And it means operating an extended - day program with enrichment courses, including dance, music, art, speech and debate, peace and nonviolence workshops, digital music production, street law, and yo
And it means
operating an extended - day program with enrichment courses, including
dance,
music, art, speech
and debate, peace and nonviolence workshops, digital music production, street law, and yo
and debate, peace
and nonviolence workshops, digital music production, street law, and yo
and nonviolence workshops, digital
music production, street law,
and yo
and yoga.
, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door
and the window,
and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed
and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move
and all is animated
and all is alive somehow,
and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages
and lands, they are not original with me,
and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe,
and we have no ambitions of universalism,
and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen
and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water,
and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here,
and their route will not end by the door of this house,
and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped
and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event,
and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past,
and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants
and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now,
and we all need visions
and we all need dreams,
and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present,
and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all
and they are writing their own story while they gently move
and breathe,
and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants
dance, but everything was already moving
and breathing in near complete silence,
and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall
and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth,
and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet
and our bones crackling like a wild fire,
and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal,
and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are,
and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the
music is too loud
and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves
and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field,
and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical
and systemic, poisonous,
and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin
and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that
operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,