Tunica i — March/August 2012


Stemming from an urge to assemble a publication that curates talents, TUNICA combines disciplines, and shares new ideas and styles. Our contributors represent a wide range of artistic disciplines. The magazine's dynamic content includes interviews, feature articles, fiction, illustration, photography, and so on.

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“Spring / Summer 2012”

USD 10.00 — Released 18 June 2012


The devil’s cave — “Brujos can put curses on people. They make bad things happen, and from what I’ve seen, it works,” In Mexico there are three levels of illnesses. The first is spiritual. The second is emotional, such as sadness, and the third is physical. In the United States, people turn to doctors and pills to treat physical illnesses. But they don’t treat the emotional and spiritual. Mexicans believe you must treat all three.


I just arrived and the salt water, sand, and sun were waiting for me. I wondered how It would be to feel the Atlantic Ocean… closer to the equator line. Big waves and sailors were waiting. I took an octopus with my hands from the deep sea, out of the grocery list. Yunaire, a young beautiful singer in the 70´s, showed me her self-portrait, but time wasn’t too kind with her. Now she is singing on terraces, singing with a happy voice but the tune is really off-key. I have a headache, it’s 4:00 am and the party in the bar downstairs is still going on — thinking about joining in and, for sure, heading to the jungle tomorrow.


This is not a short guide to write about art. Go in, out of the window, inside New York’s stars qualities, dreams and schemes. People are gathered together, brewing coffee — you have seen their faces? The artists in Manhattan. Drive till sunset and say goodbye to your body, because this is not a photograph. I saw sixteen americans, raised by wolves, probably lost in paradise city. I found your head — Do you still want it?


My crown across the sky, I’ve lost with Victoria like police, cheating those two girls in skates. Small sharks in fancy empty bars, back to the road in order to escape and feel the heat, the soft noise and the freedom of the lands conquered with blood.

Next stop, the magic cactus. No more sand in my shoes — that’s for you, tourists, blowing money up and dreaming with happiness.


Now or never. I just sold a cathedral, an angel in the elevator, heavy air and the world speed — here’s my heritage. Alone with the moon, blue water and art, gold. No more tame again, no suite, no soul. Drilling and boring, after death, the way it is, extra innings in the paradise for all the right people.

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