Image from NASA - Saturn Moons

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Self portrait ca. 1998

You think you have found the answer. You happily live for it. You feel strong, supported. You think you have a little piece of truth. You think that is enough, for making important decisions. You are excited about this new state of mind. You feel your spirit is high and well looked after.

Then, you fall. You break your legs, you break your heart. You have one of those corny little scenes, crying and folding your body in two in the shower, shoving your fist in your mouth not to scream of despair.

Latter on you have a good laugh at yourself and life goes on. More uncertain than ever, but it's okay. Yes, it's just okay.

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Weaved in honor to the memory of Vasarely

When I am working, it feels like I'm mending reality.

Outlining, preventing it's blurriness.

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And again it is so hard not to want many things, not to get overly excited, involved with the emotions when they are so pleasant. It gets scary, too, because I've been there before. When life was so full of events and smiles, expectations of something new, every day, to feel good about yourself, proud really, because you're pretty and fun, smart and sensible, sweet and provocative on balanced measures; you are on top of your small little insignificant vanity world. There was also the hole, the hole within I would call "daily depression". It felt like it was all on the wrong place, all fake and plastic, all in vain, pure waste of time. And it wasn't an ignorant feeling. In fact, it proved to be quite precise.
I tend to value more my years of true hardship and introspection. Not because you must be miserable but because they were solid, those years were telling me something worth hearing.
Now, my vanity once more is blowing and glowing. It scares me like physical pain and I can almost feel the tentacles starting to confine me to it.







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Warm me up.






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In the middle of drowning dreams, distant friends trying to hurt me, I still long for the precious popping here and there, mostly deep inside or far away.

Mas ele está alí, nervoso, porque escuta o que lhe dizem em meio a tamanho vozerio mental. A voz alheia soa mais alto e ele não consegue se deicidir se deve responder a quem está fora ou se persiste em escutar o que vai dentro.

Já não escuta mais nada. Passa um vagão, dois, três; quantas janelas em cada vagão, quantas arestas em cada janela? Quatro, oito, dezesseis, vinte e quatro, quarenta e oito. As portas têm janelas? Soma as janelas das portas? Parou. Dá pra ver até o final, contá-las, todas, até o último vagão? As pessoas estão descendo; uma, duas, três, quatro, seis, oito, dez, doze, quatorze pares de sapatos. Aquela está ansiosa, aquele traz uma filha; nenhuma aliança, muitas malas.

Que horas no relógio? Quantos minutos? Quantos minutos eu tenho? Quantas eram as janelas? Dobra-se o número porque elas se repetem do outro lado. Multiplica-se por quatro para ter o número das arestas. Multiplica por oito se levar em conta as arestas internas. Quantas rodas por vagão? Qual o meu vagão? Quanto tempo tenho? Dá pra contar os segundos de dois em dois? Se terminar em número ímpar dá azar.

- Você está bem, querido?

- Ãhn? Sim, estou. Pode me ajudar com as malas? Sabe quantos minutos eu tenho?

Checa o relógio no pulso, checa o relógio na estação. Mas porquê diabos (!) os segundos não passam de dois em dois? Está tudo bem. Basta. Basta contá-los de dois em dois nos minutos pares e reiniciá-los de dois em dois nos alternados (um, três, cinco, sete...) nos minutos ímpares. Não pense nas horas, não pense nas horas, não pense nas horas, não pense nos dias, não pense nos dias dentro do ano, não pense nos anos....

- Você tem alguns minutos ainda. Venha, eu te ajudo com as malas. Pense sobre o que conversamos; às vezes me sinto muito sozinha, como se você estivesse longe. Não quero alarmá-lo, vá tranquilo. Mas por favor, não me procure antes de encontrar algo para me dizer, sobre... você sabe, tudo o que andei sentindo.
Javier! Porque fica olhando para o final do trem? Seu vagão está ali na frente. Venha, venha querido, fique calmo.
Deveria v iajar de primeira classe se os trens o deixam tão nervoso. O preço sairia até menor do que os dois assentos de segunda que insiste em comprar.
Está bem, está bem. Não precisa me olhar desse jeito. Toma, aqui estão as suas malas. Pense sobre o que conversamos. Eu me preocupo com você, mas... Eu também existo, sabe?

- Desculpe, querida. Quais são os meus assentos?

- Está aqui, no bilhete: números noventa e um e noventa e dois, está vendo? Devia ter comido alguma coisa, está palido.
Desculpe, esqueça, está tudo bem, querido. Vá, coloque ali a sua bagagem. Vá, querido, adeus.

Esqueça noventa e um, noventa e dois. São dois assentos. Ninguém sentará ao seu lado. Primeira classe é mais silencioso mas têm os condutores que se revezam, naquele primeiro vagão, primeiro, primeiro, primeiro.

Senta, põe os protetores auriculares. Ajusta. Coloca a mochila no assento vazio. Quantos minutos? Quantos minutos? Quantos mi-nu-to-s?

O apito, finalmente o apito. Fecha essa maldita porta. Minhas malas, estão ali, consigo vê-las. Quantas horas? Tenho quatro horas e quarenta e três minutos. Posso olhar um pouco para fora, ver a paisagem. Um, dois, três, quatro, cinco, seis postes. Um, dô, trê, qua, cin, sê, sé, ô, nó, dé, onze fileiras de pinus. O que ela estava me dizendo? Porquê o silencio que tanto desejei me cai tão hostil? Deeeeeeesce e soooobe fio, poste, deeeesce e sooobe fio, poste, deeesce e soobe fio, poste, desce e sobe fio, poste, des e sob fio, post, dé e só, pó, dé e só, pó, dé e sópó... um, dois, três, quatro, cinco...

Ela estava tão linda na estação, enquanto me dizia aquelas coisas. Que coisas dizia? Porquê diabos não disse a ela o quanto a acho linda? Podia ter dito algo em vez de me preocupar com as malditas janelas. Quantas janelas nesse vagão? Duas, quatro, cinco de cada lado. Mais as portas, uma em cada extremidade, com duas bandas cada, cada banda com uma janela. Dez janelas mais quatro janelas de porta, vezes quatro arestas, vezes oito se quiser considerar as arestas externas....

Dominique!! Não a procurar antes de pensar...sobre o quê?! Míque, minha querida Míque.

Onde está a minha agenda? Quantos minutos da estação até o palácio de verão?

Onde estão os pais dessa menina? Porquê não a fazem sentar? Porquê sempre me olha quando passa correndo? Quantos minutos, quantos postes?

Dominique... Porquê não a convidei para vir comigo? Ela sabe que sempre compro dois assentos, mas porquê nunca a convido?

Não a procurá-la antes de pensar... sobre o quê?! Não procurá-la, não procurá-la...

Paisagem, paisage, paisa, olhos pesados, pais.... Há um rio, estreito. Estou em um bote inflável. Tenho oito horas para percorrer o percurso. Me sinto só. Sinto o impulso de me atirar do barco, me deixar na selva. Chegamos no fim do trajeto; há uma cascata altíssima. Cada pedra que piso me olha e então se move, voluntariamente, em direção ao despenhadeiro. Não há onde pisar. Pular, de tamanha altura, em direção à àgua, é atraente.

Dominique...

Qual estação é esta? Quantos minutos? Quantas horas? Pai, estamos chegando? Quanto falta? Mas quanto exatamente? Quantos minutos? Não sabe calcular? Como se faz pra saber?

Diminique!!! Não gosto do que faço... Tudo bem?!






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"‘Do You like being a minister?’
The Rev. Paul Ford looked up now, very quickly.
‘Do I like—Why, what an odd question! Why do you ask that, my dear?’
‘Nothing—only the way you looked. It made me think of my father. He used to look like that—sometimes.’
‘Did he?’ The minister’s voice was polite, but his eyes had gone back to the dried leaf on the ground.
‘Yes, and I used to ask him just as I did you if he was glad he was a minister.’
The man under the tree smiled a little sadly.
‘Well—what did he say?’
‘Oh, he always said he was, of course, but ‘most always he said, too, that he wouldn’t STAY a minister a minute if ‘twasn’t for the rejoicing texts.’
‘The—WHAT?’ The Rev. Paul Ford’s eyes left the leaf and gazed wonderingly into Pollyanna’s merry little face.
‘Well, that’s what father used to call ‘em,’ she laughed. ‘Of course the Bible didn’t name ‘em that. But it’s all those that begin ‘Be glad in the Lord,’ or ‘Rejoice greatly,’ or ‘Shout for joy,’ and all that, you know—such a lot of ‘em. Once, when father felt specially bad, he counted ‘em. There were eight hundred of ‘em.’
‘Eight hundred!’
‘Yes—that told you to rejoice and be glad, you know; that’s why father named ‘em the ‘rejoicing texts.’ ‘
‘Oh!’ There was an odd look on the minister’s face. His eyes had fallen to the words on the top paper in his hands—
‘But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!’ ‘And so your father—liked those ‘rejoicing texts,’ ‘ he murmured.
‘Oh, yes,’ nodded Pollyanna, emphatically. ‘He said he felt better right away, that first day he thought to count ‘em. He said if God took the trouble to tell us eight hundred times to be glad and rejoice, He must want us to do it—SOME. And father felt ashamed that he hadn’t done it more.(...)

(...)‘What men and women need is encouragement. Their natural resisting powers should be strengthened, not weakened….
Instead of always harping on a man’s faults, tell him of his virtues. Try to pull him out of his rut of bad habits.
Hold up to him his better self, his REAL self that can dare and do and win out! … The influence of a beautiful, helpful, hopeful character is contagious, and may revolutionize a whole town…. People radiate what is in their minds and in their hearts. If a man feels kindly and obliging, his neighbors will feel that way, too, before long. But if he scolds and scowls and criticizes—his neighbors will return scowl for scowl, and add interest! … When you look for the bad, expecting it, you will get it. When you know you will find the good—you will get that…."


From the book Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter








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To be True.

To follow the time of things.









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Dreaming about the will to move a big piece of furniture makes me think that heaviness from family relations is coming to a decisive point, where is light enough I can dream about it or even dream in my dreams it is possible to remove it, take it further away from the fire place, where our hearts supposedly are.
I woke up with a frightful groan and latter on believed it to be quite an unusual reaction to such frivolous dream. But a groan that wakes you up must be something relevant. I hope.





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Happy birthday
Tayata Om Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha
Peter Dixon Woolley










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There are innumerable ways to waste your own time. The most frequent one, in my case, is with organizational thoughts. It starts as a little, apparently insignificant thing; like the need to clean the bathroom if a maid is not available.
It has to be deeply cleaned at least twice a month. How wonderful it would be if the thought stopped at that. It is information enough, isn't it? But there comes the tools needed: rubber boots, rubber gloves, perhaps a mask, hot water - and what if the house I am living at doesn't have a boiler system? Water from an electric shower should be hot enough? Should I boil some water before starting anything else? Better to start from scratch.
First: heat up a big pan filled with water till boiling. Oh, wait! Do you have a big pan?
From scratch again.
Go and run some errands with this list: big pan, rubber boots, rubber gloves, face mask, sponge, plastic broom, powder soap, scrubber, squeegee, bucket, bleach - have to remember to wear clothes I absolutely don't care about (going trough my wardrobe mentally now). Remember to wash away really good any traces of bleach: I don't want to spoil dear clothes latter on. Not to forget to take a shower afterward, NEVER before. Then comes the scrubbing; where, for how long, using this or that tool, this or that chemical - but was it clean enough? Better to go trough it all again: sink, floor, toilet, shower, taps, corners, bathtub; soap it, scrub it, bleach it, wash it, flush it, slosh it, squirt it, squeegee it... Remember to ask your brother to sit when peeing or, even better(!), teach him the deep cleaning process! Lets see... what would he need? Rubber boots, rubber gloves, face mask...

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Sistema anti-furto escandinavo.







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La Ruche

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You sit




You walk




You're standing naked on the play-ground




You kiss her lips, she melts away




Is that her skull?




You're still a clown




Perhaps one day she did feel sad




No one was there




The weeds, my friend, are prrrrrecious




Look way up there, it's not all within
The road is not straight and never will be




Would you not tell me about your plans?







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I was called again, very early this morning. The call seemed, at the same time that would wisper my name, to ask: "Why wont you answer me?". But I am ALWAYS sleeping when they call me. Will I ever hear anything besides my own name? Do I WANT to hear anything beyond?

Write and forget, "It's only a dream".















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Photo by a CapellaGarden's student (was this Mayuko's shot?)

"I turn to another class(...) in whose eyes whatever is unusual is wrong; whose ears detect in each protest against bigotry—that parent of crime—an insult to piety, that regent of God on earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain obvious distinctions; I would remind them of certain simple truths.
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.
These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is—I repeat it—a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between them.
The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has been accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external show pass for sterling worth—to let whitewashed walls vouch for clean shrines. It may hate him who dares to scrutinise and expose—to rase the gilding, and show base metal under it—to penetrate the sepulchre, and reveal charnel relics: but hate as it will, it is indebted to him.
Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he never prophesied good concerning him, but evil; probably he liked the sycophant son of Chenaannah better; yet might Ahab have escaped a bloody death, had he but stopped his ears to flattery, and opened them to faithful counsel."

Charlotte Bronte on Jane Eyre's Preface








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How I won the couch...

Well, at least for one night...


... maybe two? : p






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"I hate you, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, solely (this may seem curious to you, but I repeat)—solely because you are the type, and incarnation, and head, and crown of the most impudent, the most self-satisfied, the most vulgar and detestable form of commonplaceness. You are ordinary of the ordinary; you have no chance of ever fathering the pettiest idea of your own. And yet you are as jealous and conceited as you can possibly be; you consider yourself a great genius; of this you are persuaded, although there are dark moments of doubt and rage, when even this fact seems uncertain. There are spots of darkness on your horizon, though they will disappear when you become completely stupid. But a long and chequered path lies before you, and of this I am glad. In the first place you will never gain a certain person."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky - The Idiot



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“Habitual associates are known to exercise a great influence over each other's minds and manners. Those whose actions are for ever before our eyes, whose words are ever in our ears, will naturally lead us, albeit against our will, slowly, gradually, imperceptibly, perhaps, to act and speak as they do. I will not presume to say how far this irresistible power of assimilation extends; but if one civilized man were doomed to pass a dozen years amid a race of intractable savages, unless he had power to improve them, I greatly question whether, at the close of that period, he would not have become, at least, a barbarian himself. And I, as I could not make my young companions better, feared exceedingly that they would make me worse—would gradually bring my feelings, habits, capacities, to the level of their own; without, however, imparting to me their lightheartedness and cheerful vivacity.

Already, I seemed to feel my intellect deteriorating, my heart petrifying, my soul contracting; and I trembled lest my very moral perceptions should become deadened, my distinctions of right and wrong confounded, and all my better faculties be sunk, at last, beneath the baneful influence of such a mode of life. The gross vapours of earth were gathering around me, and closing in upon my inward heaven; and thus it was that Mr. Weston rose at length upon me, appearing like the morning star in my horizon, to save me from the fear of utter darkness; and I rejoiced that I had now a subject for contemplation that was above me, not beneath."

Anne Bronte - Agnes Grey







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Tayatha Om Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha











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I have a stain there in the ocean that is mine and mine only, solely for my eyes. 
It moves this way, that way. Like this, like that. 
Up and down the waves, dancing and distorting. 

God only knows what it is made of and why it hangs within my sight. 
When the fishermen come it gets shy, therefore it floats away. 
Although it never sinks this stain of mine, it likes to play this silly game.

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"How are you going to save the world? How find a straight road of progress, you men of science, of industry, of cooperation, of trades unions, and all the rest? How are you going to save it, I say? By what? By credit? What is credit? To what will credit lead you?’
‘You are too inquisitive,’ remarked Evgenie Pavlovitch.
‘Well, anyone who does not interest himself in questions such as this is, in my opinion, a mere fashionable dummy.’
‘But it will lead at least to solidarity, and balance of interests,’ said Ptitsin.
‘You will reach that with nothing to help you but credit? Without recourse to any moral principle, having for your foundation only individual selfishness, and the satisfaction of material desires? Universal peace, and the happiness of mankind as a whole, being the result! Is it really so that I may understand you, sir?’
‘But the universal necessity of living, of drinking, of eating— in short, the whole scientific conviction that this necessity can only be satisfied by universal cooperation and the solidarity of interests—is, it seems to me, a strong enough idea to serve as a basis, so to speak, and a ‘spring of life,’ for humanity in future centuries,’ said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, now thoroughly roused.
‘The necessity of eating and drinking, that is to say, solely the instinct of self-preservation...
‘Is not that enough? The instinct of self-preservation is the normal law of humanity...’
‘Who told you that?’ broke in Evgenie Pavlovitch.
‘It is a law, doubtless, but a law neither more nor less normal than that of destruction, even self-destruction. Is it possible that the whole normal law of humanity is contained in this sentiment of self-preservation?’"

Fyodor Dostoyevsky - The Idiot

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It will grow again, your hair and nails, your strength. Your heart will stop shrinking and will grow again, along with your kindness.







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Dream

Huge green snake eats a gecko, then a frog. A small fish jumps out of the aquarium and flies way too high in the sky. It doesn't die in the air, but it breaks in two by hitting back the water. A funeral is requested, invitations are sent.
Welcome sweet friend, grab a shovel.







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O ensino dos valores humanos é em geral considerado uma incumbência da religião ou da família. A espiritualidade e a vida comtemplativa são reduzidas, assim, a meros complementos vitamínicos da alma. Os conhecimentos filosóficos que adquirimos são quase sempre distantes da nossa prática, e cabe ao indivíduo escolher suas próprias regras de vida. Mas em nossa época, a pseudoliberdade de fazer tudo o que passa pela cabeça e a falta de referências deixam o indivíduo infeliz desamparado. As considerações abstratas em geral incompreensíveis da filosofia contemporânea somadas ao ritmo febril da vida cotidiana e à supremacia da diversão e do entretenimento deixam pouco lugar para a busca de uma fonte de inspiração autêntica quanto à direção que podemos dar à nossa vida.

É necessário reconhecer que oferecemos uma resistência fenomenal à mudança. Não falamos apenas da alegria e do vigor com que a nossa sociedade adota como tendência as novidades superficiais, mas de uma inércia profunda no que tange a qualquer transformação genuína do nosso modo de ser. A maior parte do tempo não queremos nem ouvir da possibilidade de mudar e preferimos tratar com escárnio aqueles que buscam soluções alternativas. Ninguém quer ser raivoso, ciumento ou orgulhoso, mas a cada vez que cedemos a essas emoções, usamos a desculpa que isso é normal, faz parte dos altos e baixos da vida.

Então, por que mudar? Seja você mesmo! Divirta-se bastante, compre um carro novo, mude de ares, consiga uma nova amante, tenha tudo, farte-se de tudo que é supérfluo, mas, acima de tudo, jamais toque no essencial, porque isso exige um trabalho duro, um esforço verdadeiro. Uma atitude como essa seria justificada se estivéssemos satisfeitos com o nosso destino. Mas estamos mesmos? Citando Alain mais uma vez: "Os insanos são mestres no proselitismo e, principalmente, relutam em curar-se."

Matthieu Ricard em "Felicidade: a prática do bem-estar".














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I hope it fell from the sky :)









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foto daqui

nuvem negra, passalogo.











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Em termos gerais, o altruísmo é a fonte genuína de benefício e felicidade. Portanto, se tivéssemos nascido em uma esfera da existência onde o seu desenvolvimento não fosse possível, estaríamos em uma situação sem esperança, o que felizmente não é o caso. Como seres humanos, temos as faculdades apropriadas para o desenvolvimento espiritual, dentre as quais a mais preciosa é o cérebro humano. É muito importante não desperdiçarmos a grande oportunidade que nos é oferecida por nossa condição de seres humanos, pois o tempo é um fenômeno momentâneo e inesperado. É da natureza das coisas que elas sigam um processo de mudança e desintegração. Por isso, é de extrema importância darmos significado a nossas vidas.

S.S. Dalai Lama em "O livro da felicidade".




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Fredo Viola - The Sad Song

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"Não sei quanto às outras pessoas, mas quando me abaixo para colocar os sapatos de manhã, penso: Deus Todo-Poderoso, o que mais agora?"
Charles Bukowski










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Sexta Feira Santa

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Sometimes I have this strange sensation; as if I could feel my hair growing, going slow motion in time.








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