She walked in my train at 34th street. She stood by the pole, involved into her reading. She was reading a book called "waiting to exhale". She was tall, 6 feet. She was blonde, short hair. She was there. I looked at her. She didn't see me. I could have not even been there!!! She would have never realized my presence. She got off at my same stop. We walked together in the same crowd. She cut in front of me at the stairs. I caught up with her at the corner light. I glanced at her. She crossed the street with red. I didn't want to stay behind. I rushed right behind her, fortunately no cars were near. I walked with her and another blonde short woman. Twenty five feet later, there was only the two of us. She saw me finally from the corner of her eye. She looked at me. I looked at her. I caught my breath, I was waiting to exhale. I finally said "hi". She turned around and smiled ........... She went into a store. I didn't know whether or not to wait outside. I decided to walk slowly towards my destination. I kept turning around but I didn't see her come out. I continued walking..................................
I have never forgotten her face, her stature, her smile. I have been taking the same train, at the same hour, for years now. I have never seen her again. I don't know her and I have this peculiar sense of loss. I now know that I will never see her again, and what's worse, I am beginning to believe that it never even happened. ............
ACD
Sept, 1993
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Puzzle?
Shakespeare once said that:” indeed the world is a stage and we are nearly players, performers and portrayers. Each another’s audience, behind the gilded cage….”
I’ve lived my life as if it were a movie, where I am, of course, the main character.
I go through the different film sets every day, and the extras and other characters come in and out of the scenes as necessary for the plot to be narrated.
Sometimes it is very apparent that there is a very clear plot. At these times the film director excels and the scenes become small masterpieces. Then, all us characters march into the scenes and deliver our words and physical movements as if impeccably choreographed by our director….Cut!!!!!
Every now and then the plot is not so obvious. That seems to be when the direction also fails, the lights are not right, the timing is off. Sometimes it seems as if some characters were just there to sabotage the film, to derail the narrative, to set things back, to stop the production, to enrage you, to piss you off.
And like a film the images pass one after the other. Every action, every feeling, every close up fades into the next, and the next, and so on. And so the movie plot moves on. There is no rewinding possible in this film. Once you film one scene, you move to the next. One can only film. This is the implacable reality.
I film every day. But delivering somebody else’s lines, and acting in someone else’s vision, I often get tired and disillusioned. I then get the urge to write my own material, to direct my own vision.
I often wonder if there is even a projector that will play this film at one point of existence or another. Will I ever be able to see this film? I even wonder if there will ever be an audience that would laugh, cry, be bored or entertained with my movie. Is there any cosmic popcorn that will be served in this cosmic movie house?? Are the cameras really loaded???
But, are we really acting in this film? At times I get the feeling that we are just puppets, marionettes connected to the above by a series of strings that hang invisibly over us in the stage of life. But these marionettes are not being controlled from a magic hand above; on the contrary, they are controlling the movements of everything above, like pushing and pulling by the strings, the hand that was previously controlling them, as if each one of their movements, thoughts and actions constantly reshapes through the strings the form of that controlling hand. What ever happened to the puppeteer?
Some other times I feel as if I am the only character in the movie that is real. And if I am the only real character, what are the others….virtual characters, holograms perhaps?? If I am the only real character in this movie, are there many other movies?? Are your life and his life movies as well?? And if so, am I a virtual character in your film or his…??? Is there a collection of films which form the scenes of a major, MAJOR FILM?? Then, is the film nothing but a puzzle? And is each of our films a piece of the puzzle?? Are we here really because we need to resolve our own film-puzzle??
Will our film end the moment we solve our own puzzle, or will we move on onto other films until we solve our own major puzzle???
ACD
2-6-08
(In progress)
I’ve lived my life as if it were a movie, where I am, of course, the main character.
I go through the different film sets every day, and the extras and other characters come in and out of the scenes as necessary for the plot to be narrated.
Sometimes it is very apparent that there is a very clear plot. At these times the film director excels and the scenes become small masterpieces. Then, all us characters march into the scenes and deliver our words and physical movements as if impeccably choreographed by our director….Cut!!!!!
Every now and then the plot is not so obvious. That seems to be when the direction also fails, the lights are not right, the timing is off. Sometimes it seems as if some characters were just there to sabotage the film, to derail the narrative, to set things back, to stop the production, to enrage you, to piss you off.
And like a film the images pass one after the other. Every action, every feeling, every close up fades into the next, and the next, and so on. And so the movie plot moves on. There is no rewinding possible in this film. Once you film one scene, you move to the next. One can only film. This is the implacable reality.
I film every day. But delivering somebody else’s lines, and acting in someone else’s vision, I often get tired and disillusioned. I then get the urge to write my own material, to direct my own vision.
I often wonder if there is even a projector that will play this film at one point of existence or another. Will I ever be able to see this film? I even wonder if there will ever be an audience that would laugh, cry, be bored or entertained with my movie. Is there any cosmic popcorn that will be served in this cosmic movie house?? Are the cameras really loaded???
But, are we really acting in this film? At times I get the feeling that we are just puppets, marionettes connected to the above by a series of strings that hang invisibly over us in the stage of life. But these marionettes are not being controlled from a magic hand above; on the contrary, they are controlling the movements of everything above, like pushing and pulling by the strings, the hand that was previously controlling them, as if each one of their movements, thoughts and actions constantly reshapes through the strings the form of that controlling hand. What ever happened to the puppeteer?
Some other times I feel as if I am the only character in the movie that is real. And if I am the only real character, what are the others….virtual characters, holograms perhaps?? If I am the only real character in this movie, are there many other movies?? Are your life and his life movies as well?? And if so, am I a virtual character in your film or his…??? Is there a collection of films which form the scenes of a major, MAJOR FILM?? Then, is the film nothing but a puzzle? And is each of our films a piece of the puzzle?? Are we here really because we need to resolve our own film-puzzle??
Will our film end the moment we solve our own puzzle, or will we move on onto other films until we solve our own major puzzle???
ACD
2-6-08
(In progress)
The anxiety of being
The anxiety of being and,
the torturous duty of having to,
the pure need to dominate entirely
The obligation to know completely,
the art itself, from memory, "The Craft",
to develop in that way (eventually)
the intuitive spirit, the inspiration,
the artistic philosophy, The art ... ...!
Adrift in this world I am,
with the need to express something,
everything I feel,
as a man, as an intelligent being,
who thinks, feels, suffers, lives and dies.
And I do not posses the talent, or perseverance, or any thing necessary,
yet I occasionally grab this pen,
and begin to write, and as he who comes too close to
the page to write and sees everything blurry,
I so feel that my ideas and my words are woven into my mind ..
I feel them blurry, illegible, with feet of lead,
Without a defined form,
Interspersed and in primitive state,
With all the strength, but also all the lack of purity and class,
but with certain pain and sorrow ...
of not reaching, or not having a prophetic feeling, which is worse than just feeling.
I sense what I cannot see, I cannot touch.
I feel what I do not comprehend,
But I understand that I am not, until I stop trying…
And so, I do not care then about being, so I just let myself be
and try to give in anyway what I can give, that which is infinitely small but mine,
but my words which “can not”, (the only thing they do consistently well is not being able to) ..., (a bit like my everything, isn’t it??!! )..........
So I like to give anyway, that which is mine as much as what is not, what I say,
which is ultimately the conglomeration of what others have said.
And that “Me”, a part of that smallness, "The General Me", which is even smaller than "The Fragmented me" Oh God ... if I could only get out of this maze ..!!!!! ... With one confusion after another, perhaps I could understand the irony that lies under my writing.
But no, here I am, confused and confounding,
Hunter and prey….. pick and ax….
Dealer takes four and…....I’m out…you win….!!!!
I find it impossible these days to raise from the opaque…. and shine,
Find some common sense out of my constant mental chaos,
which contains me……. no, no, which drags me down,
drifting in the same chaos which I am trying to describe and fail.
And it is then that my pen does not draw poetry or prose, or stories anymore, just symbols with the character of potpourri or exotic omelet of eclectic energy, or just pure anarchy ....and I STOP.
ACD
1-31-90
Modified 5/14/10
the torturous duty of having to,
the pure need to dominate entirely
The obligation to know completely,
the art itself, from memory, "The Craft",
to develop in that way (eventually)
the intuitive spirit, the inspiration,
the artistic philosophy, The art ... ...!
Adrift in this world I am,
with the need to express something,
everything I feel,
as a man, as an intelligent being,
who thinks, feels, suffers, lives and dies.
And I do not posses the talent, or perseverance, or any thing necessary,
yet I occasionally grab this pen,
and begin to write, and as he who comes too close to
the page to write and sees everything blurry,
I so feel that my ideas and my words are woven into my mind ..
I feel them blurry, illegible, with feet of lead,
Without a defined form,
Interspersed and in primitive state,
With all the strength, but also all the lack of purity and class,
but with certain pain and sorrow ...
of not reaching, or not having a prophetic feeling, which is worse than just feeling.
I sense what I cannot see, I cannot touch.
I feel what I do not comprehend,
But I understand that I am not, until I stop trying…
And so, I do not care then about being, so I just let myself be
and try to give in anyway what I can give, that which is infinitely small but mine,
but my words which “can not”, (the only thing they do consistently well is not being able to) ..., (a bit like my everything, isn’t it??!! )..........
So I like to give anyway, that which is mine as much as what is not, what I say,
which is ultimately the conglomeration of what others have said.
And that “Me”, a part of that smallness, "The General Me", which is even smaller than "The Fragmented me" Oh God ... if I could only get out of this maze ..!!!!! ... With one confusion after another, perhaps I could understand the irony that lies under my writing.
But no, here I am, confused and confounding,
Hunter and prey….. pick and ax….
Dealer takes four and…....I’m out…you win….!!!!
I find it impossible these days to raise from the opaque…. and shine,
Find some common sense out of my constant mental chaos,
which contains me……. no, no, which drags me down,
drifting in the same chaos which I am trying to describe and fail.
And it is then that my pen does not draw poetry or prose, or stories anymore, just symbols with the character of potpourri or exotic omelet of eclectic energy, or just pure anarchy ....and I STOP.
ACD
1-31-90
Modified 5/14/10
I know you!!
Yes, I know you. It seems that I’ve always known you.
You are from my past.
You look so mine.
Like together we belonged to something once.
I look at you. You look at me too.
We look away, but for a while.
Our eyes were caught ( in the moment)
Yes, You know me. You think you’ve always knew me too.
You look through your memory album fast.
You look and I seem so yours,
like I could be one of your old ghosts.
We stare at each other’s eyes and for a second
We know us too.
Then we pass. We look away, and
We walk away. Well see each other,
Some other way,
Some other day,
On some other life….far away….!!
ACD
You are from my past.
You look so mine.
Like together we belonged to something once.
I look at you. You look at me too.
We look away, but for a while.
Our eyes were caught ( in the moment)
Yes, You know me. You think you’ve always knew me too.
You look through your memory album fast.
You look and I seem so yours,
like I could be one of your old ghosts.
We stare at each other’s eyes and for a second
We know us too.
Then we pass. We look away, and
We walk away. Well see each other,
Some other way,
Some other day,
On some other life….far away….!!
ACD
Every Time
I see you every time in my dream, walking, smiling.
You are not always the same.
I stood behind you in the coffee shop today.
You felt my presence behind you.
I noticed your body vibrating with a certain anxiety.
You turned around inconspicuously as you were able to.
You looked at me from the corner of your eye.
I had the advantage of seeing you,
from my perspective standing in line.
I noticed a certain anxiety in you.
I put my hand on your side and gently kissed your neck,
right under your right ear, moving your brown hair with my nose.
I felt your body vibrating. There was more than anxiety in you.
You breathed deeply and peacefully.
You picked up your change and left.
You didn’t turn back.
I still noticed your body vibrating high.
You were dying to look at me one more time.
Perhaps you are still wishing to be in my dream again tomorrow.
This is my dream but I am left with a certain anxiety in me.
ACD
11-21-95
You are not always the same.
I stood behind you in the coffee shop today.
You felt my presence behind you.
I noticed your body vibrating with a certain anxiety.
You turned around inconspicuously as you were able to.
You looked at me from the corner of your eye.
I had the advantage of seeing you,
from my perspective standing in line.
I noticed a certain anxiety in you.
I put my hand on your side and gently kissed your neck,
right under your right ear, moving your brown hair with my nose.
I felt your body vibrating. There was more than anxiety in you.
You breathed deeply and peacefully.
You picked up your change and left.
You didn’t turn back.
I still noticed your body vibrating high.
You were dying to look at me one more time.
Perhaps you are still wishing to be in my dream again tomorrow.
This is my dream but I am left with a certain anxiety in me.
ACD
11-21-95
Elevator Excerpt from "The Tousand ways I will...."
I was waiting patiently on the 5th floor elevator lobby, starting at the call button, which was lighted on its up position. The waiting time seemed surprisingly long. It was 7:30PM and today it had being a damn long week, or so it seemed. The fluorescent lights were glowing uncharacteristically bright in the colorful space. The pendant fixtures seemed to vibrate with the sound of their ballast. I thought about the day, what had occurred, my stupid boss breaking my chops about how I should have performed on certain “CRISIS du jour”. I was annoyed. I was almost forty years old and I had to listen to a spoiled idiot who needs to prove himself every half hour. I also felt very tired. It had been a bitch of a year. My eyes were red I and I was rubbing my right eye with persistence.
The cleaning lady was dumping a trash can into the master can that she was wheeling around. I could see her through the glass doors and sidelites. She came through the doors in what seemed a long time. She was walking very slowly, as if her feet were made of led. She walked by passed me and she looked at me with curiosity and a sort of strange look, like if she had seen a dead person, or some kind of ghost. I was not that surprised, since she looks very strangely at me every time, and she never says even a word to me. “I’m sure she must be pissed at the fact that I throw my half full Dean & Deluca medium tea cups into my trash container and she may must not like it at all”, I thought.
She kept walking and turned around to kook at me again, and I was tempted to ask her what the hell she was looking at, but I decided it was not worth the trouble. Besides, I was really tired I just wanted to get home.
“Why isn’t this stupid elevator coming!????!! My first thought was that there must be having a party at the ballroom upstairs and these retards are holding the doors or there must be those damn Pratt students that are monopolizing the elevator.
I had the urgent feeling to leave, to take the damn stairs at once, and get out of this building. I’ve been here since 8:15 this morning, and I wanted to leave, but something kept me there. It felt like I my shoes were glued to the maple floor.
After an eternity, I heard the sound of the floor annunciator, and the door finally opened. As I got into the elevator, my eyes had to adjust to the low intensity of the elevator lights. It is usually dimmed, but that night, it seemed as if one of the ceiling lights in the cab had burned. As I walked in the figure of a small man appeared in front of me, but as I focused my eyes into his face, as he turned, I realized that he was a woman, a woman with the most beautiful face that I had ever seen. As I could not help it and looked again at her, I realize that she was really a man, but this time I realized that his face was not only not beautiful at all but, that he looked extremely evil and had an non-human, and satanic quality. I began to feel afraid now, and I stepped back hitting the elevator wall behind me with my back.
“Hello Tony!!” He said. “I was waiting for you for a long time!!”
I swallowed my saliva although my mouth was dry, even though my whole body was covered by a cold sweat, and I knew right there that at that precise moment I was going to die……….
The cleaning lady was dumping a trash can into the master can that she was wheeling around. I could see her through the glass doors and sidelites. She came through the doors in what seemed a long time. She was walking very slowly, as if her feet were made of led. She walked by passed me and she looked at me with curiosity and a sort of strange look, like if she had seen a dead person, or some kind of ghost. I was not that surprised, since she looks very strangely at me every time, and she never says even a word to me. “I’m sure she must be pissed at the fact that I throw my half full Dean & Deluca medium tea cups into my trash container and she may must not like it at all”, I thought.
She kept walking and turned around to kook at me again, and I was tempted to ask her what the hell she was looking at, but I decided it was not worth the trouble. Besides, I was really tired I just wanted to get home.
“Why isn’t this stupid elevator coming!????!! My first thought was that there must be having a party at the ballroom upstairs and these retards are holding the doors or there must be those damn Pratt students that are monopolizing the elevator.
I had the urgent feeling to leave, to take the damn stairs at once, and get out of this building. I’ve been here since 8:15 this morning, and I wanted to leave, but something kept me there. It felt like I my shoes were glued to the maple floor.
After an eternity, I heard the sound of the floor annunciator, and the door finally opened. As I got into the elevator, my eyes had to adjust to the low intensity of the elevator lights. It is usually dimmed, but that night, it seemed as if one of the ceiling lights in the cab had burned. As I walked in the figure of a small man appeared in front of me, but as I focused my eyes into his face, as he turned, I realized that he was a woman, a woman with the most beautiful face that I had ever seen. As I could not help it and looked again at her, I realize that she was really a man, but this time I realized that his face was not only not beautiful at all but, that he looked extremely evil and had an non-human, and satanic quality. I began to feel afraid now, and I stepped back hitting the elevator wall behind me with my back.
“Hello Tony!!” He said. “I was waiting for you for a long time!!”
I swallowed my saliva although my mouth was dry, even though my whole body was covered by a cold sweat, and I knew right there that at that precise moment I was going to die……….
Dirty Table
Dirty Table, full of crumbs
Little Spanish cashier maybe,
Or super charming Hindu girl.
A cute slightly chubby girl enters.
She slides in the queue.
A young, long-nose, skinny girl
steals the napkins from my table.
I blow into my hot chocolate, which is pure suds.
Being weightless, gravity, it has none.
($) Three bucks twenty five for just air and foam.
The cute slightly chubby girl asks me if it’d bother me
her shearing my double table. Everything else is occupied.
How could it bother me??!! “ Off course go ahead….!!!”
Her green nail polish has almost completely fallen off.
She has a really nice little face, she can’t be more than twenty.
Time never does go by when you are waiting….
The smell of hamburgers mixes with the sizzling
sound they make as they broil in the grill,
The sound is interrupted by the sound of an agile spatula
scraping the grease of the hot top.
My neighbor and I look straight ahead as not to violate
each other’s field of vision, thus creating a new kind of
geometric personal space…. linear, instead of a bubble.
The fat black guy on the table behind me finally left.
I can finally move my chair a bit and breathe.
My last 5 minutes can be described as spent in a stage
where actors come and go, in front of a stage made of
J’O Crunch yogurt, bottles of Snapple, sodas, Vitamin Water
Snyder’s pretzels, Cape Cod Chips, Sunchips, sandwiches salads,
cookies, and slices of fudge and cheese cake….
I should go, before my neighbor finishes her sandwich.
It usually gets awkward when both get up to leave at once.
Should I stare straight ahead as I get up avoiding eye contact?
I don’t, and I return the kind beautiful smile that is being given to me.
I nod at her and I leave while my feelings of ego swelling are invaded
by those of regret for not having said a single word to her….
I leave and cross the street….6th Avenue and W16th Street. I think about turning back, but the rest of reality awaits me… “Hello there reality… good to be back”…
ACD
12-16-09
Little Spanish cashier maybe,
Or super charming Hindu girl.
A cute slightly chubby girl enters.
She slides in the queue.
A young, long-nose, skinny girl
steals the napkins from my table.
I blow into my hot chocolate, which is pure suds.
Being weightless, gravity, it has none.
($) Three bucks twenty five for just air and foam.
The cute slightly chubby girl asks me if it’d bother me
her shearing my double table. Everything else is occupied.
How could it bother me??!! “ Off course go ahead….!!!”
Her green nail polish has almost completely fallen off.
She has a really nice little face, she can’t be more than twenty.
Time never does go by when you are waiting….
The smell of hamburgers mixes with the sizzling
sound they make as they broil in the grill,
The sound is interrupted by the sound of an agile spatula
scraping the grease of the hot top.
My neighbor and I look straight ahead as not to violate
each other’s field of vision, thus creating a new kind of
geometric personal space…. linear, instead of a bubble.
The fat black guy on the table behind me finally left.
I can finally move my chair a bit and breathe.
My last 5 minutes can be described as spent in a stage
where actors come and go, in front of a stage made of
J’O Crunch yogurt, bottles of Snapple, sodas, Vitamin Water
Snyder’s pretzels, Cape Cod Chips, Sunchips, sandwiches salads,
cookies, and slices of fudge and cheese cake….
I should go, before my neighbor finishes her sandwich.
It usually gets awkward when both get up to leave at once.
Should I stare straight ahead as I get up avoiding eye contact?
I don’t, and I return the kind beautiful smile that is being given to me.
I nod at her and I leave while my feelings of ego swelling are invaded
by those of regret for not having said a single word to her….
I leave and cross the street….6th Avenue and W16th Street. I think about turning back, but the rest of reality awaits me… “Hello there reality… good to be back”…
ACD
12-16-09
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Could you???
Could you???
Could you just take a path.?...a path??...Only one???
And say “This is it…This is the only path for me to follow??!!”
Could you be able to support your decision, without second thoughts, without any remorse??
Old Ideas that come back demand to be heard:
• The blind person who does not see, but who could still perceive
• Tomorrow, the unending downward slide
• The pendulum, oscillating and noisy
• The three old ortodox ladies that power walk
• I must descend yet a while lower before I can get to a place of calm
• Tied hands
• Walls, must fall
• Golden Dreams
• The prison is waiting
• Tomorrow, the barking dog threatens to bite me
• Can this rain cease to be?
• O Loui, loui, loui…Khan…!!!!
ACD
Could you just take a path.?...a path??...Only one???
And say “This is it…This is the only path for me to follow??!!”
Could you be able to support your decision, without second thoughts, without any remorse??
Old Ideas that come back demand to be heard:
• The blind person who does not see, but who could still perceive
• Tomorrow, the unending downward slide
• The pendulum, oscillating and noisy
• The three old ortodox ladies that power walk
• I must descend yet a while lower before I can get to a place of calm
• Tied hands
• Walls, must fall
• Golden Dreams
• The prison is waiting
• Tomorrow, the barking dog threatens to bite me
• Can this rain cease to be?
• O Loui, loui, loui…Khan…!!!!
ACD
Friday, July 23, 2010
Almas Paralelas
Jorgelina...crees en almas paralelas...!!??? En universos gemelos...!!!???..en amores perdidos que se encuentran después de muchas vidas..!!???
Daniel
Si, creo, creo, creo y tu?..... pero no en la clásica idea del amor, es ésta tan cobarde como desprovista de ….de sentidos
Yo creo…..Si que creo….Pero de la idea del amor clásico, que puedo decir??!!
Casi siempre el ego habla por nosotros, y el alma calla la boca. Cuando uno dice “te quiero”, es el ego que habla en su necesidad de querer y ser querido…!!! Ese ego es aquel que constantemente “necesita” ….el que constantemente desea……..Es aquella voz que generalmente escuchamos de alto volumen en nuestra cabeza y que llamamos razón, sentido….La que responde a la realidad física de los 5 sentidos….La del 5% de utilización de nuestro cerebro…
Del verdadero amor……….es la vocecita instintiva …..del alma de la persona que ama de verdad, pero casi nunca puede ser escuchada porque el ego controla el uso de nuestra voz, de nuestra expresión y de nuestra reacción física …!!! El alma es un diamante en bruto cubierta de capas….cortinas, creadas por el ego…..El alma ama a todos, sin condiciones…….El ego solo ama ahora….a cada ahora…..!! Solo si es amado…..a menos que sea una victima perpetua ( o ego negativo) …..La que es casi tan o mas egoísta que la del ego positivo….!!!
Tiene sentido para vos lo que digo???
Daniel
Si, creo, creo, creo y tu?..... pero no en la clásica idea del amor, es ésta tan cobarde como desprovista de ….de sentidos
Yo creo…..Si que creo….Pero de la idea del amor clásico, que puedo decir??!!
Casi siempre el ego habla por nosotros, y el alma calla la boca. Cuando uno dice “te quiero”, es el ego que habla en su necesidad de querer y ser querido…!!! Ese ego es aquel que constantemente “necesita” ….el que constantemente desea……..Es aquella voz que generalmente escuchamos de alto volumen en nuestra cabeza y que llamamos razón, sentido….La que responde a la realidad física de los 5 sentidos….La del 5% de utilización de nuestro cerebro…
Del verdadero amor……….es la vocecita instintiva …..del alma de la persona que ama de verdad, pero casi nunca puede ser escuchada porque el ego controla el uso de nuestra voz, de nuestra expresión y de nuestra reacción física …!!! El alma es un diamante en bruto cubierta de capas….cortinas, creadas por el ego…..El alma ama a todos, sin condiciones…….El ego solo ama ahora….a cada ahora…..!! Solo si es amado…..a menos que sea una victima perpetua ( o ego negativo) …..La que es casi tan o mas egoísta que la del ego positivo….!!!
Tiene sentido para vos lo que digo???
Tu Pensamiento
Tu Pensamiento
Quiero llamarte. Acabo de hablar con vos.
Te note triste, quizas sea mi imaginacion.
Pero me duele igual.
Quisiera abrazarte como un escudo protector, anti-tristeza.
Tu vos todavia retumba en mis oidos.
Te adivino alli parada tranquila.
Se que estas pensando en mi, me conmociona.
Tu pensamiento me dejo estremecido.
Tan suave, sutil encantadora,
Una ma#ana te abraze, caminando a duo.
El silencio tiene mil voces que te llaman,
Que me llaman, Aveces tambien sue#os,
Felicidad, esperanza.
Amor existe, vive en uno, en dos…
La vida es siempre, Ya esta empezada.
Nunca termina, siempre es.
El amor siempre sigue, lleva, alza y baja,
La luz que se posa en tu cuerpo,
En tu pelo. Tus manos se forman sue#os…
Se van y vuelven, me envuelven.
Como tambien la luz te envuelve, te protege
Te ilumina tus caminos internos, mientras sos la luz.
ACD
10.8.01
Quiero llamarte. Acabo de hablar con vos.
Te note triste, quizas sea mi imaginacion.
Pero me duele igual.
Quisiera abrazarte como un escudo protector, anti-tristeza.
Tu vos todavia retumba en mis oidos.
Te adivino alli parada tranquila.
Se que estas pensando en mi, me conmociona.
Tu pensamiento me dejo estremecido.
Tan suave, sutil encantadora,
Una ma#ana te abraze, caminando a duo.
El silencio tiene mil voces que te llaman,
Que me llaman, Aveces tambien sue#os,
Felicidad, esperanza.
Amor existe, vive en uno, en dos…
La vida es siempre, Ya esta empezada.
Nunca termina, siempre es.
El amor siempre sigue, lleva, alza y baja,
La luz que se posa en tu cuerpo,
En tu pelo. Tus manos se forman sue#os…
Se van y vuelven, me envuelven.
Como tambien la luz te envuelve, te protege
Te ilumina tus caminos internos, mientras sos la luz.
ACD
10.8.01
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Living in the "NOW"
Living in the “NOW”
She tells me I should Live in the “Now”. Not in the past, not in the future. The future does not exist and the past is already gone and there is nothing you can do about it. But what does it mean to live in the now?
She says that when you live in the now, you are conscious of every passing thing in your life. Well, what’s new about this?! Nothing really. I always thought that we must be conscious of every passing moment to feel alive. However, it seems to go beyond that….
For instance, like most people, I daydream. I do. It is not a helluva lot of daydreaming but I take myself out of my PRESENT life, and I become part of a dream. It is momentary and it is only a thought, sometimes as fast as a flash of lightning. I become someone like me, but nevertheless, it is somebody else. There, I posses all of my qualities, but they all seem more clear, more agile, more heightened. I have no doubts in this persona, since it is one-dimensional and it deals solely with that aspect of my daydreaming. There are no other me there taking attention from this persona.
As usual I asked myself what’s wrong with this, and as usual I would conclude that nothing is wrong with a little daydreaming. However, she says that this daydreaming “is THE, or one of THE reasons why it hasn’t yet happened to me”, meaning that my real dreams, my real future, or where I subconsciously want to be has not come to being in my life.
She claims that my energies are wasted in non-real ventures which are predicated on an improbable future. She also tells me that I avoid focusing on what THE, (or more possible MY), problems are, by concentrating in activities that make me be on an ON-HOLD mode.
Wow, she really pisses my off!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, what do I have to say about that? I don’t know, but it makes me think, it makes me ask myself what’s really wrong with me. These questions are a bit difficult to address sometimes. These are the dreadful times when we need to start evaluating our lives, our goals and our accomplishments or lack of.
So my first instinct is to hate her, or better yet to attack her reasoning, her credibility. I try to verify the essence of her beliefs as simple concepts, human ideas, non-proven ideas. I think that I do a good job of it. I don’t always know that I am attacking someone. To me it is instinctual. I need to know who is questioning me, who is attacking my being, my actions or inactions. I could go on about how time is a human invention that it was needed to put every idea into our finite frame of understanding. I would speak of the present not existing, since it is like a laser light, burning a moving surface in consecutive points that define a line or a curve of some type, and therefore there is no present, because at the time you fix on it, it vanishes into it’s past. Also, I would mention that the eye with which we see the present is always tinted by our past experiences, and that these experiences form a part of the past, but whose past??, our personal past??, our collective past?? If a tree felt into the forest and there was no one there to see it for a long, long time, the tree disintegrated and became something else did it exist?? Do we exist if nobody alive could corroborate our existence?? Then again who spends life conscious of every split second, every object, every smell, every individual routinely experience? Who is so conceited that would believe that his life is so important?? Does the fact that I make this question make me seem like I have very low self esteem??
There you have the concept of the present pretty much running for cover to regroup and come back with new arguments from her.
ACD
9.19.06
She tells me I should Live in the “Now”. Not in the past, not in the future. The future does not exist and the past is already gone and there is nothing you can do about it. But what does it mean to live in the now?
She says that when you live in the now, you are conscious of every passing thing in your life. Well, what’s new about this?! Nothing really. I always thought that we must be conscious of every passing moment to feel alive. However, it seems to go beyond that….
For instance, like most people, I daydream. I do. It is not a helluva lot of daydreaming but I take myself out of my PRESENT life, and I become part of a dream. It is momentary and it is only a thought, sometimes as fast as a flash of lightning. I become someone like me, but nevertheless, it is somebody else. There, I posses all of my qualities, but they all seem more clear, more agile, more heightened. I have no doubts in this persona, since it is one-dimensional and it deals solely with that aspect of my daydreaming. There are no other me there taking attention from this persona.
As usual I asked myself what’s wrong with this, and as usual I would conclude that nothing is wrong with a little daydreaming. However, she says that this daydreaming “is THE, or one of THE reasons why it hasn’t yet happened to me”, meaning that my real dreams, my real future, or where I subconsciously want to be has not come to being in my life.
She claims that my energies are wasted in non-real ventures which are predicated on an improbable future. She also tells me that I avoid focusing on what THE, (or more possible MY), problems are, by concentrating in activities that make me be on an ON-HOLD mode.
Wow, she really pisses my off!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, what do I have to say about that? I don’t know, but it makes me think, it makes me ask myself what’s really wrong with me. These questions are a bit difficult to address sometimes. These are the dreadful times when we need to start evaluating our lives, our goals and our accomplishments or lack of.
So my first instinct is to hate her, or better yet to attack her reasoning, her credibility. I try to verify the essence of her beliefs as simple concepts, human ideas, non-proven ideas. I think that I do a good job of it. I don’t always know that I am attacking someone. To me it is instinctual. I need to know who is questioning me, who is attacking my being, my actions or inactions. I could go on about how time is a human invention that it was needed to put every idea into our finite frame of understanding. I would speak of the present not existing, since it is like a laser light, burning a moving surface in consecutive points that define a line or a curve of some type, and therefore there is no present, because at the time you fix on it, it vanishes into it’s past. Also, I would mention that the eye with which we see the present is always tinted by our past experiences, and that these experiences form a part of the past, but whose past??, our personal past??, our collective past?? If a tree felt into the forest and there was no one there to see it for a long, long time, the tree disintegrated and became something else did it exist?? Do we exist if nobody alive could corroborate our existence?? Then again who spends life conscious of every split second, every object, every smell, every individual routinely experience? Who is so conceited that would believe that his life is so important?? Does the fact that I make this question make me seem like I have very low self esteem??
There you have the concept of the present pretty much running for cover to regroup and come back with new arguments from her.
ACD
9.19.06
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Past the Midnight Hour
The midnight hour has just passed. This is when time follows a different physical dimension. Trains absorb the lethargic mode where each minute has ten thousand seconds, where there is no train stopping on Spring Street from 12:00AM to 5:00AM, except that no signs ever explained that by 12:00AM, they really mean 11:30PM, (or 11:15PM).
A certain strangeness falls at this hour onto this space, which we frequent daily at rush hour. A phantom old train made up of wagons of yesteryears and some other flat-bed car, carrying empty containers flashes loudly through the tracks towards some unknown downtown destination.
This strangeness does not even spare the night dwellers of these late subterranean places. The passengers gathered in this odd moment seem to behave even more strangely than usual. Some burping tenor belches a cavernous aria on the downtown platform across from us. I cannot see him, but I hear him clearly. The symphony is completed by a minute long, machinegun-like- fart burst bouncing back and forth through the on the walls and ceiling of the station, coming from the direction of the talented tenor who laughs at loud echoing in the stuffy air. The few witnesses seating on the bench to my right start to laugh incredulously.
I venture to call the booth attendant’s attention to signal a question about the absence of trains. She smiles absentmindedly nodding with her head as she continues talking and laughing obliviously with her Elvis Costello-Look-alike friend. Who knows what he is doing inside the booth?! He must not even work for the MTA!!
The uptown A-Train, finally showed his timid headlights far away in the tunnel, as it slowly approaches, as if in slow motion, the sound of the tracks gradually increases until it stops. It was pretty full at this time. It had that abnormal, yet familiar feeling of not belonging on this track. It was an express train on a local track, like a substitute teacher who is going through the motions.
The strangest did not subside. It increased as you could see the cast of characters populating the train, like a mixture of individuals that did not seem to belong together. Three hot black twenty-something kitties, overly made up, sitting widely on a seat, dressed in black, half showing their small breasts, which get lost over their large tightly dressed butts. Two of them are repainting their lips in flaming red to redefine the term “extremely made up”.
The more than 45 minute lateness of this train has obviously affected a sleuth of dwellers of the Friday night underground who are anxious to climb aboard and be compressed inside this weird train car. Somehow, I manage to hold on to my territory, next to the exit door. I fight my way out on 14th Street. The familiar yellow painted columns are a happy site. “I’d never realized how beige these yellow columns are!!”
I exit with the lower east siders and the Burg hipsters, yet the strangeness does not ease up.
“7 minutes To Brooklyn” announces the lit sign. I walked into my customary area of the L. I found my seat by the pole, which allows me to see my own reflection on the window across the isle. I observe the few people in my car now. Nobody breathes. It musn’t be necessary at this time!! Every one’s eyes are open, but nobody seems to be awake. Nobody seems to have life, no matter if they are plugged onto their IPods, or ITouch. They do not move a single muscle. They seem plastered by the force of this past-midnight strangeness that is all involving. I wonder how it is that I am exempt from it?!!
How is it that I am not affected? How did I get immunized? I look at the mirrored glass window across the isle. The almost black surface of the moving tunnel walls allows my eyes to see a slightly familiar image on it. Touching my face, I realize that this is in fact my reflection on that glass. As I touch my face and feel my skin, I am terrified by the feeling on my fingers, and the awareness that what I am touching is not really skin, but a plastic substance. It is smooth cool and hard. It is plastic!! With despair I look into that window pane, and finally realized that I had not been spared either. Like them, I appear to be under the spell of that strangeness. My face displays a horrid desperation, a frozen sadness. I fight and wrestle with my facial muscles to try to smile, even a fake one, to try to change that appearance, but my face seems to be operated by a distant remote control. I feel powerless, confused. Why??!! What the hell..???!!!...What is thiiiissss!!???
I touch may face again and I could sense with my finger a hard edge around the base of my neck. It seems to be the edge of a cover, a mask, yes!!, a mask, siliconed onto my face. I try to lift the edge with my nails but it is useless. It doesn’t budge. It is a mask, a mask, not me…!! I am so confused!!... I try to think, to understand, but nothing, blank!!
But I know this is not me, the real me!! It’s a mask!!. Isn’t it?
Does this strange force make our fears, anxieties and pains percolate outwards to the surface, when our daytime guards are quietly down….resting?!!? Are these doubts and anxieties real?! Is this just an illusion!??!
I look around now. Somewhere in time during this short trip, the train must have filled up with other bodies, other empty shells??!!
“Are all your faces also masks??!!!...I scream at loud….!!!!
IN PROGRESS
ACD
4-2-2010
A certain strangeness falls at this hour onto this space, which we frequent daily at rush hour. A phantom old train made up of wagons of yesteryears and some other flat-bed car, carrying empty containers flashes loudly through the tracks towards some unknown downtown destination.
This strangeness does not even spare the night dwellers of these late subterranean places. The passengers gathered in this odd moment seem to behave even more strangely than usual. Some burping tenor belches a cavernous aria on the downtown platform across from us. I cannot see him, but I hear him clearly. The symphony is completed by a minute long, machinegun-like- fart burst bouncing back and forth through the on the walls and ceiling of the station, coming from the direction of the talented tenor who laughs at loud echoing in the stuffy air. The few witnesses seating on the bench to my right start to laugh incredulously.
I venture to call the booth attendant’s attention to signal a question about the absence of trains. She smiles absentmindedly nodding with her head as she continues talking and laughing obliviously with her Elvis Costello-Look-alike friend. Who knows what he is doing inside the booth?! He must not even work for the MTA!!
The uptown A-Train, finally showed his timid headlights far away in the tunnel, as it slowly approaches, as if in slow motion, the sound of the tracks gradually increases until it stops. It was pretty full at this time. It had that abnormal, yet familiar feeling of not belonging on this track. It was an express train on a local track, like a substitute teacher who is going through the motions.
The strangest did not subside. It increased as you could see the cast of characters populating the train, like a mixture of individuals that did not seem to belong together. Three hot black twenty-something kitties, overly made up, sitting widely on a seat, dressed in black, half showing their small breasts, which get lost over their large tightly dressed butts. Two of them are repainting their lips in flaming red to redefine the term “extremely made up”.
The more than 45 minute lateness of this train has obviously affected a sleuth of dwellers of the Friday night underground who are anxious to climb aboard and be compressed inside this weird train car. Somehow, I manage to hold on to my territory, next to the exit door. I fight my way out on 14th Street. The familiar yellow painted columns are a happy site. “I’d never realized how beige these yellow columns are!!”
I exit with the lower east siders and the Burg hipsters, yet the strangeness does not ease up.
“7 minutes To Brooklyn” announces the lit sign. I walked into my customary area of the L. I found my seat by the pole, which allows me to see my own reflection on the window across the isle. I observe the few people in my car now. Nobody breathes. It musn’t be necessary at this time!! Every one’s eyes are open, but nobody seems to be awake. Nobody seems to have life, no matter if they are plugged onto their IPods, or ITouch. They do not move a single muscle. They seem plastered by the force of this past-midnight strangeness that is all involving. I wonder how it is that I am exempt from it?!!
How is it that I am not affected? How did I get immunized? I look at the mirrored glass window across the isle. The almost black surface of the moving tunnel walls allows my eyes to see a slightly familiar image on it. Touching my face, I realize that this is in fact my reflection on that glass. As I touch my face and feel my skin, I am terrified by the feeling on my fingers, and the awareness that what I am touching is not really skin, but a plastic substance. It is smooth cool and hard. It is plastic!! With despair I look into that window pane, and finally realized that I had not been spared either. Like them, I appear to be under the spell of that strangeness. My face displays a horrid desperation, a frozen sadness. I fight and wrestle with my facial muscles to try to smile, even a fake one, to try to change that appearance, but my face seems to be operated by a distant remote control. I feel powerless, confused. Why??!! What the hell..???!!!...What is thiiiissss!!???
I touch may face again and I could sense with my finger a hard edge around the base of my neck. It seems to be the edge of a cover, a mask, yes!!, a mask, siliconed onto my face. I try to lift the edge with my nails but it is useless. It doesn’t budge. It is a mask, a mask, not me…!! I am so confused!!... I try to think, to understand, but nothing, blank!!
But I know this is not me, the real me!! It’s a mask!!. Isn’t it?
Does this strange force make our fears, anxieties and pains percolate outwards to the surface, when our daytime guards are quietly down….resting?!!? Are these doubts and anxieties real?! Is this just an illusion!??!
I look around now. Somewhere in time during this short trip, the train must have filled up with other bodies, other empty shells??!!
“Are all your faces also masks??!!!...I scream at loud….!!!!
IN PROGRESS
ACD
4-2-2010
Another Month
Another month is passing by, and I am on the unstoppable path to the end. Another eighteen minutes are left of my working day of the last day of July of 1990. I have very vague memories of this month; some good, some bad, but what is worst, it was just another month.
I feel desperate, because I feel I am another month older in the unstoppable path to the end. Somehow, “this now (ONLY)” fifteen minutes left are a reality check for me. I look at myself and I feel conscious of my being. I am tired. I am nervous, a little sick perhaps, but I am this reality now.
Time continues in its unstoppable path to the end, and the rest of you and I are going along with it. I wonder what happens to the time when it has passed?...Where does it go??...
I see out rime going into our aging process, our grey hair, our wrinkles, but where does time passed, (spent , used, misused, abused) go?!!? And what about the time that just is?? Does it continue being??...Is there a warehouse, deposit-like place where someone or something piles up the hours minutes, days, etc…in there indefinitely??!!!...I wonder….
Time keeps passing by in its unstoppable path to the end. Which end? What end? End of what?? What is what?? It is unreal how we need to put (time) (X) into a frame that starts and ends, to be able to measure it, since we ARE mortals, in this consciousness at least, with a beginning or origin, and a sure end, a worrisome end, and end, dark and frightful.
The next four minutes are the fastest yet. I am running out of time. I race against myself to be able to make some sense of this…. this time matter, but like when raising with ourselves, there could only be one winner and one loser it has to be ONE, the one that starts and end….this time…!!
ACD
7-31-90
I feel desperate, because I feel I am another month older in the unstoppable path to the end. Somehow, “this now (ONLY)” fifteen minutes left are a reality check for me. I look at myself and I feel conscious of my being. I am tired. I am nervous, a little sick perhaps, but I am this reality now.
Time continues in its unstoppable path to the end, and the rest of you and I are going along with it. I wonder what happens to the time when it has passed?...Where does it go??...
I see out rime going into our aging process, our grey hair, our wrinkles, but where does time passed, (spent , used, misused, abused) go?!!? And what about the time that just is?? Does it continue being??...Is there a warehouse, deposit-like place where someone or something piles up the hours minutes, days, etc…in there indefinitely??!!!...I wonder….
Time keeps passing by in its unstoppable path to the end. Which end? What end? End of what?? What is what?? It is unreal how we need to put (time) (X) into a frame that starts and ends, to be able to measure it, since we ARE mortals, in this consciousness at least, with a beginning or origin, and a sure end, a worrisome end, and end, dark and frightful.
The next four minutes are the fastest yet. I am running out of time. I race against myself to be able to make some sense of this…. this time matter, but like when raising with ourselves, there could only be one winner and one loser it has to be ONE, the one that starts and end….this time…!!
ACD
7-31-90
The Mirror Window -2
Some time ago I wrote about the mirror and the window
And decided that the internal is as unidentifiable, undecipherable,
immeasurable as the external.
When I use to look into the mirror, I would internalize myself,
I was a part of the image itself.
As I now look into the mirror, after 17 years,
I have more certainty of what I am,
But less understanding of who I am.
My tongue has been cut, my mind suffers the effect
of the routine, which as if like a drug, makes me dull,
makes me loose my shine, my speed, my dexterity, my agility
My feelings are perhaps today more profound,
my ideas more sparse, and maybe,
more violently guarded.
The window persists in showing me what’s obscure, what’s stupid,
What’s doubtful, what’s fake, what’s lamentable, sad.
I fight daily against stupidity, against lying.
It feels me with rage the lack of consideration, of humanity.
It destroys me, the unnecessary suffering, the lack of reason.
When I used to want to be a part of the external,
I used to form myself to that image.
Today I would feel shameful to be a part of that image.
Today, that I am ‘The Institution” myself,
I look for the way to dynamite it’s columns, it’s foundations.
Today I don’t know anymore with such certainty what’s just, what’s right.
Like you and him, I am the prisoner of the word “compromise”,
this word that contains you like inside a used dirty plastic container.
The window, though, is opaced by the vapor of my internal fog,
Infecting in this way the image which is projected on it’s glass.
And in this manner, our internal anxieties cover with a grey veil
The external reality and then it mixes
the exterior with the interior in a reality that is me…(17 years after)
and the certainties evaporate;
What I use to know is only a blurred memory,
The “Great Truths”, only old ideals,
The “Old Lies”, a series of rationalizations
ACD - 12.6.05
And decided that the internal is as unidentifiable, undecipherable,
immeasurable as the external.
When I use to look into the mirror, I would internalize myself,
I was a part of the image itself.
As I now look into the mirror, after 17 years,
I have more certainty of what I am,
But less understanding of who I am.
My tongue has been cut, my mind suffers the effect
of the routine, which as if like a drug, makes me dull,
makes me loose my shine, my speed, my dexterity, my agility
My feelings are perhaps today more profound,
my ideas more sparse, and maybe,
more violently guarded.
The window persists in showing me what’s obscure, what’s stupid,
What’s doubtful, what’s fake, what’s lamentable, sad.
I fight daily against stupidity, against lying.
It feels me with rage the lack of consideration, of humanity.
It destroys me, the unnecessary suffering, the lack of reason.
When I used to want to be a part of the external,
I used to form myself to that image.
Today I would feel shameful to be a part of that image.
Today, that I am ‘The Institution” myself,
I look for the way to dynamite it’s columns, it’s foundations.
Today I don’t know anymore with such certainty what’s just, what’s right.
Like you and him, I am the prisoner of the word “compromise”,
this word that contains you like inside a used dirty plastic container.
The window, though, is opaced by the vapor of my internal fog,
Infecting in this way the image which is projected on it’s glass.
And in this manner, our internal anxieties cover with a grey veil
The external reality and then it mixes
the exterior with the interior in a reality that is me…(17 years after)
and the certainties evaporate;
What I use to know is only a blurred memory,
The “Great Truths”, only old ideals,
The “Old Lies”, a series of rationalizations
ACD - 12.6.05
L-Train
L-Train 7:50 PM, again…
Two friends unexpectedly meet on a train at 7:50PM. The artist is working on an easel with markers over a subway map.
Mr. cool guy sits with his 2-day-old beard and dramatically huge headphones, which only skinny guys with long hair can get away with.
The dad stands as the kid kneels on the almost empty row of seats looking at the moving tunnel walls through a darkened window as we leave 1st Avenue.
A guy reads a purple covered book, as he stands near a door with a bicycle wheel between his lower extremities.
A girl, who could be Ugly Betty’s cousin stands holding a brand new wood skateboard in her left arm while her other hand holds onto a BLICK art store bag.
To the right, a soon-to-be middle age woman in a business suit plays solitaire on her blackberry.
Most of the “self-proclaimed cool” yuppies get off at Bedford, of course.
A short buff Mexican guy in jump suit gear is reading HF, a Spanish men’s health and exercise magazine.
A strange long brown bearded character sleeps on the next bench, in front of a red-head, short-skirt - black stockings woman.
Another man looks at the sadness of a continuous education course catalog featuring some Polish-Jewish looking professor inviting you attend this wonderful community college….
Graham finally comes….One more trip home has concluded….I got to get off…….The train goes on…These lives go on….We all go on…
ACD
4.17.09
Two friends unexpectedly meet on a train at 7:50PM. The artist is working on an easel with markers over a subway map.
Mr. cool guy sits with his 2-day-old beard and dramatically huge headphones, which only skinny guys with long hair can get away with.
The dad stands as the kid kneels on the almost empty row of seats looking at the moving tunnel walls through a darkened window as we leave 1st Avenue.
A guy reads a purple covered book, as he stands near a door with a bicycle wheel between his lower extremities.
A girl, who could be Ugly Betty’s cousin stands holding a brand new wood skateboard in her left arm while her other hand holds onto a BLICK art store bag.
To the right, a soon-to-be middle age woman in a business suit plays solitaire on her blackberry.
Most of the “self-proclaimed cool” yuppies get off at Bedford, of course.
A short buff Mexican guy in jump suit gear is reading HF, a Spanish men’s health and exercise magazine.
A strange long brown bearded character sleeps on the next bench, in front of a red-head, short-skirt - black stockings woman.
Another man looks at the sadness of a continuous education course catalog featuring some Polish-Jewish looking professor inviting you attend this wonderful community college….
Graham finally comes….One more trip home has concluded….I got to get off…….The train goes on…These lives go on….We all go on…
ACD
4.17.09
The day we lost our innocence
PART I
The sound is beyond my ears
My eyes could not believe it
Smoke is playing, breathing,
Burning my eyes.
The smell of death entered my mouth.
The uncertainty became grief,
The penalty deep.
A great scent is embedded in my stomach,
In my neck in my temporal bones.
How could this be? Why?
In the sky is the big gray cloud.
I walk over the bridge and see the city bleeding, burning,
burning life, beauty, future.
The nerves take hold of me but I lose myself
in the sea of anxiety in which I swim.
Hands sweat puddles on the floor.
The Ambulances buzz at sound breaking speeds.
I'm afraid of the fear I have.
I fear for the world, for what can now happen, retaliation?
But I feel hate, anger, grief. I want justice…..
A friend dies, a brother is no more.
Three other children cry and others will never know
on whose dreams they were meant to be.
Mirtha wears her black sweater, weeping, embracing me.
We mourn for Eugenio, whom we know not to live.
PART II
From my home I don’t see them anymore.
The focus of lights he saw from Jackson,
from Graham, from Ridgewood….
I am filled with pity by the bricks, the iron, the metal.
I feel sorry for the huge sun which now is not
blocked by the absent towers,
They’ve stabbed "my city", which still bleeds
They came in, in full daylight, while it slept
and raped it, they’ve fouled it , they’ve tortured it.
They’ve pulled the most intimate fibers.
The dumped in an alley for the rats to walk over.
But they forgot about us, our feelings…
Our pride, our love, our passion.
We can not go backward, because
we lost our innocence,
but not our courage.
Do not underestimate us ... ...
ACD
Sept.11, 2001
To be continued ....
The sound is beyond my ears
My eyes could not believe it
Smoke is playing, breathing,
Burning my eyes.
The smell of death entered my mouth.
The uncertainty became grief,
The penalty deep.
A great scent is embedded in my stomach,
In my neck in my temporal bones.
How could this be? Why?
In the sky is the big gray cloud.
I walk over the bridge and see the city bleeding, burning,
burning life, beauty, future.
The nerves take hold of me but I lose myself
in the sea of anxiety in which I swim.
Hands sweat puddles on the floor.
The Ambulances buzz at sound breaking speeds.
I'm afraid of the fear I have.
I fear for the world, for what can now happen, retaliation?
But I feel hate, anger, grief. I want justice…..
A friend dies, a brother is no more.
Three other children cry and others will never know
on whose dreams they were meant to be.
Mirtha wears her black sweater, weeping, embracing me.
We mourn for Eugenio, whom we know not to live.
PART II
From my home I don’t see them anymore.
The focus of lights he saw from Jackson,
from Graham, from Ridgewood….
I am filled with pity by the bricks, the iron, the metal.
I feel sorry for the huge sun which now is not
blocked by the absent towers,
They’ve stabbed "my city", which still bleeds
They came in, in full daylight, while it slept
and raped it, they’ve fouled it , they’ve tortured it.
They’ve pulled the most intimate fibers.
The dumped in an alley for the rats to walk over.
But they forgot about us, our feelings…
Our pride, our love, our passion.
We can not go backward, because
we lost our innocence,
but not our courage.
Do not underestimate us ... ...
ACD
Sept.11, 2001
To be continued ....
When I first met the devil
When I first Met the Devil
I was not ready for him, but he was right there waiting for me the moment I fist saw the light. As the pupils in my eyes adjusted to the intensity of that light, and my throat was confused between the mechanics of spiting the fluid of life and excrement and breathing in the life that had been waiting for my arrival.
As these huge claws were grabbing me from behind my neck I screamed with passion in protest of the traumatic experience I had just lived, but all of them there were just smiling like idiots. I felt wet, and I felt cold. For the first time in my life I experienced this feeling of being incredibly vulnerable. I was in despair. I was suffering from separation anxiety, I was frustrated. I didn’t know what frustrated was, but I was frustrated anyway. I was defenseless.
It appears that in situations such as this, the devil’s presence is immediately felt. I felt his presence in my bones, in my wet skin, which now was being wrapped in something that felt not really that bad, but that was new. The cold feel of his being was all around me.
I immediately had a sense of further separation from being. The light seemed to detach from me. I started to perceive the fact that I was “me”, I was “I”...I was “self” …I was….
I felt the devil caught hold of my soul. And a chasm open between me and everything and the light receded even more. . My attention was encapsulated by these ideas of being, ideas of everything in relation to me. It was me and everything else.
No there were no horns, no pitch forks, no diabolic laughter, and no burning fires or perishing bodies. There was only I and my “self”, which I much later knew it’s called “Ego’. He has ever since controlled my every thought, my every wish, my every urge. It has slaved me to harm, to damage, to spoil, to destroy, and to pain, to forget others, forget who I am and why I am.
Once in a while I get to free myself from those claws and when I am able to see a little more light into the situation, see what seems to be myself in a glass room, where every glass shows a deformed part of my self. I could see that these images are only those images of a self that it is not really me. The real me, although a temporary prisoner, transcends the “me”, the self, the ego. The real me is me, but it is also you , and you and you….
To be continued…..
ACD 9.5.08
I was not ready for him, but he was right there waiting for me the moment I fist saw the light. As the pupils in my eyes adjusted to the intensity of that light, and my throat was confused between the mechanics of spiting the fluid of life and excrement and breathing in the life that had been waiting for my arrival.
As these huge claws were grabbing me from behind my neck I screamed with passion in protest of the traumatic experience I had just lived, but all of them there were just smiling like idiots. I felt wet, and I felt cold. For the first time in my life I experienced this feeling of being incredibly vulnerable. I was in despair. I was suffering from separation anxiety, I was frustrated. I didn’t know what frustrated was, but I was frustrated anyway. I was defenseless.
It appears that in situations such as this, the devil’s presence is immediately felt. I felt his presence in my bones, in my wet skin, which now was being wrapped in something that felt not really that bad, but that was new. The cold feel of his being was all around me.
I immediately had a sense of further separation from being. The light seemed to detach from me. I started to perceive the fact that I was “me”, I was “I”...I was “self” …I was….
I felt the devil caught hold of my soul. And a chasm open between me and everything and the light receded even more. . My attention was encapsulated by these ideas of being, ideas of everything in relation to me. It was me and everything else.
No there were no horns, no pitch forks, no diabolic laughter, and no burning fires or perishing bodies. There was only I and my “self”, which I much later knew it’s called “Ego’. He has ever since controlled my every thought, my every wish, my every urge. It has slaved me to harm, to damage, to spoil, to destroy, and to pain, to forget others, forget who I am and why I am.
Once in a while I get to free myself from those claws and when I am able to see a little more light into the situation, see what seems to be myself in a glass room, where every glass shows a deformed part of my self. I could see that these images are only those images of a self that it is not really me. The real me, although a temporary prisoner, transcends the “me”, the self, the ego. The real me is me, but it is also you , and you and you….
To be continued…..
ACD 9.5.08
Letter To My Unborn Son
LETTER TO MY UNBORN CHILD
Surrounded by people,
But isolated, alone,
Enclosed by walls,
But free timeless you were born
Confined to a life, a generation, a social circle
But constantly fighting a private revolution
Of my own
My horizon is my only vanishing point
My dreams limits don’t know
My imagination is my oxygen, my world.
I may fall from the highest hills
To the deepest and most forsaken abyss
I may live in the world of nobody’s
But I’ll always be fed by the will of my own.
There is always a higher step
From which one should see himself.
There is always a point when one should
raise from his own being to elevate
from the norm, of the “normal ones”.
There is always something more.
When you think a circle has closed,
You’ll surprisingly discover that all along
Another larger one
has only just begun.
So cry my dear son,
Seek comfort inside where it is warm
And even if you feel there’ll be no dawn
Your eyes are widened by a brand new sun….
ACD
1990
Surrounded by people,
But isolated, alone,
Enclosed by walls,
But free timeless you were born
Confined to a life, a generation, a social circle
But constantly fighting a private revolution
Of my own
My horizon is my only vanishing point
My dreams limits don’t know
My imagination is my oxygen, my world.
I may fall from the highest hills
To the deepest and most forsaken abyss
I may live in the world of nobody’s
But I’ll always be fed by the will of my own.
There is always a higher step
From which one should see himself.
There is always a point when one should
raise from his own being to elevate
from the norm, of the “normal ones”.
There is always something more.
When you think a circle has closed,
You’ll surprisingly discover that all along
Another larger one
has only just begun.
So cry my dear son,
Seek comfort inside where it is warm
And even if you feel there’ll be no dawn
Your eyes are widened by a brand new sun….
ACD
1990
She Used Life
She used life.
She used life to no limit. She consumed it.
She consumed each second to the fullest
each second of every day.
She just knew how to take advantage of life.
She just knew life all too well,
To let it slip through her fingers.
One could say that she had it all under control.
Nothing escaped her grip.
She knew her abilities.
She knew just where she was standing,
All the time
She was really able to embraced the meaning of things,
out of everything in life.
She even knew hot to swim
through the vast oceans of excess, passing
Through the drowning decadence
Without being dragged down.
She was an artist at life,
an art-repair artist at life.
She made life, every day, every moment, every time.
She made life for her and others.
In and out, like an experienced yogi
She breathed life, in and out….
She imagined life, and created life…
My life…..
(To be continued)
ACD
1-24-94
She used life to no limit. She consumed it.
She consumed each second to the fullest
each second of every day.
She just knew how to take advantage of life.
She just knew life all too well,
To let it slip through her fingers.
One could say that she had it all under control.
Nothing escaped her grip.
She knew her abilities.
She knew just where she was standing,
All the time
She was really able to embraced the meaning of things,
out of everything in life.
She even knew hot to swim
through the vast oceans of excess, passing
Through the drowning decadence
Without being dragged down.
She was an artist at life,
an art-repair artist at life.
She made life, every day, every moment, every time.
She made life for her and others.
In and out, like an experienced yogi
She breathed life, in and out….
She imagined life, and created life…
My life…..
(To be continued)
ACD
1-24-94
Obsecion entre la ventana y el espejo
OBSECION ENTRE LA VENTANA Y EL ESPEJO
Y en el medio…yo
Por la ventana veo al mundo,
Cambiante bueno y malo.
Me exteriorizo, formo parte de el…”Me formo a su imagen”,
Cambiante buena y mala.
Voy y salgo. Encuentros desencuentros, idas y vueltas.
Corro hacia fuera, a lo abierto, a lo fresco.
Paro, observo, me interrelaciono. A veces me atrevo a dejarme ir.
Aprendo, (Nazco y Muero) con cada latido de ritmo urbano.
Sigo ciertas huellas de no se quien, quizás de muchos…
Quizás porque me este formando…
Temo por todo lo que puede pasar a mí alrededor,
Cambiante, bueno y malo….
En el espejo veo al otro mundo,
Cambiante, bueno y malo….
Me interiorizo, porque soy parte de el…”estoy formado por su imagen”,
Cambiante, buena y mala….
Vengo y entro (Adentro), preocupaciones, análisis, inmensurable espacio interior.
Corro hacia adentro, hacia el cobijo de lo calido y confortable.
Paro y me atrevo a auto cuestionar. Huyo hacia las zonas más conocidas,
(Familiares), donde soy bienvenido.
Descanso, me rió y me pierdo
Me duermo, o quizás este ya soñando.
Ya todo parece diferente, nada puedo reconocer.
Todo parece cambiante, bueno y malo….
Sigo las huellas de no se quien, aunque parezcan mías,
Quizá porque el ser (propiamente dicho)
Es un ente completamente dinámico, como el mismo universo,
Inmensurable, incomprensible, indefinible, y horrorosamente
Cambiante, bueno y malo….
ACD
3-6-90
3-21-90
Y en el medio…yo
Por la ventana veo al mundo,
Cambiante bueno y malo.
Me exteriorizo, formo parte de el…”Me formo a su imagen”,
Cambiante buena y mala.
Voy y salgo. Encuentros desencuentros, idas y vueltas.
Corro hacia fuera, a lo abierto, a lo fresco.
Paro, observo, me interrelaciono. A veces me atrevo a dejarme ir.
Aprendo, (Nazco y Muero) con cada latido de ritmo urbano.
Sigo ciertas huellas de no se quien, quizás de muchos…
Quizás porque me este formando…
Temo por todo lo que puede pasar a mí alrededor,
Cambiante, bueno y malo….
En el espejo veo al otro mundo,
Cambiante, bueno y malo….
Me interiorizo, porque soy parte de el…”estoy formado por su imagen”,
Cambiante, buena y mala….
Vengo y entro (Adentro), preocupaciones, análisis, inmensurable espacio interior.
Corro hacia adentro, hacia el cobijo de lo calido y confortable.
Paro y me atrevo a auto cuestionar. Huyo hacia las zonas más conocidas,
(Familiares), donde soy bienvenido.
Descanso, me rió y me pierdo
Me duermo, o quizás este ya soñando.
Ya todo parece diferente, nada puedo reconocer.
Todo parece cambiante, bueno y malo….
Sigo las huellas de no se quien, aunque parezcan mías,
Quizá porque el ser (propiamente dicho)
Es un ente completamente dinámico, como el mismo universo,
Inmensurable, incomprensible, indefinible, y horrorosamente
Cambiante, bueno y malo….
ACD
3-6-90
3-21-90
Background
Life:
A book without punctuation which you read for years and years and try to make sense of it.....!!!
And there she was ”One with the universe”, not being able to separate her status of conscious being from the immediate surrounding. The surrounding was a part of her small body. The rest and I were only a part of that universe of faces, shapes, lights, shades and noises.
ACD
7-10-90
A book without punctuation which you read for years and years and try to make sense of it.....!!!
And there she was ”One with the universe”, not being able to separate her status of conscious being from the immediate surrounding. The surrounding was a part of her small body. The rest and I were only a part of that universe of faces, shapes, lights, shades and noises.
ACD
7-10-90
Yes I know You
Yes, I know you. It seems that I’ve always known you.
You are from my past.
You look so mine.
Like together we belonged to something once.
I look at you. You look at me too.
We look away, but for a while.
Our eyes were caught ( in the moment)
Yes, You know me. You think you’ve always knew me too.
You look through your memory album fast.
You look and I seem so yours,
like I could be one of your old ghosts.
We stare at each other’s eyes and for a second
We know us too.
Then we pass. We look away, and
We walk away. Well see each other,
Some other way,
Some other day,
On some other life….far away….!!
ACD
7-x-95
8-7-95
You are from my past.
You look so mine.
Like together we belonged to something once.
I look at you. You look at me too.
We look away, but for a while.
Our eyes were caught ( in the moment)
Yes, You know me. You think you’ve always knew me too.
You look through your memory album fast.
You look and I seem so yours,
like I could be one of your old ghosts.
We stare at each other’s eyes and for a second
We know us too.
Then we pass. We look away, and
We walk away. Well see each other,
Some other way,
Some other day,
On some other life….far away….!!
ACD
7-x-95
8-7-95
Korean Deli
Men walks into a Korean deli
-“Hello, may I help you?”
-“Yeah, can I have a Diet Sunkist?”
“Diest Sunkist ahhaa, here it is..!!” Says the Korean old man, as he puts a can of Diet Coke on the counter
-“A Diet Sunkist!!” , repeats the Korean old man, “What else?”
The man looks at the Korean’s eyes and says: -“That’s it”
He pays him with a dollar bill. The Korean old man took the money and gives him back 5 pennies changeand says: -“Thank you”
The man took the change and left, as he repeats to himself:
-“Diet Sssssunkisssst….Heeere it isssss!!!!”
ACD
1-31-94
-“Hello, may I help you?”
-“Yeah, can I have a Diet Sunkist?”
“Diest Sunkist ahhaa, here it is..!!” Says the Korean old man, as he puts a can of Diet Coke on the counter
-“A Diet Sunkist!!” , repeats the Korean old man, “What else?”
The man looks at the Korean’s eyes and says: -“That’s it”
He pays him with a dollar bill. The Korean old man took the money and gives him back 5 pennies changeand says: -“Thank you”
The man took the change and left, as he repeats to himself:
-“Diet Sssssunkisssst….Heeere it isssss!!!!”
ACD
1-31-94
City Beautiful City
City, Beautiful City
City, beautiful city
End of the year and at the breakpoint of festivities.
Lights, beautiful lights
Reflects the greens, blues, yellows, reds and whites.
Forms, beautiful forms,
Standing in line at a sidewalk vendor ‘s on this city street.
Rain, beautiful rain,
blue and gray after falling for more than a week now.
Shapes, beautiful shapes,
Reflects themselves like artwork on the wet sidewalk floors.
Time beautiful time,
Rush hour and I’ve been parked in traffic for hours on this city street.
Downtown, powerful town
Disrespectfully walking in and out of the stores, on this city street…
(To be continued)
ACD
12-13-92
8-7-96
City, beautiful city
End of the year and at the breakpoint of festivities.
Lights, beautiful lights
Reflects the greens, blues, yellows, reds and whites.
Forms, beautiful forms,
Standing in line at a sidewalk vendor ‘s on this city street.
Rain, beautiful rain,
blue and gray after falling for more than a week now.
Shapes, beautiful shapes,
Reflects themselves like artwork on the wet sidewalk floors.
Time beautiful time,
Rush hour and I’ve been parked in traffic for hours on this city street.
Downtown, powerful town
Disrespectfully walking in and out of the stores, on this city street…
(To be continued)
ACD
12-13-92
8-7-96
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