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.
