la caisse du mouton
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
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Estou a limpar o armário vazio, e tenho a certeza que a Casa que vai ser deixada sofre – está a morrer. Começo a recitar a Oração para os que vão morrer – tende misericórdia da Casa; acendo, na pá de ferro, folhas de eucalipto, e percorro os quartos admiráveis dizendo:…..que estejamos todos na vida eterna…..que eu…..te encontre na vida eterna………que tu me encontres na vida eterna
in Lisboaleipzip, o encontro inesperado do diverso, Maria Gabriela Llansol
a saga pimba continua...
... aquele sem esqueletos no armário que atire a primeira pedra.
que os mais sensíveis me perdoem. mas tem de ser...
que os mais sensíveis me perdoem. mas tem de ser...
I Will Survive
First I was afraid
I was petrified
Kept thinking I could never live
without you by my side
But I spent so many nights
thinking how you did me wrong
I grew strong
I learned how to carry on
and so you're back
from outer space
I just walked in to find you here
with that sad look upon your face
I should have changed my stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key
If I had known for just one second
you'd be back to bother me
I was petrified
Kept thinking I could never live
without you by my side
But I spent so many nights
thinking how you did me wrong
I grew strong
I learned how to carry on
and so you're back
from outer space
I just walked in to find you here
with that sad look upon your face
I should have changed my stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key
If I had known for just one second
you'd be back to bother me
Go on now go walk out the door
just turn around now
'cause you're not welcome anymore
weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye
you think I'd crumble
you think I'd lay down and die
Oh no, not I
I will survive
as long as i know how to love
I know I will stay alive
I've got all my life to live
I've got all my love to give
and I'll survive
I will survive
It took all the strength I had
not to fall apart
kept trying hard to mend
the pieces of my broken heart
and I spent oh so many nights
just feeling sorry for myself
I used to cry
Now I hold my head up high
and you see me
somebody new
I'm not that chained up little person
still in love with you
and so you felt like dropping in
and just expect me to be free
now I'm saving all my loving
for someone who's loving me.
Gloria Gaynor
o stress traz destas coisas e quem canta (e dança) seus males espanta, yadda yadda yadda
but there's never a rose
Lost In The Harbour
Over here the ladies all want sweet perfume
But there's never a rose
And over the roses are frightened to bloom
So they never can grow
And over here they need wool
For weaving their baby's new clothes
But nobody has any wool
And the sheep are all lost in the harbour
Lost in the harbour
And over here they want diamonds to wear
But there aren't any here
And over there everyone's hiding their tears
But they're crying inside
And the wall won't come down
Till they're no longer afraid of themselves
And if you don't believe me ask yourselves
And then I can come down to the harbour
Down to the harbour
And then I will fill the ocean back up with my tears
I still have a couple more years
And then I can come back to the harbour
Down to the harbour
Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan
ò! é injusto, Coimbra não está branca!
o telefone tocou cedo, queriam falar todos ao mesmo tempo, está a nevar! está a nevar! vai ver! esqueceram-se que estou a 100 km away from them... abri a persiana e não vi neve à primeira espreitada, olhei melhor, tentei ver neve, mas não havia neve :(
e parece que desta vez estava a nevar mesmo, não foi como o nevão de '81 (ou '82?), em que havia nevado durante a noite, nããã... estava mesmo a nevar... queriam falar todos ao mesmo tempo sobre os flocos de neve a cair. esse fenómeno da natureza que, em quantidades não catastróficas, é das coisas mais belas de observar. é serenidade natural que se entranha em mim. e, confesso, um pouco de infância.
In these deep solitudes and awful cells *
danger of being human. fallacy of race. myth to perfection. desire to desire. reality. connecting to the elephant person each one is. may all faces be unlike most other faces. so as bodies, each persona unlike any other. searching with resources life provides. acknowledging (or whatever).
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coroar sentidos [ e dos lugares onde vive a coisa poética ]
gosto quando me baralhas os sentidos.
venho. sem saber. quais. sentidos. existem. mas. gosto. o que trago no regaço.
são estrelas, senhor. são estrelas!
Hush, big girl, don't say a word. lean here.
Post-Scriptum: o sono é uma matéria prima, a sua noite tem efeitos infinitos.
in Lisboaleipzip, o encontro inesperado do diverso, Maria Gabriela Llansol
também faço o léxico-loto
com palavras ao invés de números, a minha chave, seria :
esta semana - energia medo
palavras fixas - gostar corpo vida
cenário mundano
cigarro. outro cigarro. chá de hortelã-pimenta. vela alta, beige, daquele beige "vela de santuário de Fátima". vela grande, magenta, talvez não seja magenta, mas fica bem, a palavra. óleo de alecrim. o gato destruiu mais um dos ratos que se caçam no jumbo a 1 € e picos cada. o gato ronronou. o gato ronrona. a roupa foi apanhada do estendal. alguma vai directa para o guarda-fatos. outra vai para o cesto de passar. o cesto de passar está dentro do armário. cumpridas mais algumas dessas coisas que são assim, do conceito necessidade, à medida de cada um. cumprido o telefonema "está tudo bem". cumprido o compromisso das 20h. vistas as fotos das 22h. a pen guarda o trabalho, que aguarda o amanhã. a continuação. continuidade. e a agenda. os dias afunilam. ah! a vela laranja. tamanho médio. para equilibrar. silêncio. não é hora para Tom Zé. diz-se. só por dizer. são horas de dizer coisas só por dizer. pode ser. está tudo bem. não se diga trivialidades tais como vai ficar tudo bem. está tudo bem. pode ser. não vale a pena pensar nas quedas. pode ser. hoje. está bem. hoje já é amanhã. sexta-feira.
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e se tropeço?!... 
ò!...
caio.
não faz mal. agarro-me. com força. talvez suavemente.
não fico sossegadinha. talvez fique.
essas coisas não se sabem. tolice.
medidas drásticas, não!
cigarro. outro cigarro. o restinho do chá de hortelã-pimenta. eterno tema. conforto.
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necessidade: terra nos pés.
atenção: não é pés na Terra.
c ú m p l i c e
um dia, fiquei nascida numa sala branca de paredes altas. é impertinente recordar quanto tempo fiquei lá, talvez 5 minutos, talvez um par de horas. trouxe comigo um tesouro. a memória do "Concert for Anarchy" de Rebecca Horn. sinto imensa frustração por não saber explicar o poder deste piano, o concerto. hoje queria estar junto dele. «é das coisas mais belas que vi até hoje.», parece estranho dizer isto, assim, não é?
é uma verdade.
sobre _c u m p l i c i d a d e .
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at the intersection, I say - stillness, please
Fervor (Couple at Intersection), Shirin Neshat
há qualquer coisa que eu tenho de guardar. como se se tratasse duma vigia. guardar memórias de outros jogos no meio do pó. como uma lenga-lenga, pelo caminho, cantando e espantando... eu vou brincando na serra, enquanto o lobo não vem... ou... olh’à triste viuvinha qu’anda na rod’à chorare. esquecer que sou uma menina grande que não põe um batôn vermelho. gosto de ter um batôn vermelho. tenho um um batôn vermelho. continuo o caminho de pó. vejo o preto dos sapatos desvanecer. não são de verniz. reneguei o verniz sobre mim. a meio da planície, confesso, a vontade de ter uma montanha rochosa para subir, lá em baixo, uma pedra onde sentar. ir lá, de novo, à metamorfose. lamentar o desencontro a meio-caminho. a possibilidade eminente, tornada realidade. nos nossos lugares, afastados um do outro. olhámos o mapa. dois ou mais meio-caminhos. diferentes. paralelos, por assim dizer. não deixa de ser bonito. os lugares teus e os lugares meus. parar. a decisão em consciência. um lugar neutro. cruzar. descruzar. agora, só vejo espirais. não são de pó. não, não são evidentes furacões. vulcões em erupção extinguiram. é uma. espiral. e é bonita.
acordei a cantarolar isto. com afinco! [ coreografia incluída ]
deixo só as partes da letra que sei de cor
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Manic Monday
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Six o'clock already
I was just in the middle of a dream
(...) [ lalalalalala ]
But I can't be late
'Cause then I guess I just won't get paid
These are the days
When you wish your bed was already made
It's just another manic Monday
I wish it was Sunday
'Cause that's my funday
My I don't have to runday
It's just another manic Monday
Have to catch an early train
Got to be to work by nine
And if I had an air-o-plane
I still couldn't make it on time
'Cause it takes me so long
Just to figure out what I'm gonna wear
Blame it on the train
But the boss is already there
(...) [ lalalalalala ]
Time it goes so fast
When you're having fun
I was just in the middle of a dream
(...) [ lalalalalala ]
But I can't be late
'Cause then I guess I just won't get paid
These are the days
When you wish your bed was already made
It's just another manic Monday
I wish it was Sunday
'Cause that's my funday
My I don't have to runday
It's just another manic Monday
Have to catch an early train
Got to be to work by nine
And if I had an air-o-plane
I still couldn't make it on time
'Cause it takes me so long
Just to figure out what I'm gonna wear
Blame it on the train
But the boss is already there
(...) [ lalalalalala ]
Time it goes so fast
When you're having fun
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The Bangles
acontece-me desde sempre, acordar com canções dos cantos mais pimba da minha memória. esta nem é das menos más. cá estou, a cantar. nem por isso me sinto muito animada. corpo pesado. olhos olheirenetos. tosse - por minha culpa, minha tão grande culpa! - repete a margarete, batendo convictamente a mão no peito, como quem diz aquela coisa que aprendeu na catequese, tentado confessar pecados. hoje não me esqueci de trazer música. quero ver o Match Point. tenho de levar o carro à oficina. o'well, como dizem os nazarenos... xandar o barque, m'lher! bom dia.
post gabarolas
lembram-se de eu dizer... "às vezes, estamos num local público e apetece-me pôr de pé em cima de uma mesa, como se de um palanque se tratasse", e dizer dos meus amigos? pois, a dolphin.s é uma dessas maravilhosas criaturas, sim, isto é uma declaração de amor. acompanhada de extremo orgulho. she won the frog! leiam... And the frog goes to... Parabéns, gaja! :D*
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dolphin.s: silêncio: grito ' salamandrine (o blog) ' galeria Salamandrine ' fotopages ' lomopatia crónica ' camera obscura
eyes wide shut
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era um texto. tinha as palavras gato e solidão. eram pares de palavras. por vezes, eram pares ímpares. as palavras eram signos. os signos, símbolos. havia bolor. o bafio poderia ser assimilado por alguns. a palavra companhia também fora recrutada. o medo estava visível. seria redundante digitá-lo. não se escreveu pecado. porém, a inevitabilidade de culpa. era um texto. tinha pares ímpares. sofreguidão pressa assombro. corpo corpo e corpo. não tinha alma nem máscara. buraco secreção fétida. a luz proporcionara-lhe vida. seria possível ler esse que era um texto. mas, à paralisia visceral, as mãos fecharam-se. como mãos em querendo esmurrar. esborratarm esse que era um texto. era só um texto. a vida era uma cama. correr uma corrida tonta de gritos tontos resultantes das rasteiras tontas pela casa. chapuçar dentro do ninho. o calor emanado. um homem, uma mulher, uma criança, um cão, um gato. houvera o acto de enroscar e o texto nunca teria sido um texto. não era só um texto.
pode ser uma coisa simbólica, tipo freudiana... all the stars e tal... ou, então, é peneira mesmo!
esqueço que é Inverno. tempo de frio. esqueço que as allstar são ineficazes na protecção do frio. esqueço. calço-as na mesma. rapo frio. calçar allstar nesta altura do ano é quase tão pateta quanto usar sapatos com sola de couro, meias de vidro ou daquelas camisolitas que destapam barriguinhas e costas. será peneira minha? eu sei, tenho de estar mais atenta. até ouvi os senhores, ontem, a anunciar céu muito nublado para hoje. esqueço-me. pronto. além disso, não foi engano meu, tenho a certeza de que, ao abrir as persianas, esta manhã vislumbrei um pouco de Primavera. ora! o automatismo allstar funcionou de imediato. eu... er... eu quero... só queria um pouco de Primavera. o Inverno começa a entranhar-se em mim e eu não gosto destas invasões sem licença. eu não gosto. ai ai ai.
atenuar, dissimulando
o frasco da água de rosas. não se tornara numa peça decorativa. não usava essa água para limpar o rosto. soltava o frasco que quando em vez. evaporava um cheiro velho da água velha de rosas velhas. a memória abria e lembrava um tempo que jamais houvera. o tempo em que cometia os actos de higiene íntima. nos movimentos automaticamente gentis de retirar uma bola de algodão que embebia na água. essa água de rosas. a bola de algodão tocaria de leve o seu rosto. enquanto se desfazia o risco negro impresso ao redor do olho. ele. encostado à aduela da porta. olhá-la-ia. como olham os homens, prazenteiros, a sua mulher. voyeur da sua mulher. era um tempo que jamais houvera. para que pranto não houvesse. era um tempo inventado num texto a ser lido por outrem. o tempo existente, era o do roubo dos nenúfares do lago da cidade. o tempo de se banhar entre folhas curandeiras. enganosa. pois deixava que a água fosse água tépida. o remédio. enjeitava-o. o remédio do banho lacrimoso. olhava. convidativa. de boca jocosa. a fingir que era somente um tempo inventado num texto a ser lido por outrem.
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subscrevo o ' Manifesto Walkabout ' do António
[ para ficar à minha medida, autorizo-me uma alteração de género ]
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edit (23.57pm): às custas deste post, recebi um cheirinho da música que me levou directamente à cultura aborígene
Paul Taylor - Walkabout , obrigada, António! ; )
[ together ] [ movements ] [ apart ]
And the Bridegroom, Lucien Freud
Soneto de separação
De repente do riso fez-se o pranto
Silencioso e branco como a bruma
E das bocas unidas fez-se a espuma
E das mãos espalmadas fez-se o espanto
De repente da calma fez-se o vento
Que dos olhos desfez a última chama
E da paixão fez-se o pressentimento
E do momento imóvel fez-se o drama
De repente não mais que de repente
Fez-se de triste o que se fez amante
E de sozinho o que se fez contente
Fez-se do amigo próximo, distante
Fez-se da vida uma aventura errante
De repente, não mais que de repente
Vinicius de Moraes
solução: c a r r a p i t o
é! é! por estas, aquelas, plim e por outras é que, desta vez, não corto o cabelo. acontece que... eu tenho aquela coisa do "vai ou racha", quando me sento na cadeira da cabeleireira salta-me a ordem "curto!". pronto. já sabem que não conheço meias-medidas. é melhor continuar com as mudanças de visual limitadas ao template. esta conversa toda porque, hoje, a caminho da terrinha, sou daquelas pessoas que se mudou para a cidade mas continua a ir votar a casa, pensava, alternadamente, "em quem votar?!" e "corto o cabelo, ou não?". de regresso, tentava esquecer o momento em que desenhei a cruzinha (sim, cruzinha, desenhei-a o mais pequenina possível). ser cidadã traz ao cimo muita das minhas dúvidas, mas eu sei o que não quero. não corto!
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hilarious keyword: p r e v e n t i o n
a Organização Mundial da Saúde, propõe que saúde não é somente a ausência de doença, mas o estado de completo bem-estar físico, mental e social do indivíduo. da pessoa. das pessoas. nossa.
Femme assise sur son lit, Jean Rustin
A respeitosa repetição
A respeitosa repetição
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Desenhas pedras sobrepostas.
Desenhas pedras sobrepostas.
Na aridez da tirania da metáfora
Animas a infertilidade.
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quartos duns filhos. fundo de gaveta. secreto segredo. confronto. distância. asfixia. existência dentro de rede. partida. partir. de partida. ficar. andar. arquivos sem opção delete. um penso rápido num qualquer lugar. específico. fora mais rápido. pois claro. (ainda não consegui ditar se a tradução de "broken flowers" é, de facto, "flores partidas".) castigo. matéria. sonhos. copos vazios. adentro. portas vazias. recolher. proteger. lugares seguros que a memória constrói na sua vontade.
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miscelânea de imagens dos filmes: # 1 e 4 - "La Stanza del Figlio"; # 2, 6 e 8 - "Broken Flowers"; # 3 - "Respiro"; # 5 e 7 - "Monster's Ball"; # 9 - "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind"
frases que nos fazem falta
« anda daí rapariga, vamos partir pedra todos juntos. tu fazes falta. »
vou pois! : )
the final countdown
agora. todos relógios meus apontam. aquele dia. cronómetros em acção. mantenho um metrónomo à minha beira. não esquecer o ritmo. tenho medo. dizem as frases que impõem respeito*. que o medo. é indicador da coragem. aguardo. ao descerrar a cortina. lavar dali as minhas mãos. por ora. tentar desatá-las.
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photo
a verdade é que estou cagarolas que nem uma... sei lá... que nem uma cagarola...
[ Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest. ] [ I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought ]
Eloisa to Abelard
In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.
Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand — the name appears
Already written — wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.
Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.
Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.
Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.
Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee.
How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.
Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.
Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.
Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.
Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.
Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake — no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.
For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.
Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.
What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.
While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!
No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!
See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
"Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say)
"Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."
I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.
Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.
May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"
From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.
Alexander Pope
.
.
.
In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.
Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies:
O write it not, my hand — the name appears
Already written — wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.
Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.
Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.
Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.
Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee.
How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.
Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.
Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.
Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n,
Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am'rous charity!)
But why should I on others' pray'rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.
Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget.
But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.
Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake — no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.
For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.
Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.
What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear,
With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.
While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!
No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!
See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
"Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say)
"Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here."
I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.
Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.
May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,
"Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!"
From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.
Alexander Pope
.
.
.
... gals tend to get romantic sometimes .
Tears, Man Ray
complicadíssima teia
às vezes, estamos num local público e apetece-me pôr de pé, em cima de uma mesa, como se de um palanque se tratasse, e dizer:
- esta é a menina-alice,
que procura «apagar os porquês. para evitar as certezas.»
gosto dela.
grata pela atenção dispensada.
desenho de autoria de William
a 19 de Janeiro de 1923, nascia o poeta cuja mão se fez marinheiro
Improviso na Madrugada
Húmido de beijos e de lágrimas,
ardor da terra com sabor a mar,
o teu corpo perdia-se no meu.
(vontade de ser barco ou de cantar.)
Húmido de beijos e de lágrimas,
ardor da terra com sabor a mar,
o teu corpo perdia-se no meu.
(vontade de ser barco ou de cantar.)
.
.
.
.
Eugénio de Andrade
Eugénio de Andrade
(1923 - 2005)
bitch!
a margarete está em mode
[ espreita a net a cada 5 min enquanto está ao pc a trabalhar em fase deadline, diria quase buriedline ]
..
.
.
a margarete está amuada
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.
.
daqui a bocado, a margarete vai mazé bazar e beber uma bjeca
photos: Bruno Espadana
| post mode telegráfico | ] porque ideias soltas | voluntariosas* [ | sem partículas ligação lhes valham
sobre a elasticidade. parece-me. que. as bonecas. partem. as meninas. grandes. não. são elásticas. sim. sobre a resiliência. o espanto. sim. Elsinore. nascemos. com o cú virado para a lua. melhor partir? ok. por mim. falo. nasci. com ele virado para a lua. estico. espanto! espanto! partida sem saber?! todas estas palavras voluntárias para te desejar dias com vida, Carla de Elsinore!
* é favor não confundir com voluntárias
c² = a² + b²
estou triste. morreu o homem que me ensinou o Teorema de Pitágoras. morreu o melhor professor de Matemática. estou triste. nada mais sei dizer neste momento. oiço os ecos do giz dele c² = a² + b² e vejo-lhe o sorriso. adeus, professor Sarmento.
túmulo de Pitágoras
edit (13h18m): nas suas aulas. falava-se das coisas do tempo antes do 25 de Abril. quando o Sporting perdia um jogo, arranjávamos maneira da contínua nos abrir a porta da sala de aula para escrever o resultado do jogo no quadro, ele entrava e fazia ar de que aquele seria o dia em que lhe conheceríamos o mau humor. o professor Sarmento não era um professor palhaço, nunca precisou de o ser para ser amado por todos (ok, há-de haver por aí algum idiota com razões de queixa). o professor Sarmento não gostava mais das meninas que dos rapazes. o professor Sarmento era uma pessoa muito sisuda e sorria. o professor Sarmento contava a história do aluno morto em Coimbra, no tempo da PIDE. o professor Sarmento contava muitas histórias. explicava a Matemática. conseguia notas positivas em alunos repetentes. nunca tinha horas para mais um aluno em explicações - mas arranjava-se sempre um buraquinho no horário. o professor Sarmento virava-se para nós, após a explicação de uma nova matéria e perguntava "isto é bonito, ou não?", nós sabíamos que sim, que "é bonito", mas aproveitávamos para o contrariar. era assim. e, nem assim, seria possível dizer como era, quem foi o professor, quanto mais o homem.
estado do tempo em Coimbra
vento, chuva, muito vento e mais vento. sumo de laranja e tangerinas (ou serão clementinas?). óleo de alecrim a queimar. é Domingo. distraída nos planos deste 7º dia, preparei-me para a caminhada no Choupal, só quando tomava o pequeno-almoço de citrinos me consciencializei para o vento-chuva-tosse incompatíveis com tal passeio. porque é que esqueço sempre de guardar um frasco de mel para mim?
um dia de cinema Tarantino, é que era...
há pistas estreitas de animal ferido pelas paredes
onde terá começado a metalização da fala?
uma porta de alvenaria dá acesso
à eira de misteriosos e profundos limos
onde terei esquecido a cicatriz azul da escrita
uma flor invade os veios secos da pedra
incendeia-se antes de se diluir na poeira
onde terei dado de beber à melancolia da memória?
o sangue transmutado em raríssimo metal
faz do coração e das veias a possível mina
onde vibrará a selvagem luminosidade dos pulsos?
há pistas estreitas de animal ferido pelas paredes
dentro do sonho segui-la-emos ao amanhecer
onde se esconderá o diminuto rosto ainda vivo
insondáveis são as catástrofes da alma
e da loucura que já não nos prende um ao outro
que destino nos revela a mão sem linha da vida?
escuro o bater do tempo sob as pálpebras
e o terrível som da máquina de escrever
Al Berto
de «Uma Existência de Papel»: Os Dias Sem Ninguém (5), in O Medo
I'm sure my cat loves me more on Saturdays *
[ something warm ] [ something simple ] [ something cosy ] [ something safe ] [ somewhere ]
.
.
.
* don't even try telling animals don't love, I don't give a shit to that kind of knowledge
It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)
Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child's balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying.
Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool's gold mouthpiece
The hollow horn plays wasted words
Proves to warn
That he not busy being born
Is busy dying.
Temptation's page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover
That you'd just be
One more person crying.
So don't fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It's alright, Ma, I'm only sighing.
As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don't hate nothing at all
Except hatred.
Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Made everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It's easy to see without looking too far
That not much
Is really sacred.
While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have
To stand naked.
An' though the rules of the road have been lodged
It's only people's games that you got to dodge
And it's alright, Ma, I can make it.
Advertising signs that con you
Into thinking you're the one
That can do what's never been done
That can win what's never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you.
You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks
They really found you.
A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy
Insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not fergit
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to.
Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to.
For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something
They invest in.
While some on principles baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him.
While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society's pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he's in.
But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it's alright, Ma, if I can't please him.
Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn't talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony.
While them that defend what they cannot see
With a killer's pride, security
It blows the minds most bitterly
For them that think death's honesty
Won't fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes
Must get lonely.
My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards
False gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough
What else can you show me?
And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They'd probably put my head in a guillotine
But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only.
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child's balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying.
Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool's gold mouthpiece
The hollow horn plays wasted words
Proves to warn
That he not busy being born
Is busy dying.
Temptation's page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover
That you'd just be
One more person crying.
So don't fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It's alright, Ma, I'm only sighing.
As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don't hate nothing at all
Except hatred.
Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Made everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It's easy to see without looking too far
That not much
Is really sacred.
While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have
To stand naked.
An' though the rules of the road have been lodged
It's only people's games that you got to dodge
And it's alright, Ma, I can make it.
Advertising signs that con you
Into thinking you're the one
That can do what's never been done
That can win what's never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you.
You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks
They really found you.
A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy
Insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not fergit
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to.
Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to.
For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something
They invest in.
While some on principles baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him.
While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society's pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he's in.
But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it's alright, Ma, if I can't please him.
Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn't talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony.
While them that defend what they cannot see
With a killer's pride, security
It blows the minds most bitterly
For them that think death's honesty
Won't fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes
Must get lonely.
My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards
False gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough
What else can you show me?
And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They'd probably put my head in a guillotine
But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only.
Bob Dylan
I want this dream to become true
e, à medida que me banhava no mar, a água não me provocava frio, o contacto do ar na minha pele não me provocava frio, e a areia, a areia também não me provocava frio. estava certa da possibilidade de estar só naquela praia que nem era minha, era só uma praia. nem era só uma praia, tinha dois braços laterias, feitos de rocha, num acordo de cessar desconcertos com o vento.
banhava ao meu ritmo, sentia felicidade.
algo, eu, podia ser um peixe. podia ser uma peixa. ou, tão só, esta mamífera que deseja conhecer águas quentes.
acordada por estas águas isotérmicas ao meu corpo, na madrugada, dentro da caixa que é uma casa simpática, a solução imediata para o enigma a longo prazo: banho de imersão enquanto ainda não se ouve o alvoroço do elevador do prédio. o gato a reclamar pela casa no seu miar "não são horas de me transtornar as rotinas felinas". sem frio. bom dia.
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