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Month: August, 2012

silence

on these days I was involved in the perception of silence…silence is an old theme and an old experience renewed time to time for me…the perception of silence is a hard work, a difficult one…most of the time when I try to listen the silence, I listen noise, I listen many kinds of sounds, indifferentiated sounds…clear sounds…the sound of the wind…the sound of the people…the sound of the day…the sound of the night…the sound of the tempest, so beautiful…the sound of my voice…the sound of some instant…the sound of some moments…the sound of the birds, that sounds like a song…perhaps the birds sing…some birds that come near the window of my house sing lovely songs…if I hear the sound of the birds with one intention, I hear sounds, well arranged sounds…when I listen the sounds of the birds…and some birds wake up early in the morning and early after midnight, I can listen warm songs, sweet melodies, delightful harmonies, even unimagined rhythms…the same occurs when hearing the winds…some winds cry…some winds are joyful songs…some winds do clear blues arrangements, and this epiphanic instants sounds the song of the nature…the sound of some winds, depending utmost of myself intention, I listen as great compositions…these compositions require nature and my intention…I can randomly play my acoustic piano keyboard with no intention, and even though, some music arises…it is different when I sit on the chair for playing the piano with an intention, a mix of interpretation, composition and improvisation…always performatic…sometimes the sound of my piano playing intention is close to my intention…most of the time what I listen is far away my intention, especially when I play solo piano with the only intention of listen the sound of each chord…near an improvisation, but still not an improvisation…my intention on sitting in front of my piano is play some chords, not exactly what is named a music…randomly touching the keyboard with my fingers…I listen a sound, this sound sometimes seems a music…the common playing is when I have the intention of do a music…sometimes the music is on my mind…rarely I can express it with my intention to play it…some memorable songs I did when I sit at piano front with no intention…no conscious intention at all, and by chance and by choice, when a performance take place, a music birth I perceive…I do not record these sounds…when I try to play the music or pieces of a music born this way…only slices and little pieces of the music I can recover…this is one reason why interpretation is the main path although improvisation is the root of my instants playing sounds and songs…and doing that I could get in touch with my old fellow, the silence…silence is difficult and impossible to listen…if I try to listen the silence, I can not…silence seems a part of time when I listen noise, music, people talking, the sound of the winds, the great songs of the birds….when I listen some music I like very much I can stay close to silence…yesterday I was listening some strong blues and some sweet blues and for a while I guess I could be closer to silence…I never listened the silence….silence is close to love…audiolove, phonolove and so on, but silence itself, no matter what is silence…I don’t know what is silence…I guess silence is not only a word…love is not only a word…perhaps I will never can listen the silence…nor hear the silence…sounds and songs appear in silence, but are not the silence…nor silence itself do sound and songs…the song of the birds…the song of the wind…the song of a voice, is not silence…at the infinite horizon I can only imagine silence…trying to stay in silence I hear every kind of sound…imagination, feelings, memories…are full of song…I never listened the silence…in silence I can notice some silent silence, but this perception is not the silence itself, always remains songs of love…almost silent love, almost…the voice of loved people are loud and ringing voices, when I can listen in a talking the voices it is so lovely!…when I can remember some tender dialogues it is plenty of sound and song of loveliness…silence I never listened or heared on my life…love I can only feel through people share…and my writing is not a struggle against silence, but perhaps a trial to listen your lovely words according your kind reading of what I write does occurs, some flash instants when my voice and your voice seems one voice…a kind of chorus song…far away, untouchable, the silence…but it seems that upon silence dialogue occurs…music occurs…life occurs…freeedom occurs, as this trial of letting the silence…even in meditation or contemplation, I only can imagine silence…my writing seems a struggle and a sweet and hard step by step work against non sense and empty words…emptiness is only a possibility of be supplied with love…I can only feel love…share love…love itself resembles silence…but silence is not love and love is not silence…the whispered words of loving love!…the memory of  voicing loveliness…silence stay silent …silence is some kind of old and always new experience the words can not get, but does permit the sound of any word, any human trial to keep on living…silence is not nothing…silence is mistery, as love…and lovely words, even in memory, I can listen and hear…the voice of the children on the shopping are with me, and the feeling of joy the children were expressing is inside my deep heart…even like remembrances, utmost as experience of joy and hope…esperanza…the voice of loving people so vivid….silence remains silence,

goodbye, winter

this is a gauche writing…gauche means left in french…and awkward in english…something like this…and nature flows in four seasons and I can only accept this…butII can say that I don’t like summer…this dislike comes from personal motif and remembrances…however, regarding all my summer memories from my childhood and youth are happy and in a subtil form I like the summer, but remembering old summers, I like remembrances of summer…in fact, nowadays, I don’t like summer…I don’t like sunny and hot days…I surrender to some summer nights, a beautiful song…and summer dreams…full moon summer nights have beauty, but I don’t like summer season…I like memories of old summers of my life…regarding physical discomfort, perhaps my temperament is close to autumn and winter…autumn leaves, another beautiful song…I can write that I like my memories of my childhood summer season…nowadays, I don’t like summer…printemps brings flowers, but I appreciate flowers always…at summer season the roses on my weekly arrangement don’t survive more than three days…roses are fragile flowers…astromélias resistance is admirable and are the flower that inspires me to write on this day…astromelias bravely sparkles charm and beauty, and hot does not affect them…so, my flower inspiration…to keep writing, working, living, loving…’astromelias, if you can, I can’…other aspect is that I feel extreme difficulty to say goodbye…last goodbye, relating to this winter…as I am a historical and some hysterical human being, I must let this winter goes by…I must be grateful to all I could live and feel at this winter…I must be capable to say ‘winter, good bye…till the next year and till that time I will do my best to survive and to live’…what does occur is that meeting is always goodbye, but goodbye is not vesperas of another meeting…I like autumn and winter…I like my memories of summer and printemps…autumn and winter leaves are still on the streets…these leaves will stay always on me…four nature seasons…is it possible someone seize own life?…someway I can write that I can seize my life…fiction is a powerful strenght…perhaps my life season be autumn…perhaps winter is another life season…at least, I like very much summer, because summer may be vésperas of another autumn and another winter…for you, winter, goodbye…regards for all…astromélias are my fellows in  all seasons…and my friends too…you too…writing wondering writings…writing is a mistress for me…a pursuit of temperance…I must realize that writing is important for me…and perhaps for someone else who I hope would read…if there’s occur no reading, it’s good too…writing is an alone step against emptness, empty words, aloneness, helplessness…writing is always a hope expression as in my experience….i have nothing to teach…perhaps almost nothing to learn…hope is a strong sentiment….loving love is greater than my daily writing trials…temperance…wondering about self indulgence, self care…if I can care myself…I can be open to you…you turn on meaning in this gauche writing…’a la gauche’…a la droit’!…some personal printemps memories of joyful travels…astromelias, petit floir of esperanza

keep on writing. Why?

I am working a lot, but the main theme here is why to write…and I don’t know…this week I write some notes in hand form, manuscripts, avulse writings, that I feel of importance only for me…but writing is important not only for me…some few friends and readers read my writings…my apologies for my lack of writer production, these apologies are utmost for myslef…every no writing is bad and painful…but writing must also be a spontaneous one…I am not a professional writer…a writer is not a job or a profession for myself…writing is a way to express feelings, perceptions, elaborations, close to fiction writing…as I emphasized, non fiction is not a matter for me here…sometimes i feel the impulse to stop writing…to stop blogging…although be two different ones…I feel that blogging is a need in a way for somehow sustain a dialogue, offer a dialogue space…and dialogue is a ground for me keep on loving…love is never an alone experience…dialogue is important to keep on confident in human goodness…writing is a way I find to share living…writing is important for me because I like to write and to read…writing is close to living for me…even if loving love encompasses living…I do not want a long life…I want a well being life…but I must write that being old is a good experience when in health…perhaps I am also a little tired…I don’t like summer…perhaps my blue is also my goodbye to winter…I feel me somehow a winter…winter is a season that push my daily work and art practice…some signs of printemps I see….flowers, hot time, sunny days…but i don’t like summer…I feel me closer to moon, to the night…sun light sometimes impairs my visual and body comfort…and exacerbates my blues…sun light in winter is a temperance like atmosphere and the nights is an invitation to celebrate each second of the instants I live…wondering about my wondering writing

wondering

wondering is not thinking…it seems almost thinking…is not feeling…is not no thinking and nor no feeling…I guess thinking is not a good one for me…thinking requires logical path…I am not out of logic, but logic itself seems automatic steps…I am not automatician…logic seems to me somehow obvious one…if I am not far away from thinking, logic and obviety…living is a hard one for me…and I have the most I need to live…the most danger is on thinking…the logical and obvious steps from an equivocal ‘a priori’, an initial argumentation point, an illusionated point of departure, may lead me to an illusional arrival point…a subtil equivocated logical and obvious initial point can lead me to a dangerous end…logic and obviety lead to an end point…it sounds me that living has no begin nor end, only turnaround, like  a jazz music song I’ve played…a solo piano music piece, almost only improvisation…only performatic…flash little pieces of composition and interpretation, little time of begining and little time of ending…seconds, and the turnaround live for minutes…I want to play for hours, but it’s impossible…the end comes from exsaustion…the last keybord sounded ringingly and loundly fro almost one minute with the advice of pedal upbeating…and the sound of the music of the song I’ve played today on my solo piano performance seems to me that  not reached an end, but continues at the infinite…on my soul this last musical note sounds till now, although other music songs come from me…on the radio and from a other devices…but that turnaround is ringing on me till now, while I am writing this writing piece…for someone to read…perhaps writing is so important for me, I write for someone to read…my solo piano I played with an intention, and I sent that song for people I love…but these people did not listen my solo piano performance and I did not recorded it…perhaps one person should had listen…ot two, or tree, or four…my performance on my solo piano had an intention to express feelings and perceptions…but I was playing alone…on my old acoustic piano, in a time of the day when neighbours get out for parking or walking…I was alone on the chamber where the piano is located…in my house only sky above myself…no people near me…perhaps I played for myself…perhaps one person should listen…or two persons…in the sky…writing is somehow stronger on me, I hope someone shall read…I like very much play music and I need a lot to write…I was wondering about my friends…my life…my last goodbye, the name I gave to this song…a joyful song…some few beginning seconds…countless minutes of turnaround…no ending…full intention of loving love…reveries of days gone by…remembering my loved ones…so, I take a large distance from thinking, obviety and logic…and for a while I am out of the time and the place I was when playing my piano solo blues

thinking

perhaps one of my recent steps forward a well living despite blocks of rocks and immense numb  nonsense events is stop thinking and especially the daily trial of no thinking about love as where love will lead me or lead us or what is love or how to love or readings about love and relationship schedules or projects or even writing in such a  way that I can be able  only write from my loving experience as way to share with you my sentiment and loving love cause living is dangerous not only regarding rocks of nonsense and the perception I feel that life is short and loving is for ever also the contemporary world is in between civilization and barbarie when I see the individual being neglected for dangereous and non sense discourse and lack of respect the individual needs for be a human being capable of love and be beloved as he and she is…fragile, lovely, hopeful, pompt to bulid a better world with the rocks of rocks falling above the hearth of mankind dignity and respectful condition…beggars, my fellows…so, I keep on my daily loving trial cause I feel I am not alone and my dear friends are fellows too cause love is never an alone experience. Never

loving love

with my akward english I keep on writing…no matter what life be, no matter what the love surrender be, no matter the pain in the love path…no matter even the helplessness and hopelessness that i may feel, no matter the hard work love be, no matter what deep woes I feel, I try to keep on loving…I feel love as a loving one…love is not a word, is not a matter of thinking…and thinking about love is a dangerous path…love itself do not permit be captured by any theory, or thinking effort…thinking love is a numb, an illusion and illusions does exist…I try to face illusions cause illusions and interpretations of love are nonsense and dangerous efforts…love is not bad, sad, is no negotiation…no property…if I am in love with you, you are not my property…perhaps the most subtil perception is that love, beyond perception, is a real joyful one, and self illusions about what is love is problem, misunderstandings, as self illusions about one self is dangerous one…if I am I, I am all this bulk action intended to keep on loving beyond illusions about living, love…I get all my blue and put this blue in a loving love…as a choice for keeping close to loveliness…loving love is sweet and kind and all sorrow and pain does not come from love…perhaps come from my trials to understand love…love is amorous sentiment, free sentiment, always with you, as my writing only does exist if you read them with open and loving intention, with open heart, with open mind, with open soul, with open body…love is a concrete one, concrete as my fingers tiping theses letters…as if love pain is a great illusion cause love is alaways sweet surrender…no thinking…somehow unique sentiment…so different from any other feeling…love is real and concrete as my missing tears drops…always sweet, always loveliness as a kind of joyful blues

a letter to my daughter

we share a dinner at saturday night…you came to stay with me…and I am so happy with this gift!…our share…instants of love and loving…you could write to me…you could pick up a phone and speak with me…you could send me an email…your choice for share some moments with me is a special gift…you are well…you are so beautiful…your kindness and gently presence is a deep sentiment beating on me…as always…and this letter is for tell you what we talked lively…it’s your time to be a mother…you are full of love…you feel this vocation to be a mother…so listen to this vocation…and after listen to me…I am so joyful to be a grandfather again…your sister is already mother of two little boys…you already feel how life is worthy, and being a mother is share life…no matter what is life…we know life is so short!…it’s time to surrender to life vocation…no matter about future…future is invention and in despite of all, a child is the future…far beyond words, a child is always trust in love…you are a woman, you feel the will to be mother…be!…I can tell you that thinking about is of no importance…thinking must be only a tool…in each kiss, in each holding, a piece of reason…little piece….be mother is not a matter of thinking…be mother is a matter of the heart…your husband is a good man…it’s rare a good husband…you are a good wife…it’s rare a good wife…utmost, you are a good woman, a good person…and this choice is a choice from the soul… let love guide yourself…love guides me…you feel…and, dear daughter, each of us must buid the future…in despite of danger and uncertainity, be a mother is a loving surrender…you know how I emphasize love as the human core, and loving as love in action, love in movement…we, human beings, we are never ready for living…and even, we are never ready for the last goodbye…a home is a house with baby’s parfum, cooking in the kitchen, cofee and tea for simply living the simple one…this simple one is loving…it’s time to make this transformation…to build this transformation…and this time is a choice and a desire based invention…a lovely decision…more than a choice, a decision…living offers no point of return…a choice is reversible, a decision is irreversible…as living…as loving…we are never ready for joy or for blue…for a kindly gesture or a heart hurt…I am a man of action…I am not a man of reaction…despite my personal limitations…I can tell you from the deep of my heart, no matter what life can be…living is the motif of living as loving is the motif of loving…even if you feel you are not ready to be a mother…I feel your loving motherhood voicing loudly…you feel that I guess there’s not exist mother’s instinct, but loving mother surrender…all of us come from a woman…and when love guides, that woman turn on a mother through the man that loves her…a father cares the mother of the baby…after the baby too…and the baby loves you always…no mater what does happen…no matter about future and the last goodbye…some day I will say my last goodbye to this world…all of us…and even if i can not measure life, life is short…loving is for ever…so, my loved daughter, let love guides you…no matter where loving guide me, you and all the people…loving is an ever sentiment, a concrete sentiment, a concrete movement…and on the road…for the long high way…loving remains even if love itself goes by…I feel this way…that is my way…so, listen to me, but utmost, listen to your heart…loving is an ever and lasting joyful surrender…my dear daughter, nobody is ready, nor me…I let loving be my path…listen to me…listen to your soul, you are full of love, joyful dear…share love is all…from your father…I want to tell, I need to tell you: I am always in love with your mother, with you, and your sister…the grandchildren… even after the last goodbye…with my father and mother… and in endless  loving.  My warm regards, my warm embrace…there are many ways to stay together…and, so, my tears drops falling on the airport lounge I still can tell her, whispering: no matter if every meeting is a farewell…we are never ready to be in loving, just love!!!

importance of living: an outsight

as a writer I have nothing to say, so I write…I am thinking in stop writing, but I can not…I don’t know why…with my akward english I write from a personal insight: I realized that I don’t want a long life…I want living well my life…I don’t know what is this ‘well living’…my intuition relates well living with loveliness…and I live my life well…but is so painful and hard to see outside my life…i don’t know what is ‘my life’…I feel my life as my lovely friends and fellows…fellowship resembles some special meeting with someone with whom I can be myself…I can be what I am…and I don’t know what I am…perhaps who am I…cause I am the loving relationship with you…yonder the arythmetics of the sum of my friends, the people I love, the people that share love with me…as if I do not deserve some warm and kind moments with fellows…I can perceive my self through the relationship with lovely friends…through this in between me and you…I don’t know who are you…but through staying close and talking is my way of surveillance and surviving….and more, living…this well living I mentioned above…being older each day, however, is feeling joy with simple things, completion with good news and lovely acts, sharing my love, sharing my pain, sharing these writings…and feel the love people share with me…but being older id also surviving to losts, disapoitments, disagreements…indeed, this apparent double sight watch double aspects, or two things, as living is lost and living is joyful instants in a moment…few moments perhaps…yesterday I see people on the streets without a home…as I see ebery day…but a deep feeling of closeness I feel with them…these people living on the streets keep on living…and it is wonderful…this will of living is wonderful…living is a hard one, not only for the dangerous cities, even facing inner sentiment that the world is behind me, and after me…each instant of joyful and lovely moments in daily cotidian living push myself to keep on living, in this way I can help people…I can ask for help…and even if in my life I have one moment of deep joy and love, it’s worth the living efforts…even if a meeting is always a farewell, this is important, the meeting…it’s important living because my life is not of mine, is not my property…the art and the literature  I feel as a struggle against non fiction…non fiction does not matter for me…each lovely word is a step against silliness and dangerous non sense…alive I be older…alive I can stay together with you till the last goodbye…no matter if the last goodbye be tomorrow or after many years…but if I can choose, my choice is keep on living, just for living, just because of living, just with no motif other than living…as my fellows living on the streets of these dangerous and non sense cities…my life is not of mine, my daily living trials of well living my life comes from the core of the soul of ourselves…I keep on writing against the silliness, empty, non sense non written words and not talked or expressed words…a kind gesture with no words is the realm of any lovely writing…utmost, I keep on living not willing a long life…longer moments of closeness and truth and confidence and lovely share is well for me…no matter how long is my life…solitude is my sweet home, our building

father

searching for a father in the contemporary world…reinventing the father in contemporary scene…I remember today my father, with joy…here is father’s day…the day of the father…I am a father…I am a grandfather…remembering my father with joy…a man that loves my mother…such a blessing!…a gift…and watching the sea I see father and mother and children…I say, a family…as a father and grandfather, why father is a so rare one presence?…fatherhood, so rare…so needed…and inside each of us the choice for realizing the father inside…and the mother inside…father as a man and beyond…woman as a woman and beyond…human being, the joy of living…children, the always hope…our world needs father’s care and presence…mother’s care and presence…and children playing joyfully and confident in human goodness…children build future…and future is what I do now…what you make now…future is an invention and a work, daily work…future does only exist as will and work and loving…future is father and mother work…as a home where children can stay safe and with health and joy….future is a house that requires work to turn on a home…and resembles father as the house….mother as the home…children as joy…people needs love…the world is a building among us….a reality that is created when love is in movement…no question…and the unsolicited answers from the wind I listen whispered loving words walking along the beach…near the sea…the blue colorful sea…the blues builded concrete love elegy…this beach, where the ocean that refuses no sea… the man father… kissing the sand…the woman mother…the beach, the children, the loving unsolicited answers blowing inside my soul…blowing in the wind…caring each other…father as also the invitation to let down the barriers against loving…loving is so simple and so needed…as the daily bread with the bread I can eat…each people should eat…father and mother and children: a family…and, so, I keep on loving no matter where love leads me…leads us…a man and a woman…a father and a mother…the children, the future

in lovely people I trust

this is a continuation of the post regarding the semantic of love in the grammar of our so called techno scientific edge…loving is what remains after all…loving is not exactly an art…loving is love movement…this movement is hard in the nowadays grammar…I love you…I love myself, sure, but I will love?…but I loved?…not so sure…about loving myself…this is not a matter of thinking, but of surrender to the wonderful land of those that love people…people like people…loving is something in between people…the contemporary grammar stand love as a commodity…as a thing I give and receive…i don’t feel this way…loving is out of stated semantics and techno scientific grammar…perhaps the art that any people can do…loving is the only begin…no end…beyond semantics, joy and freedom, gratitude and warm remembrances…against the stabilished grammar of empty and impersonal whispered words…any love surrender, another star in the sky that even imagination can not imagine…and word can only try to express…so fresh…so lightful as a brand new day each morning day can and must be…love is not a word, and the vocabulary is only few words…inventing new paths, new forms, new words…utmost, another approach to loving…far away lessons and grammars and discourse…so, the human revolutionary existence…if language is a common groud, love is our common sentiment…rebellious, out of categorization…an experience, cause I don’t know what is love