This is prophylaxis, a practiced absence, a safer distance.
He is a fine clinician to diagnose this, a sound decision.
This is a family practice, it's anesthetic, it's nonreactive.
This is a termination, a fine resemblance, but no relation.
"We cherish the old stories for their changelessness. Arthur dreams eternally in Avalon. Bilbo can go «there and back again», and «there» is always the beloved familiar Shire. Don Quixote sets our forever to kill a windmill... So people turn to the realms of fantasy for stability, ancient truths, immutable simplicities.
And the mills of capitalism provide them. Supply meets demand. Fantasy becomes a commodity, an industry.
(...)
Imagination like all living things lives now, and it lives with, from, on true change. Like all we do and have, it can be co-opted and degraded; but it survives commercial and didactic exploitation. The land outlasts the empires. The conquerors may leave desert where there was forest and meadow, but the rain will fall, the rivers will run to the sea.
(...)
We know a dozen different Arthurs now, all of them true. The Shire changed irrevocably even in Bilbo's lifetime. Don Quixote went riding out to Argentina and met Jorge Luis Borges there. Plus c'est la même chose, plus ça change.
(...)
So these are reports of my exploitations and discoveries: tales from Earthsea for those who have liked or think might like the place, and who are willing to accept these hypotheses:
Dad: Everything? What's the point? I mean, I sure as shit don't know. Neither does anybody else, okay? We're all just winging it, you know? The good news is you're feeling stuff. Y'know, and you've got to hold on to that. You do. I mean, you get older and you don't feel as much. Your skin gets tougher. The point is those pictures you took, thousands of submissions from all over the state, and you won.
Mason: Well, I got silver. And nine other people did, too.
Dad: I'm gonna kill you. I'm tryin' to tell you that I believe in you, Mason. I think you're really special, and if some girl doesn't see that, then fuck her, y'know?"
não me lembro da primeira vez que me falaram de feist. lembro-me da primeira vez que fixei feist. foi quando lançou um split com os mastodon. quem é o cantautor que em seu perfeito juízo faz um lançamento típico de um artista de garagem com uma banda de sludge de nível mundial? alguém carismático, descobriria eu. com histórias para contar. com uma voz própria. que nem ponderou as possibilidades de se embrulhar em arranjos de harpas e violinos e saltar para a ribalta dos top 5 de tabela indie qualquer, que um ano depois não interessa a ninguém. feist é uma descoberta minha, uma voz minha da minha consciência. que delicada e vibrante fará sempre mais sentido entre barbudos tatuados e destroços de guitarras, do que numa infantil utopia amorosa.
