ora para mim se houver criterio que defina a evolucao humana, ele tem
que ser passivel de vigorar em qualquer epoca, passada, presente ou futura.
e os gajos que andavam a apanhar papaias no neolitico? com quem jantavam ?
se houver fim a atingir pelo homem, nao depende de posturas perante aquilo
que é construido, apenas perante a natureza e a nossa propria mortalidade.
30.4.05
28.4.05
| Beginning |
The moon drops one or two feathers into the fields.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
-James Wright
27.4.05
Afinal, passou, como sempre foi claro que iria passar. Mais um bloqueio, mais uma travessia pelas dunas deste Kalahari do cansaço. Exaustão; afinal as grandes travessias, sobretudo as que se levam a cabo sem mapa, por terras de brenha, são as que mais cansam - quando não tratam de vez da canseira.
Desta vez, a branca fez-se morcego de outras curvas. Palmípede sucinta, a salina à beira do éter ergueu paliçadas por mais de um mês. Faz algum sentido, é amanhã que se fecha o círculo de purga, o anel de fogo da idade crucibunda.
Sair por baixo e entrar por cima. As brancas foram notáveis qb para que tenham ficado anotadas, todas e cada uma, para memória futura. As brancas estão cá e aparecem nos sítios correctos, nos pontos esperados, na dimensão postulada em tempo útil.
É talvez época de sanyasa a que por aqui aterra. Presunção ou humildade, a verdade é que tudo me passa ao lado e nada me deixa indiferente. Sentado a roer vegetais com massinha na chapa quente, a percepção que dantes me fugia ao controle agora maquina como uma gadanha bem oleada nas mãos de um andróide futurista. Voam pedaços, saltam fragmentos, não me identifico com nenhuma das conversas que trespassam o sossego alimentício.
E no entanto, parece que agora exalo mais informação mediante um esforço menor e menos consciente.
E renegar, sempre renegar quem pregue que é errado estimar o indivíduo. Quando morre o indivíduo, morre uma forma única de amar o Universo. Ao colectivo não pode ser permitido que venha solicitar o sacrifício da mente, da habilidade, e do rasgo em nome da distribuição equitativa da produtividade. Todos sabemos quanto vale a média desta espécie. Todos sabemos em que se transformam o saber e o brilho da criatividade quando entregues às gânfias hirsutas dos salteadores.
Ir por dentro ser coisa ímpar a troco de nada. É o ajuste que faltava. Não é?
Deve ter sido o ano mais repleto da minha vida.
Ergue-se-me a alvorada do coração só de pensar, levemente, nas portas que se abrem.
Foram dados passos.
Desta vez, a branca fez-se morcego de outras curvas. Palmípede sucinta, a salina à beira do éter ergueu paliçadas por mais de um mês. Faz algum sentido, é amanhã que se fecha o círculo de purga, o anel de fogo da idade crucibunda.
Sair por baixo e entrar por cima. As brancas foram notáveis qb para que tenham ficado anotadas, todas e cada uma, para memória futura. As brancas estão cá e aparecem nos sítios correctos, nos pontos esperados, na dimensão postulada em tempo útil.
É talvez época de sanyasa a que por aqui aterra. Presunção ou humildade, a verdade é que tudo me passa ao lado e nada me deixa indiferente. Sentado a roer vegetais com massinha na chapa quente, a percepção que dantes me fugia ao controle agora maquina como uma gadanha bem oleada nas mãos de um andróide futurista. Voam pedaços, saltam fragmentos, não me identifico com nenhuma das conversas que trespassam o sossego alimentício.
E no entanto, parece que agora exalo mais informação mediante um esforço menor e menos consciente.
E renegar, sempre renegar quem pregue que é errado estimar o indivíduo. Quando morre o indivíduo, morre uma forma única de amar o Universo. Ao colectivo não pode ser permitido que venha solicitar o sacrifício da mente, da habilidade, e do rasgo em nome da distribuição equitativa da produtividade. Todos sabemos quanto vale a média desta espécie. Todos sabemos em que se transformam o saber e o brilho da criatividade quando entregues às gânfias hirsutas dos salteadores.
Ir por dentro ser coisa ímpar a troco de nada. É o ajuste que faltava. Não é?
Deve ter sido o ano mais repleto da minha vida.
Ergue-se-me a alvorada do coração só de pensar, levemente, nas portas que se abrem.
Foram dados passos.
26.4.05
Actually, I don't know if this is some sort of weird evolution, like
one of those things that go click-click-clack in the backyard of my
mind when I cross the gate into the next arcade-game level of worldy
interfacing...
But I have been silent, and my creativity for writing, thinking, everything,
has been at an all-time low. On the other hand, I tend to notice minute stuff
that went mostly unaccounted for before. I don't really like this stage, it causes
me great apprehension, and I hope it goes away soon. Most probably I need another
week like the one I spent in Helsinki. But I might be growing old.
Whoever sees all beings in the soul
and the soul in all beings
does not shrink away from this.
In whom all beings have become one with the knowing soul
what delusion or sorrow is there for the one who sees unity?
It has filled all.
It is radiant, incorporeal, invulnerable,
without tendons, pure, untouched by evil.
Wise, intelligent, encompassing, self-existent,
it organizes objects throughout eternity.
Aum Shanti Shanti Shanti
Isha Upanishad
>o vazio dos outros é uma constante, ou talvez seja simplesmente uma
>forma diferente de viver a vida. Não há formas correctas ou incorrectas,
>há apenas as que nós nos adaptamos e nos são agradáveis e as outras.
discordo. é impossivel viver sem a crenca nos absolutos. relativizar
tudo é meio caminho andado para admitir que mesmo as nossas conviccoes
mais profundas e a mais evidente barbárie nao passam de meras diferencas
em relacao aos restantes, logo podendo ser questionadas mas nunca encaradas
como correctas ou incorrectas.
25.4.05
Journée de la pleine lune
Au sommet de la dune
A caresser de loin ton chien
T'oublies or not t'oublies
Les ombres d'opalines
au rendez-vous suivant, j'attends
Au fond d'une autre limousine
Qui ne vaut pas plus cher
Que ce bouquet de nerfs
A frôler la calanche
Les étendues salines
A perte de vue on s'imagine en Chine
Trompe la mort et tais-toi
Trois petits tours et puis s'en va
J'opère tes amygdales
Labyrinthiques, que dalle
Ne m'est plus rien égal
Je sais je n'ai offert que des bouquets de nerfs
Rubis de Sade et jade, déjà je dis non
Diamant, c'est éternel
Des fleurs, des bouts du ciel immense
La liste des parfums capiteux
Capitalistes c'est bien bien
Mais olfacultatif
Liste en boule, au panier
Finalement j'ai offert quelques bouquets de nerfs
Agendas donnez-moi
De vos dates à damner
Tous les bouddhas du monde
Et la Guadalupe
S'il arrive qu'un anglais
Vienne me visiter
Dans la métempsychose
Je saurai recevoir je peux lui en faire voir de la sérénité
Et même lui laisser un certain goût de fer
Et ce bouquet de nerfs
24.4.05
21.4.05
Beth two
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
(Redirected from 2 to the power of C)
In set theory and other branches of mathematics, 
(pronounced beth two), or 2c (pronounced two to the power of c), is a certain cardinal number. It is the 2nd beth number, and is the result of cardinal exponentiation when 2 is raised to the power of c, the cardinality of the continuum.
This number 2c is the cardinality of many sets, including:
- The power set of the set of real numbers, so it is the number of subsets of the real line, or the number of sets of real numbers;
- The power set of the power set of the set of natural numbers, so it is the number of sets of sets of natural numbers;
- The set of all functions from the real line to itself;
- The power set of the set of all functions from the set of natural numbers to itself, so it is the number of sets of sequences of natural numbers;
- The set of all real-valued functions of n real variables to the real numbers.
Some early set theorists hypothesised the equation
stating that 2c is equal to the 2nd aleph number. It turns out that the truth of this equation (*) cannot be determined from the standard Zermelo-Fraenkel axioms of set theory; it is true in some models and false in others. (*) is a part of the generalized continuum hypothesis (GCH), but it is possible that (*) is true while the full GCH is false. On the other hand, if (*) is true, then the ordinary continuum hypothesis (CH) must follow, but again it is possible that CH is true while (*) is false.
Elizabeth Rauscher (2001) has developed a detailed theory of an eight dimensional complex Minkowski space in which such phenomena as remote viewing would be possible as well as apparently being able to view things at a point.
These space-time theories of consciousness are highly speculative but have features that their proponentes consider attractive: every individual would be unique because they are a space-time path rather than an instantaneous object (ie: the theories are non-fungible), and also because consciousness is a material thing so direct supervenience would apply. The possibility that conscious experience occupies a short period of time (the 'specious present') would mean that it can include movements and short words; these would not seem to be possible in a presentist interpretation of
experience.
Theories of this type are also suggested by cosmology. The Wheeler-De Witt equation describes the quantum wave function of the universe (or more correctly, the multiverse). This equation does not involve time. Time was explained by Bryce De Witt by dividing the multiverse into an observer with measuring devices and the rest of the universe. The rest of the universe then changes relative to the observer. This introduction of time results in the occurrence of space-time, gravity and the rest of the observed material world. As the famous cosmologist Andrei Linde (2003) puts it:
"The general theory of relativity brought with it a decisive change in this point of view [the 3D world]. Space-time and matter were found to be interdependent, and there was no longer any question which one of the two is more fundamental. Space-time was also found to have its own inherent degrees of freedom, associated with perturbations of the metric - gravitational waves. ............"
"Is it possible that consciousness, like space-time, has its own intrinsic degrees of freedom, and that neglecting these will lead to a description of the universe that is fundamentally incomplete?"
These space-time theories of consciousness are highly speculative but have features that their proponentes consider attractive: every individual would be unique because they are a space-time path rather than an instantaneous object (ie: the theories are non-fungible), and also because consciousness is a material thing so direct supervenience would apply. The possibility that conscious experience occupies a short period of time (the 'specious present') would mean that it can include movements and short words; these would not seem to be possible in a presentist interpretation of
experience.
Theories of this type are also suggested by cosmology. The Wheeler-De Witt equation describes the quantum wave function of the universe (or more correctly, the multiverse). This equation does not involve time. Time was explained by Bryce De Witt by dividing the multiverse into an observer with measuring devices and the rest of the universe. The rest of the universe then changes relative to the observer. This introduction of time results in the occurrence of space-time, gravity and the rest of the observed material world. As the famous cosmologist Andrei Linde (2003) puts it:
"The general theory of relativity brought with it a decisive change in this point of view [the 3D world]. Space-time and matter were found to be interdependent, and there was no longer any question which one of the two is more fundamental. Space-time was also found to have its own inherent degrees of freedom, associated with perturbations of the metric - gravitational waves. ............"
"Is it possible that consciousness, like space-time, has its own intrinsic degrees of freedom, and that neglecting these will lead to a description of the universe that is fundamentally incomplete?"
20.4.05
After
Take the cloak from his face, and at first
Let the corpse do its worst!
How he lies in his rights of a man!
Death has done all death can.
And, absorbed in the new life he leads,
He recks not, he heeds
Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike
On his senses alike,
And are lost in the solemn and strange
Surprise of the change.
Ha, what avails death to erase
His offence, my disgrace?
I would we were boys as of old
In the field, by the fold:
His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn
Were so easily borne!
I stand here now, he lies in his place:
Cover the face!
Robert Browning
Eyes fastened with pins
.
.
How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death's laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death's supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address somehow wrong,
Even death can't figure it out
Among all the locked doors...
And the rain beginning to fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a newspaper
To cover his head, not even
A dime to call the one pining away,
Undressing slowly, sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death's side of the bed.
.
- Charles Simic
.
.
.
.
How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death's laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death's supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address somehow wrong,
Even death can't figure it out
Among all the locked doors...
And the rain beginning to fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a newspaper
To cover his head, not even
A dime to call the one pining away,
Undressing slowly, sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death's side of the bed.
.
- Charles Simic
.
.
19.4.05
"Since Roman times the cultivation of olive trees and the production of olive oil in Liguria became one of the most important sources of wealth in this area. Through the centuries the demand of olive oil increased steadily and Ligurian people had to rely on the capability of the Benedictine monks who lived in Taggia. Since 1050 the Benedictine monks had organised the cultivation of olive trees in Ligurian valleys following two routes: turning the steeps sides of the hills into terraced plots and creating the famous Taggiasca olives after a long work of selecting and grafting."
(from "Ligurian Cuisine")
I would reject it as the most contemptible evil, I would fight it with
every power I possess, I would fight the whole of mankind, if one
minute were all I could last before I were murdered, I would fight in the full
confidence of the justice of my battle and of a living being's right to
exist. Let there be no misunderstanding about me. If it is now the belief
of my fellow men, who call themselves the public, that their good requires
victims, then I say: The public good be damned, I will have no part of it!"
There stood a tow'r, amazing to the sight,
Built up of beams, and of stupendous height:
Art, and the nature of the place, conspir'd
To furnish all the strength that war requir'd.
To level this, the bold Italians join;
The wary Trojans obviate their design;
With weighty stones o'erwhelm their troops below,
Shoot thro' the loopholes, and sharp jav'lins throw.
Turnus, the chief, toss'd from his thund'ring hand
Against the wooden walls, a flaming brand:
It stuck, the fiery plague; the winds were high;
The planks were season'd, and the timber dry.
Contagion caught the posts; it spread along,
Scorch'd, and to distance drove the scatter'd throng.
The Trojans fled; the fire pursued amain,
Still gath'ring fast upon the trembling train;
Till, crowding to the corners of the wall,
Down the defense and the defenders fall.
The mighty flaw makes heav'n itself resound:
The dead and dying Trojans strew the ground.
The tow'r, that follow'd on the fallen crew,
Whelm'd o'er their heads, and buried whom it slew:
Some stuck upon the darts themselves had sent;
All the same equal ruin underwent.
How Gudrun cast herself into the Sea, but was brought ashore again.
Gudrun had a daughter by Sigurd hight Swanhild; she was the fairest of
all women, eager-eyed as her father, so that few durst look under the
brows of her; and as far did she excel other woman-kind as the sun excels the
other lights of heaven.
But on a day went Gudrun down to the sea, and caught up stones in her
arms, and went out into the sea, for she had will to end her life. But
mighty billows drave her forth along the sea, and by means of their upholding
was she borne along till she came at the last to the burg of King
Jonakr, a mighty king, and lord of many folk. And he took Gudrun to wife, and
their children were Hamdir, and Sorli, and Erp; and there was Swanhild
nourished withal.
On entering the House of Dust,
everywhere I looked there were royal crowns gathered in heaps,
everywhere I listened, it was the bearers of crowns,
who, in the past, had ruled the land,
but who now served Anu and Enlil cooked meats,
served confections, and poured cool water from waterskins.
In the house of Dust that I entered
there sat the high priest and acolyte,
there sat the purification priest and ecstatic,
there sat the anointed priests of the Great Gods.
There sat Etana, there sat Sumukan,
there sat Ereshkigal, the Queen of the Netherworld.
Beletseri, the Scribe of the Netherworld, knelt before her,
she was holding the tablet and was reading it out to her Ereshkigal.
She raised her head when she saw me----
'Who has taken this man?'
A vida não é estúpida, Alda, somos nós que somos estúpidos.
Todos os erros e maleficios da vida derivam de uma forma ou
de outra da maneira como optamos por viver os nossos dias e
fazer as nossas opções -
ou da nossa incapacidade em dominarmo-nos antes de as fazermos.
Racionalizar e tentar dar sentido a tudo, para que as gerações
que nos seguem possam ter uma base de partida melhor que a nossa,
é o que julgo que se pode fazer,no limite.
18.4.05
.
.
Ariel
.
Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
.
God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! ---The furrow
.
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
.
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks ---
.
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
.
Hauls me through air ---
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
.
White
Godiva, I unpeel ---
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry
.
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
.
The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
.
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
.
-Sylvia Plath
.
.
.
Ariel
.
Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
.
God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! ---The furrow
.
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
.
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks ---
.
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
.
Hauls me through air ---
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
.
White
Godiva, I unpeel ---
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry
.
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
.
The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
.
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
.
-Sylvia Plath
.
.
17.4.05
Navigate The Seas Of The Sun
Distant earthrise long agolingers at the borders of our minds
mysteries spinning in the dark
in the frozen emptiness of time
we were lost and we never knew
who we were or what we left behind
living half-lives we were blind
to the new frontiers that opened up our eyes
to find our minds were spinning
souls entwined in a spiral dance
the ancient ways have found us
again to give us one last chaaaaaaance
living in this place
staring into space we find
we might share the corners of our lives
infinity runs deep
eternity that we can keep
melting through the frozen wastes of time
so we go and we'll not return
to navigate the seas of the sun
our children will go on and on
to navigate the seas of the sun
so we go and we'll not return
we'll navigate the seas of the sun
our children will go on and on
to navigate the seas of the sun
we can go on tomorrow
living death by gravity
couldn't stand it anymore
we'll sail our ships to distant shores
purple gold and blue
living colors every hue
flowers in the garden of the gods
no one can ever know
if you never saw them grow
but this darkness is really full of light
[solos]
now beyond the earth
beyond all things that gave us birth
we'll navigate...
if god is throwing dice
and einstein doesn't mind the chance
we'll navigate...
infinity runs deep
eternity that we can keep
we'll navigate...
flowers of our souls
purple blue and gold we'll find
to navigate...
so we know who we are
even in this frozen waste
we'll navigate...
living in this place
staring into space we'll find
we'll navigate...
well beyond the earth
beyond all things that gave us birth
we'll...
if einstein's throwing dice
and god he doesn't mind the chance
we'll navigate...
flowers of the soul
purple blue and gold
and who we were before
eternity...
we'll navigate...
flowers of the soul
O país perdeu a inteligência e a consciência moral.
Os costumes estão dissolvidos, as consciências em debandada, os caracteres corrompidos.
A prática da vida tem por única direcção a conveniência.
Não há princípio que não seja desmentido.
Não há instituição que não seja escarnecida.
Ninguém se respeita.
Não há nenhuma solidariedade entre os cidadãos.
Ninguém crê na honestidade dos homens públicos.
Alguns agiotas felizes exploram.
A classe média abate-se progressivamente na imbecilidade e na inércia.
O povo está na miséria.
Os serviços públicos são abandonados a uma rotina dormente.
O Estado é considerado na sua acção fiscal como um ladrão e tratado como um inimigo.
A certeza deste rebaixamento invadiu todas as consciências.
Diz-se por toda a parte: o país está perdido!
-Eça de Queirós , 1871.
(o que muda quanto a mim é que o conceito de nação naquela altura fazia algum sentido)
Os costumes estão dissolvidos, as consciências em debandada, os caracteres corrompidos.
A prática da vida tem por única direcção a conveniência.
Não há princípio que não seja desmentido.
Não há instituição que não seja escarnecida.
Ninguém se respeita.
Não há nenhuma solidariedade entre os cidadãos.
Ninguém crê na honestidade dos homens públicos.
Alguns agiotas felizes exploram.
A classe média abate-se progressivamente na imbecilidade e na inércia.
O povo está na miséria.
Os serviços públicos são abandonados a uma rotina dormente.
O Estado é considerado na sua acção fiscal como um ladrão e tratado como um inimigo.
A certeza deste rebaixamento invadiu todas as consciências.
Diz-se por toda a parte: o país está perdido!
-Eça de Queirós , 1871.
(o que muda quanto a mim é que o conceito de nação naquela altura fazia algum sentido)
14.4.05
ELEVEN YEARS
(Sullivan/Heaton) 1991
Stevie said now don't look round they're watching us
Two girls in the corner of that dodgy club
And the grey eyes, the storm that I've come to know and wish for
Before I caught a breath, well, she was standing there.
We walked the streets of our town just talking
And the dawn broke grey and freezing through the deserted blocks
Just when your life is stale and there's reason there for everything
Something comes to kick you up inside
Eleven sweet years and no nearer home
A hundred thousands miles through this battle zone
Still high on the wire above the hollow darkness
Trying not to look down
No Rest for the wicked is still how it goes
Twisted up and turning in my bed alone
And separation pains like a blunted amputation
Pushing endless coins in the telephone
Eleven sweet years and no nearer home
A hundred thousands miles through this battle zone
Still high on the wire above the hollow darkness
Trying not to look down
So rest in these open arms and lie until they come for you
And tell me everything you've ever felt, tell me everything you want to see . . .
Forever running even when we are standing still
Driven on and fired up as the whirlwinds blow
And shouting out inside "I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you"
Ten thousand footsteps echo down the Brixton Road
Eleven sweet years and no nearer home
A hundred thousands miles through this battle zone
Still high on the wire above the hollow darkness
Trying not to look down
(Sullivan/Heaton) 1991
Stevie said now don't look round they're watching us
Two girls in the corner of that dodgy club
And the grey eyes, the storm that I've come to know and wish for
Before I caught a breath, well, she was standing there.
We walked the streets of our town just talking
And the dawn broke grey and freezing through the deserted blocks
Just when your life is stale and there's reason there for everything
Something comes to kick you up inside
Eleven sweet years and no nearer home
A hundred thousands miles through this battle zone
Still high on the wire above the hollow darkness
Trying not to look down
No Rest for the wicked is still how it goes
Twisted up and turning in my bed alone
And separation pains like a blunted amputation
Pushing endless coins in the telephone
Eleven sweet years and no nearer home
A hundred thousands miles through this battle zone
Still high on the wire above the hollow darkness
Trying not to look down
So rest in these open arms and lie until they come for you
And tell me everything you've ever felt, tell me everything you want to see . . .
Forever running even when we are standing still
Driven on and fired up as the whirlwinds blow
And shouting out inside "I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you"
Ten thousand footsteps echo down the Brixton Road
Eleven sweet years and no nearer home
A hundred thousands miles through this battle zone
Still high on the wire above the hollow darkness
Trying not to look down
.
.
13. Here and there
.
Here is the same as there, my friend,
All places in this world are like.
If doomed thy life in grief to spend,
What change can then thy fate amend,
What from thy sou! the pain can strike?
.
When pain doth wound the tired heart
And grief doth tire the fevered eye,
Some joy indeed the world's great art
May to thy pained soul impart-
What's this if joy in thee not lie?
.
When on my restless couch I lie
And count the throbbing of my breath,
I see the joy of earth and sky
Yet hate it alI; why should not I
So keep my coward mind from death?
.
True joy comes not from outward show
But in our deepest soul doth rest.
What matter if the sun can glow
And stars at night look sweetly so
When hearts are by their grief opprest?
.
For when the darkness weighs thy thought,
And night doth fall upon thy soul,
Are not again thy sorrows brought?
Is not thy mind in shadows caught?
Do fears not back upon thee roll?
.
I cannot do but hope; as mine
Thy mind I see to hopes doth bend;
I in my land and thou in thine
We suffer both - our griefs entwine.
Here is the same as there, my friend.
.
-Alexander Search
.
.
.
13. Here and there
.
Here is the same as there, my friend,
All places in this world are like.
If doomed thy life in grief to spend,
What change can then thy fate amend,
What from thy sou! the pain can strike?
.
When pain doth wound the tired heart
And grief doth tire the fevered eye,
Some joy indeed the world's great art
May to thy pained soul impart-
What's this if joy in thee not lie?
.
When on my restless couch I lie
And count the throbbing of my breath,
I see the joy of earth and sky
Yet hate it alI; why should not I
So keep my coward mind from death?
.
True joy comes not from outward show
But in our deepest soul doth rest.
What matter if the sun can glow
And stars at night look sweetly so
When hearts are by their grief opprest?
.
For when the darkness weighs thy thought,
And night doth fall upon thy soul,
Are not again thy sorrows brought?
Is not thy mind in shadows caught?
Do fears not back upon thee roll?
.
I cannot do but hope; as mine
Thy mind I see to hopes doth bend;
I in my land and thou in thine
We suffer both - our griefs entwine.
Here is the same as there, my friend.
.
-Alexander Search
.
.
Can you feel the wind blow, closer day by day
Blowing with a motion, for a brand new day
Demonchild, why have you been gone
Do you still miss, miss your family
Oh, I'll bet it hurts to lose so much
Can you feel the wind blow, closer day by day
Blowing with a motion, for a brand new day
Demonchild, what have you been through
I can still hear, hear you crying
So you better find a cure
Can you feel the wind blow, closer day by day
Blowing with a motion, for a brand new day
13.4.05
.
.
If We Must Die
.
IF we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
.
- Claude McKay
.
.
.
If We Must Die
.
IF we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
.
- Claude McKay
.
.
when winter winds wane
when winter winds wane
laughs the barn yardbird boon
belly baby springtime loom
when dum deeds does the old man's cane
when winter winds wane
light ferry glimmer twirl
break?
a leaf for bridal girl
cups cut corn fields hay make
when dix knox roads trek the lane
when winter winds wane
when winter winds wane
when winter winds wane
12.4.05
.
.
SOMETIMES THE SKY'S TOO BRIGHT
.
Sometimes the sky's too bright,
Or has too many clouds or birds,
And far away's too sharp a sun
To nourish thinking of him.
Why is my hand too blunt
To cut in front of me
My horrid images for me,
Of over-fruitful smiles,
The weightless touching of the lip
I wish to know
I cannot lift, but can,
The creature with the angel's face
Who tells me hurt,
And sees my body go
Down into misery?
No stopping. Put the smile
Where tears have come to dry.
The angel's hurt is left;
His telling burns.
.
Sometimes a woman's heart has salt,
Or too much blood;
I tear her breast,
And see the blood is mine,
Flowing from her, but mine,
And then I think
Perhaps the sky's too bright;
And watch my hand,
But do not follow it,
And feel the pain it gives,
But do not ache.
.
-Dylan Thomas
.
.
.
SOMETIMES THE SKY'S TOO BRIGHT
.
Sometimes the sky's too bright,
Or has too many clouds or birds,
And far away's too sharp a sun
To nourish thinking of him.
Why is my hand too blunt
To cut in front of me
My horrid images for me,
Of over-fruitful smiles,
The weightless touching of the lip
I wish to know
I cannot lift, but can,
The creature with the angel's face
Who tells me hurt,
And sees my body go
Down into misery?
No stopping. Put the smile
Where tears have come to dry.
The angel's hurt is left;
His telling burns.
.
Sometimes a woman's heart has salt,
Or too much blood;
I tear her breast,
And see the blood is mine,
Flowing from her, but mine,
And then I think
Perhaps the sky's too bright;
And watch my hand,
But do not follow it,
And feel the pain it gives,
But do not ache.
.
-Dylan Thomas
.
.
11.4.05
Cromos, v3
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Descendiente de una familia acomodada económicamente, desde su juventud está influido por las tendencias marxistas de su padre, que defiende la lucha armada. Si por parte de la familia paterna, Ilich y sus tres hermanos reciben enseñas revolucionarias, su madre luchó por ejercer en ellos una influencia contraria. Trató de inmiscuirles modos conservadores y que abrazaran el catolicismo. Finalmente logró que se trasladaran a Londres. Estando en la capital británica Ilich se dejó cautivar por la vida superficial de la alta sociedad, llegándose incluso a convertir en un playboy. Sin embargo, los estudios resultaban un fracaso para él, por lo que su padre encontró la excusa perfecta para enviarle a estudiar a Moscú. En este ambiente, entra en contacto con estudiantes palestinos relacionados con la lucha armada. Sin embargo, la buena vida que había llevado en Gran Bretaña sigue dominando sus actos. Esta situación provoca que le expulsen en 1970 de la Universidad. Parece ser que entonces ya mantenía relaciones con la KGB. A comienzos de esta década ingresa en el Frente Popular de Liberación de Palestina. En estos años participa en la guerrilla con el ejército del Rey Hussein de Jordania, donde desarrolla su actividad como estratega. Vuelve a Londres como agente secreto. En esta ciudad regresa a sus costumbres de antaño, aunque en esta ocasión compagina la lucha con la vida social. Su primeros actos terroristas resultan fallidos. En consecuencia abandona la cuidad, perseguido por los servicios secretos que le apodan "Chacal". Para encubrir su verdadera identidad emplea distintos nombres. Uno de ellos y por el que sería mundialmente conocido es el de Carlos. En 1973 se instala en París y se le hace responsable del estallido de varios coches-bomba que se activan en las sedes de algunos diarios. Poco después se traslada a Holanda, donde colabora con el Ejército Rojo Japonés en el secuestro de la embajada francesa. Todo se complica y termina con un resultado trágico. Su conocimiento exhaustivo de seis lenguas le permite viajar por todo el mundo y pasar inadvertido. Comienza a ser considerado como el enemigo número uno del capitalismo occidental. Los actos sangrientos se van acumulando en su trayectoria personal. En 1975, cumpliendo los planes trazados por un grupo alemán y árabe, secuestra a once ministros de la OPEP en Viena, que traslada a Argel en un avión. A cambió de dinero perdona la vida a dos de éstos. A partir de la segunda mitad de la década de los setenta se pierde su rastro. Este, junto con sus secuaces, se esconde en Hungría., donde acumula explosivos. La policía también barajó la posibilidad de que estuviera refugiado en Rumanía. En 1982, uno de sus más estrechos colaboradores y su novia son localizados y detenidos en Francia. Carlos amenaza a las autoridades galas con una acción armada. Poco después explota una bomba en un tren galo, donde estaba previsto que viajara Jacques Chirac, atentado en el que mueren cinco personas y resultan heridas casi otras treinta. Los atentados prosiguen con cruentos resultados. Uno de los más atroces sucedió el 31 de diciembre de 1983 cuando realiza dos atentados en la línea ferroviaria de alta velocidad París-Marsella y en la estación de Saint-Charles, situada en esta última localidad. Finalmente la autoridades francesas optan por poner en libertad a su compañera Magdalena Knopp. Tras la caída del muro de Berlín se desconoce su paradero. Se sospecha que puede estar en Siria. En este momento su lucha ideológica pierde consistencia, aunque Carlos no deja de ser un terrorista y se vende al mejor postor. En la década de los noventa Siria le manda a Libia, pero en este país le rechazan. Finalmente se traslada a Sudán, donde abraza la religión islámica. Aunque colabora con la policía de este país, en 1994 es entregado a Francia. Tras ser procesado en París por algunos de los atentados cometidos, es encerrado en la cárcel. En 1997 se celebra un juicio por otros atentados y se le condena a cadena perpetua. Por otra parte le esperan otros muchos juicios por un gran número de delitos. Además es reclamado por otros países como Libia o Austria, que le acusan de haber asesinado a compatriotas suyos. En lo que respecta a España parece ser que entre los años setenta y ochenta mantuvo contactos con ETA.
10.4.05
9.4.05
8.4.05
What Will You Be?
They never stop asking me
"What will you be?--
A doctor, a dancer,
A diver at sea?"
They never stop bugging me:
"What will you be?"
As if they expect me to
Stop being me.
When I grow up I'm going to be a Sneeze,
And sprinkle Germs on all my Enemies.
When I grow up I'm going to be a Toad,
And dump on Silly Questions in the road.
When I grow up, I'm going to be a Child.
I'll Play the whole darn day and drive them Wild.
-Dennis Lee
They never stop asking me
"What will you be?--
A doctor, a dancer,
A diver at sea?"
They never stop bugging me:
"What will you be?"
As if they expect me to
Stop being me.
When I grow up I'm going to be a Sneeze,
And sprinkle Germs on all my Enemies.
When I grow up I'm going to be a Toad,
And dump on Silly Questions in the road.
When I grow up, I'm going to be a Child.
I'll Play the whole darn day and drive them Wild.
-Dennis Lee
.
.
Fugue of Death
.
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink it and drink it
we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter he
whistles his dogs up
he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in
the earth
he commands us strike up for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the
sky it is
ample to lie there
He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others
you sing and you play
he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue are
his eyes
stab deeper your spades you there and you others play on
for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall
we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents
He shouts play sweeter death's music death comes as a
master from Germany
he shouts stroke darker the strings and as smoke you
shall climb to the sky
then you'll have a grave in the clouds it is ample to lie
there
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death comes as a master from
Germany
we drink you at nightfall and morning we drink you and
drink you
a master from Germany death comes with eyes that are
blue
with a bullet of lead he will hit in the mark he will hit
you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
he hunts us down with his dogs in the sky he gives us a
grave
he plays with the serpents and dreams death comes as a
master from Germany
your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith.
.
.
Paul Celan.
Translated by Christopher Middleton
.
.
.
Fugue of Death
.
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink it and drink it
we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter he
whistles his dogs up
he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in
the earth
he commands us strike up for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the
sky it is
ample to lie there
He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others
you sing and you play
he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue are
his eyes
stab deeper your spades you there and you others play on
for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall
we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at
nightfall
drink you and drink you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents
He shouts play sweeter death's music death comes as a
master from Germany
he shouts stroke darker the strings and as smoke you
shall climb to the sky
then you'll have a grave in the clouds it is ample to lie
there
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death comes as a master from
Germany
we drink you at nightfall and morning we drink you and
drink you
a master from Germany death comes with eyes that are
blue
with a bullet of lead he will hit in the mark he will hit
you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
he hunts us down with his dogs in the sky he gives us a
grave
he plays with the serpents and dreams death comes as a
master from Germany
your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith.
.
.
Paul Celan.
Translated by Christopher Middleton
.
.
.
.
Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no
No question was asked me--it could not be so !
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try
And to live on be YES; what can NO be ? to die.
.
NATURE'S ANSWER
.
Is't returned, as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear ?
Think first, what you ARE ! Call to mind what you WERE !
I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope,
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ?
Make out the invent'ry ; inspect, compare !
Then die--if die you dare !
.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
.
.
.
.
Who Goes Home?
.
In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there comes no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
.
G. K. Chesterton
.
.
.
.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
.
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
.
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
.
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
.
E. E. Cummings
.
.
.
.
There Will Come Soft Rains
.
(War Time)
.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
.
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
.
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
.
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
.
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
.
Sara Teasdale
.
.
.
.
Carrion Comfort
.
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist--slack they may be--these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee
and flee?
.
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-handling flung me,
fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night,
that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
.
.
.
.
Now Winter Nights Enlarge
.
Now winter nights enlarge
This number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine,
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep's leaden spells remove.
.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defense,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well:
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys
They shorten tedious nights.
.
.
Thomas Campion
.
.
.
Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no
No question was asked me--it could not be so !
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try
And to live on be YES; what can NO be ? to die.
.
NATURE'S ANSWER
.
Is't returned, as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear ?
Think first, what you ARE ! Call to mind what you WERE !
I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope,
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ?
Make out the invent'ry ; inspect, compare !
Then die--if die you dare !
.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
.
.
.
.
Who Goes Home?
.
In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there comes no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
.
G. K. Chesterton
.
.
.
.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
.
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
.
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
.
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
.
E. E. Cummings
.
.
.
.
There Will Come Soft Rains
.
(War Time)
.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
.
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
.
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
.
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
.
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
.
Sara Teasdale
.
.
.
.
Carrion Comfort
.
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist--slack they may be--these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee
and flee?
.
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-handling flung me,
fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night,
that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
.
.
.
.
Now Winter Nights Enlarge
.
Now winter nights enlarge
This number of their hours;
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine,
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep's leaden spells remove.
.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defense,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well:
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys
They shorten tedious nights.
.
.
Thomas Campion
.
.
7.4.05
Crystal Ship
(Morrison)
Before you slip into unconsciousness
I’d like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss
The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We’ll meet again, we’ll meet again
Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You’d rather cry, I’d rather fly
The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend your time
When we get back, I’ll drop a line
(Morrison)
Before you slip into unconsciousness
I’d like to have another kiss
Another flashing chance at bliss
Another kiss, another kiss
The days are bright and filled with pain
Enclose me in your gentle rain
The time you ran was too insane
We’ll meet again, we’ll meet again
Oh tell me where your freedom lies
The streets are fields that never die
Deliver me from reasons why
You’d rather cry, I’d rather fly
The crystal ship is being filled
A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
A million ways to spend your time
When we get back, I’ll drop a line
6.4.05
Come closer and see
See into the trees
Find the girl
If you can
Come closer and see
See into the dark
Just follow your eyes
Just follow your eyes
I hear her voice
Calling my name
The sound is deep
In the dark
I hear her voice
And start to run
Into the trees
Into the trees
Into the trees
Suddenly I stop
But I know it’s too late
I’m lost in a forest
All alone
The girl was never there
It’s always the same
I’m running towards nothing
Again and again and again and again
smith/gallup/tolhurst
See into the trees
Find the girl
If you can
Come closer and see
See into the dark
Just follow your eyes
Just follow your eyes
I hear her voice
Calling my name
The sound is deep
In the dark
I hear her voice
And start to run
Into the trees
Into the trees
Into the trees
Suddenly I stop
But I know it’s too late
I’m lost in a forest
All alone
The girl was never there
It’s always the same
I’m running towards nothing
Again and again and again and again
smith/gallup/tolhurst
Pensamentos no Tempo Frio
Partiste. O rio subiu até ao meu portão.
As cigarras calaram-se nos ramos cobertos de geada.
Agora regresso ao portão, mas o tempo mudou.
Como sempre os meus pensamentos são-te dirigidos.
Estás tão longe como a Estrela Polar e a Primavera,
Notícias tuas nunca se dirigem para sul.
Quantas vezes, nos meus sonhos, vejo terras distantes
- Encontraste outro amigo? Espero que não.
- Li Shang-Yin
Partiste. O rio subiu até ao meu portão.
As cigarras calaram-se nos ramos cobertos de geada.
Agora regresso ao portão, mas o tempo mudou.
Como sempre os meus pensamentos são-te dirigidos.
Estás tão longe como a Estrela Polar e a Primavera,
Notícias tuas nunca se dirigem para sul.
Quantas vezes, nos meus sonhos, vejo terras distantes
- Encontraste outro amigo? Espero que não.
- Li Shang-Yin
5.4.05
2352.53 Walt Whitman
2352.54 .
2352.55 Sometimes with One I Love
2352.56 .
2352.57 Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I
2352.58 effuse unreturn'd love,
2352.59 But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is
2353.00 certain one way or another,
2353.01 (I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd,
2353.02 Yet out of that I have written these songs.)
2353.03 .
2353.04 .
2352.54
2352.55
2352.56
2352.57
2352.58
2352.59
2353.00
2353.01
2353.02
2353.03
2353.04
queda
às vezes, para não cairmos,
agarrávamos os tendões do incêndio
e por detrás da noite
dissolvíamos a espera.
ainda tenho guardada
a textura lenta do teu fôlego
no ventre dos dedos.
às vezes, para não cairmos,
tu colavas o teu nome ao meu
de modo a que a minha pele
fosse uma continuação da tua.
mas partiste
ou talvez nunca tenhas vindo
e encontro-te num sonho velho,
tão amarrotado como o silêncio do quarto
qual lâmina acesa no linho da memória.
Sara Costa
(Poema vencedor do Prémio Literário Correntes d'Escritas / Papelaria Locus)
(Encontrei a Sara, é inexplicável como. descreve-se neste sal)
às vezes, para não cairmos,
agarrávamos os tendões do incêndio
e por detrás da noite
dissolvíamos a espera.
ainda tenho guardada
a textura lenta do teu fôlego
no ventre dos dedos.
às vezes, para não cairmos,
tu colavas o teu nome ao meu
de modo a que a minha pele
fosse uma continuação da tua.
mas partiste
ou talvez nunca tenhas vindo
e encontro-te num sonho velho,
tão amarrotado como o silêncio do quarto
qual lâmina acesa no linho da memória.
Sara Costa
(Poema vencedor do Prémio Literário Correntes d'Escritas / Papelaria Locus)
(Encontrei a Sara, é inexplicável como. descreve-se neste sal)
4.4.05
O Guia da Condução por Cores
Socialista
Conduz movido por complexos de inferioridade. Pára em todas as rotundas, independentemente de vir alguém ou não. Se não vier, poderia sempre dar-se o caso de vir. Mais vale empatar todo o trânsito atrás de si do que faltar ao respeito ao próximo, mesmo que o próximo ainda venha a 500 metros.
Abranda 100 metros antes de arrumar em espinha, por precaução, não vá sem querer arranhar algum carro parado, ou passar a ferro um transeunte incauto que se atire para o meio da faixa naquele exacto instante.
Usa sempre os piscas, sobretudo dentro das referidas rotundas, na direcção em que se move, para indicar que vai mesmo ali.
Social-democrata
Façam o que ele diz e não o que ele faz. Preconiza normas de teor evolutivo, progressista e tecnocrata, cria oportunidades e identifica correctamente e de forma proactiva as peculiaridades do mercado, com particular ênfase nos pormenores do conforto, eficiência e cost-effectiveness.
É exímio na arte do detachment.
O que conta mesmo é o calibre da máquina onde se faz transportar, o resto pode ser visto mais tarde, tudo a seu tempo.
É assinalável primariamente nas autoestradas, é sempre aquele que tem a mania de abrir os máximos quando quer ir a mais 5 km/h que o da frente.
Comunista
Conduz o carro como se andasse de metro ou de comboio, ou seja, com uma mão agarrada às pegas laterais (onde se penduram os casaquinhos) e a outra às apalpadelas.
Postura facial obtusa, no sentido geométrico do termo: ângulo de visão com naso-elevação marcadamente prognata, mandíbula inferior a condizer com o trejeito, cervical um tudo-nada encurvada no sentido da velocidade do vento.
Arruma em terceira faixa porque quem paga parquímetros são os esbirros da cúria economicista.
Democrata-Cristão
A sua cabeça parece um radar militar, projecta a presença e o olhar em redor como que a anunciar que sabe o que está a fazer, pesem embora os anos e a gravata à bimbo.
Na tampa da mala, terá a) uma cruz de Cristo, b) a bandeira do Reino, c) um autocolante da Penélope ou d) o logotipo do Correio da Manhã.
Inexcedível em trajectória rectilínea e sem muitos apelos à criatividade, como semáforos, passadeiras, pessoas.
Bloquista
Compra sapatos de pele sintética feitos à base de cascas de tâmara, e com o dinheiro que poupa dedica-se a subcontratar grosas de recém-licenciados, aos quais paga mais 15, quinze! por cento do que a média, ou seja 690 euros brutos, para que transcrevam de variadíssimas formas a encefalorreia que o toma de assalto na demanda por um mundo melhor, livre de injustiças e seguro para todos, a começar pelos que ainda não sabem falar, estando na barriga da mãe, e a quem é preciso garantir que a ser cortados às postas, que o sejam com instrumentos de inox primeira qualidade.
Conduz movido por complexos de inferioridade. Pára em todas as rotundas, independentemente de vir alguém ou não. Se não vier, poderia sempre dar-se o caso de vir. Mais vale empatar todo o trânsito atrás de si do que faltar ao respeito ao próximo, mesmo que o próximo ainda venha a 500 metros.
Abranda 100 metros antes de arrumar em espinha, por precaução, não vá sem querer arranhar algum carro parado, ou passar a ferro um transeunte incauto que se atire para o meio da faixa naquele exacto instante.
Usa sempre os piscas, sobretudo dentro das referidas rotundas, na direcção em que se move, para indicar que vai mesmo ali.
Social-democrata
Façam o que ele diz e não o que ele faz. Preconiza normas de teor evolutivo, progressista e tecnocrata, cria oportunidades e identifica correctamente e de forma proactiva as peculiaridades do mercado, com particular ênfase nos pormenores do conforto, eficiência e cost-effectiveness.
É exímio na arte do detachment.
O que conta mesmo é o calibre da máquina onde se faz transportar, o resto pode ser visto mais tarde, tudo a seu tempo.
É assinalável primariamente nas autoestradas, é sempre aquele que tem a mania de abrir os máximos quando quer ir a mais 5 km/h que o da frente.
Comunista
Conduz o carro como se andasse de metro ou de comboio, ou seja, com uma mão agarrada às pegas laterais (onde se penduram os casaquinhos) e a outra às apalpadelas.
Postura facial obtusa, no sentido geométrico do termo: ângulo de visão com naso-elevação marcadamente prognata, mandíbula inferior a condizer com o trejeito, cervical um tudo-nada encurvada no sentido da velocidade do vento.
Arruma em terceira faixa porque quem paga parquímetros são os esbirros da cúria economicista.
Democrata-Cristão
A sua cabeça parece um radar militar, projecta a presença e o olhar em redor como que a anunciar que sabe o que está a fazer, pesem embora os anos e a gravata à bimbo.
Na tampa da mala, terá a) uma cruz de Cristo, b) a bandeira do Reino, c) um autocolante da Penélope ou d) o logotipo do Correio da Manhã.
Inexcedível em trajectória rectilínea e sem muitos apelos à criatividade, como semáforos, passadeiras, pessoas.
Bloquista
Compra sapatos de pele sintética feitos à base de cascas de tâmara, e com o dinheiro que poupa dedica-se a subcontratar grosas de recém-licenciados, aos quais paga mais 15, quinze! por cento do que a média, ou seja 690 euros brutos, para que transcrevam de variadíssimas formas a encefalorreia que o toma de assalto na demanda por um mundo melhor, livre de injustiças e seguro para todos, a começar pelos que ainda não sabem falar, estando na barriga da mãe, e a quem é preciso garantir que a ser cortados às postas, que o sejam com instrumentos de inox primeira qualidade.
3.4.05
"and he said, fight on"
Time and its ally, Dark Disarmament,
Have compassed me about,
Have massed their armies, and on battle bent
My forces put to rout;
But though I fight alone, and fall, and die,
Talk terms of Peace? Not I.
(Tennyson)
They war upon my fortress, and their guns
Are shattering its walls;
My army plays the cowards' part, and runs,
Pierced by a thousand balls;
They call for my surrender. I reply,
"Give quarter now? Not I."
They've shot my flag to ribbons, but in rents
It floats above the height;
Their ensign shall not crown my battlements
While I can stand and fight.
I fling defiance at them as I cry,
"Capitulate? Not I."
Emily Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake)
Time and its ally, Dark Disarmament,
Have compassed me about,
Have massed their armies, and on battle bent
My forces put to rout;
But though I fight alone, and fall, and die,
Talk terms of Peace? Not I.
(Tennyson)
They war upon my fortress, and their guns
Are shattering its walls;
My army plays the cowards' part, and runs,
Pierced by a thousand balls;
They call for my surrender. I reply,
"Give quarter now? Not I."
They've shot my flag to ribbons, but in rents
It floats above the height;
Their ensign shall not crown my battlements
While I can stand and fight.
I fling defiance at them as I cry,
"Capitulate? Not I."
Emily Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake)
O número 13 está sempre presente em tudo o que se relaciona com Fátima e também no caso da morte de João Paulo II se encontraram ligações a estes dois dígitos. Foi o próprio bispo de Leiria, Serafim Ferreira e Silva que, à laia de curiosidade disse aos jornalistas antes de iniciar as suas declarações oficiais. 2 do 4 de 2005 soma 13 e o mesmo sucede com 21h37 (hora da morte em Roma).
More hints that Policarpo might be the next pope, Gloria Olivae.
In Fatima, a site that was JP2's sanctum sanctorum of Marian worship, the Virgin Mary is reported to have appeared atop an olive tree.
Incidentally, Alexander just told me that Cardinal Policarpo owns an olive tree property along with his brothers.
In Fatima, a site that was JP2's sanctum sanctorum of Marian worship, the Virgin Mary is reported to have appeared atop an olive tree.
Incidentally, Alexander just told me that Cardinal Policarpo owns an olive tree property along with his brothers.
desde puto que nunca dei erros, em portugues ou ingles, sempre me pareceram linguas obvias, como se tivesse o vocabulario todo gravado na parte mais basica da mente... nao sei explicar doutra forma, eu sei que soa um bocado pretensioso mas eh a verdade.
o mais lixado eh que estendo isto a variadíssimas coisas, o que faz com que eu não me engane e raramente tenha dúvidas.
xiça, que tinha que ir buscar esta frase!
o mais lixado eh que estendo isto a variadíssimas coisas, o que faz com que eu não me engane e raramente tenha dúvidas.
xiça, que tinha que ir buscar esta frase!
2.4.05
106. Pius XII 1939 - 1958 Eugenio Pacelli
Pastor Angelicus
107. John XXIII 1968 - 1963 Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli
Pastor Et Nauta
Hist.: prior to his election he was patriarch of Venice, a marine city, home of the gondolas
108. Paul VI 1963 - 1978 Giovanni Battista Montini
Flos Florum
Hist.: his arms displayed three lilies.
109. John Paul I 1978 - 1978
De Medietate Lunae
Note: This pope who was unpopular with the curia, lasted only 34 days and died suddenly of unknown causes. His body was cremated within one day without an autopsy. This was and still is controversial, since popes are usually buried within the walls of the Vatican and are never cremated. The suddenness of this action has led to much speculation about a political conspiracy.
There are 3 quatrains found in Nostradamus prophecies that fit the circumstances surrounding the death of this pope.
Hist.: Albino Luciani (white light), born in Canale d'Ogardo, diocese of Belluno, (beautiful moon) Elected pope on august 26, his reign lasted about a month, from half a moon to the next half.
110. John Paul II 1978 - 2005 Karol Joszef Wojtyla
De Labore Solis
Hist.:Karol Wojtyla was born on May 18, 1920 during a solar eclipse. He also comes from behind the former Iron Curtain. He might also be seen to be the fruit of the intercession of the Woman Clothed with the Sun labouring in Revelation 12 (because of his devotion to the Virgin Mary).
John Paul II has travelled, during his papacy, the equivalent of 31 circumnavigations (like the sun).
111. Gloria Olivae
(The glory of the olive)
112. (Peter the Roman)
In persecutione extrema S.R.E. sedebit Petrus Romanus, qui pascet oues in multis tribulationibus: quibus transactis ciuitas septicollis diruetur, & Iudex tremêdus iudicabit populum suum. Finis.
(In extreme persecution, the seat of the Holy Roman Church will be occupied by Peter the Roman, who will feed the sheep through many tribulations, at the term of which the city of seven hills will be destroyed, and the formidable Judge will judge his people. The End.)
http://www.catholic-pages.com/grabbag/malachy.asp
Pastor Angelicus
107. John XXIII 1968 - 1963 Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli
Pastor Et Nauta
Hist.: prior to his election he was patriarch of Venice, a marine city, home of the gondolas
108. Paul VI 1963 - 1978 Giovanni Battista Montini
Flos Florum
Hist.: his arms displayed three lilies.
109. John Paul I 1978 - 1978
De Medietate Lunae
Note: This pope who was unpopular with the curia, lasted only 34 days and died suddenly of unknown causes. His body was cremated within one day without an autopsy. This was and still is controversial, since popes are usually buried within the walls of the Vatican and are never cremated. The suddenness of this action has led to much speculation about a political conspiracy.
There are 3 quatrains found in Nostradamus prophecies that fit the circumstances surrounding the death of this pope.
Hist.: Albino Luciani (white light), born in Canale d'Ogardo, diocese of Belluno, (beautiful moon) Elected pope on august 26, his reign lasted about a month, from half a moon to the next half.
110. John Paul II 1978 - 2005 Karol Joszef Wojtyla
De Labore Solis
Hist.:Karol Wojtyla was born on May 18, 1920 during a solar eclipse. He also comes from behind the former Iron Curtain. He might also be seen to be the fruit of the intercession of the Woman Clothed with the Sun labouring in Revelation 12 (because of his devotion to the Virgin Mary).
John Paul II has travelled, during his papacy, the equivalent of 31 circumnavigations (like the sun).
111. Gloria Olivae
(The glory of the olive)
112. (Peter the Roman)
In persecutione extrema S.R.E. sedebit Petrus Romanus, qui pascet oues in multis tribulationibus: quibus transactis ciuitas septicollis diruetur, & Iudex tremêdus iudicabit populum suum. Finis.
(In extreme persecution, the seat of the Holy Roman Church will be occupied by Peter the Roman, who will feed the sheep through many tribulations, at the term of which the city of seven hills will be destroyed, and the formidable Judge will judge his people. The End.)
http://www.catholic-pages.com/grabbag/malachy.asp
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