dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum
“I miss you', he admitted.
'I'm here', she said.
'That's when I miss you most. When you're here. When you aren't here, when you're just a ghost of the past or a dream from another life, it's easier then.”
“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”
“She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.
She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.”
“You don't get explanations in real life.
You just get moments that are absolutely, utterly, inexplicably odd.”
{random poetry #74}
a soft woman
is simply a wolf
caught in meditation.
•.•❤•.•
There are
some feelings
you will never
find words for;
you will learn
to name them
after the ones
who gave them
to you.
•.•❤•.•
How painful it was,
the words we
kept inside;
how loudly they
whispered about us.
•.•❤•.•
I want to do to you
what time does
to the human heart.
I want to kill you,
over and over,
without missing
a single beat.
“but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself”
•.•❤•.•
•.•❤•.•
“There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone and unmolested.
There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why - when it did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation.”
•.•❤•.•
“She was still under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, realizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like an obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt upon details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special or peculiar way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which dominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity which filled her with an incomprehensible longing.”
Chopin, K. (1850-1904), in The Awakening
•.•❤•.•
•.•❤•.•
[ so many data, not enough analysis ]
Ryoji Ikeda :: datamatics [prototype-ver.2.0], 2006-08
“if we have data, let’s look at data.
If all we have are opinions, let’s go with mine.”
Barksdale, J.
“if we have data, let’s look at data.
If all we have are opinions, let’s go with mine.”
Barksdale, J.
having experiences is called living.
sharing experiences is called loving.
let yourself enjoy both.
like it or not, i was already learning that in the worst and darkest time,
i would find specks of light, moments of joy.
what i didn't want to learn was the other, harsher lesson -
that in life's brightest moments there would also be unbearable pain.
Beattie, M.
"often, change doesn't come trumpeting itself in. it comes in quiet, barely noticed ways. No bolts of lightning and grand entrances here. Just a subtle relaxation into the body. a tiny shift towards where you are. An old belief, an outdated story, seen for what it is. a new path emerging in the darkness. a vague, unspeakable hope dawning in the first light of the day you imagined would never come. everything the same, everything different, everything always resting in motion, and the mysteries of change forever unresolved."
Foster, J.
wicked bullshit & nothing to be done drama
previsível, como era expectável, de acordo com as previsões, sem surpresas... e é aí que reside o problema. no fado, no cumprimento do destino, na repetição da história e na corrente entrópica dos erros. na inexistência de expectativas que se confirmam, no vazio das promessas que não são ditas, na quebra dos laços que não se formaram.
o suposto e o tem que ser. os sacrifícios... a criação de impérios de mentira, a imbecilidade patética da rotina, o tédio que se designa por amor, a virtude que se escapa nos vícios, a coragem feita de medos, a esperança nascida do desespero. este discurso absurdo e niilista que não leva a lado nenhum. o cigarro que apaga a saudade. a bebida que sabe bem mas que não esvazia a tristeza. as metáforas, os enigmas e todos os eufemismos a disfarçar a existência podre e insuportável da qual toda a gente quer fugir.
porque difícil, difícil é ficar.
"man will become better when you show him what he is like"
Chekhov, A. (1860-1904)
{random poetry #73}
do amor conheço os sintomas e os hematomas
tudo dito,
nada feito,
fito e deito.
•.•❤•.•
[ é tudo o que sinto ]
Inverno
É tudo o que sinto
Viver
É sucinto
•.•❤•.•
[ já me matei ]
já me matei faz muito tempo
me matei quando o tempo era escasso
e o que havia entre o tempo e o espaço
era o de sempre
nunca mesmo o sempre passo
morrer faz bem à vista e ao baço
melhora o ritmo do pulso
e clareia a alma
morrer de vez em quando
é a única coisa que me acalma
•.•❤•.•
[ esta vida é uma viagem ]
esta vida é uma viagem
pena eu estar
só de passagem
•.•❤•.•
[ apagar-me ]
Apagar-me
diluir-me
desmanchar-me
até que depois
de mim
de nós
de tudo
não reste mais
que o charme.
•.•❤•.•
a noite - enorme, tudo dorme, menos teu nome
•.•❤•.•
Leminski, P. (1944-1989)
•.•❤•.• a subtle kind of love •.•❤•.•
"He loved her in a distant kind of way, the same way the sun heats the Earth. If she were to disappear completely, he knew through pure logic that it would have no great, disastrous effect on him. He would not cease to be; he would not stop breathing; his heart would not stop beating; the world would not stop spinning. The sun would keep shining, radiating heat, if the Earth were not there. On a certain, purely physical level, her absence would have absolutely zero effect on his person.
and yet...
He loved her in an abstract kind of way, the way a bee loves honey. He wasn't sure why he wanted to love her, but he wanted to love her just the same. Maybe somebody told him once that he should be in love with somebody, so he felt a need to pick somebody and it just so happened to be her. Maybe. Being in love was nice, sure, but he didn't need to be.
and yet...
He loved her in a removed kind of way, the way a butterfly's wings can start a tsunami halfway around the world. He knew that it had an effect on her, but he wasn't sure how great. On a certain level he was aware that if he were to stop, if he were to disappear, it would have a drastic effect. For him it would be one less flap of his wings, in a manner of speaking, if such a thing were possible without him falling from the sky.
and yet...
He loved her in a subtle kind of way. It wasn't the kind of love you see in movies, with swelling music and giant gestures and running through the streets to catch a departing train. It wasn't the kind of love that Byron or Shakespeare wrote about, with flowery language and hyperbole and iambic pentameter. It was still and deep, like water that you might mistake for shallow if you just watched the surface. It was entirely his, not dependent on her own feelings for him, and it would still be there whether she, or him, or everyone else on the world disappeared. It was a subtle kind of love, but it was true.
and she loved him just the same."
*by Christie, J.
“I felt like crying but nothing came out.
it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad,
when you can't feel any worse.
I think you know it.
I think everybody knows it now and then.
but I think I have known it pretty often,
too often.”
And speaking of shit, constipation has always been greater fear to me than cancer. (We'll get back to Mad Jimmy. Listen, i told you I write this way). If i miss one day without shitting, I can't go anywhere, do anything - I get so desperated when that happens that oftentimes I try to suck my own cock to unclog my system, to get things going again. And if you've tried to suck your own cock then you only know the terrible strain on the backbone, neckbone, every muscle, everything. You stroke the thing up as long as it will get you really double up like some creature on a torture rack, legs way over your head and locked around the bedrungs, your asshole twitching like a dying sparrow in the frost, everything bent together around your great beer belly, all your muscle sheathes ripped to ship, and what hurts is that you don't miss by a foot or two - you miss by an eighth of an inch - the end of the tongue and the tip of your cock that close, but it might be as well an eternity or forty miles. God, or whoever the hell, knew just what He was doing when He put us together.
Bukowski, C. (2008), in Tales of ordinary madness
E, por falar em merda, sempre receei mais a prisão de ventre do que o cancro. (Já voltamos ao Jimmy Chanfrado. Atenção, que eu já tinha dito que escrevia assim.) Se passo um dia sem cagar, não consigo ir a lado nenhum, nem fazer nada – fico tão desesperado quando tal me acontece que muitas vezes tento chupar o meu próprio caralho só para desbloquear o sistema, para pôr as coisas outra vez em movimento. E, se alguma vez tentaram chupar o vosso próprio caralho, saberão com certeza o terrível esforço imposto na espinha, na cervical, em todos os músculos, em tudo. Esgalha-se o menino até ele ficar o mais comprido possível e depois dobramo-nos como um bicho metido num instrumento de tortura, pernas bem acima da cabeça e presas ao espaldar da cama, o olho do cu a tremelicar como um pardal moribundo sob a geada, tudo bem dobradinho em torno da pança de cerveja, as fáscias musculares todas estraçalhadas, e aquilo que nos dói é que não falhamos por trinta ou cinquenta centímetros, falhamos por um terço de centímetro, a ponta da língua e a ponta do caralho muito próximas, embora a coisa possa igualmente demorar uma eternidade ou cinquenta quilómetros. Deus, ou quem quer que tenha sido, sabia o que estava a fazer quando nos concebeu.
Bukowski C. (2013), in Histórias da Loucura Normal
"I have forgiven mistakes that were indeed almost unforgivable. I’ve tried to replace people who were irreplaceable and tried to forget those who were unforgettable. I’ve acted on impulse, have been disappointed by people when I thought that… this could never be possible. But I have also disappointed those who I love. I have laughed at inappropriate occasions. I’ve made friends that are now friends for life.
I’ve screamed and jumped for joy. I’ve loved and I’ve been loved. But I have also been rejected, and I have been loved without loving the person back. I’ve lived for love alone and made vows of eternal love. I’ve had my heart broken many, many times! I’ve cried while listening to music and looking at old pictures. I’ve called someone just to hear their voice on the other side. I have fallen in love with a smile. At times, I thought I would die because I missed someone so much. At other times, I felt very afraid that I might lose someone very special (which ended up happening anyway).
But I have lived! And I still continue living everyday. I’m not just passing through life…and you shouldn’t either. Live! The best thing in life is to go ahead with all your plans and your dreams, to embrace life and to live everyday with passion, to lose and still keep the faith and to win while being grateful. All of this because the world belongs to those who dare to go after what they want. And because life is really too short to be insignificant."
Chaplin, C. (1889-1977)
{random poetry #72}
[The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock]
S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
“but it's no use going back to yesterday,
because i was a different person then”
“be what you would seem to be
- or, if you'd like it put more simply -
never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others
that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been
would have appeared to them to be otherwise.”
Carroll, L. (1832-1898), in Alice in Wonderland
{random poetry #71}
don’t surrender your loneliness
so quickly.
let it cut more deep.
let it ferment and season you
as few human
or even divine ingredients can (...)
in Absolutely Clear
•.•❤•.•
not loving is a letting go.
listen,
the terrain around here
is
far too
dangerous
for
that.
in The Gift
•.•❤•.•
the earth would die if the sun stopped kissing her.
Shams al-Din Hafiz (1325, 1389)
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