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
Thursday, May 20, 2010
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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