I'm sick, but not feverish and, yes, refused to take medicine that causes me sleep or make me fly (that feeling so rare that it causes the intake of certain antihistamines ). And yet, without fever or medicine to blame, I digress, I digress, and as for that I have a blog, to pound the keyboard with my ramblings, here I am. Dubious confession: I do not remember ever using the phrase "I lost my way." I do not claim not to have used, just do not remember doing it. And not because I've never felt something missing, but because in my mind that something like declaring 'm lost, without direction . Completely lost and not knowing where to point my feet. Too emphatic. Drastically. Almost fatalistic. Up to write. But today I woke up thinking about that expression, ie what it contains. Not that I feel properly so. I think not. Still, I wrapped an inexplicable sense of strangeness. In not find me anywhere while and find myself quite happy. As if suddenly, and intermittently, I lost in a sea of \u200b\u200bdoubt, bored by endless unanswered questions and that either do not know if it leads somewhere and if it is worth answering, but that in any way involved my time distracting from other issues ... but not agonize. Some time ago I read (can not remember exactly who said it could be Roland Barthes I'm not sure) that one does not read or write, for answers but to find new questions and possibly other ways of looking and questioning. Something happens to me, although my strange questions I do not have arisen as a result of reading. At least not in a fit. Is it because sometimes you find where you least expected and almost without looking. A few days ago, while watching a video of the exhibition of Piet Mondriaan at the Centre Pompidou (hence the image illustrating this post), someone sent me the dearest Chapter 9 Cortazar Rayuela , just where Oliveira, La Maga and friends discuss the assessment of the work of Mondriaan. says Etienne :
"pure sensitivity can be satisfied with Mondriaan, while for Klee (German painter Paul Klee) need a hodgepodge of other things. A refined refined . Instead Mondrian painting all. you stand in front, or naked, and then one of two: see or not see (...). A Mondrian canvas itself is sufficient. Ergo, your innocence requires more than your experience. I speak of Edenic innocence, not stupid ... ".
And it was this paragraph, hidden in my memory hazy from my reading of the novel preparatoriana flagship Cortázar, which made me think my way of dealing with the events of my life: that rather than as a Mondrian canvas and take the normal complexities of life as they are, I'm turning as if it were a canvas Paul Klee, for whose arrest would require a full PhD expressionist painting and another had an abstract. And is that for some stubborn reason I often need to explain everything, put a name and surname, found no reason and motive. And while I racked my brains in search of answers and reasons (not always match), I forget to appreciate things for themselves, without any further elucidated, just feeling them.
And of course, after rereading that paragraph, I have a feeling atypical. Une mélange (pun used the name of this blog) of feelings and emotions so imperfect vast as found (with the permission of Rubem Fonseca). I doubt and I think, I let go of situations that once would have thought unthinkable, like someone left a canvas wrap Mondriaan no explanation for what the artist meant. And if this happens to a skeptical, almost by necessity a skeptic like me, the result is doubly disturbing because, against all odds, I do not feel well ... anxiety
Image: Piet Mondriaan. Broadway Boogie Woogie (1942 -43). Museum of Modern Art, New York
****** "I do not care what the faux pas that makes you fall on my body" Marguerite Yourcenar 
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