uma dúvida existencial

de férias...!

2009-07-30T10:40:00.000-07:00

visual

Teknolust, Lynn Hershman-Leeson

Saboteur, Alfred Hitchcock

Recordações da Casa Amarela, João César Monteiro

literário

Arthur Rimbaud, Une saison en enfer

virá novamente...

2009-07-21T15:49:00.000-07:00

.

2009-06-11T17:42:00.000-07:00

MONSTRO ROBOT AQUI!

2009-06-05T09:19:00.001-07:00

.

2009-05-23T08:20:00.000-07:00

peter beste

remembering...

2009-05-06T18:07:00.000-07:00

.

2009-04-19T11:33:00.000-07:00

workshop lugares efémeros @ FAUP

aqui

2009-04-08T14:22:00.000-07:00

aqui

.

2008-12-01T11:55:00.000-08:00

in her city?

no

just in/ner city...

http://in-ner-city.blogspot.com/

esboço

2008-08-26T06:20:00.001-07:00

por entre a escuridão ergue-se um raio de luz,
um vago vislumbre, sobre ele não se poderia descortinar,
o que o provocou, ou o que lhe vai no coração,
a fresta abre-se para o infinito e é a ele que seduz,
ama o céu e a terra, por todo o mundo sente a pura paixão,
somente as ondas do mar nunca têm tempo de sorrir,
à amada costa, só têm tempo de fugir à moda imposta,
e nada mostra, prostra-se no regaço da vida e chora,
auto destrói-se sem nunca se destruir na totalidade,
porque não o mata, mas como o que não mata mói, ele implora,
pelo fim da tortura por damas de ferro dadas pela eternidade,
oh, essa pérfida criatura criada pela inexistência vã,
mas, se ela não existe, porquê, céus? porquê isto?
se nada é eterno, digam-me o fim deste sofrimento,
desta apatia, desta dor de viver, sem um trincar de maçã,
com um mundo encerrado à espera de ser filho de Mefisto,
as montanhas tocaram-se, dançaram, amaram-se,
tornaram a morte em vida, mas no fim, maldito...
tudo não foi mais que um sonho de um deus excomungado,
os rios não correram, o vento não soprou, nada foi dito,
foram quimeras criadas por mais um imperador tresloucado,
e, mais uma vez, Dylan ecoou nos corações dos desanimados,
as ruas do Porto nunca estiveram assim tão violeta,
consequência comum de uma verdade mais que violenta:
do semear de esperanças em ruas de pedra apenas brotam sonhos,
os galos cantam na noite para vir abater a alegria,
alvejá-la minuciosamente para prolongar a dor,
e levá-la, lugubremente, nas fortes garras de um açor

escrita (quase) automática

2008-08-26T06:16:00.001-07:00

A personalidade come a vida em cada momento,
e a vida esvai-se longa como areia, lentamente,
e o tempo não perdoa, não esquece rapidamente,
progressivamente, quem cresce é o desalento,
pesado e denso, é asfixiante como vapor de água,
cada partícula move-se no ar, apenas, somente,
cada momento que passa só aumenta a mágoa,
um canto, deitado, uma frincha, encanto da tristeza,
a alma procura a fuga para não enfrentar a realidade,
sem pingo são, sem noção da mente, podre beleza,
do galheteiro caem as últimas gotas de sanidade,
não sei quem quero ser, apenas sei do que fujo sempre,
tempestades radioactivas ocorrem sem eu saber como,
sou incomum e infecundo em fuga do mundo,
sou impuro e inumano em pranto constante,
sinto que sou martirizado por ver através do fumo,
sinto que Ícaro reencarna em numa ferida estanque,
torno-me apocalíptico quando me torno implícito,
o físico contorce-se por causa do psíquico,
analiso o interior e expludo a cada reacção,
não sei que fazer, não sei, a pressão comprime,
as paredes cedem, o alarme ecoa no espaço,
os operários correm na busca de uma vã salvação,
todos sabem a angústia que o seu chefe exprime,
as rugas de um passado remetido ao presente,
são espancadas pela virtude, odeio-a tanto...
a sua cara ensanguentada não me traz remorsos,
cuspo-lhe na cara, sem esforço, não obstante,
ainda lhe dou um pontapé certeiro, uns quantos ossos....
sou fúria, sou raiva, sou o descontentamento permanente,
almejo a lua e as estrelas, acabo mendigo errante,
deixado num lago de cadáveres, até aí sou irritante
kundaliní ascende, não sei como, mas abri as portas da mente.

_

2008-08-24T08:03:00.000-07:00

canhão de luz

disparo jorros lumínicos a cada golpe de palavra. Não sei onde encerro a verdade ou quimeras de dias vindouros; apenas sei da luz, frenética, ávida, bela. Não sei do passado, nem sequer sei o que é presente.
Futuro?: Prometeram-me o mundo, o doce néctar, hidromel da vida, mas apenas cinzas das esperanças queimadas por incêndios intermináveis, apenas essas me foram dadas em meros sacos de plástico gastos, amolecidos pelo uso.

.

2008-08-01T15:19:00.000-07:00

.

estou de volta!

.

papéis com letras

2008-07-19T09:56:00.000-07:00

lido

Junky, de William Burroughs

imagens em movimento

2008-07-15T15:31:00.000-07:00

.

Vertigo

Topaz

Rear Window

Family Plot

de Alfred Hitchcock

O dia do desespero

de Manoel de Oliveira

papéis com letras

2008-07-14T14:53:00.001-07:00

do filme Eugenie De Sade

.

lido
Eugénie de Franval, de Marquis de Sade

para ser lido
ah... não sei!

.

remember?

2008-07-13T16:02:00.000-07:00

mãe presença

2008-07-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

[matéria volátil]

2008-07-10T14:57:00.001-07:00

.

2008-07-08T11:17:00.001-07:00

papéis com letras

2008-07-08T10:59:00.000-07:00

.

últimos lidos:
Não bebas essa água, de Woody Allen
Prometeu Agrilhoado, de Ésquilo

em processo de leitura:
Eugénie de Franval, de Marquis de Sade

.

.

2008-06-13T18:01:00.000-07:00

the cure - apart

he waits for her to understand
but she won't understand at all
she waits all night for him to call
but he won't call anymore
he waits to hear her say
forgive
but she just drops her pearl-black eyes
and prays to hear him say
i love you
but he tells no more lies

he waits for her to sympathize
but she won't sympathize at all
she waits all night to feel his kiss
but always wakes alone
he waits to hear her say
forget
but she just hangs her head in pain
and prays to hear him say
no more
i'll never leave again

how did we get this far apart?
we used to be so close together
how did we get this far apart?
i thought this love would last forever

he waits for her to understand
but she won't understand at all
she waits all night for him to call
but we won't call
he waits to hear her say
forgive
but she just drops her pearl-black eyes
and prays to hear him say
i love you
but he tells no more lies

how did we get this far apart?
we used to be so close together
how did we get this far apart?
i thought this love would last forever

(suspiro)

no blog de Sage Francis, uma afirmação do grande:

2008-06-02T16:17:00.000-07:00

"I think most of us grew up in a pretty sterile environment...It's all pretty much peaches and cream. Ya know...flowers. Every thing's nice. Ignore all the bad stuff. The world's just not like that. I think that the sooner people get to the point that they realize...the ugly stuff is just as important as the beautiful stuff...it goes hand in hand...I think that we can get on with evolving."

-Maynard James Keenan

relacionado com clicar aqui

por vezes...

2008-04-14T12:04:00.000-07:00

ambiciono o desenho [do infinito]

2008-04-13T08:49:00.000-07:00

J. E.Millais

2008-04-12T13:12:00.001-07:00

U. Boccioni

2008-04-07T06:35:00.000-07:00

.

2008-04-01T11:45:00.000-07:00

THE DANCE OF THE DEAD

The warder he gazes o' the night
On the graveyards under him lying,
The moon into clearness throws all by her light,
The night with the daylight is vying.
There's a stir in the graves, and forth from their tombs
The form of a man, then a woman next looms
In garments long trailing and snowy.

They stretch themselves out, and with eager delight
Join the bones for the revel and dancing --
Young and old, rich and poor, the lady and the knight,
Their trains are a hindrance to dancing.
And since here by shame they no longer are bound,
They shuffle them off, and lo, strewn lie around
Their garments on each little hillock.

Here rises a shank, and a leg wobbles there
With lewd diabolical gesture;
And clatter and rattle of bones you might hear,
As of one beating sticks to a measure.
This seems to the warder a laughable game:
Then the tempter, low whispering, up to him came:
"In one of their shrouds go and wrap thee."

'Twas done soon as said; then he gained in wild flight
Concealment behind the church portal,
The moon all the while throws her bright beams of light
On the dance where they revel and sport all.
First one, then another, dispersed all are they,
And donning their shrouds steal the spectres away,
And under the graves all is quiet.

But one of them stumbles and fumbles along,
'Midst the tombstones groping intently;
But none of his comrades have done him this wrong,
His shroud in the breeze 'gins to scent he.
He rattles the door of the tower, but can find
No entrance -- good luck to the warder behind! --
'Tis barred with blest crosses of metal.

His shroud must he have, or rest can he ne'er;
And so, without further preambles,
The old Gothic carving he grips then and there,
From turret to pinnacle scrambles.
Alas for the warder! all's over, I fear;
From buttress to buttress in dev'lish career
He climbs like a long-legged spider.

The warder he trembles, and pale doth he look,
That shroud he would gladly be giving,
When piercing transfixed it a sharp-pointed hook!
He thought his last hour he was living.
Clouds cover already the vanishing moon,
With thunderous clang beats the clock a loud One --
Below lies the skeleton, shattered.

by: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Erzsébet

2008-03-30T05:52:00.001-07:00

puta de mania!

2008-03-09T05:34:00.000-07:00

.

se resolvessem as coisas com palavras, a tempo, não havia estes conflitos!

.

on the road

2008-02-24T06:27:00.001-08:00

「路上」（原題：On the Road)とは、1940年代後半のジャック・ケルアックとニール・キャサディの交流を描いた自叙伝的小説です。1951年には完成されていたといわれていますが出版されたのは1957年になってVikingPressによって発行されたのが最初でした。
登場人物はそれぞれが特異な個性を持ったキャラクターとして描かれていますがその大部分は実在のケルアックの友人たちがモデルとされています。その一人一人がビート・ジェネレーションと呼ばれる文化の先駆者であり、なかでもジャック・ケルアック、ニール・キャサディ、アレン・ギンズバーグ、ウィリアム・バロウズ等は今も戦後文化の先駆的人物として語られています。
「路上」では1940年代後半から1950年初頭の間のケルアック（サル・パラダイス）とキャサディ（ディーン・モリアーティ）の出会いから、アメリカ中を幾度となく横断する間に起こるさまざまな出来事が描かれています。先にも述べましたとうりこの小説は自叙伝的小説で出来事や登場人物の多くは実際のものであり、小説中のディーンの突飛な言動は今も伝えられるニール・キャサディの人物像を詳細に描いています。ディーンの破天荒な情熱に魅了されながらも常に客観的に見つめるサルの心情もケルアックという人物を知るものとなっています。
一方でウィリアム・バロウズは後年のインタビューで「キャサディはケルアックの小説で作り上げられたキャラクターだ」と述べ、キャロライン・キャサディも2002年のインタビューで「ケルアックの小説はニールの人物像を歪曲してる」との趣旨の発言をしています。しかし、いずれもケルアックやキャサディを最もよく知る人物の一人であり、小説や伝記等のみからビートの先駆者を知る現在の人々の間違ったイメージや期待に対して向けられたものであるとも取れます。
いずれにしても現在の私たちは一文化を形作ることになる人々の経験を「路上」を通じて体験することができます。

hold

2008-02-23T02:26:00.001-08:00

e se nós...

2008-02-06T16:14:00.000-08:00

não?

ok....

proposta de fim de tarde de Domingo

2008-02-03T15:28:00.000-08:00

ouvir Burzum, ou de olhos fechados , ou olhando pela janela

Dunkelheit

When night falls
She cloaks the world
In impenetrable darkness
A chill rises
From the soil
And contaminates the air
Suddenly...
Life has new meaning

Varg Vikernes

hino da beat generation

2008-01-25T18:23:00.000-08:00

Howl, Parts I & II
por Allen Ginsberg

For Carl Solomon I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkan- sas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo- tionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunk- enness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge, a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills of Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room, who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wonder- ing where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incompre- hensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whom- ever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom. who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of con- sciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung- over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam- heat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hud- son under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regi- ments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertis- ing & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whis- key and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to the each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salva- tion and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instanta- neous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & am- nesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 a.m. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination-- ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time-- and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years. II What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Chil- dren screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Mo- loch! Moloch the heavy judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jail- house and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judg- ment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned govern- ments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrap- ers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ec- stasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light stream- ing out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible mad houses granite cocks! monstrous bombs! They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roofl to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
From Collected Poems 1947-1980 by Allen Ginsberg, published by Harper & Row. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg. Used with permission.

caminho, caminho...

2008-01-16T03:00:00.000-08:00

.

.

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once - or yield to song.

Lord Byron, my soul is dark

2008-01-15T14:14:00.001-08:00

dia lumínico

2008-01-11T12:22:00.001-08:00

desenhar, Picasso, pioneiro nesta técnica que utiliza o elemento nuclear da Fotografia: a luz

sim, tentei recriar um dia de experimentação, aviso que foi a primeira vez que usei esta técnica (pelo menos deste modo) logo, existem vários erros:

Confesso que no outro dia acordei com uma certa necessidade de acção luminista

Se bem quem estivesse um pouco mal disposto, chegando mesmo a vomitar

(em jacto)

Depois de um dia atarefado de relatórios, trabalhos de campo, estava a precisar de relaxar

Porém, agarrou-se-me à cara um ser estranho com tentáculos

Chato...

Arredondada

Que logo tratei de soprar dali para fora

Sim!

Logo, fui pintando umas linhas

Esboçando uns edifícios

Reencontrar uns amigos

Reflectindo acerca de questões essenciais, como o futuro do ser humano no Universo

Até que…

O aquecedor a óleo entra em paranóia!

Luzes

E feixes

E… uma mão?!

Oh! É o primeiro DJ da noite, vindo de Andrómeda, uma galáxia vizinha que irá fazer o favor de chocar com a nossa

Uma noite de boa música, seguida com as escolhas e mistura de Zé Gosma

João Pirolito

Reparem na sua ascensão

E explosão de alegria!!

Red haired, em sintonia

Imparável

Infelizmente, tivemos que remover um espectador embriagado

Entusiasmou-se demasiado...

Obtivemos uma bela assistência, por Pedro Bolha

O Gato das Meias

Ah… Um fã assumido de Dragon Ball, apenas no penteado, ou não...

John Ming veio encher a sala de um certo misticismo oriental

Enfim, um serão bem passado…

empenado a Desenho...

2008-01-06T15:03:00.000-08:00

luz

2007-12-30T15:08:00.001-08:00

pintura em linha

explosão

mais brutalismo

2007-12-20T15:07:00.000-08:00

brutalismo, quem sabe, magnífico

2007-12-06T11:50:00.000-08:00

hoje é dia de festa

2007-12-02T03:32:00.000-08:00

de certo modo, é voltar a casa, no sentido de reaver pessoas que desejamos que estivessem sempre lá

ontem, at Pedro's home

não me digas que se esqueceram de mim...

2007-11-23T16:10:00.001-08:00

ideal romântico

2007-11-15T16:33:00.000-08:00

"Foi moda, no primeiro quartel do século passado, ir-se de veraneio às praias, mesmo naqueles países do Norte da Europa cujos ovos sempre viram no mar a figura do demónio, o inimigo antiquíssimo, cruel e voraz da humanidade. O espírito romântico da época, ao comprazer-se em ruínas, fantasmas e lunáticos, concebia as tempestades nocturnas sobre um descampado, ou o intenso conflito das paixões, como um prazer mais requintado para o connaisseur do que a tranquilidade dos salões e a harmonia dos sistemas filosóficos, e lograra reconciliar os espíritos mais cultos com as solidões eternas das paisagens costeiras e de alto mar. Homens e senhoras da sociedade abandonavam a sombra dos seus parques e iam passear em praias ermas ou contemplar as indomáveis ondas. Os destroços de um naufrágio que a maré-baixa descobria, esqueletos hirtos e negros, salgados, tornavam-se o apetecido local dos piqueniques, onde artistas louros erguiam os cavaletes. [...]"

in Sete Contos Góticos, de Karen Blixen

Viajante junto ao mar de neblina, de Caspar David Friedrich

ao som de miles

2007-11-01T10:30:00.000-07:00

Um dilema que me corrói intensamente,
Uma decisão que me assombra imensamente,

A mente perece porque não é perene,
Mas parece que não é solene.

Jazo aqui e Jazz ali...

eu

banda sonora da semana

2007-10-27T04:00:00.001-07:00

Awful man,
Debris of bad home,
A killer and apathic

Loathsome I've become.
Acreature so undome.
Wretched and broken.
Cannot find my faith.
Any God will do.
Nothing said is new
Nothing said is true.
Fly away my hope.

The embrace of shade holds me dear.
Eats me away.
Loose the dogs of disgrace upon me.
I have no faith.
Raise the poor outcast I have become.
I am undone.
Calm is the air. Still is the sea.
The valley of death keeps calling me.

Rest my eyes from the world.
This dying place, it's so absurd.
Oh, Christ above, whom I love.
Lost to me. My snow white dove.
Make this day like the night.
Song of darkness. Words of light.
Pulling down my heart.
I won't forget my lovers heart.

With utter loathing and scorn,
I was somehow born.
Strewn in black decay.
None shall I obey.
The wreckage of my flesh.
The nakedness of my death.

The Wreckage Of My Flesh, de My Dying Bride

2007-10-26T15:02:00.001-07:00

Mudam-se os tempos, mudam-se as vontades,
Muda-se o ser, muda-se a confiança;
Todo o mundo é composto de mudança,
Tomando sempre novas qualidades.
Continuamente vemos novidades,
Diferentes em tudo da esperança;
Do mal ficam as mágoas na lembrança,
E do bem, se algum houve, as saudades.

O tempo cobre o chão de verde manto,
Que já foi coberto de neve fria,
E em mim converte em choro o doce canto.

E, afora este mudar-se cada dia,
Outra mudança faz de mor espanto:
Que não se muda já como soía.

Luís Vaz de Camões

será? penso que depende da situação, porque:

de

para

é do que se trata

Hurt

2007-10-12T15:15:00.000-07:00

I hurt myself today
to see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
the only thing that's real
the needle tears a hole
the old familiar sting
try to kill it all away
but I remember everything
what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
and you could have it all
my empire of dirt

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns
upon my liar's chair
full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
beneath the stains of time
the feelings disappear
you are someone else
I am still right here

what have I become?
my sweetest friend
everyone I know
goes away in the end
and you could have it all
my empire of dirt

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

if I could start again
a million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

Nine Inch Nails

cover, por Johnny Cash