what we’ll be capable of. when we’re in residence. when we’re together. when we learn how to untie the bonds and not let us be tainted by the streets. by the noise that surrounds.
crossroads of encounters and a bit of peeling earth, house — many have lived here. we are. a short period of time, these days: i see transition. transition for me, transition at last, transition of polishing edges.
transience. we are. rio de janeiro comes transitory, poking its lands down, so many layers below. would it be not only the dust coming through the windows or the loud noise from the machines, it happens sometimes, just like samba. but it persists. this electric saw is as soap as our socks, you don’t question them. you don’t question the electric saw nor perhaps the helicopters (airplanes we feel more often ’round here), not even the drilling machine you think about. is this noise a choice of whom? do we dream of silent machines?
let us use only cranks and pedals and reco-recos at any cost so as not to deafen any neighborhood, whether we live there or not. then comes my home my debt, my doubt or desire or indeed something that does not exist. there are nearly any houses we can call home in such a city, where we cross subterranean tunnels and then we all turn into asphalt, gradually asphalt, marrying all the mafia of these construction companies that keep on striking us down.
taken by assault, abrupt, and yet it takes years. dream resort of so many brazilians, watching television, men and women, in this subordinate order with not so gentle and not so noble categories because yes, it was commanded, in a land where people were turned into slaves, once a refuge for some white europeans who then brought guns and they are still killing natives, today
multitude, we’ll make it and we are and we built bridges in between detaching membranes and layers that come to surface like fury, furiously letting us pass through layers that fall, little by little, every day, furiously pierced by noisy machines that build tunnels wherever passes all kinds of concrete and rivers that are no longer rivers but fetid detritus of what they call basic sanitation, people.
people join together, people collaborate. people think street. people will never be unison, that’s not what multitude is about. i have learned a great deal on dissent and distension, plus some practical knowledge of (urban) autonomy during times and times that occur from time to time, and we come across them. a terrain of mixture and utopias exposed, actions and hugs and joint confusions and parades of random accidents, among other movements
what about all this concrete around? can viaducts end up swallowing us? will cars remember what they once were, when there were no engines? what was it like to live without engines?
rrr rrr rr. i cross ruins with a bicycle.
physical effort, legs. like socks, soap: physical effort, arms. yoga by the morning, to settle muscles and not dwelling too much. gradually. i reach
hiking the mountains was a keen and long-nurtured intention in what they call rio, the city — forests, indeed — too complex to act as desired, perhaps by the excess of it, or maybe the classic fatality of days and nights (and the division of working hours, our most common obstacle, as well as partying all night long)
forests are still there by night, but while in town, we won’t go much often (survival; priorities)
i would fly there on the heights of the hills and strong legs, dormant legs, crescent legs as well as the moon now watching us from above, building other random homes much more gentle than any of these made of concrete
are made of fluid matter the longest and most beautiful dreams and also fastest to taste (it’s possible to live from matter, malleable and fertile component of other houses, other voices, elemental construction of inventions and worlds, yes, houses, dwellings and everyday life)
and of hectic schedules, my dear, we know, we’re overloaded. but if you think of another kind of motion, of speed, the one that occurs in dreams, in which you are here then somewhere else, just like this, followed, then overlapped, time-collage, turning
i wanted to work with old photography techniques because, ok, nostalgia, and also flea market, the best of all cities, full of memories of our grandparents who were never our own, but whose lives were part of an underworld that comes across us, jumping from almost forgotten places and coming here in front of us say that they still exist (and in vivid colors, vivid vivid and puerile)
foreign travel images also fill the flea market, at praça xv, and then so many mickeys populate a colonized children’s imaginary, which only three decades later we begin to fully realize what was that anyway, all those animals that were never seen in our lands, all those weird referents, yet so colorful, white and rather uncritical, after all
(and of criticism perhaps we’ll be many, but also breathing, breathing, not just that dust that comes around but also the importance so giant of being permeable, of not being affected and thus growing bones more resistant that can survive to all this scrambled ground matter, the most ancient and frightening past rising with such fury to the surface and dancing
dance, let’s go