Escolha seu espelho aos poucos
Pense na hora da vida e da vida na hora
Faça a si mesmo o favor
De assustar-se com a imagem
Jamais se deixe acostumar com os traços
Até porque seus traços não são imutáveis
Sorria na pausa diante do reflexo
Cerre os olhos para se ver melhor
Quem sabe este sorriso não se estende?
Ou quem sabe, até mesmo, evolua este sorriso
Em algo sem as primeiras três letras
Aí sim será tua hora
Para renegar a carne e acolher o intangível
Pois são estas, meu amigo
As imagens que o espelho
Escolherá para você
sexta-feira, outubro 28, 2005
segunda-feira, outubro 24, 2005
The Subjectivity of Torture
I spent the latter part of yesterday using my pain and suffering to get some laughs. I know, it sounds strange, but you'll soon understand...
The current, very melodramatic but undeniably comic description involves me getting hit by a car. Cuts and scrapes, bruises and overall soreness, and Mt. Kilimanjaro on the back of my head. Not that I have ever been hit by one, but I imagine that, if it were to happen in a civil manner (as opposed to being pulverized by a bus travelling at 100 km/h), meaning the car gently lifts you off your feet and places you neatly at curbside, the cuts and scrapes, bumps and bruises might be a plausible aftermath. But I'm rambling here, and on the wrong subject.
The fact is that my so-called torture occurred at sea, sailing in a small and apparently harmless sailboat. So now you're thinking: "What the hell?!"
Well folks, let me give you all of the variables so that you can fathom the totality of my misfortune.
First: I´ve been bitten by the sailing bug once before. It happened in my only summer spent in camp, and whatever free time I had was devoted to the sport. As a matter of fact, I actually became pretty good at it, if I may say so myself. Now here´s the big difference: The bug which bit a 15-year-old back then, bit an almost 30-year-old this time! To translate, it´s half the agility with twice the weight. You do the math.
Second: Yesterday was my fifth day at sea. The first four were pretty much devoid of wind. And much like the Lotto, when the accumulated money which nobody wins for days on end is finally given out all at once to one lucky winner, the wind, which had apparently been on vacation the first four days, reared its ugly head with a might vengeance yesterday. And I was the unlucky winner. To cut things short, I spent just about the same time in the boat, flying across Guanabara Bay, as I did IN Guanabara Bay, continuously overturning the capsized sailboat.
Third: Inexperienced and clumsy that I am, my blunders came in quantity and quality. If you could only imagine the sheer stupidity of some of the things I did... And the fact that I kept repeating them certainly didn´t improve my cause. The result? The skin on my hands is, well, no more. And the rest of the skin on my body has now been gloriously adorned in lovely shades of hot pink and crimson red (scrapes), and black, blue and purple (bruises). And the icing on the cake is the aforementioned african mountain on the back of my head, where the sailboat´s boom (for those of you who know EVEN LESS about the sport, it´s the horizontal beam which supports the sail) took batting practice.
I can only assume that you must be thinking: "This man is clearly a masochist".
My rebuttal:
The pain is secondary and temporary. It is outweighed by bliss and outlived by experience and savvy. Sailing is, for lack of a better word, adictive. For these reasons, I will continue to drink from this fountain as often as I can.
One last thing to be said:
If you ever have the chance to be on a sailboat, no matter the size, do not let it pass. It is, in essence, the privilege of sharing nature by means of wind.
The current, very melodramatic but undeniably comic description involves me getting hit by a car. Cuts and scrapes, bruises and overall soreness, and Mt. Kilimanjaro on the back of my head. Not that I have ever been hit by one, but I imagine that, if it were to happen in a civil manner (as opposed to being pulverized by a bus travelling at 100 km/h), meaning the car gently lifts you off your feet and places you neatly at curbside, the cuts and scrapes, bumps and bruises might be a plausible aftermath. But I'm rambling here, and on the wrong subject.
The fact is that my so-called torture occurred at sea, sailing in a small and apparently harmless sailboat. So now you're thinking: "What the hell?!"
Well folks, let me give you all of the variables so that you can fathom the totality of my misfortune.
First: I´ve been bitten by the sailing bug once before. It happened in my only summer spent in camp, and whatever free time I had was devoted to the sport. As a matter of fact, I actually became pretty good at it, if I may say so myself. Now here´s the big difference: The bug which bit a 15-year-old back then, bit an almost 30-year-old this time! To translate, it´s half the agility with twice the weight. You do the math.
Second: Yesterday was my fifth day at sea. The first four were pretty much devoid of wind. And much like the Lotto, when the accumulated money which nobody wins for days on end is finally given out all at once to one lucky winner, the wind, which had apparently been on vacation the first four days, reared its ugly head with a might vengeance yesterday. And I was the unlucky winner. To cut things short, I spent just about the same time in the boat, flying across Guanabara Bay, as I did IN Guanabara Bay, continuously overturning the capsized sailboat.
Third: Inexperienced and clumsy that I am, my blunders came in quantity and quality. If you could only imagine the sheer stupidity of some of the things I did... And the fact that I kept repeating them certainly didn´t improve my cause. The result? The skin on my hands is, well, no more. And the rest of the skin on my body has now been gloriously adorned in lovely shades of hot pink and crimson red (scrapes), and black, blue and purple (bruises). And the icing on the cake is the aforementioned african mountain on the back of my head, where the sailboat´s boom (for those of you who know EVEN LESS about the sport, it´s the horizontal beam which supports the sail) took batting practice.
I can only assume that you must be thinking: "This man is clearly a masochist".
My rebuttal:
The pain is secondary and temporary. It is outweighed by bliss and outlived by experience and savvy. Sailing is, for lack of a better word, adictive. For these reasons, I will continue to drink from this fountain as often as I can.
One last thing to be said:
If you ever have the chance to be on a sailboat, no matter the size, do not let it pass. It is, in essence, the privilege of sharing nature by means of wind.
sexta-feira, outubro 21, 2005
Mordendo a Língua
Insistência triste esta nossa, sempre enrolando a língua mais do que o necessário, sempre lançando mão de uma bela e valiosa herança Lusitana para desovar, em terras tupiniquins, idéias e nomes in english. Aparentemente, não basta a poluição auricular diária, a teimosia em abrir a boca para massacrar nossa própria língua portuguesa (pra mim fazer, que eu seje, de menor, e similares). Eis que fomos também infectados por um vírus gutural, um mal social, econômico, cultural e aparentemente hereditário que nos engana em achar que devemos trocar nosso sonoro português pelo inglês, porque "assim fica mais bonito".
Pois, pedindo permissão para apossar-me das palavras de um ícone da música brasileira, dou-lhes minha humilde resposta:
E do amor gritou-se o escândalo
Do medo criou-se o trágico
No rosto pintou-se o pálido
E não rolou uma lágrima
Nem uma lástima
Pra socorrer
E na gente deu o hábito
De caminhar pelas trevas
De murmurar entre as pregas
De tirar leite das pedras
De ver o tempo correr
Mas, sob o sono dos séculos
Amanheceu o espetáculo
Como uma chuva de pétalas
Como se o céu vendo as penas
Morresse de pena
E chovesse o perdão
E a prudência dos sábios
Nem ousou conter nos lábios
O sorriso e a paixão
Pois transbordando de flores
A calma dos lagos zangou-se
A rosa dos ventos danou-se
O leito dos rios fartou-se
E inundou de água doce
a amargura do mar
Numa enchente amazônica
Numa explosão atlântica
E a multidão vendo em pânico
E a multidão vendo atônita
Ainda que tarde
O seu despertar
Chico Buarque, 1969
Alguma dúvida sobre a capacidade de nossa língua mãe em nos enfeitiçar? Algum indício de que uma ou outra palavra em inglês serviria de adorno na obra de arte que é esta letra de música? Certamente nosso exuberante idioma dá conta do recado...
Mas sim, terei que fazer justiça aos cento e setenta e nove milhôes, novecentos e noventa e nove mil, novecentos e noventa e nove brasileiros deste planeta:
Só há um Chico.
Mesmo assim, repito que nos falta, acima de tudo, o interesse em desbravar a rica imensidão do nosso idioma. Falta-nos a gana em saber expressar em nossa própria língua aquilo que queremos comunicar ao mundo. E falta, finalmente, o amor-próprio e o patriotismo do cidadão brasileiro para fazê-lo com gosto.
Já me disseram pessoalmente, nas vezes em que estive no exterior, que falamos o idioma mais bonito da Terra e que, dentre as variações do português, o brasileiro é o mais belo. Gostaria eu que nós brasileiros fizéssemos jus a esta fama.
E aqui estamos, dia após dia, mordendo a língua.
Pois, pedindo permissão para apossar-me das palavras de um ícone da música brasileira, dou-lhes minha humilde resposta:
E do amor gritou-se o escândalo
Do medo criou-se o trágico
No rosto pintou-se o pálido
E não rolou uma lágrima
Nem uma lástima
Pra socorrer
E na gente deu o hábito
De caminhar pelas trevas
De murmurar entre as pregas
De tirar leite das pedras
De ver o tempo correr
Mas, sob o sono dos séculos
Amanheceu o espetáculo
Como uma chuva de pétalas
Como se o céu vendo as penas
Morresse de pena
E chovesse o perdão
E a prudência dos sábios
Nem ousou conter nos lábios
O sorriso e a paixão
Pois transbordando de flores
A calma dos lagos zangou-se
A rosa dos ventos danou-se
O leito dos rios fartou-se
E inundou de água doce
a amargura do mar
Numa enchente amazônica
Numa explosão atlântica
E a multidão vendo em pânico
E a multidão vendo atônita
Ainda que tarde
O seu despertar
Chico Buarque, 1969
Alguma dúvida sobre a capacidade de nossa língua mãe em nos enfeitiçar? Algum indício de que uma ou outra palavra em inglês serviria de adorno na obra de arte que é esta letra de música? Certamente nosso exuberante idioma dá conta do recado...
Mas sim, terei que fazer justiça aos cento e setenta e nove milhôes, novecentos e noventa e nove mil, novecentos e noventa e nove brasileiros deste planeta:
Só há um Chico.
Mesmo assim, repito que nos falta, acima de tudo, o interesse em desbravar a rica imensidão do nosso idioma. Falta-nos a gana em saber expressar em nossa própria língua aquilo que queremos comunicar ao mundo. E falta, finalmente, o amor-próprio e o patriotismo do cidadão brasileiro para fazê-lo com gosto.
Já me disseram pessoalmente, nas vezes em que estive no exterior, que falamos o idioma mais bonito da Terra e que, dentre as variações do português, o brasileiro é o mais belo. Gostaria eu que nós brasileiros fizéssemos jus a esta fama.
E aqui estamos, dia após dia, mordendo a língua.
sábado, outubro 15, 2005
Old Man, Bad Music
Critical and impatient. Two adjectives you could, without any resistance from my part, put on my resumé. Whether you do or do not believe in astrology, I am your classic Aries: It´s gotta be now and it´s gotta be perfect. So, being that my anal retentiveness (pardon the term, but my friends were the ones who used it first!) seems to have quite a good grip on me, I'm just gonna go ahead and bitch away about a subject which lately - lately being the last 10 years or so - has annoyed me.
WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH MUSIC THESE DAYS?!
Just for now, try to look past my apparent intolerance and show some sympathy towards me... Yes, I'm being inflexible. Yes, I'm condemning something which is, after all, only a matter of taste. Yes, I'm behaving like an old man! Mind you, I'm not even thirty yet... But c´mon, you gotta give me some credit! For someone who grew up addicted to Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Simon & Garfunkel and the likes, it´s simply torturous to turn on the radio these days. Sticking to what I know, which is rock and roll, here is what I hear:
Guitar distortion at maximum so as to create a musical blur. Some idiot plowing away at his drum set (which hurts even more, since I'm a drummer myself!). The missing bassist: Either you can´t hear him or he doesn´t exist altogether. Keyboards. What keyboards? And last but not least, vocals. Oooh, things get interesting here! The mentality is "write anything and bellow it"; or the variation: "Write anything, throw in your best raspy voice and sing like you have some serious speech impediment". Sounds familiar, right? And the worst part is that almost any band which struck it rich since the mid to late 1990´s, with the rarest of exceptions (Coldplay, to name one), sound exactly the same!
Is it just me? Am I becoming another one of those old geezers, incessantly mumbling "how can you listen to that stuff? In my day..."? Or is this an accurate diagnosis of today´s "music"? Yes, in italics and quotation marks.
I hope there is someone out there, with a bit more leverage and a lot more creativity than today´s musicians, who sees things in the same manner. Maybe this person can bring back the beauty and complexity which once fueled music.
Lyrics and melody, not gibberish and noise.
WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH MUSIC THESE DAYS?!
Just for now, try to look past my apparent intolerance and show some sympathy towards me... Yes, I'm being inflexible. Yes, I'm condemning something which is, after all, only a matter of taste. Yes, I'm behaving like an old man! Mind you, I'm not even thirty yet... But c´mon, you gotta give me some credit! For someone who grew up addicted to Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Simon & Garfunkel and the likes, it´s simply torturous to turn on the radio these days. Sticking to what I know, which is rock and roll, here is what I hear:
Guitar distortion at maximum so as to create a musical blur. Some idiot plowing away at his drum set (which hurts even more, since I'm a drummer myself!). The missing bassist: Either you can´t hear him or he doesn´t exist altogether. Keyboards. What keyboards? And last but not least, vocals. Oooh, things get interesting here! The mentality is "write anything and bellow it"; or the variation: "Write anything, throw in your best raspy voice and sing like you have some serious speech impediment". Sounds familiar, right? And the worst part is that almost any band which struck it rich since the mid to late 1990´s, with the rarest of exceptions (Coldplay, to name one), sound exactly the same!
Is it just me? Am I becoming another one of those old geezers, incessantly mumbling "how can you listen to that stuff? In my day..."? Or is this an accurate diagnosis of today´s "music"? Yes, in italics and quotation marks.
I hope there is someone out there, with a bit more leverage and a lot more creativity than today´s musicians, who sees things in the same manner. Maybe this person can bring back the beauty and complexity which once fueled music.
Lyrics and melody, not gibberish and noise.
quinta-feira, outubro 13, 2005
American Beauty
"American Beauty". Off the top of your head, can you think of another movie, as unpretentious as this one, that portrays life so... well... beautifully? Here I am, watching it again for the fifth or sixth time, and yet again it instills in me some strange feeling of spiritual paradise lost.
Forget the spectacular photography. Forget the impressive acting of Kevin Spacey, Annette Bening, Chris Cooper and company. Look past the fantastic dialogue, the latent comedy, the simplicity of the entire thing! Few movies have made me think as much as this one. So, here´s my question:
Is it possible to abdicate so completely from life´s responsibilities and its routine - to clean the slate, so to speak - or is it all fun and games 'till somebody gets hurt?
And another thing: Is this the right recipe of life for everyone?
I guess if I were to give a preliminary answer to my own question, without spending the necessary lifetime to think about it, it would most likely be a very unromantic "no".
Am I missing something?
Forget the spectacular photography. Forget the impressive acting of Kevin Spacey, Annette Bening, Chris Cooper and company. Look past the fantastic dialogue, the latent comedy, the simplicity of the entire thing! Few movies have made me think as much as this one. So, here´s my question:
Is it possible to abdicate so completely from life´s responsibilities and its routine - to clean the slate, so to speak - or is it all fun and games 'till somebody gets hurt?
And another thing: Is this the right recipe of life for everyone?
I guess if I were to give a preliminary answer to my own question, without spending the necessary lifetime to think about it, it would most likely be a very unromantic "no".
Am I missing something?
10th Planet
Ladies and gentleman, welcome to my head. Indeed, this heavy, round, bald and (if I may say so myself) rather goodlooking summit of my anatomy is what I consider my personal little planet. Nine planets in the solar system and at last, my head. Hence, the name of my blog. This is where I go - and where I now invite you to join me - when I need a break from humanity. In other words, this is where the barren fields of monday-through-sunday give way to the fertile jungle of daydreaming and limitless brainstorming. I promise you, some days will seem to be filled with brilliant insight. I warn you, other days will seem to be completely and utterly deprived of any and all brain activity. Hopefully, the latter won´t outnumber the former by too much.
Oh, let me add just one more thing! Uh... How good is your portuguese?? Well, it better be sharp my friend! Because if it is not sharp, and if by a one-in-a-gazillion chance you become an avid reader of this blog, you should invest in language lessons. I will most likely interchange between english and portuguese so as to satisfy readers (hmmm, what readers?!) in Brazil as well as in the States.
So, enough babbling. Let´s get to it.
Cheers
Oh, let me add just one more thing! Uh... How good is your portuguese?? Well, it better be sharp my friend! Because if it is not sharp, and if by a one-in-a-gazillion chance you become an avid reader of this blog, you should invest in language lessons. I will most likely interchange between english and portuguese so as to satisfy readers (hmmm, what readers?!) in Brazil as well as in the States.
So, enough babbling. Let´s get to it.
Cheers
Assinar:
Postagens (Atom)
