“telling a story means tracing your finger through the ashes left by the fires of experience” – alvaro enrigue

I love drawing from the world – almost anything, almost everything – ingesting, sensing, feeling, digesting (transforming, processing) into me to pass it on again.

I love the encounter of humans – frightening, fragile things – the desire and revulsion our fullness brings.

Hope.  Dread.

I hope to be loved and wanted.

I dread the opposite.

As if it were about me.

As if there were a thousand suns

And we were one of them


Time doesn’t work that way.

It’s been called an arrow

but it’s likely not –

likely wrinkled, warped and bent –

just like us

giving life to it.

Love is like this.

Like our memories.


I remember clearly what is incorrect –

if anything’s erected so.

I doubt it,

along with me and you and everything else…


just enough to believe.

5 thoughts on ““telling a story means tracing your finger through the ashes left by the fires of experience” – alvaro enrigue

  1. Very full of corners, crumpled dimensions, a sweetness of strange equation.

    It will be a gibbering, an extinct language, a map of lost continents and drunken drowned pyramids. It will be an hullucination of grey spaces, the ramblings of a senile archbishop, the over-elaborate orchestrations of a genius fop. It will be a universe distracted by its own impossibility, forced to invent a language to replicate some linear order. It will be a flash of poetry flickered across a white noise sceen. It will be a ball bouncing down an empty street. It will be a simple rice bowl explaining everything. It will be radiant dust, dancing.

  2. aubrey

    Time’s travels and travails are certainly extensive and vast, but it is doubtful that it follows the straightness of the arrow. It is indeed ‘wrinkled, warped and bent’, like a scrap of paper on which is written history’s innumerable stories.

"A word is a bridge thrown between myself and an other - a territory shared by both" - M. Bakhtin

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