Something

If you like something you shall like this, because this is something, no? ;-)



Well, I leave in hours, will take a short vacation, ten days to ease my mind after five years without any day of real rest. Trip alone. Hope to find something interesting :-)
Will not take the laptop with me to not have the temptation of doing something related to work, but will keep posting anyway; I have some images and some quotes prepared for some days, also I should end with the simulated prisms serie. The last two are cool. So if you read, won't get rid of me easily :-P

Will hit the road. Woohoo!

Copper flower

To my detriment I'll never be neat. This is one more proof to myself and everyone: this work was meant to be posted during the southern springtime, during my series of simulated flowers, but was saved into a different format, in a different folder -mislayed in the end.
Found now, belatedly posted now. Lovely, lovely deep poem to enclose. Copper. How many health hazards and deaths for mining this copper, for just having communication lines open for little global advance.

I am a copper wire slung in the air,
Slim against the sun I make not even a clear line of shadow.
Night and day I keep singing—humming and thrumming:
It is love and war and money; it is the fighting and the
tears, the work and want,
Death and laughter of men and women passing through
me, carrier of your speech,
In the rain and the wet dripping, in the dawn and the
shine drying,
A copper wire.

Carl Sandburg, "Under a telephone pole".

Chess

Seems invented, would be unfortunate, in any case I thank the fate when have one gift of the night like this one. Have another ride inside my mind while I was dreaming, two nights ago, a good symbol of not feeling in control of my own life:

I was seating in front of a chess board, with the white pieces from my side, concentrated in the board and didn't saw who was playing against me with the black pieces; so one of my white pawns looked at me and said "look!" and moved himself alone, I was more confused than surprised. My right wing knight said "this way! F3!" and jumped over the line of pawns while the notation F3 come out of his mouth, -"Stop, stop" said I, "Let me think", -"There is no time!" another pawn said, like upsetted, and moved himself too; I didn't catched what were they doing while moving by themselves; I really tried to catch up, but the left wing bishop shooted far away and screamed "Do or die, stupid! G5!" (with truly bad temper), the queen looked at me really menacing: "You should do better!", -"What am I doing?" said I, like justifying, "You are doing nothing", intervened the king, "See?", he asked me, pointing to the board in front, while they were taking over the game that I never managed to start; I saw a kingside castling as I said "Oh-oh!" while I saw the notation 0-0 in front of my eyes coming out of the king and the rook; "Wait, please!", struggeled I, trying to understand the moves, pressing hard my temples with my fingers, right when one gentleman, grey hair, slightly bald, dressed in sort of a red and black etiquette, came and swept away every piece of the board into a red wooden box with gold threads, folded the board and took them both with him, box and board under his left arm.
- What? -asked I, annoyed.
- Time's up. -said he.
- Time? -I replied.
- Yes!, what you think?
- I don't think. -said I, and woke up stunned about it.


"Like that other, this game is for ever" says the outstanding poem, unique in history:

I

In their solemn corner, the players
move the gradual pieces. The board
detains them until dawn in its hard
compass: the hatred of two colors.

In the game, the forms give off
a severe magic: Homeric castle, gay knight,
warlike queen, king solitary,
oblique bishop, and pawns at war.

Finally, when the players have gone in,
and when time has eventually consumed them,
surely the rites then will not be done.

In the east, this war has taken fire.
Today, the whole earth is its provenance.
Like that other, this game is for ever.

II

Faint-hearted king, sly bishop, ruthless queen,
Straightforward castle, and deceitful pawn -
Over the checkered black and white terrain
They seek out and begin their armed campaign.

They do not know it is the player’s hand
That dominates and guides their destiny.
They do not know an adamantine fate
Controls their will and lays the battle plan.

The player too is captive of caprice
(The words are Omar’s) on another ground
Where black nights alternate with whiter days.

God moves the players, he in turn the piece.
But what god beyond God begins the round
Of dust and time and sleep and agonies?

Jorge Luis Borges, "Chess" ("Ajedrez").



But as the poem loses a lot in the translation, here's the original in spanish:

I

En su grave rincón, los jugadores
rigen las lentas piezas. El tablero
los demora hasta el alba en su severo
ámbito en que se odian dos colores.

Adentro irradian mágicos rigores
las formas: torre homérica, ligero
caballo, armada reina, rey postrero,
oblicuo alfil y peones agresores.

Cuando los jugadores se hayan ido,
cuando el tiempo los haya consumido,
ciertamente no habrá cesado el rito.

En el Oriente se encendió esta guerra
cuyo anfiteatro es hoy toda la tierra.
Como el otro, este juego es infinito.

II

Tenue rey, sesgo alfil, encarnizada
reina, torre directa y peón ladino
sobre lo negro y blanco del camino
buscan y libran su batalla armada.

No saben que la mano señalada
del jugador gobierna su destino,
no saben que un rigor adamantino
sujeta su albedrío y su jornada.

También el jugador es prisionero
(la sentencia es de Omar) de otro tablero
de negras noches y blancos días.

Dios mueve al jugador, y éste, la pieza.
¿Qué Dios detrás de Dios la trama empieza
de polvo y tiempo y sueño y agonías?

Jorge Luis Borges, "Ajedrez".

Vika

Turquoise and yellow.

Nature rarer uses yellow
Than another hue;
Saves she all of that for sunsets,—
Prodigal of blue,

Spending scarlet like a woman,
Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly,
Like a lover's words.

Emily Dickinson, XXXI.

Abstract Nº31

The man who dares to live his life with death before his eyes, the man who receives life back bit by bit and lives as though it did not belong to him by right but has been bestowed on him as a gift, the man who has such freedom and peace of mind that he has overcome death in his thoughts — such a man believes in eternal life because it is already his, it is a present experience, and he already benefits from its peace and joy. He cannot describe this experience in words. He may not be able to conform his view with the traditional picture of it. But one thing he knows for certain: Something within us does not pass away, something goes on living and working wherever the kingdom of the spirit is present. It is already working and living within us, because in our hearts we have been able to reach life by overcoming death.

Albert Schweitzer, "Reverence for Life".

Wedges of orange

The concept of oranges related to a mystical silence started to take form from an idea by Amber, months ago, about sharing oranges in silence under the sun. I made the artwork of wedges on a plate immediately, but didn't posted, without knowing why. I said to her something like "I have it done, the best I could, will send it to you", and never did. Exactly like in the poem I was shutted up to listen for something, instead of talking; something was lacking yet. Then, yesterday, I discovered the poem, that includes the Orange Tree, and the dialog, and the mystic silence, and then the post was ready, and here it is, and dedicated to my friend Amber.

The young girl stood beside me.
I Saw not what her young eyes could see:
- A light, she said, not of the sky
Lives somewhere in the Orange Tree.

- Is it, I said, of east or west?
The heartbeat of a luminous boy
Who with his faltering flute confessed
Only the edges of his joy?

Was he, I said, borne to the blue
In a mad escapade of Spring
Ere he could make a fond adieu
To his love in the blossoming?

- Listen! the young girl said. There calls
No voice, no music beats on me;
But it is almost sound: it falls
This evening on the Orange Tree.

- Does he, I said, so fear the Spring
Ere the white sap too far can climb?
See in the full gold evening
All happenings of the olden time?

Is he so goaded by the green?
Does the compulsion of the dew
Make him unknowable but keen
Asking with beauty of the blue?

- Listen! the young girl said. For all
Your hapless talk you fail to see
There is a light, a step, a call
This evening on the Orange Tree.

- Is it, I said, a waste of love
Imperishably old in pain,
Moving as an affrighted dove
Under the sunlight or the rain?

Is it a fluttering heart that gave
Too willingly and was reviled?
Is it the stammering at a grave,
The last word of a little child?

- Silence! the young girl said. Oh, why,
Why will you talk to weary me?
Plague me no longer now, for I
Am listening like the Orange Tree.

John Shaw Neilson, "The Orange Tree".

Malström

And in the center of the twirling waters, where the pressure cracks the ships of thought, a slight flouration seems to bloom?...
Art, Religion, Science. Beauty, Goodness, Truth. I find the way for redeption and truth about nature also in art. That is my experience so far.

We judge the finality, and not causality of nature, if we judge its creations as artworks; in artworks made and estimated by human genius, therefore, their perfection is not a sign of the creator's skill only, it is a sign of overall and universal human finality. In an aesthetical sense, spirit (Geist) is what animates the soul (Seele) with finality. Animated with finality, and not causality, soul is in play. »Now my proposition is,« says Kant, »that this principle is nothing else than the faculty of presenting aesthetic ideas,« which is the imagination, the productive faculty of cognition. The material for imagination »can be borrowed by us from nature in accordance with that law, but be worked up by us into something else – namely, what surpasses nature.« Genius, then, is a talent for creating and estimating arts which presupposes a definite concept of the product: not of its causality or utility, which we would usually expect as an answer to the question »What is this good for?«. The concept required in genius is a concept of an end, of the finality of artwork. To give imagination some restrictions in its flying freedom, genius needs taste »so that it may preserve its character of finality«.

Lev Kreft, "Mission(s) of Art".

Prism VII

The seventh out of twelve.

[...]
The best of gifts will not be stored:
The manna of yesterday
Has filled no sacred miser-hoard
To keep new need away.
[...]

George MacDonald, "The Prism" (seventh stanza).

Ceiling fan II

Yes, I'll berate about the freaking heat, I'm a crispy fried frog, :-) the street is a frying pan! Today it was steady 38ºC (Over 100ºF) all day long, already before the sun was out, and until 8 pm, the "feels like" hitted 40ºC (104ºF), the breeze was sweating more than the people, and I've seen persons walking with their clothes all wet on the centric streets, they just throw themselves to the fountain of a park or square and kept walking with the shoes pretty wet. The previous rule of "You won't enter this store without a shirt" it is spitted over and forgotten, women walk around on their bikinis and with a pareo over... Envy? No, you won't like to be here. ;-)

The ceiling fan is running faster over my head, the other option I have is buying an air conditioner and galons of eyedrops, but I feel so insecure about it; I still see 20/20 at my 35 years and don't want to lose it.

Simichidas! whither, pray, hurriest thou
At this mid-day time, when even the lizard
Is sleeping by the dry-stone wall,
Nor do the crested larks wander about?

Theocritus, "The mid-Day heat"

Flower of twelve petals (Happy new year!)

Well, some simulated flowers will keep showing up when needed, I guess. Twelve upcoming months: may they bloom into a whole happy new year for everyone! And... Feliz cumpleaños papá! :-D (happy birthday dad!)

Fate now allows us,

'Twixt the departing

And the upstarting,
Happy to be;
And at the call of

Memory cherish'd,

Future and perish'd
Moments we see.

Seasons of anguish,

Ah, they must ever

Truth from woe sever,
Love and joy part;
Days still more worthy

Soon will unite us,

Fairer songs light us,
Strength'ning the heart.

We, thus united,

Think of, with gladness,

Rapture and sadness,
Sorrow now flies.
Oh, how mysterious

Fortune's direction!

Old the connection,

New-born the prize!

Thank, for this, Fortune,

Wavering blindly!

Thank all that kindly
Fate may bestow!
Revel in change's

Impulses clearer,

Love far sincerer,
More heartfelt glow!

Over the old one,

Wrinkles collected,

Sad and dejected,
Others may view;
But, on us gently

Shineth a true one,

And to the new one
We, too, are new.

As a fond couple

'Midst the dance veering,

First disappearing,
Then reappear,
So let affection

Guide thro' life's mazy

Pathways so hazy
Into the year!

Johann W. von Goethe, "On the new year".