decir que esa mujer era dos mujeres es decir poquito debía tener unas 12397 mujeres en su mujer era difícil saber con quién trataba uno en ese pueblo de mujeres ejemplo:
yacíamos en un lecho de amor ella era un alba de algas fosforescentes cuando la fui a abrazar se convirtió en singapur llena de perros que aullaban recuerdo cuando se apareció envuelta en rosas de agadir parecía una constelación en la tierra parecía que la cruz del sur había bajado a la tierra esa mujer brillaba como la luna de su voz derecha
como el sol que se ponía en su voz en las rosas estaban escritos todos los nombres de esa mujer menos uno y cuando se dio vuelta su nuca era el plan económico tenía miles de cifras y la balanza de muertes favorables a la dictadura militar nunca sabía uno adónde iba a parar esa mujer yo estaba ligeramente desconcertado una noche le golpeé el hombro para ver con quién era y vi en sus ojos desiertos un camello
a veces esa mujer era la banda municipal de mi pueblo tocaba dulces valses hasta que el trombón empezaba a desafinar y los demás desafinaban con él esa mujer tenía la memoria desafinada
usté podía amarla hasta el delirio hacerle crecer días del sexo tembloroso hacerla volar como pajarito de sábana al día siguiente se despertaba hablando de malevich
la memoria le andaba como un reloj con rabia a las tres de la tarde se acordaba del mulo que le pateó la infancia una noche del ser ellaba mucho esa mujer y era una banda municipal
yo compañeros una noche como ésta que nos empapan los rostros que a lo mejor morimos monté en el camellito que esperaba en sus ojos y me fui de las costas tibias de esa mujer
callado como un niño bajo los gordos buitres que me comen de todo menos el pensamiento de cuando ella se unía como un ramo de dulzura y lo tiraba en la tarde
This drawing sat on my desk, it's 55mm x 74mm, 300lb archive watercolour paper, on that piece of plywood, under tissue paper, since last Summer. Many things have rested on it, papers, purses, gloves, hat, scarf, sweaters, until I cleaned it all up a week ago. Yesterday afternoon I threw water all over it, which ran everywhere, on the floor, all over my class notes (requiring a 'drying out' on a towel in the living room) but never mind that, and started rubbing paint in.
The painting wasn't too bad, really it wasn't. But for no reason that I can think of I found a Waterman fountain pen that still had ink in it (oh, rue the day for pens with ink when you shouldn't!) and inked in the figures, after they'd had their first wash of paint. I only looked at the lines, was comforted in the process of outlining and ignored the whole painting in my act.
What a mess! Why'd I do that? Inking by rote, rather than with a sensitivity to the image?
Now I have to try to clean up- the inked lines far too dark and insensitive. Because I drew them after the first wash of colour, the colour doesn't adhere to them, nor did they bleed into that first wash as would normally happen (since I used to ink first, then paint).
Oooh, la!
Is this why it sat like an accuser on my desk for over 6 months saying, paint, paint, when I would choose the 'by rote' path rather than the 'in the moment' shifting and changing as light and colour asked, and be forced to confront my own predilections, my own habitual patterns, all the immovable grids in my perception?
Does it work, or not? Doesn't matter. Just playing. Animoto mades a video out of whatever photos you upload, and adds whatever music (in this case an .mp3 of a poetry recording I did some years ago) to it. It's a 30 second freebie. The slideshow video is here (if there's any problem with the embedded one below). The poem, Whorls of Angels, of which there is a snippet, can be found here. Hope this posts alright!
Looks innocent. Yet this little 2 minute 'trailer' for my Digital Video Editing course took, well, an all-nighter and then some. First I spent many hours cutting it up into tiny 'best shots' sub-clips, 35 in all. Then I took some still photos of backgrounds to try. Then I started to put it all together. I think I got into bed at 6am for about 2 hours. And it wasn't finished.
In class last Monday, where we got an extension of 2 weeks, whew, I realized that what I was doing was a 'mini' version of the story, and that's not what's required in the 'trailer' assignment.
So, begin again... (or finish this and begin again)
Final Cut Pro (in class) and Express (what I work in at home) is drag and drop, and ooh la! I think trying to line up a snippet of a scene with the layers I like to work with and with dissolves in and out would take minutes rather than an hour if it were all done with a time line, with numbers. But I am told once I get used to the drag & drop interface that I'll find it very easy to work with. I haven't crossed that threshold yet, still being stuck somewhere on the learning curve like Sisyphus.
Melt into the edge of the room. Eyes shut; no-one can see me. Slide along walls, over chairs, until the table. Where I was going, I realize. Varnished wood, thick, old, probably Walnut. Carved in a carpenter's studio, perhaps. Legs spun on spindles. I imagine the tree who was stripped for the table, sawed into planks. Centuries old, sap running through limbs, leaves drinking rain and sun, rooted in earth. I hug the table, in the dark of my closed eyes. My chest to the tabletop, beating, then turning over, until my back lies flat. Reaching forward and down, from the safety of the wood, fingers groping air, the unknown. I cannot touch floor. It is the end of the world, the emptiness of the universe, nothingness. Only the wood holds me here.
The octaves. I am a child on a swing, flung out past the boundaries. My long-silenced throat clears, a tiny AUM. Louder. A simple scale, up and down.
I hope the others in the room, for we all move with our eyes shut, dancing our internal dramas, aren't irritated by my sudden child-like joy, the octaves.
I release the table, roll on the floor, light laugh, humming.