Begonia maculata

He was a middle age man that lived in an old apartment on the edge of a park. The morning the begonias bloomed from his throat was the morning of the farmers market. He did the only thing he knew with panic and ran down to the crowd of composters and pumpernickel seekers, the spotted leaves swaying across his chest like a beautiful gown. Butterflies flitted about his face, drawing a delighted crowd of children to his side, all innocent to his muffled screaming. They circled and sang as he picked and pulled and gagged with wild intensity, his insides soaked leaves spinning to the ground in a dull splat of red, green and wet.

Amidst the joy, sunlight and fresh fired porcelains, no one took his torment as more than a quirk of vendor theatricality. As if suffering were impossible to conceive on too beautiful a day as this. The basket weaver approached cautiously, slipped a fiver into his back pocket and smiled. With a slow tug, he extracted a root anchored deep down in the man’s belly. Momentary relief turned to horror as another root, stronger and endowed with larger, more beautiful leaves, sprouted forth into the market.

He was a farmers market miracle.

Applause drew larger crowds eager to see the incredible begonia maculata man. Artisan jam mongers and hemp braiders, bread bakers and basement distillers, bartering wares for a bouquet of their own. The more they picked, the greater the begonias grew, until the man could no longer bear their weight. His moaning and cries died down into a faint hum beneath the leaves. A courteous someone left a clear jar by his pile: “Pay just what you can. Take only what you need.”

The night before he dreamt the new owners had hired landscapers to shear the thick ivy from his apartment’s facade. The rumblings of contractor cement trucks lined up on the street awoke him. He slipped out from bed, looked down pensively and picked a little leaf from his teeth.

Notable Reads: The Spirit of Science Fiction (Roberto Bolaño)

Brilliantly written, but I’m not sure what this book is. It reads like a preface to something longer and more substantial (perhaps the author’s first attempt at an outline, in 1984, of The Savage Detectives?) while containing the hallmarks of previously published work, including a character set obsessed, unpretentiously, with literature (Distant Star) – its immediate living culture and all things related to its production – as well as a vague air of mystery or intrigue in the everyday (Last Evenings on Earth).

Is it a picaresque? Maybe in the adventures of its two protagonists, Remo and Jan, but I wouldn’t call either roguish (though their friend Jose Arco, the motorcyclist poet, may count as one). They’re both idiosyncratic in very different ways that the author draws much attention to without much significance: e.g., Remo’s inability to get a hard-on even in the intimate presence of his love interest (which, by way of explanation, is due to testicular trauma at some other stage of his life); Jan’s private letters to science fiction notables in an effort – apparently – to unite the North and South Americas (not to mention his vague obsession with authoritarianism, which he sees even in the paint color of buildings). The essence of science fiction is literature containing something bigger than ourselves, than what’s simply on the page. It’s echoed in Jan’s letters to Tiptree, LeGuin et. al, as well as the central characters’ strange, sleuth-like search for a presumed conspiracy: what could have given rise to a veritable explosion of literary zines in Mexico City? (The question, as far as I can tell, is never answered.)

Teenage bohemians, they drink and stay up late, hosting parties in their rooftop apartment somewhere in Mexico City. Jan, ever the homebody, builds a furniture set comprised of science fiction novels. He insists it’s sturdy enough to write upon. Remo buys a motorcycle called The Aztec Princess, in a moment of sadness desperate for life lived to the utmost (or something to that effect), but probably to impress the aforementioned love interest, Laura, with whom he tours – or better, collects, in the sense of strategized experience – the legal, semi-legal and underground worlds of Mexico City’s spas. These scenes appear in a section called “The Mexican Manifesto” and comprise the sexiest of all the author’s writerly abilities. Bodies glistening on bodies; soap-covered sex; performance art slipping into soft pornography; libertinism at its chemically pure and youthful.

So adventurous not in the grand sense of the word, but Jan and Remo are young, smart and looking for their place in the intellectual life of CDMX: this is a fine look at their valiant efforts, erectile dysfunction and all. I’m not sure what to make of it, but I enjoyed being part of the ride, seeing the Mexican sunrise so many times without myself losing sleep.

[Notable Reads] A Tibetan Revolutionary: The Political Life and Times of Bapa Phüntso Wangye

Leaders of the Tibet Work Committee, 1951

For many reasons, the story of Phünwang’s life can provide much insight into our understanding of one important period of modern Tibetan history. The existing literature on modern Tibet has undeniably been monopolized by the voices of Tibetans such as lamas, lay officials, and aristocrats who dominated the traditional semifeudal society and opposed modernization. Their accounts tend to present an orthodox “good Tibetans against bad Han Chinese” thesis, and have become the face of Tibetan nationalism in Western literature. However, we should acknowledge the role of other Tibetans, among whom Phünwang is one of the most important, fighting for very different Tibetan nations, within the complex and intricate story of modern Tibet.

HSIAO-TING LIN

desert recollection

stuck sank down thorns singing in their barrels
ocotillo always ocotillo dodging beer shards down through the distance

ten miles here looking like a footstep
killing fields on our easels
we imagined graced by our disgraced theater of anti-masculinity
first among generations

we ate poison
saw sounds
built castles in the sands
a world in boot treads
slept like dead

pink glow still shadow cast across a pugilist cactus patch
walking rotted wood on rusted horseshoes
peering down a tunnel of nothing
poison killed laughter but made new the sight

seeing through an approaching night toward sick dreams
split mind
internal voice damning
like an awful judge

on their way nowhere passed through camp eight glowing eyes and storming bellies
“narcos” someone joked the poison setting in again
we saw the lie of the city on the edge of the horizon
low city of the same same same same
lost forever disoriented back home in the maze of never there