The habits and mental habits and mental constructs of one grown man should be so far superior to the ones of the young adult and teenager and child, that they should repel all possible affects from the external world, and build with them a mental bubble so strong, like an iron dome, that only Efficiency lives in it and only Productive Work and Streams of Rational Creation follows from the Energy Within and all else is banned for the moment as non-needed activities and the focus and concentration is natural and painless and almost subconscious on the Tasks at hand, the Tasks under the eyes and heart and inside the Mind of the man, who knows better and knows where and how to focus and has forgotten the Time when all winds of the Mind were blowing in all directions like a diseased child suffering from ADHD where dirt and romance and war and softness all mingled inside the same activities and music confused images and all senses fired randomly and there was no silence, no calm Within It and we just wished for some Peace and it wasn't all that bad at all as we were used to it, but The Man, all grown up and with an Acute and Fierce Concentration, like a laser that does Not _deviate_ and does not chime in with the qualms mercilessly brought by Life and The Noise of it with all its Stuff and annoyance of basic things continuously surrounding us and The Shapes and Forms of Things non-stoppingly repeating their insistence as if we needed a different Conductor but ours is already pretty good actually, we just don't remind ourselves of it, and That Man is us really, it's just that we like to digress, to be honest with ourselves.
This isn't a praise but a game with ourselves.
Variance in Streets
Assuming american streets are organised in a straight lattice, and European streets are disorganised curves of various lengths.
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| SAN FRANCISCO, CA, USA |
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| TOULOUSE, FRANCE |
American streets draw themselves out towards infinity, more powerful than man, godlike.
European streets, bent, recede and are supplanted by buildings and houses, are more human and mysterious.
Emotion: to feel human and powerful or feeble, facing the night in the city.
At night, American streets emphasise far-away lights. Each crossing offers mirages built with the accumulation of traffic and street lights off four directions.
The urban pace was latticed for ease of simplicity and to put liveable areas under control.
The result is an impenetrable infinity, illusionary and magic, a New and Unnatural World.
The European street follows the pedestrian and ascribes familiarity to his journeys (brings easiness of recognition, especially to the natives). The mystery of curves is easily solved (one just has to look around, walk from different sides, to lean,...) and is familiar and harmless. (The European street mystery is in the negative elements: lights, compositions of buildings and surroundings. The American mystery is more obvious, in the buildings themselves: colours, signs,..etc)
The American street is one of the future, functional (effective) and automated: the paintings of driving indications align with electrics wires, pavements: it is an electro-physical field, cultivated, perpetual.
The European street traces its objects almost randomly. Each street and piece of street presents itself as an individual combination.
American city: a giant organism, neutral at core, accepting, like its inhabitants, thus chaotic.
European city: an image of war, fights between streets and buildings, and buildings between themselves, grown together or against each other.
WRITINGS FROM THE VOID
Dark Portrait of a world where nobody cares. Cold desert, ghosts. No connection, extra-lightness of being. Pain from living within the absence. Winds and voids resemble social lives. Shallow creatures.
I imagined a symbol and thought it would solve our problems: inverted lines of thoughts. I believe in randomness.
There will be nothing, and there will be something. Voices are only heard at night.
Dark Blue Leaves.
A swimming pool.
A frog captures the insect.
So long (Rest in Peace).
Moon watches, smiling.
The water in the pool is intact.
Words, mysteries abond, vagues unidentified, sytlistic expressions of wanderers.
I worship your presence when you're close, to me, and ignore you, unconsciously, otherwise.
This was a start of changes, the unstoppable play of shape and content, like burning over a camp fire. There we were, small and glowing in ourselves, with visions unanticipated. The Mastery of Life wasn't far ahead anymore. We saw them: the transparent arcades of creation surrounding.
Night on Earth
Douwe Eisenga WIKIPEDIA http://www.douweeisenga.nl/Douwe_Eisenga/Blog/Blog.html
Piano Concert : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gdec8es1qjM (part I...etc)
A few men operate in silence
And the moon is not glazed at, and no women are saved
And babies are not born there
And nothing is forgiven
Future & the Arctic
In the future, everybody will be linked to anyone they interact with, forever.
Omni-connection, omni-presence. Hyper-society.
Anything, Anywhere, Anytime.
A-memory. A-regrets. A-invisibility.
The unpredictability of the mind will be the last refuge for secrecy and privacy. (We will forced to be crazy to stay human). Or to create or own waves.
Later,
Above The Groenland:
Purity & Infinity, as if the world had died and went in a fridge, and all died as they were impure, and nothing remains but the ground, slippery cottony cold as improper to our sins, a death-made vision of perfection.
Rolls, crevices of all beauty that staggers the eye, forgotten like perfume as too much, too big for us to remember, does not fit in the fridge.
It is the refrigerator of life, yet contains nothing, it is the place where Winter is born, with no clouds and perpetual sun.
A playground of hills and cryptic pathways that condemns any fun.
Hazy blur of flaky winds.
[[[ Coldness being required by too much energy. Is Mineral a life form? Is an iceberg alive? So vast a space of beauty yet so hard to see. Wrong place, wrong energy. An all-white Dark Matter. ]]]
Omni-connection, omni-presence. Hyper-society.
Anything, Anywhere, Anytime.
A-memory. A-regrets. A-invisibility.
The unpredictability of the mind will be the last refuge for secrecy and privacy. (We will forced to be crazy to stay human). Or to create or own waves.
Later,
Above The Groenland:
Purity & Infinity, as if the world had died and went in a fridge, and all died as they were impure, and nothing remains but the ground, slippery cottony cold as improper to our sins, a death-made vision of perfection.
Rolls, crevices of all beauty that staggers the eye, forgotten like perfume as too much, too big for us to remember, does not fit in the fridge.
It is the refrigerator of life, yet contains nothing, it is the place where Winter is born, with no clouds and perpetual sun.
A playground of hills and cryptic pathways that condemns any fun.
Hazy blur of flaky winds.
[[[ Coldness being required by too much energy. Is Mineral a life form? Is an iceberg alive? So vast a space of beauty yet so hard to see. Wrong place, wrong energy. An all-white Dark Matter. ]]]
αἴσθησις
Obsession with Faces, faces in the morning when emerging in the real world and sensing people and their lives and emotions invading my mind through their faces. Faces of stories and lives and breeding and work and pain and joy and, most of the time, indifference and anaesthesia .
Faces, I shall write your names.
Feeling of worlds apart, when in a moment I'm surrounded by people yet live within the very closed and delicately childish environment of Charles Dickens, and another moment I'm open to new sensations surrounded by rapidly walking urban white collar workers who deny any opening.
Collision of mental worlds.
Defining the ideal person to meet, advancing in the subtleties of narration, revisiting the sensations that come between the passing from a place to another.
Words that fill a mind with no particular goal. Most common sensations are too big for what we created (the methods, the language) to transcribe our commonalities.
The space of an author is what resonates in us. Our inside echoes always come from an author.
Faces, I shall write your names.
Feeling of worlds apart, when in a moment I'm surrounded by people yet live within the very closed and delicately childish environment of Charles Dickens, and another moment I'm open to new sensations surrounded by rapidly walking urban white collar workers who deny any opening.
Collision of mental worlds.
Defining the ideal person to meet, advancing in the subtleties of narration, revisiting the sensations that come between the passing from a place to another.
Words that fill a mind with no particular goal. Most common sensations are too big for what we created (the methods, the language) to transcribe our commonalities.
The space of an author is what resonates in us. Our inside echoes always come from an author.
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