Entendes-me? :)

Send in the fireworks :D

Coda

Perhaps to love is to learn
to walk through this world.
To learn to be silent
like the oak and the linden of the fable.
To learn to see.
Your glance scattered seeds.
It planted a tree.
    I talk
because you shake its leaves.

- Octavio Paz

Being Boring

If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it's better today.
I'm content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion-I've used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last,
If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.

I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don't need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I've found a safe mooring,
I've just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.

- Wendy Cope

"...when she met the poet Lachlan Mackinnon, with whom she now lives in Winchester. He is the dedicatee of If I Don't Know and the man acknowledged by Cope as the reason for its tone of sometimes dreamy and delirious content. "Someone to stay home with was all my desire", she writes in the poem "Being Boring", "And now that I've found a safe mooring,/ I've just one ambition in life: I aspire/ To go on and on being boring." Despite the refrain of that poem, though, she is testy about the assumption - expressed in more than one review of the new book - that happiness necessarily dulls the poetic edge. She has just finished an anthology of 101 happy poems and takes issue in her introduction with the old truism that happiness writes white. - "Of course misery writes more good poems than happiness, but happiness does write good poems now and again. ""



"Quem escreve com clareza tem leitores; quem escreve obscuramente tem comentadores."
(Camus)

:)

Não é que tenha uma gaja aos comandos. Não é nada disso. Mas pronto, tou convencido. Siga a Caverna... O post abaixo fica sem efeito ;)

Neste dia

Algumas coisas são cíclicas. É cíclico o surgimento da Vida, enquanto afronta às leis mais concisas da Física. É cíclica a História do Universo, como tudo é cíclico menos o avanço da entropia - e mesmo assim, não sei.

Há quatro anos, tal como antes e depois de há quatro anos, existia um espaço enorme, um vazio arrombado que foi aprendendo a brilhar sem explodir. Daí se fizeram palavras, e das palavras momentos, e estes tiveram Estações; uma Primavera cheia de amores como bonecos de neve, um Inverno resoluto na certeza de trazer ao seu habitante uma melhor preparação para o inevitável.

Há quatro anos, talvez até na tua vida houvesse ciclicidade. Na minha, havia-a certamente.

Porque a Vida tem, ou serve, desígnios inegáveis, e porque o Amor, enquanto expressão mais alta do livre arbítrio, da nossa centelha, e porque escapar à moagem cíclica dos anos é talvez a única cicatriz que é humanamente possível desenhar nos blogs do Universo.

Porque tu e eu nos encarregaremos, como hoje encarregamos, de fazer com que o tempo que nos resta fervilhe ao rubro.

Porque o somatório de nós, deles, do que bem nos basta como fardo e como recompensa constitui garantia bastante de que não implodiremos.

Por tudo isto, e porque algumas coisas não devem ser cíclicas, este blog termina aqui.

As sugestões, referências e comentários poderão regressar, mas não a voz na penumbra.

A Caverna cede lugar a uma Casa parede por parede, vela por vela, aroma por aroma.

É para já uma casa difusa, que só tem fundações, da qual não existe projecto nem sequer localização geográfica, e muito menos um blog. Mas está a fazer-se, constrói-se com cimento de Outono e janelas para o Verão. Tem folhas e ramos fortíssimos onde crescem avelãs bojudas e os animais do bosque vêm acoitar-se. Estende-se por muitas serras e alguns rios, atravessa pontes e vales, e passa a vau uma cidade inteira. Leva confortavelmente quatro camas e nela há sempre uma cozinha, cujo chão é frio e o ar quente, e que muda de sítio consoante nada em concreto.

Já não digo mais nada.

Este blog termina aqui porque o Amor continua.

E ao teu lado começo uma estória definitiva.

Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

- Robert Frost

O que é que se faz quando a simples visão da pessoa amada nos reaviva a percepção de não termos vinte mãos, trinta línguas, oito bocas, cinco hmm membros viris e trezentos mil anos para viver?

Yes Yes

when God created love he didn't help most
when God created dogs He didn't help dogs
when God created plants that was average
when God created hate we had a standard utility
when God created me He created me
when God created the monkey He was asleep
when He created the giraffe He was drunk
when He created narcotics He was high
and when He created suicide He was low

when He created you lying in bed
He knew what He was doing
He was drunk and He was high
and He created the mountains and the sea and fire at the same time

He made some mistakes
but when He created you lying in bed
He came all over His Blessed Universe.

- Charles Bukowski

Reconhecimento à Loucura

Já alguém sentiu a loucura
vestir de repente o nosso corpo?
Já.
E tomar forma de objectos?
Sim.
E acender relâmpagos no pensamento
Também.
E às vezes parece ser o fim?
Exactamente.
Como o cavalo do soneto de Ângelo de Lima?
Tal e qual.
E depois mostrar-nos o que há-de vir
muito melhor do que está?
E dar-nos a cheirar uma cor
que nos faz seguir viagem
sem paragem
nem resignação?
E sentirmo-nos empurrados pelos rins
na aula de descer abismos
e fazer dos abismos descidas de recreio
e covas de encher novidade?
E de uns fazer gigantes
e de outros alienados?
E fazer frente ao impossível
atrevidamente
e ganhar-lhe, e ganhar-lhe
a ponto do impossível ficar possível?
E quando tudo parece perfeito
poder-se ir ainda mais além?
E isto de desencantar vidas
aos que julgam que a vida é só uma?
E isto de haver sempre ainda mais uma maneira pra tudo?
Tu só, loucura, és capaz de transformar
o mundo tantas vezes quantas sejam necessárias para olhos individuais.
Só tu és capaz de fazer que tenham razão
tantas razões que hão-de viver juntas.
Tudo, excepto tu, é rotina peganhenta.
Só tu tens asas para dar
a quem tas vier buscar.

- José de Almada Negreiros

Rakkaus on lepo.
Oikeastaan ainoa lepo mitä ihmisellä on.
Eikä mikään ole niin rasittavaa.
Ja se on vapautta.
Eikä kuitenkaan mikään sido niin paljon.
Siinä on rakkauden paradoksi.
Ilman rakkautta ihminen kantaa kuin taakkaa
koko ajan ja on yksinäisyytensä vanki,
niin vapaa kuin yksin ollessaan onkin.


Love is rest.
Actually, the only rest humans have.
And nothing is as exhausting.
And it is freedom.
And yet, nothing binds us as securely.
Therein lies love's paradox.
Without love, it is as if one carried a burden
All the time and was prisoner to his loneliness,
No matter how free he is in his aloneness.


- Eeva Kilpi -


(amo-te tanto, ruça linda)

From The Book of Common Prayer, 1549:

"O lord... Be unto them a tower of strength."

From Richard III, 1594:

'The king's name is a tower of strength."

Margareth Thatcher on TV
Shocked by the deaths that took place in Beijing
It seems strange that she should be offended
The same orders are given by her

I've said this before now
You said I was childish and you'll say it now
"Remember what I told you
If they hated me they will hate you"

England's not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It's the home of police who kill black boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that's why I'm leaving
I don't want him to be aware that there's
Any such thing as grieving

Young mother down at Smithfield
5 am, looking for food for her kids
In her arms she holds three cold babies
And the first word that they learned was "please"

These are dangerous days
To say what you feel is to dig your own grave
"Remember what I told you
If you were of the world they would love you"

England's not the mythical land of Madame George and roses
It's the home of police who kill blacks boys on mopeds
And I love my boy and that's why I'm leaving
I don't want him to be aware that there's
Any such thing as grieving.

(Sinead O'Connor)

Snail on a wire :D



(Prior Velho, Lx)

Há sempre uma coisa destas nestes momentos :)

E que rico dia está hoje!



Something got me thinking tonight about
Changes
Changes

Somebody bought me a ticket tonight
Dangerous
Dangerous

I've just gotta go
Where everything is what it could be now
Where everything is ready for me now
Everything and every time
Everything and every kind
Make me yours
I'll make you mine
Make us blind

Someone asked me something tonight
What my name is, game is
Somebody made me feel something tonight
Brainless, painless

I've just gotta know
Where everything is what it could be now
Where everything is ready for me now
Everything and every time
Everything and every kind
Make me yours
I'll make you mine
Make us blind

Depois deste dia, desta noite, destes três Bailey's ladeados por um pacote de Oreo revestidas, bom, da energia toda que foi dispendida, entre corpo, mente e alma, caraças, depois de ouvir isto, dos sorrisos, da carne, do sonho, do sim, do sim, do sim, quem é que pode dormir?

Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Belovèd, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain
Cry, "Speak once more—thou lovest!" Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll
The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Robert Jordan, R.I.P.

Born:	October 17, 1948(1948-10-17) Charleston, South Carolina, U.S.A.
Died:	September 16, 2007 (aged 58)
Occupation:	Novelist
Genres:	Fantasy
Influences:	J.R.R. Tolkien, Frank Herbert

Cloudbusting

Sentiste?

Maldita toalha do vizinho que fez sombra na altura errada, ali na frame #1.