Sexta-feira, 23 de Junho de 2017

Dancing

 

 

 

 

I saw the woman through the car window,

as she started to dance for the pigeon on the sidewalk.

 

Looking vacantly at the bird,

smiled thinly as she raised one arm,

and pointed the other to the ground.

 

She stirred,

as if poised to lift her leg in dance.

 

As my Uber sped to never see her again,

I thought of Shiva

the Cosmic Dancer,

And It’s strange and fleeting avatars.

 

“Sanctity is a form of attention.”

I heard once on the radio.

 

 

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 17:37
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Terça-feira, 11 de Abril de 2017

The Question

 

It was night and we were drinking in the garden by the church.

I looked at my friend and asked him,

- “Di, are you always aware that you’re black?”

- “No, not really. Sometimes I think about it if someone is snippy with me in a bar,

or on the street … people looking at you funny, know what I mean”?

- “Yeah”

- “Then I think, are they like this because I’m black? But you don’t know.

Not really.

It can be for so many reasons… yeah, but I think about it.”

 

I drank my beer, he smoked his blunt. And we talked about something else.

 

 

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 12:15
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Sábado, 1 de Abril de 2017

First thoughts after reading the Rig Veda

 

Oh bounteous Sun! Giver of warmth that belies winters,

Thy boons are yours and through you alone.

As we bask in your most munificent glow,

We’re reminded of the fleet footed horses

That bring the day and occlude the shade.

 

Oh beauteous rays of light!

Oh, form unseen!

Oh God so giving,

favour our right sacrifice.

 

We stand here in attention!

Full of awe,

And respect

 

Oh Sun, your generosity is like that of a overflowing river!

Constant, fast and plentiful.

and to you, Oh my mighty King,

I send my prayers of wealth and days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 15:32
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Sábado, 25 de Março de 2017

Celebration

 

 

This afternoon was sound and movement.

a time of bangs, clarions and hisses,

onomatopoeias of want and regret,

sounds of lovers who need, but do not touch.

 

It rained,

Pitter, patter, pitter patter,

we talked,

Woof, woof! Woof woof!

the words of others surrounded us,

thsshshshsshsshshssh,

and,

when we spoke,

our hearts were full of sound.

 

Rrooommm, buzz, clang, clink, pfshhh…

 

Words were thrown at me,

and I heard them as applause

Clap, clap, clap

reassurement

Purr, purr, purr,

or confrontation

Pow, pow, pow!

 

All lost in the din of the kitchen, the people and the cars outside the restaurant.

 

But still it was clear what I heard,

“I love you”

“Thank you for being here”

These are much better times”

“I’m happy that you’re with me”.

 

All the sounds that passed between me and my father.

Not because we don’t talk,

As we talk so much

Not because we don’t express emotions,

They come like voluble torrents of lava, violent and hearing only their sound.

Not because we don’t understand each other,

so, so much

 

But because,

some days are noisier than others,

full of streets, wants and longing,

 

and the loudest is the coming together with another.

 

All the bedlam drowns you

As you try for  love to pierce through.

 

And when you go away,

finally,

you understand the biggest noise was your heart.

 

Boom - boom - boom.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 01:29
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Sábado, 11 de Março de 2017

Poem

 

I

 

Todos os homens têm uma geografia e,

se fores um homem de interesse,

o teu espaço é do interesse dos outros.

 

Preocupam-se com “a tua cidade”,

as “tuas ruas”,

os teus “roteiros”,

os teus “caminhos”,

 

Estes homens,

os de interesse,

protagonistas da História,

conhecidos pelas crianças,

e lidos pela multidão.

 

São objeto de estudo geográfico,

como se fossem uma campanha militar,

cada passo uma direção,

todos os gestos prenhes de volição

indo, sempre, com intenção,

e em todo o agir, querer...

o que faz das suas vidas um livro fácil,aberto, e por todos entendido.

 

E é esta a ideia por trás da ideia da história, literatura, religião e tudo o que nos junta,

tudo tem de ser lido por todos.

 

Mas,

            digo eu,

todos os homens têm uma  geografia.

Apesar de não terem nada que os distinga,

apesar de serem o silêncio na história,

os seus roteiros existem,

Têm passeios só deles,

imagens de lugares colados a pessoas,

emoções vertidas em locais,

e caminhos que são só seus.

 

E, que sabemos nós

para dizer que a sua viagem é pior que outra?

 

O que sabemos nós quando,

            agarrando nas suas vidas,

achatamos as sombras,

alisamos as contradições,

explicamos os silêncios,

apagamos as explosões?

 

Fazemos das suas vidas, narrativas,

explicamos tudo e sabemos nada.

 

Hoje eu afirmo aqui,

            Quem senão eu?

            Que outra altura mas agora?

            Que outro sítio senão este?

Que todos os caminhos dos homens são caminhos dignos de leitura.

Que não há geografias mais importantes que as outras,

e que,

muito embora,

não haja hierarquia onde não há conhecimento,

haverá sempre,

histórias mais interessantes que outras.

 

E sugiro aqui pela primeira vez,

a hipotética existência,

            nunca vista por que nunca estudada,

do roteiro do homem que,

            se ausente de história,

exulta em geografia.

 

Rotinas feitas de metros, comboios e elétricos,

estas coisas de agir,

cruzam linhas na pele da cidade,

mandalas feitas de caminhos para o emprego e o ginásio,

sigilas nascidas de idas à casa de banho no bar,

e cosmogonias explicadas por férias na Caparica.

 

II

 

Ontem sonhei com uma rapariga que amei aos 11 anos.

E no sonho via-a agora,

mas velha, mais magra … um bocado gasta,

mas ainda linda.

Parecia nervosa...

            tensos e  imensos olhos castanhos;

                        atentos,

                                   bailarinos,

e mãos que fechavam e abriam.

 

E eu,

e eu amava-a com a violência com que se ama algo fechado,

e com a certeza  de quem já não tem tempo para amar muito mais.

Queria, e querer era novo e velho.

 

Encontrei-a numa terra de província

            no sonho

e,

depois de ela desaparecer dizendo-me muito pouco,

soube que aquela era a terra onde teria que viver.

 

Depois sonhei sobre os amigos dela, a terra e de como ficar.

Mas não é isso que lembro.

 

Nada disso é suficiente para vos contar este sonho,

            haverá coisa mais aborrecida que ouvir contar um sonho?

            surely not

O que o tornou especial;

foi isto:

 

No sonho perguntam-me se queria, de facto, ficar na terra, que era

            afinal

                        tão pequena.

E eu, ao responder, sinto-me encher como uma maré,

cavalgando a praia, as casas, os carros…

 

e por isso disse:

 

“Sim,

é o amor da minha vida.”

 

 

III

 

Há um conceito chamado “path dependence”, que diz que as tuas decisões atuais são limitadas pelas anteriores.

Que tudo o que acontece resulta de o que fizeste, por muito longínquo que seja.

E que este passado é a melhor forma de explicar o presente.

 

Neste mundo não há grandes planos,

visões estratégicas,

grandes linhas.

Não.

Neste modo de ver, tudo o que é, é, por causa de pequenos passos atrás.

Sem outra verdade que o caminho,

            os passos dados,

                        e mais coisa nenhuma.

 

Nesta visão o roteiro é tudo,

é a causa e a explicação,

a necessidade e a resposta.

 

E talvez seja por isto que todas as geografias são importantes.

Porque não há um valor maior,

uma explicação total,

uma razão holística

para o caminho de cada um de nós.

 

E assim ficam

            sem razão ou explicação

as nossas linhas de tempo,

completas e frágeis,

só elas capazes de teleologia,

só elas capazes de estética.

Só nelas a possibilidade de redenção.

 

E é por isto,

e devido a isto,

 

Que um homem

            aos 43 anos,

pode sonhar o início da sua vida

em pessoas que já não existem,

e levantar-se uma manhã,

com o coração cheio de canções.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 10:07
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Sábado, 8 de Junho de 2013

Aging

 

Let us go forth,

once more,

into this new day.

Let us sail

unafraid and undaunted

to new beginnings.


Morning beckons a fresh light.

New, clean unbroken,

radiant and beaming.

Gleaming and pure,

full of rage, fire and movement.


But Dawn calls out for its kin,

the young and the naked,

not the old and the weathered.


I was skinned and stoned,

so many times,

by choice and chance,

that I’m known only by my scars

bruises, aches and the longing for deeds not done.


Before me I see the New Dance,

Taught to the new and hidden from the old.


Living is made of the anger, pain and cum of the newly born.

All the rest is not of this world.


The present is Time’s gift to youth,

showering it with now and,

promising it a future.


For them alone,

not me.


I have wore out my welcome,

the Stream runs with the blood of others,


but still I live...


surely not by Nature’s wish,

it’s lustful drunkenness for childhood,

and its never ending begetting of youth,

are boons that are bestowed to those shorter in years.


And certainly not for

wisdom,

knowledge,

philosophy

and all other icy comforts of aging.


I live bereft of reasons to be.


The Gods don't need me anymore,

Aging set me free from purpose and destiny.


So I am,

now,

alone

and free.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 11:28
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Sexta-feira, 24 de Junho de 2011

The Sweet Hereafter

 

 

The future stains the horizon.

Not a time for plans and projects,
dreams and wanting.
But the moment where all present movement will end,
and go no further.

Hope was jettisoned to the sea, to keep the raft of the tomorrow afloat.

Not for lack of dreaming,
not for lack of wanting something different,
but because becoming is so pregnant with the unstoppable flow of yesterday,
tomorrow will only fit its end.

A future as the answer to the equation of the present,
its propositions explained,
its terms understood,
all its possibilities made fact,
palpable,
conclusive.

This sea of becoming is not ours to command,
only to sail,

on the edge of sinking,

the waves of causation,
in the hope of being delivered,

trembling but alive.

to the future that’ll belong to no man,
no reason,
no volition,
only to time that devours time,
for no other reason that, that, is its nature.

And if the future won’t suit us,
and it won’t,
we must take solace in the knowledge that,
whatever tomorrow may be,

it wont be our fault.

II

As progress liberated us from all languages of understanding,
Science,
Religion,
Art
Philosophy,
the rest,

we were brought forth to watch,
on the best seats of the house,
the spectacle of humanity moving without reasons to explain it.

For the first time in a long time,
we saw the effervescence of Men with the same eyes that follow the bustle of ants.

And still...
we move,

now that we know that there’s no will guiding it,

evermore faster.

Maybe it was always like this,
Maybe we just didn’t knew it.
Maybe there’s nothing new in this flux that we witness.
Maybe.

But now we know it doesn’t need us,
that we’re not needed to decide our end.

This is the true end of history,
when we avert our eyes from the deeds of men,
to watch only its moving,
forever void of direction.

Trapped in the eternal present,
We see ourselves through the eyes of the Gods.

Transparent.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 07:59
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Sábado, 5 de Março de 2011

Mouraria

 

I

 

My building is made of flaws and asymmetry.

My building,

is a place of impossible angles and fortuitous stairs.
Time, need and chance are its bricks and mortar,
contingency and happenstance were its architects.
And there it stands,
With the understated confidence of the things who need no reason to exist.

Unencumbered with purpose,
Free from design,
It stands,
whole,
as a creation of passing time.

 

II


In it dwell several families of variable geometries,

countries and pigmentations,
who pray, (or not),

to different gods,
listen to their own music,
and have jobs that the others ignore,


speaking all languages,
eating all foods,
and,
all,
teaching their children to be good in different ways.


My building is multicultural,
multiracial,
and,
much more than tolerant,
it is accepting.

We accept that,

some of us,

will leave garbage on the stairs,
that the women will clean it,

eventually,

That we’ll greet each other on our respective languages,
That our affairs are our own,

and that at night there'll be silence,

because we all have children who need to sleep.

 

III


My building is in the wrong side of town.
The natives are poor, belligerent,
and live a life of drug dealing and petty crime.
This is viewed as local folklore by everyone.

They are the new iteration of the Third State,
a class of european have-not’s, that shape their worldview through the lens of a 50 Cent video.
Here, they emulate the ethos of the American ghetto and its caricature of achievement and respect.

But enough on the natives.


Lets talk of the foreigners that are so many that the neighbourhood has their name,
Mouraria its called.

Since the middle ages that is a unsavory and unregarded place inside the city.
In the beginning was a ghetto for the Moors,
and now its the same for the poor.

It’s funny how,
although, through time, we picked different outsiders,
we always put them in the same place.

Mouraria is known by their Chinese,
Indians,
Pakistanis,
Africans, (not the ones from the ex-colonies. The real foreigners),
and a unsavoury brand of Portuguese that it sires much to the disgust of all others.

They lay about street corners,
selling drugs,
stealing on occasion,
working when needed,
talking about football, fights and more football.
Huddling near the stores of the Pakistanis and Indians,
drinking beer and discussing the art of car tuning.


The Chinese stores await customers with belligerent efficiency,
The Ukrainian supermarket are open for business,

The African hairdressers blare out music calling their clientelle,
several Internet stores are there to link Asia with Portugal,
and the Brazilian and Chinese loaders take bales of goods to the stores as they chain-smoke and talk to each other.


In the middle of all this move Portuguese old ladies,
slowly intent in reaching the Portuguese bakery, where they’ll buy bread in the morning as it'll close in the afternoon.


The natives see all this from the walls they lean against all day...
seeming vaguely bemused by all the bustle that doesn’t concern them.
Intent only on the cars that stop in front of them, and screech away guiltily.

Only the foreigners seem to have a goal and a reason to exist,
all the rest just seem to … be.


Maybe that’s the privilege of living in your own land,
the only place where you can be, without justification...

Here,

in Mouraria,

you realize that is not Portugal that is only fog...


It's the Portuguese.

 


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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 08:38
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Segunda-feira, 10 de Janeiro de 2011

Quiet

 

 

Dead days and still nights flesh out a living made of absence.
Not the quietus searched by the men of God,
but the listlessness of those who stopped looking.

Inside this nothing made time
movement is broken in moments,
and thoughts are like photographs,
each one clear and self sufficient,
isolated and engraved in now.

Carpe Diem, they say,
the eternal present, they say,
but if they ever lived a second here, all their voices would still,
and in their place...
paralysis and aphasia .

Forever trapped in the moment...
finding no relief,
no wisdom,
no satori,
no calm,
no detachment.

Only terror and constriction.

Some say this happens to those who are not ready for this state of being.
Not pure enough,
wise enough,

prepared, if you will.

But if this is so,
this gift is given most freely by the Higher Power,
for the number of those who think are in Hell far outnumber those who think are in Heaven.

Maybe the Buddhists are right.
That all will make the trek to the Living Beginning,
sooner or later,
whether we like it or not.

And,
more importantly,
irregardless of our degree of readiness.

We will be dragged to enlightenment.

Most of us kicking and screaming.
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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 02:50
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Looking Inward

 

As days go by...

As days go by, I,

and all the others,

grow increasingly distant from the world.

As I grow older,
day by day,
things around me seem less clear than their image inside.
Which is not an image,
or a representation,
but a foggy, cursory feeling of something else,
something simpler yet darker,
clearer but evanescent.
The blueprint of reality, seen fleetingly through closed closed doors, eyes and hearts.

Everyday I,

and all the rest,

learn our part in the world by rote … but not by heart.
Knowing it so well that it is now,
all tropism and inertia.
A fluid give and take of forces and masses that determine a psychology best described by the equations of physics.


The Outside is left to its own devices. A garden of powers engendered by complexity and the will of the young,
who were

still

not summoned to inspect this strange vision,

begotten by action and living,

and existing as something else entirely.

And as time passes I,

and everyone else,

feel this inner truth to be a little clearer, and the Outside,

a little distant,

a little dimmer,
more remote.
Increasingly foreign and threatening.

This is called growing old.

This small nugget of knowing that we believe we glimpsed is evermore enticing.
Still incomprehensible,
distant of words and wary of grammar,
it seems to stand still if looked from the corner of your eye,
but if you try to stare at it …
it’s not there anymore.

And,
as time passes,

as it surely will.

This hunt becomes path, motion and goal for those who have more years than time.

Slowly the Outside gets evermore abstruse and incomprehensible,
full of change and movement caused by nothing and going nowhere.
And,

as it gets increasingly difficult to understand,
we loose the words and refuse the meanings that perpetually mutate to survive.
For we haven't
looked Outside for so long,
and retreated to the other truth that needs nothing but us.

This silent knowledge,
devoid of language and requiring only unerring attention,
grows to encompass all experience.
And when I,

and all of you,

don’t forget,

have become nothing but watchers of a truth that requires no dialectic,
there’ll be no need for words,
for seeing,

for duality …
and for watchers.
For a watcher that has no Outside watches nothing, and cannot exist.

Then I’ll die,
and disappear to the place where there’s no more Truth or Reason.
And these words will have meant nothing.

 

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 02:34
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Terça-feira, 28 de Dezembro de 2010

Dubious Blessings

 

Morning looms strange by the window.

Unexpected and unwanted, it tramples uninvited through the living room,
bringing light and a crisp fresh start to an unfinished night.

It is over,
night's done,
and all this caught me a little off guard.

I squint, unprepared,
for the radious winter sun that is being welcomed by someone else, somewhere.

Not here.

I wish it would rain now.
I wish it would rain hard and long,
a dark and enveloping barrage of water
to shield me from this new beginning.

God!
I’m really not ready for this!
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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 12:03
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Sexta-feira, 8 de Janeiro de 2010

Eumeswil (1ª Parte)

 

When I close my eyes I see a desert.

The, long, brown, infinity that stretches from the mountains to the sea.

Leaving everything in between dead, and indifferent to its embrace.

A space of immobility where movement is Wind.

Blowing.

Hard and soft....

Subtle and strong...

Northward and southward,

Hither and thither.

Striping the structure out of the desert.

The only truth the wind.

And the wind is the desert.

And the desert is ...

It.

 

 

The desert as the end of wanting.

The last mille of hope in the road to despair.

Where the Saviour goes to die.

This is the place were everything stops, and is moved by chance.

The place of the prime movement

Fate,

Chance,

Flow.

When I close my eyes I see a desert,

Beneath me, and in front of me.

In space in now, in time in here.

 

 

 

Southward on the other side of the sea,

in the other side of the ocean.

Europa’s birthplace.

My birthplace.

The desert that was then when we started.

When Europa made its first tentative steps to Itself.

A desert not as a desert but as a barren place;

A place where to be free.

In the Future,

Here,

In Europa,

The Peninsula will be a undulating vastness of naught.

Rocks and sand where once stood the cities of today,

Ruins of fountains, pools and waters mirrors,

Incomprehensible artefacts of a past best forgotten.

And,

Scurrying nimbly through the desert,

Our children’s children.

Traped in a culture too slow to move with time.

Still believing themselves Empire,

but,

now,

all made of sand.

Yesterday,

Late in the day,

Yesterday,

Long ago,

In a day dead and done,

The day before now,

Yesterday.

It’s hours frozen by time,

For it’s yesterday.

Final and frail as porcelain dolls.

These are the days that you’re given.

Existing because time is locked in yesterday.

Yesterday where knowledge goes to die.

A land of reason and language,

The last sarcophagi of living and a prison.

It’s in this tomb of being that I see the desert,

Southward and in the desert.

 

 

 

A premonition of nothing,

A call to arms

And words to the wise


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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 16:49
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Eumeswil (2ª Parte)


The sky seems to get a little bit higher,

Going upwards and upwards,

Escaping us in a hurry.

Fleeing a place promised to anathema.

Knowing something we don’t.

 

The rain is evermore scarce,

The forests crackle dry and burn in winter.

The rivers turn into torrents of mud.

Crocodiles hunt in the mountains

And bears fish by the sea shore.

 

The climate is changing and we seem to stand still.

As the oceans flood the lands

And the desert gobbles up forests.

Rain now only a wet remembrance of days gone by

An enormous sadness for the watery world we left behind,

Fills the air under a indifferent sky.

Growing evermore remote.

 

Scientists say it’s not going to rain anymore.

That we shouldn’t count on our crops,

Anymore.

Rain buried in the dust that becomes wind,

Flying through the ocean to the,

Original desert.

Sand as the seed of the future.

Feeding on each other,

And turning the Mediterranean a salty oasis.

 

Scientists say our land is dying and that we should move away,

Elsewhere,

Anywhere,

To a land that’ll keep us...

But I ... I’m not a scientist,

So I’ll think I stay.

 

And as I prepare to wait I ask myself,

Will the desert bring its own religion

Will this be the final death of the Green Man ?

The Green Man survived the cross,

Will he survive the death of the woods?

Will the sand bring forth Mahomet or will this be Christ greatest triumph?

He is,

After all

A son of the desert,

 

Or,

Maybe,

In the end,

This will be the final moment in a 2000 year old changing of the guard.

 

Perhaps Mahomet and Christ are not all that different,

Both are sons of the desert and grew feeding on the spirits of the wind,

The tree spirits mortal enemies.

Or maybe something new will appear,

A culling of all this deities, places and times.

A crucible to bring forth a new and happy science,

But,

This is not a place of beginnings but of endings.

A place best understood by the old at heart,

The cautious and suspicious mood of age best suits this changing mores.

And the old,

Out of habit and out of fear,

Look to the past for answers.

To yesterday,

To the house of porcelain dolls of intelligence and discourse.

But not even time past can illuminate the sombre path that lies ahead.

Only looking long into the past,

Can we glimmer faintly to something akin.

Deep into the harbour of the first wanting,

can we find the face that suits these final features.

 

Europa’s long journey from the bogs of magic though the plains of philosophy and to the rarefied mountains of science

has brought to a place so bereft of everything else,

That only the first Gods

Who were not here and needed nothing,

Can exist

Finally liberated from the shackles of religion,

The bonds of reason

The yoke of aesthetics

The burden of morality

We were delivered free

To the desert of our own creation.

 

And as form follow function

And matter follows spirit,

Our land becomes as inhabitable as our heads.

 

When I close my eyes I see a desert.

I move from the window where I stood,

And stagger into my darkened bedroom,

And lying on my bed,

Eyes wide,

Looking intently into the ceiling

I shed the first tears for the place where I’ll live,

Waiting its coming,

It’s God,

Their people.

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 16:44
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Sábado, 27 de Junho de 2009

SONG OF FREEDOM

 

 

 

 

I

Have they taught you nothing?

All the prophets,

all the poets,

All of them.

Thousands of years of words, deeds and actions,

Have you not heard?

Saw?

Understood?

 

No matter

For what I’ve come to tell you is the summation of everything that was told before me.

At least everything true.

All truths, all science, all art, all philosophy,

All paths to freedom through knowledge,

come to this:

 

It’s not important.

 

 

You are not important,

Your family is not important,

Your friends are meaningless,

Society does not exist,

There is no “we”,

Bury the fiction of Nation,

Of good deeds and bad,

Of knowledge,

Of beauty,

Of love

All of this is wrong, small and unimportant.

 

And it was this that they were telling you,

The prophets and poets and the others.

It was just this, they wanted you to know.

 

This is all you needed to know.

 

II

 

Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!

For now you are free!

Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!

For now you live in a brighter, better world!

 

All life, all of it,

in its complexity and abstruse variance,

 is of no importance.

All has no meaning in this bigger picture will make our own,

For if it’s the result of evolving matter as say the scientists, what of it?

Theirs is but a small place in the universe,

Beautiful,

But small, and of no consequence.

And if life is the gift from Gods, is this the bigger boon we can imagine?

Surely not.

 

So rejoice, rejoice!

You were set free from respect to life!

 

And what about friends and family,

And all the bonds of empathy that keep us together?

What of them?

Since Life failed us as an answer,

we could always take refuge on the certainty of love.

But we all know,

deep down,

that this is not sure footing for the lovers of truth.

This is a marshy land, that shifts and moves ceaselessly.

Very beautiful and not to be trusted.

 

The answer is not love,

Nor is it all you need,

Because we need so much more.

 

Rejoice, Rejoice!

For the Ghost of love no longer haunts you!

 

And the knowledge of all these things,

Brought together by reason, logic and intuition,

Is of no consequence even before its very eyes.

For its science itself that teaches us that what we know is but a speck in what there is to discover.

And that what we can imagine is like a haze covering what might be there.

 

When you look at a stone,

any stone,

And imagine the millennia it witnessed:

Being on the bed of a lost sea,

Having risen to heights of mountains that disappeared,

watching dead animals howling at stars that

for so long

have changed their place in the skies…

To now be carried unaware in your hand,

with no inkling of itself,

deaf, dumb and blind.

This in each and every rock!

 

 

Rejoice!

The burden of knowing was lifted from your shoulders!

 

And God in all this? Where to find him?

Everywhere.

For this is a poem not about the death of God but of its awakening.

Not the God of the spiritual accountants they keep chained in Churches,

Any church,

Not the personal God who has hygiene advices for you,

Your wife,

Your dog.

Not the God of everlasting love and goodness that sounds so human that we call him Father,

Sometimes,

Mother,

More often,

Creating sacred families of variable geometries,

And unfailing dysfunctionalitiy.

 

God is so,

so,

distant,

 

Beyond the last frontier of imagination.

Making sure by its presence that our wildest dreams are nothing but small extensions of ourselves,

Not the yardstick with which to measure the Universe.

 

So rejoice!

For God is far way!

 

 

Haven’t you learnt nothing?

From all the Poets, Philosophers and Prophets of the ages?

To think far and wide and deep,

so you can see how near and small and shallow you are?

 

This was all the knowledge you needed to live free from fear.

 

And even this,

Is not important.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 14:58
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Domingo, 15 de Março de 2009

Fim de Semana

 

Duas garrafas de whisky e uma garrafa de vinho.

três, portanto.

três garrafas levaram-me de uma ponta do fim de semana para a outra.

Do principio até ao fim.

 

E daqui,

do princípio do fim,

deste patamar de onde vejo a descida para onde vou e os sítios de onde estive…

olho para o futuro e para o passado como se fossem a mesma coisa.

como se fosse só tempo.

como se fosse uma linha … estendendo-se para um lado e o outro, infinitamente…

 

tempo portanto.

 

Tempo como o espaço de agora que vê esta enorme e informe extensão de existir.

E para esta enormidade só tenho garrafas e o tempo de as beber…

como o relógio de quem deixou tudo para atrás.

 

Tempo medido copo a copo, onde a seta do tempo se confundisse com a embriaguez, como se a entropia fosse uma enorme embriaguez, um esquecimento, e a segunda lei da termodinâmica apenas a incapacidade de nos lembrar de…

tudo.

 

 

Duas garrafas de whisky e uma garrafa de vinho.

É a única verdade que tenho.

Não sei onde estou, o que faço e o que me é pedido…

mas,

sei como conto o seu passar…

 


 

um

a

um

copo

a

copo

um

de

cada

vez.

 

 

Três garrafas fizeram este fim de semana.

Três garrafas fizeram o espaço onde fiz o que quis.

Ou onde me deixaram estar.

E aqui, onde me largaram para brincar no recreio durante 48 horas

(prometendo que me vinham buscar outra vez na segunda)

Fiquei mudo e quedo,

bruto e estúpido,

ausente de quereres

expectante…

 

em silêncio.

 

no silêncio desconfortável de estar comigo mesmo.

esperei…

esperei três garrafas.

Duas de whisky e uma de vinho.

 

Á espera que Segunda chegasse e tudo fosse como dantes.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 19:47
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Domingo, 6 de Julho de 2008

No Sun as come undone

 

No sun has come undone,

As no moon was found unclean.

Under the watchful eye of Being.

 

No God was found wanting,

No Spirits questioned…

Nor was the sea too shallow,

Nor the desert too dry.

No deed of beast was too base,

No will of rock too hard,

Compared to the inexorability of  the judgement passed to Man.

 

For, the scrape of Light ,

(that will let him live a little longer, so he can die a little later),

is hard and elusive to get…

as if it was a prize,

as if it was good…

A bounty for the worthy!

Not the least of our expectations.

 

It’s to this sad feast that we gather in the millions;

Like mongrels too stupid to see the difference between the carrot and the stick…

Biting everything and each other,

beneath the discouraging soul-gluttony of the Lord.

 

And,

For this, and more I ask you…

 

His not Man’s lot

A cast lot?

Is not is his destiny an answerable riddle?

 

Were we not singled forth?

 

Is not our being darker than death?

Is not our dying clearer than living?

 

Are not these the voices of reason?

 

 

And to answer these questions…

Only blind hate against the living,

And a strong mistrust towards the dead.

 

                                                                        II

 

This self righteous anger,

Speaks in the ever expanding riddles of science,

physics,

bothany,

biology,

geology,

the rest.

Drowning in the flood of the senses,

broken and confused…

cumbersome before the incumbent task.

 

Sense and Knowledge one,

before the ever thinning twine of unknowing.

 

 

Trying to remember the Word before Self came in.

 

 

 

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 13:17
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Hoje Começa Devagar

 

Hoje começa devagar.

Tímido da noite de ontem e tropeçando nos amanhas que não cantam...

 

Calam-se,

Tristes e silentes.

Mudos com o sal das lágrimas que não correram.

 

Falam dos amanheceres atros e vagos do futuro,

Dos acordares ignotos e perigosos.

Do dia de amanhã que não conheço.

 

E portanto estou,

Como sempre...

Entre há bocado e agora,

Neste quase nada a que chamam presente,

Onde eu devia estar e sentir-me e precisar-me

e...

onde não me encontro no presente dos outros.

...

porque a unica verdade de mim,

É um ponto questionante.

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 12:51
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Domingo, 11 de Maio de 2008

Mornings are for mourners


 

  Mornings are for mourners,

 

To mourn the night before.

 

Morning is Night’s final throes of desperation.

 

And in her place…

Nothing;

nothing but the cooling corpse of yesterday.

 

You open  your eyes , sit on the bed (still unsure of where, how and why you’re here) thinking what to do with the sprawling remains extended till noon.

 

You await for the new day

 the new day

 to come and rescue you from this queasy unsureness that is morning.

 

But no.

Oh no.

 

You’ll inhabit this no man’s land till the afternoon.

 

Morning the death shrine of last night.

All promises , all possibilities

growing in the hopeful shades of dark,

Fizzled to nothingness in the raw light of the new day…

 

Crumpled little ashen mounds of wanting ,

burnt by the ugliness of time.

 

And a dense cloud of unhappiness clings to everything and everyone as if t’was the Sun royal  mantle.

.Yellow and bloated;

 

Smilingly pontificating over the debris of the new day.

 

Another day.

 

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 00:41
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Terça-feira, 29 de Abril de 2008

Absent Friends

 

Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?

Will time leave us alone?

Will sloth and neglect, estrange us from the ones we love the most?

 

Will the mill of days grind away the ties that bound us?

 

No time like now,

No words but these words

No persons but these persons...

The ones here.

Not the chosen,

But the remaining.

 

But

I ask myself...

Will we forgive ourselves for our forgetfulness?

...

All people

Everywhere

Everyday...

The enormous throng of people we knew and loved...

Taken by time and sacrificed in the altar of now.

Distant shadows of a past made unnecessary.


 

Not by you.

Not by the others.

But by now,

By the movement.

This place in this time, and this place in this

place.

 

Love trampled under the wheels of necessity

and the stupid fascism of need.

 

And to all this I ask:

 

Will we miss our friends forgotten?

Will we need their love and warmth?

Will we be lonely?

Afraid of being adrift with ourselves?

 

II


Time passes like a glacier trough a valley,

Slowly but surely, all will collapse under the weight of the frost.

Like the valley,

We’ll be striped of everything,

Naked and alone.

 

And here, in presence of our own structure,

Before the great truth...

We cowardly long for time we spent with others and the truths we shared...

Longing for all the things we left behind...

 

And,

Knowing this...

Will we weep for the loss of absent friends?

 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 19:01
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Lazy Afternoons

 

 

Lazy afternoons,

 

 

all made of sunshine and permanence,

light and duration;

could they last forever...

 

Listless Sun soaked hours,

filled to the brim with nothing

and hollowed of any promise but its own shiny pointlessness.

These are the times that are,

truly,

 

ours.

 

This is our allotted time,

all else is purposeful living.

Years, months and days dedicated to the pursuits that we esteem as worthy:

career,

money,

the respect of our peers,

more money

ourselves,

family

the masses,

God,

the whales.

All these and more

much more,

occupies us inside and out,

 

as we dedicate large chunks of our lives to their conquest.

 

Noble and important as they may be,

(they’re not)

they are not truly ours.

 

 

Their place is the no man's land that separates what they want from you,

from what you want from them.

Its in this field of glory that you’ll forget yourself, to win them,

and where they’ll accommodate you, for no greater good.

Everybody gives a little,

nobody wins.

This is the base of the new social contract,

a fierce and equalitarian force preventing anyone from getting what they want.

 

Social justice making sure that everyone gets fucked the same

and in the same way.

A socialization of misery,

if you will.

But not today.

at least not this afternoon.

 

Today there’s nothing to do but be,

here.

Useless,

and with nowhere to go.


 

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publicado por Aurea Mediocritas às 18:38
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