Diana Calabaza de Júpiter

I still don’t know if I’m an artist. I have always considered that calling oneself an artist is something pretentious. It is true that I create new things from an intellectual and also a subconscious act, but I feel more comfortable when I think I am creative. On the other hand, I have not studied Fine Arts and this fact makes me think that I am an outsider. However, I don’t care about everything because I’ve been painting since I was a child and I will always continue to do so. Painting has allowed me to pay rent and eat, other times it has not been like that. If I defined myself as an artist, would I change anything?

Above all, nature inspires me. I can paint something like a portrait of a person, but it will never be quite so. The animals, the plants, the mountains, the rivers, the universe, the water, the rain, all the elements and the stones, also the cells, scales, wings, spores. All of this is always present because it is Nature and I feel that humanity ceased to be a part of it a long time ago. That is why I try to bring these two worlds closer together through painting and dreams. It is like imagining a hopeful future for the planet, even though it is not actually possible.

I am not a tarot expert. I have many different decks, even an oracle of my own creation. My intention is to edit a deck of Major Arcana as soon as possible, it is a project that is taking me a long time precisely because I understand the tarot in my own way. And I think there is no universal way to understand it, so the fact that I am not an expert in tarot would not be a big problem because I would know my own tarot perfectly.

I think it is a language in itself, another kind of language. But I also believe that its divinatory character is a construction. When Visconti decks appeared in fifteenth-century Italy, their intention was not to guess but to memorize the hierarchies and their functions. Divination as such is much older. The current tarot brings together many characteristics of memoizable hierarchical archetypes that we now identify as tools for self-knowledge. I believe that the tarot can help us to know the things that we don’t know that we already know. It is like walking at night along a path full of brambles but illuminated by the soft glow of the full moon

I started a dream journal and loved the experience but didn’t have enough consistency to stick with it. I would love to be able to take it up again but I need a suitable environment and environment that I don’t have right now. I remember dreams from decades ago and from time to time they come back to my mind and give me the same sensations as at the time of the dream. Other times my dreams return to places I have already dreamed of, as if they wanted to finish telling stories. Somehow I keep in my memory the most relevant dreams, their sensations and what they brought me throughout my life. On the theories of dreams and their materialization in daily routines and in life, I would like to recommend the literary work of Julio Monteverde.

I try to make my relationship with the subconscious conscious when I’m awake. Creations are born from that place and we must remain attentive to their movements. For me it is like a call at any time of day or night that reveals other realities to me. Sometimes I know how to take advantage of that call and transform it into what you can understand as art. Other times it is too blinding a light that has the power to paralyze me and shows me through its light a deep and infinite darkness. It is what you can understand by anxiety.

Nature is the biggest influence I have. There are also some people and artistic movements in those influences, either because of the color in their works, because of the absence of color, because of their way of describing heaven and hell. There are too many but these are a very small sample of what I mean: Chagall, Redon, Remedios Varo, William Blake, Teresa de Ávila, El Greco, Goya, Diane Arbus, baroque music.

I’ve been under another the name Jupiter for quite a few years. This month (September 2022) I have started a new cycle that has been brewing since spring. I would like to get more light on the road and be able to keep my feet on the ground, something that has never happened in my life.

Alto Giove
è tua grazia è tuo vanto
il gran dono di vita immortale
che il tuo Cenno sovrano mi fà
Ma il rendermi poi quella
già sospirata tanto
Diva amorose e bella
è un dono senza uguale come la tua beltà

High Jupiter
it is your grace it is your pride
the great gift of immortal life
that your sovereign nod makes me
But then making me that one
already longed for so much
Loving and beautiful diva
it is a gift without equal like your beauty

For this reason, through Jupiter and almost by way of a “sigilo”, I intend to attract another way of seeing things without leaving aside my causality and gloom. I could have chosen Saturn and it really is what I wanted but we already know how Saturn treats already melancholic souls. I can’t afford that. Jupiter, as in the piece that Nicola Porpora (Alto Giove) composed to be performed by Farinelli, was a haven of peace in the stormy world of Felipe V. Leaving aside the stupid monarchy, Diana was a lunar goddess, daughter of Jupiter. In an astrological sense, Jupiter is associated with positive concepts such as abundance and optimism. And finally, I often say that “I live on Jupiter”, referring to the fact that I live in the clouds, that I am not attentive to reality and that I am a dreamer.

Lechuza is one of my music bands. We have started this summer of 2022 and we have just published our Demo. We are two friends making music, working with our hands on record packaging and trying to make nice videos of our songs. We are called Fantasmita and Ruda. Proceeds from sales go to an animal shelter. All the information is on our Bandcamp, and of course the music.

written by Diana Calabaza de Júpiter

Diana de Júpiter artistic training is intuitive and self taught. She prefers not to rely on any institution to interfere with her experience. Her themes hang between the dark and silent. She has worked for several Spanish publishers such as Aurora Dorada and La Felguera. Diana has had solo and group exhibitions in Spain, Mexico and the United States. She is currently preparing a complete tarot deck while painting daily.

Dianadejupiter

https://www.etsy.com/shop/Dianadejupiter

Hypnotic illustration and magical craftsmanship

Stitching Up Scars Alicia Lasne

I always knew that art would be part of my life. In one form or another. I was born in 1986 in Normandy, during my childhood I suffered from school phobia, then from anxiety disorder in adolescence. Imagination, poetry, drawing have always been a kind of protection against the chaos that reigns outside.

My father suffered from schizophrenia and my universe comes from this particular relationship with madness and disorder. In 2018 when my father committed suicide, I completely immersed myself in art. I still suffer from anxiety disorder, some days are harder than others, but one day at a time I am moving forward. Several months ago I started working with fabric. I sew human beings, nature, forests, rivers but above all I sew myself. This is what has changed in my new artistic work, I am no longer in the expression in traumas but in healing. It is much more than symbolic to sew. There is this idea of stitching up scars.

written by Alicia Lasne

In this work, which dates from 2019-2020, there is the representation of madness, of the depths.

In this work, which dates from 2020-2021, there is a kind of acceptance of madness, of the darkness of the human soul.

Then finally, my current work, where we really see the change with this desire for healing

Five Poems and Collages Gary Cummiskey

On Sundays

My plan was to kiss the woman
at the bakery counter,
but the manager rushed forward
and whacked me on the head
with a spoon.
He recites Homer on Sundays,
though not when it’s raining,
and he takes no chances
with troublesome dreamers like me.

*Forbidden steps* Collage **by Gary Cummiskey**

At the side of the road

There were headless
mannequins lying
at the side of the road
with so many cars
moving slowly past
and not a single driver stopping
to take a closer look
or even perhaps
load them into the boot
and take them home

*Sensation desired* Collage **by Gary Cummiskey**

Door to door

She waits in front of a door
propped up in the sand
somewhere in the Kalahari
She does not see
the woman on the other side
of the door
kneeling down
and peering
through the keyhole
She sees only the man
in the green jacket
walking away in the distance
with a cat at his side

*Love&Lust* Collage **by Gary Cummiskey**

Zoo

Standing behind
the iron
bars
I peer
down
at the animals
When I look up
again
at the sun
I vomit
blood
from my nostrils
and my eyes turn
black
like their fur

*i know what i like* Collage by Gary Cummiskey

Underground currents

A thin man
with a walking
stick
and a balloon
in the
cobblestone
streets
of the war-torn
city.
She turns,
rushing
through
the underground
currents.

Gary Cummiskey is a poet and publisher living in Johannesburg, South Africa. He is the founder of Dye Hard Press, which he started in 1994. He is the author of several poetry chapbooks. His selected poems, Outside the cave, was published in 2021. In 2009, with Eva Kowalska, he compiled Who was Sinclair Beiles?, a collection of writings about the South African Beat poet. An expanded edition was published in 2016. His short story collection, Off-ramp, was short-listed for the 2014 Nadine Gordimer Short Story Award. His work has been published in the UK, US, France, Denmark, Sweden, India, Egypt, and Greece

Featured Photo: Lets Hope, Collage by Gary Cummiskey

^{_{THIS WRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT}}

Six Poems Uche Nduka

SHED

But the psyche.

But the anarchy.

But the abyss

turned entirely back

on itself.

But the altar. The crone.

But the panther. Testimony

from a tranced pirate.

But the music that showed up.

But the fast train.

The visitation.

But the asylum & sanctuary.

But the breakdown.

The breakthrough.

But the brown-eyed barometer.

FLASH FROM A MAZE

An overfed guitar,

tired balls.

The fag-ends

of rambles.

So what.

I write like this

to wake sleepy monks

in the wilderness

of the street.

The end of summer

will be when

memory matters.

Wanderers head home.

So much given already.

So much given.

So much to give.

Do you remember

eating pussy

at sundown?

I do.

SEEING IT CLEARLY

Stumbling in your

alphabets the lovers

went up up up

loosed upon the island

triply blessed

our arguments

& disagreements

are part of

the full picture

I was lost

irrevocably

inside your knickers

& now

you’re gone

pounding the pavement

poems stuffed

to the gills

BRAND NEW SHIELD

Losing interest

is beside the point, we

didn’t dare figure out

the prequel, a woman’s busy

hands in the rainy season

of a nation’s beginnings,

this unholy war in holy lands,

latitudes left each other a

note, sailboat of our spirit,

those heedless selfies, the

blisters of blue irises, somehow

we braved the blast of

loneliness & sang out of tune,

no resolution, no conclusion, we

hung a new star over gathering rains.

RESCALE

Three thistles.

Four inkwells.

Terracotta tracker.

Clay coil pots.

Weaver star.

Fooling with gouache.

Black line.

Osprey in water.

You’re back again

on the sunroof of

the car as it speeds

down the freeway

with the wind in your hair

or at least try to

in the public mirror

reality & words

an actuality common

to both of us

wedged between what

is said & what is.

IF THE STAMEN

The mountain

remembered us

rainbow in the attic

the riddle

is our measure

all theology begins

with lovers that leap

& curse

don’t expect me

to present a balanced picture

this poem is a ballet

without shoes

I cling to your legs

with their stores of sweetness

like the beneficent cunt

opening its wings

I reject the entreaties

of dead language

you dance the book

from right to left

the ocean is our sky

_{Written by © Uche Nduka}

Uche Nduka was born in Nigeria to a Christian family. Raised bilingual in Igbo and English, he earned his BA from the University of Nigeria and his MFA from Long Island University, Brooklyn. He left Nigeria in 1994 and settled in Germany after winning a fellowship from the Goethe Institute. He lived in Germany and Holland for the next decade and immigrated to the United States in 2007. Nduka is the author of numerous collections of poetry and prose, including Living in Public (2018), Nine East (2013), Ijele (2012), and eel on reef (2007), all of which were published after he arrived in the United States. Earlier collections include Heart’s Field (2005); If Only the Night (2002); Chiaroscuro (1997), which won the Association of Nigerian Authors Poetry Prize; The Bremen Poems (1995); Second Act (1994); and Flower Child (1988). Belltime Letters (2000) is a collection of prose. His work has been translated into German, Finnish, Italian, Dutch, and Romanian.

Books by Uche Nduka

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is Uche-Nduka-Facing-You-1662811183-1662752885387.jpg

Featured Picture: Moon in Capricorn. Oil, Collage 2022 Mitchell Pluto

_{THIS WRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT}

The Cornucopia Trio

The collective art making project, Cornucopia, began in 2010 when artists Rik Lina (Netherlands), Gregg Simpson (Canada) and John Welson (Wales) began mailing each other works, an invitation to the next artist to contribute to the finished piece. I have always thought of this collective as akin to a free jazz trio, which is my background as a jazz drummer and Rik and John as avid listeners for decades. I see Rik, especially with his swooping ink lines, as the saxophone, John with his rolling earthy forms as the bass and myself adding percussive color and texture. In this case writer Allan Graubard, our guest ‘vocalist’, has written text for a select group of images by Cornucopia from past years. His writing keys in to the vivid imagery, but he insists his singing is always off key! If that’s that case, let atonality reign supreme.

-Gregg Simpson, 2022

***Holy Smoke***
**Rik Lina, Gregg Simpson and John Welson**

That night, when a large red praying mantis landed on her bedroom window with a soft thud, the window before the desk where she was writing, she lifted her head up and smiled. Nothing could be so vulgar, she thought, than this creature who, because of its cunning, mastery of camouflage, and sharp powerful tearing spines claimed the world it inhabited. For her, of course, vulgarity was a prize. The more vulgar a creature was to her – human, animal, fish, bird or insect – the greater its power.

She used the term as well from its root: tawdry, flamboyant, garish, brash, loutish, crude, brassy, rude and as common as possible. A perfect amalgam to paste together her curious tales into a medium that the cheapest lowlife enjoyed. So they did, and the prizes and checks and film offers came, one after another, two at a time, until she didn’t give a damn who made them or how well or how poorly they did for a public she evaded, preferring her solitude above all else in this make believe vicious whirlwind she conducted as if her life depended on it – which, no “as ifs” needed, it did.

***The Table Is Set***
**Rik Lina, Gregg Simpson and John Welson**

Field agent’s B16 report, initially filed per directive at his local office, quickly found its way to the national director. He read it, wrote up the affidavit for a search warrant and sent it on to a judge. After due process, the judge approved it. The director ordered the special squad to suit up and get to it.

At stake was nothing less than the ability to breathe, bite, breaststroke, battle and belittle. That the latter had less to do with the former than a frog does with a bottle of milk had nothing to do with it. Since the evening of the 12th when laughter replaced cognition and water balloons exploded on the street, moonglow dousing us all, everything was in flux. This included every prevarication sewn into a leafy flower, each busted safety valve worth saving, two or three aural visions and walking upside down. Enumerative, exhausting, eruptive? Quite.

They’d done whatever they wanted to, those bipedal harems, living in red brick row houses stained with coal smoke. Ah, that coal smoke …

Thereafter the lexicon unraveled, uproarious, horizontal, striking its own match to the torch that seared a name across the case: Agamemnon.

So that was it.

Murder, murder and judgement.

Neither the national director nor any of his assistants testified. They didn’t have to. The lawyers argued over the instrument but blood tells all. Even deer licking a twilight barbecue cued up, hooves hot to applaud.

And when it came down, the heavens parted and great sassafras babies with thick chocolate lashes stirred the witchy soup that feeds us …

see more on Cornucopia

Rik Lina

The Inner Landscape | Riklina Visual Artist | Buarcos

(The Netherlands 1942) lived and worked on different continents, preferably in wild nature, as a way of life using Odilon Redon’s advise: “Immerse yourself into nature!”. For this he dedicated life and art to study the deserts, the mountains, tropical rainforest- and coral reef jungles. In 1975, the emigration to the Caribbean island of Bonaire became an essential experience for his work with more than a thousand hours of scuba-diving. A major part of his drawing, painting and graphic work represents poetry and life of the pelagic realms, next to his explorations of the jungles of cloud forests and inner space.

Gregg Simpson

The Art of Gregg Simpson

A prolific and critically recognized artist and musician, has exhibited his paintings, drawings, and works on paper throughout Canada, the US, Europe, South America and Asia. His work is included in several academic studies, art history books and journals published in Canada, Europe, and Australia and has been exhibited in several historical surveys on surrealism and abstraction.

John Welson

https://www.johnwelson.com

began painting at the age of 12. He received a thorough education in painting, drawing, graphics, ceramics and attended two colleges of art. He has participated in over 300 exhibitions in both private and public galleries around the world since the early 1970’s. From the late 1960’s to the early 1990’s he painted Figurative Surrealist Paintings, exhibiting with artists as diverse as Salvador Dali, Man Ray, Rene Magritte, Max Ernst, Lucian Freud and Damian Hirst. Since the mid 1990’s he has produced Lyrical Abstracted Paintings inspired by the landscape of his native Wales.

Allan Graubard

is a poet, writer, and playwright with works translated in numerous languages. His plays have premiered in the U.S. and EU. He is the editor of and contributing author to Into the Mylar Chamber: Ira Cohen (Fulgur, UK, 2019), American liaison for and contributing author to the International Encyclopedia of Surrealism (Bloomsbury, UK, 2019), and editorial advisor for and contributing author to A Phala: Revisita do Movimento Surrealista (Sao Paolo, Brazil, 2015). Forthcoming in 2020 is a new book of poems and tales, Western Terrace (Exstasis Editions, Victoria, BC) while 2019 saw Language of Birds, a collaboration with artist Rik Lina (Anon Editions, NY/Flagstaff). In 2017, A Crescent by Any Other Name, selected tales, published (Anon Editions, NY/LA). That same year he was co-editor of and contributing author to The Art of Conduction: A Conduction Workbook by the renowned conductor-composer Lawrence D. “Butch” Morris (Karma Books, NY), with whom he was a principal collaborator for over three decades. Other titles of fiction and poetry are: Sirenes (Phasm Press, NY), Targets (Anon Editions, NY/LA), And tell tulip the summer (Quattro Books, Toronto), and Roma Amor, with photographs by Ira Cohen (Spuyten Duyvil Press, NY). He was co-editor of the expansive, two-volume: Invisible Heads: Surrealists in North America – An Untold Story (Anon Editions, NY/LA) and guest editor of and contributing author to a centennial celebration of poet Gherasim Luca (Hyperion, Contra Mundum Press, NY).

https://fulgur.co.uk/artists-and-writers/allan-graubard/

Utopia is Feminine and the Morning Star Enrique De Santiago

“The time will come to assert the ideas of women at the expense of those of men, whose failure is consummated so resoundingly today. It is up to the artist in particular, if only in protest against this scandalous state of affairs, to make everything that arises from the feminine system of the world as opposed to the masculine system predominate to the maximum; of emphasizing exclusively the powers of women; better still, of appropriating her to the point of making it jealously hers, of that which distinguishes her from man in her way of evaluating and wanting.”
André Breton, Arcanum 17

17 *Star Tarot Card* 9in x 6 1/2in
André Breton
**Roberto Sebastián Antonio Matta Echaurren**

This is another example of the surrealist passion for tarot. The title of Breton’s long prose poem, Arcane 17, refers to tarot card 17, the “stars” card (Les étoiles), usually a symbol of free-flowing love and renewal of forces. However, Breton’s imagination brought new associations, multiplying the morning stars and infusing them with fluid meanings. Breton describes the figure in the center of the card as a naked young woman kneeling as she pours out the contents of two urns, one into a pond, the other onto the ground. He associates this woman with the legendary figure of Mélusine, a legendary mermaid who became a symbol of the difficulty to reconcile “reality” and “magic.” There is hope, however, that the “inexhaustible” urns could renew our disenchanted world. Indeed, even though the pond gives off the “pestilential odor” of social conventions, it is still longing for “a new dream.” The fragile butterfly is another symbol of “consoling mystery.” Chilean painter Roberto Matta designed the four colorful illustrations in the shape and size of tarot cards (or “arcanas”) pasted in the book.

The Importance of Magic for Surrealism, Spirits, Mediums, and Tarot. Cornell University Library

Utopia is Feminine by Enrique De Santiago

Love descending incandescent and calm
from the primordial nature of the universe
to embrace the hope full of your walk
in your women’s hands that welcome
in your womb container of light
on your lips that educate and dismiss poetry
on your back that holds the arcanum of the morning
with that epiphany that looks like your body.
This is how I take flight rebellious
bathed by the celestial of the bodies wrongly called celestial,
where I learned to love the brevity of the possible in the impossible
to go up with my luggage to another utopia
clearing away the old tears
in front of a showcase that is empty
and that is condescending with my people
in its persistent lack
where I also know my measurements
and who excessively hugs them
in these hours of opaque tides
with their lost leviathans
of heads sunk in the mud of consumption
without noticing the hands of those who ask
between remains of bodies
that are invisible to him
and alien.

A star, as Bernard Roger recalls, “has served forever as a guide to nocturnal navigators whether
over the oceans of the globe or over the philosophical sea of the Argonauts.” Echoing him, Jorge Camacho notes the star “has shown the solitary sailor his route over the high seas. By faithfully following it throughout his long voyage, he is sure to reach port safely.” The star burns with such an intense gleam in the surrealist imaginal realm that in 2004, the Czech painter Martin Stejskal organized a large exhibition near White Mountain in which it “was declined in all its natural, cultural, as well as mythical aspects, in the union of traditions (astrology, kabbalah, alchemy, Freemasonry) as in the poetic union of the male and female in each individual, borne by the work of surrealist friends, and by the uncarved stone placed at the castle entrance that bore this phrase that sings in our hearts like a magical couplet: constructed on the side of abyss, on philosopher’s stone . . .” as Marie Dominique Massoni points out in issue 5 of S.U.R.R. However, “You can never see this star like I saw it. You don’t understand: it is like the heart of a heartless flower,” as Nadja, the “magician,” says.,,

A harmony founded on the spiritual in all its forms, love of humanity in all its beauty, we can thus clearly see the richness of the esoteric domain approached this way by the surrealists, who incidentally made the Star, in the Deck of Marseille, the symbol for the suit of Dreams, whose face cards are Lautréamont, Alice in Wonderland, and Freud. This deck was conceived (these things are never invented) between the Villa Air Bel and the café Au Brûleur de Loups.

The Esoteric Secrets of Surrealism Origins, Magic, and Secret Societies By Patrick Lepetit

*Star Tarot Symbolique Maçonnique* Deck by Jean Beauchard

“A very powerful myth continues to have a hold on me, and no apparent contradiction of it in the course of my previous adventures can prevail “Find the place in the formula” merges with, “possess truth in one soul and one body: That the highest hope has the power to unfold before it the allegorical arena which holds that every human being was thrown into life to search for a being of the opposite sex and only that one who is paired in all respects, to the point where one without the other seems like the result of the dissociation of dismembering a unit of light”

Arcanum 17: With Apertures, Grafted to the End. By André Breton

Featured Painting by Enrique De Santiago She raises the day, oil on canvas, 140 x 100 cm.

Hoda Hussein Crossing The Water Tunnel

Hunting for the sound
In the relation between circles
Grooves and ridges
On the surface of a disk.

Hunting for the circles
Grooves and ridges
On the surface
Of my fingers.

Hunting for the relation
Between the surface of my fingers
And the surface of the disk.

Does the sound get sharper
when the lines are brighter?

Shell it cough
if dust occupies it?

*Mother and Child*
70x50cm
Acrylic on canvas

Hunting in the needle
That touches the round lines
ln the rotation of the disk

ln one direction
In the possibilities of emptiness forms
Between the needle point
And the turning lines’

Hunting
To reach the spherical emptiness
There
In the middle.

Circles turn with the sound

Breath

Go through ideas and trajectories
The time decomposes itself
Into spirals moving up and down

And I find myself there.
Every time I remember my face I see the
sun

This disk that moves
And nobody sings
For it.

*The Celestial Cow*
70x50cm
Acrylic on canvas

Sometimes you through your darts
And they catch a map

it might not necessarily be your map

And by chance
or coincidence

you find it in your hand
you say: I found the map
There the map found me

And my mission now
is to dissect it

Sometimes
you throw your darts
And they get lost
Hunting others’ maps

They are the laziest:
They through their dreams at you
to realize it for them

they threw you their disappointments
to endure it for them

They are the laziest
And you are the naïve prey that
lost the reason of this one hunt

For the hunt
And sank

When they pull you up
Do not be
Please
Thankful.

So who said that the emptiness
in the middle
Is black?

And how do you know it is empty it self?
And if someone tells You
Nothing is in the emptiness

Would you believe?

Won’t you hunt in this “Nothing”

For a shape or a form?

To touch it?

To intersect with it?

To find yourself

In it?

From MAP OF THE SELF Poems and Drawings Hoda Hussein 2006

Hoda Hussein
Egyptian creative writer poetess and novelist, artist painter and translator.
Published many poetry books and novels in Arabic language.
Represented Egypt in poetry and novels festivals and encounters in several countries like Yemen, Spain, India, France, Cuba, and Chile
Made creative writing workshops for kids in many schools in Cairo Egypt.
Received rewards for poetry, novels and for translations in Chile, Macedonia and Egypt.
Was entitled as a universal ambassador for peace by the peace ambassadors circle that works under the UNESCO

Featured Painting: The Great Lady. 70x50cm. Acrylic on canvas.

_{THIS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT}

I Drink from the Paleozoic Salts Enrique de Santiago

It is then when the tree that tomorrow will summon the thorns loses its leaves,
and the bumblebee falls, prey to the polar trails,
to reinvent the powerful patient engineering of lytic promises,
Well, that’s where I shelter, and where I rescue the omens,
there I drink from the Paleozoic salts, which today move the migratory herds,
those who come to the eyes without ears, of those attending Sunday services.
By nature, I approve!!

They speak of love, and my bet is more on compassion, which is a kind of continuum in a collective warp, of an ineffable equation that they will never understand.
Because perhaps love (like that image shown to us) does not exist and if it does exist it is a sum of chemical reactions where a set of hormones stimulates our syntax, and which may also be subject to the need for genes to be perpetuated. Maybe?. But there is also one who breaks this previous theory; crazy love, passionate love, eternal love, etc. that love that becomes unclassifiable. I only know that I know nothing.
After all, I believe in love.
Does the egg use the chicken to make more eggs?
It is possible, but in a global and precisely circular analysis, the plot of existence is supported in a shed crossed by the polyform reality of infinite logics and illogics, where each of its corresponding paradoxes and balances avoids its critical tension.
But, we can order them in the not well understood compassion, which could be a feeling deeper than that of the corruptible flesh (physical theory and cognitively plausible), which leads to understandable and celestial simplicity. But what if an infinitesimal were more than an integer, or if that time circulated in all directions? or love will not mean more than a necessary impulse to take risks in order to live the contradictions, so that the soul, when dying, will return with the pertinent knowledge to correct, deconstruct or ratify the whole of the so-called divinity .
For this reason, the next step opens the temporality to dedicate more time to essential reflection, and to put aside an imposed competitiveness for the accumulation of objects that lead to the void that means pursuing a way of life that is subordinated to the symbolic relationship. of the object or objects, which is useless and inconducive (a simulacrum of the society of the spectacle) for our true purpose in this brief transit called life.
Ars longa vita brevis. Or your existence is just an accident to offer a limited amount of data to accompany the equation that gives additional information to find the way out of the answer.
By the way; nobody takes me into account, since my infallibility is very poor since periodically and statistically, my failures are more abundant than my certainties.
And therein lies my wisdom; in realizing that my hypotheses are only attempts to find the truth within infinity. To think otherwise would be to err drastically and in the process lie to them. It would be, subjecting myself from the ego to an option to dress elegantly, but in the end, it would strip my limits. It is better to be honest in clumsiness than false in an inane and temporary charade.
But:
What if love were one of that unknown design in my intrinsic astral writing, waiting for you?

*Primordial circulation approaching from a past spring,* acrylic on Fabriano paper 250 gm. 35x45cm

So the wide dividing width
will unload its useful molecules
in this useless impertinent distance
there where the lightning reigns
without asking for their
blind blows.
Is when my pale measures
they embrace their designs devoid of elytra
to save the waters
possessed of salt and fire
that bathe the limits of my suffering body
without entering the first cause
that brings me down from within
the muscle periphery.

*Eros Phasianidae*, acrylic and ink on Canson 300 gms paper. 11″ x 8.3

EROS PHASIANIDAE
Yo
And she saw the chicken rise from the ground
a brilliant and ectoplasmic epiphany
and she remembered the words of the feathered prophets:
“before the primordial egg was the verb”
and the pyrrhic evolutionary expedition embraced me
so necessary and indeterminate
where we are more but under sheds
and I saw the grayish uncertainty that shakes my being
h = 6.626 0693 (11) x 10 – (34) J. s = 4,135 667 43 (35)
x10–(15)eV. s
and the beast arose from the miasma
without the feminine warmth
it was in the offensive of the arches thousands of years ago
on the Cartesian line of Har Meggido
under the law of y = m x + b
and those tears originated at 32°34’59″N 35°10’56″E.
II
huge old stars
leaning out on the horizontal cobblestone sheets
were dictated by an ancient manual of glorious epic forms
where I did not read the cunning locks
and from there lights fall like eagles
that are suspended in front of your pale fortifications
and despite the fact that I descend without air
I cling to the desiccated edges of this abyss
turning away from the waves of floral promises
with summer mentions that anoint you.
Thus the amaranth silence returns to rock the star
and like the silent lymph
you seek to break beyond the fundamental shell
the one that you got to know in a primitive way
in the sweet rooms of belief.

*Interruption*, acrylic on cut Fabriano paper, on black cardboard. 18x24cm.
The inclination of one of the elements is voluntary.

GOLDEN VISION

The nothing, the void
hold my duplicate fragments
(Φ2 = 2.61803398874988…)
It is the hollowness of the past and the future
what you don’t have and don’t want
the illusion of time and line
Infinity
so love surrounds swelling wisdom
while on the musty boards of a camp
absent light filters
to tilt reciprocal reality
that drives your transformation
(1/Φ = 0.61803398874988).

Maybe this reality is true
on this twilight island
where the already worn bones falter
by the persistent violet stings,
and there is no choice but to live among the cyclones that guard the whimsical and invisible knots
with its container meshes
that hide half-open portals,
those that I will leave like this for a while,
since everything circulates in the promised packaging.

**Paintings and Poems by**
**Enrique de Santiago**

Hallucination of the Arrival J Karl Bogartte

I discovered Photomorphosis way back in 1972 while attempting to copy an illustrated article in the Times magazine article on Yves Tanguy on an office copy machine. At night, in the dark. A clandestine maneuver. Photomorphosis is the enchanting process by which an organism changes or experiences metamorphosis under the influence of light… It is a natural process in the realm of photosynthesis, photolysis, etc., indicating the importance of light on living things, akin to shedding light on the darker areas of the mind…

*A Wedding in the gardens of Yemen* 2021

As an external organic process entering another level of meaning, it became an internal manifestation of an evolving morphology of the psyche. Under the sway of obsessive desire, I combined the words photograph and metamorphosis to signify the photomorphic process, without realizing that such a word already existed.

But, further research revealed that photomorphosis was no longer used by the scientific community to denote the organic process of light-induced metamorphosis and had been replaced by photomorphogenesis. Thus, by my investigation, I have given a new meaning to the abandoned word ‘photomorphosis’… by surrealizing it. To paraphrase André Breton: photomorphosis has been given to me to make surrealist use of it. The sustained investigation of the imagination is raised to the level of delirious curiosity, by the introduction of the activity of looking inward to discover, or in effect, to shed light on, the darker areas of the mind. To illuminate becomes a perfect analogy for the photomorphic process… The depths of the imagination open, the fields widen, things become visible… and metamorphosis is inevitable.

I drew pictures of strange animals as a kid, tried painting as a teen, and didn’t like the smell of the oils. I did nothing really, until about 19 years old after finding an anthology of French poets… That started my writing – loved surrealist poetry. Poets like Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Eluard. But mainly Andre Breton. He was the most interesting and inventive of them all really. Extremely magical. These days, or more recently, Rene Char (but mainly during his surrealist beginnings). I really like Jacques Dupin (who toyed with surrealism but became even more interested in the realm of language.) I am inspired mainly by Breton’s vantage point in the mind.

Having abandoned the copy machine at the end of 1999, I discovered that I could do the same thing on the computer and more, using Photoshop, in color, and with more tools…

Most everything inspires my work. All of which are very much similar to collage. Both visual and textural. A deep synthesis between my writing and my visual works. How I work these days, well, it all stems from my own real-life experiences. However automatic and mostly strange, it’s not art, really, but a further investigation of the psyche… between the real and the imaginary.

**The luminous bodies meeting for the first time…**

Many years ago, I actually did hear and experience that voice of pure automatism. It startled me completely. I think, once you actually hear and listen to it, it opens a door a little, which stays open, and whenever I feel the urge to write or make imagery, it just comes out. It is believed that one is always dreaming, it’s just under the layer of normal perception of reality. One just stumbles upon it accidentally and feels an inkling, a glimmer of something out of that persistent dream. Like a Deja Vu experience.

There are vast differences today between the different countries and their systems of belief with regard to surrealism; not to mention the differences in approach between various groups of surrealism. All this eventually led to the founding of La Belle Inutile and the 6 or so people who had problems with modern surrealism, academia, social groups, etc. Problems to be solved.

written by J Karl Bogartte

***The Wedding Guests Have Arrived***
Cover for Philip Lamantia’s book *Becoming Visible*

J. Karl Bogartte, born September 8, 1944, of Dutch and Irish descent, is both an artist and poet, schooled in anthropology, photography and various esoteric traditions. He has been an active participant in international surrealism for more than 50 years, and cofounder of La Belle Inutile Éditions. He presently lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Bogartte, is both an artist and poet, having published eight books of poetic writings: The Mirror held Up In Darkness, The Wolf House, Secret Games, Luminous Weapons, Primal Numbers, A Curious Night For A Double Eclipse, Auré, The Spindle’s Arc, and Antibodies: A Surrealist Novella. Long aligned with international surrealism, Bogartte is also a cofounder of
La Belle Inutile Éditions. His work has appeared in the following anthologies: ANALOGON#65, Melpomene, Hydrolith #1 and #2, La vertèbre et le rossignol #4, Peculiar Mormyrid #2, Paraphilia, Silver Pinion and The Fiend online journal.

J Karl Bogartte Books

photomorphose.wordpress.com

Mycelial Visions Enrique de Santiago

Mycelial Visions is a work that I have been maturing for months and that deals with the wonders and mysteries that the Fungi Kingdom contains, a name that is used to designate a group of eukaryotic organisms where fungi or mushrooms, molds and yeasts are found. This kingdom is one of the 5 great ones that make up others, such as animalia, plantae, protista or monera, having very own characteristics that distinguish it from these others due to its taxonomy and complex life cycles.

Specifically, the so-called mushrooms of the Psilocybe family caught my attention and their role as sacred psychotropics (hallucinogenic or neurotropic) in vast cultures, with records of this use, from the Paleolithic (Siberia, Sahara and Spain) to the present day. The power that these have to expand the mind and open unsuspected portals is well known, and that it has a certain analogy with what Eliphas Levi explained, regarding the 3 states to know the secrets of the universe, such as the embryonic state, dreams and delirium.

Thus, since the dawn of animism, these mushrooms have revealed, with the guidance of healers and shamans, that which is invisible and also ineffable, since those who experience these trips cannot express or relate what they have experienced on these trips to what is supposedly the depth of being and soul. These mushrooms usually occur in the dung of animals and it is plausible that prehistoric nomads followed herds not only for their meat but also to collect these mushrooms that were found growing in the feces of the herds. Among these mushrooms are the Psilocybe Mairei in North Africa, Psilocybe Cyanescens, present in Europe, America and Oceania, or Psilocybe Zapotecorum in Mesoamerica, to name three of the most recognized.

They are heterotrophic organisms, that is, they acquire their nutrients from abroad. Their form of reproduction is by spores and they have specific anatomical structures for their production, such as asci (contain ascospores) and basidia (with basidiospores). In fungi, reproduction can be asexual (without formation of a fruiting body) as well as sexual. Like the other kingdoms, they have different shapes, colors and sizes. Its habitat and location varies according to species, being able to grow in treetops or at the foot of it, as well as on rocks or soil, preferably where there is humidity and shade.

written by Enrique de Santiago. The art works are acrylic and ink on 300 gm Conqueror paper. Each painting and poem is a door.

FULLNESS
A secret freedom opens through a crack
that you can barely see.
Rumi
The morning and its ancient mystery
with his new cycle
embracing my vertebral calm
with dawn light steep in aerial stays
of a non-Euclidean flight
and its fertile messaging that awakens the annelids
to caress my future memory.

CONCILIATION
There are times when all the accumulated anxiety and effort
they rest in the infinite indolence and repose of nature.
Henry David Thoreau
I have heard the incessant whisper of the maitenes
and felt its impetuous root that sings its light music
mounted on the invisible verticality of design
that escapes geometrically
by the high pendulum cusp where I found the voice of the origin
so I became a body in the bark
adding myself to the essential channel that pulsates in the hollow
where the bird flies
with his outburst of winged love
that awakens the astral eyelid
and light the new dawn.

DOWN
From the labyrinth of white meats
where the filaments fractionate the divine eye
the wise thread emerges from the molten magma before time.

DREAMS
in the belly of the stone
the dragon’s breath is hidden
and in every cosmic cycle
stir your energy that moves
the suns and their destinies.
You’ll know when the word goes on
in that object that radiates silent voices
by a demiurge who lost
love in a vortex
in that surprising weather.

HUGGING THE BELLY
Diverse waters nest
in the hidden embryonic embraces
where the blade of time
pick up the promise
made to the stem
in that sacred way.
And I saw a new way
and their metals hugged tightly
the sign of the night
dropping urgent shadows
as field dams
one upright and down
in his immobility.

LIGHT
The universe came down to my domain
Opening the lights before precarious
those who entered
In the bones of my soul.
Light of the hidden.

SEEING EYE
the flesh of god
opened the sky
and my inner eye
saw the route of the serpents.

HEAVENLY LANDSCAPES
In the surroundings of the uranic gem
the voices of the magicians are raised
that bear ancestral flowers
to heal the wounds of oblivion.

REVELATION
There was his high imponderable crown
on the distinguished and lukewarm verticality of the mystery
without leaving a shadow in the mirror of the high magistracy
of the verb
pouring her violet love towards his moist horizon
and restlessly embracing your silhouette that I don’t know
That’s how I saw you behind the meanders of destiny
in the sudden revelation of the morning birds
Will you be the trail to be followed in unknown times?
perhaps I will drink of your honey under the sign of the equinox
coming
As soon as you feel your eyelids full of the light of your
redemption
and rest the incandescent pearl that comes down from the dew
this will be the floral beginning of the silent explosion
like the one that leaves the pollen in the aerial possibilities
while I await your coming.
Someday they’ll die out under the rust
the gears that bind us to reality.

DIRECTIONS
My constellations that guide me
pushing my mild matter
in this immense sum of fiery spheres
and finite
inside the womb of mystery
with its unsuspected breath of flowers
because as above so below
since nebulae have their own pistils
and here I am with my steps apprehended
waved and sacramented
right and wrong
taking up the path dictated by the stars
smiling under high serene clouds
looking for other paths
that will bring a new hand to dream.