Chapter 1
No Title
A troupe of artists gathered around the idea of building together the richest experience.
Noise and sounds and clapping and banging marking seismic periods that pierced the air. Everything loud and painfully clear. It moves and it moves and it moves and it moves.
Carnaval lasts seven days only. The seven days, diffused into at least three months. Three entire months lasting seven days.
For all the other weeks, much like several years.
Aligning thoughts and muscles;
In a collective experience, an immersion of
joy.
The rhythm goes as the hours
and the sun;
And it slows down the heat;
And makes it worse and
long
and still.
The powerless cry of all rays of light that reach and belong to a tropical land.
Chapter 2
The way home meant another crossing: another boat, completely full. Crossings of hard labour. Of packed people, touching each other, going up and down, as the waves go.
Synchronized like lambs that get eaten for dinner.
From the reflection from the waves, from the immense dark sea. Scattered randomly, touches of light. It gets brighter, too. From the reflection from the waves, you turn to the sky. The pitch dark turns to blue; it gets softened; on a warm steady pass, that goes quick, as you would want it to.
Chapter 3
There’s risk to everything. All the risk is here. They count it, quantify it. Assess it. A warm trigger. It covers everything, it swallows you. Risk as a person, it swallows you. An apocalyptic nightmare.
And the shadow of the nightmare that lives in its outskirts.
A polished version a fabrication with certain time to begin and to end time elevated foggy with vivid colors
and as a general feeling
pure and misty mise-en-scène
Maybe the word metropolis doesn’t check. It looks like an apocalyptic social experiment. The leftovers of many centuries, they gathered it and positioned it on one corner of the planet. It’s risky to record it; not because it’s not allowed but because people steal your camera. They broke the car window and took my phone from my hand.