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The rhythm

Modifié le : 2019/08/06

A few weeks ago, math­e­mat­i­cal researchers report­ed­ly dis­cov­ered the frac­tal nature of musi­cal com­po­si­tions. Thus, they were able to iden­ti­fy the math­e­mat­i­cal sig­na­ture of the works of Mozart, Liszt, Vival­di. The cows in the sta­bles are not mis­tak­en, love Mozart a lot for that… Frac­tal is what splits and repeats itself iden­ti­cal­ly to infin­i­ty. You look at a tree, admire its branch­es and under its seem­ing­ly chaot­ic geom­e­try lies a struc­ture that you will prob­a­bly find in the ser­ra­tions of the leaves. The sum is more than all the parts. This frac­tal pecu­liar­i­ty of nat­ur­al phe­nom­e­na is reflect­ed in every­thing, and this dis­cov­ery helped the ani­ma­tors to cre­ate spe­cial effects that are still con­sid­ered mag­i­cal. One only has to look at the car­toons of the last ten years to real­ize the pow­er acquired by the dis­cov­ery of frac­tals. We come to cre­ate the illu­sion of the chaot­ic water of the ocean, the light­ness and shiv­er­ing of the hairs on the skin.

Nature is rhythm, ran­dom struc­ture, almost per­fect oxy­moron. The grain of sand is free, yet it tire­less­ly forms the same type of dunes. Ants come and go, dizzy, and yet, all togeth­er, build bridges, build moun­tains. I would­n’t be sur­prised to learn that, even if at the quan­tum lev­el, the usu­al rules are only dreams, one day we will find a drum roll, a new kind of boson, ener­giz­ing the entire galax­ies of its crazy and explod­ed race. It may be God that we will be able to store on ran­dom hard disks.

Fifty-three years ago, I opened my mouth for the first time to grasp the air avid­ly. If I look like every­one else, I am not like any­one either. My des­tiny is not traced in the sky, its col­or nonethe­less draws each of my gestures.

To know our­selves, real­ize what moti­vates us, achieve our goals, there is behind the mir­rors of our thoughts fly­ing towards all hori­zons a straight axle that directs the carousel.

For fifty-three years, the Sun had returned at dif­fer­ent times and sec­onds to the same “place” as when I was born. We are not mer­ry-go-rounds, but DNA spi­rals that espouse a more sig­nif­i­cant galac­tic rotation.

Because he becomes aware of it, the wise man gov­erns his stars, oth­ers, the igno­rant, suf­fer from them. The Earth rotates in this way, with its inhab­i­tants who, blind, believe that every­thing is writ­ten in the sky. These Bibles are only approx­i­ma­tions, frac­tal truths that move with the tides.

If I help myself, the sky will help me, if the sailor con­sults his maps, the ocean will help him.

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