Friday, August 28, 2009

I wish...



I was drafted into the Army and got really scared about it...walked down to the river and sit on the steps of the quay, watched the river flow for a long time. Let my troubles drift downstream with the flow.
When I was going back home, found this green marble in the floor, pick it up and in a whim, went to your door instead : “- Please, I said, keep this while I’m away, for good luck.”.
Never asked you no more about the green marble, in fact never talked that much with you anymore, but it sure gave me luck. Some kind of goodness people do unto others that get by unsaid, but not forgotten (I wish).

Thursday, August 27, 2009

scrumptious




scrumptious
One entry found.

Main Entry: scrump·tious
Pronunciation: \ˈskrəm(p)-shəs\
Function: adjective
Etymology: perhaps alteration of sumptuous
Date: 1830
: delightful, excellent; especially : delicious

— scrump·tious·ly adverb

see weird




eerie
One entry found.

Main Entry: ee·rie
Variant(s): also ee·ry \ˈir-ē\
Function: adjective
Inflected Form(s): ee·ri·er; ee·ri·est
Etymology: Middle English (northern dialect) eri
Date: 14th century
1 chiefly Scottish : affected with fright : scared
2 : so mysterious, strange, or unexpected as to send a chill up the spine (a coyote's eerie howl) (the similarities were eerie); also : seemingly not of earthly origin (the flames cast an eerie glow)

synonyms see weird

— ee·ri·ly \ˈir-ə-lē\ adverb

— ee·ri·ness \ˈir-ē-nəs\ noun

O que será



Brad Mehldau is great

real estate bubble Venus



Ao progresso...

To Progress...

a report to skeptics




There are so many great talents...this is a lady photographer that I found on the Net, check it out...

white horse





Sou uma princesa e tenho um cavalo branco,
um cavalo branco que me leva a todo o lado
procuro por um principe ou por um sapo - já esqueci
o cavalo branco leva-me a todo lado, só não me diz qual procuro...

I'm a princess and I have a white horse
a white horse that carries me everywhere
I'm looking for a prince or a frog - in fact I forgot which one
the white horse carries me around, just doesn't tell me what to look for...

Underground


pic from Graham's Travel Blog

AX rushed down the mechanical stairway that led to the Subway, by the corner of his eye he noticed big fat ZP, sitting in the station floor already two beers bottles by his side at 9 am, arghhh…
AX gingerly took a sit, it was the first station on that line, so the car was quite empty. AX looked around, he liked to check on people, being well on his thirties, he never kept a proper job on his life, gravitating around school all this time, always taking a Course on something. Ah, the social sciences, a never ending, all-encompassing field of study, human nature itself.
His parents were kind enough to support him, even got him a small apartment on the back of the family house, so he had his privacy.
On front of him, was a bald man with a moustache already gray, organizing his papers, further on the car, an attractive brunette took a sit, it was Summer and she was beautifully tanned, opened a gossip magazine, ignored AX after a quick glance. He was used to that, his attire revealed very much of his social inadequacy, so people usually chose to ignore him on the spot and he didn’t really mind, he had decided to keep the silent loser stance way back, in high school, when his skinny build and general ineptitude to sports, mixed with a congenial shyness enclosed him in books and the school library.
A young girl arrived and saluted the mustached man : “Good morning, Professor, you here ?”, the man mentioned some business he had to attend to that morning. The door alarm sounded and with it a big African woman, in a blue dress and a black veil rushed in, she looked around as if looking to something or somebody, she started to walk along the car and the train started to move too, she balanced a bit, but kept going, as the train made a steep curve, there’s was this hissing noise and some sparks flew from the wheels of the train, flashed on the tunnel walls.
AX decided to open is book, he was reading Harushi Murakami’s “Underground”, an account of the sarin gas attacks on the Tokyo subway.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

to betray


Lena Olin as Sabina

"But what is betrayal? Betrayal means breaking ranks. Betrayal means breaking ranks and going off into the unknown. Sabina knew of nothing more magnificent than going off into the unknown."

Milan Kundera
The unbearable lightness of being

titillating



titillating
Function: adjective
Date: circa 1714
: pleasantly stimulating or exciting ; also : erotic
— tit·il·lat·ing·ly adverb




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No more talking




Watch you walking from behind, silently, furtively like a thief , love the way you move your hips…you raise your arms and tie your hair behind your head, you do it so naturally and it’s so… so perfect - I’m your junkie, girl.
Then we talk and each word comes loaded with meanings, like heavy rain clouds and they start to pour and it’s a flood and we shout and fight and we can’t talk anymore…We just can’t talk anymore, but I’m your junkie, girl, I will lick your wounds any day, I will carry you, I will carry you whatever it takes…
Just can talk to you anymore.

Espio-te enquanto caminhas, furtivamente como um ladrão, adoro o balanço das tuas ancas...levantas ambos os braços e prendes o cabelo na nuca e é tudo tão perfeito, que me arrepia – sou um junkie por ti, rapariga.
Falamos e cada palavra, sai carregada de sentidos, emoções, como aquelas nuvens negras de borrasca, que de repente desabam sobre nós e tudo é um dilúvio, assim ficamos nós a gritar e a lutar como destroços na corrente...mas eu sou um junkie por ti, rapariga, lamberei sempre as tuas feridas, levo-te ao colo, levo-te ao colo o tempo que for preciso...
Só não conseguimos falar, não conseguimos falar mais.

what will survive of us

An Arundel thomb

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.


Philip Larkin

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Clap hands



Clap hands, be glad, cars honk on the avenues and the river of time, goes on unstoppable. I feel unbreakable, I feel redeemed, washed in a new light, as flowers bloom everywhere I look.
This is a crisis of global proportions, but then again, it’s only the same ones that are hiding and we don’t see them as we don’t reach out for them and the ones we got to see are the same ones, we see all the time in TV news and they come from Africa or Asia or those places where everybody knows the climate is not fit for you.
It doesn’t rain for a long time, but we can water the gardens and we can walk our dogs, everything is so right, just some bankers had to be replaced but music festivals did happen in time and beach migration had reasonable size, hey don’t you worry baby, says the singer or the song, nevermind, this is a crisis of global proportitions but we are going through it as if we were rowing a boat, in a lake, on a garden. I love your garden, did I already tell you that, really love your garden.

Lovesong




Lovesong by Ted Hughes

He loved her and she loved him
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and Sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Or everlasting or whatever there was
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy place
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His word were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assasin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
Her glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face

India blends old and new and it's magical








Born in 1954 in Delhi, Arpana Caur was brought up by her mother an award-winning novelist who had a great impact on Arpana's work. A self-taught painter, Arpana has drawn inspiration from her mother's writings, Punjabi folk literature, the Pahari miniature tradition and Indian folk-art motifs.

Since 1975 Arpana has had 18 solo shows of her paintings, and her work can be found in private & permanent collections including in NGMA, New Delhi, Ethnographic Museum Stockholm, Kust Museum Dusseldorf, Victoria & Albert Museum London, Glenberra Museum Japan, Singapore Museum of Modern Art. A recipient of the AIFACS award in 1985, today Arpana Caur is one of India's most celebrated women artists who believes, "India is an exciting mixture of the old and new. Rural and urban India coexist in the strangest of ways."

Monday, August 24, 2009

Watch it.




I won't say anything, no I won't say anything at all
I won't go anywhere, no I won't go anywhere at all
I'll just stay put, keeping my cool.

Watch it.

Sonhos



é quase sempre com muito prazer que se lê a crónica de Maruja Torres no El País Semanal, a desta semana é muito boa