Lóri e Ulisses

Lori diz a Ulisses: «Decifra-me, meu amor, ou serei obrigada a devorar. [...] Já duas semanas se haviam passado e Lóri sentia às vezes uma saudade tão grande que era como uma fome. [...] Comer-olhar as frutas da feira- ver cara de gente- ter amor- ter ódio- ter o que não se sabe e sentir um sofrimento intolerável- esperar o amado com impaciência- mar- entrar no mar- comprar um maiô novo- fazer café- olhar os objectos- ouvir música- mãos dadas- irritação- ter razão- não ter razão- não ter razão e sucumbir ao outro que reivindica- ser perdoada da vaidade de viver- ser mulher- dignificar-se- rir do absurdo da minha condição- não ter escolha- ter escolha- adormecer»

Clarice Lispector, Uma Aprendizagem

Entender

«Não entendo. Isso é tão vasto que ultrapassa qualquer entender. Entender é sempre limitado. Mas não entender pode não ter fronteiras. […] É uma bênção estranha, como ter loucura sem ser doida. É um desinteresse manso, é uma doçura de burrice. Só que de vez em quando vem a inquietação: quero entender um pouco. Não demais: mas pelo menos entender que não entendo.[…] Mas tenho medo do que é novo e tenho medo de viver o que não entendo - quero sempre ter a garantia de pelo menos estar pensando que entendo, não sei me entregar à desorientação.»

Clarice Lispector

Da rivalidade*

Os Holandeses a rezar e a ver passar navios (Portugueses)...

“Meanwhile we prayed (according to custom), asking the Lord for a blessed outcome and happy victory. The Portuguese, noting that they would be engaged again, hastily cut their anchor-rope, raised their topmasts and yard-arms, and (while we were busy raising our anchor) took course (with one of the other yachts) straight upriver until they ran aground. We followed them (…) [but] since our ship went too deep, it was not possible to come near her”[1]

---

[1] Cf. A Traveler in Siam in the Year 1655. Extracts from the Journal of Gijsbert Heeck. Barend Jan TERWIEL (transl., intr.), Silkworm Books: Bangkok, 2008, p. 32.

[* Podia ser Da Historia mas não, é Da Rivalidade]

Do castelo ao Tejo

moro numa graça já debruçada na mouraria, mas é pelo castelo que os olhos acabam por enveredar, quando a memória se transforma em bifurcação e labirinto. Depois, quando a cabeça se aproxima demasiado do peito e se torna febril, o olhar afoga-se por fim no Tejo, porque às vezes são horas de apressar o passo e adiar o pensamento.

Now or Never

Por sugestão do Bordado Inglês

Lisa Ekdahl & Peter Nordahl Trio
"Now or Never"

...It's got to be yes or no
It's either you stay or go
You can't leave me on the shelf
You gotta commit yourself
It's either you will, or you won't fall In love with me...

quanto ao meu ritmo de trabalho:

Plus ça change (plus c'est la même chose) !!!

stress

estou em STRESS, muito STRESS, é so STRESS

formula

Atiras-me com números, abstracções e teorias
fico calada a pensar na teoria do caos
e no bater das asas da borboleta
e que a vida tem significado lógico e não arbitrário

Notas, frases, palavras, números
misturam e criam a verdade da vida
Câmara lenta da acção desnecessária
Morres na estrada

- e eu fico a rir enquanto pedalo e me equilibro na bicicleta -

As coincidências puras acontecem.

was I?

...Well I said, stop, please, behave!
Well what's the use of breathin'?
He said, give
So I gave
After all, what was I savin'?
Am I glad?
Holy gee,
Have I had fun, you're askin' me?
Was I drunk?
Was he handsome?
And did momma give me hell?

rewind

Quero que corras atrás de mim
na floresta
Olhando a lua e os pirilampos cheios de luz
nas árvores

Molhamos os pés
- a água está fria no rio -
Perguntas-me quem sou
E vejo qualquer coisa no espelho

Largaste-me a mão
E fui com a água
again and again

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

			S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
			Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
			Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
			Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
			Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats	5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …	10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,	15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,	20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;	25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;	30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go	35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—	40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare	45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,	50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—	55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?	60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress	65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin? . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets	70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!	75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?	80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,	85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,	90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—	95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,	100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:	105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” . . . . .	110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,	115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …	120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.	125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown	130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T. S. Elliot

vistas do monte

Por razões mais gastronómicas que poéticas, ontem apeteceu-me ser pássaro por uns minutos, quando vi os pardais a regalarem-se na nespereira do meu vizinho. Que belas nêsperas!!!

Tom Waits

via Jaipuriano

para lembrar de vez em quando

"Esforços intelectuais mais complexos e mais intensos significam uma vida mais plena e mais rica. Significam mais vida. A vida é um fim em si mesmo e a única questão sobre o valor da vida é tirar dela o máximo proveito."

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.


[Vi isto num blog, mas já não me lembro qual... Faz-me sentido nesta altura.]

Isto é que é groovar

Sam Cooke

Maio longe daqui

Acordei com a manif na Place d'Italie. "Non, non, non, oui, oui, oui". Nao soavam a palavras de ordem, mas a um coro de meninas caprichosas. Parece que este ano os sindicatos se decidiram unir nas comemoraçoes do 1 de Maio. Nao soava a isso. Soava a um cortejo oficial, com o aval e bençao do Governo. Todos a circular pela esquerda e a pedir pardon pela direita, sem incomodar ninguém. E na foto do Libe, as reivindicaçoes demasiado superficiais e individualistas para serem levadas a sério. "Poder de compra e paz", como quem pede paz e sossego para o seu enorme umbigo. A França tresanda a burguesia e às vezes parece merecer o Presidente oleoso que escolheu. Têm o cu demasiado quente e demasiado longe do Maio de ha 40 anos.

Crash Test Dummies

Viva o dia do Trabalhador!...

daqui

About "vidas passadas"*

* LOL