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(no subject)

Jul. 8th, 2012 | 12:44 pm

isto já não me faz sentido. fica aqui em jeito de memória.
sem drama, bye.

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(no subject)

Jul. 3rd, 2012 | 11:40 am

E se depois
O sangue ainda correr
Corre atrás dele
E se depois
O fogo te perseguir
Aquece-te nele
E se depois
O desejo partir
Consome-te nele
E se depois
O sangue ainda correr
Corre atrás dele
E se depois
E se depois

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The Divide - Edwin Morgan

Jun. 22nd, 2012 | 05:35 pm

I keep thinking of you - which is ridiculous.
These years between us like a sea.
And dignity that came with growing older
... would stop my pencil on the paper.
The player was open; you asked for the Stones;
got that, got steaming coffee, conversation.
The heavy curtains kept a wild night out.
I keep thinking of your eyes, your hands.
There is no reason for it, none at all.
You would say that I can’t be what I’m not,
yet I can’t not be where I am.
Where does that leave us? What can we do?
The silence after Jagger was like a cloak
I’d have thrown over you - only the wind
was left, and the clock ticked as you sipped,
clutching the green mug in both hands.
Don’t look up suddenly like that!
How hard is not to watch you.
We had got to that stage of not talking
and not worrying, and that
was almost happy. Then, late,
when you lay on one elbow on the carpet
I could feel nothing but that hot knife
of pain telling me what it was,
and I can’t tell you about it, not one word.

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(no subject)

Jun. 1st, 2012 | 11:22 pm




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(no subject)

Jun. 1st, 2012 | 11:22 pm



my sister on her 28th birthday

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(no subject)

Jun. 1st, 2012 | 11:21 pm

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(no subject)

Jun. 1st, 2012 | 10:03 pm

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Essay on Adam by Robert Bringhurst

Jun. 1st, 2012 | 05:37 pm

There are five possibilities. One: Adam fell.
Two: he was pushed. Three: he jumped. Four:
he only looked over the edge, and one look silenced him.
Five: nothing worth mentioning happened to Adam.

The first, that he fell, is too simple. The fourth,
fear, we have tried and found useless. The fifth,
nothing happened, is dull. The choice is between:
he jumped or was pushed. And the difference between these

is only an issue of whether the demons
work from the inside out or from the outside
in: the one
theological question.

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(no subject)

May. 27th, 2012 | 09:40 pm




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(no subject)

May. 27th, 2012 | 09:38 pm

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(no subject)

May. 24th, 2012 | 09:43 pm

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(no subject)

May. 24th, 2012 | 01:25 am

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Ana Salomé

May. 22nd, 2012 | 02:35 pm

Grandes poetas

Agora talvez entendas porque não escrevo
entretida com a arquitectura volátil dos dias
com os afazeres esponsais e profissionais
a apanhar eléctricos em curto-circuitos
às voltas com este tumulto manso que abafo
porque, sejamos sinceros, só grandes tumultos
dão grandes poetas, de resto há a frieza
dos que se mentem a si próprios
e vão chamando a si os pássaros
quando o que deveriam era libertar os seus
numa torrente que não acompanham ortografias
nem radiografias sentimentais.

Desculpa se me tornei naquilo que queria ser
quando escrevia: amante e amada
de tal forma que se tocar em flores elas se multiplicam
se beber água nasce um caudal por entre milhares de minérios
se falar de estrelas um segundo demora anos-luz a passar.
À antiga pergunta se antes a vida que a escrita
melhor a primeira quando pior é a segunda
porque, mais uma vez a sinceridade,
só grandes vidas dão grandes escritas,
grandezas díspares, com certeza, mas grandezas, sem dúvida.

Assim chego eu a casa e faço o jantar
e lavo a loiça – quando não a acumulo em pilhas -
e leio livros – quando não me lembro da televisão -
e sou feliz quando enlaço as mãos na maresia
e vou ao cinema com amigos
e passeio de braço dado com a mamã.

Se isto dá uma grande poeta?
tenho-me perguntado, todos os dias,
e à noite uma cavalgada inquieta
dirige-se à região desamparada do cérebro
à côncava existência do corpo ainda insatisfeito
a essa solidão sublime que me levou em certos dias
aos Himalaias e noutros ao farol de Brest.
Nesses segundos que se dirigem a mim
Von Hofmannsthal volta ao esperma para não nascer
e tudo é possível desde amar mulheres até matar
e sobreviver ao crime limpidamente.

Nesses segundos os meus poemas poderiam ser grandes
e ser eu uma grande poeta
apascentando-me de folhinhas de louro
e para mim ter metros infindos de mundo por explorar.


http://patioalfacinha.blogspot.pt

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(no subject)

May. 20th, 2012 | 11:44 pm

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(no subject)

May. 20th, 2012 | 11:41 pm

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(no subject)

May. 20th, 2012 | 11:38 pm

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(no subject)

May. 20th, 2012 | 11:35 pm

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Poema de Natal - Vinicius de Moraes

May. 20th, 2012 | 06:47 pm

Para isso fomos feitos:
Para lembrar e ser lembrados
Para chorar e fazer chorar
Para enterrar os nossos mortos —
Por isso temos braços longos para os adeuses
Mãos para colher o que foi dado
Dedos para cavar a terra.
Assim será nossa vida:
Uma tarde sempre a esquecer
Uma estrela a se apagar na treva
Um caminho entre dois túmulos —
Por isso precisamos velar
Falar baixo, pisar leve, ver
A noite dormir em silêncio.
Não há muito o que dizer:
Uma canção sobre um berço
Um verso, talvez de amor
Uma prece por quem se vai —
Mas que essa hora não esqueça
E por ela os nossos corações
Se deixem, graves e simples.
Pois para isso fomos feitos:
Para a esperança no milagre
Para a participação da poesia
Para ver a face da morte —
De repente nunca mais esperaremos...
Hoje a noite é jovem; da morte, apenas
Nascemos, imensamente.

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no it's not going to stop 'til you wise up

May. 18th, 2012 | 08:46 pm








fode-te filipa, tu mais os teus rolos fora de prazo

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Jorge Roque, Viola Partida 3.

May. 15th, 2012 | 10:23 am

Agilidade técnica, destreza na rima, ouvido para o ritmo, instinto harmónico – e a morte, Doutor, e a morte? Como nas teclas os dedos do pianista, a posição exacta, momento, peso, a ascensão e queda de cada nota, o seu trajecto contra o silêncio que a revela – e a morte, Doutor, e a morte? Conhecimento dos poetas de outras épocas, genealogia da língua, amplitude e precisão do léxico – e a morte, Doutor, e a morte? Domínio pleno do instrumento, no fundo é disto que se trata, claridade da articulação, objectividade expressiva, intensidade interior, saturação lírica – e a morte, Doutor, e a morte?

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(no subject)

May. 14th, 2012 | 12:12 am



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(no subject)

May. 13th, 2012 | 11:57 pm





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(no subject)

May. 13th, 2012 | 11:35 pm

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(no subject)

May. 13th, 2012 | 12:45 am



nos meus anos, em s. martinho. dois dias depois trazíamos a faneca (e o resto já sabem).

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(no subject)

May. 12th, 2012 | 11:29 pm



e isto são os gatos a dormir, como podeis constatar.

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(no subject)

May. 12th, 2012 | 11:11 pm



isto era para ser para uma coisa que acabou não sendo. e hoje já a saberia enquadrar melhor.
mas ei-la.

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(no subject)

May. 12th, 2012 | 10:42 pm



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(no subject)

Apr. 22nd, 2012 | 07:12 pm

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The Dancers Inherit the Party by Ian Hamilton Finlay

Apr. 20th, 2012 | 06:23 pm

When I have talked for an hour I feel lousy—
Not so when I have danced for an hour:
The dancers inherit the party
While the talkers wear themselves out and
sit in corners alone, and glower.

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(no subject)

Apr. 17th, 2012 | 09:43 pm




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(no subject)

Apr. 17th, 2012 | 09:34 pm





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(no subject)

Apr. 17th, 2012 | 07:22 pm

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(no subject)

Apr. 17th, 2012 | 06:25 pm

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(no subject)

Apr. 14th, 2012 | 11:54 pm

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Screenwriter's Blues - Soul Coughing

Apr. 13th, 2012 | 09:35 am

Exits to freeways twisted like knots on the fingers
jewels cleaving skin between breasts.

Your Cadillac breathes four hundred horses over blue lines
you are going to Reseda to make love to a model from Ohio whose real name you don't know

you spin like the cadillac was overturning down a cliff on television
and the radio is on
and the radioman is speaking
and the radioman says women were a curse so men built Paramount studios
and men built Columbia studios
and men built Los Angeles

it is 5 am and you are listening to Los Angeles

And the radioman says it is a beautiful night out there!
And the radioman says Rock and Roll lives!
And the radioman says it is a beautiful night out there in Los Angeles
you live in Los Angeles and you are going to Reseda; we are all in some way or another going to Reseda someday
to die
and the radioman laughs because the radioman fucks a model too

Gone savage for teenagers with automatic weapons and boundless love
gone savage for teenagers who are aesthetically pleasing
in other words - fly
Los Angeles beckons the teenagers to come to her on buses;
Los Angeles loves love

it is 5 am and you are listening to Los Angeles

I am going to Los Angeles to built a screenplay about lovers who murder each other
I am going to Los Angeles to see my own name on a screen, five feet long and luminous
as the radioman says it is 5 am and the sun has charred the other side of the world and come back to us and painted the smoke over our heads
an imperial violet
it is 5 am and you are listening to Los Angeles.

You are listening

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passear com o Pedro

Apr. 9th, 2012 | 06:56 pm




girls who read are the storytellers

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The Everyday Enchantment of Music by Mark Strand (or how memories begin, I guess)

Apr. 1st, 2012 | 09:33 pm

A rough sound was polished until it became a smoother sound, which was polished until it became music. Then the music was polished until it became the memory of a night in Venice when tears of the sea fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was polished until it ceased to be and in its place stood the empty home of a heart in trouble. Then suddenly there was sun and the music came back and traffic was moving and off in the distance, at the edge of the city, a long line of clouds appeared, and there was thunder, which, however menacing, would become music, and the memory of what happened after Venice would begin, and what happened after the home of the troubled heart broke in two would also begin.

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“You Should Date an Illiterate Girl” - Charles Warnke

Mar. 30th, 2012 | 10:11 am

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

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this photograph is my proof

Mar. 18th, 2012 | 06:32 pm




look, see for yourself.

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emigrar

Mar. 8th, 2012 | 08:28 am


ComScore






Je suis né dans un patelin
loin d'ici, loin de tout
Un cul de sac, un trou perdu
je suis né dans un patelin

Je suis rentré au pays
et j'ai ramené ma femme
mes quatre mômes
mes beaux-parents

Le Portugal je le porte
dans mon coeur et dans ma tête
Ici on parle toujours la langue de mes ancêtres
et à présent je possède deux cartes d'identité


Vous savez madame
je pleure en regardant la télé
vous savez madame
je pleure sur les recettes de cuisine
vous savez madame
dans ma tête c'est confus
je voudrais mourir chez moi
c'est où chez moi toutefois
ici ou là bas?

je ne sais pas

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(no subject)

Feb. 23rd, 2012 | 10:35 pm

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some of the sessions

Feb. 23rd, 2012 | 09:52 pm


Team building and animal kingdom exercises by Michael Radparvar.




2d to 3d, cloth to clothing: how to wear a sari (indian dress for women) and how to wear a dhoti (Indian trousers for men) by Sagarika Sundaram



Office acoustics by Rainer Scheerer, opera singer and Sandbox Ambassador for Berlin.


How to write a love letter or how to communicate successfully to get what you want by Tammy Tibbetts.

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Sagarika Sundaram

Feb. 23rd, 2012 | 08:52 pm








Learning how to wear a sari.

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Kalsoom Lakhani

Feb. 21st, 2012 | 10:49 pm




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Nazanine Metghalchi

Feb. 19th, 2012 | 09:48 pm

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(no subject)

Feb. 19th, 2012 | 09:28 pm




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(no subject)

Feb. 19th, 2012 | 09:00 pm

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Guys building god-knows-what

Feb. 19th, 2012 | 08:56 pm







and being extremely proud of it.

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(no subject)

Feb. 19th, 2012 | 08:30 pm




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Cynthia Hellen

Feb. 19th, 2012 | 07:31 pm

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