The Trip Series: Harmonically Sabotaged

... They were traveling in the same subway, but they didn't know each other. They were close, very close. Their thoughts crossed the line at the same time, but they didn't notice that. Thinking, with a lost look, so close and so far away...

HIS:
Everything explodes. All is shredded and reconstructed again. I lose neurons, I lose sweat, I lose my memory, the sense, and I give up to the new owner that takes my body.

HERS:
Everything fits. All is joined but always could be disarmed again. Or wear down. I constantly look for harmony, and when I find it I almost don’t enjoy it because I am afraid of lose it. Me, and just me, floating in my balanced place. The warm liquid remember me another life, and it is mixed with my owns.

HIS:
Everything explodes. Again and again I become in other and that gives me more credits. I win joy, I win laughs around me, I win crying (cries), sensations, and this occasion transients surrender to me.

HERS:
Everything fits. I found the style and that brings me peace, although I am worried about the moment when I have no more credits. Me, and someone else that when we are together the equilibrium is sustained. The fresh air makes me travel, and it is mixed with my breath.

HIS:
How can they live so monotonously? Sometimes they seem desirous to do what I do. ¿How can I live so dizzily? Sometimes I wish the pacific calm in their quiet souls.

HERS:
How can they live so agitated? Sometimes their faces ask for a rope to land on earth. ¿How can I live so calmed? Sometimes my face makes evident that I need a shake.

HIS:
¿To born or to die? ¿To give or to receive? I intend to be someone but they sabotage me. My own doubts keep me in the stamped limit. All of us want to be other for a while. Nonconformism and desire of improvement can keep us alive. Or sabotaged.

HERS:
¿To live or to survive? ¿To pass or to endure? In spite of sabotage I am someone. I frighten the doubts and I move away from the limit. o. Although all of us want to be another, I choose one side. Nonconformism and desire of improvement can keep us dead. Or harmonics.

The Trip Series: Massive

A big mob. People, bodies, legs, arms. They push me away. I try to get away from them but the human mob drags me, and I can’t change the course. I have always moved against the stream. And now I am severely punished. I found my little hole. Concealed, dirty, but mine. And I become tangled.

A big minority. Those who are not singled out. Those who do everything all right. Those who give the example. Those who outstand. Those who deserve to be different and adored. Those who enjoy their condition without moving from their places. Those who are free, without conviction.

I want to cry like a baby. To leave this sick shell. To leave this world that doesn’t understand me. But I can’t.

A big mob. Ideals, advertisements, policies, societies. They carry me. I try to scream but they cover my mouth and nobody understands what I say. I have always been different. And now I receive my scold. I go down to the basement looking for pleasure, psychedelic lights and indulgence. But I only find a line of orthopedic beds.

A big minority. Those who don’t single out. Those who don’t think if that is good or bad. Those who don’t look for examples. Those who outstand but don’t boast about it. Those who feel equal to others. Those who open their arms without disgust. Those who give freedom, and those who don’t condemn.

I want to go up and leave this hell. I want to see the sun again. I want to be part of the world again. But it’s too late.

The Trip Series: Painted

I paint. My life. Yours. Everyone’s life. Hope... the last thing which is lost. Losing, winning, ¿who decides it? In my world, I do. In everyone’s world, anybody except me. But now, I am in my world, and all my senses are amplified and leave the awful place where I am. And they travel with me to the most amazing landscapes. I can create whatever I want. I forget about people. If I draw a river, I hear it flowing by my side. If the sun appears on my paper, it burns my skin. If there are birds, they know me. If there is blood, it is in the shape of a tear. The earth may part into, and still I don’t fall.

I paint. My life. Yours. Everyone’s life. Anguish... the first thing that disappears. Pencils give their colored bodies as to remain in eternity. Today the suffer is extinguished, and everything makes sense. My world and everyone’s world get together, and all my senses become alive, and they are transformed inside me. And I can throw up emotion, and create more life. If I draw fast, time accelerates. If I draw softly, the breeze caresses me. If I draw strong, death wipes out. If I draw slowly, time stops. The earth may break in two, and someone will fall, but not me.

I paint. My life. Yours. Everyone’s life. Oblation... to that who could appreciate it, or simply for me. And if somebody deprives me off the paper, I will paint on a tablecloth, the table, on the floor or walls. And if somebody takes the pencils from me, I will use my own saliva, the oldest wine, or even the trace of a furrower stone. And if somebody deprives me off my hands, I will use my feet or mouth. And if somebody covers my eyes, I will paint by memory. The earth can explode, and I will paint in the moon.

The Trip Series: Amniotic

Always the same way home. Always the same people. Always the same thoughts. For how much longer? Is late in the night, but darkness doesn’t scare me anymore. I am one of them. The sound of the metallic wheels devouring the railways goes unnoticed. I throw a coin in his case, and he begins to play his music for me. I find an empty seat and I sit, like I would sit at my favorite couch at home. I lean my head against the window, and my eyes get lost. I am submerged in the tunnel, but I travel at a different speed. The amniotic fluid begins to cover my body. Lights dim slowly and fade into darkness. My eyelids close. Time... I lose the sense of time. I wish this trip would never end. My home is so close and yet so far away.

Always the same way home. Always the same people. Always the same thoughts. Why do I not react? My destiny is almost invariable. The fluid covers my body. I open my mouth letting it fill my lungs, but I do not die; I am even more alive. My arms relax. I float... I had the opportunity in my hands, but I always played other people’s game. Today I want to use my own rules, but it is too late in the night, and the darkness doesn’t scare me anymore. So I sleep in the most beautiful liquid that has ever caressed me.

Always the same movements. Always the same arguments. Always the same thoughts. Will I ever wake up? When the day begins, and the sun shines giving life to the dirtiest and most dead places in the city, I know that it is one more day where I will not see the flowers grow, or my children play. The usual strangers will be the most important thing of the day, although inside of me it will always be about my family. Some day I would like it to be about me. Laughs, shouts, talk about sex and sports. I resist... it will be over soon. Everything is a dense farce. I try to be happy, but it is too late. And the night is coming.

Always the same movements. Always the same arguments. Always the same thoughts. Will it be different sometime? Bills pass through my hands. Luxury cars pass through my eyes. I will never accomplish my big dream, but I cannot complain. I have the hope that my children will live a better life, and do every thing I could not do. I see them dedicating their triumphs to me. I smile... Suddenly a hand moves my leg and I open my eyes. It is an old woman with only one arm that can barely stammer some words. There is always someone in worse condition than us. The train pulls up at my station. I give her my last coin, and I go home.

Eight

It was the last day of the week when I saw her (… and He rested). She came home with the usual smile and a t-shirt with a number stamped on it. I asked her the meaning of that. She thought about it for a few seconds… When she entered to my small room the whole place was magically as big and beautiful as Halicarnassus. I tried to open the blinds but it wasn’t necessary because her eyes illuminated me like the lighthouse of Alexandria would do. I looked at her t-shirt again. I tried to tell her something, but she sealed my lips with a delicate and private wet kiss, like in Babylon, where the water machines bring great abundance from the river, although no one outside can see it. Difference makes equality; we come from different worlds but the reflection of the Colossus tinted us with unity and love. Sweet love becomes wild and nature as Artemis at Ephesus. And her skin… soft, warm and her skin… every time I touch it I feel invincible as Zeus.

“…In his right hand a figure of Victory made from ivory and gold. In his left hand, his scepter inlaid with all metals, and an eagle perched on the sceptre. The sandals of the god are made of gold, as is his robe…” (Pausanias the Greek, 2nd century AD)

Even a tiny bed is not tiny enough but the opposite, and our bodies melt down and fuse into a compact precious stone which watches the world from the summit of Giza. We dream and walk through the streets with no need for money or great romantic dinners, because our nights and days transport us to the Nebuchadnezzar’s palace.

Maybe this is too much. Maybe we are near to cross the line where the excessive belief in one's own abilities would interfere the magic. Maybe we really desire others' status and situation. Perhaps we will soon seat at a restaurant and have an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires. And then the food won’t be enough and we will wish material wealth ignoring the realm of the spiritual. Yes, we will avoid any physical or spiritual work. Probably we are deeply craving for the pleasures of our bodies. Or if we have some day a fight, we will spurns love and opts instead for fury. Please save us with chastity, moderation, liberality, charity, meekness, zeal and humility!

The smallest number that can't be represented as a sum of fewer than four nonzero squares, the atomic number of nitrogen, the colors of the rainbow, the musical notes, the chakras, the dwarfs, the number of objects in the solar system visible to the naked eye… I still look at her t-shirt. Maybe it's only a ranking. Maybe it's only a number. Although if you ask me, if you really want to know the truth… the wonders are actually eight.

That New Old Black Magic

I have been living in New York for two years. At the beginning, everything was a surprise, and I couldn’t believe many things that were going on in my life with a spinning velocity. Each place of the city bringing me the memories of a film, the signs, a few celebrities in the streets, walking and walking to discover by my own what is not in the guides, every kind of artistic movement, and the peerless possibility of meeting new people every day were usual food for my soul.

After a year, I started to feel used to all that stuff. Some days I lose the sense of time or place, and I feel like I’ve been here all my life. Some other days I raised my sight and I reach the Empire State, the Chrysler, the Flatiron, the Central Park, or the Brooklyn Bridge, and I automatically remember consciously that I’m in New York. Yesterday was one of those days. I went to the “Celebrate Brooklyn” concert in Prospect Park. I went there to see an amazing band called Brooklyn Funk Essentials. I know them since 1998, and it’s not a coincidence that I used the songs “Take the L Train to Brooklyn”, and “Take the L Train to 8th Ave” to write one of my works when I applied to the film school, seeing myself taking that same train a few years later. It’s not a coincidence that yesterday the band started the show with that same songs mixed into one version. “I’m here”, I said to myself with a big smile and my heart beating fast.

What I never imagined was that after my favorite and always desired show, a little girl called Leela James could accelerate my heart and elevate my soul as just a few other times in my life. Before the first two minutes of her show she had everybody standing up and screaming as in soccer finals. That petite, so authentic that in the first song removed the heels that would have elevated her, was so sincere that she said “I came here with these heels to be fashionable and cool, but you know, I can’t walk with this”. With a similar humility she made a call to all the musicians out there to not fool people with artificial things in order to sell the soul for a record, and asked for coming back to basics. Every word, every cry, every scream was part of one of the most wonderful rituals that I ever experimented in a music show. Buddy Guy moved me to tears when he visited “mi Buenos Aires querido” and sang “Feels Like Rain” to transport me in one shot to the cotton fields. Now this misbehaving girl, bringing tears and devouring the stage and audience like James Brown, was called without exaggerating the “Godmother of Soul”. Screaming Sam Cooke’s name, Tina Turner, Chaka Chan, Marvin Gaye and many others, like the Godfather used to do when he sang “It’s a Mans’ Man’s Man’s World”.

I grew up in Argentina between Julio Sosa’s tangos and my Mom's bolero tapes performed by Maria Martha Serra Lima, which I still listen to with emotion and melancholy. But what definitely marked me to fire in the musical and inspirational world were my Dad’s LPs tinted with black blood from Quincy Jones to Ray Charles, from Mahalia Jackson to The Four Tops, from Aretha Franklin to Ella Fitzgerald. This last unique lady wrote and sang:

That old black magic has me in its spell
That old black magic that you weave so well
Icy fingers up
And down my spine
The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine

Yesterday, that old black magic returned to the air totally renewed inside the spirit of a very young girl with the power of a hurricane, the conviction of James Brown, and the “dance & scream” of Tina Turner. Although influenced also by the hip hop culture, that old magic is intact. “I need a witness!”, she said, and everybody raised their hands moaning as in the most sacred service of the Harlem’s Abyssinian Baptist Church in Odell Clark Place & Lenox Ave. Mature as a legend but with the innocence of a kid, she invited the audience to dance on the stage, she took a picture with them and the musicians, and another more giving the spectators her back, so everybody can be in her picture too, giving herself to everybody in a big embraceable love.

Dear Leela, young and small Godmother, old and big black magic, let me know the next time that you will be in New York, so you can give my soul back.

Sequence Shot

I have a dream: I want to be a famous filmmaker. I take my Canon S400 digital still camera that I bought three years ago, and I go out to the street. I turn it on, and I put it in video mode. I start shooting my first experimental film. It’s the extreme of ultra-low-budget independent filmmaking. I turn left in 20th Street and I walk toward 9th Ave. I point with my camera to the sidewalk and I capture on screen my own feet walking. While seconds go by, I elevate the camera angle one more degree. I am in the middle of the block shooting the trees, the houses and some passers-by. I never stop shooting. The abrupt movements make this film more real. I never stop elevating the camera angle. I am close to the corner, concentrated on the screen. I hear the traffic but I can’t stop recording. I feel the fear, but I say to myself that a filmmaker must have no fear. I see the rooftops on screen while the clarity of 9th Ave. hit my face. A “Just Do It” sign is the last thing I catch from the civilization. The sky is blue with no clouds. I know that he listened to the honk. I even screamed to him, but I couldn’t stop the damn car. I’m not sure if the brakes were broken, or maybe I was confident that he wouldn’t cross with the red lights. I thought he was a professional stunt, because the crash felt so real. He flew like ten steps. I’m sure that the images will be impacting. The camera had zero damages. You know, it was an “Ewa-Marine” underwater with a Panasonic GX-7 digital camcorder that they use in the low-budget movies. So, the camera was protected against the shocks. Although I don’t know why he was using those kinds of accessories out of water. His car is being repainted, because after hitting him, he lost the control of the vehicle, and he also hit a pole just in the corner. The scene is very real, although I need a second take. Unfortunately we didn’t have enough time yesterday, and today it’s raining like frogs falling from Magnolia’s sky. And yesterday it was so sunny… We have the 16 mm Bolex loaded with a 50D, so even if we have to shoot interior, we should mess up things unloading and loading again with another stock, and film stocks are so expensive. The last thing that could happen now is if the motor breaks and we need to wind the spring again. Oh, dear Murphy’s Law. It’s the last scene. Everything has been shot. I will take advantage to sleep like a baby. But I guess that he won’t sleep at all. The rest of the crew is resting, but I can’t stop thinking. The accident was so real. I know that I planned everything. I’m even the writer. I know… but it was “too” real. The cinematographer told me that he couldn’t take his face because it was so fast. And he also thinks that the camera shook up when he flew against us. Maybe he hit our ARRI Super 16mm film camera. Will be a fortune to replace it. I think we must be bordering one million. I can’t deal with accidents. I thought I could, but it exceeds me. I’m scared of asking what happened with them. Maybe there were casualties. I won’t recover from that. In case some of that crap happened, I’m not answering the phone. But I have a lot of missed calls and I wonder where the hell they are! His wife is not answering either. He’s not at his home. He’s not in the coffee shop. He didn’t appear in our production offices. Why the hell I entered in this insane business? Without the last scene there is no damned movie. If it’s for me I print a final copy with this scene. I told them that with that “breakthrough” realism we could actually convince the audience automatically, and even better the rest of producers. It’s an uncut diamond. A revelation… it’s like an explicit sexual scene between Madonna and Drew Barrymore. Well, that’s not a good example, but you got it. Why I never learnt about cameras? If somebody could help me getting the film from that damned Panasonic… I only know that it’s a 35mm camera. They’re so egoist. They always need a second take. Of course, it isn’t their money. It’s about my bloody millions! I wish it was a dream.

I Moisturized Her

I needed to return to the place of sins in the most sacred day of the year. Not as a coward nor a hero but a simple person. I’m getting naked one more time to cover my body and soul with more strength. Muse is in the air, creator is in my mind, sweet is in my mouth. Now she is mother, now she isn’t, now she is. We are strangers in the night and lovers in the day.

Captives by the mystery, curiosity takes one of our lives but satisfaction brings them back. There is no violence when there is innocence. Malcolm in one ear, Luther in the other, all is possible to do the right thing. We live another unforgettable morning between breakfast, thoughts and caresses. This time is not about negotiating. Whispers are dyeing by laughter.

I need to come back to the place of sins in the most sacred day of the year. I cut her and a red drop was seen until I spliced her again with a second hug even with more affection and desire. It’s not enough. Now I have the amazing duty of moisturizing her bristled skin. From my mind to the paper, from the paper to the screen, from my body to the atmosphere. Feeding her, healthy me, healing us...

... and she will look at me while I look at her on the screen.

I Cut Her

Can a person be considered a coward while trying to be a hidden hero?


Can a hidden hero be a public muse while trying to avoid it?


Can a public muse be a creator at the same time?


Can a creator still be seen as the most sensual mother?


Can the most sensual mother become the sweetest child?


Can the sweetest child be inspired by the most sensual mother?


Can the most sensual mother be captive of a stranger alien and a killer curiosity?


Can a stranger curiosity suggest violence with an innocent film cutter?


Can an innocent film cutter convert an editing room into unforgettable scenes?


Can unforgettable scenes be made just by bodies and whispers?


Can bodies and whispers negotiate different spaces when they want the same space?


“Que tenga un dia bello”, she told me with a tender voice. An unconditional friend sung to us while he smiled. We also smiled although we had to say goodbye. After an intense hug I cut her in the editing room. A red drop was seen until I spliced her again with a second hug even with more affection and desire. Inside the editing room… I thought about her day and night, and I watched her a thousand times. Outside the editing room… I want to see her again.

Soul

I saw you this afternoon in the "E" train to World Trade Center, dressed in proudly african black. I couldn't resist looking to your fleshy bright lips. I dreamt about eat them as a kid wants a marshmallow sweet. The destiny emptied the seat by your side. Dissimulating the desire I sat next to you and our arms were rubbing each other with the movement of the train. You get off in Penn Station, but I stayed with you.

I saw you yesterday morning at the University. I thought you were in London but your big smile calmed me down. Prettier than ever, you talked to me but I didn't listen to you. Your dark breasts filled your white sleeveless with an ancestral presence, so powerful and contrasting that just remembering the ritual could be enough to get rain falling over the hot Union Square, and a T-Storm ray shocking me. Please come back.

I talked to you last week by the phone. Your girlish voice made me laugh. Your adult thoughts made me cry. I imagined your brown ass buttered and your neck with a sugar path to follow with my tongue until your ears. Please repeat it. It's not to understand you, but to enjoy you again. I want you to calling me again even when I know that the next weekend I will not see you either. Even if I never met you I feel that you are mine.

I observed to you last month in the Harlem streets. Walking with your kids, going to the sacred hairdresser late in the night, doing the laundry, screaming to a neighbor from balcony to balcony. Your voice sounded similar to my father's goddess Ella. Your meat moved as dancing, your giant globes could feed the world. I want to apprehend them and be flooded with chocolate, while you sing in my ears like my super model Aretha.

I watched your picture last year. It was a raw witness about one of the most bloody and shameful episodes of the humanity. You, Delia the American-born slave, seemed to have lost your soul. Your pointed nipples had been made to be delightfully sucked, but savages treating you as a savage extracted their main attraction. Nevertheless your generation survived in Georgia and Carolina, like my survivors in Egypt and Auschwitz. Your lost soul stayed in the air during all these years to reappear in Harlem, my phone, the University and the "E" train. And I desire them as I desire you, Delia...

...because you were not a free woman, but maybe now you have a free soul.


Notes:

"Africaine épanouie", painted in 1996 by Augustin Kassi, Bouake, Côte d'Ivoire.

An image of Delia can be seen in the following link at Harvard College:
http://preserve.harvard.edu/exhibits/daguerreotype/page10.html

Us

She...

She looks.

She looks at me.

She smiles, embraces me.

She is past, present, future.

She raises a glass of wine. Elixir.

She is fermented grapes in my head; mouth.

She talks about life, a crazy first meeting. Laughter.

She is part of the zoo, and her unique Mondo makes me joy.

She is the most expected kiss, forbidden sex, unconditional love.

She walks aside me; part of the city beauty, rediscovering places together.

She is fascinated with the argentine afternoon in the Central Park; I don't need more.

I always want more, and the afternoon becomes night, and my bed is empty again... why?

I forget about other things. I remember places, moments, smelling together.

I am the most unexpected kiss thief, free sex, unconditional love.

I am part of the zoo, and my new Mondo inspires her again.

I talk about destiny, unforgettable meeting. Laughter.

I fly between fermented grapes in the air; lips.

I raise a glass of wine. A Wish.

I am steak, caramel, Sunday.

I smile, hold her.

I feel her.

I miss.

I...

Painting Her Painting

I look at you, you look at me. Smile, big smile. Little almond eyes, big cherry mouth. People, music, heat, smoke, them, us. I want you, since the beginning... of the trip. I was searching in the streets. I was searching in the shops. I was searching behind garbage cans. I was looking for you high, very high in the skyscrapers. I was looking for you in that woman sleeping in the subway, in this girl talking with her friend. I was... desiring, imaging, dreaming. SHOT! I look at you, you look at me. SHOT! Smile, big smile. SHOT! Almond and cherry splattered in a painting... SHOT.

I want her belly in my hand. Her ear in my tongue. Provoking natural. Which other thing could she be? Nothing else than a painting. She is color. She is bright. She is surrealism. She is passion. She is wall. She is gallery. She is leaning on the couch. SHOT! Red paint from her chest. SHOT! Red paint from my leg. SHOT! I walk through the people with difficulty, and I lean on the couch with her... SHOT.

We talk deeply in an empty place full of people, music, heat, smoke. We fill each other. We want more. We promise. We can't say good bye. We say it. SHOT! My mind flying faster than hers. SHOT! Killing her and saving me on September 23rd. SHOT! Bullets in the sky, flashes in the air, sixteen millimeters in the pressure plate. I know that I will loose her, but I shoot anyway...

... SHOT.