domingo, 26 de fevereiro de 2012

The flood - a homage

This text establishes a dialog with Katie Melua's The Flood. You could listen to it while reading.

  • ***
"Broken people get recycled
And I hope that I will"

The boy feels trashy all over. Heart, body, mind. He doesn't feel sick, neither broken. He is just figuring out, adding one to one. He is trying to derive some logics out of so much nonsense. He is afraid of the process, as recycling means destruction followed by rebuilding. But he hopes.  


Sometimes we're thrown off our pathways
What I thought was my way home
Wasn't the place I know
He doesn't feel completely lost. But he looks around and does not make out the place where he is standing. He is no longer that smiling boy, since he was pushed out of the platform, into the tracks. Luckily, there was no train. There was just some reaching hands, helping him out. But he dropped something there. Something he just cannot remember what.


I'm certain nothing's certain
What we own becomes our prison

We are imprisoned in our reactions, thinks the boys. He had named his diary prison notebooks for a good reason. He had always been free, so free, but free inside a cage, in a cage of fears and hopes. Of vices and habits. Of expectations and disillusionments. He knew he was not a barbecue afternoon nor a day on the beach. But he knew he was something not to be cast aside. He learned (the hard way, or tried anyway) about no certainties, no tomorrow-I-know's. 

My possessions will be gone

Back to where they came from

He was aware, poor boy, he had nothing. But he played having a house and a pet named rex. He played he could hold his breath for more than 3 hours, or that he could breathe without feeling any smell. He saw himself with a car, a table at the smartest restaurant in town. And he saw himself living in More's Utopia, or Anarres. Mattapoisset. He could almost touch the deprivation of whatever he called his.  


Blame, no one is to blame
As natural as the rain that falls
Here comes the flood again




He hears the distant thunders roaring. They make a long noise, so frightening, yet, distant. He sees and hears the raindrops falling and splashing on the dirty soil. The clouds gathering and darkening, one against the other. The wind chills his spine and the drops lick his face and he knows all that storm is beautiful and is home and he is there, in the middle of it and it's inside him and he does not feel guilty. It was nobody's fault. It was just life.

See the rock that you hold onto
Is it gonna save you
When the earth begins to crumble?

He tries to hold to something and the current is strong. He is swimming forward, sideways. He is looking for a fixed point but the flow of water comes and washes everything. He tries to stand up but he is dragged here and there along with rocks and debris of what had been before a neat, grandiose set of edifices. He sees only fractions of what was and what he had dreamed of.   

Why do you feel you have to hold on?

Imagine if you let go

And he sees it first time crystal clear. He stares at beyond and releases a scream. He doesn't know if that scream emptied him or if it was a sign there was nothing else in there. He understands what is easier. What is the best way to suffer less. He stops swimming. The fight is no longer in his nerves, his limbs rest. Nothing in his eyes. The sparks turn to embers, which turn to a dead bonfire. His heart beats but it makes no sound and there is no pulse. Darkness envelops him. But there is a light. Some annoying warmth lingers. 


Blame, no one is to blame
As natural as the rain that falls
Here comes the flood again

He tries to put a face to the enemy. The boy is so afraid and his fear is eating him for dessert. He feels some bites in his thighs. His groin hurts. He is devoid of his virility, he is a boy no more. He is just an angel. A fallen angel. He despised the laws of universe. He forgot where he had come from. And more rain, more fire, more cold, is this hell?


Wash away the weight
That pulls you down
Ride the waves
That free you from the dusk?

The storm is giving way to some feeble sun rays. The boy sees himself floating. The water is calm, there is nothing touching him, but the wetness and the perception of himself, whose body is immersed but whose face is burned by the timid sun. Some bird flies by and he tries to reach it. He moves almost imperceptibly and his delicate movements create small waves on the water around him, crescent circles getting away from him. A cloud again but now he can sense the silver lining. Is that a rainbow?


Don't trust your eyes
It's easy to believe them
Know in your heart
That you can leave your prison

The boy feel the water is lowering. He can smell the mud, he still cannot stand up, his body is still hurt. But he feels energies filling him, overflowing, he is invigorated and his face is placid. A surge of hope striked him as a lightning. He is euphoric almost, or is this an enchantment, a sweet illusion? He tries to listen to the world around since his eyes are so deceiving. He is half blind, blinded by his prejudices and his dramatic personality. He builds new words and rehearses speaking it. A new language. One where freedom can mean something. Where he is no longer helplessly in love, hopelessly involved. He is protected. Inknower. No shields or cocoon.


Don't trust your mind
It's not always listening
Turn on the lights
And feel the ancient rhythm

He is home again, he roams from room to room, turning on all the lights. He wants to be enlightened. He is afraid of the darkness inside him, and out. He doubts his reasonings, his self-control. It is so unstable. He is emotional from head to toe and sense tries to strive somehow. He is all drama and explosion and fireworks and he dives in, two feet in... he thinks and the more he thinks the slower his thought fly and are his neuropaths clogged? He is helped by songs new and old, is he dancing? He is moving awkwardly, to and fro, is he lending his body to any otherworldly creature? He thumps his feet and shouts go away! But one thump follows another and he is clapping also. He is a vessel, unsteered. 


Don't trust your eyes
Its easy to believe them
Know in your heart
That you can leave your prison

He repeats it like a chorus. He wants to believes those words so badly. Is he saying them because he belives them or because he is trying hard to do so? He notices he was so sure about the darkness but the lights and freedom (from himself or whatever, whoever else) are so unclear, blurred, frameless. 


Blame, no one is to blame
As natural as the rain that falls
Here comes the flood again


Or not... Or definitely not.

sexta-feira, 24 de fevereiro de 2012

Trégua em Tróia

Estrofe

Canto, ó Elena, a sua ode!
Pegue um instrumento e zás!
Não carece ser a lira.
Faz da minha letra melodia.
Dialoga, então, comigo em verso
ou prosa. Deixa que meus textos
sejam água, fluindo. Umidecendo.
Responde com detergente,
e da mistura, bolhas de sabão;

Antístrofe
Dai ao homem aquilo que ele busca.
Reciproque um pouco mais.
Jogue um pouco de tempero.
Ler por ler é nada? Ser por ser,
tampouco. O bálsamo do poeta,
estará nos olhos de quem vê.
Estará no coração de quem sente.
Poeta é afinal um pouco louco,
que se acha quase vidente.

Epodo
Mas eu não sou poeta, nem de brincadeira.
As palavras brotam em mim, qual erva daninha.
Todo texto fala de mim, mesmo quando fala de você.
Porque eu não sou, nem quero ser, nada objetivo.
Vivo e respiro imagens, metáforas, sonhos e desejos,
Quero amar, aprender, viver, voar.
Quando a voz retorna aos ouvidos num eco torto,
que não é eco posto que é nova melodia, elogio, sua inspiração.
Poderia eu desejar ardentemente algo mais?

quarta-feira, 22 de fevereiro de 2012

Reconstituição do Crime

Do algoz

Sente o coração acelerado,e mais e mais.
Cada batida do tambor retesa toda fibra
do seu ser em festa, uma a uma.
O álcool inebria os sentidos, tudo parece mais
vivo.
As cores ganham novos matizes, as formas se derretem
no ar?
Os pés em movimentos velozes, tentam acompanhar o ritmo
da música que vem de todos os lados.
Gritos e risadas, é festa. É carnaval.
Sempre é, quando há diversão, libertas que será também.
As mãos voam para o céu, apontam para aquele, ou aquela?
Elas se esfregam com sofreguidão, são cavalos selvagens,
Cotovias no cio.
A felicidade o/a preenche, e escorre por todos os poros.
Se sente grande, enorme, completo.
O suor escorre da nuca pela sua espinha, provocando
cócegas não planejadas. Sua como se fosse todo água,
não apenas os 70%. Mãos molhadas, suor da cerveja, gotas de malte.
Olhos perdidos no show, sorriso aberto.
As mãos doidinhas se enlaçam no tecido da roupa, precariamente se secando.
Se e quando, ele/a percebeu, já era tarde demais.
Feito bombeiro descendo no mastro, escorregando, pouco a pouco
A umidade brincando de lubrificante, a gravidade, essa danada!
E num movimento, o choque.
As mãos nuas. Euforia interrompida.
Vão-se os anéis. Ficam os dedos.

Da vítima

Me lembro quando era apenas mais um entre muitos.
Não tinha nada de especial, nenhuma pedra, nada.
Muitos vinham me ver, mas eu continuava ali, no único lugar
que conhecia.
Estático. Temendo o desconhecido ali fora, mas com desejo
de ser expedicionário.
Dias, noites.
Sinto uma mão, me apalpando com cuidado e quando vejo,
liberdade.
Socorro! Mas é tão bom. Cores, luzes, cheiros, tudo. Sou carregado,
direita esqueda sobe e desce.
Mas que mundo grande, meu deus!
Tento me comunicar, em vão. Sou assim mudo.
E enlaçado, sigo.
Um dia, é festa. Eu sinto orgulho. Me sinto passivamente feliz,
um pouco parasita do regozijo alheio.
Sou símbolo. Sei disso. Sou acessório, embelezo, complemento.
Estou igualmente inebriado. São tantos movimentos e sensações.
Sou parte e de repente
O abismo.
Sempre tive medo do abismo. E quando me vejo novamente.
Estou sozinho.
O fundo do poço é assim? Cheio de confete e serpentina?
As latas vazias e pisadas, garrafas plásticas, eu imaginava.
É tão frio aqui. Tão aterrador.
A festa não faz mais sentido. Como pude ser tão negligenciado assim?
Perdido. Na vida.
Vão-se os anéis, ficam... quem ficam? Os dedos?
Antes só do que mal acompanhado.

Do cúmplice (ou herói?)

A festa corre feito um rio, com corredeiras e calmaria.
Tudo é novo, ainda que mais do mesmo.
Alegria sincera, deveras incompleta, sine qua non.
Uma amizade, compartilho risadas. Estou bem.
Seu colar de contas se parte, explode alegria!
Seu anel perde a pedra verde, dizem que verde é esperança.
Onde está a pedra verde?
Cansado, horas de pulos e gingado. Como cobra, serpenteando na pista.
A amiga pegando o trem e outro, viajando pelo salão, ela exulta.
Olhos no palco, no povo, no chão.
Onde está a maldita pedra verde?
Onde está o que eu não vejo aqui?
Falta algo.
Escuto um grito.
Não, escuto um brilho.
Vejo ao meu lado, no chão, um anel.
Ele está solitário. Como eu (não estava, nem deveria estar
mas o cansaço, por alguns segundos, uma nuvem cobre meu sol).
Naquele mesmo segundo, nossas almas se tocam.
Ou a minha reflete na sua superfície metalizada.
Lacan e seus espelhos.
Um impulso, me controlo.
É meu? Não.
Melhor deixar a vida como ela está. Pra que mudar?
Me subverto. Abaixo e pego. Ele se aninha na palma da minha mão.
Uma aliança?
Mas ele não alia mais nada. Ele está fora de contexto. Ele é apenas um anel.
Como agulha no palheiro, achei pelo em ovo.
Mas o que fazer?
Mais fácil deixar ele escorrer como areia por entre meus dedos. e que outra pessoa o ache
e seja assombrado pelo seu passado, seja responsável pelo seu presente.
Droga! Estou colocando ele no meu dedo?
Ele vira minha aliança comigo mesmo. Falamos a mesma língua e não estamos mais solitários.
Sozinhos não.
Vão-se os anéis. Ou vem. Tanto faz os dedos.
Seu futuro?
A Deus pertence. Mais vale mais um pássaro na mão, que dois no chão.