A Spanglish blog dedicated to the works, ruminations, and mongrel pyrotechnics of Yago S. Cura, an Argentine-American poet, translator, publisher & futbol cretin. Yago publishes Hinchas de Poesia, an online literary journal, & is the sole proprietor of Hinchas Press.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010


If the happenstance are a collection of chance moments strung up like bulbous, milky pearls, they remind us that the majority of moments we record(as individuals of analog) end up on the closed-circuit cutting room of consciousness? But, if we are lucky, we get treated to a parade of insanely concocted images that make our inner cameras gush. If we know how to look and grow the patience of editors, the recompense is an existence in which the self forms part of sublime, surreal scenarios.

(I'm not necessarily talking about adolescent Jim Morrison seeing that Native American automobile crash and spying two souls fluttering like milky plastic bags towards Tecumshila; furthermore, think of all those times you thought to yourself, if I were the projectionist of my life, I would like this scene to stand out for some reason I can not now explain. Maybe, I am saying that we have all felt the compunction that our lives were being narrated, or filmed in a sort of secret project program. No? Just me? Well, all I am saying is stare into the retractable mirror in your bathroom and try not to think of anyfink.)

However, I am not not saying that the happenstance is what Michelle Cura "collects" either because that would imply a state of leisure in industry that she completely disdains. If you know her, you know her to swivel that putrid little camera out of her armpit like some secret turret and snap a photograph of you sans consent. I would be more inclined to state that Michelle Cura hunts the happenstance, than say that it willingly approaches her so that she can "collect" into the gullet of her camera.

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