Saturday, May 10, 2014
As long as there are balls to untangle

Saturday, April 12, 2014 - 2:38 p.m. - at the mill

Yesterday sharing a video on Facebook, an artist has created a tangled skein of paperclips, a soft object about eight inches in circumference, but it is not a sphere rather a cluster, something that has no framework, a hybrid random structure moving between the mollusk and crustacean.
She handled gently, gently throws, one sees only the hand that takes this package, she hesitates, seeking his gesture looks like perplexed, incredulous as if she wondered what it is, or so what can I do with this thing or that shall prevent fascination to focus on another subject.
Fascinating indeed, I'm totally caught up in this picture, the hand manipulating this thing, the thing itself, all that this act of turning in all directions wake or attempts to emerge. I decided to share the video on my page and publish it with the comment: As long as there are things to sort out, all will be well.

My registration on Facebook date a few months. At first it was a way for me to network, I read on a chat that social networks are the new social skills, is what prompts me to participate, at least try, see what happens over there.
The beginnings are pervasive, it goes so fast, can we master such a flow, so much energy? It is addictive, time consuming, intriguing. I create a page, discovers, sharing, click on the like, publish my work.
Designs, graphics, photos, text, quotes, music, the source seems inexhaustible. At the beginning guided by the impulse of the moment my publications are going in all directions, the little lost ball Bourvil how to pass this publication of the INA, a funny quote takes place on my wall because it made ​​me laugh, an image that I like, a recovered memory of La Linea this little cartoon that we loved children, many works of art, beautiful pictures, of course. There are also so many cases in which commitment, awareness of what is happening in the world, position, reaction to political events, I surf too badly, like talking too fast without thinking about, one day comment further call to order, what happens here is not only virtual, it is a representation of reality, it speaks as you are.

Meanwhile my friends list grows, gradually I learn who is who, who is doing what, names come back, some will inevitably lose yet in the mass. My publications refocus my profile, sees friends is not fully controllable, forms back reactions or don't react to my attitude, my like, publications or comments.
What happens in this community looks like real life, a way to react, the rate of this reaction, the intrusive shy communicative mode, suspicious, generous, the position relative to each other. There are idols, some media figures, very active, those that dare not request, those we know and affordable. People change their avatar or their cover photo constantly, others always publish the same, there is the versatility, toughness, frivolity and depth, trhead, the disjointed words, sincerity and hypocrisy, representation and swap. Some profiles I like, how they use the tool fits my values​​, humanism, sharing, dissemination of knowledge, friendliness, respect.

Talking with my son about using Facebook. They say it's like a room, ok promised I would not return in yours. It's something young, well not I meet a lot of old. You can't master, ok I understood that too.
But this wealth of information, these images, something attracts me, let it be not rude but I'm not there to scatter me, the goal was to get into the network, take place in a manner or another. I publish less and observed. How do others do?
Internet is a great arena where everyone is speaking a kind of dream Socratic agora, finally. How to take part in the debate, how to be heard, do I have anything interesting to communicate elsewhere.
It's all so complicated, I look at the thing with perplexity on tips of my fingers, what can we do with it ? How to use this thing, what's the point?

When one persists in unraveling the ball, it becomes inextricable. A few months back feels good. I return to the net with conviction that I saw there is too beautiful, I can not give up. Cropping on my goals, the tool is so powerful, the goal is to do better with than without. Facebook works in the mode of sharing, I like this word share! This is what I want to do.
Discovered artists are both a source of inspiration, a suitable emulsion for my creations a promise of sharing. My preferences emerge around writing in particular, calligraphy, line, also return to the architecture, I continue to commit myself to certain causes and my network includes everything that revolves around these themes. This tool is confusing as human relations. I am also here to share my work, I do it in hopes of a return, the like I also love them.

The confrontation with the agora is a test of sociability whatever is said, we can only use that way with social resources and skills that we already live in, what it's coming back returns in the mirror is the picture not so deformed of ourselves, in the reflection is only a part of what exists, appearance condenses the essential.
To understand anything you must look for a very long time, who said that? It is not surprising that my shares will constitute Videos such as that shows the mass of paperclips, we love each other in what we are.
What is created is a representation, what is shown is a construction that reflects the person behind the mounting, walls are similar to their authors and internet to the mass that moves constantly, a non form fickle and slippery frame .
What we create, what we watch, what is perceived, which broadcasts, which remain anonymous, which means, that we care, that we share ....

On the occasion of Provencal holidays, exchange evening around what is the matter, what is perceived, you see this object, it is because you perceive, the mythical little phrase was wrong, it was rather, I see this object, I see it because I exist. Difference of perception, philosophy of matter, we are this thinking matter, the possibility of consciousness pre-exist in what constitute us, this is my way to solve the mysteries, my religion, my animism.
When I make a fire at the mill, watch the wood burn is a magnificent performance, the ember is vibrant, lively, cheerful, it transmits its energy, warms my body and soul. I go over the logs in the fireplace, shapes, patterns and faces appear in the furnace. Sometimes the fire is extinguished, the buche partially calcined ashes escapes and joins in the early morning collection of textures which populates my home.
What I saw in the woods, this buche so different, is a projection of my perceptions, an avatar of itself, transformation, changing destiny, buche not become ash but a picture, contemplation, Vishnu reincarnates, this is the definition of the avatar.
Purni explains the three Hindu deities, the stages of development, nirvana, detachment, follow the middle way, never ever think of the goal to reach it, the path of love only makes sense, love makes the material live, look and sharing , channel and define a specific point, about the one achievement, the most beautiful flower does not exist in the desert because nobody can touch it. Does the truth exists, can we share, what we perceive, what plans, what is said, what is done ....

I know a little more today, my socials skills grow and tangled skein rest, it's the better.
I don't know how to do it but do it anyway.
This phrase has become my mantra. It does not mean we should do without knowing how, or that what we do when it's not known to do it is a good thing, or that which is important is the action and doing at any cost even if we don't know. What it expresses is my matted ball and my surprise to find it permanently work in progress.
I don't know how to do it but do it anyway.

Saturday, May 10, 2014 - 6:48 -  at the mill

myriam eyann


Production of Sandra Portto
Bourvil is a famous french actor, and the sing "Le petit bal perdu"

La linéa from Cavandoli

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There are authors who write with light, others with blood, with lava, with fire, with soil, with mud, with diamond powder, and finally those who write with ink, the unfortunate, with ink simply.

Pierre Reverdy, Le Livre de mon bord