Is it possible to miss someone you don’t know?
Someone who wasn’t even born yet?
To miss in anticipation… or to miss too late?
Yes… yes, yes, it is.
New theme for “the guide”. Yay WordPress. Yay first post with new design. Yay me and my delusional disorder (there’s no such thing as “creativity” for the likes of me). Is philosophy the art of asking questions, or the art of looking for the answer?
Good night…
Hint: download my pic (it’s possible if you click on it and go to flickr), rotate it as you like and voilá, a cool wallpaper for your computer.
This is an early release. I don’t have a picture that fits, or a song. Hey this has a good chance of becoming a song.
Eu não sou ninguém.
Sou como o carteiro.
“Quem é?”
“Não é ninguém, é o carteiro!”
O carteiro não é ninguém, mas importante.
Eu não sou ninguém, nem importante.
Pra alguém.
How should silence be interpreted?
a pair of shoes in front of the door
a smile is now dessacrated
I’m not running anymore
To look at a window which is long gone
to walk up a hill when I’m done
to look at a window, that leads to a wall
to walk down the hill, the window is too small.
The hall is now empty
the shoes are anymore
now I wonder what happened
if the problem was the shoe store.
The window got small
but for a pair of tiny shoes
not too small after all.
I’m going through my second spring this year. Already had two winters, so I guess it’s quite fair.
Hm, wait… I’m gonna miss fall. Well, fall is nothing special around here, unfortunately. When it comes, I’ll write about it. Actually, we don’t really have different seasons. It’s more like dry season, and wet season. But ok ok, enough.
Wait again, I’m not finished! Was actually wondering, what does “spring” mean. Well, as a stupid foreigner and almost a bachelor (in both meanings of the word), all “spring” reminds me is a spring, you know, that spiral usually made of metal that helps Coyote jump his way after Roadrunner, Speed Racer jump across dead ends, your pen to slide out of it’s case…
“Frühling”… hm… germans love to chop words in tiny pieces. So it could be an early “ling”. What? Or, maybe, could mean something like “Lernling” (apprentice), like… something dependable from somewhat else; not really inferior, but something in between. Yes, probably in between.
“Primavera”. “Prima” means hopefully first in Latin. “Vera” could be something related to truth (favorite example: in vino veritas). In Italian they say “è vero” (that’s true) until these days. So in this quick, engineering pre-analysis, it could be “beginning of truth”. Not bad, considering that only during summer nature glows in an explosion of true life, color, beauty. Spring is just the step in between.
Perhaps, eye-for-an-eye, the best word would be Primaverafrühling. This way it’s more complete :).
Spring? Just a piece of twisted metal, sorry!!
Well, I guess a more proper picture makes it worthy republishing.
Sorry for the lack of creativity… I, I just… nah, forget it… … (sigh).
I remember the feeling, of looking in your eyes. While you were looking into mine.
Lights were pale, we inhaled only smoke and no air.
Still, we were there.
I saw inside of you. I’ve been there, in the immensitude of your eyes. I felt lost in an infinite sea. Lost, but never afraid. Something insistently kept me from drowning. For the first time.
And you’ve been here. You’ve stepped in a room that didn’t even exist. You knocked on a door, completely forgotten within shadow and darkness.
Blew the dust away, and found someone.
Someone who never had a face. Until then.
It was… you.
And in your eyes, a tiny version of me. And in my eyes, a tiny version of you.
The more I think about something, the more I think about everything else.
Suddenly a simple 900m walk that never had anything special, turns into a journey throughout my own mind. Perhaps, throughout someone else’s mind as well.
I barely left my street, and crossed paths with the old man and his gnarled staff yet again. He has snow white, long enough to reach his chest, fuzzy beard; a deep expression carved in his face, that inspires great admiration and respect, at least for me. I wonder what has this old man already seen. I look into his eyes and it makes me wish I could have a glimpse, of what he sees. He’s staring at something continuously and fixedly, as he was every other time we met, and as I know he will be, on the next time.
What could have happened, to such a person? What could have happened, to his family? Did he ever have a family of his own? I think it’s very likely. No: I’m sure of it. For sure he had at least someone special in his life already. Someone that, for some reason, had to leave, or to be left. If the reason was noble or not, I’ll never know, and it’s a question nobody else has the right to ask, but himself. Nobody else can find the answer, but himself. Alone. Walking painfully up and down the suburbs, poking the tarmac as if it could be tortured until an answer jumped out.
A second later, I face a young man painting a wall. He looked extremely tidy for a wall painter: not a single drop of white paint on his clothes. Not yet.
Just like it was with the old man, I’m invisible to him. He astonishingly looks like someone who knows what he’s doing. He’s just painting a wall, but he’s proud of it. He’s fulfilled, satisfied, at least for that moment. He was able to grab the brush, moisten it with paint, and apply to the wall, with no regrets and no doubt.
Perhaps this is what makes him an adult: lack of doubt. Life gave him the tools, and he paints the wall without even blinking.
What if you have all the tools, all the machinery, and no idea? What if you have all the chances, all the luck on your side, all the support and all the odds in your favor, but don’t have a wall to paint? Or worse: what if the wall is there, and you inadvertedly brake your nose running against it, so big the blindness is?
What is this bright, yet pale light, that blocks everything? Reality is so cruel: the wall is always there. Not always in one piece. But be sure, that the bricks are all over the ground, right below your broken nose.
The world is becoming whiter every minute. Opaque as the old man’s beard, yet vivid as the young man’s wall.
The old man’s stare. The one stare that crosses oceans, and borders, and travels through time. Usually to the past. But he looks in someone’s eyes.
The young man’s stare. The present is too bright to be seen; the future, too dark.
White paint. White bricks.
White wall.
This is not new, I’m sorry. I’m just depleting my very resourceful list of excuses before I start doing something important for Wednesday. Wednesday? Oh I still have a lot of time to kill.
According to a friend, this earned me a “starter philosopher’s award”. Oh well.
Jul 30 2008, 19h08
Just move, run, stride in the direction that seems right. Just stay, wait, wait for things to come, everything has the right time.
I remember the feeling, of looking in your eyes. While you were looking into mine.
Lights were pale, we inhaled only smoke and no air.
Still, we were there.
I saw inside of you. I’ve been there, in the immensitude of your eyes. I felt lost in an infinite sea. Lost, but never afraid. Something insistently kept me from drowning. For the first time.
And you’ve been here. You’ve stepped in a room that didn’t even exist. You knocked on a door, completely forgotten within shadow and darkness. Blew the dust away, and found someone. Someone who never had a face. Until then.
It was… you. And in your eyes, a tiny version of me. And in my eyes, a tiny version of you.
I really wanted to post something musical this time. Perhaps some other time, so the new strings can stretch properly. It’s going to be worth it. Promise.
For the time being, let’s talk about one of the inconveniences of life.
Young lad is admitted in the university. Goes to immatriculation nearly in his pijamas, signs papers, loses a bunch of hair here and there by the hand of those who call themselves seniors, has a fresh paint job both on his face and dispendable clothes, talks tough to some drunk bastard and watches the true miracle of bastard multiplication before finally rolling in the mud. Problem with bastards in general is that you feel like you can handle one, but a circular formation of seven might require a blood transfer in the end. And our young lad hates needles. At least these were very kind bastards and agreed to hold his backpack for a minute.
He walks out of there swiftly, but notices that some morons in his situation decide to stay in the cage. After all, they have free drinks and are eventually invited to do something embarassing or humiliating like jumping and rolling in the mud. But no regrets: otherwise the ambulance with paramedics parked right in front of the garden would be idle for the whole day.
Young muddy has a great sense of direction, and unadmittedly lucky enough, found some place where they seemed to have soft drinks for sale.
- Ah, hi. What can I do for you?
- Oh, hello. Ahhm… I was wondering if you have something to drink, you know, for sale and all.
- I see… well we only have beer. By the way, where did you come from? I haven’t seen you before.
- Aw I just got in engineering, and…
Hadn’t time to finish.
- Oh. Engineering eh? Sorry mate, we’re in psychology here.
“So what?”, thought muddy almost outloud. But the look on the guy’s face wasn’t very encouraging. Muddy decides to get the hell out of there: was feeling tired to talk tough to bastards all over again, and the absence of mud in the surroundings could possibly allow human cr(uelty)eativity to go even further.
Muddy lived through that day, against all odds. Despite the heavy gunfire and artillery. But learned a very valuable lesson: it’s not always a good idea to tell the truth about himself. Specially if the question is “what do you study?”. The term “engineering” has a variety of side-effects that are the most difficult to predict. Actually, too easy to predict.
Perhaps “journalism”, “law”, “biology” and even “chemistry” have benign influence on listeners. This is a social experiment under construction. Who knows, maybe a PhD thesis?
