All text & images copyright © 2000 Joseph Robertson, or listed author
[None of the contents of this page may be reproduced or distributed without the expressed, written consent of the author, who retains all rights & privileges.]

She was never sure about how to look at the camera. The writer was filming her. Ascending dynamisms, side view movements and esthetics of a colored dream. Up and down, right to left. Convergences afraid of the friction at her looks, floating in the breathless air... (She’s got a secret)...

- It’s got to be concave.

- Who has told you about the meaning of concavities? What do you know about it?

Perplexed at my question, asks herself about L. Asks herself about OO. Asks herself about K. Add an S. The camera relates his eye to the ‘only’ reality. [I -we- don’t want to know about marxisms]. L stands for lipstick. OO is the opposite opium. K only kiss. S 100% surrealistic.

The convexities of my neurons are the only ones intriguing me, as you fly to exotic beaches, as you fly... (She’s got a secret)... The planes don’t adapt to the form of his fictions.

- In dribs and drabs; it has to be done in dribs and drabs.

[work?!]

If she could only stop looking (reality?) through that window and stick her eyes in the glass...Maybe then the light would reflect into her sights in a penuvian way. And the blurred glassy spots would enlighten her into the certainty of my convex stubbornness. Only then, she could subvert the three letters and keep the K. Imagine two vertical brooks touching both of her cheeks. A thousand and forty three words. Full stop and new chapter. Can take a break and imagine it. Imagine it and now tell me what is the spot like.

- I feel the little window clapping me. 

Still, you are narrowing far to/o far! your esthetics. ‘All things are on fire’. Burning desires of lost steps, awaiting, impatiently, your arrival. You’ve got to give yourself a chance. Costumes and make up do not always walk hand in hand. A single costume can do what the fresh dew to the make up. What the sigh to every comma as I write. Concealed lighting seduces me. Whole wheat seduction of half oranges. Have you ever wondered how do nude oranges feel?

Soundtracks substitute symbols, metaphors if you want to dehumanize your art. Yours has lost it; was lost from the very start. Characters are alive, made of flesh and bones. You are one of them, acting, nevertheless, like a puppet in a vignette. You, you are not half an orange. There must not be any halves. Can’t you see that you are ONE yourself? Missing parts are not allowed. Missing parts can never be found. Missing parts could only lead to your destruction. And you want to -have to!- be yourself.

(I will test her later. She is not ready yet)

Panoramic attitudes deprive you of the possible utopia. Now, bereft of visions, can’t talk. But still you see gardens, clouds and mountains through your window. The gardens stand for genuine; the clouds are sweet biological clocks; the mountains, no more than midget masses. Now agitate and serve.

I will be the tide that will sway your voice. Two flats at a G key. He likes the way her body sings when she walks. The expected yes to your canons. Taking away your talent, t-a-k-i-n-g i-t a-w-a-y. Back to your toilette, talcum powder and the sacrilege of only one red rose. No more walls of shadows, no more antagonic worlds. The Beauty lies in the vertical brooks; only they know about the latent truth that you, only you, endeavored to hide.

  ... ...{((she wants to be an actress))}... ...

Now tell me:

Is the poetic paranoia an acceptable mental state? Mental goes with imperfect. Preterites don’t get along with continuations.

- Only as a mass hysteria. 

‘Cause you do choreographies, and you double, right? Yes you do. She doubles, and in her doublings, she meets the pleasure of finding the Other. Can’t see that the Other is already, has been, inside of her way too long. She believes she is devoting to the One. And points out that One lives outside of her. Struggles trying to cajole me into seeing through her same glass.

Avant-gardes are ruling the natural motives of her life. And she does not know it.

You know I don’t like to smoke. And the nudity of feeling oranges is the only one squeezing out the palate of my senses. Transient fashions die before their ephemeral quality meets its inherence. And you are a new fashion interpreting a subplot. I am from nowhere. So are you. So ARE you. I don’t like to be filmed, and if so, it’d have to be in Penuva, where Beauty hasn’t been exploited yet. Where silences are louder than noises. Where esthetics is wilder than the wind.

Immersed in the fragility of her glittering, thinking about the fringes in the mat. Looks at her own feet as she stands up barefoot. Looks at time trying to visualize its physics.

A secret... She still has a secret. But now she believes... 

ă Cristina Sánchez, Spring 1999