The Colors of Trembling Hands
WARNING: Graphic Content
I had a free moment, so I made a visual poem of sorts… four-plus minutes culled from hours of footage from my last visit to Guatemala.
Give it time to load (HD) and enjoy the soundtrack. It’s about death and ritual.
In the cold comfort of the world’s trembling hands, death is not death unless it’s allowed to linger, and kittens allowed to feast. The massacre of history not history, so long as you carry the weight on your shoulder, and your children are made to watch.
Music: “Witness of a Heart Attack Death” by Shapednoise
What looks like greed when it comes to knowledge hoarding is often fear of penury, because we live in the neoliberal/winner-take-all hypercapitalist era where you’re either a supermanager with a multimilliondollar salary, or you’re headed for impoverishment and enimiseration.
Everyone who’s not…
Even the sea is put to bed.
Even the cliffs along the shores look both ways.
Even the blur of the leopard descends
unto the refuge of flesh.
Because the very nature of art is questioning
even your statements will draw answers back.
Flies turmoil about the afterbirth
my dog today neglected briefly to eat the pup.
Because you are at least so many people
what with your demons, your aspirations,
and all of the various ways you excel,
you cannot, should not be, swallowed up.
But still you must.
—Greg Kuzma, “Age”
Art Credit Edward Hopper
A hundred times I was upon the point of killing myself; but still I loved life. This ridiculous foible is perhaps one of our most fatal characteristics; for is there anything more absurd than to wish to carry continually a burden which one can always throw down? to detest existence and yet to cling to one’s existence? in brief, to caress the serpent which devours us, till he has eaten our very heart?
Gabriel García Márquez (1927–2014)
"Los últimos veteranos de quienes se tuvo noticia aparecieron retratados en un periódico, con la cara levantada de indignidad, junto a un anónimo presidente de la república que les regaló unos botones con su efigie para que los usaran en la solapa, y les restituyó una bandera sucia de sangre y de pólvora para que la pusieran sobre sus ataúdes. Los otros, los más dignos, todavía esperaban una carta en la penumbra de la caridad pública, muriéndose de hambre, sobreviviendo de rabia, pudriéndose de viejos en la exquisita mierda de la gloria." (Cien Años de Soledad)