Lucía Hinojosa Gaxiola & No Land in conversation with David García Casado

Published in 1:AM Poetry Journal N.2. Bones that howl.

David García Casado
I am interested in the idea of sound as poetry—a kind of primordial howl that exists beyond or even before language.

From what I’ve observed in your work, both of you explore this connection between sound and the body. In your poetic performances, sound transcends words and meaning; it becomes about feeling the sound. You seem deeply attuned to how words resonate within your bodies—through your throats, nasal cavities, and chests.

Lucía Hinojosa Gaxiola
Yes! One of my main intentions, or interests is the ancient tradition of oral transmission. Written poetry or language is relatively recent when we consider the long history of human communication. I trust in the idea of orality as a form of archive, and how it secretly preserves a spiritual power in this hidden “place,” while at the same time allowing it to transmute and evolve in terms of meaning, or import. While sound may seem fleeting—appearing, vanishing—it carries an intrinsic power that we often overlook compared to written records, which are seen as more permanent. And this happens in all cultures, languages, traditions.

I’m fascinated by the idea that oral poetry has a deeper time-frame, and a shared, fragile foundation. Sound is communal; it touches everyone simultaneously, unlike a written poem, which is often read, or experienced individually. Sound invites us to gather, to experience collectively.

No Land
Sound is a direct emanation of spirit. When working with musicians, or when channeling the sound of poetries, I may hope to convey the color of a certain spirit, or the aura of a person– and I will ask certain musicians to join me for their spirit frequency. In this, it doesn’t necessarily make a difference what instrument they are playing or what they are doing. Their offering, their sound is the direct emanation of their spirit. A record offered to ephemeral ether. I’m drawn, also, to the notion of tuning– Sun Ra’s vision of tuning the planet— or William Parker walking in “the tone world.” Our works of poetry and sound are offerings. The distilled, directness of tone, the wielding and the radiation of frequency combined with the transcendence of words create realities in other dimensions. I like to envision an arrow of sound serving as a tuning intention towards any situation. Tone of voice, tone of spirit, tone of tone. “The tone that delivers your spirit before any law or weapon.” In performance, the sound creates an ether. No matter what’s happening in the agreed upon reality or in the world – the sonic poem is like a cloak upon the room. It manifests the possible– what we can create for our reality in frequency. 

David García Casado
It’s almost as if sound creates an environment where art can be received more deeply. Words, supported by sound take on a physical dimension. They evoke meaning not only intellectually but also viscerally.

Lucía Hinojosa Gaxiola
Yes, they inhabit a vibrational frequency that has always been there.

David García Casado
Both of you have spiritual practices, correct? How does spirituality inform or inspire your work? Or does it work the other way around, where your creative practice becomes part of your spiritual path?

Lucía Hinojosa Gaxiola
I think of art and poetry as devices, mediums–even masks– for spiritual exploration, they’re one and the same. Beneath the surface of my creative work lies a profound intention to follow an unnamed spiritual, radical path—one that goes beyond religions, lineages, cultures.

I love what Louise Landes Levi says about poetry. She describes it as “the untaught yoga”. This idea of “yoga” as elemental integration, learning as we go, riding the insight. Poetry as a form of action–making, poeisis–inevitably becomes a dynamic process that is never tired of revealing new aspects of experience. This constant feeling of awe and curiosity becomes a kind of mental state open to the unknown, and for me, that is poetry as spiritual practice. We’re seeking something. The point is to not know what, though, to be open. 

David García Casado
So, does inspiration flow from spirituality to art or vice versa?

Lucía Hinojosa Gaxiola
I guess both. Like No Land said, our work is engaged in ethereal dialogues: we receive, and we give back in different forms. Art becomes a commitment to grow as human beings, way beyond credit or careerism.

This commitment involves seeking teachers—whether they appear in nature or in dreams, through friends or experiences, or even discovering the work of long-gone writers and artists. Being a student is crucial to my practice. Spirituality becomes a form of “homework,” a never-ending errand, not in a religious sense, but as a process of study and transformation. I think that in the end, art and poetry are forms of service, a cosmic economy. 

No Land
There’s the intuition that there is something beyond (and integrated with) the reality we all agree upon. There’s a wish to transcend the material. I’m in reverence to the material, however, there’s a calling to another realm. The William Blake idea of matter containing a slight evil– that there’s another realm happening (in the upper atmosphere, maybe a more pure realm). And just wanting to align and live in a realm of your own creation– sensing that there’s another place. It’s a seeking. Any spirit work is wanting to communicate with God. If you have any opportunity to offer— you’re always in dialogue with this sense. Lucia and I have a piece in collaboration called “Seeking the Gemstone Diplomat” – which is beautiful to me as it connects this earth realm with a further out realm. The gemstone being divine or with magical force– but then the diplomat– navigating the world, the earthly business, the material aspects. 

Lucía Hinojosa Gaxiola
Yes, and the gemstone is like an aerolito in Spanish—a flying meteorite from outer space, an object of power that comes from another world. Humor also plays a vital role in our relationship and work. It serves as a form of healing allowing us to navigate the immensity of our political and imperial reality with a little lightness, like children laughing. We don’t want to ignore the problems of the world or be naive, but we want to keep playing and dreaming, so we have to acknowledge this, and continue. Our piece, Seeking the Gemstone Diplomat, began as a series of text messages—poetic and bureaucratic letters—playfully critiquing the absurdity of the art world while celebrating its mysticism. It reminds me of the great surrealists Remedios Varo and Leonora Carrington, who laughed at the idea of being mystical bureaucrats. I like to think that we’re employed by a secret society operating in another dimension. 

No Land: And also just kind of laughing at the whole business of art and the rules of how you’re supposed to be navigating something so mystical– there are rules. And that’s very funny. 

Lucia: It’s completely absurd & surrealistic & I think Leonora and Remedios had that similar relationship of laughing at how to be a mystical bureaucrat. It’s important to know we are living in many planes at the same time. 

David García Casado
How do you find grace amidst the tragedy and doom of our socio-political reality?

Lucía Hinojosa Gaxiola
That is a hard question. But I think melancholy has been unfairly dismissed as negative or passive. For me, it is a force that can awaken and mobilize us. Tuning into melancholy allows us to become vulnerable, and in that vulnerability we find empathy, strength, community. Healing in the present rather than hoping for the future. I once wrote a poem called “towards the melancholy of a future,” where I write about creating Nostalgia’s Labour Union. What is our social role as poets? I constantly ask myself this. Like a biologist studies life, we study feelings and their space of perception, and action.

No Land
I would say “never hopeless.” I agree with Lucia that suffering is not a negative. It’s the workable space where all of the light and blooming come from. And so, I don’t personally get – even if I’m in the depth of my suffering, there’s always a parallel energy of optimism. Although one could make the argument that the world gets more in darkness and more callous and more brutality is out in the open, you always have this parallel energy of people who are refusing, intuitively, that narrative of the world. There’s an Arthur Rimbaud line– “if the poet is destroyed by madness” like, from sitting in the depths of suffering or any kind of psychological enduring difficulty – if the poet falls, there are always going to be new workers who are born who “continue at the horizon where the first one has fallen.” You see it in the youth– this innate sense of goodness, the Buddha nature, basic goodness… it doesn’t die, it cannot be exterminated. Whether it’s the hippies or Occupy Wall Street, they keep coming. Moral heart. I think not to be afraid of going into suffering. That’s the place of alchemy. I think something to be hopeful about is the discourse happening around deeper compassion which is the fluid or the liquid of any hope for peace. I’m very interested in working around this idea of “what is compassion?” Why do some people seem to exude too much or “idiot compassion” as Trungpa would say – if you have too much you’re gonna get hurt – and why other people may have a more tough, rugged individualism. And then what are the spaces for these things to become one, what are the layers of these. I would like some of my work to call attention that we have this paint or liquid or gas or salve (compassion) that we can work with. Instead of going immediately to doom narratives– you might ask what work is being done to deepen compassion. To me it’s very practical – like there’s a technique that can be worked with. Perhaps we are in this early, early, prehistoric time of learning or perhaps re-remembering how to work with one another, other people’s realities, animal realities, insect realities. I love this beautiful idea from the ancient Celtic armies (Robert Graves writes of it)– that each side of the ancient army had a poet. They would each discuss their “version of events” with the other. So, a poet, in addition to investigating these outer, beyond realms, also has a practical work on this planet. What is the work to create alignment, compassion, and mercy. I’m curious. I don’t feel like I can go to doom because there’s all this compassion work we can do to mitigate this doom sense. We have agency as artists.

No Land & Lucía Hinojosa Gaxiola. Photo by Leila Jacue