10/03/2012

Quiero un Beso


[10/07/2006, Tribeca, New York]

Guardo un sweater de color azul claro,
Lo siguen en el camino camisetas blancas,
En el cajón de la cómoda aparador que vive dentro de mí closet.

Antes de guardarlos, doblo el algodón de la tela que los construye,
Y no dejo de pensar: quién me devolverá mis memorias?

Hoy, sumergido, el cuerpo entero en agua,
Tan claramente me veo en Tungurahua, como un niño chico.
Desnudo.

Jugando con el agua, jugando con mí alma, en un baño gigante.
Ni el baño de porcelana roja y azulejos blancos.
Ni los colores azul, rojo, y blanco.
Nadie.
Ni el tiempo.
Solo yo, eterno.

Me podré devolver memorias de mí en mí.
Los minutos infinitos que han pasado.
Los gestos hechos.
Las palabras dichas.
Los eventos que lo capturaron todo.
Memorias de lo que me constituye.
De lo que creo que me constituye.

Quiero un beso.

Hoy Me ha Llovido Cemento



[Nueva York - 10/07/2006]

Caen del cielo toneladas métricas de concreto,
Caen directamente, perpendiculares, apuntadas a mi cara.
Y acá, en mi nariz, quedan rastros de pavimento,
Quedan alcantarillas en mis oídos.
Y, es que la ciudad entera ha llovido en mí frente.

El impacto, la fricción, dejando el borde de mí piel,
Al tacto caliente.
Me escondería si tuviera miedo,
Huirían si pesaran las toneladas métricas.
Tal vez, hasta gritaría,
Si la sangre no supiera tan bien cuando se mezcla con ripio de cemento.

Es un día más, simpatizante en el calendario.
No es un día más !No!
Porque hoy me ha llovido en la cara cemento.

Acelera! El Pavimento se nos Seca


[10/19/2006, West Village, New York]

A paso veloz, restituyo la consciencia:
De tan sólo diez días y doce horas,
De tan sólo una semana y tres días.

No hay siquiera, calzoncillo bañado en agua fría.
No hay tampoco, collares en latas de atún, remojados en aceite.

Sólo hay tantasimaaaaas imáaaaagenes, soniiiiidos, y detaaaaaalles.

La vidita mía, la vidita del coloso ego que me acompaña, no es restituible.
Porque ha quedado desparramada,
Como los sonidos de esta ventana abierta,
Que me deja oírlos en silencio, a todos, ustedes, Ford, Peugeot,
Camiones que ni me devuelven el rechinar de sus frenos.

Porque el pavimento hoy está mojado,
Por eso, hoy, la memoria mía, ha quedado lavada.
Como la mentira, tan discretamente perfecta.

Lavando anillos de recorridos, en cuestión de segundos.
Acelera!
Acelera!
Que el pavimento pronto se nos seca.

Deudor de Verdades Completas


[10/10/2006, Tribeca, Nueva York]

Quedaron 12 burbujas,
De agua en su interior,
De vapor en su superficie.

Quedan contadas,
Sólo al disiparse el viento que aquí las trajo.

Burbujas que se llenan de aire,
Aire que te llenas de recompensas.

Burbujas, de verdades perspicaces pero absolutamente incompletas.
Y entonces, el reflejo, en el vapor flotante.

El reflejo impecable, donde no hay más que la imagen del mismo,
Caballero! Deudor de verdades completas.

El reflejo impecable,
Donde no hay más que la imagen del mismo,
Caballero! Deudor de verdades completas.

Recuerda que el viento las transporta,
A ellas, dichas a medias.

Recuerda que eres materia y no vapor.
Haz tu verdad entera.

Y, que entonces? Dejar de ser burbuja?
Sería fácil obviar.

Si el agua y el vapor que le consumen eran de otra vertiente.
Si vieran otro pueblo.

Burbuja, huye, sabes muy bien, serías incompletamente feliz.
Y te digo, sos anónima en libertad.

Luvia de Agua Tinta



Y cayó la pluma intensa en su papel,
Manchando en el camino el borde de las nubes amarillas.
Dejando, detrás, sombría la noche;
Que ahora, las cigarras la olvidan por su embriaguez.

Y el tiempo pasajero,
Una vez más, en su sinuosa velocidad,
Ha cobrado una víctima.

La lluvia, de agua tinta, que ha marcado el bosque de la cigarra,
Y el suelo, que vino luego a alumbrar el día.
No quedan escombros, solamente, el cadáver, que será sedimento de la misma cigarra.
Que ayer, quedó cubierta de tinta,
Ayer, que padeció de amnesia.

Y el tiempo pasajero,
Una vez más, en su sinuosa velocidad,
Ha cobrado una víctima.

Que recen el resto, de los que frecuentaron a la cigarra,
Porque el tiempo se detenga, y por que no hayan más tormentas de tinta,
Que destinen sus nubes,
Y nos dejan perplejos, al tratar de entendernos, como el fósil que será sedimento.

9/18/2012

Chapter 15: Gather Again, Fetus Style


J. "Say the letter J", X repeats to himself, "just say it: J, J, J!"

The thought is not intelligible. It is the wrong summary for a first day in India. There ought to be more. It is the wrong thought for a first day in Mumbai - a global city that breathes and exudes music of its own. It is certainly the wrong sound to recall all the beats of one block's walk. It is the wrong phonetic image for the loud whispering within this city's walls. But, unalterably, X repeats it: J!

J. has become the vastest single memory of X's first day in India. The sound of the letter is what X has heard repeated during the incessant murmur of crowds in every street and the drumming of buildings that tailor a web that makes the complex history of this city. It is X's own beating now.

J. X's mind fixated on it as an image X wants to recall (from this Thursday in the present calendar) for its symbolical importance and not for the actual scientific repetition of its use in the local tongue. It is a sound that is basic, raw, and proper to my core now. J.

Hear this country. J. Aspire to sound along with it. J. India's flirt, let it find you out. J. Let it smitten you with hope. J. Possibly maybe. J. There is possibly maybe. J. J. J.

X's journey here is not to be conventional. It is about re-thinking alphabets, about testing basic forms of cognitive knowledge that have shaped an all too matured psyche that will not suffice anymore, in its current state, for any lifetime ahead. Coming here is about returning somewhere internal and simple. It is about allowing images as trivial as the sound of letters to fill in the voids of the heart and rewrite common places and forgotten feelings. To revolution-ize the places of my spirit that have become unattached from the world. That have lost a sense of humanity and connection.

The purpose, in a nutshell: obtain a sense of wisdom in the recalling of spirit. Grasp the opportunity to learn how to gather, again, fetus style. And to learn this, not as a momentary, visit-specific or travel-driven purpose, but rather as an everlasting skill, priority, and purpose of being.

For some reason, this process is not common place to X.

Piano plays away. Now, at dawn, Damien Rice serenades. Heart races along. The Arabian Sea ahead. X forehead points to it and thinks: "I want to spend time with you". A designer's loft. A vast window facing it. Antiques gathered for centuries crisply and perfectly positioned along the Eastern wall of the apartment. The wall, endless. The treasures, collected by a dignitary's eye.

Two women sleeping deeply in the contiguous rooms to the one X sits in complete darkness, except for the light of the moon that pours in. Have you mastered the perfect day? Has the day felt endlessly broken in tilted movements of life expressions that showed angles, never imagined, but ever captured?

A bright purple wall on X's back. Facing directly at the ocean, defiantly. Two water bottles screaming as loudly as the crows by the ancient tropical trees that lay next to X's window. Realizing that "none of this was up to us. Neither up to me, nor up to the water bottles, nor to the crows. None of us designed any of what I saw today. No single segment of the endless, vast history of this country, was up to us and never will be." X realizing that you stand far. That you come in as a foreign soul with a bandaid and a handicap to understand everything that you could want to understand. Knowing, that you are minimal. Just as a point in history as a mind capable of grasping the eternity of this world and the forces that shaped it. "What a cosmopolitan soul I am?" Try again! What an uninformed simple mind better captures it. "Until you are here, you do not know." At least, X did not.

No matter what, no matter when, our capacity to realize what exists anywhere remains, utterly, limited. Grand civilizations, much like this one, simply place you where you belong. At a point where the X marks the start. The genesis to learning, learning, learning, and learning the importance of nourishing a global soul that ever struggles with the capacity to really be part of a place's history. The world is here and there. Explore. Explore it. Make a point of it. Start. Remember this. Make of this thought a life priority. Vast ocean waters ahead. Vast sounds, J, open up.

The sea, the wall, the bright purple, the lack of space are memorable from this day. All beating to one sound. To J. To this very sound of this alphabet that right here, in this place of the world, feels vast, feels endless. X wonders, "am I an accidental baby of this land? A baby just thrown into the world. Thrown into Mumbai."

Here X sits feeling Mumbai. Feeling India's light. Here in India X is in a hidden place.

X saw a woman today, running. Her colors were bright. Her back was showing flesh as she sped away. The rest of her body was draped in cloth - yellow and red. Her speed impressive. She ran among thousands of cars in a semi-paved highway. From within the bubble from which X observed her, she seemed to be two seconds away from elevating. Elevating above from the black taxi cabs, from the people sleeping on the streets once called untouchables, from the temperature of the air covering this city of disparities and beauty. Speeding up to meet the skyline of luxury that intermixed with colonial buildings. She ran next to X, against backdrops of cement, steel beams protecting low rising buildings, and skyscrapers dirty with the lush blanket of global pollution. She rose towards a ceiling that met the sky. She did that, over a city by the ocean that seems to have forgotten about the sea that encloses it. A sea that no one does seem to see. This city has a different more profound ocean. It hosts 17 million people of the world. Who move. Who touch. Who feel. Who seem grasped in a mystic trance. Spirituality in a city that is told to behave as a cosmopolitan meca of flavors. A city that breathes the local. While it exudes the greatest paradoxes of the global development. The world has turned to show that globalization remains an endless paradox - intellectual masturbation.

Learning to see cracks of the spirit. Noticing how it sparkles out there. It is not up to me. Unthinkable surprises, about to happen. Day one. What a revolution.

Nature is ancient.

9/17/2012

The Future


In cloud, cotton, floating

Montaña Allllllltaaaaaaa

• Cuzco • Diciembre 2011 •

Es permanente la presencia de la piedra. Son lizos sus contornos. Son permeadas del jugo de pisco, de agua de Cuzco. Las piedras ríen burlonas por toda la estupidez acumuladas sobre ellas.

Lo han dicho, lo han repetido, una y otra vez, esa no es su forma natural. Su vestir es gris y es plateado y reluce no a la teja que las cubre por encima, sino al sol. Todo apuntado directamente a sus sombras.

Toda luz tiene una sombra.

Que gracioso, aqui, donde me hicieron guerra alguna vez es que ahora encuentro paz. Encuentro sol. Encuentro encuentro.

Es el punto de arribo. No hay pereza. Hay solo altitud. Una montaña graaaaandeee. Una montaña aaaaaalllltaaaa.

Impresionantes, todas. Vistas de mándalas indígenas. Efusivas. Por lo largo conversadas, por milagro.

Para siempre y hoy. Como el día que titula el comienzo de un bosquejo de novela. Abre el libro completo. Te espero.

9/14/2012

Te Espero


Cuzco
Diciembre 2011

Es permanente la presencia de la piedra. Son lizos sus contornos. Son permeadas del jugo de pisco, de agua de Cuzco. Las piedras ríen burlonas por toda la estupidez de historia acumulada sobre ellas. 

Lo han dicho, lo han repetido, una y otra vez, esa no es su forma natural. Su vestir es gris y es plateado y reluce no a la teja que las cubre por encima sino al sol. Todo apuntado directamente a sus sombras. 

Toda luz tiene una sombra.

Que gracioso, aqui, donde me hicieron guerra alguna vez es que ahora encuentro paz. Encuentro sol. Encuentro encuentro. 

Es el punto de arribo. No hay pereza. Hay solo altitud. Una montaña graaaaandeee. Una montaña aaaaaalllltaaaa. 

Impresionantes, todas. Vistas de mándalas indígenas. Efusivas. Por lo largo conversadas, por milagro. 

Para siempre y hoy. Como el día que titula en el comienzo de un bosquejo de novela. Abre el libro completo. Te espero. 

Capitulo 1: CARBONERIA: Pelotas al Aire

MAYO 18, 2012
SEVILLA, ESPANA

Vine a encontrar el amor, y me han dicho que no lo busque mas. Vine a pedir que me cobijen el alma y me han enviado a la tienda mas cercana a comprar abrigo. En la tienda me han dicho que no hay remedio, y que eso no es algo que se busca. He pedido traigan al Administrador, he levantado la voz, y solo he conseguido que otros alrededor me miren, y muevan sus pesadas cabezas en desacuerdo. Yo crei que me aplaudirian. Por la valentia de decir en alta voz lo que quiero, lo que anoro, por desnudarme ante desconocidos.

He regresado por las calles lleno de furia. Pena, mas que furia. Tristeza. Es que el tiempo se me acaba, y mi capacidad de amar va disminuyendo. Lo siento. Es palpable.

He despertado Lunes, y pense, "ala, no mas esperar, no vamos a ser pasivos!" Con el paso agitado y definido he ido a la clinica, he entrado a emergencias, sin ninguna emergencia y explicado mis males. Me enviaron al rocologo. "Al rocologo?", pregunte, con un tono de voz agresivo e impaciente. Y me han dicho: "si, senor, efectivamente, al rocologo, es el especialista que lo tiene que ver. Me envio al subito, camine, y llegue.

Delante mio habia gente de todo tipo. Una rubia atractiva, con facha de tonta. Una ejecutiva vehemente, en perfecta forma fisica, que no dejaba de teclear efusivamente en su telefono. Un tipo bien puesto, apestaba a Vodka. Si, a Vodka. Y habian otros locos, algunos, como yo, me imagino.

Salio un enfermero joven, con lentes, muy serio, y con una expresion escueta y precisa. Dijo, "pacientes, les mostrare a continuacion como funciona el proceso, por favor, respondere cualquier pregunta al final". Esto fue lo que entendi nos fue explicado:

Primero: mostraremos fotos de nuestro closet, bureau, cajones. Esos espacios, nos explico, muestran los primeros sintomas de cualquier mal. Son el termometro de la soledad.

Segundo: nos llevarian a hacer una serie de examenes fisicos y mentales. La idea seria definir que tan avanzado estaba el proceso de calcificacion del corazon. En que estado de piedra estamos? Nos falta mucho para calcificar? Poco? Es piedra clara? Oscura? Esas, entre otras dudas, nos responderian estos examenes.

Tercero: nos postrarian desnudos, en un auditorio de piso de madera, de paredes azules, al fondo de un hangar de aviones, y nos preguntarian tres veces:

"has amado alguna vez"

Post repetirlo por un autoparlante, con la cuarta repeticion se prenderia una luz roja proyectada del otro lado del hangar. Y no podriamos decir nada porque un silencio absoluto deberia permear el lugar y callar el eco del autoparlante.

La postura en que recibimos cada pregunta deberia ser diferente. Nos explico:

La primera vez seria acostado en el piso;
La segunda vez en una silla sentados;
La tercera de pie.

Siempre desnudos.

Podriamos responder por un microfono que estaria en el centro colgando del techo. Y debiamos seleccionar a una lista de testigos para precensiar el acto en el hangar. Nosotros, los pacientes, podiamos escojer quien.

Concluyo el enfermero. No tuve preguntas, no tuve nada que decir.

Gran Lunes! Tal estupidez en la que me vine a meter. Como diria mi Abuelo: carajo! Venir a que me insulten, me desnuden, me traten como a una roca, y me dejen olvidado. Gran solucion para grande tristeza. Apenado. Por la soledad que en un principio me trajo aqui.

Que hacer? Como dirian en mi tierra: esperar, pues!

La ejecutiva perdio la paciencia con la espera y se largo. De una vez por todas, dijo ella no esta para que la traten como a inerte, que ella sigue viva, que ella es su propia mujer, que ella construye su destino. Y al salir, lanzo una foto de sus genitales a la sala de espera. "Mirad al reverso" nos dijo. Detras de la foto, decia, "rocogolo, eres un hijo de tu madre". Me encanta cuando alguien hace lo que me gustaria a mi hacer. Sobretodo cuando el punto de vista es radical y la entrega es exaltada, furiosa, clara, directa.

Yo, como nunca, me entregue al proceso. Y por que no? Ya de la penumbra nadie me salva. Ademas, es Lunes, y decidi ser proactivo! No esperar.

Mi proceso comienza. El rocologo miro las fotos de los rayos X de mi vida y dijo: "ya veo". Ya veo? Que carajos? Ya le voy a mostrar! Pero en vez de furia, me quede tranquilo, hasta completar los otros pasos, no podria juzgar el valor del tratamiento.

Llegue, entonces, al auditorio, pelotas al aire. Y listo para darme al proceso. Me acoste. Me sente en la silla. Me pare. Escuche la pregutna. Una y otra vez. Y cuando tuve que pronunciarme frente a mis testigos, no dije nada, no pude. Luego, al microfono hable, y dije: es verdad, nunca he amado a nadie.

That or Nothing! A Tale of Demian



Background: X dares. Y dares.
Conclusion: I should as well.

Herman Hesse, Demian, gave me blind hope. It re-introduced me to fate. The contention is simple. That is: “I am here to find the path to myself”.

Here goes. From Herman Hesse to you:

“At this point a sharp realization burned within me: each man has his “function” but none which he can choose himself, define or perform as he pleases. It was wrong to desire new gods, completely wrong to want to provide the world with something. An enlightened man had but one duty – to seek the way to himself, to reach inner certainty, to grope his way forward, no matter where it led. The realization shook me profoundly, it was the fruit of this experience. I had often speculated with images of the future, dreamed of roles that I might be assigned, perhaps as poet or prophet or painter, or something similar.

All that was futile. I did not exist to write poems, to preach or to paint, neither I nor anyone else. All of that was incidental. Each man had only one genuine vocation – to find the way to himself. He might end up as poet or madman, as prophet or criminal – that was not his affair, ultimately it was of no concern. His task was to discover his own destiny – not an arbitrary one – and live it out wholly and resolutely within himself. Everything else was only a would-be existence, an attempt of evasion, a flight back to the ideals of the masses, conformity and fear of one’s own inwardness. The new vision roles up before me, glimpsed a hundred times, possibly even expressed before but now experienced for the first time by me. I was an experiment on the part of Nature, a gamble within the unknown, perhaps for a new purpose, perhaps for nothing, and my only task was to allow this game on the part of primeval depths to take its course, to feel its will within me and make it wholly mine. That or nothing!”

"Finding the path to myself", in all, has been what I felt I came here to do. I understand it now. It is not an excuse but rather the greatest challenge: Find the meaning of Abraxas.

That or nothing. Yes.

9/13/2012

La Life, 19 Sonetos



1. Que la vida no te la vive nadie, que nadie te la da viviendo
2. Que la mayoria de gente que te quiere estara feliz si tu lo estas
3. Que la confusion nace por la falta de capacidad de uno en definir lo que es
4. Que internalizar sentimientos y vivir en silencio es un calvario
5. Que no tener el chance a enamorarse es un asesinato en vida
6. Que conocerse a los 30, es tarde, pero es temprano, hay que hacerlo
7. Que guardar espacios de amigos que le quieren a uno, le aleja de todo
8. Que amar a la familia no significa estar en silencio
9. Que martires que viven a medias no ayudan al progreso
10. Que sacrificarse a uno mismo es una estupidez, uno mismo es todo lo que uno tiene
11. Que esto no es facil, que los prejuicios son profundos, es real
12. Que uno necesita gente que le hable fuerte y a la cara
13. Que los mejores son los que te dan consejos practicos
14. Que la gente quiere informacion, y manipular, y uno es vulnerable
15. Que el vacio de amar le atrapa a uno y distrae y no puede ni trabajar
16. Que parece que todo tiene que ver con quien conocer? donde?
17. Que emociones afloren a las 30 que uno deberia tener a los 15
18. Que emociones mueran a los 30 que uno deberia tener a los 30
19. Que uno se hace de piedra, y que el tiempo afecta

9/12/2012

In China, I Will Respond


This is one of those strange messages one writes in life. When one side of the message (me) went through a moment that put things in perspective and feels the need to yell to the other side (you) and to the world something. One side (me) wants this one thing to be heard loudly.

Yesterday, was a big day for me. For years, and you know this from converstions post Goldman Sachs, I have worried that my humanity and capacity to feel things had deserted me. In a way, NYC made me impatient, the fast life did not allow much time to feel, miss, and somehow limited my capacity to understand or even look at my personal life. Anyhow, that I am not going into.

What I want to say to you my dear is that I love you very much. You are so very important to me. So very important. You have been one of those encounters in my life that have been explosive, real, always sincere, and vast. It always changes. It always transforms itself. And it is always present and strong.

As you know, I am in a pseudo spiritual journey here. Meaning, first of all, that I finally decide to take time out of life to see the world. That I am giving myself time. Time to be. Time to think. Time to see. Time to feel. Second, it means that I am travelling simply, with the people, in very austere conditions, and this has allowed me to see things at last from an angle I used to see things from a long time ago. This trip, did not start in India. It started a long time ago. And it became real when I decided to stay in Ecuador and defer my Masters. This journey, reached a turning point yesterday. Because of many different reasons but because of everything. It is almost as if I had conquered a step and was able to feel.

I cannot explain in more detail now, but I laid in bed yesterday, thinking, after a day when I saw poverty in the eye of a child and had to sit down in the middle of a street here in India with the madenning pace of crowds, and cry. In the past 3 years, I have cried only when someone I loved had died. I am not used to crying. At all. And the fact that this happened for some reason let my soul open and go back to many memories. To people. To feelings.

You surfaced in one of these journeys. As I saw a fan above my bed move and saw the cracks on the ceiling, your sould and heart surfaced and made me see, clearly, how lucky I am to have you. And that is what I want to yell. That I love you much and that you are very important, an icon, in my life. Always, always, know this.

Now, with that out of the way. I am so happy to be doing this. It is really bringing me to a place I wanted to get to. And I am understanding a lot. It is a privilege to do this. The world is exciting and the roads to be taken are many and are inviting. I just am in a place where I am gathering again.

I am in India until April 10th (7 weeks total), then I go to China until mid May (5 weeks) and then I go to Brazil (3 weeks). I will live with entrepreneurs in China, volunteer in Brazil as well as study languages there intensively. I cannot wait. After that, I will go to Ecuador for part of June and July and relocate to London on August 1st. All these opportunities. I am truly lucky and hope to make the most of these experiences.

I am glad things with him are better. You know you are my gem and he needs to know he ought to take care of you.

Much to plan. My communication in India is terrible. I just wanted to check in for now. In China, I will have more time and will respond and be in better touch.

9/11/2012

As Janis Said


Have coffee and explain to me the importance of jumping into the water. Tell me, looking at my eyes, that I will not jump alone, and if I do, remind me, I will only hit water.

Make me: a lot changed. Explain to me that I will regret more not jumping, or jumping later, than simply jumping. Make things become visible to me.

Time as precious. This idea, that metaphor, that concept made real. Help me think I have to talk. I can see myself tall, proud, with integrity, at the edge of that conversation. Make it past tense. Make it done.

Make your words and imagination let me understand there is no room for delays in claiming self. I have known this for a long time.

I still don't know what is self worth, what is the extent of claiming self before becoming selfish?

I still wonder to what extent I can walk into authenticity knowing it is so? But things have become clear. And more and more, they speak out themselves.

I see my life today, there is not past, there is not future. There is present. There is today. And us, here.

Whatever we want to happen, it may not. Whatever we accomplished, it can disipate quickly.

Everything we do, today. And nothing else. Everything, in tact, in ear, in smell, and in mind. What a pleasure it is to connect with body parts. To observe them. To see the air spread. Everything, illuminated. Everything, dark. As it is.

I realize:
- Attempt to find a value measure for self worth
- Be specific and give examples of self-affirmation
- Relay how it is I have grown
- Have a clear idea of what it is to be free

As Janis said, you are all you got, do not compromise.

9/04/2012

It is Easy to be New Away


Over the past 24 hours, riding a camel, I seem to have made mine this dire earth's desire for water. I seem to have made mine the desire to thrive under the extreme sun, to endure extreme conditions, and to persist within draught. Now, there is an an ocean of sand, shades of red confusing themselves with the intense blue that fills the sky above. The sun, impressive, shinning still, as the day ends. The heat, at the late hours of the day, manageable. A dozen camels, resting below the dunes. Sand dunes covering the horizon and spread around in every possible directions. Mountains of gold, of silky sand, untouched by the billion people that populate this subcontinent.

I am in a remote place. I am in a remote place. I am in a remote place. I am in a remote place.

Gold and blue in shades my eyes have not seen before. I stand here in the Thar Desert, about 60km away from Jaizalmer, Rajasthan's largest city furthest to the West, equidistant from the Pakistan border. There were camouflage military bases, military vehicles, and peacocks flying freely on the way before reaching this point. I stand in an area of intense international conflict. An strategic point between two of the world's nuclear powers. An area that has seen hoards of Hindi and Muslims disagree, fight, destroy, and combat. Combat for beliefs. Combat for land. Combat for history.

In the single moment, I too stand here combating, disagreeing, fighting, feeling nuclear against my own history and the present moment. Desertic oceans do that. They make moments, ceremonial. It is easy to be new away. Away from history. On an ocean of golden sand.

I walk on the profile of the summit. And I remember. On one side shade. On the other, the sun, as a perfect circle, setting down. My heart looks aside and suddenly discovers the perfect opportunity for action. The perfect opportunity to allow greater excess to this extraordinary moment. The body craves to run downhill, at full speed, down the mountain of sand. No repercussions. Just run. I run. 45 degree slope. I run. Feet reach deeper into the sand. Hit whatever I have to hit in the way. Fall whichever way. Just run and toss and turn. Be free.

Running downhill leads to trampolines. Of the childest kind. Running downhill leads to laughter and the heart pounding ever faster. Running downhill presents you with the summit yet again. It reminds you, of the opportunity, for mastering the day, through the simplest, single moment.

This pilgrimage continues. Experiences, brutal, transformational, find shape. India is a revolution to the heart and mind. I can only find minutes to uncover fine moments. The desert was one. I hope, to find structure to all of this. The journey, itself, is meant for that. For now, I remain, running downhill, falling whichever way, discovering India, tossing, turning, in awe, admiring, being eternally grateful for this amazing privilege, understanding it, and, every day, being less metallic, less aluminum, and a more compact soul.

Bring on the Repercussions, Repercussions, Repercussions.


A camel is a monumental animal. Honorable and brutally strong. Persistent, quiet, quintesentially tall. "Raju", said the local man leading the zafari in basic English, "is his name". He raises his hand to height of his white turbant, and with a rough tone, he directs you to mount Raju. You mount Raju and after 12 hours reach your destiny.

The desert shows itself vast and imperious. The land around is pure gold. The horizon, further ahead, red and rocky. Perplex shadows of green appear timidly, scared, against vast plains of soil that extend below your feet. Plains of soil that extend, like flawless geographical plains marked by vectors that must have been drawn on a draft for a renacent work of art. Your body feels like an aluminum compass. Vertical. Your feet, like a pointed needle. You stand atop an infinite sheet of coarse paper in Western India.

A sand dune, the largest and tallest of all the dunes in this golden cordillera, stands ahead. You set yourself on course to climb it. Prior, you realize: "I am, no longer metallic. I am, no longer, an aluminum plain, a center of vectors." You remove the turbant that was tightly wrapped around your head since the early morning by Mr Desert, himself. You no longer wear the camel-saliba-and-sweat-stained-fine-white-cotton-thread-shirt you purchased in Rajasthan's basari on the eve before. Your body is bare. You let loose of your shoes as fast as you can. Your feet, no longer touch the camel's stomach. Rather, they discover a new touch. Silky sand, feels cold, perfect. You step, for the first time, into an ocean of sand. There is no shade on this side of the dune. The sun reflects on its top but no longer hits your face.

You climb. You look ahead yet find ways to turn around, to move sideways across the dune. It is difficult to not turn, difficult to not find ways to distract yourself before reaching the summit. Silky sand, tuning this unexpected, new, ackward body with the desert. Ultimately, the distraction owes to one single fact. That is, knowing, understanding, and been certain that what you will see at the top of this dune will be vast. It will be absolute. It will be something more than a vision. It will be a memory, that will become permanent, relevant. It will be about mastering the day, through the single, simplest moment. You are sure and certain, this moment, on the summit, will have repercussions.

Repercussions. Repercussions. Repercussions. Distract yourself from the summit. Repercussions.

Bring on the repercussions. Summit reached. All particles seem to have returned and form your body's core again. You are compact again. You think, and better yet, you know: "I am new. I am new. I am, too, desertic."


8/29/2012

A Mid Year Wish

Hindsight is a powerful concept for the ignorant. I fall in this category. While I adapt and flex to roll with the changes life brings, I am not one to predict accurately life's events. It would be difficult to explain how reserved I was about leaving my flat tonight. Christmas is a grand sacred tradition where all things infancy shine. The 24th and the 25th are important on many levels. Given the outcome of these Holidays, I was not willing to adapt and flex. I said nay to all invitations and distractions. I wanted to walk a bit into me. To make the solitude palpable in a special and not masochistic way. I wanted to use the grand ocassion to meet me, once again, and converse a bit. And then you appeared. Hindsight. You in your special-ness and amazing-ness. With your palpable wisdom, inteligent insight, and caring heart. It was one of those eves that will be reserved for the books. It is the second of my life that departed from tradition or the way I have always held it. And it ranks upward in the memory books already. I hope 2012 gives you back a tenth of what you contribute to the world and those around you. I hope leaving the "cubicles" gives you a chance to wander crazy around others, to get a palet of self that is new, as an adult away from the corporate world, where you get a sense, first hand, first self, first feet, to be you seeking your satisfaction, your passion, your fulfilment. A great way will be ahead. I cannot wait to have you in the world exploring life again, new, starting that first day in the life all over again. Enjoy this year's end, disconnect, let all happen and come back to London to close this journey. Hindsight will bring it all one day. I expect to be around to be the first to smile, award, and aplaud. Until then look forward to relaxed fun exploration of London and wing-man you in the best of my ability. Merry Christmas, Happy 2012, let it be the 2012 of all...

5/08/2012

Random Tube Snippets: Thirty for Thirty


There is no containment of emotion A journey looming My epic time: an epopeya frame On a pedal But no longer repeating myself Born to bloom There are ripples and jiggles In the stomach it's all wiggles A route undiscovered The Old Continet at night in a tent Will I be robbed? Will I be run over by a truck? Will I be forgotten? Will I disappear in a gipsy's guitar? Life as it happens A new project into the unexpected The risk of testing the body Of elevating a commitment Of taking on the challenge of celebrating 30 How do you raise knowledge of what 30 means? How do you capture the craft of living three decades? Of the evolution of sounds heard and of friendships felt? Of love never felt and the void of no drawer sharing space? How do you account for the primary makers of you who have dissipated? How do you thanks the ones who remain? It rocks like 30 It smells like 30 How do you do single out three learnings? How do you allow yourself to more love making? How do you pause to claim that what you are is what you want? A virgin? Always A guru? No longer A rocker? Yes please What 30 accounts is just rapid living Growth into own for many Decoupling off the body Off from what we once were and what we now are We are young We are stronger Will I become reptile? Will I have a broken heart? Will I get to gratitude for this freedom of movement? Known present Craft knowledge Cut edge Forward it Craft your master piece 30 for 30

4/04/2012

Opening Eyes, Seeing It

At summit high oxygen prevented heights: clarity.

At views of Machus, of Pichus, of glory: revelations.

At all times, the world in front: see it.

http://youtu.be/WTrio5vJzlc



3/30/2012

Week-Day, Issued to You



Revisiting the glance of a room
Stare-down of four walls
Exposed brick
Industrial metal
Naked interior

Clothed and draped
Behind smart glasses
Of tall stature
Pull-up structure

Floater over a gorge
Corners with fillings
Ceiling beams horizontal

The rust, the oxide, unnoticeable
It's pristine
It's clean
Is the structure of Week-Day issued to me in London
Crisp rainy and fresh air

No pressure, no self right-hood
Just water glass dropping
Just vapour soul frolicking

Its good to stop to want to love
To love oh do much

2/18/2012

Master of Ceremonies



Flashing hearts applaud
Fingers close the shutters
Mind draws in

Adrenaline juice
Podium Fire
Focus pokus

Honour as blood fluid
Eyesight passion: competition
Ruthless sweat

My heart pounds yours
I will Destroy you
I will Outgrow you
I will record break you

I have become Olympian
in blue starlight powered wheels

And then time, again and over.

My draft off sends me
Beaten
Destroyed
By age
By time
Wound licking on a Porsche

Become white trash?
Disappear in black noise?
Coach armies of untalented idiots?

I dance off you
Off your arms
I am Olympian heart

2/17/2012

Me Giant

On downward sloping mountains of peak glacier water I raft down. Me in hay form: me yellow, me light, me trespassing bushes, me unbeaten by the fish, me fostering microbes. Me as now wet hay. Undrouned: transported by rapid current flow. Its a raft in the world tongue's saliva.

Petite singer facing human traffic unloaded from trains. In their eyes: hurry. On their hands: digital music players. In their ears: blasting noise. In their hearts: the inability to stop. Me soul music. Me vocals between mouth's teeth. Me notes projected to the tile. Me as song. To pause. To consider that woman's voice. So hell raising. So air touching. Human current charged. Vastly exhausted. Moving everything with it. Moving tiredness, vice, concern, ambition. Living they are. Hoping for a holiday. Hoping for a limited escape from reality. From a break away. From this insane movement. Why temporarily? Why not shift entirely?
It's a tunnel current in the worlds throat.

The journey of a sperm. From incubation to deception to conception. Beautiful unique and coded. Transparent and see through. In the mans body fluid of contempt. Of preservation and disaster. An ever drying current. My guys. That one that made it through. Proximity to internal only. Travelling through membrane human cells and clusters. By the push of an impulse. By reaction to a tease. All that is. It's a molecule in the worlds loins.

The steps that I give. Becoming giant. Growing atop townhouses. And shanty towns. The stupidity of becoming giant. Sturdy but clumsy. Eat flying seagulls in becoming larger. Accepting this pace. Accepting this phase. His page. Her take. Their Gaze. I become giant. I become giant. My feet outgrow my shoes. My body from its clothes exploit. My head proportional grows. Now the joy. Of being naked. Of owning nothing. Of being too big for anything owned. Giving everything Away. Even that smaller mans ego. It's just not appropriate for this giant anymore. Is been outgrown!

I am giant
I am giant
Me is going to simplify
Me is going to simplify
I am unassuming
I am giant
Nothing from before fits
Nothing from later will
Bare
Bare
Minimum

2/15/2012

Walked-Walk-With-Much-Talk

Marching on: a piano, alone, at the end of a wrecked street. Vapour, like fumes, rising in the cold.

Marching on: at the opposite street's end, an ocean blue, a palm tree, a tropical beach. Air is bright, blue vibrates.

A long way down, it has been, a life, notes, pianos, wars, destroyed civilisations that rose in the heart, all bombed.

A walked-walk-with-much-talk. A random-evolution-trancing-pacing-facing-wow.

At tail's end, is one, on it, now: on life. As it happens. As it steers. On it's tail end. Where improbability rises.

Where all is possible in oceans of black-swans of one-off blasts that forever remain.

Where is that lightning? Where did it go?

This piano touches soul and faster it goes:
- You loose weight. Who do you do it for?
- You have not got love. That, you know, you would do, for you.
- You look at past and future. That, you sense, present is not.
- You want it simple. To start. And to end.

The beach plays with the fumes and there is a lost woman's shoe along the way.
A cinderella taken away by the fast speed of the war.
A whore awake in the early morning.
A woman who got lost on the way home.
The world is dark when it wants to.
Specially at early morning.

When the beach strikes: Take the moment. Be selfish.
Jump on water. Be wet.
Criss-cross the air. Welcome to the day.