Aerosol Amoeba

Aerosol Amoeba from Pahnl on Vimeo.

so simple so complicated

Design42day from Onur Senturk on Vimeo.

LA SATISFACCIÓN (DIE ZUFRIEDENHEIT) by Holderlin

Cuando ya más allá de todo un hombre
Contempla y entiende el curso de la vida,
Ser feliz logra; mas aquel que ante los peligros tiembla
Es como un hombre que por vientos y tempestades fuera dominado.
Mejor es conocer la belleza,
Sublime creación de la vida.
Cuando de lo más hondo de los afanes nace el gozo
Y cuantos bienes hoy pueden desearse.
El árbol que verdea, las cumbres del ramaje,
Las flores que rodean la corteza del tronco,
Naturaleza divina son y vida
Al inclinarse sobre ellos los aires del cielo.
Mas cuando curiosos los hombres me preguntan
lo que aquello es, qué sentimiento aventurado,
Qué destino, qué cénit o qué premio,
Yo les contesto, ésa es la vida y ése el pensamiento.
A otros la Naturaleza de ordinario sosiega,
Pero a mí me insta ante la posibilidad de una vida gozosa,
Esa claridad ante la cual hasta los sabios se estremecen,
Ese gozo hermosísimo, cuando ya todo es alegría.
El rigor de los hombres, la victoria y los peligros,
Origen tienen en lo aprendido y en la seguridad
De que existe una meta; aquello que sobre todo es sublime
Se reconoce en el ser y en los hermosos restos.
Ellos mismos son como elegidos,
De ellos es lo nuevo, lo narrado,
La verdad de los hechos no perece,
Y como las brillantes estrellas, una vida alegre y grande existe.
La vida es acción, y es audaz,
Alto su objetivo, su movimiento contenido,
Avanza, la bondad está hecha de virtud
Y gran rigor, llena de la juventud más pura.
El arrepentimiento y el pasado en esta vida
Son diferentes. Uno logra
Gloria y paz y todo cuanto eleva
A las altas regiones otorgadas;
El otro es la congoja y los más amargos sufrimientos
En la muerte de esos hombres que con la vida bromeaban.
Y la imagen y el semblante cambian
En aquel que no amó ni el bien ni la belleza.
La evidencia de un cuerpo viviente, perdurar
En este tiempo, tal como los hombres ansían,
Querella fuese, pues éste del sentimiento nútrese,
E inclinado aquel se siente por la creación y el esfuerzo.

Winner Vimeo festival awards

TRI▲NGLE from Onur Senturk on Vimeo.

Cinematic effects

Chimæra from Sherpas Cinema on Vimeo.

The smoke of my own breath by Whitman

The smoke of my own breath;
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine;
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs;	15
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn;
The sound of the belch’d words of my voice, words loos’d to the eddies of the wind;
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms;
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag;
The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides;	20
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems;	25
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun—(there are millions of suns left;)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books;
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me:
You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself.

Scuba - "Before" (Directed by Sam Geer)

Let´s share this pleasure

L'hydre-Univers tordant son corps écaillé d'astres" By Victor Hugo

is roughly translated as:

"The hydra-Universe, twisting its body covered of star scales" 

"La hidra-universo retorciendo su cuerpo escamado de astros. 

Los Ritmos cambian

El tiempo se contrae y expande,

La respiración del cosmos se enfría y arde

El sonido se despliega como velo en el espacio

Los sonidos se ondean y superponen

Disuelven y entretejen

 Una red de tiempo espacial

La luz se enciende en formas graciosas y raras

Lenguaje sensoideal

Lenguaje de vibraciones electromagnéticas

De ondas y partículas

De opuestos relativos

En intimas correspondencias

 En juego bailan

Van y viene

Suben y bajan

Ondas y partículas

Estados de cosas

La eterna imagen

Móvil agita su aleta

El inasible y cristalino azul del agua y el tranquilo  verde donde sueña la vida

Se unen

giran y se separan

en apasionados movimientos órbicos

van y vienen

toca todos los detalles y los pone a vibrar en la misma armonía

el fértil Lenguaje de la naturaleza se entreteje con vigor en una red de tiempo

graduadas

sombras y luces

se alternan en súbitos giros de alegría

amor y odio

lenguaje de las fuerzas y energías

se funden y transforman

El tiempo se contrae

Ahora

El punto donde se contiene el tiempo universal

Dulce gota de luz, visible e invisible vibra

Los Ritmos cambian

cada cosa vibra en su forma silenciosa

Y es un eco del ritmo y de la rosa

La tarde declina

La tarde declina, en lo alto una corriente de luz irradia en los cielos, enciende de energía la nubes amarillas colgando como un rio sobre el diáfano ámbito, lentas avanzan las nubes como si fueran las aguas encantadas de algún poema, y más allá en la transparentes regiones del aire palacios de cristal y la vegetación obscura de nuestros espíritus, más allá y aquí los pájaros urden sus canciones en armonía con los ciclos y sinfonía de los orbes, canto de los cielos y de secretos espíritus, quietos los árboles sobre si reposan y sueñan, caen sus hojas bailando en los súbitos remolinos del aire y la luz  por momentos la enciende, vuelan las abejas, vibrando de dulce alegría, vuela el colibrí como una súbita flecha, mensajero de los muertos y dioses, siervo de las plantas, joya del dia y la noche eterna de los mitos, vuela el ave en búsqueda de su nido, la tarde se carga,  el viento viene de nuevo y sobre sus crines transparentes las semillas de plantas galopan sobre reinos nuevos, vuelan en el alado suspiro de los árbol, su voz ancestral y nueva, sonríe con el juego de la luz y la sombra entre sus ramas que el viento agita haciendo señas de alegría, todo vibra y la semillas reposadas se abren como estrellas de la mañana, ojos de luz, formas vivas de energía,  peces que nadan a través del mar de los sentidos y ascienden en espirales, alado deseo, asciende y desciende,  a través de las olas del tiempo. La luz se torna  más sutil y eléctrica con las sombras que secretas avanzan en su órbita

Sir Thomas Browne religion

The whole World was made for man, but the twelfth part of man for woman: Man is the whole World, and the Breath of GOD; Woman the Rib and crooked piece of man. I could be content that we might procreate like trees, without conjunction, or that there were any way to perpetuate the World without this trivial and vulgar way of union: it is the foolishest act a wise man commits in all his life; nor is there any thing that will more deject his cool’d imagination, when he shall consider what an odd and unworthy piece of folly he hath committed. I speak not in prejudice, nor am averse from that sweet Sex, but naturally amorous of all that is beautiful. I can look a whole day with delight upon a handsome Picture, though it be but of an Horse. It is my temper, and I like it the better, to affect all harmony: and sure there is musick even in the beauty, and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument. For there is a musick where ever there is a harmony, order, or proportion: and thus far we may maintain the music of the Sphears; for those well-ordered motions, and regular paces, though they give no sound unto the ear, yet to the understanding they strike a note most full of harmony. Whatsoever is harmonically composed delights in harmony; which makes me much distrust the symmetry of those heads which declaim against all Church-Musick. For my self, not only for my obedience, but my particular Genius, I do embrace it: for even that vulgar and Tavern-Musick, which makes one man merry, another mad, strikes in me a deep fit of devotion, and a profound contemplation of the First Composer. There is something in it of Divinity more than the ear discovers: it is an Hieroglyphical and shadowed lesson of the whole World, and creatures of GOD; such a melody to the ear, as the whole World, well understood, would afford the understanding. In brief, it is a sensible fit of that harmony which intellectually sounds in the ears of GOD. I will not say, with Plato, the soul is an harmony, but harmonical, and hath its nearest sympathy unto Musick: thus some, whose temper of body agrees, and humours the constitution of their souls, are born Poets, though indeed all are naturally inclined unto Rhythme.

And to speak more generally, those three Noble professions which al civil Common wealths doe honour, are raised upon the fall of Adam, & are not any exempt from their infirmities; there are not onely diseases incurable in Physicke, but cases indissoluble in Lawes, Vices incorrigible in Divinity: if general Councells may erre, I doe not see why particular Courts should be infallible, their perfectest rules are raised upon the erroneous reasons of Man, and the Lawes of one, doe but condemn the rules of another; as Aristotle oft-times the opinions of his predecessours, because, though agreeable to reason, yet were not consonant to his owne rules, and the Logicke of his proper principles. Againe, to speake nothing of the sinne against the Holy Ghost, whose cure not onely, but whose nature is unknowne; I can cure the gout or stone in some, sooner than Divinity, Pride, or Avarice in others. I can cure vices by Physicke, when they remaine incurable by Divinity, and shall obey my pils, when they contemne their precepts. I boast nothing, but plainely say, we all labour against our owne cure, for death is the cure of all diseases. There is no Catholicon or universall remedy I know but this, which thogh nauseous to queasie stomachs, yet to prepared appetites is Nectar and a pleasant potion of immortality.

I beheve that our estranged and divided ashes shall unite again; that our separated dust, after so many Pilgrimages and transformations into the parts of Minerals, Plants, Animals, Elements, shall at the Voice of God return into their primitive shajjes, and joyn again to make up their primary and predestinate forms. As at the Creation there was a separation of that confused mass into its sjjecies; so at the destruction thereof there shall be a separation into its distinct individuals. As at the Creation of the World, all the distinct species that we behold lay involved in one mass, till the fruitful Voice of God separated this united multitude into its several species; so at the last day, when those corrupted reliques shall be scattered in the Wilderness of forms, and seem to have forgot their projser habits, God

by a powerful Voice shall command them back into their proper shapes, and call them out by their single individuals. Then shall appear the fertility of Adam, and the magick of that sperm'" that hath dilated into so many millions. I have often beheld as a miracle, that artificial resurrection and revivification"* of Mercury, how being mortified into a thousand shapes, it assumes again its own, and returns into its numerical'" self. Let us speak naturally and like

Philosophers, the forms of aherable bodies in these sensible corruptions perish not; nor, as we imagine, wholly quit their mansions, but retire and contract themselves into their secret and unaccessible parts, where they may best protect themselves from the action of their Antagonist. A plant or vegetable consumed to ashes to a contemplative

and school-Philosopher seems utterly destroyed, and the form to have taken his leave for ever; but to a sensible Artist the forms are not perished, but withdrawn into their incombustible part, where they lie secure from the action of that devouring element. This is made good by experience, which can from the Ashes of a Plant revive the plant, and from its cinders recall it into its stalk and leaves again. What the Art of man can do in these inferiour

pieces, what blasphemy is it to affirm the finger of God cannot do in these more perfect and sensible structures! This is that mystical Philosophy, from whence no true Scholar becomes an Atheist, but from the visible effects of nature grows up a real Divine, and beholds not in a dream, as Ezekiel, but in an ocular and visible object, the types

of his resurrection. the worlds destruction by fire, did never dream of annihilation, which

is beyond the f)ower of sublunary causes; that mystical metal of Gold, whose solary'" and celestial nature I admire, exposed unto the violence of fire, grows onely hot, and liquifies, but consumeth not; so, when the consumable and volatile pieces of our bodies shall be refined into a more impregnable and fixed temper like Gold, though they suffer from the action of flames, they shall never f)erish, but lye immortal in the arms of fire. with Heaven, whose happiness consists in that part that is best able to comprehend it, that immortal essence, that translated divinity and colony of God, misery of circumference to afflict him: and thus a distracted Conscience here, is

a shadow or introduction unto Hell hereafter. I survey the occurrences of my life, and call into account the Finger of God, I can perceive nothing but an abyss and mass of mercies, either in general to mankind, or in particular to my self.

instructed me, to contemplate the infinite and incomprehensible distance betwixt the Creatorand the Creature;

Vice and the Devil put a Fallacy upon our Reasons, and, provoking us too hastily to run from it, entangle and profound us deeper in it. There is a depraved appetite in us, that will with patience hear the learned instructions of Reason, but yet perform no farther than agrees to its own irregular humour. In brief, we all are monsters, that is, a composition of Man and Beast, wherein we must endeavor to be as the Poets fancy that wise man Chiron,'" that

is, to have the Region of Man above that of Beast, and Sense to sit but at the feet of Reason. Lastly, I do desire with God that all, but yet affirm with men that few, shall know Salvation; that the bridge is narrow, the passage strait, unto life: yet those who do confine the Church of God, either to particular Nations, Churches, or Families, have made it far narrower than our Saviour ever meant it.

Pulvis et umbra passage by Stevenson

We behold space sown with rotatory islands; suns and worlds and the
shards and wrecks of systems: some, like the sun, still blazing; some
rotting, like the earth; others, like the moon, stable in desolation.
All of these we take to be made of something we call matter: a thing
which no analysis can help us to conceive; to whose incredible
properties no familiarity can reconcile our minds. This stuff, when
not purified by the lustration of fire, rots uncleanly into something
we call life; seized through all its atoms with a pediculous malady;
swelling in tumours that become independent, sometimes even (by an
abhorrent prodigy) locomotory;[4] one splitting into millions,
millions cohering into one, as the malady proceeds through varying
stages. This vital putrescence of the dust, used as we are to it, yet
strikes us with occasional disgust, and the profusion of worms in a
piece of ancient turf, or the air of a marsh darkened with insects,
will sometimes check our breathing so that we aspire for cleaner
places. But none is clean: the moving sand is infected with lice; the
pure spring, where it bursts out of the mountain, is a mere issue of
worms; even in the hard rock the crystal is forming

in the sea of sense...

...The hills are moving into their stillness. They mean something because they are being transformed into my brain, and my brain is an organ of meaning. The forests of redwood trees upon them

look like green fire, and the copper-gold of the sun-dried grass heaves immensely into the

sky. Time is so slow as to be a kind of eternity, and the flavor of eternity transfers itself to

the hills—burnished mountains which I seem to remember from an immeasurably distant

past, at once so unfamiliar as to be exotic and yet as familiar as my own hand. Thus

transformed into consciousness, into the electric, interior luminosity of the nerves, the world

seems vaguely insubstantial—developed upon a color film, resounding upon the skin of a

drum, pressing, not with weight, but with vibrations interpreted as weight. Solidity is a

neurological invention, and, I wonder, can the nerves be solid to themselves? Where do we

begin? Does the order of the brain create the order of the world, or the order of the world

the brain? The two seem like egg and hen, or like back and front.

The physical world is vibration, quanta, but vibrations of what? To the eye, form and color;

to the ear, sound; to the nose, scent; to the fingers, touch. But these are all different

languages for the same thing, different qualities of sensitivity, different dimensions of

consciousness. The question, "Of what are they differing forms?" seems to have no

meaning. What is light to the eye is sound to the ear. I have the image of the senses being

terms, forms, or dimensions not of one thing common to all, but of each other, locked in a

circle of mutuality. Closely examined, shape becomes color, which becomes vibration, which

becomes sound, which becomes smell, which becomes taste, and then touch, and then

again shape. (One can see, for example, that the shape of a leaf is its color. There is no

outline around the leaf; the outline is the limit where one colored surface becomes another.)

I see all these sensory dimensions as a round dance, gesticulations of one pattern being

transformed into gesticulations of another. And these gesticulations are flowing through a

space that has still other dimensions, which I want to describe as tones of emotional color,

of light or sound being joyous or fearful, gold elated or lead depressed. These, too, form a

circle of reciprocity, a round spectrum so polarized that we can only describe each in terms

of the others.

Sometimes the image of the physical world is not so much a dance of gestures as a woven

texture. Light, sound, touch, taste, and smell become a continuous warp, with the feeling

that the whole dimension of sensation is a single continuum or field. Crossing the warp is a

woof representing the dimension of meaning—moral and aesthetic values, personal or

individual uniqueness, logical significance, and expressive form—and the two dimensions

interpenetrate so as to make distinguishable shapes seem like ripples in the water of

sensation. The warp and the woof stream together, for the weaving is neither flat nor static

but a many-directioned cross-flow of impulses filling the whole volume of space. I feel that

the world is on something in somewhat the same way that a color photograph is on a film,

underlying and connecting the patches of color, though the film here is a dense rain of

energy. I see that what it is on is my brain—"that enchanted loom," as Sherrington called it.

Brain and world, warp of sense and woof of meaning, seem to interpenetrate inseparably.

They hold their boundaries or limits in common in such a way as to define one another and

to be impossible without each other.

A savage place! as holy and enchanted by COLERIDGE

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 

Stevenson effects

The vigorous forest air, the silence, the majestic avenues of highway, the wilderness of tumbled boulders, the great age and dignity of certain groves — these are but ingredients, they are not the secret of the philtre. The place is sanative; the air, the light, the perfumes, and the shapes of things concord in happy harmony. The artist may be idle and not fear the “blues.” He may dally with his life. Mirth, lyric mirth, and a vivacious classical contentment are of the very essence of the better kind of art; and these, in that most smiling forest, he has the chance to learn or to remember.

The beauty is not merely beauty; it tells, besides, a tale to the imagination, and surprises while it charms. Here you shall see castellated towns that would befit the scenery of dreamland; streets that glow with colour like cathedral windows; hills of the most exquisite proportions; flowers of every precious colour, growing thick like grass. All these, by the grace of railway travel, are brought to the very door of the modern painter. 

A larger air, a higher heaven, something ancient and healthy in the face of nature, purify the mind alike from dulness and hysteria. 

technical inspiration. And to leave that airy city and awake next day upon the borders of the forest is but to change externals. The same spirit of dexterity and finish breathes from the long alleys and the lofty groves, from the wildernesses that are still pretty in their confusion, and the great plain that contrives to be decorative in its emptiness.

to the red fires of sunset, night succeeds, and with the night a new forest, full of whisper, gloom, and fragrance. There are few things more renovating than to leave Paris, the lamplit arches of the Carrousel, and the long alignment of the glittering streets, and to bathe the senses in this fragrant darkness of the wood.

the degradation of the air soon became intolerable to one who was awake and using the full supply of life.

Outside, in a glimmering night, I saw the black, amorphous hills and  the 

circling rumour. It sets your senses upon edge; you strain your attention; you are clearly and unusually conscious of small sounds near at hand; you walk listening like an Indian hunter; and that voice of the Pacific is a sort of disquieting company to you in your walk.

and the shadows in the air, they gallop over miles of country faster than a horse