Murilo Jambeiro de Oliveira
Brazil, November 29, 2024.
More than usual, in the last two decades, and especially after the pandemic, something has been extremely important to me: encounters. I would have a minimal repertoire of them in history, which would not illustrate how important they are, in any case, it was an encounter that sealed the fate of Jesus, the encounter of Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin is curious, as I said, I don’t know many, and I am a reserved person in private, even distressed, I am not a person who is easy to contact in every sense.
Over time this has become so much more complex, that from being rare, I believe it is valuable. My personal and interpersonal experience is rare. Not by choice, but by the construction of facts. And that is why I somewhat encourage the legend that events like Woodstock, perhaps in all its magnitude, were just one encounter, that of Eliot Tiber. A worn-out notion, but one that I find polishable, that everyone, at all times, establishes almost everything and seals everyone’s destiny through encounter, as in the two simple examples I mentioned. But it is polishable, because on certain occasions it is sacred, not habitual.
This type of notion, which converges on the main thing and diverges widely from what it appears to be, brings the focus, for example, to the encounter of cultures, but not only. Phenomena that are still very little explored of people who, being here, are still here. What I mean by this is that they no longer leave our lives from somewhere in the metaverse. They are here, and they are still here. The question that seems logical to me is: do they eat?
This type of place of things makes me wonder how to change their place. Sometimes that is what I see. Sometimes a pandemic would be avoided if something changed its place. Sometimes a war would be avoided if something changed its place. Or not, or not, in the same way, when something changes place, something happens. Like Judas who gets up hastily from the Last Supper, spilling a glass of wine on the tablecloth. Sometimes, it’s about staying in touch for a moment longer.
One day I woke up and said: I must be autistic (I’m not), but I thought, I don’t sleep with everyone. I restrict a universe of contacts like someone who listens to B flat, and can guarantee that this is B flat and is not right, and at the same time, time, time is the word for this type of music of encounter, where is my time? How many years does it take me, under normal conditions of temperature, pressure, and audience, and confidence in an entire environment to say something. To feel a block of ice melt in my hands. And it’s not in shyness, it’s in absurd absolutism.
Obviously, it is also in shyness, this is a timid person’s libel, but the point is, in some way, technology, when it interacts with a specific type of autism, if I can call it that, the metaphor of the B flat was common to Jô Soares about his autistic son, and I shamelessly steal it, to say something essential, it is a B flat, so to speak. It is absolute shamelessness of shy terror. And technology makes this, complete deafness, that not even Amadeus would help me.
@CoexistenceLaw
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