CARLITO DALCEGGIO
Traveling Visions – 1998 - 2003
A.R.T (ART- ROAD -TRIP)
By Carlito Dalceggio- Secret Silk Society
THE ANATOMY OF THE INVISIBLE
MY SOUL FOOD AND SPIRITUAL INSPIRATION
Jean-Michel Basquiat, Yves Klein, my angel of light, all gypsies still in movement, Robert Raushenberg, Cy Twombly, Mexico city, Sphongle, Underworld, le “Temps des Gitans”, Merzouga dunes in Morocco, Goa in India (Morjim), Fernando Velasquez, Istanbul and Mercan Dede, Peter Murphy and Bauhaus, the “Color of Pomagranate” by Paradjanov, Juno reactor, New York city, Lost Art and Jordan Betten, Pablo Picasso, Plaza de Toros, Arabic calligraphy, Gustave Moreau, Liquitex Acra gold, Island of Bali, Victor and Helena, Jim Elliot’s Art studio in Seminyak, the Flaming Lips, Initiatic Car Wash, Circo de Bakuza, the voice of Piki Chappell, Albatros birds, the white sand road in Seminyak, Casa Mongeau with Eli and Stephane, Dyonisos, Ines, Cobra movement, Playa del Carmen before total collapse, Musafir and Maharaja from Rajasthan desert, Murhad Khan Langa, Philippe Tapp, Perry Farrell with or without Jane, Sunami de Luz, Pablo Neruda, Yemaya, the song “Skym” by Underworld, Karel Appel, Alechinsky, Hussein Chalayan, Fred Sathal, Milhoud, les fontaines du Musée Pompidou, chez Michel le roi du Plateau, Birdpen (the music project), Beyond Race (from Burning Man), Emmanuelle Arsan, Alessandro Baricco, Burning Man, Laura Gemser, Arnhem Land artists, Ringolevio and Emmett Grogn, the Diggers, Death in Vegas, “la Llorona”, Bali papa, all geishas, “Mon amie la rose” by Francoise Hardy, Hariprassad Charausia, Rangolis, Free Bamboo Butterfly, Rioja Hotel in Mexico City, Lotus, C. Cavalli, Erotism, Peyotl, Dia de los muertos, Uluwatu temple, Salvador the Mexican poet, Studio Dirty Shanghai abattoir, Organic Fresh Heroes, whirling dervishes and carrousels, Café “la Gloria” in La Condesa, Gulabi Sapera, Ferris wheels, my studio Silver Spoon Temple in New York city, Fernando’s squat in New York city, “La belle histoire” by Claude Lelouch, Abel and Rosa Helena in Paraiso Perdido, Orchids, Laurent-Perrier champagne, Café La Fontaine in Paris, Hubert Reeves, Mr. Ha, C. Castaneda, Huichol Indians, Archives (you all look the same to me), Yemaya, Pinballs in Paris, Barcelona, Antonin Tapies, Mickey at the Moderna Musett in Stockholm, Rio de Janeiro, Bernard de Nonencourt, Guernica, le vol plané des pelicans, Trance, Transylvania soundtrack, Alchemy, Renaissance compositions, La Perle bar, “Riding with Death” by Basquiat, Peter Beard, so many sleepless nights in Paris locked in my studio, building a new rotation system…
New York, spring 2006
CIRCLELISM (la liste du savoir intangible)
CIRCLELISM - the act of making circles
Dear modern bohemian heroes:
Dear romantic rebels, immortals poets and erotic prophets, dear freedom warriors and mystic hunters, dear love makers and peace providers, dear spirits of intuition, dear ancestors and avant-garde, free philosophers and blind sailors, dear moments of abandon, dear fossils of light, dear whirling dervishes, dear amusement parks and free runners, dear constellation key and forest children, dear natural machines from the sun, hidden moments of eternity, dear superman and Icarus, dear half moon seekers and eclipse makers, dear solitary heroes and distance reducers, dear life providers, dear visionary dreamers, dear vision seekers, dear untouchable gypsies, dear lovers and dear revolutionary consciousness, dear existence reminders, dear infinite seashell riders.
Dear secret silk society…
A pure and untouchable place to exist, daily levitation.
“How does (or should) one make art? Through imitation or invention?”
Imaginary country:
I am sitting in an imaginary garden, alone in a nest of fire, sitting on golden eggs, animal whispers. I give birth to different dreams.
We control the landscape: we play with the tides, many sunsets, several moons, amplification of reality (a key to existence).
Art is the antidote.
I will follow a non existing calendar (I will live by the sea, with no one around me).
Morocco, 1998
I walk like a fakir on fire - digital sunset - digital yoga - electronic moonrise- initiation of the muse - above and awake - automatic morning manifestation - art road trip - bohemian hermaphrodite - capture moonlight - revolutionary consciousness - erase - touch - erase - touch - pagoda on fire - bullfights in my bed - seeds of manifestation - fossils of eggs - naked trees - a path made of flowers - free kite - free theater - free art - the great invocation - Guernica hidden - Eroika erotica - media on fire - eco egging.
Paris, 4 octobre 2005
LETTRE À UNE ÉTOILE
Le matin des magiciens: à la recherche de cette connaissance salvatrice - puissante révélation - une passion silencieuse - grâce violente - totémique. Un matin brumeux où le temps et les chasseurs de perles parisiens sont seuls, face à l’ampleur de leur quête - malgré les directions qui se succèdent et se bousculent - les symboles qui s’accouplent et se chevauchent. Ne perdons pas de vue l’ampleur de notre quête, la pureté de notre mission. Délaissons les futiles plaisirs quotidiens, la déroute épicurienne chronique. Gardons la décadence et l’excès comme outils de découverte, comme antidote à l’immobilité, et non comme poison des mouvements. Gardons-nous libres et sans limites, ivres d’action et de promiscuité. Gardons-nous de sacrifier quelques moments de sublime et mystique création pour quelques plaisirs éphémères, les tentations perverses sans lumière. Cherchons et soyons impeccables, ouverts et fragiles à tous les signes, lumineux comme un œuf, accumulons les circonstances, traçons une route de soie et de lumière, sans relâche, sans repos. Refusons la tentation de l’assouvissement. Explorons l’invisible. Intouchable mais tactile, genèses secrètes. Glissons-nous entre les rayons du soleil et élevons-nous. Délaissons cette réalité, doux refuge, risquons nos vies, et bien plus encore, au nom de l’art.
- Café La Fontaine
I transform time
INTO A CITY
A GOLDMINE
Barcelona, 2004
I walk bare feet – not to feel earth.
I have lost my shoes somewhere in between two bars. It is full night - little perfect rain. Post-romantic couples hunt for a destination. Everybody looks for the perfect place to be, some angels come on earth, just to re-experience the spirit of a vibrant night. Some old men sell tortillas with meat but nobody feels really hungry now. They are looking for thrills, Ferris wheels, golden skin deserts: a place to celebrate. Come on, the night is short. Music comes out from different windows. In a hurry, white pearls are rolling on the dirty sidewalk: a broken necklace: a woman is free: INSTANT MUSE.
“Qu’est-ce qu’un rite?“ dit le petit prince.”
“C’est quelque chose qui est trop oublié. C’est ce qui fait qu’un jour est différent des autres jour, une heure des autres heures.”
Mexico, 2002
In Puebla, after two days of intense painting at the Popocatepelt volcano, I sit on a wooden chair at the Zocalo, the main place in front of the giant fountain, at seven o’clock in the morning. I stayed there, without moving until night fell completely, around six thirty, with only one bottle of water and ten mandarin oranges. For that eleven hours period, I never turned my eyes away from the big fountain. I stared at the stream of water, motionless. I saw all the birds coming to the temple of life, so much water, so much movement, so many dances of the rays of light in the air, so many constant changes (the water is an ever changing sculpture), so many children coming to me. But I stayed in silence, totally removed from reality, in a total trance, removing slowly all the voices in my head, erasing all images, to finally become only a filter. It takes deep dedication, total abandon to become, at a certain point, the fountain itself.
(The last week of December, I spent five hours everyday at the fountain, sketching the invisible: the movement of the water: the tower of beauty).
Mexico, DF
A Church with no truth: I am fading like a ghost at sunrise, powerless but so strong, I need to give you a place where you can plant your seeds, Copal smoke, king of snake comes to me, really slowly like a whisper, fire in our hands. It asks: is there a pattern in this universe?
I paint with my fingers: all brushes have disappeared: broken skeletons. I paint with my instincts, all ideas have faded: spiral times. We went to the volcano in the middle of the night, to experience death and immortality. “Why should we hunt for longevity?” Asked
the young Shaman. Why should we be afraid to disappear? Roads end, cars become snakes, volatile gasoline, phenomenal sunrise. On the road we have found a real home, a place to stay in movement, infinity loops. On the road, I gave myself for free, totally devoted to instant incantations, porcelain love, St-Elmo’s fires, moments of abandon. 24 minutes is all we really have, 24 minutes is all we really need to change everything.
24 MINUTES TO SAVE THE WORLD.
If we can't call the road to freedom "Freedom" itself, then there is no freedom and all this is just an illusion.
Je peins maintenant comme Sayari, la danseuse Sapera : tribu des charmeurs de cobras du Rajasthan. Je porte dans ma main la danse du serpent. Je porte en moi l’apocalypse.
IL EXISTE SUR CETTE PLANÈTE, UNE ÎLE QUE J’AI INVENTÉE. ELLE SE SITUE DANS UN COIN SECRET DE L’ÂME DE TOUS CEUX QUI REFUSENT DE CROIRE À LA RÉALITÉ ET DE SE LAISSER BERCER SANS RÉSISTER PAR LA ROUE DU DESTIN (A SWITCH OF CONSCIOUSNESS).
INFINITE DESERT RIDERS:
Nos visions sont embrouillées et nos corps engourdis. Mes mains sont moites et tremblent. Tout est devenu si irréel, si loin. Des gouttes de vin perlent sur la peau de Pénélope, révélant sur sa cheville une danse onirique de deux femelles buddha, avec des oiseaux sur la tête et des petits cœurs dans les mains.
Voices from America
Voices from angels
Voices to America
Même les feux qu’ils allument sur les dunes deviennent des étoiles filantes, lointaines et lentes. Des ombres, des fossiles de lumière. Je suis le rythme du vent imaginaire que j’ai crée. Je souris, devant l’ampleur de l’univers. Deux milles plumes de paon caressent ma peau. Je me penche sur son corps pour faire apparaître l’esprit du désert. Sur les parois de son esprit surgit un grand dragon érotique. Toutes les étoiles tombent et se mêlent aux lucioles paresseuses. Mes pieds, dans le sable, s’accouplent avec les scorpions. Le poison devient délice. Je suce son sang, je la pénètre doucement, en tenant son cou, en murmurant. Je redonne naissance à son âme. Je voyage aux limites du plaisir.
Il y a dans l’excès, une certaine forme de pureté.
Salvador devient funambule sur un fil d’inconscience qu’il a tissé dans le désert. Le soleil hésite sur la ligne de la dune, faisant fuir tous les petits démons qui se réfugient sous les rochers. Les scorpions, vidés de venin, saisissent l’aube avec calme et libération. Quelques vipères tracent dans le sable des signes de l’infini et de tout petits oiseaux viennent nous caresser les pieds. Nous pouvons mourir maintenant.
Mexico, Michoacan, Playa azul
Hier, j’ai recommencé mes expériences de contrôle absolu de la vision. Jamais encore, je ne m’étais rendu aussi loin. Premièrement, un peu avant le coucher du soleil, totalement immobile sur la plage, j’ai séparé la ligne d’horizon, entre le ciel et l’océan. J’y ai fait apparaître une ligne de lumière intense, sans me brouiller les yeux, dans un silence total. J’ai maintenu cette vision pendant un temps considérable, jusqu’à ce que le ciel s’enflamme. Je n’ai pourtant pas encore réussi à me projeter à l’intérieur de la ligne lumineuse.
Un shaman mexicain rencontré il y a quelques années m’avait dit:
“Lorsque tu maintiens une vision assez longtemps, tu accumules assez de pouvoir personnel pour pouvoir te plonger en elle.”
J’ai atteint le niveau de concentration nécessaire à une réelle manipulation de la lumière pour transformer la réalité. Lorsque le soleil est devenu rouge écarlate, je l’ai premièrement dédoublé, sans plisser les yeux. Deux soleils sur un axe vertical s’éloignaient puis se rapprochaient, jusqu’à se superposer légèrement. D’un mouvement lent et lascif, les soleils ont dansé sous mes yeux. J’ai vainement tenté de maintenir cette vision, tout en séparant le ciel et l’océan.
D’un coup rapide, les deux soleils se sont rejoints pour s’emboîter parfaitement. Le ciel est redevenu celui de tous les humains.
J’étais alors fasciné par notre capacité a modifier la réalité et de voyager sur d’autres niveaux de la perception, pour rejoindre, finalement, une réalité bien plus réelle que celle dans laquelle nous vivons.
Assoiffé de merveilles, j’ai alors fixé attentivement le soleil pendant plusieurs minutes, sans bouger. Puis, rapidement, j’ai cligné des yeux sept fois en déplaçant légèrement mon axe de vision. Alors, dans un ciel en flammes, sept soleils violets sont apparus, ondulant lubriquement dans la soie céleste.
Lorsque ma vision s’adoucissait, je clignais un coup des yeux et la vision revenait, aussi intense. Sept doux soleils obéissaient à ma volonté et se fondaient aux mouvements de mon esprit. Ensuite, totalement pris par cette transe profonde, j’ai réussi à multiplier les sept soleils pour former une mandala géante et lumineuse, valsant dans le ciel comme un cygne en amour. La mandala était formée de plusieurs dizaines de cercles violets.
Lorsque j’ai réintégré ce monde, l’obscurité m’entourait comme un voile mystérieux. Il ne restait plus à l’horizon qu’un mince filet rouge cramoisi, fossile de lumière, trace d’existence, signe tangible que le soleil était venu sur la terre, comme depuis toujours, pour enseigner aux hommes que ce jour était le dernier.
Ce jour auquel nous devons nous dédier complètement.
La beauté est si facilement accessible sur notre planète. Il suffit d’augmenter notre rythme par rapport aux autres humains ou alors de le réduire considérablement. Une vitesse différente nous pousse à tout considérer sous un angle différent. Même les choses que nous croyons connaître, même celles du quotidien prennent alors une dimension mystique.
Mexico, Playa Azul
Dimanche 10 décembre 1999
Détaché de tout appétit, je peins poussé par la simple mais profonde passion de créer, sans but concret, sans espoir, sans mémoire.
Je peins sans me soucier de mon corps et de mon esprit, sans confort, sans vraiment respirer, un atelier entouré de palmiers, avec pour seule lumière la lune, nue et fière, avec comme seule amante une sublime mexicaine secrète.
Une rencontre sacrée, l’océan, une transe perpétuelle, les portes de l’infini.
Je ne fuirais plus le silence (migrating birds always come back to the same point).
De grandes voiles blanches en soie transformeront la plage en voilier infini.
Ici enfin, peindre reprend son sens profond: une quête de l’absolu, une reconstruction rituelle du monde qui nous entoure et celui qui est en nous. Dénudé de toute tentation, de tout désir de gloire, de richesse et de décadence. Je me penche sur mon canevas comme si c’était une femme à la peau lisse et au regard perçant. Peindre c’est manipuler, s’approprier toutes les forces pour les transformer. Chaque coup de pinceau est une munition tirée dans le ciel, une trace de lumière libre, perdue, un chant d’amour, un sentier sacré, un cri de grâce et de rage.
Bali, Uluwatu temple
15 Décembre 1999
Une princesse aux yeux d’or me prépare un festin. Je regarde les vagues se briser sur les rochers, en sirotant un thé au citron. Bali me transperce comme la munition d’un revolver. Je deviens vulnérable, mon immortalité s’estompe au profit d’une douceur abstraite, une fragilité délicieuse. Il y a trois jours, j’étais encore au Mexique, nu et perdu.
“Il est ici” me dit-elle “le secret de la vie, au creux de notre cœur.”
Mes larmes sèchent au vent. Je suis si sensible à la beauté que mes chairs tremblent. Ma vie n’a plus aucune valeur devant cette immensité, je disparais. Je remonte plusieurs vies, jusqu’à l’innocence absolue, jusqu’au centre du coquillage.
Une vieille femme m’offre ses doigts. Une fontaine d’or jaillit de sa paume, destin fabuleux. Ma vie est une procession.
Je reprends la route, je vais n’importe où, au bout du monde, au bout de mes doigts, au bout de la route de sable. À la porte d’un temple invisible, j’arrête ma moto. Je plante dans le sable sept tiges de bambou en ligne. À la cime de chacun, j’attache une petite plume. Sur chacun des bambous, je peins un mot…
New York
February 25, 2000
Goldmines in my head - little dirty road leading to the sacred volcano- I remember- I dive into my memories because, here, it is so empty. Big vision - totally out of control- all the lines of my hand are now merging to one point - one ray of light, so bright that I still see it when I close my eyes. All America is condensed into my Chinese soup - a secret alphabet.
I told them: “Let’s be hunters, let’s search for new truths.”
My agony becomes delicious. I become immortal - toothless - tasting for the first time the fruits of the invisible.
(I drink in useless and nameless bars with dead skeletons)
I have always preferred the silent of the desert to any other silence.
-Be my snake charmer, my late night pornographic stripper.
I walk alone in the cold of the night, homeless, hands full of paint, my blood full of whisky. I hunt.
There is a constant noise, the vibrations of my heart. My semen on your lips, into the Tokyo sky. I write in white on the walls:
-Possession is death.
Then, I paint on the street of Chelsea a giant white circle, a new house of freedom for the unknown warriors. I generate new whispers, cobra dances.
I sing an abstract song, for all the gypsies around the world still in motion.
I sing loud: I want my lovely gypsies to hear me.
The golden birds are carrying my voice to the other side of the world.
-Piano bar
I resurrect Picasso for a few minutes, to drink with me, and to draw with him. I draw a carnival: bodies making love in unknown positions. He draws a pornographic corrida: a fast bull.
The sun refuses to rise, so that this night to remain forever. Several cappuccinos. I am prisoner of the juke box, choosing the perfect soundtrack for my solitude, the whispers of decadence. I wish I could smoke a cigarette or something. I wish I could be a lady, my own enemy. I wish I can charm myself in the mirror.
Lady-boy, where are you?
“A true seeker could not accept any teachings, not if he sincerely wished to find something.”
Camel bones 03, road light
26 Juillet 2001
Romantic hallucinations: (decadence and symbolism)
Je sais maintenant que la réalité me glisse entre les doigts: je conduis une bagnole qui n’est plus à moi. (WE BELONG NO LONGER TO THE CAR WE DRIVE).
Qu’elle rigole jusqu au fond de la nuit, qu’elle enflamme le ciel, et qu’elle charme les vipères. Qu’elle crie sa jouissance au ciel, aux ténèbres, aux limites du réel, dorées de lumières. Elle porte tous les noms, elle contient tout l’univers. Sunami de luz. Elle regarde par la fenêtre un passé qui n’existe pas, un passé qu’elle n’a pas vécu.
“Gardons-nous de disparaître entre ses mains. Mais sa noirceur nous illumine.”
Les jardins de l’esprit. Mais peuvent-ils exister sans nous. Sommes-nous essentiels à la beauté Est-ce que la beauté existe sans les yeux qui se posent sur elle?
Pénélope et Salvador dorment collés l’un sur l’autre, à l’abri. Je les regarde quelques minutes, silencieux. Je prends quelques photos sans film, non pas pour prolonger le présent, plutôt pour boire sur leur peaux les rayons dorés de lumière.
Is there a destination, a day of total penetration?
A drugstore without clients. Today, everybody is part of a giant conspiracy, building walls everywhere. Freedom might be more fluid than what they have thought. If we can’t call the road to freedom, “Freedom” itself, than there is no freedom and all this is just an illusion. After the sounds of all cars and all birds silence falls, but silence is not empty, it is the mystic union of all sounds at the same moment.
List no.7
1. Silk screen palm tree
2. Digital propaganda
3. Clean Garden of Eden
4. Ride the snake
5. Create a new position
6. Buy red wine
7. Destiny filter
List no.50
1. Make
2. Red shoes
3. Tunnel of blue light
4. Fast erotism
5. Theory
6. 3 goldfish
7. Walk
“La liberté ne peut pas être un placement. La liberté
est une aventure sans fin, au cours de laquelle nous
risquons nos vies et bien plus encore, pour quelques
moments de quelque chose au-delà des mots, au-delà des
pensées, au-delà des sensations.”
On my way to Miami, October 2002
(Art Basel revolution plan)
Airplane spleen:
All traces left behind – hands washed – landing here – with no other intentions to transform myself and discover new roads – I come with power and magic – I come with visions and purity – I come to trace lines on the sand – I come virgin and free – with no past – to reinvent a language I know – I come to reveal, a new way a new alphabet – to travel on a new day – ready to be transformed and to be touched – I come with bullets and colors – I come with energy and secrets – I come to tell the ocean it is not alone – I come to charm and to touch – I come to change my destiny and the world surrounding me – I come to feel free – I come because time is running out – I come to draw, to cut landscapes and red lips – I come with numbers but no patterns – I come with hundreds of brushes – I come with sand between my toes – I come to paint everything – I come to write and reveal – I come to destroy and to rise – I come to play and fight – this is our new playground – this is our new destination – our new liberation – this is the land we have chosen – the land of the sun – I do not come to receive- I come to give and take – I come, even if I am invisible.
Art deco district, 3:00 am
Impossible concentration – alone in my room – with echoes from crocodiles running along the boulevard – neon lights in apocalyptic patterns – I can't find music or peace or silence – so I play the piano with my brushes – I play songs of love and loneliness – my fingers are becoming ballerinas from Paris. I resurrect Jim Morrison and we dance on Lincoln road, with Cuban ladies and whisky. We discuss about the impossible future of art and the final decline of the American avant-garde. We ride the snake, to the lake. I paint invisible paintings with fire.
Letter to Angel no. 7:
Come today – to the little café – where we will write all things we couldn't say – we will stay all day – make a ceremony with speed and power – we will share our soul – try to breathe without noise – we will discuss about virginity and fine art – we will reduce the distance – seek for a new audience – people with wings and tongues and time – we will wait for the right moment to scream – we will dive.
Come today - to the little café – we will hunt for another way – create a new country – erase all destiny – paint a new flag.
Come today - to the little café.
London – another pub (Soho)
Friday after sunset, Jan 2003
The Silk Society Diary:
Blind photograph – circles – feeding our desires – silk society – rise doors wide open – tell me stories – milk – my favorite color is dust pink – I walk –
hotel motel – holy day inn – I look – I stare at me –
Jamaican dead in tears – sidewalk illumination – I write – a land – a land made of movement – to reduce distance between us – fire –
big book – London rides – we open – we close – our eyes. Color visions – we are here to create a new color – search for gold – on streets – inside – revealing our fragility – another moment – I touch silk – time fades – she walks with red shoes – she walks with me –
on broken glass – I stare at people – fragile and naked – wrapped in silk –
remember our skin like silk – gold on the streets – I need you – I disappear underground – in a metal snake – I hunt for you – your whispers are prophecies – erasing birds –
chants from Africa – a little fear – appears like a volcano – we are falling in love – we are free – all here. Connected like dots – In London – total glory – secret orgy.
Bacchanale délicieuse:
I open my black book and I make a drawing of a dancing skeleton, with a bird on his head, just to capture the emotion of the moment. My black books are always with me, abstract diaries of my fast visions: non linear moments of levitation, free encyclopedias to build and set the rules for a new world, a new level of consciousness.
(You will never see me walking without one black book filled with drawings. Sometimes I feel I provoke things in my life just to inspire me to fill more pages, to create a new tragedy, a new euphoria).
New York, Bongo bar on 10th avenue
6 April 2001
Confusion sleeping:
In a garden – I felt empty – all tribes are leaving without me – a carpet – a nice fountain – a constant refusal – now that the fireworks are over – now that time reduces again its speed.
School with my lovely gypsies from Rajasthan:
Out = camel
Ati = elephant
Sap = cobra
Moor = peacock
Fwoul = flower
Dora = desert
I paint with words into the sand. I paint with words because there are no more images.
Bali, Indonésie, 2000
Peindre, c'est tout ce que j'ai: ce pouvoir magique de matérialiser mes visions les plus sincères, sans intermédiaires, sans compromis, sans me préoccuper du futur et de l'homme. Peindre, c'est disparaître, c'est se perdre dans notre essence, c'est risquer tout. C'est voyager au bout de soi-même sans savoir si on va pouvoir revenir. C'est sacrifier l'oxygène par se remplir d'hélium.
C'est tout laisser derrière pour prendre ce qu'il y a devant.
Quelques tours du monde, mes traces dans les sables du Sonora, des anges sans ailes que j'ai peint sur le bateau d’Alexandro, un vieux pêcheur de Veracruz qui n'a pas attrapé un seul poisson depuis le dernier solstice. La route des vipères que j'ai suivie dans les rizières en Indonésie. J'ai traqué l'éternité, avec pour seules armes, mes pinceaux, mes visions, et ma soif obsessive de l’absolu.
Nous avons peint sur les rochers de Candidasa de grands symboles blancs, pour amadouer les dieux de la mémoire. Pour oublier tout. Pour vivre dans ce moment sacré.
Nous avons charmé les vaches sacrées, sur la route de Tanah-Lot, crémation céleste, où j'ai peint le corps d'une vierge centenaire. Nous avons porté une icône de Ganesh, jusqu'à la rivière, cérémonie douteuse du millénaire sur l'océan, avec la tribu New-yorkaise - où j'ai peint la peau dorée d'une top model, entouré d'un orchestre gamelan. Ils ont déposé des icônes quotidiennement devant chacun de mes tableaux, alors que l'océan crachait son écume sur mes pieds. Aventures secrètes au milieu de la nuit avec les princesses de l'espoir de Djakarta. J'ai peint un petit avion avec lequel nous avons piétiné Singapour, ou nous avons charmé les forces de l’excès.
I am so tired of wearing shoes
I am so tired of my anatomy
I am so tired of all palm readers
I just want to ride, unknown and naked.
Mexico, Playa Paraiso,
December 30, 2001
Today I lost, in the fury of the seventh giant wave, my mystic necklace, a self-made talisman assembled out of all broken necklaces from several journeys around the world: India – Thailand – Singapore – Bali – New York. Red coral – Tibetan miniature prayer wheels – volcano rock – seashells – stainless steel – silver – bamboo and turquoise – sandalwood. I have assembled it in the desert – it is returning today to Mother Ocean – like an offering of everything I have been. It is a sign – I am ready to leave all my memories and rise as a new child. And I leave my protection circle.
I am becoming fragile again.
An Ocean Poem to Sunami de Luz:
Burn lady burn – into the sun into my arms
Get along the riders – footsteps in circles
Rise lady rise – into the moon into my eyes
Give to me – what I need – a nest of flesh
Give to me – everything I can't touch
I give you everything I am – everything I want
I recognize my ancestors in your whispers
I recognize my boat in your bed – you know
I will never be back – not totally.
They took me around the fire for the sacrifice
They asked me to release a part of me, to
Become totally free. They have blinded my eyes
And burned my skin – they made me touch fear
Burning copal all around – a dress made of smoke
They made me stare at the ocean for seven days
They made me travel into silence for seven days
They made me forget who I am for seven days
They made me rewrite the creation of the world
They haven't given me any mission
But they gave me the power to pursue mine
Burn lady burn into my ring of fire
Rise lady rise, I will take you higher. ™ ©
(Routine is when you are not conscious anymore of repeating the same action).
I have traveled from sunrise to sunset, sensitive to every transformation of light, every wave. I have traveled from one side to the other, releasing without protection all visions and memories to totally free myself. I am fascinated by beauty: a mantra in the sky that never repeats itself. Precious time where my soul rides really fast toward liberation – bansuri flute and tabla – feeling far but so connected to this moment, like ancestors returning to modern times – we hold a secret – the secret of our own revelation. We hold a fire – our sacred fire. We hold a power – the power to make of our life a sacred journey into beauty, knowledge and freedom.
Is this a turning point in our life, a place where all elements gather with fury in a nuptial dance? Is it the time to leave everything behind and build a new temple? At a certain point, do we have to abandon things to go further?
Mexico City, at sunset
I sat alone at the bar La Opera, the old mariachi orchestra, dressed in a Mexican tuxedo. They sang for me "La Llorona", an old romantic song of love. The cello was vibrating in my veins. I was there only to be with you, to dance in your soul and travel under your skin. Your existence made this moment mystical. Without you, it would have been just another lonely night. You feed my solitude with rays of light, but I run away when you come too close.
So much rain, café Tacuba, a mariachi band, so warm and sad, play around me, all dressed in black, smiling tambourine, giant guitar, and fast banjo. Seven days without eroticism. I will chase the pagodas.
I found three leaders of my night, with whom I will travel until the ocean.
1. Jim Morrisson
2. La Virgin de Guadalupe
3. Frida Khalo
Don Quixote's Journey:
Mes cendres seront offertes à l'océan, dispersées dans le vent. Je n'aurais jamais existé, je n'aurais résisté à la mort que quelques années, trop éphémères. J'aurais crié si fort que j'aurais atteint le silence. Je me serais battu pour me libérer de l'impossible. Claustrophobe, même en moi, pris au dangereux piège de la liberté et de l'absolu, mais tellement vivant. Je n’en laisserais que quelques traces de couleur, cris de jouissance, et le désir de liberté. Le désir d’exister selon ses propres lois.
I walk in a museum without shoes.
October 2001
Solstice in my mind
It is the longest day of my life. ™
To Victor
Talking with snake tongue, charming two men in a cocktail lounge – dressed in full Armani – they keep secret a recipe we all know © but they can't share discoveries – they are not modern shamans – they do not share their truth. They hold the bird on their shoulders – falcons without feathers – dust – I had a friend who was there when they filled the sea with concrete – baptism of a new way – they call it speed but I see no movement. We can't talk about movement when we can't feel the wind on our skin. I have a friend who saw the crucifixion of the Christ. I have a friend who was the Christ.
New York, 4 am, 2003
Everything, now, is all we can't touch with our fingers.
Useless speed – hunting for daily poetry – a ritual of repetition – silver rings – fast is the speed of light – ancient symbols forgotten – our tongues – tools of wisdom and decadence – clean dresses – laundry perfume – a shaman in Armani suit – we breathe – we talk to the trees – silence is too long – fifteen minutes – phones from America – models with dogs and crocodile shoes – the return of fur – the death of peter beard – hydraulic fear – somewhere else, in another time, Chinese fans on gold skin, in both hands our lines are dancing, yellow cabs returning to orchids – normal legs – immaculate serenity – 6 days without closing our eyes, a strange invitation – oriental blind pearl divers, consuming all fears without hesitation, unleaded fascination – this is our last tango before sunrise – so vulnerable – virgin Mary is sitting on a color television – there are some flowers, there will be fruits – hunting in an empty telephone for the voice of lust – I feel like a church with no truth – I feel like a sea without tides – I have never been here to protect you from where you ever wanted to go – I am fading like a ghost at sunrise, powerless but so strong – I need to give you a place where you can plant your seeds. Copal smoke – king of snakes – comes to me, so slowly, like a whisper – fire in our hands.
"Is there a pattern in this universe?" She asked.
"Without a universal pattern, it would be impossible to be free" I answered.
At the end of the road, there is no end. The road becomes sand and the cities become visions. Road ends, cars become snakes – volatile gasoline. "It is so easy to stay here" he said. Phenomenal sunrises and deep illuminations. It is always on the road that we have found a real home – a place to stay in movement – a land of possible dreams, dirt, flesh, dancing drums, spontaneous ceremonies, infinity loops. On the road, we have found a little oasis, a place to plant our seeds. On the road, we are intuition.
On the road, I gave myself for free – pure devotion, incantations, Porcelina, love, St. Elmo's fires, friends who travel with the wind. Wind without destination.
Over there, I found a reason to fight, a way.
Over there, they told me it was possible to change the world, to change everything.
One minute can change everything.
24 minutes is all we really have. This is all we really need.
A feast of light – Paris reading.
1 – Les splendeurs de la décadence
Light has not been created yet, all stars are waiting: pulp –skin unrevealed – resisting our immortality for a few more minutes – touching ground with fingers – white table long silences – I look around – something must happen – fragility does not survive in time – fragility is a magic moment between two states. I look at him, painting bullfight scenes with China ink – a few seconds before death. A river of blood – a river of color – should time make us scared of any destination? Brushes would become knives and my hands would know crime. In this life, I write the story of my mind. I write about how we can transform reality with the power of our visions. Light is fading but night is so slow to come, moon is staying low, like a perfect wheel at the summit of the mountains. I am surrounded by strokes of blue light. I am not really here anymore. I didn't pretend to be – I have let my body go – falling like rocks in waterfalls – tides of rays of lights – palm trees in a perfect line. I told Victor to stay away but he followed me – with tears in his eyes – with birds in his hands. He followed me to meet her – Penelope – in dark sandals. She had left some ancient traces – it's alright, she said – I will protect our ancestors. I will grow flowers – I will teach secret alphabet – I will hunt for deep love – a flesh prophet – I will give my skin like an offering– I will raise my hands and dance for you. Victor is whirling in circles – camera around neck – dreams all around – I know we won't cross doors tonight but we will touch heaven – we will navigate between volcanoes – charm vipers – walk on fire, walk on fire, walk on fire. Get high.
Guerilla Theater:
(Free frame of reference-San Francisco-living Theater) EMMETT GROGAN.
I am fascinated by the life of Emmett: total dedication.
A real inspiration for us the seekers, the blind lovers and romantic rebels.
"Om" is all cultures united – the most fascinating symbol to paint. I can repeat the same brushstrokes over and over for hours, creating a visual mantra.
I represent so much life that people who are afraid to die are scared of me.
Mexico City
Overdrive: dry fountain
They all come here to see the bullet holes – at the end of the summer – just before night falls. They all come here to see.
Too early. We clean our swimming pools silently with our hands – one by one – millions of eggs – copulation is still a remedy against death's velocity– we still want to choose – the divine day and a god to pray – in a color TV we have destiny filters instead of our eyes – we have all met them when we were blind – we do not want to ruin your giant evening – you walk with broken high heels and short legs – a dark Armani suit – dances – to the automatic piano - blind modern Romeo – the label is gold, the truth is old – Polaroid moment – lemon drop – Gandhi – antennas – radars – machines – elevators – wisdom – time.
I will never cut my hair again.
I love the risk of traditional mail. It is so romantic.
Paul Eluard (in Geneva at midnight)
We = V
E = Two swans staring at each
Other
Before love – before sunrise
She needs
Diamonds
I am just
An uncertain
Goldmine
List no.23
1. Immortality
2. Magic carpet
3. More TV
4. Sofa search
5. Feed the animal
6. Single use toothbrush
7. Fortune cookies
List no.25
1. Time
2. Testament
3. Archive
4. Moment
5. Microphone
6. Together
7. Alone
Lists of only 3 items
1. Coca-Cola
2. Picasso
3. Don Quixote
A TV dinner – without TV.
J’ai écouté tous les vents du ciel, j’ai succombé à toutes les lumières du soleil, j’ai piétiné tous les déserts de la solitude. J’ai percé le néant. Je me suis laissé bercer par tous les océans. Je me suis fait aimer par toutes les femmes. J’ai essayé toutes les forces, toutes les formules magiques. Aujourd’hui, et seulement aujourd’hui, je le sais, je ne suis pas fait pour ce monde, pas cette vie, pas cette réalité. Je suis un nomade: non pas par conviction profonde, mais parce que je n’ai pas trouvé un port où je pouvais amarrer en toute quiétude. Je suis un nomade errant, silencieux, voyageant par urgence entre les différentes sphères de la réalité. THE UNIVERSAL SEEKER.
Mexico City, Hotel Rioja, dernier étage
Février 1997
Mon atelier ici est une petite pièce dans un hôtel presque abandonné du centre. C’est si petit que je dois pousser le lit vers la porte lorsque je veux peindre. Je m’y sens bien, étrange, aux limites des ténèbres délicieuses, poussé par les forces du silence et de l’excès, accumulant en lignes de petites illuminations délicates.
J’ai acheté mille lampions et quelques bouteilles de rhum pour affronter les démons pervers de la nuit, des mangues juteuses et un livre jauni de formules magiques trouvé au marché de la Lagunilla. J’entends par la fenêtre les échos nerveux de la ville de Mexico. Il y a toujours un meurtre ou un viol, une alarme, une fin du monde, un nouveau-né, un dernier dieu, des larmes d’espoir sur une vierge oubliée, la découverte miraculeuse d’un nouveau temple aztèque. Le silence, ici, n’existe que dans mon âme et dans les mondes intérieurs. J’allume les lampions pour chasser l’humidité et pour absorber les mauvais esprits. La vie se met à couler dans mes veines, je vais pénétrer les secrets de l’existence. Je suis excité devant tous ces canevas vierges, tous ces territoires de mon être que je n’ai pas encore explorés. Je suis totalement seul, personne ne soupçonne ce voyage au fond de la nuit, au fond de la vie. Je veux tout, maintenant, aller jusqu’au bout, me battre contre toutes ces forces, les découvrir. Je ne veux plus restreindre mes croyances au monde cartésien de l’Amérique. Les tentations de mon âme et de mon corps ne sont plus celles que j’ai toujours connues. Tous les jours que je vis sur cette terre sont une révolution, contre tout, contre moi-même: une révélation instantanée. La révolution, c’est accepter de perdre ce qu’on a pour ne pas nécessairement s’approprier ce qu’on veut. C’est la création du déséquilibre, le voyage volontaire dans les profondeurs de l’âme, la folie comestible, le parfum de l’inatteignable. Créer, c’est détruire, c’est renaître sous une forme différente.
Le soleil se lève à peine, perçant difficilement l’épaisse couche matinale de smog du ciel de Mexico. Est-ce un bon jour pour mourir Je me répète à voix basse cette question plusieurs fois, comme pour me pousser aux limites de la vie. Bon Dieu, Pureté, est-ce que tu existes Où es-tu Pourquoi ton sang coule-t-il dans mes veines Qu’est-ce que j’ai fait Je presse “play” sur la chaîne portative: “ Mon amie la rose” de Françoise Hardy.
-Je sens que tu tombes, je suis presque nu.
J’enchaîne avec “Roads” de Portishead, un délice de douleurs sucrées. Quelques rayons orange pénètrent dans la pièce et découpent l’espace en petits cubes égaux. C’est une aube étrange. Partagé entre le goût de la mort et le désir profond de vivre. Je reste barricadé sous mes couvertures, à l’abri de ce monde que je ne connais pas, à l’abri de vous. Il fait froid, l’air que je souffle devient une petite fumée blanche. Je fixe intensément mon tableau inachevé. Sur le mur, face au lit, une vierge de la Guadeloupe acculée au mur des tentations. Je résiste pendant deux cents secondes puis je fonce sur mes pinceaux, nu, obsédé, excité, me faufilant en tremblant dans le voile de l’infini qui s’ouvre et qui me tire. Je ne sais pas c’est pour arriver où, ni quand, ni découvrir quoi, mais j’ai la conviction profonde que je dois peindre sans arrêt. Ne plus vivre autrement. Il n’y a pas d’oasis dans ce désert d’hallucinations. Il n’y a pas de répit à cette passion folle. Mordre est le remède contre les morsures. Voici l’avenir, fantôme suave aux mains vides, murmurant les louanges du passé. Désormais es signes ne sont plus dans le ciel, ils sont en nous, malaise profond ou illuminations violentes. Les signes seront notre seul guide.
Our destiny is to hold on to all our passions.
Our urge to exist
Our pleasure to transform
Our force to rise
Totally free inside
Fire in our hands
Between us
Our sacred fire
In total peace
Total speed- slow- fast
Our inner peace
Free dragon poetry
Our sacred fire
Full moon rising
Je crois que la différence entre une routine et un rituel est subtile mais vitale. Si tu manges une pomme tous les matins à dix heures douze et que tu la dégustes vraiment: son parfum, sa couleur, son goût, sa texture, et que tu es complètement présent dans cette action, voilà un rituel. Si tu manges cette pomme sans vraiment t’en rendre compte, par automatisme, voilà une routine.
Mexico City, café La Gloria
I have always loved that girl because of the way she makes love, it makes you want to make love forever. She expands your emotions to the entire universe. She does not satisfy you: She opens new doors: She creates new desires inside you: new territories: she makes you need new things. A new world appears every time she leaves. You can’t stay in bed after: I have to go and see and touch and charm and love and build and create and stare and change things and scream and run and give the world a new opportunity. I have to go share beauty: give back what she gave me, amplify beauty. I have to go through the Mexican night and paint some walls: giant mandalas, erotic landscapes.
She is the seed of a long love cycle: she is the fire: she gives birth to an energy that will grow: I will transmit this passion to another one: stare at naked eyes in the street: touching burning flower: whisper to a stranger: paint a seashell, give birth to a new vision.
We share our secret: epicurean erotica.
I am disappearing into abstraction. I am scared any new discovery is becoming impossible, and I can’t accept to remain still. Movement is my only salvation. Movement is my only way of life. I can’t rest. I can’t repeat myself. I can’t go back on the same road again and again. Every morning is a fight against me, the fear of nothingness, the emptiness at the doors. Everyday needs to be a magic ceremony, a perfect agony.
I am drawing on the paper table clothe everything I want: red wine and tranquility, a nice view on our dreams. Our shadow is dancing on the wall.
“We should travel back to the desert” she says “I am confused. I feel everything I learned there is useless now, here”.
“Everything is useless until you make it your own. Everything is futile until you transform it to use it in your daily life”.
(A typical night in Mexico City: philosophy, eroticism and red wine). I understood so many parts of myself by sitting at this terrace. This city makes me fragile: feeling around millions of people so lonely – so hopeless – so powerless – but so immaculate, so alive. Here: modernity meets the ancestors, at the same moment.
-You can’t consider knowledge like a possession. Knowledge is a number of doors you can open in certain times.
-you have always looked at the desert like a physical place, a physical destination.
-the desert is just a gate.
I suddenly wish to disappear – somewhere alone where I feel nothing anymore: a place under the sun. I think sometimes I am the only one who wants to change the world. Am I the only one who feels an emergency: radical agony: tropical euphoria? Who is passionate? Who will risk all his comfort to discover a new level? World closes down: small around me. I hold her hands like torches in the night. I let the red wine slip on the skin of my neck.
I paint with a tempera marker the wine bottle (red Zig Posterman) I transform it into a velvet bullet. Do I have any opinion about this world? I feel so detached.
We are Sunday. After the bullfights, we always come here to have dinner, at La Gloria in la Condesa: where poets and Zapatistas join forces to plant some seeds and amplify chaos. Also, some architects hang out here. I have always loved them around me: they give a structure to my chaos: they give names to my visions.
The terrace is now empty: chairs on tables. Surrounded by trumpet echoes, kind of blue, Miles Davis, the best most profound epic piece of music ever produced. Her lips become moving sea stars. We kiss, everything disappear around.
“So many things I need to tell you.”
“Oh invàdeme con tu boca abrasadora, indàgame, si quieres, con tu ojos nocturos, pero en tu nombre déjame navegar y dormir.”
So many things to bring back to the surface; we will draw a new flag.
We will paint new countries and give new names to cities. We are the birth of a new culture, a new state of mind. A carnival of hands without puppets. We will generate electricity-gasoline-energy-raise palm trees: invisible happiness. We will write poetry everywhere. We talk into the city- closer to alameda. With big white acrylic I paint on a velvet textured wall: Fragility is our only weapon.
We are dancing around the Venus fountain, in Alameda central, the night is deep. It is late. We dive into the water, our bodies become one. We are making love under Venus’s eyes. At the same moment, in another part of the same city, but closer to the ghettos, Salvador, all perfumed and fresh, is sharing poetry with seven Indians from Sonora desert. They discuss about the velocity of the access to eternity with the power of the words. They write a formula on a rock: for everybody to see and learn, for everybody to touch and feel. They will stay together until sunrise, until sky sets on fire. Then Salvador will go to Chapultepec to sleep for a few hours, wash in the lake and shave, look at his reflection for the first time since 30 days, talk with early birds and navigate on the park’s lake. I never asked him if he was having a home, a family, a past. Anything relating to reality just does not exist in his mind. We make love deeply through the night, without really sleeping, half conscious, but totally involved into the moment. Eroticism is fuel.
The elephants ride us to the cemetery to dance in the ivory and to experience death.
The bar at La opera, calle 5 de Mayo
DEVOTION
153 different alcohol bottles left behind
Becoming drunk, counting things just to focus on reality. I am falling in pieces, scattered soul, strange lines. My drawings are becoming abstract dragons with two tongues, erotic blind nymphets making love at the gates.
I love to be devoted for a certain amount of time to register the numbers of people in a place, the number of people dressed in black, the number of people who haven’t made love for two months, the number of people who were wolves in another life, the amount of spirits flying around, the cars. How many people need a destination? How many people need to experience trance? Should I help them?
I hunt for the goddess of revelation, but how can she reveal herself? I walk in the streets, feeding the birds with poetry, fast drawings. Salvador appears close to me, dressed in wedding white, but dirty. We hunt for another bar, for another mission, for another way to make this happen, for another goddess. We have created a different music, just for us, a vibration close to the silence. The grand hotel is full. We closed our eyes because everything we need to see is inside us.
TECOLUTLA: I was feeling like it was the last four paintings of my life. I am anxious. I feel I have to put everything I am into them. Everything I need to discover has to be now. I am so conscious, and totally ready. I will close my eyes soon. The journey begins. Please take my hand.
On the sand – I draw the portrait of your soul: a giant circle filled with two million seashells.
On the sand – I write you everything.
On the sand – I tell you who I am.
On the sand – the raindrops are silent.
On the sand – my feet are free.
On the sand – you will make love to me.
On the sand – we will reach infinity
“En vertu du principe selon lequel il n’est pas nécessaire de faire un périple autour du monde pour savoir que le ciel est partout bleu, j’avais déjà soupçonné qu’il y avait des coquillages partout où l’on pouvait creuser un trou pour en chercher.”
Still under the rain, now in Mexico City: a Peter Murphy song
She says: “The wheels will not refuse to turn, not now.”
She says: “A suitcase gold or blue. Filled with thousand of seashells: echoes.”
I don’t remember it was 77 easy steps to learn how to disappear.
I transform a little bar into a spontaneous studio: I use rum to clean my brushes. I paint the portrait of surrounding spirits, to complete, at 2 am, a full color catalogue of spirits.
Domingo, Mexico city, 2003
Hotel Gillow velvet whisky bar:
Just under decadence. The Indians kept me awake with the profound sounds of the drums all night long. I was paralyzed by their dances and their chants: the power of copal burning, the fragility of their dances. I was totally absorbed, transformed, feeling so little but so warm. I went to sleep before them and I had strange dreams.
In a very dark bar, I drink a whisky with Jane’s addiction in my ears, so loud, so loud. Peace in my mind. In an old faded color TV, a young lady promises us eternity. I can’t believe what I haven’t discovered on my own. No teaching, no preachers, no church make me want to go. On the over pass, many scared people, with no eyes, no sun in their hands. I draw my own tarot cards, with China ink, red wine and blood. I read my own palms: I want to dream on her shoulder, like a child who leaves reality so fast, in a little carrousel. She watches me turn over on a revolving dream. I want her to see what I see. Because it is so beautiful. Sitting on a red Mexican leather sofa, with prostitutes around, I drink faded whisky with a smile. I burn copal incense. I draw on a table cloth a plan of a flying bed. “Don’t you feel it is time for you to get up my radiant child?” (Jane says I never been in Love, I don’t know what it is). Music, shaman sounds, incantation of the fragile moment: now. Another whisky warms my heart and pushes my solitude to new boundaries. They want to join me but I refuse. My solitude is now a strong tool to reach you. My secret journey is an apocalyptic liberation. And I have a Huitchol painting in my bag. I never bought a painting before. So, I guess, it is the first time I want beauty I didn’t create. I want, I need something else in my life. The sky is dark grey, on the four pieces of my dreams, like broken porcelain of the ocean, fish of abundance. I give my money to a trumpet player who never listened to Miles Davis, playing ancient Spanish lamentation lullabies. I give my money and my drawings away, just to set free.
He needs money, he needs me to talk about the bebop. So what, I have something better than food to offer him. Double whisky. “You love her” he said. My secret transparency in a glass of whisky, candlelight, rotation, a circular table, ashes from another story. I build a temple with my fingers. I create a god, sealed with wax. I create a space between reality and dreamland where we can spend the night, without danger.
“Mademoiselle, si vous êtes étourdie aujourd’hui, c’est que je suis dans un carrousel à Paris.” (Lettre envoyée de Paris le 12 juin 2004)
Architecture:
I choose the dance of a candle flame
To all fireworks.
I wish I was blind to only touch you
I wish I was you to touch me
I wish I was inside a color TV
I wish I was my own enemy
I wish I play baseball - I wish I am a field
To let the wind caress me
I wish I have time - I wish I am time
I wish I bring peace - I wish I bring energy
I wish you are a forest to climb your trees
I wish you are a war - I wish you are a feast
I wish you know me just to let me be
I wish you go too far I wish you take me with you
I wish we stare at birds
I wish we make a fire
To keep us together
I wish you are in a plastic bag
I wish you are somewhere else
To miss you all night
I wish we are prophets
To tell the truth
I wish we are dancers
To touch different bodies
I wish we are naked
To make love under the palm trees
I wish we have no skin
I wish we have no bodies, just energy
I wish I was a flower
To be your perfume
I wish I was a sea
I wish I was me
I wish I tell you everything
I wish I can sail away
To reinvent my day
I wish I was in Paris
I wish I was somewhere free from me
I wish I was a Ferris wheel
To live in a circle
I wish I was there
I wish I was a shooting star
To disappear into sky
I wish I was too far
To remember why
I wish I was too drunk
To remember my name
I wish I was a bull
To make him bleed
I wish I was a trumpet
To be kissed by Miles Davis
I wish I was a prophet
To resurrect Elvis
I wish I was a sky scraper
I wish I was a tower
I wish I had a power
I wish I was a blind lover
I wish I was an airplane
To play another game
I wish I could wear the same T-shirt
For the rest of my life
I wish I could have the same dream
For the rest of my night
I wish I could repaint the world
I wish I could create a new color
I wish I could understand
I wish I was a tale
To be revealed slowly
I wish I was poetry
I wish I was geometry
I wish I was a veil
To cover your fragile eyes
I wish I was a writer
To tell stories with my fingers
I wish I was Leonard de Vinci
I wish I was nobody
I wish I was a remedy
I wish I was a ladder
I wish I was a desert
To let you walk on me
I wish I was a prayer
To be stronger than the thunder
I wish I was smoke
To vanish into the sky
I wish I was ashes
I wish I was useless
I wish I was a king
To leave my kingdom
I wish I was a hero
To save you
I wish I was a bed
To sleep with you
I wish I was your eyes
To see infinity
I wish I was a legend
To become immortal
I wish I was unknown
I wish I was a seashell
To live in a spiral
I wish I was a gypsy
To bring my home with me
I wish I was a fisherman
I wish I was in Paris
To rewrite my own story
I wish I was the moon
To be full
I wish I was the sun
To be eclipsed by me
I wish I was your hand
To paint and to create
I wish I was a new color
I wish I was a fire
I wish I was a light
I wish I was a brushstroke
I wish I was your muse
I wish I was blind
I wish I will find
I wish I was a tool
I wish I was timeless
I wish I was just intuition
I wish I was just rebellion
I wish I was the anatomy of the invisible
I wish I was living in a circle
I wish I was a circle.