Shades around the birthday candle

And into a common afternoon, when no one is watching, I will drink my last shot of whisky, I will draw my last line, I will paint and say “it is done”.
The line will be cut. The stream will flourish.
And I will finally have a carved smile.

I will miss my flowers and my trees. I will miss my silvered light and my bricked-wall thoughts. I will miss my bravado and my arrogance. I will miss believing that someone really uphelded my thoughts.

It is my wish (yet what is a wish in an ill-ridden life but a call out to the universe to lay the knife deep)
that I am spared of a longer life-span
that I am spared of hopeless projects
that I am spared of parenting and tradition and mortgage
and that I am freed either by death or by stable anonimity
while radiation engolfs us all.
I tried not to become the monster I am: I have the mind of the middle-class male, 5’11 and frustrated smile. And for that, I’m sorry. I will always be sorry. I hope that one day, someone will be able to make sense of the things I never could, the love I never showed, the humbleness I didn’t had.

To aspire for beauty and complexion, and comfort. This is my greatest sin.
To be loved. To be appreciated by the eyes that I wear and not the skin that was given to me. To be held accountable not for my sins, but for my many heroic actions hoping one day, I’d see my seed turn into a beautiful flower despite the estrangling.
To be bold. To be brave. To become better than mousy men. To roar. To stand up for myself.
This has come to be Guilt in my lifetime.

Death is like my pretty little own cave, in which I want to rest every single day.
Death soothes my thoughts and no one sees it sharply. Death caresses me when I feel sleepy, when I feel a toothache, when I see the desperate attempt of the people to evade the inner workings, when I see the greyness grow on the people I grew alongside with, Death loves that I like fruit and animals and crystals and mountains more than humans and doesn’t judge me, she cracks flowery tattoos on her ribs and smiles.
Death is gorgeous. Death is beautiful. Death is simple, and sweet, and never makes a promise it won’t keep. Death will never tell you that she loves you and then rip out your heart because you had the bad luck to have the face of the rapist people forced you to call “dad”. Death is the power above the broken mind, flying high above the landscape of the broken citizenship of the new millenia.
This has come to be my reality about Death.

So fading markers and little glasses: everyone can be happy and smile, because you kept The Fucking Machine working. Yet how come I’m the only one who sees the world and realizes this is just punishing? How come I’m the only one who sees the battle between two worlds, in which one innocently thinks the other one will allow it’s evolution to become so? “The only way Homo Superior is to walk the face of the Earth is by threading upon the grave of the Homo Sapiens, Bobby Drake.”
They told us this about the birth of a Real New World… didn’t anyone absorbed this letters in printing? Weren’t we a Comic&HipHop OneWorldNation?
To me today birthing can only happen within oneself, and birthing must happen when you can handle the structures it spurs within you. It start cannot be forced on you, and it shouldn’t be imposed on you. And birthing spurrs and imposes the survival instinct, yet for all its allegories and metaphors,
not a single teardrop or sweatdrop can modify the sweatshop machine that posmodern parenthood has become.
Birthing is useless in a world in which everyone I know happily runs toward the spit pool on the ground of Kowloon, or in the fashionista mafia of Moscow… even the one swam across by the jumbo-sized rat in the sewers of New York seems cuter than the fresh personal, gem-like power of one’s own fountain. Marketing, that’s all.
Only the path of the Buddha can heal it, but, do we really want to change all that? Can we really accomplish to rise above the stickiness and comfort of the old bedding, the old running mill, the wise-cracks? Can we sire crystaline beings and not digital zombiefication?
Pain. Pain. Pain.
This has come to be my reality about Birthing.

Its atraction creates a hole inside reality, in which you throw rotten teeth, or broken trusts, or even misguided Wise People Advice. And then you make do. Somehow, things manage to grow inbetween. Like a sip of ayahuasca, it throws into the pits of gorgeous pictures and horrible soundscapes. You, my friend, you crave for more.
Love is a powerful force like gravity, yet love is mistaken by something else because of our own lectures, issues, garden weeds.
This has come to be my reality about Love.

*b l o w *

To Whom It May Concern: An open letter to #OccupySLU students from Colombia

[Author’s Note: This letter was originally written at 4.00am the first day after #OccupySLU had their meetings. I could’nt have done it without the incredible work of many people around the web who made LiveStreams, UStreams or Vined/Tweeted/YouTubed/Instagramed about it… and it was scribbled on, so I had to kinda organize my ideas. Could’ve done it earlier if it wasn’t for that pesky habit of, you know, working to pay some bills. Special s/out to @TefPoe, @AntonioFerguson, @BellaEiko and @krissmissed: you people are a continued flow of good vibes.]

Bogotá, Colombia, SOUTHAM.
October 14th of 2014
4.03 am

REF: What’s happening on your Campus is incredible and I want to share with you why.

To Whom It May Concern:


#FergusonOctober to me is a lot of things. It can look like a handful to you. Yet in those things, I’ve seen patterns, frecuencies, intensities and vibrations… and it all adds up to “it doesn’t have to be a drag”. A little bitterness makes tea great, and understanding how geometry works heavy lifting can be done in a snap.
That’s the way I feel about this, there are some conclussions about this whole ordeal I can make. So I’ll sum them up as best as I can.

#FergusonOctober gifted me to an incredible view of how the tipping point has been reached. I still feel overwhelmed about is magnificence and power: when people were being arrested in the civil desobedience acts standing in the rain for +4hrs30mnts, clergymen and women were singing about love and hope. When people were marching through St. Louis in droves with their ID’s in their hands, they were talking about BEING more than LOOKS; can you remember the last time you were more focused on being rather than looking like you were something?
Seeing how poorly the St. Louis PD, the POTUS and the Mass Media handled this and how well Streamers, Viners, Instagramers and Tweeters handled the multiple on-the-ground faces of a single event and allowed it to grow and wrap itself around many people not present there in the flesh made me realize how much people can take for granted -specially inmigrants in more industrialized countries that develop a buyer frenzy first and foremost- the use of electronic devices for empowered communicating. And how via those devices we can actually BE, not LOOK LIKE. I. Got. Hooked. On this little fact.
Watching the arrests made my heart sink at times. Why? Basically, open fear about the in-costudy aggression, the manipulation and posible abuse of the people in jail. Yet I know that’s the way sometimes things have to work for lies to be unmasked. I steeled myself and kept in touch.
I knew this was my way of doing the right thing.
But… maybe you are wondering why someone from Colombia, SouthAmerica, is writing this to you, students, hoping to reach you and maybe also some Faculty Members and ocassional let’s-give-a-seminar people at the SLU.
Well, you see, my country has a cultural and economic affair with the U.S. that looks like a reeeeeally toxic/passionate relation. What you decide in your country resource-wise affects us deeply, and I do believe you won’t find a more devoted country to U.S. policies and culture in South America than Colombia, despite the fact that this love doesn’t seem to come back around healthily. (Let me be clear I’m not talking about drugs here, I need you to get that out of this letter ASAP, I’m talking about all the other things people do, regular, working, loving people. Back to the mike.)

It’s more than just the international socio-economic-politic affair the thing that moved me to write. My country is one of the MOST DIVERSE PLACES in the whole world. For being a lightweight in size and influence, we have so much diversity (in terms of race/ecology/geography/culinary costums, et al) that you’d think we are five countries that just happened to be one. And so, in a moment in which in my country we’re talking about achieving peace and starting a healing process as well as a huge unfolding and developing of our talents, which is supposedly to happen in my lifetime, I tend to look for -since I live in such a bubbly melting pot- what influences I’ve gathered that have made some parts of who I am… in order to know which I choose to engage and how to contribute in my lifetime. And do whatever it takes. In stride.
So! Imagine my surprise when I am bathed in this warm, strong, bright and fierce yet sweet flame lit in Ferguson&SLU.
I may be naive to some, but I do believe if white people realizes the size of their influence (a de facto blessing only due to skin color), they can go a long way helping more than themselves, and in their own lifetime be witness and craftsman of an incredible world. And seeing/reading/hearing the #FergusonOctober/#OccupySLU questions (sophomore+seniors+others), I’ve seen that a lot of q’s that the caucasian/middle-high class people on my own country have:

Oooh, so glad you asked! Thought of a few. I hope you’ll feel one of them.

If you can code, you can help protecting the accounts from spyware/spybots/malware/rootkits et al in every page of streams and archives that are happening around this movement. And that’s just one of the things that need to happen. Remember something: the streams/others are all you and me got. It’s no small thing that there has been happening a defeaning silence in hope that things will go away, or that a smokescreen has been projected in order to make people fear and lose it’s focus (#Ebola scare, anyone?). It’s no small feature, then, to help keep any kind of rocks from blocking the stream.
This event, as the #OccupyHK events, should teach you a lot about the relevance of a free content-access world via internet: it’s not anymore about “Formative Years vs the Real World”, it’s about how rooted on the ground your actions are. Dystopian things sound cool, but baby, the comic book characters that live in that world could tell you that things really suck: do you want to live any longer in a world that has such a need-to-know-need-to-pay-basis that can mess up ad libitum the most intimate aspects of life?
Me thinks not.

Soak yourself in it. Take your time, but take the dive. And then make small videos about it, or puppets, or economic proposals. Go crazy, let your interest in one aspect of the many contributions take your heart, mind and body places you’d never have the guts to go. And then, share it! 😀
The more of your peers know of the willingness or forced participation on it of African-Americans, a whole new universe with less internal gaps can open up to them and clearer, more mature decisions can be made (this ranges from the ballot box, to NGO’s, to bringing out to the light shady/violent things or inefficient+harmful procedures in a company, to joining that amazing start-up that you’ve called ‘hippy dumbasses’ before). And, most books you read about your career path and responsabilities? They do are kinda one sided in this aspect.
If you are learning, make it worth your while!

May sound confusing, but stick with me here.
You will be surprised on how making your own things to represent the beauty, anger, fear, hope, any emotion of this birthing inside of you and around you will affect yourself and the people around you. Political Correctness tend to start cracking when you make with your hands something that says “hey, world, this is how I perceived it, can you see it’s beauty too?”. Because connections are made. Because purpouse via what we can make with our own hands goes a long, looong way. And because only when you learn to recycle the things that are discarded you can start to imagine how objectifying *reallly* works.
You’ve been told that the world is yours for using and discarding. You cannot understand how that relates to people until you’ve seen first hand what that all-consuming ambition can do to your own place of living in a physical reality.

Some last thoughts about why it’s important that you know the people that lives, so to say, next to you and your kin.

Colombia and Brazil are the two countries in South America most influenced by African Culture (Yoruba culture gave us so many gifts it’s amazing, for example). Our roots and love, whether we like it or not, appreciate it or not, are intertwined with it. Even if you are not dark skinned, there is no such thing as a Latinoamerican country without some african influence! So keep it in mind when you act like Latinos are some weird 17th dimensional alien to this struggle with no voice or relation to this.
It’s in our blood. It’s in our rythm. Many of us work actively -like Amy Poehler’s Smart Girls found out– so this heritage can thrive. And many of us rejoice that it gives us potential to rise.
We’re watching and scribbling furiously as things go: and we’re not going away. So remember, SLU people, you are part of a WHOLE CONTINENT and by acting local effectively, you also inspire and connect internationally.

From the bottom of my hands&heart, I deeply, deeply thank you for your time reading this. I hope that you understand that even if you laugh your ass off in the face of others, laughter can’t stop a hurricane from lifting your ass up. And if you want to live in a future in which you will not be judged by the color of your skin, it starts with you today. As simple, corny and cliché as it may sound, is a verifiable truth no amount of jargon can deny.
And please: if you feel like it, do a fact check about all I’ve said here. I don’t want to be another piece of hype. 🙂

I wanted to save my name for last. My name is Felipe Parra, I work trying to make things reasonable in the Art&Design Department with a small book publisher, and I draw/paint/make a mess most of the time. And if I touched your hearts or something, know this: I’m sending you people, part of a country that hosts some of the people that I’ve loved and admire the most, a huge hug, a fistbump, a peck or a nod. Maybe I won’t ever know you, but I do send appreciation.
In short: I’m sending you my sincere strength and love.

Hasta luego.

Meet the Post-Its that made this happen. :3

Quedan 381 días

Trata de comprender: la fractura ha sido inminente
y el paso del tiempo me ha hecho canalla
mientras los amores se desfasan
y cada vez me cuesta más destruir estructuras
para renovar los tiempos: estoy robando arenas del tiempo en un videojuego
mientras la promesa de amor sencillo
se aleja de mí
mientras me dicen “aléjate del teclado”
pero los incentivos son para mí sólo muertes.

Trata de comprender.
Quiero hacer algo que no sea cantar con rabia mientras se veo los meteoros
y mientras me intentan forzar al fondo de la caja
ese olor a hierro húmedo de la tierra
mientras me entierran vivo
por un registro, un documento, un papel.

Cada gota de licor me acerca a una puerta
que cuando la abra, no volveré.
Sé que ya es demasiado tarde, que solamente un milagro
va a poder hacer que me escuchen
el grito desgarrado
de cuando tomaron su cuello y como una muñeca de trapo
le extirparon el oxígeno y el alma.

Quisiera ser ella. Quisiera tener una décima de sus poderes
de su fuerza de su valor
de su potencia.
Nunca he podido ser tan fuerte, nunca he podido ser tan… amable.
Mis palabras son vientos frágiles. Soy un mal alumno,
si estuviera viva no podría verla a la cara.

Tal vez no entiendes.
Desde ese día veo flama. Desde ese día tengo en la boca del estómago
un riff de guitarra que no me deja en paz.
Un cansancio abarca mis huesos
mientras el mundo olvida el abrazo de sus ojos verdes.

Desde ese día no sé si podré soltar esta lanza.

Preludio al block en blanco

La música le llega a uno cuando debe llegarle. No antes, no después. Siguiendo la trifecta de Nicolás Tesla
si quieres comprender el Universo, piénsalo en términos de
y vibración
desde hace un tiempo he estado notando que las antiguas formas de música chocan entre sí y vuelven contra mi proceso creativo de una forma cristalina. E inesperada.

El trip-hop se empieza a desplegar sobre tí
sobre tu cabeza y piernas
de forma concreta, amplia…

El trip-hop tiene que ver con sicodelia, con música realizada con ácidos y sin ella, con personas que saben qué es una traba y qué es un viaje y qué significa enteógeno y cómo juegan con ello hasta que hallan su propia clave, que descifran su propia mola -aún a pesar de sí mismos-.

El trip-hop viene de una salud mental artesanal y elaborada que se pasea con propiedad sobre flores eléctricas… empiezo a percibirlo con esa inocencia buena del que tiene que sacar la superficie de color sobre la hierba… y ese algo de la excitación de escribir o pintar o componer haciendo a un lado el hambre debería ser señal suficiente de que sí, que hay una construcción afilada de destino y que se manifiesta usando las herramientas que existe con las concreciones tecnológicas alcanzadas, sean inmediatas o levemente añejadas.
No ando corriendo detrás de ellas: encajan cuando necesitan y regresan.

Abrirse a estas nuevas corrientes
es más que todo, bañarse en los propios puntos anclados
y darle media vuelta de giro, porque sí, porque A a B y a 1>Z,
porque lo dúctil del lenguaje permea y da potencia
y podemos regresar suavemente al sitio de movimiento sin preguntarnos
por qué nos sentimos viejos y sin inocencia
cuando nos pornografiamos la vida misma… ¿con qué derecho te quejas de algo, si tienes un implante para ser tu propio proxeneta?
No pedí permiso para ver tus ideas desnudas, o tu cuerpo desnudo… y sin embargo, qué soledad tan vasta existe entre persona y persona, que tenemos que llenarnos de esa forma de depredación
para no oír ritmos, ser sólo estridencias. Se sacude el implante y cierras la pestaña, pero ahí sigue el parásito en potencia.

Es sentir, infinitesimalmente, esa potencia vibratoria desplegada interna, y empezar desde ahí
a trabajar
con todo el frío que abarca una ciudad
que no está muriendo por sí misma: está pidiendo un nuevo giro, uno que debe consumarse con acolchada violencia,
mientras frenas el bote y te recuerdas a tí mismo que no tiene sentido
el carro, los hijos, ni la hipoteca,
sin un ultrasonido que puedas imprimirle
sin esa chispa de conciencia.

Ver esas caras de molduras de barroco al tiempo que se desplegaba cierta conversación me hacían recordar cuando odiaba con todas las vísceras lo que oliera a esa historia. Luego, cuando adoraba esa presencia estética en un teatro por ser euroexótico en la ciudad donde vivo, por imaginarlo como LA bocanada de aire entre la salvajada de vivir en un país sin autoestima. Ahora, me parecen no sólo anticuadas, vetustas, anacrónicas, sino lo más importante: débiles en potencias. ¿Tal vez porque las veo como una fracción, como
y 8.88*n es para mí la medida nuclear de la potencia de las vibraciones de ser mezcla?
Estoy seguro que tiene hasta su propio peso atómico ese mestizaje. Les diré si lo encuentro.

Y ahora se están permeando las nubes de nuevas conciencias sonoras, hay fruta y fruto y esas caras conservadoras sienten lo inorgánico haciéndoles cerco. Tenemos huerta en la casa, señores. Veamos que pasa. ¿Cómo se enlazará esa sanidad para enraizarse y depurar nuestra demencia de sólo imitación?

Lo artesanal es lo que da la fuerza para sobrepasar al vampirismo distópico, en esta carrera por la supervivencia que se ha vuelto el arte.