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sábado, julho 29, 2006
Cântico Negro ; 9:24 da tarde


[I thought it was time for some local colour. José Régio was not Alentejano, but he spent most of his life here - in Portalegre, actually - which only proves he was a man of taste who could not help having been born in Vila do Conde, something we must forgive him for. :D)

"Vem por aqui" - dizem-me alguns com olhos doces
Estendendo-me os braços, e seguros
De que seria bom que eu os ouvisse
Quando me dizem: "vem por aqui!"
Eu olho-os com olhos lassos,
(Há, nos
meus olhos , ironias e cansaços)
E cruzo os braços,
E nunca vou por ali...
A minha glória é esta:
Criar desumanidades!
Não acompanhar ninguém.
- Que eu vivo com o mesmo sem-vontade
Com que rasguei o ventre da minha mãe
Não, não vou por aí! Só vou por onde
Me levam meus próprios passos...
Se ao que busco saber nenhum de vós responde
Por que me repetis: "vem por aqui!"?

Prefiro escorregar nos becos lamacentos,
Redemoinhar aos ventos,
Como farrapos, arrastar os pés sangrentos,
A ir por aí...
Se vim ao mundo, foi
Só para desflorar florestas virgens,
E desenhar meus próprios pés na areia inexplorada!
O mais que faço não vale nada.

Como, pois, sereis vós
Que me dareis impulsos, ferramentas e coragem
Para eu derrubar os meus obstáculos?...
Corre, nas vossas veias, sangue velho dos avós,
E vós amais o que é fácil!
Eu amo o Longe e a Miragem,
Amo os abismos, as torrentes, os desertos...

Ide! Tendes estradas,
Tendes jardins, tendes canteiros,
Tendes pátria, tendes tectos,
E tendes regras, e tratados, e filósofos, e sábios...
Eu tenho a minha Loucura !
Levanto-a, como um facho, a arder na noite escura,
E sinto espuma, e sangue, e cânticos nos lábios...
Deus e o Diabo é que guiam, mais ninguém!
Todos tiveram pai, todos tiveram mãe;
Mas eu, que nunca principio nem acabo,
Nasci do amor que há entre Deus e o Diabo.

Ah, que ninguém me dê piedosas intenções,
Ninguém me peça definições!
Ninguém me diga: "vem por aqui"!
A minha vida é um vendaval que se soltou,
É uma onda que se alevantou,
É um átomo a mais que se animou...
Não sei por onde vou,
Não sei para onde vou
Sei que não vou por aí!


~José Régio~

sábado, julho 22, 2006
There Was Once ; 9:18 da tarde



- There was once a poor girl, as beautiful as she was good, who lived with her wicked stepmother in a house in the forest.

- Forest? Forest is passé, I mean, I've had it with all this wilderness stuff. It's not a right image of our society, today. Let's have some urban for a change.

- There was once a poor girl, as beautiful as she was good, who lived with her wicked stepmother in a house in the suburbs.

- That's better. But I have to seriously query this word poor.

- But she was poor!

- Poor is relative. She lived in a house, didn't she?

- Yes.

- Then socio-economically speaking, she was not poor.

- But none of the money was hers! The whole point of the story is that the wicked stepmother makes her wear old clothes and sleep in the fireplace.

- Aha! They had a fireplace! With poor, let me tell you, there's no fireplace. Come down to the park, come to the subway stations after dark, come down to where they sleep in cardboard boxes, and I'll show you poor!

- There was once a middle-class girl, as beautiful as she was good.

- Stop right there. I think we can cut the beautiful, don't you? Women these days have to deal with too many intimidating physical role models as it is, what with those bimbos in the ads. Can't you make her, well, more average ?

- There was once a girl who was a little overweight and whose front teeth stuck out, who -

- I don't think it's nice to make fun of people's appearances. Plus, you're encouraging anorexia.

- I wasn't making fun! I was just describing.

- Skip the description. Description oppresses. But you can say what colour she was.

- What colour?

- You know. Black, white, red, brown, yellow. Those are the choices. And I'm telling you right now, I've had enough of white. Dominant culture this, dominant culture that.

- I don't know what colour.

- Well, it would probably be your colour, wouldn't it?

- But this isn't about me! It's about this girl.

- Everything is about you.

- Sounds to me like you don't want to hear this story at all.

- Oh well, go on. You could make her ethnic. That might help.

- There was once a girl of indeterminate descent, as average looking as she was good, who lived with her wicked -

- Another thing. Good and wicked. Don't you think you should transcend those puritanical judgemental moralistic epithets? I mean, so much of that is conditioning, isn't it?

- There was once a girl, as average-looking as she was well-adjusted, who lived with her stepmother, who was not a very open and loving person because she herself had been abused in childhood.

- Better. But I am so tired of negative female images! And stepmothers?they always get it in the neck! Change it to stepfather, why don't you? That would make more sense anyway, considering the bad behaviour you're about to describe. And throw in some whips and chains. We all know what those twisted, repressed, middle-aged men are like.

- Hey, just a minute! I'm a middle-aged -

- Stuff it, Mister Nosy Parker. Nobody asked you to stick in your oar, or whatever you want to call that thing. This is between the two of us. Go on.

- There was once a girl -

- How old was she?

- I don't know. She was young.

- This ends with a marriages right?

- Well, not to blow the plot, but - yes.

- Then you can scratch the condescending terminology. It's woman, pal. Woman!

- There was once -

- What's this was, once? Enough of the dead past. Tell me about now.

- There-

- So?

- So, what?

- So, why not here?


~Margaret Atwood~


the lazyness of me ; 8:56 da tarde



The blog's been dead for a while.

Sorry about that.

I'm a somewhat lazy sort of person - as most who know me will testify to - and I seem to suffer from some strange form of ADD that prevents me from being able to sit quite for five minutes and just write something brilliant and original. Or at all, for that matter.

Yeah, I know, hail a cab - that joke is getting downright old.


So I decided that in the absence of brilliant and original me - and modest, yeah, I've heard - I may settle for brilliant and original someone else.

Now, I'm not particularly happy with that solution - being the enormous well of self-awareness that I am - as I may tend to get a bit too confortable; but hey, there are no perfect ways to solve problems. Luckily for me, there are easy ones, though.

So hopefully this should give a bit more rhythm to the blog. Hopefully.

Stick around.

Peace.

sance

sexta-feira, julho 14, 2006
boys are such children ; 7:24 da tarde




A menina percorreu a sala devagar, pé ante pé, para não acordar o gato adormecido. A branca-de-neve sorriu e deu uma fita cor-de-rosa à menina. Mas a menina não era bem do tipo cor-de-rosa e já tinha uma maçã.

Muitas maçãs aliás.

A menina tinha um caixote de maçãs a que não sabia o que fazer.

Uma maçã por todas as vezes que tinha dito que não.

Uma por todas aquelas que tinha dito uma verdade que não o era bem, ou de todo.

Uma maçã por todas as vezes que não tinha feito coisas que de qualquer maneiras não queria fazer, mas que devia - ou assim argumentava a aranha.

A menina tinha um caixote de maçãs embrulhadas umas nas outras. Nem todos os jogos são divertidos, menina pequena, já devias ter aprendido.

A Senhora olhou para o caixote das maçãs e sorriu.

Tolos, todos eles.

Não aprendeste menina, e já não vais a tempo. Não adiciones maçãs novas, se não queres, mas as velhas não se desenleiam, só se enrolam mais no que seria um ridículo novelo de maçãs, se estas se enleassem num sentido outro que o figurado.

Suspiro.

Não há nada de verdadeiramente errado com maçãs, mas até as meninas pequenas e com caixotes de maçãs têm uma consciência.

De vez em quando.

.Self

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