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)