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Welcome students and colleagues, friends and family, if you have made it this far, I encourage you to stay a bit longer and read about some of my work. The writings reflect many of the thoughts that I carry with me throughout the course of a day, evening, and often times, the dreams that take hold of me while I sleep. The verses represent the inner voice in me that speaks of the past, the present, and the future. Writing is my ultimate form of expression that allows me to reflect, inspire, get well, and grow. The energy that feeds my work, I pull from themes that correspond to Mesoamerica, my ancestral place of birth, and the area I study. References to symbols of the past, deities, and natural phenomenon, dominate certain pieces, and blend with current verses of life, love, and death. I have never taken a writing class... the only "style" that exhibits my work is the one that I create from my imagination, heart, and dreams.

I’m an avid builder and horticulturalist, and so I spend a lot of my time building things and growing different types of herbs and plant food. I do not identify as an artist nor do I make art for aesthetic purposes; my work solely materializes a ritual-ceremonial or utilitarian function. The craft of working with wood I learned from my father, by watching him design and build homes throughout much of my adolescent youth. I also learned how to work with stone by watching my uncles construct brick and rock landscapes, in the wealthy neighborhoods were they labored during much of the 1980s, when construction was booming. My paternal grandpa Juan was also a craftsman, hence why all his sons became builders of some sort, and so building has always been an integral part of my family’s trade history. I learned about plant cultivation from my abuelita Mercedes on my paternal side and my abuelito Severo on my maternal side. Much of the landscaping strategies that I learned from my grandparents came with them from Mexico when they migrated to Alta California, in the early 1960s, along with my parents. A lot of the building and planting strategies that my family has implored have been in use for over 3,000 years. It is my purpose to revitalize and sustain these ancestral practices through ceremony, household building, and plant cultivation.

My fascination with building and growing food is not only familial, but also physical-skeletal (see my Physical Anthropology 101 blog), and because so, I have an admiration for the morphology of the human hand. The hand is unlike any part of the body, and because we use our hands every day, we literally take them for granted, sometimes failing to notice their full potential use. Our hands are our first weapons of choice in an attack, yet they are the first part of the body that we extend when helping or consoling someone. With our hands, we build shelter, writer letters, prepare food, and unknowingly, make love. Our hand-digit coordination is unique because it is precise, well adapted for creating, and for using and making tools. Hand-digit use coordination has been a part of our human evolutionary past since we inhabited arboreal environments, way before we developed bipedalism. When combined with tool use, the creative use of the hands has the capability of decolonizing our minds and bodies.

My inquiry into the relationship between hand-bone morphology usage and social behavior remains in the early stages. Nonetheless, some preliminary findings I modeled in a recent paper where I discuss the role of the hands, and early human tool making, in the creation of spatial wellness. The paper is published in Vol. 3 No. 4 of the International Journal of Development and Sustainability.


always in my heart...

We have both been here before…
there is no use in telling each other lies.
Just tell me what you are feeling.
I will help you get by.

I will tell her that you said goodbye.
I will tell her that you said goodbye.
And she will always be in my heart.
always in my heart…
always in my heart…

I know that it hurts more then before,
but your heart, it will always be mine and
my heart it will always be yours. I
don’t ever want to make you cry.

If there was a time when you
needed me its now, and I will never leave
your side. I will always be your
friend, I would never tell you lies.

Just tell me how you feel, its
alright. I will always love you and we
can still be by each others side… Just
reach out your hand to me.

We have both been here before…
there is no use in telling each other lies.
Just tell me what you are feeling.
I will help you get by.

I will tell her that you said goodbye.
I will tell her that you said goodbye.
And she will always be in my heart.
always in my heart…
always in my heart…

Just inspire me a little...

Just inspire me a little... :) and I will bring out the best in you.

a Bothrops Asper

Your mother was a stunning
woman, skin of olive russet, brown
eyes and twisted dark hair,
like that of a serpents… She bore
flame-eyebrows and the
hand-paw-wing motif. Her insignia
was the St. Andrews cross…
a Bothrops Asper.

Set #1“Unborn Son Dream #1”

La vida es un carajo...

La vida es un carajo… y ahí que dar le en la madre.

Dying is not easy...

I thought dying would be easy… but no.
Tienes que pasar por los dormitorios
del inframundo y colectar por
los que sufren.

A strong mind can hold

A strong mind can hold the course,
even if the body hurts...

Time is not my meter

Time is not my meter... It is my friend.

Tu perfil es un libro...

Tu perfil es un libro que me trae
tristeza, página por página… evidencias de lo
que fue un misterio. Un abandono que me
pide su resuelvo.

Tu perfil, de día lo estudio…

Leo tus letras y escribo notas,
tus fotos las magnifico y tus palabras les
doy sentido. Felicidades y cariños,
besos y frases del amor perdido. Tus fotos que
aparecen las tomó en cuenta y cómo
un scientifico analizo tu desaparecía… Tal
ves señas de tu presencia.

Podrás estar viva me pregunto. Quizás,
las heridas no fueron tan grave,
como se habían pronosticado. Quizás los
testigos no se habían fijado bien.
Es posible que los testimonios fueron cuentos
de emoción. Probablemente fue una
tragedia de confusión y no totalmente
de la que murió.

Es un caso que me ha movido,
y día tras día no descanso… buscando las
evidencias y preguntando…
que ocurrió.

Al fin del día me siento como un
experto en la mujer que
perdió su voz… en la que platican que
se desapareció. Antes
de dormirme tu perfil lo guardo en un
armario… Listo y trabajado
pa seguirte buscando...

Tu perfil es un libro...