YOU SUCK, MAN

Satânico é meu pensamento a teu respeito, e ardente é o meu desejo
de apertar-te em minha mão, numa sede de vingança incontestável pelo  que me
fizeste ontem.
 

A noite era quente e calma e eu estava em minha cama, quando,
sorrateiramente, te aproximaste. Encostaste o teu corpo sem roupa no
meu corpo nu, sem o mínimo pudor! Percebendo minha aparente indiferença,
aconchegaste-te a mim e mordeste-me sem escrúpulos. Até nos mais íntimos
lugares. Eu adormeci.
 

Hoje quando acordei, procurei-te numa ânsia ardente, mas em vão. Deixaste em
meu corpo e no lençol provas irrefutáveis do  que entre nós ocorreu durante
a noite.
 

Esta noite recolho-me mais cedo, para na mesma cama te esperar. Quando
chegares, quero te agarrar com avidez e  força.Quero te apertar com todas as
forças de minhas mãos. Só descansarei quando vir sair o sangue quente do teu
corpo.
 

Só assim, livrar-me-ei de ti, mosquito Filho da Puta! '

                                                                                        Drummond de Andrade

WONDEROUS STORIES

A seamless source of tales
some are fairy tales
some are flesh and bone real
made of what, it doesn't matter


They all point to something
not higher not divine
but just near our real dimension
Our real height results 
from adding our fantasy 
to the rest of us,
from gathering the courage 
to dream higher


Tell me your tales
(I don't care so much as I used to
whether they are real or not)
Just need you to keep up
watering your dreams every night
with the misty dew of fantasy





Wonderous Stories Lyrics (Going for the one)
Yes
(Anderson)

I awoke this morning
love laid me down by a river.
Drifting I turned on upstream
Bound for my forgiver.
In the giving of my eyes to see your face.
Sound did silence me
leaving no trace.
I beg to leave, to hear your wonderous stories.
Beg to hear your wonderous stories.

He spoke of lands not far
or lands they were in his mind.
Of fusion captured high
where reason captured his time.
In no time at all he took me to the gate.
In haste I quickly checked the time.
if I was late I had to leave to hear your wonderous stories.
Had to hear your wonderous stories.

Hearing
Hearing
Hearing your wonderous stories.
Hearing your wonderous stories.
It is no lie I can see deeply into the future.
Imagine everything
You're close
and were you there to stand
so cautiously at first and then so high.
As he spoke my spirit climbed into the sky.
I bid it to return
to hear your wonderous stories.
Return to hear your wonderous stories.

Hearing,
Hearing,
Hearing,
Hearing,
Hearing.

WORLD CREATORS, ARCHITECTS OF WONDERS

Since my entrance, I've been wandering. I've been admiring the beauties around, without ever asking myself if I need a place of my own to be. 

And these observations, these precious moments of contemplation have had the most profound effect on me. 

Yes, of course I know all I find here is an icon, a symbol, something that represents or replaces something real.

"All this is done by someone" I thought to myself on my first day. And I started admiring these secret entities, the creators, the builders. I even met some brilliant ones.

Virtual, people call it, I think. But the care and the love that these creation show are not necessarily iconic or virtual. Most of the time, the builder cares to build, to insert the detail. Like a painter, he/she steps back to judge the effect the viewer will have, places herself as the user. And smiles, in anticipation, feeling the pleasures his/her work is going to produce. It may look as a painful effort, but I know it must be a joyful one, too.

I post this unbelievable film as my homage to all SL world creators, the architects of wonders. Thank you from my heart!


(watch it in fullscreen mode)

THE FOGGY FOGGY DEW

I've talked before about chance. About unpredictability. Today someone spoke to me about fog and I was immediately drawn to a beautiful song I accompanied years ago. A folk song. The setting was by Benjamin Britten.

But what really draws me to the song is how it tells a life story in a few verses. I've been envying this ability in poets and writers. Also in composers. To tell a lifetime in a few seconds. Zooming out and enjoying the perspective. If we could only do this once a day...

When I was a bachelor, I liv'd all alone
I worked at the weaver's trade
And the only, only thing that I ever did wrong
Was to woo a fair young maid.
I wooed her in the wintertime
And in the summer, too
And the only, only thing that I did that was wrong
Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

One night she came to my bedside
When I was fast asleep.
She laid her head upon my bed
And she began to weep.
She sighed, she cried, she damn near died
She said what shall I do?
So I hauled her into bed and covered up her head
Just to keep her from the foggy foggy dew.

So, I am a bachelor, I live with my son
and we work at the weaver's trade.
And every single time that I look into his eyes
He reminds me of that fair young maid.
He reminds me of the wintertime
And of the summer, too,
And of the many, many times that I held her in my arms
Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy, dew.

JULIA MEETS YOKO

JULIA (or Lennon's Oedipus Rex)

Julia Stanley was a woman who was ran over a car driven by a drunken police. If there ever was a solemnly stupid death, it was Julia’s.

Julia Stanley was, by the way, John Lennon’s mom.

Julia is also a gentle, almost drowsy beautiful song, written by John.

The melody drifts away, jumping on a repeated note first, just to follow an imaginary line, as un-purposeful as the flight of a capricious butterfly.

So is this a hymn? A musical epitaph? John’s love song for his dear lost mummy?

Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you

So John, you telling us you spoke nonsense whenever you wanted to feel your mother’s presence? You babble as a charming act to call her attention, to bring her back from heaven?

Julia, Julia, oceanchild, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia

Not so easy. We’re getting psychoanalytical here (lol) …

Seemingly, “oceanchild” is English for “Yoko”.

Yes, you heard it right. Yeah, you got the idea.

Yoko appears in the middle of John’s homage to his ran over mother.

Why not?

So Yoko-Julia, Julia-Yoko, mixed up, almost interchangeable in this Lennon’s Oedipus Rex. The following scene is the imaginary and impossible introductory meeting between John’s two women.

John:  Dear Yoko, come nearer. I introduce you mamma Lennon. Mom, this is Yoko.

Julia: Well, dear, isn’t this about time, Johnny!  For how long have you been courting this girl, for Christ’s sake? [To Yoko]: Exceedingly nice to meet you dear. Johnny has told me a lot about you. You look a little pale … is that the Liverpool smog, or just your complexion, dear?

Yoko: Hi, Madame Stanley. It’s, like you say, my natural Asian completion. Very nice meeting you [to John]: Come on baby, we’re already late for my happening.

Poor Julia,

sleeping the eternal dream,

inhabiting John’s ethereal slumber

of lost youth

Rest in peace, Julia

JULIA (John Lennon, 1970)

Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you, 
Julia

Julia, Julia, oceanchild, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
Julia, seashell eyes, windy smile, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julia

Her hair of floating sky is shimmering, glimmering,
In the sun

Julia, Julia, morning moon, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julia

When I cannot sing my heart
I can only speak my mind, Julia

Julia, sleeping sand, silent cloud, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julia
Hum hum hum...calls me
So I sing a song of love for Julia, Julia, Julia

A THEORY OF (mean)TIME

You have TIME
and then you have the MEAN time

MEAN time tries to eat you alive
whereas TIME
(provided you find It)
restores the connection

In order to find TIME
you need to kill MEAN time
There's no way around it

Once you've murdered
that mean bastard
then TIME may reign


You will notice the change
for TIME provides
a vision of eternity

Once you live in TIME
you will immediately recognize
that your time has changed
and you will become an adept
perhaps an addict
(but do not worry, TIME is good)

Once you decide
to kill MEAN time
remember all you need
is a bunch of light beams
or something of similar beauty

ELEMENTAL GIFT

At certain times
I can see you
floating over the clouds
laying there,
relaxed yet alert
as if helping the horizon
keeping its straight line,
as if teaching the elements
to be merciful
to behave

Maybe announcing
maybe letting the elements know
you will not last forever

Then the elements
blend together in a whirlwind
(they know well their physics)
they seem to be conferencing
and finally
they give their joint present to you,
asking you
almost begging
to stay a little longer,

They give you in a pretty little box
all the colors and forms in the world
and all the lines and circles to be found
so that you can draw
forever

GENTE HUMILDE

I cried yesterday. This is hardly news, lately, true. 

I cried while listening to a story. A life. A childhood that was stolen. By untimely deaths, by abandonment, by separation from her kin, by prejudice.

And this girl grew, against all odds, to reach her full stature, to make true all her potentialities. Today she is a caring mother and wife, a soon-to-be grandmother, a perceptive observer and a wise story teller. A good friend. Someone who fights to avoid her story to be repeated again and again.

She still lives feeling the remainings of a deep sadness. But I know she will heal, eventually, and that shadow will be removed. By loving others, her love will reach finally the last shadowy corners of her own soul.

I lovingly devote this post to her. She will know.

GENTE HUMILDE
(Garoto - Vinícius de Moraes - Chico Buarque, 1969)
Tem certos dias
Em que eu penso em minha gente
E sinto assim
Todo o meu peito se apertar
Porque parece
Que acontece de repente
Feito um desejo de eu viver
Sem me notar
Igual a como
Quando eu passo no subúrbio
Eu muito bem
Vindo de trem de algum lugar
E aí me dá
Como uma inveja dessa gente
Que vai em frente
Sem nem ter com quem contar
São casas simples
Com cadeiras na calçada
E na fachada
Escrito em cima que é um lar
Pela varanda
Flores tristes e baldias
Como a alegria
Que não tem onde encostar
E aí me dá uma tristeza
No meu peito
Feito um despeito
De eu não ter como lutar
E eu que não creio
Peço a Deus por minha gente
É gente humilde
Que vontade de chorar