Magic Ebbs From Colombian Town That Informed an Author’s Work ~ ARACATACA JOURNAL ~ NYT


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A shrine for Gabriel García Márquez, a Nobel Prize winner, in the writer’s hometown of Aracataca, which served as the model for the fictitious town of Macondo in “One Hundred Years of Solitude.”Credit...Meridith Kohut for The New York Times

ARACATACA, Colombia — Beyond the cellphone stores and the motorcycles buzzing like flies in the 100-degree heat, the hometown of Gabriel García Márquez still has some magic in it.

It is still a place where dilapidated wooden houses hide shady gardens that hint at furtive mysteries, where a 96-year-old woman gets her toenails painted pink and keeps songbirds in cages, and where squealing children swim in irrigation canals flowing beside sun-blasted streets.

Mr. García Márquez, the Nobel Prize-winning writer who died at age 87 on Thursday, will be remembered at a memorial service in Mexico City on Monday, attended by the presidents of Colombia and Mexico and cultural luminaries (though perhaps none who shines as brightly as Mr. García Márquez, who has been called the most famous writer on the planet).

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Mr. García Márquez left this dusty town when he was still a boy, but he later reached back to his time here as the source for his greatest work, defined by a style known as magical realism. Aracataca became the model for Macondo, the town that serves as the stage for his masterwork, “One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
Most of his time here was spent in the home of his maternal grandparents, where he soaked up the stories told by his grandmother and other relatives. He said that it was his grandmother’s matter-of-fact way of telling the most fantastic stories that inspired the narrator’s voice in “One Hundred Years of Solitude.”

Now the site of his grandparents’ home, where he was born and which fed the vibrant world of his fiction, has been turned into a tidy museum. Parts of the original wood home remained until a few years ago, but that was all knocked down and rebuilt, according to the museum director, Daniel López.

In its place is a neat, whitewashed structure that in some ways resembles a Swiss chalet more than the local wood architectural style it is meant to mimic.

Much of Mr. García Márquez’s adult life was spent in Mexico, where he died last Thursday. He was cremated and the Colombian ambassador to Mexico said that a portion of his ashes would be brought home to Colombia, although it was not clear where they would reside.


The immortal wisdom of JP

By the way, this gives some new meaning to the finest Haiku ever written in all of Rock and Roll.

If dreams were thunder

Lightning desire, this house would

Have burned long ago


Douglas Rovira

From gentleman, poet, friend, former Jesuit ~~~ Arturo Buentiempo

Happy! Happy! Happy! Who’s not happy that it/ki’s happening
this Christian New Year full of hope in spite of Russian troops 

& missiles massed on the Ukrainian border threatening war &

our skies brandishing heat waves, cloudbursts & gullywashers
Addicted as we are to too-much much-much-more & smores 

& Black Swan nuclear matches to scar the planet’s cheeks

Long suffering as Earth is with climate-provoked fires 

& floods & tattoo artists slain by gun-gone crazies

Happy Pappy Hip hop hallelujah for this Julian world count 

which Pope Gregory tweaked for the happy Holy Roman Empire
We inherited His story & embrace Christianity as world

calendar in this happy new year of the Lord Anno Domini 

as if in fealty to a criss-crossed conquering gold god king

From the Middle English hap happe in the Latin-rich tongue of another

Christian empire which won the last world war against a nouveau pseudo-
Christian empire that tried to eliminate Jews, Gypsies, Jehovah’s

Witnesses & leftist pinko fags, the disabled, & all their families

From the Proto-Germanic *hampą  “convenience, happiness”
as if it were convenient to make a happy face in the midst of winter’s orgy

of ice fall & avalanche, urban infernos, epidemics of meth, coal & Covid

or amidst the Southern Globe’s cattle-cleared timber cut summer

Cognate with the Icelandic happ “chance, good luck”

as if we might get a second chance at saving the Big Apple
that, invested & gnashing, we’ve got our teeth into

From the Proto-Indo-European *kob- “good fortune, prophecy”
“To bend, bow, fit in, succeed” — as if bowing to the Anthropocene 

we could bend our fortunes away from that mushroom cloud
looming on our cognitive horizons like a tumor
Like a Hopi prophecy. Like a bag of bones

Not Pandora’s box but Patriarchy’s loose ends

Happy! Happy! Happy! Related to the Swedish hampa

“to turn out” & Old Church Slavonic кобь “fate” & Old Irish cob 

“victory” — as if the year’s fate could turn out for us as triumph

if we but say it often enough over & over like an ad
Happy Holy Healthy
Happy Holy Healthy
Capitalist mantra of good feeling, greenwash & cheer

So yes let’s sing & drink & drive ourselves into utopian fantasia 

Into hippy happy hallucinations where Peace isn’t pablum 

to hoodwink the masses & Love is a four-letter word we are

learning, while staying with the troubles, to live our lives by

Happy birthday Amusement Earth
Take another spin
We’re good for the ride


fotos dentro del Museo Sibley


Conservador del museo Don Pablo
galería pública en el museo Sibley
refrescos en la cocina del cosenero Sibley
relajación en la antesala del Museo

crédito total de la fotos ~ Abuelo Norte/Señor M. Wells


Crédito de las fotos del Museo Sibley, rŌbert


Sib in the shop

crédito total, Karl Arndt


Hi there,
My name is Tania and I am a friend of Paul Sibley & Deborah Hammock’s.  I have started a GoFund Me site to help them with expenses related to the loss of their home. Here is a link should you be interested in donating.  Thank you SO very much.
Tania Petrulis 

the right Thursday post

Guy Clark described the phenomenon perfectly –

“Then he lost the thread

And his mind got cluttered.

And the words just rolled off down the gutter”
Rumor is that San Francisco blotter was packed in these…



Living (and dying) in Avalanche Country by John Marshall and Jerry Roberts


DECEMBER 1, 1999 

Review by Ed Quillen

Living (and dying) in Avalanche Country
by John Marshall and Jerry Roberts
Published in 1993 by Simpler Way Book Co.
ISBN 0963202804

WHERE MOUNTAINS RISE, snow generally falls. And from time to time, the snow merely pauses on a slope, waiting for a chance to descend again — this time as an avalanche.

Thus Central Colorado endures its share of avalanches. Three Western State College students were killed this spring by a snowslide on Cumberland Pass. In 1962, half the town of Twin Lakes was demolished by a slide that roared down Mt. Elbert. Monarch Pass gets closed, from time to time, by avalanches, as does the road to St. Elmo.

But the state’s major avalanche zone lies to the southwest, in the San Juan Mountains, where avalanches are not an occasional danger, but almost a daily fact of life (and death) for most of the year.

Living in Avalanche Country might be considered a social history of avalanches in some slide-prone territory. It passes over most of the science (things like moisture content and slope gradient) to focus on history and the human element from the vantage of Silverton — a one-time mining town in the heart of the range, where every route to town passes through slide zones.

Avalanches are the main reason that the narrow-gauge tourist train from Durango doesn’t run clear to Silverton in the winter — there’s the danger of a slide striking the train, and the constant expense of snow removal.

The Colorado Department of Transportation doesn’t enjoy the option of suspending operations in the winter, and authors Marshall and Roberts devote much of the book to that department’s heroic efforts to keep the highways open so that Silverton residents can get their groceries and mail.

Conceptually, the process is fairly simple. As soon as the clouds clear and the wind dies down after a storm, close the road. Use explosives to bring down the snow on the known avalanche runs — a map in the back of the book lists 40 named runs between Ouray and Silverton. Then plow the snow off the road, and wait for the next storm.

This began after World War II with a surplus army 75-mm howitzer, which was hauled on a trailer to where it could lob an explosive shell toward the top of the slide run. If all went well, it triggered the slide.

More cannons were added over the years, but by 1986, the security requirements for storing the ammunition exceeded what small towns could offer. So now a helicopter takes off after every storm with a pilot and a bombardier, who drops the charges. It’s safer and faster, and the same crew can handle Wolf Creek Pass, too.

On the ground, though, the road still has to be plowed, and the slides sometimes ignore the explosives, only to run later. On March 5, 1992, a snowshed on the East Riverside Slide saved the lives of four motorists who were trapped in it for 12 hours. But less than 200 feet away, outside the shed, two highway maintenance men had been buried under their plow truck.

One of them, Danny Jaramillo, kicked out the truck window, reached a little shovel he had aboard, and dug his way to the surface and then walked to the snowshed. It took 18 hours.

The other, Eddie Imel of Ouray died. His death led to improved procedures and better radios in the trucks, but the authors argue, rather convincingly, that if the East Riverside snowshed had been built to 1,100 feet long, rather than the money-saving 180 feet, the well-liked Eddie Imel would never have been swept to his death.

Living in Avalanche Country teems with first-person accounts from survivors, generally well-told. One of my favorites was from an Arizona couple whose car was swept down by the Mother Cline slide in the spring of 1988. And as an informal student of place names, I was fascinated that the slides had names, many of them attached to local characters or events.

One chapter focuses on mail-truck drivers, whose dedication is astonishing; the Postal Service should start using them in commercials. The authors go back to the 19th century for accounts and photos — the early freighters often tunneled through slides, and others taught pack burros to walk on snowshoes.

The photos, historic and modern, seem worthy of a book in themselves, and there are stories behind the photos — or even non-photos:

So Pete’s up there about to shoot the Brooklyns. We’re standing there by the mine road where they park the cat. This guy pulls up in a station wagon and asks if he can take some pictures. “Sure,” we tell him. Well, Pete’s up there by Chattanooga getting ready to fire away. This guy has set a tripod and he’s got about three cameras hanging from his neck. He looks ready.

‘Bout the third shot Pete fires, things start happening. I mean happening. Every slide from the Eagle down through the Brooklyns takes off running. I think later we counted 16 avalanches that ran. Pretty incredible.

Well, things start settling down and we begin to hear this camera guy swearing away. He picks up his tripod, camera and all, and throws it — I mean, hard — into the back of the station wagon. Then he throws his other cameras in one by one. “Must’ve got some great shots,” we said. “I never snapped a damn picture,” he replied. The swearing started up again. You know? I don’t think he ever did say good-bye.

In some ways, Living (and Dying) in Avalanche Country is an extremely local book about coping with winter in the core of the San Juans, and you won’t find much lore from elsewhere. But in recounting those life-and-death struggles, Marshall and Roberts are telling stories that resonate throughout the Rocky Mountains, wherever avalanches might strike.

— Ed Quillen

Still occasionally find a copy on eBay or a local garage sale for cheap.  Just heard from a friend that the book is still available at Fetch’s in Silverton.

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