White Cliff Powder

Guitarra filled. Drum struck. She is so silly, stage walking was nothing she had done before. Clumsy, walks against an ivory microphone. She engages her jaw, her voice unleashes a first note. Like machinery in the middle of the night, constructing a skyscraper in the middle of an empty valley. And she unleashes an "ah" and an "oh".

I listen intently, wait for her to finish. She grabs my hand and we walk uphill, to a bench made of pyro plastics that shines in the night. Inside it: water, see-through bright fish swim.

She tells me to put my ear on the bench's end. Water drips through the tiny hole. My ear gets soaked. She walks to the opposite end. Puts her mouth in the hole and takes all the water in one gulp. All the fish dive into her mouth until the inside of the bench becomes air, empty transparent bright air. She keeps absorbing and pulls my ear inside. It is now only air. My head unable to move, its all empty space. My body cannot move, I give in, I deform and all of me goes in, one limb at a time, Through the hole and into the bench. She jumps in.

We are both miniatures in the summit of a hill living inside a bench. We walk to the edge of the bench and she places my ear agaisnt the pyro plastic wall. I stay still. Those would be the best acoustics I will ever listen. Pitch perfect in G minor she sings:

Unwashed coastal cliff
You have waited too long
Stabding tall alone
On the water's edge
Dry, desertic, salted

Oh, coastal cliff, unwashed
Your toes dripping
Containing tides
Most of you dry

Today is when waters rise
Today, we claim you
Today, coastal cliff, you get washed

The wait is over
Coastal cliff
Drown and float away

**You Baby**

You baby, you will like the sky

The pillows and the cotton

Falling upwards, you baby, you will like the sky

You baby, you will like closed eyes

The muscles and the start of my hand

Reversing tornado, you baby, you will like the sky

You baby, you will like the ice 

The corners and the center transparent

Sliding water flow, dripping, unable to contain the heat 

And when life become serious, you baby, will be held - in that hand too 

And when life becomes tedious, you baby, will slip - in that water too 

And when life continues, you baby, will sleep in that mattress too 

You baby, you will like the sky 

Self Portrait: 4 Pasts

To Paulino

Today, Paulino, I become Seneca. And I speak to you from London, the seat of my empire. And Paulino, your name here sounds Roman. It opens like seconds, in a cobblestone street, in Notting Hill, where horses recently flung and men and women did not shower. And only centuries later, I live in a series of concerning delays: the fragility of present. And the expectation, almost certain of future.

In three decades, one only, was lived in adulthood. And I lived in delays. In delays of self. Never clear. Barely honest. Barely capable to stand, own, as I am. 

This insight is water deep. Need to pause.  Paulino, I am sorry, indeed. Be right back.

Electrolytes

All of the lights, illuminated.

All of the lights, pointing at you.

All of the lights, white.

All of the lights, like a thunder.

All of the lights, pure electrolyte.

All of you, standing projectile Center.

All of you, Waiting for ignition.

All of you, ready, for a rocket to be shot. All of you, an experiment. 

You place yourself.

Close to gravity this time. 

You get on all fours.

You baked a cake the night before.

Your skin is fresh. 

Your mind has no weight.

And you look pristine.

Your clothes firmly cut.

They reveal flesh.

Your muscles.

Your veins.

Your tatoo has never felt better.

You wear a smile.

It is photographed.

Up there in the green fields.

Birds chirp.

Cows live their day, unperturbed.

Clouds disperse in the bright blue.

Most scientists have gone. 

Everything is a secret.

Masses are not informed.

And then that person walks.

And people are formed in aisles.

And you look aside.

And you exchange a glance.

And all of the lights.

And all of the electrolytes.

And all of the moment collides.

Will you take the?

Yes. Yes, I will.

I do.

This. Is. Marriage.

Self Portrait: Neon Works

The Cornfields of my Sofa

Life was walking down the rolling hills of an island. Late at night, parting the air, across the humid summer she went, she walked with a harmonica at hand, a wristband in her forehead, a glaring sight, ready to cut a bitch, she chanted alone.

As she walked, she heard footsteps, sounds of a man walking, a journeyman, singing, unintelligible tunes, passing time from midnight to one. And so life quickly went rosdside, quietly she hid, like a spy, she went into the cornfields.

Curious like a child, life observed the journeyman quietly: how we walked, his facial expressions, who he is on his own, that moment.

The nearby towns lights illuminated the sky, projecting upward, like a mushroom, lifting, it's intensity diming into vast black air, circular with no epicentre. It was not pitch black.

As the journeyman passed her, life quietly walked alongside mirroring his steps in the shadows of the cornfield. Like wind, she caressed leaves, touched the corn, pushed the stems aside. She did this for mile and then she grew impatient and suddenly spoke.

"Journeyman," she said, "tell me what consumes you and has you so deep in thought?"
Surprised, he replied, "who's out there?"
She said, "reply, reply to me at once!"
And he said, "I'm recounting. I'm planning my wandering, questioning past and looking at future. What is this to you? Now you answer me! Who's out there? Speak at once"
And she replied "its life"'
He said "precisely!", launched and started walking away.
She warned him: "Journeyman, wait not for a scare, wait not for sign to make your journey Yours... Now you shall continue."

And he did. Back he went to cutlery. Back to a sofa. Back to lying naked, with open windows, looking at the sky turning blue, and then grey. Grabbing the sounds of his street, alone, recounting, he persisted, in the warm year, returning the favour of the day.

Finally, a night again, life found him. And killed him. "You had your chance, you understood, ever since the cornfields."

This was the worst scare of them all. It all ended. He was aware all along.

Walking Backwards

Walking Backwards
Lisboa, July 2013

Their knees touched. They sat on rock. Curb side, behind them vintage aeroplanes landed and took off. Planes following the predictable, applicable schedule to that August day, and week, of that not so vintage year. They were the only unplanned thing in the sight. Never had two sat at this spot affront the airport terminal.

The span of five minutes was all they had allowed to say goodbye. Butterflies overtook stomach acids. Passion unravelled through every drop of blood. Body felt like made of iron, and their knees, electromagnetic fields that could not be set apart. Backward: A flight back to New York. Forward: A train back to Hamburg. Who would ever know that moment would be the clearest, most obvious, last time the two would spend in closest physical proximity? They did not.

And him, he was the worst, so unexperienced, so rushed, so insecure and obscurely frail. He, in need of proper path setting. Poor was his awareness. And when found alone that week, he did not know what was of he, of them, for this was secret that non one knew. But it did not matter. It did not matter because at last, he, for moments felt idiotic at sensing how vulnerability emerges, he also did not know that love was...
about to touch him, in between his thighs, across his collar bone, and on his mouth. He knew nothing, yet he had touched before. He just did not know. And should have been told.

As their knees started to let go, promises were whispered in clear and short sentences. There was an omnipresent knowledge of the chance and his mind rushed to make sense, to somehow pour acid on these incredible butterflies that have never felt better. In that hideous moment, finally, their bodies travelled away from the rock, their legs shifted, and they stood.

As a reflex, hands stretched out clasping in controlled motions but clearly, jumping, straight out of core and plunged into the other. Almost as fast, their eyes looked away. A goodbye is a terrible thing to say. Giving something up, is the worst thing to do.

A last glance. A last exchange. A social contract erected without signature. And planes landing and going. And announcements, and cars, and everyone coming and going. And the moment, staying. To depart. He HAD to leave.

And so, from the rock at curb side of that European airport terminal, one body started walking backward, the other, forward. A thread got caught in the middle, like a swirl, like the wire that holds the lamppost in the street where you grew up. Like the thread in the suit of that old man who gives a speech to hundreds, unaware, that his clothes are coming undone (as his charitable wife tweaks disconcerted on the audience and thinks "I ought to fire that tailor, I could have done this job better myself!"). Like the thread made of the stem of that green corn plant, that got caught by the wind, and got blown away, and up, and sent to a vaster field, and a drier desert. Like the thread of that bathing suit getting caught at the barb wire in the middle of this sand storm. In the middle of this heat. Like that, a thread developed.

A thread, to which he held onto, with the tightest grip. He knew its fabric was thinning... from the very moment when at the Terminal, then, only minutes later his feet stood on an electrical walkway with letters written saying: "stop" in sickening intervals that confused his footing as he still savoured that last kiss planted. A thread thinning ever since he read neon signs on the ocean asking rhetorical questions, that were lengthy, verbose, and confusing... "are you sure you need to continue?" ; "Why don't you turn around and stop that train"; "Love like this will never find you... will it?". And worst, the thread thinned with each of the songs he heard over loud speakers singing: "knees like those you are never going to touch."

Just like that driver missing an obvious Exit, he ignored anything hoping the road will naturally turn and make the course easier . "I didn't see the signs," he told himself raising his shoulders. " And now, lets be practical" (because he thought life was about being pragmatic) "What am I to do. To throw the course of a life, by wayside?!" He was convinced answers like that would be uneventful. One, why was he to turn? Shouldn't both of them do it? Two, why was it all not to work organically?

And he continued walking backwards as he thought this. As he allowed questions like this for years to take off, rise, and land, in vintage airports in his mind. The crowds within observed and screamed: "look! Look! There goes a question?! It's going to hurt him! He won't have answers to it." And then they would wait for the landing. And few of those ever did. Questions rose. And would not stop.

In a journey inside, one day, he decidedly grabbed a shovel, and decidedly carved graves everywhere in the take-off fields. Like a five year old, he saw himself walking towards that internal velodrome audience and yelled with a red face: "no moorrreeee queeeestiooonns!"

And when he finished, he turned around, grabbed that last question, and I mean that question, and planted it in the field. When he was done he walked back outside, in silence. And he stayed in silence for many years.

But it was fine, he could still hold to the thread. Time passed by quickly, like the clouds over a gray desert where oil spilt. Time flew by.


One day, he wakes up, sees night bedside, light entering his room diagonally, and the thread pulls him from sleep. "Life is fleeting away from us, my knees want yours". Five years later, his heart sinks. And collapses. Down into a well. Hitting every single stone wall on the way down. And as it sinks, it falls, and as it falls, it plummets like a bullet into water. And as its arteries and veins swiftly pull up for air, a gasp, his heart finds a raft in the water. And as it holds firm to each side and starts planning in panic an exit, a swirl starts, and sea water springs from underneath, and covers every bit of space, and oxygen disappears, and as it all seems to end, he gets his heart sucked into a copper pipe, and air pressure makes it travel until, a BAM!!! Silence. His heart gets carried and thrown away like a canon ball, far, and hundreds of meters into the ocean. And now, his heart, truly, hanging only by that thinning thread. That yet agains thins and becomes musky with all this water, and gets further and further from those knees.

Now, back ashore, with caramel skin, it's all sand. And lying on the water's meeting point with shore, over continent matter, he breathes, and turns around, gazing upward to a sky that is blue. With a maniac's look, he thinks he has to let go off the thread, but it's still there. Thinly alive.

And so he hangs on to the thread and crosses an ocean, two mountains, and climbs over a rock. He arrives into a town where nobody knew his name. Walking backwards, he called strangers to question: "can I help you, what business are you here to conduct" And softly, he would reply: "Just looking for some knees kind madam" Strangers raised their brow and continued their way.

And so he sat at a corner bar. He had a whiskey on see through rocks, and the knees walked in. From that moment, the thread started melting. Every word exchanged, every eye sight given, every minute of night. It all started ending, and no matter how tight he held the grip, briskly, brusquely, it was all over. Every bit of it.

The image now lasts only for seconds. Like the sight of a rainbow in a park, beauty does not last. As he blinks, once, twice, thrice, his eyelids now conceal everything outside. The blue. The seconds. The swirl. The well. Every month, he could only recall those knees, the lost moments, the evening, the lines, the thread pull, that last thread pull.

Somehow that is all his heart remembers now, at this beach. He could not recognise those Knees now. They are not his to claim. Only the thread pull.

The one thing to wonder: how could he walk backwards for so long? Did people think it when they saw him pass them in streets? No one motioned him the other way! Could not quite realise what the problem truly was. He had not told them the story about his heart. And that shore. And those knees. Was he crazy? He could not confide.

And so he walked onto the cliff. He pulled out some thread he had been carrying in his pocket and turned it into a ball. He threw it into air and saw it collapse against the rock. It all washed away, in seconds. Minutes. All was done. He looked behind him, no one was looking. He took his clothes off, and folded each pieace judiciously. He left an envelope behind: "To R"

And for one last time, he walked 100 meters backwards, and started running, furiously, screaming away, and like a cannon ball, he approached the cliffs and threw himself away. Made of iron. Now a single force Electromagnetic field.

A little lower

In the trembling present
In the foothills of the mountain forest
In the greenery of buildings
In the subjectivity of opinion
A mind exists, and wanders
A mind active, escapist from focus, fleets.

In the boundary of cement and water,
Precisely on that shore,
Precisely where earth gets at,
Precisely there with so much cloud on top.

A heart wishes, a little lower, hopes, pulsating
A heart made of muscle,
A heart that dies alone.

In the immensity of it
An eagle catches the worm in flight
Decapitation of the small.
Thrown into the water.

A little lower. Hunted.
Eaten.

Crayzay Messages for 30s

Now, in for the crayzay, this is Part II of a rap that has found itself across a single London night where conciousness ran wild in Angel:

35. Time ain't gonna cure you honey, time is going to hit, so go just ahead

36. Farewell, my black balloon times, you are done, farewell now

37. If stuck, hit yourself, a chair hitting on my head

38. What you used to be? it does not matter, it is done

39. Leave it, put it, in its box.. used to be, WHAT CITY? WHAT LOVE? WHAT FAME? What New York used to be?

40. Come on! Come on! Come on!

41. What an amazing time! How did the years go by? Now it's only me. And the tick-tock, tick-tock. Scary conversations. Naturally concerned if I do it alone. WATCHU WAITING FOR!? WATCHU WAITING FOR?!

42. Life is short, you are capable

43. You still super hot, and damn, you, of all people, have got some wicked style

44. Take a chance you stupid hoe

45. Stop the language violence, speak clean

46. No longer loose my slant

47. Whatever impatience you have with the world, you have with yourself

48. To live, to breathe, and that is how you take it over - in the breathe is the self known knowledge that everything is ever-passing-phenomena

49. You should pee so much more often

50. Leaving a place and living in physical uncertainty is brutal, be prepared for it to destroy your psyche, and alas, ground yourself brother

51. Young hearts, run free

52. Want space, want a home, want location, want happy, bright, livable life

53. I recognise loneliness all too easily now, it has shape and form, let it go, very far away

54. Go to London, board a bus to the Glass Palace, it will take forever, write your thoughts, stream of conscience

55. Like hashtags, they make feel great systematic emotions

56. See neon lights on the ocean, the signs you want broadcasted, paint them

57. Big cities are brutal predators, beware

58. Bouncers treat people poorly, do not become one

59. Old farm stables should become houses, all of them

60. Music is needed to be shameless

61. Renting is a biatch - stop it!

62. Being light on soul cripples into the soul - unpolluted lives are lovely

63. Do not wear mini skirts in winter weather

64. Surpass the middle section of a notebook - you just passed a milestone, dedicated to it

65. Say out-loud that you are authentic - if unable, sort it, lying is a killing animal

66. When you live two lives, nothing is lived, nothing

67. You will be loved, you will be taken care off

68. Weekends can be lived at day or at night - these are mutually exclusive - you choose

69. Things need to be simple

70. Asking questions requires humility - it will save time

71. Give people the honor of your direct eye-sight

72. Noone is bad out of being evil, it all comes from ignorance - be patient, forgiving

73. You always know the reason why you cannot have the moon and the sky - move on

74. Lay me down, and leave me, for the lions - there dying

75. You do not measure progress from a starting point, but from an ending point

76. What is in Shepperd's Bush? Find out

77. You got the power to be, the power to see

78. Should not let you talk to me so sweetly

79. Step away from drowsiness

80. Smell great, every morning, bring fresh air

81. Surround yourself with big thinkers - challenge everything at least once a month

82. Seek mentorship

83. Give to charity, deflate your ego

84. Want nothing, ask for nothing

34 Thoughts for 30s

The craft is air-bound. My feet challenge movement. Over cast blue clouds and white cotton skies. The sky falls. And it does crumble. I head North.

Not about colors. Not much of that. More about this wanting to settle post so much movement. There is green covering my wrists. There are leaves and the promise of growth. On may respects: it is up to me!

The Goals of 2012-2013

1. Go look for an spacious flat and seek a lifestyle. The loft you want. The windows you need. The light.

2. Allow yourself to live in an area where buzz lives. And not where the weight of the world feels.

3. Do not isolate yourself. I know you want to.

4. Turn off the computer and share your life. Stop typing!

5. Seek and achieve fitness

6. Be fine, be dayam fine

7. Seek therapy - you are crayzay! Jokes aside, spiritual fitness is paramount

8. Culture + sports

9. Paint a masterpiece every time you engage with a canvas - strive for it, no less

10. Clean and lean inbox - no weights, no stress, respond right away

11. Treat yowself

12. Self-worth, no excuses

13. No lies, specially to yourself

14. If you are seeing someone, give a chance, stop requesting it all. It does not exist

15. Do not over-analyze - cats have four legs

16. Stop compromising yourself: you are all you got

17. Use your home as an asset - do not let it be idle. Celebrate people you love, use its spaces, make it productive, for whatever

18. When a Holiday comes - use it - for radical self-check.

19. There is nothing better around the corner - this corner has the best you can have right now

20. Learn to commit, be not afraid

21. Cut yourself some slack, relax, you are amazing enough

22. Find balance with work - become efficient, and know, a corporation will not love you back.

23. Learn to trust... specially your gut, it tends to know what is right

24. Stay active: do sports, try new, go for extreme every more than once in a while

25. Say what you mean, no more, no less

26. Remember that feeling of wanting to be inspired? You have all the inspiration you need. Surround yourself by great ones, openness, observation, it is all there

27. Find your smile, again, you used to laugh a lot when I met you

28. Lighten up, stop the heavy conversations, you do not even care that much and nothing good comes out of them

29. Laugh your loins out

30. Be plugged into technology - own it, stay on top, ride the wave, this is the only generation where this has happened

31. Vipassana some and then some more

32. Stop planning new projects, get the ones you have live, running, and performing

33. Design things that flip out your mind, your mind can, and is doing, needs to be executed

34. Rest and learn to sleep enough - take in the day, and let go of the night a bit earlier

En la Esquina del Joder

Ahora.
Nos encuentran sentados bajo el matorral.
Y apestamos.
Nos han cagado encima.
Y nos han orinado enteros.
Vivimos en la esquina del joder.

Vacas nos pisan.
Y por fin, una bolqueta asesina, nos lleva al potrero.
A ser desintegrados por todos los animales.
Que no haran mas hasta su captura.

Que vida la del potrero.
Esta vida de encierro.
Esta vida de transporte.
Esta vida sin camino.

Yo digo menos densidad.
Mas espacio.
Nadie nos orina,
ni nos ensucia,
el viento nos limpia,
y no estamos mas aqui.
Encerrados.
Olvidados.

Ser tierra encanta.
No hay liga alguna, a nada.
No ser esenciales. Nunca.
Minerales. Polvo.

Destrocen todo!

A tan pocos dias de treinta. A tan pocos minutos de la irrelevancia. Ya parece que a partir de hoy: todo cuenta. Todo se marca en el cuerpo. El pasado tiene facciones, aun cuando deberia ser olvidado. A tan pocos dias de treinta. Ser hombre. Ser nacional de alguna parte. Ser, de verdad, de la vida de nadie. Haber caminado, tanto. Ir a lugares y volver a ellos. Como si la pisada unica hubiera sido efimera. Transparente. Sombra sin huella. Ser constante, en vivir, y nada mas. Aun cuando uno vive inerte y es de piedra.

Tengo tantas confesiones por no hacer. No deber nada a nadie. No tener deudas. Solo caminos que quedan abiertos. Alla, cada cual en su camino. Y no hay pudor en la soledad. No hay sol. Solo bruma, ron de cuba, limon, y mucho hielo.

Escribir con esperanza: por que? Ya no soy el mismo. Ya no espero. Tengo sedimentos y capas de ellos. Intocable. Asi uno muere. Desencadenado: en planeta plano, derecho, seco.

Ahora, decir algo:

derriben todo!
rompan con todo!
destrocen sus vidas!
comiencen de cero!
ya no hay nada!
Intriga! Por algo!

Ya no mas por la tangente. Ahora solo por el centro. Querer y poder decir. Y heredar solo la verdad. Y no el aburrimiento y la pasividad de la vida pasante. Que quiero ver eternidad. Que haya cambio rotundo, para siempre. Que sea impredecible. Que no haya palabras. Que todo cambie. En serio.

[Sevilla, Mayo 2012, 30 for 30]

The Life of Pseudo

"Pseudo, you are my first. My first without a sketch. Without a pre-plan. Without meditation."

Cold beer. Hot afternoon. Window open. Neck turned upside down. Looking backwards. Legs, used, they have been running. Hand that shakes, it felt, it is bleeding, but it wants to paint.

This is how I see you Pseudo: like a man that emerges in a suit with blue lines. Lines that are geometrical. This man is covered by leaves everywhere. And green. And deep blue and elongated. See through bubbles of air. Falling diagonally. A butterfly farm at its earliest stage.

"Where they grow, them butterflies. You are from there"

And feet perhaps. With a tatooed black man. Urban, overimpossed on green man pseudo. You are all on the verge of disaster. But evolving. Organically through. Limping as bisquits in candle light. And growing in tress under sun light.

Pseudo can evolve in a different direction. It can and will go higher. It will increase pulsations. And bring them high. And create emotion. And emote. With the shapes of angles and with angles in shapes. And together for a family affair. I am there concerned about giving it a face. And can be a live that is bright, in trees and lines.

Que Quieres?

La vida vuela. El tiempo se rompe en mi frente. Canteras de piel escavadas. En los rastros de mi cara. No soy amable. Soy piedra. No siento. Soy de intocable materia. El corazon hueco. El tiempo acumulado. La perdida de tiempo. El carino inundado. La soledad pesa. Se lo lleva todo. Se lleva la capacidad de ser autentico. Y a uno le cambia todo. Como se comunica. Como se coordina. Como se abraza. Y no se entrega. Porque es eso. Uno no se entrega. No se si escribo esto o si en realidad es lo que siento. Es lo que quiero. O es lo que digo. Porque ya he dejado de saber que en verdad quiero.

Este Dedo que te Culpa

Recojo hortalizas;
las lanzo desde el barranco.

Me voy con ellas;
caigo de cara al rio.

Como hortalizas;
planto vegetables en mi plato.

Ahumo la vista;
todo apesta a pescado muerto.

Asesinos de caballos;
entrelazados y todo queda vacio.

Vienen nubes, y me voy con ellas.
Son caballos, son espejos, y me voy con ellos.

Es mi primer reflejo.
La primera vez que me veo la cara, 

ya muerta, 

ya perdida.

Son las piedras, es parte de la selva.
Parte cansancio, parte abuso, y es,
La luz de este dedo que apunta a la culpa.

[Cuzco, 30 Dic 2011]

That rap song

Ever newer trails. Get it. You are walker. You is walker. You are walking.

This means stepping back. Mind perpetually. Open. Observant. Calm.

Not a bygot. Not a truth owner. Nor teller. A world onlooker.

Not a prophet. But a stepper backer. Towards arrival.

Cicciolina, Tu, My Life

The year starts today. Grandly and with dried tomatoes hanging loose off the wooden beam. With all the garlic cloves that can be smelled, amongst us, the modern few, tasting the hands, the applause: where is the chef?

It all hangs. The year past. The new one starts. I want it all. All that, and more. A resolved man, am I? A rested man, will I ever be? Wine that has been scented, served, and oxygenated. Perfect. There are South American Asian faces. Everywhere. And their bodies, are short. The produce is here. Tempranillo grapes, dripping, lip bound. And dripping, inside, across organs, and bloodstream.

Peru has got me right this time. Soles. Solesitos. Calientame un poquito.

Bring the service. Bring the year. And place it, on the mat. I turn 30. And here are many olives already on this bread. I want a toothpick. To prick my eye. And see, for once, the face value in front. One glance per year. Just one. One per contraction. One per blink.

So. Now. We calm ourselves down. We turn a year more. And off we go. Now. What for the next eyar? A graduation from a stage in life. Deep change. Perhaps algo grabbing myself by the balls. Harshly, until breathe escapes. And it hurts. Into pieces.

There is heart.
There is body.
There is mind.
There is spirit.
There is intellect.
There is profession.
There is play.
There is no love.

This has to change. The omission and the void. The gaps. Full it. Furiously. At it. On it. Have got to retain the focus. And to sustain it. Body can start. The rest can follow.

Agua de Cuzco

Es permanente la presencia de la piedra.
Son lizos sus contornos.
Son permeadas de jugo de pisco, de agua de Cuzco.

Piedras que rien, nefastas, hermosas.
Risotadas burlonas por toda la estupidez que se ha acumulado sobre ellas.

Lo han dicho y repetido. Una y otra vez.
Esa no es su forma natural. Nunca lo fue.

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.
Toa luz tiene una sombra.

Gracia. Aqui, en donde me hicieron guerra.
Aqui, es donde encuentro paz.

Encuentro sol. Encuentro, encuentro.
Es el punto de arribo. No hay pereza.
Una montana alta, interminable. Altitud. En la selva.

Mandalas indigenas, de esas que me hicieron. Efusivas. Y conservadas. Escondidas.

Para siempre y hoy. Esta es la primera pagina. Que espero?

[Cuzco - Dic 2011]

Hero with Its Thousand Faces

So on my end. There is no love. No heart. Barely feelings. At peace with myself. No longer challenging being blue or white or green. Nothing. My time is expiring. And life is waiting. Today. Regardless of its expiration.

Now charting some change. The rataplan:

-> Connect
* With People
* Pursuing new dreams
+ Building ventures
= Innovating the way people live
= Pushing envelopes
= Creating something new.

-> Balance ego
* High learning opportunity

-> Success will follow

But I need time, to live, to be. Hero with Its Thousand Faces. Live it in full.

-> Things to test:
- I turn 31 on June 16, how is it possible that I have never been in love?
- How is it possible a drawer of mine as never been shared [ever!]?
- I want to create and then I sit on computers
- I want sun and I am summersed by clouds
- I want the ocean
- I need to create a masterpiece

-> Things to test:
- If I die today, I would not be happy
- If I die today, my life would go unmarked
- If I die today, I have nothing to show
- If I die today, it would likely take 2-3 days for someone to find out, perhaps longer
- If I die today, I have lived in mediocrity
- If I die today, my present is not right
- If I die today, I never got to test my genius

-> Ways to change:
- If I have 10 minutes to live, I would call my family, speak to my nieces, wish them everything
- If I have 1 week to live, publish my journals and paintings, party sessions, fly everyone I love in
- If I have 6 months to live, I would move to the ocean, paint the largest scale masterpiece
- If I have 1 year to live, cycle from London to Quito, interview humans "on love" along the way
- If I have 5 years to live, I would build a new venture, the Walker brand that disrupts it all
- If I have 10 years to live....

How to see life?
By constraining present?

Send me news.

A "ya" so high

At the corner of the triangular square, by the Grove's gardens, a silver lining. Minute, petite, forceful traveler of ages, she puts her hand near the wooden bench. Mold, green and humid in her hand. Taken directly to the side of trousers, oh so red. At seven, she woke, in the interiors of Louyang, was grabbed from her bed, and walked for times as long as incense can burn. Frost bite, decay, peaks of snow, and infinite rows of paddies in the way. She was given in secret a child's sword. Or well, she took it. And in that sword, lining. And in that lining, silver. And her reflection. Just as bright as this morning's shining. There, in the park, collected and together. Now 65. Now about to exercise. To expand a routine that can fiercely defeat rows of armies and fighters. A routine so rehearsed that lasts, if only, fourth fiver minutes. A routine were no word is uttered. A routine on grass, green, in the confines of British black steal. A cage so thin, unable to confine her lament, that very last "ya" as strong as the lament when her father died.

Sunderland Terrace

The man tranced as he walked out of the house. White London facades await him.
A street where bricks have petals and windows water. Before touching the street, in the garden of flowers, he caught a sniff of air, looking right and looking left, Sunderland Terrace, filled with Spring. How powerful to see the street spurt. And to see neighbours, walking, civilizedly to work. And then he tranced. There. "I must work," the notion seem inherited, the notion seemed to fit into the routine of the sprout in April, the breakfast table, but little else. He knew stepping on the street, he would walk, back upright, gaze determined, and fast pace. To sit on a bus. And commute. To work. Like a patriot. Like a citizen. Black iron balconies see him off, to his journey away from Sunderland. And he cannot help but turn, and catch the glimpse of the street. We have defeated it all. "I am expiring."

Blossom Bowl

The hands stretched out of the umbrella holding a touch of naughty strawberry. A bowl in a scent. Carried, in a light blue blossom container today. Around it, a wrapper of drops, rain, industrial rain, but clear. The kind the pavement likes. The kind that makes British pavement shine. And scent expanding, on the buzz and mumble of pubs and canteens in today's modern day, eclipsing the fast foodness of it all. Not today. No. London, out for lunch, husband and wife, and pudding. And on, across expansive bridges that made her feel important, cleansed, and warmer. War has ended, we have won? Literally: winter came to an end. Out of an umbrella, hands glaring on the sunglasses of the London lady, in her early thirties, her hands, everywhere, on the cobble corner, of the bridge. London, Spring.

At your Insistence

LHR Waiting Line - 03/01/2013

That both you and me talk. Unexpectedly. At your insistence.

In a bright, airy, beach museum. In that corner. That you corner me.

That you inquire. That I answer. That I tell you I have never been touch properly. Ever.

That a gap is there. Right in between chest and leg space.

And that I dont long at all. That I am just telling you. At your insistence.

Becase you asked.

And really, since when have there been any questions of this nature raised to me before?

Neva. Eva.

So feel at ease, and have me by the window. Have me there. At your insistence.

By inquisition or by touh. Both intrigue me, equally, and as much.

As long as Cat Power is playing. As long as you shut me up.

Really, no other way forward.

Look Like a Rat

Get to tha club. Look like a drowned harassed rat. Get to tha door. And phone me. I know you are coming. We need be blind dropping. That we can celebrate that circle. That little minute where and when it all collapses. Imagine, you the fool. Bring back the candor. The silence. The fog machine. The music. And the beats must go on. As we head on to nature and naked we meander. In tunnels. Tat is what we do anyway. Walking. Next to each other. In our humanity. That is so grand.

Chao - Mayan Dates

A story is starting as the world is ending. How unfair. Chaos around and yet no one there to hear it. By bits and pieces, it will all be recollected and one day understood again. The soil trace itself. That will be one day dry, beautiful, and with no wind in sight. No one will even suggest a different course of action. Everything must stop, spectacularly, everything must end.

The Mayans were right. And life shall continue to the next predicted end. We do not want to cease. Off we go. And I mean it. As I too spectacularly shall cease. Come to an end. Without wind. Spectacularly.

Resolutions

My 2013 is for:
diving
health
sport
relaxing.
Love.
Acting.
Improving appearance.
Dying?
Resting
Learning
Writing
New friends
LONDON
Different things
Sex
Entrepreneurship
Creating

It is February and I have delivered none. But first things first, the above mix wishes with actions. And a lot are not up to you. So, clean, up, think, organise, re-structure.

My Famous Last Words - After Vipassana

Hereford - UK - August 28, 2011

Today you sit under a tree. Like Buddha did. It is the end of the ten day course and you are now a Vipassana old studnt. Seeking nothing but equanimity. Nothing but true clarity and emergence of the hard hitting heavy patterns of mind that generate craving and missery. Silence being kept for a reason. Only 11 words uttered over 10 days. With a clean body you leave to your 29. Let's do this EC. Time to live thoroughly. And remember: equanimity, and awareness are tho things of your bird. Fly.

Estupideces

Instrucciones - Parte I

1. Bienvenido a casa. Relajate. Quitate los zapatos. No me busques. No estoy aqui.

2. Necesito que sigas las instrucciones en orden. No sueltes esta tarjeta. Es tu guia. Tenla en tu mano y llevala a medida que cumplas cada paso.

3. Ahora, comenzamos. Camina hacia la "refrigeradora" - sobre ella, encontraras una tarjeta con el #1 encima. Leela. Es para ti.

4. Cuando hayas terminado, sirvete un poco de champagne que esta en la mesa, sientate dos segundos, y piensa en mi. Lo que soy para ti. Y sea lo que sea. Dejate ir.

5. En el mueble de la sala, en el cajon, hay algo esperandote. Miralo y lee la Parte 2.

6. Te digo "gracias" pero eso no es suficiente. Cuanto te agradezco por todo. No puedo estar un dia mas aqui. Me tengo que ir.

7. En la tarjeta 3, en tu cuarto, junto a la orquidea esta todo. Me he marchado. No creo que te vuelva a ver.

Gracias por todo. De nuevo.

China Thoughts

Beijing - May 13, 2010 - Intellect Machinery

Build up the intellectual power and seek knowledge. Let yourself take you far into ideas that can and will change the world. Be pragmatic. Dive into finance and Master it. Much ground ought to be covered. Do it. And push yourself. And classmates. And professors. Master of my make. Again. And deliver.

Beijing - May 13, 2010 -

Ciudades que emergen a la naturaleza de mi presente. Emergen, ergidos, por toda la historia que cae sobre mi, abrazando entera la promesa del cambio. China, en mi generacion, como un pais, como un momento unico.

Tip - Manten los ojos abiertos a la arquitectura de la vida. Los lugares y sus formas. Que nuna un lugar sea ya visto. Ya entendido. Ya explotado. Hay tanto en cada esquina. Mira.

Shanghai - Mayo 12, 2010 - Two days before leaving

Hierve la tarde y efervesce el rio. Linternas rojas, con tonalidades brillantes, amarillas, ilumniaos. Llueven luces del cielo en ventanas. Se pierden interconecciones entre puerta y puerta. Vecinos que aspiran, gloria, y grandeza. China como solamente ocurriria aqui. El bosque, de la China, Shanghai. Suena. Resuena. Tecnologia y agua. Sol que apenas brilla. Aca se vive entre la niebla que resplandece.

China - World Expo - Shanghai - May 10, 2010

If children made the city, how would it look like? Bycicles parked in front of a video projector. Travel through. Think of a project for video and paintings and drawings. If a child is to create the world, how would it look it? Think harder, actually, how would YOU have designed the city as a child? Perhaps that exercise will yield answers on what you ought to do. There is a lot of light lots, bubbles, air, modern french music. Imagine. All the people. How would you have created a city? He. Creating. Do it in your painting and writing. You have a chance. Also, remember, people sitting on circles on floor pavilion screen. Blue plastic circles.

Chile - Pavilion - la propuesta chilena brilla. Es nueva. Fresca. Aventurera. Poetica. Profunda. Chile encuentra una manera de encaminar todos los principios posibles para utilizar este evento como una herramienta de apertura mas que eso, como una carta de presentacion de Chile al mundo. Un verdadero punto de encuentro. Tronco con sonidos de Chile. Totems de pilares. Industria minera.

China - Thoughts

Hace dias hablaba de ser atento. De desarrollarme caballero y tener atencion al detalle. Es cabal hacerlo. Ahora, punto y luego aparte.

1. A cada persona, su tiempo, su saludo, su atencion.
2. Mirar a los ojos, reconocer nombres.
3. Agradecer. De gestos.
4. Ser educado. Caballero.
5. Manejar el lenguage de una manera precisa.
6. Acortar lo dicho. Ser mas subito. Desaparecer mas rapido.


Mayo 13, 2010 - China

"Trascender y estar presente, estado puro de la consciencia. El llegar no es la meta, el viaje es la meta. Feliz existencia para ti." Sara Roitman

China Wall

Great Wall of China - China - May 13, 2010

Perched on a high mountain, thousand stones embracing my naked body. Literacy rates increasing in my eyes as the carvings explain. And they say what it should have been said. That I have stood here. Today and that I am a rock, for long enough. That my heart beats and breathes with history. That I am inbuilt. Unable to feel. To sense. But amazed as I am that this has been built. Built by sages in honesty and durability. Like my past. Increasing power. A wall is as strong as a man's heart. This wall is fable. Fragile. I can see it from space. Like my terracota heart. Arching. To the stronghold around.

England is my Future

UK Pavillon - World Expo - 2010 - Shanghai

Mountains of gray carpet, created, for the masses, a city on a seed, the weather, the climate, England, and its miracle, are my future.

Contemplo mi futuro: Inglaterra. Sentado en una parcela de grama gris. Donde ha llovido semillas acrilicas. La sociedad privada, la sociedad civil Inglesa, sere parte de ella.

Pulsa mucho mas rapido. Que reto llegar por fin, a un lugar del mundo donde hay nostalgia por el progreso. Donde hay fortaleza creativa.

Chapter 8: Sunk

He had been present. That was the summary of it all. He WAS there. Nowhere else. His mind, WAS there. At that beach. And he knew, objectively, that he took on more than he could chew. Regardless, a pinnacle reached. No voices. No sounds. No distractions. Just the ever present arrival and retreat of ocean waves. The light of moon. The night of beach.

Incredible temptation to continue. As far as he knew, it was lust, to be on his knees, on the beach, with the warm caribbean ocean water, and the sand covering his skin. Lust, not felt in years! Not from a touch, not from sight, not from anything. The purest source, like the last leaf falling on Autumn from the trees, and this water feeling like the tremor the ground feels when the leaf hits the ground, finally, announcing, a new era.

At the age of 27, naked. Pure. Unusual. No shirt. No shorts. Nothing. The lightness of the night. And the fading bar light. Aroused by palm trees, four of them, the Army of Four. Unacceptably insane. But without apologies.

The wind felt his testicles. His inner thighs. Pressed to particles of outdoors, to air carrying random ocean drops to his legs. Life suddenly became manageable, clear, simple. Life became common place. And clear. "How ridiculous, these are precisely the gates that mind opens. The meticulous, ever present, self-analysis, requiring you to tall standards. Well, today, you are not invited, but you still keep coming". There was something about that night being about water, ocean, moon, night, silence, and music, and libations. And nothing else.

But he failed. Centuries went by his mind. He decided to dress. He was completely distracted. Everything understood, was gone. It all took flight. And as he dressed and looked up, the palm trees had no answer. He should have taken care of himself. There. Right then. But did not.

******

The next morning, X rose. The air outside felt fresh, the ocean smelled. The morning breeze of the island felt like an extension of his breathe descending the stairs to his balcony, he looked at the ocean ahead. The ocean a reminder of his brief and failed encounter. The night before. His walk of gain. He was dumped and observed and humiliated by trees. They allowed him to walk back alone. They did not make an effort to stop him. They did not talk back. He still wondered what he was supposed to do now?

A cup of tea rested on the table in front of him. He stopped drinking coffee for an entire year. On his way to the ocean, he stopped at the village's downtown. Roughly about 80 households and 2000 inhabitants. In 3 days, he felt, they all knew him. "A few more days," X thought, "they are mine too" Tea in the coast always felt a tad strange to him. Warm drinks and beach did not mix. Tea, behin a British induction (according to him) felt terribly aristocrathic for this kind of primitivism. He abandoned it, he looked, at the street in front, without really looking at it. He was back on the motorino, on his way out to the airport.

X's inner monologue went like this:

"The motorcycle under my body, between my thighs, reminds me of my grand performance last night. Four poor innocent palm trees got the best of me. How strange it was that I suddenly started asking a question like that: "What am I supposed to do now" First, why am I asking this? And second, why am I asking it to palm trees? It is very dramatic of me indeed. And now, why is all this a problem. And why is it seminal to whatever I am doing now. Why does it matter at all? Is it the "now" in the statement that matters? Everything else, I understand, but the "now" could only mean two things:

1. that something important took place recently, something changing, that requires something unique

2. that something, anything, took place and I simply do not know how to deal with it

On this motorcyle, I know, the "now" and what it is all about. I have met someone. And I have given way to letting myself out. Enough of the secrecy. The crap. The double life. Reaching the beach was the conclusion of my own "revolutionary process" - of claiming myself, back, like an animal, to feel instinctive, effortlessly light, and fine with it all. There was a now because a lot was understood, and accepted."

He got on a boat and floated on it. To the dark blue sea. He got on a private plane. Later that day, he sunk 30 meters into the ocean.

Re-Invention Tour, Querida Isabela

Galapagos - Diciembre 28, 2008

Isabela:

Magnanimous year comes to an end. A year of turning. Of sudden. Tumbling. A year. Abrupt. A year of endings, of starting.

What is up, Eduardito? Hey. Hi. Je ne plus? Plus. Plus. Plus. It's two. It's three. There is more coming. Delicious.

Astronomical blessing. To come and find the hook, the anzuelo, to calm down the spirit inside. To float in this marea. The succulent not stopping tides. To leave behind the summit that GS was. To leave doors closed, finally. The doors in that New York. That keeps so many moments. The sign, in that punk bathroom, "What a day to be alive!", on top of that toilet, in the corner of the Lower East Side.

An voice inside finally speaking. Good for it, and good for me. To not loose the use of the heart, to remain alive. Outside of the value system, struggled, inherited, overcome. To be at the borderline, at the very edge of one's devotion. In the frontline, where you are still alive.

So many lives found. A series of them. And each spectacular. All of them need to die. And to melt with the lakes of memory. And the vast sight of the tides. ending, stopping, altogether, in circles, drying up, ending. Those lives seemed as though they had no ending. Infinite. And the minute impulse, made it all change. All become new, different, challenged. The will to being young.

Cambio de cuerpo suculento,
Cambio y mudo escamas.
Piel Nueva, lavada en arena, en mar, sol, y lejos de las paredes limitantes.

Y los ojos cercanos, los techos de luz, falsos.
Lejos de las oficinas y del mundo desarrollado.

2008 starts in carnival. At dinner. With a family that is willing to turn around its life. There, then, here, I propose to change my scenarios. My surrounding. And search for depth. And sounds in greater freedom.

"Todo es mentira en este mundo... que sera? Esperando la ultima hora. Arriba" Manu Chao, at Coco Bar, sounds. I think how could you. You are the blood of me. Like te small, minute, tiny impulse. To find it. To let it trigger passion again. Like finding impulse again. A conceptual map. Here it comes, to put 2008, in visible light:

2008 - Reinvention Tour

Jan: Announce intention to leave
Feb: Internal transition opportunities search
March: Market crisis, it's time to go
April: requests to stay
May: Official departure
June: Back to minimalism and to dispossessing everything
July: Back to me, and to cereal, twice a day, simplicity

It's a path carved with axe, bow, and arrow. Hand-made. No one done it for me. They should have. Not a single drop.

I owe myself the plentitude of full life.

No hay miedo. Ni arrenpetimiento.
Es hora de abrir los ojos. Es tiempo de mirar.
De no quedarse parado. De caminar. El camino. Para adelante.

I will not run. Time to soar.

Mural Sense

Mural Sense
London, Jan 2013

A primer of white. Duck cotton that is raw. Extended on a second floor. wrapped on a street made of stone. Over plastic, on a ladder, nailed to the wall. Imagination constrained by clock ticking. Spirit at ease, it's wanted nothing more. This mural, in its expression, was meant to happen.

A violin left on a field, by itself. It morphs into a chelo, it remains brown.

Wild horses run forwards and backwards. Over grass and across nature that is green and black. The nature is made up of lines and interrupted by flight of plants and flowers.

Wild horses, start to disappear, they morph into human, extremities align. It's all senseless. Like you. Wild horses, not for a second given away. Wild horses. Wild.

The green is bright and its neon. All the shapes have hands in them tattoos, fingers caressing them though, fingers of rough hands once painted by a native.

There are trails of dirt. White and dark, particles of meaning, of that wild spirit that celebrates the achievement of the tick ahead. The one that is to happen.

This, WILL, happen