I have a recurring dream for some time. He usually comes when I eat sardines with marinated for dinner. I wonder, however, if you have a specific meaning, besides being a bad index diet.
In the dream I'm back in the Antarctic. I have my fabulous typewriter and five leaves in a virgin white. I want to write about something, but do not know why. I scan the horizon and watch as a gift a magnificent aurora borealis my eye color their wonderful dance.
start writing. Rather to describe, "imperfect rectangle formed by a mixture of red purple with bright areas traversed by uniform yellow parallel lines ...." When I take a while, I stop, I read it and I deeply dislike. It is merely an attempt to translate into words the information in my view. But beauty is more than a mere arrangement of shapes and colors. Tear off the sheet and throw it into the water. The beauty appears when a particular provision of an object causes a reaction within me.
I look at the aurora and ring the keys of the machine with my fins, "This constant motion color before my eyes, gives me the certainty of the impossibility of retaining this time. I am small at the majesty of this phenomenon that there is irrelevant to me. New colors displayed on the fly in the sky, colors that had never seen before and probably never, ever see. The feeling of smallness is accompanied by a strange feeling of bliss at the thought of being special to be able to appreciate the majesty of this moment. There's something inside me, which originate in the stomach and wants to expand, but faces the limits of my skin, a small tear escapes poaching, cheek down .... " Crap. Another leaf in the water.
In this description I have put aside the aurora borealis to talk about me. Beauty is a communion between the viewer and the thing that says something about the world. Not a mere game of visual masturbation.
repeat the process: contemplation of the natural spectacle i ring of keys. "In many ways this leviathan colored undertakes eating I can see a giant fish, now as the giant becomes a great eagle and a car. Undeniable pleasure in finding meanings in the slow turn of the figures. As if it were a clever detective, find the hidden motives, the need for this elusive, seemingly wandering, erratic and apparently only show ".... Aaaaaaargh! The water sheet! I'm taking advantage of the impulses of imagination that the contemplation of dawn gives me. But I've fallen into another narcissistic game, where I waive talk about how special it is irreducibly this phenomenon. I can not talk about this phenomenon without putting it in relation to other arts and counting again offered it .... To write: As if the color of the boxes were becoming Rotko are many different entities into an amalgamation of lines and shapes in the style of Pollock. In this transformation kinetics potentially infinite hide figures showing the time where the printing longs to reconcile with his expressive figurative function .... "The madrequemeparió! I do not understand what I have written in spite of having read it six times! At no time have spoken of a phenomenon .... It's just a ridiculous vanity exercise of cultural arrogance. I look like a sad attempt to show freely my critical dimensions of learning. Four
leaves float peacefully on the water, I have only one and I do not know what to say. I have to be careful or ... .. Suddenly a great luster from my back over everything around me. The light of dawn has increased. It is hot and begins to melt the ice. Some time ago that this process had started, but my speculations made me blind ... ... The typewriter and flee with the last sheet of floating ice plate .... Swim lightning fast. I have to write. Reached the natural vessel, prepare your fingers, look for the last time the Northern Lights but before he could write anything the ice melts completely and I and we dive typewriter. I try to grab it, to avoid losing in the deep and fought in vain to secure it. I suddenly realized the futility of the effort: I can not swim, hold and write at the same time. Also there is nothing to write about: just a dark endless ocean. Transparency stratification perceived as a mere blackness.
This dream, as I said is repeated often. I fail to understand. What does it mean? Is it a sign of my inability to rationally match the facts? Or a simple trick of reality to say he wants to be free from the yoke of significance?
Is it the beauty of an exterminating angel that fights the pride of human rationality? index, or that the rationale is not limited to the discursive?
(Text illustration inspired Evidentia )
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