Paratext #40 by Lucía C. Pino

Paratext #40
December 18, 2019
By Lucía C. Pino

Alba Mayol Curci (long stay)
Rebecca Close (Hangar and Casa de Velázquez exchange scholarship)
Erick Alejandro Hernández (International residency)
Paloma Schnitzer (International residency)

Build differently

I’m not my father

Colette Durruti, Antonina Rodrigo, Joaquina Dorado Emilienne Morin, Perpignan. Collective utopia and flesh-colored donut. Latency. Squeaking wheels.

With my wife and for fun. With Marie and for fun.

Pink house, pink robe, green card, broken thing, Ebro lands. A dreamy arid landscape. Drawings. Readings and longings. My head bursts and I won’t shut up at the table. Haters look. Red heart or
brown heart. Swollen with love. We talk about privileges, geopolitical, socioeconomic, networking, dermal, neuronal privileges, we talk about whole numbers, virtuality.

Blue velvet entrails frowned by the steering wheel. At the wheel. The thermodynamic principle illustrates the recent and shocking phenomenon: class struggle is a leftist concept that has shifted to the right (it is neither created nor destroyed, it is transformed). A significator floats and changes
its signal. Today it is expressed in the uprising of those marginalized by globalization against a designed left-wing installed in the new age neoliberalism or rancid aggressive or more or less techno festival with many. Nightclub bouncers and checklists. The notion of social class has practically disappeared from the vocabulary as the ” clues eraser ” tool that certain cultural strategies imply. Advertising and propaganda do not invade despite the only liberation are through monetary bleeding. Reading groups of urgency and blood and hunger. Bloody eyes and fist faces. Black holes. Menstruation. Kissing. It’s no joke to bawl your eyes out while making sticky meatballs, drawing something, or writing letters to a woman who says she’s not like her father. It’s no joke to raise your fist and talk in verse. And if apart from that, should we train? What if we learn to shoot, just in case…? When the time comes, my hand won’t shake Night waves, black gangs, dynamiting, metallurgic-artillery gangs. Clumps of black hair, rosemary oil, and worn-out soles. As I write this, an abyss opens up, a violet vortex that swallows me and I disappear.

They were fighting for their ideals and cultural and social justice or revolution that did not happen.

We tried the re-enchantments in the family tree of critical thinking. Precise aberration.

To knock down the near inequalities before the distant ones A BERDÍ CHALÓ ABAJINÉ slow, entertaining, Rolex-scholarship. Self-criticism and ellipsis. If there has to be a common front, let it be against turbo-patriopatriarchal-colonialism as well as against neoliberal policies, if they are not
the same thing. Sinking. The ship sank to the bottom of the sea. Bestseller.

Joy is in the political, the fact of affirming our condition of the vulnerable body. To return sensuality and poetry to the fight, that the wide range of the right cannot be fed. Love, milk, libertarian movements. Grimy formalism, pleasure in activism, and every relationship are political. All bodies
are welcomed but yours, oh, not yours either. Another church is impossible. Everything they do is threshed out.

To cushion death out of its place.

Death does not cover all the bodies in all the flesh equally. ID cards where we are all deformed,
with disproportionately long and gray arms. Creased jackets, heads on our heads. He was late, so he’s alive.

To be a drawing is an honor. Yumurí, San Juan and Canímar. Layers connecting layers in an infinite, lying magma reminiscent of the stairs in my neighborhood that link to other stairs that lead you to
other stairs by which you can reach the stairs that lead you to your memory house. Losses and apparitions, telluric fields, magnetosphere, and solar wind. As I write, Erick Alejandro Hernández, a wind that tears off TV antennas and uralite roofs is blowing, for they still are on the shacks. I check in with a force of 45 km/h. The wind makes me very uneasy; I write it down just in case.

Ease to travel, moderate use of drugs, preparatory drawings, diagnostic and intensive care elements, velvety hoarse voice, and beautiful skin. Visas that expire, a terrible signature a terrible
signature a terrible signature hindering, a signature hindering has a beam neither needle eye nor head nor. Náfras. The decapitated. Orchestration of reimagined memories. Lions padded in dens where they stress to serve you rancid wine.

Rhythm and program. Trauma and eclipse. Many hands, floating heads, many hands. Usage of techniques to cushion the captivity, baroque printing, overflowing swirls. Glitter does not cover the
blood and thoroughness does not avoid succumbing to the mermaid’s song. I don’t succeed, I succumb and burst. Resignation? Hell no. The myth does not alleviate the responsibilities of the present and needs constant updating. Magnetic and sticky resonance that we are very grateful for.

Schnitzer couldn’t make it but we don’t care because we’re dead.

Cellular anti-aging technologies with young blood injection, the Raval vampire in Dr. Wyss’s Stanford labs, so that old Jagger can keep bouncing on stage, cellular luxury, ironed foreheads,
rich gleaming blondes stuffed in guess jeans with masters and PhDs. Get in and pay. state propaganda in shit. Pink Motorola. Addicts.

Things now have a different dimension; we no longer understand time as before and we don’t know the periodic table. Schnitzer became a sequence of codes and variable algorithms but he is
ashamed to point himself out. We do not know if he is self-programming or is sensitive to external stimuli. In the middle of the room, there is a device, a box reminiscent of an old television set or an oscillator. On the screen and between the airwaves, at times, images of OSHUN appear. Perfect humanoids, perfect skins, fluorescent eyes, false eyelashes. Huge asses and huge noses perfect glow and blackness. 17 degrees. I have to detach myself from the screen. It’s almost always way better than real life, the pain in a pixel is different and mems cure everything.

Returning to the lightbox, the sparkles and colored ripples give way to a pixelated gray image, an image that looks like a street in real-time, it looks like I’ve bugged a camera on a street, I couldn’t
tell you from what place or continent, it’s an angle that could be located at any point. The image is being rounded to the sides, and now a road and a cypress tree. A motorcycle goes by. It turns around and comes back towards the camera, at camera height, it stops dead on its tracks, and we see eyes on the other side of the helmet.

It’s my brother. He looks the same. Well, not really, he’s pixelated, he’s driving and he’s wearing a helmet, and I can’t tell where he’s is.

 

Just a moment

 

Everyone around has vanished, well, not the people but the feeling of other beings or what was there before. I don’t know why I smile whenever you appear, I smile, I can’t help it it’s like ultimate confidence.

You say, Girl, this guy you’re involved with is an Elm.

My gender today is: she/hurts

Their bodies are distracted, busy with self-repair.

I searched for you on Instagram and found 11 profiles with your name and they could all be yours. can you help me, do you feel me? No.

Let no thought pass incognito, and keep your notebook as strictly as the authorities keep their register of aliens. You quote Benjamim and babble something about birth control, borders, taxation, algorithm capitalism diverse families, gesture archiving, bioeconomics, Casa Velázques. Your voice is barely heard.