Tonight only

Why waited?

No was not an option you’d say

Delusional by poverty

Was not an option for it did not take a place

Wait to destruct another stomach

I am painful,

Painful all over

Writing poems in place of

Political actions

A theory was found but none

Where there won’t be repetitions

Where there won’t be extremes

Broken windows are beautiful

Then a little boy steps on one of them

And break one of his feet

He is now near death

It’s ok you’d say

Illusionary by a majority

A writer said once

The young ones write as if they have

A license to write

02/2018

Fragments_12/2016

It is not about creating something “new” but rather creating a situation to find out what already existed.

Looking at her standing with her pendulous arms to the rhythm of her breathing I had to be in love with her.

Like people who has been waiting for the bus for a long time just to have the bus arriving but packed with people and no space for you.

I like to be in a country where I do not understand every words people are saying. I like to have this space without words and speakings to be able to sense things.

A short bio_Junkies

“Thanks for offering me to stay with you under the bridge, man… but I’m going rooftop with my girl tonight.”

 

All junkies seem to have a certain certainty. They seemed to have certain superiority. I don’t know if the pride comes from a sense of knowing something that the others don’t or a forced necessity from lack of it. Even when they lie, they lie so honestly. It’s like in the house of justice when you see the man in charge going in and out of the room of justice without a single change in their expression whereas their family would cry or shout according to the verdicts of the judge.

 

“He is to be remained in custody until the 25th July.”

 

“Oh my… it’s day after his birthday!”

 

Cracks and browns were reserved for the junkies and junkies were reserved for the foolish, uneducated, nameless crowds. The police told me that it’s dangerous to be here and asked me what I did. I told them that I was a university student. The woman police enlarged her eyes wide open and asked “So what are you doing down here?” But then again it’s not just the police. Even Monic told him off saying, “Why did you bring Cha here?”

 

I remember liking what I used to call “the coke sleep” It’s when I would have trains of images from the real life (in front of me) passing by as an assemblage of strong but unusual images. The images were not telling as to foretelling. I would use these images to have some positive impacts on the reality. We would be in a waste factory – like place with the sounds of electricity just next. I’d say something like “Let’s imagine that we are at the waterfall or at a riverside or something.” because the sounds of electricity to me were like water falling.

 

He would say “Listen to the various languages of stones, walls, shops and dogs then when you don’t hear them anymore, that’s when you write.”

 

He had a body like what I would say Siddhartha; a long and thin but boned body.

How I have started painting.

 

Like other artists, I concentrate all of my vital phenomena when I paint. It seems as if I am doing nothing, thinking nothing. I usually start a painting without making initial outlines or separate rough sketches, so I feel as if I am painting extemporaneously at the moment of painting. Naturally all my paintings come from the experiences of my life and are closely related to every part of my life. I think that life is itself art and that painting is a tool to reveal various traces of life. There are in some of my paintings dreamy descriptions, while imagination can dominate in some parts, and reality can be at work in others. The I of today paint the I of yesterday. In this sense, as I live a life in accordance with the circumstances of the moment, painting can be a diary that I paint instead of writing.

 

다른 작가들도 그런 것처럼 나 역시 그림을 그릴 때면 그 순간에 나의 모든 생명 현상을 집중한다. 그림을 그리는 순간에 나는 마치 아무것도 하지 않고 아무 생각도 하지 않는 듯하다. 나는 보통 밑그림이나 별도의 스케치 없이 바로 그림을 그리기 시작하는데, 그래서인지 내가 그림을 그리는 순간에 즉흥적으로 그리고 있는 듯한 느낌을 갖기도 한다. 하지만 물론 나의 모은 그림은 모두 내 삶의 경험으로부터 나온 것이고 내 삶의 모든 부분과 밀접하게 연관되어 있다. 나는 삶 자체를 예술이라고, 그림은 삶의 여러 흔적을 보여주는 하나의 도구라고 생각한다. 어떤 부분에는 꿈속 같은 묘사가 들어있을 것이고 어느 부분에는 상상이 지배할 수 있으며, 또 어떤 부분에는 현실이 작용하고 있을 것이다. 오늘의 나는 어제의 나를 그리고 있는 것이다. 이런 의미에서 매 순간의 상황에 따라 삶을 살고 있는 나에게 그림은 쓰지 않고 그리는 일기가 될 수도 있겠다고 생각한다.

Poem_2012

Hard to breathe

For different reasons

Muddy water muddy sky

Quinoa for lunch

Potato for dinner

There is no salt on the table

There is no salt in the air

But only Mapacho smokes swirl

There is a stoned Buddha on the floor

People start chanting

Various

Sounds of wind

Sounds of Icaros

Green lines move from left to right

Then, some blues and reds

There is a man

This man follows me

His body is seen

But where is his head?

There is more than one man

They are coming towards me

They have torches in their hands

I want to get up and see

But my body’s immovable

Must be someone up there

I feel it’s staring at me

Then the fear disappears

That’s only after seeing what it was

Or have I chased it off from my own fears?

It is getting cold

Someone is crying

I force myself some cold splashes

They say a tree has 1500 different spirits

Everyone gathers around

We smile to each other

And hold each other’s hands

Everyone’s in need

In need to be here and now

Let’s swim in the river of floating leaves

Able to breathe better

Carbon dioxide is necessary for plants

There is enough in the air

We need oxygen that plants produce

Nu says he was left at the jungle when he was only 15

He had to live next to the tree for 5 years

He had to eat the whole tree

Then he is the tree

Butterflies do not regenerate when broken

But they still fly and fly

Hard to say goodbye

My timidity reflects his

We will meet again

We will meet again

Travel Writing_2011

A French woman walks hand in hand with a Moroccan man in the grand boulevard. Or maybe she is not from France at all but from Morocco. I would not know even after this long time in Morocco. I am in Ifrane and Ifrane confuses me.

I ask the taxi driver:

“Where are you from?

He says:

“Why, of course, from Ifrane. I was born here.”

I say to him:

“How is that possible??”

There is a small male donkey chasing a female donkey with his dingus rising and shining. The lass kick him with her behind legs but the lad rushes to follow her anyway.

I eat my lunch at the park overlooking rows of many neat and clean houses. A group of men in the silvery hair-tail fish suits and hats pass by with same bags. Military? Businessmen? Students?

Ifrane is in between Meknes and Azrou in the Middle Atlas. It is very strange to be here. I think I will pass Azrou and head to Beni Mellal. I finish off my lunch as quickly as possible and get a grand taxi out of this town.

Travel Writing_2012

The days I stayed in Cusco, Peru were all sunny but loud everywhere. Quechua people, indigenous ethnic group of several South American countries, were wearing very colourful clothes. Like their clothing, their works of art were colourful, too. I encountered a lot of paintings done by the local artists, and most of them used primary colours a lot. There were not the grand-type museums and galleries we easily find in any famous city, but I thoroughly enjoyed running into small spaces that were full of paintings and artifacts in the streets of Cusco.

One of the clichéd paintings that many boys were selling in the street was that of Macchu Picchu. Those paintings were all done in the same angle, made exactly same perspective, and the colours were more or less identical too. Furthermore, they always focused on the illusion of man’s profiled face against the mountain peaks behind the ‘lost city of the Incas’

One boy, with crummy folder of sketches and paintings, ready to fall out, approached me while I was sitting on the bench in the square. He said, “I am Picasso.” I replied, “No, no, YO soy Picasso!” Then the boy said without smile, “No, you are Mona Lisa.” I guess Mona Lisa must have been the first name that came to his mind as a woman’s name to do with art? When I told him that I am Picasso too, I simply meant that I paint too, like you do. He realized quickly I was not going to buy his paintings, so he left me and disappeared through the streets of tourists.

The city of Cusco was crowded with tourists. I suspect it may be the same as I am writing this article. They were from all over the world and all of them carried big cameras with them. Some even had several cameras, including the smartphone. I noticed that many people passing by the great monuments or the famous statues, without even looking at them with their own eyes, were busy clicking their cameras. I think that their first viewing of let’s says some old Cathedral in the middle of the main square was done by the guidebook they held in their hands. Their 2nd viewing would be through the lenses of their cameras. Their 3rd viewing would be, ghastly put, when they are tidying up their hard disks 5 years later.

Oh, I forgot. Perhaps they might look at them again while replying to the comments made by their friends back at home who writes “OMG, I envy you so much!” on the Facebook. This may sound a little bit harsh, but I cannot help noticing it. I always feel that the way people are so busy capturing the scenes and monuments through their camera is like the great Empires attempting to occupy as many lands as possible. I, personally, feel, when I take photos, that I am taking part of something from something’s or someone’s soul. The way I try to be careful with camera has nothing to do with any artistic value of what are good angles and what are good views.

Since a close friend of mine suggested that I should become a film director when I was barely 13 years old, I did really start wanting to make films. Just as any film buff would do, I was enthusiastic to see all sorts of cinemas for many years. Talking with other people, at some venues in the cinema, about the film we watched was a great fun. Now I still love watching films, especially the old ones, but I am not as excited as I used to be when I went to the cinema in the past.

The abundance of images tires me immensely. Every day whether we want or not we are faced with some sort of images including moving images everywhere. Even if you don’t watch TV, you’d still see a lot of advertisements as you walk in the street. Eyes have no time to rest in this modern life. In Baudrillardian sense we are losing the grips of ‘reality.’ Of course, there is no ‘moral’ reason why one should not enjoy this brilliant medium of photography and moving images. I only wish that the sacredness, of things/people before our eyes, were considered before yielding the printed/recorded. Now, I think, I should have told that boy in Cusco that he is not Picasso but Alejandro.

Poem_07/2015

There is a small goat

On the field somewhere

It seems he is alone

It seems a first love

It seems nine years have passed

and so the misery begins

Cries of the goat can be heard as laughters of the goat

The goat eats half cynically

With certain boredom of a bourgeois

With certain distance of an artist

With tears of a being on earth

Someone approaches far from the meadows

To release the goat

Or to educate

The wind blows strong

Almost too strong for a small goat

Therefore the goat stays firmly, balancing

With the force of gravity, climbing

With the vigour of capability

With all its commands to each muscle

With a song of influence

At the back of the mountains

The poet sings of the goat

As if to break an engagement

Much pressure’s felt

On the three fingers that touch the pen

On the stomach with worries and doubts

Searching for something that can hold of her

Searching to exist as an extreme necessity

For the meadow, or

To somebody

Or, for the goat that stumbles along with drops of rain

Poem_07/2015

I heard at dawn a bird over my head

Saying that we need to express

Our regrets and sorrows

That memory means to lament

That living means to mourn

Little plant that died from lack of water

In the name of Jeon Tae Il

That we’d count the men died for the Roman Empire

1,000,000 men and my grand-mother

Stories of sacrifices are made to console

Yet the girls and boys died before their teachers

We mourn and we cry

Even to that little something dead in my soul