Nem te conto...

Ele, já em seus 86 anos, praticamente surdo. Sua audição funcionava a 30%. Ela, bem mais nova, 68 anos, bem disposta. Gostava de jogar cartas com as amigas nas noites de terça. A velhice não a impedia de acreditar na vida, de sonhar. Pensava ainda em visitar os castelos medievais na França, mas sua condição de professora aposentada não a tinha permitido sequer ir além de Buenos Aires.

Em uma tarde fresca de sábado, sentam-se os dois na pequena varanda do apartamento. Enquanto tomava seu chá de camomila, ela o contemplava:

- Nem te conto...
- O quê?
- Não te conto. Você vai saber.
- O quê??
- O quanto te amo.
- O quê??!

Ela o toma pelos braços e o leva a sentar-se ao piano, pedindo que ele tocasse o concerto que o fez ganhar o prêmio de melhor intérprete de Mozart no conservatório. Ele, com as mãos trêmulas pela idade, percorre o piano e, apesar da ótima condição auditiva da esposa, ele a faz extasiar-se com tão belos sons.

Um conto

Quatro anos se passaram. Passaram também a primavera, o verão.

Ele, imerso em seus escritos, um intelectual ocupado com coisas importantes. As palavras se tornaram cifras e as cifras, o seu tempo. Ele se dedica a elas, tem prazer nelas. Uma prazer quase que físico, libidinoso. As palavras fazem por ele o que um beijo não poderia mais fazer.

Ela, absorta em pensamentos, em fugas, alimenta-se da ilusão e, acostumada ao confinamento e à prisão sem grades, suspirando profundamente, conclui:

- Ahhhhhhhh... Sabe aquelas primeiras semanas de início de namoro com aquele romance...? Pois é... :(

Moral da história: Vinícius de Moraes que o diga!

Headache

It's the kind of pain that says I feel rejected
It's the kind of pain that says how I miss to be passionately loved
It's the kind of pain that says how frozen future is
It's the kind of pain that keeps screaming "I miss it"
It's the kind of pain that fakes a smile
It's the kind of pain that stings the stomach
It's the kind of pain that echoes in the air
It's the kind of pain that doesn't have to last.

Intervalo

Time's up! Pelo menos para o cérebro. Chega uma hora que "já deu", a mente cansa, as palavras se atropelam e os olhos dançam para todas as direções possíveis no afã de fugir de qualquer coisa mais difícil de processar. Daí, toca uma campanhia dizendo "hora da pausa"... É isso. Ócio lá vamos nós! Au revoir.

A piece of living or poetry as you might wish

What is music but living sounds?
What is poetry but a moving voice?
What is  there that makes someone to grasp in his or her hands a merely trace of illusion?
Aren't you desperate for saying?
Are we desperate for hearing?
No bare truth is well accepted.
Keep it clean, keep it clear
Loud and feared.


P.s: This "piece of living" was written right after I watched the movie "The last station" about Leon Tolstoy.

Provérbios (des)encantados

Quando um espécime macho sapiens disser para você: "Vamos sair hoje para um lugar legal. Vamos fazer algo especial e diferente", verifique os sintomas para saber se é contagioso... Contudo, mais vale um macho com esta doença do que um são.


English version:
When an authentic male sapiens comes to you saying: "Let's go out tonight. Let's do something special and different", check the syntoms to find out if it's contagious... However, better a sick man like this than another who's not that sick.

Provérbios (des)encantados

No dia em que você encontrar um macho que saiba se virar (e bem!)... Não o beije!! Ele pode virar sapo ;)

English Version:

If, by chance, you meet a guy that knows how to take care of himself (and well!)... Do not kiss him!! He can become a toad ;)

Schopenhauer

(English version)

I’m reading a series of essays by Arthur Schopenhauer taken from one of his books, which is called “Parerga und Paralipomena”, and today, I came up with the following:

“The presence of a thought is like the presence of someone beloved. We think we will never forget this thought and we will never be indifferent in relation to our beloved one. But far from the eyes, far from our heart! The most beautiful thought can be at risk of being irreversibly forgotten when it’s not written. The same way, our beloved one can leave us when we do not marry her”. (my translation)

Ok.

(...)

After a while, I had to certify (and to confess now) that I let A LOT of beloved thoughts go.

Since I started this blog, my intention was to create, give birth to thoughts, ideas, and deliria or as you like it. I killed them all or maybe... I have only numbed them, sedated them. They’re asleep and maybe, like the “beloved one” by Schopenhauer, some of them may have actually left me.

I may also have abandoned the “manifesto for a contemplative leisure”, “the echoes theory”, and those that I may actually have killed for I can’t even remember them.

Very well. In one of the posts in this blog, there’s a comment by a friend that says something about Clarice Lispector (a Brazilian writer, actually born in Ucrania) and Cecília Meireles (a Brazilian poetess) always having a notepad in their bags. I do not always have a notepad or even a pen with me... On the other hand, cell phone, MP3 player are always in my bag. I remember that once I tried to make some recordings. It didn’t work. Noisy places. Besides, I felt a bit weird talking to a recorder walking on the streets (wouldn’t you?).

Today, thanks to a notepad I have with me, and to my pen (a gift from some congress or meeting), I could write this post. Old school, old-fashioned, retro... Call it the way you want it. From now on: notepad will always be in my bag!