Heartfelt

Garbage - Cup of Coffee

Um dia ainda tenho esperança que me vá sentir assim.

The past

We always hurt the ones we love

Um poema para o Papa

"The Pope's Penis"

by Sharon Olds

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

Pensamentos natalícios

Ao ódio responde-se com ódio.

Não és mais do que um nazi, Bento XVI - um nazi disfarçado com vestes de ouro da tua opulenta, gorda e repugnante Igreja.

Não és melhor do que o Hitler foi. Por tua causa o mundo ignorante procederá à prática de crimes em nome desse vosso deus tão em letra minúscula como os outros.

Quantas mulheres já fodeste hoje? Ou homens? Ou crianças? Nada disto seria novo na vossa instituição, afinal. E depois falas-me da linguagem de deus. Eu corto a língua e as mãos a deus, e arranco-lhe os olhos. Não ficaria mais cego do que o que já é.

Eu odeio-te, Bento XVI. Eu odeio-te porque TU és anti-natura.

Que caias da tua cadeira e exponhas as tuas deficiências e perversões ao mundo. Que os crentes te atirem com pedras. Morre, morre, definha e morre.

Talvez assim o mundo ficasse um pouco menos mau.

Natal

É Natal e eu trocava-o por uma foda bem dada.

Ciclo

Por mais que ame e foda, quando nada disso me resta, (ou pelo menos não me resta o amor) volto e hei-de sempre voltar para ti. Ad aeternum

Do Amor

Se disser amo-te quando faço sexo quer dizer que amo mesmo a pessoa ainda que a tenha conhecido dez minutos antes?

Afinal, o que é o amor?

Economia

Por mais que tente percebê-la, por mais que me expliquem vezes sem conta o que ela é, continuo sem entender o que é essa coisa, esse monstro a que chamamos "economia". O que me parece é que O Senhor dos Anéis acaba por ser um livro/filme menos ficcional do que o que essa palavra significa. E deixam o mundo cair como merda de macaco porque a economia está em crise.

Um cigarro

O mundo só faz sentido quando não tentamos fazer sentido dele.

Falta

A - And I want to play hide-and-seek and give you my
clothes and tell you I like your shoes and sit on the steps
while you take a bath and massage your neck and kiss
your feet and hold your hand and go for a meal and not
mind when you eat my food and meet you at Rudy's and
talk about the day and type up your letters and carry your
boxes and laugh at your paranoia and give you tapes you
don't listen to and watch great filmes and watch terrible
films and complain about the radio and take pictures of
you when you're sleeping and get up to fetch you coffee
and bagels and Danish and go to Florent and drink coffee
at midnight and have you steal my cigarettes and never
be able to find a match and tell you about the tv
programme I saw the night before and take you to the
eye hospital and not laugh at your jokes and want you in
in the morning but let you sleep for a while and kiss your
back and stroke your skin and tell you how much I love
your hair your eyes your lips your neck your breasts your
arse your

and sit on the steps smoking till your neighbour comes
home and sit on the steps smoking till you come home
and worry when you're late and be amazed when you're
early and give you sunflowers and go to your party and
dance till I'm back and be sorry when I'm wrong and
happy when you forgive me and look at your photos and
wish I'd known you forever and hear your voice in my
ear and feel your skin on my skin and get scared when
you're angry and your eye has gone red and the other
eye blue and your hair to the left and your face oriental
and tell you you're gorgeous and hug you when you're
anxious and hold you when you hurt and want you when
I smell you and offend you when I touch you and
whimper when I'm next to you and whimper when I'm
not and dribble on your breast and smother you in the
night and get cold when you take the blanket and hot
when you don't and melt when you smile and dissolve
when you laugh and not understand why you think I'm
rejecting you when I'm not rejecting you and wonder
how you could think I'd ever reject you and wonder who
you are but accept you anyway and tell you about the
tree angel enchanted forest boy who flew across the
ocean because he loved you and write poems for you and
wonder why you don't believe me and have a feeling so
deep I can't find words for it and want to buy you a
kitten I'd get jealous of because it would get more
attention than me and keep you in bed when you have to
go and cry like a baby when you finally do and get rid of
the roaches and buy you presents you don't want and
take them away again and ask you to marry me and you
say no again but keep on asking because though you think
I don't mean it I do always have from the first time I
asked you and wander the city thinking it's empty
without you and want what you want and think I'm
losing myself but know I'm safe with you and tell you the
worst of me and try to give you the best of me because
you don't deserve any less and answer your questions
when I'd rather not and tell you the truth when I really
don't want to and try to be honest because I know you
prefer it and think it's all over but hang on in for just ten
more minutes before you throw me out of your life and
forget who I am and try to get closer to you because it's
beautiful learning to know you and well worth the effort
and speak German to you badly and Hebrew to you
worse and make love with you at three in the morning
and somehow somehow somehow communicate
some of the/overwhelming undying overpowering
unconditional all-encompassing heart-enriching
mind-expanding on-going never-ending love I have
for you.

Sarah Kane, Crave


Love dissected. Where are you, then?

Poetry as a gift

THE SMILE OF TRAGEDIES

To Fran, our inspiring Fran

We are actors onstage,
playing characters who play themselves or others.

Each night, as the curtain rises,
there's only one woman who smiles through our tragedies.

As blood is drawn and heroes
fall, repent or die, she looks as if she holds a secret.

One night, at the end of the play,
her secret was finally revealed:

as the curtain was drawn we heard a burst of laughter,
immense as the applause of a full room.

We then smiled and thought no more about our tragedies.

Violet

I feel my eyes closing as the heart beats faster, faster, faster. The hands are shaking and I've got the shivers even though my body is warm. I'm wet for the rush of adrenaline and I can't see the city for the cars - I smell like shit and my knees are brown. One day, I will be a fat burlesque dancer sharing the stage with a post-modernist doctor. My body is warm, I shiver and my heart beats faster, faster, faster.

O Escuro e os Sonhos de Adão

Sonho com a morte. Não a minha, não a de Helena, mas sim a morte. Não há nenhuma figura com uma gadanha, não há nenhum cavaleiro negro. Há a morte, a palavra morte, o que significa e sempre significou, como um letreiro de luzes escuras no meio de um nada. Atrás do letreiro estão todas as gerações de pessoas já mortas, todas as civilizações que já cessaram de existir, desde o início dos tempos até ao passado presente. Deste lado, estão os vivos. O número de passos que tenho de percorrer até chegar à palavra morte corresponde ao número de anos que, no sonho, sei que ainda me resta. Antes e depois disso, há respectivamente o nada e o cessar do algo. A memória colectiva é forte, mas há pouco espaço para a individual. O que faz um homem ou uma mulher nesse curto espaço de tempo que é a existência. O que faz com que viver seja um testemunho para um futuro. São perguntas que faço no sonho, pois se posso ver os mortos por detrás da morte e se posso ver os vivos à sua frente, não vejo em lugar algum aqueles que virão. É essa a grande dor e mal da existência, o ter de não saber quem serão esses, os outros, os que começarão um novo ciclo após morrermos. E ainda o letreiro de luzes escuras a impor-se, a mostrar-me, a mim e Helena, que não somos nada, que não podemos querer ser nada, que podemos ter em nós todos os sonhos do mundo, mas que estes acabam quando começa a morte. O corvo, do outro lado da morte, permanece imóvel e olha-me. Grito-lhe, Responde-me, corvo. E ele permanece imóvel e não me fala. Atrás dos que estão por detrás da morte, há um precipício e o chão é como se fosse um rio que caminha nessa direcção. Os que estão atrás de todo vão caindo aos milhares no poço sem fundo e muitos outros deste lado vão passando para o outro. É um mecanismo brutal, violento, definitivo. E, no entanto, há uma serenidade colectiva nos rostos dos mortos, quase um sorriso nos lábios de cada um. O corvo afasta-se cada vez mais e os meus pés estão colados ao chão. E ele afasta-se, afasta-se, afasta-se, afasta-se, a f a s t a – se, a f a s t a - s e, a f a s t a - s e, a f a s t a - s e até cair. 

Perspectivas

"There’s a hedonistic, materialistic, selfish disposition in contemporary gay culture that everybody wants."

- Mark Ravenhill

As minhas bonecas russas

Recuso-me a ceder. Recuso-me a não ter uma São Petersburgo à minha espera. Também eu terei uma noite branca que será para sempre. Também eu ouvirei Beth Gibbons ao sair de um comboio. Também.

Yes, I'll keep dreaming.

Damaged provider modules

The Last Day on Earth - Marilyn Manson

Adão?

Fire Worship

Para todas as almas atormentadas nesta Terra que gira:

A razão é uma arma de defesa que não permite fogo amigo.

Pensamento da Noite

Por mais que às vezes me arme em Florbela Espanca, eu sou um miúdo de vinte e dois anos que não quer morrer.

Verdade (quase) absoluta

A sexualidade é somente uma face que pomos, tendo muito pouco que ver com género e/ou sexo.

Eu e o Diabo

Os carros que passavam eram como os olhos de Deus a ver-nos medonhos a arder na rua. Nós fomos bravos - o castigo é só para aqueles que o permitem.

R.I.P - Corvo

"Examination at the Womb-door"

Who owns these scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.

Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.

But who is stronger than death?

Me, evidently.

Pass, Crow.


(Ted Hughes, Crow)

Light versus Darkness

So have been my days, an endless fight for living and surving - moments of shine and moments of shade, as atested by the acid liquids produced by my brain and tender substances of love being prevented from forming in my heart. Even if that little red pumping mechanism can't resist the sunspots sometimes.

And so I must confess - in darkness I crave for love. In the light, I pray for solitary and selfish freedom. Who will one day decide upon one or the other? When will my judgment be?

I love the light. Does that make me more likely to get touched by the sun? It's true - I miss being in love. And I hate feeling like this.

Quantum of Solace

"De Corpo e Alma"

O meu corpo,
um templo violado.
O meu corpo,
as marcas de castigo.
O meu corpo
partido e estragado.
O meu corpo
fodido, desamparado e sem abrigo.

A minha alma,
brilhante e escura.
A minha alma,
que tem furos de vida.
A minha alma,
com violência e ternura.
A minha alma,
sólida, ténue, partida.

Da existência como o primado do egoísmo

"Foder"

De todas as vezes que fodi, estive sozinho.
Os outros corpos eram meus, mas eu era só eu.
Até quando nos vínhamos ao mesmo tempo,
o meu orgasmo era apenas meu e
eu tinha prazer só para mim.

Forgotten songs

This Mortal Coil - "Song to the Siren"

A impossibilidade do mundo

Quasimodo - "Dieu que le Monde est Injuste" ( musical - Notre Dame de Paris )


Dieu que le monde est injuste
Lui si beau et moi si lais
Je te donnerais la lune
Tu ne voudrais pas m'aimer
Et lui sans faire un seul geste
Sans un mot sans un regard
Il a mis de la tendresse
Au fond de tes grands yeux noirs
Tu lui donneras ton corps
Tu croiras à ses serments
Tu l'aimes pour le dehors
Sans voir ce qu'il y a dedans
Dieu que le monde est injuste
Lui seigneur et moi vaurien
Il te donnera la lune
Toi qui ne demandais rien
Dieu que le monde est injuste
Aime ton beau cavalier
La satin de ta peau brune
N'est pas pour les va-nu-pieds
Ma laideur est une insulte
A ta beauté insolente
Une erreur de la nature
Qui ne me fut pas aimante
Dieu que le monde est injuste
Notre lot n'est pas le leur
Nous n'avons pas de fortune
Mais eux, ont-ils donc un coeur ?
Ils sont nés dans la dentelle
Pour faire l'amour et la guerre
Mais nous pauvres vers de terre
Notre vie est bien plus belle
Et de quel côté est Dieu
Du côté des ostensoirs
Ou bien du côté de ceux
Qui le prient matin et soir
Ce Jésus que l'on adore
A t-il toujours préféré
Les Rois Mages avec leur or
A nous autres pauvres bergers
Dieu que la vie est cruelle
Pour deux coeurs qui se cherchaient
Moi si laid et toi si belle
Comment pourrais-tu m'aimer

Véspera

Haverá uma última ceia antes do fim do mundo?

Of Hate

Marilyn Manson - "Irresponsible Hate Anthem"

Slipknot - "Spit it Out"




Coal Chamber - "Fiend"




Nine Inch Nails - "Wish"


--

Não há melhor terapia para o ódio em nós do que soltá-lo a ouvir músicas assim.

Histórias do vento e da chuva

Num jardim quente e musical,

embalados pelo vento do Outono,

antes da chuva cair,

eles olharam para as estrelas

e disseram amo-te

depois de foderem.

Numa tarde lenta...

...éramos todos rochedos à chuva.

Confesso que nunca tinha lido Philip Roth antes de ler The Ghost Writer. Já muito me tinham dito a respeito do autor e das suas capacidades de escrita, que o elevaram a um pedestal pré-nobel, pedestal a que o escritor provavelmente já não é alheio.

A princípio, a história contida nesta obra não estava a conseguir impressionar-me, talvez por estar habituado a ler romances de outra ordem, como sejam os de Saramago, José Luís Peixoto e mesmo até Steinbeck, sem contar com a recente obra lida, Faces in the Water, de Janet Frame. No entanto, a compactação textual, atingida com um sucesso brilhante, a trama que se adensa gradualmente e o desvairo com que a personagem principal, Nathan Zuckerman, inventa uma história alternativa para a femme fatale Amy Bellette conseguiram eventualmente e com pouco esforço conquistar-me. A língua inglesa é usada com tremenda mestria, tanto para nos deliciar comicamente, como para nos ir contando aquilo que se passa entre as personagens, o seu pano de fundo, presente e possível futuro. Se à primeira vista o leitor se pode sentir menos motivado com o encontro de Nathan com o seu ídolo E. I. Lonoff, a forma como o enredo se vai desenvolvendo é absolutamente hipnotizadora. A linguagem é precisa, clara e brilhante e somos raptados para um mundo onde o holocausto é uma menina que emigra para os Estados Unidos. 

Há ainda considerações profundas sobre o exercício de escrita. Assim sendo, quem será o ghost writer? O próprio Nathan? Lonoff? Amy Bellette e o seu diário? Se o ídolo de Nathan se alimenta da escrita como se esta fosse a substância vital do seu universo, alienando a própria família, é possível afirmar que o facto que o torna fantasmático é provavelmente o modo como o próprio se foi gradualmente afastando do mundo dito real e das qualidades e faculdades humanas. Por outro lado, Amy, vista através dos olhos um tanto ou quanto perversos de Nathan, é possivelmente a verdadeira escritora fantasma. Uma sobrevivente do holocausto que mudou o nome para que um certo diário não dissesse dela aquelas verdades que a fizeram odiar o mundo. Mas é Nathan o verdadeiro escritor das sombras, aquele que inventa o enredo, que dá começo e fim às outras personagens através de uma imaginação subtil mas prodigiosa. Aquilo que o Lonoff e Amy nunca têm acesso durante todo o romance é a verdadeira escrita de Nathan: pura ficção, tão credível como a própria realidade e talvez ainda mais convincente. 

Considerações à parte, este é um romance de grande maturidade, um daqueles livros que ficam connosco durante muito tempo.

A ler.

Statement

Adão c'est moi.

Pensamento da noite

O amor é a náusea.

Se Creta fosse uma banda-sonora...

...esta seria uma das suas músicas:



Elvis Costello w/ guest Fiona Apple - I WANT YOU

Xania

Horny rabbit, Stupid cow, Super duper treli, Thingy tikanis mwro mu and Xasula la xania:

We are the best fucked up malakas ever.

Xamata!!!!!!!!!

Verdade ou mentira cruel

Eu sei quem raptou a Maddie. Foi quem uma vez me deu um tiro na cabeça.

Do pensamento lógico

LÓGICA

Um som abafado cai
Sobre cabeças que não têm ouvidos
E o barulho que isso provoca é
Apenas as ideias daqueles que não as dizem.

Um rei que reina sobre cegos é
O maior cego que existe.
A chuva cai quando menos se espera,
Os mortos afectam os vivos,
Todos os impérios desmoronam.

Por isso,

Um som abafado cai
Sobre a cabeça de um rei que reina cegos;
O barulho da chuva acorda as ideias dos mortos e
O império dos vivos desmorona.

Ricardo Fonseca, Manchester, 2007

Da natureza como os olhos de cada um

ÁGUA MORRENTE

Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme Il pleut sur la ville.
Verlaine

Meus olhos apagados,
Vede a água cair.
Das beiras dos telhados,
Cair, sempre cair.

Das beiras dos telhados,
Cair, quase morrer...
Meus olhos apagados,
E cansados de ver.

Meus olhos, afogai-vos
Na vã tristeza ambiente.
Caí e derramai-vos
Com a água morrente.


(Camilo Pessanha, Clepsydra, 1920)

Faces in the Water

Há livros que nos marcam pela sua intensidade formal, discursiva, descritiva e de conteúdo. Faces in the Water, de Janet Frame é um excelente exemplo de como podemos ser agredidos por uma mão que nos esbofeteia e não pede nunca desculpa. Até ao fim.

Assustador, este romance da escritora neo-zelandesa foi descrito como um verdadeiro relato de loucura. Eu arriscaria dizer que é muito mais do que isso - é talvez um relato de como a loucura pode ser vista através de diferentes perspectivas: do louco (e caímos aqui num terreno perigoso), do que se convenceu um dia que estava louco, daqueles que fazem da loucura o seu instrumento de trabalho, dos que convivem diariamente com ela e daqueles que a visitam de muito em muito tempo, como se fosse uma doença contagiosa.

Istina começa e acaba o livro exactamente como começou: sem explicação para nada e sem certezas de alguma coisa. Se é aconselhada a adquirir um total esquecimento daquilo por que passou no hospital psiquiátrico, com vista a uma recuperação da vida dita "normal", uma pergunta fica no ar aquando o desfecho: "And by what I have written in this document you will see, won't you, that I have obeyed her?". É mais um estalo na cara de um leitor que chega a pensar que o pesadelo da personagem chegava a um fim.

As transferências de secção para secção, de ala para ala são descritas como um inferno que se aguenta porque custa mais ver a falta de humanidade de quem é suposto tomar conta dos pacientes. São animais que são castigados simplesmente por serem humanos e terem necessidades típicas de uma pessoa. Os tratamentos electro-convulsivos são encarados como o maior pesadelo dos pacientes, como se uma descarga eléctrica pudesse acalmar as bestas que se exaltam por falta de liberdade e respeito. Mas sempre de uma perspectiva pouco ou nada crítica, como se aquilo fosse o caminho que o mundo real e sano achava correcto e, consequentemente, os pacientes só não achavam porque a lucidez há muito tempo havia abandonado os seus cérebros.

Em termos de forma, a linguagem e construção sintáctica são dignas de deslumbramento - se os termos utilizados são por vezes eruditos para logo a seguir se tornaram banais, nunca são empregues à toa, sem uma preocupação com a ordem e falta ou presença de pontuação. Há como se fosse um "stream of consciousness" que, tendo em conta o tema do romance, é por vezes um verdadeiro turbilhão ordenado. Há caos nas palavras, há uma beleza singular, como se Istina fosse uma flor levada por um furacão. A construção sintáctica faz com que o relato pareça um longo poema, com frases e orações que se extendem para lá do habitual no mundo anglo-saxónico.

Há momentos cómicos, momentos de pura tristeza, sinceridade e solidariedade para com as personagens, assim como de absoluto terror e compaixão. A lobotomia é apresentada como a resposta para todos os males: adquirir uma nova personalidade e aliviar a tensão são os mecanismos de resgate de toda uma sanidade. Mas, como inquire a personagem principal, e se a antiga personalidade fica apenas adormecida num recanto profundo e depois, anos mais tarde, regressa para se vingar de maneira poderosa?

Apesar do que Janet Frame afirmava, Faces in the Water parece ser um terrível e arrepiante relato quasi autobiográfico da própria autora, que só se salvou de uma lobotomia porque tinha um talento nato e potente para a escrita.

A ler.

Therapy Writing pt2

RESPOSTA A PERGUNTA NENHUMA

(um dia alguém disse)
na busca do buraco último da inteligência humana
não há ninguém que abra a cortina a janela a porta
nem nada derrota a espiral que enrola os homens
nem há dualismo para aqueles fora de órbita

(ao que lhe responderam)
não caias nesse último abismo que devora
não tem de haver um palco uma casa uma saída
porque é tudo uma linha recta com cortes
não há oposições sem coisas que se lhe oponham

o universo é

Amo todo um delete no msn

"Só p'ra ti, yo! Adoro-te!"

"*mwat* Amo-te!"

Revisiting the past

Um sincero obrigado a esta banda e música, que tanto me ajudaram num passado não tão distante quanto me possa parecer. 

R.I.P. Layne Staley (August 22, 1967 - April 5, 2002)

round-house kick

Foda-se, foda-se, foda-se.

Assim não, caralho.

Puta que pariu esta treta.

Bicho de merda.

Isto tem de mudar, caralho ma foda.

Foda-se, foda-se, foda-se.

E vai mudar.

lost in myself

walking through my own private hell.

Therapy writing

Faudastenia Road

THE oldest still standing alliance in the world was between Portugal and England. These countries were not geographically too far from each other and yet their differences proved to be of a different kind. A kind that was too immense, too overwhelming for them to bear. They had met in the US, where the two went for interviewing the writer of a book that could be the story of their lives. In Wyoming, they both visited Annie Proulx and had a cup of tea altogether. What they felt at first sight wasn’t love, let us not be mistaken. Physical attraction was more the case and, if the chance had been given, they would’ve jumped at each other in no time. Over tea, they conversed about what it meant to be a foreigner, to live in a close minded place and to be different from the status quo. The last two topics were particularly applicable to one of them – the Portuguese. The English did not have the problem of living restricted by other people, for he lived in Manchester. Nevertheless, he himself was restricting his being, letting his fears take control over his life. Fear of life, that’s what he had. Soon after they said goodbye to the woman writer, they swapped telephone numbers and made plans for a drink the day after. A drink led to another, the looks were unmistakable, the signs were obvious – they were meant to be together.
When they went back to Europe, they were already lovers. In Portugal, the dark skinned longed for the next time he would see the blond one. He told his parents about him when they were already in three months of dating. A meeting was arranged and everything seemed perfect – everyone got along instantly. But still he wanted more from the other. “Christ, he lives in Manchester, what’s the problem with holding hands with me anywhere? Or a kiss?”
He had always said to him that he had told his parents there in England about their relationship but wouldn’t mention any get-to-know-each-other dinner. The psychological distance was far bigger than the geographical one, indeed, since they had already talked about moving to Lisbon anyway. But why the fear of a simple phone call? Was that all that their love could offer to both? Would it only exist in privacy and secrecy?
The phone rang while they were on vacations. It was from England. “Hi, mom! Yeah, I’m having a great time in Portugal. No, no, she’s in the shower. Right now I’m with a friend. Yeah. Alright, bye, love you too!”
A friend? Was that all he was? Or was he a she then? At that moment, he felt like part of the Wheel of Fortune – he had risen, yes, but that was only the beginning of his fall. And did he fall out of love for the other one. No more prisons than the ones his tiny little country on the Westernmost part of Europe had built for him.
The mountain created in their imagination, which was once a safe and perfect place for their love, was now standing between them. It was much too suffocating.

***

As he drove the car at high speed down Faudastenia Road, he was somewhat at ease and peace with the world. Bad thoughts had been driven away from his mind and love had cured his despair – for a long time he had forgotten the last day he had been truly happy. It was as if life had become bleak and dark all of a sudden. Sleep didn’t bring him the peace he so desperately needed and night trauma had settled in his brain – emptiness filled his heart and soul from the moment he woke up to the moment he went to bed. Even when he fell asleep he didn’t rest, for nightmares haunted his mind. He woke up countless times during the night. Once, it got so bad that he drove his car off a cliff. He didn’t die but was scarred forever. Nevertheless, love came to restore his debris back to shape and changed his life.
He took a fast turn on the road, saw the animal lying dead there and stepped on the brake as quickly as he could. The car hit the rails and burst into flames. The sun was setting.

I still don’t know how it all happened. I remember Faudastenia Road and I remember thinking about him. All of a sudden, I saw fire and was surrounded by it. This light I see now is bright but at the same time pale – it makes me think that despite this accident I still have him in my life, and that is enough. I am not alone. Wait. Someone’s coming. It’s him! What’s look on his face?

I have to do this for both our sakes, and he will understand. I simply fell out of love with him, that’s all. I can’t keep on blaming myself for that, can I? And I can’t keep on lying, that’s a sure thing. Sometimes this consumes my mind in such a way that my thoughts run at an uncontrollable speed I can’t do this I can do this I should do it I can’t be blamed I feel so guilty it’s not fair I hate myself I’d rather die than do this to him it was such a beautiful relationship why do I spoil it like this it’s just a phase but why do I feel like it ain’t just a phase I really should tell him and if we’re meant to be together then we will right oh god I can’t even sleep I have to do this for both our sakes I’m evil but I can’t help it anymore I’m an asshole I feel like shit I have to I must I ought to I HATE MYSELF AND I WANT TO DIE.

He had brought flowers with him, the last he would give to him. They were his personal favourites: violets. He knew how much he loved those. He was preparing himself to leave him. This would be the perfect timing; he would grieve enough lying in the hospital bed, unable to move. He was also afraid that he would kill himself and thus in the hospital that would be impossible.
The flowers were handed with a vague, blank stare. They both knew it. He made a sign for him to put the flowers by the window. They kissed. He couldn’t speak because a shard had pierced his throat and damaged the vocal cords. A song was playing on the radio: “I lost my face and now it can’t be found”, it went. Outside there was heavy rain and as the afternoon advanced the silence became denser. He got up, went to the window and put his hand on the glass, as if looking for something, some kind of freedom, some sort of peace. When he turned to the one lying in bed he knocked down the flowers. He picked his things, stopped beside the bed and they looked at each other for a long moment. There was no goodbye. There was the sound of the door shutting. The pale light in the ceiling. A sigh. It was his last one.

I want to be washed away with the rain, he thought. No tears were falling down his face, or they were mixed with the water. We’ll never know. As he entered the car he remembered all the good moments of his now ex-relationship. He couldn’t deal with the feeling of guilt. He turned the key and started driving. Faudastenia Road was still witness to the accident and the rails now left an open escape from life and suffering. He had nothing attaching him to this world as he drove off the cliff.
He was already broken beyond repair.

And then it happened – with no explanation and no previous warning. Seas, lakes and rivers dried up as blood is drawn from a vein. Diseases turned all animal life nonexistent. First came the rage, then the end of rational thought and lastly the wars. The peoples of the earth slaughtered their own children just because they were born the offspring of the collective hatred for that which is not the rule. Babies stopped being born. Humanity was blind to all the culture that had been constructed throughout the centuries of its existence. All that had been written, composed, built, painted and filmed was destroyed to shreds and forgotten. Beauty and Truth were lost as famine brought cannibalism into the world. Mountains came crumbling down and flowers withered and died. The Earth had come to an end.
The sign still said Faudastenia Road.

Dialogue nr.2

- “O meu coração está em pedra. Não vive…sobrevive…”

- “Tens mais em ti do que julgas. As pedras nem histórias contam.”

Adão decide ir para Oeste

Ironicamente, ando a ler o The Grapes of Wrath. Será que inconscientemente estou a comparar o meu futuro ao da família Joad? Estou a preparar a minha ida para Oeste, isso é verdade, mas não sei até que ponto ler todas as dificuldades daquela gente é benéfico para a minha decisão de ir apanhar laranjas e uvas dos campos dourados do sonho americano. Ah, mas como sabe bem imaginar o próximo ano como uma viagem de uma dezena de horas. Até chegar às montanhas a Este e a praia brilhante a cinco minutos de onde eu vou apanhar a fruta.

"The Western land, nervous under the beginning change. The Western States, nervous as horses before a thunder storm." The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

Song of the moment

So impressed with all you do
Tried so hard to be like you
Flew too high and burnt the wing
Lost my faith in everything

Lick around divine debris
Taste the wealth of hate in me
Shedding skin succumb defeat
This machine is obsolete

Made the choice to go away
Drink the fountain of decay
Tear a hole exquisite red
Fuck the rest and stab it dead

Broken bruised forgotten sore
Too fucked up to care anymore
Poisoned to my rotten core
Too fucked up to care anymore

In the back off the side far away is a place where I hide where i
Stay tried to stay tried to ask I needed to all alone by myself where were you?
How could I ever think its funny how everything that swore it wouldnt change is different now just like you
Would always say we'll make it through then my head fell apart
And where were you? How could I ever think its funny how everything you swore would never change is different now
like you said you and me make it through
Didnt quite fall apart
Where the fuck where you?

Nine Inch Nails - Somewhat Damaged

da visão

E o horizonte expande-se como uma prostituta afasta as pernas.

o que eu já fiz

já levitei num supermercado e por cima de um sofá

já estive com alemães num supermercado e não os ajudei

já vi uma foca a morrer num mergulho

já andei de montanha-russa sem querer

já saltei de um arranha-céus, transformei-me em areia e entrei no sistema eléctrico de uma cidade

já estive no Japão e vi um titânico poste de betão ser balançado por um vizinho enfurecido com o outro

já comi a comida vegetariana de uma amiga minha

já estive em guerras brutais e de proporções épicas

já bati em dois miúdos que me queriam roubar a bicicleta

já entrei por uma porta que era um urinol

já fui para uma ponte que se inundou

já estive numa festa e perdi a vez de tirar a foto com o aniversariante

uncertainty excites me

ando a tentar guardar os corações do jogo que tenho andado a jogar.

ai, futuro, futuro. queria-te no outro lado do atlântico. e já estiveste mais longe de mim.

The Dialogue

"I just wish this thing would leave me alone!"

"It won't leave you alone so soon, just learn how to live with
it."

"I can't, I even feel it in my neck, for fuck's sake!"

"It's all in your head, dear"

"I feel like dying."

"It's your call. I would say that dying is the easiest way out."

"Sometimes I think it's the only one."

"Look at yourself and the others around you. There's the exit. Kill the
thing by opening the door and breaking the circle."

"How do I break the circle?"

"Concentrate on it, find the center, destroy it and erase it from your
body."

"But there are so many fears, so many grey clouds..."

"Look to the recent past."

"What for?"

"For living purposes."

"What do you mean?"

"Take a good look."

"Stop with the riddles!"

"These are no riddles, these are boulders that you have removed from
your path."

"Still the riddles...give me answers..."

"You have them in you, just make sure you're asking the right
questions."

"I'm fucked!"

"No, you're just suffering in vain. There's nothing wrong. The thing is
almost dead. Endure its presence for a bit longer. All of it will go
away."

"Promise?"

"I hate promises."

"Then what?"

"Nothing. Nothing."

"What?"

"Nothing."

A mid-summer's pic-nic

OF SAILS AND PIRATES

To Becky, an inspiration

We travel endlessly
And from heart to heart.

We meet those who might be coy of speech
but who carve themselves in our minds.

And though we’d like to stand by them,
We can’t shake the feeling that festers in us,

that we must keep going and sail from shore to shore.
The feeling that we always need something more.

And we hoist our sails with power,
For the wind dries the tears in our eyes.

And we know that what we don’t know
Is what keeps us trying and fighting.

A family on the dead man’s chest
And a bottle of rum full of friends.

We are pirates, corsairs on our way to
The greener lands on the other side.

With nothing to hide, nothing to regret, nothing to fear.
And in our hearts there is no blue but that of the sky above and the sea below.

Se eu pudesse engolir o mundo todo de uma vez.

Se eu pudesse ascender aos céus e apreender a lei num grito de fogo.

Se eu pudesse ser a espada que fura o céu e o martelo que cai sobre a Terra.

Se eu pudesse furar-me todo e explodir de luz, e receber receber receber.

Se eu pudesse dar-me todo, em partes cortadas a sangue frio e alimentar.

Se eu pudesse.

Tempus fugit

Samuel Beckett - Ohio Impromptu

Há sempre um livro que conta histórias. Essas histórias são aquelas nas quais tomamos conforto, que nos impedem de seguir em frente, talvez porque o futuro seja uma incógnita que muitas vezes nos assusta demasiado. É essa a tosse que comanda os nossos olhos e os projecta apenas num raio em sentido contrário ao Tempo. Constantemente e insistememente batemos nós com os punhos nas mesas. Mas anda, tudo. O que acontece é que somos nós mesmos que por vezes nos achamos presos entre as rodas e os ponteiros. E há sempre o maternal, o sítio perfeito a que pretendemos concomitantemente recuar. Voltar para trás, ouvir as histórias, vivê-las talvez de novo.

Incapacidade de andar para a frente, de deixar tudo para trás, principalmente o que foi perfeito - não é esse o sintoma do universo? Não é essa a síndroma pós-traumática criada após o primeiro berro?

Afinal, somos cinza, eclipse, incêndio, estrago.

Frailty, thy name is Time.

apó mechanés theós

Tenho aprendido que eu sou o meu próprio deus ex machina. E tenho também reparado que as coisas mais pequenas são todas mecanismos que rodam em círculos que ascendem e descendem, com engrenagens que precisam de ser oleadas constantemente.

Somos todos braços de um corpo maior e temos todos braços que são partes menores da nossa grandeza.

Máxima

A vida são dois dias e eu só quero viver um e meio.

(resposta a Kurt Cobain)

E Adão existia sem Eva

Pressures to create ‘positive representations’ of same-sex desire in cinema – Brokeback Mountain - Ricardo Fonseca

It is not an easy task to analyse Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain in the context of positive representations of same-sex desire. To begin with, the fact that the movie is set in 1963, pre-Stonewall, and in a rural area of the Wyoming State in the US are key elements that need to be taken into consideration, and nobody is really sure if the movie is political or not. The movie is also not a product of the mainstream backlash of the ‘gay lib’ movement.


(…) gay life before Stonewall was characterized by silence, invisibility, and isolation. Before Stonewall, there was no history of lesbians and gay men struggling for freedom; indeed, before Stonewall, there was no gay history other than a chronicle of unrelieved oppression. But mass movements for social change do not spring full-blown into existence (…) Movements have roots

(D’Emilio, 1992: 235)

Although the story in the movie might relate to the last part of the quotation, confirming that indeed homosexuality is and has always been everywhere, it would be wrong to say that the movement after Stonewall gave an impulse to the characters of Jack and Ennis, that it helped them to be free. It was predominantly an urban movement, and perhaps Brokeback Mountain is there to tell us that such cases do happen in rural areas and that the so-called “revolution” after Stonewall didn’t after all change every gay man and woman’s mind and situation – it failed to reach those more remote places. Therefore, the movie gives us a positive account of that fact by making use of a “negative” narrative (a sad, love story), in which tragedy portrays and is a product of the kind of lifestyle they led. If anything, the movie makes us feel sympathetic towards the main characters, which makes Brokeback go far beyond sexuality. It’s about lives that can be destroyed by a society whose petty morality shapes small minds. This social commentary constitutes a positive representation of homosexuality, because even though some may see the movie as a universal story (which nevertheless also constitutes a positive image), it does relate far more to homosexuals, and it contributes to create a positive portrait of same-sex relationships.
In order to understand the strict morality of the society depicted in Brokeback, we need only to go back in time in American history to find that

Biblical condemnations of homosexual behaviour suffused American culture from its origin (…) Colonial ministers railed against sodomy in their sermons. Although the world view of most twentieth-century Americans had ceased to be as biblically centred as that of their colonial predecessors, (…) religious teachings still shaped their views of sexuality and their sexual behaviour to a large degree.

(D’Emilio, 1983 : 13)

Therefore, it is an unavoidable fact that there is a strong religious influence in the society the movie depicts. Jack’s mother, as he says, believed in the Pentecost and Ennis’ parents were Methodists. It is curious indeed that Jack is not exactly sure what the Pentecost is but does think that it is about when the world ends and people like him and Ennis go to hell. For me this scene symbolises what rural America thinks of homosexuals – sinners, evil creatures, sick human beings. We can also say that Ennis was a part of that America, that he was raised to agree with this terrible view. In fact, in the scene after they have sex for the first time, Jack says that “it’s nobody’s business but ours”, to which Ennis responds “I ain’t queer”. Jack ends the short dialogue by saying that he isn’t a “queer” either. I believe that Jack expressed what most gay people feel it should be like, that it is nothing that other people should be concerned with, but at the same time this conversation does show the narrowness of mind of that society. And both characters are trapped in it. Another curious religious reference takes place when Ennis is getting married to Alma, and repeats with the priest: “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil”. Moreover, the growing social intolerance for homosexuality helped create an atmosphere of fear which might have contributed to the writing of tragic stories like that of Brokeback Mountain. Maybe not directly, but through a series of events (during the fifties, in the USA, the police and media started a “campaign” against homosexuality, promoting anti-gay values and repression throughout the whole country), American mentality, especially the uneducated, rural one, was again influenced into thinking that homosexuals were evil and sick, much like when it was being constructed as a nation.

Speaking of identities, in his book, The Matter of Images, Richard Dyer says that “representations construct and influence the way we see other, are seen, treat others and are treated by them” (Dyer, 1992: 1) and that

It is true that such identities are never really as comprehensive as they claim – that many lesbians and gay men, for instance, do not recognize themselves in the identities claimed either within lesbian/gay cultures or by the lesbian/gay movement – but it is also the case that one cannot live outside the society, the network of representations, in which one finds oneself.

(ibidem: 3)

The problem voiced in the film is that these characters had no idea what a gay identity was, let alone a gay movement. Therefore, they couldn’t recognise themselves in them. Moreover, their public image of cowboys, strong men brought up rather roughly, would never allow them to escape their own image of the society in which they lived: as Ennis says, “two men living together, it ain’t right”. Nevertheless, Jack does seem willing to challenge all that for their relationship, which in my opinion contributes to the positive representation of homosexuals in the movies – his courage could have changed the whole story. But coming out is difficult. The groups that access more power are heterosexuals and, as mentioned previously, their surrounding environment didn’t permit them to pursue such bold acts. Therefore, the characters’ background surprisingly constitutes a positive representation – they are both from poor, harsh, uneducated backgrounds, two ‘American losers’ as some may call them. That may help erase the preconceived idea that some people, perhaps even a few homosexuals, have that all gay men and women come from wealthy families. They were not rich at all.

As far as the movie being political or not is concerned, it is a fact that it was shot after the Matthew Shephard incident, and that Wyoming, where Brokeback Mountain takes place is the same State where Shephard was brutally left to die. Wyoming is also the State in which G. W. Bush was born. In this way the movie is not only subtly remembering gay hate crimes, but it is also commenting on Bush’s anti-gay marriage politics (let’s not forget that Ennis’ daughter gets married at the same age as he was when he first met Jack, which makes him realise how mistaken he had been for having lost his chance with him).

Stereotypes can also present a positive image of gay men in the media. Nevertheless, one of the aspects in Brokeback that helped the movie to be seen and analysed differently than others which also depict same-sex desire is that the characters are not the stereotypical image of what the “social mind” thinks of homosexuals, particularly when hearing words like “gay”. Their ways and attitudes are not effeminate and they don’t obey the rules and common images of gay men. This fact may change some preconceptions, but it could also be thought of as being restrictive and not very positive at all because if the viewers are able to feel the character’s pain and restrictiveness they will think of it as undeserved. Therefore, they are types represented through fiction:

The type is any character constructed through the use of a few immediately recognizable and defining traits, which do not change or ‘develop’ through the course of the narrative and which point to general, recurrent features of the human world.

(Dyer, 1993: 13)

Identities are a key element to Brokeback Mountain. The main characters’ fake straight identities, the married lives they arranged for themselves, which caused unhappiness to everyone including themselves, could be seen as a negative element that wouldn’t help promote the movie’s “good” image. In fact, many people probably felt anger for what they both did to their wives because betrayal and secrecy were a great part of their lives throughout the years they met each other on the mountains. But then again, in my opinion, I do believe that this unfortunate side of the story just helps us realise what happens in these cases, and how changing minds can help prevent them from ever taking. If their society were more open-minded, and their upbringing wasn’t as restrictive as it was, then perhaps they wouldn’t have chosen to live a life that was contrary to their feelings. But the fact is that Ennis, for instance, was too torn and tattered due to his childhood to ever embrace his relationship with Jack openly. When Jack tells him that “it could be like this, just like this, always”, Ennis remembers an event he witnessed as a child: his father took him to see an old man that was brutally tortured and killed because he was living with another man. They were “a joke in town, though they were pretty tough old birds”, Ennis recalls, and then goes on to express his own fear: “if this thing gets hold of us again, in the wrong time, in the wrong place, then we’re dead”. And by the time Jack gets killed, Ennis realises he let his life pass him by. Jack’s mother probably knows what her son was, and we get the feeling that she had come to terms with it, but she was rendered helpless because of her tough, castrating husband. This is all understandable if we realise that “homophobia is usually the last oppression to be mentioned, the last to be taken seriously, the last to go. But it is extremely serious, sometimes to the point of being fatal” (Abelove et al., 1993: 99).

So identity is part of what makes these characters men trapped in time and space: “‘Homosexual’ and ‘Lesbian’ have been negative sexual categories, at best to be viewed pathologically, at worst as moral degeneracy” (Dyer, 1993: 20-21). Let us not forget, again, that the gay movement of the sixties happened in big cities and it wasn’t heard of in rural America until much later, if at all. People in those areas were more concerned with economic matters, as we can also see in the movie, than anything else. Therefore, they couldn’t organise themselves, feel part of a group – they were alone.
Four types of homosexuals are considered in Dyer’s The Matter of Images, one of them being the “Macho”. Neither Jack nor Ennis fall into this category, simply because they are not even exaggeratedly masculine and they certainly don’t possess a “consciously erotic look” (idem 40). Ennis’ ways are rough and contain nothing of the erotic. Not even their clothes can be seen as contributing to that image – they are not trying hard to look masculine and express an erotic look. Moreover, they definitely don’t correspond to the image of the “sad, young man”. Jack, for instance, destroys the possibility of one looking at him and identifying him with that type when he stands up to his father-in-law.

If one went to see the movie without having heard a single world about it previously, one would immediately recognise them as tough, strong men of the American West (which they are, anyway) and maybe think that the movie was just another old-fashioned cowboy movie. I believe that it is by making these characters, types, that we can subvert the stereotypes and re-interpret them. In a sense, a meaningful analysis might show that what could be viewed as negative in Ang Lee’s stoic drama can actually construct a positive image as mentioned before: despite being social characters that represent their imprisoning and socially repressive time and age, they still own a unique individuality, which shows how their “manacles” were not only forged by the world but also by themselves. This is important because restricting yourself usually derives from being imprisoned by what surrounds you, and, although a lot of people didn’t think of Brokeback Mountain as a political movie, one can consider their restrictiveness as being so, in the way that people might be affected by it and identify with some of its characteristics, thus reinforcing its positive representation of homosexuality. It is not a question of a man having sex with another man, it is about freedom, something that people cherish and take for granted nowadays. Ang Lee’s discrete way of shooting the sex scenes also contrasts to a large degree to what happens in the book by Annie Proulx. This is also a very clear sign that there was a pressure or a desire to make it represent homosexuality positively. The movie has in fact been called a love story rather than just a gay love story, which would be a negative statement and would again isolate it in a specific category. It is nonetheless a gay movie, or a movie about a gay love relationship, but it speaks to everyone, in my opinion.

Sexual essentialism is “the idea that sex is a natural force that exists prior to social life (…) Sexual essentialism is embedded in the folk wisdoms of Western societies (…) “ (Abelove, et al., 1993: 9). Brokeback Mountain is a good example of this idea – the two men couldn’t control their desires and only when they found themselves living in society did they repress their feelings. The social life shapes their lives; they live according to their society’s model of thinking. Nevertheless, Foucault denies this theory in his book The History of Sexuality refusing “the traditional understanding of sexuality as a natural libido yearning to break free of social constraint” (apud Abelove, et al.,1993: 416). I venture myself to say that that is exactly what goes on in Brokeback Mountain, despite the fact that those desires might have been socially constructed – Western culture has always considered sex to be negative, specifically homosexual sex.

The characters are then forced to play the game of visibility/invisibility, of that which is lived and that which is kept secret – the mountain is both freedom and prison. Because they live in a narrow-minded society, they end up, as previously mentioned, involving everyone in their helpless, destructive love affair. But this “game” is deeper than that. The characters’ shirts inside Jack’s closet portray the secrecy of homosexuality and what misfortunes that might bring. Nevertheless, the main characters are still heroic in their failure – in the end Ennis still closes his closet door with the shirts inside, but a promise is made not to accept things as they still are. And this can be linked to the “coming out” step that is a part of any homosexual’s life. Brokeback Mountain does help “make visible the invisible” (Dyer, 1993: p.16), but they couldn’t finally really come out and make themselves be seen, as has been analysed throughout my essay. But the point proven by that game, in my view, is that it shows that, yes, cowboys in rural states can in fact be homosexuals, and I believe that this is one of the main elements in the movie. If we look at the scene in which Jack goes to Mexico to find a male prostitute, we may take it as negative aspect, which would make sense considering he “betrayed” Ennis, but being in the closet in the society in which he lived probably made him feel too shut down not to find consolation in those places where he could at least be himself sexually. So Mexico is visibility whereas Wyoming and Texas (which symbolise their marriages in which they were tangled) are invisibility, or the impossibility of being real.
Therefore, Mexico is also an example of reality, because if “families play a crucial role in enforcing sexual conformity” (Abelove, et al.,: 22), then Mexico is what proves that the conformity of being married is what is most fake in the whole story. They both had castrating fathers, they both embraced a straight married life, but they both knew and felt that it wasn’t real.

In the media, a battle for positive representations of same-sex desire has always been active:

Attempts to counter negative propaganda with more realistic information generally meet with censorship, and there are continuous ideological struggles over which representations of sexual communities make it into the popular media

(ibidem: p.23)


Therefore, it is my belief that Brokeback Mountain is a movie that struggles to represent homosexuality positively by depicting an isolated case, thus portraying the whole community and those who are still trapped in a restrictive society like Ennis and Jack. In my opinion this movie is about reality and what it can do to people. The fact that it didn’t fail to reach the mainstream consumers proves that it is a movie with social significance, and it is my belief that much more can be said and written about it and more specifically on certain aspects, like the difficulty of coming out of the closet.



Bibliography

Primary sources:

. Lee, Ang (2005), Brokeback Mountain. United States of America: Focus Features

Secondary sources:

. Abelove, Henry, Barale, Michèle Aina, Halperin, David M. (1993), The Lesbian and Gay Studies Reader. United States of America: Routledge, Inc.

. D’Emilio, John (1983), Sexual Politics, Sexual Communities: the making of a homosexual minority in the United States, 1940-1970. United States of America: The University of Chicago Press

. D’Emilio, John (1992), Making Trouble: essays on gay history, politics, and the university. United States of America: Poutledge, Chapman and Hall, Inc.

. Dyer, Richard (1993), The Matter of Images: essays on representations. Great Britain: Butler & Tanner, Ltd.

A Estrada

A estrada parecia-me cada vez mais longa à medida que a ia percorrendo, sob o calor abrasador de um Verão húmido e sufocante. O corpo que levava não era o meu, era como se estivesse a ver o mundo através dos olhos de uma velha que já não podia com a carcaça. Cada vez mais me sentia a morrer, sentia a velha a morrer, mas o meu olhar mantinha-se alerta, lúcido e objectivo. Todas as pessoas com quem me cruzava me olhavam aterrorizadas e sentia-me a tropeçar em mim mesmo, no corpo da velha que se esmorecia. E foi então. Prodígio da gravidade, prodígio do calor, prodígio de uma doença, prodígio de todos os prodígios aqui mencionados juntos, caí. Encostado a um canto no meio da calçada, sabia que ia morrer. E estava preparado, sentia o meu olhar preparado para pôr termo à vida do corpo da velha e deixar a minha consciência continuar a viver e analisar o ambiente à volta. Saber como seria. Saber o que se iria passar depois.
Dentro de mim, eu conseguia ver as pessoas fixadas no meu corpo. Umas abananavam-me, outras esbofeteavam-me, outras gritavam com as mãos nas respectivas bocas, outras faziam menção de chamar alguém que me acudisse, outras chamavam mesmo, outras simplesmente passavam. E foi destas de que particularmente gostei mais. Porque a morte devia ter tanta importância como ver um homem a mijar na rua, era olhar e continuar a andar, fazendo a cara e comentário que nos bem apetecesse. Sabia que a minha respiração iria parar mais cedo ou mais tarde e o último suspiro estaria por perto. Sabia tudo isto e no entanto estava sóbrio, com um olhar limpo e objectivo, como um samurai japonês que sabe que vai morrer mas que mantém a sua honra intacta. Era isso mesmo, sentia-me intacto na minha consciência. Lembro-me de ter pensado na invalidez e leviandade da carne em relação ao poder e persistência do espírito. E assim morri.

Out of a writing prompt comes...

BEAUTY

A woman is sitting alone in a house. She knows she is alone in the whole world, every other living thing is dead. The doorbell rings. She doesn’t answer. In the immense silence of the mansion there is only the lonely sound of the bell. Insistently, like a knife trying to cut through pale skin. Still the woman doesn’t move. The clock in the kitchen marks 3.33 AM. She looks at her nails – the nail polish is coming off like the skin of a snake is disposed off. Only, she knows there’s no rebirth for her. The fingers are old and no ring is adorning the hands. She burns inside. Her hair is thin and the scalp is showing. Where once was joy, now darkness falls. It consumes her eyes, takes away the blue and drains the energy and life. No tears, no expression – nothing. And still the doorbell rings. She doesn’t move and looks like a crippled plaything. Prosthetic synthesis of dying flesh and bone. The spine is just a string. The skin on her nose is peeling like sins are washed off. Pale and so white. Rotting, stenching her body is. The lips show an already eaten carcass. She is the carrion of a murdered prey. The teeth are worn out and some bits have already fallen off. She is naked and the breasts are only wrinkles. The sex reeks and stinks of urine and faeces are on the floor. The tap begins to drip. The flesh on her tired bones starts to melt and fall. Holes form on her cheeks, flies enter and lay their eggs. All the matter dissolves, leaving only the bones and no insides. No heart. The machina of life crumbles down. There is food on the table to serve as sport for the insects which march alone. The doorbell stops ringing.

O Diário Perdido

Adão havia perdido tudo que tinha escrito durante aqueles dois anos. Conscientemente, perdeu, quis perder aquelas feridas e alegrias, só porque naquele fatídico dia caiu metal num precipício e o direito a ser e ter se encontrava adulterado. Tudo por nada. Mas havia um testamento, um testemunho, um tratado que impunha soberana vontade e ordenava ser apresentado. E assim, Adão obedeceu.

E não quis mais ser um modelo de falta de personalidade. E odiou sem odiar aqueles que o tiraram do trono que um dia foi seu. Mas a coroa ainda estava lá, ainda havia aquele ceptro que nunca o abandonara. Destronado, sim, mas, ainda assim, rei por direito, por sangue, por Divina Providência. Por vontade própria também. E o seu reino ainda tinha o maior número de súbditos de entre todos os reinos. E os mais fiéis de todos, era certo.

Assim, Adão começou lentamente a elaborar um plano táctico
que lhe permitisse erguer-se de novo.

Sol

Pedra

Tijolo

Carne

Adão era dEUS.

Agora, as engrenagens estão finalmente a rodar e a Machina do Mundo ferve de óleos e vapor e enxofre.

É a hora.