tlazocomati for dreaming with me.

_{life as you well know, is happening in b/w these moments that I share. before the before, is hard to explain. the experiment tethers herself to the sound of a train pulling itself to the next stop. but this is an example of trials of unequal length. I fall over. Stars half smile. Lips mistake the numbers of disappeared bodies. What I hear in dreams from time to time sounds like a taunt. I recognize over and over what a privilege it is to have my inner world. I watch and listen to all that it has to say. La migra continues to terrorize. Moving and tracking. the numbers of our bodies are escalating. What is knowing? if not the capacity to not look away. Again, the stars half smile, so many lips misnumber. our lips are non-consensual bodies. Dreams distort the sound in my ears. b/w you and I is the distance of a life of love.}

_{opacity is defined as a substance that reduces the passage of light. I have settled inside my torso & heart that even in the darkness of a dream or a photograph there are wings at rest, wings in recovery, our lives shaping them in the way lips land on a forehead, on your forehead, on our foreheads.}

tlazocomati for this moment,

sketches & poem scenes by lourdes figueroa

the lateness of a season: maybe, this is a poem for august

little pink suns

rise from brown extended arms

seeking something in the air

how did they arrive so quickly?

naked ladies in morning prayer

it takes a whole day for the light

to light the southern magnolias on Miramar Street

heavy breasted w/ white blooms

what is presence?

her finger along the bone of my ear

it is august 8, six months ago she asked me

write a poem for me

about a little rainbow apparition

that I saw on the water droplet on my eyelash

I surfed the best wave today and there were dolphins so near

the ocean the way it was filled with green and blue,

where things happen

happen only once

how could I not remember this?

late summer in San Pancho

falls from the wings of dragon flies

& a soft air to the bone of my ear

a whole Sunday fits perfectly in a whole month

the tree with little pink suns in her hair weeps as the fog roles in

releasing little droplets of dew

with little rainbows inside of them

landing on my windshield

july tends to leave a little of itself as light apparitions

inside august, widened and slowed, so much of it

there is so much of it

the hundred thousands things

before this memory

This is a simple story. At first, we wanted to write to save the world. We began to feel we had the river, the slow-moving reeds, the giant resting moth on the ceiling, the spiderweb on the windowpane moving with the wind, the timber of the church bell for bones. We felt them all move inside.

And I began to feel how you slept next to me and a little inside.

But still, the motion, the intent.

Here I begin the line of thought that might sew together all these pieces. Maybe, the thought is the needle that will puncture it more, deeply.

Your eyes look for me, they look for an answer, at the end of the day at the end of our time together, should it be true, that everything comes to focus everything will come into focus.

Are these observations correct?

Instead, I am watching her, dreamy half-smile-- a wondering cloud in the wind, one wondering cloud in an empty blue sky.

This morning my phone messaged me you have a memory, it is a foto of her, eight years ago. Her dark eyelashes made darker with eyeliner, her closed eyes, her head curled on her arm, her arm and shoulders resting on grass, both of us napping on a green lawn.

These are all descriptions of a god. I think, grant me more time to make another set of memories with her.

I am telling you all of this because a conversation is a journey. And it’s kind of crazy how phones keep memories. But not as vast as the ones we have inside ourselves that somehow make worlds bigger than ourselves.

A photograph says so much about the future.

I am taking this journey to succumb to an alphabet, pierce my own lungs, kiss my own eyes, kiss my own shoulders, kiss you, kiss your hands in my hands.

In this small story of us, I am looking for our face before the world was made.¹ To close our eyes and be able to see each other right in front of each other, it is it’s brightness that will not yet, let me so easily see.

1. I am looking for the face I had/ before the world was made - W.B Yeats

Illari arrived at dawn growing in rivers. & Amaranta sprouted in the fields.

Amaranta had her heart to the left & Illari to the right.

When they found each other, the world stood still watching both winds engulf each other. Upon their unbelievable separation the coordinates of earth where revealed.

The coordinates of earth: giant eucalyptuses and kisses--the stars themselves, speaking in whatever voice they could find.

Years later I asked Amaranta,

Do you ever go see Illari?

Sure, every so often, I wake and close my eyes at sunrise, she said

we both close our eyes and see each other.

Meaning of names:

Amaranta: the flower that refuses to die

Illari: dawn

Welcome to chapter 3 of a small story of us.

I thought so much of you. And wondered what you felt as you watched this and I reached for another fragment of story. I was more so looking for a moment of spacelessness, where in time does the mind live? how do we end up in the same place?

late at night waking up inside a formless question, how is it forming? how many voices are inside of us?

There is a scene that I think of often. Rose petals being swept on the side of the street, pink petals and heart shaped faces. The church bell echos in the Guadalajara early morning. And there is a dog barking.

‘I imagine myself in space. I’m out in the cosmos and I join light, and travel at the speed of light and then I can see the universe from the perspective of light. And I realize there’s no such thing as absolute time, because I’ve merged with the perspective of light’ Albert Einstein.

Tlazocomati for this moment of dreaming.

Welcome to chapter two of a small story of us.

When we were kids, we would pretend play a la casita, sometimes el lobo en el bosque, hold our hands together in the middle of an almond orchard the night entering the day. A lobo somewhere in the dark parts of the orchard. The stars high above us.

As I move through these fragments and fractures of synaptic matter, sifting through pieces I keep asking, how to hesitate? leaving space enough for other’s extensions. How to do all this believing? that others will have something to extend toward. I get lost in sound as if life has already surpassed, the writing. Maybe there is a godxx, who is lonely for us as we are of her.

What is it that keeps us from drowning in moments that rise and cover the heart?¹

Thank you for this time, for this moment of contemplation.

^{1. Plainwater, Anne Carson}

They are purely air…Aquinas said.

Although air, as long as it is in a state of rarefaction, has neither shape nor color,

yet when condensed it can both be shaped and colored as it appears in the clouds.

Even so the angels

assume bodies of air”¹

Welcome, to the first experiment. The first chapter of a sequence of poem videos and micro fractured essays. The windows here are a small experimental librito, A small story of us, a peek into synaptical matter, may it be a flash of light, a portion of million fold stars, a fracture of a fracture of air. A sort of reach at the different circumference of the various times loops we are in, or I am in.

May this fold & unfold into an experience for you. And if it so much influences your art practice, and we exchange vocabulary, and you remember how intertwined our lives have always been please consider subscribing and sharing.

Here, a vast expanse of unlocated windows. Tlazocomati for peeking in.

_{1. angels & saints, by Eliot Weinberger}

Here is an attempt to make everything possible, like Borge’s aleph. An ambitious attempt to figure out what holds the poem and cuento together as it occurs. Where in language and perception could everything and nothing be possible? Poem and dream coming together. A poetics of cuento. Could the sentence evaporate into little mirages of poem or could the poem evaporate into little mirages of sentence, is there a sentence? is the sentence the point of departure? or does a single verb have enough velocity to push an occurrence of our daily existence into a perception? where does the gaze begin? where does it end? how does my body enter into yours? How could yours enter into mine? Could it end as language and thought morph toward a receiver?

A synapse according to wikipedia is the junction where a neuron sends a signal to another neuron or to an effector cell like a muscle or gland. A neuron reaching towards another neuron and within all of this they begin an interaction that changes each other. These poem scenes, prophecies, are little fragments of time some extracted from previous long verse poems. Portion of myths. Portion of a dimension of what I imagine gives us consciousness.

Here the cuentos become truer the more fragmented they are, as you pay attention to the leather of their skin and the void you feel of not knowing why you were made, you will notice your reality shifting, in your real life your brain will rearrange your inner thoughts with your outer voice at some point becoming more whole like how the godxxs intended.