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Construye un diálogo entre alguno de tus familiares y tú; alguien con quien siempre hayas querido conversar y, por algún motivo, no hayas podido. Antes de abrir el diálogo, imagina una problemática previa. Por ejemplo: ¿por qué no pudieron hablar en tanto tiempo?, ¿qué lo impedía? Este asunto o conflicto no tiene que estar necesariamente transparentado en el texto. La particularidad del diálogo es que cada línea tendrá un máximo de seis palabras. Por ejemplo:

—¿Quieres?

—No sé.

—De ahí vienes.

—...

—También yo.

—...

—Y tus padres.

—¿Y si te mueres?

—No.

—¿Si te mueres antes de enseñarme?

—¿Antes? No.

—...

—No ahora.

—Tengo miedo.

—Piénsalo. Con el corazón, en silencio

—¿Si te ahogas?

—No.

—Diez años muriendo.

—No lo creo.

—Si gritas “Licho”.

—...

—“Licho, me ahogo”.

—¿A tu abuela?

—Sí, en tu silla de ruedas.

—...

—Diez años.

—Hijo.

—Y no me enseñas.

—Te enseño. Te enseño shivá.

—...

—Casa de shivá. Kaddish.

—...

—A sentarte en duelo.

—En tu silla de ruedas.

—Te enseñaría aun muriendo.

—Saba...

—Siete veces. Ciento veinte veces.

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"Las novelas son como pinturas, más específicamente como acuarelas. Cada trazo que das tienes que acompañar al resto. Por supuesto que puedes reescribir, pero los trazos originales deben permanecer en la textura de la cosa ".

"Escribo para averiguar qué estoy pensando, qué estoy mirando, qué veo y qué significa. Lo que quiero y lo que temo ".


"El impulso de anotar las cosas es particularmente compulsivo, inexplicable para quien no lo comparte, útil sólo por accidente, de manera secundaria, de la forma en que cualquier compulsión trata de justificarse".

"Es hostil porque estás tratando de hacer que alguien vea algo de la forma en que tú lo ves, tratando de imponer tu idea, tu imagen. Es hostil tratar de torcer en la mente de otra persona de esa manera. Muy a menudo quieres decirle a alguien tu Sueño, tu pesadilla. Bueno, nadie quiere oír hablar del sueño de otra persona, bueno o malo; nadie quiere andar con él. El escritor siempre está engañando al lector para que escuche el sueño ".

"Permítanme decirles una cosa sobre por qué escriben los escritores: si hubiera sabido la respuesta a cualquiera de estas preguntas, nunca habría necesitado escribir una novela".

"Todo lo que sé sobre la gramática es su poder infinito. Cambiar la estructura de una oración altera el significado de esa oración, de manera tan definitiva e inflexible como la posición de una cámara altera el significado del objeto fotografiado".

"Como escritora, incluso de chica, mucho antes de que comenzara a publicarse lo que escribí, desarrollé la sensación de que el significado mismo residía en los ritmos de las palabras, las oraciones y los párrafos... La forma en que escribo es quien soy, o en quien me he convertido..."

"Nos contamos historias para poder vivir".

Fuente

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"Las novelas son como pinturas, más específicamente como acuarelas. Cada trazo que das tienes que acompañar al resto. Por supuesto que puedes reescribir, pero los trazos originales deben permanecer en la textura de la cosa ". "Escribo para averiguar qué estoy pensando, qué estoy mirando, qué veo y qué significa.

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Hoy la conversación me recordó a este texto durísimo que yo creía que era un cuento pero ahora veo que es extracto de su primer novela.

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Hoy la conversación me recordó a este texto durísimo que yo creía que era un cuento pero ahora veo que es extracto de su primer novela.

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It was the summer Nonso died.

Grandmama did not call it summer. Nobody did in Nigeria. It was August, nestled between the rainy season and the dry season, when it could either pour all day, silver rain splashing on to the veranda where you and Nonso and Dozie sat and slapped away mosquitoes and ate roast corn, or the sun could be blinding and you would float in the water tank Grandmama had sawed in half, a makeshift pool. The day Nonso died was mild, there was a drizzle in the morning, lukewarm sun in the afternoon and in the evening, Nonso's death. Grandmama screamed at him - at his limp body - saying i laputago m, that he had betrayed her, asking him who would carry on the Nnabuisi name now, who would protect the family lineage?

The neighbours came over when they heard her. It was the woman from the house across the road, the one whose dog rummaged in Grandmama's dustbin in the mornings, who coaxed the American phone number from your numb lips and called your mother. It was also the neighbour who unclasped you and Dozie's hands, made you sit down, and tried to hold you close so you would not hear Grandmama as she talked to your mother on the phone, but you slid away from the woman, closer to the phone.

Grandmama and your mother were focused on Nonso's body, rather than his death. Your mother was insisting that Nonso's body be flown back right away, that he was American by birth. Grandmama was repeating your mother's words and shaking her head. Madness lurked in her eyes.

You knew Grandmama had never liked your mother, and would not like her even if she was Nigerian, even if she had not been an American. (You heard Grandmama say this some summers before to a neighbour - at least the woman gave me one grandson.) But watching Grandmama on the phone, you realised that for the first time, and for the last time, she and your mother were united, although they did not know it. You were sure your mother had the same red madness in her eyes.

When you talked to your mother, her voice echoed in a way it had never done all the years before that you and Nonso spent summers with Grandmama. Are you all right? She kept asking you. Are you all right? She sounded fearful, as though she suspected that you were all right. You played with the phone wire and said little. She said she would send word to your father, although he was somewhere in the woods where there were no phones or radios. She did not say exactly where he was but you thought it was Peru (or maybe Cuba, you knew it was a four-letter country with Spanish-speakers) attending a Black Arts festival. Finally, she laughed a hard laugh before she told you everything would be fine and she was going to arrange for Nonso's body to be flown back, a laugh like the bark of a dog. It made you think of her normal laugh, a hohoho laugh that started deep inside her belly and did not soften as it came up and did not suit her willowy body. When she went into Nonso's room to say goodnight, she always came out laughing that laugh. Most times you pressed your palms to your ears to keep the sound out, and kept your palms pressed to your ears even when she came into your room to say goodnight, darling, sleep well. She never left your room with that laugh.

After the phone call, Grandmama lay flat on the floor and rolled back and forth, like she was playing some sort of silly game, and said it was wrong to fly Nonso's body back to America, that his spirit would always hover here. He belonged to this hard earth that had failed to absorb the shock of his fall. He belonged to the trees here, one of which had let go of him. You sat and watched her and at first you wished she would take you in her arms, then you wished she wouldn't.

It has been 13 years and the trees in the yard look unchanged, they still reach out and hug each other, still cast umbrella shadows over the yard. But everything else seems smaller: the house, the garden at the back, the water tank copper-coloured from rust. Even Grandmama's grave in the backyard seems tiny and you imagine her body being crumpled, folded, to fit a small coffin. The grave is covered with a thin coat of cement, and you stand next to it and picture it in 10 years' time, tangled weeds covering the cement, choking the grave.

Dozie is watching you, and you wonder if he wants to see you cry. You want to tell him that would be a bit of a stretch, crying now. At the airport, he had hugged you cautiously, said welcome, and that he didn't think you would come back, and you stared at his face for a long time in the busy, shuffling lounge until he looked away, his eyes brown and sad like your neighbour's poodle. You didn't need that look, though, to know that the secret of how Nonso died was safe with Dozie, had always been safe with Dozie. As he drove to Grandmama's house, he asked about your mother and you told him that your mother lived in California now, you did not mention that it was in a commune among people with huge afros and pierced breasts or that when she called, you always hung up while she was speaking. He did not ask about your father and you wondered if it was because he knew where your father was. The last time you heard from your father, two years ago, when he sent you a card after your graduation, he was in Mali.

You move towards the avocado tree. Dozie is still watching you and you look at him and try to remember the love that used to clog you up. There is a gentle sorrow in the lines across his forehead, a humility in the way he stands with his arms by his sides. You suddenly wonder if he longed too, like you did. You never knew what was beneath his quiet smile, beneath the times he would sit so still that the fruit flies perched on his arms, beneath the pictures he gave you and the birds he kept in a cardboard cage, petting them until they died. You wonder what he felt about being the wrong grandson, the one who did not bear the Nnabuisi name.

When he called you in Virginia a month ago to tell you that Grandmama had died, you had remained silent on the phone for so long he hung up and called back, thinking the line had cut off. You were beyond surprise. You thought Grandmama had died long ago. You thought you would never hear Dozie's voice again. Ever since Dozie's mother, your Aunty Nkiru, came and took him away a day after Nonso's death, ever since your mother took you away and cut all ties with Nigeria, you had refused to think of Dozie. You had fought with yourself until you felt the sweat running down your arms. But you succeeded in not thinking about him. Until his phone call. Thirteen years.

Dozie starts to say something, startling you. Your hands are on the trunk of the avocado tree.

I was with Grandmama shortly before she died, Dozie says.

You say nothing; you are thinking that Grandmama stayed alive too long.

You know the last person Grandmama talked about before she died? Dozie asks. Nonso. Only Nonso. Yes, Nonso, after all these years.

At that moment you want to walk over and slap Dozie, kick him, dig your nails into his neck.

Instead you press your palms deep into the rough trunk. The pain soothes you. You remember eating the avocados, you liked yours with salt and Nonso didn't like his with salt and Grandmama always laughed dismissively when you said the unsalted avocado nauseated you.

At Nonso's funeral in a cold cemetery in Virginia with tombstones jutting out obscenely, your mother was in faded black from head to toe, even a veil,and it made her cinnamon skin glow, like placing a very ripe corn against a blackboard. Your father stood away from the both of you, in his usual dashiki, milk-coloured cowries coiled round his neck. He looked as if he was not family, as if he was one of the guests who sniffled loudly and later asked your mother in hushed tones exactly how Nonso had died, exactly how he had fallen from one of the trees he had climbed since he was a toddler.

Your mother said nothing to them, all those people who asked questions. She said nothing to you either about Nonso, not even when she cleaned up his room and packed his things. She did not even ask if you wanted to keep anything and you were relieved. You did not want to have any of his books with his handwriting that your mother said was neater than typewritten sentences. You did not want his photographs of pigeons in the park that your father said had so much promise for a child. You did not want his paintings, which were mere copies of your father's only in different colours. Or his clothes. Or his stamp collection.

Your mother brought Nonso up, finally, when she told you about the divorce. She said the divorce was not about Nonso, that she and your father had long been growing apart. (Your father was in Zanzibar then, he had left right after Nonso's funeral.) Then your mother asked - how did Nonso die?

You still wonder how those words tumbled out of your mouth. Maybe it was because of the way she said the divorce was not about Nonso, as though Nonso was the only one capable of being a reason, as though you were not in the running. Or maybe it was simply that you felt the burning desire that you still feel sometimes, the need to smooth out wrinkles, to flatten things you find too bumpy. You told your mother, with your tone suitably reluctant, that Grandmama had asked Nonso to climb to the highest branch of the avocado tree to show her how much of a man he was. Then she frightened him - it was a joke, you assured your mother - by telling him that there was a snake, the echi eteka, on the branch close to him. She asked him not to move. Of course, he moved and slipped off the branch, and when he landed, the sound was like many fruits falling at the same time. A dull, final plop. Grandmama stood there and stared at him and then started to shout at him about how he was the only son, how he had betrayed the lineage by dying, how the ancestors would be displeased. He was breathing, you told your mother. He was breathing when he fell but Grandmama just stood there and shouted at his broken body.

Your mother started to scream. And you wondered if people screamed in that crazed way when they had just chosen to reject truth. She knew well enough that Nonso hit his head on a rock and died on the spot - she had seen his body, his cracked head. But she chose to believe Nonso was alive after he fell. She cried, howled, and cursed the day she set eyes on your father at college, cursed the day she became infatuated with Igbo culture, cursed her sending her children to Nigeria to learn Igbo ways. Then she called your father, you heard her shouting on the phone - your mother is responsible! She could have done something but instead she stood there like the stupid fetish African woman that she is and let him die!

Your father talked to you afterwards, and said he understood how hard it was for you, but you had to be careful what you said so that you didn't cause more hurt. And you wondered if he, too, believed you.

Dozie's words float around in your head now: Grandmama talked about Nonso before she died, Grandmama talked only about Nonso, after all these years, only Nonso. The words make it difficult to breathe, the same way it was difficult to breathe when you waited, those months after Nonso died, for your mother to notice that you had a voice pure like water and legs like elastic bands, for your mother to end her goodnight visits to your room with that deep hohoho laugh. Instead she held you too gingerly while saying goodnight, spoke in whispers, and you started to avoid her kisses by faking racking coughs and convoluted sneezes.

Dozie speaks now, tells you that he is glad you came, his voice sounding far off. You want to tell him that you surprised yourself when you went out to buy an airline ticket after his call because you did not know why you were coming back and you still do not know. But instead you ask him without turning around - what did you want, that summer, what did you want?

You do not know when Dozie moves, when he stands behind you, so close that you smell the citrus on him, as though he ate an orange and did not wash his hands. He turns you around and looks at you and you look at him, and he tells you he wanted so many things but mostly he wanted Grandmama to let you climb a fruit tree and shake a loaded branch. You turn away. There is a long silence while you watch the column of black ants making its way up the trunk, each ant carrying a bit of white fluff, creating a black-white pattern. You feel a rush of gratitude and pity and love and contempt for Dozie for not wanting more, for accepting so little. And you wonder about destiny - if Nonso was destined always to be loved more, if love on the whole is always predestined, if it is ever possible to earn love, or to obtain love that was not originally portioned out for you.

It strikes you too - the illogic of missing something you never had.

That summer, 13 years ago, was the summer of your first self-realisation. The summer you knew that something had to happen to Nonso, so that you could survive. Even at nine you knew that some people can take up too much space by simply being, that by existing, some people can stifle others. The idea of scaring Nonso with the echi eteka was yours alone. But you explained it to Dozie, that you both needed Nonso to get hurt - maybe maimed, maybe twist his legs. You wanted to mar the perfection of his body, to make him less lovable, less able to do all that he did. Less able to take up your space. Dozie said nothing and instead drew a picture of you with your eyes in the shape of stars.

Grandmama was inside cooking and Dozie was standing silently close to you, shoulders touching, when you suggested Nonso climb to the top of the avocado tree. It was easy to persuade him; you only had to remind him that you were the better climber. And you really were the better climber, you could scale a tree, any tree, in seconds - you were better at the things that did not need to be taught, the things that Grandmama could not teach him. You asked him to go first, to see if he could get to the topmost branch of the avocado before you followed. The branches were weak, and Nonso was heavier than you. Heavy from all the food Grandmama made him eat. Eat a little more, she would say. Who do you think I made it for? As though you were not there. Sometimes she would laugh and pat your back and say in Igbo - it's good you are learning, nne, this is how you will take care of your husband one day.

Nonso climbed the tree. Higher and higher. You waited till he was nearly at the top, till his legs hesitated before inching farther up. You waited for that short moment when he was between motions. An open moment, a moment you felt rather than saw the blueness of everything, of life itself; the pure azure of one of your fathers paintings, of opportunity, of a sky washed clean by a morning shower. Then you screamed. A snake! It's the echi eteka! A snake! You were not sure whether to say that the snake was on a branch close to him, or sliding up the trunk. But it didn't matter because in those few seconds, Nonso looked down at you and let go, his foot slipping, his arms nervously freeing themselves. Or maybe the tree simply shrugged Nonso off.

You don't remember now how long you stayed looking at Nonso before you went in to call Grandmama. You don't remember if it was right then or later that you felt you had not come to the end of something, rather that you had come to the beginning. Thirteen years is long enough to forget, long enough to choose what to remember.

PROSPECT

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Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's novel Purple Hibiscus (Fourth Estate) was nominated for the 2004 Orange prize.

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Les comparto aquí el libro de Gainza.

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Este pódcast, De eso no se habla, es de Isabel Cadenas Cañón, una periodista / ensayista espectacular.

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Listen to this episode from (De eso no se habla) on Spotify. ¿Cuáles son los silencios que hay detrás de este podcast? De eso no se habla se estrena el domingo 27 de septiembre. Cada dos domingos, una historia de la que ahora sí se habla.

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Un helicóptero en Rincón de Cristo - Voces Silenciadas (T01-E01)

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Un helicóptero en Rincón de Cristo - Voces Silenciadas (T01-E01)

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El pódcast de la org que dirijo - Alejandra

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Agés Varda: las claves para entender su cinescritura

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Agés Varda: las claves para entender su cinescritura

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Agnès Varda: Las claves para entender su cinescritura.

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meam loez bereshit todo todo endjuntopdf compress

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Encontré el ePub de Weinberger. A ver si les sirve. Saludos.

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Tom Waits talks about Kerouac +plays 'Bad liver', 'Pasties' & 'Tom Traubert's Blues' 1977 Belgian TV

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Allen Ginsberg sings Hare Krishna to William Buckley

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Allen Ginsberg and Paul McCartney playing "A Ballad of American Skeletons"

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'A Ballad of American Skeletons' was performed by Allen Ginsberg and Paul McCartney for an evening of poetry and performance at The Royal Albert Hall promoted by Goldmark entitled 'The Return of the Reforgotten' in 1995. What is Goldmark?

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Patti Smith - Howl (Poem by Allen Ginsberg) (Abiquiu, NM 9-9-22)

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Denise Levertov nació en 1923 en Ilford, Essex, Inglaterra, hija de Paul Philip Levertoff, un judío ruso convertido al cristianismo que era pastor anglicano, y de Beatrice Spooner-Jones, oriunda de Gales. Fue una poeta precoz: a los cinco años, declaró que sería escritora; a los doce le envió sus poemas a T.

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Poesía y poética, número dedicado a Denise Levertov

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Poesía y poética, número dedicado a Denise Levertov

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Antología de mujeres poetas de la generación beat

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Antología de mujeres poetas de la generación beat

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Leónidas Lamborghini, carroña última forma

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Leónidas Lamborghini, carroña última forma

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(Barcelona, 1955)

Herbarium, 1983

Silver gelatin bromide print treated lightly with selenium / Gelatinobromuro de plata con viraje ligero al selenio.
26 x 22 cm.

ENG
Fontcuberta elaborates on a botanist's work, analyzing through conventional methodology a series of found objects. Close to the photograph of the plant the artist specifies its localization, general characteristics, etc., combining real and invented data. The plants, supposedly true, are, as the artist mentions: "pseudoplants: small ephemeral assemblages constructed with industrial detritus, pieces of plastic, bones, plant and animal parts of a diverse sort, that I found wandering in the industrial outskirts of Barcelona."
CAST
Fontcuberta elabora un tratado de botánica, donde analiza, mediante la metodología convencional, una serie de hallazgos. Junto a la fotografía de la planta especifica la localización, características generales, etc., combinando datos reales con otros inventados. Las plantas, supuestamente verídicas, son, en palabras del autor "pseudoplantas: pequeños assemblages efímeros construidos con detritus industriales, piezas de plástico, huesos, pedazos de plantas o miembros de animales de muy diversa ralea que encontré deambulando en los entornos industriales del cinturón de Barcelona".

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(Barcelona, 1955) Silver gelatin bromide print treated lightly with selenium / Gelatinobromuro de plata con viraje ligero al selenio.26 x 22 cm. ENG Fontcuberta elaborates on a botanist's work, analyzing through conventional methodology a series of found objects. Close to the photograph of the plant the artist specifies its localization, general characteristics, etc., combining real and invented data.

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JOAN FONTCUBERTA, EL PENSADOR DE IMÁGENES

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Samuel Beckett | «Final de partida»  [Subtitulado cc]

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Louise Glück, Nobel de literatura 2020, El país

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Louise Glück, Nobel de literatura 2020, El país

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Louise GLÜCK, ganadora del PREMIO NOBEL de LITERATURA 2020 | Cultura

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Les comparto también el de Hernán :)

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"De cómo Robert Schumman fue vencido por los demonios", Francisco Hernández

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"De cómo Robert Schumman fue vencido por los demonios", Francisco Hernández

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El drama del desencantado- García Márquez 

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El drama del desencantado- García Márquez 

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...el drama del desencantado que se arrojó a la calle desde el décimo piso, y a medida que caía iba viendo a través de las ventanas la intimidad de sus vecinos, las pequeñas tragedias domésticas, los amores furtivos, los breves instantes de felicidad, cuyas noticias no habían llegado nunca hasta la escalera común, de modo que en el instante de reventarse contra el pavimento de la calle había cambiado por completo su concepción del mundo, y había llegado a la conclusión de que aquella vida que abandonaba para siempre por la puerta falsa valía la pena de ser vivida.

FIN

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el drama del desencantado que se arrojó a la calle desde el décimo piso, y a medida que caía iba viendo a través de las ventanas la intimidad de sus vecinos, las pequeñas tragedias domésticas, los amores furtivos, los breves instantes de felicidad, cuyas noticias no habían llegado nunca hasta la escalera común, de modo que en el instante de reventarse contra el pavimento de la calle había cambiado por completo su concepción del mundo, y había llegado a la conclusión de que aquella vida que abandonaba para siempre por la puerta falsa valía la pena de ser vivida.

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Diccionario de símbolos de Jean Chevalier

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Diccionario de símbolos de Jean Chevalier

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JEP. Morirás lejos. Epub.

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Violencia y Belleza: Los dibujos de Botticelli para la Divina Comedia.

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Samanta Schweblin. Autores x autores / Abril 2019

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Belleza clásica es el cuento del que les hablé 

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Belleza clásica es el cuento del que les hablé 

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Luz Aurora Pimentel, El relato en perspectiva

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Luz Aurora Pimentel, El relato en perspectiva

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Viajes por la tierra de Kublai Khan, Marco Polo

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Viajes por la tierra de Kublai Khan, Marco Polo

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Entrevista

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The Psychedelic Nature of Islamic Art and Architecture

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La naturaleza psicodélica del arte y arquitectura Islámica.

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La naturaleza psicodélica del arte y arquitectura Islámica.

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Queridos todos, encontré este texto que me pareció sumamente interesante y creo complementa bien la lectura del texto de Michaux. Saludos.

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Islamic art and architecture are often called psychedelic in nature - and rightly so. Both the art and architecture from the Islamic world feature vibrant colours and intricate, geometric patterns; much like the kaleidoscopic patterns one can see during a psychedelic experience, either with eyes opened or closed. During psychedelic experiences, people may report seeing arabesques, which are a fundamental aspect of Islamic art and consist of rhythmic linear patterns of interlacing foliage and spiralling stems. An arabesque is usually a single design - featuring plant motifs - that is tessellated (or tiled). Tessellation is when a surface is covered with geometric shapes that fit together in a pattern with no overlaps or gaps.

Some users of DMT have said that the ceilings of world-renowned mosques (such as the Jalil Khayat Mosque in Iraq) bear a striking resemblance to their DMT visions. But why is there this correspondence between Islamic art and architecture and psychedelia?

There are different ways we could answer this question, ranging from the reasonable to the highly speculative. It will be illuminating, however, to examine the religious reasons why artists and architects in the Islamic world use ornamentation that we regard as being very psychedelic.

The Meaning Behind Islamic Art and Architecture

Islamic art and architecture reflect how Muslims relate to the universe. It is a spiritual representation of nature, not a replication of it. This is intended to allow the artist - and practitioners who view the ornamentation - to feel closer to Allah. In Islam, beauty has always been closely tied to the divine. One of the hadiths (traditions or sayings) of the Prophet Muhammad reads, "Allah is beautiful and he loves beauty." And this really comes through in Islamic architecture, with certain mosques regarded as some of the most magnificent and awe-inspiring buildings in the world.

One reason that arabesques, geometric patterns, and Arabic calligraphy epitomise Islamic art and architecture is that Islam prohibits representational depictions. This proscription, called aniconism, explains why we don't see the creation of images of sentient beings in Islamic art. This includes God, Muhammad (and his relatives), the prophets, as well as humans and animals in general. Depicting God in a visual manner is forbidden because it could lead to idolatry. Furthermore, Muslims believe it is impossible, in any case, to represent God in a two- or three-dimensional way since God is incorporeal. There are examples of depictional art in Muslim societies, although it is not very common in the Muslim world.

Islamic art is also abstract because it's meant to symbolise the transcendent and infinite nature of God. And the arabesque encapsulates this aim; after all, the tessellation can be repeated ad infinitum. Indeed, geometry has an important spiritual significance in Islam. It is meant to mirror the language of the universe and the greatness of Allah. Circles are widely used because they have no end, meaning that they are infinite - and this serves as a reminder of the infinite nature of Allah.

It's interesting to note that many of the patterns in Islamic art look like the mandalas we find in Buddhist art, which, similarly, serve to represent the universe. Sacred geometry is the notion that certain shapes and patterns (such as spirals) have a spiritual meaning behind them. And this is why we find geometry used in the construction of many types of religious architecture. In a very real sense, Islamic art and architecture do represent the universe. After all, we can find examples of Fibonacci spiral patterns in the domed ceilings of mosques, the same pattern found throughout the natural world.

Is There a Connection Between Islam and Psychedelic Experiences?

A common DMT experience is finding oneself in a vaulted dome structure. In DMT lexicon, The Chrysthanemum is a gigantic, rotating, fractal flower that has a dome-like appearance. Terence McKenna said you could either pass through The Chrysthanemum and enter hyperspace or stay put (if you didn't take enough DMT). However, many DMT users also say the vaulted dome space is a revered destination and it's where you go during a 'breakthrough' dose of DMT. McKenna himself called this post-Chrysthanemum place "the dome", adding:

It's softly lit, indirectly lit, and the walls-if such they be-are crawling with geometric hallucinations: very brightly colored, very iridescent with deep sheens and very high reflective surfaces. Everything is machine-like and polished and throbbing with energy.

One of the volunteers in Dr Rick Strassman's experiments with DMT was injected with a high dose of the substance. She then found herself in "a beautiful domed structure, a virtual Taj Mahal... I don't know what happened. All of a sudden, BAM! there I was. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." This vaulted space can be a combination of the sacred, alien, and technological, as well as have a carnival or circus vibe to it. While this space may be ineffable, users have still compared the patterns, colours, and architecture the DMT realm to mosques; like the interior of the Sheikh Loftollah Mosque in Isfahan, Iran, for example.

But why are people entering mosque-like spaces under the influence of DMT? It is perplexing that this particular substance would regularly generate a mosque-like experience. Is it possible that artists and architects in the Islamic world were themselves influenced by psychedelic experiences and designed ornamentation based on those experiences? Well, evidence of psychedelic use in the Islamic world is tenuous; certainly not as palpable as in other religions, such as Mayan and Native American religions (which feature the ritual use of psilocybin mushrooms and mescaline-containing cacti, respectively). Nonetheless, some have speculated that psychedelic experiences may have played a role in Islam, as they possibly did in Judaism, Christianity, and Hinduism.

First of all, we know that mystical experiences are an aspect of Islam. In Sufism, the mystical form of the religion, the focus is on achieving a direct, first-hand experience of God. This is known as dhawq or "tasting". Tariqah (which translates as "path") is a school of Sufism where adherents follow mystical teachings and practices in order to seek Haqiqa ("ultimate truth"). Dhawq and tariqah can involve a kind of spiritual ecstasy, a state of intoxication that occurs when the self is annihilated. This self-annihilation is known as in Sufism. It means to die before one dies and entails the intimate realisation of God's unity with the universe and the individual self. In psychedelic parlance, this would be referred to as ego death.

However, it is not clear whether these ecstatic states of consciousness in Islam are a result of psychedelic drugs, let alone DMT. The Sufi mystic al-Ghazali argued that solitude, sleep deprivation, silence, and fasting are methods for bringing Sufis closer to God. And these practices can certainly induce visionary experiences and hallucinations. Other methods for entering trances or ecstatic states include ritual and repetitive prayer (or dhikr), playing music, reciting poetry, and Sufi whirling (practised by the Whirling Dervishes or Mevlevi, an order of Sufism).

Some have pointed out that many mystics and artists in the Islamic world may have used Peganum harmala, otherwise known as Syrian rue. This is a psychoactive plant that grows in the Middle East and contains high amounts of harmala alkaloids. These chemicals function as monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs), which means they block the activity of monoamine oxidase enzymes in the body. MAOIs are necessary for the preparation of ayahuasca as it allows a DMT-containing plant to become psychoactive when ingested (without an MAOI-containing plant in the mix, the DMT would be broken down by the enzyme MAO in the body).

Syrian rue by itself, however, has psychoactive effects. When taken in both low or large doses, the drug can cause hallucinations, although, at higher doses, there may be many unpleasant effects, including, nausea, stomach cramps, dizziness, confusion, tremors, vomiting, delirium, loss of coordination, and paralysis. High doses can also be life-threatening. These unpleasant effects and risks make Syrian rue an unlikely candidate to be deeply embedded in Islamic culture, as peyote is for Native Americans.

Also, can Syrian rue by itself produce the patterns that we see both in Islamic art and the DMT experience? It may be possible that mystics combined Syrian rue with other psychoactive plants, such as certain species of the Acacia tree, the leaves of which contain DMT. We can find Acacia trees throughout the Middle East; although, there isn't a shred of evidence about the use of an ayahuasca-like concoction by Islamic mystics or artists.

Nonetheless, there is still evidence of Syrian rue use in the Islamic world. Avicenna (ca. 980 to 1037 AD), the Persian philosopher and physician, was aware of its psychoactive properties. And it does have a reputation as a sacred plant in the Middle East. It is difficult to verify, though, if this plant was used by Sufis and artists, and what influence this may have had in Islamic culture.

A more reliable candidate for a visionary drug is hashish, as we know that cannabis has played an important role in the traditions of some Sufi sects. The 13th-century botanist Ibn Baitar noted that Sufis would eat hashish as part of their religious devotions, as a way of bringing them closer to God. Since eating cannabis, especially in a high enough dose, can result in a psychedelic experience, it's possible that hash inspired Islamic art and architecture. The likelihood of this connection, however, is anyone's guess.

The Manifesting Mind

The connection between psychedelic experiences and Islamic art and architecture (as well as other religious varieties) can be clarified by the very term psychedelic, which literally means "mind-manifesting". Psychedelics manifest our mind - they can bring unconscious material to the surface, amplify our other mental contents, and alter our sensory perceptions. But the geometric aspect of the experience may also be related to our minds on a very deep level.

It has been suggested that geometric hallucinations are a projection of the structure of our brain, stimulated in a variety of ways (e.g. drugs, conditions like migraine and epilepsy, near-death experiences, sensory deprivation, fasting, hypnagogia, and so on). The psychiatrist Oliver Sacks wrote in his book Hallucinations:

Perhaps such experiences are at the root of our human obsession with pattern and the fact that geometrical patterns find their way into our decorative arts.

He added:

Do the arabesques and hexagons in our own minds, built into our brain organisation, provide us with our first intimations of formal beauty?

We know that expressions of beauty are central to Islam. Of course, this raises the deeper question of why arabesques and geometric patterns are considered beautiful. But, as Sacks indicates, it could be because of the close affinity we have with these patterns. Islamic art and architecture may hold such high aesthetic value because it expresses the patterns found in our very own brain organisation. Indeed, this could help explain why geometric patterns are universally expressed and appreciated.

Islamic art and architecture are some of the finest traditional examples of this kind of aesthetic expression. They may not have necessarily been inspired by altered states, but their resemblance to psychedelic experiences certainly provides a lot of food for thought.

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The Psychedelic Nature of Islamic Art and Architecture

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Islamic art and architecture are often called psychedelic in nature - and rightly so. Both the art and architecture from the Islamic world feature vibrant colours and intricate, geometric patterns; much like the kaleidoscopic patterns one can see during a psychedelic experience, either with eyes opened or closed.

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Un-ser-para-más-allá-de-mi-muerte. Sobre _Operación al cuerpo enfermo_ de Sergio Loo

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Un-ser-para-más-allá-de-mi-muerte. Sobre _Operación al cuerpo enfermo_ de Sergio Loo

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El nacimiento del purgatorio, de Le Goff. Es ePub.

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El nacimiento del purgatorio, de Le Goff. Es ePub.

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En una sesión alguien hizo un comentario acerca de Antonio Porchia. Yo no lo conocía. Me he divertido mucho con esta selección de aforsimos suyos. Ojalá los disfruten tanto como yo. ¡Saludos!

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Aquí está la poesía completa.

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Éste es el libro que escribió en inglés basado en La última niebla

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La vida da muchas vueltas. La vida, no digo nada nuevo, es una transformación constante. Yo no estoy diciendo nada nuevo, nadie está diciendo nada nuevo. Todavía no entiendo bien a bien por qué nos gusta celebrar nuestros dichos. Lo único nuevo es que soy una vieja. Ser una vieja tiene sus ventajas. No esperen que responda como adolescente entusiasmada a todas sus invitaciones. Ya, de vieja, uno decide dónde cuándo y cómo aparecer. Hace tiempo que yo aparezco aquí y allá cuando se disuelve una nube de humo. Me encantan las mañanas, eso contradice las teorías de mis detractoras. Con tanto ellas, ellos y elles, yo he decidido siempre hablar en femenino. Somos personas: las personas. Para que no se confundan. Me trae aquí un sentimiento extraño, como de aparición. Este mes, después de 10 años, compartí una lectura con escritoras mexicanas. Tal ves es ese el sentimiento: como de volver. Pero también este mes publiqué un libro después de no publicar en México como solista por diez años ta

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La vida da muchas vueltas. La vida, no digo nada nuevo, es una transformación constante. Yo no estoy diciendo nada nuevo, nadie está diciendo nada nuevo. Todavía no entiendo bien a bien por qué nos gusta celebrar nuestros dichos. Lo único nuevo es que soy una vieja. Ser una vieja tiene sus ventajas.