Sonhos

By Dancing Fish on Flickr

Certo dia, acordei eu e percebi que a noite havia me mudado. Estive tão perto e tão longe das minhas circunvizinhanças, mais pra lá do que pra cá como alguns talvez diriam. Conhecendo a oscilação das ondas e o balanço dos ventos, e tentando usa-las em meu favor. Em verdade, eu não sei da onde eu vim e nem sei pra onde eu vou. Um conforto desconforto desgarrado destrinchado deplorável... agradável? Não, não. Por aqui nada para, nada fica, tudo muda, muta, mutaciona, sendo o conforto um privilégio da terra dos estáveis estacionados. Entrego-me a lutar e luto pra me entregar, suspirando na fadiga de uma tarefa bem-comprida enquanto procuro outras para executar.

4 x 4 Poetry Meme

Clare at Clare's Sunflower Sky tagged me to do the 4 x 4 Poetry meme. One is supposed to list at least 4 things you think a beginning poet should attend to, and 4 mistakes you think a poet should avoid.

I bent the rules a little to get a nice chance in saying all I wanted to say (hope that's not a problem) and stated five pieces of humble advice on poetry writing (what you shouldn't do is implicit in them as well). Well, it was fun to write, so here it goes...

About Poetry

-Even though without them a poem cannot come to be, the finality of a poem is not in the words themselves, but in what they mean, so picture the words you use as an instrument for expressing some greater thought. Let words serve your ideas, and not the opposite.

-Being objective and subjective at the same time usually causes the effect of depth in a poem. Good poems don’t exhaust their content easily; rather they allow themselves to be rediscovered through time.

-Examine yourself and the terrain in which you step in, the things that cross your mind. If you understand yourself, chances are that others will too.

-Let feeling guide your choice of words. Poems are especially good because of the feelings that they can recreate in us, and a poem that was written with feeling will most likely be a sensorial experience to those who read it as well.

- Poems can be magical but they’re not usually created out of magic, in fact, most times a good poem is very hard work. So give yourself time, respect yourself and the poem your writing. It so happens that the words you’re looking for might be waiting for you in the next corner!

The Mystery Of Bulgarian Voices

I’ve been scanning the web in search of tunes. Music is that one thing cultural expression that can be found all across the world, yet, even though there have been many advances in communication means, we seem to only have contact with a farley small share of the variety. The mass media have many effective ways of making a whole bunch of people listen to the same records and jump to the same songs. And that would be ok if I didn’t make me feel so irreversibly bored. So it might not be a bad idea to try to relearn how to listen and appreciate music, so I can be open to whatever touches me. This one video I found on youtube touched me and made me think of depth, soul and the beauties of the human voice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5_f2E22MPI

Giving Space (Sunday Scribblings)

In a hospital
Empty corridors
Meet crowded alleys
Silence, death
Joy and birth
A world of contrast
Of pain and grief,
Relief…

Some battles won
And others lost
By those who struggle
Those who quit
Those who fight
To breathe for one more night

And life’s put into question
Coz’ between
Exhaling and inhaling
Our planet counts
Another spin
With an untouched chapter
For which to start
And start again


More reads on Sunday Scribblings

As High turns Low

By linlin (away) on Flickr

Pause,
Is a button worth pressing… sometimes
So we can give ourselves time
To rethink the scheme
Appreciate silence
Breathe…

A load of fresh air
Embraced in my lungs
Comforts the mind
Where senses can meet
And vague uncertainty
Makes my heart beat faster

Like the incoming scene
Of an avant-garde movie
Emotionally packed
To make us aware
Of what we’d rather not know
And would prefer to let be

I chose not to fear
And neither to forget
That life is a novel
With pages of storing telling
And appreciating the sheets
Helps me write while I read

Ocean Paths (Writers Island)

Image by cresk on Flickr

Water curls
Meeting land
Dancing waves
Bathe the sand
Moisten my toes
Wash my feet
While prints and trails
They gently sweep
Back and forth
Amongst the tides
A yellow moon
Its color shines
To a quiet world
Within the sea
Where secrets rest
And muteness sleeps
Is how I’ll tell my story
In a bottle
Cradled by currents
With destiny unmarked
Giving in to chance
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Doing Something I Like (Sunday Scribblings)

I’ve only had one real job so far which is to teach English. I started teaching a little over three years ago and since then I’ve learned a lot about what it means to work with other people and experience a bit of each one’s universe. I guess one thing I could say about teaching is that, although the content may sometimes be the same, the way people react in a classroom environment can always take the most interesting turns and dealing with new situations all the time can really work against the boredom of routine. It’s a good job, but not my dream job. My dream job is music, piano music specifically and I recently made a big professional decision in order to make this dream job become my real job by giving up my English degree to be able to dedicate myself entirely to this study. Even though it’s a highly competitive market requiring dedication beyond limits, I feel that making good use of the one life I call my own by pouring myself in something I believe in might be my best shot at living a happy and meaningful life. As for my idea of a terrible job, I had a friend that went to Europe and spent a few months washing dishes in a French restaurant so he could raise some money to travel, and I thought to myself, “Europe is a fine place to be in, but I’d bore myself to death if I had to see dirty plates in front of me all day long.”

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Renewal - Writers Island

Image by macwright on Flickr

The key to reinvent
Is to forget what we know
What we think we know
And no longer mind

As if pressing the same buttons
Left our fingers numb
Like well constructed robots
Living auto-pilot lives

I choose for rubber instead
Erasing preconceptions
And disengaging filters
That made life seem so obvious

Leaves me full of doubt
Unfamiliar with the process
Of watching all come fresh
And though I give my best

I feel like a strange man
Living in a stranger world
As I try to recognize
All that’s seen for the first time



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Feeling Sorry – A Poem about War (Sunday Scribblings)

Image by *Gary* on Flickr

In a skipped beat
Of timeless pause
I saw the living
Unfold in shock

And shed a tear
For losing soul
On thorns too sharp
For hands to hold

Those whose hearts
Have soured up
With evil bliss
In mass destruct

They kill their own
With bubbling rage
Inspired by wounds
That cry for hate

Oppressing all
For fear of loss
Power and control
No matter the cost

Is what evolves
To make us shallow
Loveless and
Self-centered

I feel sorry for
Us humans
That seem to learn
The hard way

We just can’t see
That each of us
Has everyone else
On the inside

Should war
And killing
Be the meaning
Of one’s life?

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Powerful (Sunday Scribblings)

Image by thomwatson on Flickr

Powerful is the ability to comprehend
What has power over you
To confront the part that hurts
And not give in when all comes worse

It’s an understanding
Of why you do the things you do
What you want from them
And where you think they’ll take you

It’s about going broadband
On senses and feelings
Tuning the heart and training the mind
The parts that make us human

Powerful is a powerful word
It requires wisdom and fragile handling
No use having it exteriorized
Being unsure or reckless on the inside

More powerful readings on Sunday Scribblings

The Pace of Waltz

Photo by Desideria on Flickr

Quick gasps of oxygen and deep underwater diving. Where I can talk with fish and play hide and seek amongst the corals. All is fine in the sub aquatic world of silence. And the surface of shimmering sunlight looks brighter than ever. I love the breeze, don’t you? Seems to me like nature’s way of caressing us with air. And the stillness of contemplation to slippery for words to describe, if I only knew how to prolong its effects. Oh well, dreams measure neither place nor time.

In the meanwhile here’s what’s supposed to be a haiku, and only partially met its purpose. But what it is means less than the words themselves, so I chose to write it down anyway.

whew, whew… ploc!
Am I not being serious?
When chewing on gum?

The Gift (Writers Island)

Photo by strangemagee on Flickr

When I first saw this prompt, I thought about people; people with gifts. Then I started to question the whole concept. What does that mean? To be gifted? Gifted means receiving a gift, a gift to be able to do something that supposedly the majority of people could not. And that seems to be a comfortable definition to rest on. Like there was no better excuse for us to dwell on than to sit with arms crossed and say: “Oh, to bad I don’t have that gift.” Now, I’m not saying that gifted people don’t exist; history has shown us dazzling examples of true geniuses and their incredible outcomes. But a closer look reveals me equal shares of intelligence and plenty hard work. It’s like we get so fascinated by the magic in certain achievements that we often forget that behind it lies a lifetime of search and dedication. And I can’t help thinking that simply calling it a gift seems to diminish all the sacrifice and pursuit put into overcoming difficulties by treating it as… a gift, a present, something handed without effort landing on someone by chance. It’s unfair to those who know the stories behind their gifts. Sometimes I think that there is no truer gift than the gift to love, to love something so deeply that you pour yourself into it without measuring the efforts. The stories of geniuses are to me stories of love, and maybe if we dedicated ourselves as intensely as they did we would be gifted as well.

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Light Trails

A breath of fresh air
Brought perfume to lungs
Held tight in my chest

To take in a spark
Of the almighty fire
Burning below my feet

And sewing each dream
With flames made of thread
Pierced into the dark

And slowly made path
Beyond destinations
Or last stop drop offs

I’ll curl in my sleep
And dig out the words
Fueled to press further

On needles of trust
Adorning my quilts
Mending strings without end

The Colors of Sound / As Cores do Som

This is my attempt to paint music, orchestral music specifically. I was listening to Chopin’s first piano concerto when I got out the paint tubes and decided to paint something less concrete. Recently, I’ve really stopped to think about the connections between visuals and music and found them most interesting. Like for example, the spaces between the notes played on a keyboard and the traces in a painting, or the similar ways by which notes and colors can be harmonized. Well, for me it’s very interesting to have one accompanied by the other and blend them in creative ways.

Esta é minha tentativa de pintar música, a música orquestral especificadamente. Eu estava escutando o primeiro concerto de piano de Chopin quando peguei as tintas para pintar algo menos concreto. Recentemente tenho parado para pensar sobre as conexões entre o visual e a música. Como, por exemplo, a relação entre os espaços das notas tocadas em um teclado e os traços de uma pintura, ou, a maneira como as notas e as cores podem ser postas em harmonia. Bem, é bem interessante ver um acompanhado do outro e poder misturá-los criativamente.

Writing (Sunday Scribblings)

Photo by Nathanael.Archer on Flickr

Writing is the kind of medicine I just couldn’t find in drugstores. I discovered writing throughout my teenage years while trying to cope with some difficult times. Not having someone to talk to, or at least someone that would comprehend what I was going through really pushed me towards paper and ink. And in writing down my feelings I found an oasis, an outlet to what seemed to be back then an unbearable world. The sheets of paper imposed neither restriction nor censorship for what needed to be expressed and all my dissatisfaction somehow found their way across pages of notebooks and diaries. I would fill in a page every night before going to bed and that seemed to be my personal way of experiencing morphine; a way to feel lighter, self-therapy one might say. Revisiting those diaries is something I stopped doing a few months ago because I needed to move forwards and let go of bad memories which were better off forgotten. As I grew older, I started to feel better and tried focusing on less personal writings so that maybe I could share them with others as well. That’s where I m standing now, discovering poetry, different kinds of literature and blogging as well. Blogging seems to be an excellent creative exercise for both readers and writers, and I see a lot of good potential in it. Well, like I said, for those who enjoy its nature, writing can be a multiuse medicine that you won’t find in drugstores!

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For more on "writing" go to Sunday Scribblings

Blogger Reflection Award

CLARE'S SUNFLOWER SKY by Clare, awarded me a "blogger reflection award". And this is a real honor to me given the award and the person that awarded me with it. Before I started blogging (less than two months ago), I was going over some blogs to see what blogging was about (I really didn't know much about it). Reading Clare's blog gave a very strong reference of someone with a very original and interesting view of the world. Since then I've been introduced to a whole community of extremely talented and gifted people who I can learn from and break geografical bearers when It comes to sharing poems, thoughts and ideas. Thank you all for making this possible and creating such warm enviorments to be in; all of you who share your thoughts and contribuitions.

The inside out

Photo by lorenzodom on Flickr

The poem was written for me and everyone else I know of. It’s mostly about getting to know ourselves and the people around us better. I believe we can be happier by learning to share and to listen.

you are
that
one person
doing
that
one thing
at
that
one moment
so

it looks like
we have all the clues
but tell me now
coz’ traces I have few,
who are you?

In The End (Sunday Scribblings)

In the end
Nothing stays
All comes circle
All is change

People and planets
Oceans and pets
Fashion and values
Things we call great

Forever is now
When was it not?
Sometimes it’s easier

To hide behind thoughts
Than admit that moments
Are all that we’ve got


Read more about "the end"
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Purple Sips

Shadows dark
By thoughts denied
Have steamed beyond
The word survive

A living view
Of all I’ve seen
In feelings carved
Can now run free

To never crave
In me again
Nor spoil the taste
Of breathing scent

(painted in 2004)

Variations of an Echo in Si Minor

This poem is a translation of the previous post and could not sound more fluent without sacrificing its original meaning. I did my best to try to preserve the impact of words and poetic touch inserted in the Portuguese version.


Frigid, silent, dark
I will certainly return
To where I came to be
In the very beginning

When the saga began
Inclined me to move forward
And take a steady walk
Along the orbit of existence

The cycle of a life
With rights to many deaths
Building deconstructions
Fragmenting each layer

I shall then return
To be what I am not
To be what once I was

To be not being
Like a rain drop falling
Into the ocean
Becomes itself the ocean

Because the mirror outlines
My body, the idea
Of counterfeit unity

While deeper within
Multiplied are the “mes”
I never got to meet

Of all, I’m a collector
Wishing to hijack the “mes”
Subconsciously, and hang them
To dry on a string

Once they’re parched
I put them on
Just like a brand-new t-shirt

And go out for a stroll
Exposing the latest
Version of me
Reviewed and up-to-date


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Variações de um Eco em Si Menor

Escuro, mudo, negro
Com certeza irei voltar
Para onde eu vim a ser
No começo, bem lá no começo

Quando a saga se iniciou
E só restava seguir em frente
Para dá uma passeada
Na órbita da existência

O ciclo de uma vida
Com direito a muitas mortes
Construir desconstruindo
Desfragmentando por camadas

Voltarei então,
A ser quem já não sou
A ser o que já fui

Para ser um ser não-ser
Como uma gota d’água
Que se dilui no oceano
Para ser o próprio oceano

Porque o espelho delimita
Meu corpo, a contemplação
De uma pseudo-unidade

Enquanto mais adentro
Multiplicam-se os “eus”
Que não cheguei a conhecer

No mais, sou colecionador
Quero seqüestrar os “eus”
Do inconsciente, pendurá-los
Para secar em meu varal

Quando estão bem enxutos
Os visto como quem acaba
De ganhar uma nova camiseta

E saio pra caminhar
Expondo a mais nova
Versão de mim mesmo
Revista e atualizada

if I were a girl...

This is the kind of painting that is better exteriorized when I’m in tune with myself. My hands can be two things: an annex to my arm or an annex to my soul. It’s all about connecting the hands to the soul, which obviously is not always possible. But I do try to take advantage of those inspirational moments and believe that the purpose of art is one worth seeking. Funny thing to say that through out the painting I kept thinking to myself: “If I were a girl, this is probably who I’d be.”

Este é o tipo de pintura que melhor se exteriorize quando estou em sintonia comigo mesmo. Minhas mãos podem ser duas coisas: um anexo para meu braço ou um anexo para minha alma. O alvo é conectar as mãos com a alma, o que obviamente nem sempre é possível. Mas eu tento tirar vantagem dos momentos de inspiração e acredito que o propósito da arte é um que se deve buscar. Engraçado dizer que ao longo da pintura pensei: “Se eu fosse uma menina, isto seria eu.”

The Stillness Residing

Clare tagged me to write 8 random things about myself and I thought poetry was the best way of doing so. It was very fun to do and a it's pleasure to share. I was supposed to tag eight more fellows but most of them had already gotten tagged so I’ll leave it for another opportunity. Here goes the following.


Silence has a drive
To give my thoughts voice
Where details gain life
And texture is surfaced

I dwell on small things
The ones we take for granted
For being so simple
Are then found complex

A closer look I’ll give
To view the view with heart
And grasp the greater whole
Within the whole my part

Of function and of duty
Of feelings and of beauty
Of never letting go
And loving all I know

In smiling there’s a gift
To teach us about art
A precious loving gift
To words I choose omit

While sleeping on a branch
Extension of a dream
My roots have punctured earth
And earth has punctured me

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This poem has also been posted on Monday Poetry. For more click here

Unearthing Bonds

Photo by jkairvar on Flickr

I love my dear siblings
My partners in hunger
We feed off of hugs
And float around like nothing
Touching the surroundings
With a light that bleeps red
Every time zero becomes one
And void becomes form
Because I can’t be grasped
But I find myself where others find me

Goosebumps (Sunday Scribblings)

Life
Is one big goosebump
Is one big ride

An active volcano
Boiling sensitivity
Feelings

That tinkles the skin
Slip ice cubes on bones
Of will and of longing

Of wanting to be
Of being to want
And reaching

Stomach eccentricity
Its upper part screams
In silence

Yet screams indeed
Higher than throats
Louder than amplifiers

It has its own amplifier
Rocking inside me
With mosh pits of tension

And leads of anxiety
Oh well, life
Is one big goosebump

Is one big ride
If one lives for real
If one does not hide

http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

Plant like Dreams

Colored leafs
Exhale glory
Surfaced soil
Sunshine Mornings

Watered grass
Sips the earth
Drizzling rain
Faded thirst

Sprinkled herbs
Soaked in green
Roots that grab
Dirt that feeds

Showered light
Drawing shades
Bathes the grass
Glared by rays

Evening sets
Twirls the sky
Down below
Petals sigh

Crickets hymn
Owls peek
Drips of stars
Moonlight beams

Poem by John Frusciante / Poema de John Frusciante

Here’s the John Frusciante poem I promised. I transcribed it out of a movie directed by Johnny Depp in 1993/94 at JFs Hollywood Hills home. There’s a You Tube link below where you can watch this short movie. John was having trouble with drugs at this time and anyone who knows his work now-a-days must be glad he got out of it. The words in the poem are strange but I can clearly see the beauty.

Aqui está o poema de John Frusciante que prometi. Foi transcrito de um filme dirigido por Johnny Depp em 1993/94 na casa de John em Hollywood. Tem um link do You tube mais embaixo onde você pode assistir ao filme. Nesta época, John estava tendo problemas com drogas e qualquer um que conheça seu trabalho recente deve estar feliz que ele tenha saído dessa. As palavras do poema são estranhas, mas eu consigo ver sua beleza.

“Stuff”

Cherries you were one way ahead to sour through their fake little back black cloth. It’s a passage way to drive, walk, or run through, or the wind and water to carry you. I expect what didn’t happen just now but it just happened. It lifted me up part of the pouring sky’s wine, embodied the trail designed by the shadow never forward or up or down or climbing. The top is the bottom so there’s no rush and you don’t get tired. Just nows. When, if you burn the stream, it’s around your time. Bearing it with whatever dooms itself to the wrath of light, coz’ down, it means like “me bes”, coz’ you do it to them. I’ve been falling around so long mistaken to kill for being so thin. I could flip the inside out: the song of trash that could rise in depression noon. ( ? ) I assume that whatever slides and runs around spending life figured flip each day to the night that holds itself in conviction, folding pain tightly so it knows what it means. But its silence bows to be all that bleeds. Like me, it knows the sides, and what it needs to keep trying, and it didn’t mean to be any “I ache you”. My body is light coz’ the weight of whatever is carrying it through the weak traps around will bleed. I’ve stepped anyway, not fallen, like being on my way to be. I’ll never go empty, but thanks. To: F.E. Sitting around feels like running in clouds dangled me from their thighs who I didn’t even cross where life is here, coz’ my love is crying. I’ll share the way I’ve lost, coz’ I’m a pretend me. And I’m real coz’ I can hit me softly and bleed. Blood, I can hear, coz’ I’m near now, and it’s far from me, fall back into the ground, flipped out though its holes, then, when the whole thing landed is unimportant as long as I’m given the thing that swirls like selling dreams to cannabis, telling to the jump three.

"Coisas"

Cerejas, vocês estavam um caminho à frente para azedar o pequeno-falso-preto-pano das costas deles. É uma passagem para dirigir, andar, ou correr nela, ou o vento e a água para lhe carregar. Eu esperava o que não aconteceu agora, mas aconteceu. Levantou-me a fazer parte do vinho do céu jorrando, incorporou a trilha designada pelas sombras, nunca para frente, nem para baixo, nem subindo. O topo é o fundo então não existe pressa e você não fica cansado. Apenas “agoras”. Quando, se você queimar a correnteza, está pelo seu tempo. Suportando-o com qualquer coisa que se condene ou furor da luz, porque embaixo, tem o sentido de “eu seres”, porque você faz isso a eles. Eu tenho caído por ai por tanto tempo, enganado a matar por tão magro ser. Eu poderia virar ao avesso: a música de lixo que poderia se levantar na depressão do entardecer. ( ? ) Eu presumo que qualquer coisa que escorregue e corra solto gastando vida resolveu transpor cada dia para a noite, que se segura em convicção, dobrando a dor apertadamente de forma que ele sabe o que significa. Mas seu silencio se submete a ser tudo o que sangra. Como eu, ele é ciente das laterais, e daquilo que ele precisa continuar tentando, e não tinha a intenção de ser qualquer “eu faço você doer”. Meu corpo é leve porque o peso de seja lá o que tiver o carregando pelas fracas armadilhas irá sangrar. Eu pisei de todo jeito, sem cair, como estando no meu caminho de ser. Eu nunca esvaziarei, mas obrigado. Para: F.E. Ficar sentado parece como correr nas nuvens me entrelaçaram pelas coxas deles, de quem eu nem mesmo cruzei, onde a vida está aqui, porque meu amor está chorando. Eu irei dividir do mesmo jeito que perdi, porque eu sou um eu faz-de-conta. E eu sou real porque eu posso me bater levemente e sangrar. Sangue, eu posso escutar, porque estou perto agora, e ele está longe de mim, cair de volta ao chão, virou-se por seus buracos, e quando tudo caiu não importa desde que me seja dada a coisa que rodopia como vender sonhos à cannabis, dizendo para pular três.

You Tube Link

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qx7oJ7-Xjpg

How do we decide? (Sunday Scribblings)

Foto by: Thomas Hawk
http://www.flickr.com/photos/thomashawk/500005223/

There is something about decision making that seems to burn a fuse in my head, it only happens when I stop to think about it, as if thinking while acting were to be an impossible task because of the amount of information overloading my brain. (Have you ever tried talking to two people at the same time? It’s the same kind of feeling.) Given some attempts, I tried to figure out how my decisions came to be. I was trying to become aware of the exact moment in which my brain fired the impulse that made me realize that I wanted this and not that. Picking a movie to watch, choosing which color socks to wear, or the songs in my play list, or the desk I wanted to sit on in class… the list just goes on. Doing this meant turning off the internal auto-pilot button so I could try to figure out what it was that triggered a particular decision. It soon came to mind that this was no easy task, and many times I would just let it go out of exhaustion. Somehow it came to me that my decisions were being conditioned by a certain momentum and taking place prior to my conscious conclusions. Anyhow, it wasn’t very effective for me. If it’s difficult to make up your mind, imagine making up your mind and thinking about how you do it at the same time… Sometimes the auto-pilot button is required for the sake of efficiency!

Prompted by this week's Sunday Scribblings = "Decision."

http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/

Fear and Being / Medo e Ser

Fear / Medo

Being / Ser

These two paintings are somehow combined. I was trying to illustrate two different (if not opposite) moods: during the last rays of sun (fear) and later in the night (being). It’s mostly about going for something peaceful and being able to find harmony within chaos. “Being” is trying to collect the silence and warmth of the late night hours.

Estas duas pinturas estão vinculadas de alguma forma. Eu estava tentando ilustrar diferentes (se não opostos) estados de espírito: durante os últimos raios de sol (medo) e mais tarde na noite (ser). Estes retratos têm muito a ver com a busca pela tranqüilidade e de poder encontrar harmonia no caos. “Ser” esta tentando coletar o silêncio afável das horas tardes.

The Blank Space Within

I live on white sheets of paper
Where all is still to be
And everything is possible
The words to be written
The lines to be drawn
The feelings retained
In the flick of an instant
A beautiful passage way
From emptiness to form
Molds views out of clay

I sleep on white sheets of paper
Universal in its own right
Laying its open arms
To embrace my warmth
And carry forth fearlessly
The part of me that bleeds
Eagerly spilling
The life in each phrase
Shaped by each character
Traced out of the vague

With my restless brush
I will dress my thoughts
In a thick stroke of ink
I will squeeze my anguish
And give away the excess
Transposing the weight
So they too can sleep
On white sheets of paper
Coz’ they have grown tired
Of meandering inside me

My love is crying / Meu amor está chorando

Up to now I only knew what it was to paint with my fingers, this was the first one in which I actually used a brush, attempting to increase the details. It was inspired by a John Frusciante poem that says: “Where life is here, coz’ my love is crying.” I think I’ll be posting it in a near future, it’s very beautiful. I tried to identify two “mes” in this picture. One of them is represented by who I am to others, and the other is represented by who I am to myself.

Até agora eu só sabia o que era pintar com os dedos, este é o primeiro em que eu busquei o uso do pincel em uma tentativa de aumentar os detalhes. Estava pensando em um poema de John Frusciante que diz: “Onde a vida está aqui, porque meu amor está chorando.” Pretendo postá-lo em um futuro próximo, é muito bonito. Eu tentei identificar dois “eus” nesta pintura. Um deles é representado por quem eu sou para os outros, e o outro é representado por quem eu sou para mim mesmo.

no meu quarto / in my room

Esta pintura é mais antiga, a primeira com tinta óleo, início de 2004. Era uma época difícil para mim e eu acho que a pintura espelha um pouco disso.

This painting is an older one, the first one with oil paint, beginning of 2004. It was a difficult time for me and I think the painting reflects a bit of that feeling.

Quiet and Still

I opened a book
To dance with the words
The contrast of outline
The flow of conjunctions

An output of meaning
Dripping into my eyes
Sinking into my thoughts
Moistening my ideas

Powered by an enigma
The desire to know
That puzzled the lines
And pledged to the uncertain

Making me feel tired
And making me feel sleepy
It touched my eyes softly
Blinking ever slower

Invited by silence
To mislay the sight
Defocused by prints
And give in to darkness

A patient guest waiting
To meet me in dreams
And tell me a secret
In wraithlike imaginary

As if suddenly emerging
From a friendly distant world
Tickled by moving light
My eyes were then open

The sun half way lit
Across the horizon
I tried but could not tell
Was it rising or falling?

Hazily amused
By such vast disconnection
Glimpsing the hour
Time still moved forwards

Grabbing hold of my book
My soul felt refueled
I opened it up
To see where I had stopped

A Vista como um Vácuo

Com os dedos na janela
Contemplando o mundo afora
Vendo história acontecer
A grande história do agora

Que se afirma em todo instante
E só sabe olhar pra frente
Renovando em cada gesto
Um silêncio indiferente

De quem sabe e nada quer
Observa e acolhe
Acompanha nossos passos
Na memória deixa rastros

Mas prossegue exuberante
Ante a fraca permanência
Que não tarda em demonstrar
Vulnerável inconsistência

Como uma nuvem que rasteja
Vem com ela a tempestade
E se desfaz à luz do sol
Para então voltar mais tarde

Bem de perto quis eu ver
Narrativas vinculadas
Uma seqüência de eventos
Feito laço nos amarra

E nos deixa bem colados
Ao vasto mundo lá de fora
Porque escolher não escolher
É escolher de toda forma

Meu motor é vontade / Will is my power

Esta pintura é de janeiro deste ano. Estava eu pensando em um universo de possibilidades, de como refazer o mundo, a minha maneira, por não encontrar nada envolta que suprisse meu desejo por “mais”. Mais de que? Não sei. De tudo talvez...

This painting is from January, this year. I was thinking in a universe of possibilities, of how to reconstruct the world, my way, for not finding anything around that sufficed my will for more. What more? I don’t know, everything maybe…

Retrato

Há um segundo atrás
Estava eu comatizado
Imerso entre dois momentos
Fotografando um pensamento

Que me olhava sorridente
Prepotente e autônomo
Desafiante a forma presa
Que eu lhe dera de presente

Para que ganhasse vida
E se infiltrasse na matéria
Faiscando a luz de um impulso
Junto ao hélio das idéias

Viajando em um só fôlego
Uma corrente de sinapses
Onde ele estava eu não era
Onde eu era ele não estava

Do meu coma retornei
A superfície como uma bóia
Com a língua contraída
Flutuante amnésia

Só me restava uma foto
Desfocada e traiçoeira
De contornos mal traçados
De beleza que golpeia

E na imagem delineada
Vai mais longe o sentido
De tocar a quem se expõe
Como um ácido corrosivo

Que de fluido se deforma
Preenchendo a mente alheia
Acolhedora involuntária
Tradutora imperfeita

Novos ares da à forma
Um mutante imprevisível
Retratado em uma foto
Subjetiva e intangível

Caterpillar Me

I did not have the time
To shake that many hands
I gently let them go
Not thinking of plan

To search deeper within
Though missing many chants
While time was calm and slow
I stopped to take a breath

So I hid beneath a leaf
Hoping to come out some day
And forget what I had seen
What I saw was all so gray

In my little white cocoon
I forgot the world around
Hypnotized by all the tunes
Of a dream that lacked in sound

There were tunes inside my head
With great colors and great shapes
Singing stories of my life
I could barely recognize

After many nights and days
I then began to realize
That the walls were growing thin
They would crack and so would I

So I put on all my clothes
Waiting for that final haste
Expectations filled with dread
Something big was on its way

When the walls caved in I tried
To forget the thoughts in mind
Falling from the tallest branch
And almost crashing onto land

Out of shock I twist my back
When I saw big things that flapped
They were wings lighter than air
Colored art that came in pairs

And so I flew straight up, up, up
Ever further from thick mud
Wishing to trespass the clouds
Leave the earth and float around

Maybe I would land on mars
Meet great planets and bright stars
All I had known was so far down
Growing distance from the ground

But the air was warming up
Sparks of light then made me numb
Burned up in the heated sky
Like a toasted butterfly

Por que um Blog? / Why Blog?

A pergunta que vagou em minha mente até chegar onde estou agora: Por que um blog? E a resposta poderá ser simples ou complexa dependendo da maneira que eu quiser lidar com ela. Estive boa parte da minha vida escrevendo em cadernos e agendas que hoje hibernam silenciosamente nas gavetas de meu guarda-roupa, e isso não chega exatamente a me incomodar, afinal, havia ali um propósito meramente de desabafo (de criar seja lá o que fosse e não me importava o que acontecesse depois). Mas, se a arte visa à beleza, sendo essa beleza alcançada, me parece um gesto de egoísmo guardá-la toda para si mesmo, e surgiu em mim o desejo de compartilhar dela com quem por ela se interessassem. Não querendo limitar este alcance às pessoas, nem mesmo a própria produção textual, resolvi criar um blog que fizesse uso tanto do português como do inglês. Alguns posts vão ser em inglês, outros em português, e outros serão traduzidos para as duas línguas. Com isso espero poder compartilhar com vocês da minha arte, que aprendi a amar e cultivar. Espero que vocês gostem dela assim como eu.

The question that floated in my head until I got to where I am now: Why blog? And the answer can be simple or complex depending on how I want to deal with it. I’ve spent most part of my life writing in notebooks and diaries which now hibernate silently in the drawers of my closet, and that really doesn’t get to the point of making me feel bothered, after all, the purpose was only of ejecting accumulated thoughts (to create anything and not care about what happened after words). Yet, if art poses the objective of beauty and that beauty is reached, it seems selfish to keep it all for myself, and I developed the will to share of it with who ever shows interest. Not wanting to limit its reach to people, nor the textual production itself, I decided to create a blog utilizing both English and Portuguese. Some posts will be in English, others will be in Portuguese, and others will be translated to both languages. In doing so, I wish to share with you my art, which I have learned to love and cultivate. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do.