From the heights above

From the heights above

region of utter (but momentary) silence

one spasm of current, one flick of expectation: 


Thundering fingers of light 


you yearn to reach high

succumb to every celestial impulse

explore paths in those veins of pain

fury and euphoric in blindness

closing in at last to fulfillment

near-annihilation by  its sheer force

forsaken in its brilliance

              as the chariot of doom

                     heralds the advent of change


Then, laugh, laugh in Olympic stride

and close your eyes to the Void inside





Go back to Beyond Language

The day the universe was reborn

Why keep writing in linear and logical fashion?
Writing is the outgrowth of thinking.
It should reflect the features of the human mind, with its desultory and fluctuating discourse.

When the scope of the possible has been exhausted you may turn left where a gigantic mountain separates the desert from the snow. Haven’t you felt all along that lurking behind every monotonous experience an explosive energy awaits to come forth? It is as if a powerful surge of lightning remains dormant in a recondite quarter of our consciousness; behind every yawn of boredom a rapacious thunder of delight seeks an entrance into our deaf lives.
Follow the rain into the heart of the storm. Then you will be ready for the revival of the new, the rediscovery of surprise.  As long as there is room for the unknown, as long as red-headed ants surprise you with wonder and interrupt the tyrannical flow of thoughts — there is hope.
I had begun walking in search of meaning and not far down the road I stumbled across an insurmountable obstacle: mortality. All labors are in vain if they seek permanence. This did not stop me, if I should live in a world where impermanence governs every particle of matter then my actions had to resign any sort of structure, my words had to abandon order. I had to accept the chaos of uncertainty and resume the search. No longer looking for a perennial philosophy but merely for temporary wisdom. For the most profound questions I never looked in books; I was lucky to experience them in other more fundamental objects: in direct contact with the phantasmagorical landscapes of nature or the silent dark of outer space.
Sinking in rocky jaws
Patagonian mountains
Lakes as seas
near heaven’s azure
the universe reborn
million lights at night
transform every thing
     Living in constant disbelief I could but interpret life as total dream, the whole of existence appeared equally inconstant as the contents of any bizarre dream. Yet I am sure that defining the cosmos by the anthropocentric analogy of dream doesn’t come close to what is really happening — reality is much wilder and exuberant than our speculations. Here and there I found evidence to believe that the hardest task is change: inner transformation. We are never the Archimedean unmovable point around which all things change and evolve — we are similarly watery being flowing from one state to another. Allowing things to change within you, permitting things to grow and decay inside was surely difficult. Getting used to this internal impermanence requires great courage. The reward is priceless: the art of transformation had become the real art of living.
     At night things settle down. The pure transparency of water is swallowed by the black of night and slowly above a blurry streak of light convinces us of the utter strangeness of our condition. The Milky Way, our home galaxy, becomes the symbol of our astonishment.  In those prolonged moments of silence things are perceived differently, we are free to just be as rocks are silently existing at the bottom of a blue lake.
Is it so necessary to formulate our wonder and our wishes?
Immobile (time)
Serene (space)
a rock for ages
deep below
in abysmal Zen
Sometimes I refuse to endure the recurrent agony of dreaming my death. In times like those:
Deserts become too desolate
Mountains intimidating monsters
Cities caging of beasts
Oceans too restless
Home insipid
My grave a terrifying
I can only live and die
within my despair
My daemon: despair. My savior: wonder. My meditation: inking a few random words. My sleep: sweet forgetfulness as the rock that rests unperturbed.
I have to ask, is The Search a consequence of despair, or despair a consequence of The Search?




Melancholy towards the self-destructive tendency of all creation is perhaps the most common trait in the images of the poets. There is to be found both frustration and excitement in the disappearing of all things. We become disappointed with the passing away of the things we cherish but there is always the seduction of resurrection urging us to keep our tear-drowned eyes open to discover what novel creation comes forth from destruction. The transit of days is unavoidable yet it appears as if we encourage their dissolution by ignoring the small miracles that constitute the realm of human existence. The chest in which we store all our memories is sadly not buried in the depths of a recondite island where it can be dug up by some daring explorer. Even if it were possible to leave a map to our most intimate experiences with the record of words, the explorer will never rescue the living spring of our lives but only sterile fossils that portray nothing of the effusion of lived experience. He will find only scraps of descriptions and explanations signaling to things and events, never the chest itself with the treasure of life. The chest that contains life as we alone experience is coiled inside our brains and it will perish mercilessly with our own destruction.

We experience a secret we will never get to share.

What sort of material do we put inside this isolated chest? That’s a matter of personal decision. In history we find a hierarchy of values presented by the most clever thinkers and writers. Each pretend to have found the quintessence of life. They speak of knowledge, god, morality (virtue), and love principally as the sources of most profound joy. But how are these things of any value with the awareness of their ultimate death in us? For these things exist only through us: they are born and die in us.

It is then not surprising to see our age waning in the enthusiasm for an ultimate goal in human life. We seek small and individual goals in this disillusioned world. Nothing of ever-lasting duration is conceivable anymore; we paradoxically live for all the things that die. Neglecting the temptation to feel depressed by this fact our perseverance is not yet defeated; and we continue to make our tortuous journey through a reality of constant change.

In a civilization with no universal interpretation of what life is to be, the free-spirited explores the potential of existence with new experiments carried out each single day, unveiling tiny miracles never again to be experienced, as he recites in the hollow confines of his soul:

Insignificant and transient experiences,

Profoundly and joyfully—lived.