pages; but I fervently believed that they had something valid to say, even if it was in the most basic sense. The first time I read something about Marx, Freud, or Ho Chi Minh, it was in a comic by the Mexican cartoonist Rius. He may not have spurred me on to communism, but his work opened my mind to a different avenue of learning.
Okay, Iâll admit my theory was nothing out of this world. Similar stuff had been said by dozens of others. Many simply wanted to justify their juvenile passions. I wanted to take it further. So I started digging through art history, and without having to look too hard, I rediscovered the Mexican muralists: Diego Rivera, Siqueiros, and Orozco, and the artist José Guadalupe Posada. Adding a dash of the ancient pre-Columbian pictographic tradition, I had a set of visual criteria that offered an interesting portrait of Mexican culture. Armed with these concepts, I returned to Mexico and contacted several groups that made underground comics and zines. I spent months researching and documenting their work. By the time I had enough for a decent thesis, I was already collaborating on a strip for the magazine Gallito Cómics. I had also moved in with Alberto MejÃa, an artist who dreamed of becoming a famous painter but drew comics and political cartoons for a newspaper for a living. Alberto and I didnât last much longer than the time it took us to illustrate a few pages. Thatâs when I met Joaquin.
I didnât go to Mexico looking for romance, but I didnât foresee meeting Joaquin. The day I met him began so strangely.
I woke that morning with an odd vision. A series of letters arranged in a very specific way filled my mind. I wrote them down on a sheet of paper:
Â
E
N
I
T N U J A A
B
N
Â
I stared at them. They had no meaning that I could determine. No relation to anything I could think of. Yet they seemed important. Very important. I tried to work on one of my comics, but the letters obsessed me. Every few minutes my eyes would return to the pad. It was as if these letters, in this pattern, possessed an almost religious significance. An undeniable, transcendent power. It was unlike anything Iâd ever experienced before.
The letters appeared to be completely random. They didnât form words; they didnât even suggest sounds. They were just letters. And the pattern didnât seem to have any obvious significance. But I knew it meant something.
I felt this was the most important thing Iâd ever seen in my life. I would kill for these letters. I would build temples to these letters. If these letters could talk, I would do anything they said.
It was bizarre. I had never been excitable or fanatical. My love of comics was deep and powerful. But it didnât even touch this. This was huge.
I took a shower hoping the feeling would wash away. But as the water pounded against my skin all I could think about were those letters. They had a hold on me. I wanted to jump out of the shower, run back to my desk, grab that pad, and cradle it in my arms like a baby. But I fought the urge, turned up the hot water; maybe I could steam these crazy urges from my soul.
Slowly, as the vapor filled my nostrils, the urge dissipated. By the afternoon I returned to work on my comic, and by evening, guests started arriving for a party Alberto had arranged. The letters were all but forgotten.
chapter 19
FINDING ALONDRA
Finding Alondra completely changed my life. I met her at a party thrown by some acquaintances who created underground comics. I was sleep-deprived and unenthusiastic at the thought of going out. Every time I went to one of these things, Iâd ask myself the same question: Why bother? Usually I returned home bearing the same answer: Next time, donât bother. Friends I hadnât seen in months would greet me from the bottom of bottles and roach ends of joints. Iâd see desirable women on the arms of total jerks, stave off hunger by eating
Okay, Iâll admit my theory was nothing out of this world. Similar stuff had been said by dozens of others. Many simply wanted to justify their juvenile passions. I wanted to take it further. So I started digging through art history, and without having to look too hard, I rediscovered the Mexican muralists: Diego Rivera, Siqueiros, and Orozco, and the artist José Guadalupe Posada. Adding a dash of the ancient pre-Columbian pictographic tradition, I had a set of visual criteria that offered an interesting portrait of Mexican culture. Armed with these concepts, I returned to Mexico and contacted several groups that made underground comics and zines. I spent months researching and documenting their work. By the time I had enough for a decent thesis, I was already collaborating on a strip for the magazine Gallito Cómics. I had also moved in with Alberto MejÃa, an artist who dreamed of becoming a famous painter but drew comics and political cartoons for a newspaper for a living. Alberto and I didnât last much longer than the time it took us to illustrate a few pages. Thatâs when I met Joaquin.
I didnât go to Mexico looking for romance, but I didnât foresee meeting Joaquin. The day I met him began so strangely.
I woke that morning with an odd vision. A series of letters arranged in a very specific way filled my mind. I wrote them down on a sheet of paper:
Â
E
N
I
T N U J A A
B
N
Â
I stared at them. They had no meaning that I could determine. No relation to anything I could think of. Yet they seemed important. Very important. I tried to work on one of my comics, but the letters obsessed me. Every few minutes my eyes would return to the pad. It was as if these letters, in this pattern, possessed an almost religious significance. An undeniable, transcendent power. It was unlike anything Iâd ever experienced before.
The letters appeared to be completely random. They didnât form words; they didnât even suggest sounds. They were just letters. And the pattern didnât seem to have any obvious significance. But I knew it meant something.
I felt this was the most important thing Iâd ever seen in my life. I would kill for these letters. I would build temples to these letters. If these letters could talk, I would do anything they said.
It was bizarre. I had never been excitable or fanatical. My love of comics was deep and powerful. But it didnât even touch this. This was huge.
I took a shower hoping the feeling would wash away. But as the water pounded against my skin all I could think about were those letters. They had a hold on me. I wanted to jump out of the shower, run back to my desk, grab that pad, and cradle it in my arms like a baby. But I fought the urge, turned up the hot water; maybe I could steam these crazy urges from my soul.
Slowly, as the vapor filled my nostrils, the urge dissipated. By the afternoon I returned to work on my comic, and by evening, guests started arriving for a party Alberto had arranged. The letters were all but forgotten.
chapter 19
FINDING ALONDRA
Finding Alondra completely changed my life. I met her at a party thrown by some acquaintances who created underground comics. I was sleep-deprived and unenthusiastic at the thought of going out. Every time I went to one of these things, Iâd ask myself the same question: Why bother? Usually I returned home bearing the same answer: Next time, donât bother. Friends I hadnât seen in months would greet me from the bottom of bottles and roach ends of joints. Iâd see desirable women on the arms of total jerks, stave off hunger by eating
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