com(em)oção

e eis que de repente encontro, fora de mim, o meu próprio coração.


o meu próprio coração a olhar-me a direito, o sorriso entre o doce e o trocista.


como ele é quando lhe acontece ser quem TU o
fazes.

Fish Music

For Pascale Petit

He struggles into his borrowed human skin,
the one he wears for special occasions
with the sewn-in dinner jacket and polished patent feet.
He brushes off earth and other traces of night,
Smells the remnant darkness on his sleeve,
Bends back the fingers that constitute his living,
And picks up the instrument. His mother is listening
In the next room, holding her breath for him,
The breath she has been saving all her adult years.

After the skin, the fish scales. One must glitter.
One must swim through the day. He flicks his tail
This way and that. He makes the first sounds
Those scraped sighs that are the sign of his well-being.
‘I’m ready,’ he says, his eyes glassy and round.
‘I’ve got my gills on. The whole amphibian kit.’

The music begins. The sea waits by the door.
Both skin and scale are glowing. The neck he wears
Is just a little loose, he must tighten it.
The chin has worn away on his left side.
The music slops about inside his belly a while
Then creeps upward blowing through his ears
Into the room and hard against the walls.
Now he is swimming. He sees the music
Floating in the tank of the room. He must practice harder.
It is his food after all. He can feel its strands
Slip between his fingers, now silk, now knife.
It smells wholesome, of water, night and skin.

‘How does it sound?’ he asks her. ‘Like salt,’ she says,
‘Like salt and damascene.’ Her fancy talk, he thinks.

It’s not his skin, he knows that. The dinner jacket
Is of another era. Too many buttons on the waistcoat
Of the flesh. Too much blood in the fibre, none of it his.
But music too is skin. He wraps it about him.
He’s hardly there: half-fish-half-man is elsewhere,
In the bone beneath a skin that’s not his own.
Each living thing has its own element, he thinks,
And even this old skin belongs to someone.


George Szirtes

registo

sweet attention

para a catarina

o meu blog continua ter comentários, o que ele não tem é comentadores.

cause we are all gonna die

my heart is now

living with squirrels

“diferencia desigualada”

... mediante la exhibición de imágenes con alta carga erótica, cuerpos esbeltos y bronceados, sonrisas interminables, mamás/esposas siempre alegres y bien dispuestas para el cuidado ajeno y las tareas domésticas, la publicidad – que se pretende novedosa, transgesora- instaura, en realidad, un régimen de verdad basado en una lógica conservadora, hetero-normativa, desigualadora, anulando la diversidad de problemáticas humanas, sus conflictivas, sus riquezas, y llevando la injusticia a extremos que nos resultarían difíciles de tolerar si, hombres y mujeres, no estuviéramos tan entrenados para aceptar tal injusticia como costumbre y obedecerla como destino.
ler aqui

perguntaste-me

qual era a "frase da minha vida". respondi perguntando o que era a frase de uma vida. explicaste que era a frase que se repetia, ou pensava que se repetia, com maior frequência na nossa vida. recitei sem hesitar: "eu não faço a fusão das duas imagens". EU NÃO FAÇO A FUSÃO DAS DUAS IMAGENS!

Galen Strawson:

I don’t think love is blind. I think love sees all the faults and doesn’t mind. It brings the point of view of the universe into our lives, where it is (as far as I can see) welcome. The point of view of the universe can be part of care, caring.

hoje aprendi que

a famosa regra, mais velha do que o velho testamento, sobre a "vida por vida, olho por olho, dente, mão por mão, pé por pé, queimadura por queimadura, ferida por ferida, golpe por golpe" não releva de uma ideia intrínseca de vingança (como julgava e julgo ser o entendimento corrente) mas da necessidade da moderação na retaliação. a sua intenção é afinal aconselhar-nos à contenção: toma um olho por um olho, e não mais - medida por medida, nada de escaladas.