Axitia Mode 09.19.09

A few things to check out here on the Axitia Mode-ality: 1) this flyer for an upcoming event.



2) Radio Broadcasting:



and the supplemental info:
http://www.myspace.com/axitiamode
http://twitter.com/axitiamode

Gridiron

We’ve returned to Gridley and found it utterly the same: conservative, contained, controlled. My brother and I went to the country vet to pick up our dog Moxie. Outside were two men in their late 30’s dressed in hunting gear—camouflage jackets, pants, hats, boots. At least one of them was also wearing a Butte County Sheriff’s uniform underneath. I saw his badge. The other was dressed similarly, though I didn’t see his badge.

They looked us over sheepishly as we got out of our car. Before we passed them they decided to go inside and wait. I might have seen a scowl across the sheriff’s face. Or maybe it was a scowl mixed with confusion. I guess people don’t know how to handle ambiguously ethnic looking people, especially ones with large beards and large uncombed heads of hair. I don't like to acknowledge that cops are looking me over, but they were.

Gridley hasn’t changed all that much in the years I've known it. The community shies away from its meth problem—despite all the drug busts in Butte County. In Gridley, there is one subdued outreach program, on the edge of its historic downtown.

The Mexican population is slowly taking over the town, but there are habits in town hard to overcome--the Mexicans don't celebrate enough, and when they do, there are plenty of cops to make sure "gangs" don't burst the seams of latent cultural tension.

The Highway 99 is both Gridley’s economic crutch and its major flaw. The 99 runs right through Gridley. Some would say the “middle” of Gridley, though it's a little more complex than that—it runs north-south on the eastern side of its historic downtown. Fast-food chains have become lasting investments because of it. For a long time Burger King was one of the only fast food places on the 99, along with a couple of locally owned businesses. Then a McDonald’s came--a momentous event, and then a Taco Bell and a Subway. More recently, right next door to McDonald's a Quizno’s has come up. Even more recently, a Starbucks has finally come to town, though unlike the Quizno’s owners, the proprietors were savvy enough to find a better location up the highway, nearer to the highschool, and almost encroaching on Gridley’s “downtown.”

Gridley’s downtown: El Toro Foods, Bremer’s, Sylvio's Pizza. There used to be a video store until Blockbuster came through (also along the Hwy 99) and put virtually every one of the seven (7!) video stores out of business. There a couple of bars, one of which is probably unwelcoming to people of certain shades of color. The Family T-Shirt Factory is also there, next to the police station. A couple of parks. Right in the middle of town, across the street from the police station, where the theater used to be, is a giant Church of the Nazarene.

East of the 99 the city limits approaches relatively quickly, as we approach that other side of Gridley. Between the train tracks and the Feather River lies an enclosure of public housing, once serving migrant workers, but now housing people with more permanent status. To natives, it's known as "el campo" and the "labor camp." "Segregation" might have a slew of heavy historical connotations, but this is what it is.

Gridley’s kids often work in agriculture of some sort. There isn’t much else around. Houses in town are large, opulent one might even say. They’re set back from the quiet roads with dutifully manicured lawns. But the larger, individual homes with unique designs are offset by the streets and streets of track housing. These houses are largely the same. People of all varieties live there though they often work in agriculture as well. There are a few other staple businesses of course--a glass company, cabinet makers, construction, mechanics.

Recently, jobs have become available as a result of the new housing developments that have gone up on the west side of Gridley—the type of semi-gated neighborhood with names like "Heavenly Meadows." Spacious, 2-story homes calculated to fit the needs of semi-affluent Northern-Northern Californians (or at least ones willing to go into large amounts of debt), they’re not that different from the flat 2-3 bedroom track homes a few blocks away, except that they're at least twice as big. Every house is basically identical. The residents may see the obvious similarities in their homes, but the streets are nice, all 4 cars fit in front, the rooms are spacious. Residents may however feel that they are twice as privileged as most people, perhaps with the exception of the old-timers with the older "classic" homes near downtown.

Did I mention that at the top of downtown, surveying it pasture, is a well-sized Church of Latter Day Saints?

Gridley: town of enormous churches, figuring itself out. Farmers struggling just as farmers struggle all over the world, though we wouldn’t know it (the Gridley Herald isn't exactly a bastion of investigative journalism). Mexicans, working for cheap, getting pulled over for driving without licenses, on their way home from building housing bubble homes.

Did I mention I love Gridley for some odd reason?

New York Exegesis

October 7, 2006

Luiseño Films

Initial Findings:
•The community of Gridley, CA, immigrant community:
GRIDLEY→BUTTE COUNTY→NOR-CAL VALLEY→Some Surrounding Areas

Contributors:
Glue Dobbs
Juan Cicada
Poky Pokerson
Semo Simon
Apple Juice
Peter Paradise
Monica Kaczinsky
Batthew Marney
Alvin Alda
Peter Fisher Price
Don el Hijo de Juan
Mauricio Mano
Sebastian Zargossa
Nigel Kafka
Red Bluff

www.luisenofilms.com
P.O. Box 1465 95948

Fotos Here

First Photos Finished!!!!!!!!!!!

YESSS>>.....
talk about a fulfilling experience.

I was completely exhausted after we finished. We left at something like 11am. Ricardo saw some hot rockera chick smile back at him as we were pulling out of downtown. She was driving some bad-ass old-school Ford Falcon, baby blue. And we didn’t even have the energy for that. Then we passed some day-laborers at Home Depot, picketing! Normally, we would have straight up stopped. Today, we just had to honk. We finally went to my sister’s cushy house. I slept for 7 hours.

Also:
R.W. Apple has died.

May 1st, 2006 – A Quiet Walkout, May-Day in New York City

I had roughly two jobs going at once: Editor at at a company that made its profits, whatever that was, by editing mainstream Network and Cable Television Commercials; and a second "job" co-editing a documentary film with Jeremiah Zagar--a film about his father, an artist. I packed the Canon PowerShoot in my bag, watched some NY1 as Pat Kiernan reported on the demonstrations for the day and then headed for the subway i take every day of my life.

I would often observe my co-passengers, making note of them--on this day it was the usual 20—35 years old, white or assimilated/absorbed, but flaring tattoos and tight pants and Olsen twin and time-warped aviator sunglasses, dirty shoes and irony-clad t-shirts, dishelved and striking cleopatra haircuts, seething breasts and wobbly limbs. They listened to iPods or dozed off or read books. An occasional few engaged in intimate-public conversation: “Oh hey—I thought it was you! How’d it go the other night?sorry I couldn’t be there. How’s work?yeah i hate mine too---We Should Get A Drink Sometime!!?"

Most don't talk though at this hour, they zone their eyes in one direction of moving lights, lost in thought and dozing before work. Being a part of the American Economy. I heard later there were delays on many trains, packed trains of this seemingly harmless people seeping about underneath New York City.

Work that day was procrastination. A mild level of responsibilities hung over my head, but i could put them off. Sitting at my computer station I pulled up NY1 and did some google searches to find times and locations of the various gatherings throughout the city. In fact, I did absolutely no work whatsoever. Somewhere in my head I'm telling myself not to work; to abstain from supporting this economy, to stop, for one day, from giving it my time and my energy and my creativity, my identity and, shall i venture, my Inner-Sol.

A co-worker commented on the note in the air, atonal, an audible question mark. Gladly, I wasn't the only one on edge, walking with this heavy spirit. New York as a city sometimes vibes in a tangible way. I believe this. Like when the weather changes after a long spell of humidity or dreary snow, and the city is swarmed with these people; they display ambitious new clothing combinations, and new skin. A million social currents. This was an alter-spirit though, contained, intangible--the feeling of seeing a man in a mask--trepidation?---don't hurt me! Fear?---Don't destroy my life! Resentment? F**K U! Shame?--?

During a silent conversation in the common kitchen, the only voice heard on the matter was, “well, they’re illegal, right? Send them home.” Silent reactions, sort of embarassed by such marked...conservativism. At an editing and Special Efx+Graphics compnay--in NYC! "What," I said stepping away, "the f**k." I walked away, realizing, right then and there, that i knew far too little regarding the collective actions of my own people; i had no idea--no idea--of how to respond to this.

After hiding out at my work computer for a couple hours, I decided it was time to go. Our receptionist might have asked when I’d be back, to which I told her to reach me on my cell phone if someone really needed me. In LA kids were burning up on the streets.

When I got out the streets were streaming with people. Brown faces everywhere, bouncy and smiling. Entire families, children in strollers, kids in front of parents as the crowd progressed. There were of course several activist organizations, but the majority seemed like regular gente; for all intents and purposes, it was a successful dia de comunidad in New York City.

I remember having to walk uptown several blocks just to get onto the street with the marchers on their way down to the court-house. I could see the march on the next block, but police were not letting anyone through. There were volunteer demonstrators guiding people most of the way. Non-demonstrators asked cops where they could pass, some annoyed, others curious. Most just watched, pudgy blank faces wondering why their routine trip downtown was so difficult, others with forlorn glances through roving eyes.

The mainstream media reported X number of people. It felt like many many more people. I couldn’t even get all that close to the court-house. All along the way I snapped pictures. In the distance I heard a few seemingly charismatic speeches. I ran out of pictures on my camera and drifted off to a side-street. I made my way through the financial district. Straggling marchers walked passed me with flags draped over their backs. Later I noted on the news the replaying of the pledge of allegiance in Spanish during demonstrations in D.C.