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"What joy, heart, day after day this take away your cortex, this finding your true a tender, naked, trembling!. .. " (Juan Ramon Jimenez.)




The pain these words ... much pain in so few letters


Damn! for coming into my life and my soul drilling.

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Frequent

Uris Library Stacks , eflon Photography (Some rights reserved, licensed under Creative Commons 2.0 )

"visiting the saints is like to do with music or libraries. Desexualized, we put our instincts in the service of another world. To the extent that we resist to holiness, we show that our instincts are healthy."

EM Cioran in Of tears and saints.

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holiness and Life Academy (fragments)

During those years, he frequented libraries
Boston University, Mugar Library , photography roncaglia (Some rights reserved under Creative Commons 2.0 license )

People do not want to discuss, debate, prefer to be comfortable in conversational communities.

***

If there are no boundaries is a map with contours, country.

*** We're "around." With every decision we make, with every choice we make ... these choices, will unite us or divide us? Are we open to the world or create a wall against the outside? Are we close and prevented any communication?

***

Everything did not write. Their resignations.

***

Perhaps others will have read with more care and intelligence, but not more love, this exercise of creative imagination.

***

That which we call reality is determined to kill the literature.

***

There is a difference only and exclusively there (feeling)
where the smiles begin the curve of her lips, cheeks and rounded arrugitas and to spark-spatters-ean eyes and smile we call "smile" I said.
Smiles given

***

When exposed to air the fantasies spoil.

***

The pulse is cast fantasy and reality reality gains, pushing the fantasy of their environment.

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not white nor black, nor is gray .

not there shades or gradients, rather, not live in darkness.

Go tones land and mauve ;

Green and golden ;

Yellow and ma res.

not have 2 or 3 roads, more is always a little more away from freedom .

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Something that had long awaited.

"When a picture is worth a thousand words words or images created they will not forget"

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Libertine

Libertine, Mylène Farmer (1986)

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're done by word, for those of tomorrow ... Passivity

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the sea from Meirás Beach on Sunday

See, the sea Wants to take me, The knife
Wants to cut me,
Do you think you CAN help me?

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[See, the sea wants to take,
the knife wants to cut,
do you think you can help me?]

Ana's little feet in the water, on Sunday

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Lorca II Notes (or careful what you wish)

Poster The dying of thirst , production of the School of Dramatic Art Córdoba

When I read Lorca, eroticism that permeates everything he writes me drunk. Impossible not to feel, as a force that is beyond anything that sets the limits: the reason to our heads, our behavior society. As undercurrent, there's this: in the songs of the girls who wash, light and playful but at the same time ominous, like a presence that " beware - beware " on the boards of the old, requested or simply offered between teeth, interfering, judging, but they know, for better and for worse, then finally the actors the drama, but mostly ignored intense presence negligent. Nobody ever says "I burn with desire"-that self-awareness: it does not. We know, squeezing her throat, "how I like to say:" strangled in his throat "-until it is triggered, the desire, tragedy, both.

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always fast, always running without ever turning back.

Never mind the wounds in his feet and the tiredness of your eyes. She ran as if his life depended on it.

was away, fleeing as fast as his body was capable of. Plunged into a restless anxiety.

Fear gripped his soul, his heart was whipping his chest and looked at his watch to play a macabre joke.

was declared enemy of time and absurdly feared.

One day left to run and just sat in a bench near the beach. He fixed his eyes on the sea and only then became eternal.

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"Tales from the neighborhood," Masha Kirikova (and VI)

love rowan ( series "Stories of the Neighbourhood" ) of Masha Kirikova (All rights reserved)

Rowan Love

For the finches love rowan berries. Rowan berries are pretty, sweet and full of vitamins. This year there are plenty of rowan berries in our backyard and the young finch-boy invited his friend to eat. The pair of finches enjoyed the food so they decided to stay together in the tree until the summer.

Masha Kirikova
(translated and distributed with permission from the author)

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masks are not to blame ... Notes

"Masks are arrested expressions and admirable echoes of feeling, at once faithful, discreet, and superlative. Living things in contact with the air must acquire a cuticle, and it is not urg ed against cuticles that they are not hearts; yet some philosophers seem to be angry with images for not being things, and with words fo r not being feelings. Word and images are li ke shells, no less integral parts of nature than are the substances they cover, but better addressed to the eye and more open to observation. I would not say that substance exists for the sake of appearance, or faces for the sak e of masks, or the passions for the sake of poetry and virtue. Nothing arises in nature for the s ake of anything else; all these phases and products are involved equally in the round of existence, and it would be sheer wilfulness to praise the germinal phase on the ground that it is vital, and to denounce the explicit phase on the ground that it is dead and sterile".

George Santayana , en Soliloquies in England and Later Soliloquies (1922)

Dedicado a José Antonio Fernández de Rota , who taught me to understand ideas like this, that everything "is", no matter the subject of what is done (shell, smoke, desire, dream, plastic, lie possibility ...).

Look at My Mask! photography collection Mirror Image Gallery (All rights reserved)

[The masks are fixed expressions and admirable echoes of feelings, at once faithful, discreet, and superlative. Living things in contact with air must acquire a cuticle, and no one blames cuticles than hearts, however, some philosophers seem to bear a grudge against the images not being things, and words not to be feelings. Words and images are like shells, integral parts of nature as well as substances that line, but aimed more directly in the eye and more open to observation. I would not say there is substance to enable the appearance or to allow faces masks, or to allow the passions of poetry and virtue. Nothing arises in nature to enable another thing, all these phases and products are involved equally in the cycle of existence, and would be a complete stubbornness praise the germinal stage in the soil to be vital, and acknowledge the explicit phase in the soil from dead and sterile.]

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Lorca I (or Teach or unexpected A taste for the "truth")

Bernarda Alba, Act 3 of *** cha (All rights reserved)

My girls, if we read this story out of it shaking, or worse, as if we stick a knife, and we can take it away, no, no. With the pain of a truth you can not say the truth about ourselves and our position in the world, it costs us know and tell, and has been a man stampede the face of the cultural system, a man of the margins, of course. How else would he know that truth, we do not need to be expressed more than that. When the book ends and the word is reverberating painfully virgin, virgin, with all its edges throat lips, scraped from the inside out, almost hurts to swallow at last: a virgin.

But my girls will not understand with all its force, can not. Just a glimpse of the surface and feel the echoes of truth in its effect. Best. Already have time.

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"Tales from the neighborhood," Masha Kirikova (V)

about the Earth-worm ( series "Stories of the Neighbourhood" ) of Masha Kirikova (All rights reserved)

About Worm

The Earthworms are animals with a hard target. They need to eat dirt and shit all day long from morning to night.

The first thing-worm children need to learn from his Mama and his Papa Worm-Worm is how to find the safest part of the trail and twist forward.

Kirikova Masha
(translated and distributed with permission from the author)

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Metamorphosis.


Freedom to give my body to genuine transformation.

Free!

What a wonderful aroma of freedom I breathe!.

be free to extend my arms, close my eyes and give this body that resembles anything to me, that does not follow my footsteps adventurers and that makes me weak and strong in a glaring unison.

That does not fall apart with feelings and the meat defeat disease. What foolishness this body that does not reach you!

you crave endless sea walk and scream your name!, I have wanted to move the still water with my hands and float them in a state of spiritual enlargement bigger than me, bigger than you .. .

I can give my pain to the winds and tear on your chest out. You're

sublime to me. My magic has brought you regardless of your will.

I feel small and insignificant ... A small snake ennublecida majesty, which becomes giant sliding through your skin: From your neck warm contemporary ecstatic birth, I lost in the contour of your breasts medieval must be the work of God, go around your waist that is something surreal Renaissance and hips give way infinite softness to your haughty legs.

Low, low, low ... Lower than hell itself, lower than the fire is not eternal without your eyes and beneath your feet aphrodisiac find at last my land. My land, my home.

life

waves enough to return me to be myself. To look from the humidity of my roots. An absurd nudity keeps me anchored to the floor, delighting you. I do not know time or space, not if they are years, centuries, lives, or seconds with my eyes I feel of exiles, but that does not matter. I look, I think, desire, feed me ... you live!

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was the Catalina ... (8)

That nostalgia remember this song! It was so young when I played with a friend at school ... I have already had about 12 or 13 years, but the memories that come to mind are so full of innocent magic, I could not just pass this rediscovery of the past.

remember my friend Camilla, with whom he played during recess at this game ... I remember not talk to her long ago. We forget moments and people. We are growing and letting go those things that made us smile.

was the Catalina

Sitting under a laurel

Looking the freshness

of water falling

Suddenly a soldier step

And he did stop

"Stop you

soldier a question you want to do"

"You have seen my husband

ever in the war?"

"I have not seen her husband

Nor who is"

"My husband is tall and blond

and handsome as you

And at the tip of his sword takes

written San Andres "

From the data given to me

Her husband is dead

And I left that

me to marry you.

Now that I do

Now that I will not

I waited seven years

and wait seven

If

fourteen is not

A convent I'll

And my two daughters

take with me

And my two sons

to deliver home

Hush, hush, Catherine

Hush, hush once

're talking to your husband

recognize That you did not know ...

So ends this story

of an unhappy woman

he was talking to her husband

and could not recognize ...

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Like a butterfly / (Ser object)

Mariana in the South, John William Waterhouse

She referred to in languid movements, the dark hair and white skin, beauty botticelliana passed by the complacency of a Burne-Jones, eyes open, hands and breath drops suicide while looking in the mirror. Would not it be a beautiful object, smoothed her hair or garment with a tie, pale makeup and dark circles marked: and black eyes and pink mouth, set a brace and wrapped in a flowing gown, like a butterfly perched on a stool, and never look directly into the eyes of men?

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"Girl Wandering" [Gabriela Mistral - Letters to Doris Dana]

I know that nobody, no person in this world, you know what it is our life, but (except) ourselves.

our life Beauty is so imperceptible, so delicate, full of imponderables, which almost can not see it. You may only live, thank God.

I live in a kind of dream, remembering all the graces that I have done.

And what is living a new life, a life that I have always sought and never found. It is a sacred thing and concentrated.

Life without you is something no blood, no reason. You are [my house] , my home, yourself. With you is my heart.

(And just love me purified). She is the abandonment, complete confidence.

I know you are faithful like a stone.

My memory is now a world becomes a universe vast and comprehensive. And while incomplete, because it has grown so much but could not seem to grow larger.

Oh, serious love so sweet, so no weight at once. My Joy!

[This text corresponds to a document much appreciated by Doris Dana, who kept it until the end of his days in a safe].

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Better than love voyeur

I

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II

Hurts - Better Than Love, videohurts

Every second is a lifetime
And every minute more Brings you closer to God ...

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And they will be 7 ... (There is no art in these letters, there are only memories infinite)

Time is subjective: the face of suffering the years passed slowly. Now I understand my mistakes and that the wounds have healed, I wonder why it happened so fast.

will soon arrive in June 1921 and the winter solstice every year. Triumphantly enter the winter, taking my precious fall.

I've had time to treasure pieces of this season, but weighs the idea of \u200b\u200bwaiting a full year to see the leaves on the trees colored red. Exactly

for 7 winter solstices my life took a turn that took me long to realize ... I fell deeply in love of a woman who could not feel for me as well ... On his birthday I assumed that he loved her and take me away from men (emotionally, of course) forever.

His love torturing my eyes long time. Years of wasted tears and stifle cries to end submerged in a "nothing" invasive.

Solstice This time is different: its not cold afflicts my soul

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tasteless His body was delivered to the coldness of the sheets. He was completely still. His mouth was ajar to allow expelling the deep sobs choked him. Her cheeks were red and frost the emerging preferred route of tears from his eyes, which closed weakly but as if they were stapled.

His arms rested on his head still. His neck looked more beautiful than usual (this time I was naked). His hair fell rendered on the pillow and brushed his shoulders slightly hunched.

The rest of her body was petrified. His weakness will soothe the soul little by little. The only muscles were demonstrating for a dying breath and the only sign of pain was the vacuum that existed in his chest in the same place where a day was his heart.

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I was with waste of colors and flavors new . I was

with many things that kept to a special occasion.

I was so ... Full of nothing and subject in an all that promised a future submissive ...

However, I believe again!

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Invitation to Confession: POETIC DANCE

result of a very interesting invitation I received ...

I liked very much and hope to repeat it.

who asked me what he described as "poetic Dance"

for me has been the creation of a whole out of pieces of soul.

Thanks.

my beam is interlaced red light, when I contemplate
When confused
La, tension, pain and delight of my emotions
shuddering ...

If

do me the favor of giving me a little
of mercy and take me to
lie beyond ignorance and
but you always tell me and tell me we are not equal,
Again, we are one more than the pain .....

sublime and strange pain that clouds my being, but it was something he felt useless on my emotions,
it would be of them if you were not you?

green Intense sunsets hope distressing covered by brown. Blood
stuck in my veins,
no shortage of reasons to hate.
I want your love and leftovers of which are sewn to my soul.

disappear until I have cold .... and between
vague words, touching my skin that make
blood, and it breaks my heart, Please,
Can you stop talking?, hate your voice, beautiful
hate your lies, I hate to think you're lying,
hate to see and not see, being blind and being colorblind ...
but there you are, with your eyes and
escrutante your heart, Where?, If your heart is in it .....

Outlaw rictus to lift a morsel
From your lips the melody in the air,
What to do ... feel the touch,
As a cherry crush, delight, bliss on my lips
...
Is it destruction or delivery?
What is desire?

Look back,

Why

Why? I think you do not really exist, if
always supposed that nothing could really harm me, nothing
could go out of my ... and my heart is squeezed
while seem to enjoy it, I'm still waiting
something that will never happen, and happen in my drawer of misery, misery
hidden, and where there are only dreams unbearable
a sigh .... a long sigh

your art lover I crucify your skin traitor, I torturing thoughts
murderer before conceiving oblivion. Jake
've done to my senses, have emptied my heart and yet you own my life.

Look back I saw nothing at all,
I felt like a drop of ink that fades when
falls
paper was gone, and knew he would never in my hands
were only words empty

You think I care, you know I care, yet only
you go, just think of yourself and I made the blame when
really just my fault ... right? and is that whenever I hear your sobs
in every place of my room .... Your tears do not stop that
myself as needle stick as it as the pencil
digs into my hand, punishing, as always

I like your prayers! Only excite me ....

Be honest: have mercy on my arms. We
tell me, tell me: what's stopping you?

I stop your insecurities .... your anger, your rejection
, and your eternal evil to me ...

Do you want me to come so dear?

Shout! Shout it out loud for all to hear ....

A subjective evil you have grown with each step.

emo not scream, but you have forced me to shut up

"Subjective? perhaps ....

and now, now that I am free at last decide to stab my senses

Do you think you can kick, laugh ....?

free You will not be never, never me!

stop! I do not want to hear

slash "your senses? I revel in it ...

I delight in your eternal and stupid appeals

should apologize NOW.

Blame? ... I laugh like crazy,
think you can lick my wounds,
spiders myself, to see run, Contrails
ambrosia, vibrant silks,
That I view my blood, your blood may
create ribbons
of bells in my

fingers ...