I've had restless desire and dreams and a feeling of destiny within me (as well as a very odd sense of style, apparently) since I was a child. And I've sought the road that will bring me there ever since. And the truth of it is that ever since I escaped The Woods (where I had ended up for a number of years) and landed in nyc (1998), and discovered the Internet for real (I had of course used it at my community college, in the lab, and used it at my mother's house later, but never had it at my own place), opportunities in various areas have bloomed before me like stars winking into sight at dusk, when previously, my eyes had only been on the path before my feet.

Yet, I've never had a long roadmap or a consistent and reliable mentor. I just keep moving forward (or backward or sideways or inward or outward) as my heart and my senses and my intuition guides me. I make this point very purposely. It has not been my parents or school or friends who have offered this guidance ultimately, though there has been input from these places.

"Happy Jack" was the name for my music for a while.

The first use I had for the Internet was my music. I sing, do percussion/drum, play a few instruments passionately (not perfectly) and had been mixing and recording my own music for about ten years before I brought them from tape to digital format. When I put my heartfelt but surely crude songs online, I was simply amazed. Before the Internet, I knew about 25 people who wanted a copy of a tape when I made it. And oye, I did not sell them! I spent my own money for the materials, I spent hours painting tiny letters on the cassettes, xeroxing covers, and handing them out as I met up with these people. I really am that twisted, and remain so. All I really want to do is make art in one form or another. I don't even care about money except in that it helps me do that. When I got online, I taught myself HTML reading a book and built a crude (and terrible) site to make my songs available to the public. (Later, I used a large mp3 site for original music, and then even later, went on to build better sites.)

First, I saw three downloads. And then 24. And then 99. As the years passed, I would see thousands of people download my songs (or at least thousands of downloads of my songs) that had been recorded with so much tape hiss and using out-of-tune strings and beat-up instruments.

Yes, I used a tiny, tiny brush to paint on the inside of the cassette shell. This way, it would not rub off. I just felt my music deserved more than some ballpoint pen writing on a sticker.

It's only gone on from there, you see. I'm not the type who loves to be busy with the outside world so much. I like to be with a few very close friends, and my little family. I like my home. I like my studio I set up to do my music and art and writing in. I don't necessarly thrill to the idea of meeting a massive procession of people (i.e., "going out in public") and adjusting a million times a minute to their various strange and sometimes painful ways--or concealing my own. It's just too much for me on a regular basis. I do like adventures, but I need to be selective about my stimuli. Or I try to be.

The Internet gave me a way to expose my work to many people. And ever since then, I've been putting my work out there. And putting energy and love into my work. (Even when it's not lovely work!) I keep at it, and opportunity continues to present itself. Sometimes this opportunity that arises has meant getting published, sometimes it has meant more (art) clients, and sometimes it has meant being chosen to speak on one thing or another (more on this later). To me, these opportunities are a continuation of the energy I put into my work. And so I generally go with them. This definitely sometimes means some very uncomfortable situations! This sometimes means unknowns. I won't say "Yes" to something that immediately seems to be devoid of enriching potential or composed mainly of draining exchanges ("Hey Nez, wanna come over and paint my house for free?" or that would go against moral principles I had ("Hey, let me use your song to sell this automatic rifle!") but otherwise, who am I to second guess opportunity? That would be saying I know how everything in life is going to play out. And I do not. In fact, some of my greatest changes and best situations actually came about despite what I was trying to do. But most of the time, one thing leads to another leads to another leads to another. And these steps can be the ones that help you survive a situation (in the more drastic situations we can imagine), or simply gain traction or opportunity that you would have missed, and that end up benefitting you greatly.

These, and others, are reasons I said "Yes" to posting at Feministe when I was asked, and how I felt about posting at Jesus' General when I was inviited.

And that's how I felt when Kid Oakland asked me about this trip, about being one of the Chicago Voices.

Also (and it's almost unfair to put this as an afterthought), those who read here regularly know that just prior to my being asked to attend Ykos 2007, I had been doing a lot of thinking about ways to connect, about ways to hop over the seeming intractable divide between so many "whites" and so many others who took comfort in the walls between marginalized groups (this is all shorthand bereft of nuance, alas). I felt, and I even commented to a friend of mine that perhaps I was born into my particular situation (half of my family of origin white and half is mexican) to help serve this purpose.

All these factors led me to believe that this trip was (another) fateful offering in my path. It wasn't hard to say "Yes."

Soon, tho, I began getting feedback. Not all of it was pleasant. But it had begun earlier, it wasn't entirely due to my going to YearlyKos. I don't want to get swept into a tangent that will not further my plot, so I won't get into it too much. But as there are so many smart and energetic voices online, and so many disparate life stories and personal philosophies, there is (and I am guessing there will always be) a fair amount of tension online. People feel they are "together" on many things, and so expectation and judgment can really flourish when you step apart. And when your voice, or your blog becomes at all popular, you are given certain weight as a "symbol" for certain ideas or things. Not to mention each of us feeds the illusion that we are static, when really, we are always on the way from here to there or there to here. These things, in addition to the fact that we often get high on the fightbuzz, lead to a lot of drama out here, and on a regular basis.

There are probably a lot of ways to look at all of this. Regardless, there was a lot of noise around my decision, but by the time it got to me, it was all echo. Soon the loudest racket that broke through my own surfing was the roar of tense silence.

It's odd how you get a feel for the environment of your circle online, just as you can get a feel for the natural ambiance of the woods...and know when something has changed, not made evident so much by the presence of a new noise, as by the shifting patterns (or absence) of a preexisting weave of sound. And so I sensed that some of my readers/compadres were angry with me, or had lost faith. This hurt me. This angered me. Mostly because in all of it, only one person had come to speak to me. The rest was group chatter and assumed group chatter. I was told by this one person what was going on; that "a lot" of people were saying "XxXxX." About me.

And I was like what? Really?

For?

We are all human. We all have ideas of how each other should act. We all lever guilt and emotional weight at times to bring about a reality we think should exist. We all identify with each other on various levels, and serve as each other's reference points. When things change, we take it personally, and we feel our own sphere of safety and reality is threatened. Usually, we adjust. There is pain in friendship, and that is a given. But when there is no respectful engagement, but only quick judgment, there is no friendship. That's how I feel and that's how I felt. I also think that we are all capable of making too-quick leaps in judgment, so I'm glad I don't know a single name of who was talking behind my back. That way, we can still act as friends when we "meet up" on various threads and blogs. That way, people (if they desire) can reassess their judgment.

I was stung, but I wasn't really surprised. I am one who has claimed for years that the society of blogs and journals is a false one. That's a headline statement, it's a bit blocky, a little rough. Again, some nuance is required. After all, I certainly don't feel that nothing valuable comes out of the fellowship of blogs, nor do I feel all the friends I have made are false. Not at all. Some have been extremely inspiring and helpful during some very dim moments. I just feel, overall, that there is a level of projection that happens (to fill the vacuum that exists in the lack of all the signals we normally get in interaction) that renders true perception and honest personal engagement impossible. At least until you know the person, have interacted in person. True, many have argued me on this...I don't know that I've settled the question even to myself. Nonetheless, when dynamics like this arise--where a crowd, or at least various members decide amongst themselves that you are false and can't be believed in or even trusted to answer the doubts of "Friends," or that you are not worth engaging before rejecting and after you've been "Friends" for up to a year--well, I feel rather smug in my assumptions on the nature of blogswampia (and yes, I coined that word)!

Forgive my leisurely pacing. I give all this background to better acquaint you with your author, his background, his views, and thus, the context surrounding my trip and my film and what will be the film's message(s). Give you a tiny bit more room to draw your own conclusions. Which reminds me. There is going to be a title card in the beginning of my documentary film that reads something like "You are not watching objective reality. Please prepare for someone else's experience."

So, this reaction around me in response to my choices to step into whiteworld (these things are well-defined when people lay out their identities through thought and viewpoint of their writing online, not invisible at all due to lack of faces, as some claim; in fact, sometimes online we define it more clearly than we might otherwise) this pushback was one of the first incidents in all of this that began to prod me, to poke at me, to force me back to myself, to see what I thought, how I felt, and what I wanted to do--removed from the rewards and punishments and apparent alliances of others. Or at least imbued with the reminder that such things were very fickle.

And despite the pain, it was a good reminder, a very good one. It always is.

A friend said they thought the trip would be good for me. She thought it would "ground" me. That was a phrase that stuck with me for a while. I think she was right. I don't know that it was in the way she meant, but it did.

HERE'S ANOTHER FRIEND, Carmen, sitting next to a cat I don't know. This is footage from the African American Caucus, and I came in at the end.

Right away, I dug it. I loved seeing them all together, I loved the feel of the room--small, close, and intent--I loved the way the speaker finally interrupted himself and said "We've got to move on because our Latino brothers and sisters need the room." These were the rooms where I didn't feel so much a fringe element, of course. Where I didn't feel like a pet project, where I didn't feel like a Special Case.

RACE MAY NOT exist, but what do exist are the thoughts and value systems and histories of all the peoples of this land. And therein are told many stories. And stories are still being told. The celebrated and well-distributed and well-known stories are not the entire truth. They are not the only stories, and if they are the only stories we are reading and speaking, then we spread falsehood. If those formats and framings and hierarchies of reference are the only legends we pass down, then we pass down ignorance.

Race may not exist, but what does exist is the potential for those who have been historically devalued and exploited by the majority voices to feel united. Perhaps in time a reactionary joining will morph into a less reactionary method and purpose, but if it is reaction that need unite us, then reaction it shall be. In this day, and times, there is too much to react to, sadly.

If those who are in the majority, have always felt of the majority, and have not been Othered or abused by the majority view and values want to join with us in this, then they identify themselves as individuals not shaped and mindwarped irrevocably by the Great White Messaging Machine in the Sky. And then we live without those lines, those false lines, those tripwire threads that may not Exist, but which can kill nonetheless.

That being said, if someone comes along and chooses to suddenly re-draw the (illusory) bloody line, guess where I'll be standing? There is no doubt.

I call this vato "SnappyCat."

There is a good chance that this is not what he calls himself, and so readers may feel it their duty to fill in his actual name in the comments below. I wouldn't mind that at all, so that I can refer to his name in the documentary. While "SnappyCat" has a certain ring, he might prefer his own version of his name.

Regardless, SnappyCat really had a lot of energy, and made me feel sort of excited and happy just to watch him in front of the room doing his thing.

This is Joaquín Guerra, Governor Richardson's Internet guy. Cool gato. This is the one who mentioned having a beer with me. I invited him out to our "Chicago 17" dinner on August 3, but he was busy.

You can see that over his shoulder, the room is bustling with Latinos. It's only through my expert camerawork that I can provide the illusion of an almost-empty room. Hey, you know. NYU TSOA wasn't cheap, and here you can see the fruits. Eat some.

And here is a fella who I came to feel great affection for, as I think a few of us may have. It wasn't just that an attack of Sciatica (nerve condition) took him down during the convention and required him to use crutches, eventually, in order to get around. It was the tendency he had to not use the attack as a crutch for anything itself. It was who he was.

For the sake of anonymity, let's call him "Jose." "Jose" is a Mexican American who is very passionate about the Dream Act, and in seeing legislation passed that will allow Mexican undocumented immigrants to take their college degrees and become productive members of society. He has a personal stake in this. And aside from all that, he is a goodhearted and kind person who was a lot of fun to hang out with. We ended up bonding later over dinner and then, eventually, while Drinking Liberally, which we did for hours. Liberally. Literally. ...Although it would probably be more accurate to say that we bonded "While Getting Liberally Kicked Out of the Hyatt."

That part comes in Chapter 8.

However, Howard Dean and Jose did their bonding before dinner.

Please don't mind the soft man hovering behind Jose like a mint titty halo! TURN AWAY FOR GOD'S SAKE!!!! TURN AWAY!!!

The truth is, the caucuses were...inspiring. Later that day, I told (was it Bernita? or Carmen?) someone that these couple hours made the entire trip worth it. In the Caucus, there was a real feeling of unity, of change happening, of passion, and solidarity. In fact, it may have been one of the first times...if not the first, that I took part, physically, in a group of (for the most part) self-identified "Latinos" or Latino "Activists." For while I've been on this Brown Pride mission for over a year now (about two, probably, tho not all blogging), I have not taken part in such community-oriented action.

It was an empowering feeling, at the moment not at all blunted by the fact that we existed as a fringe element in a massive group of people mostly oblivious, if not disinterested in or hostile to what we might be doing; not at all mitigated by the idea that for some of us, it was not "us" who had empowered ourselves.

Of course, we all did that "Latino, Latina" pronunciation that people who can pronounce the Abecedario do. I think it was like our secret handshake.

Anyway, not even all of us were always on the same page, but for the most part, it was a very positive experience, and I'm sure all five of us (six?) walked away with the feeling that we were on to something. (Don't laugh!) This is bound to be a pretty interesting and I hope, inspirational part of the doc. Or maybe just a bunch of shaky camerawork and a strange voice intruding occasionally from the shooter. Doin a new thing over here. Sort of like New Wave French Cinema ala Truffaut and breaking conventions like the fourth wall and a strange mix of objective and subjective camerawork. The Xicano X-Wave de Pelicula LIVE at the Hyatt. ¡Acción!

Yeah. It was cool.

Other sessions later in the day were, however,

not quite

as

inspiring.

When I first posted on my experience of the KosPresser, I was wondering why I didn't ask him any questions. Of course, as I've outlined, I'm not so much of a journalist, more of an "artist" if we have to use labels like this. (It has to do with how I see myself, my level of participation, my function in a given scene, e.g. Participant vs Observer, etc.)

I didn't have questions prepared, in fact, I didn't know I was going to see him until the moment he walked in the room! On my secret super special Press junket, I talked to the Press Liaison who told me there was an "event" at that time. So I went to the room, enjoyed the fine snacks and linen and silverware and Starbucks® coffee that was laid out for the Press, and set up my camera and laptop. Then I began typing and chatting with other folks.

Lo and behold, Markos Moulitsas walks into the room! I must have spent the first minute or two just being surprised that I was "meeting" him on this trip, where I hadn't expected that at all. Especially after all the "This event is totally separate from the site DailyKos!" talk. Seeing Moulitsas there sort of, well, brought it all together, you know. His site, and the convention given his name, and the one hosting his Press Conference. It felt kind of hard to keep it separate after that.

But you know what? My not nail-gunning him with surprising and probing queries wasn't just that I'm an artist more than a journalist, it wasn't just that I had no questions prepared. I have to tell you, he seemed awfully uncomfortable to me. He seemed twitchy and nervous, and surprisingly not quite at ease for someone so often in the spotlight and smiling. True--the immediate impression was that I was watching someone who was just a bit too smug, or surly or something offputting. I can't really put my finger on it yet. I'll review the footage a few times so I can step back off the immediate impression, get more to the content of his words. But looking back, I tend to think at least a little bit of the offputting nature was because the Press must really put one on the defense. That is, I'm guessing the somewhat snide quality of his delivery was a bit of a defense mechanism. And truth be told, I ended up feeling as if I didn't want to "beat up" on the finely-groomed fellow with any surprise package IED-preguntas. (OH yeah, that's a total of THREE mixed metaphors baby!) There was no need, I had no need of that. True, he was pushing a few untruths--one that I found especially egregious and offensive--but I knew I could take care of that in the doc. And I will.

AND SO BACK AT THE QUAD, I sat with my laptop and checked my email and thought about what it all meant. What it all meant that it was me here in Chicago, what it meant that some thought I shouldn't be here, what the good feeling I had about the Caucuses meant, what it meant that I felt like I was disappointing Kid Oakland when he called to see if I was making my way to the group table at the Dean Bonanza, and found me relaxing at home and opting out of the evening's festivities.

I wasn't into Dean. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's an okay guy. Hell, I don't know Howard Dean from Alonzo. All I know is that the crowd that pressed in on the Grand Ballroom shortly before his appearance reminded me of the mosh pits that I swore off the last time I saw Tool and fell seven feet to the concrete on my back.

And that I was burnt. Not only had I been carrying my laptop and my camera and all my sound junk for most of the day, but I had been shooting. And that is far more exhausting than simply carrying heavy gear. That means a level of concentration--on everything from focus, to dirt on the lens, to exposure, to movement, to sound levels, to which mic is best to use at the moment (I didn't always get thsi right, but that's cinema verite!) to tape time left, to location of next tape, to electrical outlets and remaining power, to camera angle (which means ignoring your body's pains during the process)--and it's an energy flow that absolutely drains you after a while. I had had enough.

Also, not once in Chitown did I catch up on my sleep. I zipped out there, got thrown off my time schedule, slept only a few hours, and had busy days every day, and LET US NOT FORGET THE TRAIN, the el train that roared past our building every twenty minutes or so. I was walking around almost always in some state of being very tired.

I got an unexpected email from a friend, and in it, this friend (a different one than that one who had talked to me about gossip) was giving me support for being at the convention. This was important, as it was one of those friends I've had online since very early in this blog, and one whose opinion mattered to me, in these areas. It was also remarkable because it was one of the few voices that spoke up and directly to me at this point.

In the email, they told me that despite my protestations and my shrugging off the label of "activist," fate had appointed me as one, and life was putting me in leadership positions. And that they didn't feel so bad about that, personally. They urged me to take up the responsibility consciously, and to do well.

I found it a true example of friendship and selflessness.

And I thought about that for a long time. Both the idea behind the words, as well as the fact that they had chosen to speak them to me. Maybe even for hours.

Finally, though, the noise of the train faded from my consciousness, and I slid into a restless sleep.

NEXT, in Part Ocho: Lunch With Bernita. The Chicago 17 Dinner From a Nezua's-Eye-View. Eating the Best Fried Chicken in the World. N-Bombs Drop Over Dinner. Drinking Liberally. Waking Crappily.