Me et altri

(very soon, one of these days, I’ll be able to mix all the feelings coming from different perceptions absorbed through different media… for now it’s all pastiche or probably my longest post)

TEXT

It’s 23.54h of an average rough Friday evening.
And outside is steamy hot.

I take a deep breath

And heat invades me.

Heat all over my lungs and my thoughts.

It is not complete solipsism.
There is good people around.

I sit. I have a drink. I sit.

There is music.

The music says: passé, passé, passé.
I say: l’avenir, l’avenir, l’avenir.

~~~~~~~~~~

MUSIC

the silence of a quiet evening... dark birds behing the scene, fly above imaginary trees. silence is broken by the flapping of their wide timeless wings. oh, and a voice singing: "passé, passé, passé", whispering: avant que l'ombre...

~~~~~~~~~~

TEXTART

Mes jambes suivent la marche
Elles continuent
Elles n'ont aucune peur


~~~~~~~~~~ [waves of silence]
oh, l'avenir comme une fleur
comme des mots annoncés
en forme et couleur de feau


~~~~~~~~~~ [feel the tune, feel the rhythm, feel the beat. of silence]

il y a un soleil qui me montre
un cotê radieux
Sur l'ombre il n'y a que de l'ombre ombre ombre ombre

l'ombre de mon corps qui avance.

~~~~~~~~~ [shadow in light, light in shadow]

je laisse une marque, des impressions permanantes. Sur la peau de mon paysage, j'étais toujours savant. J'étais toujours un paysan.

how I met Clarice

| "In the doorway", Andrew Wyeth (1984) |


the story of the books I call mine can be extreme and diverse.
at times, it is a story of personnal discovery, adventure and pure "chasse", amidst the dense forest (arid savannah?) of poor literature true words' lovers find in bookshops today.

i am fortunate to have grown up in a home inhabited by books and cultural references. knowledge came always first. it still does.

i am happy to be made of that very same substance of my ancestors, who treasure the heritage of the text (no, we are not stuck in time, and are very aware of its revolutionary new forms and facets).

but the sweet and sour smell of pages is a pleasure we indulge ourselves in. continuously.

but this post is about how I met Clarice.

| i am deeply sceptical about bestsellers and readers' hysteria.
so when i initiate a query
or a process of ontological search
trying to reach in books a form of complementing myself
i normally look back. yes, i look back |

this time the pleasure of words happened to be discussed with a friend.
Ju introduced me to Clarice Lispector. She saw an exhibition at São Paulo's Museu da Língua Portuguesa.
"A Hora da Estrela", Ju recommended to me. Pain was all over Clarice, she said.

And within me I felt a terrible urgency of rescuing Clarice from such pain. I had to do it, by reading her words.

It wasn't easy, I must confess. Up and down Lisbon's hills I tried to find Clarice.
I finally found her in a single bookshop. It is not "A Hora da Estrela", but "Uma Aprendizagem, ou o Livro dos Prazeres".

I found Lóri, the character, at the doorway of existence.
What could be better than reading her cross it? Que profundeza. Que profundidade.

"Uma das coisas que aprendi é que se deve viver apesar de. Apesar de, se deve comer. Apesar de, se deve amar. Apesar de, se deve morrer. Inclusive muitas vezes é o próprio apesar de que nos empurra para a frente. Foi o apesar de que me deu uma angústia que insatisfeita foi a criadora de minha própria vida." (C.L.)

A espera morde

Rodas dentadas consomem e acompanham o ranger de dentes
que a passagem lenta do tempo instala
na boca dos que desesperam frente ao quotidiano

dias de sabores férreos surgem no horizonte de amanhaceres contínuos
(repetíveis, por isso façamos "fastforward")
auroras breves vêm e vão
ficam, por vezes
(para estas, façamos "replay")

ah, lamento fútil, inútil
não é nada, face aos que têm nas mãos a ferida
insistente e dolorosa do diário sangrento da subsistência

cardos na alma
cardos na alma
cardos nas mãos
espinhos de onde a rosa perfeita brota.

percorram as minhas mãos o espinho e o cardo
que a Rosa que brota
me bastará.



| "Christina's World", Andrew Wyeth (1948) |