angry sex.

white knuckles and tearing away the mystery,
bare skin collide with dark hairs,
from those dark hairs a crucifix announces itself with a glimmer,
friction riding up the saggital line that divides us,
and a sensation that activates every square centimeter of flesh, every pore.

colliding sense of control,
the creeping, crawling, clawing of arms and legs,
a gesture that both hurts and satisfies,
the cavities within each other,
like the crumbling of egos before entering a foreign domain.

summertime (when the living isn't easy).

sun ripened smiles and sand in which to roll
waves washing over the landscape
the ritual of youth and skin and play
another time around...
the sun,
the bars,
and all the yearning.

cruelty and lust become blindingly hot
as we feed the fire within us with booze and laughter
who can count how many times they wink in a summer?
or the amount of beers one sponsors a friend?

given days and nights to unravel
we feast on availability and whats alluring
flying over the city with contraband
or reading to oneself the text on a dollar bill
the last one we have left after debauchery
before we insert it in the jukebox...

leisure.

luxurious lamps load lead lavishly
loving liquidic liasons lacking luster
lost, lost, lost
looking left
losing light
living life lulled
leaving lust lonely.

love relationships and friends.

para continuar con la propuesta de daniel omar de comparar fenómenos cósmicos con fenómenos psicológicos...

who was guy debord?

Self-proclaimed leader of the Situationist International, Guy Debord was certainly responsible for the longevity and high profile of Situationist ideas, although the equation of the SI with Guy Debord would be misleading. Brilliant but autocratic, Debord helped both unify situationist praxis and destroy its expansion into areas not explicitly in line with his own ideas. His text The Society of the Spectacle remains today one of the great theoretical works on modern-day capital, cultural imperialism, and the role of mediation in social relationships.

After the dissolution of the Situationist International, Debord was tangentially implicated in the assassination of his friend and publisher Gérard Lebovici. The accusations infuriated Debord, and he consequently prohibited the showing of his films in France during his lifetime. Debord continued writing, and in 1989 he published his Commentaries on the Society of the Spectacle, arguing that everything he wrote in 1967 was still true, with one major exeception: the society of the spectacle had reached a new form, that of the integrated spectacle. The prospect of overturning the society of the spectacle seemed more unlikely than ever. In December of 1994, at the age of 62, Debord killed himself. The French press, who had always repudiated the significance of the Situationist International, suddenly made him a celebrity.


www.nothingness.org

wouldn't it be nice?

Wouln't It Be Nice- The Beach Boys
(Brian Wilson/Tony Asher)

Wouldn't it be nice if we were older
Then we wouldn't have to wait so long
And wouldn't it be nice to live together
In the kind of world where we belong

You know its gonna make it that much better
When we can say goodnight and stay together

Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up
In the morning when the day is new
And after having spent the day together
Hold each other close the whole night through

Happy times together we've been spending
I wish that every kiss was neverending
Wouldn't it be nice

Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray it might come true
Baby then there wouldn't be a single thing we couldn't do
We could be married
And then we'd be happy

Wouldn't it be nice

You know it seems the more we talk about it
It only makes it worse to live without it
But lets talk about it
Wouldn't it be nice

Good night my baby
Sleep tight my baby

oslo skyline by Jagga Jazzist- a status report of this psyche.

poetic reflection on the meaning and manifestation of hate.

hate is something that is born out of a moment,
a spurt of energy channeled through the flesh, the word, and the air in the lungs.
the mind plays a part and the body performs the dance,
like Shiva, consuming all that is not stable enough to survive it.
no sound can ever exemplify the satisfaction,
of a howl and the gritting of jaws and the stabbing your palms with your nails.
like wittgenstein's rose in between the creatures jagged teeth,
as fast as neurons can carry the poison,
the medicine for the soul of he who has been trampled.

castoriadis vs. vázquez (like a philosophical ballet)

"the subject is that which opens."
-Castoriadis

Castoriadis states that...

"Our time is not time.
Our time is not the time.
Our time is no time."

His use of the clause and the meanings and uses of the word time create a wide variety of interpretations. time is the fuel for political activity in that it takes place in time. any interpretation of these statements made by castoriadis is valid. as an economist and philosopher he addressed the political decomposition of our society.

to which i respond in a parallel argument...

"Our art is not art.
Our art is not the art.
Our art is no art."

All these statements are a tautology that illustrates my attitude towards artistic practices today. the lack of signification of the word art make any interpretation valid. this illustrates the futility of art as an effective method of activism. it is my belief that in order for them to survive and regain their social status the artist needs to invade politics. we need to jump-start those structures with rich arguments about perception and the search for understanding of cosmic law.

looking-gnikool

looking for an opening through which i can leave here,
i stumble and i fall though a trap,
thinking that i could outrun fate i grope in the darkness,
all the while losing all possibility of escape.

this place we have built for ourselves enshrines us,
keeps our desires locked away from their source,
through etiquette and through a Christian communion of lashings,
and we thought we were going forward...

as i advance in this conundrum i beget insane ramblings of yesterday,
they accumulate and haunt me when i try to be still,
i know no peace inside my mind,
and outside is chaos as well.

i try to keep a steady gaze to the horizon,
and i scribble notes of happy thoughts when they pop into my mind,
i struggle within the inner space,
in order to move towards the outer realm where we will meet.

somewhere you are just as me,
looking for an exit and finding that the more doors you open,
the deeper in the labyrinth you go,
the more difficult it will be to find you...

stay where i can reach you,
so that we may both venture into the night,
when you'll be watching forward with your preternatural foresight,
as i cover and conjure the light that will drive us.

this video is a conjugation of two things i truly adore about the sixties, Star Trek: The Original Series and Jefferson Airplane. kudos to the editor of this jewel of moving imagery.



and the lyric to make the post complete:

White Rabbit:

One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small,
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all.
Go ask Alice
When she's ten feet tall.
And if you go chasing rabbits
And you know you're going to fall,
Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar
Has given you the call.
Call Alice
When she was just small.
When the men on the chessboard
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low.
Go ask Alice
I think she'll know.
When logic and proportion
Have fallen sloppy dead,
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"
Remember what the dormouse said:
"Feed your head. Feed your head. Feed your head"

a good way to burn calories.

my career in art in a nutshell.

all we can do is dance.

cuando lo que la gente dice no tiene sentido. cuando lo que piensas realmente no te importa. en ese momento en que se colma la copa del badtrip...DANCE!

the key to the fancy of one lunatic (with whisperings by amelia)

the key to the fancy of one lunatic (with whisperings by amelia)

lately i have been feeling like i should be wary of the things the future will bring now that i am alone.  i question the motives that some time ago were iron-plated.  i don't want to say i regret having made the choice i made but i have to admit that now, after the dust has settled, i carry a loneliness that is already eating away at my foundation.  vice has clouded my vision.  i have lost much more than i can even account for, in the truncated memory i possess of the last couple of years.  i hate you for putting me in harms way, and letting me slip away into the darkness that now envelops my judgement.  i feel as naked and as helpless as i can recall ever to have felt, and there isn't the comfort of a summer with aunt libelia in miami, or uncle jimmy at the hamptons, or even visiting grandma in puerto rico.  i am alone, in this predicament of violent change, without the antidote of a warm home at arms reach.  i now bide my time and live vicariously through the family lives of my friends the joy of a nephew, a new house, a birthday of a loved one.  i have become like the vampires i have so adored in literature, feeding off the life energy of others in order to cope with my own shallow and detached existence.

"...your heart is not a bowl of holy water for everyone to dab their finger into it..."

with the electronic cadences of songs that express loss i sit down and rethink all that has gone wrong in my life.  all the decisions that i have made and the results i have registered.  the evidence of a looming incorrigible mistake threatens any peace i can conjure in my moments of deep questioning about it all.  i send out into the void the most extreme of distress signals, asking of it a sign that will clue me in to a frequency of thought that will grant me tranquility.

"...your only problem is that you never learned when to shut up..."

you phase into vision and wreak havoc with your fragmented ideals, tampering with my mental equilibrium.  the same that is so irreparably sensitive due to years of emotional dampening and holding back so much anger.  you detonate in my mind a chain reaction that is lethal to my cosmovision, you collapse the pilars of my thoughts as you gracefully stride around them.  and you reached a place where you now enjoy to see those structures turn to sand. 

"...you don't need what you don't need..."

i miss you so much that just imagining you, lying down in your eternal posture of rest, fills my heart with lead.  i thought i could easily get over losing you because i had lost mother already, and i thought that after losing mom nothing could be worse.  how ignorant can people be sometimes, to think one can predict the emotional outcome of certain circumstances, to think one has a chance to negotiate terms with finality... i miss you so much that the veins in my heart sting every time it beats and i'm thinking of you...

"...killing time is a lot like killing life..."

die in my dreams, because if you were to die in waking life i would never be able to recover.  that would mean that all the true legacy would be finished and that alone would break me with its weight.  it would leave me like a corpse inside a car that hit a wall of concrete going ninety... having you home safe will pour a fleece sweater over my head and serve me cocoa with marshmallows floating on the surface.

"...with jesus, joseph and mary i lay down to rest tonight..."

tap water tap dancer.

tap dancing on top of a rock at the bottom of a pond, lilly pads and sunlight seeping down the murky atmosphere around the performer. that is how i first saw you, my youthful contender, as a spectacle to be seen. with the virtue of an etheric visage who carried out a deed for the fish and the kelp-like flora of that proverbial pond.

"i couldn't love you more because the was no more of you to love..."

the koi swam with a grace that seemed like slow-motion, casting their sculpture-like shadow down below. with the sway of plant life your feet contrasted, for their speed was unnatural in this place, as was the vigorous displacement of bubbles they created.

my fred astaire of english garden ponds was wearing a most becoming penguin tuxedo and his hair was fettered around his head in a liquidic manner. his ivory smile dazzled the water sprites, who lit the stage while they were enthralled by his choreography in transfigured time. bathing him with their light, he glowed and was seen from tens of feet around. from all around all sorts of living things crawled, swam, cavorted or simply spilled across the pond floor to catch a glimpse, to see this most strange manifestation...

i remained knelt over the bridge that ran over the pond staring down into the light, where the little man danced, cheering everything in his surroundings and making everything smile with its aura.

walking towards a strange afterlife.

what is it that we do during our lives that will continue on forth after we expire? is art a proper medium into which one can exercise immortality?

why do we conform?: a sample of ad-lib poetic prose.

is it fear or is it sheer lack of interest? what ails our gigantic democracies to their core? why scream VIVE LA LUTTE!? the answer to all these questions is still unknown to me, but they set the stage for everything i do everyday. the revolution will not be televised, and it will not fade into our past as we progress. the revolution will progress with us.

i have a particular interest in what makes me follow certain rules and not others, in why i feel compelled to defend rhetorical order in a chaotic world that pretends to be so organized and stratified. why is it that politicians feel entitled to waltz into our daily lives with nonsense made jurisprudence and laws?. why does corruption (and in the end money) make rancidity inescapable and collapse eminent? can we not see the price of what we desire?

an amalgam of sensations crystallize in my synapses and create memory from which springs forth temporary meaning of shapes and colors, gestures and even more gestures.

from here to the initial question that is proposed in the beginning of this short exercise lies the nature of my sense of Self. in there lie all the props that enable the theatrics of my thoughts and actions.

reading and digging through possible interpretations jettisons reason into the void of neurotic rage. is the short sightedness mine or theirs? could it be that it affects both? is the height of despair a place so cold and dark that absolutely nothing will flourish? will a flower survive the gales of a storm? i guess as i advance towards old age i will find out, when i envision the forces that will engage each other to finally resolve the puzzle and discover the truth; happiness and liberty are both nothing more than live and let live. nothing closer and nothing further.