Saturday, January 14, 2006

Absolution Blues

This is it. I'm dead and gone. No turning back now...nothing there, anyway.
I look at this and it's not so bad. She said I had to end this, she said she'd kill me.
Well, I didn't.
So I guess she's gonna fucking do it for me.
Oh, well, it's been good so far.
See you around, cyberspace cowboys...



BANG!
















































BANG!



















































































BANG!

















...my baby shot me down.

Friday, January 06, 2006

É sempre bom...


...desde que não nos caia em cima da cabeça.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Noir

Sinto-me um pouco fora de mim. Não de exaltação, nem de depressão. Apenas fora do meu corpo. Penso no que alguém escreveu sobre a própria escrita que praticamos: "Poderá ser um desejo inconsciente, mas nunca se escreve para ninguém. E existe sempre alguém que lê…". Sim, desta vez escrevo para mim, mesmo sabendo que outros poderão vasculhar estas imagens espelhadas de alguém que talvez não conheçam. Desta vez, escrevo para mais tarde ler (sobretudo à noite) este texto que dedico a mim próprio. Mas não é isso, escrever? É suposto ser a projecção textual de tudo o que julgamos ser, e também do que realmente tentamos ser. Por isso mino desde já o texto, tentando expressar-me de um modo que só eu compreenderei realmente o que senti neste momento. Mesmo que queira inconscientemente que outros leiam, a partir de agora está salvaguardada a remota hipótese de me perceberem. Esmerar-me-ei no código que será, espero tão ambíguo e labiríntico quanto possível. Resta ao leitor a sua interpretação, resta-lhe embalar nos seus próprios braços esta minha semente. Mas na verdade tudo isto me é indiferente...sobretudo desta vez. Penso em mim, sentado no meu quarto escuro, acompanhando nocturnas melodias com o pulsar do teclado. Penso num cigarro imaginário que com dedicação e prazer enrolei, e que jaz num cinzeiro fictício que o acolheu, esperando que eu o levasse novamente aos lábios, para o consumir como um amante inconsolável. Pondero seriamente sobre a criatura que observo a escrever estas palavras, este ser que tão friamente pesa compromissos numa balança, qual Thoth personificado. Avalio também as horas. Imagino possibilidades para resolver a questão da chuva que cai lá fora, questionando-me se é real. Olho pela janela, observo a noite, e sei que nunca vi um céu tão azul. Pouco me importa, tenho a memória, e sei que sem ela seria novamente um animal grotesco em busca de coerência. Como em tempos já fui.

Regresso por momentos à ilusão de que a vida dará o filme, no fim...quando na verdade não há filme. Nós vivemos o rolar da fita. Não há fotogramas seguintes, e não há fotogramas acumulados para trás, porque nós temos a tesoura que os corta. No entanto, temos também os olhos que vêem o que os pés pisaram. Penso em fazer planos, quando na verdade nem preciso de os fazer. Por vezes, eles fazem-se. E aí sei que sou feliz. A felicidade é uma arma acolhedora. No mínimo, serei poeira. No máximo, serei poeira universal. Na verdade, somos tudo porque tudo reside em probabilidades. A probabilidade revestida de ilusões tanto pode ser perigosa como o desabrochar de toda uma fortuna. A ilusão é o primeiro de todos os prazeres. Por vezes saboreio-a. Raios, por vezes quase a inspiro com tanta força que poderia dar-me por satisfeito e morrer de seguida.


Seja como for, esta é a vida. A rosa que deixámos cair porque alguém não apareceu, e cansámo-nos de esperar. Isto não é triste, nem dramático. É a ilusão. Fazemos outros planos. Nem há que pensar na hipótese em que a planta não tinha sido inutilizada. É como não ignorar a dor quando cortamos demasiado a unha, até sentir a vibração da carne ainda inexperiente que veio mais cedo ao mundo. Mesmo assim, ainda cheio o cigarro que não existe. Pego nele e fumo-o uma última vez, antes de o sepultar no chão (o cinzeiro não existia, lembras-te?). Olho para dentro do café, através do vidro e como na música, e sozinho (para maior efeito), danço até ao fim do amor. Os segundos são os óregãos da vida. Had! the manifestation of Nuit! Não danço, todavia, uma dança qualquer. Em redor da fogueira agito-me ao sabor da valsa que me foi dedicada. Quando ouvimos a valsa sabemos que não interessa o sentido, apenas o fogo é real. Se nos aproximarmos demasiado, queimamo-nos. Se nos afastarmos demasiado, passamos frio. Não existe uma distância óptima. Existem apenas distâncias. Depende da intensidade da dança. Mas dancemos até ao fim. E quando a música terminar, apaguem-se as luzes.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

STAND!

One of the greatest muthafuckin' albums I've ever heard...


"Stand!" (1969)
by Sly & The Family Stone


Everyday People

Sometimes I'm right and I can be wrong
My own beliefs are in my song
The butcher, the banker, the drummer and then
Makes no difference what group I'm in
I am everyday people, yeah yeah
There is a blue one who can't accept the green one
For living with a fat one trying to be a skinny one
And different strokes for different folks
And so on and so on and scooby dooby doo-bee
Oh sha sha - we got to live together
I am no better and neither are you
We are the same whatever we do
You love me you hate me you know me and then
You can't figure out the bag l'm in
I am everyday people, yeah yeah
There is a long hair that doesn't like the short hair
For bein' such a rich one that will not help the poor one
And different strokes for different folks
And so on and so on and scooby dooby doo-bee
Oh sha sha-we got to live together
There is a yellow one that won't accept the black one
That won't accept the red one that won't accept the white one
And different strokes for different folks

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Ode a uma natureza morta

Nunca quis fazer desta página algo pessoal
Mas o meu fascínio pelo objecto místico
Deleita-me o espírito num regozijo tal
Que tudo me parece belo
E calmo, sereno
O caos é derrotado pela ordem
E os dedos deslizam, suspiro, qual afrodisíaco
Só quem experimentou alguma vez poderá compreender
Tal comparação de actos
É único este limbo conflituoso
Como tanta coisa
Scarlet, devo-te tanto
E deves-me tanto
É esta reciprocidade que nos mata
É este amor que me consome e ilumina
E ressuscita sempre que abro a tua mala
E te faço cantar
Não preciso de te agradecer
Estás sempre aqui para mim
Estou sempre aqui para ti
Não és minha, nem sou teu
Mas venero-te na mesma
Se nalgum plano astral,
Flutuando algures em marés de realidade,
Ou adormecida nos sonhos de ninguém
Conseguisses apreender o que quero transmitir...
...seja como for
Agradas-me tanto.

Friday, November 04, 2005

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work
and no play
makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes
Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack
a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Monday, October 31, 2005

Fictional Holocaust (not that fictional)


November 14th, 1890. Sharp Words, a young man from an Apache tribe, was riding his horse through the fields near his camp. He had fallen asleep under the protecting shadow of a tree when suddenly the sun disappeared, and there was a storm. He woke up, went to his horse and tried to find the way back home. It should have been easy, but it wasn't. He was still sleepy, so he ended up getting lost in the prairie. However, the rain stopped shortly after and the sun started shining once again. Young Sharp Words smiled and continued the search for his camp.

Time passed and he saw a river which he had never seen before. "Strange", he thought, and he decided his horse should drink a little water, the animal was probably thirsty. While the horse drank some fresh water, the young indian sat on the ground, whispering a song from his elders. Suddenly he saw a man walking in his direction. It didn't look like an indian, it was a white man, all alone. Sharp Words decided not to wield any weapon, though he only had a knife with him. It was an old man, white hair, white beard, but dark skin. "What a strange man!", was the first impression by the indian. So the man got to the place where he was, and said "Hello".
"Hello", replied the indian, "Who are you? Are you lost"
"I am not lost. I am God."
"Who?", asked the curious Sharp Words.
"God. I created everything you see. I am the father of all things"
"I see", said the young indian, without saying or asking anything else. God thought that was awkward, for a human being.
"Don't you want to ask me any questions?"
"No"
"Wouldn't you like to know why I have created all of this?"
"No"
"Really, then? Aren't there any questions, any questions at all, for which you would like me to give the answer?"
"No", and strange as it may seem , God himself asked Sharp Words:
"Why not?"
"You say you have created all things. I worship all of them. The sun, the wind, the water, the fire, the earth, those are my gods. My spirit is touched by none other except these. I love them, my people loves them, always have, and they return our love with more love; giving us warmth when there is cold, giving us wind when it is hot, giving us water when we are thirsty, feeding the buffalo so that we can have clothes and food. I am very happy this way. So why do I want to worship a god that created all my gods? I thank you, but nothing more. I cannot wish you good things, either peace, love, health, plenty of food or prosperity, because you are a god, you don't need these things."
"True, I do not need any of them, but I love everything I have created."
"How is that possible? You say you don't need them, so you can't give them any sort of importance or value, for they simbolize nothing before yor eyes. You are indifferent. So why do you create things you don't need?"
"So that Man, my final creation, can prosper"
"And so you speak of me and my people, and all the others in the land, just like we speak of our dogs; and we are not your dogs"
"You are my children"
"We are not, because I just left my father and my mother in the tepee this morning. I am their child"
"Yes, because I have given you the power to love and procriate"
"Then why are you still here?", asked the indian. Beware, don't read these words as threatening, he was just thinking about all those things and asking back his doubts to God. Anyway, God vanished in the air. The indian fell asleep and when he woke up he thought it had been a dream.
Many years after this strange encounter, the white men were killing indians in order to gain control over the continent. Tribes were being slaughtered, women and children mutilated, and their bodies were frequently thrown into ditches, just like Nazis would do with the Jews in some years to come. Old Sharp Words was now the leader of his tribe. He consulted his elders and all the other people from the tribe, so he could take a decision, whether to chase the buffalo and face the white man in the future, or simply stay there and face the problem as soon as possible. They all decided that sooner was better. If they had to face the white man, it was better to do it now. One night, Sharp Words was alone by the fire, smoking his pipe. Once again, and out of the hot air, God appeared. He turned to the indian and said:
"Hello"
"Hello, god of all things"
"I come to warn you about the danger your people is facing. Tomorrow afternoon, men will come and try to kill you"
"We know"
"Don't you like the life you live? Doesn't your instinct tell you to survive?"
"I like my life, we all do. My instinct tells me many things, but I am not an animal. I am a man. Unlike animals, I can see. I know. I will stay here, for I have done nothing wrong, and we are willing to share the land if the white man comes in peace. Because the land is not ours, and that's why it gives all these good things to us. We love the land, we don't want to control it. We live in harmony. But I know things are not like this to the white man. He will wage war on my people."
"Yes"
"And he is always speaking of you, blessing his peers in your name. Many times during all those years, when I faced the white man, I heard things like 'in the name of God', or 'God bless you'...but still, they worship violence and they have hunger for control. They do what they do with your blessings, and in your name. That is why, even if it's not your fault that the white man uses your name in vain, we don't need you and won't share a god like you with the white man. We could never devote our lives to a god that allows the ones he calls his children to kill and spread terror on others, just because they are different. And you are not here. You don't exist, and you never have. Goodbye"

So the old man disappeared forever. No other person, indian or not, tribal leader or man of the church, ever saw him again. That night, a dance was organized, in honour of peace, chants for the battle they'd fight next day were sung, The following day, the white man came, quickly killing Sharp Words and all of his warriors, cutting their scalps (for mockery) and mutilating their bodies. When they saw the massacre, the indian women and children, who were hidden behind some trees and bushes on the nearby hills, came back running, to cry their dead. The soldiers then shot at them, leaving no one alive, and also mutilated them in horrible ways I won't describe here. Then they opened ditches and threw the bodies inside. They sealed that disgraceful dusty tomb and then gone away. The army had to rest, for there were still many tribes to destroy, still a lot of territory to build the future homes of the free, land of the brave. Well, the brave were dead.

The Apache people were the last major tribe to surrender to government control, back in the 1880s
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