thank you for that loveful time, every none of us

I shall spread through air or dirt
or waves — therefore no me to be
And the person made memory is
yours then others’ — slip
itself in others coding.

A whole life lived through
for I want to know feelings
and I knew and I felt;

but feeling is too much
for the human to know or bare.


stella di plastica

stella and a white whine glass

I’ve been following performer dancer Stella di Plastica`s photowork a while, started on tumblr, but I never actually said that which is actually pretty obvious: her photos are simply amazing! I don’t know why I felt like saying this now, but I just did, and can’t quite put into words the feelings they bring out, but those are strong and good feelings on seeing and capturing such photos into someplace deep inside.

stella in movement with a dance partner

I bet Haruki Murakami would have some way of explaining it better than I do, but some things are better off not fully explained. These things of the soul, they tend to lose their greatness if we don’t succeed on finding all the right words for them. Anyway, I just thanked her and the photographers she works with for such beautiful artwork and thought that I should share it here as well.

stella on dark background

“I’m really glad to know this, words are not the exact way I’m good to explain what I need too…”

-Stella, in response to my regards on the photos, on instagram

stella blowing smoke

I took the liberty of saving some of her photos — all the ones above and below — from Stella’s Facebook Page. Hope you enjoy the photograpic work as much as I did. She sure photographs well, but there is much more to help understand why I see this on her instagram account and, the first I’ve seen, her tumblr profile.

stella at the window with the city in the background

Welcome to the Losers Club, asshole: 27 seven years later

Just like Pennywise the Dancing Clowns starves until the fear from scared children feeds him, I’m sure to starve for others to describe what an amazing experience watching Fukanaga’s, Palmer’s and Muschietti’s* vision of Stephen King’s “It” has been. For starters, you’ve got the Losers Club assembling and going through the epiphany of discovery what and how It works its way into people’s minds and actual lives: well, yes, it was made in sort of a rush, but it is all there. Not an use thing to put every detail in less than two hours, but if you want all the kids’ experience, there is no way of getting way unless you read the book. The movie made the job of a movie and got that well done, as far as this long time King’s fan is concerned.

The acting? You can’t get it better. And I mean all the cast: from the teenagers to the old lady ignoring that kid in yellow raincoat crouching to a sewer, which is a perfect opening to let us know how Derry folks behave in relation to It’s actions. That was an amazing moment, to me. The rain falls. Someone watches but sees nothing. A cat that shows more reaction than humans do in front of what happens so clsoe to them. That is one of the main points in It’s story: they let it happen because it’s part of what’s being happening long time before they were even born. And it’s all there. And we get to know about all that in that first initial hour, which, as said, is an accomplishment.

a scene from the movie with the whole teenage cast in the shot

And I was honest when I started this short fast review: I’m still cooking up the words for what has been, for me, to be back there through this all new production of a story that has been not so new for me but is still alive as it was almost three decades ago. The second part of the story is coming upp next year and, like the Losers Club children, I plan to be ready for It, yet I know I won’t. It is bound to be a whole new experience just like this first part has been. And I’m eager to live it.

* screeplayers: Chase Palmer and Cary Fukanaga; director: Andy Muschietti

“I had hopes, but I was snot prepared for how good it really was.”

Stephen King

Sad, sad, sad. One of my favorite singing voices. The ever echoing reminder that salvation is free. Much to thank for and much to miss, resquiescat in pace, Dolores O’Riordan.

To all the people doin’ lines: don’t do it. Inject yourselves with liberty — it’s free, it’s free!

draft for “a man wakes up”

Veio do choque e moveu-se pelo ar no entorno, seguiu os vãos das janelas de um longo corredor e atravessou a porta de madeira. O som que entrou na concha auditiva e seguiu pelo condutor auditivo pra eventualmente atingir os nervos que o fariam ser percebido pelo homem desprovido por ele de seu sono era um som metálico e vibrante, como de algo grande e pesado caindo sobre uma enorme placa de ferro.

Seus olhos se abriram com raiva; sim! Seus olhos, d’onde esses são o órgão chave da visão, se abriram: pálpebras violentamente movidas, pupilas dilataram-se buscando luz enquanto as membranas e camadas de lágrimas escondidam a luz, evitando choque maior, pra imediatamente se fecharem. Antes que músculos perceptíveis à última camada de consciência subesses, os olhos percebiam. Estava acordado.

Pensaria no zero absoluto mais tarde tentando calcular quanto tempo poderia ter dormido entre o deitar, fechar os olhos, passar para o raro momento entre todos os pensamentos em que se sente apagar, e ser trazido de volta por aquele som.

Nenhum livro precisa de capa Escritor só escreve
Linhas são guias pro pulso e pro olho
E fomos nós que as criamos à ida
da escrita

Sentiu a pausa?

Nada pode nos parar.

on that gentle slope

Ascend to stars on a gentle slope, my friend
and stop for rest if you will or if you must
I’ll make a bed of my thighs and
caress your hair between my fingers

You may fall sleep then and so shall I;
into dreams of unknown softness we travel then
only to come back fully restored.

On that gentle slope we part ways waving hands
that felt warmth, from our lips shall pass but smiles
and not one word for goodbye: we either meet again
or we never unmet.

man arrested during Coldplay concert for being black

The following text is a free translation of a report published last night by Gabriel’s lawyer and friend Helena Vasconcellos:

“Here is the story: my good pal Gabriel went to Coldplay’s concert last night. Gabriel is black.
Two white girls complained about him being “in front of them”; complained about him, who paid for his ticket just like everybody else.
Long story short: The police understood that this black man does not belong in a Coldplay concert, even though he bought his ticket. Gabriel got beaten up, handcuffed, arrested and is now under a process opened by the São Paulo’s Tourist Assistance Defense for contempt.
Did you think there was no racism lingering in 2017?
This is a side to a live concert that no one will show. The violent police that thinks a black person should not be there.”

I miss being locked up

I miss being inside
Because the loneliness inside
is the loneliness of me
Whilst the loneliness out here
is inflicted by others

I miss the meds
that made me forget
what it was I left behind

I miss being locked up
and unable to scream
Because the silence then
was the silent me within
Whilst the silence out here
is that of not being heard

I miss being inside
Because out here
I hear that inner me
screaming for help
Yet find no voice
or care or hand
to help out

I wrote this some days after I got out of a mental institution, one year ago:

I have never seen so many sane people. I mean it: those who are there either know themselves or are trying to know. Out here, most people only se themselves yet what they see is but a reflection, an image reflected in a mirror. But that mirror doesn’t reflect them, it reflects others, and those are also ignorant to who they are seeing. But in the mental home, not one person is looking at others, much less at the mirror. They are looking or trying to direct their sight toward themselves, so then they can see their surroundings. And once they achieved, it really works out greatly.