Making dead art & my Love/Hate relationship with libraries

I get anxious when I go to a library to read without a book in mind.
There are so many brains that can be discovered in the loneliness of another. So many thought processes that can be deciphered in the silence and attention of another’s thoughts.
It is such an intimate thing to read. To take time to be seduced by the perception of another human. “Ok, tell me your story”- you say- “I will give you my time now…” You listen but also collaborate with the author to broadcast his visions in your head, with the resources that you have inside your mind, so when she or he says:”…the dog barked repeatedly at the sound of the siren so Alex had to get up and hug him tightly to calm him down and prevent the zombies to find them”. You pick in your imagination one dog you have seen before or you construct a new one with bits and parts of different dogs but probably it is not the dog that the author was imagining. It was a dog. Which kind of dog?… A brand new one that you created. The author tricked you into sculpting this awesome thing in your head and so you are left there energized and grateful for the time spent together, dreaming these incredible landscapes and situations and emotions together. Then you wake up…and… wait, was this real?
You fell in love with someone who was so gentle in showing you his world in your mind but who is dead in this reality. What? …this person was perfect for me in an imaginary land! Oh well, You missed each other just for a hundred years or just a thousand miles. We almost met! Almost! Sigh… what a pity…
I have felt the urge to write a book, I am writing two actually, but I don’t want to publish them. (Should I?…I don’t know yet) I don’t want to put my energy into secretly pouring my thoughts into a book. No. Many have done this already and I already know it is a magical thing. There are millions of genius brains waiting to be carefully dissected. Should my brain be another one?
What about all the people who use other languages besides the written word? or who cannot read? or that the written word is not as engaging in their realities? Their lives matter too. They are valid. Usually they are the ones being left behind, usually the ones being oppressed by other “more educated” humans. I dislike this.
1174812_10153073811545478_48291477_nTherefore, I have decided to express my art in other ways. Look for other forms. Be versatile Maycita. As long as a piece of art has mistery it is alive, so I want my art dead. I want it to be as transparent and as vulnerable as I can. As understandable as I can make it, to die my art in my lifetime, not live it. This way no one will ever fall in love with me in a thousand years. I want to fall in love with me now. With my motives now.

I’m fascinated about discovering me in the world and the world in me. I want to love deeply in the moments that people need strength to go on. Make art now. Be present and ready now. The most important thing I have learnt in my travels and interactions with people is how insignificant I am and yet how much I can mean in a moment.
The attention of people is a spotlight where you have to perform and you better have your stuff together to give a good show. A beneficial one. An educational one. An energizing one. I hope.
I can’t imagine to invest in anything greater than the moments of life. To deconstruct myself to feed the fire of others.
Let’s keep trying to do this. Let’s be an open and loud diary. Let’s make dead art today.


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