V - CECILIA VICUÑA

Vicuña sigue el hilo en el que tropezamos como nudos o palabras o personas o.
hilo es o haz que vimos en Eielson impecablemente pero por supuesto anónimo antes en hábiles manos chancay o nazca. Gráficos hilos que hieren la tapa y las hojas en blanco, en lenguas largas y desérticas como Chile. hilos que nacen en Con-cón, frente al mar como tótem readymade, como acción -aunque más bien: rito, y se cristalizan en lienzo, alfabeto y libro.

Vicuña pretende ser signo (V) y librarse de la identidad que nos hace votar por ejemplo.

busca esa lengua que habitó antes estas tierras heladas: Meandro / tu kenko / ¿Quién te ensució? / Chichita / challando.

Y el hilo sigue su curso en el cielo disfrazado de negro cóndor interandino.

recoge las esquirlas de lo humano que nos resta en el sexo del mundo; su Voz es un susurro dulce, reparador, compasivo, integrador. en la presentación del poemario censurado en Chile: “Sabor a mí” reclama sin palabras (lo mismo que Artaud) el hembra del mundo.

he necesitado un par de meses viajando a K para escribir esta reseña, entre pongos, donde quedan fragmentos de una relación de continuidad o simbiosis con la vida en sus múltiples continentes, donde el individuo lo es 1, donde no es extraño el ritmo natural del cosmos.

nuestra veloz ficción occidental se encuentra en la otra margen, expandiéndose parasitaria.

solo ahora comprendo que no se trataba de una postergación de este comentario al libro de V. en Utec, en Casacancha, en Mamas, en Pechuquiz… están impresas como en el cielo las mismas letras que están en nuestra sangre :Y si yo dedicara mi vida / a una de sus plumas / a vivir su naturaleza / serla y comprenderla / hasta el fin?

siento que esta es mi llave de lectura.

siento urgencia también de réplica… ¿desde la escritura? entristecido traduzco las palabras de otros que desprenden los labios y describen epidermis.

escribamos saviamente.

V conduce un diálogo multilingüe, poligenérico, transhumano, milenario, extendiendo el hilo que nos hace, un hilo que se anuda en Nueva York o frente al Plomo, en la Cordillera de los Andes y en este libro.

esta publicación es otro esfuerzo de tRpode (que insiste en expander la onda) realizado durante el verano de 2009.

madrepora.blogspot.com

LO PRECARIO

Así varios millones de años después
de la creación del otoño y pocos años después
de la creación de la bolsa de plástico
decidí guardar el otoño dentro de una bolsa

Hace apenas dos semanas que conocí la obra de Cecilia Vicuña. Además de leer atentamente los poemas del libro que hoy presenta, me emocionó descubrir que su trabajo artístico radica en el campo de lo precario.

Digo campo y no concepto porque esas dos palabras (“lo”, “precario”) generan con sus intensidades no un territorio cerrado del mundo de las ideas sino una zona abierta, material: una intemperie de escritura dispuesta a desbordar y perder.

LO, con su indeterminación, da cuenta de la constante inestabilidad de referencias de este mundo que no deja de cambiar y vaciarse a toda velocidad. LO nombra el hueco más fascinante de la subjetividad de un poema. PRECARIO, tal como escribe Cecilia Vicuña, significa además de 'inseguro', 'obtenido por oración'. Entonces, la escritura no es nada ni nadie sino lo logrado por oración en el poema, en el trabajo de arte: lo precario.

LO PRECARIO after el arte povera. El mundo después del neoliberalismo. O lo que es lo mismo: la asunción de que además del deterioro de su condición socio-ecónomica, las relaciones personales, sentimentales y biólogicas de gran parte de los sujetos y objetos del globo viven hoy atravesadas por el daño. Asumirlo y exponerlo quizás forme parte de esta poética de los precarios y de las precarias; los quipus y las preces.

Sin conocer la obra de Cecilia Vicuña leí V a partir de un poema en concreto; ese que parece que protagonizan una bolsa plástica y un otoño. Pensé que si podían tomar el campo de un poema, campar por su escritura, dos objetos tan sencillos, también lo haría mi lectura por el libro. Y en ese momento pude participar de la plegaria del libro, acampar allí un tiempo largo, sin cierre.

+ POESÍA – POLICÍA or THE TRUE TALE OF HOW CECILIA SAVED ME FROM THE OVERLONG ARM OF THE LAW

+ POESÍA

I used to smoke in my apartment, in the kitchen, sitting in one weird yellow plastic chair, my feet up on another, reading a book and listening to the Yankees on the radio. Finally, my girlfriend won the argument and I started smoking outside, in the courtyard in the middle of our building. And suddenly I knew my neighbors, I knew what the weather was like, and I got a lot more reading done, because it's hard to follow a book and a ballgame at the same time, especially if the book is in one language, the ballgame in another. More than not minding it, I found that I actually liked smoking outside. I did not tell my girlfriend this. Her response would have surely been, Well, imagine how much you'll like quitting!

It's not even a problem when it rains, since there's a covered passageway about fifty feet long leading into the courtyard. If there happens to be water falling from the sky, that's where I go. I stay dry, my book stays dry, the cigarette gets smoked, everybody's happy. So that's where I was about a week ago, in the passageway, avoiding a light rain, reading Cecilia Vicuña's new book V. I finish the cigarette, put the book under my arm and I'm stubbing the cigarette out against a wall, so I can throw it in the trash rather than leave old butts lying around all over everywhere, when I hear the distinctive crackle of a police radio.

They're supposed to turn those things down when they sneak up on somebody, but they never remember. So I look up and here come two cops, a man and a woman, both somewhere in their early twenties, walking very carefully toward me. And the he-cop says, Excuse me, sir.

Let me just step aside from my narrative here for a moment to say this: I don't like cops. Not even a little bit. They make me very, very nervous. I've had guns pointed at me by cops and I've had guns pointed at me by muggers, and the muggers were less frightening. Pathologize me how you will in light of this information, I offer it simply as background to the incredible fear that seized me at the sight of these two people who, in jeans and T-shirts, would not have drawn a second look.

So, Excuse me, sir, says the he-cop. And I try to stay calm, look casual, and I say, What's up? And he asks me if I live here. I say that I do. He asks if I have identification, I tell him it's inside, in my apartment. He-cop is now very suspicious. He looks over at she-cop, and she's suspicious, too. He-cop asks me my name and I tell him it's Brandon. He says, Can I ask you what you're doing here, sir?

I was having a cigarette, I show him the butt in my hand, And reading a book, I say, reaching under my arm for the book. The cops flinch. Both of them. It was really, really cute. I show them the book. Yeah?, says the still suspicious he-cop, what's the book about?

I tell him it's a book of poems, so it's not really about anything the way a novel might be, but it's...well it's by this woman from Chile named Cecilia Vicuña. I tell him I met her a few nights ago, at this gallery in Soho. I describe her: she's about this tall, she has hair like so, a face like so, a voice like so. I'm basically just scared to death and I can't stop talking, just rambling on, hoping that something I say is going to convince him that I'm harmless-crazy, as opposed to whatever kind of criminal he considers me to be at present.

I show him the book so he can see that it's in Spanish. I say the book's kind of about language and how it works and how poetry and what we call religion now but what we used to call magic were basically all the same thing once. How a long time ago poetry and religion and magic and art and maybe science, too, were all a single thing and that thing was called poetry. I tell him the book is mostly about how poetry is still that single, weird thing, still magical-religious-word-science-art, but we've gotten so used to it not being that, to those things not being the same thing, that we forgot, so Cecilia is here to remind us.

And my hands are shaking, my heart is pounding and I can't really breath I'm so freaked out by these cops, so I just keep talking, about how last year I was working as a proofreader in the Financial District and they gave me this dictionary that had a section in the back on paleo-linguistics, which is when word scientists use modern languages to figure out what ancient languages were like. Specifically one ancient language called Indo-European, which is the ancestor of many, many languages. And these word scientists know that the people who spoke this ancestor language had horses, and lived where it was snowy, and had kings and poetry and that's really all that was known about them when that dictionary was written back in the early 80's. I start talking about how these word scientists have reconstructed the words of this ancestor language, and how in the introduction to the dictionary of reconstructed words it said that every word was originally a poem. Every word was a successful attempt to capture something in the world and turn it into language, and every word became a word, rather than something weird someone said once, because it was a successful attempt. That the magic was that: the attempt being successful, and when that happened it was so amazing that everyone remembered and started saying it and so a word was born. That's how every word was born.

He-cop is looking at me very quizzically now, so I tell him that at that gallery in Soho the other night Cecilia wrapped everybody there in yarn then told us all that the Mayas believed the gods made humans because they wanted to hear some poetry for a change. I say that if that's true, which it obviously is, and if the word scientists are right that every word was once a poem, which they obviously are, then Cecilia's book is about getting back to that moment: getting back to when every word was an awesome piece of magical-religious-word-science-art, the creation of which is the whole reason we're on the planet in the first place. Gods or no gods.

Suddenly I realize I've been rambling on about poetry and paleo-linguistics to a New York City cop for I don't know how long. This seems bad, so I try to swing the conversation back down to earth, to me, and how I'm not insane or illegal enough to arrest. I tell him that Cecilia was nice enough to sign the book to me and my girlfriend, who won't let me smoke in the house anymore which is why I'm outside, and I show him Cecilia's signature, which is more a drawing than a signature, ranging all over the title page, and I point to my name, Brandon, right there in Cecilia's handwriting.

And he-cop has the weirdest look on his face. It takes me a minute to figure out that he's trying not to smile. He's kind of wrestling with a grin and losing. She-cop is openly giggling. And now they're behaving very differently. They're not nearly as suspicious. He-cop apologizes for disturbing me. He says, It's just that there have been a lot of burglaries in the area recently, which is a standard cop lie. I've heard that line at least a dozen times. What really happened was they mistook me for one of my neighbors, one of the guys a little younger than me that hang around the building looking kind of gangsterish, smoking weed and bothering nobody.

But now he-cop is trying to extricate himself from this situation. They're sorry for disturbing me, he says, and they're really sorry but they kind of have to take down my name, if I don't mind, it's standard procedure. He-cop's in a tight spot here, caught between the regulations and his concern that I might go inside and call the ACLU as soon as he leaves. I say, Sure! No problem. I spell my name out, give them my DOB. I even ask them if they want my social security number, but they don't need it.

With all that written down in she-cop's little notebook, they shake their heads, apologize again for disturbing me and are about to leave when, just to be a jerk, I ask them if they want to hear one of the poems. They're really good, I assure them. He-cop laughs like now he thinks I might be more than just harmless-crazy. That's okay, he says, we don't speak Spanish anyway. Thanks all the same. You have a good day, sir.

– POLICÍA

spiterature.blogspot.com

V - cecilia vicuña - tRpode - girabel@yahoo.com

Fuera de las pequeñas brujerías de los magos de villorrio, existen los grandes pares de hechizamiento globales en los que toda conciencia alarmada participa periódicamente.

quepodriaponeraqui.blogspot.com

Tonton Mahood: ALAN LAMB, Primal Image + Night Passage (1995, drone))

Tonton Mahood: ALAN LAMB, Primal Image + Night Passage (1995, drone))

FLASH

28

28 from Yuri Gutiérrez Gavonel on Vimeo.

HE CAN'T SING

I CAN'T SING

LET'S SING!!!

PINK FLOYD - MOONHEAD

We were in a BBC TV studio jamming to the landing. It was a live broadcast, and there was a panel of scientists on one side of the studio, with us on the other. I was 23. The programming was a little looser in those days, and if a producer of a late-night programme felt like it, they would do something a bit off the wall. Funnily enough I’ve never really heard it since, but it is on YouTube. They were broadcasting the moon landing and they thought that to provide a bit of a break they would show us jamming. It was only about five minutes long. The song was called Moonhead — it’s a nice, atmospheric, spacey 12-bar blues.

TO FORCE A SOLAR ECLIPSE

SERPENTINA SATELITE THE LAST DROP

THE LAST DROP
Official video produced & directed by
HENRY GATES
www.myspace.com/henrygates
www.zeppelin.com.pe

www.myspace.com/serpentinasatelite
www.serpentinasatelite.com

YOU ARE SERPENTINA SATELITE

THE COLLECTION OF SILENCE

The Collection of Silence A project by Eileen Myles
Tuesday, June 30, 2009, 7pm at NYC's Hispanic Society of America

presented by DIA Art Foundation

Admission is free.

25 poets and other artists will perform poems "silently" by moving their lips but not speaking--a Spanish/English booklet of all poems will accompany the event--

NYC Poet Eileen Myles will present The Collection of Silence, a baroque site-specific work around the possibilities of silence as central to the syntax and punctuation of everyday life. A diverse group of poets will present short pieces at various locations on the outdoor plaza of Audubon Terrace, where they will be joined by a group of students from PS4.

Also accompanied by dancers, Buddhists, an opera singer, and a life drawing class, this mute and active gathering will demonstrate and celebrate the collective power of silence and the capacity of an unvoiced poem to serve the communal purposes of public life.

Participants include poets Charles Bernstein, Stephanie Gray, Tim Liu, Monica De la Torre, and Rachel Zolf, Christine Hou, and Julie Patton, dancer-choreographer Christine Elmo, The Village Zendo, and soprano Juliana Snapper.

The silent texts will be available in a bilingual edition at the performance.
DIRECTIONS: Hispanic Society of America's Audubon Terrace at Broadway between 155th and 156th streets, New York City. By subway take number 1 train to 157th and Broadway.

Reservations are recommended 212 293 5582 or Tuesdays@diaart.org.

All programs are outdoors; visit http://www.diaart.org for inclement weather updates.

Poets participating:
MONICA DE LA TORRE, CHARLES BERNSTEIN, STEPHANIE GRAY, TIM LIU, RACHEL ZOLF, JENNIFER BARTLETT, DANNY SNELSON, CA CONRAD, FRANK SHERLOCK, RENATO GÓMEZ, KIM ROSENFIELD, ANGELA JAEGER, JEREMY SIGLER, TIM PETERSON, LYDIA CORTES, NATHANIEL SIEGEL. PAOLO JAVIER, MARK BIBBINS, NICOLE COOLEY, LINDA GREGG, JEFFREY MCDANIEL, LILA ZEMBORAIN, TONYA FOSTER, RACHEL LEVITSKY, EMILY BEALL, CHRISTINE HOU, JULIE PATTON, STUDENTS FROM PS 4 AND EILEEN MYLES, PROJECT ORGANIZER

27/6/2009 - 1.24 am

24/6/2009 - 12.43 am

21/6/2009 - 7.14 pm

PROTESTA POR LA MASACRE DE BAGUA. AMAZONAS-PERU from Yuri Gutiérrez Gavonel on Vimeo.

You always come To the partiesToo bad the feathers Are for the birds All your needsI will not Let you grieveI want your picture But not your wordsYou know the wanting But there's no verseOn your ownBut you can Not' call it your all We always run Our heads too muchWe know the reason But such and suchOn your ownYou will not Let your arm goWe all look Bigger togetherYou know if this Is the devil's planOn your ownYou can not Call me your heartJack of all tradesMaster of noneCry all the timeCause i'm not having fun You always Want to be forgivenThe devil loves what And you printAll your needsBut you can not You will not agree

El día queda atrás, apenas consumido y ya inútil; comienza la gran luz

ANÓNIMO DEL SIGLO XXI

Desde hace un tiempo se viene advirtiendo en las ediciones peruanas de poesía una tendencia minoritaria, pero continua, que va a contrapelo del marketing. En vez de carátulas vistosas, tapas monocromas y opacas; en vez de que el nombre del poeta luzca en grandes caracteres, se le desplaza al lomo, se le destierra a páginas interiores o, en los casos más radicales, al colofón. Y, desde luego, ningún texto elogioso sobre el autor, ni siquiera informativo, al revés de las grandes empresas editoriales, que tienen uncidos al aparato publicitario de sus obras a los más vendedores.

Entre los principales representantes de esta tendencia están Renato Gómez y Paul Guillén, directores de la revista Girabel, donde se pensaba que la poesía, como el viento, la noche o la luz del sol, no puede pertenecer a nadie. Girabel –“revista de próxima autodestrucción”, se denominaba– trató de aproximarse a este pensamiento.

Si se tratase de rastrear localmente precursores de tal actitud frente al poeta y su obra habría que citar a Emilio Adolfo Westphalen, por su posición adversa a toda inclusión de la poesía en el mercado. En 1978, por ejemplo, en un congreso celebrado en México, sostuvo que “el hallazgo de una experiencia peculiar de vida” expresada en términos poéticos válidos produce un goce que mueve a compartirlo. Esta tarea –dijo– se realiza “mediante una transmisión casi de boca a oído que a veces hasta puede prescindir de los medios de comunicación de masa”. Para él no era paradójico sostener que “la difusión de la poesía escoge de preferencia esas vías soterradas – que cuanto más cubierta y clandestina sea la transmisión más posibilidades hay que sea eficaz y duradera”. Su propia trayectoria poética abona esta tesis.

Pues bien, sucede que ha empezado a circular la expresión más extremada –hasta donde sabemos– de la corriente aludida: un libro de 20 x 20 cm que si bien tiene tapas de colorido diseño geométrico estas son totalmente iletradas. Así, no hay cómo aludir a él, pues en su interior no solo permanece anónimo sino carece también de título. Si por algo puede identificársele es por su insólito tema, por su elemento básico: la caca.

Se trata de un considerable y al parecer largamente madurado poema en 29 estancias que entra de lleno a lo suyo. He aquí su incipit: “Tu ano es el centro de una religión difusa. De mi ano tu mayor instinto, / un chorro marrón de masa que ya no palpita”.

GODDO SUPIIDO YUU! BURAKKU EMPARAA (1976)

Mitsuo Yanagimachi's Godspeed You! Black Emperor (1976) is these days more famous for having inspired the name of the celebrated Canadian post-rock band than for actually being seen by audiences as a great film in its own right. However, if you are at all interested in Japanese cinema and, by extension, Japanese culture, then it is really the kind of film that is worth tracking down. Though, admittedly, most current available versions of the film feature quite poor-subtitling, the themes of the film and the relationships between the various characters are all fairly easy to understand regardless of such limitations; with the film really being more about the mood and the atmosphere created by the filmmakers, as opposed to any notion of complicated plotting. If you can get behind this approach and appreciate the film for its exciting sense of energy, urgency, confusion and defiance - all central to the lives and interactions of these various characters - then you'll be able to enjoy the film as a purely visceral experience.

In terms of style, Godspeed You! Black Emperor is typical of the low-budget, street-level productions of the Japanese New Wave of the late 60's and early 70's; shot in high-contrast black and white with obvious cinéma-vérité like influences and a cast of young stars that seem suitably intense and charmingly inexperienced. The approach to the film adds to that rough rock n' roll, proto-punk-type appeal of the production, with the film standing as something of a Japanese precursor to Quadrophenia (1979); depicting the workings of a genuine sub-culture - in this instance, the bōsōzoku biker gangs that came to prominence in the 1950's and evolved throughout the subsequent two decades - and the evocative creation of a grey and hopeless world of flat blocks, suburbs and backstreets where this rambling youth drama plays out. It is also sensitively rendered in regards to the characters - illustrating their hopes, dreams and ambitions - not to mention their various interweaving relationships and the sense that the escape and freedom presented by the thrill of riding a motorcycle through the late night streets of Shinjuku is really as life-affirming as anything else imaginable.

Beyond the obvious curiosity value for fans and admirers of the now iconic band, Godspeed You! Black Emperor is a window into a particular time in 20th century Japanese history; with the general attitudes of the characters, their defiance and sense of rebellion all being characteristic of the country before the economic rebirth of the following decades. The depiction of the country's youth and the general behavioural system as documented in the film is easily as fascinating as that depicted in a film such as 'If...' (1968), which presents a similar sense of generational defiance and the need for escape, as well as offering a similar window of experience for those of us that missed that particular time and movement. Not only that, but Godspeed You! Black Emperor can and should be seen as one of the truly great rock n' roll films; with the timely soundtrack combined with the scenes of group banter and those endlessly fascinating shots of the snake-like convey of motorcycles - with headlight glaring out in pristine black and white as they parade through the slumbering city - defining the film as something completely iconic and completely unique.

SERPENTINA SATELITE NUEVA OLA @ FUNDACION TELEFONICA

NUEVA OLA

SANGRE DE GRADO / PERFIL DE LA GRAVEDAD

OCTAVA FUSA DEL AMANECER

MADRIPOOR

NOTHING TO SAY

SERPENTINA SATELITE NOTHING TO SAY

SERPENTINA SATELITE NOTHING TO SAY

TRIP IN TIME - 2008

No decir nada es también una forma de decir algo, algo como decir: hasta aquí llega la cosa, ya me aburrí, ya me hastió. De algún modo a todo silencio le precede una crisis. Pero en Lima aún estamos sumergidos en la crisis.

Lima es la ciudad donde todos hablan, hablan en las calles, en las radios, en la tele, en las combis, en los blogs, en los facebooks, en los periódicos. Y la comunicación en Lima se basa bastante en lo sonoro: claxons, ambulantes, ruido y más ruido. No sólo es una cuestión puramente física sonora, es una cuestión cultural: en Lima todo tiende o desea la exposición, el dejarse ver, el hacerse notar. Desde la pura películina farandulera culturosa figuretosa hasta nuestra estética horror vacui y la informalidad que todo lo desborda. Pocos quieren pasar desapercibidos y muchos lo pasan igual.

Serpentina Satélite es uno de esos grupos que pasa desapercibidos. No son chicos que toquen mucho (uno de sus integrantes vive en Estados Unidos), no se los ve en las fiestas o conciertos, no se publicitan mucho, mantienen un perfil bajo, casi como si fueran una banda secreta. Hacen poca fanfarria pero sí trabajan mucho.

Hasta la fecha, la banda integrada por Renato Gomez, Felix Dextre, Dolmo, Aldo y Flavio Casillejos, lleva editados dos discos, el último ha aparecido en el sello alemán Trip in Time, que también ha editado a la Ira de Dios. En Alemania (país de gran tradición de música psicodélica) muchos grupos peruanos actuales vienen editando sus discos a través de sellos especializados. A lo de Serpentina Satélite y la Ira de Dios hay que sumar lo de Don Juan Matus, El Hombre Misterioso y El Cuy. Se habla allá de una movida de psicodelia peruana actual. Y hasta cierto punto es real aunque en la práctica no funcione como una movida. Lo que sí existe es una tendencia hacia esos sonidos hipnóticos y pesados presentes en buena parte del underground local. Dentro de ese mundo Serpentina Satélite representa el ala más espacial (junto a La Ira de Dios y los inconstantes pero siempre sorpresivos Hipnoascención) y densa, muy deudora del sonido krautrock de los alemanes Ash Ra Temple.

La deuda que Serpentina Satélite tiene con Ash Ra Temple es evidente, es marcada, es apologética, es fanática, pero bueno a estas alturas Ash Ra Temple tiene tantos émulos (como Sonic Youth o Cocteau Twins) que en sí mismo su sonido es ya un género musical. Y eso no quita que Serpentina pueda dar rienda suelta a su creatividad, hacer suyo un sonido y sepa, como las buenas bandas psicodélicas, hacerte despegar.

El disco es agresivo y desenfadado, como una patada en la cara. El Nothing To Say del título tiene un juego filosófico detrás. Es la búsqueda mediante la música de una suerte de absoluto que las palabras (el habla) no pueden generar. Ahí está viva la psicodelia como conexión hacia ese absoluto. "Nueva Ola" y sobretodo "Madripoor" ofrecen buenos momentos de rock psicodélico espacial con algún que otro tinte garagero.

El inicio de "Kommune 1" no es menos significativo: "El asco ha dotado de alas a mis inventos" se escucha decir en la voz de Flavio Castillejos (insólito integrante de la banda, es un niño!!!) inundándonos de pavor para luego empezar la arremetida con un extenso tema (23 minutos!!), a la Ash Ra Temple, como es de ley para cualquier grupo de estos que se respete. En medio del magma de efectos y el volcánico sonido de la psicodelia hay un instante de quietud donde oímos nuevamente la voz de Flavio leyendo unos oscuros versos del gran poeta chimbotano Juan Ojeda: "Dioses. Dioses. Los he visto danzar con movimientos horribles: el viento removía el seco polvo de la Tierra Colorada, y yo huía enloquecido, soportando las revelaciones".

Juan Ojeda (santo personal de Renato Gómez, guitarrista de la banda, además de un notable poeta y editor de una interesante colección de libros de poesía), en su célebre Arte de Navegar (1962-1974) nos habla de la búsqueda, odisea de un origen real, a riesgo de enloquecer, a costa de un descenso al infierno. Reivindicarlo da una idea de lo que, tengo la sensación, quiere ser un disco como Nothing To Say: la prueba de una desconfianza, de una insatisfacción que raya con lo anarquista. Nada que decir sólo para decir que todo está podrido en el lenguaje y que ese lenguaje significa también un poder, una hegemonía, una cultura que hay que cuestionar. Conclusión: Nothing To Say = Psicodelia + Hastío. Volar es más que pasar un buen momento. Serpentina despega a riesgo de convertirse en unos, terriblemente lúcidos pájaros eremitas, dejándonos la invitación servida para ese peligroso viaje.