Here should be an introduction to the project, but first some ideas in relation to the notes and how these could influence the building of this performative object.
"Through these interstices emerges what have in common the crime perpetrated against the indigenous peoples and the drama that our country is living in the present: a fierce dispossession exerted through a coercion that has become natural, invisible and therefore non-existent."
"Poetry is nothing more than a luminous signals system. Bonfires that we kindle down here, in darkness, for someone to see us, so they do not forget us." Leon Felipe
I don't know what to do with this pain. With this anger. I cannot even watch this without feeling stomachache and tears pushing my eyes. I only could write a story. And I only could cry, and vomit this sadness and anger in something else than words.
Something is going wrong.
These are the left overs of the party. Horrible party. Somewhere, near, they continue partying. By the end of the night, I would be dead. And some kind of revolution will be ongoing, but before that, you may follow me...
Now we are in a desert. Here I grew up. There is nothing but a small house, a wooden house near a dry canal. Red-yellow stones. Wind.
Have you ever try glue? to get stoned?
It's like been drunk at the end of the night laying on the floor receiving kicks all over your head. And this sticky sharp metallic smell all over your body...
So we are in the desert. The wind is blowing, and you walk to the house. You open the door, get inside. The house is unstable. The roof is sounding and moving cause of the wind. Everything is fragile. And you sit down. Here. In a small little chair and start looking everything around involved in this noisy environment, surrounded by kilometres of dessert. And suddenly the wind stops, and the silence came over. Everything is silence.
And you realize that you are waiting for something. Waiting for something to happen.
How Nicolas could became a killer? How he could burn to death a person? I know him, I play games with him. I remember the last time I saw him. he was 13 or 14 years old, I was 18 and we ate hot dogs, as always the wind was blowing. He had sadness in his eyes, and he looked tired. I was there with Fernando (isn't strange this?). Then, 5 years later the horror. i never go to visit him to the prison. I THINK THAT MAYBE I SHOULD DO THAT (But it's hard for me)
(Book Manuscript)
The pen between my fingers is my work
I am convicted to death
I never convicted anyone and I have the power to
This is the major sin
A sentence without remedy
The minor sin
Is to want to separate
My body from my spirit
....
“Underneath was this, which I do not attempt to name”
....
I prefer death a thousand times
Than to endure leftovers
....
I
I want to go
Nobody
I spend the whole night weeping
How many tears of pain
In agony
In this valley of tears
I want to go