ESTAÇÕES DIFERENTES

"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear."

Stephen King - "Different Seasons"


Partilhar informação @ estacoesdiferentes@gmail.com

quinta-feira, dezembro 06, 2012

A beleza magoa-me. Aquela que importa, que rebenta com as desculpas idiotas que tenho por portas, aquela que humilha, aquela que gera pedidos quando a contenção elegante já não permite coisas como a deferência ou a classe. A dita classe que finje ignorar os dentes afiados do expoente do desejo, que parece adivinhar a auto-suficiência inexistente, que não se atreve a pedir  quando é só isso que quer, mesmo que pareça parvo ou fraco ou incongruente ou cúpido.
A beleza magoa-me porque traduz a sua poliformia no controlo das funções básicas do pensar, porque me leva pela mão para o desejo de universalizar, porque parece minha quando não é ou nunca o será.
A beleza magoa-me porque na ameaça de perfeição, esconde o que não pode ser porque nada o é. E ao sabê-la incompleta, descanso-me, e ao mesmo tempo, redescubro-a nos mais pequenos detalhes que parecem retirar-me daqui, colocar-me num local onde só ela existe, numa sala onde ela tudo inunda e passo a voar.
Este maravilhoso poema musica e filmado magoa-me.
Vejo-o uma e outra, e outra vez.
E tudo o que disse repete-se.
A beleza magoa-me... 
 
Nirvana
by Charles Bukowski
 
not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the wat to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.


 

Charles Bukowski's Nirvana from Patrick Biesemans on Vimeo.