Come Undone (II)

Beauty is tied to the way you position yourself to the most enigmatic moments of life, in terms of assuming hypostases along it.

I am charging my imagination with the need for a strong connection between causes and effects, moments that seem to postpone arrivals at certain stages of a life cycle with multiple interpretations to the longitudinal plane of my heart. I seem to be trying to desynchronize it from an obsessively rational sense, to immortalize it in a symbolism with great implications translated by intense consumption, as an impetus for a new state of mind.

However, I slowly start to slide into a kind of fog, a strange phenomenon of unknown origin, cannot forgive from falling apart, in my mind making its way an assumed screenplay by Stephen King. To imagine that they are elsewhere, reason continuing to "shake" what was yesterday. In other words, the way I feel, to the way I approach my luck in future actions beyond the waking state, is a form of art, a madness I can afford and I cannot get enough of. "Hey child, stay wilder than the wind, and blow me in to cry."

I am eager to talk to those who do not speak, but they are secretly heard, an imagination that should not be encouraged, as if my memory would seduce what remains of the echoes of an abandoned life, more than I ought to embrace all the power of inspiration and dream, as a special state that can appear anytime, anywhere and to any amount.

As if trying to get away from worldly things, known, painful, as significant as they are difficult to assess, suffocating, destroying, threatening any attempt to get out of the red umbrella of uncertainty and supportive regrets. From an unwarranted fear of life, a weakness that I must escape, an astonishment I do not know how to understand, of desperation penetrated into bones, become one with bone marrow. Which is a lonely path for me.

Do you dismiss action in order to bring some shades to the mind that no other tool besides words can bring forth?

How can I untangle a silent testimony, backed up by so many questions, worries and doubts, without tangling it again? A mirroring in someone else, a search for the identity between a real world and a virtual world, could break away the discouraging inertia that anesthetizes me?

I would prefer a sincerity that was emptied of artifice, as with the writer who gives the living word the power of incarnation, to expose myself intelligently to a milder hurting, as I am, obedient and subjected to the great mysteries of art in which the profound meaning of the word is to change the geography of a form of existence that reveals its importance in setting a certain style. Personality, thinking, action, leadership.

When I try to burn to the end so much silence, by spirit and by a written code without consuming myself for good, I take heed to reaffirm the potential for change and the impact that thoughtful actions can have in the vision of Malcolm Gladwell, author of the famous book "The Tipping Point": Look at the world laid before you. Maybe it seems to you that it is a still, implacable place. It is not like that. With a minimum of effort – at the right time and place – everything can be overturned.

The lesson of the critical point in the darkness of silence in which I plunge deeply, part of the center of my troubled universe, is that if you do not provoke the change, you end up enduring it.

Can you control what you find about yourself without having great expectations from the "beautiful" that by having no concept of pleasure becomes exclusively an internal affliction?

For the first time, a drop of blood from the pride of being the owner of an "immaculate dream", runs down the edge of a poem announcing the resignation in the face of MUST , trying to stay blind to the hope and fear outside. That neither logic nor intelligence, but a only the mystery of a thought unsolved to the end can know the ultimate reality of the confrontation between the condition of a prisoner in "Something unreal" and the experience of a "Lost, in a snow filled sky."

I could place myself at any time at the forefront of the truths revealed by this isolated experiment, affected by my own placement behind an unexplained feverish state of conflict between past experience and the unknown I face, what is apparently a state of semi-consciousness in which I tend to think I’m sleeping, a hallucination that must be accepted calmly.

For a sculptor like Lorenzo Bernini, beauty gained a sense of self. He found that the most valuable asset of an artist was not to make beautiful and comfortable buildings, but to invent various faces in serving little by little the bad and unadjusted parts of necessity, to do beautiful things, so that this shortcoming becomes useful to such an extent that, if it did not exist, it should have been invented.

It is better not to blame yourself for any inconvenience in your life, close to the most secret reality, to the deepest reality of serving a state in which the joy of the little disappears. The pain of inner fire and your own exile taking its place. Beauty is indulging in any reflexive gaze on itself, but it is forbidden to a state of exhaustion that is neither sleep, nor dream, nor vigil, which only discourages you, making you forget even that you exist.

Beauty in art is related to the permanent unveil of a deep reality in positive terms, the way you position yourself to the deepest and most enigmatic moments of life in relation to the hypostasis along it: that of an unmatched creator and that of a prisoner of your own thoughts and emotions.

Come Undone sets in when you choose between the intensity of emotions and their expression, the only result being art, the unique miracle of creation that we call "a forever open wound" or "a self-experience", uninterrupted, very intense, excessive. Which can result in a variety of content available for viewing from a compositional precedent called: "momentum towards knowledge and originality"

* Note: Duran Duran - Come Undone