Hello, Researchers of the Steemit Self:

"I am me and my circumstance" - said the Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset a hundred years ago. So to talk about our self it is necessary to refer to the conditions and contexts, the circumstances, that have made us who we are. Accepting @juliakponsford kind invitation to participate in the competition that she has been curating and promoting for quite a long time, which theme, in this convocation number 48, is very appetizing and attractive since it makes us rise towards philosophical speculations about Being. In particular, as soon as I read the invitation, I felt motivated to investigate into the Conceptual Art, given the almost abstract characteristics of the subject. That is why I obtained the result of my artistic project from two methods of contemporary creation such as Performance and Installation, in this case, made with ephemeral materials found by accident. I developed the event totally alone in the semi-abandoned house of my maternal uncles, who had a lot to do with my childhood and I registered it with my old Samsung phone.

So, I share with all you my artwork for the ''Art Explosion Week'' created and curated, as usually, by @juliakponsford. Thanks to her.

As I said, on this occasion the theme of the edition 48 is ''SELF''. For further information:

@juliakponsford/art-explosion-week-48-theme-self-40-steem-in-prizes

STEP BY STEP or How you can play this Ritual to unburden the Self of dead weight

You walk to the house built by your uncle Agustín Sánchez to live with Elvira, his mother, your uncle Eustacio, who lost his sight in middle age, and your aunt Sofía, who died of breast cancer. The three were never married and lived almost isolated from the world. Almost arriving, you find this plant, called Arnica, with which your grandmother cured the blows produced by the falls. Its yellow flowers suggested that you must incorporate them into your work.

Grandson and nephew of peasants, as you are, this plant, called Gamelote, immediately joined your unplanned plan. It is considered a pest because it grows out of control and its leaves are so sharp that they can produce cuts. However, for you it was a motive for fun because with its leaves you made arrows that you shot towards the sky.

In this house spent much of your sister's childhood and yours because when your father died, your mother had to work and had no one else to take care of you two. Now the house is almost abandoned and you know it has a lot to do with your own self.

Sweep what? Where will you hide the waste of time? All you know is that the ceremony must begin by sweeping.

On the old table you gather the things that you will use in this kind of ritual.

You spread an old broken sheet on the floor. It will be the canvas on which you will work...You take off your sandals like someone who enters a sacred place... And of course it's a sacred place: it's your self.

This journey requires you to deprive yourself of everything superfluous.

In order to find the essence of the self you have to strip yourself of all garments... Like the child who is born alone and naked.

We've been following terrible footprints... and terrible will be the footprints we'll leave.

Old books speak about an original sin... From before we were born we are criminals... Perhaps our crime is... to be.

A red line like the blood that bulges inside our being separates our interiority from everything else.

It is amazing how tenuous the limit is.

It is the thumb finger that makes us human beings.

It is ours the hand of Cain... It is ours the Abel blood.

A naked and helpless body lies on the ground... The forensic expert has already done his job...

It is not easy to set limits to the mind... It is limited by nature...

There's only one trace of the emptiness you were... of the emptiness you'll be.

Small particles float aimlessly inside your head... You call them thoughts.

The bricks of the house were fragmenting.

The ruins of the house... Metaphor of the ruins of a world that you once thought was firm.

Ancient peoples used to put painted stones over the eyes of the deceased... Would that you could find your way as long as you have life...

The bamboo stick you found on one of your walks now serves as a column to support so much weight.

Outside your body is a wild world that does not consider you its king. Outside your carbon carapace, hard stones reign.

What are you looking at, little dust self?

How will you liberate yourself from the inheritance of fear that they tied to you so early to restrain your flight?

Of those parties you lit as a child just by looking at the clouds, only a dull glow remains.

But really you are nothing else than a cavern full of water.

Flows... let the water take away the fear.

The peas that were the food of your grandparents' grandparents...

That's what you're made of... Your ribs are made of humble beans pods.

And small wild tomatoes.

Two chilies are your kidneys.

Scarcity was your food...

Poverty made you strong...

And there you are, waiting for a twist of the moon.

Although your left hand is delicate and silly, it serves to scare away flies and other pests.

Your right hand flowers when it harvests a good verb.

A vermilion torrent does not stop running...

A river of red blossoms seeks its way to the heart.

Red blood cells that feed you with light.

Move your piece, chess player.

You are no longer bound... now you have eyes everywhere.

And the bruises became lit petals.

Fill your lungs with sweet blue air.

May your breath make you grow.

You may not be enlightened, but you let yourself be dazzled by beauty.

That's why let the beauty bloom in every corner of you.

For only beauty will protect you from the violence of the world.

You have filled your path with thorns.

Thorns that you have created since you were a little boy full of fear.

You have surrounded yourself with sharp defenses and now no one is interested in closing in on you.

So the beauty that grows inside you is inaccessible to everyone.

Then, stop for a while... look inside your self.

A manifold and wild Eros like spikes standing on a lonely field.

So get up, let the loving breeze blows around your flowery stem.

Return to your heart where you will meet your childhood being playing without worries...

This time will be the toys that you lacked in your early years.

And you will reach the perfect balance between the child who laughs and the man who knows how to defend himself...

Because the world hurts with its growing violence.

The ugly madness that drips its hatred everywhere...

threatening nature itself...

all life form is in danger of death...

How to avoid that the mud of the absurd death dirties the clear torrent of the life?

Perhaps the light of innocence will make you invisible to the eyes of the violent...

Perhaps a strong vital instinct will help you stand firm in the face of death...

Maybe the water...

Maybe the water should run... simply flow...

washing the wrinkles of the soul...

kissing with its soft whip your skin fearful of being...

and follow its course towards the earth... the same earth that awaits for you...

the water that constitutes the overwhelming majority of your own being... Your body is not solid. The universe is not solid.

Everything is a great ocean that vibrates, that is transformed... Nothing goes to waste.

Maybe the water is just a girl smiling when it enters into your mouth...

Maybe water is just a girl crying because she can't save you from death...

So, just smile... smile like a boy who smiles because he doesn't know how to do anything else.

And wait in silence, with open arms, your death, the great Teacher who will finally teach you not to be afraid because there will be no more mysteries.

"As above, so below," as Hermes Trismegistus has one time said.