Para um amigo tenho sempre um relógio esquecido em qualquer fundo de algibeira. Mas esse relógio não marca o tempo inútil. São restos de tabaco e de ternura rápida. É um arco-íris de sombra, quente e trémulo. É um copo de vinho com o meu sangue e o sol. António Ramos Rosa
trazia a bicicleta
pela mão. era alto e franzino. o corpo tão leve fazia com que, ao andar, os pés
não chegassem a tocar no chão. usava uns óculos, pequenos e redondos, que escondiam
uns olhos muito azuis e um olhar tímido. ia devagar de um lado para o outro do
paredão da praia. por vezes, com a mão a proteger-lhe os olhos cerrados, parava
para fitar o horizonte como se procurasse alguém ou alguma coisa que estivesse
para chegar. apesar de ser um anjo, não se lhe viam asas. talvez estivessem
escondidas debaixo da camisa grossa de xadrez azul. ou talvez não as tivesse.
a princípio não o
vi. era a bicicleta que denunciava a sua presença, passeando sozinha, para lá e para cá, ao longo
do paredão. mas, pouco depois, uns sons suaves que
pareciam vir do mar, iam-se tornando mais nítidos até eu perceber que era a sua
voz. e essa voz deu-lhe um corpo e uma camisa de xadrez azul.
falou-me dos
desenhos que via nas nuvens e de como o faziam sonhar. pediu-me que mergulhasse
para que, através da minha pele, pudesse sentir o prazer de se entregar à
vontade das ondas. disse-me que tinha perdido a conta aos dias que por ali andava. corria o paredão em conversa com quem ali passasse e o quisesse ouvir, sempre à
espera do mesmo comboio. aquele comboio que passava e nunca parava na estação.
por vezes deixava
de o ver. o corpo desfazia-se na espuma das ondas, deixando para trás a voz
doce e a bicicleta. e depois reaparecia de novo, como se nunca tivesse partido.
vinha aí de novo o
comboio. as ondas abriram-se para o deixar passar. um enorme pedaço de ferro
surgiu furioso por entre as vagas, desafiando-as, rompendo-as. cada vez maior à
medida que se aproximava do ponto da praia onde estávamos. trazia consigo um
vento gelado que que nos enchia o rosto e o cabelo da espuma e das algas que
vinham do mar. e o meu anjo, tirando os óculos, despediu-se de mim com um
sorriso e um aceno. agarrando a bicicleta com uma mão e esticando
entusiasticamente a outra, preparou-se para partir. era desta que o comboio
parava e o levava para o destino desejado.
mas aquele comboio
não parou. passou por nós destemido e desafiador para pouco depois desaparecer
no horizonte.
o meu anjo tirou os óculos do
bolso e, enquanto os limpava à fralda da camisa de xadrez azul, fitou-me com os
seus olhos pequenos azuis e, sorrindo, perguntou:
...keep on laughing, keep on loving, keep on caring, keep on hearing the music, keep on working, keep on dreaming, keep on dancing, keep on feeling amazed, keep on playing, keep on reading, keep on rocking, keep on living, keep on growing, keep on sharing, keep on learning, keep on enjoying life, keep on being wild. May i keep on feeling grateful for each new day that is given to me. j
"all of our days are numbered.we cannot afford to be idle.to act on a bad idea is better than not to act at all. because the worth of the idea never becomes apparent untill you do it.sometimes this idea can be the smallest thing in the world;a little flame that you hunch over and cup with your hand and pray will not be extinguished by all the storm that howls about.if you can hold on to that flame,great things can be constructed around it,that are massive and powerful and world changing.all held up by the tiniest of ideas(...)this shimering space where imagination and reality intersect,this is where all love and tears and joy exist.this is the place.this is where we live".
no regrets and in love with life. so grateful to everyone that has held my hand throughout the years. may we keep shining. may we be filled with love and beauty... and may we always hear the music. j
"It doesn't happen all at once - said the Skin Horse - you become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don´t matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
“A few times in my life I have had moments of
absolute clarity. when for a few brief seconds the silence drowns all the noise
and I can feel rather than think. and things seem so sharp and the world seems
so fresh as though it had all come into existence. I can never make these
moments last. I cling to them but like everything they fade. I’ve lived my life
on these moments. they pull me back to the present and I realize that
everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.”
correste a dizer que o dia vinha às portas da saudade. e cobriste de mil cores as varandas da cidade. a cantar enrouqueceste mil canções feitas à toa. dançaste todas as ruas embriagadas de Lisboa. leste os clássicos do tempo como toda a novidade e a sonhar adormeceste no prazer da liberdade. inventando mil amigos, esquecendo velhos perigos. acordaste em sobressalto do teu sonho meio ferido. dos confins do pesadelo, no limite dos sentidos. soçobrado na ideia mais ou menos dolorosa que te negavam medonhos os teus planos cor-de-rosa. e na fúria dos enganados, na febre dos desvalidos, na razão dos maltratados entre abraços desabridos. no delírio prematuro...ainda foste forte e duro... roda a espiral da história entre as garras da agonia. diz adeus, ó meu amor, que eu hei-de voltar um dia. e deixo-te uma palavrinha para te lembrares de mim... Fausto Bordalo Dias
she walked the streets at nightfall, no coat, barefooted, just letting the rain soak her through. men and women, hurrying home, touched her accidentally as they rushed by. crowded streets was what she looked for. all she had to do was to slightly stretch her arm out. just enough so that she'd feel a hand rubbing against hers. through the rain the flashlights of the cars were smudged into different shades of yellow and red, sometimes interrupted by someones body under an umbrella. she didn't really like umbrellas. they covered people up. coats and shoes did too. on some nights her feet would hurt badly. some abandoned piece of glass on the sidewalk happened to be in her way. abandoned people would get in her way too, but that didn't really hurt so much. as the streets became silent and scarce she´d take a turn on a chosen street. she'd go into a dark alley. those where accidents happen. she new she'd find someone just like her. no story, no past. no words. just a soaked shadow in the rainy night with an arm stretched out so that, maybe, it would touch her hand. just a silhouette without a coat on, without an umbrella and with scars on its feet...
"will i see you tonight? on a downtown train? where every night it's just the same, oh! baby. will i see you tonight? on a downtown train? all of my dreams, they fall like rain on a downtown train..." j
"he poured it in her ear, the idea of him on top, slowing time down to enter her, convincing her that everything would stay between them, with his back to the air and her bottom on the mattress, their motions surrounded by the smell of love and fabric softner. she wanted him behind her, a position of trust, tossing aside suspicions of what he might do behind her back and how easily he could hide who else he might be thinking of. but he did not want to look over her shoulder, he wanted to be in her eyes, moving his hips in slow-clock wise rotation, making the cold stone expression on her face crumble. she'd been wearing her countenance that way since the first day they met, after one lover refused to stay inside her and another was so indecisive, she was forced to mount the problem and dominate. but no more. and she cried because he did everything he said he would do to her but when he was finished, he did not leave." Quentin Huff
"after all there are such things and these are the things who'll turn your memories back into dreams again. oh! it's all flying and waving for you to keep trying. you're so close... all the returns one of these days...one of these days..." Ricky Lee Jones
sleeplessly embracing butterflies and
needles line my seamed-up
join encased in case i need it in my stomach, for
my heart chain mail hunger of the pine sleeplessly embracing yawn yearns into me plenty more tears
in the sea and so you finally
use it bedding with me you
see at night your heart wears
knight armour hunger of the pine i'm a female rebel sleeplessly embracing you realization grew on me as quickly as it
takes your hand to warm the cool
side of the pillow i'm there for you,
be there for me i'll hum the song
the soldiers sing as they march
outside our window hunger of the pine i'm a female rebel sleeplessly embracing you
une immense espérance a traversée la terre une
immense espérance a traversée ma peur alt-J
rows and flows of angel hair and ice cream castles in the air and feather canyons everywhere, i've looked at clouds that way.
but now they only block the sun, they rain and snow on everyone. so many things I would have done, but clouds got in my way.
i've looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down and still somehow, it's cloud's illusions I recall, i really don't know clouds at all.
moons and junes and ferris wheels,
the dizzy dancing
way that you feel as every fairy tale comes real, i've looked at love that way.
but now it's just another show, you leave 'em laughing when you go and if you care, don't let them know, don't give yourself away.
i've looked at love from both sides now, from give and take and still somehow, it's love's illusions I recall,
i really don't
know love at all.
tears and fears and feeling proud, to say "I love you" right out loud. dreams and schemes and circus crowds, i've looked at life that way.
oh but now old friends they're acting strange, they shake their heads, they say I've changed. well something's lost but something's gained, in living every day.
i've looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose and still somehow, it's life's illusions I recall, i really don't know life at all. Joni Mitchell
"i sometimes feel like an alien creature for which there is no earthly explanation. sure i have human form, walking erect with oposing digits but my mind is upside down. i feel like a run on sentence in a punctuation crazy world and i see the world around me like a mad collective dream, an endless stream of people move like ants on the freeway. cell phones, PC's and digital displays. in money we trust, we'll find happiness, prevailing attitude. like a genetically modified, irradiated big mac that's somehow symbolic of food. morality is legislated, prisons over populated, religion is incorporated. the profit motive has permeated all activity. we pay our government to let us park on the street and war is the biggest money makers of all. we all know missile envy only comes from being small. politicians and prostitutes are comfortable together. i wonder if they talk about the strange change in the weather. this government was founded by, of and for the people but everybody feels it's like a giant open sore. they don’t represent us anymore. and blaming the president for the countries' woes is like yelling at a puppet for
the way it sings. who’s the man behind the curtain pulling the strings? a billion people sitting watching their TV in a room that they call living. but as for me, I see living as loving. and since there is no loving room
I sit on the grass under a tree dreaming of the way things used to be. pre-industrial revolution. which of course was before the rivers and oceans and skies were polluted. before parkinsons and mad cows and all the conveluted cacafony of bad
ideas like skyscrapers and tree paper and earth rapers like monsanto and dupont had there ways as they continue to today. this was pre-us. back when the buffalo roamed and the Indian's home was the forest and god
was nature and heaven was here and now. can you imagine clean water and food and air, living in community with
animals and people who care? do you dare to feel responsible for
every dollar you lay down? you're gonna make the rich man richer or you're gonna stand your ground? you say you want a revolution, a communal evolution, to be a part of the
solution...?
Maybe I’ll be seeing you around…..” Woody Harrelson
(...) To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour (...) in Auguries of Innocence by William Blake
sufocada pelo cimento, pela altura dos
edifícios, por aquele cheiro da cidade. deslocada…desfocada… os olhos procuram a
vida no meio do caos. entra no carro e acelera. é urgente sair dali. uma voz chama-a para a floresta. tens que vir... não esperes
mais... não adies mais... o cimento e o barulho vão ficando para trás. pára o carro.
não vais precisar mais dele. corre, corre…tira as sandálias. os pés
descalços batem com força no chão. a erva pisada liberta um cheiro familiar. e
a cada salto começa a rodopiar e os rodopios levam-lhe o vestido, soltam-lhe o
cabelo. corre, corre…não esperes mais – sussurra a voz que a impele para a
floresta. o corpo solta-se largando camadas de pele, pele da cidade, pele
cinzenta de cimento. por leves instantes olha para trás. vê-se em mil pedaços
espalhada pelo chão. coisas que foi deixando pelo caminho. corre! não olhes! e os braços atiram-na para o ar, apontam para o céu, viram-se e tomam
a direcção da montanha que a chama. com o vento fresco vem o cheiro a terra. sente a maciez do musgo e das folhas
debaixo dos pés. e a voz que a chama diz-lhe que não pare. nua,
corre entre as árvores. sente o bater do coração. o pulsar da floresta. respira!… deixa que ela te transforme. uma dor aguda atravessa-lhe o corpo. grita.
hesita… tem medo… olha para trás. grita cada vez mais alto. deixa-te levar,
liberta-te. não hesites… não podes! sabes que te esperam. sabes que o que ficou
para trás já se perdeu no tempo. há muito tempo... j
"an idea comes - and you see it, and you hear it, and you know it...we don't do anything without an idea. so they're beautiful gifts. and i always say, you desiring an idea is like a bait on a hook - you can pull them in. and if you catch an idea that you love, that's a beautiful, beautiful day. and you write that idea down so that you won't forget it. and that idea that you caught might just be the fragment of the hole - whatever it is you're working on - but now you have even more bait. they come, more often than not, in small fragments..." David Lynch
"This garden that I built for you, that you sit in now and yearn. i will never leave it, dear, i could not bear to return and find it all untended. with the trees all bended low. this garden is our home, dear, and I got nowhere else to go. so bring it on, bring it on, every little tear, bring it on, every useless fear, bring it on, all your shattered dreams... and I'll scatter them into the sea, into the sea. the geraniums on your window sill, the carnations, dear, and the daffodil... well, they're ordinary flowers but they long for the light of your touch... and of your trembling will. ah, you're trembling still and I am trembling too. to be perfectly honest i don't know quite what else to do. so bring it on, bring it on, every neglected dream, bring it on, every little scheme, bring it on, every little fear... and I'll make them disappear. so bring it on, bring it on, every little thing, bring it on, every tiny fear, bring it on, every shattered dream... and I'll scatter them into the sea." Nick Cave
"getting close by going far away. going far by staying here. to the kind of place where loneliness is travelling best. leaving ill and well alone. it all fails...all fails. let the clock strike upon this resting hour. for now...for now...leaving point depair, leaving point hope. getting lot to find a way back home. getting back by letting go. make another fall in the flow of things. and death is just a breath away, but so is life. saying this, but knowing not which scares the most. for now...for now...leaving point despair, leaving point hope. whatever worry running through the veins. when you go, we go. whatever worry, raise the flair. when you're there, you're there. getting close, abandoning point home. leaving point despair. looking up from the rush of things in the point of life that is now. a point of life...for now." Thomas Feiner
"that music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning, yet long untaught i did not hear,
but now the chorus I hear and am elated,
a tenor, strong, ascending with power and health, with glad notes of daybreak i hear,
a soprano at intervals sailing buoyantly over the tops of immense waves,
a transparent base shuddering lusciously under and through the universe,
the triumphant tutti, the funeral wailings with sweet flutes and violins, all these i fill myself with, i hear not the volumes of sound merely, i am moved by the exquisite meanings,
i listen to the different voices winding in and out, striving, contending with fiery vehemence to excel each other in emotion;
i do not think the performers know themselves - but now i think begin to know them." Walt Whitman
naquela manhã de Novembro acordou diferente. respirou fundo. quase que podia sentir que o corpo já não lhe pertencia. invadiu-a uma euforia, talvez como aquela que, quando da beira de uma falésia, se toma a decisão de cair para o vazio. respirou. com o corpo tomado pelo coração, corria nele uma energia que estranhou por já não a sentir há tanto tempo. deixou-se ficar longamente debaixo do chuveiro, respirando. não há pressa quando sabemos que amanhã já não vem. escolheu uma roupa confortável e quente. lembra-se que estava um dia frio. saiu de casa com uma lista imaginada de tudo que queria fazer e uma lucidez tal que, quem se cruzasse com ela na rua e lhe olhasse os olhos, quase poderia ler o que ali estava escrito. correu as ruas, de tarefa em tarefa, como se debaixo dos pés, a guiá-la, estivessem uns carris que só a deixassem ir por ali. e respirou. estava muito consciente da respiração. o ar frio de Novembro entrava-lhe pelas narinas, chegava aos pulmões e transformava-se num líquido quente que partia a aquecer o resto do corpo. ao cair da noite, já em casa, trancou a porta. lembra-se do prazer desse gesto. de se fechar ao mundo. de ficar inacessível, incomunicável. respirou e sentiu-se livre. tão livre que de novo sentiu aquela euforia da manhã. como se o tempo tivesse parado ou já não se medisse por horas, minutos ou segundos. porque o tempo é diferente quando sabemos que amanhã já não vem. e o coração bateu mais forte. estava a chegar a hora. respirou. pôs a tocar a música escolhida, acendeu dezenas de velas e, na calma da noite, escreveu um pequeno bilhete. corria o risco desse bilhete lhe alterar os planos. mas tinha que o escrever. e não. não havia planos para alterar porque só existia aquele. não cumpri-lo implicava voltar para aquele sítio escuro de dor e pesadelo, implicava voltar para aquela rotina insuportável e louca, implicava um grande nada. não. essa possibilidade estava completamente fora de questão. das últimas coisas de que se lembra é do telemóvel a tocar ("Sou eu. tenho tantas saudades tuas. sabes? liguei-te porque estou a ouvi-lo em directo na radio. está a tocar a nossa música!") e do adeus. e o corpo quente a desfazer-se. a viajar no espaço. leve. tão leve... j
"i am blinding. autoluminescent. i am white heat. i am heaven sent. i was a nightmare but i'm not gonna go there, again. into the black hole, the house of no contest. make mine a meteor. rise me above the rest. i'm soaring through outer space. there is no better place to be. i'm bigger than Jesus Christ. i'm greater than God in light. i am dangerous. i cut like the sharpest knife. i'm going nova and i hope i can hold her, in. into the darkness, i gave away myself. slipped on the spiral stairs, tumbling down the well. i fell on a soft spot. i'm white heat, i'm white hot. again..."
foi numa tarde quente de Agosto que te vi pela primeira vez. como já era hábito, passeava sem rumo por Paris. aventurei-me por ruelas escondidas, refúgios de amores proibidos e de revoluções sonhadas. ao chegar ao Sena, avistei a livraria. encantou-me o nome gravado a dourado na fachada verde e amarela. encantaram-me os livros empilhados em caixotes à porta e a pequena esplanada. entrei à procura de um livro e acabei por me perder pelas estantes e pelas frases escritas nas paredes. pegaste-me na mão e levaste-me pelas escadas acima. pedi-te um livro e tu ofereceste-me um chá e viagens. lá em cima moravam memórias e anémonas bravias. falaste-me do teu avô e de Tânger. daquela janela com vista sobre o Sena, perdemo-nos nas ruas do Cairo procurando por Melissa nos bordéis e nas casas de ópio. naquela tarde quente de Agosto, levados por uma corrente quente do golfo, descobrimos as costas de África. pelos ventos fomos levados para o deserto onde escrevemos palavras intermináveis na areia. ao cair da noite, debaixo das estrelas, ouvi-te dizer que o amor era apenas permitido às mulheres que primeiro se entregassem ao mar e às árvores. naquele dia quente de Agosto, daquela janela com vista sobre o Sena, ouviram-se gargalhadas e tangos, passos de dança e promessas. j
