The message
I have written I am a fleeting dot in this night. Any night adorned with tiny fireflies, offering their lanterns in a solemn rite.
I walk along a dirty street, where traces of cobblestones from another era are visible, the smell of the sewers is nauseating. There is no rain nor small rodents as there should be, but it is a world inhabited at odd hours by specters that slowly pass from the human to the unspeakable. I write because I know nothing less bothersome to do, apart from this apprenticeship of mixing colors, among drowsy lights. Strokes and ants. Straight lines, not so perfect, nor so erotic.
You should be Polyphemus, near Erebus begging the ferryman to take me to the other shore. As if the other shore mattered. I write because someone remains for me at the other end of the world. There are no more airships, no hot air balloons to send messages. The bugs sniff happily among the fabrics; we can eradicate pests, but the ideal would be to find oil, gold, coltan, or roots—the order doesn't matter. Just premonitions that stubbornly take refuge in memory. While we feel life spilling quietly over the days.
Some days I want to bring you the news, clean news, like water that springs from the earth among fountains and water lilies, but I wake up to unbearable heat and a longing for snow, while in your world snow is hateful and barren, and it's the second time the odious neighbor has passed by, with her mangy dog that bares its teeth and is as terrible and depressing as its owner. We have gnomes in the garden, or they've been stolen. The cat remains peacefully in the chimney; there are a few jars of jam left from the time of Covid, or only the white of the freshly painted surface persists. Houses only remain active if you perceive some kind of foul, disproportionate smoke. My sky is gray, nasty, I hate it, but I can imagine it translucent and blue, draw a little, step outside the borders of the bedbug conflict and leave you a bottle upstream, out to sea.
@blessedlife, @emmabritt, @solperez
Image created by me from a specific prompt in chatGPT.
Te leo y siento que detrás de estas palabras hay un inmenso deseo de volar en búsqueda de ese cielo azul y abrir tus alas hacia otros universos que huelen a tierra mojada y a flores del campo.
Admiro tu talento y quisiera que sintieras que no estás solo. Que eres imprescindible en la vida. Deseo que todo vaya mejor para ti. Un abrazo, amigo del alma.
Your words are art and tenderness. Your message is spring water. Clean, solemn. Our realities affect us. They hold us back and perhaps propel us forward, or limit the inner artist we recreate or try to liberate. I would hate the tools I have if I could, but art has grown within me; I cultivate it, I try, I surrender myself to its embrace and dream. My sky shouldn't remain gray forever, nor should anyone else's. Someday the rains might come and wash away all the grime, leaving the streets and cobblestones passable. Then a new breeze might grow, like the story of the beans, reaching the clouds. Discovering unknown ports. Your art is also a symbol that moves us, your land is also a tangle of unknowns. I hope you are well, that you have a beautiful day. Happy, with all the mothers who belong to you, who belong to us, who deserve love and respect.
Eres lo máximo. Un abrazo.
Gracias por el apoyo.
Tienes el don de expresar con las palabras y los trazos lo que otros solo saben que sienten y no logran exteriorizar sino que está reprimido dentro de ellos, o al menos no podrían transformar ese dolor en arte escrita o pintada como lo haces tú, tan profundo, tan sensible.
Eres un punto fugaz, como las luciérnagas, eres luminoso.
Te abrazo en la distancia deseando que veas el azul y sientas la brisa que refresca, después de todo y a pesar de todo.
Me gusta la gente que siempre está creando, con las herramientas que ama a la mano, tratando de transformar todo lo feo que nos rodea. Los artistas son sensibles, tienden a entender mejor la naturaleza humana, usan el dolor, muchas veces como fuente, pero toman lo negativo y lo purifican, lo entregan con amor. Eres ternura. Caminas por el estrecho sendero del arte, dejas mensajes, motivas y creas. Gracias por ayudar, dejar rayos de esperanza; me motiva la gente que se toma el tiempo para dejar su huella en el arte.
Así lo creo, no sé si sufren más por ser tan sensibles, pero entiendo que ese proceso los libera. Son una especie de alquimistas.
Tú eres el artista. Un abrazo
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Gracias por el apoyo.
I really love this piece of writing. It's very descriptive, feels like I'm standing on that street myself
The current has given me a brief respite. So I'm back at it again. I'm leaving you a little message, a compass, so you don't lose your art, so you grow wings and remain strong. Write, let out all the ugliness you're suffering; art has that magical touch of healing the soul.
I will always try, whenever circumstances allow, to return to you. Even in total darkness, I keep you in my memory.