morillo673

2011-06-04T22:56:00.000-07:00

im here,the city roars in anger,shamefullnes, regret and pain. old wounds and new open and it hearts beautifully. The distance grows, it doubles first and than expands exponentially reflecting the whole left behind, streching me, dividing me, multiplying me. It rains incesantly, even the skies weep. The mountains hide, the fog lingers, danger prevails. we are high mountain people, we keep inside. The doors open to few, i return and find all portals wide open, i age and regresss simultaneously.There is a legacy of pain to be dealt with, a reality to face and memories blooming.My knees give in the begining, then i sharpen up, my step is firm, i claim territory and embrace my city, and she opens up to me and loves me back not without reminding me how it could swallow me whole.

2011-04-22T20:24:00.001-07:00

Poetry tears through. Every now and then, some one else's undeciphrable words disrupt our existence and state the unspeakable succinctly. The pain dissolves and the joy of language tickles our inner darkeness with a light so faint and yet so sublime. Thanks to those who chiseled the words out of the ungratefull stone that life sometimes turns into. The obelisk that we drag through the relentless sand, the rock we become and recognize before we sink, and we sink beautifully into the depths of the ocean we intended to cross, and we drag those we said we love and those that Said they loved us jump boat. We quietly drift until we reach the bottom where we rot and rust into a shameful wreck that houses life so simple, so blind, so precarious it makes us pretty . We are ineffectively haunted in a place of solitude where there is no one to scare,no one to impress upon the greatness of our suffering. In ridicule we fade into oblivion and the organic of us transcends life as we become a dust of sorts that feeds the fish we once set to eat ourselves. The rest settles on the bottom to add to an infinite set of layers that dream peacefully about surfacing, about receiving the warmth of the sun and the solace of shade. The shade comes, and stays and lingers and it makes us cold and it makes us regret achieving the surface and it muscles itself from shade to shadow to darkness. We seek and shake and threaten and echo all that makes us what we are and we move and find the light again and hope to hold onto just to see it eat up the wick that bestows it upon us as we ready ourselves to go, again to the end of the line and wait for the unwritten promise of a second chance. And there we are at the end of the line and then in the middle and than at the front until we arrive to the place where we thought we would find some rest .We are handed a number and we wait , and we wait and we wait until we forget what we are waiting for, and if we are lucky, we dream of mirrors and the worlds beyond the reflected framed and we invent and reinvent and lie and deny and in all that exercise, if we are blessed, we find a smile.

2011-01-23T13:44:00.000-08:00

There is a quest for the sublime in the making of art that has always fascinated me. I like to observe and on the walls of a gallery I am always intrigued by what was interesting to the artist and why. If this commonality results in a moving experience than I find the art to be successful. This purely emotional encounter can be achieved at several levels, some more intellectual than others and some more emotional than others.

Ultimately, to be shaken, taken for a ride, enlightened,exposed to a certain level of poetry, or simply being offered an emotional experience seems to be what I am looking for when I go in search for art. I am certainly influenced by the geography of the arena where the encounter unfolds.

Yesterday, for example, I went to the Philadelphia museum of art. The place in itself is an experience, as you approach the entrance you feel confident that a collection housed in such an edifice must be worth it. Location is not the only influence in my perception of art. The personality of the artist plays a huge role in how much I like the art that I'm confronting. Was the artist convincing enough to get his art into a place like this museum or was it the value of the art in itself that found it's way to such a reputable collection. What if the artist is a despicable person but his art is successful. Is the artist purely a vessel for the artistic expression that unfolds through him or her or is the artist solely responsible for the making of art and the art itself belongs to him.

I enter the museum With these thoughts lingering in my mind. I intend to revisit the Michaelangelo Pistoletto show. I was there less than a week ago and enjoyed it so much I decided to come back. A vast part of the paintings were made on reflective surfaces. The realistic renderings of the characters portrayed, the quality of their gestures and the close to real life proportions utilized by the artist, in combination with the reflections of the actual visitors to the exhibition,results in a scene non less than magical.

The audience becomes part of the paintings, the paintings themselves reappear virtually in the reflective areas of the paintings around. As an audience you notice others reflected on the paintings observed, one recognizes the aesthetic potential of the gesture of the fellow audience members virtually , and briefly participating in the paintings visited. The paintings render moments valued for their uniqueness, yet they transform constantly as the audience moves around. The art on the walls comes to live, both frozen and ever-changing at the same time. I'm left wondering if what I saw was a drawing or a reflection, which of the characters were paintings of a moment frozen in time, rendered by the artist in his aesthetic investigation and which were reflections that appealed to me in my own aesthetic journey. The exhibition is successful both emotionally and conceptually.

I was looking at a painting called Graziella which appealed to me in part because it was the first of the series of paintings Pistolleto made over a refflective surface. It was not possible for me to tell that this was the one that originated the series, nothing about it revealed that it was a portal into a body of work that I found so incredibly successful. It was hard not to see myself as part of the painting. There I was in Graciela's world, captured for ever in this painting on the walls of this great museum. It felt as if a was just waiting for her to stand up and walk out of the gallery holding on to my arm, leaving the canvas behind empty, just a mirror hanging on the wall. Than, from behind her, I saw this two kids, a boy and girl about five and six years old running towards me as fast as they could. I froze, for a second I thought I had lost my mind and I had truly being absorbed by this magical painting. The kids slammed into the beautiful painting, the loud startling sound convinced me that this children had just bursted out of this portal into my reality. The security guard's mouth dropped, he knew he shouldn't touch the kids but he needed them to stop so he yelled at them as authoritatively as possible. I laughed, thankfully these weren't my children. As much respect as I have for the art I loved the fact that the boundaries that transformed this pieces into untouchable assets had been trespassed by the only human group allowed to. The kids had given me the ultimate Pistolleto experience and for that I thanked them as much as I did the author himself. I walked out the exhibition fully satisfied.

On my way out I wandered around one of the impressionist galleries, on a table, placed in the center of a large room elegantly displaying paintings by Pizzaro, Renoir ,Monet and Seraut, I ran into two small sculptures by Degas. "Woman unaware" and "Rearing horse". Both pieces were extremely beautiful studies of movement and gesture. Both pieces could be literaly heard and for a second there it occurred to me that both sculptures were reacting to the same startling noise.

Inmediatelly I was intrigued by the impossibility of freezing sound in time, yet , to me, this was exactly what this pieces accomplished. Perhaps the sculptures held a different gesture earlier in the day and when the kids slammed into the Pistolleto they were startled into this final pose. Perhaps the art in the museum comes to life constantly as it did in pistoleto's painted mirrors and Degas' figurines, sometimes not as emotionally as it did today but certainly in a manner that justifies the efforts of making and preserving art.

I walk out of the museum wondering when in the life of those children will
they realize the characteristics of their mischief and how it would affect their relationship with art, how Degas balanced out his craftsmanship and sensibility as a sculptor with his dwellings in antisemitism and if it was posible to celebrate his success as an artist without celebrating his political misgivings. Including Degas' inapropriateness in my perception of his art made me revisit Pistollletos paintings in my head. Were the depictions of women inadequate, insulting, diminishing. If so did it made the art a lesser art? What does it say about me if I liked the show. Is the role of commentary on art different of the role of criticism? Is it possible to encompass all that pertains to art every time we are confronted with it? Is it lazy not to? How about the role of the artist, are this thought processes destroying the creative process or enhancing it. It seems undeniable that there are thought processes involved in our relating to art, some unfold in a personal and emotional level, other intellectually and others in a stranged arena in where our human misgivings appear to act as a great catalizer for the happening of art.

2011-01-11T20:13:00.000-08:00

2011-01-06T14:20:00.000-08:00

National Institute of Health reported frustration while coming close to major breakthrough in research pertaining to human sensibility and recurrent pursue of the sublime. In analyzing the chemistry and molecular structure of an immense sample of human tears the team foresees tremendous insights into human definition of self.
The sample studied includes Solo man fossilized late Pleistocene amber tears recovered at Ngandon, Java. In what appears to be the earliest trace of human sobbing, the fossil remains encountered on the terraces of the Solo River display a prehistoric human skeleton revealing no apparent reason for its death other than perhaps a melancholic feat.
Studies of the remains reveal no nutritional deficiencies, no bone fractures or indication of extreme aging as a cause of death. Climatic conditions and geophysical characteristics of the site were instrumental in the preservation of the fossil, particularly in regards with the unique set of two tears recovered.
Professor Hart, head of the biochemistry research division of the project resigned to his position abruptly arguing insurmountable risk in dealing with the potential findings of this research. After being overcome by tears while publicly abandoning his position a stunned press core was able to barely understand what the scientist attempted to say in the press conference he had summoned himself. Professor Hart redeemed himself incapable or reasoning in the presence of such lacrimonious evidence. Perhaps, he said after gathering himself, we need not know everything.

2010-11-15T13:04:00.000-08:00

i am afraid. the winter nights are getting colder, longer and darker.So much is good, so much is broken. The fear tightens up in a knot somewhere in between my throat and my stomach. I have everything to loose. I've lost it all before, when i had less than i thought i did. What would it be like to have it all taken away now?

2010-09-13T21:04:00.001-07:00

In the realm of loneliness we face both the worst and the best of ourselves. A sense of arriving at a critical juncture is underlined buy the fact that we survive regardless of our lack of interest in it. There we are wondering where this strength comes from, this resistance to give up. A series of questions that preoccupied me all of a sudden became irrelevant. I am unable to write, I just scribble thoughts on random pieces of paper I misplace all over the house, in books I’m reading, in the dictionary, in the pockets of a winter coat, in a shoe. This notes, this collections of thought, come back to me later, and take me to the place where I was when I wrote them down, sometimes I completely blank out the origin of the notes, others are illegible. Some of this visitation of whoever I was whenever I wrote this notes to myself make me smile, other hurt deep inside,other are mysterious and worry me profoundly.
This are some notes I ran across lately. Most of them written on receipts, or behind business cards, or post it notes.

1.observe the Labyrinthical inner workings of hospitality
2. at war all the participants are paying attention
3.the idea is to get the audience to accept an uncertain and potentially impossible event. To achieve the tension coming from the vehement rejection of what is desired.
4. a woman taught me to love and forgive, another woman taught me to be mean and to steal
5 . the extremely difficult as metaphor of the sublime
6. there is no god in the city of Angels, only coyotes howling in the hills
7. he built himself up so tightly that it worked against him when asking for parole
8. I said: be good. He laughed so hard and boldly tears ran down his face
9. your teapot keeps me company, it is blue like the skies of the days you dislike so much, wonderful vampire that you are
10 intelligence=ability to understand electromagnetic spectrum
11lucifer, mammon, asmodeous, satan, beelzebut, leviathan, belpegor…pride avarice, lust,anger,envy gluttony, vanity , sloth

Bernardo- "Bad Company" First Person Arts StorySlam

2010-08-25T14:26:00.000-07:00

2010-08-16T14:12:00.001-07:00

Fraxinus Quadrangulata

Dear you
With the infallible eyes. Yesterday I failed to recognize you while you were standing there, half asleep, staring into my eyes. Who is this, I asked my self, slowly, word by word. Why are you looking at me with those eyes.I wanted to ask what you saw and wished hard for you not to tell me. I knew it would be the last thing I heard. I would die again, and again and again like so many other times. So many lives and all ended violently. Some might disagree and see the beauty in all that dying, at the end there is an inherit violence to the gestures of involuntary departure, to the taken for granted in not recognizing the last moments shared with someone you care about, the last moments in a place you love unaware .

Gone are then labyrinthic streets of the millenary neighborhood where I was born. The eucalyptus forest in the rain and its scent in my skin, my hair, my teeth. The secret corners of the city where it all unfolded with the same intensity. The vibrancy of the first kiss, the first fight, the first knife entering the skin,the breaking bone, the tepidness of blood, the significance of territory, the thrill of battle, the beauty of entropy, the nervous laughter of youth, the endless entrapment of social distress, the injustice overflowing , the combat, the intelligencia, the politics, the tobacco in the cadre’s kiss, the loss of faith, the disappointment of being left behind, with the sleeves rolled up and ready to get the job done, the stage and its curtain dropping at the end every night at the perfect time in every act, the strays I loved and took care of me, the mountain ever present like a brother, the relentless desire to engage in process, the wanting to make,and at the end the death of all that. The mourning, the burial.again and again and agin

2010-08-11T18:19:00.000-07:00

When we were children and saw ourselves as young men, and we thought we were invincible, and believed in everything but were devoted to nothing , his words resonated in my head. Every one dies but not every one truly lives. It echoed through out my existence until today, until right now, right here, in this instant in my mind. I truly don’t know what it means, what it meant to me than, when I was someone else. Before I died so many times. At the time, I think, I thought I truly lived. As I get older it seems like I am becoming one of the kind that just simply dies like everybody else. I want to live again. In the past I grew and thrived amongst others that have me full existence. Today I must learn to live in solitude, to rejoice in contemplation. It seems impossible to overcome the joy of dialogue. What is the point of seeing if I don’t have anyone to share what I’ve seen with. There is peace in the journey, I hear. I am so trained to celebrate arriving that this path into loneliness seems terrifying. When I was another I defined truly living by how many others I new, I loved, I cared for. When I was alone I learned to live on leftover affection. Any love I lacked I stole. Today I run solo, it’s the American way. Its hard not to care for anyone but myself, its hard to leave the kid behind, to see her drift away. I need help being alone!

2010-07-12T18:39:00.000-07:00

your eyes spoke of love deep as the seven seas
your heart was shallow, lined with velvet lies
everything you touch turns to shining gold
it must be so very hard to be you
I followed you and your rotten smile
just to be left behind, hiding my tears in the rain
not one drop of this storm belongs to me
every corner of this town is yours
every smile is accounted for, every ounce of joy
a scar was once a weeping wound now silenced by the weight of time
all the circles closed, quietly awaiting for the end
I dream of dying standing like a tree
claiming only this space i take
than i wake up to a new tired beginning
i shave
i shower
i dress
i earn
i pay
i move
i urinate
i eat
i sweat
i walk
i work
i sit
i stand
i defecate
i chew
i spit
i smoke
i shake hands
i age
i bend
i bend even more
i almost break
i recover
i smile
i grow
i add time to time
love to love
pain to pain
hunger to hunger in an endless equation that results in a mirror reflecting upon a mirror upon a mirror relentlessly into oblivion. in a restroom in a train station of all places.

2010-06-24T11:01:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember where we were going, what we were talking about, what I was wearing. It was already raining when lightning struck. I don’t know how long it took me to understand what was happening, I was blinded by the intense brightness, disoriented by the loudness of the exploding sound. My ears were ringing. I opened my eyes and realized I had my hands over my face, It was pouring, I was facing in the opposite direction I was when it all happened. People were running towards us, they had the most amazing expression on their faces. I looked at my hands and my arms and they were all scratched up, I turned around and realized there was a big eucalyptus tree right behind me. The trunk had broken at a height close to 7 feet, it looked as if it had been twisted around by a giant hand. I could see it almost imperceptibly shifting , as if it was about to unwind back into its original position. The Sight of the pale splintered wood held by the shattered red bark made me want to close my eyes.
As the ringing in my ears went away I could hear the tree slowly dragging itself on the ground, attempting to die standing, like a tree is supposed to. I looked at the rain falling hard on the leaves of the convalescent tree. That particular sound, coming from the ground, from under me instead of above, made me feel as if everything had been turned around. It was then when I saw her, she was being gently tumbled in the slow drift of the tree. People were trying to help, no one said anything. The enchanting smell of the eucalyptus, the red splintered bark everywhere, the silver leaves dancing in the pouring rain, the branches tangled in her black hair, holding onto her, taking her to an unintelligible place, the sting on my scratched arms, my inability to move… was I paralyzed by fear or beauty?
Quickly the chore was done, the tree was lifted and she stood up, we were facing each other, she looked at me, smiled and exhaled. She bent over and put her hands on her knees as to gather herself. Everyone else froze and I regained control over my body. There was a three foot branch, about an inch in diameter, thrusting out of her back. As I walked towards her she attempted to stand straight, in doing so the branch fell and she collapsed facing down onto the ground. It seemed as if all that was happening was coming from her, as if she was the epicenter of this burst of energy, of this explosion, and it all was generating an incredible amount of strength in my body, I felt my muscles growing, my legs assertive as never before as I took on each of the four steps between us. I felt both heavier and lighter. I could see the spine of her vertebrae, torn muscles, tendons, things I had never seen before. I knew it might not be a good idea to move her, I knew I was not strong enough to lift her but I was urgently drawn to do it, and I did.
I started running towards the hospital, we tried to get a cab but they wouldn’t help us. I don’t know how long I ran carrying her, I couldn’t understand how I could possibly be doing what I was doing . There was a small crowd running with me, chaperoning us through this magnificent hell, stopping traffic, moving people out of the way. I noticed the clouds piling on to the mountains, bursting in unstoppable rain. I heard my feet hitting the ground like a machine, I saw veins bursting on my arms I’ve never seen before, I heard the rhythm of the wipers in traffic in time with my running, I saw people looking into my eyes and I knew I would wonder what they saw for the rest of my life. The lights on the cars hurt my eyes, I was aware of my squinting, I thought I had a jacket, I wandered where it had gone, I noticed there was a lot of yellowish light in the sky, I thought of a friend that equated yellow with impetus and I felt like agreeing with her, I wanted to check my back pocket for my wallet, I looked down and ran into her gaze, she looked embarrassed.
-I think I pissed myself, I’m sorry.
Her eyes rolled back in to her head, she let go of my neck, her hand rolled down my shoulder and my arm gently, drifting with the rain. I thought she was going to feel heavier but she didn’t, her arm flapped around ungracefully. There was dirt on her face, her black hair soaked in rain and blood wrapped on my arm, her weightlessness... I wanted to cry, I wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere but there. We ran into the emergency room, the tile floor was slippery, I almost fell, my knee banged on the floor, she came to herself, I couldn’t feel anything, I stood up and laid her on a stretcher. It was like cleaning a brush on a clear cup of water. Blood spread quickly over the white sheet, she noticed and got scared, they were rolling her away, she held so tight to my wrist that it brought me back into this world, she was hurting me, her nails went in to my skin, there was a metallic taste in my mouth, my head hurt, my legs were trembling. They rolled her away, She wanted to scream but she couldn’t. I walked into a restroom, a doctor was accompanying me, I was covered in blood, I took my shirt of,I had new stretch marks where my chest and my front shoulders meet. Everything hurt. My hands felt as if they were twice as large.

Broken ribs, broken leg, nothing major happened to her back, yet a very long recovery took place. I visited her twice. At the Hospital there were doctors and nurses all over the place. She was tired. The second time was at her parent’s house. There had arranged a bed in the living room. At the time it seemed like a good idea but it ended not working out. The lack of privacy, the need for a door to close if necessary was apparent. Neighbors, friend and everyone in her large family was around. She seemed overwhelmed. There was a loud silence when I walked in. Her aunt tried to cover her legs up and fixed up her hair. The father said it wasn’t necessary, that I was allowed anywhere, anytime under any circumstances in his house, he proceeded to get everyone out to give us a minute. It took almost an hour to get everyone out.
I recalled I decided to stand still, to freeze. On the contrary she decided to run. Wedidn't talked more about it. I haven't seen her in almost 20 years.

2010-06-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

The park was beautiful, raving with ghosts old and new. Women everywhere, bathing in the sun, dirtied with poorly drawn tattoos, playing guitars and fiddles, eating noodles without utensils, chewing with their mouths open, riding adorned bicycles ,wearing shorts and cowboy boots. The young ones owning the park, the block, the neighborhood, the city, sexualized, sweating, bleeding , wanting. The older women with their shapely arms strengthened by the carrying of their spoiled children, proudly parading their tired breasts and their bearing hips and the children…the children running, playing crying screaming, growing incessantly, I can hear their bones stretching, their invisible wings flapping.

The men frightened, the young ones insecure, most refusing to grow up, others matured early , all of them hiding in the shade, lost… perhaps the pants to tight. The older ones... stoned, drunk, bored out of their minds. Absent. Wishing the women left them behind, the children gone to college, prision anywhere but here. The men always drifting and still at the same time. Adding tension.Eventually breaking.mourning their losses in advance. The men saddened by this forestless place,no hunt, no battle, no alpha to follow or fight.

The men forgotten, shadowed by their own prominent bellies. No celebration, no penetration, no chase, no being chased. Haunted by regret, thirsty for life. What a sorry sight. The women mothering, leading, living, loving, creating, procreating. Ah the women. What a Sight!

2010-06-21T12:47:00.001-07:00

Reflecting on the game.
The complexities of the game are encompassed on it characteristics.
1 endless
2 no rules
3 Tacit opponent
4 not defined parameters of victory
5 ruthless entropy

Is there poetry in repetition? Is there a rhythm to routine? Is there a certain cadence to life unfolding. Wake up every morning to the same alarming clock, the same blanket, the same window, the same woman. Chase the same train, cross glances with the same familiar strangers. Flow as one within the work force river. Drink the same coffee, eat the same scones. Loose myself in a cacophony of beating secretarial to executive heels echoing on the granite floors at the same train station.
Walk the same 10 blocks. Climb the same steps. Sit in the same office, on the same chair. Rerunning critical junctures in my head like a coach obsessed with victory. Wandering in the endless possible outcomes to decisions already made. Miscalculating every conversation, every glance, every word, and every gesture.
In solitude I gain the avoidance of interpretation, no more reading of sings, deciphering of languages unspoken. No need to strategize, no role playing gestures ranging from pawn to horse to tower.
In solitude I lose contact, possibilities for applause, thrill of risk. In calculation I search safety yet there is no larger risk than going mad, the ultimate result of probing the edges of infinity. Before calculation comes the ordering of the variables. Lists of details so large it distracts me from the ultimate question inherit to t the game. Who is the opponent? Is this a battle, a conversation, romance matrimony, a wake?
In the drain, tangled with saliva, hairs ,tooth paste, soap… are to be found smiles, a caress, half a kiss stolen from a friendly stranger , the memory of a small warm hand holding mine, a breeze , and other disregarded treasures trashed, left behind, taken from granted. To be me. To be mine. To be… continued.

2010-06-21T09:32:00.001-07:00

The urban myth is that the most complete largest salsa record collection in the east coast is found in Philadelphia in the house of el Salsa Chino. Chino, originally from new York's Brooklyn area, moved in the early 70 to Philadelphia when his mother, China, decided to escape NY after 3 consecutive robberies to their apartment. Chino had been exposed to, and liked salsa because his mother had a collection of 100 records she played everyday while doing her house chores. Yet, Chino as a young kid was seduced by contemporary American music, at the time he 13 he was listening to James brown 45" records connected to over sized speakers he had in his room, Brown's screaming and chinos' failed attempts to imitate the godfather of soul were driving his mother crazy. She gave Chino an ultimatum, she would give him her 100 LP collection if he threw away his 45's. He had a week to make the decision. after thinking about it he threw all his records out the window, the kids in the barrio assumed he had gone crazy and fought like bride maids over his collection coming out the windows as if it was a bouquet thrown at a wedding.

Today, Chino's collection over passes 8 thousand records impeccably organized in his basement where he spends most of his free time listening to the tracks he loves so much. Every album is meticulously packed in a plastic bag, the vinyl is packed in the sleeve "outside in" to prevent anything to get in there. The records are exclusively handled by Chino and played on a limited edition Techniques turntable featuring gold plated mechanisms.

The basement is adorned with countless amounts of original flyers, posters, and all types of salsa paraphernalia. Upstairs his dog, Macho, an over-weighted pug, barks incessantly, his wife and his mother demand the volume to come down. Chino doesn't care, the noise upstairs is silenced by the power of his indomitable sound system. The more Macho barks and the more the family complains the louder the music gets until it takes him away into the entrancing universe of his music-idols. The deafening volume of his basement sets him free.

A while ago, he housed his collection on a second floor apartment, he was unable to relax and enjoy his listening sessions. the floors were caving in and he lived in fear of the apartment collapsing. His Mother and than girlfriend were afraid to visit him at the time. Frequently, crackling and squeaking from the floors surrendering to the weight of his obsession woke him up in the middle of the night. Today, chino sleeps soundly knowing his collection is safe. He is only haunted by a couple records he's been unable to find and finally complete his collection. Resigned he sips on his beer while he ponders what album he is playing next. The myth is now fact, chino disappears behind the stacks of records as an explorer heading in to the jungle urged to complete his life work...

2010-05-27T06:36:00.000-07:00

facing the emptiness of the blank screen again. Nothing happens to me
the world around keeps changing, i am happily left behind, aging, growing, observing.Learning to be quiet.

2005-12-01T12:54:00.000-08:00

100 things about me
1. went to art school
2. don’t believe in horoscopes
3. suceptible
4. bday= march3, earlier in my life massive parties would take place to celebrate regardless of what day of the week my b day fell on. Today I get a call from my parents and a couple emails from xgilfriends that regret taking me for granted..
5. I like to read and I like to write, I don’t do much of either
6. Poetry is my medication of choice
7. I like music but my tape collection was stolen at gunpoint in camping trip in south america along with my photo gear 15 years ago, I never got the energy to re-establish my relationship with music, I still take pictures.
8. I love film, making them and watching them. This days the price to pay for either one is emotionally unsustainable.
9. I like to dance by myself
10. My favorite places to hang out are so far away I never get to go there.Tea houses in granada. Bakeries in Bogota, a couple bars in NY, the bazar At Aswan, Cartagena, The old hotel in Barranquilla, The campus at U Nacional, The auditorium at my HighSchool my friends houses.my house(I get to go there a lot…)
11. My closest friends are insane, I never get to see them
12. I dwell in the safety of movie theaters all the way thru the previews and then the movie starts...
13. I hate crowds
14. I am amazed at the power of stand up comedy
15. Irony, sarcasm and vulgarity are the undertones of my rethoric
16. I am perceived as inteligent but I wouldn’t buy into it
17. I used to believe nothing, now I believe everything but im devoted to nothing
18. My favorite cartoon quote is Snoopy speaking Latin –Felicitas et parvus canis calidus-
19. My best friends were dogs and are all dead.
20. I admire the animal kingdom
21. I don’t think humans are animals, I think monsters are not monsters, they are animals, I think humans are monsters.
22. My favorite writers are Cesare Pavesse, Cesar Vallejo, Alejo Carpentier
23. I like both macs and pc’s
24. I would like to be a graphic designer with airs of artist, kind of like a painter
25. I’m a snob but look like a slob
26. I wish I could win the lottery at least once a week
27. I would like to travel in africa
28. The worst reality show ever is reality,if I produced a show it would be called fucked up island.
29. I think dance clubs and djs have ridiculous names. if I had a club I would call it diarrea ,and the sign would be in cursive
30. I’m stuck in the middle class and I don’t like it
31. I like to say I am novo poor, I used to be rich but now I’m poor.
32. I don’t like rats, I don’t like clowns and I’m surrounded by both
33. I used to be self asured but know I am insecure
34. I liked that my mother knew how to make her own clothes
35. I liked that my father is a scientist
36. I wanted to be an intelectual but its to much work
37. I question EVERYTHING
38. My hair is long
39. My beard grows inconsistently and out of order
40. I rather wear boots
41. I wish I live close to the ocean and had a boat
42. I like company but its hard to get good one
43. My two favorite memories are a solar eclipse when I was a kid, a lunar eclipse when I was a teenager…
44. I am Not a man of my times
45. I would like to tango
46. One word is enough to ruin my day
47. One word is enough to make my day
48. I regret dropping out of law school
49. I regret not pushing my career as an artist
50. My favorite bird is the raven
51. I ate an apple from a tree and I liked it
52. I remember the first time I had a carrot
53. I have no strategy
54. Some one told me that when the lion shows you his teeth he is not necessarily smiling
55. I get profoundly bored easily
56. I’m to smart to take revenge and to stupid to forgive
57. I want things to be easy
58. I like the sounds things make
59. I believe in honor but have none left
60. Being a good citizen is not enough
61. Status symbols are obvious to me yet I enjoy them
62. I work hard in solidarity to willy loman
63. I’ve never seen anything like my life in a movie, a book , tv, radio….
64. My skin is dry in the winter
65. My nose is wide and my eyes wrinkle up when I smile
66. I’ve had a tight knot in my stomach all the time for the past 15 years
67. I like to look out the windows of tall buildings
68. I like to spend money when I have it
69. I like to gaze at the stars
70. I’ve given myself completely more than once, it never works
71. I’ve kept to myself completely more than once, it didn’t work either
72. I like electric pencil sharpeners,tin boxes, busines cards, things I find in the garbage and around, I like tools, ladders, rusty pieces of metal, marbles, interesting rocks, interesting sticks and branches, old type writing machines, radios, good speakers, journals and sketch books,fountain pens, milk shakes, a good lamp, art books, lighters,grease pencils, cameras old and new, candles, money, ticket stubs from movies, trains, airplanes. I like bromelias and magnolia trees profoundly, I like watermelons and cucumbers, oranges and clementines, sowing machines, earphones, silver dollars, well lit churches with real bells,not the electronic tacky things lazy priests use this days, days off, dinners with cute waitresses that like me, grilled meat, burgers, hotdogs with ketchup mustard and relish, white rice, midle eastern food, french fries, potatoes strawberries, red leaf lettuce, balsamic vinegar, olive oil but not olives, women that like olives and eat them with their hands and spit out the pit with confidence. Beats, whales, whale bones, dolphins, sea horses, BEARS, dogs(I already said this) the way a dog recognizes you and greets you, ducks,magazines, books,old buildings, old houses and the imposibilty to grasp on the amount of events, conversations,meals, discusions, parties, homicides, illnesses, misteries, joy and tears that unfolded in them.
73. I am afraid of madness and its consequences
74. I like to talk
75. I don’t know how to meet people and no one has the kindness to introduce me to anyone
76. I am getting older but I’m not getting any wiser
77. I havent met any trully amazing people ever
78. I’ve never been start struck
79. I’ve been fooled more than once and I can’t figure out how to avoid it
80. Everyone that I’ve trusted has turned against me which leads me to believe I am not likable.
81. Almost Everyone that I have mistrusted has helped me out which leads me to believe I have very poor judgment of people….
82. I don’t know myself and I don’t know anybody
83. those close to me are strangers whith whom I share a past and vice versa
84. it hard to keep a good attitude for me
85. my mood swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiings
86. I am good at everything that I put my mind to,people hate me for it and people like me for it
87. I am proud of making a living but not of being part of the work force
88. The work force gets of the train every morning like little circus animals that do what they do in exchange for money and than we go back to our homes to feel empty and sorry about ourselves. It’s a strange system, I used to be out of it and it wasn’t fun either, now I’m in it and its still not fun except for payday. You get a check with your name on it and than you can buy things for people you love like food, and soap and toilet paper and blankets,matresses, knifes, forks, napkings, cabinets, sneakers, carpets, rugs, curtains, tools, mops, brooms,baskets, weed wackers, shovels, cars, pillows, hand and face creams, make up, underwear, socks, shirts, pants, shoes, boots, jackets, hats, gloves, stickers, toys,diapers,postcards, internet conection, laptops, digital cameras, ticket to concerts, cd’s ,dvd’s, posters,chairs, bookshelves, pies, candles and candle holders and last but not least:cigarretes.you also get to see doctors for 15 dollars a pop, quiopractors for free, psiquiatrist for 25, eye doctors and dentists are not part of the deal which is unfair
89. I like it when it rains but it makes me sad, I used to think people that loved me thought about me when it rained but I’ve learned they are thinking of some one else.
90. I like to think things are so intense even the skies are breaking into tears when it rains
91. I like the image of a bird lost in a rainy night
92. I am uncaplable of seeing the face on the moon.
93. I mistake my left for my right and viceversa often
94. Sometimes I cant tell time and I can never guess peoples ages
95. I like the winter but its to long, I like the fall but its to short, I like the summer but its to hot and hard to go to work, I like spring but its to short
96. I speak read and write two languajes fluently I am a citizen of two countries
97. I think I want to be burried when I die but It seems very complicated and expensive
98. I wish all my friends and I lived in the same city
99. There is people I would like to see again and people I would like to never see again
100. There is people I don’t like but there is only one person I truly and profoundly hate

THAT’S IT 100 thingsboutme!

2005-09-22T07:35:00.000-07:00

Sin título The linkage between images, text and music is poetic. Images, graphic design, animation and editing become the "voice" of the filmakers delivery of poetry.
click HERE to watch video.

2005-08-18T09:38:00.000-07:00

Decor in a south philadelphia butcher shop. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)

Welcome to the Vendor Series. I have collected (unknowingly) images that came together because they all unfolded in direct relation with some kind of commerce. What is the difference in between one store and another. To me, each one of this places of commerce is unique. Human interaction is undeniably part of the buying experience. Perhaps we purchase objects we don't need but we get to interact with other human beings. The human exchange occurs in diferent ways, some pleaseant some not. A window display, the decor in a store, the manner in which the invitation to come inside and engage in trade reveals the personality of the vendor, of its costumers, of the city where this places coexist. Everything for sale, is it a wheel turning in a world of economics or an excuse to be around people, to look at the lines on the hand of the person waiting for change, to catch a peep into someones purse as they look for money to pay for whatever they purchased, a chance to evesdrop on a conversation thar might set the mood for the rest of the day. I see people working, trying to make a living, dreaming of the object they so much want to purchase, secretly delivering the numbers of the lotery they expect to win. I myself go around capturing images to display on my own electronic store. Is every human action an attempt to keep a journal? Do people express themselves for me to capture through the lense or do I project my emotion onto the events that call my attention. Is it me giving meaning to what unfolds around me or am I on the receiver end of a dialogue, taking notes on what is being said to me.

2005-08-18T09:34:00.000-07:00

Buying Lottery. Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)
At the lottery booth we confess our greed. Instead of absolution we seek a fair opportunity to face the odds against us. We want to live the dream of prosperity to the max. We whisper the sequences of numbers in a guilty manner as if we were sharing our darkest secrets. To validate our confession we pay, We now own this numbers, a metaphor of hope that lays in the depth of our wallets awaiting to be selected. The numbers will be drawn eventually , the chances of winning are less than we can imagine. Do we subject ourselves to this endeavor as a self inflicted punishment, knowing that we won’t win the opportunity to quit our jobs, to pay off our families and buy our freedom so desired, so unreachable, so petty we expect to guess it in a series of number secretly guarded. If we win where do we go to acquire a bit of hope, a piece of paper withholding our one and only wish, our future outnumbered?

2005-08-18T09:29:00.000-07:00

Bar.Granada.Spain Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)
It looked like a good place to buy a sandwich for our next morning excursion to The Alhambra. The amount of mopeds parked in front gave me a hint. This is a place where people on the move are served. I walked in and ordered something to go. I was wrong, if one was hungry one went to this bar and ate there. The idea of taking the food somewhere else was confusing to them. Where am I going, why can’t I just eat there. I explained I was planning ahead for the next morning when I was going to check out the sites. It made no sense to the vendor, what he sold was the food and the experience to eat it in his place. How could I be certain of what I wanted to eat next day in the morning, how did I know I was going to be hungry. Why wouldn’t I eat something fresh in the morning instead, how much time was I going to save buy planning in advance. I explained I wasn’t travelling alone, somebody was somewhere waiting for me and for the food for tomorrow. He couldn’t get it. How could I know what the other person wanted to eat, how was it my problem, why wasn’t that other person with me. I order a torta. Was I going to eat all by myself? That couldn’t be. The vendor kindly introduced me to everybody. People wanted to know, if I had convinced the vendor to give me the food to go, how would I have taken it home. In a bag I said. They all agreed that would have been a sad sight, a man eating a day old cold meal out of a bag. A gypsy claimed to understand, he suggested a variation to my plan. Get a knife, hunt a rabbit or something and eat on site, carry on some matches to build a fire to cook the thing, that way I could move freely with out having to carry anything I couldn’t fit in my pockets. His knife was proud, the handle was solid and fitted to his hand. He laughed out loud as he told about the last time he tried unsuccesfully to catch a rabbit . Ultimately the knife is useless, he admitted, it just feels good to hold and you never know if you might need one. He understood. Food to go. He though I was smart.

2005-08-18T09:28:00.000-07:00

Fish market Madrid. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)
Is it fresh? I asked.
What is fresh? Asked the vendor.
The fish…I said
That is a stupid question. he said and turned to another customer.
I stood there for a while. Some of the fish were still moving in the ice.

2005-08-18T09:26:00.000-07:00

Tiffany center city Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)
The bracelet was on display for two weeks .It was a reissue of a design she was familiar with. Her mother had died when she was 7. She was an elegant woman. She remembered brushing her mothers hair in the hospital. She had a vivid memory of the beautiful bracelet glowing in contrast with her mother's pale and tired wrist. The piece of jewelry juxtaposed to the intravenous feed stuck in her head for ever. With time she came to forget her mother's voice, the manner in which she looked into her eyes, the years they spent together.Finally she was left only with the memory of the bracelet. Her mother told her it was made of silver, some people, she said, agreed with silver, if that is the case the jewelry will be shiny and glowing like new for ever. In other cases the piece would loose its shine, it will become tarnished and black. Her mother agreed with silver. At lunch hour, every day of those two weeks, she went to the store and looked at the bracelet on display trying to remember something else about her mother.

2005-08-18T09:25:00.000-07:00

Toledo cathedral souvenier/knife vendor.South Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)
The vendor assumed I was buying a knife. The best blades in the world come from Toledo. In the cathedral the blades are blessed. As you thrust into your enemy to settle your revenge you must say: “Toledo no me falles”. Toledo, don’t fail me. You can say it out loud if you want, it allows the offender to know you are serious . If I was to kill with a blessed knife I would be granted heavenly forgiveness, not necessarily success in my attempt. That would be up to me and my abilities. If you reach skin the blade won’t fail you. The bone won't stop it as long as you hit with assertion.

But I haven’t been offended …I said.
You have, you just don’t know it. He said.

He kissed the knife, crossed himself with it , put it in a paper bag and handed it to me.
A gift from Toledo. He said.

He was right about the offense.

2005-08-18T09:24:00.000-07:00

Bar, Granada.Spain. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)

2005-08-18T09:22:00.000-07:00

centercity Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)
Phone cards in the USA. A market rooted in the melancholy driving its immigrant population. Some people call home and hang up after the greeting. They had nothing to say, they just wanted to feel close to home. Sometimes in the background we hear children misbehaving, a familiar song playing on the radio, anything to overcome the regret of leaving everything behind.
Holding the card in your hands alone is a solemn gesture. When you buy one the vendor understands. There is a kind of hopefulness attached to a phone card, a different kind attached to a lottery ticket and yet another one to a knife.

2005-08-18T09:20:00.000-07:00

Dresses.Granada Bazaar.Spain. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)
Some of this dresses will be on stage, adorning the best dancer in the world, possesed by the spirit of antiquity, by the rhythm of the palms accompanying a song of sorrow and pain and anger. A wooden lament withheld in a guitar, in the loose flooring of a stage, in the heels that hit forcefully counting time in a scream that echoes in the cold walls of a gypsy cave. Others will never be sold, never fitted. Those gather dust and dance alone in the wind that circumnavigates the bazaar.

2005-08-18T09:19:00.000-07:00

Chicken cutlets vendor.South Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)
FOOD AND WATER, the original trading post...

2005-08-18T09:17:00.000-07:00

Fish stand.South Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)

2005-08-18T09:15:00.000-07:00

Night quiosk. Center city Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)

2005-08-18T09:13:00.000-07:00

Food cart. Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)

2005-08-18T09:10:00.000-07:00

Paper bag vendor.South Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(Click photo to enlarge)
Sell bags to the people that buy other things. Opportunity to make some extra cash. The place of commerce grows in human proportions.

2005-08-18T09:07:00.000-07:00

Sleeping Water vendor,South Philly. Photo by B. Morillo(click Photo to enlarge)

2005-08-18T09:04:00.000-07:00

Veggie stand South Philadelphia. Photo by B. Morillo(click on photo to enlarge)

2005-08-18T08:56:00.000-07:00

Wig store Madrid .Photo by B. Morillo (click Photo to enlarge)

Appearance, something to prepares us for a better interaction, look better before we launch ourselves in to a place of human interaction. The business of beauty.

2005-08-18T08:53:00.000-07:00

Wedding dresses store. Philadelphia Photo by B.Morillo. (click photo to enlarge)

The window display stands as an emblem of what is available to those with the ability to purchase and as an opportunity for interaction for those who are blessed. It also establishes a barrier, a long list of the unreachable, a marker for the standards and expectations of society. A table of variables that range from failure to success, from marginality to mainstream, from wealth to poverty and the extrapolations of both.

End of Vendor Series.

2005-08-09T08:38:00.000-07:00

click here to watch video

DESCRIPTION
Editorial exploration. Using images as word to determine a kind of "editorial Phrasing" emotions and feelings are conveyed in the manner in which things are "said". Meaning surfaces poetically, driven by rhythm and the graphic nature of the images juxtaposed. Music and sound design underline, in this case, the structure of the phrases.

2005-08-01T13:29:00.000-07:00

Alhambra Cleaning Crew. Photo by B Morillo(Click on photo to enlarge)

2005-08-01T07:57:00.000-07:00

View of Albiacin from Alhambra. Photo by B Morillo (Click Photo to enlarge)

Albiacin facing the Alhambra… or is it the other way around. A Romeo and a Juliet so strong they refuse to fall in love. They stand defiant facing each other. Never allowing a thought that implies an end. Living forever. Withholding separate histories that nurture each others sense of past and relevance and future. Keeping secrets that echo in every corner, every adorment, every gypsy lament withheld in a coded clapping of the hands.

2005-08-01T07:53:00.000-07:00

Bazaar, Granada, South of Spain. Photo By B. Morillo (Click photo to enlarge)

2005-08-01T07:51:00.000-07:00

Granada, Photo by B. Morillo (Click on Photo to enlarge)

2005-08-01T07:48:00.000-07:00

Granada, Photo by B. Morillo(Click Photo to enlarge)

2005-08-01T07:31:00.000-07:00

Alhambra ,South of Spain.Photo by B Morillo ( Click photo to enlarge)

Before the Nation was a Nation the thundering voice of the knockers on the walls of the Alhambra sang a song of antiquity. The eternal present seems unable to render a past so old it goes beyond time. A sacred royal landmark that is founded on a mythical place where all happened once and for all. A certain matter of factness contained in a sensibility that spells out forever.

2005-08-01T07:16:00.000-07:00

Albiacin, Granada South of Spain. Photo by B. Morillo (clik photo to enlarge)

The millenary neighborhood, the streets where everything happened at least once, the smell of tea drenched into the walls of the bazaar, the gypsies looking into your eyes daring you to a palm reading, the stray dogs and the paupers sharing a piece of stale bread recovered from a trash can, the prescience of ghosts, protagonists of every possible human anecdote through the folds of time, overflow every corner of this labyrinth of a city. Albiacin stands across the Alhambra. Grounding the mystic of the historic palace with an untold,everpresent tale of crude reality. Beyond the walls that encompased history is the Albiacin, a neighborhood layered in the drama of everyday life.

2005-07-08T08:22:00.000-07:00

(Cangas de Onis, North of Spain. Photo by B.Morillo. Click Photo to enlarge.)

2005-07-08T08:14:00.000-07:00

(Oviedo. North of Spain. Photo bt B. Morillo. Click on photo to enlarge)

2005-07-08T07:43:00.000-07:00

Cangas de Onis. North of Spain. Photo by B. Morillo..Click photo to enlarge

Secret gardens compete quietly in beauty against the perfect landscape. The mountains oversee the events unfolding in this passionate land . A certain poetry frames the quotidian . The night arrives early in the winter. The streets are busy, the time is right for a necessary walk. It is only appropriate to purchase gloves, perhaps a scarf. A cup of coffee, a cigarette, are also in accordance with the night, the weather, the perfect pace of an acquiescent stroll around a city that reveals treasures and scars left behind by the Christians, the Romans, the Moors.

2005-07-08T07:37:00.000-07:00

Picos de Europa. Photo B. Morillo.Click photo to enlarge

2005-07-08T07:34:00.000-07:00

(Covadonga photo by B. Morillo Click photo to enlarge)

2005-07-08T07:31:00.000-07:00

Picos de Europa Photo by B. Morillo.Click photo to enlarge

2005-07-08T07:23:00.000-07:00

(Covadonga Photo by B morillo .Click photo to enlarge)

2005-07-08T06:23:00.000-07:00

(Covadonga Photo by B. Morillo. Click photo to enlarge)

Higher spirits, divine characters, reveal themselves to entice lords to fight with honor and bravery , to become actors in history. Faith in the country and a sense of nation, originated from this sacred place. The coin has been tossed so many times neither side means anything, there is no right and no wrong . Only evidence of time passed. A passion for life driven mysteriously by an acute sense of sorrow oversees the mythical place. Some kind of deity inhabits these millenary mountains.

2005-07-07T12:11:00.000-07:00

(Covadonga, Photo by B Morillo. Click photo to enlarge)

A sense of antiquity veils the entire country behind secrets so well kept everything is a mystery. Bones and faith holding hands at the border of a magic forest stand indecisive. Is it inviting or menacing? The forest is hard to read, like the mouth of a cat unable to spell out a smile. Men of bicameral minds fought in the name of the gods of their ancestors leaving landmarks where tales of warfare and belief can be withdrawn from. Which is the sharper edge of the sword crafted in the heart of human experience? The ability to believe or the ability to fight for that we believe in ?

Do I leave my fears behind at this historical epicenter or do I gather some new ones to bring with me and spread around the realm of my experience. Is the evidence of my travelling through time a breath of fresh air or is it a scar carved in the depths of my soul. A weeping wound that refuses to heal, pushing me further away, arriving everyday to the land of never enough.

2005-07-07T11:32:00.000-07:00

(Gijon, North of Spain, Photo by B. Morillo.Click photo to enlarge)

The ocean makes mirrors out of sand
the array of possibilities is infinite
we have arrived to the edge
to the origin of marginality
what is there to be unhappy about

the ending of a journey
the straining cadence of return
the unspoken misgivings of memory
the soliciting embrace of departure
the insurmountable expenditure of promises unkempt

END OF SPANISH SERIES

Aji Tijuana

2005-06-27T20:02:00.000-07:00

(photo by B. Morillo. pepper stand. Tijuana market)

2005-06-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

Packaged secrets, dried destinations and infamy. Sun drenched malefice, scorned friendship, destruction, abasement...ingredients lingering in the kitchen of manipulation, an after thought flavoring a kiss, icing an embrace with a toothless forgery of a smile. tears, blood, sweetness, prayer, desire, vengeance. The so common us, infuriated, made invisible, not rendered on a mirror under the age of a hundred, incontinent, dirty, restless, torn.
Hands to the waist, twist of an ankle, remember to breathe, keep your chin up and in the worst case scenario die with bravery and your eyes open.

Portrait

2005-06-21T07:24:00.000-07:00

(Drawing by Emily Zeitlyn)

2005-06-21T07:16:00.000-07:00

To be drawn to(by) you, to acquire self when adding up lines kindly scratched on a surface, to be captured simply in a portrait that reveals one self as a conglomerate of lines organized in a particular manner, establishing relationships and meanings relevant to a description of me, extruding from your pencil, onto your paper, in a gesture so human it can be compared only to the swift handling of a sword

Iconography of war

2005-06-21T07:02:00.000-07:00

(photo By B Morillo)

2005-06-21T06:34:00.000-07:00

The same history repeating itself, the same old actors playing the same old characters. Humans loosing their humanity and bringing arquetypes of horror full circle over and over again, defining a spiral of self destruction as precarious and as obsolete as the primordial donkeys jaw. Is the greater human family any different than the family unit hidden behind the walls of any household? Biblical conflicts are being played over and over both in the battlefield and the dinning table. Could we outgrow this gruesome human condition and be able to encompass something bigger, larger, truly greater. Just as complex and fascinating as this compulsive replaying of our worst qualities, only better.

2005-06-20T14:32:00.000-07:00

Diablo.(drawing by Morillo)

2005-06-20T13:58:00.000-07:00

Under What authority was I vested with the capabilities to oversee your confusion?. To what extent do you exist exclusively in my mind? On which particular characteristics of your self did I based the other you I invent? Is this revised version of who you are customized to give me full existence? Is existence integral to a definition of reality? Is it a matter of belief? I surrender to the impossibility of understanding. I linger on the first of a long list of questions with out answers. When and where was clarity misplaced? Is it somewhere in a secret drawer, folded precariously next to a sense of innocence, a lacking idea of love, the memory of a cat licking your fingers? Does it hang from a crooked nail, between a hardened mop and a solitary bucket?