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Showing posts from December, 2015

Our society is trapped in the quick-sands of fear

Scott Fitzgerald would writte «the bright tan prayer rug of a beach» to express a feeling that it hardly can be expressed. When we talk about natural beauty we are really talking about our mother, our origin, the source of our being; and not only of our body but our inmost being. The shape of our naked body reveals the paintbrush of a misterious beauty. Here we are a reality beyond the physical interest or the material sensations. Sadly, some people who approach to naturism are trapped on the surface of the matter. We have an iceberg and some times we think that the ice is just the ice mountain outside the sea. What we see dazzles us, but some times it also blinds us. On the other side, we have a society fearing its own being; a society that wears a mask. Where is your voice, society, when you talks as if what you say was the script of a perfect play? Why do you fear your natural voice? Who does tell the truth if everybody says what society wants to hear? I often experience an empt…

Merry Christmas!!!

If the wind doesn't push me, if it doesn't try to make me fall down, I will not know how to walk in the windstorm

If all was easy, wine wouldn't be worth, and human life would be like the life of a stone that is dragged by water. There wouldn't be either impressionist pictures or lives that would be exhausted because of having fought for freedom, or poems that would denounce the destroyers of the life. If there were not tyrants, it would be more complicated loving the deep value of the freedom. If there had never been squalid inquisitors, it would be more arduous that science was deemed a great treasure, and so do the logical methodology, and the prudence, and the intellectual humility, and the mental objectivity. If there had never been squalid inquisitors, we would hardly have taken out of our heart poems that would be bloody because of our love for the freedom of thinking, the life and the happiness. If pain didn't exist, or sadness, or suffering, personal happiness wouldn't be a conquest, we wouldn't become skilled in the art of being happy; happiness would be gifted as …

In the night, peace is the work of an artist, and we are the artists

I'm staring at Arles images tonight, and I'm going to stare at them tomorrow again. I see on the house's front, and in the light's streets, the fire of a hidden life. I understand why you started to create in the way you did when you came to Arles. Two days ago, I sought your ear. I didn't found it; surely because you gave it to a prostitute as a present. The more I know your life, the more I understand the harsh face of the life, of every life. We walk by a sharp kerbstone, beated by winds, beside the sick heigh of a precipice. Society compels us to go ahead to don't fall to reach the end of the journey. But the end of the travel is always far away. The more we approach it, the more it gets far away from us. Society harms us for not walking faster, but we can't do more than what we can do. And we realise we don't own our own thoughts. Our thoughts are guided by a dark and strange brain's smoke. Today we think we want an specific thing, tomorrow we…