Thursday, February 28, 2008

It Could Be Worse

You know, I know this family of mine is messed up. Chepa, my wife/ex-eife has a new boyfriend and two babies with him. We sometimes fight about money, about girls she thinks I have in Iquitos, Peru--where she's from--and all sorts of things. But then there are other times, like tonight, when she comes over for dinner with Madeleina--I asked her to bring Madeleina because she's been sleeping at Chepa's for 4 of 7 nights since I returned from Peru two weeks ago and I miss my kid--and she did, without hesitation. And she brought Sierra and Alexia as well and I sang to the babies and made dinner and Chepa just raved about the food and apologized for not doing my toe nail-which are killing me--and laughed when Sierra called me Dad and Papi, along with "P", when she yelled that we had to feed the goats. And Chepa laughed at jokes and got flirty and then she and I had a sit-down with Marco and he couldn't believe we were on the same page, and he still got it. And then Madeleina said she was going to sleep at Mom's tonight but would sleep at our house the the next few days and Sierra gave me four or five big kisses and asked if I would see her in the morning with fresh strawberry juice (strawberries, banana, oranges, milk, water and sugar, like they make in Iquitos, Peru) and I said yes and so she saids "Okay dad, see you with juice in the morning" and so I've got a purpose to wake up tomorrow and man, sometimes, even though this family is about as buste4d as it can be, it still feels like we'll be the same circle in 20 years as we are today. And you know what? Despite me needing a lover in an awfully big way, this wouldn't be the worst, and might be the best crowd I could hang with when it's my time to check out. I don't know why and maybe I'm just hanging on rediculously, but I still think this is my crowd. And tonight at least, that felt real and that felt honest and good. Even though we're busted.
P

Those Boys of Mine

Well, Italo didn't make the cut with the pro-soccer tryout and Marco hasn't yet apologized for calling me a Stupid Old Man, Mother Fucker or however it was he phrased it.
Yesterday, before he looked at who was still in the pro-tryouts, Italo came out and asked me what the word perseverance meant. I told him it meant the ability or willingness to keep trying at something. He asked me if it was the same as persistent. I said it had the same root, but perseverance was almost always a good thing, while someone who is too persistent can be a pain in the ass. At least in general use.
And then this morning, though he didn't tell me me didn't make the cut, I flipped over an envelope on the kitchen table and there in black magic marker was something like "Italo Gorman is a worthless piece of shit. He can't do anything, sucks at everything...." and so forth. There was a marker on the table and I'm guessing he must have written it sometime last night or maybe this morning before he want to work.
I'm sorry buddy. Time to apply some perseverance. You'll make the cut next time. THis was your first glimpse at that level of play. Relive it, absorb it, utilize it.
Marco, on the other hand, backed Chepa's new (1998) Plymouth van right into the quarter panel on my 1998 Ranger, nearly crushing the gas cap and really giving the truck some character it didn't need. He did it in the driveway, not realizing that my truck was parked behind and to the right of Chepa's van that he'd borrowed.
He felt awful about that one. Just started sobbing how sorry he was and that he deserved to die and all. I took a look: it sucks but won't interfere with the door opening, so who cares? Accidents happen.
Funny thing is he can apologize for an accident like that but not for choosing to call me names most people wouldn't get away with.
Even funnier: at some point during his guilty funk he put three $20 bills on my desk to help pay for the damages. I saw them and left them there. This morning when I came back from taking him to work at 4:30 AM or so, they were gone. I guess his guilt only lasted so long and I wasn't quick enough in putting them into my wallet.
Ah well, what the heck. I still love them both.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Pusangas: Love Potions

Someone wrote me today, someone I don't know, who asked if I could tell her where to find Pusanga Love Oil. A pusanga is a love potion. They can be quite strong: If you make a pausanga by using a Q-tip to collect the pollen from 24 datura flowers and mix that into a tea that you brew for half an hour, the person drinking the tea will become very open to suggestion. And they will be open to the suggestions you make for years. Of course, any time one is dealing with datura, there is the chance that the person being served will flip-out and might never come back. But decoctions made from datura are the famous mickey finns that have had tourists in Colombia go and empty their bank accounts for perfect strangers, or allowed them to give up a kidney in the bathroom of a nightclub, only to wake the next orning complaining that their back hurts--only to discover that someone took one of their kidneys.
In Iquitos Peru and in Colombia, the datura pusanga I mentioned above has worked so well for some people that their desired lovers cling to them so closely that the person who administered the pusanga finally has killed their lovers just to get a moment alone in the bathroom.
So while some and probably most pusangas are worthless, some are quite potent. I have never used one, though I was tempted many times when Chepa left me and I couldn't fathom why. I thought that if I just used a pusanga she would return to me and I'd be happy again. But I knew that would be a lie: I wanted her to return, of course, but of her own volition. Still, many people who know a great deal about this wanted to help for the sake of the kids and taught me quite a lot on the subject. Fortunately I resisted. Unfortunately, Chepa never returned. Ah, well.
Anyway, one of the simplest pusangas, and one I have seen work numerous times, though I can't pinpoint why is the following, which is in the answer I wrote to the young lady asking me for the Pusanga Love Oil.
This was my answer:
"There are lots of love oils, all available in Belen market in Iquitos. There are lots of pusanga curanderos in Iquitos as well, and someone at the Belen market will steer you right.
"Know something about pusangas: Eventually, they wear off, and the person who had the pusanga might respond badly, as if they were in a love affair against their will. It doesn't always happen that way, but often enough.
"That said, the safest and perhaps one of the most successful of all pusangas is this: make the person you love three meals a day for three days (if you can get them to hang around that long). Before each serving, think of your love and spit into their food. Mix it so they won't know it.
"After 9 meals, they will be inexplicably drawn to you: Your saliva will act as a homing device to their love.
"Again, be careful. When the attraction wears off--and with spitting in their food it needn't as you can continue the pusanga for years--they can get quite upset with the feeling that they've been used against their will, despite the fact that when under your spell they will love being there."

Monday, February 25, 2008

This Family of Mine

Ah, this family of mine. I wouldn't choose another. I love them all. But Marco, without a car--since one of my Ford Rangers broke two months ago and I won't have the money to fix it till next week--wakes me daily at 4:30 AM for a ride to work. Today he had me drive him to his girl's house and then began calling at 7 PM for a ride home. No big deal but it is a seven mile round trip and I had just put a chicken in the oven and started a tomato sauce to have with bow-ties (a simple tomato with basil/ shaved parmesan and mozerella) and couldn't pick him up till it was done. I don't like leaving the stove on when no one is home and no one was home as Chepa had Madeleina, Sarah was at work, and Italo was out. So I finally called Marco at 8:10 and said I'd I'd pick him up in ten minutes. Two minutes later he calls and opens with "Hey, you stupid fucking old man..."
I had to cut him off. "Marco. Are you talking to me? You don't really want to get into it with me, do you? Cause you and Italo are the only guys who can use that phrase and not get into it..."
"I know. And I'm sorry. What I meant was you don't have to pick me up. I'll get a ride from someone else."
"Then that's what you ought to say."
"Sorry, dad."
"Much better. I'm the guy doing the favors here, right?"
So that was Marco today. Do him favors, get called a stupid old man.
Italo, on the other hand, went to work at 4 AM, finished work at 9AM, came home and left at 9:30 for a tryout with the Dallas Burn, the American Soccer League team from Dallas. He's not home yet, and I'm sure, with a bad ankle he got playing in this semi-pro team's playoff Saturday night, that he couldn't have played up to par, but I'm still gonna give it to him for going to the tryout, an open forum. Boy has balls of steel: You got to thing you're special to show up and tell a pro coach you ought to be on his team, knowing he's probably going to laugh at you, tell you you're too slow, too small, not skilled enough and so forth.
So I'll find out in the next hour or so when he returns and I'll tell you guys how it went. All I know is that Italo has made every team he's played on better by large strides. On the semi-pro team, if you remember, he made the practice squad some months ago and was thinking of quitting. I told him to hang in there, he'd get his shot. And he did. Over the course of the season he wound up grabbing half or more of each game. And in the last playoff game he played the entire game, defending well, having two assists and scoring once--as a midfielder. And if he ever makes the Dallas Burn, he'll make them better as well. He's just that kind of influence.
Two sons. I love them both.
P

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Pot Dealing Woes

Well, this morning, Feb 23, there was a story in the NY Daily News about a 72-year old guy from Harlem, NYC who was busted in Maryland with about 65 kilos of pot. The story notes that Rodell Cole, a retired city painter on a pension and social security, was enroute from NYC to the Carolinas when he had a fender bender in a 7-Eleven parking lot. A cop happened to see it and asked Cole for his driver’s license. It turned out to be suspended and the police who came to the scene told Cole they’d have to impound the car, but that he could take his personal belongings out. Cole, who has such a bad cataract in his left eye that he’s virtually blind in that eye, then tried to remove two large duffel bags from the trunk. The cops smelled pot, brought in a K-9 and Cole was busted.
The kicker to the story is that the local police estimated the pot’s worth at $1.3 million. But the pictures accompanying the story clearly show that it’s Mexican brick weed, which sells for maybe $600 a kilo by the time it reaches New York. Which means it hits maybe $1,000 a kilo when it’s finally distributed. But the police, DEA and FBI have always liked to figure the numbers high. In this case the police figured that if each individual gram of pot—there would be 65,000 in 65 kilos—was eventually sold for $20, the going rate for the best marijuana in the world, it could be worth the $1.3 million. Cole, who said he was simply told to deliver the goods for $500, had his bail set at $1 million.
In fact, Mexican brickweed, the cheapest and most plentiful pot on the market, is rarely, if ever, sold by the gram. And if it is, it runs maybe $5 a gram on its best day. But mostly it’s sold in larger quantities because the quality is so poor that you need a lot to get high. So a better figure would have been to assess the value at $600 a kilo and call it a $39,000 bust. Of course, that wouldn’t have looked as good on the local television stations or in the NY Daily News. There’s no headline in "Grandpa with one eye paid $500 to deliver cheap pot gets busted after fender bender."
Of course, I'm thinking of the Keystone of it all: Who the hell hires a one-eyed 72-year-old with a suspended license to be their long distance dope driver? What were those boys in NYC thinking? They didn't do a license check on their driver? They didn't have him get a ticket in NYC to make sure the police ran a check on him so that they'd know if he had a good license or not, or whether he had any outstanding warrants or not? Jeez, Louise, those boys near deserve to lose their dope if that's how dumb they are.
Anyway, they're dumb. But the local cops who told the press it was a $1.3 million haul, now they're just flat-out liars. And they know it and knew it and said it anyway. And the local press didn't call them on it. Shame on the sheepish press, just printing what they're told without regard to looking for the truth in it. Makes me embarrassed to be a journalist sometimes.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Money Money.....

Money changes everything...
I don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love...
I want money...that's what I want, I want money...

Well, well, well. The gorman's got the check from the State this week for the latest land taking for the new road coming through our neighbors' and it was a whopper! $40 grand. For rich people that ain't nothing, but for me and mine that's a year and three month's work. And considering the year I just had, well, whew! is all I can say. Thank you Baby Jesus!
Butttttt......getting that money meant that my wife/ex-wife decided she was worth at least $10 grand of it. Why? Who knows. We were separated long before I bought this house, and in fact I never would have bought it if she hadn't bolted NYC with my Madeleina to come live with Cabeza de Hamburgesa--HamburgerHead himself, Mr. Vic. And to afford that she used the $20 grand I gave her to buy their house...Nonetheless, somehow she felt entitled to at least $10 grand and it was only by a miracle that our taxes were ready on the same day we got the check. Now the problem with both checks: We both had to sign them both--the taxes and land taking--because 1) we filed taxes together and 2) even though I bought my house in Texas in my name only, the Department of Transportation wouldn't issue a single name check to a married man because it's terrified of future lawsuits.
So what luck that both checks were drawn on the same bank on the same day. Because Chepa was ready for a fight. And I wasn't going to have any of it. She's never contributed a penny to this house or property and though I love her, fair is fair: She's got a boyfriend and he's supposed to be taking care of her business, yet I paid last two car payments, bought several hundred dollars of groceries,a new and bigger car seat for Sierra the queen and clothes this week for beautiful newborn Alexa. And I'm on my way to bring milk for the babies over to Chepa in about one minute. So I'm doing my share.
Check signing time. Chep asks how much she's getting from the $40 grand. I tell her I'll give her $4 grand just for a present. She raises the roof. I look at the tax check. "I'll let you have the whole $3,100 refund and forget the two car payments if you sign the big check. That's $8 thousand for two signatures. Not a bad day for an amatuer writer. Hell, I've only had two days that good in my whole writing career and they didn't involve just signatures."
She did it. I exhaled.
And then I came home and looked at the $40 grand check and made the list of people who need to be paid: $4500 for my last operation, on credit cards; $750 to finish paying off October trip coordinator Virginia's unpaid bills in Peru; $4,000 for Chepa; $3000 to Chuck and Larry for loans they made to save this house for us five years ago...and on and on until it turns out that $40 grand check is really a $12,000 check. Not bad. I will have paid everyone in the universe off, all the friends who have helped me who expect money back, but the reality is it's not a $40 grand check. It's a nice little check that will allow me to get the kids' passports and citizenship done for about $3 grand, to get my car fixed, to buy a new washing machine and a few hundred bucks of paint we need and to sock maybe half of the 12 away for a rainy day, which might come tomorrow.
So I'm fat like a cat that just ate good. But I still ain't rich.
Still, it'll be wonderful to get those nagging debts done with. Can't wait till the check clears.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Another New Dog

Well, Marco came home from taking his girl to work with another new dog. We've had so many new dogs and so many dogs hit by cars that I'm terrified. I'm thinking of calling the new dog Dead because they can't resist the call of the road and don't understand that if you chase an 18-wheeler and run between its wheels you're just Ted Nugent road kill and ready for the skillet or another hole in our back yard.
Marco got this dog, a real real beautiful black dog with brown feet we're going to call Sneakers, from a woman who was giving them away. He's had no shots, no nothing and is 8 weeks old. Pick him up and smell him and he still has his birth fur, that thick and still angel-scented fur of just being born. I'll get him shots tomorrow and he'll quickly learn to distrust me because when I pick him up I'm going to stick a needle into his neck and shoulder muscle. It will prevent distemper, which Blue had and which was awful to witness, despite, or perhaps because of how much I loved Blue. But the dog will still never trust me again. Nuts.
And Marco spend the afternoon fixing holes in the fencing behind the house. That's an area of about 40 foot by 80 foot, plenty of room to live in. But that dog is still going to see the other fence, the one the goats live in, which is 300 feet by 200 feet and want to be there. And then this dog is going to notice that Boots can go over the whole property, ignoring fences, and cross the road, and chase ambulances and fire engines and he's going to want to do that. And what he is not going to know is that Boots got hit by a car and broke his hips at six months. I nursed him back to health after setting his hips (I got lucky on that one, believe me) for months, carrying him to a place to poop, staying up some nights when he was in extreme pain, giving him a little beer or whiskey to alleviate the pain to allow him to sleep--doing what any pal would do when a friend is sick. And now Boots is the best guard dog in the world. He doesn't bite but boy he looks scary. The mailman knows him for two years and is still terrified. And god-forbid the people who need our driveway to turn around in: Boots has them peeing in their pants. But then Boots knows to stay on the side of the road, in the ditch, even when chasing cars or bicyclists. And he wakes me at night if there's anything suspicious. He can bark pretty fiercely.
Best of all, Boots, like his father Spike, the greatest dog who ever lived and who disappeared while I was on a trip last year, poops and pees at least 100 yards from the house. He's a real gentleman that way.
And now there's Sneakers. What a gorgeous baby. I've always taken care of my human babies, whether mine or just in my charge, very well. I might be boring but I teach them what to do and how to do it and how to think for themselves and how to accept love and how to avoid fake love and how to work and all that jazz. I've been less successful with my dogs. They have all, except for Blue and Spike, wanted to run under car wheels on a 60 mph road. And they've always lost, which is why my garden soil is so damned productive. We've probably lost 8 dogs in the last six years. And I wish we had every one of them because they were all fantastic.
Anyway, this is the announcement that we've got a new dog, Sneakers, and that I hope and pray we can keep him in the interior fenced back yard and that he can have a great life and live till he's 20.
And in the oven is a 7-pound boneless pork roast sitting on celery, onion and garlic and surrounded by carrots and sliced potatoes and that was probably someone's pet pig. And I'm sorry I had that pig killed. Along with being sorry for the celery and other veggies. All of you will eat my dogs or me in short order. And I hope we serve you as well as you're going to serve us tonight.
Amen
Let's eat.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

The Recent Jungle Trip

Well, I had a couple of tough trips recently. The June trip included a couple of women who had no business being on it for a minute, much less for 22 days. The October trip ended with the organizer splitting the country owing nearly $5 grand in unpaid hotel fees. The big January trip was cancelled when the organizer needed to borrow all the funds to save her dying husband with serious and emergency surgery. Whew! Talk about a lousy year: I was an emotional wreck and financially devastated. Add to that the three emergency surgeries and I don't know how I even functioned, much less flourished. But I did and I'm nearly better (though my stomach is still sore and there is one muscle that hasn't entirely healed yet, leaving me in excruciating pain when I do anything that calls on that particular muscle). Hey, I'm not complaining here, just making a note to baby Jesus that he might consider healing tha last muscle a bit more quickly!
And then there was this late January trip. It wasn't even scheduled, but when the big trip organizer told me that trip was full, I had to put an extra trip on for a couple of private clients that I thought I could fit into the big trip. And then I had to work hard to get a few more clients to make the trip financially doable.
In the end I had 10 people. Two of th em were from Men's Journal magazine. And you know what? This trip is going down as one of the very best groups I ever had. I didn't hear one complaint, about anything--and the trip isn't all that easy, what with long boat rides, night canoeing, bathing in the river, doing serious medicines that knock you to the ground and leave you begging for mercy. Not one peep. What a wonderful group of adventurers. They took all I could dish out and I think most of them loved most everything. I may find out differently when they begin to write me or if the magazine story says I sucked from day one, but until that happens I am one happy guy.
And I didn't get any wild flesh-eating spider bites, didn't burst any more intestines or get botfly infestation. Just had a blast. I love being out in the jungle.
And this year I am going to do my best to get down there at least once without any guests, so that I can do some exploration of my own. I've got some pyramids--or pyramid formations, out there that are just begging me to investigate them. Whether they're man-made or a geolological anomaly doesn't matter. Either way they'd be vital to our understanding of certain lowland indigenous groups in the area. If man-made, of course, they'd be the find of all South America from an archaeological standpoint. If a geological anomaly then the wind that carved two rows of six pyramidal shapes in the middle of nowhere would also have carved caves into the limestone. And if there are caves--now covered by vegetation--then animals utilized those caves. And if animals utilized those caves, then, man went in after them. In that case there might be some very interesting things to find, as man always leaves a footprint in the way of broken pots, hunting weapons, petroglyphs. And I need to get out there with some good sound resonance gear, a good archaeologist, maybe a good botanist and some others to spend a few weeks investigating them. It's a project I've been meaning to do for years now but I haven't had the finances. I still don't. But I am going to make an effort to get a grant, a loan or find a sponsor for the $30 grand it will take to cover the expense and try to get out there with my friend Lynn C (who promises to car bomb me if I try to go without him) and Richard A while I've got this enormous strength I still have.
Anybody know anybody who's looking to give money away, take your share first and then send them on to me, okay?
Two yars ago my daughter Madeleina gave me a green rubber bracelet that has the word "Endurance" cut into it. I haven't taken it off. And won't. And whenever I felt like giving up last year, felt like some guests were simply to much for me, or that the operations were too painful, or the money too short, well, I looked at that bracelet and saids Hell no. This is nothing. I've got endurance. And I've got my Madeleina. Can't quit yet.

A Short Note on Dietas

I've recently had two former clients stay on in the Iquitos area to begin dietas. And I made this point to them and I think it's a valid point.
For most Westerners, a no fat, no salt, no spice diet of boiled river fish and plantains is difficult to maintain. But that's not the case among riverinos. It is, in fact, the favorite meal among people who live along the river. My team, for instance, eats that meal several times a day, each time with relish, when we are out in the jungle. They could have eggs, chicken, potatoes, beans and tons of vegetables and fruits but the choice is always fish and plantains.
So during a dieta done by a local, the meal isn't something difficult, it's the break from the difficulty of being alone. It's the best time of the day for them, the comfort food time.
As to salt, well, salt simply isn't used on food in the river by the locals. Salt is used to preserve fish and meat and not squandered on meals. It's traditionally been a difficult commodity to come by and so traditionally isn't eaten. That's no longer the case, of course, but traditions die hard. And many curanderos doing dietas are eating fish that's been preserved in salt. So while they'll tell you no salt, that's not always the case, depending on the availability of fresh fish.
As to no spices? No one uses spices in traditional river food. If you have peppers they are for sale or trade, not for indulging in.
No fat? No meat fat, yes, but lots of those river fish have plenty of good fatty oils in them and they work fine with traditional dietas.
So I guess I'm just trying to clear up the notion that the standard dieta is a difficulty for curanderos doing a dieta. It's anything but. It's only a difficulty for us gringos who are not used to and don't love boiled plantains and fish.
For me, for instance, the dieta would be the equivalent of saying that I'd be having chicken soup every day for several weeks. Or for a vegan that they'd be having steamed vegetables and beans.
I think you just want to eat simply, but that self-flagellation is not the point, at least not to locals. So I think it doesn't need to be the point with us, either. Dieta is a time of solitude, of learning to commune with the jungle and spirits around you, of slowing down to the point where you can hear what those spirits are whispering. It's a time of getting strong and clean. If the physical diet you are on prevents any of that or has you dreaming of food, then that diet isn't helping you attain your goals and so isn't the right physical food diet for you. If it is, that's fine. If not, then I think it ought to be modified, that's all, without taking away the simplicity of it.
Ain't that a kick in the pants?

ADD ON: I don't think there is anything wrong with the traditional dieta food. I just wanted to give it a context. For most westerners, I would think it would be fine to have steamed vegetables and beans/lentils, cooked plainly for our vitamin/protein intake. A lot of river fish have thousands of little bones and they're difficult to get the meat from unless you've grown up in that culture. My kids can do it, my ex can do it; I just tend to spit out an awful lot of the meat with the bones.
I don't think you'd want sugar, because of the rush, and I don't think you'd want meat, because of the difficulty of digestion. I don't think you'd want nuts for the same reason. I think you just want to eat simply, but that self-flagellation is not the point with locals and it doesn't need to be the point with us, either. Dieta is a time of solitude, of learning to commune with the jungle and spirits around you, of slowing down to the point where you can hear what those spirits are whispering. It's a time of getting strong and clean. If the physical diet you are on prevents any of that or has you dreaming of food, then that diet isn't helping you attain your goals and so isn't the right physical food diet for you. If it is, that's fine. If not, then I think it ought to be modified, that's all, without taking away the simplicity of it.
Now, I have never done an official dieta. I didn't even know the word until five or six years ago. Julio never discussed it, never told me to do one. What I did instead was walk across the jungle several times with Moises, and because it was such a bother to carry much food, we would eat farina with water, or a bird if we got one, or some fish with hearts of palm, or rice. Always simple. Always to make you strong. And all day we wouldn't speak five words, for days on end. Moises would be in front, I'd be behind, looking for his trail markings. And we would drink ayahuasca with Julio before we left to put the jungle in my blood, and we would drink when we returned, to keep the jungle there.
So when I talk about dietas, I'm not any sort of expert here and don't pretend to be. I am an expert of what people eat in the jungle and how they prepare it and do know that the favorite meal is plantain and river fish. People will choose that over mahass or tapir or monkey nearly always.
So I really just mean to give a context to dieta food, not sound show-offy. And I've watched a lot of my guests go on to do dietas in the last few years and have a difficult time with the food. And that interfered a great deal with the work they were intending to do. And then this trip out I watched my team, all of whom grew up on the river, though they now commute to live part time in Iquitos, turn down all the great food they were making for us, or I was making for us, in favor of their plantains and fish. And suddenly what I'd seen for years made sense in terms of the dieta: That only gringo's suffer the food think on dieta, not these guys.
And since I'd never seen anyone make the point before, I thought I'd make it. That's all.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Hello, Everyone. I'm back

Hello, everyone. I'm back from the jungle. I'm jet lagged and tired and afraid I've nothing of great import to write tonight. I just want to tell you I'm home, have filled the cubboards and am ready to work. Chepa and Italo and Madeleina and Sierra and baby Alexia picked me up at the airport and we had my birthday celebration yesterday with an ice cream cake brought by Sarah, Italo's girl, who saluted me with a big hug and an "Is that Mr. Peter Gorman I see feeding the dog?" when she saw me, and Chepa made a flan that was great but not good enough for her so she made a second, perfect one, today, and Madeleina hugged me like I was her dad and she'd missed me and little Sierra demanded "P!" all day as she went through my jungle stuff and demanded to besmoked with mapacho cigarettes and blessed with Sgua Florida and Julio's special mix of mountain and jungle garlic/onions/camphor and cuma lunga seeds in aguar diente and I felt like dad and the head of the household, as Joan Armatrading might have sung some years ago. And Italo had redone Madeleina's room the way we'd discussed doing before I left and it's beautiful, though she thinks it too girly now, and Italo and Marco went over every inch of the house filling mouse holes till there are no more mice and nothing touched by mouse droppings left here--though they did toss a few of my favorite things. But I can live with that because their work and intentions were so good. And the goats are fine and the rooster and rat are fine and Boots is fine and the kids are good. So I'm home and all is okay and I hope all is good with all of you.
Thanks for your patience, guys and gals. When I'm working in Peru I just can't get my hear around anything else but the guests I have, and when the guests are gone I have a party for a few days and heck, I don't even remember most of that (though I did evidently win a fistfight against a pal of mine who thought I needed to be hit hard in the stomach to see how well the operations would hold up--I guess they held up well and the left to his eye proved he was human and not superman--so I guess it all went well.
Thanks for reading.
Love, me.

Monday, January 21, 2008

Leaving Tomorrow and Family is Insane

So I'm leaving for Peru Tomorrow for 20 days and my family is fantastically insane. At the moment I've got Uncle Clem's Chicken in the oven. Uncle clem, my mom's brother, who used to draw Farmer Grey cartoons, once won a national food contest with a chicken/asparagus dish. topped with mushroom sauce and cheddar cheese. My first and great love Clare Waugh, with whom I live 14 years and probably abused from self-centeredness that many years--I didn't know what love was, and I certainly didn't know how to receive it, though she sure knew how to give it (sorry Clare. I was so stupid and selfish)--misinterpreted the published winning entry--which got my uncle Clem a $5 grand prize. Her interpretation was sauteed chicken breast--diced--over broccoli, cooked with a mayonnaise/chicken stock/mushroom soup sauce and topped with mozarella cheese. Hers was better than Clem's. It was one of the dishes of the century and if you don't believe me ask for specifics. It was and is amazing.
So tonight I was making Clare's Clem's Chicken. And Chepa is not coming over to cut my hair and fix my toe nails. That's her job--by her say-so--whether we're still in love or not. I guess she's mad because I'm leaving. And Marco is tickling Madeleina to the death, and Italo is punching Marco and daring him to do a cool kind of pushup where you do a pushup on one hand off a soccer ball, then bounce up and change hands on the soccer ball. Italo did 100. Marco fell off the soccer ball on the first try. Which led Marco to re-tickle Madeleina, which led her to throw the soccer ball at me and to Italo screaming "Hey Dad! I can run the 40 in 2 seconds." He knows I timed him yesterday and with a slight incline on soft turf at 4.2 seconds. World class but not near 2 seconds.
Anyway, I guess people here are acting out a little. Dad's leaving. I'll be back in 20 days, hardly a hiccup, but that still means 20 days when they are answerable to themselves, not to me. And Marco is scared Italo will hold him to a higher standard than I do, and Italo's Sarah, Italo's live-in girl--is swearing that she'll cook for every one every night if I will only leave her recipes. I've already put 14 days worth of meat in the freezer, and enough juice/soda/milk to last till I return in the fridge--and more rice/potatoes/Quacker oats to last a year.
"Dad, I'm trying to think and I'm trying to watch TV. Stop asking me to find your backpack. If you don't know where it is, too bad. Don't go." That's Madeleina.
I'm going. I got people who expect me to be there. I'm not abandoning you guys. I love you more than you know. But I'm a dad. If this will pay the mortgage, this is our work. And I am going to do it with a great deal of love. I'll still miss you crazy guys. You're my family. But I got faith you can hold it together without me for a while.
Have a good time, okay? Don't hurt each other. Love each other. It's your chance to grow. So grow my beautiful flowers. I'm not far away.
Dad

Saturday, January 19, 2008

Do Gooders in the Amazon

A friend of mine recently brought up the issue of do-gooders in the Third World. I forget exactly what she said but I responded--and it's not my line--that do-gooders have done more harm in the Third World than all the bad men combined. She sort of asked me to explain myself. I'm not qualified to speak about the whole world, but I have spend time in India, north Africa, Mexico, Central America and lots of time in South America, particularly Peru. So my response is only from my experience but I think it's worth noting. Here was my response:
Girl, you killing me. This is a serious question/series of questions that man has spent thousands of years trying to answer. And I am nowhere near capable.
So here goes. When I say the do-gooders have done more harm than all the bad men combined, it's because the bad men are identifiable. A thief takes what he wants. If he comes back you kill him or try to kill him. A catholic missionary comes and explains to you that having four wives is bad, you believe them and lose three wives, and then those three wives die without the protection of a man in the jungle, and all their children suffer and your children with your first wife suffer because she cannot help hunt and take care of children and go to the fields and clean the camp at the same time. Do the missionaries know that? Maybe yes, maybe no. But there is a reason that men in the jungle have multiple wives: In the region of Iquitos women are born at a rate of more than 6 to one female to male. Up until 30 years ago, male mortality was 40% for men before 40, because of war/snakebite, and so forth. So with so few men, the women invited their sisters to join them. One sister might be first wife: She went hunting with the husband and controlled the camp. Second wife breast fed all the children, hers or otherwise. Third wife went to the fields to collect food. Fourth wife kept the camp clean. So missionaries coming in, thinking they had or have a corner on decency, tell the women they are being used/abused and convince the women to object to their positions and the man finally gives up the three extra wives, but then what? Who hunts for them? They can't hunt and take care of children and tend fields and protect the village. So they wind up hurt by the whole deal.
That's just an example and I know you already thought about that. But what about do-gooders who come in and tell the indigenous in the Third World not to kill a big cat because jaguars are precious. And then they don't and the big cat kills all the wild boars in the region and the indigenous have no more meat? What about the do-gooders who tell the indigenous that they should only harvest trees at certain times of the year but those times don't coincide with when the indigenous have traditionally harvested, leaving them to harvest trees during the same time it is time to hunt?
What about do-gooders who bring clothes to the indigenous? They might mean well but they don't understand that when the indigenous are naked they each pick at each other's skin to eliminate any bug/infection/larvae that's been laid on their skin that day. When people wear clothes they don't do that. And when people wear shirts in the jungle the mosquito bites infect from human sweat through shirts rubbing against them. So the do gooders kill them all by giving them clothes, which prevents the natural "monkey-clean" instinct.
Here in the US, Chepa, my wife/ex-wife, still comes over to clean me whenever I return from the jungle. She removes anything she doesn't like. She doesn't like me but knows that if I have an infection from a mite or a spider I might die and then the kids have no father. So that remains her job: Clean Peter, head to toe. And she's just like a monkey. And I have learned to do that to my kids and they do it to each other. And when do gooders come into a camp and explain that you shouldn't do that, people believe them and then it doesn't happen and then people die.
Those do-gooders are maybe not living in the swamps of the Amazon where there are 1,000 bugs that lay their eggs on you and which will eat through your skin, ears, eyes, hair, head, feet, and so forth if not taken care of.
So they don't mean badly. They simply don't understand the reality of the place. A large caiman may kill you in a moment. A boa can kill you in a minute. But there are thousands of species of insects that lay larvae under you skin that won't even leave the egg for years. So once you've been there you need looking after for years.
And those are just a couple of examples of the most apparent harm good people do.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Getting Time to Get to Peru

I've got a trip coming up. I leave on Tuesday, January 22. My first guest arrives in Iquitos on January 25. The remaining eight come the following morning. I'm getting jittery. One of my guests, with whom I've had a lot of email contact, wrote me a note today; for some reason I told him the truth. I usually do but the subject of jitters has ever come up before. Here's what I wrote him:

PETER GORMAN wrote:
You know, the prep time, the three or four days before you all arrive, is when I'm at my best. Just me and my team, running errands, checking things, figuring things. We sit in my hotel room, have a bottle of Jim Beam and maybe a bottle or 7 Raises (7 roots extracted into cane liquor, sweet but deadly), and Inca Cola and snacks like stuffed potatoes and rice balls, and count hammocks, check mosquito nets
for holes, inspect the medical kit to look for holes, check the
shotgun, count blankets, towels, pairs of good jungle boots, flashlights, batteries, spare bulbs, and a thousand other things that need checking. Get drunk, have a party, and work from 6 AM till Midnight making sure we've not forgotten anything. Those three days when I am there with them before you all arrive is like getting set for a rock and roll concert: Sound check, material check and party. And no partying till the check is Okay'd by me. And then all hell cuts loose. We've fit 35 people into my
hotel room sometimes when things get smoking. I live for that vibe.
It's so freaking scary to have you all coming down, the adrenalin rush is
awesome. What if we fuck up? What if we're not on our game? What if one of the women on the team has a new boyfriend and doesn't come? What if Mauricio, our 68-year-old wood cutter hurt his arm? What if there is a strike and there are no riverboats leaving when we have to leave? What if they hate us? What if they hate the jungle? What if they all die when they drink ayahuasca? What if we don't see an electric eel and one of them drowns? What if one of the guests grabs a snake he/she is sure is a constrictor but is actually a venomous bushmaster? What if what if what if???
We go through it like a football team: and then, suddenly, it's
game day and we're supposed to look all smooth and composed when we meet you at the airport at 6 AM a week from Saturday. "Hi, I'm Peter Gorman....", I say and we're all just scared to death and we hope you don't know that's bullshit.
So here's to looking smooth and you're the only one who knows we're
more scared of you than you are of us....
PG

Saturday, January 12, 2008

Science Fair Pay Back

I spent my entire school life avoiding science fairs. Avoid is a weak word here. I skipped them to the point where I can't remember ever doing any. Except one. But I remember my friend Bruno Valle, an otherwise awful student, going wild for them. In the 6th grade he made, from scrap metal in those days, not a kit, a robot that worked via remote control and had ball and socket arms and working fingers--basic working fingers--that could pick up and throw a ball. I was very impressed but could never imagine doing anything like that. And I wasn't one of the kids who did fruit fly experiments or any of the other standards either.
I did get juiced up for one science fair as a freshman in high school. My biology teacher had said that alligators had a heart and brain that was configured differently than ours, and that fascinated me. Or rather, what fascinated me was the opportunity to go to the pet store and buy an alligator. And I loved it until I realized that to do my esperiment I'd have to kill it. I wasn't much for killing animals, tell you the truth. I'd been hoping that I could just bring the thing into the class and then have Brother Stern tell me where to get photos of the different heart and brain sections. No chance. Instead of photos I was given a jar of formaldehyde, a syringe and instructions to carefully cut the heart and brain into their natural sections.
Well, the obvious happened and the formaldehyde opened on the way home from school and the other bus patrons--it was a public bus in Queens, New York, taking me from Bishop Reilly HS to my Whitestone home--made a scene over the chemical odor and I got tossed from the bus and walked the last three miles.
Home, I did something with the syringe but I forget what. It was probably something fun, like putting liquor into oranges or something but I forget. What I remember is that I had no idea of the syringe's connection to the experiment I had do to so I made some other use of it.
And that evening, I went to the basement with one of my mom's small pots, put my pet gator into it, filled it with the remaining formaldehyde, covered the pot and waited. I thought it would take a few moments and then I'd somehow have a dead and stiff as a board alligator on my hands to work with but instead, in just a few seconds the little guy pushed the lid off the pot and gasped for air. I was surprised and re-lidded him, this time with a weight on it. He thrashed, his tail slapping the sides of the pot and splashing the liquid. I didn't like that he was suffering and thought this was a stupid and selfish experiment and should have never been done, but I had to do it. So I went out to the backyard and then to the street: Nobody was around except for my friend Danny McGurran's little brother Jimmy. So I called him over and into the basement and asked what I should do. He had no idea but was as squeamish about the death throes as I was, and after uncovering the pot just long enough to show h im I really did have a small alligator we closed the pot again and went upstairs and snuck a cigarette out by the evergreen in front of the house. We waited an appropriate time, returned to the basement and checked: Sure enough the fumes had gotten to the gator and he was dead.
I put him on a table and tried to cut his head open with a knife. Didn't work. So I took a hammer and chisel and that did the trick but also cut the brain in half, crushing most of it. I had better luck with the heart, but it was so small it was difficult to see the sections without cutting it open, so I did, ruining any chance of identifying the sections.
So the experiment was a total loss, and worse, I'd killed a perfectly good alligator at the same time.
And now I'm dad. Somehow I managed to have Italo and Marco skip every science fair that ever came along--except one in which Marco made a rocket that flew pretty good and started a small grass fire here in Joshua. But times have changed and Madeleina has been forced to enter the science fair the last couple of years. I've already discussed the disastrous ant farm in a previous post so won't go into that here: Suffice to say that when all ants are dead the experiment is too.
This year she's doing the "which candle will burn the longest" experiment. That's one in which you have your dad scour the city to find several different companies that make identically sized candles--and remember that Johnson County is not exactly a hot bed of romance, so that's no easy task. Then you ignore them until the experiment is due, which is Monday, then you cry a lot and say you've been working very hard at thinking of the experiment. Not doing anything, but thinking.
The next step of this particular experiment is to have dad come up with a way to make this little worthless experiment turn into something that looks like science. Dad suggests you take pictures of the candles--along with height length and weight measurements, then burn them for an hour and take new measurements. Then burn them for another two hours and remeasure. As one of the candles promises--thank god--to burn out completely in 4 hours (a simple 'white linen scented $8.95 baby acquired from the hobby lobby), one additional hour should bring the experiment to a merciful end. And if the companies are not lying, one of the other candles should still have half it's weight, another three-fourths of its wright and the last, a 60-hour Sterno beaut, should almost still be new after the four hours.
My daughter not having fallen far from the tree, however, this experiment, which should have taken about 10 minutes to set up and start the fires burning--and let's fact it, not much to do but watch movies while the candles are burning--is nowhere near ready to start yet. Heck, it's only been about 5 hours today. "I think I should put the height and length before the wright on the cards, don't you, dad?" took a full half-hour. "Do we have lined cards to write on dad?" led to another half-hour search--fruitless, of course. So the experiment is derailed until I go to Walmart, and I can't go to Walmart for the cards until Marco comes back tonight from his girlfriend's so I have a vehicle to go in.
And yes, I just raised my voice when she stopped measuring and I asked her what the heck she was doing--standing in front of the television, natch--and with a straight face said "I'm looking for the ruler." "You can't be looking for the ruler. You are using the ruler. You were not to step away from that table until you had finished with the ruler. How the hell did you lose the ruler?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out...something happened..."
"Yes! Something happened. You walked away from the freaking table with the ruler in your hand! You have eight measurements to take. If each takes you 3 seconds the whole damned thing would take 24 seconds. Now get it done!"
And then she looked at me and very calmly noted--and correctly so, I suppose--"Well, dad, I don't really see what's the hurry. I mean I can't really finish it until you get the cards for me to write on and you don't look like you're in any big hurry to do that. And if you're not going to take this seriously, why should I?"
Ah well, the science fair waited a long time to get me. I should have known it was gonna happen someday.

Friday, January 11, 2008

A Question on Ayahuasca Apprenticeships

I was recently contacted by someone in Europe who has been drinking ayahuasca, the visionary vine of the Amazon, for a year. The person is now ready to embark on an ayahuasca apprenticeship and wrote me to say they were nervous about simply landing in a place like Iquitos, Peru and looking for a curandero to study with because there seems to be a sort of "shaman supermarket" in places like that, and this person would prefer something more authentic. They would, in fact, be willing to go live in a village somewhere and study with the local curandero there.
Which is admirable, but not necessarily a genuine possibility. Anyway, here was my answer to the person and I hope it makes sense to a few of you as well.

Dear XXX: Thanks for writing. I'm not really sure what to tell you though. In my experience with Julio, there really wasn't anything like an apprenticeship. He did have an apprentice in Salis Navarro, but Salis died. And he did have several students, called alumni, of which I am considered by the others to be one--though perhaps the most novice of the group.
And in my experience with other curanderos I'd say pretty much the same thing: There really were not apprentices.
What there was were fathers who taught their children, mothers who taught their children or neices, friends who lived on the same river who became interested in the healing plants and ayahuasca and who then hung around the curandero--just like friends--until something or other occurred to make them needed in the ceremony, to assist in some way, and I guess at that point they were considered apprentices. And people who work at it long enough learn how to make the ayahuasca and learn some admixture plant spirits that are friendly to them and learn how to make an arcana that will keep out the "lookie lou" spirits that always come around when it's ceremony time, and learn how to sing people to different places and how to see where those people are and whether they need to be sung home or sung further out than they are. And of course, they have to learn how to get the spirit of ayahuasca on their side, and how to tame--though that's a pretty arrogant word--spirit helpers and so forth.
And when those sons of curanderos, or friends of curanderos finally learn a lot of that, well, then luck will put them in a position to utilize that knowledge--either by helping the curandero or being needed to heal or being needed to retrieve a soul or whatnot.
But I personally don't know of any curanderos who had a sort of regular apprenticeship available to anyone until white guys/gals began askng for that. And I believe it seemed odd to curanderos when people did. I mean, how do you even explain an apprenticeship to someone who has no idea what that means? How would someone have told Julio that they wanted to build a little house near his and become a fisherman like him, and have a little field like his and learn to find lost souls or eliminate a baby's earache pain? I believe Julio would have just laughed and said: There's not enough fish in this river for another fisherman. And if you want to learn plants, just go in the forest and sleep with them. Ask them to let their spirits come to you and tell you about them, how to use them and how to prepare them to heal things.
Heck, even if someone had volunteered to do all of Julio's work in exchange for him teaching them what he knew I doubt he would have accepted. I mean, then what would Julio do all day? Can't just sit around in the jungle. It gets quite boring. And how would he teach someone when the art of learning what needs learning is to simply be around before during and after ceremony to see and feel what goes on. When the art of learning is different for each person? When the genuinely recommended method of learning is to go sit in the forest, or walk around the forest, and sleep in the forest and ask the plants to reveal their spirits to you. If they don't what good would knowing the icaro's, the songs curandero's sing, be? You would just be copying someone else's songs.
But how do you teach someone to be open to learning their own songs? Not to making up songs, but to be open to trust what when a generous spirit says one day: When you need a song, open your mouth. Don't be afraid. There will always be a song there when you need one?
How quiet do you have to be to even hear that spirit or how crazy to you have to be to believe it?
With all of that, if I were you, I wouldn't be afraid of the "shaman supermarket" that you mention. There are many good curanderos in both Iquitos and Pulcalpa. Their camps are a modification of their former river lives. But while on the river they might do one ayahuasca ceremony a month, or two, along with a dozen cures for everything from a foot infection to the evil eye, the contact with gringos has them doing ceremonies much more frequently than that. And to accomodate those requests for ceremonies, these curanderos have opened little places in the jungle where that can be done. There is really nothing more sinister to it than that, I don't believe. And while some of the curanderos have probably lost their way a bit with the extra money and acclaim they now have, most will re-center themselves because at heart they are generous people and good healers.
I know some places where there are not many tourists and you probably could, after you've gotten acclimated to living near and in the jungle for a few weeks, you could probably go to these towns and be allowed to pitch a tent, so to speak, or help build yourself a little hut. But what would you do all day? The curandero, your teacher, would be out fishing or hunting, or tending his fields or off with the other men on the river cleaning the village's footpath of brush nearly every day. He or she wouldn't be there to sit and teach you. You would just have to become part of the community and what could you--no offence here, just reality--offer that community? To canoe to town weekly to pick up the supplies they need? They can already do that. To help with their fields? What help could a newcomer be to something they've been doing for generations.
So I don't have much in the way of recommendation. I can say that the conference on Shamanism really does bring together a dozen or more curanderos, some of whom don't live in ayahuasca camps but simply out on the river, and if you were there you might meet one or three who might present an opening for you to go live in their villages. But even then, remember that there is not much to do in the jungle. The days are very long for an outsider. It takes a while to slow down enough that it won't seem very dull.
Or you could just go to Iquitos or Pulcalpa and talk to others who have similar interests to yourself. Perhaps you would meet someone who has done a long dieta or two who might be able to get you to a good place to work for a while. You needn't spend a lot doing that, but I don't think I should make any particular recommendations as I've never done that so would just be repeating what I've been told.
I'm sorry that for all these words you don't yet have your answer. This is really one of those: Dive in and see for yourself sort of quests.
And I'll be surprised if you don't find something pretty good on the journey.
Peter G

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Another Day at the Gormans

So my son Marco is working at the local Brookshire's grocery store and he must be doing a pretty good job. He just got a raise last week from $7.50 an hour to $8.65. Nice one. I was real pleased. Kid is also loved by his girlfriend's parents who think the world of him. And rightly: He apparently pitches in a lot, gets the younger sisters to girl scouts and so forth. And I love him.
But he's still Marco, and in a single day can do a dozen things that infuriate. Like right this second he's borrowing my truck to go get his new glasses. But he needs my keys because he can't find the set he uses. And he wants to know if I want to chip in. I told him I was gonna ask him to get the truck inspected as his share of the cost of using it. Not a chance. And I'm a bum for not chipping in on the glasses--which are replacing the glasses I did buy him but that were lost.
Last night I nearly murdalized him when he got uopup in the middle of the night. I was sleeping on the living room floor--Madeleina having come in and commandeered the couch I sleep on because she wasn't sleeping well--and here strides Marco, past me and out the front door, leaving the door and the glass wind-break door open while he took a leak off the porch and into the bushes. The striding woke me; the freezing blast of air destroyed any chance of going back to sleep for an hour or two.
I didn't say anything. Dad's have to pick their spots.
This morning I was fixing lunch for Madeleina when he said he was leaving to take his girlfriend to school. Madeleina's school is on the way. She was ready. I would think that most people would suggest "I'm going past your school, I'll take you." Not my beautiful Marco. He somehow got out of the house and into Italo's car before I could ask him to take Madeleina.
And on his return he asked for breakfast--which I love making for the kids--but I had to tell him that his dishes were his responsibility. "See dad, how you can ruin everything?"
That last came from a conversation we had yesterday. I'd given pretty good orders that I expected his room cleaned, and I meant spotless. Which he did. Cleaned the rat's cage and everything. And then he called me in to look. And I told him it looked great and that I wish he could get it through his head that if he would just maintain things it wouldn't need to become a fire hazard and mouse resort in two more days.
On the way out of the room I nearly stumbled over a host of candy wrappers, pieces of sandwiches and so forth that he'd put near but not into the kitchen garbage can. So I said: Job will be done once you get this cleaned up.
And out of the blue he answered: "Nothing's ever good enough for you."
I stopped in my tracks. I told him I'd change from that second on. He seemed to accept it. But I've been thinking about that. It never occurred to me that he still needs my approval. But I guess he does. Heck, I moved out within a couple of weeks of my 18th birthday, and my dad died when I was just 20 and though I know we all deal with approval issues forever, it never occurred to me that Marco was dealing with them on this level. On the level of "Look! I cleaned my room! Aren't I good?"
And I'm so terribly sorry that I've been so blind. I've been trying to treat him like a grown up and pushing him into responsibility--he's 19 after all--and in fact he's been living up to the responsibility on most levels very well. I mean he's getting up a 3 and 4 AM to get to work, he's pitching in with the girlfriend and so forth. But here at home he's still a kid looking for approval. And to have missed that, for me to not realize how much my criticism of things like not taking care of dishes or being sloppy apparently hurts him is something I'm going to have to fix.
I know some will say be tough with him, and that might get the results, but I'd like to get more than a clean dish or a tidy room. I'd like him to grow emotionally to where he doesn't need my approval, to where he realizes that the only approval he needs is his own. If I can enncourage that by changing my behavior somehow, then he'll wind up holding himself to his own standard and that's when he'll be free of me as a dad and have me as a friend.
Yesterday afternoon, driving him to his girl's house, I told him I was calling a dad moment. And I told him that I loved him and that he would always have my love. I also told him that he didn't need my approval, that he needed his own approval. I also reiterated that I would change the criticism thing of mine.
He said that even if he didn't want my approval he was stuck looking for it.
I guess that was the first step.
You'll always drive me batty, but I love you, kiddo.

Friday, January 04, 2008

My Son Italo and Athletic Intent

First off, Happy New Year Everyone. I hope it's grand for you all.
I've been thinking about my son, Italo, a lot lately. I'm a dad, so I always do, but lately more than ever. I was telling him the other day that he might be the best natural athlete I've ever seen.
When I met him in Peru he was 7 years old. He was already playing soccer with the 12 year olds and asking me for money to bet on his own team to win. They often did.
When I married his mom and adopted him--along with his younger brother Marco-we came back to my apartment in New York. I bought them gloves and a basketball, and while Marco enjoyed playing, Italo was sort of fanatic. My sister Regina steered us to the baseball and basketball leagues that her son Tommy was playing in at the time and we got them signed up. Italo had never touched a basketball before coming to the states, but worked out for hours with Tommy, became the team's point guard and made the all-star team that year. Not speaking English.
In baseball, I'd taught him how to throw--he'd never really thrown a ball in Peru--and catch, but his coach put him in right field, the place where non-athletes go to die in little league. First play to right he misjudged it and a kid got a triple. Next play he made and I yelled for him to throw it to second in Spanish, as the kid was trying to stretch a single. He nailed him. Two weeks later he was moved to second base. He made the all-star team that year. The following year his coach moved his own son off shortstop to third to make room for Italo to play short. Italo was MVP of the league that year.
This isn't bragging so much as just admiring his athletic prowess. He continued to do the same things when we moved back to Peru and when we returned again to New Yorik. When we moved to Texas he was a sophmore in high school and quickly made and started for his high school soccer team. He played baseball as well, but not at the level he had played earlier: he started, but wasn't choosy about his pitches and so often looked uncomfortable at the plate. Rather than get down, he had me take him to the batting cage regularly, went to the fast pitch machine for a couple of hundred pitches at a time until he was back in a hitting groove.
His dream is to be a pro-soccer player. He's been playing in several leagues the last couple of years since high school, and for last year and this has been playing on the area's semi-pro club. He started this year on his new semi-pro club on the practice squad; now he's playing regularly. In a month he'll be starting. And these are good players, he says, most with college soccer under their belts, a handful with time in the big leagues, either here in the US, or in Mexico or South America.
So Madeleina, who played her first league soccer this year and began to learn the game a little, has been asking about Italo's chances of making the pros. I let her know that his size is a detriment: soccer players have gotten big since Pele's time, and Italo is only 5'8" and weighs about 150. So I don't know. He also has to be seen by the right scout on the right day and all of that, but he's doing his part toward that by playing in semi-pro.
Now none of that really matters. He was just born athletically gifted and has utilized that gift well. But it's the rest that counts. It's freezing here in Joshua the last few weeks, and when it's not freezing it's been raining mostly. Still, he's upped his workout regime to at least three or four hours daily, plus games 4 times or so a week and then a couple of nights practice on top of that. He does about an hour of situps, pushups, light weights and balancing work daily (his balancing work has him stand on one ceramic cup, then switch feet without touching the ground. He can do that for days and mostly likes to do that while we're talking so that he can't look at his feet while he's doing it.
Then he heads outside with a weighted chest vest and begins his daily run: a run around the front yard, past the barn, over one creek-bridge, up the slope and around the fire pit, across the garden, down the slope and over the second bridge, down into the creek bed and then up a slope into the front yard. He'll do that for about 30 minutes, faster and faster, so that his last lap is at breakneck speed.
Then he begins his sets of running around the paint cans, set up in a row that he dashes in and out of like a barrel horse racer, to improve his cutting speed. After 20 or thirty sets of that he does it backwards. Then he does his quick step workout between a series of pipes he's set up, forward and backward, just like the paint can routine, to sharpen his backward mobility. When he trips he lands flat on his back, gets up and starts again. He changes the distance between the pipes every couple of days so that he can't get used to their placement. "Keeps me sharp, dad," he explained.
Then it's time to kick, and he kicks those 8 soccer balls at the tiniest of targets from every concieveable angle and distance and speed for probably 45-minutes daily.
Couple of hours later and he'd off to practice or a game.
I've explained to Madeleina that even with all his natural talent, if you want to be a pro at something, that's the sort of dedication it takes. And then, even if you don't make it, you've given it, really given it, your best shot. Same goes with writing or dancing or being a good cop.
And if Italo makes it, it will be all Italo. If he doesn't I don't believe he'll have regrets. He knows the odds.
But I sure am proud of his work ethic.

Monday, December 31, 2007

Just Thinkin About New Year's Eve

Hello all. Just thinking about New Year's Eve. Here in bucolic Joshua, Texas--just 12 miles south of south Fort Worth and 23 miles from the nearest place where you can buy a drink of whiskey--it's 6:16 Pm. Long past Australia's New Year's celebration but long before New York's.
And wouldn't it be fun to be in New York tonight. I used to take the kids and Chepa to Central Park around 10:30 PM and we'd make our way to 96th street or so for the 10K midnight champagne run and Fireworks's display. I could never do the run but I sure did enjoy the champagne. Then we'd come home, wintery cold, and I'd make cocoa and Toll House cookies. And we'd watch a movie and that was one great night.
Here in Joshua, I've gotten into the habit of buying fireworks. Not cherry bombs or ash cans--just loud and dangerous and their six-second fuses were often enough only 4 seconds, leaving a lot of friends of mine with half-fingers where they used to have whole ones--but lots of roman candles and rockets and artillery shells: the beautiful shells that explode 200 feet overhead in multi-colors and noise and make your neighbors call up to say "You woke me up, you son of a bitch. Nice one!"
And we blew a couple of bucks on the same this year. Gonna be fun if nobody gets hurt.
And I'm making a steak in the next hour. Big steak. Felt like being a pig and I am already apologizing to god and the cow. This is a four pound chuck steak, Angus, that I'm slicing in half and cooking like a t-bone. And while the T-bone has a certain magic from it's buttery-ness, the good chuck has a flavor that cannot be beaten in a pan sear. It's just that well-marbled. To go with it there is spinach, carrots, sliced potatoes, fresh beans, sliced tomatoes sauteed in a bit of olive oil and then topped with grated parmesan, fresh black pepper and a touch of fresh basil, and the de rigeur Peruvian asparagus steamed then cooked lightly in a mix of olive oil, a touch of butter and balsamic vinegar.
It's mostly veggies but I'll still gain a pound. Oh, well.
So what happened this year? Anything worthwhile? I think so. I'll stay out of politics, as I make my living discussing that. and I get tired of it--mostly because I'm not enough of an Alpha Male to change the world. But on personal notes? I've had a new niece born, who is beautiful. And healthy. My son Italo is playing on a soccer team as good as you get before signing with the pros. My second son, Marco, graduated high school and has a job and a girlfriend. And while we occasionally step on his used condoms, she's not pregnant. My baby Madeleina reached 10 and thinks like a 30-year old.
Sierra, my ex-wife Chepa's baby, is nearly two-years-old and fantastic. More than that, I'm in love with her and get to spend a bunch of time with her. And while that can only end in disaster for my heart, I'll live with it. A few years ago Ayahuasca finally taught me that you must take the love when it's offered. So I'll take this beautiful baby's love and when it's gone, when mom is gone with the baby, she and I will have had a good time together, rather than me running away in fear that my heart would be broken. Thanks for that lesson, Ayahuasca.
(Ayahuasca is a medicine from the jungle that I've been using to learn things from for two-and-a-half decades. You'd think, if life were fair, that after 25-years I'd be a master. Turns out that after 25-years of study they're finally letting me into the first grade!!!!!)
And this year too I got a lot of love from my baby Madeleina, now 10. More than I deserve but I'll take it all. Thanks white light or god or spirits or all of you. And thank you, Madeleina.
And thank you Skunk Magazine for giving me a column, Drug War Follies, that allows me to spout off on the wrongheadedness of the Drug War. And thank you Marc Emery, owner/publisher of Cannabis Culture, for having the bravery to face extradition to the US for selling cannabis seeds to US undercovers who entrapped you illegally with all of the elegance and decency with which you are facing that extradition and possible life-sentence here in the criminally wrong US. You are a lesson to us all.
And thank you Fort Worth Weekly to allow me to ply my trade of investigative journalism week after week. I hope I have helped settle a few scores, stopped a few bad men, overturned a few bad decisions and made some people rethink their political positions on a few issues.
On the other hand, for those of you I've hurt, forgive me. I'll try to do better. For those of you who have cheated me this year of more than $50.000, money I for once thought I had earned, I forgive you. But don't do it again, guys, cause I'm not going to be so forgiving the second time. Take that to the bank.
For you, Gasdalia, who wanted me despite being an old fat white guy with a completely broken stomach, thank you. I was embarrassed to shower for my appearance and yet you made me feel like I wasn't repulsive. You made me feel loved. Thanks.
For all my workers who put up with being cheated by me when I was cheated by others and couldn't do the trips I promised, thank you for remaining loyal. We'll do better this year.
And for all of you readers who have taken the time to read this blog--time you could have surely spent better elsewhere--thank you for allowing me to feel like I was part of your family.
Thanks for letting me saddle up to the bar and have my say.
I hope that all of you, and all of the people and animals and vegetation of this world, somehow manage to have a wonderful, wonderful New Year.
Thanks, everybody. I'd much rather be alive than not. Thank you from my heart.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Ayahuasca Plant Spirits

On a board I occasionally post on, a new member recently asked about adding things like ginger, St. John's Wort and maple syrup to ayahuasca while he was brewing it. Reactions from the board members who responded were pretty harsh. First off, St. John's Wort is not a good thing to utilize with ayahuasca because of possible serious physical complications from the chemical combination of the substances. But more than that, the board members were slightly upset with a new member simply tossing things out there: the question seemed filled with arrogance.
I posted a long and arrogant answer of my own, then immediately deleted it.
The new member then started a new and self-centered thread asking whether his questions would be answered by other members of the board or simply ignored. Two hours later he decided his questions wouldn't be answered and was feeling sorry for himself.
So I answered him. This is the answer I gave, and re-reading it, I think it might have enough merit to post it here. I hope you don't mind.

Have you got a question to ask?
In your first post, at least the first I read, you asked about admixtures that might be included when making ayahuasca. I wrote a good, long post, and then deleted it. Who am I, after all, to give advice? (My advice was to take one kilo of caapi; 1/4 kilo of chariponga or chacruna; an ounce or so each of the bark of the catawa, lupuna negro and chiri caspi trees, crush and separate all bark, put in 5 gallons of water, simmer or boil for five hours while chanting over it and blowing smoke from black tobacco into it; strain, save, repeat with same material; strain. Add both strains, reduce to 2 ounces and drink.)
But others answered your question well: St. John's is not good as a rule with ayahuasca. If you're a curandero and discover good ad mix plants--which will generally be good for specific things--then fine. But if you or anyone is just trying to make a strong brew, make the brew I just suggested. It's pretty standard per person in the amazon, out on the river. 20 People? 20 kilos of caapi.
On the other hand, that's generally strong enough that I recommend you have a real curandero there overseeing things. It is not something most people could handle at home alone.
I think the answers to your question came to this: Don't play with this stuff. Don't think you should make it stronger until you've a teacher who knows who tells you so. The spirits, the souls, the life force, of these plants are very very powerful. You've got to know that. And to imagine that you might add a little of this or a little of that before you've met the spirits or this and that, well, you won't know who you are inviting to your party, will you? And if they come, what sort of guests will they be?
You've got to be realistic here. We are not discussing chemicals. Chemicals are zero in this equation. We're discussing the invitation of spirits who can have an important impact on our lives. The meditation and smoking of black tobacco during cooking is probably much more important than any chemical that can be extracted from the plants. Because that 8-10 hour meditation is what invites the spirit of the plants. The plants themselves are not worth much. Their spirits are worth a great deal. And if you are going to invite living beings, beings with intent, will and desires into your physical/emotional/spiritual/soul space, then you'd better be sure you know who they are and how to treat them as guests.
In my world, this is serious stuff, and your initial question wasn't serious.You might have thought it was but it was silly. You're talking about adding a bunch of stuff to ayahuasca that has never been traditionally added. And you didn't say that you're a curandero who's met those spirits. Ginger certainly has a spirit. Maple syrup probably has a phenomenally strong spirit. Have you met her? I haven't but can imagine that any spirit strong enough to keep trees alive for 200 years in the cold north must be very very powerful.
So to hear someone toss off the idea of adding a bit to ayahuasca, without them telling me they know the spirit and what she's like, sounds like someone playing, not someone who is learning to interact with spirits.
Again, who am I? Nobody. Maybe you don't believe in spirits and maybe my idea, taught to me by some pretty good curanderos, is all wet. What do they know anyway?
My guess is a lot.
I spent days preparing before I put a sprig of cedar (who had been begging me to be included) into a mix some years ago. And the cedar was good. But I would never recommend her to anyone not prepared to deal with such an ancient soul once she arrives.
So if you've got real questions, I think there are many on the board who will answer them. If you are here to tell us things, then do it. But the people on the board who consider questions seriously have lives to live and limited time and I'm guessing that many of them won't take the time to answer questions they find frivolous, regardless of how serious you claim to be.
Capiche?

Monday, December 24, 2007

Jingle Bells

Jingle Bells, everybody. It's 8:02 PM Central time and in most places that means the stores are closed and you've either got your shopping done or you're buying gifts at the 24-hour gas station. Me? I got caught up on all but two writing assignments by Friday and figure no editor is going to care over the holiday so for once I got shopping done on time. Not early, but done by today at 4 PM. Hell, I even got some wrapping done yesterday and finished that an hour ago. What that tells you is that I haven't got a life, but this blog has already made that clear over the last year.
I came in from wrapping and opened a bottle of Old Grand Dad. Good Bourbon. The fellows at the liquor store saw me looking at the bottles (I never buy anything but a few minis at a time as a rule, which keeps me pretty sober since the store is a 23 mile drive each way) and asked what was up. I told them I was looking to treat myself like a king tonight and was going to buy a bottle of bourbon. They told me to pick one out and they'd give it to me. Hey, I was tempted to switch to a good private reserve Scotch for $300 but kept my cool and took the Old Grand Dad. Thanks, fellas.
Anyway, took a sip and asked who was going to be here for dinner. Got resounding "yesses" from everyone. Put on rice and a nice chicken. Two minutes later Italo, Marco and Madeleina were in the fridge looking for leftovers. I told them I'd just started dinner. They said they were going out to Chepa's and didn't want dinner.
"You just told me to make it," I said.
"Yeah. Make it for you, dad, not for us," deadpanned Marco, glomming some chicken wings I'd made last night.
Fortunately I was still sipping my first sip of Old Grand Dad and so was able to take it in stride. I told them there would be fresh rice and chicken--with beans and veggies--when they got back.
It's good they're going, actually, or Santa wouldn't have the time and space to do the santa stuff. Stockings, special presents, those things that I need to bring from the little outbuilding I use as an office into the house. I've done it at 3 AM but even in Texas waking up to start walking around outside at 3 AM on Christmas is cold.
So they're off for a couple of hours. The party on Christmas eve is a Peruvian thing. The sisters--with Chepa there are four in the Fort Worth area--get together and have a ball on Christmas Eve. When I first brought her to the states in 1994 she was very surprised that our party happened on Christmas morning, to the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh banana bread in the oven.
This time around there's something special to celebrate. Chepa's new baby, Alexis, was born Saturday morning near noon. Over 7 lbs, a bit of a scare because she stopped breathing a couple of times, but the docs, I'm told, are now satisfied she'll breathe on her own and will be allowed to go home to Chepa on Wednesday. Chepa's been sick with worry but we all rooted for her baby and I hope she turns out as fantastic as the other babies Chepa has made.
There was a funny moment or two involved here. Remember that this isn't my baby, though Chepa and I never divorced. So her boyfriend came into town just a few hours before she want into labor. And Madeleina and Italo and Italo's girl Sarah were in the delivery room with the boyfriend and Chepa and the doctor and the nurse and from what Sarah said, Madeleina, probably in an effort to deal with the graphic situation of a birth--what with mom pooping while she's pushing and the water spilling out and the blood and the purple/yellow umbilical cord and so forth--decided to pretend she was newscasting the event.
"So, doctor, is it normal that this room would smell this bad while a baby is being born?" was one question Sarah remembered Madeleina asking as she interviewed the doc while he was prompting Alexis out of the womb and into the world. And then to Chepa: "So, while you're screaming, does it really hurt or are you acting a little?"
The worst, unfortunately, was my fault. Entirely. When little Alexis came out and joy was all around, I guess the boyfriend said something like "Our beautiful little Alexis" or something like that, to which Madeleina evidently responded that she would never call her baby sister that name because "That's a stripper's name."
You see, even though the baby isn't mine I felt slighted at not being asked, at least in a cursory way, my opinion as to a name. It was just announced to me a couple of weeks ago and in my ego/hurt/awareness that I'm not even in the equasion anymore, I blurted out: "Alexis? Who the fuck names their baby Alexis? That's a stripper name. That's probably the most popular stripper name in the world."
Of course it's a beautiful name, but I just felt left out--Clue to Gorman: When she starts having babies with other people, you're no longer the center of her universe, okay?--and so said that stupid and hurtful thing and then there, in the delivery room, my beautiful Madeleina evidently repeated it. Sorry god. Sorry universe, sorry Chepa and the boyfriend, My fault 100 percent.
I hope Alexis is a joy.
And me, I'm good with it all. I've got wonderful--if occasionally difficult-- kids, I've got work. I've got presents for everybody. I've got a bunch of sisters and a brother and neices and nephews and me and the kids got a tree that's dressed to the nine's and though I don't have many friends her in Texas, I do have one very good one and lots of friends all over the place, and I didn't die this year despite coming close a few times and none of my close friends did either and Alexis looks like she's going to be alright and Chepa came out of it all healthy so my kids have their mom and what the heck, it ain't perfect by a long shot but there are more good days than bad by a mile so mostly I'm smiling and I hope you all are too.
Merry Christmas to all,
And to all a good night!