no one listens nothing,
if there is no color, light or movement. a lot. there are millions of people unqualified to listen. we have become blind for an overdose of visual pornography, deaf for the amount of decibels, unable to smell due to a chemical intoxication and disabled to touch for social skillfulness. just an amount of parasites of the real life, from where we just take oxygen. sons of the postmodern society, too used to the variability of options and to the materialistic accumulation, always circulating in our hands due to the seductive advertisement, our lives pass by the calendar with an excess of speed. we just take care of the destiny, and once we arrive there, it is just to accumulate stories.
in Tokyo, citizens just live to work.
early morning armies walk in line in Shinjuku’s station corridors, and in the last train they search any millimeter for the first sleep. maybe they may have a weekly reserve, or a Sunday per month, when they head for the last trendy queue in the city. sweet and colorful popcorn, pancakes coated in cream. it doesn’t matter if the price is 3 hours or 5, or 150 people queuing in front of you. at the end, in Instagram, time doesn’t count more than the filters, and they will wait for another free Sunday to join the coolest queue in the city. social networks have become our time in consumption, and ourselves in advertisement. and we still feel free. we don’t feel.
it’s flowers time in Girona, during may.
a festival that 60 years ago used to celebrate the most beautiful hydrangea, today is just a tourist pilgrimage to visit, mainly, transgenic floral installations. shinny colors, giant flowers, cactus swimming in water and no bee. no one see roads, neither their daisies, euphorbias and isolated irises. no one smell them. with the phone in the hands, the curious visitor climbs to the narrow streets of Girona searching for floral colorful spots. not even sees. 60 years later, maybe they need a vintage floral folk festival. ( cry with laughter’s emoticon)
(hairy red demon’s emoticon)
none of these stories pretend to be the funeral of future. just a speed radar, because in 200 km per hour neither roads are part of the landscape, nor minutes of Instagram. pictures of postmodernity or post-postmodernity. cities with interconnected citizens through data, insatiable materia consumers, just created and accumulated. we are becoming starving monsters that sought objects, that come and go from the market in a faster way than the speed's light. sedentary inhabitants of a fast scenery. our memory, deposit of snapshots, just succumb under a shock. it doesn’t seem time of subtleness. the infra normality is not trendy.
2.ruralities and gardening
Adam and Lilith live in my memory.
we all construct our image of paradise, different images that come from the same place. the forest clearing, where the lush grows, the shadow of a willow tree, a blossoming field. originally, our landscape was not more than a frame and limit for our home, without joy, just for the need of protection. Dante glossed the way of pleasure, the landscape was born, the frame suddenly had meaning, bucolic place, romantic idea, then, just destruction.
Eve was created from Adam.
first transgenic phenomenon of mankind. the image of a submissive woman, for and from men, social model in occidental culture for more than two milenials. nowadays, other models prevail, brief examples, just marketing to seduce the masses, with other people and objects. not so many people understand the consequences of desire. it doesn’t matter if there is no sand in the beach, or that some animals can be extinct, the rivers dyed with blue Klein. we kill fields and now pines grow up there, in Lisboa there are no bananas from Madeira, in the mediterranean area we plant british lawn with orange trees. also the gardener surf the trends and convert the new landscapes in illogical vegetal collages. everything seems to be possible, but we always remove the weed.
3.cohabit the landscape
without house and with their homes thousands of snail people go across Europe searching for a house.
they are called refugees, but no one give them refuge. carrying the minimum, the maximum they could not leave there, their own essence of normality. a frame, some mementos, maybe the pillow. they walk through borders and ambiguous territories, waiting for answers. their objects smell as home while they cohabit the landscape. if they keep pursuing it, some roofs will grow in the tree, and walls, windows. after a while, they will find a first comfort with the environment. maybe this balance is still landscape.
translation and interpretation of the immediate daily nature.
Stop! Some studies talk about the growing desertification, the changing climate, the air and aquifer pollution. the technology will probably minimise or stop the consequences. poor cyborg planet! half land, half machine. then, listening the rain falling in a forest will be a shock. we will join guided tours and they will give us and audio guide. we will seek to step a puddle, because whether there will not be or we will be a floating asian market. before fashion understands about diving suits, and we will have to spread over us wet grass perfume, let’s stop to live life, don't you think?
road prostitutes don’t have bed and I would like to drink a tea
in the middle of a field full of daisies, or under some pines during midsummer heat. I want to sleep under the stars and dance the wind with Dionysus. in a non natural reality, nature is the only real.