...And Beyond...!

I know I’ve been MIA for a while, and I promise I’ll do better about that. I began 2022 by spending three weeks in Tepoztlan, Mexico at the Under the Volcano guided writing retreat. I won a spot as the first-ever Imagination Unbound fellow, and had an amazing experience.

What follows is the report I wrote to the program and the anonymous donor who paid my way.

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I arrived in Mexico City more or less on-time and immediately felt the altitude. It’s been years since I’ve gone higher than a mile or so—New Orleans, where I make my home is roughly at sea level, and as a bigger guy, the thinness of the air can be a shock. The night before I’d taken an altitude pill and then one again this morning before leaving my apartment, so the transition was not as bad as it was when I traveled to Las Vegas unaware of the difference in elevation. With Micah’s help, the taxi driver and I found each other, and along with Ayla Smith, we set out for Tepoztlan.

The two-hour ride was fascinating. I hadn’t been out of the USA since 1998, and it was a joy to look out at Mexico City, and even the highway, enfolded as it is by mountains leading down to the village. Tepoztlan itself opened like a pop-up book dominated by Tepozteco. My ears had popped over and over during the ride from the rapid descent, and by the time we reached Casa Ximena, I felt much better than I had when I arrived. After a quick greeting, Sr. Cruz showed me to my room on the first floor of the satellite building, and I slept.

Right away, my dreams felt different. I’ve always been a vivid dreamer, conjuring bizarre landscapes and mysterious figures, but in Tepoztlan, the dreams were stranger and even more vivid than usual. I dreamed of kicking around New York City with the disgraced comedian Louis CK as he filmed some sort of hybrid reality/scripted television show. Every time he approached a woman, my stomach clenched, and I worried he’d say or do something terrible. Eventually, we went to an awards show—it wasn’t clear which one, but it was Very Important. Possibly the Grammies? I was seated beside the New Orleans rapper Lil Wayne, and I was fascinated to finally see him in real life. The other younger rappers made fun of his looks and bearings, and in response, he pulled out his cell phone and rapped several bars into a voice memo. He emailed the file to a producer friend who put it to a beat and released it. It went platinum before the ceremony finished, and I thanked him for his greatness—and for being saner than Kanye, at least.

The meaning of this dream is not clear to me, but I know it meant something. It felt like a mysterious communication from the mountain god—one of many. The mountain towered in the distance, visible from the grounds of Casa Tecuac. It seemed both more and less real than reality, slightly veiled by a thin iridescent film that seemed to amplify whatever vibrations it generated. I feel just a little silly saying some of these things—while I am a Believer of sorts, and I take a quasi-mystical approach to my poetry and fiction, I try to remain fully grounded in process, in the avoidance of magical thinking, and in honesty with myself, with others, and with my work. Being in Tepoztlan didn’t interfere with that at all, but it did create an atmosphere of possibility and spiritual alertness I’ve rarely felt before—especially for such a sustained period.

I did notice that the shower in my room didn’t seem to drain properly after I used it, but I hardly cared. The room was so comfortable—though it got no wifi reception. Honestly, if there’s one thing I’d truly change about the UTV experience, it would be better internet connectivity. Most everyone there had to work during those three weeks, and having no wifi in the bedrooms and spotty service on the lawn was burdensome.

I was informed during the first week that because of a major plumbing issue in my and my neighbor’s rooms, we were to  move to other accommodations. From the satellite building, I moved to the first floor of the main house. The bed there was slightly less comfortable, but being able to use the internet in my room was a game-changer. I got far more work done there, and I felt more connected to my publication team and my loved-ones back home.

I did find the cobbled streets in our country neighborhood a little too treacherous. I never heart myself, even walking there at night, but I couldn’t help imagining breaking an ankle and ruining my whole trip. I was anxious enough about it that, combined with covid, I didn’t get out as much as I’d have liked. I am glad, at least, that on our last day, we got to walk through the market a little bit—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Covid was the main villain of our story. Infections left Magda running things single-handed, weighed down, of course, by the anxiety caused by infections among the students and instructors. I did not envy her position. Before our little outbreak we were able to attend a special screening of Noche de Fuego/Prayers for the Stolen, complete with a Q & A session with writer/director Tatiana Huezo, hosted and translated by Magda Herself. I cannot overstate the importance of the film not only to the world or to Film, but to my own work at Under the Volcano and in my career. The film itself is beautifully shot, performed, and directed, but its beating heart is the way it portrays relationships between its adolescent cast and each other—as well as the world around them. I attended the Writing with a Sense of Wonder masterclass taught by Sheree Renee Thomas, so our instruction was not directly concerned with Journalism or the way the Cartels, and the USA’s appetite for narcotics affects rural communities in Mexico. Even so, I like to think that a human heart beats in my chest, and it was easy to see that the film was created with a “sense of wonder.”

For me, one of the most important aspects of Speculative Fiction is the way it offers a broader palate of figuration and metaphor to illuminate the Human Condition in the here and now. Noche de Fuego did that so powerfully that I felt moved to switch novel projects. I had been considering a vampire novel after The Ballad of Perilous Graves, but now my heart is set on another project. I won’t get into the details here, as my publisher and I are still hashing things out.

I focus so heavily on this particular bit of inspiration because it is representative of the value UTV 2022 brought to my career. There were many smaller incidences when the circumstance of being in Tepoztlan, having conversations or viewing bits of architecture, eating certain dishes, hearing the noise of wind soughing so fast and forcefully in the palms and other trees that it sounded like a driving rain, that opened doors, creative and personal that I didn’t realize were there.

The support staff at Casa Tecuac provided and enhanced many of these moments. Cruz, the caretaker, and Jesus, the property owner took excellent care of us, but more than that, they showed us warmth and hospitality that I wouldn’t have seen staying anywhere else. One night, Jesus brought out bottle after bottle of Spanish wine and conversed with me and other Tecuac residents in a mixture of Spanish, French, and broken English as a wedding party raged next door. This was one of the most magical nights of the program. Sr. Cruz and his family provided a homemade breakfast to us every morning between 8:30 and 9:30 in the morning. My god, the food they served us was truly outstanding: a mix of traditional dishes—sopes, chilaquiles, scrambled eggs, once, even pancakes with syrup.

I would have taken food photos and learned the names of all the dishes, but honestly, I am not used to being up so early. Here at home, I usually rise between 9:30 and 11 am, depending on how long I spent reading and composing the night before. At UTV, I rose promptly at 8:15 most every morning, whether or not I had any place to be that day. Even when I slept without an alarm, I rose no later than 8:30. I impressed myself, but I suppose that like my dog back home, I’m largely food motivated. I did notice, however, that those who rose too lateto make it to breakfast often had a plate waiting for them when they did make it to the breakfast nook.

Even the night of the village-wide power-outage was wonderful. Sitting in the dark and telling stories from our lives birthed a tale I wound up adapting into a short story that I turned in to class for our third week. The wild wind and the invisible glow of Tepozteco alchemized the night’s experience into a bridge from one world to another.

It wasn’t just Tecuac or the foot of the mountain that spurred my creativity. Spending time at La Sombra del Sabino with its panoramic vistas of the countryside, its broad lawn dotted with mis-matched outdoor furniture, and its book shop as beautiful and warm as a bedroom was the perfect setting to listen to masters discuss their work and to chime in with explanations of our own. And the Convent. The Convent. The Convent.

The Former Convent of the Nativity at the center of Tepoztlan was easily the most fascinating locale we visited. There was a strange hush on it for all that the place was open to tourists for just about all the time we spent there. At first, I didn’t understand that the place was open to others besides our group, and I wondered if there were several Volcanistas I had not met who were attending with their families in tow. Reading poetry there, with our online broadcast and participation was great fun, as was listening to Magda play Bach on her cello. The convent itself combines majesty, pain, oppression, quiet, and contemplation for a truly strange and shadowed energy that is rather pleasant, for the most part. The only part of it that seemed strange or off-putting to me is the yard outside the cathedral. It seems to cry out silently. I’m not a believer in spirit photography, but it’s the only place we went where bizarre after-images appeared on photographs taken there.

Other dreams I had: I was lost on a space station trying to deliver a box of cigars to an alien dignitary. I saw three of the rabbits who live on the grounds transform into miniature people wearing brown, white, and gray fur coats. They shushed me. The vast and silent tolling of millions of enormous bells.

If there’s one thing I regret about the trip, it’s that I didn’t separate it well enough from my usual work of writing. Instead of turning in an outline for my new novel during the second week, I wish I’d had the room to do some sort of hybrid prose poem about the strange dreams and vibrations I was experiencing. If there are two regrets, it’s that I didn’t write more verse. It was, however, during UTV that I achieved a career milestone. I’ve been submitting fiction and poetry to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction since I was nineteen years old, and seeing a trailblazer of Black SFF and personal friend, Sheree Renee Thomas take over as editor of the publication has proven that change is possible in our field to a degree I never imagined when I sold my first story in 2005.

Sheree called me as I ate another amazing breakfast provided by the Tecuac staff to ask why all the Tecuac folks had fallen silent on Whatsapp the previous night. (This was because the good internet had been taken away and we had almost no connectivity at all, so even sending Whatsapp messages had become an exercise in futility.) During our conversation, she mentioned that she didn’t have anyone to review Speculative Poetry at F&SF. I mentioned that was something I could do myself, and on the spot, Sheree offered me a twice-annual column of 1,000 words in the magazine.

I try to keep my career goals loose. It’s easier to keep disappointment at bay when one doesn’t develop extremely specific visions of the future. I’d always wanted to sell stories to F&SF, the sort of stories I care about, but it never once occurred to me that I might have a column there like Liz Hand or Charles de Lint—two of my heroes. That short conversation and the fall-out from it left me in a haze of amazement and disbelief for my last day and a half in Mexico. The amazement was so complete that not even having my cell phone stolen at the gate in the Mexico City airport could puncture it. Honestly, I would sacrifice ten iPhones for even a fraction of the UTV experience. And inspite of the money I’ve spent dealing with my cell phone situation, I still wish I’d had more than 1,000 pesos to tip Sr. Cruz and his family when I left.

My fellow students were also amazing. In particular, Melissa Watkins stands out. Her voice is unique, powerful, and polished. I’m a bit of a rare breed when it comes to Fantasy in that while I consider myself a true fan of Fantasy and Speculative Fiction, in general, some of the most popular subgenres leave me cold. I do not care for Epic Fantasy, and in fact, most Secondary World fantasy leaves me cold. Mel, though, has a fresh take and a compelling voice that makes her entries even in to those genres fresh and compelling. I look forward to seeing her contributions to the field down the line—and I don’t doubt that I will.

I’m also a fan of Morgan Ventura’s speculative poetry and short fiction. They right with verve and passion, most of the time using hoary old tropes in a new and refreshing way. Libertad Pantoja is also doing amazing work, and her writer’s eye and use of language make each of her stories a gem to be admired. Beyond my own class, I was struck in particular by the poetry of Yarra Patino Estevez, in particular. Her English translations of her poems read beautifully, but even when she read in Spanish (and my comprehension of Spanish is virtually nil) the emotion of her work came through clearly. She was also wonderful to converse with, choosing her words carefully and more than willing to share her oddly-flavored cigarettes. (I am one of those mythic beasts, a genuinely-occasional smoker.)

Replacing my phone has been the major priority of the last two weeks. I’ve done it now, but I’ve found that whoever took the phone in Mexico took one photo on it before I erased all my data. It’s a view of a bedroom, presumably taken from the bed. Stretching from the left side of the frame is a shabby wooden dresser complete with a mirror. On the dresser’s surface are hair brushes and a black mask. The floor is composed of odd repeating floral tiles that look almost like haphazard glue designs, and on the right is a puddle of clothing so black that at first I took it for the smudge of a marker, above which a window stands open with its sheer curtains. This photo has haunted me since I first saw it. I didn’t realize at first that the thief must have taken it, and I tried to remember when I’d been in such a place, whether I might have taken it myself on an earlier day. What it represents to me now is a window onto another, larger world, a dream, a foreign and unfamiliar land where language is different, where customs are strange, and where little cars tick, beetle-like, over sharp rounded cobbles, pulling their passengers through a strange and fragrant night.