Sunday, December 7, 2014

sibilant_cities_crosspieced



Song “One More Night” | Can, live in Paris (1973) 
Painting "Cookery Hall" (1987) by Leonora Carrington

Seven days perhaps She’s been wandering through constellations of scents. The whole city feels apparently lighted with the heat…of a grey sun…and empty. “Overcrowded minds”, One grins unabashedly on the bus, at a faceless window with its blowing-bubbles-in-the-air. There’s a corner up to the pattern of being…shattered. Yes, there is, can’t you see? Look! Or those only are eyes to grow in-between, so desirous of…, who wonders. Any shoes barely feel tired out here late at night, One inquires; “For they feel almost nothing.” A pigeon comes to get a few crumbs of anything over there as a Lily-Person hastens to fling herself at the red-blue-orange alley, that alley, the alley of her own fabric-color miscellany, what a flower(ed) reverberation! as if She’s…stroking. A texture, her language, what's less what's more, any (of her) destin(ies). Holding up the air. The air. At four past two, or twelve-twenty-twisting, no rain, much of a frenzied passage, underrated lenses every(else)where or just a mélange of purple, greens, clouds bringing about a reconciliation between couples right over there. How to learn how to do better? Inadvertently, the camera, enriching, that infrequent window depicted with such vibrancy; there stares up a lady in her yellows as Someone may gloat over her exhaustion. May it be. Scenes and imaginations come together, and embrace the eyes. The city, its circles, its cracks and deviations. Inviting-them. Many steps into many houses. Of mirrors. How to feel how to come closer? Tic-tac, coffee-tic, bread-tac, tic-tic, tic-tac. Ancient books would have missed the train whether came to clarify none-whatsoever’s. A slot through which an Other can be seen dancing naked, (pel)lucidly unembarrassed, how strange, how delusional, how radiant. A pair of red-cord shoes, cast-off, on the streets. Different (mentalit)ies, traffic lights, there She urges desire to do away with that crosswalk. Breakfast at eight, or seven, or nine. Doesn't matter, the most innate winds indwell. Very poetically. Fluidly. Flavors of a twilight of a love-making gorgeous stream. Up and down. And that room, as cloistered as vast, that room being so quixotically, vividly...delicious. The uniqueness of a taste. Oh, over there, right away: there are women having dinner or just trying to know other women from behind cold walls. Scenes of such contemporary coffee-bread, coffee-bread, the sad and a shame; there They pulse, They walk, They are. Inherent, strange, many Ones, many things, She resists, She surrenders, who really cares? Life. Being lived. The magic alleys with their extraordinary screams for life, the streets. Tantalizing, it is, to walk down those never-ending streets. Where a peasant plays clarinet and debussies his Clair de Lune. Very naturally. Or very painfully. Persons, signs, objects. That hat on a misfit's lap. A collection of asters and disasters over there, the streets, the alleys, galleries to look inside, wish upon, step into, gravitate towards, wish upon, wish. So many wishes. Such accumulation of stairs, coherences, dissonances, tints. Possibilities. As to once and for all unwind the pianist’s temperament and make him fly some horses. Really. And not by choice, nor at least, the whole city ends up feeling admirably...engaged. She stops by. Someone observes, as if taking part in, even wondering of. Also for her. Imagination often comes to those little boxes of evading herself, the culling-beans, the tossing-out-frivolities, the echoing-cliffs or tongues or yellows or lefts, and there she dances, cries, whispers, stumbles, what's more what's less, who takes the risk, elsewhere in the asphalt, that cold asphalt with having-no-luxury-of, "here on those or these" streets, who takes the risk? She does, She's in, (entanglement?) pure bliss. Someone comes to squall, or it’s merely the clumsy-like windmills unbuilding scenarios of resentment. Two blocks ahead, Mrs. A dampens Mrs. D’s enthusiasm, “No, don't be silly, it's simply impossible to spice this up, no, you can't, don’t you dare...” Cars, at that time, pitch in with circles of nonsensical theories and become misanthrope themselves, a cycle, a vicious. But then, and finally, and sigh... All these worlds, all of them. Complex sounds, polysemies…at (variance)s in a sense with traces dreamed in moments of fright and resplendenc(y). How intense, how delicious. All those worlds, ah...seven, eight, perpetual days and all these worlds, her worlds...within this avid coliseum of words. Of words. Her words. Her battalions of words sketching the infinite variation of embracing(s) to be shared, nurtured, relished. Exciting, enriching, her words, her castles of words, stories, passions, memoirs. Perspectives, dances, jumping-for-joy, on the streets, freely, inadvertently, no syncopated rhythm, Something so lovely, hers, so intimate, so beautiful. Intense, delicious-delicious, inspiring. Amid infinite possibilities to un-be, again another looking-glass to embark on. As She remains inadequate, adrift, for dear life, but what, who has the key? Incandescent honeyed smells. Sibyls. That inadequacy, impression-itself, is not hurtful, only beautifully strange. Brings dreams, hopes, and promises. Brings polysemies, art, wishes. Sibilant in here-and-there surfaces, instinctively in her manners of seeing the strange side of such a rolling-gait, focused, in a hurry, stumbling around, swirling, humming-and-swaying, getting lost, asking for clues, hints, for how to walk better those familiar avenues with admirable tranquility, She's now holding hands with the sibilant city, with her Dear-Honey-Lily, as in love as She gleams as She goes and She waterfalls in Dreams Once again. A handful of nothingness may be everywhere on the streets, that's how it goes, bien sûr, and there's no reason to feel un-okay with this. Every single where, as People keep playing cards, dice loaded, lov(ing) being for them not on the toc-toc-toc agenda, or what, anyways, anyways... For her, however, within her...embedded within her, Love equals but these castles of discoveries to be...unbuild. The very Experience. How to have it more delicious? Of wonderment, ah-the-Dream, of dancing and dreaming with, for her gratitude, immense, immense, such a Sibilant, this such a Thing has definitely a taste for her, even that, even this, there's on the air such...sibilant-city-being-crosspieced here, can't you see, with that seven-days-perhaps-She’s-been-wandering-through-constellations-of-scents, those scents, inexplicably pervasive, alate, elysian galloping-wor(l)ds of an exceptionally rare Honeybee...   

Saturday, December 6, 2014

O Equador das Coisas #4

jornal de literatura e arte


Em giros, um ano depois, e revigorados! Estamos novamente Equadores, aqui-neste número 4 que temos mais-que-honra de trazer aos que nos leem. E (se) (re)confabulam. Gostam de se embrenhar em páginas, palavras, folhas líquidas. Que vêm e vão, se evaporam, ziguezagueiam, mas permanecem — dentro. De muito que também — e que coisa!, isso do vigor/revigor, era o que eu dizia — parece mesmo é que tudo na gente “tem telescópios”, já poetava João Cabral de Melo Neto. Telescópios. Que espiam a rua, espiando a alma e até longe de nós uns mil metros. Te-les-có-pios. Dizendo do (re)vigor o que na gente pulsa tão intenso quando se vão tecendo manhãs de literatura e arte, em flor, aéreas, à deriva, indo livres de armação, em suas tênues teias — o mais importante. Que é pra desdobrar a gente, bem no sentido deleuziano de dobra, de umas tantas... querências. E de acreditamentos impreteríveis: que gentes... existam sempre as-que sonharão numa praia, sem saberem datas, fazendo seus aviões de ideias, suas horas de mistério... Mesmo suas janelas de dor.
Ah...! Com a tarefa — deliciosa — de vir cá editorialista-hoje, dou à estampa... que a gente retorna, neste 4º número, de vez pra sempre(s), e que agora nos vamos pensando semestrais, e que por conta dessa bem-boa reinauguração equadora tivemos a alegria de conversar com o escritor José Eduardo Agualusa, e que... minhanossa!, também foi sendo tanto (inter)(con)texto dessa vez, e de novo, que... enfins... o tal revigor vem é pra infinitar a gente de muitas bonitezas.
Nossas cinco editoras-convidadas participam com fatia imensa desse revigor gostoso, em toda a sua temperança. Eabha Rose, da Irlanda, abre pra nós este Equador muito brilhantemente com o seu belo conto, alquimista-da-palavra — ela. Iara Fernandes, nossa condessa-lis, é quem nos oferta um punhado bom de prosa com o escritor Agualusa. Isabela Escher, do Rio de Janeiro, nos poetiza em variadas tessituras daqui em diante, e pra já! Toni McConaghie, que apresento no “Brincando de fazer um quê”, é generosa-cá ao nos cachoeirar com incrível universo artístico de cores, traços, frestas e desvios. E a querida-bela Tatiana Carlotti vem de Sampa, e de novo em sempres, nos dizer da palavra, da escrita. Também ele, o grande idealizador-tudo deste bonito projeto-equador, Germano Xavier, nos convida (-adentro) (em) Beckett’s. E a poeta Karime Limon, eternamente poética, nos apresenta mais um de seus poéticos autores a serem apreciados e...e...e: Little Eagle McGowan.
Sara Rauch, Maita Assy, Marília Kosby e Carol Caetano são as encantáveis escritoras-poetas cujos versos e sons e texturas vêm pra sonhar a gente de literatura esplendor. Escrevem, ainda, cá-conosco Zé Alfredo, Paulo Cecílio, Rafael Kesler, James Wilker e Leonardo Valenti — êta-trato delicado com a palavra que dá mesmo gosto-além!
Vocês aqui conosco — com revigor, é assim que eu digo, em respiração apaixonada e agradecida! Nesta e até a próxima!