Nick Belardes' Anhinga: Bakersfield Spoken Word at Bakotopia Unplugged

Local author Nick Belardes performed the first chapter of his novel Anhinga as poetry at Bakersfield’s best open mic Bakotopia Unplugged. The novel examines a dual-ethnic’s experience of the San Joaquin Valley and post-9/11 life with lyrical intensity and a power rooted in the images common to Bakersfield residents: the boxcars of South Pacific trains, neon graffiti, and the cool water of backyard swimming pools. Addressing a broad range of topics at the heart of Valley life, the chapter explores questions regarding families, race, mythmaking, and rebuilding.

Musician Landen Belardes accompanied his father on guitar, layering the poetry with added emotional resonance. Available on iTunes, Landen’s album Listen contains all original tracks that are both sophisticated and direct. The honesty of his lyrics can be heartbreaking at times, but the album has an overall uplifting quality—as if we might have learned something about ourselves after we’ve listened. Here's the video, filmed by Jesse Rivera and Nick Belardes.

Bakotopia Unplugged, hosted by Matt Munoz, takes place each Wednesday at Fishlips Bar & Grill (21+). Sign-ups start at 7:30 pm and the event continues until closing. No cover charge. For more information and to watch recent videos of performers, check out its Facebook page here.

On a personal note, the final few minutes of Nick's performance resonated with me as we enter Bakersfield summer. One of my first memories of my mother is of her teaching me how to float in the pool, her hands holding me from underneath--much like the father and son featured in the chapter. The father's advice should be remembered when we find ourselves simply needing to float.

"Just relax. You're buoyant. Let yourself feel lighter than the water. Look up at the heavens. Be with the air. Breathe deep, feel your heart, trust the water."

Contact Information

NICK BELARDES is the illustrator of "West of Here" (2010). He's also the author of "Random Obsessions" (2009), "Lords: Part One" (2005), and the first literary Twitter novel "Small Places" (2010). He has worked as a creative writer in animation for the Fremont Street Experience in Las Vegas, has written for TV and film, as well as news for television news, various magazines, news sites and newspapers. He can be contacted through his Facebook page here.

LANDEN BELARDES is known for cranking out the jams with fellow indie rockers Dirty Spanglish and the alt country/Irish duo Black Dog. His solo venture is a mix of eclectic indie rock and passionate acoustic-driven ballads. Think the Shins meet Wilco with a poetic edge that only a Bakersfield singer/songwriter could offer. “I think there’s still room in the world for songs that are a little bit rocking and a little bit heart and soul,” Landen says. Please check out his album Listen on iTunes. Visit his Facebook page here.

The Exhibitionists

I like to write in public. Call me an exhibitionist. It's one of the few physical aspects of writing that makes me feel like a writer. Even if you're overwhelmed by rejections stuffed into the mailbox, you can simply write where there are others.

You are writing. Someone sees you. You are a writer. Voila!


Can you guess which window?



OK, maybe it's not that easy, but there's something about being surrounded by the people and places you're writing about--the movement, the interactions. There are a few coffee shops downtown that are great for writing, though I often prefer fast food restaurant lobbies or parks because of the overexposure at coffee shops. I may like to write in public, but I also like to get work done, which feels somewhat impossible at hipster hotspots. (Don't get me wrong: I love gathering places for artists, musicians, conversationalists, friends, but when we're together, we like to talk about our projects way too much.)

Sometimes you'll find me writing at the wicker tables in front of The Padre's Farmacy, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. The patio faces the somewhat dingy, weekly rate Porterfield Hotel, which happens to have one of the more interesting porches to people watch. If you ever need someone to smoke a cigarette with, you'll find a friend or two who'll share some stories with you on the stoop.



Every time I write outside The Padre, there's a naked man who stands in front of an upper window at the Porterfield. He's become my good luck charm, a part of my writing routine. I'm not sure if he's watching me, but the man is staring out the window at something. 

The first time I saw him, I was with a writer friend who has a great imagination and sense of humor. I (stupidly) asked him what he thought the naked man was doing.

He arched an eyebrow and smiled.

"No..."

"I think I see an arm moving," he said.



"No way. OK. Maybe, but it's so obvious! He's right up against the window and everyone can see him."

"If there were kids around, I'd definitely call the cops."



My friend went back to his work, but I couldn't stop staring at the window. The man would leave for a few minutes at a time, then return. The room was too dark to tell if there was anything obscene going on, but he had piqued my curiosity.

"Creeper. You're obssessed with him. You like it," my friend accused me.

Maybe I do. As a writer, I'm both an exhibitionist and an observer. I can't help but see. That's what a writer's supposed to do--watch things, record them, find something new and interesting about the commonplace lives we live. Writing requires staring. Lots of it. So I happen to stare at an old naked man...

Thank God the bottom of the window hits mid-waist.

The Death Couch

In the 1970s, my grandparents bought a 1905 mansion that originally belonged to the family that owned the Payne Mortuary. Now the Ira L. Stoker law office, the mortuary sits on the southeast corner of the intersection of 20th and B St.

When the mortuary went out of business, my grandmother asked if she could buy some of the unwanted furniture. She brought home a pea-green velvet couch circa 1930s that's now located in the house's entryway. It used to be the receiving couch for the mortuary and when I use it, I imagine the grief-stricken people who had just lost a relative huddled together speaking in low voices or maybe not saying anything at all.



"The Death Couch"



I wonder what happened on that couch. Who sat there? What was said? What memories were made? Who was being remembered?

In college my friends and I used to play a game where we'd try to see how far back we could trace the furniture we had inherited. (Great party game, right?) My ex-boyfriend had a dirty navy blue couch covered in a terrible green, yellow, and red plaid pattern that had been donated to him by a Communist who said he had gotten it from someone who had gone to jail whose mother had given it to him when she wanted to update the furniture (or something like that). We drank beer and played this game until I'm sure that we started making up stories about the origins of our furniture. (Believe me--you'd be this bored during a Wyoming winter too).

My family, especially my grandparents who were both history students, has given me a deep sense of the individual's connection to places and people long gone. My grandmother always said that our families' stories were our stories. That it was our duty to carry their memories with us. Those memories leak into my perception of life as I experience it. The same ex-boyfriend I mentioned earlier in the post used to talk about "the democracy of the dead," referring to valuing the experiences of the dead in addition to the living.

That's something I adore about Hispanic culture: respect for and remembrance of passed relatives. Every year I make altars for my mother and grandmother to celebrate The Day of the Dead and I often find peace in the ritual (though my family still thinks it's a little bit strange...). Do you have any special traditions regarding the deaceased?

That connection to the dead, to imagining what their lives were like, inspires me to write: to remember and re-imagine. To sit on a couch and guess at who'd sat in that spot last, how we might have understood each other had we met, what we would have talked about. If I can't get my answers from history, at least I can make it up.