Abstracts Nº 16, Nº 17 and Nº 18

While doing my mourn to the end of it, to not allow it to become a depression, have discovered (or finally prooved to myself) that I certainly don't believe in the God that was taught in my seven years of catholic school (plus pre-school, are eight). That I believe that the God is the human being itself, and that we all create or destroy God, in the measure of our beliefs in society and human values.
Art is a great religion: Beauty fulfills the soul. Poetry is reality and philosophy an illusion. I'm certainly going away from cold positivism and phenomenalism these days, may be for ever; and coming back to my senses of intuition, and experience. Hope they are in good shape yet.

"We have seen that the vital longing for human immortality finds no consolation in reason and that reason leaves us without incentive or consolation in life and life itself without real finality. But here, in the depths of the abyss, the despair of the heart and of the will and the scepticism of reason meet face to face and embrace like brothers. And we shall see it is from this embrace, a tragic—that is to say, an intimately loving—embrace, that the wellspring of life will flow, a life serious and terrible. Scepticism, uncertainty—the position to which reason, by practising its analysis upon itself, upon its own validity, at last arrives—is the foundation upon which the heart's despair must build up its hope."

Miguel de Unamuno, "The tragic sense of life", Chap. VI.

"It is the furious longing to give finality to the Universe, to make it conscious and personal, that has brought us to believe in God, to wish that God may exist, to create God, in a word. To create Him, yes! This saying ought not to scandalize even the most devout theist. For to believe in God is, in a certain sense, to create Him, although He first creates us. It is He who in us is continually creating Himself."

Miguel de Unamuno, "The tragic sense of life", Chap. VII (Love, suffering, pity and personality).

"To believe in God is to long for His existence and, further, it is to act as if He existed; it is to live by this longing and to make it the inner spring of our action. This longing or hunger for divinity begets hope, hope begets faith, and faith and hope beget charity. Of this divine longing is born our sense of beauty, of finality, of goodness."

Miguel de Unamuno, "The tragic sense of life", Chap. VIII (From God to God).

Flower of indefinite petals

"The crown of petals is the flower's panties. Rip them off and you will have public indecency. They were the pre-adamic fig leaf of nature before the first Eve wore that leaf as her own crown of petals."

Malcolm De Chazal, "Sens-Plastique".

Nocturnal flower

You that have heard the heartbeat of the night,
you that have heard, in the long, sleepless hours,
a closing door, the rumble of distant wheels,
a vague echo, a wandering sound from somewhere:

you, in the moments of mysterious silence,
when the forgotten ones issue from their prison -
in the hour of the dead, In the hour of repose -
will know how to read the bitterness in my verses.

I fill them, as one would fill a glass, with all
my grief for remote memories and black misfortunes,
the nostalgia of my flower-intoxicated soul
and the pain of a heart grown sorrowful with fêtes;

with the burden of not being what I might have been,
the loss of the kingdom that was awaiting me,
the thought of the instant when I might not have been born
and the dream my life has been ever since I was!

All this has come in the midst of that boundless silence
in which the night develops earthly illusions,
and I feel as if an echo of the world's heart
had penetrated and disturbed my own.

Rubén Darío, "Nocturne".


But in the translation it loses a lot, here the original:

Los que auscultáis el corazón de la noche
los que por el insomnio tenaz habéis oído
el cerrar de una puerta, el resonar de un coche
lejano, un eco vago, un ligero ruido...

En los instantes del silencio misterioso,
cuando surgen de su prisión los olvidados,
en la hora de los muertos, en la hora del reposo,
sabréis leer estos versos de amargor impregnados...

Como en un vaso vierto en ellos mis dolores
de lejanos recuerdos y desgracias funestas,
y las tristes nostalgias de mi alma, ebria de flores,
y el duelo de mi corazón, triste de fiestas.

Y el pesar de no ser lo que yo hubiera sido,
la pérdida del reino que estaba para mí
el pensar que un instante pude no haber nacido,
y el sueño que en mi vida desde que yo nací.

Todo esto viene en medio del silencio profundo
en que la noche envuelve la terrena ilusión,
y siento como un eco del corazón del mundo
que penetra y conmueve mi propio corazón.

Rubén Darío, "Nocturno".

Crystal ball II

Digressing: All the past is here, all the future is here; we are the best we've been, we are the best we can be. I want to know what the future is "concocting" for me, but it is all weaved around...
Before, years before, I had some special relation with the future of other people. I might get the courage to speak out openly of that some day.

In me, past, present, future meet
To hold long chiding conference.
My lusts usurp the present tense
And strangle Reason in his seat.
My loves leap through the future’s fence
To dance with dream-enfranchised feet.

In me the cave-man clasps the seer,
And garlanded Apollo goes
Chanting to Abraham’s deaf ear.
In me the tiger sniffs the rose.
Look in my heart, kind friends, and tremble,
Since there your elements assemble.

Siegfried Sassoon, "In Me, Past, Present, Future meet".

Implosive flower

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also call'd No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unutter'd the frail screen.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise
Of that wing'd Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,--
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, "A Superscription".

Crystal ball

Sometimes want a crystal ball to know what the future is "preparing".
Days doesn't pass in a boring way, in spite of the stress for nothing. I'd prefer a boring time.

Sail fast, sail fast,
Ark of my hopes, Ark of my dreams;
Sweep lordly o'er the drowned Past,
Fly glittering through the sun's strange beams;
Sail fast, sail fast.
Breaths of new buds from off some drying lea
With news about the Future scent the sea:
My brain is beating like the heart of Haste:
I'll loose me a bird upon this Present waste;
Go, trembling song,
And stay not long; oh, stay not long:
Thou'rt only a gray and sober dove,
But thine eye is faith and thy wing is love.

Sidney Lanier, "A song of the future".

Abstract Nº 15

Lovers who love truly do not write down their happiness.

Anatole France, "The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard", (in the log of November 30, 1859).

Abstract Nº 14

Reality is the stuff that doesn't go away just because you stop believing in it.

Philip K. Dick.

Burning sunflower

My favourite flower. Not my favourite artwork. Will try to improve it someday.
I like the Blake's, that's for sure; it represents the symbol of the flower perfectly.

Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

William Blake, "Ah Sunflower".

Strange-glow flower

Hard artwork to match with a poem, tough poem to match with an illustration. Something tells me I did well matching this couple. Enjoy.

in the Valkerie Mountains
among the strutting peacocks
I found a flower
as large as my
head
and when I reached in to smell
it

I lost an ear lobe
part of my nose
one eye
and half a pack of
cigarettes.

I came back
the next day
to hack the damned thing
down
but found it so
beautiful I
killed a
peacock
instead.

Charles Bukowski, "The flower lover".

Metallic night flower (happy mother's day)

Happy mother's day (it is mother's day in Argentina).
As I told in my post "Spies", my mother saved my family from being teared apart by the military during the last dictatorship. She was strong during very dark months. This might sound self-prising, but it is true that I've inherited from my mother -and I thank to her- the ability of not abandoning a soul in need while it goes through long dark times. I thank to her the giant amount of bed time tales she read to me when I was a kid, I've got my taste for art in general from that. I thank to her she is a lioness fighting for just causes; many moral obligations I feel has been inherited from that. As every person she has imperfections. But this very low-contrast image was inspired by the times she fought for keeping the family safe, and having my father back home from arrest, while those very dark times of the dictatorship. She was a very tough flower in the middle of the night. And, as every mother has to go through hard times, this is dedicated to every mother too.

My mother groaned, my father wept:
Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling bands,
Bound and weary, I thought best
To sulk upon my mother's breast.

William Blake, "Infant sorrow".

Heart behind the ribs

I am surprised that I posted that much during a very rough August. I guess I am strong somehow. Looking back, this is a "souvenir" :-/ A reduced, tiny heart behind broken ribs (It lacks the sternon, IGA's didn't helped).
The look back and concept were inspired by the post of a teenager.
The poem is famous.

Behold, with my naked hands did I part my ribs,
Baring my heart in a basin of scarlet.
Into this did I plunge my quill,
Drawing it forth pulsing, each drop warm.
And ere it cooled wrote, tempering each note
With a fever or purifying it in meditation.

Behold, like a pageantry cometh
The inscrutable, cowled, grey-garbed
Holy writs, each uttering damnations,
Each damnation echoing promise;
And the cadence of the two becoming warred
Like a gnashing battlement,
Lost in the thin praying of holy nuns,
Lisping white music from their marble-cold hearts,
Letting the beads slip tinkling
Through their iced fingers, letting their lips
Speak, finally, of the Infinite!

Lo, through this fluid which I press,
Singeth dumb conquest, mute agony,
Anguished existence. Bare hands,
Set upon hairy forearms, clutch bloodily
At existence. And I write, giving utterance
Yea, making vent unto this sealed, dumb,
Mute piteous humankind.
Is my heart white? Is the basin
Become a golden thing? Hath the quill
Dropped the last drop and with anguish, breaked?
Then have I spoken!

Patience Worth, poem named after the first line.

Abstracts Nº 10, 11, 12, and 13.

How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery!

Mary Shelley, "Frankenstein", Ch. 20.

Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture?

Mary Shelley, "Frankenstein", Ch. 21.

Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives.

Mary Shelley, "Frankenstein", Ch. 24.

Heavy misfortunes have befallen us, but let us only cling closer to what remains and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet live.

Mary Shelley, "Frankenstein", Ch. 21.

Sky falling in pieces

Call me or think what you want of me: immature, depressive, whatever. I've seen death too many times, too many for my strength, I've seen eating the life out of my loved ones, and out of not-loved ones, of human bodies and animal bodies... it is just me who finds death unnatural? Where is the natural part of it!? Just because it exist is natural? Please I need to understand the relation between life and death, how they are related, because they don't seem related! Death also takes many forms, so many; it is not that one and only thing I've been convinced. Whenever a body is dying, death is visible on it, it takes the shape of a disease: let's say cancer; life against itself is death, illness is a little amount of death, injustice feels like death -don't know if it is-, disdain feels like death, inaction, violence, many unnatural-shaped things invades the territory of what should be sacred, or protected. Is any of this really necessary?
Guess I shouldn't be around so many people dying, but it just happened.

Half-baked thoughts, I am just made of half-baked thoughts. Raw and undirected to the truth. Excuse I can't give you any truth.

I am confused. I assume I am not intelligent, nor bright, nor mature enough. I need enlightenment: Why death? And why this confusion on me only? Why other people can leave the confusion behind, and even the pain behind, but it stays with me? I must be doing something wrong. Why the enigma made of pain? Is it natural just because it exists or happens all the time?

"The man of flesh and bone; the man who is born, suffers, and dies —above all, who dies; the man who eats and drinks and plays and sleeps and thinks and wills; the man who is seen and heard; the brother, the real brother."
[...]
"Reason speaks and feeling bites" said Petrarch; but reason also bites and bites in the inmost heart. And more light does not make more warmth. "Light, light, more light!" they tell us that the dying Goethe cried. No, warmth, warmth, more warmth! for we die of cold and not of darkness. It is not the night that kills, but the frost. We must liberate the enchanted princess and destroy the stage of Master Peter's Puppet Show."

Miguel de Unamuno, from "The tragic sense of life", Chap. I, and Conclusion Chapter.




I will add that only a big giant favourite poem fits the moment, the accumulation of moments, the sum of diverse griefs, guilts and tiny hopes. Long poem for a post, but perfect, from a beloved artist of mine, Elizabeth Browning.

I

The face, which, duly as the sun,
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With hourly love, is dimmed away—
And yet my days go on, go on.

II

The tongue which, like a stream, could run
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with 'Good day'
Make each day good, is hushed away,
And yet my days go on, go on.

III

The heart which, like a staff, was one
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day
With steadfast love, is caught away,
And yet my days go on, go on.

IV

And cold before my summer's done,
And deaf in Nature's general tune,
And fallen too low for special fear,
And here, with hope no longer here,
While the tears drop, my days go on.

V

The world goes whispering to its own,
‘This anguish pierces to the bone;’
And tender friends go sighing round,
‘What love can ever cure this wound ?'
My days go on, my days go on.

VI

The past rolls forward on the sun
And makes all night. O dreams begun,
Not to be ended! Ended bliss,
And life that will not end in this!
My days go on, my days go on.

VII

Breath freezes on my lips to moan:
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature's door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.

VIII

I knock and cry, —Undone, undone!
Is there no help, no comfort, —none?
No gleaning in the wide wheat plains
Where others drive their loaded wains?
My vacant days go on, go on.

IX

This Nature, though the snows be down,
Thinks kindly of the bird of June:
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such. What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?

X

No bird am I, to sing in June,
And dare not ask an equal boon.
Good nests and berries red are Nature's
To give away to better creatures, —
And yet my days go on, go on.

XI

I ask less kindness to be done, —
Only to loose these pilgrim shoon,
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deadly touch to these tired feet.
Till days go out which now go on.

XII

Only to lift the turf unmown
From off the earth where it has grown,
Some cubit-space, and say ‘Behold,
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,
Forgetting how the days go on.’

XIII

What harm would that do? Green anon
The sward would quicken, overshone
By skies as blue; and crickets might
Have leave to chirp there day and night
While my new rest went on, went on.

XIV

From gracious Nature have I won
Such liberal bounty? may I run
So, lizard-like, within her side,
And there be safe, who now am tried
By days that painfully go on?

XV

—A Voice reproves me thereupon,
More sweet than Nature's when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep
Than when the rivers overleap
The shuddering pines, and thunder on.

XVI

God's Voice, not Nature's! Night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne
And listens for the creatures' praise.
What babble we of days and days?
The Day-spring He, whose days go on.

XVII

He reigns above, He reigns alone;
Systems burn out and have his throne;
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around Him, changeless amid all,
Ancient of Days, whose days go on.

XVIII

He reigns below, He reigns alone,
And, having life in love forgone
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,
He reigns the Jealous God. Who mourns
Or rules with Him, while days go on?

XIX

By anguish which made pale the sun,
I hear Him charge his saints that none
Among his creatures anywhere
Blaspheme against Him with despair,
However darkly days go on.

XX

Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown!
No mortal grief deserves that crown.
O supreme Love, chief misery,
The sharp regalia are for Thee
Whose days eternally go on!

XXI

For us, —whatever's undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done,
Grief may be joy misunderstood;
Only the Good discerns the good.
I trust Thee while my days go on.

XXII

Whatever's lost, it first was won;
We will not struggle nor impugn.
Perhaps the cup was broken here,
That Heaven's new wine might show more clear.
I praise Thee while my days go on.

XXIII

I praise Thee while my days go on;
I love Thee while my days go on:
Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank Thee while my days go on.

XXIV

And having in thy life-depth thrown
Being and suffering (which are one),
As a child drops his pebble small
Down some deep well, and hears it fall
Smiling—so I. Thy days go on.

Elizabeth Browning, "De profundis".

Flor en alto contraste - High contrast flower

Bueno, Daniel. Después de todo tu sufrimiento, no me quedan palabras.
Q.E.P.D.
Ya sólo quedamos cuatro.
Siempre fuiste una flor en alto contraste con el mundo.

[...]

Pero yo quiero demorarme en el pensamiento
de las livianas flores que son tu comentario piadoso
-suelo amarillo bajo las acacias de tu costado,
flores izadas a conmemoración en tus mausoleos-
y el porqué de su vivir gracioso y dormido
junto a las terribles reliquias de los que amamos.

Dije el enigma y diré también su palabra:
siempre las flores vigilaron la muerte,
porque siempre los hombres incomprensiblemente supimos
que su existir dormido y gracioso
es el que mejor puede acompañar a los que murieron
sin ofenderlos con soberbia de vida,
sin ser mas vida que ellos.

Jorge Luis Borges, "La Recoleta".

Flower of light

Yesterday October 11th was a day of many bad and good things, and ended with one weird: couldn't post in spite of my efforts, I had internet connection problems for the first time in a year, and had them all day long, also a violent electrical storm left the neighborhood without power, and right now, a problem uploading the image to Blogger. Zeus was throwing its lightnings at runnerfroggie, but dodged at left, dodged at right, and this was the post the providence didn't wanted for me to post, and a lesson to every god in mount Olympus: runnerfroggie prevaaaails! :-) :

[...]

But that immortal light, which there doth shine,
Is many thousand times more bright, more clear,
More excellent, more glorious, more divine,
Through which to God all mortal actions here,
And even the thoughts of men, do plain appear;
For from th' eternal truth it doth proceed,
Through heavenly virtue which her beams do breed.

[...]

Edmund Spenser, "An Hymn Of Heavenly Beauty".

Drawn flower

Runnerfroggie has been sketched! :-P Good friend Drigni has had the kindness of drawing me:



So I respond with a flower that was meant to look like drawn, but the genetic algorithms went more to make it lood like carved in stone or something. Thanks.

Fragmented flower

One thing that hurts me deep all the time is having to break a promise. For years I've thought it would be easy to keep promises, and that I wasn't trying hard enough to keep them. I always feel destroyed when I have to break one.
People break promises: e.g, the military turns against the civilians. They did in Argentina, they do now in Burma. But one officer flee from the military forces of Burma to not turn against the civilians.
Or like many priests in Argentina, they may turn against people revealing the secret of confession to the military repressors, and lie to the families of the tortured. One has been sentenced hours ago, yesterday October 9th, in one historic resolution in Argentina. In the trial to the chaplain Christian von Wernich (click for the New York Times page on it), he was found guilty of crimes against humanity; after having witnesses menaced and one disappeared (Jorge Julio López), may be dead, months ago. Von Wernich will be for life in jail or house arrest due to his age. This is one of the chaplains and priests, that in the last dictatorship in Argentina helped the military forces to torture, betray, give names, while he walked around torture centers. In the other hand, Reverend Rubén Capitanio, during the trial, condemned the complicity of the argentinian catholic church with the military junta.
(You, who are reading, and you, who are not reading, :-) do not turn against the ones you have to protect, dissent, fight the corrupt power: dissent).
This is a country of broken promises. And I can hardly breathe when I'm forced to break a promise.

Invisible petals

I'm so tired of this very same thing over and over again. No-one has an idea. Stressed, depressed and tired. I see the same disdain for the human value all around since I was a child submerged in the misery of the military actions of the last dictatorship in Argentina. Of course I get lost in my ideas: I seat on a park bench in front of a bank and I see a person asking for a coin, so I give him a coin, seat again, watch thousands walk by in front of this "invisible" person, an hour later I repeat the action, but then the shame starts to hit faster, and then I repeat 30 minutes later, and then 10 minutes later, but the mind hurts itself diverging from brotherly thoughts, thinking: the most selled magazines are the ones gossiping the show-bussiness workers lives, and the most popular show on tv is about famous people dancing, but the guy seated for over ten hours in front of a bank there, don't even get a look (don't dream a coin or a bill), he's invisible, so it push me to think the human nature is escapist, so I feel each day more separated, and abnormal. I'm so tired of not having a break; it lasts every minute. I never have a vacation. Who can take you from inside a well that is inside of your mind? Do I have to not care to be happy? Do I have to kill something in myself to be happy? I feel stupid, I can't laugh as easily as other person. There is people in Myanmar separated from its family, in detention camps: my mind goes to the jail where my father was when I was a child, away from my mom and I for months, by the miserable actions around the dictatoship here. She fighted alone to have him back. There is people afraid to walk out in the streets of Rangoon: my mind goes to the Malvinas/Falklands time of war when the bigger brothers of my friends broke their teeth to not go to war, that afraid they were! Not even of the war, you got it? Terrified by the coldness of the military junta: they know they were sent to a sure death, because they knew those militar dictators didn't care for them. That is Burma. That it is. Feel I've been there. It is the same military junta over and over again in every country; differences are merely circumstancial. The people is alone, alone in their detention, or alone in their disdain. Alone.

So, exhausted and hollow, again I sent a letter, this time through Amnesty Int. to the minister of foreign affairs of Burma, here:
http://web.amnesty.org/pages/mmr-270907-action-eng
...this time to ask the protesters to be released. But of course I'm sincere, I know better than I've ever talked about military juntas and dictatorial times, I'm simply tired and demoralized because I'm not my mother; and I feel, as everyone, that that will not work in any sensate way. In fact it looks nonsensical against the power they detent, but specially looks nonsensical against the public disdain and silent diplomats. Want to do more, but I've reached the powerless line. Down in the mouth too.

Alone and invisible. Transparent petals we are in our national flowers, many times, unless all united.

One red, burmese version:



One argentinian version:

Flower of fire III

The UN idea is to eventually achieve an embargo for arms and ammunitio to the military junta of Burma. But what about what the burmese people voted and elected? And what will happen with Aung San Suu Kyi in the meantime? The detentions of protesters are still going on. And there are "detention centers"... concentration camps.
45 years of brutal dictatorship, and it seems it will go on due to lax pressure of the international community.

Flower of fire II

What is the colder part of diplomacy doing to Burma? Where is the pressure in the words from Ibrahim Gambari while the executed monks are dumped in the jungle? And foreigners are blamed for the violence? :-D Wow!



Anesthesia from diplomacy? Security council decided to keep talking. Do talking will achieve to give back the power to the voted and elected Aung San Suu Kyi from the hands of the dictator Than Shwe? This only will give new strength to that guy. Well, judging by this picture of monk's shoes abandoned among blood...:



...I didn't expected Than Shwe to be a comprehensive person who likes to talk, but knowing now, I sent him (plus some ministers) an e-mail asking to free the only nobel prize under arrest in the world: Aung San Suu Kyi, anyone can send them e-mails from here: http://www.actionburma.com/

This is a sample of an e-mail that anyone can send from there:

Dear Senior General Than Shwe

I am joining with citizens from around the world to appeal for the release of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, who has been under house arrest since May 2003.

She has now spent a total of over 11 years under arrest yet she has committed no crime. She has been imprisoned for peacefully calling for democratic reform in Burma. She has the respect and support of people across Burma and throughout the world for her peaceful resistance in the face of oppression.

For many years now the State Peace and Development Council (SPDC) has said that it is committed to bringing democracy to Burma. However, while Aung San Suu Kyi and so many other political prisoners remain in detention, claims that Burma is moving towards democracy lack all credibility.

I urge you to demonstrate Burma's stated commitment to democracy by immediately releasing Aung San Suu Kyi and all of Burma's political prisoners. There can be no progress in Burma while Aung San Suu Kyi is not free.

Thank you and I look forward to hearing from you.

Bloodshed flower

This is the bloodshed flower that Burma has become:



And this video (thanks to CNN and LiveLeak.com) shows only the "soft" part of the repression to peaceful protests in Burma. Please refer to my previous post to take action against it:



And by clicking here (thanks to france24.com) you get to know the real deal in video and facts, or you can read the page in france24.com including the video too. Please refer to my previous post to take action against it.

The UN should intervene now. (Daw) Aung San Suu Kyi must be freed now.

Blurred flower

I've said I know women will change the world. I've said I know beauty will change the world. Since the days my mother fought for saving my father's life, in the way she did, I _know_ that will happen: I've seen it.

The awarded Nobel prize for peace (Daw) Aung San Suu Kyi (click to visit her site), stays under house arrest for the third time since 2003 , she was denied to see her family, she was denied the general election winning by 82% of the votes, she has around of twelve years arrested in total. The military wants to shut this words from her: "by fighting fear can you truly be free", and "please, use your liberty to promote ours".
Since december 2004, her security has been removeed by the military forces; telephone lines cut, and no visitors allowed. Her situation is very precarious, as the one of the burmese country.

Aung San Suu Kyi is not as renown as she must be. And the terms of her arrest only intends to blur her image out of the media and public opinion, where she is a strong voice of conscience and morals.

On september 29th, around 75 students and parents were massacrated in State High School Nº2, Tamwe in Rangoon, city where she is under arrest. Schools across the U.S. are organizing, for today October the 5th, to send a petition to Chinese President Hu Jintao signed to tell China to stop paralyzing UN Security Council action. Your school and you can take action by clicking here.

Tomorrow October 6th is a day of action in major cities around the globe, watch if there are events around your area by clicking here, or sign up to organize one if you want.

If you are a US citizen, demand the UN secretary immediate action and freedom for Aung San Suu Kyi by clicking here.

If you are a non-US citizen, Urge the UN to support the monks and free Aung San Suu Kyi by clicking here.

Do not let Burmese people or Aung San Suu Kyi to get blurred in the memory.

Free Burma!

Free Burma!

I will thank you if you read the post complete.
On September 26th the military forces turned Burma into a violented flower. The artwork I did wanted to be a mix of an AK-47 shot to the viewer and a blood flower, the intention end up looking odd, but anyway excuse the mix of a beauty icon with a violent one, it is the Juan Gelman's influence I have.



The peaceful protests across eastern Burma were responded with violence by the military government. Over 500,000 displaced people live in constant danger there. The recent military offensive displaced another 30.000 souls! Many more humanitarian problems arise over these.
I belong to a country who was teared apart by the military forces (Argentina); I know what's coming next to this repression; let's please take action NOW.
So we want immediate UN action after a 45-year humanitarian catastrophe, isn't? We want the burmese star shine in peace...



...so, knowing you agree with this, PLEASE click here to Contact the office of the UN-Secretary General urging him to stand up for the rights of the people of Burma by supporting immediate U.N. Action on Burma's Human Rights and Humanitarian Crisis, please do it, please.

Or you can read end eventually sign the appeal to the UN Security Council to protect the people of Burma (Petition to Member Nations of the United Nations Security Council).

Today, October 4th it is the Free Burma! International Bloggers Day, you can also help by spreading the word blogging in the terms stipulated here.
Thank you bleeding-hearts.

Orange flower

This artwork to me looked like one flower printed on a bandana. This poem by John Berger fits it very well.

In the morning
folded with its wild flowers
washed and ironed
it takes up little space in the drawer.

Shaking it open
she ties it round her head.

In the evening she pulls it off
and lets it fall
still knotted to the floor.

On a cotton scarf
among printed flowers
a working day
has written its dream.

John Berger, "Kerchief".

Flame flower

This one doesn't looks good, but it represent the moment. While I type this it's heavy raining, and while it rains the birds are singing; how weird is that. And while it's raining our town here is sunk in big personal and social problems, and while that happens, all our published poets sings about our landscapes. It sounds pathological having all our published poets not writing about us or themselves. I've tried to find where they write about the human being in their sings about our landscapes, but I can't see it; may be it's me. So I feel the flower of our moments fading, or worst, it burns and dissappears in oblivion, fragmented in ashes of flames and darkness. I don't have the complete certainty if our artists in town are attaching to escapisms, but they are surely very close, all the time. I swear it's raining right now, and the birds keep singing here.

O poets,
While you are busy being so clever,
So imaginative in your reconstruction of language,
So worthy of literary praise,
An aging woman returns home late from work
And finds no joy in the things she owns,
The things that own her,
The husband who does not really love her.

O poets,
While you are busy being so clever,
A young man rises early and fights traffic
To be on time at a job that means nothing to him,
Working all day long without meaning.

O poets,
While you are busy being so clever,
Thousands upon thousands suffer quietly,
Quietly suffocating and not knowing why.

Russ Allison Loar, "O poets".

Desired flower

My imagination made me saw some vegetal black hands around this evolutionary art flower. A desired flower, apparently; very white, very pure. A dedication to all women, because I've found something extremely pure in every single women I've known. That is a reason to me to think women will save the world, in a more general way: beauty will save the world.

I swear, since seeing Your face,
the whole world is fraud and fantasy
The garden is bewildered as to what is leaf
or blossom. The distracted birds
can't distinguish the birdseed from the snare.

A house of love with no limits,
a presence more beautiful than venus or the moon,
a beauty whose image fills the mirror of the heart.

Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi, from "The Divani Shamsi Tabriz", XV.