Escritos para un unwitty writing





Nihil sub sole novi, vanitas vanitatum est.
siglo veinte cambalache, problemático y febril.

after the first click, the buttons are reassigned events
event listeners are removed and changed by new ones.
the same with the second and third click.

el que no llora no mama 
y el que no afana es un gil
plus the woman would be placed as a video-like-gif 
replacement file, 
et lux in tenebris lucet,
and also a skull video will be added, these
videos should be square and of white background with a cut out figure in the middle
so they can be used both in desktop and mobile.
dale nomas, dale que va,
que all en el horno nos vamos a encontrar,
this might be a little surrealist
but mainly there are two figures,
y uno vive en la impostura,
y otro roba en su ambición,
the headless man and the box-woman portrait
and they organise the narrative

tra  ra rar a tra tra tra tra tra tra tra tra tra tra tra tra tra tra aaaaaaaaaa....the drum is rolling, but the troupe is still not here, which is a shame, as it all depends of everyone doing their task, as we agreed. That is how it works, damn it. A process is a process is a process. The lights are on, I can't see a thing from here, are there people enough to start? Should we start the show now? Should I start talking? lets see, two or more person and I will talk. About what? will see. First a greeting, a presentation, an introduction and an explanation, and if case arises, some stories or anecdotes. Yes, that is my voice, and I don't have another one and sorry if that annoys you. No, if we start we cannot keep silent, people will complain. Sure, call them again, or text them a message. Oh, great, they are here, yes, ok, what? they are not ready, you say? come on, ok, ok. Let's start.


Slowly like in a stage, the screen develops the moments of the piece, a white background is everything we see at the beginning. Beep, beep, beep.  The rule of three. The piano sounded slowly in the neighbour's house, beyond the gray walls, painted with an indiscernible colors slowly built up by the feet of persons who reclined over them to kiss, to think, to smoke, to cry in many nights of cold silence.
An unfinished cigar, over the top of the cornice, slowly, also, dying slowly away its last fire, unnoticed.
Where the plants grow, there is a slight confidence of brown color, reddish, turquoise, amber. The corner there is of wooden structure, simple and rash. Near there is a window from where the sun rays are captured between raptured shadows of dusty nature. The  little points floating in the air, deprived of their ethereal anonymous essence by the light, roam from one side of the space to another, oblivious to the breathing occupants. The clock watch this static scene, and keeps ticking, as if nothing ever happened. Essence of the time is to be still, and nevertheless keep moving, because as they say: everything that was, will be.
-Nope, not yet.
The path, the forest, and the necessary time to develop things are of paramount importance to the flow of said things. And nothing else. Nor the streets of the chaotic city, nor the shiny buildings of the modern city, nor the sound of the excitement of the new, as GP3 said, that is, and no more. A grafitti is slayed by some cleaners on the next wall, vandalized by their brushes and cleaning mops. The bus is arriving in some minutes, I know. When I fell from the bycicle, there was a little time of nothingness, a black out, a switch off. Very short, a pair of seconds. What is consciousness, you ask?

Guide for smartphone: also for the moments, the poem lines should appear one at a time filling the whole screen in smartphone, so they can be read slowly maybe. Please return this by tomorrow at 9 am, as we have to present this. Send me an email with these files attached. We need to get this done. Are you comfortable with zoom calls? Nevertheless, we need it. I will be here all day, as we are in lockdown, non plus ultra, you know?. Forward: Re: URGENT. CC,. Reply. Send form my I-phone. I-know.
The flowers, always the flowers, red and purple, they appear
and the beings-also-appear, multiformed, bold, dragging themselves through the floor
to open then their wings and fly to the highest roof
they are the buttons, the triggers, the starters
later the background video appears but with low opacity
as always backgrounds do
but later appears the headless man seated over the box

The headless man and the woman in the box are two of the main elements of this work. It is, the author calls it triumphantly, something called " baroque CSS".  he is very confident, as I write these notes, that this is a work of  very, very, true originality, he says, as is a dish of spaghetti with sushi fried as a left over in a drunken morning. That, he says, is the very essence of creativity. To mix is to create. But then, he points out while I try to catch the rhythm of his blurry speech, then, he says, there are two types. Oh, he is one of those guys of taxonomic mania who want to order the world in labels to make sense of it.There are two types: the pizza and the salad. The pizza, is a whole where everything gets assimilated. the salad, wisely face made, the salad is a mix where every element still maintains a degree of freedom, and of their proper, individual qualities. His friends mock him when in the buffets he selects the most contrasting elements to serve on his plate, making expression of disguised disgust. But such is, he says, the price of true creativity. Oh, he apologizes from being such a bad host, stands up go to the kitchen and quickly appears with a plate where he has what he calls a sample of what he says. Those are rice croquettes with a hint of peanuts from the day before, he says. Yes, sure.  A cup of coffe? why not, a cup of tea? customary Rice croquettes? why?. Nevertheless, I keep taking notes. 


And at the end, I was in a Flemish winter, I guess, but I dont know, on a second floor, of tiled floors, of brown -framed windows, furnished with red Paracas textiles along all the walls, with all the mythical animals as witnesses and chorus, waiting. The curator was looking at my work, but although I was flattered by her compliments, I didn't know if I should point out that she was looking my work upside down. The screen was big, and the details appeared nicely defined. Then I excuse myself and went to talk to other people in the room.  The oven was shut off. The boiler was down. The bells were still hangimg. At the right, an empty glass. To the left of the first corner, a paper of yesterdays. 

The crown in my eyes dilutes trough the hands like a viscous liquid
slowly, rhythmically like a snake from my eyes

The hair is white now, dusty and old
fragile and broken by times
of yore and sore

the buttons trigger the different actions, like:
one starts creating flowers randomly
other starts creating random skulls
other move the parallax effect, disappearing the man and letting the woman appear
other plays a video

The car.
The car, shiny and bulky,
curvy and slim, steely and hard
reflect my shadow under the sun

But after the first click, the buttons are reassigned events,
event listeners are removed and changed by new ones.

The sands of the desert protect my steps
covering them softly with dusty oblivion
carefully but neatly
for me to never see my footprints again
to forget myself in the dust
as dust myself I am
under the sun
of the midday


I noticed it was a sleek, modern office, an empty one in the morning. And then we knew that the person who was carrying the book in a chained suitcase, ahs lot is in the middle of the financial centre, just as he was going trough the escalator. The book was a long sheet with a Chinese ink written word, with a meaning that I forget.  Does this last detail was true, or I just added it to the comfort of my memory?While I am writing, I am thinking of language and its alternatives, like a deep learning algorithm, or something of those things in vogue these days, why choose an option, when you can point out all the variations happening at once in your head? but then, image is simultaneous, and text is layered, successive, like  the se washing the shores of the conscious mind: waiting the moon./alone with just a dim light / at the end of the room,/ just looking trough the window /the streets full of snow, /or people,/as it seems, as you like, /either was this a summer /or a fall/the dark trees and some houses of slopped roof.

and the same will happen, as it has been said,
with the second one
and the lurid third click,
forever again

Click, click, click
Touch, touch touch
Press, press , press
Scroll, scroll, scroll

Click, touch, press, scroll


and my skin will burn after the crown fall from the eyes
 and the sound of the wind protrudes itself from the horizon I lost
in the silver water of the illusion

It is not a car, it si only sand
and where I am now, I am no more
and my name will be forgotten
as will be my rage and my lust

See, watch, feel
touch, click and push
draw and text

rage and light
battery and love

-Please turn on the oven, the food is almost ready, and the bread.
And I will put my head inside, and flowers will grow
and dreams will be born  so the ideas I have will  come to light
so they can die, putridly, in this world.
 -All right
-What is in the radio?
-Oh well, I do not know, will check


In, possibly, a forgotten Christmas night, maybe, waiting in a cold and distant night, or better, well inside the night, those moments of transition, one hour or two before dawn, where time hangs undefined, and eternally, full of silence, full of truth and a velvet emptiness.
are the  reference
in this world only
the towers I see,
floating as overlords,
the ones I can still see

But now the radio is open, in a singing station. The sun rays are entering the room, breaking the shadows with a crisp light. Or maybe the woman will appear from a box, the whe will go out and open her mouth and from her mouth flowers, like a Neapolitan summer of humid walls, old churches and dusty palaces, she will appear and for the flowers a box will appear. The signal goes and comes, the song grasping to breath against the wooden box. A good perfume is something else, an atmosphere, an illusion, the message of the eyes, delivered trough riddles.

I have been in there
in the reflective elevator cage
in the mechanical eternal ramps 
in the stairs they create
the reflections of the skies
in the mirroring floors 
in the aromatized lounge

but I am no more
barely from the distance
and even that I am not sure to know

The man is usually the one playing the instrument and she is almost always the singer, of smooth voice. Why? your guess. Meanwhile, outside, tanks are roaming the streets, and there is silence while the algorithms are roaming every row and column, every tab and comma space. The silky curtains  move at the rythm of the scarce wind, slow and steady. And inside the box a man breathing in uncomfortable oxygen mask, where, smiling,  he also smokes a pipe, will look out, searching maybe another idea to pitch to the headless man, riding the shiny, hard edged skull, surrounded by some delicate, white, pink, purple, red, small, big. terse flowers that appear radially from inside, forming a Escher-like figure, maybe. He waves the hand toward me, and jumps.

 Still my skull is in my hands
I do not have yet a new brand
it is not a car,
it is only sand
and where I am now, 
no more I am

- Shhhhh,hey,  I want to sleep ! Why are you talking that much?
Sleep and accept your destiny, come on, shsuuss!

-Some people have to live, you know?

battery and love
electricity and lust
neon and rage
smoke and flow


(Thanks. Lights go off. Sound of chairs, because people is leaving. Intentional claps)


{el silencio./ the silence/niño buscando algo en la oscuridad/ the child looking for something in the darkness/ la luz del reflector/the spotlight/ el banquete/ the banker / the guardian /the chorus / the tower /the pool /the hill / the desert / the woman}