Writing

I am Not a Dancer.... by DBL

Some Have Influenced Me Profoundly.


I don't really connect myself to the Dancer lineage. I feel that those artist master their craft beyond what I can do, but I see now that there are and have been influential Dancers in my life. As I get older I am finding a long yet loose thread to some kind of lineage. Maybe my teenage angst is finally receding. Now I can except my elders more respectfully.

Maybe the first Dancer was Michael 'Boogaloo Shrimp' Chambers ,"Turbo" in the movie breaking. His sweep piece still sends chills through my body. Ko Murobushi, which a couple of years before his passing followed me on FB...just a lil possibly meaningless accomplishment. Of course my long time teacher/ sages the Tamano's. I learn something new each time just interacting with Hiroko Tamano. Lessons beyond movement. She is the closest I have experienced to a sage in my life. The closest that has changed it. Thank you profoundly.

Yesterday I saw one of these few influential Dancers in my life perform, Oguri. Oguri is based in Venice, Ca and like the others I mentioned has continued to develop his craft throughout his life. Seemingly ageless, something about his and the Tamano’s form that seem to not fear death but embrace the existence of the body, not to destroy it but be in it, sense in it, exist in it, understanding its fragility, and respecting it. Not to say they wish to be immortal...not at all. They stare at mortality and make it their intimate friend, not their over indulgent co-conspirator. This and their soft view on life and movement I believe slows their existence...a stroll to smell the flower on their chest.

I always have a profound experience watching Oguri. Yesterday was no different. In his form I see humanity, its ugliness, its silliness, its frailness and the way trauma can fracture it; transmuting these pieces into something wholesome, and healing. This piece I saw was about death and how our love ones from our childhood become the lovers of our present. How in dreams and memories these things blur, we embrace, this embrace becomes a holding of what was once before, a hope to remember a warmth from the past. We are just children hoping to be loved. Hoping to hold a familiar warm hand. Hoping to have someone there to tell us, it’s ok. To hold us to their chest and kiss us on our small foreheads.

Yet in life we sometimes are alone. Sometime we are scared. Sometimes we are broken. This is life, without this darkness the washing that is love would not feel so sweet.

I wonder why memory, for me, is so fresh in soreness. This lesson of memory as a warm fire, is a new one for me, it is something I am learning.

Thank you to my elders, thank you to the people I love.

My darkness finds home in your light.

Rememebring Something that Comes to Me at Every Life- A Rose Perished by DBL



I do miss you, a rose that perished.

I imagine your color is much more yellow. Your smell much more sweet. I hope your roots are stronger and your highest vine higher than before. I still think you were the perfect one. Despite your beauty you were contained and restricted by a cancer of doubt. A cancer easily developed. Something I to felt. Delusions of your form are always present. More vivid when I sleep. I have no answers only questions. A bond through the ages, maybe, destined to always be almost. I fear to reach out because your space is sacred, I rather leave it to someone else's doing. I had your image in my mind before I knew you, therefore I can't forget what was there before me.

Future Loop by DBL




Music uploaded by artist data mined by AI. AI used to produce pop music and music funded by a panel voted through swiping on initial appeal. Laptops are given to artist in impoverish areas to have a variety of demographics from which to mine from. Artist soon start using the hacked AI software as well.

Four Direction Prayer by DBL




One Human being presented on this Planet (under his feet=Earth, above
his head=Outer Space).

Standing toward to East (Sunrise, Future, Possibility, make things better).

on his Back=West ( Sunset, Past, Ancestors).

on his Right=South ( symbolized an old lady carry basket full eggs &
seeds. Nurture, Next Generations ).

on his Left=North (symbolized an old man with wisdom through his

experience. Teachers, Elders)

His body deform to Bird (to cross the sky), to Monkey (Hug a Tree), to be a Tree (Gather Energy of the Earth).

He release the Energy of the Earth through his body to the Sky, Carry back Sky into his body (Emptiness).

He presents himself to each direction, through his empty body, the
element of the direction blow through his body and exchanged to
opposite direction.

Dance of Life= Four Direction Pray
taught by Txi Whizz in Vancouver 1983

—Hiroko Tamano

Proposal For Human Resources LA Decolonize LA by DBL



Proposal for “Raze the WhiteBox”
To raze the WhiteBox will be a symbolic action of a greater deconstruction. Working within models of colonization will only develop concepts consumed by colonizing behaviors. Dismantling of this gallery space would be the only method to decolonizing it.

The WhiteBox (any gallery or museum space that hermetically isolates artwork) in its design and conception will always contain/own an object or thought. Property and borders are red flags of colonization. Dismantling a structure which is designed to contain objects and thoughts within 6 sides would be the action to decolonize it. Cement is not fertile ground, it is dead inactive space. A public space that allows community, inspiration and creativity does not exclusively exist as a collection or claim to ownership as does a museum or gallery. Community, inspiration, and creativity by their very nature will always remain fluid and un-owned. These three concepts only empower when used by the collective mass. The process of decolonizing spaces will involve replacing structures in which people collectively perform these concepts.

The remaining land, once this WhiteBox is dismantled, should be a network in which Peoples (any groups that have internalized a colonialist ideology) can regain a culture, but also regain what mother nature once offered in its harsh but nurturing way. The colonization of a People resulted at times with a simultaneous colonization of the land as well. Returning the land to its state of natural symbiosis will plant the seed of change that is necessary for this wounded earth to remember its role and for us to see its glory. This demolition is the only holistic therapy/ cathartic ritual that will remember the many forgotten People, forgotten knowledge, and resources that the colonizers either stole or destroyed. A WhiteBox and its confining walls symbolically and literally censor the past and the land onto which it has rooted itself.

The demolition will be followed by the introduction of indigenous plants and animals. This will inhabit the majority of the land and be integrated in whatever else is built. Some land will remain for agriculture and a stage/ gathering area for community and artist use. In the decolonization of this WhiteBox we must not forget about the inheritors of the colonized state of mind, the children. A place in which children could learn how to engage with nature and relearn the art of symbiosis would replace the structures that now exist on 410 Cottage Home St. If any structures will be built, they will remain small, since the land itself should provide a stage or setting for most things. Monetary means are intangible compared to community action and the blood and sweat of artist and activist. The land will be kept by its users.

If life is art how can life exist in a vacuum? Can the only definition of what art is be contained within a closet, which doors are only opened by someone with the means to own this space? Art removed from life, suffocated in a crate... Is this inspiration? Is art an object free from worldly interaction? Is it a phenomenon sheltered by the very thing that causes its chain-reaction? Transporting artwork produces waste, does this ill benefit this earth? Is a space built like a fortress a structure that welcomes the collective mass?

The brick unit is the beginning of growth. The straight lines imprisons the dirt, the self, the ripple of effect. - Raze the WhiteBox: A Think Tank of Change

May 1, 2016

On Art Practice and Corporeal Reformation by DBL

The practice that is this work is not about criticizing colonialism, it is a allegorical response. A very personal response that I might sometimes consider a universal response. The hope is to filter down not the philosophy but the intent, to get to that universalism. A simple state of being that is efficient only in its holistics. Free of biases and specialization, my hopes is to find a way to learn and observe, to live and exist, to breath and touch, to forget by remembering. For now I see this universality as growth, be it cancer, population or regeneration. Finding the precise balance to explore the external and the internal self is one of the challenges with this exploration of this growth. Why the self? It is the first sensor that we are given to understand this Growth. I theorize then that this must be the best at understanding this Growth, holistically each part of the self canceling out the inherent biases.

This exploration as it pertains to the physical and movement I have called Corporeal Reformation. Corporeal Reformation is the act of remembering and learning. It seems to me that performance work is the most radical thing I can do with art. It sets no boundaries between active and passive. We all become part of the community once again. My question would be which community is this we are suddenly a part of when experiencing a performance. The performer or the audience? Are we invading or uniting? Depending on approach a public performance can be a continuous state of colonizing. I think the only way to remedy this is by the passive and the active both being in full effect, and transferring between the hosts (the colonized and the settler).

So it seems that the act of decolonizing can be many messy deeds. In a post-colonial system the colonized and the settler becomes muddled and both become agents of each others restrictions. They both share the initiation rituals of the colonized. Both share symbols and stories in which the powers that be, the first settlers have establish. The colonized start to assimilate the settlers approach, find new land, growth credited partly from new places that one has never seen nor understood. The settlers lost in empty promises lose their own heritage in hopes that assimilation and whitism will provide more than what came before, since it has made a few wealthy and untouchable. Little do they know that the settlers are cattle just as the colonized are the human resource that is a staple of an industrialized nation.

Richard Berger- RIP by DBL

RIP Richard Berger.

 He died earlier this year. I only found out recently. A very influential professor and Oakland artist. I will miss your bad boy approach to the art world and will miss your profound poetics in your work. His approach to the history of sculpture navigated my flickering ideas of history.

Richard, you didn't know how influential you were to me. I told myself I would visit you before you passed.  Some how I knew it was approaching.  It hurts me to not have seen you, one last time.  To engage you in your philosophical thoughts, listen to your stories.  Wished to share the new Ideas I had.  I find happiness in knowing you and being your extension of thought. 

http://www.rbsculpture.com/gallery.html

Notes From Technotopia: On The Cruelty Of Indifference -Gómez-Peña by DBL

republished without permission

Artist credit: John Cristicello

Notes From Technotopia:

On The Cruelty Of Indifference

An anti-gentrification philosophical tantrum

by Guillermo Gómez-Peña, 2015

(In his most recent philosophical tantrum, performance artist and poet Gómez-Peña reflects on the dangers of the ultimate “creative city,” and what it means to become a foreigner in his own neighborhood, waiting for the much touted eviction notice.)

Dear Ex-local artist, writer, activist, bohemian, street eccentric, and/or protector of difference... 

Imagine a city, your city and your

former “hip” neighborhood,

being handed over by greedy politicians and re/developers to the

crème de la crème

of the tech industry. This includes the 7 most powerful tech companies in the world. I don’t need to list them: their names have become verbs in

lingua franca;

their sandbox is the city you used to call your own.

Their Faustian iDeal involves radically transforming your city within a few years into an unprecedented “creative city,” a bohemian theme park for the young techies and “hipsters” who constitute their Darwinian work force. It comes with dormitories, food courts with catchy theme bars and entertainment centers. Sounds like science fiction, que no?

Imagine that during the reconstruction process,

the rent - your rent - increases by two or three hundred percent overnight. The artists and the working class at large can no longer pay it. You are being forced to leave, at best to a nearby city, at worst back to your original hometown. The more intimate history you have with the old city, the more painful it is to accept this displacement. You have no choice.

While you hang on by a thread waiting for the eviction notice,

every day you continue to lose old friends and colleagues you might never see again. They were less lucky than you and got evicted earlier. Heartbroken and exhausted, you spend a large part of your civic time attending anti-gentrification demonstrations and collaborating with other artists and activists in anti-eviction actions and techno-artivist projects, but still it only gets worse by the day. The number of dramatic eviction cases increases constantly and both the diminished politicized citizenry and the progressive media begin to experience compassion fatigue.

As your community rapidly shrinks, so does your sense of belonging to a city that no longer seems to like you. You begin to feel like a foreigner and internal exile: freaky Alice in techno-Wonderlandia; the Alien Caterpillar who inhaled. Unless you own your home and studio, as a renter, your hours “here” are numbered and you carry this feeling of imminent orphanhood like a very tight and stylish noose around your neck. After all, you perceive yourself as a dandy.

Imagine that all the classic and familiar places in your hood

including funky, decades-old Latino restaurants and immigrant bars full of memories and ghosts, barber, specialty shops, bohemian sex clubs, experimental art galleries, indie theaters and bookstores –yes, shops where bound books are sold, -- the emotional spaces which have been your main source of inspiration, creativity and community -- are also forced to close because the

pinche

greedy landlord tripled the rent overnight or some millionaire bought the building or the entire block to rent out micro-units to airbnb. And all the new laws and acts protect him. Your imagination becomes a painful exercise in forced tolerance and providential acceptance.

In a few months, these wonderful places that for decades provided the city with a strong cultural identity are destroyed and reopened as (get ready) homogeneous “live/work/play” spaces, “micro-condominium” buildings and tech plazas in the works. Coño! The new city begins to look like a generic global metropolis imagined by Italo Calvino. To make the lives of the transient work force somewhat pleasant, hundreds of similar smart cafes, trendoid restaurants, overpriced “eateries” and “celebrity bars” open up in each neighborhood. Even the last standing old-school dive bars are being “discovered” (a euphemism for taken over) by the transplants via their Yelp or Foursquare mobile app. But you, no matter how long you lived here or how much you have paid in rent – even if it is enough to own your hipster remodeled Victorian upper unit - You are not welcome.

You hit the streets again: What you used to call an average priced dinner is way above your price range now. Your sacred $4 night cocktail, now served by an aloof “celebrity bartender,” costs $15 and your daily

jugos

and

licuados

, now called “cold pressed gluten-free organic cleansing juices,” go for $12 in a “recyclable sustainable” bottle. But don’t worry: Remember that this is just a perverse exercise of radical imagination, or rather, a psychomagic challenge to deliver your daily dose of survival humor.

 Imagine that your own building, a legendary (ex) artist building

is now just another revolving airb miniunit for zombie techies who make well over $200 grand a year, but behave not unlike obnoxious teenage frat boys. If you are the only one of 3 Mexican tenants left, when you open the front door for a new neighbor, they either perceive you as the building's janitor or report you to the manager as a “suspicious character.” And yes, in Technotopia: your new identity is that of “suspicious character.”

The nightmare unfolds: Full of Maseratis, Ferraris, Porsches and Mercedes Benzes, the private parking lot is now protected with barbed wire fences and a digital display keypad encoded by microchips; and so are the “vintage bike” racks and trash containers. Video surveillance cameras are omnipresent. The new management wishes to keep the homeless, the day laborers and the “scary” young “people of color” at a distance…that is, before the cops get them. They are unpleasant memories of the old city of sin and compassion; kids from former distasteful and economically disadvantaged, at-risk neighborhoods.

The newly empowered cops drive around the hood looking for (criminal) “difference.”

The homeless and the “gang bangers” aren’t the only ones being removed from the streets to make them safe for the new dot.com cadre. With them go the poets, the performance artists, the experimental musicians, the frail transvestites, the politicized sex workers, the gallant mariachis, the cool low-riders, the urban primitives, the angry punks, the defiant radical feminists and the very activists who used to protect us all from the greedy landlords and politicians who conceived of this macabre project.

It’s the latest American version of ethnic and cultural cleansing. It’s invisible to the newcomers, and highly visible to those of us who knew the old city. The press labels it “the post-gentrification era.”

“Prehistory is only 7 years old and nostalgia is pure style, a bad selfie of a fictional memory.”—

Anonymous tweet.

There are suspicious fires happening constantly,

in apartment buildings and homes inhabited by mostly Latino and black working class families. And you cannot help but to wonder if landlords and redevelopers are setting these fires?

“Is there a secret garden of violence in the heart of techno-bohemian paradise?”-Anonymous tweet.

You also begin to wonder, who are these random people and newly evasive neighbors taking over your neighborhood?

Metaphysically speaking, where did they really come from? And how long will they stay? Are they merely browsing in the mythological backyard of Technotopia? Will they return to the suburbs when the Chicano intifada begins?

Day after day, allured by the new digital bonanza, hundreds, thousands of new people arrive, unfamiliar people, without manners or style, social or historical consciousness; mostly middle and upper class white people from the suburbs and small cities from throughout the country, along with some wealthy foreign entrepreneurs and programmers from similarly upwardly mobile techno cultures. Undistinguishable from tourists, so many of them look like they were just dropped here by a UFO straight out of a Minneapolis or a Houston suburb, complete with their yoga mat, mobile gym and tech gear bearing the logo of the company they work for; their designer dogwear and strollers, all glued to their smartphones to the point where they can’t even acknowledge your presence as you pass them on the street.

Soon, these normative looking humans will destroy their very object of bohemian desire; the multicultural fetishes which attracted them “here” in the first place. And they will one day wake up to an ocean of unbearable sameness. The good thing is, they don’t know it yet, and they probably wouldn’t notice anyway. And if a few of them know it, let’s face it, they don’t give a shit. They’re all “comfortable” and exalted. The whole city is catering to their desires. Besides, they’ve got 25 posts per day on their digital agenda and hundreds of superficial tweets to write.

What these cyber-adventurers have in common is that they are in a hurry, determined to make lots of money…mañana! Their neo-colonial dreams must be attained instantly. It’s the latest San Francisco Gold Rush, the 2

nd

digital bonanza, a true new Wild West. It’s definitely the last chapter in savage capitalism, and they wish to be cast in the biggest, hippest reality show ever!

…But dear reader/audience member, don’t take it personally, you are always an exception to the rule. You are somewhat different. –Tweet.

Upon their arrival they are willing to take any job on their way to a better one, displacing the working class, which made the city function for decades. They are even willing to be waiters, gardeners (as long as they are referred to as ‘landscape designers’), house cleaners (or rather ‘facilities personnel’) and even nannies, dog walkers to the rich and famous. The difference between then and now is they charge 3 times as much, and have no sense of labor ethics or a culture of service. After all, it’s just a temporary job on their way to Utopia 5.0.

Their dream begins to come true as they ascend in the instant socio-economic pyramid of the new city. They hit the jackpot. They get their official membership card to the bohemian theme park on an app and they begin to share in a post human culture.

“In this imaginary city, we no longer have citizens: we have self-involved ‘consumers’ with the latest gadgets in hand.” --Tweet.

It’s a virtual mob, not an informed citizenry, and they are slowly taking over every square inch of space and oxygen. Their navigation and communication devices are installed in their iPhone or iPad. And so are their identities, hollow dreams, “real” experiences; their nuvo-families, and all of their fictional memories.

You have seen these strangers: they seem to belong to micro-communities of 2 to 5 people.

When they are not at work, they go to smart cafes…to work more. They rarely make eye contact with anyone. They walk staring at their mobile communication devices in search for an anxious, “spontaneous” human connection by following a GPS map to their next appointment. They also stare at the screen while having dinner with colleagues because they’re “checking in”, messaging someone on Facebook, or taking a selfie with a famous person they will never see again. They even do this while listening to live music at a club. When driving, they have no etiquette. They get easily irritated by the unbearable traffic they themselves created and behave like the bad drivers they imagine reside in the Third World.

They rarely attend artistic activities. They’d rather go to exciting themed events and parties sponsored by companies. And they go to network, not to make friends, flirt, or find a lover. With the exception of sporadic online speed dating on Tindr or Ok Cupid, their sexual life is “frugal” for the lack of a meaner word

On their wildest nights, nothing ever happens out of the ordinary. Their most exciting days are Pride, Dia de los Muertos and Burning Man, where they get to be extreme tourists.

”But dear reader/audience member, don’t take it personally, you are always an exception to the rule.” – Tweet

For the poetic record: They are mostly “white,” (meaning gender or race illiterate). 70% are male and have absolutely no sense of the history of the streets they are beginning to walk on. In the way they behave, they make you wonder if they know, geographically and culturally speaking, where they are located and if they are even aware of the profound impact of their presence in the lives of the older inhabitants? Last night at a bar one of them felt compelled to confess to me he was angered by a “racist poster” he saw outside: The photo of a handsome mariachi with a gun:

“Gringas si; gringos no.”

I felt sorry for his lack of humor.

“In the way these vatos behave you begin to wonder if they exist in the same city you are or in a parallel quantum reality you are making up?”-

Tweet

In fact, they are easily annoyed by “difference” and have no problem letting you know or confessing it online. Verbigratia:

“Don’t believe the hype: This neighborhood is not a safe place! There’s still way too many Mexicans, hookers, lesbians & street freaks. Don’t come to live here!”

In the “creative city”, racism, sexism, homophobia and classism are passé…

I continue citing my poetic field notes:

These techno-vatos have no sense of philanthropy. Their savings are to be spent in gourmet food, gadgets, clubbing, fancy apartments and very expensive puppies, like French bull dogs, Italian Greyhounds, and Pomeranians … It’s a solipsistic frontier economy. And if you are mildly politicized you cannot help but to wonder, If each one of them prosperous locos would donate 5 % of their income to a social cause, we could improve housing, social services and schools for the poor, and the yearly art budget for the Arts Commission…but in this Darwinian age, that would be considered old-school communism, not venture capitalism…

”Here”, the future will come in a few days and the money they make must be spent in the immediate process of getting there. But ‘there’ is actually nowhere”—

Tweet.

Besides, the mandate of the city fathers, in cahoots with the developers and new entrepreneurs is to create by any means necessary a city for the white rich. Our ex-major Willie Brown, paradoxically a black “progressive democrat” put it succinctly once: “we want to create the Monaco of the U.S., and if you can’t afford it, you can leave!” Thanks, Brother Willie!

Well, it already happened…and yes we, the holders and perpetrators of cultural difference, “can’t afford it” but here’s the thing: We are doing everything possible to stay and remain a nuisance to the new urbanites and the greedy landlords and politicians who invited them.

By now,

I am clearly experiencing philosophical vertigo and political despair.

The symptoms are devastating questions in my diary:

“Are we the artists and activists left, merely stubborn? Are we delusional and engaged in a losing battle? Are we waiting for the San Andreas Fault to open up or for the Mission shamans to conjure up the collapse of the new economy? But what if all the Mission shamans have already been evicted? Will the city get so unbearably expensive that the leaders of the tech industry themselves will decide to relocate to another place? If only we stick around a little longer… Is it too late to talk about this? Is someone somewhere online reading my words?... Hello?

(…)

3 pages later my questions continue: “Should I attend tomorrow’s anti-gentrification march or is it time to finally pack up and go back to Mexico City? I wonder what is worse, overt organized crime or the gentler forms of organized crime in Technotopia? What is more violent: the menacing gaze of a homeboy or the absolute indifference of a techie? Dangerous difference or dangerous sameness?”

During the revision of the final draft, I become fully aware of my poetic subjectivity.

I know that my words are somewhat careless, partially unfair and devastating but I can’t help them. I am not a journalist. I am a performance artist and a poet, and my city has been taken away from me. It really hurts to walk the new streets of my refurbished ex-bohemian city. What can I say? I am deeply affected by the cruelty of indifference of its new population and I get sad when I stare at this unbearable ocean of cultural sameness and boring techno-normativity. I miss the grit, the funk, the unexpected, my dozens of close friends who have left for good. Am I repeating myself? Do I need to add a dictionary?

Dictionary (in progress):

Creative: A euphemism for successful

Here: Nothingness

Hipster: No one really knows. You just think you know. If you think you know, you most definitely are not one.

Local: Someone who used to live “here” when here was a place

Eviction: A euphemism for the eradication of difference

Google bus: A travelling gas-guzzling half-full office with chairs and no cubicles

Networking: A safe alternative to making actual conversation

Radical: An adjective for a franchise

Technotopia: San Francisco sans difference//A-critical techno-utopia

Underground: Another franchise

Vintage: 2

nd

hand object or a previously worn item of clothing sold for over $100

White: A bizarre state of mind that makes you attribute race to others with darker skin

(I wish to thank Balitronica, Emma Tramposch and Anastasia Herold for helping me to prepare the first version of this manuscript)

Thoughts on Central Ave. Jazz Festival by DBL

I have been tinkering with this idea of source.

When you are striped from your past removed from the source, mechanisms to make the real reasonable are distorted, reality keeps for the Other.  In the past few days I have been thinking about lineage.  at this moment I feel lineage is what helps memory retain the reason and the drive to move in the desired direction.

This weekend I attended the Central Avenue Jazz Festival.  There I witness lineage and connection.  Majority of the attendees were very aware of their lineage.  Locals that have lived through LA’s  segregation/ or separation that still leave noticeable divides in the land. 

I try to comprehend what it feels like to be fenced into a certain sector of the geographical scape?  What kind of thoughts would you have if it was still hard to live in any other place?  What if they told you, you were wrong.  Wrong for thinking there was still such a thing as segregation.  What feelings would you be able to construct when White Reason (I find it twisted to use this faulty binary race code)  still does not explain your present condition.  In the while the Other imposes on your community.  If you can understand what it is to see the affiliated family you adhere to still being seen as alien natives, African Americans, what sentiment would you gain.  Here as long as any other non-native, yet acceptance only for the "positive" end of this two sided spectrum. 

While walking around the festival, when I wasn't stuffing my face, I saw a community holding on to a genius culture but subjugated to self hate, which has attacked other communities as well.  Still I saw so much joy and love.  The music was enjoyable to every last note.  The caliber of musicianship brought to the doorsteps of community was too much for me to contain.  At this time in my age I find perfect joy in seeing others bask in spectrum's I only peek at.  A stare of the two.  Exchanges that only two felt shaping them as old memories and last favorites.  This community is rich with decades and elders, talent and unapologetic genius.  Roots are deep.  Lineage is strong. 

Me, my name is as generic as josie j.  End trails of clustered culture attached behind me.  Too strange to forget the past, subtly remembering mine, actively constructing its future.  The un-anchoring both forced and sought.  I hope to find some lineage.  I might see how lineage finds its flower at the end of a long system of tendon-roots infinitely connected.

How connected?  Live in LA long enough and the roots will grab you by the leg.  Major Garcetti, old jr. high schoolmate Anthony Wilson (son of Gerald Wilson), played a surprisingly clean small piano solo, a bit shaky at first but pleasant. As I can attest to live a life time in LA and you would see yourself another character in this interconnected landscape. On this same day of July 25 2015, LA dedicated 42nd and Central Ave as Gerald Wilson Square.  Gerard Wilson of Shelby, Mississippi arrived here in 1940 because it was a place that welcomed and allowed him certain access.  The Dunbar hotel located on Central Ave. was the nicest hotel that welcomed black musicians.  Gerald Wilson remained in LA living a few steps from his community, historically rich Leimert park.  A jazz giant.  An artist uniting his community.  He lived with his wife Josefina Wilson, modestly.  Artists construct our reality we owe them for our sanity.  They all should live a bit above their choosing of comfort.  An Artist and a teacher Gerald Wilson was everything an artist aspires to be.  Influential, respected and remembered, a good man. 

I walked along the festival streets and write this as an outsider, welcomed in a beautiful culture that I see myself a part of.  Born on foreign land removed from source. A different character connected to a lineage of colonization.  A crusade victorious in embedding its symbols and drives.  In this binary you can only fall on one side if you are heavy with color and conviction.

My Wishes for 2015 (Gómez-Peña re-writes his wishes for 2014) by DBL

*Reprinted without permission.

My Wishes for 2015

(Gómez-Peña re-writes his wishes for 2014

Recent portrait of Gómez-Peña by Piero Viti. Taken in

Venice, Italy December 2014

I wish

to live life as if I had no fear, as if there was no war, no danger; as if governments and crime cartels didn’t exist.

I wish

to live life by the strange rules of poetry, performance art & quantum physics.

I wish

that radical tenderness and uncompromising aesthetics remain the driving forces of our performance troupe.

I wish

that all my artist friends find a dignified job closely resembling their dreams and obsessions.

I wish

that all my activist friends find the spiritual strength to continue fighting the necessary fight on all fronts.

I wish

for all migrants to cross the borders they wish to cross successfully & safely.

I wish

that all indigenous people find ways to survive and thrive against all corporate and government odds and monsters.

I wish

for the homeless of the world to find food, shelter, medicine and friendship. These are basic human rights.

I wish

that all my friends and their friends find tender lovers to survive the loneliness of the American night.

I wish

that Obama has an epiphany while taking a shit and remembers who he is, or rather who he could have been.

I wish

for the new pope to continue to become more radicalized and get lost every night in the streets of Vatican City catering to the poor and destitute; to immigrants and sex workers.

I wish

for the prison industry to collapse; for black and Latino youth to find a place of dignity in America.

I wish

for the global project to continue derailing ad nauseam.

I wish

that all the greedy landlords trying to evict the working class and all politicians trying to deport immigrants suddenly wake up with poetic amnesia and an empathetic heart.

I wish

for America to stop fearing otherness and diversity; and for white Americans to become less self-involved, arrogant & entitled.

I wish

for the masterminds and perpetrators of war and violence to experience a daily living and unbearable hell; payback can’t wait for their next reincarnation.

I wish

my mother a smooth journey to the other side. She waited 92 years to make sure that her children and grand children got their shit together.

Now that she is gone, I wish to make peace with my intergalactic orphan-hood and with each of my multiple identities.

I passionately commit to make all these wishes come true, even if only in the realm of imagination, poetry, grassroots activism and art.

The Búto Flúto: Reflections on Self Derived Relics by DBL

I am Media.

I am the Media.

We are the brick wall woven into a circle.  A flat sphere with no borders.

El centro es el ojo.  Aqui los encontramos.

El Central, donde se cerra el ojo.

Si se manifica se repete.  

*      *     *     *     *     *

The Búto Flúto

A Self Derived Ceremonial headpiece.

Made of mahogany reclaimed from an old Baptist church/ Pentecostal Church in South LA.  The Búto Flúto also consists of poplar wood, steam bent ash from the city of Long Beach, purple heart wood, a hacked Gakken Anolog Synth (SX-150), a custom pre-amp with circuit bending copper contact points, wires, a mic and speaker which is the wooden conical shape. 

It has been with me since 2008.  It has broken many times and can be fussy. 

The sound... it does some interesting things that I am still figuring.  Do to the mic and speaker in close proximity it does a feed back loop similar to most of my wooden speaker box art sculptures.  Because it is a noisy circuit (not very well insulated) It is sensitive to magnetic fields and radio waves, which add interesting behaviors coupled with its SX-150 sound. The circuit bended pre-amp has a flutey sound to it and can rise and lower in pitch when finger are slid along the copper.

There is a track playing in the back ground but most of the sound is the Búto Flúto (on a loop pedal) since it was recorded through its built in mic and speaker. The recorder was held to the speakers funnel.

It has developed it own meaning which I am still understanding.  Steeming from punk anarcho angst, indigenous stirrings, reflecting respect for the ancestral trees, experiments with electricity, now turning into a critique of transhumanistic ironical twist which requires me to add metal hardware (on a piece once only made of wood joinery) for speedy assembly and transportation, but mostly do to damage from performances or general use. A work in flux. 

I hope you get to hear it sometime.  I will be with me on tour.

Photo by Vishal Goklani

f

resh and new

2008

no syth, wings were once longer

Photos by  Jeremy Eichenbaum

2014

Photo by Brenn Lowe Graphics by josie j

Tuesday Update by DBL

Travelers About,

On the road to Montana. A lovely place that has captured my Heart. Nice folks and accepting enough for me to ignore the lack of diversity but open my eyes to the natural beauty of this great nation.  Enjoying this year with many friends, many fruits that have ripened, and oh so much potential. 

WHEREAS HOWEVER :BONANZA 2

Oh what a ride. To soon to share with you, the non-witness, the many fotos that should arise. From the reaction of the good group of Witnesses that were there I think it was a great success. 

It is great having Brenna back in the troupe. With visiting performer Grace Smith the ritual unravelled to reveal a scene common in this hedonistic culture we are breeding. For better or worse.  A scene where every thing is consumed even the excrements. 

CT Assaults did a wonderful job creating a space where one stepped into and was transported to an altered mindset, an open mindset.  Brenna with a keen eye presented a most pleasant light to engage in. PRESENT you always rock.Much  love to all.  

It was an enjoyable evening of sound and  ritual. Always a pleasure to see Joey Molinaro and Nagual Sun. S&Ndc&stl& and Ar'k I had never heard until then but were quite enjoyable, thats an under statement. 

Until the next one. 

Tour

Yes possibly in December we are gearing up  for a  West Coast tour. More details later in the year. 

:

There are more and more things to consider as I age. More reasons to organize and more critical events occurring in our world. As I find the strength and the drive to see this project delivered I thank you for your good vibrations that you send me. 

Tuesday Post Now Tuesday Updates by DBL

Evening,

Due to works in process Tuesday Night Post will now be Tuesday Updates.

This will include works in process, writing on art and theory, updates on future shows, and thoughts on past ones. I hope the creative drive in the posts remain active.

There are a few shows now in process. July 4 and July 11 are ones approaching.

On July 4 the DivineBrick Troupe will see the return of Brennan Lowe. Since his last performance with us in Parallax Beach he has graduated from school and will be performing with us until his next path in life opens.

Tuesday Night Post # 3.5 by DBL

Workers,

Work is a way to live for death.

-DBL





I misalign go home on my back I realign.
This vehicle of growth even in death does it find a way to dine on misfortune.

This is the irrational growth that I fine myself wanting to explore
This is where phenomenon we still don’t fully understand relate. From this comes seemly chaotic growth. Cancerous on one end, self healing on the other.

a genetic pattern, a fractal existence, a war unending.

A bread crumb deliciously place at the end of surrender. Allowing Wealth to unwind. Towers that tall they fall with vengeance, adding numbers to the body count. Punishing as it loses stature.

A glitch in your terms. numbers deconstruct as they reconstruct adding distant to the equation. They do not fully explain a multi-dimensional phenomenon.

A larger arch that I don’t see but sense its there. That is my hopes to find and explore. A bit vague this descriptions are. My hopes is to leave the space that is need for ideas to Growth.

Tuesday Night Post #3.6 by DBL

Dear Visitors,

Options are there, third party System.

Creation

Evolution

Ancient Astro-not


-DBL








Musings on DivineBrick


Any good start begins with a solid under-structure. What keeps the pieces together is the frequency the negative thoughts trigger the self replicating behaviors. As before,... the Ouroboros, the irrational numbers, the wheel of life, the cycle of abuse. Positive feed back methods to induce the basic structure, decomposed.

DivineBrick methodology (at this state in time) is to deconstruct the self, which represents the collective self, in doing so belief should be expelled. Attacking the collective self, ripping it wide open, exposing faults and control mechanisms.

Building brick by brick encasing the blue gem. This is not a wall nor a pyramid. It is a path way flat and endless. No hierarchy can represent life energy manifested.

Bricks are square but bricks are made of bare earth. Human hands forcing shape, earth obliges. Human children played with mud, shaping, wishing, playing. Playing and Ritual, that is what we do. Breakthroughs or Beautiful representations. This is what we do. Pretend. We role play the Maker, the Grower, we replicate what we do not understand, our external world. External forces wakes us, teaches us, shaping us. This transformation no matter the method is a privilege and some how a birth right we have.

This Belief methodology is an alternative choice that I choose to choose, a cozen gift to not take lightly. My re-search lead me to the simple building block.

the brick
the cell
the room
the space
the net
the fabric
the self
the unit
the piece

This is the DivineBrick Methodology. Searching from the roots pulling on vines.



Tuesday N[ight Post #3.4 by DBL

Well Rested,
I am not. A short half awaken thought.
-DBL


To some the obvious selection for failure is the fool. Shrouded with fabric that only children can see, this idiot surmised quick with no mistake. A fault on a jagged cliff side gets lost in rhythm of the irregular.

A hat to signal approach, in the fools walk you can see, stumbles fluidly. Just a laugh is a iron steaming hot bent on spreading this embedded joke. Clinging to concepts desires left alone, abstracted, detached the fool seems malnourished of everyday foes. Just a joker to twist-a-side the truth, in the corner the fool ties the shoe.
In the moments you try to find clarity in the actions that border on obscurities, there the fool traces what can be seen. Picture pleased, there the fool hides in actions.


Tuesday Night Post #3.3 by DBL

Programs,


System Reformation. Belief Reformatting. Corporal Reformation.


-DBL










can systems really be about destruction?
de-constructing what is not understood
breaking apart what needs to stay
exploring touching reaching for a core that does not substitute
voices recall the past reformed
tongues collided fire revolves
center to the draft of senses
of need
of taste
of knowing and recalling

systems feel
do they feel?
does human well being involve feeling?

feeling is core?
this narrative of sight belongs to us
me the vision seeker-the Light bouncer
deforming planes confusing eyes
deceiver of the Light



efficient divider grower of worth
on this dividing line that she sensed
cubs were lost blood lines severed
her four legs knew this rhythm well
its the constant motion that delivers this sense of vast space
space so vast there is only self
the outer reached it limit
the inner reached a depths profound
Deliverer of Light she will never forget your smell
She tasted you once, strike you down
severed member searcher of Light
She sees no road
She sees no inner end
She pounds on pavement, crumbled glass
soft sands of beaches along the coast
tracking lacking worth





Tuesday Night Post #3.2 by DBL

Lovers,

Its tuesday

-DBL

At this moment I am frustrated.   Dealing with caves of pastured  hills I resist but I enter, knowing what will occur will be a sense of being outside in the darkness.   Just as the walls are moist, so are the chilled blue blades of grass.  This is where I end up tired and achy.  On trips to wild reactions and decisions I take my naps in institutions.  Naturally the seeds that germinate from this conclusion share the same commitment as my execution.  Dialing the proper number to call the doctor, to fill the prescription that murders the patient, in this proof your fail is the solution.  Redialing context of dissolution I stand proud on broken and swollen legs.  Tree trucks left to spoil, finding necks long and hard, wheels in mud stuck, the child cherishes his freedom.  

With growth and pain rounded fingers feel around as wealth regains.

With repetition I find nostalgia when nothing changes assuring I remember the following.

With repetition I lay my head at the feet I adore without no standards.

With repetition I assure the memory deforms in dome or shelter bending as needed for the assault.

Gems, found in beds left for dead.