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HIROSHIMA, MON AMOUR (1). Forget-me-you forget, forget-we IMPOSSIBLE

HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR (Alain Resnais - Marguerite Duras, 1959

I met you.


I remember you.

Who are you?

You kill me.

You make me do good.

How I'd suspected that this city was made to the size of love?

How I'd suspected that you were made to fit my body well?

I like you. What event. I like you.

How slow suddenly.

How sweet.

You can not know.

You kill me.

You make me do good.

You kill me.

You make me feel good.

I have time.

I beg you.

Devour me.

Distorts me up the ugliness.

Why not you?

Why not you in this city and this night like any other point of being mistaken?

I beg you ...

reiterar. Que vergüenza, bicefalita that you tan pronto Emociones Aún cuando el Puñal asoma en tu muslo. Por qué No Piensa En forgive or kill, in godliness rip with the slap ("Violence does not help" - you say). Again the old poem and the same images, the rhythm almost idiot emotions. The dream and the illusion of the body: Comment je me serais fait doutée your Étais à la même taille de mon corps? The illusion of the soul. The same song and it mocks the wounded city (Hiroshima, Nevers). Torn city, city rapa soul blade, dissolved into memory oblivion. Love, death, kill, deform the beauty in the passion to ugliness. Polish travel. I already said. Why repeat. Why be stupid again?. The same wheel, same old Miss sensitivity, the same accompaniment to ejaculation. Justified in 1959, feel and suffer. Nazi soldier and shaved love the taste of your blood. Same thing. What simple simple ... what my soul. There was born in 1959. Nevers. La ville de Nevers, on the right bank of the Loire River. Hiroshima and deformed children. The bell deaf Hiroshima.

I want to visit Nevers. Travel to be a foreigner (almost an idiot in the community)

I want to walk the streets to see the death of the soldier alemán.Ser the soldier in the river dock.

say that violence solves nothing.

I visit Nevers, Hiroshima road. Cities

that mock the futility of violence.

Love consumes us to the ugliness.

deformation

the laideur jusqu'à moi.

Again, again impossible.

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PYRAMID

man is an animal which is necessary only superfluous

(Ortega: Meditation technique)

catalog superfluous needs :

Talk,

love, love, love,

look, look, look, look, look,

write, write, write, write, write, write,

order, order, order, order, order, order, order, order,

do not know if one can speak of hierarchy.

The God amoeba amoeba and part time the backbone of the pyramid.

Or perhaps if you prefer:

Amar, talk, look, write, order

Order, chat, love, write, watch

Looking, talking, order, love, writing, etc.

Loving as a precondition for talks?

Do I want to order in the home?. The organization of words in the sentence and emotions in love. Standardization.

Or imposing look, the injured eye for things before of all its tenderness and horror?

What few know the tortoise and the ghost that inhabits it. Write

, watch, order, love, talk.

I do not know. Jack Says

Marrameow sprouted all verbs of the same word. Unsaid. A willingness to fable.

The secret written in lowercase through the streets.

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Young

Agustí Centelles

Today I will be as bitter old man. Reserve soldier watching the parade of guys who say the search for underground trenches.

spit my old snuff - protocancerígeno calamitous lump - in the ways of the underground. Dare

.

" At least I have had the guts to do " - he tells me.

(He hits the thigh powerfully - in the visionary mode metaphor and blindness of the skin that hides the little bleeding. For him equivalent to taking bold to assault the subway car. The value is the name adrenaline shock weakened. Since childhood I hated the hell have ).

Daring and reckless.

not enough value, my dear Aristotle, the force released from insanity shoring up wisdom and prudence. Today we are far from good life and we demand (for more excitement) a quick shot of sex, violence, a flash of what it is, way of life techno-amoeba makes us a new image and likeness of God

sick, morbid, in your own viagra megaexcitado: relocation dismissal, speculative froth that fills us with prostate deconstructive rigor and unconscious: a any on the other side who dies so that I romp with "Velino" ---- or, as its double cockney, posh gang members from suburb throwing his own sperm packaged in aerosol colorín diverse and predictable way that blind windows and fill the streets of monotony

not fit those customs that define a lifestyle philosophy. There is live on the edge of insanity. We are required to at least be a little extravagant, lunatics, aliens, weirdos, individuality Bichin homogeneous. Today the danger that saves us previously obscure the reason for not noticing their parts, their vulgarity estrous female who claims to love or buying orchids chavalote for chorba with dangerous dog in the hip and marijuana on the lungs ... precisely the Valentine's Day.

What idiot does not remove it stupid. And so day after day ..... The important thing is to close all access to a high output and demanding. G

chemical olpe a drive full of anger that is entangled in a spiral of inhaled glue. A lot of anger so blind and so false, as cheap plastic acquired wholesale china shop Lavapies. Hatred is not enough - leading to outrage - but it requires plenty of packaging, paint. Unrecognized soul but in the marking of a single sign, a name, signature, a notch repeated ad nauseam, causing vomiting of the soul, the vomit of the culture that goes haywire and repeats and repeats and repeats as an ad, as a campaign message, the whore or the multiplication table in the thousand chains series, interchangeable faces Berlusconi and Mubarak. Repeat only a gesture. This is anger. That is the anger. Mangle the subway car is the only access to reality.

- Being respected is my goal - he tells me.

I soldier who portrays Agustí. I do not take in the strange angle that shows me in the picture anywhere. But soon we'll fight scene and I will become the sweat that fuses the skin and tissue, choking breath, dryness in the throat and the certainty that between the tip of my bayonet and my heart is accurately measured armed with rifles mortal enemy blade. To thread might know each other but I will be the entering, the bayonet of another fall just short of my warrior.

I sweat, daring soldier. That is the audacity of that brutal clashes against death.

" At least I have had the guts to do " - I said as if it were soldier with his bayonet. I slapped his thigh and I knew why, from my childhood, I hated "having balls". A sinister anticipation.

pray for the demise of male .

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bayonet or spray With no loving in Our Souls and In Our coats no money / You can not say we're satisfied (Angie: Rolling Stones)

Harry Earles (Hans) and Olga Blacanova (Cleopatra)
in Freaks (Freaks, 1932)

"The truth does not see the point, telling people your relationship with unknown type "

Comment - sic - the video on You Tube Angie Rolling Stones

No know

We should heed

commentator

Heed all commentators because they are what is in times of drought diluviante preceding millennium. Simultaneously make them if everyone in the madness of lateral thinking and forget the absolute difference linearity as crazy monkey dream

Damn heterodoxy time

God is an amoeba

****

We should not tell strangers that there a guy we love because you lose the sense (and socializing)

We should not lose the sense in saying

We should not speak of a type

We should not talk to strangers

****

A love song makes sense if there is no love in our souls and no money in his pocket to produce it - is clear from Angie "rolling stone

I am willing to leave the crucible of his smile into a pirates camp ----- This is a love song (in brief summary)

****

A love song is

gesture technology

A love song is artifactual fiction

E l disinterest in contemplation of the art object is extended heuristically to create and break any identification of the subject and his work, methodically breaking explicit desire stupid inside. No interior. We opaque. Are an interface for navigating wrecks historicist. The artist selected blind-itself felt lumps of dying.

Some say that only write love songs.

Las canciones de amor simulan artesanía en la era posindustrial

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Anabel Lee vs Laura Palmer (melancholy reason for angels colorless)

Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee; Twin Peaks 1990)

And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

(EA Poe: Anabel Lee )

I was an angel. I mean that as a child lived ethereal skin of all things. There was an angel for being a child, but despite being so. Breathing the same air as Anabel Lee and ran my finger at her back. Noticed my hands the exact point of geography which stresses accumulated all the world and with light pressure, the force of a child, he made up in my magic the flight of many birds and some insects. It flew Of course, not necessarily fall in the idiom (at least so soon) to be an angel or by being a child, but we had wings of soft nervous excitement. The game, the pulse-pulse-neck and hip vertigo of the organic, opened a museum of ethnography in speculating with his bones and his skull made jokes leather cover and other photoelectric effect.


kissed her with his nose to breathe.

I was there at some point the canvas and bit existential encaustic brush with soft tenderness of the things that look ever since. Perhaps the mistake was thinking of naming tenderness. Hatred awoke bodies and murderers in the night the storm was touch and made it appear to Killer Bob in the face of clochard or neurotic father. All for wanting to say on his back the those flying insects. This did not know then and now, if I'm honest, I'd say either, because my mind is clouded with melancholy and is not worth the old intuition. I do not foresee the danger and, much less salvation. I am doomed.

At the corner of a wrong turn on my face - perhaps to make her First Communion and chew their hosts - I lost sight of the immensity of his skin and visited schools first and then deserted. In this kingdom by the sea exterminated the aliento.Ella lost his footsteps on the shore of the ocean.

say the envy of heaven screwed up everything.

So I went to heaven. Was uninhabited. I never knew, indeed, if someone returned in the evening after work and school or whatever to do angels and archangels in the days of work. Nor do I have much patience for granted. Disguised even watched the first communion table set with no guests, the only remaining semblance of grace I found up there. In the course had soup and it was nice to contemplate the texture and color of the broth, noodles and chopped vegetables (red, orange, green). In heaven there was no one but lived in the color. However, I was a gentleman of touch and, therefore, put away the drift of the light in prisms. I liked in tears taste - touch on my tongue - their potential spooky rainbow. Maybe it was a mistake to let the light spectrum in the range of contempt (every time I regret most of my scorn.) I had to wait many years to teach me to see colors .... experience aroused nostalgia for that touch my age, time of Anabel Lee. I learned, yes, but the paramagnetic contrast hit me full in the face.

came down from heaven and had become Laura Palmer.

I was no longer an angel.

I have not learned not to be.

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.... and now pointed at your skull

And cry, cry until you find a reason.

I'm the last primate become a sniper.

And now pointed at your skull,
because the pulse does not fail me, I have the tiebreaker
,
sent and unarmed,
my love was not enough.

And cry, cry out to you.
Because time waits for us and give us reason .
(Najwa Nimri: The last ape)

Or rather ....

harden my skull with chemical letters that no knife can blaze a trail that promises light leakage of its sunsets

close my eyes so they can not find the flash of my enthusiasms
patches pirate they will suspect that the vacuum and clothes or embalm my eyes (which some felt sweet and sad)

send cover my head with
agricultural plastics and instead of my face will be the horse of nitrate
chile
taponaré my ears with wax or with my own saliva coagulated blood
bee will not hear my goal and gladly pay the price: I will not hear my soul


will be the forgotten face of which no one finds a photo

my skin color
exiled all my pallor, my embarrassment will become - if they want - in archetypes that are not meat

the magic of light
marginaré refuse to portray me every metaphor that speaks of the charm or enclose shadows into something like an aura

display will turn my tongue into sausages and steaks will chew me


and in the shadow of the evening call to all my dead
to ask them to muddle with their jargon

grammar written in lower case as punishment
as a painter, I draw as the void left by your hands to be dropped on the table

hate humanity with the silence
be the last primate in your collection of still lifes

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What is public art? Landscape that build

Public art is not about oneself but of others. Not about personal taste, but the needs of others. It is not about the angst of the artist, but the happiness and welfare of others. There is the myth of the artist, but his sense of civic duty. Not intended to make people feel dwarfed and insignificant, but to glorify it. It is not about the gap between culture and the public, but seeks to be public art and the artist is once again a citizen .

Siah Armajani, "Manifesto. Public art in the context of American democracy "in AA.VV., Siah Armajani , National Museum exhibition catalog Centro de Arte Reina Sofia Madrid, 1999.

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