A criança olhava para o velho que dançava e parecia dançar para toda a eternidade.
— Avô, porque danças desse modo?
— Sabes, meu pequeno, o homem é como um pião. A sua dignidade, a sua nobreza, o seu equilíbrio, ele não os alcança senão no movimento… O homem faz-se de se desfazer, não o esqueças nunca!
Marc-Alain Ouaknin

Little by little, the day balances, repeats, articulates, and dismembers itself, until a day becomes whole. We become attached to little, to the hollowness of the regulation perpetuated without friction, almost without friction, almost without marks that highlight its imperfect uniformity. Falling or rising, the rhythm comes from movement, making the unapparent focus its oblique line on the ordinary. Perception hesitates in the face of the difficulty of accommodating what it is given. The dice that tend to always fall on the same side keep themselves undecided about the vertex. We have gotten used to placing a rock on the shoe, to unbalance the sterilized monotony of the framework. People with limps, not like Jacob after fighting an angel, but in the absence of an angel that confronts us. Of a rhythm imposed on the arrhythmic posture of someone who limps, the blade that opens the mold wounds the piece, but from that wound harmonics that multiply themselves erupt. Fingers duplicate themselves when we wave our hand at a certain speed, disappearing too quickly, becoming five again too slowly. This is not an optical illusion, but the fragility and a space where the effervescence of the apparition is no longer related to the original to be the matrix of a game that will discover its own rules. The innocence of the game is more serious than the maturity of the method; it thrives off of the possibility of making the most freedom rise from the least variation. There is no game without rules, it would be the unexpected that would disappear along with what is expected. But if what is expected is monotonous, the game discovered is a constant rejuvenation as it is played. Matisse used to say the only game that would live up to life would be one in which the move of a piece would alter all its rules. There is a salutary tripping, often a casualty, an error, that sheds light over something closed in its univocity. Miss understanding is not just a pun or a little joke that dies out after a couple of seconds: the true reverberation of the name comes from the work. Miss understanding is a singular stereophony of all its meanings echoing simultaneously, the delicateness of a comprehension that prefers not to get carried away by what it implies, and the deviation of an incomprehension that allows it to discover another order in the tidy disorder of the everyday. This simultaneous hearing of two or more different senses is what Barthes calls amphibology and from it comes the fruition of understanding. It is a jouissance, something that exceeds comprehension, thus the tender violence of the game is revealed in what is suspended over incomprehension. To trip upon an error, to find an error, to discover an error, is to enter the wondering of adventure: a mutation offered by the possibility of another comprehension, the pleasure of reading, whether a work, a book, or the world, lies in this blooming of unexpected senses.

Ricardo Norte‍