Room within room © hyeyoung kim
2.11.07
29.10.07
27.10.07
24.10.07
20.10.07
16.4.07
6.9.06
De quem sofre ninguém faz caso
Mas fazer pouco já sabem.
Quando me contaram da loja BomPovo pareceu-me muito mal.
As pessoas também têm sentimentos.
Quando me contaram da loja BomPovo pareceu-me muito mal.
As pessoas também têm sentimentos.
30.8.06
Última hora
A Zazie tinha o "Mornings on Bourbon Street" e salvou-me gentilmente a vida ao postá-lo no Cocanha.
Obrigada, Zazie!
E agora, o poema.
«Mornings on Bourbon Street
He knew he would say it. But could he believe it again?
He thought of the innocent mornings on Bourbon Street,
of the sunny courtyard and the iron
lion’s head on the door.
He thought of the quality light could not be expected
to have again after rain,
the pigeons and drunkards coming together from under
the same stone arches, to move again in the sun’s
faint mumble of benediction with faint surprise.
He thought of the tall iron horseman before the Cabildo,
tipping his hat so gallantly towards old wharves,
the mist of the river beginning to climb about him.
He thought of the rotten-sweet odor of Old Quarter had,
so much like a warning of what he would have to learn.
He thought of belief and the gradual loss of belief
and the piercing together of something like it again.
But, oh, how his blood had almost turned in color
when once, in response to a sudden call from a window,
he stopped on a curbstone and first thought,
Love, Love, Love.
He knew he would say it. But could he believe it again?
He thought of Irene whose body was offered at night
behind the cathedral, whose outspoken pictures were hung
outdoors, in the public square,
as brutal as knuckles smashed into grinning faces.
He thought of merchant sailor who wrote of the sea,
haltingly, with a huge power locked in a halting tongue–
Lost in a tanker off the Florida coast,
the locked and virginal power burned in oil.
He thought of the opulent antique dealers on Royal
whose tables of rosewood gleamed as blood under lamps.
He thought of his friends.
He thought of his lost companions,
of all he had touched and all whose touch he had known.
He wept for remembrance.
But when he had finished weeping, he washed his face,
he smiled at his face in the mirror, preparing to say
to you, whom he was expecting.
Love. Love. Love
But could he believe it again?»
Tennessee Williams
Obrigada, Zazie!
E agora, o poema.
«Mornings on Bourbon Street
He knew he would say it. But could he believe it again?
He thought of the innocent mornings on Bourbon Street,
of the sunny courtyard and the iron
lion’s head on the door.
He thought of the quality light could not be expected
to have again after rain,
the pigeons and drunkards coming together from under
the same stone arches, to move again in the sun’s
faint mumble of benediction with faint surprise.
He thought of the tall iron horseman before the Cabildo,
tipping his hat so gallantly towards old wharves,
the mist of the river beginning to climb about him.
He thought of the rotten-sweet odor of Old Quarter had,
so much like a warning of what he would have to learn.
He thought of belief and the gradual loss of belief
and the piercing together of something like it again.
But, oh, how his blood had almost turned in color
when once, in response to a sudden call from a window,
he stopped on a curbstone and first thought,
Love, Love, Love.
He knew he would say it. But could he believe it again?
He thought of Irene whose body was offered at night
behind the cathedral, whose outspoken pictures were hung
outdoors, in the public square,
as brutal as knuckles smashed into grinning faces.
He thought of merchant sailor who wrote of the sea,
haltingly, with a huge power locked in a halting tongue–
Lost in a tanker off the Florida coast,
the locked and virginal power burned in oil.
He thought of the opulent antique dealers on Royal
whose tables of rosewood gleamed as blood under lamps.
He thought of his friends.
He thought of his lost companions,
of all he had touched and all whose touch he had known.
He wept for remembrance.
But when he had finished weeping, he washed his face,
he smiled at his face in the mirror, preparing to say
to you, whom he was expecting.
Love. Love. Love
But could he believe it again?»
Tennessee Williams
my sweet old etcetera - e. e. cummings
my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent
war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting
for,
my sister
isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds) of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera, my
mother hoped that
i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my
self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et
cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)
aunt lucy during the recent
war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting
for,
my sister
isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds) of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera, my
mother hoped that
i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my
self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et
cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)
14.8.06
Mudança de endereço de e-mail e eclipse de comentários
Os comentários estão vivos, mas ocultos nos bastidores do blogger. Não faz grande sentido manter um sistema de comentários quando as minhas visitas ao blog são ultimamente tão raras que só me apercebi dos últimos através das notificações recebidas na conta de e-mail. E mesmo a conta de e-mail, que era do hotmail, precisou de algumas reanimações nos últimos tempos. Correspondência e comentários, a partir de agora, para oscavaleiroscamponesesATyahooDOTcom, please. Quando (e se) o blog regressar a um ritmo diário, voltam os comentários.
Saudações camponesas.
Saudações camponesas.
10.8.06
Orpheus Descending # 4
Death don't come when you want it, it comes when you don't want it! I wanted death, then, but I took the next best thing. You sold yourself. I sold my self. You was bought. I was bought. You made whores of us both.
Tennessee Williams
Tennessee Williams
Orpheus Descending # 3
LADY:
Your brother's coming, go out! He can't come in!
[CAROL picks up coat and goes into confectionery, sobbing. VAL crosses toward door.]
Lock that door! Don't let him come in my store!
[CAROL sinks sobbing at table. LADY runs up to the landing of the stairs as DAVID CUTRERE enters the store. He is a tall man in hunter's clothes. He is hardly less handsome now than he was in his youth but something has gone: his power is that of a captive who rules over other captives. His face, his eyes, have something of the same desperate, unnatural hardness that LADY meets the world with.]
Tennessee Williams
Your brother's coming, go out! He can't come in!
[CAROL picks up coat and goes into confectionery, sobbing. VAL crosses toward door.]
Lock that door! Don't let him come in my store!
[CAROL sinks sobbing at table. LADY runs up to the landing of the stairs as DAVID CUTRERE enters the store. He is a tall man in hunter's clothes. He is hardly less handsome now than he was in his youth but something has gone: his power is that of a captive who rules over other captives. His face, his eyes, have something of the same desperate, unnatural hardness that LADY meets the world with.]
Tennessee Williams
Orpheus Descending # 2
VAL:
Listen! - When I was a kid on Witches' Bayou? After my folks all scattered away like loose chicken's feathers blown around by the wind? - I stayed there alone on the bayou, hunted and trapped out of season and hid from the law! - Listen! - All that time, all that lonely time, I felt I was - waiting for something!
LADY:
What for?
VAL:
What does anyone wait for? For something to happen, for anything to happen, to make things make more sense. ... It's hard to remember what that feeling was like because I've lost it now, but I was waiting for something like if you ask a question you wait for someone to answer, but you ask the wrong question or you ask the wrong person and the answer don't come.
Does everything stop because you don't get the answer? No, it goes right on as if the answer was given, day comes after day and night comes after night, and you're still waiting for someone to answer the question and going right on as the question was answered. And then - well - then. ...
LADY:
Then what?
VAL:
You get the make-believe answer.
LADY:
What answer is that?
VAL:
Don't pretend you don't know because you do!
LADY:
- Love?
Tennessee Williams
Listen! - When I was a kid on Witches' Bayou? After my folks all scattered away like loose chicken's feathers blown around by the wind? - I stayed there alone on the bayou, hunted and trapped out of season and hid from the law! - Listen! - All that time, all that lonely time, I felt I was - waiting for something!
LADY:
What for?
VAL:
What does anyone wait for? For something to happen, for anything to happen, to make things make more sense. ... It's hard to remember what that feeling was like because I've lost it now, but I was waiting for something like if you ask a question you wait for someone to answer, but you ask the wrong question or you ask the wrong person and the answer don't come.
Does everything stop because you don't get the answer? No, it goes right on as if the answer was given, day comes after day and night comes after night, and you're still waiting for someone to answer the question and going right on as the question was answered. And then - well - then. ...
LADY:
Then what?
VAL:
You get the make-believe answer.
LADY:
What answer is that?
VAL:
Don't pretend you don't know because you do!
LADY:
- Love?
Tennessee Williams
Orpheus Descending # 1
People can live together in hate for a long time. Notice their passion for money. I've always noticed when couples don't love each other they develop a passion for money.
Tennessee Williams
Tennessee Williams
12.7.06
Bip!
Era um texto sobre o estado comatoso do blog, mas depois achei-o excessivamente sério e, face aos factos, redundante. Prefiro dizer que Alec Soth tem aí um álbum chamado NIAGARA que merece ser aberto num sítio com boa luz e ser visto e lido e revisto e relido muitas vezes.
(já nem um link faço, que pouca vergonha)
(já nem um link faço, que pouca vergonha)
16.6.06
Perguntas freaks
Hora de almoço, bairro desconhecido, muito fashion, cheio de escritórios, fatos cinzentos, stress e centros comerciais que acabavam em zonas de refeição escuras. Afinei a dicção e fui simpática quando perguntei ao segurança de um prédio fashion se me podia indicar um restaurante com boa orientação solar.
14.6.06
As nuvens rasgaram-se todas ao mesmo tempo
E tinham muita água. Chove desde ontem à noite. Depois disto, Lisboa amanhecerá limpa, esplendorosa e perfumada, com a luz mais completamente impossível, improvável.
As tílias escureceram, mas continuam a ser as árvores com os verdes mais variados e inquietos e aquelas em que é maior a diferença entre o que se vê fora e o que se vê dentro da árvore.
As tílias escureceram, mas continuam a ser as árvores com os verdes mais variados e inquietos e aquelas em que é maior a diferença entre o que se vê fora e o que se vê dentro da árvore.
31.5.06
Being for the benefit of Mr. Kite
(editado para tirar o mp3 e deixar o vídeo com o mesmo tema)
Notícias notícias não há, nem muita vontade de postar diariamente. Ou tempo. O que resta deste custa imenso passar em frente ao monitor, excepto quando não há remédio. E para um blog há sempre remédio. A minha teoria - assim mesmo, a maldita palavra, com toda a pompa e todo o ridículo que merece - é que isto me vai passar assim que o Outono trouxer as primeiras chuvas. E que então este blog, ou outro, voltará a fazer sentido e a conquistar algumas horas nos meus dias ou, pelo menos, nas minhas semanas.
Hoje cheguei a casa com o início de Lucy in the Sky em loop, na memória. Fui buscar o disco e depressa me dei conta que não era bem nessa cantiga que se condensava qualquer coisa que hoje me persegue, exuberância, alegria ou assim. Era em Mr. Kite. E lembrei-me que o podia deixar a tomar conta do blog. Curiosamente, há minutos, ao ler sobre o "Sgt. Pepper's...", apercebi-me que amanhã se cumprem os 39 anos do lançamento. O que faz deste post quase uma efeméride. É tudo.
Hoje cheguei a casa com o início de Lucy in the Sky em loop, na memória. Fui buscar o disco e depressa me dei conta que não era bem nessa cantiga que se condensava qualquer coisa que hoje me persegue, exuberância, alegria ou assim. Era em Mr. Kite. E lembrei-me que o podia deixar a tomar conta do blog. Curiosamente, há minutos, ao ler sobre o "Sgt. Pepper's...", apercebi-me que amanhã se cumprem os 39 anos do lançamento. O que faz deste post quase uma efeméride. É tudo.
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