"Animula vagula, blandula,
Hospes comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca
Pallidula, rígida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis iocos..."
P. Ællius Hadrianus, Imp.

Eu acreditaria nessa associação do amor às alegrias puramente físicas (supondo-se que tais alegrias existam) no dia em que visse um gastrônomo soluçar de prazer diante do seu prato favorito, tal como o amante sobre um ombro amado. De todos os jogos, o do amor é o único capaz de transtornar a alma e, ao mesmo tempo, o único no qual o jogador se abandona necessariamente ao delírio do corpo. Não é indispensável que aquele que bebe abdique da razão, mas o amante que conserva a sua não obedece inteiramente ao deus do amor. Tanto a abstinência quanto o excesso engajam apenas o homem só. 

Concordo em que o sono mais perfeito é necessariamente um complemento do amor: repouso tranquilo, refletido sobre dois corpos. Mas o que me interessa aqui é o mistério específico do sono saboreado por si mesmo, o incontrolável e arriscado mergulho a que se aventura todas as noites o homem nu, só e desarmado, num oceano onde tudo é novo: cores, densidades, o próprio ritmo da respiração, e onde reencontramos os mortos. 
Esforcemo-nos por entrar na morte com os olhos abertos...

Yourcenar, M. (1903-1987) in Mémoires d'Hadrien, in reference to MUTIPLEX performance by Rui Horta

bitch in order to be awake,  try to get up fucking earlier!

{random poetry #80}

[ For the Traveler ]

Every time you leave home,
another road takes you
into a world you were never in.
New strangers on other paths await.
new places that have never seen you
will startle a little at your entry.
Old places that you know well
will pretend nothing
changed since your last visit.
When you travel, you find yourself
alone in a different way,
more attentive now
to the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
you abroad; and how what meets you
touches that part of the heart
that lies low at home:
How you unexpectedly attune
to the timbre in some voice,
opening a conversation
you want to take in
to where your longing
has pressed hard enough
inward, on some unsaid dark,
to create a crystal of insight
you could not have known
you needed
to illuminate
your way.
When you travel,
a new silence
goes with you,
and if you listen,
you will hear
what your heart would
love to say.
A journey can become a sacred thing:
make sure, before you go,
to take the time
to bless your going forth,
to free your heart of ballast
so that the compass of your soul
might direct you toward
the territories of spirit
where you will discover
more of your hidden life,
and the urgencies
that deserve to claim you.
May you travel
in an awakened way,
gathered wisely
into your inner ground;
that you may not waste
the invitations which
wait along the way
to transform you.
May you travel safely,
arrive refreshed,
and live your time away
to its fullest;
return home more enriched,
and free to balance
the gift of days
which call you.

O'Donohue, J. (1956-2008), in To Bless the Space Between Us

- 64. It's an 8 by 8 grid.
- Well... but don't you see how limited that is?
- No, it's actually very complex once you start to think about it as a programming problem. Just the number of possible games explodes exponentially with each move, it's close to 10 to the 120th power. And to try and compute all those games might take even longer than humanity would be around to do so.
in Computer Chess, 2013

2 anos, 1 dia, 8 horas, 35 minutos e uma arroba de segundos.
2 mil quilómetros, 600 metros, 320 centímetros e um almude de centímetros.

o tempo e a distância são quantificáveis, mensuráveis e previsíveis.
o problema é complexo, irresolúvel e...

Un político no puede ser un hombre frío. Su primera obligación es no convertirse en un autómata. Tiene que recordar que cada una de sus decisiones afecta a seres humanos. A unos beneficia y a otros perjudica. Y debe recordar siempre a los perjudicados 
Suarez, A. (1932-2014), ABC, 1980

“appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.”
Sun Tzu, in The Art of War

戦争 SEN/SOU (- the act of war) ] *by the denial.of.service

do not hurry; do not rest.

if i love you, what business is it of yours?
Wolfgang von Goethe, J. (1749, 1832)

“he loved her, of course, 
but better than that, he chose her, day after day. 
that was the thing.”
Alexie, S., in The Toughest Indian In The World

{random poetry #79}

[ Jane Awake ] 

The opals hiding your lids
as you sleep, as you ride ponies
mysteriously, spring to bloom
like the blue flowers of autumn

each nine o'clock. And curls
tumble languorously towards
the yawning rubber band, tan,
your hand pressing all that

riotous black sleep into
the quiet form of daylight
and its sunny disregard for
the luminous volutions, oh!

and the budding waltzes
we swoop through in nights.
Before dawn you roar with
your eyes shut, unsmiling,

your volcanic flesh hides
everything from the watchman,
and the tendrils of dreams
strangle policemen running by

too slowly to escape you,
the racing vertiginous waves
of your murmuring need. But
he is day's guardian saint

that policeman, and leaning
from your open window you ask
him what to dress to wear and
to comb your hair modestly,

for that is now your mode.
Only by chance tripping on stairs
do you repeat the dance, and
then, in the perfect variety of

subdued, impeccably disguised,
white black pink blue saffron
and golden ambiance, do we find
the nightly savage, in a trance.


[ My Heart ]

I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don't prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says "That's
not like Frank!", all to the good! I
don't wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.


[ To The Harbormaster ]

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

Frank O'Hara (1926-1966)


“Designers and social engineers don’t have to become unambitious bureaucrats scared of innovating, but perhaps they could practice innovation in a different key. The goal of their interventions - in both products and policies - should be not just to provide answers but also to make it easier to pose new questions.” 
Evgeny Morozov, E. in To Save Everything, Click Here: The Folly of Technological Solutionism, 2013

“These days I just can’t seem to say what I mean,” she said. “I just can’t. Every time I try to say something, it misses the point. Either that or I end up saying the opposite of what I mean. The more I try to get it right the more mixed up it gets. Sometimes I can’t even remember what I was trying to say in the first place. It’s like my body’s split in two and one of me is chasing the other me around a big pillar. We’re running circles around it. The other me has the right words, but I can never catch her.”
Murakami, H., in Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman

silently & mindfully

“that she had so completely recovered her sanity was a source of sadness to her. 
one should never be cured of one’s passion.”
Duras, M. (1914-1996), in The Ravishing of Lol Stein. Pantheon,1986

We don’t think too much about sex; 
we’re merely thinking about it in the wrong way.

Despite our best efforts to clean it of its peculiarities, sex will never be either simple or nice in the ways we might like it to be. It is not fundamentally democratic or kind; it is bound up with cruelty, transgression and the desire for subjugation and humiliation. It refuses to sit neatly on top of love, as it should. Tame it though we may try, sex has a recurring tendency to wreak havoc across our lives: it leads us to destroy our relationships, threatens our productivity and compels us to stay up too late in nightclubs talking to people whom we don’t like but whose exposed midriffs we nevertheless strongly wish to touch. Sex remains in absurd, and perhaps irreconcilable, conflict with some of our highest commitments and values. Unsurprisingly, we have no option but to repress its demands most of the time. We should accept sex as inherently rather weird instead of blaming ourselves for not responding in more normal ways to its confusing impulses.
Without sex, we would be dangerously invulnerable. We might believe we were not ridiculous. We wouldn’t know rejection and humiliation so intimately. We could age respectably, get used to our privileges and think we understood what was going on. We might disappear into numbers and words alone. It is sex that creates a necessary havoc in the ordinary hierarchies of power, status, money and intelligence.

Alain de Botton in How to Think More About Sex via brainpickings

# international day of happiness

"there are times in your life when, 
despite the steel weight of your memories 
and the sadness that seems to lie at your feet like a shadow, 
you suddenly and strangely feel perfectly okay."  
Brockmeier, K.

#3 why developers and designers have troubles with science...

scientist: we need to get some samples from the park for the soil invertebrates experience.
me: to catch some bugs?
scientist: yes, can you go there?
me: sure, but... why dont we use the try-catch statement?
scientist: where is that park?

me: ...
scientist: ...

it all boils down to trust 

“each day, we wake slightly altered, and the person we were yesterday is dead
So why, one could say, be afraid of death, 
when death comes all the time?


“I love you" he says.
"That means nothing from you. Have it you say: how? Will you marry me?"
"I'd love to"
"You'd love to do anything. What about your wife? What about the boy you already have?"
"I don't know"
"Will you divorce her? No, you love being married to her too....You love being married to everybody....What can you make up your mind what you want to do?"
"I can't...I don't know"
"How would you support me? How many wives can you support? Your jobs are a joke....You aren't worth hiring... may be once you could play basketball.... but you can't do anything now!!! What the hell do you think the world is?"
"please have the baby" he says "you got to have it"
"Why? why do you care?"
"I don't know.. I don't know any of these answers.. All I know is what feels right, You feel right to me.... Sometimes Janice used to, Sometimes nothing does


“we are cruel enough without meaning to be.”

Updike, J. (1932-2009)

{random poetry #78}

[ A Very Short Song ]

Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse. 


[ Interview ]

The ladies men admire, I’ve heard,
Would shudder at a wicked word.
Their candle gives a single light;
They’d rather stay at home at night.
They do not keep awake till three,
Nor read erotic poetry.
They never sanction the impure,
Nor recognize an overture.
They shrink from powders and from paints ...
So far, I’ve had no complaints.


In youth, it was a way I had,
To do my best to please.
And change, with every passing lad
To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know
And do the things I do,
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you


By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying -
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying

Parker, D.  (1893-1967)

{ autoestrada, autoestrada da Beira Litoral e Alta }

“the devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. 
he comes as everything you’ve ever wished for.”
 Max, T. , in Assholes Finish First

"in some cases carrying on,
just carrying on,
is the superhuman achievement."
Camus, A.

“we need women who are so strong they can be gentle,
so educated they can be humble,
so fierce they can be compassionate,
so passionate they can be rational,
and so disciplined they can be free.”
Ramdas, K.

{ before, after, 2 years }

"...às vezes ponho-me a imaginar o maravilhoso que seria se me telefonasses apenas porque sim, simplesmente como alguém a quem lhe deu sede e vai beber um copo de água, mas isso já sei que seria pedir-te demasiado, nunca finjas comigo uma sede que não sintas,..." 
 Saramago, S. in o homem duplicado

{random poetry #77}

in the poems we reveal ourselves.
in prose others.
in Notebook, 1969-1973

[ breaking ]

Give us wholeness, for we are broken.
But who are we asking, and why do we ask?
Destructive element heaves close to home,
our years of work broken against a breakwater.

Shattered gods, self-iconoclasts,
it is with Lazarus unattended we belong
(the fall of the sparrow is unbroken song).
The crucifix has clattered to the ground,
the living Christ has spent a year in Paris,
travelled on the Métro, fallen in the Seine.
We would not raise our silly gods again.
Stigmata sting, they suddenly appear
on every blessed person everywhere.
If there is agitation there is cause.

Ophelia, Hamlet, Othello, Lear,
Kit Smart, William Blake, John Clare,
Van Gogh, Henry IV of Pirandello,
Gerard de Nerval, Antonin Artaud
bear a crown of darkness.
It is better so.

Responsible now each to his own attack,
we are bequeathed their ethos and our death.
Greek marble white and whiter grows
breaking into history of a west.
If we could stand so virtuously white
crumbling in the terrible Grecian light.

There is a justice in destruction.
It isn't 'isn't fair'.
A madhouse is designed for the insane,
a hospital for wounds that will re-open;
a war is architecture for aggression,
and Christ's stigmata body-minted token.
What are we whole or beautiful or good for
but to be absolutely broken?


[ making ]

patches, unlike the smooth slick loveliness
of the bought,
this made-ness out of self-madness
thrown across their bones to keep them warm.
It does.

under the patches a smooth silk loveliness
of parts;
two bodies are better than one for this quilting,
throwing into the dark a this-ness that was not.
It does.

of the splintered irrelevance of doubt, sharp
hopes, spear and splice into a nice consistency as once
under the pen, the brush, the sculptor's hand
music was made, arises now, blossom on fruit-tree bough.
It does.

exegesis of the will captures and lays
haloes around bright ankles of a saint.
Exemplary under the tree,
Buddha glows out now
making the intolerable, accidental sky
patch up its fugitive ecstasies.
It does.

From the making made and, made, now making
certain order—thus excellent despair
is laid, and in the room the patches of the quilt
seize light and throw it back upon the air.
A grace is made, a loveliness is caught
quilting a quiet blossom as a work.
It does.

And do you, doubting, fractured, and untaught, St. John of the Cross,
come down and patch the particles and throw
across the mild unblessedness of day
lectures to the untranscended soul.
Then lotus-like you'll move upon the pond,
the one-in-many, the many-in-the-one,
making a numbered floral-essenced sun
resting upon the greening padded frond,
a patched, matched protection for Because.
And for our dubious value it will do.
It always does.

•.•❤•.•       Webb, P.       •.•❤•.•

# busy

i’ve things to do today: 
i must crush memory down, 
i must turn my heart to stone, 
i must try living, again. 
Akhmatova, A. , from “The Sentence,” in The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova (Zephyr Press, 2000)

deep existential torment & other meaningless bullshits.

"how does it change the view of human nature?"

{random poetry #76}

[ leisure ]

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.


[ the Sleepers ]

As I walked down the waterside
This silent morning, wet and dark;
Before the cocks in farmyards crowed,
Before the dogs began to bark;
Before the hour of five was struck
By old Westminster's mighty clock:

As I walked down the waterside
This morning, in the cold damp air,
I saw a hundred women and men
Huddled in rags and sleeping there:
These people have no work, thought I,
And long before their time they die.

from Songs Of Joy and Others (1911)
W. H. Davies (1871 – 1940)