,
years disclaims me write about the end of the year. largely dichotomous poorly resolved conflict that tries to balance a disbelief (ever increasing) in the real symbolism of beginnings and endings of cycles (about face years of being something more than the passage from one day to another) and printing they still fascinate me and me Numb with a certain curiosity and apprehension when thinking that maybe there is something even more behind the numbers and beliefs and that my perception is so immersed in the quagmire of nihilistic environment I live with what it has lost the ability to percerber real things as they really are. the fact is that year after year, like many other habits incorporated (quoting Woody Woodpecker, "I have many habits, and they are all bad) I got used to thinking and set aside. at a given time chatter throughout this might seem one of those literary attempts to justify that in addition to filling sausage serve to create scenario and give motivation for a possible change in attitude - in this case, the decision to talk about it. It is not. still unable to write on the subject, the simple feeling of inability / incompleteness in addressing it. is like something so precious that the fear of making mistakes when trying to counter this perception of letters and dots - or in this transcript could imprison a larger picture something so flat and tight - was greater than his need to do it , postponing ad infinitum a need that does not seem to views that will be exhausted.
(If I was more carefree and let things flow naturally, maybe he could accept that all personal perception will always be only one aspect of what was perceived - as a shot is to a real scenario - and to understand the whole parties is the result of a conditional limitation, proper context, who can not, like Baron Munchausen, pull themselves by their own hair and rid itself of the look of someone who sees an addict of reality in it.)
tired of wallow in metaphysical ramblings of this size, lately I've been taking another strategy, which is to try to understand the whole thing using subterfuge. instead of trying to understand things that seem too complex to be understood in sufficient reliability, I contemplated the possibility of devoting myself to the most simple - find things that are really important, but without embracing pragmatism convenient - and try to see in them representations of the great structures of thought and perception that were always my real interest, consciously or not.
break to drink water.
not exactly thought about it today, but it's something I've been mulling over for days, due to some decisions that I've been taking. probably because these decisions impact others, future directions I plan to take over, or about how early or late, those shots of course are likely to be made. it is amazing how 5 days of influenza with fever of 39 degrees can do wonders to your philosophical reasoning. few hours contemplating anything alternating cold butt under a duvet and intense sweating and you start to rethink their whole life: stupid things Homeric, dating wrong, humiliating, involuntary stress. irrecoverable moments. things done, and above all things undone. at some point you begin to adhere to the details: the smell of brie under the low roof of the Casa Santa Luzia, car headlights at the entrance of a house early Saturday in Teresopolis, Spearhead in the headphones of a Walkman on a cold night between Brasilia and Sao Paulo. Dave McKean on the floor of a hotel in Alfenas, head wandering the beaches of white stones on the moon in the Mediterranean. meatballs and a cross-eyed cat in the kitchen cozy, two in the morning, and hours of conversation about anything till faint sleep under a heavy blanket. smell of old books on a cloudy afternoon in Leonardo da Vinci. old words of anonymous strangers talking about life, love, death, melancholy and banality in the gray of the afternoon at the SCS, the sound of the Gotan Project.
nothing that leads me nowhere, and yet I'm on every one of them fragmented, seeking a solution to my dilemma proustniano understanding of time and memory.
pause for a Tylenol.
sitting in a comfortable nest, as in every night (and the commentary certainly makes sense only for those who knew the room in question) I have thought about all this while I put my reading done. to pack a heterogeneous selection of articles that went on the apocryphal gospels until the last American Wizard, I decided to listen to only one taken to complete the trilogy by Howard Shore for Lord of the Rings Peter Jackson - something for which I was plundered for days, many probably on the heels of expectation for the arrival of extended edition of Return of the King, or had seen several documentaries in recent days, or even to have begun to monitor the real production of The Chronicles of Narnia - The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. does not matter. the fact is that once again brought up the need to tell a little about my relationship with anticipation, awkwardness and subsequent redemption with the movie and what it meant over 5 years following all of this. but it was something that I left because it would be frivolous desrever something I had not been able to realize in full - which somehow brought me back to the original question.
but I also realized that this was an inability to understand, in a sense, a metaphor for the whole issue: the need to understand that the whole could be absorbed from small observations, even if partial. in the case of a work like Tolkien, is a cliché to say that, like everything else: it has become so large in the collective imagination, and so was read, spoken and commented that it is difficult to know what a metaphor was intentional and what is the result of several locubrações, are certainly more informed than others. just see, for example, diversity on display between the three main illustrators of Tolkien (Alan Lee, John Howe and Ted Nasmith).
all this philosophical journey ended when they fell to the ground, passed almost 3 ½ hours of music, I stopped to watch in "Into The West", the last track the trail of The Return of the King, and remembered the scene related to it . five minutes later, I realized I was crying - not ribaldry, but from a quiet and melancholy, about which I would not know to speak.
turned off the sound at the close of the last track. knowing the way most inexplicable and accurate that I can not ignore something just because they do not understand.
