constantly and endlessly
ripens into new peculiar
Needless to say
it increases weight
often requiring immense
exertion to fit it in a corner
so it does not overshadow
the timid appearance of
It branches out
like a gluttonous tree
in all directions,
wavering disparate aspects
of itself without logic
or internal organization.
A primeval adolescent kiss,
a manure fight in the fields,
a quote from Montaigne
the location of masking tape
in a storage room, all mingle
shamelessly like an orgy
of bacteria in the Petri dish
of my mind.
Language is forced to perform
extreme feats of lucidity
to convey the peculiar manifestations
with which memory
fuddles the intellect.
I imagine a day
when consciousness of the present
will be completely drowned
by the swelling tsunami of memory,
leaving the brittle instant of now
floating like débris
on a flood of lifelong reminiscence.
Starting a new series of paintings in 2013 titled “Streams of Consciousness”. Will be updating this post in the future as new paintings are finished.
Click images for higher resolution
Painting I, Acrylic on Canvas (120x90cm):
Painting II, acrylic on canvas (160x100cm):
Painting III, acrylic on canvas (150x100cm):
Painting IV, acrylic on canvas (160x100cm):
Painting V, acrylic on canvas (160x100cm):
Painting VI, acrylic on canvas:
Painting VII, acrylic on canvas ( 140×160 cm ):
Painting VIII, acrylic on canvas ( 60×120 cm ):
©2013-14 Pablo Saborío
to know nothing.
weave wasted waves
into hairdos of light.
to enormous view
and an amorous
climax of confusion.
I’ve wondered to drink
night from water,
in unabridged absence
without order ,
with rain ribboning
the eclipse of impulse.
the sounds and the signs,
to find a strange design.
to know again.
Spying new round volume,
phenomena impenetrable else
glitters like a city;
in a distance sleepless to remember.
I have never tasted the world.
With skin, I cannot live as a man
in a city simulation.
Before it rains the landscape
sober despite action.
I did not walk across
the surface of awareness
. Pure angst that it is.
Imagine happiness like held thunder.
When something is new
its artificial language displaces the
characteristics of the innovation.
But I’ve prayed for the earth
to dissolve as a drug on
my tongue. And extend
a bridge between truth
and this movement.
The blood stands in the way
like a mural of total redness.
I’ve never tasted the world.
With this skin that can only mirror susurrations.
The Character – A short monologic play
The character’s colleague
A café in Copenhagen. 1pm on a Thursday. Pablo sits
on a vintage sofa next to his wife. Across them sit
a pair of colleagues that discuss, in a profound tone,
the “science of marketing”.
[The Character gets up, apologizes to his colleague for taking up two hours of her time. Begins to put on his coat and scarf on.]
Pablo: [addressing his wife] What a character, that guy.
The Character: What did you just say?
Pablo: [impassive] That you’re quite a character.
The Character: What the hell is the problem with you?
Pablo: What? Me? What are you talking about? What do you know about my world, my conception of the world, my inner drama, my subjective constructs? Do you have any idea what I mean by the word ‘character’ and could you have suspected that I see the world as a stage where we are all characters that pretend to be this or that, and some of us are better at it, and some are portraying so bizarrely absurd roles, that they deserve being pointed out and addressed as “one-of-a-kind characters”? I am conscious that saying out loud, “what a character” may connote a derogatory sense to the word. I am aware that we pretend to be immersed in a kind of social nebula, where things appear the same to all members of the community. But I’m sorry to say, that is not the case, we don’t all share the same monotonous perceptual paradigm and I’ll keep calling you and everybody else characters, yes characters in…
[The Character and colleague exit café]
Pablo: … in the absurd drama of the earth.
I scream out joyfully for
not having aged a day
I am the existence of the memory
and if eternity is the hunter
I’ve been deadmeat
The greatest liberation
came when I dropped
the pretension to happiness.
It was freedom from category,
from hope, from knowledge,
I immediately recognized
that reality has no meaning,
no destination, no description.
All happiness seemed trivial in its
relation to one condition or circumstance.
I preferred truth.
I did not find it in the philosophies, religions
The dawn of despair set in,
total and unequivocal,
but despite the existential ache that ensued,
it brought with its gloomy light the necessary
vision to initiate in truth:
the denial of all former values.
If existence was factually beyond
the reach of words,
it could not be grasped in recorded knowledge;
it could not be explained by the logical sequence
of premises and postulates;
if it had a truth, it needed to be
immediate and self-evident.
Truth cannot be imposed onto reality,
it would distort it otherwise.
Reality is the only truth –
and to discover what it is
I had to drop all attempts to define it…
merely become aware of it
and allow its transmutations
to speak its truth.