STILL: BOOKS: RAIZ - Book

PrologueWe float between heaven and earth. Yes, we are here, in the body, but we are also there, in the air. Every passing minute we lose fifty thousand cells: dust, carried away by the wind. Scales that encapsulate our DNA and float on. There they are: over the sheep’s fleece, through the cigar’s smoke, hung on the thorns of the cactus flower, meshing with the paste of the fresh cocoa, with the adobe wall, forming a fine patina over our skin.  Skin: that enormous organ that covers us, breathes and renews itself every four weeks. A skin that replaces another skin that replaces another skin. Without sorrow, without nostalgia. Just life reassembling itself.  If the grooves and crests of our fingerprints point at our exceptionality they also point at us belonging in a multitude. I am me and what came before. I am, also, the future. Don’t you see them? The roots.They float in the air, the light goes through them, the photographer frames his shot, the image stops.PrologueWe float between heaven and earth. Yes, we are here, in the body, but we are also there, in the air. Every passing minute we lose fifty thousand cells: dust, carried away by the wind. Scales that encapsulate our DNA and float on. There they are: over the sheep’s fleece, through the cigar’s smoke, hung on the thorns of the cactus flower, meshing with the paste of the fresh cocoa, with the adobe wall, forming a fine patina over our skin.  Skin: that enormous organ that covers us, breathes and renews itself every four weeks. A skin that replaces another skin that replaces another skin. Without sorrow, without nostalgia. Just life reassembling itself.  If the grooves and crests of our fingerprints point at our exceptionality they also point at us belonging in a multitude. I am me and what came before. I am, also, the future. Don’t you see them? The roots.They float in the air, the light goes through them, the photographer frames his shot, the image stops.Gabriela Alemán.
RAIZ - Book

Prologue 

We float between heaven and earth. Yes, we are here, in the body, but we are also there, in the air. Every passing minute we lose fifty thousand cells: dust, carried away by the wind. Scales that encapsulate our DNA and float on. There they are: over the sheep’s fleece, through the cigar’s smoke, hung on the thorns of the cactus flower, meshing with the paste of the fresh cocoa, with the adobe wall, forming a fine patina over our skin. Skin: that enormous organ that covers us, breathes and renews itself every four weeks. A skin that replaces another skin that replaces another skin. Without sorrow, without nostalgia. Just life reassembling itself. If the grooves and crests of our fingerprints point at our exceptionality they also point at us belonging in a multitude. I am me and what came before. I am, also, the future.  

Don’t you see them? The roots. 

They float in the air, the light goes through them, the photographer frames his shot, the image stops. 

Prologue 

We float between heaven and earth. Yes, we are here, in the body, but we are also there, in the air. Every passing minute we lose fifty thousand cells: dust, carried away by the wind. Scales that encapsulate our DNA and float on. There they are: over the sheep’s fleece, through the cigar’s smoke, hung on the thorns of the cactus flower, meshing with the paste of the fresh cocoa, with the adobe wall, forming a fine patina over our skin. Skin: that enormous organ that covers us, breathes and renews itself every four weeks. A skin that replaces another skin that replaces another skin. Without sorrow, without nostalgia. Just life reassembling itself. If the grooves and crests of our fingerprints point at our exceptionality they also point at us belonging in a multitude. I am me and what came before. I am, also, the future.  

Don’t you see them? The roots. 

They float in the air, the light goes through them, the photographer frames his shot, the image stops. 

Gabriela Alemán. 

 

 

Prologue 

We float between heaven and earth. Yes, we are here, in the body, but we are also there, in the air. Every passing minute we lose fifty thousand cells: dust, carried away by the wind. Scales that encapsulate our DNA and float on. There they are: over the sheep’s fleece, through the cigar’s smoke, hung on the thorns of the cactus flower, meshing with the paste of the fresh cocoa, with the adobe wall, forming a fine patina over our skin. Skin: that enormous organ that covers us, breathes and renews itself every four weeks. A skin that replaces another skin that replaces another skin. Without sorrow, without nostalgia. Just life reassembling itself. If the grooves and crests of our fingerprints point at our exceptionality they also point at us belonging in a multitude. I am me and what came before. I am, also, the future.  

Don’t you see them? The roots. 

They float in the air, the light goes through them, the photographer frames his shot, the image stops. 

Gabriela Alemán.