this is all it is

I'm free to decide. If words are spelled upside down. If words are said in the first case. If it's purple instead of gray. If....I'm just free. Like a photo composition.

...is when Horizon is one with Consciousness
...is when the Eye ceases to be Perspective
...is when the Body and the City transgress experience
...is when Dreams are no longer prisoner to Human Hopes
...is when we ebb and flow like a stream in the wilderness clashing against reason, faith and reality, eventually overcoming, ebbing onwards as Souls must

[There is always a horizon beyond the City where no streets or alleys roam, where no window sees. We all have the Vision, we know the words. We all hope to get there]

before computer generated models, we did what we could... in a spirit closer to freedom --- far from civilization

"Beauty" had a dream. She imagined herself flying, above the city searching for something that wasn't obvious. A detail? A place? A feeling? That was her ultimate goal. Escape from behind bar and start searching. She wasn't quite sure she'll find it. But "Beauty" was a dreamer. And she knew it was out there. Or maybe she was just waiting for us.For you, me, him. To break the bar and let her go free.

There was a time when Souls were heard and Love was kept in a little box of Secrets
Virgin Dreams trembled in hands of despair
Among the hearts of Men whose songs were sung
A Music no instrument could play
A voice unwielded by the mouths of Earth
Only Believed

Like so many plights, it lingered in the Dreams of
The Righteous
The Psalms of the Devout
And the Cathedrals where Hearts are as vast, epic and empty
Save the crystalline Light falling on
Prayers ancient as Dust

There was a Time when the Darkness gave us Light
We ranted
We converted
We conquered
Zealous and Hungry was our Dark-Light
So many Souls
Gone

We who are Sword are no more
We who are Gun are no more
We who are Serpent are few
The weight of the Human Body wakens
Soon shall become prophecy,
Dream
And wake no more

high

Temporary eternity. Time. Passing by. In history. In your everyday. On a wall. Layers. Of completeness. Each layer adds more time. One word more to complete our life sentences. There is more. To our eternal lingering.

enough smog. enough traffic. enough enough enough.

He listens desperately to his portable clock hoping to find that moment when nostalgia walked naked among men lighting candles within Human darkness

11th and Broadway I watched the afternoon Sun stroll patiently down the facade of a building. It paused in wonder at one who looks up while others mill and scurry on the streets below

The patterns and movement of vehicles and pedestrians find their death and life within the Urban system

The heightening of elevations offers varying perspectives of travel and observation: on the one hand, the City is a malevolent monster. On the other, poetry of beauty and structure

Each place is but a moment and is never the same place as before. It spreads before us like an open road: the Day, the Night, where the Earth meets Humanity and Humanity struggles to meet that place where the journey is everlasting

The land. Through time. A change in form. Conquest. Loss.

It's very subtle, almost quiet, that moment between contemplation and motion, between thought and scenario; a man turns a page, a child laughs and plays with her brothers a few seats away, the bus growls and sighs at each burden it dismisses and accepts. Within all these things, a destination is taking place. A transformation as the City scrolls past the windows framed by moments between consciousness and dream.

It's very subtle, almost quiet, yet he turns the page while the cinema of the City plays out around him; unconscious that even he is playing in a story that involves us all...

And there they were. By the window. Now they could do a different thing. They could listen to the sounds of the the city outside. Usually it is their job. To produce music. Sounds. Symphonies. Now that the daily break had come they are free, to listen. To the music. From outside. And we look. Trying to imagine their absent poetic sound. The luthier will be back. Soon.

Who am I?

It's an ancient question even the most remotely sentient homosapien has either uttered it or thought of it at some point in their lives but this is his life, which casts a vague uniqueness; not entirely epistemological, more so into the metaphysics of human nature. The bus rides seems an eternity, especially when these questions stranges the mind, one becomes aware of how unwelcome the vast horizon becomes. He tried to focus on today's paper. More of the same: Cooperation fighting to gain control of their dwindling assets, skirmishes and wars breaking out in foreign countries, the government still trying to push the docile beast of public duty over its half-witted subjects and politicians--mindless serpents--still gambling over public ignorance. He put the paper down in despair. He thought about his two sons and their families. His youngest just had his third child, Amelia, but they only sent him pictures of the newly remodeled room and the crib. An empty room! Who sends their father pictures of empty rooms? His eldest son would send him medium format photographs of places he's been, of things and, what he could tell, of vacation spots he and his wife were on but none of them showed himself nor his wife.

I am 56 years old. I work security for an industrial firm in Van Nuys. I have two sons who never step foot in the house after we sent them to college. I am married, for 32 years now, but haven't seen my wife for twelve of those years... He looked down at his hands, they were tensing up, shaking violently. He didn't understand why he felt so much anger. The thought of returning home night after night to an empty, desolate home burned, to the very core, his heart. They were away, far beyond his reach. Soon, though he dared not think it, he might forget them entirely. The hairs stood on the back of his neck and he felt a cold chill pass. He rubbed his forearms, looking over, unconsciously, across from him. A strange woman seated with an unusual skin color. piercing black eyes bearing a hauntingly beautiful yet expressionless face. Their eyes met a moment. He saw, for the brief time his eyes investigated her, a gold necklace with a pendant in the shape of a heart. In the center of it a name he could not pronounce: Dauthr. He unconsciously touch his chest. His heart was racing. He was perspiring as well. He turned his head away and closed his eyes. Who am I? He grinned at himself. 'My stop is coming up. I guess I'll find out then.'

too much all the time. more nothing.more absence. less less of so much.

Surrounded by movement{s}. Surrender of time. Strangely fitting in an {ec}-static moment of loud silence.

Who am I? A reader? A writer? The director of the urban storyline?

Or just a stranger, a new line in the unstructural grid of life.

We are all indentured residents of this Theater called: The City! By definition, the City is a community of Human Strangers; built, in part, by the theology of our desires: of our dreams and nightmares, of our hopes and tragedies. of our loves, fears, guilt and our hatred. Ultimately our life and death.

We are streams of poetry, blurs of passion and arrogance. We encounter the Other's Tale briefly,

then pass away; a trace, a ghost, leaving remnants of consequence to roam the streets and by-ways.

Each of us enacts our perspective and though our views, the City becomes a kaleidoscope of experience.

a week outside of the studio, being in open spaces, hearing different sounds, being back home, it's completely new. exploring now, all the wonderful sensations I didn't see, feel, or hear before! being a stranger in one's own space, is always so refreshing, now to start some new adventures in a familiar old place...

An empty place. A white spatial/special page. Darkness around us. Let's play! Let's start running around! Let's leave a trace. Lines, forms, directions, words, screams and lights. We can mark our territory. We can underline our presence. We can design a ephemeral castle. In emptiness. Let's play. A pure spectacle. Then, suddently the lights will disappear. Darkness will prevail. But still, we can keep playing.