Archive for the ‘Certainty and Uncertainty’ Category

“The Architect of Resilience”

February 11, 2025

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Pendular
Ricardo Morín, Watercolor, and ink on paper
14” x 20″
2003

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Prologue

The Quiet Turning

In the fading light of a world obsessed with spectacle, she endures—not as a relic of past sacrifices, but as a living, evolving force.     The desire for attention has always been a double-edged sword in her life:     both a demand imposed by a society fixated on appearances and a tool she has learned to wield with fierce determination.     Every public gaze, every moment magnified by the glare of expectation, has shaped her journey and molded not only her destiny but also that of the visionary she helped nurture.

She does not merely recall the weight of expectation; she transforms it.     Her life is not a static ledger of sacrifices but a dynamic chronicle of adaptation—of a woman whose responses shift with time, whose convictions evolve with every challenge, and whose internal conflicts are as fluid as the changing tides of public adulation.    There were moments when the burden of spectacle pressed heavily upon her, yet she never allowed it to define her entirety.    Instead, she learned to let the circumstances speak and allowed the ever-changing world to refine her purpose.

In a culture where every gesture is scrutinized and every act measured by its ability to capture the spotlight, she chose to forge an authenticity that defies constant performance.    Amid the relentless pursuit of recognition, she discovered that resilience is not about enduring static hardships but about embracing change—to be both the guiding light when needed and the adaptable spirit who reinvents herself as life demands.

Her legacy is woven into the very fabric of the visionary’s rise, yet it is not confined to the ephemeral glow of public applause.     It lives in the decisions yet to be made, in the quiet defiance against a world intent on reducing complex lives to mere performances.     As the storm of public attention recedes, one truth remains: while the spectacle may return with renewed fervor, so too will her unyielding, ever-shifting light—ever responsive to the world, ever true to her evolving self.

~

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Chapter 1

The Origins of Strength

She was not born into privilege, nor was she shaped by an easy path.     Strength, in her world, was not inherited—it was constructed, piece by piece, through necessity, through the quiet urgency of survival.     The home she knew was one of expectations, where resilience was not a virtue but a requirement.

Her parents, figures of discipline and quiet ambition, did not speak of success in terms of indulgence or grandeur.    They spoke of perseverance, of self-sufficiency, of the kind of fortitude that does not wait for the world’s permission.    The values they instilled in her were not gentle reassurances but firm, unwavering truths:     that beauty alone is fleeting, that intellect is a tool to be sharpened, that hard work is the currency of progress.

The first adversities she faced were not singular, dramatic upheavals, but the steady, relentless challenges of making oneself indispensable in a world that often overlooks those who do not demand attention.     She learned early that admiration is conditional, that approval must be earned again and again, and that the only certainty lay in one’s ability to adapt.

Beyond the walls of her upbringing, the world around her was shifting.     The socio-economic landscape offered few guarantees, especially for a woman determined to carve her own space.    Success was not simply a matter of talent or intelligence—it was a performance, a negotiation, a test of endurance.     The weight of expectation pressed upon her from all sides: to conform, to excel, to be both formidable and gracious, independent yet admired.

Yet, she did not recoil from these pressures; she absorbed them, studied them, and found within them a rhythm she could move to.     While others saw obstacles, she saw opportunities to refine her instincts, to wield resilience not as a defense, but as a weapon.     Every closed door was a lesson in persistence. Every rejection, a refinement of her strategy.

She did not yet know what shape her life would take, nor could she have predicted the enormity of the path ahead.     But one truth had already taken root: survival was not enough.    If she was to endure, she would do so on her own terms.

~

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Chapter 2

A Woman in a Man’s World

She learned quickly that talent alone was not enough.     In a world where men dictated the terms of power, a woman had to be twice as prepared, twice as composed, twice as relentless.    Her ambitions did not align neatly with the roles assigned to her—not the ones whispered by tradition, nor those imposed by an industry that measured a woman’s worth by the fleeting currency of youth and allure.

Her career was not handed to her; it was negotiated, fought for in spaces where her presence was tolerated but not welcomed.     She had to navigate the subtle dismissals, the unspoken ceilings, the expectation that she should be grateful for whatever space she was allowed to occupy.    To be assertive was to risk being labeled difficult.    To be strategic was to be called calculating.    And yet, to be anything less was to disappear.

But she would not disappear.

The spectacle was always present, shaping her choices as much as her ambitions.    Visibility was power, and she understood that better than most.     She learned to wield attention, to control the narrative before it controlled her. If she was to succeed in a man’s world, she had to become more than just competent—she had to be seen.

Yet, the gaze was fickle.    It admired strength but punished defiance.    It celebrated beauty but scorned aging.     It permitted ambition, but only if it did not overshadow the ambitions of men.     She walked this tightrope daily:     she adjusted, adapted, and never allowed herself the luxury of complacency.

Independence was her quiet rebellion.     Every choice she made—where she worked, whom she trusted, how she carried herself in a room—was a declaration.    The tension between expectation and desire was relentless.     The world wanted her to conform, to soften, to submit. But she had already seen what submission offered:     silence, erasure, irrelevance.

So she carved her own space, one decision at a time.     She played the part when necessary, and knew when to perform, when to retreat, when to push forward.     But beneath the careful facade was a woman who refused to be reduced to an image.

She had become part of the spectacle, but she was also its master.

~

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Chapter 3

The Birth of a Titan

She did not set out to shape a legend.     She set out to prepare a child for a world that did not bend easily, a world that would test him, discard him if he faltered.    She had seen enough to know that brilliance alone was not enough—resilience was the true currency of survival.    And so, she became both the architect and the adversary, the foundation upon which he would build and the force that would push him to withstand the weight of expectation.

Her guidance was a paradox:     fiercely protective, yet unsparing.    She did not indulge fragility, though she understood its presence.     There were no idle comforts, no assurances that the world would be kind.     Instead, she instilled an unshakable creed—one did not wait for permission to take up space; one carved it, owned it, refused to apologize for it.

But strength, once given, takes on a life of its own.    She watched as he absorbed her lessons, sometimes with gratitude, sometimes with defiance.    He was not a child who followed; he was one who questioned, who tested the limits of every rule, including hers.     He did not always see the wisdom in her distance, the purpose behind her expectations.     To him, love should have been softer, less conditional.

She knew better.

The spectacle had already begun to shape him, as it had shaped her.    Attention became both validation and weapon, which sharpened his confidence and his restlessness.     He saw the world not as something to navigate, but as something to master.     And yet, she wondered—had she given him too much certainty?    Had she fortified him so well that he no longer knew how to doubt, to hesitate, to seek counsel outside himself?

There were moments when she questioned.    In the rare silences between them, in the brief flickers of vulnerability he quickly buried, she wondered if she had built not just a titan, but a fortress—one that would one day struggle to let anything in.

She told herself it was necessary.    That the world had no use for the unprepared.    That he would thank her in time.

And yet, as she watched him step further into the glare of the spectacle, as the weight of his own myth grew heavier, she could not shake the quiet thought that gnawed at the edges of her certainty:

Had she given him everything except the ability to stop?

~

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Chapter 4

Sacrifice and Distance

She had always known he would leave.    It was, after all, what she had prepared him for—to move forward with unrelenting momentum, to step beyond the boundaries of what was known, to belong not to a single place or person, but to the vision that consumed him.    And yet, knowing did not make it easier.

At first, the distance was practical, a byproduct of ambition.    His world expanded at a pace hers could not match, each success widened the space between them.     Conversations became brief, punctuated by time zones and obligations, his voice measured, always moving toward the next thing. He spoke in ideas, in projects, in revolutions yet to come.     Rarely did he speak of himself.

But distance is rarely just physical.     She saw it in the way he carried himself, in the careful detachment of his gaze when the cameras were on him.     The spectacle had fully claimed him now—not just as an audience but as an identity.     Attention was no longer something he sought; it was something he commanded, something he wielded.    He had become larger than life, and in doing so, he had begun to shrink the parts of himself that did not serve the myth.

She recognized the toll, though he would never name it.    The weight of scrutiny, the exhaustion of living up to a persona that left no room for hesitation, for frailty, for uncertainty.     He was brilliant, polarizing, untouchable—an architect of impossible things.    But he was also her son.     And that was the one role he no longer had time to play.

She had always understood sacrifice.     She had made her own, time and time again, choices that had cost her comfort, companionship, a quieter kind of life.    But she had not anticipated this: the realization that her greatest success—his unshakable independence—had also made her dispensable.

She would not chase him.    She had taught him to walk alone, and she would not contradict that lesson now.    Instead, she watched from afar, her pride and her sorrow intertwined, knowing that he was too far gone to look back, but she still hoped—one day—he might.

~

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Chapter 5

Shadows and Echoes

She was no longer a presence in his world, but her shadow remained.    It stretched across his decisions, his mannerisms, the unspoken rules he followed even as he pretended they were his own.    She saw it in the way he carried himself in a room—how he mastered attention, held silence just long enough for discomfort to become intrigue.    He had learned that from her.

Yet, influence is a slippery thing.    Once released into the world, it takes on a life of its own; it bends and reshapes itself in ways the originator never intended.     She wondered, at times, if he had misunderstood her lessons or if she had failed to articulate them well enough.     Had she armed him with resilience or simply taught him to endure at any cost?     Had she instilled vision or merely a hunger for dominance?

She had always believed in independence, in the power of carving one’s own path.    But watching him now—uncompromising, relentless, willing to set fire to bridges before anyone could cross them—she questioned whether she had emphasized too much the need to stand apart, and not enough the importance of standing with.

And yet, despite his defiance, he could not fully sever what bound them.    She glimpsed traces of her voice in his words, echoes of her own battles in the way he faced down adversaries.     He may have long since left her behind, but he carried fragments of her wherever he went.

Still, influence is not ownership.    She had shaped him, but she did not control him.    The choices he made were his own, and she had no claim over them—neither the triumphs nor the failures.    She could only watch, aware that what she had given him was both foundation and burden, a blueprint he had long since altered to fit a design only he could see.

And so, she did what all who shape the future must eventually do:    she let go and knew that her presence in his life was no longer defined by proximity, but by the weight of what had already been left behind.

~

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Epilogue

The Silent Architect

She was never the one at center stage.     That was never her role, never her desire.     And yet, in the hushed spaces between history’s grand pronouncements, she remained—unseen but undeniable, a force imprinted on the architecture of a life that reshaped the world.

There is a certain power in being forgotten.    The world rarely remembers the hands that steady the foundation, only the ones that raise the monument.    But she had never needed recognition to know her presence endured.     She saw it in the echoes of her words, in the contours of a mind sharpened by her lessons, in the restless ambition that had been, at least in part, her doing.

Yet power, she had learned, is not a gift—it is an affliction, a hunger that grows even as it devours.     She had taught him to reach, to question, to never yield to the weight of convention.     But had she, in doing so, unleashed something beyond even her understanding?     He had become an architect of the future, but was he building a world of brilliance or ruin?    Had she given him wings, or simply made him blind to the ground beneath him?

The burden of vision is that it rarely allows for stillness.     She had spent her life in motion, forged her own path, and demanded her own place.     But now, standing at the edges of a world that no longer looked back at her, she allowed herself a moment of pause.    Not to claim victory, nor to lament what could not be undone, but simply to acknowledge what was.

Love and legacy are rarely pure.    They are made of sacrifice and silence, of pride and regret, of truths that remain unspoken.    She had played her part, and though the stage belonged to another, she knew the script still bore traces of her hand.

And so she stepped back, into the quiet.    Not erased, not forgotten—simply unseen.     The architect, no longer needed, but always present in the walls of what had been built.

~

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Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction.     While inspired by the complexities of ambition, legacy, and the forces that shape extraordinary lives, the characters and events depicted are products of imagination.     Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or deceased, is purely coincidental.     This story is not an account of any individual but rather an exploration of the universal tensions between sacrifice, power, and the silent architects behind great destinies.

Ricardo F. Morín Tortolero, February 11, 2025

Oakland Park, Florida

Editor, Billy Bussell Thompson

New York City, February, 14, 2025

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“The Intersection of Superstitious Beliefs in Venezuela”

February 8, 2025

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Triangulation 36
22″ x 30″
Body color, sanguine, sepia and Sumi ink on paper
2008

The Power of Myth and Storytelling

Storytelling has long been humanity’s way of making sense of the unknown—an enduring thread that weaves aspirations, fears, and triumphs into allegory.    Myths such as those of Jupiter reflect our longing for power, resilience, and the divine; they serve as echoes of the struggles that define us.    Whether in the trials of gods and heroes or the quiet ordeals of ordinary lives, these narratives offer a means to navigate the bewildering nature of existence.

Mystery drifts into the folds of nature and provokes the eternal human impulse to explain, to justify, to believe.    Superstition thrives where uncertainty prevails; it offers a semblance of control, a means to interpret the ungovernable.    But where does it lead?    Does superstition whisper in the ears of power, does it shape the visions of those who govern?    Even in nations where the media shields leadership from scrutiny, the allure of the esoteric persists, its expressions open yet its workings veiled, obscured by secrecy and the hush of conspiratorial dread.

As mythologies once shaped civilizations, superstition remains deeply woven into modern cultures.    It manifests in rites and rituals, in whispered incantations and quiet observances, in the gestures of those who seek certainty where reason falters.    And yet, for all its solace, does it propel or impede?    A society caught between superstition and rationality is one that stands at a threshold—as superstition lingers between the past and the demands of an evolving world.

Santería and Spiritism in Venezuela

Santería and Spiritism have taken root in Venezuela and their influence surges in times of crisis.    Santería, an Afro-Caribbean fusion of Catholic, Indigenous, and African traditions, finds expression in rituals meant to commune with spirits, to bridge the worlds of the living and the dead.    Spiritism, too, is tethered to the supernatural, a doctrine of spectral contact and whispered revelations.    The two converge and intertwine within the broader landscape of Venezuela’s spiritual consciousness.

The Religious Sect of María Lionza

At the heart of Venezuela’s esoteric traditions stands María Lionza, an enigmatic figure at the crossroads of Indigenous, African, and Catholic beliefs.    She is revered as a goddess of nature, love, and harmony, her presence invoked in ceremonies that summon the spirits of those who have passed—figures as varied as the doctor José Gregorio Hernández, pre-Columbian chieftains, military titans like Simón Bolívar, and even the late Hugo Chávez.

Among the sect’s most prominent mediums is Edward Guidice, who channels the spirit of Emeregildo, a figure believed to possess extraordinary healing abilities.    As Venezuela’s healthcare system falters, belief in supernatural intervention flourishes.    Where medicine is scarce, faith fills the void, and María Lionza’s presence looms ever larger in the search for solace.

Superstition and Modernization

Superstition and modernity exist in uneasy proximity—the former, a refuge from uncertainty; the latter, an unrelenting tide.    In Venezuela, these beliefs permeate not only the private sphere but also governance, health, and social order.    Esoteric and occult forces whisper through the corridors of power, amble in the choices of those who lead, and take root where institutions crumble.

Beyond superstition lies witchcraft—the deliberate act of bending unseen forces to one’s will.    It is a force feared, spoken of in hushed tones, its practitioners both sought and condemned.    Unlike passive belief, witchcraft asserts itself upon the world, shapes outcomes, and influences destinies.    It exists in the margins, yet its shadow stretches across every echelon of society.

As Venezuela contends with its trials, superstition remains a steadfast companion.    It soothes, it explains, it beckons.    Yet, between its comforts and constraints lies a question—does it fortify or does it fetter?    The answer, as always, remains in the spaces between faith and reason, between what is seen and what is merely believed.

Ricardo F Morin, February 8, 2025, Oakland Park, Fl.

Editor, Billy Bussell Thompson

New York City, February 14, 2025

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“The Language of Silence: An Elegy to Nothingness”

February 3, 2025

(A Prose Poem)

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Andreina Teresa Morín Tortolero [1955-2025]

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She will come to me . . . not being incarnated;

She will not appear in her own image;

I see and feel her voluble spirit,

and I also see her sans arguments, or advice

in the resonance of her heart upon mine.

~

She comes to me in an endless flow of memories quieting her absence.     

You return to me in every heartbeat . . .    

There is no light nor shadow, nor color nor texture.     

There is no pain in the embrace of uncertainty.     

~

Our coexistence ceases to exist;

the rancor of fear departs as the idea takes us in.     

Pain turns silent, emptied of guilt and regret.     

Though your lungs exhale not,

I feel the breath of your longing in search of union.  

    ~

I understand better your inexorable faith,

with no sting of doubt.     

Resentment held no place, the frankness of your soul loved everything.     

I feel you in my chest, tight with not seeing you     

I see you in the resonance of your mind upon mine.

*

Pain shatters my chest,

I am dying as well,

I fear the very meanness of not accepting

your dignified and glorious absence.

~

How can one ponder eternal love

without knowing eternity,

I do not understand and tears choke me.

~

Eternity is a story we tell ourselves

from our first appearance.     

Before, we were nothing

and nothingness impregnated us with clumsiness

to create stories that console our finitude.

~     

We are nothing,

and to nothing we return.

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I believe in the goddess of love

for she sustains me,

but immortality and eternity do not depend on her.     

Abstraction is a pretense that believes it heals itself.

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Confuse reality not with abstraction,

if you know nothing;

unconsciousness is soaked in the unjustifiable.     

Contradiction is the palpable reality,

Humility and neutrality do not exist:     

and are not controllable.  

  ~ 

Intelligence is a tool of fiction.     

We are nothing.

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Words of comfort ruminate me and my feelings,

they assume compassion for filling the void     

Yet compassion, like humility, can

not boast of itself.     

They come from nothing

and are nothing.

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The feelings of death arise in old age,

our fragility is tangible.     

“If newly born, what do you know of old age?”     

How can we boast …      even if for the best of reasons!

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Words can evoke the void of silence,

yet they remain a pretense.

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Silence is deeper than declarations.     

Listen to silence, filled with nothingness.     

Yet, an energy that’s unchangeable, immutable.     

Persistence is yet another vanity,

a desire to accumulate the unsustainable.     

Parallels are paradoxical, yet real.

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Ricardo Federico Morín Tortolero,

Oakland Park, Fl. 5:00 am, 3 de Feberero de 2025

Edited by Billy Bussell Thompson

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(A Poem written by our mother, María Teresa Tortolero Rivero, English translation by this author, and read by Andreina in Spanish)


GREATNESS YOU BESTOWED UPON MY SPIRIT

[July 1979]

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Greatness you bestowed upon my spirit
for the whole world rests upon my bosom
though in sadness I stray
in vain attempts to redeem my heart.

As pariah in a desert
in my migrant existence
I feel the prick of painful thorns.
and the corrosive doubt of uncertainty.

My home’s encumbered by the punching of loneliness
only absence occupies it.
Why have you forsaken me?
Why so much cruelty?
If born to love
when for love’s sake
I wish to be faithful.

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In Memoriam Andreina Teresa

~

We, the Morín Tortolero siblings:      Alberto José, Ricardo Federico, María Teresa, and José Galdino, deeply regret to announce to our family and friends the heartfelt passing of our beloved sister

ANDREINA TERESA MORÍN TORTOLERO

November 10, 1955 – February 2, 2025

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The wake was held at Funeraria Tendencia Ecológica, located in the Las Acacias neighborhood in Valencia, next to the CICPC, on Monday, February 3, 2025, at 12:00 PM.

The funeral service took place at the Puertas al Cielo crematorium, located in La Entrada, Naguanagua, on Tuesday, February 4, 2025.      The Novena is held at Valencia’s El Viñedo Church starting on February 5th at 4:30 pm.

We are grateful for your support and prayers during this time of deep sorrow.

Here, Andreina was among friends and relatives between Valencia, Venezuela in 2024 and her last visit to Broward and Dade Counties in Florida, January 2024,

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 “The Human Condition”

January 18, 2025

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Ascension 3, 2005 CGI by Ricardo Morin

Introduction

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In a world where we often demand certainty and control, we find ourselves fragmented, trapped in boxes of our own making, unable to embrace the fullness of our existence.    The image before you captures this tension: a body suspended in a delicate scaffold, exposed yet bound, vulnerable yet distant.    The crimson red that pulses through this figure’s radiography mirrors the emotional intensity of our internal conflicts—irrational beliefs, loneliness, and the distortion of our own feelings.    Here, we find a body that is both present and absent, much like the self we attempt to control through rigid dogmas, unfounded convictions, or the false security of unquestioned assumptions.

 

Such beliefs, pervasive in religion, politics, and culture, offer a semblance of control in a world we cannot fully comprehend.    Yet, they often bind us more tightly than we realize; they lead us away from self-compassion and deeper understanding.    We cling to them as anchors as we seek certainty, but in doing so, we only isolate ourselves further and obscure the possibility of transformation and healing.    Just as the body remains whole, though fragmented, so too can we find healing by letting go of the illusions that distort our sense of self.

 

This image invites you to reflect on the tension between our desires for control and the reality of our emotional vulnerability.    Our human condition urges a return to the boy, to ourselves, and to the truth of being—free from the distortions that prevent us from embracing the raw authenticity of life.

 

Section I

 

Irrationality

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Ignorance is an essential condition of our existence, despite our hubristic desire to control knowledge.    We are like travelers in a dense fog as we glimpse shadows of trees that seem both near and far—each step reveals something new while obscuring what we thought we understood.    This fog invites exploration, not eradication, as its presence reminds us that certainty is an illusion.    The moment we attempt to dispel it entirely—to demand certainty and mastery—we reject the depth and richness of uncertainty and trade it for the rigidity of shallow, dogmatic beliefs.    To embrace this uncertainty is to accept the vastness of what remains unknown:    that which liberates us from the paralysis of false clarity.

 

Section II

 

The Transformative Power of Love and Self-Compassion

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Love has the power to heal wounds unseen, but it is first a seed within oneself.    When nurtured, this seed grows into an awareness of the shared fragility of existence—the recognition that no one is immune to suffering.    Consider the quiet solidarity in a kind word offered to a stranger, the unspoken bond formed in moments of shared grief, or the simple grace of forgiving someone else’s faults, while knowing your own are equally imperfect.    These acts remind us that we are not isolated in our suffering but connected through it.    In acknowledging this interconnectedness, we cultivate a compassion that transcends individuality.    It allows us to honor the humanity in others as we learn to honor it in ourselves.

 

Section III

 

Aloneness Versus Loneliness

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Think of aloneness as your defining character, a realm where your thoughts and feelings can exist unfiltered, untouched by comparison.    Loneliness, however, emerges when this solitude becomes an echo chamber of unmet desires, a distortion that amplifies the absence of external validation into a consuming need.    To perceive aloneness as loneliness is to conflate a natural state with an unhealthy yearning, much like mistaking silence for emptiness.    Aloneness offers clarity, a space to reflect and grow, while loneliness, though painful, can teach us where we most need to nurture ourselves.    By reframing loneliness as a symptom rather than a sentence, we can transform it into an opportunity for self-understanding.

PostScript

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As I reflect on the journey of these ideas, I’m reminded of a time nearly 16 years ago when I found solace in the writings of Jiddu Krishnamurti, a spiritual teacher my mother had studied in my younger years.    His ideas, like Buddhism before it, served as a preamble—a glimpse into a deeper understanding that I did not fully grasp until later in life.    It was only in my fifties, after embracing writing as a form of creative expression, that I began to unravel the layers of truth hidden within his words.

During this period, my editor, with whom I shared my growing interest in Krishnamurti, referred to him as a “kook”—a label that seemed to reflect the contradictions inherent in Krishnamurti’s philosophy.    My admiration for both Krishnamurti and my editor was marked by an internal conflict.    I struggled to reconcile the imperfections I saw in both of them with my own sense of integrity and independence.    In time, I came to understand that their imperfections were no different from my own—and that the wisdom I sought was not in their perfection, but in the very acceptance of imperfection itself.

This acceptance allowed me to learn from both of them while retaining my own autonomy, a reminder that growth comes not from flawless certainty, but from the ability to navigate contradiction and complexity.    Just as we can find truth in our own imperfect understanding, so too can we extend compassion to others:    to acknowledge that their contradictions are part of the shared human experience.

In this journey, I’ve learned that the tension between certainty and uncertainty is not something to resolve but something to live with—a space where self-compassion and wisdom can grow, imperfect though they may be.

Ricardo F Morin Tortolero, January 18, 2025, Oakland Park, Florida.

Editor, Billy Bussell Thompson, February 14, 2025, New York City.

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