Fragmentos

Nota para mim mesmo: voltar a escrever no blog.

The seasons can turn on a dime
Somehow I forget every time
All the things that you've given me will always stay
They're broken but I'll never throw them away
— Tom Waits, Broken Bicycles.

I will hide and you will hide
And we shall hide together here
Underneath the bunkers in the row

I have water I have rum
Wait for dawn and dawn shall come
Underneath the bunkers in the row

Banda sonora: R.E.M. - Underneath the Bunker

vai um Abismo que Vontade nenhuma poderá transpor.

After the Years, the Wars, the Deluge,
We sundered for El Paso.

The stars were in on the secret.
Night was a long embrace.

Um macaco velho, a dormir num canto da sua jaula.

As melhores revoluções são as que ainda estão no futuro. Até o futuro chegar, de pantufas calçadas e aninhados no sofá, a embebedarmo-nos com Mon Cherie e a ver o último vídeo da Sandra Bullock, sempre podemos congeminar invasões imaginárias a mansões de advogados ricos em que, de rosto escondido em meias de licra e a gritar slogans revolucionários, pé-de-cabra numa mão e cocktail molotov na outra, endireitamos o torto mundo esmigalhando uns quantos crâneos; deitando fogo a uns quantos esqueletos.

Banda Sonora: Brooklyn Funk Essentials — The Revolution Was Postponed Because of Rain.

Well, I just happened to be back on the east coast a few years back
I was tryin to make me a buck like everybody else.
Well, you know, but times can get hard, and Christ I got down on my luck
And I got tired of just roamin and bummin around,
So I started thumbin my way back to my old hometown.
You know I made quite a few miles in the first couple of days,
I figured I'd be home in a week if my luck held out this way.
But you know, it was the third night, though, and I got stranded,
It was out at a cold, lonely crossroads,
And as the rain came pouring down, man,
I was hungry, tired, freezin, caught myself a chill.
But it was just about that time, yea, it was just about that time
That the lights of an old semi topped the hill
You should of seen me smile when I heard them air brakes come on,
And I climbed up in that cab where I knew it'd be warm.
At the wheel, well, at the wheel sat a big man,
I have to say he must of weighed 210,
As he stuck out a big hand and said with a grin:
«Big Joe's the name and this here rig is called Phantom 309»
Well, I asked him why he called his rig such a name,
But he just turned to me and said
«Why son, don't you know this here rig'll be puttin them all to shame,
Why, there ain't a driver on this or any other line for that matter
that's seen nothin but the taillights of Big Joe and Phantom 309».
So we rode and we talked the better part of the night
And I told my stories and Joe told his
And I smoked up all his Viceroys as we rolled along.
He pushed her ahead with 10 forward gears,
Man, that dashboard was lit like the old Madam La Rue pinball
A serious semi truck.
Until almost mysteriously, well,
It was the lights of an old truck stop that rolled into sight,
And Joe turned to me and said:
«I'm sorry son but I'm afraid this is just as far as you go,
You see, I kinda gotta be makin a turn just up the road a piece»,
But I'll be damned if he didn't toss me a dime as he threw her in low and said:
«Go on in there son, and get yourself a hot cup of coffee on Big Joe»
I mean, I tell you when Joe and his rig pulled off into the night,
Man in nothing flat they was clean out of sight.
So I walked into this stop and ordered me up a cup of mud sayin:
«Big Joe's settin this dude up»
But it got so deadly quiet in that place, you could of heard a pin drop
As the waiter's face turned kinda pale, I said
«What's the matter, did I say somethin' wrong?»
I kinda said with a half way grin.
He said «No son, you see, It'll kinda happen every now and then.
You see, every driver in here knows Big Joe,
But let me tell you what happened just ten years ago out there,
Yeah, it was ten years ago out there, at that cold, lonely crossroads
And there was a whole bus load of kids
And they were just comin from school
And they were right in the middle when Joe topped the hill,
And could have been slaughtered except Joe turned his wheels,
And jacknifed, and he went into a skid,
And folks around here say he gave his life to save that bunch of kids,
And out there at that cold, lonely crossroads,
Well, they say it was the end of the line for Big Joe and Phantom 309.
But it's funny you know, cause every now and then,
Yea every now and then, when the moon's holdin water,
They say that old Joe will stop to give you a ride,
And just like you, some hitchhiker will be comin by.»
«So here son,» he said to me,
«Get yourself another cup of coffee, it's on the house,
I kinda want you to hang on to that dime,
Yea, you hang on to that dime as a kind of souvenir,
A souvenir of Big Joe and Phantom 309».
— Tom Waits, Big Joe and Phantom 309.

Não é assim também com as nossas vidas? Vamos encontrando pessoas, trocamos histórias, recebemos moedas, damos outras em troca. A umas guardamos, a outras gastamos para beber café. Mas o melhor de tudo, é que por vezes, quando estamos perdidos nalgum cruzamento, sozinhos, com fome e a tiritar de frio, Deus manda algum Big Joe no seu Phantom 309 para nos dar boleia até à estação de serviço mais próxima.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh

Levantar-me. Mudar de roupa. Mudar de cadeiras. Fechar as portas abertas. Sair pela janela. Mudar as chaves de um bolso para o outro. Entrar naquele autocarro. Começar a correr. Mudar de lugar. Despedir o advogado. Pintar o cabelo. Não, cortar o cabelo. Deixar crescer a barba. Mudar o rosto. Perder o bilhete de identidade. Mudar de nome. Alugar nova identidade. Tomar nota daquilo que é para esquecer. Usar óculos. Perder as notas. Deitar as chaves para o caixote de lixo. Recomeçar.

In the end is my beginning.

Criar uma mitologia pessoal.

I'm a lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely man
And you're a lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely girl
And it's a lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely world
It's a lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely world
Perry Blake — Hunchback of S. Francisco

Os filhos do estupro. Os que não amamos. Os que não podemos amar. Os filhos do estupro. Para quem olhamos com infinita tristeza. Os filhos do estupro. Oh my son... what have I done unto thee....

O melhor comentário sobre S. Kierkegaard é um filme do também dinamarquês Carl Th. Dreyer, Ordet (1954). No filme, baseado numa peça de Kaj Munk, um jovem estudante de teologia, Johannes Borgen, enlouquece depois de estudar Kierkegaard na universidade e agora julga que é Jesus Cristo. No final do filme ressuscita uma mulher (Inger Borgen) que tinha morrido durante o parto.

In a theatre, it happened that a fire started offstage. The clown came out to tell the audience. They thought it was a joke and applauded. He told them again, and they became still more hilarious. This is the way, I suppose, that the world will be destroyed — amid the universal hilarity of wits and wags who think it is all a joke.
— S. Kierkegaard.

Oh darling, you are not moving any mountain
You are not seeing any vision
You are not freeing any people from prison
Just an aphorism for every occasion
— The Triffids, Stolen Property.

Não temos a Fé para mover montanhas. Não temos a Esperança para ter visões; nem sequer o Amor para libertar os cativos. Mas na ponta da língua temos sempre um aforismo pronto para espantar os Outros.

Muitas pessoas esquecem-se que não podem enganar a Deus. Muitas mais esquecem-se que não podem enganar o Diabo.