somebody & co. ( henry david thoreau – the maine woods)

The day before, we had walked into a shop, over against an inn where we stopped, the puny beginning of trade, which would grow at last into a firm copartnership in the future town or city,— indeed, it was already “Somebody & Co.,” I forget who. The woman came forward from the penetralia of the attached house, for “Somebody & Co.” was in the burning, and she sold us percussioncaps, canalès and smooth, and knew their prices and qualities, and which the hunters preferred. Here was a little of everything in a small compass to satisfy the wants and the ambition of the woods,— a stock selected with pains and care, and brought home in the wagon-box, or a corner of the Houlton team; but there seemed to me, as usual, a preponderance of children’s toys,— dogs to bark, and cats to mew, and trumpets to blow, where natives there hardly are yet. As if a child, born into the Maine woods, among the pine-cones and cedar-berries, could not do without such a sugar-man or skipping-jack as the young Rothschild has.

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(On the 31st of August, 1846)

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Tuesday February 21 2017


1989 : a farewell to youth

1989

it turns the point when the regret become impossibile and the past scores are deleted hence you see a way of an impossible future

farewell

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the bourgeoisie has buried the movement / this is a visual art in praise to my generation ideals
i ask to you dear aficionados, please do not divulgate thi(e)s(e) picture(s) outside the experienceofthinking

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Monday February 20 2017


the revolution is nowadays an ancient thing (slawomir mrozek)


Into that antiquities shop looking around I see a body of a young man with beard and tall as a ordinary man. The figure stands between an old clock and a chinese vase.

‘ Is it a wax museum figure? ‘, I ask to the shop owner.
‘ Neither. He is revolutionary of the Twentieth century. Want to buy? ‘
‘ How much ? ‘
‘ Not much money. This piece is very cheap. In my wharehouse I have a lot of them. Recently the price down.’
‘ Why do you sell him to me ? ‘
‘ I suppose it is a good deal for you ‘
‘ What do you mean ? ‘
‘ This man will change your life ‘
‘ Again, what do you mean exactely ‘
‘ Well this guy breaks your dishes, breaks doorknobs and pees on the carpet ‘
‘ I see. But these are damages ! ‘
‘ Sure. But I bet you are annoyed by an ordinary life. You have to admit the truth ! ‘

I close my eyes. I see in my mind the vision of my room so ordinary, well cleaned, the clean carpet et cetera… really a so boring scene !

‘ Well I buy the revolutionary young man ‘, I say.
‘ Do you want a package ? ‘
‘ Never mind. He is enough able walking with his feet ‘
Now I and the revolutionary young man walking along the sidewalk. He just started to hit me, he is beating on my head. He severely is abusing me . I see that my life is really changing.

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text curated, and digitalised image 1999 by rinaldo rasa from newspaper of that time

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Sunday February 19 2017


about empathy

We are so subject to emotional appeal yet so able to be selective in our attribution of soul. How were the Nazis able to convince themselves it was all right to kill Jews? How were Americans so willing to “waste gooks” in the Vietnam war? It seems that emotions of one sort – patriotism – can ac as a valve, controlling the other emotions that allow us to identify, to project – to see our victim as (a reflection of) ourselves.

We are all animists to some degree. Some of us attribute “personalities” to our cars, others of us see our typewriters or our toys as “alive,” as possessors of “souls.” It is hard to burn some things in a fire because some piece of us is going up in flames. Clearly the “soul” we project into these objects is an image purely in our minds. Yet if that is so, why isn’t it equally so for the souls that we project into our friends and family?

We all have a storehouse of empathy that is variously hard or easy to tap into, depending on our moods and on the stimulus. Sometimes mere words or fleeting expressions hit the bull’s-eye and we soften. Other times we remain callous and icy, unmovable.

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douglas r. hofstadter, 1980 / text curated and digitalised picture by rinaldo rasa 2005 /

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Saturday February 2017