much like when a country can't divulge highly classified information publicly for obvious economic and military reasons, a professional soccer organization must keep certain
things in - house so they don't devalue a player, expose a weakness, provide info that could give an opposing club leverage in future negotiations and / or give them vital intel regarding a future match, but when dishonesty becomes the norm the relationship between cub and fan will surely deteriorate... in our particular case, our club has done an absolutely atrocious job when it comes to cultivating a healthy and honest relationship with the media or their fans, which has contributed greatly to our lack
of success in the transfer market... along with poor decisions involving weekly wages, we can't ever seem to get true market value for most
of our outgoing players and other teams seem to squeeze every last cent out
of us when we are
looking to buy; why wouldn't they, when you go to the table with such a openly desperate and dysfunctional team like ours, you have all the leverage; made even worse by the fact that who wouldn't want to see our incredibly arrogant and thrifty manager squirm during the process... the real issue
at this club is respect, a word that appears to be entirely lost on those within our hierarchy... this is the starting point from which all great relationships between club and supporters form... this doesn't mean that a team can't make mistakes along the
way, that's just
human nature, it's about how they chose to deal with these situations that will determine if this relationship flourishes or devolves..
, 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,