Basurería

No one records what they don’t feel like a frame

Discarded shots with an invented name. Who decides what gets recorded, who takes the claim? Who decides that I must erase it, erase the flame? Shots screaming, killing just to be heard, twisting silence into something blurred. But voices are silenced, visions and recordings. Collected. Rolling only what’s polished, refined, feeding the frame with the perfectly lined. But I want to prove it, I want it shown. What a second frame can carry alone. A distorted drawing. A visual poem the mind has overthrown, canceled by Saturdays and forgotten places that hold their own. That do not forget. That keep remembering. Uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable to hear what won’t be sought, to face the echo of an unwanted thought. That’s Basurería. Shots and memories forgotten with an invented name. Uncomfortable, strange. Give the frame a meaning, give shape to the frame. I’ve already explained it to you. And you, especially you, should know I haven’t forgotten.