«É nos pulmões que se morre de amor»
Por isso fumo dois maços de SG gigante por dia,
para viciar a autópsia
Ana Paula Inácio, 2010-2011
para viciar a autópsia
Ana Paula Inácio, 2010-2011
posted by maria
nina, doce nina
When I was fifteen I salvaged a large oval mirror from an abandoned shed and set it against the wall of my room. I'd sit there for hours pressing my hand against the glass, trying desperately to assess who it was that was staring back. For a reference I taped two images to its surface. A still from Funny Face — Audrey Hepburn in black beatnik garb and white socks. Fashionwise, that was tops. And a Blue Period Picasso — a melancholy harlequin — angular, alien, not unlike myself.
It was 1962. A time when roles were rigidly assigned. The boys had Bond and Brando. They beat off to Bardot. The girls had the pale range of Doris Day to Sandra Dee. All through childhood I resisted the role of a confused skirt tagging the hero. Instead, I was searching for someone crossing the gender boundaries, someone both to be and to be with. I never wanted to be Wendy — I was more like Peter Pan. This was confusing stuff.
There were a few bright glimpses, mostly past tense: Jo March, Madame Curie, the brave mistresses of art. And there was always Joan of Arc. She definitely made the mirror with her shorn hair and full soldier attire — the tomboy who talked to God. I studied her face. "Ready to die," it said. I shook my head. "Ready to live," I whispered. For I desired, as Youth does, to be taken by the hand and hurled into the world. But who would do the hurling. And what would I wear?
In 1964 1 graduated from high school, unformed and still uninformed about life. I got a job in a factory. It was a miserable place, and I felt more alien than ever. It was hot there and nonunion, and the piecework was boring. All of the workers were either too young or too uneducated to work anywhere else. We were paid under the minimum wage. The veterans kept the quota down so they could work slow and hang around and gab. I had too much energy for this and got myself into hot water by working too fast. I was demoted to the basement, on my own all day, inspecting pipe.
Dirt pay, dirt treatment, but on Saturday I was free. I'd hop a bus to Philly and walk around in search of some small magic, some character, some shining street, some movie — Bergman, Fellini — some face.
I found it atop a little pile at the Paperback Forum across from the bus depot. Illuminations, by Arthur Rimbaud. The poetry lured, but the face—defiant and restless long before we were blessed with the images of Dylan or the Rolling Stones—obscured everything. This was the face of the future born in nineteenth-century France. And before I headed back over the Walt Whitman bridge, through Camden, back home to the Jersey fields, that face was mine.
Monday, back at work, I took my station checking and cleaning pipe, but I was no longer alone. The face was there too. Me and Rimbaud together in the bowels of the piss factory.
It was my salvation. He was my Rimbaud. And there was the secret pride of having someone I wasn't supposed to have. Far from the TV teenage idols—Frankie, Fabian, even Peter Gunn. Someone who was beautiful, obscure, and wholly mine. Whose words expressed all the noble egoism of adolescence: the pain, the rapture, all the indignities suffered. I examined the title of his book, Illuminations — possessing a special knowledge, supplying us with light — and he became the prince of my mirror.
Some time after, I was greeted with another shot of light. My parents worked nights. Me and my brother and sisters would do our chores, then put on records and dance — Motown and Philly music were great then. We'd attempt to express the inexpressible to the words of Smokey Robinson, who seemed to express it all.
My mom waitressed at a soda fountain in a drugstore. Some nights she'd bring us hoagies and magazines, but one night she brought me a record album. "I found this in the bargain bin," she said. "It looked like something you'd like." Another Side of Bob Dylan. Another phantom friend. Another poet's face.
And this one was alive.
Dylan was somebody to be with, somebody to be. He gave voice to my yearnings. His urgency, his awkwardness, matched my own. I adopted his walk, his Wayfarers, and his tarantula look, with just the right white tab collars and black jacket which he probably adopted from Baudelaire. I borrowed from him as he borrowed from others. I recognized him as one who had searched and suffered himself, who had taken another poet's name. He reflected Guthrie and Ginsberg and a little of us all.
So the liberty cap is passed from hand to hand, and placed, even briefly, upon our heads. This reminded me of a baby-sitter I had when I was a kid. She loved James Dean. She'd even dress like Pier Angeli because that's who he liked. She'd come over in her ponytail and her cardigan draped over the shoulder of her peach shirtwaist. She'd moon over James Dean's picture or talk about him on the telephone. I didn't get it. A girl gushing over a guy she didn't even know.
"What's he give you?" I once asked.
"Freedom," she breathed.
Chimes of freedom. I taped Dylan's picture between Rimbaud and Lotte Lenya. I was beginning to comprehend why we draw from others. We are trapped in our own teenage skins. We long for a way out but lack the right moves, verbs, and curves. So we lift a hair, a gesture, a way of dress. Any means necessary to break out.
Sometimes it soothes, investing some of this wondrous, terrible energy into the profile of a stranger, transforming it all — from acne to ecstasy — and gleaning a little confidence, a little imagined love. It is how the artist creates, how the young man gets through the night, and how the girl gets through her day. It's how we expand ourselves, and extend the perimeters of our mirror.
By 1966 mine needed extending. The surface was papered over — Blonde on Blonde, Brian Jones, Maria Callas, John Coltrane. I could no longer see myself. Even at nineteen I could see the irony of it all. Time to move on.
By the turn of the decade, I had gone through, along with our country, a lifetime of growing pains. Integration, assassination, hallucination, Vietnam — all backed by great spurts of rock 'n' roll. Through it we evolved with new eyes on everything — gender, race, God. Borders were crossed, blurred, obliterated.
I spent my days combing junk heaps for the same orange pants George Harrison wore in Magical Mystery Tour. There was the Hendrix wild-neck poet-gypsy look that washed out the color line. There was just the right black slip to salute Anna Magnani. I chopped my hair like Keith Richards. Through all these happy casualties one could almost forget how hard it was to be a teenager. Imitation is, after all, the sincerest form of flattery.
In New York City in 1970, with my old red Remington on an orange crate, I sat before my wall and began to write. The wall was the New York version of my mirror, with a little added humor. My "hero wall," I jokingly called it: Dylan, John Lennon, Camus, Genet, Hank Williams. . . . . I'd sit and write, grinning up at them, my abstract friends spurring me on.
We go through life. We shed our skins. We become ourselves. Ultimately, we are not seeking others to bow to, but to reinforce our individual natures, to help us suffer our own choices, to guide us on our own particular journeys.
Sitting here today, at my writing desk in Detroit, I look up to the faded image of Rimbaud flanked by the Dalai Lama smiling and Audrey Hepburn in Somalia. I no longer have the need for angels — they have all been internalized. But old habits die hard.
I considered this recently, while watching Bob Dylan on PBS. There was an anniversary special in his honor and he was joined by many friends. But the most wonderful moment was still, as it always was, when he took the stage alone, looking a bit like Humphrey Bogart in the opening shots of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. And as he sang, I felt all the emotions of all the years crystallize into one single revelation.
What had I derived from him and others like him, besides the ability to choose just the right dark glasses?
The ability to fend for myself.
Patti Smith on the poets and pop stars who rescued her from teenage hell
isto a propósito da nina, doce nina, que me acompanha em vésperas de frequências. se não fosses tu nina, doce nina
It was 1962. A time when roles were rigidly assigned. The boys had Bond and Brando. They beat off to Bardot. The girls had the pale range of Doris Day to Sandra Dee. All through childhood I resisted the role of a confused skirt tagging the hero. Instead, I was searching for someone crossing the gender boundaries, someone both to be and to be with. I never wanted to be Wendy — I was more like Peter Pan. This was confusing stuff.
There were a few bright glimpses, mostly past tense: Jo March, Madame Curie, the brave mistresses of art. And there was always Joan of Arc. She definitely made the mirror with her shorn hair and full soldier attire — the tomboy who talked to God. I studied her face. "Ready to die," it said. I shook my head. "Ready to live," I whispered. For I desired, as Youth does, to be taken by the hand and hurled into the world. But who would do the hurling. And what would I wear?
In 1964 1 graduated from high school, unformed and still uninformed about life. I got a job in a factory. It was a miserable place, and I felt more alien than ever. It was hot there and nonunion, and the piecework was boring. All of the workers were either too young or too uneducated to work anywhere else. We were paid under the minimum wage. The veterans kept the quota down so they could work slow and hang around and gab. I had too much energy for this and got myself into hot water by working too fast. I was demoted to the basement, on my own all day, inspecting pipe.
Dirt pay, dirt treatment, but on Saturday I was free. I'd hop a bus to Philly and walk around in search of some small magic, some character, some shining street, some movie — Bergman, Fellini — some face.
I found it atop a little pile at the Paperback Forum across from the bus depot. Illuminations, by Arthur Rimbaud. The poetry lured, but the face—defiant and restless long before we were blessed with the images of Dylan or the Rolling Stones—obscured everything. This was the face of the future born in nineteenth-century France. And before I headed back over the Walt Whitman bridge, through Camden, back home to the Jersey fields, that face was mine.
Monday, back at work, I took my station checking and cleaning pipe, but I was no longer alone. The face was there too. Me and Rimbaud together in the bowels of the piss factory.
It was my salvation. He was my Rimbaud. And there was the secret pride of having someone I wasn't supposed to have. Far from the TV teenage idols—Frankie, Fabian, even Peter Gunn. Someone who was beautiful, obscure, and wholly mine. Whose words expressed all the noble egoism of adolescence: the pain, the rapture, all the indignities suffered. I examined the title of his book, Illuminations — possessing a special knowledge, supplying us with light — and he became the prince of my mirror.
Some time after, I was greeted with another shot of light. My parents worked nights. Me and my brother and sisters would do our chores, then put on records and dance — Motown and Philly music were great then. We'd attempt to express the inexpressible to the words of Smokey Robinson, who seemed to express it all.
My mom waitressed at a soda fountain in a drugstore. Some nights she'd bring us hoagies and magazines, but one night she brought me a record album. "I found this in the bargain bin," she said. "It looked like something you'd like." Another Side of Bob Dylan. Another phantom friend. Another poet's face.
And this one was alive.
Dylan was somebody to be with, somebody to be. He gave voice to my yearnings. His urgency, his awkwardness, matched my own. I adopted his walk, his Wayfarers, and his tarantula look, with just the right white tab collars and black jacket which he probably adopted from Baudelaire. I borrowed from him as he borrowed from others. I recognized him as one who had searched and suffered himself, who had taken another poet's name. He reflected Guthrie and Ginsberg and a little of us all.
So the liberty cap is passed from hand to hand, and placed, even briefly, upon our heads. This reminded me of a baby-sitter I had when I was a kid. She loved James Dean. She'd even dress like Pier Angeli because that's who he liked. She'd come over in her ponytail and her cardigan draped over the shoulder of her peach shirtwaist. She'd moon over James Dean's picture or talk about him on the telephone. I didn't get it. A girl gushing over a guy she didn't even know.
"What's he give you?" I once asked.
"Freedom," she breathed.
Chimes of freedom. I taped Dylan's picture between Rimbaud and Lotte Lenya. I was beginning to comprehend why we draw from others. We are trapped in our own teenage skins. We long for a way out but lack the right moves, verbs, and curves. So we lift a hair, a gesture, a way of dress. Any means necessary to break out.
Sometimes it soothes, investing some of this wondrous, terrible energy into the profile of a stranger, transforming it all — from acne to ecstasy — and gleaning a little confidence, a little imagined love. It is how the artist creates, how the young man gets through the night, and how the girl gets through her day. It's how we expand ourselves, and extend the perimeters of our mirror.
By 1966 mine needed extending. The surface was papered over — Blonde on Blonde, Brian Jones, Maria Callas, John Coltrane. I could no longer see myself. Even at nineteen I could see the irony of it all. Time to move on.
By the turn of the decade, I had gone through, along with our country, a lifetime of growing pains. Integration, assassination, hallucination, Vietnam — all backed by great spurts of rock 'n' roll. Through it we evolved with new eyes on everything — gender, race, God. Borders were crossed, blurred, obliterated.
I spent my days combing junk heaps for the same orange pants George Harrison wore in Magical Mystery Tour. There was the Hendrix wild-neck poet-gypsy look that washed out the color line. There was just the right black slip to salute Anna Magnani. I chopped my hair like Keith Richards. Through all these happy casualties one could almost forget how hard it was to be a teenager. Imitation is, after all, the sincerest form of flattery.
In New York City in 1970, with my old red Remington on an orange crate, I sat before my wall and began to write. The wall was the New York version of my mirror, with a little added humor. My "hero wall," I jokingly called it: Dylan, John Lennon, Camus, Genet, Hank Williams. . . . . I'd sit and write, grinning up at them, my abstract friends spurring me on.
We go through life. We shed our skins. We become ourselves. Ultimately, we are not seeking others to bow to, but to reinforce our individual natures, to help us suffer our own choices, to guide us on our own particular journeys.
Sitting here today, at my writing desk in Detroit, I look up to the faded image of Rimbaud flanked by the Dalai Lama smiling and Audrey Hepburn in Somalia. I no longer have the need for angels — they have all been internalized. But old habits die hard.
I considered this recently, while watching Bob Dylan on PBS. There was an anniversary special in his honor and he was joined by many friends. But the most wonderful moment was still, as it always was, when he took the stage alone, looking a bit like Humphrey Bogart in the opening shots of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. And as he sang, I felt all the emotions of all the years crystallize into one single revelation.
What had I derived from him and others like him, besides the ability to choose just the right dark glasses?
The ability to fend for myself.
Patti Smith on the poets and pop stars who rescued her from teenage hell
isto a propósito da nina, doce nina, que me acompanha em vésperas de frequências. se não fosses tu nina, doce nina
posted by maria
a finger, two dots, then me
Lying together in the park on Seventh,
our backs smoosh grass and I say
I will love you till I become a child again,
when feeding me and bathing me is no longer romantic,
but rather necessary.
I will love you till there is no till.
Till I die.
And when that electroencephalogram shuts down, baby
that’s when the real lovin’ kicks in.
Forgive me for sounding selfish
but I won’t be able to wait under the earth for you
(albeit a romantic thought for groundhogs,
gophers and the gooey worms).
I will not be able to wait for you…
but I will meet up with you
and here’s where you will find me:
get a pen–
Hold your finger up
(two fingers if your hands are frail by now)
and count two stars directly to the left
of the North American moon.
You will find me there.
You will find me darting behind amazing quasars
Behind flirtatious winks
of bright and blasting boom stars!
Sometimes charging so far into space
the darkness goes blue.
I will be there chasing sound waves
riding them like two-dollar pony ride horses
that have finally broken free and wild.
I will be facing backwards, lying sideways,
no hands, sidesaddle, sometimes standing
sometimes screaming zip zang zowie!
My God, it’s good to be back in space… Where is everybody?
You will recognize my voice.
You will see the flash of a fire trail
burning off the back of me
burning like a gasoline comet kerosene sapphire.
This is my voice.
Don’t look for my body or a ghost.
I’ll resemble more a pilot light than a man now.
I’m sure some will see
this cobalt star white light from earth
and cast me a wish like a wonder bomb.
And I’ll think “Hmmph. people still do that?”
I’m sure I’ll take the light wonder bombs
to the point in the universe
where sound does end.
The back porch of God’s summer home.
It’s so quiet here, you float.
It feels the way cotton candy tastes.
I say to him… why do I call you God?
He says ‘Because Grand Poobah sounds ridiculous.’
(Who knew he was so witty?)
I ask him ‘Lord, so many poets have tried to nail it and missed, what is holy?’
At that moment,
the planets begin to spin and awaken
and large movie screens appear on Mars, Saturn and Venus
each bearing images I have witnessed
and over each and every clip flashes the word holy.
armadillos–holy
magic tricks–holy
cows’ tongues–holy
snowballs upside the head–holy
clumsy first kisses–holy
sneaking into movies–holy
your mother teaching you to slow dance
the fear returning
the fear overcome–holy
eating top ramen on upside-down frisbees
cause it was either plates or more beer–holy
drunk beach cruiser nights–holy
the $5.00 you made in vegas
and the $450.00 you lost–holy
the last time you were nervous holding hands–holy
feeling God at a pool hall but not church–holy
sleeping during your uncle’s memorized dinner prayer–holy
losing your watch in the waves and all that signifies–holy
the day you got to really speak to your father cause the television broke–holy
the day your grandmother told you something meaningful
cause she was dying–holy
the medicine
the hope
the blood
the fear
the trust
the crush
the work
the loss
the love
the test
the birth
the end
the finale
the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
in the rebuilt machinery of our hearts
So love, you should know what to look for
and exactly where to go…
Take your time and don’t worry about getting lost.
You’ll find me.
Up there, a finger and two dots away.
If you’re wondering if I’ll still be able to hold you
…I honestly don’t know
But I do know that I could still fall for
a swish of light that comes barreling
and cascading towards me.
It will resemble your sweet definite hands.
The universe will bend.
The planets will bow.
And I will say “Oh, there you are. I been waitin’ for ya. Now we can go.”
And the two pilot lights go zoooooooom
into the black construction paper night
as somewhere else
two other lovers lie down on their backs and say
“What the hell was that?”
Derrick Brown
quando eu morrer vai ser um belo dia meu amor vais ver vai ser tão calmo vai ser lindo de morrer (já cantava o outro)
our backs smoosh grass and I say
I will love you till I become a child again,
when feeding me and bathing me is no longer romantic,
but rather necessary.
I will love you till there is no till.
Till I die.
And when that electroencephalogram shuts down, baby
that’s when the real lovin’ kicks in.
Forgive me for sounding selfish
but I won’t be able to wait under the earth for you
(albeit a romantic thought for groundhogs,
gophers and the gooey worms).
I will not be able to wait for you…
but I will meet up with you
and here’s where you will find me:
get a pen–
Hold your finger up
(two fingers if your hands are frail by now)
and count two stars directly to the left
of the North American moon.
You will find me there.
You will find me darting behind amazing quasars
Behind flirtatious winks
of bright and blasting boom stars!
Sometimes charging so far into space
the darkness goes blue.
I will be there chasing sound waves
riding them like two-dollar pony ride horses
that have finally broken free and wild.
I will be facing backwards, lying sideways,
no hands, sidesaddle, sometimes standing
sometimes screaming zip zang zowie!
My God, it’s good to be back in space… Where is everybody?
You will recognize my voice.
You will see the flash of a fire trail
burning off the back of me
burning like a gasoline comet kerosene sapphire.
This is my voice.
Don’t look for my body or a ghost.
I’ll resemble more a pilot light than a man now.
I’m sure some will see
this cobalt star white light from earth
and cast me a wish like a wonder bomb.
And I’ll think “Hmmph. people still do that?”
I’m sure I’ll take the light wonder bombs
to the point in the universe
where sound does end.
The back porch of God’s summer home.
It’s so quiet here, you float.
It feels the way cotton candy tastes.
I say to him… why do I call you God?
He says ‘Because Grand Poobah sounds ridiculous.’
(Who knew he was so witty?)
I ask him ‘Lord, so many poets have tried to nail it and missed, what is holy?’
At that moment,
the planets begin to spin and awaken
and large movie screens appear on Mars, Saturn and Venus
each bearing images I have witnessed
and over each and every clip flashes the word holy.
armadillos–holy
magic tricks–holy
cows’ tongues–holy
snowballs upside the head–holy
clumsy first kisses–holy
sneaking into movies–holy
your mother teaching you to slow dance
the fear returning
the fear overcome–holy
eating top ramen on upside-down frisbees
cause it was either plates or more beer–holy
drunk beach cruiser nights–holy
the $5.00 you made in vegas
and the $450.00 you lost–holy
the last time you were nervous holding hands–holy
feeling God at a pool hall but not church–holy
sleeping during your uncle’s memorized dinner prayer–holy
losing your watch in the waves and all that signifies–holy
the day you got to really speak to your father cause the television broke–holy
the day your grandmother told you something meaningful
cause she was dying–holy
the medicine
the hope
the blood
the fear
the trust
the crush
the work
the loss
the love
the test
the birth
the end
the finale
the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
the design
in the stars
is the same
in our hearts
in the rebuilt machinery of our hearts
So love, you should know what to look for
and exactly where to go…
Take your time and don’t worry about getting lost.
You’ll find me.
Up there, a finger and two dots away.
If you’re wondering if I’ll still be able to hold you
…I honestly don’t know
But I do know that I could still fall for
a swish of light that comes barreling
and cascading towards me.
It will resemble your sweet definite hands.
The universe will bend.
The planets will bow.
And I will say “Oh, there you are. I been waitin’ for ya. Now we can go.”
And the two pilot lights go zoooooooom
into the black construction paper night
as somewhere else
two other lovers lie down on their backs and say
“What the hell was that?”
Derrick Brown
quando eu morrer vai ser um belo dia meu amor vais ver vai ser tão calmo vai ser lindo de morrer (já cantava o outro)
posted by maria
the night
I love the night with passion. I love it the way you love your country, or your mistress, with an instinctive love, a deep love, an invincible love. I love it with all my senses, with my eyes that see it, with my nostrils that breathe it, with my ears that hear the silence of it, with my whole flesh, caressed by its shadows. Larks sing in the sun, in the blue air, the warm air, the light air of clear mornings. But the owl takes refuge in the night, a black blotch that crosses the black space, and, with joy, intoxicated with the vast blackness, he lets out his cry, vibrant and sinister.
The day tires me out and bores me. It is brutal and noisy. I get up with difficulty, I get dressed with weariness, I go out with regret, and each step, each movement, each gesture, each word, each thought exhausts me as though I were lifting a crushing burden.
But when the sun goes down, a joy swirls about me, a joy overruns my entire body. I wake up, I come to life. With each moment that darkness advances, I feel completely different, younger, stronger, more alert, happier. I watch it get thicker, the vast, gentle darkness that falls from the sky. It engulfs the city like an unstoppable, impenetrable flood, it covers up, wears away and destroys colors, shapes, and enfolds the homes, monuments and living things with its imperceptible touch.
At that point, I have the urge to shout for joy like a screech owl, to run across the rooftops like a cat. And an impetuous, invincible desire to love lights up inside my veins.
I go, I walk, now in the darkened suburbs, now in the woods near Paris, where I hear my brothers and sisters, the beasts and their predators, lurking about.
Anything you love too violently always ends up killing you. But how can I explain what happened to me? How can I even make you understand what I might tell you? I do not know, I do not know anymore. I only know what it is. Here goes:
Yesterday, then - was it yesterday? - yes, without a doubt, at least it wasn't any earlier, another day, another month, another year, - I do not know. But it must be yesterday, since another day did not break, since the sun did not reappear. But since what time has this night continued? Since what time? ... Who will tell me? Who can know it, ever?
And so, yesterday, I went out as I do every evening, after my dinner. It was very beautiful outside, very gentle, very warm. Making my way down toward the boulevards, above my head I watched that black river, loaded with stars, cut into pieces in the sky by the rooftops along the street which twisted this stream of heavenly lights and made it ebb and flow like a genuine river.
Everything was distinct in the buoyant air, from the planets down to the gaslights. So great was the fiery brilliance up above and in the town that the shadows themselves took on a glow. Gleaming nights are more joyous than long, sunny days.
On the boulevard the cafés were flickering. People laughed, passed by, ordered drinks. I went inside the theater for a few moments. Which theater? I do not know anymore. The light was so bright inside, it made me unhappy, and I went back out with my spirits depressed by that shock of brutal lighting bouncing off the gilt edges of the balcony, by the artificial glitter of the enormous luster of crystal, by the wall of lights along the ramp, by the gloom of this false, garish clarity. I made it to the Champs-Elysées, where the music cafés seemed like roaring fireplaces amid the foliage. The chestnut trees looked painted, smeared with yellow light, like phosphorescent trees. And just like pale, shining moons, like lunar eggs fallen from the sky, like vibrant, monster pearls with their sea-shell clarity, mysterious and regal, the electric glass fixtures made the gas lines pale by comparison, the conduits of dirty gas as well as the garlands of colored glass. I stopped under the Arch of Triumph to look at the avenue, the long, admirable, starry avenue, going to the heart of Paris between two lines of flame, and the stars! The stars up there, the unknown stars, scattered only by chance around the deep void, where they take on peculiar shapes, which fill us with so much reverie, which provoke us to dream.
I entered the Bois de Boulogne and stayed there a long while, very long. Then I was seized by a singular chill, an unforeseen and powerful emotion, an epiphany of thoughts which bordered on madness.
I walked around a long time, a very long time. Then I came back.
What time was it when I passed back under the Arch of Triumph? I do not know. The city had fallen asleep, and clouds, large, black clouds slowly spread out over the sky.
For the first time I felt that something weird was going to happen, something new. The weather seemed to be turning cold, the air to be thickening; it seemed that the night, my well-beloved night, was starting to weigh upon my heart. The avenue was deserted now. All alone, two patrolmen were walking near the taxi station, and on the pavement barely illuminated by the gas valves which seemed to be dying, a line of vegetable trucks was headed for Halles. They went slowly, loaded with carrots, turnips and cabbage. Their drivers were sleeping, unseen, and the horses all walked at the same pace, following the vehicle ahead of them, noiseless, upon the wooden pavement. Before each light along the sidewalk, the carrots flashed in their redness, the turnips flashed in their whiteness, and the cabbages flashed in their greenness. And they passed by, one after the other, those vehicles, red with the red of fire, white with the white of silver and green with the green of emeralds. I followed them, then I turned onto Royale Street and came back to the boulevards. Nobody else, no more lighted cafés, only a few stragglers in a hurry. I had never before seen Paris so dead, so deserted. I pulled out my watch. It was two o'clock.
Some force was driving me, a need to walk. So I went up to the Bastille. Up there I realized that I had never seen a night so dark, since I could not even make out the Column of July, whose wizardry wrought in gold was lost in the impenetrable darkness. A vault of cloud, as thick as the universe, had drowned the stars, and appeared to be sinking to earth to demolish it.
I came back. There was not a soul around me. On the Plaza du Château-d'eau, however, a drunk nearly ran into me, then he vanished. For a while I heard his uneven and reverberating steps. I walked. At the heights of Montmartre a carriage passed by, descending towards the Seine. I called out to it. The coachman did not answer. A woman was begging near Drouot Street: "Mister, please listen..." I quickened my pace to avoid her outstretched hand. Then, nothing else. In front of the Vaudeville, a rag man was rummaging around the gutter. His little lantern floated on ground level. I asked him, "What time is it, my good man?"
He growled, "How should I know? I have no watch."
Then all of a sudden I noticed that the gaslights were out. I know that they get turned off very early, before daybreak at this time of year, as an economic measure, but the day was still far off, so far from appearing!
"Let's go, to Halles," I thought to myself, "there at least I will find some sign of life."
I started my trek, but I wasn't even able to see which way I should turn. I advanced slowly, as if in the woods, recognizing the streets by counting them.
In front of the Crédit Lyonnais, a dog growled. I turned onto Grammont Street and I got lost. I wandered a bit, then I recognized the Stock Exchange by the iron grills which surround it. All of Paris was asleep, in a deep, frightening sleep. In the distance, however, a carriage rolled along, a lone carriage, perhaps the very one which had passed in front of me just before. I sought to join up with it, walking towards the noise of its wheels, across the solitary streets, the black streets, black, black like death.
I got lost again. Where was I? How stupid to extinguish the gas this early! Not one passerby, not one straggler, not one beggar, no caterwauling of cats on the make. Nothing.
So where were the street patrols? I said to myself, "I am going to yell, then they will come." I yelled. No one responded. I called out more loudly. My voice fled away, without an echo, weak, muted, crushed by the night, by this impenetrable night.
I shouted, "Help! Help! Help!"
To my desperate call there was still no answer. What time was it now? I pulled out my watch, but I didn't have any matches. I heard the light tick-tock of the little mechanism with an uncanny, bizarre joy. It seemed to be alive. I was less alone. What a mystery! I set to walking again, like a blind man, and, feeling the walls with my walking stick, I continually kept my eyes trained on the sky, hoping that day would come at last. But the space above was black, completely black, more deeply black than the city.
What time could it be now? I was walking, it seemed, since forever, because my legs were buckling under me, my lungs were gasping, and I was suffering horribly from hunger.
I decided to ring at the first garage door I came to. I pulled on the copper ringer, and the bell rang inside the sonorous house; it rang strangely, as if its lively noise were the only living thing in this house.
I waited, nobody answered. Nobody opened the door. I started to ring again, I kept waiting, - nothing!
I was scared! I ran to the next residence, and twenty times in a row I made the bell ring inside the dark hallway where the concierge must have been sleeping. But he did not wake up, - and I walked on further, pulling or pressing with all my strength the rings or buttons, striking with my feet, my stick and my hands the doors which were stubbornly closed to me.
And all of a sudden, I realized that I was arriving in Halles. Halles was deserted, without a sound, without a movement, without a car, without a man, without a bundle of vegetables or flowers. - It was empty, motionless, abandoned, dead!
I was overcome by fear, - horrible. What was happening? Oh, my God! What was happening?
I left. But the time? The time? Who will tell me the time? There was no clock chiming in the bell towers or monuments. I thought, "I am going to open up the glass on my watch and touch the needle with my fingers." I pulled out my watch... it was not ticking anymore, it had stopped. Nothing more, nothing more, nothing more astir in the city, not a glimmer, not a rustle of sound in the air. Nothing! Nothing more! Not even the distant roll of the carriage, - nothing more!
I was at the docks, and a glacial chill rose from the river. Was the Seine still flowing?
I wanted to know. I found the steps and I walked down... I did not hear the current bubble beneath the arches of the bridge... More walking... then some sand... some silt... then the water... I wet my arms... the water ran... it ran... cold... cold... cold... nearly frozen... nearly solid... nearly dead.
And I was quite aware that I would never have the strength to get back out... that I was going to die there... me also, from hunger - from exhaustion - and from cold.
Guy de Maupassant, Short Stories
olhem, não sei, mas se não é por ele que gosto tanto da noite, não sei porque é
The day tires me out and bores me. It is brutal and noisy. I get up with difficulty, I get dressed with weariness, I go out with regret, and each step, each movement, each gesture, each word, each thought exhausts me as though I were lifting a crushing burden.
But when the sun goes down, a joy swirls about me, a joy overruns my entire body. I wake up, I come to life. With each moment that darkness advances, I feel completely different, younger, stronger, more alert, happier. I watch it get thicker, the vast, gentle darkness that falls from the sky. It engulfs the city like an unstoppable, impenetrable flood, it covers up, wears away and destroys colors, shapes, and enfolds the homes, monuments and living things with its imperceptible touch.
At that point, I have the urge to shout for joy like a screech owl, to run across the rooftops like a cat. And an impetuous, invincible desire to love lights up inside my veins.
I go, I walk, now in the darkened suburbs, now in the woods near Paris, where I hear my brothers and sisters, the beasts and their predators, lurking about.
Anything you love too violently always ends up killing you. But how can I explain what happened to me? How can I even make you understand what I might tell you? I do not know, I do not know anymore. I only know what it is. Here goes:
Yesterday, then - was it yesterday? - yes, without a doubt, at least it wasn't any earlier, another day, another month, another year, - I do not know. But it must be yesterday, since another day did not break, since the sun did not reappear. But since what time has this night continued? Since what time? ... Who will tell me? Who can know it, ever?
And so, yesterday, I went out as I do every evening, after my dinner. It was very beautiful outside, very gentle, very warm. Making my way down toward the boulevards, above my head I watched that black river, loaded with stars, cut into pieces in the sky by the rooftops along the street which twisted this stream of heavenly lights and made it ebb and flow like a genuine river.
Everything was distinct in the buoyant air, from the planets down to the gaslights. So great was the fiery brilliance up above and in the town that the shadows themselves took on a glow. Gleaming nights are more joyous than long, sunny days.
On the boulevard the cafés were flickering. People laughed, passed by, ordered drinks. I went inside the theater for a few moments. Which theater? I do not know anymore. The light was so bright inside, it made me unhappy, and I went back out with my spirits depressed by that shock of brutal lighting bouncing off the gilt edges of the balcony, by the artificial glitter of the enormous luster of crystal, by the wall of lights along the ramp, by the gloom of this false, garish clarity. I made it to the Champs-Elysées, where the music cafés seemed like roaring fireplaces amid the foliage. The chestnut trees looked painted, smeared with yellow light, like phosphorescent trees. And just like pale, shining moons, like lunar eggs fallen from the sky, like vibrant, monster pearls with their sea-shell clarity, mysterious and regal, the electric glass fixtures made the gas lines pale by comparison, the conduits of dirty gas as well as the garlands of colored glass. I stopped under the Arch of Triumph to look at the avenue, the long, admirable, starry avenue, going to the heart of Paris between two lines of flame, and the stars! The stars up there, the unknown stars, scattered only by chance around the deep void, where they take on peculiar shapes, which fill us with so much reverie, which provoke us to dream.
I entered the Bois de Boulogne and stayed there a long while, very long. Then I was seized by a singular chill, an unforeseen and powerful emotion, an epiphany of thoughts which bordered on madness.
I walked around a long time, a very long time. Then I came back.
What time was it when I passed back under the Arch of Triumph? I do not know. The city had fallen asleep, and clouds, large, black clouds slowly spread out over the sky.
For the first time I felt that something weird was going to happen, something new. The weather seemed to be turning cold, the air to be thickening; it seemed that the night, my well-beloved night, was starting to weigh upon my heart. The avenue was deserted now. All alone, two patrolmen were walking near the taxi station, and on the pavement barely illuminated by the gas valves which seemed to be dying, a line of vegetable trucks was headed for Halles. They went slowly, loaded with carrots, turnips and cabbage. Their drivers were sleeping, unseen, and the horses all walked at the same pace, following the vehicle ahead of them, noiseless, upon the wooden pavement. Before each light along the sidewalk, the carrots flashed in their redness, the turnips flashed in their whiteness, and the cabbages flashed in their greenness. And they passed by, one after the other, those vehicles, red with the red of fire, white with the white of silver and green with the green of emeralds. I followed them, then I turned onto Royale Street and came back to the boulevards. Nobody else, no more lighted cafés, only a few stragglers in a hurry. I had never before seen Paris so dead, so deserted. I pulled out my watch. It was two o'clock.
Some force was driving me, a need to walk. So I went up to the Bastille. Up there I realized that I had never seen a night so dark, since I could not even make out the Column of July, whose wizardry wrought in gold was lost in the impenetrable darkness. A vault of cloud, as thick as the universe, had drowned the stars, and appeared to be sinking to earth to demolish it.
I came back. There was not a soul around me. On the Plaza du Château-d'eau, however, a drunk nearly ran into me, then he vanished. For a while I heard his uneven and reverberating steps. I walked. At the heights of Montmartre a carriage passed by, descending towards the Seine. I called out to it. The coachman did not answer. A woman was begging near Drouot Street: "Mister, please listen..." I quickened my pace to avoid her outstretched hand. Then, nothing else. In front of the Vaudeville, a rag man was rummaging around the gutter. His little lantern floated on ground level. I asked him, "What time is it, my good man?"
He growled, "How should I know? I have no watch."
Then all of a sudden I noticed that the gaslights were out. I know that they get turned off very early, before daybreak at this time of year, as an economic measure, but the day was still far off, so far from appearing!
"Let's go, to Halles," I thought to myself, "there at least I will find some sign of life."
I started my trek, but I wasn't even able to see which way I should turn. I advanced slowly, as if in the woods, recognizing the streets by counting them.
In front of the Crédit Lyonnais, a dog growled. I turned onto Grammont Street and I got lost. I wandered a bit, then I recognized the Stock Exchange by the iron grills which surround it. All of Paris was asleep, in a deep, frightening sleep. In the distance, however, a carriage rolled along, a lone carriage, perhaps the very one which had passed in front of me just before. I sought to join up with it, walking towards the noise of its wheels, across the solitary streets, the black streets, black, black like death.
I got lost again. Where was I? How stupid to extinguish the gas this early! Not one passerby, not one straggler, not one beggar, no caterwauling of cats on the make. Nothing.
So where were the street patrols? I said to myself, "I am going to yell, then they will come." I yelled. No one responded. I called out more loudly. My voice fled away, without an echo, weak, muted, crushed by the night, by this impenetrable night.
I shouted, "Help! Help! Help!"
To my desperate call there was still no answer. What time was it now? I pulled out my watch, but I didn't have any matches. I heard the light tick-tock of the little mechanism with an uncanny, bizarre joy. It seemed to be alive. I was less alone. What a mystery! I set to walking again, like a blind man, and, feeling the walls with my walking stick, I continually kept my eyes trained on the sky, hoping that day would come at last. But the space above was black, completely black, more deeply black than the city.
What time could it be now? I was walking, it seemed, since forever, because my legs were buckling under me, my lungs were gasping, and I was suffering horribly from hunger.
I decided to ring at the first garage door I came to. I pulled on the copper ringer, and the bell rang inside the sonorous house; it rang strangely, as if its lively noise were the only living thing in this house.
I waited, nobody answered. Nobody opened the door. I started to ring again, I kept waiting, - nothing!
I was scared! I ran to the next residence, and twenty times in a row I made the bell ring inside the dark hallway where the concierge must have been sleeping. But he did not wake up, - and I walked on further, pulling or pressing with all my strength the rings or buttons, striking with my feet, my stick and my hands the doors which were stubbornly closed to me.
And all of a sudden, I realized that I was arriving in Halles. Halles was deserted, without a sound, without a movement, without a car, without a man, without a bundle of vegetables or flowers. - It was empty, motionless, abandoned, dead!
I was overcome by fear, - horrible. What was happening? Oh, my God! What was happening?
I left. But the time? The time? Who will tell me the time? There was no clock chiming in the bell towers or monuments. I thought, "I am going to open up the glass on my watch and touch the needle with my fingers." I pulled out my watch... it was not ticking anymore, it had stopped. Nothing more, nothing more, nothing more astir in the city, not a glimmer, not a rustle of sound in the air. Nothing! Nothing more! Not even the distant roll of the carriage, - nothing more!
I was at the docks, and a glacial chill rose from the river. Was the Seine still flowing?
I wanted to know. I found the steps and I walked down... I did not hear the current bubble beneath the arches of the bridge... More walking... then some sand... some silt... then the water... I wet my arms... the water ran... it ran... cold... cold... cold... nearly frozen... nearly solid... nearly dead.
And I was quite aware that I would never have the strength to get back out... that I was going to die there... me also, from hunger - from exhaustion - and from cold.
Guy de Maupassant, Short Stories
olhem, não sei, mas se não é por ele que gosto tanto da noite, não sei porque é
posted by maria
rosas e arame
Quando já não pudermos mais chorar e as palavras forem pequeninos suplícios e olhando para trás virmos apenas homens desmaiados, então alguém saltará para o passeio, com o rosto já belo, já espontâneo e livre, e uma canção nascida de nós ambos, do mais fundo de nós, a exaltar-nos!
Tu sabes se te quero e se fomos os dois abandonados, abandonados para uma bandeira, para um riso que sangre, para um salto no escuro, abandonados pelos lúgubres deuses, pelo filme que corre e desaparece, pela nota de vinte e um pedais, pela mobília de duas cadeiras e uma cama feita para morrer de nojo. Minha criança a quem já só falta cuspir e enviar corpo e bens para a barricada, meu igual, tu segues-me; tu sabes que o caminho é insuportavelmente puro e nosso, é um duende gritando no telhado as ervas misteriosas, é um rapaz crescendo ao longo dos teus braços, é um lugar para sempre solene, para sempre temido! E o Rossio é uma praça para fazer chorar. Salvé, ó arquitectos! Mas choremos tanto que será um dilúvio. Automóveis-dilúvio. Sobretudos-dilúvio. Soldadinhos-dilúvio. E quando essa água morna inundar tudo, então, ó arquitectos, trabalhai de novo, mas com igual requinte e igual vontade: vinde trazer-nos rosas e arame, homens e arame, rosas e arame.
Mário Cesariny
coisas bonitas que até dão gosto chorar
Tu sabes se te quero e se fomos os dois abandonados, abandonados para uma bandeira, para um riso que sangre, para um salto no escuro, abandonados pelos lúgubres deuses, pelo filme que corre e desaparece, pela nota de vinte e um pedais, pela mobília de duas cadeiras e uma cama feita para morrer de nojo. Minha criança a quem já só falta cuspir e enviar corpo e bens para a barricada, meu igual, tu segues-me; tu sabes que o caminho é insuportavelmente puro e nosso, é um duende gritando no telhado as ervas misteriosas, é um rapaz crescendo ao longo dos teus braços, é um lugar para sempre solene, para sempre temido! E o Rossio é uma praça para fazer chorar. Salvé, ó arquitectos! Mas choremos tanto que será um dilúvio. Automóveis-dilúvio. Sobretudos-dilúvio. Soldadinhos-dilúvio. E quando essa água morna inundar tudo, então, ó arquitectos, trabalhai de novo, mas com igual requinte e igual vontade: vinde trazer-nos rosas e arame, homens e arame, rosas e arame.
Mário Cesariny
coisas bonitas que até dão gosto chorar
posted by maria
lust - let's raise our glasses
A reply to those dishonest journalists who twist phrases to make the Idea seem ridiculous;
to those women who only think what I have dared to say;
to those for whom Lust is still nothing but a sin;
to all those who in Lust can only see Vice, just as in Pride they see only vanity.
Lust, when viewed without moral preconceptions and as an essential part of life’s dynamism, is a force.
Lust is not, any more than pride, a mortal sin for the race that is strong. Lust, like pride, is a virtue that urges one on, a powerful source of energy.
Lust is the expression of a being projected beyond itself. It is the painful joy of wounded flesh, the joyous pain of a flowering. And whatever secrets unite these beings, it is a union of flesh. It is the sensory and sensual synthesis that leads to the greatest liberation of spirit. It is the communion of a particle of humanity with all the sensuality of the earth.
Lust is the quest of the flesh for the unknown, just as Celebration is the spirit’s quest for the unknown. Lust is the act of creating, it is Creation.
Flesh creates in the way that the spirit creates. In the eyes of the Universe their creation is equal. One is not superior to the other and creation of the spirit depends on that of the flesh.
We possess body and spirit. To curb one and develop the other shows weakness and is wrong. A strong man must realize his full carnal and spiritual potentiality. The satisfaction of their lust is the conquerors’ due. After a battle in which men have died, it is normal for the victors, proven in war, to turn to rape in the conquered land, so that life may be re-created.
When they have fought their battles, soldiers seek sensual pleasures, in which their constantly battling energies can be unwound and renewed. The modern hero, the hero in any field, experiences the same desire and the same pleasure. The artist, that great universal medium, has the same need. And the exaltation of the initiates of those religions still sufficiently new to contain a tempting element of the unknown, is no more than sensuality diverted spiritually towards a sacred female image.
Art and war are the great manifestations of sensuality; lust is their flower. A people exclusively spiritual or a people exclusively carnal would be condemned to the same decadence—sterility.
Lust excites energy and releases strength. Pitilessly it drove primitive man to victory, for the pride of bearing back a woman the spoils of the defeated. Today it drives the great men of business who run the banks, the press and international trade to increase their wealth by creating centers, harnessing energies and exalting the crowds, to worship and glorify with it the object of their lust. These men, tired but strong, find time for lust, the principal motive force of their action and of the reactions caused by their actions affecting multitudes and worlds.
Even among the new peoples where sensuality has not yet been released or acknowledged, and who are neither primitive brutes nor the sophisticated representatives of the old civilizations, woman is equally the great galvanizing principle to which all is offered. The secret cult that man has for her is only the unconscious drive of a lust as yet barely woken. Amongst these peoples as amongst the peoples of the north, but for different reasons, lust is almost exclusively concerned with procreation. But lust, under whatever aspects it shows itself, whether they are considered normal or abnormal, is always the supreme spur.
The animal life, the life of energy, the life of the spirit, sometimes demand a respite. And effort for effort’s sake calls inevitably for effort for pleasure’s sake. These efforts are not mutually harmful but complementary, and realize fully the total being.
For heroes, for those who create with the spirit, for dominators of all fields, lust is the magnificent exaltation of their strength. For every being it is a motive to surpass oneself with the simple aim of self-selection, of being noticed, chosen, picked out.
Christian morality alone, following on from pagan morality, was fatally drawn to consider lust as a weakness. Out of the healthy joy which is the flowering of the flesh in all its power it has made something shameful and to be hidden, a vice to be denied. It has covered it with hypocrisy, and this has made a sin of it.
We must stop despising Desire, this attraction at once delicate and brutal between two bodies, of whatever sex, two bodies that want each other, striving for unity. We must stop despising Desire, disguising it in the pitiful clothes of old and sterile sentimentality.
It is not lust that disunites, dissolves and annihilates. It is rather the mesmerizing complications of sentimentality, artificial jealousies, words that inebriate and deceive, the rhetoric of parting and eternal fidelities, literary nostalgia—all the histrionics of love.
We must get rid of all the ill-omened debris of romanticism, counting daisy petals, moonlight duets, heavy endearments, false hypocritical modesty. When beings are drawn together by a physical attraction, let them—instead of talking only of the fragility of their hearts—dare to express their desires, the inclinations of their bodies, and to anticipate the possibilities of joy and disappointment in their future carnal union.
Physical modesty, which varies according to time and place, has only the ephemeral value of a social virtue.
We must face up to lust in full conciousness. We must make of it what a sophisticated and intelligent being makes of himself and of his life; we must make lust into a work of art. To allege unwariness or bewilderment in order to explain an act of love is hypocrisy, weakness and stupidity.
We should desire a body consciously, like any other thing.
Love at first sight, passion or failure to think, must not prompt us to be constantly giving ourselves, nor to take beings, as we are usually inclined to do so due to our inability to see into the future. We must choose intelligently. Directed by our intuition and will, we should compare the feelings and desires of the two partners and avoid uniting and satisfying any that are unable to complement and exalt each other.
Equally conciously and with the same guiding will, the joys of this coupling should lead to the climax, should develop its full potential, and should permit to flower all the seeds sown by the merging of two bodies. Lust should be made into a work of art, formed like every work of art, both instinctively and consciously.
We must strip lust of all the sentimental veils that disfigure it. These veils were thrown over it out of mere cowardice, because smug sentimentality is so satisfying. Sentimentality is comfortable and therefore demeaning.
In one who is young and healthy, when lust clashes with sentimentality, lust is victorious. Sentiment is a creature of fashion, lust is eternal. Lust triumphs, because it is the joyous exaltation that drives one beyond oneself, the delight in posession and domination, the perpetual victory from which the perpetual battle is born anew, the headiest and surest intoxication of conquest. And as this certain conquest is temporary, it must be constantly won anew.
Lust is a force, in that it refines the spirit by bringing to white heat the excitement of the flesh. The spirit burns bright and clear from a healthy, strong flesh, purified in the embrace. Only the weak and sick sink into the mire and are diminished. And lust is a force in that it kills the weak and exalts the strong, aiding natural selection.
Lust is a force, finally, in that it never leads to the insipidity of the definite and the secure, doled out by soothing sentimentality. Lust is the eternal battle, never finally won. After the fleeting triumph, even during the ephemeral triumph itself, reawakening dissatisfaction spurs a human being, driven by an orgiastic will, to expand and surpass himself.
Lust is for the body what an ideal is for the spirit—the magnificent Chimaera, that one ever clutches at but never captures, and which the young and the avid, intoxicated with the vision, pursue without rest.
Lust is a force.
Valentine de Saint-Point, Futurist Manifesto of Lust
to those women who only think what I have dared to say;
to those for whom Lust is still nothing but a sin;
to all those who in Lust can only see Vice, just as in Pride they see only vanity.
Lust, when viewed without moral preconceptions and as an essential part of life’s dynamism, is a force.
Lust is not, any more than pride, a mortal sin for the race that is strong. Lust, like pride, is a virtue that urges one on, a powerful source of energy.
Lust is the expression of a being projected beyond itself. It is the painful joy of wounded flesh, the joyous pain of a flowering. And whatever secrets unite these beings, it is a union of flesh. It is the sensory and sensual synthesis that leads to the greatest liberation of spirit. It is the communion of a particle of humanity with all the sensuality of the earth.
Lust is the quest of the flesh for the unknown, just as Celebration is the spirit’s quest for the unknown. Lust is the act of creating, it is Creation.
Flesh creates in the way that the spirit creates. In the eyes of the Universe their creation is equal. One is not superior to the other and creation of the spirit depends on that of the flesh.
We possess body and spirit. To curb one and develop the other shows weakness and is wrong. A strong man must realize his full carnal and spiritual potentiality. The satisfaction of their lust is the conquerors’ due. After a battle in which men have died, it is normal for the victors, proven in war, to turn to rape in the conquered land, so that life may be re-created.
When they have fought their battles, soldiers seek sensual pleasures, in which their constantly battling energies can be unwound and renewed. The modern hero, the hero in any field, experiences the same desire and the same pleasure. The artist, that great universal medium, has the same need. And the exaltation of the initiates of those religions still sufficiently new to contain a tempting element of the unknown, is no more than sensuality diverted spiritually towards a sacred female image.
Art and war are the great manifestations of sensuality; lust is their flower. A people exclusively spiritual or a people exclusively carnal would be condemned to the same decadence—sterility.
Lust excites energy and releases strength. Pitilessly it drove primitive man to victory, for the pride of bearing back a woman the spoils of the defeated. Today it drives the great men of business who run the banks, the press and international trade to increase their wealth by creating centers, harnessing energies and exalting the crowds, to worship and glorify with it the object of their lust. These men, tired but strong, find time for lust, the principal motive force of their action and of the reactions caused by their actions affecting multitudes and worlds.
Even among the new peoples where sensuality has not yet been released or acknowledged, and who are neither primitive brutes nor the sophisticated representatives of the old civilizations, woman is equally the great galvanizing principle to which all is offered. The secret cult that man has for her is only the unconscious drive of a lust as yet barely woken. Amongst these peoples as amongst the peoples of the north, but for different reasons, lust is almost exclusively concerned with procreation. But lust, under whatever aspects it shows itself, whether they are considered normal or abnormal, is always the supreme spur.
The animal life, the life of energy, the life of the spirit, sometimes demand a respite. And effort for effort’s sake calls inevitably for effort for pleasure’s sake. These efforts are not mutually harmful but complementary, and realize fully the total being.
For heroes, for those who create with the spirit, for dominators of all fields, lust is the magnificent exaltation of their strength. For every being it is a motive to surpass oneself with the simple aim of self-selection, of being noticed, chosen, picked out.
Christian morality alone, following on from pagan morality, was fatally drawn to consider lust as a weakness. Out of the healthy joy which is the flowering of the flesh in all its power it has made something shameful and to be hidden, a vice to be denied. It has covered it with hypocrisy, and this has made a sin of it.
We must stop despising Desire, this attraction at once delicate and brutal between two bodies, of whatever sex, two bodies that want each other, striving for unity. We must stop despising Desire, disguising it in the pitiful clothes of old and sterile sentimentality.
It is not lust that disunites, dissolves and annihilates. It is rather the mesmerizing complications of sentimentality, artificial jealousies, words that inebriate and deceive, the rhetoric of parting and eternal fidelities, literary nostalgia—all the histrionics of love.
We must get rid of all the ill-omened debris of romanticism, counting daisy petals, moonlight duets, heavy endearments, false hypocritical modesty. When beings are drawn together by a physical attraction, let them—instead of talking only of the fragility of their hearts—dare to express their desires, the inclinations of their bodies, and to anticipate the possibilities of joy and disappointment in their future carnal union.
Physical modesty, which varies according to time and place, has only the ephemeral value of a social virtue.
We must face up to lust in full conciousness. We must make of it what a sophisticated and intelligent being makes of himself and of his life; we must make lust into a work of art. To allege unwariness or bewilderment in order to explain an act of love is hypocrisy, weakness and stupidity.
We should desire a body consciously, like any other thing.
Love at first sight, passion or failure to think, must not prompt us to be constantly giving ourselves, nor to take beings, as we are usually inclined to do so due to our inability to see into the future. We must choose intelligently. Directed by our intuition and will, we should compare the feelings and desires of the two partners and avoid uniting and satisfying any that are unable to complement and exalt each other.
Equally conciously and with the same guiding will, the joys of this coupling should lead to the climax, should develop its full potential, and should permit to flower all the seeds sown by the merging of two bodies. Lust should be made into a work of art, formed like every work of art, both instinctively and consciously.
We must strip lust of all the sentimental veils that disfigure it. These veils were thrown over it out of mere cowardice, because smug sentimentality is so satisfying. Sentimentality is comfortable and therefore demeaning.
In one who is young and healthy, when lust clashes with sentimentality, lust is victorious. Sentiment is a creature of fashion, lust is eternal. Lust triumphs, because it is the joyous exaltation that drives one beyond oneself, the delight in posession and domination, the perpetual victory from which the perpetual battle is born anew, the headiest and surest intoxication of conquest. And as this certain conquest is temporary, it must be constantly won anew.
Lust is a force, in that it refines the spirit by bringing to white heat the excitement of the flesh. The spirit burns bright and clear from a healthy, strong flesh, purified in the embrace. Only the weak and sick sink into the mire and are diminished. And lust is a force in that it kills the weak and exalts the strong, aiding natural selection.
Lust is a force, finally, in that it never leads to the insipidity of the definite and the secure, doled out by soothing sentimentality. Lust is the eternal battle, never finally won. After the fleeting triumph, even during the ephemeral triumph itself, reawakening dissatisfaction spurs a human being, driven by an orgiastic will, to expand and surpass himself.
Lust is for the body what an ideal is for the spirit—the magnificent Chimaera, that one ever clutches at but never captures, and which the young and the avid, intoxicated with the vision, pursue without rest.
Lust is a force.
Valentine de Saint-Point, Futurist Manifesto of Lust
posted by maria
sou introvertida
as coisas que vejo
colam-se-me à alma
como chiclete
se me comovo, engulo
as próprias lágrimas
quando me rio,
o meu sangue borbulha, e
mesmo as palavras,
alimento-me delas
de resto, estou sempre esfomeado
se o mundo coubesse dentro de mim,
já teria morrido de indigestão
em contrapartida, extroverto tudo o que ingiro e,
por vezes, até sou notavelmente feliz
Bénédicte Houart, Vida: Variações II
das demasidas lágrimas engolidas, demasiadas ainda poucas
colam-se-me à alma
como chiclete
se me comovo, engulo
as próprias lágrimas
quando me rio,
o meu sangue borbulha, e
mesmo as palavras,
alimento-me delas
de resto, estou sempre esfomeado
se o mundo coubesse dentro de mim,
já teria morrido de indigestão
em contrapartida, extroverto tudo o que ingiro e,
por vezes, até sou notavelmente feliz
Bénédicte Houart, Vida: Variações II
das demasidas lágrimas engolidas, demasiadas ainda poucas
posted by maria
(d)o corpo que perdemos na noite
Aqui estou. Vespertina, vespertina.
Às quatro e meia e um minuto
a sentir-me tão distante
pequenina, pequenina.
Nem ponto já. Ou ambígua.
Helga Moreira, Tumulto
oh boy
Às quatro e meia e um minuto
a sentir-me tão distante
pequenina, pequenina.
Nem ponto já. Ou ambígua.
Helga Moreira, Tumulto
oh boy
posted by maria
lâminas e punhais
Não haverá futuro — e haverá
somente esta lâmina
de quartzo lacerando
a carne amarrotada. E haverá
somente este punhal
de cinza cravado
entre almofadas inúteis
e lençóis vazios.
Albano Martins
futuro - foi o que inventaram para estragar o presente
somente esta lâmina
de quartzo lacerando
a carne amarrotada. E haverá
somente este punhal
de cinza cravado
entre almofadas inúteis
e lençóis vazios.
Albano Martins
futuro - foi o que inventaram para estragar o presente
posted by maria
se eu fosse uma música
podia muito bem ser esta
é que ouves isto e pensas na outra que já dizia
when you grow up your heart dies
posted by maria
corações malditos #2
The ancient Greeks had an expression (quoted by Plutarch as a Parable of Pythagoras) that translates as "Eat not the heart." It meant not to consume oneself with troubles or worries, which could be almost as devastating as eating one's heart.
James Rogers Dictionary of Cliches
tábem deixa
James Rogers Dictionary of Cliches
tábem deixa
posted by maria
corações malditos
«pena é não haver um manicómio para corações, que para cabeças há muitos.»
já dizia a florbela espanca
já dizia a florbela espanca
posted by maria
seven unpopular things to say about blood
1
Our mothers bled, and bleed,
and our enemies,
and our enemies’ mothers.
2
It rushes to the finest
nick, romances the blade.
3
It dreams
the primary dream of liquids:
to sleep, horizontally.
4
It is in the surgeon’s heart,
the executioner’s brain.
5
Vampires and journalists
are excited by it; poets
faint on sight.
6
I knew it better as a child,
kept scabs, like ladybirds, in jars.
7
Blood: now mine would be with yours
until the moon breaks orbit
and the nights run cold.
Pat Boran, Grisu nº1
tenham um domingo sangrento. no bom ou no mau sentido, como vos aprouver
Our mothers bled, and bleed,
and our enemies,
and our enemies’ mothers.
2
It rushes to the finest
nick, romances the blade.
3
It dreams
the primary dream of liquids:
to sleep, horizontally.
4
It is in the surgeon’s heart,
the executioner’s brain.
5
Vampires and journalists
are excited by it; poets
faint on sight.
6
I knew it better as a child,
kept scabs, like ladybirds, in jars.
7
Blood: now mine would be with yours
until the moon breaks orbit
and the nights run cold.
Pat Boran, Grisu nº1
tenham um domingo sangrento. no bom ou no mau sentido, como vos aprouver
posted by maria
herzensschatzi komm, sweetheart come
© Emma Hauck
em fevereiro de 1909, Emma Hauck foi, aos trinta anos, internada no hospital psiquiátrico da universidade de heidelberg, na alemanha, com esquizofrenia. (ufa) morre onze anos depois e é descoberta a colecção comovente de cartas, escritas obsessivamente pela mão da doce Emma - todas elas dirigidas ao perdido marido Mark. pouco se percebe mas repetem-se os «herzensschatzi komm» (sweetheart come) e «komm komm komm» (come, come, come).
olhem, não sei. lágrimas
posted by maria
cartas de amor quem as não tem
So My Lumps,
You’re off, by God! I can barely believe it since I am so unaccustomed to anybody leaving me. But reflectively I wonder why nobody did so before.
All I care about - honest to God - is that you are happy and I don’t much care who you’ll find happiness with. I mean as long as he’s a friendly bloke and treats you nice and kind.
If he doesn’t, I’ll come at him with a hammer and clinker. God’s eye may be on the sparrow, but my eye will always be on you. Never forget your strange virtues.
Never forget that underneath that veneer of raucous language is a remarkable and puritanical LADY.
I am a smashing bore and why you’ve stuck by me so long is an indication of your loyalty. I shall miss you with passion and wild regret. You know, of course, my angelic one, that everything I (we) have is yours, so you should be fairly comfortable.
Don’t, however, let your next inamorata use it, otherwise I might become a trifle testy. And if he takes my former wife and turns her into stress and strife, I’ll smash him bash him, laugh or crash him, slash him, trash him etc.
Christ, I am possessed by language. Mostly bad. (Sloshed, d’yer think?) So now, have a good time. You may rest assured that I will not have affairs with any other female. Anybody after you is going to be disinteresting.
I shall gloom a lot and stare morosely into unimaginable distances and act a bit - probably on the stage - to keep me in booze and butter, but chiefly and above all I shall write. Not about you, I hasten to add. I’ll leave it to you to announce the parting of the ways while I shall never say or write one word except this valedictory note to you.
Try and look after yourself. Much love. Don’t forget that you are probably the greatest actress in the world, you are the best there can be. I wish I could borrow a minute portion of your passion and commitment, but there you are - cold is cold as ice is ice.
escreveu o Richard Burton à Elizabeth Taylor
You’re off, by God! I can barely believe it since I am so unaccustomed to anybody leaving me. But reflectively I wonder why nobody did so before.
All I care about - honest to God - is that you are happy and I don’t much care who you’ll find happiness with. I mean as long as he’s a friendly bloke and treats you nice and kind.
If he doesn’t, I’ll come at him with a hammer and clinker. God’s eye may be on the sparrow, but my eye will always be on you. Never forget your strange virtues.
Never forget that underneath that veneer of raucous language is a remarkable and puritanical LADY.
I am a smashing bore and why you’ve stuck by me so long is an indication of your loyalty. I shall miss you with passion and wild regret. You know, of course, my angelic one, that everything I (we) have is yours, so you should be fairly comfortable.
Don’t, however, let your next inamorata use it, otherwise I might become a trifle testy. And if he takes my former wife and turns her into stress and strife, I’ll smash him bash him, laugh or crash him, slash him, trash him etc.
Christ, I am possessed by language. Mostly bad. (Sloshed, d’yer think?) So now, have a good time. You may rest assured that I will not have affairs with any other female. Anybody after you is going to be disinteresting.
I shall gloom a lot and stare morosely into unimaginable distances and act a bit - probably on the stage - to keep me in booze and butter, but chiefly and above all I shall write. Not about you, I hasten to add. I’ll leave it to you to announce the parting of the ways while I shall never say or write one word except this valedictory note to you.
Try and look after yourself. Much love. Don’t forget that you are probably the greatest actress in the world, you are the best there can be. I wish I could borrow a minute portion of your passion and commitment, but there you are - cold is cold as ice is ice.
escreveu o Richard Burton à Elizabeth Taylor
posted by maria
cartas de amor quem as não tem
My Dearest Gertrude,
You will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, "Give me some medicine. for I'm tired." He said, "Nonsense and stuff! You don't want medicine: go to bed!" I said, "No; it isn't the sort of tiredness that wants bed. I'm tired in the face."
He looked a little grave, and said, "Oh, it's your nose that's tired: a person often talks too much when he thinks he knows a great deal." I said, "No, it isn't the nose. Perhaps it's the hair."
Then he looked rather grave, and said, "Now I understand: you've been playing too many hairs on the pianoforte." "No, indeed I haven't!" I said, "and it isn't exactly the hair: it's more about the nose and chin."
Then he looked a good deal graver, and said, "Have you been walking much on your chin lately?" I said, "No." "Well!" he said, "it puzzles me very much. Do you think it's in the lips?" "Of course!" I said. "That's exactly what it is!"
Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "I think you must have been giving too many kisses." "Well," I said, "I did give one kiss to a baby child, a little friend of mine." "Think again," he said; "are you sure it was only one?" I thought again, and said, "Perhaps it was eleven times." Then the doctor said, "You must not give her any more till your lips are quite rested again." "But what am I to do?" I said, "because you see, I owe her a hundred and eighty-two more."
Then he looked so grave that tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "You may send them to her in a box." Then I remembered a little box that I once bought at Dover, and thought I would some day give it to some little girl or other. So I have packed them all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe or if any are lost on the way.
escreveu o Lewis Carroll à Gertrude Chataway
You will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, "Give me some medicine. for I'm tired." He said, "Nonsense and stuff! You don't want medicine: go to bed!" I said, "No; it isn't the sort of tiredness that wants bed. I'm tired in the face."
He looked a little grave, and said, "Oh, it's your nose that's tired: a person often talks too much when he thinks he knows a great deal." I said, "No, it isn't the nose. Perhaps it's the hair."
Then he looked rather grave, and said, "Now I understand: you've been playing too many hairs on the pianoforte." "No, indeed I haven't!" I said, "and it isn't exactly the hair: it's more about the nose and chin."
Then he looked a good deal graver, and said, "Have you been walking much on your chin lately?" I said, "No." "Well!" he said, "it puzzles me very much. Do you think it's in the lips?" "Of course!" I said. "That's exactly what it is!"
Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "I think you must have been giving too many kisses." "Well," I said, "I did give one kiss to a baby child, a little friend of mine." "Think again," he said; "are you sure it was only one?" I thought again, and said, "Perhaps it was eleven times." Then the doctor said, "You must not give her any more till your lips are quite rested again." "But what am I to do?" I said, "because you see, I owe her a hundred and eighty-two more."
Then he looked so grave that tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "You may send them to her in a box." Then I remembered a little box that I once bought at Dover, and thought I would some day give it to some little girl or other. So I have packed them all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe or if any are lost on the way.
escreveu o Lewis Carroll à Gertrude Chataway
posted by maria
o cão godard e o cão ray
Era uma vez um cão todo amarelo. Na rua, os cães com quem ele brincava faziam muita troça dele. Chamavam-lhe «o ovo estrelado», «o ovo mole», o «carro eléctrico», «o icterício» e outros mimos. Todos os dias, o cão chegava a casa a chorar. A mãe reparou na tamanha tristeza e perguntou-lhe pela razão dela. Quando, entre soluços, o filho a informou, a mãe encorajou-o. O que fazia falar os outros era a inveja, toda a gente prefere os louros, ele era o mais bonito de todos os cães das redondezas.
No dia seguinte, o cão amarelo voltou ufano. Aos habituais insultos retorquiu com a opinião da mãe. Foi o fim da macacada. Além de o achincalharem a ele, achincalharam-lhe a mãe. Devia ser bonita a gema de ovo, a margarina velha, a amarelona.
Desesperado, o animal nem sequer ousou voltar para casa, à noite. Sentou-se em cima de uma pedrinha, a chorar, a chorar muito. Até que passou um elefante que meteu conversa com ele e quis saber da razão das lágrimas. Quando o cão amarelo contou a sua desdita, o elefante perguntou se já lhe tinham falado do Cão Godard. Que não, respondeu o coitadinho. O Cão Godard - explicou o elefante - era um cão de gosto infalível, que pintava todos os cães do mundo com as cores mais belas. Morava muito longe, mas o elefante levá-lo-ia até ele. E o Cão Godard escolheria a mais bela das cores, fazendo regressar o cão amarelo mais lindo do que as coisas lindas. O cão aceitou logo o convite do elefante. Pulou para as costas dele e seguiram viagem.
Três dias e três noites percorreram montes e vales, até chegar a uma montanha muito alta e distante onde dezenas de cães formavam duas extensas filas, à direita e à esquerda de um trono, no topo de uma elevação, em que se sentava o Cão Godard. Os da fila do lado direito vinham a descer e eram, todos, belíssimos. Eram cães que o Cão Godard acabara de pintar, com cores diferentes mas igualmente admiráveis. Os da fila do lado esquerdo iam a subir e eram feiíssimos. Eram os cães que o Cão Godard se preparava para pintar.
O elefante pousou no solo o cão amarelo e este, cabisbaixo, ocupou o seu lugar na fila do lado esquerdo, aguardando a sua vez. Não aguardou muito tempo. Do alto do trono, o Cão Godard olhou-o e levantou-se de um salto. «Em verdade, em verdade vos digo» - bradou, atroando aos ares - «que nunca, até hoje, vi cão mais belo. Já pintei cães da cor da dança, já pintei cães da cor da música, já pintei cães da cor da poesia, já pintei cães da cor da pintura. Mas nunca consegui pintar um cão da cor do cinema. O cão amarelo, que ali vejo, é o cão da cor do cinema. Eu te baptizo: Cão Nicholas Ray».
O cão ficou muito espantado. Contou os enxovalhos que sofrera, disse que vinha ali para mudar de cor. Logo o Cão Godard gritou irado: «São cães neo-realistas os teus amigos. Não percebem nada de nada de nada. Eu te digo, ó cão, que tu és o mais belo dos cães. Mais belo do que o cão amarelo só o cão amarelo, só tu que agora baptizo como Cão Nicholas Ray». A estas palavras, todos os outros cães rebentaram numa ovação. Todos lhe queriam mexer, todos o queriam cheirar, todos o queriam lamber, todos o queriam beijar.
Mas o cão desconfiava ainda. Como é que os outros cães, os cães da terra dele, o iriam acreditar? O Cão Godard veio então até ele, e, com brandos movimentos, da direita para a esquerda e da esquerda para a direita, escreveu na barriga do cão: «O cão amarelo é o mais belo dos cães. Mais belo do que o cão amarelo só o cão amarelo. A tua beleza é a ausência da beleza. O cão amarelo, como o sol, obriga-nos a fechar os olhos. A beleza cega. Porque a beleza é o cão amarelo. E por isso o cão amarelo é o Cão Nicholas Ray. Porque o cinema é Nicholas Ray». E, havendo terminado, assinou: «Cão Godard».
Orgulhosíssimo, radiantíssimo, o cão amarelo agradeceu ao Cão Godard e, entre palmas e bravos, voltou a subir para as costas do elefante, que a custo continha as lágrimas.
Três dias e três noites durou também a viagem de regresso. De noite, chegaram a casa, onde o elefante e o cão se despediram. A mãe esperava-o em enorme ansiedade. O filho contou-lhe então o sucedido. «Vês» - disse a mãe - «vês como eu tinha razão? Agora já acreditas e em mim não acreditaste. Mas desculpo-te: que é uma mãe ao lado do Cão Godard?»
Ao outro dia, o cão amarelo acordou contentíssimo. Comeu à pressa o osso matinal e foi ter com os amigos. Receberam-no ainda pior, se possível: «Olha, o ovo estrelado, nós a julgar que já tinhas desaparecido. Vai-te embora carro eléctrico, vai-te embora cão tinhoso, bicho feioso». «Sou tinhoso? Sou feio?», respondeu seguríssimo o jovem cão, «então leiam aqui». E deitou-se de costas, de barriga para o ar. Os cães nem podiam acreditar no que liam. Todo o seu mundo vacilava. Afinal o cão amarelo era o mais belo dos cães.
Suplicaram-lhe então que os levasse até ao monte do Cão Godard, para que o Cão Godard os pintasse a todos da mesma cor ou, pelo menos, de cor tão parecida quanto possível. Mas o elefante recusou-se a refazer o percurso. «Então vocês foram maus e fizeram troça do cão amarelo e agora querem ser como ele? Não os levo, não. E, mesmo que os levasse, o Cão Godard não os pintava e, horrorizado com o vosso mau gosto, mandava afastá-los como malditos que são.»
Daí em diante, o cão amarelo chamado Cão Ray ou Cão Rei, passou a ser o ídolo de todos os cães da vizinhança. E viveu feliz o resto dos seus dias.
João Bénard da Costa, Os Filmes da Minha Vida
sabes que se os neo-realistas vissem isto riam-se muito, muitíssimo. mas dás-te ao trabalho de passar tudo, tudinho, mesmo que à mão, mãozinha, porque sem isto o teu blog não fazia sentido algum, algunzinho
No dia seguinte, o cão amarelo voltou ufano. Aos habituais insultos retorquiu com a opinião da mãe. Foi o fim da macacada. Além de o achincalharem a ele, achincalharam-lhe a mãe. Devia ser bonita a gema de ovo, a margarina velha, a amarelona.
Desesperado, o animal nem sequer ousou voltar para casa, à noite. Sentou-se em cima de uma pedrinha, a chorar, a chorar muito. Até que passou um elefante que meteu conversa com ele e quis saber da razão das lágrimas. Quando o cão amarelo contou a sua desdita, o elefante perguntou se já lhe tinham falado do Cão Godard. Que não, respondeu o coitadinho. O Cão Godard - explicou o elefante - era um cão de gosto infalível, que pintava todos os cães do mundo com as cores mais belas. Morava muito longe, mas o elefante levá-lo-ia até ele. E o Cão Godard escolheria a mais bela das cores, fazendo regressar o cão amarelo mais lindo do que as coisas lindas. O cão aceitou logo o convite do elefante. Pulou para as costas dele e seguiram viagem.
Três dias e três noites percorreram montes e vales, até chegar a uma montanha muito alta e distante onde dezenas de cães formavam duas extensas filas, à direita e à esquerda de um trono, no topo de uma elevação, em que se sentava o Cão Godard. Os da fila do lado direito vinham a descer e eram, todos, belíssimos. Eram cães que o Cão Godard acabara de pintar, com cores diferentes mas igualmente admiráveis. Os da fila do lado esquerdo iam a subir e eram feiíssimos. Eram os cães que o Cão Godard se preparava para pintar.
O elefante pousou no solo o cão amarelo e este, cabisbaixo, ocupou o seu lugar na fila do lado esquerdo, aguardando a sua vez. Não aguardou muito tempo. Do alto do trono, o Cão Godard olhou-o e levantou-se de um salto. «Em verdade, em verdade vos digo» - bradou, atroando aos ares - «que nunca, até hoje, vi cão mais belo. Já pintei cães da cor da dança, já pintei cães da cor da música, já pintei cães da cor da poesia, já pintei cães da cor da pintura. Mas nunca consegui pintar um cão da cor do cinema. O cão amarelo, que ali vejo, é o cão da cor do cinema. Eu te baptizo: Cão Nicholas Ray».
O cão ficou muito espantado. Contou os enxovalhos que sofrera, disse que vinha ali para mudar de cor. Logo o Cão Godard gritou irado: «São cães neo-realistas os teus amigos. Não percebem nada de nada de nada. Eu te digo, ó cão, que tu és o mais belo dos cães. Mais belo do que o cão amarelo só o cão amarelo, só tu que agora baptizo como Cão Nicholas Ray». A estas palavras, todos os outros cães rebentaram numa ovação. Todos lhe queriam mexer, todos o queriam cheirar, todos o queriam lamber, todos o queriam beijar.
Mas o cão desconfiava ainda. Como é que os outros cães, os cães da terra dele, o iriam acreditar? O Cão Godard veio então até ele, e, com brandos movimentos, da direita para a esquerda e da esquerda para a direita, escreveu na barriga do cão: «O cão amarelo é o mais belo dos cães. Mais belo do que o cão amarelo só o cão amarelo. A tua beleza é a ausência da beleza. O cão amarelo, como o sol, obriga-nos a fechar os olhos. A beleza cega. Porque a beleza é o cão amarelo. E por isso o cão amarelo é o Cão Nicholas Ray. Porque o cinema é Nicholas Ray». E, havendo terminado, assinou: «Cão Godard».
Orgulhosíssimo, radiantíssimo, o cão amarelo agradeceu ao Cão Godard e, entre palmas e bravos, voltou a subir para as costas do elefante, que a custo continha as lágrimas.
Três dias e três noites durou também a viagem de regresso. De noite, chegaram a casa, onde o elefante e o cão se despediram. A mãe esperava-o em enorme ansiedade. O filho contou-lhe então o sucedido. «Vês» - disse a mãe - «vês como eu tinha razão? Agora já acreditas e em mim não acreditaste. Mas desculpo-te: que é uma mãe ao lado do Cão Godard?»
Ao outro dia, o cão amarelo acordou contentíssimo. Comeu à pressa o osso matinal e foi ter com os amigos. Receberam-no ainda pior, se possível: «Olha, o ovo estrelado, nós a julgar que já tinhas desaparecido. Vai-te embora carro eléctrico, vai-te embora cão tinhoso, bicho feioso». «Sou tinhoso? Sou feio?», respondeu seguríssimo o jovem cão, «então leiam aqui». E deitou-se de costas, de barriga para o ar. Os cães nem podiam acreditar no que liam. Todo o seu mundo vacilava. Afinal o cão amarelo era o mais belo dos cães.
Suplicaram-lhe então que os levasse até ao monte do Cão Godard, para que o Cão Godard os pintasse a todos da mesma cor ou, pelo menos, de cor tão parecida quanto possível. Mas o elefante recusou-se a refazer o percurso. «Então vocês foram maus e fizeram troça do cão amarelo e agora querem ser como ele? Não os levo, não. E, mesmo que os levasse, o Cão Godard não os pintava e, horrorizado com o vosso mau gosto, mandava afastá-los como malditos que são.»
Daí em diante, o cão amarelo chamado Cão Ray ou Cão Rei, passou a ser o ídolo de todos os cães da vizinhança. E viveu feliz o resto dos seus dias.
João Bénard da Costa, Os Filmes da Minha Vida
sabes que se os neo-realistas vissem isto riam-se muito, muitíssimo. mas dás-te ao trabalho de passar tudo, tudinho, mesmo que à mão, mãozinha, porque sem isto o teu blog não fazia sentido algum, algunzinho
posted by maria
affichez vos poemes
do visceral bom
fotografia de Raoul Ubac e as minhas maravilhosas aulas de fotografia
posted by maria
e mais outro
E os que vivem de
consumições à toa
como a minha mãe.
E frutos doces e amargos.
E, para acompanhar, whisky,
gin tónico,
os salgados.
Helga Moreira, Desrazões
(este é tal e qual)
consumições à toa
como a minha mãe.
E frutos doces e amargos.
E, para acompanhar, whisky,
gin tónico,
os salgados.
Helga Moreira, Desrazões
(este é tal e qual)
posted by maria
poema à mãe
(...)
Olha — queres ouvir-me? —
às vezes ainda sou o menino
que adormeceu nos teus olhos;
ainda aperto contra o coração
rosas tão brancas
como as que tens na moldura;
ainda oiço a tua voz:
Era uma vez uma princesa
no meio de um laranjal...
Mas — tu sabes — a noite é enorme,
e todo o meu corpo cresceu.
Eu saí da moldura,
dei às aves os meus olhos a beber,
Não me esqueci de nada, mãe.
Guardo a tua voz dentro de mim.
E deixo-te as rosas.
Boa noite. Eu vou com as aves.
Eugénio de Andrade, Os Amantes Sem Dinheiro
Olha — queres ouvir-me? —
às vezes ainda sou o menino
que adormeceu nos teus olhos;
ainda aperto contra o coração
rosas tão brancas
como as que tens na moldura;
ainda oiço a tua voz:
Era uma vez uma princesa
no meio de um laranjal...
Mas — tu sabes — a noite é enorme,
e todo o meu corpo cresceu.
Eu saí da moldura,
dei às aves os meus olhos a beber,
Não me esqueci de nada, mãe.
Guardo a tua voz dentro de mim.
E deixo-te as rosas.
Boa noite. Eu vou com as aves.
Eugénio de Andrade, Os Amantes Sem Dinheiro
posted by maria
o'er our victim come begin!
Slavko Vorkapich, The Furies, 1934
Come, the incantation sing,
Frantic all and maddening,
To the heart a brand of fire,
The Furies' hymn,
That which claims the senses dim,
Tuneless to the gentle lyre,
Withering the soul within.
Aeschylus, Song of the Furies
posted by maria
um poema (só) para mim
I'm sitting on my window waiting for you to come.
I could sit on my couch watching T.V. but,
who would see you coming with your funny walk rrrclap rrrclap rrrclap,
waving and smiling and waving and smiling again?
like a bird out of the cage does, free.
with your arms wide open,
those arms ready to hug me.
Let me just grab an orange
to eat while I wait.
but I wait and I wait and it seems nothing happens
except for the fruit, which was eaten by me.
That's ok
I'll just grab another one.
J.C.
I could sit on my couch watching T.V. but,
who would see you coming with your funny walk rrrclap rrrclap rrrclap,
waving and smiling and waving and smiling again?
like a bird out of the cage does, free.
with your arms wide open,
those arms ready to hug me.
Let me just grab an orange
to eat while I wait.
but I wait and I wait and it seems nothing happens
except for the fruit, which was eaten by me.
That's ok
I'll just grab another one.
J.C.
posted by maria
um conto (só) para mim
ela era uma laranja, uma linda laranja.
bonita, doce e elegante. exactamente como uma laranja deve ser.
com um raminho verde na cabeça.
era o raminho mais bonito do mundo. era a laranja mais bonita do mundo.
ele era só um kiwi redondo e peludo. verde. muito verde.
que longe da laranja fingia sorrir. fingia sorrir.
J.C.
do meu amor por laranjas. (e por kiwis)
bonita, doce e elegante. exactamente como uma laranja deve ser.
com um raminho verde na cabeça.
era o raminho mais bonito do mundo. era a laranja mais bonita do mundo.
ele era só um kiwi redondo e peludo. verde. muito verde.
que longe da laranja fingia sorrir. fingia sorrir.
J.C.
do meu amor por laranjas. (e por kiwis)
posted by maria
é o amor, o amor é
É o Amor, João Canijo, 2013
o amor começa com encontros e desencontros marítimos e chega a portos que não dá não dá, não dava não dava. depois não se tira o dedo da campainha até nos abrirem a porta e chega-se da tropa e pede-se em casamento. vamos marcar o casamento? vamos. afinal de contas, deus escreve direito por linhas tortas. o segredo do casamento é como dizem os nossos pais "nunca se vos zangais os dois ao mesmo tempo". se as coisas tiverem más, pensamos nos pretinhos em angola. o amor é ter uma música que nos lembra a família, seja ela qual for. é ver o Marta Sofia sair e ter fé na nossa senhora de fátima. o amor é polvos e linguados, é saber (e lembrar) que quem amamos nem sempre está ao nosso lado. o amor é bilhetes escondidos entre cerejas, é escrever em postais "és a pessoa mais especial da minha vida". o amor é lindo para quem sabe amar, para quem sabe viver. já dizem o zezé di camargo e o luciano no hit de 91, o amor é o que "fez pensar em você e esquecer de mim".
ó anabela, só tu é que achas que o amor não é lindo
ó anabela, só tu é que achas que o amor não é lindo
posted by maria
mas isso também não interessa nada
Estou à nora é uma
expressão que aprendi
mesmo agora
e de que não sei
o significado.
Helga Moreira, Desrazões
expressão que aprendi
mesmo agora
e de que não sei
o significado.
Helga Moreira, Desrazões
posted by maria
vou sair para comprar cigarros
Descia a tempestade
como quem vai
comprar cigarros ao outro
lado da vida. Lá ia
de mãos nos bolsos de alguma
inclinação. Subia
para os comboios na estação
mais fria, lia
sobretudo nobre
azul e poesia.
José Carlos Soares
porque sair para comprar um frango não é tão poético
como quem vai
comprar cigarros ao outro
lado da vida. Lá ia
de mãos nos bolsos de alguma
inclinação. Subia
para os comboios na estação
mais fria, lia
sobretudo nobre
azul e poesia.
José Carlos Soares
porque sair para comprar um frango não é tão poético
posted by maria
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