Sexta-feira, 5 de Julho de 2013

Deeper than Death


I don’t care about anybody else’s problems:
They are not as serious as mine.
My sadness is not only deeper than yours:
It is wider and in every respect richer.



 

 


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publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 22:54
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Avalanche

 

I am the stale receptor, the superfluous accumulator,
the redundant completist trapped
in his cave of musty retention,
buried under years of absorption… unaborted;
decades of consumption… consumed,
sacrificed at the altar of other people’s art,
while everything else fell apart.
Pondering, at last, all the pointless consolation;
questioning if it was really necessary
to devour entire genres until I was crapulous
from gorging myself on culture,
As if it were some kind of achievement
to accumulate all this knowledge
that will die with me.
So that on my headstone it will read:
that I read and lived a lot of fiction…
that Art ruined my Life.


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publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 22:43
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Sábado, 20 de Outubro de 2012

Neon dream

 

http://vimeo.com/38340531

 

 

"THERE IS NO CHANGING OF THE SEASONS IN THE ELECTRIC CITY, AND

     NO REAL DARKNESS

 

 THE STREET IS

 ILLUMINATED ALL NIGHT

    WITH ORANGE LIGHT

     AND THE CONCRETE

        IS LIKE A CARPET

 

  WE HAVE DREAMED THE

   STREET AS A ROOM AND

      IT AS BECOME TRUE

 

     THERE IS NO INDOORS OR

        OUTDOORS ANYMORE"

 

Daqui

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publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 20:49
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Domingo, 7 de Outubro de 2012

O Tempo e a Lua

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"On the sea of the heavens
Waves of cloud arise,
The moon-a boat-
Amongst a forest of stars
Rows on, hidden, or so it seems."



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publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 10:49
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Domingo, 9 de Setembro de 2012

"The beginning is also the end"

 

 

 

 









To the One Who is Reading Me



publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 21:40
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Sábado, 17 de Dezembro de 2011

Tags for this poem: "revolution, beer, cleaning"

The Squares Are Filled With People by Miguel Caldas

 

-It will come,
     He said, sipping his beer and fumbling for the lighter.
-What will?
     I listened to every other word,
hazy and detached.


-This thing that’s happening in Tahrir Square. It’ll come here,
-Here?
-Yes.
To the south first then to the North,
Maybe not as dramatic as in Egypt, but it’ll come.
-You think?
-Oh yes,
we both have regimes that no one believes anymore,
ailing economies,
elites that represent only themselves …
these things are infectious,

Said my father,
blowing cigarette smoke through his nose and looking me in the eyes,
forcing me into attention.

I grunted my accord and looked at my glass,
feeling cheated of the dreamy beer buzz
I felt I deserved.

Not really sure of what to say,
I said what I was thinking:

-Better late than never, I suppose.
-Yes, this place needs a cleaning …
Off course here it wont be so … revolutionary.
The European Union won’t let it go so far,
but people will fill the squares very soon.

-Soon?
-Yes, soon,
-Like what, four, five years?
-No! A year … maybe less.
My father looked intently to his cigarette.
Waiting for me to say something.

I zoned out as I felt the conversation taking a turn to the improbable.

Of course there’s reasons for people to be fucked with politics, politicians and government,
but we have years of rot before we see people on the streets.

This is Portugal,
we’re all beyond indignation,
and certainly over protestation.

I looked at my father, encouraging him to talk some more,
and ask me nothing.

I looked over the roofs of downtown Lisboa that,
4 months from then,
would see camped protesters on Rossio Square.

A five minutes walk from my house.
So close.
All this things that I chose to believe were in a manageable future,
are already here.

On this particular grey Saturday afternoon,
during a boozy lunch in my house,
I was warned of the times that were coming.

Saintliness is a form of attention. I heard said once.
True.

 

 

Daqui

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publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 15:13
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Quinta-feira, 8 de Dezembro de 2011

The Beast in the Space

 

 

Shut up. Shut up. There’s nobody here.
If you think you hear somebody knocking
On the other side of the words, pay
No attention. It will be only
The great creature that thumps its tail
On silence on the other side.
If yo do not even hear that
I’ll give the beast a quick skelp
And through Art you’ll hear it yelp.

The beast that lives on silence takes
Its bite out of either side.
It pads and sniffs between us. Now
It comes and laps my meaning up.
Call it over. Call it across
This curious necessary space.
Get off, you terrible inhabiter
Of silence. I’ll not have it. Get
Away to whoever it is will have you.

He’s gone and if he’s gone to you
That’s fair enough. For on this side
Of the words it’s late. The heavy moth
Bangs on the pane. The whole house
Is sleeping and I remember
I am not here, only the space
I sent the terrible beast across.
Watch. He bites. Listen gently
To any song he snorts or growls
And give him food. He means neither
Well or ill towards you. Above
All, shut up. Give him your love.

William Sidney Graham (1918-1986)

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publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 15:27
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Sábado, 5 de Novembro de 2011

A state of being

 

 

"Life in the world is but a big dream;
I will not spoil it by labour or care.
So saying, I was drunk all the day,
Lying helpless at the porch in the front of my door
When I woke up, I blinked at the garden-lawn;
A lonely bird was singing amid the flowers.
I asked myself, had the day been wet or fine?
The Spring-wind was telling the mango-bird.
Moved by its song, I soon began to sigh,
And as wine was there, I filled my own cup.
Wildly singing, I awaited for the moon to rise;
When my song was over, all my senses had gone."

 

Daqui

 

Obrigado ao Miguel

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publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 11:08
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Terça-feira, 9 de Agosto de 2011

The metaphor - "resembles something that as not ocurred"

 

 

 

 

From sense

 

"I wish I were the night so that I might watch your sleep with a thousand eyes"

 

to reference

 

"In order to speak of the sense of an expression 'A' one may simply use the phrase 'the sense of the expression "A"'. In reported speech one talks about the sense, e.g., of another person's remarks. It is quite clear that in this way of speaking words do not have their customary reference but designate what is usually their sense. In order to have a short expression, we will say: In reported speech, words are used indirectly or have their indirect reference. We distinguish accordingly the customary from the indirect reference of a word; and its customary from its indirect sense. The indirect reference of a word is accordingly its customary sense. Such exceptions must always be borne in mind if the mode of connexion between sign, sense, and reference in particular cases is to be correctly understood.

The reference and sense of a sign are to be distinguished from the associated idea. If the reference of a sign is an object perceivable by the senses, my idea of it is an internal image, arising from memories of sense impressions which I have had and acts, both internal and external, which I have performed. Such an idea is often saturated with feeling; the clarity of its separate parts varies and oscillates. The same sense is not always connected, even in the same man, with the same idea. The idea is subjective: one man's idea is not that of another. There result, as a matter of course, a variety of differences in the ideas associated with the same sense. A painter, a horseman, and a zoologist will probably connect different ideas with the name 'Bucephalus'. This constitutes an essential distinction between the idea and the sign's sense, which may be common property of many and therefore not a part of a mode of the individual mind. For one can hardly deny that mankind has a common store of thoughts which is transmitted from one generation to another.

In light of this, one need have no scruples in speaking of the sense, whereas in the case of an idea one must, strictly speaking, add to whom it belongs and at what time. It might perhaps be said: Just as one man connects this idea, and another that idea, with the same word, so also one man can associate this sense and another that sense. But there still remains a difference in the mode of connexion. They are not prevented from grasping the same sense; but they cannot have the same idea. Si duo idem faciunt, non est idem. If two persons picture the same thing, each still has his own idea. It is indeed sometimes possible to establish differences in the ideas, or even in the sensations, of different men; but an exact comparison is not possible, because we cannot have both ideas together in the same consciousness.

(...)

The fact that we concern ourselves at all about the reference of a part of the sentence indicates that we generally recognize and expect a reference for the sentence itself. The thought loses value for us as soon as we recognize that the reference of one of its parts is missing. We are therefore justified in not being satisfied with the sense of a sentence, and in inquiring also as to its reference. But now why do we want every proper name to have not only a sense, but also a reference? Why is the thought not enough for us? Because, and to the extent that, we are concerned with its truth value. This is not always the case. In hearing an epic poem, for instance, apart from the euphony of the language we are interested only in the sense of the sentences and the images and feelings thereby aroused. The question of truth would cause us to abandon aesthetic delight for an attitude of scientific investigation. Hence it is a matter of no concern to us whether the name 'Odysseus', for instance, has reference, so long as we accept the poem as a work of art. It is the striving for truth that drives us always to advance from the sense to the reference."

 

 

(obrigado à João pelo JLB)

 


publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 01:47
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Sábado, 30 de Julho de 2011

Palavras sábias

 

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publicado por quaerendoinvenietis às 23:24
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