"Não olhes para trás, o fim é sempre um príncipio para todos aqueles que nasceram com asas...
Os prados eram azuis porque a luz do azul da manhã não deixava existir outra cor. As azedas que cobriam os campos, as papoilas. Noutras alturas o trigo crescido e nós em sonhos a correr e a fazer nascer seres por entre o trigo crescido. Os nossos sonhos são sempre da intensidade desse azul, em qualquer momento do dia, em qualquer estação, com qualquer luz ou escuridão, em qualquer idade.
É lindo quando temos 15 anos e cantamos ‘somewhere over the rainbow’, mas ainda que visualmente muito menos belo, tem a mesma beleza quando a cantamos aos 80. Temos algo em nós, criado entre a memória do riso e a força de cada sonho a nascer, que nos fará sempre acreditar que num qualquer lugar, muito além do arco-íris...
Sabemos depois todas as histórias, nossas e dos outros, e os nossos lugares de infância misturam-se com Combray, e com todas as imagens e lugares das personagens que passaram a viver connosco. Sabemos mais que bem (o feiticeiro de oz, Peter Camezind, O que diz molero) que todas as voltas ao mundo que dermos nos trazem ao mesmo e único lugar: o primeiro, o nosso.
Mas nada disso toca a força de cada sonho novo a nascer, como nenhuma conquista alguma vez tocará a nossa aspiração.
É este o barro, em que as palavras e as ideias ficam sempre à flor da pele, e são as emoções que ditam, sempre, sempre, cada derrocada e cada erguer do nada. Por mais que nos digamos velhos, corroídos pela desilusão, somos sobretudo e sempre um fantoche nas mãos da ilusão."
(não é meu, é aqui da alice)
28.5.04
Ainda tenho as tuas feridas. Hoje passei pelas bandas sonoras, parei nos sinais vermelhos como se lançasse raízes aos centímetros de estrada que ficavam para trás. Soube-me bem a janela aberta durante a noite, o luar que invadia o meu sono profundo, o primeiro desde há muitos meses. Ainda tenho as farpas que rasgam a carne quando os céus estão azuis, aquele azul esverdeado como algas, sarapintado em grãos de areia onde o sol beija a pele. Ainda tenho os teus olhos cravados na nuca, arde-me o peito quando acordo sem ti, se eu pudesse queimar um planeta com esta angústia que me preenche.
Hoje fiz o caminho como uma bela palmeira. Fomos a rir e a conversar sem pressas, não quis pensar que teria que vir para aqui, para o meio dos loucos, cair sem amparo entre a corja amorfa e cinzenta. Também isto me soube bem, e olha, a raiva e a náusea e a peste e os vaipes de revolta já são folhas da mesma árvore, já são cores no meu tapete e não tomam conta dos momentos, é que mesmo assim não tiveste razão. Corta-se uma vida ao longo dos anos, sobretudo à sexta-feira, com as facas do desespero.
Aqui não se respira o mesmo ar que tu e eu partilhámos. As pessoas são curtas, finas, rasas, e o pavor leva-as a apedrejar os cães que ladram em tons diferentes. É uma casa difícil, esta que me guarda as costelas enquanto ando por aí. Vais gastar um pouco mais do teu sangue, outras quantas certezas, e acabas por acordar numa manhã como esta.
As nuvens continuam a ser nuvens, e dos dias confusos só tenho as tuas feridas. Preciso de pouco mais para voltar a pintar esta praia com as cores da paixão.
Hoje fiz o caminho como uma bela palmeira. Fomos a rir e a conversar sem pressas, não quis pensar que teria que vir para aqui, para o meio dos loucos, cair sem amparo entre a corja amorfa e cinzenta. Também isto me soube bem, e olha, a raiva e a náusea e a peste e os vaipes de revolta já são folhas da mesma árvore, já são cores no meu tapete e não tomam conta dos momentos, é que mesmo assim não tiveste razão. Corta-se uma vida ao longo dos anos, sobretudo à sexta-feira, com as facas do desespero.
Aqui não se respira o mesmo ar que tu e eu partilhámos. As pessoas são curtas, finas, rasas, e o pavor leva-as a apedrejar os cães que ladram em tons diferentes. É uma casa difícil, esta que me guarda as costelas enquanto ando por aí. Vais gastar um pouco mais do teu sangue, outras quantas certezas, e acabas por acordar numa manhã como esta.
As nuvens continuam a ser nuvens, e dos dias confusos só tenho as tuas feridas. Preciso de pouco mais para voltar a pintar esta praia com as cores da paixão.
1.4.04
24.3.04
10.3.04
19.1.04
2.1.04
The Universe
I
Those who went far told us
That out-there, there’s more and more, too much of stars.
Not only above the head, but even under the feet,
And like an apple in the distance, the planet of our birth.
One stands on the floor only in one’s ship,
In the distance itself, there’s nowhere to stand.
They became frightened of the stars,
Fell, aged, back on this world.
They sit in firm chairs on this world,
In soft cloth of our clothes,
They sleep on rainy nights under ceilings,
Beside their unloved women.
II
Women, we missed them the most,
Said the explorer of the universe,
Blinking quickly with his eyes,
For his wife sat beside him.
He poured himself more wine,
Red one, that goes with game,
And kept smiling all the time,
Wiping his mouth as he drank.
Those know everything about universe:
Universe, that’s my home,
I know it better than the inside of my own pocket,
Sometime, I’ll make another quick tour there and back.
III
Those who went further
Reported ever less frequently, ever scarcer.
That some kind of an apparition is chasing them,
A visible ghost sometimes, sometimes only a voice.
A voice of an orchestra from somewhere outside the ship,
And inside a knocking from everywhere,
And when you’re on the point of falling asleep,
In the dark, a foreign body lies down beside you.
Even stars are less numerous out-here –
There somewhere a white blot is rotating in the dark …
Much fewer of those return,
Sometimes without ears, sometimes without eyes.
IV
Eyes? repeated the space hero,
Why should I need eyes here on Earth!
Ears, to listen to you, I possess,
And mouth, to eat something, have a smoke.
Three sisters, all in white, jumped up
And hurried to give him a light.
Over the glowing point, a small pillar of smoke,
Black sunglasses stared at us.
Eyes – the man fell silent for a moment,
Who on earth still needs eyes,
He laughed, stretching out his arm,
Opening, as if he wanted to read, a newspaper.
V
Those who came furthest,
Were the shortest on words,
They preferred to question us,
Replying in between: no, there are no more stars.
In fact, messages from their ship
Even now still keep floating back to us,
But among us, no one anymore knows those signs,
As if, in his own language, a ghost was calling.
I’m afraid, admitted the professor,
That they are already too far in space
And they won’t be able to return,
Forever they will remain in the universe.
Gregor Strnisa (1983)
Traduzido do Esloveno por Matija Vidmar
I
Those who went far told us
That out-there, there’s more and more, too much of stars.
Not only above the head, but even under the feet,
And like an apple in the distance, the planet of our birth.
One stands on the floor only in one’s ship,
In the distance itself, there’s nowhere to stand.
They became frightened of the stars,
Fell, aged, back on this world.
They sit in firm chairs on this world,
In soft cloth of our clothes,
They sleep on rainy nights under ceilings,
Beside their unloved women.
II
Women, we missed them the most,
Said the explorer of the universe,
Blinking quickly with his eyes,
For his wife sat beside him.
He poured himself more wine,
Red one, that goes with game,
And kept smiling all the time,
Wiping his mouth as he drank.
Those know everything about universe:
Universe, that’s my home,
I know it better than the inside of my own pocket,
Sometime, I’ll make another quick tour there and back.
III
Those who went further
Reported ever less frequently, ever scarcer.
That some kind of an apparition is chasing them,
A visible ghost sometimes, sometimes only a voice.
A voice of an orchestra from somewhere outside the ship,
And inside a knocking from everywhere,
And when you’re on the point of falling asleep,
In the dark, a foreign body lies down beside you.
Even stars are less numerous out-here –
There somewhere a white blot is rotating in the dark …
Much fewer of those return,
Sometimes without ears, sometimes without eyes.
IV
Eyes? repeated the space hero,
Why should I need eyes here on Earth!
Ears, to listen to you, I possess,
And mouth, to eat something, have a smoke.
Three sisters, all in white, jumped up
And hurried to give him a light.
Over the glowing point, a small pillar of smoke,
Black sunglasses stared at us.
Eyes – the man fell silent for a moment,
Who on earth still needs eyes,
He laughed, stretching out his arm,
Opening, as if he wanted to read, a newspaper.
V
Those who came furthest,
Were the shortest on words,
They preferred to question us,
Replying in between: no, there are no more stars.
In fact, messages from their ship
Even now still keep floating back to us,
But among us, no one anymore knows those signs,
As if, in his own language, a ghost was calling.
I’m afraid, admitted the professor,
That they are already too far in space
And they won’t be able to return,
Forever they will remain in the universe.
Gregor Strnisa (1983)
Traduzido do Esloveno por Matija Vidmar
31.12.03
Old Horse, I would never even attempt to sketch a winner over this one. The piece reflects some of my hamlets, crashes like waves upon some of my life's cornerstones and hampers. I share. It's amazing, but indeed it's never enough said, it will appear as if the same wee hours have cradled our common growth. CDR's here cost 4€-10, and work is a means, and family held aloft and no, people are not introspective and socially enhanced and yet how hearts crave dawn with longing for voice and lust for rain. This is a good day to write. This is a good place for children, and from puddles of fresh mud sprout flowers that hold the pillars of homes, and strangers are welcome. Breathe easy: there is no distance and no time, all is like was and the moment is here, there is no dead infinity at the gates of calculus. Here I am, writing to all of you, and whadda ya know, I will shout it til my box gapes wide: there are no coincidences, only signs and our memory of a time before time. Never fear, never ever fear.
4.12.03
25.11.03
Subscrever:
Mensagens (Atom)