—What are your thoughts on your ability to make bold decisions during your journey, whether with support or against the current? While some admire that attitude, others criticize it. Do you believe being the master of your own destiny equates to having freedom?

—The journey, when repeated over time, doesn't necessarily lead to freedom. This apparent detachment from the past and the confrontation with solitude constitute a brutal survival strategy that later manifests in the characters' actions. I don't find freedom through the power of choice; instead, what emerges from displacement is the rekindling of the expectations I so desperately crave.

—You incorporate hospices, health centers, rooms, libraries, trains, and buses into your narrative. What criteria guide your selection of these settings?

—"I view them as places of isolation, reflection, and transformation. Together, they represent the intimate aspects of life. In these settings, the true self emerges, which is why I enjoy inhabiting them with characters, some of whom are peculiar and controversial, including myself."

—Why did you choose 'Happy Pigs and Other Sinkings...' as one of the subchapters in Vulnerable? What's the significance of this title?

—It foreshadows the 'pig-man' due to their compulsive behavior, even within the context of a religious offering filled with deep devotion. I find it repulsive when they boast of elegance yet end up immersed in excessive allegories and praises, while exuding intestinal fats when biting—not because of the fat itself, but due to the hierarchical postures of the diner. Additionally, I critique cultural norms and political ideologies taken to their extremes. While I acknowledge my opinion may seem inconsequential, it's a tiresome and oft-repeated nuisance in history, which is why I enjoy vehemently denouncing certain behaviors.

—Reviewing your presentations, I see you use a motto: 'Urban exploration and continuous embrace of diversity.' Do you consider yourself an explorer? Tell us about the most common challenges you face when traveling."

—From a very young age, I had the dream of visiting large cities and meeting people who, like me, would one day take that step. Contrary to what many may think, in every metropolis, there are a few streets where seekers converge. This recurring thought grew in me until I finally ventured out. It was an intriguing chaos that led me to explore many cities."

In New York, I experienced completely contrasting encounters. I felt the satisfaction of engaging with genuinely interesting people, thanks to the cultural diversity of their offerings. However, I also experienced the beautiful catastrophe of 'Ward's Island,' an island near Manhattan where any practice was allowed.

There, I learned the infinite patience in the face of looming violence. I got to know Manhattan inch by inch. My purposes were always the same: to forge a genuine relationship with the world I inhabited.

"For years, the longing to go to other places has pulled at me, then came a sorting out of all the disasters, scenes merge, catapulting some people to others, simply burying them. It has been a plan that has veered off course many times, yet it's enough to keep going and wait for the waters to return to their course."

—Please provide a brief summary of the book 'Vulnerables' and explore its nuances...

Some ideas emerged from the lives of friends I made along the way; others, from a harsh analysis of my circumstances. Although there are obviously reinvented parts, there's inherent fiction in creating worlds. A variety of genres are present: narrative, micro-narrative, story, chronicle, diary, and reflections, all grouped into four parts: 'Tender Toxic Relationships,' 'Happy Pigs and Other Sinkings,' 'Post-apocalyptic,' and 'Finally the Street...'. I found it fantastic to be able to create a scenario where victims could take revenge on their aggressors: seemingly fragile people who unleash their anger when stigmatized.

"Death.

On April 17, 2017, my father left us. The narrow margin between his illness and the sad outcome created a sense of fatality that distance and the impossibility of traveling exacerbated."

I visualize the social system and its vices as a manipulable, clumsy mass of humanity, easy to group together to instill any stupid idea in their heads.

In 'Finally the Street,' the city is presented in its most realistic context. It all began during my first trip to Florida. I was the protagonist, but also doubled to attend in the background to events that somehow deeply impressed me. Since then, it was non-stop: exposing myself to change, radicalizing myself to move forward. Each story can interconnect with new texts, projecting itself in some aspect. So you might find the same character in a different situation without altering their particular atmosphere. When you delve into certain cities, the movement is incessant and reflection arises. There are relationships that, consciously, sink you, and for some strange reason, that's celebrated. We need the courage to go to the margins, to penetrate everything to sabotage ourselves and violate the routine imposed on us. You feed the text and justify your most outrageous actions.

—What is your relationship with poetry like?

—I can't quite pinpoint what drives me to write one thing or another. It's an impulse within an idea that, due to its depth, doesn't accept half-measures. Recently, I revisited a notebook of poetry I wrote when I was fourteen or fifteen, and it seemed bland and simplistic, almost... I would say, overly embellished. Then, upon reflection, I realized. There, lay the germ that mutated and shaped itself. So many things must come together before the fibers that hold the poem together begin to show. Writing poetry is quite unsettling; it either sets you free or kills you.

—Can you remember people who have left a mark on your experiences in the cities you've visited?

—I had the privilege of meeting wonderful people during my travels from one place to another. One of them was Ilona Rauhala Deman, a prominent Finnish anthropologist who sparked my interest in Slavic literature. Together, we explored much of Florida, sharing unforgettable experiences.

I remember Oxana Narozniak, a Ukrainian-German sculptor I met in the lobby of a hotel in Miami. Over several weeks, we gathered to converse, and she gave me advice. She insisted that the foundation of literary work comes from consciously acquired influences. Before she left, she gifted me some sketches of her work and gave me written permission to use her as the cover image for a hypothetical book. That gesture (though I was just a novice, and it may seem silly) was a significant boost for me.

I also had the fortune of meeting the Venezuelan writer Milton Ordoñez, with whom I enjoyed long walks through museums and galleries in New York City. His knowledge and perspectives enriched my view of literature.

To Eliezer Ortiz, a talented Puerto Rican actor. For two years, he directed the Theater Unit at the "Julia de Burgos Cultural Center" in Manhattan. Although he currently resides in Los Angeles, his influence lingers in my heart.

I can't forget Mariano Rennon, with whom I embarked on an exciting poetic tour of Tenderloin, titled "San Francisco and other poetic dreams." Our journey led us to explore the most inspiring corners of the city.

An exceptional travel companion was Keith O'Donnell, originally from Boston. Our friendship was forged in the adventure of crossing the United States from its opposite ends, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. We shared laughter, stories, and unforgettable moments throughout that epic journey.

Unfortunately, there were also losses along the way. Sahim Colón Almodóvar, who tirelessly fought alongside me to survive on Ward's Island, is no longer with us. He is an example of courage and resilience in difficult times.

I remember Charles Smith and Fernanda Lobos, with whom I shared a place and experienced the wildest parties in South Beach. Fernanda, may she rest in peace. Charly was a cinephile, a music lover, a compulsive reader, and a dedicated photographer. Among his books, I discovered a thesis on the writer Jaime Sáenz, which he claimed to have received as a gift from a New York writer he had a relationship with in the past. The impression was so strong that years later, I used every means to contact the niece, who was responsible for the writer's archives and copyrights, to do a report I titled "Unpublished Aspects of Jaime Sáenz."

And how can I forget Lilo Couvert, Kathy Kirk, Germán Reinoso, Jessica Espíndola, and Guillermo Martínez? These are just a few of the extraordinary friendships I had the fortune to make while traveling from one place to another. Each of them left a mark on my life, reminding me of the importance of human connections and the enriching cultural diversity we find in every corner of the world.

—In your characters, the individual sense predominates; it's the protagonist's consciousness that narrates. That's why I get the feeling of encountering dreamlike, psychological cuts that delve into perception. How do you manage to establish so many complexities? And how do you make what is not considered normal by established judgment appear so?

—At first, I faced a kind of fear abducting me from everyone else. Instead of countering their words with my arguments, I questioned their "whys." I understood early on that many people are the result of their own denials, and instead of fighting them, they want to expand them.

I also became interested in their complexities, but at such a young age, you don't know how to confront it. Nevertheless, I persisted in doing so. Thus, I began to find answers to my questions. But what would these answers serve for? They would serve as ideas in the discourse of the text.

It was my internal dialogue (emotions, daily life, reflections, thoughts in the protagonist). The task was to break it. As GB described it, I couldn't have reflected it better in a review: "[...] Those who suffer depart from reality to create their own world, regardless of others' indifference; those who kill, do so out of boredom [...]." Everything will happen as it comes to the mind.

—"What did you read in your youth? And what do you read or recommend nowadays?"

—"I read 'Sobre héroes y tumbas' (Abaddon the Exterminator and The Tunnel) by Ernesto Sabato; books by Julio Cortázar, Guillermo Meneses, Denzil Romero, Salvador Garmendia, and José Rafael Pocaterra. Edgar Allan Poe, Lovecraft: Russian writers like Dostoevsky, Chekhov, among others; American writers like H. P. Lovecraft, Ambrose Bierce, many of those who formed the Beat Generation. In addition to Heinrich Böll, Péter Nàdas, Thomas Miller, Marguerite Duras, Jaime Sáenz (more recently), Oliver Sacks, Malcolm Lowry, Emil Cioran, Thomas Ligotti, Mircea Cărtărescu, Peter Handke, Cees Nooteboom, Alain de Botton, and many others whose list would be endless.

Currently, I would highlight the English writer Susana Medina. The imagery jumps all around. Narrative full of suggestive, sensual, and irreverent nuances. I made a paragraph break when I read some of her work; it brought back my enthusiasm for reading just as I was beginning to lose it. Alberto Jiménez Ure: a unique writer, always going against the current. An outsider with an immensely intense ability to enter the beyond in a spectral environment of profound philosophical knowledge. Luis Benítez: A poet who dazzles, excessively contemplative, who opened up to the currents from a very young age, I admire him for his work and for his humility with younger writers. Pablo López, "Iconoclast." A ruthless and unapologetic narrator who takes aim at everything that society foolishly glorifies: Julia de la Rúa, who, in addition to being a painter and writer, has fought against the current to maintain Araña editorial…"

—What is the most complex and most enjoyable aspect of your career? And what is the process you follow when writing?

—The most enjoyable aspect is being able to bring coherence to ideas. The knowledge gained through research, discovering how certain stimuli, environments, and circumstances accelerate the creative process. Continuously learning makes it easier to advance next time. The most enjoyable part is finishing a project. Why? Because once it's completed, the content of your anxieties becomes external, not entirely, but partially, you feel like you've freed yourself from something. The most complex part is the continuous denials from some environments. It's best not to discuss what you write or what you do, at least until it's done. As for my writing process, it has been different, perhaps due to many changes. I've had my sacred places, I fondly remember a gloomy, small apartment in San Francisco where I drowned myself in wine while writing, watching the constant outbursts on Taylor Street from the window; a bench by the Harlem River, another one in Central Park, especially in the fall. I've written in the most extreme and sublime environments. I usually enjoy listening to classical music or fusion of styles with dissonant harmonies and having a drink. It usually takes an hour from my first attempt until I achieve perfect concentration and start. Now I prefer the silence of the night.

—"I wonder how, 'in the midst of the chaos that led Venezuela to its destruction,' one can be capable of writing, and detach from reality to create other worlds."

—"I have gone through various stages, as it happens to everyone. Amidst all the blood and devastation, another kind of dark humor has emerged, much sharper, a lethal sarcasm to survive the psychological turmoil of such daily horror. You never isolate yourself; it's a constant disturbance."

—What has been your greatest recklessness?

—Many, most under the influence of the occasional dipsomaniac that resides in me. For now, I'll tell you one. It was night, and I couldn't sleep when a man joined the group, he was a friend of X... I don't remember his name. He was a skinny, short Puerto Rican guy, with bulging eyes and a gangster-like appearance. Of course, we were in Spanish Harlem. He approached me and said, "I have a sleeping pill in my hand." Another acquaintance couldn't sleep either and almost raised his hand to be included. The Puerto Rican guy reached into his pocket and pulled out three more pills from a blister pack, adding them to the one he already had in the other hand. "Two and two," he said, to make the distribution fair. I took them and sat down, waiting for the relaxing effect to be able to sleep, but my hands and feet twisted, and the other guy seemed to have his jaw detached, although it didn't actually detach, he just couldn't close his mouth and started examining some stones.

I went from having my hands and feet twisted to a sensation of instability in my head, which was tilting backward, while the rest of the group was smiling. It was inevitable to call an ambulance. Upon arriving at the hospital, I waited anxiously in the emergency room and watched the other guy who had also taken the pills on another stretcher, until the doctor sent me to sleep with a seven-hour injection. Before that, she made us suffer more than necessary, thinking it wasn't an unintentional mistake; she always had the idea that it was the repeated excess of the many drug addicts in the city. I still wonder what those pills contained.

—"What led you to make the decision to go to San Francisco? How did you experience that long journey that lasted almost four days?"

—"After a few years, I don't know why it happens, but it does. Something tells you it's the right time. Coincidentally, Charly had arrived in New York those days, so we couldn't spend much time together. Although he was still affected by Fernanda's death, a smile appeared on his face when I told him my intention. Both of us were prone to switch from stability to uncertainty frequently. I spent months choosing a city, going to the Harlem library or Aguilar, the nearest libraries in the neighborhood. I would open maps, read, and research. I made a list and started eliminating cities until only a few options remained: San Diego, Chicago, and San Francisco. Finally, I chose San Francisco because of its climate, tolerance, and cultural life. Unconsciously, I was influenced by the number of musicians and writers who had lived there. Charly had already bid me farewell on other occasions. I spent many winters in the city of skyscrapers, wrote a lot about the city and life. I wasn't leaving out of boredom; I was leaving because I wanted to explore other places, but part of my plan was to return. I remember the fall, the imposing structures, the infinite diversity of races, my bench in the park, Ward Island. So many images and sensations. Squandering at full speed. Always ready to quench my thirst, it was the usual step between sanity and unconsciousness."

However, I had to travel that long road that connected the Atlantic to the Pacific. I stayed longer than necessary in Florida, in New York, and I would probably stay longer than needed in San Francisco. I said goodbye to each of my friends. I felt a lot of anticipation, and when the time came, I got on the Greyhound bus at Port Authority. It was nine o'clock at night, and even though it was bitterly cold, I was sweating with excitement for the journey. That was the last time I saw Charly. The journey began, and initially, the stops were frequent. I could hardly see anything due to the darkness of the night. I tried to sleep but couldn't. As dawn broke, I saw how the scenery changed: sometimes it rained, sometimes the sky was full of clouds, or the sun came out. Highways, roads, rural paths, forests, desert areas. I was thrilled to live through that experience. I didn't want to miss any impressions (that's why I remember it perfectly). In Iowa, most of the passengers got off; only Keith and a girl in a cream jacket who couldn't stop commenting on everything she saw continued. I had seen Keith at the Port Authority station; he had been on the same bus from Boston.

We spoke, without bothering, without interrupting each other when the landscape seduced us. In Denver, there was an extensive police check that lasted a couple of hours. On the way to Nevada, the bus lost its brakes. We realized this when the driver tried to stop, dangerously approaching a slope before veering off the highway and into a gas station where he finally managed to stop. We spent over six hours at a Rock Spring gas station, waiting for another bus coming from somewhere in Colorado. We had been on the road for more than two days. I remember Chicago, Cleveland. The snowy mountains of Reno, the casinos, the unique lighting, and architecture of Salt Lake City. Groups of people taking turns to exchange seats at each stop... Until the Bay Bridge welcomed us with the impressive sight of San Francisco at dusk.

"Almost four days on the road. The adrenaline that flooded that journey is indescribable. Without those chain of events, nothing would have been the same. As my dream was coming true and diversifying, so was my writing. During the first few weeks, it was all fun and games. 'We turned a bar on Divisadero Street called 'Hotel Utah' into our place of residence until we ran out of money and had to reassess our situation to move forward.'

San Francisco was a creative engine. I had started conceiving that idea in the past. I found much of what I was looking for in life there. I understood that the responsibility for a change was in me, as the rejections were constant when you asked for a recommendation."

—"You've just described the atmosphere, the preliminaries, the process, all very important, no doubt. But I'd like to know how you managed to make a living."

—"Writing doesn't adhere to the stereotypical order of the world. In those times, I was undoubtedly insolent, daring, but instead of causing aversion, this rebellion attracted people. I wasn't aware of it. I rarely had trouble finding something to do; I worked in the most diverse fields. My sympathy for the seemingly impossible was greatly appreciated by many who had already given up on their dreams and wanted to reopen them. I remember giving advice to my employers on how to regain their lives, something that would seem completely incoherent."

—"Where would you like to go?"

—"My main destinations would be Eastern Europe, Russia, travel through South America and Central America, and visit Vietnam. These places are at the top of my priority list, but all countries pique my interest."

—"It has been more than two decades... As time has passed, how do you see your actions today? Beyond the risk, what have they taught you?

—Everything is relative to your purposes. I will always be in an eternal process of learning if my health allows it. Society is shocking. Nature generates so many stances and envies. Resentments and the eternal hierarchy of everything 'included me in the mass.' I am another tiny dot among the herd. I have learned to wait, to know when to force an episode and when not to. Always attentive to that generative aspect that makes me excessive in all manifestations. The interpretation of dreams occupies a prominent place in the task of writing, the search for that other form of madness that is wisdom.

In the end, that's how it is. Even according to Jung's concept, it's not about explaining the dream but about continuing to live it through analysis in a waking state, in order to see where it leads us. When you know you're dreaming, it gives you the opportunity to work on the dream and redirect it, convinced of life's malleability, to stay alert."

—Spain...

—These last years I have lived in La Coruña, Valencia, Bocairent, Alicante, and Barcelona. Places where I finished gathering all the written material. I have created an exhaustive routine after so much disruption, and I'm not talking about discipline; it's a much more thorough rationalization of the topics to be addressed. I have devoted myself to delving into the collective unconscious and satirizing its actions, surely it's just one nuance among many other things that will be related. For now, when possible, I wander through El Raval and El Borne. Nowadays, Barcelona is my fetish place, tomorrow I don't know where I'll be. The debate already exists. The current turmoil in the world has accentuated it.

—Do you remember any quote, sentence, or fragment from your writings - poem or story - that lingers in your mind more than usual?

—A fragment from Metamorphic: "[...] From pigs to men, not from men to pigs as everyone assumes. He made the long journey to humanize his appearance but not his habits."

—Is literature your ideal world?

—No! It's just a kind of excuse until the moment I question myself again. I always have to battle against the bourgeois within the intellectual, against the victim who self-destructs in the street because he considers everything meaningless. It's an eternal tightrope. Both criticism and praise are ephemeral by nature. They come, they go; it's a satisfaction shared by few in a time that has an expiration date. Meanwhile, it's better to return to the dream because this is a dream. "Dream, seek what satisfies you, and have fun, but always remember, always remember that sooner or later, everything will end."

*Interview originally published in the Madrid magazine Almiar.

Juan Carlos Vásquez was born in Valencia, Venezuela. He has participated in several collective volumes and anthologies, such as "Paseo en Versos" (Pasos en la Azotea, Mexico City 2006); "Hemiparesias" (Visceralia Ediciones, Santiago de Chile 2006); "Poesías y aparte el Libro y su Autor," Literary Creations, selected by Betty Goldman and Enrique Epelbon, United States 2007, and in the artistic project "Mirages from an Unreal World" by Laura Orvieto, Author house (New Jersey, 2010). He was selected to be part of the bilingual anthology "The World's Greatest Letters 2021," in English and Spanish. He has also been a member of the cultural groups Spanic Attack (New York, 2004) and The Hall (Miami, 2001).

He is the author of several storybooks, including "Pedazos de familia" (Ediciones Estival, 2000); "Vulnerables" (Media EU S.à r.l… Ed. Filatel 2019); "Ward's Island: El costado oscuro de Nueva York," an autobiographical story (2001-2006); and "Colapso. Poesía reunida" (1999-2022). His poems and stories have appeared in various literary publications, both digital and print, in Europe and Latin America, such as Barcelona Review, El coloquio de los perros, Canibaal, Casa Bukowski, and in the newspapers La Razón and El Impulso.

Juan Carlos manages the literary and artistic archive HD Kaos and has received distinctions in the poetry and multimedia linguistic contests Premio Nosside (Calabria, Italy), in the 2005 and 2006 editions. He was also a finalist in the micro-story contest "Guka" in Buenos Aires in 2018.

Vásquez moved to Florida in 1999. Since then, he has lived in Tampa Bay, San Francisco, New York, La Coruña, Bekirén, Barcelona, and other cities in the United States and Spain. 

Wafi Salih (Trujillo, Venezuela, June 5, 1965) is a writer born in Venezuela of Lebanese descent. She is a writer of poetry, short stories, essays, drama, and screenplays. She is recognized as a master of short poetry in Venezuela due to her extensive exploration of the haiku genre, a poetic form of Japanese origin (essays and narrative). Her work has been translated into English, Arabic, French, Italian, Portuguese, and Polish.

She holds a Master's degree in Latin American Literature and is a graduate of the University of the Andes, currently pursuing her doctoral project in History. She has published twenty books in the aforementioned genres. For seven consecutive years, she conducted the "José Antonio Ramos Sucre" workshop, which contributed to the training of Venezuelan art.

ists and researchers. She is also the founder of the literary magazines "El Farallón de los Naipes" and "Lápiz, Papel, y Creación."