June 29, 2025

Life of a Dog

At last I’ve wrapped up the eighth chapter of my memoir of innocent childhood KID STUFF, only in this one, I’m an addlepated adolescent. Following up on the previous spurts of creative juices, this instalment I call WRITING A LIFE, covering the two years of my freshman and sophomore years in high school. That’s simply the biographical side of my life, and on the emotional side, it describes my escape from Arkansas reality into the delusions of writing.

Meanwhile, those two years were the brief, happy life of my beloved dog Sambo, and the chapter says next to nothing about him. I want to rectify that omission with this impromptu addendum. (Click HERE to download this file.)

THE LIFE OF A DOG
A Digression by Richard Balthazar

On the Fourth of July 1956, he was found abandoned on the side of a highway, a tiny, mangy puppy, injured and abused. Adopted by an adolescent boy-person and soon nursed to health and maturity, he was named Uncle Sam, which became simply Sambo. While he convalesced and grew, the rescued pupdog enjoyed the run of a great big yard and pasture, the maternal attentions of an older brown and white bitch, mother of many litters, and enormous fun chasing and barking at ducklings. Like magic, dishes of fresh water and tasty food always appeared near a thick bush, and Sambo tried to chase the cats away. With the slash of a sharp claw, the white one gave him to know that it was their supper too, thank you very much.

Sambo quickly bonded to the boy-person as his alpha-master but didn’t see all that much of him during the days. He’d often leave Sambo by himself in the yard and disappear into the nearby big block. (The big female person in there wouldn’t let Sambo or other animals come into that block.) Sambo thought of his young master as the kid with too many teeth. When he bared his front teeth, there was nothing at all threatening about that mouthful of jumbled teeth. His silly expression was like a big joke, enough to make a little dog laugh. It radiated approval and affection. Sometimes Many Teeth would leave the puppy and cross over the hard, black strip that Sambo and Mama Bitch were forbidden to cross, disappearing into another big block. But the dog would wait patiently for many hours for his master to appear again.

When the weather got really hot, Many Teeth started spending nights out in the yard under the hickory tree. Little Sambo and the other animals snuggled up and slept with him. The puppy had never felt such intimacy and love before and licked Many Teeth’s face gratefully. When his master started sleeping inside the block again, Sambo missed the closeness, but when he appeared the next day, many daytime snuggles and cuddles almost made up for it.

Pretty soon, Many Teeth started waking up early and after petting Sambo for not even a minute, would get into a huge yellow beetle on the black strip, disappearing for almost all day. Sambo always got awfully lonely and tried making friends with the other animals. The cats wanted nothing to do with him. He sniffed between the big boards at the huge brown dogs inside that fence, but they ignored him. Chickens and ducks always ran away, and turkeys gobbled angrily at him. The mama bitch would let him come with her when she wandered in the pasture and visited with the big long-legged, long-necked animal that ran so fast around the field.

Late in afternoons, the master would appear out of the yellow beetle, snuggle Sambo, and run into the nearby block, not to be seen again for way too long. Then he’d show up again with food for all the animals and special pats, pets, rubs, and strokes for little Sambo. The best time of the day! Or maybe that was the sunset evenings when he’d lie on Many Teeth’s lap getting his ears scratched—or when they’d play tug’o’war with a strip of something—or when they’d chase each other wildly around the yard—or when they’d wrestle in the moonlit pasture grass…

That fall, Many Teeth spent many evenings on the other side of the black strip, and lots of big yellow beetles kept stopping on both sides of it. Sambo knew enough to steer clear of all that confusing activity and wait in the dark front yard of the block to bark at intruders if need be. Often the master would eventually show up with a crowd of boy- and girl-persons. He and many of them would pet and even cuddle Sambo and then go into the block to make a lot of noise.

Some days, Many Teeth didn’t go away on the yellow beetle and happily spent more time with Sambo, though not nearly enough. Often he’d go into the other block for hours or magically disappear entirely for a whole morning, but Sambo would meanwhile profoundly appreciate and preciously treasure every moment of his master’s presence, the squeaky sound of his voice, the eloquent smell of his face, the taste of his nose.

At times in those days at home on the hilltop, Many Teeth took Sambo with him off into the woods. At first, it was overwhelming, frightening, for a young dog used to the gentle environs of an animal haven. So many trees and tangled bushes, bewildering, intriguing whiffs and smells from everywhere. Tempted to run around exploring the wilderness, Sambo was intimidated and stuck close to his master’s heels. On future walks the pup was more adventurous exploring the nearby olfactory wonders of the forest, the intoxicating odors of earth under rotting leaves, a fragrance floating on the breeze of unknown animals and insects.

When the green things on the trees and bushes turned colors and fell on the ground, Sambo found it great fun to play in and shove them around. One morning when Many Teeth didn’t’ go off in the yellow beetle, instead of his usual wooden stick, he picked up a different stick-thing and took his adoring pupdog into the woods. He kept pointing up into the branches of the trees and shooing Sambo away off into the bushes beside the trail, but the faithful dog hung close to Teeth’s heels. The odors there were as many and fascinating as any in those old bushes. As they walked along, the master suddenly shouted and pointed up into the trees where a small grey creature raced along a tree limb and disappeared behind the tree trunk.

Sambo watched as Teeth tossed a stick behind the tree and raised his odd stick, which made a huge bang. The grey animal fell down to the ground, and the master shoved it under Sambo’s nose. The puzzled dog had never seen a dead thing before, and this one smelled disgusting. The red stuff on it was vaguely appetizing, but the stench of its fur was repellant. Many Teeth put the dead thing into a bag, and they continued their walk without further confusion or noise.

Back in the yard, Teeth sliced the fur off the dead thing with a blade and tossed it with the little head to Sambo, who ran away from it, still disgusted. The pupdog was glad that they didn’t have to go through that ever again. Sometimes Teeth killed other grey and red tree animals with his bang-stick, but Sambo paid no attention. However, on their later walks in the woods he ranged much more widely among the trees enjoying the symphony of smells.

As the weather got colder, to keep warm Sambo and Mama Bitch with her current litter of tiny puppies—and three aloof cats—slept in a box beside the hounds’ fence. Once, Teeth picked Sambo up and perched him along the ridge on top of the box, his little legs straddled down the slopes to either side. While Teeth made funny loud noises and rolled around on the grass. Sambo lay on top of the box looking down, uncomfortable and confused, then carefully slid off and jumped on his beloved master to wrestle.

With the cold weather, Sambo’s life got very quiet. Teeth was gone away on the yellow beetle most days, and when at home, he stayed in the big blocks all the time doing something. The dogs were left to lie about. At least he always brought them dishes of water and food, doling out his wonderful pets and pats, and the idle time was no bother when they had big bones to gnaw on. Sambo loved stalking a flock of black birds that often pecked around in the back field. He’d creep through the grass up close to make them caw and fly up and away. Sometimes, one would lunge at the pup trying to poke him with its sharp beak, but he’d run back into the yard.

By the time it started warming up and green things appeared on the bushes and trees again, Sambo had gotten bigger and brave enough to ramble in the nearby woods on his own, both during the day and night, sniffing out little creatures to chomp. Some of the tiny fuzz-balls were very tasty. On a moonlit night, Sambo stumbled into a big red animal with way too many sharp teeth and a fascinating, fetid odor that turned his stomach. It chased him up the hill—right into a foul-smelling black and white creature that squirted Sambo with putrid stuff and made his eyes burn and nose scream. The toothy red animal shrieked and raced away.

Blinded by the pain and barely able to breathe, Sambo crawled across the field into the yard, whining and barking in distress. Teeth hurried out of the block and stopped at a distance holding his nose. He dumped Sambo into a tub and rubbed his fur with a red juice, something that made a lot of bubbles, and something else that fizzed madly. It soon cut the stench down to a mere stink. Teeth rinsed Sambo off with more water and then did it all again, which almost cleaned him up. He learned never again to mess with a black and white critter that smelled so horrible.

Careful now about exploring, Sambo spent the warm spring days and weeks lying or wandering around the yard and patiently waiting for Teeth’s rare appearances. He happily watched the endlessly fascinating little birds flutter around in the tree tops, the brightly colored insects flitter among the flowers around the block and in the field, the mysterious white shapes floated slowly across the blue sky, and the brilliant light overhead moving even more slowly from one side to the other. The darkness was full of curious sounds and smells—and little dark birds that zipped around and bugs buzzing. Life was grand for the pup, even if lonely for his dear master.

Later on, Teeth kept shoving a thing with wheels around and around the yard to chop down the grass, spreading an intoxicating smell everywhere. Sambo faithfully followed in his master’s footsteps barking at bugs that jumped out of the way. When Teeth took the chopper across the black strip to cut the grass on the other side, he’d pick up Sambo in his arms, carefully look each way, and then run across. Sometimes he’d take the excited dog out into the woods over there. Otherwise, Sambo learned to stay on the yard side of the strip, just like Mama Bitch.

Lots of days later, Teeth stopped getting on the yellow beetle, and Sambo followed him all over the place hoping for a tiny scrap of affectionate attention. They often went into another fence where a huge red, bristly animal wallowed in mud. It’s fragrance was intoxicating, heavenly, and when it sniffed at Sambo with its flat round nose, it would snort friendly grunts. In another fence down the hill were more of the flat-nosed, muddy beasts (brown but smelling just as delicious), whose snorts at Sambo weren’t friendly. Some more days later, Red Bristles simply disappeared.

Ecstatically, Sambo went on lots of forest wanders with his wonderful Teeth, who carried his big stick but not the bang-stick. Sometimes, they’d stop in the huge hole in the ground where Teeth would shout and howl, making terrific echoes off its high sides. Sambo occasionally imitated his ingenious master, howling along in harmony. Down the hill a way at the creek, they’d jump in and splash around. Those wet hugs were the absolute best joy ever.

When they got out, while Sambo shook to dry his long fur, his splendid master would often climb up into a tree and call to his adoring dog to follow. The poor pooch could only bark an apology. At times, Teeth would rub up against a tree trunk and hump it gently. Innately, Sambo understood he was marking his territory, and he’d go over to lift his own leg and tag the same tree. This place was their private paradise, and all black and white stinkers must stay away!

When Mama Bitch’s latest litter of pups disappeared, they were replaced by a new pupdog, a short-tempered, short-legged, long-eared young bitch that wouldn’t play with Sambo. When it got really hot, Teeth and his other persons in the block came outside to sleep again, and Sambo and the other critters snuggled in with him in bliss under the hickory tree. The new bitch-pup snapped at Sambo trying to get into the master’s embrace. Sambo snarled at her to go away.

After many, many days and nights of rapture, suddenly Teeth went away. While Sambo and the other critters waited for his return, they still got their water and supper dishes brought by the young girl-person, but she’d only pet the snooty cats. On one of those abandoned days, Mama Bitch went into heat, and Sambo lost his canine mind over the hypnotic fragrance coming from her rear end. Compelled to mount and hump her frantically, he did it several times in a few days. Then the magic smell and his madness faded away, and he gnawed all day on another big bone.

Eventually, many bright, peaceful days and dark, lonesome nights passing on into forgetfulness, suddenly glorious Many Teeth reappeared to his patient dog. With barely a hug or a pet for Sambo, he started pushing that clanky thing around and around to cut down the grass. Right away, the dog sensed his master was only partially present with him, not all there in his affection and attention, preoccupied in some other world. A few more nights they all slept joyfully cuddled up together under the tree, but Teeth kept on moaning sadly in his sleep, nuzzling intimately into Sambo’s fur, mumbling affectionate things, and jabbering nonsense. Then one bright morning he jumped up early and got back on the big yellow bug.

The dog’s life on Penney Hill settled back into the familiar routine of Teeth gone all day, back in afternoons in the block, out later to bring food to the crowd of yard critters, and gone again into the block across the black strip. Sadly, he slept again inside the near block and disappeared most mornings on the yellow bug. At least Sambo could rejoice in the master’s brief visitations with his supper dish. Once, he was supremely delighted to lie in Teeth’s lap and get his sleek black fur brushed out smooth.

Soon, most nights started once again getting crowded with yellow bugs out front and groups of persons coming over to make crazy noise in the near block. Sambo listened to the squeaking and howling with confused pleasure, knowing that his dear Teeth was having fun. Then Mama Bitch surprised Sambo out of nowhere with a litter of seven strange spotted puppies, some with lots of black in their little coats. Mama Bitch nursed but otherwise ignored them, meaning they played with him instead, pulling on his ears and paws with their sharp little teeth. Many Teeth often picked them up to cuddle, making Sambo intensely jealous.

Through the days of falling leaves and chilling weather, the puppies grew quickly, turning into a wild pack of playful, scrambling, wrestling, chasing, yapping, snapping little beasts. Then Teeth started bringing his noise-making companions to see the boisterous batch, and in a few days’ time, they all fortunately disappeared. Sambo settled back into pleasantly lying about, gnawing bones, wandering fields and forests, digging down after fragrant edibles, and marking his Edenic world with tags of urine on rocks and trees. Once, he even caught a rabbit—smelt like candy and tasted even sweeter—and brought one of its crunchy ears home in tribute to divine Teeth. Soon after that, Teeth took him out into the woods again with his bang-stick, but Sambo wasn’t at all interested in whatever he was looking to bang with it.

Warm in long winter nights with dogs and cats scrunched up together in their little block, Sambo slept soundly and dreamt. He’d dream of floating like a white thing overhead, of flittering like a little bird among the tree branches, of stalking stealthily through bushes, of running-jumping-leaping in the field, of falling off into the howling hole in the ground, of slithering through the grass like a lizard or fuzzy mouthful, and most often, of snuggling up close to Many Teeth.

As the weather warmed up, Sambo took off all day on a hike to extend his territory to the west as far as he could. Encountering nothing but woods, he explored for hours and suddenly wound up at the edge of a vast flow of water. Woods were green on the other side, but Sambo wasn’t crazy enough to jump in, no matter how fertile and luscious the water’s fragrance. He tagged a huge tree on the bank and headed upstream for a while, checking everything out proprietarily and posting requisite tags. Marking another large tree, Sambo instinctively turned away from the water’s edge and made a beeline for heavenly home, his domain now vast.

Sambo was late afternoon getting back to heaven hill. Below the field, near the fence of those scrumptious-smelling Flat Noses, he made out a faint whiff of Mama Bitch’s rear end and was instantly fired with a primal energy. Near the back yard, Sambo saw a smaller gray dog coming from elsewhere, obviously driven by the same energy. Near the back gate, they tangled violently, and happily Many Teeth was there to break them up and chase the intruder away. Up this close, that magical rear-end aroma drove Sambo berserk, and he gratefully and furiously humped his master’s leg. At the first opportunity, he humped Mama Bitch too. The next few days, while keeping an eye out for invaders, Sambo mounted her several times and then lost the urge.

The contented spring days passed quietly as green things burst out everywhere. Sambo would be more content if Teeth spent more time with him. His master mostly went off into a block, but in rare moments, he was inattentive and brusque, obviously thinking about something other than his adoring, groveling dog. In the course of things, another litter of pups, six this time, suddenly appeared, and for many, many, many days, he and Mama Bitch happily suffered their respective roles in raising the sharp-toothed beasties into healthy pupdogs to give away, a free-puppy farm.

When Teeth disposed of the last puppy, Sambo was relieved and begged his master to take him out in the woods or whatever. Teeth only reluctantly paid attention to his humble dog. A few times they went on listless, though blissful, rambles and sang in the howling hole, or Teeth would climb a tree to make Sambo bark at him to come down. Then Teeth suddenly disappeared again, leaving his fervent worshipper bereft in the back yard for several more days and nights. When he reappeared, he spent another several days with the critters and then was gone again for another big bunch of days. It was awfully frustrating and disturbing for a devoted dog.

Teeth returned to high heat that made Sambo pant all the time, and he pushed the clanky grass cutter around and around again with his loyal dog following. Otherwise, he went into the other block almost all day. One morning, Teeth helped an old person onto an enormous grey beetle and then waved his hand. He came back into the yard and sat under the pines with Sambo in his lap. The loving dog licked his cheeks, wet and salty, and wondered what was the matter.

Later, greeted by Sambo, Teeth came out of the block to feed everybody and distractedly hugged his pooch. “Shepherding” him across the black strip to the other block, he told his dog to stay and went into its side door. Waiting patiently outside, Sambo sniffed along the wall and came at the corner upon a fresh tag left by some strange dog. He sniffed it closely, fascinated by its detailed story, and then looked up to see Teeth already across the strip with his two buckets. Terrified, Sambo streaked after him and heard a horrid screech. A black bug with round eyes and silver teeth slammed him out of the light and into silent, empty darkness.

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May 26, 2025

Rock and Hard Place

The next chapter of KIDSTUFF I’m calling CREATIVE JUICES for reasons that will be obvious when you read it. The above equestrian picture of me in the late summer of 1956 is a great rarity. At my sister’s urging, I agreed to mount her horse for a picture—and dismounted a moment later. I’ve never been a fan of sitting on large animals.

My eighth grade year was very busy, exploding with adolescent energy, ambitions, questions, and urges. However, our innocent, now teenaged Ricky got caught philosophically between a rock and a hard place.

On the one hand, the modern world of popular music and TV told me to go out and find myself a girlfriend to get mushily romantic, but meanwhile the Catholic Church insisted that romance should involve absolutely no thought of sex. Besides, living out there in the woods, how was I going to go out and find myself one in the first place—and what would I do with her if I did?

I got around this logistical problem with a novel strategy: concocting a historical story imagining a romance between myself as hero and a TV celebrity acting as the girl. Of course, my fictional romancing led to zilch because I still figured sex was taboo. At least sex with other people…

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February 18, 2025

Two Little Savages

The next chapter of KID STUFF, the memoir of my unusual, un-traumatic childhood, deals with the special age of 12 when I’d decided to go by the name of Ricky. That Edenic interlude in Arkansas, blessed by the splendid companionship of a boy named Kay. is called TWO LITTLE SAVAGES, for an ancient novel written and illustrated by Ernest Thompson Seton.

“The dam was a great success.”

Covering my last year of innocence, when my head still totally empty of carnal knowledge, the chapter involves a truck-stop café out in the wilderness, lots of dogs and hogs, squirrel hunting, and enchanting forest landscapes. Unfortunately, our dam was not a great success.

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January 5, 2025

Almost Twelve

This fifth chapter of KID STUFF deals with a single year of my juvenile life.

SOUTHLAWN II – A DORKIER DORK describes the brief, busy year when I was eleven. Though widely read, I was still cluelessly naïve about life, love, and the world and was just starting to discover the wonders of music, song, and dance. It was a splendidly exciting time.

Not that I was a prodigy, but I had inspiration and aspirations that could have gone somewhere. When Daddy suddenly took us away from Southlawn Circle, at almost twelve, my promising childhood ended abruptly—like a budding flower yanked out of the ground by its roots.

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December 24, 2024

Boy Meets Beast

Not quite the same as holding a tiger by the tail, but grabbing an armadillo’s tail was the wildest adventure of my first year on the Gulf Coast of Texas. I’ve now wrapped up the next, fourth installment of my childhood memoir KID STUFF which deals with when I was a witless eleven, seventy-two years ago.

SOUTHLAWN I – SUDDEN SABBATICAL describes missing out on the first semester of fifth grade—a surprise that proved an absolute boon for my education. It also gave me lots of time for beach, swimming, and fishing adventures, so much different than the fun I’d known before in rural Indiana. In fact, the sabbatical started opening my eyes to the wide, wonderful world around me.

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December 15, 2024

The Girl I Should’ve Loved – In Memoriam Jane Rose Sallis

Jane Rose in Newcomb College Picture, 1963

Once again, I find it my old man’s duty to write in memoriam about a beloved spirit from long ago who has now left me behind on this plane of existence. Jane Rose Sallis (November 12, 1942-August 14, 2024) and I were students respectively at Newcomb College and Tulane University in New Orleans. We caroused frantically in the French Quarter, tremendously close friends and dancing partners, all through the spring, summer, and fall of 1962. It was her dire misfortune that Jane fell in love with me, a wild queer boy too besotted by my newly realized homosexuality to recognize this golden chance to love her back.

Many years later, I wrote in “Divine Debauch” about my dissolute youth in the sailor bars on Decatur Street, a memoir in the form of a semi-epistolary, multiple-narrator novel. The chapter covering Jane’s and my still-born romance is called “November Someteenth.” (Click HERE to read or download the chapter.) I dared to write it in her voice, telling exactly in truth how it played out, trying to understand that powerful experience from her point of view. While it’s the sordid tale of my own depravity, I believe looking at it through her eyes was as close and intimate as we ever got.

Being in a novel, her character was named Rose, and my name as protagonist was Tommy Youngblood, stolen from a real friend from high school. Tommy appeared in a cameo in my other memoir-novel “Bat in a Whirlwind.” Meanwhile, the Ben who kept watch over Rose had previously been me as the protagonist of that book, now a Tulane student. I brought him in to give Rose and Ben the beautiful romance Jane and I never had. Such is the special magic allowed the novelist-memoirist. Sadly, I can’t go back and write in a great love affair for us.

After we split up that evening in the Napoleon House, Jane retreating to her quiet, sane life and I off to debauch in La Marina, we remained friends for two more years till graduation. Once graduated, she married an aspiring writer named Jim and moved away to Iowa City for his writing career. I went to Seattle for graduate school (and profound trauma—as narrated in my memoir “There Was a Ship).”

At the end of 1965 I passed through Iowa City and visited Jane over a cup of tea, learning that she’d just had a baby boy. It was awkward, considering that I too was now married—and expecting a child. I doubt Jane appreciated my apparent reversion to heterosexuality, but I couldn’t explain how it was a terrible trap I’d fallen into. Consequently, neither of us spoke much about the past—or the present, and afterwards we lost contact.

Honest to John, I have no idea how we re-connected, but in the early 90s we did. Jane came to visit Santa Fe, and we spent several afternoons together catching up. She’d divorced Jim many years before, lost her son Dylan to suicide when he was around 15, started working in one of Seattle’s serious wealth-producing industries, retired well-provided for, and bought a house in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Our talks as 50-year-olds were warm but again focused solely on present concerns and plans. I sensed her lack of surprise that I’d left my wife and family long before to resume gay relationships. After her visit, for the next 30 years we remained in close, if sporadic, email touch.

Jane Rose Sallis at her Birthday Party, 2020

When I finished the first version of “Divine Debauch” in like 2000, I sent Jane a copy, pointing out her chapter. She wrote back that she’d read that chapter, and that was indeed how she remembered our misbegotten love affair. Our time together in the sailor bars had been the most exciting experience in her life, but she tried never to think about the past. I suppose she felt hers was too boring and painful, but my gay past felt endlessly fascinating.

In our communications, I never reminisced with Jane, simply reporting on my odd plant-vendor work and progress on writing projects—and sending her an occasional piece of my weird Aztec artwork. I was pleased that her comfortable, beautiful life in splendid San Miguel was so full of philanthropic activity and blest with puppies that always featured on her Christmas cards.

When I sent my recent birthday wishes and heard nothing back, I soon learned that my “first girlfriend” had passed away. We’d never kissed.

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December 8, 2024

Aztec Calendar – Rabbit Trecena

The twentieth and final trecena (13-day “week”) of the Aztec Tonalpohualli (ceremonial count of days) is called Rabbit for its first numbered day, which is the 8^th day of the veintena (20-day “month”). In Nahuatl, Rabbit is Tochtli. It was known as Lamat (Venus, Star) in Yucatec Maya, and K’anil (or Q’anil) (Seed of Life) in Quiché Maya.

The day Rabbit signifies self-sacrifice and service to something greater than oneself. Counter-intuitively, Rabbits were seen as gods of drunkenness, the Centzon Totochtin (400 rabbits) being patrons of all kinds of intoxication or inebriation. The principle rabbit deity was 2 Rabbit (Ome Tochtli or Tepoztecatl). The Aztecs counted “rabbits” for intoxication levels, from 25 rabbits for mild intoxication to 400 rabbits for complete drunkenness. Vessels for the drinking alcoholic pulque often bear rabbit symbolism and/or a crescent moon symbol called the yacametztli—relating to the goddess of the moon Metztli. In fact, Mesoamerican cultures envisioned the figure of a rabbit in the moon, which I’ve surmised was day-named 12 Rabbit.

The patron of the day Rabbit is Mayauel, the goddess of intoxication/pulque and its source, the maguey plant. Seen previously as patron of the Grass Trecena, she’s the purported mother of the Centzon Totochtin, apparently by the deity Patecatl, god of medicine and pharmaceutical intoxication. Other sources suggest that the Cloud Serpent, Mixcoatl, sired some of them, but Aztec paternity wasn’t thoroughly documented, and Mayauel was a hospitable goddess.

PATRON DEITIES RULING THE RABBIT TRECENA

One of the patrons of the Rabbit trecena is Xiuhtecuhtli (Lord of Fire and Time), whom we’ve seen in the Snake trecena. As god of the Center and the Pole Star, he’s an A-list celebrity deity. The other is variously Itztapaltotec, Stone Slab Lord, or Xipe Totec, Lord of Renewal and Liberation. The first is a nagual (manifestation) of the second and deifies the sacrificial knife.

AUGURIES OF THE RABBIT TRECENA

By Marguerite Paquin, author of “Manual for the Soul: A Guide to the Energies of Life: How Sacred Mesoamerican Calendrics Reveal Patterns of Destiny”
https://whitepuppress.ca/manual-for-the-soul/

Theme: Leadership and Renewal. During this final trecena in the 260-day cycle, the emphasis is on completion and “cutting away” what is no longer needed, in order to facilitate new growth. This can be an intense period, as combat in some areas could intensify, leading to important conclusions, as the stage is being set for new beginnings to follow in the next trecena. During this period signs or signals may appear that could indicate what lies ahead or new potentialities. This is a good time to watch for signs of change and growth, and a good time to make important decisions in preparation for the new cycle about to begin.

Further to how these energies connect with world events, see the Maya Count of Days Horoscope blog at whitepuppress.ca/horoscope/ Look for the Lamat trecena.

THE 13 NUMBERED DAYS IN THE RABBIT TRECENA

The Aztec Tonalpohualli, like the ancestral Maya calendar, is counted through the sequence of 20 named days of the agricultural “month” (veintena), of which there are 18 in the solar year. Starting with 1 Rabbit, it continues with: 2 Water, 3 Dog, 4 Monkey, 5 Grass, 6 Reed, 7 Jaguar, 8 Eagle, 9 Vulture, 10 Earthquake, 11 Flint, 12 Rain, and ultimately 13 Flower.

There are a few special days in the Rabbit trecena:

One Rabbit (in Nahuatl Ce Tochtli) – a date in the mythic Aztec past when the cosmos was created by gods; also, one of Xiuhtecuhtli’s calendric names.

Five Grass (in Nahuatl Macuil Malinalli) – one of the five male Ahuiateteo/Macuiltonaleque (Lords of the Number 5), usually paired with the female Cihuateotl One Eagle.

Thirteen Flower (in Nahuatl Mahtlactli ihuan yeyi) – a ritually significant day of completion for the 260-day cycle; also associated with period endings, often marking the completion of significant “bundles” of time.

THE TONALAMATL (BOOK OF DAYS)

Several of the surviving so-called Aztec codices (some originating from other cultures like the Mixtec) have Tonalamatl sections laying out the trecenas of the Tonalpohualli on separate pages. In Codex Borbonicus and Tonalamatl Aubin, the first two pages are missing; Codex Telleriano-Remensis and Codex Rios are each lacking various pages (fortunately not the same ones); and in Codex Borgia and Codex Vaticanus all 20 pages are extant. (The Tonalpohualli is also presented in a spread-sheet fashion in Codex Borgia, Codex Vaticanus, and Codex Cospi, but that format apparently serves other purposes.)

TONALAMATL BALTHAZAR

As described in my earlier blog The Aztec Calendar – My Obsession, some thirty-five years ago—on the basis of very limited ethnographic information and iconographic models —I created my own version of a Tonalamatl, publishing it in 1993 as Celebrate Native America!

When I started drawing my tonalamatl, I did the pages in colored pencil, often producing several versions in different color schemes in a palette of four chromatic colors (with some black and white as well): gold—for gods, red—for blood, green—for jade, and blue for turquoise. Each deity had a primary color with a secondary and highlights of the others. For the last trecena, I used models and motifs from Codex Nutall and tried to make it an even balance of all four colors. Maybe I succeeded because everyone admired this image especially.

On the first nineteen trecenas, I followed the limited information available about their patrons (not knowing all of them). Many I created from scratch from Nutall images and sketchy clues on iconography. A few were based on images from Codex Borbonicus found in old books. When I got to the last one, Rabbit, the scholarship said only that its patron was the sacrificial knife, and I found only one gruesome image, probably the monster from Tonalamatl Aubin. (See below.) As an artist, I was aesthetically and philosophically offended and decided to turn heretic.

I installed my own choice of a god as patron of the last trecena, someone considerably more appetizing. Xochipilli, the Flower Prince, is god of art, dance, beauty, ecstasy, sleep, and dreams/hallucinations. In addition, he’s variously patron of homosexuals and male prostitutes; god of fertility (agricultural produce and gardens); patron of writing, painting, and song; and god of games (including the sacred ball-game tlachtli), feasting, and frivolity. His twin sister/wife is Xochiquetzal, patron of the preceding Eagle trecena.

So much for authenticity. The neglected Flower Prince is an eminently worthy “calendar prince.” (You can see the true trecena patrons in the tonalamatls of the historical codices that follow.)

Aztec Calendar – Rabbit trecena – Tonalamatl Balthazar

TONALAMATL BORGIA (re-created by Richard Balthazar from Codex Borgia)

Aztec Calendar – Rabbit Trecena -Tonalamatl Borgia

The page for the Rabbit trecena from Codex Borgia, which I hadn’t seen thirty-five years ago, portrays its orthodox patrons in typically ornate style. Xiuhtecuhtli on the left is loaded down with divine regalia, some of it the same as in his image with the Snake trecena, and in similar coloration. The only truly emblematic piece is his square pectoral, apparently a heavily stylized war-butterfly motif inherited from the ancient Maya. I find his headdress curious in reflecting that of Ixtlilton in the preceding Eagle trecena. Maybe the artist enjoyed drawing those motifs.

On the right side, we have one of the more spectacular images of Xipe Totec illustrating his traditional red and white ornaments and staff. It’s in a much different style than his image as patron of the Dog trecena, sharing only the unique nose-clamp. In this Borgia portrait, he’s definitely the “flayed god,” like a priest in the skin of a sacrificial victim.

If I’d known about this panel, I might have avoided heresy by making Xipe Totec the patron of my Rabbit trecena, but I’d already used him for Dog and wouldn’t have wanted to repeat patrons anyway. The same argument holds for Xiuhtecuhtli already having appeared in Snake. In any case, while perhaps not as eye-catching as Chalchiuhtotolin in the Water trecena, Borgia’s two lords for the final Rabbit trecena are about as stylistically exquisite as its deities get.

TONALAMATL YOAL (compiled and re-created by Richard Balthazar on the basis of
Codex Telleriano-Remensis and Codex Rios)

Aztec Calendar – Rabbit Trecena – Tonalamatl Yoal

Here we see on the left the ominously named Itztapaltotec, Stone Slab Lord, himself, the sacrificial knife that grossed me out. This one looks like a guy in a flint knife (tecpatl) costume with flayed arms hanging from his own like an appropriately nagual hybrid of Xipe Totec. He holds an emblematic red and white staff, but I can’t fathom the conch shell in his other left hand.

On the right side sits Xiuhtecuhtli more or less enthroned, which is the first remarkable detail. Almost all the Yoal deities are either standing (like Itztapaltotec) or in what I call the “dancing” pose with bent knees. Only the Cihuateotl in the Flower trecena and Xochiquetzal in the Eagle trecena sit back on their feet, standard female posture, (especially in Codex Nutall where males sit cross-legged.) Adding to this iconographic weirdness, note that Xiuhtecuhtli’s right leg and foot are hidden by the left—an absolutely ideoplastic device.

Above and beyond that odd detail, the Lord of Fire is decked out in opulent finery. Check out that wild serpent/crocodile head by his ear, possibly a plug ornament. His extravagant array of Quetzal plumes splays more feathers than even Xochiquetzal in the Eagle trecena, and between him and Stone Slab they wear more than in any other Yoal patron panel. The artist may have overdone the plumage because in his tailpiece and bustle the feathers had to overlap—a definite problem for Aztec iconography. One of the plumes in the back-fan even droops behind another!

Passing by his war-butterfly pendant, we see in his lower right hand what looks surreally like a rattlesnake with an animal head. It’s in fact a ritual “shaman stick.” More usually it’s called a “deer stick,” though many don’t look at all like a deer’s head. Plain ones were often used for digging, but the rattles on this one were probably there to make magical noises.

In the original, the scepter in the god’s other right hand was terribly drawn and unrecognizable, and I substituted the finer Xiuhcoatl (fire-serpent) he holds in the Snake trecena. The strange position of his fingers—as though holding on to a ring—is an exact duplication of that detail in his Borgia icon. There I simply wondered about it, but seeing it again here, I begin to suspect that there’s some symbolic importance attached to it. I guess we’ll never know.

Moving on to the divine face, I confess to doing radical plastic surgery on the original which looked insanely like the cartoon character Homer Simpson. That simply wouldn’t do! Then I borrowed the face-painting pattern again from his image in Snake. The result was a respectable deity worthy of his portentous headdress (like that worn by him and Mictlantecuhtli in the upper row as lords of the night). According to Gordon Whittaker in “Deciphering Aztec Hieroglyphs,” that turquoise diadem with curved point in front is literally a hieroglyph for “Lord” or “ruler.” Whittaker adds that the Nahuatl word is teykw-tli pronounced in two syllables if you can wrap your tongue around that. Colloquially, that’s te-cuh-tli, as in Xiuhtecuhtli (fire/turquoise-lord).

As with Tonalamatl Borgia, Tonalamatl Yoal went all out on the patrons of the Rabbit trecena, lavishing them with divine detail. The tonalamatl presents many elegant figures, but in my opinion, only the panel for the Vulture trecena (Evening Star and Setting Sun) can compare to this ornate, many-plumed pair. The inspirations behind the Yoal trecena pages are superbly artistic visions of glorious mythological beings.

The twenty striking patron pairs in the Yoal tonalamatl encapsulate the traditional iconography of those Aztec deities. Having worked closely with the original codex images to re-create their conceptual inspirations, I can say that the later images in the series became progressively more awkward and crude, their construction often downright ramshackle. This suggests to me that other artists may have taken over some panels—or maybe the artist simply slacked off in his work—or equally probable, the artist got drunk or stoned.

In my careful estimation however, the Yoal artist(s)’s concept and vision of the trecena patrons were nevertheless sublime. Sadly, they just lacked the means, skill, medium, and (possibly) the reverence needed to manifest their deities magnificently. I’m thrilled to have turned those flawed visions into the Tonalamatl Yoal, a new treasure in the canon of Aztec art.

OTHER TONALAMATLS

Tonalamatl Aubin patron panel for Rabbit Trecena

The only thing that identifies Xiuhtecuhtli in the Tonalamatl Aubin patron panel is his black face-paint. The generic circular pendant could belong to many deities. On the other hand, the figure on the left is clearly Itztapaltotec, a frighteningly personified sacrificial knife with a surreal face on his shoulder. The item at top center is a hearth-vessel with smoke, fire and possibly incense, but I won’t attempt to identify the other elements.

This patron panel and that for the Water trecena (with Chalchiuhtotolin) are the two most disappointing instances in the Tonalamatl Aubin. Most of the other panels are passingly ornate, while often awkward and distorted. In my humble opinion, this tonalamatl is the least impressive of the several we have seen. It was painted pre-Conquest in the neighboring state of Tlaxcala and as such may represent a crude, provincial document. Its value for scholarship is that it represents the shared themes and motifs across the “religious” territory of central Mexico.

Codex Borbonicus patron panel for Rabbit Trecena

The panel for this last trecena in Codex Borbonicus is artfully done, supplying the figure of Xiuhtecuhtli that I used as a model in the earlier Snake Trecena in my old tonalamatl. Oddly, I don’t believe I saw this decorative image of Itztapaltotec way back then. I was so taken my Xochipilli apostasy that I probably would’ve ignored the fancy fellow anyway. Though some of the surviving panels in Borbonicus present stunning figures (like Itztlacoliuhqui in the Lizard Trecena), this beautiful pairing of patrons has to be the most impactful composition of the lot.

The patrons’ emblematic paraphernalia is easily recognizable, as are many of the items in the neatly organized conglom. I’m intrigued by the bottom center item resembling a hill or mountain place-symbol with tooth-like appendages (which Whittaker has identified as hieroglyphs meaning “at”) and part of its vegetative detail in utter disarray. Most notable is the curved “deer-stick” hovering over Itztapaltotec’s flint knife, simpler than that in the Yoal panel, but scarcely more deer-like. This one is probably a common digging stick but might still be magical.

Combining these patron panels with a crowded matrix of delicately drawn days, 9 night-lords, and 13 day-lords with their totem-birds, the tonalamatl in Codex Borbonicus stands in my modest opinion as a consummate masterpiece of Aztec art and culture.

Codex Vaticanus patron panel for Rabbit Trecena

In Codex Vaticanus, the patron pair for the Rabbit Trecena again is well balanced, as in the other tonalamatls, to formally wrap up the last of the trecenas. In its characteristic rough caricature style, Vaticanus again closely follows the images and themes of Tonalamatl Borgia, Xipe Totec and Xiuhtecuhtli simply having switched sides. In its series of trecena panels, Vaticanus faithfully reflects the calendrical “dogma” in the more ornamental Borgia panels. The codices share certain other sections, but each also presents a lot of its own mythological material. Perhaps the calendrical orthodoxy can be explained by both codices having come from Puebla, possibly from the same priestly school (calmecac).

But the tonalamatl in Codex Vaticanus does more than simply restate the Borgia images. In particular, it created that uniquely surreal vision of Itzpapalotl for the House Trecena and produced its own exquisite versions of deities like Chalchiuhtotolin and Xolotl for the Water and Vulture trecenas. In addition, in its other sections, Vaticanus presents incomparably elegant artwork on deities like Tlaloc and Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli. The codex is a veritable goldmine of mythological and ethnological details. One just has to get used to its stylistic strangeness, like the blue finger- and toe-nails.

Tonalamatl Borgia is my proudest achievement in this series of re-created Aztec art. Like the Vaticanus version of the trecenas, it’s set amongst several other ritual and religious sections of the codex, many of stupendous artistry. Though several other historical codices are also iconographically superlative, like Fejervary-Mayer and Laud, to my mind, Codex Borgia is the premiere artistic relic of pre-Columbian Mesoamerica.

Unfortunately, over five centuries the document has seriously deteriorated with whole sections of images worn away, the colors of its inks fading and failing, and some pages torn or even burned. Mostly, what we can see nowadays of Codex Borgia (and many other codices) is from the incredible facsimile editions of Joseph Florimond Loubat (1837-1921), an American bibliophile. He faithfully reproduced the Aztec documents in their exact conditions at the end of the nineteenth century, which meant that any earlier deterioration was also reproduced. In 1993 a full-color restoration of the Codex Borgia was published by Giselle Díaz & Alan Rodgers, restoring most dilapidated areas and repairing lost coloration in facsimile fashion.

My re-creations of Tonalamatl Borgia have played somewhat more freely with its colors. I’ve interpreted various shades of greys, browns, and golds in the Loubat facsimiles as deteriorated original blues and greens and in a few instances introduced colors not available to the Aztec artists (like the purples with Chalchiuhtotolin in the Water Trecena). My purpose was to present the deities in authentic but new, vibrant images untouched by the passing centuries.

A curious feature of the Tonalamatl Borgia is that some of its decorative patron panels seem to suggest an underlying narrative, in particular that for the Snake Trecena. Other panels include mysterious and beautiful symbolic items (though not as many as in Codex Borbonicus), and a number of the Borgia deities, like Chalchiuhtlicue in the Reed Trecena and Tlaloc in the Rain Trecena, are perfectly monumental. In summation, I believe that this Tonalamatl Borgia deserves a place of honor amongst the world’s very best religious art.

AFTERWORD
by Marguerite Paquin, PhD.

I would like to express my deepest thanks to Richard for his extremely valuable contributions to my Maya Count of Days Horoscope blog. This began in early December of 2019, when he allowed me to use his Tonalamatl Balthazar image for the Chikchan trecena as an illustration for the blog. (https://whitepuppress.ca/the-chikchan-lifeforce-trecena-dec-10-22-2019/) The evolution of imagery continued from there as he developed and refined his work.

After the inclusion of one full cycle of his Tonalamatl Balthazar, I began including his early renditions of the Codex Borgia in the blog. At first the images were somewhat sketchy (but valuable nonetheless) but over the years he kept refining them, and the full set is now gorgeously complete. I am blessed to have them available for my blog, as they allow my readers to see at a glance the nature of the energies that I discuss every 13 days.

When Richard began adding descriptions of his work (regarding the evolution of the images, and the detailing that was included) in his own site, this added yet another layer of interest. I am extremely appreciative of Richard’s talent, research, formidable attention to detail, and generosity in this regard, and have no doubt that the ancients who devised these images in the first place would be proud. Muchas gracias, Richard!

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You can view all the calendar pages from the Balthazar, Borgia, and Yoal Tonalamatls
in the Tonalamatl gallery.

October 30, 2024

The Snarl

As I slog along in the intense detail of my drawing for the final trecena in the Tonalamatl of Codex Borgia, I have to take occasional sanity breaks (like working up my most recent posts on my late best friend from high school and my childhood memoir in process).

A couple of weeks ago, with my mind disengaged from those weighty matters, I happened to notice something discarded in the bathroom waste basket, a wad of my hair, part of my COVID coiffure probably grown in 2022 and 23, for what that’s worth archivally. A friend at the gym had kindly trimmed the shaggy back of my neck and accidentally clipped too much off.

Recognizing the dramatic ambiguity of the word “snarl,” I scanned it at a high resolution:

Feel free to see this image as homage to Edvard Munch’s painting “The Scream.” Look very closely and you’ll see an occasional strand of silver, not bad for coming off the head of an 83-year-old man. The subtlety and grace of this image impress the heck out of me.

The Snarl might well be a milestone in a new genre of contemporary art maybe called Spontaneous or Impromptu Art. It’s closely related to my sculptures from some decades ago (found-object assemblages), amongst which were some provocatively shaped stones:

Also, on my tramps across the New Mexico hills, I frequently found flattened coils or tangles of wires in intriguing, impromptu designs:

Like with The Snarl, my artistry is simply in recognizing their spontaneous artistic essence.

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October 27, 2024

Innocence Intact

I’m happy to report wrapping up the third Nowlin Road segment of my childhood memoir KID STUFF which I’m calling “Playmate.” It covers my ages 8 to 10 (third and fourth grade) when I started being aware of the larger world and other people in it. What happened in that brief period wasn’t very dramatic but certainly had ramifications for my future life.

I’m also happy to advise that my innocence remained intact in spite of Catholic school, television, an intense friendship, and the overture of a pubescent neighbor girl. Read all about it.

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October 10, 2024

A Newly True Love Story – In Memoriam Dennis E. Buster

Dennis E. Buster as Halloween King, 1959

Recently I found the obituary of my best friend from high school, Dennis (January 30, 1942 – October 10, 2023), dated almost a year ago. All through this past year, I’d had a sneaky feeling he’d probably passed on. We hadn’t been in contact for a couple years—ever since I wrote that I’d always wished he were my brother. Denny replied that we’d always be brothers—in Christ. While not exactly the terminology I had in mind, I took it in the intimate spirit intended.

In those years since 1960 after we parted, Dennis now lives on only in the memories of his wife, children, and grandchildren as the Navy guy, new husband and family man, long-time worker in the paper mill in Ashdown, retiree with work-related Parkinson’s, and a happy fisherman out in the backwoods of Arkansas. May they long remember him, but I know how quickly fond family memories can fade away to ancient photographs or vague anecdotes, even in one year.

Over those years, I visited Denny a few times, first in the mid-70’s when we were both still young. At his new house I briefly saw his teenaged son (his spitting image), and at the paper mill we had a few fond moments together. Our next meeting was around our 50^th class reunion (2010) when we rode on a parade float together. Some years later, I met him and his wife Esther at a fishing camp at White Cliffs, and on yet another drive-by I stopped in at their new house. I was sorely distressed by my friend’s Parkinson’s affliction, but he seemed to be medicating it well.

We had only two early years together when my Denny was the handsome high school boy, Halloween King, volley-ball player, joker, and unspeakably sexy tease. Now that teenaged Halloween King is mine and mine alone, like the heroic ephebe on a Grecian urn, eternally young and incorruptible. With Denny’s passing one year ago, my old novella BAT IN A WHIRLWIND has now become a veritable monument to my beloved best buddy, our newly true love story. With no one to refute my blatant fictions, the adolescent passions of our avatars Danny and Ben are for all intents and purposes factual history.

Here follow some preview scenes. For our whole love story and poignant memories of Denny, please read the book.

1. THE CHASE

Along the parking area in front of the café there was this huge chain strung up between big cement posts. They were sitting on the great links down by the rosebush. I sat next to Danny so my leg pushed up against his. He threw his arm over my shoulder and squeezed my neck. It felt so good I thought I was going to faint, but then I realized it was the smelly cigar.

They were talking about Terry’s hot ’57 Chevy parked right there in front of us, all shiny and black. Naturally I myself knew nothing about cars beyond what I could read on the hood. But I felt perfectly content listening to my good buddy chatter about whatever, as long as he kept his arm around my neck.

When Terry went back inside for a snack, Danny punched me on the arm, and I chased him across the road to our Desoto, down the way to the Phillips 66 station and around the pumps, back across the highway, up past the café, and around some cars. He finally let me catch him around the corner where Melvin, the night cook, parked his new red Plymouth. We collapsed on its shiny hood, breathless from running and laughing.

2. AT SCHOOL

At school I waited out front for Danny. He came ambling up the walk under the oak trees whistling “Red River Valley.” He was so hot-looking it should be illegal. Danny’s flattop was a shade darker than mine with just a hint of a ducktail in back. That point of hair on his nape didn’t look sissy at all. Actually, it was pretty darned sexy.

He had to go to the office and get him a newspaper article for Civics class. I already had mine, a short thing about Congress passing some bill. Afterwards, we hung out by the lockers, and he leaned lazily up against one. Something made me poke his stomach. Wiggling his hips, he asked, “Want something?” Then he blushed like crazy, his cheeks the color of cherries…

Going to our regular assembly seats, now on the very first row being seniors, he brushed my face with his red sweater in passing, and I caught a brief flower-like fragrance. Waiting for the assembly to start, Danny looked over at Betty Lou with intense carnal interest. I whispered, “There’s a little muscle in your cheek that’s quivering.”

He didn’t take his eyes off of her and said, “That ain’t the only one. Boy, I could make do with just half of her.”

Deadpan, I asked, “Right or left?” Danny cracked up.

3. THE INDIAN WELL

Noticing the shallow Indian well full of leaves, Danny said it sure looked like a great place for a nap. So, I pushed him in, and he pulled me tumbling after. Wrestling around, I took to tickling Danny in the ribs, and he struggled, laughing and begging me to quit. Tears glistened in his brown eyes. When I stopped, he instantly jumped me and pinned me flat on my back, knees on my elbows so I couldn’t tickle anymore.

Danny leaned over me, grinning mischievously, and stroked my furry cheek. “I love your fuzz,” he said, laughed, and asked, “Wanna know what I wished?” I nodded. “Here, I’ll show you,” he said with a sly smile and popped open the buttons on his fly. His pecker stood right up in the air, maybe six inches from my nose, a lot bigger than mine. He moaned and said, “My balls are about to explode!”

All my blessed bliss of the day was blown away by his cock sticking out of his pants like a dark-headed snake. How could temptation ambush me so soon after being made pure again? Why did the devil use my beloved friend to lure me into sin? When Danny started touching himself impurely, I struggled out from under him, protesting that what he was doing was a sin.

“Maybe for you, Benny babe,” he said, rolling over in the leaves, and kept on moving his hand. “But I think it’s like a little bit of heaven.”

“Well, I’m not going to watch,” I protested in a fit of virtue and walked over to stare at the trunk of the white oak. Hearing Danny’s sweet groans, I had to struggle not to get hard myself. Listening to a bird singing somewhere didn’t help. Then a deep grunt.

When Danny climbed out of the leaf-well, he was handsomer than ever, his eyes brown and shining. How could I love him so much in spite of his sinful ways? I rumpled his soft hair to show I loved him anyway.

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