BRICK ON BRICK

Muddy is the name I have chosen as password of my blog in order to remember the
Simon’work.
He has built brick on brick his imaginary world, the city and its architecture and art,despite their differences, always reflect and echo each other.
I can imagine using tweezers to lay those minuscule briks. In the same way I have written word after word on my posts, like an architecture that describes meeting places between the subject and the group.
You can see Simon’s work as very precious. Because when image is son strong, when they are destroyed there is a tremendous sense of loss.
As soon as someone wants to posses it or take it away they destroy it.
Simon built on niches in crumbling briks walls, high up on ledges, or in trenches ans broken gutters.
Besides the fact that the work is a public event that communities accept with curiosity, enthusiasm, and a strange apparent respect and understanding of Simonds’s effort. He work when he feels like it. He travel with his materials in a bag. Finding a likely spot he first contours the location with a foundation of clay and the builds bildings, walls, enclouures, etc. of tiny dried clay briks, dipped in water and placed with dental forceps.
His architecture seems reminiscent Indian pueblos, but remains stranely contiguous with the structures around it.
The heart of his work lies in his being at home with creation which lends too a generalized notion of Man the creator and created, out of the earth created and on the earth to create.
Sometimes Muddy feels like mud briks and try to evoke periods in his history that were, without doubts, more poetics than the present, Muddy try increases his desire to live like poet.

POPPY

Jane Eyre.

Two month ago my friend gave me a interesting present, a book and a CD untitled “Jane Eyre”.
The author, Charlotte Bronte said that Jane begins life with all the disadvantges that nature and society can give her , she has no parents, no money, she is a girl and to make matter worse, she is not beautiful.
She is made even more unattractive, in the eyes of the world, by having a strong character.
This are really hard words to my. I can understand the difficult of a orphan child but the rest: money, woman, not beautiful shouldn’t be important for us.
Are you seen this picture which I posted? Do you like it?. Yes, “Dropped flower” has strong character too, it is enormous, very beautiful, it is like a explotion of sensuality. It isn’t important that that flower was only a poppy, one of the most humible flowers.
It seems to be show at the moment it has touched the ground when the tension at the air still ruffles its petals, but the force of gravity already seems about to take possession of its shape. But you don’t forgot the most important is that it has just been picked and apparently forgotten.
I prefer don’t forgot you and tell “ the Janes” they must refuse to accept the unimportant place that the world offer to them.

BUBBLES AND GOLD SPARKS

I always had belived writting is a hard business. I admire people that have the quality of getting his readers to other worlds, interest, point of view…

When I try to start to write, my mind just take off to near or far lands and it not rest neart my white paper. If I realize of that I could upset and feel angry but a melody alwaysget me straight my favourite wardrove, the doors open and the drawers slide slowly and show me my special pots.
They were chosen between hundred of jars at a rumage sale. The are bell-shape, glass vessels with cork’s top. They aren’t disordered or unclassified, they are file up, and ordered from green, orange, pink, red, violet to blu.
A day I opened the purple and orange pot and the bubbles escaped up and turned all of special contrast light. From time to time two of them found and crash , so hundred of gold sparks went off and they were reflected in the rest of bubbles. I couldn’t contain me I staggered unsteadlily to my feet, watering weakly. I feel like if imprisoned butterfly flashing again and again and I sought to shake my hand to brush them.
After that I opened the violet bubbels and looked and unlooked the little ballons to same time I felt lavanda smell and the movement of the champs moved right and left by the wind like if “The three Graces” of Leonardo were dancing.

If you want, you can play with me. I like sharing with you this melody of sounds, flashes, smells anyway you could enjoy playing with me or if you prefer you could help with my writing to improve my English.

Two holes

She kept me carefully
I could feel her join of life.
I touched her soft face
All the eyes were stared me
but two can’t watch me.
I was original, brilliant, spectacular but
I never had spoken.
I unmasked her.
Now you can’t watch me.
I am your beautiful mask.

Two holes

She kept me carefully
I could feel her join of life.
I could touch her soft face
All the eyes were stared me
and two can’t watch me.
I was original, brilliant, spectacular but
I never had spoken.
I unmasked her.
Now you can’t watch me.
I am your sophisticate mask.

THE BOOK

THE BOOK

I had a pressing needed to read that marvellous book written by Venturi which I memorized a long time ago.
Yesterday I wanted to remember and to comprove if I had forgotten anyone of multiple meanings of its paragraphs.
I pushed the on button of my record. I knew that it’s impossible for us to hear the Mathieu Passion as Back conduced in the Thomas Church in Leipzig but we could enjoy with a brilliant and sensitive reinterpretation.
Between the leaves of the book there was a piece of paper folded in two. It took my breath away like when you are waiting the baby’s cries of your baby after his birth.
I was slowly unfolding it, like if a surgeon operated a delicate wing of a sick little bird.
Words and drops. Words and drops dissolved at the same time.
With these words I gave thanks you for your generosity, for believing me, for sharing your short life with our, for your wonderful present who is our son.
After the hug silent, and throwing quickly deep dark, the words of Venturi were appearing “I prefer the black, the white and the grey to the black or the white. I prefer the hybrid elements to pure elements, the twisted to straight pieces and the redundant to simple think...”
“I prefer that and this to that or this”.

Less is more.

MUDDY

Today is my day of the reflections, of looking backward at my life from its start.
I look at that person I see in my mirror, and see that I’ve not always been smart.
But I haven’t done badly when I total the score, as I see the changes that are mine.
It would have been better to become more aware. Much earlier in life, but that’s just fine.
It’s never too late to start looking for change, to improve on the person you were.
I’m in charge of my life, that’s sure.
And I examine the issues we face. The worl’s getting crazier, the violence increase… It’s up to us to retain our perspective and balance, to find peace.

As I look in my backward, what will I see, and what will I do to change my ways?
Now that I’ve looked backward, it’s forward I go, doing a new course for my days.
The road I’ve chosen won’t always be smooth, and there will always be obstacles to find. I may fall, but I’ll always get up, and go on with this incredible journey of the mind.
And where are you in journey, my fried? Are you waiting to start, or are you on your way?.Look in your mirror backward, it’s not hard to do, and you’ll start going forward each day.
Go ahead, take that big step onto the road of life. You never know where it will take you.

MUDDY

THE LION’S HAIR

When I approached near the rocks where she set the food on the ground, I saw a red heart. It was a bleeding and lively heart . I picked up carely “It could have been lost by a woman”. I thought just when I stared the soft and tender viscera.
I wraped it which greatest care, covered it which a white piece of warm clothes.
I spent a long time to find out who was the woman who had lost the heart in the mid.dle of Etiopia’s desert.
I looked anxiously at to first woman who passed and Oh my dad! The woman hadn’t heart. She was, without doubt, owner of my discovery.
It was odd and when I said I had found your heart, she angryly responded she hadn’t lost anything.
Thousands of women passed, old, youn, beautiful, non attractive, blonde, brown...I perceived one of them had only the place not your heart, because she believed to have it or because without it she feel divinely.

A day I saw a woman with her heart which beat and felt. I don’t know why I gave it to somebody who had an alive one and I decided to present that heart that all the women had refused.

She was rich with two hearts and was radiant, so she lived happyly sharing a heart with his friend wise and the other with her tam lion.