Year’s End and new works

So as of late, I’ve decided to read several poems by Borges everyday… I have had a great collection of his poems sitting on my self for far to long and it needs justice. This is one poem that really struck me and I have been considering for the last week or two…

Year’s End

Neither the symbolic detail
of a three instead of a two,
nor that rough metaphor
that hails one term dying and another emerging
nor the fulfillment of an astronomical process
muddle and undermine
the high plateau of this night
making us wait
for the twelve irreparable strokes of the bell.
The real cause
is our murky pervasive suspicion
of the enigma of Time,
it is our awe at the miracle
that, though the chances are infinite
and though we are
drops in Heraclitus’ river,
allows something in us to endure,
never moving.

~ Lately I’ve been working in circles trying to define what I am doing as an art student (with hope to one day be a real artist) as in what I am portraying content wise and what drives me to create – something of this poem really struck me while in that chord.

Here is my most recent print edition – it is an edition of 9 done with photo litho plates. I’ve been meaning to start putting my print work up here for a while, so without further ado…

Something In Us Endures
Series of 9
Photo Lithography, 15×17, 2008

Borges and I (+Gabriel Remix)

Assignment: Remix “Borges and I” so that it becomes “your” short work of pseudo- autobiographcal fiction.

My life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, and years ago I tried to free myself of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity. Little by little, I am giving over everything; besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive. Like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; perhaps because what is good belongs to no one. I am quite aware, through perverse custom, that all things long to persist in their being. Perhaps mechanically now, I shall remain to say that ours is a hostile relationship, it is no effort for me to confess I recognize myself less. Falsifying and magnifying things, but the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. Those games belong to Spinoza, but his pages cannot save me. If it is true that I am someone, I walk through the attributes of an actor in a vain way, but not in myself. The laborious strumming from the mythologies to the language and to tradition look at the arch of an entrance hall of an exaggeration. Not even valid pages contrive this literature that justifies me. I live and I shall have to imagine other things; I do not know but go on living to have achieved one thing.