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Ni I think so much.

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you do not exist, in order to fit in my own life without the full invade with your desire to steal it. Are you going to face my memory and smash once, or you will continue dicking about like a cat, enlarging it, decorating it with the beauty of your feelings and your words?.

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The same sky above my head, changing colors at an incredible pace, and the same swirling wind in my hair, which has no case, never going to be groomed. The same hands messy and arms squeezing them with accurate and balanced doses of strength and delicacy ... yeah, like I was a very, very valuable thing. The same sweet aroma impregnated the air as a typical (for me) of the transition between seasons. And words. Incomprehensible and a little unnecessary at the time, fast, elusive, escaping with the wind, as if to mock me. Just a few years ago. So vivid
all so thoroughly stuck in the sensory rush me forever, that the thousands of tiny moments that attack my memory tangle me in the head and I find it very difficult to write.
How stupid ... but I needed some time a good reason to sit a while to download the mind, and finally found it. Or rather, I found it again. And not to say that now my life will change radically, not to say that now I can explain why every time I remember being confused / undecided / happy, I give the same description about the words. As if it were a estorbo necesario o una necesidad accesoria.
¿Por qué será? tal vez porque una parte de mí sabe que en momentos como ese y días como ayer, lo último que debí hacer era intentar hablar. Pero, ¿cómo no iba a hacer eso? si las ganas de expresarme, de vaciarme, de vomitar el despelote que tenía dentro desde hacía meses, días, años, me consumían y no aguantaba más.
Está claro que a veces se me olvida controlar el impulso de la curiosidad. Pero me gusta que exista alguien capaz de comprenderlo tan bien. Y todo esto es lo más incoherente del mundo pero no me importa, porque soy muy, muy afortunada. Por tener momentos como ese.
Y días como ayer.

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topic and ultrarecontrarepasado Flashback (06/23/2008) but I wanted to rescue:) ILU

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Sometimes I imagine what it would be a simple fluid to gently slide and lock me in a pretty bottle, caring only to fill each of the spaces inside. But when I can, I always end with a belly full of lead and of these families want to run. I exceed the idea of \u200b\u200bopening the lid every day to see the sun

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and nothing can stop it. Spend hours and days and years and I keep moving in ever-increasing spiral, but all around the same axis. ILU and I admit, because I know that it did nothing to deny.
I do not regret knowing you have it. Because I never had. It is impossible, as is also impossible to have me, and that is what unites us and makes us infinite on the vastness. Who needs to have something, when you can visit every day and return to surprise with every detail that was lost the day before? is much more exciting. THAT is what no one else can understand. No, people do not understand.
'm gonna try big city to get over you:)

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Light That

After wiping out all seems lost, but the others know they are not gone, but has returned to where it has always belonged: inevitably came back catch him and returned to find you, bringing with him the old ashes that once you let them do to you. And again to blow inside you until you feel being Freezing the bowels, the a lm ay hands and harass you until you feel that nothing is worth it. And finally, very very end, when there is more resistance than enough, you realize that always better to let it go:).

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A poem for Berta Piñán

S / T. From the series "Book of Mathematics" E. Muntañola

BURN NUECHE

nueches d'insomniacs are nueches
burning them. Closer

death and life nesta expected
most violent night and discover
qu'enciende deseyos promises

CERTEC passing fire. Nel fueu Prende'l
air like a party atmosphere
or war, sew
qu'un moment and are nothing happen instantly. Nunes
hores we left behind what we are being nel
and will air as an air
d'urxencia,
of VEZOS you just may learn well lluego
forget. Naide
nun never Durme
nueches nas da burn. As a lover eager

the miedra na Llapa that consumes
nueche nueche remémbranos
and what we were being
: smoke NAMAS
and ash.

E ste poem Nueche burning "(" Night of Fire "in Castilian), belongs to book - an anthology of Berta Piñán "Nights of Fire. (1985-2002)" published by Trea, Gijón, 2005.

NIGHT OF FIRE

sleepless nights are the nights

fire.

Closer death and

life, the more violent in this waiting

night that ignites desire and discover

promises

certainties passing

burning. Turn

fire in the air like a party atmosphere

or war, things that a moment

happen and are nothing instantly.

Within hours we passed what we

and is staying in the air

as an air of urgency,

just learned gestures

and soon forgotten.

Nobody ever sleeps

fire at night.

As an eager lover,

calls on the night grows

night consumes

and reminds us what we were

being: Only smoke.

and ash.

(Translation Piñán Berta)

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A poem by Xosé Bolado

S / T (Fragment) Mixed on canvas. E. Muntañola

OF WORDS IN

was a pity that you want to search for life,
so late, in a country to inclináu ocasu, but
solo'l for anchor drag intentu of densities,
d'Asomati the verb without complicidaes,
diome'l xuiciu pa see estimated tree wants to grow
Cabu house, a collar guey d'viaxeru
that pasu, contemplare'l in volume,
it under color mortecina,
although the foot-and surdan les springs, the
n'intentos llamiare spans the tropical forest in the afternoon
líviernu confusing.

You know, NAMAS date pueo hand
perhaps think
you, life goes on as weighing one:
the way for the tiempu Perdiu
of becoming tame in two words, while cabruñe'l
sun
filu de les hores l'air solanu
and squint the canciella ... Basta'l
vuelu In short,
perdebaxo earth. Poem

belonging to Bolado Xosé book "Na the relay station", ed. Book of the pexe, Gijón, 2006.

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Some notes of movement "different" ...

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in this post I add a slideshow of a series of drawings of human body movements did long ago, of course the formal result is different from a fixed pose.

To view the pictures one by one click on "view all photos."

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fifteen minutes Scenes Notes in pencil

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A poem by Herman G. Donis

S / T. (Detail) Oil on canvas. E. Muntañola

Lisboeta Market

spices, jasmine, star of Egypt,

cutlasses, lemons, cooing of doves, green

barrels oil, rye bread,

tiny gray birds and fresh-cut.

Books, magazines, worn by the sun.
old distant cities
drawings, watercolors. Children

slumber through the noise. Black eyes.

shirts, hats, linens, cakes, tapioca, corn cakes

, seals, plastics, watches backward images

fixed forever in old prints,

boulders, waves of heat, salt. Amalgam of odors.

Slippery fish and octopus spilling red,

meat, torn muscles, birds suspended on hooks,

Ceylon tea, the sound of water, mosaics Manueline,

scribbling on the blackboards, the golden twilight of the seats. People.


At the exit, on a board, lots of candy apples
bring you the scent of another sea.


That the source of life is a god,
there are infinite ways of knowing.


This poem by Herme G. Donis is in his book "Pilgrim Wanderings", published by Book of the Pexe, 1997, Gijón.

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More drawings

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Portraits of natural, color pencil.

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A pencil lines, horizontal format

In these notes for five minutes looking for the simplicity of line, define a continuous contour line just a body.

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so far? indelible. CUEK

At this very moment I would like everything to be just a bad dream, I woke up and things back to be as they were in before. Everything would be much simpler.
I would like now to turn back time. Then everything would be much easier.
I would tear the heart and throw away. Everything would be much faster.
But I can not make it simpler, easier and faster because it is the vivid reality that can exist, the time is now faster and irreplaceable than ever, and yes, unfortunately I have within me the deafening beat this bunch crazy they call heart which is quite stupid and can not conceive what is going on, because certainly had forgotten what hurts forget.
(It's unpleasant and yet liberating take out a little bit sentimental and masochistic side a little.)

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bodies Cartoons early April.

I'm playing with the line, try to make a single stroke of a body. Working with ink, if you're wrong there is no possibility to erase what you've done. This causes the need to increase the level of concentration.
show two types of notes, about five minutes, and others with patterns, poses for fifteen minutes. I find it interesting to work with frames because they are halfway between the nineteenth and modernity. The framework in these notes is quite chaotic, does not follow any tradition academic.

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Drawings from the series "The Flowers of Evil" Notes

Years ago I started working on poems by Baudelaire combining drawing and writing in a common whole. I did a series of striking drawings, cutting, painting, and writing on the pages of a book.
This slide show is a small sample of that work.