Yesterday evening, beautiful evening, a small enchanting village on the slopes of Mount Barro, in the cozy rooms of the Museum of Ethnography of Upper Brianza: a show in theater-part song, reciting in part read, in part physics lesson , and always a passionate appeal and tragic man. All of the above quote in the extraordinary setting Robindart. Beautiful lyrics, excellent actors, writers and musicians. Whose merit is, of course, to have triggered thoughts and good questions raised - that is, those who did not answer.
the science main protagonist, a curve. The famous Gaussian, bell, the policeman's hat, has opened its wings and took off on the audience, describing the time to relax in the production process of a non-renewable resource (and also a renewable resource, but used extensively) that illustrates graphically - and very effectively - the theory that I learned to call 'Hubbert's Peak'. As in the best illustrations of the ecological apocalypse, the audience felt the brividino to see with their own eyes the depletion of resources, and slipped out of breath and heart in my throat on the right side of the slope-Gaussian, time for oil, now for the 'uranium, and then the food, and water, and air. The soul of those who attended was gradually transformed into a fish writhing in agony on the sand burning and dry. No one came to mind that you can do the elegant 'Christian' on the steep slopes of the peak of Hubbert (actually just a friend Swiss watched with a smile of those who are already fully informed and aware), no, all or nearly all , roll down. The parties were interspersed scientific (or maybe they were intervals) from (a) a delicate and painful history of very sweet quasiamore between a science teacher and a violinist in a condominium where the magical things speak for themselves, and everything happens under the auspices of a sage ceramic gecko. Unforgettable dialogue (among other things, starred in a fantastic way) between the professor and a chicken semicongelato he had prepared as his last meal, but the resources are finite and the microwave does not work. The chicken, from high-pitched voice and anxious, he describes his modern martyrdom, ah great goodness of the ancients that farmers could amuse you to chase you, then you zic plated and, you or severing the jugular tac, I pulled the neck and passed through a moment, proud and happy in heaven poultry. Oh no, not now, you hang upside down on a conveyor belt and go!, A first machine tries to chop off the ringleaders but we do not always make it and die in torments while another machine digs with its blades in the horrid sphincter to empty your bowels. Now the chicken is done seriously and accusatory: it is the human race that has to disappear, man is the worm, the malignant growths, cancer the planet. The professor continues his suicide attempt and slows down his heart, but the sweet violinist makes him understand that his heart is not only a pump but the metronome of flesh, blood and life that supports his music, and then ... So. But in the tragic scenario of the end of humanity.
In a recent scientific part of the history of Easter Island. A microcosm lost in the Pacific Ocean, a paradise of biodiversity. Ahiahi - says the young and very nice physical (dressed in black, and concludes his terrifying predictions supported by data and graphs with a bitter 'good luck', and could say to himself 'cracks the astrologer', the problem is that it is far from un astrologo), ahiahi, arrivano gli uomini sull'isola, coloni polinesiani approdati nonsisacome - forse su una specie di Kon Tiki. Guardacaso cominciano a disboscare selvaggiamente per costruire i Moai, le celebri statue, niente alberi niente canoe, niente animali, niente pesca al largo, i poveri coloni succhiano le arselle microscopiche sui loro scogli, si cibano di ratti e poi, gnam, passano all'ossobuco di cadavere umano. Stremati, avvistano un veliero francese all'orizzonte, su una piroga raffazzonata alla bell'e meglio si avvicinano alla nave e chiedono disperati dei Miru, degli alberi. Hanno capito. Noi abitanti del pianeta Terra, grande isola di Pasqua dispersa nell'oceano del sistema solare, capiremo? Chi lo sa. Buona fortuna.
I hear this perspective as a possible human perspectives. I would have wanted as a 'background' to the interesting graphs shown there was a painting by Caravaggio, the Parthenon, Chartres Cathedral or Tiepolo. I wonder if there is an ecological price to pay for being men. If the occurrence of human consciousness does not involve a disharmony with the constitutively infrahuman, such as to even contemplate the destruction. Rapa Nui's trees are destroyed to build the large statues. It seems absurd, crazy, and a step here and you come off the religio potuit Suade malorum. But the great statues were of the Beyond the threshold of the world. More air, water and food, people have a vital need of the Beyond. It leads to imbalance in the over imbalance. It is no price that you build a cathedral, and the Egyptian pyramids are full of blood of slaves. But there is no man without this thirst. Because man is not home here, I mean: in the cosmos. E 'transition, is going away, is already on. Homo viator. He hears and feels that this pre-ground is a brief rest stop. It 's true, is not at all well, and especially does not take account of those who will benefit after him. In this sense, the perspective offered by the extraordinary musicians, singers, actors Margherita authors should be considered carefully.
But I prefer to live very little as Van Gogh, dall'assenzio devoured, without food, home, and ear cut off from the madness, rather than as a fellow vegetarian, healthy, eating organic and pilates which is in a pouch that holds your perfect vacuum. On a global scale what can this mean?
Thank you, friends of yesterday evening.
Leonardo Lenzi
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