Monday, December 20, 2010

pro menino que amanheço hoje, e não escureço-noite-sem o meu amanhã

No desuso das frases todas – que não dizem. Com agonia de horas que ponteiam – mas não chegam. E prossigo em relógio incansável de um dentro nosso, já tão nosso meu-dele, uma querência de estar no então de um silêncio-nós, e num arrazoado de sensações pra além, que a gente encontra muitas vezes sem ter com que. Não bebo. Não como. Não rio-discurso-rio que faz troça ou que maldiz. Nem me farto enquanto isso-aquilo-outro aciono ruindades. Não pratico atos vis. Lembro apenas que sou (d)ele, ele (m)eu, nós sendo na fluidez de imaginaturas que não provisionam contratos assinados, filas de espera, coroas que etiquetam cabeças apenas perdidas de encantamento e, por isso, precisam enfeites.
Sei  tanto, desconheço o que não vejo razão de precisar, tenho-o muito meu. Fomos desfazendo escuridão-mundo, vagueando claridade-mulher-homem, palavrando sentidos pro que não se. E então fazendo telhados de pertencimento. Desses que sobrepujam tetos, vão tijolando afetos, dando isso tudo – que é muito, que já foi pra perto de terceiras infinitas margens-rio – num discurso-nosso que. Instiga. Destitui arruinamentos-vida. Metaforiza. Beija. Acarinha. Sonocaptura sonhando dias com. E noites com. 
Mudei então de mim? E talvez pra longe. Estando perto agora – muito. Eleeu roseia em mim o que não de há tanto. Maravilhamento é pouco pra dizer o indizível das coisas todas, os sentidos muitos que ele já. E vem. E chega, sorrateiro, me pondo em. Me tirando o chão repondo-o adiante com.
Um silêncio prometido, esperado, contemplado-já, mesmo à distância-ainda. Mas junto dele. Eleeunós incrível que tomou-toma conta agora de mim. Cuida de parte reservada de mim. Desconserta. Mas discursa rios em mim, cheios de. Pela pedra veio ele, e hoje me educa de sentidos-rios, todos em discurso-nós. Somos. E há palavra pouca que ele não tenha dito de mim pra mim que não me faça hoje de mim pra ele. Dele pra nós, a gente sendo.
Menino que amanheço hoje. Apois que entardeci ontem. E anoiteço sempre. Nãos e sins, medos e opiniães, não temo o dia de menino-meu. Creio que ele não também, e de menina-menino-nós. Somos. É o que. E o que vejo. Agora uma saudade, dele-nós. Que um silêncio prometido, esperado como a um dizer sem palavra-contorno, encontra agora, eu de frente pra tela que me, e me desmonta agora, e me refaz inteira. Pro silêncio-nós. Que não diz, sente. Pressente. E não precisa fazer nada além de teadorar-adorando-a-gente.

Friday, December 10, 2010

sentido avesso alucina o pêndulo

termino...............................................  a hora
me indispõe.........................................  o avesso
o duplo...............................................  volta
e não................................................... cesso
o gosto................................................  tapo
e vejo.................................................  o tempo-ausência
esquiva..............................................   ausência
e......................................................... maldiz
meu tato.............................................. o termo
instaura...............................................  distância
e eu.....................................................  para onde
sem.....................................................  demora
sentido................................................  em transe
que despreza.......................................  a parte
disposta..............................................  a minha
maldita................................................  insana
imagem..............................................  torta
que despreza...................................... o gesto
remoto................................................  e ela
arruína................................................  a casa
o medo...............................................  ignóbil
da não-resposta...................................  que faço
obscuro...............................................  engano
fora....................................................  a outra
e eu....................................................  pendência-coisa
de um tempo......................................  agora
saídas.................................................. lacraram
desdém...............................................  a chave
de um canto.......................................  o peso
sem rosto...........................................  flutua
o dela.................................................  que cresce
o medo...............................................  a réplica
que.....................................................  demora
o além................................................  no chão
cimento..............................................  oco
que alcanço........................................  enjoo
da não................................................  palavra
sem peso............................................  a face
inerte..................................................  confunde
o zelo.................................................  e eu
me mostra..........................................  o muro
que choque.........................................  ingrato
a procura............................................   coisas
não vejo.............................................   violo
variam...............................................   passos
e a não...............................................   resposta
desenlaço..........................................    o sonho
sensores.............................................   espreito
e cego................................................   não deixo
desejo................................................   o olho
buraco...............................................   abaixo
que está.............................................   fechado
e ela...................................................   agora
silêncio..............................................    sem dedo
a hora.................................................  afasta
sem cor...............................................  não vejo
o som.................................................  e sinto
a náusea..............................................  dilata
cadê...................................................  esqueço
a porta..............................................   não entro
despeço.............................................   a outra
não vem............................................   demora
mudei...............................................   de mim?

Sunday, December 5, 2010

elaeu

Sensação pouco fugaz a de melancolia. Titila. Invade. Pulsa ausência a cada olhar para o impossível. Para o que se desejou desejando ainda sem que. Num sopro ela toca o luto – talvez pela sutileza (ou dramaticidade) de ser dor que dilacera. Não lhe é, todavia, semelhante em essência. Em luto ficam às vezes uma vida os que perderam – pessoas, objetos, conveniências. Melancólicos, os que não tiveram, não os que viram algo se desfazer perdido na poeira dos dias nossos, de nós todos.     
A dor canalha – pungente em canto invisível de boca surrada, desvairada, fora de si –, eu a projeto melancolia. Não há como não. Dor que não se sente apenas. Que se vai agigantando, como se deste ou daquele buraco de fechadura – dali se veem saídas, sequer se abrem portas.
Piso agora o chão de asfalto da minha terra. Vejo mulheres e homens descabidos. Crianças com seus sapatinhos atômicos – olhando pra frente, elas não cirandam naquele jardim de piquenique enviesado da imaginação nossa – estão ávidas por se livrarem de mãos que mimam, ou estas de há muito não as ataviam mais. Telas que me estreitam, que me perseguem, que me cegam. Olhos que se desviam do espelho – as imagens impossíveis surram, e a claridade denota travessia sem. Um café com chantili, eu o tomo no bar da esquina – amargo, mas que me apetece sem que eu ainda tenha amanhecido a noite. Ou desistido da rota.
Vejo agora o ar denso da minha cidade. Embora lugar-dentro, montanhas e casarões e janelas de olhar dentro, aqui também o céu é intocável. Não permite vislumbre sem nostalgia. Não chama a gente pra perto. É adereço ilustre-desconhecido de uma cena modernosa que se enquadra inteira e não tolera excessos.
Bebo agora o veneno agridoce das minhas quedas. Que foram sendo assim, uma a uma emparedadas no silêncio dos esbarrões estrondosos que hoje guardo na minha vida-tela. Premente. Mas com impressão inerte. Míope até onde a vista mais quis enxergar. Surda. Estrangeira. Estéril.
Traço agora a ruína das minhas letras. E não a deixo em testamento aos que não cessam. Palavras todas me saíram no desaviso de uma inexatidão de vontades. Carrego hoje invisibilidade que não merece. Que não reclama. Que não desperta. Uma sintaxe que se agita. Mas que permanece inútil, incapaz, ignóbil, insana.
Adormeço. Inercio. Quando muito, cambaleante o meu passo. Os pés variando. Um atrás do outro, andando. E desfazendo as marcas de uma espiral-retorno. E seus processos automáticos. Sua sombra absorta, torta. Vejo. Toco. Destempero. Acordo dos meus sonhos intranquilos. Soslaio a janela entreaberta tolhendo a luz fosca dos meus todos pecados, filtrando os ruídos dos meus descompassos e das minhas incertezas. E cesso.
Aquela mulher não cabe em mim. Talvez me despreze. Não haverá encontro marcado. Muita luz; túnel estreito, miserável. Nada por combinar, por querer, por refazer. A OutraSeu nome pouco importa. Tanto menos as horas intermináveis, incansáveis, intoleráveis – ao longo das quais eu espero resposta dela pro que desejo; eis antecipadamente o que não. Deparo-a com frequência. E tudo recobro passar-se numa sala vazia de consultório médico. Beleza dela – gigante, proficiente, sinestésica – vai potencializando as paredes brancas, o examinatório branco, a cerâmica branca, o termômetro branco, as roupas brancas, o abismo branco – brancura que ainda assim me tira do eixo. E entre. Olhos dela me avistam com ambiguidade que nunca será desfeita. Não haverá sequer a intenção de uma pendência. Tampouco anúncio de expectativa-aventura. Não haverá o dia em que. Nem sutileza à espera de um rasgo. Nenhum ímpeto recairá sobre nós, mesmo diante daquela-ali-talvez sentença de morte certa. De que ambas nos damos notícia no vaivém dos dias desencontrados nossos. Não dividiremos a mesma casa. Não nos encontraremos para além daquele corredor de hospital frio. Sequer trocaremos mensagens outras senão as mesmas – distantes e sisudas, ensimesmadas na doença de uma nossa trágica compatibilidade técnica.
A minha mulher não cabe nela. Outros caminhos os que fiz pra chegar até aqui, ao meio, ao topo de um absurdo-tudo – eis o que nos desagrega. Como se a sobreposição de uma nossa própria imagem, personagem única de uma estória que teria muito pra ser incrível, mas que prevalecerá irremediavelmente inexistente, nunca pudesse. E, no de então mesmo, não pode. Poderá jamais – choque brutal contra o muro-vontade. Eu, inexata e vã. Ela, distinta fisionomia que vale o quanto pesa.
Acordo hoje e não sei como beijar ternamente essa Outra. Entranhada em mim. Dita e refeita por mim. Incongruentes – o que somos. Urgentes cada qual com seus traçados, com suas malícias, com seus cálculos. Passos que não convergem. Uma distância que não me fará lançar sobre ela intenção qualquer. Somos incompatíveis em pisar o chão-destino. Embora eu veja nela, sem nenhuma faísca de reciprocidade, uma chance de enlace. De despudor. De desvario com que se deseja um acerto qualquer.
Repimpo hoje, melancólica, um sorriso último de incapacidade. A Outra. Que eu mesma. Aquela. Que continuará estranha. Que não me convidará para. Que sempre será sem que eu. Mulher que não me cabe, e eu não me acomodo nela.
     

Saturday, December 4, 2010

sketch into a novel made of x elements — let us parent it together, reader? (part I)

Most writers would rather follow a real contemporary story. Narrative point(s) of view being cut across by inward descriptions ― streams of consciousness. Outside images from which concrete everyday scenes appear to come in a double movement ranging from deep to down. Who, what, when, where, why, how! Characters. Plot. External time, internal time-consciousness, or lacks of time. Setting. Conflicts and anticlimax. (Un)resolution. What a significant and praiseworthy effort of observation and elaboration!
How incredible — and unbelievable — this craftsmanship is! A course of successive events, ideas and thoughts as if in a lifelike stream. Realities being captured through attentive lens and immediately becoming distorted in some way. A reality in which ideas, aspirations, and objectives transcend, by their content, the universe of discourse and action. Correspondingly, stories by design! A narrator, or plenty of narrative voices, manipulating, stimulating person(a)s to “act out” according to this or that array; engaging them to dance to the music of any “tuneful/tuneless” orchestra, or to perform the functions one, the narrator(s), expects them to do…
And here we are, with our own story today. That is my proposition, dear reader! Indeed, a sketch into a novel made of elements you and I will pick up. Or just put together in some way — why not?
First Step (which may also be the last one): It does not matter whether our story will be in regard to how someone gets rich, or just bewitched. Whether there will be a sequential or a flashback/flash-forward storyline.
Let us recall for a moment that narrators can lead you inexorably by the nose to the final satisfying answer — detective stories, adventure and thriller ones can often use this format. Or they can be fit to tell how persons like you and me ought to bear up well (or just become more devastated) after an explosion of torment. Novelists, whatever they pick up to design their plots, can even turn most miscellaneous themes into a comfortable, tragic, grotesque or action novel, and so forth — it is just up to them.
Most reveal their expertise with letting readers redeem their stories, by working hard to craft brilliant descriptions of either a sunset or a crime, or a running away. Just to mention few possibilities! By doing so well on featuring their characters, who drive the story and do all the actions that propel the plot forward, these are writers of excellence. I am not! I am not supposed to be recognized as a successful novelist, a well accepted one. I cannot keep up with them — those well versed novelists. The image I capture from reality is just another. What is yours, my reader?
With or without distortion, from here, this briefness I believe that I am encapsulated in, the mirror’s hollow is covered. Even by fair means or foul, I cannot reach the inward portion from the outward that I used to be trusted into the spotlight as a thing of art. And so for it, sometimes what unfolds in my fictional pages may be a chronological narrative conveyed by a single representative image. Or just a series of them, coming away and back. Usually it will be a combination of both. But it will most likely be an intense experience that seems to take you out of time, yet persists and resounds in the bottom drawer of personal memory. Echoing through the ages — imaginary or not.
Sometimes, I admit, life comes crashing down around me, for reasons that are not clear or existent at all. When it happens, it is really hard to distinguish the limits between the character and the actress I have created for not getting lunatic. But don’t worry, reader, if there is no hint of either a triumphant or a reputable novel herein, we can make the conjecture that we both will introduce something made by images of folly and sorrow. Not only that: we can feature an alternative to go on dreaming without overstepping or losing remainder sanity; which may point to the need to bear up against most ruins after all. 
Let me recapture: we cannot write a novel lacking of account. It has to be about something. Something to tell. Or just something absent. Ramshackle. With upshot or full of uncertainties. Who will decide, you or me? There must be a literary framing — for sure. And a fiction — or just any (un)reality — from the deep down, that needs to be told. After all, things and every one can be told, yet you intend to do it to heal some life injury or suggest a more enlarged way to look around and ahead, focusing on the other, on what you are really doing — not putting the case, because it does not really pay...
Right! At this point I am making you, reader, hesitate! It is intentional. Do you really believe that this novel we will try to make up together herein, right now or never more, can be over the top? At least, an absurdity, a nonsense?
It is perfectly natural that we feel like running into each other in some incapacity. So if we, myself and yourself, the narrators of all the decision-making on these pages (I invite you, reader!); in short, if we lose the key to open the “magic door”, there will be no reason to wander, no key to unclose the fiction-reality gateway. So let us at least try out!
Confused? Are you perplexed, reader? Exhausted, tortured, weakened, harassed? Or just lightheaded? What do you really feel when you look around and ahead? — and I’m sure that, trying to respond or at least ask yourself, you will not fancy me mad! This quest(ion) makes sense! Outside we burst in; inside we conk out. Or would it be quite the contrary? In a minor default someone pulls you down, even if you are not able to remedy it or pay for your own mistakes — imaginary or not. Almost no one gives a damn! And suddenly you stay away from your life, which becomes incredibly without texture. What I mean is — it’s undeniable! — there is an interspace between what is falling down and what could just be. That is the world we live in right now, don’t you think so? This coincidence — the interspace between ruins and expectancy — you can hunt out in the novel form. A misshapen abyss without frame. Which you can just describe, by chance or in some lapsus of extrication. We, the narrators, exchanging the focus of this novel, sometimes letting emerge Melinda, others your own narrative point of view, we really do not know in what stage of this trip one can find their private and necessary answers. Neither if anyone can find them here. That is just an attempt to bring in a way that makes our readers reject agreed answers. Isn’t it a great beginning? And we’ll try our very utmost to show them that we can do something. There is a route! Is there?  

sketch into a novel made of x elements — let us parent it together, reader? (part II)

To know how to do — that is the key! Appeal, hateful, or just the key? I allow you to have no answers, my reader. And maybe you are looking forward to a rope that throws you out, being impossible to reach anywhere. Or you can really wish to become comfortable with your own clumsiness to finger your demands. The fact is, our story is coming out, with hesitation, unexpectance, whatever!, but also with softness, generosity and mutual understanding — in special when you branch out to exchange experiences and blends Melinda’s perceptions in with life-art surroundings. By what clearer we are so up to announce it by that better it will be — our story will be ready unfold in flashbacks, and flashbacks within flash-fowards and stream of consciousness. Besides, with a variety of contemporaneous implications and deviations — from letters, mini-essays and rough versions of screenplays to all sort of reminiscences that verges on memoirs — as though we sort through the events that lead us a pathetic and blocked place, sometimes alienated from those we love or detest. That is only inevitable.
In this contemporary world, such as the critics prefer name our reality, made by machines, spotlight, celebrity, torment, social differences, wars, not confusable celerity, anguish, and the monster of conformity, in this context the words submerge, they almost do not breathe, tic-tac, tic-tac, brevity, modernity, the present and the future. Most things that can really touch us are strongly drake nowadays — that is our astonishment. So that is our block. And the words through which we comprehend everything, these words are perfectly tuned to our frantic times. To those upward selves. To all enginery invented to drop bits of glass inside us, which cut without breaking.
Blindly, there is no reason to be afraid of, reader. Getting in touch with the other and with a strange and perturbing reality is not so frightening; it brings us around and gives us some lucidity. At best, it is really impossible to figure out the world without becoming disappointed, especially because we are surrounded by lots of focuses which have already been distorted.
Oscillation? Is there any kind of oscillation in my current words? All the time! Everything that we have already planned mixes our dreams up. And we become aware of what we just did not acquire. So our story — this is only one of myriads of possibilities — also broods over how the trappings of globalization do little to further intimacy and shorten distance at the same time. Isn’t it — and all the rest — a kind of ambiguity, hesitation, oscillation? To advance this tense ambivalence, our story may be ready to make selective use of noir elements: it forsakes fucked-up men, deeply-shadowed streets, the exciting yet caustic world of moneymaking, lots of violence, but retains fondness scenes, ambiguous relationships and bountiful mood lighting. The result may be a sort of existential query that belongs to us at all, but is definitely surrounded by a concrete background.
Digressions! All these first digressive lines are indeed an important part of our story, the one we will try to make up together — just in case you accept my invitation, of course! If we cannot comprehend, by a double movement of coming forth and back, the realm created by us will not be as touchable as propitious to our supposed intent. If we cannot comprehend the characters of our own disgrace, ready to be marked herein and with this or that color; if we cannot comprehend their invisible works, how then in their inconceivable thoughts, that call our story into being? And if we cannot comprehend us in our own objective creatures, how then in their substantive moods and phases of creation?
In short, we have a task before and behind us which must be speedily performed. And both we know that it will be ruinous to make delay. The most preponderant crisis motion of our lives calls for immediate energy and action. There is no prompt answer! We need to start off. Let us do it in some way from now on, after all! Are you ready to enter the forest of our own bifurcated fiction?

Sunday, November 28, 2010

somos o que não somos – é essa a dor canalha que dilacera?



Conheci dia desses um cara. Quer dizer, conhecer – levado à sola da letra, ou à ponta do termo – não conheci. Fui descobrindo na sintaxe dele algo muito além do rés-do-chão. Ou – o que me pareceu tanto mais interessante – palavras dele saindo de um pavimento de concreto-asfalto, portanto chão, e se tornando imagem, também imagem-chão.
E foi virando ideia fixa. Desde o início da semana. Em meio a um sem-fim de coisas por fazer, tic-tac do cotidiano abafado – e imprevisível – em que a gente residua, querendo ou não (eis um luxo que não nos cabe), foi virando ideia fixa passar sempre por uma galeria de palavras das quais eu ia dando notícia, de mim para mim, dia-após. Um equador das coisas. De coisas. Palavras hediondas. De um cara que se diz também hediondo. Equatorial no jeito de entranhar as coisas e de se deixar ensimesmado com o que extrai dessas mesmas coisas. Pudera! Uma escrita sem linha. Uma sintaxe que vai fluxoconscientizando dali, sendo esse ali um equador de coisas ou propriamente o chão.
Uma vigésima parte qualquer de um texto qualquer – foi o que eu li primeiro. E foi também o que eu mais pressenti não saber explicar. “Somos urgências e o nosso tom é de morte”. Ou de vida que só se definirá no ato mesmo-foice que, sancionado, poderá então sancionar. “O nosso tom é de morte”. E talvez o vício nos caiba mais do que um nome. Ou um lugar. Somos, afinal, urgentes. Os vidros dos carros, os faróis, cinemas e supermercados, homem depois de homem, semáforos, compromissos, mãos que apertam e surram, tudo isso nos vem descendo e entranhando, ainda que em (conta-)gotas. E em tempo que aos outros soa hábil. Ou não.
O que não somos, Germano-Equador-das-Coisas, é o que nos faz ser. E desfazer. Encontrar no que não foi dito uma sanção escamoteada – de morte, que seja! – ou ações que resvalaram sem dar o ar da sua desgraça nas páginas dos livros de tim-tim que nos fazem descer goela abaixo, naquela-ou-nesta faculdade de louros e letras.
Sentada nesta cadeira, de frente para a tela, aqui as letras suas entranham, ainda que. Expelindo coelho do que não sou, ou do que sou em demasia, de costas para o que não tenho, as coisas suas – equatoriais – aqui se se estranham, explicam para cegar, confundem e cegam. Mas é cegueira branca. Melhor dizendo, é transparente, sem ser isso ou aquilo que as pessoas acham por bem classificar. Foi o que me fez hoje, uma vez mais, ler texto-novidade seu. O de então sobre o cinema. Com o qual concordo discordando, porque assim vejo mais graça de começar a prosa, ou de encerrá-la por aqui mesmo.
Quem sabe um dia, sem sermos sócios de homens de negócios, tanto menos bartolomeus ou ptolomeus, não vamos dar nos atalhos de uma Vie Américaine, nos sobrados de um The Dreamers, nas trincheiras d’El Ángel Exterminador ou no enclaustramento absurdamente branco daquele 1,99-supermercado-que-vende-palavras?
O que não somos é, de fato, o que nos faz desfazer.   

Thursday, November 18, 2010

to want a love equals living in such Ali(n)e's Wonderland — material for a sketch into a screenplay made of Ali(c)es

First Rubric (for the Screenplay Segment) Aline was beginning to get exhausted of having nothing do think but wondering how someone like her — gorgeous in her singular redheadness, sensitive, talented in teaching foreign words for non-foreigner strangers, mother of a handsome little boy, and so many other qualities she could recall from her imaginary memory, or from those personas of her own fictional realm; how could someone like Aline — she was then wondering about — feel so wholly absent from love, from a person she had been dreaming with all over the years and the one-and-only who could show her the beauty of life, the slow motion of all those trees in her Wonderland field, its yellow sky, its fresh air, its blurred boundaries between chocolate lakes and lettuce rivers — how?    
Second Rubric There was something very remarkable in that. And Aline was so triumphantly ready to get into it, to puzzle out — across that imaginary field in essence — how to have a love in her current gloomy, transitory existence.  
Third Rubric It was a drizzly morning encased in some rain made of  music, with birds singing up the melody of a good fortune and a little rabbit taking a watch out under the eastern hedge, when Aline noticed that someone like a harlequin just jumped out the page of that book she was reading, while wondering about her solitude… 
First Scene
Alice
Don’t despair, sweet lady!
Love is just like a mess
It comes out and about
Like trembling words in your mouth
And when you see it’s absent from your path!
Aline
Oh! Sweet Alice!
You come from a so wonder land
Made of dreams, fancy and fairy rites
How could you just puzzle over
The edge of my inward fights?
Alice
You are right, dear Aline!
I come from so further lands
With embodied creatures, not real human friends
But I know about this love, I know about this mask
I know about it all
So much you can’t imagine!
Love you can feel when smile or dance
When you see your child jigging or shaking hands
Love is also within everything special you share
With anyone else who enchant your own path
How can you say then so geek nonsense
When you, dear Aline, are a pocket of love, yourself?
If you want a love, I advise you since then
There’s no secret, no hint, no handicap, no pain
No exclusive route, no evanescent sand
But myriad of doors and windows
Waiting to be unfolded and claimed!
Aline
Oh! Sweet Alice, you’re enlightened, but feel so mad!
Don’t you see that I can love but no one wants my bed?
People are so distant, they’re so intricate
So unwilling to reach me, to love me there
In my unreasonable deep-down puzzles and quests
In my failures, in my kindness
In my wishes, in my disrepair
Either in that long-standing peak
That made me here so insane
There’s no one able to listen
Not even a person with who I can share my lands!
I want a love making me stronger
Making me here and there wholly happy
A dancer, a magician
A clown making me laugh
A stranger, a teacher
A trapper or any “von Pair”
I want a love set in red
Set in green, set in blue
Somewhat willing to love me
In this or that mood!
Alice
So I tell you by advance, sweet
You should prepare yourself
You want a perfect love, a fire — limpid
A person, a sublime, and someone who cares
But not even this enlightened, kind person
Won’t be exempt from someday making you tear
Get ready to look around, to look ahead
Pick up that love just crossing your way
Invite it to dance, and laugh, and clap
But don’t be sad if it someday wants you to disclaim
This person is like you, waiting
To live, to love and to share
To be encapsulated, to suffer, to be bleeding
Your love feels always a beautiful pair
Someone I see in your future
From your present or from your past
A person you know a lot, you know a little
Your love is on your own head!
Aline
I know, sweet Alice, that I have to cross this meadow
From day to night, from sunset to dawn
If I want to find my light, my bright shadow
Otherwise I’ll see only the same of that I’d drawn
I need first to open my window
And believe there’s someone not frightened to love
So I’ll open the thousand doors of my kingdom
With no discredit that I’ll receive this one
I’ll have a love with no hindrance
I’ll have a love who wants to love
Not to hold off, but to enlace me
A person who never leaves me alone
A fighter, a machinist
An athlete making me run
A writer, a theorist
A poet creating for me the sun!
Alice
Oh! Dearest Aline!
I see I can leave you now
You’re ready for this challenge
And nothing else will break you down
But I can’t go without telling you
That your pair can be back or forward
Regard! It’s longing, it’s waiting for you
Your love mirrors you towards!
 

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

to Margo (@Margo79)




I have always written to become invisible. To refuse believing that all we need are things, documents attesting our existence, degrees scaling positions that are not existent at all but a delusion on the part of this or that one. It equals looking at reality without pretending its unity as a condition to its beauty; looking at the other —  whomever it is — without wry smiles or smarmy self-importance; and being sure that we do not have to pulse in synchrony, as though we share the same beliefs or have the same interests.
Becoming invisible by the very act of writing means also refusing all the technical resources for the armed struggle, the machines dictating rules, the dominant corporate market, the terms of deprivation, the imposed one-sided look (of mistrust) at those improvident brothers and sisters, the celebrities into spotlight, the “red carpet”, and all that life’s forward motion that makes us feel so drowning by brands.
In any event, I write to die away myself. The deeper I go along my characters, their secrets and personal failures, the more distance I keep from a “desirable” visibility those — who are in the position to write our histories, control our present, and forecast our future — insist to recreate and indoctrinate us in, as if reality cut across the image and likeness of their own preponderant logic, that means we just have to keep up with all the “necessary” delusions — created to forge our own responses to reality — or with pseudo-needs being imposed to reinforce the image of a way of life considered to be tuned to our own affairs…
I have always written to disappear. To look at and have empathy for those deserted men and women with nothing to show but their frightening, waving existences; those homeless people, the garbage men, the construction workers, the chauffeurs-driven limousine, the freelancers, the cleaning guys, the laundresses, the waiters, the black and white and yellow and blue ones with their exhausting journeys…
If there is something that cuts across all our realities it is love, the bridge between all our differences. So becoming invisible by the act of writing means this is the one-and-only way I figured out all over the years to refuse tearing down that wondrous bridge. To look at the other and realize there is much more that meets my eyes. To walk on a crowded street made of concrete pavement trying to go beyond the asphalt itself, and looking around and over that aggregation of men and women restless in their movements, with their gestures of impatience, endurance, from pusillanimity to resolution, upright or misled into their everyday connections…
This is what I especially believe we are so up to capture from our own transitory lives and immediately convert into language, even though things are not all so tangible and sayable as people usually have us believe.
One of the most precious things I have learnt by reading literature, by having literature and arts in general so close to me all over these years, and making an effort to understand that strange power coming from the words of fiction, is one of that I have just learnt from Rilke, the poet, that talented and sensitive alchemist of the words: indeed, “most experiences are unsayable, and they happen in a space that no word has ever entered.” But every word we express for not refusing black lies and one-sided answers, every single word that makes us recognize that our mysterious existences endure beside our own small, ephemeral life is a word of generosity to the others. A word, in short, being so about to make us share with, feel with, and contact with humans being humans ourselves…
My invisibility does not even echo the opposite sense of showing off itself. However, this is a way to wake up in the early morning, breathe, leap forward, look around, get out of the bed, and not go nuts when we face so much turmoil, so many excruciating events, so many arbitrary decisions in the world we just live in right now. This is especially a way to convert all this into love. Although it seems such an invisible love springing from an invisible person who writes to disappear, it is a feeling that guides me throughoutas I try to transform any of my zigzagging words into the intention to carry myself and other persons — whatever! — on to realities down the lines, in-between, and on to a broader endeavor to perceive of, grapple with, and quest our multi-faceted reality.
When I write to become invisible, to continuously have that splendid impression that I am finding myself transformed into an invisible woman (with no external traces, no fingerprint, no profile(s), no degrees, no remarkable positions, and whatsoever!), I just intend to reach persons or personas, from this or that realm, those who do not feel like they are in the position to make their interests prevail over all the other ones’; who act as if they can be brothers’ keepers; those who have a hope for humanity that we thrive and strive to provide everything necessary to everyone…
And so for it, I write this one to a very enlightened, special woman who I do not even know in person (yet)… I am sure she feels invisible in this sense I also do. Weird the fact that we have only corresponded with each other virtually? No, definitely not! Every single sweet word she writes me is so ready to be considered to enhance my own shot against the world’s greed, corruption and selfishness… and rich and enriching as to show me that we are visible in this life not by design, but by Love.
MARGO, Margaret Kargbo — this is her name, soft and beautiful as I see her, notwithstanding from a far-away place. I also feel passion in your words, dear Margo! I also look forward to our paths crossing one day. And I especially grow more invisible in words and in my deep-down feeling of tenderness, love, and affection for the others when I see you here and there, supporting Persons. Artists, creative ones, lost ones, unbacked...invisibles. Almost everyone turns into invisible souls ourselves, as if we do not have voice, choice, hands, throat, fingers, sweat, eyes; not even some active role in running their general affairs. But then, kaboom: we just do; you show us that we just do. You believe in humanity this way, and that's more than magical, rare, ineffable...
Margo, the enchanter! Margo, the sweetest! Margo, the one who will never spoil our amazement...even in front of a brutal world. And Margo, who always makes me feel like I am coming home!
I bow to your superior sensibility, dearest. And I hope you like my zigzag words of love to you.
With all my admiration,
Carol.

______________

P.S.: With much-much sadness, I knew this week of Margo’s passing. I'm not going to change lines, phrases, paragraphs from this text I wrote for her almost five years ago, when we met, even though there are myriad other words for me to say about her, our writing-each-other-letters-messages-what’s-more-for-fun-and-joy social-engaging motion, her universe of smiles, generosity, and (com)passion. This beautiful photo of her was inserted today, 05/26/2015, as I missed her very adamantly and sincerely, and just thought of her, and come over to ask all of my friends, readers, partners, acquaintances, dear ones…to support her: http://www.gofundme.com/v5anj8. Thank you!  


Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Karnak's 'Nome das coisas' (The Name of Things)

Hello guys,
After a long period of time without posting here, I need to say that I really want to share something so special with you.
Well, you all know that my deep-down intention is to spark the interest of everyone in Brazilian art. But not in this type of “art” (automatized) that most reaches the audience here and abroad, I mean, that art the yellow press around the world diffuses through the means of communication — for example, somewhat similar in (awful) appearance and (horrid) composition to that one presented in US this year (September 5) at Brazilian Day in New York. This kind of “spectacle” (yes, it’s a spectacle, especially according to the terms of Guy Debord!) does not correspond to our first-line art… And Brazil, as I’ve ever told you, has so many wonderful artists and works of art that, in the best-case scenario, are not released. You can imagine why… So that’s my endeavor here: to try presenting you great artists and their great works.
Well, last Sunday I was watching TV, a good channel on our art, actually (Sesc TV), and, with great interest, indeed fascination, I figured out that a very, very great Brazilian band is coming along to our music scenario after some years the guys didn’t show up. I refer to KARNAK!
As tweeted a couple of minutes ago, I re-bring a video over here. That’s Karnak’s song ‘Nome das coisas’ (in English, ‘The Name of Things’). I hope you enjoy the video, the group’s performance, and help me in some way to spark the interest of as many people as you can…
I also bring you a free translation of the lyrics, just in order to reinforce my admiration for this special, beautiful, profound composition by Karnak, and of course to let you more into this.

The Name of Things

You and me
You and me

Names are given to things
Names are given to
Names are given to people
Names are given to

Names are given to things
Names are given to
Names are given to people
Names are given to

Names are given to Gods
into their wilderness heavens
Names are given to ships
into their wilderness seas
Names are given to diseases
into their wilderness sorrow
Names are given to children
into their wilderness love

You and me
You and me…


KARNAK's 'Nome das coisas' (The Name of Things)

Saturday, October 9, 2010

when I really search myself, it feels like I'm coming home (by Melinda)


Is it possible that a man—
cleaning the floor and dancing his pain
dressed in rag and submission
day by day timidly beckoning
those outside
rushing their wallets
up to the market
of their black-lie flights…
This man—
lost and promising
no variety of dress or ideas
solitaire in path of agony
with a dashing appearance
or whatever to the eyes of others
who parcel him out with care…
He, this deserted man—
with nothing to show
nor houses, nor lands
no fingertips in the end of his joust
exhausted
blind
covered with water
from his sorrowful overdue
no testament formally signed
as no bequeath to devise
and no one who cares…
This stranger—
in a world of strangers
and their blatant frauds
he, all by himself
no whim, a bad loan
bad manners learned every muggy trip
bound for downtown
and back to environs
the place he owns
without satisfaction
trembling voice, a faith in his hands
none but an ordinary person
who cleans the floor
keeping his comfortable position
in the dark
the only one up to him
when dawn breaks for him in hard…
That long-suffering peregrine—
with his long account to settle
living high upon a cliff
and falling prey to the ruin
he fit in with
planning and crying and moving his hands
frantically towards that filth
made by everyone who gets into
and out of the house
ignoring his presence
and leaving his forecast undone.
Does this man—
everyday-life losing esteem
by a rule of thumb
he has been told within
— have the same value
of a titled-triumphant acquirer vast?