Photo: 'things' by greeblie (flickr)
I'm redirecting you to a piece I wrote, recounting an actual event from my recent past... It's a short piece and you can find it here, Thanks must go to Shinazy Linda for hosting it, and inviting my humble literary contributions; you can visit her blog BOBB (Bitchin old Boomer Babe) to read more stories by her and a variety of authors/writers every week - there's also a link to the right in my blog's sidebar under Blogroll. The title of my story on the site is actually "Things we keep" - I couldn't really decide what to call it, so it kind of has two titles ("Conversations..." being the other of course). Enjoy, and keep reading!
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Story of Remoteness, 2. "Words" by David Martinez Romero Sometimes, I do fall into long monologues, and words move me as if they were good, good mothers, unconditional friends, comrades. Just talking I sometimes heal from every evil that boils in the dead city, it cures me of all the sickness and all the sadness. Sometimes a talk is like letting the music play, and a voice that imposes with its brief strings is also peace, love, every thing that is worthy and comes back to claim its name allowing itself to be named by the same voice that unties it. Happiness could very well be just a word but it is mine in any case, it is in any case my truth, my ardent breath that happily becomes verb and resets my pain, my suffering and my agony shaping a tremendous smile that compares the moon with its beauty and in the end is mine, and only mine, and I give it away to those who have an ear for music. To talk, talking about anything, just saying beautiful things, not being afraid of the vacuum nor the sea of futility, loosing talk, saying yes, no, sometimes, saying that I love you, I’m out of here, so long, and then shutting up at the right time, walking and redecorating words when indiscriminately giving away phrases, texts, strokes, smiling to the stranger, to the walking woman, to the child that’s always playing. And just listening with unusual care to what they say. If they’re happy, the words are not only words. They are bridges lying between two shadows, they are lights in the starless night, they are huge windows through which the air passes and sometimes so do the spirits. Saying yes, when everybody else denies, is a cardinal virtue. To those who affirm with their voice, with their gesture, with their elegance should be granted the rank of Prince since their gallantry means highness. And talking with your own life, saying pretty things by just living, with the only air that you breathe, setting the example of laughing… that also justifies our existence. Because being is a problem and the very solution, just a word. Whether it has meaning or not, whether it is new or made up, the word, said in the appropriate space and time, lasts. It is stronger than stone. Children are always learning to speak: and so am I, for I am a child born of the heart of speech. And like a newborn to language I’m always looking for happy findings, I jump from complexity to simplicity, I lie, discover, celebrate, certify, extend grubby checks and introduce documents sealed with a carmine kiss that I always steal from a beautiful woman. I speak as well, for not only does the poet, other men speak too when they do not fear the nothingness, those happy flukes that take joyfulness as their own. Many believe they are talking, but they should just keep quiet. We, the happy, even in silence say tricks. Happiness: believe me, it is not only a word, but well spoken, it could also be true. -- Following on from last years "Artist Feature" spot on David Romero, he and I have since sparked something of a collaboration. Here's a new poem from him, translated into from Spanish to English - My role involved assisting with the latter part, that of streamlining the English version. This will not be the last of David's poems to feature on this site. For more on the poet, click on the link in the Blogroll to connect to his personal site. -- Ukraine, a country which has intrigued me to no end… and it was they who were the primary target of Soviet propaganda since they were the biggest country, the biggest population outside of Russian territory to have to submit to the Soviet Union. Because of this fact, the USSR rightly saw them as the biggest threat and as such, tried to rob the people of their identity. For years Ukrainian art and Literature were destroyed in an attempt to wipe out their heritage… Thankfully, the Ukraine, through all its problems, today stands on its own two feet. It’s an enigmatic country much like its former northern rulers, and similarly with great potential, great mystery, deep pain as well as overwhelming beauty. For a long time it had been hidden in shadow, behind an iron curtain, under the Soviet fist and within its own insecurities. To the north and central region lies a very physical scar on the country, a very real stain if you will. Over a quarter of a century on from that day in April in 1986 and a large patch of land still lies predominantly vacant, save a few citizens on the outskirts who have no alternative but to stay and grind out a dangerous living. The nuclear effects of Chernobyl will live on for many more generations. Experts estimate that it will be some 20 000 years before the area at the core of the disaster will recover, to be liveable again… Deep within that desolate region known as the ‘Zone of alienation’ is the ghost city of Prypyat… - One commentator even went so far as to call it a Soviet Union time capsule. A year or two ago the Ukraine opened up sections of the area to tourists to learn about (and from) the disaster. From these images it’s easy to see why it spawned a Hollywood horror film (Chernobyl Diaries - click for the trailer). Sad though that LA got the rights for this film – if they’d wanted it done properly, it should have been placed in European hands, perhaps even a Ukraine/Russia collaboration (that would have been scary on so many levels, whilst also doing the story more justice). Prypyat, before '86: Sources: www.buzzfeed.com - 50 pictures of Chernobyl... www.thehuffingtonpost.com - Touring Chernobyl www.villageofjoy.com/chernobyl-today-a-creepy-story-told-in-pictures/ On our journey of progression, and for many of us, discovery, we focus on David Romero, filmmaker, writer, novelist, poet... A creative at heart, David is a man on the move with great insights as well as goals and surely someone to look out for in the future. It gives me great pleasure to feature this artist, whom I hope to work with someday: Poetry: Story of remoteness, 47. By David Martinez Romero The soul of an artist Gently silence falls as white bird eating holes in the clouds, where broken glitter beams cross needles in ice flowing, slow death of magma yesterday on our hands clasped, now lost underground. Because the dust has eaten the paintings in the library: those books, on which dreaming we once promised immense love and pleasure and caresses, have been lost, such as dust, as white bird that rises. Pages and pages of gray images, fragmentary, I remember the futility of all the roses and I know that beauty dies that woman is beautiful and her beauty shines, the time ineluctable push intensifies and a wave comes and goes like foam. Slowly, from a tear magnificent the whole philosophy springs, all the knowledge of the truth, the night, the sugar, all that is worthy of being known or kissed, glazed moons with lids wide open as if an albino animal had crossed the room at the speed of a smile: perhaps an angel ... perhaps the soul of an artist. * Videos by Eldorado Entertainment "Motorway" - Anni B Sweet. Directed by David Martinez Romero Movida Corona 2010 - Executive Producer: David Martinez Romero Mini Biography: Born in Madrid in 1976. Journalist, writer, video producer and on his way to make a filmmaker out of himself. Founder of Eldorado Entertainment, production company in which he has produced and directed from TV commercials to music videos and his first short film, The Offer. As a writer, he has published one Poetry book, El mundo cuando sueña, yet he has written several collections of poems, two novels and one autobiographical essay. He publish a blog under his own name in which he shares poems and other writings every week. Right now, looking for financial support for a documentary film. Q & A:
Zahara de los Atunes (a little town in Cadiz) La Judería, Córdoba For more, contact and follow David: Juanda Cortes Photography Referenced earlier: visit Juanda Cortes photography, another contributor at Eldorado Entertainment. Awakening - [*provisional title*] -- (by Steven Benjamin, 2012 )
… Linda’s mouth hung open. “Jeremy” he said it again, as if tasting the words for the first time. “Oh. Yes. I remember.” His head tilted back as he looked skywards. “What?” Linda heard herself say. “What does that mean?” His attentions found her again, but not for long. He glanced around as if in mild panic, slowly rubbing his fingers together. “You were sleeping.” “Y-yes…” “I was away.” “No. You were driving the car. There, look!” “I was away for a while… saw this, this bridge. There was something I had to get. Something hidden.” “Jeremy you’re scaring me. Let’s just go to the car. Do you want me to drive?” “Shh.” Linda took a step back trying to recover. She was blinking profusely, her hands clutched to her chest as she attempted to formulate some kind of response. “I came here. I came back here… there’s something I need to do. I just need to,” He glanced toward the car again and then back to Linda. “Can you get something for me?” “Hm? You mean…” “Here.” He pulled the keys from his pocket. “Go home. I need something from my lock-box.” “Wh-what? Are you kidding? NO! We’re going home together, stop this, and get in the car.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him closer but he didn’t move. Linda staggered. He was looking at her in a way he’d never before. “You said my name is Jeremy.” She opened her mouth to speak, noticing then that she hadn’t seen him blink. “It isn’t.” His voice was a whisper. “Not remotely.” Her breathing was quicker now, “… Jay. You’re scaring me.” “I know. I was too at first… years ago. Course, I was unaccustomed to it then.” The Fish River Canyon, Part 3: And Finally… “Think positive thoughts”, an unofficial mantra of our hiking team, which largely encompassed, at least for my part, visions of relaxing in the hot spa and lukewarm pool at Ai-Ais Campsite. Sitting and allowing our tired bodies to marinate in the hot water (akin to a hot bath at home), brought to such temperatures by mother earth herself, as well as the unforgiving Namibian sunshine, is a memory to cherish. It was also one of the thoughts driving us whilst trudging around Vasbyt bend – yes that’s the actual name of the bend (vasbyt meaning: grit-your-teeth, hold tight, dig deep, suck-it-in etc…). Why do I bring this up? Well I naturally emptied my backpack as soon as I returned home, though I did leave my shoes in the bottom compartment – where my sleeping bag is usually stored. In the week though, I needed my inner soles – I use the same inners for several shoes. So as I pulled them out I discovered, low and behold, a fair amount of sand lying beneath, hiding if you will. I saved that sand as a keepsake, just as my uncle did with a bottle of water he scooped from the Dead Sea – displayed on a shelf in his house today. It says something though doesn’t it; you may leave the Canyon behind, but a part of the Canyon will always remain with you… literally. One casualty of that sand (temporarily anyway) is my camera – now the zoom lens refuses to deploy… the sand got in EVERYWHERE! It won’t budge at all, so I can’t even employ Ricky’s method of biting it out (This is not an advisable method – don’t try it at home). Nevertheless, in time, this too will turn out to be of little import… Anyway, the legacy lives on, in memory, or a million grains of sand. I shall leave you with an extract of yet another piece of fine literature, highlighted once again by the ‘Lieutenant’. It was during our final evening in the Canyon, and yes, we were all exhausted after covering nearly 30 km’s (18 miles) that day. Although, as tired as we were, everyone was in good spirits because the hard part was over – we’d left ourselves a paltry 6 km’s for the next morning, meaning we could sleep well, rest easy… because we’d shrugged off the worst. So amidst the clanging of camp side dinner dishes whilst most were cocooned in their sleeping bags, during a still night, these words subtly brought the world to our quiet riverbank campsite, in the profound glow of a roaring campfire. (>>> It's quite long so here's the first stanza of that great poem <<<) The Highwayman |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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