... and also commissioned for the rover to penetrate the interior, Rodrigo de Jerez and Luis de Torres, who returned six days after the country wondering who had just done. (Pedro Santacilia)
What better refuge: the memory or the landscape? Both perceived distress, so much loss around us that we do not know what passages to retrace back to the starting point. A labyrinthine museum, visitors can not perceive the combination, the tables were no longer to become reference material dreams. Each one weighs his banishment to the scales, strange balance between benefit and shrinkage. How
We won well, looking over her shoulder, believing that we still seek and sustains us something from the past?
spoken speech memory as irrefutable matrix. The site where we were born we impose a vindictive course: our graves must be Hospice murmuring that which we owe the lineage. Just want to vouch for us lighting our death, returned to the clan tradition and changed into a shroud. Returning home we close the circle.
memory are called upon to resist the attacks of that picture. Dreams, pictures, charms. Banished all know redeemed himself by polishing the image that keeps other invulnerability.
memory is better than earth, the attempt to capture its pulse, the weaker the further away from home. We left the cool of the garden fictional, not real fruits or unexpected breaks. The exile feels and evokes the smells of the island, grass and mud, the rain hitting the dust, the fumes spread dark wind. No landscape accommodates
who is comparing what he has with what he learned to withdraw from that list the differences. Each day that passes more disguise ends the schoolyard tree, the tree is transformed into plant concept in mass of unreality that does not serve the purpose of the caregiver. And its fruits, for untouchables, rot.
The old maps are again recognizable. This I know who studies the haze of the picture, who replaced the modern names and original names, always better. When we look at the map of the island, drawn by unsafe hands, we imagine that shaded day, three days of moving into the heart of Zipangu, vegetation covered unfathomable that both intruders and natural.
The tattered map could replace the return trip that we conceive. A trip that we did not return useless white beaches, quiet streams, dumb dogs. And the knowledge gained from that landscape and memory, represented in the brilliance of parchment, vehemently circular supplement.
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