What would our lives be like without some sort of belief system, without faith? I have always thought that belief, faith, is an inescapable human trait. Even those people who claim to be atheists believe in something. Call it science, enlightenment, the power of the human spirit, will, whatever… it is still faith. The certainty that there is something else, if not greater. Something outside ourselves that can transcend our existence. Something that will live on after we’ve gone.

            For Lalo, the search for this faith became an essential part of his existence. His childhood was spent under the “wings” of the Catholic Church. He was even al altar boy at some point. And like every Catholic I’ve ever known, there came a moment when he doubted his faith and questioned his beliefs; especially during the difficult years of his adolescence.

            Later on, he dabbled with different eastern philosophies. I know he was into the Sufis for a while (remember Mushkil Gusha? Today, Thursday, is Mushkil Gusha Day), and then he started reading Gurdjieff and Ouspensky, which eventually led him full-circle back to Catholicism, through John Grepe and his group.

            I never really understood why Lalo became so fixated with Grepe. If I’m honest, I have to admit I disliked the man; there was something about him I distrusted instinctively. And yet, I neither heard nor saw anything but the purest of intentions from him; as far as I know, he never extorted money from his followers, he didn’t ask for “gifts”, he didn’t ask for “favors”. Still, I disliked him and couldn’t understand why Lalo followed him so blindly, so wholeheartedly. In part, I always thought Lalo had finally found an acceptable father-figure he could place his trust in. Grepe would never betray him like my father, unfortunately, did. And, for all intents and purposes, Grepe helped Lalo “get his act together”. He became more responsible, more centered. He even became a sort of “heir” to Grepe once he died. Lalo kept on with the group for some time and became one of the “teachers” for the newer generations. In any case, it was Grepe who “returned” Lalo’s faith to him and it was that faith that saw him through the darkness of his disease.

            The whole idea of the Acapulco Hilton Experience, of the original book Lalo had planned, was that it would serve as a tribute to Lalo’s faith, that it would show the power of Jesus Christ and of His Glory; especially if one considers that Lalo had supposedly been cured of his cancer. And there, as Shakespeare would say, is the rub.

            Make no mistake. Even though it wasn’t “complete”, if it wasn’t all that we wanted, what happened to Lalo was still a miracle. In spite of having Stage 4 pancreatic cancer with metastasis to the liver and lymph nodes, he survived almost two whole years, one of which was the absolute sum of perfection for him: he stopped the chemo, continued playing and composing his music, got married, set his world and his soul to rights. And yet… and yet…

            What’s the problem, you ask? What could possibly be your beef with the situation? The man had faith, the man believed his faith would cure him, the man survived a really, really, REALLY long time with a disease that inevitably kills all who suffer from it. Look at Michael Landon, look at Steve Jobs, for Pete’s sake! If STEVE JOBS himself couldn’t make it, with all his millions, with any and every doctor at his beck and call… what do you expect! IT WAS A MIRACLE!!!! PERIOD.

            And I agree. Absolutely. But what pains me, what kills me, is that I’m not sure he knew, in the end, that it was. I think he died scared and disappointed. That there was a point in which his unshakeable faith, his absolute belief in the power of God became something else.

            I remember my mother trying to keep him grounded even while hoping the miracle would last longer. She would tell him, “Honey, I don’t want you to be disappointed if this doesn’t happen.”  And he would get furious. I think he thought that if we didn’t all “pull together” behind the miracle, it wouldn’t happen. And that’s not faith… that’s superstition. It’s the equivalent of knocking on wood or throwing salt behind your left shoulder. Faith is what he had at the beginning, when they told him at the hospital after they tried to perform a surgical procedure on him that there hadn’t been a chance to complete it, that the cancer was too advanced. We all cried; we all felt like dying. He said, “Mother, I don’t want to die, but if God calls me, I’m ready!” And he meant it.

            I don’t mean to criticize him; I don’t mean to make less of his attitude. On the contrary. He is the bravest person I know. In the end, I saw him face his last agony with a dignity and strength that humble me and take my breath away. Even during the worst of his pain, he had something nice to say about everyone; even when he was half out of it with the morphine, he would ask if you were ok. If I ever get to be a fraction of what he was at that most difficult time of his life, during the darkest of his moments, I will consider myself blessed. And that is, perhaps, the gist of it. I wish I could have given him back some of what he gave us, of what he gave me. I wish I could have spoken more openly to him instead of being afraid of his anger, of his desperation at our lack of faith. I wish I could have told him, with absolute certainty, “This was the miracle. You were the miracle.” I wish I could have found a way to comfort him and let him know he didn’t have to be afraid anymore; that he was going home.

Susana Olivares Bari

¿Cómo serían nuestras vidas sin algún tipo de sistema de creencias, sin fe? Siempre he pensado que creer, tener fe, es un rasgo humano ineludible. Incluso las personas que afirman ser ateos creen en algo. Llámese ciencia, ilustración, el poder del espíritu humano, voluntad, lo que sea… sigue siendo fe. La certeza de que hay algo más, si no superior. Algo fuera de nosotros que puede trascender nuestra existencia. Algo que seguirá viviendo aún cuando ya no estemos.

MOON RIVER

Moon River was Lalo’s favorite song when he was a little boy, and the lyrics say it all; describe his life, and even his departure from it. 

Susana’s last entry was so eloquent, so heartfelt, that there is nothing other than that to add to this good-bye letter, except to say… Eduardo, you have left a void in our lives which can never be filled. We loved you then, we love you now, and always will.

Mother

MOON RIVER

Moon River era la canción favorita de Lalo cuando era un niño chiquito, y la letra lo dice todo; describe su vida e, incluso, su partida de la misma.

La última entrada de Susana fue tan elocuente, tan sentida, que no hay nada más que añadir a esta carta de despedida excepto a decir … Eduardo, has dejado un hueco en nuestras vidas que nunca podremos llenar. Te amábamos entonces, te amamos ahora y así será siempre.

Mami

It is now the middle of August and we’re moving perilously close to the first-year anniversary of Lalo’s death. I use the adjective “perilously” because I can almost feel a darkening as we move towards September.

            Although I have tried to make this blog about Lalo’s life, it always comes back around to his death, to his absence and to our pain at losing him. I suppose you could say that, in a way, the degree of our collective pain becomes a tribute to his life.

            Is there more to be said about Lalo? More than could fill a universe of tomes and there would still be a whole additional universe of all that was not spoken. But, surely, every person who has loved another feels this way. Surely, most people enter into this category, at least for those who loved them. Is it really possible to say one was better or more worthy of love, attention or note than another? I don’t believe so.

            Death snatches from us all that is good and kind and beautiful of those we love. We are left empty handed; desperate not to fill a void we know will never be replaced by anything or anyone, but to see this object of our affections among us once again. Here is where we want to turn the clock back, again and again, to rewind the movie of our lives, to find a way to pause the story at precisely the last moment of laughter, of blissful ignorance, before the coming of the shadow that now covers our existence.

             This blog was started to keep a promise; I believe I’ve kept it to the limits of my ability. It is not that I have no more to say about my brother; it is not that there is nothing more to his life than what I and others have tried to express. But the cycle is nearing its end. After the two remaining entries for August, I will post one last entry for the first week of September.

            To those who contributed to the blog, I wish to express my deepest thanks. To my mother and Gloria, who tenaciously held on to the idea of the project and who truly helped me keep my promise with endless contributions of their own and words of advice for me when I faltered, I express my undying gratitude. To all of the readers of the blog, most of whom I’ve never met and who come from the most surprising places like Germany, Russia, Ukraine, Malaysia, France, Spain, the UK, and many more, in addition to Mexico and the US, I hope The Acapulco Experience gave you at least a taste of my brother’s life, of his country, of his essence. You can listen to some of his music at www.lalo-olivares.com. I also wish thank you for becoming what I never expected to find among strangers… loyal companions on this journey.

Susana Olivares Bari

Ya estamos a mediados de agosto y nos acercamos peligrosamente al primer aniversario de la muerte de Lalo. Uso el calificativo “peligrosamente” porque casi puedo sentir un oscurecimiento a medida que nos acercamos a septiembre.

In another of Lalo's notebooks, I found these sketches. I leave them with you...

En otro de los cuadernos de Lalo, me topé con estos bocetos. Aquí se los dejo....



Just a drum and the desert

GONE, BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN

In a way it seems impossible, yet in another way it would seem to be something that happened a long, long, time ago- - - in a little over a month from now Eduardo will have been gone one year. The initial pain has eased somewhat but lies just beneath the surface, and will probably never really go away.

I’ve been remembering random scenes and situations of his growing-up and adult years lately without any special chronological order to the memories, some of which follow:

Mimi

Our trips home when he was very little, especially the one when he learned to walk while we were visiting my mother in Chicago. Teaching him to speak what now seems to me a trial I put him through (and for that matter later on, also, his poor sister ) by using a dual language vocabulary system - - -e.g. mira/look, coche/car, luz/light. I have to justify my madness by saying that the motive was to avoid my mother-in-law’s disapproval should his first words be solely in English.

Chayo and Lalo

Then there was the time the D.F was plastered with “Gringo go home” placards. He and I were in a cab and he began speaking to me in English. Needless to say, I thought it best to forego our usual mode of communication, whispering to him that just for the moment it would be fun to speak only in Spanish.

His disapproval of the egg white facial mask I was applying one day- - -“Mommy, egg is for eat, not for face!”

Hours and hours listening to music together, beginning with my singing him to sleep every night and the daily wake-up renditions from his crib of what I had sung to him the night before. Then came the first records I played for him,“Tubby the Tuba” and all of “Cri-Cri’s” songs, learned and sung year in and year out. We were travel companions throughout every other conceivable genre (not all of which I necessarily enjoyed), up to and finally including his own compositions which, of course, I not only enjoyed but which also made me very proud, although he nearly drove his sister and me crazy repeating one particular phrase on the piano in a piece he was composing over and over again into the wee hours of the morning until he felt it was just right; however, the end result was the presentation of the composition at the Pinacoteca Virreinal. The endless hours of practicing classical guitar which, to me, was the instrument through which he best expressed himself but which he later abandoned in favor of the violin.

Throughout his childhood he came to me for solace and/or advice since his relationship with his father was not all that one might wish, and as an adolescent and adult I became his confidant although some of the things we dealt with I would probably have preferred not knowing - - -not because they shocked or insulted me, but rather due to the fact that as his mother, anything that hurt or offended him broke my heart. Well, I guess he saved the worst for less maternal reaction because Susana has reported several hair-raising experiences he confided to her that he must have felt I simply wasn’t up to.

Returning to childhood; when Suzy came along there was a good deal of obligatory teasing of the big brother and the pleas for help from the baby sister- - - “Mami, mira Lalo!!!” (“Mommy, look at Lalo!!!”) And oh!, my horror at finding out that he and his little friends were rolling her up in a throw-rug and then proceeding to roll same down a flight of stairs with her inside. She was deliriously happy about the whole thing, I was not.

He lived, worked and studied in Cuernavaca for a while and formed a group of musicians who played blues, jazz and bossa standards at a very nice bistro there on week-ends. He convinced me to become their vocalist and for a time I travelled to the city of eternal spring every Friday to Sunday and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Later, when he became a producer and was composing client’s jingles for media exposure, if my voice was right for the product and/or the lyric had to be sung in English, he would book me and so we shared those musical moments, too.

The last time I sang for him was a very few days before he died. To cheer him up I sang him an old “ditty”about accentuating the positive, and eliminating the negative that had been sung to me as a child. He was enthralled with the message, asked me to repeat it over and over and, at the last, sang along. He asked me to write down the words. Suzy did me that favor and we gave them to him.

When he was about five or six he was constantly reprimanded by his father for, I must admit, pretty sloppy table manners. His father would say “you must learn to eat like a prince”, and so, as I close these remembrances I’ll borrow Horatio’s words to Hamlet:

Goodnight, sweet prince; and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

Patricia Bari Frew

DESAPARECIDO, MÁS NUNCA OLVIDADO

De alguna manera parece imposible, pero por otra parte parecería ser algo que sucedió hace mucho, mucho tiempo…en poco más de un mes Eduardo habrá cumplido un año de fallecido. El dolor inicial se ha difuminado un tanto cuanto, pero se encuentra justo por debajo de la superficie y casi con toda seguridad nunca desaparecerá del todo.