Concrete style infused with thought and feeling

Looking north.

Chapter 1. Negative.

It doesn't smell like you anymore!
I'm like a mute speaker, I've become paralyzed.
There's hardly a sound of living together, and the hours they're at home, your parents, they're very quiet.
That's why I dared to send you some of the sensations and conversations that you can feel in this, your house, where everything has turned towards the North.
Do you remember when you were watching the sunrise or the sunset?
Well, no! Now they are only in front of the wall and in front of it the television.
The hours of the day from sunset to night are filled with nostalgia.
I don't hear anything other than discontent between your father and mother in their conversation.



And why deny it, some lead them to think, and if you want to visualize: your uncomfortable moving around with that husband, with whom neither of you seems to feel alien to his despotism!
Very generalized, they think.
Between truths and half-lies, they never have an approach of positions about the feeling, about your placidity, so common here.
Your reality takes away their sleep.
Maybe we're wrong and you're happy! ...they say.
Or maybe they think they have this feeling that you have been stolen from them! ... and add uncertainty to their doubt.
However, I think that since you only call and come very rarely, it is because you don't need them and you are in a rainbow of happiness.
Time, or maybe, after a few months, after the initial honeymoon, everything will be vaporized!
Ah! ...and again let us look more closely at your affections, and approve your marriage! 
You look as if you'd hung a slogan on the ceiling. "We shall be on the lookout every day," that means not that we shall watch you, but that our ears, like your eyes, shall be a beacon, so that your ship will not be wrecked.
This island is sad
 


Kisses from your parents...

P.S.

This is a personal note from your mother, surely thinking of that time she described aloud:
"I'm as afraid of you as I was when I married your father. 
He was a bit of a despot, of an educated male chauvinist, which made me uncomfortable, and although that lasted his two attempts, now we almost without talking think, repeated, that situation in your relationship.
Your father is now kind, compliant, and argumentative. He thinks we're the same, as people."

Here I am, try to be happy!

Newness:

Your house has turned into an amanuensis!


And this is the air you breathe here.



Chapter 2. 

Looking south. 

We've done well, everything!

That same house where you were born is talking.
Nothing's changed, everything's the same.

These are the memories of your house without you!

I know what you're coming to like today, and even I'm happy.
Everything is alive!


We're waiting for you! 
That's what this usual weekly slogan says, on the radiant threshold of our door.
- I speak to you as a member of the family.

You have the food prepared, the table exquisitely set, like every Saturday after your marriage, with that exceptional husband who accompanies you.

Your father and mother live floating in the atmosphere of your happiness, and that makes the feeling of emptiness not exist, which in other circumstances, could be uncomfortable, if you were not happy, there.
Looking at the light of the house, to the south, they keep waiting for the sunset from all the windows of me.
We have the prize of a successfully married daughter!
Living here is an homage.



Ah, you hadn't noticed.  It's your house that writes!

Kisses

Cut it out

LAST WEEK'S ASSIGNMENT
Four heavenly bodies

I rejoice in my memories sitting here, while outside that soft breeze from another autumn morning blows. 

I look at it from outside:

And I always have the impression that this bar bevels those of us who spend more than two hours every night, here, when the streets are so empty!
We come from our hotel room, a few blocks down, and then we come back...



The water should start to come out cold, as the waiter's hands make quick gestures to speed up the cleaning of the last cups of coffee.
I always think he didn't realize that it is better to leave them floating in that strange lagoon, drawing bubbles, floating among those grayish lights that the night dims.  There the cups emerge like people in the city at this time of night when loneliness, volume and distances are reduced.

Many times I thought I had some property in this corner, because I feel so good sitting here, with my coffee cup, my short cigarette and you, there! in red, always with a word in your voice, your kind gestures with your hands.
Now, today, what is more than four o'clock in the morning, we look quietly at the waiter cleaning the flooded glasses, so lonely, in that bubbling raft of water, as hesitant and serene as we are, waiting for a lonely next day, which in fact is already, and perhaps a little restrained. The same four of us who were there yesterday or last Saturday at this time.

Sometimes, that quiet man across the street, who also comes every night, greets us, as he turns the glass, or the coffee cup, looking for its best position to drink it, and keeps staring at the wet glow of the freshly washed glasses.

No, there won't be any left!
Talking to yourself at this time of day is a way to stay awake and prepare for the intimacy of your pillow.
And our day is coming to an end, which goes back in hours to the next, leaving us spaces of urban solitude, of that which we need around us to feel our presence, and to put distance between things and us. Let us see them, and they see us!

..eah!

 It's been a few years since you and I have made the same journey, and we don't let our solitude leave us in this famous, recently painted, sky-blue lit, isolated from the world.

My solitude next to yours turns this floating bar into a sky, and us into heavenly bodies.

And even the exit is as if it were far away, inaccessible, sealed off.

Nothing invites us to leave!

THIS WEEK'S ASSIGNMENT

Four heavenly bodies

I rejoice in my memories this autumn morning, from our hotel, and outside, in the empty streets, to here.
And now...!
..Ah!

I feel that this bar bevels us during these two dear hours, which we spend every night, here.
The water must be cold! 
The nimble hands and quick gestures of the bartender, over the last used coffee cups.
I think for him!
He would leave the glasses in that strange lagoon all night long, among the tense lights, in his diminished solitude and the scarce distances, which make them float.
....
Something in this corner belongs to me, it makes me feel good, sitting here.
Coffee, short cigarettes, . . . you! with your voice and your kind gestures. Always!
It's past four in the morning.
The quiet waiter.
The waterlogged glasses, lonely
The hesitant water bubbles.
We serenely wait for a lonely next day, which is already.
... We are the same, four, as every day, at the same time.

That quiet man who greets us and turns the glass or the coffee cup, looking for his positions, and also looks at the wet glow of the freshly washed glasses.
There won't be anything left!
Talking alone keeps me awake.
I think about the intimacy of the pillow.
Hours of another day, today.
Urban solitudes, without things, without volume and distant from each other.
...eah!
In this chamfer, always as if freshly painted, lit up in the sky, in which for years we have abandoned our solitude, to be a world.
Yours next to mine is this floating bar
Yes, another one!
It's late!
The exit is far away, it seems inaccessible and watertight.
Nothing invites us to leave!

LAST WEEK'S ASSIGNMENT

SPANISH VERSION

Cuatro cuerpos celestes.

Me regocijo mirando en mis recuerdos  esta madrugada de otoño, desde nuestro hotel, y fuera, en las calles vacías, hasta aquí.
Y ahora...!
..Ah!
 Siento que este bar nos bisela durante estas dos horas queridas, que pasamos cada noche, aquí.
¡ El agua debe de estar fría! 
La manos ágiles y los gestos rápidos del camarero ,sobre las últimas tazas de café, usadas.
Pienso por él!
Dejaría los vasos en esa rara laguna toda la noche, entre las tenas luces, en su aminorada soledad y las escasas distancias, que los hacen flotar.
....
Algo de este rincón me pertenece, me deja sentirme bien, aquí sentado.
Café, cigarrillos cortos, ..¡ tú! con tu voz y tus gestos amables. Siempre!
Son más de las cuatro de la madrugada.
El camarero callado.
Los anegados vasos, solitarios
Las burbujas de agua vacilantes.
Nosotros serenos, a la espera de un solitario día siguiente, que ya es.
... Somos los mismos, cuatro, como cada día, a la misma hora.
Ese callado hombre que nos saluda y gira el vaso o la taza de café, buscando sus posiciones, y también mira el brillo húmedo de los vasos recién lavados.
¡No va a quedar nada!
Hablar solo me mantiene despierto.
Pienso en la intimidad de la almohada.
Horas de otro día, hoy.
Solitudes urbanas, sin cosas, sin volumen y distantes entre ellas.
...eah!
En este chaflán, siempre como recién pintado, iluminado en celeste, en el que desde hace años abandonamos nuestra soledad, para se un mundo.
El tuyo al lado del mío, es este bar flotante
¡ Sí, otro!
¡ Es tarde!
La salida está alejada, parece inaccesible y hermética.

¡Nada nos invita a irnos!

THIS WEEK'S ASSIGNMENT

SPANISH VERSION

Cuatro cuerpos celestes.

Me regocijo mirando en mis recuerdos  esta madrugada de otoño, desde nuestro hotel, y fuera, en las calles vacías, hasta aquí.
Y ahora...!
..Ah!
 Siento que este bar nos bisela durante estas dos horas queridas, que pasamos cada noche, aquí.
¡ El agua debe de estar fría! 
La manos ágiles y los gestos rápidos del camarero ,sobre las últimas tazas de café, usadas.
Pienso por él!
Dejaría los vasos en esa rara laguna toda la noche, entre las tenas luces, en su aminorada soledad y las escasas distancias, que los hacen flotar.
....
Algo de este rincón me pertenece, me deja sentirme bien, aquí sentado.
Café, cigarrillos cortos, ..¡ tú! con tu voz y tus gestos amables. Siempre!
Son más de las cuatro de la madrugada.
El camarero callado.
Los anegados vasos, solitarios
Las burbujas de agua vacilantes.
Nosotros serenos, a la espera de un solitario día siguiente, que ya es.
... Somos los mismos, cuatro, como cada día, a la misma hora.
Ese callado hombre que nos saluda y gira el vaso o la taza de café, buscando sus posiciones, y también mira el brillo húmedo de los vasos recién lavados.
¡No va a quedar nada!
Hablar solo me mantiene despierto.
Pienso en la intimidad de la almohada.
Horas de otro día, hoy.
Solitudes urbanas, sin cosas, sin volumen y distantes entre ellas.
...eah!
En este chaflán, siempre como recién pintado, iluminado en celeste, en el que desde hace años abandonamos nuestra soledad, para se un mundo.
El tuyo al lado del mío, es este bar flotante
¡ Sí, otro!
¡ Es tarde!
La salida está alejada, parece inaccesible y hermética.

¡Nada nos invita a irnos!

Essential Afternoon

The snowy afternoon extends in this winter around the passage of time becoming a desire, and desire becomes fruit. The most intense, idealized, sensual and erotic of all: the pomegranate, ripe and ochre with red blushes.


Here I have you freshly picked from my tree, open!

Each grain, a kiss, an idea, a solution.

My hand squeezes you, broken, and your red grains fall on the arch of my legs.
The light so intense dislocates my imagination and my desire
I squeeze you, take a pimple and then another. A light thread of juice drips from my fingers and pushes me to have an impulse, a vibrant burning, a playful outburst...

you smell of delirium!

There is no austerity in my smell, and appearances do not hold my moderation, leaving all space to the appetite.

ORIGINAL SPANISH VERSION

Tarde esencial

La tarde nevada se extiende en este invierno alrededor del paso del tiempo convirtiéndose en un deseo, y el deseo se convierte en fruta. La más intensa, idealizada, sensual y erótica entre todas: la granada, madura y ocre con rubores rojos.
Aquí  te tengo recién cogida de mi árbol, ¡ abierta!
Cada grano, un beso, una idea, una solución.
Mi mano te aprieta, partida, y tus granos rojos caen sobre el arco de mis piernas.
La luz tan intensa disloca mi  imaginación y mi deseo.
Te estrujo, cojo un grano y luego otro. Un leve hilo de zumo chorrea por mis dedos y me empuja a tener un impulso, un ardor vibrante, un arrebato lúdico...
¡ hueles a delirio!

No hay austeridad en mi olfato, y las apariencias no sujetan mi moderación, dejando todo el espacio al apetito.


Sensuous Description

Objective

Artists learn to draw and thereby to learn to see. That’s what this exercise is about. Learning to draw with language and thereby to perceive more vividly.

Assignment

This is a simple exercise with a simple emphasis: writing with your five senses.

Write a three-paragraph description of a person or a place. Show the reader what it looks like, smells like, feels like, sounds like, even tastes like.

Try to put pressure on every word, every phrase. Make every sentence meaningful, sensible, and clear.

Descripción sensual

Objetivo

Los artistas aprenden a dibujar y, por lo tanto, a aprender a ver. De eso se trata este ejercicio. Aprender a dibujar con el lenguaje y, por lo tanto, percibir más vívidamente.

Asignación

Este es un ejercicio simple con un énfasis simple: escribir con tus cinco sentidos.

Escriba una descripción de tres párrafos de una persona o un lugar. Muestre al lector lo que parece, huele, siente, suena, incluso sabe.

Intenta presionar cada palabra, cada frase. Haga que cada oración sea significativa, sensata y clara.