Fan at 2:35 am

I can’t sleep. I’ve been feeling so stupid. stupid stupid. Some time ago I used to spend a long time in front of a fan. I remember I used to speak to it because I love the distorted words that came from it, they were extended versions of themselves, words elongated in a sound. aaaaaa eeeeeee and the fan would keep spinning. The first time I cut my finger was because I put it into the fan, the fan was so fast that it made a huge cut in my hand. I remember there was this one time in which my mom caught me burning the hair in my legs with a lighter, the operation was very simple, I had to go through every one of my follicles burning every hair until I had none or felt bored. The reason was to feel the smell from burned hair. In time, I tried other ways for smelling burned hair like burning a bit while lighting up a cigarette in the kitchen. I really like this one because it always was the perfect normal excuse. Words never come to me properly. Writing in English is another way to hide myself from me. I’ve been in a perpetual cycle of defeat spinning over and over again like a fan with no direction more than to spit some dirty wind out of it. I’ve been so anxious I can’t sleep anymore. Words, words, words, every day I think of the words I never write. What if I keep reading about that theory I read once… I might get something from it. But words never really come and when they do is under this hysterical crisis in which I write or I will throw up in my own bed so I rather write something. Words have become to me the synonym for throwing up. When I was a baby I used to throw up so hard my mom would joke I was the girl from “the exorcist”. It used to be a great joke among my family members. What if I was a rapper? I could be then able to throw up all my thoughts in a song and in a freeway. Ok, that’s I’ll do. I’ll start a career in rap. I’ll do the best I can to stay as honest as possible to the words I need to say. Ok, one, two, no no wait. Why the fuck you are so vain keeps sounding in my head? Ok, once again… one, two, three. no, what am I supposed to talk? fucking migration? wait, let me try again. One, two, last night I dreamt my friend killed someone and I helped to hide the body, my generation above me, I know you still remember me, cigarettes on cigarettes my mama think I stink I got boreholes in my hoodies. FUCK, that’s fucking Kendrick Lamar except for the thing about my friend and me helping to hide a body. Fucking words are fucking me again. Has anybody heard the story of the hole-man? the little empty shadows that feed themselves with all the profane words in this world. Every man has an hole-man in the biggest and yet invisible mount. My hole-man must be so well fed at this time, satisfying itself with all the cursing I do through the day. I say so much shit I can’t even remember anymore. I’m dying of thirst. I’ll open my mouth and give it to the fan so it dries it even more and then I’ll have the biggest desert in my mouth. My lips are camels in the desert. That last line was so fucking corny I would never say anything like that again. I promise to Hephaestus.

Un tenedor es un palacio

Estimado,

Leerlo siempre se convierte en una experiencia rejuvenecedora, cada correspondencia se siente como si frotara mi rostro con crema anti arrugas y luego quedara una limpieza sensacional, una suavidad única y replicable únicamente a través de estas correspondencias. Es una sensación casi igual a un bautizo o una primera comunión

Me ha tomado tiempo responder a su mensaje, pasé varias semanas obsesionada con ese primer párrafo:

“Pierre, nuestro guía alpino, que se ha curado de su penoso mareo y ha recomenzado a escribir sus memorias, viene a pedirme que le preste “la que aleja las palabras”. Me lleva un tiempo comprender que se trata de una goma de borrar”

Un borrador de goma como aquello que aleja las palabras. Recordé muchas de las veces que he borrado y alejado de mí eso que por ser error quedó fuera de la página, casi siempre los alejaba con un soplido y las chispas de baba llenaban la hoja, dejando el papel hecho ondas.

Busqué el origen de ese párrafo y me llevó a un libro de Cortázar, el cual luego me llevó al Porquoi pas? de Jean-Baptiste Charcot. Puedes creer que pasé dos tardes enteras revisando el Porquoi pas? en la biblioteca nacional de aquí de Santiago?, es un libro-diario de viajes, una cosa que no pude creer como había llegado a mis manos. Dos tardes, sin embargo, no son suficiente para revisarlo todo y como hubiese querido. Hay mucha magia dentro.

Soy una cuerda enrollada en sí misma y de ahí mi obsesión con las simples cosas.

11 de la mañana y el vaso verde se llena de onces de la mañana. Usted señala en un texto suyo algo que dice “A veces me quedo mirándome en el espejo. Hay que ver dentro que de uno queda el registro del acto, unos años después”.

Admiro esa frase, hace tiempo que viéndome al espejo no logro ver ni una sombra, ni una esquina manchada. El espejo no puede registrarme porque desconozco mi aspecto, soy cuerda y ojo. Cuerda ensanchada a mitad de camino. Cuerda larga y doblada. Deje de estar aquí y salí corriendo hasta que una araña empezó a perseguirme, entonces paré y supe que había llegado a casa.

Cómo convertir un sueño en gargajo? Cómo ser mesa-etiqueta? Cómo ser un palo-araña con 3 patas? Cómo ser árbol-pez? Tela en esquina? Cómo ser pie de página que camina?

Aire texturizado detenido en un nudo.

La cuerda se mueve por réplica intencional, por retraso de corriente de aire y por causa hereditaria. La cuerda conoce celularmente sus movimientos a pesar de replicar otros intencionalmente. Conoce sus anticipos y retrasos, sabe que un retraso de corriente generaría un nuevo movimiento.

Las cuerdas son una sala de estar en un patio abandonado.

Masticando el último sabor de un chicle pienso en Lamento Olivares, entonces hago un hilo que vaya de mi boca al texto y casi llegando se rompe.

Las palabras siempre se me van de las manos.

 

Ghost house

“While my eyes, go looking for flying saucers in the sky”

Caetano Veloso

It’s been three months since I moved out of my country. Three months since I left my job there, my family, 90% of my library and all my music records. Three months since the last time I hugged my mom and promised her I was going to keep my shit together from now on. Five months since the last time I found myself crying my eyes out for a week because I couldn’t figure it out in Caracas. Six months since failure touched my face like a wild and cold breeze. One month and a half since the last time I couldn’t remember my house as something different from a fuzzy place, a ghost place, something that used to exist but is not longer there and won’t be there. Friends and family are all gone by now. Death was knocking the door too hard, too many times a day “Hello, are you there?” Starving faces were opening windows, they were yelling.. “We are hungry, we are hungry” and guns, guns guns, guns, guns, guns. WE WILL SAVE YOU, someone said from far away while shooting us down. BELIEVE US, BELIEVE US, and guns wouldn’t stop. LOUD GUNSHOTS were coming from motorcycles and they were going round and around the city. IF YOU DARE TO GO OUT WE WILL KILL YOU, and we prayed and prayed for motorcycles to come into our house and finally kill us because we were going to die anyway. Once I didn’t hear them any closer I ran and kept on running for days. I knew they were listening to me. They knew I was leaving but they were shooting and shooting from so many days on that wouldn’t move themselves from killing to stop me.

Home, you never treated me bad. I just couldn’t resist it anymore.

 

The River in Blue

Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” album is one of the most amazing albums ever written. It is a journey that moves through rivers in a soulful way. I would like for you, dear reader, to keep the image of a river as you go through this text. Since its first song “All I want” all the way through “The last time I saw Richard” the melodies are a mix of deep and powerful feelings loaded with hopeful chords. Mitchell has said in many interviews that her influences range from Debussy to Stravinsky and Tchaikovsky, “anything with romantic melodies” she once told to the New York Magazine.

Let’s begin with the first song of the album “All I want”. It is a track that gives you romance, nostalgia and hope at the same, it’s a mixture of feelings that speak about the beginning of something (whether it is a relationship or a trip) where hope and expectations abound. She sings to the one she loves by telling him and herself that what she wants for them is to find each other. But this is just the beginning, the rhythm of the album keeps on its way, moving slowly through the songs with an energy that’s starting to decay. Then, we find “Carey” a song that it’s deeply imbued in nostalgia, she sings about a place she’s in and how much she enjoys being in it, but she’s starting to feel nostalgic about somewhere else. In this record, the sweetness of the lyrics and the chords move around those places, you can feel how much she’s missing home and how it seems that she can’t find herself where she is any longer.

If we keep our way among the clearness and rapidness of the water, we find “California”. During the song, she recognizes all the good things that happened to her in the trip she’s been but the time has come and she’s finally going home. Although this seems to be a happy song, the melodies are transformed from a happy to a wistful place.

The river (our river) is starting to go from fluency to harshness and is somehow crashing slowly against the rocks and there we find the song “River” which is a combination of real sadness and longing, the trip or relationship is over and it’s christmas time, trees are being cut down, people are singing in the streets, she is feeling this deep sadness in herself and the only thing she wishes is to scape away… “I wish I had a river I could skate away on”. Here, we suppose that she’s talking about Canada, her home and the place where rivers freeze. The melodies for this track are christmas carols and piano solos which combined with the lyrics perform a beautiful journey through childhood or some innocence we are not able to have anymore.

The experience finishes by disemboguing in a sort of big ocean in which its waters are not longer visible, just as the relationship did. And we find, “The last time I saw Richard” a song made for that beloved one, Richard we suppose, and how they ended up having a brief conversation in a bar speaking about who they used to be and who they are now, “hiding between bottles and dark cafes” and the fate that it turned out to be for both of them accompanied with slow piano chords and decay.

This album represents such an enjoyable piece, not only because the melodies are beautifully executed, but because Mitchell pulls you into a world that could only exist through her singing, she makes you feel things that you are only able to feel while listening to her voice. It’s a world in which the images are clear but solely visible in your head. It’s a world made of audible pictures leading to unknown sensations.

Embocamiento

 Se conoce como embocamiento aquella acción que consiste en “Meter por la boca algo”. Sin embargo, en Venezuela es un término conocido para decir que alguien sufrió un paro respiratorio. Por ejemplo: “Cheo murió hace dos años de embocamiento”.

Dicha dualidad lingüística donde la imagen que se transmite a través de la palabra se contrapone al significado de la misma, habla de una sociedad que, desde siempre, ha buscado en la no-realidad un refugio, una sociedad que creyó en lo que escuchaba sin preguntar y se construyó así misma instintivamente.

¿Qué sería de Maracaibo sin el aire acondicionado?

El proceso de desarrollo Marabino fracasó cuando dejó de asumirse la naturaleza selvática de la ciudad. Con el boom petrolero Maracaibo fue un lugar de embocamiento (todo el mundo quería introducirse e introducir objetos) y, con esto, llegó el aire acondicionado a la ciudad.

El uso del aire acondicionado se convirtió en una necesidad. La tecnología nos cerró. La imagen del hombre sin aire (embocado) representa a la Maracaibo del aire acondicionado, la Maracaibo que sustituyó su condición natural por una adquirida y que, sin saberlo, se cerró ante su propia circunstancia.

El entorno como factor modificador de circunstancias.

En la actualidad, en Maracaibo se dejó de respirar un aire que no fuese el condicionado. Padecemos de embocamientos constantes porque necesitamos de un aire con condición.

Maracaibo, con el paso de los días, se convierte en una ciudad cada vez más árida. Las casas de techos altos y grandes ventanas son tan solo un recuerdo de un intento de civilización real.

Respondimos a una arquitectura extranjera, a una sociedad extranjera. No existe vegetación y por lo tanto no existe aire (sin condición) para respirar.

Los últimos años el occidente del país se ha visto afectado gravemente por una crisis eléctrica de la cual no se termina de saber su razón, dicha crisis ha traído como consecuencia un “racionamiento eléctrico” el cual dejó al interior del país paralizado por turnos horarios de 2 y 4 horas.

Ante tal crisis el uso del aire acondicionado se convirtió en un eje constante de preocupación y de pensamiento. Sin aire la mayoría de la ciudad no funcionaba, no había luz pero eso no preocupaba, preocupaba mucho más el aire.

La planta como elemento creador de oxígeno es un recurso casi inexistente en la ciudad. Para finales del 2015 Maracaibo requería más de tres millones de árboles para poder compensar todas las alteraciones climatológicas. Entre ellas, las altas temperaturas.

El aire acondicionado se muestra como elemento condicionador. Es una retórica que convierte el agua del aire en el oxígeno de la planta. El aire falso que consumimos genera el agua que termina desembocando en una planta.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Buscando la pintura

Caracas es una ciudad que solo se puede conocer a partir de lo que ya no es. Es un lugar sostenido por restos.

Es por ello que cada vez que camino busco la pintura en cualquier contexto urbano, sobretodo en el accidente. Me interesa el accidente como gesto formal, el accidente como aquello que retrata lo verdaderamente estomacal de eso a lo que le hemos acuñado el nombre de arte. Esta serie de accidentes comenzaron siendo “Art history is the mother fucker that fucks your mother” porque era decir lo mismo dos veces y, no es eso acaso lo que ha hecho la pintura todo este tiempo?

No, porque “el acto de repetir es una forma de desplazar lo repetido”.

 

Unnamed

“Darling, are you alright?
are you a woman in distress?”.

That’s what a somebody said to me about two weeks ago while I was sitting outside a Gas Station. I was sitting on the floor. I was wearing a white shirt and black pants. I was holding two bags.

I was fine.

But ever since that moment I can’t keep off the feeling I’m that woman.

“I was so worried about you,
you have a very sad face”

Andromeda chained to the rocks – Rembrandt