Nadine Jansen And Melina Velba

forgotten dreams Theorem

The music flowed which lost labyrinth between our ears, it was customary to hear that kind of music on a train to Manhattan, my long hours merged incredible tedium spoken silences my inner turmoil tearing. Puccini, fighting through the crowd at noon. Where we try to sleep, to get to where we expected. And there Puccini's Nessun Dorma stretching between the passages of each lane, giving ethereal in our hands, for which we would gently like a dream waking. The speed passed through the window leaving only catch fleeting seasons blur in my mind.

I wanted to see who brought the music, but never found. He was still on the first train and I needed two more to get to NJ, Hoboken Terminal. The mixed feelings and mating speed in me. The car was r Eplet of people and was imp ossible learn that. I went down on 34 St to the Path is going to NJ, as he walked out looking to make the connection, I thought time and laxity in the history of Turandot, which This opera is Puccini. The proclamation of Princess Turandot that nobody sleeps until the name of the unknown prince, who launched the challenge that if your name is not found, the princess will marry him. Calaf sings explaining with certainty that the search is in vain. He came to my mind a dilemma over speed and laxity, not dialectically rather as a temporary dilemma dealing with the circumstances. The impossibility of forgetting at the memory. The need for certainty in the future for each of us, whether tomorrow or in a month or years.

Getting off the second train coming to NJ, came to my mind a poet v ivió part of his life in New York. He felt the music in his poetry and made it vibrate differently in his verses. Poet in New York and Poema del cante Jondo of Federico García The rca, two such different books composed by the same hand. Forcing my mind, watching the sea Hoboken dock to remember, scrutinizing each of his poems lost my neurons in my memory. Two poems came to my mind the poem about the death in "three cities" and the city and death in "Streets and dreams." Two different perspectives of life written at different times. Felt the air hit my face hard as if to tear it and throw it into the sea. The rain completely covered, as are all relentless fall. In my anxiety generated in retrospect, that memory is left floating and only revised it in the rain, through music or by the sea. It was impossible to get away from my thoughts against these three elements.

Nobody sleeps in the dream, though it seems contradictory is what we all want to feel the lapse of time as it is coming within us and intoxicates us, leads us to hover over our desires and perpetuities. Therefore, that speed was needed to accelerate my anxieties and a bit laxar the oblivion. Dry air kisses you and feel your lips swell with his approach, could edes close your eyes and imagine any sleep and produce it in a minute. Finally, the third train arrived, I was exhausted and smiled, feeling pleased to have beaten to oblivion. And I could figure something strange in my mind, the desire to see an old movie from the heat of an oven, covered with blankets looking at the window. Cutting these movies romantic comedy which I'm not adept, but sometimes I hide 'em. Nessun Dorma With and recall the nostalgia came The Mirror Have Two Faces really a very old film with a final spectacular, well worth the movies in that court, the few acceptable in my book. The woman looked at me side all the way, my smile was possibly evoking the surprise of seeing it again sitting in the wind with the warmth of someone special.

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chaotically The days passed one after another with their flats and their inconsistencies. The sun rays were extinguished one by one. The wind began to unfold and rocked anxiously on the skins of thousands of pedestrians in this city. Only silence at sunset and fading fragments of time behind the melancholy that autumn brings. The wind
throwing leaves face the despair of the season and his silence over their faces covered and thoughtful. And as penetrating gaze for a dark tunnel, I found the painting of Van Gogh's heart beat me to pieces. My encounter with color, light and wind together in unison, was a domestic green that made me tremble; met my feeling constrained. As the scrutiny of your domain, approaching stealthily waiting before her image. The feeling was unexplainable. Van Gogh and the Colors of the Night one of the most beautiful shows I've seen in The Museum of Mode rn Art (MOMA). I could hear the roar of the wind to escape through the frame to my ears, the light direct me to the face and imagine the stars from his eyes. Felt to be on that night piercing through the canvas, trapped in the "Starry Night" by Van Gogh. The power of the painting was overwhelming, a lot of us wanted to see, touch, smell and feel the warmth indomitable strength. That afternoon saw many classical paintings. But none like this one picture that was there own. Was a week ago I felt the color of images that I saved in my imagination and pushed me to write some ideas about there.

However, week was stark and strange in many ways. I regained my sanity for hours, which led me to reflect on different situations. I resumed reading an old book The Art of Loving by Eric Fromm and threatened to reread it and found myself questioning variety of questions about hate, love and understanding. What relationship could exist between a great painting and the most banal human feelings? Definitely all. I remembered that I felt joy, sadness and loneliness, looking at her.

Today I went to turn and meet the streets and I thought that love is an art as it is an art to live. And how all art need to know and to abstract it as such. I thought Fromm interesting as between the visions of love through the mistakes that you understand about what is to feel love, through theories. And it presents initially as three common misconceptions about what you think is love, the first attraction as a result, interest in something specific to one side, second those who are guided by the appearance and others say about your choice as if elected a commodity (the object desirable from a social point), and the third error (as Fromm) that lies in the confusion between the initial experience of falling and the situation of staying in love. Call the miracle with an onset of sexual attraction and consummation. However, the time to know people think it is durable but only sameness and safety. But not love. Exhaust only be looking for company in his solitude.

Leaving caustic Fromm and his theories about love. I read an interesting announcement on Hudson Street tavern called White Horse, where he meditated, got drunk and wrote poets such as Ginsberg and Kerouac. Irreverent poets belonged to the generation Beatnek. Men Without sanity as Van Gogh in another time spoke of the despair, the order, destruction and love. By then, ordinary beings they cried, laughed and loved to madness and despair. Like now, let us mere mortals something written just for you to read and now you're doing.

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Inter.Nos Chaos Theory . Power games

Because laughter is contagious until the wind took the time to reflect on the thousands of circumstances that crowd my mind. Leaving the car at the top, I reached out to spot from above as the cars were little frightened crossing each other, releasing. The view of the slope from Central Mall whatever name you have there. Just search for internal laughter in the air lost between the voices and cries of the people who rushed a brand clothes looked particularly out or a possible . By entering a pan a very tall woman, thin with a little sign if you want to Be like her, enter here . No more than voices, laughter, dressing rooms and the best costumes for executive, glamorous, sensual, gothic, classic or sports. And most importantly, none of that matters.

satiety and abstinence in the solitude of this city, fatigue, heart. What becomes deaf, hard and resent it. Walking in symphony with other beings who laugh and argue among ourselves. No names just faces, scented streets of foreign bodies circulating you. You understand that the world makes sense only if required to take. The priority of the most abject circumstances and resurrect you wander, because not enough die into nothingness.
Death is a flat in the quiet and smooth drags the sand runs bridges, cafes, subways and rum and coke making to be numb and not feel bad from time to time.
And the heart does not understand does not need explaining theorems, late to indulge, the heart as you have become real, to be heard in the universe. Surrounded by voices, crosses between units caustic systems, unconditional nonsense. Caught between dreams submerged in delusions, no escape. Kidnapped.

There is more to the moon, the shadow and disappointment. That time he loves eternal dazed between expectation and memory. The search for the event, which will be forgotten and the desire for an unspoilt bay view from afar on a postcard of a cabinet. We are what we all breath the air forgotten in an afternoon. He questioned the millions of puzzles like the universe is armed and I rebelled against them. I'll make a million crazy systems feel our bodies and our minds thunder. This is between the moon and I would say Li Po.

The streets, windows and more windows that watch you from the inside. Go out and find thousands of names from the streets await. You can hear your footsteps on the tiles that ring so that you feel it, you can not say that this city does not have feelings if the floor because you play brama. I'm lost among people without voice, without you, nothing. In this gray afternoon where all the birds can be fire, this city seems to me, and I want to know.