Beauty.

That morning - the boy stared

towards the nude body of Psyche
and his eyes lit up - with sparkling desire
since he saw Beauty.

His grandfather Joaquim Pla told him that she's now in the Hades
inebriated by Prosepine fruit - fairy tales
to persuade him not
to fall in love with Beauty.

One morning the boy ran possessed downstairs as if he has discovered
- a fane
in some untrodden region of his mind,
and there, branched thoughts,
new grown with pleasant pain.

But hence his mother
held his head on her bosom,
covered his yearning with delicate advises
to not walk in great matters,
nor in wonderful things above him,
and kissed his hair

stroked his wound

He closed his eyes.

Sky where shimmering outside,

with wistful mourning lullabies.

Yearning for Childhood. After Rachel Cooper

Lately
Downside of the hill
She looked as wisely unassuming as Rachel Cooper




i won't have any children

since i already loved them

long before they are conceived

This blank space wears a suit of joyful pain
She clothe our little bodies with tender cares...

fig. 1 "Children are humanity's strongest"

Going Underground. After Sylvia.

And the public gets




what the public wants



But I want nothing this society's got



I'm going underground

John Ford at the beach. After Pilgrimage.

The mother of John Ford lately told me that she's really proud of her son, not for what he did, but for what he was.






That she survives as a common symbol, a slanting trope that everyone understands and is theirs, like you are theirs too.





That now she is not only your mother, she lies in thousand of strangers' hearts, like you where jailed in hers too.








But everything haunting, as well as everything cruel, happens only whenever you can perish.

Auto Portrait

Josep Pla. El Hombre Insignificante.

Tras meses de someterse tácitamente a los designios médicos sobre su ajado cuerpo, el Hombre Insignificante recibió los resultados en un sobre sellado de la medida de varias radiografías y demás pliegos escritos en jerga quirúrgica, y sin leerlos los escondió bajo el brazo.

El Joven, al ver a su abuelo convertido en la antítesis de un infante curioso, preguntó por la razón, pero no obtuvo respuesta, ni moraleja.

De modo que pasó el tiempo, y andando decidieron sentarse en un banco cualquiera de cualquier parque, como dos personas que entre semana se escaquean de sus obligaciones menos obligatorias, y encuentran en lo cotidiano el lugar donde respirar hondo hasta sentir ese limpio anhelo dentro en sus pulmones.

Y nadie miró el reloj mientras hablaron de un día pretérito cualquiera, en el que el abuelo siendo joven se encontró en el motor de su coche a un gato hecho un ovillo, de como éste le miró más atemorizado que confuso a los ojos, y pegó de repente un brinco, resuelto, arrojándose directo al enlucido de la pared más cercana, una pared que por supuesto ya no existe.

Time. Memory. Straub. And Huillet.

The boy was too young and did not have patience, or was too lazy to research what happened that day on Europe.

There were only a few images passing by, ideas out of context, two shots, two travelings seeking for something hidden, and ages of time between them. In the end, words taken out from a sort of a modern pamphlet, like if this world was an ancient one. And it is.
Like ever before World was longing for an inner subtle change, an instant pleasure, one that shook his soul until he found out it always was his.
Never before Art worried about the state of the world. But Art is an exception. And this step too. A false step. To an unknown place. Now, a place near Paris, without name, forsaken. A reality redeemed by this small time. A breath of air. The hidden place between two shots,
Straub
Huillet.

Every youngster needs a lesson:

The Ancient Was Now.
These new Ages,
are only Ages without Memory.