she wanted to see other people
i thought, "well then, look around, they're everywhere"
said that she was confused...
i thought, "darling, join the club"
24 years old, mid-life crisis
nowadays hits you when you're young
i hung up, she called back, i hung up again
the process had already started
at least it happened quick
i swear, i died inside that night
my friend, he called
i didn't mention a thing
the last thing he said was, "be sound"
i contemplated an awful thing, i hate to admit
i just thought those would be such appropriate last words
but i'm still here
so small.. how could this struggle seem so big?
while the palms in the breeze still blow green
and the waves in the sea still absolute blue
but the horror
every single thing i see is a reminder of her
never thought i'd curse the day i met her
and since she's gone and wouldn't hear
who would care? what good would that do?
but i'm still here
so i imagine in a month...or 12
i'l be somewhere having a drink
laughing at a stupid joke
or just another stupid thing
and i can see myself stopping short
drifting out of the present
sucked by the undertow and pulled out deep
and there i am, standing
wet grass and white headstones all in rows
and in the distance there's one, off on its own
so i stop, kneel
my new home...
and i picture a sober awakening, a re-entry into this little bar scene
sip my drink til the ice hits my lip
order another round
and that's it for now
never been too good at happy endings...
- Quantos rins nós temos?
- Quatro? Traga um molho de feno, pois temos um asno na sala. - ordena o professor ao seu auxiliar.
- E para mim um cafezinho! - Replicou o aluno ao auxiliar do mestre.
O professor ficou irado e expulsou o aluno da sala.
O aluno era o humorista Aparício Torelly Aporelly (1895-1971), mais conhecido como o 'Barão de Itararé'. Ao sair da sala, ainda teve a audácia de corrigir o furioso mestre:
- O senhor perguntou-me quantos rins "nós temos".
- "Nós " temos quatro: dois meus e dois seus. Tenha um bom apetite e delicie-se com o feno.
Por essas e por outras não me considero católica - a cruz que tenho vindo a usar, apenas a uso como um colar qualquer, com a pequena diferenca que foi emprestado por uma amiga.
Tenho sono, senão dava pano para mangas. Apenas tenho a dizer que tolero o que se deve tolerar, e o que não se deve tolerar, sou totalmente contra - uma coisa é fé, outra é fanatismo e ser-ser sanguinário - que me lembre "as Fés" não apoiam guerras, nao apoiam a Ignorância.
Um vídeo de Julião Sarmento disponível 24 horas, em "loop", por entre um "peephole", ou seja, apenas visível por um pequeno buraco feito na porta do número 14A da Rua de Timor. Até 17 de Fevereiro, no Voyeur Project View, em Lisboa.
É a vez de Julião Sarmento se juntar ao rol de artistas - que inclui nomes como Ana Vidigal, Ana Peréz Quiroga ou João Pedro Vale - que fizeram obras para Voyeur Project View. Um projecto com indicações precisas: o artista elabora uma obra que estará visível da rua, 24 horas sobre 24 horas, mas apenas por um pequeno orifício. Uma referência directa ao "voyeurismo", a uma obra célebre de Marcel Duchamp ("Etant Donnés") e a muitos filmes que tratam essas mesmas noções de espectador como "voyeur": "Peeping Tom" de Michael Powell, ou claro, "Janela Indiscreta" de Hitchcock.
A ver :)
Tem uma das minhas passagens preferidas em filme, senão a minha favorita:
Arthur Mendelson: How many fingers do you see?
Hunter Patch Adams: Four.
Arthur Mendelson: No no! Look beyond the fingers! Now tell me how many you see.
Arthur Mendelson: You're focusing on the problem. If you focus on the problem, you can't see the solution. Never focus on the problem!
Arthur Mendelson: See what no one else sees. See what everyone chooses not to see... out of fear, conformity or laziness. See the whole world anew each day!
"Nuvole Bianche", do Ludovico Einaudi.
Quem conhecer isto, que me diga!
Zé says: (16:38:18)
engraçado... tinha ideia n faço ideia pq q era do lado direito de quem sobe para a câmara...
Zé says: (16:38:19)
Pandora. says: (16:38:25)
Pandora. says: (16:38:37)
era, se trabalhasse no gabinete do munícipe ou nos correios :B
Pandora. says: (16:38:42)
Zé says: (16:39:33)
sim.. n tinha nada que me dissesse q era do lado direito...mas n sei pq olha, pensei q era
Pandora. says: (16:39:57)
Pandora. says: (16:40:03)
tenho ar de funcionária pública.
Pandora. says: (16:40:11)
É de estar sempre no MSN.
Paul Bowles - The Sheltering Sky
Tea in the Sahara
“Each man's destiny is personal
only insofar as it may happen
to resemble what is already in
his memory.”--eduardo mallea
He awoke, opened his eyes. The room meant very little to him; he was too deeply immersed in the non-being from which he had just come. If he had not the energy to ascertain his position in time and space, he also lacked the desire. He was somewhere, he had come back through vast regions from nowhere; there was the certitude of an infinite sadness at the core of his consciousness, but the sadness was reassuring, because it alone was familiar. He needed no further consolation. In utter comfort, utter relaxation he lay absolutely still for a while, and then sank back into one of the light momentary sleeps that occur after a long, profound one. Suddenly he opened his eyes again and looked at the watch on his wrist. It was purely a reflex action, for when he saw the time he was only confused. He sat up, gazed around the tawdry room, put his hand to his forehead, and sighing deeply, fell back onto the bed. But now he was awake; in another few seconds he knew where he was, he knew that the time was late afternoon, and that he had been sleeping since lunch. In the next room he could hear his wife stepping about in her mules on the smooth tile floor, and this sound now comforted him, since he had reached another level of consciousness where the mere certitude of being alive was not sufficient. But how difficult it was to accept the high, narrow room with its beamed ceiling, the huge apathetic designs stenciled in indifferent colors around the walls, the closed window of red and orange glass. He yawned: there was no air in the room. Later he would climb down from the high bed and fling the window open, and at that moment he would remember his dream. For although he could not recall a detail of it, he knew he had dreamed. On the other side of the window there would be air, the roofs, the town, the sea. The evening wind would cool his face as he stood looking, and at that moment the dream would be there. Now he only could lie as he was, breathing slowly, almost ready to fall asleep again, paralyzed in the airless room, not waiting for twilight but staying as he was until it should come.
On the terrace of the Café d´Eckmühl-Noiseux a few Arabs sat drinking mineral water; only their fezzes of varying shades of red distinguished them from the rest of the population of the port. Their European clothes were worn and gray; it would have been hard to tell what the cut of any garment had been originally. The nearly naked shoe-shine boys squatted on their boxes looking down at the pavement, without the energy to wave away the flies that crawled over their faces. Inside the café the air was cooler but without movement, and it smelled of stale wine and urine.
At the table in the darkest corner sat three Americans: two young men and a girl. They conversed quietly, and in the manner of people who have all the time in the world for everything. One of the men, the thin one with a slightly wry, distraught face, was folding up some large multicolored maps he had spread out on the table a moment ago. His wife watched the meticulous movements he made with amusement and exasperation; maps bored her, and he was always consulting them. Even during the short periods when their lives were stationary, which had been few enough since their marriage twelve years ago, he had only to see a map to begin studying it passionately, and then, often as not, he would begin to plan some new, impossible trip which sometimes eventually became a reality. He did not think of himself as a tourist; he was a traveler.
The difference is partly one of time, he would explain. Whereas the tourist generally hurries back home at the end of a few weeks or months, the traveler, belonging no more to one place than to the next, moves slowly, over periods of years, from one part of the earth to another. Indeed, he would have found it difficult to tell, among the many places he had lived, precisely where it was he had felt most at home. Before the war it had been Europe and the Near East, during the war the West Indies and South America. And she had accompanied him without reiterating her complaints too often or too bitterly.
At this point they had crossed the Atlantic for the first time since 1939, with a great deal of luggage and the intention of keeping as far as possible from the places which had been touched by the war. For, as he claimed, another important difference between tourist and traveler is that the former accepts his own civilization without question; not so the traveler, who compares it with the others, and rejects those elements he finds not to his liking. And the war was one facet of the mechanized age he wanted to for get.
In New York they had found that North Africa was one of the few places they could get boat passage to. From his earlier visits, made during his student days in Paris and Madrid, it seemed a likely place to spend a year or so; in any case it was near Spain and Italy, and they could always cross over if it failed to work out. Their little freighter had spewed them out from its comfortable maw the day before onto the hot docks, sweating and scowling with anxiety, where for a long time no one had paid them the slightest attention. As he stood there in the burning sun, he had been tempted to go back aboard and see about taking passage for the continuing voyage to Istanbul, but it would have been difficult to do without losing face, since it was he who had cajoled them into coming to North Africa. So he had cast a matter-of-fact glance up and down the dock, made a few reasonably unflattering remarks about the place, and let it go at that, silently resolving to start inland as quickly as possible.
The above is excerpted from The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022
Imprint: Ecco; ISBN: 0060199164; On Sale: 10/24/2000; Format: Hardcover; Subformat: ; Length: ; Trimsize: 5 5/8 x 8 1/4; Pages: 320; $25.00; $37.9500(CAN)