Moving

Moving to a different place reveals the priorly invisible mental roots one had established in the prior place. The sadness from replacing those roots with another one.. wait, no, it's mental/emotional work,  why sadness? Because those roots linked to us, and it felt that we not only belonged to the former place but also that part of it belonged to us, that some of it was ours. Sadness is that pain from something taken away from our soul, something that felt like possession.
And the brain doesn't distinguish much between space, things and humans, they all get attached to us.
Moving also reveals the energy it takes to re-judge every single detail. Like revisiting an old place, every small details comes back to the surface because the brain doesn't distinguish between details, and they all get attached to us, for no good reason. There is an efficiency in not being sensitive to one's environment that I long for.

Variance in Streets

Assuming american streets are organised in a straight lattice, and European streets are disorganised curves of various lengths.

SAN FRANCISCO, CA, USA

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.

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. ]]]

Difference, the explosion of it on my face, and the secret inspiration of travels

I moved from San Francisco to London - materialistic times require mental decompression.
I have been exploded in the face by innumerable instances of Difference. Differences here and there, of everything. In other words, the concept of differentiation has been hitting me with a symbolic violence like I'm a war victim.
An invasion has been overflowing me with the constancy of a daily rain, the constancy of a World War II bombing, a repetitive trick (I almost wrote: a mental rape) of an everyday life that refuses to resemble a far-away not-so-long-ago place and time.
The couple identity/difference and its spectrum are piercing rays through banal normality. This newly refreshed sensitivity, echoing old feelings, reminded or showed me some aspects of the conceptual echosystem of Difference: the subject and identity,   the mirroring effects of difference: subject/object, sub-sub, o/o, going perhaps towards orthodox psychoanalysis.
My personal feelings are: an unknowledgeable amount of noises and mirages, a wealth of illusions, passing before my eyes, as I breathe along, all with an exclusive ordinariness. What Difference is to me: the passing of past attempts to recognize and master particular idioms, forms or being, into different ones that are so close yet so far. Going back to square one and re-discovering flavors.  Yet so close.   A set of modifications that impose themselves with the irrelevance of a chewing-gum flavor.  Yet not just one flavor, but a million coming to all senses, beyond mere distraction.
(Thinking of explorators of the past, at least I know I'm around human beings, and I know I have means to survive, whereas past explorers doubted both crucial statements when venturing inside new territories.)
This relocation, and this feeling of being a blind victim repeatedly shot by the assassins of Habit, the Delicious Snipers Against The Same, has placed me in a situation of enjoyment. Something similar to being a tourist, although deeper, as allied with the feelings of potential citizenship, the sensation of being "one of them", the feeling that one needs to go into a process of becoming united, the feeling of needing to care for a nation.
Without having good reading material (materialistic times require mental decompression), my main best thought was about wondering why this exaltation exists. Why would a change of trees and street maps, architecture and bread shapes be enough to create and sustain such an enjoyment? At first I thought it could be like the strange excitement of watching fire or waves, but no, it's sort of the opposite, watching waves refers to the expected repetitive regeneration of a single recursive pattern, whereas travels usually (well, at least mine) point to the unexpected one-time change of myriads of either repetitive  or non-repetitive singular patterns. (for instance: repetitive patterns: faces, the way each smile, or rather for London, do not smile; and singular patterns: a new ticketing method for transports, the new symbols on the coins).
So the experience is different, but I was getting somewhere.
And then there was  something deeper.
 My dreams changed. I had nightmares of a different kind, perhaps not fear because of fear, but because of the altogether indescribable strangeness of those dreams.  The dreams had reached a very new ground, yet reminiscent of some childhood feelings, a je-ne-sais-quoi that is not small, an untitled sensation that occurred multiple times. So I realized, the secret inspiration of travels, it's just that: because we are brains with sense and muscles, the subconscious is only about that. And the change of senses is enough to excite it at core, as the practice of different games with different partners suffice to entirely refresh us, and we always are children wanting to play games.
 So without regards to an existing condition of itself, the subconscious knows, without morals or any knowledge of its worth, that different outside conditions will be enough. It knows and desires it, and then I suppose some will desire it more than others, just like anything else. Travels are like milkshakes.
  I remember a documentary about Sarajevo, where it said that people were dancing in the ruins. There is no escape from lightness of the heart, the elegant compositions of flickering details that compose us. Materialistic times require mental decompression.
In a way, that's all the last weeks were worth, a dubious observation of the naturalism of the subconscious.
Yet there is something deeper, to be found.

Towards keeping states of inspiration constant

In past trips, I realized the easiness to be somewhere else, and hence the "multi-location" aspect of life (sensation of being somewhere and elsewhere simultaneously).
But the real deal I found in my latest trip is the non-existence of my current location: it's not that I can be somewhere else, but that I am just not really here right now. It's the deconstruction of the current self, the absolute doubt and rejection of every senses that can keep the current state of things as interesting, because finally I wouldn't be subject to the tyranny of the environment. Finally Dailiness and earthly things wouldn't win.
And maybe that's why I never got crazy, because the environment controls me so much. Things never break by themselves, so being a mirror of things is a natural defense to madness breaking in.

Maturity, experience, don't come necessarily as a surprise, they can come as the psychological realization of a truth known before, like: we are all equal - is still a surprising thought.

 Apprendre a laisser tomber, laisser faire, se separer du monde meme quand il est la, tres present, apprendre a laisser les liens qui nous attachent au monde a exister par eux-memes sans essayer de les toucher. Laisser les sensations se faire et se defaire, oublier de vouloir tout controler. La respiration, y penser, mediter lentement. Redecouvrir l'eau, l'air. Laisser les sensations revenir a l'interieur, passer au travers. Ne plus etre un obstacle.
Learning to let go, to forgo (to ignore), to detach oneself from the world even when it's there, so present, learning to let our ties with the world live by themselves and not try to touch them. Let sensations link and unlink, forget to want to control everything. Breathing, thinking about it, slowly meditate. Rediscover water, air. Let sensations come back inside, go through them. To no longer be an obstacle.

Nonsense

"Electric car" shouts the electric car, beep, people walking really fast both ways - Altanta airport.
What's the use of describing - wish I had the ease of writing (the pretention of having an audience, for sure, pretention of the crook).
Passing by, so many, just like any other.

I feel I touched the heart of human population, that nest
      whereabout and seemingly various beings
Balance in-out, writing, reading, the way of life, searching for duality, everywhere, having a detector - A man knew of the powers around him, the forces in presence of each environment he would travel through, and he was aware of the tensions, could he shut down his sensibility?
Someone passing by for the tenth time.

Having notes, tracking the fluxes, as temporary relieve of reception? Hiding behind the activity of tracking time and movements
There is no cornerstone to duality, and no duality is specifically human, it's all already there.

L'organe-obstacle de la dualite, c'est elle-même - le reflet du reflet est lui même un reflet, il n'est pas lui-même mais lui ressemble beaucoup.
Voir, percevoir, recevoir, bientot savoir
La poesie comme liberation? Il faudrait traduire, pour les autres.
Personne ne voit, l'interstice.
Point d'interrogation, point de connaissance.
De l'interrogation comme maniere d'apprendre, technique de raisonnement comme passage vers la memoire.
le Memoire, Memory, Memory is a bubble bath. (not a quiet lake).
"Awesome", they say. the corridor is long.

Apprendre l'histoire comme le combat de l'homme sur la nature et lui-meme, mais ce ne sont que des variations, des histoires.  Apprendre l'histoire parce qu'on aurait fait pareil, parce qu'on continue de conquerir, de trahir, parce que c'est beau, parce que c'est là.
La dualite de l'histoire: les monde parallelles du present (et si Charlemagne n'avait pas été couronné? et si l'edit de Nantes...? et si Ravaillac avait manqué Henri IV ?...)
Forcer l'histoire comme une story, une stoire? Pourquoi?
Ne pas voir les relations.

Ne jamais oublier que la vie agit comme la mer sur nos yeux facilement captés, attrapés, pèchés par n'importe quel mouvement comme si c'etait la vie, et l'on se projète sur n'importe quel morceau d'ajitation (c'est pourquoi la campagne, le retrait du mouvement, c'est comme la ville: moins de vent, sans bruit, les grandes villes, grands espaces de vide. pourquoi la nuit est-elle si intéressante? Le désert? Se mettre dans une chambre noire, se mettre dehors dans la nuit: même chose? Le silence nocturne envahissant, la presque-lumiere, l' "à peine" des sensations.
(Charles du Bois decrit Gide comme l'eau du verre, qui transparait toujours sans apparaitre - le trouble et le gris de Glenn Gould)
Sympathie des passants.
J'aurai pu voir certaines choses.
Keeping track of so many details.

J'aimerai que les gens soient sympathiques, il faudrait pouvoir avancer sans inquietude.
L'Homme-singe, ca n'est pas un être, c'est une duliate très présente.

Gaudi

I want to explain how the works of Antonion Gaudi impacted me. Gaudi was inspired by Nature, it feels classical and to me evokes Rococo, at least compared to the surrounding minimalistic and inhuman architecture and industrial design of our times. Gaudi feels natural, to the point of obviousness, it's the feeling of the architecture and design that just fits, it's human design. I think we have lost even the desire, the classical will to reach nature back into our civilized worlds. We have forgotten this, maybe since the 70's, with the obvious failure of the hippies and associated movements, who tried to reach Nature too bluntly, too literally. We all became a little bit Republican after that, and forgot the need for humanology. Less became more, Small became beautiful, straight lines became the norm and anything else was purged out off everything. The Japanese in their genius have been trying to reinvent natural, ergonomic shapes however with not a big enough success that it would regenerate the old spirits that Gaudi shouted in my head each time I saw his works.
Gaudi means "it's OK, it's necessary to create more, to get more in touch with what feels right. It's OK and necessary to create curves and rounds and ellipsoid windows. It's OK and necessary to be fun, and it certainly is OK and necessary that it takes much, much more work to create the objects that support that fun, because that's what feels right and the fun is not only about the fun, it's also what works for humans and what is good. It's absolutely and seriously OK to experiment with decorations, until the decorative aspect of things reaches the point, the balance when it's no longer unessential." We have mired our vision with the opposite of superfluous rules, we have accepted straight cubes and flat worlds that felt wrong for the sake of a short-term efficiency which faked being durable.
I link this to the current disaffection of our school system and thereby of our intelligentsia, of our social conscience (our superego), in social sciences, what the French also call human sciences. It is the same false belief in the need for utilitarian economical viewpoints that creates for a big part the falsehood of people's perceptions.
What is terrible with such a fantastic idea is the simplicity to deny its truth, to answer "no, this is not needed" in front of Gaudi's exorbitant greatness. To say "his work does not contain anything specially human" because we cannot prove or define what feels right. It would be wrong to respect or celebrate Gaudi as a cerebral artist, to define round shapes as conceptual design. However we can complain about straight lines being inhuman, as they shout their fakeness with perhaps the same obviousness (at least to me) that Gaudi's work implies about what humans are all about.

Keeping ends meet (keeping hands meat)

One needs something to be taken away to feel something. The constant movement of getting/giving, waves of life. (Habits are a stop in the movement, Work often forces that absence).
--
I dreamt of a new title.
-- found:
We have no more beginnings. (I revere you, George Steiner)

The twentieth century has put in doubt the theological, the philosophical, and the political-material insurance for hope. It queries the rationale and credibility of future tenses.

Language is immeasurably saturated. Words, grammatical forms, phrases, rhetorical conventions are saturated, nearly to the level of the phoneme, by usage, by precedent, by cultural-social connotation.

There is now a fascism of vulgarity. For shorthand, I call it Berlusconism. Bright graduates hanker to fill their boots, and not their minds. There is a contempt for the life of the mind on the part of money. Money has an enormous voice. It has never spoken louder.