terça-feira, dezembro 24, 2013

meta metáfora - os cuidados da época

Sandy Skoglund, "Walking on Eggshells", 2003. Installation
A Natal torna a cidade irritável e explosiva.  Ninguém quererá admitir que o Natal são só as prendas (detesto a palavra "presentes") ou que é apenas a celebração da paz e do amor. Todos se sentem culpados e dividos e ansiosos pelo fim - estranhas pessoas somos nós... Época de pisar ovos.

sábado, dezembro 21, 2013

Solstício de Inverno

Tira o teu sorriso do caminho
Que eu quero passar com a minha dor
Hoje para ti eu sou um espinho
Espinho não magoa a flor
Eu só errei quando juntei minh´alma à tua
O sol não pode viver perto lua
É no espelho que eu vejo a minha mágoa
A minha dor e os meus olhos rasos de água
Eu na tua vida já fui uma flor
Hoje sou um espinho no teu amor

" A Flor e o Espinho", Nelson Cavaquinho

sexta-feira, dezembro 20, 2013

Oh to be Gilda!

When they had the earthquake in San Francisco
Back in nineteen-six
They said that Mother Nature
Was up to her old tricks
That's the story that went around
But here's the real low-down
Put the blame on Mame, boys
Put the blame on Mame
One night she started to shim and shake
That brought on the Frisco quake
So you can put the blame on Mame, boys
Put the blame on Mame

They once had a shootin' up in the Klondike
When they got Dan McGrew
Folks were putting the blame on
The lady known as Lou
That's the story that went around
But here's the real low-down
Put the blame on Mame, boys
Put the blame on Mame
Mame did a dance called the hoochy-coo
That's the thing that slew McGrew
So you can put the blame on Mame, boys
Put the blame on Mame

quinta-feira, dezembro 19, 2013

nobreza e vaidade

Querer ser nobre ou fazer actos nobres parece uma vaidade.
Podemos querer ser melhores, analisar e rever constantemente os nossos actos e pensamentos e tentar responder ao mundo com um pouco mais de sabedoria.
Mas fazer isso para ser nobre não é uma vaidade?  Se somos tudo isso, logo fazemos tudo isso porque nos sai naturalmente, porque não podemos fazer outra coisa. Se fazemos actos nobres para ser nobres, não é uma vaidade?
E então se já somos nobres é porque isso é preexistente, é a nossa natureza. E não é isto igual a um desígnio divino como queriam os reis e os nobres?
Em latim,  "nobilis" é "conhecido, famoso, excelente, superior, de nascimento superior".
Mas é interessante que venha também de "gnobilis" - "conhecível", ou seja, de um certo "que vale a pena conhecer", por um acidente de nascimento ou pelos actos não sabemos.
Quando fazemos "actos nobres", quantas vezes não será para sermos "conhecíveis"?
É ridículo querer um "título" de nobreza, mas não é mais ridículo ainda dizer que se é nobre "por nascença"? E querermos mostrar que somos nobres pelos actos ou pensamentos,  não é igualmente ridículo?

terça-feira, dezembro 17, 2013

Living in a glass menagerie

notas encontradas com a imagem:
She says she is the sister and she is the brother.
Couldn't bear when she saw him break. But before the fracture how could he know that if she's was also the hidden glass piece?

Holidays at home

notas encontradas com o recorte:
It's was always like holidays, funny thing... Days out of the ordinary days that never became days like any other days. Now it's terribly silent - it would be ok if she was alone. She can't bear the sadness of others.

segunda-feira, dezembro 16, 2013


"Que es mas macho.
pineapple o knife ?
let's see. My guess is that a pineapple is more
Macho than a knife Si! Correcto!
Pineapple es mas macho que knife.

La segunda pregunta: Que es mas macho
lightbulb o schoolbus?
Uh... lightbulb?
No! Lo siento. Schoolbus es mas macho que lightbulb
Gracias. And we'll be back in un momento.

Ah desire! So random So rare
And everytime I see those smoke rings
I think you're there.
Que es mas macho staircase or smoke rings?

Get the blanket from the bedroom
We can go walking once again.
Down in the boondocks
Where our sweet love first began.

Ooo I'm gonna follow you.
Out in the swamps and into town.
Down under the boardwalk
Track you down. "

notas encontradas com a letra: 
How stupid it is to say "fight for what you want"...? Or "don't be a quitter..."
but, of course, this comes from the woman who always drops first round

Robert Creeley, what have I made you into

Yesterday I wanted to
speak of it, that sense above
the others to me
important because all

that I know derives
from what it teaches me.
Today, what is it that
is finally so helpless,

different, despairs of its own
statement, wants to
turn away, endlessly
to turn away.

If the moon did not ...
no, if you did not
I wouldn’t either, but
what would I not

do, what prevention, what
thing so quickly stopped.
That is love yesterday
or tomorrow, not

now. Can I eat
what you give me. I
have not earned it. Must
I think of everything

as earned. Now love also
becomes a reward so
remote from me I have
only made it with my mind.

Here is tedium,
despair, a painful
sense of isolation and
whimsical if pompous

self-regard. But that image
is only of the mind’s
vague structure, vague to me
because it is my own.

Love, what do I think
to say. I cannot say it.
What have you become to ask,
what have I made you into,

companion, good company,
crossed legs with skirt, or
soft body under
the bones of the bed.

Nothing says anything
but that which it wishes
would come true, fears
what else might happen in

some other place, some
other time not this one.
A voice in my place, an
echo of that only in yours.

Let me stumble into
not the confession but
the obsession I begin with
now. For you

also (also)
some time beyond place, or
place beyond time, no
mind left to

say anything at all,
that face gone, now.
Into the company of love
it all returns.

Robert Creeley, i could not touch you

I have come far enough
from where I was not before
to have seen the things
looking in at me from through the open door

and have walked tonight
by myself
to see the moonlight
and see it as trees

and shapes more fearful
because I feared
what I did not know
but have wanted to know.

My face
 is my own, I thought.
But you have seen it
turn into a thousand years.
I watched you cry.

I could not touch you.
I wanted very much to
touch you
but could not.

If it is dark
when this is given to you,
have care for its content
when the moon shines.

My face is my own.
My hands are my own.
My mouth is my own
but I am not.

Moon, moon,
when you leave me alone
all the darkness is
an utter blackness,

a pit of fear,
a stench,
hands unreasonable
never to touch.

But I love you.
Do you love me.
What to say
when you see me.

Robert Creeley, A form of Women

notas encontradas com o poema:
She told me that we turn to poetry believing that in finding the words, we find the whys that appease the anguish -  what a burden to put on poets! she said. The whys are not revealed, the whys are the poison we inflict ourselves, the trick question, the cul de sac.  We turn to poetry to learn how to pose different questions, in the process we find pieces of mirror, another lonely hand, a voice that resembles the one buried under the lump in our throat. 
The woman could have written Creeley's poem, except that she couldn't. the woman could have touched the man, except that she couldn't.

domingo, dezembro 15, 2013

Robert Creeley - all you say you want to do

All you say you want
to do to yourself you do
to someone else as yourself

and we sit between you
waiting for whatever will
be at last the real end of you.

—Robert Creeley, from “Anger.”
notas encontradas com o poema:
8 days after and still not tomorrow
That woman on the bus wonders why would anyone want to stop time.