Borderland Beat

I was reading the newest, juiciest, noticias brought to the masses by a group of underground journalists and renegade photographers or maybe its the same person. Truth is I don't know. Hidden identity from fear of cartel violence is enough of a reason for me. They offer up a pen name and that's about it.  What I do know is that this site is extremely graphic and the guys or gals of BB who venture into this war zone have a pretty impressive set of stones. Anyway, the point. Although I shy away from most political topics this is a topic that needs to be observed. If you can stomach the images have a look-see, if you can't then don't even go near this site. The info purged through the BB moles may be biased but so far I am convinced they are legit.

As I was cruising through the site I came upon an image of the Policia Federal of Mexico and the image was a bit unnerving. So much so that I had to sketch it. Here it is. I understand that they conceal their face from fear of retaliation but they look a little scary. Can you see a small child going up to one of these guys looking for his/her cat stuck in a tree? Probably not. The number? Well...... figure it out. 

Opina?

Rockin Rob: The original I.F. gansta,

 I was watching some clips of old Sopranos reruns a few minutes ago and I thought of old Rob. Those who knew him also know he was a rabid fan of the HBO series. Here's an original mixed media piece of an original. "Faster we run. And we die young"........ Layne Staley AIC

 
"To think. When I got outta the joint. I thought an airbag was Paulie Walnuts."------Tony Bundetto

Empathy: Explore, evolve and question.

I attended a lecture by CC Nuckols several years ago on mirror neurons. I have since been fascinated by the work since. I found this video this morning and it made my day, I hope it makes yours. 

The Liar

The future was uncertain; the flaws were overt and plainly displayed on his face. Like the neon Las Vegas glitters reflecting off the atmosphere he enters the room and promised to live it up and live it down, all in the name of ideals. As the reasons fell from his lips a rolling thunder idea crashed upon his feeble mind and trapped again was he, for a split second, and then the lie again was he. Saved from the errors that consumed his everyday existence he concluded his unconstrained fabrication of life. He is a liar and he is unique. Unique in his own mind, seldom seeking a quiet moment of self-reflection, rarely mulling over ideas, and never contemplating the possibility of change.  

I have to admit I almost believed him when he shed the tear. The tear always gets me if the production is well choreographed. I’m a sucker for a good show. I love the dogged hero wrapped in sappy reality TV drama. Well that might be a little much; however the reality part of his drama was much better than any prime-time slop offered up for your viewing pleasure. Truth is, it was more like watching Kanye West at his best; a little sad, very pathetic and not entertaining at all. I’ll give him some credit over West though, at least he doesn’t blame the President to garner praise, he unwittingly blames family and friend before reaching for the Prez. Never misrepresented in the eyes of his constituents, he begs the judgment of all; always here to lend advice but never too proud to stoop and lend a hand …………..he's in your life and he's in mine. All hail the target because it keeps the cross-hairs off of me!    

The Liar: J. Padron, 2009

Reach out and Touch Faith....

The difference between the eccentric and downright crazy seems to be a matter of personal interpretation depending on what side of the sandbox you play in. Can a person be crazy because of the circumstances of their life, or is the genetic soup boiling within their shell a predestined map and compass? We can take the road of least resistance and say it’s a mixture of all things mentioned and some we would rather not mention. However what does that mean for those of us walking around with such questions in our heads? Am I oversimplifying the complex? Am I looking for the easy way out? I might be looking into the life of some very eccentric individuals but I’m pretty sure I’m witnessing a springboard double front flip over the cuckoo’s nest. If so, I’m still left pondering the question: Why do I continue to watch this same episode over and over? Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…..Maybe I should start watching Jersey Shore. 

Art Stencil: spray paint on cardboard, Jorge Padron 2007

Y se tiene que pagar.....algun dia.

Luna Moth

2009

It’s not that I seek it.

It finds me.

In the music, in my dreams

In the smell I see.

As the moth longs for the beauty of the flame

There go I………fluttering, twisting, seething the same.

In case you were wondering......

The lack of posts is no indication of the commitment I have for this Nerve-Zero project......it's just that the other projects are trailing close behind and I need to finish up old commitments. More posts coming soon.

Far Away

Seconds before he was to do it a voice came unto him and it said “Terrified and shocked and even  scared I cannot take you away”, “ I cannot take you away so drive, drive far away”. He said he never understood why he heard this he only remembered the clarity of the words. I was overcome with emotion. Not because of his story but because it was a story told so many times in my office, maybe not this office but the three real offices I have worked in since 1997. He told me he was driving around Idaho Falls thinking of the many people who would wish they had told him they loved him. The friends who would question their friendship and their devotion, the family that would regret the damaging words they used to reinforce their disapproval of him and his behavior. He would drive to the hills above the city and turn himself over to the only one he said he knew would understand. God. He then told me “ He rejected me, he made me strong, he made that gun fall to the seat as I clenched my teeth and pulled the trigger”.

Tonight I was sitting around listening to music and spacing out into the vast expanse of the internet when the song came on. I listened to the lyrics and hearing them for the first time I realized I had thought of this very line earlier today. I looked them up and then I saw it. There it was, right before my eyes, an admission of the words that came to me earlier in the day. It was the same thing I heard but now it was a song. A lovely song. What could this all mean.  

Art Piece: Antoine Weirtz (1806-1865) The Suicide

This is the link to the song I mentioned in the writing. Copy and paste the link to your url. I have also attached the lyrics below the link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvAuAc01sI8&feature=related


 DEFTONES: Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away) 
This town dont feel mine
I'm fast to get away-FAR

I dressed you in her clothes
Now drive me far - away, away, away

It feels good to know your mine
Now drive me far - away, away, away
FAR away
I dont care where just FAR - away [x3]
And I dont care

FAR - away
And I dont care where just FAR - away [x3]

The funeral : part II The trip to Nampa

I was at my desk when I got the call. It was Friday and I had just completed my scheduled DV group at 11:30. The phone rang. Amanda answered. I think she said "It's Doug", I took the phone, "Padron Counseling" I said, "Hey bud, how's it going....It's Doug, Kyal's dead. I just talked to Chris and he's on his way to Boise to be with LaDawn,..... he's dead,....... Bret killed him". I felt around for my chair, all I could say was...."no, don't say that, don't say that". I remember that much. I struggled to get my balance. I struggled to get out of the mental fog as I finally believed that Doug was telling the truth. My friend was dead. My friend had been killed by his brother. The same freckle faced kid we taught to fish. I sobbed. The director of DVIC came to my office and offered support, kind words, much needed guidance. I drove home intent on driving to Nampa right then and there. We left on Saturday.
The day was gloomy and wet. The sorrow hung in the air like a smog dragon holding a city hostage on a humid day. It was two days after the beginning of the actual police investigation and all I could focus on was my poor friend lying in his own blood. Made me sick to my stomach, makes me sick as I write this now.
I made the trip to Nampa because I was worthless to everyone, I was not in Idaho Falls, I was in Nampa so why not go. I drove and said very little all the way. I remember the Utah exit near Burley for some reason, but I can’t purge the memory that creates significance to that place. When I got to Nampa I expected to be the strong presence for his family, the one to take care of them for my friend. I wanted to be their pillar of hope. As I exited the truck I saw Chris. I saw a grown man not the kid I remember on Tabor Ave. I cried. I cried like a baby.
To be continued......................................

Posted Art: The Death of the Grave-digger by Carlos Schwabe (1877-1927)

The Funeral: part 1

 I walked on firm ground with a sense of purpose, a sucker for a good tragedy I agreed to see my friend as he reentered the rehab clinic in the small town of Ashton. He had been involved in a car accident that night; he had a dulled and blunted affect and wore a dumb childish smile across his wasted face of vagrancy. That was the last time he took a drink or drug to cope with life.

We all carry our burdens, our demons, our regrets into each day and attempt to disguise them with a more appropriate shield or cover. Like a protective and stylish ipod cover. Some are better at life than others, it’s true, some go through life making all of the right decisions and making correct choices. (For the most part) I know people who read the instruction manual before taking their newly bought techno toy for a spin. People who follow the step by step guide included in their “assembly required” desk.  I also know the ones who do the exact opposite.  Diving in like hoarders at a clearance rack, not taking into consideration the possibility of a bad choice!  After the night I saw him poured into his bed I never saw him intoxicated on anything other than maybe an excess of Mountain Dew and cigarettes.  When we buried him in 2007 someone brought a 12 pack of Mountain Dew, one was buried with him, and several cigarettes were gently placed in his coat pocket by Matt.   There was a thin layer of crunchy snow above the frozen sand like crystals that still held the ground hostage. All around were muffled whimpers and the occasional snotty nose being cleared into a tissue. There is nothing like the predictable cues of sorrow, the head down, slumped shoulders, red watery eyes, and the contortion of facial muscles that almost always make a lip quiver or purse together in sadness.  Grown men and women alike allowing each other the space to expel this horrible film from the soul. Saying goodbye and pretending to celebrate the life he so bravely challenged and which challenged him.

To be continued……………………………………………………………….

Painting: Alex Grey Title: Dying
Artist website: www. alexgrey.com

Evolve? Try it........watch this.....open the mind till the end.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nu7wEr8AnHw
Yeah, I know he kind of looks like Toby the socially challenged HR guy from The Office. If at all interested in the process of art and the brain, look closely to the paintings in the Dream Series, also images like Emotion Machine and Heal.

Grandma Gets a Tramp Stamp!

The whir of the guns is mesmerizing and oddly enough scary.  Under the needle you can see the grimace of pain on the recipients face. Wrinkled nose and clenched teeth are all the evidence one needs to make a quick side step out of the booth and out the door. Still, after watching 90 pound little girls take the initial flurry of needles without so much as a blink I proclaim my membership to the shamed and disgraced society of sensitive skinned girly men. Is it worth it? I mean come on now, what in the world would a person be thinking when they decide to have their skin invaded with a flat 15 shading needle? That’s 15 needles diving into dermis in unison.  At 30,000 revolutions per minute one can surmise that pain is a given ingredient to the process.

The process of getting a tattoo I think is twofold. First comes the decision to permanently ink a memory of stellar significance, however I still don’t see the importance of having Taz or any other Looney Toon permanently painted into skin. Maybe I’m just not open minded. Second a slightly demented and yes I admit, need to feel the pain of the gun. As people show the finished tattoo they often admit the pain and discomfort or pretend that they didn’t feel a thing. Like getting a tattoo resembles driving your car through a carwash, a sleepy burdensome task to save ourselves from back breaking labor. Or heaven forbid pull us away from American idol or Dancing with the Stars!  Give me a break people! It hurts! Admit it! Unless your head is totally void of substance P or GABA it hurts a little.

So first a decision then a hint of lunacy, yet this seems too simple. There must be more to this now that we delve further in. Why else do they do it? To prove a point, loss of a bet, waste money or is it a hurdle that leads to an experience and possible conversation starter. Really?  A conversation starter?   I don’t know but I’m beginning to think we have a theme going here….that is until I round the corner of reality. The harsh reality of gravity and the persistence of time. What will that awesome tribal design on your lower back look like when they are changing your depends at the nursing home? Yikes!  It probably won’t look great with granny undies or depends! “Grandma what’s that?” , says the grandchild. Nothing sexy going on here! Can you see where we’re going here?  I don’t think the wire arm band will be any cooler, nor will anybody be able to distinguish between the skull, rose or flames! So I guess getting a tattoo requires some amount of bravery as well. So now we are at three fold! Not all of the reasons or actions here are simple to understand. Are they? Let’s see if we have it straight now.

So, first a decision, a hint of lunacy and some bravery. Phew, glad I got that out of my system.

The weekend at the Tattoo and Art Show was a lot of fun and I even sold a painting! I had a great time and found that although different we are basically all the same. We all enjoy freedom of choice and freedom of speech; we like to express ourselves through tattoos, art, scars, and piercings.  As I move out of this new arena and feel gratitude for the new experience I look ahead to the week where I again get to experience all of the above without the tattoos, piercings, or scars. And the people during the upcoming week all though different are basically the same. Just a different branch of the same tree. 

Explore, evolve, and question...............................................JP

Why are people so afraid of this guy?

Nathan Myhrvold on archeology, animal photography, BBQ ... | Video on TED.com


Another guy who isn't afraid to explore, evolve and question.

She hails from Montana.......yep she does.

  The feeling was deep but somewhat dreary. Like a numb unsettled conversation that leaves you wanting closure. I walked to the brink, on the edge…. and fell forward. Allowing myself to be swallowed by her icy breath and swollen eyes. I was not new to this, no…not new but maybe still a bit naïve to the temptation of chasing this flurry of hints she left strewn across the hillside. Swirling, twisting and evoking a desperate need to stay upright and not fall and still she whirled in circles chasing, chasing, chasing and never pinning this elusive tail.  The white skin from all corners of the compass moves about with ease, no sign of ending because above her crown I see another storm pushing ahead. I fell into her again and again and she continued to present this everlasting compassion and give as I fell and tumbled against her.

A kind soul and a wise mother she became as the day continued to progress and make sense. I think I understand. I know what I must do. I must give myself and skim only the surface of her frozen spine. I must not push or pressure the ebb and flow of this dance. I feel so weary and confused as the day comes to a close. A full day dedicated and yet denied, no pass, no easy way out, no one piece of you was given without a play. I see you and I know you. The rise and fall of many will not be explained today, no, not today. She will hold her silence tight to her bosom.

She will not break and will not soften her lips to speak on high; rather she will flutter her lashes in the wind and sleep again under the sky above. I anticipate our next exchange of words and long for your presence as I invade your space again and again, please wait for me.  Another day complete with nothing left to speak. Her given name is Lone Peak and she resides in Big Sky Montana.  ……………………………………………………….JP

Crash on First Street Update

I got a call today from a man named Paul Kent. He was the man who was taken to the hospital last Monday. He thanked me and said he was fine. He was admitted to the hospital for a day and a half and released. Glad you're OK Mr. Kent!

The show isn't in California, The show is here!

Check out this story that made it to YAHOO news.
This is a story of a man who lived life on his terms, he really did explore, evolve and question. I can hear it now "evolve?", yeah I said evolve. True serenity or enlightenment is sometimes based on the amount of quiet calming peace one has between the ears, if you don't believe me try and quiet the mental chatter you experience on any given day. Much harder than it seems. This man spent years with himself and his thoughts and never reached out to outside stimulus to replace a missing piece within himself. He felt whole. I went fishing in the Salmon area with Dave Winn one year and he pointed him out to me. I really wanted to talk to him but talked myself out of it. Mainly because of the mental chatter. "He's a hermit for a reason, he is probably easily annoyed, a loner, maybe even crazy, he might growl at me and tell me to leave him alone". I wish I would have taken a risk and asked him......"why?".



Death of 'Caveman' ends an era in Idaho
Richard Zimmerman, known to all as Dugout Dick, succumbs at 94
BY TIM WOODWARD - twoodward@idahostatesman.com
Copyright: © 2010 Idaho Statesman
Published: 04/23/10




A lifetime of living alone in solitary places shows in Dugout Dick's face in this photo shot in 2002. Born Richard Zimmerman, he was the last of Idaho's legendary loners. Zimmerman died Wednesday.

Dugout Dick's caves, dug with a pick, shovel and prybar, became an informal tourist attraction on this hillside near Salmon.


Dugout Dick's caves, dug with a pick, shovel and prybar, became a virtual tourist attraction on this this hillside near Salmon.

Known as the "Salmon River Caveman," Richard Zimmerman lived an essentially 19th century lifestyle, a digital-age anachronism who never owned a telephone or a television and lived almost entirely off the land.

"He was in his home at the caves at the end, and it was his wish to die there," said Connie Fitte, who lived across the river. "He was the epitome of the free spirit."

Richard Zimmerman had been in declining health when he died Wednesday.

Few knew him by his given name. To friends and visitors to his jumble of cave-like homes scrabbled from a rocky shoulder of the Salmon River, he was Dugout Dick.

He was the last of Idaho's river-canyon loners that date back to Territorial days. They are a unique group that until the 1980s included canyon contemporaries with names like Beaver Dick, Cougar Dave and Wheelbarrow Annie, "Buckskin Bill" (real name Sylvan Hart) and "Free Press Frances" Wisner. Fiercely independent loners, they lived eccentric lives on their own terms and made the state more interesting just by being here.

Most, like Zimmerman, came from someplace else. Drawn by Idaho's remoteness and wild places removed from social pressures, they came and spent their lives here, leaving only in death.

Some became reluctant celebrities, interviewed about their unusual lifestyles and courted by media heavyweights. Zimmerman was featured in National Geographic magazine and spurned repeated invitations to appear on the "Tonight Show."

"I ride Greyhounds, not airplanes," he said in a 1993 Statesman interview. "Besides, the show isn't in California. The show is here."

Cort Conley, who included Zimmerman in his 1994 book "Idaho Loners", said that "like Thoreau, he often must have smiled at how much he didn't need. É What gave him uncommon grace and dignity for me were his spiritual life, his musical artistry, his unperturbed acceptance of life as it is, and being a WWII veteran who had served his country and harbored no expectations in return."

His metamorphisis to Dugout Dick began when he crossed a wooden bridge over the Salmon River in 1947 and built a makeshift home on the side of a hill. He spent the rest of his life there, fashioning one cavelike dwelling after another, furnishing them with castoff doors, car windows, old tires and other leavings.

"I have everything here," he said. "I got lots of rocks and rubber tires. I have plenty of straw and fruit and vegetables, my dog and my cats and my guitars. I make wine to cook with. There's nothing I really need."

Some of his caves were 60 feet deep. Though he "never meant to build an apartment house," he earned spending money by renting them for $2 a night. Some renters spent one night; others chose the $25 monthly rate and stayed for months or years.

He lived in a cave by choice. Moved by a friend to a care center in Salmon at age 93 because he was in failing health, he walked out and hitchhiked home.

Bruce Long, who rented one of his caves and looked after him, said the care center "had bingo and TV, but things like that held no interest for him. He just wanted to live in his cave.

"People said he was the only person they'd ever known who was absolutely self-sufficient. He didn't work for anybody. He worked for himself."

Born in Indiana in 1916, Zimmerman grew up on farms in Indiana and Michigan, the son of a moonshiner with a mean streak. He rebelled against his domineering father and ran away at a young age, riding the rails west and learning the hobo songs he later would play on a battered guitar for guests at his caves.

He punched cows and worked as a farmhand, settling in Idaho's Lemhi Valley in 1937 and making ends meet by cutting firewood and herding sheep. In 1942, he joined the Army and served as a truck driver in the Pacific during World War II. When his service ended, he returned to Idaho and never left.

He raised goats and chickens, tended a bountiful vegetable garden and orchard and stored what he couldn't eat or sell in a root cellar. A lifelong victim of a quarrelsome stomach, he survived largely on what he could grow or make. Homemade yogurt ranked among his proudest achievements.

He was married once, briefly, to a pen-pal bride from Mexico. The other woman in his life, Bonnie Trositt, tired of life in a cave, left him for a job as a potato sorter and was murdered by her roommate. He claimed to see her spirit in the flickering light of a kerosene lamp on the cave walls.

He rarely went to church, but read and quoted continually from the Bible.

Services are pending. A brother, Raymond Zimmerman, has requested that his remains be sent to Illinois.