Brisa Marina de Stéphan Mallarmé, versión de Guillermo Valencia

La carne es la tristeza, y los libros todos

¡asiló mi cabeza!

¡Huyamos allá, huyamos!

¡Huyamos allá, huyamos! Sobre la mar salada

las aves giran ebrias, en pálida bandada.

Sobre la mar salada

las aves giran, ebrias de sacudir el vuelo

entre la espuma ignota y el immutable cielo.

Ni aquel jardín antiguo que reflejaron ojos

amados para siempre, ni los destellos rojos

de mi vetusta lámpara sobre el papel vacío

a quien – bajo la noche – defiende su blancura;

ni un niño que los senos

a su robusta madre de joven hermosura

con avidez atrapa:

nada en el mundo, nadie demorará un espíritu

que en el amargo zumo del piélago se empapa.

¡Yo partiré! Tus mástiles erige con tristeza,

oh Buque, y leva el ancla

¡con rumbo hacia una exótica feliz naturaleza!

Un tedio, desolado por ávidos anhelos,

espera en los adioses que mandan los pañuelos…

Quién sabe si estos mástiles alargarán un día

sus dedos a los náufragos, entre la mar bravía,

a los desnudos náufragos sin mástiles, sin mástiles

ni fértiles islotes de verdes cocoteros…

¡Oh, corazón! escucha las voces de alegría

que dan los marineros!

Dos películas zombis latinoamericanas

Muerte chunchurria (2003)


Punk rock, chuchurria, ñeros, BMX, un cucho que se cree Jesus Cristo quien se cree Jesus Cristo ¿qué más quieren de una película zombi? Grabada en el ápice del conflicto armado en Colombia, en la tradición de película B (o C o D) de zombis, Muerte Chunchurria también se trata de temas serios como la limpieza social. Esto es una joya del cine colombiano. Para mí, pues. Buenísima persecución en bicicleta BMX también.

Juan de los muertos (2010)


Invasión de zombis como metafóra para el aislamento de la isla de Cuba. Por un precio, Juan se encarga de matar a los zombies con la ayuda de su hija, recien llegada de España y su apréndice venezolando, Lázaro. Hay rumores de que los gringos provocaran la invasión. Al fin es ambiguo si es sólo un rumor perpetuado por el gobierno cubano, o si de verdad fueron los gringos.

Juan de los muertos ganó el premio iberoamericano Goya. Mi pregunta: si Juan de los muertos gana por qué Muerte chunchurria despareció sin ni siquiera una palamdita en la espalda. Creo que se debe, por lo menos, presentarlo en la Cinemoteca Distrital en Bogotá.

The Unseen by Nanni Balestrini and Semiotext(e)´s Autonomia

unseenIn 1977 all hell was breaking loose in Italy. A financial crisis that wouldn’t ease led to high rates of unemployment. Leftists were disillusioned when the communist party aligned itself with the centrist Social Democrats, whom they had competed with for so many years. The concession led to a movement that would be known as the Autonomism. Not communist or Leninist, the Autonomists were a group of students, workers and activists that rather than fight the system decided to subvert it. Much that we’ve come to associate with what they used to call “gutter punks” seems to have arisen around then, in the sizzling political vat of Bologna, Palermo and Milan. Things went even more apeshit when a year later the communist guerrilla group, the Red Brigades kidnapped and then killed the acting Italian prime minister, Aldo Moro.

In 1977 all hell was breaking loose in Italy. A financial crisis that wouldn’t ease led to high rates of unemployment. Leftists were disillusioned when the communist party aligned itself with the centrist Social Democrats, whom they had competed with for so many years. The concession led to a movement that would be known as the Autonomism. Not communist or Leninist, the Autonomists were a group of students, workers and activists that rather than fight the system decided to subvert it. Much that we’ve come to associate with what they used to call “gutter punks” seems to have arisen around then, in the sizzling political vat of Bologna, Palermo and Milan. Things went even more apeshit when a year later the communist guerrilla group, the Red Brigades kidnapped and then killed the acting Italian prime minister, Aldo Moro.

This is not fiction. This is history. And yet this re-printing of a gutsy novel by Verso hardly made a sound last year when The Unseen. Was the highly acclaimed publisher of nearly every important book of social theory off the mark? Highly unlikely. Nanni Balestrini is the author of several books, including Sandokan and Tristano; he was a member of the Gruppo 63, often referred to Neovanguardia, whose most famous member is probably Umberto Eco. His works in the 60’s and 70’s, which include the novel here in review, subvert literary norms often using writing as a kind of technology for liberation.

The Unseen is a damning work of protest in the form of experimental fiction – that is if no punctuation, no capitalization still qualify as experimental. Like the moment in history it depicts, the novel quickly moves from organizing resistance to improve factory conditions they are under to bettering conditions in jail they inhabit. In the pulpy sense it’s riots, mob fights and jail.  While it´s difficult to lose sight of the novel´s political ends, they don´t make the book’s most raucous moments any less fun. In the same way genre fiction might tickle the senses, so this novel had me mentally pushing prison guards and tending to my would-be wounded ¨comrades¨.

Our hero, a young drifter in a neighborhood in Northern Italy filled with southern migrants, narrates the moment his life became politicized. It begins in high school. Students have teachers locking themselves away in classrooms, while they march as “comrades” out of the school together. In the end even the janitors run. The school is taken. Reading this description however today in English – teachers hiding, principals dashing out – recalls the independent, isolated school shootings common in the United States recently. The difference of course is that these comrades aren’t working alone nor are they armed. Their power derives from another kind of source, their solidarity. Balestrini further demonstrates this by narrating the book primarily in the plural first person. It is only later in the novel that the protagonist and narrator emerge from the camouflaging “we” of the multitudes. The sentences too seem to express solidarity with each other, while the reader looks for the next break in time for an eye-rest.

About a quarter way through the novel, the protagonist and his crew are arrested and spend the remainder of the novel working out ways to escape. They get out and start a pirate radio station. This might have been based on the real Radio Onda Rossa in Rome, set up in a squat. At this point I thought, Oh right I remember those. These were illegal radio stations or unofficial radio stations. Back before the internet this ability to constantly communicate wasn’t so simple. Maybe the pirate radio station is comparable to websites that offer open free downloading, like the former Megaupload.

Next thing you know, they’re back in prison. To get some respite from the misery of the dank prison, inmates do things like “numbing the finger with the gas from a lighter and then sticking it in the neck of a Coca Cola bottle you take the bottle in your hand and you twist it back in one clean movement that way the finger breaks and it doesn’t hurt then you go to the doctor and you get time off.” Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

The Unseen can be read many ways: a besot condemnation of institutions; the primal shout (or howl) of a forgotten movement; the beginning of a rift between the labor movements and labor dynamics. Either way, Ballestrini makes it clear the end is not good.

italia autonomistasSemiotext(e)’s Autonomia: Post-Political Politics functions as a great companion to the novel. Half art book, half anthology of political essays and half history, I’ve owned nothing like it. While reading it I was afraid I’d wrinkle a glossy page, or smudge the matte black cover (which I ended up doing anyway). Sylvère Lotringer decided to re-publish this magazine from 1980 in book form recently. The writers anthologized include Gilles Deleuze, Dario Fo, Paul Virilio, Toni Negri, and Paolo Virno. In his essay ¨The Anatomy of Autonomy¨, “Bifo” seems to write in exposition what Ballestrini tries to narrate in The Unseen: “The rejection of family and of individualism had found a form of organization in the experience of the proletarian youth associations”. As in The Unseen, subjectivities like the individual and the family are replaced with youth groups. And they live as a “we” until they are broken.


As a FIAT worker says in one essay from collection, the strength of the Autonomists derived from their ability to organize under banners that often masked or reconfigured class differences. Their opposition created new subjectivities. Students were united with factory workers. Feminists with anarchists. (It should be mentioned that within the  Like Enrique Laclau and Chantal Mouffe’s model of political change subjects of different political interests unite at one particular moment to a create a new constellation. This sketch of dissidence and unrest from The Unseen demonstrates exactly that:

¨the evenings are high-spirited lively noisy with our sounds shout songs music they’re made colourful by our jackets scarves skirts hats the walls are one long stretch of graffiti drawings writing all muddled together all with slogans on top of the other against the bosses against sweated labor against all work against the ghettos against the clergy against the mayor against the trade unions against the parties against the city council against the men against heroin against fascists against cops against judges against the state against poverty against repression against prison against the family against school against sacrifices against boredom”

Maybe some of the novels power derives from its authenticity; this is Nanni Balestrini’s own life we’re discussing. It helps that it happens to be a moment that would reflect political struggles for years to come. This novel manages to at once surprise with an almost utopian flavor and never part from what we know was once reality, and is now history. Its resonance with today’s complex and heterogeneous social uprisings make it relevant.

Happy Birthday, King Nicanor Parra, You Old Fool!

EL inMUNDO ACTUAL!          – ¨Peatones¨, Nicanor Parra

Not everyone can answer questions like, What´s your favorite movie? Or your favorite book? Usually we´re moving so fasting consuming new things it´s hard for us to keep a hierarchical list of all of them.

But if someone were to ask me for my favorite poet (highly unlikely as it is) I would say Nicanor Parra. I wouldn´t hesitate. I wouldn´t even let them finish their question. Even when I´m tired of reading I pick up the first volume of his complete works (with two hands) and dive in. I read his Artefacts, a collection of images with brief text printed on postcards.

Parra Artefacto

They share a striking resemblance to the meme. They share that quick ability to make meaning visually, and strike quickly, the way a quip might if delivered orally. They are profound and not. True and a sham. Seriouly kidding. And kidding, not really.

Parra Meme


Sidenote: via google alerts (how else could I keep track of my favorite poet) I found out in Chile they are re-publishing his Artefactos. I have already asked a friend to pick me up a box of the postcard poems.

But I don´t only read those. I return to the Poemas y antipoemas. I used to carry a copy around with me everywhere I went, which in the end meant I had a . I read these in Spanish, but I´ve written about the translations made of them in Bookslut. Here´s some of what I said about Poems and anti-poems five years ago:

His first book to be translated to English, Anti-poems by City Lights in 1960 is the most gloom-doom, doldrum, guffawingly dastard and enduring book of poems I’ve ever read. It is the silver molar in the teeth of Latin American poetry that´s back cover in squiggly almost illegible script, “The author is grateful for your purchase of this book.”
The title stands alone: at once declarative and reactionary. Another manifesto? Another anti-book like the anti-memoir (merci Malraux) or the anti-novel (merci beaucoup Sartre)? Perhaps. But in comparison to other anti-genres, an anti-poem is more polemical. Anti excludes; anti isn’t; anti won’t; while poetry — as we tend to think of it — does just the opposite. And still, according to the original title (Poemas y anti-poemas) the volume contains poems as well, so Parra challenges us to separate the poems from the anti-poems, and there’s the crux: many of the obvious anti-poems in their piss-on-it-all attitude ironically creates another kind of beauty, something surely poetic, but not Poetic.
The first poem of the collection Lullabaloo” begins:As I was walking in / The park one day / I chanced to run into / An angelorium.” When Parra tries to finds the right language to address him, it doesn’t work out; when he tries to shake his hand, the angel gives him his foot; and when he tries to describe, he resorts to asinine similes, “As silly as a swan /  As cold as a crowbar / As fat as a duck / As ugly as you.” This leads to a fight and the angel tries to cut him with his sword. None of this really bothers Parra, who dismisses him: “Be on your way / Have a nice day / Get run over by a car, / Get killed by a train.” And it all ends: “So that’s the story of the angel. / The End.” This is just the beginning of the book. When not brawling with angels he’s contemplating lettuce (while trying to not to), remembering a girl he can’t remember (“I swear I no longer remember her name, but I know what to call her: Maria”), violently psychoanalyzing himself, even contemplating what his tombstone will read ( “a sausage of angel and beast!”).
The mash-up of medieval tomfoolery and modern skepticism tricks, criticizes, but mostly plays. As he warns in his poem “Roller Coaster”: “Go up, if you feel like it. / It’s not my fault if you come down / Bleeding from your nose and mouth.” He’s kidding. He’s kidding. None of these poems can break your nose or your mouth, unless you had a friend drop it from a high building while you waited to catch it with an open mouth.

There are other voices that inhabit his work, albeit in a kind of type-casting of Parra himself. I love his character Cristo del Elqui. There’s his brutal and violent version of Lear. And yet all of these voices resonate so deeply with me, but in the way Mad magazine used to when I was a kid: it’s irreverent and so deeply true.

In the corniest fanboy, just-met-you-actor-who-played-Q way, I say, Thank you, Nicanor Parra!



Yo, Micah I Saw That Lygia Clark Exhibit You Told Me About

When you recommended visiting the Lygia Clark exhibit I thought what I have thought in the past when you recommend an art show: this will be good. Of course it might be the recommendation sets up my expectation to like the show. Usually these shows are in New York and I’m usually just happy to be back in New York and going to museums there, something my parents did with me since I can remember.

All that aside, the Lygia Clark exhibit was what I most liked in the MOMA the day I visited in July. I actually tried going to PS1 figuring when Bianca and José came to visit they would want to go. (That never happened.) But it was a Monday I think and forgot that they´d don´t open on Mondays. Wait, Tuesdays and Wednesdays they don´t open. It was Tuesday. So I never got to PS1.



The best thing about getting my MOMA membership – aside from them calling me a Baron (Why do they even have that option on their website? Are there really that many barons around still?) – is avoiding the lines for bag-check. You get VIP´ed right into this short line to the left of the bag check entrance. Then they just scan the card and you´re good to go. I´ll miss my MOMA membership, really. In 2015 I´ll wait in line with the rest of the unwashed. I´m only a baron on paper after all.

I actually hadn’t really slept. I can´t remember why. So I slept a little in that area in front of the movie theater. They were showing a film called Flotsam Jetsam by Patty Change and Dave Kelley. The film was good but so was sleeping, so I did a little of both. Its Freudian allusions seemed to naturally lull me into a preconscious state. People were floating on water, constructing a boat meant to resemble a submarine, and skyscrapers. 


I saw some other stuff on my way up to the 5th floor were Lygia Clark´s work was being held. The MOMA´s kind of like an Ikea. It feels set up so that you´re trapped looking at furniture you had not even planned on considering. Like you can´t just walk past the central exhibit. I´ve never been able to, even if I´m totally uninterested in what they´re showing. Luckily the Sigmar Poke curator had decided not to label the art. I know you like this kind of thing, like the Isabella Gardner Museum in Boston. While I like the concept on paper, it´s too much for a retrospective. I mean it was too many rooms. I felt lost without my little guides and didn´t really like the pieces or at least couldn´t find a way to engage with much of it. So I left after looking at the weird cut-out-connect-the-dot FREE paper guide to the exhibit. I kept the paper guide. Not sure why. FREE?


I also looked at the second floor architectural room. It was very crowded which felt unfair. Usually no one goes to that room. And it´s a respite from the usual throngs of tourists. There´s never ever anything on the third or the fourth, so it´s just a turn and you´re on the fifth floor. THere was an exhibit yet to open and adjacent was the Lygia Clark exhibit. There was a film of her speaking projected on the exterior wall. It was an early film of hers, black and white and in glamorous Rio, with an attitude nothing like glamorous Rio. She´s talking about dreams and art.

I watched the video until I reached the point where I had started. It required a lot of patience but I liked what she was saying and intrigued, not so much by her dreams, but her prediction that art could happen without the personality of the artist. Unlucky for her they decided to show a movie about her own retrospective at the beginning of the exhibit. So in that sense we´ve not given in to the autonomy she predicts.

The exhibit begins with some geometric abstraction on paper, I think. In Brazil it seems like there´s so much of it. Every museum has got their geometric abstraction collection. So I just skip those. I can´t really get into paintings lately anyway. It feels like whenever I see a contemporary artist doing canvas I´m thinking moustache, you know like, they´re making a case for this forgotten pastime. But what do I know? I just consume this stuff and by consume I mean view. Not sure what else were supposed to do as museum-goers.

The exhibit text describes her insterest in lines, or her contemplation of the line. (Contemplation? Feels trite. Oh well.)



I started noticing in I guess the second or third room that the walls of the exhibit mirrored Clark’s interest in line. I had never seen this experimentation to mirror a technique employed by the artist. I took a few pictures for you.



Why can’t they let you take pictures of everything? I didn’t come all that way just to see the show and forget about it (I was in four of five boroughs just to get there, nearly all-city). I guess that’s why people drop a hundred bucks on the catalogue. I would by it, but transport art catalogues- that is, living outside the country indefinitely with art catalogues is a doozy.

“Bicho” means animal in Portuguese. That’s what Clark called these sculpture although the curator calls them “sculpt-objects”. I think “sculpt-objects” make more sense. These things don’t feel very alive. You were allowed to move them. It was hard to tell though. I could see how these could be therapeutic for the artist and the viewer as well – if only I weren’t surrounded by guards in seven story building made of windows.




This last stage is maybe what most interested me. I had really no expectations of what this exhibit would be or who Lygia Clark was. Oh wait, I did. I had seen the movie which created a kind of authentic version of Clark in my head. I saw her playing with a inflated plastic bag that had two white ping pong balls floating around in it. They had some of these therapeutic items in the last room. Some were pinned to the walls. Like this one.



This was what I most liked in the exhibit. In reminded me of when as a kid they would have us do Augosto Boalian (not incidentally also Brazilian) techniques. I never noticed the techne in technique before. Well they are techne in the Foucaultian sense. But to quote the late poet Chris Toll, ¨Why Is the If Cult in Difficult?¨ The Boalian ¨games¨ get rid a lot of the tension we are all used to walking around if.

Not sure if I can see objects as liberating. Even the objects on display were divided into those you were allowed to touch and those you couldn´t. Myself and few other people were scolded by the some hybrid of guard-curator, who was in charge of monitoring our free-wheeling therapy experience.

Now if you left us alone in that room, maybe something else would happen. The disappointment followed me out, while on the other hand I felt like I did something. I saw the Lygia Clark exhibit, like you suggested.