Se me pudesses ver-te dormir

Se me pudesses ver-te dormir

anularias essa condicionante.

 

Para explicar-te esse olhar,

talvez pudesse eu tirar-te

uma fotografia no teu auge

de abandono. E, ainda assim,

faltar-te-ia isso que sentiria

o meu ser ao ser o que grava

o que grava quando olha.

 

Para explicar-te esse elemento,

teria que colocar-te objecto

redondo e morno

na base da tua coluna, outro

na base do teu sexo,

que subiriam em modo lento,

quase uniforme,

até se liquefazerem em luz

branca na base da tua nuca,

bem dentro do crânio,

onde me alcanças.

 

E se me sonhasses ver-te dormir

criarias um círculo permanente.

 

 

 

 

Nonsense

I do know some things, but the vast majority of things I have no clue about.

The more things I know, the more I know things that I have no clue about.

Things are very evasive; that’s the nature of things.

Even some things I don't want to forget become things I forgot about.

Therefore I’m left with the attitude for facing things I have no clue about.

And the attitude I chose is to chase after things.

That’s called thinging, in case you have no clue on what I’m talking about.

 

 

Rhethorical question to be used as an escape from a dire social situation which we are being blamed for

 

If to think is the consequence of neuronal activity, don't we all act before thinking?

 

 

Late night aphorism after a great dinner soaked with likewise red wine

 

I told myself the truth just once, and never forgave me ever since.

 

 

The Fly and the Mosquito

If there’s a crazy insect it must be the fly. A talking fly would sound like this, “Oh, life is so pretty, so sweet, oh, so great, so good, I’m dizzy, and that’s great, ah, I don’t know where to fly, and that’s good, oh, come here, go there, ah, I’m going to be squashed, but life is so pretty, so sweet.” Fly’s parlance would freak out the majority of humans.

 

The mosquito however is getting clever and cleverer. I too have been participating in the mosquitoes’s natural selection. We’ve been killing the scout mosquitoes and the dumb ones which ignored the death of the said scouts. Only the surviving mosquitoes, obviously, reproduce*. The last time I tried to newspaperize a mosquito, it took me three days. They now hide in less obvious places than on the white wall next to the bed lamp. They now know when I’m going to turn the light on. And they now know when I gave up the fight and went to sleep, no longer caring if I’d have some free blood samples taken out of me or not.  

 

_______

 

* It isn’t that obvious for people who believe in reincarnation.

 

 

Bicycles, Rivers, America, and Pessoa

A few days ago, I had a walk alongside the river Tagus with my French friend Caroline. A bicycle lane is being built there. There are some artists involved in the project, as painted along the lane there are a few lines from a poem.

The author of such poem is Alberto Caeiro (a Fernando Pessoa’s heteronym as you know). Alberto Caeiro is the master, in a zennish way, of Álvaro de Campos (Fernando Pessoa), Ricardo Reis (Fernando Pessoa), and Fernando Pessoa (Fernando Pessoa).

Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935) is said to be the four best 20th century Portuguese poets. And I agree.

So here it is, Alberto Caeiro’s chapter XX of his only poem “O Guardador de Rebanhos” (“The Keeper of Sheep,” according to some English translations), and my apologies if it doesn’t make any sense, for I was the one who transmorphfigurelated it. *

* * *

The Tagus is more beautiful than the river that runs through my village,
But the Tagus isn’t more beautiful than the river that runs through my village
Because the Tagus isn’t the river that runs through my village.

Large ships cruise the Tagus,
And across it also sails,
For those able to see in everything what isn’t there,
The memory of carracks.

The Tagus runs down from Spain
And the Tagus merges into the sea in Portugal.
Everyone knows that.
But only a few know which is the river of my village.
And to where it goes
And from where it comes.

And because of that, as it belongs to fewer people,
The river of my village is more free and longer.
Through the Tagus one reaches the World.
Beyond the Tagus lies America
And the fortune of those who find it. **

No one ever thought about what lies beyond
The river of my village.

The river of my village doesn’t make one think about anything.
Those who are near it are only near it.  ***

_________________________

* "The translator is a traitor."

** Of those who find the fortune or of those who find America? Ambiguity is such a playful device.

*** There’s a double meaning in the original: “He who is near it is alone near it.”

 

 

Tips

According to this article, which Balazs pointed out to us, we should run a bit more if we want to exercise our very nature. A “let’s be truer to our hearts” sort of thing. So do run for your health, and I’ll follow you on my bike, if I 'm not out for a stroll to clear my thoughts.

This other one shows that the link between physical and psychological aspects is stronger than one might suspect. From it, it’s possible to extract some advice. For example, when you meet strangers, offer them a hot drink instead of a cold one. That will make them get the impression you’re a warmer person… if it’s wintertime. Otherwise you won’t be considered a hell of a person but a person who came out of that very same hell. Nonetheless, a cold drink might be useful if you want to give the impression that you’re cool. You know, just chilling out and all that stuff. If your point is to be considered a guff of fresh air instead, hey, open the windows.

This last article reached us through someone who prefers to remain anonymous on public pages and who was a victim of virtual stalking already. It teaches women to avoid and identify danger spots and attitudes, teaches men how not to look like what they’re not, and, dang, it teaches potential rapists how to behave like well-intentioned people as well! Some advice one can draw from it is to pay attention to signs and act accordingly. If people reply to you only with monosyllables, or don’t face you, or don’t establish eye contact, just leave them alone, alright? We’ll all be much happier. And we can always pursue Vonnegut’s “lost art of conversation” some other time, with another someone.

 

 

Journalists & Communists

In a daily newspaper there was a journalist trashing a young deputy to the Parliament.
Elected through the Portuguese Communist Party last September, the young one didn't know what a Gulag was.

Well, apparently the journalist didn't know also that young ones learn, and grow, or at least that's a possibility that they have.

I can't subscribe fully to that, as I haven't been making much ground myself. 

Be what may, do read Ryszard Kapuściński's Imperium, young one, and then come and tell me if you're still a Communist.

 

 

Songbook

Thank you, books, for the lives I lived through you. 
Cursed be, for the life not lived while reading you.
Thank you, for the knowledge I borrowed for free.
Cursed be, for the realization of my own stupidity.
Thank you, for the memories you engraved in me.
Damn you, for memory fades and you prevail.
Thank you, curse you — words of little avail.

 

 

The Spider and the Sparrow

A bird flew into my apartment. It must be the dumbest sparrow ever. It was trapped in a cobweb. Cobwebs are designed to catch insects. I share my apartment with a spider or two. The spider didn’t react to the twitchings of the trapped bird. All my generations of spiders have shown to be rather bright. The sparrow recovered its breath for almost a minute and mustered the strength to break free. Not so dumb a move. The spider and I are a bit upset for the damage done to the cobweb though. The dog followed all this action with energetic attention. And followed the bird to its current hideout. I still couldn’t help the bird getting away of its prison, my home. The dumb sparrow is resting behind a large closet. That’s a smart move. It must recover from its repeated bumps against the window glasses. It will probably fall asleep in that hideaway. That’s a night in prison. I will fall asleep soon too. That’s a night home.