sábado, 28 de setembro de 2013

Ps.:

Pondo de lado o pragmático da palavra
Tempo fica, não passa, pois se assim fosse
Por esse verso já seria, pois, passado

quarta-feira, 25 de setembro de 2013

Questão de conjugação

o dia inteiro eu não saio da cama
já você, não fica parada
é questão de conjugação:

Eu estrado
Você estrada

segunda-feira, 23 de setembro de 2013

sexta-feira, 13 de setembro de 2013

Índio vs Civilização

O homem civilizado encontra o índio deitado no mato:

_ Ô índio, vai trabalhar!
_Trabalhar pra quê?
_Pra ganhar dinheiro!
_Dinheiro pra quê?
_Pra comprar as coisas!
_Que coisas?
_As coisas que você quer, pra te dar conforto, pra fazer o que você quiser e ter mais liberdade!
_ ¬¬'

(história de autoria desconhecida)

quinta-feira, 12 de setembro de 2013

Architecture in Helsinki – part 2 (Somewhat Slightly Dazed)

In the middle of his huge room there was a rug, a carpet, and K was lying on it. The floor wasn’t cold at all, it was always warm, especially then, in the middle of the afternoon. K was lying there, staring at the ceiling, wearing only jeans. On his mouth was a leaf of bread, held there by his teeth. The bread was covered in blueberry jam, but he wasn’t eating it, maybe he had even forgotten that it was there, or else he was setting a scene no one would see. His arms were open, almost as he was crucified to the floor. The hands, out of the rug, lie on the ground. Even if he was staring at the ceiling, he wasn’t paying it any real attention – most of times, when we stare at things this way, we’re actually seeing nothing at all.

His mobile phone, over there, on the table, suddenly rang rang rang. Usually, when he was focused on something, it was easy to scare him but not this time, the only muscles in him that expressed any reaction were those related to the eye movements – his glance went from the ceiling to the table where the phone was ring-a-ringing. It was certainly one of his friends. His was fond of them but his body would not answer his mind’s orders. His unconsciousness urged him to stay there, on the floor, as if waiting for an epiphany. He ignored the phone. No epiphany ever came.

***

The Opera house was a huge building, it had the kind of grandeur only possible for things surrounded by open spaces. It didn’t remind him of an Opera House at all, It wasn’t even slightly Wagnerian and, just as churches must be gothic, opera houses must be at least a little bit Wagnerian. It looked more like a pinacothèque or something like that. The boy, K, enjoyed the view and, most of all, he enjoyed the fact that, right there, where he could watch the building, was also the place where he could get the cheapest good sandwich around. Just as he previously held the leaf of bread by his teeth, he now held a whole sandwich, and, just as before, he wasn’t eating at all. There, with the sandwich in his mouth he watched the sun set behind the opera house. The wind, which seems to be terribly strong in this town, blown his hair. It wasn’t really possible to mess K’s hair more than it already was, looking like the king of dreams own hair, and it was nice to feel the wind caressing him, heading towards the sun, as if saying farewell to it.

If K headed left, he would get home in no time. To his right there were things to be seen, to be touched, to be discovered and fucked over. K wasn’t the kind of person who resisted the appeal of adventure. Though, he didn’t have to go far. He came to a church, one that was, apparently going through some kind of renovation. It was a stone church, older that any he was used to see. And, as he saw the church, he had an idea.

***

Even late in the night, the city was still alive. This was a fact that surprised K. It was the first time he walked about so late. Still, even if there was live out there, it was still possible to find a place no one could see, and K did. He wasn’t used to climbing stone wall churches, but with a little care, which was hard since he was listening to Unwashed and Slightly Dazed, from Bowie, a song that always made his feet move, he managed to get to the top. From there he could watch the whole area, especially the one around the modern art museum. He hid behind the gargoyles and observed as life went on beneath him. Most of the statues were bears. And a few fishes. There was even something that seemed like a lion, but K didn’t realize that there was a lioness until it got close to him and scratched his back. This time K got scared. What could touch him like that up there? The statue took the form of a woman, pretty much the same age of K, with hair as wild as his. Her eyes had colour impossible to precise in the dim light of the church roof. Her facial features left no doubt that she was actually a lioness, and not a simple person. She had been there, just like a predator, waiting for someone to gather the courage and madness K did, to get up there and make her company. K’s heart beat faster, but he controlled his hands, his nerves, as the lioness set beside him. The wind was ravaging up there and K didn’t have control enough over his own body to prevent from shaking. Was it nervousness or just plain wind-chill? Doesn’t matter, the lioness got closer to him, held his hand, not saying a word, and there she shared her warmth with him. “Can statues really feel this warm?” though K. And, as things proceeded, K felt as if loving the city itself.

segunda-feira, 9 de setembro de 2013

Samba da Coxinha


Porque música também é texto...

Queria por o vídeo aqui direto, mas a internet me odeia.
Cliquem aqui que o youtube manda vocês pro lugar certo (caso a internet não odeie vocês também).