Against the nebula, someone suggested the idea of standing in front of a fig tree until you see a little fig emerge among the young leaves. Surely the human eye is capable of capturing the event. How long would it take to be there, sleepless, with a fixed gaze, to see the fruit sprout directly? Not too much, there are little figs that are not there one day and are there the next. It would be a springtime way of holding on to something. Lately, our heads have been bombarded by the threat of a world in absolute fog, where the true and the false are already indistinguishable. The latest advances in artificial intelligence, which may be controlled by the Natural Idiocy of the greed of the dark side of man, leave us trembling.
So we were thinking about this possibility of contemplating the fig, when a bouquet of tender, pink tulips arrived at our house. Twelve still baby-tense buds, among bright green branches that seemed to vibrate to the sky, opening day by day into voluptuous flowers that, of course, soon began to droop. We have been observing the transit or drying of the bouquet for two weeks and it does not seem that we are going to get out of this. We missed the time to throw it away and it has gotten out of hand. We missed one of those trains that you unknowingly lose forever, and perhaps now there is no choice but to go to the end of the tulip. Yes it exists. The fact is that we are in an inverse situation to the plan of the fig, but similar. And that bush that we now have on the table, in a vase without water to avoid frogs, in its decline, is artistic.
Once the moment of nostalgia for the smoothness of the petal has passed, these remains of flowers, between inclined pistils, turn yellow and twist in unpredictable, wild shapes and colors; animal mouths, cosmic dust, celestial bodies among the fallen leaves. Yesterday a friend brought some watercolors and painted the decrepit bouquet, the subject is getting to such an extent.
Then we imagine a world where once the lines between the natural and the artificial have been blurred, the misty streets fill with humans who, in euphoric desperation, hug each other, touch each other and whisper poems to each other to verify that they have skin. On the other hand, we believe that the industry is going to start talking. We will probably keep reporting.
