Box Man

Imagine for a moment that you find yourself within the confines a very small box

and you find yourself derelict: in a near state of complete deterioration

Surprisingly you do not remember how you got here, how you managed to not only fit in this tiny box  but what incredible circumstances led you to abandon the remnants of your once normal existence and you begin to regress, slightly of course, since your memory is failing and more likely than not you are dehydrated and starved. 

You have made sure to find some blame, yourself first, consequently others, how you found yourself in this tiny box made of wood, you constantly ask?

There is not much noise coming from the outside world, not the familiar sounds of passing cars or wind running freely down the corridor of existence, there are no complaints from loved ones and colleagues or the smoky smell of left-over coffee pots.

You are suddenly terrified of your new found situation, of your restricted being, no longer the strong man you once thought to be or the vulnerable eccentric you often portrayed. 

There is no charm in suffocating on your own sweat, no place for nostalgia when survival is at stake. 

And just then you notice that your watch goes off, its alarm beeping incessantly and as you check the date unexplainably and absurdly you have been crouched in this tiny new world of yours for two months and three years, such a devastating discovery.

And you must tell yourself that you have lost your mind, that something is not right and then you blame someone again, anything obviously needs to blamed. 

And you scream, scream so loudly that your throat hurts of so much screaming and you’ve been screaming for hours and the world has forgotten about you and your wavy hair and your very nice clothes and the fancy luxury swiss watch you wave around and of your conquests, the big gargantuan ones and the small victories too.  

The world has forgotten of your diseases and your happiness and the great jokes you told in parties where some people had too much to drink and others just walked pass you unaware of your greatness. 

Now all is quiet, all too quiet, sleeping seems pointless and thoughts do too of course, what use for words if there is no one to speak them to and you realize how much you miss talking, the sounds of vowels and consonants frolicking together and the cadence by which you were so well identified. 

Someone must miss it you tell yourself and upsetting your mood you have now neglected your momentary joy as you remember that your watch says that in such a long time no one has dared to pry open the confines of this terrible box and lift you out and say out loud scream with joy: you old geezer you! oh how we’ve missed you! please tell us about your funny times, about your travels and memories, about your sexual adventures, we want to hear more! 

No one is asking questions anymore. Imagine the confines that you have become. Resigned you must now reinvent yourself. 

Five Continued Stories After Two Years of Snow

An Ode to Noise Surrounding the Palace

Returning home after a night too long of a story to tell
I find myself adrift in a midnight confession 
with the emptiness of my living room.
the furniture seem to breathe so loudly 
that I want to cough or make some sort noise to stop their obnoxious snoring

there are worse things that you can imagine at night in an empty quarters:
ghosts for example if you believe in such fairy tales;
thieves in black masks if you watch the news each night;
rodents and other insects polluting the inside of you walls;
WHY THE NEGATIVITY! screams out my worn-out futon
I can;t manage to agree more with it, the silent objects of have won the battle of reason once again

There ARE worst things in life than finding yourself alone in a tiny apartment, for one I try not think of them, I rather let the night take its mysterious course and teach me it's eerie lesson.

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A View from An Open Window
For Jose Paz & Amaru J. Sánchez

From a view where I am used to seeing open skies today a cloud of dusty rain looks like crumpled wrapping paper, the one you buy on sale when there is nothing left at the store and you are in quick need of a present wrapper.

I'm anticipating more excitement than usual for this not yet rainy day, I haven’t had an afternoon this somber since the passing of my grandfather many years ago.

Gloomy as all may seem the silver linings strings from afar form a quick halo of what some might consider opportunistic hope, all of this misleading in a very cruel way. Who can tell for sure what the weather means on days like these

Jets forming distant parachutes of cloudy smoke cruise ever so gently over the graying sky with almost jazzy conspicuousness in its regal eminence.

I could be used to other views this time of the year, some of them brighter, some of them less sunny, other views would soar my belly with the air of a hot ballon ready to ascend into the blue firmament: not so easy and other times not so hard to explain.

Nevertheless, I am prepared to weather the storm.

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Hair Just Above

Into my woman’s arms I fall carelessly in the middle of it all,
it doesn't matter what it means, or what the papers say,
strong currents in the sea don’t mean much in her embrace.

I could run and run as far as I can, never too far from her grazing scent from the blooming of her red rose, the pearl of my insolent soul.

I do not know why or when or how, but I am deeply in love with the tiny hairs that adorn her abdomen, invisible only until I am close enough to kiss her with only air.

Time has gone by now and my arms not yet tired have been roaming through the rumble that his her silk, how else can I describe her skin?

No one likes to leave a warm bed undone, messy, filled with whispers, filled with somnolence and those tiny expectations that something among lovers is always new.

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O.

I’ve been expecting rain to fall, I’ve been expecting rain to fall,
I can't say it any louder, my god I’ve been expecting rain to fall.
Here comes some sunshine bathing my skin, closing my eyes,
robbing my face of a cool breeze, cruel and insipid sun I’ve been expecting rain to fall

I’ve been begging for forgiveness, I’ve been begging ceaselessly for forgiveness of any kind, in any shape and size, in small quantities, in timid whispers, in written letters, in long lasting dreams when I may not be really at fault, I cannot state it any truer I’ve been begging for forgiveness

I’ve walked this dusty path too far, I’ve walked it way too far, so far along that my footprints blend in with the grass behind and anytime now snow may start to fall, pain rushes down my knees into my bones,
I’ve walked this dusty path too far

And so I’ve arrived, way too early to expect a heartfelt welcome,
no one at the door to greet my opened arms, so I hug the wind,
and you know all too well that the wind does not hug back.

There are no loud welcomes, there are no salutary welcomes,
there are no laughing welcomes and of course no un-welcomes.
I can’t say loud enough, I've been begging for forgiveness.

-For the hurt and broken. For A.G.C.

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Old Friends Carry Sharp Knives

I will not carry in my hands any sharp objects,
long nails, puncturing items and resentful fingers.
I will not interject or interfere,
decide upon myself what is best of me,
that task is left to better judgement.
I cannot hold any longer to folded envelopes
stuffed with too much paper, too many pages and numbered scenarios.
I will not decide to swim steadily for fear of drowning ,
I will not own it up to my backward steps, to my lost smiles,
to my happy past or my miserable tomorrows,
I am not forthcoming in my old pupils,
in the nervous blinking, in my last diagnostics,
all my old trophies and third place medals will need to be recycled, devoid of existence,
for its own sake of belonging, of meddling with its own place in history.
I will not carry any more hot air, cold winter, overbearing radius,
I will no longer belong to myself,
something has to give to make me realize that all sharp objects cannot cut edges any longer.

The Element of Non-Surprise in Fellini's La Strada

There is an understated simplicity in Federico Fellini’s La Strada which resonates at times in boring monotony. This is not to say that this Italian masterpiece is anything near boring or monotonous, but rather reflective of the Neo-Realism present throughout Italian cinema at the time of the making of La Strada.

The fact that much of the film is a silent study of two characters facial and physical expressions, only lends more credibility to the feeling that these characters may still be roaming the roads of the post War World II Italian provinces with their everydayness and universality intact.

In a fantastic review by film credit Roger Ebert, the writer makes an observation that in all of Fellini’s films there are elements which obsessed the filmmaker throughout his career: a man suspended in the air, the seashore, a parade, clowns and prostitutes. These elements are woven masterfully into a timeless story of love and heartbreak and the intricacies of understanding everything else in between.

The bond between Zamapano, the travelling and brutish artist, and his dimwitted lover/assistant/conscious, is saddening and comical, repudiated by both at times and impossible to escape as well. Gelsomina, played to staggering perfection by the pantomime master Giulietta Masina, could not have spoken a single syllable in the entire films and the effect would have been the same: beautiful and freighting almost at once. Her comic timing is perfect, only balanced by the powerful expressions of fear and loathe that her facial features so effortlessly portray. With core simplicity all that Gelsomina expresses is all there is in her: genuine emotions she cannot hide making it seem like she is incapable of self reflection .Her companion/owner, Zampano, played with gusto by the Mexican American actor Anthony Quinn, is a disheveled mix of machismo, stubbornness and male insecurity. His physical characteristics: strong, tall, boorish, more than rough on the edges, deliver the needed morphology that will ultimately expose the human element that is hidden inside him throughout the story.




Both characters prove to be misleading at the films melancholic end in part to the volatile presence of the third character present in the film, The Fool, who’s constant pressings and teasing of Zampano, lead to his doom and in an ironic twist of unwanted fate, the endings of the other two characters as well. Three characters to dissect humanity in endearing and seemingly uncomplicated terms: a clueless and innocent soul, a hard headed and emotionally closed man and a clown, a buffoon capable of loving and destroying with equal ease.




Isn’t life so? The struggle between understanding one’s place in a hard and cruel place, trying to love and not receive love in return, or pretending not to and then asking for forgiveness and answers to unanswerable questions.
This symbiotic and emotional dystrophy present throughout this quietly deceiving film is a testament to its relenting reflection of everyday life: A man and his struggle to understand, sometimes beyond his own comprehension the cruel insistence of a quiet world surrounded by the absurd and the loving.

The Many Past Lives of My Soul

Today NUTA brings you an interesting article borrowed from the New York Times about the rising interest of reincarnation.

Enjoy....


Remembrances of Lives Past

IN one of his past lives, Dr. Paul DeBell believes, he was a caveman. The gray-haired Cornell-trained psychiatrist has a gentle, serious manner, and his appearance, together with the generic shrink décor of his office — leather couch, granite-topped coffee table — makes this pronouncement seem particularly jarring.


In that earlier incarnation, “I was going along, going along, going along, and I got eaten,” said Dr. DeBell, who has a private practice on the Upper East Side where he specializes in hypnotizing those hoping to retrieve memories of past lives. Dr. DeBell likes to reflect on how previous lives can alter one’s sense of self. He, for example, is more than a psychiatrist in 21st-century Manhattan; he believes he is an eternal soul who also inhabited the body of a Tibetan monk and a conscientious German who refused to betray his Jewish neighbors in the Holocaust.




Read more.

In the eye of the beholder: Ursula Von Rydingsvard

Here's my very good friend Melissa Robelo Salazar on German sculptor Ursula Von Rydingsvard, one of her personal favorites:

Ursula's work is very organic and gestural. Her manipulation of the material and form give the sculptures an emotional aesthetic.



Each sculpture seems to have its own history... its own story, and she achieves this by manipulating the cedar to create texture and form.



At glance you wonder if these were not part of some natural landscape? But then you realize they're not... They're the result of an arduous artistic process.

-Melissa Robelo Salazar is an industrial design student at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn and an occasional contributor to this blog.

Check Out This Blog Dude: Oceanic Dreams

Felix Leander has been swimming with the fishes since he was a child. His passion is not restricted only to the aquarium varieties, but also includes some of the most feared (unjustifiably so) animals in the vast blue sea. He has been blogging about diving with Sharks for a many years and thru his advocacy he's convincing people to turn around their negative perceptions about these intriguing and beautiful creatures. If there's anyone that can separate fact from myth, it's this real life conservationist Aquaman.



His blog, the educating and charmingly titled, Oceanic Dreams, is a meeting point for Shark Lovers of all walks of life. Among the incredible pictures, which he often takes himself while diving with his father Wolf Leander, there's also a diverse range of articles compiled from different blogs, magazines and newspapers across the websphere, including my personal favorite yearly analysis of the highly popular Shark Week series broadcast every year by Discovery Channel.

Here's Felix on feeding Sharks:

To feed or not to feed- that is the question

While I have only occasionally offered a shark a fish carcasse, I normally caress sharks as gently as possible, and never hold on to a fin to get a ride or perform stunts for others.

I am very well aware that touching sharks or other wild animals is debatable, and not everybody accepts my explanation that when I feel attracted to a being, human or animal, I just have the urge to stroke it. Thus, touching a shark is to me no more than a tactile expression of love.

One shark diver who would never interact closely with large tiger sharks, and saw me doing it a few times, has not only gone beyond touching tigers, but keeps hand-feeding them to see how far he can push the envelope to impress fellow divers and especially marveling media folks.

All I can say is that hand-feeding a tiger shark is neither difficult (potentially dangerous - yes) nor necessary. I have decided to quit doing it, also in order to not put my dive shark operator in a compromising position should anything bad happen.

Here is a blog with a magazine article on the subject I find not only very well written but highly informative and as balanced as any report on such sensitive issue can be.


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You can read more of Felix's blog by clicking here.

-NUTA

A Genre-Free Band: ARBOLES LIBRES

Not to make any comparisons, but the first time I met Nacho, singer, guitarist and chief agitator of the genre-free band Arboles Libres, I immediately thought of Nacho Vegas. Obviously the name made the first connection, but then armed only with a guitar and a harmonica, there was something strangely fresh about what until that moment I believed was a folk singer-song writer.

Two years later my friend Alejandro Angee is playing with his band Minimal at Transit Lounge in downtown Miami. I run into Nacho and after a few minutes of disparate and banal small talk I begin to tell everyone within earshot that "this guy is a Spanish Bob Dylan, a more melodic Latin American Leonard Cohen". Nacho laughs of course- "no man, wait till you hear what we do now" he says somewhat mischievously.

The night progressed and me and a group of 5 friends are downing Jameson shots and Sierra Nevadas like drunk twenty somethings with nothing better to do: the backyard of Transit Lounge is packed with indie music scenesters, Brickell kids wanting to escape the "boom boom" of the bars on 10th St and a few fiftysomethings who may or may not be the parents or music teachers of the excellent musicians on stage. After Alejandro's set is over, I high five him for an always "too cool" set. I mention to him briefly that I ran into "that dude Nacho who played in that fundraiser we did a few years ago" and Alejandro who is basically my wikipedia on all things Miami indie scene says: "oh yeah, wait till you hear what they do now".



I'm already hyped up. "Well what the hell do they do?" I ask Jose who ignoring me answers- "nothing man, they serve drinks, that's all they do" -as he looks at the two bartenders passing around Jack and Coke, his eyes transfused into either their lower backs or the bottle openers hanging from their black shorts. "What?" I say befuddled by his ignorant indifference "You have no idea what your about to experience" I brag, restrained only by my sudden realization that, 1) I've perhaps drank too many Sierra's and am at that point where everything excites me too much or makes me too sad and 2) I have no idea what Arboles Libres sounds like either.

Here's the thing, if you were to judge by the company that the three members of Arboles Libres keep, you would think that these guys are drug-infused-take-it-or-leave-it rock stars. There are model skinny girls in model skinny tights, guys with mustaches so voluminous that it defies description and they all circumvent them like they were planning something bad, very bad and that bad (meaning badass) was about to explode on stage.

I took my place near the front of the crowd when it was time for them to come. The backyard of Transit where the outside stage is located, began to resemble a pentecostal gathering as people bunched up, tightening open spaces, trying to get a close glimpse, on the far right of the stage, a group of girls, who were not part of the Arboles Libres pose waited for their boyfriends to bring them drinks, refusing to lose their space. I found friends standing a handful of people behind me still taking shots and looking at the bartenders. "Forget them, I'm ready to rock" I thought, unusually euphoric.

What came out of those two guitars and that hard hitting drum set can only be described as "sweet acidic melody". Bodies began to drag, seduced first by the ferocious riffs and hard hitting base of the drummer. "Mars Volta" I thought immediately, no comparisons needed: a minute into the first song the entire floor had transformed itself once again: bodies shaking, shimmering, convulsing, moshing, dancing, I could swear I saw a guy praying. Immediately I was regressed almost a time when I first discovered rock and roll in its strangest, rawest, most visceral and beautiful form.

Hey old Nacho, no need to go back to that old harmonica, "wait till you hear what you do now"

Here's a video from Arboles Libres, which is the way you should always see them:



And here's a video of MINIMAL, Alejandro Angee's phenomenal band:



All art in this post belongs exclusively to Arboles Libres.


-NUTA