CONVERSA DE FIM DE TARDE DEPOIS DE TRÊS ANOS NO EXÍLIO
Os garçons empilhando as cadeiras
você me olhando e me pedindo que
fale Por Favor Fale Mas Não Escreva
eu evitando o toque ruim dos ponteiros
do relógio que anuncia a já famosa fuga
de nossos corpos cada um para sua
ponta da cidade—se nosso amor fosse
revólver eu seria o cabo e você a mira
tal como dizia a professora Sofia Jones
é terrível a existência de duas retas
paralelas porque elas nunca se cruzam
e elas apenas se encontram no infinito
a verdade é que nunca nos interessou
a questão do infinito mas o resto
das ideias matemáticas claro que sim
eu na verdade prefiro mais de mil vezes
sua chávena de chá ficando fria sobre a mesa
enquanto você fala sobre raízes quadradas
enquanto você fala sobre ladrões de figos
enquanto você fala sobre o tropeço da baleia
subitamente eu já nem sei sobre o que você fala
porque a forma como seu dente incisivo corta
e suspende toda a beleza da cafetaria
faz com que eu novamente entenda que
pelo sétimo dia é chegada a hora do cuco
e do canto do cuco
portanto eu pego minha bicicleta
e como de costume você faz meu retrato
de cabelo todo desenhado no vento
em jeito de menino que está sempre indo embora
à mesma hora e que amanhã se tudo der certo
voltará à mesma hora para o mesmo amor
a mesma mesa a mesma explosão
com toda a certeza a mesma fuga
porque você e eu a gente é feito de matéria
escorregadia, i.e., manteiga, azeite, geleia
e espanto.
Love song * Ted Hughes
He loved her and she loved him.
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains
Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment's brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop
In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage
In the morning they wore each other's face
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains
Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment's brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was
Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall
Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop
In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage
In the morning they wore each other's face
about strangeness
Ehrenzweig refers to the human need for ambiguous, open-ended situations to the multiple fields of arts, and even Arnheim - a gestalt psychologist stressing closure as an aesthetic virtue - claims the need for a minimum of complexity in visual fields. Many writers and artists have indeed enhanced the need for ambiguity - Hemingway, Tolstoy, Baudelaire, Blake or da Vinci - as a way of triggering real attachment on the beholder.
On the other hand, though, contemporary architecture and urban design increasingly seek for order and clarity - being often judged as forms of sensory deprivation or monotony. Venturi's thoughts evolved around this idea, suggesting a return to the basic premises of vernacular architecture - which, he claimed, contributed to more interesting visual fields. The problem is basically that of how complexity can be achieved in design, particularly when something as varied, intricate, all-inclusive as the city is treated as a design problem, that is, as a "work of art".
This is possibly the starting point of the bewilderment - the two ideas are mistakenly mixed, and too often. Architecture does not have to be a complex work of art to be appreciated; it needs to be a clear, transparent base from which the observer can see the world - inside and out - and appreciate the real complexity and strangeness of art or - that which Baudelaire or Hemingway refer to in their writings - the real complexity of human relations or our inner selves.
At the same time, the overall idea of strangeness does not refer to that which is completely abnormal. It refers to that which is almost pristine, almost perfect, almost too simple and clear, but which yet hides some sort of enigma or mystery; recognizable, and yet hard to be deciphered at a quick glance.
But architecture - let it be simple. Let it be, as per Brancusi's words, complexity resolved.
com brancusi, a dois
Se destas pedras uma
anunciasse
o que a faz silêncio:
aqui, muito perto,
na bengala deste velho,
isso se abriria, como uma ferida
em que terias que mergulhar,
solitário,
longe do meu grito, ele também já
talhado pelo cinzel, branco.
anunciasse
o que a faz silêncio:
aqui, muito perto,
na bengala deste velho,
isso se abriria, como uma ferida
em que terias que mergulhar,
solitário,
longe do meu grito, ele também já
talhado pelo cinzel, branco.
paul celan
Ganzfeld ("all-field" in German), is a Perceptual Psychology term to describe the phenomenon of the total loss of depth perception, as in the experience of a white-out, or one of James Turrell’s many Ganzfeld installations; without differentiation of color, form or boundary it is as though the space is looking back at you. Dhatu, 2009.
“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”
- Sylvia Plath
it's so late
and yet i remain alert
following the bending curve of your chest while you sleep
knowing of your secret power to reach another planet in a matter of seconds
you could as well be flying over blue wing tigers in southern africa at that exact moment
or you could just be sitting at the corner of our favorite café
- one we haven't found yet -
and you, lethargic,
you'd be waiting for me to fall into my sleep and meet you there
so we could carry on discussing our affection for absurdities
laughing as clowns until we become sugar powder again
and get acquainted with one another again
and dissolve in water again, and again, and again
antes das palavras, é preciso dar a cara ao perigo
aqui
na estirpe de laços grandes
na certeza de palavras maiores
Je suis attentif au moindre signe de génie humain. Le plus petit signe, en général subconscient, me ravit. Ma nourriture, comme la baleine, c'est d'absorber les nano-bruits, gestes, émissions issues de l'inconscient humain. Chaque seconde, il y a des actions qui ont du génie et qu'on aimerait mettre en lumière pour dire: "Regardez tous ces actes créatifs, intuitifs, beaux, élégants, intelligents, amoureux..." Il y en a partout!
_ PhS . Impression d'ailleurs
Lembras-te daquele olhar azul de gelo que se nos pousava entre as mãos, que nos aspirava as pausas hesitantes, depois de nos detectar a cumplicidade em poucos segundos? lembras-te de termos ficado despidos, os dois, num arrepio cortante perante o olhar azul de gelo? Lembras-te do aroma de limão amargo do cocktail que nos preparou no castelo em frente à baía? de o termos bebido tão depressa que o chão passara a ter vida..
nunca me senti tão despida, nem nunca o meu vestido cru plissado - aquele que trouxe de Paris quando lá fui sem ti - se viu tão transparente como perante o olhar azul de gelo. Havia uma acidez cortante em cada palavra, em cada gesto. Mas uma elegância cortante, também, em cada silêncio, em cada frase, em cada gesto. E depois aquela melodia da canção pop que passava na rádio, assobiada, repetida, aqui e ali. (...)
Lembras-te?
o tempo
descansa dos seus crimes
preso à sombra fiel
desta memória
o amor
como um obediente
braço quebrado
reclama
o derramado vermelho
dum céu vencido
e os gritos
outrora assassinados
são agora palavras recusadas
suspensas nos lábios de pedra
desta aldeia tão remota
como tu
(Nostalgia, Gil T. Sousa in água forte, 2014)
Assinar:
Postagens (Atom)
