All posts by ElPaper Magazine

The Line issue 2015 – 2016

spanish version
       

    
TEXTS Bobby Sands desfallece en el muro by Carmen Berenguer Translation by Maria Elena Blanco 'Draw a line on my belly Draw a line on the wall Draw a line on the ledge Draw a vertical line On my deathbed'
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 


The Performance in Me, or the Shit and the Sign
Scatological Mini-Manifesto
by Eli Neira
English Translation by Marlena Gittleman
  I shit on Chile’s Political Constitution because Chile’s Political Constitution shat on me first. And not only did it shit on me, but on all of us. I super shit on the Constitution, appealing to my legitimate right to complain, although this is nothing but an illusion.full text
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _  


Turn Out i Don't know Shit by David Bromley
       There is a new coffee shop in Spanish Harlem housed in a renovated storefront in a decaying tenement on 110th St, The building is flaking paint all over and it appears some work is being done by groups of men wearing chalky Timberland boots. Other storefronts further down in the same building are basically like shells. Occasionally on my way home from the subway I will see Latino men squatting in lawn chairs outside these shells and chewing on food from the to-go containers on their laps. I have been living in Spanish Harlem – East Harlem – Spaha for 6 plus years and in marginalized areas of NYC (the outer boroughs) for going on 20 years. full text
Gustavo Murillo “Synthetic eyes video frames”
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _   _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 


I declare myself island by Johan Mijail 
English translation by Marlena Gittleman

It’s already clear: dying in a yola is not the solution. The beyond, the here, the world, the
suitcase of dreams with perico ripiao ’included, the tickets to board an imaginary train and look-die through the window. The island keeps inking in the middle of the waves that come from all sides;—you save yourself if you carry gold hidden in your wallet, you save yourself only if you speak English and pay with dollars in this little New York, you save yourself if you have white knees, you save yourself if you want to save yourself and for that reason read the bible, you save yourself, you
are saved in this mirror of a shitty country, in this Caribbean drowning in palm trees and motoconchos, And what? in the North: they run; in the South: the earth burns; in the East: the streets’ holes are craters and; in the West: you don’t hear voices. We continue to be island, island where to be an artist is to be the devil, a geographic datum some where, demography crowded with palm trees and coasts. A tricolor flame with a Catholic shield in the center. Holy hours,food,everything you can hide in the boat we’re building to leave in. We won a tournament where the prize was a ball of socks and a dictionary with three words not included in the previous Antenas dictionary and everything you could imagine on a roof, all of that paired with a sun that seems to become something else. Flowers that come out of the ground and get lost in the arms of scarecrows forming a personal universe where the background music is a
gagá, where the dark-skinned people who are still alive keep dancing to the rhythm of un-do-tré with their arms swollen from hitting the streets to the sound of the pickaxe and the sweat on
their foreheads. Lowering, raising, dividing the piece of earth in two. Two don’t fit? They do. It’s enough for two, for three, for everyone who wants to die(but not now), because at the end of history we’ll fly out on a comet and right at this time is when we see angels and ladies praying and men starting to wake up on Sundays. Arroz con pollo, arroz con habichuelas, arroz con huevo, all in the same room, to the rhythm of un-do-tré mariposita linda e’. I, personally, who have seen planes landing and very big buildings, can attest that the Quisqueya Stadium one day will catch fire because of the Duarte, Sánchez, and Mella thing. Mamá Tingó left her heart in the ground and her blood bore fruit to this generation with the Caribbean between its eyebrows. To this generation who has put on the island like a hat and a shield against war. To this generation that began at the same time that the cosmos named everyone under the sign of Aries, without caring if it was December or another month outside the circle, and it doesn’t matter, because what we are doing is shouting at all these sons of bitches who spit  us to a world of othernesses, that we are reflecting,cleaning,coordinating,transforming living,feeling,enjoying, thinking, dancing, suffering, crying the Caribbean, bathing the love for this lost half-island. This half-island
with an energy that fills us to the point of wanting to hammer in its hand and with a knife in its mouth it transforms everything into nothing, into smell, into taste, into cadence, into smoke, and we start to float, because there’s no more strength to walk, some have even have lost their legs and others have won more: they are organized in twos and threes like ranks. Tell me How have we been able to surv/l/ive here? If it isn’t by declaring ourselves to be the island and doing magic tricks with coconut water, to move mountains and save all the sugarcane in a box or in a tube where no one would see it again, where no one would make us slaves again, where no one would come to trade-buy us for gold again.
Johan Mijail ‘En los ojos de los otros’. Performance,2012 photograph Pablo Esteban Angulo.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

The Grocery Store Across the Tex-Mex Border (Poem No.11)    by Edgar Ulloa

In the grocery store, my mother found out there were kidnappers that were also costumers. As Pilín, who was a “flaquillo, flaquillo. Era buena gente pero andaba en malos pasos.” Iba a comprar cigarettes and sodas a la tienda. Oía de él por la gente que le contaba las malas cosas que hacía a otras personas inocentes. Algunos querían prevenirla de él, y le recomendaban que cerrara la tienda cuando él viniera en grupo. Al final, dice mi madre, “Pueblo chico, infierno grande”. La tienda de abarrotes, empezaba convertirse en una escuela pa conocer el ser humano.

 


Crossroads at INFANTE 1415, Santiago

..
UnderMAc Festival,
Santiago 2015

..
Urban Sketchers,
Santiago 2015

..
Crossroads Gallery,
Bushwick 2015

..
El Paper Magazine,
New York 2014