A detail of the first in a series of paintings about forces at play in the time before time.
The rest will follow shortly. I for one am excited.

Thank you for your continued presence,

~Angel Villanueva

:: :: ::

La magnética bemol
se acerca en la cruel distancia
y llega hasta el corazón
lo llena con su substancia
con sus azares caprichos
con sus temores nostalgia
con opacidad y brillo
con amalgamada náusea
hoy te encuentro en las orillas
del cráter de las mañanas
en donde con tu luz brillas
con tus esperanzas vanas
cuántas veces te lo he dicho
me dijo algún día mi nana
que la gente es un peligro
y yo observaba sus canas
al caminar por las noches
me desespero y me atacan
estos inciertos temores
esta risa demoníaca
hoy te encuentro en las aldeas
hoy te persigo en las faldas
de las montañas ardientes
de las humaredas vastas
a dónde van los vilanos
nunca supe, imaginaba
que las garzas sonreían
que las ranas platicaban
que las gotas que caían
y la tierra humedecían
eran lágrimas hermanas
del dolor que llevo dentro
de esta incomprensible estancia
del calor que aquí en el centro
de mi corazón estalla
hoy te encuentro en las campanas
de iglesias abandonadas
donde el sonido es intenso
el silencio es el mañana
el mañana de la muerte
el acontecer del alma
el universo que vibra
con estrellas y con ansia
cuántas veces te lo he dicho
y no escuché pues cantaba
con la música del viento
y mi voz lenta viajaba
expandiéndose en el aire
por la faz se desplazaba
de la tierra donde charcos
de lágrimas agrupadas
se contaban sus secretos
unas a otras en manadas
hoy te encuentro en las ideas
de mentes diferenciadas
del ordinario bullicio
multitudes descarriadas
en los cielos tan gloriosos
tan azules y espumosos
donde el silencio flotaba
te encuentro en las hojas secas
que vuelan tras la ventana
arrastrando sus memorias
misteriosas y agraciadas
en el verde laberinto
que existe de madrugada
donde la vida es un cuento
y el amor corazonada
hoy me persigo de nuevo
al amanecer con calma
al esperar veredictos
entonar himnos con ganas
de reventar en colores
y no regresar jamás
a este punto de retorno
donde cuenta tú te das
de que nada habrá cambiado
de que todo es por demás
que para esto no hay remedio
no importa que tanto habrás
querido ver otro rostro
siempre el mismo encontrarás
hoy te encuentro tras las nubes
en el volcán apagado
por la escalera que subes
para llegar a mi lado
en el azul de dos mares
en el rojo del sangrar
en el mercado de flores
en la memoria de amar
en el mundo de los niños
en la inocencia y estás
transformándote sin prisa
para venirme a encontrar…

:: :: ::

~A.V. 2000

:: :: ::

I remember her smile, her hands, her long fingers as they delicately removed the outer petals of an overgrown rose in our garden, granting it the gift of temporary perfection. Had I not remembered it, trimming that rose would have been a gesture lost in the immensity of space, in the eternity of time, gone with the unknown lives of countless generations who haven’t understood their mortality and the ephemeral quality of their every thought. But the whole of her expression told me that this wasn’t a meaningless event; the very essence of our nature was contained in that simple gesture, and it was my duty to understand it, to remember it, to pass it on. The pursuit of meaning and fulfillment in our lives, and its seeming lack of consequence when faced with the inevitability of our departures, were symbolized by that one rose, standing there perfect once again for a tiny fragment of time. A trivial achievement when placed in context with the rest of reality, yet a superb example of our spirit, of our willingness to make things better, to bring the world around us in line with our visions. The rose was that desired life, a state of balance that couldn’t last, but in the meantime, it could be perfect: a paradoxical mix of natural and creative input.

That is how she was herself: a living, breathing, walking paradox. The depth of her mind a wellspring of revelations, a vast library whose true content I never had an opportunity to explore completely, but from which my own creativity stemmed and flourished. She placed my early mind in an almost mystical environment, in a world of her own making, always full of sensory experiences: music of birds, air perfumed by flowers and fruits and lush vegetation, nights under the stars, a feeling of peaceful solitude permeating our everyday life. Life was a rose garden, an oasis in the middle of the desert. That metaphor continues to live in me, and I will bear its mark until the day I dissolve back into the universe.

Happy Mother’s Day, everyone.

~A

Pomona, California
May 2001

:: :: ::

Long before any of us began wandering into the treacherous realm of prejudice, a story that we should all have listened to was told at one of the gatherings.

In the center of the garden is a small fountain, and crowning it, a talking skull. Normally no one pays attention to it, but that night, awash in the dazzle of strange spells, I struggled between reading someone’s lips and threading together filaments of the ancient voice that streamed between the gaps in our conversation. It was all over the garden, infused into the crisp air of the night, present and immaterial like the smoke, though no one seemed to hear it.

We would all be reminded in time.

“The hearts,” it said, “are made of clay, and clay can only be molded in the wet. The hearts will dry, they will crack against each other if one waits too long, if one waits for that perfect day, that perfect moment when the hearts are dry as bones, brittle and bitter. Hearts lose their power to become one with another, they become rocks and skulls. I know. I know.”

I held my smile. Sparks flew about. I felt the skull was leaving something out. At that moment, it didn’t matter. It was the song of the dead, and we were very much living. We were wild birds in the jungle, each trying to outsing and outdisplay the other, ourselves, the last one and the next one.

:: :: ::

Window open to the cool winter air, I hear a call. An owl. And an owl calls back. Together they are hunting in the night, roosting at the edges of their reign.

I remember someone.

I have not looked into the book of souls for ages. That book filled with blank pages, each belonging to one. I hold it once again, find a page, sit in the dark, and wait.

Soon it comes, the image of a man making his way across a vast plain, that same abject infinity that once plagued my nightmares. But this is not my nightmare. It is what I feared I would become, happening to someone else: a lone slave dragging a giant heart of stone across the desert. The pathos of lost hope, the weight of apathy, a cruel, self-imposed sentence.

There are two ways out of it. I know them both.

I wanted to help. I tried. I am not meant to. Let go.

Something within splits in two, and one half falls away. I close the book, and my eyes. Hold my head hard against the wall. Take a deep breath. Above me, far above this roof, there are many, many stars shivering in the night.

The half that remains is gratitude.

And, lurking beneath, invisible for now, the razor’s edge of fear, held at a distance.

:: :: ::

~A