palimpsesto

Desisti do êrro e deixei de usar borracha. Não falo do êrro de Leonardo que desenhava propositadamente os componentes das suas máquinas de forma  invertida. De facto não há Êrro, tudo faz parte do percurso. Escrevo por cima, desenho por cima. Deliberadamente escolho cadernos e livros velhos de outros, ou mesmo meus, de um outro tempo. Mesmo quando criamos, criamos sempre sobre alguma coisa feita antes. A obra nunca está acabada. Tudo é construção permanente, e quando não formos nós a fazê-la será o tempo.

Lenço laço, laço lasso. A lógica da batata crua, em rodelas, de manhã até ao deitar.

Que tenhas no teu pensamento a suavidade da paz e a fúria da raiva para que ambas se alimentem e te alimentem a mão criativa e o espírito inquebrantável que te religa com o universo e o cosmos. Que o teu corpo tenha a tenacidade e a ruderalidade natural e que o sofrimento te desobrigue e te seja alheio.

Que tenhas no teu pensamento a suavidade da paz e a fúria da raiva para que ambas se alimentem e te alimentem a mão criativa e o espírito inquebrantável que te religa com o universo e o cosmos. Que o teu corpo tenha a tenacidade e a ruderalidade natural e que o sofrimento te desobrigue e te seja alheio.

Oleg Karavaichuk, pianista, compositor, actor e tudo.! Pim!

Valsa


Improvisação


Música do filme "Xenia a esposa amada de Theodore" de Vitaly Melnikov

Saltar obstáculos.

Tejo que levas as águas - Manuel da Fonseca cantado por Adriano Correia de Oliveira

Joan Baez canta Sad-Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands de Bob Dylan.

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, do they think could bury you?

With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who could they get to ever carry you?

 

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate,

Sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

 

With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?

 

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should leave them them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

 

 

 

The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?

With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?

 

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

 

 

 

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?

They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?

 

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

 

 

 

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?

Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?

 

 

 

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bob Dylan - Ainda não escureceu mas para lá caminhamos.

Not Dark Yet

Written by: Bob Dylan 

 

Shadows are falling and I’ve been here all day
It’s too hot to sleep, time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I’ve still got the scars that the sun didn’t heal
There’s not even room enough to be anywhere
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there

Well, my sense of humanity has gone down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing there’s been some kind of pain
She wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writing what was in her mind
I just don’t see why I should even care
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there

Well, I’ve been to London and I’ve been to gay Paree
I’ve followed the river and I got to the sea
I’ve been down on the bottom of a world full of lies
I ain’t looking for nothing in anyone’s eyes
Sometimes my burden seems more than I can bear
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there

I was born here and I’ll die here against my will
I know it looks like I’m moving, but I’m standing still
Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb
I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don’t even hear a murmur of a prayer
It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there 

O Nóbél que nunca foi nobel.

Então só agora é que repararam que deram um prémio Nobel de literatura ao Churchill porque nessa altura ainda não tinham o atrevimento de lhe dar um prémio Nobel da paz como fizeram ao Obama.

E por favor não se esqueçam que a poesia deve ser cantada, ou pelo menos dita em voz alta como a do Camões. 
 António Fonseca diz os Lusíadas

Uma pedra no coração.

Luvas 4

  

'   Aqui se tivesse os campos que tenho aí seria um homem rico.   '

Luvas 3

Aqui tenho falta das árvores que plantei e deixei aí.
Lembro-me dos frutos deste tempo.
Para aqui estou perdido deles e lembram-me as pedras e as ervas e as flores. 
Sonho convosco. 
Tenho saudade de vós, e até do corpo extenuado e do parco viver que era o meu aí.

Aqui como aí trabalho muito! E trabalho bem e com gosto e muito me apreciam. Mas o que faço com as minhas mãos macias e bem calçadas não me traz sossêgo ao coração entorpecido, nem me apazigua a alma áspera.


 

Luvas 2

Aqui sou apenas um servente
mas não me deixam trabalhar
de mãos nuas, sem luvas.
Perdi os calos e não me lembro
de ter tido as mãos tão macias.

Luvas.

Sculptor | Beatriz Cunha | Escultura: Web site

Sculptor | Beatriz Cunha | Escultura: Web site: http://beatrizcunha.my-free.website/

No calor de Outubro.

Sem título

A força contida.

A força contida.

Não baixar a cabeça tendo a cabeça baixa.

Em Outubro esperando as felosas.

Salvo dos pastores.

 

 

?Dos pastores que guardam rebanhos, quem guardará as ovelhas?

?Salvo dos pastores onde se guardará o rebanho?

 

Os cães magros de Outubro.

Os cães magros de Outubro.