"Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and therefrom deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring; because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home.
But now isn’t simply now. Now is a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later or sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come.
Fear tweaks the vagus nerve. A sickish shrinking from what waits, somewhere out there, dead ahead."
Algumas ideias da última crónica de Inês Pedrosa na Única do Expresso :
- Com a limitação do uso da prisão preventiva, aumentaram imenso os maus tratos sobre as mulheres
- Quando uma situação de violência surge, é normalmente a vitima que é forçada a mudar de vida, a "esconder-se" digamos assim em lares de acolhimento (em muitos casos levando consigo crianças)
I keep things untidy, Piles of paper accumulate on my desk Even unread emails clatter My junk e-mail folder, So you see the kind of person I am. Untidy and un-organized.
Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas, Peut-être jamais, peut-être demain. Mais pas aujourd'hui, c'est certain L'amour est un oiseau rebelle que nul ne peut apprivoiser, et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle, s'il lui convient de refuser. Rien n'y fait, menace ou prière, l'un parle bien, l'autre se tait: Et c'est l'autre que je préfère, Il n'a rien dit mais il me plaît. L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour est enfant de Bohème, il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi; si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime: si je t'aime, prends garde à toi! Si tu ne m’aimes pas, Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime! Mais, si je t’aime, Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi! Si tu ne m’aimes pas, Si tu ne m’aimes pas, je t’aime! Mais, si je t’aime, Si je t’aime, prends garde à toi! L'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre battit de l'aile et s'envola ... l'amour est loin, tu peux l'attendre; tu ne l'attends plus, il est là! Tout autour de toi, vite, vite, il vient, s'en va, puis il revient ... tu crois le tenir, il t'évite, tu crois l'éviter, il te tient. L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour est enfant de Bohème, il n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi; si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime: si je t'aime, prends garde à toi! (x2)
When will I love you? Good Lord, I don't know, Maybe never, maybe tomorrow. But not today, that's for sure. Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame, and you call him quite in vain if it suits him not to come. Nothing helps, neither threat nor prayer. One man talks well, the other keeps silent; it's the other one that I prefer. He said nothing, but I like him. Love! Love! Love! Love! Love is a gypsy's child, it has never, ever, recognized the law; if you love me not, then I love you; if I love you, you'd best beware! if you love me not, if you love me not, then I love you; but if I love you, if I love you, you'd best beware! if you love me not, if you love me not, then I love you; but if I love you, if I love you, you'd best beware! The bird you thought you had caught beat its wings and flew away ... love stays away, you wait and wait; when least expected, there it is! All around you, swift, swift, it comes, goes, then it returns ... you think you hold it fast, it flees you think you're free, it holds you fast. Love! Love! Love! Love! Love is a gypsy child, it has never, ever, known law; if you love me not, then I love you; if I love you, you'd best beware!
Há alguns anos vi uma exposição com os últimos trabalhos de Maria Helena Vieira da Silva e nunca mais me saíu da cabeça, uma aguarela (acho eu) na qual uma figura parecia encaminhar-se para um limiar, onde uma luz verde a aguardava...
Several years ago I saw an exibithion of the last works of painter Maria Helena Vieira da Silva and there was one I could never forget : a watercolor ( I think) of a frail figure moving towards a threshold where a green light awaited.
Hear, hear : Alex Ross marvellous book "The rest is noise" changed forever my view in XX century's music. Please take a peak, also in www.therestisnoise.com
I am in need of music that would flow Over my fretful, feeling fingertips, Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips, With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow. Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low, Of some song sung to rest the tired dead, A song to fall like water on my head, And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody: A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep To the subaqueous stillness of the sea, And floats forever in a moon-green pool, Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler he had a fiddle, And a very fine fiddle had he; Oh there's none so rare, as can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three
(A minha mãe guardava as coisas de costura dela, numa lata preta, com decorações em dourado e quero crer uma reprodução de uma pintura semelhante a esta na tampa. Nunca esqueci.)
No meio do caminho desta vida me vi perdido numa selva escura, solitário, sem sol e sem saída. Ah, como armar no ar uma figura desta selva selvagem, dura, forte, que, só de eu a pensar, me desfigura? É quase tão amargo como a morte; mas para expor o bem que encontrei, outros dados darei da minha sorte. Não me recordo ao certo como entrei, tomado de uma sonolência estranha, quando a vera vereda abandonei. (...)
Nel mezzo del camin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura che la diritta via era smarrita. Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte, che nel pensier rinuova la paura! Tant 'e amara che poco è più morte; ma per trattar del ben ch'i' vi trovai, dirò del altre cose ch'i' v'ho scorte. (Opening lines of Canto 1. Translations are all literal.)
In the middle of the journey of our life, I found myself again in [or through] a dark wood, [so dark] that the straight way was utterly lost. Alas how hard it is to say what it was like, this savage and sharp and strong forest, which even in thought renews my fear! So bitter was it that death is little moreso; but in order to speak of the good that I found there, I'll tell of the other things I saw there.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
La mobilisation collective doit porter sur les communs, ce qu’on partage comme notre bien commun. L’écologie en est un, où notre substance naturelle est en jeu. La propriété intellectuelle en est un autre, qu’on ne doit pas privatiser. La biogénétique en relève aussi car il est impensable de spéculer sur notre héritage biologique. Enfin, le nouveau communisme doit lutter contre les nouvelles formes d’apartheid qui empêchent le libre usage des biens communs. La chute du mur de Berlin avait symbolisé la débâcle communiste, or les murs se dressent de partout : USA-Mexique, Israël-Palestine, entre les inclus et les exclus. Ces nouvelles frontières créent un état latent de guerre civile. Même ici, en France, avec les émeutes en banlieue parisienne, il y a trois ans. Dans cette nouvelle scène on ne peut plus isoler un agent, comme naguère la classe ouvrière, et dire avec Marx : c’est ça la singularité universelle, le groupe social particulier à même d’incarner l’émancipation de l’humanité tout entière.
L’appartenance au prolétariat ne serait plus une question de classe ?
Il y a plusieurs modes de prolétarisation. Face aux catastrophes écologiques par exemple, nous sommes tous prolétarisés, privés de notre substance naturelle. Il y a aussi quelque chose comme un prolétariat psychique. La philosophe Catherine Malabou a développé, dans Les Nouveaux Blessés, la thèse selon laquelle la figure prédominante du malaise psychologique aujourd’hui serait le personnage posttraumatique, un mort vivant psychique privé de sa propre histoire. Lorsque Marx dit : “Prolétaires de tous les pays, unissez-vous !”, il faut entendre désormais le prolétaire à tous les niveaux. Prolétaires psychiques, prolétaires écologiques, victimes de manipulations biogénétiques, bien sûr l’ouvrier traditionnel et le moderne travailleur numérique mais aussi les nouveaux pauvres et les centaines de millions de migrants...
Bio express SLAVOJ ZIZEK Né en 1949 en Yougoslavie, Slavoj Zizek est philosophe. Ancien dissident, il fut l’élève de Jacques-Alain Miller, le gendre de Jacques Lacan. Lacanien fervent, Zizek l’est resté et entend relire Hegel et Marx à la lumière de la psychanalyse. Critique passionné de cinéma, il fait paraître, en même temps que son manifeste pour un nouveau communisme, Jacques Lacan à Hollywood et ailleurs, chez Jacqueline Chambon.
Penso na razão porque nos dias de descanso, estão carros parados na beira dos caminhos, ao sol. Na maior parte deles, um homem só, sentado ao volante, parece deixar passar o tempo, noutros um casal já idoso, está também assim, no fluxo do tempo. Será que não sabem para onde ir ? Estão cansados de tudo e já não querem ver mais nada ou tão só, agrada-lhes ver o passar dos outros, lestos estrada fora, gastando os seus domingos ?
I wonder why on Sundays, there are these cars parked on the side of the roads, on the sun. In most of them, a guy sits alone at the wheel, just letting time pass him by, in others an elderly couple sits in the same way, just letting time go by. Is there that they don't know where to go ? Are they tired of everything and don't want to see anything else, or it's just that they just want to see others, wheezing by the road, wasting their Sundays ?
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