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| | vendredi, mai 27, 2005

"You don't understand." she said. "It's not about beauty."
Beauty is one one small aspect of what is hidden and can be revealed.
"I need the imperfections. They function as gates to see something more than the flat reality of a moment."
"But an imperfection can also be beautiful..." I answer.
"Yes, exactly," She pauzed briefly, "but not necessarily. Beauty can make you experience things. Without the sense of beauty you wouldn't see, hear, feel or taste them. But beauty is not that strong. It's been abused, over-used, turned upside down, faked and forged. It's lost some of its power."
I sighed and thought of ancient greek art and how its beauty still touches me.

She continued, ignoring me.
"In Asia, people do not pull out the hairs growing from moles or birthmarks like we do. You can see people with a birthmark or mole on their face and a string of black or grey hairs sprouting out of it. I have seen mole hair that was more than 1 meter long.
That's what I mean when I talk about opening gates through imperfections. The hairy mole struck me as so unusual -it's an emphasized error- I had to reajust my definitions of beauty. After all, the hair is not really ugly, mainly odd.
So the hair became a gate that revealed. I could imagine how the mole haired people would look covered in hair completely. I wondered about how it must feel. The fine hair in the wind. On a bike. The mole haired people looked dignified. Maybe they felt different about themselves."
"But what is your point?" I interjected. "Something unusual makes you upset and thus triggers a train of thoughts?"
She looked at me. Rather sad. "I don't know. I just liked the mole people very much.
They made me think 3 or 4 thoughts at the same time. They made me feel I had a choice in life. You know what I mean, not just one flat, timed trajectory to death, while you are telling yourself: we are build of atoms, love is chemical, death is malfunction. I felt I could make loopholes, beat time. My pulse slowed down. The clocks stopped ticking. I was out of here. Really out."
She paused and looked at me.
"You don't believe me, do you? You don't believe it's possible. You are like them. Saying falling in love is only endorphins running though your veins and believing that hormones can explain every feeling or reaction." She was getting angry.
"No." I answered. "I'm not like them." I decided to remain calm and continued slowly.
"You know what happened when I was younger? Doctors found out that due to some unexplainable flaw in my brain, my body is not able to produce endorphins or certain hormones. But I have fallen in love. Several times. The clocks stopped ticking and my pulse slowed down. And then it happened."

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