Blooming Blood - Rojas, Zamna Urista

. .

Résumé :
To be honest, this collection of poetry was never intended for any reason aside from the personal need to try to understand and reflect the changing world around and within. This collection ?s making spans over ten years and didn't begin hasta que yo cruze el charco. Un Xicano en Europa dando vueltas, realizing how all people are more alike than different. My voice and savior was music and somehow it became my profession. The first real power I felt in my life that could heal invisible wounds. The more music I created the more I was hooked. When I took a break from my obsession I would write, it too began to call me, to tell me secrets, to reveal them. The colors of the words are intoxicating in combination, they are meant to give form somehow to feelings and revelations, to make them somehow graspable in my hands. The unknown that stirred in me wanted to be known, freed. Like ghosts somehow trapped in a body who yearn to be alive anew. To say the least, these passages healed, opened doors. What does it mean to be human, an adult, Xicano? Where is your place in this confusion of reality ? What is love , hate, hope? What is worth doing or being in this life? Who am I? -Zamna Urista-Rojas

Biographie:
Zamna Urista-Rojas, born en Kalif Aztlan 1977. Childhood full of adventure and mudanzas, I remember music and colors. Las playas de Tijuana hasta los picos de los Rockies, and back again. El pan dulce que me compraba mi abuelita, las bandas de mis primos, the scary paintings of Frida en el sal?n. The garage full of books, treasures without limit that I slowly went discovering throughout the years. The psychedelic records de mi padre that my hermanito and I cherished, the murals of Xicano Park , what I thought was the most beautiful place on earth, as if walking in the presence of gods. Identity crisis, chaos, the ocean , el monte, the confusion. Waking up super early to go fishing en Avila, to barely catch anything over 6 hours and still feel like a king. Making our first fires alone and working on my punteria with the bow my Jefito made us. Throwing blows everywhere I could get away with it until I hit Junior high and realized I ain shit. These pendejos all decided to grow to the size of adults and I was lagging, still am. The long road to San Anton lined with roadkill. Catfish under the bridge, chuetes, pecan pralines and pecan trees at the old haunted family house. Cicadas singing to the sun, cottonmouth vipers in the tub, sitting by the bonfire scared shitless of my Tio's dark as night wolfdog. Late night runs for tacos al pastor, mi jefita pide Contrabando y traici?n al trio. The trailer homes, and Grandpa Lupe's yard full of unfinished cars. His glasses, his cap, beautiful red skin, fading tattoos, y como no, su lira. Working in Alaska in summer, wild times, wild animals and wild people. Mi padre cogiendo el armadillo y cantando como un guerrero. My collection of knives and cassettes of Bob Marley. Punk rock, Heavy Metal, Flamenco, Jazz , Cantautor. Tuning and then detuning, La guitarra me salv? el alma, pero luego el bolsillo tambi?n, didn't see that coming. In Andalucia of all places, nearly 10 years and now 10 more in Berlin. Sometimes when you don't know where to turn, you write. Your hidden voice, that hidden blade that opens your soul in front of a mirror. A?os de busqueda and I know less everyday.