small village and was still completed successfully in less than five months.
Walter and Bundy began a textile business shortly after arriving and purchased the Fabriqa San Pedro 21 years ago. The building is a little over a hundred years old and enormous. Several barns and football fields could fit inside it. In the lower level are acres and acres of looms, yarn spinners and many other machines I know nothing about.
Walter and Bundy took me home with them and gave me a key. I am grateful for a place to stay but I feel that they are not happy about my presence. They are very serious and discuss politics endlessly. I'm thankful for the opportunity to learn from two people who are so obviously brilliant and well informed. They talk with each other in the manner of professors on their lunch break and their interactions seem a little tense.
In the morning I found Walter at the table making notes on the morning paper and referencing THE RISE AND FALL OF THE THIRD REICH citing countless parallels between the Nazis rise to power and current situations in the U.S., Mexico, and elsewhere.
Today I will go to the Fabriqa and take some photos and try to learn as much about the process as possible. I visited the Casa De La Cultura and talked with them about performing sometime when I return to Michoacan. I will either leave Uruapan, which is a little too mad, tomorrow morning or this evening. I hope to go to Santa Clara or Patzcura for a night and then back to Copandero. I don't really want to stay another night with Walter and Bundy, but don't know a good alternative in this moment.

Greyhound this aint.

Last night Flora and I stayed with her cousin Esmeralda and her family in Moralia. They seem like all of Flora's family; incredibly sweet and hospitible. I had met them all in Copandero and Esmerelda's seven year old son Pablito and I had hit it off well.
As soon as we arrived Esmerelda and Flora's aunt Ophelia set about making us food. They were very surprised when I offered to help make the Tortillas. Ophelia was very pleased to show us how to make Tortillas by hand (I had previously only learned with the press). She also showed us how to make designs on them and smash them with floor tiles.
Having a man in the kitchen certainly seemed to make the women nervous and they eventually shooed me out. They seemed much relieved when I sat down and allowed them to feed me fresh guacamole, chicken, cheese, beans and warm tortillas.
Pablito and I sat down and played video games while the rest of the family left to take Ophelia home. He was excited to show off his games that spoke Engilsh. He spoke rapid fire Spanish to me the entire time we were alone.
I answered a knock at the door and found a muscular tall mexican man wanting in. Pablito's dad (Pablo Sr.). He was a warm welcoming man and shared some pear liquer with me, asking if I could help him with a mission on his Mission Impossible game that was impossible for him because all the directions are in English.
In the morning I said goodbye to Flora. Pablo drove her to El Central at 6AM. It was such a kind thing for Flora to invite me into this world. I'm so fortunate to have gotten to know her family and experience Mexico in the manner I have. I'm nervous and excited to be exploring Mexico without her. I'm certain having no interpreter will be daunting and overwhelming at times but it is bound to be an adventure and will certainly force me to learn faster.
Once the rest of family awoke, I played music for Pablito and his little brother Gordo. Their older sister is a smart young lady who I showed some things to practice on spoons and taught to play La Cucaracha on banjo.
Pablito doesn't want me to leave. He says I am his friend and urgently needs to know when I will return.
At the bus station they confiscated a large pocket knife I had bought in the Copandero square.
My two hour busride cost nine dollars, had comfortable seats, showed a movie, provided a snack and was only one of seven or eight buslines I had to choose from at the terminal.
The busride from Moralia to Uruapan was beautiful. The most beatiful ride I have ever seen on a major highway. Green rolling hills and mountains and very little traffic. A few pueblos made of brick and stone would pop up here and there nestled within the vines . Not a single Wal-Mart, McDonalds, Home Depot, Chevron or any other major chain that is visible in virtually every single town along any major highway or freeway in the U.S.
In Uruapan I traveled to the Fabrique de San Pedro, a textile factory run by my dear freind Carl's relatives. He and his son Aaron both highly suggested that I come and meet them. The building is clearly hundred of years old and has green vines climbing down its stone walls. The huge, austere rooms inside are covered with fine fabric. Words fail. It is amazing.
I met Ruey (sp?) as I came in. He seemed offended or smug when I tried to ask him a question in Spanish. He answered slowly and deliberately in English and said welcoming words that seemed full of hostility. And so it is that the coldest welcome I've recieved in Mexico came out of U.S. citizen's mouth. I hope I haven't come to visit at a bad time.
My heart has been better. Cancer Schmancer.

Cruising Copandero with Alan Jackson to check out the mamacitas

I was walking around Copandero around sundown when Carlos, Pancho's brother in law whom I had played music with last week stopped and said, "You no drink beer?".
I had already had three shots of Tequila so heck yeah I says I drink beer. He motioned me into the car and introduced me to his buddy and they said they were cruising around looking at the girls. We all drank Corona as we trolled through the streets and Carlos asked if I like the Mariachi music that was playing on the stereo. He then put some Alan Jackson (pop country for those who didn't grow up in the Grand Valley) and we bumped us some Alan Jackson as we drank and drove and yelled, "Mamacita!" at what looked to me to be chunky fifteen year olds.
We picked up Albierto who speaks english and drove over to San Augastin. We pulled over on the side of the road and peed in the bushes and Albierto tranlated for us all and we talked about illegally crossing the border with the coyetes, mexican women, and jail.
They dropped me off at the cafe and I was a little wacky. I talked to people as if they might understand my language and told jokes and whoa. What fun. I went home and it rained and rained and rained.

Hidden Paradise

On Sunday Pancho took the whole family along with Flora and I to a resturaunt in San Augustine, a neighboring town from Copandero. It is this little paradise that serves shrimp and fresh fish and giant coconuts. There is a pool where folks can swim before they eat and hammocks hanging everywhere. The food was great and the company better.
Flora has been translating jokes between Pancho and myself and it is a fun translation challenge for her as well as an entertaing diversion for me. Pancho and Marina both tell lots of parrot jokes. It seems like it may be a thing, parrot jokes in Mexico. Lots of laughing and bonding with this incredibly sweet family. I'm so lucky.
Pancho bought me a shot of tequila (although for some reason three shots came and it was my responsibilty to drink them all) so I was already drunk when I got kidnapped by Mexicans back in Copandero.