Gold, oil, human capital, labor and culture. Everything vanishes. Everything slides through the hands of the givers, splattering his remains to those who lie expats. A country rose and went flying to every corner of the world. Venezuela is not what they are robbing us, they are stealing us time, time to begin to rebuild it. On occasions I raise my head and look beyond El Avila, hoping that the idea, the hope of a new country, comes back at any time. The idea is dispelled by the struggle between men, because the struggle between men is uneven in nature and has no end. Time is endurance but not submission. Gold, oil, labor, culture and human capital fades day after day with hammer and chisel. The ideas descend gradually to lie on the mountains, the rivers and flood our ravines. We must be the ones who flood the streets and tie the hands of those who call themselves givers. Without gold, oil, education or job, El Avila continue to be expectant and he will watch arise a country that never existed. He’s giving us time. But even time runs out.
“God gives hope to the weak, so that he take the risk to be strong.”
It should not be called patria or nation where people live in fear.
It should not be called patria or nation where life became upheaval.
It should not be called patria or nation where people live under a bifid, disoriented and completely pulverized precept.
We live in an increasingly vicious reality where is no order; there is no real government nor regime of any kind.
Those who stayed here; those who are not plondering the country… We are exptriated already.
Expatriate: transitive verb. 1: banish, exile 2: to withdraw (oneself) from residence in or allegiance to one’s native country Allegiance: the obligation of a feudal vassal to his liege lord b (1): the fidelity owed by a subject or citizen to a sovereign or government. (2): the obligation of an alien to the government under which the alien resides
I did not hear anything. I saw drop after drop hit her hand soundlessly.
She closed her eyers and sharpened her senses. In the distance sensed something.
Other drops fell on her. She opened her eyes and was surprised to see that she became liquid.
Her transparent hands waited in silence. She closed her eyes.
An instrument sounded and she forgot it immediately. Saw her body and remembered flesh and bones.
The water ran over her. On her skin, veins, on her ears, on her being. She closed her eyes one last time.
She felt shine. The sun was born.
Then she heard silence.
And she began to drip.
The devil, with his dead dance, is moving slowly. He is collecting petitions and strength to continue his way. He is taking leaders, beggars, minions, cretins, communicants and donors. We are watching him going somewhere. He is asking and we give.
Over time, Mandinga becomes sad. He wants to share light over the creation of others. He wants to give light to be shared and not to raise egos. But Lucifer, as any other angel, can’t do anything else, he is just looking to survive in exile. Meanwhile, we are giving ourselves to the wrong cause awkwardly. It is our nature, to dance slowly a dead dance as we act as demons and angels. Trying to shine over individuals and leaving our world aside.
Today coexist thousand of angels, religions, gods, men and worlds, all of them summarized in one that doesn’t exist, one that endures, and summarized in me, matter of time and oblivion.
Crime & Punishment
“…He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous but daring recklessness. “
Преступление и наказание
“…Идти ему было немного; он даже знал,
сколько шагов от ворот его
дома: ровно семьсот тридцать.
Как-то раз он их сосчитал, когда
уж очень размечтался.
В то время он и сам еще не верил этим мечтам
своим и только раздражал себя их безобразною,
но соблазнительною дерзостью.”
“Today I had the estrange sensation of, While remembering something, Feeling that I already lived it”
After writing theater music for about seven years I started my first composition and recording exercise without a script as a headline. The result: noticeably incidental. I created the main theme of soon-to-create stories without realizing it.
That first exercise ended as eight themes that tell, among others, an intense year of my life. I called it: Escritorio.
MDE (stands for typewriter in Spanish) is Escritorio‘s first theme and is inspired by the moment a writer, composer or artist starts to create, to make tangible any idea, when he concentrates a lot of memories and ideas and, by moments, feels fluidity at creating.
MDE drives the beginning of a series of introspections behind the piano, the guitar and a computer, as well as the production of themes at the solitude of my room. Every song I’ve recorded until today, foracantilado; El hombre que ríe; La uña, el martillo & The Impossible Thoughts or any other project owes something to MDE.
It’s been a year since the first conversation. A study translated into wind and percussion instruments based on prime numbers and pi. Structure, rhythm, melody and even the length of each theme are linked to the main number. Within each track I hear a discussion about the reality that defines us and transcends the limits of the individual – always present. Conflict is inescapable, at the end is finally forgotten. Oblivion is inevitable.