quinta-feira, 23 de fevereiro de 2012
Envelhecer
Envelhecer é um ensinamento.
Amarfanha a vaidade e, mais do que a fibra muscular, decai a insensata soberba da juventude.
Que Amor Não Me Engana - Zeca Afonso
Que amor não me engana
Com a sua brandura
Se da antiga chama
Mal vive a amargura
Duma mancha negra
Duma pedra fria
Que amor não se entrega
Na noite vazia?
E as vozes embarcam
Num silêncio aflito
Quanto mais se apartam
Mais se ouve o seu grito
Muito à flor das aguas
Noite marinheira
Vem devagarinho
Para a minha beira
Em novas coutadas
Junta de uma hera
Nascem flores vermelhas
Pela Primavera
Assim tu souberas
Irmã cotovia
Dizer-me se esperas
Pelo nascer do dia
Com a sua brandura
Se da antiga chama
Mal vive a amargura
Duma mancha negra
Duma pedra fria
Que amor não se entrega
Na noite vazia?
E as vozes embarcam
Num silêncio aflito
Quanto mais se apartam
Mais se ouve o seu grito
Muito à flor das aguas
Noite marinheira
Vem devagarinho
Para a minha beira
Em novas coutadas
Junta de uma hera
Nascem flores vermelhas
Pela Primavera
Assim tu souberas
Irmã cotovia
Dizer-me se esperas
Pelo nascer do dia
Vejam Bem - Zeca Afonso
Zeca Afonso - Vejam Bem - Cantares de Andarilho (1968)
Vejam bem
que não há só gaivotas em terra
quando um homem se põe a pensar
quando um homem se põe a pensar
Quem lá vem
dorme à noite ao relento na areia
dorme à noite ao relento no mar
dorme à noite ao relento no mar
E se houver
uma praça de gente madura
e uma estátua
e uma estátua de de febre a arder
Anda alguém
pela noite de breu à procura
e não há quem lhe queira valer
e não há quem lhe queira valer
Vejam bem
daquele homem a fraca figura
desbravando os caminhos do pão
desbravando os caminhos do pão
E se houver
uma praça de gente madura
ninguém vem levantá-lo do chão
ninguém vem levantá-lo do chão
Vejam bem
que não há só gaivotas em terra
quando um homem
quando um homem se põe a pensar
Quem lá vem
dorme à noite ao relento na areia
dorme à noite ao relento no mar
dorme à noite ao relento no mar
Vejam bem
que não há só gaivotas em terra
quando um homem se põe a pensar
quando um homem se põe a pensar
Quem lá vem
dorme à noite ao relento na areia
dorme à noite ao relento no mar
dorme à noite ao relento no mar
E se houver
uma praça de gente madura
e uma estátua
e uma estátua de de febre a arder
Anda alguém
pela noite de breu à procura
e não há quem lhe queira valer
e não há quem lhe queira valer
Vejam bem
daquele homem a fraca figura
desbravando os caminhos do pão
desbravando os caminhos do pão
E se houver
uma praça de gente madura
ninguém vem levantá-lo do chão
ninguém vem levantá-lo do chão
Vejam bem
que não há só gaivotas em terra
quando um homem
quando um homem se põe a pensar
Quem lá vem
dorme à noite ao relento na areia
dorme à noite ao relento no mar
dorme à noite ao relento no mar
Ausência...
a sua ausência me estilhaça, me rasga como um raio rasga os céus em noites tempestivas...
e fico assim, como fera enjaulada em pleno cio, sem ter como fugir, como escapar, cercada pelo nada e pelo silêncio, onde só escuto os gemidos da minha fome engolida, porém não saciada.
Despi-me de todos os meus receios, dos meus medos, dos meus pudores, e por três longas noites esperei por você na minha nudez envergonhada e trêmula;(eu nua de todos meus outros eus, eu nua de máscaras, eu apenas eu, em todas aquelas horas).
enquanto esperava vislumbrei outros vultos, senti-os debaixo das unhas, mas não fui de nenhum...
(que outro olhar não quero. que outra boca meus lábios não beijam. que outro peso meu corpo não sustenta).
o nome que me cala é o seu. é você a sede que me abrasa. é seu o sabor da minha saliva, o gosto que sinto na minha língua.
por três solitárias noites supliquei-lhe em silêncio:
vem! toca-me/ lambe-me/ desgoverna os meus rumos/ desvenda os meus segredos/ despe-me desta casca casulo em que me guardo/ consome tudo o que há em mim para consumir...
mas você não veio e eu continuei deserta.
por três frias noites eu queimei até que virei cinzas.
(e ainda assim restou mais e mais de mim a arder).
e agora
quem irá me soprar?
quem irá me espalhar?
(imagem Pino Daeni)
Ter que ligar no dia seguinte datou
Nós, do 02 Neurônio, acreditamos por muito tempo que um homem deveria ligar no dia seguinte. Levantamos tanto essa bandeira que isso nos tornou conhecidas como “as meninas que acham que os homens precisam ligar no dia seguinte”.
Bem, os anos passaram. E gostaríamos de aproveitar o espaço cedido pela Tpm para dizer que não pensamos mais assim. E até fazer um mea-culpa. Éramos obcecadas por telefonemas masculinos porque éramos bobas. Achar que homem precisa ligar no dia seguinte datou!
E por que mudamos de ideia? Dizem que é sinal de inteligência. Achamos que o homem não tem que ligar porque:
1. Se ele não ficou a fim, mas a gente sim, o telefonema seria careta e formal. E nos deixaria com esperanças de que fosse rolar de novo.
2. Se a gente não ficou a fim, é bem chato receber um telefonema e não ter o que dizer. A não ser: “Ah, foi legal te conhecer”.
3. Se for para rolar de novo, ele NÃO PRECISA TE LIGAR NO DIA SEGUINTE! Ele pode ligar uma semana depois e falar: “Quer tomar um café?”. Ou ser ainda mais deliciosamente direto e dizer: “Quer vir a minha casa HOJE?”.
4. Como podemos reclamar se a gente também não liga no dia seguinte? Esperar por uma coisa dessas é machista!
5. O telefonema, em si, datou. As pessoas mandam e-mail, falam no Skype, enviam torpedos.
Mas já acreditamos que um homem precisava ligar depois de passar uma noite com a gente. Não, meninos, não precisam. Vocês devem ligar se quiserem. E se a gente também quiser que vocês liguem, ah, aí vai ser ótimo. E não se assustem se a gente ligar.
Texto por Ilustração
O samba e o tango
15/02/2012 16:44 | Autor: Flora Thomson-DeVeaux
É sua primeira vez no blog? Leia antes o post "Uma Introdução" (em português).*
How do I feel about Carnaval? For a long time I thought of it the way I thought about prom. It’s all you see in the movies and books and season finales; it’s supposed to be the high point of the year, something you’ll remember forever. Personally, I kind of resented prom’s symbolic hegemony. Why should a high-school dance, that most odious of events, become the defining event of my secondary-school experience? They couldn’t make me go. But, on the other hand, how could I not go?
I did the same sort of mental dance around Carnaval for a long time. Vem cá, gente, é “o acontecimento religioso da raça”, não tem como perder. And yet I am not a huge fan of large crowds, my dancing is subpar and making costumes stresses me out. Really, it’s the sort of thing I should be steering several hundred miles around. But it’s Carnaval.
The problem was sort of resolved for me by the fact that I went to study in Argentina this semester, so I’d be missing it anyway. Then my carioca friends started reminiscing and counting down to Carnaval, and everything went to hell. I study both Portuguese and Spanish, after all, so I’m technically supposed to be throwing myself into Borges and Victoria Ocampo and tango right now. But let me explain my delinquency.
When cariocas told me stories about Carnaval, it was always with decidedly mixed emotions. Glee and irritation; disdain and nostalgia; but always with a sort of wonder. “The whole damn city stops.” “There’s just a sort of happiness in the air.” “It’s when the masks come off.” After a couple hours of this, I was completely broken down. At the very least I wanted to see the transformation of the city I’d come to know and love. And, more than anything, that’s what drew me back to Rio. (I am missing classes in Argentina right now, for the record; this is the most irresponsible I’ve been in several years.) This could be a very bad idea. Carnaval will be better than prom, though, that I can guarantee, because my high school’s senior prom was Las Vegas-themed. There’s nothing worse than a badly-executed Las Vegas theme. Trust me on this.
I missed Rio ferociously while I was away; anyone who had a casual conversation with me during the past six weeks can attest to this. And I had enormous difficulty believing that the city continued on in my absence. I could read the papers, sure, but it all seemed highly improbable (buildings falling down out of nowhere?). For me, Dois Irmãos was frozen in a December sunset. Then I made my apologies to the study abroad program and hopped from Ezeiza to Carrasco to Galeão. Carnaval. GO. (Then back to the tangos.)
“So do you like this sort of thing?” the driver said as we came back from the airport.
“I don’t really know,” I had to confess. “I guess that’s why I came.”
[As always, Carmen expresses my own feelings more eloquently than I]
* Flora voltou ao Rio de Janeiro para o Carnaval e manterá o blog até a quarta-feira de cinzas
http://revistapiaui.estadao.com.br/blogs/questoes-estrangeiras/geral/o-samba-e-o-tango
How do I feel about Carnaval? For a long time I thought of it the way I thought about prom. It’s all you see in the movies and books and season finales; it’s supposed to be the high point of the year, something you’ll remember forever. Personally, I kind of resented prom’s symbolic hegemony. Why should a high-school dance, that most odious of events, become the defining event of my secondary-school experience? They couldn’t make me go. But, on the other hand, how could I not go?
I did the same sort of mental dance around Carnaval for a long time. Vem cá, gente, é “o acontecimento religioso da raça”, não tem como perder. And yet I am not a huge fan of large crowds, my dancing is subpar and making costumes stresses me out. Really, it’s the sort of thing I should be steering several hundred miles around. But it’s Carnaval.
The problem was sort of resolved for me by the fact that I went to study in Argentina this semester, so I’d be missing it anyway. Then my carioca friends started reminiscing and counting down to Carnaval, and everything went to hell. I study both Portuguese and Spanish, after all, so I’m technically supposed to be throwing myself into Borges and Victoria Ocampo and tango right now. But let me explain my delinquency.
When cariocas told me stories about Carnaval, it was always with decidedly mixed emotions. Glee and irritation; disdain and nostalgia; but always with a sort of wonder. “The whole damn city stops.” “There’s just a sort of happiness in the air.” “It’s when the masks come off.” After a couple hours of this, I was completely broken down. At the very least I wanted to see the transformation of the city I’d come to know and love. And, more than anything, that’s what drew me back to Rio. (I am missing classes in Argentina right now, for the record; this is the most irresponsible I’ve been in several years.) This could be a very bad idea. Carnaval will be better than prom, though, that I can guarantee, because my high school’s senior prom was Las Vegas-themed. There’s nothing worse than a badly-executed Las Vegas theme. Trust me on this.
I missed Rio ferociously while I was away; anyone who had a casual conversation with me during the past six weeks can attest to this. And I had enormous difficulty believing that the city continued on in my absence. I could read the papers, sure, but it all seemed highly improbable (buildings falling down out of nowhere?). For me, Dois Irmãos was frozen in a December sunset. Then I made my apologies to the study abroad program and hopped from Ezeiza to Carrasco to Galeão. Carnaval. GO. (Then back to the tangos.)
“So do you like this sort of thing?” the driver said as we came back from the airport.
“I don’t really know,” I had to confess. “I guess that’s why I came.”
[As always, Carmen expresses my own feelings more eloquently than I]
* Flora voltou ao Rio de Janeiro para o Carnaval e manterá o blog até a quarta-feira de cinzas
http://revistapiaui.estadao.com.br/blogs/questoes-estrangeiras/geral/o-samba-e-o-tango
The greek and the fairy
There’s nothing quite like the solitude of being the only person on the bus wearing a costume.
I’ll just fess up now – on Friday, that was me. If you happened to be an upright carioca commuter on your way to Glória that morning, you were faced with the eternal Carnaval question: how to react. Do you stare? Do you comment? Do you look into the middle distance?
Personally, I found it horrifying. I had to go by the office on my way to a bloco, so I figured I’d cut out the clothes change and go in full regalia: a short white tunic with a gold sash, nothing particularly scandalous. But being the only reveler in sight will do strange things to your head. As the bus crawled along and I saw exactly zero costumed people in block after block, I realized what was happening. Carnaval was the most elaborate prank in the history of mankind, all designed to make me dress up like an idiot for all the cariocas to laugh at me. Any minute they were going to reveal the elaborate ruse. I maintained my dignity as best I could. It is absolutely normal for me to be dressed in a toga. I was the most stately Greek on the public transit system that day.
“I am the only costumed person in all of Rio de Janeiro,” I pronounced solemnly to my boss when I got into the piauí office.
“No, you aren’t,” he said comfortingly. “I saw a six-year-old girl dressed up as a fairy on the way over here. It’s you and her.”
The larger parable here is that the carnavalesco contract only truly functions when everyone buys into it. Having been the only foliã on the Metro, I found myself in the opposite situation a day later when I was coming back from Centro (in business casual) on the bus. I flagged down the first one heading in the right direction, but made the fatal mistake of stepping on before I surveyed its occupants. I had just bought a ticket on the party bus.
For the next 40 minutes, my fellow passengers beat on the windows, ceiling, and seats of the bus, screamed children’s songs, heckled gringos, fell over each other in the aisle, spilled their drinks, and were generally carnivalesque. A stubbly nun kept smacking the back of my seat in time with the songs. Eventually I turned around and asked him/her, in the most Christian possible terms, to cut it the fuck out. This was met with a blank stare and a brief respite before he/she got carried away by the music and resumed his/her faithful timekeeping once more. About 12 hours later, of course, I was on a bus headed in the opposite direction spilling my drink all over the floor and yelling about how ridiculous it is that there are no blocos dedicated to Noel Rosa. (The hottest bloco of Carnaval 2013, we’ve decided: the band plays exclusively Noel Rosa and Carmen Miranda songs, and you have to come dressed as one of the two. We’re still working on a name.)
During the weeks (not days, people, let’s be real) of Carnaval, the city seems to take on this Janusian tilt. Over the course of the first few days I slipped queasily between the two worlds, glee and crankiness, a transformation directly related to my rising or abating sobriety. When you buy into the contract, take a swig from the bottle and put on a tiny hat, it’s all like the first hour of Orfeu Negro. When you don’t, it’s like the last half hour.
Autor: Flora Thomson-DeVeaux 23/02/2012
http://revistapiaui.estadao.com.br/blogs/questoes-estrangeiras/geral/the-greek-and-the-fairy
I’ll just fess up now – on Friday, that was me. If you happened to be an upright carioca commuter on your way to Glória that morning, you were faced with the eternal Carnaval question: how to react. Do you stare? Do you comment? Do you look into the middle distance?
Personally, I found it horrifying. I had to go by the office on my way to a bloco, so I figured I’d cut out the clothes change and go in full regalia: a short white tunic with a gold sash, nothing particularly scandalous. But being the only reveler in sight will do strange things to your head. As the bus crawled along and I saw exactly zero costumed people in block after block, I realized what was happening. Carnaval was the most elaborate prank in the history of mankind, all designed to make me dress up like an idiot for all the cariocas to laugh at me. Any minute they were going to reveal the elaborate ruse. I maintained my dignity as best I could. It is absolutely normal for me to be dressed in a toga. I was the most stately Greek on the public transit system that day.“I am the only costumed person in all of Rio de Janeiro,” I pronounced solemnly to my boss when I got into the piauí office.
“No, you aren’t,” he said comfortingly. “I saw a six-year-old girl dressed up as a fairy on the way over here. It’s you and her.”
The larger parable here is that the carnavalesco contract only truly functions when everyone buys into it. Having been the only foliã on the Metro, I found myself in the opposite situation a day later when I was coming back from Centro (in business casual) on the bus. I flagged down the first one heading in the right direction, but made the fatal mistake of stepping on before I surveyed its occupants. I had just bought a ticket on the party bus.
For the next 40 minutes, my fellow passengers beat on the windows, ceiling, and seats of the bus, screamed children’s songs, heckled gringos, fell over each other in the aisle, spilled their drinks, and were generally carnivalesque. A stubbly nun kept smacking the back of my seat in time with the songs. Eventually I turned around and asked him/her, in the most Christian possible terms, to cut it the fuck out. This was met with a blank stare and a brief respite before he/she got carried away by the music and resumed his/her faithful timekeeping once more. About 12 hours later, of course, I was on a bus headed in the opposite direction spilling my drink all over the floor and yelling about how ridiculous it is that there are no blocos dedicated to Noel Rosa. (The hottest bloco of Carnaval 2013, we’ve decided: the band plays exclusively Noel Rosa and Carmen Miranda songs, and you have to come dressed as one of the two. We’re still working on a name.)
During the weeks (not days, people, let’s be real) of Carnaval, the city seems to take on this Janusian tilt. Over the course of the first few days I slipped queasily between the two worlds, glee and crankiness, a transformation directly related to my rising or abating sobriety. When you buy into the contract, take a swig from the bottle and put on a tiny hat, it’s all like the first hour of Orfeu Negro. When you don’t, it’s like the last half hour.
Autor: Flora Thomson-DeVeaux 23/02/2012
http://revistapiaui.estadao.com.br/blogs/questoes-estrangeiras/geral/the-greek-and-the-fairy
Poesia
FOGO-FÁTUO
Nenhuma solução se oferta
onde problema não havia.
(Cada porta estava aberta
e cada sala vazia.)
E no entanto a consciência
buscava alguma resposta.
(Estava cheia a despensa
e a mesa estava posta.)
Como livrar-se do estigma
de se saber terminável?
(A inexistência do enigma
é uma ausência insuportável.)
por Paulo Henriques Brito
http://revistapiaui.estadao.com.br/edicao-65/a-arte-da-guerra/poesia-paulo-henriques-brito
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