"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


A matter of Grace

A summer storm
Graces all of me
Highway warm
Sing silent poetry
And I could bring you the light
And take you home into the night

(Lately, I just can’t seem to believe
Discard my friends to change the scenery
It meant the world to hold a bruising faith
But now, it’s just a matter of grace)


Favus distillans: Ursula virgo est

A dripping honeycomb was the virgin Ursula
Milk and honey under her tongue

Like a fruit ladden garden and splendour of flowers
She gathered a throng of virgins around her

Therefore rejoice, daughters, in the noblest dawn

A personal selection of Hildegarde von Bingen's Favus distillans, from 11000 Virgins: Chants for the Feast of Saint Ursula.


Preacher in the Grey Cap y la cuarta dimensión

¿Qué es la meditación? Fue lo primero que dijo después de que me pidió permiso para sentarse en mi mesa -tan llena de mí-, sacándome del éxtasis creativo en el que me encontraba sumida.

En medio de la confusión sobre las intenciones de ese desconocido, I thought that the question could be addressed through an array of answers, a very wide color spectrum: but No, he said, No, la meditación es, y grábatelo bien: and then something I should remember very clearly and do but not in words: the journey through the self to some absolute truth which, in my opinion, is both absolute & absolutely relative: so many truths to learn, so many guises and shapes and sounds that make up an infinite number of different melodies through which that one truth manifests itself.

Being an absolute relativist myself, and having been trained in post-modern philosophical thought, I felt very uncomfortable with the word Truth, con su mayúscula tan imperativa. Still, I have never quite grasped that stuff about the 4th and 5th and 9th and etc. dimensions, something he did not promise to explain but kept talking about as though I understood it all: Reality is the fourth dimension. Piensa, repiensa, reflexiona, y... actúa? or another couple more non-negotiable instructions, which I unfortunately forgot rather soon, la sobreintelectualización being uno de los males de los cuales intento deshacerme en los últimos tiempos.

I do believe, though, he was right about something: Love is not a word, it is a fact. Factum, non verbum, haciendo gala de su erudición. Elaborando al respecto: Love is not love which makes a sound that does not reverberate. Anzi, Love is not a sound: it is an act. Como diría ese sabio y afamado cantante, El amor, amigues míes, es verbo, no sustantivo. Maybe, if I am misinterpreting correctly, the fourth dimension could be the dimension of the Reality of Love.

Aprende a amarte para que puedas amarnos: de todas las cosas que me ordenó que me aprendiera de memoria, ésta es la única que recuerdo con absoluta claridad.


Still I will harvest beauty where it grows

Her the inhabiter of diverse places
Surmising at all doors, I push them all.
Oh, you that fearful of a creaking hinge
Turn back forevermore with craven faces,
I tell you Beauty bears an ultra fringe
Unguessed of you upon her gossamer shawl!

Edna St. Vincent Millay


Un huerto

Murmura al ras
lo que gesta en secreto

mira lejos

Hacia la 1 y 1/2 de la tarde
forjando el camino del pájaro

Abriendo los ojos
ya durmiendo
rodó sus ruedas de horas ovaladas

Todos los días
                         el calendario

El muro de agua de los ritos

Su engranaje se diluye
pues es su magia algo diferente:

la existencia llevada a cabo
en la porción del ritmo
en el pulso de lo visto
entre el deshielo lampo del instante
que parte
da cuanta forma la forma necesita

En las palabras de los mares
hay lluvia que acompañe su silencio

Andando por ahí
se llega al centro
de algún modo

veredas se transitan en los ojos
                                                   un huerto
                                                   un colibrí
                                                   un pavo real

el vaivén de un sauce
que se ríe sobre el arroyo

Palabras rescatadas de Josué Ramírez's Muda de raíces



                                But she's just like lightning
                                She goes right through you
                                Then you know you'll never
                                Be the same

                                 - Mazzy Star, "She's my baby"

Mustard. Mustard and black. Mustard and black and silver.


Her silver hair.

She is just like lightning.
Her whole self
it does go right through you
Pierces you
                        Leaves you breathless

As she walks away
                      past you
                      behind you

But also beside you
Right beside you

Mustard and black. And silver.

Her silver self
Traps you
As she walks home, alone.


An entirely new thought

It made her curious
What would it be like
to weave in and out of dreams
an entirely new thought?

She liked the idea of going to sleep
beside the whales
down there
under the sea
where the north wind lives in an ice cave

(it asks for cool breezes
to make you comfortable
while you're getting well
And when you've recovered
they'll take you riding

beyond the skeptical glance of the child
whose faith in fantasy has been shaken)

This afternoon
when I woke up from my nap
I heard you talking
about the air
more freely

Just for a few days
will you leave the thinking?
There's more to your being here

You'll feel the sea
which means
you'll rest a little better

(Built from words stolen -and borrowed- from Laura London's The Windflower)


Immagine per occhi divini

Sabbia a perdita d'occhio, tra le ultime colline e il mare - il mare - nell'aria fredda di un pomeriggio quasi passato, e benedetto dal vento che sempre soffia da nord.

La spiaggia. E il mare.

Potrebbe essere la perfezione - immagine per occhi divini - mondo che accade e basta, il muto esistere di acqua e terra, opera finita ed esatta, verità - verità - ma ancora una volta è il salvifico granello dell'uomo che inceppa il meccanismo di quel paradiso, un'inezia che basta da sola a sospendere tutto il grande apparato di inesorabile verità, una cosa da nulla, ma piantata nella sabbia, impercettibile strappo nella superficie di quella santa icona, minuscola eccezione posatasi sulla perfezione della spiaggia sterminata. A vederlo da lontano non sarebbe che un punto nero: nel nulla, il niente di un uomo e di un cavalletto da pittore.

Alessandro Baricco, Oceano Mare.


The way a gardener would shape a garden

So you, as an artist, can manipulate time and move things around, you cut and shape the way a gardener would shape a garden, so that you can see certain flowers and pay attention to certain plants, otherwise it’s just a jungle. And it’s the writer’s job to cut away and prune and shape and make order from that jungle so that you can pay attention and see certain colors and patterns.

-Sandra Cisneros