A folha em branco está, sabes, a tornar-se outra vez o eco das luzes na noite, uma espécie de farol com mesas abertas sobre pernas maduras. Não posso imolar contos à memória das nuvens mais impossíveis, não quero caber na prosa ilustre do cinismo instituído.
A partir de hoje és tu que traduzes a palavra cúmplice - dou-te a paisagem sem tréguas dos meus furores gratuitos. Faz com ela o resto da fome imprevista. Desejo-te nos elos que ligam aquilo que não escreves, procuro que nos possuamos como penhor da coincidência, caução do fantástico. Sabias que um amigo ousou um dia não haver ouro na mina? E que essa mesma partícula entre os mundos diurnos falou-me ontem de um sono que nos faria satélites? É verdade. Não posso a neve eterna nem quero contar lapsos a golpes de copo. O jarro preferível é sempre uma cópia, pálida e esdrúxula, do teu peito razão para a noite ventre e conforto.
Talvez te deseje nas curvas da estrada. Talvez desenhe penínsulas ocultas. Talvez a pele não termine onde supomos o ar.
Fica escrito no sol mais distante que a tua mão pariu estes minutos.


Catharsis, Latin from the Greek Katharsis 'purification', is a sudden emotional breakdown or climax that constitutes overwhelming feelings of great pity, sorrow, laughter, or any extreme change in emotion that results in the renewal, restoration and revitalization for living.

Catharsis is a form of emotional cleansing first defined by the Greek philosopher Aristotle. It refers to the sensation, or literary effect, that would ideally overcome an audience upon finishing watching a tragedy. The fact that there existed those who could suffer a worse fate than them was to them a relief, and at the end of the play, they felt ekstasis (literally, astonishment), from which the modern word exstasis and ecstasy are derived. While seemingly related to schadenfreude, it is not, however, in the sense that the audience is not intentionally led to feel happy in light of others' misfortunes; in an invariant sense, their spirits are refreshed through having greater appreciation for life.

In literary aesthetics catharsis is developed by the conjuction of stereotyped characters and unique or surprising actions. Throughout a play we do not expect the nature of a character to change significantly, rather pre-existing elements are revealed in a relatively straight-forward way as the character is confronted with unique actions in time. This can be clearly seen in Oedipus Rex where King Oedipus is confronted with ever more outrageous actions until emptying generated by the death of his mother-wife and his act of self-blinding. As a literary effect, catharsis should be compared with the equivalent effects for epic and poetic forms of kairosis and kenosis.

In contemporary aesthetics catharsis may also refer to any emptying of emotion experienced by an audience in relation to drama. This exstasis can be perceived in comedy, melodrama and most other dramatic forms. Deliberate attempts, on political or aesthetic bases, to subvert the structure of catharsis in theatre have occurred. For example, Bertold Brecht viewed catharsis as a pap for the bourgeois theatre audience, and designed dramas which left significant emotions unresolved, as a way to force social action upon the audience. In Brecht's theory, the absence of a cathartic resolving action would require the audience to take political action in the real world in order to fill the emotional gap they experience. This technique can be seen as early as his agit-prop play The measures taken.


All hands that work
And tired fall down in the evening
And tired, tired fall asleep,
Silently clasp in the night;
Silently into the distance open the eyes,
So that peaceful and good is the heart.

-Srecko Kosovel


The Corporate Bullshit Generator %)





Quando estamos cansados
deitamos o corpo
e adormecemos

às vezes não

procuramos outra mão
outros olhos
que nos limpem a fadiga
e evitem o sono
que nos vem antigo

quando estamos cansados
podemos erguer o corpo
e acordar
e morrer acordados
sem cansaço

-Mário-Henrique Leiria

(vindo da Ju que hoje foi a mão, os olhos)


Why do I desire
What I do not need?
Why does my soul, like fire,
Or a hot abstract greed,
Seek all that is higher?

Why, if not because
It is a soul?
Who can know the cause
When it lies in its whole
Hidden in laws?

Yet this matters not.
What matters is pining
And that stress of thought
That comes of diving
What to wish that may not be got.

- Fernando Pessoa


( The Trial of Hank Rearden from 'Atlas Shrugged' by Ayn Rand)

According to the procedure established by directives, cases of this kind were not tried by a jury, but by a panel of three judges appointed by the Bureau of Economic Planning and National Resources; the procedure, the directives had stated, was to be informal and democratic. The judge's bench had been removed from the old Philadelphia courtroom for this occasion, and replaced by a table on a wooden platform; it gave the room an atmosphere suggesting the kind of meeting where a presiding body puts something over on a mentally retarded membership.

One of the judges, acting as prosecutor, had read the charges.
"You may now offer whatever plea you wish to make in your own defence," he announced. Facing the platform, his voice inflectionless and peculiarly clear, Hank Rearden answered:
"I have no defence."
"Do you --" The judge stumbled; he had not expected it to be that easy. "Do you throw yourself upon the mercy of this court?"
"I do not recognise this court's right to try me."
"I do not recognise this court's right to try me."
"But, Mr. Rearden, this is the legally appointed court to try this particular category of crime."
"I do not recognise my action as a crime."
"But you have admitted that you have broken our regulations controlling the sale of your Metal."
"I do not recognise your right to control the sale of my Metal."
"Is it necessary for me to point out that your recognition was not required?"
"No. I am fully aware of it and I am acting accordingly."

He noted the stillness of the room. By the rules of the complicated pretence which all those people played for one another's benefit, they should have considered his stand as incomprehensible folly; there should have been rustles of astonishment and derision; there were none; they sat still; they understood.
"Do you mean that you are refusing to obey the law?" asked the judge.
"No. I am complying with the law - to the letter. Your law holds that my life, my work and my property may be disposed of without my consent. Very well, you may now dispose of me without my participation in the matter. I will not play the part of defending myself, where no defence is possible, and I will not simulate the illusion of dealing with a tribunal of justice."
"But, Mr. Rearden, the law provides specifically that you are to be given an opportunity to present your side of the case and to defend yourself."
"A prisoner brought to trial can defend himself only if there is an objective principle of justice recognised by his judges, a principle upholding his rights, which they may not violate and which he can invoke. The law, by which you are trying me, holds that there are no principles, that I have no rights and that you may do with me whatever you please. Very well. Do it." "Mr. Rearden, the law which you are denouncing is based on the highest principle - the principle of the public good."
"Who is the public? What does it hold as its good? There was a time when men believed that 'the good' was a concept to be defined by a code of moral values and that no man had the right to seek his good through the violation of the rights of another. If it is now believed that my fellow men may sacrifice me in any manner they please for the sake of whatever they deem to e their own good, if they believe that they may seize my property simply because they need it - well, so does any burglar. There is only this difference: the burglar does not ask me to sanction his act."


"Are we to understand," asked the judge, "that you hold your own interests above the interests of the public?"
"I hold that such a question can never arise except in a society of cannibals."
"What ... do you mean?"
"I hold that there is no clash of interests among men who do not demand the unearned and do not practice human sacrifices."
"Are we to understand that if the public deems it necessary to curtail your profits, you do not recognise its right to do so?"
"Why, yes, I do. The public may curtail my profits any time it wishes - by refusing to buy my product."
"We are speaking of ... other methods."
"Any other method of curtailing profits is the method of looters - and I recognise it as such."
"Mr. Rearden, this is hardly the way to defend yourself."
"I said that I would not defend myself."
"But this is unheard of! Do you realise the gravity of the charge against you?"
"I do not care to consider it."
"Do you realise the possible consequences of your stand?"
"It is the opinion of this court that the facts presented by the prosecution seem to warrant no leniency. The penalty which this court has the power to impose on you is extremely severe."
"Go ahead."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Impose it."
The three judges looked at one another. Then their spokesman turned back to Rearden. "This is unprecedented," he said.
"It is completely irregular," said the second judge. "The law requires you submit to a plea in your own defence. Your only alternative is to state for the record that you throw yourself upon the mercy of the court."
"I do not."
"But you have to."
"Do you mean that what you expect from me is some sort of voluntary action?"
"I volunteer nothing."
"But the law demands that the defendant's side be represented on the record."
"Do you mean that you need my help to make this procedure legal?"
"Well, no ... yes ... that is, to complete the form."
"I will not help you."


"That is the flaw in your theory, gentlemen," said Rearden gravely, "and I will not help you out of it. If you choose to deal with men by means of compulsion, do so. But you will discover that you need the voluntary co-operation of your victims, in many more ways than you can see at present. And your victims should discover that it is their own volition - which you cannot force - that makes you possible. I choose to be consistent and I will obey you in the manner you demand. Whatever you wish me to do, I will do it at the point of a gun. If you sentence me to jail, you will have to send armed men to carry me there - I will not volunteer to move. If you fine me, you will have to seize my property to collect the fine - I will not volunteer to pay it. If you believe that you have the right to force me - use your guns openly. I will not help you to disguise the nature of your action."
The eldest judge leaned forward across the table and his voice became suavely derisive: "You speak as if you were fighting for some sort of principle, Mr. Rearden, but what you're actually fighting for is only your property, isn't it?"
"Yes, of course. I am fighting for my property. Do you know the kind of principle that
"You pose as a champion of freedom, but it's only the freedom to make money that you're after."
"Yes, of course. All I want is the freedom to make money. Do you know what that freedom implies?"
"Surely, Mr. Rearden, you wouldn't want your attitude to be misunderstood. You wouldn't want to give support to the widespread impression that you are a man devoid of social conscience, who feels no concern for the welfare of his fellows and works for nothing but his own profit."
"I work for nothing but my own profit. I earn it."
There was a gasp, not of indignation, but of astonishment, in the crowd behind him and silence from the judges he faced.


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!"


nao duvides, ainda hoje no esteio de mais um enterro
dei comigo a procurar
sobretudo a liberdade
como alias la fora
e os torroes caiam, caiam, caiam
sobre o ataude polido e garboso
cantava jantares oferecidos e eu, ainda eu
vertiamos ar seco para dentro do poço
entre pontas de odor a arvoredo
pude ver a filha
em bicos de pes
alcançar o ombro do meu amigo
que cor terá a mao no ombro de um qualquer
meu amigo
quando eu seguir os meus pais na rota verdejante?
qual sera a medida do cansaço dos outros?
e ainda sem pronomes, ves
evitar os extremos, os nomes, que sao pontas arriscadas
nao venha um azar cortejar favores do demiurgo
e assim sempre escrevemos mais uma linha.
Pergunto-me de que cor serás tu quando vieres ao meu lado, pela avenida verde entre os raios de sol, cobertos de pólen, pousar-me a mão no ombro, em bicos de pés, sobre o meu cansaço inevitável. Terá então decorrido como disse hoje à Nô, o filme feito de liberdade e de honestidade, e não a peça hipergeométrica vivida do fosso para a sala do trono, do mercado para o meio do rio. Qual virá a ser a carta saída da manga então, para mediar os extremos de quem nasce e quem morre, e mesmo dos vivos não venha o azar ter ouvidos na hora errada? Não sei bem se andamos todos ao mesmo. Para mim, talvez ainda uma chama, talvez o limite das regras.
nessas alturas fico sem outra vontade que nao a de me deitar, ao teu lado, em tardes quentes depois de termos sentido o sol e antes do anoitecer que traz sempre algo novo, deitar contigo e cobrir os minutos com as células do amor. falando através de sentidos antigos, casando reses esquecidas.


Para ver contigo enquanto ensino à tua pele o significado da minha. Straight top ten.
Estranho mesmo, mas estranho que se farta, é o atropelo de desconversa quando a vontade é tripartida entre fundir, conhecer e contemplar. Deve ser por tal efeito que antecipamos uma amálgama incontornável, o jorro electroquímico entre sinapses - em suma blocos que encaixam. Se digo que te amo, a invocação tem rigor matemático.
arquivamos o amor no abismo do tempo
e para lá da pele negra do desgosto
pressentimos vivo
o passageiro ardente das areias - o viajante
que irradia um cheiro a violetas nocturnas

(Al Berto)

A pensar que nos vamos - talvez - e sabemos pouco.
Faz-se a paixão na simplicidade escrevendo a aço e safiras por cima de sensações intraduzíveis. Amaldiçoam-se, entre risos, as horas passadas em questiúnculas protagonizadas pelos rebanhos da dúvida. Abarca-se o mundo inteiro sabendo que o alcance desta descoberta não conhece expressão, vive fora do esquema. É só nosso e vai beber onde brotam segredos maiores.
Havia um filme qualquer com o Diogo Morgado e a Ana Padrão cujo título agora me veio à cabeça. Esta foi à Paul Auster mas sem querer.
Ringthane wrote:
Learning and inner growth should be promoted as an end in themselves, not to get a job.

Oliver wrote:
I agree, but 'fine words butter no parsnips'. I just believe that most people couldn't care less about inner growth, but rather worry where to get money from to buy stuff. Learning is only seen as a goal by those who are financially secure.
Or, with Brecht: Erst kommt das Fressen, und dann die Moral (first the food, then the morals). I'm not claiming that there are no exceptions, but to me this seems to be the general attitude.

Ringthane wrote:
That's exactly why I think we need to:

- eradicate money
- eradicate nationhood
- establish acracy preferrably overnight
- punish the ones who would establish the "dark path" again, e.g. technocrats, powermongers, criminals, ignorants (not nescient people); it's their right to be thus, as it is our right to exclude them of any communal improvements
- transcend the Santa Claus complex and other urban myths, like believing that there is enough humane quality to the species as a whole, that would enable any voter or trustee to mandate, rightfully and rationally, the exercise of power.


Estás a ver? Vês? Já não preciso dos cães %)
Quis ainda dizer-te que tu me invades e semeias a guerra, a paz, escaramuças cá dentro na clareira tranquila, que me excitas, acendes, seduzes, torneias, possuis, enterneces e confirmas. Comecei a amar-te quando, pela primeira vez, a tua invenção se ofereceu ao toque da minha chama.
Quando estás perante uma situação incontornável, se além das soluções canónicas só existe outra, que é tida por impossível, então não pensas; não ponderas, nem te medes contra a soma das tuas insuficiências e das feras do mundo. Não te interrogas se é real ou não. Apreende-la, e ages como se pudesse ser feito.

É tão verdade para que seja assim mesmo.

Até esgotar o coração.


It's not the red of the dying sun
The morning sheets surprising stain
It's not the red of which we bleed

The red of cabernet sauvignon
A world of ruby all in vain

It's not that red

It's not as golden as Zeus famous shower
It doesn't come, not at all, from above
It's in the open but it doesn't get stolen
It's not that gold
It's not as golden as memory
Or the age of the same name

It's not that gold

I wish this would be your colour
I wish this would be your colour
I wish this would be your colour
Your colour, I wish

It is as black as malevitch's square
The cold furnace in which we stare
A high pitch on a future scale
It is a starless winternight's tale
It suits you well

It is that black

I wish this would be your colour
I wish this would be your colour
I wish this would be your colour
Your colour, I wish

Above the Madhouse

Above a madhouse is strolling
a moonstruck moon.
A Shadow-man is walking around a white garden
absorbed in his sad chin.
As if in a kaleidoscope,
currencies, stocks were dancing before him
in a rainbow fire burning away.
An ex-banker, prisoner of papers
now strolling
with the moonstruck moon
behind the white walls of a madhouse.
This is freedom,
the horrible freedom
you have stepping behind the invisible walls
of expanded human consciousness,
which unfolds in a terrible

-Srecko Kosovel


Iucundum, mea vita, mihi proponis amorem
hunc nostrum inter nos perpetuumque fore.
di magni, facite ut vere promittere possit,
atque id sincere dicat et ex animo,
ut liceat nobis tota perducere vita
aeternum hoc sanctae foedus amicitiae.

You, my life, promise that this love
of ours between us shall be agreeable and last forever.
Great gods, arrange for her to speak the truth,
and to say this sincere and from the bottom of her heart,
so that it is granted us to continue all our life
this treaty of inviolable friendship.

Lov meg, du, mitt liv,
at vår kjærlighet skal vare i all evighet.
Store gudene, om hun bare snakker sant,
om hun sier dette i all ærlighet og fra hjertets bunn
så vi kan fortsette resten av livet
med vår hellig vennskapspakt

-Gaius Valerius Catullus-
Do teu nome quero estilhaçar veios de minério velhos como a prisão do mundo.


O gajo Cronenberg tornou-se mestre em arrepiar por nao fazer acontecer nada, pelo temor instintivo que nos faz sentir por sabermos que PODE acontecer algo grotesco, ilimitado, subito. Mortensen enorme.
e hoje sem nada à flor
nada que nao seja primeiro
essencialmente para ti, porque
sabes bem que reduzes um sentido
à metade de todos os outros
a lisas fracções sem razão
porque hoje deixei litros
e litros de corpo na cama
porque hoje quis novamente
a pressa a fuga em frente o sol
no teu nome num caderno espalmado
com cordas, com teses
as mãos tornam-se o filme
as pétalas da história feliz,
Tu, glória eterna e uma mesa que dança.


Any boss is a fuckin' Romulan in potential.

Pushing up on Carlisle Road into the seething shadows
Through the plastic visor – a hail of broken kerbstone
Fire-lit-faces, all the noise – so much hatred
What I remember thinking – I can’t believe this is happening
All I remember thinking

Came home four, four-thirty, Emma was waiting up for me
News chanel drone on the TV, her arms clasped around her knees
She looked up but said nothing
I went up to the kids bedroom, touched their sleeping faces
Wondered how I could protect them
Wondered how to protect them

(Sullivan 2005)