Who am I?

 

An existentialist question answered mostly mundanely to introduce a writer to his readers.

 

There´s a bit of an answer in the subtitle isn’t it? Hi, I’m a writer, that means a soul, a consciousness that expresses itself through language, implies a respect, sometimes an obsession, a kind of awe for words; implies wordsmithing, wordweaving, word shampooing and rinsing, word ruminating and word digesting; implies alchemy, solve and coagula; implies creation, implies appropriation, implies copying, knowingly and unknowing. Not necessarily implies a reader other than myself, unless you are there, I hope you are.

Is that my essence? No, that’s something that I do, that I have been doing at least since I´m 14 years old; I’m over 40 now, and getting older, until I die. What’s my essence? You know it, I´m a soul, as is every living thing, so my essence is God. You don’t believe in such a being? Then you can create an image of what my essence is from the words that I write, and let’s leave essences at that.

My story? My name is Camilo, I was born under an almost full moon on a Wednesday night, I have been in love seven times (of course I remember them all), I have been blessed with a loving family, lost some of it and am still learning to cope with that. I have known heartbreak, and probably the thick of my story is in there, but I would not talk about it now; if you want to know, it will take some time, until you and I had built a relationship, trough words and screens, when you will know me and I won’t know you… or maybe I will, if you comment and write back, I would like that. I believe in love but am a victim of anger, I believe in giving but I´m way too selfish. At my work, that has been blessedly mostly personal for the last few years, many times I try too hard, and then get unmotivated and lazy, probably I get exhausted for straining myself, I don’t know, maybe it’s that. I have very few friends, used to have many, or thought that I had; used to party hard, now I don´t party at all, but still love to celebrate, to bask in joy, gratitude, love and kinship. I used to trust easily, now I treasure my trust and give it sparingly. I believe in freedom, equality, true equality, seeing all as drops of the same ocean, beams of the same divine light; all means all, not just the ones that I like, not only those who act lovingly, but also those that do harm. My ideals are high, but I fail again and again to live up to them, yet I try, I think I really try, If there’s something good I can say about myself is that I try to be honest, all the time, to myself and to others. Maybe it’s not a surprise that it’s easier to be honest to others than to yourself, its as easy to fall into self-deception as it’s difficult to truly know yourself.  

That’s not a story you say? It absolutely is! You are just lacking the anecdotes, I bet you can see the plot, if not, lets spell it out, I´m looking for myself, I´m looking for God, I get lost, then I’m taken to the path, and try again. There’s no more than that really, but let’s give you some details, even if you already know the most important things about me, you probably will feel that you know me better, after all, God is the details, the Devil is in the details, maybe more of the story is also there, and me with them.

I´m a vegetarian that often goes vegan and then eats some cheese, man, cheese… From some months now I’m the main cook of my house, so Nubia, my girlfriend, is both enjoyer and victim of my culinary experiments. We live with Kiba and Wanda, our dear doggies, in an apartment with a little terrace where Bogota’s golden sunsets shine beautifully, a punching bag that we barely use because Wanda doesn’t like (at all) punching sounds, hitting, or generally loud noises. She is the intense, yet adorable earthquake dog, Kiba is all love and fluff, lots of fluff, lots of love. We live in a fifth floor with no elevator and have a view of the park and its huge trees, that dance slowly with the wind, their foliage fluttering in the sun shining like liquid treasure. We ere very much in love, and feel fortunate sharing our lives, joys and fears. I call her Gibo, which means hope in Japanese (I love Japanese culture, and you can bet that manga and anime have a lot to do with it) Her name is Nubia Esperanza, Esperanza means hope in spanish; she liked the nickname and calls me Gibo too, so this is Villa Gibo or Gibo village, population 4.

 

Thats me, pondering, I think…

 

If you caught the word Bogotá in the last paragraph, you may have guessed that we are in Colombia; yes we are Colombian and I have lived most of my life at Bogotá, but the last years my time have been divided between the apartment in the city and the family farm in Subachoque, a little town nearby, were we are fortunate to enjoy a little native forest, a creek, oaks, willows and lots of other trees, a rosemary crop, two little ponds with frogs, a mare called Dulcinea and eight dogs. I can’t tell you how blessed I feel about that, nature is so huge for me, a source of inspiration, revelation, joy and peace. I´m not active enough to say I´m a proper environmentalist but try to live a green live.

Yeah, I have received many blessings, among them a higher education. I’m an historian, have a degree in journalism and an MA in aesthetics and art history, and as I said, have been writing for a while and have some publications under my name, academic, literary, technical, as an editor and as illustrator. The last six years I have been working as a visual artist; studying art history made me understand art better, and realize how much I loved it and how I want to make it, not just enjoy and analyze it, you can check my portfolio here if you want; but lately, for months now, I have been hearing the call of the words louder and louder, so besides having written professionally from time to time, I want to give literature a serious try, not just write for the sake of itself, can’t say copywriting is what I want to do, but this are difficult times and income is getting lower for so many of us, so you never know, but if I can, I want to write fiction, poetry, chronicles about myself and others, and some essays and articles about things I’m passionate about, like art, comics and cinema, so if you are reading this, I’m up to a good start.

 

Strange fruit. One of my glitch artworks

 

 

Self portrait. But you already knew right? 

 

 

Apis rising. If you want to know the lore, process and story of this piece please visit this thread

 

I’m a huge geek, really, enormous, love comic books, fantasy and scy fi with passion, from the pulpy and entertaining to the deep and nurturing. If you wondered how I learned English, it was mostly reading comics, the interaction between image and word is an incredible pedagogical tool and I encourage you to take advantage of it if you are learning a foreign language, comics rule, rock and slap. Having said so, I might throw some advice here and there, but I’m definitely not a life coach of any kind, and don’t want to be one, but I do hope that in my lines you can find some insight, some perspective, and a way to connect with yourself, with your feelings; that is not always enjoyable, but it’s always worthy. I hope that you can learn something about people, places and subjects that you may or may not know, but can get a chance to see them from another vantage point. I hope that my words can become a company that you can enjoy.

Pleased to meet you. Let’s meet again soon.

The way she drew me

 

That´ts not it, this is a self portrait, not the the way she drew that unknown smile

The way she drew me after being together just one night is truly beyond myself. Normally, I can’t recognize my own face, there’s no clear image in my mind of my facial features, just an overall likeness and a vague idea of a gaze; a hieratic, sad, concentrated look, a face that mostly frowns.

 

She captured that face that I look in the mirror but rarely really see. I know the image she drew is more accurate than the mirror, has more reality than the reflection that gazes back at me, the empty stare of someone looking at himself.

 

She saw my smile; the one my face and my unconscious soul feel but I never get to see. It’s beautiful, frustrating and strange to see so undeniably, that someone knows your face better than yourself. Where is the courage, the heart, to see into one’s eyes? Do we dare to see ourselves, our beauty, our unending light? Or do we see our fears, our delusions, ant the image of the image of what we think the others see. Is there anything more alien to us than ourselves? So many times we try not to see because there is nothing more frightening than the person that lives in our own body, that inescapable stranger. The abyss looks at you when you gaze into his depths; but does he dare to look into himself? There’s so much fear and self loath and regret that their black flame blind us, but past that dark sun lies what we really are; that we don’t care to see because we are to afraid or busy,  contented or ashamed to even see our own face.

 

Every so often we are blessed and we can see others, they shine so bright there’ s impossible not to see; then, we love, and we see what they don’t see in themselves; beings so utterly fragile, beautiful, complex and rare that sometimes they can’t  be warmed by they own fire, so lost that stroke by the cold might even want to die, even when their sole existence is reason for others to want to live.

 

It’s hard to love what we cannot feel or see, and we too often feel our pain but not our being. That is loneliness, to isolate yourself from yourself. But sometimes someone can see you and help you see your own smile.

 

That happened years ago. We talked and held and saw our eyes in the light of the fire and the silence of graves.

 

Now sometimes, sometimes, I can see myself.

 

 

 

 

A Thousand kilometers Journey

 

Shedding off “traveler’s pride”.

Originally published at Globetrotters on Medium

Dusk at Anolaima, Colombia. Photo by the author.

 

You probably have heard the advice: enjoy your country as if you are traveling abroad; it’s good advice. The traveler perspective and mindset are unique, some say that while traveling you are your better self, more resourceful, attentive, perceptive, open to experiences and people, tougher, more determined, and most importantly, you are no longer constraining the capacity of amazement and awe that was your natural state as a child: that mindset that allowed you to marvel at a caterpillar, the shapes of the clouds or the color and texture of a pebble on the curb. With time, the impact of people, social practices and habits that scorns the enjoyment of simplicity, the pursue of more complex gratifications, and arguably, the weight of experience and responsibilities, you become dependent of stimuli overload to enjoy your experiences, yet while traveling everything is new, so everything stimulates you.

 

It started quite mundanely. We bought a used car with my girlfriend; a proper 4x4 powerful enough to travel the harsh back-roads of my country, Colombia, whit its amazing landscapes and conditions for adventure off road tripping; a car big enough to travel with our families, our doggies and the bunch of stuff we carry around, but small enough to be versatile in the city and don’t burn gas like a pyromaniac. It wasn’t easy with our limited budget, but after we bought it, with some use we discovered signs that the car was passing oil, so our mechanic recommended us to run it for one thousand kilometers to check if the oil level lowered in that distance.

 

The mandatory official mechanical revision that you need to stay road legal in Colombia was only a few weeks ahead, so we needed to know if there was some damage to do the repairs in time. As you know, something always happens when you plan something, so at the end we had only one week to run the thousand kilometers. Nubia, my girlfriend, has an office job, so it was up to me. I decided to make day trips to avoid paying lodging; with the unique geographical and environmental diversity of Colombia, you get to see widely different landscapes, climates and ways of living in a day’s travel starting from Bogotá, my hometown.

 

I set base at the family farm in Subachoque, a little town an hour away from Bogotá, that allowed me to avoid the city’s traffic and some tolls. Tolls are a pest over here, there are so so many, and they’re not cheap, between 4 and 6 dollars each approximately. Depending on your route you can find six or more tolls in a single day, so, if you are planning to travel Colombia by road, (and you should, as I said, it’s one of the more diverse and beautiful places you can visit, and nothing beats the road for enjoying the landscape and the local culture) keep in mind to have a toll budget. The province in which Bogotá and Subachoque are located is called Cundinamarca, it means land of the condors, a gorgeous place, right were the Andes, the longest continental mountain range in the world, separates in three ranges, which creates deep valleys and climates that go from near snow heights to almost sea level; from very cold to very hot.

 

I chose the destinations of my trips quite haphazardly, just checking google maps during breakfast looking for places of interest. The first day I decided for Zipacón, a very little town not too far, but distant enough to add some digits to the odometer. To get there I had to go through Facatativá (Faca for short), the town I grew in. I was born in Bogotá but lived in Faca from my second week until I was 12 years old. When the guerrilla blackmailed my family and we had to leave the town and the country. We have been there many times since, the public order situation got better in our town after some years and the guerilla disbanded completely in 2016, but every time I go I´m filled with a kind a nostalgia that goes beyond reminiscence of times gone, something that has to do with leaving against your will, in hurry and fear; there’s a sadness to it, a relief of being able to be there, and an anger for what happened and this place no longer being your home. Our family had some difficulties sure, especially my dad, but we did fine after all; for most victims of force displacement it is truly tragic and traumatic, suffering incredible violence and being completely dispossessed. We were part of the few lucky ones, we just had to leave, hide for a while, and restart somewhere else with enough resources to do it.

 

Have always been in love with the life growing in clay thatching. Zipacón. Photo by the author.

 

I just had to pass through Faca, didn’t even stopped there. I went trough Cartagenita, a neighborhood at the outskirts that was a stronghold of the guerrilla when I was a kid. It was beautiful to be in such a humble neighborhood; I remember many streets of my childhood that were just like that, narrow streets that I went by playing with my friends. Welcoming, friendly, with some little adventure in most corners, streets I called home before the guerrilla drove us out of town, before we had a little more of money at the heavy price of inadvertently letting classism slip into our behaviors and minds, not as something that you consciously embrace, but that somehow slithers into your way or living, and you only realize it when you notice that the kind of humble streets that as a child were a playground, when you grew older somehow felt ugly, or even worse, dangerous, and you start avoiding them, first partly, then completely.

 

This new old car and its testing trip gave me a wonderful gift, the opportunity to see the beauty of that neighborhood that I had never visited, its faded brick walls against a green hill with trees at its top; the honesty of a boy dressed in shorts and flip flops walking on the street on a Saturday afternoon without the faintest care of what might be fashionable; the shining smile and joy of a kid, grateful, surprised and relieved when I stopped the car and waited without hurry so he could get the ball that rolled under the car while he was playing soccer with his friends on the street. Such a true smile, the kind that spontaneously takes over your face when you are grateful because something great just happened. Beauty, true beauty, beyond the pleasant arrangements of urbanologists, gardeners and façade designers, just people living with peace and joy the space they are in, just being.

 

As its true in every part of America, or as US citizens like to call it: The Americas, all the Colombian territory is the ancestral home of many Native American nations. The indigenous people of this region are the Muisca, they still live in some small communities, even in Bogotá. As an historian and art historian, one of the things I really like to emphasize is that Native Americans and indigenous peoples worldwide are not something of the past, many are very much alive and share with us this world just as everybody else. The chieftains of the Muisca people of this region were called Zipa, the town crest says that Zipacón means “The weeping of the Zipa” as if it were his refuge in hard times. Whatever the truth is, it’s a lovely little country town, with just a few blocks to go around and old republican architecture living in balance with more recent houses painted in bright colors, embedded peacefully in the green of the mountains that frequently are clothed in mist.

 

Sculpture at Zipacón’s main square. Photo by the author

 

Many years ago, we went there with some friends and ended up impromptu camping around a bonfire with no tents. We just couldn’t leave the place we found, a soft hill completely covered in white daisies. We spent the day and night there, crafting our own rituals and telling our stories; we howled at the moon, a friend danced naked under the night sky, we made magic our own. You might have heard the stories of Spanish conquerors and adventurers looking for El Dorado, the fabled city of gold, or as some other tell it, the place of the fountain of youth. While I was there, resting in the grass surrounded by white flowers, watching the white clouds drift slowly in the blue sky, I had no doubt, that was the treasure of the Zipa, glorious, undying, free for everyone, right there in Zipacón, waiting in plain sight for those that were not engrossed digging for gold.

 

Back then I was 20 years old, I think, now I’m 44, and my recent experience was quite different, poetic in a very dissimilar way; humbling, taking down my “traveler’s pride” which I think it’s a very real thing. When I was 20 I don´t think I thought of it as an actual travel, I was more focused in the mystical aspect of the experience. At the time I was starting to get into Runes and Wiccan practices, so I was more into the relationship with the land and my friends, and the deeper meaning of the nature and landscape we were sharing than into a traveler’s experience. A couple of months ago when I did this last trip, I was impacted by how touristy it was. I had always felt that the tourist practice of traveling far to get to a place, stay there for an hour or so, have a bite, take some pictures and rush to the next destination was missing the whole point of traveling, and avoided doing that all of my travels, trying to use the services of guides and tours as little as I could, setting my own schedule and routes to savor the new places at my frequently slow pace, bidding my time and focusing in whatever I wanted. Well, this time I got off the car, grabbed a bite, took some pictures, and went to the next place in about an hour, yet, it was very meaningful.

 

As many stories this sculpture has another side and the image of itself and the town its in changes greatly with a new perspective. Zipacón. Photo by the author.

 

This was the first time I ever traveled with the odd purpose of accumulating mileage, which is weirdly Zen; the objective of the action is achieved by just doing the action without any additional goal, very different to any work-related trip, when you go to a destination to do something, even if it’s to get a chronicle of the travel itself. This time, the purpose was to travel, not to reach any destination, not to enjoy any experience or place, not to get any other job done, so getting out of the car, having something to eat and taking some pictures was actually an indulgence that I cherished and enjoyed.

 

I had a forcefully sweet dessert with figs and blackberries that took me to the tastes of my childhood and images of the fig tree on our backyard; as for the photos, taking pictures has become a part of my identity, sure, working professionally as a photographer, but beyond that, being one of the main ways that I connect with the environment, interact with it, of being. It rained must of the time and the mist covered frequently the mountains, so my goal was to capture with my camera the smallness and pastoral beauty of the town, its indigenous heritage, its balance with nature, and the cold and humidity of that afternoon without losing its color. A picture says more than a thousand words? Well, let me tell you, it’s a lot easier to convey that in a couple of sentences than taking the right pictures. Oddly, and aptly enough, besides the girls at the dessert shop, the only other person I interacted with was a mute woman that very kindly and somehow intensely helped me park my car in exchange of a tip. Words were not the legacy of that day’s trip, not until now and the writing of these lines.

 

The brisk cold and wetness of the Humid Andean forest near Zipacón. Photo by the author.

 

I descended through the stunning Zipacón -Cachipai road going from the cold mountain landscape to a more tropical and temperate land in less than an hour. I reached Anolaima about an hour before sunset, parked in the town square, and went looking for an arepa (a typical corn cake that you can find in most of Latin America with probably a hundred local variations that you should definitely try) finding to my taste a particularly good one, salty, buttery and with plenty of melted cheese inside. Then I went back to the town square while the day faded and sat beside some kids that were playing in a spot that had the best location for the pictures I wanted to take. Meanwhile their watchful mothers sat nearby, apparently not overly concerned by the tattooed stranger eating an arepa, taking pictures and writing in a journal while their curious kids candidly sat next to him peering into his notebook to find what he was writing about.

 

Some kids played basketball, couples talked intimately, and people gathered in small clusters to talk and eat something while the day turned into night, the golden hour into the blue one. And now I leave you, until I write the next days of that journey; leave you telling you that undoubtedly traveling through some truly awe-inspiring places in Latin America, Europe, the Middle East and Egypt, allowed me to see so much clearer the uniqueness, power and beauty of my country, my homeland, even when I travel as the more touristy of tourists.

 

When the day starts cooling down. Anolaima. Photo by the author.

Night falls, the ball keeps rolling and home calls. Anolaima. Photo by the author

Brick Boxes

 

Brick boxes. illustration by the author

 

We came home late at night, joking and calmly laughing with my girlfriend, when we noticed some policemen in front of my building; I asked the doorman if something had happened.

 

– A neighbor tried to suicide – he said, – ¿Remember Jaime, the long-haired guy that lives on the 19th floor? he shot himself around three – 

 

Despite the doorman being perfectly clear my head couldn’t process the information. Maybe he noticed my confusion and continued the tale, surely told many times that day – He shot himself in the mouth, and the bullet came out here ( he turned his head, showed the trajectory with his finger, marked a point in the left cheekbone and then made a swift shooting gesture with his thumb), he´s better now, in the hospital, his parents had to come from Pamplona…

 

We talked for around five minutes, he asked if I knew the guy, and I said yes, I think I know, the man: early twenties, tall, pale, long black hair, a thin mustache and goatee, an almost achingly timid smile. I saw him walking around the neighborhood so many times; we shared a taste for night walks, when the sounds dim, the lights hit the asphalt with a wet golden glow, the night flowers shower their perfume and the city is yours. 8:00, 10:00 12:00 pm, three or four of the morning... all are perfect hours for a walk. We saw each other many times in the night, but we never said hi, not even shared a nod, yet, he always smiled, that shy, childish smile.

 

The last time I think I saw him he was talking to one of the doormen of the building some late night. I have seen some other neighbors doing that, not just some polite chatter while passing by, but actually visiting the building's lobby, the kind of visit you pay to some family member or to a friend you haven’t seen in a long time, an almost intimate kind of meeting, warm and awkward. The other neighbors I have seen doing that are at least 65 years old, but this guy was barely 25, and you could tell he was happy to have someone to talk to.

 

Every time I saw him I knew that we could have talked, sometimes you just know those things, but I also saw in him some things that kept me from saying hi, a certain kind of fragility, an unrooted idealism that denies reality, a deep sadness, cracking like a glacier just beneath the smile. He reminded me too much of a dear friend who hurt me and disappointed me greatly in the past, (A friend who after months of silence had just called me when I was writing this paragraph).

 

I always knew my neighbor was alone, too alone.

I don´t know if he´s coming back to the building or going to his hometown, If we ever meet again, and I see a scar on his face and shame in his eyes, I don't know if I could not say hi.

 

We all live in our little brick boxes, sometimes we share them with others, love, tire, laugh, and fight within them. Sometimes we live in them too alone, and when we are lucky, the bullet goes through our cheek leaving us scared but breathing.

A dream of evil

Ishtar Gate. Art by the author.

 

Some years ago I had a dream that struck me as one of those more real-than-reality dreams, intense, full of meaning. I was walking in the countryside with a friend, talking and laughing, on some kind of trip. We were walking at the edge of the road on the green grass, the landscape was that of the rural regions of the center of my country.

 

He was walking in front of me, I was concentrating on our talk when a sheep caught my attention.

 

-Hey look, it's the proverbial black sheep!- I said as if it were something funny.

 

 It was an ordinary sheep with ragged, dirty dark gray wool, grazing at the side of the road, for some reason she amused me and I started to talk to her. Then, I realized that at the feet of the sheep began a path in the grass, one of those where the herbs are stomped marking a way. I said goodbye to the sheep, feeling like she was some old friend, and started to walk that little path.The path went off-road along a declining hill, I walked at a good pace, watching the cow turds mining the way. The hill ended and I entered a plain, a country house stood at a small distance, when I was near it the path had faded and a girl stood by the entrance of the house.

 

She was too young, skinny, filthy, her grayish-blue stamped dress was just as dirty as she was. She looked at me with pale brown eyes, part scared, part uninterested. I assumed she lived in the house while noticing she was barefoot with no concern for the cow shit all around.

 

At that time I was 24 or 25 years old I believe. After seeing into her eyes I wanted to fuck her while I told myself that I just wanted to kiss her. So I walked towards her and started to talk softly, my arms went around her and gently put her in the grass. When my face got close to hers I started to see all her freckles and the green of her eyes. She just looked at me with the same intense uncaring gaze. My lust grew and I kissed her.

 

When my lips touched hers I felt a repulsion I had never felt in my life, something crueler, darker than death. Every cell in me choked, dried, and collapsed, I felt the nausea of an intoxicated body that cant trow up, smoke filling my veins, the taste of putrid ash, insanity exploding in my head and every conceivable sickening sensation stroke me at the same time. She was all that life is not.

 

Then I knew that what we call evil is just the absence of love.

 

The fade of the year

 

Companion. art by the author

The year is fading
Two warm hearts broken
Trying to get back the beat
Of what was left of mine
Now it’s whole
Bigger and blacker
With women's sweet blood
With women's sad smiles
 
The year is fading
 
False company gone
True loneliness soars
The fiery strength
The scented soil
 
The year is fading
 
God looked and smiled at me
With His terrible all-loving eyes
I vowed in bliss to his feet
And let my mind force me to forget
 
The year is fading
 
Then I walked the worldly road
Embraced and beheld the great work
Bane the wight, inflamed the hex
Waked the dragon
Merged the true wolf
 
The year is fading
 
The entheogen exhausted
Adrift the shore came
The new lands demanded
Come the inner way
 
The year is fading
 
Now the path is calling
Wanderlust twitches and roars
Bid farewell to Heartland
The cold far north approaches
 
The year is fading
And yet it’s not gone.

Nine Trillion mice

 

 

From light to DNA, Art by the author

 

Nine trillion mice

 

Descending from the sky

 

Gliding, plummeting, walking through the ether

 

As if it were a sunny field

 

With dandelions, yellow flowers and rich seed

 

As if the sun beams were their tiny roads in the tall grass

 

And the clouds soft soil to burrow and nest

 

Getting denser and denser, as the earth pulls to them

 

And takes them apart, no longer immense beings

 

Of warmth and vapor and joy

 

Now getting colder and entering the mysteries of weight

 

As their ions transmute to hairs and the hairs to fur

 

And individuation strikes

 

Making them Nine trillion

 

Nine trillion mice