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POMERANIAN & THE CART WOMAN

Here's one more for you, Janice

Excerpt from Chapter 3 – Pomeranian and the cart woman.

A fat woman on the way to get her hair done at Alexander’s snooty shop next door came barreling up the road in her golf cart, its sun roof tassels swinging, her Pomeranian freshly groomed sitting in the seat beside her. Her and the dog got out and went into the beauty parlor.

With a devious smile anticipating what was ahead, the older officer said, “Let fatty get her hair done first.”

“That isn’t language befitting an officer sir, and you should be ashamed of yourself” Max squawked.

Francisco took him back inside and walking the length of the building tip toed into Janice’s bedroom and placed Max on the back of a chair next to the bed where she had fallen asleep, and left.

“They say that parrot talks, did you hear him talk? The older policeman asked his partner.”

‘Nunca,” He replied shiftily casting his eyes on the roadway. “I don’t think we should have let him speak to us that way though.

“We need to check out the neighborhood. Alejandro the great is not going to be done with fatty’s hair for a long time and we can come back later to ticket her and take that dog that rides with her into the dog shelter.”

Yes, she should be charged with animal abuse, speeding along in an open cart with no doors subjecting that poor, fancy, innocent, dog to danger.” The younger officer laughed as he spit on the cobblestone street.

--------------------

. Janice saw Max sitting on the chair beside her when she woke up. “Do you dream Jefeta? (an endearing term for boss,)he asked her.

“Yes,” Maximo,” she said. I just now dreamed of children, poor children from way up above the Milpa’s that lived in adobe huts, and they were dressed like old men. I brought a truckload of them home with me, and when I got here I found they were all ducks, and when they took off their masks their heads were beaked and they looked just like you!

“What happened next?”

“Well, I opened the tailgate, and then I woke up. “ Max, feeling at ease in this intimate setting alone with Janice, began to tell the sad tale of his poaching.

EXCERPTS FROM "MAX BIRD OF AZTEC STUDIOS" #2

Francisco was made of softness. He was painfully shy, his resonate voice spoke on a level below everyone else’s, and sometimes it seemed he was not even in the room. There was a time when Janice did not know that he spoke at all. He looked young, not at all his real age then of 43, and short, five feet, the same height as Janice, and nicely rounded. His mother was from the Yucatan, and with his perfectly round face the color of burnished honey there was no question about his Mayan heritage. He looked at the Senora with compassion. Avoiding Max’s “mistake” and careful not to disturb the arrangement the beauty shop next door had put on her silver tipped grey hair, barely brushing his arm across her shoulders draped his hand on her far shoulder as if it was a blanket. It felt warm and comforting. She could not believe she would let a strange man put his hand on her, yet she did not protest.”

“We are sorry about what happened. Max did not mean to go to the bathroom on you, it was an accident. He forgot that he had just finished eating his seeds this morning. Look over at him, his head is hanging in shame. Janice will help you if you let her, and I have some cleaning fluid that will make your blouse as good as new. This is nobody’s fault, it is just life. This is what life is.” Francisco explained.

Francisco felt tender towards aging American women. He could sense in them a feeling of desperation as they hung onto their independence with a pride that belied the fact that there was really no other choice. He sensed that this woman felt violated, like she was made suddenly less by Max’s “Accident.” She seemed forlorn as she looked down at her hands folded on her lap. “You are a beautiful woman, how lucky you are with eyes the same color as your blouse and hair that shines like silver. There are so many things in life that we can be thankful for.” The woman, who had a secret desire to have a man say something sweet to her began to sob, and she sobbed and sobbed as Francisco held her.

JANICE KIMBALL IS DYING WOOL AGAIN

We love ProChemical dyes from the United States We have them shipped to us through the Mexican mail. We're dying out front right now. This is Max's article from the last time we were out there. Enjoy, Janice.

Yesterday I told you about the exciting new dyes we received several days ago. Now we are putting them to use and it's just like cooking dinner! In fact, if you're driving by and glance over, it probably looks like we're out there cooking carnitas.

We are dying wool in front of the studio with a large gas cylinder connected to a "calientador" (usually used to cook carnitas or charales) but we are cooking wool in hot acid dye solution. I'm helping and doing a lot of supervising, being very careful not to sleep into the kettle and get dyed a different color myself, I'm pretty proud of my current feathers.

The dying process is slow, taking about 3 hours per batch. We have been hanging out in front and welcome anyone who wants to stop and watch. We will be doing this all week. STOP WHEN YOU SEE THE POT BREWING. We'll be happy to show you around and you can check out all the fine tapestries which have been marked down.

Aztec Studios is on the lakeside lateral of the main highway at Calle Rio Bravo, 1 mile west of Ajijic.

JANICE KIMBALL'S NEW NOVEL

Please click on "Follow" to follow my blog as I write my first novel, "Max Bird of Aztec Studios" and leave your comments to help guide me. I will post excerpts from the book as I progress and photos taken here at our studios of the characters in the book and our working studios.

Thank you for your help, Saludos, Janice from Wonderland

OUTLINE FOR MAX BIRD—

The story is set in the real live/work art gallery and studios of the writer in Ajijic, Mexico.

This is an expose of Max Bird, a talking parrot poached from the wild and integrated into the human world as the gallery’s public relations director, Maestro Francisco Urzua, a Mexican weaver of mixed indigenous heritage, and Janice Kimball, an artist originally from Detroit.

The story tells of how the three of them came together to create their own reality. In the beginning their art studios were open 5 days a week. Janice, in a desire to find tranquility opens fewer and fewer days until they are not open at all, leaving Max without a job. Max writes his memoirs after Janice hires Betty, who becomes his secretary. Through this process Max discovers that he is not the only one that lives in a cage. Janice and Francisco also live in cages. When Betty snoops into Janice’s computer files Max is shocked to find information that explains her strange human behavior. After that Max and Francisco team up to help her find peace. In the end Max finds freedom for the three of them. The gallery reopens after the woman in blue linen who visited them in the first chapter returns from her condo on the Mediterranean and finds it closed.

A story of love, survival, injustice and rebirth.


A SHORT EXCERPT FROM THE FIRST CHAPTER

The little courtyard was between the storefront and Francisco’s weaving studio. It’s main feature was Max Birds bulky round topped cage that was set up high on a foundation. It dominated the tropical garden and tiny fish pond arranged around it. With Max on top he could see everyone that came in and everything that went on outside the door, the front display area, weaving workrooms on the back side of the courtyard and imagine what went on in Janice’s bedroom and bath tucked in private behind that. He could hear everything that went on upstairs with his super sensitive ears and with a tilt of his head see a lot of it as it was arranged the same as the main floor, the area above the courtyard being empty except for an elevated walkway open to the sky. The stairway leading to it began only 12 feet from where Max’s cage stood and often Janice and Francisco would hang their heads down from the walkway upstairs and check in with him to see if everything was okay.

> Max loved it when the glass doors were propped open so he could feel the breeze as it came in from the street to ruffle his feathers. He knew how to handle being in charge puffing out his feathers to elevate his plumes, stretching himself out full length while clutching the cages round top, hanging onto its bars, facing the entrance for anyone that might be walking along outside to look in and see. He had a way of what might be called “flapping elbows,” with his wingtips folded back and tucked up under his breast sockets, while flexing his shoulders in a macho posture that said he was in charge. There was a flip side to this mannerism. It made him look like he was a cartoon character trying to lift off taking the clumsy cage, as if it were a dirigible with him, but even so it could be seen that he was a credit to his species. He was a red crested parrot with the heart of an eagle.