Can you search your mind and locate it? Try it. What if you don’t have it handy?
What is a person’s identity when it is “en potencia?”
13.
Tonight, me and Frank step out of Donut Land. We head to Guadalajara de Noche. A neon lit restaurant on 24th & (probably York Street). Frank and me. There we go again. We make plans. We run through Cortazar, Pessoa (sometimes), a little bit of Neruda, a good dose of Vallejo, Desnos. and Bombal who envisioned the state of Nothingness and Becoming. I mention Gato.
Gato, who lives on 17th said that we should put on an event at Project Artaud. I’ve always wanted to do something at Artaud. It sounds so good. PROJECT ARTAUD. It takes me back to 1966, San Diego High School, when I was into The Theatre of the Double and the ritual poetry of Antonin Artaud. That’s what fired me up— Anti-theatre. Give me another donut. Probably some maple bars. Something sweeter than a stone and Sartre. Imagine, like Antonin Artaud, being in search of your mind? We are not there yet. The Chicano (what ever you want to call it) thing —we don’t talk about that. We go on and on with the coffee. The velveteen air. A Pink donut. “Frank, you remember, you got in trouble in Mexico for saying that each Mexican is a Chicano en potencia?” I say. He honks out a wild roll of soprano-pitched laughs. We both honk. It was in the paper across the nation!
We head to Guadalajara de Noche, we chow down on carne asada and enchiladas. Enchiladas. That’s it. So we rap all night. We leave. I forget what we talked about. It’s one conversation. It connects with every conversation we have. You want to know why? It’s the same conversation. The night. The Great Night.
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