É Tarde

Arup Lodh. Busy Afternoon.

Algo diferente permaneceu naquele assento...
... não se sabia se era o silêncio ou o
que estava adiante...
A existência daquela sequência; que embora
a expectativa a idealizou, não estava disposta
a acabar.
Não por causa de uma carência ou orgulho,
mas pelo simples fato de ser humano...
... desejoso, impulsivo e ardente.
Outros tantos episódios aconteceram -
alguns acometidos pela alegria, outros
pela cólera...
Entretanto, aquela tarde nublada permanece...
... lúcida, inexorável; pronta a ser acionada;
na memória de longo alcance.
Talvez por ser importante pelo calor do momento...
... talvez por ser o prenúncio de algo por vir...
tarde que às vezes chora e às vezes ri;
tarde saudosa que não quer partir.

O Que Eu Sinto Por Você

Leandro de Souza Silva. Negativo em Contato. 2006.

O que eu sinto por você...

Não sei por quê, mas é difícil dizer:

Começou tudo de repente, como num filme.

Filme de suspense. Você era a mocinha

eu, o bandido. Ou melhor, o "bad boy".

Uma cantada, uma investida. Um convite.

Em um dia, BOOOM! Tudo começou.

O meu atraso, você detestou; mas mesmo

assim bem que aproveitou...

Ambos tímidos; sem assunto. Sentamos

naquele banquinho e nos beijamos, bem

devagarzinho.

O sorvete de morango só seria o primeiro

de muitos sonhos; lágrimas e risadas que

iríamos dividir.

Ver seu rosto sumindo no trem ao partir,

fez meu coração doer.

Naquele momento achava que ia sofrer,

pois não sabia o que você sentia por mim.

Será que é tão difícil assim?

Pensei que estava me precipitando,

mas você correspondeu, com o MSN piscando:

- Sim, vamos marcar outro encontro.

Mal sabíamos no que estávamos nos metendo

e naquela madrugada de sábado acontecendo

começamos a namorar.

Você fez uma piadinha que quase me fez chorar,

mas naquele momento eu descobri

que algo diferente haveria ali.

E de nada adiantava toda a experiência,

amor verdadeiro vai além da sapiência.

Daí para a entrega foi em um instante.

Tudo era muito emocionante:

passeios no parque, idas ao shopping,

falar aos amigos: - Faz uma semana...

Ela é alta, morena e combina comigo!

Nem sempre de rosas vivemos

e várias brigas tivemos.

Mas nenhuma durou mais que um dia,

pudera, o mal que aquilo fazia!

Sabíamos que era uma questão de tempo,

que aliás eu não perdoava.

Ai de você, se um minuto atrasava.

Eu não tinha compaixão:

lembra-se quando desceu em outra estação?

Melhor esquecer...

O negócio é aprender a viver.

E isso sempre fizemos bem.

Gastamos juntos muitos vinténs.

Nunca fizemos economia:

e o crème brûlée derretia,

doce, crocante e refinado.

Foi sempre assim ao seu lado.

Nem menos, nem mais

Em noites frias a falta que você faz.

Mesmo quando brigamos

e ao fazer a paz nos beijamos.

Aliás, é disso que eu mais gosto.

E no destino eu sempre aposto.

Pois nosso amor não é regular

E nem por isso não pode às vezes rimar.

É que achei que o pensamento deve fluir.

Para nas linhas o verso surgir.

E quanto a isso não minto.

Pois com ninguém mais assim eu me sinto.

Enche-me de alegria ver seu sorriso.

É amor que vem em forma de aviso.

Depois Daquela Tarde

 A seguir, trecho do livro Água Viva, de Clarice Lispector.

  E eis que depois de uma tarde de "quem sou eu" e de acordar à uma da madrugada ainda em desespero - eis que às três horas da madrugada acordei e me encontrei. Fui ao encontro de mim. Calmo, alegre, plenitude sem fuminação. Simplesmente eu sou eu. E você é você. É vasto, vai durar. Acordei hoje com tal nostalgia de ser feliz. Eu nunca fui livre na minha vida inteira. Por dentro eu sempre me persegui. Eu me tornei intolerável para mim mesmo. Vivo numa dualidade dilacerante. Eu tenho uma aparente liberdade mas estou preso dentro de mim. Já chamei pessoas próximas de amigo e descobri que não eram. Algumas pessoas nunca precisei chamar de nada e sempre foram e serão especiais para mim. Não me dêem fórmulas certas, porque eu não quero acertar sempre. Não me mostrem o que esperam de mim, porque vou seguir meu coração. Não me façam ser quem não sou. Não me convidem a ser igual, porque sinceramente sou diferente. Não sei amar pela metade. Não sei viver de mentiras. Não sei voar de pés no chão. Sou sempre eu mesmo, mas com certeza, não serei o mesmo para sempre. Gosto dos venenos mais lentos, das bebidas mais amargas, das drogas mais poderosas, das ideias mais insanas, dos pensamentos mais complexos, dos sentimentos mais fortes, tenho um apetite voraz e os delírios mais loucos. Você pode até me empurrar de um penhasco que eu vou dizer: - E daí? Eu adoro voar!

Certos Dias

Amor é Síntese

Por Mário Quintana

Leonid Afremov. Alley By The Lake.

Por favor, não me analise
Não fique procurando cada ponto fraco meu.
Se ninguém resiste a uma análise profunda,
Quanto mais eu...

Ciumento, exigente, inseguro, carente
Todo cheio de marcas que a vida deixou
Vejo em cada grito de exigência
Um pedido de carência, um pedido de amor.

Amor é síntese
É uma integração de dados
Não há que tirar nem pôr
Não me corte em fatias
Ninguém consegue abraçar um pedaço
Me envolva todo em seus braços
E eu serei o perfeito amor.

Loucos e Santos

por Oscar Wilde

 Escolho meus amigos não pela pele ou outro arquétipo qualquer, mas pela pupila. Tem que ter brilho questionador e tonalidade inquietante. A mim não interessam os bons de espírito nem os maus de hábitos. Fico com aqueles que fazem de mim louco e santo. Deles não quero resposta, quero meu avesso. Que me tragam dúvidas e angústias e agüentem o que há de pior em mim. Para isso, só sendo louco.

 Quero os santos, para que não duvidem das diferenças e peçam perdão pelas injustiças. Escolho meus amigos pela alma lavada e pela cara exposta.  Não quero só o ombro e o colo, quero também sua maior alegria. Amigo que não ri junto, não sabe sofrer junto.

 Meus amigos são todos assim: metade bobeira, metade seriedade. Não quero risos previsíveis, nem choros piedosos. Quero amigos sérios, daqueles que fazem da realidade sua fonte de aprendizagem, mas lutam para que a fantasia não desapareça.

 Não quero amigos adultos nem chatos.  Quero-os metade infância e outra metade velhice! Crianças, para que não esqueçam o valor do vento no rosto; e velhos, para que nunca tenham pressa. Tenho amigos para saber quem eu sou. Pois os vendo loucos e santos, bobos e sérios, crianças e velhos, nunca me esquecerei de que “normalidade” é uma ilusão imbecil e estéril.

Dói

Dói não ter quem culpar

Por fazer o que você faz

Ser quem você é

Não ter o que você quer

Ou querer o que você tem

Dói ter casa, não ter lar

Querer falar e não conseguir

Querer fugir e não ter para onde ir

Dói se quem você deseja estar

Não existir

Dói

Hernan Bas. The Start of the Rain. 2004.

Amigo Oculto

Lá vem ela toda faceira

Sem eira, nem beira

Sorriso de lado
Abraço calado

Afinidade passageira
Tenha bondade

Sinto saudade

Só no cartão

Rachel Harrison. Twenty Dollars. 1996.

Sinto

Ouço o silêncio
Pisco no escuro
Me olho no espelho
Logo me enfureço
Choro no chuveiro
Degusto um copo d'água
Penso no acaso
Falo pra mim mesmo
Sorrio, pro nada

Edward Hopper. Automat. 1927.

When I Get Older

When I get older, I’ll fantasize about life:

By imagining I had pretty children and a beautiful wife.

When I get older, I’ll feel as if I passed a stage

I will have neither gray hair nor will my skin age.

When I get older, I will look back on time;

I’ll wish I had dated more often and had more duties denied.

When I get older, I hope I will have true friends.

They won’t care about money or if I wear fancy brands.

When I get older, I guess I will feel more pain.

Learning that it is a process, and it results in the gain.

When I get older I think I might have some more love;

Love to my friends and family, even to a simple dove.

Although to this question, I just have a clue:

Maybe when I get older I'll answer it to you.

Safety Last.1923.

Guess Who Is Coming For Dinner?

 I always pay you a visit, which is generally fast, but it is really hard to miss. I do not need an invitation – first, because it is part of your nature and second, because if I do not visit you it might indicate that there is something wrong going on. Sometimes, I show up when you are expecting me, but I can also drop by unannounced. Even though my visits are not so pleasant, you appreciate it when I show up, because I can help you not to get into trouble, that is why, as strange as it might seem, we cannot live apart.

 I am very selective and I do not visit everybody; I am just into girls. I have a best friend; although her physical appearance is undefined, she is quite remarkable, and we are always together, even though she is not the easiest person to deal with. She is not a monster and you might not feel bothered by her, only people around you might. Her most striking feature is her mood, which tends to be a little murky. If you have never seen me before you might feel a little scared at first, I have a rather unpleasant appearance. Since I am quite demanding, you cannot receive me unprepared, but then you get used to me; after all, my visits happen very often; like it or not you need me as much as I need you. My friend controls your emotions and, as I have already said before, I can prevent you from having premature-life-changing experiences. I appreciate your hospitality, that is why my visits might be helpful in return.

 When I show up, I am very possessive. I am a little jealous of you and I keep you from doing things you might like, such as swimming or sex, to remind you that I am right there. I am not envious or anything like that, I just like to be the center of your attention when I visit you. You might feel a little annoyed when my friend is around, she makes you feel easily irritated and, sometimes a little emotional. She can persuade you to do things which you might regret later. She likes to be in the spotlight. I am not jealous though, after all she overproctects me you know. In a nutshell, I am essential as the air you breathe; however, I don't need to be around so often to be noticed.

Hannah Starkey. Sem Título. 1998.

I Had No Idea

 “He is too young to die”. She kept saying that to herself as if it could convince her that the 26-year-old man still had a chance. It was scorching hot outside; however, in that waiting room the temperature showed the contrary. The air conditioning and the silence minimized the presence of life in the environment. The blond man had aged dramatically since the month before – his face was pale and his eyes were constantly closed due to the heavy medication.

 It was hard to believe that a few weeks before they were having a lively conversation about horse races – and not even his passion for horses enabled him to respond to any human interaction. The engineer was in need of a rare blood transfusion and they hadn’t found the rightful donor till then. She wished she had donated her blood; as a matter of fact, she wouldn’t mind if the doctors emptied her veins if it guaranteed her husband’s recovery. The brunette woman hadn’t noticed, but she was aging too. In weeks, she’d lost five pounds even though her mother visited her in the hospital daily and forced her, in vain, to have a glass of milk with crackers.
 “How can I live without him?” She was aware that the news of a baby at home had freaked her husband out. They had been married for just a few months and they had a mortgage to pay. On the same day of the accident, her husband had gone to the bank to talk to the manager – he was thinking of getting a loan in order to remodel the house and furnish the baby’s bedroom. The negotiation went well, and he left the bank relieved. Some minutes later he was taken to the hospital; the careless driver at least called the ambulance.

 Suddenly, the doctor came in her direction. He crossed his arms and took a deep breath after telling the new widow the bad news. For a moment, the fragile pregnant woman was nothing but thankful: “I had no idea how happy I was” – she thought. The woman sighed and stood up; life wasn’t over. On the contrary, her journey was just about to start.

Pintura de Yvan Favre.

The Secretary

 The sunshine reflected in the window, giving the white walls a yellowish color. It was a warm spring morning. The colors were abounding in red, yellow and pink; everything was in perfect harmony, if it weren’t for the middle-aged-woman’s anxiety. Her coordinates matched the carpet and the furniture, which consisted of a desk made of iron and glass, a black leather chair and a 3-drawer filing cabinet. As soon as she sat, she took a square picture frame out of a paper bag and placed it on her desk by the computer. In the picture, there were two little blond girls, wearing flowered dresses and smiling to the invisible photographer. Pamela and Melissa were twins and their presence, although not physically, comforted the secretary on her first day at work.

(...)
It was pouring rain when the clock marked 11 a.m. Surrounded by reports, pens and staplers, the worried secretary was finishing the presentation. Many figures were placed in the charts that calculated how profitable the business had been in the previous month. Her boss must have been busy the whole morning, because he hadn’t called her even once. The bespectacled middle-aged man used to be very strict with deadlines, although he fully trusted his secretary’s punctuality. The 35-year-old woman looked at the picture frame which reminded her she was supposed to help her daughter do the Math homework. The tired woman closed her eyes and wondered that doing Math was the last thing she would be willing to do when she got home. The phone rang, waking her from her daydream. The enthusiastic voice requested gravely: Could you come in for a minute? She stood up very quickly and headed for a small office in front of her desk. On its walls, there were paintings brought from her boss’s trips to Europe. Although they were expensive, she didn’t consider them beautiful; her blue eyes weren’t used to abstract art. The sturdy man was glad to tell her she would have a new co-worker: the intern would be promoted to sales assistant and would work directly with the secretary. The woman, who had been working for that company for almost 5 years now, couldn’t disguise her disappointment – after all, she was not expecting a junior student in college to be promoted before her. She took into consideration her poor educational background; however, she knew she was completely capable to fill that position. Instead of complaining or making any comment, the secretary just smiled and nodded showing agreement. Little did she know that her co-worker’s promotion wouldn’t be the worst piece of news she would receive that morning.

(...)
 Red and white balloons decorated the small office. Against the wall, a small wooden table covered with a plastic cloth. In the middle of the table, a round frosted cake where was written “Good Luck” in chocolate. Bottles of juice and diet soda made up the table. The woman, in her late 60’s, stared at her desk; it was full of presents, carefully wrapped in gift paper, which one given by her co-workers whose attention and consideration were responsible for the party to happen. Never had she imagined, she would work for the same company for such a long time. Twenty-years had passed since she first stepped into that company; she remembered every single detail of that warm spring morning when she thought she wouldn’t be able to move on with her life after her husband’s death, now she’s getting retired. Looking back on time makes her smile, she finally made it.

Salvador Dalí. A Persistência da Memória. 1931.

The Room

 The room gave the impression that happy, contented people lived there; however, Ben kept a secret that he couldn't reveal to anybody. Inside the top drawer of his cabinet the college student kept a book with a brown leather cover, which contained a list of names in alphabetical order. An ordinary list maybe, if it weren't the fact that all the names of the list belonged to teenage girls whose talent to break Ben's heart was widely notorious.

 Ben had never been so popular, in high school he didn't take a girl to the prom; there wasn't a single girl that would like to have such a weirdo as her date. At college things hadn't been different - he tried to ask some girls out, but none of them gave him a chance. Little did they know that Ben was planning to take a revenge on them. The twenty-three-year-old-boy started polishing his collection of blades. There were about twelve sharp-pointed blades ready to be used, just waiting for the perfect occasion; Ben thought it was about time to start using them. Being alone in his bedroom on Valentine's Day was the last straw for Ben; he was decided to put and end to his misery, but before that he would like to make a couple of unexpected visits.

Reconstituição da obra Quarto em Arles (1888), de Van Gogh.