The Gnosis of the Mirage and other Poems Enrique de Santiago

THE GNOSIS OF THE MIRAGE

“Relativity makes distance meaningless, but the situation is even worse when quantum mechanics intervenes, since it questions the idea of place.”
Paul Davis.

Of the clouds contained for centuries
of the air that winds the violet knot of meaning
And of every dark shape that embraces the sound of the world
the lit line of the labyrinth emerges
contemplating ourselves immersed in this myriad of fluids
that embrace us from the beginning
and from before in its reverse reality
to end up drowned in the crack of fate
and never know what the essential source of the moon holds
nor the celestial song of the plumage found in the boreal bosom
this is how the air is thrown into being
Without measure
no understanding
while diligently it oxidizes and hastens its decline.


WINGED PHOTOTROPISM

nothing ends,
just a keep going around in a spiral,
at the command of vector dreams,
that rest on the moon that raises the stamens,
Like the names I’ve forgotten
my own,
and the name of my destiny,
while I move hugging the clouds
with my numbers on the side of my brain
and my breath laughing again.

The astral root, acrylic on canvas 118 x 85cm

MANDRAGORA, ASTRAL ROOT

telluric resonance
with its harsh echo that stuns reason
magmatic word that arises from the refusal of the verb
black poetry on its sharp path
the one that hurts the one who goes into its mystery
with the blessed dagger of the fallen angels
that are arranged on the sidewalk of dawn
illuminated by the forgotten star
between rivers of multitude of bones
council opening submerging volcanic fire
where the salamander dances
at the right time and hour
when the word that unleashes the lightning is released
with its fractal memory
that renews the solanaceous plant
what is the mandrake of the damned
and of the saved.

Under the Luciferian influence, acrylic and ink on Conqueror 300 gm paper

PERPETUAL FLORA

From foliage ancient and forgotten,
when time was captive in the womb of time
even before the language of birds appeared,
that lost and extinct star arose,
loved from her nebula
and awaited by the early cicadas,
it was so that she sang her scrolls
and she danced the mystery of the nymphs,
hidden in the mystery of her and in the first number of her name
because this is found in the sum of the rings of a forest,
and her dress is the transmutation of the nymph
something like that, like a thousand and eighty times the face of the moon.

Winged Past, acrylic on 300 gm Canson paper, 30 x 39 cm

THE PAST OF THE FOREST

I love your origin from the unknown
with that particular elliptical aroma
like an elk that descended from a learned galaxy
there between the sources of light and condensed matter
close sister of the unchanging logos
the one you robbed by surprise
On the oblique ship that was hidden
with their inverted masts on the sleepwalking skins
begin to awaken from amazement
of so many days of your destiny
without knowing why ??
away from the inanimate pavement
that carries with your long steps
in the certain uncertainty
in the sacred place
that goes off
and it bares to oblivion.

Astral Watcher, acrylic on Canson 300 gm paper. 40x30cm

THE RELENTLESS OUROBOROS


beyond the wind
in a northern region of the universe
an uncertain number of names
dissolved by the golden flame of oblivion
They descend from the crevice of a nebula
while the bird as watchman of the secret
sing their celestial nomenclatures
to revive them in their new sap.

Altered distance, acrylic and ink on 200 gm Canson paper. 21x28cm

DISTANCE


The lightness of your poetry taught me to look beyond
in that place where we don’t understand each other
a room of emptiness and fullness
where there is enough space to brush your hair.

The implacable oracle, acrylic on canvas, 70 x 70 cm

NGC 6753


When a star collapses, does part of your destiny end?
Do you know the emptiness that will come in the litany of the dream of the demiurge?
Each sphere engraves its own ellipse so as not to perpetuate it
because the grass kisses the constellations
until it loses sight of its splendor
and the turn announces its sunset
like love dissolved in nothing
where the word is not perpetuated
And these verses will disappear when the screens turn off
so too the leaves yellow following the dust
Of expired stars in forgotten hells
parked in some empty universe
waiting to speak from the past
and the future.

Prehistory of the present. acrylic on canvas, 70 x 70 cm

CYCLES IN COSMIC WETLANDS

rising winds
without becoming storms
They spring from the soul until they inhabit the shadow
that takes the lonely measure
of the one who forgets the kiss
when long ago life rocked its cocoon
unaware of his hypocrisy
looking for the fierce copper mascada
while we smell that inexorable time
that snatches the lights rapidly in the twilight
where every month is the same for everyone
and between the mist and the pit
the same efforts start
the same young people with their ideals
who see their elders leave
clinging to clothes like the smell of tobacco
and the humidity of the asphalt
every year is the same for those who do not see the clouds
but in the long run it’s the same music
fashions are fashions and your makeup is the same
and when you cry a black line tears your face
similar to the one that tears your soul
love that sucks life and releases it
leaving us exhausted for months
Until I return for another rest of life
like a pleasant and hostile embrace
and there is no way to draw life
to know how to color it
it only comes around every corner
sneaky and silent
distinguishing itself in a fissure of time
when it’s too late to decide or repent
Well, it installs, without further ado…
with his elastic suit that loses his memory
in that last station
when everyone wants to change their habit
nothing more like life
that first puff of cigarette
strange, pleasant and bitter
slight time that will end in ashes
hopelessly.

The bodies remained weightless
next to each other
faced with the cosmic dilemma
and to the protocol of the farewell,
he perceived the aroma of the bones
while she expired her step at night
with a certain harshness
the one that evaporates with the days
slow and silent
like that subordinate hatefulness of truncated desire

The music of the spheres, acrylic on Canson paper, 250 gms. 25 x 32.5 cm

GRAVITATIONAL CONDITION


On the edge of my lithic archetypes
sweet new grass grows
that with its solemn verticality
wants to hug the moon
in serene times
like your memories
before forging the tides
and unleash the liquid of his beloved
burning oblivion
and shadow
permian knots
skeletons
going down the river of oblivion
everlastingly
in its exact ritual.

Early Invisible, acrylic on canvas, 65 x 81 cms

ANIMA WORLD


Mother Earth exhaled the perfume of redemption
while the useless man and dismembered course
listened to the night without name or shadow,
in order to gain oxidizable objects,
at the midpoint of his fecal abyss,
with the emptiness left by fear
and so he names himself among the speechless faces
that day when chemical weddings were prepared
without finding for your optic cells
when the leaves of the forest fall slowly
and to my ears comes the roar of the terrestrial kiss
which is a sound to be ocher dust in solar memory
in the end of time
With its circular principle in the appointed mystery,
while third world children are murdered
to make toys that were not for them.
Before knowing the sky and the gods
she appears from the beginning taming the chords of silence
she, well, she knows the key to love in a sleeping place
and she licks the perpendicular voices of the waters
like rivers that arise from the carboniferous
she well she knows how to offer the womb
to spawn the world.

Astral fissure, oil on prepared cardboard, 60 x 45 cm

blank slate


“My soul is from another place, I am sure of it, and I intend to end up there.”
Rumi


Reset the inconsequential
To restart with the fruitful

Enrique de Santiago

All poems and art ©Enrique de Santiago

Languaged, Body Synthetic by Giorgia Pavlidou

How would you describe your painting process and your associative relationship between concepts, events, or mental states of the subconscious? Is there a link between self-hypnosis and inspiration? 

Artists, writers, and poets such as Garcia Lorca, Roberto Matta, Henri Michaux, and even Anais Nin have inspired me to paint. Language, for me, comes first, but the visual can support the verbal. I paint as if I’m composing poetry.

Automatism or improvisation is the starting point – bebop – but I’ve realized that the contours of a, often dismembered and re-stitched, female body appears repetitively in my mind’s eye: think Mary Shelly. This flickering of fragmented body parts leaves deposits on the canvas/my mind. There’s something about the human body that truly fascinates me. This fascination isn’t deliberate, and it’s also strange because I’m more cerebral than a physical person: in my view, the body exists only in the mind. This also solves, at least for me, the century-old dualism: the body-mind split. Or, as William Blake said: “the body is a portion of the soul.”

Man is a machine, and a woman is a sublime machine. If you compare the human and the animal body, the human body is clearly synthetic and artificial. It blurs the boundaries between what’s considered natural and what’s considered artificial. I find that thrilling. There’s nothing natural about us humans. We aren’t becoming robots or cyborgs, we already are. We can’t rely on our instincts anymore as non-synthetic creatures can. There are vehicles in the making that’ll be able to reproduce themselves with whatever material they can find on Mars.

How’s that different from us? You could say that humans think and feel, but do we really? Aren’t we just parroting the words, stories, and belief systems that we’ve been fed? When was the last time you heard a new idea? Something you hadn’t heard before, something that stimulated an innovative thought. We’re the protein by-product of language. Perhaps when there’s trance, a moment of silence, or jazz, an intelligent intuition can unfold in the nerve domain. Painting or poetry can help it develop, transmit and circulate. Possibly it can be fertilized by critical reading or meditation.

Is painting a technique that represents a body disconnected from words? a sort of ‘transmuting neurology’

Transmuting neurology, I love this phrasing. Probably our neurology is in constant a state of desire for perpetual transmutation, but the culture must allow for it. Studying the history of painting, I was excited to learn that the Impressionists had “discovered” different shades in snow, something that nobody had “seen” before them. Isn’t that intriguing? I guess they contributed to an alteration of the general perception and experience of what’s “white.” They are also depicted as the very first in the history of Western painting of social situations such as people dancing or swimming. Nobody had done that before them. That’s why the establishment was so scandalized.

Of course, it didn’t help that the women they painted often were what today we’d call sex workers. Can you imagine that in the second part of the 19th century? Later with expressionism and surrealism, painters gave expression to the ebb and flow of what’s inside the mind’s eye. An interesting artist is Francis Bacon. He claimed that he depicted people as they “really” are. Perhaps some of us are polished yet monstrous or disfigured? Or even, maybe the human condition is one of perpetual disfigurement? Whether we can see without words is something I keep on mulling over. I feel tempted to believe that as humans we need some sort of narrative or linguistic frame of intelligibility to see things. Perhaps we can only perceive objects contextually. Painters should be called pioneers or even anarchists of perception. 

Can you elaborate on how language shapes us by a Languaged body, cultured intuition by sound, and language as a living intelligence?

I’d like to emphasize that I constantly toy with intuitions and ideas, not with truths. The truth for me often is a reductionist and particularly violent concept. Think of all the wars that have been fought over some sort of revelatory divine truth, or in later centuries, the so-called scientific truth. The Nazis had their ideology backed up by scientists’ assertion that theirs was the most evolved race (so-called Social Darwinism), and that certain other races were particularly parasitic and had to be exterminated the same way as rats or cockroaches. So, circling back to the central ideas informing my practices such as the “languaged body” which is a neologism, and the idea that language is a living intelligence, I don’t consider them to be truths. These are frames of intelligibility that have grown under my skin over the years of study, reflection, practice, and meditation. I have no problem admitting that these concepts are nothing more than my obsessions. I’m not a missionary.

I see language as something external to human beings, possibly an organism. In the process of language learning, humans are inserted into this external thing we frivolously call language. There are linguists in Switzerland who’ve developed a theory in which language is a symbiont. So not necessarily a virus as William S Burroughs famously claimed, or that it can turn parasitic in case of psychosis as French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan suggested. I see our brain + nervous system as a receptor-like radio, tv, or computer, capable of receiving signals and building narrative. In some way, it’s a form of telepathy. By producing sounds, we invoke a whole shared world that has been forged across thousands of generations. Also, we invest our lifeworld, including our bodies, with words, with a story. If our bodies weren’t invested with language, we’d constantly experience ourselves and others as walking talking meat, protein bags, or water bags on legs. When we buy meat at the butcher’s or supermarket, we don’t think of that red stuff as chopped-up dead animal cadavers. We say it’s a New York strip or whatever. Something similar is going on with our bodies. We have names.

This name is somehow “written” on our skin, on our face. I’ve never met anyone without a name, though I’m curious how that’d be. When we feel attracted to someone, we don’t think “that’s a tasty animal.” Some of us might, however. A whole story about someone is activated within us when we fall in love, a concept of what a human being is, of what beauty is, etc. while we all know that a few millimeters under the skin there’s blood and a skull. But who, except a cannibal or a serial killer, thinks about that? The way language has contextualized humans prevents us from seeing the meatiness of a person. But this experience isn’t fixed. There are cultures in which not everyone has human status. Think of the Dalits in India. In Central Africa the so-called pygmy is being hunted and eaten, most probably because their appearance doesn’t conform to the hunter’s concept of what constitutes a human. It’s also interesting to read the private diaries of people who worked in concentration camps, and how they thought about the people they helped butcher or exterminate. Some agreed that Jews, homosexuals, communists, etc. had to be put to death, but they felt it should happen in a kinder way, pretty much how some activists think about animal rights in our era.

Language protects us by feeding us optical illusions. As humans, we’re trapped in a theater of distorted thoughts. It’s as if we need to drive on a busy freeway wearing glasses deforming everything coming our way. All this is extremely disorienting and frightening. I think maybe that’s why there’re so many ideologies and why religion is such a sensitive matter. These “grand narratives” offer the illusion of certainty and direction: how one should lead one’s life, where one should be headed, and where to invest one’s life force. The artist, I think, has been for whatever reason cast out of the Eden of ideology or religion, and is forced to constantly mold and remold her internalized worldviews, knowing often very well that this is a futile endeavor that must be repeated endlessly. But, at least, there’s some motion within. The alternative would be catatonia. 

Artists, writers, and poets who helped contribute and inform your process?

I sound like a broken record when I keep on mentioning Will Alexander. But there’s no denying that his oeuvre provided me with the missing link in my thinking. I have always had an interest in ritual, animism, and shamanism, but with the latter term, we need to be extremely careful. I adhere to academic concepts of shamanism, such as Mircea Eliade’s. When younger I participated extensively in groups believing that they were engaged in shamanic practices. Perhaps some of those did. I don’t want to claim that I have the capacity to say what’s authentic and what isn’t. What I inherited from these experiences is the sensation of trance. Will’s work transfuses both language and animism/shamanism, especially in his The Combustion Cycle.

Without trance, there’s no writing nor painting for me. Writing prose is different. Poetry and painting for me fall in the same domain as glossolalia, speaking in tongues or trance-speaking. Freudian associating on the couch. Will’s concept of language as a living, possibly alchemical intelligence, makes a lot of sense to me. It connects my interest in shamanism and animism with my obsession with language in a no-nonsense way. WA’s poetics is a conscious journey into the imagination. To truly feel this, you need to understand that the imagination isn’t just “fugazi” or fantasy. The Jungians know very well that the imaginal world is a tangible environment, in which one can move around and travel in. There are beings dwelling there. You can develop a bond with these inorganic characters. Jungian practitioners are aware of this possibility.

I think I can say that Occidental culture at this point in history is in a state of coma or autophagy: it’s eating itself up. The criteria for personhood are so one-sided and reductionist that it is extremely easy to descend into a state of being a non-person. Maybe the only option when that happens for some people is to die and, in the process, drag along as many corpses as possible. Ours is a high-risk society. Having said that, I’ve lived in India for three years the comfortable life of an adult literature student. Life in India is no bargain either. Perhaps I have taken shelter in the written word and painted images because I’ve experienced that it isn’t possible to change your own culture with another. Every culture has its own cruelties, sacrifices, and gains, but they aren’t commodities. The difference, maybe, between Western cultures and the rest of the planet is that, as French novelist Michel Houellebecq suggests, the West has sacrificed almost everything for the sake of rationalism and technocracy. 

There are also other artists and poets besides WA that have influenced me. I’m thinking of the “Grand Jeu” poets such as Rene Daumal and Gilbert-LeComte but also Antonin Artaud, Joyce Mansour, and Roberto Matta. Regarding US artists and poets, there’s, of course, Philip Lamantia, whose thinking and work is like a direct mind-injection into my mind: picture a metaphysical phone call without ever hanging up. Other important people would be Bob Kaufman, John Hoffman, Laurence Weisberg, but also someone like Mina Loy, and some beats, in particular William S Burroughs. I feel a deep affection for a lot of artists and writers: William Baziotes, Arshile Gorky, Thom Burns, Rik Lina, Byron Baker, Emily Dickenson, Edgar Allan Poe, William Blake, Lautreamont, Guiliaume Apollinaire, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Gerard de Nerval, Grace Hartigan, Leonora Carrington, Remedios Varo, Juanita Guccione, and many more.

Bill de Kooning deserves special mention, on the one hand, because nobody speaks about him anymore and because of ongoing the “de Kooning-bashing. But also because my paintings are a prolegomenon (not a counter-narrative) to his disfigured depictions of Marilyn Monroe-type of women, in particular the teeth: Where else in the world is the business of smiling taken so seriously as in the USA? My series of chopped-up disfigured ladies, “Mutilated Madonnas,” are homage and homologous to his.

Haunted by the Living, Fed by the Dead
By
Giorgia Pavlidou

inside the black hornet’s mind-tunnel

by Giorgia Pavlidou

This is intense work. It’s incandescent. It’ll catch your eyes on fire. Burn your brain down. Giorgia Pavlidou has managed to make anguish appear beautiful. And sexy. Artaud is the tutelary spirit of this work. The anguish is real and the words have the taste and smell of the netherworld in its black gown of sibilant pupa. This is language with a biology; it writhes, hisses, and propagates by glossolalic impregnation. Reading these poems is an immersive experience. Here we find madness, anguish, erotica and Rabelaisian humor welded and wed to a language full of “lexical tentacles” and “fire dressed in fire.” It gets under your skin, this speech. These strangely intelligent & autonomous words, manic as wasps in a vessel of glass.

—John Olson

A pyrotechnics of lingual essence, Giorgia Pavlidou’s “inside the black hornet’s mind-tunnel” yields feeling through the language of the heart creating darkened constellations that rivet the inner eye all the while whirling as an estranged yet organic imaginal terrain.

—Will Alexander

Giorgia Pavlidou

Giorgia Pavlidou is an American writer and painter intermittently living in Greece and the US. Her work recently appeared or is forthcoming in Caesura, Maintenant Dada Journal, Puerto del Sol, Clockwise Cat, Ocotillo Review, Strukterriss Magazine, Entropy and Sun & Moon Magazine. She’s an editor of SULΦUR. Additionally, Trainwreck Press launched her chapbook ‘inside the black hornet’s mind-tunnel’ in 2021, and Anvil Tongue Books her full length book of poems and paintings, ‘Haunted by the Living – Fed by the Dead’ in May 2022

Inchiñ fün We Are Seed/Somos Semilla

Poem read and written by Ceci Nahuelpangui
Tiltil, June 2022 read at Rene Fernando Ortega Villarroel Mental Labyrinths
Opening with dancer Giannina Canessa/Poema leído y escrito por Ceci Nahuelpan, Junio 2022 leído en René Fernando Ortega Villarroel Apertura de Laberintos Mentales con la bailarina Giannina Canessa

Everything tells us that we are in seed times… The seed that dies in the dark under the nourishing moisture of our Ñuke Mapu, Mother Earth…
She surrenders and strips herself of what she is to live fully towards that imminent transformation.
The seed knows what its destiny may be, it was born for this long-awaited process and relies on the help of the cosmos to make it happen sooner or later. The help for this wonderful change is in all of creation… In the birds, the wind, the Moon and the Sun…

So, if we have that understanding and ancestral knowledge, we understand that this is how it is throughout this magical womb of the Ñuke Mapu.
It doesn’t matter what seed we are, what matters is that we are and that germination will exist, but not without first experiencing this important and necessary darkness.
The eclipses, Lai Kuyen the death of the Moon and Lai Antü, the death of the Sun are one more confirmation of our process.
Darkness and death is also part of Life and it also has a beauty that we will discover if we are aware of living it.
Welcome to this wonderful transformation… Inchiñ fün… We are seed.

Giannina Canessa

Todo nos indica que estamos en tiempos de semilla… La semilla que muere en la oscuridad bajo la humedad nutriente de nuestra Ñuke Mapu, Madre Tierra…
Se entrega y se despoja de lo que es para vivir en plenitud hacía esa transformación inminente.
La semilla sabe cual puede ser su destino, nació para este esperado proceso y confía en la ayuda del cosmos para que ocurra tarde o temprano. La ayuda para este cambio maravilloso está en toda la creación… En las aves, el viento, la Luna y el Sol…


Entonces, si tenemos ese entendimiento y conocimiento ancestral comprendemos que así es en todo este mágico vientre de la Ñuke Mapu.
No importa que semilla somos, lo que importa es que lo somos y existirá esa germinación pero no sin antes vivir esta importante y necesaria oscuridad.
Los eclipses, Lai Kuyen la muerte de la Luna y Lai Antü, la muerte del Sol son una confirmación más de nuestro proceso.
Oscuridad y muerte también es parte de la Vida y también tiene una belleza que descubriremos si somos consciente al vivirla.
Bienvenidos a esta maravillosa transformación… Inchiñ fün… Somos semilla.

Ceci Nahuelpangui

Meta fiat

non-fungible token
sunthemata
with numbers
I am
a verb on
a switchboard, placement
wrong side of town or
a substandard decimal point
magic
watchwords
golden square chains
a lien against every me
in the space colony
remember
Chevrolet is Apache.
Chevrolet is Cheyenne.
Dodge is Dakota.
Ford is Thunderbird.
Jeep is Cherokee.
Jeep is Comanche.
Jeep is Grand Cherokee.
Mazda is Navajo.
the trillionaire
owns is
owns equal signs
and property rights

written by ©Mitchell Pluto on April 8, 2022, 9:04am Mountain time.

Lawnnosaurus Rex. oil, collage. 9inx12in coldpress

Poemas Clandestinos 1978-1989 Enrique de Santiago

Every time I ordered my papers I found these poems that correspond to my years of militancy in the communist youth under the period of the dictatorship, which in my personal case took place between 1979 and 1989

Already a couple of years ago, around 1977, my concern for writing verses had been awakened, and I still have those first poetic stammers. Those sheets speak of those attempts to provide something different to the word, since when adding two, these would give a different meaning and significance, more subtle, in short, that it had a broader meaning.

I had finished high school, and shortly after I met a landscape painter and an art student, who showed me the secrets of easel painting, it was then that I was already clear that my destiny was the visual arts. Parallel to the instruction, I received from these two friends, others close to the cultural circle that was forming in the neighborhood, they enlightened me about the dark passages that happened daily in our country. There was the coup d’état, the intervention of the United States, the disappeared detainees, the torture, the prison and the political persecution, which were some among many the prison, and the political persecution, which were some of the many atrocities that devastated our people.

poetry was still present, and names like Nicolas Guillen, Ernesto Cardenal, or Roque Dalton had been added to my library. I wrote in my spare time, and much of that poetry served the cause of the offended and their fight for liberation for the construction of a new, fairer life. It was then, during a sunny winter afternoon that one of my friends invited me to join the Communist Youth.

I accepted and from that moment my new name was Freddy. The following year he entered the Faculty of Arts of the University of Chile, where the student agitation had restarted after complex years where the repression was brutally violent. Now there were more of us and all the universities were setting up Student Centers ready to fight for student and human rights. They were two hard years, of strikes, street actions, propaganda, and confrontation with the repressive forces-Carabineros de Chile, which at that point was a militarized police force trained for repression-Between art classes, paintings, and struggle, of from time to time some of these poems that I have rescued arose. Others were lost among notebooks or were forgotten on a table in my school.

The months went by one after another; meeting, bells, protests, repression, hiding and reappearing, that’s how the years went by, with a lot of political activity, little appearance, and some verses that are being accommodated in these sheets.

At the beginning of 88, love came with force, since one day in January I met Valezka, who would be the mother of my three beloved daughters. That year, party activity would turn to the campaign for the October plebiscite and find a way to insert myself into the workplace, since by December there would be three of us in the family. It was a tough year for both of us, but we went to all the big marches where we joined the people who had said enough to so many people of darkness and opprobrium. The triumph of the “No” option brought hope for the daughter to come and the verses changed color, approaching a less arid and somber texture. 1989 I arrive with a stable job, my party life is focused on the union. That year Patricio Aylwin was elected, he would be the President “as far as possible”, or put another way: what was impossible for the people, while everything possible was given to the de facto groups and the oligarchy. Those were the years of asking for permission from the dictators and fascists who held key positions in the Armed Forces, Parliament, and the production and communication media. Large state companies continued to be privatized and neoliberalism deepened. From the 90s onwards, were the years of shame, of a protected democracy, and of the deepening of the model

Enrique of Santiago, December 2021

The Smoke Base (1979)

the base of the smoke
it is base without eye
for the bell
a lock vibrates ten times,
and the bewildered sight writes
How many broken ideas are there in the mirror?
for the bell the ear is deaf
with pain of 10,000 years
the crazy race has an end everywhere
lips are pursed,
the exit is praised,
spitting black earth
and the black earth spits us to the sky
burning the pupils
since the base of the smoke has no eye
The base of the smoke has no eye
and the ash drowns a siren
and they crash by the thousands
Well, it’s the autumn of man
the bell screams in fright
and the eardrum tells him to shut up..
but the cry is crying
dog crying,
of worms
of mice
human crying
shoes melt
and the frost boils in its hour
pine is charcoal
and the race burns and burns
The base of the smoke has no eye
but the beginning yes,
but underlies its lock

Carnival and duel (1980)

Dreams have been trampled in the mud
and the moans are silenced with screens and neon
fun to lead the century
on the trembling of absent birds
but one day the crystal clear rain will come
and after the sun
with your new water
kissed by the moon
while the rebellious ligaments
they give off longings on the gray asphalt
under waiting stars
the smooth flight of lepidoptera

The Pedaling (1981)

On a colorless bike
pedal to a sleeping atoll
in that corner of the skin of a rosy vision
under the dark green chair
so that the sole kisses the yellow sands
the contemporary chip
already inside my starry pants
I think it is appropriate to say with a red voice:
Long live this surreal expression!
I then say:
Your violet rifle jumps from the dark
tides
Stepping on the shapes that you don’t have yet
and you were submerged in your numerical sea
where they surprised you between mastabas and whips
and embraced the heavy centuries
under the belly of the galleys
to cross the maps of the centuries
chasing the useless and ephemeral

Night (1983)

Have you felt that the bats
They come to your room one day agitated?
They laugh and denote expired fangs
while the music falls, abandoning each note,
and I look for an onomatopoeia to simulate
my brain hitting the floor,
so as not to perceive how it is extinguished
the spent life of those who do not have feathers
I just want my fingers intact
to pull a certain trigger
and make my way through the gray tangle of his name

Observations (1984)

They are cloudy days
vermin crawl and abound
the palace beasts
the city wears its best corruption suit
and in each office a crime is perpetrated
but there are still your kisses and your moisture
in a brief but broad sincerity
in that street that corrects my face and faith

Reading in Heaven (1985)

The fly refrained from ascending
and stopped at folded hopes
perceiving a usual odor
had drilled all the diameters
known and unknown
of the present medieval apathy
Repelled by bullets the nonconformity
wears black tile
and resume the flight
causing the last ulcers
to existing weight
Tomorrow the cage is undressed
before the soup gets cold

Painting (1986)

Alone, in front of the support
clinging to thousands of flaming voices
and be one and all following the thread of Ariadna
in that challenging labyrinth
where she is shipwrecked and pales her life,
next to the truth and hers custodian loves
be both and call what principle
Without us realizing
that we always carry with the fear of what ends

Dream (1987)

In the courtyard of my memory
I did not pave stone *pastelones
and on the most humid and fertile land
grow a red flower
burdensome and geometric
without the language of capitulation
and got up watered with the brief bravery that drives
almost irrationally to the martyrs
from every barricade in this city charnel house

Demystifying (1987)

The feather vortex
perishes before the litigation of stillness
and from so much looking for potions
on nights covered with the moon shell
I then went to the annals of oblivion
while the image of the eroded sky appears
under the uncertainty of its dim flashes
going through the rubble of your memory
My withered pupil arrived there
to forget you

September Notes (1989)

They will hide my lean meat, under the cover of earth and parallel,
where the traces left by my dreams will not be visible
in those coordinates where the dragonflies nested
In the softest parts of a solstice
insistent the consecrated spells
will be hidden for future generations
while I drink from a larval porphyria
since each wing contains the history of time,
what takes my breath
to set your levels without further limits
that the one that extends in the red slope of a fallen
where each segment of the man fulfills
with the fragility of his own destiny
In vain many look at their savings account
on the gray sidewalk,
when in reality
life goes by insignificant
before your eyes
Now do you understand why?
of the sound of crafty sabers in spring

Art and Poems Written by Enrique de Santiago ©

Enrique de Santiago, Born in Santiago, Chile (1961). Visual artist, poet, researcher, essayist, curator and cultural manager. He studied a Bachelor of Art at the University of Chile and at the Institute of Contemporary Art (Chile). Since 1984, he has exhibited in individual and group exhibitions, counting to his credit around more than 100 exhibitions.
He has edited five books: Fragile Transits Under the Spirals in 2012, with La Polla Literaria; Elegía a las Magas and the book essay: El Regreso de las Magas, both with Editorial Varonas. In 2018 he edited La Cúspide Uránica with editorial Xaleshem and Dharma Comunicaciones, and Travel Bitácora with Editorial Opalina Cartonera.
He has participated in various poetry anthologies, both in Chile and abroad. He has collaborated in the newspaper La Nación with articles on new media art, and in magazines such as Derrame, Escaner Cultural and Labios Menores in Chile, Brumes Blondes in Holland, Adamar from Spain, Punto Seguido from Colombia, Sonámbula from Mexico, Agulha de Brazil, Incomunidade de Portugal, Styxus de Rep. Czech, Canibaal de Valencia, Spain, Materika de Costa Rica and other printed and digital publications.

Patriarchal Decadence and Her by Enrique de Santiago

HER


And from beyond the intellect comes beautiful love trailing her skirts, with a glass of wine in her hand.
Rumi
From above with his selenite love
descends the brief nomenclature of desire
in her diamond lust
kissing in purple intervals the waves that announce your steps
with your coming laugh
to testify about the rain
and in the nyctalope depths
in its germinal dance
the final hour of your name.

Patriarchal Decadence


(or Brute A attacks Brute B)
Do you think that money will stop being fascinating?
and if one day it disappears
Do you think power will lose its appeal?
possessing is more addictive than loving
your missiles and two more
the poker of life
a “quijadaso”, ‘jaw bone’ well given in the skull for Abel
(although that fact marks the end of grazing and the beginning of agriculture)
that happens for misreading the allegories
and also wrongly see the universe
added to a dark and patriarchal church
I light candles for Ishtar instead
and I hear the voice of the earth
but…
Will there be anything left to restore the feminine?
End of statement, I’m going to the shelter.

Art and Poems Written by Enrique de Santiago ©

Enrique de Santiago, Born in Santiago, Chile (1961). Visual artist, poet, researcher, essayist, curator and cultural manager. He studied a Bachelor of Art at the University of Chile and at the Institute of Contemporary Art (Chile). Since 1984, he has exhibited in individual and group exhibitions, counting to his credit around more than 100 exhibitions.
He has edited five books: Fragile Transits Under the Spirals in 2012, with La Polla Literaria; Elegía a las Magas and the book essay: El Regreso de las Magas, both with Editorial Varonas. In 2018 he edited La Cúspide Uránica with editorial Xaleshem and Dharma Comunicaciones, and Travel Bitácora with Editorial Opalina Cartonera.
He has participated in various poetry anthologies, both in Chile and abroad. He has collaborated in the newspaper La Nación with articles on new media art, and in magazines such as Derrame, Escaner Cultural and Labios Menores in Chile, Brumes Blondes in Holland, Adamar from Spain, Punto Seguido from Colombia, Sonámbula from Mexico, Agulha de Brazil, Incomunidade de Portugal, Styxus de Rep. Czech, Canibaal de Valencia, Spain, Materika de Costa Rica and other printed and digital publications.

Taking the Auspices, Magic and Poems Hazel Cline

05/14/21
cosmic fires burn
behind the rich, black fabric of the night
which parts to let the magic pass
as particles of filtered light
the door lies open, the gate lies closed
life travels, small and swift
through tiny tears
a missing stitch
and life. the flow itself
the tear itself
the seam
a sight of seeming death
that folds, unfolds itself
in weeds of grief
and swaddles itself
and for the first time sees
that there the door lies open
to those laid out or she
on knees
black wings opened out
speak out in seven rings
the universe talks
and, so, we sing

07/09/21
shifting stars
and shifting rays of light
pierce, project
through fractal lens
into the fractured night
the universe mind filters
through this facet
and another
then the other and the next
it’s all-color light refracted
into rainbow shimmer
variations, life
the shadow dark
descent of being
is iridescent
sacred, sweet
the night is full
of teeming things
and thoughts
of universe
that sings

09/03/21
black wings flap against the dawn
lingering sweetly in the dark
prolonging, savoring
the last few tendrils of night
but the dark, black velvet sky grows thin
and soon the silken
cloth of twilight
transparent and delicate
ripples, dissolves
in a moment is gone
and morning begins
a teardrop
bright and golden
falls to the bottom
of the deep blue bowl
that holds it, the sky
and rolls back down the otherside
and so the sun descends
again, again
again
once, we saw it rise
but that was long ago
before we learned its name
and learned to make the choice
ever to fall
or ever to rise
or yet-to-be
asleep
abide

EGREGORE
An exhibition by the Atlanta Surrealist Group

Steven Cline, Hazel Cline, Aaron Dylan Kearns, Juli Maria Kearns, Megan Leach, Steve Morrison.
October 21-31 2021
The Bakery – Atlanta, Georgia

ELEPHANT WORLD

Collaborative writing: Hazel & Steven Cline

Grey smoke, static-waiting in this lonely god-form, the elephant world. Atmosphere of iron, melting into sea. The sea must move. Must never stop. Yet, it never forgets. From the cavernous, from the well, a swallow jumps. Its cry the first sound, its wings flap the first wind into being and make the movers move. Time, wrapped in a desert blanket, becomes muffled. A lunar heli-clipse spirals inside outside, holding death in her paws, crush what skull to wholeness? A mouse, a mouse of silver coat, has singed the lungs of the elephants who dance in circles under their lost mother, the moon. Stars expand, devouring the black, betraying the void. And as the myriad forms octopi the fountains of misery, love and thermometers break free. Is it cold or burning in the heart of the world; Is it strange, or stranger?

01/03/2020
the darkening skies
must shudder and crack
the darkening limits of love
must break
and the lightning must flow
through the veins
of the glow
the violet glow
of history unchained
and memory unknown
there is a quiet place
in unrequited grief
we must keep our face
streaked with grief
and never forget again
that we love
the lightning of hillsides
and the lightening of hearts
must not stop
the lightning that breaks
our barriers apart

ALLCLOCKWORK

Collaborative writing:  Hazel & Steven Cline

The Universe, her own lost lover, may be seen as machine, as a spiraling victorian machine of goldgear, allclockwork like a song, who descends again this dream. Angelic beings formulated only as a song of pure smell drift inward, licking like a perfumed song. A scented song that melts into black glass, darker than vacuum and more crystalline than volcanic orangutans. The seabird honks slowly, irreversibly, a world into myth. The spiderweb lacework left behind by all this resembles only slightly the forlorn face of Desire and her aging pack-animal, the horned, helical diviser of all manners of play. Patterns of a great mathematical sigh leap forward, and reveal themselves to have been all along a simple jest to amuse the one remembered in Desire’s lair. Speak! Reverse! This, the pelican calls to me, to be unafraid. This last day is sweet. A multitude, an ancient epoch, indwelling therein may, inside those glittering gears, break bread with shadows. But ever, ever, while the lonely lives we lead sits weeping by her mirror, can the Victrola spit out its slugs of light. In the sky above, what! cries the clouds, what is this fracture, this suture called time? Or elsewhere called form? Around us, a tower sheds its skin. Inside us, a tower devours and delights. And this hour is born as if it were the first hour, and the last hour, penetrating deep the ear of the Other. Again and again, but this time, the gears are well worn. This time…our ghosts dance.

RAINBOW DIVING

Collaborative writing:  Hazel & Steven Cline

A rainbow earthbound, dividing itself, disassembling. Red, caught in prairie dog’s embrace, builds his mudhouse around the hourglass cavern entrance. Blue, thoughtform, endodermic emissaries as its always, reshapes rain into purring playful kittens. Red, again, many times, but this time, most sweetly does it redden. Yellow kicks world’s undercarriage in its shins, bumbling slowly, stupidly; of all the violent yellows of the imagination, honey alone is tenderest, a spongecake, a saucy milksop. Ah, but purple! A color now, and then another. One color and many, Solitary and mixed. But all of these are just wet laundry in cardboard, skybleeders without care. Try instead the complexity of the allcolor udder that fills bellybirth calendars with Orange with Orange’s sad and wayward beams. Indeed, full orchards in bloom. Undercurrents undersea, liquidic petunias, Green breaks all this in her witherworn gaze, drowning into pulpworm magnificents. Learn well, then, the mazes of the deeps, or fall eternally, inexorably into farting arabesques! Or else, the obsidian horizons and wellsprings by which the silent tuber sleeps.

A Virtual Post Card to the Clines from Mitchell Pluto

SPIDERWAVES

Collaborative writing:  Hazel & Steven Cline

Sun on my face; worm in my palm. Where is the tree I saw before I was born if not in your heart? A dancer pounds the sand into myriad dynasties of memory. Eruption of geometric solids from a hardening ground. Devastated again and again into life. Without an eclipse of the moon; Without the face I missed and without the soonness of the end. Satisfaction gave way to a pomegranate; and then the dancers in the sky, in the night, in the sand fuse via epilepsy. Shadows silver, and I find I have something to lose. Something, as in hat or muskrat, but in other words there are many things of which we are made of. Mountainous sheets of white sand, signing high notes inside, outside. What is a mountain if not the universe? All I can think of is…whale. All I can think of is whale, which is everything. Everything, blowing sheet metal kisses across aquatic dreamtime streams. Kiss, then the sands, kiss then wind. The river makes love as you fly from the waterfall to the ocean. Spiderwaves crashing in your ears, and wouldn’t you know it? A secret succumb to the drifts.

CATERWAULING

Collaborative writing: Hazel & Steven Cline

Impish sprouts, come now, rejoin the nature choir. Spout from belly, cast skin aside, rejoin the broken ends of hairway screaming. Become erect in thy tendrils, in thy vines, in thy flowering eyelids, eyelips. Scales, weatherworn, may become grey or spotted, may become a disease repeated. Repetitive formlessness may become eyeless. Liked a castaway grail, like a traveler without species or a lichen dripping, frothing from the tips of broken fingers. Inside Castle, the deepness sleeps. The deepness repeats, reaching longingly out through the ribcagebars that hold its will in check. Across swampmoat, a game of chess is played, and yes, a checkmate too. A matter of alligator flesh, weighs your worth on its scales. Firebreather, O firething, O fireeater, bring forth the charred pieces of moleblind contempt, thy master. And lay him here, unbroken on that breakening altar, his feetflesh pollinated by cold wind. But the wind will have none of it. Virgin the wind is and will remain, no matter how many times she is raped. Caterwauling is a way for millipedes to divide and seek out that onebrightmissingthing. O everfree! O everleaving! A soul’s void casts its own shadow, too, my friend. O overbearing openness! Such openness is evisceration. Is evisceration, or crushed and squirming eggplant. A call: come now, worm, come now wind, defend your keep! Atom and Electron, enemies, conspirators, corpuscular in their insane infancy. We shall become nematodes on this day, or we shall expire. Thus is the will of the organ defended. Thus is the desire of the flesh raised again.

PEARLY TRUTH

Collaborative writing: Hazel & Steven Cline

When I bite down, my teeth spread fire. I bite down on tree, I bite down hard…a California, newly blackened. When I bite down on swimming pool? When I bite down on sea? I see the ships come and go in the night. From where do they come and wither do they go again? Where but the watery depths that hold the stars with a cargo such as that they leave at every doorstep and every grave. A ghost hand floating, a hand laid down, in a casket amongst friends. A weaponized hairplane, and a truth? Pearly truth? Pearly, yes, of the falsest kind, unlike the inky liquid left by the octopus my sister stepped on that summer when we were five or six. The luster of a pearl reflects the hungry gaze of the wanderer. But the unreflective black of closed eyes or submersion under the hungry waves shows the empty colors and flashes that call upward from eternity’s open veins…

LADYBUG LEVIATHAN

Collaborative writing: Hazel & Steven Cline

City of Cyber, inside belly of Panda. Inside panda-belly, squirming datanet suckers towards the base of your brain. Down flows the river of nerves, down winding, writhing around one another and the spine of this world. This planet called Ladybug Leviathan, this universe called Old Misery Guts. Once again this universe tells the story of the time when the slimesnake jacked in with his god cord, shivering electrical. And jacked off into the abyssal plains of the sordid, sacred animal brain of the metrosynaptic gecko. Everything teal here, everything teal or sometimes pink. And blood always purple, and blood rerouted through networks of laughter that rumble through those beautiful bowels that wailed and woke the world before worlds. Reprogram this panda, O history-keeper, O kelp-satisfied lizard of night’s mist. Open at last the lid behind the lid. Exsanguinate, expectorate, mark the spot where the psionic piston rotates. What, then, if that rotation should cease? What, then, if all the dark little spots behind your eyes should suddenly come to life?

I started drawing tarot cards as a way to deepen my relationship with and understanding of the characters and archetypes that people them. I went along with the fool on their journey, and together we struggled, died, were reborn, learned about life and ourselves, and started all over again.
Hazel Cline

Ephemerality Art

peculiarmormyrid

Atlanta Surrealist Group

Path of Light, Shadow of a Circle. Visions and Poems by Enrique de Santiago

Art and Poems Written by Enrique de Santiago

The scientific world wonders where the boundary between matter and antimatter begins. That is, where does the surreal begin? For this we must know the secrets expressed in the Emerald Tablet, where the borders of the vibratory spaces are not represented, since they do not exist, since what is denser can become something less dense according to the laws of the variable flows of the vibratory fields. Therefore, everything is a continuum according to what modern physics has shown, a kind of manifested logos where the elusive can be a res perceived according to the capacity of the receiver.

Gears of a quantum ship, acrylic and ink on Fabriano paper, 21 x 28 cm


For the exponential curve of the logarithmic spiral to exist, there must be a logarithm that draws it, but also a mathematical equation that designs an enormous spatial support that contains it and allows it not to disintegrate as a design. We calculate what we see, but the invisible does not enter into that equation. This is how we neglect our astral bodies.

Spectacular blindness, collage s/paper, 30 x 20 cm

FAIR DAYS
In a cold and stony hole
a flower withers hopelessly
while the world rejoices
with the monk’s tricks

Perpendicular imagination looming
behind the divine muscle
that strips of its pelagic destiny
to the one that lies at the foot of its calcareous slab.
With each sun 666 errata arise
in the belly of the lunar word.

Emerged from nocturnal memory
a pristine song
embrace my origin
and illuminate my soul.

Mother earth seeks the perfume of redemption
while the man far in the abyss of him auscultates the night to gain objects
the emptiness of having
is named among the speechless faces
so then the alchemical weddings were prepared without any finding for your eyes
the leaves of the forest fall slowly
the roar of the terrestrial kiss reaches my ears
sound to be ocher dust in solar memory
end of times
and circular principle
the appointed mystery
while children are killed by hunger
to continue making “Barbies”

NUMBER LEVITATION


The ancient voice from the parting of the waters
what is above and what is below
like pale dawn of man
without the primordial exhalation
roam the surface
looking for a high dwelling
to detach from matter
the creative breath of the submerged forest under your name
with their ethereal offspring
like plumage swayed by the wind
in their forgotten northern voices
mother of desire
and of rebellion
clay healing tide
with sporadic winged notes
and tears of bears
that forget the wound in sleep.

my bone wish
penetrate the flesh of the shadows
For a right to endorphins for every citizen

Interdimensional ossuary, Ink on cut paper and acrylic on 300gm fabriano paper

Art and Poems Written by Enrique de Santiago ©

Enrique de Santiago, Born in Santiago, Chile (1961). Visual artist, poet, researcher, essayist, curator and cultural manager. He studied a Bachelor of Art at the University of Chile and at the Institute of Contemporary Art (Chile). Since 1984, he has exhibited in individual and group exhibitions, counting to his credit around more than 100 exhibitions.
He has edited five books: Fragile Transits Under the Spirals in 2012, with La Polla Literaria; Elegía a las Magas and the book essay: El Regreso de las Magas, both with Editorial Varonas. In 2018 he edited La Cúspide Uránica with editorial Xaleshem and Dharma Comunicaciones, and Travel Bitácora with Editorial Opalina Cartonera.
He has participated in various poetry anthologies, both in Chile and abroad. He has collaborated in the newspaper La Nación with articles on new media art, and in magazines such as Derrame, Escaner Cultural and Labios Menores in Chile, Brumes Blondes in Holland, Adamar from Spain, Punto Seguido from Colombia, Sonámbula from Mexico, Agulha de Brazil, Incomunidade de Portugal, Styxus de Rep. Czech, Canibaal de Valencia, Spain, Materika de Costa Rica and other printed and digital publications.

Micro Portals Enrique de Santiago

What were the influences that made you interested in surrealism?

I began with the adventure of painting, a distant day at the beginning of the 80’s. At that time I did not know what Surrealism was, but my painting already contained the emotions coming from the automatism that supplied me with the imaginary of the unknown. Only the desire to stain lived in me so that I could recognize myself in this opportune path that appeared in me to travel, over time I realized that this path would lead me to enter forever into obscurity. Opting for another route, already at this point would be unthinkable, because the fascination produced by the spell of being a sailor of the marvelous, exerts in the spirit, an action that induces more to enter than to withdraw from this way of life.

In those years amid the smoke from the barricades under the extreme times of the dictatorship, the university and my lectern, the first lines that indicated to me that mine was to explore the vastness of the unconscious were succeeding. There were still no readings on Breton, nor Lautréamont, only the unexpected forms emerged instinctively that every day dialogued with my astonished eyes, because perhaps the metaphor came in my DNA, a product of the inheritance of my grandparents born in the shamanic areas of a people called Illapel to the north of Santiago, people linked to the land who, from their toponymy, also tell us the pottery history of this region.
In the late 1980s, I discovered Matta, but I was especially struck by Arshile Gorky’s work. I felt that his painting was very something that I had found intuitively, and it was then that I came to study Surrealism.

What poets informed you the most when you were young, who do you enjoy reading now?

By 1977, when I was 15 years old, my interest in writing verses had been awakened, and I still have those first poetic babbling. Those sheets speak of those attempts to give something different to the word, since when adding two, you will give a different meaning and meaning, more subtle, in short, that would have a broader meaning. I was in high school, and soon after I met friends who showed me Neruda, Enrique Lihn and those books that are shared in youth. There was life under a dictatorship and the first poets were what we know as committed or political writers

Poetry was still present, and my library had been joined by names like Nicolás Guillén, Ernesto Cardenal or Roque Dalton. I wrote in my spare time, and much of that poetry served the cause of the offended and their struggle for liberation for the construction of a new, more just life.
Today, my gaze is more inclined towards writers under the sphere of the marvelous, such as Lautreamont, Enrique Gómez-Correa, Ludwig Zeller, Breton, and various surrealists, including many contemporary ones such as the Argentine Carlos Barbarito, or Raúl Henao from Colombia and Rodrigo Executioner from Chile.

What inspires you to write and what is your relationship to the subconscious process?

Man has always been alone, or feels alone in the face of the tremendous burden imposed by his own life, knowing that he is finite, helpless, fragile in the face of the profound and imperative mission of his biological being that apparently only drives him to survive in a better way. To reset your genetic code. For me, when thinking about the reason for human existence, there was something more than that and I perceived life as the tip of an iceberg of something deeper. This perception was manifesting itself in an incessant hammering of questions that pushed me to seek a similar amount of answers. These appeared as strokes and symbols emerging frantically on the canvas, paper or any other medium that was at hand. The impression produced on this journey in front of the void always concluded with the idea that from the place where the shapes and their colors arose, there must exist something beyond those first images, an infinite dimension different from ours. Over time I realized that this dimension outside, extensive and prolonged, was also lavished inwards, even inside it, a kind of succession of shots that to some extent Breton cites in his myth of “The great transparent ones.”

What I inhabit, in its wide expansion lives and like me, this entity has its own consciousness, that manifestation was also in movement like my paintings, because they imitated that condition, I was interested in what was moving, what appeared, what phenomenological with its arsico-thetic high spirited rhythm, with its secret music, because as the alchemist said “The balance that needs to be reached is not the one that produces immobility, but the one that performs movement. Well, immobility is death and movement is life ”. It follows from these words then that the apparently immobile void is also movement, as it must transform as the forms move in their area, the forms that comprise the void are subjected to those others that occupy said volume and pass to become the reality or surreality of form-ground. This caused me to insist on the search for unknown forms, since these also had their residence in hidden and extensively deep planes, this is how these first years of exploration were given in what I later defined as my stage of Expressionist Surrealism. Abstract, an exercise determined primarily by the violent and swift gestures that construct both the background and the foregrounds.

How do you imagine Chile will be in the future?

I see this place that I inhabit, as a region full of possibilities for the future. It has already been seen that after a long street revolt that lasted for months, the people have wanted to take charge of their destiny. But there is still a long way to go, and in that sense, the different grassroots social groups, which include the surrealists, are working to contribute from each of the visions to build a more just world. The economy presents clear contradictions, a formula given for certain human types and not for a society, so this presents the challenge of eliminating it, but at the same time it must establish a replacement model. The constant increase in drug trafficking, crime – a product of social marginalization – and social stress, make large Latin American cities a powder keg about to explode that requires major surgery, but which one?

Capitalism is exhausted and Marxism is not capable of laying solid rhizomes in society, so it is necessary to look for a political-cultural-social model that is inclusive of this vast diversity, then, a new model is necessary.

The world cries out to find something beyond in this life, and surrealism, as in periods of past crisis, resurfaces as a vision of the inner search that is offered through many ways, as a way of recognizing ourselves as essentiality. So there they are, the dreams – the dreamlike -, the animistic, the shamanic, the art of mediums, the culture of the seers, metaphysics, the ludic, the absurd, and the entire super-reality, more real than reality, and wiser, but hidden so as not to give understanding or reason, or lights of human liberation and which is sponsored by those who deprived everyone of the original knowledge and sophisms of the world, due to their own petty interests.

It is therefore important to recognize all the parties involved in our construction as beings from this part of the world, and it is there where we can take or take the previous teachings, and take possession of the magic that surrounds us, the animism that is practically endemic to these areas of the globe, the shamanic spiritism that holds the keys to the many astral planes, the wisdom of the shamans of the continent, as well as the knowledge of other extinct peoples or already on the brink of their disappearance as ethnic groups, with a unique connection with the cosmos, and that they have somehow survived the era of overwhelming official-scientific culture.

What are your thoughts on the future of surrealism, art, and technology?

From my point of view, the unknown concept was, is and will be present in the concern of the one who has sought and seeks. Nowadays digital media facilitate that search in a certain way, but they also distract the being, so res Amplia (extensive reference) interferes with res cogitans (radical dualism. Brain and consciousness), clouding the way to transcend beyond. This Cartesian measure is what has made the human being lose his way, by not attending to the res profundis (depth and meditation on humanities deepest feelings), that is to say, our inner universe. The latter is the information that I seek, without abandoning or suppressing the exercise of reality (in a partial way), rather I intend to combine or not practice the absolute, this allows to enrich the work, give it more points of view, without fear even to make it abundant, to have the combinatorial elements between the synthetic and the analytical abundance, this cannot harm it, what does limit it is the perspective of the time in which the artist and the viewer are cloistered, as limited or bounded subjects, social and philosophical concepts or ideas.

On the other hand, science and technology have confirmed what was written in the hermetic books and in the visions of those who have entered to navigate the unknown, and in that sense quantum physics opens up a whole universe, or multiverses of possibilities.

Surrealism for me is revolutionary, dynamic, inexhaustible and with infinite possibilities. Another definition would be to interpose realities-unrealities head on, open them up on a point, find a new cognitive relationship, an unknown perception, etc. Due to the abundance of disturbing signs and discouraging elements that make it difficult to maintain good sense in the transition to surreality, I briefly interfere with such and such elements through my work and rescuing the hidden memory, re-presenting the signs and symbols associated with the atavistic that are better conductors towards surreality since they have left more impressions in what I call dimensional worms (paraphrasing Einstein), either due to their abundance of imprints made by previous souls. Every fact, every thought, impulse or gesture is recorded on the other side of the mirror, where it could be printed as part of the landscape of dreams, delirium or death.

Today, however, in a world saturated with images and stimuli, we surrealists have become a group of scattered Essenes, throwing tiny signs in the immense sea of ​​millions of contemporary sophisms.

What kind of beliefs do you have about mutant space, animism, egregore realities collective unconsciousness and science?
What then is surreality in relation to reality?

These and other questions repeated themselves in my thoughts day after day. It was my imagination, mental fantasy, an attempt by consciousness that played to disarm or articulate reality to find new and capricious constructs. How was reality embedded in this extensive map beyond the limits of the understandable or measurable? That is when I began to understand from the studies on quantum physics, that reality was determined by the observer, so it was pertinent to look in another way, but above all, it was necessary to feel different and take the explorations to an abyss more extreme.

And why not? draw a line between the two stages, a kind of silver cord between reality and surreality. Then, in parallel, a project called “The meeting of two worlds” arises around the year 1999. This topic focused on comparing these worlds that were found in the 15th and 16th centuries in America, between the original peoples of our continent and the Christian conquerors. -Europeans, bearers of a culture and worldview completely different from the natives. The indigenous man was a shaman, a being who lived with the magical forces of the universe and the land that he inhabited. A culture that had the condition of living in an everlasting state of connection with the metaphysical forces that surrounded it. That was also a participatory society with its environment, he knew by ancestral transmission that the world was also inhabited by hidden forces and that for him they were not unknown, surreality or part of it was in a certain way reality.

On the contrary, the European man had come to abandon in the twelfth century a large part of his magical-hermetic heritage when the inquisition was established, in addition, the first glimpses of a rationalist doctrine that would later derive in its pseudo positivist and mechanistic truth began to take hold. about the world. Then this encounter had to be reflected on the canvas, rather than as a mere contrast, the communicating areas or zones that carry the forms from one plane to another, the deep perception of the indigenous versus the fixed cognitive condition of the Spanish, should also be perceived. Then the dividing line of both planes appears as mobile, it can retract, expand, or meander depending on my exploratory spirit, where I also become a primary observer, to later be part of the sum of observers.

During those years I asked myself what, how or where is the line that divides reality from surreality drawn? What determines our knowledge, about one field or another? The answer was in the painting that was conjugated in different depths of the unconscious, it was therefore necessary to start from the conscious point. It was necessary to combine reality with surreality, draw this map and see where the levels would differentiate one from the other or how their border lines behaved, at the moment when that surreality was incorporated into my new reality.

There it is, in which a long road begins to open this kind of cube and find the mysteries of life as Matta suggested on some occasion, which later would be a Leitmotiv, a recurrent theme for my work.

What is hidden inside and outside the geometry? What invisible force orders chemical and biological processes? What is that invisible or surreal? What is the universe and what sustains it? A reverse universe?

The painting, the installations, the deep search would generate certain answers.
One day I reflected on all this immense scenario of reality, all designed so that a microscopic link occurs (the fertilization of the ovum) and manifests itself almost imperceptibly in this infinite vault, which is also constantly expanding from the point known as the great explosion and that by which, by many geometric variables, arithmetic and laws of physics, that allow nebulae to be sustained, that give rise to galaxies, which give rise to stars, which in turn when they collapse give origins to White dwarfs or quasars that gravitate in such a way that they absorb other galaxies, being the first to be absorbed, the galaxy itself that contributed to this sun to hold and orbit, in a matter of a second all that indescribable energy and matter is compressed to almost nothing

Where are you going? Is it transferred to a parallel universe? In addition, among all these bodies and events, another structure unfolds with an apparently supporting role of these bodies of measurable mass, the so-called dark matter, which can be the reflection or aura of the first, or the sum of peripheral points of which of each one, a parallel universe is born, universes of our own inverse universe, with a non-concept, or a no-idea, or a non-sensation that places us in a position closer to the concept, as it does not oppose resistance due to interferences, of which I will refer later, since advancing a little, the plastic structure can lead to one or the other another way to penetrate those micro portals that link with the opposite universes. Observe the reverse side of the proton (the antiproton) or the reflected and extended universe of the point where the flora concept ends. But to read these, I must gradually detach myself from the observed concept, its own and recognized meaning, leave the idea that conceives it on our plane to find the idea on the other side of the mirror, an exercise that we could call the philosophy of detachment , or what should I do to find?, the answer seems to be, to possess the non-ubiquity to understand and order the message that flourishes and the rivers that open behind the keys. That operate in this kind of sephirotic columns, these, without distinction, are offered wide to the observer and to the one who searches. It is a spectral relationship, a multi-ubiquity given by the impressions of other previous forms, which are also present in a spectral way.

Obviously in the face of such a reflective task, the everyday being looks for shortcuts in his thinking task, or definitely opts for drowsiness. In his role of thoughtless educating, acquires and ingests the small blurry painless doses that contain the

“I will not perceive beyond my cages and the circuits that interconnect them”.

The man in antiquity creates the myth, since it helps him to understand the phenomenological, but the myth seems to have arisen from an ancient knowledge and does not seem to be a fact so far from reality. For the same reason, I must delve into the myth that underlies the surreal piélagos, the ocean. This information in the form of myth is nothing more than the symbolic way in which the archetypes appear to us, a resource that Carl Jung himself recognized. Hence, Breton saw the importance of generating new myths. Beyond pretending to deceive or falsify, the idea is to enter the archetypal warp that dwells in our unconscious to find the answer that seems similar to the constructive reality in the mythological dawn.

I apply that principle from painting, each work is a search in the surreality of a myth that illuminates us about an unknown essentiality. It appears and determines its own history.

Enrique de Santiago, Born in Santiago, Chile (1961). Visual artist, poet, researcher, essayist, curator and cultural manager. He studied a Bachelor of Art at the University of Chile and at the Institute of Contemporary Art (Chile). Since 1984, he has exhibited in individual and group exhibitions, counting to his credit around more than 100 exhibitions.

He has edited five books: Fragile Transits Under the Spirals in 2012, with La Polla Literaria; Elegía a las Magas and the book essay: El Regreso de las Magas, both with Editorial Varonas. In 2018 he edited La Cúspide Uránica with editorial Xaleshem and Dharma Comunicaciones, and Travel Bitácora with Editorial Opalina Cartonera.

He has participated in various poetry anthologies, both in Chile and abroad. He has collaborated in the newspaper La Nación with articles on new media art, and in magazines such as Derrame, Escaner Cultural and Labios Menores in Chile, Brumes Blondes in Holland, Adamar from Spain, Punto Seguido from Colombia, Sonámbula from Mexico, Agulha de Brazil, Incomunidade de Portugal, Styxus de Rep. Czech, Canibaal de Valencia, Spain, Materika de Costa Rica and other printed and digital publications.


Enrique de Santiago Art work

Metacelestial Hominid Enrique de Santiago

A mockingbird arises from the edge of the foliage
there where cosmic orders rush
and it was when I felt the elongated step of the annelids
in its pristine and minimal hollow in progress
and I saw the infinite curtain where the stars cling
the ones that it costs me now to read
because the street forks
this long avenue of my life
where an hour saves me
while the other carries a tombstone in her hand.
Gregorian chant at burial
liters of paint on my coffin
since I summon the colors
to accompany me in this Dionysian dance
Well, I gave them life
other life
with shadows, with lights
and halftones
just how life really is
and in its surreality with its reverse blade
Well, I invoked them without geodesic dimensions
there they settled their perfume
that swells my soul that unfolds towards my underground kingdom.

Una calandria surge del canto del follaje
allí donde se precipitan las órdenes cósmicas
y fue cuando sentía el paso alargado de los anélidos
en su prístina y mínima oquedad en progreso
y vi el telón infinito donde se aferran los astros
los que me cuesta ahora leer
pues la calle se bifurca
esta larga avenida de mi vida
donde una hora me salva
mientras la otra lleva una lápida en la mano.

Canto gregoriano en el sepelio
litros de pintura sobre mi féretro
ya que convoco a los colores
a acompañarme en esta danza dionisíaca
pues les di la vida,
otra vida
con sombras, con luces
y medias tintas
tal como es la vida en realidad
y en su surrealidad con su hoja inversa
pues los invoqué sin cotas geodésicas
ahí asentaron su perfume
que hincha mi alma que se desdobla hacia mi reino subterráneo.

Enrique de Santiago

Born in Santiago, Chile (1961). Visual artist, poet, researcher, essayist, curator and cultural manager. He studied a Bachelor of Art at the University of Chile and at the Institute of Contemporary Art (Chile).

Since 1984, he has exhibited in individual and group exhibitions, counting to his credit around more than 100 exhibitions.

He has edited five books: Fragile Transits Under the Spirals in 2012, with La Polla Literaria; Elegía a las Magas and the book essay: El Regreso de las Magas, both with Editorial Varonas. In 2018 he edited La Cúspide Uránica with editorial Xaleshem and Dharma Comunicaciones, and Travel Bitácora with Editorial Opalina Cartonera.

He has participated in various poetry anthologies, both in Chile and abroad. He has collaborated in the newspaper La Nación with articles on new media art, and in magazines such as Derrame, Escaner Cultural and Labios Menores in Chile, Brumes Blondes in Holland, Adamar from Spain, Punto Seguido from Colombia, Sonámbula from Mexico, Agulha de Brazil, Incomunidade de Portugal, Styxus de Rep. Czech, Canibaal de Valencia, Spain, Materika de Costa Rica and other printed and digital publications.