Casablanca Lily

© Ron Villejo

Return of the Sonnet

© Ron Villejo

In the first handful of months in 2011, I wrote poetry as I were simply breathing.  I was an odd Midas.  It was as if anything I touched - saw, heard - immediately became poetry.  I wrote 479 poems by the end of April, to be perfectly exact.  

Then, the next four months, the number was zero.

Come September, my poetry stirred up again.  I had had a recursive, non-linear year, so far, and "Return of the Sonnet" heralded that stirring up.

As I conceptualized my recitation, my poem made me think of René Magritte.

Our Lives' Entropy

© Ron Villejo

I wrote this poem, after hearing that entropy was irreversible, from the film "13 Conversations About One Thing."

Silence

© Ron Villejo

Hillary and Mallory

© Ron Villejo

Rain - The Mystery of Tristan Rêveur

© Ron Villejo

Bad art is more tragically beautiful than good art, because it documents human failure.

Un suicide élégant est l'ultime œuvre d'art [An elegant suicide is the ultimate work of art].

Tristan Reveur is the greatest artist of the 20th century. What is the reason you haven't heard of him? It must be, that he is imaginary. He and his whole body of work was created in cooperation between strangers on the internet. The film erects a monument to his life, while investigating the questions of make-believe and online communities.

*

Henry is obsessed with a fake artist by the name of Tristan Rêveur, reveur being French for dreamer. So, in reality there is no artist by the name of Tristan Rêveur.

Reference:  Who is Tristan Rêveur?

Art work by Tristan Rêveur?

Facebook profile of Tristan Rêveur?

In Memory of Steve Jobs

It was early morning of October 6th 2011, and I was in Dubai just waking up.  I had my BlackBerry, bedside, and without thinking about it, I picked it up.  I saw from my Facebook news feed that Steve Jobs just died.  

I got up, and checked my news feed further on my laptop.  Same news on Twitter.  

On October 7th, a poem stirred in my mind.  By the next day, I had written "In Memory of Steve Jobs."  This long poem poured out of me, and I must've been simply the scribe who took the dictation from the muse that Jobs was.