I decided not to take any pictures.
On va continuer à manger de frites.
George is 11 years old, and he drinks like a 30 years old – I would say. I am sitting with him and other three men in a wooden cottage called horincarie. The sun has set, and their distillery started to work. They are moonshining horinca, a strong alcoholic beverage made of fermented plums and other fruits. The year is 2007. The village is Rozavlea, in Maramureș County, North Romania. I have been invited to join their "enterprise", to become one of them and get rid of the “stigma” of being just a-dude-from-the-city.
Sometimes I am closing my eyes, trying to access a collective memory, a memory I believe all the blind people, or those with empaired vision share. It is a secret memory of our surrounding world, in it most everyday encounter. But for me it is only an exercise of "ethnographic" understanding. An imposture I intimately condemn, although everytime it brings the profane satifaction of discovering a new world. When I open my eyes, I keep thinking of those who cannot.
1. phone with SOS number written on it
3. scotch tape
4. piles of papers
This tree in front of my window has almost an ontological erectile function.
In low light or in bad weather conditions, its shape sculpts into the larger perspective. Sometimes I perceive it as a mere void, not a lack space, but a profound absence of something. An absence that autonomously defines its outside borders while keeping itself hidden from comprehension.
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