Portrait of P. by Tino Garcia
When I pull up to Paul’s place on Yale Ave
a quiet street nestled among the colleges in Claremont
city of trees and PhDs
before entering I take a deep breath, drink water, and savor
the calm and peace
I know that soon after entering
the humble bones of the house
will begin to rattle
with the elemental force of Paul’s soul
I knock but he doesn’t hear
I walk in
passing guitars, amps, djembes, a piano and
thousands of books lining dozens of bookshelves
philosophy and religion abound
with scattered accents of classic literature and history
Plato, the Rigveda, Wittgenstein, the Quran, Neruda, Sartre,
Hemingway, Aztec Thought and Culture, de Beauvoir, Nietzsche
In his room, I find him watching Groundhog Day
for the umpteenth time, pondering how it blends
Nietzsche's eternal return with a tragicomic dialectic
as he is to teach the film
to his Intro to Philosophy students once again.
Finishing his inner monologue in due time
a song only he knows
he slowly swivels away from the screen and instructs me
“Tell me something good,” as if starved for it
When I stammer in reply, “Uhhhmm, well, I just…”
he interjects, “Well then riddle me this, Tito - that is your name, right?
Is it better, Tito, to be born into this
all-too-human foolishness and tragedy of being mortal
OR to never have been born at all?? That’s the real question.”
He pauses a bit, points his index finger up, cocks his right eyebrow only
then launches his plea:
“It is better to never have been born!”
I do not respond
I just take in my enigmatic old friend
he dons black Champion shorts over calf-length white socks
covered by his trusty dark brown chopos.
On top he’s got an old white T with a plaid red flannel over it
old school Chicano style.
Part Cholo Fit Creeper, part renegade Chicano intellectual
he rocks thin, rectangular black-wire frames glasses
a long, salt n pepper ponytail
a grin that grimaces and a grimace that grins.
His head hums with hundreds of philosophical footnotes
but watcha his bones blow dope musical notes
Born in the late 70s
came of age in the late 80s and 90s
he’s a needle that scratches and grooves
across the baddest, Blackest, and Brownest
genres and geniuses.
At any moment this vato will pop off his chair
grab the electric guitar like Carlos at Woodstock
and start riffin off Santana’s “Soul Sacrifice”
or start gently strumming “Blackbird” on one of the acoustics
softly singing along with his namesake
or plop on the rickety bench in front of the old piano
to lay down Mingus’ “Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting”
or hop on the old, splintered acoustic
to belt out Los Lobos’ “La Pistola y El Corazón”
or swivel to the recorder
to blow “Don’t Worry Be Happy” Bobby-Muthafuckin-McFerrin-style
or swoop up the nylon to bang out The Roots’ “The Seed 2.0”
while bellowing the chorus “and if Mary drops my baby girl tonight
I would name her Rock n Roll!”
Then he’ll drop a gem about how the lyrics riff off Muddy Waters’
observation that Rock n Roll is the true baby of the blues
before cranking the Youtube version of “The Seed 2.0” on repeat
as loud as the speakers will go
drumming along on his thigh or the desk or the djembe
rolling up another Snoop-sized joint before
inhaling, exhaling, dancing, and howling
like the godfather of soul himself
just to let you know that when that needle drops
his soul hurts so goddamn good
The cases of cheap beer, the packs of Camel Lights,
the incessant clouds of Blue Dream, the edible gummies,
and even the occasional Sly Stone smoke,
of course, can't banish the ache deep in his bones
the being-born-to-a-drunken-father-pain
the being-the-object-of-custody-as-a-kid-pain
the getting-divorced-and-losing-the-kids-so-quick-pain
the being-raided-and-threatened-by-police-choppers-and-guns-pain
the drinking-all-your-pain-away-all-day-and-all-night-pain
the burning-almost-all-your-bridges-pain
the being-eternally-lonesome-and-sorrowbound-pain
and the-wishing-you-were-never-even-born-pain
that soul wound that must swell up early each morning
in the heart of my dear old friend
Still, Paul rises day after day
to rattle the bones of his house
along with the ghosts who lived before
spitefully shaking off the blues by
playing his frail-but-fierce body like a glorious guitar
gently and then loudly weeping
blasting the aches through the amp out the open windows
into the staid Claremont air on Lonely Avenue
Make no mistake
the music tells him something good
as he sits on the dock of the bay
giving birth one song at a time
to his tragic, comic cry
in all its astonishing, angry, beautiful vibrations
the neighbors and their countless noise complaints be damned
Yes, Paul will wail and dance and play and praise the mystery of the flesh
until the final beat breaks
the bones of his house collapse
and the bridge takes him home