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>> na 19ª Mostra do Filme Livre (SP/DF/RJ) > http://mostradofilmelivre.com/19/info.php?c=14752
to conceive LEAVING the PLACE implies in a certain sense an overcoming. like going beyond a previous experience; a point that driven by MOVEMENT generates another situation.
to transcend a shapeless moment, barely functional, rickety. to undo a certain numbness, recognize all processes. to mix the disposal of intellects.
an upturned compass, refreshed.
in recent trips I made sure to carry a compass, my dearest companion together with a flashlight and a slighly tall, chubby backpack. useful accoutrements, perhaps in this case even more useful as travel ideas, nomadism desires. flings of incorporating an explorer character: expedito azuis, the one who acts, jaunty traveler. expedito hitchhikes, learns to fly. fills in with colours and forests a landscape, as image of both quiet and challenge, shelter, located more INSIDE than OUTSIDE, to speak of coordinates. desires, like squares and places, get confused. nothing is just a same, affable thing distinguishable from the others.
going beyond implies in transit. against traffic jams*, i walk unhurried, cross bridges and climb buildings. it’s about overcoming expectations, for acquiring abrupt directions, too uncertain to speculate. nothing but practice, until one knows not to exist in wait or complex planning, but process, stream, that flows and drains off the sidewalks, only walks on foot.
a precision of grouts: to extract the simplicity of things. decomplexify, as a chemical process. for such, one must deprogram, rethink all systems and existing methods. derange. will it be needed; what if i do a different way; is it true that i need so much; can’t soil regenerate itself? composition. learn the colours of a place, build from it and that’s all. around, there are so many things that stimulate aimless loss, the same crystal path, of skyscrapers with plasma TV and rush.
transition. transitive transit of mystery beings, minerals, rhythms that compound the shallow clean slate of monotony. monotype, routes in vain: so many techniques and i only see one color. voltage noise, confuses our brains.
trans is a queer radical. it lies beyond the system, of the usual understanding of betweenthings. sews up embroidery and laughs at their own folly, changes the subject, you never know for sure when they go. they may assume absurd characters, travess the amazon forest, transform.
transe disorders are possible, sincere aspects that come to surface, get lost. water and animals, wonder twin powers activate, always something other than expected. x, no gender no class, take on different shapes according to the situation. strategy is part of their deconstructive structure – prepared to transcend the biggest crisis, transpose, hallucinate.
transvestite is love. here, different names, a misappropriation. media travesty showing their true colours, pretends to be your friend. playing mischief with multitude masks. state violence has mislead our streets. counting alerts, people on the floor: scattered thoughts, one writes to swallow up the terms, disentangle the paths between the ribs of the event.
to know how to entwine hazards in strange tears provoked by the previous. fear, thirst, struggle and rest spray among each other until they disappear.
there is no trade, mockery, inert perceptions or any other sense beyond this we can see, yet so blurry, cheap:
will turn into snow, all backwards. or maybe not, roughmatter. it won’t be fascists to knock on the doors, sweeping lady, man in the crowd (infamous inert illogical that endures). a swarm of refugees in tijuca, in that street close to the stadium, cornered in their own backyard. nobody understands what this is about, it’s a mess.
from voice to voice some try to paint all colours green and yellow, windows as hell, struggle as child’s play until she’s completely depreciated – multitude herself. within tactics, strikes and mysteries, because they’re many and multi-acting.
there is no way to cease this shouter since it comes from faraway, from many, many years it’s been asleep in the lungs of crowds, finally expelled by those who could keep themselves alive somehow. and it’s not the case of impeachment, stop trippin’. it’s all muddy fudge, and so simple, a case of misappropriation:
(we’ll expose the opposition first)
reactionary (adj.) is one that is contrary to any changes (social and/or political); which is opposed to democracy; undemocratic. synonyms: anti-democratic, anti-liberal, ultra-conservative and retrograde.
(nothing like an abc of the bends)
nor we deceive ourselves in with the liberal (n.), that is, one who is in favor of freedom either in politics or economics. in terms of economy, it’s a shrewd deceiver, an astute defender of inequality and money in the pockets of good (sic) individuals.
none of those represents a perimeter larger than their own navel. perhaps, and i say this lamely, they are able to extend some appreciation to family members and a few others alike, motivated by pure praise devoted to family and property, both institutions so closely connected. they share rules, egotism and conventions.
minefield! tricky land. our hills are gone, i’ll say. could be – this crisis is taking so long that it’s hardly possible to live in the city, and then we remember so many interstate problems, much older: the military police.
(military is a body capable of eliminating all others, and, therefore, must have its existence summarily questioned)
and then the trams, the colours. electric trios that if not surrounded by so many cops (and we’ll never understand so many cops) would be carnivalesque, polyvalent anybodies so proud of finally existing. their manifestation is an affirmation of existence, nothing else. they decide to have a voice. after so long, confusing faith and veiled passing of limits in believing in a system of numbers, morphemes, themes and you never know for sure and who to vote for – infamous requirement of a policy of delegations.
hannah arendt says that when there is authority, there is no political action: the power to act in this case is given to the ruler or small group that rules. so we explain, to face the confused, people who mistake totalitarianism for revolution (sounds surprising, but we live in a world of disguises, and it’s a not such a new idea)
disbelieve the system in a contagious rhythm of alienation // open spaces are rich in proposals and experiments // there are those (and they’re many) who seek for leaders/wish for leaders/want to depose the place // i wonder if we need leaders anywhere // plural is important // it’s not about green and yellow // red flags represent large collective efforts for social rights, never forget that // coup media, such an amazing expression // veja, my masks were used by someone else // she took to the streets and didn’t know why // discourses changed and she kept following the march // they changed the course and was there someone left?
those who paint it white are the very ones who will wish to eliminate all those who cannot dress the same color.
do you want to be eliminated? or expect to get a slice of the cake?
politics of cut-ups, of marked cards, of bewilderment. advertising, politics of image, vote for the nice guy! binary codes and their commanders expect only answers of yes-or-no, are deaf by training. in the ministry of high cards, there are interfaces and intermedia, ideas that protect others, outbreaks yep, but a lot of shielding, both for people and information. curves bend in each other, merge, no purity in the system: politics of dispute, craving, then a reminder: politics is tough, but is negotiation. danger appears when subjects are not clear, reach wilderness blue
(you know, the one that fills the edges, blinds on the horizon and drops into the loo)
riot is our most extensive ally, yes, since: vandals are cops and their principals. but if they call us all vandals, implant vandals among us, if vandalism is the latest fashion of the multicoloured protest on the corner, if any passer-by is a potential vandal, if the oppressor is who is right, if they give vent to firearms, treat street posters as pitched battle, in short, if they block and attack us, either on the streets, at home, everywhere, if we can’t so much, if fifa can, if owners can, if the tv can, if the news want to convince your mother of our vandalism, then yes, we are all vandals, vandals we will win, vain vandalism of walking on the street, running from tear-gas, falling to the ground..
funny how flags at first were about the plain right to move in the city – to walk! but if they cut our legs and charge for expensive prosthetics, cover all in concrete and here only goes armoured car!
what is this space wrought on so much mortar ores and people who came because they believe they need to work, who cannot eat without bloodshed, being puppets and ahhh.
missing words colours pains to say why the torments, this is anything but plain, acting but full of stellar interstices and without many escape routes (wishing there were – the largest route asks for a return ticket, payment by card, debt)
ground wheel with no voltage, rewind everything, don’t want to get beaten by cops.
waking up with helicopter, backyard as battlefield.
happy celebrities on television, all canaries.
sport is travesty of exploitation.