Now blogging elsewhere

Hello folks, for those of you who are wondering where I am writing now, this is it. For those of you wondering what I'm doing now, this is it! For anything else, send me any messages.

The End of an Era

Graduation, births, marriage... who knows. There are some few obvious landmarks in life that signify change, growth, goodbyes and the next step. For those of us "Gainesvilleanos" who decide on less mundane ones, the end of Umoja is certainly the end of an era.

There are some of us who love music, and not only music, but the feelings evoked in a diaspora of joy and talent that is the inevitably sweaty mix of an Umoja crowd. It is Afro-beat, it is Latin, it is Jazz and sometimes even Funk. At some point I was sure they were Reggae. Two saxophones, a trombone, a trumpet, bass, congas, guacharacas, keyboards, guitar, accordion... anything else?
Some of them have left, some stayed, some just stuck and some dissolved... it is a gigantic mass that attracts musicians and lets them go with the equal ease with which it brought them. That unequivocally selfless love that is not co-dependent; that will always take in from whomever wishes to contribute.

There was a time a little less than four years ago, I recall well, when this eclectic group of musicians got together and decided that each could play to his own tune yet at the same time, like a fruit salad or Skittles, together but not mixed, independent but packed in one tight package that was that stage at 1982, or the Side Bar. It was fun... not yet inspiring, but different and provoking curiosity, especially for us Hispanics who could not help but wonder at this group of Jewish gringos plus Colombian, who could not very well dance to the music but felt it so much more than any of us.

It was a curiosity.

Four years later I can say that in the only two constants in my college life were Krishna lunch and Umoja. They got better... oh so much better, without losing their childlike innocence though, not taking it too seriously nor too lightly. They stopped being a curiosity and became an object of awe. It is the only group that could not sicken me and my melomaniac friends, because a show was not only a sensory experience but a soul-lifting one. It is safe to say that the only place where we Colombians felt like dancing in Gainesville was at their shows, in spite of it being Afro-beat, in spite of its instrumentality and its lack of pop-like attitude. The bond between band members transcended into their music, hence to the atmosphere and floated on to the audience,embracing us in a bubble, making us part of this magical thing that could superimpose the fabulousness of a trumpet solo onto cultural barriers.

An Umoja show is one of the best places to see all different types of people, usually divided in their own cliques, united under that supreme force that is genuinely good music. No one can keep from dancing, or attempting to dance, or simply convulsing to a certain conga rhythm.

Friday's show, their supposedly last show in their birth city of Gainesville, was like a typical good bye for me; simply a denial. I took it like any other show of the so many that I have been to. No sentimentality. And I am sure most of the band members did so as well. Because we all knew, all of us sweating in that show that sold out way ahead of time, that this is not an "adios" but simply an "hasta luego." This band is not like others.. it can't die. It is a growing thing, a living thing, a plant, an ideal, a place, a time... and abstract masses like that don't have finite endings.

Yet I did have all the flashbacks... to the original members, to the lack of coordination, to David Borenstein's saxophone-playing faces and Sebastian's poem readings. From covers of "La tierra" to a narration of the Wayuu massacre. There is story behind it, there is feeling. And seeing so much talent together simply makes joy. It is pure and good joy.

And the Common Grounds will certainly not be the burial ground of such monstrous joy.

Because I'm obsessed with Ice and Fire.

"Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice"
-Robert Frost

Colombians Harvesting Hope

So I have two types of friends: music festival veterans and those who are completely alien to them.

And then there is my mother, who innocently asked me: "is that like a Woodstock or something?" and my answer had to be: yes, mother. The pathetic, run-down version people of my generation have to settle for. And we're not even talking about Bonnaroo or Lollapalloza.

Harvest of Hope had its debut two weeks ago, in some fairgrounds close to St Augustine. The purpose? To help migrant workers. This is the only organization to do so in such a direct way by helping them not with funds that end up who knows where, but directly to get back to Mexico, or to find medical aid.

Yet in spite of all this benevolence, the truth was the festival managed to rate amongst my favorite random three-day events. I had never been to a music festival, since the ones I have ever found interest tend to run through the summer, and I have yet to spend one of those in the US. This particular one, though, was oh-so-conveniently close and affordable. My friend had to go and take pictures for a publication so we made a plan out of it.

Originally, it was supposed to be four girls, to be classified as absolute rookies, sharing a tent and improvising a campsite. We ended up shacking up with a group of Colombian grad students, veterans, to classify them in one of the above categories, who singlehandedly saved our very inexperienced asses. Thanks to them we were probably the better prepared campsite with decent food and shade, which without a doubt became an important factor throughout the weekend.

We arrived to set camp together with 1000 other tents and fellow campers or what we warmly began to call "harvesteros", into a dust-bin shamelessly called a camp site. I was sick and later thankful for it, since my olfactory sense was relentlessly impaired and apparently, music festivals are quite the smelly places.

While these guys cooked dinner in a portable grill, us girly-girls had fun finding suitable ground for our Walmart-purchased tent.

And then there was the big "chillout" tent, which we flamboyantly decorated with a Colombian flag and a PACE flag, which is peace in Italian, but was a rainbow nonetheless. Later we heard a very drug- influenced fellow camper muttering, "they are Colombian AND gay?? They MUST have cocaine!" We did not. Nor mushrooms, acid, hallucinogens, or all the other substances we kept getting asked about throughout the weekend. Whether it was the flags, or we were just part of the constant overall drug swapping that was going on, will remain unknown.

That first night was Girl Talk, and it was fabulous. The overall energy was high; people were fresh and ready to party. The remaining three stages remained unvisited by our group that first night. The crazed out DJ with the random hipster dancers kept us hypnotized for the entirety of the show, and we were dazzled.

The next day the transformation began: We slowly began mutating into hippies. The non-showering, the shedding of clothes, the intense heat, the ambiance of eternal, worldly love... maybe all of it together had the desired effect. Who knows.

First was the beach though. An essential break to all the dirt and madness. St Augustine beach was good sun, freezing water and fabulous wind. Good, good stuff.

During the next days the highlights were certainly Propagandhi, Against Me!, Tokyo Police Club, Wild Sweet Orange.... The audience? Even though most of the people could easily be divided among the Punk, Hippie and Hipster scene, there were various exceptions that were pleasurable to the eye. Children rocking out, for example. I remember spotting a little girl of about four, who stood onstage for all of Against Me! and shook her hips like there was no tomorrow. Or the random homeless dude with the rat that managed to hang with everyone in the campsite. Or the soul-healing shaman. Or the dudes walking around with rainbow-colored umbrellas offering free shade. There was too much randomness and not enough time for it all to sink in. At night the campsite was madness. Drum circles, streakers and wanderers were no exception.

In the end, after three days of sun, rocking music, great company and surprisingly good food, we were left with an aura of happiness and overall well-being that would last us for the rest of the break.

Un tren de hielo y fuego

The splendor of looking through my father's new acquisitions for his antique book collection is a hardly describable joy. He shows me the last one he got in Argentina, about the process of cheese fermentation. The endless pages of tables on different cheese fungi bring a spark to his eye that I rarely get to see.

I ask him to recommend a book to me.

He walks down his immense bookshelf, pacing between two stands, "AH" he says, while handing me a very yellow-covered book. It is originally in French, he says, so buy it in its tongue and read it. And this copy I'm not giving to you anyways, he says, because it is signed by the author and you will lose it.

"Do you kids remember when we saw the train of ice and fire depart?" and I have no idea what he is talking about.

The book, written by Ramon Chao, is a chronicle of Manu Chao's former music group, Mano Negra, as they travel in a reconstructed old passenger train from Bogota to the coast. The red colored locomotive, splattered with yellow butterflies, carried one hundred musicians, acrobats and artists, whose purpose was to put on free shows throughout their journey.

"You really can't remember?" he asks expectantly. Heads shake. "Shit did I waste time with you kids. What was the point of taking you to these things?"

Still muttering curses of disappointment, he beings glancing through its pages while Kinder and I exchange an eyebrow raise and a smirk.

"Ok ok.... do you guys think this could be us?"

He hands me the book. In black and white, there is the picture of a long, psychedelic train with hands sticking out the windows, waving. Standing on the sidelines, with no one else to see it part, stands a tall, thin man accompanied by a big-headed four-year-old boy and a long-haired six-year-old girl. The picture captures the threesome from behind, but it still shows what was, undeniably, the three of us approximately 15 years ago.

Shit I wish I remembered that. He rips the book away from me again, now with a hint of a smile but still mumbling about the waste that we are. He continues to glance through the book for at least half an hour. In the meantime, Kinder and I ponder about the deliriousness of the tale, and how I would have loved to be Ramon Chao, documenting such a freaking tripy experience.

"Found it!" He screams in ecstasy, and puts on his sweet storytelling voice that brings him back 20 years to his days as a radio commentator.

"'Ricardo Alarcon, the president of Caracol Radio, and his two children, arrive ten minutes before the departure. I hastily dispatch them...'
There is even a reference to us, kids; A one-sentence one, but a reference nonetheless. How the hell can you not remember this?'"

His face makes me feel like jumping from the couch and pretending a sudden memory flow but I've never been much of a liar. So he puts it back on the shelf and proceeds to show me a copy of "El General en su Laberinto" that has a dedication on the front page from Gabo himself.

"Take the other copy.... fuck I hope you remember this when I'm dead and don't simply throw the book to the trash like your mother did with my records. Really, will you at least remember this? Autographed by Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Probably worth something?"

Yes, father. When you are dead, I sure will.

I am finally happy to live in the USA

I have never quite adjusted to this country. I could be a reticence from my part, but I believe it was mostly that I couldn't tangibly see the ideals that Americans so proudly preached. This idea of a melting pot looked more like a mosaic to me; people of different races and nationalities stuck together in one space, without mixing or interfering in each other's colors. 

For the seven years that I have lived here, George W. Bush has been the president of this nation. I for one knew that he didn't represent the amazing Americans I had happened to meet, but I also knew that he had to have been elected by someone: by the majority. To think about it made me sick to my stomach. 

I am one of the few latin american immigrants that I know, who doesn't have to be here because of lack of a better option. I chose to live here, with the hope that at some point the ideals of the country would reflect my own. That the nation could see that integrity, intelligence and tolerance cannot be based on religious beliefs or in racial backgrounds. Whoever understands that we all deserve the same would understand why I had such high expectations for this nation.  

Now that they are fulfilled, I am sure that people around the world will radically change their views of this country as much as I have. 

Thanks. 

And so my blog is...

Ok so I promised I would link you to the new blog I'm going to be writing, and this is it.

I am happy about the subject I chose. Before I had posted on this blog about the Zen ones that had been catching my attention. It's an honor to do one myself, geared toward people my age. I am quite excited about it and hopefully you will enjoy it too.

As for Gainesville, football season has once again made my weekend fun. I am very excited as to this last year in the ville. I am planning to enjoy it extensively.

You can take the boy out of the town, but you can't take the town out of the boy

Anyhow, it's been a while, but the fact is that now I am back in class and between the moving in, starting classes and first-week partying it's hard to sit down and write. For one of my classes though I am required to actually start a new blog; a decent one, a real one. Not this constant rambling thing that this is. It should develop an audience and have a specific theme for the writing. That sounds like a dream to me, but trying to figure out what to write about is sort of driving me insane. This is more or less an apologetic post to the few who read this, because I will be neglecting this blog a little bit to focus my attention on the one that is actually being graded. I will post the link as soon as I have it. If you have any ideas on what I could write about, please don't hesitate to tell me.


On another note, I am loving Gainesville too much. I thought the sadness of leaving Bogota would last longer but so far so good. This is where I want to be.

Cheers

Why it is easier to ruin it

When something is really good and we know we have to give it up, we try to ruin it. It is a self-defense mechanism, so that amazing things become torture with no reason whatsoever. Just so it is easier to let go. When I had to leave Paris, I started thinking about everything I hated about that city, but it wasn't much. I magnified it though, remembering the exhuberant prices, the smelly subway, the cold mornings, the ugly parisian looks... later, when I got back to Gainesville, I remembered the good things again, and smiled.

Now it is different to remember bad things to try to trump the sadness, than to sabotage something good just because it has a deadline. That is what I try to do every time in Bogota. I think about everything I don't like about the city, the people, the life in general... and the truth is I love it. But loving it has always made leaving so much harder, that I decided to keep it neutral; to love it as a vacation spot. To never date someone here that I like too much nor find a job that I would love, nor visit my friend's universities to see if I would like them better. Having a double life means developing an ability to let go. I have it... I need to become pesimistic a few days before it's over simply to make it easier. I simply need to think that where I'm going is always better that the place i've left behind.

Fake little girl

It was quite a shock to me when I found out through CNN, that the adorable Chinese girl that had sang the host's national anthem was indeed, not the girl who had sang it. The very cute girl was lip-syncing at Beijing's "Bird's Nest" stadium; the real singer's face was deemed "not suitable."

Ok so all through the opening ceremony of the Olympics I had been teared eyed. And this little girl made me feel like adopting her; I am sure her parents don't want her anyway. But a fake?

This incident may indeed symbolize what is going on in China in a larger scope. The image they want to project to the world vs what is actually there. They want to show perfection by taking the voice of one girl and the face of another... couldn't they find a girl who could fit both roles or are they too picky with their own people? Anyways, as soon as this got out they made China look like liars, really. With something so incredibly unnecessary! How about all those things that do actually matter? For how long can they hide them? China may be a growing super power but its people remain oppressed and it is still a very developing nation.

The sickness of aging

With age we get to become more cautious. More cautious about our feelings, because we know what it is like to be hurt. More cautious about what we say, because social decency is engraved in our minds; more cautious about our decisions, because they begin to have consequences... in the end the carelessness of youth begins to weight on our backs.

Our heart begins to be something we don't hand out easily. We stop taking risks. We become calculating; we are careful with each step, we stop trusting people. We realize that there are many ways to avoid crying. We allow opportunities to just pass us by because they are too good to be true. We become cynical and abandon the idealism of other days. We begin to settle for what is comfortable instead of what is magical.

That is why I don't want to grow up. I don't... I have dreams and will never let them die, and I will always believe in the true goodness of people. In my career, I will get to see horrible things, depressing things, senseless wars and ridiculous fanaticism for shallow ideals. I know this. But let's stick to our grace shall we? If we see something that is worth fighting for, for crying out loud, fight for it. Don't let it get away. Because there are very good things in this world, but they are few, and we need to know how to recognize an unbelievable thing when we see it.

"Y’see, madness, as you know, is like gravity. All it takes is a little…push. - The Joker

So Heath Ledger is dead and that makes watching the new Batman movie eerie, morose yet exciting in a sick way. All I was thinking as I watched this ridiculously good performance was "This man drove himself crazy to truly fit himself into this role."

And it made me start thinking... how thick is the line between depressed and insane? How quickly can our mind drive us to make irreversible decisions?

The movie was fantastic. But the cost of it was the life of a talented actor. Many writers, artists, musicians, and overall artistic geniuses are what some people call eccentric, and to some, this eccentricity drove them to their death. When I was in my preteen years I truly believed that in order to become an amazing writer I was going to have to start seeing a shrink.

Overall, a great movie, that I hadn't seen before because I didn't feel like waiting in line too much. I waited 'til a lot of the fuss had died down. It was my brother's fourth time seeing it.

"How come this movie keeps being awesome?" he asked, when the credits rolled in.

"Is there anybody gonna litsen to my story?"

I am oh so happy... or in more simple words, I love the world!!! jajaja ok too much of an inside joke. Anyways, I only have a week and a half left working for Semana, surrounded by some of the most fascinating peopleI have ever met. Eduardo Arias, the magazine's cultural editor, took me in as his young, music-learning mentee, and has therefore brought me many CD's when he walks in the door with a picturesque hat and mochilas. I upload them as I work and hence have some amazing music added to my repertoire. Right now I'm uploading all of The Beatles discography.

Alfonso Cuellar I oficially named my mentor. He is the Editor in Chief of this amazing medium, he loves American politics as much as I do, and he is also strangely bilingual like me. Hence, I aspire to someday be like this man and I am very happy I got to meet him.

Yesterday, the magazine's director, Alejandro Santos, asked me if I would consider returning to work here after I graduate in... one and a half years! Who knows, maybe I will... in any case, it's a good thing to know you are wanted after graduation and not have an existential crisis of not getting a post-graduation job.

To chill or not to chill

I am, by nature, a stressed out person. I obsess with my friends, school, guys, weight, traveling... in the end, many things that are supposed to be enjoyable can easily been made into a nightmare if enough thought and analysis is put into it. That's why I need yoga and to read regularly, to switch-off my brain with TV and to party in the weekends.

But for my desire to become more Zen, to fully appreciate this idea that happiness is a way of living and not a destination, I have found several blogs of people, not Buddhist monks nor self-help coaches, but just people, who have managed to make their day to day lives as enjoyable and happy as possible.


Zen Habits

Is the first and my favorite one. This is the one I would like to share now, in order to not overload with information. It's quite charming really, since this is a 35-year-old guy with many children and a weird habit of waking up at 4 a.m. It's a cool read.

I love la Candelaria

And so it is... I am discovering my own city. I was born and lived here until the age of 13, and after that have spent practically every summer in its "cool" places. I usually club in wherever people are going, chill at country clubs and enjoy nice expensive restaurants. This is the life that I left here, of the city's elite and my bubbled-in friends (they are bubbled, yet still so amazing... how does that happen?) and recently I've been venturing a little bit out of my bubble.

I spent the weekend in a pretty cool house in the middle of Bogota's downtown, the old part of the city, with it's antique houses and universities, the great restaurants and random people. It is sad that I needed the help of foreigners to show me this city again, but usually an unaccustomed eye can see more beauty than the usual one.


I don't think I will describe it more, because I am not the best at doing this. For those of you who speak the beautiful Spanish tongue, this is for you. For those of you who don't, this is the one you need to read. Come visit.. trust me. I have met people from all over the world, yes, including Americans, living in this part of town... and oh, do they love it.

A google competitor.... finally

Check out Cuil.
It's pretty awesome, it searches way more pages than Google, and the layout is fantastic. Ladies and gentlemen, the search engine of choice.

Some people disagree, that's fine. That's why I like having a blog.