the 1% left

the show is over. the crowd has left, the stage is empty. she slowly returns to her dressing room by crossing the narrow corridor in the backstage maze. lights keep flashing but never fail completely. a brief reminder of the millions of snapshots they took in the old days. back when she was a rising star. young, talented and beautiful. critics agreed one of them would always be true. she reaches for the handle, twists, turns and closes the door behind her. drops the flowers straight in the bin. before they get "the touch". she sits opposite the mirror and begins the tired routine of unearthing the 1% left. soft tissues and creams do the job. but the tears rolling down her face already did most of the dirty work...

lost thursday

é em dias como estes que só me apetece desaparecer por entre as pedras da calçada e ter alguma paz. onde se lê student away day leia-se perda de tempo a ouvir falar acerca de perspectivas de futuro. se há coisa que aprendi nesta vida é a não fazer grandes planos para o futuro. eventualmente acontece alguma coisa que os faz esfumar-se à nossa frente como um castelo de cartas. a sessão foi de tal forma bocejante que não tive outra alternativa que não sair depois de almoço (ainda estou para perceber qual é o fascínio destes gajos pelas sandochas) de forma lesta e tentando não ser avistado. nem o jantar no thai me levou a aguentar mais horas daquele tormento. e não consigo deixar de contar as horas para o momento fatídico da reunião com o meu chefe. continuar a trabalhar num projecto que está ferido de morte (podendo ser definitivamente enterrado daqui a uns meses) ou seguir em frente para um novo projecto (gostava de saber qual...) que seja capaz de me motivar tanto quanto o antigo? algum dia teria que chegar a crise no trabalho. duma forma ou doutra, todas as outras crises em assuntos não relacionados já foram (melhor ou pior) superadas.

uma certeza tenho. melhores dias virão...

2 out of 2

why weren't you there?

sun sets, the furnace rests

it was as if someone drained the energy out of my limbs. i feel like a north-american indian afraid of losing its soul by taking snapshots of my life. this must be one of the darkest ones. i think i'm still in denial. "this can't be true, this is not really happening, surely". i just skipped rage and went straight to the acceptance phase. "i'm afraid it is very much real. i'd like to tell you that it's just a bad dream, that you'll wake up any minute now. but i just can't do that. you know, i'm living inside this dark space as well. and we have to agree in most (if not all) things we see. and stop calling me Shirley!" think positive. it could have been a lot worse. true. but that doesn't make it better. besides, what's life without some suffering?

"oh brother, i can't believe it's true. i'm so scared about the future and i wanna talk to you" - (if only you could understand what just happened...)

the ugly void

precisamente um ano depois, o vazio. um ano de trabalho pela janela fora. pior que isso, a completa ausência de alternativas e de rumo. a impotência perante a triste realidade praticamente confirmada. nunca desejei tanto desaparecer. nunca desejei tanto cair num pranto inconsolável. nunca.

366th day

no meio de tanta viagem e confusão, até me esqueci que ontem fez um ano que vim para cá. até gostava de dizer que muita coisa mudou nestes 365 dias, mas não vale a pena iludir-me. 1 down, 2,5 to go...

this is me (please) take me as i am

com o corpo nu me prostro diante de ti. esta massa de carne, este aglomerado de tecidos sou eu. é isto que carrega a energia que se propaga numa única direcção. i'm a spinning magnet, attracted by force fields more powerful than what they look. voluptuous bodies with an invisible essence that keeps pulling me apart. drop the metal dust and watch the rings revolving around us. perfect physics. como sempre, não passa da teoria. a realidade não mente. as falhas estão à vista, escondidas por patéticas manifestações que não me pertencem. os muros caem, as rachas não aguentam o peso que lhes macera o âmago. why am i so utterly adolescent? why do i keep building these traps around a treasure that nobody's after? X marks the spot but there's no secret map to get to it. isto sou eu (por favor) aceita-me como sou...

alabastro

os braços cruzam e descruzam no calor da noite. os olhos mantêm-se abertos como portas enferrujadas numa casa de praia. o corpo revolto tenta aplacar as intempéries que o assolam tanto por fora como por dentro. twisting and turning. mas nada consegue desviar as forças que se projectam num ecrã com uma única imagem. o teu corpo adormecido envolto em névoa que nunca se dissipa. relexos de vida trespassam-te as veias. inflamam o teu sangue. mas a tua pele mantém a chave fora do alcance. all i need is the touch. o toque. sentir o teu bater de coração nas pontas dos meus dedos. abraçar teu cheiro em todos os meus poros. comungar tua mente sem dizer uma palavra. sonhar estando bem acordado. nada mais.

jet lag

cannot adapt to the changing times. mind unable to focus, to keep working at the correct time. always ahead of its own thoughts. dormir. perder a consciência durante vários fusos horários. reset the brain. stopping it from having stupid thoughts. control the blinding desire floating around. como podes ser tão diferente de ti mesmo? um pedaço de árvore caído num rio calmo. um líquido em permanente ebulição queimando tudo ao seu redor. i think i'm gonna sleep now. no more bad thoughts. no more perversion of senses. it's alright most of the time, anyway.

back to london

de volta a londres depois de oito dias nos States. demasiadas coisas para fazer. muito sono para pôr em dia. voltarei amanhã. e com fotos... (espero)

it's up to you...

(amanhã) de saída para a cidade que nunca dorme, a grande maçã da costa este dos States. uma semana repartida igualmente entre turismo (1ª metade - Manhattan) e trabalho (2ª metade - Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island - vulgo, o Cu de Judas). se tudo correr bem, até voltarei com fotos (para além do jet-lag)...

dúvidas, comentários, insultos gratuitos e afins; é favor dirigi-los à morada indicada algures por aí...

early morning games

ver alguém fazer exactamente aquilo que costum(ava)o fazer enquanto calcorreio as ruas deste mundo deixa-me sempre com um sorriso nos lábios. especialmente quando o "copycat" é um miúdo de X anos (nunca fui bom para adivinhar idades, erro sempre por 2 ou 3 anos, por isso não vale a pena...) que se diverte a evitar pisar as junções das enormes pedras da calçada de North End Road enquanto se dirige para o metro de mão dada com o (presumo eu) avô. é nestas alturas que penso que ainda há esperança para...............................

eyes on the tube

precious stones placed in a soft container. scanning information in the morning. uma forma de quebrar a rotina dos 10-15 minutos de silêncio em movimento. invasão de vidas. estudo de rugas, análise de corpos trabalhando ao ralenti. vestidos com cores que não lhes pertencem. roubando a atenção do que mais importa. a beleza não está aí. está nas mãos que denotam trabalho, nos olhos honestos, vivos, capazes de reflectir a vida que por eles passou. o sorriso genuíno que se esconde por detrás de lábios siameses que nunca se separam no interior do milípede metálico. nas palavras que nunca são ditas por medo de afastar a impessoalidade matinal. a beleza está para além da perfeição falsa que se pavoneia e da ostentação oca. está para alé de classes, idades, raças ou credos. está sim naquilo que nos fazem sentir quando nos olham nos olhos e no não desviar do olhar.

untitled

se ao menos a tinta que sai desta caneta fosse capaz de pintar por palavras o quadro de melancolia que está pendurado dentro de mim. um horizonte de angústia cortado por montanhas de tristeza erguendo-se até o ar ficar rarefeito. rios de desespero saíndo de cavidades indecifráveis a olho nu correndo lentamente até ao mar de saudade em primeiro plano. tela monocromática vinda de parte incerta e indesejada. inadequado na divisão de paredes vermelhas onde foi colocado. estranho ao exterior calmo e bem-humorado que recebe as marcas do tempo. é tempo de misturar tons e cores na tela. tempo de transformar uma obra minimalista que não pertence à galeria onde se encontra num hino a duas dimensões. passar traço a som, a frequências capazes de abrir torrentes de lágrimas. é tempo...

deafening tunes #9

i'm having trouble trying to sleep
i'm counting sheep but running out
as time ticks by and still i try
no rest for crosstops in my mind

on my own... here we go

my eyes feel like they're gonna bleed
dried up and bulging out my skull
my mouth is dry my face is numb
fucked up and spun out in my room

on my own... here we go

my mind is set on overdrive
the clock is laughing in my face
a crooked spine my senses dulled
passed the point of delirium

on my own... here we go

green day - "brain stew"

derelict heart

and as you stare into the face on the other side of the mirror, you can't help but wonder if what you dreamt is true. "is my heart really hanging on a thread?". the reflection gives no answer to the question that keeps surfacing in your sea of thoughts. you tried almost every trick in the book to keep it underwater. gasping for air again. the twitching muscles kept together by a glimmer of hope. hope it can regenerate. hope the tissues can hold for a little longer. hope you're not left with a hole inside your chest. they say it's impossible to remove a heart without breaking ribs. hope you're not the first.

jackpot, baby!

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
roll the dice and place your bets $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
i bet this is as good as it gets $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
i feel it's time to cash your chips $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
just go home and kiss someone's lips $$$$$$$$$$$$$
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
your stroke of luck has lost its edge $$$$$$$$$$$$$$
time to forge a different pledge $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
coins are losing their shiny glow $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
game's lost - time for you to go $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
lay your cards on the table $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
don't you try another bluff $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
your eyes betray you $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
no matter what you try to sell $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
as the one and only truth $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
you can lie to everyone you like $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
feed them the story you were told $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
but your eyes betray you $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
there's the one and only truth $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

ballroom games

words are meaningless to convey what i felt when i first saw you in that crowded room. the sun melted clouds and hearts in a promise of warmth throughout the remainder of that summer. desire flew from me to you across the empty space. your silent laugh taunted me, compelled me to waltz around the crowd to steal a moment of your night. my legs tremble, my speech is impaired and i get washed aside by a wave of people carrying a handful of death sentences. swept away by a thick white cloud. timing is everything and it seems i'm always late. i try to catch up with the relentless pacing of my heart. but the room is empty. apart from the wine bottles rolling on the floor. liquid remains of a party that never really started. they could try to peel the layers around it. but i'm never around. timing is everything and i'm always trying to catch up with my heart. the relentless pacing that keeps crushing my heart.

there's one...

somewhere, a door opens. a faceless shadow steps out into the night. hails a cab and avoids the pouring rain.
one last ride before the end. red. yellow. green. sharp corners, left and right. right there, next to the gas station.
gotta keep awake. this stupid uniform makes me feel like a glorified mechanic. that'll be 15, please. drive safely. you know, the rain and all.
thanks. can't wait to get back home. graveyard shifts always depressed the shit out of me. if only i was in a more lively ward. not with the stiffs.
it's freezing. and my door has been forever closed. just get this thing out of my foot before i meet him.
i just started things off. don't blame all of it on me. i never knew what was going to come out of it...

now, that's magic!

(...) the sound of small feet running through the orchard. trees that looked like tower blocks on Lower Manhattan. but they were alive on the inside. climbing them, breaking branches. getting cuts and bruises all over my arms and legs. just to find out why the birds spent so much time there. what could they be looking at? i never could see anything up there that could be interesting to a bird. all i saw was the vastness of the sky. cotton candy clouds racing along the horizon. an orange sun bursting with energy you could almost hold between your fingers. but nothing that would catch a bird's attention. summer days were long, but not long enough to figure it out. until that day came along. when i was laying in the field and the slight breeze brushed my hair across my face. the birds! to this day i remember i ran as fast as i possibly could to that tree. with clumsy movements ascending to my lookout point. sitting in a rock solid branch for hours and finally seeing what had always been in front of me. that day, my childhood began (...)

u want them, urn'em

o acontecimento desportivo deste verão decorre as i type em Londres. at the Oval. qualquer pessoa pensaria que é mais um importante jogo de futebol, mas dado que este país é tudo menos normal, o desporto do momento é o cricket.

eu sei, provavelmente estão a pensar que será o desporto mais enfadonho do mundo. na realidade, é bem mais interessante do que à partida parece. especialmente quando se tratam de jogos entre a inglaterra e a austrália. the Ashes. algo que foi criado há uns anitos valentes, da primeira vez que os australianos limparam o chão com os ingleses no cricket. para comemorar tão triste ocasião, os osgas resolveram queimar algo "...in remembrance of the death of english cricket...", tal foi a humilhação. as cinzas foram parar a uma urna com formato estranho e de não sei quantos em não sei nem me interessa quantos anos, os osgas e os cangurus jogam uns contra os outros para ver quem fica com as cinzas...

o mais engraçado da história é que a tradição parece ser forte por estes lados porque os cangurus andam a limpar o chão com os osgas nos últimos 19 anos (piores que o Benfica, if you can believe it... - aviso à navegação: esta referência ao Benfica deverá ser ignorada a todo o custo nos comentários. senão, não respondo por mim...). este ano, existe a hipótese remota dos osgas reaverem as Ashes. estamos no 5º jogo e os ingleses estão à frente por 2-1 (houve um empate pelo meio. don't ask, as regras são do mais estúpido e complicado que se pode imaginar...). para poderem gozar um momento de glória, os osgas que entraram ontem (cada jogo dura 5 dias...) em campo na Oval têm que ganhar ou empatar. caso contrário, mais um ano de humilhação.

até eu que achava este desporto do mais idiota à face da terra, devo confessar que estou a torcer para que os osgas ganhem. tudo para poder gozar com os meus flatmates da Land of Oz...

my brain is a time machine

como explicar de outra forma o sonhar com um futuro no qual se recuou no tempo 10 anos? estranhamente actual, com factos recentes, fragmentado. faces familiares que perderam o nome algures pelo caminho, lado a lado com novas faces à espera de ganhar um nome. uma perseguição encetada no mundo do REM. bem sei que queres que volte. mas para isso vais precisar duma limpeza a fundo. não suporto a corja que te controlo. e nem durante o sono vais conseguir mudar isso. o meu cérebro é uma máquina do tempo. mas não tem capacidade para recuar até aos teus tempos áureos, ninguém se lembra bem quando foram...

pois que, a bem dizer, coisas que, a modos que, mexem comigo...#1

faltava a crítica de costumes neste blog...

p.q.a b.d.c.q.a m.q.m.c.:

a p*t* da minha flatmate (que não tem outro nome, por enquanto. há de ter uma alcunha apropriada...) que passa meia hora na casa de banho a tomar duche. por definição, um duche é coisa para demorar pouco tempo, até porque uma pessoa está ali de pé a levar com água na fronha e às tantas as varizes dão de si. ainda estou para perceber o porquê de tanto tempo. ela até parece uma rapariga lavadinha, mas nunca se sabe. por debaixo daquela aparência de menina de bem que anda como o Jardel (aka andar como se tivesse um cabo de vassoura enfiado no cu e, portanto, os passos têm que ser pequenitos e bem medidos senão as farpas dão cabo do tracto intestinal e, já agora, com as costas bem direitas porque o cabo da vassoura não é propriamente feito de material maleável como alguns instrumentos para o prazer pessoal que, dizem (sim, nunca tive na presença de um), são agradáveis) pode estar uma camada de surro e gosma (invisível ao olhar destreinado) que é necessário esfregar durante meia hora com lã de vidro ou aqueles esfregões para a louça que se usavam há uns anos atrás e que pareciam uma bola de pêlos púbicos, mas em versão metálica e um bocadinho menos nojenta (sim, porque lavar a louça com uma bola de pêlos púbicos era capaz de ser um bocado nojento...). isso ou então sofre de problemas graves de odor corporal (eu já para prevenir nunca me cheguei muito perto) e portanto tem que se besuntar durante meia hora com cremes e mais loções de extractos de ginseng, flor de cacto, chá de jasmim, água de rosas e outras coisas que tais. tudo para deixar a sn**t* lavadinha e cheirosa...

claro que o que motivou este post foi o facto de ontem ter estado à espera durante 45 minutos (Personal Best, acho) para ir à casa de banho aliviar a bexiga e retirar o cheiro a cavalo motivado por uma sessão de futebol de 11 (sim, é desta que fiquei louco) num dos muitos parques de Londres... resultado, jantar às 10 da noite que é para aprenderes.

não perdes pela demora, p*t*...

history always repeats itself

"i know i'm making a mistake by going back, but...". we're glad you realize it. just remember it was your choice. as much as we love you, we can't do anything. like before, you're the one that eventually has to figure out that's not what you need. you've done it before in a similar unrelated situation. it took you 6 months, but you did it. and it got better. don't worry, we'll still be here in 6 months time to support you. hell, you'll even get daily pampering so don't fret about it. at least you kill(ed) the hunger...

next day delivery

"...you know when you want something so much, you eventually forget why you wanted it in the first place?" the last words i ever heard from her. calling from a rusty payphone, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. my bet is Colorado. as i look into the mug she used to drink her morning coffee with, i always picture her hitchhiking her way across Colorado. i guess any other state will do. she's not here anymore and she isn't coming back. strange how that sentence has haunted me ever since. not because of its content or meaning, but because it was cut off. no more quarters spent with old Mike. you can just go fuck yourself while i ride for thousands of miles trying to "find my soul" (and don't forget to do that stupid motion of the middle and index fingers as you say it...). why do i mock other people's soul searching, you might ask. first of all, it's bullshit. second of all, it's bullshit. we've all lost our souls a long time ago. there's no point trying to go back and get it again. that's why i'm so bitter and cynical. i know when i lost mine. and i know i can never get it back. you see, letting someone die kind of gets to you. well, i just hope she can find hers. i know she'll probably think i'm miserable because she left me and that i still love her. how wrong could she be? everyone knows you can't love someone on a different postcode...

deafening tunes #8

i want to live where soul meets body
and let the sun wrap it's arms around me and
bathe my skin in water cool and cleansing
and feel, feel what it's like to be real
'cause in my head there's a Greyhound station
where i send my thoughts to far off destinations
so they may have a chance of finding a place
where they're far more suited than here

i cannot guess what we'll discover
when we turn the dirt with our palms cupped like shovels
but i know our filthy hands can wash one another's
and not one speck will remain

i do believe it's true
that there are roads left in both of our shoes
but if the silence takes you then i hope it takes me too
so brown eyes i'll hold you near 'cause you're the only song i want to hear
a melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

where soul meets body
a melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

death cab for cutie - "soul meets body"

"crash"

complicated lifes intermingled in one of the most contrasting cities in the world. filled with hate, misunderstanding, ignorance and violence. punctuated with acts of heroism, fleeting smiles, tenderness and kindness. i guess this is the modern world...

small town girl's blues

and if i should write my memories, they would be streams of blank pages stapled together by crushed bones and twisted clutches. small town girl, naïve and willing to believe that the world can be a better place. life's no textbook with children learning to fish and getting along with their parents and neighbors. if it was a colour, it would be crimson. a country, Brazil. because as long as there's music, she can forget about all the wrong things in her life. all the wrong moves taken. all the beds where she shouldn't have slept. all the men that shouldn't have taken her. the soul she shouldn't have lost somewhere along the way down the whirling well. i never wanted to come to this. never wanted you to come along. i loved you just the same. but i've hated myself everyday of your life. for bringing you down with me. i wish i could open the lock of the cage we're in, so that you can have the chance to spread the wings they gave you. the one's that everyone has so eagerly clipped. mocking you. killing me.

why write my memories? i'm nothing but a small town girl, naïve and without will to believe...

infatuation

i hear your voice and the articulate speech
you recite and
you don't even need to move your lips
i can sense the perfume you leave behind
as you walk on by but
i never traced your steps
i don't remember your lovely face
the way you look but
i would recognize you in a second
i can get lost inside your eyes
and even witness the ties
completely unaware of their colour
i can feel your soft and tanned skin
your long shiny hair
without moving a single finger
i can taste your big moist lips
every inch of your body
but we've never been together
i can dream and fantasize about the both of us
and i can love you
without you even knowing
i can do anything i please
imagine all our life with ease
but i can't say one word
i can't come across as appealing in any way
i can't think of a word to say
whenever i'm around you
and there's so much i want to say
so much i want to give
so much i want to live
why should it be this way?
i know i can love you
i know that we should be together
i knew we should be together
long before i knew you

open letter

"Dear Enstbrpl Pyatbdsrl...

(...) it's ok, i understand. i would find it a little bit creepy if somone i never (...) like that. i would have preferred a negative answer to no answer at all. i can live with the disappointment and embarassment, but i couldn't live with the regret of not having done anything and, possibly, letting the woman of my life disappear in front of my eyes. this kind of attraction doesn't (...) exchanging looks with a stranger. i guess i expected some sort of magical unfolding of events, from shared glances at each other to happily ever after. call me old-fashioned (...) expecting for something overwhelmingly romantic to happen. i've now realized (...) in the movies and, sadly, my life isn't one. you seem to be a nice girl (...) a kind and genuine person (...). i hope you have a beautiful life (...) as happy (...).

love (...),
signheresignheresignheresignheresignheresignhere"

a plea to Him, Father-emmanuel

days go by and the race continues
stiil trying to find an answer
to all the interactions, inhibitions and abrogations that roll before my eyes
so, feel free to step right into my classroom
make your way to the cluttered blackboard
and just solve my equation*
like it's an undone button in an old shirt
days go by and the quest continues
stiil trying to find a reason
to all the ambitions, omissions and emotions that stretch out of my head
so, feel free to step right all over me
make your way to the restless heart
and just quench my thirst
like it's a drop of salty water in the biggest of oceans
days go by, one by one
still trying to grasp the purpose
so, feel free to step right all over me
make your way to wherever you want to go
just don't trample over my heart
like it's a forgotten child's toy in a closed attic

*are you sure you can handle so many variables?