Freedom, my love "
" We can live our freedom where we have lived our captivity. It should go somewhere far away. I will not. We must accept life as widely noted that it is possible. Rilke
Morpheus no longer exists. Instead, an ant, dead one day have taken the time to dream: learn to sing. The flesh and the crushed bodies from the top of a pyramid formed by soulless insects that dare imagine cicadas? The monkeys of La Fontaine have the scent of a deep intimacy made goods and property, evils euros. The peacock can finally get the wheel and wiggle its feathers face shatters mirrors the thinking of large communicating vessels passing to the foaming desire the taste of man to man.
These are fabulous Pilar Albarracin, art center for the MILK Mills Albigenses. I walk the exhibition. Below ground, the sound of the water power vacuum and passes through the stone and assure me its true and constant presence, the potential risk of an explosion bursting. I
domestic ass for me, me. Want to know and want to know forever unfillable. My legs between his legs, my neck against his neck, I fall asleep with a book in hand. Dizzy upward spiral or horizontal?
Tarkovsky had warned the violin becomes a voice fossil. The steamroller has made the instrument as a silent black sun. Both aspire our memories and life: our only wealth, polymorphic and ephemeral.
Pilar uses for one of his bags distributed to men considered too much for before being deported they collect most of their belongings.
Someone said that nomadism was more suited to our society. Rromani language, Romany means man. When I started to live, if it is an understanding which has suddenly drawn a smile inside is consciousness of being only pass on the soil of land improvised in the hearts met. So try to become a man would accept the nomadic nature.
The earth belongs to nobody. Everyone should be able to reap the ripe figs heavy spreading branches, these rainbows of relatives. Mircea Cartarescu
Reading, I knew that a people settle the Gypsies have drifted away from their traditional occupations. Ceases to be boilermakers, silversmiths, musicians and showmen of bears, "they have become lazy and indolent farmers as slaves. (...) One day they were made to climb trees and they shot arrows: it was the "hunt for crows." (...) With time the Gypsies have become an amorphous mass, which degraded hardly remembered his former freedom. This is what happens with all the captives everywhere. (...) And we perpetuate their misery and delinquency our scorn and hatred that come together in a single cycle. "
The pattern of capitalist societies of the captives made men who end up losing sight of their original release. It is this light that seen in the distance draws us and we won then, having penetrated only offers us the perspective of a cell of a prison.
"Of Mice and stars" title given by Rebecca Covaciu, a girl of twelve, drawn to its daily newspaper.
long time I searched a guardrail, a place that would preserve the questions and their echoes. I laid in the trunk of traveler Jeanne Susplugas apostrophe as a space, a vacuum protected by a shell, inviting those who wish to consider the human, two proposals:
The feeling of inhabiting the world will be there one day given to everyone?
How wrong we still not count before reaching the utopia?
Anais Delmas, August 2010
NB: "Freedom I love," the movie title Mauro Bolignini, released in 1973
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