Paper windows

Windows, as if another eye. Metaphor of our perceptions. That outer world is no other than our inner world. They are absence and they are presence. Only the space is limited, not our imagination. Not a door nor a wall. A portal? They take us into other worlds. Or is it the world of others?


A visual poetry project. “Kalos” means beauty in greek. Visual poetry, almost an oxymoron. A piece of text is not that different from a drawing, though, or a collage, or a song. Image and word may be equivalent. They are. Classifications may bring trouble and interfere with creation. I let myself be, create, write. I make poetry.

Records of a walk

Art is that thing that takes you to that place where you want to be. Place? What place? Maybe you want to get there. There might be no shapes or colors. Or maybe there are. No rules either. Silence with no void. Also life. You are present. And you want to draw a map. You take notes so you can go back. That map will be a treasure. Not a secret because we can all go get that place, which is one of a kind for each of us. Maybe you need no map to find it. Because it is inside. Your will is enough. And your faith. It will be like a clearing in the woods, where you can find fertile shelter. You´ll find it. You´ll have walked for long or maybe just a second. It feels like victory. And that map will be forever printed in your essence.

About going through

In this our world nothing is real, everything is narrative. What is real? We struggle not to live a world of deceit and distortion, of manipulated concepts. We get everything already digested, like baby food, should we take it without questioning? Digging, scraping, figuring out. Discovering of earlier stories, layers of meaning. Unraveling what seems to be but is not, getting closer to see. Unhide. That which we come upon will be something special. One of a kind for the seeker. Like in poetry, I read a poem, you read another one. Same text, two readers. Daring to let it show, to face what is hidden from us or what we ourselves hide. Going through.

Windows of within

2020. A window. A soul. Plus mine that observes too.
Subtleness of an instant, it comes and then goes.
Leaves a lurking space, that of a vanishing thought.
Comes and then goes. And again. Silence remains.
That resounding silence, the one of questions, the one of imagination.
You go walking and it’s just a moment.
You want to capture that feeling but it slips away.
You resist. Ideas and questions spring up…
You keep moving. A piece of you wanders around, like that breeze.
That blows, goes through but then something stays there.
You hold that which you felt when breathing it in.
That breath is all it takes to create. It blossomed. And it was spring already.