01 The idea arises with a natural mode, to say that it was carrying it out doesn't need to be told, is a project that arises at the time, that was going animated according to experiments that I perform in the way of the internet. It starts like a place to hang out my works of art and it develops to several disciplines, it was ramifying, divergent, adjacent to the diary take place of the culture media. The project is still budding, it starts, in spite of my willing insistence that comes through years of recreating over the adventures on the web. I believed that the potential that have the cybernaut media, as a vehicle still without profound explorations and that it doesn't seem to be known clearly what considerations or consequences it will have. Just say, it's too recent for seeing the real magnitude of the media.
02 The digital revolution that began much more than two decades now transform the spaces under virtual spaces, it democratizes and at the same time, they are decentralized. It had taken a character of overflow. The form to have experienced have become an extension of the singular spaces of privacy on the web. That it had been lost liberty or limited the codes for getting closer to the creations is an alternate discussion to the sense that has the media events that take place day away stronger force. Now every manifestation can take place at a foreign distance, innermost, fleeting or slow, in each case how to get close depends on every user, of any navigator that commit to the indecipherable labyrinth of visions on the web. Is an overcrowding close to the collective dream, so unconscious like that, I can assure that nobody has plenty of control of what it concerns on the web. Is an unusual experience, insofar as the waters of the internet are unstable, unfathomable, dark. At the same time, the once that occupy of establishing an unexpected relationship with the new platforms, and distribute art pieces on those places, we had to change our perspectives at the time of setting our worries, desires, or visions. It opens an infinite field of experimentation, in which the possibilities are the particular possibilities of an immense sea.
03 Before it was unimaginable that like when the printing press, that emancipates the normal status that the previous field had built. We have the illusion that the time stops, it is captured and it will not be metamorphosed, that the media will be eternally hanged. Before it wasn't possible to knock over the ambient so easy the developments that each observer and participant had on the media. It was adjusted on their time, on the media of their time, be photography radio television cinema or before, sculpture paint engraving, etc… Each field was fastened to their possibilities. Know each time the observer-participant take over another conscience of another isolated situation, distant or strange and turn it familiar, owns it and assimilate it to submit it another time to their own singular causes. The private life is on the game until the limit that every who submit to their own limits, each time the limits are being erased or it becomes faint, it dissolves, it tries to consolidate, at the time of acting, publishing, changing arguments or discuss arguments. ideas. The forms have not ceased to follow one after another. Apparently is higher the velocity, but the assimilation enters in an imperceptible detriment. Each time is less demanding with the meanings, values, quality gets weak, even stars sparkle only for an instant and disappear on the repetition of their recalcitrant possibilities.
04 I carried out this experiment without the full conscience until now, that what I was doing was an editorial project in which I develop content, that was being appreciated by a public and that it was passing by such experience inner the virtual environment without being necessarily materialized, saying it in a way, not only was an act of self-promotion, because after all I even don't sell almost anything of what is it being consumed in a deleterious glance fleeting and perishable. The files change and make the habitat of the public change. Anyway, the spectator stands by their own judgment for not disappear on the mare magnum which weakens it, submerge and suffocate. Two years ago even I start to elucidate what formats, like in an adventured glimpse of science fiction, such as on the cinema probably in the future it will be abolished the screening rooms. Anyway, is a risky argument, because so to speak, the picture is still up here, developing, finding its pitfalls, surviving to the whirlpool of the media. The writing by itself on the books is almost unnoticed and still, like that find their cataclysms to arise from between their ashes.
05 Until this moment I have done theater plays online by using characters that I create in the social media and it manifests like a virtual happening. Without no one can notice it was a fraud such theatrical fictions. I have made animations with poems that I wrote two decades ago, to make littles poematic pictures. I've made digital pictures, made with traditional media and software. I ‘ve uploaded my photographic archive, and of notebooks drawings. I'm starting to make videos for uploading to the web and being appreciated only on the web. I've written and published books on the web about documental-fiction narrative. I make since always experiments on the imaginary melting pot of this hybrid media. This site that I'm mounting right now, not contains still all the effort that I've made for years, certainly is a monumental work, and heartbreakingly absorbent, endless. Until this moment I have finance almost by free will. Because, in part, the project was unfolding without ties, exempt to critics, out of any intervention or any decision that could have an authority figure that could order of submitting to judge the content, close it, censorship, or not approve inside the contest of selection of artworks existing or shall exist. Indeed it had me cost in excess, I had to support it by myself and at the expense of my dedication and time. It's a titanic work and almost without economic retribution, it is almost suicide because the real satisfaction that could give me, simply never come. Nevertheless, the online project that I have made is no doubt that it has their scope and echo, its diatribes, conflict, and successes. Its a game of constant expectation. A sport by love and hate to art.
06 It's true that the internet is an event that has come to disturb the perspectives, the orientations, to weaken the fundamental elements of the culture, each time another time returned to raise, and overall to put on doubt the conventions of art. It has done tremble the assumptions of permanency if it's not on certainly the performance or in conceptual art, or before the photography, et al snatched their existence and even posed their extermination. Otherwise, I don't believe neither consider that the picture will die in each technology progress. Instead, I'm of the judge that changes increase the astonishment about any dilemma of the picture. The cave will always be our original testimony, of where we were born sometime, I don't know exactly if it was to represent the world, but maybe at least to be thrown to the complexity state of the perplexity of the mirror that we try to destroy or to encode. To convert a fraction of the reality into our own flesh. To conduct our tiny destiny, and to try to stipulate a bridge with the transparent and flashing spirit. One scene play of craziness. Even so, I don't see the overthrow of the traditions, neither the full imposition of totalitarian perceptions. Rather than, I believe that what makes me move of artists the state where everything shakes of emotion, by being darkly rediscovered.
07 I'm not sure of being the tip of the spear, or neither to be at the noble innovation, I locate my practice like the one that does an engineer amazed in front of the magnificence of the press or a photographic device, of a reproduction invention. The digital era will disappear as media, or it will be transformed, that's something we will not know, its unpredictable. One day every manifestation is abandoned by the creatures that re-emerge on the inevitable human vortex. Meanwhile, that happens, we continue capturing through the language this vertigo that submerges us in what we couldn't hold, on the life that is impossible to freeze an make forever, on the prey that it isn't trapped. Maybe the last anguish will be that, in front of the death that lurks or that wait for us patiently, careful to each inch, without hurry, that which could wait a complete life to close its hand. The project that I am rising is of such nature, temporary, fugitive on the permanence, slippery as water or sand. What interest to me is that the culture is a transitional manifestation because others will be born over the ruins that we are, it will return to challenge the horizons and they will plunge as a night that never happens.
08 The editorial project that I'm rising is a reconversion, is a strange currency that emerges on the pitfalls of arts. Because after all, arts are a con given to other. A coin threw to air with an uncertain destiny on the glance of other person rearrangements. There's no assertiveness, there's no only one way to talk about art. Art not talks absolut trues or resolved trues. Art talks on that ephemeral character of time passing by, of that cross-fading that involves nostalgy after the eviction that is produced by the finished things, and that engaged a constant vitality with their interlocutors. A constant inconstant circumstance. Unfinished.
09 On the practice, the site lives from visitors. Invisible, private, distanced, unconnected, maybe eventful. Cybernetic passersby's to whom I haven't access. Not even to the glimpse of their commentaries, critics, dialogues, looks, comparisons, whispers or anger. I'm interested in a not interactive project, on consonance with what could be the book. For several reasons. The people that circulate can be of different natures, social classes, cultural differences, buried opinions, ideological charges with their respective short-sightedness, moral prejudice with their own limitations… I don´t want to have an idol-fanatic figure in which the pigeons eat the crumbs that charity let drop, of which I'm in lack. On the other hand, I don't wish to be a salve of the public domain, of what quest on many cases the ignorant perverse and aggressive world of the web, by their insatiable sadist's whims. Most of what subjects are covered up on the anonymous protection, that allows them to undermine with coward violence any project, without looking the enormous effort is done. They are fascinated by the public lynching, encourages their morbidity. I've interested the format of the book, now in electronic form by their evident circulation, that can travels through the servers, that does not have stipulated their commercial frontiers, and overall that the reader is free to abandon the lecture if it's noticed of it. I've never detested more nothing than a captive public, all my life I've been satiric about the cross of a captive public. The frame of the editorial online version is now trying to settle down, with their own views, their movable sands, their mirages. In my case, I'm a pilot program, and I like to think that I've never gone out of being on the road, on the way, because also I don't want to arrive any place. Yet, I haven't make a round business of it, which it I believe that scares the surrounding people, or at least disappoint them because the public is avid to ovation anything that can appear as a promise of the paradise. If the project doesn't have a commercial success or if the competent authorities do not indicate at what time they should applause, they devalue and are ready to jeer and laugh when subjugated is hang, when the guilty have out the tongue the cruel family laugh at the same time. To the project is adverse to not have a commercial success, "subtracts authority". People give credit of success of any nature, the regular thing for people to settle some credit to someone is by means of an endorsement, call it money, institutional figure of authority, knowledge figure as the History, or slogans for a noble cause, legitimate farces that make the spokesman a hero worthy of fanatic masses, the spectacle is the modern sacrifice. We usually applause to someone who has the domain over the throngs, we pontificate ourselves with that kind of victories and to the less hint, we would want to usurp their places. We flatter him to stab him in the back on a certain moment. That is why I don't care about the scale model of the art world, I don't like to be present, and will never show me at any public waiting for me to stumble. This is a project in which I don¡t have the obligation to answer any question that it isn't done by me.
10 What we can't feel is the betrayal of what we see, speak, think. The oppressive sensation that we experiment when we believe photography is the objective media, omnipresent, truth, that exceed us in all conception. We nod and give up to the foot of the register refraction. We can't say we are not seeing what we see. We are forced to give loyal evidence of what we see, to subordinate any own judgment. Sustained by the document we submit us to the speech of the photography, to the lines and volumes it represents, to the common sense it represents the signs we reveal on our consciousness. As illuminated by a mortal wonder we are fastened to the sudden perspective of a frame drawn up by the ring finger of professionals or amateurs that decided a sporadical moment of the infinite reality unfinished. I've used nothing that wasn't there to be used, about artifice processes I've been an exercise of free will without the obtuse and bordering observations. I've never could comprehend the abject conservatism of artists, curators, manufacturers, critics, thinkers; I will say that I couldn't comprehend their impediments. their multiple disabilities. The astonishment in front of the improper in the arts, and what they provoke is very funny to me, the illusion of duty on arts seems to me absurd. Whatever it must be, in arts is simply ridiculous. By tendency usually I bruise to fool, regularly I excite to fools, animated puppets of an off-the-record theatre.
11 The creation of a virtual space non-existent, not solid, ethereal. The iconosphere of a palace between the clouds of the unconscious book. on the trickery of the secret, of the silence, of the transparent stamp, diaphanous, ephemeral, and transcribed. a letter in the spasm, over the night of nights, lost between the shadows of a jungle that devours, that wait top is devoured between the jaws of night.
12 As I comprehend, there's no transfer that couldn't be unfaithful. we hold on to the sign as a bunch of certitudes manageable by praxis. There's never been original or even copy, simply because that's the speech of deception of the noxious domain structure or of an imposition of a possible order, an illusion of sense, the subordinate is maybe a conviction by exhaustion. The convention antidote of the neurosis because of the infinite drifts. There is no mold of identical man, neither footprint, neither step, neither rhythm, neither same pulse. We reveled with the belief of similes, simulating models. Photography captive me with its simulations of true, and even more, the picture because is more perfect as for the projection of a unconciousness to whom nothing can compare, is a radiography of the dreams. There is not unscathed reference, there is betrayal, for painful that it could be, whatever called unfair or disproportionate.
13 Points for a possible defense of a book published online. (Made with laziness, dragging my soul to an essay with the shadow). Point number one: I hate publicity, the book-website online has no publicity of third parts. Point number thirty-five: I publish whatever I want to publish, my complete will, my fevered desire. Point number thirty-six: I don't accept-need partners. Point number three hundred thirty-three: Like every book, it's possible to remove it from the look, abandon it. not open it up again. Point number five hundred two: not sell, persuade, or seduce of anything. you are free of not being in agreement. The thing that doesn't prevent continues reading. Point number two thousand one: is not an obliged lecture, that's a huckster. you are here for pleasure, healthy pleasure or for masochist enjoyment, that doesn't is of my business, I'm not interested. That is something I will never know. Point four thousand: the texts are thought and made in my own way. as the editor of the same publication, I don't have to balance points of view, realize extended bureaucratic procedures for enabling externalize any text, and not to pass through an enormous filter of verification, correction, validation, corroboration of data, arrange appraisals, deal with a crushing system, alienated. I decide the text that born when they reach to born, I don't need to judge the texts, to condemn them before they emerge, I don't need to put them in against the wall to see if they shake their knees, I absorb the consequences with the sensitivity of the whisper.
14 Years ago, I went about to cinema with some friends, it did cross in the conversation a mood of controversy. They will do three years of my occurrence, before entering the cinema hall, predict the finish of the film rooms. They will blow up. Are expensive, the audience is more and more disrespectful with other spectators, the projections infested of miserable publicity. Life will be each time a luxury, each time, more private. And is not wrong at all, I appreciate the privacy of thought, the untouchable of my consciousness. In that moment. my friends called me crazy. In a lightning of science fiction: to appreciate an artwork you will not need of going out of your home. The book as a masterpiece was long ago in the houses. Some months ago or a year I was hearing declarations of Pedro Almodóvar, the one I admire, to cry about the new formats of appreciation. Is like if after the marble it couldn't be possible to make other types of sculpture, and should not be or couldn't be explorations. open to other media. That only drives to an idealization of the media, which couldn't do everything, a narcissist nostalgia. In the end, we will die and our personal tragedy is entirely redundant.
15 Last night December 3 of 2017 I've done a lecture of this document at TEA HALL no. 29 at which I was invited by Thorsten Englert, to whom I thanks for that and his considerations to… the project of The rock of the time.
I prepare a video of 40 minutes, for not bore you looking for images, explaining etc… The images will emerge in a chaotic way as you will appreciate, it has a logic… in their arrange, in their messy disposition.
My formal background is a graphic designer, photography, illustrator and visual artist. I got studies on that. I write. I experiment with traditional media and put on proof of emerging media, digital media. I have always been disposed of for the paint and all bi-dimensional image. I boast of having more than two decades of seeing images, of digging into the vestiges, of being an image devourer. It captivates me the reading since 25 years ago. And cinema, audiovisual narrative.
Since around ten years I carry on my job on the web. On 2013 I finished a master on arts, in which the project I carried out was an object art book, The black notebook, and by way underground, I was researching the methods of distribution of the art piece using the internet. At that moment, I saw was on vogue, if it isn't still being on it, the critical institution. With the one I have a little disagreement, according to I saw it, it should be on creating my own spaces. I find that the critic of institutions finishes coopted by the same institutions, assimilated, absorbed by the same system. According to what I see, they convert themselves into an institutional theatre. A representation of what they critic. And make a reciprocal dialogue, complicity, and of loans of responsibility, accusations, and solved conflict. Wich, it benefits both, and it isn't bad at all, but I see it far away from a real critic, in a stand and practice that was raised as transgressive. Also, I need more sorrow, frustration, to dedicate myself to the criticism of the critic. Now, I thought, you've been 4 years without going out of your mediatic lock-in, now someone invites you to talk about of the project The rock of times. And you have passed all that time without justifying your activities, and neither account to anyone of what you are doing. Of what are you going to talk to these people? I've never been pro explaining anything to anyone. Imagine you if, in front of a film, theatre play, picture, photography or a book, we would have the author on our ear, standing there answering all our doubts, and saying why he or she does what they do, all the causes and that. Nothing. You take the book out of glance and is by your own that you have to resolve your reflection of what you had read. There is no one to ask nothing. The label of a book has a photography that mostly seems to be anonymous, faded, of a supposed writer. That's the lecture. The abyss with what you are on your own. For being a little bit more condescending, and explain it "all", maybe there will be other media more easy going, television, more immediate, less questionable, or one type of cinema, another kind of writing, I don't know. Not the book.
Ten years ago, I found a curator friend of mine, and radio broadcaster on the cultural area, that he invited me to talk on the radio to talk about… but that is another tale… the thing is that I found him in an opening, and for my surprise, he asked me of what I'm doing by the moment. etcetera… Suddenly it appears to me, in my head, there is the answer that I must say: I have what to say, how to say it, the time for doing it, but I don't have the space to show it. ¡Eureka! a glowing revelation. Gradually the internet was developing to me and perceiving as a potential tool, I believe, similar to the one the printers had 500 years ago. The craziness of the mechanical reproduction, now digital. If the soul is virtual now could be within reach of everyone in every moment. The continuous spiritual navigation.
Now I see the people that give more attention to their mobile phones than anything else. Maybe the resources more profitable now must be the car, the mobile phone, and appearance. Years ago I boasted of how to the people wasn't important where they sleep, what kind of place they inhabit, instead of where do they spend their time, what do they eat, how much happy they seem and share it.
The experience that could be used from any distant place. Without even need to have a dialogue with the strange world. And don't you think that I don't do that. Before The rock of the time, I've made other two projects that were as their way more interactive than this. But the internet is an abyss and if I had a stunning countdown of visitors, popular, people is the most diverse, uncontrollable, and in certain cases abject. There is from the reactionary more conservative that considers with the lightness of their caprice that someone should cut off your head, up to the potential murderer by the way who knows why, or what nonsense you touch of them, or which word or image make who knows what resonance up to, you altered them in such a way that they look on how to revenge via who kñows what tricks of their anxiety unusual. Dealing with the anguish of others is very exhaustive, and in any case, they weren't paying me for it. To deal with the paranoid sense of others, if it is enough with the own and yes that is enough! To meet an interactive website, to whom probably no one is really interested as you, is tiring and conduce to the extinction, the extinction of the mood to make it, overall if it is not paid, if it is a solitary act and for the pleasure of making it. The users on the comfort of their couch, with their buttons that they press, could exterminate whatever someone does or say, over the arrogance of their ignorance and the crepitation that produce them a jealous feeling unfounded, they convert them in frenetic murderers. The most exciting is the violence, the war.
I don't give up. I return. I give another chance to such a wonderful invention. In my way I resist, I went back my job almost reintegrated in the website The rock of times. Writing, images, now I start generating videos and animations. The rock of times is a virtual space, that it is not necessarily been converted to a material thing. Sure it is that if a picture got sold I don't deny the offer. It is rare that I sell a picture but if I manage to sell it, I sell it. There exist the one who asks for. Until this moment I've not developed that commercial vision, of marketing, I barely starting to develop the online gallery shop. Anyhow, If I make me too many illusions I know I have to moderate myself with such illusions. Because the disappointment in the art world is barbarous. Get back on my feet, if you dependent you work on the answer of the public it could be plunged your navy, and there are sunk projects, I've seen it, I've seen noble projects been mowed down by the immense mass, merciless, undercover in the coward anonymous media.
The black notebook is the medular project of my work, is an art book and it has a digital version. This was printed thankful for a grant that the UAEM gives to me to produce the object. There was a selection of two projects of the generation course of the master, and this was one of them. It consists on 57 pages, of 60x20 cm approximately. And each page independent has a print run of 5 copies in a great format for the one that desires a 60x1.50 cm print. Almost all of my projects have that characteristic. I make them for showing them on the internet with possible concrete outflows. Since 5 years ago I don't elaborate an exhibition because of the excessive costs of production, the ruffle, the physical-mental spending, for late run out with red numbers on the sales, in respect with production. By the moment I subsidize my own work. I desisted to undertake to the competition grants, for 12 years long I've done it without getting anything. I can show more than 60 pre-projects written and never been carried out because there weren't any funds to make it. I quit to fight for it, about was it was intended was to make the art pieces. Not to ask the money or the permission to the institutions for doing it. I think that each era founds their own way to survive and operate to be supported. To be alive. Symbiotic or parasitic, I don't see a moral will of being well or bad. In their manner, each organism struggle for surviving. I had to alternate something that could be described as a luxury or of any value at all. Something in such a paradox. Art is expensive, by any way you look at. Whom claim the opposite lie. The good quality costs a lot, it is expensive. I don't doubt that there could be ingenious projects of low resources, I subsidize one that grows and is a miracle that it remains, but is expensive, expensive for me.
This site was created and though as a book in which each reader can decide to continue reading or to quit the book. Reading demands attention, care, will. I don't believe in the lecture campaigns, because the book needs passion, desire, pleasure. There's no obligatory reading, that's more like a crime. That's a peddler. The one that wishes to get in the reading needs a minimum of concern. That interest is generated to a large extent by the reader. Reading isn't a kind of seduction, don't persuade, neither attracts, that's another market, is not a myth of conviction, a funny music machine. I met a few people that can stare at a picture even more than a quarter of an hour, that investigate what the picture is trying to say, that make an alternative reading of the picture, that links it with what's out of the picture, what's say about it. I imagine that in the past they remained like that in a form of hypnosis like now is happening with the mass media. That's a curiosity intrinsic to the reader, there is all kind of readers, unclassifiable readers. Otherwise, it would be a deadlock to try to make a taxonomy of the readers. The picture doesn't only borns to amaze, the picture is an unheard situation, mute. Out from this world since the beginning. Calls, push, throws and leave most of the times in an extreme helplessness. In this right moment, I'm making a reading of this document prepared to not forget what to say, what I thought, not to wander like in the complex framework of my job. I prefer solitude and silence to the one that I would be pushed to captivate me, I hate to feel like a prey of the hopes of other artists. I choose very well to what exhibition visit, and what other not even see the catalogs. There are some terrifying books I had to abandon. That's why the book, the book could be retired of the sight. To get far away of what we are, and go to their encounter with the force that it requires to go for it. A free will, an inner desire, a shock without precedent. We discover that there isn't the favorite reader, that there's almost inexistent, that doesn't object a partial judgment, short-sighted. And however, the ones who make books, knowing that such an ideal reader doesn't exist, that it is impossible to found it, we continue to summon. We are readers before of being writers. Like humans, we walk through signs that throw us certain tracks, certain notions, and there in the transfer that we do in that readings we make our own books. We betray miss our masters. We would want to be their breathe, tie ourselves to their pulse, but we fall, fall without possible handles. And we have or not, that depends on each reader, of their own conditions, maybe for a moment, to hit the road.
Well, just until now I've exposed, according to me, the acid points of this activity. Now I will want to pass to a rough point of the work, practice issues. Usually, I have measured the time I spend making a picture. These digital-analog paintings, I perform them in one-two months. I normally do 12-15 pictures of the large format by year. I make a lot of notes in this regard because they give me guidelines over what I'm planning as the painting grows. I don't have predetermined subject, because I've considered that what it produces to me is an enormous tedium, and I never arrive at the site I claimed. The situations trigger other routes, sometimes with peculiarities that I don't expect. As the web page marks it, are topics, would be I believe, vulgar to name it that way, improvised or studies. Are spontaneous occurrences that emerge, unconscious occurrences. I believe that most of the people live with three or four internal dialogues, and we only put attention to one of them. For shame, for existential hurry, for the scandal of what could it suggest the unconscious of each person, this discourse is silenced by most of the people, the most abhorrent the dialogue with their own unconscious. Are pictures in which I go finding myself, are discoveries in the middle of a travel journey, internal or external. I work on an unconscious form, unfinished, under the rumor of the dream imperishable and recent, I move on between the mist, in the fog groping, I emigrate on every hand, I'm a sedentary nomade. I work with the use of written words and images. The use of the word is given because the word raises evocations, images that not necessarily are the same in each reader. A word transports in a particular way, crashes and hits like a wave in each multiple consciences. In a sort of singular hermeneutics with the experience of each reader. For saying it this way, instead, images are circuit more closed, limited, circumscribed, cryptic. The poetry doesn't contain all that barriers if you wish to call it that way, that have the images. The image guides, but limited to an edge to a form, to a relief. Sometimes this is circumstantial, I don't find the image that refers to what I have to say. I use words.
The lines of investigation in my work, are like when someone goes out for fishing. I will make a metaphor for the fishing, at this moment. You wake up in the middle of a dream, at dawn, having images, a sensation of have passed through the night, the immense night. A night infested of sweat, of annunciations. In that brief auscultation, and expanded night, arise visions, what mystics called deliveries, flashes without apparent breathe, crashing interlinkages, disparate and chaotic. Sometimes even, there's no explanation for what you survive during the vigil. There is no human power to communicate with setting forth plausible what happens at night. Hiccups of the reason, maybe. Later when you wake and get up, there is the coffee cup, the face of the woman, the invincible sand, the ship out on one of the unrevealed adventures. A fleeting trail, still veiled. In deck when the boat is on gear when the man is the only meditation of the waves, starts the game of the tide, of the swing in front of the inscrutable depths. There is that road that it is being erased as the passage. You still are confused with what you see, if it is real, if it is a fiction of a dream in which you're immersed, trapped. Is it true that I woke up? Maybe I don't have a better image recorded in my memory, on the catafalque of the existence, that the beams of the sun diffracted in the twilight sea. And later, later there it is, waiting for a sign, of the lower vestige that could represent the settings of life. It waits, that waiting hour cares. Sometimes you return with empty hands, with a moldy shoe, with the grid of another fisherman, with the only skeleton of a fish severed by other predators. Sometimes, if it is not that most of the times, you return exhausted, with an object without an object. And then began the questions. The questions for which I don't have any certain object or nothing clear. You maintain the "merchandise" and again you will try to "sell it" to the best bidder of the harbor. Trade of fisherman I call it. You bring it, and it looks at you from its existence that extinguishes. From its drowning open and close its mouth waiting I don't know what signal from the sun, open and close its mouth without words. I don't know what last breathe. I don't know what moment of agony that finish its life.
I don't know, maybe all of this you find it extravagant. You were waiting to come and listen to a more logical speech, coherent, even that answer to some expectations, to some questions. I will say that it is the way I wait. Never nothing is what you are waiting for. On the waiting, there are emerging imaginary, hidden beings, atrocious or sweat experiences. What else I would want my beloved congeners that deliver you the charge for what you were here. Oh, deception of deceptions. the illusion is broken, the Navy stuck, and the sea doesn't give what you were searching. You stand there for the mermaids, wait for being devoured by the heavy fog of a clear morning. That's the job of the fisher.
The dizziness that produces my work. That needs of a sophistication for being watched. Is one of the needings of this work. I don't find a disagreement, that giving to the persons, under ignoble ends, a guarantee that they will see, what they are ready to see. I don't believe that there is more lack of respect, with a reader than underestimating him. To present him the obvious. My suggestion is the reading for not drown of tedium, of the anguish, of the void, of the oblivion, of the aggression so day-to-day, so forced to happen like a unique entrance to this world. I propose a reading as a medium, if you want it religiously, a way of salvation. All my life I haven't done anything as just pay attention to what I attend. To be contemplative to any trace, the minimum of the traces that suggest other incomplete question, a subway, another detachment of what we are, at the end of the day… almost nothing.
This question, now I will deal with this question, last: we are lost. We are lost, and we look for the exit inside the Minos labyrinth. We were lucky to have an Ariadna that give us the strings. We had the luck to get in and went out of the labyrinth, as we are entering and coming out from the dream. We are lost and again found. Every night is thrown an uncertain coin to the sky to see our luck. The fate that put us on the corner, the luck that waits for us, and annihilate us in every step, in every dream. The question I ever framed like currency a little bit naive, a little bit as a bait and insignia were that I was looking for a way out. But perhaps, like a Zen monk, devoted to a perpetual renunciation, I could state the following: I don't have to get out because I'm not inside. After the short story Minos, is a myth, against the scandal of bad auguries. Is the tribute to the embarrassment of a fate. Is a sacrifice to whom we don't invite ourselves.
