Asshole

"Couple" by AnotherPiece @ DeviantArt

She looked to the side. It was intrusive, it was intimate, it was wrong. She suddenly realized his skin was very hot. His skin was touching her arm. She moved away a bit. He didn’t seem to notice.

He felt his heart sink when she moved. He didn’t realize he was touching her until that moment. He didn’t want to touch her. But he was hurt she didn’t want his touch. The silence sank and he knew he had to say something. She never did.

‘Anyway, it’s just a matter of time, I guess’, she heard herself say. What was the theme anyway? What were they talking about? She hated when her brain couldn’t focus. She hated emotions because of that. No control. She hated him deeply for that.

‘Yes, it will be fine’, his voice, disguising the surprise. She broke the silence. He felt the uneasiness of unknown territory. Without the adrenaline. He knew he didn’t want to be in that place. He wanted things to be like before. He wanted to be again in the days he was the ice-breaker.

‘Well, I guess we’re done then”. She wanted to end it there. She didn’t want to want to be with him a single more minute. He did her wrong. Why was she still speaking to him? What a lack of self-respect.

‘Yes, I’m off, need to meet someone’. He heard the disgust in her voice. She hated him. He knew why. He knew he deserved it. He was forcing her into a friendship she couldn’t be less interested in.

He was going to meet the whore, she was sure. How could he be such a prick and insinuate that in his tone of voice? He wanted her to be hurt. He didn’t want her to be hurt. Could be anyone. Could be his mother.

‘My friend, he needs someone to help him move some stuff, new flat...’ She was pure hate. Those eyes were burning. He was afraid. That girl was capable of the most intense feelings. That scared the hell out of him. Maybe that was the reason he simply couldn’t. She was too much. Too real.

Why did he thought she needed an explanation? What did it matter, it could be a lie, why would she care? His insistence in telling her mindless facts of his life drove her crazy. As if she cared. She did. He knew her well. Too well.

She looked like she was in a hurry. He couldn’t ask anything from her, but he died inside to know she owed him nothing. She’ll be better off with someone else, he knew that. He knew it better than her. So why did it hurt so much?

‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ Classic. As if he really cared. Stupid small talk. Or maybe he did. And it was intrusive, rude. She owed him nothing. She felt the will to give him an aggressive answer. A true answer. Wasn’t that he told her in the other day, she was too raw? Too much?

‘Oh, nothing interesting. Working in some writing’. She wrote wonderfully. He wondered if she ever wrote about him. Na. Too presumptuous. Or maybe she did and burned everything when he broke her heart. Still presumptuous. He only deserved to be typed about, not the ceremony of ink and paper.

He thinks she’s boring, that’s for sure. She should have lied. Insinuated some hot date. Show him he was out of the equation for her. He was out of the equation, for sure. She had too much self-respect to take sloppy seconds. She liked him as a friend though. She wanted him realizing he made the biggest mistake of his life. That was it. That was the reason she wanted to keep that stupid friendship. Keep an eye and win the war after the lost battle.

She was definitely not enjoying his company. He never noticed her enjoying his company before. He’s always afraid to sound boring to her. She is in another level. The unreachable one. He was taken by surprise by her words, when she told him she did, she did enjoy his company more than he could imagine. She didn’t look him in the eyes though. He was so scared, if she looked him in the eyes he could have died. Fulminated by a true feeling.

Let him go. He got up in such a hurry. The whore was jealous. Psychotic. That gave her great pleasure. Made her feel important. Made some kind of little revenge. You can have his lover’s lies, but I am the one that actually knows him. Even the mindless insignificant facts of his life. He was a mystery. She knew how that can drive a girl crazy. It certainly drove her mad. She was better off like that. The best of two worlds.

They were never alone after... after that day. Not until then. It wasn’t right. He tried though. She made it impossible. She wasn’t keen to see him. He felt that in her voice on the phone. He called every week. He liked her on the phone. She listened to his problems. Not the emotional ones though. He didn’t want to hurt her even more. It wasn’t worth it anyway. He didn’t want to lose her further.

It was a long time since they were alone. There were moments though. He avoided it, ran away. That hurt her but, at the same time, made her respect him. He was being faithful to the whore. He wasn’t an asshole. Everything would be easier if he was one. He would kiss her if he was one.

She was lying. She lied. She could never love him. She was mistaken. She could have any man she wanted. She just didn’t know that many there. He was sure, to have her would be a mistake. She would realize that she did a wrong choice soon enough. She would leave him and break his heart. Forever. That’s what girls like her did. She was probably writing about her new passion. Maybe the right passion. He wished he was right for her.

‘So...’ How can you associate two letters only with one person? She gave him a quick look. She didn’t want to look into his eyes. It were his eyes that got her in the first place. Charmer. Liar. Player.

‘So, if you can send me that tonight, I’ll take care of it. And have a nice week.’ She did not love him anymore. Work work work. He felt used. He felt like a whore.

‘Yeah, I’ll send you that’. Work, of course. The only reason he wanted to have her near. To work with. Stupid friendship. He wouldn’t jump in the front of a bus to save her. Damn, he wouldn’t put the kettle one for her life. She wouldn’t either, for his. Or so she liked to think.

‘Have a nice evening, catch you later!’ No he wouldn’t.

‘Bye’. So cold to him, it hurt. His brain froze. He did not think.

-------------

She couldn’t write. She hated him, deeply. Him and the sweet taste of his lips. Moisty, menty, on hers. Asshole.

Sara Galvão, 3rd August 2010, London

O caminho para a Fama começa agora...

Look at what I found in my inbox...

Dear Sara,

I’m very pleased that you entered the National Poetry Anthology competition this year.

I believe this is the first time you have entered and although we don’t know much about you we really like your poetry.

The good news is that you have been shortlisted for the competition which is an achievement in itself. The standard was higher than ever this year and we received many thousands of entries.(...)

Many thanks,

Peter Quinn

Editor of the National Poetry Anthology

Apontamentos à margem

"Ideal of a Poet" by pirifool @ DeviantArt

No voicemail que pago para consultar, uma voz desconhecida a anunciar que fui shortlisted para a National Poetry Anthology, e que o meu poema "Poetry is for the Weak" era powerful stuff. E que eu não precisava de telefonar de volta, que me ia escrever uma carta... manuscrita, decerto...

Made my day. Um dia, serei poeta das imagens também...

Love from a Foreign City

'Fulham Broadway' by Feisar @ DeviantArt

Dearest, the cockroaches are having babies.
One fell from the ceiling into my grin
with no ill effects. Mother has been.
I showed her the bitemarks on the cot
and she gave me the name of her rat-catcher.
He was so impressed bu the hole in her u-bend,
he took it home for his personal museum.
i cannot sleep. They are digging up children
on Hackney Marshes. The papers say
when that girl tried to scream for help,
the man cut her tongue out. Not far from here.
There hae been more firebombs,
but only at dawn and out in the suburbs.
And a mortar attack. We heard it from the flat,
a thud like someone dropping a table.
They say the pond life coming out of the taps
is completely harmless. A law has been passed
on dangerous dogs: muzzles, tattoos, castration.
When the labrador over the road jumped up
to say hello to Billie, he wet himself.
The shops at North End Road are all closing.
You can't get your shoes mended anywhere.
The one-way system keeps changing direction,
I get lost a hundred yards from home.
There are parts of the new A to Z marked simply
'under development'. Even street names
have been demolished. There is typhoid in Finchley.
Mother has brought me a lavender tree.

Lavinia Greenlaw

A dificil vida por detrás das câmaras...

"The Director" by BurlakZapa @ DeviantArt

Lembro-me vagamente de estar fascinada com os recém-aparecidos concursos de perguntas na televisão. Quanto mais o candidato subia, mais as perguntas ficavam difícies. Ciência, geografia (o meu ponto fraco no Trivail Pursuit - nota para mim, tenho de viajar mais), história, literatura...

E houve um dia, em que a última pergunta foi sobre cinema. Olha, vai perguntar quem é que realizou o filme, um comentário alheio de um qualquer membro da família. E eu fiquei a observar o suado concorrente, a tentar lembrar quem tinha realizado um filme famosíssimo que eu, com tanta pouca idade, já tinha ouvido falar. Lembro-me de ter pensado que tinha de preencher a lacuna o mais depressa possível.

E as listas de filmes. Visto, não visto, a ver. Queria fazer um inventário de todos os filmes existentes. Queria ver todos os filmes existentes. Estranho entretenimento, podem pensar vocês. Sempre tive um grande fascínio por listas. Daquelas que dá para pôr a cruzinha ao lado quando se faz alguma coisa. Dá-me um sentido de propósito. Se um dia fico sem coisas a fazer na minha lista mais vale não existir de todo. Estava a fazer a minha lista e a ouvir rádio quando o primeiro avião embateu no WTC. Obcecada com a América - e Los Angeles, e Califórnia, e São Francisco - lembro-me de ter ligado a televisão a tempo de ver, segundos depois, o segundo embate.

E as composições para línguas. Métteur en scene. Filmregisseur. Não que o pensasse seriamente. Apenas queria ser diferente. E como não queria ser médica, nem nenhuma profissão o mínimo normal que fosse - e porque queria sempre perguntar à professora pela nova palavra - escrevia sempre que gostava de contar histórias, e os realizadores fazem isso. Ou assim escrevia eu.

Nunca, mas nunca - e têm de acreditar nisto - parei para pensar. Nunca me levei a sério com essas histórias. Achei sempre que alguma coisa ia acontecer, e o futuro ia parar magicamente. Que alguma coisa havia de acontecer. Possivelmente ficar na Universidade a dar aulas. O mais provável. E sim, gostava - e gosto - de histórias. Quero até procurá-las e pô-las por aqui. De viagens no tempo, de camionetas em inundações, de dinossauros, ou outros monstros. Mas isso não ia acontecer. Talvez jornalista. Sim, com uma trança longa e umas jardineiras azuis, óculos de massa (que imagem tão estranha de futuro). E via Besson, e filmes às escondidas dos meus pais (deixaram o VHS antigo no meu quarto e eu aprendi a programá-lo para gravar as sessões depois da meia-noite. Quatro Quartos (quem é o Tarantino?). Solteiros e Tarados. Porky's.

O primeiro dia na secundária, e fui-me registar no clube de vídeo (tentar ao máximo ver todos os filmes existentes). Ilegal, menor - não me pediram BI. Eu não sabia nada de cinema. Nada de nomes. Nada de filmes famosos. Só via o que me apetecia. Muita coisa estranha. Como o "Star 80" de Bob Fosse. Ou "Innocent Blood" de John Landis. Bolas, o meu primo David sabia tanto de cinema (e que é feito dele?). Eu sentia-me uma ignorante (também lhe devo ter-me dado a conhecer Saramago, que nunca leria por iniciativa própria). Ver todos os filmes existentes. Ver todos os filmes existentes.

Faltar à escola para ir ver "Big Fish" no dia de estreia - não sabia quem era Tim Burton na altura. Sabia de cor e salteado todos os membros dos Chamberlain Men - mas de realizadores não conhecia nada. Suada, suada na final do concurso televisivo, "e então diga-me lá quem é que realizaou Grease?"

Suada, suada, ver todos os filmes existentes.

Foi Shakespeare que me trouxe ao cinema? Quero acreditar que sim. Ah, todos os documentários sobre Titanic também tiveram os seus efeitos. Mas um acidente. Um desvio.

(sim, tinha pedido a câmara de presente de natal. Sim, tinha feito o powerpoint do banho. Sim, sim, sim. Peter Greenaway, Tom Stoppard. Sim, sim. Mas eu ia ser uma pessoa taxável e contribuível, acreditem)

E aqui estou. Que raio sou? Métteur, métteur... métteur en scène. Suada, suada. A guardar cavalos à porta do teatro (ou arrumadora de carros À porta do cinema?).

Ver todos os filmes existentes. Visto. Visto. Ahhhh.... mais uma descoberta.

I have eaten your parrot

I have killed your parrot and eaten him.
I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.
How I could maim and scoff such a nice parrot
that would tell me to ‘sod off and die’
whenever I walked in the room? He tasted of chicken.
I’m sorry.

Caroline Bird

Porto Sentido (Oporto Blues)

Há uns anos valentes atrás, quando estava na secundária, houve um dia particularmente mau (em negócios de amor, só para variar um bocadinho), e eu estava com as minhas calças largas, hoodie e sapatilha azul clara debruçada no muro, a olhar os carros a passarem lá em baixo, com o meu ar de caso.
Houve um rapaz do grupo de teatro - ou seria da turma? nem me lembro do nome dele... - que se chegou ao pé de mim, e sem perguntar o que se passava, começou a cantar-me esta canção. Não sei porquê, sempre que estou no mesmo estado que estava naquela tarde, e ouço esta música - tão deprimente, sejamos sinceros - sinto-me melhor. Coisas...

Finalmente sou velha o suficiente para gostar de Jorge Palma...

image credits:Undisclosed Desires by hakanphotography @ DeviantAet

Some more light verse

You have to try.You see a shrink.
You learn a lot. You read. You think.
You struggle to improve your looks.
You meet some men. You write some books.
You eat good food. You give up junk.
You do not smoke. You don't get drunk.
You take up yoga, walk and swim.
And nothing works. The outlook's grim.
You don't know what to do. You cry.
You're running out of things to try.

You blow your nose. You see the shrink.

You walk. You give up food and drink.
You fall in love. You make a plan.
You struggle to improve your man.
And nothing works. The outlook's grim.
You go to yoga, cry and swim.
You eat and drink. You give up looks.
You struggle to improve your books.
You cannot see the point. You sigh.
You do not smoke. You have to try.

Wendy Cope

We'll always have Eyjafjallajokull...

Eu continuo a achar que a culpa é do bruxo do Cristiano Ronaldo...

Sublimação pela Arte, é o que eu digo...

http://www.miauk.com/

A Mãe Natureza é Madrasta

Enquanto beberricava o seu Earl Grey e comia o seu brownie, horas depois de um bom pequeno-almoço inglês (feijões não incluídos), ela não conseguia deixar de pensar que passado um ano parecia ainda não se ter adaptado totalmente a esta ilhota.

God does exist, and hates us (option 2)

"Volcano", by Davidr805 @ DeviantArt

Apesar de nem querer desfazer a mala, sempre era melhor estar em terra do que enterrada.

Deus não existe

image credits, "Storm" by Grini @ DeviantArt

Ela queria usar o seu vestidinho azul à menina de boa escola inglesa, mas o Instituto Português de Meteorologia estragou-lhe os planos.

Thorns

image credits: *ajsk84life, "Outcast", @ DeviantArt

I like my roses with thorns.

What kind of thing, a clean, safe rose?

Nice everytime, knows your birthday

Never forgets to point it out with that perfect perfect gift.

Roses with thorns, that's what I'm talking.

They seem so beautiful, only to pinch your finger

Lick the blood, lick the blood very quickly

Red red red like the one inside your heart.

Roses, roses, roses

Thorned inside your mind

You learned how to love those thorns, didn't you?

You actually appreciate those little vegetable fangs...

Yellow rose, white rose, black rose

black like your heart, my so not dark lady

Closed or open, thorns that prick

Your senseless skin after all the attacks

Deep it pinches, under the skin

Into the veins, into the mind

Bloody thorns, pointy thorns, all about thorns

Only a kiss can make the wound go worse.

I like my roses with thorns, I like to call it personality

Domesticated roses bore me even more than tulips

Flower, lover, flower, bastard, flower, sweetheart, flower, dickhead,

it's all about flower, flower, flowers

Roses with thorns, that's what I'm talking

Give me one for the evening, and I'll surely dry it out

Thorns, thorns, thorns. those little thorns of yours, dear

To prick my heart, to pinch it, to surely make it bleed.

SG, London, 29thMar10

VII Encontro Internacional de Poetas - COIMBRA

VII Encontro Internacional de Poetas
"As Línguas da Poesia"
27-29 de Maio de 2010

O VII Encontro Internacional de Poetas decorrerá na Faculdade de Letras da Universidade de Coimbra e noutros pontos aprazíveis da cidade de Coimbra e arredores.

Esta edição será subordinada ao tema "As Línguas da Poesia". Alguém disse já que a língua da poesia é sempre a mesma, e sempre estrangeira. Eis o que, com a vossa ajuda, queremos repensar, considerando a materialidade do corpo na língua-órgão e na corporalidade dos gestos, a língua como comunidade falante, a singularidade na diversidade das falas, a inter-traduzibilidade das expressões. O nosso objectivo é reflectir sobre as mais diversas manifestações da poesia e os modos como ela diz o mundo, do puro canto à celebração, da proclamação ao silêncio, da intervenção à resistência, das continuidades às rupturas.

Umas piadinhas de voo...

The Fall of Icarus by *Ecthelian @ DeviantArt

carinhosamente roubado em:

http://blog.sarcasmsociety.com/travel-vacations/drunk-pilot-thats-nice.html

Every time something like this happens I am reminded of the often-used line that says flying is a much safer way of travel than driving. Really?! Here is a list of things to consider:

1. You can’t pull over and stop if there is something wrong with the airplane.
2. If you find out the pilot is drunk in mid flight, you can’t ask to be let off the plane.
3. You don’t have to worry about your landing gear deploying if you are traveling by car.
4. If your car breaks down on the road, it coast to a gentle stop at the side of the road (or, at worst, in the middle of the road)
5. If your car’s engine stops you don’t plunge 30,000 feet to your death.
6. If you run out of fuel, you don’t plunge 30,000 feet to your death.
7. If your car becomes inoperative for any reason, you don’t plunge 30,000 feet to your death. See a pattern?
8. When traveling by car, you are never in danger of sucking a bird into your engine and crashing.
9. If you hit something with your car it’s most likely not going to be a mountain.
10. In a car you won’t experience heart-stopping turbulence.

But at least you can use your seat cushion as a flotation device, in the extremely unlikely event of a water landing where you are not torn limb from limb.

Ctrl-Alt-Del

image credits: IvoryDrive, "Undead Laptop", @ Deviantart.

Esta é a idade da globalização
Esta é a era da comunicação
Isto é o futuro, num piscar de olhos passamos para o outro lado do mundo
A Ficção Científica passou a História.

Num clique, o Mundo
Convenientemente entregue à porta de sua casa
Abra abra, sinta o cheiro das Índias
nesse magnífico sabonete de jasmim
leiloado dias a fio no Ebay.

Esta é a época, o tempo, a altura
(sem peso nem medida)
Em que todos os povos
dão as mãos
e tiram a cavilha da granada com a boca.

Que me interessa isso!
Deixem-me na escuridão do meu quarto
com o meu portátil, a minha música,
os meus Digital Versatile Discs (graças à Wikipedia, sei que não são Digital Video Discs, a maravilha do conhecimento alegremente patricionada pelo monobotão táctil do Sr. Jobs.

Preciso de começar outra vez.

Esta é a idade da Comunicação.
Não quero comunicar.
Quero-te aqui
Quero-te foder
Quero-te que te vás embora a seguir
Esta é a Era Solitária.
Shut down?
Claro que I'm sure.
Don't Save.


SG, Londontown, 8.1.10

Yehhh!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dMKjx8ilLCY